brainmaggotzzzz - Tumblr blog

brainmaggotzzzz · 3 days ago

Text

Teachers pet 2/2

part one

cw: complicated relationship, age gap, difficult parental relationships, d3ath, illness, angsty, alcohol consumption.

word count: (im a professional yapper)

It was confusing.

When he was alone—at his desk in the quiet of his office, or pacing the dim halls of his apartment—guilt gnawed at him like a sickness. He should’ve known better. He did know better. He had seen the way you clung to praise like it was oxygen, how you folded in on yourself when you felt discarded or unseen. That desperate longing for approval—it wasn’t just about him, it was older than him, deeper. He should’ve built walls, reinforced the lines that blurred too easily. But every time you sat beside him, tucked away from the world’s gaze, he dissolved. His principles collapsed under the weight of want.

And when he saw you talking to guys your age—boys with loud laughs and shared jokes, the ones who belonged in your world—he burned. It wasn’t just jealousy. It was a cruel, irrational possessiveness that made his chest tighten. Like they could take something from him he never should’ve had in the first place.

Now, you were perched on his lap, your legs tucked to the side, back comfortably pressed into his chest as you reread something you’d scribbled. The couch in his apartment was worn in, soft, and warm. His hand moved to your waist, gently drawing you closer as his chin hovered near your shoulder.

“What’s that?” he asked, voice low, eyes flickering to the paper in your hands.

“Just a stupid project for business class,” you said with a soft smile, folding the page lazily. “I find that as much as I excel in your class, Professor, I’m utter shit in business.”

He chuckled at your honesty. “Oh? Let me see.”

You handed it over, watching his brow raise with amusement as he scanned the text. A laugh bubbled from him as he skimmed a paragraph.

“It’s definitely… something,” he said, grinning, teasing.

You gasped, mock-offended, and gave his arm a playful smack. “Come on! It’s not that bad. A reality TV show where people play games for money would be amazing! It would bring in loads of revenue!"

He looked at you over the paper. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that the premise of about a hundred reality shows already?” His voice was filled with good-natured sarcasm, but the fondness in his tone was unmistakable.

You rolled your eyes, scoffing dramatically. “It’s not that special, so what? You want me to add a rule that losers die or something? Would that be thrilling enough for your emotionally unavailable, morally bankrupt standards?” you said, grinning as you leaned back into him.

He laughed again, low and breathy, shaking his head. “Just… stick to creative writing" he said, squeezing your waist gently, fingers lingering longer than they should’ve.

And you smiled, because in that moment, everything—your world, your ache, your want—felt held in that simple, quiet intimacy.

You stood up and tossed the crumpled business class paper onto the table, letting it flutter messily among a few stray pens and coffee mugs. Then, without a word, you plopped down on the couch, stretching out and resting your head in his lap. Your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his slacks, and you let out a satisfied sigh, your fingers absentmindedly curling against his thigh.

“Summer vacation starts in a week, Y/N,” he said casually, his hand finding its way into your hair, combing through it with gentle fingers. “Are you going back home?”

You let out a dry laugh. “Home,” you repeated like it was a punchline. “I’m not sure. I obviously don’t want to go to my dad’s… maybe I’ll get in touch with my mom and stay there.”

Your voice trailed off as you stared blankly at a crack in the ceiling, a quiet melancholy shadowing your tone. You didn’t sound convinced yourself.

The thought of you going back to your father’s filled him with something close to dread—but even the idea of you at your mother’s, far away from him, left a bitter taste in his mouth. He hated how possessive the feeling was, how he imagined someone else—someone your age, someone who should be with you—saying the right things, making you laugh, pulling you out of reach. Maybe over the break you’d find someone new. Or worse, maybe you'd finally see this for what it was—a terrible mistake. Something you’d someday want to forget.

And a part of him hoped for that. Hoped you would come to your senses, find someone safe, someone easy.

But another part—the part that ruled his actions—wanted you too much to let that happen.

“Stay with me,” he said suddenly, his fingers stilling in your hair.

“What?” You blinked up at him, unsure if you heard him right, eyes searching his.

“I said stay with me,” he repeated, softer this time, but there was a firmness behind the words. Like he hadn’t just asked—it was a need, not a suggestion. His eyes flickered with something caught between desire and desperation. “For the summer. Stay here.”

And the way he looked at you, like he couldn’t imagine this place without you in it, made your breath catch in your throat.

"I'll think about it, Professor" that by now nickname always made him chuckle, you shared so much, you were in this...relationship yet it was endearing.

◇

You felt like you were on a high, gliding on a cloud through heaven when you were with him. When he held you at night, whispered promises into your hair about taking care of you, when his eyes found yours across the classroom like they were drawn by an invisible thread—it all was narcotic. Blissful. Addictive.

Only a few days stood between now and the summer you'd spend with him. Well—not the whole summer. Despite the thick resentment you still harbored for your basically useless mother, you made the mature decision to spend one week at her place. Then you'd go to Inho. It wouldn’t be so bad, right? She had tried reaching out, and while it wasn't nearly enough, it was… something. A small step. An initiative. You chose to give it a chance.

You sat in class—Inho's class—chewing lazily on the end of your pen, your gaze soft and a little dreamy as he explained something about The Bell Jar. You’d read it ages ago, but you liked watching him explain things—how his voice sharpened when he made a point, how he moved with restrained intensity. It was when he looked at you that you melted the most. His gaze would linger just a moment too long, his words nearly tailored to you. The classroom faded then, and it felt like a conversation meant only for two.

"Y/N," a hushed voice whispered beside you.

You blinked, pulled out of your trance, glancing over at Cheol—Seojin’s ex. He leaned in slightly, smirking. “You wanna join me and my boys for bar hopping tonight?”

You resisted an eye roll. He never stopped trying. You’d been ignoring him lately, mostly for Inho’s sake. The day you told Inho that you slept with Cheol—it was a lie. A strategic one, meant to provoke, to spark jealousy. Cheol was easy to place in that role; his reputation painted him as a playboy. But in truth, the more time you spent around him—tutoring him, talking to him—you learned that wasn’t quite fair.

Sure, he wasn’t brilliant academically. He’d butcher classic literature quotes and needed help understanding the difference between “your” and “you’re.” But he was kind. Genuinely kind. And funny, in an idiot-savant way that could disarm even your worst moods. Smart in his own, unsuspecting ways. He noticed things others didn’t, remembered small details, paid attention.

At first, you told yourself you were only entertaining him to provoke Inho. And yes, it was true—you did enjoy the possessive heat in Inho’s touch when you’d arrive at his apartment after spending time tutoring Cheol. But you also genuinely liked being around him. Not in a romantic way, never that. More like a strange, unlikely comfort. A distraction you convinced yourself was all part of the plan.

"I'm busy tonight," you said, voice light but firm, your lips curving into a polite smile.

Cheol gave you an exaggerated pout, the kind that made you want to laugh but didn’t quite reach your heart.

“What about a little study session, hm?” he teased, leaning his elbow on the desk, his smirk playful.

You sighed, offering him a tighter, thinner smile. “Really. I’m busy tonight. Sorry.”

Before he could respond, Inho’s voice cut across the room, sharp and cold.

“No talking in class.”

You glanced up and met his eyes. They weren’t on Cheol—they were on you. There was a flicker of something there. Irritation, jealousy, and something else buried beneath it, something darker. His jaw clenched, just subtly. His hand curled slightly around the edge of the podium, knuckles paling.

He resumed speaking about the complex character dynamics in The Bell Jar, but his tone had changed—more clipped, less indulgent. You knew this look.

◇

"That's a mature decision, Y/N," Inho said as he watched you nonchalantly stuff your face with the sushi he ordered. You were sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the low coffee table, your hoodie sleeves pushed up, soy sauce staining the side of your chopstick-holding hand. He sat above you on the couch, legs slightly spread, leaning forward to watch you like you were a scene he didn’t want to miss.

“Is it about forgiveness?” he asked, eyes flickering with interest.

You laughed mid-bite, rice puffing your cheek out like a squirrel. You chewed quickly, shaking your head. “Forgiveness, my ass,” you snorted, taking a sip of the soju he'd pulled from the fridge.

He raised an eyebrow at your bluntness, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

“I have nothing to forgive her for, quite literally,” you went on, dropping another piece of salmon into your mouth. “She disappeared and thought sending a few half-assed letters would make up for it. As if those could ever reach me. Like she didn’t know my dad was the Kim Jong Un of our house—censoring, intercepting, manipulating anything from the outside world.”

That made him laugh, the sound soft and warm. “You really have a way with words,” he said with a shake of his head.

He liked that about you. That strange contrast—how you could dissect a theory in class like a scholar, and then crack a joke about totalitarian parenting over sushi and soju. But more than that, he liked how you let it slip, little by little—the pain. Always masked by something. Humor, literature, sarcasm. Your brilliance often hid the ache inside. But he saw it. He always saw it. He just didn’t want to press too hard, not tonight. What mattered was that you were letting it out. And you were doing it with him.

“The point is,” you continued with a sigh, “I won’t forget how idiotic she was. But I don’t want to be bitter, either. She’s still my mom. And maybe I can be better than her. Maybe taking that step first… that’s me being better. Maybe she has realized some things. Maybe she genuinely wants me in her life—not just as some distant, faded photograph.”

You finished the last roll and set aside your chopsticks, then climbed onto the couch beside him, resting your head on his lap. Inho's gaze shifted down to your face. From your view, his expression was unreadable but softened by the amber light from the standing lamp behind him. His features were sharp, refined—high cheekbones, slightly tired eyes that still had a gleam of something young behind them. He looked like a man who had lived too many lives in one.

He began playing with your hair, gently untangling strands between his fingers.

"You're hopeful" he stated.

“Hopeful,” you murmured, your voice growing dreamy. “Maybe. Is it stupid?”

“No. Not stupid,” he said, voice low.

“…Naive,” he added after a pause.

You smiled without humor, a slow blink following. “So you think I should expect the worst from people?”

He seemed thoughtful, fingers stalling for a moment.

“Do you expect the worst from people, Inho?” you asked, your voice quiet, eyes tracing the subtle lines near his mouth, the faint furrow of his brow.

He swallowed. “It comes with age,” he said, not quite meeting your eyes.

You smiled, just slightly. “Do you expect the worst of me?”

His jaw clenched, just enough for you to notice. His hand in your hair went still again.

“I’m concerned,” he said after a long pause. “I worry that you let people take advantage of you. Of your softness. Your naivety. The same way you’ve let me.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” you said, your voice sharper now.

His gaze flickered. “It depends. What’s the worst? You realizing you deserve someone your age who can give you a normal life? Or you staying with me, hiding and lying and wasting your youth?”

You slowly sat up, your face now level with his. You looked directly into his eyes.

“I’m not a little helpless, naive pet who folds under anyone who feeds it,” you said, your voice steady, almost cold, but your eyes burning.

“I never said you were,” he replied, something wounded flickering across his face.

You looked at him for a long moment. “But I folded under you,” you said, voice quieter now. “Because I love you.”

The words dropped into the room like a lit match. He tensed. His hand in your hair froze, the moment suspended between breaths. He stared at you—no clever lines or metaphors, just stunned silence.

“Don’t say that,” he breathed finally, but his voice cracked just barely. “Don’t say it unless you mean it… and even then—”

He didn’t finish. Instead, he leaned in and pulled you into a kiss. Not tender. Not soft. Desperate. Like he was starving for it, for you, like he needed to shut you up before you made him fall deeper.

