#JAEMIN FIC | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

leejenowrld · 2 days ago

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heart to heart — three

pairing — surgeon!na jaemin x intern! mc

word count - 58k words

genre - smut, fluff, angst, age gap (10 years)

synopsis — you, jaemin, and haeun slip into an urgent, unguarded intimacy, the ache of chosen family drawing you close fast, your shared home turned into a sanctuary, still, judgment shadows each tender moment: whispers at the hospital, questions from strangers, your own secret fear that you’ll never quite be enough for this broken, beautiful little girl or the man who’d burn the world for her. haeun’s medical journey twists beneath all of it—flashes of hope, nights on the floor of the icu, the endless push for answers and the trial that might save her failing heart. but safety is only an illusion. the black swan circles at the edges of your new life, feeding on doubt and pain, and the parasite—the promise of a mother who will not stay dead—waits in the dark, ready to tear everything you’ve built apart.

chapter warnings — explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, greys anatomy (and early 2000s medical shows) inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom jaemin/sub mc dynamics, rough sex, intimate sex, explicit language, rough attending-intern sex, there’s some scenes where jaemin and mc use sex to cope with what’s happening with haeun, ‘daddy’ kink as always, pinning wrists, handcuffing reader to headboard, throat play, choking, jaemin spits in reader’s mouth repeatedly, haeun walks into them LOL, multiple penetrative scenes, including on bed, floor, stairs, office desk, kitchen counter, laundry machine, balcony, window, bathroom counter, closet, and guest bathroom. described with detail of thrusting, stretching, squelching, reader soaking sheets, squirting, multiple orgasms, whipped cream and syrup used on reader’s nipples, clit, back, then licked off during sex, sex on balcony with risk of neighbors seeing, sex in haeun’s playroom, on rainbow mat, near her toys, in her princess tent, but she is fast asleep (!!), this part features extremely fast-blooming intimacy between jaemin and y/n—if you’re expecting a slow burn, this part isn’t it. jaemin and y/n’s intimacy blooms quickly, almost recklessly, as they lock in and build a family out of desperation and raw need—their love is a headlong rush because the story asks what happens when you find the one person you can truly fall apart with, even as the world threatens to take it all away. this chapter explores the fear of loss and the shadows of early death, with heavy themes of end-of-life anxiety, grief, and relentless medical uncertainty woven through every scene. there are frequent references to mortality, explicit imagery of dying, and foreshadowing of death that may be emotionally intense. expect gut-wrenching depictions of loving at the edge of goodbye, trauma, found family, and the constant, pulsing promise of loss, medical trauma, family judgment, and the looming threat of obsession and violence (the “black swan”/parasite), hospital anxiety, found family tenderness, haeun and yn centric, haeun is a mama’s girl, total devotion, need, and clinginess. overwhelming physical closeness, constant touch, emotional dependence; very full-on, raw, and consuming—always cuddles, hand-holding, kisses, “never letting go,” the fic opens in third person pov for around 1k words, this is a long read, not proofread, expect some mistakes.

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐀𝐍, 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐇 𝐊𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐀, 𝟎𝟑:𝟏𝟖 𝐀𝐌 — 𝟑𝟓.𝟏𝟔𝟒𝟖° 𝐍, 𝟏𝟐𝟗.𝟎𝟔𝟏𝟕° 𝐄, 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐂 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐄

A single fluorescent tube buzzes overhead, casting a sickly, pale glow along the cracked tile floor. In the far corner of the psychiatric facility’s day room, Aseul sits hunched in a metal chair, as silent and frail as a ghost. The window beside her is barred, framing a night sky that bleeds moonlight onto her hollow face. In her thin hands she cradles a tattered Polaroid, Haeun’s infant face beams up at her from the photo, pink cheeks and dark curls, oblivious to the fingerprint smudges and frayed edges from Aseul’s obsessive handling. Aseul’s lips curl into a semblance of a smile as she strokes the image. It’s chilling how gentle that touch is, given the violence once caged behind those fingers. Her nails, bitten to the quick, scrape faintly over the picture in a quiet rhythm.

The ward around her is a hive of sickness, patients who mumble at the walls, others slack-jawed on antipsychotics, some just shuffling in empty circles. None of them come near Aseul anymore; they feel the menace in her quiet, the wildness barely bottled under her skin. The routines here are strict, obsessive, meant to keep the chaos contained, but there’s no saving a mind as fractured as hers. Even the orderlies hurry past her, clutching their keys and meds close, eyes flicking away from the fever-bright stare she levels at the window, as if she could see something crawling up the glass.

In the silence, she begins to hum a half-forgotten lullaby. The melody is broken and discordant; each note seems to catch in her throat, as though haunted by memories. A nearby orderly shifts uneasily, unsettled by the sound. Aseul’s voice is papery and soft: “Haeun-ah… Mama’s going to take you home soon.” She speaks to the photo as if it were her child incarnate. Her eyes, once bright with manic energy, are dull now—except for a feverish spark that ignites whenever she utters her daughter’s name. Haeun. And sometimes, Jaemin.

On the table before her lies a notebook filled with jagged handwriting. By the dim light, one can make out fragments: “stole my baby… the parasite, the cure, the family that should be mine… we’ll be together… Jaemin, Haeun, Aseul—forever.” The words loop in incoherent cycles, an obsessive mantra spilled in ink. A drawn picture flutters from between the pages: a crude crayon sketch of a man and little girl, with a third figure hovering beside them, scratched in charcoal gray. Aseul’s representation of herself is featureless, almost shadow-like, looming over the happy pair. She has scrawled “mine” across the top in bold, furious strokes.

Lightning flickers beyond the barred window, and for an instant the room illuminates stark white. Aseul’s gaunt reflection stares back at her from the glass. Her once-beautiful features are sunken; dark hair hangs lank and unkempt around a face that is both tragic and terrifying. She tilts her head, examining herself. In her mind’s eye she sees what she once was: a glittering dancer draped in neon and desire, the woman who once held Dr. Na Jaemin in thrall for a fleeting moment of madness. Now, beneath that lightning flash, her reflection splits—fractured like a mosaic. She sees the mother she could have been, cradling a healthy baby; she sees the lover she should have been, warming Jaemin’s bed. Then another flash, and she sees the monster within: eyes wild, lips peeled back in a silent scream as she tore at hospital blankets and hurled a music box to the ground.

A shudder wracks her thin frame. Aseul presses the Polaroid to her chest, rocking slowly. The overhead light flickers, painting the walls in jittery shadows. In the dimness, the other patients keep their distance, as if sensing the dangerous tempest swirling beneath Aseul’s eerie calm. She whispers secrets to the darkness: incoherent promises and apologies that nobody understands. Tears carve shiny tracks down her cheeks as she clutches that photo hard enough to warp it. “Mama’s coming soon,” she croons to the smiling infant in the picture, voice hitching on a sob. “Mama will make it all right. We’ll be a family. We’ll dance together, won’t we? Haeun, my baby… mine… mine.” Her words taper into a hush so thin it’s almost swallowed by the hum of the lights.

It is during this low, haunted moment that another patient comes into view, a woman with an unnaturally straight posture, steps precise and sharp, her presence as cold and magnetic as a razor blade. She wears a false charm bracelet, glass beads clacking on her wrist, her eyes never leaving Aseul. In no time, the two fall together, the woman’s dominance absolute, her aura swallowing Aseul’s skittish devotion whole. They become inseparable—the woman the shadow, Aseul the moon to her darkness, always trailing, always clutching the other’s wrist, their fingers laced too tight. The woman feeds her stories at night, curling around Aseul in her cot, breathing warm against her ear, mouth pressed to the skin of her throat, and nobody in the ward has the courage to interrupt. Their relationship is a fever-dream, one woman dominant, cruelly amused, the other desperate for orders and affirmation, letting herself be devoured. In the half-light, under scratchy hospital sheets, the woman slides her hand beneath Aseul’s collar, twisting the silver chain and ballet slipper charm between finger and tongue; Aseul whimpers and shivers and clings, and their bodies tangle in silence while the other patients pretend not to see. Some nights, the orderlies hear laughter—breathy, broken, sexual. Other times, a hush so thick you could choke.

The next day, the other woman crosses the ward, her movements graceful and calculated, a glint in her eye as she draws something from behind her back—a small, hand-knit blanket, faded yellow and white, the border edged with exactly fifty-six stitches, the kind of detail and genuine love only a Mother could ever express, every row carefully arranged and woven with love. She kneels beside Aseul, holding it out like a bribe, or a benediction. “Look what I found,” she murmurs, in a mocking sing-song voice, voice oily-sweet. Aseul’s hands tremble as she snatches the blanket, pressing it to her face with desperate hunger, eyes squeezed shut. She inhales, shaky, ragged, rocking on her chair, whispering, “It smells like my baby.” The blanket is unmistakably stolen—a ghost of the nursery, still threaded with the scent of baby shampoo, milk, and sun-warm skin. Aseul clings to it, breath shuddering, rocking harder, as if the yarn itself might conjure her daughter back into her arms.

Aseul’s longing to reclaim her baby is its own form of fever—a symptom, not just a sin. Even after the violence, the desperate, self-sabotaging act of trying to harm her child, the mother-instinct claws back, twisted by the very sickness that made her dangerous. She suffers from a severe, untreated mood disorder with episodes of psychosis: mania, delusions, paranoia, tidal waves of guilt and euphoria that crash and break inside her, making her both victim and threat. Her medication, when she takes it, numbs her into a half-life; when she skips it, the world turns sharp and bright, every memory of her baby burning in her chest. Regret devours her, but the illness rewires even that regret, convincing her she’s the only one who can truly save Haeun, the only mother who loves her enough to suffer for her.

The other woman becomes Aseul’s lifeline and her poison. She knows exactly how to fan that ache, slipping cruel reassurances into Aseul’s ear at night. “They stole your baby, they want to erase you, only you know what’s best.” She feeds the delusions, encourages Aseul’s rage, weaponizes her grief until wanting her child back becomes a holy mission—redemption, revenge, a cure for everything broken inside. It’s toxic, an echo chamber of longing and blame. Aseul starts to believe she is both martyr and savior: her pain proof that she alone can love her child the way no one else could. The truth—that love and danger can coexist, that sometimes the sickest people still love the hardest—is lost in the spiral. Every therapy session, every medication dose missed, every whisper in the night from her lover’s lips. “She’s yours. She’s waiting. If you loved her enough, she would be whole,” only tightens the knot, driving Aseul back toward the child she both harmed and worships, a mother by diagnosis, a mother by wound. In the end, it’s heartbreakingly clear: Aseul wants her baby back not in spite of her illness, but because of it. The line between victim and perpetrator, love and danger, is blurred until the very longing itself becomes a symptom—unhealable, unending, endlessly used against her by the one person who wants her most broken.

Scattered across her lap and spilling onto the sheets are dozens of photographs—some wrinkled from anxious fingers, some freshly printed and glossy. Every image has you with Haeun: you kissing her forehead in a sunlit garden, cradling her in your arms on the hospital roof, tucking her bunny under her chin as she sleeps. The woman’s hands shake as she uncaps a red marker and circles your face again and again, pressing so hard the tip threatens to tear the paper, staining your image with angry halos and fevered spirals.

Aseul sits cross-legged on the neighboring bed, clutching a pillow to her chest, her eyes wide and glassy with sleeplessness, drawn to the ritual like a moth. The other woman’s voice is low and conspiratorial, each sentence bubbling with delusion as she leans in and whispers, “You see what she’s doing? She’s everywhere. She won’t let go of our girl.” She pushes the photos toward Aseul, tapping your face, looping it over and over until your cheeks bleed crimson through the paper. “You have to keep Haeun safe. She’s dangerous. She’ll hurt her, just like she hurt you. Just like Jaemin.”

She feeds poison into Aseul’s ear in slow, shuddering breaths, spinning stories of betrayal, planting seeds of doubt. “He’ll take her from you, too. He’s already forgotten you. They’re together now. You’re nothing.” The marker drags across Jaemin’s image next, scribbling him out in jagged red slashes, carving his eyes away, turning his smile into a wound.

Aseul swallows hard, tears pricking the corners of her eyes, voice shaking when she finally whispers, “What should I do?”

The other woman smiles, her lips stretched too thin, eyes gleaming under the jaundiced flicker of the ward’s ceiling lights. She leans so close Aseul can feel the rasp of her breath, warm and sour, curling into her ear like a secret infection. “You have to watch them, you hear me?” she whispers, voice a crawling thread, sickly sweet and full of static. Her nails dig into Aseul’s wrist, sharp and insistent, leaving red crescents like warning signs. With the marker clenched in her fist, she drags another violent circle around your face, pressing so hard the paper rips, jagged and bleeding at the edges. “She won’t let you near Haeun. She wants her for herself. She’ll do anything. You know what has to be done.” Her gaze slips sideways, pupils blown wide, searching the corners of the room for things only she can see. “Jaemin’s the worst of them—he’ll lock her away, he’ll make sure you never see her again. Unless we act first. Unless we take her.” Her voice is a hiss, hungry and raw, trembling with promise. “There’s a way out, but you have to be brave, Aseul. Brave and quiet and quick. Night is when the doors are weakest.”

The photos scatter to the floor, faces staring up from the linoleum—yours crossed out, Haeun’s mouth traced in smeared, desperate hearts. The other woman’s smile splits wider, eyes wild and wet, as she leans forward, voice sinking into something almost reverent. “We’ll get her back. We’ll make them pay. I’ll show you how.” The distant wails from down the hall melt into a low, animal hum, and as the marker squeals its final bullseye, the air in the ward curdles, heavy with dread. The plan is growing, feral and patient, coiled inside the fever of their minds, waiting for the moment it’s ready to strike.

Orderlies try to separate the two woman, but their unity only grows tighter—one mind bending to the will of the other. The woman slips poison into Aseul’s brain, convincing her that every horror is deserved, every slight a reason for revenge, every absence a theft. Aseul becomes her echo, her mouthpiece, parroting the woman’s mantras until the lines between their voices are blurred. It is the woman who whispers about the parasite—about the child and the doctor who stole her, about what’s owed, about how everything can be reclaimed if only Aseul is brave enough to bleed for it. In the window’s reflection, their faces merge—black hair, hungry mouths, eyes that never close. When lightning flashes, you’d swear you see one body, two heads, all hunger and need.

In the chaos of the ward’s routines—med carts, sleep checks, orderly rounds—the woman orchestrates tiny rebellions: pills palmed and spat, notes scrawled in code, clandestine meetings in locked toilets. Her charm bracelet catches the light at all the wrong moments, the fake gems glinting with secrets. Sometimes Aseul fingers it, tracing the initials, pausing over one bead: 23/04, engraved in tiny script. The woman’s lips curl. No one—not the exhausted night staff, not the desperate day nurses—can break their grip on each other. When the woman is transferred or put in seclusion, Aseul wails and tears at her own skin. When the woman returns, she brings gifts, ribbons, lipstick, pieces of wire, always something sharp. Their bond is the talk of the ward, though no one names it; everyone senses the storm building, the fuse burning toward disaster.

One night, with thunder rattling the windows, the two of them huddle on the floor by the heater, whispering about escape. The woman’s hand slips under Aseul’s chin, tilts her face up, kisses her hard and bitter, then drags her to the window, pointing out at the storm. “We’ll get out,” the woman promises, “and when we do, we’ll burn the world for what they took.”

Aseul, dazed and trembling, nods, eyes wet and wild. “Anything you want,” she breathes, “as long as I have my baby. As long as you help me.”

She presses her nails hard into Aseul’s arm. “Our baby,” she hisses, the words stretched raw, twisted with ownership and hunger, every syllable dragging up from some pit deeper than madness.

Aseul flinches, shoulders curling in, tears breaking free as she mutters, “Sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—please, I’m sorry, I just want her safe, I just want her—” Her voice fragments, caught between pleading and terror, unable to meet the other woman’s wild gaze.

In the flicker of lightning, two silhouettes fuse against the glass—a single, monstrous shadow. The promise of release, of reunion, of revenge. A lullaby hummed off-key. Pills spit into the corner, the night thick with the taste of poison and lipstick and old blood. The world outside rages, but inside, the black swan is awake, her parasite already chosen. The stage is set; all that’s left is the escape.

Thunder growls far in the distance. Aseul’s gaze drifts to the barred window again. She imagines, for a heartbeat, that the reflection behind her is another presence—the shadowy silhouette of a little girl with curls and a man with gentle eyes. She reaches out a trembling hand toward them, but her fingers meet the cold unyielding glass. The figures are gone; only night and storm stare back. Aseul’s face crumples. A single drop of rain snakes down the outside of the pane, tracing the path of her tear on the inside. Tragic hardly suffices to describe the sight of her: a mother shattered by illness and delusion, clinging to the idea of a family that fears her and a baby who has now claimed another woman as her Mama. In the quiet, she begins humming that lullaby again, each note softer than the last, until it’s just a breath against the window. The storm outside intensifies, wind howling like a child’s cry, but inside Aseul’s mind there is a deadly calm resolve forming. She presses the Polaroid to her lips in a mockery of a goodnight kiss.

“Soon,” she whispers, rocking herself back and forth as lightning skitters through the clouds. Her reflection blurs with each flash—haunting, ominous. “Soon we’ll all be together. Mama always comes back… Mama always comes back…” The phrase drifts from her tongue in a sing-song echo, co-opting the comforting words you once whispered to calm Haeun. Twisted into Aseul’s cracked voice, the mantra becomes an unsettling prophecy.

Behind her, the orderly watches with a frown, not understanding the significance of those words. He only sees a disturbed woman muttering to herself. But if anyone could hear Aseul’s thoughts, they would curdle with dread. For in Aseul’s mind, the path is clear: once she’s free of these walls—one way or another—she will reclaim what she lost. In her delusion, the tragedy of her story can still be undone: Haeun back in her arms, Dr. Na by her side, the parasite of doubt cut away for good. As thunder rattles the building, Aseul’s quiet, haunting laughter slips out, barely audible. It is the sound of heartbreak turned to madness, an eerie harmony to the rain.

Sometimes, late at night when the ward sinks into uneasy silence, the two women slip away from the glow of the TV and huddle beneath the window’s bars. The other woman’s arm snakes around Aseul’s shoulders, mouth pressed close to her ear, voice sweet as rot. They murmur to each other in code—jagged whispers about lost daughters, locked doors, how the world outside is waiting for a mother’s return. Aseul clings tighter, shivering, eyes flickering with fever and hope, as the woman’s long fingers trace invisible routes along her forearm, mapping escape like a lover might outline veins. The night staff learn to avoid their corner when the muttering grows low and purposeful; even the orderlies feel the wrongness thickening in the air. Sometimes a window latch is found loosened, sometimes pills go missing, sometimes one of the bathroom tiles is pried loose and left ajar. When the lightning flashes, the silhouettes pressed together on the linoleum seem to double, and the sound of their laughter—too close, too secret, too hungry—spreads like a shiver across the ward. No one knows when or how, but something is brewing between them. It’s only a matter of time before someone slips the lock, and all the darkness they’ve been nursing spills out.

𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊, 𝟒𝟎.𝟕𝟒𝟖𝟑° 𝐍, 𝟕𝟑.𝟗𝟖𝟕𝟖° 𝐖. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐔𝐌𝐀 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌

The world ruptures with a single note—a monitor’s banshee shriek, a knifing alarm that cleaves the hospital’s midnight calm. Time splits as you and Jaemin tear through the corridor, breath burning in your lungs, hands slick and locked together. Every step is a plunge through syrup-thick air, the walls stretching and buckling as the hospital bends around the catastrophe's gravity. Overhead, fluorescent lights strobe and stutter, catching only flashes: Jaemin’s face, ashen with terror, your own reflection warped in a passing window, your feet slapping tile as if you can outrun death itself.

Through the glass, the nightmare is already blooming. Haeun lies splayed in the center of chaos, impossibly still—her skin a thin translucence, ashen as the belly of a storm, every trace of sunlit warmth bleached from her cheeks. Her lips are violet, parted in a child’s unfinished question. She looks hollowed out, emptied by something monstrous—the parasite inside her has devoured the light, leaving a pale shadow in its wake. The black dove of fate perches on the curve of her shoulder, wings slicked with oil, ready to claim her into oblivion. She is all innocence and ruin, tiny fists limp at her sides, the gentle slope of her ribs barely stirring under the thick snarl of wires and tubing, as if her body has forgotten how to rise and fall.

Around her, the world is an apocalyptic machine: hands pressing, voices barking numbers and dosages, but all of it is swallowed by the oppressive, echoing void. The crash cart slams against the bed, paddles slick with gel, and then the first shock—the jolt cracks through her tiny chest, her body lurching off the mattress, limbs flung in a grotesque mimicry of life. The monitor holds its flatline, screaming a note of endless loss, and every attempt to revive her is punctuated by Jaemin’s sobs, jagged and relentless, tearing holes in the silence like claws raking flesh. “Please, please, don’t take my baby from me, please—” His cries splinter the room, but the only response is the cold, clinical command. “Again!”—and another charge, another seizure of her lifeless frame, her mouth falling open with no sound, no breath, only the mechanical pulse of hope dying in the air. The world narrows to this: the hush of Haeun’s stolen breath, the electric thunder of the paddles, and Jaemin’s anguish, echoing like a funeral bell in the hollowness left behind.

Dr. Huang towers at her bedside, face carved with exhaustion and razor-sharp focus, his voice a blade slicing the panic. “Charge to forty. Clear. Again.” His hands are relentless—compressing, willing her tiny sternum to rise, to remember what it means to breathe. Each shock ricochets through the room, illuminating her in staccato flashes, painting the black dove’s wing in sharp silhouette. Chief Byun Baekhyun orchestrates the crisis from the head of the bed, eyes narrowed to a single point of focus, every command falling like the crack of a whip. “Push epi—faster! Keep the line!” Nurses dart and loop in a frantic ballet, their faces wet with sweat and something like prayer, their movements sewn tight with desperation, a flock of white uniforms scattering and re-forming, trying to keep death at bay.

The air is syrupy, thick with fear and antiseptic and the metallic tang of blood. Jaemin is shattered beside you, his composure gutted, his cheeks wet and red, every breath a gasp that hitches on a sob. He stands frozen for a moment, one trembling hand pressed to the glass, knuckles white, his other clutching yours like a lifeline. In his eyes, a wellspring of ancient grief and raw, animal love, he’s a surgeon unmade, a father stripped bare by the vision of his daughter dissolving before him. A nurse’s arm bars your chest—protocol, security—but your fear shatters manners. You wrench past her, stumbling into the room just as the paddles come down again, Haeun’s body arching on the table, the scent of singed skin mingling with soap and sorrow. She is impossibly small amid the hands and wires, a doll abandoned at the foot of the storm. The parasite. her silent, merciless adversary, has devoured her brightness, left only a hollow shell and the black dove, waiting, patient, shadowing the hollow of her throat.

“My baby, my poor baby,” Jaemin whispers, voice scoured raw by the agony clawing through him, prayer and confession tangled on his trembling lips. His hands shake as he presses them to her still chest, knuckles white, desperate to anchor her soul to this side of the dark. His tears fall unbidden, splattering onto her cheek. gentle rain on porcelain, love too late and too fragile for this world. He bends over her, forehead pressed to her temple, shuddering with sobs that leave him emptied and broken, the syllables barely more than gasps “Stay, stay, please, Daddy’s right here, I love you, I love you, come back to me,” each word is a promise and an apology, every plea laced with memory: her first breath, the warmth of her laughter, the way she’d press sticky kisses to his jaw and call him her ‘hero Dada.’. He cradles her head as the paddles descend again, a shield and a supplicant, all his love distilled into the helpless way he clings to her, mourning her even as he begs the universe to return her heartbeat.

Jaemin crashes to her side, his voice a raw fragment. “Come on, Haeun. Come on, come back. You can’t leave, not now. Please, please, sunshine, stay with me—” Jaemin’s voice cracks, softer now, as if gentleness might coax her spirit back where violence could not. He bends low, pressing his lips to her forehead, his words tumbling out in fractured whispers, “It’s not your time, baby. There’s so much time left for you. There’s flowers I haven’t braided into your hair, stories I haven’t read you yet, mornings where you drag me out of bed just to see how pink the sunrise gets.” His hands shake as he cups her cheeks, thumbs sweeping her cold skin, trying to warm her with memory. “I haven’t taught you how to tie your shoes, or shown you how loud the river gets in spring, or let you scold me for eating dessert before dinner. You’re supposed to draw on every wall, kiss my nose goodnight, ruin all my shirts with paint. There’s so much left, Haeun, please, come back, sweetheart, let me show you everything that’s waiting for you. Let me love you for every year you were meant to have.” His sobs fracture the silence as he buries his face in her hair, grief and hope tangled in every breath. “Please, baby, just one more story, one more dance, come back to Daddy. Please.”

The seconds after the monitor’s blip are jagged and bottomless, no one breathes, no one moves, as if afraid the world will collapse if they make a sound. Then Haeun twitches, barely perceptible, a convulsion rolling through her limbs, eyelids fluttering as if her soul can’t decide if it’s safe to come home. Her lips part, a thin gasp scraping up from her throat, harsh and wet. At first, there’s no recognition, her gaze stutters between the white glare of the lights and the swarm of faces crowding above, dazed and animal-small. Her cheeks are mottled with tears and dried blood, lashes matted to her skin, mouth working soundlessly, as if language itself is foreign.

A low moan shudders through her, pain, confusion, the terror of rebirth. Her arms spasm, hands jerking out for something, anything, the pulse oximeter rips from her finger. She thrashes weakly, sheets tangling around her legs, the IV line pulled taut as she kicks and flails, panic mounting by the second. “No—no, don’t, no go—” The syllables tumble out slurred, a baby’s babble gone frantic. Then her gaze snags on Jaemin, his figure haloed by the chaos, he’s bent over her, hands trembling, lips pressed to her temple, his breath hot and ragged as if every exhale might keep her heart beating. Relief hits him so hard it’s agony; his face crumples, tears flooding his eyes, running in hot, silent rivers as he crushes her to his chest.

He kisses every inch of her, her forehead, her cheeks sticky with tears, her damp hair, each kiss frantic, a desperate cataloguing of proof that she’s still here, still breathing, still his. “It’s okay, baby, Daddy’s got you, Daddy’s here,” he stammers, voice splintered by sobs, kissing her over and over, his hands shaking so badly he can barely hold her. For a moment, he breaks entirely, his whole body shudders, sobs wracking his chest, relief and fear tangling in his throat. He buries his face in her hair, voice gone to a whisper. “I’m here, I’m right here, you’re so strong, baby.” Even as she clings to him, he feels broken, hollowed out by the nearness of loss, his love for her an ache that never lets him rest. Every time her small fingers find his face, he kisses them, unable to stop, as if touch alone might anchor her soul to this world.

“Dada?” Her voice is thin, barely more than a breath. cracked, broken, the syllables crumbling in her mouth. “Dada, it so dark! Help me, boom boom owie.” The words stick, tangled up in tears, shivering through the sharp, uneven hiccups of her breath. Her hands flutter up toward his face, reaching, desperate for the shelter of him but her fingers fall limp, trembling, too weak to grasp. They slide helplessly down his jaw, the touch feather-light, a ghost of comfort. Instantly, Jaemin covers her small hands with his own, pressing them to his cheeks, cradling her as if he could lend her all his strength just by willing it so. She tries to cling to him, arms heavy, fingers slipping from his hair, her sobs rising, splintered and raw. “Dada, stay, pwease, I be good girl. Stay, no dark, no dark, my boo-boo bad. It no work, Dada, it no work, boom boom no work.”

Jaemin can barely speak, his throat is tight with sobs, hands everywhere at once: stroking her hair, brushing sweat from her brow, cupping her cheeks. “I’m here, sunshine, I’m right here, look at Daddy, you’re safe, you’re okay, so brave, so, so brave. The Doctors need to fix you up, ok? Daddy will be here waiting for you when you come out.” He tries to anchor her with his warmth, pressing kisses to her forehead, whispering, “Stay with me, baby, I’m right here, Daddy’s got you, nothing’s going to happen—”

But the crisis is already swelling again. Dr. Huang is barking orders, voice slicing through the room. “She’s critical, we need to go in and fix the outflow tract, her heart’s shutting down. She needs the OR now!” Nurses scramble for the gurney. Jaemin scoops Haeun into his arms, her cries growing louder, shrill with terror, “Dada! No go! Stay, pwease, my boom boom, my heart, owie, Dada, no more, pwease, I want Daddy, only Daddy.” She claws at his collar, clings to his wrist, nails biting skin, legs kicking as if she can stop the world from moving.

Haeun’s hands tremble against Jaemin’s cheeks, her little fists slick with sweat as she clings with all the frantic strength left in her tiny body, fat tears streaking her face. When Dr. Huang reaches for her, she shrieks—a high, wild, animal sound—and kicks out with desperate, clumsy feet, nails scratching at his coat, fists flailing. “No! No, no, don’ take me! no go ‘way, no ouchie room, pwease.” She screams, voice shredding into panic. The nurses move in, the metal of the gurney cold and sharp as they ready the transfer, but Haeun fights them, legs kicking, face blotchy and red, twisting from every hand that isn’t Jaemin’s. “Dada, help! Don’ let dem! No ouchie! Dada, no! No mask, no sleepy, no needles. I‘fraid, Dada, your Hauenie ‘fraid!” She tries to shrink into his chest, feet digging into the sheets, tiny body curled tight as a bean sprout, her face red and splotchy.

Her small fists thud helplessly against Dr. Huang’s arm, her cries splintering the hush as they try to settle her onto the bed, her bunny falling to the floor in the chaos. Every second is raw resistance, sobs caught in her throat, the whole unit filling with her broken, pleading wails: “Don’ take me! I wan’ stay! Dada, pwease, pwease, don’ let go—” Her eyes are wild, searching for Jaemin, even as the wheels begin to turn, her arms stretching out for him until she’s forced away, a helpless, heart-shattering blur of loss and terror. “Boom boom hurt, but I wan’ stay wif Dada, wan’ stay here, no fix, no more boo-boo.” Her panic rises, a river of broken syllables: “I stay wif you, hold my hand, pwease, don’ make me go. Dada, I ‘fraid, don’ go ‘way, no surgery, no sleepy… wan’ stay here, pwease!” The plea dissolves into muffled, desperate cries against his collar, a sound that twists the air, helpless and raw.

You move on instinct, adrenaline driving you toward the scrub sink, hands already reaching to tug on a cap, mind flashing with the practiced steps you’ve taken before every one of her surgeries. Every muscle is coiled, tight with panic and purpose; the protocol is tattooed in your bones. Dr. Huang’s sharp voice intercepts you before you even make it past the line, he steps into your path, catching your wrist in a firm but gentle grip. His gaze flicks, clinical and knowing, from the haphazardly buttoned top clinging to Jaemin’s chest to the bruise blooming at your throat, lingering on the trembling hands that give you both away. The exhaustion, the closeness, the red-rimmed eyes, he reads the scene in a heartbeat, sees the mess of love and devastation written across your bodies. His voice lowers, uncharacteristically gentle but edged with authority. “Not this time. You’re too close to this case, I’ll send Nurse Yuha to give updates every half hour.” He holds your gaze, searching for defiance, but all he finds is your shaking grief. “Go be with Dr. Na, he needs you and she’ll need you both when she wakes up. That’s what matters the most now.” The words land hard, more mercy than reprimand, and you’re left standing in the liminal light as they wheel her away, the echo of your own need tightening around your chest.

The corridor splits open around you, nurses shouting, metal bed rails clattering, the blinding gleam of fluorescent lights stinging your eyes as Haeun’s panic surges, wild and feral. Her wails twist into something sharper, tearing at every heart in the hall. “Dada, don’t let go, don’t go, no, no, no!” Her voice fractures with rage and betrayal, hands clawing for Jaemin even as the gurney picks up speed. “Why you do dis, Dada? Why you make me go? I don’ wanna! You bad, you rude, you mean dada!” Her fists thump the railings, feet kicking, cheeks streaked with spit and tears. “I wanna die, I wanna die!” she screams, voice splintering, agony crackling through every word. “Don’t want no more boo-boo, don’t want you, don’t want hospital!” She twists away from the nurse’s grip, the force of her anger almost toppling the rails, every inch of her small body fighting fate itself. “Let me go! I wanna go dark!” The hallway eats the sound, Jaemin stumbling alongside her until security stops him at the threshold. He’s left clutching empty air, breath coming in broken bursts, knees buckling as her voice ricochets down the corridor, an ache no medicine can mend.

The doors to the OR swing shut with a gunshot finality, leaving only a rift of harsh white light on the polished hospital floor. The hallway shrinks, silent and airless as an underwater tomb. Jaemin doesn’t fall, he disintegrates, sinking to his knees as if gravity itself has turned vindictive, one trembling hand sliding down the wall, the other clamped to his mouth, trying to hold in the sound. He’s weeping so violently it’s beyond language—full-body, rib-wracking sobs, a man unmoored from time. His head drops forward, shoulders heaving, each breath a raw, animalistic drag. You’re there before thought, drawn to him by the same force that yanked you down that corridor, that dragged you through the storm. Your knees hit the cold tile, arms folding around his slumped frame, chest pressed tight to his back, anchoring him to the world.

His hands find you blindly, clutching at your wrists, your shirt, your hips, fingers shaking so hard it takes both of yours to steady him. His face is wet, tear-slick, cheeks streaked crimson where his nails have clawed at his skin. He tries to speak—once, twice—nothing comes, only a strangled whimper, shattered against your collarbone. You cup his jaw, turn his face to yours, thumb running beneath his eye, gathering tears that keep falling, endless, salt and devastation. Your own vision is blurred, your heart trying to match his wild, broken rhythm. “Dr. Nana, I’m here,” you whisper, voice frayed, “I’m right here. Breathe, baby. Just breathe.”

He shakes his head, breath stuttering, chest tight and heaving. “I can’t. I can’t, she’s in there, she was gone, she was—” His voice breaks on the word, a noise wrenched straight from his gut, raw as an open wound. His hands move desperately, seeking your skin, fumbling with the buttons of your scrub top until his palm is pressed flat to your sternum, feeling your heartbeat, proof that something, anything, still pulses. “I need you,” he chokes, “please, please let me, just need, need to forget.” For a moment it’s just the wet slap of tears against your collar, the animal drag of breath, the world shrinking to the radius of his shaking hands. His eyes are wild, glazed with the kind of panic that has no language. Then, in a single lurching motion, he grabs your face and kisses you—hard, hungry, as if trying to siphon oxygen straight from your lungs. You barely have time to inhale before his mouth devours you, all teeth and heat and desperation.

Your gasp stutters between his lips, hands gripping the fabric of his scrub shirt. Before you can speak, his arms sweep beneath you, palms splayed at the backs of your thighs. He hoists you up, your body clings instinctively, legs locking tight around his waist, your shoes scraping the wall. He stumbles through the corridor, blinded by grief and want, shouldering open the door to the on-call room with his hip. The door bangs shut behind you, a sudden hush broken only by the rasp of his breath, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. He sets you down on the bed, all frantic movements—his mouth finds your throat, trailing frantic kisses and broken whispers. His hands shake as they fumble at your top, cold fingers sliding beneath the fabric to find skin, a lifeline in the darkness. You pull him closer, letting his weight pin you down, his hips grinding against yours, the heat of him undeniable, throbbing with need. He kisses you again, deeper, saltier now, sobs threading between the presses of his mouth.

Then you break the kiss, bracing both palms against his chest, breathless, your head spinning with the force of his desperation. “Jaemin, this isn’t the right time, your head isn’t in the right place,” you whisper, voice gentle but unwavering, your own throat thick with unshed tears.

He chokes on a sob, gaze dropping, forehead pressed hard to yours. “Please,” he rasps, words shredded by grief, “please, it will help me forget. Just, let me forget, just for a minute. Please.”

“Please, I need to be inside you, need to feel something, anything, I can’t stand it, please—” His voice cracks, all the strength gone, the plea hanging in the dim air, raw, exposed, the last hope of a man breaking at the seams, begging for a place to hide.

You catch his face between your hands, slowing him, meeting his eyes. “This isn’t a good idea,” you whisper, firm, your voice shaking.

He shakes his head, jaw trembling, tears painting new tracks down his cheeks. “Please, I’ll break. Just this, please, let me, let me hide, just for a minute. I need it. I need you. I can’t always hold it all together.”

Your resolve buckles, not because you believe him but because you know the truth, sometimes the only way through the storm is to cling to the nearest warmth. You shift your hips, lowering yourself onto him, his cock sliding deep inside in a single, shuddering glide. It isn’t fucking; it’s something older, more animal. a silent bargain, a way to tell him you’ll hold all his grief. He gasps, a broken, keening sound against your throat, hands gripping your waist so hard you know you’ll wear the marks. His head drops to your shoulder, shoulders shaking, arms locked around you with all the desperate strength of a man about to shatter. You hold him, one hand cradling the nape of his neck, the other running slow, grounding circles across his sweat-damp back. His body trembles, every muscle taut and quivering, breath choked, still sobbing even as he buries himself in your warmth. “Stay,” he pleads, voice wrecked, “don’t let go, just, just stay like this, I don’t care about anything else.”

You rock him gently, murmuring, “I’m right here, I’m not moving, we’ll breathe together, okay?” Your words break in the air, but you mean every one. He clings to you, face wet in your neck, crying into your skin as you stroke his hair, your own tears mingling with his. You count his breaths, sync your heart to his, your bodies tangled in something raw and wordless. He stays inside you, unmoving, the world narrowing to heartbeat, breath, the salt of grief, the impossible relief that she is still alive, somewhere behind those doors.

Eventually, exhaustion pulls him under, his sobs slow, his breath evens out, his grip slackens just a little, heavy head dropping to your chest. Still inside you, he falls asleep, tears drying on your skin, body curled tight around yours as if you’re the only safe place left in the world. You hold him, listening to the hum of the hospital, the distant rhythm of life and death still dancing their reckless waltz behind the walls. You whisper promises into the dark, ones he can’t hear yet, but will need when the dawn comes: “We’re still here. She’s still here. I’ve got you. We’ll keep going. We’ll keep loving. We’ll keep hoping, no matter how much it hurts.” And through it all, you stay together, breath for breath, heart for heart, the last defense against the night.

The light has shifted by the time you wake, thin, pale, as if the world itself is holding its breath. In the corridor, footsteps shuffle softly, and you find Dr. Huang standing at the window, shoulders slumped but eyes clearer than before. His hands are scrubbed raw, still trembling from hours of surgery. He glances at you, the set of his jaw softened by relief. “She’s stable, she’s such a strong girl.” Dr. Huang says quietly, voice rough from use, but there’s the ghost of a smile there. Dr. Huang meets your eyes, no false comfort in his expression. “She had a sudden rupture of her VSD patch. Blood was pooling in the pericardium, compressing her heart, classic tamponade. We cracked her chest in the OR, relieved the pressure, and found a complete dehiscence at the inferoseptal border. I used a double Gore-Tex patch, mattress sutures, and ran a quick echo to check for residual leaks—none. We ran a cold cardioplegia. The cross-clamp was 22 minutes. Her coronaries are intact, valves uncompromised, no endocarditis or abscess. We paced her for five minutes until sinus returned, then decannulated. She’s off inotropes, ventilated, perfusing well. No arrhythmia on post-repair echo, and the ventricle looks good. I’m keeping her in the NICU for a minimum of eight weeks. Assuming no further decompensation, she’s off the transplant list for now. You can see her in recovery.” He looks at you for the first time, something fragile behind the clinical fatigue. “She was seconds from arresting permanently. We bought her time.”

You blink, tears welling as your knees threaten to buckle. “Thank you, Dr. Huang. Thank you,” you whisper, voice thick with gratitude and disbelief, your heart swelling with something fragile and immense.

He holds your gaze, then softens, his usual professionalism dropped for something gentler. “She’s in the NICU. I want her monitored for at least two months, she’ll need constant surveillance, labs, echo every week. There’s always a risk of arrhythmia, but the worst is over.” He nods, reassuring but cautious, then steps aside, giving you space to absorb it.

You cross the hall on trembling legs, breath shallow. Jaemin is still curled on the on-call bed, face buried in his folded arms, hair rumpled, the faint shimmer of dried tears on his skin. For a moment, you watch him sleep, chest tightening with adoration and sorrow. You kneel by the cot, lean in and kiss his lips, slow and soft, a tether to life, a balm to the wounds you both wear. His eyelids flutter; you touch his cheek, voice unsteady but sure. “She’s out of surgery, our girl made it.” You slide your hand into his hair, brush it back gently. “It was a septal rupture. Renjun fixed it, she won’t need a transplant, Jaem. She’s stable. They got her back.” You repeat every fact, grounding yourself in the words as his hand finds yours, gripping like a man resurfacing from deep water.

Relief splits him wide open, tearing through the shell of fear and exhaustion until all that’s left is raw, dizzying need. He drags you in, no time for words, only sensation, the press of his lips on yours is frantic, nearly savage, hunger and gratitude colliding in a fevered gasp, your mouths crashing, breath stolen, your hands tangled in his hair as his grip carves crescents at your hips. The taste of him is salt, relief and disbelief, the kiss trembling at the edges, all shaking laughter and tears. He clings to you, chest to chest, his heart pounding like it’s breaking free, and you can feel every quake of his relief in the way his arms refuse to let you go. When you finally part, your foreheads touch, panting, fingers laced tight, his eyes searching yours for confirmation that this is real, that hope has not lied. Still trembling, you both rise, hands never breaking apart. The corridor back to the NICU feels endless, but every step forward is a return to life, to your precious girl, your hearts still galloping, footsteps echoing in sync to her faint heartbeat, bodies brushing as if you’ll vanish if you stray. The sliding doors hiss open; together, as one, you cross the threshold to Haeun’s bedside, the world reduced to three heartbeats—yours, his, and hers, still fighting, still here.

Haeun lies in the nest of blankets, so small, so heartbreakingly still, her little chest rising and falling beneath the hiss of oxygen, a network of tubes snaking into her arms, wires looping over her fragile ribs. Her bunny is tucked against her cheek, IV running slow, monitor’s rhythm a lullaby of fragile hope. Her lashes flutter against her cheeks, her lips parted in sleep, the color returning to her skin, weak, but peaceful, every detail a promise that you’ve been given more time. You press your hands to the glass, Jaemin beside you, and for a long, suspended moment, the only thing that matters is the quiet, stubborn beat of her heart, the impossible miracle of your family—broken and remade, surviving another night.

Night descends on the NICU like a hush of candle smoke, thin, wavering, tinted blue by the pulse-ox monitors. Haeun sleeps in the center of her acrylic nest, tubing fanning from the half-lit cradle like transparent seaweed; each rise of her chest is a shallow tide, each machine-prompted sigh a miracle you refuse to take for granted. Jaemin anchors himself at her bedside, chair pulled so close his knees graze the isolette. Every few minutes he smooths a curl from her brow, checks the line where the ventilator brush-kissed her lips, whispers fragmented lullabies that crack and mend in the same breath. You take the quiet tasks: warming the tiny socks Dr. Huang insisted she wear to preserve peripheral perfusion, swapping the pre-drawn syringes in her med cart, writing small yellow post-its, “you are stronger than storms,” “Dada and Mama love you to the moon lady and back,” and sticking them above the vent tubing where she’ll see them when her eyes flutter open again. The hour hand crawls; rain needles the high windows. Somewhere beyond the glass the city lives its ordinary night, but here time is condensed to heartbeats and artifact blips, to the soft percussion of sterile gloves snapping on and off as respiratory techs adjust her settings.

Near three a.m, Jaemin’s shoulders sag, but it’s the glaze in your eyes he notices first. He rises, cups your face with antiseptic-dry hands, and strokes his thumb beneath the bruise of sleeplessness blooming there. “You’re running on fumes,” he murmurs, voice low, a fragile thread of steadiness. “Please, go home for a few hours? For me.” You start to protest; he quiets you by resting his forehead against yours, breath mingling with the metallic scent of ionized air. “You’ve been our rock all day. If you collapse, who’s going to keep me standing?”

The wry edge of the question folds under the shimmer of tears in his eyes. “I don’t want to leave her.” You whisper, guilt scratching your throat raw. Jaemin presses a kiss to each knuckle of your trembling hand, slow, reverent. “We’re not going anywhere,” he vows, thumb sweeping the faint stickiness of dried blood from your wrist. “If she so much as blinks funny, I’ll call before the monitors have time to scream.”

You manage a watery smile. “You’ll probably miss me after ten minutes.”

He lets out the ghost of a laugh, soft, astonished you can still tease him. “I already miss you.”

In the corridor, vending-machine glow paints him silver; he lays your coat across your shoulders, tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and promises, “Go. I’ll be here when you get back. We both will.” You lean in for a lingering kiss that tastes of saline and caffeine, a promise sealed on quivering lips. As you walk away, you glance back: Jaemin lifts his hand in a loving gesture, smiling bravely for you. The second you round the corner, that smile falters, he drags a hand through his hair, breath shuddering, then squares his shoulders and returns to the isolette. All night he keeps vigil: tracing the soft pulse at Haeun’s ankle, recounting to her the wonders she still has to see, the cherry-blossom snow in spring, the seashore at dawn, the echo of her laugh in a concert hall. Dawn sneaks thin and pearls across the NICU windows when you return hours later to find him slumped beside the crib, fingers still linked through the porthole with hers. He hears your steps, stands, and pulls you into the quiet space between monitors and wall, arms circling your waist with exhausted gratitude. “Thank you,” he breathes, no grand speeches, just those two syllables pressed against your temple, swollen with every beat of hope that still drums inside the three of you.

You try to go home, you really do—you let yourself be convinced by nurses’ gentle hands on your elbows and by Jaemin’s hollow-eyed promise that rest will help you both, that she’ll be here when you return, but the walls of your apartment feel like someone else’s life, all the lights too bright, the sheets still stinking of antiseptic and grief. Your hands shake as you try to hold a mug or strip out of your clothes. Jaemin only makes it as far as the shower before his shoulders collapse, water pouring over him as he sobs into his fists. On most days you crowd into the narrow shower with him, heat steaming the glass until every surface drips and your lungs feel thick with longing and dread. You press your front to Jaemin’s back, skin fevered and slick, arms wrapped around his waist so tight your knuckles ache, your lips moving along the salt-wet curve of his shoulder as water lashes down. He lets his head fall forward, shuddering when your hands slide lower, hungry for any proof you’re both alive. You cling, pelvis flush against his ass, breasts smashed to his spine, and he reaches behind blindly, fingers clutching your hip as if he might anchor himself by force. The spray beats over you, scorching and endless, every kiss and gasp echoing in the tile, your bodies moving with wild, frantic purpose, his breath hitching when you reach between his thighs and guide him inside you from behind, hips grinding, the angle desperate and ragged. You bite his palm to muffle the sob that rips from your throat as you move together, hands locked over your boobs, water washing away tears and slick, your moans swallowed in the echo of your names. He thrusts into you, hard and shaking, his mouth twisted with grief, your nails digging into his stomach as the world narrows to the sharp, aching thrust of pleasure and the brutal pulse of need, until you both come undone, legs buckling, hearts hammering, clinging to each other beneath the endless hot rain, nothing left but the frantic grip of grief and love.

You last four hours before you’re pulling hoodies over damp skin and stumbling through empty streets, fingers knotted together, breathless and stricken, the city’s neon glare stinging your tired eyes as you run back to the hospital. By the time you reach her bedside, you’re both raw, half-dressed, hair still wet, shoes untied, collapsing into the hard plastic chairs, one of you curling up at her feet, the other resting a head beside her small fist, your hands joined over her blanket as if you could guard her by force of will alone, as if love and exhaustion might call her back to you. It’s four torturous days, each hour stretching out in cruel increments while your angel lies restless and unresponsive, eyelids fluttering but never opening, her small chest rising and falling in shallow, feverish waves as you and Jaemin count every breath and pray for one sign she’ll return.

The first night, you sit side by side on the edge of the bed, barely speaking, backs hunched, one of his hands threaded tight with yours while the other remains flat on the mattress, always touching some part of her—her foot, her fingers, the soft cotton of her blanket. The room is a cocoon of exhaustion and antiseptic light, the hush broken only by distant monitors and the faintest rustle every time she exhales. Everyone says this is normal. That sedation and the drugs make waking unpredictable. That sometimes hearts need more time, bodies more rest. You both nod and pretend, but the first time she stirs—just a tremor in her eyelids, gone in an instant—you both lean forward, desperate, only to see her slip deeper, face empty as milk, and you force yourself to sit back, shoulders heavy with dread. The nurses come and go, adjusting drips, murmuring quiet reassurances: she’s strong, she’s been through worse, this is part of recovery. You say thank you, you smile, but it never sinks deep enough to loosen the ache burning in your chest.

By the second night, the routine is as familiar as breathing. You and Jaemin strip out of your scrubs and crowd into the on-call shower together, steam curling thick around your bodies, water scalding as it beats against your skin, washing away nothing but exhaustion. He cages you against the tile, mouth searching for anything soft to claim, hands tangled in your hair, your legs wrapping around his waist as you pull him in, desperate for friction, for heat, for the messy comfort of his hips grinding into yours. You chase the pain with pleasure, letting him fuck the ache out of you, every gasp muffled against his neck, every bruise rising like a mark of survival, the only relief coming when you both shudder apart and collapse, bodies tangled, water roaring in your ears. Sometimes, when it’s late and the ward’s quiet, you crawl into the narrow bed with him, spooning your body against the tense line of his back, feeling the heat of his grief even through cotton. He cries silent, hard—jaw clenched, hands balled in the sheet—then lets himself break only when your mouth is pressed to his shoulder. Sometimes he holds you down, rough with need, his voice a low, cracking plea: “make it go away, don’t let me think, just let me feel.”

Sex in that small space is raw and relentless, a feral ritual you both crave—your legs locked around his waist, his palm at your throat while you grind down on his cock, bodies tangled together as you ride him shamelessly. He spits into your open mouth and you swallow, biting his lip until you taste copper, fingernails raking deep lines down his back, both of you marking skin like you want to claim pain as proof you’re still here. He chokes you with one hand, hips bucking wild while you moan into his shoulder, his other hand tangled in your hair, forcing your head back so he can spit again, watching it drip onto your tongue before you pull him in for a filthy kiss. Every thrust is a dare, louder, rougher, harder. your whimpers swallowed by his grip, every orgasm a desperate, shaking plea for the world to fucking give you back your girl.

Day three breaks you in ways you didn’t know were possible. The room is thick with medical ghosts—iv poles, monitor cables, the slow beep that tracks her pulse through the night, and the bright, artificial cheer of the nurse’s voice as she hands you the soft blue basin. The bath routine feels like an old song played on a broken instrument; you tuck the warm, sudsy cloth under her chin, wiping gently at the milk stains that linger, but your hands shake so badly you almost drop the sponge. Every movement is careful, reverent, as if washing a relic instead of your girl, her limbs limp and unresisting, eyes shuttered, lashes fanned across cheeks that have faded to the color of drowsy magnolias. You remember every time before: her kicking feet splashing water, laughter ricocheting off tile, the way she’d tip her chin up and demand, “big bubble beard, pwease!” then plant sticky, soapy kisses on your jaw until you’d kissed her back, pretending she’d won the world. She’d shiver and shriek, flinging droplets everywhere.

Then you’d giggle as you bundled her in a towel, curls dripping, nose pink, arms locked so tight around your neck you nearly stumbled. She’d press her cold cheek to yours, nuzzling your noses together, both of you dissolving into laughter that echoed down the hall. her voice high and wild, yours splintering with happiness. “My favourite girl,” you’d whisper against her damp skin, and she’d cling even closer, peppering your face with lip kisses, little bursts of sticky warmth, hands tangled in your hair as if she could anchor herself there forever. “I wuv you, I wuv you, my wuv, my home,” she’d babble between giggles, as if the words themselves could build a house strong enough for both your hearts. You’d rub her curls dry, breathless with joy, and she’d beam up at you, cheeks flushed apple-bright, burrowing deeper into the crook of your arm, chanting, “Endless, endless, endless! Bubba fowever, right?” You’d promise her again and again. “Forever, my home, my best girl, always”—until the hallway glowed with love and it felt like nothing bad could ever find you.

Now, you thread your fingers through her tangled hair and feel the weight of absence in every curl. Her lips don’t purse for a kiss, her hands don’t reach for the soap bubbles. Instead you must carefully rinse the line of her chest, mindful of the fresh surgical scar, that bruised valley where her heart was mended and almost broken for good. You talk to her as you work, voice cracked and papery, “there we go, sweetheart, let’s get you all clean, just like always,” but your words echo, unanswered, swallowed by the hush that never left this room. The nurse helps you roll her, and the pressure marks on her skin—angry, red, unyielding—make you want to scream. You swab beneath her knees, cradle each fragile foot, remember how she once counted your fingers and toes with shrieks of “ten! ten! ten!” You bury your face in her hair, and sob. The grief is animal—noisy, raw, snotty, and beyond pride. The world narrows to your precious girl’s unmoving body, the hollow thud of monitors, the sterile yellow blanket tucked under her chin, and your own broken, shaking hands. Dr. Huang steps in with her gentle certainty, palm warm on your trembling shoulder, voice low and even as she explains, “her brain is protecting her while her heart recovers. You know that is post-op sedation, she’s not in pain, just healing. The swelling takes time to resolve and her heart needs to relearn the rhythm. Her labs look strong. you’re doing everything right, I promise she’ll wake up when her body’s ready. I've seen it a hundred times.” You nod, but it’s water in your ears, too much hope to bear, too much waiting already behind you.

You clean the feeding tube, suction her mouth, check the line for clots—horrors you never imagined you’d master, your own baby limp as a doll. Your voice cracks when you hum her lullaby, but you do it anyway, as if the sound might call her home. By the time you finish, your chest aches, tears dripping onto her fresh braid. You tuck Bunny beneath her arm, the ritual of normalcy, then collapse against the bed, forehead pressed to her pillow, You feel Jaemin before he even touches you, the weight of his presence settling at your back—a shadow that soothes and calls. Your body seeks him without thinking, leaning into the silent promise of his warmth as he nestles himself behind you, the cot creaking beneath the three of you. He wraps his arms around your waist, chest pressed to your spine, lips ghosting soft, endless kisses along your baby’s cheek and brow, whispering, “Daddy’s gonna be here when you wake up, my sunshine, I’m right here, I’ve got you, I love you,” over and over, voice breaking on each vow. One of his hands circles your ribs, rubbing in slow, steady loops, grounding you as your sobs shudder out, the other hand gently brushing stray curls from her forehead. You turn into his arms, seeking the shelter of his chest, and the second your face finds his shoulder, you hear him break, breath hitching, tears spilling, body shaking as if grief itself is tearing him open. You clutch at each other and at your precious girl, tangled in her blankets, your cheeks pressed together, your tears mixing as you hold her tiny, unmoving hand between your own, the three of you wrapped up in endless sobbing—no words left, just the ache and the hope that somehow, the warmth of your bodies might call her home.

You’ve barely slept ever since Haeun was put in a medically induced coma. Your eyes burn raw when the trauma pager clipped to your waistband starts its shrill, relentless pulse—MCI, mass casualty incoming, all hands to the pit. The world contracts to code calls and footsteps, gurneys rolling in under the blinding spill of ER lights, you learn that there was a bus crash on the expressway with multiple passengers, half of them children. The doors swing open and the rush of bodies, blood, and sirens swallows you whole. You move through it all on trained reflex, pulling on gloves as you triage—fractures, concussions, degloved hands, shattered glass studding cheeks and scalps like cruel jewels. The burning smell is the worst: sharp, chemical, sticky-sweet. You’re assigned to Bed 7, where a mother lies on her side, grit and ash coating her arms, clutching her daughter, a little girl no older than Haeun, hair in pigtails blackened at the ends, eyes huge and shell-shocked. Her mother’s voice frays with exhaustion, whispering, “save her first—please, she’s my baby,” while a triage nurse starts the child’s IV, the girl stares up at you through a haze of tears, her face a mask of pain and red, blistered skin.

You promise yourself you’d do anything for your baby—anything—not knowing that months from now you’ll stand in the same hell, heartbeat thrumming with the same animal terror, as you bargain everything you are to keep your own girl breathing. One day you’ll feel her small arms wound tight around your neck, her cheek pressed to your jaw, whispering, “no let go, Mama, not now. Your bubba Haeun stay with you fowever, pwomise, pinky-pwomise, you my wuv, you my home, you my Mama,” as her pulse shudders faint beneath your palm. Her fingers will knot in your hair, stubborn and clinging even as her heartbeat slows, lips brushing your cheek with desperate kisses, eyelids fluttering with the exhaustion of a child who loves too hard. You’ll beg her to stay, to hold on just a little longer, but her voice will shrink to a broken hum, the sound you memorized from a thousand midnight cuddles—“we go ‘gether, kay? No be scared. You my Mama, my home, my wuv, hold tight, Mama, no let go.”

Months from now, after the world tears wide open, you’ll both be crammed into a too-small hospital bed as you refuse to be torn apart, your bodies sticky with sweat and shock, blood drying in strange patterns down your arms, the air thick with sirens and the metallic scent of hurt. The memory of it will haunt the quiet: how Haeun’s fingers locked in your shirt, how her eyes, huge and wild, filled with terror and stubborn love as chaos bled down the hall. She presses her face to your neck, voice thready and scared, “Mama, I ‘fraid… you got owie too? We both got blood? No go, Mama, no let go. Stay, pwease.” Her hands search your skin, trembling, tracing every cut, every bruise, as if her touch could stitch you back together, could hold you both in the world a little longer. Even as the monitors scream and nurses run, you curl tighter around her, promising in every breath that you’ll never let her go, not for monsters, not for blood, not for anything. The room shrinks to the two of you—clinging, trembling, heartbeats stuttering in sync, both refusing to loosen your grip, both refusing to let the world end alone.

You stroke her back, humming, “Mama’s here, baby, right here. I’ll hold you, always.”

She nods, sniffles, clings even tighter, “Don’t go ‘way, Mama. Stay. I stay wif you, kay? No let monster get us. Snug, snug.” You kiss her lips before she hides under your chin, thumb in her mouth, whispering, “Wuv you, Mama. You my best girl, I so happy you here.” Even in the hush, with danger scratching at the glass, she’s braver because you’re there—because you’re holding each other, safe for now, in the smallest world two hearts can make.

Her wrists are thin ribbons, pulse a stuttering echo under your thumb, and you feel the slow bleed of her life like ink seeping through gauze; every beat falters, softer, softer, until it sounds like snow falling on a coffin lid. You beg, throat raw—stay, sunshine, fight, breathe—but her voice gutters to a ragged hum, the lullaby of a dying star. “We go ‘gether, no be scawed, hold tight.” She presses sticky kisses to your cheek, blood-warm and frantic, and you know the moment her soul loosens because the room exhales, lights flicker, and the shadow at the ceiling’s edge opens its jaws. You lay your life on her altar without hesitation—heart offered like meat—yet discover the universe is a butcher that accepts every sacrifice and still demands interest; you follow her into the blackout, fingers laced, stepping through the curtain where heartbeat ends, believing love can cheat entropy. Behind you,

One day, you’ll lay your life on the altar of her small body, only to learn the universe is crueler than any doctor’s oath: Haeun will slip from your grasp, arms stretched toward you in some unseen dark, and you will follow, heart cracked open, your bones hollowed by loss, the two of you walking into whatever waits on the other side of the curtain, hand in hand. Jaemin will be left behind, his spirit shattered, drifting the hospital halls as a revenant—less a man than a shadow, voice emptied out by the echo of all he loved and lost. Even now, the future’s teeth are already closing around you, silent and patient, a promise written in blood and sleepless nights.

You crouch down to your patient, lowering your voice to that steady register you reserve for the truly frightened. “Hey, sweetheart. I know it hurts. I’m here to help, okay? You’re so brave, can you be a good girl?” You unwrap the silver burn sheet, gentle as prayer, peel away the blood-stuck pajama sleeve, fingers trembling only a little as you irrigate the raw skin, the weeping blisters, the angry pink flesh. The girl doesn’t screamx she bites her lip until it bleeds, fat tears sliding sideways, but when you finish bandaging, you wipe her cheeks with your gloved thumb and fish a glittery bunny sticker from your pocket, pressing it onto her gown just above her heart. “Look at you, such a good girl,” you murmur, tapping her tiny nose, and she smiles, barely, clinging to your wrist. When her mother tries to thank you, voice breaking, you squeeze her hand in reassurance, offer your best smile, and the little girl, shy and unsure, wraps her arms around your neck and squeezes hard enough to make your heart crack open. You let her, feeling the shape and weight of the only child that you’ve loved and wanted in that single embrace, before untangling yourself and nodding to the mother, whose silent tears say more than words could. There’s a nod, a weary exhale, and then you move on, every heartbeat carrying you back to your own missing sunshine.

You finish your shift in a blur of adrenaline and antiseptic, hands aching from repeated scrubs, mind teetering on the edge of collapse. But when you push through the heavy doors of the NICU, the hush feels absolute, a different universe. You barely make it to Haeun’s bedside before your knees give out, your face burrowed into her pillow, the scent of her hair and baby shampoo a punch to the chest. Your voice comes out in a ragged whisper, thick with longing and need. “Oh, baby,” you breathe, letting your tears soak into the soft cotton. “You missed so much today, I missed my brave baby. I took care of a little one who reminded me of you—she had these tiny pigtails and a stubborn pout. She got hurt, bubba. She was scared, and all I wanted was to make her laugh, like you do. I gave her a bunny sticker, just like the ones you used to give me, and she squeezed me so tight, it reminded me of your hugs, your tiny arms, the way you’d say ‘my wuv, my home’ when you wanted me to stay forever. I kept thinking, what would you have said, how would you have made her smile? I missed you so bad, baby girl, every second, like someone was scraping out my chest with a spoon.”

“You should’ve been there. I’d have let you help, you’d have told her she was strong, you’d have shown her your bandages, made her brave. I needed you, baby. I need you every time I’m scared, every time I have to be strong for someone else’s little girl. I promise—if you wake up, I’ll never leave your side. I’ll take you everywhere, I’ll show you every bright and happy thing in this world, I’ll never stop loving and taking care of you, I’ll read you every story and braid your hair every night and hold you until you’re sleepy. I’ll buy you the whole box of bunny stickers, I’ll let you pick out your own bandages, I’ll carry you through every storm. I’ll tell you everything I learned, about hearts and healing, about bravery and hope, about the way little girls can change the world just by loving so hard. Please, my baby, please hear me—I love you so much. I love you, I love you, I love you, I should’ve told you more and I need you to come home to me.” You tuck her Bunny under her chin, stroke her curls, and let yourself unravel, all the pain, fear and hope spinning out in soft words you pray will reach wherever her dreams have taken her, promising the sun, the sky and your whole existence away for the slight chance that she’ll wake up.

On the fourth morning, you wake to the sound of Jaemin whispering—half prayer, half threat—into her hair. “Wake up, Haeun. Please, just open your eyes for Daddy. I’ll give you anything, I’ll never ask again.” The hours stretch until they lose all shape. You pace circles around the bed, counting the rhythm of her breath against the whine of the monitors, your fingers forever hovering at her wrist, tracing veins you could draw blind. Your mouth goes dry from coffee you never finish; you eat from vending machine wrappers that taste like cardboard and regret, neither of you speaking except to mumble updates or plead with the ceiling. By noon, the air in the room curdles with impatience, Jaemin stands at the window, pounding his fist against the sill, while you take turns whispering into her ear, promising ice cream, new toys, the moon itself, if she’ll just come back.

You both startle at every creak, every flutter of the blanket; you swear you see her lashes move, her mouth twitch, and every time hope flares, it leaves you burned and emptier than before. You try to distract yourselves: you brush her hair, wipe her hands with warm cloths, change her IV tape with trembling precision, set up her bunny in different poses on her pillow, desperate for some sign that she feels your touch. Some hours you curl beside her on the narrow mattress, nose pressed to her crown, singing lullabies through your teeth; other times you press yourself against Jaemin in the bathroom, your bodies colliding with an urgency born of terror, the need to feel alive overwhelming, clawing, a frantic attempt to drown out the silence. He marks you with bruises and kisses, you dig your nails into his skin, and neither of you bothers to hide the way you sob against each other, the tears slicking your cheeks as you fuck, relentless, gasping, clinging to the only thing left that’s real. By evening, you’re both so tired your bones ache; your voices crack when you try to speak her name, and when you finally crawl back to her side, the room is thick with a grief you can’t shake. You spoon her cold little body between you, whisper “I love you” into her unmoving curls, and promise the universe anything it wants in exchange for one small miracle. Jaemin’s chest shakes with quiet sobs, his fingers laced through yours across her stomach, both of you holding on as if your touch alone could resurrect her.

You lie frozen beside him, pulse a dull drum in your ears, and almost miss the quiver of her lashes, the minute tremor of a fingertip against gauze. For an endless beat you both stare, afraid to breathe, until her lids spasm again and the monitor shrieks, a metal bird slicing the hush. Tile kisses your knees as you lunge, rails rattling, Jaemin’s knuckles whitening around the mattress edge; her eyes split open in a jolt of wild dusk, pupils blown, confusion spinning. The room jolts into brutal motion, fluorescent glare flares, the saline line whips when her heel kicks the pole, bunny skids across the sheet, fur dragging like a surrender banner. She screams—raw, coyote-sharp. “Owie! My chest, Dada, hurt, hurt!” Little fists hammer her scar, then your shoulder, then the empty air, as if beating back a nightmare she can still taste.

Jaemin is moving before the monitor finishes its first shriek, chair toppling behind him, one hand braced on the metal rail, the other hovering over your daughter’s trembling ribs; you feel the shockwave roll off him, that fathom-deep instinct that knows every nuance of her heart, yet this jagged rhythm is new, crueler, and his pulse surges so loud you swear you hear it. “Haeun, look at Daddy—right here, Baby, I’ve got you, I promise, you’re safe,” he whispers, voice a taut wire dragging hope across a minefield. Her eyes snap open, pupils blown in the flicker of fluorescent light, and they don’t recognize him, you or the world; tiny legs lash out, IV pole rattling, tubing whipping, arms flailing, fingers snagging his collar only to shove him away with equal desperation, terror blooming on every shaky breath.

She throws a fist straight at his cheek; he catches her wrist mid-swing, pivots, tucks her arm flat to her side, free hand caging her opposite shoulder so she can’t strike the incision—or him—again. “Easy, Haeun,” he commands, tone dropping an octave, the doctor in him crystallizing into cold authority. Her other fist claws at the air; he slides forward, bracketing her between his thighs, crossing her forearms to her belly in a soft restraint hug trainers teach for combative pediatric patients. “Deep breaths, count with Daddy, one, two.” She thrashes harder, tiny heels pounding his thighs. “Three,” he grits, wrapping her calves under his arm so the IV line can’t rip free, lowering his head until his forehead meets hers. He recognizes it instantly, a classic pain spike post-sternotomy, the precise pattern of agitation, shallow breathing, and wild panic that tells him her healing ribs are firing off alarms her brain can’t quiet. “Listen to me, your ribs hurt because they’re healing, not because they’re breaking. Feel my heart, feel this rhythm, match Daddy.” He drags her hand to his chest, presses her palm over his hammering sternum. “Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Follow me.”

Her scream rips loose, high and tearing: “No! Hurts! Wanna Mama!” She lunges for you; Jaemin plants a steely palm on her solar plexus, not enough to hurt but enough to stop the lunge, and you see veins stand like cords in his neck as he storms calm into chaos. “Your Mama’s here, she isn’t leaving,” he states, eyes never leaving Haeun. “Breathe.” The door bursts open, two nurses, a resident but Jaemin doesn’t glance away. “Out.” The words gouge the air, a surgeon’s bark layered over a father’s snarl. “There’s too many bodies, too much noise, you’ll spike her cortisol and pop her chest drain. All of you, Out.” They freeze, one nurse stammering protocol about sedation. Jaemin snaps, “Thirty seconds more stimulation and she’ll code. Clear the room, prep a one-mil aliquot of midaz outside the door, but do not re-enter until I call.” The hallway swallows their shoes in retreat.

You move to fetch Bunny, but Jaemin’s hand shoots back, fingers locking around your wrist without taking his gaze off the flailing child. “Where do you think you’re going?” His grip is iron, possessive, thrilling; he guides your palm to Haeun’s ankle, grounding her with double contact. “Okay, Sunshine, feel Mama, feel Daddy, we’re both right here. No monsters, just us. Count bubbles, in through your nose, out like blowing candles.” He demonstrates, chest inflating, then pursing lips in a slow whoosh. She gasps, hiccups, tries again, breath stuttering across raw vocal cords. “Good girl—again. One.” He keeps rhythm, his voice a metronome, his arms tightening every time her limbs jerk, absorbing her tremors. You stroke the soft skin above her heel, murmuring praise, watching the color in her lips cycle from ashen to dusky pink, each inhale hauling her nearer the surface.

Minutes grind like broken gears. Haeun’s fury breaks, reforms as sobs; she slumps against his collarbone, but panic resurges in aftershocks, tiny quakes that send her fists back to his chest. Jaemin counters every surge, murmuring, “Daddy’s strong enough, hit if you need to,” while locking her wrists in a gentle cradle, never letting the blows land. “You’re safe,” he repeats, slower each time, until the mantra nests in the curve of her ear. Her kicks dwindle to spasms, her sobs soften to wheeze, overheated skin cooling against his scrubs. “I’m so in love with you, my strong baby girl.” he whispers, wiping tears with the cuff of his sleeve, pressing a kiss to her clammy lips.

Suddenly the lull shatters, she remembers pain like a jolt of electricity, arches back, shrieking, “Heart hurty! Make it stop, Dada!” Her body trembles so violently you fear she’ll snap a suture. Jaemin grips her closer, heels her head under his chin, rocks in a tight radius, muscles flexed like steel cables. “I know it burns, but listen, the pain means your nerves are waking up; waking up means you’re winning. I’ve got you.” She wails, shuddering in his lap. Tears re-flood her lashes until she collapses, shaking, salt-wet, beyond words, trauma emptying her lungs in long, broken sobs that hollow the room. Jaemin never loosens his hold; he hums, voice thick with power and sorrow, and when she finally sags boneless, exhausted tears dripping, he still doesn’t let go—his eyes hard with vigilance, his jaw set against every protocol except the one written in his blood: Keep my girl safe, no matter the cost.

You climb onto the mattress inch by inch, springs sighing, while Jaemin’s body cages the other side, two walls of warmth hemming her fury. “Can Daddy hold you, baby?” he murmurs, the question breaking, and the instant her fingers hook his sleeve he scoops her up, tubing hissing, her knees locking round his ribs like a vice. She fights him anyway, tiny nails carving crescents in his neck, forehead smashing against his collarbone, sobs ricocheting. “No, no, no! Wanna go home, wanna Mama, ‘fraid, boo-boo!” You fold around them, sliding your hand over her fluttering heart, guiding hers to the heavy thud in Jaemin’s chest—boom-boom, boom-boom—a rhythm older than pain. You breathe in and out, deliberate tides, ribs burning, mouth against her damp curls: “In… out… blow bubbles with me, Popsicle breaths, remember?”

She gasps, hiccups, sputters, matches half a cycle before panic spikes again. Jaemin presses desperate kisses to her temple, tears raining onto her slick hair, your own drip across her cheek so she feels the tremor is shared. She claws at the air. “Too bwight, Mama, make stop!”—and you twist, killing the overhead light, drowning the room in soft monitor glow. Her sobs crest, crash, rise again; you mumble every promise in your bones, midnight pillow forts, hallway parades, ballerina shows for bunny, Barbie movie marathons, endless pancakes and cuddles, the moon with her name scratched into it, while rubbing her feet between your palms, coaxing warmth into icy toes. Slowly, the shudders shorten; her fists slacken, still tangled in Jaemin’s hair, breath drags ragged, then steadier, settling in staccato hiccups against your throat.

She’s trembling, eyes swollen, sweat slicking her brow when at last she whispers, voice broken glass, “No more boo-boo, Dada… stay, Mama, stay,” and her head lolls, heavy with exhaustion. You wrap her in Jaemin’s jacket, fold Bunny back under her arm, and press the plush paw to her sternum. “Feel that? Still strong, my brave baby.” Your own heart slams beneath her palm, frantic proof, as you whisper against her lashes, “Always, Sunshine, always.” Jaemin’s shoulders shake with silent sobs, his mouth at your temple, your tears salt his lips; you rock together in the dark, three heartbeats tangled, monitors crooning their uneasy lullaby, grieving the four days stolen, gasping gratitude into her curls, clutching the miracle so hard your arms ache, terrified to blink in case the night reclaims her. Outside, the corridor hums with indifferent life, but inside this narrow bed the universe contracts to one fierce, aching truth: she’s awake, she’s crying, she’s here. Love holds the line, bruised but unbroken, daring morning to come.

Her legs kick and thrash against the sheets, the IV tubing tangling around her shin as if every inch of her wants to claw free from her own body, her fists pounding at the air and then at Jaemin’s chest, wild and senseless, searching for any anchor that isn’t pain. For a split second she freezes—eyes glazed and mouth open in a silent, shattered shape—then a cry rips out, raw and desperate, “Mama!” The sound cracks the air in two, and in the next breath she’s gasping, “Mama, hold me—hold me tight, ‘kay? No let go, pwomise, ‘member when we sleep and you stay all night and you sing me my song, do it now, Mama, do it now, pwease—” Her lips quiver around every plea, tears pouring down her cheeks, tiny fingers reaching out and fisting your sleeve with the panic of a child who doesn’t understand why the world is suddenly sharp and strange, but only knows that you are the only thing that ever made her feel safe.

Jaemin’s head snaps up at the sound of Haeun’s scream—Mama!—and for a heartbeat he forgets everything except you, gaze finding yours over the chaos. He can’t quite hide the flicker of shock, his brow arching high, lips parted in a gasp that catches between disbelief and something darker, rawer. For the first time, he’s truly seeing it—his little girl’s forming her first real sentences, soft pleas spilling out for you, her need and love so clear and desperate that it sears his chest open. He hadn’t quite realised, not until now, just how deeply she’s attached, how she clings to you with every broken word, every panicked reach, and the force of it crashes into him all at once, sharp and consuming. You freeze, throat working around a hard swallow, every nerve stilled by the force of his attention—he looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time, eyes burning with the same fierce adoration and hunger he reserves for Haeun, only now the possessiveness in them is no longer softened by exhaustion or blurred by fear. It’s sharper, more adult, and you feel it run over your skin like a live current, exposing every hidden place. You know, in that single glance, that he’s clocked every time Haeun’s called you Mama, every slip of trust, every clinging plea, and he’s storing it up, feeding on it, letting it shape the lines of his mouth into a satisfaction you haven’t seen in weeks. Your heart pounds in your ears, shame and longing tangling in your chest—you’re suddenly shy beneath the intensity of it, as if he’s undressing you with his gaze, stripping away every protest and fear. You haven’t spoken about any of it, the way this family has formed around grief and devotion and longing, how the title sits between you like a secret too fragile for daylight, but his expression says enough: he’s content, he’s aroused, and he’s waiting for the moment he can finally claim you—out loud, in every way that matters, when Haeun’s safe and your hands aren’t shaking. The knowledge settles heavy and electric between you, promising that when this storm passes, nothing between you will be the same.

You move toward her as if drawn by a force deeper than muscle or will, knees creaking against the linoleum, the ghostly blue of the monitor bathing you both in jittery light. Your voice drops, raw and gentle at once, steady through the ache in your throat. “Can I hold you, baby girl? Mama just wants a cuddle, let me help, okay?” You don’t dare touch her yet; you stay still, arms wide, holding your own breath until she makes the smallest reach, trembling fingers curling into your sleeve like she’s pulling you from the edge of the world. The moment you feel her clutch, you gather her up so carefully it’s reverent, your hands threading beneath her, mindful of every tangled wire, every bruise beneath the hospital gown. She settles in your lap, her legs latching tight around your waist, chest pressed to yours, burying her face into your collarbone so fiercely you feel her breath against your skin, damp and shaky and alive.

This is the first time she’s still, no fight left in her, just pure animal need. You hold her so close you feel her ribs flex, her heartbeat ticking wild and desperate between you, a mother animal with her cub, something primal anchoring your body to hers. She fumbles for Bunny, matted fur pressed flat from days tucked under her arm, and shoves it between your chests, fingers curled so tightly around one ear you wonder if she’ll ever let go. “I only need Mama and Bunny,” she breathes, voice rough with sleep and leftover panic, locking both you and the plush between her arms as if you might vanish the second she blinks. Jaemin cocks an eyebrow from the far side, mouth twitching with something between disbelief and amusement, the silent edge of really? hanging in the air as he pretends to be wounded by her priorities, but you see the way his eyes soften how he can’t help but be proud of the small animal kingdom she’s claimed for herself.

You press your nose to hers, voice warm and quiet, “Always, baby. Mama, Haeun and Bunny. That’s all we need.” She sighs and gives you soft, sticky kisses, lips dragging over your cheek, then your jaw—one after another, greedy and sweet. “Good girl, my love,” you whisper, nuzzling closer, the two of you dissolving into helpless laughter as she clings tighter, Bunny crushed between you, her breath finally evening out against your collarbone. All the world narrows to this den: your arms, her warmth, the slow thrum of your joined heartbeats, and the silent promise that you’ll never, ever let her go.

You draw her against you, feeling the sharp angles of her shoulder blades and the hollow just under her ribs—she’s lighter now, body pared down by weeks of underlying illness, each bone delicate under your hands. She breathes in small, shallow bursts, and every exhale rasps with effort, trembling through your skin like a warning bell you can’t unhear. Her skin is too warm, too soft, and she clings with all the desperate strength of someone twice her size, little fists balled tight in your shirt as if she’s terrified you’ll let go. When she shifts her head, her nose brushes yours and she tries to smile, lips pale, voice gone thin with exhaustion: “No go, my wuv. Jus’ stay. Don’ wanna be alone. Need you, need you and Bunny, pwomise.” The words spill in a half-whisper, half-sob, and you can feel the plea vibrating out of her, raw and vulnerable, curling around your heart like wire.

Her legs loop weakly around your waist, ankles barely able to lock, Bunny squashed between your bodies. You tuck her under your chin, pressing your mouth to her damp hair, and she melts into you, breath fluttering so close you can taste it—salty, warm, laced with the faint chemical tang of the hospital. The sound she makes when she tries to inhale—a hiccup, a catch, then a breathless, helpless little moan—feels like it echoes through your marrow. She’s so tired that her words slur into nonsense, but still, she repeats her devotion in every way she knows: a sticky kiss pressed to your jaw, her fingers tracing endless, shaky circles on your arm, her whispering, “Wuv you, wuv you, wuv you, Mama jus’ hold me, Mama.” The words break apart, her chin trembling against your neck, and you squeeze her tighter, rocking her as gently as you can, every instinct telling you to shield her from anything that could ever take her away.

You lose track of time—minutes folding into each other, the room shrinking until all that matters is her fragile body sprawled across your lap, the shudder of her chest, the rhythm of her breath struggling against the world. Every so often she startles, panic skittering over her face, and she grabs at you again, almost climbing your body, Bunny crushed like a talisman between you, repeating, “Don’ let go, Mama. Don’ let go. Stay, pwomise, stay.” You hush her softly, nuzzling your nose to hers, running your palm over the arch of her back, whispering the only vows that matter: that you’ll hold her, always, through fever dreams and darkness and every ache she can’t say aloud. Her fear is infectious, eating its way through your composure until you’re holding her so tight you feel the thrum of her heart beneath your palm, a small, stubborn reminder that for tonight, for right now, she is still here, and you are still enough.

You catch the shift in Jaemin’s stance as he leans against the bed, arms folded, a crooked smirk barely contained at the edge of his mouth. his gaze soft but glinting, locked on the way Haeun buries herself deeper in your arms, as if the rest of the world no longer exists. He watches her cling, your hair tangled in her tiny fists, her lips pressing hungry kisses along your jaw, and he shakes his head with mock exasperation, voice dropping low and rough with playful jealousy. “Guess I’ve been replaced, huh? Didn’t think I’d lose my best girl so quickly.” For a moment, you feel the heat of his eyes trailing over both of you, the thrill in his chest clear, the curl of possessiveness darkening his smile as he adds, just a little too quietly, “Maybe I’ll have to fight for a little attention tonight.” Even Haeun, half-drifting, clings tighter at the sound of his voice but doesn’t look away, too spellbound by the shelter of your arms to remember she was ever anyone else’s.

Instinct is everything at this age—she doesn’t think, she just moves. She fumbles blindly until she finds Jaemin’s hand. Her little fingers wrap around two of his, holding him fast, dragging his knuckles up under her chin so the three of you form a tangled, unbreakable ring, love always moving in a circle, never stopping, always passing from you to her to him and back again. She does it without realizing, as natural as breathing: clutching you, pinning Bunny between your ribs, then reaching for him, making room for every piece of her small universe to fit. Jaemin just stares, floored, pride burning in his eyes, and you can feel your own heart swelling in your chest, achingly full, as you watch her wordlessly remind you both that love is always shared, always returned, always wrapped around itself, unbreakable.

She buries her face against your chest, drawn by instinct so primal you feel it before you understand it, her cheek smeared against your skin, breaths rugged and uneven, her little mouth searching with frantic, clumsy persistence. The first brush is nothing, just a nuzzle, but then her lips part and she starts rooting in earnest, jaw working, desperate for a taste she's never had but somehow seems to remember. She grows relentless, bumping her nose into you, sucking and mouthing at your shirt, her breaths growing sharper, frustration welling when nothing comes, her brows knit, eyes wet and luminous, and a thin, broken whimper rises from her throat, almost animal in its ache. It's like some ancient need has woken in her, born of a week spent clawing back from the dark, her body hunting for comfort the only way it knows how.

Every failed suck sends a tremor through her, and you see her eyes pool, lashes clumping with tears, mouth still working, soft pleas dissolving against your chest. You wrap your arms tighter, cradle her head, and rock her gently, whispering, "You hungry, baby?" Your voice hoarse with awe and heartbreak.

She nods, lips trembling, a breathy gasp catching on every syllable: "So hungwy, Mama... wanna stay, wanna stay wif you, cuddle Mama, be your girl." She keeps suckling, insistence never fading, lips knocking bruises into your skin, as if she could burrow her way straight to your heart. You stroke her damp hair, murmuring comfort, feeling a hollow ache inside you, love and grief tangled, a physical hunger for safety that makes her need so much, so hard, she can't stop searching for you, even when it breaks her. She’s making those small sounds you live for—soft, hiccuping whimpers, barely-formed words tucked between heavy sighs and nonsense syllables. “Mama here, right? My wuv, my Mama, my best girl, best, best, don’t go, I stay, pwomise, pwomise.” She’s nuzzling her damp cheek along your throat, pushing every inch of herself as close as she can get, clutching at your shirt, your skin, your hair, as if by fusing every part of her to you, the fear might finally drain away. You rock her gently, cheek pressed to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her, sticky with sweat, salt and the sour hospital tang, but still, impossibly, your own.

You hum soft affirmations, brushing her tangled curls from her brow, whispering, “Right here, baby. Mama’s got you, my precious thing, my beautiful girl. So brave, so strong. I’m not letting go.”

Jaemin, still silent, hands you a bottle without meeting your gaze, but you see the shimmer in his eyes, the tension in his jaw—he’s undone, ruined by the love and desperation in this room. Though she knows how to hold it herself, you cradle the bottle for her, guiding it to her lips as she latches, little hands wrapping tight around your wrist. You nuzzle your nose against hers, pressing soft kisses to her temple, whispering every promise you can think of: “Always, baby. Mama stays. My good girl, my whole world, you’re safe, you’re safe.” Her eyes flutter shut, lashes dark against flushed cheeks, and she drinks as if nothing else in the world matters but the heat of your arms, your heartbeat beneath her ear, your endless, endless love.

She clings to the bottle like it’s the last thread holding her to earth, mouth greedy and desperate, her tiny fists gripping your shirt and your wrist, sucking so hard the milk sputters and foams at the corners of her mouth. She gulps too quickly, breath hitching, and suddenly she’s coughing, choking, milk running down her chin and pooling in the hollow of your collarbone—her wide eyes go wild with panic as her mouth slips from the teat and she gasps, tears springing up as she shoves the bottle away and hiccups, “I sorry, Mama! I sorry, I make mess!” The words splinter, pure terror that she’s done something wrong.

You only gather her tighter, brushing hair from her forehead, kissing her wet cheek with every reassurance you can muster. “No, baby, you’re okay, you’re my best girl, it’s just a little mess, Mama’s not mad. Never mad at you.” You dab away the milk with her favorite pink towel, tilting her so she can breathe, rubbing soft circles into her back, and all the while her mouth keeps working at empty air, still searching for the comfort she craves. Jaemin, silent and steady, appears at your side, slipping a fresh bottle into your hand with a look that says he’s been watching the whole time—his fingers brush yours, solid and grounding, as you settle her in your lap again, angling her head so she can suck safely this time. She latches with a sigh that shivers down to your bones, her hand curled around your finger, gaze never leaving yours as you hum quiet love songs and promise she’s perfect, even with milk smeared across both your skin and her flushed cheeks.

You've read the literature, heard the lectures, even seen it before: regression after acute illness, post-coma, is common in toddlers, especially with cardiac kids whose bodies have been torn open and rewired, instincts hijacked by trauma and drugs. The primitive rooting and seeking—her mouth searching for the breast she's never known—is just the brain's oldest map, a survival reflex resurfacing under stress, clinging to the promise of comfort and nourishment. It's not about feeding, not really. It's about safety, proximity, the need to collapse back into the warmth of a parent, proof that the world is still holding her together. As she drinks, her frantic trembling eases, fists loosening, lashes fluttering heavy and slow. You brush her cheek, thumb tracing the seam of her jaw, whispering quiet reassurances, aching at how deeply she needs you, and more than anything, how much you want her to believe she's finally safe.

She drinks with a greedy, desperate pull, mouth forming a perfect pout around the bottle’s teat, her lashes shadowing cheeks flushed with exhaustion and relief, and every instinct in you screams that she is yours—yours in every way that matters, yet nothing tangible binds her to you, not blood, not law, not memory. Still, you ache with the animal certainty of motherhood, love rewriting the marrow in your bones, making a lie of lineage. It’s selfish, sharp as hunger: you wish you could store milk for her, could lay claim to her soft-bellied cries with the biology of birth, wish you had the scars to prove she was carried beneath your heart. Instead, all you have is this trembling intimacy—the sound of her breath whistling through her nose, the way her fingers curl in your hair, the quiet, shuddering need that makes you want to believe love could be enough to keep her alive. You hold her closer, chasing that impossible wish, as if loving her this fiercely might bend the universe until she’s yours in every sense that matters.

You cradle her closer, breath soft against her hair, and press gentle kisses to her sticky forehead, your voice all warm syrup and praise as you coo, “That’s it, sweet girl, just like that—Mama’s good girl, my best girl, drinking so well now. Look at you, baby, you’re so brave, so clever, making Mama so proud.” Her lashes flutter as you murmur your love into her scalp, rocking gently, letting every word seep into her bones until she sighs and nestles deeper, a little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, her hands clutching your sleeve as if holding the whole world. “That’s my girl,” you whisper again, and she glows at the sound, the bottle bobbing between greedy swallows and satisfied whimpers, her body finally relaxing under your touch, safe and cherished in your arms.

You sit cross-legged on the hospital cot, blanket tangled around your waist, the hush of monitors the only thing marking time. Haeun’s body is heavy across your lap, all fever warmth and sticky curls, her arms tight as vines around your torso. She burrows even closer, wriggling until she’s half beneath your shirt, face pressed to the skin above your heart, her small hand flat over your pulse. Every so often, she tilts her chin up, lips brushing your collarbone, mouth opening and closing in small, absent kisses—searching, not for milk, but for something deeper, some comfort she can taste. You can feel the pressure, the damp flicker of her tongue, and each time you shift, she lets out a low, possessive sound, tightening her grip, thighs clamped to your hips. Her whole body wants to disappear into you, as if she could hide from every ache in your marrow.

You rub her back in slow, looping circles, fingers dipping beneath the loose neck of her hospital gown, and she lets out a shaky, satisfied sigh, eyelids drooping. Then, without warning, her voice slips out, small and sleepy but proud, “Mama, you ‘member Sangie? Sangie say his baby sissy was in his mama tummy, he say that she always so kicky, so naughty girl. But Haeunie is a good girl, right, Mama? Me never kick, never wake you, always good girl. I don’t wanna make my wuv sad. Me wanna stay.” Her thumb finds its way to her mouth and she sucks on it, eyes wide, watching your face, waiting for your answer like it’s gospel. You see the confusion flicker there, a faint question: did you miss her growing inside you? Was there ever a place she belonged before you?

You gasp, surprised by the ache of wanting—by how sharp it cuts as Haeun’s words sink in. You glance at Jaemin, your breath catching on the raw longing in his face, the silent plea in the set of his jaw, the flicker of grief for all the ways her story could have been rewritten. You wish her life had started inside you, warm and safe, not in the cold of a hospital crib; wish you’d felt her tiny feet thumping against your ribs, her hiccups echoing in your blood, her first heartbeat counted beneath your own. You wish you could have shielded her from every needle, every scar, from the terror of waking up to machines instead of lullabies. Jaemin’s hand drifts to your back—silent, trembling, craving the same impossibility. He looks at Haeun like she’s a miracle that slipped through the cracks of fate, and you know you’d both rewrite every cell in your bodies just to keep her safe.

You tuck Haeun closer, letting your voice go gentle and sure, “You weren’t in my belly, baby—no, you grew right here, in my heart. There’s a space for you in my heart that no one else will ever hold. That’s how I carried you. You curled up and kicked and danced in Mama’s heart, and that’s why I always knew you were mine.”

She blinks up at you, thumb still in her mouth, confusion flickering before soft understanding blooms. “Me grow in Mama heart?” she echoes, whisper-quiet, a shy little smile tugging at her lips.

You nod, smoothing back her hair, “Yes, sweet pea. That’s how I always know where you belong. You’re my best girl—my heart girl.”

She sighs, as if that explanation soothes something deep, and cuddles in, bunny smashed between you, her little body soft and trusting and finally at peace. “Me like your heart. Me always stay in Mama heart. No leave.”

You close your eyes, pressing another kiss to her head, promising, “Always, bubba. No matter what, you’re right here. You’re all I ever wanted.” And Jaemin, watching you both, lets his hand settle over your joined hearts, sealing it in, silent and awestruck, as Haeun finally lets herself fall into sleep, safe in a love stronger than blood or fate.

You feel Jaemin’s presence shift the air, magnetic, the room folding in around the three of you. He bends over, eyes burning with possessive adoration as he kisses his baby girl’s lips, then her temple, and she mumbles, “No, Dada… no take me, I wanna stay with my love.” Your laugh trembles, caught somewhere between awe and exhaustion. Then Jaemin’s presence fills the space—broad shoulders eclipsing the overhead light, jaw shadowed, eyes so dark and steady you feel your pulse stutter. He could remake the world with his hands alone. His big frame covers the bed, and you instinctively draw your girl tighter against your chest, both of you tipping your faces up to him with wide, unguarded eyes, helpless to the gravity he exerts. The muscle in his jaw jumps as he drinks you in—your tousled hair, the way your daughter’s small hand knots in your shirt, both of you clinging like cubs in need of their alpha.

One of his palms spans the crown of her head, thumb tracing behind her ear before settling on your shoulder, heat seeping through fabric, anchoring you. Every muscle in his body is coiled, protective; you see it in the way he stands sentry, daring the world to try and break this fragile den he’s built with you. Your breath hitches as he holds you both in that silent, electric gaze, and the truth of it pulses between your ribs: he owns you, all your fears, all your hope, every part of you that aches for safety and shelter, for this—his body a shield, his touch the promise that nothing will touch you unless it goes through him first.

Haeun tips her chin up with a sleepy, instinctive trust, lashes fluttering as Jaemin bends low to press soft kisses—first to her forehead, then right to her lips, barely a breath between each gentle touch. She giggles at the sensation, that breathless little sound that always cracks you wide open, and lifts her hand to his cheek, patting with all the adoration of a child who knows she’s safe. “Dada pwetty,” she coos, drawing out the syllables with a bright, silly emphasis, “Dada kiss, mow kiss!” Her voice is thick with affection, and when he obeys, scattering kisses across her face, you can’t help but laugh, your hand smoothing over her back, caught between pride and awe at how naturally she reaches for him. Haeun nestles closer, tipping her head so her lips brush his jaw, and sighs, “My Dada, my bunny, my wuv, so good,” as if the entire world could fit in the circle of your arms and his touch. Your giggles mingle with hers, bubbling and warm, the sound wrapping around the three of you, the air bright with the soft joy that only comes from witnessing love made simple and pure.

Your laughter fades into silence the moment Jaemin’s hand finds your chin, thick fingers slipping beneath to tilt your face up, his gaze molten with need and relief. He doesn’t hesitate, just claims your mouth—soft at first, tasting your giggles, then deeper, hungrier, dragging you under with every press. His grip is firm, holding you in place as his lips move against yours, possessive and unhurried, each kiss stolen like he’s making up for every ache and every fear that’s haunted these days. Haeun’s small body is heavy between your arms, her lashes finally fluttering shut, mouth slack and peaceful as she sleeps, bunny squished between you and her chest rising and falling in time with yours. You lose count of the kisses, one after another, greedy and desperate, each one pulling something loose from inside you, all your exhaustion, all your longing, tangled up in the sound of his breath and the tremble in your hands as you hold your girl. Jaemin doesn’t let up, mouth hot at your jaw, then your lips again, murmuring into your skin, “Mine. Both of you—mine,” and you melt beneath him, the world shrinking to the heat of his mouth and the precious weight of your daughter safe and sleeping in your arms.

He drags his lips from your mouth to your jaw, then down to the shell of your ear, his breath hot and ragged as he leans in so close you feel the words before he even speaks them. “Mama…” Jaemin whispers, voice pitched low, claiming every part of you, “my baby’s Mama—and mine, only mine.” His teeth graze your lobe, a gentle threat and promise tangled in one, and his hand slides possessively over your waist, palm spanning the curve of your hip as if reminding you that you belong here, pressed between the two people who need you most. The heat of him crowds your senses, the sound of his voice leaving you breathless, your heart tripping wild in your chest while Haeun sighs in her sleep, oblivious to the way her parents come undone—his baby’s Mama, his only, and his forever.

The days bleed together beneath the unblinking eyes of the monitors. You wake and sleep in the same hospital cot, a tangle of blankets and borrowed hope, sunlight crawling weakly across the sheets. Haeun’s small body feels weightless in your arms, nothing but bird bones and fever-warm skin, her breath a shaky hush in the hush of the room. You count her ribs beneath your palm as you rub her back, counting, always counting, one-two-three, because you need proof she’s still here with you, heart beating and blood running, miracle after miracle. She clings to Bunny in one hand and your sleeve in the other, unwilling to let either go, as if any distance will dissolve the spell holding her together. Each morning you brush her hair and coax her into a clean gown, whispering, “Good girl, my love. That’s it, sunshine,” and she blinks up at you with eyes too old for a child her age, gaze bruised by nightmares and needles.

Some mornings are bright. You open the blinds and the world floods in, Haeun’s laughter bouncing off the linoleum as she sings along to cartoons. She demands pancakes, insists on wearing her favorite yellow socks, and tries to feed Bunny bites of breakfast, giggling when you play along. She counts the animal stickers on her IV pole. “One, two, fwee, four! Mama, wook! I do it, see? I count so good!” She colors pictures for every nurse that comes in. She sits in Jaemin’s lap as he reads to her, head bowed together, her finger tracing the illustrations, his voice cracking only on the happiest lines. You dare to hope, just a little, that you are turning a corner.

The hospital walls barely remember silence now; every morning, the world pours itself into Haeun’s room in a riot of voices, gifts, and laughter. There’s a softness that seems to multiply with every new visitor, the kind that lingers in the corners long after they leave. Family comes first—always. Uncle Jeno is there before the sun has burned through the windows, hair still mussed from his run, basketball jersey stretched over hard, familiar muscle. He swoops down, plucking Haeun right out of bed, lifting her so high her toes brush the ceiling tiles, swinging her in wide, lazy arcs until she’s shrieking, breathless, clutching at his neck and shoulders for dear life. “How’s my favorite girl today? Did you dream of dunks and buzzer beaters?” His words rumble through her as she laughs, hair wild, cheeks pink with joy.

She squeals, “Up, up! Higher, Uncle Nono!” and when he finally sets her down, his wife is bustling in, arms full of bakery boxes and strawberry milk, her hands gentle but her voice bright and unyielding. “I brought chocolate croissants, Haeun. Only for my bravest girl!” Haeun burrows close, nose pressed to her aunt's sweater, letting the scent of sugar and almond carry her back to every safe, happy memory she has. They settle her with little nibbles, dabbing crumbs from her lips, smoothing her hair, tucking the blanket up under her chin, each gesture a small, infinite promise of love.

It’s all overwhelming sometimes—the gifts, the cards, the avalanche of voices but Haeun soaks it in with open arms. Every visitor brings something new, a spark of delight in her tired eyes. Yet it’s Junseo Lee, Jeno’s little boy, Haeun’s baby cousin and her best friend, whose entrance cracks everything wide open. The door swings just enough, and there he is: barely one year old, cheeks plump and glowing, wild hair falling over his lashes, one pudgy fist clutching a soft bunny that dwarfs him. He toddles forward on unsteady feet, each step more determined than the last, his whole focus fixed on Haeun, no hesitation, just a magnetic pull that draws him across the hospital floor straight into her arms.

Haeun sits up so fast the pulse-ox beeps in protest, eyes going huge and round, hands clapping in wild applause. “Junie! Junie, come here! My Junie!” Her voice is pure sunlight, rich and bright as she beckons him across the floor. He stares at her for a second, then grins, wide and gummy and throws himself toward the bed, bunny dragging behind like a battered flag. Jeno lifts him up gently, careful with every tube and wire, and sets him right into the crook of Haeun’s arm. She’s all big-sister energy, proud and protective even through her pain, tucking him against her side, stroking his hair, pressing kisses to his chubby cheeks. “Junie, see? All my fwends and Bunny and croissants, Junie eat?” Junie babbles back in baby talk, mouth busy, snuggling deeper against her. She shares her blanket, lets him steal her sticker from her wrist, and guides his small hands to press the music box button, giggling every time it chimes.

There’s a softness in her then, pure, undiluted love, she holds his little hand, teaching him to tap on her board of drawings, pointing out every card, every sticker, explaining in patient, loving tones. “That’s from Uncle Hyuck. That one, Junie, that’s from Taesunie! We draw together, ‘kay?” Junie answers with a sticky kiss to her cheek, dropping crumbs onto the pillow, and she squeals with happiness, unbothered by the mess. Even in her weakest hours, Haeun’s patience for him is endless. She lets him crawl all over the sheets, never scolding when he tangles in her wires, just whispering, “It’s okay, Junie. Careful, my heart go beep beep.” She traces tiny circles on his back, murmuring little songs she half-remembers, her voice tired but full of wonder. When he gets restless, she distracts him with her bunny, slipping it into his arms, laughing as he gnaws the ear. “Bunny is for Junie, just for today. Good boy, Junie. Good boy.”

You watch from the bedside, tears stinging, and think there’s nothing in the world so gentle, so fierce, as the way your girl becomes a fortress of love for the smallest, neediest soul in the room. Junie snuggles into her chest, already drowsy, eyes fluttering as Haeun pats his back, humming, “Shh, Junie. Sleep with me, ‘kay? We stay together, all day.”

As the grownups stand aside, the whole room pivots around these two, pain and illness melting for a while beneath the simple magic of cousinhood, of big-sister arms and baby-boy trust. The nurses pass quieter, lingering in the doorway just to watch, and you hear them whisper: “Look at that. She’s a miracle, and so is he.” When Junie finally dozes off, cheek pressed to Haeun’s shoulder, fingers tangled in her hospital bracelet, she glances up at you, tired but triumphant. “I love Junie, Mama. He my bestest fwend. I make him feel better, like you make me feel better.”

You press a kiss into her tangled hair, tucking the blanket up around her shoulders, and whisper, “You’re my best big girl, Haeun. You take care of everyone, Junie, Bunny, Daddy and all your friends. You’re my sunshine, baby. My best baby.” She wriggles closer, chubby fingers finding Junie’s cheek, her voice soft and sleepy and sweeter than spun sugar.

“My Junie, my tiny baby, all mine. My wuv. My bunny. My Mama, you stay, ‘kay? My heart so happy. Junie here, Mama here, Haeun here—all togethah. Mama’s good girl, right?” You nod, swallowing a tide of tenderness as she snuggles Junseo into her chest, nose pressed to his baby curls, sighing, “No go, no go, keep cuddlin’—never let go, Mama. Never, ever.” And in that golden hush, the world shrinks to two small cousins tangled together, safe in their den of arms and warmth and every promise you’ll never stop making.

The next dawn arrives quietly—just the soft tick of the wall clock, the hush of oxygen, the faint pulse of Haeun’s monitor but the room ripens with color as soon as Karina steps through the doorway. She never hurries; instead, she folds herself into the space beside the bed, her perfume a whisper of peony, her bag rustling with barrettes shaped like tiny galaxies. “Good morning, Moonbeam,” she says, brushing stray curls from Haeun’s brow. There is ceremony in every movement: a wipe of cool aloe along the healing scar, two pastel clips anchoring her hair away from the dressing, a linen storybook opened flat so nimble fingers can trace pictures. Karina reads slowly, letting pauses stretch so Haeun can murmur the words she remembers. When the story ends, she pulls out a velvet pouch strung with little bells. “Guess what’s inside, beautiful?” she asks, lowering her voice to a hush that makes Haeun’s eyes go wide.

