hameesstuff

[hameesstuff]

I'm bored rn and have already read all your works. What now😮‍💨

Awwww❤❤guess the only thing left is the story ill be posting tmrwww😉

[hameesstuff]

Hello! If I may ask, if you don't mind. Why almost all of your works are jaehyun being a CEO? Or like he's a single dad? You know, those kind of vibes, just curious hehe. Coz I've read all your works and THEY'RE ALL SO WELL WRITTEN!😫😫💞💞

Hiiiii lovely! I don't mind feedback at all dw. Lol I think jaehyun just gives off those vibes??I mean man looks too fine in a suit😩🤚. I'll try to incorporate more genres tho lol and thx for enjoying my work, i appreciate it a lot! 😘❤

[hameesstuff]

Ashes and Wildflowers

Pairing: Ceo! Single dad Jaehyun x Artist! BFF Reader

Themes: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Slowburn, Single dad Jaehyun, Small time artist reader, Friends to Lovers. Other members featured, Slight humour, 4 year old daughter..

Summary: A widowed CEO and his bossy little girl meet the messy, spirited artist who shakes up their quiet world. Between paint spills and stolen glances, he finds himself falling—again—whether he’s ready or not.

__________________________________________

Chapter 1: Late Nights and Dinosaur Pajamas

It’s 11:46 PM when your phone buzzes.

You nearly ignore it, curled up on your futon surrounded by open sketchbooks and a half-eaten grilled cheese. You’d been trying to finish a commission for a tiny café in Itaewon, your fingers still smudged in dry blue acrylic when the screen lights up again.

Jaehyun.

Your heart does the stupid little flip it always does.

You swipe without thinking.

“Hey, everything okay?”

He sounds tired. Not just tired—worn.

“Can you come over?”

Your brows knit. “Is Hana—?”

“She’s got a fever. I’ve tried everything. Cold compress, warm bath. She won’t stop crying. I think she just wants you.”

That last part stabs straight through your ribs.

You’re already throwing on your hoodie and stuffing your sketchbook under the couch. “I’m on my way.”

By the time you get to his apartment—spacious, minimalist, all soft neutrals and clean lines—he’s standing at the door in sweatpants and a black tee, barefoot, his eyes shadowed and hair slightly messy like he’s been running his hands through it all night.

“Hi,” you breathe, stepping in.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice low. You catch a flicker of something in his gaze—relief. Or guilt. Or both.

“She wouldn’t go to sleep?”

He shakes his head, shutting the door behind you. “Kept asking for you.”

The hallway is quiet except for soft whimpers from the bedroom. Your steps are familiar here now—four years of being the emergency contact, the midnight call, the best friend who never left.

You enter Hana’s room and your heart tugs. She’s curled up in her bed, cheeks flushed, wearing her favorite green dinosaur pajamas.

You kneel beside her, brushing the damp hair from her forehead.

“Hey, baby,” you whisper. “I’m here.”

Her eyes flutter open at your voice, tired and glassy. “You came…”

You kiss her temple. “Always, little bean.”

She falls asleep within twenty minutes. Her tiny hand clutches your sleeve like a lifeline.

When you finally slip out of her room, you find Jaehyun in the kitchen, pouring two mugs of tea. The clock reads 12:38 AM.

“You’re magic,” he says simply, sliding a mug toward you.

You smile faintly. “No. Just good with feverish dinosaurs.”

He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “I should’ve called you earlier. She asked for you at like eight.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

He hesitates, his jaw tensing.

“Didn’t want to… depend on you. Again.”

You go quiet. He’s always done this—shouldered everything, like grief and fatherhood were punishments he deserved to carry alone.

“I’m not a burden, Jae,” you say gently. “I’m her godmother. Your best friend. You’re allowed to lean.”

He meets your gaze, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Yeah. I just… forget how to do that.”

There’s a beat of silence.

You sip the tea. “This is horrible, by the way.”

He actually laughs—a quiet, low one that makes your chest warm. “Didn’t have honey.”

You end up staying the night. Of course.

You sleep on the couch, half-covered in a blanket you keep here anyway. He checks on you once around 2 AM—doesn’t say anything, just looks down at you with that unreadable expression, like you’re something fragile he never expected to need.

You pretend to be asleep.

The next morning, you’re brushing your teeth with Hana’s spare pink toothbrush when someone knocks.

You open the door mid-brush, expecting a courier.

Instead, it’s Mark Lee holding two coffees, Haechan beside him with a grocery bag and an obnoxiously loud, “UNCLE HYUCK IS HERE!”

“Whoa,” Mark says, blinking at you in your hoodie. “You live here now?”

You glare, foam still in your mouth. “I—nuh.”

“You do look suspiciously comfortable,” Haechan says with a grin, leaning around to peer into the apartment. “Wait. Did you two finally—”

“NO.” you and Jaehyun yell in unison from different rooms.

Later, when Hana is curled up on your lap eating rice porridge, you catch Jaehyun watching you from the kitchen.

Not just watching. Staring.

Like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t want.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

But that night, when you go home, there’s a wildflower in your hoodie pocket. One Hana picked. Or maybe not. You don’t ask.

Chapter 2: Paint-Stained Promises

The wind howled down the narrow streets of Seongsu, and your studio windows rattled in their frames like old bones. Rain was coming—you could feel it in the pressure building behind your eyes, in the stubborn creak of the cracked glass you still hadn’t fixed.

You cursed softly under your breath, tossing another useless strip of masking tape onto the floor. The old window had been threatening to cave for weeks. But now, with the sky brooding and wind leaking through the crack, you knew it wouldn’t survive another night.

And of course, your toolbox was missing half its contents.

You stared at your phone, thumb hovering.

He’d offer. You knew he would. That was the problem.

Still, you typed:

You: Window’s cracking worse. Rain’s about to hit. You busy?

Three dots appeared. Then:

Jaehyun: Be there in 15.

You sighed, heart tugging in a way that felt both inconvenient and inevitable.

By the time Jaehyun arrived, the first sprinkles had already started pattering against the studio roof. He pushed the door open with his shoulder, a low rumble of thunder rolling behind him.

“Should’ve known you’d wait until the storm to deal with it,” he said, stepping in and surveying the disaster zone. His voice was calm, warm. Familiar in a way that made your stomach ache.

“I was waiting for inspiration,” you shrugged, half-kidding.

His blazer was dark and dry, but his hair had started to curl faintly at the edges. He looked crisp as ever in a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled neatly, top button undone from the day’s work. There was a calm purpose in his presence—the kind that made the chaos of your studio feel a little less sharp.

“You brought your real tools,” you noted as he set a black case down beside the window.

“You mean the ones that actually work,” he said, glancing at your sad excuse for a toolkit. “Seriously… are you using a butter knife as a screwdriver?”

“It’s called innovation, Mr. Architect.”

He shook his head, crouching beside the window. “God help you.”

For the next fifteen minutes, the room was filled with the sound of clinking metal, the occasional curse under his breath, and rain starting to hit harder. You moved around quietly, cleaning up the scattered brushes and shifting your canvas-in-progress to avoid stray droplets.

“You know,” you said, trying not to watch the way his sleeves hugged his forearms, “most people don’t come running to fix broken things for someone else this late at night.”

Jaehyun paused briefly, tightening the screw on the new hinge. His voice was low when he replied.

“I’m not most people.”

You swallowed, fingers curling around a rag instinctively.

“You don’t have to keep showing up like this, Jae.”

His eyes met yours then—briefly, but enough to make the breath catch in your throat.

“I know,” he said softly. “But I want to.”

Thunder cracked outside like the sky had something to say about that.

The last screw clicked into place, and Jaehyun stood, wiping his hands on a clean cloth. You didn’t realize how close you’d moved to him until he turned.

Too fast.

His elbow knocked your paint bucket clean off the table.

You both watched in horror as it wobbled, danced on the edge—then tipped over with a dramatic splatter.

Right onto his shirt.

You gasped, eyes going wide.

Hot pink. Everywhere. A full, unapologetic explosion across his chest, dripping down in streaks like chaotic abstract art.

“Oh my god—Jaehyun!”

He stood perfectly still, staring down at himself.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

Then—

“Is this acrylic?” he asked flatly.

You clamped a hand over your mouth to stop from laughing. “I—yes. But we can—oh my god, your shirt!”

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Of course it’s pink.”

“I swear it was balanced before you barged in all… heroic.”

He looked up at you, finally—really looked—and the two of you burst out laughing at the same time.

“Stay still,” you said between giggles, grabbing a nearby cloth.

He watched as you reached forward, gently blotting at the mess on his chest. You tried not to notice the heat radiating off him, or how the thin cotton of his shirt had started to cling faintly to his skin from the paint and humidity.

But then—your fingers brushed lower, trying to catch a drip before it hit his belt, and your hand landed right over his sternum.

Flat palm. Over his chest.

He stilled.

You froze too.

The laughter died instantly.

His heart was pounding. Hard. You felt it before you could stop yourself.

Your eyes met his. Something shifted.

You dropped the cloth. “Sorry,” you mumbled, stepping back, wiping your hands on your jeans like they were burning.

“It’s fine,” he said, but his voice was lower now. Less composed.

The storm outside cracked again.

You were still facing each other, still too close.

But neither of you moved.

Later, alone in your studio, after he left wearing his ruined shirt and half a smile, you found the cloth you’d used still on the table.

Bright pink. Warm.

And somehow, your fingers still felt the thrum of his heartbeat against your palm.

Chapter 3: Did the Make-Up Go Outta Hand?

By the time Jaehyun unlocked the apartment door, the rain had slowed to a whisper against the windows. The elevator ride up had been silent except for the soft plap of still-damp paint clinging to his shirt and the pounding in his chest he couldn’t quite explain.

He exhaled through his nose and stepped inside.

Warmth greeted him. Hana’s tiny, sweet voice filtered from the living room—something about a stegosaurus and sparkly stickers. And then—

“Hyung?” Jungwoo’s head popped up from the couch, followed by an unmistakable double-take.

Jaehyun froze mid-step.

Jungwoo squinted.

“…Is that…” he stood, walking over with narrowed eyes like a fashion detective. “Is that pink paint on your shirt?”

Jaehyun glanced down like it was the first time he was seeing it. The big splotches across the chest had dried into bright abstract chaos, stretching down his stomach in perfect, embarrassing streams. His once-white collar had a smear of magenta near the top button.

Jungwoo gaped.

“Hyung.” A grin started creeping across his face. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I fixed a window,” Jaehyun said plainly, stepping out of his shoes.

“With your chest?”

He ignored that.

“I was at her studio.”

Jungwoo’s brows shot up even higher. “Ohhhh. Her studio. Right. And what exactly were you two fixing?” he asked, voice laced with fake innocence as he followed Jaehyun into the kitchen.

Jaehyun rolled his eyes, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. “The window frame. It was cracked.”

“Must’ve gotten really emotional,” Jungwoo teased, flopping onto a stool. “You sure it wasn’t make-up sex?”

Jaehyun choked on the water. “What?!”

“I’m just saying!” Jungwoo held up his hands in mock defense, barely containing his laughter. “You show up at midnight, looking like a Jackson Pollock painting, saying you were fixing things—and you expect me not to connect the dots?”

“There are no dots to connect.”

“Right. So your shirt just accidentally got seduced by a paint bucket.”

Jaehyun set the bottle down a little too hard. “I knocked it over. She tried to help clean it. That’s it.”

But Jungwoo didn’t back down. He leaned in slightly, more serious now—but still soft.

“You’re flustered.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” His voice gentled. “Jaehyun… is something happening with her?”

Jaehyun paused at that.

The image came back uninvited: your hand pressed to his chest, warm, paint-streaked, still.

He didn’t answer.

Jungwoo tilted his head, eyes curious but not pushy.

“You know we wouldn’t be surprised, right? I mean, everyone sees how she is with you. With Hana. She’s already part of this family.”

Jaehyun glanced toward the hallway. Hana’s giggle echoed faintly, followed by her calling out: “Dino Daddy!”

A smile tugged at his lips. Small. Quiet.

But then his gaze dropped back to his stained shirt—and the smile faded just as quickly.

“I can’t,” he said quietly.

Jungwoo blinked. “Can’t… what?”

“I can’t cross that line. Not with her.”

“Why not?”

“She was there when everything fell apart. She saw me at my worst. She held Hana when I couldn’t even look at my own kid without seeing her mother.” He rubbed his temple. “She’s seen too much of me. I can’t drag her through more.”

Jungwoo went quiet, letting the weight of it settle.

And then, gently:

“Maybe she doesn’t feel dragged. Maybe she feels home.”

Jaehyun didn’t reply.

But he didn’t change shirts either.

Later that night, as he tucked Hana into bed, she mumbled drowsily, “You smell like paint… like her…”

Jaehyun smoothed her hair back, heart aching and full at once.

“Do you like when she’s around?” he asked softly.

Hana nodded, eyes already fluttering shut. “She makes everything soft.”

Jaehyun stared at his daughter.

And wondered if maybe—just maybe—he was the only one still fighting something that didn’t need to be fought.

Chapter 4: Gluesticks, Dinosaurs, and Something Like Home

You weren’t supposed to take over Hana’s dinosaur painting project.

But somewhere between cutting out tiny green scales and sketching a volcano in the background, your hand just… kept going.

“I’m just helping, I swear,” you said, glancing guiltily at Jaehyun as you added orange-red glitter to what was supposed to be Hana’s lava. “She said she wanted sparkles.”

He looked up from the kitchen counter, lips twitching. “You mean you wanted sparkles.”

You gasped, faux-offended. “Excuse you—this is a collaborative piece.”

Jaehyun raised an eyebrow. “It has shadowing.”

“Hana likes realism.”

“It has brush technique.”

“She’s very advanced.”

“Right. My daughter, the four-year-old prodigy.”

Hana, oblivious to the accusations, sat between you both on the carpet, proudly holding her gluestick upside down and humming the Jurassic Park theme. Her shirt had streaks of yellow paint, and a googly eye was stuck to her cheek.

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

By 9:42 PM, the living room floor was a warzone of stickers, cut-outs, crayon wrappers, and half-eaten gummy bears. But the masterpiece—“Hana’s Dinosaur Island”—was done.

Or, as Hana dramatically declared before flopping onto the carpet: “It’s finished, my work is done, I’m sleepy now…”

She crawled into the space between you and Jaehyun, curling up with her cheek against your arm and letting out a deep sigh, already halfway to dreamland.

Jaehyun chuckled softly, lying down beside her. “She runs on chaos and collapses.”

You grinned, adjusting the blanket over her back. “I feel that.”

Eventually, your own body gave in, sinking into the soft rug. The storm outside had passed, and now the apartment was filled with the quiet hum of the heater and the soft sound of Hana’s sleepy breaths.

You didn’t realize your eyes had slipped shut until everything fell quiet.

When Jaehyun turned his head, it was instinct—just to check if you were still awake. To see if you were going to get up and head home soon.

But you weren’t.

You were lying on your stomach, one hand still near a crayon, your cheek resting on your arm. Your hair was messy, your face peaceful.

Hana was curled between the two of you, mouth slightly open, one socked foot touching your side like she didn’t want to let you drift too far even in sleep.

And Jaehyun just… stared.

He hadn’t noticed before—not fully—not like this.

How quiet the apartment felt when you were here. Not empty. Not echoing. Not heavy with loss.

But safe.

Warm.

Like something had finally started healing without him realizing.

You shifted slightly in your sleep, murmuring something incoherent as your fingers curled into the fabric of the carpet. Jaehyun swallowed hard.

He leaned forward before he could stop himself.

Pressed a soft, almost weightless kiss to your temple.

You didn’t stir.

But his heart did.

He stood slowly, carefully, then leaned down and scooped you into his arms—gently, like he was afraid you might shatter.

You didn’t wake, but your head tucked instinctively against his chest like it belonged there.

He stared at you a second longer.

Then carried you down the hallway and into the guest room.

He laid you on the bed and paused.

Everything about you was still—your hands, your lashes, your breathing. But there was something threaded in that stillness that made his chest ache.