You kissed him back just as hungrily, your hands finding the collar of his shirt, and in that moment, nothing else existed but the two of you and the heat that built with every passing second.

This wasn’t safety. This was collapse. And you both wanted it.

◇

He drove you to the airport in the quiet blue hush of early morning. The city still slept, save for the scattered headlights of delivery trucks and the blinking red of traffic lights cycling through to no one. His car hummed softly along the nearly empty roads, the faint rhythm of jazz playing from the speakers like background noise in a film. You sat beside him, your legs curled up on the seat, your hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, the tired buzz of no sleep making everything feel just a little unreal.

"Just be careful, Y/N," Inho said, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

His voice was calm, but tight at the edges. It wasn’t just possessiveness, though that emotion was definitely buried in there—deep and unavoidable. It was something bigger. A protective instinct that stirred whenever it came to you. The kind that went beyond jealousy, into genuine fear. Fear that you might get hurt emotionally, that you'd be disappointed again by someone who should’ve done better by you. And yes, in the darker corners of his mind, there was that ache—the torturous possibility that you’d meet someone while away. Someone your age. Someone easier.

“I’ll be okay,” you murmured with a small laugh, your head leaning back against the window. “It’s just a short visit. My mom, and my two half-siblings. That’s all.”

He glanced at you quickly, then returned his gaze to the road. The tiredness in your voice made his chest tighten. You hadn’t slept. Neither had he.

When you arrived, the airport was already buzzing—students with backpacks, families, couples wheeling their luggage with sleepy urgency. The parking lot was packed, and the sun had only just started to break through the horizon.

He pulled into a space a little farther from the entrance, turning the key to silence the engine.

"You should go in alone," he said after a moment, watching people filter into the building. “There are students inside. People who know us.”

His hand flexed slightly on the steering wheel, eyes not meeting yours.

You nodded, understanding. It was the risk that came with what you were. What you had. You leaned across the console and pulled him into a kiss—slow, soft, and filled with everything you didn’t say aloud. For a second, he didn’t react. Then his hand slid around the back of your neck, and he returned it, pulling you just a little closer. When you pulled away, your fingers trailed down his arm one last time.

You smiled, a tired, quiet thing. And then stepped out into the morning air.

He watched you walk toward the glass doors of the airport, a small figure with your carry-on in hand, hoodie sleeves bouncing at your sides. His gaze followed you, longing etched into every line of his face. Worry churned inside him. He hated not being able to go in with you. Hated that he had to watch you walk away like a stranger. But that’s what he had to be. For now.

And then he saw him.

Cheol.

Barreling out of a cab like a human wrecking ball, dragging a comically large suitcase behind him, backpack straps hanging loose from his shoulders. He ran toward you with a grin, waving wildly. And you—startled, but smiling—slowed your steps, recognizing him.

Inho’s stomach twisted.

It was irrational, maybe. Or maybe not. He clenched his jaw as Cheol reached you, laughing about something, stepping just a little too close. You hit his arm in that familiar playful way. And it made something in Inho simmer. It wasn’t just jealousy. It was dread.

Because he knew Cheol was harmless… but also not.

Because Inho knew exactly how fragile things were.

Because he knew, for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t in control.

◇

“Where you going to?” Cheol asked, his voice cutting through the low hum of people shuffling toward the gates, his eyes wide and curious beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, his suitcase bumping clumsily behind him.

“I’m visiting my mom,” you replied, zipping your hoodie up higher against the chill of the airport air. “Flying to Gwangju—but she’s living in the countryside now.”

He blinked. “Seriously?! What town specifically?” he asked, shoving his duffle bag up higher on his shoulder, eyebrows raised in genuine interest.

“You wouldn’t know it, city boy,” you grinned, brushing your hair back as you leaned into your suitcase handle. “Hwasun. Some quiet little village on the outskirts.”

His face lit up like a kid winning a prize. “No shit! That’s exactly where I’m heading! I’m going to my grandma’s! Dude, what are the odds?”

You groaned in mock dismay. “I was really hoping for a solo rural reset.”

He only laughed.

◇

Of course, because the universe had a twisted sense of humor, your assigned seats on the plane were right next to each other. You sat by the window, headphones halfway in, while Cheol made a mess of his tray table.

“Why is this bibimbap tray a Rubik’s cube?” he muttered, poking at the tightly packaged food with the grace of a toddler. The next moment, the sauce packet burst open in his hands and splattered across his hoodie.

You snorted and reached for napkins. “You're a idiot.”

“I’m a victim of airline packaging!” he protested, holding his arms out while you dabbed at the red stain. He winced like a child being treated for a wound, which only made it worse. You both dissolved into helpless laughter, and just as you tried to stifle it, a stern elderly woman across the aisle glared over the seat divider.

“Be quiet, some people are trying to sleep!” she hissed.

Cheol made a dramatic “zipped lips” gesture, leaned close, and whispered, “The guard has spoken.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, suppressing a laugh, biting your knuckle to stop it from escaping. He grinned proudly. It was stupid, lighthearted, a little immature—but fun. And he made you feel lighter.

◇

“Oh my, you’ve grown up so much!” your mother’s voice broke through the noise of the arrivals gate, her arms instantly around you in a tight, breath-squeezing hug.

She smelled faintly of lavender and baby formula. Behind her stood her partner, a tightly smiling man cradling a small, squirming baby in his arms. At his side was a little girl, no older than five, clutching his pants and staring up at you with huge, nervous eyes.

It hit you like a small wave—the realization. Your mother’s nose. Your smile. The exact same slope in your eyes. It was almost like looking at a version of yourself with different timelines carved into the skin.

It was uncomfortable.

But still, you swallowed the sour twist in your throat. Maybe—for the sake of healing—you could try.

"And oh, is that your friend?" your mother asked, gesturing toward Cheol who was squinting at the welcome sign like it held secret codes.

You nodded. “Yeah. That’s Cheol.”

He looked up just in time, flashing your mother a wide grin.

“Gosh, Y/N, I didn’t know you had an older sister!” he said with mock sincerity, eyes innocent.

Your mom burst out laughing.

You shot him a glare. “That’s Cheol,” you said again, more firmly this time, rolling your eyes.

He gave you a proud smirk. “Just trying to make a good impression.”

And somehow, despite everything, you were already smiling.

◇

It was awkward, the first few hours. Your mother tried, really tried, tossing out light conversation with an enthusiasm that felt a little too forced. Her partner, on the other hand, barely spoke—offering an occasional nod or half-smile, as if he were only there to maintain the peace. The baby, at least, gave everyone a reason to fill silences; when tension rose like invisible steam, they’d both suddenly shift their attention to the baby, cooing and adjusting blankets even when it wasn’t fussing.

The little girl—your half-sister, technically—kept to herself, lying on the wooden floor, scribbling something in a notebook with her legs gently kicking behind her.

The house was small but charming in that countryside kind of way—warm, quiet, tucked into nature. Faint sunlight filtered in through sheer cream curtains, casting soft light over old wooden furniture, a patterned rug, and the faint scent of dried herbs hanging in the kitchen. A cat you hadn’t noticed before slept curled on a windowsill, its tail twitching every so often.

You knelt beside the little girl on the floor, tucking your legs under yourself.

“Hey,” you said gently, “what are you drawing?”

She peeked up at you through her lashes, then quickly turned her notebook away, shielding it with her arms.

“Oh, okay,” you said, holding your hands up in surrender but keeping your smile. “You know, when I was your age, I loved drawing too. But I don’t think I was as good as you—just from the way you’re working over there, I can already tell you’re quite the artist.”

Her lips twitched at the corners, just slightly, and after a small pause, she tilted the notebook back toward you, revealing a drawing. It was… a black ball. With big white eyes and stick legs.

“Oh! That’s so cute! Is that a… jellybean with legs?”

Immediately, she slapped her tiny hands over the picture.

“Cat,” she corrected with a grumble, cheeks flushing.

You swallowed a laugh. “Ohhh, of course! My mistake,” you said dramatically. “It’s a very unique cat. You know, the fluffy kind. Like those rare ones you see on the internet. Honestly, if someone put that cat up for sale, it would go for millions. You’ve got a good eye.”

She slowly peeled her hands away from the drawing, her grin returning.

“Draw with me,” she said, holding out a page she tore from her notebook and a slightly chewed-up pencil.

You smiled and took it. “Okay, but fair warning—I peaked artistically in kindergarten.”

For the next twenty minutes, you sat cross-legged on the floor beside her. She drew with laser focus while you did your best to sketch something vaguely fish-shaped. Occasionally, she’d glance over to check your progress, offering a satisfied nod or a giggle at your pitiful attempt.

When you both finished, she held hers up first: it was a drawing of two figures—you and her, side by side, holding what appeared to be pencils. Your figure had stars in the hair and a big smile.

You held up yours next. “Behold... a fish. I think. It may be a potato with fins. I’m not entirely sure.”

She laughed so hard she fell over on her side.

You took out your phone to capture the moment. Tapping on the camera, you leaned close and snapped a selfie of the two of you, her still giggling, the papers in your hands. It was a nice photo. One that somehow felt soft in your chest.

You opened your messages and saw a single text from Inho:

"Everything okay?"

You smiled to yourself, fingers flying across the keyboard:

"Still alive. Drawing fish and monsters with my evil twin."

Attached was the selfie.

◇

Inho was pacing around his apartment, barefoot, rubbing the back of his neck every few seconds and checking his phone like it might blink to life. The silence was killing him. He hated how nervous he got when you didn’t reply for too long. Not because he didn’t trust you—but because the space between messages gave too much room for fear to grow.

When the photo finally came through, his phone buzzed and lit up. He immediately unlocked it, his brows furrowed—but as soon as he saw your face, relaxed and smiling with that little girl next to you, something in his expression softened.

He exhaled a quiet laugh, lips twitching at the corner. You looked happy. And alive. That was enough to keep his worries at bay—for now. He sat down at last, the tension slowly bleeding from his shoulders, staring at the photo a little longer than he meant to.

Even miles away, you still had him wrapped around your finger.

◇

“C’mon! Help me cook!” your mom called out from the kitchen, her voice light and teasing.

Her partner had taken the baby out for a walk, bundled up in a little knit hat, and for the first time, it was just you, your mother, and your little half-sister- Haeun in the house. You glanced at the girl—who had, at some point, wrapped herself in a fuzzy pink blanket like a cape—and gave her a small grin before following the call.

“Haeun, Y/N, I need a hand,” your mom said, already rolling up her sleeves and flashing you both a warm smile.

You nodded. “Sure.”

“Y/N, peel the vegetables. Ha-eun, wash the rice, baby.”

“Ugh,” Haeun groaned dramatically, dragging her feet to the sink like she was heading to war. “Why do I always have to wash the rice?”

She huffed, but turned on the faucet, rolling up her sleeves like a tiny chef. The water splashed, and soon the sounds of chopping and giggling filled the kitchen.

At one point, you reached over to grab a bowl from the counter just as Ha-eun tried to toss you a dish towel, but instead, it landed on your face.

“Ambushed,” you said flatly, pulling the towel off.

Haeun cracked up, laughing so hard she nearly spilled the soaked rice.

“Careful!” your mom scolded gently, then smiled at the sight of you both. “Y/N, you’re good with her. You’d think you grew up together.”