Haeun presses her face into your side, giggling, fingers twitching until Karina spills the contents across the bed. smooth glass marbles, opal buttons, a single gold coin, and the softest feather Haeun has ever seen. “One for each good day you’re owed,” Karina promises. “Let’s count them, sweetheart.” Haeun’s hands are still shaky, but Karina folds them between her own, helping her sort the treasures by color and shine. Every time a marble rolls across the blanket, Haeun squeals, “Look! Boo one, ‘Rina, fav’rite! Dis for Mama, see? See? Shiny!” She giggles, cheeks flush, tugging you closer until you’re wrapped around her, chin tucked atop her head.

Karina’s stories are always full of wonder, tales of lost treasures hidden in flower pots, or buttons turned into wishes. She lets Haeun choose a prize to keep in her pillowcase, “for good dreams only.” Inevitably, Haeun ends up nestled back in your arms, clutching her marble in a small fist, humming softly as Karina braids a ribbon through her hair. “Karina, you stay? You stay wif me and Mama?” she asks, voice sticky-sweet, eyelids drooping. Karina presses a kiss to her forehead and laughs, “Always, bubba. I’ll be right here tomorrow with something new for you and your best girl.” By the time Karina leaves, Haeun is asleep in your lap, blue marble pressed to her heart, your arms curved around her like a promise the world can’t break.

By midday the room changes key. Ryujin glides in sideways, hip nudging the door, a plush gopher balanced on her shoulder. “He squeaks if you hug him,” she warns, squeezing until the toy lets out a shrill chirp. Haeun’s laugh cracks like glass; a nurse in the hallway peers in, smiling despite herself. They set up camp on the window seat. cards, crayons, a plastic stethoscope Ryujin “borrowed” from triage and play until the sun shifts. Every so often Ryujin records a “vitals challenge”: Haeun names a color, Ryujin draws it across the heart-rate strip taped to the wall. The reward is always the same: another squeak, another laugh, another millimeter of lung capacity gained without the child even noticing she’s working.

By late afternoon, Ryujin stands and grins, reaching her arms out for Haeun, who wobbles upright on the bed, IV lines and wires trailing like party ribbons. “Alright, ballerina, show me your spins,” she says, easing Haeun carefully against her hip. The plush gopher gets tucked under Haeun’s arm. “For luck!”—and together they shuffle slow circles, Ryujin humming the ‘Sugar Plum Fairy’ in a bright, off-key lilt. “Point those toes, baby. Strong arms. lift them up, see? Just like in the video,” she coaches, her own feet soft-stepping in time with Haeun’s. Haeun glances at you every time she’s about to answer, searching your face for reassurance, her voice barely above a breath: “I hope my owie go away, I wanna be strong for recital, ‘Jin. Gonna dance with you and Mama.” Ryujin gives a gentle cheer, scooping Haeun into a little leap and spinning her in place, careful not to tangle her lines, until she dissolves into shy giggles. You can’t resist, when Ryujin beckons, you join, looping your arms around both of them, pressing Haeun close. Her tiny toes point on your knee, one chubby hand clutching your shirt as you rock side to side, ballet made new for hospital rooms and second chances. “See, we’re all ballerinas now,” you tease, stealing a quick kiss to Haeun’s cheek as Ryujin laughs and claps. Haeun tips her head back, shining, and presses a kiss, sticky, eager, all her heart, to your lips, giggling into your neck as you twirl her once more, the world spinning warm and slow around the three of you.

Shotaro arrives at the slump of afternoon, the hour when fatigue gnaws deepest and floods the room with quiet rhythms. He brings a palm-sized speaker, nothing loud, just a metronome of lo-fi beats that thread through Haeun’s veins. They dance, but gently: feet press into mattress foam while her arms ride his shoulders. “Robot elbows,” he calls, bending low so she can copy the angles. The exercise doubles as range-of-motion therapy; the cardiac fellow who peeks in later notes “upper-extremity movement improved” and signs off with a smiley face. Mark prefers twilight. He settles on the stool at the end of the bed, guitar balanced against his knee, voice threading through the hush like cool water. Haeun’s eyes flutter but don’t close; she likes to watch his fingers scale the frets. Between songs he lets her pluck a single string, just enough vibration to tickle her palm. “That’s your note,” he tells her, replaying it softly until her breaths fall into rhythm with the chord. The respiratory nurse later writes “patient tolerated evening CPT without distress,” never guessing it was a lullaby that primed her lungs.

Areum stops by after shift change, bringing small jars filled with battery-lit stars. She dims the overheads, unscrews each lid, and lines them along the sill so constellations tremble over the tile floor. Haeun names every light. “Dat one’s Dada. Dat one’s Bunny. Dat one’s Mama.” Areum nods, whispering a wish to each jar before sealing them again; the jars stay overnight, glowing steady until dawn, proof that light survives even in rooms built for suffering.

Evening is Donghyuck’s domain, all clatter and scandal. He bursts in with contraband pudding cups and stories from the resident lounge. “Your Uncle Hyuck used to be a very good dancer like you, he still is.” he confides, spoon feeding her chocolate between punch lines. Haeun wheezes laughter hard enough to set off the pulse-ox alarm. Donghyuck silences it with a wink at the nurse. “Best metric is laughter per minute”—and scribbles a goofy face on the paper tape securing her line. Chenle comes carrying a fresh puzzle, wooden pieces, oversized knobs perfect for sore fingers. They work side by side, Chenle humming, Haeun chewing her lip in concentration. Each click of a piece slotting home is a tiny victory; each finished edge becomes proof that her brain, fogged by anesthesia and pain meds, still fires true. When the puzzle is done, Chenle lifts her hand and bows theatrically. She bows back, nearly toppling an IV bag in her excitement.

By lights-out, the corkboard beside her bed has thickened into collage: glittered cards, tissue-paper stars, a pulse-strip rainbow, Shotaro’s playlist scribbled in green ink, a cartoon heart by Donghyuck wearing sunglasses. In the center, taped at perfect child’s-eye level, are Junseo’s crayon sketches, dragons with bunny ears, two stick cousins holding hands. Tiny lip prints mark each corner; she kisses them before every nap, certain the love travels back to him. And on the nights when the fever spikes or the pain meds run late, she reaches for those drawings first. You find her tracing the waxy lines with trembling fingers, whispering, “My Junie, my wuv, my strong heart,” over and over until the monitor settles. You tuck her closer, stroke her hair, feeling the weight of everyone who’s stepped into this room, each gift a thread in the net that keeps her here. When she finally sleeps, you sit back and let the hush settle, the glow of jar-stars washing the walls, and you realize the hospital is quieter than it has been in weeks—yet somehow, impossibly, it feels full, every corner humming with the life they’ve all poured into her.

Even the busiest attendings pause at her doorway, and between rounds your friends and the whole intern family drift in like clockwork, each leaving behind a sticker, a joke, or a whispered prayer for the ward’s unofficial mascot. Morning drifts in soft and honey-gold, but the room snaps bright the instant Jihoon pokes his head around the curtain, scrub cap askew, cheeks already dimpled in mischief. He puffs into the doorway like a magician desperate for a stage, palms theatrically empty, then “discovers” a glitter sticker behind Haeun’s ear. “Tada—proof your brain still sparkles,” he crows, slipping it onto her gown.

She gasps, patting the spot, and squeals, “Do it ’gain, Dooh-n!” Jihoon fishes deeper, pulling coin after coin from imaginary pockets, each reveal punctuated by a hush of wonder that crests into giggles so loud the pulse-ox chatters. Haeun counts them with solemn concentration. “One… two… fwee!” and when she tumbles the numbers he only bows lower, calling her “Professor” as he pockets the loot for next time. The moment he leaves, she flops back exhausted and glowing, a coin imprint still warm against her palm.

Before her laughter can cool, Hyejin breezes in, arms balanced with a coloring pad so large it curls at the corners. She sprawls cross-legged on the foot of the bed and taps the blank dragon. “Emergency, Doc, this beast keeps turning pink. Can my consultant prescribe a cure?”

Haeun giggles, snatches the green marker with her cannula-free hand, tongue poking out as she shades each scale. “Pwoblem solved!” she declares, showing a patchy emerald mess.

Hyejin gasps in mock horror. “Still better than mine, switch hands, prodigy!” They trade markers, drawing left-handed until Haeun dissolves into snorts, breath hitching so hard her monitor squeals. Hyejin slips a hand over hers, guiding her through three slow belly breaths the physiotherapist drilled yesterday. When the line steadies, Haeun taps the finished dragon and whispers, “For you, Auntie,” and Hyejin tucks it into her pocket like treasure, promising a rematch tomorrow.

Nap hour settles in on a hush of fluorescent twilight, and Hayoung glides through the door, winding a walnut-wood music box with thumb and forefinger. A music-box waltz drifts between the beeps, soft as powdered snow. “Music trims the pain curve,” she murmurs, setting it beside the pillow. Haeun nods gravely, her lashes heavy, and matches her breaths to the turning tune—four counts in, four counts out—while Hayoung smooths salve along the reddening edges of the chest incision. “Strong work, Sunshine,” she whispers, tapping the rhythm on Haeun’s sternum in time with the melody.

You hover at the headboard, brushing curls from damp cheeks, whispering, “Perfect breathing, baby, Mama’s so proud,” until her eyelids finally give.

The nap barely ends before Sangjun’s baby sister toddles in, guided by a timid nurse. Eunji’s fist clutches a crumpled drawing, and when she spots the mountain of plushies, her mouth forms a perfect O. Haeun, still weak, scoots to one side of the pillows and beckons. “Come ’ere, Eunnie, room for two,” she murmurs, voice thin but sure. Eunji crawls up, pressing her cheek to Haeun’s bony shoulder. “Soft,” she sighs, petting the knit blanket. Haeun gathers every ounce of big-sister instinct, curling an arm around the toddler, guiding the small hand to her chest. “Feel? Boom-boom still here. Sangie watches.” Her eyes swim but she doesn’t flinch, stroking gentle circles the way you and Jaemin do when the fevers bite. Eunji answers by planting a slobbery kiss on Haeun’s chin and tucking the crayon drawing under Bunny’s paw. They sit like that, quiet and holy, until the nurse retrieves the toddler, leaving behind a rainbow scribble labelled “Love U.” Only then does Haeun let the tears slip, whispering, “Miss Sangie so much,” and you climb onto the mattress, rocking her until the hiccups ease.

Late afternoon opens into real, sticky, giggly chaos when Chaewon, Niki, and Heejin tumble in, all wobbly legs and tangled hair, winter coats half-off, leotards poking out and tutus balled up under arms. They crowd at Haeun’s bed, shoving each other for space, voices loud as playground bells. “Haeun, lookie, we got our tutus!” Niki sets a toy speaker on the tray, blasting some sparkly waltz, and Heejin twirls so hard her socks slip. Chaewon does a funny squat by the footboard, holding out one hand, “Ready, Haeun? Show us your bendy knees!”

Haeun squeaks, “Me! Me! Watch, Mama! I do spin!” You steady her under the arms, IV pole rattling as she teeters up, her knees knocking together, face all scrunched with effort. She wobbles a tiny plié, sticking out her tongue, arms flying wide. “Look, Mama! I strong! I bendy!”

The three girls clap, bouncing so wild they nearly tip the chair. Heejin pats a shiny sticker on Haeun’s knee. “All better, pwincess Haeun!” Niki snags Haeun’s hand, tugging her into a wobbly little twirl. “We do dance, ‘kay? You in sparkle club now!” Pinkies mash together, Niki chanting, “Fwiends, fworever, fwont row sparkle!”

Haeun beams, all dimples and shining eyes. “I wanna be pink! Like Heejinie! Mama, I pwetty, right?” You kiss her head, brushing sweaty bangs back, and she giggles, voice all out of breath, “Mama, I do good spin? I ballerina wif you!”

You kneel beside her, hands smoothing the messy edge of her tutu, voice pitched soft and sure. “Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, baby. Look at you, my sparkly ballerina, my sunshine. All my pretty in the world is right here.” Haeun grins so hard her eyes crinkle, holding her arms up for you to scoop her close. You wrap her tight in a hug, pressing kisses to her sticky cheeks and whispering, “You shine brighter than all the stars, bubba. You make everything beautiful just by being you.”

She sighs, curls her little arms around your neck, and breathes, “Mama love me lots, huh?”

You nod, heart aching as you whisper, “Always. Always. My best girl, my pretty girl. Always.”

Dusk settles violet along the blinds, and you and Jaemin finally wedge yourselves on the bed’s narrow edge, one shoulder under her head, one arm draped across her shivering legs. She retrieves the day’s mail from the bedside tray, reading each note with careful gravity. “Chaewon say ‘Shine big.’ Niki draw me spinning. Heejin put glitter heart.” She shows Junseo’s newest dragon, now sporting a nurse’s cap and presses tiny kisses to all four corners before taping it above the headboard. Jaemin clears his throat. “Think you missed one.” He produces a folded napkin: To My Brave Sun, See You on Pluto. Dada.

Haeun’s eyes glow. “Dada kissy!” He leans in, nose to nose, tugging you closer so all three foreheads touch while he plants a soft peck on her lips, another on yours. She sighs, nestling deeper. “My heart happy,” she murmurs, and slips into sleep with both your hands captive in her grip.

Nurses glide through the doorway on after-hours rounds but linger instead of leaving, whispering, “That’s the sunshine kid,” like a blessing they want to pocket. Residents pop in under pretense of chart checks, soaking up the hush of jar-stars and the low hum of the music box. Families wheel past just to wave; a teenager post-appendectomy slips her a note, Your laugh makes my tummy hurt less. By the time the ward dims to safety lights, Haeun’s room glows brighter than ever, cards layered three deep, origami cranes fluttering from the IV stand, a pulse-strip rainbow taped above the door that changes color with every new visitor.

Some mornings she wakes beaming, sitting tall to recite the latest messages, correcting anyone who stumbles on a name. “No, Mama, dat’s from Jihoon, he drawed bunny ears on the quarter!” Other mornings the pain curls her small body inward and she buries her face in your shirt, sobbing, “Mama stay, no go, need Bunny, need Dada, all here.” And you stay—always—blanket tucked around both of you, whispering, “I’m here, bubba. I’m here,” until the tears ease and the sunshine inches back through the curtains, ready to begin again.

Even with the laughter, the gifts, the easy days filled with ballet and bright sunlight, the shadow of Haeun’s illness never leaves your side. Sometimes, between the warmth and soft light, the tide turns with no warning, a monitor stutters, her chest heaves, or her eyes glaze with fever and you feel the panic coil inside the small room. It’s expected after cardiac surgery: even as her heart heals, the trauma lingers, nerves overfiring, tiny vessels slow to catch up with the new rhythm. When her pain spikes, or the breath gets shallow and quick, her whole world shrinks to the sound of her own pulse; sometimes she can’t tell if she’s safe, and her fear claws through both of you, raw and desperate. Those episodes come like storms, her temperature rising, skin flushed, her hands clammy as she screams for “Dada!” over and over, the sound splintering you from the inside out.

She lashes out, kicking, flailing, voice wild and broken, tiny fists beating at your chest as you try to comfort her, tears streaking down her cheeks. She doesn’t want you, not in those moments. She only wants Jaemin. You know it’s not her fault; the pain, the medications, the confusion, the way trauma makes the brain forget where comfort lives for a second, all of it takes over. Still, it’s agony. Sometimes she claws at the sheets, sobbing so hard she turns blue at the lips, gasping for her father’s arms. He’s the only one she’ll let near, the only one whose voice can break through the spiral. “I’m here, Sunshine, right here. Daddy’s got you.” Jaemin’s hands are steady, strong, and sure, even as his own eyes glisten. He wraps her in his jacket, arms banded tight, rocking her until the fight leaves her body and she shudders against his chest, spent and trembling.

You’re always there, at the foot of the bed, closing blinds, smoothing hair, whispering, “You’re brave, baby. You’re so loved.” Sometimes Haeun’s little feet kick at you, sometimes she cries, “No, no, Mama, only Dada, pwease!” and your heart shatters, but you never leave. You know it’s the pain talking, the fear, the need for the one anchor she remembers in the storm. You wait out the storm in silence, hands rubbing gentle circles into her calf, waiting for the tremors to ease. Jaemin soothes her, voice low and warm, tucking Bunny against her, bringing her palm to his own heartbeat. “Feel that? Daddy’s right here, just like you.” When her sobs fade, he wipes her tears with slow, loving hands, tucks her blanket up, and whispers, “Never leaving you. Never, ever, Sunshine.”

Sometimes she asks, voice hoarse and tiny, “Dada, why my heart hurt? Why ‘ngels come in my dream? Am I gonna be with you always?”

You see the way Jaemin’s face contorts, struggling not to cry, and he strokes her hair, promising, “Always, baby. Daddy’s not going anywhere. Me and Mama, we’re always fighting for you.” She holds Bunny tight, fingers curled in the plush, and you can smell the soft scent of home clinging to the fur. You wind up her music box, one slow, sad tune to anchor the moment and she listens, eyelids fluttering as sleep claims her again, clutching Jaemin’s sleeve in her fist. Even when she drifts off, she won’t let go. Every episode strips something from you, but the way Jaemin holds her, how his hands seem built for this, strong enough to gather every storm and gentle enough to press a kiss to her damp cheek, reminds you what love looks like at the edge of survival. You never stop whispering that she’s loved, that you’re proud, even when her cries drown you out. At the end, when her breathing slows and her cheek finds the soft rise of his heart, you watch her slip into the quiet, cocooned between all that love, and you promise—one day, she’ll feel safe again, even on the worst nights.

Some days, when the pain crests and confusion rises, it’s only Jaemin who can break through, his steady hands and gentle voice anchoring her in the storm, her arms locked tight around his neck as if he’s the last thing holding her to the world. Other days, she cries for you instead, reaching with trembling hands, wailing for “Mama, Mama, pwease!” until you’re beside her, pulling her into your lap, her face buried in your chest, sobs rattling her tiny body as you rock her and hum low, aching lullabies. And there are nights, raw and sleepless, when she needs both of you—her body wedged between yours, your arms layered over Jaemin’s, the three of you bound together in one desperate tangle, sharing breath, heartbeat, every shudder and whisper of hope. The hospital room shrinks to a den built by touch alone, each episode a storm you weather together, never sure who she’ll need most, only certain that love is the only anchor left.

Often, Haeun wakes soaked in sweat, fists clutching her chest, gasping, “Mama, owie, my heart, my chest!” You cradle her through every surge of pain, rocking and humming, fighting panic with soft repetition. Sometimes her fever spikes and her lips turn pale, eyes glassy, body limp as you beg her to sip water or nibble a bite of toast. Nurses flush her lines, their faces a careful mask as she shrieks and claws for you, desperate to be saved from every new indignity. One afternoon, Jaemin notices the wound along her sternum looks angrier, red and puffy, radiating heat. Dr. Huang is called, antibiotics are started, and the room smells sharply of antiseptic and fear. You spend the night sitting upright, hand pressed to her chest, listening to the fragile thud of her heart, whispering over and over, “Stay with me, baby. Please, please, stay.”

There are moments when you think you might shatter. One evening, after a particularly brutal round of blood draws, Haeun sobs into your neck, “No more pokes, Mama. No more, no more. I hurt!” Jaemin tries to distract her with stories and stickers, voice trembling, but she only wants you this time. She burrows against your chest, clutching Bunny so tightly the seams stretch, and you feel every tremor of her body echo in your own. When the monitors scream in the night, oxygen dropping, sats plummeting, nurses swarm, and you and Jaemin are forced to watch, powerless, as they adjust her mask and whisper hurried orders. You can’t look away from the jagged line of her heart on the screen, praying with every beat that she’ll make it through this storm. Sometimes you lock yourself in the bathroom and sob into a towel, then wash your face and return to her side as if nothing’s broken.

There are hours when the weight of Haeun’s longing crowds every molecule of air, a tidal force curling in your bones, pulling your arms numb, anchoring your world to the rise and fall of her feverish breath. It’s not just need, it’s orbit: your daughter’s grief and hunger tracing new ellipses around your life, every minute collapsing into the frantic heat of her hands. She’s always been a tender, velcro-hearted child, but since the surgery, the medications have sharpened every hunger and panic. The beta-blockers and post-op steroids help her heart rest, but make her anxious and irritable, winding her tighter than wire. Even holding her bottle is too much: she knows how, she’s done it herself for months, but now her arms go limp, and tears leak down her cheeks until Jaemin’s hand steadies the bottle for her, the only comfort she’ll accept. If he tries to leave, even to wash his hands, her voice rasps, “Don’t go, Dada,” a thousand times a day, as if the words themselves are an incantation to keep him close.

She drags Bunny everywhere, clutching it so fiercely the seams stretch, and if her blanket slips from her shoulders, it’s panic: shrill, messy, absolute. At mealtimes, she’ll push away her tray with a trembling lip, refusing even her favorite bites unless Jaemin hand-feeds her each spoonful, her little hands locked tight around his wrist, as if any separation might shatter the moment. Even the faintest hint that you might leave her bedside. a phone buzzing, shoes scuffing the tile. sends her into a breathless spiral, tears streaking her cheeks, wailing, “No, no, stay! Don’t go! Only here, only Dada, only Mama!” And when sleep finally comes, it’s never easy. She wakes in the thin hours, sweaty and disoriented, fingers blindly searching for your hair or his shirt, wailing if she can’t find you instantly, shaking until she’s cradled close again, her need is a raw, aching tether that knots you to her, heart to heart.

The nurses learn quickly, if Jaemin’s attention wanders for even a moment, her wail slices through the ward, a siren no one can ignore. At night, she curls against him, her cold feet tucked into his thighs, her tiny hands kneading his cheeks, searching for the warmth of his skin, lips brushing his jaw, voice sticky with need. “Wuv you, Dada. Stay.” He tucks her in close, arms a fortress, thumb rubbing circles into her back, murmuring, “Daddy’s hands are warm for you, always.” He brings her palm to his heart, pressing her bunny to her chest, a sensory loop that says: you’re here, you’re real, you’re held. When she finally quiets, breath slowing, head heavy under his chin, she still hiccups, “No more boo-boo, Dada. No more. Stay…” and Jaemin answers, hoarse but steady, “Never, sunshine. Never leaving you. I promise.”

Dreams fester into nightmares inside her feverish mind, coiling tight as a parasite, hitching sharp, black-edged fear to every memory of safety, every shadow that moves across the bed. You’re curled in the bed beside Haeun, half-asleep, Jaemin slumped in the chair with his head in his hands, when her body jolts, every muscle stiff, heels hammering the mattress. She thrashes and kicks, tiny fists pummeling your arms and chest, eyes wild, voice exploding in a scream so sharp it slices through your skull. “No! No! Go ‘way! Don’t touch!” Her hands fly, nails scraping, until she catches your cheek, smacking hard enough to sting, and then she’s sobbing, mouth open, spilling a storm of words that tangle and crash, “Halmeoni! Where my Halmeoni? She… she gone, she die, I saw, I saw, Mama, Dada, no, no, I fly, go up, no leave me, please, don’t go, no, pwease, pwease!” Her babble is choked and frantic, voice cracking with each jagged inhale, tears soaking the pillow and streaking your hospital gown.

She flails again, foot catching the IV line, blood wells bright, the heart monitor shrieks, and the trauma rips through her so raw you feel it in your bones. Jaemin is up in a heartbeat, his arms coming around her but careful, voice low but fierce, “Haeun. Haeun, look at Daddy. I’m here, I’ve got you, you’re safe.” His hands frame her face, pressing their foreheads together, both of them shaking, his thumb catching the tears that never stop. You try to help, murmuring her name, rubbing her back but she screams louder, only barely forming words. “No, Mama, don’t go! No sky, no bye-bye, wanna stay, wanna stay with Dada, Mama, pwease, pwease.”

You see the nurse at the door, but Jaemin’s voice is unyielding, “Let us handle this. Please.” His eyes plead for trust, and the staff back away, leaving the three of you in that spinning, desperate quiet, every breath a battle, every sob another plea for the world not to take her away.

Her little mouth trembles, eyes swollen and wet, “Mama, wan’ see Halmoni and hug Halmoni… she go bye-bye? She die? Mama, where Halmoni?” The words slur together, all tangled, messy, a river of whimpers and hiccups, “No wan’ Halmoni dead, wan’ cuddle, wan’ kiss, pwease, Mama.” Her fingers dig into your shirt, dragging Bunny up between you like he can keep her safe, shoulders shaking as she wails, “Mama, mama, Halmoni, come back, pwease, come back, don’ go.” Every word is a struggle, lost between sobs, but the panic doesn’t let up, her little legs kicking, mouth open, “She go sky? Mama, she gone? Mama, tell me, mama, pwease.”

Jaemin’s gaze finds yours, stricken, desperate, voice breaking, “Why is she saying that? My mother isn’t dead. Haeun, you saw your Nana and Papa yesterday.”

You’re holding her through the shaking, wrapped around her fragile warmth as she sobs into your shirt, breath rattling and snotty, fists twisting the fabric. Her voice is shrill and unsteady, “I see my wuv’s mama! I see, I see!” She buries her face in your chest, voice muffled, lips trembling as she babbles, “She come in my dream, Mama. She say, she say no go, stay wif you. She pwetty girl, Mama, like you.” The words tumble out in tangled, desperate knots, every syllable loaded with fear and longing, and you feel your heart crack as she clings to you for dear life, searching for any anchor she can find.

You can’t meet his eyes, voice barely a breath, “My Mom is sick. Alzheimers.” The room feels too small for all this fear, your baby’s cries growing wilder, breaking apart like a spell unraveling. “Mamaaaa, I wan’ my Halmoni, pwease, pwease, no go, no more gone, no more sky.” You stroke her hair, hold her as close as you can, every word a jagged edge in your chest as you rock her back and forth, trying to slow the storm inside her. In her heartbreak, the grief spills out in whispers: “Am I gonna go bye-bye like Sangjun?” Her best friend lost to the same disease.

Jaemin nearly breaks, but shakes his head fiercely, “Never, baby bird. You’re staying with me. I promise.” Every time he tries to lay her back, she bolts upright, grabbing at his shirt, “Dada, cuddle me! Don’t let go! Pwease… pwease…” It’s absolute, animal need, and he lets her press every cold foot, every sticky palm into his warmth.

As the adrenaline ebbs, the monitor’s fragile beep becomes their tether to hope. Early dawn glows on the wall, and you stand rooted at her bedside, clutching her cold hand as if letting go might send her spiraling back to the sky. Half delirious, she whimpers, “Mama, don’t go. Stay. Please?”

You whisper back, “I’m here, my love. Always,” letting that title, at last, settle between your ribs as both blessing and vow.

You lie together in the hospital dark, the hush punctured only by Haeun’s shallow breaths and the dull, vigilant pulse of monitors. She’s cocooned between you, cheeks damp and eyelashes clumped from tears, Bunny cradled to her chest in one fist and your hand clutched in the other. Jaemin’s knuckles brush your jaw, and he leans in, pressing a trembling kiss to your lips, soft, aching, a silent apology for all the things he couldn’t save. Your mouths meet again, gentler this time, a breath shared in the space where grief and love blur at the seams. You both tip forward together, foreheads nearly touching as you each place a kiss on Haeun’s flushed cheeks, your lips warm against her skin, letting her know she is surrounded, still here, still adored. Jaemin buries his face in her hair, murmuring an old lullaby, voice soft and raw, but steady, like he’s singing her soul back into her body. You hum along, your thumb tracing slow circles on her hand, and the ache in your chest eases for a moment as the three of you knit yourselves together in the nest of tangled sheets and new beginnings, held tight beneath the soft wash of fluorescent light.

Morning eases in on a thin ribbon of light and finds your daughter already awake, humming off-key in her pillow fort, counting each breath the way the respiratory nurse taught her. The week has been threaded with small triumphs, oxygen prongs banished to a bedside drawer, central line clipped free, and yesterday she conquered three laps of the hallway in a push-chair festooned with stickers, waving like royalty to every passing cart. They unhook her from the monitors, the nurses crowd the doorway, pretending not to watch. You slide her legs over the edge of the bed, heart pounding harder than hers, her body so small and light against your palms. Haeun clings to Bunny and whispers, “I ready, Mama, I bwave.” She stands, wobbly, knees quaking, socked toes curling over the cold linoleum. Jaemin kneels a little way down the corridor, hands outstretched, whispering, “Come here, sunshine. Show them how brave you are.” You steady her from behind, your hands strong on her waist, whispering how proud you are, and with a breath like a prayer, she toddles forward. Each step is a small victory, her hair falling over her eyes, cheeks flushing pink, a little gasp on her lips at the miracle of movement.

Halfway down the hall, Haeun stops, winded, and glances back for you, lips trembling, but a nurse calls out, “You can do it, baby!” and suddenly the whole ward is clapping. Her patient friends peek around their doors, Sangjun’s sister, her ballerina girls in mismatched tutus, even a few sleepy interns with coffee cups in hand. Haeun’s smile ignites, her whole face brightening, and she lifts her arm with effort, blowing an exaggerated, sticky kiss to the crowd. “Mwah!” she chirps, eyes wide with delight. “Thank you, Auntie! Thank you, Unka Jihoonie!” Each name makes another nurse or friend wave and cheer, the applause gentle but thunderous in her tiny world.

When she stumbles, Jaemin is there to sweep her up, spinning her in a slow, dizzy circle as she giggles, pure, giddy, pink-cheeked glee. You cradle her face, tears stinging your lashes, and she presses her nose to yours, breathless, whispering, “Mama, I walked ‘gain! I did it! I big girl now, right?” You can only nod, too choked to speak, clutching her tight as she blows another series of kisses to the nurses and children lined up along the wall, her joy infectious, her light spilling down the hallway. “Bye bye, everybody! I come back soon, ‘kay?” Her voice is sticky with promise, and for a moment, the hospital is nothing but hope and sunlight, every face aglow with pride, every heart mended by the miracle of your girl’s brave, wobbly walk.

No one rushes, not when every hour of healing has been eked out with the gravity of prayer and sweat. Day after day, the team calibrates and recalibrates: each morning, Dr. Huang and the echo techs appear at her bedside, wheeling in machines as familiar to Haeun now as Bunny’s battered ear. She sits as still as she can, clutching your fingers, eyes squeezed shut as the cold jelly slides across her chest. “All done, Haeunnie,” Huang says, printing another glossy sheet, while the whole team leans in, counting valves, tracing pressure gradients, arguing in quiet, hopeful tones.

It isn’t just numbers; it’s weeks of trial runs, oxygen weaning, hallway laps with a physical therapist at her elbow, every sticker on her gown earned. Haeun learns the shape of healing in steps, endless finger-pricks, daily chest X-rays, breath games with a pinwheel. She chases every milestone with a stubborn light in her eyes, beaming whenever the nurses clap and pressing her hands to her chest in pride. “Mama, listen—boom-boom strong now!” she says, tilting her ribs toward you so you can feel the sturdy thud, that new, miraculous rhythm where fear once lived.

Still, there are days she slumps in your lap, body limp and eyes glassy, missing the scent of home and the way sunlight pours through her old bedroom window. “I wanna go home, Mama. Miss my bed, my stuff, my night-night star,” she whispers, voice wobbling. You tuck her close, brushing sweaty curls from her brow, promising that soon, soon, you’ll bring her back to the world she remembers.

Then, at fifty-six days—a soft, rain-washed morning—Dr. Huang enters with a gentleness that stills the whole room. He sets the new echo strip beside Haeun, letting her run her small hands over the glossy peaks and valleys. “Do you hear that, sweet girl?” he asks, tapping the printout. “That’s your heart, strong and tight. The patch is perfect. No leaks. Everything is where it should be. Your heart is strong, you’re going to be going home very soon.”

Haeun’s eyes go wide, mouth forming a perfect O. “Boom-boom good, Dada! Boom-boom loud!” she squeals, triumphant, so loud Bunny tumbles off the bed in surprise.

Jaemin covers his mouth, shoulders shaking, while you nearly crumple against him, both of you barely breathing as Dr. Huang smiles and finally says the word you’ve held in your chest for two months—discharge. And all at once, the room erupts: nurses cheering, Haeun gasping out the sweetest giggles, pressing the echo strip to her heart like a talisman. For a long, dizzy moment, you’re all tangled together—doctor, parent, patient, girl—each pulse a victory, every tear a soft promise that this hope was never in vain.

The discharge day unfolds in careful layers, vitals at dawn, labs drawn like clockwork, then an unhurried parade of specialists whose quiet nods confirm the numbers that have inched upward all week. Nurse Yuha ducks in first with a warm washcloth and a conspiratorial wink, smoothing Haeun’s hair into two glossy pigtails, “just in case there’s photos later.” Nurse Hana follows, trade-mark clipboards swapped for a tray of heart-shaped French-toast triangles dusted in powdered sugar, “energy for champions,” she whispers, tucking a napkin under Bunny’s chin so he can “eat” too. Physical therapy isn’t far behind; they wheel in a wobble board painted with rainbows and tiny suns, the result of an after-hours art session you never saw. Haeun’s tongue pokes out as she stacks block after block on the swaying platform, knees quivering, breaths quick and sharp but the tower holds, and when the final cube clicks into place without a tremor in her sats, she lets out a triumphant squeal. “I do it! Big girl now!” She hops down, slippers squeaking against linoleum, and catapults into Jaemin’s leg, hugging his shin like an anchor. He gathers her effortlessly, buckling her to his hip; she presses her ear to his chest, listening for the drum of Daddy’s heartbeat as though that sound alone keeps the ceiling overhead.

You’re barely setting the blocks aside when the door swings wide and Jihoon edges in sideways, elbows spread to balance a riot of helium balloons shaped like stars and stethoscopes. Behind him, Hyejin shuffles under the weight of a cake, a perfect Bunny head with frosting ears and a fondant scar stitched in pink. Hayoung is the last to slip through, hands cupped around her walnut-wood music box; she winds it once at the threshold so its lullaby glides into the room ahead of her, bright as a secret signal. In that instant you understand: the interns have built a surprise farewell out of coffee-break whispers and night-shift group chats. They usher you down the corridor, pretending paperwork.

Jaemin carries Haeun toward the lounge, your fingers laced through his free hand, his jacket draped over her shoulders like a royal cloak. She curls against his collarbone, breath puffing warm at his jaw, one fist buried in Bunny’s ear, the other tangled in your sleeve. The hall is dim, but as the lounge doors click open, light blooms—soft gold threaded with cotton-candy pink—and a hush turns to thunderous applause. Paper suns dangle from the ceiling, fairy lights loop around IV poles now masquerading as candy canes, and the banner above the windows glitters ‘WELCOME HOME, SUNSHINE’ in sugar-yellow paint. Haeun jerks upright, eyes blown wide, lashes blinking fast; her mouth opens first in a perfect gasp, then a giggle so pure it rings off the tile. Her cheeks flush rose, freckles brightened by tears she’s too happy to feel. Tiny hands clap once, twice, then cover her mouth, like she’s afraid the joy might spill if she isn’t gentle with it. “Oooh…” tumbling out as pink-and-yellow lights spill across the room.

She presses her lips to his ear, voice hushed and awestruck. “Dada, so pwetty! Look, stars on ceiling, big cake, bubbles, who dis for?”

Jaemin’s smile trembles, he leans closer, brushing his nose against her temple. “For you, baby. Every spark, every ribbon, this is all for you.”

Her breath hitches. She pulls back just enough to lock on his face, searching, freckles quivering over a shy smile. “Fo’… me?” The question is a thimble-sized gasp, half disbelief, half wonder. When Jaemin nods, eyes shining, the realization blooms, cheeks flushing rose, shoulders hunching as if the joy is too bright to wear out loud. Tiny hands clap once, twice, then dart to cover her mouth, trying to hold the sparkle in but a giggle bursts through anyway, pure and tinkling, echoing off the tile. She peeks between her fingers, shy and dazzled, whispering, “Me party,” like it’s the greatest secret in the world, before tucking her face into his neck, squealing against his scrub collar while the crowd’s applause swells around her like sunlight made of sound.

Nurses Yuha and Hana stand beside a punch bowl fizzing pink, while Dr. Park and Dr. Sim pop off their scrub caps to reveal sequined party hats, bowing with exaggerated pomp. The plasma screen flickers through a slide-show curated at 2 a.m, Haeun’s first post-op half-smile, her earliest shuffle in a gait belt, the midnight snapshot where Bunny wore an oxygen mask “just to be sure.” Jihoon steps forward, voice cracking with delight. “For the ward’s littlest consultant!” He presents a rhinestone stethoscope. Haeun gasps, clamps it, backward, over her chest, and shrieks, “Dat’s me! I hear me, Mama! My boom-boom so strong!” Laughter bursts against the ceiling tiles; someone starts a quiet clap that swells into thunder, and the room fills with something bright and impossible, hope made visible, stitched together by every hand that ever steadied her.

She’s everywhere at once, darting from bubble wand to cake table, leaving you breathless just trying to keep the pulse-ox in view. Jihoon bows in, flicking a deck of cards into a spinning fan that bursts into yellow confetti; Haeun squeals, pressing both palms to her cheeks, fingers splayed, shoulders scrunching high. She lunges for him as soon as Jaemin sets her down, wobbly, determined steps in socks printed with smiley suns, throwing her arms around his waist. “Unka Jihun, magic!” she chirps, face tipped up so her dimples cut deep. He grins, plants a sticker star between her brows, and opens a “Treasure Table”—rows of glitter band-aids, scented erasers, play-stethoscopes. Haeun sorts the stickers by sparkle, lip caught between her teeth in fierce concentration, then toddles off to bestow a gold heart on every nurse’s badge, each gift punctuated by a kiss blown from the tips of her fingers.

To one side of the room, Hayoung’s “Keepsake Corner” glows under jar-lanterns. She helps Haeun press a tiny hand into pink clay, dusting the print with silver shimmer so the whorls shine. Hyejin stands ready with wipes and a straw cup of strawberry milk, cooing, “Artist at work, hydration break!” Haeun slurps, milk mustache curling over her lip, then tugs Hyejin’s sleeve until she squats for a hug. Haeun cups her face with clay-smeared fingers, murmuring, “Tank you, auntie doctor,” each word sticky with affection.

Across the lounge, Ryujin has claimed a corner for ballet. A miniature barre, really a painted broomstick balanced on IV poles, waits beneath a net of pink tulle. Karina produces a cloud-soft tutu dress stitched by late-night nurse hands; you kneel, sliding it over Haeun’s head, the skirt puffing around her like spun sugar. She gasps, pats the pouf, then grabs your cheeks and kisses you square on the lips, whispering, “Mama, I pwetty?” before you can even answer. She toddles to the barre, Ryujin guiding her toes to first position, Niki counting time, Heejin sprinkling invisible glitter over each plié. You join from behind, hands on her waist, lifting her into a twirl; she shrieks delight, braids whipping, then thumps a kiss to your chin, one for every rotation. Jaemin catches her at the end, raising her high while she peals laughter straight to the ceiling.

Jaemin steadies her under the arms, and she twirls three full rotations, IV-free arms flung wide, the scar down her sternum flashing pink beneath her beautiful dress. Applause crests so loud a patient on telemetry pokes his head out and hollers, “Spin again, Sunshine!” She does, dizzy with pride, tumbling into your laugh-tangled embrace, breath hitching only when the edges of joy catch on the raw places grief left behind.

When the music softens, Dr. Huang taps a spoon to a mug, calling for quiet. He kneels beside Haeun, voice threaded with awe. “Two months ago this heart could barely keep pace. Today it’s strong enough to dance.” He slides a silver heart charm onto Bunny’s ear, ‘Graduate 2025’ etched into the metal. Haeun presses the charm to her lips, eyes shiny. “Tank you fix my boom-boom,” she whispers, every consonant toddler-crooked. Nurses wipe their faces; Jihoon pretends he’s got something in his eye; you bury your nose in Jaemin’s shoulder, letting his steady arm remind you the miracle is real.

Donghyuck leads the “Bubble Parade,” cracking glow-sticks and snapping bubble wands until iridescent globes drift like planets. Haeun chases them, arms flapping, squeaking each time one pops on her nose. Chenle cues Mark’s guitar; soft chords swell while Shotaro lifts Junseo so the toddlers can stomp bubbles together, shrieking each time their socks squeak on wet tile. Haeun pauses only to lay a damp kiss on Junseo’s cheek—“Best fwend!”—before spinning back into the drift of rainbow suds.

As the evening softens, Areum dims the overheads and tips a jar of paper stars onto Haeun’s lap, fifty-six wishes, one for each day she fought. Haeun scoops handfuls, raining them over everyone’s heads, breathless with wonder. She presses one star into every palm, even yours, Stay with me forever written in wobbly crayon and curls under Jaemin’s chin, tutu flattened between you, eyelids drooping at last. Before sleep claims her, she pushes up, plants a sticky kiss on his jaw, then turns to you, whispering, “Home soon, ‘kay?” Her voice is threaded with exhaustion and awe, but her light is back, luminous and beating, strong as the repaired heart beneath her ribs.

The lounge lights dim to candle–glow as the cake appears, a perfect Bunny, sculpted in blushing strawberry frosting, soft and almost cartoon-round, with fondant ears flopping sweetly over the side and a tiny pink scar piped down the center, shining beneath the flicker of birthday candles. Sugar dust glimmers like dew on her fur, and Haeun’s button nose has been piped with a glossy red jellybean, two licorice eyes winking under a swirl of pastel rosettes. The scent of vanilla and berries fills the whole lounge; nurses and friends gather, eyes wide, as Haeun’s breath hitches in her chest. You see her hand reach out before her mind catches up, fingers trembling in awe as Jaemin whispers, “That’s your cake, sunshine.” The room hushes, and Bunny’s sweet, bashful face stares back at Haeun, pink scar shining right where her own used to hurt, a perfect mirror of survival and sweetness. Everyone leans in as Haeun grins so wide it nearly splits her cheeks, ready to make the first cut, her giggles tumbling up like confetti as the cake’s little fondant ear wobbles, threatening to topple into the whipped cream clouds.

Jaemin lifts Haeun onto his hip, tucking her against his chest, you slip in beside them, his hand settling low at the small of your back, fingers curling possessively through the fabric of your scrubs. Hayoung raises her phone for a quick shot, and in the halo of camera light the three of you lean close, cheeks almost touching, smiles so wide they blur into one bright shape. “Ready, Sunshine?” Jaemin murmurs, guiding her fingers around the plastic knife. You steady the plate. Haeun’s tongue pokes out in fierce concentration as she presses down, frosting squishing, the blade wobbling through the sponge. First slice, tiny, uneven, goes straight to the real Bunny waiting on the table. The second she lifts toward your mouth; you dive forward, letting the frosting smear across the tip of your nose. “Mama need cake too!” she crows, giggling as you cross your eyes at the sugar dot. Laughter ripples through the room.

Hayoung snaps again just as Jaemin leans over Haeun’s curls to kiss the frosting from your skin, soft, almost secret. You kiss him back, quick and dizzy, convinced no one’s looking, but the shutter clicks and a chorus of playful whoops erupts. Haeun claps, delighted by the sudden cheer, and Dr. Huang steps forward, accepting a crooked ear-heavy slice with a bow low enough to hide the damp shine in his eyes. “You fixed all of us, Sunshine,” he whispers, voice husky. The flash pops once more, freezing the moment: father’s arm snug around your waist, your hand cradling your daughter’s sugar-sticky cheek, three hearts sealed in a circle of candlelight and strawberry sweetness while everyone watches, smiling wider than the camera can hold.

Unbeknownst to you, whispers about you, Jaemin, and Haeun travel the halls, your sudden closeness, your laughter and shared silences, all turning you into the ward’s quiet fascination. Orderlies swap theories over the linen cart about how you slipped from intern to “instant mama.” A pair of radiology techs, catching sight of you smoothing Haeun’s hair in the corridor, mutter that it’s “sweet but awfully quick.” In the cafeteria queue, someone wonders, too loudly, whether Dr. Na should be dating the intern who writes his daughter’s progress notes. Even a visiting cardiology fellow jokes that Pediatrics has turned into a live-action fairy tale: handsome attending, brave toddler, intern-princess. Most of the gossip is harmless, but it carries an undertone, questions about boundaries, whispers that you’re all “playing happy families” before the ink on the discharge papers is dry.

The truth is simpler and messier: for eight dizzy weeks you and Jaemin have existed inside Haeun’s bubble, night-shift vigils, hallway laps, crisis after crisis, so focused on each boom-boom reading and medication titration that neither of you have dared to step back to ask what comes next. You feel the conversation approaching, heavy as storm air; it will matter, you both know, once the monitors are gone and the ward doors close behind you. But for now, every time your hands brush passing a syringe or your shoulders touch in the dark while Haeun sleeps between you, the unspoken answer is the same: her heart first—ours can wait a little longer.

The party drifts toward evening, gold and pink spilling across the lounge as the last notes of laughter linger in the corners. Nurses sweep plates from laps and nudge stray balloons with their toes, and everywhere the hush of love settles heavy and gentle. Haeun, cheeks glazed with frosting and awe, wriggles out of Jaemin’s lap, pink tutu rumpled, Bunny clutched fiercely to her chest. She toddles from guest to guest on tiptoe, each goodbye a ceremony. Jihoon crouches low to let her throw tiny arms around his neck, Hayoung kneels for a careful, squishy hug, Hyejin laughs as Haeun smears a sticky kiss on her cheek and solemnly thanks her for the music box that now chimes quietly from the window. “Fank you for my music, Auntie. You maked me feel happy.” Even Dr. Park bends low for a high five, which Haeun delivers with all the dignity of a little queen, only to hide in Bunny’s ears as applause rises for her courage.

The nurses, Yuha, Hana, even stern-faced Minjae, stand in line, each greeted with clumsy, heartfelt cuddles, featherlight kisses pressed to knuckles and cheeks. “Fank you for my sticker, Nurse Yuha! Fank you for fixing my boo boo, Nurse Hana!” she chirps, and their laughter warbles into the fluorescent light. Her ballerina friends kneel to her level, and she bows in a tumble of tulle and curls, whispering, “Bye-bye, Chaewonie, Niki, Heejinie. You wait for me at ballet when I better, ‘kay?” The three of them pinkie-swear promises, tiaras and all, and Haeun giggles, face hidden in your shoulder as her world wraps her up in love.

As the lounge quiets, Jihoon gently taps a spoon against his cup and the room hushes, every voice dipping low, every nurse and intern, every friend in a tutu, all eyes shining and tired and full of something holy. Jaemin gently sets Haeun down in the middle of it all, her hand tangled in his pant leg, your arm curled protectively at her back. She peeks up at you, searching for courage, then presses her palms to her chest and puffs her cheeks, gathering every ounce of strength she has. “Um… I wanna say…” Her voice trembles, soft as tissue, but she stands taller, Bunny gripped by one ear. “Fank you, ev’body, for loving me and makin’ me brave. I got lotsa boo-boos, but you helped me get all better.” She hugs Bunny for proof, nose scrunching, curls wild in her eyes. “My doctors, my nusses, all my fwends, my hero Dr Nunie and all my babies and ballet and, and—” She hiccups, words tumbling out, “—and my Mama and my Dada. I wuv you biggest. I fink you make my heart strong and my ‘cital room pwetty and give me hugs when I scared. I come back and visit. I wanna dance and show you my big twirls when I grow up!”

Her cheeks flush, lashes fluttering as she ducks her head, then peeks up again and adds with a weighty, solemn joy, “We go home now, but I wuv you, and I ‘member you forever and ever!” She tugs at your arm until you kneel and throws herself into your arms, then Jaemin’s, giggling as she presses sticky cheeks to both of you, and finally lifts Bunny high above her head, waving wild, “Bye-bye, ‘cital! Bye-bye, all my fwends! I see you again! Love you soooooo much!” The room bursts into applause and soft laughter, nurses dabbing their eyes behind clipboards, everyone glowing in the warmth of her light.

She toddles back to Jaemin, arms up, and he sweeps her high, her head nestling under his chin, and you come to his side, fingers laced through his, the three of you a fortress of quiet relief and hope. “Ready to go pack, baby?” you whisper, voice trembling, and Haeun nods, eyes huge, breath coming out as a hiccuping laugh. “We go home? Tonight, Mama? We really go?” She clings to you, eyes bright and damp, and the moment you nod, the last thread of fear in her body finally lets go. She blows kisses over Jaemin’s shoulder to every face left in the lounge, tiny hands fluttering like bird wings, cheeks glowing, the sound of her giggle lifting and carrying long after you step through the door. Each step down the hallway is another homecoming, the world shifting, trembling, then righting itself as the three of you leave together at last, arms full of hope, hearts ringing with every soft, impossible goodbye.

Back in her room one last time, she insists on packing every card, every drawing. Junseo’s dragon collage, Eunji’s crayon rainbow, Shotaro’s playlist in neon green, all folded into a glitter folder she labels ‘HOME’ in shaky capitals. She pauses at the bedrail, patting it with solemn gravity. “Be nice to new baby,” she instructs, and your throat knots so tight you can only nod. Jaemin buckles her shiny sneakers, pink, with lights that blink when she stomps and she gasps when the LEDs flare. “Feet magic!”

The wheelchair arrives custom-cushioned, teal fabric peppered with tiny suns the nurses hand-stitched overnight. She shakes her head, though, because walking out is the only thing strong hearts do. She grips your left hand, Jaemin’s right, and you three step into the hallway. You watch her cheeks glow brighter as she waves both arms, little hands flapping, giggling so hard she hiccups and covers her mouth, eyes dancing with mischief. When she spots her favorite nurse dabbing her eyes, Haeun blows the biggest kiss of all, hands to lips, launching it across the hall. “Don’t cwy, Auntie Hana! I be okay, see? Big girl now!” she chirps, and laughter floods the hall in reply.

“Mama, look, everyone happy. I did it.” You nod, your throat too thick for words. Haeun’s light is back, bolder, warmer, dazzling the whole hospital as she rolls away, heart thumping, chin held high, sending love like a blessing to every soul she passes.Every monitor on the ward seems to hush in reverence. Residents line the walls with bubble wands; iridescent globes float like planets in her honor. At the elevator, the dietician slips her a final strawberry milk. “Road snack,” she winks. Haeun clutches it to her chest like a chalice, peering up at you through lashes still dark with leftover tears. “Mama, we really goin’ home?”

You can only nod, swallowing the quake in your voice. “Home, baby. No more beep-beep room.”

In the lobby’s glass skin she sees her reflection, tiny frame swaddled by sneakers that sparkle, sneakers that were once too heavy for her swollen post-op feet. Sunlight spills gold across the tiles. Discharge papers flutter in Jaemin’s back pocket, and you step aside, the old reflex, ready to let father and daughter share their triumph, until small fingers latch your sleeve, tugging, frantic. “Mama, where you going? Sit wif me!”

Jaemin’s eyes lift, dark and certain. “She’s right,” he says, voice velvet and absolute. “You’re coming home too.” He settles Haeun into her car seat, making sure every buckle is snug, his hands gentle on her belly, brushing a curl from her cheek. The car feels impossibly small and sacred, sunlight warming the leather, the sweet hospital smell still clinging to your clothes. You slide onto the edge of the seat beside her, heart thudding, your hand reaching instinctively for her small, eager fingers. She binds your pinkie with hers, her tiny grip fierce, as if afraid you’ll drift away in this new wide world. Her eyes are huge, shining, flickering over every detail as the car pulls away from the curb, she presses her nose to the glass, drinking in the world that was once only a dream: the painted crosswalk, the pink café awning she remembers from winter, the dog with the blue scarf at the bus stop, the vendor with the balloons, waving as you pass.

Her voice is feather-soft, caught between awe and relief: “Mama, I ‘member! Dat my house way! Look, flower, Mama, flowers!” She points at everything, cataloguing the ordinary as if it’s the stuff of legends. “Dada, tree!” “Mama, that doggie!” “Look, Mama, home!” She claps her hands, feet kicking the air, Bunny’s ears tickling her chin, and each word comes out brighter, more certain, the tension in her body melting into pure delight. Every so often, she turns from the window, wriggling out of her seatbelt just enough to fling her arms around your neck, her grip hot and desperate, little nose bumping your cheek. Her breath comes in giddy little huffs as she clings, whispering, “Stay wif me, Mama? Pwease don’t go home, you stay my home, you snuggle me all night, ‘kay?” Each word spills soft and sticky with need, her voice trembling with so much hope it aches. “Mama, want you to cuddle in my bed, wanna see stars, wanna you next to me, wanna you hold my hand, wanna you and Dada always stay, pwease?” She squeezes tighter, pressing Bunny between you as a peace offering, her lips finding your jaw in a wet kiss, “My wuv. My Mama. You promise you never leave, right?”

You pull her close, nose bumping softly against hers, breath tangled between laughter and tears. Her hands slide up to your cheeks, sticky and warm, and you whisper right into her skin, “Always, my love. I’m not going anywhere. You’re my best girl, my only girl. I promise you, every night, every morning—if you want me, I’m yours.” She giggles, tucking her face beneath your chin, tracing your jaw with her thumb as you press slow kisses to her eyelids, to her temple, to the tip of her nose, sealing every vow with touch. “We’ll look at the stars together, cuddle in your bed, read every book, tell every silly story. I’ll hold your hand till you fall asleep, pinkie promise.”

She nods, eyes glossy with happiness, and her little voice is a flutter against your neck. “You and me and Dada and Bunny. Home fowever, right, Mama?”

You nuzzle her again, squeezing tight, letting every promise settle into her bones. “Forever, bubba. I swear on every star.”

Jaemin catches your eyes in the mirror, pride and longing tangled up in the curl of his mouth, and you feel the world draw itself down to this, her voice, her hands, her feverish joy. The car swings round the final corner and Haeun squeals so loud you almost miss the tears welling up in her eyes, palm pressed flat to the glass. “Dere! Our house! Mama, look, home! Home, home, home!” Her whole body vibrates, feet drumming on the seat, hand glued to yours as the driveway comes into view. In that moment, it’s only the three of you, tangled fingers and frantic love, hearts crashing together at the front door, her face alight, your arms wide, the promise of home so full and certain it’s all you can do not to cry.

The door unlocks with a soft metallic sigh, and sunlight spills over the threshold like a blessing. Jaemin’s hand rests securely at the small of your back as he nudges you forward, keys still jingling in his fist. Haeun stands between you, clutching Bunny to her chest, chin tipped up in awe. For a heartbeat she simply breathes, eyes tracing the pale hallway, as if any sudden movement might wake her from a dream. Then the dam of longing breaks, she darts across the mat, slippers squeaking, laughter tumbling free in bright, breathless bursts.

“Home! Mama, we home, we home!” She hurls herself onto the entry rug, presses her cheek into the fibers, inhales the scent of old lavender and sunshine. She kisses the wall, the umbrella stand, the low shoe cabinet, every object getting its share of sticky affection. Jaemin chuckles, locks the door behind you, and you glance around, drinking in muted grays, warm wood, and the faint, comforting smell of coffee grounds buried in the trash. It feels impossibly close-knit, walls stitched with family photos, tiny scuffs in the baseboard where a toy car once crashed, the hush of a lived-in home. Your nerves flutter, but the belonging comes quicker than fear.

Haeun springs to her feet and latches onto your fingers. “Mama, tour! Come, come, come!” She drags you down the hall in a whirl of pink tulle. Jaemin lingers behind, arms folded, watching with a possessive kind of pride, his gaze skating from his daughter’s bouncing curls to your startled smile. “She used to hide cookies in that drawer,” he murmurs when you pass a narrow console. “And that scuff on the wall, that’s from the first time she tried to ride her scooter indoors.” His voice is thick with memory, warm as late-day sun.

Haeun charges ahead, kicking open her bedroom door with a triumphant squeak and flinging her arms wide as if she’s unveiling a hidden palace. The room is a riot of softness and color, light spills in honey-thick through the curtains, pooling over a bed made up in her favorite sheet, buttery yellow, the fabric dappled with faded suns and wildflowers. Her mountain of toy bunnies are arranged in a perfect muddle, pink, gray and snow-white, velvet ears all askew, button eyes gleaming in the late light. Pillows, every shape, every hue are stacked high, half fortress, half nest, and she throws herself onto the bed, scattering plushies and laughter, arms windmilling, legs kicking as she rolls, unravels the sheets, and leaves the whole thing an endearing chaos. Jaemin, lingering in the doorway, only laughs, his eyes shining with helpless pride; there’s no chance he could ever scold her for this wild welcome.

Haeun bounces upright, cheeks glowing, hair wild, then scrambles to the edge of the mattress and reaches up for Jaemin, demanding his attention. “Dada!” she calls, voice sweet and ringing, and when he bends low she plants a sticky, adoring kiss right on his lips, clinging to his shirtfront. “Tank you, Dada! You make my room so pwetty. You clean it and give me my bestest sheet.” Her small hand pats the yellow fabric, fingers tracing the faded flowers. “Dis one my favorite, you remember, Dada!” she crows, pride shining in every word. She dives into the mound of bunnies, kissing each soft nose, whispering, “Missed you, missed you,” to every single one, before tossing them skyward and tumbling among them, giggling. “I love my bed! I love my bunnies! I love my home!” She pulls you close, demands you sit and share the nest, while Jaemin, heart in his throat, stands watching the two of you, the whole world, remade, right here on a mess of tangled sheets and plush fur and sunlight.

She tugs you by the hand, sticky fingers threading tight, and across the hallway you go, Haeun half-whispering, half-babbling, so shy and proud as she pushes open her bathroom door. “See, Mama? My step for brushing teeth. I reach all by myself, look.” She hops up onto the little wooden stool, hearts painted in wobbly pink, then flashes you a gap-toothed smile as she grabs her minty-green toothbrush from the cup. “Dis my soap. Smells like sweep.” She brings the lavender bar up, presses it to your cheek, her own cheeks glowing with embarrassment and delight, as if she’s sharing a secret you can’t quite grasp. She splashes a handful of water at the sink and giggles, then wipes her fingers on a bunny-print towel, shyer now, glancing up to make sure you’re watching her, watching every small thing she can do.

Next, she pulls you into the den, her voice softening with awe as she shows you shelf after shelf of dog-eared picture books and battered fairy tales. “Read later, Mama?” she asks, before her courage falters and she whirls away, finding the rose-laced music box tucked between her story stacks. She winds it slowly, tiny hands clumsy but determined, then holds it up to your ear, watching your face for any flicker of joy. “Sing song, hear it?” The notes stumble out, sweet and broken, and you smile, nodding, feeling the walls of your chest soften, everything turning warm and golden as she clings to you, the song becoming a small thread tying you both to this moment.

You only realize you’re crying when you reach the kitchen, Haeun pulling you straight to the fridge, her palm flattening over a single photograph. “Dada put your picture here, see? So I don’t forget.” The image is impossibly dear, it was taken by Hayoung, the night she called you Mama for the first time. It captures you with your arm around her, cheeks pressed close, her hair wet and tangled from the bath, both of you mid-laugh, alive and belonging. The rainbow magnet gleams, pinning the memory in place. Your breath stumbles, tears hot, throat tight. Jaemin’s shadow leans over you, his body nearly caging you in, voice a velvet rasp at your ear. “She wouldn’t stop asking. Said she needed the photo on the fridge for good dreams.” His hand slides low around your waist, thumb grazing your hip, the gesture so sure and familiar it sends a pulse of heat straight through you. He draws you back against him, letting his chest bracket your shoulders, and you feel his lips, soft, but with intent—brush just behind your ear. “And I have to admit, seeing you there every morning…” His voice dips lower, all silk and bite, mouth right at your ear. “Makes me hard before I even pour my coffee. Can’t look at that picture without thinking how good you’d look on your knees in my kitchen.”

You freeze, cheeks blazing, mouth falling open on a shocked little gasp, you catch yourself glancing at Haeun, heart pounding, but she’s too busy rolling on the rug, giggling as she crams chocolate chips into Bunny’s mouth and singing nonsense lullabies. Jaemin’s grip only tightens, the heat of his body pressing up behind you, his breath warm as he leans in closer, lips grazing your ear. “Don’t look so innocent, baby,” he murmurs, voice so low it’s barely sound, “tonight, I’m gonna fuck you right here, up against this fridge, make you scream my name, let you know exactly where you belong. Been waiting too long to have you like this in our home.” Your knees threaten to buckle, nerves skittering beneath your skin, and his thumb circles slow over your hip as he watches you burn for him, proud and hungry, knowing he’s found every weak spot you’ve got.

Haeun’s tour ends in the living room, where sunlight pools on a plush gray sofa. She spins until she’s dizzy, collapses onto a cushion, and pats the spot beside her. “Dada, Mama, sit, hug!” You sink down, she climbs into your lap, and Jaemin claims the space behind you, arms draping over both of your shoulders, his broad chest a solid warmth at your back. He bends, presses a lingering kiss to your cheek. “Welcome home,” he whispers.

You gasp, soft and startled. “Really?”

He nods, eyes dark, certain. “Really. When she’s asleep, we’ll talk, we have a lot to talk about. There’s a lot to figure out.” Your pulse skitters. You manage a shaky nod, steal a gentle kiss—one, then two—before Haeun squeals, “No fair, I want kisses too!” so both of you shower her cheeks until she’s giggling, breathless.

Evening settles over the apartment in soft rose-gold, shadows stretching long and quiet across the floor. You find yourself in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, hands trembling just a little as you wash and slice, nothing fancy, just rice bubbling gentle on the stove, vegetables cut soft and small, a drizzle of sesame oil brightening the air. You cook because you can’t stand still; because some piece of you aches to prove you belong here, to show you’re not just passing through their lives, not just a temporary comfort in the long ache of recovery. You want to be useful, to carry your weight, to give Jaemin and Haeun something warm and certain to come home to, because your love for them grows wild and uncontainable and you want them to feel it, on their tongues, in their bellies, in the hush of a simple meal that says I want you, I choose you, let me care for you. Every sound in the kitchen, the scrape of spoon, the clatter of plates, feels like a small offering to their quiet, endless trust.

When dinner is served, Haeun perches on her stool, feet dangling, hair a soft cloud around her cheeks, and peppers you with questionsz “Mama, why carrot orange? Can bunnies eat?” Every answer makes her giggle, her nose wrinkling, eyes shining, and she scoops a little rice into Bunny’s mouth, announcing, “Nom nom! Bunny say tank you, Mama!” When you set a bowl in front of her, she picks up her spoon, shovels in a bite, and pauses, cheeks bulging, eyes wide with exaggerated delight, then throws both thumbs up, squealing, “Yummy! Yummy in my tum, Mama! Tank you, my wuv!” She scoots closer, holding a piece of carrot to your lips, waiting until you eat before feeding a bite to Bunny too, gentle as if the plush might bite back. Every movement is heavy with tenderness, her hand on your cheek, her voice soft and proud and when she sees you smile, she beams so bright you swear the whole room warms, and Jaemin’s eyes crinkle in silent, grateful joy as he takes it all in, anchoring the moment for all of you.

After dinner he runs her shower, tender and efficient. Steam ghosts down the hall while you warm her pajamas by the radiator. She steps out wrapped in a towel, cheeks glowing, hair damp as you comb it into two silky braids. “Pretty?” she asks, blinking up.

“The prettiest,” you whisper, sealing the praise with a kiss to her brow.

After her bath, she’s a bundle of damp curls and bunny pajamas, arms reaching for you, insistent and sweet. She tugs you to her bookshelf, selecting her favorite story, pages soft and curling at the edges, illustrations worn by countless nights. You settle on the rocking chair, cheeks pressed together as you whisper through every line, voices tangling in the hush, stealing soft giggles and sleepy kisses, her little hands always finding yours, knotted close, breath mingling with yours as if there’s no air in the world except what you share. She climbs into your lap, warm and heavy, curling against you with her bunny tucked beneath her chin, and you stroke her hair, feeling the last shiver of water leave her skin, your heart full to bursting as she clings, not letting you move an inch.

You flip to the first page, voice low and gentle, the words floating in the soft pool of lamplight. Haeun nestles in, cheek squished against your shoulder, Bunny hugged beneath her chin. She traces the pictures with a chubby finger, pausing you mid-sentence. “Mama, who’s dat? Dat’s a duck?”

You nod, grinning, “That’s a duck, baby. See his yellow feathers?”

She studies the page, lips puckered. “Why duck got no shoes?” she asks, utterly serious.

You stifle a laugh. “Maybe his feet like to feel the grass.”

She beams, satisfied, and kisses your arm. Halfway through, she interrupts again, voice small and curious. “Mama, where you go when I sleep?”

You squeeze her close, “Right here, bubba. I won’t leave. Even when you dream, I’ll be close.”

She sighs, a long happy breath, and pushes Bunny to your lips for a “kissy for Mama too.” You comply, kissing the ragged ear, then her nose, then she giggles and tries to kiss your chin, missing, making you laugh. “I wuv you, Mama,” she whispers, voice drowsy and glowing, “I wuv you more than cake, bunnies and stars. I wuv you like I wuv Dada.”

Your heart aches, overflowing, and you whisper back, “I love you, sunshine. You’re my best girl. My heart’s happiest with you.”

She listens with rapt focus as you read the last page, then interrupts once more, eyelids heavy but mind bright. “Mama, can story be about us?”

You nod, brushing her hair from her eyes, “It is, baby. All the best stories are about us.”

She grins, pink mouth stretching wide. “We have good story. Me, Mama, Dada, and Bunny. That’s da best one.” She tugs you close, not satisfied until your noses bump and she can sigh, “Night night, my wuv. Tell me again in da morning, ‘kay?”

When you carry her to her bed, she’s limp and drowsy, lashes brushing her cheeks, and you lay her gently atop the soft yellow sheets, Bunny tucked in beside her. You and Jaemin lean down together, ready to kiss her forehead and tuck her in, but her eyes flutter open, wide and pleading, reaching for your hand with sudden urgency. “Mama, mama, where you sleep? You sleep wif me? I can scoot over, see, big bed, room for you.” She’s half-risen already, comforter bunched in her fists, Bunny tumbling to the side in her eagerness, voice trembling, part pride, part worry, desperate for reassurance that you won’t vanish now that home is so close.

Jaemin crouches beside her, voice velvet and certain, meant only for the three of you. “Princess, you need your own bed. Doctor’s orders, your heart needs all the space to get strong.” His hand finds your waist, steady and possessive, eyes locked on yours, and then he murmurs, with a glint that shoots fire down your spine, “And Mama’s going to sleep with me tonight. With Dada.” The words knot your breath, heat flaring in your cheeks, heart thundering as you flush under his gaze.

Haeun nods solemnly, satisfied by the promise, her grip on your hand softening. “Okay, Dada. Mama sleep wif you so she stay. I keep Bunny for me.”

Jaemin brushes his lips over her hair, whispering, “Good girl, sweet dreams, my baby.”

She smiles, eyes fluttering closed, voice barely a breath as she mumbles, “Sweet dreams, I can’t wait ’til da morning so I can come into Dada’s bed and cuddle my Dada and my Mama.” She hugs Bunny tight, rolling onto her side, and as you pull the blanket up beneath her chin, you feel Jaemin’s hand slide up your spine, anchoring you both, holding you to this new, impossible, beautiful life. You kiss her temple; Jaemin kisses her hair. Her mouth curls in a dream-smile, fingers loosening at last. Haeun giggles, half-asleep, her eyes fluttering open just enough to see you both, her voice a sleepy croon: “Kiss again, Mama. Dada too. Mo’ kisses!” You both oblige, laughter caught in your throats, Jaemin nuzzling her hairline, you dotting kisses down her cheek and over her soft, dimpled hands, each one making her giggle harder until she’s barely awake, fingers limp in your palm.

“Love you biggest, my Haeunie,” you whisper, brushing one last kiss to her brow. Jaemin grins, warm and helpless, kissing her again, slow and sweet, until she’s dozing for real, mouth parted, breath soft and even.

“Goodnight, my baby girl,” he murmurs, and you both linger, hearts full, soaking in every last second before tiptoeing out together, her heart still brimming with the warmth of her sleepy-heavy confession, her sleepy laughter following you into the hall.

Jaemin’s body is a clean shadow in the low light, arms folded across his chest, muscles flexing each time he breathes. He watches you, eyes never blinking, and you almost lose your nerve, but the words come tumbling out anyway, shaky and bright, “She’s—she’s just so incredible, Jaemin. I don’t know if I’ve ever been this proud of anyone. I mean, look at her, look at us—home. I’ve only been here a few hours, but it already feels like I’m exactly where I’ve always been meant to be. Like I finally belong. It almost doesn’t feel real, like some kind of miracle. I’m sorry I keep rambling, I just—my heart feels too full, I feel like I can’t breathe unless I tell you.” Your voice falters, but you press on, cheeks pink, arms wrapped around yourself. “I know things are moving fast, probably too fast, and people are gonna talk, but I don’t care. It doesn’t scare me. I’m happy. I want to stay, I want to keep waking up here, I want you. I want her. Is that okay?” You glance down, suddenly shy, biting your lip. “Am I—do I really fit here? Is this too much for you?” You laugh, awkward and giddy, “God, listen to me, I sound ridiculous. I haven’t even unpacked yet, I haven’t even brought anything. I’m standing here in a tank top with my whole chest on display and my shorts riding up my—” You trail off as Jaemin’s gaze burns over you, hungry and intent, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

He doesn’t give you time to second guess. He’s there in two strides, heat rolling off him, hands finding your waist, then your ass, squeezing you close, pressing your hips into his. His mouth covers yours, swallowing every doubt, every breath, every nervous apology, tongue insistent and hot, teeth scraping your lower lip. You gasp, the sound small and sharp, thighs trembling as he hoists you up, your legs wrapping around his waist. He grinds against you, rolling his hips slow, every line of his body hard and sure beneath your hands, the world narrowing to the wet slide of his lips and the ache pooling low in your stomach. Your fingers tangle in his hair, and he growls into your mouth, hips jerking harder as you melt against him, half-laughing, half-whimpering at the thrill of being wanted, claimed, held like this. “You belong here,” he rasps, voice thick with heat, dragging his mouth down your neck. “You belong with us. I want you every damn night. You’re not leaving.” He nips at your jaw, breath rough, the sound of your heart pounding matched by the heavy, possessive way he holds you, like he’s daring the world to try and take you away.

Every inch of you strains against him. He carries you straight to the master bedroom, barely breaking stride, your mouth breaking open with a gasp as his cock grinds hard against your soaked panties. You barely register the room, a surge of clean linen and golden lamplight, the walls crowded with photos of Haeun: baby grins, tiny ballet slippers, her bunny toy clutched to her chest. You see her face everywhere, tucked into every corner—a row of rainbow hair bands on the dresser, the soft white bunny she clings to, a pair of tiny pink slippers lined up beneath the window. Crayon drawings, all wild color and crooked hearts, spill across the bedside table, crowding around a jar of paper cranes and a sippy cup half-full of water. Sunlight catches on a framed photo: Haeun curled in Jaemin’s arms, cheeks smeared with frosting, both of them laughing wide as if nothing in the world could touch them. But now it’s him that swallows every inch of your focus, the bed dipping under his weight, his shadow thrown long and certain across the floor, your own body turned small, trembling, caught helpless in the low, dangerous gravity of his hunger—the way he stares down at you, eyes black and unblinking, feels like being split open and poured full of something new, like you’re a body made only for him to take apart, piece by shivering piece, until there’s nothing left but submission and want.

He stalks to the edge of the bed, fists clenching the mattress, voice low and rough, “Are you sure, baby? You look so fucked out already. Gonna let me wreck you tonight? You want Daddy to make you his good girl?”

You’re half-laughing, half-moan, so desperate you can’t think, your legs spread wide, cunt already dripping through your panties, nipples sharp beneath your tank top. “Please—please, Daddy, I want you so bad. Make me yours, make me belong here, show me where I fit.” Your voice is all high, dizzy, almost bimbo-dumb with need, eyes glazed as you blink up at him.

His mouth curls, eyes dark, “God, you sound so pretty when you beg. So fucking stupid for me already.”

He’s on you before you can catch a breath, pinning your wrists above your head, crushing his mouth to yours, tongue deep, rough and messy. You feel his hand in your hair, pulling until your back arches off the mattress, breath shattering between you. “Then let me show you,” he growls, dragging his lips down your throat, leaving bites that’ll last until morning. He kisses slowly at first, neck, collarbone, teeth grazing your skin, then gets rougher, one hand sliding beneath your tank, cupping your tits, thumbs circling until your nipples pebble and your breath hitches, and then he dips lower, mouth hot and open, sucking one tight between his lips. The heat of him—wet, insistent—makes you gasp, your back arching off the mattress, your hands flying to his hair, clutching him close as he groans and bites, tongue swirling, teeth scraping, his other hand still rolling your neglected nipple until your hips are rocking up, needy and desperate, lost to everything but the filthy, overwhelming way he’s working your body.

He presses you down, his palm flat and possessive over your belly, feeling you breathe, feeling the way you tremble beneath him, every muscle tight and aching for more. His mouth follows, tongue slick and slow, tracing obscene circles around your navel, nipping at the softness just above your panties, leaving a trail of spit and heat. “Fuck, look at this, my girl, my mess. I could spend all night right here, tasting you, marking you, making sure you never forget you belong to me.” He sucks hard, teeth scraping at the curve of your stomach, dragging the tip of his tongue lower, letting you feel the full weight of his need as you writhe under his hands, each filthy kiss a brand, staking every inch of you as his.

He peels your shorts and panties off in one slow, deliberate motion, eyes never leaving yours, “Spread those legs, let me see what’s mine.” You do, heart banging against your ribs, cunt wet and aching. Jaemin kneels between your thighs, hands rough and sure, fingers digging into your hips as he spreads you open, tongue licking a hot stripe up your slit, then circling your clit, feather-soft and filthy. “Fuck, you taste so sweet. Have you ever gotten wet like this for anyone else? No, just me. My pretty girl, my fucking mess.” He teases, light licks at first, then the flat of his tongue hard and relentless, sucking your clit until you’re gasping, one hand flying to your mouth to stifle the noise. He smacks it away, “Let me hear you, baby, don’t care who hears, want everyone to know who you belong to.” Your thighs squeeze around his head, heels digging into his shoulders, hips bucking, chasing his mouth. His fingers slide inside you, curling just right, tongue never letting up, eyes locked on your face, watching every twitch and moan.

He shoves your thighs apart, rough and impatient, spreading you wide, lips dragging down until his mouth finds you, hot, wet and so fucking hungry you almost sob. His tongue dips in slow, teasing, just enough pressure to make you squirm, then pulls back, making you whimper and chase his mouth with your hips. His hands pin you flat to the bed, forearms caging your hips, holding you open as he licks a thick, lazy stripe up your cunt, nose buried in you, the filthy sounds filling the room as he groans like he’s starving. “God, you taste fucking perfect,” he rasps, mouth pressed so deep you can barely breathe, your thighs trembling against his ears.

He flicks his tongue, relentless now, lapping at your clit with sharp, precise strokes—sucking, biting, pulling you closer to the edge with every greedy drag. His eyes never leave your face, drinking in every broken sound, every twist of your mouth as you try to stifle your moans, one hand twisting in his hair, the other gripping the sheets for mercy. “Don’t hold back. Let me hear you, pretty. Let me hear how much you need me.” His fingers slip inside, curling just right, filling you up as his mouth devours you, tongue tracing filthy shapes, making you sob his name, lost in the heat, the slick, the mess he’s made of you.

You’re shaking, legs trembling, cunt fluttering around his tongue and fingers, voice cracking, “Jaemin, fuck, I can’t—I need you, please, I need to feel you, please fuck me, Daddy, please, please—” He moans into your cunt, tongue working faster, hand fisted in your hair as you arch off the bed, coming hard and messy all over his face, your vision going white. He doesn’t stop—keeps sucking, licking, two fingers curling up and making you come again before you can even catch your breath.

He sits up at last, mouth glistening with you, lips bruised and swollen, voice dark and proud, “That’s it, baby. This is where you belong—wrecked, shaking, in my bed, never fucking leaving.”

He wipes his mouth, eyes blown wide, hunger all sharp edges as he drags you up into his lap, hands rough and greedy on your waist, the muscles in his arms flexing with every movement. Your knees splay over his thighs, legs trembling, your skin burning where he touches, sweat-slick and desperate. His cock is thick and flushed, already leaking, and he lines you up, grinding the head through your slick folds, smearing you everywhere, teasing, watching the way you shudder and whimper, helpless with need. “You see what you do to me?” he growls, his voice so low it vibrates through your chest, the words curling up your spine. “All that mess, just for me. Show me how much you missed it, sweetheart—show me who you belong to.” Your fingers are shaky as you wrap them around him, soft at first, stroking slowly, almost shy, your head ducked as you breathe in the scent of sex, sweat and clean sheets, the intimacy of his room swallowing you whole. Every time your hand slides down his length, he throbs harder, hips twitching, veins standing out in his neck as he hisses, “Don’t tease. You know you’re hungry for it—show me, pretty girl.” He tilts your chin up, makes you meet his gaze, one big palm sliding from your waist up to your throat, thumb stroking your pulse. “Eyes on me. Good girl, ride it—fuck, I wanna see you break on me.”

He steadies you, thick hands gripping your hips, guiding you down as you sink onto him, every inch of his cock splitting you open, stretching you in ways that make your thighs quake and your breath stutter, the burn twisting to pleasure. You whimper, biting your lip as you take him deeper, every centimeter a new shock to your system. He just shushes you, the velvet in his voice laced with something brutal and possessive. “You’re so fucking perfect like this, dripping down my cock, taking every inch. That’s it, baby—take it all, you were made for this, made for me.” You start to move, slow at first, rolling your hips, learning the shape of him all over again, every bounce a lesson, your nails digging into his shoulders as you moan a little louder each time you drop. Jaemin’s hands tighten, bruising your skin, holding you down as he thrusts up, hips snapping, fucking you deep, relentless, until you’re dizzy, undone. “That’s right, make a mess, make this bed yours. You belong right here—on my cock, in this house, with me and our girl. Nothing could ever take you from me.” His voice breaks on the last word, sweat sliding down his temple, jaw clenched as he chases the sound of your pleasure.

The moment you start to come undone, he’s already reaching for the nightstand, eyes wild, searching. He grabs his shirt, then changes his mind, tossing it aside and opening the top drawer, pulling out a pair of silver handcuffs he hasn’t used in a while, cold and gleaming in the lamplight. “Hold on, pretty thing.” His hands are sure, unyielding as he clicks the cuffs around your wrists, locking you to the iron headboard, the metal biting into your skin just enough to send a fresh rush of heat through you. His gaze is nothing but possessive, a promise and a threat and a prayer all at once. “Mine. All mine. Gonna mark you, fuck you, remind you with every inch that you’re meant to stay right here, never running, never leaving.” He snaps his hips up, driving into you, hands clamped on your hips, holding you down as you bounce, tits swaying, hair wild around your face, mouth falling open in a desperate gasp. Each thrust is a claim, every stroke a lesson—your body echoing the words he pours into you. “You learn fast, but you fuck even better, baby. Say it—tell me where you belong.”

You sob, grinding down hard, the cuffs rattling, your knees splayed wide, every nerve in your body screaming for him. “Yours, Jaemin, yours—I belong here, with you, on your cock, please don’t stop, please, I need it—” The words spill out, ragged, desperate, as he bends forward, kissing you filthy and rough, tongue pushing deep, swallowing your cries, groaning into your mouth as you bounce for him, locked up, claimed, the world narrowed to the tight grip of his hands and the stretch of his cock inside you.

You can barely keep quiet, every moan tearing loose—raw, helpless, out of your control—and it’s not just the way he fucks you, the way his tongue circles your nipple, teeth tugging until you arch and shake. It’s the weeks spent on the edge, the weeks where all your touch was careful, lips brushing foreheads, hands soothing fevers, every inch of your body tuned to your daughter’s pain. Since Haeun had woken up, the two of you have been nothing but attuned to her needs and her recovery, all energy poured into keeping her safe, keeping her alive; every night you slept with a monitor pressed to your ear, every morning started with a thermometer, not a kiss. It’s been so long since he touched you like this—hungry, unhurried, wild—and now, with his mouth hot on your breast, hands everywhere, cock buried deep, it feels like something inside you snaps. All that pent-up ache, all the desperate, silent wanting explodes out of you—so much need you can’t contain it, so much love you can barely breathe. Every bounce, every wet slap, every filthy sound he wrings from your mouth is months’ worth of longing poured straight into his hands, into his bed, into the hot, golden room that finally feels like home.

He pulls back, thumb pressing into your chin, eyes burning. “Say it again, baby. Say you’re mine. Say this is where you live, right here, fucking ruined on my cock.”

You gasp, head thrown back, vision blurring, “I’m yours, I’m yours, Jaemin, I live for this—I live for you.” And when you finally fall apart, shattering, your voice breaks on his name, the cuffs biting, his cock still pounding up into you, branding you from the inside out.

He leans back, letting you bounce, arms folded behind his head, eyes never leaving yours, commanding, devouring, proud. Every roll of your hips is a lesson learned, every whimper pulled from your mouth a star in his galaxy, and he fucking knows it. His palm cracks against your ass, sharp and claiming, making you jolt and clench tighter around him. “Look at you now, pretty girl. Who taught you to take cock like this, huh? Wasn’t so long ago you couldn’t even get your mouth around me, let alone ride me until you’re drooling down your own chin.” He grins, mean and sweet all at once, voice thick as syrup, “Who made you this messy? Who’s turning you into the perfect little fucktoy?”

Your head swims, dizzy with praise, your hands tugging uselessly at the cuffs, hair falling wild in your eyes as you ride him, faster, messier, desperate for more. “You did, Daddy, you—oh god, I want to be good for you, I want to be your best girl, I want—” The words tumble out, half-formed, your mind empty except for the pounding of his cock and the dark velvet of his voice.

He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking you forward so your lips hover right above his, every word burning straight through you. “Then say it. Tell me who you belong to. Tell me where you’re meant to be, bunny. Right here, all pretty and stupid on my cock, learning for me.”

You whine, trembling, voice pure bimbo worship—“Yours, daddy, yours—this is where I live, this is where I belong, I just wanna make you proud—”

He laughs, low and dark, slapping your ass again, cock twitching deep inside you. “Best fucking student I ever had. Look at how far you’ve come—first time, you cried just from the stretch, now you’re fucking made for it. All that practice, all those nights with my cock in your mouth, teaching you how to swallow, how to take it, how to beg.” His free hand squeezes your tits, thumb rubbing your nipple raw, eyes fierce and shining. “You live for this, don’t you? You live to be wrecked and ruined, just for me. My good girl. My filthy little baby.”

You nod, babbling, “I do, I do, please, teach me more, I wanna learn everything, I wanna be the best—” He pulls you down for a savage kiss, tongue fucking your mouth, grinding you down until all you know is the snap of your hips and the stretch and the dizzy, bright belonging, branded deep into your bones, his forever.

You freeze mid-bounce, chest heaving, hair plastered to your temples, heart thundering at the faintest echo, maybe a whimper, a hiccup, the phantom stir of your little girl across the hall. You twist toward the door, instinct prickling, nerves wired with the need to check for even the smallest sound—your head half-turned, eyes darting to the night monitor glowing at Jaemin’s bedside, the door left open just a crack, every safeguard in place to hear if your girl stirs. Jaemin only tightens his grip, hand sliding up your spine, dragging you flush against him as his cock holds you open, every muscle tight and quivering. “Don’t,” he whispers, nipping at your ear, his voice velvet and steel. “She’s safe, sweetheart. Door’s open, the monitor's on. I need you right here—eyes on me. You belong here, remember? No more hiding, no more worrying, just you being ruined for me.”

You shudder, biting down on your lip, but the sound still slips out—high and desperate, each moan strangled behind your knuckles. He tugs your hand away, thumb grazing the wet heat of your mouth. “No hiding, not from me. Let her hear how much her Mama loves being home. Let the whole house know you belong to me.” He yanks you down again, wrists straining in the cuffs, his palm flattening between your shoulder blades to keep you pressed, spread, helpless on his cock. “That’s it, pretty thing—ride it just like that, make me feel how much you need it. You hear her? She’s fast asleep. That means you can be loud. Let it out for me. Let me hear those fucking noises, let me feel you coming on my cock, show me who this pussy belongs to.” His words are heat and hunger, scraping every last bit of shame from you as you grind down harder, ass bouncing under his hand, his voice tangled in your hair.

You try to stifle it, teeth biting your knuckle, but he catches your hand, shoves your fingers into his mouth, sucking hard as he fucks up into you, groaning around the taste. “No more hiding, baby. This is where you live—right here, making a mess all over me, begging like you were made for it.” Your eyes roll back, body seizing, the cuffs rattling as you sob out a broken, needy cry, every muscle singing with how deep, how full, how ruined you feel just for him. Your orgasm rips through you, wet, unstoppable, you squirt, soaking his cock, the sheets, your thighs sticky with it, and you barely manage a breath before he’s already pulling out, manhandling you flat to your back, your wrists still cuffed to the headboard, legs dangling off the bed.

He doesn’t give you time to recover, he grabs his cock, still slick and messy from you, lines himself up, and pushes in one heavy thrust, sliding in seamlessly and greedily, using your own cum as lube. Your body is already open for him, greedy, used to the stretch and the ache, muscles clenching around the thick, perfect weight of him. He presses in deep, hips flush to yours, cock buried to the hilt, and he stays there, breath hot on your cheek, hands pinning your thighs wide. “You know this is home, right?” His voice is gravel, ragged with need and something so much deeper. “Right here—where you take me. No one else gets this, no one else ever.” You nod, already crying, the pressure of it all splitting you open before he’s even inside.

“Only you. Always,” you choke, voice thin as thread.

Your moan rises, throat raw, and you bite at his shoulders, desperate for more. Your hands rattle against the cuffs, wrists aching, begging to be free just so you can touch him—hold his face, pull him closer, drink in the heat of his mouth. He grins, low and wolfish, and with a clink he unlocks the cuffs, but before your arms can fall away he pins them again, this time with nothing but his own body, biceps flexed, chest pressed close, his hands caging you in the bed frame of his arms, holding you tighter than metal ever could. Your skin burns for more, for all of him, so you twist and squirm, dragging your wrists free just so you can loop them around his neck, anchoring him closer, needing every inch of you pressed to every inch of him.

You sigh, trembling, mouth brushing his ear as you beg, “Don’t let go. I want all of you, need you everywhere, Jaemin.” He buries his face in your neck, body thrumming with a satisfied shiver. Your legs hook tighter around his waist, locking him in, and you arch up, greedy, as if the only way to survive is to feel his skin, his pulse, the weight of his devotion fused to yours, holding you in this new world you both built.

You cling to his arms, nails scoring skin, legs around his waist as he rocks forward, pressing in slowly, relentlessly, filling you until your whole body arches, your breath snagging on every inch. The stretch burns, tears and laughter mixed on your cheeks as his forehead presses to yours. He pauses, letting you take him, waiting for your hips to roll up and swallow him deeper, and he just holds you there, all heat and pulse and ownership, every filthy word and every slow thrust driving home that you belong here—wrecked, wide open, and ruined just for him.

He looks down at you, eyes gleaming dark, hunger all sharpened angles and shadow, and there’s something filthy in the way he drinks you in—how young you look beneath him, how breathless and unsure, every bit his willing, desperate little thing. “So innocent, aren’t you?” he growls, tracing your lip with his thumb, making you shiver, “still learning how to take it, my pretty girl, so fucking new, so good for me.” Before you can even protest, his hand closes around your wrist, snapping the cuffs back into place above your head—metal biting into skin, no room to argue, no room for anything but surrender. “Not a fucking word,” he whispers, leaning in to bite your jaw, his cock pulsing deep inside you, “tonight you just take it. Let me make you mine, over and over, until you remember who you belong to.”

“That’s it. Fuck, you take me so well. You always do. You belong here, baby—on me, with me, in this house, in this bed. You’re home.” His words drown you, the only anchor as he shifts, pinning you down as he thrusts, slow and deep, hips grinding into yours. He leans in, mouth at your throat, kissing hard enough to bruise, teeth scraping your skin. You writhe beneath him, shy at first, moving awkwardly, then braver, grinding up to meet every push, sobbing his name with every slap of skin.

He stays between your thighs, pressing you flat into the mattress, your legs locked tight around his waist as his hips grind down, unrelenting, each thrust branding you to the bed. His hands roam, gripping your thighs, then your waist, lifting your hips for leverage so he can fuck you even deeper, every inch a lesson, every stroke meant to ruin you for anyone but him. The wrist strains for more, but he just pins you harder, one palm spread over your sternum, the other sliding up to your throat, squeezing just enough to make you gasp, eyes flying wide to meet his. “Take it, pretty girl. This is where you belong, flat on your back, messy, made for my cock.” His mouth is everywhere, dragging teeth across your jaw, biting down on your shoulder until you cry out, his tongue following, soothing, then biting again, leaving a constellation of bruises down your chest. He spits in your mouth, hot, dirty, demanding you swallow every drop and grins when you do, pride and hunger sharpening his features.

You whimper, legs shaking, trying to muffle your cries but he catches your chin, thumb slipping into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. “Don’t hide from me. Let me hear you—let everyone know who’s fucking you like this.” His hand snaps across your thigh, the sting blooming under his palm, making you buck up into him. He hisses, “Good girl, that’s it. Show me how much you want it, how much you need it.” His grip is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, your hips, each holding a brand, a promise, a lesson in ownership. “You’re so fucking wet for me, so desperate. Who taught you how to fuck like this, huh? Who made you this hungry?”

Your answer is a sob, his name broken on your lips, and he fucks you harder, deeper, driving every word into your body. “That’s right, it’s me. Only me. You’re home now, right here—under me, screaming for it, made for me to break and put back together.” His hand stays firm at your throat, squeezing just enough to keep your gaze locked on his, spit shining on your lips as he leans down and bites your jaw, sucking until you’re marked, claimed, his. “Say it again. Tell me where you belong. Tell me who you’re made for.” You’re dizzy, sobbing, writhing under him, your body arching for more, desperate for every filthy thing he gives you.

You gasp out filthy, desperate confessions: “I’m yours, Jaemin, yours—I live for this, I need you, need your cock—” and he slaps your ass, proud and hungry, eyes wild. “Knew you’d learn fast, fuck—first time it took me half an hour just to get inside you, you were so tight, so shy, but now look at you. taking my cock like you were made for it, fucking best student I ever had.” He growls, hips bucking up, hands bruising your waist, his teeth biting down on your shoulder hard enough to make you cry out. “You want to be fucked dumb, baby? Want to show me you belong?”

The pace is relentless—he’s coaching you with every thrust, “That’s it, take it, take all of me, just like that. This is what you needed, right? To be ruined, to be made mine.” You nod, moaning, tears spilling down your cheeks, and he licks them off, groaning, “So pretty when you cry for me, can’t help it, can you?” He spits into your mouth again and again, open and messy, then kisses you deep, filthy, all tongue and teeth and need. The cuffs rattle, your wrists aching, body trembling from the effort and the pressure of his cock, the way he fills you so completely you can’t think, can only feel.

You grind down harder, your voice breaking, “Please, Jaemin, please—I need you deeper, rougher, want to be ruined for you—”

He loses it, hand fisting in your hair, yanking your head back, slapping your tit just to watch it jiggle. “Look at me, eyes on me, don’t you dare look away while I fuck you.” His palm covers your mouth as you start to get too loud, the thrill of the half-open door, the monitor blinking green by the bed, the terror and thrill of your baby sleeping just rooms away. “Be a good girl for me, keep it down, don’t wake our girl—let me hear those pretty little whimpers, just for me.”

He’s unhinged, dirty talk spiraling: “Slutty for me, aren’t you? You get so wet knowing you’re mine. Want my cock all the time, don’t you? Tell me how much you love it—tell me where you belong.” You can barely breathe, hips jerking, the coil snapping as you come hard, sobbing his name, legs shaking.

“I’m yours, Jaemin, all yours, I’m home, I’m home—” He groans, deep and guttural, hands pressing your knees up, cock throbbing, filling you, cum spilling out in hot rushes, his teeth at your neck, biting you as he shakes with you.

He fucks you until your voice is ragged, until tears slick your cheeks and your body arches, locked and shaking, every inch claimed. You shatter on his cock, the world shrinking to the press of his hands, the pulse of his filthy praise, the way his eyes never leave yours, watching you come apart for him, crying out his name, letting the pleasure wreck you. He follows, cursing into your mouth, hips snapping hard as he spills inside, filling you so deep you feel it pooling out with every lazy thrust, your thighs soaked, your core throbbing with the stretch and the heat of him. He stays buried for a long moment, breath stuttering, hands shaking where they hold you open, like he’s afraid letting go would break the spell of having you, right here, finally his.

You’re still trembling when he slides out, watching the cum drip from your swollen cunt, streaking your thighs, marking you just the way he needs. Jaemin drags his fingers through the mess, brings them up to your lips, thumb prying your mouth open, his voice gone to gravel. “Suck.” You do, eyes never leaving his, tasting the mix of salt and sweat and him and you—so filthy, so fucking right. He groans when you swirl your tongue, pride glowing in every filthy, sweet line he spits against your mouth. “That’s my good girl. That’s it—take it all, let me see you.” He kisses you, open and hot, spits in your mouth and licks your tears, moaning when you swallow it down, soft and grateful, begging for more.

He uncuffs you gently, kisses each wrist where the metal left red grooves, and then scoops you up, arms thick and warm around your aching body. You can barely walk, legs boneless, the burn between your thighs a badge you wear just for him, just for here. He carries you to the bathroom, sets you on the edge of the tub, and turns on the water—hot and steamy, filling the room with mist. He kneels in front of you, soaping your skin, careful and slow, washing away the sweat and slick, thumbing away the tears still crusted on your cheeks. “So proud of you, so proud of my girl,” he murmurs, lips tracing your jaw, the shell of your ear, his voice as soft as the lather sliding down your spine.

He dries you off with his own shirt, wrapping you in the fabric that still smells like him, and then scoops you into his arms again, carrying you back to bed like you’re breakable, precious, wanted. The sheets are still tangled and warm, the room lit only by the faint lamplight and the soft green blink of the baby monitor—your little girl’s breaths a steady, sweet reassurance just on the other side of the wall. Jaemin lays you down, cages you with his body, arm slung heavy over your waist, hand splayed across your belly like he’s staking a claim. He traces the bruises he left, humming low and mindless, kissing every mark, every inch of skin he touched. “Never letting you go,” he whispers, the words a vow, a command, a prayer. “You’re mine now. You belong here. Only here.”

You nod, cheeks burning, breath stuttering as you curl into his chest, bare and washed out, skin blooming raw where his hands shaped you, hair a wild halo, his shirt swallowing your frame. The lamp’s glow gilds every inch of you: lips bitten, mascara smudged under your eyes, nothing but clean skin and flushed cheeks left. Jaemin’s gaze never leaves you, hungry and awed, as if you’re something holy, like he’s seeing you for the first time, wanting you even more like this, all undone and messy and soft. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, fingertips gentle, then kisses your nose, your damp lashes, each corner of your mouth, worshipping you in pieces until you can’t help but hide your face in his shoulder. “You’re beautiful, you know that?” he murmurs, voice thick, kissing your temple slow. “So fucking beautiful. My girl.” You blush harder, burying a smile, and he just grins, eyes shining as he presses another kiss to your lips, softer this time, his thumb tracing the apple of your cheek. “All mine,” he breathes, every kiss a promise, every look making you want to stay right here forever, bare, beloved, and absolutely claimed.

You breathe out, voice barely above a whisper but pulsing with certainty, ��I belong here. I’m yours. I’m hers. You’re both mine, my partner and my baby girl.”

He kisses it from your lips, answers back, rough and desperate, “That’s right, baby. You belong with us—both of my girls. No one else gets you like this. No one else ever. You’re ours. All fucking ours.” He grinds into you, eyes wild, possessive, drinking in every gasp. “You’ll wake up every morning in this bed, you’ll make breakfast with our baby at your hip, you’ll let me fuck you stupid every night until you forget what it’s like to be alone.”

You laugh, half crying, “I’ll never forget. You two are my home. My everything.” He kisses you deep, breathless, sucking your tongue, then pulls away to growl against your lips, “Ours. Forever. Mama belongs with her baby and her man. Say it again.”

You arch up, blushing and shy, “I belong to you. I belong to Haeun. I’m yours, I’m hers, I’m home.”

Jaemin’s smile softens, but the want in his eyes never fades. “Good fucking girl. You’re ours. Always.”

The night air glides cool through the cracked window, washing the last shimmer of sweat and sex from your bare skin as you lie pressed against Jaemin’s chest. The baby monitor hums blue and steady at his bedside, your only witness, the hallway door left open just a crack so every sound from Haeun’s world can reach you. You’re curled around him, one thigh draped possessively across his waist, your cheek pressed to the pulse at his throat, the world outside finally quiet. His hands—big, careful, reverent—trace slow lines up your arm and into your tangled hair, soothing the ache in your body, branding you his with every absentminded touch. You smell of his skin, his aftershave, the stubborn salt of need and belonging, and every time you breathe in, the ache in your chest blooms wider, sweeter, more impossible to deny. For a long time you lie there, eyes closed, listening to the hush of his heart and the soft, whistling breaths of your sleeping girl down the hall, feeling—at last—like the world is holding still.

Sleep stays far away, nerves humming beneath your skin, every limb aching with the ache of newness, and Jaemin can feel it too. you both drift and surface, never quite gone, just tangled up in each other and the sticky heat of the sheets, his hand splayed over your ribs, your leg thrown over his hip, the soft, steady pulse of him buried inside you. You kiss lazily, neither of you needing words, mouths clumsy and slow, his cock thick and warm where it fills you, holding you open, anchoring you together in the hush, a wordless promise that you won’t drift apart even for a moment, not when you’re still learning how to belong.

You bury your face in his chest, voice trembling and hushed, so close to breaking. “I thought you’d react more, you know?” you admit, words muffled by the warmth of his skin, lips trailing soft over the lines of his collarbone. “When she started calling me Mama in front of you. I kept waiting for you to say something, or… I don’t know, look at me differently. I couldn’t figure out if you were staying silent because you didn’t approve and thought it was too soon, like it wasn’t real enough to matter. Or maybe it was just as natural for you as it was for me—so obvious, so inevitable that it never needed to be said out loud. Honestly, I’ve felt like her Mama long before she ever called me that, and sometimes I wondered if you saw it the same way too.” You swallow, hot tears pressing at your lashes, your hand curling against his chest, desperate for some anchor.

“I didn’t think I could ever become someone’s Mama. I mean—look at me, I’m so young, I barely know how to be anything but myself. If you’d told me a year ago that some wild, beautiful little girl with a heart condition would crawl into my lap and choose me as her Mama, I would’ve laughed, or maybe run away. I was terrified. I don’t know the first thing about being a Mother, and most days, I still feel like I’m pretending. I didn’t grow up imagining this, didn’t have a blueprint, and the first time she reached for me and whispered it, I wanted to cry and run at the same time. I worried every single day that I’d do it wrong, that I’d let her down, that you’d both realize I wasn’t enough. I thought maybe I was just a placeholder, just filling in until someone better, someone older or softer or more put-together came along.”

“But she made it easy. She made it inevitable. With Haeun, none of it feels like pretending. She’s in every decision I make, every bit of love I give, she’s the beat in my chest and the reason I want to do better, be better. It’s all for her. I think maybe I was born for her, maybe I was just waiting to be found by her. I was so happy when she first called me Mama, but I was so scared too. Scared you’d wake up and change your minds and I’d lose everything I never even thought I deserved. Some days, I still feel like I’m catching up to all the ways she’s changed me, how she’s carved out a space inside me where nothing else ever fit before. She makes me want to fight for her, to stay for her, to become everything she needs—even if I have no idea how.”

Jaemin’s answer is immediate. He gathers you in, arms tightening around you, the warmth of his chest grounding every loose, trembling thought. He lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh, the sound rumbling against your cheek as he presses a kiss into your hair. “God, you really think I could fake something like that?” He shifts, making you look at him, his eyes shining even in the dark “You really don’t know our daughter if you think anyone could make her do something she doesn’t absolutely believe in. Haeun is the most stubborn, unstoppable little force I’ve ever met. Once she decides something is hers, that’s it, no arguments, no changing her mind. She holds on with everything she has, and nothing and no one can make her let go. If she calls you her Mama, it’s because she meant it—she chose you, and she’s never letting you go.”

His thumb brushes away a tear that’s threatening your lashes, and he smiles, gentle but fiercely certain. “She chose you. She fought for you, even before you believed it. Even before I did. That girl doesn’t waver. She loves like it’s a fact, like gravity, like her heart only beats because you’re near.” He tucks you closer, speaking quietly, so earnest you can feel his words all the way down to the bone. “You’re her Mama. Doesn’t matter how scared you feel, or how new this is. It’s done. She made it real. And if you ask me—” he grins, leaning in, his nose brushing yours “—I’d say you should be more scared of ever trying to stop being her Mana, because she’d burn the whole world down for you.” He kisses you then, soft and slow, like a promise, and every worry you carry seems just a little bit lighter. “She’s been yours since the rooftop. I saw it. Hell, the whole hospital saw it. I didn’t need to react. It felt—” He breaks off, shaking his head, his eyes shining. “It felt natural. Like the world clicked into place and there you were, already chosen. She picked you before I ever did, before I saw you as the Mother to my baby.” He strokes your jaw, tender, reverent, eyes fixed on yours. “I was just… grateful. Relieved. I didn’t say it, but I felt it.”

