ana⁴²

You knew from the start that this wasn’t going to be some beautiful, whimsical arrangement. That was never a part of the agreement. 

Fictional stories, dramas, classic romcoms that you were always secretly obsessed with existed only where love was deliberate, overwhelmingly genuine, and above all intentional. None of which you had the luxury to experience. Instead, yours was forged into existence purely due to obligation with not a single ounce of choice. 

But it wasn’t like you ever had that chance to begin with. Your world has always been one of practicality, through the lens of strategy and profitability. Relationships weren’t exempt from that kind of attitude, and especially not yours. For over two decades, your family and Kim Dohoon’s had built an empire side by side. Your names were tied together across industries, across markets, across every joint venture, merger, expansion, and major headline. 

So the possibility of marriage had always been on the table, even if it wasn’t exactly guaranteed. When the proposal finally surfaced, it wasn’t presented as a matter of desire, but rather a strategic move to further strengthen your families’ ties. It was a reinforcement of power and a statement to the industry. You were never presented with an option, never asked whether or not you wanted to marry him, but instead, when it was planned to happen. 

You were furious. Not upset, disappointed, or dejected, like any other of the other times where you had to give in for the sake of your family name. No. This time, you remember so clearly how you stood in your father’s office, surrounded by the double-lined, tinted floor-to-ceiling windows, with your hands clenched so tightly in pure fury that your perfectly manicured nails left imprints in your palms for hours afterward. 

“Do you even hear yourselves?” you demanded. “You’re literally just using me for company gains.”

“Honey, you don’t understand right now. You just need to give it time,” your mother tried to reassure. 

You laughed shortly, though none of the situation was amusing to you in the slightest. 

“Have you forgotten that he can’t stand me? And didn’t you even think to consider how I would feel? How could you force me into a relationship with someone I don’t want to be with?”

Your father sighed, finally looking up from the documents spread across his table so that he could stare at you as if you were the one being difficult. 

“Look, this isn’t about personal feelings. It’s what’s best for all of us.”

You and Dohoon had never gotten along, not once. Even as children, it was obvious to you that he disliked you. You still remember one particular gala from years ago, one of the endless business gatherings your parents had dragged you to growing up. In fact, it’s practically etched forever in your memories. 

The adults were engaged in conversations about the latest mergers and investment deals as they floated about in expensive suits while children were expected to stand quietly and behave like miniature versions of their parents. 

You were maybe five, and Dohoon, seven. Your mothers had insisted the two of you stay together while they made their way around the venue. As if that had ever worked out successfully. 

But still, you were never one to give up. You remember walking over to him near the dessert table. You even smoothed down the front of your dress before approaching him, in nervousness, really, though you would never actually admit that for the sake of your pride. 

“Do you want to go outside?” you asked. “The garden is really pretty.”

Dohoon had glanced at you briefly before looking away again. 

“No.”

One thing about you that’s stayed true even today is that you never took no for an answer. 

“But it’s so boring in here,” you whined. “You’d rather stay here and stare at nothing except for the old people than do something else?”

“At least old people are quiet,” he replied flatly. 

You scrunched your face immediately. Dohoon gave you a very pointed look. 

“I am!” you gasped, offended, even though you knew very clearly that you were anything but quiet.

“You’ve been talking ever since you got here.”

“Well, you haven’t said anything at all,” you shot back. “That’s even weirder.”

He just looked away, clearly done with the conversation. But you were stubborn, even then, and after another short moment of silence, you reached out and tugged lightly on the sleeve of his blazer. 

“Come onnn” you insisted. “Just for a little bit.”

He frowned at where your tiny hand gripped his sleeve. 

“No. You’re annoying.”

Your hand dropped immediately. 

“Fine,” you muttered, trying your best to sound unaffected even as redness crept hot onto your cheeks in embarrassment. “I’ll go by myself then.”

Dohoon didn’t answer, so you turned on your heel and marched away with all the wounded pride a child could possibly possess. The ballroom doors were heavy, but eventually, you managed to shove one open just enough to squeeze through to the gardens outside. 

The cold night air hit your face instantly as you beamed at the sight. At first, you were perfectly content on your own. The garden really was pretty, as the exterior remained lined with glowing lights and trimmed hedges and a giant fountain in the center. What struck your attention the most were these statue swans that perched at the edges of the fountain. You wandered along the stone path, skipping and jumping around to admire the roses and peonies and lilacs. 

Then you realized something; you didn’t actually know how to get back inside. The doors you’d exited through had shut completely behind you, and when you tried pushing them open again, they wouldn’t budge. Little you had obviously not realized the possibility of self-locking doors. 

Your chest tightened. You walked along the side of the building searching for another entrance, but every row of hedges started to look exactly identical to one another. The music from the ballroom started to grow quieter, and so did the adults’ voices. Suddenly, the garden didn’t feel pretty anymore. 

Your eyes began to sting. No one would hear you out here. No one would even bother to come out to this area of the venue anyway. You were going to be left here forever to die. 

You were crouched near one of the swans atop the fountain with tears running silently down your cheeks as you tried very hard to not cry too loudly because that would just be even more embarrassing for you. Out of the corner of your eye, you suddenly notice Dohoon, who stopped short when he saw you. He stared for a second before his expression twisted into one of irritation. 

“What are you doing?”

“I got lost!” you snapped, eyes still watery. 

“Well why would you even wander off by yourself?” he said. “Are you dumb?”

Your lip trembled harder. Overwhelmed by relief and annoyance, you would have definitely strangled him if you were physically capable of that.

“You’re so mean!” you burst out. 

“You’re the one who left!” he retorted, as if that justified anything.

“You told me I was annoying!”

“You are annoying!”

You sobbed harder out of anger and annoyance, and Dohoon’s eyes widened. 

“Why are you crying that much?”

You only cried harder at the question as a mix of adrenaline and relief continued to course through your veins. 

“I didn’t mean – ”

He cut himself off as he looked around, hoping that an adult would magically appear and fix the situation. Then he groaned quietly and sat down awkwardly beside you on the edge of the fountain.

Neither of you spoke. You were still mad that he wasn’t minding his business and decided to bother you when you were already in a bad mood. After another sniffle escaped you, he shoved something into your hands without looking directly at you.

A small juice box that was probably stolen from the dessert table. You stared at it quietly and looked at him. 

“You’re being loud,” he muttered. “Drink it or something.”

And because you were still upset with him, you made sure to sniff dramatically as you poked the straw through the opening at the top. Dohoon rolled his eyes, but he stayed until the frantic voices of both of your parents echoed through the garden. 

“There they are!” 

Your mother rushed over first and immediately pulled you into her arms as the other parents began speaking over one another out of pure relief. 

“You can’t run off like that,” your dad scolded sternly. 

Even though Dohoon was annoyed that he was also getting reprimanded by his parents, he still waited until he saw you leave safely with your parents before finally tearing his gaze away. 

You put up a fit and complained and whined and did all that you could. But nothing worked. Your parents wouldn’t budge in their decision at all. This was the world you were raised for. There was no room for consideration of your personal feelings when it was your obligation to act in the best interests of the company first before your own. 

Your parents had built Seorin Group from the ground up and carved their name into the industry for themselves. As early as you could remember, the expectation placed upon you was that your future had already been decided for you. Corporate life was all you had ever known. You weren’t ever asked what you wanted to become because the answer was already clear. Your weekends were sacrificed to networking events. Entire summers were replaced with internships your peers would’ve considered impossibly demanding. The pressure became so normalized in your upbringing that it eventually stopped feeling significant. 

Fortunately for everyone involved, you’re qualified. More than qualified, actually. As Chief Compliance Officer, your reputation precedes you. Sharp-minded and relentlessly meticulous, you were formidable. People tend to underestimate you. You’re young, though you’re competent. There’s an elegance to the way you carry yourself that makes people mistake you for a much softer personality, but they learned quickly because beneath the refinement holds someone frighteningly capable. Employees deeply respect you, and competitors are constantly wary of you. Board members regard you as an inevitable successor. 

Dohoon is no different. Finance prodigy, they call him. As Chief Financial Officer, he has sharp instincts and an unshakable composure that many opposing businesses often find annoying simply because he’s always right. Equally reliable, he remains untouchable in his own way. His family founded Junseong Corporation, and your union ineludibly fortified the two companies’ relations.

—

The wedding ceremony was nothing short of grand. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling in cascades of iridescent droplets. Gold-trimmed walls framed the exterior of the venue. The polished floors gleamed beneath your steps. Every detail was deliberate. Every arrangement, every step, every camera angle capturing what looked like perfection, at least on the outside. It looked like something straight out of the fairytales you used to believe in. 

Ironic that you had everything you once imagined – the grand venue, the ivory wedding dress, the glamour – everything except the one thing that mattered: a person who you truly loved and one who truly loved you. 

It ended after days and days of ceremonies and formalities. You returned to the penthouse prepared for you and Dohoon together, with towering ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city below. Everything about the design was immaculate and clearly carefully curated to reflect your wealth and status rather than anything that remotely resembled comfort and homeliness. 

The two of you stood awkwardly near opposite ends of your shared bedroom, though the feeling stretching between you felt strangely unfamiliar despite knowing each other for nearly your entire lives. You glanced briefly at Dohoon as he loosened the collar of his dress shirt, and his expression was unreadable as always. It would’ve been easy to hate him. At the very least, you hated what existed between the two of you: years of irritation, petty remarks, dislike that hardened and cemented itself as years passed. 

Still, a small part of you had wondered whether this could be different. Obviously, you weren’t seeking a romantic relationship. You weren’t that childish. But something that was amicable. You had hoped that marriage would force some kind of reset between you both. That stripped away from family expectations and public performances, perhaps you could learn how to coexist as actual adults instead of two children trapped in a decades-long clash that shouldn’t even matter anymore.  

So maybe you were naive, because instead, Dohoon simply walked toward his side of the bed without a word. You swallowed whatever pathetic flicker of hope that had surfaced and moved to the opposite side. Neither of you spoke while getting ready for bed, and when the lights finally went out, Dohoon’s back remained turned toward yours. That was the beginning. 

—

Your marriage is functional. More accurately, it’s an easy agreement to present to other people. 

Dohoon is polite and a natural gentleman. He remembers important dates without the need for reminders and attends events beside you and fulfills every expectation placed upon him. He never embarrasses you, and he never oversteps. He opens doors for you and walks slightly slower when he notices that you’re wearing heels. Small things that almost feel thoughtful, but you know better than to think of it that way. 

The two of you coexist comfortably, though “comfortable” may not even be the right word. Familiar, maybe. Careful. There are no late-night conversations that stretch past midnight, no shared routines, traditions, no effortless intimacy when you’re together. You don’t spend weekends together unless circumstances require it. More often than not, you’re buried in work at the office just as Dohoon is too. 

Still, you think sometimes you would’ve preferred fighting. At least hostility would serve as an indication that there was something alive between the two of you. Instead, neither of you are willing to bridge the distance between what you are now and what you could be. 

Knowing Dohoon has always felt oddly limited. Every version of him you’ve ever encountered was born in formal settings. Even now, most of your interactions happen in places where people are always watching. There’s very little of him that feels personal to you. And perhaps even less of you that feels personal to him. 

Your mornings rarely overlap. You’re usually already dressed for work with your laptop open at the kitchen counter as you sort through the flood of emails that surfaced overnight with a cup of coffee growing cold beside you by the time Dohoon wakes up. 

Sometimes you cross paths briefly in the kitchen. 

“Morning,” he would say quietly. 

And you would return the same.

In the office, you’re decisive and command attention without demanding it upfront. Legal reviews close faster when your name is attached at the front. Across the company, Dohoon carries a similar reputation. People trust his judgement because he rarely leaves any room for mistakes. 

And when work overlaps, no one questions the dynamic between you. Why would they? Sitting across from each other at long conference tables and discussing contracts and projections with effortless professionalism, the two of you appear perfectly aligned.  

If anything, people probably envy it. A marriage between two successful heirs; a stable and mature unification. No one sees how little exists outside of that performance. 

By the time you both return home, often separately, the sky has already turned a deep hue of indigo. The house greets you with silence, which remains even once Dohoon arrives home. You’re usually already in your home office, and he makes his way to his. Two separate worlds that simply coexist under the same roof. 

Your dinner isn’t even planned together. Sometimes, the only time you ever see him in a day is when it's already over, when you’re already in bed and getting ready to fall asleep. And just like that, the day ends the same way it began: together, but somehow still apart.

—

The charity gala is being held in one of the newer hotels overlooking the river, one that your company naturally has close ties with. You stand beside Dohoon near one of the banquet tables while a business executive from overseas drones on about market expansion. Or rather, Dohoon is the one listening attentively. You have long since perfected the art of looking attentive while actually mentally drifting elsewhere. Your fingers tightly grasp the stem of your champagne flute as you make sure to nod at appropriate intervals. 

“Excuse me,” a familiar voice calls out toward you. 

You turn to see a man approaching with an easy smile you recognized only after a second. 

“Minhyuk?” you exclaimed in surprise. From LM Partners, a fairly newer investment company in comparison to Seorin and Junseong, and one that he had built essentially from scratch right after he graduated. 

“(Name)! It’s been a while,” he beams. 

You know him from university. You never really stayed in touch, but you were close enough at some point to have worked on projects together, shared meals after class, and exchanged complaints about professors over coffee. He’d been charming back then too, annoyingly so. Perhaps you drifted apart shortly after you rejected his confession back then. The two of you never crossed paths since. 

“You disappeared after graduation,” he continues. “I was starting to think that working for your parents swallowed you whole.”

You just chuckle amusingly. 

“You know, I’m still offended that you rejected my offer to work on LM together after uni,” Minhyuk jokes.

“Oh please,” you say. “That was ages ago. At the time, I did seriously consider it, but I don’t think I could have turned down working at Seorin. I mean, for the longest time, that’s what I assumed I’d be doing for the rest of my life.”

Beside you, you notice Dohoon bidding the business executive goodbye before turning his full attention to you. You also notice how he quieted suddenly, perhaps because after all these years, you’d become strangely attuned to his silences. He stares at Minhyuk as if he’s aware of your past history with him liking you and all that, even though you’re certain there’s no way he actually knows. 

“You never mentioned that,” he comments. 

You glance at him. 

“It was a long time ago, and it just never came up.”

Minhyuk glances toward him politely, finally noticing Dohoon. 

“A belated congratulations on your marriage,” he exclaims. “You must be Kim Dohoon.”

“Thank you,” Dohoon answers smoothly. 

“I have to admit,” Minhyuk says, “you two aren’t what I expected.”

He looks between the two of you, intrigued.

“What do you mean?” you ask, tilting your head. 

“I don’t know,” he smiles widely. “You’re both just so formal with each other. Honestly, if I didn’t know you were married, I’d assume you were just coworkers.”

You just smile stiffly. Then suddenly, you feel warmth pressed lightly against your lower back. You nearly turn your head, startled. Dohoon rests his hand there naturally, his fingers splayed against the fabric of your dress as though it belonged there without question. 

“You’d be surprised,” Dohoon says calmly. 

His thumb brushed once against your waist as he spoke. Your entire body goes rigid, but you work hard to mask it. 

Minhyuk’s eyebrows lift slightly. Dohoon continues before either of you can speak. 

“She gets enough of me at home already, I would say,” he remarks, the faintest trace of dry humor evident in his voice. 

Minhyuk laughs. 

“Right, my mistake.”

But even after you wish him well and move on after saying your goodbyes, Dohoon doesn’t move his hand. You’re painfully aware of how close he’s standing and the scent of his cologne. This is probably the longest he’d touched you voluntarily since your wedding. 

“What are you doing?” you murmur quietly once you’re alone again. 

Dohoon’s eyes remain fixed ahead toward the ballroom crowd. 

“Nothing.”

“You’re being strange.”

“That man was flirting with you,” he states. 

The bluntness of his statement startles a laugh out of you before you can stop it. 

“Are you jealous?” you exclaim. 

“No,” he says quickly. 

Then, without another word, he guides you gently closer against his side as another group approaches to greet the two of you. You’re still smiling in satisfaction as you slip into conversation. 

And for the rest of the evening, he never let go. The elevator ride down to the parking garage feels suffocatingly quiet after both of you had left the gala. Dohoon had removed his hand the second the ballroom disappeared behind you. You hate that you noticed immediately. In the car, you stare out the window as you replayed the evening in your head despite yourself. The way his hand had felt against your back and the ease in his voice. More critically, the brief crack in his composure when you’d asked if he was jealous. 

Beside you, Dohoon adjusts the cuff of his sleeve for the third time in ten minutes. A habit that you’d long ago realized meant he was unsettled. You want to say something, but you don’t know exactly what you would have said. Ideally, something that would dissolve the tension before it swallows the car whole, but nothing comes to mind. Instead, Dohoon speaks first. 

“That man from university.”

You turn your head towards him. 

“What about him?” you ask, keeping your voice casual. 

“He seemed interested in you.”

His tone remains neutral as his eyes stay fixed ahead on the road. 

“Minhyuk flirts with everyone.”

Dohoon hums in acknowledgement. And that was it. Neither of you bring up what Dohoon had done when meeting Minhyuk. 

When the two of you arrive home, the familiar silence of the house greets you instantly. You slip off your heels near the entrance and head to your office without another word. But you don’t even make it twenty minutes before you realize you’ve reread the same three paragraphs in your contract review six times already. 

With an irritated sigh, you push your chair back and stand up. Coffee is probably the only way you’re getting through the rest of the night. As usual, the hallway outside is dimly lit when you step out, but halfway to the kitchen, you stop short. Dohoon’s already there. He’s already changed into a hoodie and sweatpants, and he’s not in the middle of working or scrolling on his phone. Rather, he’s just standing silently near the counter with a glass of water in his hand. 