You gave her a faint smile, a small warmth blooming in your chest. “She’s alright. Could use some rice-washing skills though.”

“Excuse me—” Haeun threw a rice grain at you. You pretended to be mortally wounded, dropping the carrot with an exaggerated gasp, making them both laugh.

◇

By evening, the house was bathed in a golden hue from the sunset bleeding through the windows. The baby had been fed and now nestled quietly in a little cushioned chair, gurgling softly with a bib around his neck. Your mother and her partner sat close together at the low dining table as you and Ha-eun brought in the food.

“I helped make the rice!” Haeun announced proudly, setting down a steaming bowl.

“I helped all of it,” you said with mock arrogance, setting the vegetable side dishes in place.

“Yah, don’t start competing over rice,” your mother laughed, waving you both down with her chopsticks.

Her partner, who had been relatively quiet until now, glanced at the spread and gave a warm nod. “You girls did well. It looks great.”

You watched as your mom spoon-fed the baby a little mashed-up sweet potato, her hand gently patting his tummy afterward. Haeun took her place beside you, already reaching for her favorite dish.

The air was calm. The TV played low in the background, some countryside variety show you barely paid attention to. Laughter rose occasionally. The food was simple but comforting—steamed rice, marinated tofu, sautéed greens, and sweet bulgogi.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had dinner like this, besides the times with Inho.

At one point, Haeun leaned into you and whispered, “This is kinda fun.”

You nodded. “Yeah. It kinda is.”

And when your mom looked over at you, smiling softly, eyes full of something like hope, you let yourself smile back.

For tonight, at least, things felt... okay.

◇

You checked your phone.

Inho had texted earlier—something soft, something like “Did you eat? The baby keeping you busy?” You smiled, thumbs tapping a quick response as your fingers moved almost habitually now. You talked constantly. And somehow, that tether across distance made everything feel less heavy.

But then, another notification lit up your screen.

Cheol: Up for a walk?

You glanced over your shoulder. Ha-eun was curled into a little cinnamon roll under her blanket on the living room floor, soft snores escaping. Your mom and her partner were whispering about something domestic, turning off lights and beginning their slow nighttime routine.

A walk didn’t sound bad.

You: Sure.

He’s just a friend, you reminded yourself. Just someone you used to distract yourself with.

◇

The countryside air was cool, sweet with the scent of grass and earth, and somewhere in the near distance, cicadas hummed. You spotted Cheol by the creek, squatting on a large flat stone, two green bottles in hand and a ridiculously wide grin on his face.

“Look who decided to grace me with her presence,” he beamed, lifting the bottles like they were trophies. “One for you, one for me. It's called cultural bonding.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s just called drinking, Cheol.”

“Don’t ruin the poetry, Y/N,” he grinned, handing you a bottle.

You accepted it, twisting it open and sitting beside him. The creek babbled beside you both, moonlight catching on its shifting surface.

“You know,” he said after a sip, “if you told me a couple months ago, I’d be drinking soju under a moonlit creek with you in the middle of nowhere, I’d think I had a shot.”

You turned to him, eyebrow raised. “A shot at what?”

He looked mock-offended. “Wow. You’re not even going to pretend to not understand that?”

You rolled your eyes, taking another sip. “Cheol-”

He smiled, but it was the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Just messing around.”

The silence returned, this time more companionable than awkward. You pulled out your phone again, fingers typing out a quick reply to Inho’s latest message.

Inho: Having a good time?

You smiled. Maybe it was the buzz of soju, or maybe it was that you missed him a little too much, but you raised your phone and snapped a quick selfie—cheeks flushed from the alcohol, hair messy from the breeze, Cheol beside you mid-laugh.

He blinked. “Wait, wait—who’s that for?”

You didn’t answer fast enough.

Cheol leaned over. “Hey—hey! Who is that?” he grinned, but snatched the phone from your hand before you could lock it. His eyes scanned the screen, lips forming an “O” when he saw the chat window. "Professor Hwang?”

You reached over. “Give it back.”

But he didn’t, not immediately. “Why are you texting him so much? It’s like... 24/7?”

You laughed it off, calmly taking the phone back. “Relax, Cheol. He reads my writing. That’s all. He’s just... kind of mentoring me. Nothing weird.”

Cheol narrowed his eyes a little, then took a long drink from the bottle. “Right,” he said slowly. “Mentoring. Sure.”

You met his gaze, steady. “That’s it, Cheol.”

He nodded, exhaled sharply through his nose. “Okay. Okay. Just looking out for you, is all.”

“I know,” you said, quietly.

The creek continued to whisper beside you both, the moonlight now softer, gentler. And even though you laughed again at something dumb he said five minutes later, your heart wasn’t here. It was somewhere else entirely. With someone else.

◇

When Inho saw the selfie, it hit him like a punch to the gut. His fingers gripped the phone tighter as the screen lit up with your flushed cheeks, that familiar dreamy glint in your eyes, and beside you—Cheol. Laughing. Casual. Close.

He felt it immediately. That heavy, aching drop in his chest. Jealousy, yes—but worse, dread. His mind tried to rationalize it: Of course she’s hanging out with someone her age. Of course she’s laughing and drinking and living. She should be. She deserves that. But logic didn’t soothe him. It only made the whiskey in his hand taste more bitter.

He stared at the photo longer than he should’ve. Each pixel felt like it was mocking him.

You should be with someone else.

Someone free to love you.

Someone who can walk through an airport with you and not feel terrified of being recognized.

Someone who isn’t tied to you by guilt, secrecy, and power dynamics.

But it wasn’t that simple. Not for him. Not when you had already rooted yourself deep into every quiet, unguarded part of him.

He leaned back into the couch, the apartment dim, only the low amber glow from a desk lamp casting light over the half-empty bottle beside him. The walls felt smaller than usual. The silence louder. His thumb hovered over the screen again, rereading your text, the photo. The way your head tilted slightly toward Cheol. The easy smile.

He hated it.

Not because he didn’t trust you—but because he didn’t trust himself. He knew he had crossed every line he once told himself he never would. You were his student. His responsibility. And yet… he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way your voice softened when you spoke to him, how your walls slowly dropped around him, how you'd let yourself be vulnerable in his arms.

He had told himself he would be careful. That he would protect you—even from himself. But then there were those nights. Those Friday nights, when your laugh echoed through his apartment, when you clung to him like he was the only safe place you knew. And maybe, for a moment, he believed he was.

He swirled the whiskey in his glass, resting it against his knee. It wasn’t just attraction. It was something else. Something far more dangerous. You had disarmed him entirely. Your presence unraveled him, thread by thread.

He remembered the first time he saw you cry. How something in him cracked wide open. He remembered how you absentmindedly chewed your pen during his lecture, eyes dreamy, zoning out on him like he was the only thing that existed in that moment. He remembered holding you when you felt small, and feeling like his arms weren’t enough.

And then there was that darker thought, one he tried to suppress: What if I’m not protecting her anymore? What if I’m just keeping her close for my own selfish need?

The guilt clawed at him. Not just for the breach of ethics, but for the possibility that you might one day look back and realize he wasn’t who you thought he was.

But then, your voice would echo in his memory, soft and sure: “I folded under you because I love you.”

And it would all come crashing down again.

Inho sat there in his silence, whiskey warming his throat but doing nothing to soothe the storm in his chest. He missed you—violently. Wanted to call you. To ask who poured your soju and if you were warm enough. If you still thought of him, even while you laughed with Cheol.

But instead, he stared at the photo again. And simply typed:

Inho: Come back soon.

◇

The walk back from the creek was a wobbly one—tipsy feet stumbling slightly on the uneven country road, stars overhead spinning just a bit too quickly.

"You ever think," Cheol slurred with a dramatic swing of his arm, "that frogs got it all figured out?"

You snorted. "What?"

He pointed ahead at a pair of frogs tangled near a puddle, clearly in the middle of something intimate.

"Look at them!" he exclaimed. "Mating in public, no shame—could be us but you playin’."

You burst into laughter, hitting his shoulder. "Shut up, you idiot!"

He grinned, clearly satisfied with your reaction. "Just sayin’."

By the time you reached the front gate, the moonlight lit the countryside home in a soft glow. You fumbled with the gate latch before managing to get it open, Cheol watching with crossed arms like some kind of proud dad—even if he swayed a little where he stood.

"You good?" he asked, still smiling.

"I'm good," you confirmed, swaying a little yourself.

"Okay, okay. Get inside before you fall into a rice field or somethin’."

You gave him a lazy wave as you stumbled in, leaving the front door half open in your foggy state. He stood there for a second, watching you disappear into the house, a small, stupid smile still on his lips.

Inside, you went straight to the kitchen, stumbling a little, then leaning down and drinking water straight from the faucet like some dehydrated animal. Unbeknownst to you, Cheol lingered by the window outside for a moment, spotting you through the thin kitchen curtain. He burst into a laugh, quietly took his phone out, snapped a photo, and sent it to you.

Cheol: Primitive ahh behavior.

Your phone buzzed. You barely registered it, wiping your chin with the back of your hand, just as your mom shuffled in.

"Y/N?" she blinked, still groggy, seeing you standing there in a nightgown with damp hair and a foggy expression.

"Sorry mama," you mumbled, rubbing your eyes and giving her an innocent grin.

She sighed, amused, and walked over to you. "Come on, party animal," she said gently, her hand resting on your back as she led you out of the kitchen and toward your room. "You’re in college. I’ve been your age too, I get it"

"Mhm," you hummed as your head leaned briefly onto her shoulder.

She chuckled and kissed your forehead. "Goodnight, sweet girl."

You collapsed into bed moments later, the house now quiet again, the laughter of the night still echoing faintly in your head as you slipped into sleep.

◇

It had been blissful—too blissful, really. The kind of soft, sun-drenched mornings and laughter-soaked evenings that made you forget the jagged edges of your past. For a while, it felt like your mother never left, like your father’s cold rules and control had never existed, like you had always belonged here. There was warmth in the air, in the food, in the way your little sister held your hand like you were the moon to her.

And then you woke up.

The morning light slipped through the pale curtains, and your mom stood above you with a soft smile, a glass of water and an aspirin in hand.

"So you were out with that funny boy I met at the airport, right?" she asked.

"Yeah. Cheol," you muttered, your voice still thick with sleep, a lazy smile tugging at your lips.

She smirked. "Are you two a thing?"

You immediately laughed, rubbing your face. "Oh, hell to the no. He’s just a friend. A stupid, weird, sometimes tolerable friend."

"Mmhmm, sure you are," she teased, setting the glass on the nightstand, her tone light but her eyes watching you closely.

If only she knew who really had your heart. The man who was wrong for you in every single way—but you loved him, God, you did. Even though he was still in Seoul. Even though he was your professor. Even though it complicated everything.

"I’m glad you have friends, Y/N," your mom said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. Her voice was tender, almost maternal in a way that made your chest ache. "You know, you’re only here for a week. And Haeun really likes you. I was thinking… maybe you could stay for the whole summer? Like a family should."

You blinked. The idea wasn’t horrible—not entirely. There was something warm and comforting about being in this home. About the smell of rice in the morning and the crickets at night. About the way your sister tugged at your sleeve. But then… there was Inho. His texts. His voice. The way he touched your hair like it was spun glass. The way you needed him like breath.

"I actually can’t," you said quickly, trying to sound casual. "I have... things to tend to back in Seoul."