You swallow, eyes glistening, letting yourself drift back to that impossible night. “It started right after Sangjun died, that evening when everyone came to visit her, all your friends, every face she knew. They brought her balloons and little gifts, everyone crowding in to make her smile. But she only wanted me. She clung to me like I was the only thing in the room. She wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t even look at anyone except me.” You breathe in, the memory soft and raw. “I stayed so late—long after visiting hours. I just sat with her, holding her while she shook, reading every picture book I could find, singing, doing voices, trying to make her laugh. She still wouldn’t let go. So I filled up the tub, gave her a bath just to calm her down, washed her hair, and let her pick out her softest pajamas. She was half asleep by then, curls damp, lying on my chest, and that’s when she said it. ‘Mama.’ So quiet and so soft that I almost thought I imagined it. I just… froze. My whole body went cold. I felt like I’d been struck by lightning. I was proud, God, so proud, but it scared me to death too. I didn’t know if I deserved it, or if you’d even want that for her. I didn’t tell you, not right away. It felt too fragile, like maybe it wasn’t really mine to keep.”

Jaemin’s hands find your face, thumbs catching every stray tear. His eyes are glassy, shining with all the things he can’t say out loud. “You were always the one. She’d scream for hours, and you’d be the only one she’d let brush her hair. She only ate if you were sitting next to her, and would only fall asleep if you read her stories. You stayed after your shift, every night, just to make sure she felt safe. She’d have nightmares, and she’d run straight to you. Even before we were anything, you were already her home.” He laughs, low and reverent, pressing a kiss to your temple. “It was never forced. She just wanted you and so did I.” He breathes in, shuddering, voice thick. “I never wanted a partner who would love my kid less than me. I needed someone who put her first—and you did. Always. Long before we started fucking.”

You press your forehead to his, voice shaking with the force of it. “I didn’t know I’d ever get to have a family like this. I didn’t know I could ever be chosen. I’ve never been someone’s first, someone’s favorite. I always felt like an afterthought, like I was just waiting for someone to want me. And now I’m—” You break off, breath hitching. “I’m hers and I’m yours. I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

“I should’ve reacted, I should’ve told you, really told you, how I felt the moment she first called you Mama. I saw it happening, I felt it, and I wanted it before I could admit, but everything was chaos. Sangjun died, I feared loosing my own baby and then Haeun collapsed during her Ballerina class, I was running in terror and panic. I didn’t have the words, I barely had the strength to do more than fight for her, for both of you. But every time I saw her reach for you, cry for you, I knew. I should’ve said it then: you were her Mama. I should’ve said it out loud, given you that reassurance, told you what it meant to me. I wanted to, I was desperate to but I was so afraid. I should’ve told you how much I needed you, how much she did, how much I already saw us as a family. I’m sorry I made you question it, sorry I ever let you feel alone in it. It was never in doubt. Never.”

Tears press hot and urgent behind your eyes, and you let them fall, unashamed, your voice is a hush between you, words quivering as they tumble out, too full, too open, too much. “You don’t have to be sorry,” you breathe, fingers sliding up his jaw, thumb swiping tears from his cheek even as yours drip freely. “None of this was ever easy, and I never needed you to say it perfectly. I just… I needed to know that what I felt was real for both of you. That I wasn’t just borrowing something beautiful, waiting for it to disappear.” You swallow, cheeks burning, mouth trembling as you lean in and press your forehead to his, sharing the air between your shaking breaths. “But I get it now. I do. Even with all the fear, even with everything we lost. what I have, what I have with her, with you, it’s… it’s the only thing that’s ever made me feel chosen. Like I get to stay. Like this is my family, for real. I want to be her Mama. I want to be yours. You never have to doubt that.” Your hand flattens over his heart, clutching the heat of him, as you smile through the tears, letting every raw, grateful ache speak for itself. “I won’t let you down. I love her, I’m falling for you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your hands find his jaw, pulling him down into a kiss that is messy, desperate, too wet with tears and want. “I want to be here for everything,” you whisper against his mouth, voice cracked with longing and awe. “Her first ballet recital when she’s better, her first sleepover, the next surgery, every good day, every bad day. I want her to know I’ll never leave. That she’s enough, even with her heart. That she’s loved. Every minute, every day.” You draw back, breathless, words tumbling softer now—almost childlike, full of longing you’ve never let yourself say out loud. “I want to braid her hair every morning and learn all her little routines. I want us to match in stupid dresses when she asks, to paint our nails together in her room, to pick out birthday cakes and wrap presents she’ll tear open in the living room. I want to teach her how to tie her shoes, read to her when she can’t sleep, and sneak her a cookie after dinner when you’re not looking. I want to sit in the audience at every performance, be the face she looks for when she’s scared, the arms she runs to when she’s proud, the lap she climbs into when the world’s too big. I want to make her cute lunches, tuck notes into her backpack, and cry the first time she goes off to school. I want her to have every single piece of me—every little thing I never got. I want to be her Mama in all the ways I can dream.” You’re crying harder now, half-laughing, and you reach for his hand, lacing your fingers through his, holding tight to the promise you’re building right here in the blue-lit dark.

He gathers you up beneath his chin, arms caging you in so tight your bones creak, voice trembling as the words come. “My girl deserves a mother who loves her as much as you do. Someone who looks at her like the sun rises just for her, who sees every tiny miracle and never takes a second for granted. She deserves softness—real softness, the kind that wakes her in the morning and tucks her in at night. You give her that. You always have.” His throat works, eyes shining wet as he presses a kiss into your hair, clinging like he might never let go. “Every single thing you want to do for her? She deserves it. Every braid, every stupid matching dress, every night you crawl into her bed just because she calls out for her Mama. She deserves all of it. She deserves you.”

He pulls back, hands trembling at your jaw, thumb sweeping away the tears pooling at your cheek. “You don’t know what it does to me, to see you with her, the way she glows when you’re around, how she sleeps easier if you’re close. You’ve given her a mother, you’ve given her joy, you’ve given me a life I never thought I’d have. She’s been through more than any young girl should. Six surgeries. A year stuck in these hospital walls. She needs the kind of love that doesn’t vanish when things get hard.” He laughs, rough and broken, shaking his head. “You’re the only one who ever made her feel safe enough to just be a kid. You’re the only one who's ever made me believe we could be a family.” He searches your face, fear and hope all tangled, and he says, “I want you to be her Mama, not just tonight, not just when it’s easy, but forever. When you’re ready, if you want it, let’s make it real. Adopt her. Be hers the way she’s always been yours. Forever, okay? That’s all I want. That’s all she deserves.”

Your face crumples, tears spilling before you can even form words, and you choke out a shaky, stuttering laugh. “Yes—yes, of course, Jaemin. God, yes. I want her, I want to be her Mama. I want her in every way I can have her.” You can’t stop crying, your hands shaking as you clutch at him, burying your face in his chest, overwhelmed by how much this moment means, how much it changes everything and somehow nothing at all. “She’s already mine, she’s been mine since the day I held her on that rooftop. I don’t care about blood, I don’t care about paperwork—I know it’s not what matters. She chose me, and you chose me, and that’s all I ever needed. But making it official… I want that. I want her to know it’s forever. That even if—God forbid—anything ever happened between us, she’ll always have me. I’ll always be hers. She’ll always be my little girl.”

You’re sobbing so hard you can barely get the words out, voice breaking on every syllable, but you just keep repeating it, breathless and half-laughing, “Yes, yes, yes—I want to be her Mama, always, in every way that matters. I’ll be there for every doctor’s visit, every surgery, every sleepless night, every first and last and in between. I’ll fight for her, I’ll fight for you, I’ll fight for this family. She’s my heart. She’s my everything.” You pull him closer, pressing desperate kisses to his jaw, his cheek, tasting salt and hope, whispering again, “Thank you. Thank you for letting me love her. Thank you for making me hers. Thank you for letting me be her Mama.”

He pulls you up, shifting you right into his lap until your bare thighs bracket his hips, your knees tight around him, bodies pressed flush, chest to chest, skin to skin, your heart beating wild against his. His hands are everywhere, greedy, possessive, hot on your waist and sliding lower, spreading you open over the thick line of his cock. The shirt rides up your body as you grind down, baring you to the night air, your nipples tight, aching, almost desperate for his touch. His mouth trails along your jaw, breath scorching against your neck, his tongue drawing heat into your pulse as he whispers filth right in your ear, “Let me see you, baby. All of you. That’s it—just like that.”

You arch back, hands fumbling with the hem until you tug his shirt over your head, tossing it aside, letting him see every inch, every mark he’s left, your body slick and flushed, thighs trembling around him. He drags his palms up from your knees to your hips, holding you open, grinding you down until your slick coats him, both of you panting, eyes blown wide. You’re so close it’s dizzying, his cock pressed tight against your slick, your bare skin, nothing between you but sweat, want and the dark. His voice dips, honeyed and sinful, “So you’ll be her Mama, huh? That means you’re mine too, doesn’t it? Really mine.” He nips at your earlobe, tongue teasing, palm sliding under the hem of the shirt to cup your ass, his cock already stirring against your hip. “Will you be my girl, baby? My good girl. my girlfriend, for real? I wanna hear you say it. I want it all official. You, me, our little girl—no secrets, no pretending. Say yes, come on. Be mine in every fucking way.”

You squirm in his lap, giggling, all flushed and still breathless from crying, your cheeks glowing as you look up at him, “Yes, Jaemin. God, yes. I’m yours. I’m your girl. I’m your girlfriend, I belong to you, to both of you. All yours.” You shiver as he presses you back against the bed, mouth trailing over your neck, his tongue swirling filth and love into your skin, his hands possessive, worshipful, tugging you even closer. “That’s right, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick, “Mine. My Mama, my good girl, my girlfriend. When our baby’s better, and she will be, and she doesn’t need us for every little thing, I’m gonna take you out. Everywhere. Every fucking date you ever dreamed of. Candlelight, rooftops, silk sheets, pressed up against bathroom walls. I’ll show you how much we need you, how proud I am that you’re mine. You’ll wear all my marks, my ring someday, and you’ll come home to us, to this. Every night. Every morning.”

You giggle, a hot flush running right down to your toes, your voice a whisper as you lean into him, “God, you’re insane. I want it. I want all of it. Take me everywhere, ruin me every night, just as long as I come home to you and our baby girl.”

He laughs, dark and low, rolling you under him, hands wild, mouths clashing, sealing it with a kiss that tastes like promise and forever, and every beautiful, filthy thing you’ll build—together. He leans in, groaning, mouth on yours, swallowing every sound, “Mine. My Mama, my girl—look how fucking beautiful you are. Gonna make you say it again, all night, just for me.”

You spend a long time talking after that, heads close, skin still hot and sticky, legs tangled in the sheets as you work through the edges of this new life. Jaemin broaches the topic gently, asks if you can move in, right here, full-time, be part of every morning and every night. You say yes, instantly, laughing a little at how fast it feels, but he just squeezes you tighter and says he’ll be patient with the transition, that your apartment can take weeks or months to clear out, that he’s not going anywhere and neither are you. You both agree it’s better for Haeun to feel like it’s gradual, a celebration, something you mark together, maybe with a “housewarming” day just for her, complete with a banner she paints, you all eating takeout on the kitchen floor. You talk about your role at home, what it means to be her Mama now, not just in name but in the way you wake up for her nightmares, help with medicine, pack lunches, soothe every tear. You work out your expectations for discipline and tantrums, for who handles what in a crisis (both of you, together, every time). Jaemin promises you’ll split everything, that you’ll parent her as a team. When Haeun melts down or needs boundaries, you’ll both step in; when she’s sick, you’ll both hold her through it. Family visits become a new, gentle dream: you’ll introduce her slowly to your side, make sure she knows she has even more people who are gonna love her, cousins to meet, grandparents to hug, her world expanding, never shrinking.

Jaemin is clear: “You’re her Mama now. You’ll sleep with me, but when she needs you, you’ll be there. She should always know you’re her safe place. We talk, we decide together. she has two parents here. Not just me.” You nod, warmth blooming in your chest, the boundaries feeling solid and sacred, the comfort of true partnership anchoring you deeper than you’ve ever felt before. Every rule, every expectation, every future hope is mapped together, your bodies touching the whole time—his thumb tracing your thigh, your hand curled in his hair, breath shared, promises forming between skin and heart.

But your worries about the outside world surface, the weight of judgment and gossip seeping into the quiet. You bite your lip, staring at the ceiling, whispering, “We haven’t exactly been subtle at the hospital. What if people start calling me her stepmom, or say we’re just playing house? What if the other interns, or her birth mother, or your friends start trouble?” Jaemin is quick and fierce, mouth against your shoulder, voice low and protective: “Let them. Let them talk. My baby girl has survived more than anyone should have to endure. She needs stability, love, a Mama who stays. I don’t care if people think it’s too fast or call us names. We know what’s real. I only care about her and you.” He sits up straighter, eyes shining with that sharp pride that first drew you in. “I don’t give a fuck if people think we’re rushing this. Let them talk. None of them have watched the clock like I have, counting hours, holding my breath, praying my girl will make it through the night.” He cups your face, thumb rough and loving at your cheek, and you can feel every heartbeat behind his words. “It only seems fast to people who’ve never stood over a hospital bed, wishing for one more minute, who’ve never been forced to gamble with time every single day. They don’t understand, every moment is everything when you live like we have. Decisions like this don’t need to wait. They can’t wait. Not when every day is a gift that could be taken. Not when we’ve already wasted so much.”

He pulls you tighter, mouth trembling with the memory. “It’s only fast if you forget how long it’s been brewing. Ever since Haeun was brought to this hospital, she’s been yours, even if nobody could see it but her. I didn’t see it, not really—not until she nearly died after her ballerina fall and I saw how devoted and dedicated you were to us. That’s when everything snapped into focus. If anything, I’m angry about all the time we didn’t have, every night I sent you home, every day I kept you at arm’s length. I should’ve brought you home that first night, the night you risked everything for her, when you stayed by her bed till sunrise after her first surgery, when you braided her hair at three in the morning because she screamed for you and wouldn’t let anyone else touch her.” He laughs, wet and raw, eyes shining in the dark. “That’s when I started seeing you as hers. As ours. We just hadn’t said it out loud yet.”

He kisses your forehead, voice gone thick, words barely holding together. “We’re not making quick decisions for no reason. Our girl’s life is fragile, unpredictable. She’s nearly died five times—five fucking times, and every second, I wonder if it’s the last. That’s why I move fast. That’s why I choose you now, not someday. Every day with her is a countdown. I don’t waste a single one, not anymore. I want her to always know—always—where she stands, and who stands beside her. I want her to see us, solid, real and together, every morning, every night, no question, no fear. We have to be solid, for her. For all of us. I won’t let time steal one more thing.”

The conversation shifts, slow and seismic, into the soft-blue dark, drawn toward the one subject that’s always in the room, always pressing at your ribs with its terrible gravity: Haeun’s future, the fragile scaffolding of her health, the tightrope walk of her every tomorrow. You speak quietly, knees pressed to his hips, voice steady at first, then unraveling with each word. “We have to figure this out, Jaemin. She’s survived so much, but we can’t keep living from emergency to emergency. Her heart’s not strong enough for a standard transplant, not with her weight, history and all the tissue damage. Even if she was a candidate, the odds of rejection—” your voice breaks, and you breathe in, “they’re so high. No center will take her without a risk-benefit that justifies it and we both know why.”

Jaemin nods, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his thumb tracing absent shapes over your thigh. “You think it’s the prenatal exposure? The drugs and the alcohol her birth Mother—” He can’t finish, but you squeeze his hand, determined. “It’s likely. There’s still gaps in her birth history, but we can push for genetic testing, tox screens on any remaining neonatal samples, and talk to Dr. Huang about the trial protocol for pediatric gene therapy. It’s the only way we’ll ever get her on a transplant shortlist, or into a trial that could recondition her cardiac tissue.”

Silence hovers, but fear gnaws at the edges, and you ask, voice brittle, “Can we talk about Aseul? Is there any chance she’ll come back, try to see Haeun? Could she find us?” You know you’ve changed the subject but it’s itching at your mind like poison.

Jaemin turns his head, his jaw tightens. “She’s locked up in Busan, in a psychiatric secure wing. She has no day passes, no unsupervised visitation, nothing. I have people who check on her file. Last report, she barely leaves her bed, but she’s not alone.” He swallows, gaze dark. “She’s gotten… close, maybe too close, with another patient. A woman, let’s just say my old friend group has a hellish past with her. The kind of bond they’ve formed isn’t healthy. Staff describe it as codependent at best, predatory at worst. If there’s any new danger, I’ll know before it touches our doorstep. I promise. You and Haeun are safe.” He means it, but neither of you are naive—trauma doesn’t obey hospital locks, and darkness has a way of finding cracks. Jaemin has done everything to keep the ghosts at bay: called in favors, checked security, braced himself for every shape the curse might take. But no one ever expects the serpent to slip in through the veins, or the black swan to shadow a heart already broken open by love. This isn’t just about Aseul anymore. It’s about how history chooses to come back, how wounds find new ways to bleed. All you can do is hold Haeun a little closer and hope love is enough to keep the monsters at bay, even for one more night.

You force a small, brittle laugh, feigning bravado just to fill the fear-thick air. “If Aseul tries to take my little girl, I’ll kill her.”

Jaemin chuckles, a grim, quiet sound, rubbing his thumb along your knee. “She’d have to go through both of us and I’d put her back in the ground myself, I swear.” There’s a haunted tenderness in the way he says it, fierce and matter-of-fact, no doubt at all about where he stands.

But you let the thought drift, neither of you needs to linger on threats that only breed more panic. You tilt your head, voice trembling but steady, trying to anchor yourself in what you can control. “We need answers, hard, clear answers. I want to go over every single scan, every echo, her cath results, all her surgical notes. But…” You hesitate, the weight of the next admission hot and thick in your chest. “Now that I’m her Mama, I’ll be removed from her primary chart access too. No more reviewing her patient files, no more scrubbing in on her procedures. They’ll take me off her care team for good—policy.” Jaemin’s jaw tightens, but you keep going, “We’ll need someone on the inside. I’ll keep consulting, unofficially, we’ll have to build a system. Have Jihoon or Hayoung update us, maybe encrypted notes, off-hours rounds, anything to keep us looped in. I can still keep a clinical notebook for us at home, track her vitals, symptoms, meds, every single shift.”

His hand finds your cheek, eyes shining. “We’re not giving up. I’ll talk to the hospital board myself if I have to. I want you in every meeting, every scan, even if you’re not holding the chart. You’re the only one who’s never missed a single change in her breathing. We’ll make it work. I promise.” The two of you lie there, sharing worst-case scenarios, spitballing every cutting-edge therapy and clinical trial, grieving every answer you don’t have. You weep, throat tight with all the times you’ve lain awake, counting Haeun’s breaths in the blue hospital light, dreading that there might not be a next one. “But she needs more than that,” you whisper, voice thick with love. “She deserves more than patchwork and panic. She needs to know she’s enough, even if there’s never a cure. That she’s loved, that she’s wanted, that she’s never—never—going to have to fight alone again.”

He draws your hand to his lips, kisses your knuckles, his eyes red. “She’s the reason I get up every morning. The reason I fight. The reason I found you.” You choke on a laugh, every word burning with hope and fear and awe. “She’s the reason we’re us.” And together, tangled up in moonlight and exhaustion and the wild, determined will to find a future, you promise again and again—whatever it takes, you’ll both fight for her, for every possible dawn.

The house falls quiet but your thoughts don’t. In the hush of tangled limbs and new vows, a darker melody thrums under your breastbone, something old and trembling, older than love and not so easily buried. Jaemin’s breath steadies against your neck, but you stare at the ceiling, heart jittering with the ghost of every monitor beep, every door you’ve ever watched close. The future you’re fighting for feels thin as spun glass, so bright it hurts, but glass all the same, and you can’t help but trace every crack you’ve learned to fear. You picture Haeun in her sleep: so small, so certain, every rib and knuckle a testament to endurance, a sunbeam struggling through winter water. She’s the swan in the story you told her last week, soft above, breaking herself silent beneath. Even as she grows stronger, you know how easily beauty can shatter, how a mother’s promise is only as strong as the current pulling underneath. The world is full of bright things lost to the cold, to hunger, to the dark ache of inheritance. You want to believe that your love is enough, that your hands can hold her safe, but love is not an antidote and tomorrow is a question.

Somewhere out in the city, Haeun’s birth mother still wanders, part ghost, part parasite, clinging to the edges of memory and bone, and her absence leaves shadows even as you fill them. No matter how tightly you clutch your girl, there will always be a place in her heart hollowed by origin, by pain, by all the things you can’t erase. You wonder if, in some other world, that woman’s longing might have looked like yours, if the ache in her chest once sang the same, if she too once dreamed of sunlight, feathers and days without sirens. Maybe you and Jaemin are only ever the patchwork, the desperate answer stitched against fate, always a breath away from breaking. So you lie awake in the dark, skin still sticky with love and promises, tracing hope onto Jaemin’s arm as if you can write your daughter’s safety into being. And you pray, not to any god, but to the swan you’ve loved, to the child asleep in the next room, to the parasite that is grief and motherhood and memory itself—that somehow, tomorrow, you’ll find a way to save her. Or at least, that she’ll wake up believing she is already saved.

Every day in this house begins the same: the slow miracle of morning unfolding with softness and chaos. It’s the hush before sunrise, when Jaemin is just a shape beside you—warm, heavy, a hand thrown over your waist, his breath evening out the dark. You’re always half-awake before Haeun, your body still aching from the night before, a secret soreness you’ve come to cherish, the mark of all the ways Jaemin claims you. You don’t need an alarm anymore. your days start with the slide of his palm under your shirt, tracing the curve of your ribs, the press of his mouth behind your ear, words whispered low and teasing. “You’re mine. Gonna keep you in bed all morning, baby.” He means it, too, Jaemin’s hunger is constant, never hurried, a devotion that leaves you shaking and spoiled before the world even blinks awake. Sometimes you can’t tell where last night ends and this morning begins, his fingers between your legs, your thighs sticky, your laughter muffled into his chest as you try not to wake your daughter. You’ve learned the rhythm of him, the way he needs to be needed, the worship in his hands, how he likes to drag things out until you’re breathless, ruined, and clinging to him. You’ve learned that he’ll always put your pleasure first, that he wants you to be vocal, greedy, that he loves every part of you, especially the parts you were once shy about. You’ve learned he likes you raw—no makeup, no pretense, just your bare skin, your messy hair, your morning voice. You’ve learned that he’ll wake you in the night, just to feel you wrap around him again, just to tell you that you’re his, that you’re home.

Jaemin is a man built for care, for holding up the world when it falls apart. You see it in the way he plans every meal with the same focus he brings to a consult, the way he never lets your coffee go cold, how he learns your smallest habits and makes them his own. You’ve learned that he listens—not just to your words but to the things you don’t say, the sighs and silences. He’s taught you the language of touch: how he likes his back scratched, the way his jaw clenches when you bite his shoulder, how he wants you noisy and soft when he fucks you, how much it means when you let him take care of you after, holding you close and cleaning you gently, whispering praise. You’ve learned he’s fiercely protective, almost possessive, he needs you marked up, your scent on his sheets, your clothes in his closet, his hands on your skin. He calls you good girl, his girl, his Mama, and every time you hear it something inside you blooms. He teaches you without making you feel small, guides you through everything—sex, parenting, the fear of getting it wrong—until you start to trust that you belong here, in this bed, in this house, in this life with him.

Nights with Jaemin are their own ritual, domestic and wild at once. You shower together, sometimes in silence, sometimes giggling as he kneels to wash your feet, dragging you close, kissing water from your shoulders. He loves you tired, loves you soft, curling around you after, one hand always tangled in your hair, his voice thick and honest: “I’ll never let you go. You belong here.” You fall asleep tangled, bodies pressed together, sometimes with Haeun between you, sometimes alone, but always with the promise of another morning, another day where you wake up to his heat, his hunger, his laughter, his love.

On the mornings when you don’t slip into the shower with Jaemin, you hear the telltale thump of Haeun’s feet and her voice piping through the crack in the door: “Mama, bath now! Come bath with me, pweaseee?” She’ll drag her bath toys out just for you, insisting you sit with her in a sea of bubbles while she plops her rubber duck on your head and splashes until you’re soaked. She wants you to help wash her hair, lets you squeeze lavender soap into your palm and giggles when you tickle her belly, squealing, “again, Mama, ‘gain!” Sometimes she insists you both wear foam crowns and declares, “Me pwincess, you my Queen, Dada silly dragon!” and you both collapse into giggles, the bathroom bright with her laughter, the floor puddled with her wild joy. After, she wraps herself around you, all slippery arms and flower-scented hair, hugging so hard you can barely towel her off. Even in these smallest routines. her bath, her bubbles, her wet, sweet kisses you realize: there’s nowhere else you’d rather be, nothing else you’d rather belong to.

You’ve learned more from Jaemin than you ever imagined. He’s not just a lover, he’s a partner in every sense, the anchor in every storm. He reminds you to rest, to laugh, to make time for yourself. He pushes you to be honest, to take up space, to ask for what you want. You never knew how much you needed someone to believe in you until Jaemin did it so effortlessly, every day, with every look. He makes you brave, makes you gentle, makes you more yourself than you ever thought you could be. Living with him means living out loud—no hiding, no half-measures, just every feeling in full, every day. The way he touches you, the way he wants you, the way he puts you first, it’s changed you, made you softer, happier, more at home in your own skin.

As Haeun’s father, Jaemin is a force of nature, endlessly patient, endlessly vigilant, and fierce in his love. You watch him with her and see the whole world reflected in the way he holds her, the way he listens to her smallest fears, the way he’ll drop everything just to kneel down and brush her hair out of her eyes. He’s her safe place, her home. He lets her climb him like a jungle gym, lets her cry in his arms, never rushes her, never shames her for needing more. He reads her stories at bedtime, lets her pick the songs in the car, and learns how to braid her hair even when his fingers fumble. He teaches her to be gentle, to be brave, to trust herself. When she’s scared, he never tells her to be quiet—he tells her it’s okay to feel everything, that her heart is strong, that she’s stronger. You see in him the kind of father every child dreams of, the kind who never leaves, who never lets go, who fights for every smile. And in the quiet moments, when she’s asleep and the house is still, you see the way he looks at you, the gratitude in his eyes, as if he can’t believe he gets to share this with you.

You never thought you could belong this deeply, never thought you’d be someone’s Mama, someone’s partner, someone’s home. But every morning proves it: you’re here, you’re loved, you’re wanted, and nothing has ever felt more right. And every night, wrapped in Jaemin’s arms, with Haeun’s sleepy giggle echoing down the hall, you know you’d do it all again. Over and over, for the rest of your life.

Every morning always breaks first with the sound of tiny, determined footsteps—bare soles pat-pat-patting across the old hardwood, dragging Bunny by the ear, that faint, secret humming she saves for sunrise. Sometimes she stops at the door, half-hidden in the new light, her hair wild and soft, bunny-print pajamas slipping from one shoulder, face creased with sleep and the soft stamp of Bunny’s nose across her cheek. She stands there, impossibly small, too shy to storm the bed now that you’re here, her wide eyes searching the sheets, hope and nerves mixing as she clings tighter to her toy.

For a heartbeat, she waits—breathes in the hush, toes curling on cool floorboards, cheeks flushing bright pink the instant she sees you curled beside Jaemin, your arm draped over his waist. Her chest rises, falls, caught between wanting and wondering if she’s allowed to come closer. It’s only when Jaemin turns, voice soft and full of sleep, “Come on, sunshine, we’re waiting for you,” that she gathers her courage, shuffling a little nearer, half-hiding behind Bunny’s battered ears. She peeks at you through her lashes, lips pursed, and when you blink awake and reach out a hand, her whole body glows—her shy smile blooming into something so bright, you know this is the truest morning there is: her, here, wanting you, finding you, again and again.

She almost always comes to your side first now. At the softest call from Jaemin. “Come here, sunshine, we’re waiting,” she flushes bright pink, half-hiding behind Bunny, her small toes curling on the threshold, pajamas riding up her chubby knees, wild dark curls tumbling across her cheeks and into her lashes. Her bunny-print pajama top is twisted from sleep, one sleeve drooping, the buttons misaligned where she fumbled them herself before bed. “Mama, stay?” she squeaks, thumb lodged between rosebud lips, eyes round and shining with hope and nerves, lashes tangled, cheeks still creased from her pillow.

You lift the blanket and open your arms, and all her hesitation disappears, she scampers forward, cold little feet pattering across the sheets, giggling breathlessly as she clambers up and burrows deep into your chest, dragging Bunny with her and wedging him between your faces until your noses almost touch. Her arms snake around your neck, impossibly tight, her hair tickling your chin, breath warm and milky against your collarbone, her tiny pulse fluttering where her wrist presses to your skin. You can’t help but gather her closer, dropping soft, endless kisses across her crown, her brow, her sticky cheeks. “Good morning, baby girl,” you murmur, voice thick with love, and she giggles so hard her thumb pops out of her mouth, Bunny squished in the crossfire. “Mama!” she squeals, shy and delighted, face hidden against your shoulder as Jaemin laughs, and you whisper it again, softer: “Good morning, my beautiful girl. Can I have another kiss?” She nods, all bashful excitement, so you press a kiss to her nose, to her temple, to her dimpled knuckles until she dissolves in giggles, wriggling deeper into your arms as if she might disappear inside your love, wanting the world to start and never end right here, tangled together in the soft glow of morning.

Sometimes she’s bolder, counting quietly under her breath, then launching herself across the foot of the bed, landing square on your stomach with a muffled “oof!” She bursts into giggles, tangling herself between you and Jaemin, demanding “big snuggle!” and shrieking when Jaemin growls and pretends to trap her with heavy arms. You and Jaemin laugh, all half-sleepy kisses and tangling legs, letting her wriggle and press sticky kisses to your cheeks. “Pancakes for attack monsters,” you declare, and she beams, crowned queen of morning chaos, her sleep-rough voice already making up silly songs about your hair, your freckles, the way you love her.

On gentler mornings, after a tough night or hospital dreams, she’s softer, standing at the end of the bed, cheeks flushed, clutching a book or a crumpled drawing. She looks at you as if she needs proof you’re still hers. Her pajamas are twisted, one sock slipping off her tiny foot, eyes big and shining with sleep. “Mama, I stay here, pwease?” Her voice trembles, barely louder than a whisper, thumb jammed in her mouth. You reach out, arms open, and she shuffles closer, eyes glued to your face. She buries her head in your chest as soon as you lift the covers. “I scared,” she whimpers, clinging harder, voice muffled against your collarbone. “Had bad dream…big shadow, scary noise, couldn’t find Mama. Didn’t know where bed was, Bunny was lost.” She lets out a shaky sigh, breath warm and sticky with sleep, heart pounding like it might leap into your hands.

You kiss the top of her head, stroking her tangled hair, whispering, “You’re safe now, baby. Mama’s right here.”

She nods, face pressed to your neck, little fingers curled into your shirt, voice still trembling as she whispers, “Mama, don’t go ‘way. Stay here, snuggle me, make bad dream go bye-bye?” Her hope is so raw it cracks you open. You wrap her in your arms, promise her again and again that you’ll never leave, and she sighs, the last of her fear melting away as you hold her close.

There are mornings when Haeun hangs in the doorway, pajama pants slipping, one chubby fist rubbing her eye, the other squishing Bunny’s belly until it squeaks. Her cheeks are apple-round, lips glossy with sleep, and she shuffles from foot to foot, humming little nonsense sounds, “mmm-mmm, My wuv? Mama?” until you catch her eye and hold out your arms. “Mama…can I come? Wanna snuggle you and Dada,” she whispers, almost shy, then lets out a squeaky, hopeful giggle, like she already knows you’ll say yes.

The instant you lift the covers, she launches herself at you, feet thumping, Bunny bouncing alongside, squirming and squawking out her own greeting, “Bunny says good mornin’, Mama!” She tucks her head under your chin, sighs out a contented “Mmmmmm,” all warmth and sticky hands, toes cold as she tucks them beneath your legs. She snuffles at your hair, traces the bridge of your nose with her finger, and mumbles, “Mama smell nice. Like pancakes and soap.” If Jaemin moves to kiss your forehead, she pops up with a pout. “No, mine!” then plasters herself between you both, rolling over so her hair tickles your face and Bunny’s ears flop over your chest.

Before you can follow, Jaemin lifts Haeun onto her changing mat in a patch of sunlight, the three of you clustered close. You smooth her pajamas up, press two fingers to her wrist, the other hand laid gently over her heart, feeling the steady, delicate rhythm. She squirms and giggles, “Mama, tickle!” Jaemin crouches beside you, eyes locked on your hands, gratitude shining in every line of his face. You count each beat, whispering numbers under your breath and she blinks up at you, wide-eyed. “Boom boom good?”

You smile, brush a kiss across her chest, “Yes, baby, perfect.”

Haeun beams, triumphant, “Lub dub, lub dub, boom boom good ‘cause I wuv Mama, and Mama wuv me and Dada!” You laugh, heart pounding, and kiss her lips, feeling her little fingers splay over your jaw. Every morning she checks, “Mama, you stay all day?” and when you promise, her whole body loosens, her head falling to your shoulder, her relief a physical thing. “Yay… Mama stay.”

You gather her close, kiss the crown of her head, and she sighs, going boneless in your arms. The moment you shift to leave, she clings tighter, both arms around your neck, Bunny caught in the tangle, refusing to let you move. Jaemin moves closely behind you, eyes warm with sleep, rubbing a slow circle up your back, his lips pressed to your bare shoulder. “My beautiful girls,” he murmurs, his voice both a claim and a benediction.

You press a kiss to Haeun’s lips, voice low and tender, “Go to Daddy, baby. I’m gonna make you breakfast.” She nods, solemn as a priestess, and gives you a sticky, soft kiss goodbye before sliding down to the floor, Bunny trailing at her heels.

Breakfast is a riot, Haeun pads in on bunny-slipper feet, breath hitching at the smell of browning butter. “Ahhh, pancakes!” She drags her stool, climbs beside you, palms planted on the counter. Batter freckles her cheeks when she dumps chocolate chips with both fists. “Mama, stir?” She swirls the whisk, tongue caught between tiny teeth, and you steady the bowl, brushing flour from her lashes. The first imperfect heart hits the skillet, she claps so hard Bunny almost topples. “Mmm, Mama food best! I feed Bunny too, wook” A syrup-glossed wedge is offered to Bunny, then pressed to your lips. “Mama eat, yum!” You oblige; sweetness blooms on your tongue and in your chest. You lean down, nipping her chin, sending her into a fit of giggles. “Mama, more! Mow’ kisses!”

Jaemin slides behind you, arms caging your waist, chin hooked over your shoulder. Steam perfumes cedar and sugar. “I could get used to this, beautiful,” he mutters, stealing a half-cooked heart from the pan, kissing you while Haeun shrieks “No tickle!” and tries to shove a syrupy bite between your mouths. He pulls back grinning, syrup shining on your lip and Haeun squeals, “Me too!” so you duck and let her stamp a sticky kiss on your cheek. The three of you dissolve into laughter; her feet drum the cabinet, Bunny’s ear flaps like a metronome, and Jaemin declares the kitchen officially conquered by “his girls.”

There are mornings where she just wants to watch, thumb in her mouth, hand tracing your arm, eyes fixed on you like she’s memorizing each detail. “Mama, you so pwetty. Can I kiss?” she whispers, and you let her cover your cheeks, your nose, your lips in tiny, insistent kisses, Bunny pressed between your chins. When Jaemin catches you in the middle of a group hug, he kisses you, then her, then you again, voice low and steady, “Best sound in the world. My girls, my loves.” Haeun’s laughter explodes, her feet drumming against your hip, her body vibrating with joy, “Mama, Dada, I happy! Kiss more, kiss!” She grabs your face, sticky hands pulling you close, Bunny squashed between you, demanding another round of kisses, every sound a promise, every breath a new morning.

Breakfast plates parade to the table, his towering stack fortified with walnuts, your matcha-laced drizzle, her star-cut pancakes dusted in a tiny blizzard of sugar. Haeun clambers onto her booster, knees knocking the underside, and doles out a private blessing with sticky fingers, one pat to your forearm, another to Jaemin’s bicep, Bunny propped proudly beside her, a micro-pancake balanced on his stitched mouth. Jaemin passes the syrup boat; she grips it in two hands, tipping with solemn precision until amber ribbons pool across everyone’s plates. “Helpin’, Mama,” she breathes, cheeks puffed with purpose, tongue peeking out for balance. You guide her wrist, your laughter caught beneath your breath as a rogue drizzle lands on Jaemin’s thumb, he steals it with a slow lick, eyes warm, and Haeun’s giggle skitters across the table like silver bells.

She appoints herself server next, spear-smearing softened butter onto your pancake, then onto his, murmuring, “Spread, spread—good job, me,” before rewarding herself with a fingerful that turns into an impromptu moustache. You wipe it away with a kiss to her nose; she retaliates by pressing a sugar-coated star against your lips. “Mama taste first,” she decrees, watching until you hum approval loud enough for the ceiling to hear.

Jaemin slides a quartered walnut heart onto her plate, voice a velvet rumble: “Chef’s special for our princess.” She beams, shoulders loosening, lashes dipping low in relief older than her two years. In that hush she asks, the same question every dawn. “Mama stay all day?” and when you nod, her entire body melts, spine softening, toes uncurling inside pink bunny slippers.

Jaemin’s palm drifts under the table, finding the curve of your thigh; you squeeze once—silent covenant—while your girl, haloed in powdered sugar and gold morning light, claps at every swallow and sighs, “Best day ‘gain, Mama. Best day.” She tries slicing with the child-safe knife, tongue tucked for focus, and you steady the plate so the stars don’t slide. A few wedges catapult onto the floor, but Bunny “volunteers” for cleanup duty, earning applause and a kiss to his frayed nose. Between bites, Haeun pats your cheek to be sure you’re still there, then leans across to feed Jaemin a syrup-dripping corner, giggling at the way he exaggerates his “Mmm.” The three of you trade bites, trade smiles, trade soft thank-yous that feel like vows until plates sit empty and tummies rounded with domestic contentment. On the hardwood, slippers print trails in ascending size, his gray gym socks, your lavender crews, her bunny-eared soles. braided evidence from bedroom to stove to table, mapping a house that only becomes a home because all three hearts beat inside it, fiercely, tenderly, and in perfect, improbable rhythm.

While you and Jaemin clear the syrup-slick battlefield, rinsing plates, stacking pans, sluicing a galaxy of flour off the counter, Haeun hustles beside you in her bunny slippers, wielding a sponge the size of her fist. Every swipe leaves a wetter, wider streak, but she hums proud work songs (“wipe-y wipe, clean clean!”), insists on carrying her empty milk glass to the sink with two shaky hands, and cheers when a single crumb plinks into the trash. Jaemin towels the table; you lift her so she can press the dishwasher button, and she pumps both fists when the light blinks green. The moment you head upstairs to change, she toddles after you, pat-pat-pat on the stairs, clutching the hem of your tee. “Mama, no f’get Haeunie!” she pleads, eyes huge. You promise, kiss her forehead, and she dives into her dresser, brandishing her butter-yellow sundress. “Matchie, matchie?” You slip into your own pale-yellow shift, add a straw sunhat for the hospital run; she gasps, a sugar-sharp inhale. “We got hats! Mama an’ Haeun twinnies! Bunny need hat too!” A battered doll beanie is wrestled over floppy ears, and she drags you to the mirror, planting one syrup-sticky hand in yours, the other hoisting Bunny aloft. “Dada, take pick-ture! Cheeeeeeeeese!” she squeals, dimples deep.

You reach for her, hands sliding under her arms, and she squeals, little legs wrapping tight around your waist as you hoist her up, her sundress bunching, Bunny squished soft between your chests, both of you tangled in too-big yellow cotton. “Come here, my love. Mama loves matching with her baby girl.” You croon, pressing your nose to her wild curls, kissing her warm cheek, then her sleepy lips, the kind of loud, smacking kiss that makes her giggle and squeal and hide her face in your neck. “You’re the best girl in the whole world. My baby, my Haeun, my heart,” you murmur, breathing her in. “Look at us, twinnies! You, me and Bunny, all so pretty but you’re the prettiest.”

She squirms, hands fisting your collar, eyes round as apples, giggling, “Mama match Haeunie! Mama so pwetty. Wuv you, Mama. Bunny wuv you too!” You pepper kisses along her jaw and she kicks her feet, squealing, “More kissies, Mama! More!” Her cheeks are warm and soft in your hands, her hair a halo of wild curls, and as you twirl with her toward the mirror, you both dissolve into laughter, sunlight caught in yellow cotton, morning joy echoing in your heart, a promise written in every shared color and every breathless, baby-bright “Mama match!”

Jaemin grins at the sight, lifts his phone again, voice thick and awed as he snaps another picture. “That’s it, right there. My two girls. Could frame you both just like this every morning.” Haeun giggles, plants a sloppy kiss on your lips, then one on Bunny’s head, and you let the world shrink to that perfect, wobbly bundle, your daughter, your love, your tiny family held in your arms, everything matching, golden, and so, so soft.

Haeun wriggles in your arms, eyes round and bright, suddenly shouting, “Dada, come!” Her little hand flaps toward him, cheeks flushed, dress sliding off one shoulder, hair wild and bunny ears flopping. Jaemin doesn’t hesitate; with a grin sharp as summer, he tosses his phone aside and lunges for you both, dragging you and Haeun down into the soft wreckage of the sofa. Your bodies tumble together, your yelp muffled by Haeun’s delighted screech, she’s all flailing legs, sun-warmed skin, the fluster of her sundress bunched at her thighs. Jaemin wraps his arms around you both, tucking you close, and presses kiss after kiss to your faces, your cheeks, Haeun’s nose, the flutter of your hair, your shoulders, her ears, Bunny’s sagging ear too, his lips everywhere, wild and soft and relentless.

Haeun’s giggles spark, high and breathless, little bell-like peals that burst out in staccato: “Hee! Hee! Hee! Dada! Mama! S’too much!” She thrashes and squirms, feet thumping against the mattress, tiny hands swatting playfully at his jaw, Bunny getting swept up in the tangle. Her laughter fills every corner of the room, sweet and shrill and bubbling, punctuated by hiccupy little gasps as she tries to catch her breath, then collapses against you, chest heaving, cheeks flushed. Jaemin nuzzles her, his beard scratching her neck, and she squeals, kicking harder, pure happiness, untamed, alive in every sound she makes. You can feel the joy thrumming through her, the sunshine caught in her throat, every laugh a promise you’ve all come home. Jaemin kisses you once, deep and soft, then leans back to watch his girls tangled together, his heart in his eyes, and Haeun, still giggling, snuggles her cheek to your shoulder and sighs, “My bestest day, Mama. My bestest day.”

Suddenly, everything goes still. three deep, tangled breaths, laughter dissolving into soft, glowing silence, the kind that feels sacred. But Haeun has never been able to keep still for long. She scrambles upright, sundress askew, wild curls half in her face, Bunny squashed under one arm. She beams down at you both, cheeks flushed and sticky, and crows, “Haeunie turn! Haeunie’s turn!” Her little legs kick as she bounces, then—without warning—she launches herself right onto your stomach, her knees and elbows everywhere, tiny giggle echoing through the room.

She plants a dozen sloppy kisses across your cheeks, your nose, your chin, her little mouth noisy and fierce with love, giggling so hard she snorts. “Mama! Dada! Kisses, tickles, family hugs!” Her fingers dig into your sides, tickling with all her two-year-old strength, squealing, “Mama giggle! Dada giggle! S’my turn, s’my turn!” Bunny gets swept up too, pressed between you, her small lips finding even the softest spot on Jaemin’s cheek, her forehead bumping yours as she smooches you with gusto, lips popping, mouth sticky-sweet.

Jaemin grins, pulling you both closer, his hand cupping the back of Haeun’s head as he leans in, letting her smother him with kisses, her giggles shrill and bright. “My strong girl,” he teases, voice all velvet and awe, “you gonna steal all the kisses from your Mama and Dada?”

Haeun throws her head back, eyes squeezed shut with laughter, then burrows between you, arms wide, claiming every inch of space she can, chanting, “Haeunie loves! Haeunie best! Family smoochies fowever!” Your heart aches from the sweetness, her small lips busy, her giggles bubbling up until you’re breathless and teary, both of you pinned under the weight of her love and the soft, living miracle of this morning.

You feel like you belong. Everywhere you look are signs that you belong. There are small proofs that three lives braid together here. Beside the front door sits a neat progression of shoes— Jaemin’s polished Oxfords, your scuffed white trainers, and toddler-sized sneakers Velcroed tight, each sporting a glitter sticker she swears is “so Mama knows which ones is mine.” On the shelf below, a woven basket overflows with her socks, lace-edged anklets, soft yellow sunbeams, rainbow stripes, tiny carrots that turn her feet into “bunny toes.” She sorts them every Sunday, lining each pair beside your plain ankle socks, then beams up at you as if color itself were an heirloom she can share.

The bathroom mirror tells the same story in triplicate. Three toothbrushes lean together like a family, Jaemin’s matte-black sonic brush, your sage-green bamboo one, and Haeun’s bubble-gum pink handle crowned with a plastic bunny head that blinks when she scrubs. In the kitchen, morning always begins with your little altar of mismatched love. Jaemin’s sturdy ceramic mug, navy blue, chipped on the handle from years of restless hands, sits next to your translucent acrylic tumbler, etched with tiny daisies and fogged from the dishwasher. Right beside, sits Haeun’s squat sippy cup with bunny ears for handles, sometimes swapped for her favorite milk bottle, the one with pastel hearts and a pink lid she insists makes her “drink grow big like Mama.” She always picks out a twisty rainbow straw or her star-shaped spoon, dunking and swirling until the milk froths and dribbles down her chin. Sometimes she lines them all up, Jaemin’s mug, your glass, her milk bottle, patting each with sticky fingers, announcing, “Dada’s strong mug, Mama’s pwetty cup, Haeunie’s baby bottle! All match!” On weekends, she tugs your sleeve and asks for a “tea party,” so you let her fill your glass with water and her own with honey milk, and Jaemin pretends to sip espresso from a tiny plastic teacup, eyes crinkling with adoration while Haeun claps and crows, “Best family cheers!” It’s these little things, their mugs, your cup, her bottle, lined up and waiting each dawn, that make your home feel loved even before the sun’s up. The hallway hooks carry your weather across seasons, his navy trench, your lilac rain shell, and a lavender puffer no longer than your thigh, each zipper pull looped with the same silver-heart charm, Haeun’s idea of “matchy forever.”

The routine spills right into a gentle ballet of brushes, bows, and tangled curls, your vanity a landscape of grown-up perfumes, gold hairpins, velvet scrunchies, and the soft-bristled paddle brush you’ve loved for years, now joined by her world: the miniature pink detangler, a row of bunny barrettes, animal-print clips scattered among your own things. She sits on the counter, swinging her legs, clutching her brush and watching your hands move in the mirror, face flushed with the thrill of being part of your ritual. It’s pure pride when you slide your own brush through her curls, and she sighs, “Mama’s brush make Haeunie pwetty like Mama.” When you tie off her hair with your favorite yellow scrunchie—her “twinnie day”—she beams so bright you can see it in the mirror, twirling until her sundress swishes and calling for Jaemin to see how you match. Sometimes, if you’re running late, she’ll sneak into your room and steal your silk hair tie, winding it three times around Bunny’s ear, proud of her secret. When you catch her, she blushes and hides, but you always laugh, letting her keep it for luck. And at the end of every day, your brushes lie side by side in the bathroom cup, bristles tangled with matching strands, proof that her world is woven into yours, soft and inseparable.

Today’s morning feels different, Haeun is softer, clingier with extra arms and Bunny is always held tight between you. You know exactly why, today is hospital day, a routine checkup day that always leaves her on edge. Even before she says a word, you feel it in the way she presses her nose into your neck, her hands greedy for skin, her eyes wide and searching as if she’s afraid you might disappear before her appointment. She won’t let you out of reach, whining quietly whenever you shift, her thumb never leaving her mouth, feet tangled with yours like anchors. She makes extra room for Bunny in her arms, refusing to let him go, and when Jaemin tries to tickle her and asks nicely to put her shoes on, she only burrows deeper into your chest, mumbling, “no, mama, cuddle, don’ go—Haeunie scawed.”

You brush the hair off her face, kissing her warm forehead, and feel her trembling a little, her breath uneven. The memory of last time lingers: the chilly exam room, the needles, the way the nurses had to hold her still while she sobbed for you. Even at two, she knows what a checkup means, monitors, cold hands on her chest, grown-ups talking over her head. All morning, she keeps close, stuffing your hands with toys, insisting you match her dress, following you from room to room as if your shadow is the only safe thing in the world. She’s overcompensating, her sweetness dialed high, offering you her Bunny to “keep you safe, mama,” pressing extra kisses to your cheek, trying to be brave for you but unable to hide her nerves. Even Jaemin feels it, lifting her up and rocking her gently, promising, “Hospital’s just a visit, sunshine. Mama and Dada will stay all day.”

Today you and Jaemin will be home late so you move through the apartment, tidying up her scattered world, stacking board books, tucking away dolls, folding blankets along the back of her playroom chair. You find every soft thing but one, and a little chill creeps up your spine as you realize: you can’t find her favourite blanket, the precious one you stitched yourself, soft as milk, every edge hemmed by your hands, all fifty-six tiny stitches counted and knotted by heart, the kind of detail only a mother could ever know. You check under pillows, behind the toy chest, in her bed, everywhere that matters—nothing. Your voice echoes down the hall, more frantic than you mean it to be. “Babe! Have you seen Haeun’s blanket?”

Jaemin’s head pops around the bathroom door, towel slung low on his hips, eyes puzzled. “No, baby, haven’t seen it. Just leave it, we’ll find it tomorrow. Don’t worry, we’ll look again when we have time.” He smiles, easy, reassuring, but you can’t let it go, the ache of something lost, the gnawing certainty that nothing stitched with that much love simply disappears. Not in this house. Not unless someone took it. The unease lingers as you pull your daughter into your arms, and in the back of your mind, a worry grows roots—soft, maternal, impossible to shake.

You force yourself to take a breath, telling your heart to settle—maybe it’s under the couch, maybe in the car, maybe just buried beneath today’s mountain of soft chaos. You stroke Haeun’s hair, murmuring, “Let’s go pack, sunshine.” She nods, eyes heavy but her hand wraps tight around your fingers as you walk together to her room. The two of you kneel by her closet in the soft lamplight, your bodies pressed side by side, every movement careful and gentle. You sort through her things, folding her favorite pajamas, her socks with tiny daisies, and the pink dress she calls her “lucky doctor dress.” Haeun hands you her little treasures—Bunny, a plastic stethoscope, a tiny heart sticker, all tucked with careful ceremony into the bag’s front pocket. You keep your voice low, sweet, naming each thing together—“Bunny, check. Magic shoes, check. Brave girl shirt, check”—and she giggles, her laughter warm against your shoulder, nerves dissolving for a heartbeat as you lean in and kiss the crown of her head. For a moment, you forget the missing blanket, soothed by the small rituals of care, the sense that as long as you’re together, you can make her world feel safe again.

She shoves crayons and snacks inside, checking over your shoulder, making sure nothing is forgotten, not her Bunny, not her “brave socks,” not the yellow sun hat she wants you to match. When you crouch to her level and whisper the morning promise. “My Haeun. My girl. You’re safe and so strong, you’re loved. Mama is always here,” she clings so hard you feel her shaking, her little voice trembling as she repeats it back: “Safe…stwong…wuv…Mama here.” You hold her tight, letting her know that no matter how scary the world gets, she will never, ever face it alone.

You gather her close, brushing your lips over her cheek, tucking Bunny’s floppy ear under the strap of her bag as you slip the last snack inside. Jaemin stands at the door, keys in hand, but not rushing, he sees Haeun’s watery eyes, the way her arms knot around your neck, and he stoops to her height too, gently brushing her curls with his thumb. “Ready, sunshine?” he murmurs, voice warm and sure, even if you see the shadow of worry in his eyes. Haeun doesn’t answer right away; she just shakes her head, thumb in her mouth, cheek squished against your collarbone, feet kicking nervously at the hem of your matching dresses. It takes a soft, patient minute, the three of you crouched there in the quiet morning hallway, sunlight spilling in golden bands over tiny shoes, her bunny ears, the neat row of packed bags. You and Jaemin trade a look over her head. a thousand silent reassurances and then, together, you shift, each of you sliding an arm around her, hugging her tight, the world narrowing to the soft, brave huddle of your family.

You whisper, “We’re right here, baby. All of us go together.” And Jaemin echoes, “Always. No matter what.” Haeun’s thumb slips from her mouth; she looks between you, finally brave enough to nod, and lets you set her gently on her feet. She lifts her arms, palms open, a silent plea for both of you to hold her hands, and you each take one, her tiny fists anchored in your grip. There’s a quiet ritual as you step outside, the morning air cool on bare legs, her pink shoes tapping nervously against the path. Jaemin scoops her up for a second, spinning her slow, her giggle soft but real, and then sets her down between you both, letting her walk the path, one hand in yours, one in his, Bunny squashed under her arm.

The street is quiet, the city just waking. You breathe in the moment, all of you close, the little family you never thought you’d have, moving in step: her backpack bumping your knee, Jaemin’s hand brushing the small of your back, the sunlight catching in Haeun’s wild hair as she leans into you both. There’s nothing rushed, no sharp goodbyes, just the slow, certain sense of being together, of being safe. She glances up at you, cheeks still blotchy from crying but mouth curved in a shy, hopeful smile. “Mama come? Dada come? Bunny come?” she asks, voice small but strong. And you squeeze her hand, promise again: “We all come, baby. Always.” With that, the three of you move down the steps, hearts stitched together by promises, nerves, and the steady, relentless love that always, always finds its way through the door.

The parking lot is grey-lit and cold, every window in the hospital glinting like the eyes of some great animal, and you feel it first as a stillness in Haeun, her breath goes shallow, her grip on Bunny tightens, her small hands fisted around her sun-yellow dress. She sees the spire of the building through the car window and shrinks into her car seat, eyes wide and wet, skin so pale she almost vanishes into her coat. There’s a hush in the back seat, the kind that only comes before a storm or a memory, and in the reflection of her eyes you see a cathedral for broken bodies. She sees a kingdom ruled by black swans, each step inside a procession toward the places she remembers dying. Her breath comes in thin whistles, almost music, her lips shaping the syllables of Bunny’s name in place of words, as if talismans might shield her from the old terrors. You see the orchestra of her memory as she clings to the buckle, cellos of sorrow groaning low in her chest, violins of fear singing in the sharp glances she casts at the doors, timpani of panic drumming at her pulse. The hallways inside will smell like bleach and ghosts; she knows this. She remembers the taste of plastic tubing, the burn of old cannulas and the electric silence after a code blue.

To her, every corridor is a ballroom for dying children: shadows flicker along the floors where she once floated feverish above her own bed, pale as milk and twice as fragile, and every nurse’s footstep is a ghostly metronome counting out the seconds between heartbeats. Her kingdom is half-remembered—a memory in static, pain slinking along the baseboards, the threat of sleep that’s too deep, too dark. She hesitates, clutching Bunny to her chest, eyes enormous and glassy, fixed on the threshold where she’s crossed from life to nearly nothing more times than a child should remember.

She burrows deeper, kitten-small and stubborn, and when Jaemin opens the door and reaches for her, she whimpers, so soft, you almost miss it, the broken mewl of a frightened cat. “No, Dada…no go,” she whispers, her voice muffled against Bunny’s worn ear, eyes locked on you in the rearview like a plea, like a prayer. You crawl into the back seat without thinking, gathering her into your arms, pressing kisses to her temple and letting your hand cup the hot thrum of her neck. Jaemin kneels by the door, all power and patience, the solid weight of a man who’s carried the world and lost too much of it, his eyes gentle as he brushes Haeun’s curls from her forehead. “Sunshine, we’re right here,” he murmurs, his voice a promise as warm as the car’s last breath of heat. “You’re safe. Always.”

It takes coaxing, cajoling, your laughter turning bright on purpose, your lips finding the soft spot behind her ear, Jaemin humming her favorite song low and off-key until she lets out a snort, an unwilling giggle caught in her throat. “You’re my brave girl, aren’t you?” you murmur, cuddling her closer, feeling her tension slowly dissolve. She whimpers again, this time more like a kitten startled than wounded, and Jaemin finally lifts her, arms so big around her she disappears into his shoulder, the crown of her wild hair barely visible. You step into Jaemin’s side, his free arm looped around your waist, your own hand cupping his. The walk through the parking lot is a procession: your little girl carried like a talisman, the two of you flanking her, holding tight, refusing to let the cold or the memory swallow her whole.

Inside, the light is all sterile blue and glare, every step echoing against polished tile, every set of eyes rising as you move through the waiting area. It’s immediate, a prickle along your skin, the whispering chorus, the sidelong glances that cut sharper because they think you can’t hear. “Happy family,” someone says, too loud, the woman from registration, sharp perfume and a swipe of red lipstick, her voice curling in the air. “God, she’s so young,” mutters Dr. Shin, an old-school cardiologist with an ego as thick as his glasses, to a junior fellow as you pass. “I give them six months,” sneers Nurse Minji to Eunji behind the counter, all while flashing a saccharine smile your way. “So naïve—playing house with the chief,” another parent says, pale blue coat, two toddlers squabbling at her feet. The words aren’t even hidden, each one landing like a slap, smug, certain, cruel.

Jaemin is unbothered, the way only a man ten years older and chief of pediatrics can be, his jaw set, shoulders squared, each step declaring he has nothing to hide and nothing to prove. His dominance is its own armor; he walks through the judgment like it’s weather, not weapon. But for you, the shame is living, breathing, a pressure along your throat. You feel the sting, every word pressing close, their looks tracing the seam of your jeans, the absence of a ring, the softness in your face as you soothe your trembling girl. You swallow hard, the ache in your chest bitter as metal, burning at the backs of your eyes, but you don’t let it show, you never do. Haeun turns her face into Jaemin’s neck and refuses to look at anyone, her tiny body stiff and wary, emitting the faintest whimpering mews.

The receptionist at the desk—Dayoung, all bubblegum scrubs and polite professionalism—smiles, but you catch the flick of her eyes to Jaemin, the scan of your face, the lingering pause on your hands clasped around Haeun’s small ankle. Minji pretends to organize paperwork but stares outright, mouth tight as she leans in to whisper to Dr. Kim, who frowns in what he thinks is subtle disapproval. Jaemin only tightens his hold, letting Haeun clutch his collar and bury her cheek in his shirt, as if his body alone could keep the world at bay, and you press your palm to her back, whispering, “You’re so brave, my love, so brave for me, so brave for Dada.” She nods, but it’s a wobbly, uncertain thing, and you realize she’s shaking, your baby, always so bold, made small, soft and scared by these walls. And all around, the judgment keeps humming, thick and relentless, a low tide you can’t quite step out of—so you anchor yourself to your daughter and your boyfriend, refusing to let their voices matter, not for one second, not when your baby needs you whole.

The exam room is smaller than you remember—overbright, walls humming with the faint echo of lives lived and nearly lost within them. It feels different, sitting here as Haeun’s mother and not as a doctor; you notice how every chart, every beeping monitor, every hushed conversation carries a sharper edge, the familiar space made strange and intimate by the weight of your daughter’s tiny hand clinging to yours. Dr. Huang greets you with a gentle smile that never quite reaches his eyes, as if he carries each of his patients’ stories tucked behind his kind gaze. He squats low, meeting Haeun’s wary stare on her level, the badge on his white coat glinting with a cluster of animal pins just for her. “Good morning, little swan,” he says, voice syrup-smooth, the nickname coaxing the faintest quiver of a smile from her. But Haeun doesn’t speak, mouth tucked around her thumb, breath fogging against Bunny’s faded ear. The only sound is her hesitant, almost feline whimper as she pulls you tighter by the collar, her whole body taut with the memory of pain and the echo of cold hands on skin.

Dr. Huang is patient. He draws her out slowly, showing her the stethoscope, inviting her to listen to its gentle song before he even touches her chest. “Hear that whoosh? That’s your heart saying good morning.” She nods, barely, and you can feel her heartbeat galloping under your palm as you smooth her wild hair. The routine is sacred now: a warm wipe across her sternum, cold metal at her ribs, the soft press of your lips to her temple as you count together with him. Jaemin stands at her other side, hand braced on her shin, the pad of his thumb tracing slow circles against her ankle, a silent promise to anchor her through whatever comes next. Dr. Huang narrates each movement, every scan and measure, pulse ox on her toe, the green numbers flickering, blood pressure cuff squeezing her tiny arm, her voice mewing out in protest: “No squeezy, Mama, ow,” but you soothe her, soft and steady, “Almost done, baby, just a second. Mama’s right here.”

He moves on to the EKG, the wires bright against her chest, the beeping a strange, fragile lullaby. “All good, Haeun, just taking a peek at your heart’s song,” Dr. Huang murmurs, clicking through charts as you kneel in front of her, gathering her curls away from the sticky pads, peppering kisses to each cheek. The checkup is slow, intentionally gentle; Dr. Huang asks her to squeeze his fingers, to take deep breaths, to stick out her tongue and say “ahhh.” Each request is met with shyness, Haeun pressing her face into your shoulder, peeking up at Jaemin, letting out those little mews and kitten cries that mean she’s overwhelmed but trying, always trying. When the time comes for questions, it’s you who asks, voice steady but heart in your throat: “How is she? Any changes?”

Dr. Huang sighs, gaze flicking from you to Jaemin to the trembling child between. “She’s stable. Really stable, considering everything her little heart’s survived. No fluid in her lungs, no extra swelling, her blood oxygen’s holding strong. But—” He softens, looking right at Haeun. “It’s very important you take your medicine every single day, at the right times. If even one dose is missed, your heart could be in danger—it could get sick or tired, and we don’t want that, do we?” He glances up at you, making sure you hear the gravity behind the calm. “It’s not just a suggestion. Her safety depends on it. You both need to double-check every dose, every time.”

Haeun’s brows furrow, her face small and serious, the weight in his words pressing down until she whispers, “No miss, Mama. No miss, Dada. I take all.” She clings tighter to your arm, searching your face.

You nod solemnly, cupping her cheek. “That’s right, baby. Mama and Dada will always make sure.”

Dr. Huang nods, his tone softening. “She’s strong, but we have to be even stronger for her.”

Haeun lets out a shaky breath, then manages, “Mama help me. I do good?”

You lean in and kiss her temple. “You do perfect, my girl. Every single time.”

Dr. Huang finishes charting, eyes flickering over Haeun’s small form bundled in your lap, her lashes wet from the remnants of courage. It’s only when he asks, “Do you have any questions for me, sunshine?” that her little mouth trembles, voice shrinking until it’s barely a sound, a whimper more felt than heard.

“Can Haeunie… can I dance soon? Ballerina, pwetty please? I pwomise I be cay-ful.”

She’s so soft he can’t quite catch it, leans in, his smile slipping just a little, “Say that again for me, love?”

She sniffles, peeking up through her curls, the question bursting out again with all the hope she can muster, “Can I do my twirls? Dance wike the pwincess? Pwease, Doctor?”

For a moment, even Dr. Huang is silent, weighing the weight of her tiny wish. He crouches lower, on level with her tangled legs and bunny’s threadbare ear, and his hand hovers over her knee, gentle, regret thickening his voice. “I know how much you love to dance, Haeun. I wish I could say yes, sweetheart. But not yet. Your heart is still healing, and we have to be careful. Ballet will have to wait a little longer, okay? I’m so sorry, princess.”

The word “wait” lands hard, her little shoulders stiffen, the air in her lungs catching, her eyes screwing tight as if she can push the pain away if she just keeps them closed. For a heartbeat she’s stone-still, Bunny gripped so tight his stitched mouth stretches wide. Then the dam breaks. It starts with a shudder, a tiny gasp, then her whole body collapses into your arms, her sobs pouring out soundless and full, face pressed hard into your chest. You rock her, lips pressed into her hair, heart breaking with each trembling inhale. “Oh, baby. I know. I know, it’s so hard, so unfair. You love dancing so much. Mama’s here. Mama’s got you.”

Her words spill out, jumbled and raw. “No dance, Mama, no pwetty dress, no spin wif you, Mama, no jump, no bunny jump, Mama, why? Why no dance? I be cay-ful, I pwomise! Mama, pwease!” She hiccups through it, clutching your dress, her little face red and streaked with tears, sobbing so hard her voice cracks and sticks.

Jaemin moves in, pulling you both tight into his chest, pressing his lips to Haeun’s forehead, his hand rubbing slow circles over her back. “Hey, sunshine, we hear you. We know how much you want to dance. You’re the bravest girl in the world. I’m so proud of you. And you know what?” His voice is soft thunder, promise ringing through each word, “There are other ways to dance, baby. We’ll find them together.”

You smooth her curls, swaying her gently, voice thick with tears. “Mama’s gonna make you your very own ballerina show, right here. You and Bunny and me, okay? We’ll have a recital up on the rooftop, your own stage, all for you. Pretty dress, tiara, music and all your best twirls. We can invite everyone you love to watch you dance, you can dance on the rooftop until you’re ready to spin everywhere.”

Haeun’s sobs slowly, her little fingers fisting your collar, searching your face for truth, “Pwomise, Mama? My pwetty dress? My music?”

Your smile wobbles but it’s full of sunlight, “Promise, my ballerina. I promise, pinky promise. Rooftop, sunshine, Bunny, you and me. When you’re ready, we dance together. Forever.”

You press your cheek to her curls, feeling her breath shudder through your collarbone, and promise softly that just because the answer is “no” for now, doesn’t mean she can’t dance at all. “Baby,” you whisper, stroking her trembling shoulder, “you can’t go back to ballet class right now, not with all the running and leaping, not with all those other kids and so much excitement. But that doesn’t mean you can’t dance at all, okay?” Haeun’s eyes are glossy and searching, thumb jammed tight in her mouth, Bunny squashed between her knees.

You look at Jaemin, who crouches down beside you, hand warm at the small of your back, and he nods, voice low and sure. “You know what we can do, sunshine? We can have our own recital, right here. Just Mama, Dada, Bunny and anyone you want. We’ll be there the whole time. If you feel tired, we stop. If you need help, you’ll have us all right there.”

Haeun’s lashes flutter as she tries to understand, and you keep going, your words gentle but firm. “It’ll be on the rooftop, where you can see the sky, flowers and feel the sun. No crowd, no loud noises, nobody watching but people who love you. We’ll play your favorite music, soft, slow, no jumping or spinning fast. Just twirls if you feel good, or little stretches, or whatever makes you happy. You won’t have to do anything hard, and if you want to stop, we’ll stop right away.”

Jaemin presses a kiss to her damp forehead. “And Mama and I will check your heartbeat, just like this—” he taps two fingers to her wrist, “and Dr. Huang will be there too, so if you need anything, we’re ready.”

You nod, squeezing her close. “It’s special because it’s just for you, Haeun. Your show, your rules, your safety. We’ll make sure you never get too tired, and if you need a break, we’ll pick you up and dance together, just holding you.”

Her eyes finally meet yours, still worried but desperate to believe. “Pwomise?” she whispers, voice shaking.

You cup her cheek and kiss her nose. “Promise, baby girl. Mama and Dada and all your doctors will make sure it’s safe and happy, and you can still be our ballerina. Only as much as your heart can handle, okay? That’s how much we love you.”

It’s not the ballet class she dreams of, but it’s a piece of the world handed back to her, safe in the arms of everyone who loves her most. Here, in this small, careful promise, you teach her that joy and caution can live together—that she is not defined by limits, but by how fiercely she’s cherished, watched over, and allowed to shine. She nods into your neck, still sniffling, Bunny squashed between you. “Mama pwomise. Mama never lie.” You kiss the sticky tear tracks on her cheeks, swaddling her in every ounce of love, Jaemin’s arms closing over you both, your family, holding tight in the bright ache of morning, determined to make the world safer, softer, more beautiful for the bravest little girl you know.

You cradle Haeun close as you leave the exam room, feeling her pulse begin to slow under your palm, and she doesn’t let go, her cheek pressed to your shoulder, Bunny dangling from one small fist. Jaemin’s hand anchors at your lower back, a silent promise: you did it, you got her through. The reward you both promised is ice cream in the hospital canteen, a rare, magical treat, and today she’s earned every sweet bite. The three of you make your way down white-washed corridors, Haeun still a little puffy-eyed, but the promise of “ice keem, Mama?” teases a fragile hope across her lips. You nod, brushing her hair from her brow, and she leans in, whispering, “Me wan’ pink one. Pwease.” You can’t help but laugh, soft and breathless, tucking her tighter as Jaemin orders three cones: strawberry for Haeun, green tea for you, and dark chocolate for himself. She clings to your lap at the cafeteria table, her sundress bunched at her knees, legs swinging, Bunny perched beside her with a tiny napkin bib, the very picture of earnest joy. You and Jaemin sit hip to hip, knees knocking beneath the table, your hand tracing idle circles on his thigh as he feeds Haeun her first spoonful, humming, “There’s my strong girl.”

She grins, a pink smudge on her chin, and points her sticky spoon at you: “Mama, eat, too!” The sweetness of her trust is dizzying, you lean in for a bite, and she claps, proud, shy, still feeling the aftershocks of her bravery. Other families gather around their own tables, and there are nurses in pink and blue scrubs huddled over coffee. You feel the way glances slide across your skin: some curious, some cold, some simply tired. At the edge of the cafeteria, a cluster of older nurses pause in conversation. Mrs. Park, a matron with her hair in a tight bun, leans toward her friend, whispers, “That’s her, the new intern, with Dr. Na. Look at them.” Her companion’s reply is sharper: “Barely finished med school, now playing Mommy? What’s she thinking?” The words land like cold rain. For a breath, you freeze. But then Jaemin’s palm covers yours, grounding you, and your daughter is beaming up at you, so you press on because this is your family, and you won’t let anyone shrink it.

Across the table, Jihoon and Hayoung drift over, brightening the air. “Aigoo, look at you, princess Haeun!” Hayoung sings, reaching for Haeun’s hand, her voice playful and sweet. “Are you sharing your ice cream with Bunny, too?” Haeun hides behind your arm, peeking out with a shy, sticky smile.

Jihoon leans back with a crooked grin, eyes lingering on the impossible sight of all three of you together, a towering, broad-shouldered Jaemin, arms straining the sleeves of his scrub top, hair mussed and jaw unshaven, the kind of man who fills every inch of space he enters and makes it his own. “Never thought I’d see the day, Dr. Na. Your girls look good on you,” he drawls, and there’s something half-envious, half-awed in the way he says it, gaze flicking from the cut of Jaemin’s biceps beneath the fluorescent lights to the sight of your smaller frame curled up against his side.

Jaemin barely glances at him, a sly smirk on his lips, all focus on you, one hand braced heavy at your thigh under the table, the other ruffling Haeun’s curls with practiced tenderness, thumb tracing lazy circles behind her ear. He tilts his head, eyes dark, searching your face for something only you’ll ever know. You don’t even hear the next round of whispers—too lost in the heat of Jaemin’s presence, the way his voice drops as he murmurs, “Come here,” and pulls you in for a slow, hungry kiss, all tongue and soft groan, his hand gripping your jaw just tight enough to claim. Haeun shrieks, giggling and hiding behind Bunny, tiny beside his hulking frame, while you melt against him, the world fading until it’s just the two of you, breath tangled and laughter pressed between lips.

Hayoung and Jihoon only laugh, shaking their heads as if witnessing some impossible magic. Hayoung coaxes Haeun out with a wink and Bunny hop, and Haeun, emboldened by her parents’ boldness, giggles, “Hi, Auntie!”—her voice a whispery bubble, cheeks pink, eyes wide. Jaemin finally lets you go, lips wet, thumb grazing your chin as if he can’t bear to break the spell, and you flush, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, dizzy from the kiss and the heat of his gaze. Haeun peeks at you both from under her lashes, tiny and awestruck beside the two of you, and Jaemin’s hand finds your waist, anchoring you once more, his body a fortress, your world collapsed to the strength of his arms and the little girl pressed close to your side. Every glance, every stare from the cafeteria falls away, he’s already claimed you, claimed her, and there’s not a soul alive who could make you feel anything but wanted, protected, his.

You share quiet laughter with the two interns, feeling the circle tighten, the world gets a little less sharp. You lean down, brushing your nose to Haeun, murmuring, “Good job, baby. You’re so brave.” Jaemin feeds her a stolen bite of his chocolate, earning a delighted squeal. For a moment, you’re just three bodies in morning light, sticky with sugar, hands entwined. Haeun wiggles off your lap and circles the table, hugging your waist, then Jaemin’s, before sidling up to Hayoung for a high-five. All the judgment, the whispers, can’t touch the fortress you’ve built, one kiss, one spoonful, one sticky hand at a time.

Afterwards, you help her clean her sticky cheeks in the interns restroom, her little hands reaching for yours, her head pressed against your hip as you wipe her mouth and whisper, “Best girl, my girl, always.”

She grins, eyes bright, “Mama wuv, Mama always.” You smooth her dress, fix her bow, and carry her back to the table, where Jaemin stands waiting, arms wide. Haeun launches into him, giggles bubbling up, cheeks flushed pink from strawberry and pride, and for a breath, the world is nothing but joy and the scent of ice cream. You brush the stray hair from Haeun’s forehead, lean down and press a lingering kiss to her cheek, then another to the crown of her head, lips soft against the wild curls that still smell like her sweet shampoo. She grabs the collar of your shirt in tiny fists, Bunny mashed to her chest, and when you pull back, her bottom lip trembles, eyes going glassy. She tucks her chin, biting down on her lip, trying not to let the whimper escape. Jaemin stands behind her, arms folded, watching you with that soft, steady pride, the only one who knows exactly how hard these goodbyes are for all of you.

You kneel, hug her close, whispering in her ear, your hands soothing her back, promising you won’t be gone long. You explain that you have to slip away for a little while to finish some work, there are patient notes to update, exam flashcards to review, and a looming quiz on pediatric drug protocols and emergency codes. It’s all the ordinary chaos of intern life, your Intern exam coming up, your rotation coming up, the deadlines stacking. You promise her, “Mama’s got a little doctor homework,” and she nods, still uncertain, pressing Bunny’s ear to your lips for a kiss too, as if sealing you both in.

You stand, one last kiss pressed to Jaemin’s mouth, soft, silent, unhurried. His hand squeezes your waist, his eyes warm and protective, promising he’ll keep your girl close. You watch as he lifts Haeun into his arms, her body curling against his chest, her face tucked into the crook of his neck. He’ll take her back to the playroom on the surgical ward for coloring and another round of story time, maybe slip into his office for a moment while she naps on his lap. You’ll only be apart for a couple of hours, enough for you to catch up on the work you can’t do with her on your hip. Still, every step away aches, the echo of her soft, hopeful “mama come back?” lingering in your chest as you force yourself to turn, knowing she’s safe, she’s loved, and you’ll be back soon, her world waiting, whole, for your return.

The hallway outside the intern lounge hums with footsteps and the low, persistent murmur of gossip, a current you can’t quite swim out of. It’s almost reflex, the way you keep your eyes fixed on the floor, knuckles white around your clipboard, the words “She’s barely older than an undergrad,” and “So much for professionalism, huh?” drifting behind you from a pair of nurses you recognize from rounds. Another voice, sharp and unkind, hisses from near the vending machine: “Must be nice, trading up from intern to wife so fast.” You don’t let yourself flinch. Not here. Not with your white coat on. But it burns; the heat pools behind your eyes, and by the time you slip into the lounge, the tears are already stinging. You sit, swipe them away with your sleeve, breathing deep, don’t let them win, and turn to your notes, forcing yourself to focus on pediatric calculations and dosing charts, fingers trembling as you write.

The door creaks. Hyejin appears, setting her coffee down with a careful glance. She doesn’t say anything at first, just sits close enough for her shoulder to brush yours, her presence a quiet anchor. After a moment, she speaks, voice gentle but unflinching. “You okay?”

You shake your head, then nod, eyes burning as you laugh once, brittle. “Just tired,” you manage.

She waits, patient and quiet, letting the question settle in the soft light between you. Her voice is gentle, but her concern is sharp around the edges, cutting through your defenses, daring you to be honest. “I heard what some of them said,” she begins, fingers threading through her mug as if it anchors her, “and… look, you know I care. That’s why I have to ask.” Her eyes are soft, but there’s an urgency beneath, a kind of older-sister worry that refuses to let you hide. “Are you sure this isn’t moving too fast? You’re twenty-four, your Intern exam is coming up and you haven’t even gotten to the toughest part of the programme, your Residency and suddenly you’re a Mom. To a little girl who—let’s be honest—needs more care than most. Her heart, all those appointments… It’s a lot, and Jaemin—he’s chief, he’s a renowned surgeon, everyone in the hospital watches him so they’re gonna watch you too. How are you going to balance being her Mama, and his partner, and your own career, all at once?”

She leans in, her tone softer but unflinching. “It’s not just about love, you know. It’s— Are you ready for how relentless it gets? Waking up for rounds, making it to lectures, and still finding time for a baby who might wake up scared, or sick, or needing you more than you thought possible? Jaemin’s schedule is hell. And you— You’ve worked so hard to get here. I just… I want you to know what you’re stepping into. Are you really ready to choose all of this, with everything that comes with it?” She’s searching you for any sign of doubt, for any crack in your resolve, her worry a complicated braid of love, pride, and genuine fear.

Your hands shake, but your jaw sets hard, the words tumbling out faster than you mean them to, edges sharp, every syllable raw with how much you need her to understand. “Yes, I’m young, but age doesn’t decide what kind of mama I am. I didn’t plan this, Hyejin. None of it. But Haeun, she didn’t get to choose any of it either. She didn’t choose to be born with a broken heart, or to almost die more times than I can count, or to lose a mother who left her to die on a cold rooftop, before she even knew what the word meant. Do you know what that does to a kid? Her birth mother. she didn’t just leave, she hurt her. Probably used drugs, drank, starved herself and the baby inside her, never saw a doctor, never cared what happened when Haeun was born blue and fighting for air.” Your eyes blur with tears, anger and sorrow bleeding into each other. “Every scar that girl has, every reason her heart is too weak for surgery, every nightmare she has about the dark—it’s not just medical, it’s history. It’s the cost of being unwanted before you even get a chance.”

You swallow hard, voice gentler but no less fierce as you go on, “She has no idea who her birth mother is. Not even a shadow. She only knows me. She calls me Mama, she believes I’ve always been there, she’s built her whole world around the idea that I was the one who chose her and stayed. And maybe that’s a lie by omission, but I’m not taking it from her, Hyejin. I’d do anything to keep her believing it. She deserves to know what it feels like to be somebody’s wanted girl, every day, no matter how hard it is on me, no matter how much judgment I get, no matter how impossible it all seems.” You sniff, shoulders trembling, daring Hyejin to contradict what every cell in your body already knows. “She’s mine. She’s always been mine. That’s the only thing that’s ever made sense in my whole life.”

Your voice wobbles, but you don’t let it fall apart, your hands gripping the edge of the table so hard your knuckles blanch. “I know it’s a lot. I know Jaemin’s schedule is brutal, and yeah, the whole hospital’s watching. You think I don’t see them looking at me like I’m playing dress-up? I see every single stare.” You press on, tears bright in your eyes but defiance ringing in every word. “But do you know what else I see? I see my little girl’s face every morning, when she climbs into bed just to feel my heartbeat. I see the way she looks at me like I hung the moon. I see Jaemin, yeah, the Chief of Peds, the one everyone worships, completely undone just by the way Haeun calls me ‘Mama.’ This isn’t some fantasy. I live every minute of it. I’ve done the night shifts, I’ve scrubbed in covered in pancake batter and baby puke, I’ve taken calls while singing lullabies on speaker just so she’ll sleep without nightmares. No, I don’t know how I’m going to balance it all, and I sure as hell haven’t figured it out yet. But waiting for things to be perfect? That’s a privilege sick kids and their parents never get. You know that as well as I do.”

You wipe your cheek, breath shuddering, meeting her gaze with everything you have. “I don’t care if it’s too fast. I care that she knows she’s loved, every second, no matter what. And I care that Jaemin and I finally told the truth—because what if we never got another chance? Haeun’s life isn’t guaranteed, Hyejin. Every day is a maybe. If that makes me reckless, fine. But I’m not giving up on her. Or on him. Or on this. Not for anything. I love them. And Haeun… She doesn’t have time. None of us do. She’s a little girl with a broken heart and half the doctors say there’s no cure. If I waited for a safe moment, I’d be waiting forever.” You blink hard, voice shaky. “I don’t care if it looks rushed or messy. I’m her Mama now. I chose her and I chose him. And I’d do it all again. I can’t pretend we’re not a family just because it makes someone uncomfortable.”

Hyejin reaches for your hand, her grip strong but gentle, thumb circling your knuckles, grounding you in a way that feels so rare in this place. She looks at you, really looks, seeing the exhaustion, the fire, the thin edge of heartbreak you walk every day. “Hey. I hear you,” she says, voice low, just for you, not the hospital halls. “You don’t need to defend yourself to me. I get why you’re fighting so hard. I know you’d do anything for her. I’m just worried about you, too. You’re carrying so much, more than anyone should at twenty-four. You’re allowed to be scared. You’re allowed to need help. You’re allowed to break down sometimes, you know? You’re not just Haeun’s anchor, you’re still a person. Promise me—really promise—you won’t let loving her turn into losing yourself. You can’t save her if you disappear trying.”

You nod, fighting another wave of tears, but a smile cracks through, shaky and sincere. “I’m scared every single day,” you admit, voice barely more than a whisper. “But nothing scares me more than her growing up thinking she wasn’t chosen, or that being her Mama was a mistake. That’s the one thing I know I can’t let happen.”

Hyejin’s face shifts, worry melting into something like admiration, pride shining through. “You’re stronger than you think, you know? And you’re not alone, no matter how it feels. If anyone out there gives you shit, or tries to cut you down, send them my way. I’m not above scaring a few nurses for you.” She grins, squeezing your hand again, her attempt at levity finally breaking the tightness in your chest. For a moment, the two of you just sit there in the hush of the intern lounge, sunlight painting gold across the floor, the bond of real, unconditional friendship offering something close to safety, a reminder that love doesn’t just build families, it fortifies you against the world.

You’ve been tucked away in the interns’ lounge for nearly four hours now, just as you and Jaemin promised, a promise you know your baby keeps count of, right down to the tick. The room is sun-washed and quiet, save for the rustle of pages, the muted drone of the ward intercom, and the soft tap of your pencil against the endless stack of charts. The day has moved in slow motion: notes reviewed, med lists double-checked, new protocols memorized for your looming exams. Even so, you’ve been watching the clock, counting each minute that pulls you further from your family and closer to that ache for them, knowing Haeun’s patience is a thread never meant to be stretched too tight.

At precisely the agreed hour, there’s a hush just beyond the door, then the careful click of soft-soled shoes. Nurse Yuha, always gentle, always the conspirator in these reunions, her voice teasing as she peeks inside, “Dr. Nana said it was time to bring this little one to you. She’s been asking every ten minutes. Dr. Nana also said he’d be one more hour, he’s been pulled into an emergency meeting.” Behind her, Haeun clings to the nurse’s coat, wide-eyed and searching, Bunny held tight in one hand, her other thumb tucked in her mouth. As soon as her gaze finds yours, all her shyness dissolves; she barrels forward, feet slapping against linoleum, cheeks flushed and bright with anticipation.

“Mama! I finish rounds now, I cuddle you!” she announces, voice bubbling up like a song, bunny ears trailing behind her as she launches herself into your lap. The room is suddenly sunlit and golden, all the clinical sharpness fading into the background as her arms wrap tight around your neck, her little legs folding easily over yours. Her curls are sweet and soft against your cheek, her pajamas faintly warm from her nap, and the lavender-vanilla scent of her shampoo settles into your bones.

Your charts go forgotten as you gather her up, hugging her fiercely, planting kisses on the apple of her cheek, the bridge of her nose, her downy brow. “My sweet girl,” you murmur, the words barely more than a breath, but she hears them, she always does. She melts into you, sighing, clutching Bunny between you both, eyes fluttering half-closed in the soft cocoon of your arms.

Nurse Yuha grins, tucking a stray curl behind Haeun’s ear. “Told you Mama was right here, didn’t I?” she teases. Haeun, not letting go, manages a sleepy giggle. “Thank you, Auntie Yuha,” you say softly, emotion catching in your throat as your daughter presses impossibly closer, like she’ll never let you go. The nurse smiles, closing the door behind her. It’s just you and your baby now, the room receding, the world shrinking down to a single, perfect heartbeat. Around you, the other interns fade into the hush of papers and keyboards, giving you privacy—just you, the steady rise and fall of your daughter’s breath, and the unshakeable comfort of home found right in the middle of a noisy, fluorescent hospital. Haeun snuggles closer, mumbling, “Missed you, Mama. No go, no more.” You tuck her head beneath your chin, arms a fortress around her, and nothing, no judgment, no whispers, matters but the miracle of her small, safe in your lap.

Your heart swells as she giggles against your neck, each peal of laughter a warm blossom in your chest. Her soft, chubby cheeks press into your collarbone, faint dimples blooming like little sunlit craters. You feel the delicate tug of her tiny fingers tracing the weave of your coat, curious and gentle, as though she’s memorizing every thread that holds her safe. Her voice, a sugary whisper, bubbles up again: “I wuv you, Mama,” and the sweetness of those words wraps around your ribs like a tender embrace.

You lean down and press a gentle kiss to her soft, rose-petal lips, tasting the faint sweetness of her afternoon bottle. “I love you more, baby,” you murmur, voice thick with warmth and wonder. She giggles, a delicate trilling sound that sparkles through the quiet ward and squeezes your hand with surprising strength for one so small. Tiny fingers curl around the ribbon at your sleeve, anchoring her to you as though she’s tethered by love itself.

You feel her wiggle in your arms just a fraction differently, a sweet, hesitant shift as though she’s both craving and dodging the warmth you pour over her. Her tiny hands flutter up to her face, pressing her palms to her cheeks as if to hide the joy she never thought she’d find. “I… I shy, Mama! I shy!” she squeals through a fit of giggles, each breathy laugh catching in her throat like bubbles popping in sunlight. Her dark lashes sweep down in a deliberate flutter—so slow, so deliberate—barely hiding the doe-eyed wonder sparkling beneath. You trace a finger through the ribbon of her braid, remembering the first time she lisped the word “Mama,” her brave two-year-old voice seeking a home you’d once denied. She presses her cheek against your collarbone, so close you can feel the gentle thunder of her young heartbeat. “I shy ‘cus… my tummy go flutter, my heart go boom-boom-boom!” she babbles, voice thick with the earnest simplicity of her world—love declared in the language of growing hearts.

You laugh softly, teasing, “Are you shy, my baby? My ballerina princess?” and her full smile blossoms at the compliment, though a hint of pink tints her soft skin. Then, with mischievous determination, she pokes a finger at your nose before you can tickle her, squeaking, “No tickle—just cuddle!” But when you give in, your fingers dancing lightly at her ribs, she shrieks with delight, forehead pressed against yours, her curls brushing your brow like a whispered promise. In that intertwined gaze, your eyes shining with unwavering devotion, hers glimmering with that earnest spark of hope you once withheld, you both know that rejection has been forgiven, faith reclaimed. And as her laughter fades into contented sighs, she murmurs against your chest, “Mama… me choose you always,” and your arms tighten reflexively, the only answer she’ll ever need.

You feel your chest tighten as her words settle into your soul, and you press her closer, inhaling the soft rose of her hair. Your voice trembles with the ache of every moment you ever feared failing her as you whisper, “And I choose you too, my precious girl, every single day.” You brush a gentle kiss along her forehead, lingering where her skin is still as soft as dawn mist, and cradle her face in your hands as though she is the most fragile blossom in the world. Tears blur the edges of your vision, warm and unbidden, as you add, “I’ll keep you safe, always—through storms and sunshine, through every hard tomorrow. You’re my heart’s home” She nuzzles into your neck, a tiny sigh of contentment against your pulse, and you hold her there, your whole world hushed to the steady drum of her breath. In that perfect, aching silence, her small fingers tighten once more around your collar, and you know that no words could ever say more than the promise you’ve made in every heartbeat since the day she chose you.

She stirs against your chest, wide awake with that familiar, urgent longing she only knows from your arms, as though every beat of her heart calls out for the embrace she trusts above all else. Her tiny fingers press into your collarbone, and she nuzzles her cheek against the soft fabric of your scrub top, seeking the warmth only you can give. “Mama,” she sighs contentedly, lips brushing your skin in a gentle, giggly kiss that sends a fresh bloom of joy through your ribs.

You tilt your head, catching her gaze, dark pools of innocence and fierce love and whisper back, “Here, baby. I’m always right here.” She grabs your scrub pocket with one hand, pumping it gently as if to anchor herself in this moment, her laughter a soft echo that fills the quiet ward more completely than any lullaby.

She hiccups a little laugh, her small body trembling with joy as she presses her wet cheek against your neck. “Heehee, Mama—I trying not to cry!” she babbles, her voice a sweet wobble that makes your heart melt. Her eyes glisten like morning dew as she pulls back to peer up at you, tiny brows furrowed in earnest confusion. “Why the water come from my eyes if I so happy?” she asks, voice soft and puzzled. She clamps her little fists together and buries them against your chest, as though trapping her tears so they won’t wander away.

You wipe a tear from her cheek and laugh softly, her innocence filling the room like sunshine. “Those are happy tears, my love,” you whisper, brushing her curls back from her forehead. “They come when your heart is so full it can’t hold all the joy.” She blinks slowly, the tears still trembling on her lashes.

Then, in the most earnest voice imaginable, she murmurs, “Happy tears… that make Mama and Haeunie sparkle?” You nod, heart swelling, and she giggles again, tiny teeth flashing as she pecks you on the nose. “I sparkle! Me sparkle with Mama!” she declares, arms flinging around your neck in a fierce hug. You hold her close, letting her laughter and tears blend into a single perfect promise, knowing that no matter what tomorrow brings, this moment—giggly, tearful, and pure—will be the light that guides you both home.

Around you, the monitors hum a steady refrain, but all you perceive is the steady rhythm of her pulse against yours. Each breath she takes feels like a promise: that this bond, forged in tears, tubes and whispered names, will never be broken. You stroke her curls, marveling at how the ribbon you tied this morning still holds its bright bow, a banner of your devotion fluttering in the gentle light. “You’re my world,” you murmur, voice hushed with wonder. She smiles up at you—an expression so pure it outshines the fluorescent glow—and squeezes your hand once more, the soft tug of her palm a reminder that in her eyes, you have become everything she needs.

You pause to watch the tiny ritual she’s perfected over the last week: slipping her thumb into her mouth, eyes half-closed in bliss as she sucks with gentle determination. Her dark lashes flutter with every blink, like the softest butterfly wings brushing dew from morning petals, each one catching the light and scattering it across your scrubs. She presses her face deeper into your chest, her cheek warm and pliant against your heart, her breathing slowing into a steady, trusting rhythm that anchors you in this suspended moment. With one hand, she tugs at the hem of your shirt—an innocent demand for more closeness—while her free arm drapes across your wrist like a lifeline. You feel the soft rise of her small chest beneath her pajamas and the steady pulse of her life against your own. Overwhelmed by her innocent affection—so pure it thrums through your veins—you tilt your head and press a kiss to her temple, careful not to disturb the braided ribbons that still curl so prettily around her face. She blinks up at you, eyelashes shimmering, and gives a tiny, sleepy smile that lights up her whole expression. “Mama,” she murmurs, voice muffled by your shirt but clear in its adoration. “Mama cuddles.”

You tighten your arms around her, whispering back, “Always, my love. Always.” The other interns exchange knowing smiles, long accustomed to the tender interruptions Haeun weaves effortlessly into your busy days. They understand that this ward, despite its chaos and gravity, is where Haeun has carved out her own little kingdom, every nurse and doctor hopelessly enchanted by her innocent charm. She nestles deeper against you, chattering softly as her gaze drifts around the ward, observing the other children tucked safely in their beds. Her curious eyes linger on a baby cradled lovingly in her mother’s embrace, a gentle frown creasing her forehead as she tilts her head upward, puzzled yet endearingly earnest. “Mama, when I was tiny bubba,” she starts thoughtfully, tugging gently on your sleeve to capture your full attention, “I used to be so sad.” Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, eyes wide and earnest. “I see bubbas with mama and dada, and Haeunie only had Dada. I love Dada, but I want my Mama too. Bubbas need mamas for kissing boo-boos and cuddling.”

Your breath catches softly, heart aching tenderly as you hold her closer, gently rocking her as she continues. Her tiny hands lift to demonstrate her heartfelt prayers, fingers clasped tightly, her small eyes squeezing shut dramatically. “I say to sky, pwease, pwease,” she whispers fiercely, voice trembling with innocence, “please give Haeunie a mama who cuddles and kisses boo-boos. Then—” she pauses, breaking into a radiant smile, her eyes twinkling with pure adoration as she cups your cheeks between her tiny palms, peppering soft, ticklish kisses all over your face, “then Mama came! My Mama is you.” She nods resolutely, satisfied with her explanation, her eyes glowing with triumphant love.

You smile softly, your heart nearly bursting from the overwhelming tenderness radiating from her small frame. Her honesty is pure, her love absolute. You stroke her hair gently, eyes warm and brimming with affection as you watch her. Her gaze shifts curiously again, landing on a heavily pregnant woman, her round belly prominent beneath her soft gown. With an endearing giggle, Haeun presses her tiny palm to your stomach, eyes sparkling with innocent curiosity. “Mama, when Haeunie in your tummy, was I heavy? Did I kick lots like that?” Her expression is delightfully sincere, head tilted as she awaits your reply, utterly captivated by the mysterious workings of motherhood.

You freeze for the briefest moment, a gentle ache twisting in your chest. You and Jaemin have done your best to explain, softly, carefully, that Haeun never grew in your tummy, that some babies are born from a Mama’s body, and some are born right into a Mama’s heart. Still, she watches cartoons and picture books, and all her favorite stories say babies come from tummies, so it’s a puzzle she can’t quite piece together. She presses a hand to your stomach, blinking up at you, confusion and devotion tangled in her little face. You kiss her forehead softly, your thumb brushing tender circles across her flushed cheeks. “Sweetheart,” you whisper softly, your voice honest and tender, “you didn’t grow in my tummy but that doesn’t matter at all, because you grew in my heart instead. And that’s even more special.” Her little eyes widen thoughtfully, absorbing your gentle explanation. A serene smile spreads across her face as she nods, deciding easily that your words are true because you, her beloved Mama, have said them. She curls tighter against you, perfectly content.

Then, another scene catches her curious attention, a baby nursing sweetly at her mother’s breast. Haeun giggles, hiding shyly in the crook of your neck before peeking up again. “Mama, did Haeunie do that too?” she asks, voice full of wonder and amusement, her tiny finger pointing adorably at the tender moment.

You chuckle gently, your heart swelling at her sweet curiosity, and shake your head softly. “No, my baby,” you say gently, tickling her sides softly until she erupts into delighted giggles, “you drank from bottles, remember? Dada always fed you, holding you so carefully, giving you lots and lots of milk so you could grow big and strong. And now look at you, my big girl!” You lift her gently, making her squeal with laughter and delight as you pepper her cheeks with warm, soft kisses.

She settles again, a soft, contemplative sigh escaping her tiny lips as she gazes up at you, eyes overflowing with tenderness. Her fingers reach up gently, tracing the line of your jaw lovingly. “Mama,” she whispers, voice soft as a lullaby, “you always my Mama, forever ever?” Her voice holds a hint of anxiety, her small heart yearning desperately for reassurance.

You cradle her tiny face in your hands, pressing your forehead softly to hers, your heart wide open, your love undeniable. “Forever and ever,” you whisper softly, your words firm with devotion. “You will always be my baby, Haeun, and I will always be your Mama.”

She beams radiantly, pure joy blooming on her tiny face as she hugs you fiercely, her small arms tight around your neck. “Mama and Haeunie, always!” she declares, voice bright and certain, and your heart, your world, settles gently, softly, beautifully, into place.

Jaemin finds you in the lounge, broad-shouldered and haloed in tired late-afternoon light, his suit jacket slung over one arm and a familiar, longing softness in his gaze that always feels like a secret. Haeun is dozing lightly against your chest, one thumb in her mouth, the other tangled in the hem of your shirt, and you kiss her curls as you pass her, slowly, gently, into Hayoung’s waiting arms. Hayoung coos, delighted, bouncing Haeun on her hip. “I promise, we’ll go find stickers and say hi to all the fishies,” she tells your little girl, who only giggles and squeezes Bunny even tighter, always brave when you’re within reach.

You squat to her height, smoothing wild hair from her face. “Mama will be right back, my love. You stay with Auntie Hayoung and be the best helper, okay?” Haeun nods, her round eyes wide, but her attention flicks, mischievous and knowing. between you and Jaemin, clocking the lack of space between your bodies and every glance.

As you turn to leave, Jaemin’s hand finds yours, fingers threading tight, thumb warm and possessive at your knuckles. Haeun whispers softly to Hayoung, voice bubbling with sleepy amusement, her words tumbling out in a soft, giggly rush: “Mama and Dada always do kissy when they think Haeunie not wooking but I always wooking! Mama and Dada always kissy, and Auntie, why Mama call my Dada ‘Daddy’? I thought Dada was Mama’s boyfwen!!” Her eyes are sparkling, the world a puzzle she’s piecing together out loud.

Hayoung bursts out laughing, kissing Haeun’s cheek, replying, “Oh, baby, that’s just because your mama loves your Dada a whole lot.”

You squeeze Jaemin’s hand, completely unaware of Haeun’s words, your hearts light as you disappear down the hall together, Haeun’s tiny voice echoing after you, “See you later, Mama! Don’ be long! Wuv you, kissy, kissy!” The sound of home, of being wanted, folding around you as you disappear behind the on-call room door.

The second you’re alone with him, broad shoulders blocking the door, jaw set and dark eyes only for you, you can’t help it. There’s a fever under your skin. You rise, letting your hand slip into his, pulse thrumming as he leads you down the quiet corridor, his thumb stroking the edge of your palm with promise. He doesn’t ask, just opens the first on-call room, backs you inside with a body that could shield you from every storm. He’s barely closed the door before you’re on him, breathless, starved, dragging him down by his collar as though you might drown if he doesn’t give you his mouth. The on-call room is stifling, the sheets twisted, a single strip of cold hospital light painting Jaemin’s body in brutal, sculpted relief, shoulders too broad for the bed, biceps caged around you as you push him down, straddle his lap, swallow the sound of his growl in a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. Your legs wrap around his waist, thighs bare against his scrub pants, hips grinding slow and insistent until you both gasp. He grins, devilish, one hand sliding up your back, tracing your spine with greedy reverence, the other slipping beneath your shirt, fingertips skimming the sensitive curve of your ribs, pinning you in place so you can’t get away, not that you ever would.

You nip at his jaw, bite down on his pulse, and he mutters, “Fuck, you trying to kill me, pretty girl?” in that low, dark voice that leaves you aching. His thumb draws circles on your inner thigh, pushing your underwear aside, the calluses a hot contrast to your skin. You arch into him, desperate, needy, your breath shaky as his hand finds you slick and ready, his mouth pressing wet, messy kisses along your collarbone, teeth scraping just enough to make you whimper. He lifts you, manhandling you like you weigh nothing, setting you on the edge of the cot, tearing your shirt up over your head until you’re bare to the air and him, the tips of your breasts brushing his chest. You hear him groan—deep, ruined—before his mouth claims yours again, tongue tangled, his other hand in your hair, holding you in place so all you can do is take what he gives.

You grind down on him, shameless, the pressure relentless, his cock hard and insistent beneath you, all heat and threat. He murmurs, “always so fucking greedy for me, look at you, can’t wait even a minute,” and you laugh into his mouth, pulling his hand down, desperate for more. He obliges—slow, filthy, thumb circling your clit until you gasp, thighs shaking, biting down on his shoulder to keep from crying out. “Let ‘em hear,” he whispers, “let ‘em know who you belong to,” and you do, shuddering against his hand, his lips at your ear, panting curses, confessions, everything he’s ever wanted pressed into your skin. When you come back to yourself, you’re wrapped in his arms, your hair a mess, his shirt soaked through, and he’s just watching you, pupils blown, all that dominance faded into something almost tender.

You press a last slow kiss to his mouth, your fingers gentle against his jaw, voice rough as you finally manage, “We can’t go home yet. I want to do something special for Haeun. I need two hours, just keep her distracted, don’t let her get sad, and don’t tell her what I’m up to. Please, Jaemin.”

He nips your lip, smirking, and tugs you into his lap again, voice all rough edges and promises, you’re surprised at how easily you’ve got him wrapped around your finger. “Anything you want, baby. Our girl’s gonna have the best day. I’ll make sure she doesn’t even notice you’re gone.”