Something terrifying and beautiful.

He brushed a loose strand of hair from your face.

“Goodnight,” he whispered, too quietly for even the walls to hear.

And then he turned off the light.

Chapter 5: “Don’t Forget to Return His Shirt”

The house was unusually quiet that morning — warm, almost golden in the soft sunlight pouring through the living room windows. Hana had been up early, full of energy from her painting project the night before, but now she was napping again on the couch, exhausted after the burst of creativity.

Jaehyun was sitting at the kitchen island, black loose shirt unbuttoned at the top, sleeves pushed up, cradling a mug of coffee.

Johnny leaned back against the counter across from him, sipping from his own.

“She made that whole castle scene herself?” Johnny asked, glancing toward the colorful mess of crayons, glitter glue, and paper scraps.

Jaehyun chuckled. “She had help. Mostly smudged clouds and hearts. But she was happy.”

“You look—” Johnny tilted his head, eyeing him. “Peaceful. You slept well?”

Jaehyun didn’t answer right away, but his lips curled faintly, unknowingly. “I carried her to the guest room.”

“Hana?”

“No.” Jaehyun looked down at his coffee. “Her.”

Johnny blinked. “Oh.”

That was when you walked in.

Barefoot. Hair messily tucked behind one ear. Wearing Jaehyun’s oversized white shirt buttoned over your small tee from last night — sleeves swallowing your hands, hem brushing mid-thigh. Your eyes were still a little sleepy, your voice barely above a murmur.

“Is Hana awake?”

Both men turned. Jaehyun’s eyes lifted to you immediately, lingering just a moment too long.

But Johnny? Johnny’s jaw dropped a little in comedic shock.

“Well damn,” he said, lips curving slow. “You’re becoming a usual sight in this house.”

You blinked, still too sleepy to process until you realized what shirt you were wearing. Your cheeks flared instantly as you looked down.

“Oh my god—this isn’t—He just—” You started rambling, hands waving, trying to tug the collar up.

Jaehyun just sipped his coffee again like nothing was wrong, while Johnny leaned against the doorway dramatically.

“Relax,” Johnny said, amused. “Looks better on you anyway.”

You sent him a playful glare and crossed your arms over the shirt. “Don’t you have a schedule?”

“I do,” Johnny said, smirking as he grabbed the small bag of snacks from the counter and headed toward the front door. “Just came to drop off these for the princess. That convenience store near my place still had her bear jellies.”

He opened the door — then turned back one last time, a little smirk tugging on his lips as his eyes flicked to the shirt again.

“Oh, and…” he added casually, “don’t forget to return his shirt.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

You stood frozen, face burning.

Jaehyun finally looked up at you fully. His eyes scanned you softly. Quiet. Thoughtful.

You swallowed and mumbled, “Sorry, I can change—”

He shook his head slowly. “You’re fine.”

A pause.

Then a tiny smile.

“You look comfortable.”

Chapter 6: “Brushstrokes of Quiet Devotion”

She hadn’t slept in almost two days. Paint streaked her forearms, her fingers stained with hues of burnt sienna and cerulean blue as she stood in the center of the gallery, eyeing the crooked alignment of one canvas.

"Too low," she muttered, climbing the step stool again for the third time.

The art gallery was modest, tucked between a flower shop and an indie bookstore downtown, but to her, it felt like the Louvre. Her first solo exhibition. Her work. Her name on the flyers. And yet—doubt clawed at her chest.

What if no one showed up? What if no one bought anything? What if—

“Are you eating at all?” Johnny’s voice cut through the quiet like a sigh of relief. He appeared at the gallery’s entrance, holding a cup of iced coffee and a sandwich. “You’re going to collapse before anyone even sees your genius.”

She smiled tiredly, taking the cup with a grateful nod. “Thanks. I just... I want it to be good.”

“It is good,” he said, nodding toward the abstract oil painting behind her. “You’re incredible. Don’t make me frame you on the wall too.”

—

The evening of the exhibit bloomed like a dream. The lights dimmed perfectly, a soft melody drifted through the air, and guests trickled in — more than she expected. Gallery owners, critics, even well-known collectors she'd only ever seen quoted in articles.

And somehow — somehow — every painting had a red dot sticker beside it before the night was over.

“All of them?” she whispered in disbelief, blinking rapidly.

The gallery assistant nodded. “Yes. Your collection was bought out entirely by a private firm. In full.”

She nearly staggered. Her knees felt weak. She blinked again.

She had made it.

But what she didn’t see, as she greeted guests with misty eyes and a trembling smile, was the quiet man in a black suit standing near the far corner of the gallery — unnoticed, arms crossed, his gaze fixed solely on her.

Jaehyun.

He hadn’t approached her yet. Not while she was surrounded. Not while her eyes gleamed like that — filled with joy, pride, accomplishment.

He didn't need the credit. He never did.

It had taken one phone call to his friend’s acquisition firm. One private meeting. One silent request: Make sure her work doesn’t go unseen.

When Johnny came up beside him, wine glass in hand, he said nothing for a moment before murmuring, “She doesn’t know, does she?”

Jaehyun shook his head.

“She thinks it’s her talent.”

“It is her talent,” Jaehyun said firmly. “I just made sure people saw it.”

And when she looked up — scanning the crowd instinctively, eyes searching for someone she hadn’t realized she missed until now — her gaze caught his across the room.

His expression didn’t change. Just a small smile. A nod.

And her heart clenched, the way it always did when he looked at her like that.

Chapter 7: “Quiet Declarations”

She twirled her fork in the creamy pasta, still trying to process the day. The soft clink of cutlery, the mellow jazz humming in the background, and Jaehyun seated across from her — this wasn’t just dinner. It felt like something else. Something they hadn’t dared name.

“You really made this?” she asked, stabbing a mushroom and smiling. “It’s actually... amazing.”

He smirked, eyes flicking up to meet hers. “Don’t sound so shocked. I can cook.”

“Since when?”

“Since Mark bullied me on FaceTime for over an hour.”

She giggled, eyes sparkling, then sighed and leaned back.

“I can’t believe all 17 paintings sold... opening night.”

Jaehyun simply nodded. “They were beautiful.”

“Still,” she murmured. “All gone so fast? Even the one I thought no one would touch.”

He hesitated. “I mean... I might’ve said something. To Minhyuk’s firm.”

She blinked. “Minhyuk?”

He cleared his throat. “I just told them to check it out. That’s it.”

She stared at him. “You told your partner’s investment firm to check out my show?”

“They support a lot of local artists—”

“Jaehyun.”

“I didn’t make them do anything,” he said. “I just made sure they saw you. That’s all I wanted.”

Her lips parted, heart thudding a little faster. “You went behind my back.”

He met her eyes, unwavering. “I didn’t do it for you. I did it because I couldn’t sit still and watch you be overlooked again.”

Silence.

Then, slowly, she stood and crossed the room, coming to kneel beside him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

“You shouldn’t care this much,” she whispered.

“I tried not to,” he said just as quietly. “But I do.”

Her breath caught.

She leaned in and kissed him — slow, cautious at first, but that changed quickly. He responded instantly, rising from his chair as he kissed her back, deepening it as his hand slid along her jaw, guiding her closer, his other arm winding firmly around her waist.

She broke the kiss to gasp softly as he lifted her slightly, sitting her on the edge of the dining table, plates clinking gently aside. Their bodies aligned with a kind of instinctual gravity they’d tried to ignore for years.

Her legs wrapped around his waist, arms over his shoulders as his lips trailed down her jaw, along her neck — slow, warm, breathless.

“Still think I shouldn’t care?” he murmured against her skin.

She shivered. “No. I think you care exactly the right amount.”

They kissed again, mouths opening now, deeper, hands roaming with a familiar reverence. His palms slid beneath the hem of her top, fingertips grazing her waist like he was memorizing every inch.

And she let him.

He carried her to the couch, careful not to disturb Hana’s room across the hall. The way he laid her down was tender — her back hitting the cushions, his lips never leaving hers.

They undressed each other slowly, like this moment wasn’t new, just long overdue.

Her soft moan escaped as he kissed his way down her chest, pausing to breathe her in, to watch her.

“You’re sure?” he whispered.

She nodded, pulling him down by the nape of his neck.

“I’ve never been more sure.”

Their bodies fit together like they always had — with familiarity, heat, and reverence. He moved inside her slowly, gently, every thrust a quiet confession of everything he hadn’t said. Their hands stayed locked. Their foreheads pressed close. Kisses between each movement.

“You feel so good,” he breathed, voice barely a rasp.

She arched beneath him, legs tight around his waist, gasping his name into his ear.

The room was dim. Their breaths the only sound. And when she came — soft, trembling, clinging to him — he followed seconds after, burying his face in her neck.

They didn’t move for a long time.

He stayed inside her, arms wrapped around her body as she traced soft shapes along his spine.

“I would’ve been happy with just dinner,” she whispered.

He kissed her shoulder. “I would’ve been happy with just you.”

Epilogue: The Morning of Us

The morning sun filtered gently through the white curtains, casting warm golds over the peaceful chaos of their home. The clatter of cereal bowls, soft music playing from the kitchen speaker, and Hana’s little giggles formed the soundtrack to another beautiful morning.

She stood in front of Jaehyun, hands carefully adjusting the navy tie around his crisp white shirt collar. He was unusually fidgety.

“Stop moving,” she whispered, eyes narrowing as she focused on tying the knot just right. “You’ll mess it up again.”

“I’m nervous,” he mumbled under his breath. “It’s a big interview. First time they’ll be broadcasting it live.”

She glanced up, expression softening as she took in the slight furrow in his brows.

“You’re going to do amazing,” she said, voice low and certain. “You always do. Just talk like you always talk—with that low ‘I’m definitely the smartest person in this room’ tone.”

He huffed a small laugh, hands finding her waist and resting there.

“I like when you hype me up like this.”

“I’m your wife. It’s in the job description.” She winked.

From the kitchen, a small thump followed by an “Oops!” made them both turn.

“Mom! I dropped the milk!” Hana’s little voice rang out.

“I’ll get it,” Jaehyun said quickly, but she stopped him with a hand on his chest. “You go. I’ll finish this.”

He turned back and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead before stepping into the kitchen.

Moments later, she joined him and Hana at the table. Jaehyun was on his knees with paper towels, Hana helping with exaggerated care, both of them laughing.

Later, as he grabbed his coat and briefcase by the door, he looked back—at the kitchen still warm with breakfast smells, at Hana now coloring at the table, and at her, barefoot and smiling in his white tee from last night.

“Wish me luck?” he said, holding the doorknob.

She stepped up to him, fixed the collar of his coat, and whispered, “You don’t need it. But for formality’s sake—good luck, CEO Jung.”

He kissed her once, deeply and slowly, and Hana’s voice broke them apart.

“Ewww, not in the morning!���

He laughed as he walked out, heart impossibly full.

And just inside their hallway, above the shoe cabinet, was a new photo frame—the three of them at the beach from last weekend. Hana laughing between them as she hugged both their heads. A picture-perfect moment.

A picture-perfect family.

___________________________________________

The End :)

Hope you guys liked it!

[hameesstuff]

oh my god you are back??? I missed you sooooo much hope you had a wonderful trip

HIII! I had a great time, thanks for asking. And I'm so happy to be back lol. I'm working on this Johnny fic rn which I'll upload soon hopefully*fingers cross*. Hope you're having a great time as well <3❤

[hameesstuff]

(Unless it was intentional; then in that case, sorry nvm)

Heyyyy thx for pointing it out but it was intentional. I kinda wanted to highlight the contrast of their relationship. 💗

[hameesstuff]

One Last Try

Pairing: Husband!Jaehyun x Wife! Reader

Themes: Crumbling marriage, Lots of angst, fluff at end, Smut, Mark feature at end.

Summary: Jaehyun and his wife’s marriage is strained, filled with unspoken anger and growing distance. Forced to take a family trip to keep up appearances for their young son, they confront their complicated feelings in quiet, unexpected moments. As they navigate tension, tenderness, and the fragile hope of what might still be, they begin to wonder — can this trip change everything?

Shattered Walls

The penthouse was suffocating, but neither of you dared to break the silence.

Jaejun played quietly with his blocks, oblivious to the battle raging around him.

You stood near the kitchen counter, jaw clenched, heart pounding. Jaehyun sat across from you at the dining table, eyes cold, unreadable.

Then it exploded.

“You’re late." Your voice cracked, sharper than you intended but impossible to hold back.

“Traffic.” His voice was clipped, dismissive.

You slammed your palm down on the table. “Traffic? For three days straight? Are you kidding me? Or is that just your convenient excuse for avoiding this house?”

He narrowed his eyes. “You think I’m avoiding you?”

“Isn’t that exactly what you’re doing? You barely speak to me anymore. We’re living like strangers. And you want to pretend everything’s fine?”

He slammed his fist on the table. “Don’t put this all on me!”

“I’m not!” Your voice rose, shaking with anger and hurt. “You haven’t been here — not really — for months. And I’m supposed to just accept that?”

“Maybe if you weren’t so damn controlling—”

You cut him off, voice raw, “Controlling? I’m trying to hold this family together while you treat me like an inconvenient obligation!”

His chair scraped harshly against the floor as he stood up, eyes blazing.

“You want to talk about obligations? You think I enjoy this? The coldness, the silence, the goddamn distance?”

You took a step forward, fists clenched. “Then what? You’re just going to throw in the towel? Sign the papers like it’s a business deal and walk away from your son?”

He ripped the stack of divorce papers from the table and flung them onto the floor at your feet with a loud thud.

“Maybe I am!” he shouted, voice breaking. “Because I can’t do this anymore. I’m tired, damn it. Tired of fighting for a marriage that’s already dead!”

You stared down at the crumpled papers, your breath hitching.

“Is this what you want? To just erase everything we had?” Your voice trembled with disbelief.

He slammed a hand against the wall, turning away, voice low and bitter. “I want peace. Maybe that means being apart.”

You swallowed hard, tears burning your eyes. “Peace?”

“Yeah. Peace.”

The words hung in the air, hollow and final.

Family Trip – Forced Smiles and Hidden Cracks

Two days later, you found yourselves in the car, driving to Jaehyun’s parents’ countryside villa.

Jaejun sat between you, blissfully unaware of the tension wrapping the adults like chains.

“Pretend,” you said, eyes on the road. “For him. For your parents.”

Jaehyun nodded stiffly, jaw clenched.

The villa was warm and bright — a stark contrast to the storm simmering beneath the surface of your forced smiles.

Dinner was a performance.

Polite laughter, subtle digs masked as jokes, strained conversations.

Jaehyun’s parents were oblivious to the truth but wary of the cold undercurrents.

You caught Jaehyun’s gaze across the table — eyes full of exhaustion and something almost like regret.

Late Night on the Porch

The night air was crisp as you and Jaehyun sat on the porch, separated by inches but miles apart emotionally.

Neither spoke.

The stars blinked quietly overhead as you searched for the words that might mend the rift.

Finally, he sighed. “We’re breaking apart.”

You nodded, voice barely audible. “Maybe we’re already broken.”

COUNTRYSIDE VILLA — DINNER SCENE

The villa was drenched in golden warmth, a stark contrast to the coldness that clung to you and Jaehyun like frost on skin.

You stood in the kitchen doorway, watching his mother laugh as she stirred the soup, Jaehyun’s father setting the wine glasses at the table with steady hands. For a few brief moments, it almost felt like a real home. A real family.

You helped set the table while Jaejun ran excitedly between you and his grandmother, holding spoons and napkins like trophies.

By the time everyone sat down, the table was full—steamed dumplings, soy-glazed fish, seaweed soup. The kind of meal that warmed bones, even as your chest stayed hollow.

Jaehyun’s mother raised her glass, beaming. “Look at you two. Still beautiful after all these years. And now with this perfect little boy—” she reached over to ruffle Jaejun’s hair—“you really built something.”

Jaehyun didn’t look at you, but the corner of his mouth lifted like it wanted to smile and didn’t quite remember how.

