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Chapter Text

Chapter A : After You - Yeon Seok and Chae Soobin, two former lovers who are reconnecting quietly!

The apartment was smaller than he remembered. Still smelled faintly of her lavender tea and the honeyed, woodsy notes of the candle she always lit after work — the same one she had once said reminded her of calm, of him.

Yoo Yeon-seok stood just inside the doorway, shoes still on, holding the last box she’d never collected. It was labeled in her handwriting — the soft, slanted script he used to tease her for. “Like a poet who’s never been kissed,” he’d said once. She had laughed, blush rising to her ears.

He stepped in slowly, closing the door behind him. The echo of its latch felt final.

They hadn’t spoken in seven months. Not properly, anyway. Not since the day she had walked away, rain soaking her through, tears barely distinguishable from the weather. Not since he let her go without chasing her down the stairs — a decision he’d relived like a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

Chae Soo-bin had always been quieter than him. Softer. But she’d felt deeply, and in their years together, she loved with a kind of intensity that didn’t scream — it endured. When her mother passed, it was Yeon-seok who held her through sleepless nights, spoon-fed her porridge when she wouldn’t eat. When he collapsed from overwork at the hospital, it was her voice he woke to, trembling and half-angry, telling him he wasn’t allowed to die on her.

They had been everything to each other. Until grief changed her. Or maybe it changed him too.

He wasn’t sure when exactly they had stopped hearing one another. Maybe when he started avoiding home after late surgeries, or when she stopped asking him to sit on the couch with her. Maybe love doesn’t end in a single moment. Maybe it fades out slowly, like sunlight at dusk — too beautiful to realize it’s already gone.

He set the box down by the window, beside the potted plant she used to sing to. The plant was still alive. Barely.

Then, a knock.

Not sharp. Just one. Then another. Hesitant.

His breath caught.

He opened the door.

She was there.

Wearing a soft blue sweater with sleeves pulled over her hands, her hair tucked behind one ear. Her eyes were wide, uncertain. As if she hadn’t really believed she’d knock. As if she expected him not to answer.

“Hi,” she said softly, her voice dry with the wind.

He blinked once. Nodded. “Hi.”

There was a silence between them. Not cold, not awkward — just… filled with everything unspoken. Seven months’ worth.

“I… I didn’t think you’d still be here,” she said, folding her hands. “I was just… walking past. I saw the light. And the plant.” A faint, nervous smile. “I thought it’d be dead by now.”

He looked over his shoulder. “I forgot to stop watering it.”

She gave a tiny laugh. It hit him like a soft punch to the chest.

“Do you want to come in?” he asked.

A beat passed.

“Only if it’s okay,” she replied.

“It’s okay.”

She stepped in. The air shifted. Familiar, but not quite the same.

The silence returned, but this time it felt warm. As if the space recognized her — and he did too. They stood in the kitchen, side by side, not touching, but not needing to. He made her tea without asking, automatically pulling her mug from the back of the cabinet — the one with the chipped rim and faded constellation print.

She held it in both hands, inhaled.

“Still chamomile?” she asked.

He nodded. “Didn’t change.”

She sat on the couch. He sat on the floor, beside her knees. It used to be their place — late-night talks, quiet sobs, tired laughter. The carpet still had the little ink stain from when she’d tried to write lyrics while tipsy.

“You look tired,” she said quietly.

“So do you.”

They both smiled, softly.

Time passed. They didn’t speak much. Just breathed in the same space again, like they used to.

She was the first to break the silence.

“I thought about you a lot,” she whispered, looking down at the mug. “Every day.”

His fingers flexed slightly. His voice cracked when he spoke.

“Then why didn’t you call?”

Her eyes didn’t rise. “Because I didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t break me.”

He nodded.

They sat in it — the ache, the wanting, the sorrow of the could-have-been.

“You?” she asked, glancing at him, voice trembling. “Did you think of me?”

His answer was a breath. “Every time I came home.”

She looked at him now. Not through him. Not past him. At him.

“Do you still love me?” Her voice cracked on the last word.

Yeon-seok didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. His throat closed. His heart stuttered. He wanted to lie, to keep it clean. But he had never lied to her — not once.

“More than anything,” he said. “I just didn’t know how to hold you when you started falling.”

She blinked rapidly. Set the mug down. Then, almost inaudibly, “I didn’t want to be held. I wanted someone to fall with me.”

He reached up. Just his fingertips brushed the edge of her sweater sleeve. She didn’t move.

“I’m still falling,” he whispered. “But this time, I don’t want to land alone.”

She leaned down, slowly. Pressed her forehead to his. Not a kiss. Just breath to breath.

“I don’t know how to fix us,” she said.

“Then don’t,” he murmured. “Just stay tonight.”

Her breath hitched.

She didn’t nod. She didn’t speak. She simply shifted down to the floor beside him, curled her legs into his lap, and rested her head on his shoulder. The same place she used to sleep after their worst fights. The place where her breathing always evened out first.

His arms wrapped around her, tentative at first. Then tight.

They didn’t speak again that night. They didn’t touch more than that. No kisses. No loud declarations. Just two broken hearts, holding what they once lost. Hoping it could still mean something.

Outside, it started to rain again. But this time, neither of them got up to close the window.

Chapter Text

The café had changed. Or maybe it hadn’t — maybe it was just her.

The wooden beams still groaned when the sea wind swept too close to the windows. The sea glass wind chime by the door still sang its soft, shivering notes. It was twilight when he walked in — the blue hour, she called it. The world between light and dark.

He stood at the threshold, snow melting off his coat, hesitating in a way he never used to.

She didn’t stand to greet him. Just looked up from behind the counter, her hands still cradling the chipped ceramic mug she’d owned since her college years.

“You found it,” she said. Not surprised. Not pleased. Just… quiet.

Yeon-seok nodded. “The cab driver didn’t believe this place existed.”

Her lips lifted in a wry smile. “It barely does.”

Silence folded between them like a third presence. She poured herself another inch of coffee, black and bitter. He watched her hands — always steady, always cold.

She didn’t ask why he was there. He didn’t offer it.

He stepped forward finally, shaking off his coat and pulling out a chair at the two-top by the window. The wind rattled outside, but inside, it was warm — heavy with the smell of cinnamon and coffee grounds. One of the pendant lights above buzzed softly.

She brought over a second mug, filled it, and set it down in front of him without a word.

It was like this for a while — the kind of silence that only came from history. From two people who’d once known each other’s breath and heartbeat and skin so intimately that talking now felt like peeling off a layer of armor.

“How long has it been?” she asked, finally breaking the stillness.

“Four years. Give or take.”

She nodded once, slowly. “And now?”

“I’m here.”

She didn’t meet his eyes. She traced her finger around the rim of her mug. “Why now?”

The question hovered in the air, brittle as frost.

“I was never really gone,” he said. “I just… couldn’t come back until I had nothing left to ruin.”

The way her fingers paused — just for a second — said everything.

“You ruined nothing,” she said. “You just left. And I asked you to love me,” she said quietly. “But you chose duty.”

He looked down at his hands. The same hands that had held her face in the early morning light, trembling with all the things he never said.

“You were the only soft thing I ever had,” he said. “I didn’t know how to keep softness without destroying it.”

She laughed, and it wasn’t unkind. Just sad.

_____

6 YEARS EARLIER – NIGHT

They had fallen asleep once on the high school rooftop, sharing a blanket and a cassette player. The stars that night had blinked like they were laughing at them — two idiots tiptoeing around something they couldn’t name.

She whispered:
“If you ever leave, don’t come back with someone else.”

He replied:
“If I come back, it’ll be for you.”

But he left anyway….

They both stared out the window for a moment — to the snow falling thickly in the dark, the distant echo of waves against rocks.

Then she stood, without a word, and walked to the small shelf behind the counter. When she returned, she held a book — the same tattered copy of On Love and Other Impossible Pursuits he once gifted her.

He smiled then. The first real one. “You kept it.”

“You underlined all the wrong parts,” she said, sitting again.

“I underlined the ones that scared me.”

“And I memorized the ones that broke me.”

There was no accusation in her voice. Just remembrance.

The heat from the coffee fogged the window glass. Their reflections blurred and warped in it, like versions of themselves they once were — young, desperate, in love.

“You could stay the night,” she said finally.

He blinked. “Soo-bin…”

She shook her head. “Not like that. The roads are bad. You’re not exactly dressed for snow.”