Your hands linger on his jaw, you reach into your tote bag and draw out the pink tulle and satin of a tiny tutu, the matching ballerina leotard soft as a wish. You place it in his hands, voice dropping to a whisper that’s as much a dare as a plea. “Give our baby this. Tell her it’s a surprise for being so brave. And—can you try to do her hair? Or just ask Hayoung if you can’t. I want her in the whole thing, hair up, all ready for her big moment.” Your eyes glint, that wicked thrill of plotting something just for your girl, and

Jaemin grins back, conspiratorial, absolutely smitten with you. He promises, “We’ll wait until you give the word. No early dressing, she’ll be too excited and tear it to shreds if we’re not careful.” He pulls you in for one last kiss, tasting of heat and gratitude, his thumb brushing your cheek, both of you vibrating with anticipation and love. When you step back out, you leave the pink costume in his hands, your body still tingling, his smile wide and giddy as you whisper, “Just a few more minutes. I want it to be perfect.” Jaemin nods, and you know you’re both already picturing your daughter, the sweetest, bravest ballerina in the world, lighting up the hospital just for you.

His lips trail down your neck, soft now, reverent. “I’ll do all of that but you owe me later,” he teases, and you laugh, rolling your hips once more for good measure before you finally slip out, cheeks flushed, thighs sticky, body buzzing.

You lean in, lips brushing his ear, your breath wicked and low, hips grinding against him as your hand traces down the front of his scrubs, feeling him twitch under your palm. “Oh, I know I do,” you whisper, filthy and soft, letting your teeth scrape his jaw. “Tonight, I want you on your knees for me first. I want your mouth everywhere—messy, tongue out, begging, until I’m dripping all over your face. And then I want you to bend me over your desk and make me scream your name so loud you’ll have to shove your fingers in my mouth to keep me quiet.” Your hand squeezes him through the fabric, the promise dark and sweet, and you press one last kiss to his lips, slow and filthy, tasting the hunger between you. “After, I want to ride you until you’re begging, until you can’t remember anything but how I feel. That’s what you get for being such a good Daddy. Now go give our baby her tutu, and think about how I’m going to ruin you tonight.” You wink, slipping out, leaving him stunned, half-hard, and breathless, already counting the seconds until he can have you all to himself again.

Outside, Jaemin lifts your daughter into his arms, her in her yellow pajamas and pink bunny socks, cheeks still puffy with sleep, Bunny clutched tight under one arm. She reaches for you, bottom lip trembling just a little, still the tiniest bit shy about goodbyes, so you bend and cradle her face, kissing her button nose. “See you later, Mama!” she chirps, voice high and bubbly, “have fun, ‘kay? don’ be long, I wait for you!” She squeezes your hand, Bunny squished between you both and gives a big, noisy mwah to your cheek so earnest you feel it in your bones. She doesn’t cry, doesn’t worry. She trusts—fully, stubbornly, beautifully—that you’ll always come back, that nothing can shake you loose from her world now.

You’re inked into the dark pages of her story now, a blood-oath penned beneath the rib cage, a black swan gliding silently across her still waters—beautiful, inevitable, sinister in the shadow you cast. No blade can cut you free; your name is stitched into her bones, twisted through veins that carry both life and whispers of death, twined inseparably as lovers in a grave. This love is a haunted vow, spoken softly at bedsides, till death do us part, knowing full well that death is already in the room, patient and smiling, waiting to claim one of you while leaving the other half-alive, forever tethered to a phantom pulse. You have sunk your roots so deep that when the final breath shudders through fragile lungs, when the monitors scream their last, the survivor will stumble, empty-eyed and hollow-hearted, into an endless night, forever reaching for the other, fingertips tracing outlines in cold air, the echo of loss ringing like cathedral bells that never cease. You are entwined in a fate spun of silk and sorrow, a dance macabre poised on the razor’s edge of love and ruin, where losing one means the destruction of the other, a collapse of worlds too closely merged to ever separate without tearing flesh and soul asunder.

Jaemin grins, that wolfish, possessive pride in his gaze, and swings Haeun up into the crook of his arm. “C’mon, sunshine, let’s go play.”

He kisses your forehead, lets his lips linger at your temple, voice low and hungry for later, “Don’t keep us waiting too long, pretty thing.” You watch them go. his massive frame, her tiny legs, Bunny bouncing between them, knowing there’s nowhere else on earth you belong.

The hospital rooftop has never looked so transformed, its cold, haunted memory washed in new light, a place reborn just for Haeun. The winter wind is glassy and sharp, but you and Jihoon are out here late, breath ghosting in the air as you move quietly, almost reverently, through the space where a broken history once clung to every brick. Shotaro arrives first, arms full of glittering pastel bunting and helium balloons shaped like stars and tiny swans, his laughter a gentle hush as he tapes silver ribbons to the rusted railings. Ryujin, bundled in a red scarf, lugs up a battered boom box and a basket bursting with soft tulle, costume skirts, fairy lights, paper lanterns that bob and sway above the city, catching the last gold of the afternoon sun. You’ve laid down thick velvet blankets in the center, transforming cracked concrete into a stage, and you can’t help but glance at the very corner where Haeun was found, a small potted garden now spilling over with snowdrops and violets, her accidental sanctuary, memory reborn as hope.

You set out chairs borrowed from the conference room, draping each with sheer organza, pale pink and buttery yellow, every seat crowned by a tiny “ticket” scrawled in Haeun’s favorite purple marker: for my family. Jihoon strings fairy lights between the HVAC pipes, letting them glow and blink like the last stars before sunrise. Shotaro finds an old mirror in storage and props it up so Haeun will see herself dance, spinning, radiant, alive. The air smells like fresh snow and sugar from the thermos of hot chocolate Ryujin brings, and in the far corner, she sets up a snack table: baby fruit cups, marshmallows, cut strawberries, everything arranged in tiny paper cups adorned with hand-drawn hearts.

You set a crown of silk flowers—peach and white, with a single jet-black feather tucked in—beside a plush new Bunny, waiting for your girl. On the edge of the rooftop, you scatter more feathers, glimmering on the cold concrete like wishes. Your hands tremble a little as you arrange the final touches: Haeun’s pink slippers side by side with yours, two pairs ready for a pas de deux if she wants you to join, and one glittering silver wand, just in case magic is needed. Jihoon checks the playlist, all soft piano and delicate strings, and Shotaro sets up a line of bubble wands so each of you can make the rooftop shimmer with floating orbs when Haeun takes her bow. Ryujin tests the lighting with her phone camera, making sure every angle glows, no shadow left unlit, no dark corners for old ghosts. Together, you pause for a moment, wind brushing your faces, the city sprawling below, and you realize this is no longer a graveyard for lost things—it is a stage for your girl’s light.

On the far side of the rooftop, you’ve claimed a special corner just for Haeun, her own backstage sanctuary, tucked behind a curtain of pastel streamers and paper snowflakes. You lay out a patchwork quilt in the shape of a giant heart, soft against the chill, and ring it with all her bunnies, every stuffed rabbit she’s ever loved, lined up in careful little rows as her plush audience, each wearing a hand-sewn ribbon or a tiny felt tutu you stayed up late to make. Her pink plastic ballet barre is set beside a tottering stack of Barbie dolls, each dressed for the occasion in tutus and crowns, and you’ve even arranged a tiny audience of Barbie-sized fans with hand-drawn tickets and a foam finger painted “Go Haeun!” Just beside them, a delicate jewelry box with a twirling ballerina plays her favorite lullaby, a tinny, hopeful tune that mingles with the wind. Nestled among her treasures are wrapped gifts: a new storybook with golden letters, a box of pink barrettes, a bracelet of glass beads that spell her name, and a matching tiny scarf for Bunny. Every detail, every trinket, sings her name, a sanctuary made by you, her mama, from the quiet tenderness of knowing exactly what makes your girl feel safe.

At the very center, a low table shimmers under an avalanche of treats, all themed in Haeun’s beloved pink and yellow. The centerpiece is a two-tiered ballerina cake: strawberry on the bottom, vanilla on top, frosted in rosettes and crowned with a spinning sugar ballerina pirouetting above a halo of edible pearls. Tiny cookies in the shapes of slippers, crowns, and tutus fill pretty china plates, and bowls of pastel candies glimmer beside them. You set out tiny glasses of rose lemonade, bottles of strawberry milk, and a big thermos of hot chocolate crowned with marshmallow clouds for Haeun and her friends, with matcha lattes and strong coffee on standby for the grown-ups. Beside the cake, a mountain of cupcakes with pink swan toppers and gold sprinkles spell out her name letter by letter, and every drink has a silly straw twisted into a heart. The whole theme radiates softness—ballerina pink, glimmering white, little touches of black swan darkness around the edges—every element a promise that this day belongs to your girl, that she is both the light and the center of your little rooftop universe.

You crouch to tie the last ribbon, heart pounding with nerves and hope, and text Jaemin.

you — bring our ballerina up, her stage is waiting.

jaemin — on our way. she made me promise bunny gets front row and she won’t go up unless i carry her like a real ballerina princess. hope you’re ready for a grand entrance.

you — always. don’t forget her little crown, it’s by the shoe rack in the interns lounge. and don’t let her peek before the music starts—she’s got a real audience waiting for her.

jaemin — your wish is my command, mama. she’s grinning so wide i think she might float. see you in thirty seconds, my love.

you — thirty seconds too long. i love you. and tell her mama’s proud already.

Haeun’s footsteps slow as Jaemin carries her into the open air, her hand clamped tight around Bunny, eyes going impossibly wide. For a moment she only clings, pressed into her father’s neck, and then she peeks out, taking in the decorations, the scattering of people gathered just for her, Jihoon and Hayoung waving near the cake, Ryujin and Shotaro standing close by the little speaker that will play her music, Nurse Yuha and even Dr. Huang watching from the side, clapping as she’s set gently on her feet. Haeun gasps, her tiny face awash with awe and the slow bright dawn of understanding. “Is…for me?” she whispers, her voice trembling.

Jaemin nods, crouching to her height, hands steady at her shoulders. “All for you, sunshine. Every bit.” She can hardly stay still, tiny shoulders hitching, breath caught so high in her chest you see it flutter beneath the satin bodice. Her fingers flex and unflex around Bunny’s paw; her knees wobble, pigeon-toed with wonder, before she makes a slow, stunned pivot, eyes skimming every streamer that twirls like captured sunlight, every balloon bobbing sky-blue, every familiar face breaking into applause. A tremor runs up her calves, rippling the ruffled hem of her tutu, and then awe detonates into movement: she bolts, slippers pattering, curls streaming behind her like a comet’s tail. She crashes into your lap with all the force her bird-bones can muster, a half-giggle, half-sob bursting out of her throat, Bunny mashed flat between your chests. Her palms cup your cheeks, smaller than teacup saucers, trembling, and her voice comes out in a tremulous whisper, “Mama, dis all mine? Dis my pwesent?” The words quiver, so full of disbelief that her lower lip wobbles, and tears hang on her lashes like glass beads before falling into the hollow of your collarbone.

You scoop her up, holding her close, kissing the tip of her nose, brushing tears from her hot cheeks. “Every part, my love. This whole sky’s for you.”

You kneel beside her, smoothing the frothy skirt of her new tutu, brushing the loose curls away from her damp forehead, voice gentle and certain as you hold her gaze. Haeun, eyes enormous and shining, whispers in the softest, wobbliest voice, “Mama, what I gonna be dancing?”—like the question itself might vanish if she’s too loud.

You stroke her cheek, lips curving into a smile. “You’re going to dance your favorite one, baby. ‘Bunny’s Moonlight Dance,’ the one you do in the kitchen, remember? With Bunny in your arms and the twirls we practiced every night before bed. You know every step, every little jump. Bunny’s watching, and Mama’s here. If you get tired or your heart goes owie, you just tap your nose, that’s our secret, remember?” You kiss the crown of her head, hand squeezing hers for bravery. She nods, blinking furiously, then looks down at Bunny as if to ask, If you can be brave, I can too.

Her recital routine is one she’s practiced at home for months, every step rewritten for her heart’s safety. Ryujin and Shotaro spent hours tailoring the choreography, swapping out jumps and fast turns for soft, gliding movements—gentle spins, slow pliés, stretches that let her move with grace without ever forcing her pulse too high or her breath too short. Instead of leaping, she traces slow circles with her arms and sways from foot to foot, each transition planned to keep her oxygen steady and her chest free from strain. Every motion is close to the ground, her feet rarely leaving the floor, so she’s never at risk of losing balance or pushing past her limits. She knows the sequence by heart: a slow opening curtsey, arms fluttering like wings, one gentle twirl with Bunny held to her chest, then a winding, balletic walk across her stage. This routine is a labor of love—a dance made safe, a promise that she can be a ballerina without putting her fragile heart in danger, surrounded by all the people who will always keep her safe.

Her eyes go wide and she tugs at your sleeve, voice trembling with awe, “Dis all for me? Really? Why, Mama? What I do?”

You cup her face in your hands, brushing her hair back, smiling soft and sure: “Because you’re my brave girl, and you make every day magic just by being you.” You scoop her up, holding her close, kissing the tip of her nose, brushing tears from her hot cheeks. “Every part, my love. This whole sky’s for you.” Tonight, she is Jaemin’s masterpiece, he insisted on doing every detail himself, hands surprisingly gentle as he helped her wriggle into her pink tutu, smoothing the frothy tulle over her knees, tying the satin bows along her waist with the patience and care of a man who knows this moment will echo for the rest of his life. He let her choose a dusting of shimmer for her cheeks, brushed it on with careful, clumsy fingers, making her giggle and blink wide at her own reflection, pink lips shining with the faintest touch of your balm

Her hair is all Jaemin, too—he worked slow, tongue caught between his teeth, curling each strand with the little brush you handed him, his big hands twisting her wild curls into a perfect half-up crown, pinning in soft rosebuds until she looked like a fairytale sprite. Her tights are snowy white, new and slightly baggy at the toes, and Jaemin grinned as he helped her into her tiny ballet slippers, crossing the pink ribbons just right over her ankles. The whole time, she beamed at him in the mirror, face flushed and bashful, eyes shining, cheeks sprinkled in a glittering blush he was so proud to have chosen. She stands before you now, radiating sweetness, every inch adored into perfection by her Dada, beautiful not just for the costume but for the love and reverence poured into every detail—your baby, his princess, ready to dance beneath the sky you both made for her.

Ryujin crouches near the music player, her breath shallow, her fingers hovering, vigilant, ready to pause at the slightest hint of distress, eyes locked unwaveringly on the tiny dancer whose life she’s helped shape so gently. Each heartbeat echoes through her fingertips, a fragile rhythm that she holds carefully in her palm, every pause in the melody an opportunity to guard Haeun from harm. Shotaro stands alert by the rooftop’s edge, his gaze gentle but sharp, sneakers poised like a guardian angel’s wings, ready to swoop in at the first tremble, every muscle taut with anxious readiness. His eyes never leave Haeun’s form, shadowing each tentative step with invisible hands that promise unwavering safety. Nearby, Hayoung, eyes already blurred with tears, struggles valiantly to hold her phone steady with trembling fingers, her heart captured by every careful twirl, determined to preserve forever this miracle unfolding in golden sunlight. Beside her, Jihoon softly begins the applause, a rhythmic encouragement pulsing steadily, the gentle beat carefully measured, a prayer disguised as encouragement, willing Haeun’s fragile heartbeat to stay steady and strong.

The music floats upward gently, delicate notes winding around Haeun like gentle tendrils of dawn mist, each note a fragile caress, coaxing her bravery forward. Her tiny slipper-clad foot extends, trembling slightly, the first hesitant touch as if stepping onto thin ice, testing uncertain ground. Arms rise slowly above her head, fingertips reaching skyward as though greeting clouds that once bore witness to her abandonment, now proudly here to see her reclaim this sacred rooftop space as her own sanctuary. She hesitates, breath caught softly in her throat, wide eyes shining vulnerable beneath the sunlight’s caress—but then, with a shy glance at Bunny, seated carefully at the stage’s edge, courage visibly blooms in her small chest like the first resilient flower pushing through winter snow, determined to bloom despite adversity.

Her first movement is soft, careful—a gentle half-spin, her skirt blossoming outward like petals unfurling in spring’s first breath, the delicate pink tulle swirling gently around slender legs still uncertain yet brave. Her flushed cheeks glow brighter, pride swiftly overtaking her initial fear, the familiar choreography comforting her like whispered lullabies practiced tirelessly in safety of home, kitchen tiles transformed nightly into her ballet studio, your bedroom a private rehearsal hall filled with quiet laughter, your loving eyes the encouraging mirror reflecting back only courage. Each carefully placed movement, meticulously crafted by Ryujin and Shotaro, holds grace and caution in equal measure, each step purposeful and deliberate, crafted specifically to guard and nourish her fragile heart even as it strengthens with every beat of the music.

She glides forward, her tiny palm skimming Bunny’s velvety ear while rose-petal fingertips linger, gathering courage that flows into each poised movement; arms sweep overhead with featherlike precision, elbows rounded, wrists pouring liquid grace so natural it seems the rooftop air itself learned ballet beside her. A demi-plié follows, knees bending as if honoring the earth beneath satin slippers before a gentle relevé lifts her higher, heels kissing as she balances, cheeks flushed and moon-bright, chin raised, the sunlight gilding soft baby hairs along her forehead. She floats into a tendu, toes unfurling like starfish, each pudgy digit pressing the ground in perfect alignment, thighs firm beneath pink tulle though still sweetly rounded with childhood softness, calves lengthening into a slow développé that draws a collective breath from the rooftop audience. Her shoulders remain serene, collarbones glimmering with a sheen of effort while dimples bloom beside a determined smile; every rotation of her wrists carves invisible ribbons, fingers curled delicately, nails pale as seashells, guiding the music’s invisible current around her petite frame.

Momentum gathers within her chest like a hummingbird’s flutter as she eases into an extended arabesque, stockinged leg lifting behind until the slipper’s satin tip hovers level with a dapple of afternoon sky, tiny toes pointed so fiercely the arch forms a perfect crescent. A controlled passé anchors the pose, knee folding, sole touching the opposite calf with disciplined stillness before she releases into a soft pas de chat, both feet leaving the ground for a heartbeat, skirt blooming outward while sunlight streaks through pink layers. Upon landing, knees cushion delicately; she rolls through the balls of her feet into a balanced sous-sus, ankles knitting together, pudgy thighs quivering yet unwavering, toes whispering against tile. Her palms now frame her face, fingertips kissing plump cheeks as she executes a gentle port de bras that crescendos into a curved fifth-over-head, elbows rounded, wrists supple, fingers fluttering like fledgling doves. Every motion glows with two-year-old wonder yet carries astonishing maturity, each breath a metronome guiding muscles already fluent in elegance, every cell radiating determination that shimmers through soft baby skin, promising an entire lifetime of dances yet to come.

She pirouettes again, slower this time, a dainty carousel of baby-soft limbs. until her skirt’s tulle sighs in a pink halo around pudgy knees; a shy giggle slips past her lips, the sweetest chiming hiccup, and in its wake you hear the faintest hum she always makes when she feels brave, a thrumming “mmm-mmm” that matches the music’s quiet strings. Her fingertips, rosy as apple blossoms, flutter at shoulder height, then press to her heart in a miniature révérence, dimpling her satin bodice while the faint rise and fall of her tiny chest marks every wondrous beat. She inhales as though gathering stardust, lashes trembling against plump cheeks, and exhales in a hush that smells of oat-milk froth and toddler shampoo, sending a single dark curl dancing across her brow. A heartbeat later she lifts onto demi-pointe again, ten pearly toes stretching so earnestly that each one seems to wave hello—miniature exclamation points declaring, I am here, I am alive, watch me glow.

With a sudden ripple of courage she skips into a pas de bourréex really three tiptoe scampers stitched together, tiny heels kissing tiles in soft percussive whispers, arms floating wide as if she means to hug the shy winter sun itself. Every landing is a murmured “ta-da,” every inhaled breath a pastel trumpet, and when her chubby elbows swoop inward for a fragile en couronne her button nose wrinkles, concentrating, as if sculpting the very air into sugar spun wings. She finishes with a breathy squeak of delight—half laugh, half gasp—before launching into an exaggerated bow so deep her forehead nearly meets Bunny’s plush paw; her skirt puddles like melting strawberry ice cream around sturdy toddler thighs, calves dimpling under the satin sheen of tights, and the rooftop seems to tilt with collective awe. Rising, she pats her own chest twice, proud heartbeat drumming beneath kiss-pink cotton, then presses both hands to her round cheeks, rocking heel-to-toe, squealing a tiny, triumphant “yay” that floats skyward like a dove. The sound is so pure even the clouds feel softer, drifting closer to listen, and in that sacred hush every adult heart within earshot folds inwards like petals, vowing—silently, fiercely—that this little dancer’s song will echo safe and sweet for all her tomorrows.

As Haeun spins, sunlight catches in her hair and gilds her little limbs, every skip and pointed toe chasing shadows across the rooftop tiles where her story nearly ended before it even began. She floats, tutu shimmering gold as wings, reclaiming the space as her own—a white dove set loose in the wild, painting arcs of joy over the very place she was once abandoned. Each arabesque is a quiet rebellion, every pirouette a promise that this sun-warmed roof will remember her not for loss, but for love—yellow glitter trailing, her laughter a melody brighter than fear, her tiny feet stitching forgiveness and belonging into the bricks. As she dances, the past falls away; Haeun is all light, a sunbeam crowned in tulle, spinning her survival into something glorious, owning the sky that nearly forgot her, loved fiercely back into being.

Your chest blooms wide, thick with sweet aching pride, as Haeun unfurls each gentle step, sunlight draping her petite frame like a blessing, the soft pink ribbon in her hair trembling with every careful twirl, and in that glow you feel your breath catch, love pressing at your ribs in a promise as ancient as heartbeat. Jaemin gathers you closer, pressing an awed kiss to your temple before touching his lips to yours in a feather-light vow. The warmth of that shared kiss spills into silent tears that blur the edges of your vision while his low whisper curls against your ear, husky with devotion, telling you she is everything and perfect, and together you watch your tiny ballerina spin. Her satin slippers tap like silver raindrops, her cheeks flushed strawberry bright. Each time her eyes find you she beams so wide it feels as though the sky itself is smiling, so you answer with soft applause and dozens of scattered kisses to Jaemin’s jaw to your own trembling fingertips and finally to the air she breathes, sealing every ounce of joy around her forever.

A careful pirouette begins next, slow rotations made cautious yet exquisitely graceful, her tiny form embodying gentle resilience, a ballerina spun delicately from porcelain and dreams. Her wide eyes seek yours briefly, vulnerability mixing sweetly with hope, and you gently blow her a kiss, your shared love language. Courage floods her tiny frame anew, her smile brighter, her posture straighter, radiating a fierce determination that defies the limits of her fragile heartbeat. Each deliberate step, painstakingly choreographed for minimal exertion, pulses steadily like a second heartbeat—measured, controlled, beautifully life-affirming in its delicate intensity. She skips lightly forward, her usual energetic jumps transformed into gentle, controlled leaps—each landing feather-light, barely audible whispers upon rooftop tiles. Her hair streams freely behind her, a comet’s tail of pure innocence and radiant joy. The music gently swells, matching the rhythm of your pounding heart as you and Jaemin applaud, your cheers elevating her confidence higher with every beat, transforming her delicate steps into powerful affirmations of life.

She pauses mid-twirl, cheeks flushed and breath feathering through parted lips, and when her tiny fingertip taps the soft curve of her nose—a secret signal sewn between only the two of you—hope ignites in her eyes so brightly it feels like morning has cracked open inside her chest; you answer that light without thinking, sweeping forward on instinct, and the instant her small voice lifts in a lilting, “Mama, dance with me,” you lift her into your arms, her doll-warm body settling against yours as naturally as breath, her baby-round knees folding over your forearm while her satin slippers dangle like pink bells chiming with every step. You turn in slow, syrupy circles, the world narrowing to nothing but her delighted squeals and the faint shampoo scent clinging to her curls, and with each gentle spin she peppers your cheeks with soft, eager kisses, a staccato rhythm of love that paints your skin in invisible petals; her laughter rings pure and metallic, filling the rooftop until even the shy winter sun seems to lean closer, and you hum the melody into her ear, letting the vibration travel from your throat to her heart so the music belongs to both of you, shared like a secret lullaby that only mother and daughter know by name.

“Look, Mama, we flying,” she whispers, breath sweet as peach cotton candy, and you guide her tiny arms outward, wrists supple, fingers curved like little seashells catching light, then tuck her close again to feel the reassuring flutter of her heartbeat against your own, two rhythms knitting together in a private duet that steadies every step; Jaemin moves in quietly, hands spanning the small of your back, and when you slide Haeun onto the bridge of his shoes she stands tall, gripping his thumbs, your palms steady at her waist while the three of you sway, a living waltz wrapped in sunlight and soft rose-petal confetti drifting from rooftop planters. Hayoung and Jihoon chants her name in hushed reverence. She giggles at the height, at the feel of Daddy’s big feet guiding her tiny ones, and when she tilts her head to kiss the corner of his jaw you watch tears prism in his lashes, every drop a testament to the simple miracle of a child held safe between her parents; together you finish the last turn, her skirt blooming like the softest dawn, and as the music fades she presses her forehead to yours, whispering, “Again someday?” and you seal the promise with a kiss that tastes of salt-bright tears and endless, steadfast love.

Petals drift in slow spirals, soft as whispered lullabies, scattering across the rooftop while Hayoung and Jihoon sing her name in quiet wonder. You cup her warm cheeks as she catches a single blossom on the back of her chubby hand, and the moment it's silken edge brushes her skin she hiccups on a sob, eyes glistening so bright they reflect the whole pale sky. She presses that petal over her stuttering little heart. “Duv… duh dub dub,” she murmurs, tapping her bodice with pudgy fingers to share the rhythm, blinking up at the circle of friends, stuffed bears and stethoscope-clad nurses surrounding her like a storybook kingdom. Tears pool, trembling and luminous, yet her smile stretches wide enough to show every tiny tooth. “I wuv dancin’, I wuv music, I wuv you,” she declares, words tumbling out in breathy rushes, syllables softened by baby lisp. “My legs go whoosh, my toes go point, my skirt go swishy-swish—an’ my heart go duv dub dub WHEE ’cause Mama an’ Daddy watch me fly!” Her shoulders shake with another hiccuping laugh, she kisses Bunny’s worn ear, then holds him high like a trophy. “Bunny say we brave! We did big twirlie! Mama hold me spin, Daddy make me tall, friends clap clap clap!” She sucks in a quivering breath, glitter tears rolling to her chin, and finishes, voice shimmering with earnest pride, “Thank-you for seein’ my dance. I wuv you big big big sky!”

“Haeun wanna say fank-you evey’body!” she announces, lisp curling around each word while pink satin slippers tap an excited rhythm. “Fank-you Nurse Yuha for makin’ my heart go beep-beep happy. Fank-you Doc-tor Sun for shiny stickers an’ sparkly plasters. Fank-you Hayoung Auntie for phone movie, Haeun gonna watch it at sleepytime. Fank-you Jihoon Uncle for clap-clap drum so Haeun feel big.” She turns in a careful circle, skirts swishing, ensuring every face receives a smile. “Fank-you Rooftop friends,” she says, waving at stuffed bears perched along the planters, “an’ fank-you petals for twirlin’ wif me.” One hand presses the blossom still tucked over her heart. “This dance make Haeun’s heart sing dub dub dub WHEE! Haeun wuv dancin’ an’ Haeun wuv all of you big big.” A gust lifts ringlets across her rosy cheeks; she giggles, kisses Bunny’s ear, then beams at her parents. “Mama, Daddy, fank-you fo’ spin-spin and tall tall shoes. Haeun grow wings ’cause you hold me.” The rooftop answers with soft applause and a shimmer of misty eyes, and she finishes her speech by bending so deeply her crown nearly grazes the tiles. Rising, she pushes the petal against her bodice once more, declares, “Haeun promise dance mo’ tomorrow,” and walks straight into your arms, utterly spent yet glowing with triumph. The gathered circle breaks into cheers that flutter like new petals, sealing her heartfelt thanks inside the winter sky.

Exhaustion melts through her limbs at once, and she crumples into your arms, satin crown tilting sideways while her flushed face burrows beneath your chin. You cradle her close, heartbeat echoing hers, dub dub dub, steady and strong while Jaemin folds you both inside his embrace, pressing tender kisses to her curls and your brow, sealing every promise of safekeeping. Around the three of you, the rooftop glows golden as evening settles; petals continue their gentle descent, settling in her tulle like tiny medals of honor. “We did it, sunshine,” Jaemin whispers, voice thick with reverence, and she answers with a sleepy hum, lids fluttering but smile unwavering. In that hush you vow again that every stage she dreams up, every melody her tiny lungs dare hum, you will raise around her like castles of light, and each brave thump within her chest will always meet yours in an unbreakable duet of love, protection, and endless applause.

After the applause echoes out over the rooftop, petals scattered across the tiles and everyone crowding close with cheers and open arms, you scoop your little ballerina from the stage, her tutu wilting, cheeks rosy and damp, eyes fluttering with that spent, holy exhaustion only children know. Jaemin’s arms come up to cradle her, holding her so gently she sighs, instantly boneless, Bunny mashed between their chests. Haeun’s lashes flutter once, twice, then she goes under, asleep before you can finish whispering, “You did it, my darling.” The crowd softens, voices dipping to a hush, friends and staff grinning as you and Jaemin make the rounds with tired thanks, accepting Ryujin’s teary hug, Jihoon’s bouquet of sunflowers, Shotaro’s whispered “She’s magic, you know.” You press kisses to Haeun’s temple, your own cheeks wet, as Jaemin hums softly, swaying your precious girl in his arms, murmuring her name and hushing her dreams. Jaemin shifts Haeun’s weight gently in his arms, pressing a kiss to your hair, and murmurs, “We’ll wait for you downstairs, love, take your time.” You nod, smoothing Haeun’s tutu and brushing one last kiss to her curls, whispering, “I’ll be right there, just need a few minutes to clean up and grab her favorite snacks.” With a soft smile, you watch your family disappear down the stairwell, their silhouettes gold-washed in the fading rooftop light.

You pause just before stepping into the center of the lobby, your arms weighted with snacks for your little girl, her favorite strawberry biscuits, pink rice cakes, the bunny-shaped gummies she begs for at the start of every hospital stay. Haeun sleeps heavy in Jaemin’s arms, mouth slack with exhaustion, her tutu askew, ribbons falling from her tangled hair, one hand twisted in his lapel as if even in dreams she refuses to let go. Jaemin watches you with that proud, wicked glimmer, as if he’d tear the world apart just for your smile. The fluorescent light glances off your skin, and you feel it again, the scrutiny, the judgment, the pity and envy from every direction, every corner of this place you once called home. You catch the hissed undertones. “How can she do this? So young, with a surgeon twice her age? She’s just a baby herself, pretending to be their family.” Another, a cluster of interns, wide-eyed, trying to look away: “She got the chief, I guess, but look at them, flaunting it like they own the place.” A nurse at the desk stares, biting her lip, some blend of fascination and suspicion.

The ache in your chest flares hot, but you let it burn through your marrow until there’s nothing left but something bright, diamond-hard and unbreakable. You set the snacks down, plant yourself in the middle of their gaze, voice echoing across the marble with a clarity that leaves no room for shame. “Yes, I’m twenty-four. Yes, I’m an intern. And yes—I’m in love. That man—” you point to Jaemin, who is watching you with a kind of hunger and pride that makes your insides quake “—is my partner, and that girl in his arms is my daughter. Mine. I love her more than life. I am not embarrassed. I’m not hiding. I’m her mother in every way that matters, and if anyone here thinks I don’t belong, you’re wrong. She belongs to me, and I to her.”

You let your voice rise, unwavering, letting every last onlooker, every whisperer, every doubter feel the weight of it. “You think it’s too fast? You think I’m too young? Try holding your child’s hand while her heart skips beats that could be her last. Try counting every breath, praying it’s not the one where she doesn’t wake up. There’s no slow way to love someone whose life isn’t guaranteed, no polite timeline for a family made from blood, terror and sleepless hope. This little girl—” you gesture to Haeun, sleeping, angelic, Bunny pressed to her lips— “was left to die on a rooftop and she’s survived every day since because she’s loved. Because we refuse to let her go. And I will fight for her, for us, every single day, no matter how loud you gossip, how long you stare.”

The crowd has gone silent; some jaws are set, others crack open, eyes darting down. Your voice is trembling now, tears bright in your eyes, but you don’t care. “If you have a problem with my family, that’s your ugliness to carry. Not mine. I’m proud of every moment, every bruise, every night I’ve stayed up counting heartbeats. We’re happy. We’re whole. I don’t need your permission, or your approval. So if you have something to say, say it to my face. Otherwise, shut the fuck up.” The last line falls like a knife, sharp and perfect, leaving nothing but your own pounding heart and Jaemin’s wide, feral grin.

You don’t even flinch at the staring anymore. You lean in, cupping your baby’s sleepy cheeks, pressing a slow, worshipful kiss to her forehead, inhaling that sweet, sticky scent of vanilla and strawberry icing, letting every watching eye know this girl is your whole heart, your purpose. Jaemin’s shadow sweeps over you as he stands, all bulk and heat, the easy dominance in the way he closes a hand around your waist and pulls you flush to his side. Your breath catches, you’re not subtle, not now, letting him feel the way your body melts for him, your mouth brushing over his jaw before you find his lips. The kiss is slow, greedy, an open-mouthed sigh, your hands sliding up under his collar as he groans, rough and low, mouth claiming yours until the only sound in the lobby is the quiet whimper you let slip, and the heavier hush of Haeun’s baby breathing on his shoulder.

He grins, cocky and beautiful, that massive frame swallowing you up as he teases, “Dr. Y/L/N, or should I say, Dr. Nana?” and his voice drops—dirty, proud, half-growl, half-laughter. You moan into his mouth again, kissing him deeper, your pulse wild as the whole hospital fades out, just him, you, your sleeping daughter, a warm anchor in the crook of his arm. You don’t give a fuck who’s watching; you let everyone see what it means to want, to be chosen, to belong—right here, right now, your family burning bright beneath every whisper, every fluorescent light.

You barely get Haeun tucked under her stars-and-bunnies duvet before Jaemin’s hand is on your wrist, eyes burning, the two of you moving down the hallway on instinct, shutting the master bedroom door with a click. “Strip for me,” he commands, voice thick, and you do—slowly, letting the straps slip off your shoulders, making a show of every inch of bare skin revealed. He sits on the edge of the bed, eyes never leaving yours, one hand stroking the thick length of his cock, heavy and hard in his fist. “Get over here, baby. I want you to suck it, show me how much you miss me.” You crawl between his knees, lips parted, eyes shining with hunger. You take him in your mouth, inch by inch, his size making your jaw ache, spit dripping down your chin as he groans, hips flexing. “Good girl, yeah, fuck, just like that—take all of it,” he pants, hand tangled in your hair, guiding your rhythm. You gag around him, eyes watering, loving every desperate sound you draw from his chest.

He pulls you up by the hair, kissing you filthy, tasting himself on your lips, then flips you onto your stomach, yanking your hips up so you’re kneeling at the edge of the mattress. “Stay there. Hands on the headboard.” You obey, heart hammering, ass in the air, slick already running down your thighs. He teases your pussy with the blunt head of his cock, slapping it against your folds, making you whine. “So needy—so fucking wet for me. You want it?” You beg, you plead, and finally, he thrusts in, thick and unforgiving, stretching you wide. The first strokes are slow, almost punishing, then he picks up speed, fucking you hard, the headboard knocking the wall, your name a curse on his tongue. “Tell me whose pussy this is,” he snarls, spanking you hard, and you sob, “Yours, Jaemin—yours, all yours!” until you’re sobbing, shaking, every orgasm tearing you open.

He drags you down to the floor, knees burning on the carpet, his mouth between your legs before you can even breathe. “Want to taste you. Open up for me, baby.” You spread wide, trembling, as he laps at your cunt—slow and deep, then rough, tongue fucking you, sucking your clit, groaning at every gasp, every little buck of your hips. He eats you like he’s starving, hands pinning your thighs, holding you down when you start to thrash. “Ride my face,” he orders, and you do, grinding down on his tongue, chasing your pleasure with everything you have. He doesn’t stop until you’re begging him to, coming apart on his mouth, thighs shaking, his face slick with you.

He hoists you up, carrying you down the hall—his strength, the sheer size of him, makes you feel fragile, precious, invincible. On the stairs, he bends you over, your ass in the air, one foot on a higher step, the other braced wide. He slides in from behind, deeper, angling just right to hit that spot, his hands gripping your hips so hard you know you’ll have bruises. “God, you look so good like this—split open on my cock, begging for it.” He fucks you slow, then fast, then slow again, dragging it out until you’re gasping, drooling, unable to hold yourself up. He fists your hair, yanks your head back, and kisses you hard, letting you feel just how out of control you make him.

In his office, he sits you on the desk, legs spread wide, panties around your ankles. He goes down on you again, slow and thorough, tongue fucking you until you’re sobbing, then lifts you up, sits down in his chair, and impales you on his cock, bouncing you in his lap. “Ride it, baby. Show me how you take it.” You do, grinding down, rolling your hips, his hands everywhere—on your ass, your tits, your throat, in your mouth. He spits on your tongue, tells you how pretty you are, how no one’s ever made him this fucking crazy. You fuck yourself on him, riding until you’re both coming, shaking and spent.

He drags you by the wrist to the kitchen island, bending you over so your cheek presses cool marble, your back arching for him, panties dragged down to your knees. With a wicked glint, he opens the fridge, pulls out a can of whipped cream, cold against your skin as he traces messy circles over your nipples, then down between your legs, swirling a thick peak right over your clit. He laughs, voice rough, “Look at this mess, my favorite snack.” His tongue follows, hot and slow, licking you clean until you’re writhing, begging for more, your moans lost against the countertop. Then he slides in, fucking you hard, your thighs slick and sticky with cream, his cock driving deep, one hand tangled in your hair, the other clamped over your mouth. Each thrust sends the dishes rattling, and when he feels you clench around him, he grins, smearing the leftover cream on your lips and making you taste yourself. “That’s my filthy girl. Say thank you.” You choke out a muffled, desperate yes, and he rewards you by spanking you, sharp and rhythmic, until you’re whimpering, sobbing, your body trembling as he fucks you through every last shudder. Then he grabs the syrup bottle, drizzles a lazy ribbon down your back, and licks a sticky path all the way to your shoulder, biting hard at the base of your neck.

“Next time, I’ll make breakfast right here—with you as the main course.” He presses your legs wider, the syrup dripping down your spine, his mouth tracing every sweet line until he’s groaning into your skin, teeth scraping gently at your shoulder. When he’s finally inside you again, everything is slippery and obscene, the slap of his hips echoing off tile, your nipples tingling from the chill and his tongue, your pussy raw and glazed with sugar. He doesn’t stop until you’re begging, tears streaking your cheeks, the pleasure so sharp you can barely breathe. When he pulls out, he spins you around, lifts you onto the counter, and slides two sticky fingers into your mouth. “Lick it up, my love,” he whispers, and you do—hungry, greedy, never sated—while he jerks himself off, painting your lips with the last of the syrup and his cum, both of you gasping, ruined, desperate for more. The kitchen smells of sex and sugar, and you know you’ll never look at whipped cream or syrup the same way again.

You end up in Haeun’s playroom, toys scattered everywhere—her dollhouse, the rainbow mat, her baby piano. Jaemin pushes you down onto the mat, legs spread wide, his cock sliding inside you slow and deep. “Look at us, fucking in our daughter’s playroom, you dirty thing.” You moan, loving the filth, the danger, the way his hands keep you pinned, his cock stretching you, his mouth biting at your collarbone. He fucks you slow, savoring it, hands all over you, making you cum over and over. Then, when you’re both spent, he sits you on the rocking horse, pulls you onto his lap, and makes you ride him again, the squeak of the toy mixing with your moans, his teeth marking your neck, your hands in his hair.

The hallway mirror becomes your confession booth. Jaemin catches you drifting by, grabs your waist, and spins you to face your own reflection, lips parted, cheeks already flushed with anticipation. He cages you in with his body, chest pressed to your back, his palm flat against your belly as he drags your dress up, baring your thighs, your ass, making you see every inch. “Look at you,” he growls in your ear, cock thick and heavy as he rubs it along your folds, smearing your slick across your own skin. His hand fists your hair, yanking your head back so you can’t look away as he slides into you from behind—slow, brutal, deliberate. Every thrust fogs the glass, your breasts bounce, your lips part on silent moans as his hips crash into yours, skin slapping in rhythm. “Say it,” he demands, voice rough and dangerous, “Say who you belong to.” Your eyes lock on your ruined reflection, lips swollen, spit smeared, and you gasp, “Yours, Daddy, always yours.” He fucks you until your knees go weak, both of you watching the way you break apart, your orgasm wild and raw, glass streaked with sweat and fingerprints, the two of you untamed.

He drags you out onto the freezing balcony, city lights stretching for miles, the night wind biting at your skin. Jaemin sits and pulls you onto his lap, spreading your legs wide, cock filling you to the hilt while the world watches. He grins, one hand tangled in your hair, the other working your nipple until you gasp, the cold and heat a torture you crave. “Shh,” he murmurs, teeth scraping your jaw, “Be quiet or someone will hear.” You grind down on him, your thighs shaking as he thrusts up, the sound of your bodies obscene in the open air. “Imagine if they looked up right now,” he taunts, voice thick with pride, “Saw my baby fucking herself on Daddy’s cock.” He pins you in place, his thumb circling your clit, your face buried in his shoulder as you cum with a sob, breath fogging the night, your body quaking as he fucks you through it, no one else in the universe but you and him and the risk.

Inside the walk-in closet, you become nothing but need and obedience. He yanks you in by the wrist, clothes brushing your bare skin, his shirt thrown over your shoulders. He pushes you to your knees, the hardwood cool against your shins. “On your knees, baby girl. Daddy wants your mouth.” You open wide, eyes glassy, spit and precum mixing as he fucks your mouth, his hands tight in your hair, hips rolling slow and filthy. “So good for me,” he croons, letting you gasp around him, choking and gagging, tears streaming down your cheeks. He pulls you up, bends you over a stack of boxes, panties shoved aside, cock thrusting deep until you’re whimpering into his tie. He fucks you hard, biting your shoulder, one hand covering your mouth to muffle your cries. “Good girl, take it, take every inch,” he groans, cumming inside you, kissing you rough and possessive, marking you as his.

You end up back in the playroom, it becomes a temple to your depravity, a place you swore you’d never cross again but you both have an insatiable craving. Late at night, toys scattered, lights low, he lays you on Haeun’s rainbow mat, your legs splayed, head cushioned by her favorite pink bunny. “Let’s play house,” he whispers, voice low and nasty, and you moan as he spreads your thighs, tongue flicking over your clit, mouth hot and insistent. He slides in, slow and deep, the soft plush beneath your hips, your moans muffled by the stuffed animal. “Mommy and Daddy’s special game,” he grins, snapping his hips, the world narrowing to the obscene drag of his cock and the thrill of being ruined in the center of her innocence. He props your leg on her dollhouse, fucks you until you’re shaking, toys clattering, your orgasm messy and raw. Halfway through, he fills one of Haeun’s plastic tea cups with water, pours it slowly down the valley of your breasts, ice cold against flushed skin, and bends low to lap it up, tongue tracing every droplet, sucking and biting, teasing until your back arches off the mat. He pins your wrists above your head with one strong hand, grinning wickedly as he tips the rest of the water over your stomach, chasing it with his mouth, humming, “my favorite treat.” The toys watch, witness to every filthy sound you make, and you swear you’ll throw away the tea set and buy your princess a new one.

He doesn’t stop there—he takes the little plastic spoon from the tea set, dragging it up your thigh, circling your clit with the cool, harmless edge, taunting, “Let’s see how sweet you taste, my love.” You shudder, hips twitching as he alternates between slow, lazy licks and quick flicks of the spoon, pressing you right to the edge before he pushes himself back inside you, deep and unyielding. With your wrists pinned, your legs thrown over his shoulders and your back arched against the rainbow mat, he fucks you in slow, dragging thrusts, his breath hot at your ear. Every bounce of the dollhouse makes a chorus of tiny rattles and clatter, the world shrinking to his body, your whimpers, the obscene squelch of your cunt as he says, low and hungry, “Such a perfect mess, all for me.” He finally pulls out just enough to make you beg, then drives back in, whispering, “Open your mouth,” and feeds you water from the tiny teacup, his eyes locked on yours, grinning as you swallow every drop. When you cum, it’s with his hand clamped over your mouth, muffling your cries into a sea of plush animals and plastic toys, the room haunted forever by the memory of your bodies—your love, your filth, your joy, all tangled up in the childhood kingdom you built for her.

He drags you to the miniature craft table, crayons and sticker sheets spilling to the floor as he bends you over the tiny surface, your chest pressed to the sticky laminate, knees barely fitting beneath. He grabs a pink glitter marker and scrawls a shaky heart on the small of your back, marking you as his before dragging your panties down, tongue circling over his mark until you’re whimpering. “Stay still for me, my love,” he purrs, rubbing his cock along your soaked folds, the head catching every time you gasp, teasing and relentless. He fucks you slow and mean, your fingers clutching a handful of animal stickers, breath fogging over the table as you bite down on a plastic toy spoon to keep quiet. He slips a pair of play pearls around your throat, snapping them lightly against your skin, whispering, “Pretty girl, all dressed up just for me.” When you finally fall apart, shaking, legs weak, he snaps a picture of your flushed face above the pile of crayons, promising, “This one’s just for us—our own secret masterpiece.”

He catches you sneaking into Haeun’s princess tent, the pink mesh draping over you as you pretend to tidy the pillows, but Jaemin’s eyes flash dark and hungry. He crawls in behind you, the small space filled with heat and the sweet scent of baby shampoo, knees brushing yours as he pins you back, his hands sliding beneath your dress. “We’re playing hide and seek, my love,” he murmurs, voice velvet-smooth, teeth grazing your throat as his fingers find you, slick and ready. He pulls a tiny plastic crown from the pile of dress-up clothes and sets it crooked on your head, grinning, “Found my treasure.” Then he pushes you down, mouth trailing fire down your thighs, tongue circling your clit until you’re trembling, legs braced against the side of the tent. He fucks you on your knees, slow at first, then hard, the whole tent shaking around you, your moans muffled by a baby blanket clutched in your fists. When you shudder through your orgasm, he hushes you with a kiss, whispering, “Shh, we don’t want the princess to get caught.” The tent glows with lamplight, fabric rustling, every breath and roll of his hips making you feel like you’re both children hiding from the world—only this secret is darker, messier, and wholly yours.

He hauls you to the window, presses your tits to the cold glass, fucks you from behind so you can see the world outside, the city sparkling, the moon catching your sweat. “They could all see you, baby. Want them to know you’re mine?” He fucks you harder, one hand in your hair, the other pinching your nipples, voice low and filthy in your ear, making you gush for him, loving the risk, the heat. Finally, he drags you back to your bedroom, throws you on the bed, and ties your wrists with his belt, spreading you wide, teasing you with his cock—rubbing, slapping, making you beg. “Say you’re mine. Say it.” You do, again and again, desperate, pleading, delirious for him. He fucks you slow, then brutal, lips on your throat, hands everywhere, until you’re both lost, coming so hard the world goes white, tangled together, ruined and safe and loved beyond reason.

In the guest bathroom, steam already clouding the mirrors, you’re bent over the marble counter, your palms slipping on condensation as Jaemin stands behind you, still half in his scrubs, a stethoscope slung around his neck like a claim. He drags your panties down with one hand, the other pushing your face into the fogged glass, his cock nudging at your entrance, breath ghosting over your ear. “Open for your doctor,” he growls, one finger teasing your clit as you arch your back, legs quivering, knees knocking against the cabinet. He slides in hard, fast, the slap of skin on skin echoing around porcelain and tile, your moans swallowed by the hiss of the shower. You see only flashes in the mirror—his hips grinding into you, your breasts pressed flat, mouth open in a silent cry as he fucks you through another wave, fingers finding your throat and squeezing just enough to make you shiver. When you come, he smirks, wiping fog from the glass to watch your face collapse.

Downstairs, Jaemin drags you to the laundry room, tossing you up onto the vibrating washing machine, the cycle already spinning, rumbling beneath you like a second heartbeat. He kneels between your thighs, pushes your legs wide, and buries his face in your pussy, tongue lapping you open until your hips buck and your nails claw at his hair. The machine rocks, your cries rising with each surge, his grip iron around your hips as he eats you out like he’s starving. When he stands, he presses his cock to your entrance and fucks you to the rhythm of the spin cycle, the whole house vibrating with your pleasure. He holds you tight, pounding into you until you scream, legs shaking, head thrown back, every pulse of the machine syncing to your moans. You finish together, bodies rattling, sweat cooling on your skin as he kisses your trembling thighs.

Outside, late at night, stars burning above, you’re against the back porch railing, the chill biting your skin as Jaemin hikes your dress up, underwear discarded somewhere in the grass. He bends you over the cold wood, his body a furnace pressed behind you, his cock finding you slick and ready. “Look at you, needy little thing,” he teases, sliding in slow, one hand tangled in your hair, the other pinning your wrists to the rail. You arch for him, biting your lip, eyes squeezed shut as he fucks you hard, stars spinning, breath fogging in the night. His free hand snakes down, circling your clit, teasing you until your knees give out and you sob, desperate, begging for more. When you finally fall apart, he covers your mouth, kissing you breathless, leaving marks on your hips and your heart, the taste of salt and cold and sweat a secret only the two of you will ever know.

You’re back on top of Jaemin, thighs quivering, sweat slick between your bodies as you bounce hard on his cock, his hands splayed over your hips, pulling you down to grind every last inch deep. He groans, eyes wild, mouth latching onto your breast, teeth grazing your nipple while you gasp, riding him faster, slick and desperate. The room is thick with the slap of skin, his name breaking off your lips as you chase another peak, his voice low and filthy in your ear, “Just like that, my love, fuck, you’re so good—” when a tiny voice crackles from the doorway, small and sleepy, “Mama? Dada? What you doin’?” You freeze, body still pulsing, and both your heads snap to the door just as Haeun appears, wild-haired, in her bunny pajamas, thumb in her mouth, eyes half-closed, blinking against the light. She totters in, confusion crumpling her brow as she watches you scramble, yanking a shirt over your head, Jaemin grunting as you dismount too quickly. “Mama, we jumpin’ on Dada? Ok! Wait! One sec! I coming!” she giggles, shuffling to the bed, bunny dragging behind her.

You fumble for the covers, hiding Jaemin’s wrecked body, both of you breathless and flustered, hearts hammering with the shock and the urge to laugh. By the time she’s climbing into bed, you’re both decent, Jaemin’s arm sliding over the blanket, his voice a low, choked greeting as Haeun throws herself into the space between you, wriggling close, cheeks hot and flushed. She peppers your faces with sleepy kisses, murmuring, “I not want to sweep by myself now, g’night Mama and Dada,” burrowing deeper, one leg flung across Jaemin’s ribs, tiny fingers pressing to your stomach, her head resting on your chest, breath tickling your collarbone.

All your plans for a night of fucking dissolve in the soft weight of her bunny-warm body, ballerina arms draped over you, her little fist clutching your shirt, her feet pressing against her Daddy’s face until he grumbles, only to draw her closer, tucking the blanket up to her chin. She stirs in her sleep, mumbling, “Mama…wuv you,” bunny ears squished between you, and you and Jaemin share a look over her wild curls, laughter bubbling up as you cradle her closer. Her tiny body is a balm, an anchor, her soft breaths knitting the three of you into one, the night quiet now but full—your precious baby wedged right in the center, ballerina heart still beating, bunny and all, the only rhythm you ever want to know.

Jaemin grins in the blue shadows of morning, eyes half-shut and delighted, stroking the soft tumble of curls on your daughter’s head where she sleeps, cheek heavy against your chest, tiny fingers wound into your shirt, Bunny squashed like a second heart between you. He leans closer, breath tickling your jaw, voice a wicked, hushed tease. “She really is a ‘Mama’s girl,” you know. I can’t even fake being jealous. Honestly, I’m a ‘Mama’s boy’ too.”

His hand slips up your thigh under the covers, heat blooming where his fingers find bare skin, and his mouth grazes your ear, voice low. “You know I’ll always be yours, right?” he whispers, lips curling into a crooked smile as he pulls you closer. “Doesn’t matter how old I get, or how many hospital wings have my name on the door, this is all I want, every damn morning. You. Your touch. Let her have your heart, baby, ‘cause I’ll take the rest. Guess I just love being spoiled by you, I don't know how to want anything else.” He noses behind your ear, breath warm, and when you shiver, he kisses down your jaw, his voice turned to velvet. “You turn me inside out. The more you love her, the more I love you— I can’t help it, It’s so attractive to me.” His hand squeezes possessively, grounding you in the tangle of blankets, baby limbs and old longing finally sated. He nuzzles into your shoulder, laughs a little, and says, even softer, “Yours, always.”

You let out a lazy, sated sigh, nosing at his neck, happiness blooming sweet and wild in your chest, relief humming through your bones that he’s never been the type to crowd you, to sulk or take love hostage. There’s only ever this: his quiet pride in sharing you, his arms opening wider, love big enough to fit a small body and all the ache that’s come before. You see it—how much he loves her for loving you, the way his eyes go soft when Haeun wriggles over him to tuck herself under your arm, how he smiles as she talks to Bunny in sleep, how he never once makes you feel split between them. There’s never a moment where you’re not enough, never a shadow of competition—he trusts you, trusts her, trusts what you all have together.

You know what it cost him, too. The first year, just the two of them against the world, Jaemin pacing the silent corridors of the hospital, Haeun’s tiny body draped over his shoulder, both of them breathing in sync like they could fool death by sheer stubbornness. You imagine him sitting in plastic chairs at 3am, tracing the shape of her hand against his chest, reading the same picture book for the hundredth time, braiding her hair with trembling fingers, making promises to her in the dark that someone would come, someone would stay. Every milestone he marked alone: her first laugh, her first fever, the first time she pointed at him and called him “Dada.” And then you came—soft-footed, new, loved by a girl who was young and naive but somehow knew you were hers, and by a man whose devotion could stretch, generous as the sea.

He bends to kiss Haeun’s hair, then finds your lips, slow and careful, holding you both as if the world might fall apart if he let go. “My girls,” he murmurs, voice thick, eyes shining, “my everything. Always space for two—always.” The bed is crowded with limbs and plush and a history so tender it hurts, and yet there’s never been more room to breathe. You curl around your daughter, Jaemin curls around you both, sunlight creeping pale and slow across the room, and you realize you’ll spend every morning of forever like this, grateful, overwhelmed, quietly in awe at how easily love can remake a life.

It’s hours past sunrise before you even think of moving. The world outside is cold and winter-blue, but your bedroom is a nest of tangled sheets, sticky skin, and laughter. Haeun is like a sleepy wedge of sunlight between you and Jaemin, her feet pressed to your hip, one hand buried in your hair, breath sweet with morning milk and giggles. Jaemin is shirtless, face creased with sleep and affection, his voice a low, rough hush in your ear as he whispers “good morning” into your neck. The three of you drift through a slow, delicious tangle of limbs, pressing kisses wherever skin is bare, your daughter nuzzling her nose beneath your chin, Jaemin’s fingers tracing hearts along the line of your back, your palm rubbing lazy circles over his ribs as Haeun giggles and demands, “Mama, kiss Dada! Dada, kiss me! Kiss-kiss!” It’s hours before you escape the warmth of bed, and even then, you leave it only as a trio, Haeun on Jaemin’s hip, her curls wild, you trailing a blanket around your shoulders, still wrapped in the fuzzy peace of morning.

Downstairs, the day stretches languid and golden. Breakfast becomes a ritual of laughter and pancake batter, Haeun demanding star shapes and syrup rivers, Jaemin flipping pancakes with one hand while he steals a kiss from your mouth with the other. The kitchen is a playground of music and movementher tiny feet swinging from the booster, Bunny propped against a juice cup, your eyes soft as you watch your family swirl in the quiet dance of domestic happiness. When breakfast is done and sticky fingers wiped clean, you all pile onto the sofa, a heap of old hoodies, socks, and gentle chaos.

Now, finally, the three of you are folded together in the sprawl of the living room. You’re half-draped in Jaemin’s hoodie, Haeun curled against your thigh, the laundry basket full of soft, mismatched clothes at your feet. You’re nestled on Jaemin’s lap as he kneads your shoulders, his hands as patient as the afternoon sun slanting through the curtains. Haeun is sprawled on the floor at your feet, the thick rug turned into her private kingdom, crayons scattered like jewels, humming snatches of the bunny lullaby you sing before bed. Every so often, she waves up a piece of paper: a stick-figure princess-doctor, complete with crown and crooked stethoscope, “Mama, wook!” she chirps, beaming, proud of the world she’s making on the page. Each time she lifts her masterpiece, you and Jaemin share a grin, yours soft with awe, his melted with adoration, before you reach down to tell her she’s a genius. Jaemin bends low behind you, breath warming the shell of your ear, and when his lips find that little dip beneath your jaw, you shiver, eyelids fluttering. His hands wander lower, his touch never rushed, just the slow, patient worship of a man in love with the woman and the life he’s built. He cups your face, kisses you slow and deep, and you taste laughter and longing in his mouth, your sigh a secret only for him.

The spell is broken by a sharp snap, a crayon broken in two, the silence now punctured by Haeun’s theatrical gasp. You both turn, and there she is: arms folded, bottom lip jutted so far it’s almost cartoonish, cheeks puffed and pink, little brows knotted in toddler outrage. You bite your lip to keep from laughing, but Jaemin grins, already on her wavelength. “Haeunie, what’s wrong, darling?” he asks, keeping his voice gentle and teasing.

She huffs, stomps over, a tiny storm of indignation in footie pajamas, dropping her crayons with all the finality a two-year-old can muster. “No fair!” she declares, staring Jaemin down.

You push aside a stray sock, trying to compose yourself. “What’s not fair, baby?”

Haeun points at Jaemin, then at you, her tone righteous. “Dada kissy Mama aaaaall the time!” She crosses her arms, giving him the side-eye, and you have to hide a laugh in Jaemin’s shoulder.

You and Jaemin can’t help yourself, every time his hand lingers too long on your shoulder or he leans in to press another kiss against your lips, it sends Haeun into a dramatic spiral. She huffs, grunts, and watches you both with exaggerated suspicion, eyes narrowed in mock outrage, Bunny clutched to her chest as if preparing for battle. Jaemin, always the provocateur, catches your chin and kisses you again, slower this time, savoring the gasp you let slip just to tease her. The second your lips part, you hear the unmistakable sound of a crayon snapping, then a sharp little bark: “No, no, Dada!”

Before you can react, Haeun scrambles up, clambers right over Jaemin’s thigh, and wedges her tiny body between the two of you, determined as a bulldog. She shoves Jaemin’s arm away, wraps both of her legs around your waist like a little koala, and glares up at him with righteous indignation. “My Mama,” she declares, her pout deepening, lips turned down so fiercely it’s a struggle not to laugh.

Jaemin holds up his hands in surrender, grinning like a fool, pretending to pout. “You’re really taking her away from me, huh?” he says, voice full of faux misery.

Haeun isn’t having it. She squeezes you tighter, tucks her head beneath your chin, and shoves her cold little feet under your hoodie, sighing so theatrically you almost expect applause. “Mine,” she repeats, her claim quiet and absolute, as if the very act of being held in your arms will keep the universe spinning right. You stroke her wild curls, pressing a soft kiss to her crown, arms locking around her small, determined body. Jaemin laughs, but stays on his side of the couch, at least for now. In this moment, you’re claimed, cradled, and completely, perfectly loved, the two of you safe in your daughter’s fierce, jealous little embrace.

Her voice is soft but absolutely certain, her tone equal parts scold and secret. “Dada is so naughty,” she whispers, glancing up at you for confirmation, eyes big and round. “He always kissy Mama, all da time—no stop stop!” She shakes her head for emphasis, little curls bouncing, lips pursed in the most serious pout she can muster, as if she’s sharing a grave family secret with you and Bunny alone.

Jaemin, feigning shock, gasps and widens his eyes, clutching at his chest. “Me? Naughty?” he says, overacting as only he can, making you both giggle.

Haeun nods, entirely unbothered by his performance, then snuggles closer, whispering just for you: “No more kissies, Mama—jus’ me now, kay?” You press a kiss to her lips, quick, then slow, then another and another, the two of you giggling into each other, her laughter bubbling up so pure and loud you feel it all through your chest. She grabs your cheeks between her palms, leans in for another kiss, and this time—just to tease—turns and gives Jaemin a smug little look, her voice pitched high and triumphant. “See, Dada? I kiss Mama mow’ than you!” She sticks out her tongue, still grinning, and with her legs tight around your waist, she leans in again for a noisy smacking kiss, as if staking her claim right in front of him.

Jaemin shakes his head, pretending to pout, but you see the warmth in his eyes, the way he melts watching the two of you. “You’re both just showing off now,” he says, and Haeun cackles, kissing you one last time, then hiding her face in your neck, absolutely certain of her place at the very center of your world. Jaemin leans back, hands up in surrender. “Are you jealous, little ballerina?” he teases, eyes dancing.

Haeun scowls at him, all bluster and no bite. “Mama is my Mama, I hear you call her Mama all da time Dada, Dada naughty!” she says, and tucks herself in, barricading you with her tiny arms.

You smooth her hair, nuzzle her, giggling. “I’m always your mama, sweetheart but I have enough kisses for both you and Dada.”

Still unconvinced, Haeun holds her palm out at Jaemin, the universal toddler sign for stop right there. “No kissy Mama right now. My turn now. Only me and Mama.” Jaemin laughs, surrendering, “Okay, okay, your turn.”

You let her pepper you with kisses—wet, giggly mwahs on your cheek, chin, nose—each one louder than the last, her little hands cupping your face, her hair tickling your neck. You laugh, heart swelling, the world shrinking down to this small miracle of love and possessiveness, this girl who clings to you like you’re the sun. You kiss her back, a flurry of butterfly pecks, and she squeals, limbs kicking, eyes crinkling with delight. Jaemin pretends to pout, clutching his chest. “Guess I’ll just wait over here, all alone, until someone wants to give poor Dada a kiss,” he mourns, making exaggerated sniffles.

Haeun peeks up at Jaemin with a sly little grin, her eyes glinting with mischief as you whisper in her ear, “Oh no, Dada looks so sad. Should we give him a kiss now?” She pretends to weigh it—cheeks puffed, finger tapping her chin—then pounces, wriggling onto Jaemin’s impossibly broad lap and tugging you right with her, both of you fitting easily against his chest, cradled by the expanse of him. You lean in from one side, Haeun from the other, pressing kisses to his cheeks in unison. “Double kiss attack!” you announce, laughter bright in the room as Jaemin scoops you both into his arms, arms like bands of safety holding you close, claiming you with a quiet dominance that settles something deep inside you. He looks down at the pair of you, those dark eyes soft and molten, and it’s the same unshakeable love for both, no dividing line, just one immense, all-consuming warmth. Haeun beams, triumphant and giddy, content to share her Mama as long as she gets her place on his lap too, Jaemin’s hand spanning your waist, fingers stroking her curls, the three of you a perfect knot of limbs and laughter—your family, whole and adored, exactly as it was always meant to be.

Haeun, finally appeased by all the kisses and cuddles, slides off Jaemin’s lap, plopping herself back on the floor, resuming her coloring with renewed focus—her little legs sprawled, tongue poking from the corner of her mouth as she scribbles a glittery crown over her stick-figure doctor. You’re quick to seize the moment: Jaemin’s hand lingers on your thigh, fingertips slipping beneath the hem of your borrowed hoodie, and you steal kisses in the hush between her giggles, each one slow and promising, the secret warmth blooming between you while your daughter is lost in her drawings. The house is soaked in late afternoon calm, every window pouring in gold; you feel the rare hush of peace, the world distilled to three heartbeats.

But then, the rhythm shifts. Jaemin’s hand stills, his eyes tracking Haeun, and the smile on his lips grows heavier, a crease digging between his brows. He clears his throat quietly, shifting closer, voice pitched low so only you can hear. “I need to tell you something,” he murmurs, thumb sweeping circles over your knee. “There’s a surgical conference, and the hospital wants me presenting. It’s a whole month. Out of state—Seattle. They’re rolling out this whole new pediatric cardio innovation project, heart mapping, next-gen valve replacements, remote surgical mentoring. I’ve been tapped as the face of it, since… well, since Haeun’s case and our outcomes are kind of making waves.” His mouth quirks in reluctant pride, but his eyes linger on you and your daughter, regret darkening the blue. “It’s a circuit, four cities, a dozen med schools, panels, keynote talks, live-surgery demos for the new residents. I’m supposed to give lectures, lead hands-on sessions, consult on cases—it’s every day, dawn to night. They want the whole thing public. Press, too.”

He sighs, the weight of it settling across his shoulders, years of fatherhood and medicine warring in his posture. “I’d take you both in a heartbeat, you know that. Haeun’s health is stable right now but she’s not stable enough to travel for a month. And your intern exams are coming up. It’s not fair to uproot you both, not when you’ve worked so hard to get here.” His jaw flexes, the frustration clear. “I hate being away. It kills me to think about it, but—I don’t know what else to do. I don’t want you two to feel like I’m abandoning you.”

You reach for his hand, weaving your fingers tight, grounding him. “We can do it,” you say softly, conviction ringing in every word. “I’m her Mama, Jaemin. I can take care of her. It’s just a month. I’ll manage exams, I’ll handle my shifts. And when I can’t be there, she’ll stay at your parents’—like always. She loves her Nana and Papa.” Jaemin’s eyes soften, the tension in his shoulders easing as you speak. “And you’ll call every day,” you add, smiling. “She’ll see your face every night before bed, and every morning before breakfast. We’ll send you videos of every dance, every silly thing she says. We’ll make it work. We’re her parents. We’re a team.”

He kisses you then, slow and reverent, his thumb grazing your cheek, all his gratitude and longing poured into that press of lips. When he finally pulls away, his voice drops, earnest and grave. “There’s something else, I want to talk about adoption. I want you to be Haeun’s legal mom. I know the process will take a while, because… well, because of her background, and all the paperwork and checks. But it’s already in motion. Until it’s finalized, I’m going to file all the temporary guardianship paperwork, emergency medical proxy, everything else, so if anything happens, God forbid, there’s no flag on you being her caregiver for the month.” His gaze flickers with a mix of pride and relief. “I want everyone to know she’s yours. That there’s no one else in the world I trust to be her mother.” He squeezes your hand, glancing at Haeun, then back at you. “We’ll get through this, Y/N. I promise.”

You press your forehead to his, whispering, “Thank you for trusting me. I want this—I want all of her. Forever.” He nods, breath catching, and kisses you again, the kind of kiss that promises every version of family you’ve ever dreamed of.

He pauses, glancing at Haeun sprawled on the floor, voice low and careful. “I know how hard it’ll be without me here, and I want to bring you both, but… she just can’t handle all that travel. She’s too little, too fragile.” His hand covers yours, warm and wide and a little desperate. “I wish there was another way.”

Haeun sits in the wash of afternoon sun, utterly oblivious to the tides that shift and scheme above her tiny world—her head bent low, humming as she scribbles crowns and hearts over her stick-figure kingdom, “dis my mama, dis my dada, and dis me—a doctor pwincess.” She flashes you both a shy grin, showing off her masterpiece with sticky fingers and such pride your heart aches. Every so often she lifts her drawing for approval, wide eyes searching yours for delight, trusting without question that your love will be loud and endless. You’d die for this girl, battle through fire, cold and sleepless nights, let your own soul fracture and stitch itself back together as many times as it took to keep her safe, small and full of these mornings—her laughter, her squinting focus, the scuffed bunny by her knee. She has no idea that you and Jaemin would split your bones to shield her from the chill of this world, that you’d cut your soul in half to feed hers every night, keep her safe as long as you breathe.

And still, something cold slithers beneath the gold—her little body, all light and cotton and hum, ringed by shadows that never quite fade. You see it sometimes, in the way the late winter light slices through her curls, black swan among the cygnets, marked by death and survival both. She is radiant and breakable, blessed and cursed, a reminder of all you nearly lost and could lose again. No matter how tightly you hold her, the memory of that rooftop clings—a silent omen in every sharp-beaked dream. She dances at the center of your universe, the last petal on a dying rose, so oblivious she doesn’t see the darkness spinning just beyond the circle of her light, the black swan’s shadow—lovely, deathly, unkillable—forever trailing her steps. Sometimes, when she twirls in the hallway—bare feet skimming old wood, tutu flaring like spun glass—you watch the shadow stretch behind her, longer, sharper, darker than it should be, as if the black swan is waiting, coiled at the edge of her light. For a heartbeat, it’s not just a child’s shadow: it’s another dancer altogether, arms and legs impossibly long, circling her with the terrible grace of something ancient and hungry. The music in her head spins sugar into fever, and for a moment you see her waltz cheek-to-cheek with darkness, little Haeun radiant in white, the black swan’s phantom wings wrapped close, guiding every leap and fall. Her laughter rings, bright and breathless, never knowing the partner at her back, the deathly pas de deux threading through every fragile step.

At the departure gate, the world shrinks to three trembling hearts and a flurry of desperate, clinging arms. Haeun wails with her whole chest, her fists knotted in the collar of Jaemin’s shirt, refusing to let go. She’s so much bigger now, her body solid and strong in your arms, every inch a testament to how fiercely she’s fought for this life yet her sobs are small, pure, gutting. “No, Dada! No go, don’t go, please, Dada, please…” Her face is wet and blotched, mouth downturned in devastation as she burrows against his neck, bunny crushed between her hands, her cries drawing looks from strangers who can’t possibly know how monumental this goodbye is. You hold her tight, feeling her grief shake through your own ribs, your tears threading into her curls as Jaemin’s arms envelop you both, squeezing like he can fuse all three of you together and never let the world peel him away.

He kisses your forehead, then Haeun’s damp cheeks, again and again, each press gentler than the last, whispering, “I love you, I’ll call every day, I’ll be back for your birthday, princess, promise—remember? Our pinky swear?” His voice is raw, eyes shining as he leans into the heartbreak, letting her snot and tears soak his shirt, letting her sadness split his own chest wide.

You stroke her back, choking out assurances. “Daddy’s coming home. Just a little while. We’ll count the sleeps. We’ll make a birthday crown together when he’s back.” Haeun wails softer, hiccupping as she clings, knuckles white, terrified of letting go. You’re a tangle of arms and promises, your little family cradling its heart right there beneath the flickering airport lights, a goodbye that tastes like forever, even as you try to teach your girl what it means for love to return.

She doesn’t understand numbers or months, only the shape of his hands and the way his arms feel safest. She shakes her head, fat tears streaming, breath hitching, face splotched red with panic, the cries coming in wild bursts. “no go, dada, no go, no go—dada stay, dada stay, pwease, pwease!” Her sobs are so raw she can’t catch her breath, little fists beating against his shoulders, then knotting desperately in your shirt as you gather her close, her legs wrapped tight around your waist. Jaemin presses his forehead to hers, both of them wet-faced now, every line of his jaw rigid as he tries not to break.

“She’ll be okay,” you murmur, your own voice shredded and useless, but he hears the lie. You rock her, hush her, but her sorrow is hurricane-wild, gulping air and muttering nonsense, the syllables tangled. “Dada, no go, come back, home, home, home.” She buries her face against your neck, Bunny crushed between you, still begging for him in the half-formed language of heartbreak. Jaemin pulls you both into his chest, holding you as if he could graft the three of you together, then slowly, achingly, lets go.

He kisses you hard, then leaves a last kiss on Haeun’s crown, his hands trembling as he steps away. You don’t remember the walk to the car, only the way her cries echo in your chest, her voice breaking on every word. When you finally buckle her in, she’s still sobbing, repeating, “no go, Dada, no go, no go,” as if saying it might bring him back. The world spins on, cruelly indifferent, while your girl weeps, and the space beside you is emptier than it’s ever been.

Haeun is almost three, all baby fat and wild hair, but she’s old enough now to understand what absence means, old enough to count days on chubby fingers and to remember the hush that fell on your home the last time she lost something she loved. For weeks you’d both prepared her, gentle reminders every night at bedtime, stories about Dada’s “big doctor trip,” the calendar covered in stickers for every day until he’d be home. You told her again and again—Daddy will come back for your birthday, Daddy will always come back home to you—but the words never made it past her eyes. She watched Jaemin pack his suitcase, small hands tracing the edges of his clothes, Bunny tucked under one arm, asking the same questions in a tiny, solemn voice. “Dada, you come home after? You promise? You don’t leave forever?”

She’s seen loss before, she remembers, somewhere deep in her bones, what it’s like to be left, the cold echo of an empty room, the ache of waiting for someone who never returned. Even if she can’t say it, she knows what it means when goodbyes last too long. That’s why, at the airport, her body trembles with panic that’s bigger than she can name. It’s not just a tantrum; it’s ancient grief in a child’s skin, every nerve in her body screaming for the only father she’s ever known. The knowledge sharpens the scene: the way she sobs so hard she can’t breathe, how her arms clamp around your neck in pure survival, her voice keening out the same broken plea. She knows this isn’t pretend, knows he’ll be gone more than a workday or a night call, knows the ache of missing someone can hollow you out. For the first time in her short life, Haeun is old enough to recognize the shape of loss—and even as you cradle her, shushing and kissing, promising again and again that Dada always comes home, she sobs like a girl who understands what it means to be left behind.

The first fourteen days without Jaemin unfurl like a pocket-sized chronicle, sticky, sun-washed pages you and Haeun fill together hour by hour. Each day acts as a bead threaded on the string of your new life—Mama and daughter, learning the heft of each other’s company, filling the apartment with your two heartbeats and the ghost of his absence. Mornings begin tangled in sheets on his side of the bed, Haeun’s warm little limbs sprawled across the pillow that smells like him, her thumb tucked against her mouth, Bunny wedged between you both. Each day stretches longer than the last, but by the end of the second week, there’s a rhythm: your little rituals, her wild love, your new confidence in each other. Sometimes, after she’s finally collapsed in your arms, you take out your phone, send Jaemin photos—her drawings, her giggling face, the secret heartbreak in her sleeping pout—and sometimes, just for him, you add a glimpse of bare skin, a promise of the woman waiting for him, because longing is its own kind of devotion. The month isn’t just about missing him; it’s about you and your daughter finding each other again and again, two halves of the same longing, holding on until he’s home.

On the very night that Jaemin boards his plane, you turn the master bedroom into a blanket fort because she refuses to sleep anywhere but “Dada’s smooshy pillow.” Every night she drags Bunny up the comforter mountain, curls beneath Jaemin’s side of the duvet, and whispers, “Smell like Dada.” You read three picture books by phone-flashlight, then prop the screen against a stack of pillows so Jaemin can blow her a good-night kiss over FaceTime. She learns to hold the phone with two hands, nose almost squished to the glass, murmuring, “Lub you, Dada. Come back quick.” When the nightly FaceTime call lights up the dark, Haeun’s fingers leave smudge-prints on the glass, her voice thick and soft, “Lub you, Dada. Come back soon.” She falls asleep this way, cheek damp, eyelashes stuck together, the circle incomplete until you press her hand to your lips and promise, “He’s coming home, baby. He always comes home.” Haeun always dozes off like that, her arms wound tight around Bunny, Jaemin’s pillow clutched to her chest as if squeezing the scent from it.

Mornings with Haeun are a honeyed unraveling, slow and sticky as sunlight spills across the sheets. You wake to her soft weight already crawling over your chest, toes wiggling under the hem of your borrowed sleep shirt, giggles muffled as she presses cold Bunny-ears to your cheek. She burrows beneath your arm, demanding a parade of kisses—forehead, nose, cheeks, both eyelids—until you’ve run out of face to cover, her own lips puckered in reply. Her hair is wild and soft, curls catching in your fingers as you gently untangle her, crooning her name while you coax her into your lap and start on braids. She insists you use the yellow ribbon “like sunshine,” twisting her head for a look in the vanity mirror, clapping her hands with delight. Breakfast is messy and sweet, the two of you perched together at the kitchen counter: she spears fruit chunks with her tiny fork, feeding you half her strawberries, and you sneak sips of milk from her bunny-shaped cup when she isn’t looking.

She clings to you through the morning routine, perched on your hip as you open the curtains, trailing you into the bathroom for toothbrush time, always insisting on brushing your teeth herself, a gleam of pride when you “say ahhh” just right. She hums nonsense songs, socks mismatched, and you dress her in the outfit she picked out before dawn, yellow overalls and a shirt with a tiny pink heart. When you whisper, “Daddy’s girls, right?” she nods fiercely, cheeks round with pride, eyes shining as she wraps her arms around your neck and sings, “Daddy’s girls!” until you both dissolve into laughter. There’s no rush, no outside world, just the quiet pulse of her heart against yours, her hair fragrant with strawberry shampoo, and the easy, perfect belonging of loving and being loved in the hush of early morning.

On the fourth morning, you dress her in matching lemon-print sundresses, white bucket hats, and flip-flops that squeak, your sunshine girls, you text Jaemin, adding a photo of her grinning wide against a sky that threatens rain. You also attach a photo of your bare boobs in his favourite delicate yellow lace lingerie set, a sly promise for your boyfriend’s eyes only because Haeun isn’t the only one Jaemin is missing. At the beach, her small hands shovel sand and shells into a pail, every pebble an artifact she must show Daddy, every squawk of seagull echoing her delight. She toddles ahead on the damp sand, scooping shells into a pail while you film thirty-second clips to text Jaemin. In each video she shouts the same refrain: “Look, Dada, big water!” At lunch, grilled cheese is split in ragged halves, and she dabs your mouth with a napkin, giggling, “Mama messy.” The whole afternoon becomes a kind of triage, each shell washed, bandaged, lined up on the windowsill as you watch her invent tenderness from the ordinary, making you ache with pride at her small acts of care. You film her lining up shells for Jaemin, her voice ringing through the phone as she shouts, “Look, Dada, big water! Big shells!” Every message she sends, every picture you text, tugs him closer across the miles.

You can’t step two feet down the boardwalk without Haeun tugging at your fingers, pulling you toward anyone in sight with a bubbling, “’Scuse me, can you take a photo of me and my mama?” Her cheeks are pink from the sun and the excitement, mouth smeared with ice cream, curls wild under the floppy brim of her lemon-printed hat, she clings to your leg until you crouch beside her, and then she insists on holding your hand, both of you throwing up matching peace signs, matching crinkly smiles. Each click of a stranger’s phone becomes another proof: this is her person, her Mama, her whole world on display. After every photo, she insists on checking the screen, squinting hard, then beams with satisfaction before planting a sticky kiss on your cheek. “We look pwetty, mama! Like twinnies, right?” she crows, so proud that even the breeze seems to blush with her.

You laugh, running your hand through her wild curls, and let her lead you up and down the sand, stopping to pose on driftwood, on picnic benches, at the edge of the tide. She waves at everyone—teenagers with Bluetooth speakers, old ladies with bright swimsuits, every passing jogger and chirps, “Hi! This my mama! We matching!” Sometimes she leans close and whispers, “Tell them, mama. Tell them you love me best.”

So you scoop her up and say, “Of course I do, baby, you’re my best girl, my sunshine girl.”

A crowd gathers, someone’s dog barks, and Haeun presses her sandy nose to yours, shrieking, “Mama, kiss me!” until you oblige, the two of you locked in your own tiny solar system of kisses and giggles.

When you finally call Jaemin, the sun’s nearly gone, golden light spilling through the car windows as you prop the phone between you and Haeun on the backseat. She climbs into your lap from the backseat, still in her matching dress, hugging your waist and babbling, “See, Dada? We matching all day, and Mama let me pick ice cream, and I say hi to everybody!”

Jaemin’s face fills the screen, tired and soft, but he’s smiling like he can taste the salt and the sun, like he’s standing there with you. “My girls,” he murmurs, awe and longing tangled in his voice. “How’d I get so lucky?”

Haeun wiggles, holding your hand tight, and pipes up, “Dada, I wanna match with Mama every day! You miss us? I make you a shell mountain when you come home, pwomise!” The call ends with her blowing kisses, cheeks pressed to your face, and Jaemin’s laugh echoing through the speaker—utterly besotted, not one bit afraid to be away, because his whole heart is held safe in the picture: you, Haeun, sunlight, and love that multiplies even when the miles stretch long and lonesome.

The first solo clinic appointment without Jaemin brings a shadow you can’t quite shake. Dr. Huang’s office feels cavernous, too bright, the chairs all too big without Jaemin. Haeun wears her “brave cape”—a yellow cardigan bedazzled with stick-on stars. She sits on your lap for vitals, eyes huge, one fist wrapped around your stethoscope. When the probe touches her chest, her bottom lip wobbles and she whimpers, “Dada, Dada, I want you, Dada.” You lean in close, counting her breaths aloud until she matches yours, whispering, “In, out, in, out, we’re okay.” The rhythm steadies both of you and then she presses soft kisses all over your jaw, whispering how much she loves Mama and Dada. Dr. Huang prints her echo, places a blue sticker on her chart and prints a glossy copy for her scrapbook. In the parking lot you take a selfie together holding the image. She grins, you blink away sudden tears, and you send it straight to Jaemin with the caption “Boom-boom looks beautiful.”

You carry Haeun in from the car, her soft breaths rising and falling against your shoulder, the brave cape slipping down her back, yellow stars winking in the hall light. She’s still hiccupping in her sleep, exhausted after the long afternoon and the appointment with Dr. Huang weighing heavy on her small body. The living room is thick with dusk, and you settle her against your chest on the sofa, tucking her favorite Bunny under her arm, humming quietly until her fists unclench and her lashes stop fluttering. Your phone buzzes, the FaceTime rings a lullaby in itself. Jaemin answers from a hotel room, his face glowing tired and gentle. “My girls,” he says, voice low and soothing. “How did it go?” You keep your voice soft so as not to wake Haeun, recounting the little triumphs and stumbles of the day, how she wore her brave cape, how she whimpered for Dada but squeezed your hand tight, how she kissed your cheek after her echo and grinned at the blue star sticker Dr. Huang gave her. “Vitals were stable. No fainting, no fever. O2 sat was 95 at rest, a little lower when she got upset, but she bounced back fast,” you report, eyes drifting to Haeun’s hand curled around your thumb. “He’s sending the echo images to your email. There’s a trace more turbulence at the outflow, but nothing dangerous. He’s thinking about switching her medication—upping the enalapril dose, or maybe adding carvedilol, but he wants your thoughts first.”

Jaemin nods, gaze flicking down to jot notes, but mostly watching the way you cradle his daughter, his girl, the two of you haloed in warm lamplight. He tells you he’s been speaking with pediatric cardiologists and clinical trial teams here, working angles and calling in favors, trying to find a way to get Haeun into a new drug trial or even gene therapy. “They’re skeptical because of her mixed presentation,” he admits, his brow creased, “but they’ll listen if we can show a clear cause. If you hate anything unusual, anything we can use to show her case is unique—send it to me, love.”

That’s when you pause, glancing down at Haeun’s sleeping face and pressing a soft kiss to her nose before speaking. Quietly, you confess. “Nearly a year ago, I started digging. I looked into all those nights she spent in the hospital, I ran down every journal, every old chart, every published and unpublished case I could get my hands on—anything that could explain why her symptoms were always just a little different, a little harder to treat. I made timelines of her arrhythmias, tracked her fevers, mapped every abnormal ECG and scan. I cross-referenced her episodes with the timing of medication changes, hospital admissions, even her feeding patterns. I compared her cardiac development to every reported case of prenatal opioid and alcohol exposure, trying to find what made her unique.

“What stood out was how her heart murmurs and those blue spells always clustered around certain triggers—dehydration, sleep regressions, small infections—and never followed the expected course for classic truncus arteriosus. Her growth spurts always stalled after viral flares, not just the surgeries, and her bloodwork hinted at hidden metabolic strain no one else could explain. Her neuro scans showed scattered delays in myelination, tiny spots that looked almost exactly like the cases of in-utero substance exposure from the big registry studies. I built an overlay of her MRIs and highlighted the differences: the thinner corpus callosum, the scattered calcifications in her cerebellum. There’s this one cluster on her echo, just below the valve, that’s not typical for her diagnosis, it shows up in the exposure group, but not the others.

Then I looked into every case with prenatal exposure. I mapped out a pattern—her arrhythmias, her cardiac development, even some of her neuro scans match data I found on exposure to both alcohol and heroin in utero.” Your voice is low, almost apologetic. “I should’ve told you sooner, but… I wanted to be sure. There are charts, symptom logs, overlays of her scans with the exposure case controls, and a full breakdown of the likely timeline from prenatal through NICU to now. I annotated the patterns, what’s classic, what’s not, what could help her qualify for an expanded access trial. I know it’s not the kind of story most people want to tell, but it’s the truth, and it’s everything that makes her ours. Use it. Show them what makes her worth fighting for. I’ve just sent you the files now—check your inbox. ” You list what else you’ve included: scan overlays, timelines, comparative outcomes, even handwritten notes connecting her symptoms to that evidence base.

Jaemin goes quiet, his breath soft and heavy through the speaker, and for a moment the only sound is Haeun’s gentle snore pressed between your chests. “God, I can’t believe you did all this,” he finally says, voice low, thick with awe and something like grief. “I should’ve known, you always go further, you never stop. No one’s ever fought for her like this, Y/N. Not even me. I knew you were good, but—” he breaks off, laughing shakily, “—I didn’t know you were this relentless.” You hear the click as he pulls up the files, the soft whistle he makes when he sees how thorough you’ve been. “You could’ve told me. We’re in this together, you know. But fuck, you’re brilliant. Thank you. I’ll use every line, every scan, every note—she’ll have her chance, baby, I swear. If this gets her into the trial, it’s because of you.”

Jaemin’s eyes shine with something deeper than pride—gratitude, love, awe. “I love you so much,” he murmurs. “Nobody fights for her like you do. I’ll go through it all tonight, baby, I promise. Goodnight, sweetheart. Kiss our angel for me?”

You lean down and brush your lips across Haeun’s warm brows, her hair still smelling like sunlight, salt and faint shampoo. “Goodnight, baby. I love you more,” you whisper back, blowing Jaemin a soft kiss through the phone, his smile blooming on the other side of the world. You let the call linger open a moment longer, watching him watch you, until finally you close your eyes and press another kiss to your sleeping daughter’s temple—one for her, and one for him, the space between you all drawn close, no matter how many miles or months apart.

On the fifteenth day—halfway, but it feels endless—Haeun’s storm breaks in a way you’ve never seen before. It starts over nothing and everything at once: she’s sitting cross-legged at the table, crayons strewn everywhere, determined to draw a “birthday party for Dada” because she’s decided the only way to make him come home faster is to send him a hundred cards and a whole cake by mail, even though his birthday isn’t for another month. You watch her scrawl lopsided hearts and yellow stick-figure Jaemins, her lower lip caught between her teeth, brows furrowed with purpose. But when you gently explain that you can’t bake a real cake for the mail and you’ll have to wait to celebrate when Daddy is home—her small fists ball tight, cheeks flaming, and suddenly she’s screaming, “NO! NOW! DADA NEEDS IT NOW!” She shoves the box of crayons off the table so hard they scatter across the living room, then bursts into tears that sound less like a child and more like something wild and bottomless. She kicks her feet, body thrashing, clutching Bunny by the ears and shrieking, “You said he come back soon! You promise! Why he not here, Mama? Why you not make him come?”

It’s a tantrum so fierce it shakes you, but this time you know soft words won’t reach her. Instead, you kneel beside her, voice low but steady, gathering her thrashing limbs gently into your lap. “Haeun. Enough.” You keep your arms tight, letting her cry and fight against the boundary, but your words stay firm: “I know you miss Dada. I miss him too, more than anything. But shouting and throwing things won’t bring him home faster. We can’t send a real cake. We have to wait. You need to be patient.” She wails, clawing at your arms, sobs dissolving into hiccups and breathless gasps. You hold her through it, letting her frustration crash and burn, not letting go. When she tries to escape your grip, you set her firmly back against your chest, one hand on her back, one stroking her hair. “It’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to miss him but you cannot scream at Mama or throw things. That’s not how we do things in our family.”

She shakes her head, still crying, snot running down her chin, voice cracking as she whimpers, “I want Dada, I want Dada, I want Dada—” over and over.

You sit there with her, every second endless, until the storm finally drains out of her and she’s limp and wet-faced, curling into your lap. You wipe her cheeks, kissing the sticky salt away, heart aching but resolute. “We’re going to clean up the mess you made, and then we’ll call Dada, okay? We can tell him how much we miss him, and then we can read your book and have some quiet time. But Mama’s not letting you act like this, no matter how sad you are. That’s my job. I love you, even when you’re mad. Especially when you’re mad.” She nods, still sniffling, and lets you gather her up and start picking up the crayons. You feel exhausted, but proud—you did what you needed, even when it hurt, holding the boundary for both of you, love steady through the storm.

On rainy afternoons, you and Haeun claim your favourite window seat at the patisserie tucked behind the hospital, the little bell above the door tinkling just for you. She wears her yellow rain boots, proud of the splash marks up her calves, her cardigan sleeves shoved to the elbows as she sits tall, chin barely above the table. Her feet swing in rhythm beneath her chair, toes tapping out the staccato of her restlessness as you order two mugs of warm milk and a plate of madeleines dusted with sugar. She dunks the soft cakes until her lips are ringed in white, and you wipe them away with your thumb, your other hand flipping through flashcards—vital signs, drug interactions, the currency of your next exam. Every time you try to study, she interrupts with “letters” to Jaemin, crayon missives crowded with backwards hearts, lopsided faces, one letter for each day Dada is gone. She pushes the masterpieces toward you, demanding, “Send to Dada! Right now! Pretty pweasee” You snap a picture, attach a note, and hit send, half-amused, half-heartbroken. Each time, Jaemin replies with a voice message, his tone gentle, silly, the bunny-ear filter making Haeun squeal. She holds the phone close, face lit by the glow, her grin stretching wide as she listens, battery dying before her longing does.

Your nights on call become another ritual, the shape of your absence softened by Jaemin’s family. When your shifts run late, Haeun spends the night at Nana and Papa’s. She disappears into the hush of their house, wrapped in her grandmother’s shawl, her dreams carried by old lullabies in a language you can’t fully understand but ache to learn for her sake. On the nights you can, you tune in to the baby monitor app at the hospital, watching Nana stroke her hair, Papa tiptoeing by with an extra blanket. There’s a dull ache inside you—missing Haeun, missing Jaemin, but grateful for this net of care that holds your little girl safe, lets you run toward your future and hers. You finish your notes under fluorescent light, thinking about the way love branches out, the roots you’re growing together in this city.

One rainy Saturday, Haeun discovers the red button on your phone and becomes obsessed. All afternoon, your watch pings with her dispatches—little bursts of her world without filters: “Mama, Bunny say hi Dada!” followed by a breathless giggle, an off-key “Twinkle, Twinkle” that melts your heart, a detailed account of her building the “tallest tower ever” until it topples and she squeals, “Oops, Dada see?” You send every clip, every second, to Jaemin, who answers with selfies from a sterile lounge—mask dangling, eyes crinkled, cartoon hearts framing his face. Each time his face lights her screen, she claps, shouts “Dada! Dada, look!”—her joy is too big for the small space you share.

Movie nights become their own kind of sanctuary, you and Haeun curled into a nest of blankets, popcorn spilling everywhere. She pirouettes with the ballerinas on screen, a flash of scar across her chest as she spins, untamed and glorious, Bunny clutched in one hand, your encouragement ringing in her ears. She pauses mid-spin, runs to you, curls up on your lap, whispering, “Dada clap when I dance?” You press your cheek to her hair, heartbeat thudding beneath her ear. “Always, baby. Always.” She sighs, sated, clinging tighter, the two of you inventing new ways to fill the spaces Jaemin left behind.

Exam week turns the apartment into a war room of coffee cups, colored pencils, flashcards scattered like confetti. Haeun sits at your side in her pajamas, hair wild from sleep, drawing endless princess doctors, narrating, “This one help people like Mama. This one love Bunny.” Sometimes you ask her to “quiz” you; she claps at every answer, yelling, “Mama, you so smart!” until you’re both giggling, stress breaking in a tide of love. When you finally pass a practice exam, you both throw your arms up, glitter pajamas and faded scrubs tangled together in triumph. You send Jaemin the victory shot, her beaming, you beaming, a single heart emoji as your caption. His reply is instant: “My two scholars.” In that moment, the miles shrink, the night lifts, and you remember, every sacrifice, every tear, is for this: the world you’re building, one small day at a time.

It’s one week before Jaemin’s return, the date weighs on you both, marked and circled on every calendar in the apartment, counted off on small fingers at breakfast, tallied with colored chalk on the kitchen wall. For twenty one days you and Haeun have managed, some days breathless and golden, others heavy and storm-struck, both of you nursing a hunger that only Jaemin could fill. But tonight, just seven days before his flight, all your best tricks—park swings, pancakes for dinner, stickers on her knees—can’t keep the ache away. She keeps it together all day: helps you at the grocery store, skipping beside the cart in lemon overalls; drags you through the wildflowers at the park, picking the yellow ones for “Dada’s pocket”; even laughs her way through bath time, lining up rubber ducks and teaching Bunny to swim. You breathe easy, hopeful for a quiet bedtime. But as soon as the last story is finished, ‘Goodnight Moon’ again, her head on your arm, thumb tucked under her chin, she looks up, eyes wide, already shiny, and whispers, “Why Daddy so far? Why Daddy not here, Mama?”

It’s the crack that lets everything flood through. She doesn’t wail, not at first—she just shudders, chin trembling, shoulders shaking as the question repeats itself in her mouth, softer, then louder, until it breaks into open sobs. She claws at your shirt, twisting the fabric in her fists, gasping as if the pain is physical, like she’s searching for a piece of him in you. “Dada, Dada, Dada,” she weeps, gulping air, face buried in your chest, her tears hot and wild and endless. You rock her, breath matching hers, humming the lullaby he always sings at bedtime, voice splintering as you press your lips to her hair, swearing every oath you know.

You whisper, “He loves you, he’s coming home, you’re never alone.” But the words float in the dim—half-magic, half-wish.

At last her cries fade, spent from the storm. She collapses, eyelids swollen, cheeks streaked, her body curled into yours like she’s trying to become small enough to disappear. Her hand finds your heart through your shirt and stays there, knotted in the cotton, grounding herself as sleep creeps in. You stay with her, counting her breaths, wiping her lashes, not daring to let go until the ache in your chest is as thick as night. Only then do you slip into the hallway, breath ragged, chest hollowed out, pressing your palm to your mouth to stifle the sound. The apartment is too quiet without him—his slippers by the door, his mug on the counter, the echo of his laugh in every shadow. Your own tears come, fierce and silent, not just for your girl, but for you—for the hours spent being everything to someone, for the weight of love that never gets lighter. You text Jaemin a single line: We miss you past the bones. Ten seconds later the phone rings, his face a flicker in the dark, his voice as steady as your own pulse. You carry the call back to bed, tuck it under her ear, and watch the blue glow pulse over her sleeping lashes, the hush of his voice braiding you both together across the miles.

For two weeks, you’ve been mother, nurse, tutor, protector, storm-tamer—filling every space, holding the seams of your family tight. You’ve surprised yourself with how fiercely and how tenderly you can love, how every tantrum, every laugh, every question, threads you closer to this little girl and the life you’re building. But nothing fills the emptiness at night, the hollow between heartbeats, the ache that can only be filled when you are three again—whole, loud, and laughing, the promise of never being alone stitched into every breath you take for her.

That night, after Haeun’s sobs have faded into soft, uneven breaths and you’ve tucked her close with Jaemin’s pillow clutched tight to her chest, you slip quietly out of her room and close the door. The apartment feels cavernous in the dark, shadows stretching in all directions, the ache in your chest refusing to loosen its grip. You press your forehead to the glass of the living room window and let yourself weep, slow, silent tears, every one a prayer for his arms, for his voice, for your family whole. Your phone lights up, buzzing with Jaemin’s call once again. You answer with trembling hands, and the instant you hear him, low, gentle, the only thing in the world that feels safe, your tears spill over again.

He hushes you with words that are barely a whisper, voice warm and rough in your ear, the lull of comfort rolling over you in waves. “Shh, sweetheart, I know, I know. You’re doing so well. I miss you so much I can hardly breathe. Let me hear your voice—just breathe for me.” He listens to your sobs, not hurrying you, holding every shaking breath with the patience that only comes from loving you for so long. “I wish I could hold you,” he murmurs, the words a balm, “God, I wish I could be there tonight.” You tell him how much you ache, how hard it’s been to be strong for Haeun, to fill every gap with tenderness and routine, how you need him, how your hands ache for his skin. He answers with a promise—slow, honey-thick, the hush of a man who is both lover and partner.

“I’m gonna marry you one day, you know that? I want this—us, all of it. I want you. I want our family. You’re my whole world, baby. I’ve always seen you this way—mine—but this month, watching you with our girl, holding everything together, it’s like I can’t breathe for how much I love you. You’re her mother in every way that matters and you’re already my wife, even if we haven’t signed the papers. That’s how I see you, that’s how I want you—my wife, the mother of my child, the only one I’ll ever need. Fuck, you don’t know how bad I wish I could put a ring on your finger tonight, how hard I get just thinking about you in our bed, with our girl asleep in the next room. Every day I see you loving her, holding her, being strong for both of us, and I swear to God I’ve never wanted you more in my life. You’re it, sweetheart. You’re everything.” His voice drops, the rough velvet edge you crave, and you can’t help but answer him, breathless, the ache in your chest shifting lower, heat twisting between your thighs as you close your eyes and imagine him pressed against you, hand in your hair, mouth on your neck, body crowding yours in the half-dark.

You press your cheek to the pillow, phone balanced beside your ear, his voice low and liquid, heat spilling through the tiny speaker like a secret you can’t hold. His words twist, darken, turn filthy—“I’d have you on your back, legs spread wide, so hungry for you I’d forget the world. I’d lay you out, tongue deep in your cunt, sucking you until you’re crying, begging for more. I want you to ride me, slow and deep, take my cock all the way. I want your voice in my ear, your mouth on my name, your nails on my chest, your body squeezing around me until you break.” You bite your lip, knuckles white in the bedsheets, your free hand sliding down, desperate, slick, chasing the sound of him.

You tell him in a breathless rush how much you miss his hands, the way his fingers sink into your hips, how nothing fills you the way he does. “My fingers don’t reach the places you do. I need you, Jaemin. I want your mouth on me. I want you home. I want you to fuck me till I forget what loneliness feels like. I want you to come in me, fill me, ruin me. Please.” Your words catch on a moan.

He groans in response, voice thick, almost broken with want—“That’s it, sweetheart. Touch yourself for me. Let me hear you. God, I wish I could see you, taste you. You sound so fucking pretty when you fall apart for me.”

You move your hand faster, legs shaking, breath ragged, every nerve ending tuned to his voice and nothing else. You gasp his name, high and choked, riding the edge until you fall, coming hard, body arching off the bed, his name the only word you know. On the other end of the line, his breathing stutters, turns wild, and you hear him unravel, a low, desperate growl that vibrates straight down your spine. You lie there, boneless, sated and undone, the ache of missing him blunted by love and filthy promises, your heart beating out a vow you’ll both keep: Soon. Soon. Soon.

After, you lie tangled in the sheets, your chest still heaving, his voice soft again, full of hope and love. “The adoption’s getting closer, baby,” he tells you, voice shining with pride. “I spoke with the lawyers today—they said it’s just a matter of weeks now. You’re going to be her Mama in every way, no one can take that away from you, ever.” You sniffle, relief crashing over you, and he soothes you with every word, vowing again and again that this family, this wild impossible love, is forever. The two of you talk quietly until you both begin to drift, his voice the last thing you hear—“Goodnight, my love. You’re everything. Kiss our girl for me. I’ll be home soon.” You hang up, your tears dried now, heart full and heavy, Haeun breathing softly down the hall. For a moment, even with half the family gone, love is enough to fill every empty space.

Morning unfurls in a haze of sweetness, sunlight painting your kitchen in thick gold, Haeun straddled across your lap on the tiled floor, both of you sticky and breathless from laughter. You help her knead dough with her clumsy, flour-caked fists, the scent of warm sugar and vanilla filling the air as she swipes at your cheek with frosting, squealing when you pretend to gobble her up. There’s a bunny plush in the high chair, a teapot pouring strawberry juice, your baby giggling in your arms—cheeks hurting from how wide you’re both grinning. Every minute feels carved from the kind of joy you never thought you’d taste: her hands soft on your face, the rise and fall of her tiny chest pressed close, your phone propped up nearby so Jaemin can beam in, eyes shining, his voice teasing you both into silliness. When you tuck Haeun in for her nap, her arms looped around your neck, you stay tangled there a long while, breathing her in—so loved, so wanted. And when Haeun is down for a nap, when the apartment is dark and still, you slip your hand down, body humming with leftover sunlight and hope, finally letting yourself shudder apart in the hush, Jaemin’s name thick on your tongue. For a moment you just lie there, cheeks sticky with happy tears, heartbeat loose and open, filled right up to the brim with love, with relief, with the sweetness of a life that still glows even in his absence.

The day is nothing but light—your heart is soft and unguarded, cheeks aching from too much smiling, every glance at your daughter blooming with that rare, unfiltered kind of joy. There’s a buzz under your skin that hasn’t been there in weeks, a sweetness in every tiny touch, every giggle, every moment your little girl throws her arms around your neck and presses kisses to your jaw. She looks at you like you’re the best thing in the world, and for today, you believe it. In this small universe—just you and her—love is easy, happiness is loud, and the future finally feels wide open again. Even the quiet moments thrum with affection, your bodies curling close, every sigh and smile a promise that there is nothing more precious than this hard-won, ordinary joy.