His father chuckled, lifting his own glass. “You know, son, sometimes I forget how lucky you are. To have the company, the house... and a wife this beautiful.” He looked at you with fatherly warmth. “She hasn’t aged a day. You’re blessed, Jaehyun.”

You didn’t know where to look. The compliment stung—because for a moment, you wished it were true. That you were lucky. That he was proud. That you were still his.

Jaehyun’s voice was low. “Yeah. I know.”

You didn’t believe him. But you wanted to.

Dinner carried on with laughter and reminiscing, Jaejun proudly showing off his drawings, Jaehyun’s mother insisting he looked just like him. You nodded. But in your chest, the cracks deepened.

LANTERN NIGHT — THE FIRST LOOK AGAIN

Later that evening, his mother suggested they take Jaejun to the annual lantern walk through the hill trails behind the villa.

You hadn’t done this in years.

Not since before the silence grew too loud to bear.

The three of you stood under an awning at the top of the trail, surrounded by families releasing soft glowing lanterns into the warm night sky. The air smelled of firewood, dew, and sweet rice cakes from nearby stalls.

You crouched down next to Jaejun, helping him write on the blank lantern handed out by the volunteers. The marker bled a little on the rice paper, but your voice was soft as you guided him.

“Write a wish for Dad,” you whispered to him.

Jaehyun stood a few feet behind you, arms crossed, watching with unreadable eyes.

He hadn’t expected to feel anything. But then he saw you like this—hair down, cheeks flushed from the cold, your lips curled in a smile he hadn’t seen in months. You were crouched barefoot in the grass, laughing gently as Jaejun smeared the marker on your cheek.

You looked beautiful.

Warmer.

Not the cold, tired woman from across the penthouse halls.

Something twisted painfully in his chest.

You looked... alive.

And he realized with a sudden, sinking heaviness: he couldn’t remember the last time he’d truly looked at you.

Your voice reached him, soft and fond.

“Jaehyun, come here,” you called, turning your face toward him.

And for the first time in so long, he moved before thinking. He knelt beside the two of you, one knee brushing yours, and took the lantern from Jaejun’s small hands.

“What should I write?” he asked quietly.

Jaejun beamed. “Wish that we stay forever!”

You froze. So did Jaehyun.

He didn’t look at you. But his fingers trembled just slightly as he wrote down his son’s wish, letter by careful letter.

You looked up. And for a fleeting moment, your eyes met.

Something passed between you that didn’t have a name.

Not forgiveness.

Not love.

But a flicker of something that once had both.

Together, the three of you released the lantern into the night sky.

And when you glanced sideways, Jaehyun was still watching you.

Like he was seeing a stranger.

Or maybe a version of you he forgot he once loved.

LATE NIGHT – VILLA BEDROOMS

It was almost 3 a.m.

The house had gone silent hours ago, save for the soft chirping of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves outside the windows.

Jaehyun stirred in bed, shifting under the heavy quilt, when he felt a little tug at his sleeve.

“Daddy..” came a weak, sleepy voice.

Jaejun stood by his bedside, flushed and sniffling, his cheeks too red and eyes too glassy.

Jaehyun shot upright, immediately alert. “Jaejun?”

Jaehyun’s heart raced. He touched his son’s forehead—burning.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, trying not to panic. He didn’t know what to do but all he could think was you’d know.

He stood up, carefully scooping Jaejun into his arms, and walked quickly to the hallway.

When he reached your bedroom door, he hesitated.

Then knocked—harder than necessary.

You opened it in seconds, already rubbing your eyes, your robe falling loosely over your shoulders.

“Jaehyun?” Your voice was sleepy but sharp.

“He’s burning up. I—I didn’t know what to do. He just woke up and—”

You were already pulling Jaejun from his arms before he finished.

INSIDE – QUIET PANIC, FAMILIAR CARE

You set Jaejun down on your bed, flipping the sheets back, checking his temperature the way you always did—back of your hand to his chest, your cheek to his forehead.

Jaehyun stood awkwardly near the door, hands clenched, watching you work.

You moved fast—wet cloth, cold water, soft whispers. You held your son like muscle memory, brushing sweaty hair from his forehead.

“He needs to be cooled down first,” you murmured. “Get me the medicine from my bag. Blue pouch. It’s in the side pocket.”

He obeyed instantly, finding the pouch and returning to your side, kneeling next to you.

You coaxed Jaejun to drink some water and the medicine, wiping his face gently, humming a tune he used to love.

Jaehyun couldn’t look away.

You weren’t just beautiful—you were steady. You didn’t panic. You didn’t flinch. You just... knew.

And something cracked open in him, slow and deep.

It hit him—not in some grand epiphany, not with music swelling or tears falling—but with a quiet ache:

She’s the only one who’s ever made this house a home.

And maybe… I was the one who left it empty.

When Jaejun finally drifted back to sleep, you smoothed his hair, kissed his forehead, and looked up.

“He’ll be okay,” you whispered. “Just a fever spike. Might’ve been the mountain air.”

You started to stand, but Jaehyun was already there—close behind you.

Your breath caught when you turned and nearly bumped into him.

He stopped inches away.

And slowly—his hand reached out, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt. Then he curled them upward gently, palm resting flat against your waist like a question.

Your breath caught.

You tilted your face up instinctively.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Jaehyun leaned in slowly…

…and kissed your forehead.

Not rushed.

Not guilty.

Just... soft.

Lingering.

Like he was trying to remember what it felt like to love you gently.

You blinked up at him, startled. But he didn’t pull away immediately. His gaze searched yours for something he couldn’t name.

“I forgot,” he said quietly. “How good you are at being someone’s home.”

You didn’t speak. Your throat felt too full.

Then, like the moment had never happened, he stepped back.

“I’ll stay with him tonight,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

You nodded. Silently. Because you knew if you spoke, you’d cry.

You walked back to your empty room.

And Jaehyun stayed curled beside Jaejun, holding the boy’s tiny hand, heart heavier than it had been in years.

But somewhere inside that heaviness…

A thread of something else stirred.

Something that felt a lot like regret.

And maybe, just maybe—hope.

EVENING – HIS ROOM, LOW LIGHT

Jaehyun stood before the mirror, bathed in the pale gold glow of the bedside lamp, tie draped loosely around his neck like it belonged to someone else.

He had done this a hundred times.

Boardrooms. Galas. Announcements. Presentations.

But tonight?

His fingers trembled — just barely.

He stared at his reflection.

Then, quietly, made his way to your room.

HER ROOM – A KNOCK

You looked up just as he pushed the door open.

He didn’t speak right away.

His eyes dragged over you — slow, unreadable — from the soft curls in your hair to the slope of your red dress, elegant and understated, cut just enough to show the glow of your collarbones.

But it was your eyes that held him in place.

Dark. Luminous. Soft as coffee drops.

Not black. Not brown.

But a color that curled into warmth if you looked long enough. Like something familiar. Something you drank in winter to feel full again.

“…Can you help with this?” he asked, lifting the tie like it weighed more than it should.

You didn’t tease him this time.

You just stepped closer.

Your hands were steady, looping the silk around his collar, your breath soft. Neither of you spoke. You both knew what this moment meant — how small it was, how heavy it felt.

Your fingers brushed his throat as you adjusted the knot, and something inside him snapped quietly into place.

He looked down at you.

You weren’t trying.

And you still looked like everything he ever wanted to remember.

“Still impossible without you,” he said.

You didn’t answer.

But your dimple showed.

DINNER – BEACH, UNDER STRUNG LIGHTS

The night unfolded beneath lanterns that swayed in the ocean breeze.

Candlelight flickered. Silver clinked gently. Someone was playing jazz faintly from a speaker.

Jaejun sat in the middle — between two versions of a family that had almost let go.

And yet… somehow still held on.

His parents smiled more than usual. Even laughed. Jaehyun watched them, silent, his hand occasionally adjusting Jaejun’s plate or wiping his chin without realizing it.

And then there was you.

The way your eyes caught the firelight.

The way you leaned close to whisper something in Jaejun’s ear that made him giggle, nose scrunching like yours.

Jaehyun glanced at you then.

You were smiling — eyes like warm coffee and night stars, skin aglow in amber candlelight, lips curved into something soft and faraway.

He had loved you once so loudly.

But tonight, it returned like a whisper.

And for the first time in years…

He wanted to learn you all over again.

NIGHT — HER ROOM → KITCHEN

The hallway was quiet.

The house lay in shadows, save for the faint pool of amber light from her bedroom. A steady hush, like the whole world was holding its breath.

She leaned down, tucking the blanket gently under Jaejun’s chin.

His cheeks were still a little flushed from the fever, lashes resting soft against skin the color of early morning. One of his hands clutched the stuffed elephant loosely.

She smiled faintly.

Then reached out, pushing back the damp fringe stuck to his forehead with a touch she didn’t even realize trembled. He stirred just a little, lip parting with a tiny whimper, brows furrowing like something in his dreams tugged at him.

She pressed a kiss to his temple.

And then she left.

Barefoot steps over cool tile. Her cotton nightdress whispering against her skin.

In the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of water — the silence stretching, humming. She sipped slow. The moonlight slanted through the windows, silver against her cheekbone, her throat.

That’s when she felt him.

A shift in the air behind her.

She turned slowly.

Jaehyun stood there.

His shirt hung loose, sleeves rolled up his forearms. Hair mussed like he’d run his hand through it a hundred times. Eyes dark and unreadable.

But not cold.

No — never cold tonight.

He looked at her like he hadn’t stopped.

Like his heart had been stuttering ever since she left the room.

“I was coming to check on him,” he said quietly, but the words hung oddly — like they weren’t what he meant to say.

She just nodded. Swallowed.

“He’s okay,” she murmured. “Still warm, but he’s sleeping now.”

Their eyes held.

And then, Jaehyun stepped closer.

Her heart jumped — not in fear, but in recognition. Her grip tightened faintly on the glass.

“You always…” His voice trailed. He reached up — slowly — brushing a strand of hair from her face, fingertips ghosting down her jaw.

“You always smell like home” he whispered. “And something sweet. Like berries and dusk.”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink as his palm flattened against her waist, gently tugging her toward him.

Not urgent.

But sure.

Their bodies met in a slow hush — soft cotton against rough linen. Her breath hitched.

His eyes dropped to her mouth.

“I tried,” he said lowly. “I tried to hate you. I thought if I buried everything deep enough, I’d forget what this felt like.”

She parted her lips — maybe to speak, maybe not.

But he kissed her.

And the glass slipped from her fingers, caught just in time against the counter with a soft clink. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, fingers curling into his shirt, holding him like her body remembered things her mind had buried.

Jaehyun kissed her like worship.

Mouth slow. Gentle. Certain.

He tasted like longing — like every unspoken thing. His hands traced her waist, then lower, gripping her thighs as he gently lifted her to sit on the cool marble countertop.

She gasped softly against his mouth, legs instinctively curling around his hips.

“Still mine?” he asked — hushed, urgent.

“Yeah” she breathed.

And that was it.

Something in him shattered.

His mouth moved over her jaw, her neck — slow, reverent kisses that made her spine arch and her thighs tremble against his sides. She tilted her head back for him, baring her throat as his hands moved beneath her nightdress.

Fingers gentle on her thighs. Kisses open and breathless against her collarbone.

“You're… every version of home I ever knew,” he whispered, tracing the dip between her breasts with his nose before kissing lower. “And I forgot what it felt like to breathe you.”

She tugged at his shirt, pulling it off clumsily, breath catching at the sight of him — golden under the soft kitchen light. Shoulders she used to kiss every morning. A chest she once cried against.

“Jaehyun…”

“I got you,” he murmured.

And he did.

With every slow, worshipping touch — with every whispered “I missed you” breathed against her skin — he pieced her back together.

He touched her like he was learning her all over again.

Like every inch was familiar but new.

His hand slid between her thighs, gentle but confident, stroking her through the thin fabric until her breath stuttered. She gripped his shoulders, forehead pressed to his, the kitchen quiet except for their soft gasps.

He didn’t rush.

He didn’t need to.

He moved like he had all night — like this moment was something he’d waited years to earn again.

And when he finally sank into her, their bodies joined in a slow rhythm that made her gasp his name — clutching him, breathless — he kissed her like he’d die if he didn’t.

Her thighs locked around him, her back arching as he rocked into her gently, steadily, each thrust deeper than the last, sending slow waves through her spine.

She sobbed softly against his shoulder, mouth open against his skin.

Overwhelmed.

Overcome.

Over him.

And when her walls clenched around him, pulse wild, head tipped back in desperate release — he held her through it, kissing her through the noise, whispering—

“That’s it. I’ve got you. Always.”

When he came, he buried his face in her neck, trembling, mouthing her name like a vow.

And they stayed there.

Bodies pressed.

Hearts bare.

Hands tangled.

Like all the missing years folded in on themselves and finally found the quiet.

EPILOGUE

The soft glow of the nursery nightlight painted gentle shadows on the walls as Jaehyun cradled their newborn daughter in his arms. Her tiny fingers curled around his thumb, delicate and perfect.

Beside him, she sat quietly on the rocking chair, her eyes warm and tired but full of love.

Jaejun peeked inside the room, eyes wide with wonder. “She’s so small.”

She smiled softly, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “That’s your baby sister, Jaejun.”

Just then, the door creaked open wider and in came Uncle Mark, balancing a tray with toys and clothes.

“Thought you could use some backup,” Mark said with a grin.

Jaehyun laughed quietly, looking down at the baby again. “We always do.”

Mark crouched down beside Jaejun, ruffling his hair gently. “Ready to be the best big brother?”

Jaejun nodded solemnly, then turned to the baby. “Hi, little one. We love you.”

The room filled with quiet laughter and soft coos, a family wrapped in new beginnings.

The end.

Hope you guys enjoyed it, I'm so happy to be back. It's been too long honestly 😭

[hameesstuff]

Idk anymore if my 1st, 2nd, 3rd or whatever ask was sent but this is the fic I'm trying to ask you if you can do something like this (maybe kinda longer one? Hehehe) coz I know you're VERY talented in writing with this genre like the angst with fluff and all I KNOW BCS I READ ALL YOUR FICS AND OMG THEYRE ALL SO GOOD

https://www.tumblr.com/joyoushyuck/789602575881273344/tw-panic-attack-academic-rival-haechan-x?source=share

OMG IM FLATTERED! 😭💗💗 I'll definitely write smthin similar. Lemme read it out and see what I can cook up hah. I'll try posting it like in 2 weeks cause i got some pending stories haha. Thx for requesting tho <3

[hameesstuff]

Hey I miss your ficsss where are you :( I miss the angst you are writing, the genre. I need more. I hope you're doing good tho🩵

Hey lovely..I'm currently on vacation lol but ill start writing again next week, I promise. Definitely gonna spoil you guys with a bunch of fics. Lots of love <3💗

[hameesstuff]

HI HIIIII OMG i love your writing style soooo much like sooo much i've never been so invested on an account like i legit read almost all of your storiesss, i'm also kinda of wondering if maybe in the future you could make a story about other members of 127 like mark,jungwoo, etc, :D??? if so i would love to read it!

HIIII!!! OMG Thank you so muchhhhh <3. Means a lot that you're rummaging through my stories lol💗💗

I would love to write stories on the other members too! One day for sure!

[hameesstuff]

"The Last Masquerade”

Pairing: Agent! Johnny x Agent! Reader

Themes: Spy!Johnny Suh x Spy!Reader | Enemies to Lovers | Slow Burn | Masquerade Ball | Spy AU | Smut

Preview: They were trained by rival agencies. He calls you reckless. You call him predictable. Every op you’ve ever shared ends in blood, banter, and a body count. Until this one. One night. One ball. One job that forces you to pretend to be lovers in front of the most powerful arms dealer in Europe. But beneath the glittering masks and rehearsed smiles... your act starts to crack.

___________________________________________

Part 1 – “Pretend With Me”

Paris Safehouse — 6:18 p.m.

The silk dress was too tight.

Or maybe your skin was just crawling.