His eyes notice you as you walk in. You look away first and move toward the coffee machine. Suddenly, you’re hyperaware of every tiny sound in the kitchen. Behind you, Dohoon says nothing. You can still feel his presence anyway as he watches you prepare your drink. You stare at the slow stream of coffee pouring into your cup. The very reason as to why you haven’t left and escaped the awkward tension just yet. 

From the corner of your eye, you watch Dohoon finish the last of his water. His head tips back slightly as he drinks, his throat moving once, twice. Then he lowers the glass slowly as his fingers remain wrapped around it loosely. For a moment, he just stands there and stares at the counter like he’s thinking about something. 

It’s ridiculous that this is the closest the two of you have stood together when alone in weeks without laptops open between you. The coffee machine continues humming softly. Dohoon sets the empty glass down in the sink before straightening up again. You expect him to leave immediately. Instead, he glances toward you briefly, and the second your eyes meet, you look back toward your coffee. 

The machine finally beeps softly. You reach for the mug too quickly and feel the sudden spike of heat shooting through your hand. The ceramic, still too hot from brewing, emanates heat, and the temperature makes you flinch slightly. 

A second later, Dohoon turns and walks out of the kitchen without a word, and his footsteps fade into the hallway until the house falls silent again. You stand there alone for another moment as you stare down at the coffee in your hands before returning back to staring at mundane contracts in an attempt to block out your neverending thoughts about the evening’s events. 

—

There’s a new potential acquisition in the company, which means you’re working overtime every day, morning and night. It’s more rare for you to have to deal with acquisitions, but they’ve happened a few times in your career with Seorin. It drags into its third week before you finally start to feel the effects of it. 

At first, you barely notice. Long hours are normal for you. Missed meals are normal for you. Functioning on caffeine and four hours of sleep has practically become muscle memory after years in corporate law. You just ignore the exhaustion and keep going. 

Minju, your secretary, begins leaving protein bars in your office when you start forgetting to eat actual meals. She’s been with you long enough to know your bad habits once work becomes more demanding. 

By the fourth consecutive night at the office past midnight, you finally feel the ache in your shoulders and back from tension. The dense texts on legal revisions sitting side by side on your screen blurs into a muddled mess in front of the inky black sky in the background. You rub your eyes tiredly, but your fingers keep typing. 

Someone knocks against your office door. You don’t look up immediately. 

“Come in.”

You expect another dedicated associate who ended up also working overtime. Instead, Dohoon steps inside. Your fingers pause their typing and curl against your keyboard. 

“You’re still here?” you let out. 

“So are you,” he replies. 

Fair enough. 

You lean back in your chair as you direct your attention to him. 

“Did you need something?”

Dohoon’s eyes glance around your office instead of answering. His gaze sweeps through the untouched protein bars abandoned at the corner of your desk and the stack of drafts spilling across the table beside you. Cold coffee sits dangerously close to your laptop. 

“You haven’t gone home in two days.”

Four, you mentally correct, but that’s besides the point. 

“I went home yesterday,” you say. 

“You showered and came back.”

You’re surprised that he knows this. Not sure what to say, you glance at your calendar instead. 

“The acquisition is set to close this Friday.”

“And?”

“And I’m busy.”

Dohoon walks further into your office before stopping near the edge of your desk. 

“You look exhausted.” 

It comes out bluntly. Hearing it from him irritates you instantly, probably because he’s right. You choose not to respond instead of saying something you know will sound unnecessarily harsh. The sound of his ringtone cuts through the momentary silence, and Dohoon leaves to take the call. 

It continues for longer than he anticipates, and by the time he returns, your head is laying flat against your desk, clearly fast asleep. You wake to his gentle touch on your shoulder, shaking you awake. 

“You’re done for tonight,” you hear him assert. 

“I still have revisions to finish,” you reply, sitting up immediately and turning on your laptop.

“They can wait until morning.”

“No they can’t.”

“Yes they can.”

You open your mouth to argue again, but you promptly lose to your own exhaustion when a yawn interrupts you mid-breath. Dohoon stares at you. You stare back, deeply offended by the betrayal of your own body. Then, the corner of his mouth twitches upward slightly. It’s not a full smile, but it’s more than you’ve seen in weeks. Finally, you shut your laptop in surrender.

By the time you reach the parking garage, the cold air rushes against your skin, waking you up instantly. You immediately regret not bringing a heavier coat. You barely make it three steps away from the elevator before you feel a warmth settle over your shoulders. 

You stop. His jacket hangs around you, the sleeves still warm from his body. You look up in surprise. Dohoon is already walking ahead toward the car like he didn’t do anything at all. You smell his cologne again as the warm sandalwood scent envelops you. It’s silly how you have to stop yourself from sighing in satisfaction. Get it together. 

—

After weeks of negotiations, revisions, emergency meetings, and enough legal paperwork for a lifetime, the final signatures are completed just past seven in the evening. Everyone around you celebrates immediately. You should probably feel accomplished. And you do, just a bit, but you mostly just feel tired. Eventually, you slip out before anyone on your team can drag you to a celebratory dinner and drinks. 

Your house is dark except for the ambient lighting that automatically lights up at night. You barely have enough energy to shower. Warm water loosens the tightness locked painfully into your muscles, but it also makes your exhaustion more prominent. By the time you finish your skincare and pull on one of your oversized sleep shirts, you’re ready to go directly to bed without working for at least a little bit in your office. You climb into bed before Dohoon gets home, and you can recall drifting off just as you hear the front door open. 

Sometime later, your eyes flutter open blearily. The room is still dark, and for a second, you don’t understand why something feels different. Then you realize. You’re on the wrong side of the bed. Or rather, halfway across it. Somehow, you must have shifted closer unconsciously as you slept so that one arm now lies near Dohoon’s side. 

Mortification floods through you as you wake up instantly. You’re about to pull back before you realize that Dohoon seems to be awake. He must have just tucked himself into the blankets. Very carefully, you start shifting back toward your side. You try to keep your movements slow and cautious as your face burns despite the darkness of the room. 

Then Dohoon speaks quietly. 

“You can stay there.”

You freeze.

“What?” 

“You don’t have to move.”

“It must have happened in my sleep,” you explain apologetically.

“I noticed,” he replies.

You can smell his shampoo and feel his warmth radiating through the blankets. 

“Sorry.”

Your voice comes out quieter than intended. 

“For what?” he asks. 

For crossing a line that technically should have never existed? For wanting to stay where you are now that he’s pointed it out?

You say nothing, and neither does he. Dohoon exhales tiredly beside you. And before you know it, you’re already drifting asleep again. 

—

A particularly important executive meeting is running far longer than you anticipated. Nearly every senior executive is currently packed into one of the larger conference rooms on the thirty-second floor. Spreadsheets and projections stretch endlessly across the big screen. 

You’ve already spoken twice about a necessary legal procedure, but both times, you were largely brushed aside. You keep your expression neutral anyway. At this point in your career, you’re far aware that sometimes, persistence is key when you’re stuck in rooms filled with people convinced that their voices are the most important ones there. 

“The liability clause needs to be revised before we move forward with negotiations with our client,” you explain clearly. “If the indemnification language remains this vague, we’ll run into issues once external counsel reviews the – ”

“We can circle back to that later.”

Someone cuts you before you can finish. Hajun, strategic director. He continues speaking while he flips to the next slide, redirecting the conversation toward something about the operational timeline instead. It’s impressive that he holds the confidence required to interrupt you in your own specialty while being completely wrong. Beside you, Minju is glancing sideways to assess your reaction. She’s known you long enough that she can probably pinpoint your exact thoughts in the moment. 

“As I was saying,” you continue calmly, “if this clause isn’t finalized now, we risk running into complications later when coordinating with our client. It’s way more efficient to address it before – ”

“Yes, but operations need to be confirmed first,” Hajun interrupts again for the second time. “We can’t spend the entire meeting debating hypotheticals.”

You recognize the smile on his face as one where he thinks he’s doing you a favor by directing you to something you apparently don’t know, because, of course, he’s the accommodating one here. 

Unfortunately for him, you have neither the time nor the temperament to tolerate his behavior for long. Across the table, Dohoon catches your eye. His jaw tightens slightly in a way that’s imperceptible to others, but you notice immediately. His expression remains otherwise unreadable, but after years of knowing him, you know better. Anyone would feel unpleasant being on the receiving end of the gaze he’s fixing on Hajun at this very moment. Hajun pauses for a millisecond when he notices. Then he keeps talking anyway. 

You lean back in your chair and let him continue for exactly two more sentences before finally speaking again. 

“Hajun. The reason legal reviews exist prior to moving on the execution logistics is specifically to prevent operational delays later,” you state clearly. 

Your eyes flicker to his nameplate before returning his gaze. 

You continue, “As a strategic director, I’m sure you’re aware of that. If you’d like to explain to the board why we entered negotiations with incomplete liability confirmations, you’re welcome to do that. Otherwise, I suggest you let me finish.”

Beside you, Minju lowers her eyes quickly toward her notes to hide what is very likely satisfaction. Dohoon says nothing across from you, but you catch a hint of restrained amusement. 

Hajun clears his throat awkwardly and leans back in his chair in surrender. 

“Right. Go ahead.”

You resume after that, and the rest of the meeting proceeds without any further issues. Eventually, executives filter out after gathering their documents when the meeting adjourns. You remain seated as Minju briefs you about forwarding updated revisions and notes later tonight. Only once the room begins emptying do you finally glance up. 

Dohoon’s suit jacket hangs over the back of his chair while he slides several folders neatly into his bag. Sensing your gaze, he lifts his head slightly so that your eyes meet. Immediately, you remember the look on his face earlier. Something uncomfortable twists in your chest, and you look away first so that you’re instead focusing a little too intently on the papers sitting in front of you. 

You don’t know what to do with the fact that he looked angry on your behalf, except for concluding that it isn’t actually anything special that he looked that way; anyone would be annoyed watching someone get talked over like that. 

But you don’t have time to dwell on anything. There’s now been a last-minute change in your schedule, and now you and Dohoon are expected at a private launch reception tonight for a joint luxury development project between Seorin, Junseong, and several overseas investors. The event was originally scheduled for next week, but a few of the foreign stakeholders couldn’t make it anymore at that time, so of course, to accommodate, the situation forced the entire event forward with less than a day’s notice. 

You glance once at the updated schedule Minju forwarded to your tablet before shutting it off again. Apparently, nobody in this industry values sleep. You simply nod once toward the door.  

“Our car will be here in five minutes. We should hurry.”

Then, you push open the conference room doors and step out. You don’t even have time to think about what to wear. The reception now has to fit between existing obligations, which means you’ll probably end up working well past midnight afterward just to recover lost time.

As you walk into your bedroom, you’re in the middle of loosening the clasp of your watch when you stop. A dress has been laid carefully across the bed still wrapped in plastic. It’s made of a sleek black fabric and sleeveless with thick straps and a high neckline, the material gathered and twisted at the waist to sharpen the silhouette while still maintaining a classy yet alluring appearance. A matching black blazer lies underneath it. Beside the bed sits a new pair of heels in matching satin, along with jewelry arranged neatly atop a small velvet cushion. Everything was clearly coordinated perfectly. 

You assume immediately that Minju had it arranged. It’s not unusual for these things to be planned ahead of time when schedules become chaotic like this, so you don’t question it. 

It’s already fully nighttime by the time you arrive at the venue with Dohoon beside you. The reception is being held at a rooftop venue overlooking the Han River below. As you step further inside, you can’t help but notice the distance between you and Dohoon. Other couples naturally arrive with their hands intertwined and bodies instinctively angled toward each other. Even the more reserved executives maintain some visible closeness. Meanwhile, you and Dohoon walk side by side with perfect professionalism. 

“Unnie!”

You look up instantly at the familiar voice and clicking heels signalling someone’s approaching. 

Noh Yunah appears beside you moments later, her appearance elegant as always as she adorns a deep maroon dress. Her eyes light up the second she sees you. 

“Well,” she says dramatically as her gaze sweeps over you from head to toe. “You look unfairly good tonight.”

A laugh slips from you. 

“Hello to you too.”

She steps closer immediately as she inspects the dress with open approval. 

“No seriously,” Yunah insists. “This is probably the best thing I’ve ever seen you wear.”

Then, after a second, she glances toward Dohoon. 

“You look fine too, I suppose,” she adds teasingly. 

You’re about to open your mouth to thank her, but Dohoon beats you to it. 

“Thank you, Yunah,” he replies smoothly. “I picked it out.”

You blink. Beside you, Yunah’s brows lift instantly. That reaction alone mirrors your inner thoughts. Because Yunah knows you too well. Having known each other since birth, she’s spent years listening to you explain your complicated relationship with Dohoon, about your marriage and about the strange emotional limbo that the two of you just can’t seem to escape. So the idea of Dohoon personally selecting your dress, of all things, is baffling.

“You did?” she asks, her eyes flicking between the two of you with obvious interest. 

Dohoon nods. 

“I thought it would suit her.”

“Oh,” she says slowly as she visibly tries not to smile too hard. 

Dohoon merely offers a polite smile in response. Meanwhile, your brain is still caught on the fact that it was him who picked the dress. Personally. Without telling you. And apparently, he knew your size and your style well enough to get everything exactly right. 

Yunah glances over her shoulder and grimaces. 

“Unfortunately, my father is heading this way, which means I’m about to get introduced to investors that I absolutely do not care about.”

She sighs dramatically, and you snort quietly in amusement. Yunah squeezes your arm once and leans closer toward you. 

“We are absolutely discussing this later,” she says under her breath before stepping away again. 

Then, she disappears back into the crowd. For the rest of the evening, you can’t help but notice the strange harmony of your interactions, as if you suddenly became a married couple that’s truly accustomed to each other both in public and in private. Like the way Dohoon leans in when you speak to hear you better and the way his fingers brush yours when passing you a glass of champagne. It’s worse because you know these moments probably don’t matter and aren’t anything special. But lately, it’s unsettling that moments like these are actually beginning to feel natural to you.  

Sometime in the middle of the event, you excuse yourself to use the restroom. As you’re making your way back out, you stop just before the end of the corridor as laughter spills out from the lounge around the corner. 

“Dude, she’s gorgeous. You’re so lucky to have her,” a voice says. 

“My parents keep urging me to get married. Sometimes I just wish they could pick out someone for me. Save me from all the hassle,” another explains. 

A chorus of laughter follows. 

You recognize the voices as Dohoon’s best friends. Shinyu, Youngjae, Hanjin, Jihoon, and Kyungmin.

“Well, it’s not all that great either” someone replies. 

You recognize his voice as Dohoon’s. 

“Come on,” Youngjae scoffs. “Don’t try to make the rest of us feel better by lying.”

Jihoon adds, “Seriously. If that’s what an arranged marriage looks like, I’ll take it.” 

There’s a brief moment of silence before Dohoon speaks again. 

“Well, you basically have no choice in the matter. There’s no real relationship, and we barely interact outside of work. We don’t go on any dates. It’s just efficient. Probably better this way.”

Your hands tighten slightly around your clutch as you stare ahead blankly at the hallway wall. 

“Efficient?” Shinyu repeats. 

Dohoon sighs. 

“It works better this way, I guess.”

The worst part is he isn’t wrong. You’ve always known that this marriage was never about love. But hearing him say it so matter-of-factly irritates you anyway. Lately, he’s the one blurring the lines first. He’s the one who’s somehow turning up with new dresses and initiating physical contact. Only for him to reduce everything to “efficiency” when someone asks. That annoys you more than outright rejection would have. Because what exactly is he trying to imply? That the distance between you simply appeared on its own? That he had no part in it?

Well, if it bothers you so much, why don’t you do something about it? you think to yourself, annoyed. You turn around before you can hear anything else, exiting through the longer route back. Their voices fade out of earshot. 

Back inside, Dohoon remains leaning slightly against the wall while the others continue staring at him. 

Kyungmin asks, “So you’re seriously saying there’s nothing there at all? Not even a little bit?”

Dohoon stays silent. 

“Yeah, okay,” Hanjin laughs. “He definitely does. Just look at him.”

“It’s so obvious,” Youngjae adds. 

“No, you’re overanalyzing,” Dohoon defends, but it comes out weak. 

“Stop lying to yourself,” Shinyu says. “We’ve known you for so long. You know, I genuinely think you’ve liked her for years.”

“I just – I don’t even know where to start. We’ve been like this for too long already. We’re already stuck in this routine. If I suddenly started acting differently now, it would just feel even weirder. Like I’m forcing it,” Dohoon admits.  

“Or you could just try and be honest,” Jihoon suggests. 

“Okay. Yeah. Maybe I could,” Dohoon replies. 

By the time you return to the ballroom, your expression is perfectly composed again. You step back beside Dohoon smoothly like you hadn’t just disappeared for nearly fifteen minutes and overheard their conversation. Dohoon glances toward you immediately, and while normally you’d have looked back by now, tonight, you deliberately make sure that you don’t. Instead, your posture remains straight as you focus intently on the investor currently speaking to you. 

Dohoon notices instantly. Somehow, without understanding why, it suddenly feels like you’ve distanced yourself farther away from him again. 

—

The next morning, Dohoon wakes up to an empty space next to him on the bed. That isn’t unusual, at least. The sheets on your side are already cool, and faint creases where you’d been lying were now barely there. 

But the kitchen is too quiet. Usually, even if you are up before him, there are traces you’ve yet to clean up, like a cup left by the sink or your tablet resting on the counter because you still haven’t left the house yet. 

Today, there’s nothing. Everything is spotless. His gaze shifts toward the entryway. Your shoes are gone, and so is your work bag. You’ve already left, this time earlier than usual. 

At the company, though he doesn’t always see you around, he realizes he’s rarely seen you all day. From early morning to night, you locked yourself in your office, burying yourself in work. 