"What things?" your mother asked softly, curiosity in her eyes.

You hesitated. "School. My writing. Just... stuff."

She nodded slowly, then sat down at the edge of the bed. "Y/N... I know I wasn’t the best mom. I know I wronged you. Leaving you with him..." her voice wavered. "I don’t expect you to forgive me overnight, but I’m so happy you’re here. I’m happy we’re... trying again. I’m happy you’re a part of this family. Family is important."

You bit your lip, your throat tightening. "It is."

"There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about." She glanced down, fidgeting with her hands. You sat up slowly, feeling a subtle shift in the air.

"Haeun's grandmother—on her father’s side—she’s been sick."

Your brows knit together. "Sick?"

"Yeah. She’s been diagnosed with aplastic anemia," she said carefully. "It’s serious. Her bone marrow doesn’t produce enough new blood cells. She needs a stem cell donation."

You didn’t say anything at first. The words hung in the air like fog.

"And I... well, I hate asking this of you but—"

Your heart sank, a chill creeping into your limbs.

"You could help her," she said, her voice almost trembling.

"Help her how?" you asked slowly, but you already knew. The dread had settled in your gut like concrete.

"She needs a peripheral stem cell donation. You’re young, healthy, and even if you're not genetically related, there’s still a chance you'd be a match. We already asked a few others. It’s... complicated."

"Why can’t anyone else do it?" Your voice cracked despite your best effort to keep it even. "Why me?"

Her eyes faltered. "We tried. No one else matched even closely. We’re running out of time, Y/N."

There it was. The truth beneath the warm dinners and cozy rooms. You weren’t just her daughter—you were a possibility. A solution.

"So, you didn’t invite me here to reconnect," you said quietly. "You just needed something. You needed me to give a part of myself to someone I’ve never even met. Do you even see how messed up that is?"

Her face fell. "That’s not true. I love you. I wanted us to—"

You laughed, bitterly. "You love me now? When I’m useful? When I’m no longer just that kid you abandoned to my father’s madness?"

Tears welled in your eyes before you could stop them, spilling onto your cheeks. You wrapped your arms around your knees, trying to breathe through the tightness in your chest.

"I came here hoping you wanted me—not what I could give. I wanted this to be real."

"Y/N..." she tried, reaching for you, but you flinched away.

"I’m not a tool. I’m not a cure. I’m your daughter."

You broke down, sobs wracking through your body as your mother sat helpless beside you, her eyes brimming with guilt. You didn’t know what hurt more—the request, or the thought that you almost believed things were different.

◇

You couldn’t bring yourself to update Inho on any of it.

Not about your mother. Not about the real reason she asked you to come. Not about the quiet war playing out in your chest.

So you stayed in your room, door locked, blinds drawn. The little countryside house felt so small now. The walls pressed in, the air too thick. Your phone buzzed every so often—texts from Inho, and a few from Cheol. You didn’t even glance at them. You didn’t have the energy.

You felt betrayed, humiliated, and worst of all—stupid. So incredibly stupid. Stupid for thinking you were finally wanted. Stupid for trusting her. Stupid for wanting something you should’ve known better than to hope for.

You couldn’t even tell Inho. Because if you did, he’d say the very thing you were already drowning in.

That you were naive.

And you couldn’t hear that. Not from him. Not now.

You sat in bed, knees drawn to your chest, your face blotchy and your thoughts a tangled, useless mess. If you said no, you were selfish. If you said yes, you were a fool. You didn’t even know if you were a match yet—and the fact that they were banking on it made everything worse. It all felt so transactional. Like love came only when asked to give something up.

Meanwhile, across the country, Inho hadn’t slept.

He tossed, turned, stared at his ceiling until the sun crept in, his mind spinning in circles. Your silence gnawed at him. Not hearing from you felt like bleeding out slowly. He kept wondering—was it Cheol? Did something happen? Had you moved on already? Had he lost you?

He checked his phone for the hundredth time. Nothing.

So he finally called you.

And when you didn’t answer, he called again.

Then again.

And again.

Until finally, on the sixth ring, you groaned and rolled to your side, hand fumbling for the phone.

“Hello?” your voice cracked, soft and strained.

“Y/N,” he exhaled, a breath like a wave of relief crashing through the speaker. “God. I’ve been going crazy.”

His voice was shaky, anxious. You could hear the rustle of him sitting up straight. You could picture him—hair messy, hand tugging at his collar, pacing.

“I thought—” he paused. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m fine.”

But you weren’t. You sounded hollow, flat, like a balloon drained of all air.

“I just… I miss you.”

That part was true. Through all of it, the pain, the confusion, the betrayal—you missed him most of all.

There was a pause on the other end.

“Did something happen?” he asked gently, careful, like he didn’t want to scare you off. “Did that idiot do something—did Cheol—?”

“God, no,” you interrupted, sitting up suddenly. “Cheol didn’t do anything. He’s just annoying, not evil.”

Another beat passed.

“I’ve just been busy. I’m fine, okay?” you said, a bit too sharply, guilt creeping in even as you tried to sound firm.

“I should eat something,” you added, needing the conversation to end, needing the distance again before your voice cracked and the truth slipped out.

“Y/N, wait—”

But you hung up.

And you sat there, staring at the wall, phone slipping from your hand, your heart aching with the weight of everything left unsaid.

◇

For hours, the world outside your door seemed to forget you existed—and that was fine. You needed to disappear. To feel like a ghost for a little while. No one knocked. No one texted. No one called. You just laid there until the silence started echoing inside you.

Eventually, you reached for your journal.

You flipped past blank pages and began to write, furiously, messily, like the pen had a mind of its own. Words bled from your chest, your ribs cracking open to pour them out. You wrote about Inho—the secret, the warmth, the way he made you feel like maybe life wasn’t entirely cruel. You wrote about the way his voice softened only for you, how his touch felt like something sacred in a world that had always been rough.

You wrote about your mother—her absence, the betrayal, the empty promises. About your father, whose silence lately was somehow louder than his words had ever been. About Cheol, stupid, loud, dumb Cheol, whose presence annoyed you—but whose friendship, strangely, comforted you.

You wrote about your confusion, about how hurt didn’t always look like tears, sometimes it looked like silence, numbness, laying in bed for hours on end. About the weight of being alive when everything inside you screamed to shut down. About how hard it was to keep trying.

You wrote until your hand ached, until the pages were wrinkled with the pressure of your pain.

You did what Inho once told you to do—free writing. “Don’t think, just bleed,” he had said once, guiding your hand over the page with his. “Let it come. Whatever it is, it’s yours.”

And at the end of it, there was one truth standing tall in the rubble:

Inho was the only person who had truly seen you.

The only one who had ever held you through your worst and never flinched. He had touched the rawest parts of your heart and kissed them. He had listened when your words were messy, when you couldn’t make sense of your own thoughts. He had looked at you—not as a student, not as someone broken, but as someone he genuinely cared for.

You stared down at a line you had written, one that had spilled from some tender, hidden part of you:

“I want to be better than the people who made me. I want to be someone who saves, not wounds. Even on the days I wanted to die, when my father’s voice broke me and my mother’s absence hollowed me, I still believed that life—human life—is precious. I want to live. I want to help others live, too.”

You inhaled, and for the first time all day, it didn’t feel like you were drowning.

It hit you. Maybe you could help her grandmother—not for them, not for approval, or family, or anything else.

But because you believed in life.

Because you had so little control over your own past, and maybe this was your way of reclaiming something. Creating good, because you’d known so much bad.

You got up slowly, knees stiff, the pages of your journal still warm from your touch. You left the room, your fingers tracing the hallway wall as you walked to your mother’s door. You didn’t knock hard, just once. A gentle sound, like your heart preparing itself.

She opened the door quickly, her face softening when she saw you.

“I’ll do it,” you said, voice even.

She blinked, almost stunned, until you added, “Under one condition. Never speak to me again.”

Your tone didn’t waver. It wasn’t cruel.

Because deep down, you still wished she’d say no, that she’d beg to stay in your life, that she’d say "You’re my daughter, I love you, I want you here."

But you needed to know. You needed the truth, even if it tore you up.

She paused only for a breath before saying, “Okay.”

Just like that. As if it was the easiest thing in the world. As if you had offered nothing but a transaction.

You nodded. Not because it didn’t hurt—because it did. God, it burned. But because you had already decided:

You might save a life.

Not because they asked. But because it was who you chose to be.

◇

It all went by quickly—like life had pressed fast-forward. You barely had time to sit still or breathe. You spent the remaining days with Cheol, who managed to make you laugh even when you were emotionally tapped out, and your little half-sister, whose affection was impossibly pure. You avoided your mother and her partner like stepping over broken glass barefoot—careful, quiet, keeping your heart from cracking again.

You texted Inho when you could. Mostly short, sweet messages, enough to soothe the worry in his responses. "Miss you." "Can't wait to see you." "Counting down the days."

The hospital had a waiting list too long to risk, or so your mother said. She waved it off like it was nothing, said a friend—some doctor she trusted—could run the tests faster. You didn’t ask too many questions. He drew your blood in a dim, tidy room that didn’t look anything like a clinic. There was no paperwork, no forms to fill out—just a quiet exchange, a needle, a nod. He said he’d run the compatibility tests himself, see if you were a match for Haeul’s grandmother, who was fighting aplastic anemia. Results in two weeks, he said, like it was routine. But as you left, something about the whole thing—how informal it all was—left you uneasy.

The day of your departure, Haeul wrapped her arms around your waist at the airport and cried into your sweater. She didn’t say much—just held you like she couldn’t bear letting go.

"I'll visit again," you lied gently, brushing her soft hair out of her eyes. She only nodded into your stomach, as if pretending that made it true.

Your mother and her partner were there too, giving you tight, awkward smiles. No words. Just a shallow, incomplete goodbye. And then you were gone—Seoul-bound.

Back in the city, the cab smelled faintly like old coffee and stale air freshener, but you didn’t care. You watched the streets go by like watching your life come back into view. When the car pulled up to Inho’s building, you didn’t hesitate—you all but ran to the door.

It opened fast.

“Y/N,” he breathed, already stepping into the hallway, like he’d been listening for your footsteps.

You smiled, small and tired but full of warmth. “Inho.”

He looked just like he did the day you left, only slightly more undone. His dark hair was mussed like he’d been running his hands through it too much, the collar of his shirt a little crumpled, his eyes softer than the rest of him would ever admit. That familiar sharp jaw, dark brows, and the slight worry that always lived in the corner of his gaze.

You stepped inside, dropping your bag with a thud. He didn’t wait—his arms went around you, strong and sure, and he pressed you up against the wall with a desperate kiss. It wasn’t careful, it wasn’t gentle. It was the kiss of someone afraid to lose you.

You kissed back just as hungrily, your fingers threading into his hair. It was all sighs and lips, a kind of reunion that didn’t need words. When he finally pulled back, you both laughed breathlessly, foreheads resting against each other.

Soon, you were tangled up in his sheets, limbs knotted together. His hand ran slowly up your spine as you lay against him, curled into his chest, and you felt your heartbeat finally slow, felt the ache inside you ease.

“I missed you,” you mumbled into the cotton of his shirt.

He didn’t respond with words, just kissed the crown of your head, fingers gently stroking your back.

For a moment, the entire world melted away. No mothers. No airports. No tests. Just the two of you.