He studied her. The café lights turned her eyes golden-brown, but there was steel in them. The softness he remembered had matured — grown edges.

“I don’t want to confuse you,” he said.

She leaned in slightly, her voice low. “You don’t confuse me anymore, Yeon-seok. I know exactly what I want.”

His throat bobbed.

“You?”

“I want to be the man who deserves that answer.”

A long silence. A storm raged somewhere far beyond the thick windows.

Finally, she rose and gestured to the backroom — a modest space with a daybed and a lamp. “There’s a blanket in there. It still smells like cardamom.”

He stood too, but didn’t move to the door.

“Soo-bin,” he said softly.

When she turned to look at him, the exhaustion in her softened. Like she’d been carrying the ache of him for too long.

“I never stopped loving you.”

The way she smiled — small, tired, but real — was all the answer he needed.

“I know,” she whispered.

⸻

The next morning, the café doorbells chimed again. Fresh snow covered the world outside. But inside, two mugs sat side by side. Steam curled into the quiet air.

And for once, the silence wasn’t full of ghosts.

It was full of warmth. Of the slow, quiet return to something that had never really ended.

Something that was always waiting.
Before they were apart.
Before they were broken.
Before they were us.

Chapter Text

The school auditorium smelled faintly of fresh paint and sugar syrup. Colorful paper butterflies fluttered above the stage, taped lovingly by tiny hands and harried teachers. Balloons lined the walls, and the chatter of excited parents filled the air. of the brightly decorated elementary school auditorium. It was Children’s Day — and to Yoo Yeon-seok, it felt bigger than any doctor’s conferences he had ever attended.

Yoo Yeon-seok sat stiffly on one of the tiny plastic chairs meant for toddlers, knees practically at his chest. He barely noticed the discomfort.

Because behind the curtain on that little stage was their daughter. His and Soo-bin’s.

“She’s nervous,” Chae Soo-bin whispered beside him, holding a crumpled program in her lap. “She said this morning she had butterflies in her tummy.”

Yeon-seok glanced at her, eyes soft. “She said she wanted to fly.”

Soo-bin smiled. “Well, she’s wearing the wings for it.”

Their daughter — four years old, stubborn like her mom, sensitive like her dad — had insisted on bunny ears and wings. “Because bunnies fly when they’re happy,” she had explained seriously that morning, twirling in her glittery pink tutu.

The lights dimmed, and the parents’ chatter hushed into an anticipatory silence. A piano began to play a whimsical melody — plinky and bright like raindrops on a tin roof — and the curtain slowly rose.

There they were: a dozen little children in mismatched costumes, some stumbling out like baby deer on ice. And in the middle of the back row, slightly tilted to the side because she refused to stand in straight lines — their daughter.

Tiny. Sparkling. With pink bunny ears flopping on her head and socks already sliding down her calves.

Yeon-seok’s chest tightened.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Oh my god. She’s so small.”

“Shh,” Soo-bin whispered through a giggle, but she squeezed his hand tighter.

The dance began. Or rather — an approximation of a dance. The teacher was crouched off-stage, wildly gesturing choreography while the kids did their best. Two turned the wrong way. One started crying. Another picked his nose.

But their daughter? She was smiling. Glorious and wide.

She scanned the crowd with a determined squint — until her eyes landed on them.

And when they did, she beamed. A burst of joy lit up her face as she gave an exaggerated wave. Then she began to hop. One-two-three-hop. Arms up. A spin.

Except—her spin went the wrong way. She bumped into a classmate and fell on her butt.

Yeon-seok shot up halfway from his chair, heart in his throat.

But she sat up, blinked… and laughed. Loud and delighted.

Then she got back up.

“Did you see that?” he whispered, blinking fast. “She fell and didn’t cry.”

“She’s brave,” Soo-bin whispered, watching with pride. “Just like you.”

“No,” Yeon-seok choked out. “She’s better.”

The music picked up tempo, and the kids began their final move: bunny hops across the stage.

Their daughter’s little legs bounded over the polished wood, tutu bouncing, wings askew. And Yeon-seok — Yoo Yeon-seok, respected surgeon, loving husband and father, mostly put-together adult — felt tears run down both cheeks.

He didn’t bother hiding it.

“She’s just—” he started, but couldn’t finish. Instead, he put a fist to his mouth. “Her legs are so tiny.”

Soo-bin, now misty-eyed herself, tucked her head against his shoulder. “I know.”

“She’s trying so hard.”

“I know.”

“I would die for her.”

“I know.”

Then came the grand finale — a crooked plie, bunny paws up in the air. Applause erupted.

And their daughter? She bowed deep and blew a kiss into the crowd.

Yeon-seok staggered in his chair.

Later, in the crowd of excited parents and sugar-high children, their daughter charged at them like a bullet of pink fluff.

“Did you see me, Appa? Did you see my big spin?”

Yeon-seok scooped her up instantly, burying his face in her neck. “You were the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I fell down!”

“And you got up like a superhero,” he whispered.

“I waved at you!”

“I saw. My heart exploded.”

“Really?” she whispered, fascinated.

“Boom,” he said, tapping his chest. “Right here.”

Soo-bin grinned and kissed both of them. “Let’s get our ballerina some hotteok, yeah?”

That night, their daughter fell asleep with her bunny ears still on and one wing half-detached. The house was quiet, the world dim and soft.

Yeon-seok stood in the doorway of her room, arms folded, watching her breathe.

“You okay?” Soo-bin asked behind him, rubbing her eyes.

“She’s growing up.”

“She’s four.”

“I feel like I blinked, and she went from sleeping on my chest to twirling in a tutu.”

“She’s still the same. Just… twirlier.”

Yeon-seok laughed softly and pulled Soo-bin into his side. “Did you see her feet? So small. I don’t know why that broke me.”

“Because you love her,” she whispered.

He nodded.

And for a long moment, they just stood there, two people quietly in awe of their child.

“She’s ours,” he murmured finally, voice thick.

Soo-bin looked at him, eyes warm.

“And you, Yeon-seok,” she said, “are an absolute goner.”

He grinned through his tears. “Completely ruined.”

Chapter Text

It began, as most domestic disasters do, with good intentions and overconfidence.

The apartment was warm and quiet, bathed in the soft glow of a Sunday morning. Golden light spilled through gauzy curtains, painting lazy rectangles across the hardwood floor. In the kitchen, nestled on the countertop like a jewel in a crown, sat his pride and joy—a sleek, silver, unreasonably expensive espresso machine.

It wasn’t just a machine. It was a temple. A monument. A caffeine-powered extension of Yoo Yeon-seok’s soul.

And it had one rule.

DO NOT TOUCH IT.

Chae Soo-bin had heard this rule many times. Whispered. Repeated. Occasionally hissed. It came with a litany of reasons—calibration, water pressure, bean origin, steam wand etiquette—none of which she remembered because frankly, she wasn’t planning to touch the thing. Until today.

Today, she had woken up before him.

A rare, glittering victory.

And with that tiny triumph buzzing in her chest, she’d made a decision.

She would make coffee.

Good coffee.

Perfect coffee.

The kind of coffee that would make him blink at her with that half-smile and say something like, “You’re unbelievable,” and maybe kiss her forehead, and maybe—if she was really lucky—hand her a pastry he’d been hiding in the pantry.

She padded into the kitchen wearing one of his oversized shirts and fuzzy socks, humming quietly, still dreamy with sleep.

The espresso machine gleamed at her like it knew.

She approached it slowly, reverently, like Indiana Jones in a booby-trapped temple. She didn’t even touch it at first. She just looked at it. Studied it. One button was labeled in Italian. That felt unnecessarily aggressive.

The instructions were taped to the side in Yeon-seok’s neat handwriting:
STEP 1: DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING UNLESS YOU’RE ME
STEP 2: IF YOU TOUCH ANYTHING, STOP IMMEDIATELY
STEP 3: IF YOU DIDN’T STOP IMMEDIATELY, RUN

She squinted at the notes. Arrogant.

She pressed the button anyway.

It whirred to life like a tiny metal dragon awakening from slumber.

The hum grew louder. The pressure gauge ticked upward. The machine hissed. Then, without warning, a shrill sputter, a puff of steam, and a pitiful clank echoed through the kitchen.

And just like that—it died.

The entire espresso machine went dark. Lifeless. A chrome corpse.

Soo-bin stared in horror.

It felt like she had just killed a small, expensive animal.