Even Minju mentions it in passing after Dohoon asks her when he runs into her in the break room. 

“She’s been in her office all day,” she had said. “She didn’t even come out for lunch.”

By the time he gets home, the house is dark with every light off. Dinner is already prepared by the chef and set neatly on the table. Though he usually eats dinner alone too, the dining room feels larger than usual today when he sits down alone. The long table stretches across the space, every empty chair adding to the isolation, save for the sound of utensils against porcelain. 

Only when he’s tucked in nicely beneath the covers does he hear the sound of your front door and your shoes taken off at the entrance. Footsteps follow softly. He holds his breath, but they pass the bedroom and keep going further down the hall until you reach your office. 

So he waits. Thirty minutes pass. Maybe you’re just setting your stuff down and wrapping up some last minute tasks. Then an hour. Maybe you forgot something needed to be finished and was working on it because it couldn’t wait. Then two. Dohoon shifts his position for what may be the five-hundredth time tonight, staring at the ceiling and forcing himself to stay awake just a little longer. Just until you come up. Just until…

Sleep eventually overtakes him. You never come. 

The next morning, Dohoon wakes up alone again. But this time, the bed is untouched. Your side, smooth and unwrinkled, makes it clear you were never there at all. A sinking feeling rises in his chest.  Disappointed, Dohoon makes his way to your office, cold and empty with no sign of you. On his way back to the kitchen, he notices one of the guest rooms’ doors left ajar. He takes a few careful steps before pushing the door open further. The bed is freshly-made, but a bottle of water now sits on the nightstand with your lip balm beside it. Proof that you spent the night here.

For the first time since your marriage a year ago, he thought maybe he could try. He thought that maybe, something could change. Now all he’s left with is distance. And he only has himself to blame. 

—

A week doesn’t pass so much as it erodes you. You leave before the sun fully rises, and you return long after midnight. Some nights, you close yourself into the guest room. Other nights, your office light stays on until it burns into the morning. 

At work, you’re worse. Meetings stack back to back at your discretion. Your calendar becomes a wall you hide behind. You don’t take breaks. You don’t stop. 

Minju notices immediately. She starts hovering by your desk around lunch and whenever she can catch you in between meetings. She sets offerings of snacks down that you never touch. You don’t ever look up from your laptop. 

“I’m fine,” you say every time. 

Dohoon notices too. But unlike Minju, he can’t reach you; you’re always just out of grasp. You leave before he wakes, and you return when he’s already asleep. So he settles for what he can. He resorts to texting you reminders to eat and sleep, but you’re so consumed by your work that you usually don’t see them until hours later. 

By the end of the week, it catches up to you. You’re walking to a meeting with your heels clicking against the tile floor when the world as you see it begins to blur. The hallway you’re walking on stretches too long, and voices around you melt together incoherently. You blink hard once, twice, trying to force clarity in your vision. It doesn’t work. Your steps falter, and before you know it, everything tilts until it all turns black. 

When you open your eyes again, you’re greeted with the sharp scent of antiseptic and bleach and an unfamiliar ceiling of a sterile white hue that makes your eyes ache if you stare at it for too long. There’s a warm, steady weight on your hand. You turn your head slowly to see Dohoon. He’s still in his work clothes, though his tie is loosened like he tugged at it one too many times, and his sleeves are pushed up, exposing the palpable tension in his forearms. His fingers are wrapped around yours like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. His posture is rigidly straight like he hasn’t moved in hours. 

“You’re awake,” he says, his voice steady yet filled with relief. 

You try to sit up instinctively, but his hand tightens around yours immediately. 

“No – hey… easy.”

He’s already leaning forward and guiding you back down carefully. 

You wince at the dull ache throbbing in your head as you take in your surroundings at the emergency room.

“How long have I been here?” you ask quietly. 

“Three hours,” Dohoon replies. 

Your eyes widen. 

“Minju called me right when it happened, and I brought you here,” he explains, leaning over to press the assistance button near your bed, his other hand still holding onto yours. “I just called for someone to check on you.”

“It’s just exhaustion,” you say, looking away as you try to brush it off.

“You literally fainted,” Dohoon says, and you can hear the exasperation in his tone.

Before he can say more, a nurse steps in. She asks a few basic questions and instructs ample rest, proper meals, and a significantly reduced workload. 

The drive home is quiet, and not the comfortable kind. He glances at you more than once, but you pretend you don’t notice, keeping your gaze fixed out the window. 

“Bedroom,” he says the moment you step inside. “You’re not working tonight.”

There’s no room to argue, not that you have the energy to.  

“Come on,” he says, the softness in his voice catching you off guard. He brings you to the bedroom instead of the guest room. The mattress dips beneath your weight. Dohoon walks around to the other side of the room so that he can draw back the curtains. He dims the lights and leaves briefly only to come back with a glass of warm water on the nightstand. 

“I’m assuming you didn’t eat anything today. How many hours have you been sleeping?” he asks suddenly. 

You look away before holding up a weak three fingers. 

He runs a hand through his hair as frustration flickers through his expression for just a second. 

“You can’t keep doing this. You can’t just work until you collapse and skip meals.”

You swallow and look back at him. 

“It doesn’t affect you.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, you regret them because his expression falls instantly.

“That’s not true,” he says without hesitation. 

You don’t reply. He’s shifted closer now, sitting at the edge of the bed next to you. It feels like the distance between the two of you is about to give, all the things left unsaid sitting right there between you. 

“Why?” you ask quietly. 

“I..” 

Because I love you. I always have. 

It sits just on the tip of his tongue. 

But instead, he says, 

“I.. I care about you.”

Your expression drops for a second before you mask it, pursing your lips together in feign neutrality. 

Care. Of course. Not love, not want, not anything but superficial care simply out of obligation from being tied to each other for the rest of your lives. 

You nod and look away before he can sense the falter threatening to seep through your expression. 

“Okay,” you reply. 

He watches you pull the blanket slightly closer around yourself, retreating into your own thoughts before he can even try to express how he truly feels. Panic flickers through him as he watches you slowly withdraw right in front of his eyes. For once, he tried to make a genuine move, but in the end, it wasn’t conveyed. 

“You should rest,” he says, but he doesn’t leave. 

Instead, he just sits there next to you as you close your eyes, the confession still trapped inside his chest. 

—

Technically, you’re supposed to still be resting. Instead, you’re sitting on the couch with your laptop open and several printed contracts spread across the coffee table when the doorbell rings. 

“It’s open!” you call out, thinking that it’s just Dohoon returning from his errands. 

“You’re unbelievable.”

Yunah steps inside carrying two shopping bags and immediately narrows her eyes at the sight in front of her. 

“You literally collapsed and you’re still working?”

“Relax. I’m resting right now,” you reply, gesturing casually around you. 

She reaches over and closes your laptop without a word. You sigh dramatically and lean back against the couch cushions while she settles beside you. 

“You look awful,” Yunah deadpans. 

“Thanks,” you reply. “So what did you get me?”

You eye the bags that she had set onto the floor in front of you. 

“Snacks can wait,” Yunah asserts, her hands moving the bags away from your line of sight. “First, tell me everything.”

“What do you mean?” you say, feigning innocence. 

“You know what I mean. What’s going on with you and Dohoon?”

You purse your lips. 

“It’s not important.”

“Right. Because deciding to self-destruct by throwing yourself into your work is something you happen to do recreationally,” Yunah points out. 

You bring your hands to your face and let them rest at the side of your neck. 

“I just misunderstood something.”

“What something?”

“Well, there was a reception last week, right? You were there too.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Yunah replies. 

“I overheard him talking with his friends,” you admit. 

Yunah straightens up slightly. 

“And?”

“He said our marriage was just something efficient and that there’s no real relationship between us. How we barely interact outside of work and stuff. But that wasn’t the part that bothered me, because obviously, I’m just as aware as he is about our relationship.”

Yunah nods in agreement. 

“Maybe I’m just being petty, but he made it seem like the distance just magically appeared on his own and how nothing’s going to change when at the same time, he’s the one who keeps confusing me lately.”

You pause before continuing. 

“Do you remember the dress I wore that day? How he said he was the one who picked it out? If you asked me a few weeks ago whether or not I’d believe that something like that happened, I would have laughed in your face. But now I’m not so sure. He’s acting differently and he looks at me differently. But the second someone asks him about us, all he’s saying is that we’re just following an arrangement.”

“Well do you think he’s only trying because you collapsed?” Yunah asks. 

“See… I’m not so sure either. I swear I’m trying so hard to not be delusional, but sometimes I feel like he wants things to change. Yet the second I start believing that, he pulls away again. And now he says he cares about me.”

“Obviously I could totally be wrong,” Yunah starts, “but I really do think he likes you. Just based on what I’ve seen, I think he may very well have feelings for you.”

You stay silent as you process her words. 

“I still remember that one time when we were kids. You and I were just around seven years old, and he was like nine. Your mom got so mad at you because you didn’t do well on one of your math tests, and you cried to me for like days after that at school.”

“Yeah, how could I forget?” you laugh. Back then it seemed like that was the biggest crisis you’d ever had in life. 

“Do you also remember how suddenly, three days later, your mom seemed like she changed her mind and became somewhat more encouraging?”

“Yeah… I do,” you recall. It was strange back then because usually you’d just get over it and study harder next time, but that day, your mom had even brought home cookies out of the blue.

“Dohoon was the one who convinced your mother to do that. She ran into him sometime before she bought the cookies, and he was the one who told her about how hard you’d studied and how bad you felt at school.”

Shocked, you sit up, blinking. What?

“How do you know this?”

“I saw it happen. And he told me afterward too, when you were smiling so cheerfully all of a sudden the next day,” Yunah explains. 

You look down at your hands. 

“He’s a good person,” you murmur. “He’d take care of anyone he was tied to.”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she studies you with growing disbelief. Because from where she’s standing, this situation looks extremely obvious.

“You genuinely believe that?” she asks. 

“What do you mean?”

Yunah leans back against the couch. 

“I think you and your husband are maybe the two stupidest and most emotionally repressed people I’ve ever met.”

You run your fingers through your hair. 

“No, seriously,” she continues, putting a hand on your arm. “You’re over here acting like this man was ordered to buy you a custom dress when he did it because it reminded him of you. He stayed in the hospital for hours holding your hand. He practically looks ill every time that you’ve been ignoring him lately.”

“It just means he feels obligated,” you say quietly. “Anyways, enough about him. What have you been up to lately?”

Knowing better than to push any further, Yunah simply complies and lets you change the topic. 

—

A few days later, Dohoon is still at the office when his phone vibrates, signaling an incoming call. He barely glances away from the financial projections spread across his screen and answers. 

“Hello?”

“You’re an idiot.”

Dohoon brings the phone away from his ear to see the caller's name. 

“Hello to you too, Yunah.”

“I’m serious,” she continues. “What exactly is wrong with you?”

“I feel like I missed several steps in this conversation,” Dohoon replies. 

“You told her that your marriage was just efficient?”

His stomach drops instantly. The silence on his end says enough. 

“Oh my god. You did.”

Dohoon sits up straighter now. 

“Wait, she heard that?” he asks, confused. 

“Yes.”

“When?”

“At the reception.”

He closes his eyes briefly. Everything immediately clicks into place. The way you suddenly withdrew and became so much colder within the span of a week. 

“Wait,” Dohoon starts. “Didn’t she hear the rest?”

“What?” Yunah asks. 

“The part where my friends started calling me out and I admitted that I would try to change?”

“You did? Yeah I don’t think she heard that,” she replies. “At least based on what she told me, I don’t think she caught that part.”

“Oh.”

“Unbelievable,” Yunah mutters. “Both of you are genuinely painful to watch.”

Dohoon’s barely listening because now all he can think about is you overhearing that conversation while already standing on uncertain ground when it comes to this relationship. Especially after all those mixed signals. No wonder you did what you did. 

“She thinks you’re only trying now because she collapsed. She thinks you feel obligated,” Yunah explains, her voice cutting through your thoughts. “For the record, I think you’re both hopeless.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, what are you waiting for? Go fix it!”

Then the line disconnects. 

Dohoon decides to leave work early. His assistant looks up in confusion as he closes his laptop and stands. 

“Sir, the review later today – ”

“Can you reschedule it?”

He’s already walking out before he can respond. For the first time in what seems like forever, he doesn’t stay until the building is nearly empty. He doesn’t wait until the last light on in the building is his own before leaving. 

At home, he finds you asleep on the couch. Documents are still fanned across the coffee table as you sit upright with your head tilted slightly to the side. Even here, you couldn’t stop working.  

Dohoon lowers himself slowly onto the edge of the couch carefully so as not to disturb you. His hand reaches out to brush a strand of hair away from your face. 

Then, quietly, he says your name. 

“Dohoon?” 

Your voice is soft and slightly hoarse from sleep. 

He should start explaining immediately; that’s why he came home early. He had sentences prepared, a rough plan mapped out in his head. 

Instead, he blurts out, “I left work early.”

You blink the sleep away from your eyes as you stretch your neck absentmindedly.

“That’s new.”

“I know.”

He pauses before continuing. 

“I know you overheard me. At the private launch.”

Now that wakes you up completely. 

“I see,” you say quietly. 

You’re panicking internally, unsure what this means. 

“But I don’t think you heard all of it,” Dohoon continues. “At least… I’m assuming. Based on what you said afterward.”

“What do you mean?”

There’s no easy way to do this, he realizes. 

“You didn’t hear me say that I like you,” he admits. “I’ve liked you for years. I don’t know why I’m only saying it now. I’m sorry it took this long.”

“You do?”

The shock in your voice is so genuine. Like the possibility had never once occurred to you. Like you’d spent all this time in the same rooms, looking at the same walls, working on the same projects, and somehow never noticed a thing. 

“I didn’t know how to say it,” he explains. “When we were kids, I was too young to understand what I was even feeling. And then by the time I did, it just felt like too much time had already passed.”

You nod slowly, and he knows you understand. 

“I want to try, I really do. But I don't want to get this wrong and lose what we already have.” 

He watches the small movements of your expression, frowning in concentration as you process everything. 

“Me too,” you finally say. “That’s – me too.”

“Really.”

“Yeah.”

He takes a breath. You’re waiting, and you swear the suspense is killing you. 

“Can we make this real?” he asks. “Our relationship, I mean. Not arranged. Just us. Together. Because we want this, and because we’re choosing each other.”

The corner of your mouth lifts upwards. 

“Okay,” you agree. “I’m okay with that.”

“Wait,” he says, putting a hand up. “I’m not asleep right now, right?”

Your laugh comes out unguarded. He can’t stop smiling at you either. His eyes linger like they’re memorizing this moment. You shift on the couch so that you’re fully facing him, and his eyes follow the movement. His gaze drops to your lips for just a moment before he catches himself. You don’t move away. He doesn’t either. 

So you lean in. 

Dohoon goes completely still, and his whole body has forgotten how to work because you’re actually kissing him.  

It only lasts a brief second. He can still feel the ghost of your kiss on his lips. 

His hand lifts and rests gently at your jaw. And then his lips are on yours. You kiss him back properly this time, and his hesitation fully dissolves at once. His grip steadies on the side of your face, grounding you. 

When he finally pulls back, his voice comes out low. 

“I thought I was imagining this,” he says.

“I’ve been waiting,” you whisper. “For a while now.”

“You have?”

“I just never thought you would too.”

And then he kisses you again like he should have done from the start many years ago. Like it’s all he ever wanted to do, and he has absolutely no intention of stopping now. 

—

Having both of your families together isn’t unusual at all. Especially if it’s a casual get-together. This time, the dinner was your mother’s idea. 

That night, you had asked Dohoon about what should happen next with the arrangement and with your families. Ultimately, both of you settled on just taking it normally and letting everything flow naturally. 

The moment Dohoon took your coat from your hands at the entrance and hung it up neatly on the rack without you having to say anything, your mother’s eyes watched sharply, a pleased expression on her face as she noticed the entire series of actions unfold. 

Dinner proceeds normally for approximately twenty minutes. His father asks about the latest quarterly report, and your father responds. His mother asks about yours, and you answer. You try not to think about how Dohoon’s shoulder is warm against yours as he sits right beside you. 

“You seem different,” your mom points out as she looks between the two of you. 

“We seem the same,” you say immediately. 

“Mm.” She picks up her chopsticks again and smiles at nothing in particular. “Never mind.”

His mother is watching the two of you as well. 

“You’re sitting closer together,” his mother observes.

“We’re all sitting close together,” Dohoon says. 

Your father smiles quietly at the exchange. 

“Alright, alright. Let them eat.”

So the conversation moves on, and you start to think that both of you are finally in the clear. 

That is, until his father sets down his glass, clearly about to say something. You wait nervously in anticipation. 

“Is this a real marriage now? Or still pretend?”

“Real,” Dohoon answers instantly. 

A pleased smile stretches across your face.

“So,” his mother says casually. “Have you talked about children?”

“Mom!” Dohoon says exasperatedly. 

You nearly choke on your forkfull of food. 

“Well?” she adds. “It’s not like you two are getting any younger.”

“Oh please,” your mom says, waving a hand. “Let them settle first.”

Then she looks at you both again, her bright eyes shining with unmistakable approval. 

“But still, I don’t see why we should wait too long.”

Dohoon turns away as he coughs, the tips of his ears turning red. You purse your lips awkwardly, but a small smile appears when you notice how he can’t seem to hide his throughout the rest of the dinner. 

—

The photo ends up in a frame by the side of your bed. Dohoon is turned slightly toward you, clearly in the middle of saying something, and you’re laughing with your whole face. His eyes are practically swimming in content. It lives next to the latest novel that you’ve been meaning to finish for the past six months and a small ceramic swan he bought on a work trip because he thought it would make you smile, and of course, bring back good old memories. 