You adjusted the bodice in the mirror for the third time, catching his reflection behind you — Johnny, seated at the edge of the window in a half-buttoned dress shirt and cufflinks he hadn’t bothered to fasten yet. A gun on the table, a black masquerade mask resting beside it.

The room smelled like gun oil and the cologne he always wore on foreign soil: cedar and something cold.

“You’re staring again,” you said, smoothing down the side slit of your gown.

He didn't look away. “So are you.”

You turned.

He leaned back slowly, spreading his arms across the window bench, suit jacket abandoned somewhere behind him. The bandage on his left bicep was fresh — courtesy of you patching him up after a narrow escape last night.

“Sure you can walk in those heels?” he asked, eyes trailing unapologetically down your legs.

“Sure you can lie with that limp?”

He smirked. “I’ve faked worse.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your gloves from the chair. “Remind me why you’re my date again?”

“Because your real one’s in a Russian prison. And I look better in black.”

You stepped closer, cocking your head. “Try not to flirt too convincingly tonight. I’d hate to break character and stab you in front of a crowd.”

“Please do,” he murmured, standing and taking your gloved hand. “We’ve always danced better with knives drawn.”

9:04 p.m. — Le Palais Sanglant

You walked into the ballroom on his arm, a vision in blood-red silk and smoke-lined eyes. His mask glinted obsidian. Yours shimmered gold — goddess and ghost, side by side.

The chandeliers above spilled light like fire across mirrors and masks, shadows whispering between ballgowns and tuxedos. The target — Veyron — stood at the far end, watching. Waiting.

And Johnny… Johnny never stopped touching you. Hand at your hip. Palm at your spine. A whisper too warm against your temple.

"Keep smiling," he said through his teeth. “He’s watching.”

“I am smiling,” you replied with poisoned honey. “Because I’ve never hated anyone more.”

He chuckled low. “You sure? You tremble when I touch your waist.”

You leaned in, lips almost brushing his cheek. “You should know by now — I only shake when I’m about to kill someone.”

The Waltz

The dance floor shimmered like a dream.

He spun you into the first movement, fluid and precise — just like training, just like instinct. But there was something different in the way he held you tonight.

Tighter. Softer. Meaner.

"You clean up well," you said coolly.

He twirled you effortlessly. "You break hearts better than codes."

"I don't do hearts."

He leaned close, voice in your ear. “You did once.”

Your chest tightened.

He dipped you so low you saw the crystal ceiling — then pulled you back up, closer than ever.

“Keep pretending, Nightingale,” he murmured. “But I know what your silence means.”

You smiled.

“I’m not pretending,” you whispered.

And Johnny... blinked once — just long enough for his grip to falter. Just enough for you to know:

You’d won that round.

Part 2 – “Where It Hurts”

Paris — 10:42 p.m.

The shot came just as you turned your head.

Crack.

Glass rained from the chandelier. Screams tore through the ballroom.

You moved fast—dragged Johnny down with you as chaos exploded behind the velvet curtains.

“Sniper, southeast corner,” you hissed into your comm. “Suh’s compromised. I'm with him.”

You felt his hand tighten around yours as you pulled him behind the marble bar.

Close. Too close.

Blood was already sliding down his temple.

“You okay?” you asked.

He didn’t answer. Just stared at you like he was trying to memorize something in case it was the last time.

“Johnny—”

“I’m fine,” he said, standing. “Come on.”

Escape Alley – 11:12 p.m.

Rain slicked the cobblestones as the two of you ran.

You clutched your side, dress soaked and ripped, and he staggered slightly as he turned back to check behind you.

“Keep moving,” he muttered.

“Don’t tell me what—”

“Just keep moving.”

He caught your arm and shoved you into a stone arch just as another bullet slammed into the brick behind you.

Your chest hit his. His hand cradled your head, keeping you pressed to him as he waited for silence.

Your pulse was a thunderstorm.

So was his.

Safehouse – 1:03 a.m.

You locked the door behind you, fingers trembling from the adrenaline comedown.

Johnny kicked off his boots, collapsed onto the old sofa, and exhaled slowly. There was blood on his sleeve.

You crossed the room before you realized you were even moving.

“Let me see.”

“It’s fine.”

“Take the shirt off.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You could at least buy me dinner first.”

You knelt in front of him, rolling your eyes. “I should’ve left you bleeding in that alley.”

But your hands were gentle. Familiar. Slower than necessary.

You peeled his shirt down carefully, exposing his ribs — the shallow cut still oozing red near his side. Another bruise was blossoming across his chest. You pressed a cloth to it without a word.

His breath caught.

“Since when do you care?” he murmured.

You didn't answer right away. Just kept cleaning the blood, not meeting his eyes.

“I don’t care,” you lied.

“Right.”

You finally looked up. “You could’ve died tonight.”

“So could you.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

Your fingers stilled on his skin.

You swallowed. “The point is I didn’t want you to.”

The Shift

Silence stretched between you — full of static, heat, something that used to be hatred but now resembled gravity.

He reached out, brushing a wet strand of hair behind your ear.

“You’ve never touched me like this,” he said quietly.

“You’ve never bled for me before.”

His lips parted like he wanted to say something sharp. Something safe. But nothing came out.

You leaned in.

And he didn’t stop you.

The kiss was slow. Careful. Like two people who never learned how to do soft things with each other. His hands came to your waist. Yours slid behind his neck, anchoring.

He didn’t push. You didn’t pull.

You just stayed there.

Mouths brushing in a rhythm softer than breath, slower than war.

When you pulled back, his eyes were heavy, lips parted. You stayed forehead to forehead, hands still clutching each other like bruises.

Then — quiet as a secret — he tilted his head, leaned in…

…and kissed the side of your neck.

Once.

Slow.

Warm.

Like he meant to write a message there.

You closed your eyes.

And for the first time in your whole damn rivalry, you let yourself lean into him. Not as an enemy. Not as a spy.

Just as you.

Part 3 – “Burn Marks”

Paris Safehouse — Later That Night

He kissed you again once the bandages were wrapped.

This time, slower.

His touch was patient. Careful. As if his body knew what his mouth wouldn’t say.

You straddled his lap, arms curled around his shoulders. His hands moved reverently, as though discovering you piece by piece. The way his thumb circled your hipbone. The way his nose brushed against your cheek. The pause before he whispered, “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

You said his name like a secret — and that was enough.

He laid you down gently on the old couch. Mouthed along your collarbone, then lower. His lips barely touched you at first — slow as breath, warm as silk.

When he finally entered you, he held your face like you’d shatter. Foreheads pressed, lashes brushing, no urgency. Just that unbearable stillness.

Like the world had ended and started all over in the same heartbeat.

He moved inside you like he was memorizing it.

And you let him.

Let him kiss every part of you like it was fragile. Let his hands shake a little when you whispered, “You’re not my enemy anymore.”

He pressed his lips to your neck again and said, “You never were.”

Part 4 – “Extraction Denied”

Bogotá, Colombia — 02:11 a.m.

Cartel Compound – Inside the Red Zone

“Five minutes,” your voice crackled over the comm. “I can clear the vault and be topside—”

“Negative,” came Doyoung’s clipped reply. “Target Bravo’s rerouted the patrol. Johnny, confirm visual.”

You were crouched in the shadows, blade slick with blood, heart drumming like war in your ears. Gunfire echoed above. The operation was falling apart.

“Johnny?” you whispered, adjusting the pack on your back. “Where the hell are you?”

“East stairwell,” he answered. “Coming to you. Hold tight.”

The Hall of Smoke

The compound was chaos — flickering lights, bullets snapping into concrete walls, shouting in Spanish. You moved like instinct, like art through war. Three guards down. One more behind the vault door. You gritted your teeth and kicked it in.

Files. Cocaine. Two servers lit like shrines.

You ripped the hard drives out and stuffed them into your gear just as the alarms blared louder. A metallic grind. A siren shrieking.

Then—radio silence.

“Johnny?” you hissed. “Do not go dark on me—”

His voice came through, hoarse. “We’ve got two men down. Main exit is compromised. They’re locking the compound from the outside.”

Your hands went cold.

“I’ll make it to the roof,” you said.

“Not in time.”

“I will.”

“You’re three stories under concrete and boxed in.”

“I’ve seen worse odds—”

“I haven’t.”

You paused.

His voice softened—just enough to punch you in the gut.

“If you don’t make it,” he said, “I won’t either.”

You started sprinting, vaulting over crates toward the backup shaft.

But the explosion hit before you reached it.

A deafening boom shook the floor — your ears rang, the ground tilted, the hallway vanished in smoke.

Command Vehicle – 03:07 a.m.

The helicopter was spinning its blades. The surviving team was already on board. Blood. Shouting. Burned gear and ruined plans.

Johnny stood on the tarmac, comm to his ear, refusing to move.

“She’s alive. She’s still inside,” he said to the ops commander.

“There’s no signal,” she replied. “There’s no time.”

“Then give me five more minutes.”

“Johnny—”

“I SAID FIVE.”

But the team was pulling him back.

His eyes scanned the flames erupting from the side of the building.

And then—

The structure began to collapse inward.

Steel and smoke and fire swallowed the red-lit hallway where you were last seen.

Johnny dropped to his knees.

Later — Safehouse, Panama

He was silent for hours.

Didn’t speak on the flight. Didn’t clean the blood from his hands.

He sat in the safehouse bathroom, still in full gear, knuckles scraped raw.

In front of him, on the table, was your necklace — the thin one you always wore beneath your tactical shirt.

It was warm in his palm.

He closed his eyes.

And finally—he wept.

Not broken.

Just silent.

Shaking.

Like a man whose war had finally outrun him.

Part 5 – “The Ghost Walks In”

3 months later.

Rome – 10:58 p.m.

Post-Mission Safehouse, Trastevere

The laughter was the loudest it had been in months.

The team had earned it — a successful operation in Naples, no casualties, clean extraction. A miracle, really. Mark was recounting how he'd pickpocketed a guard using only a cappuccino and a distraction named Jaehyun.

Johnny was leaned against the wall, drink in hand, only half-listening.

He didn’t laugh anymore. Not fully.

His smile stopped just short of his eyes.

Then the door creaked.

No knock. No sound. Just the groan of old wood.

No one looked up.

The rain had just started outside — soft, rhythmic — and the warm bar lights cast golden halos across the floor. The scent of herbs, smoke, and red wine clung to the air.

You stepped inside without ceremony.

Wet from the storm. Hair tucked behind one ear. That same scar now faded across your temple like punctuation. You didn’t say a word.

You just walked in, poured yourself a glass of water at the counter, turned—

And sat down at the empty seat at the head of the table.

The one that used to be yours.

Mark froze mid-sentence.

Jaehyun’s beer stopped halfway to his mouth.

Doyoung choked on his own breath.

But it was Johnny who looked last.

And when he did—

He didn’t drop his glass.

He didn’t say your name.

He didn’t move.

He just stared at you like time had slowed. Like the wine-dark room was a dream and you were the first real thing in it.

You took a sip of water. Set the glass down.

Then smiled — soft, not smug. Just tired and alive and finally home.

“Is this seat taken?” you asked.

No one spoke.

Then Johnny did.

He moved across the room like in a film — slow, silent — until he was standing in front of you.

So close, your knees nearly brushed.

His hand lifted.

Not to touch.

Just to look at you better.

“Say something,” you whispered.

He stared for another beat. Then:

“I thought I buried you.”

You blinked once. “You almost did.”

“I waited.”

“I know.”

“You died.”

“I didn’t.”

“I did.”

The silence cracked.

And then—he reached for you.

Both hands, all of him, gathering you like you were made of breath and breaking and everything he thought he’d lost in that fire. His mouth hovered over yours.

You tilted your chin up just slightly.

“I came back,” you whispered.

And he kissed you like he didn’t believe you yet.

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t angry.

It was long — slow, searching — like he needed to memorize the shape of you again. Like he needed to rewrite the months he spent grieving you into a single point of contact: lips, breath, hands trembling.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

You whispered, “Took you long enough.”

He smiled for the first time in weeks. It was small.

But real.

“You’re staying?” he asked.

“As long as you’ll have me.”

Mark groaned from the table. “Someone sedate me, I’m crying.”

Jaehyun raised a toast. “To the dead rising.”

Doyoung whispered under his breath, “I knew she’d walk in like a movie scene.”

You didn’t look at them.

You looked at Johnny.

And he looked at you like you were the only person who existed.

The End.

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[hameesstuff]

"A Marriage Rewritten”

Pairing: Husband, Lawyer!Jaehyun x Wife, Artist!Reader

Themes: Arranged Marriage AU | Exes to Lovers | Jaehyun x Reader | Smut | Enemies to Lovers | Exes | Slow Burn | Angst, Humor, Longing

Word count: 4.4k

Preview: They were each other’s first everything — love, heartbreak, mistake. Jaehyun is now a ruthless corporate lawyer and her, a struggling but spirited artist. Years after their painful breakup, fate plays its cruelest card: their families arrange their marriage for business-political reasons. Just great.

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Part 1: Signed in Ice

The pen trembled in your hand.

"Don't make it dramatic," Jaehyun muttered across the table, his tone cool as a polished knife. "It's just ink."

You looked up slowly. He was seated like he always was—back straight, suit immaculate, jaw tight. Only his eyes betrayed anything. And even then, they were unreadable.

“You said the same thing when we signed the lease to our first apartment,” you said flatly.

Silence.

The lawyer in the corner shifted uncomfortably.

You signed anyway. Because what else could you do?

Your father's health was failing. Your art gallery was barely breathing. The offer had come dressed in silk and thorns — "a family merger," they called it. His family wanted the political ties. Yours wanted stability. And here you were, a broken love story tied up with gold and paper.

The moment your name hit the contract, Jaehyun pushed his chair back.

"Congrats, Mrs. Jung," he said without a smile.

You stared at him. “Still as charming as ever.”

He stopped at the door. “You knew what this was.”

“Yeah,” you muttered under your breath. “A mistake. Just like last time.”

But he’d already walked out.

Later That Week: The Penthouse

“Wow,” Taeyong muttered, looking around the pristine space like it was a museum. “Cold, sharp, and lifeless. Just like your husband.”

You laughed. “Don’t let him hear you. He might sue.”

He handed you a carton of takeout and flopped onto the modern black couch like he owned it. “So… how does it feel to be back in hell?”

You sighed, pulling your knees to your chest. “Familiar.”

You hadn’t seen Jaehyun since the signing. His assistant had dropped off the penthouse keys with a post-it that said “Don’t touch my wine.”

So you touched all of it. On principle.

Two Days Later: The First Fight

The door slammed just as you were dancing barefoot in the kitchen to an old indie song, wearing one of your paint-stained shirts.

“I live here too, remember?” Jaehyun’s voice cut through the music like a blade.

You didn’t even turn. “Thanks for the reminder. I was starting to feel safe.”

He appeared beside you, hair ruffled from work, tie loose. “And this?” He gestured to the chaos of your paints. “This isn’t a studio.”

You held up a brush and smiled sweetly. “Now it is.”

“God,” he muttered. “Why are you always so—”

“Alive?” you offered. “Free? Full of joy that makes your tight little jaw clench?”

His eyes darkened. “You’re infuriating.”

“And you’re boring.”

He stepped forward. “Say that again.”

“You’re boring, Jung Jaehyun,” you said, poking his chest. “You weren’t always. But now? You’re just a stiff in a suit who thinks feelings are weaknesses.”

His mouth was a breath from yours. "You’re one to talk about feelings. Who ran when things got hard?”

You shoved him lightly. “Don’t twist it. You walked out first.”

You didn’t realize how close you were until your chest brushed his.

His gaze dropped to your lips.

But he stepped back. Cold. Colder than the last time.

"Grow up,” he said. “You're not twenty anymore."

You didn't answer.

And the ache between your ribs reminded you that neither was he.

Part 2 - “Velvet Lies & Stolen Glances”

Charity Gala – Grand Hyatt, Seoul

The gala was for some high-profile legal foundation. Jaehyun’s turf. You were only there to play the role of a dutiful wife — the ornament beside Seoul’s most prized lawyer.