She whispered a silent prayer, pressing the button again, then again. Nothing. She jiggled the plug. Nada. She tried the reset switch he’d mentioned once during a very condescending lecture. Still nothing.

She took a step back. Then another. If she stood at the right angle, maybe he wouldn’t notice.

A door creaked.

Her heart dropped.

His footsteps padded toward the kitchen.

No.

No no no.

And then he appeared—damp hair, towel slung over one shoulder, muscles glistening like he’d been photoshopped by the gods. Still sleepy, but alert enough to sense something was… wrong.

His gaze slid across the kitchen. Paused. Zeroed in on it.

His baby. His beloved. His espresso machine, now as silent as the grave.

He looked at her. Then at the machine. Then back at her.

She raised both hands innocently, as if caught at a crime scene with the murder weapon.

The silence was so sharp it had edges.

Then he exhaled—long, slow, and tragic. Like a man discovering his vintage car had been keyed.

The rest of the morning became a blur of passive-aggressive tinkering and exaggerated sighs. He refused to look directly at her. Instead, he performed emergency surgery on the espresso machine with the grim determination of a battlefield medic.

She tried to help—offered tea, back rubs, emotional support. He rebuffed her with all the icy stoicism of a drama lead in episode one.

Eventually, she retreated to the couch, where she curled into a blanket burrito and pouted while watching him dismantle the machine in quiet anguish.

He even pulled out the instruction manual.

The actual manual.

That’s when she knew things were bad.

She peeked at him over the top of the blanket. His brow was furrowed. His jaw was tight. He muttered something in Italian to the machine, like it was capable of forgiveness.

It was both tragic and hilarious.

By noon, he’d managed to resurrect it.

Barely.

It sputtered to life with a wheeze, groaning like a haunted dishwasher, but it worked. Coffee poured out—dark and strong and slightly offended.

He didn’t gloat. Not exactly. But he did make a single, perfect cup for himself and walked past her on the couch without making eye contact.

She stared at him.

He took a sip.

She kept staring.

He sat down.

Silence.

He raised the mug to his lips again.

And then she tackled him.

A blur of limbs and blanket, she launched herself across the couch, knocking the mug from his hand and sprawling across his lap in a ridiculous tangle.

He yelped—not out of pain, but out of sheer disbelief.

She climbed on top of him, wrestling him into a hug he clearly didn’t want but also didn’t not want. His hands instinctively went to her waist, then dropped again in half-hearted protest.

She buried her face in his neck.

Victory.

He smelled like coffee and shampoo and righteous indignation.

Her favorite blend.

She stayed there, draped across him like an over-affectionate cat, while he tried to pretend this wasn’t the exact reason he had fallen in love with her in the first place.

Eventually, the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

A small smile.

Tiny. Dangerous.

Then came the chuckle. Just one. But it cracked the tension like a match.

She pulled back just enough to see his face.

His hair was sticking up. His mouth was twitching. He looked like a man who had fought a war and lost—but was somehow happy about it.

He shook his head.

She beamed.

The machine hissed behind them. Steam curled upward in a soft, forgiving breath.

All was forgiven.

Almost.

⸻
LATER – AFTERNOON

The espresso machine sat in its corner, fully recovered. It purred contentedly as Yeon-seok brewed her a cup, this time under supervision.

She watched him with her chin propped on her hand, sipping it carefully like it was sacred.

He glanced at her.

She raised a brow and dared to wink.

His eyes narrowed.

He leaned in, close enough to brush his lips against her temple. Soft. Deadly serious.

Then, almost too quietly:

“Don’t touch that again.”

Chapter Text

They met under the apricot tree when they were six.

She was the quiet girl in pigtails and polka-dot socks, clutching her picture book to her chest like armor. He was the noisy boy who chased dogs and scraped his knees trying to impress everyone. Everyone—except her. She never looked. Never smiled.

That only made him try harder.

On the first day of school, he offered her his banana milk. She blinked up at him, confused, then shyly took it with both hands. That was enough. From then on, he followed her everywhere—his tiny shadow trailing hers.

Chae Soo-bin, the girl who whispered to caterpillars and colored outside the lines.
Yoo Yeon-seok, the boy who brought her pocketfuls of ladybugs because he thought they were pretty and she liked pretty things.

They grew up as constants.

Through middle school science projects, spilled secrets during sleepovers, shared umbrellas during sudden rains, and fierce fights that lasted all of two hours before one of them slipped a sticky note apology under the door.

High school made their friendship… complicated.

There were moments—the way she laughed a little too long at his jokes, how his voice softened only when he said her name. But neither dared name it. She hid behind her books. He hid behind teasing and grin.

When they were seventeen, he saw her crying alone after her grandmother passed. She didn’t notice him kneel beside her. Just that warm hand taking hers, and a boy whispering, “You don’t have to say anything. I’ll sit here.”

And he did. For two hours. In silence.

She never forgot.

Years passed. University. Late-night calls. Celebrations. Breakups. New jobs. Even as life pulled at their seams, their thread held.

She knew he’d call when her cat passed away.

He knew she’d show up with warm soup the week he moved into his new apartment and couldn’t figure out how to work the stove.

They danced around the obvious.

Everyone around them saw it. Their families joked. Friends rolled eyes. His mother once asked, “Are you planning to marry her quietly one day or should we throw you a proper engagement party?”

He had just chuckled, but the idea lingered.

It wasn’t until her birthday, a quiet Sunday in April, that he decided.

⸻

She came home from work, tired and ready for bed, only to find a string—red, knotted gently—tied to her curtain rod.

And a note.

“Follow the string. I’m waiting where everything began.”

Her heart stalled. She didn’t move for a whole minute.

Then she grabbed her coat.

She followed the string past her childhood bedroom, out the front door, into the street where their bicycles used to race. The string wound through the alley near the corner bakery (where he once spent his allowance to buy her cream buns), across the tiny bridge they carved their initials into when they were twelve.

It ended at the old treehouse behind Yeon-seok’s childhood home. The one they built with wooden planks and wild dreams. The place where she confessed she was scared of lightning, and he held her hand until the storm passed.

Her breath caught.

It was still there—aged, creaky, wrapped in time. But now, fairy lights flickered around it, gentle and golden, like stars had come closer just to watch.

She climbed the wooden ladder slowly.

He was waiting inside.

No music. No audience. Just the soft hum of crickets and the scent of rain-soaked earth.

The walls were covered in Polaroids and memories.

Their first school festival. That blurry picture of her hiding behind a teddy bear. Their matching Halloween costumes (he was a banana, she was a confused fairy). Graduation day. His arms around her in every one.

And in the middle, a photo taken only a few weeks ago—her asleep on his shoulder, his cheek resting on her hair, both of them glowing under a soft sunbeam through a café window.

She turned. He was down on one knee.

He wasn’t trembling, but his voice wobbled just a little.

“I’ve loved you since you scolded me for squishing snails and cried when I said clouds weren’t made of cotton.”
“I’ve loved you through every scraped knee, every late-night ramen, every smile you didn’t think I noticed.”
“But most of all, I love you now. As you are. All of you. Always.”

The ring was simple. A tiny diamond. A silver band.

She didn’t even look at it.

Her tears were already falling, and her head was nodding before he could finish the question.

“Will you marry me?”

She knelt beside him.

Wrapped her arms around him like she’d been waiting to do it since she was six.

“Yes,” she whispered against his collar. “Yes, Yeon-seok. I thought you’d never ask.”

He laughed, buried his face in her hair, and cried with her.

⸻

Outside, the apricot tree swayed.

Inside, a lifetime of love found its name: forever.

Chapter Text

In every trio, there's always one who lingers at the edge of the frame.

Chae Soo-bin knew her place.

The three of them had been inseparable since middle school—Yoo Yeon-seok, Chae Soo-bin, and the golden girl with the brightest laugh: Seo Yura. Childhood friends who shared everything from comic books to ice cream cones. Everything, it seemed, except the boy Soo-bin loved in silence.

She was the quiet one, the observer. Her love was a slow-burning ache, never loud enough to be disruptive. It curled behind her ribs, tightened when she saw Yeon-seok smile at Yura like the sun rose for her. And Yura...Yura loved him back, effortlessly, confidently. She always had.

Soo-bin wasn't jealous. Just painfully, quietly invisible.

She had always been the one holding the camera, not the one in the picture.

⸻

They all ended up in the same university—different majors, same city.