Later, your phone vibrates on the counter and you see Dr. Huang’s name flash across the screen. His voice is a sunrise, gentle, bright, impossibly good. “She’s strong enough for a holiday now,” he says. “One trip. The world’s opening up for her.” For a moment you can’t speak, mouth falling open as your heart pounds against your ribs. You scramble for the phone, video calling Jaemin, telling him to hold, this is a secret you want to share together. Haeun, still covered in flour, clambers onto your lap as you whisper, “Guess what, lovebug? We get to go on holiday. We can fly on a big airplane, all three of us.” The news hits her like a spell.

Her eyes go wide, breath held, then she erupts—screaming with joy, spinning in circles until she nearly falls over, racing back to you, cheeks soaked with the rush of her kisses, hands on your face as if she can’t believe you’re real. “We go on airplane, Mama? You and me and Dada?” she babbles, and you cry too, overwhelmed by the simple enormity of her happiness.

Jaemin’s voice filters through the screen, thick with pride and longing. “Best news in the world, princess. We’re going to make so many memories.”

You and Haeun are already tumbling through the first piles of packing, your bed a nest of matching sundresses and tiny shoes, because you and Jaemin—barely able to wait—have already booked flights to Lake Como, leaving the day after he returns, your little family set to vanish into sunlight and blue for ten whole days. Within minutes, your bedroom explodes in color and chaos, clothes tossed from every drawer, dresses, shorts, hats and bottles of sunscreen flung in wild, excited piles. Haeun picks out matching outfits for each day, holding up tiny sunglasses to your face, insistent that you look like twins. “We match every day! You wear my hat, mama!” She struts across the carpet in a too-big sundress, trips and laughs, grabs your hands and spins you both down to the floor, covering your nose with kisses, demanding, “Take picture! Send to Dada!” There’s no space for fear or memory here, only the feverish joy of a child who has waited too long for a world this bright. Your heart cracks wide open, overwhelmed by the ordinary miracle of her laughter, the sacredness of her trust.

Later that evening, you close the bedroom door behind you, slipping away for a private call with Jaemin, heart still buzzing from the high of the day. He’s already waiting, his face tired from distance and stress, but alive with a bright, reckless hope you haven’t seen in months. “I just got an amazing update, baby,” he says, eyes glinting with everything he’s been holding back. “Your research? It changed the game. Haeun’s been shortlisted for two international trials—one is a stem cell protocol at a pediatric heart center in Switzerland, and the other’s an experimental gene therapy in Paris. They’ve both reviewed her history, her scans, your file, everything. Both teams want to see her as soon as we’re ready.” He keeps talking, voice rough with awe as he explains, these aren’t just routine studies, they’re the front lines of hope. The stem cell trial aims to regenerate the damaged heart tissue itself, a therapy with early data showing some kids like Haeun go years, sometimes forever, without another major cardiac event. Even the smallest response could mean freedom from endless surgeries and medications. The gene therapy, he says, is a moonshot but already reversing some congenital defects in trial groups, literally rewriting faulty code so the heart heals itself. “No guarantees, I know, but her odds are the best they’ve ever been. If she responds, it’s not just about stability, it could mean a normal life. School, running, even dancing. She’ll be healthy, really healthy. Maybe for the first time.”

You press your palm to your chest, feeling every heartbeat thrum with the impossible promise of it—of a world where Haeun’s heart is just a heart, not a countdown. “I can’t believe it,” you breathe, already crying. “We’re so close.” Jaemin just smiles, glassy-eyed, hope and gratitude mixing on his face as he whispers, “We’re gonna get her there. She’s got you. She’s got us. She’s got every chance now.” Your tears come instantly, hard and grateful, the kind that burns from the inside out. You promise to keep him updated, to do everything, anything, for this chance. For the first time in forever, the future tastes sweet again—hope and relief tangled like sunlight through your hair. After you hang up, you linger in the silent apartment, pressed back against the wall, heart beating hard, hands shaking with relief and disbelief. Later, when Haeun is asleep, you let your hands wander, quiet and trembling, letting your body remember pleasure, your third release since Jaemin left, his name on your lips, gratitude and longing braided into every trembling aftershock.

It’s a rare, sunstruck afternoon, and you take Haeun to your favorite city park—not the noisy main playground, but the hidden rose garden behind its old, twisting iron gate, where brambles crowd over the stones and wild blossoms spill untended along the cracked path. It’s half-forgotten by the world, with mossy benches and a marble fountain split by time, petals floating in its shallow pool. This is your secret haven, the place you first brought Haeun when she was barely steady on her feet, a magic corner where only the two of you exist, wrapped in sunlight and green shadows, a sanctuary carved out of the city’s heart—a space that has always, impossibly, felt like home.

The secret garden greets you like a hush of heaven, rose canes arching overhead in velvet arcs, petals blushing every shade of dawn, old marble fountain crusted with moss and echoing a lullaby of dripping water. Haeun slips through the wrought-iron gate first, her pink rain-boots splashing through puddles of filtered light, crown of daisies tilting over her curls. She spins in the doorway and gasps, hands to her cheeks. “Mama, our pwivate castle!” Her voice rings pure as crystal. You follow with the picnic hamper balanced on your hip, the blanket draped like a cape across your arm, and immediately the air feels lighter, as though the city’s weight can’t follow you past the roses.

You spread the gingham quilt beneath a crab-apple tree, its branches strung with sunlight. Jam-sandwich bunnies march across a porcelain plate; lemon cupcakes sit in silver wrappers that wink like tiny crowns; mason jars brim with apple-juice “champagne,” glinting gold. Haeun lines up the mismatched teacups, tongue poking from the corner of her mouth in fierce concentration, then pats the place beside her newest plush, a snow-white bunny with velvet paws. Both of you wear matching straw sun-hats too large for your heads, flower-stickers climbing your arms in glittery vines: proof that a two-year-old planned your wardrobe. When you set the disposable camera beside the macarons, she squeals, “Pitchers for Dada!” and begins snapping at everything—the crooked fountain, your laughing face, the way the wind carries your skirts like sailcloth.

Sunlight dappled Haeun’s cheeks through the tangled rose boughs and broken iron, the air thick with the perfume of wild blooms, birdsong spinning overhead, and somewhere distant, the soft peal of children’s laughter leaking from the playground beyond. Here, tucked in your secret garden, the hospital and its white-walled worry melt away—this is the only place you truly breathe, the world shrinking to just Mama and her little girl, cocooned in tangled green, a hidden pocket of safety where fear can’t reach. You let her run wild, barefoot over petal-littered grass, hands greedy for every color, scooping up fallen roses to add to her crown, chasing sparrows from the fountain, giggling as she calls, “Mama, Mama, look at me!” with every twirl and stumble, her joy so bright it blinds you, your laughter braided with hers as she runs and runs, queen of her little world.

Sunlight freckles her cheeks through the leaves; each beam seems to adore her, lingering on her scar like a kiss. She paints your nails with water-colors, turquoise, tangerine, sunrise pink, blowing on each fingertip so earnestly that your heart aches with tenderness. In return, you twist wild jasmine into her hair, declare her “Princess Doctor of the Rose Realm,” and bow low. She curtsies, nearly toppling, giggling into your neck when you swoop her up. Overhead, bubbles drift, opalescent planets spinning lazily; every time one bursts on her nose she shrieks with delight and plants a frosting-sticky kiss on your lips for good luck.

The garden becomes a story-book turned inside-out—ferns feathering over cracked statues, roses tumbling like spilled garnets, a single cloud shaped exactly like a stuffed bunny drifting overhead as if the sky itself wants to play. You lay the quilt where sun and shade checker the grass, and Haeun declares it “the royal rug,” kissing each corner for luck. You both dive into a cupcake tower no taller than her wrist, but topped by a gold paper star inscribed ‘First Holiday Soon!’ She insists every plate receive a daisy “napkin ring,” so you thread stems into loose knots while she narrates: “This one for Dada; this one for Mama; this one for Bunny because Bunny likes sparkles.” When she slips the last blossom behind your ear, she sighs, “Now you a sunshine doctor,” and the phrase feels holy enough to keep.

You play I Spy with only lovely things, something glittery (the sugar on her lips), something brave (the scar that curves across her chest), something forever (the way her hand finds yours between every game). She paints watercolor hearts on the backs of your hands, then plants her palm over each one as if sealing a spell. “So the hearts stay,” she explains solemnly. You answer by twirling her until her laughter becomes a silver ribbon coiling through the roses. Afterward, breathless, she lies belly-down and blows on dandelion clocks, naming each wish aloud: “One—Daddy come home fast. Two—Mama never sad. Three—ice cweam every day!” Seeds lift into the blue like tiny parachutes; you tell her they’re love notes on the wind. She presses her cheek to your chest to hear the place where wishes land, then whispers, “My heart sounds like yours now.”

Between cupcake crumbs she feeds you, whispering conspiratorially, “No tell Dada we ate two!” You press a finger to your own lips, eyes sparkling, and she collapses against you in satisfied secrecy. After snack time she chases a monarch butterfly, skirts flashing canary-bright among the roses, arms spread like fledgling wings. You lounge on the blanket, camera poised, watching her joy become the afternoon’s whole weather system, sunny, balmy, impossibly alive. When she tires, she collapses into your lap, head pillowed on your thigh, tracing invisible hearts on your skin while you braid daisies into her crown. At last she arranges blossoms behind your ear, sighs “We so pwetty, Mama,” and snaps a selfie: her frosting-smeared grin and your flushed, adoring smile nestled amidst a riot of petals. You text it to Jaemin, captioned, ‘your girls, thinking of you in every color,’ and feel a pulse of happiness bloom across the miles. Here, in this rose-quilted hush, the world is only sweetness: a mother and her miracle daughter wrapped in honeyed light, banking tenderness like treasure against every coming shadow.

You and Haeun are tangled together in the only living patch of color left in the city’s breathless winter, spinning on a faded picnic blanket in your secret rose garden, sunlight tangled in her curls, your hands locked around her ribs as you lift her up, her laughter a high, clear bell. Raspberry jam smeared across her cheeks, her mouth split open in a wild, berry-bright grin, the kind that makes your heart squeeze until you can hardly breathe. “Mama! More! More!” she shrieks, giggling as you twirl her again, your own smile aching, dizzy with the sweetness of her, her little arms squeezing your neck, her feet kicking at the sky, your nose buried in the wild crown of her hair as you plant kisses all over her sticky face and jaw. You’re breathless with love and motion when you finally settle her onto your hip, her arms tight around you, her soft breath on your cheek, this moment, safe and whole, is a universe of sunlight and trust.

Then a chill slides across the back of your neck, a shadow crawling over the light. You screw your eyes shut, then open them again, squinting across the garden—thinking, No, it can’t be, but they look so familiar—almost like ghosts risen from memory. For a breath, you can’t move. You stare, cold slicing through your chest, because it’s them—is it really them?— you remember Jaemin telling you months ago, voice tight with worry, about the way Aseul and Nahyun found each other in the psychiatric ward, two broken souls feeding off each other, but you never once heard they’d been released. Not together. Not like this. A shadow needles down your spine—unbidden, ice-cold, crawling beneath your collar and rooting somewhere you can’t reach. You squeeze your eyes shut, sunlight still hot on your lids, and when you look again, nothing in the world is right.

They stand framed by the iron gate, silhouetted in the ruin of roses—two women in matching black coats that eat the light, the fur collars swallowing their throats, boots pressed heel-to-toe as if stitched together by something meaner than love. Their faces are blank and waxy, the kind of pretty that turns your stomach: Nahyun’s mouth drawn into a glossy, bleeding wound of a smile, hair flat as oil slick; Aseul’s dress is wrong for the season, white gone grey with stains, hem dragging in mud, knees blue as old bruises, her arms riddled with cuts that peek from under the lace cuffs. They move as one, shoulders brushing, fingers laced, heads cocked the same unnatural way, each blink staggered and stuttering, two mannequins breathing, or maybe not breathing at all.

You see their eyes first: Nahyun’s black as rot, cold and gleaming, locked on you and then on your child. Her smile peels wider, an animal baring teeth. Beside her, Aseul’s mouth works at nothing, lips mumbling into the void, licking at the air like she’s tasting the scent of your daughter. You want to scream but your voice sticks, gummy and useless. The world contracts: Nahyun whispers without moving her lips, “So pretty, isn’t she?” and Aseul echoes, “She needs saving,” every word wrapped in phlegm and hunger, as if she’s chewing her way through glass and honey, glass and blood.

You’re paralyzed, locked in a child’s nightmare, the rules of safety torn and rewritten by the horror crossing the lawn—twins in black, eyes leaking something slick and wrong, heads tilting further and further, as if their necks will snap just to keep watching. You remember Jaemin’s warnings, whispered in the dark—those two in the ward, that odd alliance, Nahyun with her ice-blade mind, her family’s money buying freedom, Aseul’s wild-eyed devotion, her hands always reaching for someone else’s child. He told you he’d do everything to ensure they’d stay away. You never thought you’d see them in daylight. As they come closer, the air changes—sweet rot, perfume soured by fear. Nahyun doesn’t blink, her smile carved wider, cheeks splitting, her arm tightening around Aseul’s. The pair of them—one doll wound too tight, the other melting at the seams—move with a marionette’s patience, every step in sync, their faces wet with some childish, giddy joy. You think, They look like dolls. Horror dolls left to fester in a locked trunk, their heads filled with old teeth and poison.

You kneel, your hands frantic on Haeun’s small back, fingers trembling, her breath a panicked stutter against your throat. She looks up at you, eyes blown wide, lip quivering, and when she sees them, sees their dead-doll faces and moving mouths, she starts to scream, high and wild, a sound that cuts you straight through. “Mama, mama, make them go!” she sobs, twisting in your arms, and you huddle around her, every inch of your body a shield.

Nahyun seems to have seeped into Aseul the way rot spreads through fruit, fusing herself to the other woman’s bones, their bodies welded together by something deeper than madness—by want, by worship, by the fevered promise of ruin. Nahyun is the spine, the will, her grip white-knuckled around Aseul’s trembling wrist, guiding her like a beloved puppet; Aseul shudders and leans into her, eyes fever-bright, mouthing Nahyun’s words almost before she says them. There’s a gleam in Nahyun’s gaze that’s too sharp, too knowing, her tongue flicking across her glossy lips as she watches you and your child, a predator’s appraisal, something slick and hungry underneath the glassy calm.

Their movements are slow and deliberate, Nahyun’s dominance etched in every line as she draws Aseul forward, their mouths working in eerie tandem, the whispered chant spreading like a contagion. “So pretty, isn’t she?” breathed into the crook of Aseul’s neck.

Aseul echoes, “She needs saving,” her voice soft, thick with longing, as if the words are a poison she begs to swallow. Their black coats flare as they move, twin silhouettes merging and parting, straight hair falling in heavy curtains around their faces, lipstick wet as fresh wounds. When Nahyun leans in to murmur something in Aseul’s ear, her hand sliding up the other woman’s waist, Aseul’s breath catches, shuddering, like a doll learning how to be alive for someone else. It’s obscene, the intimacy twisted into threat, every motion choreographed and wrong, twin horror dolls in love with the same nightmare, bleeding their sickness into your sanctuary, an omen stitched in velvet and gloss, their hunger dragging a shadow across everything that once felt safe.

Nahyun stares, smile splitting, and Aseul reaches out a broken-fingered hand, nails caked in red, voice a cracked lullaby. “Come to Mama, pretty girl…”

You freeze, your body wired with terror. Haeun’s tiny hands are suddenly fists in your coat, sensing your panic, her eyes wide, mouth beginning to tremble. You drop to your knees on the grass, gathering her to your chest, heart pounding so loud you can barely hear your own voice as you croak, “It’s okay, baby, I’ve got you.” Haeun lets out a high, terrified wail, hiding her face against your neck, her whole body shaking as if the nightmare could swallow her whole. You can’t look away—not from Nahyun’s venomous, patient stare, not from Aseul’s feverish need, not from the way they move like they’re sharing one infected mind. This is your garden, your sanctuary, but now it’s been breached, horror leaking into every bright petal and patch of sun, and you clutch your daughter closer, desperate to build a wall of love and flesh between her and the nightmare approaching.

As they draw closer, your entire body coils around Haeun, every muscle electric, the mother-animal inside you snarling awake. Your scream rips the cold air wide open and in an instant, your baby girl detonates beside you, her own wail piercing and animal, the shriek of a creature cornered. She buries her face in your neck, her whole body shaking, her breath coming in ragged, wild bursts. “No! No! Mama, make them go! I scared, I scared!” Her hands claw at your collar, her legs knot tight around your waist, every inch of her trying to disappear inside your arms.

You rock her, desperate, whispering, “I've got you, I've got you, shh, you’re safe, you’re safe,” your mouth pressed hard to her hair, letting the scent of her anchor you to something real. In the chaos, your universe collapses to the small animal terror of your daughter, the wild pulse in her throat, the heat of her tears, the need to shield her from everything. And in that panic, you don’t see what anyone else might: Nahyun, silent as a shadow, detaching herself from Aseul with a flick of her wrist, stepping wide, her gaze knifing through the fray, searching for a crack, a split-second of distraction. Her hand slips toward your things on the bench, her eyes shining with intent, but she’s back by Aseul’s side by the time the first police officer rounds the path. You miss it entirely, too wrapped in the sound of your daughter’s gasping sobs, the primal urge to make the world shrink small and safe again.

Aseul drifts closer, hair wild, dress filthy and ragged, eyes unmoored and gaping, her presence is a wound you can’t close. Every line of hers is a curse: the face that haunts your nightmares, the mother who abandoned your girl, the author of every medical file and every sleepless night. In your mind she’s a living ruin, the thing you were born to fight. The world narrows to her—her ragged breath, her arms outstretched, the sick heat of rage in your veins, the need to bar every inch between her and your child. Your focus is so ferocious it burns everything else away, Nahyun’s slip behind you, her hand gliding to the zipper of your bag, goes unseen, unnoticed, a silent poison threading through your panic. Later, when your hands are shaking, when the garden is empty but for the aftermath, you’ll search your mind for what you missed and find nothing but the memory of staring Aseul down, burning yourself hollow to keep your girl safe.

You crouch instinctively, twisting to put your own body between them and Haeun, still reeling from the scream. She’s gone silent now, the laughter from minutes ago vanished; she clings to your dress, her tiny voice shivering. “Mama, they so scawy and ugly. They look like broken dolls, Mama. Why their heads all sideways like that? Why their lips so red and weird, Mama? I dont like them. They look like—like ugly scary lady monsters, like the ones you say I can’t watch on Netflix.” She clings harder, voice sharp and almost gleeful, “Why they dress like creepy twins? Why they walk like zombies? I don’t want them. No, no touch me! Only my Mama! Go away, weird dolls.�� Her eyes go glassy, huge, as she buries her face against your chest, every tremor of her fear telegraphed straight into your bones.

The women close in, step for step, their boots grinding in tandem, heads lolling to the same unnatural angle, identical grins stretching their red-painted mouths. They move like one organism, one horror split between two bodies—predators circling the edge of a cradle. Nahyun’s gaze never flickers from you, but Aseul’s is locked on your child, her hand outstretched, fingers twitching with longing. “Look how small, look how soft—let us see her, let us hold her—just for a second, just for a kiss,” their voices weave together, soft as lullabies, sharp as needles. Nahyun tugs Aseul’s hand, but neither falters, that grotesque unity—the single-mindedness of sickness—carving a rift through your sanctuary, proof that even the sweetest places can be hollowed out by something truly monstrous.

Aseul’s hand hovers out, fingers stained, trembling with some half-formed maternal yearning, and in the bright glare of the garden she moves closer, her voice sticky-sweet, almost sing-song. “Pretty girl, let Mama see, just a little touch, hmm?” Her palm brushes a curl behind Haeun’s ear, all wrong, too close.

Instantly Haeun recoils, wild-eyed. She grabs the first thing in reach, a globby strawberry jelly, slick and jewel-red and launches it straight into Aseul’s face, splattering her cheek and hair, syrup dribbling down like a bad horror movie. The whole garden goes silent for a heartbeat. Haeun’s lips twist in fury, voice as sharp as her small fist. “You’re not my mama—you’re a bitch!

Then, when Aseul tries again, Haeun just yells, “Get your ugly hands away! Yuck! Don’t touch me, ugly lady! My mama says strangers danger! I don’t want ugly lady juju!”

Aseul reels back, shocked and sticky, jelly clinging to her jaw. Nahyun snorts, smirks, and doesn't move to help. You nearly laugh, pride and heartbreak tangled tight—your sweet girl would never be cruel, but something in her will always sense wrongness. She senses the threat under Aseul’s skin. It’s not lost on you, the irony: this blood, this echo of herself, and Haeun is right to reject it, vicious and honest in a way you could never bring yourself to be. The garden feels cleansed for a moment, the child’s voice echoing in the tangled roses, and you gather her up in your lap, pressing a kiss to her head—no apologies for her cursing or rude words as they come once in a life time.

You straighten, every muscle strung tight, your voice slicing the brittle air, “leave, now.” There’s no warmth, only steel and threat, every ounce of you in that command. Behind you, the urgent stamp of police boots on wet gravel grows louder. Nahyun’s smile curves even wider, glossy and venomous, but she doesn’t speak, a silent predator, memorizing the curve of your body around Haeun, drinking in the shape of your fear. Beside her, Aseul breaks, her composure shattering in an ugly, wailing sob, clawing at the air for your daughter, her shrieks warping the stillness of the garden. “Please, please, come to mama! Please, I can save you, I can make you better, let me—let me—” She thrashes, animal-like, as police seize her, dragging her away, her voice fracturing the world behind them, splintering into useless desperation.

Even as officers pull her back, Nahyun never blinks, never drops Aseul’s hand. She lets herself be escorted, but her gaze doesn’t falter, eyes burning holes in your skin, pinning you to the moment, the image of those two horror-dolls swallowed slowly by winter shade. Their shadows drag after them, unwilling to leave your safe place untouched.

Your heart pounds as you scoop Haeun closer, feeling her small arms lock around your neck, her shivers making your skin prickle. She refuses to look back, lips trembling as she breathes, “Mama, why they got the same hair and same scary lips? They like ghosts.” She clings tighter, voice trembling. “Don’t let them come back, Mama. I want Dada too. Can we go home?” You whisper that you’ll keep her safe, that you’ll never let anyone take her, your voice thick with the promise. The light is gone from the afternoon, replaced by the bruise of terror, the memory of dolls with red mouths who will not, cannot, ever forget you. You hurry from the ruined garden, her breath warm against your collarbone, both of you carrying the echo of horror carved into the bones of daylight, the chill of their eyes still crawling after you.

Nahyun twists violently, slipping from the officer’s grip with a predatory fluidity, her arm snapping forward, fist tight around a surgical scalpel, the blade catching a flash of late sun. You barely have time to process the glint, to yank Haeun behind your body, before Nahyun slashes out, aiming straight for Haeun’s wrist, her intent naked, wild, unmistakable: to slice, to maim, to draw blood. The world tunnels down to that silver arc, the wicked sharpness of it, the sound as she’s wrestled back, a breath from disaster.

As the officer subdues her, a charm bracelet on Nahyun’s own wrist tangles and snaps, beads exploding across the grass. Your eyes snag on the details, pastel letters spelling out Jeno and a silver tag stamped 04.23, his birthday, unmistakable and sickening in its intimacy. You’re struck silent: it’s the same bracelet you’d seen on his fiancée’s wrist, an intimate gift, now desecrated, worn on this woman’s arm as if she’d swallowed someone else’s life. A single blue bead, smeared with grass, bounces and lands against Haeun’s shoe; later, at home, you’ll find it tucked deep in your pocket, a cold, glittering omen you wish you could destroy.

A mother with two toddlers steps from behind the rose arch just as you scream, her instinct immediate. “I’ll help,” she murmurs, placing herself and her stroller between you and the horror-doll women, standing as a second shield. “Keep moving, I’ve got you.” For one breathless moment, the world narrows to the blur of her hand guiding you, her voice steady in your ear, the glimmer of her own children’s fear mirroring yours, a wordless reminder that every mother here is kin. It’s the village, all teeth and soft hands, guarding you in the split-second you need most.

You snatch up your picnic bag, scoop Haeun into your arms, but she’s twisting, wailing, “My bunny! Mama, my bunny, I left it—please, go back—” Her voice shreds you; the toy is lost on the lawn, a casualty of panic.

You kneel, trembling, brushing hair from her wet cheek, forcing yourself to look her in the eyes. “We can’t, baby. It’s not safe. I’m sorry, we have to go.” The heartbreak is sharp, her innocence cracking as she sobs, betrayal mixing with fear. You hold her tighter, knowing she won’t forget this lesson: sometimes the world is cruel, and the magic garden can turn dangerous in a heartbeat. All of this happens in heartbeats, Nahyun’s voice a low, broken hiss, “So easy to ruin a pretty thing,” before they drag her off, leaving the scalpel abandoned at your feet, the bracelet’s beads scattering through the garden like curses. You scoop up Haeun tighter, clutching her to your chest, and run, heart pounding with a terror you’ll never fully shake, the stinging ghost of Nahyun’s intent branded into your memory.

You run—shoulders hunched, body shielding hers—across the park and into the city. What should be a twenty-minute walk collapses into a frantic six-minute sprint, shoes skidding on wet pavement, lungs burning with cold and dread. Haeun’s sobs tremble against your collarbone, her fists fisted tight in your shirt, the world shrinking to her heartbeat and the pounding in your ears. Traffic blurs; you barely look for cars, instincts overriding logic, driven by nothing but the need to outrun whatever evil just touched you. Inside the hospital, you don’t slow, your pulse hammering as you bolt through the corridors, fluorescent lights carving dizzying white stripes across the floor. Haeun’s breaths are shallow and ragged, each hiccup a countdown to collapse. You dial Jaemin again and again, straight to voicemail. His name glows on your screen, each unanswered ring scraping your nerves raw. You remember: his keynote, unreachable, the entire hospital conference watching him speak. None of his colleagues pick up, either; every ring, every silence twists your panic higher, your voice cracking as you leave message after message.

Nurse Yuha spots you first, then Jihoon, eyes wide, hands gentle as they sweep you into a private exam room. You babble, half-incoherent, everything tumbling out: the garden, the women, their names, the terror in your chest. Their faces go pale, concern etched deep, but you barely notice, mind spinning, cataloging every what-if, every next step. You can’t stop shaking. You’re sobbing now, words stuttering as you explain to Jihoon and Yuha, guilt and dread choking your throat. Dr. Huang enters, jaw set, his presence anchoring. You choke out every detail, how close they came, how you nearly lost her, how it’s your fault. Through it all, Haeun buries herself in your lap, small and fierce, palm pressed to your cheek, whispering, “I keep you safe too, Mama,” her bravery slicing through your panic like light through storm clouds.

Dr. Huang checks the chart, his voice gentle but steady, asking if you’ve given Haeun her medicine. “You’re running a little late, it’s been a rough day. This is the only time you’ve ever been late— it’s only ten minutes, it doesn’t change the medicine’s effect. Take a breath, give her the dose, keep her world as steady as you can. Bring her to my office after and I’ll do a quick check, make sure her heart isn’t too rattled.” Dr. Huang’s gaze lands steady and unflinching on yours, voice clear—no soft edges to the gravity in his words. “You know how it is,” he says quietly, “with Haeun, there’s no room for error. One wrong calculation, a single drop too much or too little, and the risk isn’t just a bad night, it’s fatal.” He doesn’t sugarcoat the truth, never has, because the medicine is a razor you both balance on: a lifesaver when exact, a loaded gun when you’re careless. Still, his trust is absolute—he nods, gentle but firm, his faith in you unwavering, and that faith roots you in your own certainty. You trust yourself just as fiercely. It’s in your hands, every day, the ritual of it is almost sacred and instinctive body language that lives and beats inside of you. You’ve memorized the sequence, the math, the way the dropper glints when you hold it to the light, all your years of training compressed into this most fragile, necessary act. You live with the weight of it and do not flinch, because she’s your girl—her safety is the one commandment you’ll never break. It’s the calm you need, the faith you desperately cling to, the belief you won’t fail her now, not in the aftermath of so much terror.

You gather your trembling courage, holding Haeun close, and walk her to a quiet exam room at the far end of the corridor, heart jackhammering beneath your ribs. You lock the door behind you, hands slick on the handle, as if the click of metal can seal off the outside world, the memory of those women, the chaos in the garden, the terror you’re still trying to swallow. Your bag feels impossibly heavy, your fingers clumsy as you dig for her medicine kit, the familiar plastic box a cold weight in your palm. Guilt stings as you remember you were supposed to give her the dose in the car, right on schedule, like you always do, but after everything—after her tears, the chase, your escape—you ran straight here, left the car parked near the park, with the engine cold and the clock ticking. Now you double-check the time: ten minutes late. You know, as a Doctor and a Mother, a single late dose is almost never dangerous, and in all the time since her diagnosis, you’ve never once been careless; this is the first time you’ve missed the minute mark. But that tiny, rare exception gnaws at you, a sharp little hook in your chest. You force yourself to steady your breath, remind yourself the margin is safe, that you’re the one who does this best. Still, you prep the medicine with extra care, every motion deliberate and precise, your hands and heart refusing to let a single error slip through.

You’ve made her regimen a ritual of love, alarms synced on every device, color-coded syringes lined like soldiers, a logbook inked with the same steady handwriting that once charted cadaver labs. Since Jaemin left, you’ve been the sole steward of those doses: dawn in the blanket fort, noon in the stroller’s shade, twilight in the glow of her star-lamp, never late, never sloppy, never anything but exact. Colleagues tease that you could draw up her cocktail blindfolded, yet you still read every label aloud, tap every vial for bubbles, double-count the drops while she hums along. Nothing slips, not under your watch, not with the memory of every code blue you’ve ever run humming behind your ribs.

You draw the blinds, flick off the overheads so the room is a cocoon of muted light, your shoes half-kicked off at the door, the sense of routine and comfort splintered by the morning’s nightmare. Haeun shivers in your lap, cheeks blotched, her tears soaking through your shirt, her bunny pressed so hard to her face you worry she’ll suffocate in the softness. Your world is razor-thin now, just the two of you, the buzz of fluorescent light, your own shaky breathing as you rock her gently, murmuring, “Nobody’s going to take you, not while I’m breathing, baby. Not ever.” The words are a promise, your vow pressed against the top of her head, as you hold her tight and will your own fear away.

You remember, always, that she’s supposed to be calm before her medicine—this is her lifeline, and you’ve drilled the ritual into both your bones. So you settle cross-legged on the floor and coax her into the warm pocket of your lap, voice a hush of summer rain as the ritual begins, palm gliding from crown to the gentle dip between her shoulders, each pass slower than the last until her breathing falls into your rhythm. The glass vial waits on the table, yet her tears spill first, fat diamonds that knot her fingers in your scrub top, so you guide her through the counting game: inhale four, hold four, exhale four, topping every cycle with a kiss pressed to the pulse at her temple, numbers turning into affection.

When the stitches of panic loosen, you pull the jelly bear thermometer from your pocket, press its cool nose to your cheek, and gasp in dramatic theatre; she hiccups a giggle and tries it herself, laughter bouncing off the lockers like bright marbles. Next comes the butterfly trick, thumbs linked, fingers fluttering, tiny wings beneath her chin, and she chases them with a shriek that cracks the last cloud in the room. She tugs your collar and asks for the song, so you hum the heartbeat lullaby born from monitor whispers, and while the melody curls, she peppers kisses across your mouth—sticky grape-flavoured syrup lingering—murmuring, “Mama, I wuv you,” between breathless giggles that shake her entire frame. Arms tighten, rocking effortlessly, and the two of you slip into that practiced slipstream where fear melts away, pulses synchronise, air tasting of sugar and safety, the world shrinking to heartbeat against heartbeat.

Only then do you start your very thorough medicine routine. Autopilot kicks in. You unzip the medicine bag, hands shaking but not failing, line up the droppers, measure the dose, double-check the label, your thumb tracing the ridges of the glass like a talisman. Every movement is ingrained from a thousand rehearsals, every pause deliberate, your voice gentle and practiced as you say, “Just a tiny taste, Bunny. Brave girl. Mama’s right here.” Inside, you’re unraveling, nerves shot, but on the surface, you’re solid, a pillar for her. You coax her to open her mouth, watching the pink of her tongue, heart pounding in your throat.

You’ve administered her medicine a thousand times, every single dose a ritual of precision—label checked, drops counted, steady hand, always extra careful. Your doctor’s discipline and photographic memory make you more thorough than anyone else on staff. You never rush, never cut corners, every calculation is double-checked before your fingers move. The routine is so embedded in your muscle memory, every safety check drilled by years of training and by the terror of loving something so fragile. Even when you’re exhausted, even under impossible pressure, you never get this wrong—if anything, you’re obsessive, documenting times and doses, running numbers in your head, because the idea of ever failing her is unthinkable.

Still, you coax her with your silly “airplane medicine” routine—swooping the syringe around her cheeks, the plastic tip gently tracing the soft curve of her jaw, whispering playful engine noises until her eyes crinkle into crescent moons, her giggles bubbling out like champagne. She reaches for you, small fingers tangled lovingly in your hair, pulling you close until her lips brush yours in a rain of sweet, sticky kisses, each one a tiny, whispered declaration of devotion. You laugh softly against her mouth, heart swelling until your chest aches with pure, unfettered tenderness, letting her kiss you again and again, drinking in the warmth, knowing each brush of her mouth is fleeting and precious, an imprint on your soul. You gently pry yourself away, murmuring softly with an exaggerated sigh, “Baby, stop—medicine time. Open wide for Mama, just like we practiced,” your voice a lullaby, honeyed and low, weaving promises of forever safety around her little heart.

Her giggle floats softly into your skin, filling the sterile silence of the exam room with a delicate melody—one that only you can hear, resonating deep in the marrow of your bones. She obediently parts her lips, her eyes wide and sparkling with complete trust, waiting eagerly for your touch, the sweetness of her listening to your care so innocent, so absolute, that your breath hitches. You brush your knuckles tenderly against the blush on her cheeks, feeling the velvet of her skin as she hums happily, unaware of the creeping shadow—the parasite nesting silently within the glittering chambers of her lifeline, invisible threads drawn tight by unseen hands.

You linger, eyes locked with hers as you raise the syringe, hovering in a delicate dance before her mouth, savoring the way the sunlight dusts her eyelashes in gold, illuminating each soft breath she takes. Her trust is luminous—fragile yet resilient—like spun glass in your hands, a priceless gift placed gently in your keeping. Your heartbeat quickens, swollen with both gratitude and dread, because you know too well how delicate the rhythm is, how quickly innocence can splinter into oblivion. For a moment you hesitate, the air thick with something heavy and unseen, the whisper of black feathers brushing against the edges of your consciousness—a fleeting vision of the black swan, wings unfurled, circling silently overhead, eyes bright with calculated menace, the very image of Nahyun woven into its shadowed form.

“Ready, sweetheart?” you whisper softly, forcing away the dark vision, focusing instead on the flush of life blooming pink across her cheeks, her laughter still rippling through you like summer wind through chimes. She nods eagerly, opening wide, tiny hands still clutching your wrist as if anchoring herself to your strength. You gently squeeze the medicine, watching it vanish, a small ritual of protection slipping quietly into her tiny body. Her soft giggle vibrates warmly against your fingertips, and she beams at you, syrup-sticky kisses peppering your jaw, voice sugar-sweet and sleepy with love: “Mama, I wuv you so, so much.”

As you hold her close, her heartbeat fluttering gently against your palm, the air around you shifts imperceptibly, and somewhere deep within her body, the unseen parasite stirs—black feathers rustling, talons flexing silently around the delicate threads of her life, poised on the edge of snapping. You breathe her in deeply, cherishing the scent of her hair, the warmth of her laughter, unaware of this tender moment—this fragile, fleeting perfection—is the last time you’ll feel her joy blooming against you before the dark wings of the black swan descend to shatter it all.

The moment the second syrup touches Haeun’s tongue she flinches, blinking up at you with a puzzled tremor that curdles into terror before either of you can blink again, and you hear her whisper, “Mama, it hurts—” right as her spine bows like a drawn bowstring, toes clawing at air, every thin muscle yanking itself into a jagged knot; a raw, wet howl claws free of her throat while her lips bleach to bruised blue, and the whites of her eyes swallow the world. You feel the micro-quake of her wrist snapping against your forearm—crack—a sound that should only live in autopsy rooms, never in a breathing child, yet there it is, echoing through your bones while froth flecks her mouth. You beg, “Haeun, baby, breathe, please breathe,” but the plea shatters against her clenched teeth as vomit bubbles, slick and sour, down her chin and onto the butterfly printed sunflower dress top that just an hour ago she’d bragged made her look like a “real princess.”

Her fingers curl around nothing, soft palms scrabbling at the air, eyes rolling glassy as her whole body jerks, stiff as a board. You call her name again, voice cracking, “Haeun, sweetheart, I’ve got you—just look at Mama, I’m right here, you’re okay, baby, you’re okay—” but her eyelids flutter wild, lashes spiked with tears, and her breath won’t come. A choking sound bubbles in her throat, half-sob, half-growl, then she lets out a hiccuping wail, so thin it’s almost a kitten’s cry. The room fills with the sour-sweet smell of syrup and sick, the little pink bunny slipping from her arms to thud on the floor as her whole body seizes again, chin glossy with spit, tiny heels drumming helpless against the rug. You gather her close, hands shaking, pressing kisses to her sweaty temple, murmuring, “Come on, sunshine, just one breath, please, you can do it, you’re so brave, I’m right here—” trying to sound steady, fighting the panic clawing up your throat.

Haeun whimpers, mouth working, tears streaming down cheeks still smeared with the faintest streaks of glittery face paint, unicorn sticker half-peeled from her arm. “Mama, ‘m scared,” she chokes, voice so small you can barely hear it over your own heartbeat, and you promise her, “It’s okay, baby, I’ve got you, I promise,” even as you feel her go limp in your arms, all the bright weight of her little body curling against your chest, still in that sunflower dress she’d spun in before dinner, yellow ribbons tangled in her hair.

Your own pulse detonates, hammering so hard your vision quivers; you force two fingers between her grinding molars, scrape froth free, pull her jaw forward, adrenaline drowning every scrap of training you thought you owned. Clear the airway, check the pulse, keep the head tilted, don’t lose her. Except there’s no pulse, no rise of her bird-ribbed chest, only the unstoppable, rail-spike spasms shaking her apart while you taste metal and milk-sour dread on the back of your tongue. “Stay with me, Haeun—look at me, look at me—” but her gaze has already slipped beyond you, pupils blown wide to some distant, unlit field. Somewhere in the hallway someone is laughing at a joke you can’t hear, and the sound skews sideways, obscene, as if the universe itself has forgotten the script.

Time buckles; protocol dissolves into shrieking static while your hands fumble, useless meat, around suction tubing that won’t coil right, around a tongue depressor that skitters to the floor, around hope that’s leaking faster than the vomit drenching your thighs. In the same breath you’re both caregiver and executioner, chanting, “Open, open, open,” even as her jaw locks tighter, even as her fragile body jerks against your lap like a marionette yanked by a sadistic god. You scream for a crash cart, for epinephrine, for anything that can rewind the last thirty seconds, but the fluorescent lights only hum louder. You slam heel-compressions into her sternum, counting, “One, two, three,” voice scraping raw, feel cartilage grind under your palms and hate yourself for every necessary bruise you stamp into her paper-thin skin.

“I can’t—she’s slipping—” You hurl Bunny across the bay, the plush already drenched, sticky with blood and spit, her small pink ear torn from where your fist clenched too hard because Bunny’s the only witness who can hear the crack of your soul and keep it secret. Haeun’s head snaps sideways, vomit pooling in her ear canal, and you catch the faintest ghost of her voice, “Mama,” ebbing out like a tide from a ruined shore, leaving nothing but foam and silence. Her arms fall slack, fingers still curled as if clutching some invisible comfort you failed to give. You stare at her open mouth and taste the rot of finality, but you keep pumping anyway, harder, faster, stupid with refusal. The hallway siren finally answers, a stampede of green scrubs and latex gloves, but inside your skull you hear only the hollow thunk of ribs and the prayer you howl without words.

You’re running before you know you’ve stood, Haeun’s limp weight slipping over your forearms, fluids slicking your elbows; every step blurs, corridors stretching elastic, and the antiseptic reek claws your lungs like bleach. Doors slam open. “Take her—take her—” you roar, thrusting what’s left of your little girl into Dr. Huang’s arms while her monitors flash flat red in disgust. You collapse against the trauma bay glass, Bunny crushed to your sternum, knees ricocheting off linoleum, sobs ripping through cartilage and muscle like shrapnel. “I did this, I killed her, I fucked up, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” your throat tears raw on each confession as interns wrestle your wrists away from your own hair, rail you from clawing at your cheeks. Inside, compressions slam into Haeun’s chest, epinephrine plunges, ventilator hisses, yet all you hear is the hollow thunk of earlier, scoring itself into endless replay.

Nurse Yuha kneels, murmuring, “Breathe for me, honey, breathe,” but the instruction ricochets off the cavern your heart has become. You tilt forward, retching bile and heartbreak onto the floor, tasting cherry medicine and vomit and defeat, feeling every tremor of her seizures branded into your muscle memory. Dr. Huang shouts something—numbers, orders—but words lose shape, smear into a brutal smear of neon and red.

The corridor shrinks, ceiling compressing above your bowed spine; fluorescent bars flicker like dying stars, and every shadow grows teeth. The sterile whiteness around you mutates into a mausoleum where heartbeats go to vanish, and even the idle beeps of other rooms seem to hush, embarrassed by your grief. You clutch Bunny closer, pressing the soft fabric to your face until fur sticks to spit-slick cheeks, whispering, “She was just laughing this morning, she asked for pancakes, I said later, later—why did I say later?” Your phone rattles in your back pocket, ‘Jaemin,’ lighting the screen like a cruel joke, 7:19 PM flashing—because he has no fucking clue that in the last fifteen minutes the universe folded in on itself and swallowed the sun. You let the call ring; the vibration buzzes through cracked ribs and you want to answer, want to scream, She’s gone, she’s gone, I lost our baby, but the words stick, tar-thick, behind your teeth.

An intern’s palm lands on your shoulder, steady yet shaking, mumbling, “We’re doing everything,” and you see pity bloom in her eyes, that awful, anticipatory pity that means the cliff edge is close. Through the trauma bay window the team hovers over Haeun’s tiny form, and the contrast of bright red gloves against her pallid skin brands your retinas like an afterimage of hell. You watch her chest rise under mechanical breaths, then fall, never hers, never natural and your heartbeat stutters, syncing to the false rhythm pumped into her body. A sob brakes inside you, jagged, and when it finally breaks free it’s a keening wreck of syllables that no language can cradle, echoing down the hall while the world spins slower, waiting to decide if mercy is empty hands or a miracle you no longer deserve.

The change is instantaneous and horrifying. One second she’s pink-cheeked and giggling against your throat—then her body jerks as if an invisible wire yanks every limb taut. Her eyes roll white, tiny fingers clawing the air; the laugh collapses into a wet rasp that never finishes. Her neck arches, wrists twist at impossible angles with a brittle snap, and all color drains from her skin in a heartbeat. The flutter beneath your palm stops—no pulse, no breath, no sound—just a slack, doll-small body in your arms that a moment ago was pure, living sunlight, and now is terrifying, silent death.

Through the window of the trauma bay, you watch the world narrow to a thin green line pulsing across the monitor, until it doesn’t, until the flatline splits the air like a siren, everything stopping, your own heart thundering. Dr. Huang is already in motion, voice sharp as steel as he calls for a code, slams the code-blue button, shoves your daughter’s tiny chest beneath his palms, compressions smooth and mechanical, body rocking over her with the trained violence of someone who’s broken ribs before to bring back a heartbeat. The crash cart bursts open, paddles pressed to her chest, a shout of “clear!” echoing down the hall, her little body jolting, limbs loose as ragdoll arms. A nurse squeezes oxygen, another pushes meds through the line, adrenaline and epinephrine, a rhythm of orders: “push one more, go again, again, don’t stop—” You can’t look away, nails digging half-moons into your arm, everything inside you screaming. Then, in a blink, the green line blips—stutters, then steadies, a spark of electricity, a ghost of a rhythm. That’s when your phone buzzes, Jaemin’s name lighting up, and you answer with a howl, your voice breaking apart, all of it pouring out in jagged sobs, the terror and the relief, the confession that you watched your baby die, and it’s only by miracle and Huang’s hands that she is still here, for now.

You stay all night in the hospital, anchored to the same patch of dull linoleum outside the NICU, knees pressed to your chest, hospital blanket tangled around your shoulders. The room where Haeun sleeps is lit with sterile blue and gold, just out of sight, yet you can’t bring yourself to step away, not even for a minute. Hayoung, Hyejin, and Jihoon keep cycling through, gentle voices urging, “Come on, you need sleep, you haven’t eaten, you’re no good to her like this,” but you shake your head, jaw locked, breath coming in shudders. They try to guide you to the call room, bring you hot tea, promise to sit with her, but nothing, not hunger, not exhaustion, will pry you away from the last threshold you have left to guard. Every time the door swings open, every beep of a machine, your heart stutters in terror. She’s just there, but a wall of glass might as well be an ocean.

All night, you and Jaemin stay tethered by the phone, your voices scraped raw, your tears coming in waves. He’s in an empty airport terminal, slumped against a cold tile with his suitcase at his knees, phone glued to his ear, his love bleeding through every broken word. There’s not a single edge of blame in him, not a trace of anger, just the steady, aching devotion you fell for. “You did everything right,” he keeps whispering, over and over, voice thick, “You’re the only reason she made it this far. I know you. I know how careful you are. There's no way you messed up her medicine dosages, that’s the most unlikely thing to happen. There’s no one I would trust more. Please, baby, please don’t do this to yourself, I need you to be strong for her.” You sob, choke on the guilt, try to explain—how she coded, how Huang shocked her back, how for a moment your baby died and you were sure it was your fault, that you’d fucked up, that you’d killed her. “No, no,” Jaemin says, gentler than you can bear, “Don’t say that. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to her, and to me. It has to be something else, sweetheart. I promise I’ll help you figure it out when I get there, I promise. Kiss our girl for me. Tell her daddy loves her, more than anything in this world.” Both of you are crying, breathing each other’s pain down the wire, holding on as if the call itself is a lifeline. “I’m boarding the first flight out. I’ll be there before sunrise. Don’t let go. Just hold her.”

You stumble into the harsh light of the hallway, your cheeks raw and your eyes stinging from crying. Nurse Yuha finds you first, slipping a too-sweet cup of tea into your shaking hands. She crouches down beside you, her voice trembling but gentle, “Listen, you didn’t do this. I’ve watched you with her, you’re the most Mama mama I’ve ever seen. You know her medicine better than anyone. There’s no way you made a mistake—something else had to have happened.”

Jihoon and Hyejin join her, faces drawn with worry, both speaking at once. “It’s not your fault. You’re always so precise, more careful than the pharmacy team. None of us believe you got the dose wrong, not for a second.”

Dr. Huang’s words echo later, slow and firm—he says, “You’ve never once slipped up, not in all these years. This isn’t like you. If there was an error, it wasn’t yours.”

They keep repeating it, in quiet voices meant to be comforting—staff, nurses, even the night-shift intern who’s only seen you a handful of times. Every single one of them tries to reassure you, tries to make you believe it can’t be your fault, that you did everything right, that there must be another explanation. But the words go nowhere. It all washes over you, hollow and distant, as you sit hunched in the plastic chair outside her room, wracked with guilt, unable to hear or believe a single thing. All you can see is your baby girl fighting for air, and all you can feel is the conviction—ironclad, unshakeable—that somehow, impossibly, you failed her.

Later, you find Dr. Huang at the coffee machine, his face drawn with exhaustion, voice quiet and solemn. He walks you through the night, her stats, the code, what they did to bring her back, how they pushed meds, how her heart stopped and then started again. “I need you to hear me,” he says, hand warm on your shoulder, the gravity of years of practice settling in his eyes. “We looked at her labs, at her scans. The damage to her heart is catastrophic, the kind we see after a severe overdose or reaction. She’s too weak for surgery, and the window for a transplant is impossibly small. She’s not high on the list—her type is rare, and she’s too unstable for most protocols. UNOS needs tests, clearances, and by the time we do all that, it might be too late. If the tests don’t kill her first… The only hope is a miracle. A donor heart at the perfect moment, or—” His voice breaks off, and for a moment, you see him as a father, not just her doctor.

“Her only hope now is support, and that’s why I put her on an LVAD—left ventricular assist device.” He lets the word hang in the air, as heavy as a sentence. “It’s a mechanical pump, it’ll do the work of her heart for now, buying her time. It isn’t a cure, but it’s a bridge—a temporary lifeline. She’s not a candidate for surgery, not stable enough, not yet. And she’s not high on the transplant list. Her blood type is rare, her antibodies even rarer, and with this much instability, she’s at the bottom. UNOS will need rounds of testing, crossmatching, insurance approvals, and it could take weeks to find a match. We don’t have that time.” His thumb rubs slow comfort across your shoulder, but his words are steel. “This machine is our last line. It’ll keep her alive while we wait, but if it fails, or if her body can’t tolerate it… then we’re out of options. The risk of infection, stroke, device malfunction—it’s all high, especially in a child this small. And even if she does make it, she might never recover enough to qualify for the medical trials you wanted. She’s too unstable now—her kidneys, her liver, they’re already suffering. We’re at the end of what medicine can do. I wish I had better news. I wish I could promise something. You need to get prepared to say your goodbyes. She has a week at most. I’m so, so sorry.”

You drop to your knees right there in the hallway, tea spilling and forgotten, your whole body shaking as the weight of it slams into you. Your breath shudders out in ragged bursts, hands pressed to your mouth as you rock forward, the sobs tearing loose before you can hold them back. “Did I—did I—” the words tangle, strangled and desperate, “Was it me? Did I do this? Tell me, did I—” Your voice cracks, breaking into nothing as you gasp for air, grief and horror clawing up your throat until all you can do is sob, curled on the hospital floor, unable to look up, unable to breathe, your guilt too big, too wild, choking you from the inside out.

Huang’s answer is soft, clear, and final. “No. You did everything right. I would trust you with my own child’s life. This was not your error.” But the words mean nothing against the weight of your guilt. The sobs tear out of you in waves, but soon it’s more than that, your whole body shakes uncontrollably, shoulders jerking, hands clawed at your hair, head knocked back so hard you see spots. It’s not just crying now, it’s a seizure of grief, violent and ungovernable, your chest seizing, lungs refusing to fill, every muscle locking and shuddering as your mind fractures on the memory of her laughter, the dread of her silence. You dig your nails into your arms, rocking and twitching, helpless as your body rebels—dizzy, blind, the terror blotting out everything except the knowledge that you might never hear her call you Mama again.

Two hours after the world ended, you force yourself to stand, to walk, to breathe, hands trembling on the ICU door as you press your forehead to the glass and promise yourself you won’t fall apart in front of her. The lights inside are low, humming a blue twilight—her room thick with the quiet language of suffering, the hush of machines, the tiny electric pulse that says she’s still here. You push open the door, and for a second you think you might shatter anyway. She’s so small, the blankets swallowing her, cheeks bloodless, mouth parted as if sleep could be an escape. Wires thread out of her hospital gown like puppet strings; IVs drip into paper skin. Her black hair spills across the pillow in a tangle, wild and perfect, her bunny clutched so tight to her that you see the pink imprint of its ear in her palm.

You sit beside her—no, you fold, you collapse, you surrender—reaching for her hand, pressing kisses to each tiny knuckle, and in that moment she stirs, eyelashes fluttering, voice soft as breath. “Mama,” she whispers first, that single word carrying every beat of longing you’ve felt since they pulled her from your arms. “I missed you, Mama. Come.” She stretches her arm weakly, demanding your closeness, and you cradle her against your chest. She kisses your cheek, your nose, your eyelid, sticky and gentle, repeating, “I wuv you, my mama, my bestest girl, my wuv. You’re my stars, Mama.” She clings to you as if nothing’s changed, as if you’re still magic, still safe, still the sun. She doesn’t know what you did. She doesn’t know your shaking hands measured out the poison that almost took her away. She doesn’t know your guilt could drown you, that you’d burn your life to ash for one more hour with her, and that’s why you came here ready to risk everything—your career, your freedom, your soul—because you’d trade the world if it meant keeping her heartbeat alive.

Her eyelids flutter, drifting closed again, and she breathes in fits and starts, each one a battle, but she fights to open her eyes for you. She tries to smile—brave, wobbly, stitched from scraps of hope. “When’s Dada coming, Mama?” she asks, voice thin as spider-silk.

You smooth her hair, tracing your thumb over her damp temple, fighting the sobs that claw up your throat. “He’s almost here, angel. He just landed, he’s coming right to you. He’s never leaving your side again.” She smiles, soft and fleeting, lips pale but still searching for yours, then closes her eyes, her breath rattling in her chest. You wipe away the fever-sweat, your hands gentle, the world narrowed to her face, her hands, the shell of her ear.

You break. You can’t help it. The apology spills from you, pouring into her hair as you press your cheek against her crown, tears leaking hot and silent. “I’m so sorry, sunshine, I’m so sorry. I should’ve been better, should’ve been faster, I should’ve been magic for you, baby. I’m so sorry if I ever made you scared.”

She stirs, hand twitching in yours, and blinks up at you, confusion etched into the lines of her forehead, heartbreakingly earnest and small. “Why you sorry, Mama? You my favorite. You my safe place.” Her voice trembles, a whisper barely there. “I love you. Don’t cry, Mama. I’m okay.”

You cradle her, sobbing into her hair, the kind of shaking that makes your bones ache. “I love you more. More than all the hearts in the world, more than the sun, more than any miracle. I would do anything—anything—to make you better, bunny.” Her fingers brush the tears from your jaw, her touch feather-light, and she tries to smile for you, fighting to be brave as her voice thins to nothing.

“Don’t be sad, Mama. I keep you safe too. I stay here forever, never leave you, never ever. I feel so much owie but it go away when you’re here. I want you, only you.” She snuggles in, forehead pressed to your collarbone, whispering, “When you hold me, nothing hurts. You make the pain go away, Mama. I never leave, promise. Don’t let go, okay? You my whole heart, Mama. Don’t let them take me.”

You promise—you swear it, your voice cracking in the cold white dark—that you’ll never let go, not for anything, not even the rules or the world or the law. Your love is a fever, a prayer, a curse, and if this is your last hour with her, you’ll spend it wrapping her in everything you have left, all the softness and all the desperation, until there’s nothing left but the two of you, breathing together, mother and daughter, lifeline and love, holding the dying sun.

You sigh, slow and deep, dragging every ragged edge of yourself together as you rise from her bedside—something solemn settling over you, gravity humming in your bones. Your hands are careful, cradling her cheek, and you force your voice soft, soothing, all heart. “There’s something I need to do, baby,” you murmur, brushing a stray hair from her brow, “something that might help you feel better. Even just a little. I need you to trust me, okay? Just for a minute, bunny, like always.” She nods, trusting, half-dreaming, but you see the terror curled at the edges of her smile.

You keep your words gentle, masking the ache, lowering yourself so your faces are close, eyes level. “It’s gonna hurt at first, baby, but I promise, you’re gonna feel so much better. It’s gonna give you a brand new and strong heart. This is the only way your owie will go fowever, okay? I need you to be brave for me, one more time. Can you do that?”

Her eyelids flutter heavy and slow, lashes wet against pale skin. She squeezes your fingers, barely there, a tiny trembling bird in your palm. “Okay, Mama,” she whispers, the words a shiver of trust, “you always know. You my best.” Her voice is so thin it almost doesn’t exist, just a breath hanging between the beep of machines.

You lean down, pressing your lips to her forehead, a thousand silent apologies passed through skin and bone—don’t let her go, don’t let her fade. When you pull back, she’s crying, tears slipping sideways into her hair, her face twisted in heartbreak. “I sad, Mama,” she sobs, and you see the child behind the tubes, the softness of every lost day. “I only bwave for you.” Her chest shakes, voice caught between pain and longing. “Will me, you, and Dada still go on holiday? Mama, we packed such pwetty dresses and shorts. Mama, why I have such a bad life?” The question cleaves you straight down to your soul.

You gather her up, hold her so close you can taste the salt of her tears on your mouth, bury your grief in the place where her heartbeat used to drum steady against your chest. “Oh, sweetheart,” you whisper, every word a lifeline and a wish, “I would give you the world if I could. You deserve only good things, the biggest adventures, all the colors and sunlight. We’ll still go, baby—somewhere just for you, somewhere only we can find, where nobody hurts and you can run, dance and laugh, and I’ll never let go, not here, not there, not ever. You’re my reason, you’re my whole heart, my light on the darkest days. I’m so proud of you, Sunshine—so, so proud. If there’s a place after this, it’ll be you and me, forever, chasing the sun. ” You cup her face in both hands, kiss away every tear, let her cling to your shirt and burrow into the only safety she’s ever known. “You are the bravest, most precious girl there ever was. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Outside, dawn slides cold and colorless across the city, the hush of morning rounds echoing through sterile corridors. Wheels squeak, doors click, the world spinning on, indifferent to the line you’re about to cross. You look back at your beautiful girl—her chest barely rising, cheeks ashen, a vision of all you’ve ever fought for shrunken into white sheets and plastic tubes. You reach for the scissors, hands shaking so hard you nearly drop them, sweat prickling at your hairline, chest about to split from the panic. It feels like your entire life, the years of medical school, the pride you built, every sleepless night you spent earning trust, every ounce of credibility and purpose, shudders and crumbles at your feet. Everything you worked for, burned through in one mistake, one reckless act. All you can think is, how different are you to Aseul now? You’re just another woman who let her child suffer, another mother with blood on her hands. You see Jaemin’s face, remember how he trusted you, leaving for a month, believing you’d be good enough, that you could love his girl the way he would and you’ve ruined it, you’ve lost everything, you don’t deserve her, don’t deserve him, don’t deserve the next breath. Your relationship, your future, your family—gone. Haeun’s tiny, precious body beneath your hand, the life you were meant to protect. What right do you have to love her, after this? What right to hope, or to dream of happy endings, or to walk away with a beating heart when hers barely hangs on? You can taste the grief in your mouth as you lift the blades. This is all you have left: a last chance, one desperate, dangerous choice. You know the stakes. You know the cost.

You stand over her, the silver blades trembling in your grip, poised above the lifeline meant to save her, now the only barrier between hope and catastrophe. In this suspended moment, you see everything: the years you might lose, the future you might steal, the love that is worth dying for. Her eyes open, heavy-lidded, soft and unfathomably trusting. She finds you in the half-light, voice no louder than a sigh. “Don’t be scared, Mama. I here.” That’s all. That’s the world—her voice and your heart, the promise and the risk, the memory of sunlight cut with shadow.

You stare down at your daughter’s chest, the whir of the LVAD like an artificial heartbeat pulsing through the room. You know what this wire means—every nurse, every surgeon, every chart entry calls her “stable,” calls this little girl saved by the machine, but you see the truth written in the gray hollows beneath her eyes. This device keeps her alive, but it has trapped her in a purgatory; as long as the LVAD works, the transplant board sees no urgency, her name sinking lower and lower on the list, while the clock runs out on her tiny, failing heart. Your hands tremble as you reach for the scissors, sweat blooming down your spine. You know the second you cut this wire, everything will change—alarms will shriek, doctors will swarm, she will be thrust into crisis. But that crisis is the only way to force the system to see her, to catapult her to the very top of the transplant list, to give her a fighting chance at a new heart before she fades away. You know it’s a violation, a betrayal of your oath, the end of everything you’ve built as a doctor, as her protector. But you are her mother first. In this impossible moment, all you can do is hold her hand, kiss her forehead, and choose the only future that might let her live—even if it means gambling with everything you are.

Your fingers curl around the silver blades, your breath deepens, the pulse in your throat humming like wings in flight—a whisper of something dark and powerful sliding beneath your skin, silky and insidious. It’s as if the black swan herself has slipped into your veins, feathers brushing against your ribcage, murmuring that salvation and damnation taste exactly the same when your heart has nothing left to lose. And in that glittering moment of silence, suspended between catastrophe and deliverance, Haeun looks up at you, eyes round and sweet, filled only with trust, her small voice bright as a bell. “I wuv you, Mama,” she chirps softly, clutching Bunny tighter. “I trust you! I so happy you gonna fix my owie!” Her little giggle spills out, brave and unaware, as she squints at the wire in your trembling grasp, whispering conspiratorially, “Mama, is that my magic string? Snip snip, it goes bye-bye and then we go on holiday, right?”

And the swan inside you hums louder, darker, compelling and velvet-smooth, as your hand hovers there, poised above the LVAD cable—a single heartbeat away from slicing through fate itself. The whole universe seems to hold its breath, caught helplessly between hope and despair, as you teeter on the brink, the shining blade reflecting your haunted eyes back at you—your reflection one half mother, one half monster, your daughter’s laughter like honeyed poison coaxing you ever closer to the edge.

author’s note

now, if you made it this far, i’d love it if you left me a comment, reblog, or even a like. i read every single one and they mean so much to me—it’s genuinely the best way to let me know what moved you, what you loved, or even what broke your heart. writing is a little lonely sometimes, it always takes me restless nights, and hearing from you makes it all feel worthwhile, like sharing a secret or lighting a candle for these characters. so don’t be shy! every little note is treasured and makes me want to keep going. thank you for reading, and for loving these messy, magical people with me. <3

taglist — @yukisroom97 @fancypeacepersona @jaeminnanaaa17 @shiningnono @junrenjun @honeybeehorizon @neotannies @noorabora @oppabochim @chenlesfeetpic @kynessa @awktwurtle @euphormiia @hi00000234527 @yvvnii @sunwoosberrie @ppeachyttae @dee-zennie @ballsackzz101 @neonaby @kukkurookkoo @antifrggile @dedandelion @fymine @zoesruby @yoonohswife @jessga @markerloi @ryuhannaworld @yasminetrappy @sunghoonsgfreal @jaemjeno @lovetaroandtaemin @yunhoswrldddd @dowoonwoodealer @enhalovie @jenzyoit @sunseteternal @dewyspace @markiesfatbooty @raysofpolaris @sunseteternal @oppabochim @markerloi @xiuriii @neocults26

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hyuckiefluff · 6 months ago

Text

dr dreamy | na jaemin

pairing: doctor!neighbor! na jaemin x fem.reader genre & wc: smut, fluff, crack (ish) | 18k summary: in which your infuriatingly hot neighbor ends up getting your box of sex toys delivered to his door by mistake content warning: explicit smut, breast play, oral sex (fem.receiving), brief mentions of sex toy usage, teasing, marking, dry humping, cowgirl (yeehaw), alcohol consumption, monster cawwwk jaemin (i didn’t make this up it’s real) a/n: hiiiii yes yes i know, it’s been forever and ive neglected you all so bad i’m so sorry ! i can’t even use the excuse of being too busy bc i was just in the worst writing slump of my life. but i hope i can make up for all those 10 months of radio silence with this long fic :) also it’s pretty different from what i’m used to writing. for once i wrote it all in lowercase bc i felt like this was lowkey a pretty unserious fic and that was the vibe it required lol it’s also my first time trying to write something “funny” but my humor is not that good still i tried lolz. also i'd like to add that i know as much about doctors as the next person so don't expect much accuracy in that regard. anyways hope you enjoy :)

read part two here

your leg bounced anxiously as you stared at the photo the delivery guy sent, trying to figure out which door your package had ended up on. every single door in your building was the same plain white with no decoration, no plants, no quirky doormat to offer a clue. just a long, boring hallway of identical doors, and somewhere behind one of them was your package.

"great," you muttered, already feeling the creeping frustration in your chest.

your phone buzzed in your hand, and you barely had time to glance at the screen before answering.

"sooo," came minnie's voice, far too chipper for this disaster, "did you like my gift?”

“i’m gonna strangle you,” you hissed, rubbing your temples.

“woah, you know i’m not into that freaky shit.”

“i’m serious, minnie,” you groaned, dragging a hand through your hair. “the package got delivered to a different apartment. you must’ve put the wrong number on it.”

“no way,” she gasped, already on the defensive. “i literally double-checked. triple-checked, even. it’s apartment 235.”

"what?” you yelled, nearly dropping your phone.

this can’t be happening. out of all the apartments in your building… it had to be that one?

“minnie…” you took a deep breath, forcing yourself to stay calm, "it’s 236. apartment 236.”

she paused. “oh.”

you heard her laugh nervously, and it took everything in you not to throw your phone across the room.

“minnie…” you groaned, pressing your forehead against the wall. “i swear, if it’s what i think it is based on our last conversation…” your voice trailed off as a sinking feeling settled in your stomach. “my next-door neighbor, minnie. MINNIE. jaemin…oh my god.”

“wait,” she said, voice sharp with interest. “is that the doctor you said is too hot for his own good?”

“i did not say that.”

“you did.”

“no, i said he’s just… a nice sight for my eyes, okay? in a building full of old people, sue me for appreciating the view.” you rubbed at your face. “but i can’t face him if he saw what’s in that package. i just can’t.”

“listen…” minnie drawled. “what if he’s into it, though? think about it.”

“i’m hanging up.”

“no, wait—” but you pressed the red button before she could finish.

the most mortifying experience of your 24 years on this planet, and it hadn’t even fully happened yet. but you could see it clear as day: the box, him opening it innocently, and its contents—oh, god, the contents.

the thing is, you and minnie had a dumb tradition. whenever life got a little too miserable or stressful, you’d send each other gifts. random, stupid stuff. a manga you’d been talking about, or a plushie of your favorite sanrio character. the catch was you could never reveal what it was until it was opened. it was supposed to be a surprise.

except this time, you were sure minnie’s idea of a "surprise" was directly inspired by your recent rants about being, well… frustrated. as in, the sexual kind of frustration. you had a strong hunch about what she’d sent.

you sank into the couch, letting out a long sigh. you had two choices: go over there and pray he hadn’t opened it, or stay here and hope the ground swallowed you whole. both seemed equally unlikely.

as you stared at the ceiling, someone knocked on the door.

three soft knocks.

your heart stopped, your body jolting so hard you nearly rolled off the couch. no. no, no, no. not him. please not him.

you tiptoed to the door like a cartoon burglar, eyes wide with panic. don’t answer. if you don’t answer, he’ll just leave it. you could grab it later. it’s fine. everything’s fine.

but as you got closer, you heard the softest shuffle from the other side. he was still there. you peeked through the peephole and there he was indeed… jaemin. your very handsome, very distinguished doctor neighbor. standing there, holding your box.

you backed away from the door like it was about to explode. no, nope, you’d just wait until he—

you bumped into the side table. hard. and in a moment of unfiltered pain, you yelled, “FUCK!” loud enough to echo down the hall.

a long pause.

“hello?” his voice was clear through the door. smooth, polite.

you shut your eyes so tight you saw stars. letting him think you weren’t home was six feet under now.

"just get it over with," you muttered to yourself, quickly checking your appearance in the mirror to make sure you didn’t look at destroyed as you felt.

you opened the door with the kind of smile you'd give a police officer who just pulled you over. "oh! good morning, neighbor!" you practically chirped, voice too high, too fake.

he smiled, sleepy but devastatingly handsome. his scrubs hung perfectly off his frame, and his hair was tousled like he'd just came from a long night shift…which he probably did. he had the kind of face that made you think life has favorites.

“morning,” he said, nodding his head. “sorry to bother you so early, but this…” he held up the box, fingers tapping the side of it. tap tap tap your eye twitched. “this got delivered to my place by mistake.”

he was so calm. too calm.

“oh,” you squeaked, your voice barely functional. “uh, yeah! no worries at all! my friend sent it, haha, she’s… forgetful like that. really bad with numbers. haha…” you trailed off. kill me now.

“right,” he said, eyes flicking to the box. “well, here you go.” he held it out to you.

you reached for it but your hands, slick with nervous sweat, betrayed you. the box slipped.

“oh no-”

thud.

everything.

everything spilled out.

time slowed. your heart dropped straight into hell.

boxes. bottles. wrappers.

and then the pièce de résistance.

a sex doll.

a life-size, anatomically correct, male sex doll.

you didn’t know what kind of sound you made, but it was something between a gasp and a whimper. your knees hit the floor as you scrambled to grab everything wishing you could somehow erase the last five seconds of reality.

“oh my god,” you whispered, cramming the boxes into your arms. “oh my god. oh my god.”

“uhm,” he cleared his throat and you didn’t even have to look up to know what kind of face he was making. there were no words for this. none. zero.

“thank you for bringing it to me! bye!” you choked out, voice cracking on the last syllable as you grabbed what you could and slammed the door shut with the force of a hurricane.

you pressed your back to the door, sinking to the floor, arms full of colorful boxes of shame. you stared at them.

a vibrator. a bottle of lube. a very, very anatomically correct doll still half in its box.

"minnie." you said her name like a curse.

your phone buzzed. it was a text from her.

minnie (6:18am): how’d it go?

“hell,” you muttered, tossing your phone across the room.

you sat there for what felt like hours, the weight of embarrassment crushing down on you. moving out suddenly seemed like the only reasonable option. scratch that, you were moving countries. or planets. was mars habitable yet?

♡ ♡ ♡

for the next few days, life was nothing short of miserable. you called in sick to work because there was no way you could leave your apartment and risk running into jaemin. the idea of seeing him again made your stomach twist into knots. to anyone else, it might seem dramatic—after all, owning sex toys wasn’t some scandalous crime—but the sheer context of it all was unbearable.

the cherry on top was that the box had clearly already been opened. jaemin had definitely seen what was inside before you’d even dropped it. and the fact that he just pretended everything was normal while standing there with a straight face? it was almost worse. no, it was worse. because now he probably pitied you for dropping it in front of him even after he tried to save you from the embarrassment.

you groaned, burying your face into the couch cushions. where was the armageddon when you needed it?

you hadn’t left your spot in the couch days, and your body was starting to hate you for it. your back ached from the awkward angle you were lying in, and your stomach growled because you’d panic-eaten the last of your food last night.

“this is pathetic,” you muttered, grabbing your phone.

after scrolling aimlessly for a few minutes, you reluctantly opened your food delivery app. you ordered enough food for at least two days and prayed the delivery guy would bring it to your door. but of course, life hated you, so when you got the “can’t find parking” text, you sighed loudly.

“naturally,” you mumbled, dragging yourself off the couch.

you threw on the most disguising outfit you could find: a black beanie, your puffy winter coat, and oversized sunglasses. did you look like a wannabe celebrity trying to dodge the paparazzi? sure. but desperate times called for desperate measures.

you texted the driver a quick be right down and bolted to the elevator, keeping your head low.

when you reached the parking lot, you practically snatched the bag out of the driver’s hands and mumbled a quick thank you before rushing back inside. you were so close to safety now.

you stepped into the elevator and leaned against the wall, finally letting out a sigh of relief. but, as fate would have it, you celebrated just a tad too soon.

just before the doors closed, a hand shot through the gap. you froze.

you smelled him first.

that cologne. you’d know it anywhere.

your heart sank as jaemin stepped into the elevator, looking unfairly handsome as usual. you, on the other hand, looked like a fugitive.

“good afternoon,” he said politely, his voice calm and smooth.

“hi, uh…afternoon,” you mumbled, holding the bag of food up to your face like a shield. maybe if you hid behind it long enough, he wouldn’t notice it was you.

“y/n?”

shit.

you glanced at him reluctantly, offering an awkward laugh. “oh, hey, jaemin… didn’t realize it was you.” you pushed your sunglasses up onto your head. “these things are so dark.”

he chuckled, tilting his head slightly. “didn’t recognize you either. are you coming from an event or something?”

you blinked at him, realizing how ridiculous your outfit must look. “oh, no, i—uh… i have a cold,” you stammered. “just trying to stay warm, you know?”

“ah,” he nodded, his expression softening. “well, you should rest up. drink plenty of water and maybe some tea with honey, it helps soothe your throat. oh, and—”

he started rattling off doctorly advice and you could only stare at him, dumbfounded. because, of course, not only was he handsome, but he was kind, too. unfair. completely unfair.

“thanks,” you said, cutting him off before he could get too deep into his list of remedies.

he smiled at you again, and for a moment, you swore your heart skipped a beat. “i was actually a little worried,” he admitted, leaning against the elevator wall casually. “i haven’t seen you around the past few days.”

“oh. uh… yeah,” you said weakly, shifting the food bag in your hands. “just been laying low, don’t wanna get anyone sick.”

“i see,” he said, his tone light but teasing. “you’re not hiding from me, are you?”

your eyes widened, and your breath caught in your throat. was it that obvious?

“what? no! why would i be hiding from you?” you forced out a laugh, but it sounded fake even to your ears.

he raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching like he was fighting a grin. “hmm. just checking.”

“yeah, it’s because of the cold” you muttered, fidgeting with the handle of the food bag. “it’s nothing serious, though. i appreciate the concern.” you tried to sound nonchalant, but the tremor in your voice betrayed you.

“good to hear,” he said, his eyes still on you. “but still, if it doesn’t get better in a few days, you should probably see a doctor.”

“right. definitely,” you nodded quickly, eyes glued to the little numbers above the elevator door, silently willing them to move faster.

but of course, the universe hated you lately. the elevator suddenly jerked to a stop, too soon for your floor. you flinched, and before you could even begin to hope it was just a regular stop, the overhead lights flickered once, then twice, and then… nothing.

darkness.

“oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” you groaned, tilting your head back against the cold elevator wall.

“well,” jaemin’s voice came through the darkness, and you could hear the grin in it, “this is bad timing, huh?”

“this is my villain origin story,” you muttered, crossing your arms as you slid down to sit on the floor. “this is how i finally snap and become one of those people who yell at customer service workers.”

he laughed, and you hated how nice it sounded. like melted chocolate. warm, smooth, and way too easy to get addicted to.

“guess we’re stuck for a bit,” he said, sitting across from you. you could only make out the faintest outline of him in the dim emergency lighting. “not a bad person to be stuck with, though.”

“yeah, lucky you,” you deadpanned, cradling your bag of food.

there was a pause. not an awkward one but it felt somewhat intimate and you didn’t like it. not because you felt uncomfortable but because you were scared of embarrassing yourself further.

“hey,” he spoke up again, softer this time. “about the other day…”

no. absolutely not. this was not happening.

“nope,” you cut him off, waving a hand like you could physically swat the topic away. “we don’t talk about that. ever.”

“but i think we should—”

“we don’t, jaemin,” you said firmly, pointing at him like a scolding parent. “it never happened. you never saw it. i never dropped it. in fact, none of it exists. it was a shared hallucination caused by gas leaks in the building. that’s my story, and i’m sticking to it.”

he snorted, hiding a laugh behind his hand. “gas leaks?”

“yep. toxic fumes. real health hazard,” you nodded, doubling down. “you should probably get management to check that out, doctor.”

“i’m a neurosurgeon, not an HVAC technician,” he shot back, amused.

“same difference,” you muttered.

another pause. you could feel him looking at you, even in the dimness.

“for what it’s worth,” he started slowly, like he was choosing his words carefully, “i wasn’t judging you.”

“good,” you mumbled, picking at a loose thread on your coat. “because i’m not like ashamed of it, just… mortified, you know?” you finally glanced up at him, feeling a little braver in the low light. “there’s a difference.”

he nodded, eyes warm and understanding in a way that made your chest ache. “there is.”

you sighed, letting your head fall back against the wall. “i’m moving. i’ve decided.”

he laughed, full and bright. “you’re not moving.”

“i am, actually,” you insisted. “gonna change my name, get a new identity. maybe move to the mountains. live off the grid. it’s the only way.”

“you’re ridiculous,” he said, still grinning.

“you say that like it’s news.”

silence settled over you both again, but this time it was lighter. less suffocating. you could hear him shift, stretching his legs out in front of him. he tapped his fingers against his knees like he was keeping time to a song only he could hear.

“so,” he said after a beat, voice low and casual. “was that, uh… the first time you ordered something like that?”

your whole face went hot.

“jaemin,” you warned.

“what?” he asked, the picture of innocence. “just curious.”

“don’t make me call those toxic fumes back in here,” you threatened, pointing a stern finger at him.

he threw his head back laughing, and despite yourself, you smiled too.

"fine, i won’t bring it up anymore,” he said with a tired smile, rubbing the back of his neck. his fingers pressed into the muscle there, and he winced slightly.

“you okay?” you asked, glancing at him with concern.

“yeah, just a long day at work,” he replied, rolling his shoulder like it’d been bothering him for hours.

“yeah, i can imagine. the life of a doctor must be pretty hectic,” you said, eyes flicking to his hands as they worked over the tense muscle. “but you gotta know your limits too… you’re not made of steel, you know.” there was a hint of worry in your voice, and you tried not to let it show too much, but judging by the way he glanced at you, he caught it.

he looked at you for a moment, longer than usual, before nodding. “you’re right,” he let out a short breath. “i guess i’ve been burying myself in work lately. but it’s hard not to when it’s this time of the year… i’m a pediatric neurosurgeon and too many kids get sick and hurt during the summer.”

“oh, definitely. i’m not even a kid and i always get sick in the summer,” you joked, hoping to lighten the mood.

he laughed at that, his grin easy and genuine. “never too late to have fun during the summer,” he said, leaning back against the elevator wall. “just not too much fun. can’t party too hard with a cold.”

“do i look like the kind of person who parties too hard?” you raised an eyebrow at him.

“hmm,” he tilted his head with a slight (cute) pout. “i wouldn’t know. we don’t know each other that well.” he glanced at you, eyes flicking over you just once before smirking. “but you’re young and pretty, so why not?”

your heart stumbled in your chest, and you fought to keep your face neutral. did he seriously just call you pretty so casually like it was a fact of life? the dim lighting of the elevator became your saving grace, hiding the warmth that crept up your neck.

"want a piece?" you asked, anxiously trying to change the subject, raising the bag of fried chicken in your hands. you shook it lightly to emphasize. "i have a feeling we're gonna be stuck here for a while, and it's still warm."

he raised an eyebrow, his grin widening into something a little playful. “don’t mind if i do.”

he moved closer, close enough that your shoulders almost brushed, and you set the bag down in front of you both. “dig in,” you said gesturing with your hands toward the chicken.

“so… you’re a doctor…” you said after a couple minutes of eating in silence.

“last time i checked, yeah,” he replied, glancing over at you with a faint smile.

“so why’d you move into this shabby building with elevators that haven’t been serviced since the stone age?” you asked, pausing to tear into a chicken wing with zero grace or subtlety.

he stared at you, and you couldn’t tell if it was because of your question or the feral way in which you were eating.

“i’m a resident, so i don’t make nearly as much as people think. plus, med school debt is no joke. this place fit the budget.”

“oh,” you muttered, suddenly feeling a little awkward. “sorry if that sounded kinda judgy. people tell me i’ve got a chronic case of big mouth syndrome.”

“it’s fine,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “at least you’re honest.”

“what about you?” he asked, tilting his head toward you.

“me? oh same story, different font. drowning in student debt, and this place was… available,” you said, popping another wing into your mouth.

he nodded, and after that, the conversation picked up, flowing so naturally you forgot you’d technically only been speaking to him for a week. before that you had only shared neighborly greetings in the hallway.

you didn’t even realize how much time had passed until the elevator jolted suddenly, the lights flickering back on with a low, mechanical hum.

by then, the bag of chicken was empty, and you knew more about jaemin than you ever expected to learn in one night.

♡ ♡ ♡

“i thought elevators had some kind of emergency backup power for blackouts,” minnie said, her face pixelated on your phone screen.

“yeah but this building’s like 60 years old,” you muttered, adjusting the camera so she could see you better. you were sitting on the floor, painting your toenails a fresh shade of lavender. “the fact that it even has an elevator is a miracle.”

“true, true,” minnie nodded, chewing on a piece of candy. her eyes lit up suddenly. “by the way, why does your sexy doctor live there? i thought doctors were supposed to be loaded.” she propped her chin on her hand.

“he told me he just started his residency,” you explained, blowing gently on your freshly painted nails. “and he just started a new job at the hospital. they don’t get paid that well when they’re starting out.”

“hmm,” she hummed knowingly. “so you spend a few hours stuck in an elevator with him, and suddenly you’re an expert on the medical field, huh?”

you rolled your eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck. “it’s called having a normal conversation, you should try it”

“i’m just saying,” minnie teased, tossing a gummy bear into her mouth. “you went in there hiding from him, and you ended up sharing chicken and life stories. i see you.”

“there is nothing to see,” you shot back, tossing a pillow at your phone screen like she could actually feel it.

“mm-hmm,” she hummed, leaning forward “so, did he mention it?”

“mention what?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

“the box,” she said ominously, dragging out the word like it belonged in a horror movie trailer.

you froze. “he tried to,” you admitted, tapping your fingers on the pillow in your lap. “but i shut him down real quick.”

“oho, look at you,” she said, leaning back impressed. “miss assertive, didn’t think you had it in you.”

“i have more pillows to throw, minnie. don’t test me.”

“yeah, yeah, violent tendencies aside,” she waved you off, completely immune to your threats. “i hope this new confidence means you’re finally putting my gifts to use.” she tilted her head with the most innocent smile, which made it all the more sinister.

your face went hot. so, so hot.

“i haven’t,” you lied, voice a little too high.

“liar,” she sang, leaning closer to the camera. “i can see your shifty eyes. you definitely tried it.”

“okay, fine, i did!” you snapped, throwing your hands up. “but it was a disaster.”

minnie perked up with curiosity. “oh?”

“yeah, oh,” you repeated, scratching your head. “it just… didn’t hit. it felt weird and i got frustrated, so i just gave up. plus i don’t know where you got that vibrator from but it almost burned my girlypop”

“rookie mistake,” she sighed shaking her head dramatically. “that’s why you need someone with experience to help you out.”

your brows furrowed. “what are you even saying right now?”

“i’m saying,” she grinned like the devil himself, “that you have a perfectly qualified medical professional living right next door. i’m sure dr. mcdreamy wouldn’t mind giving you a consultation.”

you blinked once. “minnie, you’re actually sick in the head.”

“oh, please.” she tossed her hair over her shoulder, rolling her eyes. “he’s hot, he’s single, and you’ve already done half the work. you were sitting there eating fried chicken, and you’re telling me he kept throwing compliments at you? we all know you eat chicken like a truck driver, and he still thought you were pretty. use your resources, babe.”

“he was hungry and stuck. he was probably grateful i offered him food. what else was he supposed to do?”

“it’s so much more than that,” she said, holding up a hand, a clear signal for you to shut up and pay attention. “i know when a man is laying the foundation and trust me, he’s building a whole mansion with your name on it.”

“you’re fully overreacting right now.”

one of minnie's strengths was that she wasn’t one to give up easily. but that also ended up being one of her flaws. you knew for a fact she wouldn’t drop this jaemin thing until she proved he had a thing for you.

“seriously, though,” she continued, leaning in so close her face was the whole screen. “he’s a doctor which means he’s like literally obligated to help people. it’s in the oath or something.”

“your point is..?”

“you know” she raised her brows suggestively “experienced hands, medical precision, and he owes you one for that chicken dinner. it’s the perfect setup.”

“you’re insane… like actually seek help.” you shook your head, trying to sound firm, but you were laughing too much to sell it.

“i’m serious,” she laughed along, “you literally blush whenever you talk about him. oh and you can’t even say his name without smiling.”

“that’s not true,” you said, shifting your position on the couch like that would somehow make your denial more convincing.

“mmhm,” she squinted her eyes, clearly not believing you.

“and for the record,” you added, jabbing your finger at the screen, “not every attractive man i meet is getting sexualized in my head. i’m not a beast.”

“no, you’re just a liar,” she shot back with a wide grin. “be real for like two seconds. i can see you smiling so hard right now.”

“you can’t see anything,” you said, voice sharper now. “it’s the pixelation. your wifi is ass.”

“nice try,” she said, drawing out the words. “i know a bashful grin when i see one.”

“you stress me out,” you muttered, twisting the cap back on your nail polish with a little too much force.

“and yet, you call me every day.” she propped her chin on her palm, smile pure menace.

“i guess i’m a masochist,” you sighed, leaning back on the couch. “tragic, really.”

“mmhm, tragic is right,” she said, eyes narrowing into little crescents. “because now i’m gonna be your maid of honor at this wedding i didn’t even prepare for.”

“goodbye, minnie,” you deadpanned, reaching for the end call button.

“goodbye, future mrs. mcdreamy.” she winked at the camera, and before you could curse her out, she hung up.

you sat there for a second, staring at your phone’s home screen, lips pressed tight.

delusional.

she was delusional.

but that didn’t stop you from thinking about jaemin’s stupid grin. the way he’d looked at you while eating fried chicken, casual but present, like he was really there in the moment with you. the way his eyes lingered, just for a second too long.

you shook your head, shoving the thought away like minnie’s words had wormed their way into your subconscious.

nope.

you capped the nail polish, shoved your phone aside, and focused on literally anything else.

♡ ♡ ♡

over the next few days, something shifted. not in a big, dramatic way but in a way you could feel.

jaemin wasn’t just the polite neighbor you exchanged pleasantries with in the hall anymore. now, every time you saw him, there was this unspoken acknowledgment hanging in the air like: we shared fried chicken in a broken elevator for three hours.

this new attitude towards you was giving you whiplash. he was… extra friendly now. he smiled more, spoke to you first, acted like you were both in on some kind of inside joke. it wasn’t bad… but it wasn’t normal either.

“morning, y/n,” he’d say as you both waited for the elevator, eyes crinkling like he’d already thought of something funny.

“morning,” you’d reply, your gaze locked firmly on the floor. the tiles were suddenly fascinating.

but then you’d catch the faintest trace of his cologne—the same one you’d inhaled way too much of in the elevator—and suddenly, the tiles weren’t so interesting anymore. so you’d try to sneak a glance or two, and when he wore his doctor’s coat and glasses, you couldn’t help but ogle. he was so ridiculously handsome. everything about him practically begged for you to admire. his sharp jawline, his dark eyes framed by impossibly long lashes, his lips always pink and effortlessly moisturized, his hair neatly trimmed in the back but just a bit longer in the front, falling perfectly right above his thick brows.

and he had the most captivating smile, so white it almost blinded you, and despite thinking he was the serious type at first, you quickly realized he was incredibly expressive. he communicated so much with just his brows, and it seemed impossible for him to speak without a subtle smile tugging at the corners of his lips. like what was so funny? that you were crushing hard on him and it was kind of disrupting your life?

he was also too relaxed around you. way too relaxed. how was he so calm when he’d seen you in your most unhinged states? meanwhile, you could still feel the ghost of that moment hovering over you like a neon sign flashing "dildo girl spotted."

the third time you ran into him that week, you almost turned around to take the stairs, but you weren’t fast enough.

“caught you,” jaemin said as soon as he spotted you, his grin sharp but not unkind. “thinking of bailing on me?”

you paused like you were actually considering it. “don’t flatter yourself,” you said, walking forward like you’d planned to all along. “the stairs are just bad for my knees.”

“oh, is that right?” he asked, stepping aside with a sweep of his hand. "good thing elevators exist, huh?”

“lucky me,” you muttered, slipping inside. he followed right after, too close for comfort but not close enough to call him out on it.

“lucky me,” he added, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, head tilted just so. "would’ve missed you otherwise."

you had to bite back the cough that almost escaped when he said that, his lazy smile firmly in place like always.

you glanced at him, squinting. "what's with you lately?"

“what do you mean?”

“this,” you gestured at him vaguely. “all this… talking. you weren’t like this before.”

“maybe i just needed an excuse,” he said with a nonchalant shrug “and three hours in an elevator with you was a pretty good one.”

you blinked, momentarily at a loss. what were you even supposed to say to that?

“did you rehearse that?,” you muttered, turning away before he could see the corner of your mouth twitch.

“why, is it too corny? but you’re smiling,” he pointed out, you could hear his smile.

“no, i’m not.”

“you are,” he said confidently, leaning in just a little like he was trying to see it up close. “it’s cute.”

you flinched back, eyes wide. “don’t say that.”

“why not?” he grinned wider, clearly pleased with himself. “it’s true.”

“oh my god.” you turned so far away from him it was a miracle you didn’t phase through the wall. “stop talking.”

“can’t,” he said, all too happy to keep going. “we’re closer now. shared chicken trauma and all that.”

“that is not a thing.”

“it is,” he nodded confidently. “you can’t just sit in a powerless elevator with someone for hours and pretend you’re strangers afterward. that’s, like, scientifically impossible.”

“scientifically impossible?” you repeated, eyebrows raised. “you’re making things up.”

“and here you are listening to all of it,” he shot back, tilting his head toward you, his gaze a little too sharp.

checkmate.

you opened your mouth, ready to respond, but your brain was buffering..

"that’s what i thought," he said, his voice low and too satisfied, just as the elevator dinged.

the doors opened. he didn’t move right away, gaze lingering on you as if he was waiting for something…or maybe just seeing how long you’d hold it.

“you talk too much,” you muttered, stepping out with your head high like you had the upper hand.

“I think you like it,” he called after you, the amusement in his voice so obvious you could practically hear the grin on his face.

your heart did that annoying skip thing, and this time, you didn’t have an excuse for it.

♡ ♡ ♡

things only got worse after that.

jaemin, apparently, had decided that you were fun to mess with now.

he wasn’t over-the-top about it, though. no, he was too smooth for that. he played it cool, weaving little comments and actions into your interactions. a smile that lingered too long, leaning in just a little too close when he asked a question, throwing casual compliments like they didn’t mean anything.

it was unfair, really. he’d gone from the quiet, polite neighbor, the one who worked long shifts at the hospital and mostly kept to himself, to an actual menace in the span of three days. and somehow, you were the target of all of it.

the first time it happened, you brushed it off as coincidence. the second time, you thought maybe he was just being nice because you shared food with him so perhaps he thought that he owed you. by the third time, you realized: this man was having fun at your expense.

“new hair?” he asked casually one evening as you struggled with your keys outside your door.

you froze, glancing up at him in confusion. “what?”

“your hair,” he repeated, nodding toward you. “looks good.”

your brows furrowed. “it’s the same as always,” you muttered, turning back to the lock that was absolutely refusing to cooperate.

“huh.” he tilted his head, as if he were genuinely surprised. “then i guess it’s just you.”

what does that even mean?!

your hands fumbled, and the key slipped from your fingers, clattering to the floor.

jaemin’s laugh was soft but unmistakably amused. “you okay there?”

“don’t you have patients to save or something?” you snapped, crouching down to snatch the key off the ground before he even had the chance to get it for you.

“off duty,” he shrugged, leaning against the wall next to you. his smile had that easy confidence you were beginning to associate with him now. “but i’ll step in if you need medical attention. emotional support counts too.”

you groaned so loud it echoed in the hallway. “i swear, i liked you better when you were quiet.”

“oh, you like me?” he asked, his grin widening just enough to make your stomach flip in protest.

“past tense,” you shot back, finally shoving the key into the lock and turning it with more force than necessary.

“if you say so,” he replied, drawing out the word like he didn’t believe you for a second.

“you’re insufferable,” you muttered, turning around with your key in hand, gripping it like a weapon. “how do you live with yourself?”

“one day at a time,” he replied, dead serious.

you shot him a glare as you finally shoved the key into the lock. it turned smoothly this time.

“maybe you should try it,” he added, just as you opened the door.

“try what?” you asked, already regretting engaging.

“living with me,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. he even had the audacity to wink.

you nearly slammed the door in his face.

“goodnight, jaemin,” you snapped, stepping inside.

“sweet dreams, love,” he called after you, his voice warm and smug in a way that lingered.

you closed the door, locked it, and leaned your head against it with a groan that could only be described as deep emotional fatigue.

“then i guess it’s just you.”

you stayed pressed against the door for a little too long, thinking about it.

he’s the worst.

the absolute worst.

♡ ♡ ♡

then came the visiting.

you heard a quiet, rhythmic knock knock knock on your door one night. not frantic, not loud just steady enough to make you pause in the middle of scrolling through your phone.

you frowned. minnie wasn’t the “surprise visit” type, and you definitely hadn’t ordered food. so who…

when you opened the door, he was right there.

jaemin.

he leaned against the doorframe, one arm propped against it, the other tucked into his pocket. his posture was relaxed, but his eyes sparkled with that familiar glint of mischief.

“what do you want?” you asked, gripping the door like it was a shield between you and whatever ridiculousness he was about to say.

“so rude,” he said, mock-offended, though the lazy grin on his face betrayed him. “you invite a guy to share fried chicken once, and suddenly you’re heartless?”

“oh, please.” you stepped back slightly, but you didn’t close the door. “i offered it. don’t act like i saved you from a tragic famine.”

“true,” he agreed, his gaze dropping for a split second, flickering over you like he was trying to catch you off guard. “but since you brought it up, i was thinking about how we never got dessert.”

you blinked, thrown off by the randomness. “what?”

“dessert,” he repeated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “fried chicken’s great and all, but it’s not a complete meal. we missed out.”

“and what, you came to my door at 9 pm to tell me that?”

“yep.” he rocked back on his heels, completely unbothered. “i figured you owed me by now.”

“owed you?” you repeated, narrowing your eyes. “for what, exactly?”

“emotional support,” he said, grinning like he’d been waiting for you to ask. “that elevator ride? life-changing experience. bonded for life. it’s only fair you buy me dessert.”

you tried to fight it. you really did. but the laugh slipped out anyway, betraying you.

his grin widened, the kind that wasn’t just smug… it was triumphant.

“fine,” you sighed, grabbing your phone off the counter. “but you’re paying next time.”

“next time?” he echoed, his voice tilting upward just slightly. he leaned forward, close enough that the space between you suddenly felt smaller. “so you’re already planning our next elevator date?”

oh, this man.

“don’t push your luck,” you muttered, pointing a finger at him while you tapped through your food delivery app. “i might close the door on your face next time.”

“you like me too much to do that,” he said softly, and this time his tone wasn’t teasing.

it was smooth, confident, and just low enough to make you glance up without thinking.

your thumb hovered over your screen for a second too long before you forced yourself to break eye contact. you picked the first dessert you saw just to escape the moment and right before you got to pay he snatched the phone from you and put in his card details.

“so annoying,” you muttered.

“gentlemanly,” he replied easily.

“you’re lucky i’m too tired to throw you out,” you shot back, already regretting how much you were letting him get away with.

“lucky?” he asked, smirking. “i’d say you’re the lucky one. who else brings dessert and great company?”

you groaned, loudly, just to drown him out.

♡ ♡ ♡

thirty minutes later, you were sitting side by side on your couch, barely an inch between you, sharing a container of chocolate lava cake like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“don’t hog it,” you grumbled, jabbing at his hand with your spoon when he took an extra-large bite.

“it’s called portion control,” he argued, entirely unapologetic as he went for another.

“it’s called stealing,” you shot back, scooping up a bigger piece just to even the playing field.

“maybe,” he said, glancing at you with that maddening grin. “but you’re letting me get away with it.”

“only because i don’t want to waste food,” you countered, though your voice lacked the conviction you wanted it to have.

he leaned back slightly, his shoulder brushing against yours in a way that felt too casual to be an accident.

“you’re really bad at lying, you know that?” he said, his voice dropping just enough to make you pause.

you turned to glare at him, spoon still in hand, but the words caught in your throat when you saw the way he was looking at you.

he wasn’t grinning anymore. not exactly.

it wasn’t a smirk or a joke or one of those teasing little quips he always threw your way. it was… softer. almost curious.

your heart stuttered before you could stop it.

“and you’re annoying,” you said again, but this time it came out quieter.

his lips twitched, like he was holding back a laugh.

“you already said that but i think it loses meaning when you let me hang out with you for this long,” he murmured.

you didn’t reply. you couldn’t. not when the air felt so… different.

so instead, you turned back to the TV, grabbed another spoonful of lava cake, and shoved it into your mouth as an excuse to not say anything.

he chuckled softly, the sound barely audible over the hum of the TV.

♡ ♡ ♡

the next few days went by pretty much the same. whenever you bumped into jaemin in the hallway, the parking lot, or even at the local cafe, his eyes would lock on you like a heat-seeking missile, ready to tease you in a way that you hated to admit was starting to feel oddly enjoyable.

but everything escalated the day minnie came to visit you.

it had been a while since you two last saw each other, given that she lived in a different city. as soon as she arrived, you were buzzing with excitement. but you’d forgotten one crucial thing… minnie had a rare, borderline supernatural ability to drive you absolutely insane.

“i can't believe you had a second chicken date with him and still didn’t jump his bones… have i taught you nothing?” she said, exasperated as she popped a handful of popcorn into her mouth. dawson’s creek reruns were playing in the background, and as if that show didn’t depress you enough, minnie’s relentless criticism of your non-existent love life was making it worse.

“it wasn’t a chicken date,” you groaned. “we had cake. and why would i jump his bones when we’ve only just started speaking more than two words to each other like, last week?”

“you don’t get it,” minnie said, turning to face you with the gravity of someone about to lecture you. “a man doesn’t just knock on your door asking you to have dessert with him unless he has a different idea of what 'dessert' is.” she raised her eyebrows suggestively.

“ew, don’t make that face,” you winced.

“i’m serious, y/n. if you keep shutting down every man that’s interested in you, the only dick you’ll get is that inflatable one i got you.”

“not even,” you sighed, slumping against the couch. “i haven’t taken it out of the box yet. and i won’t. that thing already embarrassed me enough for the next two lifetimes.”

“but if you think about it, if it weren’t for tom, you’d still be secretly crushing on dr. mcdreamy.”

“you did not just name the sex doll tom,” you said, eyes narrowing.

“i think we should at least go out tonight since you’re clearly not gonna put the moves on your sexy neighbor.”

“absolutely not,” you shook your head, pulling the blanket tighter around you. “ i’m not about to waste my night talking to any guy who thinks 'intellectual debate' means arguing about protein powder.”

“okay, harsh… no wonder you’re single,” she muttered as she got up and started tapping away on her phone.

“who’re you calling?” you asked, squinting at her suspiciously.

“there’s only one person who can drag you out of this apartment,” she muttered with a sly grin. "hold on—hello? jake? yeah, guess who i’m with right now?" she paused dramatically, glancing at you with a wicked smile. "your favorite girl, obviously!" she snickered, tilting her phone just enough to snap a photo of you mid-protest.

“dude, c’mon, i’m in my grandma pjs right now,” you said, pointing at the flowery pajama top you were wearing.

“how about we meet up at the neo club? yeah? awesome, and bring one of your hot friends,” she added, grinning like a cat that just cornered a bird.

she hung up, looking triumphant, but you folded your arms with a scowl.

“there’s no way i’m going out,” you said flatly.

♡ ♡ ♡

you still ended up going out.

but only because they offered to pay for all your drinks, and who were you to refuse such a generous offer?

it didn’t take long to spot jake. he was already stirring up trouble at the bar, his charm dialed up to 100 as he leaned in close, tossing out some line that had the bartender blushing so hard she had to look away just to keep it together.

“ugh, casanovas make me sick,” you grumbled, scrunching your nose as you watched him.

“stop harassing the lady, jake,” minnie said, grabbing him by the collar and tugging him away from the bar. he turned around with a mock-offended gasp.

“excuse you, she was absolutely enjoying that,” he said with an infuriating level of confidence. he wasn’t even wrong—the bartender was still grinning.

“whatever, tiger. look who’s out of her cave!” minnie announced, shoving you forward slightly.

jake’s eyes lit up the second he saw you. he practically lunged forward, wrapping you in a bear hug and lifting you off the ground.

“no way! my y/n! it’s been, what, four years since i last saw you?” he spun you in a small circle before finally setting you down.

“please don’t be so dramatic. we saw each other last year on your birthday,” you laughed, shoving his chest.

“too long for me, babe. you know seeing you is always a treat,” he said, giving you one of those overly saccharine smiles he knew would make you roll your eyes.

“when are you ever not flirting? is that your default mode? is there any way to reset you?” you said, tapping his forehead like you were trying to reboot a broken phone.

“you know you love it,” he winked, and somehow it was both annoying and charming at the same time.

“anyways, where are the drinks i was promised?” you extended a hand expectantly.

“here you go, princess,” he said, handing you a tequila sunrise with a flourish. “and here you go, troll,” he added, handing minnie a margarita.

“i’ll kill you,” minnie slapped his arm hard enough to make him flinch.

“ow, abuse! abuse!” he cried dramatically, clutching his arm as if he’d been mortally wounded.

“you’ll live,” minnie muttered, taking a sip from her glass.

the night was already off to a wild start, and you had a sinking feeling it was only going to get worse.

♡ ♡ ♡

“so you’re telling me the box with all the freaky shit minnie sent ended up being delivered to your neighbor?” jake was practically doubled over, clutching his stomach from laughing so hard. “and he opened it?”

“yeah, laugh it up,” you said, unamused as you swirled the straw in your drink before taking a long sip. you’d lost count of how many drinks you’d had, but the warmth in your chest and the slight buzz in your head told you it was definitely more than a couple.

“if i were you, i would’ve moved,” he said, wiping at the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. “i’m trying to think of a time i’ve been that embarrassed and not even my drunkest moments come close.” he shook his head like he genuinely felt bad for you, though the grin on his face said otherwise.

“believe me, i tried to avoid him,” you said, gesturing with your drink in hand. “but somehow, after that, he started sticking to me like gum on a shoe.”