You’d worn black silk, not for him — for yourself. But the look in his eyes when you stepped out of the dressing room said otherwise.

He’d gone quiet. Too quiet.

“You clean up well,” you muttered, tugging your earring on as you passed him.

He didn’t answer — just stared.

But then came the car ride. Cold. Professional. His voice only used for directions and “You forgot your clutch.” The same man who used to kiss your shoulder at every red light now treated you like a contract clause.

Inside the Ballroom

You weren’t even halfway into your first flute of champagne before you felt a presence.

“Yo.”

You turned — and lit up. “Taeyong!”

He hugged you like the night hadn’t been awful. “You look like a painting tonight.”

You mock-curtsied. “I clean up when I want to show my ex-boyfriend-slash-current-husband that I’m still capable of turning heads.”

Jaehyun, standing not five feet away, tensed.

Taeyong grinned. “You still turning hearts, too?”

You leaned into him laughing — and Jaehyun’s hand appeared at the small of your back like a damn reflex.

“She’s married,” he said smoothly. “Remember?”

You turned your head slowly. “To you? Oh, right. I forget sometimes.”

His jaw flexed. “Clearly.”

Later: On the Balcony

You needed air.

The silk clung to your back like heat, and the music inside started to feel suffocating. You stepped outside into the cool night — and Jaehyun followed five seconds later.

“You like making me look like a fool?” he asked, not angrily — but low, sharp.

You scoffed. “If the title fits.”

“He touches you like you’re his.”

You turned to him. “And you act like I’m yours.”

A beat.

Jaehyun stepped forward, jaw taut, eyes unreadable. “Aren’t you?”

You blinked.

“You’re not dating him.”

“No,” you admitted.

“You’re wearing my ring.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

His voice dipped. “Then why do I still want to kiss you every time you laugh at someone else?”

You stared at him.

Silence stretched.

And then you turned away, heart slamming, voice low. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

He didn’t stop you from walking back in.

But he didn’t look at anyone else for the rest of the night.

Part 3 - “Cracks in the Ice”

Back at the Penthouse – After the Gala

The car ride home was silent again.

Only this time, the silence felt different.

He kept glancing at you. Like he wanted to say something. Like if he opened his mouth, everything he’d buried for years would spill out.

But he didn’t.

So when you got home, you went straight to your makeshift studio—Jaehyun’s sterile guest room, now littered with canvases and paint jars.

You kicked off your heels and dropped onto the floor, dress pooled around you, dragging your fingers through a half-finished piece.

Not five minutes passed before he stood at the door, hands in his pockets, tie loosened.

“You were flirting with him.”

You didn’t even look up. “And you were pretending to care in front of donors.”

“I wasn’t pretending.”

Silence.

Then—his voice, sharper this time. “What does he give you that I don’t?”

Your head snapped up. “Kindness. Consistency. Someone who doesn’t treat me like a transaction.”

Jaehyun's jaw locked, but his eyes… cracked.

“He was never there when you fell apart. I was.”

“You also left me in pieces.”

That shut him up.

Next Day: Solo Gallery Appearance

It was supposed to be low-key. A community event for local artists — nothing glamorous, nothing massive. But the article dropped while you were still standing by your own canvas.

“Wife of Elite Corporate Lawyer Peddles Paintings at Local Crafts Fair?”

You froze. Mouth dry.

And then you saw the rest.

Anonymous quotes:

“She only got the spot because she’s married to Jung Jaehyun.”

“She’s talentless — the marriage is her real gallery.”

“Desperate for relevance.”

The world tilted.

Your hands shook. You stepped outside, back pressed to a wall as the chill hit your bare arms.

That Night – Back Home

You were curled on the couch, staring at nothing. Still in your gallery dress. Your phone on silent.

Jaehyun walked in and stood there for a long time.

Finally: “I handled it.”

You nodded numbly. “Good.”

“I mean it,” he said. “I had them retract everything. I bought out the blog. They’ll be issuing a formal apology tomorrow. And they’ll donate to your gallery.”

You stared at him. “Why?”

He knelt in front of you slowly. “Because I let you go once,” he whispered, “and I’ve regretted it every goddamn day.”

Your breath caught.

“And because…” his voice cracked, “you’re still the only person whose opinion has the power to ruin me.”

The air between you tightened. Dense. Fragile.

You leaned forward without thinking, forehead brushing his.

“Jaehyun—”

“I’m still in love with you.”

His hands curled around your waist. Yours knotted into his shirt.

And then—

You kissed him.

Hard. Hungry. But not angry.

It was years of silence being undone.

Part 4 - “The Wall That Broke”

The Morning After

You woke tangled in a blanket on the living room couch, your head resting on Jaehyun’s lap.

His fingers were in your hair.

Not moving. Not stroking. Just… there. Holding.

You blinked up at him. “Didn’t know lawyers came with built-in pillows.”

He didn’t smile. “Didn’t know artists kissed like they never stopped loving you.”

Your throat tightened.

Neither of you moved.

Then, softly: “Do we talk about last night?” you asked.

He looked away. “Do you want to?”

You paused. “Eventually.”

He nodded once. “Then eventually.”

But when you got up, he helped you straighten your wrinkled shirt.

His knuckles lingered on your collarbone.

That Week: Your First Real Outing Together

A city charity fundraiser. Crowds. Cameras. Handshakes.

He kept his hand at the small of your back all night.

You smiled when the press called you “picture-perfect.”

You didn’t know he’d canceled a major case to be there.

That Night – The Bedroom Door Left Open

You passed his room on the way to your studio.

His door was open.

He sat there in a white tee, head in his hands.

When he noticed you, he didn't speak — just patted the bed beside him.

You sat.

Neither of you said a word.

He laid back, arm brushing yours. You followed.

No kisses.

No lies.

Just silence and breathing, and his fingers grazing yours under the sheets like they used to.

Final Part - “The Letters He Never Burned”

The house was quiet when you returned from the hospital. Your father’s operation had gone well — a miracle, the doctor had said. The relief should’ve settled your bones, but it hadn’t. Not until the nurse handed you the paperwork.

Paid in full.

Signed: Jung Jaehyun.

You stood in the doorway of the penthouse, fingers trembling, the receipt still in your coat pocket.

He was on the couch, shirt sleeves rolled, legal documents beside him. He looked up when he heard the door—then immediately stood, brow creasing.

“You’re back late.”

You didn’t answer.

“Is your dad—”

“He’s fine,” you said softly. “Because of you.”

He went still.

You walked toward him slowly, heart loud in your ears. “You told me your family wouldn’t help.”

“They didn’t,” he said. Quiet. Careful.

“But you did.”

He swallowed. “You hate charity.”

You stepped closer. “You think this is about pride?”

“No,” he said after a beat. “It’s about how I failed you once. I didn’t want you to think I was trying to buy forgiveness.”

Your throat clenched.

Then you dropped the second bomb. “I went into the study.”

He froze.

“You should really lock your drawers,” you whispered.

He didn’t ask which ones. He knew.

“All the letters, Jaehyun.... Every single one. From college. From after the breakup.” You paused. “Even the one where I told you I hated you.”

His voice cracked, “Never believed that one.”

Silence. Heavy. Soft.

You stepped right into his space. “Why didn’t you let me go?”

He exhaled, hand brushing your waist with the ghost of a touch. “Because letting you go never worked. I tried.”

You blinked back tears. “And marrying me?”

“The only way I could keep you close,” he admitted, voice low. “Even if it meant you’d hate me again.”

Your breath hitched. “You think I still do?”

He looked at you like you were sunlight after a long winter. “I think I don’t deserve you. Even If I never stopped loving you.”

And finally—finally—you kissed him.

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed.

It was reverent.

Years of pain melting into the space between your mouths.

He kissed your forehead. Your cheek. The tip of your nose.

When he finally pulled back, his voice was hoarse. “I love you.”

His kisses were slow. Thoughtful. Like he was mapping the years you’d been apart with every touch of his lips. He didn’t pull you into bed like he used to — like a man starved.

No.

He laid you down like someone he'd loved in a hundred lifetimes. Reverently. Carefully. His hands explored your skin like an old story he finally had permission to reread.

Your breaths tangled. His forehead pressed to yours.

When he entered you, there was no sharp gasp. No race. Just a sigh — one that left both your mouths at once, as if your bodies remembered what your pride had buried.

His hand was laced with yours above your head. His voice was in your ear, cracked and breathless.

“I still see you every time I close my eyes,” he whispered. “Even when I didn’t want to.”

You ran your fingers through his hair, kissing the corner of his mouth.

“I never stopped writing letters,” you whispered. “I just stopped sending them.”

He slowed.

Held your face.

And moved inside you like he was writing one back — with his hands, his mouth, his heart.

No rush.

No noise.

Only softness. Only “I love you” in every unspoken place between your skin.

Epilogue – “Framed in Color”

Five years later – Seoul Contemporary Museum of Expression

The museum bustled softly, high ceilings glowing with morning light.

In the far wing — the one newly dedicated to living Korean artists — a six-year-old girl in a yellow sundress stood in front of a giant abstract mural, tilting her head.

Jaehyun crouched beside her.

“What do you think it means?” he asked.

His daughter scrunched her nose. “It looks like... Mama’s dreams.”

He smiled. “You’re not wrong.”

The plaque at the base read:

“To the woman who paints without apology, and the man who finally learned how to see her.”

— Y/N Jung

Your name.

Framed in gold.

You walked toward them with two iced coffees and a juice box, smiling as your daughter tugged her dad’s sleeve.

“She’s gonna be famous,” the girl whispered.

Jaehyun looked up at you, his heart never more full.

“She already is.”

And as your daughter ran off down the gallery, her laughter echoing, Jaehyun reached for your hand.

Not like he was holding on.

But like he’d never let go again.

The End.

Feedback is welcome!

___________________________________________

[hameesstuff]

“Marriage on Paper”

Title: “Marriage on Paper”

Pairing: Husband Doctor!Jaehyun x Wife CEO!Reader | Single dad! Jaehyun

Preview: Jaehyun hated her. Why does he need a wife when he's happy with his daughter? Another nuisance, just like his first wife. And she hated everything about him. But they clearly can't stay away.

Genre: Arranged marriage, Slow Burn, Single dad! Jaehyun | Enemies to Lovers | Humor | Domestic | Smut, Tension

Word Count: ~9.3k

___________________________________________

PART 1: THE MARRIAGE THAT LOOKED GOOD ON PAPER

Your lawyer had said it was a “mutually beneficial merger.”

You said nothing, mostly because you were too busy fixing your lipstick before the press conference that announced your arranged marriage to Seoul’s most annoyingly attractive surgeon—Dr. Jeong Jaehyun.

He, on the other hand, stood beside you like you were a mild inconvenience. Like he had better places to be—like an OR table or a luxury car headed away from this mess.

“Smile,” you hissed through your teeth as cameras clicked.

“I am,” he replied, deadpan.

You glanced sideways. “You look dead.”

He looked back. “That’s still a smile compared to you.”

The flashbulbs exploded. You two were golden. On paper, of course.

The marriage was arranged for reasons that made sense to your board of directors and his hospital’s board of trustees. Power couple image. Medical research grants. Business sponsorships. Tax benefits.

You? You were Seoul’s youngest and most intimidating CEO, known for firing underperformers in stilettos. You didn’t need a husband.

He? He was a brilliant cardiothoracic surgeon with a God-complex, a tendency to ghost family events, and a four-year-old daughter named Jiyeon who looked like a doll and talked like a drill sergeant.

The man was cold. Distant. But unfortunately, stupidly good-looking. Which made it worse.

The wedding was private, clinical. A few papers signed. A few photos taken. Your designer dress was stunning, and so was his smug silence.

The next day, you moved into the penthouse apartment you were now legally required to share.

You saw the child before you saw him.

Jiyeon sat at the kitchen island, eating Cheerios from a pink bowl.

She looked up at you with big round eyes and said, “You’re the lady who married my Dad. ”

You blinked. “Yes.”

She nodded like a CEO. “Okay. I’m not allowed to watch horror movies. I like strawberries. And don’t touch Mr. Bubbles.”

“Mr. Bubbles?”

“My bear” she said, pointing to a stuffed animal on the counter.

Right then, Jaehyun walked in—hair messy from post-call exhaustion, in scrubs, rubbing his eyes.

He looked at you like the flu.

You looked back like antibiotics.

“Morning,” he said, voice gravelly.

“Afternoon,” you corrected. “It’s 2 p.m.”

He gave a faint smirk. “You really don’t know how to rest, do you?”

You ignored him, turned to Jiyeon. “I brought you strawberry jam.”

She grinned. “Okay, nevermimd I like you now"

At work, you crushed negotiations and led meetings like a queen. At home, your mornings began with accidental run-ins and arguments about kitchen cabinets.

He liked silence. You liked music.

He liked Jiyeon’s toys in one corner. You let her play wherever she wanted.

He liked routine. You liked control.

You both hated each other.

But Jiyeon?

She made it hard to stay angry.

One night, you came home late from a board dinner, heels in hand, headache pounding—and found her asleep in your bed, Mr. Bubbles’ tucked beside her.

A sticky note on your pillow read:

“You looked sad this morning. I saved you a place. — Jiyeon”

You didn’t cry.

You just laid down beside her and let her tiny hand wrap around your finger.

And somewhere around night fourteen, Jaehyun came home early, leaned against the kitchen counter while you reheated soup.

“You work too late,” he muttered.

“You don’t say much.”

Silence.

Then he added, “She likes you.”

You turned, surprised. “She’s easy to like.”

He looked at you for a long moment, his gaze unreadable.

“She didn’t like my ex.”

You blinked. “Was she her mother?”

A long pause.

“No. Her mother left before Jiyeon turned two.”

A strange ache stirred in your chest.

And that was the first time Jaehyun ever told you something personal.

No sarcasm. No sharp wit. Just the truth.

Later that night, you passed each other in the hallway.

He didn’t say anything.

But his hand brushed yours.

And he didn’t pull away.

PART 2: TENSION BETWEEN WALLS

You’d thought it was easier—pretending.

Pretending the apartment wasn’t too quiet. That you didn’t hear Jiyeon’s tiny feet running to greet him. That your heart didn’t shift, uninvited, at the sight of Jaehyun brushing her hair back like he’d done it a thousand times.

You weren’t looking for softness.

But somehow, it kept slipping through the cracks he never meant to open.

He came home late that Tuesday.

Jiyeon was asleep on the couch, curled up with Mr Bubbles. You were in the kitchen, pacing, still wearing your pencil skirt, blazer flung over a chair.

Jaehyun entered silently, a gym bag over one shoulder, shirt clinging damp to his skin from a post-op workout.

You stared at him. “You forgot to text.”

He blinked. “Didn’t know I had to.”

“You didn’t. But Jiyeon waited by the door for two hours.”

That silenced him.

He exhaled, dropped the bag, and ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice quieter than you expected. “There was a code blue. I couldn’t leave.”

Your jaw locked, arms crossed. “I’m not asking for explanations. I’m just—”

“Worried?” he cut in, gaze sharpening. “Or mad because it disrupted your schedule?”

You bit your cheek. “Do you always push away people who care?”

He didn’t answer.

Just looked at you.

And for a second, neither of you breathed.

The tension in the room pulsed like a heartbeat. You could see it in his eyes—that restrained edge, that wall he kept up even when he wasn’t trying to.

Then he said, “She listens to you more than me.”

You blinked. “She’s four. She likes strawberry jam and picture books. That doesn’t make me her mother.”

“No,” he agreed. “But she smiles when you come home.”

Your heart stuttered. “That’s not love.”

“No,” he murmured. “But it’s the beginning of something.”

The next night, you found him asleep on the couch, Jiyeon curled against his chest. His arm wrapped protectively around her, lips parted slightly, brow relaxed. It was the only time he ever looked peaceful.

You brought him a blanket.

You didn’t wake him.