By then, Yura and Yeon-seok were officially a couple. Everyone thought they were perfect. And maybe they were. Yura was dazzling and ambitious, always surrounded by admirers, while Yeon-seok, ever the steady one, grounded her.

Soo-bin clapped the loudest at their college events, laughed when they laughed, stood quietly when they kissed. But it was harder now. The more she tried to bury her feelings, the more they took root.

Sometimes she wished she could be petty. Dramatic. But she wasn't. She was soft-spoken, always there when needed, rarely when wanted.

Until everything cracked.

⸻

Yura broke up with him.

Not with a storm, but a breeze. She left him on a rainy Tuesday, saying she wanted to explore life, her career, and maybe Paris. He was stunned. Still in love. Still loyal.

And Soo-bin was there when he cried, when he drank too much, when he called her at 2 a.m. just to sit in silence. She brought him porridge when he was sick and stayed on the phone when he couldn't sleep.

He never noticed her shaking fingers when their hands brushed. Never saw how she looked away when his voice broke saying Yura's name.

But slowly, something shifted.

⸻

Yeon-seok started seeing her differently. Not all at once. Not in a sudden thunderclap.

It was the way she listened—fully, attentively. The way her eyes softened when he was hurting. How she made room for him without asking for anything in return.

One night, they were walking home under a violet dusk. He turned and asked, "Why didn't you ever tell me you were hurting too?"

She froze.

And then whispered, "Because your hurt was louder."

Something cracked inside him. For the first time, he really saw her—not as the third in their trio, not as a quiet comfort—but as the girl who had loved him silently through years of looking the other way.

⸻

He didn't rush. He wasn't sure what he felt—not yet. But he wanted to know. He needed to.

So he showed up at her door more often. Invited her to movies. Called her when he had good news. It confused her. Broke her heart all over again. She tried to draw back, to protect herself, but he wouldn't let her.

"Don't hide from me, Soo-bin. Not anymore."

And then one night, under the weight of a thousand unsaid things, he kissed her.

Gently. Almost apologetically.

When he pulled back, she didn't move.

Tears clung to her lashes as she whispered, "Why now?"

He didn't have a perfect answer.

"Because I was an idiot," he said. "And because I can't stop thinking about how the girl I thought I knew was the girl I've always needed."

⸻

They weren't flashy. They weren't perfect.

They were something better.

Yeon-seok still brought up Yura sometimes, but not with longing anymore. Just memories. And Soo-bin no longer watched from the edges of life—she stood at the center, holding his hand, loved loudly at last.

At a quiet beach, he turned to her and said, "Thank you for waiting."

She smiled, sad and radiant. "I never stopped."

Chapter Text

They’d spent almost a year pretending the spark between them was just the product of good acting. That the chemistry on-screen—the silent glances, the stammered smiles, the brush of fingers that lingered one beat too long—was all part of the job.

But it wasn’t.

“When the Phone Rings” had become the K-drama of the year. Audiences were obsessed, hashtags trended with every new episode, and speculation ran wild. Were they dating in real life?

“No,” Yeon-seok had laughed in interviews, his dimple on full charm-mode. “We’re just really close.”

Soobin would nod, all shy smiles. “He’s a great senior. I learned so much.”

But the truth?

The truth was they kissed—really kissed—on episode seven and neither of them slept that night. Not because of guilt. But because once the cameras cut, Yeon-seok had looked at her and whispered, “That didn’t feel like acting.” And Soobin, bright-eyed and bare-faced, had whispered back, “I know.”

Still, they kept it quiet. For months.

Because actors didn’t date their co-stars.

And if they did, they certainly didn’t post about it on Instagram in swim shorts.

⸻

The Maldives was supposed to be their secret.

They flew out quietly, no airport sightings, no stylist tags, no publicist warnings. Just two people who needed to breathe. To be normal. To fall in love under sunlight instead of studio lights.

It was their third day on the island when Soobin found the courage to wear the yellow bikini.

“Are you sure?” she asked, wrapping a towel tightly around her. “It’s a little…”

Yeon-seok looked up from where he was lounging on the beach chair and nearly choked on his coconut water.

“You’re not going out like that.”

Her face fell. “Too much?”

He stood. Walked right over. Whispered low against her ear. “Too tempting.”

She wore it anyway. With her chin up and bunny-ears sunglasses on.

He took a photo.

From behind. Her looking out at the sea. Bunny ears tilted, one foot slightly in the air like she’d danced her way into the ocean breeze.

He didn’t tag her. He didn’t even caption it.

Just: 🌞🐰

And himself in neon swim shorts, lounging beside a coconut, looking ridiculously smug.

Ten minutes later, Twitter was in flames.

⸻

“I KNEW IT!! THAT’S SOOBIN’S SUNGLASSES.”

“Compare her ears from the MBC Drama Awards. SAME GIRL.”

“EXACT SAME TOE CURVE!!!”

“My entire life has been leading up to this decoding.”

“Yeon-seok’s got the BUNNY.”

The agency didn’t even have time to respond. They were still debating how to spin it when Yeon-seok casually dropped another post.

This one wasn’t cryptic.

It was a video.

He was recording himself on the beach, smiling at the camera, cheeks flushed, sea breeze tossing his hair. Then the frame tilted—suddenly, hilariously—and there she was.

Soobin.

In bunny ears, yelling from behind the camera, “You forgot the SPF, dummy!”

He grinned like the sun. “Oops.”

The video ended with her hand covering the lens and both of them laughing.

Caption:
💛 Not hiding. Just… holding it close until it was too big to hold alone.

⸻

“I can’t believe you posted that,” Soobin groaned later that night, cheeks red from sun and viral fame.

Yeon-seok shrugged, pulling her into his lap. “It was bound to come out.”

“You used the bunny ears!”

“You wore them first.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re mine,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

And just like that—amid crashing waves, yellow bikinis, and social media explosions—they went public.

Together. For real.

Forever.

Chapter Text

Day 1: Arrival + Anticipation

The sun kissed their skin the moment they stepped off the plane.
Chae Soo-bin clutched her sunhat and let out a delighted squeal.
Yoo Yeon-seok smiled—he’d seen that look before. That was her “I’m about to fall in love with everything” face.

The resort welcomed them with chilled coconut water and leis, but Yeon-seok was focused on one thing: getting to the private villa.

Rose petals on the bed? Check.
Infinity pool overlooking the ocean? Check.
A wife in a sundress giving him that “Are we really alone?” look? Check.

That first night was soft and slow.
They didn’t rush.
He undid her dress like unwrapping something fragile, breathing her name like a vow.
She touched him like she’d been waiting her whole life to memorize him.
Under linen sheets and candlelight, they whispered and laughed, tangled in sheets, and learned how their hearts fit in each other’s rhythm.

⸻

Day 2: Culinary Chaos

They signed up for a couple’s cooking class.
Yeon-seok was confident. “I’m a surgeon. I’ve got knife skills.”

He cried harder than the onions.
Soo-bin laughed so hard she dropped the soy sauce.
“Do you always cry this easily?” she teased, hugging him from behind.

“Only when you’re mean to me,” he pouted, smearing flour on her cheek.

They kissed amidst the chaos.
It ended with half-cooked dumplings and a flour fight that left them breathless on the kitchen floor, covered in giggles—and dough.

⸻

Day 3: Beach Drama

Yeon-seok flexed in his open shirt. “Look, six-pack!”

Soo-bin squinted. “That’s sunscreen.”

Ten minutes into paradise, a jellyfish found his ankle.
He yelped like a startled dolphin.
She half-panicked, half-laughed as she dragged him to the first-aid hut, shouting, “My husband’s dying!”

He wasn’t. But he did demand cuddles and attention for the rest of the day.
She obliged, tracing circles over his chest and whispering, “You’re the bravest man I know.”

Later that night, in their candle-lit villa, she straddled him in bed, kissed him softly, and said, “Let me kiss it better.”

He forgot all about the jellyfish.

⸻

Day 4: Massage Madness

They went for a couple’s spa treatment.

Soo-bin melted.
Yeon-seok? Not so much.

“Ow. Ow. OW. Baby, she’s trying to rearrange my spine.”

The therapist giggled, “Your husband is very delicate.”

Soo-bin bit her lip trying not to laugh.
That night, she ran her fingers down his back and said, “I’ll give you a gentler massage.”

She didn’t.
But he liked hers better anyway.