It was almost laughable—how this man, known to everyone else as strict, detached, unreadable, could be this soft with you. His students feared him, respected him, saw him as this cold intellectual fortress. But here, like this, he held you like he was afraid you'd vanish.

“So,” he said eventually, voice quiet, “how was it? With your mother?”

You stiffened without meaning to.

“We decided to not talk,” you said flatly, avoiding his eyes.

His brow lifted slightly, curiosity subtle but there.

“Why?” he asked, voice careful, not wanting to push but clearly wanting to understand.

“It’s… complicated,” you replied, your voice thinner now.

He watched you for a moment, reading all the things you didn’t say. Then, finally, he nodded.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Y/N,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“No, it’s fine,” you replied with a hollow little laugh. “I’m just… stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” he said gently but firmly, shifting so he could look at you better. “You’re trusting. That’s not the same thing.”

You swallowed hard, blinking back the sting of emotion. You didn’t want to cry—not here, not now, not in this warmth.

You just wanted to stay here. With him. In this bed, in this moment, where everything felt safe. In his arms, you didn’t feel like a burden or a mistake or someone who’d been used. You just felt like you.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, that was enough.

◇

You laid there in the gentle hush of the room, his fingers stroking your hair with almost mechanical precision—slow, deliberate, like it grounded him too. You clutched onto him, your arms wound tight around his middle as if he might disappear if you loosened your grip. This—this was home. Not the illusion your mother staged with fake warmth, not your father’s tyranny disguised as “raising you right.” But this. Inho.

It didn’t matter how he held you. Whether it was the searing grip you’d feel when he was on edge, all tension and command, or the slow, absentminded graze of his fingers across your skin when he let his guard down—either way, it was real. Honest. Undeniably his.

You looked up at him, cheek pressed lightly to his chest, your lips tugging into a small, sleepy smile. His dark eyes, always so intense, locked onto yours the second they caught the movement. That stare could break people—cold, calculative—but when it met you, it softened into something nearly unrecognizable.

"Inho," you murmured, voice like a threadbare whisper.

He hummed lowly in acknowledgment.

"How did you spend those couple days when I was gone?" you stretched your arms over your head, letting your wrist flop over his chest, looking at him through half-lidded eyes.

He didn’t answer right away. Because how could he? The truth wasn’t something you could just say over soft sheets. All he did was think about you. All he ever did was think about you. You lived in his head like a haunting—parasitic, beautiful, necessary. His every second was laced with thoughts of you. Not in a romanticized, poetic way. No. In the kind of way that unhinges a man. You were the only thing that ever truly mattered.

He hated how deeply you affected him, how raw it made him feel. Hwang Inho—ruthless, logical, composed—reduced to pacing his apartment like some lost lover in a melodrama because you didn’t answer a text.

And yet, if he had to go back, he wouldn’t change a damn thing. You were the first person who made him feel. Really feel. You unlocked something terrifying and beautiful inside of him. Love? Maybe. But it went beyond that. You were a walking contradiction—a soft chaos, a mirror to all he lacked and all he wanted. A living masterpiece.

“I was—” he started, but then paused.

That’s when he saw it. As you stretched, the hem of your sleeve shifted slightly, and he noticed the faint bruise on your arm—yellow and fading, a ring of where a needle had gone in. Not just a scratch. Something medical. He grabbed your wrist, firm, eyes sharp.

“Y/N?” he asked, voice low, dangerous. “What is this?”

You froze. Shame instantly washed over you. Your stomach turned, guilt bubbling in your throat. You hadn’t told him. And now you had to. You couldn’t lie—not to him. Not when he’s the only person who’s ever seen you.

“It’s—well, you see—” you fumbled, your voice catching as your eyes searched his face. His grip remained unrelenting.

“What is that?” he repeated, eyes darkening, brows pulled together.

You sighed, the weight of it too much. “I’m naive as you said, okay? You were right. I thought—” your voice cracked, “—I thought she wanted to reconnect. But my mom just wanted something from me.”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“She wants me to be a donor. Her partner’s mother is sick. Aplastic anemia. That’s why she called. That’s why she pretended to care.”

He was silent. Just staring. Unmoving. Like a statue carved from something ancient and furious.

“Happy now?” you added bitterly, voice wobbling. “I finally learned my lesson.”

“No,” he said coldly, releasing your arm, standing up slowly like he was containing something monstrous inside of him. “Frankly, I’m anything but happy.”

He paced once. Twice. Hands clenched into fists.

“Did you agree?” he asked sharply.

You sat up slowly, folding your arms over your knees. “Yes… well—it’s not even certain yet. I’m waiting on the compatibility results. But I said yes.”

His jaw tensed. That familiar twitch in his eye.

“Why would you agree?” he hissed. “Do you have any idea what you’re risking? What this could cost you?”

“I guess…” you exhaled, voice quiet, “human life is precious. And yeah, maybe they’re all questionable people, but still… who would I be if I didn’t at least try?”

His stare was full of disbelief. Disgust, even.

“Do you honestly think they would do the same for you?” he asked, venom curling in his tone.

You didn’t answer. You just looked at your hands, limp in your lap.

“You’re not listening,” he snapped. “None of it matters to them. It never did.”

“Maybe not,” you said with a dry, almost sarcastic chuckle. “But I’m not doing it for them. Not really. I’m doing it… because I still want to believe people can be better than what the world gave them. Including me.”

He stared at you like he was looking at a beautiful, fragile piece of art with a crack running down the center—stunning and heartbreaking in equal measure.

“Naivety,” he muttered under his breath. “You mistake it for kindness. You always have.”

“At least im trying” you shot back, tone soft but sharp.

He looked away for a second, jaw twitching.

“You want to be the exception,” he said, “but people like them don’t deserve people like you. They just take until there’s nothing left.”

“I know,” you whispered. “But I won’t become like them just because I was hurt by them.”

He walked to the window, tension vibrating off him. The man who never imagined himself in such a situation, now, stuck between wanting to protect you and wanting to shake the idealism out of you.

He didn’t speak again for a long moment. Then—

“You’re could get hurt, Y/N,” he said, voice low, like a storm rolling over distant hills.

You smiled faintly, laying back on the bed. “Then I’ll get hurt.”

And still—he stayed. Because for all his warnings, for all his coldness, he knew one thing:

He’d burn the world down if it meant keeping that light in your eyes from going out.

◇

For the past hour, he hadn’t left his study. The apartment was cloaked in silence, the kind that gnawed at you. It was already late—so late the city had grown quiet—and still, you couldn’t sleep. You couldn’t breathe knowing that he was angry. Angry with you. With your decision. With the fact that you hadn’t said anything before, hadn’t trusted him enough to share.

You sat curled up on the bed for a while, wrestling with guilt, your stomach in knots. The longer the silence stretched, the heavier it became. Eventually, you got up. Barefoot, you padded down the hall to the study. You knocked gently, once… twice. No response.

So you pushed the door open anyway.

The room was dimly lit, bathed in the soft blue glow from his laptop screen. Inho sat rigid at the desk, unmoving, his fingers frozen above the keyboard. His back was tense, the lines of his shoulders sharp, jaw clenched in a way that made your heart ache. Papers were scattered around him—academic journals, reports—but you could tell he hadn’t been working for a while.

“Inho,” you said softly, voice nearly breaking as it left your lips.

He didn’t move.

“Look at me,” you whispered, stepping further into the room, clutching your sleeves. Your voice cracked on the edge of vulnerability.

Still, nothing.

Your throat tightened. The feeling of failure sank its claws into your chest. “Why?” you choked out. “Why are you ignoring me?”

He finally turned, slowly. His eyes were cold, tired, almost hollow.

“Because you didn’t even bother telling me before,” he said, the words hitting like a slap. Then he let out a bitter, joyless laugh. “You’re so naive. So trusting. And now you’re being exploited. Again.”

“Again?” you repeated, your voice small.

“It’s not like that,” you added, trying to defend yourself, your hands trembling at your sides.

“Not like that?” he echoed, standing up abruptly, his voice rising. “Your mother shows up out of nowhere, talking about family, connection—and you just believe her? Then you agree to a donation just to never speak to her again?” His expression twisted. “Don’t you see how insane that is?”

“I’m not doing it for her!” you snapped, tears brimming, your own voice shaking.

“Oh, then who is it for?” he sneered. “Or what? Some itch to feel useful? A savior complex? It’s not about morality, Y/N. It’s idealistic. Romanticized.” He took a step toward you, eyes dark. “Those people—your parents, your mother’s partner—they wouldn’t blink if you died.”

You flinched.

“And you know what’s even more disgusting?” he went on, voice lower, almost venomous.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

“I wanted to protect you from people like them, from that trash” he said, his voice nearly trembling. “But I’m just like them.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“No,” you said quickly, your voice cracking, “don’t say that. Inho, you’re not. I love you. You’re the only person who’s ever—”

He slammed his fists onto the desk with a loud thud that made you jump.

“I’m your professor, for fuck’s sake!” he yelled, his voice breaking apart with guilt and anguish. “I’m not supposed to be with you like this! Don’t you get it?! I’m exploiting a mentally unstable, wounded young woman—don’t you see that?! I’m using you!”

It wasn’t a confession of truth. It was a confession of guilt. Of self-loathing. His voice shook, not from anger at you, but at himself. For letting it get this far. For wanting you so desperately. For loving you when he shouldn’t. And when he saw the way your tears poured down your cheeks, when he realized he was the reason—they carved into him like blades.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he muttered, unable to look at you. “You’re already were hurting enough and I just… made it worse.”

You shook your head, voice soft and broken. “Don’t say that. Please. I love you. I know you, Inho. I know that’s not how you really feel. I know you.”

“Stop saying you love me!” he snapped again, this time barely able to hold himself together. His voice cracked, because it hurt to hear it—because he wanted those words more than anything, and he felt like he didn’t deserve them.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the apology barely audible through your sobs. You turned, and with a loud slam, closed the door behind you.

He didn’t move.

He just stood there, fists clenched, chest heaving, staring at the door like it had just swallowed his whole world.

◇

You lay curled on the edge of the bed, your back to the door, muffling soft sobs into the pillow. The room felt unbearably quiet without him. Inho hadn’t come out of his study—not even once. You knew he needed time, space, but god, it hurt.

Maybe you were overbearing. Maybe you should’ve just kept it to yourself. Maybe you didn’t know when to stop. Maybe, in some strange way, you were suffocating him.

You pressed your knuckles to your mouth, trying to muffle another sob, trying to collect the scattered pieces of your thoughts. He was so harsh—brutal even—but underneath the anger, you knew it was guilt. Still, couldn’t he try to understand? Just once, look beyond his view of you being this fragile, misguided girl desperate to feel useful? Couldn’t he see the truth? That you just wanted to do something kind. That you believed in kindness.

To you, human life was precious. Every single one. Even the ones who failed you. Even the ones who abandoned you. Maybe that was naïve. Maybe it was foolish. But you didn’t care. That belief was all you had.

It wasn’t about your mother. Or her partner. Or even the twisted guilt-laced love you harbored for them. It was about a woman—Haeun’s grandmother—someone who loved her, someone who was sick, and dying, and human.

And Inho… god, how could he say he was exploiting you? All he ever did was care for you. He was the one who held you when no one else did, who pushed you in your hobbies, who made you feel like life could be safe, like love could be soft. If anything, you had clung to him too tightly.

But… he needed space. You could see it. He needed time to see clearly.