Your mother called it a miracle. His mother claimed it was inevitable. But what you know is this: it’s an ordinary Wednesday afternoon, and Dohoon is searching up how to make creamy seafood udon because he saw it on your feed while you were scrolling on social media in bed three days ago. You’re sitting at the dining table with your laptop open in front of you, trying to review a contract while periodically glancing up to watch him struggle.

“I think you’re supposed to saute that first.”

“I know.”

“You sure about that?” you tease before returning your attention to your screen. 

A few moments later, you glance up after noticing how suspiciously silent it’s gotten in the kitchen. 

“What happened?”

“It says medium heat,” Dohoon starts. 

“Yes.”

“How do you do that on the stove?”

You stare at him in amusement. 

“Dohoon. You literally run a multinational corporation.”

“No, I don’t run it. I just hold a relatively important position.”

“Same thing,” you shrug. 

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

He walks over, abandoning the stove entirely. 

“Your udon is going to burn.”

“It won’t.”

“Are you almost done?” he asks. 

“With work?”

“Mm.”

“Ten minutes.”

“Good. Because dinner will be done in fifteen.”

You glance toward the kitchen. 

“You’re very confident for someone who just asked me how to turn the stove to medium heat.”

He just leans down and presses a kiss to the top of your head before heading back toward the kitchen. 

You hear him curse mere seconds later.

“You burned it, didn’t you?” you call out.

“Maybe.”

“Order takeout?” you offer. 

“Yeah,” he replies. 

The trauma pager goes off at 2:13 am. 

“Level one MVC, five minutes out!”

The announcement crackles just as you’re halfway through the world’s worst vending machine coffee. Everyone moves at once. You shove your coffee onto the counter and grab gloves. 

“Twenty-three-year-old male,” a paramedic announces. “High-speed rollover. Hypotensive en route. Suspected internal bleeding. GCS dropping.”

Your attending physician, Dr. Shin Junghwan, turns to you immediately. 

“You’re on airway.”

“Got it.”

Across the department, the trauma doors burst open. Right behind the incoming gurney, Dr. Choi Youngjae arrives. Dark blue surgical scrubs sit beneath his white coat, his hair a mess, and his trauma pager clipped crookedly to his waistband. Second-year general surgery resident. 

His eyes find yours instantly, quickly assessing. You’re here. He’s here. Good. 

“Hey,” he says as he pulls on a pair of gloves. 

“Hey.”

The patient rolls in. 

“BP’s tanking!”

“He lost consciousness twice en route!”

Junghwan steps forward. 

“Okay, let’s move. Dr. (Name), airway. Surgery team, assess abdomen and pelvis. FAST exam now.”

You move to the head of the bed immediately. 

“Can you hear me?” you ask the patient loudly. 

The man groans weakly. Blood runs down the side of his face. 

“Sir, stay with me.”

You check his pupils while oxygen gets hooked up beside you. Across the bed, Youngjae presses gloved hands against the patient’s abdomen. 

“Rigid,” he mutters. “Possible intra-abdominal bleed.”

You don’t even look up before responding. 

“Pressure’s eighty over forty.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

The ultrasound probe lands in your attending’s hand. 

“Positive FAST.”

Internal bleeding.

Youngjae’s voice cuts through, saying, “We need OR prep now.”

Junghwan nods. 

“Agreed.”

Suddenly, monitor alarms erupt. The patient’s heart rate spikes. His oxygen drops. His blood pressure plummets. He gurgles suddenly, choking on blood. 

Another senior Dr. Kim Dohoon, Youngjae’s attending, instructs immediately, “Intubate.”

You’re already moving. 

“Etomidate ready.”

A nurse places the laryngoscope into your waiting hand. You lean over the patient with intense focus. 

“On my count,” you say. “Push meds.”

Youngjae appears beside you without you even needing to ask. One hand moves to stabilize the patient’s neck. He’s reliable as gravity. 

“Tube,” you say. 

It’s already in his hand before you finish the world. The tube slides in smoothly. 

“Good color change,” a respiratory senior confirms. “Breath sounds bilateral.”

Relief floods through you for a brief second before the monitor screams. 

“Pressure’s still dropping!”

Youngjae swears under his breath. He’s already thinking ahead. 

“He’s bleeding out.”

“Surgery, take him upstairs now,” Junghwan instructs. 

The trauma team mobilizes immediately. As the bed starts rolling, Youngjae keeps up right beside it as he fires orders toward his intern. 

“Call OR two. Massive transfusion protocol. I want vascular aware and ready before we even get upstairs.”

Then, he glances back at you. 

“You coming up after stabilization?”

You’re technically supposed to stay in the ED. But your attending answers before you can. 

“Yeah. She’s good in trauma recovery.”

Youngjae nods expectedly. The gurney disappears through the doors, and with it, the adrenaline finally starts draining from the room. You exhale as you pull your gloves off. 

Bang Jeemin, a nurse beside you, laughs tiredly. 

“You two are freakishly in sync.”

“What?” 

You’re too tired for your brain to wrap around what she’s saying. 

“The surgery resident,” she clarifies. “Dr. Choi Youngjae. You guys always work well together. It’s like you’re silently communicating.”

Before you can answer, another pager goes off somewhere down the hall. Another emergency and incoming patient. The night moves on. 

—

The surgery waiting room vending machine spits out a bottle of water at 9:42 am. Youngjae stares at the machine for a second longer just as you walk by. 

“Long shift?”

Youngjae glances up. You’re still in scrubs from the overnight call, but your surgical cap is gone now. Your hair is slightly flattened on one side from where you probably slept against a wall for twenty minutes in between. You’re balancing a coffee cup in one hand and a small pack of crackers in the other. 

“You look terrible,” he says. 

You hand him the cup of coffee.

“So do you.”

You slide down the wall beside him outside of the PACU doors with your knees pulled close to your chest. For a while, neither of you speak. Machines beep in a steady rhythm inside various recovery rooms. Nurses pass by periodically. The morning light spills brightly through windows at the end of the corridor. The patient from the trauma surgery survived. Barely, but he did. 

“How long was he unstable after we got upstairs?” Youngjae asks. 

You open the crackers.

“Twenty minutes. Maybe twenty-five.”

He purses his lips together slightly. You know exactly what he’s thinking because you were thinking it too. We almost lost him. 

Youngjae leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes for a second. 

“You did good in there,” you say quietly. 

His eyes open again immediately. Not because he’s embarrassed by compliments, but because somehow, he believes them when they come from you. 

“You too,” he answers. 

You split the crackers between yourselves in silence. Both of you have long gotten used to this kind of predicament. 

Youngjae finally takes a sip of coffee and grimaces. 

“You forgot the sugar.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.”

“I put two,” you insist.

“You usually put three,” he points out. 

“You remember how many sugars I put in your coffee?”

Youngjae looks down at the cup. 

“You remember mine too.”

Well, he isn’t wrong. 

Before you can respond again, his pager beeps. 

“Multiple burn and smoke inhalation victims inbound. Structure fire. ETA three minutes. Trauma teams report immediately.”

Youngjae stands instantly. You’re already on your feet. Whatever peaceful moment between you disappears instantly, replaced by the urgency of said emergency. 

The emergency department flurries into action. The patients come in coughing, half-conscious, skin streaked with soot, oxygen saturations dangerously low. 

“Fifteen-year-old female, trapped in second-flood collapse, heavy spoke exposure!”

“Carbon monoxide suspected!”

Stretchers roll past rapidly. You’re positioned at trauma bay one. Junghwan doesn’t need to look at you twice. 

“You’re on airway.”

You nod. 

“Got it.”

Across the bay line, Youngjae scans incoming patients as he mentally maps out which ones are going to need the OR, which ones are most likely not going to make it, and which ones he can maybe still attend to. 

His eyes flicker to you for half a second. Then the first patient reaches your bay. She’s barely conscious. Her face is blackened with soot. Labored breathing. Wet, raspy coughs that sound harsh and wrong. Her oxygen saturation is dropping fast. 

“Airway swelling likely,” Dr. Choi Jungeun from the respiratory department says quickly. “Smoke inhalation injury.”

You move immediately. 

“High-flow oxygen. Prepare for early intubation.”

Smoke inhalation is tricky because airways tend to swell fast after thermal injuries. Sometimes, they close completely only hours after being exposed. So you don’t wait. 

The patient gasps panickedly. 

“It’s okay,” you say softly as your hand stabilizes her head. “We’re going to help you breathe.”

She tries to nod but fails. 

“Etomidate and roc ready,” you call out. 

A nurse hands you the meds as her attention stays fixed on the monitor. Behind you, Youngjae is already managing another incoming burn patient in the adjacent bay. You can hear his voice cutting through the noise. 

“Check for circumferential burns. If chest restriction, prep escharotomy consult.”

Your patient starts to deteriorate slowly. 

“O2 sat dropping seventy-eight.”

“Bag her,” you order.

The mask goes on. Ventilation begins. Her chest barely rises. It’s too tight. 

“The swelling’s worsening,” Jungeun warns. 

You don’t wait. 

“Intubation now.”

You position yourself with the laryngoscope ready. The airway is already narrowing. You can tell from the visible swelling. This is the dangerous part. If you miss, you don’t get a second chance. 

“Hold,” you say.

And just as you begin, a voice from the adjacent bay cuts in.

“Pressure’s dropping!” 

Youngjae. 

Hearing his voice steadies your hands. 

“Tube ready,” you say. The insertion is fast and precise. 

“Good placement confirmed,” Jungeun calls. 

The patient’s oxygen stabilizes. Barely, but it’s enough. You sigh with relief. 

Then, immediately, someone yells, “Next patient incoming!”

The doors burst open again. 

—

You’re not sure how long you’ve been treating emergency patients, dealing with smoke inhalation, burn wounds, IV lines, fluid resuscitation, and airway protection. 

At one point, you pass by Youngjae between bays. He’s covered in soot now too from working with patients all day. His scrubs are darkened with streaks at the sleeves. 

“Just a few more hours,” he murmurs as he passes by. 

You nod. 

“Yeah.”

And you’re both gone again. 

It’s near the next morning when the last of the incoming victims are confirmed to be stabilized. The ED looks wrecked. You’re washing black residue from your hands when Youngjae comes up behind you. For a moment, the only sound is the sound of water running. 

Finally, he says quietly, “I saw your intubation.”

You glance at him. 

“What about it?”

“It was clean.”

You let out a breath that sounds like a laugh. 

“You know, your escharotomy consult call was louder than the entire department.”

He smiles at that. 

You turn around to wipe your hands dry with a paper towel. 

“I’m clocking out now,” you say. 

“Yeah,” he replies. “Have a good rest.”

You just nod and walk back out.

—

You first knew Youngjae from medical school. You were both sleep-deprived first-years standing outside an anatomy lab at seven in the morning. You had forgotten your goggles, and Youngjae had an extra pair. 

Back then, medical school felt like an uphill battle every day. Every exam felt like it would be the one that would finally expose you as someone who didn’t belong there. Every practical assessment left you convinced that you’d somehow made it in by accident. Everyone around you seemed smarter, more prepared, less terrified. Including, and especially, Youngjae. 

The annoying thing was that he wasn’t even trying to seem impressive and above everyone else. While everyone else boasted about their grades and research and who managed to sleep the least amount of hours, Youngjae never bothered to join in. Yet somehow, all eyes would go to him anyway every time the professors talked about high-achieving students. Including you. 

“Do you understand this?” you had asked one night. 

You had been staring at a physiology diagram that might as well have been written in another language for the past thirty minutes. 

Youngjae looked up from his notes. 

“Yeah, kind of.”

“Well, that’s better than me,” you laugh. “I got nothing.”

You ended up studying together that night. Then again the next week. Then again after that. Over time, he became a constant in your life. He was there during exam weeks, failed practicals, that time you cried in a deserted stairwell after receiving an awful grade. He was there when you passed the board, and he was there when you opened your residency match results with shaking hands. Every major milestone somehow included him. 

Once, a classmate walked into a study room, found the two of you nodding off over your textbooks at five in the morning, and immediately asked, “So when are you guys going to get together?”

You and Youngjae had sprung apart instantly, both equally horrified. 

“Never!”

The answer came so fast from both of you that she burst out laughing. 

By the time medical school ended, you and Youngjae had practically known every single thing about each other. Neither of you thought much about anything at all. Those were just normal things for friends to know. Weren’t they?

And then residency started. Life moved much faster. Some friendships faded with time. People transferred. People quit. People burned out. Yet Youngjae remained through all of it. Maybe that was why neither of you ever crossed the line. Medicine took enough from people already. Sleep. Time. Relationships. Families. Entire years of their lives. The thought of risking the one constant thing you had for feelings that might not eventually survive felt reckless above anything else. 

So you didn’t do anything. But you expressed it in the coffee you left in the break room with his name scrawled on a sticky note. In checking in after particularly difficult shifts. In celebrating each other’s birthdays, Christmas, New Years, and every other major holiday together whenever either or both of you were stuck on call. Over time, they became moments that stayed engraved in the depths of your memories. Moments that you hold on to with the tiniest bit of hope that one day, maybe something would change. 

—

The case is already six hours in. They’re halfway through vascular repair from trauma due to a sudden collision. The fatigue is wearing everyone down to the point where patience starts running thin. Youngjae has been scrubbed in the entire time. His arms ache under the sterile gown. His eyes burn behind his mask. Sweat has completely soaked through his cap. But his hands have been steady. 

“Clamp,” the surgeon requests. 

Youngjae reaches for it. The clamp is taken from his hand and repositioned aggressively. 

“Don’t hesitate.”

The attending doesn’t even look at him when he says it. 

You’re on anesthesia today and currently positioned behind the sterile barrier where you’re supposed to be managing ventilation, blood pressure, and medications while surgery does its work. Right now, your attention is split between the monitors and him. His shoulders are slightly too rigid with tension.

“Blood pressure’s trending down,” you call out calmly. “Ninety over fifty-eight.”

Everyone looks back to the patient. 

“Volume up. Check blood loss,” the attending instructs. 

You see Youngjae’s hands again as he turns to the surgical field. His fingers pause for just too long. 

“Don’t freeze on me now,” the surgeon demands. “See? That. That right there. If you can’t keep up, scrub out.”

Behind the drape, you notice how his focus fractures just a little bit from the statement. You glance at the vitals, then back at him. 

“Pressure’s stable,” you say. “You have time.”

Youngjae’s head tilts slightly. That isn’t an anesthesia comment. That’s you. And he hears it exactly the way you mean it. Slow down. You’re okay. 

The procedure continues like nothing happened. Hours later, the case finally closes. The patient is stable enough for transfer. By the time Youngjae’s scrubbed out, you’ve already moved onto your other duties. Sitting in the break room is a cup of coffee with his name next to it. No note or anything. But he knows who it’s from. 

—

“Time of death 3:18 am,” Junghwan says quietly. 

You step back automatically, your hands still suspended in the air as if you’re hoping the work isn’t finished yet. But the monitor shows the flatline clearly. The curtain is closed gently. It’s a young patient, too. You swallow hard. 

Nurse Jeemin brushes past you quietly to gather documents. 

“You did everything you could,” she offers. 

“(Name).”

Junghwan says your name just to make sure you’re still there. You nod in response. 

“I’m sorry,” you say automatically. 

“Come on,” he says gently. “Take your gloves off.”

You don’t remember moving to the sink, but suddenly, you’re there. Water runs over your hands as you scrub them hard. Too hard. You turn off the faucet, but the silence afterward is far worse. The patient’s face keeps flashing through your head over and over again. 

Youngjae finds you in the break room ten minutes later. He’s still in surgical scrubs from the OR, evident by the mask still hanging loose at his neck. 

For a moment, he just looks at you. You don’t ask how he knows. He just does. You lower yourself down on a chair, and he follows. 

“It doesn’t get easier,” you whisper. 

“No,” he agrees. “You did your job.”

“I know,” you continue.

But I didn’t. I didn’t save them. So I clearly didn’t do my job properly. You want to say it out loud, but there’s no way you’d allow yourself to offload all of that emotional baggage onto Youngjae. He has his own duties to worry about, and that’s already more than enough. 

Instead, you stare at the table in silence. Youngjae doesn’t push. That’s another thing about him. He has the ability to comfort you even when he’s sitting in complete silence. His presence is more than enough. 

“How old were they?”

Youngjae is still looking straight ahead. You swallow. 

“Nineteen.”

Youngjae closes his eyes briefly. Too young. You both know it. 

“My attending once told me that some surgeons have egos big enough to believe that every life is theirs to save. Obviously, not everyone is like that. Some people, most people, simply beat themselves up over it when it doesn’t happen because it feels like they’ve failed,” he starts. 

He continues, “Then he told me that’s not how medicine works.”

You hate that sometimes everyone can do everything in their power and still lose. 

Eventually, Youngjae stands up when his pager goes off again. 

“You should try to eat something,” he says, looking down at you. 

You immediately make a face. He points at you. 

“There it is.”

“What?”

“That expression.”

You crack a small smile on your face. 

“Go,” you tell him quietly. “Before you get punished for not arriving in time.”

“Okay,” he says hesitantly. “I’ll see you later.”

That alone is enough to get you through the next hour. He’s as certain and reliable as the sun that rises each morning. He always finds his way back to you. And you realize with dread that you’ve come to depend on that far more than you maybe should. 

—

The wedding means you finally get a small break from residency. Only for a few hours, but still, you’re counting your blessings. One of your friends from medical school, Dr. Tomioka Mai, a dermatologist, is getting married to her longtime boyfriend, and she had invited you along with a smattering of other alumni. Including Youngjae. 

When you enter the venue, you realize that this would be the first time that you’d see Youngjae wearing something other than scrubs in almost six months. Right on cue, he steps within your line of sight, and you have to tear your eyes away before he can catch you staring. Your cheeks redden in embarrassment. It’s unfair how good he looks in his dark suit and styled hair. 