⸻

Day 5: Romantic Disaster

Private dinner on the beach.
A table surrounded by lanterns.
The waves humming softly.
The food? Delicious.
The mood? Perfect.

Until a crab decided to crash the party.

It climbed onto Soo-bin’s chair.
She screamed.
Yeon-seok screamed louder.
They toppled the table.
The waiter clapped. A live band started playing.

Despite the chaos, they laughed so hard they cried.
And later that night, wrapped in robes, tipsy on champagne and love, they made slow, lazy love by moonlight—her legs tangled over his, his hands in her hair.

“Still the best dinner of my life,” he whispered into her neck.

⸻

Day 6: Lost at Sea

Snorkeling day.

Soo-bin dove like a mermaid.
Yeon-seok adjusted his goggles. “Let’s do this.”

Two minutes later:
“Baby, I lost my glasses. I can’t see the fish. Or the boat. Or you.”

She floated beside him, grinning. “Then follow my voice.”

They held hands underwater.
She kept him safe.
He kept looking at her—even blurry—like she was the only thing worth seeing.

That night, he made love to her with a reverence that startled them both.
“You always look beautiful,” he murmured, brushing hair from her face, “but when I can’t see you, I feel you more.”

⸻

Day 7: Home Sweet Love

They stayed in.

No adventures.
No activities.
Just pajamas, takeout, a playlist of their favorite songs, and face masks.

She climbed onto his lap and kissed him like she meant it.

He groaned, “Should we ever leave this bed?”

She kissed his nose. “Only to pee.”

They took turns feeding each other snacks and watching the ceiling fan spin.

He whispered, “Did you think it’d be this fun?”

She smiled sleepily, curling into him.
“I thought it’d be sexier.”

“Oh?”

“And it was,” she added quickly, “but I didn’t expect it to be this funny. Or soft. Or… us.”

He held her close and whispered, “Let’s mess up every vacation this beautifully.”

They came back sunburnt, sore, and smug.
Their honeymoon photo album was 15% romantic and 85% chaotic.
But their memories?

100% real.

Chapter Text

It’s nearly three in the morning.

The kind of hour where even the moon seems to sigh, and the trees outside their window sway like they’re breathing too deeply for the silence around them. The house is dim, lit only by the soft, gold haze of the hallway nightlight and the distant hum of the baby monitor. Somewhere, a clock ticks in slow rhythm. The world is asleep—except for them.

Yoo Yeon-seok leans against the nursery doorframe, a bottle still warm in his hand, his shirt slightly damp from a mishap earlier with a stubborn burp and a full stomach. His gaze is steady, quiet, as if drinking in the scene before him.

On the rocking chair near the window, his wife Soo-bin cradles both their children in her lap. The twins, now one year old, have been fighting sleep all night—one teething, the other fussing for no reason except wanting warmth and arms and breath against their little body. Their daughter lies against Soo-bin’s chest, thumb in mouth, her hair tousled and cheeks flushed with the weight of exhaustion. Their son is curled against her side, eyes fluttering beneath lashes, fingers tangled in the hem of her sweatshirt.

Soo-bin’s shoulders are slumped, not from defeat but from the fragile peace of a long battle finally ending. Her hair is tied up loosely, strands falling around her face, and though her pajama shirt is rumpled and stained with a faded milk patch, she looks achingly beautiful—radiant in a way that only love and fatigue can craft.

Yeon-seok walks over slowly, quietly, careful not to disrupt the balance she’s created. He kneels beside her, placing the bottle gently on the nearby side table. His hand finds hers—small and cold beneath his. She squeezes it, briefly, without looking.

“I didn’t think they’d ever sleep,” she whispers, her voice soft like wind through leaves.

He leans his forehead to hers, breathing her in—the scent of baby lotion, laundry detergent, and her skin. “You’re incredible,” he murmurs.

She smiles faintly. “I feel like I’m falling apart most days.”

“You’re holding all of us together.”

His hand traces the outline of their daughter’s tiny foot poking from her blanket, then moves to brush a kiss onto their son’s hair. A moment later, he shifts to sit on the floor, his back against the chair, his head resting against her thigh.

They sit like that for a long time. Just breathing.

She strokes his hair absently. The weight of the twins presses into her, into both of them. The room, once too loud with cries and hiccups, is now a gentle hush of heartbeats and nighttime lullabies still playing in the background from the mobile.

“I cried today,” she says after a while.

His eyes stay closed, but he nods.

“In the kitchen. When the toast fell butter-side down. And when I couldn’t find the matching sock.”

He chuckles quietly. “I cried when I stepped on a toy dinosaur barefoot.”

She smiles, brushing a tear away with the back of her hand.

“It’s hard,” she murmurs.

“I know.”

“But I wouldn’t trade it. Not one second.”

He turns, lifting her hand to his lips. “I’d do this a thousand times if it’s with you.”

The babies stir slightly. A soft coo. A sleepy twitch. They both freeze.

And then stillness again.

Their shoulders relax in sync. A shared exhale. The kind that comes only from living so closely that their bodies forget where one ends and the other begins.

“Remember the night they were born?” she whispers, her eyes far away.

He nods slowly. How could he forget?

The hospital lights. Her hand gripping his with so much force it left bruises. The way she screamed his name and sobbed and whispered, “I can’t—” and yet still pushed through it all. The way his heart felt like it was being torn from his chest the moment he saw her hold their son first, and then their daughter, both red-faced and squalling and perfect.

He cried then—loud and ugly and proud.

“You looked at me like I’d built the universe,” she says, looking down at their daughter now curled into her side like a second heartbeat.

“You did,” he says simply.

Outside, a soft breeze kisses the windowpane. The world feels full even in its silence. The world is small, reduced to four lives inside one dim nursery.

He gets up eventually, taking their son gently from her arms and guiding her to follow. Together they tiptoe to the cribs and lay their children down, pulling the blankets to their chests, tucking stuffed animals into waiting arms.

Soo-bin leans on his shoulder as they watch their babies for a long moment, neither speaking.

Later, in the kitchen, he pours her warm chamomile tea while she rests her head on the counter. The soft click of the kettle. The faint ticking clock. The distant hum of peace.

She looks up at him, eyes half-closed. “You’re still my favorite person.”

He presses a kiss to her forehead. “You’re still my whole world.”

And when they finally make it back to bed—two mugs unfinished on the table, lullaby still spinning from the nursery—they lie tangled under soft blankets, her hand resting lightly over his chest, his palm curled around her wrist.

Outside, the dawn tiptoes in.

And inside, in those quiet hours, love holds everything steady.

Chapter Text

They didn’t start with dreams—they started with survival.Their story began not with a wedding, but with a promise whispered under flickering streetlights, with empty wallets and full hearts.

Yoo Yeon-seok, barely twenty-three, was a factory worker who wore heavy boots and carried home aching joints. Chae Soo-bin, delicate but iron-willed, worked two part-time jobs and often skipped meals to save every won she could. Their love was not roses and dates—it was sharing instant noodles with chopsticks that had seen better days, counting coins on the floor of a convenience store, and holding each other close when the winter wind seeped through cracked windows.

They rented a rooftop apartment that creaked with every step, where they used buckets to catch rain and burned candles when the electricity got cut off. The neighbors could hear their laughter as much as their arguments. There were nights they shouted at each other, voices cracking under the weight of unpaid bills and endless exhaustion. But there were more nights they held each other in silence—back to chest, fingers linked, as if to say, Don’t go. Even if the world tells you to leave, stay with me.

Yeon-seok sometimes came home with bloodied knuckles—injuries from machinery or moments of frustration he took out on rusted walls. Soo-bin would clean his wounds, never scolding, only brushing his hair back and whispering, “You’re doing enough.” Even when he didn’t believe it.

Their lowest point came during the third year. The factory downsized. Yeon-seok came home with a pink slip in hand and an apology stuck in his throat. He fell to his knees in the middle of their tiny kitchen, unable to look her in the eye.

“I failed you,” he said, voice cracking, forehead to the floor.

But Soo-bin, fragile as a lily and strong as steel, lifted his chin and said, “You haven’t even started. We’ll start again.”

And they did.

For weeks, they lived off cheap rice and pickled radish. Yeon-seok worked odd jobs—delivering gas cylinders, helping with construction, repairing bicycles in alleyways for ajusshis who paid him in cash or leftover kimchi. He built his own repair box out of scraps and learned to fix what others threw away. Soo-bin, meanwhile, began tutoring the children of rich families, her soft smile hiding the fatigue in her eyes.