You just stood there for too long—watching the man who was supposed to be your husband feel like the stranger you were starting to understand.

At breakfast, he poured your coffee without asking.

“You drink it black,” he said, not looking up.

You stared. “How did you—?”

“You mutter in the mornings.”

You blinked again, flustered.

He finally looked at you, and it wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t guarded. It was… warm.

You looked away.

This wasn’t in the plan.

PART 3: FRACTURES AND FLAME

The event was meant to be formal—clinical, even.

Your company’s healthcare merger dinner, filled with glass clinks and conversations too polished to mean anything real. You wore navy silk backless, sharp heels, and a CEO’s smile. Controlled. Charming. Unshakable.

You hadn’t expected Jaehyun to come.

But there he was—tall, poised in black, medical charm polished with just enough distance to draw eyes without asking for them.

He stood out like a mistake you wanted to make twice.

Your assistant whispered, “Is that your husband?”

You gave a tight smile. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Jaehyun, on cue, raised a brow from across the room. Heard it.

You stood beside each other for the first half hour, exchanging polite pleasantries with investors. He only spoke when needed. Let you lead.

But his eyes?

They didn’t leave your face.

Not once.

Enter David Seo—your firm’s latest clinical advisor and an old college flirtation turned slightly unhinged admirer. Handsome. Wealthy. Dangerous in that loud, performative way Jaehyun never was.

David leaned too close as he spoke to you, fingertips brushing your lower bare back once. Twice.

Jaehyun’s glass tapped the table with a soft clink. Not loud. But pointed.

When David asked, “Are you happy, though?”—Jaehyun was no longer beside you.

He was behind you.

Shoulders squared.

Voice calm. “She is. But thanks for checking.”

David blinked. “Doctor Jung, I presume?”

Jaehyun’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Funny. I don’t recall you being relevant in her life.”

“Jaehyun —please.”

David scoffed and walked off with a muttered “territorial.”

You glared. “Was that necessary?”

Jaehyun’s gaze was hard. “He was touching you.”

“I can handle it.”

He stepped closer. “I know. But you shouldn’t have to.”

That silenced you.

Because it was… sincere.

And it rattled you more than his jealousy.

Later, in the town car home, silence sat thick between you.

You looked out the window. “You don’t get to be jealous.”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Then, softly: “I’m not jealous.”

You turned to him.

He added, “I’m angry. That someone thinks he can touch you like you’re available.”

You scoffed. “I am available. Our marriage is fake, remember?”

His voice dropped to a low murmur.

“Don’t say that in past tense. Not when you look at me like that.”

You turned your head quickly.

But you didn’t deny it.

PART 4: FRACTURE

The hospital walls blurred around him.

All he heard was the voice on the phone.

“Dr. Jung, your daughter’s been in an accident—hit by a distracted driver near the school exit. She’s stable. But she’s asking for you.”

He didn’t remember how he got there.

He barely remembered throwing off his white coat, running through traffic, or leaving his car at the ER entrance with the keys still inside.

His chest cracked open the moment he saw the door labeled Pediatric Trauma – 407.

And then—

Her voice.

Soft. Frayed.

“Sweetheart, you’re so brave. I’m right here, okay? It’s gonna be okay.”

He stepped in like the air wasn’t heavy with fear.

You sat on the bed beside Jiyeon, her tiny hand gripped in yours, your blouse torn at the shoulder, a gash on your forehead bleeding down the temple. Your blazer draped over her legs. You looked wrecked—but calm. Like you’d been crying for hours and were holding it in just for Jiyeon.

Jaehyun stopped in the doorway.

You turned.

And for the first time—there was no sarcasm. No teasing. Just you. Holding his daughter like she was yours.

“She wanted ice cream..” you said softly. “The cab drove through a red light. I protected her the best I could Jaehyun. I'm sorry.”

His knees almost buckled.

He knelt beside the bed and brushed Jiyeon’s bandaged forehead. Her eyes fluttered.

“Dad…”

“I’m here, baby. I’m here.”

Her fingers loosened from yours—and slowly found his. She fell back asleep.

Later that night, the nurse gave them clearance to leave.

But Jaehyun didn’t drive home.

He booked a nearby hotel. For Jiyeon’s comfort, he told himself. For rest.

But truthfully—it was because his hands were still shaking.

You stood by the window, changed into one of his spare shirts, hair damp from the hospital shower, bruised and tired and more beautiful than he ever remembered.

“You could’ve died,” he said, quietly.

You looked at him. “So could she.”

“She asked for you before me.”

“She was scared.”

“I’m scared.”

The confession was quiet. Raw. And terrifying.

You didn’t reply. Just walked over.

“I thought I lost her,” he murmured. “And then I saw you with her—and it hit me. She’s not the only one I’ve been afraid of losing.”

You looked up.

And in one moment, every wall shattered.

He stepped forward, cupped your face gently—brushed his thumb over the cut at your temple like it hurt him to see you hurt.

And then—

His lips found yours.

Not gently.

Not softly.

But like he was making up for every second he hadn’t.

You reached up and cupped his jaw. “You don’t have to be afraid. Not with me.”

His breath hitched at that, and then he kissed you — slowly, reverently, like he was trying to memorize the way you tasted in case this was all a dream.

He lifted you onto the counter gently, standing between your knees as he kissed you again, slower this time — not with urgency, but with weight. Your fingers slid into his hair, his hands resting on your thighs, thumbs rubbing soft circles against your skin like he was grounding himself in the reality of you.

“I want you,” he whispered back. “But not just like this.”

“Then how?”

He pressed his forehead to yours. “Like I’ve finally found my home.”

Your eyes stung, but you smiled.

“I want you too,” you breathed. “Like that.”

The world faded around you as he lifted you from the counter and carried you, lips brushing your temple, your shoulder, your hand. He laid you down in bed like you were something fragile — not weak, but precious. His shirt fell away, yours followed. No rush. No tension. Just layers falling away until only skin and breath remained.

His touch was slow. He kissed down your collarbone, between your breasts, over your stomach — pausing at every place his fingers had once only brushed. He whispered soft praises, nothing crude, just tender confessions: You’re so soft. I’ve never wanted anyone this way. I don’t want to hurt you. I want to make you feel safe.

When he finally entered you, it wasn’t the stretch you noticed first — it was the way his eyes didn’t leave yours, not even for a second.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as he moved inside you with the kind of patience you didn’t know existed. Every roll of his hips felt like a promise. Every brush of his lips, a vow.

It built slowly — heat pooling low in your stomach, tears prickling at the corner of your eyes because it wasn’t just pleasure anymore. It was release. It was love.

You whispered his name like a prayer.

And he whispered yours back like it was the answer to everything he’d been missing.

When you came, it was soft and trembling, your breath catching in his mouth as you kissed him through it. He followed, moaning low and deep into your neck, his arms tightening around you like he was terrified to let go.

But he didn’t move away after.

He stayed on top of you, inside you, his fingers tracing your face like he was trying to remember this version of you forever.

“I love you,” he finally whispered, voice breaking.

You touched his lips with your fingers.

“I know. I feel it.”

And in that bed — skin to skin, heart to heart — you weren’t just lovers, or husband and wife.

You were something softer. Something sacred.

You were his again.

And for the first time… he let you be.

Final Epilogue – “Moonlight & Laughter”

The birthday dinner had ended with cake crumbs on everyone’s clothes and frosting in Jiyeon’s hair, but none of you wanted to go home just yet.

So Jaehyun had driven the four of you to the quiet park near the hospital, the one that stayed open late — the one with the soft lanterns that hung from the trees like sleepy fireflies.

Now the air was crisp and cool, the sky navy and full of stars. And you sat on a picnic blanket in the middle of the park, the soft hush of grass beneath you, your newborn cradled against your chest.

Jiyeon was running in wild little circles nearby, her pink dress now stained with ice cream, her laughter rising into the trees like music.

“Dad! Look!” she shouted, pointing to the stroller where Jaehyun had tucked the baby’s diaper bag. “He smiled at me! Baby smiled!”

Jaehyun, sitting beside you, chuckled and called back, “That’s because you’re his favorite.”

“I know!”

She bent down and kissed her baby brother’s forehead — all sticky fingers and warm cheeks — and whispered, “You were my birthday wish”

The End.

Feedback is welcome :)

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[hameesstuff]

"One Step Closer"

As promised, here's the story :)

Pairing: Ceo! Jaehyun x Secretary! Reader

Summary: He was her cold, control-obsessed CEO; she was the chaos he never asked for but couldn’t ignore. What started as daily arguments and eye-rolls turned into rainy rooftop confessions and stolen kisses. Somewhere between the sarcasm and soft mornings, they fell—hard and unexpectedly.

CEO Jaehyun x Secretary Reader | Enemies to Lovers | Slow Burn | Angst | Humor | Fluff

Word count: ~11k

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PART 1: Everything He Isn’t

There was something violent about the way he walked. Calm, controlled violence.

Every morning at exactly 6:57 a.m., Jung Jaehyun swept into the building with the kind of purpose that made even the security guards sit up straighter. His suit was pressed, hair perfect, eyes sharp enough to slice through glass. He never missed a beat. And he never acknowledged you unless it was to point out a mistake.

“Miss ___,” he said today, not even glancing at you as you matched his pace. “You’re five minutes late.”

“I’m two minutes early.”

“Then you’re five minutes late to being five minutes early.”

You didn’t flinch. “Did you memorize that from one of your management books, or is that original?”

He stopped walking. You nearly collided into him. His eyes finally found yours—dark, unreadable, and unreadably beautiful.

“Do you want to be fired, or are you just hoping I’ll lose interest first?”

You smiled. Tight-lipped. “Neither. I just want to survive the day without being treated like a defective robot.”

His phone buzzed. He looked away.

That was the thing about Jung Jaehyun. You could set yourself on fire right in front of him, and he’d critique the flame temperature.

Working for him was like constantly drowning in invisible water.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t swear. He didn’t even speak loudly. But his silence was a weapon. The way his pen would pause mid-signature when you entered. The way he corrected your grammar via email but never face to face. The way he thanked everyone except you when a project succeeded.

And yet… you’d lasted eight months. Longer than the previous secretary, who left after five and a half weeks with what HR called “emotional exhaustion.”

Why? Because you were stubborn. And maybe, deep down, you wanted to understand why someone who looked like him—who moved like him—was so completely unreachable.

You met Johnny in the break room after a particularly awful morning.

“He said what?” he laughed, nearly spilling his coffee.

“‘Fix this before it fixes you,’” you quoted, mimicking Jaehyun’s clipped tone. “It was about a typo.”

Johnny leaned against the counter, still grinning. “You know what your problem is?”

“You mean besides voluntarily working for a sociopath?”

“You fight him back.” He raised a brow. “He doesn’t know what to do with people who don’t flinch.”

You stared into your coffee. “I don’t want to fight him. I just want him to stop treating me like… like I’m a placeholder.”

Johnny studied you. “You don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?”

But he just smiled into his mug. “Never mind.”

The Tipping Point

It happened on a Tuesday. Always a Tuesday, when you let your guard down.

The board meeting had gone sideways. An international partner pulled out last minute, and tension was coiled in every inch of Jaehyun’s posture when he returned to the office.

You were waiting at his door with an updated proposal. He didn’t look at you as he took it.

Thirty seconds later, his voice cracked through the glass.

“Why is this still formatted in the old layout?”

You blinked. “Because we haven’t received confirmation on the revised template—”

“I told you last week to anticipate the shift.”

“No, you implied we should prepare in case it was approved. It hasn’t been.”

He stood. Slowly. Like thunder building.

“This company doesn’t run on what’s implied, Miss ___. It runs on competence. If you can’t grasp the difference, maybe this position is too much for you.”

The words hit harder than you expected. Too much. You. Like you weren’t enough. Like you were the weak link in a chain he didn’t even believe you belonged in.

So you did something you never had before.

You turned and walked out.

Didn’t ask permission. Didn’t justify yourself. You left the report, the room, and him—standing in silence.

PART 2: Smoke & Spark

Johnny’s birthday party was the kind of event people talked about for weeks afterward.

Not because of the cake. Not even because of the expensive liquor or the live DJ in the middle of his penthouse balcony.

But because everyone showed up—and so did Jaehyun.

You weren’t planning on going. You’d ignored the group chat, ignored Johnny’s texts, and only considered it when he called you directly:

“If you don’t come, I’ll start spreading rumors that you’re in love with our CEO.”

“I’m already rumored to be his personal punching bag.”

“Perfect. Come as his emotional support pet.”

You almost laughed. And then you showed up.

The Scene

You walked in wearing a soft champagne slip dress with a low back and strappy heels that made your legs look dangerous. Not because you were trying to get attention. But because you needed to feel like something other than Jung Jaehyun’s personal piñata.

Johnny whistled the second he saw you. “Jesus. I almost regret setting you up for this.”

You blinked. “Setting me up?”

He grinned. “Jaehyun’s here.”

Your stomach flipped. Not in a cute way. In a don’t trip over your own feet way.

And then you saw him.

Black suit, no tie, collar undone just slightly—like he’d shown up straight from work and didn’t know how to relax. His hand held a half-empty tumbler of whiskey. His eyes found you instantly.

And they stayed on you.

You looked away first.

Later, on the balcony

The city glittered below you. You’d had half a drink and were starting to think maybe you could survive the night without punching someone.

That was when the balcony door slid open behind you.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

You didn’t turn around. “I didn’t come for you.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

He stopped beside you, just far enough away to be polite. Just close enough to ruin your breathing.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

You sipped your drink. “Or maybe I just like peace.”

“I deserved that.”

You scoffed. “You deserve worse.”

He didn’t argue. He just looked at you.

“You’re good at what you do,” he said suddenly. “Better than most people I’ve hired.”

You blinked. “Did you hit your head?”

“No.”

“Are you drunk?”

He gave the smallest smile. “No.”

“Then why are you suddenly complimenting me like I’m about to get hit by a truck?”

There was silence between you. Heavy. Almost tender.

“Because I saw your face,” he said quietly, “after I said what I said that day. And it’s been… bothering me.”

You turned, really turned, to look at him now. “So what, this is guilt?”

“No. This is the closest thing I know to an apology.”

“And what does that make me? The closest thing you know to a person?”

That hit. You saw it.

“I didn’t realize you cared what I thought,” he said, voice low.

“I didn’t,” you snapped. “Until I did.”

His jaw clenched. His fingers wrapped tighter around the glass.

You stepped closer, feeling anger and something else rise in your throat.

“You treat me like I’m disposable. Replaceable. Like I’m always one mistake away from being nothing.”

“I don’t—”

“You do.”

Silence.

Then softly, quietly: “That’s not what you are to me.”

The city spun below, the bass from the party thudded through glass, and your heart was a war drum in your chest.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

But something had cracked. And you both felt it.

PART 3: Rain Between Us

You didn’t mean to stay so late.

But after hours of biting your tongue while Jaehyun barked orders like he was building an empire with your sanity, you needed air. Not office air. Not elevator air. Real air.

The sky was heavy when you climbed up to the rooftop—grey clouds low and angry. But you didn’t care.

The second the first raindrops hit your cheeks, you closed your eyes and laughed.

It wasn’t graceful.

It wasn’t poetic.

You kicked off your heels, spun in circles, held your arms out like a drunk ballerina. The hem of your skirt clung to your thighs. Your hair frizzed in the wet air. And you laughed—giddy and breathless—as the rain poured harder, like the universe had finally decided to cry with you.

You twirled, clumsily talking to the sky like an idiot.

“Bet you’re having a great time watching me drown in email threads and printer jams, huh?” you shouted up, voice cracking with laughter.

The wind howled back.

And then—

A voice.

Cold. Low. Disbelieving.

“…What the hell are you doing?”

You froze.

Turned.

And there he was.

Jaehyun. Standing in the open rooftop door, already soaked. His white shirt clung to him. Hair dripping. Jaw tight.

“You—” He stepped out, letting the door slam shut behind him. “Are you insane?”

“Probably!” you yelled over the rain. “But I’m happy. Can’t say the same for you.”