“i’m telling you, he wants you!” minnie slurred, her eyes barely staying focused as she swayed slightly in her seat. clearly, she was the drunkest one at the table, her words carrying that telltale wobble of too many cocktails.

“don’t start with that again,” you shot back, tossing a napkin in her direction. “he doesn’t want me. he just likes messing with me because he figured out i’m an easy target.”

“oh, really?” she said, eyes narrowing like she’d just come up with the most brilliant plan. “then call him right now. and if he answers, put him on speaker.”

“like hell i will,” you snorted, glancing at your phone. “it’s-” you checked the time “…literally 3am. why would i disturb him just to prove your silly little theories?”

“coward! coward!” minnie started chanting, slapping the table. jake immediately caught on and joined her, their voices syncing up in a way that only drunk friends could manage. “coward! y/n is a chicken!” they sang in unison, making sure to drag out the last word obnoxiously.

“ugh, why do i have friends like you two…” you muttered, covering your ears as their chanting grew louder. “okay! fine! stop that right now, i’ll text him. once.” you jabbed a finger in the air for emphasis, giving them both a stern glare that did absolutely nothing to dim their excitement.

“what do i even say…” you groaned, staring at your empty chat with jaemin.

“send him a picture,” jake suggested.

you thought about it for a second, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “fine,” you muttered, lifting your phone. fueled by alcohol and peer pressure, you decided on the classic "oops, wrong person" strategy. you snapped a quick selfie, pursing your lips into a kissy face for maximum effect. you didn’t even care that it was blurry or that you looked very obviously drunk. in fact, that made it funnier. you snickered to yourself as you hit send.

“he won’t reply, guys,” you said confidently, tossing your phone onto the table face-down. but barely ten seconds passed before you heard the unmistakable ping of a new message.

“you were saying?” minnie arched a brow, crossing her arms in mock satisfaction.

“it’s probably just some random notification,” you said with a shrug, but your voice wavered as you picked up your phone. you tapped the screen, eyes widening slightly at the name that appeared.

jaemin neighbor (3:02am): ‘thought you weren’t one to party hard?’

the message was punctuated with a little smirk emoji that somehow made it worse.

“what’d he say?” minnie asked, leaning in so far you thought she might topple over.

you barely had time to answer before another message popped up.

jaemin neighbor (3:03am): ‘don’t drink too much though, you’re still recovering from that cold. and don’t let strangers hold your drink.’

your eyes stayed glued to the screen, heart doing an odd little flip that you refused to acknowledge.

“oh my god, he’s worried,” minnie gasped, hands flying to her face. “he’s literally whipped!” she squealed, grabbing your shoulders and shaking you back and forth with unhinged glee.

♡ ♡ ♡

after seeing jaemin's message, you decided you needed to get drunker to drown out the thoughts swirling in your head. by the time you got back to the apartment, your uber driver had to practically haul you out of the car. you were a complete mess, your feet barely cooperating with the ground beneath you. minnie ended up hitting it off with jake’s friend so she decided to leave with him to do god knows what dirty things.

“woah there!” you yelped as you stumbled, nearly falling backward.

“ma’am, what’s your apartment number?” the driver asked. all you could do was laugh and mumble some random string of numbers that didn’t come close to making sense.

“y/n?” a familiar voice cut through the fog in your mind, sharp and clear like a bell. it almost sobered you up on the spot. he was wearing his scrubs and his tired appearance told you that he was coming back from a long shift.

“mr. doctor is here!” you announced with unrestrained glee, throwing your arms up. the sudden movement made you lose balance, and you tilted sideways bumping into the driver.

“you know her, sir?” he asked, his forehead shiny with sweat, clearly desperate for an exit out of this.

“uhm, yeah, she’s my next-door neighbor. i’ll take it from here, thanks,” jaemin said, stepping in with the calm authority of someone who’s seen this exact scenario a dozen times before. with zero effort, he crouched down and hoisted you onto his back, his hands steady under your thighs to keep you secure.

“wheee!” you squealed, your cheek smushed against the back of his head.

“hold on tight, yeah?” he muttered, his tone dry but fond as he adjusted his grip on your legs.

inside the elevator, you got bold. maybe it was the tequila, maybe it was just you accepting your undeniable attraction to jaemin, but your hands found their way to his arms. you gave his biceps an experimental squeeze and then hummed, thoroughly impressed. “do all doctors got big, muscular arms or just you?” you asked, squeezing again as if conducting a very important scientific investigation.

jaemin’s lips twitched, like he was fighting back a smile. “do you always get this touchy when you’re drunk?” he replied, shifting you slightly higher on his back.

“oh wow, you smell so good,” you said, burying your nose in his hair. “like… like one of those fancy candles you’re not supposed to light cause they’re too expensive.” you giggled against his head, completely oblivious to the way his ears flushed pink at the compliment.

“i told you not to drink too much,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “this is dangerous, you know.”

“sorryyyyyy,” you whined, dragging out the word. “but you know what they say about alcohol… uh, ‘wine before whiskey, you’re feelin’ frisky’?” you squinted, clearly thinking very hard.

jaemin tilted his head, giving you a side-eye full of disbelief and amusement. “that’s absolutely not the saying,” he said, his voice low and warm with a hint of laughter.

“no?” you pouted. “then it’s… ‘drinks before thoughts, memories get lost!’” you declared with absolute confidence.

he let out a full, genuine laugh, his shoulders shaking under you as he carried you down the hallway. “close enough,” he muttered.

♡ ♡ ♡

in front of your door, you squinted at the digital lock like it had personally wronged you. you pressed one button, then another, and frowned when the screen blinked angrily. your brain felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, and trying to remember your code right was harder than trying to solve a riddle while underwater.

“ugh, whatever,” you groaned, letting out an exaggerated sigh before plopping down on the floor, legs sprawled out.

“what are you doing?” jaemin's voice came from above, and when you tilted your head back, you saw him crouched in front of you, eyebrows raised.

“can’t remember the code, so m’ sleeping here. duh,” you replied with the kind of lazy confidence and lack of urgency only drunk people have. you reached out and booped him on the nose simply because he looked cute like a bunny in your inebriated mind.

he blinked, clearly thrown, before a grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “no, you’re not,” he said, shaking his head. he stood up, offering his hand. “come on.”

“ugh, fiiine,” you groaned, letting him pull you up, though you were basically dead weight. he slipped an arm around your waist to steady you, and the warmth of his hand pressed against the bare skin where your shirt had ridden up. the touch was casual but it sent a sharp jolt of awareness through you.

you bit your lip to distract yourself from the sudden rush of heat. blame it on the alcohol. definitely the alcohol.

“i never sleep in a guy’s apartment ‘til…” you held up your hand and started counting on your fingers, lips moving as you mumbled to yourself. “like the 6th date.”

“that so?” jaemin glanced at you, his voice raspy in a way that made something flip in your stomach.

“mmhm,” you hummed, leaning your weight against him. “gotta have rules, y’know? safety first.”

“you’re not wrong,” he replied, guiding you toward his door with slow, careful steps. “but that logic’s got a flaw, don’t you think?”

you squinted up at him, skeptical. “what flaw?”

“you’re here with me, and we’re not even on date three,” he said simply, giving you a pointed look.

you tried to ignore the fact that he considered the elevator and that night at your apartment as dates.

“that’s different,” you countered, waving a hand like that somehow made you right.

he glanced down at you, eyes sharp but soft in the way they flickered across your face. “how?”

you blinked, suddenly too aware of the space between you two — or the lack of it. his arm was firm around your waist, and you could feel the rise and fall of his breathing.

“you tell me, doc,” you muttered, avoiding his eyes.

there was a brief silence, just the quiet hum of the hallway lights and the soft shuffle of your feet. his fingers curled slightly against your hip, the pressure grounding but gentle. when he spoke again, his tone had shifted — quieter, steadier.

“i’d never do anything to hurt you,” he said, voice sure like a promise. his eyes met yours, serious in a way that knocked the air right out of your lungs.

you didn’t have a quick comeback for that one.

he held your gaze for a moment longer before clearing his throat, eyes flicking away. “anyway,” he said, his voice back to its usual steady calm, “you can sit for a bit. i’ll get you some tea and food, sober you up.”

“huh?” you blinked, your tipsy mind still trying to catch up after that intense moment you just shared.

“sit,” he repeated, guiding you toward the couch like you were a stubborn cat. “tea. food. you’ll thank me later.”

you flopped onto the couch with zero grace, still buzzing from everything.

your head was throbbing, but that wasn’t half as uncomfortable as the rapid thumping of your heart against your chest. it wasn’t normal. it couldn’t be normal. you pressed a hand to your chest like that might somehow slow it down.

“what is this…” you muttered under your breath, tilting your head back against the couch.

you were spiraling, no doubt about it. overthinking everything. it’s just jaemin, you reminded yourself. your neighbor. your kind neighbor. of course he’d say stuff like that. he’s a good person, and good people say things like "i’d never hurt you" all the time, right? it didn’t mean anything. didn’t mean a single thing.

calm down, y/n.

you blew out a slow breath, trying to trick your heart into believing you were unbothered.

jaemin came back moments later, a cup of tea in one hand and a small plate of buttered toast in the other. he’d ditched his jacket, now in just a fitted black t-shirt and scrub pants. you weren’t sure what was more distracting… the way the fabric clung to his chest and arms, or the way the veins in his forearms stood out as he set the plate down. you stared a little too long, gaze following the flex of his muscles.

he’s just a guy, you thought, just a guy with arms that look like they were carved out of marble.

“okay, drink this,” he said, nudging the tea toward you. his voice had slipped into his "doctor tone", soft but firm, like he fully expected to be obeyed. “you’ll feel better. if you feel dizzy or like you’re gonna throw up, let me know. i’ll go shower real quick, and you can shower after.”

he disappeared into his room before you could respond

you sat there for a second, letting the silence settle around you. without him there, you finally took a proper look at his place. it was weirdly nice for a building as old and shabby as this one. sleek, modern furniture, spotless floors, a faint scent of something woodsy and clean. candles lined the windowsill, and he had an at-home gym tucked neatly in one corner.

of course he does, you thought, he’s probably too busy saving lives to hit a real gym.

you bit your lip, remembering the way his arms had felt around your waist. the heat of his skin seeping through the fabric of your shirt. and now, after seeing how built he actually was, it was starting to make a lot more sense.

“ugh, stop it,” you muttered, shaking your head. it was just the alcohol messing with you. that, and the fact that you were definitely ovulating because there was no way you’d be acting like this otherwise. the combination was lethal.

you reached for the tea, eager for something to snap you out of your head, but the second you took a sip—

“ah—!” you yelped, dropping the cup. hot liquid splashed onto the floor, the mug clattering after it. thankfully, it missed your legs but your tongue throbbed like you’d just bitten into molten lava.

“shit,” you hissed, sticking your tongue out like that might cool it down.

“what happened?” jaemin’s voice came from the bathroom, sharp with concern.

“‘s fine!” you tried to call back, but with your tongue still stinging, it came out garbled. “ihz ohkaay!”

the sound of the shower stopped. you barely had a second to panic before jaemin burst into the living room, dripping wet, a loose towel slung dangerously low on his hips.

you froze.

oh.

oh my god.

if this were an anime, you’d have shot out a nosebleed so powerful it’d blast you into another dimension.

“what happened?” he asked, eyes darting to the mess on the floor, then back to you. he crouched beside you, eyes scanning you likely looking for injuries. water dripped from his hair, trailing down the sharp planes of his face, his chest, his abs…

his abs.

your gaze locked on the V-line that dipped beneath the edge of his towel, and your brain short-circuited. every coherent thought you’d ever had dissolved on the spot. you didn’t even realize you’d spoken aloud until you heard your own voice.

“oh my god.”

jaemin blinked, eyebrows drawing together in worry. “what?”

“n-nothing!” you stammered, face heating faster than the tea had. you slapped a hand over your eyes like that might erase the image from your mind. it did not. it was burned in.

he frowned, his puppy-dog concern on full display. “i’m sorry, i should’ve warned you the tea was hot.” his gaze shifted to your tongue, still sticking out as you tried to cool it with air. his frown deepened.

“izzokay,” you said, or at least tried to. with your tongue swollen and numb, it sounded more like “iz okeh, iz my fauwt.”

“hold on,” he said, his tone dropping into doctor mode. “stay put. you might cut yourself on the glass.”

he moved with quick precision, ducking into the kitchen and coming back with a towel and some paper towels to clean up. you, unfortunately, had nothing to do but sit there and watch him. and watch him you did.

the way his muscles shifted under his skin with every movement. the flex of his back, the dip of his hips, the subtle pull of his abs as he crouched to pick up shards of glass. you sat there like a fool, cheeks blazing, unable to look away.

he could model for anatomy textbooks, you thought, completely mesmerized. like, imagine turning to page 47 and seeing this man labeled as "muscular system: front view."

every part of him moved with that annoying grace certain people just had. the kind of grace that was only possible when you were stupidly, unfairly attractive.

he wiped the floor clean and tossed the paper towels aside, giving one final glance at the spot to make sure there wasn’t a single shard left behind. then he turned to you.

“all clear,” he said, standing to his full height. the towel on his hips slipped slightly lower, and your gaze shot to the ceiling so fast you almost got whiplash.

“thanks,” you muttered, trying to keep your eyes anywhere but there. you still saw it in your peripheral vision.

he tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “you sure you’re okay?”

am i okay? absolutely not. your tongue was burnt, your pride was in pieces, and your brain was playing a slow-motion highlight reel of his abs. you were the furthest thing from okay.

“yep,” you croaked, voice cracking at the end.

“here you go,” he said, handing you a glass of cold water. “it should help your tongue.”

“thanks,” you mumbled, cradling the glass with both hands. you refused to look directly at him, eyes darting everywhere in the room. the slow drip of condensation on the glass suddenly became the most fascinating thing in the world.

“are you hot? you’re sweating,” he asked, leaning forward, his gaze landing on you with that soft concern he wore too easily.

you nearly spat the water back out. of course you were hot. this whole situation was hot. the room was hot. he was hot.

“it’s fine,” you blurted, shaking your head a little too quickly. “i’ll just shower.”

“yeah, sure. go ahead,” he said, nodding toward the hallway. “bathroom’s the door on the left.”

he glanced down at you, eyes flickering over your dress just briefly. instinctively, you tugged at the hem like that would magically make it longer. you should’ve known minnie was setting you up when she called this look “casually dangerous.”

“your clothes…” he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “they don’t look super comfortable to sleep in, so if you want, i can lend you something.”

there was no reason for your heart to leap into your throat the way it did. it was a normal offer. a completely normal, helpful offer. but your brain decided to be weird about it. suddenly, you were picturing yourself in one of his shirts, fabric hanging loose on you, the scent of detergent and him faintly clinging to it. god, you needed help.

“okay,” you said, trying to sound normal, but it came out too fast.

“i’ll grab them for you,” he said, already heading toward his room.

as soon as he disappeared, you collapsed against the couch, exhaling hard like you’d just survived a boss fight. you dragged your hands down your face, letting out a muffled groan.

“pull it together,” you hissed at yourself.

walking into the bathroom didn’t help. the warmth hit you instantly, soft steam curling in the air. it smelled like aftershave and clean skin, and if there was a single coherent thought left in your brain, it got drowned out by the sensory overload.

“seriously?” you muttered under your breath, tilting your head back with a groan. “what am i, thirteen?”

the mirror was fogged up, so you wiped at it with your sleeve, only to be faced with your own reflection staring back at you like girl, really? you pressed your hands to your cheeks, feeling the warmth that had nothing to do with the steam.

“i’m normal,” you announced firmly to no one but yourself.

except you weren’t, and you knew it. it wasn’t just the alcohol making your brain short-circuit anymore. you were sober now, and this was just you being ridiculous. the neatly folded clothes on the counter didn’t help. a plain white shirt and a pair of sweatpants sat there, fresh and clean.

you eyed the sweatpants, then glanced down at your legs, already knowing how this was gonna play out. still, you gave it a shot, pulling them up your legs after taking a (very) long shower. unsurprisingly, they swallowed you whole, the cuffs dragging behind you. yeah, no. you’d trip over yourself in less than a minute. sighing, you snatched up the shirt instead and pulled it over your head. it slipped down past your hips, the sleeves flopping well past your hands, turning them into little paw-like stubs.

“this will have to do,” you decided with a sharp nod to yourself.

when you finally stepped out of the bathroom, jaemin was lounging on the couch, scrolling on his phone. his gaze flickered up at you, and for a split second, he just blinked, eyes tracking down your frame before quickly darting back to his phone.

“where are the pants?” he asked, lips quirking up just slightly at the corner.

“too big,” you said.

“hmm” he hummed, looking up and letting his gaze drag just a little slower this time, eyes sharp with mischief. his tongue pressed against his cheek, a lopsided grin threatening to break free. “i see”

if your heart was pounding before, it was in full percussion solo mode now. but you just flopped down beside him, acting like everything was cool, like you weren’t hyperaware of every inch of bare skin peeking out from under the too-big shirt.

you glanced at the clock on the wall — 4:30 a.m. blinked back at you in dim red light. too late to be awake but too early to call it morning. your eyes shifted to jaemin, and you could see the weight of exhaustion hanging on him. his blinks were slower, his body slouched deeper into the couch cushions.

“jaem…” the nickname slipped out without warning, soft but certain. his eyes lifted to you immediately.

“you can go to sleep. i’m fine,” you said with a small smile, hoping it was convincing. “and… thank you. for everything. you’re too nice to me.”

his gaze lingered on you, steady and unguarded, like he was committing you to memory. then, his lips curved slowly into a smile. not his usual teasing grin but something gentler, sweeter. it hit you square in the chest, and you had to physically fight the urge to lean forward and kiss him.

you did not win that fight.

instead, you moved on instinct… leaning in and wrapping your arms around him. the moment you did, you panicked. it felt stiff, clumsy, like you’d misread the whole situation. you were just about to pull away when his arms slid around your waist, slow but sure.

he pulled you in, pulled you all the way in, until you were practically draped over him. your breath caught in your throat, heart thudding so hard you swore he could feel it.

his head dipped down, face tucked into the curve of your neck. the warmth of his breath hit your skin in soft bursts, and his hold on you tightened just a little more.

“it’s my pleasure,” he murmured, voice low and raspier than it had been all night. his lips brushed against your collarbone as he spoke, “always.”

good god, you nearly let out a sound you’d never be able to live down. every nerve in your body was on high alert. it had been so long since you’d been held like this.

his nose nudged against your neck lazily. you felt the butterflies in your stomach riot, wings frantic against your ribs.

“jaem…” you said, but it came out too soft, too breathless to sound like an actual warning.

“you smell good,” he muttered, voice all sleep and satisfaction. “you always smell good.” he breathed you in.

lord, have mercy.

“i think we should both sleep,” you murmured, but neither of you moved. neither of you even thought about moving.

“yeah,” he said, voice low and uneven.

“yeah,” you echoed, but it sounded less like agreement and more like an excuse for staying right where you were.

he pulled back just enough to look at you, but his arms stayed firmly around your waist. his eyes flickered down to your lips. on reflex, you wet them with a quick swipe of your tongue, suddenly self-conscious. his gaze darkened and you swore you felt the shift in the air.

“stop me,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

but stopping him didn’t even cross your mind. not when he was looking at you like that. not when his face inched closer, closer…

his lips met yours softly at first, hesitant, like he was waiting for you to decide. you decided quickly. your hands slipped into his hair, pulling him in as you kissed him back with everything you’d been holding in all night.

he responded instantly. his hand cupped the back of your neck, his fingers threading through your hair to hold you in place, deepening the kiss until it wasn’t soft anymore.

his other hand found your hip, gripping you firmly as he shifted you on top of him, his touch guiding you like he knew exactly where he wanted you to be. dangerous. this was so, so dangerous.

because you were only wearing that stupidly oversized shirt and the flimsy scrap of underwear underneath it. and when you settled fully onto his lap, you felt everything.

he must’ve felt it too, because his breath stuttered, and a needy groan escaped him, muffled against your lips. you felt it vibrate through your whole body, made you shiver as if he’d pressed his mouth to your spine instead.

his hand on your hip squeezed, fingers digging in just a little harder.

the kiss grew messier, wetter, breaths and tongues tangled together in a way that felt far past the point of no return. it didn’t help that his other hand left your neck, sliding down, fingertips trailing along your side before slipping under the hem of the shirt.

his hand slid up and up until…

he froze the second he realized. his palm pressed against bare skin, no bra, no barrier. you felt his breath hitch at the same moment you heard it.

“fuck,” he groaned into your mouth, his voice rougher now, heavier. his fingers spread wide, covering as much skin as he could reach, his palm warm and steady against your ribs.

and when his thumb brushed up, grazing just barely under the curve of your breast, the sound you made was far too needy. his gaze flicked back up to yours. like he was asking. like he was giving you one last out.

you didn’t take it.

his hand moved again, bolder this time. his palm slid over the curve of your breast, warm and firm, fingers curling around it as if it belonged to him. you sighed at the contact, eyes fluttering closed as your head tipped forward. it wasn’t enough. you didn’t know what “enough” would be, but it wasn’t this.

he must’ve felt it too, because his other hand rose to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin in slow, soothing circles. he tilted your face up, and for a moment, you thought he’d kiss you again. you tilted toward him, lips parting, but he had other plans.

instead, he leaned in and pressed his lips just beneath your ear. the warmth of his mouth sent a shiver down your spine, and before you could even process that, he was moving lower. he kissed his way along your neck, slow and steady, with the kind of patience that made your heart feel like it was on a countdown.

and then the kisses changed. his teeth grazed your skin, his lips sealed over the spot, and he sucked hard enough to make you gasp. your hands flew up, gripping at his shoulders as he trailed love bites down to your collarbones, marking you in a way that felt possessive, the kind you’d see after he was gone.

“jaemin,” you whispered, your fingers digging into his shirt. his name barely sounded like a name anymore.

his only answer was a low hum against your collarbone, his hand still working under your shirt. his fingers traced lazy lines along the sensitive skin beneath your breast, and just when you thought he was going to stay gentle, he pinched your nipple between his fingers.

you gasped sharply, hips jolting forward on reflex. “oh—”

he didn’t stop. he rolled it slowly between his fingers, feeling out every little reaction you gave him, every twitch and shiver. your body betrayed you, arching into his touch, and the way he smiled against your neck told you he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

instinct took over before you could think it through. your hips rocked forward against his lap — once, twice — chasing relief from the ache that had been building low in your stomach for too long. you felt the slickness between your thighs, hot and damp, soaking through the thin fabric of your underwear and seeping onto his sweatpants.

he felt it too. you knew he did from the sharp intake of breath he took, from the way his hands squeezed tighter his fingers digging into your hip, his other hand cupping your breast with just a little more pressure.

“fuck,” he groaned, head falling forward, his forehead pressing against your shoulder. his hips shifted beneath you, his arousal impossible to miss now. he was hard, and every roll of your hips dragged against him perfectly, making him curse under his breath.

the heat of it all was unbearable, and you had no one to blame but yourself. but at this point, did it even matter?

he lifted his head, jaw tight, eyes half-lidded. his gaze flickered from your face to where your hips met his lap, his tongue darting out to wet his lips

“i don't know how much longer i can hold back…” his voice was strained.

you blinked down at him, heart thudding hard against your ribs. every nerve in your body felt like it had been lit on fire, but somehow, you still managed to smile.

“who told you to hold back?”you said, voice soft but sure.

“shit…” he muttered, his voice low and wrecked. his fingers dug into your hips, guiding them down against him with a deliberate pressure that had your breath hitching in your throat.

it wasn’t just you moving anymore. he was moving you, rocking you back and forth against him faster, tired of pretending you weren’t both desperate for it.

your head tipped back as a broken moan spilled from your lips. the friction was too good, just the right amount of pressure to have your thighs trembling. the heat between you had gone from warm to blistering, every grind making you more sensitive, more aware of the damp mess you were both making between his sweatpants and your underwear.

his eyes locked on you, not wanting to miss a single second of it… the arch of your back, the part of your lips, the way your breath caught every time you sank down a little harder.

“look at you,” he breathed, voice rough and half-laughing. “getting this worked up over a little humping”

you leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his. “i’m clearly not the only one,” you shot back breathlessly..

his lips were back on you in an instant, rougher than before, all teeth and tongue. his hands slid up your back, under his shirt you were wearing, fingers dragging against bare skin. his nails scratched lightly at your spine, sending chills down your whole body, and you gasped into his mouth.

he didn’t let you pull away. his lips chased yours, like he’d been starving for this, like now that he’d had a taste, there was no way he was stopping. he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and your body moved on instinct, hips rolling harder against him.

“fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, head falling back against the couch as he sucked in a breath through his teeth. his hands slid down to your thighs, gripping them tight as if to ground himself, but all it did was spur you on.

you leaned forward, trailing kisses down his jaw, his neck, biting just enough to feel him shudder beneath you. his pulse was wild under your lips, and when you grazed your teeth against it, his hips bucked up so hard it knocked the air out of your lungs.

“you’re making it so hard to be soft right now,” he said through gritted teeth, head tipped back, neck bared for you like an invitation. his eyes flicked down to where you sat on him, where the line between you two had blurred so badly it didn’t seem to exist anymore.

“then don’t be,” you whispered against his ear, biting down on the lobe just to hear him curse again. “nobody asked you to be soft.”

that was all it took. his grip on your hips tightened, his fingers digging into your skin with purpose. his next move was fast—you were on your back before you could register it, his body hovering over you, his weight pressing you down in a way that made your heart race in your chest.

his eyes met yours, pupils blown wide, hair falling into his face. he looked like a mess and it was perfect.

“say that again,” he said, voice nothing but gravel and breath. his hands slid up your thighs, pushing them apart, the slow drag of his touch enough to make you squirm. “say it again so i know you mean it.”

your chest rose and fell with each shallow breath, and you reached up, fingers threading through his hair.

“nobody,” you whispered, tugging his head down just enough to make sure he heard you, “asked you to be soft.”

for a second, he didn’t move. just stared down at you like he’d never wanted anything more in his life than to eat you up.

then he leaned in, and when he kissed you this time, it wasn’t soft or tentative or testing the waters. it was raw, hungry, and so deep it knocked the air out of you. his hands moved with purpose, sliding up your thighs, pushing his shirt higher and higher until the air hit bare skin.

everything was heat and pressure and need. he was all you could feel, all you could hear — his breath heavy and uneven, his name falling from your lips like it was the only word you knew.

and when he finally pressed his forehead to yours, eyes squeezed shut like he was fighting to hold himself together, you knew you’d both already lost.

the next thing you know, his hands are tugging your shirt up and over your head, the fabric barely brushing past your arms before it’s gone. the cold air hits your skin for half a second before jaemin’s mouth replaces it, hot and relentless as he traces the curve of your collarbone, his lips dragging lower, slower.

when his mouth finally closes around your right breast, it’s warm and wet and just enough to have you mewling. his tongue flicks over your nipple before sucking it into his mouth, his teeth grazing it just lightly, sending a sharp jolt of heat straight down to your core.

his free hand slides lower, fingers trailing down your stomach, over your hip, and slipping beneath the waistband of your lace underwear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. he moves without hesitation, fingers seeking out the slick mess waiting for him, and the second he finds it, he lets out a low, rough groan against your skin.

“god, you’re so fucking wet,” he mutters, pulling off your breast with a slick pop, his breath fanning across your skin. he glances down between your legs, his gaze so heavy you feel it like a touch. his eyes darken, his tongue darting out to wet his lips like he’s hungry just looking at you.

he hooks his fingers into the sides of your underwear, dragging them down in one slow pull, eyes locked on you like he’s scared to blink and miss it. the fabric barely makes it past your knee before he’s already looking back up at you, his pupils blown wide, lips parted with the kind of need that makes your chest feel too tight.

“let me eat you out,” he says, and his voice is rough and desperate.

you bite your lip like you’re thinking it over, but you know you’re going to say yes. you just like seeing him like this — all unsteady and breathless, too far gone to hide it.

“please,” he says again, this time more ragged, his voice cracking at the end like he might actually lose it if you make him wait any longer.

“okay,” you say, and it’s all he needs.

he’s on you in a heartbeat, sliding down your body so fast it’s dizzying. his hands are firm on your thighs, pulling them apart, spreading you wide until there’s nowhere left to hide. his gaze flicks up one last time, meeting yours like he’s checking, like he’s giving you one last chance to stop him.

but you don’t. you won’t.

he presses his fingers to your folds, parting you slowly, exposing everything to him, and the breath he takes is deep, like he’s savoring the moment before the fall.

then he leans in.

his nose brushes against you first, just a soft nudge that has your hips twitching on instinct. then his tongue follows in one long, slow drag from bottom to top that has your breath stuttering in your chest. his grip on your thighs tightens, fingers digging into your skin like he’s steadying himself as much as you.

he moans against you, a deep, satisfied sound that you feel as much as hear, and his tongue dives back in, licking at you like you’re his favorite thing to taste. the movements are slow at first, deliberate, his tongue exploring every part of you like he’s trying to figure out exactly what makes you fall apart.

and you are falling apart.

your head tilts back, eyes fluttering shut, lips parting as you let out a shaky, breathless moan. your hips twitch up, and his hands are right there to hold you down, keeping you still as his tongue moves with more certainty, more purpose, licking you with long, messy strokes that make you gasp.

his mouth doesn’t slow, if anything, it grows more determined. his tongue moves with precision now, circling that sensitive spot before flicking against it in quick, teasing bursts that have your hips jumping despite his firm grip.

“fuck, jaem—” your voice breaks on his name, your hands gripping the sides of the couch, searching for something, anything to ground yourself. but there’s nothing. nothing but him, his mouth, the obscene, wet sounds filling the air, and the heat building low in your stomach.

he groans again, the vibration shooting through you, his tongue flattening against you before he drags it up,

“taste so sweet,” he murmurs into you, his voice muffled, every word spoken straight into your skin.

“could stay here all night.”

the heat in your belly twists tighter at that, something about the way he says it, like he means it, like he’d ruin himself for this… for you. you’re already too close, and he knows it. he can feel it in the way your thighs tense, in the way your breath catches and your hips press up into him like you’re chasing something you can’t quite reach.

he hums in satisfaction, his lips wrapping around that sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking just once, just enough to make your whole body jolt.

“god, jaem, i’m—” you don’t even finish the sentence before it hits you, crashing over you in waves so intense you forget how to breathe. you squeeze your eyes shut, mouth falling open on a silent cry as the pleasure hits you all at once, white-hot and overwhelming. he doesn’t let up, his tongue flicking against you through it, coaxing every last tremor from your body.

your fingers find his hair, tugging hard, half to ground yourself and half to make him stop because it’s all too much. he groans at the pull, but it only seems to spur him on, his hands tightening on your hips, keeping you pressed against his mouth.

“jaemin,” you say it firmer this time, tugging again, and finally, finally he pulls back, his lips and chin shiny with evidence of what he’s done.

“couldn’t help myself,” he says, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth like he’s savoring every last bit of you. his eyes are wild, pupils blown wide, his hair a mess from where you tugged at it.

“you look so pretty when you cum,” he says, voice low and husky, and you hate the way your heart lurches in your chest as if he’s just said something sweet.

“you’re crazy,” you mutter, still catching your breath, wiping the sweat from your forehead.

“crazy for you,” he fires back, grin widening like he knows how corny it is and says it anyway.

and for some reason, it makes you laugh. a soft, breathy thing you can’t hold back.

in one smooth motion, he’s crawling back up your body, his hands framing your face as he settles his weight over you. his lips press to yours, soft at first, then deeper, hungrier. reminding you exactly where that mouth has just been. you taste yourself on him, and it sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

“not done with you yet,” he says against your lips, his hips pressing down against yours, and fuck, you feel how hard he is, the thick, solid pressure pressing right where you need it.

“then don’t stop,” your fingers slide down his back, nails scraping lightly.

he flashed a wicked grin, and before you could process it, you let out a startled squeal as he hoisted you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. his arms were firm around your legs, his shoulder pressing into your stomach, and you could feel the strength in every stride as he carried you from the living room to his bedroom.

"jaemin!" you protested, your fists lightly tapping his back, but it only made him chuckle.

"keep squirming, baby. see where that gets you," he teased.

he laid you down on the bed with surprising gentleness. the cool, fresh scent of his sheets surrounded you, soft fabric meeting warm skin. it was a fleeting comfort, though. you both knew they wouldn’t stay this neat for long.

jaemin peeled off his shirt with one smooth motion, revealing the sharp lines of his chest and the taut muscles of his stomach. you bit your lip as he kicked off his sweatpants, leaving him in just his boxers. his gaze was locked on you, dark eyes brimming with heat and amusement, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking.

you watched mesmerized as he pulled open the drawer of his nightstand, fingers searching until they found a small foil packet. he ripped it open with practiced ease, and when the condom rolled out into his palm, your eyes widened.

"that’s not the right size," you blurted out, half-laughing. "no way."

his eyebrows lifted, a challenge sparking in his eyes. "oh? wanna bet?"

then his boxers hit the floor.

oh.

your breath caught in your throat as your eyes dropped, taking in the sight of his dick. heat flooded your face. what the hell.

“close your mouth, baby,” he said, smirking. “unless you’re planning to put it to use.”

"shut up," you muttered, glancing away, cheeks blazing. "are you gonna do it or not?"

“do what?” he asked innocently, even as he climbed onto the bed, caging you in with his body. he hovered just above you, his grin infuriatingly smug.

“you know what.”

“hmm. don’t think i do,” he murmured, eyes dropping to your lips. “wanna say it for me, pretty girl?”

you pressed your lips together, heart thudding in your chest harder every second. you could feel the weight of him, his warmth, the tension that hung in the air like a live wire.

“fuck… me, jaem,” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

he tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “louder, baby. i know you can be louder.”

he wasn’t wrong. flashes of earlier moments filled your mind, the way you were moaning and whimpering definitely wasn’t quiet. you swallowed the last bit of your hesitation.

“fuck me. please.”

he hummed, satisfied, his grin softening as he hooked his hands behind your knees and tugged you down toward him. you let out a quiet gasp, suddenly flat on your back, with him positioned directly above you. his body hovered just close enough that every shift of movement made you feel him.

your eyes flickered up to his face, and for a second, he wasn’t teasing anymore. his gaze was steady, searching, his eyes dark but kind. he reached out, fingertips tracing your jawline with such tenderness it made you ache in a different way.

“you okay, baby?” he asked softly, letting you know he’d stop everything if you said no.

your heart swelled at the care in his voice.

you nodded, fingers curling around his shoulders.

he leaned in, close enough for his breath to fan across your face. “need words, love.”

“i’m okay, jaem,” you said more firmly, gazing up at him.

his eyes lingered on yours a moment longer before he nodded. he took a pillow and carefully placed it behind your lower back

"good girl," he murmured.

he shifted, his hands steady on your hips, grounding you as he lined himself up. the anticipation coiled tightly in your stomach, a nervous, thrilling buzz. you felt him prodding at your entrance, he swiped his tip up and down, the action made you clench in anticipation. he eased in, inch by inch, the stretch stealing every ounce of air from your lungs.

his head dropped, forehead pressed against yours, jaw tense as his eyes squeezed shut. a soft curse left his lips. “fuck, so… so tight,” he groaned, his voice wrecked. his fingers dug into your hips, holding you still.

the moans spilling from your lips mixed with his name, coming out soft and unrestrained. every inch of him felt like too much, the kind of stretch that made your breath catch and your nails press into his shoulders. it had been so long since you'd had sex that you'd almost forgotten what it felt like, and even back then, no one had ever filled you like this. jaemin was thicker, longer, and the difference was impossible to ignore.

"baby, if you keep squeezing me like that…" he laughed breathlessly, his fingers drawing slow, steady circles on your hip like he was trying to soothe you. “i might not make it all the way in.”

“s’rry, you’re… just too big,” you muttered, voice coming out more wrecked than you intended.

he bit down on his lip, eyes flicking down to where you were connected. the sight alone was about to undo him. "yeah?" he breathed, a little too satisfied with himself. his hand slid up, fingers pressing into your waist just a bit harder, grounding you in place as he pushed in deeper.

the pressure was overwhelming, every slow inch making you feel like you might fall apart right there beneath him. and the deeper he went, the more you swore you wouldn’t last long. the tight, aching pull in your stomach was already coiling up, twisting tighter with every second.

“you okay?” his voice was softer this time, the restraint obvious in how still he stayed once he’d finally bottomed out. his forehead pressed lightly to yours, lips hovering just close enough to brush your skin.

“mhm,” you nodded quickly, legs shaking around him.

“words, baby,” he said, and his fingers tilted your chin so you’d look at him.

“i’m okay, jaem. just…just move, please,” you said, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

"since you asked so nicely," he said with a grin that was all teeth and trouble. his hands gripped your thighs, pulling them higher against his sides. his hips pulled back, just enough for you to feel every inch of him drag out slowly, before he pushed back in.

the breath punched out of you. you didn’t even have time to recover before he was doing it again, sharper, testing just how much you could handle.

"god, you’re taking me so well, princess," he groaned, eyes flicking down to where your bodies connected. his hands slid up your sides, the warmth of his touch a sharp contrast to the way he was slamming into you. "like you were made for me."

“jaem-” his name was the only thing you could manage, high-pitched and broken. your head tipped back against the pillows, eyes squeezing shut, but that only made everything feel sharper.

“what's that?” he asked, voice rough as he leaned in closer, his lips ghosting over the corner of your mouth. "love it this much, huh?"

you didn’t answer, didn’t need to. he could hear it in every shaky breath, feel it in the way your body reacted to him.

his mouth was on yours a second later, messy and hot, his teeth dragging over your bottom lip before his tongue slid past it. he didn’t kiss you so much as claim you, taking everything you gave and then some. your fingers knotted in his hair, desperate for something to hold on to. the sounds between you were wet, frantic, each one making the coil in your stomach twist tighter.

you were close… so, so close.

but then he pulled away again, leaving you gasping at the sudden loss. before you could even think to complain, he grabbed your hips, flipping you over like it was nothing. your cheek pressed into the pillow, hips lifted, and you barely had a second to brace yourself before he was back inside you.

the first thrust knocked the air out of your lungs. it was deeper now, sharper, because he’d found a whole new spot to ruin you from. your fingers dug into the pillow, muffling the sounds spilling from your mouth, but even that wasn’t enough. the angle had you seeing stars, the kind of pressure that made your legs shake with every thrust.

“feel that?” his voice was right at your ear, low and rough. “feels different, doesn’t it?”

you nodded frantically, too gone to answer, but that wasn’t good enough for him. his hand slipped up, tangling in your hair, gently tugging you up just enough so he could hear you.

“talk to me, baby.” his voice was a rasp now, barely hanging on. "tell me how it feels."

“s’good…so good, jaem,” you gasped, words rushed and jumbled but still clear enough. "i’m- i’m gonna…”

“go ahead, baby," he said, lips brushing against your ear before he bit down softly on your earlobe, making you jolt. "want you to cum for me."

your whole body shuddered as the release crashed into you, slow and unrelenting, like a wave that just wouldn’t let up. it didn’t hit and fade away like usual — it lingered, making your muscles seize and tremble with every pulse. you felt boneless, your limbs heavy as you sagged against the bed, head turned to the side, cheek pressed into the pillow. jaemin stayed inside you, his grip on your hips loosening just slightly but his eyes stayed locked on you, dark and intent. you could feel him watching every little twitch of your body.

“look at you,” he murmured, his voice rough and low. “so pretty like this.”

he eased out of you slowly, and the emptiness that followed had you sucking in a sharp breath. your thighs shook as you tried to press them together, but his were still on you, thumb brushing softly along your inner thighs admiring how your cum slid down your dripping core.

you glanced down, lips parting at the sight. his cock was flushed, standing firm against his stomach, the condom showing nothing but a hint of precum mixed with the mess you’d left behind. a slow heat pooled in your belly again, your body already responding before your mind could catch up.

“you didn’t—” you started, but the words dissolved in your throat, eyes flickering back up to meet his.

you didn’t wait for him to say anything. your hand shot out, fingers curling around his wrist, and you tugged him forward. he followed easily, letting you pull him in close, his lips already parting like he was expecting a kiss. but just as he leaned in, you braced a hand on his chest and shoved him down flat on his back.

“oh?” he breathed out a soft, surprised laugh, his eyes widening as his head hit the pillow. “what’s this, huh?”

“shh,” you muttered, climbing over him, one leg swinging over his hips until you were straddling him. your palms flattened on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your hands.

“bossy now, are we?” his grin stretched wider, his hands sliding up your thighs with a slow, deliberate touch. he squeezed just above your knees, fingertips pressing into your skin.

“quiet,” you said leaning forward, your breath warm against his ear. “thought you’d like a girl who takes charge.”

his head tipped back with a breathy laugh. “oh, i do,” he said, voice trailing off into a low hum as his eyes dipped to where your hips hovered just above him. “but i like it even more when she can keep up.”

the corner of your mouth tugged up into a grin. “we’ll see,” you muttered, reaching between your bodies to wrap your hand around him. he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, his whole body going rigid beneath you. even with just the faintest pressure of your hand, you could feel him twitch, his hips bucking up slightly.

“s-sensitive,” he hissed, jaw tightening as he pressed his head back into the pillow. but he didn’t stop you, didn’t even try. if anything, his fingers dug harder into your thighs, holding you steady like he was afraid you’d pull away.

“thought you could keep up,” you shot back, glancing up at him. his brows furrowed, his eyes squeezing shut for a second before they flickered back open. the teasing look on his face was gone now, replaced with something hungrier, more focused.

you lined him up with you, heart thudding hard against your ribs. you’d done this before, but it felt different now… the weight of his eyes on you, the way his hands gripped you just a little tighter as you slowly lowered yourself onto him. the stretch was slow, inch by inch until you felt him fill you completely.

“f-f—” his curse broke off into a low groan, his chest rising sharply as his hands slid up to your waist. “god, you’re—” he didn’t finish. couldn’t finish. his eyes screwed shut, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip so hard you thought he might draw blood.

you braced your hands on his chest, fingers curling just slightly as you adjusted to the feeling. the heat in your core burned brighter, the ache of it twisting into something sharper, more desperate. you shifted your hips just a little, testing it, and the friction hit you so perfectly you gasped, nails digging into his chest.

“you okay?” his voice was strained, barely more than a whisper, but there was a thread of concern woven through it. his eyes cracked open, heavy-lidded but focused on you.

“mhm,” you nodded, breathless as you lifted your hips slowly, feeling every inch of him slide out before sinking back down just as slow. his head tipped back, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard, a low groan rattling from his chest.

“yeah, just like that,” he muttered, his grip on you loosening as he let you set the pace. “take your time, pretty girl.” his words slurred just a little, as if he wasn’t fully in control of them anymore. “feels so…” his breath hitched, head tilting back against the pillow.

his hands never stopped moving, though. they roamed up your waist, across your ribs until they found your boobs, they played there for a minute before sliding down to grip your thighs again. every time you dropped your hips, you watched the way his face twisted — brows pulling together, lips parting, his eyes half-lidded and glassy. his fingers twitched, his grip faltering like he wanted to touch you everywhere at once.

“harder,” he breathed, his voice so quiet you almost missed it. his eyes flicked up to yours, gaze locked, lips parted and shiny with spit. “don’t hold back.”

you bit your lip, grinning through the burn in your legs as you shifted your pace and started going faster. the sound of it echoed in the room and you felt the warmth building low in your belly again, tighter and tighter with every roll of your hips.

“y-yeah, just like that,” he gasped, voice cracking, his eyes fluttering shut again. he pressed his head back, the veins on his neck on full display, and you watched the way his adam’s apple bobbed with every uneven breath. his hands slid to your hips, guiding you in sync with his shallow thrusts upward. the movement was messy, desperate, his body seeking more even as he tried to hold on.

“gonna—” he bit out, breath hitching sharply. his eyes flew open, wild and unfocused as he stared at you like he wasn’t even sure what he was about to say. “gonna— oh, fuck—”

“yeah?” you gasped, leaning forward, your hands braced against his chest, fingers curling into his skin. “feels good, hm?”

he didn’t answer with words. he answered with his body, hips snapping up to meet yours, his fingers dragging down your back, hard enough to leave little streaks of heat in their wake. his breathing grew choppy, his body locking up beneath you as his grip on your waist turned bruising.

“don’t stop,” he panted, his voice rough, broken. “don’t— oh, fuck.”

you didn’t. not until you felt every last bit of him give in. his whole body went taut, muscles straining beneath you, his grip locking you in place as he let himself go. he groaned so deeply it sounded more like a growl, his breath hot against your neck as he pulled you down to him, holding you close.

“what’s the verdict, doctor?” you asked, tracing circles on his chest, still sat on top of him.

“hm,” he hummed with his eyes still closed, lips tugging up at the corners as if he was fighting off a grin. “patient shows signs of extreme confidence. possible cause: being too good at driving me crazy.”

you snorted, tilting your head to look at him. “is that your professional diagnosis?”

“oh, absolutely,” he said, cracking one eye open to meet yours. “might need to run some more tests, though. you know, for accuracy.”

“yeah?” you leaned in, your lips ghosting over his jaw. “what kind of tests, doctor?”

his hands slid up your back, fingers splayed wide as they pressed you closer. “thorough ones,” he muttered, his voice rasping against your ear. “real hands-on approach.”

“sounds serious,” you teased, letting your nails drag lightly down his chest. “hope your credentials check out.”

“i’m overqualified, baby,” he breathed, tipping his head back against the pillow with a lazy grin. “let me show you.”

part two

my inbox is always open for any comments about the fic!! thank you<3

#nct x reader #nct dream x reader #nct imagines #nct smut #nct dream fic #nct jaemin #na jaemin #jaemin x you #jaemin x reader #jaemin moodboard #jaemin imagine #jaemin fic #jaemin smut #jaemin fanfic #jaemin #nct dream smut #nct fanfic #nct #nct dream x you

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johnnysuhbmarine · 6 months ago

Text

Too Good to be Fake

Pairing: Jaemin x reader Description: If there was one thing Na Jaemin was known for, it was being a fuckboy with no interest in commitment. If there was one thing you knew him for, it was being your best friend…and long-time crush. When his group of guy friends gets tired of the roster Jaemin seems to be running through, they propose a deal - they’d each give him $100 if he could settle down with one girl for at least three months. But that was easy money to Jaemin. After all, he could just fake-date you. Content warnings: swearing, talk about sex, mentions/consumption of alcohol, a panic attack (not the reader), one punch gets thrown, reader has a somewhat bad relationship with her parents, their obliviousness to the other’s feelings makes you want to slam your head against a wall, some angst but it’s mainly through unaddressed fluff. Please let me know if I’ve missed anything. Word count: 31,947 A/n: I didn’t know I could write this much, but after making my smau, I was ITCHING for written work ahahahhahahahaha. Please enjoy, though who am I to tell you what to do…as always, feedback would be greatly appreciated. I love you :) also because I must tag @fullsunstrawberry in everything I do...here you go - I love you the mostest! Read the epilogue here!

The semester was in full swing for just over a month, and Haechan was already tired of the amount of girls Jaemin had brought over to their apartment. The first two years of university cemented Jaemin’s image as resident fuckboy, but no one cared about the fact that they couldn’t keep him for more than a night because he was hot enough to make the one night worth it. Similarly, Jaemin couldn’t care less about being labeled a fuckboy - at the end of the day, all it meant was that he was able to get his dick wet with no added pressure from the expectation to ever commit; the concept seemed like heaven to him.

However, the start of junior year had his best friends thinking it was time for a change. As Jaemin sat down in one of their usual cafés for lunch, all eyes were on him. “Alright, Jaemin, we figure you’ve had your fun for the past two years now,” Chenle said with a gleam in his eyes.

“Too much fun…” Haechan adds under his breath.

Jaemin looked around at the group with furrowed brows. “Whatever is going on, can we stop it and just have our coffee and sandwiches like normal? Why am I being targeted for the amount of fun I’m having? You’ve all had your fair share of fun, too.”

Jeno let out a small laugh at Jaemin’s defense. “Yeah, but we aren’t nicknamed the campus fuckboy. Plus, we’ve all been in actual relationships during our time in college.”

Jaemin’s face drops, no longer interested at all in the conversation they were clearly wanting to have. “I could be in a relationship if I wanted to be, I just don’t want to,” he’s quick to mutter in reply.

“Why not?” Renjun asks, raising his eyebrows in wait.

Jaemin lets out a scoff. “All that love and commitment is stupid. You guys put so much effort into your previous relationships and yet, we’re all currently sitting at this table single. There’s no one who makes me want to even try being in a relationship. Why would I want to risk wasting all that effort on someone?”

His six best friends eyed each other around the table, either not buying it or not caring. “Look man,” Mark starts, getting Jaemin to turn his attention over to him. “Regardless of how you feel about love, Haechan is tired of listening to you and whatever girl you bring home that night…and he’s especially tired of it always being a different girl to walk in on him while he’s singing in the kitchen making breakfast. So, to maybe help him out, and also to test your ability because honestly, I don’t know if any of us think you’re capable…in the nicest way possible, of course. We wanna propose a bet- or a deal is probably the better word for it.” Jaemin shoots his gaze over to the rest of them, but no one bore a look of amusement, they were all curiously locked in. “If you can get a girlfriend and settle down for at least three months, we’ll give you $600.”

Well originally, Jaemin had no interest in any part of this, but if everything worked out the way his brain was planning it, that $600 could potentially be easy cash…not to mention a lot of it.

“I’m in,” he pipes up immediately, truthfully stunning his best friends at the table. Nevertheless, they all shake on it, and then Jaemin only has one thing to do…after finishing his coffee and sandwich, of course.

One day later, you get a text from Jaemin. Free to catch up today? Your cheeks blush warmly at the message. It wasn’t anything special, but after being glued to each other’s sides during high school, college saw you and Jaemin having considerably less time for each other; so it was always nice to see you were still a thought in his mind because truly, you missed your best friend like no other.

Free to catch up everyday :)) You respond, and Jaemin’s reply comes instantaneously.

Perfect ;) meet you at the café in two hours

You check the clock before mapping out how you would spend all your time in between now and then, quickly deciding most of it should be directed towards making yourself look presentable, seeing as you’ve done nothing but rot in bed all morning.

Fast forward two hours and you were already sitting at one of the café tables when the bell rang as Jaemin walked through the door. He scans the inside before his eyes find you and he lights up. “Hi, best friend!” He says overenthusiastically as he pulls out the chair across from you. You furrow your brows at his tone, not to mention his usage of ‘best friend,’ when you think you remember Jaemin calling you that only once before when you were both still in high school, and had since never labeled you like that again - not that it was an incorrect label, but one that he typically didn’t make a huge deal about unless…

“Oh, god,” you start sarcastically. “What mess did you get yourself into now?”

“Hey!” Jaemin shoots back in mock hurt, moving a hand over his heart as if you’ve just shot him. You let out a light laugh, rolling your eyes.

“Sorry, Jaem, please continue.”

He immediately ducks his head to face his lap, his tone bearing a fraction of the force it previously had. “Okay so, I got myself into a mess.” You can’t help the genuine laugh that escapes you as you shake your head. Jaemin whips his head up to face you in response, but as you manage to stop your laughter, all you can do is meet his gaze with a softness in your eyes that perfectly balanced the playful smirk on your lips.

“I’ve missed you a lot, you know,” you respond, and Jaemin rolls his lips inward to try and stop the smile as he directs his gaze somewhere off to the side.

“Yeah, hoping you’re still thinking that after I explain,” he replies hesitantly, and your face falls in an instant.

“You got me into a mess?!” You ask in disbelief, and Jaemin lets out a light sigh.

“Not yet, but that’s kind of the goal,” he answers, scrunching up his facial features as he waits for your reprimanding. Though it never comes, and instead, you speak plainly through a sigh.

“An explanation needs to come out of your mouth in three, two-”

Jaemin curls himself into a ball as best he can while sitting in the café chair, wanting some kind of physical defense before explaining himself in a rush. “I need us to fake date for three months so can you please please please be my fake girlfriend?” When he doesn’t get coffee thrown at him, he takes a moment to unfurl himself and look over at you again, his gaze met with your indifferent expression.

“Why?” You ask neutrally, and it seems to finally hit Jaemin that you were still the same sane, comforting presence you always had been, even if the two of you hadn’t properly hung out in over a year. He settles more decidedly into his chair, though he still frames his words through a lens of embarrassment, figuring that might be the best way to get you to agree - if you knew he knew he was stupid.

“$600 and to prove something to my friends,” he replies, his words light but his demeanor dead serious.

“And why me?” You toss back, causing Jaemin to roll his eyes as he throws his gaze off to the side again with a scoff.

“Cause every other girl I know has a crush on me and it’d make this very weird. I’m not trying to actually be in a relationship. That’s the last thing I want.” His words this time are firm enough to match his demeanor, and it has you taking a sip of your coffee to fight back the awkwardness you would’ve otherwise choked on.

“...Right,” you say in agreement, because out of all the times you could come clean about your huge crush on your best friend, right after he tells you that he doesn’t want a relationship is probably the worst time to do so.

“So?” Jaemin inquires hopefully, snapping you out of your thoughts. You flick your gaze up to him before immediately darting it back to your coffee on the table, one of your hands messing with the straw absentmindedly. Then you give in, because you suck at saying ‘no’ to your best friend.

“...Fine, but then we’re making a contract,” you say plainly, swirling the ice around in your americano. Jaemin lets out something like a laugh, shaking his head.

“Y/n, you’re taking this so seriously-” He starts, but you whip your head back up to him in an instant, cutting him off with sincerity.

“They’ll see right through it if we don’t,” you state, and you watch Jaemin’s adam's apple bob up and down in his throat as he swallows awkwardly.

He shakes out of it before putting his hands up in defeat. “Okay, whatever. Go ahead,” he replies, disinterested. You roll your eyes, grabbing a piece of paper and a pen from your backpack. Then you get to writing, because you were gonna need to set some intense boundaries if you were hoping to make it out of this alive.

“Alright, I think this should be good for right now,” you say after a few minutes, sliding the piece of paper his way. He takes one glance at it before letting out a laugh and directing his gaze back to you with raised brows.

“‘No kissing?’ I don’t mean to alarm you, but that’s actually the quickest way for them to see right through it,” he quips. You run your fingers through your hair awkwardly as you dodge his gaze, finally nodding your head with a sigh.

“Okay fine, we can change it. No kissing unless they bring it up or get suspicious. Good?” You ask, finally looking up at him again. He lets an amused smile paint its way across his lips as he stares at you across the table.

“Ha, we’ll keep it for now,” he agrees before turning his attention back to the paper and looking over the next thing you wrote. “‘No weird nicknames?’” He reads, popping his head back up to look at you for clarification. You roll your eyes, slightly embarrassed.

“Yeah, like sugar, pumpkin, honey, buttercup, sweetie, sweetheart, cutie pie, baby, babe, darling-” You’re cut off by a genuine laugh from Jaemin, helping you realize you’ve missed the sound of it a lot, and not at all helping the awkward situation you’ve gotten yourself into.

“Okay, you’re just naming every pet name imaginable,” he counters as though you were crazy.

You roll your lips inward, hesitating on how to respond before opting with a near-whisper. “I don’t like them,” you admit quietly, and Jaemin’s demeanor falls from playful to understanding. He opens his mouth to reply but closes it again before any words get out, instead taking another moment to think.

“They’re gonna expect me to call you something,” he finally says, speaking as though it were an apology.

You sigh, knowing he wasn’t lying. Idly messing with your hands, you reply quietly. “...are they gonna expect me to call you something, too?” You ask, and Jaemin contemplates with a sorry nod.

“Yeah, probably. Look, you can call me whatever you’re comfortable with, and if that’s just ‘Jaem,’ that’s fine.”

A more lenient answer than you were expecting, you shoot your head up to look back at him again, though your brows slightly furrow as you address the part he didn’t. “What about you?”

Jaemin lets out a soft sigh. “How about I just limit my usage of pet names, and I won’t call you anything food-related,” he suggests lightly, figuring those nicknames having made up your first seven examples meant you hated them the most. You roll your eyes but a smile crosses your face regardless because he was right, after all…and caring enough to actually realize that.

“I can live with that,” you relent, and a big grin comes back onto Jaemin’s face at the progress. He moves his attention back towards the contract, but immediately is whipping his gaze back to you in hurt.

“Why can’t I be the one to break it off?” He pouts, and you have half a mind to laugh, but you know he’s serious.

“If you date me for exactly three months and then break up with me, no matter how believable we make it, they’re either going to know it was set up or they’re going to assume you learned nothing and probably not give you the money,” you explain, and Jaemin’s pout turns into an impressed nod.

“You have a point…” He breathes out, causing you to smirk.

“I know.”

He bites on his bottom lip, deep in thought before turning back to you again. “We probably shouldn’t date for exactly three months then, either,” he adds, and you flash your eyebrows in recognition.

“That’s also true,” you say before putting together a calendar in your head. “Well, if today’s September 27th, three months is December 27th, so…we could have New Year’s Eve be our last night together?” You suggest awkwardly. Though, when you look back up towards Jaemin, he’s putting your timeline together with a nod.

“Works for me,” he cedes, scribbling your end date somewhere off to the side before continuing to scan down the list. His next question comes with the very last bullet point on the contract. “‘Come home with me for Christmas dinner?’” He reads before looking up at you in confusion. You shake your head with a laugh.

“Well, you didn’t think I’d do this for nothing in return, did you?”

Jaemin flashes his eyebrows in acknowledgement. “Okay…so why Christmas dinner?” He asks, and you drop your gaze back to your coffee.

“My family keeps riding my ass about not having a boyfriend. If you come back with me and pretend to be my boyfriend there, too, then even when we end things, they’ll at least be off my case for a while,” you admit, embarrassment tainting your voice before you rush to make the request sound more appealing. “And it’s not actual Christmas dinner! It’s that first weekend after finals week. You remember the big dinner we always had with other family friends and all that,” you drag off with an awkward laugh.

“Okay,” Jaemin agrees immediately, and you look back up at him in shock.

“Really? You’re agreeing to that?” You question, but he just shrugs his shoulders.

“Y/n, you’re getting me $600, the least I can do is one dinner with your family. Besides, they’re practically my second set of parents. I’m pretty sure I had at least a hundred dinners with them during high school,” he jokes, and the tension in your shoulders falls. You guys were really doing this…all of this. The two of you left the café and parted ways soon after agreeing to the terms of the contract, Jaemin feeling $600 richer already with how easy this was going to be.

Jaemin picked you up from class on the first day you would be meeting his friends, five days after the two of you signed your contract to fake-date. He greets you with an easy smile outside of your classroom door. “Hey, you ready?” He asks, and you send a nervous smile back up at him.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess,” you reply with a laugh. He flashes his eyebrows in acknowledgement, feeling much the same way seeing as this was probably the least conventional thing he’s ever done.

He leads you outside and towards the guys’ regular lunch spot at one of the tables set up in the campus commons. Jaemin had told his friends beforehand that he had gone and gotten himself a girlfriend and thus, to start the three month timer, and they were the ones who begged him to bring you to one of the lunches so they could meet you, and now here you were - walking casually towards the lunch table with Jaemin…too casually, Chenle noticed, because you weren’t even holding hands. He keeps quiet, but lets an easy smirk come across his face as you and Jaemin sit down next to each other.

“Alright, guys,” Jaemin starts as the rest of the friend group pins their full attention on you. “This is y/n. My girlfriend,” he says with a smile. The label sends ice through your veins. You could not believe Na Jaemin was introducing you as his girlfriend…it didn’t matter that the label was fake, the words sounded real coming out of his mouth. You turn your head to look at him, as if to get some kind of confirmation that it really was Jaemin next to you, calling you his girlfriend. By the time your gaze reaches him, he’s already looking over at you with a cheesy grin, nudging your side playfully with his arm and getting you to relax a little.

The guys go around introducing themselves, but as they make their full way around the table, Jeno immediately speaks up.

“So, how did the two of you get together?” He asks curiously. A valid question, which is why the guys all lean forward in interest, because of course they would be dying to know how their fuckboy best friend got an actual girlfriend rather than a hookup. It was a horrible question though, because it was one you forgot would ever come up, and you had no game plan to go about answering this. Though, it seemed all you had to worry about was keeping your eyes from going wide, because Jaemin did have a game plan for this, and he answered smoothly.

“I just asked her out,” he says with a shrug. “It’s always been so easy with y/n, I take it for granted most of the time. Every time I’m with her, I’m reminded that it takes no effort to breathe, that I’m standing on solid ground. We met up for coffee the other day and she said she missed me and I-” He falters for a moment, and you finally bring your gaze up from your lap to face Jaemin, just to see him shake his head as if he were breaking himself out of a nostalgia trip. “I wanted to hear that again and again,” he finally says seriously, and you can’t stop the smile from reaching your face. “So, though now it just sounds embarrassing saying it out loud, I straight up asked her to be my girlfriend right after that,” he adds through a laugh. “I had been waiting for the butterflies that everyone always talks about, but the fact that I’ve never really felt that with her just made me more sure I wanna be with her - there’s no discomfort or anxiety,” he says, and with your head ducked back in to face your lap, you miss it when he turns to look at you softly. “She’s just always felt like home.”

Jaemin’s answer seems to have done its job in convincing everyone, and it definitely did its job in reminding you that you were in deep trouble. Though, as the rest of the guys take in Jaemin’s words with an impressed nod, Mark tries to fill in his holes. “Wait, how long have you known each other?” He asks, which was another valid question seeing as Jaemin talked about you with history even though you had never met his friend group before.

“We’ve been friends since high school,” Jaemin says coolly, though this time, you’re the one to nudge him with a laugh.

“Best friends,” you add teasingly, and Jaemin chuckles as he looks over at your figure before nodding his head.

“Yeah, best friends,” he agrees fondly. “But, I’ve liked her for a while now,” he says, turning back towards the group as his face falls and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I just- obviously have the image that I do and I never wanted to get her tied up in it. She deserves more than being labeled as some fuckboy’s latest infatuation,” he says, and as you furrow your brows at him, he just shakes his head, moving on with a light smile. “Though, obviously, I saw her last week and couldn’t help it anymore.”

Sorry smiles cross most of the guys’ faces - they were no help when it came to keeping labels away from Jaemin, and he was sure putting on a convincing show, making it almost seem like it was their fault the two of you hadn’t already gotten together.

Haechan swings his gaze over to you with raised eyebrows, shifting gears to try and not to let the dampened mood actually settle in. “And you? How long have you liked him?” He asks, and you have to stop the laugh from leaving your system. Instead, you just shake your head fondly.

“Forever,” you answer truthfully, turning to face Jaemin before immediately pulling your gaze back down to your lap in embarrassment. “Any girl will tell you, it’s impossible not to fall for Na Jaemin.” At this, all the guys roll their eyes, but Jaemin just turns to study you softly, biting on his bottom lip in contemplation as he tries to sort out whether any part of your statement was true or if you were just really good at acting.

However, with the rumbling of Jisung’s stomach, he quickly discards the topic of you and Jaemin, deciding that after all the intro questions were out of the way, food was much more interesting. The guys laugh along as Jisung rips through his paper bag lunch, but it does its job in getting them to focus on their own food in front of them, too.

Casual conversation occurred over lunch, and you were pleasantly surprised to find it wasn’t awkward at all. Not that you were expecting the guys to be awkward with each other, but you typically weren’t great at meeting new people; and now you were meeting six of them at once, somehow fitting right in, your occasional remarks causing the whole table to laugh - something you’d have to pat yourself on the back for later. The only disturbance comes from Chenle, who had begun leaning way back from the table, carefully balancing his weight on the bench as he seems to examine the ground by your feet.

The entire friend group eventually catches on to his antics, turning their attention towards him with raised eyebrows. “What are you doing?” Renjun finally asks, the question coming out as though he thought Chenle were crazy…which probably wasn’t too far from his actual stance on the matter.

Chenle shakes his head, pulling himself back into a normal sitting position as he locks his gaze onto you and Jaemin. “Don’t most couples have a hand placed on the other’s thigh or something while sitting? Why are you guys like- a foot away from each other?” He asks plainly. Your face drops and your eyes widen.

“We are not a foot away from each other,” you remark firmly, but then Jisung peaks beneath the table as well, pulling back up with a shrug.

“Uh, you kinda are,” he says, causing Jaemin to roll his eyes.

“Didn’t think you guys were big pda enthusiasts,” he says, trying to laugh it off, but Chenle is relentless.

“Have you kissed yet?” He asks immediately, and you almost choke.

“What?!” You return in shock, but Chenle looks between the two of you with uninterested brows.

“You’ve liked each other for forever and you’re this awkward?” He shoots back in a taunt. You sigh, collecting yourself because you knew what you were about to have to do.

“You’re right, Jaem,” you say, pulling his attention your way as you place a hand on his cheek and smile in disbelief. “Your friends are annoying,” you continue, and then you lean in and kiss your best friend and long time crush.

Admittedly, you’ve imagined this moment more times than you could count, but none of those fantasies could have prepared you for what it actually felt like to kiss Na Jaemin. His lips were perfect, he was perfect, and you knew that already but now you felt it. You remind yourself of where you’re at, why you’re kissing him in the first place, and bring yourself to pull back after the one soft kiss, trying your best to make it seem as though that alone didn’t cause you to lose your breath.

As the two of you pull away from each other, Jaemin’s gaze locks on you, running over every inch of your face with an unreadable look in his eyes to contrast the softest of smiles on his lips. “Yeah, angel, they are,” he says through an exhale, and as your face goes completely pink, his smile eases into a familiar smirk. “But if you kiss me every time they piss you off, I might have to have them stick around.”

You roll your eyes, nudging him in the side again as you focus on the playful banter and not on the fact that Jaemin just rewired your brain chemistry with one ‘angel.’ “Whatever, we both know I kiss you all the time anyways,” you tease, but as you try to shift away again, Jaemin catches your hand in his and looks at you as if you were crazy.

“No, I kiss you all the time,” he rushes to correct, and though you whip your head back to face him in offense, your eyes instantly soften upon contact, a tight smile playing at both of your features instead.

Your only thought was to kiss him again, and you’re thankful when Chenle cuts off any chance of that happening. “What is going on?” He asks in disgust, causing Renjun to laugh and shake his head.

“Hey, you were the one jumping their asses for their lack of public romance. This is your fault.”

With the conclusion of lunch, Jaemin kept you company on the walk back to your dorm. As soon as you’re out of sight from the rest of the guys, you let out a heavy sigh and accompanying drop of your shoulders. “Well, there goes rule number one…” You say in defeat. If you couldn’t even follow the first rule during your first outing as a ‘couple,’ the rest of these three months were not going to bode well for you.

Instead of matching your demeanor, Jaemin takes offense. “What, no! We changed rule number one to no kissing unless they brought it up or were suspicious, and they both, brought it up and were suspicious,” he claims firmly, but the playful tone underlying his words makes it so that all you can do is let out a small, wry laugh.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” you say with a shake of your head, though the smile has made its reappearance on your face. Next to you, Jaemin stops walking, pausing for a moment as he stares at the pavement beneath your feet. As soon as you notice his absence at your side, you turn back around to face him and his small grimace.

“Thank you, by the way,” he says gently, and any remaining tension you were carrying falls away; because any time Jaemin fell softer, you were reminded of how you’d do anything for your best friend. “I don’t know if I really thanked you for letting me talk you into this. I know it’s stupid, but it’s nice to have them attacking me for whether or not I’ve kissed you rather than attacking me for my body count,” he finishes, and it feels as though all your joints had immediately locked up again.

Jaemin’s title as the campus fuckboy was not lost on you, but talking about anything close to relationships was never a strong suit for you guys; and with him quickly finding his place within a new friend group here at college, it meant you were even less in the know of his whereabouts on any given day. The last thing you were expecting was for Jaemin to keep you updated on who he just fucked, but the entire realm of conversation was always so unreachable for you two. You knew nothing of what the campus fuckboy was truly getting up to; there was sometimes talk in your class when a girl would come in beaming as she told her friends she managed to spend a night with Jaemin, but instances like that were all you got informed by, and you never dared pry deeper into those overheard conversations.

Sometimes your jealousy would damn near kill you - all these girls boasting about the fact that they had spent a night with Jaemin…you wanted to turn around half the time and tell them to forget about one night because you’ve spent countless days with him; that your entire high school career was covered in his handprints and bright smile which you were sure was laced with drugs - a smile you knew he wasn’t throwing around in the bedroom.

You never did snap, though, because it was easier to keep your ‘best friend’ label with Jaemin under the radar at college, unless you wished for tens upon hundreds of girls to line up in front of you and ask your advice on how to win his heart. Jokes on them, you were still figuring that out, yourself.

“What is your body count?” You ask with a hesitant swallow, your curiosity getting the better of you now that he’s finally brought it up.

Jaemin shoots his head up to face you but instantly dodges your eye contact again. For the first time since you’ve met him, he looks genuinely embarrassed. “Another time, y/n,” he says in soft dismissal.

You swallow harshly, in disbelief at what you were about to tell him, but as much as it would sting, it would keep your own feelings at a very needed bay. “If you still want to have sex, you can. I don’t mean to force you into celibacy. Just make sure it’s at the girl’s house so Haechan doesn’t find out,” you say lowly, and Jaemin immediately makes wide eye contact with you.

“Really?” He asks in something like shock. You act as though it’s no big thing, and you’re sure it probably shouldn’t be, anyways.

“Yeah,” you respond with a shrug.

Jaemin takes in your words with a contemplative head nod, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth before his eyes light up in alert, finding another caveat to address. “What do we do if the girl starts talking about the fact that she hooked up with me?” He asks seriously, but you’ve finally found humor in the situation, shaking your head as though there were hardly a need for the question.

“Jaem, just about every girl wants to sleep with you, or at least make it seem like she did…a random girl claiming to have hooked up with you one day is just going to sound like she’s desperate for attention. No one’s gonna take it seriously,” you say with a playful roll of your eyes. Absolutely nothing you said was wrong, and with a deep breath, Jaemin seems to accept that fact.

As he exhales, he resumes his continuation on the walk back to your dorm, a light nod of his head accompanying his next words. “Okay. Thank you-” His casual start is broken as he turns his head back over to you at his side in question. “Are you gonna be okay? Are you gonna like- hook up- uh…with other guys?” He asks curiously. All you can do is laugh at him.

“Casual hookups aren’t my thing and no way am I getting an actual boyfriend while we’re doing this, but of course I’ll be okay. I’m pretty sure your sex drive is at least ten times greater than mine. I can handle three months,” you reply lightly, and seemingly all of Jaemin’s worries about this new implementation fade away - it seemed perfectly doable without getting caught.

As you get to your dorm entrance, you and Jaemin turn to fully face each other. “Thanks again for today. I think we got them somewhat convinced,” he says through a small laugh, and you flash your eyebrows in acknowledgement.

“No reason to thank me for that - you did most of the talking,” you rebuttal playfully.

Jaemin’s laugh turns into a knowing smirk. “You were the one who kissed me,” he teases, and you shake your head, but a wide grin spreads across your lips, regardless.

“It's not my fault that they both, brought it up and were suspicious,” you remind him, putting your hands up in defense. Jaemin takes a moment to laugh again before settling into a more fond look that was reminiscent of your high school days.

“We’re gonna have to start hanging out more again since they think we’re dating, but even before all that, I think it’d make me happy if we started hanging out more again just cause I’ve missed you…and I know it’s my fault we haven’t talked as often! I got a friend group of guys and an- agenda…with girls, and as such, my entire college career up to now has unfolded in that way. But I miss you because you’ve always been my friend, not because of some agenda or fake-dating scheme.”

“Mmmmmm, best friend,” you correct with a sure smirk, making Jaemin drop his head with a laugh of defeat.

“Yeah, best friend,” he cedes, and your smirk turns into a soft smile.

“I never do anything, so just text me when you wanna hang. I’ll be there.”

He looks back up at you with a small grin and a nod. “Same goes for you,” he replies. Then, all that was left was saying ‘goodbye’ in a much more awkward way than usual, before you went back up to your room to decompress from whatever the hell just happened.

It was a week after that first lunch when you were alone and bored in your dorm. None of the guys mentioned anything about having plans for the weekend while at lunch, which you had begun to join in on every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. So, although you just saw him, you figured Jaemin wouldn’t have anything better to do than hang out with you some more today. You shoot your gaze over to the clock, agreeing there was more than enough time left in the day to make a hang out worth it, and then grabbing your phone to text Jaemin.

Hey, I’m bored. Wanna do something? You send, and Jaemin’s reply is instantaneous.

With a girl rn

For a text that’s letting you know he’s following your directions, it hurts more than you thought it would to read. You know it’s for the best that this be your reality. Jaemin had been your best friend for so long now, the last thing you wanted was to ruin that with your feelings; and while fake-dating wasn’t helping, this reality-check definitely did. He’s not just your best friend anymore, he’s the campus’ heartthrob…the campus’ fuckboy. It was the entire reason behind the bet his friends made in the first place - a circumstance like this was only expected. So, you’d have to forget about the hollow feeling in your stomach right now and instead support your best friend in a best friend way, cause no matter how many times in the next three months he’s destined to call you ‘angel’ or look over at you softly every time you talk in the group, ‘best friends’ is all you are to each other. Oh, look at you go! I figure I’m your alibi, so I guess I’ll stay in for the rest of the night so there’s no possibility of one of your friends seeing me

His reply this time took about thirty minutes to get to you, and even his last text didn’t prepare you for the brick wall that faced you with this one. Thanks

Jaemin isn’t selfish, Jaemin is busy. It’s the mantra you kept repeating to yourself, because you know he’s not selfish; and while you were expecting a reply more aligned with an apology for forcing your Friday night to be spent indoors and alone, taking the time to text that out probably was not something Jaemin could manage while another girl was surely sucking him off.

The next Thursday, it’s Jaemin’s idea to hang out after classes. The two of you decided to chill at your place so that you didn’t have to constantly pretend around Haechan, should he be in their apartment. As you swing the door open to Jaemin’s presence, he looks at you with a big grin on his face. “Hey, angel,” he says, patting the top of your head as he walks into your dorm. You track his figure deeper into the living area, looking at him quizzically because the whole purpose of him being here was that he didn’t have to call you ‘angel.’

You just shake your head with a smile as he plops down on your couch. “Hey, Jaem.”

He looks up at you with innocent eyes. “What did you want to do tonight?” He asks, and you shrug your shoulders with a laugh.

“You’re the one who wanted to come over; my plan was to do homework.” Your answer has Jaemin’s face falling, and you watch as he gets up from the couch and immediately walks out the door, leaving you completely dumbfounded. You didn’t think homework was that repulsive to him. Though, moments later, there’s another knock on your door, and you answer it to be met with Jaemin again, this time his own backpack slung across his shoulders. “Wha-?” You question with a laugh of disbelief.

Jaemin sends a smirk your way before once again walking past you and towards the couch, immediately unzipping his backpack and placing its contents on the coffee table. “Homework,” he says casually, looking up at you with raised brows and a smirk. “Best friend, fake girlfriend, study buddy…you get all the fun labels,” he teases, causing you to shake your head before relenting and joining him at the coffee table.

It was an incredibly normal night. After the two of you finished up the last of your assignments - though getting distracted every five or so minutes with stupid jokes, complaints of coursework, or a sudden remembering of a story that needed telling did not help push things along, the two of you watched a movie. You ended up making hot cocoa, because the privilege of thermostats meant that it wasn’t a crazy option, regardless of the outside temperature, and then sat on the recliner, Jaemin taking up considerably more space on the couch in response.

The two of you had always been good movie watchers with each other. You both liked to enjoy movies in the same way - the lights off, no talking, no distractions from phones…even if it was a movie you had seen a hundred times. The two of you took movie nights seriously, mainly because with each other, you could. At least, you had yet to find anyone else who would sit and watch Coraline with you and not take a break to say something about how they find it creepy or flatout don’t like the movie when it’s not even halfway over. Though, Jaemin always happily watched, saving his only comments (typically about how “they just don’t make movies like that anymore”) for the credits.

Just like that, it was like a night from high school, and it ended much the same way - a side hug with Jaemin and his promises of getting home safe, though it was you rather than your mother that he was making that promise to now.

Walking back into his apartment, Jaemin immediately catches the attention of Haechan, currently making late night ramen in the kitchen. “Did you just get back from y/n’s?” He asks, pulling his attention away from the stove to turn his head towards Jaemin.

“Yeah,” Jaemin answers casually as he makes his trek through the front space and towards his room, only getting distracted when Haechan speaks up again with a playful lilt and a matching smirk on his face.

“Good night?” He asks, causing Jaemin to furrow his brows before realizing what Haechan was actually getting at.

“What-? Oh, shut up,” he dismisses. Turning back around to face Haechan revealed him to be completely distracted from his ramen - his back now leaning against the countertop as his casual crossed arms added to the tease in his raised eyebrow. Jaemin rolls his eyes at the antics, especially considering Haechan was the main reason this whole deal was made in the first place - because he was tired of Jaemin having sex. “We didn’t have sex. We did normal couple things,” he states confidently before turning around again to actually make his way inside his room and behind his closed bedroom door.

This meant Jaemin missed the way Haechan’s playful brows furrowed in confusion, his face falling flatter as he spoke through a soft exhale. “What?” Any more time he could have had to actually question it was overridden with the need to tend to his now boiling over ramen; so Jaemin got off easy the rest of the night.

Haechan was not as forgiving the next time he saw the guys at Monday lunch, though. With you still nowhere to be seen and Jaemin in his line of sight ordering food, he addresses everything in a more serious tone than any of the guys were expecting.

“Does anyone else find it odd that they haven’t had sex yet?”

Eyes go wide at the rest of the table. “They haven’t?!” Jeno practically shouts before immediately getting embarrassed and making himself as small as possible. Haechan just shakes his head.

“They haven’t even spent the night at each other’s places yet. He always comes back home after hanging out with her and it’s always just him.”

“Maybe they’re taking it slow,” Mark replies with a shrug, but all eyes lock on him with ample skepticism.

“Does ‘slow’ seem like a Jaemin thing?” Haechan rebuttals. “I mean, come on. We’re talking about the guy who’s notorious for getting his dick wet at any available opportunity.”

“So, we think they don't really like each other? They’re faking it?” Renjun asks with pursed contemplative lips.

Haechan’s the one to shrug this time in mystery. “$600 is a hefty amount. He’d do anything he can for that, including but not limited to getting a fake girlfriend and lying to us,” he states more firmly, but that’s as Jaemin joins the table; his brows furrowed and mouth hanging slightly open as he looked around at the guys in something like disgust.

“What in the world did I just walk in on? Y/n is not my fake girlfriend. The deal money is nice but I’m at least honorable about these things,” he argues, and immediately all the guys whip their gazes towards him, varying expressions on their faces as Jisung speaks up in genuine question.

“Why haven’t you slept with her yet?” The seriousness of the question and the sheer interest in the rest of the guys’ faces gets Jaemin to roll his eyes.

“You guys are atrocious, you know that?” He says in place of an answer.

Chenle raises his brows. “The question remains,” he taunts with a smirk.

Jaemin looks him dead in the eyes as he responds. “She means more to me than that.”

“Means more to you than that?” Jeno reflects back with a laugh. “Jaemin, are you forgetting your love language?” This is the first thing you can pick up as you finally get to the table after questions from your classmates held you for more minutes than should be allowed. Regardless, you immediately jump right into conversation.

“Love language?” You echo with a smile. “There’s something I’m knowledgeable about. How’s my words of affirmation boy doing?” You continue, all your attention directed towards Jaemin as you shed your backpack from your body.

He looks up at you still standing by his side, eyes soft and speaking through a small smile. “Better now that you’re here,” he answers, and you don’t stop the bashful smile from coming across your face as you finally get situated sitting down next to him. The gentle moment is broken, though, with Jeno asking a question in total shock.

“Words of affirmation??” He begs for clarification, and the rest of the guys lean in at the table some more in apparent interest. You look at them all as though there was some joke you weren’t getting.

“Yes? What did you think it was?” You question back, and they respond in almost perfect unison.

“Physical touch.”

You can’t stop the small laugh from leaving your system as you look back at all of them seriously. “Jaemin’s good at showing love through physical touch, no doubt, but words of affirmation is by far his favorite way to receive love, it’s not even a question. And sure, part of that is how he smiles like an idiot whenever I tell him he’s the most handsome guy on the planet - which is stupid because ‘handsome’ honestly doesn’t even begin to describe it…” You trail off awkwardly before shooting your head back up to face everyone.

“But have you ever seen him receive a compliment that has nothing to do with his body or looks? The way his eyes light up like something just clicked for him? I mean, he’s so many more things before he’s physically attractive, and all he was waiting for was someone to recognize that. Every time we meet up after class and I say something like ‘I’ve been longing to be in your presence all day,’ or ‘thanks for bringing me more happiness than I’ve ever known,’ he’s practically on the verge of tears every time. It’s why when I told him I missed him that one day, all he could think to do was ask me to be his girlfriend. He’s been waiting to be missed on a level that had nothing to do with his body. He’s been waiting to be affirmed in a way that isn’t physical.”

That seemed to get everyone else at the table to shut up, swallowing awkwardly as they instead turned their attention to their food. You let out a small sigh of relief as you dig into your own sandwich, but Jaemin doesn’t think he can even take one bite anymore; a weird feeling in his stomach and his mind going a million miles an hour. When he does pick up his sandwich, it’s not because he’s finally convinced he can keep it down, but because not eating now would be incredibly suspicious to everyone…including you.

Jaemin walked you back to your dorm after lunch, something that became typical since it wasn’t always possible to pick you up from class for lunch. You were walking in comfortable silence; in fact, an element of awkwardness was only introduced once Jaemin spoke up with a strange sort of cough and hesitant words. “I didn’t know I was a words of affirmation guy,” he finally says after a couple of minutes.

With the two of you out of sightline and earshot of the others, you let your actions and reactions express more naturally. So, you paused completely, making him eventually stop and look over his shoulder at you in question. “Oh…really?!” You say in light shock before shaking your head and resuming your pace so you could catch back up to him and continue casually. “I mean, maybe you’re not then, but just from what I know-”

You’re cut off with a small laugh from Jaemin as he shakes his head softly, matching his contemplative tone. “No, I think you’re right. Everything you said I- I think you’re right.” He says it as though he were almost embarrassed by the fact, and you decide that’s the last thing you’re gonna allow him to feel in this situation.

“Oh, well, would you like me to affirm you more often then?” You ask seriously. “We aren’t exactly meeting up after class everyday and I’m not exactly telling you I’ve been waiting for that very moment, but I can.”

Jaemin is quick to dismiss the idea. “No, it’s okay. No use doing that when this whole thing is fake. I mean, rule number three or something is that everything is immediately dropped when we’re in private,” he tries to play off with a laugh, and as you finally reach the entrance to your dorm, you turn around to face him solemnly.

“Jaem, that’s not me putting on an act. You do know I love spending time with you, right? And-” You shake your head, frustrated with yourself that this is something you obviously didn’t do a good job of communicating earlier. “Take us out of this whole situation thing,” you command, finding your footing in what you’re wanting to say. “Just- as friends. I love spending time with you. I want you in my life forever, yeah?” You finish softly, and when you look back up at Jaemin, he’s quick to break eye contact.

“Yeah.”

The next few weeks saw to it that you and Jaemin were hanging out more than ever. What you saw as insane luck meant that every time you texted asking if he could hang out, he was never ‘with a girl’ at the time; and Jaemin was texting you and being the one to make plans at a far greater rate than you were, anyways. Instantly, your relationship reflected that during your time in high school - the only difference was that sometimes in the midst of trying to pretend you didn’t have the hugest crush on your best friend, you were also having to pretend you did have the hugest crush on your best friend.

Hang outs were still mainly at your place so that the two of you never had to worry about Haechan, though sometimes you’d purposely have a night in at Jaemin’s to keep Haechan convinced. This was not one of those times. Instead, you opened your door to Jaemin as you have for the past three Friday’s now, which the two of you decided would be ‘date night’ in everyone else’s eyes while really, you’d just keep a low profile and do whatever you wanted. Due to schedules, you always had an hour for homework before you’d be met with Jaemin’s presence, and he was right on time today. “Hey, Jaem!” You greet with a smile as you swing the door open and step back to allow him inside.

“Hey angel,” he replies casually, because calling you ‘angel’ was now a very typical occurrence, regardless of who was around to hear it. He flashes a smile in your direction, but instead of beelining for the couch like normal, he stops to stand kind of awkwardly in front of you before continuing hesitantly. “Mark is having a Halloween party if that’s something you’re interested in…we could go together. I know parties aren’t really your thing.” He speaks as though it were an apology, and all you can do is chuckle at his antics.

“Don’t worry about that. I am your fake girlfriend, aren’t I?” You tease in reply, and Jaemin raises his eyebrows as though he didn’t know where you were going with this.

“...Yes,” he draws out slowly, and you just shake your head at him fondly.

“So, if you’re going, then I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you answer sincerely, and though you’d never be able to convince yourself of it, you made Jaemin blush - just the tiniest bit.

He lets out something like a sigh of relief before nodding his head in acknowledgement. “Okay, I’ll tell Mark we’re going, then,” he says happily, and then suddenly it’s right back to routine as he heads for the couch to chill before the two of you could decide what all you actually wanted to do that day.

The next time you saw Jaemin was two days later when he asked if you wanted to accompany him to the store. It was all light and casual conversation as you strolled through the aisles, most of the time pointing at random items and saying ‘you’ to try and see who could get the other to laugh more. The bit promptly ended when you pointed at a Scrub Daddy to relate Jaemin to, but he instead teased you endlessly for using an item with “daddy” in the name. The only thing to veer his topic of conversation away from that was when you passed the aisle that had been repurposed into Halloween decorations and costumes, making him stop in his tracks.

“Have you decided on a costume for the party yet?” He asks curiously, and you turn back around to face him and redirect your path to peruse the Halloween aisle, touching random bits of costumes before dropping them back to the rack with a shake of your head.

“Well, I was gonna go as an angel since that’s kind of what you call me now, but if we do it as a couple’s costume, then you’d end up as the devil or a demon or whatever, and I don’t love the idea of that. So…would you wanna go as Team Rocket instead?” You ask in return. Jaemin swallows awkwardly as he takes in everything you just said, but he can’t take too long to explore the slightly comforting feeling brought on by you saying the idea of him as a devil wasn’t your favorite…because that wouldn’t be very ‘I don’t care what anyone else thinks’ of him. Instead, he resorts back to a familiar tease, an eyebrow raised as a playful smirk crossed his lips.

“Who said I wanted to do a couple’s costume?” He shoots back and your face immediately goes red as you scramble for words.

“Oh! You don’t- I was just- it’s not-” You’re cut off with a warm laugh from Jaemin.

“Breathe, angel, I was just messing with you,” he reassures with a shake of his head.

“Maybe you would make a good demon,” you deadpan in return, and Jaemin’s eyes light with fire as his jaw drops.

“Hey!”

“Just messing with you, Jaem,” you banter back, and Jaemin bites on the inside of his cheek to stop a wide grin from making an appearance at your behavior.

“I’m fine going as Team Rocket, as long as I get to be James,” he says with a mock seriousness, effectively getting you to smile as you roll your eyes.

“Well, I wasn’t going to suggest you be Jessie,” you assure in the same manner, and Jaemin nods his head, seemingly content with the plan before another question comes to mind.

“Are we dying our hair?” He asks, and this time he’s actually serious. You think about it for a second before giving into the idea with a contemplative nod.

“We can get the spray that lasts up until you wash it,” you suggest, and with a nod from Jaemin, your Halloween costumes were set - all you had to do was make them.

Fast forward a week and the only thing left to do was iron on the ‘R’ decal on Jaemin’s top, which was exactly what you were doing in his apartment as he took the time to spray blue in his hair. You look up from the heat press as Jaemin walks out of the bathroom. “Huh,” you let out involuntarily, and if you were any less close with Jaemin, you would’ve been embarrassed beyond words. However, he just looks at you with furrowed brows and a curious grin.

“What?” He asks, and you shrug your shoulders as though it were nothing big.

“You look good with blue hair,” you answer, trying your best to be casual about it.

Jaemin’s curious grin had turned into a shiteating one. “Oh, yeah?” He digs, trying to get under your skin; though, you thwart the attempt immediately, instead responding with nonchalance - the exact opposite of what he was reaching for.

“Well, no more than normal,” you reply, and Jaemin’s brows raise impossibly.

“Now, what does that mean?” He asks playfully, but you just shake your head.

“You’re the fuckboy, Jaemin. You know what I’m getting at.” With that, your attention was back on the iron as it beeped and let you know his shirt was ready. You pull it out from under the heat and turn it around so Jaemin could see the final product, and with a nod of approval, he grabs it from your hands and heads back to the bathroom.

“Looks great, angel,” he finally says, studying his appearance in the mirror before walking back out to the living area. You just drop your head as you feel your face heat up at the compliment.

“I’ll uh- go get ready,” you say quietly, and then you grab your own costume and hair spray before trading places with him in the bathroom.

Jaemin doesn’t hide his small smile as he watches you walk back out to the living area in your matching costume with him, and you try your best to pin your focus anywhere other than his soft gaze. “Um- drinking at parties isn’t really my thing so- I can drive us back here afterwards. You can drink however much you want,” you get out awkwardly before moving to sit down next to him on the couch.

Jaemin chuckles lightly in response to your behavior. “Are you sure?”

You nod your head profusely. “Of course. You enjoy parties a lot. I don’t want you to change an aspect of it just because I’m there, too. So, however much you normally drink…go for it.”

Jaemin studies your figure with ample doubt covering his features. “I don’t know. Me drinking while knowing I have a ride home typically means I turn into too much to handle,” he jokes, but any form of negative self-talk from him always grounds you, and you’re quick to refute it.

“Not for me,” you say, turning your head to make eye contact with him. “Never for me.” Your soft reassurance has Jaemin simply staring at you, and you quickly turn your head back to face your lap as you overthink every little embarrassing thing you’ve already done tonight. On the other hand, Jaemin didn’t even think twice before leaning over to place a kiss on your cheek.

Your cheeks puff out with a smile in immediate response to the contact, but as you lift your gaze back up to face Jaemin, your attention is caught by Haechan, who had just walked out of his room in costume - a vampire costume that was already iconic and he hadn’t even done anything yet.

Your soft smile turns into a full-on grin as you address him. “Woah, Hyuck. You look great!” You say with a laugh, and Jaemin whips his head around to face his roommate just to fall into his own bout of laughter.

“Oh, fuck off,” Haechan replies with a playful roll of his eyes as he walks towards the door. “Are you two gonna head out soon?” He asks more seriously, and Jaemin gives a light nod.

“Yeah, we won’t be too far behind you. Y/n just isn’t a huge fan of parties, so we opted for fashionably late rather than fashionably early.”

Haechan flashes his eyebrows up in acknowledgement before turning back from the front door to face the two of you again. “Alright. Don’t violate the couch too much in the meantime. It’s my favorite couch,” he banters, and this time it’s you and Jaemin to roll your eyes.

“You fuck off,” you say through a grin, and Haechan drops his head with a loud laugh before bringing his gaze back to the two of you with a soft smile.

“I’ll see you guys soon,” he says happily, and with that, he’s out the door.

It was about thirty minutes later when you and Jaemin entered the party house hand-in-hand. As soon as you got in, you realized your friend group was a lot more popular than you ever thought, because seemingly everyone you went to school with was here. For parties already feeling overwhelming, parties where you could hardly move without bumping into someone were even more so. Though, in the midst of the blaring music, a hundred different conversations, and all the dancing, your attention is turned to your interlocked hand with Jaemin as he gently rubs his thumb across the back of your hand.

You shoot your gaze up at him just to see he’s already staring back down at you softly. Unlike you, he looked completely at home in the party scene, though you figure one can’t truly get labeled a fuckboy without being so. That’s also why you assume he was able to tell you were already uncomfortable from the second you stepped inside.

Hardly a few feet from the entrance, he leans down to you at his side, speaking slowly in your ear so you could make it out from the rest of the noise. “We’ll stay only as long as you want, okay? If you wanna turn back around right now, we can.”

You shake your head minimally, turning to face him and realizing that action placed your lips dangerously close together. You roll them inwards in hesitation before shifting your gaze to his own. “I’m not going to make you leave super early. You like parties.”

A smirk plays on Jaemin’s lips as he raises an eyebrow at you. “I like you more,” he replies playfully.

You dart your gaze off to the side, ripping your hand away from his in the process. “I’m fine. Let’s just go find our friends.” You take a step out from the entryway but quickly notice Jaemin isn’t following. You whip your head around to face him just to see his hand outstretched for you again.

“If we’re going to go find our friends, your hand better be in mine,” he quips, causing you to roll your eyes before obliging and lacing your fingers back together. He gives your hand a light squeeze as he flashes you a wide smile and drags you to where he already saw Haechan, Jeno, and Renjun.

“Hey, you guys look great!” Jeno says with a bright smile as the two of you join their circle. Jaemin finally slides his hand out of yours to instead place it on the small of your back. Despite yourself, a small smile comes onto your face, not at Jeno’s words, but at Jaemin’s touch, and you relax a bit more against his hand.

Jaemin is the one to actually respond as the other two guys turn their attention to the both of you as well. “Thanks! My incredible, beautiful girlfriend made the costumes,” he says, tossing his gaze over to you at his side. You roll your eyes at him, but your smile grows.

“Making it is not the same as making it look good. You did that all on your own,” you shoot back earnestly. The three guys in front of you throw on a look of disgust, as if they weren’t the ones telling Jaemin he needed a girlfriend. Jaemin just looks over at you with a soft gleam in his eyes, his mouth straining as he tries to conceal a smile. He opts to just kiss you on the cheek instead, then reaching for your far shoulder and pulling you his way. He snakes his arms around you to keep you there in a hug from behind, his thumb gently rubbing up and down your waist. The five of you stood in a circle just talking for at least an hour. Occasionally, one of them would leave to grab drinks for the group, though you were sure to just stick to water the entire night as everyone around you became a comfortable state of tipsy.

Eventually, Jaemin unwound his arms from your figure, causing you to turn your head and look up at him in question. He lets an easy smile paint his lips. “I’m just running to the bathroom real quick. I’ll come find you again in a few.”

You nod your head, and your eyes follow Jaemin for as long as they could before he became completely indistinguishable from the rest of the crowd. You turn your attention back to Renjun, Jeno, and Haechan. “I’m gonna go find Mark,” you start with an awkward laugh. “I don’t know if he even knows Jaemin and I are here.” The three of them nod at you, Renjun racking his foggy brain for where he thinks he last saw him. You nod, thanking them for their company so far, and then heading off towards the kitchen under the guidance of Renjun’s memory.

When Jaemin steps out of the bathroom, he almost immediately runs into the body of another guy. Opening his mouth to apologize, the guest beats him to words.

“Jaemin, nice costume,” he says, and Jaemin loses his tension at the compliment.

“Oh, thank you-” He starts, but is quickly cut off again by the stranger.

“You got another one of your hoes to match with tomorrow?” He slurs with a smile, throwing an arm around Jaemin’s shoulder.

Jaemin’s eyes widen as he snakes out under the touch, guiding their hand back down to their side. “Uh, no, y/n’s my girlfriend. It’s just her and we’re just out for tonight,” he replies, turning his gaze away from the man to instead scan the crowd and try to lay eyes back on you.

“Ha! Good one,” the guy laughs out, and Jaemin snaps his gaze back to him in confusion.

“Good one?” He echoes back in question, but with a hard slap on his back that Jaemin thinks was meant to be playful, his conversation partner quickly leaves. Jaemin stands there for a moment puzzled, but he tries to shake out of the uncomfortable feeling as he directs his gaze back to the big crowd, looking for where you may have wandered off to once he sees you’re no longer with the previous group.

He quickly realizes he wouldn’t be able to find you by standing in one place, so he picks up his feet and starts weaving through the crowd again. When he feels a hand on his back, he assumes it’s you, and he whips around towards the figure. His face quickly drops when he realizes it isn’t you, and suddenly he’s extremely conscious of how everyone’s been touching him tonight.

“Such a shame your costume shows so little skin,” the girl says with a small pout and a fake innocence in her eyes. Jaemin tries to take a step back, just to bump into more people dancing and forcing him back into close proximity. He swallows hard, accepting the fact that he was having to engage in this conversation now.

“My girlfriend picked it out,” he says firmly, and the girl in front of him just tilts her head to the side, now rubbing a hand up and down his arm.

“Well, she’s ruining the fun,” she replies, something like pity in her eyes as she looks at Jaemin. He furrows his brows, his breath getting heavier as the air seems to get thinner.

“Um, I- I think I’m still fun without showing skin,” Jaemin fumbles out, and the girl just laughs, finally letting her hand drop from his arm as her doe-eyed expression turns mean.

“You’d like to believe that,” she says, shaking her head and walking off.

Jaemin stared after her in a weird mix of hurt and confusion that he hadn’t ever felt before. “What?” He asks in defeat, but there was no one there to give him any clarification.

He desperately starts looking around for you again. If he could just get back to you, if he could just slip his hand into yours, he was sure the heavy weight that’s found its way onto his chest would disappear. He was shaking, he didn’t know when he had started shaking, but it seemed to take the place of his breathing, and now he was worried about whether or not he would even have time to find you before he suffocated. Almost all the effort he was placing into finding you was now being placed into holding back his tears. Everything was too loud, he couldn’t hear his own thoughts, couldn’t hear his voice if he spoke aloud, suddenly not sure if he was even getting any words out when he opened his mouth, which only worried him more because he was dying and he couldn’t tell anyone.

Holding your hand, it was the only positive thought he could seem to cling to, the only thing keeping him from collapsing to the floor in a ball - he had to find you, he wanted to hold your hand. He thinks it’s a miracle that his feet are able to start moving again, especially when someone definitely put 50 lb weights in his shoes without him knowing.

He finally lays eyes on you, now in the kitchen talking with Mark, Chenle, and Jisung. Though you were maybe ten feet away, it might as well have been miles, as another hand gets placed on his chest from a random girl in front of him. “James, let me know if you get bored of Jessie later. I can give you a good time,” she says with a smirk, and Jaemin feels like he’s going to throw up; though he can’t quite tell if that was because of her words or the whirlwind of the past three minutes. In fact, if he knew just how badly he was shaking, he would’ve questioned how she didn’t feel it when she placed her hand on his chest.

He shakes his head as quickly as he could without getting too dizzy to continue his trek towards you. “No, I quite like Jessie,” he says through hiccups, not sure when the first stray tear made its way down his cheek. He pushes past the girl without giving her time to respond and make him feel worse. All he wanted was you, and when he finally got close enough to place his shaky hand in yours, all he could manage were whispered words that he prayed would reach you, or at least leave his mouth at all.

“Please don’t leave me.”

Still in conversation with Mark, Chenle, and Jisung, you don’t turn too much attention to Jaemin slightly behind you as you settle your hand into his touch, but that’s when you feel how badly he’s shaking. “Jaem, are you okay?” You ask at your side, though your eyes remained trained on Chenle as he told the least dramatic story in the most dramatic way.

“There’s a lot of people here,” Jaemin whimpers out, the answer confusing enough to pull your focus away from Chenle.

“I know-” You start, your gaze following from your interlocked hands up his arm and to his face, but that’s when you actually see the state he’s in and your face instantly falls into worry. A steady stream of tears cascaded down his cheeks, his eyes tightly shut to block out the extra stimulation, only opening them to look at you before promptly getting embarrassed and turning away. You immediately squeeze his hand a little tighter in your hold, getting him to train his eyes back on you. You pick up your words as he does so, careful to hide your immense worry in your tone and instead speaking softly for him. “Hey…let’s get you to a quieter room, okay?”

Jaemin nods his head minimally, able to let out a choked response. “Okay.” You take no extra time in telling the others that you were going to have to get filled in on the story later. Instead, you just make sure your grip on Jaemin’s hand is enough to not lose him while navigating through the crowd as you immediately lead him upstairs and into an empty room.

“Talk to me, what’s going on?” You say, closing the door and turning on a soft lamp light before you whip back around to watch Jaemin pace the entire floor, his fingers running frantically through his hair.

“I don’t know. Everyone keeps talking to me and touching me and everything is so loud and my head hurts and it’s so hot I’m sweating and dizzy and freaking out-” He spoke all at once, and you knew the last thing he needed was to run out of breath while explaining. You jump to cut him off, still trying your best to make your voice as calming as possible for him.

“Hey…it’s gonna be okay. Can you sit down for me?” The second you said it, Jaemin was on the floor, his heavy breaths visibly not making it to his whole body. Your eyes soften some more as you look at him. It didn’t take a genius to tell you he’s never been in this situation before, and all he knew to do was trust you. You let out a soft sigh as you move closer to him. “I know you said you’re hot and sweaty and overwhelmed with touch, but is it okay if I hug you?”

“Please.” The word comes out weak, riddled with enough tears to make you break. You sit down behind him, placing your legs out along his own outstretched ones as you gently hug him from behind.

“You can close your eyes, just focus on my voice. You’re gonna be okay,” you state with confidence, rubbing a thumb gently up and down his side. Jaemin is quick to refute, shaking his head with an intensity you wish he wouldn’t right now.

“No, y/n, it feels like I’m dying,” he says, fear covering every aspect of his voice. You let out a soft sigh.

“You’re not dying, you’re panicking.” This, too, he refuses to accept. His response comes out as firm as it could through tears.

“I don’t panic. I’m the cool guy. I’m not panicking, I’m dying.”

Despite yourself, a small laugh escapes you through an exhale, and you hug Jaemin to you extra tight. “Baby, no matter how cool you are, there’s not a person in the world completely immune to panic attacks.”