She never once asked for more. Not new shoes. Not weekends off. Not even comfort. Just for him to come home to her each night. And he did—bruised, bone-weary, but hers.

When he finally saved enough to rent a tiny shop—no bigger than a one-car garage—they celebrated with street food and a bottle of cheap soju, toasting to “barely making it.” He worked every day of the week, fixing broken radios and bikes, installing shelves by hand, while Soo-bin kept the books and brought him packed lunches that tasted like home.

They didn’t have luxury, but they had rhythm. Routine. Love that had weathered fires and came out warm, not bitter.

They got married in a small ceremony under cherry blossoms at the park where they’d first kissed. No photographers, no crowd. Just her in a borrowed dress and him in a slightly oversized suit, both smiling as if the world had bowed just for them.

Their first child came five years later. She arrived early, small and fragile, like a petal in a storm. The hospital bills almost broke them, but Yeon-seok sold his old tools and worked double shifts for three months straight. He didn’t sleep more than four hours a night. But when he held his daughter for the first time, her tiny hand grasping his thumb, he cried like a man who had just found the reason he endured everything.

Still, life didn’t ease up. The shop had to grow, their child needed diapers and doctor visits, and Soo-bin, now juggling motherhood and accounting, rarely had time for herself. But not once did she complain. Not once did she let her smile falter. Even when she broke down in the bathroom late at night, muffling her sobs into a towel.

Yeon-seok saw. And his heart cracked.

So one morning, he woke up early, walked miles to the flower market, and bought her a single sunflower. It cost him more than it should’ve, but when he handed it to her, clumsily wrapped in newspaper, she looked at him like he had hung the stars himself.

Years passed.

They added a second floor to the shop. Their daughter started school. The apartment they moved into no longer had cracks in the ceiling. Their clothes weren’t secondhand anymore. But Yeon-seok still wore that old, scuffed watch she gave him on their fifth year together. And every night, after locking up the shop, he would make her tea, sit beside her on their couch, and ask, “Still with me?”

She would smile. “Always.”

People saw their success and called them lucky. But only they knew what it cost—the sleepless nights, the broken hearts mended with gentle hands, the resilience built from years of loving each other through hunger, fear, and uncertainty.

One rainy evening, their daughter—now ten—found their wedding photo tucked behind a book. She brought it to them, curious.

“Were you poor back then?”

Yeon-seok looked at the photo—two thin kids in borrowed clothes, smiling too big, eyes full of reckless hope.

“Yes,” he said looking at Soobin lovingly. “But rich in the things that matter.”

Chapter Text

Their Very First One

Back then, the world was smaller — a little quieter, a little simpler.

Yoo Yeon-seok was seventeen. Chae Soo-bin had just turned sixteen the week before. They sat at the edge of the school rooftop, legs swinging over the side as if the sky belonged to them. Below, the courtyard buzzed with distant laughter, the occasional chirp of cicadas in the late spring air. But up here, it was just them, sharing a can of peach soda and a bag of shrimp chips.

Soobin wore her hair in a loose ponytail that day, a few stubborn strands framing her cheek, stuck there by the soft sweat of youth. She looked like summer itself — sun-warmed and hopeful. Her uniform blazer was unbuttoned, her socks scrunched unevenly around her ankles, and her smile… her smile was shy, even when she tried not to let it be.

Yeon-seok, tall and awkward in that way boys are at that age, didn’t know much about kissing. But he knew he wanted to kiss her. He’d known it for weeks — ever since she fell asleep on his shoulder during math class, mumbling nonsense about strawberry milk and dogs in her dream. He didn’t say anything then, just sat there frozen, his heart thudding louder than the wall clock.

They were friends, technically. Study buddies. Lab partners. Seatmates since last term. But lately, everything had changed. Every time their fingers brushed when they passed notes, every time she scribbled little doodles on his notebook margins, every time she looked at him like he was something worth trusting — something worth blushing for — it had felt different. Like a soft tug on a thread he hadn’t noticed until now.

Today, something felt electric in the air. Maybe it was the breeze. Maybe it was the fact that she had waited for him by the school gate after class, kicking gravel and twirling the string of her bag between her fingers.

“Can I tell you something?” she said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Yeon-seok turned, startled. “What?”

Soobin looked down at her knees. “Sometimes I pretend you’re my boyfriend. Just when I’m walking home.”

He blinked.

“And what happens when you get home?” he asked quietly.

She smiled. “Then I have to pretend we say goodbye.”

The moment hung in the air between them like a feather — light, fragile, waiting to fall.

Yeon-seok shifted, clearing his throat.

“Um… Soobin-ah,” he said, voice barely louder than the rustling leaves around them.

She tilted her face up to look at him, her big eyes catching the last of the light. “Hmm?”

He didn’t look at her. Instead, he stared at the sunset like it held instructions for what he wanted to say. “If I… if I wanted to… kiss you. I mean, just a small kiss. Would that be okay?”

Her cheeks flushed. Her lips parted, then pressed together again. A beat of silence passed before she whispered, “Yes. I think… that’d be okay.”

Yeon-seok finally turned his head, his eyes full of nervous warmth. “Are you sure? I’ve never done this before. So… I might mess up.”

She laughed softly. “Me too.”

He leaned in slowly, giving her time to change her mind. Their noses bumped first, awkwardly. Soobin giggled — a nervous little sound that fizzed in his chest like soda bubbles. She tilted her face, eyes fluttering closed just before he did. His lips met hers with the uncertainty of a boy who had practiced only on the back of his hand and daydreams. Hers were warm. Sweet. Briefly sticky from the peach soda.

It was a kiss so soft it could have been a breeze.

But to Yeon-seok, it felt like everything. Like his chest had been quietly torn open, and something new was blooming inside. His heart beat loud and proud, the kind of rhythm that no exam or textbook could teach.

After the kiss, the world didn’t stop — but for a second, it did feel like it paused just for them. Both of them were blushing furiously. Neither of them knew where to look.

Soobin tucked her chin against her knees, hugging them close, cheeks flaming. Yeon-seok sat there stiffly, unsure whether to speak, to hold her hand, or to rewind time and kiss her better. But then she reached out and quietly set her pinky on top of his.

That tiny pinky promise, resting feather-light, made him braver.

He turned to her again, “Can I—” he hesitated, “Can I hold your hand properly?”

She nodded without looking up.

This time, their fingers interlaced like puzzle pieces — his palm larger, warm, slightly calloused from his guitar practice, hers soft and cool and delicate like the petals of the daisy she had stuck on his pencil case two days ago.

They sat like that soobin resting her head on Yeon seok shoulder, watching the sky turn from pale gold to dusky lavender. The sunset wrapped them in pastel colors, painting their silhouettes on the rooftop wall. There was no rush, no pressure — just the silence of shared breath and shy glances.

After a long pause, Soobin murmured, “I always imagined it differently. My first kiss.”

Yeon-seok looked at her, worried. “Was it… bad?”

“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head, ponytail swishing. “It was better. Because it was you.”

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “I was scared I messed it up.”

“You did.” She grinned playfully. “Your nose hit mine.”

He groaned, laughing softly. “I’ll get better. Promise.”

She tilted her head. “Does that mean you plan on kissing me again?”

“Every chance I get,” he whispered, his voice suddenly deeper.

Soobin’s breath caught. Her heart thudded in her ears.

That night, after they walked down the stairwell together — slower than necessary — they stopped outside the school gate again. The streetlights flickered on above them, casting warm yellow pools of light on the ground.

“My bus comes in five minutes,” she said, rocking on her heels.

“I’ll wait with you.”

They stood in silence, hands still lightly brushing, not quite holding this time.

Just before her bus arrived, she turned to him, brave in that way only teenagers in love can be. “What are we now?”

Yeon-seok’s eyes met hers with gentle certainty. “Whatever you want us to be.”

“I want to be yours.”

“Then I already am.”

As her bus pulled up, she pressed one more kiss on his cheek — quick, sweet, and as fleeting as the moment — and ran up the steps without turning back, afraid that if she did, she might cry from how full her heart felt.

Yeon-seok stood there long after the bus had gone, staring at the taillights disappearing down the street, a goofy smile playing on his lips. He touched the spot where she kissed him, then whispered into the night air,

“Mine.”