He stalked toward you, water pooling around his shoes.

“You’re going to catch a cold.”

“Good. Maybe I’ll finally get sick leave.”

He looked ready to scream.

“You think this is funny?” he snapped. “You’re acting like a child—”

“You’re acting like a dictator!”

That hit.

You breathed hard. Rain blurred everything.

“You know what your problem is, Jaehyun?” you hissed, stepping toward him. “You’re miserable, and you can’t stand when someone else isn’t.”

His eyes burned into yours. “You think Johnny makes you happy?”

Your heart skipped.

“That what this is about?”

“You laugh with him. You smile like he means something.”

“Because he treats me like I mean something!” you yelled.

Silence.

Rain poured. Thunder cracked far off.

“You shouldn’t care,” you said softer now, stepping back. “I’m just your secretary, right?”

He was in front of you in two long strides.

“Stop saying that like it’s true.”

You blinked up at him, rain running down your face like tears.

“Why do you care, Jaehyun?”

He didn’t answer.

He just stared at you like he hated how much he wanted you.

And then—

He kissed you.

Hard.

Like a dam finally snapping open.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t polite. It was soaked, wild, angry. His hands gripped your waist. Your fingers fisted his shirt. The rain clung to your skin but none of it mattered because he was warm. He was real.

It was chaos. And it was everything.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

Both of you panting.

Both of you ruined.

“I don’t know what this means,” he whispered.

“But I can’t stop wanting you.”

You didn’t speak.

You just kissed him again.

Softer this time.

Because sometimes, the rain doesn’t wash things away—it brings them to the surface.

PART 4: Midnight Cake & Secret Kisses

You shouldn’t be here.

You knew that the moment you rang the bell to Jaehyun’s penthouse.

But here you were—hair a mess, shoes squeaking from the light drizzle outside, holding a badly taped cake box like it was a peace offering… or maybe a ticking time bomb.

The door swung open.

He stood there, barefoot in grey sweatpants and a loose black tee that made your heart thud far too loudly.

His hair was tousled. Sleepy. And when he saw you—

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“…Are you drunk?”

“Nope.”

“High?”

“Only on impulse and sugar.”

He stared.

You shoved the box at his chest.

“I brought cake.”

“You brought cake.”

“Yeah. You’ve been kind of… horrible. But you kissed me. So. I figured this was either an apology or a thank-you.”

Jaehyun opened the box slowly, expression unreadable.

“…It’s half-eaten.”

You grinned. “Well, I got hungry on the subway. Don’t judge me.”

A beat.

Then, to your utter shock, Jaehyun… laughed.

A real one.

Head thrown back, hand raking through his hair.

You stared.

“I—” he said between chuckles, “—you’re ridiculous.”

You pushed past him into the apartment. “I know. So let me be ridiculous in your kitchen.”

“Help yourself,” he muttered, shutting the door behind you.

His home was warm, sleek, intimidatingly tidy. You didn’t belong here—and yet, your mismatched socks were already padding toward the fridge like you owned it.

“Is this oat milk?” you called.

“Touch it and die.”

You snorted and set two forks on the counter.

He watched you fumble with the box, squint at the fridge light, poke the cake like it owed you answers.

“You’re the most confusing woman I’ve ever met,” he said eventually.

“I get that a lot.”

“You show up at my place past midnight…”

“Mm-hmm.”

“…with cake that you already ate…”

“Yup.”

“…and then raid my fridge like we’re married?”

You paused.

Tilted your head.

“…Do I get a ring if I finish the cake?”

His lips twitched.

You didn’t expect it, but he moved closer.

Crowded you against the counter, box squished between your hip and the marble.

You gulped.

“I don’t know what this is,” you whispered.

“Neither do I,” he murmured, brushing hair from your cheek. “But I like the sound of your laugh in my kitchen.”

You opened your mouth—probably to say something sarcastic.

But then he leaned down and kissed you.

Not like the rooftop. Not like he was trying to prove something.

This was slow. Gentle. A soft hum behind your ribcage.

His lips found yours again and again, like he was trying to memorize your laugh on his mouth.

You gasped when he gripped your waist, lifting you slightly onto the counter.

“Oh my god—Jaehyun—”

“Shh.” He kissed your neck. “You’ll wake the oat milk.”

You burst out laughing.

Squirmed in his arms, trying to shove him away.

He pulled you right back in, hands warm on your thighs as he buried his grin in your shoulder.

“You’re horrible,” you whispered between giggles.

“You’re the one who brought half a cake to a first date.”

You blinked.

Pulled back slightly.

“…This is a date?”

He looked at you, suddenly serious.

Then, softer than anything he’d said all week:

“It is now.”

You bit your lip.

And kissed him again.

Because somehow, this man who drove you mad at work had become the only place you felt like home.

Even if you were barefoot, laughing, and sticky with cake frosting.

PART 6 — “You Said It Like It Was Nothing”

Your eyes fluttered open to the sound of rain lightly brushing the windows.

A warm weight was pressed against you. Firm, steady.

And then you realized—

You were wrapped in Jaehyun’s arms. Again.

Not just lightly snuggled. Enclosed. Your back to his bare chest, his hand comfortably splayed over your stomach, your legs tangled like you were his.

Your heart jumped straight into your throat.

For one long second, you panicked.

Then: Okay. Breathe. Think. You hadn’t been drunk last night. You just... fell asleep after the movie. On his couch. And he joined. That’s all. Perfectly harmless.

Except—

“Stop panicking,” came a sleepy voice at your ear.

You froze. “I’m not.”

“You’re stiff as a board.”

“You’re spooning me like a koala.”

“You were cold.”

You twisted your head slightly. Jaehyun, still half-asleep, had one eye open and a drowsy smile playing on his lips.

“You’re also not wearing a shirt,” you muttered.

“You took mine.”

Your brain hiccupped. “I did not—”

He shifted slightly. You saw the cotton fabric on your body. His oversized shirt.

“Okay, maybe I did.”

He nuzzled against your hair like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Smells better on you anyway.”

You stopped breathing. “You can’t say things like that casually.”

“I’m not being casual.”

He was smiling now. Sleepy. Soft. Honest.

You didn’t know where to put your heart.

Trying to recover, you mumbled, “You drooled in your sleep.”

“You snored.”

“I do not.”

“You do. Like a kitten.”

You elbowed him gently, and he grunted, letting go so you could sit up. You rubbed your eyes, yawning as you stood, tugging his shirt down your thighs.

Jaehyun sat up too, ruffling his bedhead. “You want coffee?”

“Yes. And toast.”

“Demanding.”

“You love it.”

He smirked. “Unfortunately.”

You blinked.

Wait.

You turned slowly. “What did you say?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just walked past you toward the kitchen.

You followed. “No, seriously. What did you just say?”

“I said you’re demanding.”

“No, after that.”

He glanced at you over his shoulder. His smile was small. Gentle. Like he didn’t regret it at all.

“Unfortunately,” he repeated softly, “I love you.”

Silence stretched between you.

Your heart flipped upside down.

“You—you said that like it was nothing,” you breathed.

“It’s not nothing,” he said quietly, walking back toward you. “But it also doesn’t have to be some dramatic explosion either. It’s just… true.”

You stared up at him. Your mouth opened. Then closed.

Then—

“You idiot,” you whispered, surging forward and throwing your arms around him.

He laughed as you buried your face in his bare shoulder.

“I’m wearing your shirt,” you mumbled, muffled against him.

“I know.”

“I’m your secretary.”

“I know.”

“I love you too.”

You felt him smile into your hair.

Then he whispered, “We’re gonna be so weird at the office.”

You grinned. “Good. I’m still calling you boss though.”

“Even in bed?”

You shoved him, red-faced. “Oh my God, JUNG JAEHYUN—”

He chased you around the apartment, laughing.

And when you both left for work—he reached out and laced your fingers together in the elevator like it was the most natural thing in the world.

No panic. No second-guessing.

Just love—quiet and simple and absolutely, completely mutual.

EPILOGUE — “Half of You, Half of Me”

It was raining the morning your daughter turned three.

Not the loud, chaotic kind of rain — but the quiet kind. Soft, like a memory. It streaked the windows in silver lines while the house filled with the quiet chaos of celebration: wrapping paper on the floor, the faint scent of vanilla frosting, and a trail of pink socks that led nowhere in particular.

She sat cross-legged on the living room rug, her little fingers tugging bows off gifts with exaggerated grunts, puffing her cheeks dramatically when the ribbon wouldn’t budge.

Jaehyun was beside her, crouched with his sleeves rolled, calm as ever — but you could see it in the corner of his smile: the reverence. The awe.

You leaned in the doorway with a coffee mug, watching them.

“She’s half of you,” he said suddenly, eyes still fixed on her.

You tilted your head. “Which half?”

“The stubborn part. The soft part. The part that makes a mess of everything and still gets away with it.”

“She gets that from you,” you murmured, walking over and nudging his side.

She looked up at both of you and grinned — and Jaehyun froze for a second like he always did when he saw her smile.

Like something in him still couldn’t believe she was real.

There was a knock at the door before the moment could stretch too long.

It flew open before either of you could move.

Johnny barged in with three helium balloons, a sparkly birthday crown, and what looked like a half-eaten cake box.

“I swear the bakery lady blinked and it was missing a corner,” he said, unbothered.

“Uncle Johnny!!” your daughter squealed, running into his legs.

“Happy Birthday, Chaos Goblin,” he said, hoisting her up into his arms like she weighed nothing.

“She’s gonna think this is normal,” you warned.

“She’s gonna be cooler because of it,” Johnny said smugly, placing the crown on her head like it was a coronation.

“She’s gonna be impossible to raise,” Jaehyun muttered, though he was smiling — that quiet kind of smile that only reached his eyes when he was watching you or her.

Later that night, the house was dim again. The sky had cleared. She’d fallen asleep curled on your chest this time, hair damp from a bath, breathing warm and even against your skin.

Jaehyun watched you from across the couch, elbow draped over the backrest, silent.

“What?” you whispered.

“I’m just…” he exhaled. “I still don’t know how I got this lucky.”

You glanced down at your daughter.

“Half of you, half of me,” you whispered.

He leaned forward, cupped the back of your head, and kissed you. Soft, grateful. Like a promise never broken.

Outside, the rain had stopped.

And inside, everything you’ve ever wanted was already here.

The End.

Feedback is welcome :)

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[hameesstuff]

Can we get a CEO Jaehyun x secretary reader story I really love the way you write 😭😭😭🙏🏻🙏🏻

Sure love❤ thx for the request. I'll post it by tomorrow ok?

UPDATE: IT'S POSTED!! here's the link

[hameesstuff]

You should create a masterlist! If you have one, can you provide the link to your masterlist? Thank you! I really love your stories! I'm looking forward for your future works❤️

OMG HIII!! OOHH ILL DEF CREATE ONE, THXX💖🥰

[hameesstuff]

“Stay for Him”

Pairing: Ex husband! Jaehyun x Ex wife! Reader

Word count: ~9.2k

Themes: Divorce, Family, Angst, Fluff, Tension, Jealousy, Slice of life.

Preview: You and Jaehyun are divorced, on a reluctant family vacation for your 3-year-old son, but you can’t stand each other—and he has a girlfriend now. Wonderful.

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“Stay for Him”

Part 1: One Room, Two Strangers, and a Three-Year-Old

The villa was too quiet for a family.

Or maybe it was just the space between you and Jaehyun that made it feel that way—cold, silent, suffocating.

Your three-year-old son, Jaejun, clung to your leg while you stood at the entrance, staring at the too-romantic white curtains and ocean-view balcony.

“Mommy, this house is big!” he gasped, running toward the windows.

“Don’t run—” you warned, but Jaehyun’s voice overlapped yours from behind.

“He’ll be fine,” he said flatly, wheeling in the last suitcase. “We’re not here to fight, remember?”

You turned slowly, your eyes narrowing.

“And yet you say that like you’re begging me to.”

His jaw ticked. “I’m here for him. Not for you.”

The air was thick with history. With resentment. And beneath that—something worse. The lingering ache of what once was.

“Great,” you said sharply. “We agree on something.”

The three of you had agreed—after months of arguing, after one too many court calls, after a particularly devastating night of Jaejun crying for both parents—that your son deserved a vacation where he could have both of you. Just for one week.

No yelling. No bitterness. No dragging him between homes.

Just one week of pretending like things were okay.

It was Day One, and the cracks were already forming.

Jaehyun dropped onto the outdoor couch, staring at his phone like it owed him something.

You caught a glimpse of the screen. A name. A heart emoji.

His new girlfriend.

Of course she had a heart next to her name.

You turned away before he could see the flicker of something—bitterness? sadness?—cross your face.

Later that evening, the villa was filled with the sound of waves, laughter, and cartoon sound effects. Jaejun lay on a blanket surrounded by toys, humming to himself.

You were making dinner. Jaehyun was setting the table.

It should have been domestic. Peaceful.

But it wasn’t.

“You always add too much salt,” he muttered, watching you taste the stew.

“And you always act like you’re still relevant in this kitchen.”

“Still feisty,” he mumbled under his breath.

You turned sharply, ladle in hand. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”

“I used to think it was.”

The room went quiet.

The only sound was Jaejun giggling at his cartoon.

You both stared at each other—years of history packed into one glance.

He looked away first.

You hated that part of you noticed how tired he looked. That he’d grown out his hair again. That he still wore the watch you gave him two anniversaries ago.

“Dinner’s ready,” you said coldly.

That night, Jaejun fell asleep on the couch with a beach towel as a blanket. You gently lifted him, and Jaehyun stepped in silently to help.

The two of you placed him in the big bed.

You reached for the extra pillow and started arranging a makeshift spot on the couch.

Jaehyun raised an eyebrow. “You’re sleeping there?”

“Obviously.”

He smirked. “I’m not sharing a bed with you.”

“Good,” you said, tossing him the other pillow. “You’re on the floor.”

He scoffed. “This is going to be a great week.”

You threw the blanket at him.

“Goodnight, Jaehyun.”

He lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling.

“Goodnight, Mrs. Jeong.”

Your heart twisted—for reasons you refused to name.

And somewhere between the soft crash of waves and your son’s quiet breaths—you wondered if one week would be too long.

Part 2: You, Me, and Her on the Screen

The sun was blinding the next morning—unforgiving, like it knew exactly how little sleep you got.

Jaejun was already digging in the sand with a plastic shovel, cheeks puffed with joy. You sat under the umbrella, watching him and sipping lukewarm coffee, when Jaehyun walked over shirtless, towel slung over his shoulder.

His body still looked the same.

That bothered you more than you wanted to admit.

You looked away first.

He didn’t say anything. Just dropped beside you, pulled out his phone, and opened a FaceTime call.

You weren’t looking until you heard the voice.

“Babe? Wow, the beach looks so pretty.”

You stiffened.

“Yeah,” Jaehyun said, and you couldn’t tell if he was avoiding eye contact or just being cruel. “It’s peaceful.”

The girl on the screen giggled. You caught a glimpse of her glossy lips and perfectly done nails.

Definitely the type who wouldn’t last one second with a toddler.

You stood to walk toward your son, giving them space. Not that you owed him that anymore.

But as you helped Jaejun build a sandcastle, you couldn’t help noticing—

He’d stopped talking.

His phone was still in his hand, but he was just… watching you.

His girlfriend was still on the call.

And he was watching you.

Later that afternoon, you all went for a short walk along the coast. Jaejun insisted on wearing his little straw hat, stomping through shallow water like a professional explorer.

“Hold my hand!” he shouted at both of you.

You reached for his.

But he pulled away. “No, both! Hold each other too! Like a real family!”

You and Jaehyun froze.

Jaejun’s wide eyes stared up at you, pout trembling. “Please? Just for the picture…”

A local photographer the resort had hired was patiently waiting. She gave a polite smile like she knew what kind of war was going on beneath the silence.

You swallowed hard.

Jaehyun’s hand reached out first.

You hesitated. But then you looked down at Jaejun’s hopeful face—his dimples, his soft hands—and took it.