The event is filled with people from medical school that you haven’t seen in years. You smile and wave happily at old friends and classmates that you maybe haven’t seen since graduation years ago. And the ceremony is short but nothing short of beautiful. Your eyes tear up as Mai and her husband give each other their vows. Mai had always been one of the exceptionally kind ones that you had gotten to know, and you consider yourself lucky to be friends with someone so precious. 

Afterward, everyone spills out into a larger conjoined room for the reception. 

“Mai unnie!” you squeal as you finally make your way to the bride. 

“(Name)!!” she exclaims. “Oh I’m so happy that you made it!”

“Of course, I couldn’t miss it,” you reassure excitedly as you bring her into a warm hug. 

And all of a sudden, it feels as if nothing has changed since medical school. Mai pulls back so that she can take a proper look at you. 

“Are you still completing your residency?” she asks. 

“Yeah,” you nod. “On the bright side, my second year is almost finished.”

“Well, that’s definitely good news,” she smiles. 

“We really need to catch up sometime,” you say. “Whenever I can catch a break, that is.”

“I get it,” Mai replies understandingly. “It’s never really over until it’s over, right?”

“Definitely.”

She leans in closer as she whispers, “So, how are things with you and Youngjae? Are you finally together?”

“See… it’s complicated,” you start before you’re interrupted.

“Don’t tell me you’re still not together?” she exclaims, causing a few nearby heads to turn. 

Thankfully, Youngjae is well out of earshot on the other side of the space. You look around nervously. 

“Shhh, lower your voice a little, Mai. And yes, nothing’s happened since the last time you saw us together at med school.”

“But why?” she questions, bewildered. “Anyone could see that you’re perfect for each other. He never saw any other girl the way that he saw you. Even now. Earlier, I noticed that he couldn’t look away from you during the ceremony.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it was honestly quite obvious. I bet he was so stunned by how beautiful you are all dressed up,” Mai laughs endearingly. 

“You’re so kind,” you reply, laughing as well. 

“Oh, hey!” Mai exclaims. 

Her eyes follow someone behind you as you watch her wave someone over. 

“Youngjae! Come over!”

Mortified, you turn around just as he appears right beside you. 

“Congratulations, Dr. Tomioka. You two make a lovely couple,” he says. 

“Oh please, drop the formalities,” she waves. “Just call me Mai.”

She holds her hands out in front of her and gestures. 

“You know, there’s going to be dancing over there on the dance floor. You two should totally dance! Otherwise I’m worried no one is going to bring the energy. Since we’re all alumni and such anyway, right?”

You laugh awkwardly as you narrow your eyes pointedly at her. She smiles cheekily in response. 

“Well, I’ll have to be off now. I gotta go greet some more people real quick.”

And just as she leaves, the music starts playing. Contrary to what Mai had said she expected, which you suspect was just a ruse to get you to comply, guests rush onto the dance floor as if they’re in sync. You groan quietly at her antics. 

“Why is it always me?” you mutter to yourself. 

A voice snaps you out of your thoughts. 

“Well?”

You look up to see a hand gestured out in front of you. Your eyes follow the outstretched hand until they meet with Youngjae’s.

“A dance?” he repeats. 

Before you can open your mouth, he reaches out for your hand and takes it in his grasp. You gasp slightly as he pulls you onto the dance floor along with everyone else. Around you, people continue to laugh and talk and celebrate. But all you can focus on is the warmth of his hand and the fact that he still hasn’t let go. His cologne still smells the same as the one he wore during medical school. You blink that thought away, horrified that you somehow still remember. 

You want to say something to melt away the awkwardness. 

“This is nice.”

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. 

You can feel his eyes still trained on you. 

“So was getting yelled at by Dr. Kim yesterday,” you add quickly. “Nice to be somewhere else.”

He raises his eyebrows at you in amusement. 

“Right,” he says. 

On the drive home, you find yourself still replaying the feeling of his hand in yours far more than what is probably healthy. 

—

It’s a good thing that Mai’s wedding was the day that it was, because the next day, a blizzard is unexpectedly forced to hit in the late evening. You’re so caught up in your shift that you don’t even realize how bad the weather is until you look outside and discover that the parking lot has completely disappeared beneath heaps of snowfall. 

Every road is closed. Staff can’t leave, and replacement shifts can’t arrive. Everyone is stuck. Doctors and nurses scramble to figure out temporary sleeping arrangements. Every single couch is taken up. Even the conference rooms are filled. Some people literally sleep in office chairs. 

You finally finish your fourteen-hour shift and reach the residents’ lounge around midnight only to find that every bed and remotely comfortable surface is occupied. You stare at the situation quietly in despair. All you want after such a long shift is to find a space to sit down. 

“I found a room.”

You turn around. Youngjae stands in the doorway holding two blankets. Five minutes later, you’re carrying your bag down the hallway. The room is tiny, with two narrow beds, one desk, and a lamp. Youngjae tosses a blanket onto each bed. 

“There.”

You sit down, and the mattress creaks. It’s funny because you spend so much time together at work, yet you’re almost never alone like this. Youngjae changes into a hospital t-shirt and lies down first. You turn away quickly when you realize. 

Finally, the lights are turned off, and darkness fills the room. You stare at the ceiling as the sound of snow hitting the windows suddenly seems to magnify. Youngjae is six feet away. Maybe five feet. Maybe less. Not that you’re measuring. You can feel the sound of your heartbeat drumming in your ears. 

“You awake?”

His voice cuts through the silence.

“Unfortunately,” you sigh. 

He laughs softly. 

“Remember first-year anatomy?”

“Oh no,” you groan. 

“You dropped your forceps.”

“I know exactly where this is going.”

“They landed on Dr. Han’s shoes.”

“He threatened to fail me!” you exclaim. 

Youngjae’s laughter fills the room. And suddenly, you’re back in medical school. Back before residency made everything complicated. Memories come flooding back one by one. Study sessions, exams, awful professors. At some point, your eyes start getting heavier, and your responses slow down. 

“(Name)?”

“Hm?”

A pause stretches long enough that you’re starting to think he’s fallen asleep. 

“I’m glad you’re here.”

Your heartbeat quickens as you freeze, staring into the darkness. Youngjae doesn’t say anything else. And neither do you. 

Some lines shouldn’t be crossed. Especially when you’re standing directly on top of them

—

The snow is still there three days later, but the blizzard cleared up the very next day. Everyone is still catching up from the storm and the staff shortages. You haven’t had a day off, and neither has Youngjae, though that’s hardly unusual. 

Except now, whenever you pass a window, you find yourself remembering what happened that night. I’m glad you’re here. 

You haven’t talked to Youngjae since. You excuse it on the fact that you’re simply too busy, and so is he. Which isn’t exactly wrong. The ED is already crowded when you arrive. Two doctors call in sick in one day. You haven’t sat down once. Around noon, Youngjae is cleared to leave. You think nothing of it, except that hopefully, that means you will be too. 

The call comes forty-seven minutes later. You’re reviewing a patient chart post-op when your pager sounds. You don’t think much of it; after all, it happens dozens of times a day. The ED begins preparing automatically as nurses and residents gather. 

“Multi-vehicle collision…”

Someone beside you asks for equipment, and you hand it over automatically. The report continues. 

“Male driver. Unconscious on scene.”

You keep writing. 

“Approximately twenty-eight years old.”

Your pen stops for a second before continuing. 

“University Hospital identification badge recovered at scene.”

The pen slips from your fingers and clatters loudly against the desk. Nobody notices amidst all the action. The report keeps going. 

“Believed to be hospital employee.”

Your heart begins pounding. 

There are thousands of hospital employees. Thousands. This means nothing, you tell yourself.

The ambulance arrives six minutes later. Six of the longest minutes of your life. You spend the entire time telling yourself that you’re being ridiculous. By the time the trauma bay doors burst open, you’ve almost succeeded. 

Then the paramedics wheel the stretchers inside. And you see him. Everything stops. Everyone’s voices mixed in with the continuous beeping of monitors starts ringing in your ears. 

His face is streaked with blood, and bruising is already spreading across one side of his forehead. His eyes are closed. Motionless. 

Your knees nearly give out. Someone says your name. You don’t hear them. Someone says it again. Louder this time. It’s Junghwan. 

“(Name).”

He’s staring at you. 

“Step out.”

His words hit like a slap. 

“What?”

“You can’t be on this case.”

“No,” you say immediately. 

“(Name).”

“No, please,” you say, even though you know the regulations. 

Yet you find yourself standing outside the trauma bay doors, your report taken from your hands. The waiting is worse. Much worse than any treatment or operation you’ve ever been a part of. 

Updates arrive painfully slow. No brain bleed. Thank God. Multiple fractures. Concussion. Internal injuries. Surgery required. Stable. 

You’re still standing outside of his operating room at midnight. Two hours later, the doors finally open. The surgeon steps out. Your heart has been pounding so hard that it hurts. 

“He’s okay.”

The relief hits you so intensely that you grab onto the nearest chair before your legs betray you completely. If the surgeon had walked out and said anything else, you wouldn’t have survived. 

You’ve loved Youngjae for years, and not once have you ever said it aloud. If it was any other outcome tonight, you would have lost that chance forever. But before you can dwell any further, the nurses wheel Youngjae out. You’re moving to follow instantly. In his hospital room, you can finally get a proper look at him. The sight nearly stops your heart. Bandages are wrapped around his forehead. The bruises are now dark and swollen on one side of his face. He looks so vulnerable and fragile in a way no one could imagine. 

—

Youngjae doesn’t wake up that night. Or the next morning. The doctors assure you repeatedly that it’s expected, even though you technically know it yourself. His body needs rest from the concussion, the medications, the surgery. That doesn’t make the waiting easier. You’ve taken the next few days off even though you rarely touch your PTO. 

Around noon, the sun shines brightly into the room. You haven’t slept, but you don’t care. Quietly, you reach forward and take his hand. You intertwine your fingers with his before you can second-guess anything. No one is around to see, so you start talking. Your voice sounds strange after so many hours of silence. 

“You scared me,” you confess. 

Your thumb brushes against his knuckles. No response. Of course not. You lower your gaze. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared.”

Your throat tightens involuntarily. You swallow and try again. 

“When they brought you in…”

Your eyes burn, and you blink rapidly. 

“I couldn’t help you. I wasn’t allowed to.”

A shaky sigh escapes you. 

“Do you know how much I hated that?”

You stare at your joined hands. 

“I think I’ve loved you for a really long time. I just kept waiting.”

Waiting until it was far too late. 

A tear rolls down your cheek. You wipe it away immediately. You’re annoyed, exhausted, embarrassed even though he’s literally unconscious. 

“You don’t have to say anything back. You know, you’re kind of terrible at conversations right now.”

You smile weakly at that and squeeze his hand gently. Your forehead comes against the edge of the mattress. Just for a minute. Just until your eyes stop burning. At some point, without realizing it, you fall asleep with your hand still in his. 

Hours pass. When Youngjae finally forces his eyes open, disoriented and exhausted, the first thing he sees is you asleep beside his bed with your hand holding his like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go. 

At first, Youngjae thinks he’s dreaming. But the beeping coming from various monitors seems too real. He feels pain, but the meds tone it down a little, at least for now, so that it doesn’t feel sharp and rather muffled. He frowns slightly. The movement hurts. His eyes drift downward, which is when he sees you curled awkwardly in the chair beside his bed, fast asleep with one arm folded beneath your head and the other stretched across the mattress so that it’s wrapped around his. The second he notices, it all comes back to him. Snow. Brakes screeching. Sirens. Then nothing. 

His thumb lifts weakly above your hand. The effort feels ridiculously heavy for such a small movement. But he does it again and again, taping your hand until your eyes open shortly after. The first thing you think of is how badly your neck hurts from sitting in such an awkward position. But the moment you notice that Youngjae’s awake, you sit up so fast that your chair nearly tips over. 

“You’re awake,” you exclaim, standing up immediately only to sit back down. 

“Hey,” he whispers hoarsely. 

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. You just keep staring at him with your mouth open and eyes widened in speechlessness. 

“You okay?”

The question is so absurd coming from him that you don’t even know what to say. The relief is so overwhelming that you almost mistake it for anger at his ridiculous question. Your eyes sting, so you look away immediately, but it’s too late. He’s already noticed. 

“You scared me,” you say as you stare at the ground beneath your feet. 

He seems completely unsure what to say. 

“You got into a car accident. I watched them bring you in. I couldn’t even help.”

Your gaze drops to your hands sitting limply in your lap. 

You continue, “You were unconscious for almost a day.”

You swallow and take a pause so that you can compose yourself, but it doesn’t really work. It feels like you’re using as much power to will your tears to withdraw back into your eyes. 

“I really thought I was gonna lose you there,” you whisper quietly because you just couldn’t say it any louder. 

“How long have you been here?” he asks. 

“I don’t remember,” you answer honestly. “I lost track somewhere.”

“You should’ve gone home,” he insists. 

“You know I would never be able to do that.”

Youngjae just nods. His eyes drift away toward the windows on the other side of the room. 

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you blurt out, “While you were out, I said I love you.”

He whips his head around at you instantly, wincing at how fast he moved. You refuse to look him in the eye. Absolutely not. Instead, your fingers fidget as you stare at the wall next to you. 

“Oh.”

Embarrassment floods your entire body. 

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” you say rapidly. “Not here, and definitely not now. I’ll leave you to rest.”

You get up from your chair, but you haven’t even taken a step away before Youngjae’s hand is on your wrist. As a result, he’s sitting up now, and the effort it took to move that drastically doesn’t even hit him until he’s actually up. 

“Wait, (Name).”

You can feel him watching you. You stay turned away. 

“I love you too,” he says softly. 

You forget how to breathe. You forget how to think. It feels like you’ve forgotten everything except those four words. 

“Turn around,” he begs. “Please.”

You have to blink away the tears that are welling up. 

“Oh my god.”

Youngjae smiles at the sight. 

“Oh my god,” you repeat, now embarrassed at your reaction as you fan your face.

“That’s your response?”

“Oh shut up.”

Youngjae laughs softly and then immediately regrets it as his hand moves to touch his ribs. 

“Don’t laugh,” you instruct. 

“Easier said than done, that’s for sure.”

“You almost died,” you say aloud. 

Youngjae looks down at your hands, which are joined now with his. He squeezes them gently. 

“I know,” he replies. 

“I kept waiting for the right time to say something. But then everything snowballed until we were way too busy in residency for me to even try. And then eventually it took me so long that I just talked myself out of it. In a way, I just couldn’t bear the thought of letting go of what we already have. It was selfish of me,” you admit. “But then, I finally had the realization yesterday that I just couldn’t put it off anymore.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better,” Youngjae starts. “I was just as selfish as you for not doing anything either. All these years, I’ve loved you. Ever since the first day of medical school, where I saw you for the first time.”

“I love you,” you reply. “So much.”

“Me too,” he says. “So I’m assuming we’re together now?”

“i would hope so,” you laugh weakly. 

—

“Morning, Dr. (Last name)!”

“Good morning,” you reply. 

“How are you, Dr. Choi?”

“Doing well, and you?” Youngjae says. 

Nurses greet you as you walk down the hospital halls with Youngjae right beside you. At the top right of your scrubs sits a shiny nameplate for each of you:

Dr. (Full name) – Anesthesiologist (Trauma and Recovery)

Dr. Choi Youngjae – Trauma Surgeon

You’ve long adjusted to your new role as an official independent doctor alongside Youngjae. But what still manages to catch you off guard sometimes is the hand that brushes yours occasionally as the two of you navigate medical life side-by-side. Through it all, the two of you still remain together, as if it had always been meant to be this way. Maybe it was. 

Youngjae glances over. 

“What?”

You hadn’t realized that you were smiling. 

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“You’re about to be late,” you urge as you try to shoo him away. 

“I still have ten minutes!” he whines. 

You roll your eyes, but there’s affection behind them. The elevator doors slide open, and Youngjae steps inside first to hold the door for you. 

“Such a gentleman,” you tease.

“I know.”

“Yet you still leave your socks everywhere at home.”

Yes, the two of you moved in together. And now, you’re getting to experience firsthand the joys of finally living with a man. 

“That was one time,” he protests, but it’s futile.

One glare from you and he’s already pressing his lips together in surrender. 

“I’ll see you later,” he says as the elevator dings and the doors slide open again. 

You smile immediately. As always, as certain and reliable as sunrise. 

all relevant medical terms used: Level one MVC

MVC: motor vehicle collision

Level one trauma: most severe trauma (patient critically injured and may die)

Hypotensive: low blood pressure, severe blood loss, shock, internal bleeding

Attending: a fully trained, senior doctor who supervises residents

GCS dropping: Glasgow Coma Scale measures consciousness, so dropping means worsening brain function

FAST exam: a rapid bedside ultrasound done in trauma cases checking for internal bleeding around heart, lungs, and abdomen

Positive FAST means they found internal bleeding

Rigid abdomen usually signals internal bleeding

Laryngoscope: a medical tool used to see the vocal cords during intubation

Intubate: very high-pressure procedure in emergencies where a breathing tube is placed into the airway so a machine can breathe for the patient

Etomidate/roc: medication for intubation/sedative used to rapidly knock a patient unconscious and relax muscles or tube placement

PACU: Post-Anesthesia Care Unit

Oxygen saturation (O2 sat): a number showing how much oxygen is in the blood, with low numbers meaning dangerous breathing problems

Bagging: using a mask and squeeze bag to push air into a patient’s lungs manually

Escharotomy: a surgical procedure used in severe burns where tight, burned skin is cut to allow the chest or limbs to expand and restore circulation/breathing

ED: emergency department

The first time he said it, you genuinely thought he was joking. 

“I like you.”

Kyungmin said it so easily, so casually, as if it wasn’t something that could potentially ruin both of you. 