Years later, they would forget the exact date. But neither of them ever forgot the taste of peach soda and the feel of that very first, clumsy kiss — a memory wrapped in springtime, rooftop wind, and the feeling of falling in love for the very first time.

Chapter Text

The morning had been anything but calm. There were ribbons tangled in the Rita’s tail, cookie crumbs in the Mata’s fur, and someone—probably their little boy Yoo Ji-ho —had somehow stuck a glittery ornament to the Haku’s ear with a mysterious, jelly-like substance no one had confessed to. Yoo Yeon-seok was crouched behind the living room couch, clutching a camera with one hand and a baby sock in the other, while Chae Soo-bin tried her best not to burst into laughter as she chased their daughter Yoo Ha-eun around the tree with a yellow bow in hand. The soft notes of Bing Crosby’s White Christmas played faintly in the background, and despite the cheerful chaos, the room was drenched in warmth—the kind that only ever came from love, from years of growing a life together, one tender moment at a time.

“Sweetheart,” Yeon-seok called out, voice half-laughing, half-defeated, “your son just stole the Haku’s ribbon again.”

Soo-bin, crouched beside the tree, turned with a raised brow to see their toddler son proudly waddling away with a sparkly red ribbon in one hand, his other fist curled into the thick fur of Mata who loyally followed him everywhere. He looked absolutely edible in his little cream sweater and brown corduroy pants, cheeks pink from excitement, hair mussed from running around. “Yeobo,” Soo-bin said as she gathered their daughter—now halfway tangled in lights—into her arms, “remind me why we thought this Christmas picture was a good idea?”

He stood up slowly, rubbing his back exaggeratedly like an old man, grinning from ear to ear. “Because we’re hopeless romantics. And we love suffering. And also—because we’re going to miss this in twenty years.”

Their daughter, sitting in Soo-bin’s lap now, looked up with that innocent, knowing smile she wore far too often for a child her age. “We’re ready now,” she declared, smoothing down her green velvet dress and lifting her chin. The yellow bow was now clipped into her dark curls, tilted slightly off-center in a way that made her look even more angelic. Right beside her, Rita padded over, nuzzling against her shoulder like it had rehearsed the pose a hundred times. The girl smiled sweetly and wrapped one arm around its neck, like the best big sister in the world.

Yeon-seok’s heart lurched. He held up the camera, adjusting the lens. “Alright, everyone in place. Ji-ho —can you sit next to noona? Gently, buddy… gently.”

Their son plopped down beside his sister, arms flailing a little, one tiny hand landing on the Mata’s back, who let out a small huff and settled into position like the good boy he was. Haku , regal as ever, slinked into the frame uninvited and sat daintily in front of them all, eyes narrowed like she was the true star of the show.

“Don’t move,” Yeon-seok murmured, breath catching. He clicked.

Click.

The frame glowed with life: their beautiful daughter in her green dress, calm and composed like a holiday card angel; their son wide-eyed and curious, his tiny lips forming an ‘o’ as he looked at the camera with wonder; Rita and Maya nestled beside them like guardians of joy; Haku poised like royalty. Behind them, the Christmas tree sparkled with amber lights, ornaments glinting in gold, red, and emerald. A perfect little world, frozen in one impossibly lovely moment.

Soo-bin slipped beside Yeon-seok, leaning over his shoulder to see the picture. “Oh… oh, Yeobo,” she breathed, her voice soft like snowfall. “That’s the one.”

He didn’t respond right away. He was too busy staring at the screen, heart pounding like he’d just captured proof that dreams did come true. “We made this,” he whispered. “Can you believe it? We made this.”

Her hand slid into his, fingers squeezing gently. “Every sleepless night, every messy breakfast, every sock lost in the dryer… it brought us here.” She turned to look at him, eyes shining. “I wouldn’t trade a single second.”

He kissed her then—just a brush of lips against her temple, but full of unspoken promises. “Not even the time the baby colored on the walls with toothpaste?”

Soo-bin giggled. “Especially not that one.”

Later that evening, when the children had tumbled into each other in sleep—warm and safe, their soft breathing filling the quiet house—Yeon-seok and Soo-bin sat curled up on the couch, wrapped in the same red knit blanket they’d used since their first Christmas together. The picture sat glowing on the screen of his camera, still open in his hands.

“I think this is the year they’ll remember,” Soo-bin said, voice drowsy with peace. “The year we got it just right.”

Yeon-seok smiled into her hair, pressing her closer. “I think every year with you feels like that.”

Outside, snow began to fall. Inside, time slowed. The lights on the tree blinked like gentle stars, casting their little family in the kind of golden hush that only came once a year, when love overflowed and the world paused to bask in its glow.

All was calm. All was bright.

And Christmas—was perfect.

Chapter Text

They had been together for ten years. A full decade of birthdays, burnt ramen, midnight calls, sleepy train rides, and Sunday laundry folded on the couch while binge-watching dramas they’d seen before. Ten years of love that was soft, sturdy, and oddly shaped like the uneven sofa dent that only they fit into perfectly.

Yoo Yeon-seok was a high school teacher, the kind who wrote too many comments on his students’ essays and lost his glasses at least twice a week. Quiet, kind, impossibly sincere. The kind of man who believed in ironing shirts even if they would wrinkle the second he put on a seatbelt. He loved poetry, walked Soobin to the bus stop when she worked night shifts, and made the best ginger tea when she caught a cold.

And then there was Chae Soo-bin—call center warrior by day, fierce gamer by night. Direct, funny, and fast-talking, she swore with charm and had a laugh that made old people grin in the subway. She loved Yeon-seok deeply. Which was exactly why she was done waiting.

Because ten years was a long time. Her cousins had married, divorced, and remarried in that time. Even her office crush from 2018 had gotten engaged and she’d RSVP’d. Yet her boyfriend still looked like a deer caught in headlights every time someone joked about marriage.

Enough was enough.

So one Thursday evening, The jjigae was bubbling too hard on the stove. Soobin could smell the scorched tofu even from the living room. But she didn’t care. Not tonight. She paused to watch him from behind the doorframe. Yoo Yeon-seok sat cross-legged on the floor, red pen in one hand, papers scattered around him like autumn leaves. He was muttering to himself, reading an essay out loud and circling grammatical errors like they were personal attacks. His glasses kept sliding down his nose. His t-shirt had holes near the collar. His hair was slightly damp from the shower, curling at the nape. And Soobin, despite herself, still adored him. But that didn’t mean she was going to wait another decade for him to propose. She stomped into the room, determination in every step. “Yeon-seok,” she said, holding something behind her back. He looked up. “Hmm?” Still correcting. Still oblivious.

She held up a small silver ring box. kneeling. though it hurts kneeling but smiling.

“Marry me.”

His red pen froze mid-mark. “W-what?”

“Marry me,” she repeated, plopping down beside him. “I’m tired of waiting. I’ve dropped hints since 2020, Yeon-seok. Literal Pinterest boards. That time I dragged you to the jewelry store and asked you to guess my ring size was not for fun.”

His mouth opened. Closed. “You were serious…?”

“Do I look like someone who fakes diamond interests?”

He stared at her, flustered, still holding his red pen like a sword against confusion. “I… I thought maybe you didn’t want to rush—”

“Ten. Years.” She stretched out each syllable. “I am not rushing. I am aging.”

“But I was going to propose! I had a plan!”

Soobin laughed, throwing her hands in the air. “You were going to propose since the Goblin drama aired.”

“Okay, fair.”

She softened then, tilting her head, brushing his hair gently back from his forehead. “Yeon-seok-ah. I love you. I love you in that weird old mug you use, and the way you narrate our cat’s thoughts, and how you iron my call center shirts even when I say don’t bother.”

He smiled sheepishly.

“I want to marry you,” she whispered. “And if your proposal plan is still stuck in the back of your Google Docs, then I’m saving us both the effort.”

There was a long pause.

Then, Yeon-seok—still red in the face—reached for the ring box, opened it, and slipped it on his own finger like a goofball before correcting himself and placing it gently on hers.

“I guess I’m yours now,” he said, beaming like a boy who just won the science fair.

“You’ve been mine since that tutoring session in 2013, idiot,” she grinned.

He pulled her into a hug, burying his face into her neck. “God, my students are going to roast me so hard.”

Soobin cackled. “And you’ll tell them I was the one who made the move.”

“You bet I will.”

And somewhere between the bubbling stew and the scent of laundry detergent from his shirt, the couple who had survived three apartment moves, four mobile plans, and one ridiculous karaoke night that shall not be named—finally said yes to forever.