So with a heavy heart, you quietly packed a small bag—your pajamas, your journal, some essentials—and tiptoed to his study. You would’ve gone back to your dorm if it wasn’t the middle of vacation. Instead, a motel would have to do.

You wiped your swollen cheeks, took a deep breath, and knocked on his door again.

“Come in,” came his voice. Low. Tired.

You pushed the door open gently. He sat at his desk, still in the same position, but now with his head resting against his hand, eyes dark and clouded with remorse. When he saw you standing there with a bag in your hand, his chest tightened.

He hoped—god he hoped—you’d come to crawl into his lap like you usually did. That you’d fall into him and let him hold you, like always. That maybe, just maybe, you’d forgive his words before he could. But you didn’t.

“I’ll spend the night somewhere else,” you said quietly, your voice hoarse and small.

His heart sank.

You didn’t look at him as you turned to leave, footsteps slow, dragging with hesitation, pain tucked into every movement. His eyes flicked to your hand on the doorknob, and that’s when instinct took over.

He stood up, crossed the space between you in seconds, and wrapped his fingers around your wrist.

“Don’t go,” he said. His voice cracked. “Please.”

You turned around slowly, eyes wide and shimmering with hurt. He looked at you like he was seeing a version of you he’d just broken—and he hated himself for it.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he whispered. “I was angry. At myself. At everything. But not you. Never you.”

You didn’t say anything—just slowly stepped forward until his arms were around you again, and you were buried in his chest. And this time, he didn’t pull away. He didn’t question if it was right or wrong. He just held you like you were all that kept him standing.

So you stayed.

◇

He stayed silent as the two of you sat curled up on the couch, your head resting against his shoulder, your legs lazily draped across his lap. The room was dim, the only light coming from a small floor lamp in the corner, casting a warm, soft glow around you. Outside, the city whispered quietly through the windows, muffled by the lateness of the hour. You were exhausted—not just physically, but emotionally, your thoughts tangled and raw from days of turbulence.

Still, his grip around you was steady, strong. Not just to comfort you, but to anchor himself. His fingers threaded through your hair absentmindedly, his other hand resting on your thigh, thumb gently tracing circles into your skin. It was intimacy wrapped in silence, a moment of pause.

Finally, he spoke.

“What are we going to do?” he asked, his voice low, edged with something unreadable.

You exhaled, eyelids fluttering shut for a moment. “With what?” you replied softly, without lifting your head.

“University. Classes start in a month,” he murmured. You could feel his chest rise beneath you.

“So what?” you said, more sleepy than defiant, but still vaguely amused.

“Hiding, lying… Aren’t you tired, Y/N?” he said, turning his head slightly, his gaze heavy even if you didn’t meet it.

“It’s temporary,” you said, eyes still shut, a ghost of a smile tugging at your lips.

He raised an eyebrow, letting out a quiet scoff. “Temporary?” he repeated, clearly skeptical.

You cracked one eye open, leaned your head back slightly to look at him. “I’ll graduate eventually,” you said dreamily. “And I’ll try—no, I’ll become a full-time writer. And we’ll live together, somewhere nice. We’ll have two cats and a dog. And when we’re old, we’ll move to the countryside. I liked the countryside.”

He stared at you, something softening in his gaze. He wanted this—he wanted this so much. Every word you said, every wild, whimsical vision of the future you painted… He wanted to live inside it. Despite the logic screaming at him about the reality of age and consequence, despite the whisper in the back of his head that you’d eventually outgrow him, that someone younger, freer, would one day capture your attention—he still clung onto it.

Because without you, life made no sense. Without your joy, your laughter, your chaotic scribbles in your notebook, your constant challenges to his grim worldview—what even was the point? You’d become a permanent organism in his brain, latched onto him like a beautiful parasite that he welcomed. Your touch, your voice, your words, your chaos—it all kept him breathing.

“I’m already old,” he muttered under his breath.

You laughed softly. “Not old. Older,” you teased, tilting your head against his shoulder with a grin.

“Why two cats and a dog?” he asked, feigning annoyance.

“Because,” you said, your tone softening, “my family’s shit. And yours… well, you never mention them. They’ll be our little family. The cats, the dog. Us.”

He looked down at you. Your eyes were still puffy from earlier, your voice still hoarse—but you were still you. Still full of heart.

“At least they wouldn’t be able to talk you into an organ donation,” he muttered bitterly.

“It’s not an organ donation, get your facts right, Hwang,” you said with a smug, almost motherly tone.

He let out a breath, choosing to drop the subject. He knew pushing further would only reopen the wounds.

“You’ll make good money writing,” he finally said after a pause. “You’re gifted.”

You smiled, and for a while, silence returned. Not awkward this time, but calm. Settled. Safe.

Then, unexpectedly, his voice came again—gentle, subdued. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I shouldn’t have lashed out like that. Not at you.”

You looked up again, brows furrowing slightly, your heart tugging at the broken sound of his voice.

“I once was a donor too,” he admitted.

Your eyes widened. “You were?” you asked quietly, your voice suddenly sober.

He nodded slowly. “For my brother.”

“You have a brother?” you asked, sitting up a little.

“A half-brother,” he clarified. “I gave him my kidney.”

You blinked, stunned. The puzzle pieces began to shift. “I guess going through all of that, you should be a tad bit more supportive, hm?” you said, gently prodding.

“The circumstances were completely different, Y/N,” he replied quickly, eyes hard. “It’s not remotely comparable.”

You nodded slowly, not wanting to argue anymore. He reached out and cupped your cheek, brushing your hair back.

“I won’t stop you, Y/N,” he said. “You’re trying to do something good. Your intentions are pure. Even if they’re toward people who don’t deserve them. I just… I just wish you’d look at it logically. Not idealistically.”

You smiled tiredly, but with a spark in your eyes. “Must you be such a collectivist?” you teased. “I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it for a woman I’ve never met. And frankly, it doesn’t matter. Because human life is worth protecting.”

He sighed heavily. “You’re infuriating.”

His arms wrapped tighter around you, and he kissed you—softly, but deeply. A kiss filled with everything he didn’t know how to say.

“The world swallows people like you,” he said against your lips.

“Then hold me tighter,” you whispered back, “so it won’t.”

◇

As the days passed, it all began to feel so wonderfully domestic. Like slipping into something that had always belonged to you. The comfort was quiet and steady—morning sunlight pouring through half-open blinds, the smell of coffee lingering in the air, scribbled notes and manuscripts scattered across the dining table like remnants of shared dreams. You’d write together, sometimes in silence, sometimes with classical music in the background.

Mornings blurred into nights with no real structure, only rhythm—waking up wrapped in each other, limbs entwined like vines. You’d cook together, brush teeth side by side, fall asleep mid-conversation. It felt natural. Easy. Like maybe, just maybe, you were meant to share a life.

“Jesus, Inho, what did you do?” you mumbled as you stumbled into the kitchen, hair tousled, still rubbing sleep from your eyes. One of his oversized dress shirts hung off your frame, the sleeves rolled up past your hands.

You’d barely finished the sentence before the scent hit you—sharp, bitter, burnt. The air was thick with it, like a campfire gone wrong. A dark cloud hung low in the kitchen, billowing out of the oven like some cursed potion.

There he was, shirt half untucked, sleeves rolled up, waving a kitchen towel at the smoke detector as he opened the windows with an annoyed grunt. A baking tray sat on the counter, filled with what could only be described as charcoal impersonating cookies. He dumped them unceremoniously into the trash.

You burst into laughter, the sound echoing off the kitchen tiles. Never in a million years had you imagined him—stoic, precise, all-knowing Professor Hwang—in a scene straight out of a sitcom.

“I tried… making those store-bought cookies you like,” he said flatly, eyeing the mess, “but with real ingredients.”

You raised an eyebrow, biting your lip to stop yourself from laughing again. “I see the life of a housewife isn’t treating you well,” you teased, stepping further into the kitchen.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was enduring a moral crisis. “I saw an American recipe,” he muttered, “and I… mistook Fahrenheit for Celsius.”

You facepalmed dramatically. “Wow,” you said, drawing the word out like a slow exhale. “That’s almost… impressive, in a very tragic way.”

“So educated, yet so…” you started, but he held up a hand.

“I know, I know,” he groaned, defeated.

“It’s just,” he said, trying to recover, “the chemicals and preservatives in the store-bought ones make people depressed, and that could give you writer’s block.”

You laughed as you walked up to him, slipping your arms around his waist and looking up at him with a sleepy smile. “Professor, my writing is at its best when I’m depressed.”

He smirked, brushing a bit of flour from your cheek. “Truly artistic,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Just don’t stick your head into the oven next.”

You rolled your eyes hard. “Really? A Sylvia Plath joke this early?”

But you couldn’t help smiling. Because this—this was happiness. Even if it smelled like smoke.

◇

Evening wrapped around the two of you like a warm, worn blanket. You lounged on the couch together, curled under a shared throw, watching an objectively awful movie. The dialogue was wooden, the characters painfully one-dimensional, the plot twist so predictable it may as well have been announced in the trailer. But somehow, that movie still held something tender in its absurdity—nostalgia.

It was one of those "approved" films, one your father deemed harmless enough. You’d watched it a hundred times on a small TV, bundled up during icy winter nights while the radiator clicked in protest. It had been your solace on sweltering summer days too, when other kids were outside biking, laughing, chasing sunbeams. But you? You were scrubbing floors or hunched over books until your wrists ached, and the movie became your escape, a fantasy of fried chicken restaurants and pretty girls swept away by rich CEOs.

“You have very questionable movie choices, Y/N,” Inho finally said, his voice amused, having zoned out of the plot long ago. The film was more background noise now—white noise, really—his attention drawn to the rise and fall of your chest, the way your eyes flickered softly against the screen’s light, the soft line between your brows when you focused too hard.

“You just don’t get it, you movie snob,” you teased, nudging him with your elbow, grinning.

He chuckled. “Please. It checks every box. Evil stepmother? Check. Rich CEO with unresolved trauma? Check. Poor but brave girl working in her family’s fried chicken joint? Check. And of course, the toxic ex-boyfriend who's somehow always lurking in the background…” he said with mock exasperation.

“It's cliché,” he added with a dramatic sigh.

“Snob,” you countered playfully.

But just then, your phone buzzed on the coffee table, slicing through the comfort like a razor. Inho reached for it first, handing it to you without question, the light from the screen painting your face in cold blue tones. You looked down. A name. Mom.

Your stomach clenched. You answered.

“Hello?” your voice was hesitant, your tone suddenly shifting, serious.

"Y/N?” Her voice on the other end was frantic, sharp with emotion. “The testing results came back—it's a miracle! You’re compatible!”

She didn’t even wait for your reaction, her words tumbling over each other like an avalanche. “I’ll send you all of the details. You’ll have the procedure done in Seoul, no need to come back here. The material will be sent directly to Haeun’s grandmo—"

You cut her off. “Okay. Great. Bye.”

That was all you needed. No more conversation. No more explanation.

But she wasn’t done. “Y/N—” her voice cracked, as if clinging to the moment.

“I promise,” she said after a beat, “I’ll never reach out again. Goodbye. And… thank you...you're immensely helping the family"

The line went dead.

You lowered the phone slowly, face tight, your shoulders subtly rising with the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Inho, who had been watching you carefully the entire time, didn’t miss a single detail. The tension in your jaw. The way your fingers dug into your palm. The slight flinch at the sound of her voice.