You remember staring at him from across the small table with your fingers still curled around your drink. 

“You shouldn’t.”

You liked him too – you still do. 

He just laughed disbelievingly. 

“That’s your answer?”

You had simply said, “It’s the right one.”

But he didn’t drop it. Kyungmin was never the type to back down once he decided something mattered to him. And this was no exception. Even though both of you were still active trainees, which technically means whatever he’s insinuating is the last thing you’d ever be allowed to do. 

Yet you still hung out as if nothing had changed. Late night walks looked like him in a hoodie and you with a cap pulled down as low as possible. Dates meant sitting side by side on a bench like strangers. 

You told yourself it was harmless. Even when he checked behind him multiple times out of habit, of fear of getting caught. 

You weren’t his girlfriend. He wasn’t your anything. Not even when he bought you a drink without asking, when he texted you did you get home safe?, when he insisted on hanging out. 

You didn’t stop him; you never did. You didn’t stop yourself either. Even though you were actively putting both of your careers at risk. 

—

One night, he finally decided it was time to ask again. 

You were sitting on the curb outside a random convenience store, sharing instant noodles because that was all both of you wanted due to your strict trainee diets. 

“Why not?”

Kyungmin nudged your knee with his.

“You keep telling me no but you never tell me why.”

You stared at the steam rising from the cup. Because the answer was so obvious, yet you couldn’t seem to bring yourself to say it aloud because then it would mean it was really true. 

“Because we’re both trainees.”

He frowned. 

“That doesn’t mean we can’t date. No one has to know.”

“Yes, it definitely does,” you said, finally looking at him. “It means everything. We’re going to have fans. A company we’re contractually bound to. A reputation we have to protect.”

“And?”

“And I would never want to get in the way of that. Come on, Kyungmin. Let’s be serious for a second. This is your dream we’re talking about. And mine too.”

Kyungmin watched you for a long second. 

“I like you either way,” he persists quietly. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t think that’s enough. You can’t change my mind. I’ll just keep waiting until you can say you feel the same.”

“That’s really not how it works,” you say, your exasperation hiding how touched you felt deep inside. What did I ever do to deserve this? 

“Are you telling me to move on? Because that’s not fair. You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“If you’re asking what I think,” you say, “I think I’m the worst possible choice for you.”

He didn’t confess again after that. But he didn’t leave either. If anything, he got more persistent. He still showed up in your practice room after he finished training with exhaustion written all over him. He still asked about your day first. He listened. He reached for you without thinking – your sleeve, your wrist, the edge of your hand. 

You never pulled away. 

And then the company found out. They were bound to at some point, with both of you training under Pledis. At least it wasn’t fans. But that didn’t make it any better in your eyes. 

Kyungmin called you that day. 

“They don’t know anything,” he clarified. “I denied everything. They just think we’re friends.”

“That’s good,” you replied, which you meant. You hadn’t gotten a chance to meet with the higher-ups yet, but you assumed they would say the same thing. 

You couldn’t find the words to describe the relief you felt at the time. But at the same time, that relief only cemented your decision to gradually pull away. It was easy, you told yourself. At least, it was easier to create distance rather than having it forced upon you. 

Kyungmin didn’t fail to notice. 

“You’re avoiding me,” he confronted one day. 

You didn’t even try to deny it. 

“What? No, I'm just really busy these days.”

“Stop beating around the bush,” Kyungmin insists. 

“Well what do you want me to say? You’re not gonna like it either way.”

“How do you even know that?”

“Because we’ve talked about this before,” you say exasperatedly. “I’m just being realistic about how this is going to end.”

“And you’ve decided that already?”

“Haven’t you?” you shot back. “You think our company will be okay with this if they find out the truth?”

“But this is my feelings we’re talking about. Can’t I at least get a say? You’re not even giving me a chance,” he said, frustrated. 

“I’m telling you to not ruin everything we’ve both worked for. Look clearly, Kyungmin. You’re going to regret it if it ends up impacting your career.”

“And you?”

“I’ll still be here. I’m not going anywhere. We just can’t cross the line,” you replied. Every word that came out of your mouth hurt your heart more and more to say. But it had to be said. 

“You’re not going to ruin anything,” he insisted.  

“Then you’re not thinking clearly.”

“Or maybe you’re just scared.”

“Of course I am,” you admitted. “I’d have to be stupid not to be.”

“I’m scared too,” he said, his voice full of the sincerity that he never bothers to hide from you. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to walk away.”

“It should. It’s what’s best for both of us.”

You hated the way he looked at you. Like you’re worth all of it, even the fallout that will inevitably happen, the scandal that will ultimately be released on the Internet, the raging fans that would tear him apart. Like the decision is already made in his eyes. 

And you, you had to hold yourself back with everything you had, because if you let yourself believe him, even for a second, you wouldn’t be able to stop. 

—

A year later, you say yes. 

You meet in places no one would look twice at. Late hours, dark lighting, dates that worked around his schedule. But the thing is, Kyungmin isn’t a trainee anymore; he’s an idol now, and so are you. Three months after you distanced yourself, he debuted with TWS, and you silently cheered on the sidelines. You had sent him a text congratulating him, to which he responded almost instantly. Then, two months later, you debuted as well with ILLIT. Which means everything you were afraid of could come true any time. But right now, you couldn’t care less about the risk. 

“Stay still.”

“I am still,” you mumble, though you’re obviously not. 

Kyungmin huffs out a small laugh in front of you, his fingers outstretched as he tries to wipe at the corner of your mouth. 

“You keep moving,” he insists. 

“Because you keep missing the spot,” you counter. 

“I’m fixing it.”

“You’re literally being dramatic. There’s barely anything there,” you argue as you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the darkened window beside you.

“You’re just being uncooperative,” he shoots back. 

His fingers brush your skin one last time before he leans back, satisfied. 

“There.”

You squint at your reflection. 

“I literally look the same.” 

“Say what you want,” Kyungmin laughs. 

The cafe that you’re tucked in is small enough that there’s no one who bothers to pay attention to the two of you sitting in the corner. With barely more than a few occupied tables, soft music humming in the background, and dim, ambient lighting, it didn’t take long for this place to become the usual spot for you and Kyungmin. He’s always liked places like this, where he can just be himself without having to worry about prying eyes. 

“You’re staring again,” Kyungmin notes. 

“I’m not,” you deny, even though you absolutely were. Who could blame you?

“You are.” 

You reach for your drink as an excuse for you to look away. 

“Can you blame me?”

Six months in, yet sometimes, you still can’t believe that you’re dating Kyungmin. The Lee Kyungmin. As in he is your boyfriend and you are his girlfriend. 

“You’re being weird,” he says. 

“Well, lucky for you, you’re dating me now,” you grin. 

“Unfortunately,” he adds, completely unfazed by the glare you shoot at him. 

It’s evident that any sort of distance that once existed between you is long gone now. There’s no hesitation when he reaches across the table to steal a bite of your food from your plate. No second thought when your knees brush under the table. No pretending when his arm settles around your shoulders during late-night walks. 

“You’re tired,” you observe after a moment. 

Kyungmin shakes his head immediately. 

“Nah, I’m fine.”

“You almost fell asleep on the bus on the way here,” you point out. 

“I was just resting my eyes.”

“You were snoring.”

“I don’t snore,” Kyungmin protests. 

You tilt your head, clearly not believing it. 

“Okay, well maybe a little,” he concedes. 

You laugh, and something in his expression shifts at the sound, as if he’s savoring the sound or memorizing the sound or maybe even both. 

“Come here,” you murmur, patting the empty space next to you. 

He doesn’t need to be told twice. In one swift motion, he slides into your side of the booth, his shoulder pressing against yours as you shift to make space. You tilt your head, letting it rest against his shoulder, and he relaxes into you in response. His hand finds yours, his fingers slipping between yours like they’ve done it a thousand times. You trace absent patterns against his skin with your thumb, feeling the warmth radiating off of him. 

Outside, a car passes. Somewhere behind the counter, laughter erupts from the employees. 

“You know,” Kyungmin says after a while, his voice soft. “Sometimes I still can’t believe we’re actually dating.”

“Kyungmin, it’s been six months,” you say incredulously, though you can kind of see where he’s coming from. 

“Well yes, I’m aware, but you were so adamantly against it at the beginning,” he clarifies. 

“I had my reasons.”

“Yeah, I know. I get it. But now that you’re with me, you’re not allowed to leave, okay?”

“Yes sir!” you tease playfully. 

“I’m serious,” he insists, nudging your hand. “You don’t get to do that anymore.”

You tilt your head slightly so that you’re looking up at him. Just looking at him washes away every lingering fear or doubt you could possibly ever have. 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” you reassure gently. 

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “You are.”

And that’s more than enough. 

—

The bell above the cafe door barely makes a sound when you step out. Kyungmin follows right behind you. It’s quiet out here, just like it was inside. At first, neither of you say anything, but his hand finds yours instinctively. 

Someone passes by on the other side of the sidewalk. They don’t even glance your way, but your hand slips out of Kyungmin’s immediately, as if it was never there in the first place. You sense the way his fingers curl around empty air before realizing what just happened. You can feel him staring at you, but you keep looking straight ahead like nothing happened. 

He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. But a second later, his hand brushes yours again, his touch gentler and fainter, like he’s checking that it’s okay to hold your hand again. 

You don’t think much of the pair passing by on the other side just like anyone else, but you don’t fail to notice how Kyungmin automatically reaches up to pull his beanie down over his head and eyes even lower than you thought possible. 

“Let’s go this way,” he says under his breath as he walks closer to the sidewalk hidden from the streetlights, and you follow him. 

He walks you a little farther than usual when you get to your dorms. 

“You’ll text me when you get in?" he asks. 

“Yeah,” you nod. “I’ll see you?”

“Yeah,” he replies, closing the distance with his arms wrapped around you. 

And then he’s gone. 

—

You drop your bag by the door and kick your shoes off without thinking. Your mind is still outside, back on the street where you were with Kyungmin. Back in that split second where his hand tightened and then let go. 

You sit down on the edge of your bed, staring at nothing. The last thing you would ever do is blame Kyungmin. It makes absolute sense what he did; of course it did. He had to be careful. You do too. You’ve always known what you were getting into the moment you said you wanted to be with him. So why are you still thinking about it?

Your fingers curl slightly in your lap. You can still feel the ghost of his hand, warm and steady. Gone just as quickly as it came. 

You sigh slowly. 

If someone recognized us

The thought comes uninvited. 

If they took a picture…

Your stomach tightens. You imagine it: blurry photos, speculation blown up on the internet, people assuming the worst in the situation. Your chest feels a little too tight now. You think about everything that the two of you have. Everything you’ve both worked for. And yet, you could ruin it all so easily. Just by the simple act of standing next to him. 

You shake your head as if trying to push that thought away. You should text him; you said you would. 

you: i’m homeee

He replies almost instantly. 

kyungmai: get some rest baby

You smile at his text. Of course that’s what he says. He makes everything seem so easy; he always has. As if none of this is as complicated as you’re making it seem. 

You lie back against your bed and stare up at the ceiling, your phone still glowing next to you.

Everything is fine. Nothing has changed. And yet, if something happened, you wouldn’t ever be able to forgive yourself. 

—

The next time you see him, it’s at his dorm. Kyungmin and you agreed to do a movie night after a long week just to unwind. He shows up right after practice ended, a cap pulled low over his eyes and his hoodie thrown on over it. 

“Did you start it without me?” he asks, nodding toward the TV when he enters his living room. 

“Obviously not,” you scoff. “I’m not that evil. I just got here a few minutes ago.”

“Mm,” he hums. “That’s debatable.”

You nudge his arm as you pass him, heading back toward the couch. He follows without thinking and drops down right beside you. The movie starts a second later, some romcom that just released a few days ago. 

Kyungmin sinks into the cushions and slings one arm lazily across the back of the couch behind you. After a few minutes, he shifts so that he’s closer, like he always does, until your sides and pressed together. 

“Come here,” he murmurs. 

This time, you pause for barely a second before leaning into him, letting your head rest against his shoulder like you always do. He doesn’t react to your hesitation, and instead, he just adjusts slightly so you’re more comfortable. His arm slides down to rest around yours, pulling you in. 

“Better,” he mumbles, eyes already focused on the screen. 

Your fingers find his sleeve, lightly gripping the fabric instead of his hand. You try your hardest not to think about it, but the more you try to avoid it, the more it keeps clinging to your thoughts. 

The movie plays on. Some scenes flash across the screen, but you’re already tuned out. Instead, you’re aware of everything else, like the warmth of him beside you, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and the way he’s leaned into you without thinking. 

Your gaze drifts elsewhere from the screen and settles somewhere on the flickering light surrounding it instead. 

What would I even do if Kyungmin were to get in trouble?

The thought comes back too easily. 

You shift just enough to create the smallest bit of space between you without realizing it. Not enough that anyone would question it, but enough that you feel it. Kyungmin just follows your movement instinctively and closes the gap again without even looking away from the screen. Like there’s no reason not to. 

You let your hand slip away from his sleeve and rest it in your lap instead. A second later, his fingers brush against yours, searching for the familiar feeling again. He touches your hand gently like a silent request without even looking at you. 

You hesitate again, but then you let him take it. His fingers intertwine with yours in a way that makes you feel grounded, as if everything should feel normal. But it doesn’t. Because all you can think about is how easily it could all be taken away. 

Halfway through the movie, Kyungmin shifts and stretches slightly before leaning his head against yours. 

“Are you tired?” you murmur. 

“A little,” he admits. “It’s been a long day.”

“You didn’t have to come all this way,” you say quietly. 

He turns his head just enough to glance at you. 

“Why wouldn’t I?”

You shrug, eyes staying on the screen.

“You’re exhausted. Plus, you’re more likely to get caught.”

“I don’t care. I wanted to see you,” he says simply like there’s no other answer. 

You nod, but you don’t respond. Then, his thumb brushes over your knuckles absentmindedly, as if he’s not even aware that he’s doing it. 

“Did something happen?” he asks after a moment. 

His eyes are still trained onto the screen, his expression relaxed. The question asked more out of instinct rather than suspicion. 

You shake your head. 

“No.”

He hums softly, accepting it just like that. 

“Okay.”

He doesn’t push. Right here, in the peacefulness of your dorm, everything is the same. And maybe, for him, it hasn’t. Kyungmin leans further into you, his eyes half-lidded now. 

“Wake me up if I fall asleep,” he mumbles. 

“You’re already falling asleep,” you point out softly, knowing you have absolutely no intention of waking him up with how much rest he needs to get. 

“No I’m not,” he whines, a small pout forming on his lips. 

A soft giggle escapes your lips. He settles against you closer than before if that was even possible. Your thumb brushes against his hand slowly like you’re memorizing it. Even though you’re so close, the proximity only feels temporary. 

Soon enough, by the time the credits roll at the end of the movie, Kyungmin’s already dozing off. His hand is still holding onto yours loosely, not letting go even in his sleep. 

His phone vibrates, breaking the silence and tranquility. 

Kyungmin stirs beside you, blinking himself awake. It takes him a second to register where he is, what’s happening, and then he reaches blindly for his phone on the table. 

His phone buzzes again. He squints at the screen, the brightness blindingly light. 

“I have to take this,” he murmurs, his voice deeper and rough with sleep. “It’s my mom.”

“Yeah, go ahead,” you reassure. 

He pushes himself up so that he’s standing right outside of the living room, at the doorway. 

“Hello?” he answers, his voice dropping even lower. 

You don’t mean to listen. You really don’t. But it’s not like his voice is unnoticeable against the eerily silent dorm. You’ve pulled out your phone, but his words still cut through clearly, which is why you immediately notice how his tone changes. 

“Yeah, I’m out…”

A pause. 

“No, I’m not – I told you, I’m just – ”

He cuts himself off. You glance over at where he’s standing. He’s turned more away from the living room now. One hand runs through his hair as he straightens his posture, evidently a little more tense than before. 

“I know,” he says. “I get it.”

Another pause, longer this time. You look away, your heart beating a little faster. 

“I’m being careful,” he adds, clearly annoyed. 

Your fingers curl slightly into the nearest pillow next to you. You can pretty much guess what he’s talking about now.

“I said I got it,” he continues, his voice firm. “No, it’s not like that… it’s not something you need to worry about.”

On the other end, his mother's voice is far from clear, her words indistinct, but the cadence is enough to express her insistent attitude. 

Kyungmin exhales slowly. 

“I know what’s at stake,” he says. “I wouldn’t do anything to mess that up.”

You don’t even bother to distract yourself by scrolling on your phone, your thumbs frozen and hovering. The more he talks, the more you convince yourself that it’s what you think it’s about. Our relationship. 

You’ve met his mother before, way back when both of you first became trainees. Even back then, she adored you and doted on you like crazy. But after knowing her for so long, you’re aware of how protective she is of Kyungmin, him being her first son and all. 

“I have to go,” he says after a moment, even though you’ve been silent this whole time. “I’ll call you later.”

Another pause. 

“...Yeah, I will.”

The call ends. Then Kyungmin turns back around with his expression already smoothed over, as if the conversation never even happened. 

“Sorry,” he says, walking back over. “She was just nagging again.”

“Yeah?” you reply softly. “It’s okay, if I were her, I’d nag too.”

“Hey!” he laughs. 

You laugh along with him, but your mind is still somewhere else, where everything’s clearly at stake. 

—-

You don’t usually come by their practice room. Whenever you hung out with Kyungmin, he was the one who came to you, mostly because he couldn’t seem to stay away for long. Not that you minded. If anything, you loved his clingy side. 

Today, though, Kyungmin had asked you to come over because they had ended practice early, and since they ordered food, he offered for you to join them. So you did. 

You could hear them way before you even reached the door. Music was still playing from a speaker, and Jihoon and Dohoon were bickering while stomping around while Youngjae and Shinyu were lost in their own world. Only Hanjin was calm – Kyungmin was impatiently waiting for you. 