Jaemin stills for a moment, the sudden switch confusing you before he speaks and confuses you even more. “I thought you didn’t like that word,” he says, wiping his face of tears and then placing his hands on your own arms around his torso.

You furrow your eyebrows, though with him in front of you, there was no point. “What word?” You ask. Surely he wasn’t talking about the word ‘panic attack’ but racking your brain, there was nothing else you said that wasn’t just a normal word.

“You don’t know you said it,” he says curiously, a small sniffle coming from his figure as he tries his own attempt at a light laugh.

“What are you talking about, Jaem?” You question again. At this point, you were sure one of you was going crazy, and you really were banking on it not being you. Though, Jaemin just dismisses the subject, and with you sitting behind him, you missed the small smile that now covered his features.

“Nothing, please just continue holding me like this,” he begs softly, and you nod your head, squeezing him tighter for a second.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you reply seriously, and there you and Jaemin sat for at least another ten minutes; the only noise to break the silence was his occasional cries as he still tried to rid himself of tears and calm down completely.

When you couldn’t remember his last sniffle, you start to rub your thumb up and down a portion of his waist, disrupting the physical stillness before you spoke and disrupted the silence.

“I wanna get you some water soon,” you say gently, but any attempt to move from your position was shot down as Jaemin quickly fumbled to grab your arms and press them firmly back down across his torso, his body beginning to shake again at the idea of you getting up.

“No! Don’t leave! Please,” he chokes out, and almost all of the progress you thought he made in the past few minutes was erased.

You sigh, and refusing to think about the fact that you were practically breaking your own rule, you lean forward to kiss him on the cheek. “I’m staying right next to you, Jaem,” you start, and you watch as he basically forces his breathing to get back to normal at your words…or at least tries to. “Do you want me to call Jeno and get him to bring up water for you, or do you want to follow me down to the kitchen, grab a water bottle, and leave?”

Jaemin thinks for a moment before dropping his head in what you assume was shame, which was the last thing he needed to be feeling. “I- can we leave?”

You squeeze your arms around his body once more in acknowledgement. “Yeah, come on,” you reply, and the two of you slowly make your way off the floor and into a standing position. As you let go of his waist, you immediately grab his hand in yours, looking up at Jaemin for confirmation that this was what he wanted to do. He stared back down at you with a teary smile and nod, and with that, you led him out of the bedroom and back downstairs.

Thankfully, Mark, Chenle, and Jisung were still in the kitchen, meaning you had to cover no extra ground to fill Mark in on your departure.

“Hey, I’m gonna take Jaemin home,” you say, turning to face Mark after grabbing a water bottle from the fridge he was standing next to.

Mark furrows his brows. “Everything okay?” He asks, knowing Jaemin wasn’t one to leave parties early, nor was he one to have tear streaks painted across his face.

You try to smile but it comes out more as a grimace. “Yeah, he’s just a little overwhelmed today. Thank you for inviting us, though. It was a blast.”

Mark nods his head in understanding. “Thanks for coming. Are you driving?”

“Yeah,” you reply, and Mark forces some sobriety back in his system.

“You haven’t had anything to drink, have you?” He asks in worry, and you let a grateful smile paint your face as you respond.

“No, I’m okay.”

Mark nods before taking another sip of his own drink. “Okay. Be safe. I’ll see you guys soon.” You reciprocate his nod in acknowledgement and then immediately lead Jaemin towards the front door and back to the car.

You make sure he’s all taken care of in the passenger seat before you start messing with the controls in the driver’s seat to move it to where you could actually drive. You make a mental note to apologize about changing the position of his seat and mirrors tomorrow after everything’s calmed down, but as you start driving, Jaemin is the one to beat you to an apology.

“I’m sorry,” he says weakly, and you risk a quick glance over at him with furrowed brows.

“Huh, why?”

Jaemin fiddles with his fingers in his lap, unable to look anywhere else because of his embarrassment. “For making you leave the party. You were having fun,” he answers softly, and despite your best efforts, a small laugh escapes you.

“Jaem, I was having fun because all we did was hang around with our group of friends. I don’t care for parties in and of themselves, you know that. Truthfully, I’d rather just be with you right now,” you say, and as you pull up to a stop sign, you look back over at him again. Defeat riddled his features as he spits out a response.

“But I’m just crying.” He speaks those words as though he were mad at himself for it, and you don’t understand how your best friend came to believe that he always had to be some perfectly presented guy.

You let out a sigh before turning your attention back to the road. “It doesn’t change the fact that I like spending time with you. Besides, you’d be crazy to think I’d rather be anywhere else right now when you’ve got me so worried about you.” When the only response from Jaemin is another sob he tries to cover up, you frown. “I’m not mad at you for making us leave the party early, and I’m not mad at you for crying,” you add on, and Jaemin finally lifts his head to look over at you in his driver’s seat. He seems to scan your figure up and down, processing your words and the fact that you were actually taking care of him right now. He sniffles once more before abruptly turning his focus back to his lap, and the car ride is silent the rest of the way to his apartment.

As soon as Jaemin gets into his own room, he already looks a thousand times better; the tension in his shoulders finally falls and his breathing gets more regular. You scavenge around his apartment for anything he may need during the night and next morning, because outside of his panic attack, he was still tipsy, too.

With a fresh water bottle and ibuprofen set on his night stand, you bid Jaemin goodnight, running a hand gently through his hair as he laid down in bed. However, before you can fully turn around and leave, Jaemin catches the hand you just had in his hair. In shock, you whip back around, just to be met with wide pleading eyes.

“Please stay,” he says softly, and your breath hitches for a moment before you resume your cool, or at least try to.

“Jaemin-” You start, your tone already giving way to your refusal. Though, Jaemin cuts you off in an instant, his grip on you getting slightly tighter.

“You said you wouldn’t leave me,” he shoots back, and his voice is already shaky again from the sudden raise in volume of his claim.

You sigh, trying to slowly snake your hand out of his grip as you reply. “Yeah, but I was kind of meaning that for while we were still at the party, not…now, when you’re going to sleep.”

He refuses to let you out of his hold, and he pulls you even closer to the end of the bed. “What if Haechan comes back?” He starts, trying his best to talk normally. “He’d be really confused as to why you didn’t stay over after the night I had.”

Despite yourself, you let out a small laugh. “There’s no shot Haechan makes it back tonight or is sober enough to think about anything but getting in bed himself. You’re just saying that to try and convince me.”

He finally lets his grip on you drop as he lets out a heavy breath bordering on the dividing line between defeat and hope. “Is it working?” He asks, and though you were finally free from his grasp, able to just say a final goodnight and leave to head back to your place, you don’t. Instead, you drop your head, speaking so softly you’re not sure Jaemin would even be able to hear.

“I want the side next to the wall.”

With your gaze facing the floor, you couldn’t see the sudden warm glow behind Jaemin’s eyes as he pulled back the comforter on that side and pulled his legs up so you could crawl over by the foot of the bed, neither of you saying another word as you do.

Jaemin didn’t know why he was so captivated by watching you fall asleep in his bed. The two of you must’ve been at least a full foot away from each other, as you immediately made sure to press up against the wall and make yourself as small as you could. That was fine by Jaemin. He wasn’t asking for the two of you to cuddle in the first place - this was still a fake relationship after all, and he was very much aware of that. In fact, that truth was probably more plaguing than ever at the front of his mind. Now instead of a reminder that he had to pretend to date you, it was a reminder that this was ending in two months. Jaemin’s tipsy brain couldn’t put together what the sinking feeling in his chest meant at the realization of that. So, he pushed it away, and just looked over at you sleeping peacefully right up against the wall. He didn’t need to have his arms around you - knowing you were next to him was enough, and for the first time that night since the party started, he was completely at peace.

When you wake up and realize you were more comfortable than usual in your bed, you open your eyes and figure out that it’s because you’re not in your bed. In fact, you’re hardly resting against a bed at all. Instead, one of your arms is lazily thrown over your best friend’s waist as your head rested comfortably, incredibly too comfortably, on his chest. The discovery that your legs were some kind of interlaced didn’t make things any better, and the full realization that you were practically on top of Jaemin had you jolt. This, of course, didn’t do anything but wake him up. With your head now propped up on his chest, you watch as he slowly peeks open one of his eyes, exhaustion still written over all his features. However, the second his gaze lands on you, he shoots open both eyes. Embarrassment quickly floods your being as you address everything. “Uh, sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

You’re cut off with a light chuckle and softly spoken words from Jaemin. “You’re okay.” Regardless of his response, you can’t shake the embarrassment. Jaemin’s arms fall from around your body as you try to get up, and that’s when you realize both of his arms were wrapped around you in the first place. You push the thought to the back of your head, turning to get off of his bed completely.

You’re stopped by his hand grabbing yours. You quickly turn your attention back to Jaemin, who still had yet to move any part of his body but his arms as he looks at you softly, pleading. “Can we go back to sleep?”

You swallow awkwardly, your throat now suddenly dry. You dart your eyes around his room before sighing and just landing your gaze back on him. “Um, do you still need me here for that?” You ask genuinely. Jaemin breaks eye contact this time, as he just looks down at your two hands still holding onto each other. He gives a slow nod of his head, humming a little.

You bite your lip to stop a smile from coming onto your face. It wasn’t often that you got to see your best friend looking as gentle and small as he did now. Jaemin, with the larger than life personality just wanting to stay in bed with you, it was hard to say ‘no.’ So, you don’t. “Okay.” Though when you move to resume your position back by the wall, he chuckles a bit and uses your still interlocked hands to pull you back onto him.

The next two days after you woke up on top of Jaemin (again) were filled with an awkward period of zero contact between the two of you. You couldn’t blame him for not responding to your text to hang out the day after. You were both really good at never crossing lines back in high school, but Halloween put a blur on every single one…and it didn’t help that he was tipsy that night, too. Outside of whatever rules in your contract were broken, you were sure Jaemin was also just embarrassed to no end.

There was a lot of pressure on him to be this man with no emotions; his label as a fuckboy meant people typically started and stopped all their thoughts about him at the sexual level, and he did his best to live up to their many expectations in that department, neglecting all the other parts of his being that needed tending to. Vulnerability was not a Jaemin specialty, largely because it’s never what anyone was looking for from him; and anything that lessened his sex appeal, and thus meant he couldn’t make a call and immediately have any girl he wanted, was a possibility he sought to avoid.

You didn’t necessarily mind the no-contact, though. Your heart was doing flips and spins in Jaemin’s presence on Halloween, and you had to give yourself a cool-down period before seeing him so that you could act normal around him again - whatever it was that ‘normal’ looked like when you were having to convince a group of friends that you liked your best friend while convincing your best friend you didn’t actually like him.

Jaemin made up an excuse for your absence at Monday’s lunch, but on Tuesday he finally messaged you again and asked you out for ice cream, which you of course said ‘yes’ to. He meets you at the entrance to your dorm and smiles at you with something like a sigh of relief when you smile back at him; though, with his messy hair, thick-framed glasses, and a hoodie adorning his figure, it was hard to do anything but smile - he looked criminally boyfriend.

“Hey, I’m- sorry…for it being weird these past few days,” he gets out somewhat awkwardly as you start on your walk towards the best ice cream parlor by campus.

You shake your head with a small laugh. “It’s okay. You’ve been going through it recently,” you joke, and Jaemin licks his lips before bringing himself to laugh as well.

“Thanks for uh- putting up with me on Halloween.” He speaks as though the words were bitter on his tongue. “I’m sorry about forcing you to spend the night.”

You let out a sigh. You wanted to stop and force him to see the sincerity in your eyes as you told him that you weren’t ‘putting up with him,’ but you knew you needed to keep this moment more casual so he wouldn’t find these vulnerable bits overwhelming and consequently shut down. So instead, you just keep walking with a small shake of your head.

“You don’t have to apologize for that. You just had a panic attack - if I didn’t spend the night, I wouldn’t have gotten any sleep. I would’ve stayed up all night worried about you. It was better that I was with you.”

Jaemin lets something like a grimace cross his features as he responds with a wry laugh. “You care about me a lot,” he points out, making you look up at him by your side with raised brows.

“Of course I do. You’re my best friend,” you say seriously, and Jaemin looks down to meet your gaze, giving away the distant look in his eyes.

“Ha, fair,” he begins. “I care about you a lot, too.” As he continues, he drops his head to face his feet. “But I don’t think I’d know how to take care of you while you’re having a panic attack,” he admits regrettably, but all you can do is give a soft smile.

“I’m not expecting you to. All I ask is that you let me be there for you again if you have another one…and that you stop being so embarrassed about showing emotions,” you tack on, causing Jaemin to laugh a bit in defeat.

“Okay, angel, but only with you. I have a hot guy persona to keep up in the real world,” he says through a smile, but you shake your head.

“You’re hot, regardless,” you deadpan, and Jaemin’s face lights up as he nudges you in the side playfully.

“Well, look at that! You sweet talker. Maybe I’ll pay for your ice cream today,” he banters, and soon the two of you are in shared laughter as you elbow him back.

“Whatever. I’m 80% sure you were gonna pay for my ice cream even before that.”

“80%?” He echos, bringing a hand up to his chest as though he’s been shot. “Such little faith,” he tuts, shaking his head and making you roll your eyes playfully.

“Am I supposed to have more faith in a fuckboy than that?” You tease, and Jaemin’s face falls into a mock seriousness, holding open the door to the ice cream parlor for you as he looks at your figure with raised eyebrows.

“No, you’re supposed to have more faith in your best friend than that,” he says as you pass through the door, and you look back at him to share matching small smiles.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I have nothing but faith in you,” you reply as he, too, fully steps inside and lets the door swing closed behind him. The proximity has you looking almost directly up at him as he stares down at you in much the same manner; playful gleams in your eyes and fond smiles adorning your faces. At once, he nods his head towards the counter behind you.

“Go order, angel. It’s on me today.”

You scrunch your face up at him with a big grin. “Thanks, handsome.” Then you promptly turn around and head towards where the cashier was waiting to take your order, not even taking one chance to look back and see how red Jaemin’s face had gotten in response.

Jaemin knew it was coming, that was the funny thing. He just wasn’t expecting the disconnect between his head and his heart to be remedied all at once; but looking at you standing in line and pointing at what flavor you wanted, he had never wanted to do this with anyone else, but he really really wanted it with you, today and every day after that.

Sitting down and actually eating ice cream included the most normal of conversations between you and Jaemin. He wasn’t your best friend for nothing - the two of you could talk forever and never run out of things to say or comfort and joy to find in each other’s presence. As such, when you finished your ice cream cones and left the parlor, interaction flowed as it always had while he walked you back to your dorm…meaning the two of you looked like just best friends; close enough on the sidewalk to hear each other but far enough apart so that there was no possibility of accidentally grazing the back of each other’s hands or anything. You were hardly conscious of it, elated at the fact that you and Jaemin were so close and consistent again after the past few years, but Jaemin could practically only focus on the distance between the two of you.

You had basically just stepped foot back on actual campus when Jaemin abruptly stopped, grabbing your wrist and turning you towards him as he spoke in a rush.

“My friends are looking, kiss me,” he says in something close to a panic, and so you immediately oblige, pressing up on your tiptoes to kiss him firmly. You place your hands on his chest to steady yourself as you break away, catching your breath - something that Jaemin always seemed to make you lose - as you turn your head around to look at the surrounding area.

“Where are they?” You ask through a light pant, turning back to Jaemin once you checked and double checked but caught no sign of his friends.

Jaemin licks his lips hesitantly, shaking his head. “They must have left already,” he says through an exhale, and you take a deep breath, finally allowing yourself to step away from Jaemin’s body as you face the ground, trying to regain your footing from the whiplash it felt you just went through. Jaemin lets out an awkward cough before speaking up again. “We should probably hold hands all the time when we’re in public, though. I’m pretty sure Chenle’s the only suspicious one still out of the friend group, but it’d throw anyone off if we’re dating and not holding hands. And if there’s one thing I learned from the Halloween party, it’s that people don’t know we’re dating, and that should probably change so it doesn’t just look like an act put on for the friend group…or Chenle’s never gonna believe it.”

He wasn’t wrong, and you knew that - you knew that before all of this even started. Rule number three was that the act is immediately dropped in private, but that came with the other side of things being that you had to put on an act while in public, regardless of who was around to witness it.

You nod your head slowly. “Yeah, okay,” you cede, and Jaemin’s hand immediately finds yours, the warmth from the contact making you realize how chilled your bones currently were. There was no more hiding it from girls in your classes now - you were Jaemin’s girlfriend to the general public, not just to his six best friends. You needed these next two months to pass by quickly, because with the promise of Jaemin’s hand being in yours more than ever, you were sure your chances of survival just decreased dramatically.

That Friday, your date night was replaced with a night in at Jaemin’s apartment. As soon as he shot you a text saying he was home from class, you made your way over to his place. He opened the door with the bright smile he typically revealed just for you, stepping back to let you inside with a fond, “hey angel.”

You step inside with a smile and small greeting in reply. “What do you wanna do today?” You ask, turning around to face him once you realize you were aimlessly crossing the span of his apartment for no reason. Already preparing for the question, Jaemin moves his hand from behind his back to reveal a thick blu-ray case in his grip.

“Harry Potter movie marathon?” He asks with a smirk.

You look back at him with raised eyebrows and a small grin of your own. “You know I can’t say ‘no’ to Harry Potter at any point in the Fall or Winter seasons,” you reply, and Jaemin’s eyes find a new glow behind them.

“That and Gilmore Girls; though I’m much more in the mood for Harry Potter because if we started rewatching Gilmore Girls now, we’d have to get through all those episodes with that floppy-haired jerk and really, Jess is so much better,” he adds on seriously, and all you can do is laugh.

“Hey, Dean is at least better than Logan,” you respond, and Jaemin lets out an actual groan.

“Please don’t get me started on Logan…can we instead get started on Harry Potter?” He asks again, waving the disc case around invitingly and causing you to laugh some more as you walk towards the couch.

“Just waiting on you,” you answer as you plop down on the couch, making Jaemin roll his eyes playfully before turning around to set everything up on the TV. As the familiar soundtrack fills the room, Jaemin places himself next to you like normal, handing you a blanket to make the cozy night-in complete.

Two hours later, as Jaemin got up to switch out the discs from The Sorcerer’s Stone to The Chamber of Secrets, you got up for a bathroom break, and when the two of you sat back down, there was maybe an inch less space between you both than previously. Not much else changed. That is, until not even ten minutes into the second movie. You catch in your peripheral as Jaemin moves his hand up to scratch at the back of his neck. You don’t think anything of it until that arm doesn’t come back down to his side, but instead wraps around the back of your shoulders.

“Is Haechan here?” You ask lightly, trying to talk over the sound of your breath hitching. Haechan’s room was closest to the bathroom, and you don’t remember any sign of life coming from nearby while you were in there, but nothing else explained this, because this was not normal between the two of you.

“No,” Jaemin answers shortly, and all you can do is swallow hesitantly as you fight for words again.

“Then why is your arm around my shoulder?” You ask, trying to make it sound as though your words were a playful tease and not a desperate question.

Jaemin looks over at you with raised eyebrows and a playful smirk. “Because what if he comes back?” He replies casually, and you try to roll your eyes in much the same manner, as though his arm around your shoulder wasn’t single-handedly making your heart rate spike. He was right, anyway - if Haechan came back, it would be weird for the two of you to be sitting any other way.

It was during Prisoner of Azkaban when Haechan inevitably walked into the apartment. Busy with locking the door behind him, he was caught off guard when locking eyes with the two of you as he turned back around. Though, all at once, his gaze softened as he looked between you, Jaemin, and the television. “Hey guys,” he says warmly, and you mentally high-five yourself not only for the fact that you and Jaemin seemed to have truly won Haechan over, but also that you had won Haechan over; the main reason this bet was even made was because Haechan couldn’t stand whatever girl it was that Jaemin had over, but here he was, excited to see you cuddled into Jaemin on the couch, and that win was not lost on you.

“Hey,” Jaemin replied with a smile. “We’re watching Harry Potter if you want to join,” he continues, but Haechan shakes his head at the extended invite as he moves to grab something from the mess that was the kitchen counter.

“Tempting, but- I’m all good. I’m about to head back out, actually. Mark and I are gonna hit a few bars and try to unwind from this bullshit week,” he says with a weak laugh. You and Jaemin flash your eyebrows in acknowledgement.

“Let me know if you need a ride back home. We’ll swing by to grab you and Mark, or- I will, at least, depending on what time it ends up being. Regardless, be safe. I enjoy having you as a roommate,” Jaemin says, his tone turning more playful with every word.

Haechan rolls his eyes with a smile. “Yeah, yeah. I won’t drink and drive. We all know I’m smarter than that,” he says, but when he makes eye contact with you and Jaemin again, he meets your wide-eyed stares of doubt, causing him to shake his head with a more hearty laugh. “You guys suck,” he says with a smile. “I’ll keep you updated throughout the night. It was nice seeing you, y/n,” he continues seriously, beginning to fiddle with the front door lock on his exit.

“You, too,” you reply genuinely, and with one more nod and wave goodbye, he was out the door. It wasn’t even five seconds later when Jaemin’s arm detaches itself from your shoulder, instead finding comfort at his side again. He didn’t pay any mind to it, his attention pinned solely on the movie. You do your best to not show any physical reaction to the absence of his touch, especially when you were the one giving him a hard time for it in the first place. You’re almost shocked by how well Jaemin is able to turn it on and off, though you figure the real problem was how poorly you were able to do the same. Jaemin was just doing his part, exactly as he said he would.

Your heart had to stop looking for hidden meaning to every touch, every “angel,” because he was your best friend and crush, but you were his best friend and fake-girlfriend. Unbeknownst to you, Jaemin ran through the same spiel in reverse inside his own head, figuring if he kept his arm around you now with the promise of Haechan being gone, you would surely catch onto the fact that he craved your touch more than typical of best friends - which was exactly what you both were going back to at the start of the new year.

It was the first Tuesday after you and Jaemin agreed to ramp up your public dating facade, and you were already the center of attention as you walked into class at 11:00. You tell yourself no one’s gaze locked onto you as you opened the door for class - that you were making it up; but at least some percent of that story was false, because as you sit in your chair and start pulling out your notebook for class, your name gets called from the seat diagonal to you. “Y/n, rumor has it that you and Jaemin are actually dating,” this girl, Hana, says. You knew she was looking for a response, so you don’t give her one, instead focusing on your pen mindlessly rolling between your fingers.

“You? With a guy like him?” She continues, adding more bite and disbelief to each word. You keep your gaze focused in front of you, jaw tightening as you try to hide more robust reactions. That is, until she continues. “You can’t be that good in bed.” Your fist clenches as you whip your head towards her; furrowed, taunting eyebrows matching the fire in her eyes and the smirk on her lips, the rest of her friend group snickering behind her. You have the patience for none of it - you were not going to sit here and take this.

“Actually,” you begin, your kind tone dripping in sarcasm. “I know this is something you don’t have experience with, so bear with me, but Jaemin genuinely likes me as a person and so I didn’t have to win him over with just my skills in bed. Yeah! He actually wants to hold my hand and tell me pretty things and I’m just so sorry that he never had the desire to do any of that with the likes of you!” You give her one last look before shrugging a bit, even your fake smile completely ridden from your face. “Actually, I’m not sorry at all.”

Hana looks mortified, her friend group in the surrounding desks all watching the exchange now with wide eyes. You don’t even think any of them saw it coming when Hana got up from her seat and lunged towards you, swinging at your face. “You bitch!” She yells at you, her fist making contact with the area around your eye. You wince slightly but you refused to give her the satisfaction of a bigger reaction - you’d leave that for when you were alone. You move your hand up to touch the area, making sure none of her rings caught your skin and drew blood, but when your fingers came back clean, you just move your gaze back to her in disinterest.

“Are you done now?” You ask monotonously. You catch her fist clench again in your peripheral and prepare yourself for another hit because seemingly none of the other students were concerned with stopping the exchange. However, your professor finally walks in before Hana can even get another word out, and instead she’s told to take her seat as you swing back to face the front of the room in your own chair. The throbbing that half of your face was currently experiencing would have to wait an hour and twenty minutes to be addressed, you weren’t letting her win.

Thankfully, that was your last of two classes for the day, so you were able to head back to your dorm directly after. You throw your backpack down in the entryway and immediately head for your bathroom to assess the damages. “Fuck,” you whisper under your breath. The hour and a half was enough time for a proper bruise to start forming, and it wasn’t necessarily the prettiest of black eyes. You move a hand up to touch the area again, this time just the light pressure already putting you in horrid pain. With a defeated groan, you leave the bathroom and dig through your freezer for an ice pack to hold up to the area instead.

Settling yourself down on the couch, you decide the last thing you need is for Jaemin to see you like this. With a sigh, you open your phone and pull up your texts with him. Hey, just a heads up, I don’t have a lot of time to hang this week or make it to friend group lunches.

Jaemin’s reply is almost instantaneous. Is everything okay?

You frown at the message. You hated lying to your best friend, but explaining what was up would defeat the whole purpose of saying you couldn’t hang out anyways. Yep! You reply instead, thankful when Jaemin didn’t press any further. You’d give yourself a week to heal, and then you were sure makeup would be able to cover what little would be left of the bruising by then.

Those plans didn’t even last twenty-four hours. There was a knock on your door after classes on Wednesday and you figured it was your RA here to remind you not to leave your windows open while out at class with the chances of snow ever increasing. Though, when you lazily throw your door open, it’s your best friend on the other side. Your eyes go wide and you immediately move a hand up to cover the left half of your face where your black eye was still very much at its peak. “Jaemin, what are you doing here?!” You ask in a rush, but he doesn’t match your demeanor at all.

Instead, he shrugs, a light smile painting his lips. “I missed you, angel-” He answers as he brings a hand up to your wrist and gently guides your own hand down away from your face…and that’s when his energy completely flips, eyes going wide as he rushes to place a hand on your cheek and assess the damage himself. “Oh my god, what happened to you?!” He asks in a panic. You shake your head adamantly, trying to move his hand away from your face as you reply with a serious bite.

“Nothing, it’s fine,” you reply dismissively, and Jaemin’s eyebrows furrow as he scans your entire face.

“Is this why you said you couldn’t hang out?” He asks, almost mad if you had to put an emotion on it.

You shake your head, dropping your gaze to face the floor. “Jaem, don’t worry about it-” You start indifferently, but he cuts you off with enough emotion for the both of you.

“What happened?” He questions again, this time his tone much firmer than any of his previous questions. His gaze bore into you, and you knew there wasn’t any getting out of this. You let out an annoyed sigh, shrugging like it was nothing as you go to reply.

“This girl in my class found out we were dating, and apparently that pissed her off because she didn’t think I deserved you or I was taking her spot and all that. And I snapped back so she punched me,” you finally answer, and Jaemin’s body language immediately softens as he looks over you once more with a frown and wide eyes.

“Y/n…” You don’t want to deal with his sorry tone. Instead, you move to meet his gaze again as you shake your head, the frustrated tears in your eyes rather revealing themself in your fractured tone.

“Please just sleep with her, Jaem. Tell her we broke up or something and then sleep with her. Or pretend you’re cheating on me with her…she’d love that, and no one would believe her if she said so, so we keep our cover,” you suggest in a rush, and Jaemin looks at you as though you just committed murder.

“No. Absolutely not,” he replies instantly.

“Jaem-” You start through a defeated exhale, but hearing you out was currently the last thing on Jaemin’s mind.

“I’m not fucking sleeping with someone who hurt you,” he states with force, and you don’t know why this is such a big deal to him, not when the solution was this simple.

“I would just rather have her satisfied and dealt with,” you respond hollowly, and Jaemin actually lets out a laugh.

“Oh, I’ll be sure to deal with her, don’t worry.” His angry promise makes you sigh, and all you can do is respond in defeat.

“Jaem-” You begin, and you’re not given any time to decide how you want to continue as he cuts you off. Passion still courses through Jaemin’s body as he shakes his head, taking a break from clenching his jaw to speak again.

“She should know better than to lay a hand on my girl,” he argues, and now you absolutely know you need to get him to calm down.

“I’m not really your girl,” you state plainly, and if you weren’t already feeling deflated, you sure did now as you admitted that. Jaemin seems to react to your statement in much the same way, his features softening for a moment as he looked at you again, bringing a hand up to run through his hair in frustration; though this time, the frustration was aimed towards himself.

“I- I know. I’m sorry, I never should have asked you to do this for me. I was so selfish, goddammit,” he rambles under his breath absentmindedly as he begins to pace back and forth. You shake your head softly, reaching out to catch Jaemin’s wrist and force his movements to still.

“It’s fine, handsome,” you state firmly, and you watch as a million emotions run over Jaemin’s face, him just sucking on his bottom lip in hesitation. The hand that was previously caught in your grip comes up to cup your cheek again, his thumb lightly grazing your bruise as he studies you with a sad look on his face.

“No, angel,” he begins with a sigh. “It’s really not.”

You falter under his soft gaze and sure words, shaking your head as you fumble for words of your own. “It will be fine, then. Just let me lay low for a bit. I probably won’t be at lunch on Friday…I don’t necessarily need your friends seeing me beat up like this,” you try and laugh off.

Jaemin looks at you quizzically. “They wouldn’t-” He begins, but you cut him off with pleading eyes.

“Jaem, please,” you counter, and he just nods his head solemnly.

“Okay.” He lets out a breath before darting his gaze around from you to the rest of the living area, locking eyes with your backpack and giving him a reason to stay in your presence for a bit longer. “Can we do homework together?” He asks, and you lightly sigh as you nod your head, guiding his hand down from your cheek so you could instead head towards the couch and set everything up on the coffee table for the two of you.

Your main distraction from homework came in the form of whatever was on the television. Jaemin’s main distraction came in the form of you; he could hardly finish one part of an assignment without turning his head to look over at you, chewing on his bottom lip as he studied you softly, then whipping his gaze back to his laptop before you could ever feel his eyes on you. It was the least productive he's ever been.

Friday was the next time you saw Jaemin, when he came over as per usual for your ‘date nights.’ However, with you missing the friend group lunch for the second time this week, he immediately greeted you with a related request. “Hey, the guys miss you. They wanted to know if you were down for a movie night tomorrow,” he says casually as he closes the door behind him.

You turn to face him with a straight face. “Jaem, my black eye isn’t going to be-” You watch as Jaemin rolls his lips inward and dodges your eye contact, and all you can do is let out a heavy sigh. “You told them, didn’t you?” You ask instead, and Jaemin’s hidden lips reappear to form a weak don’t-be-mad grin. That is, until he meets your eyes again and lets out his own sigh, shrugging his shoulders as he resets his facial expression to something more casual again.

“They wanted to know where you were,” he says in defense. You watch as the memory of lunch replays behind his eyes and he tilts his head slightly as he looks at you with an anticipatory cringe in how you were going to respond as he continues. “…and now they’re all pissed and want to be there to make you feel better, too,” he finishes with a dorky smile, as though his full set of teeth would fix everything. Unfortunately, he was right about that, and all you can manage is a huff of laughter as you shake your head.

“Oh my. Sure, we can have a movie night,” you give in with a smile, and Jaemin lights up before pulling out his phone to text the group that the plans for tomorrow are a go. Then, your Friday night with Jaemin consisted of a large pizza, red wine, and board games.

That Saturday night, Jaemin came to pick you up and take you back to his apartment where the movie night was being held, insisting that Haechan could hold down fort as he came to pick you up…and that no boyfriend would let his girlfriend drive herself over to his place when he had a perfectly good truck and an excuse to kiss you under the porch light before joining all the guys; you told him he was an idiot, but he met that with a kiss on your cheek, claiming that you were the idiot for not taking a free kiss under the porch light with the Na Jaemin…a low blow considering the reason behind your bruising eye.

When you step inside his apartment, the rest of the guys silence mid-conversation, instead turning all of their attention to you. Their shoulders drop as your black eye comes into the light. Embarrassment flushes your cheeks as you turn into Jaemin’s chest, and he wraps his arms around you lightly with a warm laugh, kissing the top of your head before turning his attention to his friends. “I’m pretty sure you guys promised me you would be chill about this if she came over,” he states playfully, causing the rest of them to drop their heads with a small laugh of their own.

“Our fault for caring about her,” Jeno banters back, and all you can do is sigh and pull away from Jaemin’s chest, facing the rest of the group again. He was right, not about it being their fault, but for the fact that their frowns just meant they cared about you, and it wasn’t like you didn’t feel the same way towards them - you’d frown, too if one of them walked in battered and bruised.

You roll your eyes playfully with a mellow shake of your head. “It’s fine. I’m fine,” you assure, turning your gaze to Jaemin before tossing your head side to side with a small smirk. “Besides, I’d say Jaem’s worth a punch or two.” The guys in front of you laugh but Jaemin furrows his brows.

“Or two?” He echoes worriedly, making you turn to him again with a soft, sure gaze.

“One,” you promise him and watch as a bit of relief washes over his figure, nodding his head as he takes it in.

“Um, you guys wanna watch Transformers?” Jisung speaks up awkwardly, shattering whatever tension you and Jaemin just created and instead making everyone chuckle.

Mark whips his head over to Jisung. “I thought we were watching Spider-Man…?” He adds sulkily. Jisung’s jaw drops, because apparently he had been looking forward to a Transformers marathon nonstop since the plans were made; but Chenle cuts off any chance of a response from him, instead just shaking his head rapidly.

“It doesn’t matter. Just choose anything before they take the pause in activity to make out,” he says as though he were horrified by the possibility, and Renjun lets out a sure laugh as he places a hand on Chenle’s shoulder.

“Still traumatized by the pda you asked for at that first lunch?” He asks, and Chenle looks at him with wide eyes.

“Can you blame me? So, they’re in a relationship…that’s great. Slightly cringe, but whatever. You know what’s not cringe? Spider-Man.”

“The Transformers!” Jisung corrects adamantly, getting everyone to laugh again.

“Sure, the Transformers,” Chenle agrees automatically, and Haechan rolls his eyes with a soft smile as he moves to set up the TV.

The eight of you got situated before another beat could pass. Mark on the recliner, Chenle and Jisung on the small couch, and then you, Jaemin, Jeno, Haechan, and Renjun taking up the big couch in the middle of the room. You cuddled easily into Jaemin as he threw an arm around your shoulder, his fingers lightly tracing patterns on the side of your arm.

For the group of you typically being a mess of chaos when you were all together, the eight of you somehow all followed the same unspoken rules when it came to movie night. There was no talking and, surprisingly, no one distracted by their phone. However, the peace of the perfect movie night was broken maybe twenty minutes into the first movie, when a chill ran through your body and the resulting shiver didn’t go unnoticed. “Do you want a blanket, y/n?” Mark asks softly. All at once, the guys whipped their heads towards him, furrowed brows adding to their glares at his disruption. That is, until it registers for them what Mark just asked, and all their gazes soften as they draw their attention to you in wait for your answer, Haechan pausing the movie entirely.

You let out a laugh under your breath, shaking your head at Mark with a grateful smile. “No, I’m okay,” you say quickly, trying to get everyone’s focus back on the movie because one shiver was not enough reason for concern. The guys all flash their eyebrows at your answer, immediately accepting it as they turn their attention back to the movie.

It isn’t long though before you shiver again, and while your attempt to cover it up was stellar, it wasn’t enough to get past the man holding you in his arms. Jaemin leans down so his lips are by your ear. “Go put on one of my hoodies,” he whispers slowly.

You shake your head minimally in response, eyes still trained on the Transformers. “I’m okay-” Your whispered words are cut off when the movie pauses, and you whip your head over to face Jaemin now, remote in hand and raised brows as he stares back at you seriously. A chorus of complaints erupt from the rest of the guys but Jaemin is only focused on you, and you can’t do anything but let out a light sigh. “Are you sure?” You ask, and Jaemin’s brows go from raised to furrowed.

“Am I sure? Of course I’m sure. You’re my girlfriend. Please go dig through my closet and wear my clothes,” he replies firmly, nodding his head now in the direction of his bedroom. You dodge any further eye contact with him as you instead slip out of his arms and towards his room. You don’t spend too much time in there, more than aware that they were all still waiting on you before unpausing the movie. You throw on the first hoodie you see, trying to ignore how much it smelled like him - how comforting it was to be wrapped in that scent.

You put on a straight face as you walk back out to the living room, though you begin to think it was unnecessary considering their reactions, or- Jaemin’s, at least. He immediately broke from the idle chatter he was having with Jeno as he instead locked his gaze on you, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. You fall shy under his gaze, looking around at the rest of the guys to see if you missed something before accepting the fact that it was just Jaemin who had the answers. “What?” You ask hesitantly, and it forces Jaemin to snap back to reality and collect himself.

He lets out something of a defeated laugh, shaking his head as he concludes his look up and down your body. “You should’ve been swimming in my hoodies for the past two months already,” he answers seriously, and suddenly your cheeks are on fire. You hide your face in your hands and the rest of the guys let fond grins paint their face at the interaction between the two of you. That was the first time it truly hit all of them that they were each about to lose $100 soon. Though it was hard for them to even be mad about it, because in everyone’s eyes but your own, Jaemin was whipped, and that was all they ever wanted for their best friend.

The group got through three movies before everyone started fading, eyelids feeling heavier by the minute. Renjun was the one to turn the lamp on at the side table beside him, putting everyone on the same page as they all got up from their seats and started getting ready to leave. Chenle is the first to say his goodbyes and head for the door, but as he places his hand on the knob, he whips back around. “Oh, wait!” He starts, louder than any of you were prepared for as you stare back at him in question. He shakes his head, the volume of his voice apparently even getting to him, but then he looks back at you all seriously. “I’m having my big New Year’s Eve party again. You’re all invited, obviously. I don’t know anyone’s plans after finals week, so I figured I’d just tell you now before we’re all in different places - if you wind up back at NCIT by December 31st, I’d love to have you, and if you wind up back at NCIT even earlier than that, please please please please please-”

“Chenle,” you all cut him off in unison, and he gives an awkward laugh.

“Please consider helping set up,” he says flusteredly. You all let out fond chuckles as you nod your head at the boy, and he lets a wide smile grace his features before finally opening the door and leaving with a soft ‘thank you.’

Dropping you off at your dorm, Jaemin fumbles for words before you can even open the door back to your place, and you turn around to pin all your attention on him instead as he speaks up awkwardly. “Uh- about Chenle’s party…”

“Yes, I’ll go. We said that would be our last day together so we might as well be…together,” you say, and Jaemin nods his head slowly.

“Okay; and for next weekend…?” He leaves the question at that and that’s when you realize you truly hadn’t given him much to plan with yet. You shake your head with a small laugh.

“We’ll leave Saturday morning for my parents’ house. I have finals up until Friday anyways. The big dinner you have to be there for is Saturday night, so you can do whatever you would like with your break after that.”

Jaemin processes the information with a distant expression before pulling it into a smile. “Alright, angel. Good luck with finals next week. I’ll be ready to go Saturday morning,” he says happily, and all you can do is match his smile.

“Good luck on your finals, too-” You start, but as you move to wrap him in one last hug, you catch sight of the hoodie covering your arms and jump back. “Oh! I’m still wearing your hoodie. Sorry-” You speak in a rush as you work to try and slip out of it, but Jaemin shakes his head.

“Don’t worry. Keep it,” he responds seriously, making you whip your head up at him and causing him to laugh. “It would be really suspicious if I came back home with the hoodie that I just said you looked cute in, and I’m not taking any chances with us so close to the three month mark now. Just don’t lose it…it’s my favorite hoodie.”

You let out a flustered laugh. “Well, are you sure you don’t want it back, then? Haechan is probably asleep already-” You reason as you start pulling one arm out of the hoodie again.

“Just keep it,” he cuts you off with a warm chuckle before continuing more somberly. “Our three months are almost up. I’ll get it back in no time.” If the words were bitter on his tongue, you didn’t notice. You were too preoccupied trying to neutralize your own emotions at the notion of this all ending soon.

You’re scared your voice would betray you if you opened your mouth again to speak, so instead you just nod your head, finally wrapping him in that goodbye hug and then turning to let yourself into your dorm.

Finals week somehow went by in a flash, and you’re scared to add up how many hours of it you spent in Jaemin’s hoodie. Though, the atypical schedule meant that you didn’t really have to worry about that - you only ever ran into Jaemin on campus for friend group lunches, and those were canceled this week since half of you would be in the middle of finals during the usual span of time; so, Jaemin never had to find out that you were practically living in the very same hoodie you had tried so hard to give back originally.

Come Saturday morning, that hoodie was packed with all of your other clothes in your suitcase, currently in the trunk of your car as you drive over to pick Jaemin up before heading to your house. He places his luggage next to yours before opening the passenger door and sliding in. “Hey, angel! Ready to pull all this off for your parents, too?” He asks with a devious smirk. You roll your eyes, trying to buy into the playfulness to forget about the dread filling your system at the idea of heading back home right now.

“Ready as I’ll ever be. Thank you again for agreeing to this,” you say seriously, and Jaemin looks at you as though you were crazy.

“Of course I’d agree to do this. Do you realize how much you’re doing for me?” He banters back, effectively getting you to laugh a bit as the tension in your shoulders drops. “Besides,” he continues more thoughtfully. “It’ll be nice to see our hometown again.” His words are much more mellow this time, and you look over at him with a sad grimace before shifting into drive and actually getting out on the road.

As soon as Jaemin went to college, his family moved to Jeju Island, and for as often as the two of you talked about traveling there one day, it was much less exciting of an idea when it was already Jaemin’s home base and it’d just be you traveling to visit him. Even outside of that, you knew he missed the city - moving away from everything you know is only nice if it’s your choice, and moving to Jeju was definitely not his choice.

It’s not like his relationship with his parents was impacted, though. He understood, and was very appreciative of the fact that they held out on the move until he graduated high school. Truly, if they were wanting to move, this was the time to do it. He’d graduate college and get his own place wherever he wanted; it’s just that now his place to go back to was Jeju rather than Seoul.

On the other hand, your family stayed put in the same house from childhood, but your relationship had gone through rough waters since you started college; something not even Jaemin knew, and now you were wondering how oblivious you could keep him of your current home-situation.

The verdict was ‘not very long.’ As soon as the two of you walked in your front door, your parents seemed shocked to be laying eyes on Jaemin with you. You push past them and towards your bedroom to put your stuff down, sending just a meek ‘hi’ their way. Jaemin watched you disappear with ample confusion, but his face quickly straightened up into a smile as he greeted your parents with hugs and gratitude for having him over.

Your mom pulls back from the hug with a look of disbelief, shaking her head solemnly. “Jaemin, it’s wonderful to see you. I apologize for not having a space set up for you to stay. To be honest, when y/n said she was bringing a guest home, the last thing we were expecting was for it to be a guy,” she laughs off, and Jaemin’s eyebrows immediately furrow. Your own muscles tighten as you move to close your bedroom door, deciding that was already enough for you to hear.

“Why?” Jaemin asks in return, trying to match the laugh from your mom, though his was half-hearted at best.

Your mom shrugs it off like it’s nothing new. “Well, you know our y/n…doesn't exactly have a lot going for her-”

“Y/n’s gorgeous, actually,” Jaemin cuts off with force, now taking a full step back from your mom and causing her hand to drop from where it was still at his forearm. “And sure, she has her guard up most of the time but that doesn’t change the fact that once she’s comfortable enough to be herself, she’s incredibly easy to love,” he continues, brows furrowed as he makes sure to get his point across.

Your mom passes her gaze from Jaemin to her husband, taking a moment to exchange strange smiles with him before turning back to Jaemin. “Sorry, I seem to have offended you. I didn’t know you cared about my daughter that much.” She speaks every word as though she’s only half serious, and all it does is frustrate Jaemin even more.

“Of course I care about her but that’s not even the point. You shouldn’t be saying that about your child and you used to know that, cause you never said anything like that when we were growing up. So, I don’t know what changed but I can tell you it wasn’t the worth of your daughter.” Setting all your stuff down, you open your bedroom door enough to catch his last sentence and immediately let out a heavy sigh, knowing you had to go out there and do something.

“Jaem?” You start, walking back out from the hallway. His face instantly changes from disgust to warmth as he snaps his head in your direction.

“Yeah, angel?”

You nod your head back towards where you just came from. “My room is still the same one it’s always been. Since we’re apparently bunking together, if you want to go put your stuff in there so you’re not carrying it around throughout the house, you know where to go,” you say casually, trying to make it seem as though the sleeping arrangements were all you caught of his conversation with your mom.

Jaemin nods with a tight smile. “Alright, I’ll be back in a second,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head as he passes you in his walk to your room and you take his place with your parents in the living room. You and your mom both watch as your dad looks between the two of you before immediately leaving to go outside, shaking his head as he does so and leaving just you, your mom, and the suffocating tension in the room.

You drop your head to face the floor and your mom is the first one to speak. “I didn’t know he liked you,” she says plainly, eyes darting towards the room Jaemin was currently in before landing on you again, your head now whipped up to face her with raised brows.

“Didn’t know he liked me or didn’t think I was capable of having him like me?” You ask in return, and your mom falters for a moment.

“Y/n…” She starts, but you shake your head.

“Am I good enough now? Is this enough for you? That I brought an attractive guy home who cares about me? Are you even the tiniest bit proud of me now?” The fire in your eyes soon matches that of your mother’s, her disproving gaze that you knew so well baring into you.

“Y/n, that’s not fair and you know that,” she counters, her voice raising with every word.

Your jaw drops as you look at her in disbelief. “What’s not fair is you judging me by the man I do or do not have to hold my hand at any given time.” You’re thankful when the words come out firm; you’ve never stood up to her like this, and when your mom studies you with intensity, it’s as though she doesn’t know the woman in front of her this time.

“Well,” she breathes out, bringing her gaze back to your own. “Being with him has apparently given you some confidence…or a voice, at least.” Her tone borders between indifference and slight disgust, and all you can do is shake your head, unsure of how your relationship with your mom ever turned into this.

“I refuse to believe that you find an issue in the fact that he makes me feel like the most beautiful girl in the world,” you say in almost a plea for her to tell you it’s not true, but she never does; instead, it’s just Jaemin’s breath hitching in the hallway that he tries to cover up so you wouldn’t know he was listening. When neither you nor your mom turn your heads towards him, he realizes he was still under the radar. So, he prepares himself to walk back into the living room as though he just got done putting everything away in yours.

When he gets back by your side, he lightly kisses your temple, turning to face your mom as he sneaks a hand to rest on the small of your back; your mom stares at the physical contact and you think her eye actually twitches. Jaemin opens his mouth to start casual conversation back up but your mom cuts him off before he can even begin. “Your father and I are going out for the day. We will be back to cook dinner,” she states, and your eyebrows furrow immediately.

“You haven’t seen Jaemin in years and you’re just gonna leave right when he gets here?” You ask in shock, and your mom glares back at you.

“Dinner,” she replies sharply, and then she’s out the door.

Jaemin’s hand on your back begins to rub lightly up and down, and as you turn to bury your face in his chest, he wraps you in a full hug. “I’m sorry,” you mumble out, and Jaemin shakes his head. With one hand, he lightly guides your chin up so that you make eye contact with him, a soft smile on his face as he looks down at you.

“Nothing to be sorry for, angel. It’s all okay. How about we just watch TV or something, go outside maybe…what’s gonna destress you?” He asks, his hand that was underneath your chin maneuvering to instead caress your cheek.

You shrug, doing your best to dodge eye contact as you reply. “Anything in your presence,” you say seriously, missing the way warmth just reached every corner of Jaemin’s being at your words.

“Okay,” he responds surely, and that’s how you found yourself walking the streets of your hometown, hand-in-hand with Na Jaemin. You visited his old house, the old playground, anywhere you could before the cold air finally caught up to you and you had to retreat back inside for some hot chocolate and more Harry Potter from your last unfinished rewatch session.

Jaemin never brought up the obvious tension between you and your mom, something you were thankful for, but it also left you feeling guilty because you knew it was on his mind - the equation of where things went wrong between you and your mom after he left Seoul was continuously being worked out behind his eyes. When you explained this part of the fake-dating contract, he wasn’t expecting for your parents to actually be on your ass about not dating anyone, but stepping into this house was like a minefield, and any conversation around the topic turned into an explosion.

He wasn’t gonna make you talk about it though, you obviously weren’t ready to. Instead, he just wrapped his arms around you as best he could, making sure you and your cocoa were always kept warm throughout the duration of your latest movie marathon.

Surprising you, when it was finally dinnertime, the atmosphere was lighter by the tiniest bit. Your parents were engaging with Jaemin, at least, and the presence of other long-time family friends put you at ease, too, because you knew a big fiasco is the last thing your parents would allow to happen in front of others.

“Are you staying with us all of break?” Your mom asks as she puts her fork down and places all of her attention on Jaemin. He gives a sorry grin in return as he shakes his head.

“No,” he begins, and your face immediately drops, forcing you to take another bite so it’s less noticeable. “I was thinking I would surprise my parents. I haven’t seen them since the summer, and I figure that means it’s time to fly out and see them again,” he continues with a light laugh. “Though, when y/n asked me to come back with her for this dinner, I- well,” he drags off, taking a moment to turn and face you at his side, a fond smirk on his lips before he turns his head back to face his lap before you can notice. “I realize I’ve gotten incredibly bad at saying ‘no’ to her,” he finishes, his own light chuckle following his words.

Gazes soften all around the table as they listen to Jaemin, but you can’t bring your head up to look at him, sure the look in your eyes would give away how desperately you were wishing for those words to be real.

Your dad is the one to pick up the conversation again. “Well, we’ll be sad to see you go so soon, but it’s sure been a pleasure having you fill our house again,” he says with a tight nod that Jaemin reflects back to him, slightly softer in his perfect Jaemin way.

That night, you and Jaemin went to bed before the rest of the adults did, but they had the advantage of alcohol to keep them occupied, and while that option was technically open to you and Jaemin, you both decided it would probably be best to stay under the label of ‘innocent youth’ with your parents and family friends.

You walk back into your bedroom after washing your face and putting on pajamas to see Jaemin already laying down. You trace his outline underneath the covers and sigh when you realize how little room was left in your full size bed. You slip under the covers and begin to turn on your side so you could take up the smallest space possible, but Jaemin evidently has other plans as he reaches over and pulls you so that you’re laying against his chest. “What are you doing?” You ask, propping your head up on his chest as you stare at him in confusion.

He looks back at you as though there were no need for the question, his smirk playing lazily against his lips. “If you’re going to end up on top of me anyways, I’d rather just hold you there,” he replies, and all at once you’re vividly reminded of Halloween night. You don’t argue back, instead just rolling your eyes and resting your head back against his chest as you try to hide most of the blush on your cheeks.

Jaemin idly draws shapes on your back as he watches you fall asleep on him. He swallows awkwardly, remembering what your mother said about you…what you said to your mother, and a kind of frustration fills his chest. He listens for any signal that you were still awake, and when he finds none, he presses the lightest kiss to the top of your head. “You’re so beautiful, y/n,” he whispers. His mortification comes when he feels you tense under his hold.

“You don’t have to pretend when it’s just us, you know,” you whisper back, and his heart breaks in his chest. His tone is firm as he replies, because if you were going to be awake to hear him say that, he might as well get his point across.

“Some stuff I never had to pretend for. Some stuff is just a fact.”

You let out a heavy sigh, flipping which way your head was facing on his chest before speaking softly. “Go to bed, Jaemin,” you say, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with the feeling of defeat that arose knowing you don’t believe him. He thinks about saying more but he figures now is not the time for it…that in your friendship, it may not ever be the time for it. So, he lets out his own light sigh, his grip around you going slightly tighter as he gets to work on actually falling asleep.

The next day, all you really had time for was breakfast before you had to drive Jaemin to the airport. As you pull up to the curb for departures, Jaemin doesn’t even think twice before leaning over the center console to press a soft kiss to your cheek. “Thank you for dropping me off,” he says sincerely amidst the rustling of him gathering his bags from various spaces of your car. You laugh as you open your own door, sliding around to the back of your car to pop the trunk and grab his suitcase.

“I’m coming inside with you, you know?” You tease lightly, missing the way Jaemin’s eyes soften at the care before he quickly vetoes your carrying of his luggage and rips his suitcase from your grip, causing you to laugh some more as you turn to face him now at your side. “But, of course, it was no problem,” you say genuinely, stepping inside the airport with him and too quickly facing the security checkpoint where you’d finally have to split. “Have a safe flight,” you continue, and with each word he’s now taking a step further than you dare to. “Tell your family I said ‘hi.’”

Jaemin looks over his shoulder to smile back at you. “I will,” he promises firmly with a matching nod, and you throw a grin and final wave his way as he turns back to actually face where he was walking towards the entrance for security. As soon as you’re out of his line of sight, you allow your face to drop slightly alongside your gaze, letting out a light sigh at the feeling of him walking away from you. However, your attention is caught by the increasingly loud sound of heavy footsteps. You shift your gaze back in front of you to see Jaemin had changed his path and was instead heading straight for you again.

“Jaemin-?” You question, but you’re cut off the second he gets close to you because he wastes no time in dropping his bags, cupping your cheek with his hand, and pressing a sure kiss to your lips. You melted right into it, something you would have to kick yourself for later, but at the present moment, all you could think about was his soft lips still lingering against yours.

“I’ll see you in a week, okay?” He says in a near-whisper. His words weren’t so much a statement as they were a reassurance, like he needed you to know that all you had to bear without him was a single week, like he intended to never leave you again once he came back. All you can do is swallow awkwardly, nodding as you look up at him through your lashes.

“Yeah.”

Jaemin’s gaze roamed over your entire figure as best it could with the two of you still in close proximity. You wanted to press up on your tiptoes and kiss him again for the hell of it, or maybe for the comfort of it, but Jaemin is the one to take action first, simply running his thumb gently across your cheek with a small smile before immediately turning to grab his bags and actually make his way through the security checkpoint. All you can do is stand and watch helplessly as he walks away from you. You’d see him in a week, sure, but then it’d be New Years before you knew it and all of this would slip right out of your hands…it practically already had.

You were back at NCIT before Christmas, trading in family-time for time with Chenle, who was the only other one of your friends on campus for most of that duration. He tried to pretend that he needed to meet up with you to talk about plans for his New Year’s Eve party, but most of it was just excuses to hang out when he got lonely. One by one, the guys all made their way back to NCIT, Jaemin being the last to do so, coming in on the evening flight December 26th.

You had brought Chenle with you to go pick him up, mainly because Chenle begged you to let him tag along. The two of you stood at the baggage claim for maybe fifteen minutes, Jaemin’s hoodie adorning your figure and providing you with comfort amidst Chenle’s constant nagging that you guys should have brought a sign saying that Jaemin was coming back from prison or something else more embarrassing.

The baggage claim carousel had already begun spinning for Jaemin’s flight, and eventually even Chenle stops talking to instead join you in a frown as the two of you search for Jaemin. The verdict was that he must have just been the last person off the plane, because around five minutes later, you catch sight of his figure. “There he is- what’s he doing?” You ask confused as you look at Jaemin speed in your direction.

“Running towards you,” Chenle answers as if it were the most casual occurrence ever. He tosses his gaze over to you with raised eyebrows before continuing. “And I think you should probably start running towards him unless you’re prepared to catch his weight, cause I’m pretty sure he’s ready to jump on you.”

Your eyes go wide at his words as you shake your head. “God, having a lunatic boyfriend is a lot of work,” you respond, feigning exhaustion. Chenle throws his arms up in defense.

“Hey, you chose him, not me,” he quips, making you smile before realizing you really had to start on your run towards him, because of all the things you were prepared for, catching Jaemin’s weight was not one of them.

You take off from where you and Chenle were standing, running up and meeting Jaemin somewhere in the middle as he lets go of his carry-on and puts his arms out for you. “Jaem!” You exclaim, jumping into his arms and wrapping around him like a koala.

“Angel!” He replies just as enthusiastically; hugging you tightly and spinning around once with the momentum.

“Chenle’s here so you have to kiss me,” you whisper in a rush, cupping his cheek with your hand as Jaemin steadies himself again.

He lets out a genuine laugh, catching your gaze with the brightest of smiles in his eyes. “Well, I wasn’t gonna run all this way towards you for nothing,” he says surely. Then he presses his lips to yours, and the resulting warmth in your body should’ve made the snow outside impossible.

Jaemin breaks away from you when he feels a tug on his shirt sleeve, and the two of you turn to make eye contact with Chenle. “You’re being cringe now, can you please take me home?” He asks plainly, making you and Jaemin laugh as he puts you down on the solid ground again, slipping his hand in yours as the next best option. Then, after making sure Jaemin had all of his things, the three of you were on the road back to NCIT.

The next day, Jaemin and the guys went out for lunch, one you weren’t invited to because it was one you “couldn’t know about.” Sitting around the table in a perfect reflection of the start of the semester, the guys around Jaemin all wore a mixture of looks on their faces, ranging from impressed to sulky…though that last one was only Chenle, who despite having the most money in the group, hated giving it out.

Mark is the one to finally address the reason they were all there. “Well, you did it. I’m sure we don’t need to be the ones to tell you that you’ve been dating y/n for three whole months now,” he says with a light laugh. Jaemin can’t bring himself to join in on the smiles and playfulness around the table.

“I can’t believe it’s been three months already,” he says hollowly, but both his tone and the distant look in his eyes go unnoticed by his friends, their tunnel vision on their childish bet covering over Jaemin’s anguish at winning.

“Here’s your $600,” Haechan says after having collected everyone’s shares from around the table. “Can't wait to have a new PS5 in our apartment,” he quips, but Jaemin whips his head up at him, grabbing the $600 from his hands defensively.

“I’m not spending it on a PS5…” He begins, dragging off as the fire dies from his tone and he returns to a contemplative state of being. “I’m gonna buy y/n something nice.”

Gasps are heard from quite literally everyone else at the table, all of them looking at Jaemin with wide eyes. “Really?” Jeno asks in disbelief, and Jaemin makes passing eye contact with all of his friends, giving them all odd looks for being so caught off guard.

“Yes, really. She’s the best thing to ever happen to me, and I don’t know how to give her the world, but I can at least get her the best that $600 will buy,” he explains surely, and the rest of the guys all exchange glances with each other before turning back to him, Renjun being the one to take a jab this time through a hesitant laugh.

“Are we still talking to Na Jaemin?” He asks, making the rest of the guys laugh as well. Jaemin just lets out a sigh, finally able to find a bit of humor as well as he shakes his head, tucking the money away and turning the afternoon into a regular lunch hang out.

Two days later, you get a call from Jaemin sometime after dinner.

“Angel?” He says softly once you pick up, his tone making you smile on the other end.

“Yeah, handsome?” You respond warmly.

“Wanna go on a drive?” Jaemin asks, giving away no hints as to his current state of emotions, and your eyebrows furrow as you pry more.

“No destination?” You ask, and Jaemin shakes his head, not that you were able to see it anyways. His response is sharp.

“No.”

“Everything okay?” You question, the warmth in your tone turning into concern.

“Yeah,” Jaemin responds immediately. You let a beat pass in silence and it’s enough for Jaemin to want to fill it again on his own. “Just want some more time with you,” he explains shyly, and you let out a small breath of laughter as you oblige.

“Let me get my shoes on.”

“I’ll be there to pick you up in five,” he replies firmly before immediately hanging up.

True to his word, it only took five minutes before you’re opening the door to Jaemin. “Hey,” he says as soon as you make eye contact, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your cheek.

“Hey,” you reply, your face hurting as you try not to smile too widely at his actions. Jaemin wouldn’t have noticed if you did, though, because he immediately turns to face the floor sheepishly.

“Sorry if you were in the middle of something,” he finally says, making you furrow your brows at him - this wasn’t a Jaemin you were used to.

“Nothing that couldn’t wait,” you assure him before prying some more. “What’s up?”

Jaemin pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as he shakes his head hesitantly. “Nothing. It’s just our last few days together. Figured we could hang out before you go off and get an actual boyfriend and I-” You watch as he fumbles for words, eventually giving up with a shrug as he finally makes eye contact with you again. “Go back to doing whatever it is I do.”

His answer doesn’t relieve you of any worry, and you move a hand up to cup his cheek as you tilt your head in study of him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Jaemin nods his head slightly against your hand, a fond smile at your touch replacing the distant expression he previously held. “There’s just a lot on my mind. Nothing for you to worry about. Just wanted to hang out with you and kind of escape it all for a bit,” he explains casually, eventually bringing both hands up to guide your own back down from his face, idly playing with your fingers as he asks his next question. “Do you still like cloud watching?”

“You know I do,” you reply with a laugh, and Jaemin finally bares his teeth as he smiles back at you. He checks to make sure you actually did put your shoes on already before switching his grip so that he was just holding your hand as he walked the two of you to his truck.

You ended up at one of those nature parks, where the fields are preserved for fields-sake rather than playgrounds. The two of you got out and made your way around to the tailgate of his truck and you register that he already had blankets and pillows in the back, completely reminiscent of high school.

You both sat in silence for a while, staring up at the sky and giving yourselves a chance to be at peace, at least somewhere away from the false sense of urgency that always seemed to be around. Eventually, you move your gaze from the clouds above to where your arms were wrapped around your knees, debating with yourself before finally breaking the silence.

“Jaem?” You call softly, and he turns all of his attention towards you.

“Yeah, angel?” He replies in much the same manner. You dart your tongue out to lick your lips, anything you could do to prolong your question - which you were currently thinking should’ve lost in your inner debate.

You finally let out a sigh, still focused in front of you as you talk. “You know you’re much more than the image you’ve picked up around campus, right?”

Jaemin’s face immediately whips back to the front so there would be no chance of making eye contact with you. “Um…” He begins, but that was the only word he could come up with before forfeiting with an awkward swallow. You know that means it’s up to you to continue.

“I know that day I first met your friend group, you had to make up a ton of stuff on how we got together and everything, but I don’t know if you were necessarily lying when you were talking about how I deserve better than getting tied into your fuckboy image. I just- wanna make sure you know, in case that has ever been your thought process for anyone you’ve had a crush on, that there’s so many more sides to you than that. An image is an image, okay? Don’t let it get to you.” Your courage is built with every word and you finally turn to face Jaemin as you continue softly, surely. “They don’t know you like I do.”

Jaemin’s lips part with a heavy exhale before he rolls them inwards in hesitation. “Do you mean it?” He finally asks, and there’s just a trace of sadness riddling his voice.

“Of course I do,” you say firmly, and Jaemin takes in your answer with a slow nod.

“It’s been hard. I-” He grimaces before letting out an awkward laugh. “Oh, this is kind of weird to talk about with you,” he continues, making you laugh, too as the atmosphere lightens.

“Whatever,” you say, rolling your eyes playfully. “It’s me.”

Surprisingly, that seemed to do it, because the tension in Jaemin’s shoulders falls as he lets out a light sigh and finally finds his words for what seemed to be the first time that night. “I used to not care. If they wanted to label me as a fuckboy, that was fine. Truthfully, if I was getting my dick wet, I was good-” He cuts himself off at the sound of a slightly louder exhale than normal from you, and he whips his head your way with a pout. “Don’t laugh, I’m being vulnerable.”

You stare back at him with a fond smile on your face and raised brows. “I’m not laughing,” you assure, and Jaemin turns to face his knees again as he accepts your denial of the claim without a fight. Then he starts back up with his explanation, his tone heavy and contemplative.

“Lately though, I’ve just been thinking I want so much more out of life. But, I spent so long under the fuckboy label I didn’t know if I would ever be able to break free from it, if I could ever be more.”

Your gaze on him softens but your eyebrows furrow; there was something so weird about knowing he’s never viewed himself in the way you do. “Na Jaemin, you’ve always been more,” you respond firmly. The lightest of exhales escapes as laughter from Jaemin, and he lets a weak smile play at his lips before responding.

“And you’ve always felt like home…” He says, matching your tone as he finally turns to look at you again. “That’s another thing I wasn’t lying about that day.”

You immediately dodge eye contact, knowing it’d reveal to him in milliseconds your real emotions towards all of this…towards him. Probably against your better judgement as well, you lean into him at your side, resting your head against his shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I’ve had a nice three months with you,” you say, your own weak grin making an appearance.

“Yeah,” he agrees, wrapping his arm around you casually. “It hasn’t been too bad, has it?”

There it was, the reason you needed to snap out of it, because for Jaemin, it just wasn’t ‘too bad,’ and meanwhile you’ve been over the moon these past three months. You’d come to your senses eventually - remember that ‘breaking up’ was the plan all along, that the last thing Jaemin wanted was to be in an actual relationship, and that you were going to have to be as okay with that as ever. However, for now, you figured you’d just lean into him a bit more while you still can.

The next day saw all eight of you at Chenle’s place, helping him decorate and prepare for the big party, and then it was New Year’s Eve. Only you and Jaemin knew that it was your last night together before the ‘break up;’ and neither of you knew that the other didn’t want it to ever end, meaning when you placed Jaemin’s hoodie in his backseat as a way to return it before the party, you didn’t know the idea of giving it back nauseated him possibly more than it did you. As such, the air was tense and awkward between the two of you, trying to keep hidden how devastated you knew you were going to be at the end of the night, and too dumb to realize the best thing you could do is talk about it.

Hand-in-hand with Jaemin, the two of you join the rest of your friend group, already standing around in a circle somewhere on the outskirts of the set up dance floor. They greet the two of you with bright smiles, none of them plagued with the knowledge that their favorite relationship was ending tonight. However, with the eight of you chatting about anything imaginable, the night became incredibly casual, despite the overwhelming amount of people flooding in around you all.

Eventually, the group divides up, deciding a range of different activities sounded best for the time being. You ended up with Chenle and Jisung, the three of you indulging in the indoor s’mores kit that was set up. Jaemin never moved from where the big group of you originally were. Instead, he let the crowd all pass around him as he stayed focused on you, gaze aimed in your direction with a fond smile as he watched you interact with his friends.

The only thing to break him from his staring is when Mark taps him on the shoulder and hands him a cup of water. “Man, I hope you know you’ve turned into a completely different person,” he says as he does so, making Jaemin furrow his brows in question; though Mark shakes his head as though it were no big thing. “You got this glow about you that scares me, and the look in your eyes when you’re staring at her…I didn’t think I’d ever see that from you - you know, being so against relationships and everything,” he ends with a light laugh.

Jaemin drops his head, his own laugh escaping his lips. “It’s just what happens when you’ve found your person, I guess,” he replies seriously. “I mean, to me?” He begins, finally looking up at Mark in sincerity before throwing his gaze your way. “For her?” He shakes his head, his smile turning into a dumb grin on his face as he finally admits to what’s been on his mind for three months. “Everything’s worth it. All the risk, all the effort, I’d do anything for her.” He looks your way once more before his gaze turns distant and he lets a grimace slip across his features. “It just took being with her to make me realize…I want to believe in love,” he finally says, meeting Mark’s eyes once again.

Mark’s smile was painted widely across his face, though he stared at his best friend in something like disbelief. “Want to believe it? Jaemin, you’re in it,” he says firmly, and Jaemin immediately lets his gaze fall to his feet as he lets out a heavy sigh.

“It’s less scary than I thought it’d be,” he finally says, and Mark’s smile turns fond as he gets a glimpse at how his best friend operates. He puts on his best voice of comfort as he replies.

“You said it yourself, it’s what happens when you’ve found your person. You should tell her,” he says, tossing his head in your direction casually, but Jaemin’s muscles tense up.

“No, I can’t,” he says in a rush, and Mark lets out a laugh.

“From the one who says he isn’t scared,” he teases, but Jaemin shakes his head - it wasn’t that.

“I- it’s a weird situation,” he says, letting out a huff with his bad explanation. “I can’t tell her. Not tonight, anyways…she won’t want to hear that from me,” he concludes, dragging off miserably. Mark’s face completely flips as he stares at Jaemin quizzically.

“But- she looks at you the same way, you know?” He says surely, but Jaemin shakes his head again.

“No, that’s just how she looks at me. Even when we were in high school.” He takes a moment to pause, tongue darting out to wet his suddenly dry lips before continuing with conviction. “No, she doesn’t love me. Not like this,” he says, and then he’s walking away, leaving a very confused Mark standing there with parted lips.

“...I thought she’s liked you since high school,” he says under his breath now that he knew there was no way Jaemin would hear anyways. He looks between you and Jaemin before shaking his head - the last thing he needed on New Year’s Eve was to engage in overthinking.

You had just broken away from where you were talking with Chenle and Jisung to instead make your way over to the punch table. Grabbing yourself a glass, when arms wrap around you in a hug from behind, you know the only person it could be. “Hey, handsome,” you say with a smile, turning your head to the side to try and lay eyes on him.

“Hi, angel,” Jaemin replies, taking the opportunity to place a small kiss on your cheek before continuing. “Are we kissing at midnight or are we ending things before then? I’m not sure if you want to start the new year with me or not.” His tone borders on defeat, and you turn around in his arms to stare at him with raised eyebrows and a playful smirk.

“I’ll be your new year's kiss if you’ll be mine,” you reply, and Jaemin lets out a small chuckle. “Besides,” you continue more seriously. “Ending this doesn’t mean you aren’t still my best friend. You’ll be a part of my new year no matter what. We can kiss and just pretend that was our way to say ‘bye’ to dating, cause you know, I guess it will be.” For a moment that you always knew was coming, admitting its near occurrence now felt like you just had the wind knocked out of you. Jaemin just stares down at you with a wide grin, nodding his head along to your words in approval.

“Alright best friend, then I’ll make sure to find you again before midnight,” he replies, the entire thing making you swallow awkwardly as you nod your head back at him slightly.

“Yeah…” You respond in something like a whisper, and with one light kiss on your forehead, Jaemin vanishes again into the crowd.

The rest of the New Years party was a blast, no doubt, but the knowledge of what was coming, or more so ending, plagued your thoughts and eventually you just needed to slip away from the rest of the noise. You ended up on the balcony attached to some random bedroom, the cool air something of a relief for your current state.

The only pull back into reality was when the ever-present loudness turned into synchronized cheers, and you catch as the entire party starts counting down from fifteen seconds. You whip around to start on your rushed journey back inside, realizing you never told Jaemin where you would be; but as you turn, you make eye contact with him, just stepping onto the balcony himself, an easy smile crossing his features. “No need to rush. I told you I’d find you before midnight,” he says with a light laugh, and you drop your head with a small exhale as your own form of laughter. “Ready to say ‘bye’ to all this pretending?” He asks, stepping up to where he was directly in front of you.

No. “Yep,” you respond with the best fake smile you could. You already made it this far with no problems, you refused to let it slip that your heart was fully in this right when it was about to end.

Jaemin matched your smile, and as the crowd’s counting reached the ‘3, 2, 1,’ his hand came up to find its favorite spot at your cheek again. Then he leaned in and kissed you right as the party erupted with cheers of ‘Happy New Year.’

Your hands gripped tightly at his shirt, keeping you steady and keeping him close to you; though he wasn’t necessarily going anywhere with one hand cupping your cheek and the other placed firmly on your waist. Unlike any of your other kisses, this one…lingered. The two of you kept steady pace with each other, you gently sucking on his bottom lip and figuring for as long as he’d let this go on, you would take it for all it was worth, trying to pretend you could ever kiss him enough for a lifetime.

When you think he’s breaking away, you’re instead met with the feeling of his tongue running across your top lip, asking for permission - permission all too easily granted by you as you open your mouth to let him explore. Your New Year's kiss turned into a greedy make out session, which was probably the last thing you were expecting, but you couldn’t take the time to question it because you were too busy drowning in his taste. You loved the taste of Jaemin on your tongue, and his own soft moan - which he tried so desperately to cover up but that you still very much heard, let you know he was currently feeling the same way; and you’d mark that down as a tiny win in the midst of the huge loss you were about to incur.

Against your better judgement, you finally break away when you truly couldn’t breathe anymore, and Jaemin rests his forehead against yours. The air was just filled with the sound of panting as the two of you tried to catch your breaths. You swallow awkwardly once you do, taking a small step back as you process what just happened, Jaemin’s hand running down your body until you were no longer in reach. “You’re awfully good at ‘goodbye,’” you say in between breaths.

Jaemin immediately dodges your gaze, facing somewhere off to the side as his adam's apple bobs up and down. “I’ve had a lot of practice,” he responds quietly, to the point where you were practically just reading his lips, and then he’s gone, leaving you alone on the balcony to deal with your flooding emotions on your own…not that you could do so in his presence anyways.

You hated that it hurt this much - that a goodbye you knew was coming still seemed to blindside you. You had allowed your heart to indulge in his every romantic gesture, and while on the surface you knew they meant nothing, you held onto hope in some deep dark corner of your heart that maybe it wasn’t all just pretend; and yet here you were, grouped in with the vast category of girls he’s said ‘goodbye’ to in the way he knew all too well. You were his best friend but you were no one special, and you didn’t expect the resurgence of a fact that you already knew to affect you as much as it did - to make it feel as though you had been hollowed out, bones chilled from the empty space your soul used to occupy.

You and Jaemin weren’t in contact the entire first day of the new year, though you couldn’t complain because talking to him right away was not something you figured your heart could handle. Instead, you went to work out at the gym and run errands and all those other things people do when they’re single and making a point to say they’re okay with that. To be fair, it kind of worked. Not that you were okay with whatever you and Jaemin had gotten yourselves into coming to an end, but that day of productivity and endorphin-inducing activity helped you ground yourself - these past three months were you helping out your best friend, that was all it was ever supposed to be.

The next day was far less productive, but you were still functioning like normal. The only disruption from your typical daily routine came with a phone call from Haechan. As soon as you pick up, he starts speaking.

“Why did you go and break Jaemin’s heart all of the sudden?” He asks angrily.

You furrow your brows, though it wasn’t like he could see it anyways. “What do you mean? The breakup was mutual,” you counter in confusion, and Haechan lets out an actual ‘HA’ in disbelief before he replies with animosity.

“I need to know what the hell your definition of ‘mutual’ is because Jaemin hasn’t stopped crying for the past twenty-four hours.”

You think he’s kidding, like this is one last stupid test of whether your relationship ever added up - but you shake the idea away, he already got the money, it was a week past three months, there wasn’t anything for you to mess up now, the story you’ve been telling would work as it always had. “Crying? What? We both agreed we worked better as friends,” you reply instantly, confusion adequately painting your voice.

Haechan cannot believe his ears, and he makes sure to let you know so. For as much as you were confused, he didn’t understand why you were acting this way, ten fold. “No, I don’t believe you at all now. He wouldn’t agree on that. I don’t know how Jaemin talked to you, but he talked about you as though he’s never held anyone’s hand before until he held yours. Y/n, it was like you were the one to put every star in his night sky, I swear there’s no way this breakup was mutual.” Your whole world stops and you go speechless on the other end. Haechan was being dead serious, or else he wouldn’t be angry, he wouldn’t be pushing the subject. His words turn over and over again in your head. Jaemin talked about you, evidently when you weren’t around. You were fake-dating and yet Jaemin went out of his way to speak of you fondly to his friends. Jaemin, who never saw the point of getting romantically attached like that, doing more than what was needed in expressing his feelings about you. You push down the feeling of nausea and instead let out a deep sigh.

“I’ll be over in five minutes,” you say quietly, and then you hang up the phone before ever getting a reply from Haechan.

You race over to their apartment, and before you could even knock, Haechan is swinging the door open for you. The two of you make eye contact and about a million emotions pass between you, but it was easiest to pick up on the uncertainty. Haechan opens his mouth as if he’s about to bombard you with questions, or maybe yell at you again…you weren’t sure, but instead he just lets out a breath, nodding his head back in the direction of Jaemin’s room with a soft, “in there.”

You throw a thankful smile his way, not that you were necessarily guessing at where Jaemin could be, but you were very grateful he was letting you off so easily. Even by looking at Haechan, you could tell Jaemin had truly been crying for the past twenty-four hours…Haechan looked exhausted.

You lightly tap on the door of Jaemin’s room before entering, breath hitching as you lay eyes on his figure, curled up in a ball and clad in his favorite hoodie that you had given back - the hoodie he now knew you had lived in for the past few weeks because he already caught your own scent on it. Tears raced down his face, and he immediately turned away from you to hide them as he squeaked out choked words.

“Please go away,” he says, and reality hits you all at once. It wasn’t like you thought Haechan was lying, but now you truly had to face the fact that you were the cause of Jaemin’s tears; he wanted you to go away.

“Jaemin, I’m not going anywhere,” you say softly, shaking your head to emphasize the point. Though, as you do so, your gaze catches onto a gift bag on his dresser, a label with your name written on it in his stupid perfect handwriting.

You walk up to it, swallowing hesitantly as you turn your attention from the bag to Jaemin and back again. “What is this?” You finally ask. Jaemin shoots his gaze your way, not having previously realized what had caught your intrigue.

“Please don’t-” He rushes to say, but in the pause, you had already pulled out a diamond necklace, holding it gently between your shaking hands. You shake your head, eyes wide and jaw dropped as you’re unable to form a coherent thought. You turn back around to face him, your gaze darting every which way because you’re not sure you can confidently hold eye contact with him.

“Jaemin, what-? Why is this in a gift bag labeled for me-? When did you-?”

He cuts you off, visibly annoyed. “It’s what I used the bet money on. Now please go away,” he demands more firmly, but you wouldn’t be able to follow through on it even if you wanted to, because as you process his words, you lose the ability to move.

“You spent the $600 on this?” You ask in disbelief, turning your attention fully towards him to try and find any cue that he was lying. “On me?”

Jaemin turns his head to the side, and you watch as his adam’s apple bobs up and down with an awkward swallow. When he finally answers, his voice has lost its tension, his words instead coming out as though he were ashamed. “$700,” he corrects. “I didn’t want it to feel like I was just gifting you something from the guys.”

You think you’ve gone crazy, or maybe Jaemin has, but all you can do is stare at him in disbelief. “I-”

He quickly finds his fire again, apparently having had enough embarrassment for a lifetime in those few seconds. “Please leave,” he spits out. He dares look up to make eye contact with you before immediately regretting his decision and staring back down at his bed again, wiping more stray tears from his eyes as he fumbles out his next words. “You can take the necklace if you want but just- please leave.”

“Jaem-” You say softly before he can cut you off.

“What?!” He quips, though when he shoots his gaze back to you in irritation, he realizes you’re no longer standing at his dresser, but sitting at the edge of his bed with him. Your fingers barren of the necklace, you instead occupy one hand by placing it on top of his own.

“You could’ve told me you fell for me, too,” you say seriously, and Jaemin stops breathing for a moment as he looks up at you with wide teary eyes.

“Too?” He echoes weakly, and all you can do is give a tight smile, moving a hand up to wipe under his eyes as you try to hold back your own tears.

“I refuse to believe I played off my huge crush on you since high school that well.” You reply with a hoarse laugh.

Jaemin finally recovers his ability to breathe as he lets out a heavy exhale. “You like me?” He asks through tears, and you finally break, having to wipe your own stupid tears off your face before nodding at him with an embarrassed smile.

“I always have. Why do you think I made all those stupid rules to try and make sure we acted like a couple as little as possible?” A bittersweet laugh gets caught in your throat as you think back on it. “If I had to listen to you call me cute names all the time, I wouldn’t have survived knowing it was eventually going to end,” you continue seriously.

Jaemin’s finally able to let out a bashful smile and sorry laugh. ��...I called you cute names all the time anyways.”

You nod your head with a fond smile. “I know.”

“I couldn’t help it,” he explains as more tears rush down his face, though this time, they’re at least sliding down next to an embarrassed grin.

You look at him with playful raised eyebrows. “Just like how you couldn’t help it when you kissed me every time you saw me? Or looked over at me super fondly?”

Jaemin softens as his eyes trace over your figure, the distant look in his gaze letting you know his mind was rather preoccupied with reliving the past three months. “Exactly like that,” he says lowly, and you let out a breath, forcing your gaze away from Jaemin as you instead focus on the way your fingers were idly fidgeting with each other.

“God, Jaem. I’m sorry. I should’ve realized-” You speak apologetically but Jaemin cuts you off again.

“No, I should’ve communicated. Well…” He lets another soft laugh leave his system, the tears finally drying on his face as he works towards fully collecting himself. “I should’ve communicated when you knew I was serious.”

You smile at his words, shaking your head again as you relive every moment of the fake relationship. “I didn’t even know you had time to catch feelings for me,” you begin with something like wonder in your tone. “I mean- weren’t you still hooking up with-”

When Jaemin cuts you off this time, it’s with the most flustered of cheeks and the weakest of laughs. “Um, about that…the very first girl I hooked up with after we added that rule-” He shakes his head with a small smile as he corrects himself. “Well, I say that…she was also the last girl I hooked up with.” Your eyebrows furrow slightly as you process the information, but Jaemin doesn’t give you much time to do so before throwing in another wrench. “I uh- accidentally moaned your name.”

Your head whips in his direction, your wide eyes straining against your dropped jaw. “Jaemin! You did not!”

“Why would I make that up?!” He quips back with a hearty laugh. You move a hand over your gaping mouth, unsure at what exactly you were supposed to do with this news. You shake your head in disbelief.

“Oh my god, what did she do?” You ask, curiosity dripping from your voice. Jaemin bites on the inside of his cheek before giving in again with a light sigh.

“Well, we immediately stopped because we were both mortified, I think. She said something about how I obviously had to go figure some things out, to which I agreed, but for different reasons than she thought…” He drags off a bit but instead just shakes his head and goes in a different direction. “I practically begged her not to say anything about it, but she laughed and said I was crazy if I thought she was going to tell that story and humiliate herself,” he finishes with a small chuckle, and you just stare at him with no less shock than before.

“I can’t believe this,” you manage to get out playfully.

Jaemin flashes his eyebrows in acknowledgement before his eyes light up and he rushes through more words. “Oh! The best part is, a week or so later, she saw us holding hands in public and texted me saying that she’s rooting for us,” he recalls with a shiteating grin.

“Stop!” You get out, the idea of it damn near killing you. Though, before you can end up dying of laughter with Jaemin, another piece of information fits itself into the puzzle and you come back to your senses in seriousness.

“Wait wait wait,” you begin, focusing your gaze fully on Jaemin again. “So, you’ve been celibate for like…three months now?” You ask in shock. Jaemin isn’t even the tiniest bit regretful as he responds with a shrug, his sincere gaze meeting your own.

“I only wanted you. Wasn’t going to waste mine or anyone else’s time pretending any different.”

Your gaze softens immediately as a fond smile plays against your features. “Jaem…” You aren’t necessarily sure where you were going from there, but Jaemin picks it up anyways with a small shake of his head; his own weak smile making an appearance again as he recounts those first few moments.

“You kissed me that first day and I assumed I was fucked,” he explains casually. “Everything felt like it changed, and not because it was affection but because it was you.” His cheeks puff out again with a bigger grin as he continues. “Then I had that slip up and I knew I was fucked. Couldn’t get you out of my head for even a moment. It was starting to drive me crazy how much I wanted to make you happy.”

His eyes meet yours again as he finishes, and you search them for answers you knew you would have to ask for. “A good crazy?” You question hesitantly, but Jaemin is quick to shut down any worries.

“The best,” he assures, moving his hands so that he could interlace them with yours. He moves his gaze from your physical contact back up to your face before continuing seriously. “I love you, y/n.”

You swallow hard, trying to not let any more tears run down your face, albeit happy tears weren’t so bad. You squeeze his hands in yours as you nod your head. “I love you, too.”

“Can we date for real?” He immediately asks, his wide pleading eyes making you chuckle.

“It’s been ‘for real’ for a while now,” you say warmly, but Jaemin shakes his head, not having it.

“Yeah, but we’re currently broken up if you don’t remember. The entire reason you’re over here is because I couldn’t stop bawling my eyes out…which was the worst feeling in the world, by the way,” he banters back with a weak laugh. You let a grimace cross your face before pulling it into a fond smile.

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll never break up with you again,” you assure him softly. Jaemin doesn’t hide his wide smile as he shifts himself so he can easily lean in and kiss you softly, resting his forehead against your own as he pulls back to smile against your lips.

“I’m holding you to it, angel.”

#Jaemin #Na Jaemin #NCT Dream #Jaemin fic #Jaemin x reader #NCT Dream x reader #nct x reader #Jaemin fanfic #NCT #NCT Dream fic #Jaemin fluff #NCT Dream fluff #nct dream imagines #nct imagines

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florihaei · 4 months ago

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• ౨ৎ ────────── 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍 ₊ ˖ ་.

엔시티 드림 ꒰ 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮

• ( 1010 ) est.relationship 𓂃 bf dreamies! + kissing, pet names, suggestive / ( FLORIHAEI VALUT )

reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated!, phtots are not mine!!, credits to the rightful owner!!( there’s a rich joke in”haechans” and I don’t like it that much so sorry in advance!! florihaei taglist ୨ৎ

MARK LEE !

mark insisted on carrying everything, even your tiny purse. “babe i got it” you say reaching for your bag. he pulls it away with a grin, easily slipping the strap over his shoulder. “nope, to heavy for my baby girl”

you narrow your eyes at him, placing your hands on your hips. “mark baby.. it’s literally lighter than your phone”

he tilted his head, pretending to think. “hmm, it doesn’t matter, what if your body gets sore?, what if you get tired baby?” his voice was laced with amusement, but the way he tucks you under his arm and pulls you close has you smiling

“you’re ridiculous..” you muttered, though you don’t pull away.

“ridiculously in love with you” he corrects you, as he presses a soft kiss to your temple. “now let me be a good boyfriend and spoil my baby yeah?”

you sigh dramatically but you end up smiling even wider when he gives your cheek a squeeze.

HUANG RENJUN !

you reach for a cup on the top shelf, standing on your tippy toes and stretching as far as you could. beofre you could even get close, renjun appears behind you , easily grabbing the cup and placing it in your hands.

“what would you do without me?” he teases, resting his chin on your shoulder

“survive” you reply, turning to glare at him playfully

he scoffed, looping his arm around your waist. “doubt it baby, you’re too small and fragile”

“im not fragile” you argued, but he just hums, clearly he was unconvinced.

“mhm sure , but i would rather not risk my pretty girl struggling” his voice is soft as he titled her chin up. his thumb grazing over your jaw before pressing a lingering kiss to your nose. “besides, it’s cute when you try”

you swat at his chest, but the warmth spreading through you was impossible to ignore.

LEE JENO !

jeno watches as you struggle to open a bottle of water, your hands twisted at the cap, but with no success. before you can even consider asking for help, he grabs it from your grasp effortlessly, cracking it open with one hand

“jeno.. baby..” you huffed, reaching for it. “i could’ve done it”

he lifted the bottle higher, out of your reach, a playful smirk on his lips. “mm, but why should i when i can just do it for you baby?”

you pout, the smirk softened as he takes your chin between his fingers. “pretty.. i like taking care of you” he murmurs, pressing a slow kiss to your lips before finally handing the bottle to you. “so let me, okay?”

you take a sip, trying to hide your smile, but he sees right through you.

LEE HAECHAN !

your standing in the kitchen, trying to wash the dishes, when haechan suddenly wraps his arms around your waist and lifts you off the ground

“you shouldn’t be doing this sunshine” he whines, carrying you away from the sink and placing you gently on the couch. “my pretty baby doesn’t need to be doing chores”

you cross your arms. “and who’s going to do them then?, you?”

“uh no?, that’s why rich people hire maids for” he says. “and since im not rich, ill do it because i love you”

you blink “wait did you just…?”

“shh” he cuts you off, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before rushing to the kitchen. “no more questions sunshine, just sit here and look pretty for me”

your heart feels like it’s doing somersaults, but you’ll just pretend you didn’t hear the way his voice cracked

NA JAEMIN !

you’re in bed half asleep, when you feel jaemin shift beside you. he carefully tucks the blanket around your shoulders, brushing a strand of hair away from your face.

“nana… where are you going?” you mumble, reaching for his hand before he can move.

jaemin chuckles softly, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “i was just gonna get some water baby”

you let out a sleepy whine, tugging at his hoodie. “no… stay”

he smiles, lying back down and wrapping his arms around you. “you’re too cute you know that?” his voice is a whisper against your ear warm and comforting.

you nuzzle into his chest as he kisses the top of your head. “okay, okay i’m staying” he murmurs. “not like i’d ever leave my pretty girl alone anyway”

ZHONG CHENLE !

you’re running around the house, trying to grab something from the other room, when chenle calls out from the couch. “slow down baby, you’re gonna trip”

“i won-” your foot catches on the rug, and before you know it you’re stumbling forward.

chenle is up in an instant, catching you before you can hit the ground. he steadies you as his hands firm on your waist. “what did i just say baby?” he sighs, shaking his head before pulling you into his arms.

you groan. “okay okay.. you were right”

he smirks, rubbing circles onto your back. “of course i was, my baby is too clumsy for her own good”

you pout up at him, and he kisses your forehead with a chuckle. “from now on just let me do everything baby okay?”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t complain when he picks you up bridal style just to take you back to the couch.

PARK JISUNG !

you’re sitting on the floor, playing a video game when jisung suddenly scoots closer and pulls you into his lap.

“jisung baby?” you say, looking at him in confusion.

he wraps his arms around you, resting his chin on your shoulder. “just let me hold you for a bit”

your heart melts. “you’re so clingy” you tease, but you lean into him anyway.

“yeah, yeah” he mumbles, tightening his grip. “you’re my baby so deal with it”

you smile, placing your hands over his. “okay but you better not complain when i call you baby back”

he groans, but you catch the way his ears turn pink.

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luvdsc · 7 months ago

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barbie girl.

if life is plastic (and therefore, nonbiodegradable), then it’s so not fantastic. honestly, who came up with that? regina george really should’ve googled about the new plastics economy.

or alternatively, pretty girls rule the world, and you find out that he’s (not) all that.

pairing :: na jaemin x reader genre :: comedy, fluff, angst ⋮ makeover + college au word count :: 24,618 words warnings :: body issues, body image, weight mentions, insecurities, beauty is a social construct, [spoiler] did something bad, people being literal scum, so much gaslighting that you can start a wildfire and j*ke gyll*nh*al should take notes, “if a man talks shit then i owe him nothing” playlist :: pretty boys (romi) ⋆ you can’t sit with us (sunmi) ⋆ i just wanna know (katherine li) ⋆ lie to girls (sabrina carpenter) ⋆ look what you made me do (taylor swift) ⋆ leftover feelings (regina song) ⋆ number one girl (rosé) + extended playlist here. author’s note :: she’s all that is one of my most favorite rom coms ever, but i’ve always been ///: at the whole makeover idea and decided to write my own version !! the idols mentioned in this fic are just characters, and how i portray them in this fic do not reflect how i actually view them or their irl personas. as always, much love to miss lana and miss moon for being my biggest cheerleaders ᥫ᭡ ↳ part of the 𝔯𝔢𝔭𝔲𝔱𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 collaboration series.

i. hiya, barbie! hi, ken!

Na Jaemin does not know that you exist.

Good looking, charismatic, and popular — it’s his world, and you’re just living in it. Or something like that. You’re decently smart, somewhat funny, and not pretty enough to stand out, but not exactly hideous according to societal standards (source: those beauty quizzes in Seventeen magazine that you used to be obsessed with when you were thirteen and in desperate need of flirting tips). If he was the main lead, you’d probably be Extra #6, maybe Extra #2 on a good day.

By your calculations, the two of you should never cross paths, like two parallel lines. Wait, scratch that, you would probably never be aligned with anything that has to do with this guy. You saw him standing outside of the door of your shared accounting classroom during your fall semester, and he spent twenty five minutes editing his picture for Instagram and ended up late for the lecture. And he probably already spent even more time selecting the final photo to edit before you arrived to class and noticed him. Absolute idiot. Absolute handsome idiot, but idiot nonetheless. A grade A himbo with a grade C in financial accounting.

Okay, so scrap the parallel lines theory, maybe skew lines are a better way of explaining it. Yeah, that seems about right, the two of you are from completely different dimensions, never meant to interact or run parallel with each other. And once again, by this logic, your paths should never cross.

“Y/N!”

You stand corrected.

Na Jaemin does know that you exist.

You suddenly remember that there was that one small group presentation in that very same aforementioned accounting class, and you were assigned to the same group as Jaemin. Armed with this rediscovered memory, you are going to revise your earlier response and say that the correct descriptor for your relationship is perpendicular lines. That sounds right. Final answer. You’re locking it in.

Your paths should have only intersected once, the two of you should be going in different directions, and even though you’re in another class with him again for spring semester this year (since all freshmen with a business major has to take the same Gen. Ed. classes), not once have the two of you had a proper conversation with each other (He asked you to pass a note one time, but that barely counts). Jaemin should have forgotten you by now, and you should be continuing on with your side character life that you’re very much content with.

So then why on earth is he shouting your name like you’re old friends and causing what feels like every person within a one mile radius to stare at you?

He’s unknowingly giving you your main character moment, and you very quickly realize that you do not feel like the Y/N in any one of those Gojo fanfics you read religiously at three in the morning when you should really be studying or sleeping.

Instead, you feel like a bug watching its impending doom as a Doc Marten boot starts to descend at an alarming speed and you can’t even try to scuttle out of the way to avoid it. Frozen in your spot, you can only watch as your university’s it boy skids to a stop in front of you after running across the grass and flashing you his million dollar smile. “Hey, Y/N, right? We have ECON 13 together.”

Starstruck, your mind to mouth filter is completely shot, and all you manage to let out is a very uncool “Uh huh.”

He laughs a little breathlessly, and you feel like all the oxygen has been knocked out of your lungs, too. Sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck, Jaemin tilts his head to the side slightly, the sunlight catching his profile perfectly, and your breath hitches in your throat once more.

“I know this is gonna sound really, uh, forward since we barely know each other and all, but—”

You’re barely listening to him, your heart pounding in your chest and the blood rushing to your ears. It’s pretty embarrassing to see how a mere stranger with a pretty face can affect you this much. You really thought you had a much stronger willpower than this, but it’s so goddamn unfair how this boy standing in front of you has the most perfectly sculpted face you’ve ever seen. Plus, his eyelashes? Why the hell do boys always get the prettiest, thickest, and darkest lashes?

Meanwhile, you’re out here struggling to force your perpetually straight, stubby lashes into a curl that ends up lasting only a couple hours, even when you use waterproof mascara. You still end up with flat lashes and you have to feverishly scrub your eyes to remove the blasted makeup and lose a few cherished lashes in the process.

“—with me?” Jaemin finishes, and you belatedly realize that you did not catch a single word that he said, too caught up in your inner monologue and too busy ogling. However, your heart flutters in your chest when you catch the last part of his question. Not to be too presumptuous, but it sounds like he’s asking you out. Why else would anyone randomly stop you like this and talk to you for this long? You’re positively giddy at this revelation. This is your moment, the one you’ve been waiting for your whole life, like Rapunzel waiting in her tower for the one to come and save her from her horribly mundane, repetitive life.

“Oh! Um… yes?” It’s a 50/50 chance between yes or no, and you hope that’s the correct answer he’s looking for.

Jaemin’s face immediately brightens, and he turns his smile up another kilowatt, nearly blinding you. You grin back at him, squinting a little. This must be how Icarus felt when he flew towards the sun.

“Oh shit, really? You’re really agreeing to tutor me? Hyuck—you know, our class’s peer TA—said I was a hopeless cause, and I would need way more one on one lessons outside of his hours and all that if I wanted to pass. And yeah, I know I could probably bitch at him until he caves since we’re kind of friends, but he would also hold this over my head, but he said you had the highest score on last week’s practice midterm, so I thought, ‘hey, why not shoot my shot?’” He directs another smile your way, pausing for a quick breath. Your mind is racing a mile a minute, and his smile isn’t helping whatsoever as your heart decides to join in this race as well until it sinks when you finally process his words.

“Wait, Donghyuck said that about me?” you manage to get out, a little dazed, and Jaemin confirms before eagerly continuing on with his chatter, but all you can do is stupidly nod as the word “TUTOR” spins around and around in your mind in bold, italicized, underlined mocking red letters in Times New Roman font, size 12, double spaced, MLA format, the whole shebang.

Of course, he only wants a tutor. What made you think that a boy like him would look twice at a girl like you? The only other time a guy has ever expressed interest in you is to share homework answers for Calculus back in 10th grade (For the record, all of his answers were completely wrong, but Sungchan was a cute distraction. Actually, the two of you became very good friends once you very quickly got over the fact that you were firmly placed in the friendzone. He’s even dating one of your best friends now).

“Anyways, can I have your number? I can text you to match our schedules and figure out the times to meet up for the next couple of weeks before our next midterm.” You remain wide eyed, gazing at him like a deer caught in the headlights and still attempting to fully understand everything that has just happened.

Jaemin looks at you expectantly, his hand outstretched towards you with his phone tucked between his fingers. The device dangles there for an additional ten seconds that probably isn’t socially acceptable. Grab the phone, you scream at yourself silently, but your body doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. You blink slowly once. Then twice.

“Or, I can just… uh, type in your number if you tell me,” Jaemin says awkwardly, his smile wilting slightly as he shifts from one foot to the other under your unwavering gaze and slowly retracting his hand. Finally, you come to your senses as you quickly spring into action and snatch the phone from him, tapping in your digits and adding in your name and shared class before saving your contact.

“Here,” you mutter, returning his phone, and he gives you a relieved grin. You clutch onto the strap of your backpack a little tighter, cursing the way your heart skips a beat. “I should be free most weekday afternoons since I prefer to take all morning classes, but let me know when you’re free and we can work something out.”

“Awesome! Thank you so much, Y/N, you’re a life saver.” Jaemin beams at you, touching your shoulder briefly and you feel that very same place on your body erupt in flames as your face heats up in a similar manner. “I’ll text you tonight, yeah?”

You can only numbly nod, subconsciously raising your hand and waving at him, and Jaemin chuckles, flashing his pearly whites at you again, before he saunters off and blends into a group of other equally pretty and popular students, a few of whom look over at you with vague interest before turning their attention back to the boy who just joined them.

What have you gotten yourself into?

ii. you want to go for a ride?

“I’m getting sus vibes from him.”

Flicking her long dark hair over her shoulder, Lana takes a long sip of her wintermelon milk tea with honey pearls, a spitting image of that one infamous Starbucks meme of your school’s alumni, Hyungwon (His picture can still be found floating through discord chats, and you’re ninety percent sure your school used it in one of their recruitment brochures at one point). She’s sprawled out on the beanbag in the corner of your shared apartment’s living room, her HP laptop covered in sailor moon stickers balanced across her thighs (She swears HP is the best laptop brand, but you don’t trust electronics advice from anyone who can’t even use a toaster properly).

“Have you even spoken to Jaemin? How exactly are you getting sus vibes from him?” Moon jumps in, glancing over the top of her MacBook as she takes a quick break from her latest coding project regarding polynomials, matrices, and a bunch of other math terminology you rather not think about. You left all that arithmetic jargon back in high school after you got a 5 on both AP calculus exams and got to skip all required math classes for your accounting major (Sungchan wasn’t so lucky).

“He’s a fratboy finance major.” Lana rolls her eyes.

“Point taken, but weren’t you into that senior, Jaehyun? He’s one of them. You called him your soulmate,” you interject, and she splutters for a few seconds before putting her hand up in protest.

“Listen, I was going through a perpetual mental breakdown at the beginning of this semester. It doesn’t count. You try being a pharmacy major. Thank god I switched out to English. My mental state was compromised, and I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“What do you mean not thinking straight? Lana, you literally chose the straightest, most heterosexual man out there.” Moon jibes, closing her laptop now with an air of conceding defeat. You have to give her props for trying to work on some assignments, but you already knew no one was going to get any work done tonight. It’s a Thursday night anyway, which means you have until Tuesday to get all the homework assigned today done. You can always work on them on Monday night and inevitably curse yourself for not getting it done earlier when you end up pulling an all nighter and show up to your 8 a.m. international marketing tactics class with raccoon eyes.

“This is bullying, and we are on an anti-bullying campus,” Lana complains, giving the two of you the stink eye before leaning over and lightly shoving the snoozing boy sprawled across the floor next to her. “Wake up, Yang. Moon and Y/N gang up on me when you’re not awake to absorb all our gentle bullying.”

The boy in question sits upright, bleary eyes and the drying ink from his notes now decorating his cheek, a lasting reminder of the makeshift pillow for his impromptu nap. Yawning, he stretches his arms, rubbing his face and making an even bigger mess of smears. “What’d I miss?”

“We were just discussing Lana‘s tragic crush on Jaehyun last year,” you say, and she makes a strangled noise next to you. “Were you up late sewing again?”

“Yes,” Yangyang grumbles, “You would think Kaneki would be so easy to cosplay since he wears all black, but the mask is taking forever to make.”

“Can’t one of your sugar daddies buy one for you?”

“What sugar daddies? If I had one, I wouldn’t be stuck in here trying to balance equations,” he moans, crumpling up another sheet filled up with scribbles and his latest attempts at answering the second to last problem for organic chemistry.

“My bad, I thought you would have some from your cosplay account.” Moon shrugs, rummaging through her large soccer mom purse for a snack and triumphantly pulling out a box of green tea Hello Pandas. “You have like 100k followers on there.”

“My audience demographic is weebs.” Yangyang deadpans. “How many weebs do you know who are rich enough to send five thousand dollars every week to a struggling college student?”

“Wait, we’re going off topic right now. What do you know about Jaemin, Yang?” Lana cuts in, and Moon nods in agreement (You try not to look too interested, but fail miserably, no doubt).

“Jaemin Na? I’ve never talked to him personally, but there’s always stories about him and his friends. Jeno is on the baseball team and notorious for his body count. He’s the one that takes up like 30% of our university’s anonymous confessions Twitter account. This is his insta, but he’s not really active on social media.” Yangyang passes his phone around for the three of you to see Jeno’s Instagram. There’s a whopping total of fourteen posts, and every picture of him with someone of the opposite sex features a different girl. Instant red flag.