“Who was that?” he asked, his voice low, careful.

“My mom,” you said flatly. “The results came back. I’m compatible.”

He exhaled heavily, his jaw setting with quiet restraint, like he was bracing for something he couldn’t stop. His eyes dropped for a second, then lifted again to meet yours, filled with thoughts unspoken. The calm had passed. Reality was back.

◇

Everything seemed to move in fast-forward after that call. You and Inho had quietly returned to your own little world, wrapped in fleeting bliss. Soft mornings filled with sleepy kisses, lazy afternoons writing side by side, warm evenings spent tangled together on the couch. He brewed you tea while you wrote. You ran your fingers through his hair when he worked too long at the desk. The smallest gestures began to feel sacred—your toothbrush next to his, his sweater draped over your chair, his fingers brushing yours when handing over a coffee cup. It was domestic. It was tender. It was everything you'd never thought you could have.

Sometimes Cheol messaged you. Just casual, almost empty messages like, "wyd," or "u up?"—the kind that didn’t mean anything, but Inho’s jaw would tense subtly every time your phone lit up with his name. He never said anything directly, and you never responded. It wasn’t spoken aloud, but the two of you seemed to share an understanding about it. Just like you shared a silent pact to avoid talking about the stem cell donation. A sort of truce: agree to disagree. You both understood where the other stood—but he didn’t fight you on it. He let you go.

The morning of the procedure, he helped you get ready in silence. There was no argument. No guilt. Just his fingers brushing your hair behind your ear, his lips pressing against your temple, a taxi already waiting outside. He didn't say "be careful" or "don't go." Just a soft, “Call me when it’s done,” before helping you into the car.

But the address your mother had given you—it wasn’t a hospital. Not even a clinic.

The taxi dropped you off in the outskirts of Seoul, in front of a tired, crumbling apartment complex. You double-checked the address. This was the place. For a second you wondered if it was a mistake, but no. There it was again, the exact number and unit your mother had texted you. The stairwell smelled vaguely of mold. The hallway lights flickered as you walked through.

Inside the unit, it was... odd. Dim. Clinical in the most makeshift way. A table that looked like it was bought secondhand. A curtain pulled across one corner of the room for privacy. Medical equipment that looked slightly outdated. It didn’t feel sterile. It didn’t feel right. But you told yourself: What do I know about medical setups anyway?

A woman greeted you—early forties maybe, in loosely fitting scrubs with a name tag that read simply: Nurse Kang. Her hair was messily tied back, and she looked exhausted.

“Y/N?” she asked with a practiced smile.

You nodded hesitantly.

“Great. You’re here for the peripheral stem cell donation, yes?” she asked, pulling a clipboard toward her.

“Yes... this is the right place?” you glanced around, uncertain.

She chuckled lightly. “Of course. It’s more... discreet here. Less paperwork, less waiting. That’s what the family wanted. Come, sit.”

You obeyed, sitting in a cracked faux-leather chair beside an IV stand.

“Now, you’ll feel a bit tired during and after the process, but nothing to worry about,” she said, already unwrapping alcohol wipes and tubing. “We’ll use a catheter to draw the blood from one arm, and another to return it in the other. We’re filtering the stem cells directly.”

You watched her fumble with the tubing a bit. Her gloves were loose, and she cursed under her breath once as a needle slipped out of her grip.

“Is everything okay?” you asked quietly.

“Totally fine,” she said, brushing hair from her face. “Just—ugh—these damn tubes, you know? Happens all the time. You’ll feel a little sting.”

She inserted the needle into your right arm—roughly. You winced.

"Sorry, sorry," she muttered. "Vein’s a little tricky today."

You nodded, even though your gut twisted. You watched as the machine next to you hummed to life. It didn’t look particularly high-tech. In fact, it looked outdated—like a hand-me-down from a real hospital. The sound of your own blood being cycled echoed in your ears.

At one point, the nurse pressed down on your arm and whispered, "Shit," under her breath. You looked over.

“What is it?” you asked, suddenly more alert.

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “Just a small clog. Nothing major. These things happen. We’ll flush it. Don't worry.”

Everything in her tone screamed worry, but she kept smiling.

You felt lightheaded not long after. Your limbs heavy. Your head buzzing like static.

“How long is this supposed to take?” you murmured, eyes fluttering.

“Almost done,” she lied. “Just hang in there, sweetheart. You're doing good.”

You nodded slowly. Trying to trust. Trying not to panic.

You thought of Inho.

And you thought—maybe he was right.

◇

As you stepped into the taxi Inho had arranged for your return, a strange cold settled over you despite the warm afternoon sun. Your limbs felt heavier than they should, a dull ache radiating from your joints. The world outside the window blurred not from speed, but from the strange haze in your mind—your eyelids drooping, your breath shallow. You chalked it up to fatigue. The nurse had said you'd feel tired. Lightheadedness was part of it. But this? This pounding in your skull, the chills climbing up your spine, the burning heat in your face, it felt... off.

Still, you stayed quiet, curling your fingers around your bag, focusing on breathing in and out. Inho was waiting.

When the taxi pulled up in front of the apartment, you forced yourself upright, legs wobbly beneath you. The door opened before you even reached it.

Inho was already there, worry etched into every line of his face. "Are you okay?" he asked, immediately reaching for you.

Your skin looked pale, almost translucent, your eyes ringed in a dull grey, lips dry. He noticed the way you wavered on your feet, the slight tremble in your fingers as you tried to take your shoes off.

"Yeah, all good," you mumbled, waving a hand lazily. "Just tired... the nurse said it’s normal, I just... need to rest." Your voice was barely above a whisper, and your smile—so faint it could've been a twitch.

You made your way to the couch, nearly collapsing into it rather than sitting. You pulled your knees up, wrapping your arms around yourself. Your whole body had begun to shiver.

Inho followed closely, sitting beside you as his eyes scanned your features, his fingers gently brushing your cheek. It was clammy. And you were burning up. He didn’t say anything, not yet, not wanting to alarm you.

"Okay... rest. I’ll be here," he murmured softly.

He took your hand into his, careful and gentle. His eyes dropped to your arm—where a thick, angry bruise had formed around the puncture site. The skin was swollen, the center flushed deep red, almost purple. His brows furrowed, concern tightening his jaw.

You mumbled something incomprehensible as your eyes fluttered shut. You started to shiver more violently now, your breathing shallower. He stood and returned with a thick blanket, tucking it around you with cautious hands, as if you’d break.

He sat beside you again, but this time, his posture stiffened. Something felt wrong. Your feverish skin, the way your body trembled, the irregular pattern of your breathing. His hand lingered on yours, squeezing gently, grounding you as your body betrayed you.

And for the first time since this ordeal began—Inho felt real, gut-deep fear.

◇

After nearly an hour of sitting beside you, watching your chest rise and fall in shallow, uneven breaths, Inho couldn’t take it anymore.

You hadn’t stirred once—not even a twitch. Your skin was ghostly pale, almost ashen, lips a sickly shade of bluish-purple. Your body trembled beneath the layers of blankets, damp with sweat, and yet you kept whispering incoherently as if you were freezing. Every so often, a soft whimper escaped your throat, like your body was trying to communicate something your mind couldn’t.

Inho placed the back of his hand against your forehead again, but this time he flinched. You were burning up—hot enough to scald. Your fever hadn’t gone down. It had gotten worse.

His chest tightened. His pulse quickened.

He hated hospitals. He hated the idea of seeing you in one even more. But this wasn’t fatigue. This wasn’t "normal."

Without a second thought, he reached for his phone and called emergency services.

When the paramedics arrived, you barely reacted to the commotion. The door opening, footsteps, voices—none of it woke you. Only when one of them knelt beside you, shaking your shoulder gently and calling your name, did you stir. Your eyes fluttered open, dull and unfocused, like you were looking through them, not with them. You didn't speak. You just blinked.

“She’s been like this since she got back,” Inho said tightly, voice low and tense. “She had a peripheral stem cell donation earlier today.”

At that, the two responders exchanged a glance. One of them, a man who looked like he was maybe too used to being overworked, nodded as if it explained everything. “That’s pretty normal,” he said. “Post-donation symptoms can be rough. Fatigue, fever, flu-like reactions—it’s just the body trying to recalibrate. Give her a day or two.”

Inho frowned, visibly unsatisfied. “She’s not just tired. Her fever’s spiking. She’s cold, she’s sweating, she looks—” He swallowed hard. “She doesn’t look okay.”

The paramedic hesitated, then shrugged again. “Unless her vitals are unstable, there’s not much we can do tonight. Keep her hydrated. If she doesn’t improve by morning, take her in.”

They left shortly after, leaving Inho standing in the living room, torn between dread and frustration. He watched you for a moment, still curled up on the couch, tiny and limp beneath the blanket, your brows twitching now and then in discomfort.

He moved toward you slowly, kneeling down. “Y/N,” he murmured softly, brushing your hair from your sticky forehead. “Let’s get you to bed, okay?”

You didn’t respond.

Carefully, he slipped one arm beneath your knees, the other behind your back, and lifted you off the couch. You felt too light. Too warm. Too still.

Inho held you close to his chest, his jaw clenched tight as he carried you to the bedroom. He laid you down gently, adjusting the pillows behind your head, tucking the blanket around your body like you might shatter if he moved too fast.

Then he sat down beside you, gripping your hand in both of his.

He stayed there for a long while, unable to sleep, unable to look away—haunted by the thought that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

◇

“Inho?” your voice came out like a breath lost in the wind—thin, shaky. You twitched under the sheets, your lips dry and cracked, your skin clammy and pale as bone. Your heart thudded erratically in your chest, loud and chaotic like a war drum.

Inho jolted, eyes locking onto yours instantly. He was still there—he had never left your side. His hand had never stopped holding yours.

“I don’t feel so good,” you whispered, your words broken by the uneven rhythm of your breaths. “My heart is—my heart is—fast. Too fast.” You clutched your chest weakly, fingers trembling. “Hold me…”

His heart split.

Without hesitation, he slipped under the covers and pulled you into his arms, pressing your fragile frame into his chest. You were burning up and yet you were shaking like you were made of snow. He wrapped himself around you, arms firm and steady, like if he held you tight enough, nothing could take you away.

But your breaths came quicker.

“Something’s wrong,” you whimpered, panic curling in your voice now. “Inho, something’s wrong…”

“I know,” he whispered, trying to keep his own voice steady as he pushed the damp hair away from your face. “Everything will be okay. I’ve got you. I promise. I’ve got you.”

But he didn’t waste a second. He reached for his phone again, his fingers fumbling over the screen as he redialed emergency services. This time his voice was sharp, urgent.

When the new responders arrived, their tone shifted the moment they stepped inside. One look at you—ashen, struggling to breathe, shivering violently despite the fever—and they dropped the calm indifference of routine. One of them placed a blood pressure cuff on your arm and cursed under his breath.

“BP’s crashing. 80 over 40. We’ve got septic shock.”

“What?” Inho blinked, frozen in place, his body cold even in the heat of the room.

“She needs fluids and antibiotics—now. We have to move.”

It all happened fast. They inserted IV lines with practiced hands, placed an oxygen mask over your mouth, and wheeled you into the ambulance. Inho wasn’t allowed to ride along—there wasn’t enough room.

He followed in a separate car, barely breathing. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his thoughts screaming at him, tearing into him.