“Ayy, look who finally decided to show up,” Hanjin laughs the moment you peek your head in. 

“Long time no see,” Youngjae adds with a wave. 

“Yeah, you should come by more often,” Shinyu agrees. “It keeps Kyungmin sane.”

“Hey!” he exclaims. 

You barely make it two steps through the door before Jihoon exclaims, “Food’s here! Who wants to get it? Not me!”

Everyone reacts at once, their voices overlapping as they try to get out of having to go down to the lobby. 

You laugh, suggesting, “I’ll go. I’ll be right back.”

The hallway is much quieter in comparison to the chaos inside. So much so that you can hear the sound of your footsteps echoing a little as you walk. The elevator dings softly when it opens, and you step inside. When the doors open again, the lobby comes into view, a large bag of takeout sitting at the front desk. A staff member nods when you approach and slides the bags toward you without much thought. 

“Thank you,” you say as you gather the items carefully. 

It’s a bit heavier than you expected, and you have to readjust your grip so that you can carry it properly. As you reach the elevator corridor again, you hear hushed voices down on the other end. 

“It’s just… they’re at a really critical point right now…”

You recognize one of them as one of TWS’s managers, while the other seemed to be just another HYBE staff member. 

“They’re finally gaining traction,” the other continues. “This is when things matter the most.”

“Exactly,” the one you assume is a manager agrees. “They can’t afford to have any sort of controversy or popularity decline right now.”

Then, quieter, she continues, “Especially not something like a dating scandal.”

“It doesn’t even have to be real,” the staff member adds. “Rumors alone are enough to cause problems. Fans are watching everything, and one mistake – ”

She scoffs softly. 

“You know how it goes, I’m sure.”

Conveniently, the elevator doors slide open at that moment, and you disappear inside before you can hear anything else. Before you can think too much about it. 

—

By the time you make it back to the practice room, you’ve already masked everything with a neutral expression. 

“Finally,” Dohoon groans the second you walk in. “I’m starving.”

“It hasn’t even been that long,” you shoot back. 

Kyungmin’s already beside you and taking some of the containers from your hands. Eventually, food gets passed around, and conversations pick back up again. 

—

You decide it’s time. The only thing that was holding you back was the thought that Kyungmin wouldn’t be expecting it at all. Knowing him, it would hit him even worse. But you can’t keep doing this. Not when you know what it could cost him. 

A few days later, Kyungmin comes over after your practice session finished. It was almost two in the morning, and you were sprawled on the floor, your muscles aching and your back nearly giving out from running the same choreography over and over again. Kyungmin drops down beside you without hesitation, mirroring your position on the floor.  

Before you can stop yourself, you say, “Kyungmin.”

“Yeah?”

He props himself up on his elbow, looking at you. 

You take a breath. You have to say it now.

“I don’t think we should do this anymore.”

“What?”

He lets out a small laugh like he just misheard you. 

“I’m serious.”

You’re sitting up fully now. His smile fades all at once. 

“Why?” he asks. 

You look down at your hands, then back at him. 

“I… I lost feelings,” you lie. It’s easier that way. 

“Don’t lie to me,” Kyungmin says immediately. 

There’s nothing that gets past him when it comes to you, especially after all these years. 

“I’m not.”

“Then look at me,” he presses. “Look at me and say you don’t like me. That you don’t want anything to do with me anymore.”

Your throat tightens. 

“Kyungmin, I – ”

“Exactly,” he cuts in. “That’s not how you feel. So why are you doing this?”

“It’s for the better,” you insist. “It’s not up for discussion.”

“Okay then,” he says finally. 

If that’s what you want, he won’t take that away from you. He stands, brushing himself off and smoothing his pants before walking toward the door. 

Your chest tightens with every step that he takes.  

“See you around, I guess,” he says, looking back at you for one last time before he leaves. 

—

Two weeks. Two weeks since you last spoke to him. Two weeks since you broke up with him. You hadn’t seen him since, though you did run into Dohoon once in the hallway. Both of you had locked eyes, then bowed awkwardly before quickly moving on. His members definitely knew, as did yours. 

But schedules didn’t stop just because you decided to end your relationship with him. So you throw yourself into work instead. You added practice sessions, more vocal lessons, dance monitoring with your performance director, and more. Your comeback is still technically weeks away, but it feels closer every day. At least that’s what you keep telling yourself. It’s easier this way, to stay busy and not think. 

You finally allow yourself to take a break. You have an hour of downtime before you need to get to your next session. So you decide to monitor some of your own videos on YouTube just to kill the time. But a TWS video pops up right on the home page. One of their recent group livestreams was uploaded online. Your fingers move to click on it before you can register anything.  

As usual, they were chaotic as they celebrated a recent anniversary. Kyungmin was too, but you could see how his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. For a second, he would be laughing along, but then right after, he would zone out again. There were faint shadows underneath his eyes that you swear weren’t there before. You only realized simply because you were so used to seeing his face. No one else would have probably noticed; you see it because you know him. 

You close the video, but it doesn’t help. Because he’s everywhere you look, even in the littlest, most irrelevant moments of your day. All you could see was him. You saw him in the latest KiiiKiii cover you watched Iroha dance to because you knew was itching to cover the same song. You heard him in the songs playing on the radio because all you could think about was how well his vocal tone would compliment the music. 

Still, you tell yourself you did the right thing. You have to believe that. You need to let go, and you need to move forward. You have a demanding job to get to, fans to interact with, and a team who’s counting on you. You can’t just spend the rest of your life moping and mourning what could have happened if circumstances were just slightly different. 

—

You don’t expect to get a call from her, of all people. You almost don’t pick up. Guilt creeps through your body the moment you see the caller: Kyungmin’s mom. 

“Hello?”

“Hi sweetie, it’s Kyungmin’s mom,” her voice rings clear through the phone. It’s warm and familiar all at the same time. 

“How have you been?” 

Hearing her voice relaxes you a little. You were always close with her, especially throughout your trainee years. Their family basically became family friends with yours. But once you and Kyungmin both became idols, it was harder for you to keep in touch. 

“I’m doing well, how about you?” you reply, trying your best to force your voice to sound cheerful. 

“I’m doing good,” he says. “I hope it’s okay that I called.”

“No, of course it is! I always love hearing from you,” you reassure. 

“Well, I’ll just get to it then,” she starts. “Kyungmin told me what happened. You know, at first, I’ll admit I was hesitant. I thought you two were just blinded by your attraction for each other and were ignoring the bigger, more realistic problems, with you being idols and everything. Kyungmin doesn’t usually tell me much, but I’ve been watching him. I can tell when something clearly matters to him, and I have to say, he cares about you so much. For good reason, too. I know you’re the reason why he still takes time out of his day to text me even when he’s so busy with his idol activities. Looking back, it makes me feel so reassured knowing that he has someone like you by his side.”

You stay silent, listening. Your chest tightens at her words, which only make you miss him more. 

“Obviously, I don’t want to pressure you into doing or saying anything. I respect your decision. But I know my son. And I think I may have been wrong initially. I just thought you should know,” she finishes. 

“Thank you, Ms. Lee,” you say. “Thank you for letting me know.”

“Of course,” she replies. “I haven’t seen you properly in ages. You should come over some time and visit. Sometimes Kyungmin’s brothers still ask for you, you know.”

You laugh a little at that. His brothers were just like him, with the exact same mannerisms, just more evil. Being with them was like having two little Kyungmins running around.

Her words linger long after the call ends. In the process of protecting you and him, you had hurt him as well. To you, it feels less like you trying to save him from the inevitable and more like you just hurting him before anything could happen. 

You weren’t supposed to feel regret. You were supposed to feel certain. But now, you’re not so sure.

—

That night, you text Kyungmin.

hey, can we talk?

You had prepared for the worst. You don’t even expect a response, much less an offer to meet up in person. 

A soft knock breaks through the silence in your dorm. He’s here. 

You stand up and cross your room in a few quick steps before opening the door. Standing right outside, Kyungmin is there, a bag in his hand and his hood pulled up. 

“Hi,” you offer, your voice small. 

“Hey,” he replies, his voice equally quiet. 

“Oh, um, you can come in,” you add quickly. “We can talk inside.”

He walks in quietly and follows you to the living room. 

You sit at opposite ends of your couch. It’s the furthest you’ve ever been from him when sitting on the same furniture. 

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” you start. 

Kyungmin’s turned so that he’s facing you with his knees tucked into his chest.

“But now I see I’m wrong. I spent the past few weeks thinking about it, and I realized it wasn’t fair to you that I kept pushing and pulling back and forth. I was just thinking about the future and hypothesizing about what could happen instead of looking at what was right in front of me – you.”

“I understand, though,” he reassures. “I always did. Even back when you were still a trainee. You’re more than valid for having these concerns.”

“I was just trying to protect you, protect us. You know, there were staff in the hallway that day when I ate dinner with you and the members. They were super adamant on your group not being able to afford any issues, like controversies or any dating rumors. Hearing that, it reignited what I initially feared, so I just ran away out of fear again. I’m sorry, it wasn’t fair to you.”

“Everything has a possibility of going wrong,” he says. “But I don’t think that should mean I just walk away from everything, especially if it’s something I want. Especially if it’s risky. I’d rather try and deal with whatever happens than walk away and eventually regret it later.”

“I’m just scared,” you admit. 

“I know,” he replies. “Come here.”

He motions for you to come right next to him as he shifts so that he’s sitting properly. You close the distance as your head drops into the crook of his shoulder. His arm wraps around you carefully, hesitant at first, then tighter when you don’t pull away. You curl into him with your knees tucked under you. 

You finally notice the plastic bag he had brought with him now sitting on the table in front of you. 

“What’s that?” you ask, pointing at it. 

“Just a little something I got,” he says, straightening slightly as he reaches for it, his other arm still loosely around you. 

“Here.”

He pulls out a stuffed animal: a bunny with droopy ears. 

You were so caught off guard that a soft laugh slips out of you. 

“For me?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “In hopes that it would help convince you to take me back.”

“Kyungmin…” you murmur, your hand reaching up to hold the bunny. “You didn’t have to. If anything, I should be the one asking you.” 

You turn to him fully now. 

“Do you want to be my boyfriend again?”

“Of course baby”

He agrees without hesitation, like it’s the easiest answer in the world. 

His arms come around you again to pull you in close. This time, you don’t hold back at all when you hug him back. For a while, neither of you say anything. 

After a while, you ask, “What if something does happen though? What are we going to do?”

“We’ll just deal with it,” he says. 

“I’m sorry,” you say again. 

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I know you didn’t do it to hurt me.”

He pauses before he continues. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yeah,” you reply. “I thought about it, over and over again. I was scared, and I still am. But I trust you. I trust us. Whatever happens, I know we’ll get through it.”

You feel him nod against your head. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur into his shoulder. 

Your arms wrap around him, and he does the same just as tightly. 

—

A few days later, you’re sitting on your floor with your phone in your hand, rereading your conversation with him for what feels like the hundredth time. 

Everything is great. He texts you when he can. He sends random updates whenever he thinks of you, like pictures of food, complaints about practice, voice notes where he sounds two seconds away from falling asleep. 

You press your lips together as you lock your phone and set it down beside you. Just saying sorry doesn’t feel like enough. So you decide to do something about it. 

His practice room is empty when you step in. You double-check your surroundings before slipping inside. You set everything down as quickly as you can. You had gotten some of his favorite items and assembled them together in a small basket. His favorite snacks, drinks he always reaches for, a new hoodie he had been eyeing, and in the center, tucked carefully in between everything else, a bunny. You had gone out and found a similar one for him. 

You can’t stay since you have to get back to your practice, so you leave and text him once you’re safely out. 

you: go to the practice room when you’re free

You don’t expect him to call so soon. Barely twenty minutes after you’ve already returned to your own practice room, your phone starts vibrating against the floor. 

“Did you do this?” 

His voice comes through breathless. 

“Maybe,” you say, drawing out the end of the word teasingly. 

You can practically picture him standing there, taking everything in and piecing it together. 

“You didn’t have to.” 

“I wanted to make up for everything,” you reply. 

“Thank you baby,” he says softly. 

You lean back against the wall behind you, letting your head rest against it. On his end, you hear a small sound as he sets his phone down for a second, pulling items out of the basket one by one.  

“Oh my god, you even got me a bunny?” he says, laughing. 

“I had to,” you insist. “Now we’re matching.”

“Come see me later?” he asks. 

“Okay,” you agree instantly. 

“I’ll text you when practice ends, okay?”

“Yeah. See you then?”

“Yeah. I love you baby, see you soon,” he says. 

Heat rushes to your face instantly, flushing even redder than it was when you ran back from his practice room to yours. 

“I love you more baby,” you reply quickly, hanging up the phone immediately after so that he can’t say it back again. 

“Is it all resolved then? Have they been reported?”

The voice carries quietly from the end of the dorm hallway. 

“Okay, that’s good then. Keep me updated. I’ll let you know if anything else happens,” it continues. 

The voice slips through the low whir of the air conditioner and air purifier in Shinyu’s room. Whoever it is is clearly trying their hardest not to be heard. Still, he recognizes it immediately. One of their managers. 

“Hey, are you still there?”

Your warm voice brings him back to your call through the phone. 

“Yeah, sorry,” he murmurs, already pushing himself off the bed. “I thought I heard something. Give me a second.”

He steps into the hallway with his phone still pressed to his ear, not bothering to mute it. The manager looks up when he approaches, a slightly surprised expression etched alongside the tiredness evident on his face. 

“Oh, you’re still awake? I just got off the phone with the company.”

Shinyu leans against the wall, all ears. 

“There’s been an uptick in sasaeng sightings lately,” the manager continues. “I noticed someone lingering around at your schedule today with the boys, so I reported it. The company will probably set up a meeting later this week just as a precaution. Safety reminders, that kind of thing.”

Shinyu nods in agreement. 

“Got it. Thanks for letting me know, manager-nim, and for filing that report. I didn’t even notice. Although now that I think about it, Dohoon and Hanjin did mention their suspicions about something similar last month too. I’m glad the company’s taking it seriously.”

“Yeah,” the manager agrees with a sigh. “Just be careful when you’re outside. And get some sleep tonight, okay? Let’s just hope it dies down soon.”

“I will.”

Shinyu lingers for a second before turning back to his room, making sure to close the door quietly behind him so that he doesn’t wake a sound asleep Youngjae in the next bed. 

When he brings the phone back to his ear, you’re still waiting on the other end of the line.

“Did you hear that?” he asks softly. 

“Most of it,” you whisper back. “Do you think you’ll be okay?”

He runs a hand through his hair as he sinks back down on the bed. 

“I’m fine, it’s nothing new,” he says. “It’s comeback week, so we’re out a lot more trying to get to our schedules and music shows here and there. Stuff like this is much more likely to happen around this time.”

“Still,” you continue. “It sucks that you have to deal with that on top of such a busy schedule. Just report anything that feels off, okay? Even if it seems small.”

“Of course.”

“You know, I might try to come to one of your music shows this week,” you offer, changing the topic. 

Shinyu’s lips curve up in a slight smile. 

“Yeah? That’d be nice,” he says. “You don’t have to come backstage, though. You’d have to be up at, like, the crack of dawn.”

“We’ll see. Don’t worry about me. The comeback’s more important right now” you reassure. 

“You know that’s not true,” Shinyu counters immediately. 

He leans back against the headboard, exhaustion clearly finally catching up to him now that he’s in bed, which doesn’t escape your notice. 

“You sound tired.”

“A little.”

“You should sleep. I bet you’re barely at the dorms.”

“You too. Do you want to sleep on call?” Shinyu murmurs. 

“Wait, yeah, of course I do,” you agree. 

The camera angle shakes slightly as you move to lie comfortably under the covers. You make sure to prop the phone up on its side right next to your pillow. 

“Goodnight, Shinyu,” you whisper softly. 

“Goodnight baby,” he replies.

He’s out almost instantly, and the last thing you see before you drift off is the peaceful look on his face with his eyes finally closed and at rest. 

—

The company building is alive with activity when you arrive. You had dragged yourself out of bed at seven-thirty in the morning just to make Shinyu lunch. Now, standing in the elevator, the lunch box is neatly packed in a paper bag, the outside still warm from the stove. 

You check your phone out of habit. No new messages. He said he had practice earlier. That’s totally fine – you’re not here to stay long anyway. Just to drop the food off and maybe see him for a minute, if he happens to be on break. If not, that’s okay too. 

You barely make it down the hallway toward their practice room before someone calls out, “Hey!”

You turn around to see his manager, who’s already walking toward you from the other side. 

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, though his expression remains flat and indifferent, not at all matching the emotion he should be feeling based on what he just said. 

You always knew his manager was known for being stoic and rather straightforward, mannerisms hardened by the fast-paced, unforgiving industry that encompassed his job. Not to the members though, no, he always treated them with utmost care. Sometimes, if you were lucky, you’d notice that he would loosen up a little, still composed, but certainly not as uptight. 

Today was evidently not one of those days. 

“I was just – um, well, I just brought a quick lunch for Shinyu,” you explain, gesturing to the bag in your hand. 

His gaze follows your hand, then back at you, his expression still unreadable. You curse yourself internally for your horrible fortune in meeting him when you were already so close to making it to the practice room. 

“He’s in rehearsal right now,” he says firmly. 

You kind of get the idea that the manager really, really doesn’t want you here. You nod quickly. 

“Oh, it’s totally okay. I can just leave this here,” you offer.

“You can just leave it here,” the manager repeats, echoing your words with finality. “He’s pretty busy. It’s best not to interrupt.”

You’re aware he’s not accusing you of anything. There’s nothing wrong with him simply doing his job by staying practical and professional anyway.