“Lia is pretty big on Tik Tok,” Yangyang continues, grabbing his phone to pull up her account to show all of you. “She’s pretty and is actually really good at singing, but she's basically trying to be the next Addison Rae. Jimin models, and she’s going by Karina nowadays. I heard she tried to trademark that name or something. She posts dancing Tik Toks. She and Yeonjun collab a lot. He walks for New York fashion week and has a Tik Tok for dancing, too. I’m like 70% sure they’re only dating to boost their views. Somi is the most popular one out of them. She’s the blonde one. She’s pretty talented and I heard she signed onto the same company as the Blackpink House. She’s even done a makeup video with Vogue recently.”

“And Jaemin has a pretty large social following. He takes decent pictures, and that’s what he insists his insta is for, but let’s be real, the majority of his followers are there for his face. You should see his TikTok. He literally just recorded himself looking at the camera and put some generic caption, and he racked up like seven hundred thousand likes,” Yangyang grumbles, pulling up his account to show you all the video in question. “Like literally, what the hell is this? I have to put in so many hours making my outfits and editing my videos and all he does is smile and paste ‘Don’t have a valentine again… hope this will change soon’ on top, and the preteens are foaming at the mouth.”

“Wow, jumpscare warning next time you show me him please.” Lana wrinkles her nose at the repeating offensive clip. Yangyang merely shoves his phone even closer to her in response, and she flips him off.

“Hey, you’re the one who asked about him. Why are you suddenly interested in him? Is this your Jaehyun 2.0 phase starting up?” Yangyang grins, and Lana flicks his forehead in retaliation.

“Shut up, when are you guys gonna let that die? Besides, it’s Y/N who’s interested, not me,” Lana retorts, and immediately, the spotlight is back on you. You cough awkwardly, feeling a bit uncomfortable with all the attention.

“Uh, he just asked if I would tutor him…”

“And you said yes?” Yangyang sounds scandalized and utterly betrayed. “Why would you willingly fraternize with the enemy like that?”

“What enemy? I didn’t even know he knew I existed until this very recent development occurred.”

“Influencers like him are instant enemies to me, and as my friend, he’s your enemy by association. I can't believe you’re helping the competition,” Yangyang sniffs.

You don’t have the guts to tell them all that the only reason you accepted his tutor proposal is because you got ahead of yourself and despite all the odds and signs, thought Jaemin was asking you out. You know your friends won’t make fun of you (too badly), but that is completely humiliating, and you will be taking that to the grave.

“It’s just tutoring, don’t be so dramatic,” you scoff, making a face at him. “He texted me yesterday, and we’re meeting up at the library later today, and I reserved a private study room for two hours.”

“Oooh, so it’s a study date?” Moon teases, and your cheeks betray you with the amount of heat now emanating off of them.

“Shut up, it’s literally just tutoring. We’re going over supply and demand curves.”

“No, back up, he texted you yesterday and you didn’t tell us about him until today?” Lana interjects, holding up her hand and putting on a faux offended expression. “What kind of friend are you? We’re supposed to tell each other every nitty gritty detail about our love lives! Like Sungchan texts Moon good morning texts at eight in the morning, and by 8:30 a.m., we’re already getting a play by play about it in the group chat!”

Moon turns pink and opens her mouth before deciding against it and quietly shuts it. Yangyang silently laughs next to Lana, his shoulders shaking (You decide that you shouldn’t tell them Jaemin actually asked you in person to tutor him three days ago or else, Lana will chew you out even more).

You protest, flailing your arms around slightly in exasperation. “There’s literally zero development in my love life! I have nothing going on in it, and I can guarantee you that he does not see me in that light whatsoever.”

“Yeah, okay, sure.” Lana looks wholly unconvinced, and your two friends look back and forth between the two of you like two kids watching their divorced parents fight. “So… Do you need help picking out an outfit for tomorrow?”

“… Yeah.”

iii. sure, ken. jump in!

“Hey, Y/N!”

Jaemin loudly whispers a little breathlessly as he drops his bag onto the table and slumps into the chair next to yours, his chest heaving slightly. Startled, you jerk up in your chair, heart skipping a beat when you realize he’s here. You were supposed to be in a private study room, but there was a group of boys already in there, and as the most non-confrontational person to walk this earth, you decided to cut your losses and take a table nearby.

“Did you wait long? I got caught up outside the library when Somi stopped me and completely forgot,” he says apologetically, pulling out his textbooks, and you shake your head, giving him a shy smile.

“No, it’s alright. I was already here anyway, and I got some extra studying done.” You gesture towards the papers and notebooks strewn across the table’s surface, covered in your notes from today’s classes. “Should we start with today’s lesson? How much did you understand in class today?”

“Maybe the first five minutes of it only.”

You pause, glancing over at him. “Professor Hwang was ten minutes late to class.”

“Exactly.” Jaemin nods, and you stifle a laugh. He grins at you. “I don’t think you realize how much of a hopeless cause I am when you agreed to tutor me.”

“We can start from the beginning then. You have four weeks until the midterm, and we can go through every lesson we’ve had so far. I’ll make up a study schedule if you give me yours. And if you continue to go to Donghyuck’s tutoring hours too, you should hopefully be able to catch up and do well on the midterm.”

Jaemin wordlessly pulls up his class schedule on his phone, and you plug them into a Google calendar that you quickly share to his email. “So, I color coded your classes in green, and my classes are in pink. Do you have any other things that we need to work around?”

He peers over at your screen, scanning the contents. “I have my weekly frat meetings on Tuesday nights and mandatory events on other nights.”

“Alright, you can put them in and we’ll figure out meeting times,” you say, pushing your laptop towards him and he starts to add in his extracurricular activities.

“Party from 8 pm to 1 am?” you read skeptically, your eyes scanning over the event he tacked in under this week’s Friday.

“Yeah, can’t miss it,” Jaemin says, typing in more events and making sure to color code them in blue. “Don’t you have things to do on Friday night too?”

“Uh, maybe grab a poke bowl from the dining hall to go and watch another Banana Fish episode,” you say awkwardly, fiddling with the small Gojo keychain you have attached to your pouch.

Jaemin stops, looking over at you. “You watch Banana Fish?”

Your cheeks grow warm. “… Yeah, why?”

His eyes light up and he asks eagerly, “Did you see the latest episode? When Golzine leaves Arthur in charge?”

The two of you continue discussing the plot as he finishes up adding in his schedule for the next four weeks, finally nudging the laptop back towards you. “Do you need to add in your stuff too?”

“Mm no, it’s fine. I already put in my classes, and I’m not in any clubs or sororities,” you answer, making sure to input Donghyuck’s tutoring hours as well before scanning over the calendar and pinpointing areas where he’s free for at least one to two hours. “Okay, should we start with meeting three times a week?”

“Huh, you memorized Hyuck’s hours?” Jaemin notes, giving you a sly smile as he moves closer to look at the schedule.

“Huh? No, don’t you always know your professors’ and TAs’ office hours?” you ask, looking up and are immediately startled after underestimating the proximity between you and the beautiful boy next to you.

“No, I’m not a nerd,” he snorts lightly, and you laugh awkwardly, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction and put a little more distance between the two of you before you go into cardiac arrest, “Right, yeah, well, anyway—”

“You were also interested when I said Hyuck mentioned you before,” Jaemin says suddenly, sitting up straight before a wide grin spreads across his face as he loudly exclaims, “You totally have a crush on him!”

“Quiet down!” You immediately shush him, the tips of your ears burning as everyone within a 40 feet radius in the library is now staring at the two of you. You’ve never received this much attention before, and you very quickly realize that you absolutely hate it. You loudly whisper-protest, stumbling over your words in a panic, “I—I don’t have a crush on him!”

“Oh, come on, your face is getting hot and you’re stuttering. You do too like him,” Jaemin laughs softly, propping his elbow onto the table and resting his chin on the palm of his hand as he gives you a once over. “I could totally make you into his type.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask hotly, cheeks burning even more when you feel his eyes graze over your figure.

“Oh, it’ll be so much fun. We can go to the mall and pick out some cute clothes for you, and then swing by the hair shop. You’re definitely using the wrong conditioner and shampoo,” Jaemin continues, eying your hair for a quick second.

“Wait, wait, we’re just here for tutoring, what are you even talking about?” You ask, bewildered before grasping a stray strand of your hair between your fingers. “And what do you mean I’m using the wrong shampoo?”

“And conditioner,” Jaemin pipes up, picking up his phone to search up some better brands he would recommend. “What have you been using? 2 in 1 Head and Shoulders?”

“No,” you huff softly, your ears growing even warmer at the accusation. “I just use whatever my mom buys in bulk at Costco.”

“Okay, well, you should use this instead,” Jaemin says, showing his phone screen to you, and your eyes widen slightly when you note the price tag.

“I cannot be forking over nearly seventy dollars on shampoo and conditioner,” you say incredulously, pushing his phone back towards him and waving your hand dismissively. “And there’s no way I’m going to spend even more money on new clothes.”

“Okay, fine, I think I have some unopened bottles from sponsored deals that I can give to you,” Jaemin sighs, opening up his text messages to find his friends’ group chat. “Or my friends would have some good ones, too. Maybe we can get you some of their free clothes from sponsorships, too.”

“You guys just get free clothes?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, glancing over at you. “On second thought, Karina and Lia aren’t the same size as you, so you won’t fit them. We can just order some basic pieces online or something for starters.”

“We—We aren’t doing this,” you loudly whisper back to him, hyper aware of the other students around you who keep glancing over at Jaemin. “Let’s just focus on making this schedule and helping you pass your midterm.”

“Oh, please, doll, it’d be fun. Just think of it as a payment for your tutoring,” Jaemin persuades you, scooting closer to you and pressing his thigh against yours lightly. Your breath hitches in your throat at the pet name and his touch. You’ve never been this close to any boy before, let alone one as attractive as Jaemin.

“You’ll look so pretty, I know the perfect outfits to make for you. And I can teach you how to get Hyuck’s attention, too,” he continues, nudging you lightly, and you’re still dazed, unable to get over the fact that he’s impossibly close to you, close enough for you to count the pretty lashes framing his even prettier eyes. You wonder what it’s like to be that beautiful, what it’s like to have people falling at your feet, what it’s like to mesmerize everyone the second you walk into a room.

Honestly, if Jaemin asked you to jump, your only response would be “how high.”

“If I agree to this, will you finally pay attention?” you sigh, and Jaemin instantly brightens up, nodding and giving you another one of those smiles that makes your stomach flip flop. Your Achilles’ heel is one very persistent boy who goes by the name of Na Jaemin, and he has hit you with a direct bullseye.

“Yes, I’ll be a model student, doll.”

You hesitate for a split second before relenting. “Okay, fine, deal.”

iv. i’m a barbie girl in the barbie world.

Jaemin is easy on the eyes, but currently proving to be very difficult for your nerves during your fourth tutoring session. Your wardrobe has increased in style and size by now, and you’re dressed in a pretty lilac top that wraps around you and accentuates your curves and hides what needs to be hidden perfectly. Your jeans may dig a little more than you’d like into your stomach, but it’s your fault that you chose to wear your photo jeans instead of your sitting jeans. Also, your hair has never looked better, all thanks to the boy seated next to you.

“No, when there is a low supply, there’s a high demand. They directly affect each other,” you try to re-explain to the boy next to you, drawing out the line graph once again. He stares down at the familiar graph before looking at the written practice problem in front of him. Professors must have an insane amount of patience, you silently think to yourself.

You sigh. “Let’s put it this way. You and Jeno want to buy the same shirt, but there’s only one left in the right size. So that’s two people who are demanding the one shirt. And the store only has one shirt in its supply. So how would you describe this situation?”

“Oh.” The look of realization flashes across Jaemin’s face as your example easily snaps the puzzle pieces into place for him. “There’s a high demand and low supply. Too many people want the shirt, but there’s not enough shirts.”

“Yes, you got it!” You cheer quietly, mindful of your location at one of the library’s tables. “Now try reading through the practice problems and draw the appropriate supply and demand graphs for each one.”

“And when I’m done with this, we can take a break, and I’ll teach you how to do makeup. My friends will help,” Jaemin says idly as he reads through the first problem again.

Your stomach lurches slightly at that, and you hesitate. “Your friends?”

“Yeah, you know, Jeno, Karina, Lia, and Yeonjun. Somi, too, but she’s been busy. I can teach you basic skincare and makeup, but the girls will have to help you with the rest,�� he says casually, scrawling down his first answer and the corresponding graph.

You swallow hard, your voice croaking slightly before you hastily clear it. “Are you sure? Do you think they’ll like me?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it, doll. You’re like a puppy, and everyone likes those,” Jaemin mumbles idly, eyebrows furrowing as he rereads the second problem.

“A puppy?” You don’t know whether to be offended or not yet.

Oh, you know, just that you’re cute and all,” Jaemin laughs lightly, starting to write down his next answer, and your heart nearly stops in your chest. You force yourself to breathe regularly again.

“Oh, I see,” you start to answer coolly, but stuttering on the last word, internally cursing your tongue at the last stumble. You try to sit calmly and relax for the rest of the tutoring session as Jaemin slowly makes his way through the practice packet, but the knot in your stomach continues to tangle even more, growing ever bigger. Maybe you should just tell Jaemin that lunch didn’t agree with you and cut this meetup short.

But that means less time spent with Jaemin. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Jaemin is nice, so his friends should be as well, you reason with yourself. There’s no need to be nervous. Even if they’re all incredibly beautiful, hot people with the most unapproachable aura you have ever encountered.

Like honestly, how is someone like Karina even real? Her face could start a modern day equivalent of the Trojan War. She is literally the face blueprint for every main female character you play in your otome games.

Turns out, Karina is even more gorgeous up close. Ridiculously close with the way she’s inches from your face as she swipes on some blush on the apples of your cheeks. You never thought you’d see the resident it girl here for you, standing in the middle of your dorm room, let alone have an actual conversation with her that extended beyond a polite hello when she stops by for Giselle. It’s already been 45 minutes, and your nerves still haven’t calmed down.

“You just need to apply a little bit here and here on both your cheeks,” she instructs you, pointing towards your cheekbones and carefully applying the rosy powder to the same areas. She pauses in the application momentarily so that you can type out a few notes into your phone covering her directions. “You can go heavier if you want the cute sunburn, Sabrina Carpenter look, but if you do too much, you’ll end up looking like my ex.”

“What?” You’re startled, glancing over at her and nearly getting blinded once again by her lethal face card. She laughs lightly, giving you a slight smile. “A clown.”

“Oh, got it,” you chuckle, albeit nervously, shooting her a quick smile. “I’ll make sure to not do that.”

“Relax, it’s easy. Just a bit of makeup here and there, and you’ll be fine. All I do is some mascara, falsies, and a good lippie when I’m lazy, and I’m out the door in ten minutes,” Lia jumps in, holding several different tubes of lip tints.

“Are you sure? That’s really it?” You ask hesitantly, glancing over the various makeup products strewn over your desk. It looks a lot more complicated than what she had just described.

“Well, maybe you might need a bit more, like concealer and foundation. And some bronzer and heavy contouring. But just stick to the skincare routine and it’ll help lessen it,” Karina sighs, dabbing some highlighter to the tip of your nose before seeing the uncertain look in your eyes, adding hastily, “But it’s so worth it, trust. You’ll look so pretty, and it comes with so many perks. Girl math is knowing you can go out with no money and just your face card.”

“Hey, you’re friends with Yangyang?” Lia pipes up, noticing the photo strip you have pinned on your corkboard, nestled between the various Mystic Messenger Seven fanart and Zorro art prints.

“Huh? Oh yeah, I am. You know him?” You answer, and she nods before leaning in and evenly applying a thin layer of periwinkle tint on your lips. “Yeah, we’re in the same German class. Do you know if he’s seeing anyone?”

Well, you definitely can’t tell her about the raging heart on he has for his best friend, but it’s not like he really is seeing anyone either. You do vaguely remember Yangyang saying Lia was pretty and talented during his quick 5 minute minute class to Jaemin and his friends, so it’s not like he hates her either.

“No, he’s not,” you answer, hoping you made the right choice, and Lia’s face visibly brightens. “Oh, really? That’s great.”

“Okay, we’re done.” Karina announces, stepping back and holding up a mirror for you. “Not bad, right?”

“Oh, wow,” you suck in a breath, nearly gasping in surprise as you peer at the glass. You almost don’t recognize yourself. The contouring lifts up your face, slimming it down, and the blush gives you a pretty pink hue that makes you look sun kissed. Your lower lashes have nearly doubled in length with the mascara, giving you a pretty babydoll look. Karina had perfectly applied a set of falsies for you, framing your eyes delicately, and the shimmery eyeshadow and soft winged eyeliner accentuates your eyes even more. Your lips are the prettiest shade of pink, tinted and glossy.

You can’t believe it is your own reflection staring back at you.

“Now put this outfit on,” Lia says with a knowing smile, placing a shopping bag in your lap. “Jaemin picked it out.”

“Oh, really? Alright,” you manage to mumble out, dazed and still admiring yourself in the hand mirror. Karina laughs softly, nudging Lia before moving towards your door. “We have to get to a sorority meeting now, but I hope you like it, doll. And make sure to practice.”

“I love it,” you say breathlessly, grazing your fingertips against the cool glass, still in disbelief. “And I definitely will practice.”

“Mm, good, text us if you need any help! And send progress pics! We want to see how it’s going,” Lia answers, waving over her shoulder before the two of them exit your dorm. Sitting there alone, you stare at your reflection for a little longer, admiring yourself. You feel so pretty.

You finally remember the paper bag on your lap, and you immediately dig into it, pulling out a flowy floral sundress. It’s beautiful, and you quickly tug off your jeans and tshirt before going to your drawers to dig around for the appropriate bra for the dress. You manage to find it, snapping on the bra around yourself from the front before twisting it until the clasp is against your back. You hastily push your arms through the straps, tugging on either side until it’s on perfectly. You suck in a quick breath, internally preparing yourself for the battle with the next piece of clothing, a.k.a. your worst enemy: spandex. You’ve familiarized yourself with the awkward jig you have to do around your dorm until you’ve wriggled into the tight elastic enough so that it sits in the correct spot and sucks in all the right places.

At last, you won the war, but you feel sweaty now, flopping back onto your bed for a quick break. You flap your hands in front of your face, thanking whoever decided to invent setting spray. You grab your deodorant spray and douse yourself in a heavy dose of it before picking up the sundress and slipping it over your head. To your great relief, it slides on perfectly, and you quickly shuffle over to the full length mirror hanging on the back of your door. You straighten out the dress and quickly pat down any strand of hair knocked askew from your latest struggles before giving a smile to the mirror.

Dare you say it? You look pretty.

You’ve never looked this pretty before.

You happily take out the dainty gold heart necklace you had carefully tucked into your top desk drawer, struggling for a few seconds before you manage to clasp it around your neck. You quickly pull the pendant towards the front before slipping on the strappy sandals you left next to your desk. You grab the cute purse you bought last week, now packed with the perfect essentials, and give yourself one last once over.

You have nowhere to go, but you decide to take a walk to the dining hall. After all, you’re dressed up so nicely, makeup done so perfectly, you can’t waste it on another night stuffing your face with hot Cheetos and rewatching the first season of Haikyuu!!. Opening your door, you step out and nearly run into someone.

“Oh, finally, you’re done, doll. I thought you died in there or some…”

His eyes widening in utter shock, his next word dies on the tip of his tongue when Jaemin sees you standing in front of him. His mouth falls open slightly before he quickly closes it to swallow harshly, his throat running dry. He’s never seen you like this before, never imagined that you’d be this pretty. He inhales sharply, stiffening slightly as his eyes rake over your figure, seeing how the dress perfectly accentuates your figure, and settles on your face.

“Jaemin? What are you doing here?” Your eyes widen slightly before your cheeks grow warm when you notice his stunned reaction.

“Um,” he croaks out, voice cracking before he quickly swallows again, silently cursing when puberty decides to make a belated appearance. “Lia texted me that you were done, so I wanted to see how it went. You look… wow.”

Your cheeks heat up even further, and you laugh a little nervously, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “R-really? It’s not too much?”

“No!” He immediately blurts out before his cheeks flush carmine. “I—I mean, you look really good. You should dress like this more often.”

You can’t stop the smile spreading across your face, and Jaemin’s heart flip flops in his chest. “Really? Thank you, I will then.”

“Of course, really. I picked the dress myself after all,” He tries to joke before hastily clearing his throat. “Do you have somewhere to be?”

“Oh, no, I don’t. I was just going to go to the dining hall and grab some food,” you answer awkwardly, shifting your purse over your shoulder slightly and tightening your fingers around its strap.

“Let me take you out for dinner.” Jaemin blurts out, a little high pitched, mentally facepalming at how he sounds. “I mean, we can go over some of the harder problems in that packet since I probably need more studying anyway, and I’ll teach you a couple more dating tricks.”

“Sure, okay, that sounds good.” You give him a wider beam, and Jaemin feels his heart beat a little faster. Maybe you don’t need that much teaching from him after all. Seems like you’re a quick learner.

v. life is plastic, it’s fantastic!

“The only thing you’re fucking is stupid.”

“Shut the hell up, Yeonjun. At least I’m not sticking my dick in crazy.”

You watch the light argument going on between Jeno and Yeonjun in amusement. You and Jaemin had just finished your ninth tutoring session two hours ago, and you think he’s getting on track to actually scoring a decent grade for the next midterm. You were initially going to head towards Lana and Moon’s dorm for your weekly anime show marathon, but Jaemin insisted that you stop by the Alpha Sigma Psi house for a small party. Giselle and Karina are both part of that house, so you figured it couldn’t hurt to make a quick appearance. Good thing you spent some time touching up your makeup before today’s tutoring session.

“Hey, doll! Join the photo,” Jaemin calls out to you, gesturing you towards the area he and the rest of his friends are standing. You see another really pretty girl—Minjeong, was it?—standing on the side, holding up a phone and preparing to take the picture.

“Oh, no, it’s okay, I can just take the photo instead,” you laugh awkwardly, extending your hand out towards Minjeong, but Jeno gently nudges you forward, “No way, you never take pics with us. Just one, come on, Y/N.”

“Yeah, join us!” Jaemin says brightly, tugging you towards him and you stumble slightly, falling forward into his chest. You quickly catch yourself, hands suddenly pressed against his chest, and the blood rushes to your face.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you start to babble, trying to push yourself away before Jaemin quickly wraps his arm around your waist. “Nope, you’re staying here, it’s just a few pics, please, doll?”

“I—I mean, I don’t really—”

You start to say before Minjeong’s voice cuts through the air. “Okay, I’m taking it in five seconds now. So get ready and pose or be ready to live with the consequences on Insta forever.”

Everyone immediately shuffles around, and you’re squeezed even tighter against Jaemin, and you just know that he can feel your heart pounding rapidly against his chest.

“Smile, doll,” Jaemin laughs gently, squeezing your hip lightly and you inhale sharply at that, your heart rate spiking and increasing exponentially. You muster up a few shaky smiles as the flash starts to go off.

After a few more pictures, you manage to untangle yourself from the group and hurriedly go towards Minjeong. “I can take the pictures, you should join in.”

She immediately brightens up at that, giving you a kilowatt smile as she hands you the phone and slips into your original position in between Jaemin and Karina. “Oh, thanks, Y/N.”

You wait a few moments for everyone to get readjusted before you begin to snap some photos, having already mastered this from the previous hang outs you’ve joined and knowing how to take the best angles for everyone, including all the 0.5 zoom out ones. After taking some additional group and solo photos for the girls, you’re finally free of your duties. Your eyes widen when you check the time on your phone, and you hurriedly make your way over to Jaemin.

“Hey, I need to get going now. I have to get to Lana and Moon’s dorm, so I’ll see you later,” you say quickly, already beginning to brush past him as the realization sets in that it’s been over an hour when you told your friends that you would only be fifteen minutes late.

“Wait, what? Hey, hold on, doll.” Jaemin reaches out to you, but you slip past him, calling over your shoulder. “Sorry, I’m late!”

He strides over, soon matching your pace as you speed walk back to the freshman dormitories. “Can’t you slow down a little bit? It’s not like you all haven’t seen these episodes before, plus we watched a few of them together after our last tutoring session.”

“Yeah, but I’m over an hour late,” you stress, slightly frazzled now as you hurriedly type out an apology to send to the group chat.

“Just breathe, okay? You’ll be fine. They’re your friends. They should understand,” Jaemin reassures you, grabbing your hand and you freeze slightly. He notices your stop and teases lightly, “I said slow down, not stop. What’s wrong?”

“N-Nothing,” you stammer out a little too quickly, your heart thumping wildly in your chest. He’s holding your hand. Na Jaemin is hand in hand with you, fingers intertwined. You almost want to pinch yourself to see if you’re dreaming.

“Well, alright then, come on, let me walk you back,” Jaemin laughs before tugging you along. “You can help me pick out which pictures to post on Insta along the way, too, yeah?”

“Oh, sure,” you say breathlessly, your heart rate quickening to an embarrassing speed when he squeezes your hand gently, and you nesrly trip over your own feet.

“Perfect, so what about this one?” He holds up his phone to show you the picture you had taken for the group earlier, and you falter slightly. Why are you feeling a little disappointed with his choice?

Jaemin notices your hesitation and says a little softly, “I know you’re a private person. So I thought you’d prefer if I posted the group photo you took. You always take the best pictures for me, too. You know my good side the best. And it’d be weird if Hyuck saw, too, right? But did you want the other photo? I mean, if you really want it, I can..?”

“No!” You hurriedly say to reassure him, squeezing his hand lightly. “No, you’re right. I don’t want my picture out there. And um, yeah, that definitely wouldn’t be good if Hyuck saw.”

Jaemin gives you a relieved smile. “Yeah, exactly. You’re not upset, right, doll? We still have that fun pic of us and our homemade pizzas from earlier that I posted on my finsta. I didn’t know making pizzas would be that easy.”

“Of course not, don’t worry about it,” you laugh softly, continuing to walk back to the freshman dormitories, and Jaemin swings your joined hands between the two of you freely.

“Mm, I’m getting free cooking and tutoring lessons in exchange for dating tips. Two for the price of one is quite the good deal for me, right?” Jaemin teases lightly, and you let out another laugh.

“You’re right, it is. You better step up your game then.”

“Oh, just you wait, you’ll get dating tips and a boyfriend, so we’ll be even,” Jaemin chuckles softly, squeezing your hand, and the butterflies erupt in your stomach once again, and you muster up the courage to say something a little more teasing.

“Is that a guarantee?”

“Well, you have a demand, and I must supply, right?”

“…I don’t think that’s how it quite goes, Jaemin. Maybe you need a few more tutoring sessions.”

“All I hear is that you want to spend more time with me,” Jaemin laughs, giving you the prettiest smile, and your cheeks warm up even more, heart stuttering in your chest. Speechless, you let him continue on, his chattering filling the air as you listen with quiet content, your hand securely tucked in his for the remainder of the walk back.

vi. you can brush my hair.

Jaemin sits on the edge of his chair across from you at the table in the dorm common area, anxiously tapping his fingers against the flat surface. You are down to the last page of the mock exam packet, carefully going over his work with a red pen. You made minimal marks on the papers, a stark contrast to the very first practice exam he had worked on near the start of your tutoring. At that point in time, he didn’t even get to the end of the exam.

“Amazing.”

You say in awe, scanning through the last problem Jaemin had completed before tallying up his final score and calculating his results. “I can’t believe it. You got an 87.”

“No fucking way,” Jaemin is wide eyed, staring at you in disbelief, and you give him a wide smile, sliding the packet over to him, so that he can look over the exam and notes you’ve written for the problems he missed.

“Yes fucking way.”

“Holy shit, this is insane,” Jaemin breathes out, carefully reading through each page, and to his utter amazement, he understands every note and explanation you had added next to each incorrect question. He looks up at you, beaming, “I really got a B+?”

“You did,” you confirm, smiling back at him. “And who knows? It might become an A if the exam gets curved.”

“Oh my god, I owe you my life,” Jaemin chuckles, staring down at the graded exam in front of him, still in disbelief. “Seriously, doll, thank you so much.”

“Oh, of course, anytime,” you laugh sheepishly, twisting the rings adorning your fingers around nervously before averting your attention elsewhere, standing up to go towards the adjacent communal kitchen and carrying your filled tote bag with you. “A—Anyway, I brought some things to celebrate a job well done so far.”

“And how did you know I would’ve done well? What if I completely bombed that exam?” Jaemin teases you, standing up and following after you.

“I don’t know, I guess I just believed in you,” you stutter out, cheeks warming up as you set down your tote bag on the counter, unable to look him in the eyes, and he freezes, mulling over your words silently.

You believe in him? Someone who’s a hopeless cause? He honestly didn’t even believe in himself, he thinks to himself, his chest constricting uncomfortably, a foreign feeling making its entrance known to him, constricting around his heart. He inhales sharply, shoving it away with an easy going smile. “Is that so? Well, thanks, Y/N. And what are we doing now?”

“Making pancakes,” you answer, busying yourself with pulling out the ingredients from your tote bag. “You need to be well fed before the midterm. Your brain needs food. And the class is at 8 am, and neither of us are not morning people, so this is as good as it’s gonna get.”

“Pancakes?” Jaemin echoes after you, glancing at the various items strewn across the counter’s surface. “Does it really take this many ingredients? Isn’t it just the box mix and water?”

“That’s the short cut way. We’re making pancakes from scratch,” you laugh softly, taking out a mixing bowl and whisk along with the measuring cups and spoons.

“But why? It’s so much easier the other way.” Jaemin whines softly, and you chuckle lightly. “Trust me, it’s worth the effort.”

You hand the one cup measuring utensil and bowl to Jaemin and nudge him towards the flour. “Help me measure out two cups of flour.”

“Alright,” he sighs, opening the bag of flour and carefully scooping out the first cup, scraping off any excess before dumping it into the bowl before repeating the process. “What next?”

“Four tablespoons of sugar,” you answer, handing him the sugar and appropriate measuring utensil before working on measuring four teaspoons of baking powder and a quarter of a teaspoon of baking soda. You pour those to the mixing bowl as Jaemin quietly measures the sugar and adds it in as well before waiting for your next instructions. You quickly drop in half of a teaspoon of salt before pushing the bowl towards him. “Now whisk this together gently, please.”

Jaemin busies himself with combining the dry ingredients as you take out half a stick of butter from the fridge (The one labeled with your name, of course. You’re no food thief, unlike someone who’s been stealing other people’s leftover takeout). You microwave it to get four tablespoons of melted butter before making your way to Jaemin’s side.

“Okay, now make a well in the center of it,” you say, and Jaemin clumsily makes an indent in the dry mixture before looking towards you for approval.

“Perfect, now add in two teaspoons of vanilla extract and crack the egg into it there,” you instruct him, and he obediently follows your directions. You measure out one and three quarters cups of milk and add it to the well before also pouring in the melted butter.

“Do I just whisk it together now?” Jaemin asks, picking up the whisk again, and you nod.

“Yes, mix it all together. It’s fine if there’s a few lumps, but it should be smooth overall.” Your eyes trail over his face, and you stifle a small laugh. “You got a little something on your cheek.”

“What?” Jaemin looks up, pausing in his whisking and you can’t help but giggle, staring at the flour dusting his cheek. “There’s flour on your face.”

“Oh, really? Can you wipe it off for me?” Jaemin laughs softly, attempting to brush at it with his shoulder but failing to reach that high.

“Oh, s-sure,” you stammer slightly, your hand quivering slightly as you outstretch your fingers and gingerly brush your fingertips against the apple of his cheek. His sun kissed skin is warm beneath your fingertips, and your breath hitches in your throat before you gently wipe away the remaining residue. You can feel his gaze searing into your face, but you refuse to look him directly in the eyes.

“There, all done,” you murmur, hastily pulling away and taking a step back. Jaemin lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding in. He clears his throat, setting down the bowl. “I think this is all done, too.”

“Oh, great, that’s great,” you say, immediately focusing on the bowl before carrying it with you towards the stove, turning it on. “Let’s set this to medium-low heat. And I’ll add some butter to the pan, so the pancake won’t stick.”

Jaemin hands you the leftover butter and pan for you to set onto the stove. You use the spatula to move around a pat of butter, coating the pan nicely. Once the stove is ready and the butter starts to sizzle slightly, you pour a quarter cup of the batter onto the pan, expertly flicking your wrist to rotate the pan and cause the batter to form a perfect circle. You pull out a small container of blueberries, sprinkling some of them on top.

“Woah.” Jaemin watches you, impressed. “Teach me how to do that.”

“This? It’s easy,” you laugh softly, checking on the pancake until its underside is golden and small bubbles start to form on the top. You quickly move the pan, flipping the pancake onto its other side. “You can try making the next one.”

“Yeah? Will you wrap your arms around me and give me the one on one experience?” Jaemin jokes lightheartedly, and you nearly choke. “I mean—I don’t think that's completely necessary.”

“Relax, doll, I’m just kidding,” he laughs softly, nudging you gently, and you let out an awkward laugh. “Oh, totally. Just a joke.”

Once the pancake is golden on both sides, you carefully slide it onto a plate Jaemin pulled out from one of the cabinets. Your heart rate finally returns to its normal state, and you manage to say calmly, “Maple syrup and whipped cream are in the fridge.”

Jaemin takes out the aforementioned toppings, generously slathering on some butter before pouring the syrup and spraying whipped cream onto the pancake. He cuts out a small piece and quickly spears it onto his fork before taking the bite, nearly moaning in delight at the first taste.

“Holy crap, this is so fucking good.”

“My secret recipe,” you say proudly as you start to pour the batter for a second pancake, evenly spreading it on the pan. “Was it worth the effort?”

“Yes.” Jaemin swallows, almost immediately going for another bite before he gazes at you, giving you a genuine smile, and your heart rate again increases to an alarming speed.

“Definitely worth it.”

vii. undress me everywhere.

You finish the midterm in forty five minutes, being the first one to turn in your completed exam. This means you finished twenty minutes before the class ends and consequently, either failed it spectucularly or knocked it out of the park. You really hope it’s the latter.

Despite being rather preoccupied with other matters a.k.a. your suddenly thriving social life, you managed to cram in some studying here and there because your mother would absolutely kill you if you lost your provost scholarship. Gifted kid burnout? Who’s that? You never heard of her before (Just kidding, you’ve had plenty of breakdowns and cry fests over calculating bond values and stock prices).

Now outside of the classroom in one of the open study alcoves, you drop your Longchamp bag on the empty chair next to you before tugging at the back of your jean skirt before carefully sitting down. You make sure to readjust your bra straps, tucking them under the ruched fabric of your white shirt. Tapping your fingers against the scratched surface of the table, you briefly admire the shimmery gold ombré manicure adorning your nails that Jaemin had chosen last week. You pull out a compact from the inner side pocket of your purse, carefully checking your makeup to ensure it is still in pristine condition before quickly swiping in another layer of your Buxom plumping lip gloss in the best shade: fir royale.

The flurry of text messages pinging across your screen quickly catches your attention, and you tuck your mirror and tube of lip gloss away before scrolling through them, letting out a quiet scoff at Karina’s latest melodramatic outburst in the clout chasers group chat:

[ 11:46 a.m. ] karebear ✨: guys, gals, and yuckjun

[ 11:46 a.m. ] choi YJ 🦊: what tf ??? why are you calling me out

[ 11:46 a.m. ] karebear ✨: shut up or else I won’t make out with you anymore

[ 11:46 a.m. ] choi YJ 🦊: 🤐

[ 11:46 a.m. ] jenaur 🤺: are you that touch starved bro

[ 11:47 a.m. ] karebear ✨: anyway as i was saying

[ 11:47 a.m. ] karebear ✨: this skank in my marketing class has been copying my outfits and posting them on her insta and she has like 10k followers now

[ 11:47 a.m. ] princess lia 👑: time to tear a bitch apart

[ 11:47 a.m. ] karebear ✨: like look at this shit

[ 11:47 a.m. ] karebear ✨: sent {10 images.jpeg}

[ 11:47 a.m. ] karebear ✨: my followers are gonna rip her apart

[ 11:47 a.m. ] karebear ✨: she’s downgrading my brand

[ 11:47 a.m. ] princess lia 👑: dw girl i’ll do a response video so my followers will see too

[ 11:48 a.m. ] princess lia 👑: she can’t get away with this

[ 11:48 a.m. ] karebear ✨: loved a message

[ 11:48 a.m. ] somi amor 💋: idk… they’re similar styles but that’s what popular rn

[ 11:48 a.m. ] karebear ✨: it’s gonna be song jia 2.0 watergate

[ 11:49 a.m. ] karebear ✨: just say you’re broke and go

[ 11:49 a.m. ] karebear ✨: if she’s gonna plagiarize me, she better do it right like bffr walmart version

[ 11:49 a.m. ] somi amor 💋: you have proof they’re fake?

[ 11:49 a.m. ] karebear ✨: i mean fake bitch fake bags right

[ 11:49 a.m. ] jenaur 🤺: idk she’s kinda hot

[ 11:49 a.m. ] karebear ✨: shut up jen be like your hairline and fall back

[ 11:49 a.m. ] jenaur 🤺: HELLO ?! back me up yeonjun

[ 11:50 a.m. ] choi YJ 🦊: um

[ 11:50 a.m. ] choi YJ 🦊: 🤐

[ 11:51 a.m. ] choi YJ 🦊: if you wanna be fucking stupid then knock yourself out

[ 11:51 a.m. ] karebear ✨: loved a message

[ 11:51 a.m. ] karebear ✨: hey my place tonight jun 🥰

[ 11:51 a.m. ] jenaur 🤺: are you gonna listen to your own advice yj

[ 11:51 a.m. ] karebear ✨: excuse me ????

[ 11:51 a.m. ] jenaur 🤺: 🤐🤐🤐

[ 11:51 a.m. ] jenaur 🤺: proverbs 26:11

“Hey, doll, what’s so funny?”

Jaemin appears next to you, and you let out a startled squeak, jumping in your seat, and he laughs, quickly placing his hands on your shoulders to steady you. You look at him wide eyed for a few seconds, his question not yet registering in your mind, and he waits patiently for your answer.

“Oh!” Your eyes light up, and he smiles at the endearing sight. “Just Karina ranting about something and Yeonjun being whipped.”

“Ah, so the usual?” He reaches for your bag, slinging it over his shoulder, and you stand up, pulling your skirt down once more to ensure you’re covered. The two of you start to make your way out of the Langley Hall.

“Yep. How was the midterm for you?”

He brightens up, opening the door for you and you thank him. “It wasn’t too bad at all! I actually understood like 90% of the questions and for the others, I was able to narrow down the answers between two choices, so 50/50 chance, fingers crossed I picked the right one.”

You beam when you hear that, and he returns the smile, eyes crinkling in the corners, and you pretend to wipe away faux tears. “I feel like a proud mom.”

“I think my mom actually will be proud,” he says, eyes scanning the cars parked on the nearby street before finding his. He grabs your hand, tugging you along. “C’mon, we gotta go celebrate that our misery is over until finals week. Plus, we gotta prep you when you talk to Hyuck.”

“Wait, what?” You abruptly stop short, and he nearly loses his grip on your hand. “When am I talking to him?”

“This Saturday. You’re coming with me to the Nu Chi party, right?”

“Since when? I don’t go to parties,” you protest, “They’re too loud and noisy, and beer is gross and—”

“You went to the Alpha Sigma one a few weeks ago though?” Jaemin interrupts, and you shake your head. “That was a small party though. This one is the party of the semester. What if I embarrassed myself in front of the entire school?”

“Parties are the prime time for meeting people and getting to know them because alcohol makes everyone friendlier and people don’t stay within their friend groups,” Jaemin interrupts. “Do you really believe that you’ll get him to like you by, I don’t know, one day, your eyes will meet across the classroom, and he’ll fall madly in love with you? This isn’t one of your fanfics, Y/N.”

“Shut up,” you grumble, letting go of his hand on purpose, and he frowns, bottom lip jutting out in a pout before reaching out for your hand again. You swiftly dodge him, and he whines, quickly snatching your hand up and lacing your and his fingers together.

“I hope this isn’t how you’ll treat him on your date. Thank god we’re doing a trial run right now.”

“A trial run?” you echo him, and he nods, flashing you that favorite smile of his that never fails to make you weak in the knees.

“Well, we have to make sure your first date goes perfectly so there will be a second, right? Practice makes perfect,” he says matter-of-factly, and you nod slowly in agreement. The logic makes sense somehow.

“Okay, so where would you pick for a first date?”

“Maybe a cute cafe? Oh, there’s that one place: Cloudy with a Chance of Boba!” You brighten up, thinking about that boba shop’s menu you spent a good half hour scrolling through on Yelp last night.

“Mm, the most popular place right now is that ramen place on the end of Maisie Street. It’d probably be best to go there,” he muses, tugging you along via your intertwined hands. You nearly stumble in your heeled sandals but swiftly catch yourself.

“O-oh, okay, so are we going there now?”

“Nah, let’s do the ice cream place next door to it. Not really feeling noodles at the moment.” He stops to look over his shoulder at you, and you run into his back, causing him to let go before quickly reaching out and grabbing your arms to steady you. “Woah, be careful.”

“Sorry.” You’re flustered, your cheeks now growing hotter than a furnace. Jaemin reaches forward, his finger carefully swiping at the smudged lip gloss on the corner of your lip. “Where’s your lip gloss? You should reapply this.”

Eyes widening, he then shifts and peers behind him, craning his neck to the side in all attempts to look at the back of his shirt. “There’s not a mark on my shirt, right?”

You quickly rub off any shimmery residue. “It’s fine, your shirt is dark blue, so you can’t see it anymore.”

“Oh, good. Wait, where’s your lip gloss?” You fish through your bag, pulling out the tube and handing it to Jaemin. He uncaps it, giving you the lower half of the gloss before gently grasping your chin with one hand. He leans forward and tilts your head towards him, his eyes focused on your lips. The butterflies in your stomach erupt in an instant. You try so hard to stand still, fidgeting with one of the rings on your finger behind your back.

Jaemin’s face is so close to yours that you can count every single long dark eyelash that frames his pretty eyes. His lips are the prettiest shade of carmine, and you wonder what it’s like to be Aphrodite’s favorite child. How lucky you are to already be basking in the attention of her favorite; imagine how much luckier he is to be her favorite.

The beautiful boy in front of you carefully applies the gloss for you, fully concentrating on coating your lips with a pretty sheen once again. When he glances up, he’s almost blown away by the way you’re looking at him.

You look stunning, pretty as a picture in VOGUE magazine. Not quite the cover page, but you’re nearly there. A swell of pride runs through his veins, like an artist admiring his latest masterpiece on show in MOMA.

“Anyway,” he clears his throat, handing back to you the lip gloss. “Let’s go. We’re almost there.”

“Alright.” You follow behind him like a lost puppy, and he reaches back to grab your hand and interlace your fingers. Your heart nearly skips a beat as your cheeks grow warmer once again, and for a split second, you wonder if he feels the same way.

“We’re here,” Jaemin announces, letting go of your hand to open the shop’s door, the bell above it jingling faintly as he gestures for you to go inside.

You enter the pretty shop, marveling the clean and simple interior with circular white tables and matching garden iron chairs surrounding each one. There’s bright greenery and plants decorating the edges of the shop, and the wall is covered in mismatched frames of paintings and pictures in various sizes and colors. The cheeky neon sign displayed near the front read, “It’s not gonna lick itself!”, and you laugh softly when you see it. The display of different colorful ice creams at the front are absolutely enticing, and you’re already struggling to decide which two flavors to pick.

You finally decide on a Vietnamese coffee and honeycomb swirl, accepting it from the cashier before you start to pull out your wallet. Before you can even pull out your card, Jaemin taps his phone against the screen, paying for both yours and his.

“Never pay on the first date,” he chides you lightly, picking up his ice cream. “Always let the guy pay for the first date.”

“Oh, but shouldn’t we at least split it?” You ask sheepishly, walking towards a table near the back that he gestures towards. He follows behind you, picking up some spoons and napkins.

“If the guy is so broke that he can’t pay $7 for your ice cream, then he shouldn’t be out dating anyway. He should be getting a job,” Jaemin retorts, tugging your chair out for you before sitting across from you and handing you a spoon and napkin. “Don’t you watch that Shera lady? Sprinkle, sprinkle and all that jazz. Maybe you can split for the future dates, but if the guy has any basic decency, he would pay for the first one.”

“Alright, I’ll keep that in mind,” you sigh, taking a hefty scoop of your ice cream and having the first bite. It’s delicious, and you make a mental note to buy a pint and bring back to your dorm to share with Giselle later.

The two of you continue to discuss various appropriate topics to broach on a first date (“Hey Jaemin, you like cheese? My favorite’s Gouda.” “… Please do not ask that.”). You quickly jot down bullet points in your Notes app, your fingers flying over the screen as Jaemin instructs you on good conversational starters and body language.

“So you just need to touch him on his upper forearm and then pull away. Stroke his ego and say he’s funny or some shit like that. At least you don’t have to force yourself to laugh with him though because Hyuck is naturally funny anyway. And he’s good at keeping up the conversation and a people person, so it won’t be awkward even for your first date,” Jaemin continues as you nod, rapidly typing what he says.

“And at the end of the date, touch his shoulder again, glance down at his lips for a brief second before making eye contact. If he’s bold enough, he’ll go for the first kiss. But then just immediately smile and say you had a great time before he can lean in. After that, he won’t stop thinking about that moment, and it’ll drive him crazy, and he’ll be texting you for a second date within the next day.”

“Mm, okay, I think I got it,” you mumble absentmindedly, engrossed in writing down the last few bullet points and Jaemin leans over to take a closer look at your phone, his eyes flitting over the screen.

“So for the last point, do I have to deny the first kiss then? Smile and walk away before he leans in and…”

You start to ask until you look up, and your breath hitches in your throat at the close proximity, your and his noses almost brushing. Jaemin is so pretty, even prettier when you can count the few freckles dotting his face, can clearly see the mesmerizing golden flecks dotting his irises, can admire the way his lips look so soft and curve into the picture perfect smile. Your heart thumps wildly, nearly falling onto the floor along with your jaw when you glance up from staring at his lips and see that he’s already looking back at you with the softest expression on his face.

“You don’t have to,” Jaemin murmurs, and your heart stutters in your chest as he moves in closer, his lashes brushing against your cheek, and suddenly, his lips are pressed against yours. They’re pink and soft and slot perfectly against yours in a way that has your heart skipping beats and stomach doing cartwheels.

Eyes widening, you freeze up, letting out a quiet squeak of surprise, before he pulls away, giving you an amused smile. The lingering warmth on your lips makes your cheeks heat up, and you have to break eye contact, stammering over your words as you gently graze your fingers over your lips in wonderment.

Jaemin laughs softly as he leans back in his chair. “We’ll have to work on this too then. You’re kissing like it’s a Park Shinhye kdrama.”

You’re still dazed, cheeks growing even warmer as you avoid his gaze, fiddling with the loose thread on the hem of your skirt. “That was my first kiss.”

Jaemin pauses at the realization, his cheeks flushing slightly before he clears his throat, giving you a half smile and a light chuckle, “Oh, really? That’s cute, doll. Well, I’ll teach you some tips, so you’ll be better at it by the time you ask Hyuck out. At least you got a decent first kiss, right? No big deal.”

“Yeah, no big deal,” you echo softly, your heart still racing at breakneck speed. You pretend to focus on the remnants of your ice cream in the bottom of your paper cup, fingers gripping around the container tightly.

Jaemin was right.

You don’t think you’ll be able to stop thinking about this moment anytime soon.

viii. come on, barbie, let’s go party!

“Are you sure you wanna do this?”

Moon asks worriedly, helping you with your makeup as you sit, perched on the edge of your bed. She uncaps your eyeliner as Lana fusses with your shirt, smoothing out any of the wrinkles. “Actually, I can’t do it. You do it, Yang. You’re an expert at this.”

“Alright, give it to me.” Yangyang comes over, grabbing the eyeliner and expertly draws on the wing above your right eye. “Years of cosplay have finally come in handy. Although, I still can’t believe you’re putting in all this effort for Jaemin.”

“I need to look pretty. He usually does my makeup for me, but he’s busy right now,” you mumble, twisting the ring around your finger anxiously. “It’s my first time going to a party. I can’t embarrass him when he’s a ten.”

“Yeah, in rupees,” Yangyang scoffs, and Lana frowns at you, stopping in her tracks. “Don't talk about yourself like that. You’re already pretty, and if anything, you should be embarrassed to be seen with that slime ball. I can’t believe he doesn’t even have the decency to pick you up. Why are you the one going to his place?”

“He has some frat meeting right now,” you answer, glancing down at your newly manicured nails. The pearl color shimmers under the light, and you can’t help but admire it even more. You wish they were a little shorter, but they really do look quite pretty.

“What meeting? We’re in the same frat. Also, hold still,” Yangyang huffs, holding your chin as he draws on the left wing over your eye. “We need them to look like twins, not cousins twice removed.”

“I don’t know, he just said there was some meeting,” you mumble, holding perfectly still until he finally finishes. “Maybe it was a one on one meeting or something, who knows?”

“I still think he’s shady,” Lana grumbles, and Moon nods as well. “Yeah, like the first kiss thing?”

“It’s no big deal,” you wave your hand dismissively, hopping off of your bed and taking a look at yourself in your mirror. “Better to get it over with, right? I mean, imagine being this old and not having your first kiss yet.”

“Is that what he said to you?” Moon huffs, affronted, and you shift in your place uncomfortably. “No, of course not. It’s just—everyone gets their first kiss when they’re like fourteen or fifteen, right?”

“That’s not the point,” Lana says indignantly, tucking your hair behind your ear carefully. “You wanted it to be special, didn’t you? It just feels like… he took something away from you.”

“He didn’t. I wanted this,” you answer loudly, ignoring the way your stomach flip flops as you try not to think back to that moment. He kissed you, he really does like you back, he might have not said it out loud, but he knows how much it means to you (Wouldn’t he?).

“Okay, as long as you’re happy,” Moon gives in, and she and Lana exchange a worried look that goes unnoticed by you. But what can they do? They can continue to try convincing you, but it will never work when it falls on deaf ears.

“I am,” you insist, avoiding your friends’ gazes and staring at yourself back in the mirror. Moon attempts to lift the mood again, offering you a tentative smile in the reflection. “This whole thing is like a whole emotional rollercoaster, and Yangyang is definitely not tall enough to ride.”

“Shut the fuck up, I’m literally almost six foot tall,” Yangyang shoots back, and you laugh, relaxing once more as you watch your friends start to bicker again.

“Listen, you can’t be delusional and short. Pick a struggle.” Moon counters, and Lana agrees, handing you your phone to tuck into your pocket. “She’s right. You carry yourself with the confidence of a much taller man.”

You smile fondly as the bickering between your friends continues. You miss them, you realize with a jolting pang of regret, you haven’t been hanging out with them as often as you used to. In fact, the majority of your weeks are spent with Jaemin and his friends.

It’s your first cold dose of reality, and you’re hit with a startling truth. You haven’t been a very good friend lately.

—

Lana drove you to the Nu Chi Theta house, and you felt like a kindergartener being dropped for her first day of school. Your face feels hot as a wave of embarrassment rushes over you as you notice the amount of glances you receive from the insanely pretty girls and boys already on the front lawn and streaming out from the front door. You quickly exit the vehicle, hurriedly waving good bye over your shoulder before making your way into the house, almost tripping over the raised walkway.

You wander around the house, searching for Jaemin and quickly sidestepping a through the couples and other students dancing around, nearly getting bowled over by someone you recognize from your school’s football team. He gives you a quick once over before offering a half apology, eyes set on another girl on the other side of the room. You take a deep breath before pushing your way into the next room, finally spotting Jaemin with his friends, minus Jeno and Somi, by the staircase and letting out a sigh of relief.

“Hey,” you say breathlessly, squeezing through two couples busily making out in the doorway and wincing slightly when you jostle both of them, causing them to give you dirty looks before resuming their activities.

“Oh, hi, Y/N!” Karina says brightly, giving you a perfect smile and reaching over to squeeze your arm gently. “We didn’t think you’d make it.”

“My first frat party? Of course, I wouldn’t miss it,” you laugh, tucking a stray strand of your hair behind your ear nervously before fiddling with the hem of your shirt. Jaemin gives you a small smile, and you return it with a slightly shaky one, your eyes flickering towards the fading pink, glossy lip mark staining the collar of his shirt. The color is much too dark to be Jaemin’s, and your stomach churns slightly.

“You look so pretty, Y/N, I love the confidence,” Lia chimes in, gently pinching the fabric of your skirt between her manicured fingers. “I love this, you’ll have to let me borrow it sometime.”

“Oh, of course! You can borrow it anytime,” you agree quickly, flashing her a slightly forced smile before glancing over at Jaemin again, unsure what to do.

“Where do you shop?” Yeonjun asks, glancing over at your outfit. “The shirt is nice, too.”

“Oh my god, yes, we have to go shopping together sometime, and you’ll have to show me all the good places,” Karina cuts in, nudging you gently before letting out a sigh, looking over at Lia. “God, I’ve been feeling so fat lately, like freshman twenty might be getting to me.”

“No, same, I’ve been extending my gym sessions and doing Pilates,” Lia huffs softly, and you remain silent, switching your weight around on each foot, glancing over at Jaemin helplessly.

“I need another drink. You coming, Y/N?” Jaemin finally speaks up before brushing past Yeonjun, and you hurriedly follow behind him, careful not to fall behind or get swept away. He quickly pushes through to the kitchen, finding a spot next to the counter covered in various bottles of cheap alcohol and stacks of red solo cups dispersed in between.

“You want one?” Jaemin asks, extending a shot of vodka he just poured out towards you, and you shake your head before he gives a wry smile. “You sure? It’ll help with the nerves. You were shaking back there.”

Your cheeks grow warm. “You noticed?”

“Everybody noticed,” he snorted, handing you the cup, and you wince slightly before holding your nose and downing it in one go. “Give me another then.”

“Atta girl,” Jaemin hands you another shot and you take that one just as quickly, making a face that causes him to smile subconsciously. As he pours himself a cup of beer, he spots Donghyuck by the pool out back, and a knot settles in his stomach uncomfortably. He almost doesn’t want to tell you, and he doesn’t know why. It’s just because he worked so hard to make you look this good, and his loudmouth friend gets to reap all the benefits, he tells himself, taking a swig of his drink, Donghyuck doesn’t know how lucky he is.

Ignoring all the stop signs and whistles going off in his head, he gestures towards Donghyuck outside, clenching the red cup in his hand a little tighter than normal. “There’s your chance. Gotta do it before the alcohol wears off.”

“Oh, um, actually, I wanted to talk to you,” you stammer out, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear again (It’s one of your habits when you’re nervous, and he thinks it might be his favorite). He pushes down the growing knot in his stomach.

“We’ll talk later, yeah? You can’t miss this,” Jaemin insists before nudging you in the direction of the pool outside despite your soft protests.

“W-wait, I jus—” you say desperately, but Jaemin merely waves you off before disappearing back into the party inside. You let out a sigh, shoulders sagging slightly. You wouldn’t want to disappoint him after all the effort he put in these past four weeks.

You’ll tell him later.

—

“Oh? Where’s your little Barbie doll, Jaemin?” Karina simpers as she lazily taps her pretty manicured nails against the half filled red solo cup in her other hand when Jaemin returns to his original spot. “Have you gotten bored of playing with her yet?”

“It’s not like that,” Jaemin answers hotly, “She’s… fun. She makes me laugh.”

“How? By looking at her?” Yeonjun snorts, chugging his own cup before crinkling it in his fist. Jaemin wants to throw up. “We thought you just did this because you’ve been having a dry spell and were bored. Where is she anyway?

“She’s talking to Hyuck right now,” Jaemin mumbles meekly, shoulders slightly hunched over as he stares into the depths of his own solo cup.

“Really? I mean, is she even his type?” Lia asks skeptically, straightening up in her spot to see if she can spot you or Donghyuck anywhere. “If anything, I thought her friend—the pretty English major one—would be his type. How is she anyone’s type?”

“Hey, he turned her from a four to a solid eight. She might even go up half a point once you introduce her to an exercise and diet plan.” Karina says offhandedly, raising her cup towards him in mock salute before taking a sip.

“Yeah, how are you going to do that? It’s not like you can even sugarcoat it for her because then she’d eat it too,” Yeonjun throws out with a smirk, and Jaemin feels sick to his stomach, the nauseating feeling growing exponentially and gnawing at him as his friend continues, “I mean she’s probably already on the seafood diet because she sees any food and just eats it. How can you even stand her, Jae? The way she just follows you around like a puppy. Isn’t it annoying?”

“God, I know, the way she basically chases after us like a lap dog is so pathetic. At least she takes good insta pics for us though, so she’s somewhat useful. But we had that one really good group photo at that last party, and she totally ruined the picture. You can’t even crop her out because she had to stand next to you, Jae,” Lia complains, rolling her eyes, and Karina laughs, taking out her phone and scrolling through her photos.

“Oh my god, I know the exact photo you’re talking about. It’s this one, right? She practically threw herself into your arms,” She flashes her screen towards the group, and Jaemin wants to shrink and crawl into a hole somewhere and die. Was it the best photo of you? No. Was it the worst? Maybe close to it. You’re standing sideways and still taking up more space in the photo than the others, and the flash photography did not do any favors for you. You stand out even worse than Will Smith in the sunflower costume meme. He cringes inwardly, noting the way your skirt had rolled up and you’re smiling a little too widely. He makes a mental note to help you practice better, more flattering poses later on.

“You know that famous baby hippo? Moo Deng? I think we found her twin from the future,” Yeonjun barks out a laugh, reaching over and zooming in on you as Karina smirks before putting away her phone. Lia giggles and glances over at Jaemin, scrutinizing his reaction before a sly expression makes an appearance on her face, saying coyly, “You have a crush on her, don’t you?”

Jaemin flushes, embarrassment coating his cheeks, and he immediately snaps, “Shut up, I might be lonely, but I’m not despera—”

“Oh, Y/N!” Lia says loudly, effectively cutting Jaemin short. “How did it go? Are you and Hyuck gonna be the new couple on campus?”

Immediately, his heart drops even further to his stomach, and Jaemin whirls around to see you standing a few feet away. Did Lia know you were there? How long were you standing there? Did you hear them? Did you hear every horrible thing they said about you?

“Oh, Donghyuck said he wasn’t interested, but he was nice about it,” you say, offering a vague smile in Jaemin’s direction, and he nearly breathes a sigh of relief as his heart starts to slow back down to its normal rate. A part of him is glad that Donghyuck rejected you, and he nearly misses what you say next, too caught up in this unfamiliar feeling.

“I think I’m going to head back to my dorm. I’m a little tired. Thank you for inviting me.”

With that, you turn away and walk off, but something still doesn’t feel right to Jaemin. It’s a split second decision but for once, he puts his heart over his mind and chases after you, ignoring the increasing whispers from his friends and their eyes searing into his back.

ix. raise your hand if you have ever been personally victimized by na jaemin.

Jaemin is right on your heels the entire time you walk back to your dorm. All he receives is stony silence from you that he fills with babbling nonsense, asking you what’s wrong to no avail. When you finally enter your dorm, you turn to him at last, and he perks up. However, the two words that come out of your mouth have him deflating faster than Yangyang’s ego when Alice called him a shitty kisser with too much saliva (“You’re supposed to make me wet down there, not up here. Honestly, dude, if I wanted to drown myself, I would’ve jumped into the ocean.”).

“We’re done.”

You decide to bite the bullet.

After freeing your feet from their pointy death contraptions, you peel off each layer of clothing one by one, unzipping the mini skirt and kicking it away before tugging at the spandex, unleashing the breath you’ve been holding in since 8 a.m. to fit into it. There’s still indents marking the dips in your waist and your thighs, a lasting reminder that stays like an embarrassing stain. You fling that abhorrent piece of elastic elsewhere, and it falls near the end of your bed, out of sight behind the pile of textbooks you haven’t touched for the past three days.

“Hold on, what are you talking about? We made so much progress. You wanted to do this,” Jaemin protests, following after you and picking up the discarded garments you threw haphazardly. He waves around the skirt like a white flag. “You wanted to be in the popular crowd, and you got it. You’re this close to dating Hyuck. Yeah, he might’ve said no now, but we’ll come up with a new plan—You can bounce back from this! Why are you quitting now?”

Removing the off-the-shoulder pink top that restricts your arm movement, you quickly slip on an oversized sweater before reaching back and unhooking the strapless bra whose underwire has been digging into your ribs for so many hours, a sigh of relief escaping between your teeth. You toss it onto your chair without another care in the world, and it lands next to the shirt in a heap.

“Because this isn’t me. This isn’t what I like.”

“Of course, it is. This is still you: just new and improved,” he insists, frantically attempting to hand you your discarded shirt and pleather skirt. You ignore them, opting to pull out and put on your favorite pair of stretched out gym shorts from middle school that you had shoved in the back of your closet to make room for all the flashy clothing Jaemin picked out for you. “We’re having fun. You’re popular and pretty now. You’re almost dating Donghyuck. You have everything that everyone wants. You’re the girl the boys want to be with, the girl all the other girls want to be.”

You shake your head, reaching for the packet of makeup wipes near your sink. “It’s not what I want.”

Jaemin scoffs, “Don’t be ridiculous. What are you talking about? This is what you asked me to do.”

You throw him a scathing glare, and he takes a step back. “God, Jaemin, for once in your life, take off the stupid rose colored heart shades, and you’ll finally see all the red flags around you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jaemin asks defensively. He thought everything was going according to plan; he’s going to pass macroeconomics, and you got to talk to Donghyuck and are this close to scoring a date with him. People notice you wherever you go, the two of you receive compliments, his friends like you, everyone likes you.

“I have to pretend to like things I hate and hate the things I like. I have to do things a certain way, act a certain way, pretend this is all effortless. I don’t know if people are being genuine or pretending like I am. I hate this—this fake version of me.” You spit the words out like fuel to a fire, and you stand there in all your blazing glory, ugly uniform shorts and all.

“My thighs keep chafing. My feet have blisters everyday from these boots. This foundation makes me break out even more, and I can’t type up my notes in class or write fast enough because of these nails, and my grades almost took a plunge. I’m basically freezing my tits off out there in a shirt I don’t like. The lashes make my eyes itch, and this skirt is so short that I have to keep pulling it down every five seconds before I end up flashing someone.”

You don’t recognize the girl in your mirror anymore. You pluck off the falsies lining your eyes, scrubbing furiously at the layers of expensive brand name makeup covering your skin. You wipe off every inch of it until your bare face stares back at you, slightly puffy, blemishes, faded acne scars and all. You feel like you can breathe a little better now.

“Did you really think it’s easy being one of us? Do you think people will notice you if you show up in sweats with Cheetos stains?” Jaemin stares at you incredulously. “This is how it is. I don’t get why you’re throwing it all away like this.”

“And yet, you were all for it when I threw away everything before.”

“Because you asked for it! You asked me to—to make you into someone Donghyuck would date!”

“You don’t get it.” You whirl around on your heels to face him instead of the mirror, and the anger and intensity laced in your voice nearly blows him away. “I like myself the way I am. I never hated myself. I may be insecure about how I look sometimes, but who isn’t? Yeah, I like wearing cherry lip gloss and mascara sometimes. It’s fun trying out new hairstyles and clothes and learning to do better makeup. I like getting dressed up for special occasions. I like doing these things on my own terms. But this? What I’m doing to myself right now? This isn’t the same. Am I supposed to keep up this charade for the rest of my life? If I do eventually go out with Donghyuck, am I gonna have to keep lying to him? To everyone? I want people to like me for me. To actually know me.”

“If this is how you feel, then why would you keep doing this?! If you hate it so much, then why?” He’s frustrated, carding his fingers through his hair as he can’t wrap his mind around the fact that you’re angry over this. You look gorgeous, so what’s the problem?

“Because I liked spending time with you!” you burst out, “I never liked Donghyuck—I liked you. I wanted it to be you. It was fun at first, I did like it at first, but I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep pretending to be someone I’m not. I can’t be friends with someone who’s ashamed of me.”

There’s a jolt in his heart when he hears your confession, but the second jolt comes quickly afterwards at your last words. Denial is the first stage of grief, and he pales at your final declaration. “What are you talking about? This whole thing is so that Dongh—”

“Oh, please. You can drop the act. This isn’t about Donghyuck anymore. This is about you being too embarrassed to be seen with someone who doesn’t fit your aesthetics.” You air quote the last word for emphasis, and his jaw tightens at that. “You’d rather drop dead than go out with a four like me, right?” You smile sardonically at him. “I may be a four on a seafood diet, but my ears work perfectly fine, Jaemin.”

You heard it all, and Jaemin feels like he is going to throw up. All he can do is scramble and grasp for the last remaining straws, protesting vehemently, “I wasn’t the one who said any of that!”

You laugh humorlessly, “Is that supposed to make it better? You’re better than them because you didn’t say it out loud? You didn’t deny it or defend me either, so what’s your point?

His mouth goes dry, and he opens and shuts it several times. Swallowing harshly, he barely manages to croak out a weak reply. “That’s— I didn’t mean—I only really thought that before I knew you.”

“And that’s just it, isn’t it? You already judged me before you even knew me based on how I look. Even now, you still judge me.” He starts to open his mouth again, but you merely shrug as if you’ve accepted this for all your life, and he closes it meekly, shifting from one foot to the other uncomfortably, unable to meet your eyes

“That’s okay. I’m used to it. That’s how it is for people like me. I know I’m not someone people fall head over heels for immediately. I’m the one who reaches out to people first. Guys don’t fall over at my feet, wanting to carry my books to class for me. The pretty girls ask me to take their Insta pictures for them. I don’t get free drinks at the bar or invited to all the parties. I’ve never been asked out by a total stranger, and no one writes their number on my cup of coffee,” you say matter-of-factly, a resigned smile on your face, and it has him curling into himself internally, his conscience slowly eating away at him.

“And you know what?” you continue, “That's life. That’s okay because I’m happy with who I am. I like who I am. If I have to give myself up to get Donghyuck or you to like me, then he’s—you—are not the one. I shouldn’t change who I am for a boy—or anyone for that matter.”

“That’s not—We were doing this for you. You wanted… you wanted this makeover. You wanted this.” He’s desperately clutching onto the end of the rope, and you’re holding the scissors to cut it off. You show him another half smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“It stopped being about me. It started being about what you wanted, what you liked, what you wanted me to be. I was your charity case, your little Barbie doll.”

You tilt your head to the side, studying the boy in front of you and he silently squirms under your scrutiny. “Tell me one thing, and be honest. Did you even know I existed before Donghyuck mentioned me as a tutoring option? Before you needed me for a grade booster? Would you have liked me then?”

Would you have liked me then? Your question echoes in his mind, and Jaemin freezes, dropping the clothes in his hands. You know. You know he likes you, and the embarrassment creeps up on him in the form of carmine dusting his ears and cheeks, like spilled wine on white linen.

“There are over one hundred students in the class,” he objects. “Sorry for not fighting my way through all of them to find you and have a crush on you sooner.”

Jaemin seems to not realize that he just confirmed his feelings for you aloud, and perhaps, if he had told you this a few weeks ago, you would have been ecstatic and called up Lana and Moon the second he was out of earshot. But this is now, and you’ve grown exponentially since then.

You give him a wistful smile, and as the dread piles up in the pit of his stomach, he knows this is the start of his downfall (or perhaps, he’s already been falling this entire time). He slipped from the pedestal already long ago, and it’s only a matter of time before he hits rock bottom. The higher the pedestal, the harder the fall from grace.

“I sat in front of you diagonally. You asked me to pass notes to my friend. You know, the girl who sat next to me? Alice? The one you asked out and went on a few dates with at the beginning of the semester?” You state the facts calmly, and his eyes widen at that. “It’s okay. But you must’ve remembered that we were in the same group for a presentation last semester, right?”

Jaemin stays silent, and you have your answer. It’s one you’ve known deep down in your heart all this time, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt any less. After all, someone can announce they’re going to punch you, you can even see the strike coming to your gut, but simply knowing doesn’t do anything to ease the painful aftermath.

You chuckle humorlessly, fingers uncurling and recurling into fists as your nails press moon shaped crescents into your palms before you look him straight in the eyes. “I don’t fit into your cookie cutter life or match your rose colored Instagram filters. I don’t have the perfect model figure or the perfect face. I don’t look like the girl of your dreams, and I know that it just fucking kills you inside that you fell in love with me.”

Jaemin flinches, curling in on himself when he finally meets your gaze and finally sees the absolute hell fires of fury and repugnance ablaze in your eyes. You know that he loves you, and he’s ashamed that you’re right. You’re absolutely right.

Why is he so afraid of loving you?

He loves how smart you are, how witty you are, how funny you are, how genuine you are, how you understand every obscure Haikyuu!! reference he makes, how you laugh at his jokes, how you dm him the funniest memes on Instagram, how you wear your purple scrunchie around your wrist during every exam for good luck and how you let him borrow it too. He loves how you treat him as more than just a pretty face, how you actually listen to him and make him feel like what he says matters, how you make him feel different—special—like he doesn’t have to compete with all the other Barbies and Kens out there. He’s much too vain, much too superficial, much too selfish, much too proud to admit it out loud, but he’s in love with you, and yet, he can’t bring himself to love every single part of you.

And the truth of that matter is the ugliest of all.

But there are standards that he has to uphold, why can’t you understand this? He lowered his standards for you, and you still couldn’t meet them. You have the personality already, you are this close to being the ideal girl, and well, you both have to make changes. It’s the prince and princess who live happily ever after, not the prince and the pauper, or god forbid, the ogre (No offense, Shrek). This is real life, and society has unspoken rules. He sacrificed so much for you, he put his reputation on the line, so why couldn’t you do this for him? After all, love always has some sacrifices.

Right?

But when Jaemin looks at you now, there’s everything, but love staring back at him. You look at him like he’s a repulsive piece of chewed gum stubbornly stuck to the bottom of your Steve Madden heel. It strikes a nerve and completely eats him to the core, but he pulls himself upright because nobody talks to him like that, nobody looks at him like that, certainly not someone like you. He invented you, he made you into the next Princess Mia, the next Cady Heron, the next Serena van der Woodsen, and this is how you show your gratitude?

“Oh, you’ve got to be shitting me. You act like I’m the first person to judge first based on looks. Everyone does it. Am I supposed to strike up a conversation with every girl on the off chance she’s everything I want? Do you think anyone would fall for you immediately when you looked like that? The saying is ‘love at first sight’, unless you’re one to believe in the whole ‘love is blind’ idea, which you clearly do,” Jaemin snaps, sneering as he eyes you up and down. His heart and mind are screaming, crying, begging for him to stop, but his pride dropkicks him headfirst into the hole he dug for himself, raging for him to get the upper hand again.

“How is it my fault for not knowing you’re the whole package when the wrapping doesn’t match the contents?”

The unfiltered words slip out of his mouth, and he immediately regrets it, closing his eyes, but it’s too late. He sees the instant look of devastation that appears on your face, and it hits him like a boxer’s punch to the chest. He starts to backtrack to no avail. You play stupid games, you win stupid prizes.

“I am never going to be enough for you, am I?” you whisper, your breaths stuttering in your chest as your initial sarcasm turns into quiet truths now that eat away at him. “I’m either too much or too little. There’s always going to be something you’ll want to change, something you want to fix.”

“Y/N… I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. It was an accident. I just—”

Jaemin can’t continue on, his voice trailing off as he doesn’t know what to say. He wants to keep apologizing, he’ll do anything it takes to take back what he just said, but the damage has already been dealt. He’s always known he’s an asshole, sure, but this is beyond anything he’s ever said or done in the past. He just secured the seat of honor in Dante's ninth circle of hell, and there’s no return ticket.

“You just what? You thought it would be okay to say anything to my face just because it’s not up to your standards?”

Jaemin’s face pales. “N-no, I—this isn’t how it's supposed to go, I just—It just slipped out, can we start over?”

A public rejection from any boy or girl would hurt infinitely less than the words Jaemin spat in your face. The things that his friends said before within earshot? You could take it because you couldn’t care less about them at the end of the day. But this? This was coming from someone you trusted, someone you care about, someone you lov—No, you don’t even want to think about that.

Jaemin never loved you. He never even liked you. The harsh reality slaps you like a cold shower in the middle of a winter night, and you want to curl up into a ball under your covers and cry until you fall asleep.

And yet, you will not let him humiliate you any longer. The spell has been broken. Cinderella is back to her rags, and her Prince Charming is nowhere to be found. She’s stuck as a toad that’ll never change. Eyes watering, you inhale sharply, laughing quietly in disbelief before you straighten up and your face hardens.

“Are you actually listening to yourself? You think we can start over? You treat people like they’re disposable, like they’re nothing, and once they don’t match with your theme of the week, you toss them even faster than the time it takes for you to choose an outfit.” Your chest is heaving, and the tears threaten to fall, but you push on, swallowing the lump in your throat. He reaches out for you, and you take a step back, shaking your head.

“You can’t hurt people and expect them to just let it go. I get it, I know I’m not the thinnest, or the nicest, or the funniest, or the smartest, or the prettiest. I know that I’m hard to love. I get it, Jaemin. I’ve always known that.”

You choke on the last sentence, swallowing hard to stifle the hiccup that bubbles up in your throat. “But that doesn’t give you the right to treat me like shit.”

Rapidly blinking back your tears, you march over to your door and throw it open with such force that the doorknob could have left a dent in the wall. You don’t want to cry, you’ve always been an angry crier, and you desperately want the tears to stop. You refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry and hearing your confession. He doesn’t deserve any of that. Jaemin doesn’t deserve your tears, and he certainly doesn’t deserve your love.

“Get out.”

Jaemin stares at you, mouth agape like a fish on land. You gesture heatedly towards the outside, choking slightly. “What are you waiting for? I said get out.”

“Y/N, I—”

“Am I a joke to you?” you quietly ask, and his eyes widen.

“No! No, Y/N, you’re not, I jus—”

A single tear manages to escape despite your best, frustrated efforts, and Jaemin instinctively reaches out for you. You swat his hand away, angrily swiping away the stray droplet with the sleeve of your sweater. His heart wrenches in his chest as his hand dangles limply by his side. You’re crying because of him. He caused that, and he feels like the biggest piece of shit in the world.

You refuse to let any more fall, glaring at him through the unshed tears and entirely disgusted with the boy standing in front of you. “Don’t touch me. I’m not crying for you. I’m crying because I’m so angry I wasted all my time on someone who never cared about me.”

That’s not true—I love you, he wants to say, but his mouth refuses to form the words because his pride won’t loosen its grip on his heart. He loves you, he’s in love with you, why can’t you see that?

You steel yourself, taking one shaky breath before looking pointedly at the door and repeating yourself, “Get out. Leave me alone.”

Numbly, he makes his way over to the door, ears ringing. You glower at him, the intensity searing and digging into the side of his face. When he stands outside of your dorm, he struggles to turn around and face you helplessly. Your eyes soften for a moment, and it shoves the dagger deeper into his chest when he recognizes that look. It’s the same look he wore when he first saw you, and the shame that emerges nearly chokes him. The mixture of pity and disappointment painted across your face revolts him entirely, and he feels like he’s going to vomit. Jaemin is utterly humiliated.

Your gaze intensifies once more when you stand up to your full height, stare unwavering and chin raised up. Gripping the doorframe tightly, you drive the final words into his heart like a stake.

“I am too good for you, Jaemin, and I will never love someone like you. I deserve better.”

And for a split second, you almost convinced yourself when you said that.

You shut the door in his face.

Jaemin calls your name through the door several times, desperation ringing clear in his tone, but it falls on deaf ears. Apologies are a fool’s best friend, and you’d be a fool yourself to believe them. Holding your breath, you wait until you hear his footsteps echo down the hallway, until the solitude greets you like an old friend. And at last, you drop the facade and let yourself cry. Back pressed against the door and head bowed, you finally let go until all the tears are gone and you’re gasping for breath, the quiet hiccups and sobs bursting forth and breaking the silence in the same way he broke your heart over and over again.

You love him.

There’s no one to blame, but yourself. In the end, it’s all your fault that you were in this mess. How can you be so stupid? You can put lipstick on a pig, but it would still be a pig. Built up insecurities will bubble up to the surface no matter how much mascara and blush you apply. The warning signs were all there in flashing technicolor, but they were all tied up with shiny ribbons and deceiving perfect smiles. They lit up your usual drab life of blacks, whites, and grays, and you were blinded by the glitz and glamor— blinded by him. It is hard to see the red flags and stop signs through the rose colored Instagram filters. You trusted him and gave him your heart when you should’ve known it’d end like this.

You got greedy and tried to steal the spotlight, and you received it, front and center. You are the joke. You are the punchline, the comedic relief, the center stage of a slapstick comedy show. This is what you get for going off script.

Because you love him.

You were supposed to continue to delude yourself into thinking that you don’t want to find love, that you enjoy being on your own, that you enjoy being single, that you are perfectly content with never experiencing romance instead of facing the cold harsh reality head on: no one sees you as desirable or dateable. And when your friends tell you that you’re not missing out on anything with dating, you were supposed to nod and agree, when secretly, you desperately wish you can experience that for yourself instead of living vicariously through your friends’ love lives or the 3 a.m. scrollings through cheesy romance fanfiction on Tumblr. You’re been fine all these years, haven’t you? You were doing so well living on your own.

But you love him.

It’ll come when you least expect it, that’s what they tell you every time, but what are you to do when you can’t help but expect it your whole life? What are you to do when you so desperately want to know what it feels like to be loved in that way? God, when is it going to be your turn? When is it your turn to daydream about someone and know that they’re daydreaming about you too? When is it your turn to have someone walk you home? When is it your turn to hold hands with someone? When is it your turn to feel the giddy butterflies and experience a good night kiss? When is it your turn to be kissed in the rain? When is it your turn to experience the romance you can only dream about?

How much longer will you have to be patient? How much longer do you have to wait, living in denial over the soul crushing reality of it all? How many more stars do you need to wish upon until you learn to accept the painstaking truth? You weren’t meant to be loved in this lifetime.

God, you love him.

It’s embarrassing when it shouldn’t be. You just want to be touched by hands that care, loved by a heart that beats for you, desired by someone who thinks you are enough. It’s the way you would give up ten years of your life in a heartbeat to experience being the prettiest girl in the room just once and have people look at you. The overwhelming shame washes over you when you never had your first kiss until now with a boy who never cared about you, never went on a date before, never had a boyfriend before, and you have to lie and say it’s by choice when it’s not. It’s not. You have so much love to give, you have so much space in your life to share, you have so much time to spend with that special someone, but the grains of the hourglass are spent waiting and longing for a stranger who will never come.

The thought of it all just makes you sick. It makes you sick that you wish so terribly that someone would just look in your direction for once. For once, you want to be looked at in that way like all the female protagonists experience in the movies. And you know your value shouldn’t be based on desire and objectification, you absolutely know it, but it still hurts when you go out with your friends and you’re the one dancing alone or sitting back and watching the purses. You’re the one standing there by yourself, while every single one of your pretty friends is being approached by someone. It still hurts so fucking bad when you try to put yourself out there, but guys have already moved past you or don’t even acknowledge your existence simply because of your face or a number on a scale. And when he came into your life and gave you one measly ounce of attention, you ran with it when you should have run away. It’s absolutely exhausting, leaving you out of breath and on the verge of throwing up, to chase after someone who never even looked at you, to chase after their attention, praying to god that they’ll one day make you feel like you are worth it, that you’ll finally feel some sort of value.

Forget ever being loved, you weren’t even wanted.

There is no such thing as happily ever after’s for the extras. Girls like you don’t get to star in love stories. Why did you ever think it would end differently?

You love him.

And he ruined you. Even worse, you let him.

You wish you never met Na Jaemin.

x. i can’t go out tonight. *fake coughs* i’m sick.

You would like to give a formal apology to Bella Swan for not understanding why she was so depressed over Edward leaving her for six months and making fun of her. In your defense, you were like nine years old when the movie came out, and you were more interested in Barbies back then (Plus, you were Team Jacob because you wanted a pet dog at the time).

You didn’t even go through a break up, but it sure as hell feels like one.

You probably would continue to wallow in your misery for weeks, clutching onto the only two men you could ever trust in your entire life: Ben and Jerry’s while watching every iconic 90s and early 2000s rom-coms on repeat if it weren’t for your best friends. But enough is enough, and you get that you shouldn’t be spending weeks crying over a boy who hasn’t even spent one second thinking about you. It’s just hard to take that first step back up again when you feel like you tripped and fell all the way down to rock bottom.

And so, you finally let your friends into your shared dorm room, and you definitely do not miss the poorly disguised look of disgust and shock when they see the giant mess on your side of the room (You’re very grateful that Giselle has been staying at her boyfriend’s place for weeks now). It’s an intervention at this point—one that you desperately need, and you know it.

“Okay, give it to me straight,” you sniffle, still wrapped up in your comforter like a giant burrito and clutching onto the ice cream carton like a lifeline. You know that your friends will just rip it off like a bandage, and you have mentally prepared yourself for it. Your voice comes out wobbly still from the tears, and you hate it. “I know I was stupid for letting a guy walk all over me like that. I know if any of you were in this situation, I’d tell you that you’re better than that and to get over him, but it’s just so hard to do it.”

“He who shall not be named is a scumbag, and I’m gonna kill him the next time I see him,” Lana states, pursing her lips together. “I hope he has a bad hair day every single day because I know he’d be screaming, crying, throwing up if he could never get a perfect selfie ever again.”

You choke back a sob, giving her a watery smile. “That would destroy him.”

“Good. Fuck him. Metaphorically, not literally. Why should you care if you are the girl of his dreams or not? Be the girl of your dreams. You’re gorgeous, smart, and funny and he’s just some guy who still doesn’t know how to use the correct ‘your’ in an Instagram caption.”

You can write down a thousand and one reasons why he was the most horrendous, most awful, most vile person to ever grace your life. But at the end of the day, why does it matter? What good would it do? You still love him, and that’s the worst pill to swallow.

“I just—I’m having a hard time believing that.”

“Y/N, if you believed that Jaemin wasn’t a shitbag for the past four weeks and all the time before that in his life, then you can believe in yourself right now for two minutes and listen to me,” Lana says firmly, clutching onto your shoulders and forcing you to look her in the eye as she continues on, “Remember the Barbie movie? He’s just Ken. Ken doesn’t have a good day unless Barbie looks at him.”

“Yeah, like channel your inner Gina Linetti. Listen to Chelsea Peretti. ‘Men used to hunt.’ What’s Jaemin doing? He’s pushing twenty and doing aegyo on camera,” Moon chimes in, and Lana nods furiously in agreement before elbowing Yangyang in his rib not-so-subtly. “Contribute to the conversation, Yang.”

“Hold on, I’m thinking,” Yangyang says, pausing in the middle of your room and placing his hands on his hips.

“Oh congrats, I didn’t know you could do that. But stop because you’re not good at it at all,” Moon says, completely ignoring the dirty look he throws at her immediately. The little exchange brings a small smile to your face and it feels nice to laugh. You’ve forgotten how to do that. You miss your friends. You’re grateful for them for not giving up on you when you already have.

“Come on, let’s go see ‘Crazy Rich Asians.’ It’ll be fun. We can watch Lana fangirl over seeing her favorite actor,” Moon encourages you, and Yangyang nods in agreement. “Yeah, she picked a better man after the Jaehyun fiasco.”

“Oh my god, let it go. I didn’t like him that much,” Lana huffs softly, grabbing one of your spare pillows and launching it square into his face in retaliation, and he lets out out a high pitched shriek that makes you giggle.

“Weren’t you gonna go see it with your best friend, Yang?” You ask, glancing over at him and he shakes his head, a slightly sour expression on his face. “Nah, she’s going with Dejun already.”

“So unfortunately, we’re stuck with him now,” Moon says solemnly as Yangyang immediately throws her a dirty look. The look on his face makes you laugh, and it makes you feel a little better and your heart a little lighter.

You shouldn’t have to beg someone to love you; the right person will never make you beg. The right person would never chip away at you, erasing different parts of you, until you fit their picture perfect mold, until there’s nothing left of you. You would never have to call your friends at 4 am, drunk and crying for their validation, praying to whatever higher being is up there for them to take you back. Your friends have never looked at the scars and freckles dotting your skin and suddenly deemed you as unlovable. Your best friend wouldn’t call you fat and point out every single one of your insecurities. You are not unlovable because you decided to eat a third taco or decided to not wear makeup today or didn’t shave your legs. You may fight with your parents and siblings, but never once have you felt unloved by them. Never once did you have to get on your knees and plead for them to love you back.

You know you are worthy of love because your friends and family make it look so easy. They have shown you what love is really like time and time again. You’ve been a shitty friend these past few months, prioritizing a boy over the ones who really matter. They’ve been so patient with you this entire time, and with an open heart, you realize that it is time you finally start properly loving them and yourself too.

You are loved.

xi. that’s so not fetch!

Jaemin slinks out of the lecture hall, noting the dirty looks your friends have sent him from the other side of the room. He’s been standing outside of the classroom before the session starts for the past few weeks in hopes of catching you, looking like a complete creep (and definitely feeling like one). But what’s he to do when you wouldn’t return any of his texts or calls? It’s humiliating, and he feels smaller than an ant under a microscope.

He pretends to leave class early, staking out in the bathroom across from the classroom. Counting down the minutes, he sees the first wave of students pouring out from the classrooms and finally spots you. His heart jumps to his throat, and his hands begin to grow clammy.

You’re back to wearing your loose jeans and basic t-shirts, your favorite purple scrunchie wrapped around your wrist and an old Jansport backpack slung over your shoulder, decorated with pins of all those familiar characters from his favorite anime. Your face is bare, aside from tinted lip balm, and you’re smiling. You’re laughing at something your friend next to you says, and with a sinking heart, Jaemin realizes that perhaps maybe you are pretty in the slightest way.

He finds himself taking one step towards you, then another, maneuvering around the other students rushing to leave. He’s getting closer and closer, if he called out your name, you would hear him. But you wouldn’t stop for him this time. He knows that.

Jaemin is getting closer, just a few more steps until he can just stretch his hand out and tap your shoulder, and his heart is pounding so hard in his chest until a pretty manicured hand grabs his upper arm lightly.

“Jaemin? What are you doing here?”

He pauses, turning around and seeing Somi staring back at him in surprise as she continues, “I thought you don’t have any classes at this time.”

“Yeah, I—” he hesitates, glancing over at your retreating figure and Somi follows his gaze, her eyes softening as she lets go of his arm.

“Oh, were you waiting for her? Sorry about that,” she apologizes, pulling away and he shakes his head, shrinking back. Maybe it was for the better that you got away. It’s probably a sign from the universe telling him to let it go.

“No, it’s okay. She doesn’t want to talk to me anyway,” Jaemin admits at last, starting to slink off, and Somi furrows her eyebrows, a puzzled expression gracing her face as she hurries slightly to catch up with him, matching his pace. He exits the building, crushing the graded economics midterm with a red 89 circled at the top in his fist and shoving it haphazardly into the side pocket of his backpack usually reserved for his water bottle.

“What are you talking about? The two of you are practically glued at the hip. She adores you,” she laughs softly, tilting her head slightly as she glances over at him. He ignores her look, continuing on his way off of campus and towards his safe haven: a small dog friendly boba shop snug in between a bookstore and a 24 hour laundromat he frequents more often than he likes to admit.

“I honestly thought you’d ask her out at some point.”

Jaemin winces at that, her light response rubbing salt into his open wounds, stitches torn and bleeding, and he spits out the next words defensively, his pride rearing its ugly head again. “No way. I never liked her like that. She’s not my type at all. Have you seen her?”

“What is wrong with you?” Somi frowns at him, stopping in her tracks, and he halts, unable to look at her and throwing out a dismissive “What?” In her direction.

“Why are you talking about her like that? I thought you liked her,” she answers, staring at him in disbelief, and he curls his fingers into fists, gripping tightly as a multitude of conflicting emotions war inside of him. He starts to walk again, barely glancing over at Somi.

“She was just my tutor. I passed my midterm, so I don’t need to be around her anymore.” He responds weakly, uncurling and recurling his fingers into fists as he desperately tries to stay calm.

It was so much easier to pretend around his other friends. Aside from Jeno, they always took his words at face value, never one to pry. And Jeno would never push him, knowing that he would eventually come to him at his own pace. But Somi? He’s forgotten about how she can be after she’s been so busy with her schedule, missing out from the majority of hang outs for her social work and events, and their class schedules never overlapped. She can spot a lie a mile away. She actually cares. In a way, she reminds him of you, and he can’t bear to meet her gaze anymore.

“She’s your friend,” Somi retorts, following him into the boba shop, briefly stopping to pet the adorable Samoyed wagging its tail near the entrance. “You spent more time with her than any of us, except maybe Jeno. And you weren’t just studying in the library. I’ve seen her on your finsta and close friend stories.”

“Okay, and now she’s not. She’s not my friend anymore,” Jaemin answers sharply, punching his order into the self service machine. “It happens. People stop being friends. So back off, Somi.”

“Jeez, what is your problem?” she snaps back, following him towards the back, settling on a pillow in one of the comfortable nooks converted into a small seating area across from him. “I caught you following Y/N, and now you say you’re not friends?”

Jaemin hesitates, fiddling with one of the decorative pillows in his lap. “We got into an argument.”

“Yeah, but friends fight. You can apologize, right?”

Jaemin is silent.

Somi stares at him, and he wants to curl into himself. It’s the very same look you gave him before you shut the door in his face, and he feels the bile in his throat already. Her voice is quiet. “Jaemin, what did you do?”

“I—,” he whispers, breaking off and clenching his fists. He is already replaying that moment in his head, seeing the look of utter devastation on your face, and he wants to run away. The ugly truth is front and center, and he is unable to ignore it any longer.

“I fucked up, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?” Jaemin bursts out, burying his face in his hands and unable to face his friend. He closes his eyes, sucking in a deep breath. “I said some shitty things to her, some really fucked up stuff.”

“Like fucked up as in messy drunk thoughts or fucked up, fucked up?” Somi says softly, hesitantly, as if she doesn’t want to believe her friend is the worst of the worst. Jaemin’s heart sinks even lower than rock bottom as he continues to hang his head low.

“I…” Jaemin’s voice is less than a whisper as he finally confesses the horrible truth to someone for the first time. His voice cracks as he recalls every single disgusting thing and insecurity he flung back into your face.

“I said that it would be stupid for her to believe in love at first sight, that she wasn’t up to my standards, that it’s her fault, that I was ashamed of her, ashamed that I even liked her because of the way she looked.”

The silence is deafening, and Jaemin feels the same wave of humiliation wash over him as it did on that very night. Somi is speechless, and he can’t bear to look at her, one hundred percent knowing that there would be a raw look of utter disgust and horror on her face because that is the exact way he would look at himself. He sits there in silence as the guilt and shame pile up even higher; he is past the point of wallowing in self pity, already drowning and gasping for breath.

“Jaemin… she was your friend,” she murmurs, gazing at him, mouth agape as the shock finally settles in, and he flinches slightly at the past tense. “She actually cared about you. She made you happy.”

“I know,” he says softly.

“She was the best thing that ever happened to you.” Somi continues quietly.

Jaemin sucks in a sharp breath, biting his bottom lip. “I know.”

“Then why?”

Because I was stupid, he thinks silently, Because I am a coward. Because she embarrassed me. She made me feel small. She made me feel insignificant. She made me look at myself in the mirror, and for the first time in my life, I absolutely hated what I saw staring back at me.

“I don’t know,” Jaemin whispers, staring down at his lap in resignation and unable to swallow the truth.

He knows.

xii. you can’t sit with us.

You continue to avoid Jaemin in Macroeconomics, choosing to slip into class at the very last minute. You see him waiting in front of the classroom every session for the past three weeks, searching for you, but you opt to go to the professor’s office hours every time before class and end up walking with her to class as she answers your questions about the assigned readings and problems. Alice saves you a seat in the front row, and you never told her but you’re grateful when you realize she must have asked her other friends to sit around the two of you, effectively barricading Jaemin from any attempt at sitting next to you. Finals week comes and goes with the winter break following suit, and you think he has finally given up on any attempt at reaching you.

But life has an unfortunate penchant for bringing up things—or people—you wish to forget when you least expect it. It was supposed to be an ordinary Thursday four weeks into the spring semester, and you’re exiting your last class of the day, tucking your laptop into the cute tote bag you bought from the New York Strands bookstore as you walk across campus.

“Y/N.” Jaemin appears in front of you, and suddenly, all the air in your lungs seem to have been sucked out. It’s almost embarrassing how two months of self progress can be toppled over as easily as a house of cards. Your brain says to hate him, but one glance at him still has you weak in the knees. You take a deep breath, counting to three before walking around and ignoring him entirely.

“Please, can we just talk for five minutes? I’m sorry.” He desperately reaches out for you, and you can see some people starting to take note of the two of you, their gazes on your back.

“Leave me alone, Jaemin.” You continue to walk away, hiking up the strap of your bag higher over your shoulder, desperately trying to quell the stupid colony of butterflies in your stomach that have laid dormant for so long. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Please, just five minutes—three minutes—and I’ll leave you alone forever. Listen to me,” he says in a quiet tone. It was an order, a request, and a plea all at once.

You pause, scrutinizing him for a few moments before grabbing his arm and dragging him away from prying eyes. You stop on the secluded side of the building underneath the magnolia trees before dropping his hand. “You have two minutes. Talk.”

“I’m an idiot.”

“Good to know you’re self aware. You’re finally experiencing some character growth.”

Jaemin grimaces at your stony expression. “Okay, that was deserved. I truly am sorry, Y/N. It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have lashed out at you, and I’m an asshole who took advantage of you. You do deserve better. You deserve someone better than me. But I want to be that person. You make me a better person.”

You stay quiet, and Jaemin fidgets around. “Is that… is that okay? I know it’s selfish of me, but—”

“You’re right, that is selfish of you.”

Jaemin falls silent at that, face flushing before he speaks up meekly, “Can’t we start over? Try again?”

In that moment, you truly pity the boy in front of you. The lost expression on his face tells it all as he desperately clutches onto whatever lifeline you’re willing to toss out. But he’s causing you to drown, and you need to cut the cord and put yourself first for once. Maybe you can change him. But you can’t do this to yourself again.

You take a deep breath and pinch yourself, reminding yourself that this is the same boy who broke your heart because it wasn’t pretty enough for him. “There is no trying again. You never tried, and I’m done trying for you. Jaemin, you don’t love me. You’ve never felt that way towards me.”

“Yes, I have! I do! I really do,” he protests, and you shake your head, taking a step back. He starts to take one step forward towards you and hesitates, staying in his original spot. Your gaze is cold, and he finds himself wishing that you would look at him in the way you used to.

“You love the idea of me: the one you built up in your head,” you say, tone growing quiet. “But I’m nothing like her. To some degree, I think I might be the first genuine connection you ever made with a girl. You liked the way I felt about you and how I acted for you. I changed everything about myself for you, I would’ve followed you anywhere, I would’ve done anything for you, and you took advantage of that. You took advantage of the fact that I love you.”

You may not truly know what love is, but you know it’s something he never gave you. It stings, knowing that even after all of this, you still secretly, desperately long for the type of love you know will always be out of your reach. A part of you wants to believe him, but this time, you listen to your mind instead of your heart.

Jaemin’s head shoots up at your confession, eyes widening in belated realization, and you curl your lips inward, biting your lower lip. You love him. You love him, he now knows, and to your surprise, it didn’t hurt as much as you thought it would. Three steps forward and two steps back is still one step in the right direction.

“One day, you’re gonna find someone who’s finally enough for you—someone who’s worth making pancakes for,” you say wistfully, pausing for a minute before gathering the courage to continue.

“And you’re gonna fall in love with them. Like really love them. You’re gonna love them so much that you’ll try your hardest to be enough for them. You’re gonna try so fucking hard to be the one they want, the one they love, that you’ll do anything for them. You’ll even change yourself for better—or for worse.” You grip the strap of your tote bag even tighter, a dull pang in your heart making its appearance, and Jaemin winces, lowering his eyes as the regret and guilt pools into his stomach.

“But sometimes, it won’t be enough. It’s not going to be enough,” you continue, swallowing hard. “And it’ll never be enough for them. You’re willing to move heaven and earth for them, but they won’t notice. Or maybe they don’t even care. No matter how hard you try to love them, it won’t matter unless they want you. Unless they choose you. And it’ll hurt like hell. It’ll hurt every single time you see them, every time you hear them, every time you think of them.”

Your voice softens, shaking slightly as you take in a wavering breath before pushing forward. “And when it hurts, you’re going to think of me. You’re going to remember me because that’s when you’ll understand what it feels like. That’s when you’ll know how I felt. How it feels to not be enough. How it feels to have your heart ripped to shreds by someone you care about—someone you love.”

His heart drops, and you give him a wistful smile before it quickly disappears, and your expression schools into one of indifference. You continue to walk forward confidently, brushing past his frozen figure. You see your friends waiting for you on the other side of the lawn, and you look over your shoulder at Jaemin one last time, taking a deep breath and steeling yourself.

“And you know what? I hope to fucking god it hurts you as much as you hurt me.”

The world continues to spin, you keep moving forward, and he remains rooted in his spot, unable to look away from you. There are so many Barbies and Kens out there, so many more Na Jaemins who will come into your life and sweep you off your feet, and you’ll make them feel special and more than a pretty face, he belatedly realizes, he’s disposable and so easily replaceable, but there’s only ever going to be one you.

As he watches you walk away, Jaemin thinks he is starting to understand.

EPILOGUE.

Life likes to play cruel jokes, and the senior year gives you the most hilarious one of all in the form of your final capstone project. Last you heard about Jaemin, he had switched his major to pre med (which was ironic to you since that field would require him to care about other people, which he clearly proved to be incapable of). However, your university decided to implement a cross collaboration between the various schools, and it’s just your luck that you find yourself paired up with Jaemin. Giving him a tight smile as you take a seat across from him in the library room he reserved, you take out your laptop.

Jaemin had asked earlier if you wanted to request a new assigned partner, but you highly doubt any professor would switch up a pairing on account of one person being guilty of being the greatest asshole to ever exist (Plus, you’ll come across many guys like him in your field of work, so you might as well start building up your tolerance now).

It is the final time you will meet up with him before the big presentation, and the two of you work together in silence, only breaking it to discuss the project topic. It is neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, settled somewhere in between—kind of like a purgatory for relationships. You’ve stopped thinking about him a while ago already, but seeing someone who once was a part of your life always brings back memories, whether wanted or not.

“I met someone.”

Jaemin breaks the ice, unable to hold it back any longer. He feels like he’s going to explode if he doesn't get this off of his chest. There is a slight pause in your writing before you resume, but he knows you are listening.

“I met her after… after our…” He trails off. He doesn’t know what to call it—what the two of you had. An almost relationship. “… After us.”

You continue to write, taking note of several points to be discussed based on your slide. He puts down his pen, clasping his hands together as he fiddles with one of the rings wrapped around his fingers.

“I made her blueberry pancakes.”

You sharply inhale for a brief millisecond before you jot down another bullet point. One, two, three, four, five bullet points until you can breathe normally again. You’re twenty two years old, but you suddenly feel like you’re eighteen again. You sometimes loathed your younger self, but because of her, you learned so many things (Forgiveness is one of them).

“I don’t know what else to do, except keep making her pancakes.” Jaemin sits there idly for a few moments, entirely unaware of your inner turmoil, before he laughs derisively, “She’s in love with my best friend. She never told me, but I can just tell.”

There’s another pause from him. Staring down at his notebook, he swallows hard, the lump in his throat never fully going away. His voice cracks as he whispers out his question:

“Does it ever stop hurting?”

Your pen stops moving across the paper, dropping to the side. There’s a black scribble from where it fell. You still continue to look at the index card, focusing on the college ruled lines until they become a mosaic blur of blue, black, and white.

“Eventually.”

Your tone is impassive, and his head snaps up at your reply. You pick up the pen again. You don’t look at him, but you know he’s staring at you, an unrecognizable expression in his eyes.

Perhaps, it would have been different if you had met the present day him back then instead. Perhaps, it would’ve worked out. Maybe he would have made another girl fall in love with him, broke her heart, and come out unscathed. Or maybe he would still be the same as his past self if he hadn’t met you. It’s the butterfly effect; you don’t know what would have happened, but you don’t care. Not anymore.

By now, you have mourned him for longer than you have loved him.

“Y/N, you were never hard to love. I was bad at loving. I’m sorry for hurting you.”

And this time, you know he truly means it—that Jaemin truly understands. It is good that he has learned and tried to become a better person. You just wish it didn’t have to come at the expense of you.

Your first love teaches you what love isn’t.

The threads holding the pieces of your heart together these past three years have always been so fragile. Just one tug at the heart strings, and everything unravels so easily, like grains of sand slipping through your fingers. You’ve nearly forgotten what heartbreak feels like, the old wounds opening up for a long forgotten friend that you had prayed you would never meet again.

You discover that it hurts even more the second time around.

“I wish I fell in love with you back then.”

His tone is forlorn, a silent resolution wrapped in happenstance. You continue to write down more notes for your part of the presentation, the soft scritches of your pen against paper almost masking your quiet response, and Jaemin nearly misses it.

“So did I.”

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