How did I let this happen?

He had let you go. Had kissed you goodbye. Had reassured himself it was just a donation.

He didn’t demand to see the facility. He didn’t protect you.

Why didn’t I look into it?

Why didn’t I go with you?

Why didn’t I stop it?

He thought about your mother, about the casual way she passed along the address, like she wasn’t handing you a death sentence. He thought about Haeun’s grandmother, about all the people who had no idea you were now fighting for your life.

He thought about how you always believed in doing good—even when others didn’t deserve it. How you had always seen something worth saving in this world.

He arrived at the hospital, running through sterile white corridors, searching for a nurse, a doctor, anyone. When he finally found you, it was through a window—your room behind glass, machines hooked up to your arms, nurses moving with terrifying urgency.

Inho couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

He stood there as they fought for you, as they tried to raise your blood pressure, as the beeping monitors told a story he couldn’t bear to hear.

But around 3:17 a.m., the monitors went still.

There was a sound. A flatline.

The nurses didn’t speak to him immediately. They left the room with their heads slightly bowed, eyes tired, sorry. A doctor approached. Spoke softly. Said things like “complications,” “untreated infection,” “late detection.”

He didn’t remember much else.

Only that everything went quiet inside him.

The kind of quiet that crushes you.

The kind of quiet that comes only after you’ve lost the thing that made everything else make sense.

And he would carry that quiet with him for the rest of his life.

◇

After he gently closed your eyelids, everything inside Inho unraveled.

His body remained standing, hovering over your lifeless form, but his mind slipped into something else—some other world, one where you were still alive. Maybe that place was the dream you used to speak of with such certainty, the one with the countryside house, the cats and the dog, your shared mornings wrapped in blankets and soft kisses. The one where you lived long enough to become a writer and he lived long enough to forget what it felt like to be alone.

But that wasn’t this world.

Here, he stood still, your hand in his, your skin already losing warmth. You looked… peaceful. Like you were just resting. And for a moment he let himself believe it. He imagined it was one of those mornings you fell asleep before him, and he woke just to admire your face in the glow of dawn.

But the silence didn’t break.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just stayed.

Until they forced him to leave.

When he returned to the apartment, the reality was unbearable. Your shoes were by the door. Your cardigan still draped over the couch. Your lip gloss sat open on the table beside an empty mug you left half-drunk from the night before. There was a page of your writing on the desk, scribbled and half-done.

He couldn’t touch any of it.

He couldn’t even step fully into the room.

Instead, he collapsed onto the bedroom floor.

He didn't move.

Not for hours. Not for days.

He didn’t eat. He didn’t drink. He didn’t speak. There was no one to speak to. The world had gone mute the moment your heart stopped. He existed now in some half-dead state, not alive, not buried—just still. Waiting.

Because you were the reason he breathed. You were the rhythm to which his heart learned to beat. You were the proof he needed that there was still something good left in the world.

And now, he was nothing.

You were everything.

And you were gone.

He never even told you. Never let those three idiotic, fragile, vital words pass his lips. And now they would haunt him for the rest of his days.

He hated himself for that.

He hated everyone.

◇

Time bled forward in meaningless drips, and your things remained untouched. He told himself it was in respect, but the truth was simpler: if he packed your things away, it made your absence real. If your coat was still hanging by the door, if your toothbrush was still in the bathroom, maybe—just maybe—you might come back.

But a seed of dread had begun to grow in his chest.

Did it matter?

Did you save someone?

Was it at least for something?

Or did you die for nothing?

The question tormented him until one night, he couldn’t bear it anymore. He dug. Hard. And the deeper he went, the worse it got.

It started with a call to the hospital in your hometown. They had no record of any pending or recent stem cell recipient, none, they never even carried this procedure. Then after more digging, he found out Haeuns grandmother was dead for the past five years. He found the supposed address for the “clinic” where your donation was performed—but the building was empty, boarded up. When he looked into it further, what he found made his stomach churn.

It was an illegal operation. A black market front for harvesting and selling stem cells, plasma, bone marrow—anything that could be extracted and sold. They preyed on the naïve and the selfless. People like you.

Your "donation" hadn’t saved a life. It had lined someone’s pockets.

And then—he found them. Your birth giver. The “family.”

On Facebook.

Posing in Rome.

Smiling in front of the Eiffel Tower. Drinking wine in Barcelona. Laughing in matching outfits in hotel lobbies you could never afford.

They used you. Sold your body. Slaughtered you like an animal. Just to sip sangria in the sun.

He felt his vision go black from the rage.

You died thinking you were saving a life. You died believing you were doing good.

They knew exactly what they were doing.

They sent you into that place with no professional equipment, no doctors, no follow-ups. And they never planned to check in. Because they didn’t care if you came back.

They killed you.

And Inho knew—he couldn’t let it rest.

Not like this.

Not when they were still laughing.

Not when the world kept spinning after it had lost the only truly good thing in it.

They had to go down. Every single one of them.

◇

Everything was empty without you.

The world had lost its color—washed out in pale, indifferent greys. The air felt too still. Music no longer made sense. Food tasted like ash. Days melted into nights without distinction, time collapsing in on itself. The apartment, once warm with your laughter, your voice, your scent, was now a silent mausoleum where your absence screamed louder than anything else.

Every night, Inho dreamt of you.

Your smile, the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed. Your voice, soft and teasing, the warmth of it still etched in his memory. Sometimes, he heard it while awake—whispers echoing from the kitchen, calling his name from the hallway. He knew it wasn’t real. But he still turned his head every time. Hoping. Hallucinating you was better than accepting you'd never come back.

But he couldn’t keep drowning in grief. Not when they were still breathing. Not when they were still smiling in vacation photos and spending blood money as if you never existed.

So he turned to justice.

Unfortunately, justice was never designed for people like you.

Your father—your emotionally bankrupt, callous excuse of a father—was a necessary evil. As your legal guardian from the past and your only blood relative willing to cooperate, he had to be the one to file the civil case. Inho nearly walked out the moment he saw him. Every inch of him screamed to lunge across the room and break the man's nose, to give him even a fraction of the pain he caused you. Because when he looked at that man, he didn’t see a grieving parent—he saw your abuser, the source of your childhood trauma, the man who ground you down to obedience and called it “discipline.”

But he bit his tongue. For now.

His time would come.

University had started back up, but Inho barely functioned. His lectures were scattered. His emails went unanswered. Students whispered about how Professor Hwang looked pale, gaunt, like a ghost of himself. But he didn’t care.

Nothing mattered anymore.

Only you.

He poured himself into the case, side-by-side with your father, who—of course—saw only dollar signs. The man didn’t shed a real tear for you, but salivated at the possibility of financial compensation. He was putting on a hell of a performance in court, crocodile tears and trembling hands. Inho wanted to vomit watching it.

Despite the grotesque show, and the mountain of evidence they presented—photos of the apartment-turned-clinic, fake nurse records, falsified medical documentation, even vacation photos posted in real-time during your procedure—the court dismissed it. The judge ruled that, because you were a legal adult, the decision to undergo the procedure had been yours alone. “A tragedy,” the judge said. “But not a crime.”

And your mother? She played her part too. A devoted, devastated mother who had no idea the clinic was unlicensed. She sobbed into tissues. She trembled on the stand. She lied through her perfect, glossy teeth.

Inho clenched his jaw so hard his head ached.

He wanted them all dead.

And just when he thought it couldn’t get worse—

A formal complaint was filed against him with the academic board. Accusations of an inappropriate relationship with a student.

It came from your father.

Loud and performative. Suddenly outraged. Suddenly concerned about your well-being.

He didn’t care that you were dead. He wanted money.

He demanded a settlement from the university to keep things quiet, to “avoid ruining the reputation of the school.” And the university—terrified of a public scandal—caved.

They gave him what he wanted.

And how did he even find out about you and Inho?

Cheol.

That weak, idiotic boy—crying to your father about how he still loved you, about how he lost you. He probably thought he was grieving. Thought he was honoring your memory.

Instead, he sold you out.

He gave them allegations of unprofessional messages between you and Inho, and it was looked into.

He gave them the rope they hung Inho with.

And the school, wanting to sweep the matter under the rug, did what they always do: handled it quietly.

Professor Hwang was asked to resign.

And he did.

Without a word.

He walked out of that place, his name tarnished, his future shattered.

And he didn’t even care.

Because the only thing he ever wanted—you—was already gone.

◇

The moment he found that crumpled piece of paper, everything shattered.

It was buried between the pages of a worn-out notebook, something you must've scribbled down absentmindedly during one of your late-night study sessions. At first, he didn’t recognize it—but as he smoothed out the creases, his breath caught.

It was your silly game plan. That dumb, innocent business class idea you once shared with him, curled up on his lap, eyes bright, your voice warm and teasing. “It's not so special, so what?” you giggled, tapping your pen on your chin. “What, you want me to add a rule where losers die or something? Would that be thrilling enough for your emotionally unavailable, morally bankrupt standards?”

You said it jokingly. Laughing.

And he remembered the way you laughed.

The memory hit him like a freight train. His hands on your waist, the way your head tilted back when you teased him, the way he swore he could live forever just to see that expression again. It was perfect then. So perfect he never even realized it was a soon to be goodbye.

His knees buckled. He sank to the floor, clutching the paper like it was your heartbeat. His tears came so violently it hurt. His breath stuttered, lips trembling, the kind of sob that had no sound at first—just the ache of a body crumbling from the inside out.

“My Y/N,” he whispered, voice cracked and raw, “my sweet, pure Y/N…” His fingers ghosted over your handwriting like it was sacred. “I love you, Y/N…” he choked out, the words tasting like blood in his mouth, like guilt, like ash.

He pressed the paper to his chest as if it could bring you back. As if it could stitch together the black hole carved in his soul the night you died.

But your laughter echoed in his memory. That line. That joke.

And something snapped.

That’s what you wanted. A game. You said it. You laughed about it.

And that’s what he would give you.

But not your version. Not the funny, innocent blueprint you imagined. His version. A version molded by grief and wrath and the rotting pit of betrayal left behind by the monsters who called themselves your family.

So he found the investors.

Dirty money, black market connections, all of it. He slipped into the shadows, the man he used to be disappearing with you. He perfected your idea with a precision that would’ve terrified anyone who knew him before. No second chances. No mercy. No illusions.

Just justice.

The first games were scheduled a year after your death.

He wore a mask. He watched from above as they entered the arena like pigs to slaughter. And when green light, red light started, he waited.

And when your parents were gunned down—screaming, scrambling, tripping over their own greed—he smiled.

Not a victorious smile. Not a happy one.

A hollow smile.

Because justice, even served cold and brutal, didn’t bring you back.

Later that night, he opened your journal again. He’d read it a hundred times, memorized each word. Your thoughts were sunshine in ink. You wrote about how life was sacred, how every soul deserved a chance. You believed in people. Even when you shouldn’t have.

But that belief is what killed you.

They took your light and drained it, hollowed you out for their own gain. They exploited your goodness. They chewed you up and spat you out.

So he honored you in the only way he knew how: by ridding the world of every parasitic leech who ever reminded him of them.

He still talked to you, you know. In his sleep. In the quiet. In the dark. Whispered “I love you” into the silence, over and over again like a prayer, like an apology.

You were gone.

But your name lived on his tongue.

And his love for you—it never died. It simply changed shape.

It became fire.

74 notes · View notes