“Here, I’ll take it,” he says, reaching out for the bag. 

You hand it over immediately. 

“Thanks.”

That was clearly your cue to leave, so you turn around to head back the same way you came. 

—

As promised, you arrive promptly at seven in the morning to the Music Bank recording studio. Even though Shinyu insistently told you not to worry about coming, you knew better than to listen. All you could think of is the surprise and pure elation on his expression when you finally get to show your face and surprise him. 

The familiar halls are buzzing with staff moving between rooms, stylists rushing past with hangers filled with clothes, idols getting their hair and makeup, and comeback challenges being filmed near the iconic stairs, the glow of the vending machines lined up against the wall providing bright LED lighting to the photos idols took to post on their SNS later. 

Right when you turn to TWS’ hallway, you’re stopped. Again. By their manager. This time, his distaste seems far more palpable. 

“Oh, hi again,” he greets you hurriedly, clearly in the middle of a discussion with a few of the recording staff listening intently to what he has to say. 

You nod politely in hello and continue toward their dressing room. 

Just as you near the entrance, the manager calls out, “Wait one second!”

So you pause and turn around as he quickly approaches. 

“Are you here to see Shinyu?”

Maybe you’re just fooling yourself again, but you swear his disapproval is unmistakable this time. 

“Yeah, I told him I might stop by just for a bit,” you answer. “Just to say hello, since I’m gonna be hanging around in this area of the city anyway.” 

“About that, he actually said not today,” the manager claims. “He doesn’t want to be distracted.”

You listen silently as he continues, “Sorry. If you need anything, I can pass it along if you’d like.”

“No — no, it’s all good,” you reply quickly, the meaning of his words still hanging heavy in your mind. 

It doesn’t sound like him at all, at least you didn’t think it did. But… it also could. Comeback week is notorious for being extremely exhausting. You’ve heard it in his voice, felt it in his mannerisms, seen it in the delayed and shorter messages he sent you. Not that you minded at all. This was simply just how work was like for a public figure. But the last thing you wanted would be to add on to his burden. 

Knowing him, there’s a chance he would prioritize work; as a leader and the oldest, you knew he had an unimaginable amount of responsibility to bear. 

Inside, Shinyu’s sitting in front of the mirror as staff touch up his makeup. Through the barely open door, the sound of his manager’s voice with someone else drifts through the crack. A woman, maybe? But they were too far for him to make out clearly, much less the words they were saying, though he could hear snippets of conversation being had. 

“Were you talking to someone?” he asks as his manager steps inside. 

“Hm? Oh, no, just the staff to make sure everything’s on schedule,” his manager says. 

“Ah, okay.”

And that was it. 

You find yourself standing outside right at the entrance after what was probably your shortest visit ever into the recording building. You stand there for a second, phone in hand, unsure as to whether or not you should text Shinyu. Maybe a message would help, but you’re not sure. 

You type: i stopped by but u were busy

You stare at the words before deleting them. No, that would come off the wrong way for sure. 

You type again: hope it goes well!

Your finger hovers over the “send” button before you press it, watching as the message delivers instantly. You tuck your phone away before you can overthink it again. 

Behind you, inside the building, everything continues as normal. Idols finish their schedules while staff run around trying to make sure everyone is in their designated places. 

And somewhere upstairs, Shinyu’s still getting ready, completely unaware that you were ever there at all. 

—

By the time TWS finishes filming their stage, the waiting room is a mess of bags, clothes, and belongings strewn around everywhere. Staff herd them around as they try to tidy everything as much as possible. 

That’s when it hits him. You said you’d come today. Shinyu frowns, straightening up as he tries to remember. He didn’t see you today at all. 

“Hey, manager-nim,” he calls. 

“Yeah, Shinyu?”

“Did (Name) come by today?” Shinyu asks. 

“Uh – no, I didn’t see her today,” the manager answers, his words tinged with hesitation that Shinyu completely misses. “Did you text her?”

“Right, I should do that.”

Shinyu unlocks his phone to see the text you had sent him around an hour ago. 

baby: hope it goes well!

His brow knit slightly. It’s not like he’s super pressed that you couldn’t make it or anything. It’s just strange when he recalls how eager you were to come. And without even a text telling him that you couldn’t make it?

He types out: were you busy? and sends it after much deliberation. 

Your response comes pretty fast while he’s on the way back to the company with everyone else. 

no, not really

Why didn’t you come around then? Shinyu couldn’t help but feel a little confused. What do I even respond? Do I confront her about it? Is it even a big deal?

Finally, he settles on: oh okay :) 

The moment the message is sent, he regrets it. The text sounded so distant and strangely polite. Not like the way he talks to you at all. For a second, he considers calling you. But a quick scan across the car shuts that idea down, as he’s the only one awake – everyone else is completely knocked out from the early morning. 

He locks his phone. He’ll talk to you later. 

—

You’re already home by the time your phone buzzes. You glance at it. 

baby: oh okay :)

What does that even mean?

For a moment, you think maybe he’s typing another message, but it never comes. You sigh quietly, setting your phone back down beside you. You’ll just contact him later when he’s gotten some rest. 

But even a day later, your texts just feel different. And you know he can feel it too. No one’s cracking silly jokes or making fun of the other person. You scroll up to a string of messages from earlier in the week. He had just finished making fun of you for your boba order. Not like there’s anything wrong with taro milk tea, but apparently Shinyu has particularly strong opinions. A small grin appears on your face at the memory. 

Now it’s just short one-liners. A good morning here and there. Reminders to eat food and to bundle up for the cold weather. 

How did everything change so fast?

—

The next time you go to the company, it’s because he asked you to. You’re standing in the lobby with a small tote bag in hand. It wasn’t anything crazy, just something he forgot at the dorm and needed for practice. He’d texted you earlier just to see if you happened to be free and in the area, and of course, you said yes. 

You don’t have to wait long before he appears. Shinyu rounds the corner, a hoodie thrown on over his slightly messy hair. The moment he sees you, his entire expression softens. 

“There you are,” he says. 

“Hi,” you greet, holding the bag out toward him. “Here you go.”

He takes it, his fingers bushing yours briefly in that familiar way. 

“Thanks. I don’t know what I would’ve done without it,” he says. “I didn’t think you’d actually come this fast.”

“I wasn’t busy,” you reply quickly. Then, like an after thought, you ask, “I wasn’t interrupting anything, right?”

“What?”

“I mean, because you’re supposed to be at practice right now,” you clarify quickly. “I was just wondering.”

“What do you mean? I was the one who asked you to come,” he says firmly. “You’re not interrupting anything.”

“Right,” you nod. “Okay. 

Usually, this is where you’d ask how practice is going. Maybe tease him a little. Maybe he’d ask you something too. 

Instead, you add, “I should go, though. You should get back to practice. I have to clock into work later, so might as well.”

“Already?” Shinyu asks, a small whine evident in his voice. He always looked forward to you whenever you visited. Obviously mainly because he got to see you, but also because it coupled as a convenient excuse to take a short break before getting back to work. Who could blame him anyway?

“Yeah,” you say, stepping back. “Good luck with practice!”

Now he’s really confused. 

“Wait – ”

“Shinyu!” 

A staff member calls from the room down the hall. 

“Coming!” he replies instinctively, leaving the hallway empty. 

—

That night, your phone lights up with a notification under Shinyu’s name

do u wanna call?

You stare at it. You want to say yes. Immediately yes. You always do. But then, you think back to his schedule and how busy he is. 

you: maybe not tonight

you: you can get some rest? 

you: we can def do it another day :) 

Back at the dorms, Shinyu reads your message. If he was a little confused earlier in the week, now he’s absolutely bewildered. 

He types: i’m not that tired its okay

But deletes it quickly. If you don’t want to call, he’s not going to push it. After, he drops his phone onto the bed beside him as he stares up at the ceiling. 

Since when do you say no to calls? Is it maybe… do you not want to see me anymore? Or worse… did you lose feelings?

It doesn’t make sense. None of it does. 

—

This time, for Show Champion, Shinyu makes sure you’ll be there. He texts you the day before, and then again the morning of. Even a reminder a few hours before he knows you’ll be there. There’s not backing out today – not that you were planning on it. So you show up, this time, just as a part of the audience. 

Before their recording starts, you step out briefly to use the restroom. The hallway is crowded, but you make your way through to the restrooms. 

Just then, Shinyu steps out into the hall as he’s mid-conversation with Dohoon, a ghost of a laugh still evident in his eyes. Relief flickers across his face when he notices you. 

Normally, you would have gone to him in an instant. But then you remember again. He didn’t want you there last time either. Your feet stop just for a second. Then you force yourself to keep moving. Finally, you lift your hand in a small wave before disappearing off to the restroom. 

The last thing you catch is the way his smile falters. Your chest tightens as the door swings shut behind you. You feel awful, genuinely. But you tell yourself that it was the right thing to do. At least until promotions are over.  

On the other hand, Shinyu’s still standing there where you left him. He knows you saw him. He saw your wave. But then you just left. You didn’t come over. You didn’t even try. 

Do you not want to be seen with me?

Normally, it wouldn’t even cross his mind; it doesn’t even sound right. But then again, lately, nothing really has. And he doesn’t know which part of it all is worse: the thought itself or the fact that he feels as though he can’t even prove it wrong. 

—

He doesn’t wait this time. He can’t afford to. 

By the time filming wraps up, Shinyu is already scanning the hallways for a glimpse of your face. You were here, he literally saw you. So where did you go?

“Shinyu!”

“Give me a second,” he says, already moving away. 

He doesn’t even know where he’s going at first, just back the way he came, past the dressing rooms and the waiting area. 

And then he sees you at the far end of the room near the exit. You stand by the wall as you adjust your bag, clearly about to head out. 

Relief hits him first. Then frustration follows immediately. 

“(Name)!”

You turn at the sound of his voice and freeze. He’s already headed straight for you. 

“Why do you keep doing that?” he asks, not bothering to hide the agitation in his voice.

“Doing what?” you reply, caught off guard at his question.  

“That,” he says, waving his hands around like he doesn’t even have the right words for it, “like earlier, when you just, I don’t know, left.” 

Your grip tightens around your bag. 

He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. 

“Look, I have to go back with everyone else right now,” he says, his voice tight, “but we’re talking tonight. Okay?”

He doesn’t even wait for you to nod before he’s walking in the other direction. 

—

Shinyu heads straight to his room the moment he gets back; he meant it when he said he was going to resolve everything tonight. He exhales and then taps your contact icon. It rings once. Twice. And then you pick up. 

“Hi,” you say.

“Hey,” he replies, sliding down until he’s sitting on the floor with his back against the side of his bed. “Are you home?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Me too, I just got back.”

And then you both fall silent. You’re still on the line, but neither of you speak. Neither of you hang up either, just waiting for the other to say something first. 

Shinyu finally asks, “Can we video call?”

“Yeah,” you answer quietly. 

He waits for you to accept the call before your face appears on his screen. You’re sitting on your bed with your knees pulled in and your phone propped up right beside you. 

“Hi,” you say again. 

“Hi.”

Another pause. 

Shinyu leans back against the headboard and runs a hand over his face. 

“Okay,” he starts. “I don’t even know where to start.”

You give a small, uncertain smile. 

“Me neither.”

At least that part’s mutual. 

“Then I’ll just say it,” he decides. “Why have you been acting like this?”

“Acting like what? What do you mean?” you reply, frowning.

“I don’t even know, but like as if I’m off-limits or something. Like you don’t want to see me anymore,” he says. “I’m sick of it.”

“What do you mean? I do want to see you,” you say earnestly. 

“Like for example, that day when you said you would see me at Music Bank. You said you were coming, and then you didn’t. Which I’m not mad about you not coming, and I never want you to feel like you’re obligated to come to my shows all the time. But it’s just you didn’t say anything about it to me, and when I asked if you were busy, you said ‘not really’ so I just – I just didn’t get it.”

You blink at him, confused to say the least.

“Wait, I did come that day…” 

“What?”

“I came,” you repeat, your words slower now. “I remember it clearly. I showed up and was just about to enter your dressing room like half an hour before you had to go on stage, but your manager stopped me. He said you told him you didn’t want to see me that day so I should just go back.”

Shinyu sits up straighter, his face closer to the screen now. 

“My manager?”

You nod. 

“So then I just left, since I had work anyway. I figured you were just really busy.”

“No,” he says immediately. “I didn’t say that at all. I didn’t even know you were there.”

“Really?” you ask. 

“Wait,” he mutters, thinking back. “I remember him talking to someone down the hall that day. The door was cracked open a little bit so I could kind of make out a woman’s voice, but when I asked him, he said it was just a staff member.”

He lets out a breath of frustration in disbelief. 

“I really thought you didn’t want me there,” you admit quietly. “So I just didn’t bring it up again.”

Shinyu leans back again, shaking his head. 

“I had no idea,” he says. “I just thought you didn’t come.”

“You know, a few days before that, I came to drop off food for you too,”  you add. 

He nods. 

“Yeah, I remember. That kimbap was really good, by the way.”

“Thanks,” you smile. “Well, the same thing happened. Your manager stopped me again. Said you were busy and shouldn’t be interrupted. So he took it from me. I’m assuming he gave it to you?”

Shinyu frowns. 

“He told me you dropped it off,” he says. “I just thought you didn’t want to come up.”

“Really? I was right outside the door. I just thought I wasn’t supposed to or something…” you trail off.

Now everything makes sense. 

“Is that why you’ve been acting like that?” he asks. “Like when you came to drop something off and left right away? And earlier when you just waved and walked off instead of coming up to me?”

You nod again. 

“I thought I was crossing a line or something. With you being so busy during the comeback, I figured I should just back off until you weren’t as busy.”

“That’s not true. If anything, after a long day or before I have to go to schedules, you’re the only person I want to see. Trust me, being with you is what I look forward to the most. I love spending time with you whether I’m tired or not.”

“Me too.”

“You got up super early to make that lunch box, didn’t you?” Shinyu asks suddenly. 

“Yeah, but it wasn’t a big deal – ”

“Oh my god,” he groans softly, dragging a hand over his face. “And you didn’t even get to give it to me yourself.”

“It’s fine,” you say, “seriously. It’s not like it’s your fault or anything.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For not asking more. I just didn’t want to pressure you. I thought maybe you just didn’t feel like coming.”

“No, it’s really not your fault. I should've said something too instead of just assuming.”

“You know, when you waved earlier and left, I thought you maybe didn’t want to be seen with me.”

Your eyes widen. 

“What? No – ”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I know that now. But that’s also why I didn’t want to push too much, because I didn’t want to push you away.”

“Oh my god… I was trying to do the exact opposite. There were so many people around that I didn’t want to be obvious or distract you.”

Shinyu lets out a small laugh. 

“We were just caring for each other but going about it in the wrong way.”

“Yeah,” you say, laughing. “Pretty much.”

“So… we’re good?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” you reply. “We’re definitely good.”

“Okay,” he says. “When are you free?”

“Free? Isn’t your schedule literally packed?”

“Well, just for like an hour. Or less,” he clarifies. “Nothing too crazy. Just – I just want to see you properly.”

“I have work tomorrow, but I could probably come by after?”

“What time”

“Is nine good? I can bring food, that way we can eat together.”

He nods immediately. 

“Just for a bit,” you add. “You still need to rest.”

“I can just rest after,” he says. 

You roll your eyes at that. 

“Shinyu,” you say pointedly. 

“No, I'm serious. Also, don’t worry about the food. I got it.”

“Fine then,” you say, giving in. 

“And I’m going to talk to him,” Shinyu adds after a moment. 

You tilt your head. Who?

“My manager,” he clarifies. “Because what he said to you was not okay. What he did was more than not okay.”

“Okay, yeah,” you say, then hesitate. “But just, be careful with how you come off. He is still your manager, after all. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“No,” he cuts in calmly. “What he did was a violation of trust. He was the one who caused this miscommunication.”

“Okay,” you agree. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “Tomorrow.”

For the first time in days, it feels like a weight has finally been lifted. 

—

Most of the lights are off in the company building when you arrive. Shinyu’s sitting on the floor when you walk in, his back against the mirror with a hoodie thrown on. His bag is tossed off to the side, and there’s a pile of takeout waiting patiently in front of him. 

He looks up the moment the door opens. 

“Hey,” you say, stepping inside. 

“Hi baby,” he replies, already getting up and crossing the room in a few quick steps. 

He pulls you into a hug without hesitation, arms wrapping around you tightly. 

You laugh softly, a little surprised. 

“You look excited.”

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages,” he says, not letting you go right away. 

You smile into his shoulder. 

“It’s been, like, two days.”

“Still,” he mutters. 

You gently pull back, slipping your hands into his. 

“Aren’t you hungry?” you tease as you tug him toward the food. 

When you both sit down, he sits so he’s right next to you, his shoulder pressed against yours and knees brushing. You open the containers and for a while, the only sounds in the room are rustles of plastic and containers and utensils.  

After a few minutes, he speaks again. 

“I talked to him earlier.”

You glance over.

“Your manager?”

He nods, reaching for another dumpling. 

“Yeah. It wasn’t really a big deal. He said he didn’t realize how it came across.Apparently he was too focused on making sure the comeback was running smoothly that he overlooked the bigger issue. Remember the sasaeng incidents? He said he was worried that it could potentially affect us and that we would then get in more trouble. Not that it’s any excuse, of course. He wanted me to tell you he wants to apologize in person.”

“That sounds like him, I guess,” you agree. 

“He said he’d be more careful,” Shinyu adds. “And that he wouldn’t speak for me like that again.”

You nod, relieved that it was resolved without any issues. 

“Okay.”

“So that means the next time you see me, you’re not allowed to just wave and run,” he teases, nudging your shoulder. 

“I didn’t run!” you protest. 

“Oh come on, you basically did.”

“Fine, whatever,” you concede, a smile on your face.