His hand was warm.

And worse—familiar.

You stood there for one photo.

One forced, pretty lie.

The photographer clicked a few times, then nodded. “Got it!”

But Jaehyun didn’t let go right away.

You looked at him.

He wasn’t smiling. He looked like he was remembering something.

You yanked your hand back.

The walk back to the villa was silent.

That night, you watched Jaejun sleep, curled up in the middle of the bed with one hand clinging to both your pillows.

“I don’t want him to be confused,” you said quietly.

Jaehyun, now sitting on the balcony with a beer, looked up.

“He’s not,” he replied.

“He asked if we could all live together again.”

That made him go quiet.

You walked out and stood next to him. The night breeze was salty. Soft.

“He deserves to be happy,” you whispered. “Even if that means pretending we don’t hate each other for a week.”

He let out a breath. “You think I enjoy this?”

“I think you enjoy being right.”

“I think you enjoy running away.”

You glared at him, but he looked back at you with the same fire.

It only lasted a second.

Then he looked away. “We were good at pretending today.”

You didn’t respond.

Because the way his voice dropped—we were good at pretending—sounded too close to something real.

Something that used to hurt less.

Part 3: The Uninvited

The knock came at 6PM.

You were brushing sand out of Jaejun’s curls when the door opened and her voice rang out like perfume you never liked.

“Surprise!”

Minji. Tall, perfectly pressed in a linen jumpsuit that didn’t belong on a beach, red lipstick too bright for a family trip. She threw her arms around Jaehyun like she didn’t see your figure frozen in the hallway.

You stared.

She stared back—and smiled.

Not the polite kind.

The kind that cuts.

“Oh,” she chirped, glancing at you, “you must be the ex.”

You didn’t flinch. “And you must be the unexpected guest.”

Jaehyun tensed.

But Minji only giggled like it was cute.

Dinner was unbearable.

Minji talked too loudly, too quickly, clung to Jaehyun’s arm like he might float away. Jaejun sat between you and his father, oblivious and humming through spoonfuls of rice.

Then Minji tilted her wine glass and said it.

“You know, I always wondered what kind of woman Jaehyun used to be into. Guess now I know.”

Silence.

The air in the restaurant shifted. Even the background music seemed to fade.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

Minji smiled sweetly. “Just saying—it makes sense. You’re more… domestic. Less of a threat.”

You heard it. So did Jaehyun.

You opened your mouth—but he beat you to it.

“Stop.” His voice was flat. Cold. Deadly.

Minji turned to him, visibly startled. “I was just teasing.”

“No,” he said, voice low. “You were trying to humiliate her.”

Minji’s jaw clenched. “I thought you said things were amicable.”

“We share a child,” he snapped. “We share a life. Show some respect.”

She turned red. Then pale.

You rose from your chair, lips trembling with the pressure of holding back a million words.

“I’m taking Jaejun back to the room.”

“Wait,” Jaehyun said, pushing up from his seat.

You didn’t turn around.

“Stay with your girlfriend,” you muttered, and walked away.

Later that night, Jaehyun knocked softly on your villa door.

You opened it a crack.

He stood there—alone. Hands in his pockets. Brows furrowed.

“I sent her home. We broke up...”

You said nothing.

“She crossed a line. I won’t let anyone talk about you like that.”

The air between you ached.

You nodded once, slowly, then shut the door.

But your hands shook for a long time after.

Not from anger.

From the part of you that wanted to believe him again.

Part 4: The Blue Dress

The next day, Minji was gone.

You didn’t ask. Jaehyun didn’t explain.

But things felt… quieter.

Softer.

And that evening, under the gold-spilled sky, Jaehyun set up a small dinner table right on the sand. Just the three of you. Fairy lights strung along driftwood, music humming from a portable speaker, and Jaejun chasing seagulls barefoot with squeals that made tourists turn their heads.

You almost didn’t come.

But then you looked at yourself in the mirror—sun-kissed skin, loose waves from the salt air, and the short blue dress you hadn’t worn in years.

It still fit.

When Jaehyun saw you, he blinked.

Actually blinked. Like he forgot how to speak.

You noticed.

But you didn’t say anything.

Dinner was grilled shrimp, pineapple rice, and laughter.

Jaejun insisted on feeding Jaehyun “like a big baby” and then threw rice at your knee when you teased him back. Sand clung to your legs. The music shifted to something slow, and Jaehyun was wiping sauce from Jaejun’s cheek when your son tugged your wrist and said—

“Dance with me, Mommy!”

You hesitated.

Jaehyun stood up too. “Let me steal the first one.”

You blinked, surprised—but Jaejun beamed and clapped.

So you took Jaehyun’s hand.

Barefoot in the sand, fairy lights flickering, the breeze warm against your skin, he held your waist lightly and swayed with you.

It wasn’t romantic.

Not yet.

But it was something.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said softly, eyes not leaving yours.

You gave a half-smile. “Not like your girlfriend?”

“She’s not here.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He didn’t respond.

But his hand tightened slightly on your hip.

Then Jaejun ran between you two mid-spin, and Jaehyun lifted him effortlessly onto his shoulders while you laughed so hard your dimples hurt.

And when you laughed—

He stared.

Really stared.

Like it broke something open in him.

You didn’t notice.

But later, when you leaned down to tuck Jaejun into bed, Jaehyun stood in the doorway and watched you for a long, long time.

Not saying a word.

Just remembering that once upon a time, this was his family.

And maybe—just maybe—it still could be.

Part 5: When She Fell

The stars were scattered like spilled salt across the sky.

It was past midnight, and the villa was quiet—except for the sound of your laughter.

Jaehyun stepped out just in time to see you darting barefoot through the sand, your short blue dress fluttering, the drink still in your hand, and your laughter too loud, too beautiful.

"Y/N!" he called, barefoot now too as he chased after you.

You twirled once in the wet sand near the water's edge, hands in the air, hair wild from the ocean breeze. “I’m a divorcee mermaid queen,” you slurred. “Bow before me—”

And then you fell.

Your heel caught in the soft sand mid-spin, and you went down hard with a surprised yelp. The cup flew. Saltwater sprayed. And Jaehyun’s heart stopped.

He was beside you in an instant, dropping to his knees. “Y/N—!”

You looked up at him, blinking, face half-lit by moonlight, laughing breathlessly as you winced. “Ouch.”

“Jesus,” he whispered, brushing hair out of your face, hands frantic but gentle. “You okay?”

You nodded, giggling, “I tripped on my past mistakes.”

He didn’t laugh.

He was still staring at you—your flushed cheeks, your bare legs, your voice so soft and wrecked by rum. And suddenly—

It hit him.

Like a fist to the ribs.

God, he was in love with you.

Still.

Hopelessly.

Painfully.

Every stupid piece of him.

You weren’t his anymore—but the way you blinked up at him, trusting, smiling even though you were dizzy and broken and a little scraped—he felt that familiar ache rise up and choke him.

You sat up slowly, hands in the sand, leaning closer without realizing it. “What?” you murmured. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He couldn’t answer.

He could only reach up and wipe a streak of wet sand from your cheek, fingers trembling.

And for a second, your smile faded too.

Because maybe—you felt it too.

That ancient ache neither of you ever really buried.

But then you looked away, cheeks pink, whispering, “Help me up, Jaehyun. I’m not seventeen anymore.”

He did.

And he didn’t let go of your hand.

Part 6: The Kitchen Kiss

You woke up with sand in your hair and a splitting headache.

The blue dress was crumpled on the bathroom floor, your skin still salty, and your memories were fogged over with half-laughs and half-lost moments in the tide.

You didn’t remember exactly what you said.

But you remembered how he looked at you.

The morning sunlight was too bright, the villa quiet except for the small clatter of dishes from the kitchen.

You dragged your feet across the cold tile and peeked around the corner.

Jaehyun was standing at the stove, shirtless, hair still damp from his shower. He was making eggs—burning them, actually.

Jaejun sat on the counter beside him, swinging his legs and licking strawberry jelly off a spoon.

When Jaehyun turned and saw you in your oversized tee and sleep-mussed hair, he froze.

You squinted. “You’re trying to kill me with breakfast?”

He exhaled a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fair warning, I haven’t cooked in a while.”

“Yeah, well, neither have I. We’re both disasters.”

Jaejun giggled from the counter. “You fell in the ocean.”

You gasped. “You narc!”

Jaehyun chuckled as you reached out and pinched your son’s cheek gently, then moved toward the coffee machine. The space between you and Jaehyun was tight now—close in the quiet kitchen with the sun rising too slow.

You brushed past him to grab a mug.

And he didn’t move.

His hand caught yours instead.

You stilled.

Your breath caught. The warmth of him pressed against your side, not quite touching but close enough. The air was thick.

His voice was low. “Last night…”

You didn’t answer.

You looked at him, heart pounding.

And then—

He leaned in.

And kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t soft either.

It was remembering. It was years of silence crashing in one slow, aching press of lips.

His hand cradled your jaw. Yours clutched the front of his shirt.

And just as your knees buckled, a tiny voice interrupted—

“Are you kissing my mom?”

You both jumped apart.

Jaejun blinked, holding his half-eaten toast.

You cleared your throat, cheeks blazing. “Uh. No. That was CPR.”

Jaehyun, flushed but grinning, nodded seriously. “Very advanced CPR.”

Jaejun narrowed his eyes. Cheeks filled with bread.

Part 7: The Third Spot at the Table

Johnny showed up just after lunch, sunglasses perched on his nose, grinning wide with his usual easy charm.

You had invited him—Jaehyun knew that—but it didn’t make the sight of Johnny lifting Jaejun into the air and spinning him around any easier to stomach.

“Uncle Johnny!” Jaejun squealed, arms around his neck like they were long-lost best friends. “You brought the sea turtle toy!”

“I promised, didn’t I?” Johnny winked at him, then gave you a little mock bow. “And you. Looking gorgeous as always.”

Jaehyun didn’t say a word.

Just sat back on the edge of the porch, sipping from a bottle of water, jaw tight.

He wasn’t the possessive type.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

But watching Johnny high-five Jaejun, watching you laugh at some stupid inside joke the two of you shared from work, watching Johnny casually touch your arm like it meant nothing—

Something in Jaehyun’s chest twisted.

And it twisted harder when Jaejun ran back up the porch, toy in hand, yelling, “Daddy, can Uncle Johnny come to dinner too?! He’s so funny!”

“Don’t be rude,” you teased softly. “Johnny’s been part of our life since before Jaejun could walk. Of course he can.”

Jaehyun forced a smile. “Sure. Why not.”

Johnny grinned. “I’ll bring the wine.”

Jaehyun stood then, brushing sand off his pants. “No need. I’ve already got it covered.”

And he looked right at Johnny when he said it.

Later, at dinner…

Johnny sat beside you, too close, shoulders occasionally bumping.

You laughed at something he said. Tossed your head back.

And Jaehyun stared.

Not at Johnny.

At you.

Because he hadn’t seen you laugh like that in days. Because you leaned into Johnny when you spoke. Because you looked happy, and he didn’t know if it was because of Johnny or despite him.

And it drove him insane.

So when Jaejun curled into Johnny’s side and mumbled sleepily, “Uncle Johnny? Do you like my mo-” Jaehyun finally stood.

“Bedtime,” he said a little too sharply. “Come on, buddy.”

Jaejun blinked. “But I wanna stay with—”

“Now.”

You looked at him, startled by the edge in his voice.

But you didn’t say anything.

Because part of you understood exactly what it meant.

Part 8: The Balcony, the Storm, and the Question

The villa had quieted.

Jaejun had long since fallen asleep in his bed, fingers still curled around the plush sea turtle Johnny gave him.

You were in the kitchen, putting away dishes, when Jaehyun appeared in the doorway—his shirt slightly unbuttoned, hair tousled from the wind, eyes unreadable.

“I poured you wine,” he said quietly. “It’s on the balcony.”

You hesitated.

Then followed.

The night air was thick with salt and tension. The waves were louder now, crashing softly below the wooden railings of the balcony. A single lantern above flickered warm, golden light across his face.

You stepped closer.

“You okay?” you asked, settling into the chair beside him.

“I’m not sure.”

You tilted your head. “Because of Johnny?”

He looked away. “No. Yes. I don’t know. It’s not about him. It’s about… you.”

You said nothing, sipping your wine. Waiting.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke again. “I saw you tonight. With him. With Jaejun. Laughing. Smiling. And I realized something.”

You set the glass down, heart crawling up your throat.

“I realized,” he whispered, “that I want to be the one you laugh with. Again. I want to be the one you come to after hard days. The one you drink wine with at midnight. The one you touch without hesitation. The one our son calls home.”

He turned to face you now—eyes blazing, jaw clenched.

“I want you to be my wife again.”

Your breath hitched. “Jaehyun…”

But he didn’t let you speak.

He stepped closer, reached for your face—roughly, like he couldn’t hold it in anymore—and kissed you.

Hard.

Desperate.

All tongue and teeth and too much emotion. The kind of kiss that hurt because it was filled with regret. The kind of kiss that pulled the air out of your lungs because it meant everything. The kind of kiss that you had dreamt about since the moment he walked away from you months ago.

You gasped, gripping his shirt, pushing him slightly—and then pulling him right back.

And he didn’t stop.

He cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing tears you didn’t even realize had fallen. Kissed you again—slower this time. Tender. Raw.

When he pulled back, you were trembling.

He rested his forehead against yours.

“Please,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Be my wife again. For real this time. No walking away. No bitterness. Just… us.”

You didn’t answer right away.

You just leaned into him.

And kissed him back.

Bonus Scene: “Secrets for the Smallest One”

The house was quiet, bathed in the soft lavender glow of early evening. Somewhere in the kitchen, the dishwasher hummed. Outside, cicadas buzzed lazily in the trees.

Inside, you were curled up on Jaejun’s bed, watching as Jaehyun gently helped him into his pajamas — dinosaur ones, of course. The toddler was swaying with sleep, arms lifted obediently, eyes half-closed but fighting the pull of dreams.

“Too tired to brush your teeth?” Jaehyun teased, kneeling in front of him.

“I brushed the air,” Jaejun muttered, head flopping onto his dad’s shoulder.

Jaehyun looked up at you with a helpless grin. “That counts, right?”

You smirked. “For today, it does.”

Once Jaejun was tucked under the blankets, he reached out and took both your hands — dragging your arm around his tiny body like a teddy bear, demanding you lay beside him. Jaehyun joined you on the other side, his legs hanging off the bed, big body comically curled just to fit.

It was a little too warm. A little too cramped. But no one moved.

“Mama,” Jaejun mumbled, already halfway into sleep. “When the baby comes… will they laugh like you?”

Your throat tightened. “Maybe. I hope so.”

He turned toward your bump, small fingers brushing your stomach. “I’ll tell them stories. About turtles. And Daddy screaming when he saw a worm.”

Jaehyun groaned. “It was a snake! You told everyone it was a worm!”

Jaejun was already asleep.

You and Jaehyun carefully eased off the bed, tucking the blanket up to Jaejun’s chin. You pressed a kiss to his forehead. Jaehyun did the same.

Back in your shared room, you changed into pajamas, your back turned as you spoke softly. “He’s getting so big, isn’t he?”

“Mhm,” Jaehyun murmured.

When you turned around, he was kneeling in front of your bump, hands gentle and warm on either side of your belly.

He kissed it once. Then twice. Then rested his forehead there.

“Hey,” he whispered softly, eyes closed. “It’s me. Your dad. I’m kinda bad at this sometimes. But I’m really trying.”

You froze, heart full and breaking all at once.

“I can’t wait to meet you,” he murmured. “Your brother’s crazy. Your mom is… everything. And you… you’re the next piece of us. The one we didn’t even know we needed.”

You knelt down too, crawling into his lap, burying your face in his neck.

“I love you,” you whispered.

Jaehyun nodded against your hair, holding you tighter.

“I love all of us,” he said.

And under the sleepy roof of your quiet home, that love wrapped around the four of you — warm and unshakeable — like the softest blanket in the world.