Chapter Text

Yoo Yeon-seok was not born with diamonds in his cradle, nor dreams stitched from gold. His hands, now celebrated on magazine covers and television screens, once smelt of rice sacks and detergent, of sweat from lifting crates of milk bottles stacked higher than his small frame could carry. Before the flashing lights, the red carpets, and the practiced eloquence of an award-winning actor, there was the boy who stood behind a dented grocery counter, trying to remember if Mrs. Oh wanted one onion or two.

The old streets of his childhood still clung to his memory like worn-out shoes. Narrow alleys stitched with laundry lines, stray cats slinking through shadowed corners, and the creaking bell that rang each time the shop door opened. And in that bell, one particular day, she had walked in.

Chae Soo-bin had grown up not far from him, but worlds apart. The banker’s only daughter, wrapped in woolen dresses and brushed hair, her shoes always polished, her lunchbox always full. Her life unfolded within manicured lawns and echoing staircases, soft music playing from her mother’s record player, curtains always drawn to let just enough light in but never the dust of the outside world. Her father had built a kingdom of rules around her, his princess—untouchable, unquestionable, and unbreakable.

She was only seven the first time she stepped foot into that grocery store, and the dust motes danced in the sunbeams like they were celebrating her arrival. Yeon-seok, just ten then, was behind the counter, wearing a school shirt too small for his growing frame and pants a shade too faded to be new. His knees were dirty from having fallen on the gravel earlier that day, but none of that mattered when he saw her.

She stood near the cash register, quietly observing while her mother picked through the aisles with the grace of someone who never had to carry her own bags. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her presence was enough to silence even the hum of the old refrigerator near the dairy section. And Yeon-seok? He stood frozen, holding a bottle of soy sauce like it was the last object tethering him to earth.

Then she looked at him. Really looked at him. Her head tilted just slightly, her curious eyes tracing the torn seam on his sleeve, the smudge of dust near his temple, the tremble in his hands. He panicked—but instead of hiding, he grinned. The most foolish, gap-toothed grin he had, and offered her a lollipop from the jar near the till. A silly pink one. Strawberry.

Her mother, distracted with a receipt and grocery bags, didn’t see the exchange. But CSB did. She took it gently, like it was the most precious gem she’d ever been given. And then, like sunshine breaking through winter clouds, she smiled.

He didn’t know what love was then. But he knew he wanted to make that smile appear again. Over and over.

After that, she came more often. Sometimes with her mother, sometimes with the older housemaid who treated her like her own. Her visits were never long, but always memorable. She’d linger near the candy shelf, peek behind the counter, or pretend to study the labels while watching Yeon-seok from the corner of her eye. The boy who gave her the lollipop became her secret story—tucked between the pages of her diary, behind the closed doors of her heavily monitored world.

Her mother, gentle and observant, never said a word. She, too, had lived her life behind drawn curtains and knew how much sunlight a caged girl needed. She let her daughter go to the shop under the pretense of errands, covering for her when her husband demanded to know where she’d been. Even the housemaids lied for her, silently united in the small rebellion of letting a little girl taste freedom.

But childhood is a fragile thing, easily broken by the hard weight of adult cruelty.

That day arrived like a storm that gave no warning. Yeon-seok had just returned from school, his backpack still slung on one shoulder as he helped his father restock the rice shelves. His mother was counting coins behind the register, murmuring something about missing bills. It was an ordinary afternoon until the black car pulled up outside.

The door opened, and in stepped Chae Soo-bin’s father—impeccably dressed in a suit, his hair slicked back, his voice loud even when he whispered. With him were two other men from the bank, their briefcases glinting like weapons. They didn’t come to buy groceries.

They came for blood.

“The mortgage is six months overdue,” one man barked, flipping open a file like it was a death sentence. “You’ve had enough grace. We’re here to collect.”

Yeon-seok watched in horror as his parents tried to explain. His mother bowed deeply, shame burning across her face like wildfire. His father’s hands shook as he held out what little cash he had, whispering words that were met with laughter.

And then it happened.

Mr. Chae turned to the growing crowd of customers, neighbors frozen in place, and declared, “This is what happens when people live beyond their means. We give them chances. They choose to waste them.”

Yeon-seok stood paralyzed as the men laughed, as whispers slithered through the crowd like snakes. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. His heart thundered in his ears until it drowned out every sound except his father’s cracked voice saying, “We’ll pay. Just give us time.”

But Yeon-seok wasn’t listening anymore. He was staring at the man who humiliated his family. The man who was the father of the girl he had fallen in love with. And in that moment, something inside him shifted.

He clenched his fists at his side, nails digging into his palms so deep they left marks.

One day, he swore to himself, he would be richer than that man.

One day, he would look him in the eye, standing taller, prouder, stronger.

And one day, he would marry his daughter—not as a grocery boy begging for mercy, but as someone who could give her the world.
_____

By the time Yoo Yeon-seok turned twenty, the grocery store boy had vanished. In his place stood a young man with broader shoulders, eyes deeper than dusk, and a voice that could hush a room. He had grown into his hunger—for art, for success, for her. The tiny theatre nestled in the back alleys of Daehangno became his second home. Under cracked ceilings and flickering spotlights, he performed with a fire that threatened to consume the entire stage. Sometimes he played forgotten princes; other nights, nameless soldiers. But in every character, his heart only knew one name: Chae Soo-bin.

She was seventeen then, already touched by the world’s unkindness, already awakened to its hypocrisy. While other girls her age posed in cafés and dreamt of branded handbags, she waited in worn auditorium seats, tucked into the shadows like a secret. She came to every performance, clapping quietly as he bowed, her eyes shining brighter than the marquee lights. He always found her in the crowd—even when she wore plain clothes and sat behind old women clutching popcorn. He always saw her.

Their love grew in borrowed hours—between dusk and curfew, between script rehearsals and stolen walks. She would laugh when he tried out his lines on her and correct his posture with the same firm gentleness she used with her sign language students. Because, to her father’s great displeasure, she had chosen to teach. Not in polished lecture halls but in silent rooms where children spoke with their hands and smiled with their eyes. That was where she found her peace—in the language of stillness, in the voice of gestures.

When Yeon-seok’s name began to echo beyond the theatre, it felt like a miracle. A second-lead role in a sleeper-hit drama led to his rise. Endorsements rolled in, fans began flooding his shows, and the once-humble boy became a man the nation fell for. With each step up, he walked closer to the future he had once promised himself—wealth, recognition, and the hand of the girl he had loved since she was seven.

Even her father, the ever-prideful banker, eventually caved. Perhaps it was the media frenzy, or the zeroes printed on Yeon-seok’s cheques. Perhaps it was the discomfort of public admiration toward the boy he once scorned. Whatever it was, he gave his reluctant blessing. He never said sorry for the years of cruelty—never acknowledged the humiliation he had brought to Yeon-seok’s parents or the pain he’d carved into the boy’s memory. But he shook his hand. Smiled for the cameras. Pretended like it had always been meant to be.

Their wedding was everything extravagant. Floral arches towering over ivory aisles, a guest list flooded with celebrities and CEOs. And Yeon-seok, dressed in a designer tuxedo with the world applauding his every move, seemed untouchable. He laughed easily, posed perfectly, gave speeches with practiced charisma. But somewhere between champagne toasts and ceremonial bows, CSB began to notice the sheen of something unfamiliar in his eyes. His charm turned theatrical, his compliments exaggerated. And when they visited her family table, she heard it—subtle, polished jabs.

“Remember this tiny house we used to envy, Soo-bin? Now our shoe closet’s bigger than your childhood bedroom.”

A few guests chuckled and some laughed loudly.

She didn’t nor her parents.

It wasn’t the joke—it was the intent. The very edge she once adored in him now felt too sharp, too proud. A weapon forged by years of wanting to prove he was enough.

But she married him. Because in her heart, he still was.

At first, the marriage was soft. Sweet mornings, passionate nights with rounds of lovemaking and shared toothbrushes, burnt toast, warm embraces, teasing and kisses.Lots and lots of those toe curling kisses. But as time passed, the rhythm shifted. Yeon-seok buried himself in work—scripts, shoots, flights. He said he was doing it for them, to build the kind of life she deserved. “You’ll never have to work again,” he’d whisper. “I’ll take care of everything.”

Only he didn’t realize she wasn’t asking for everything. She was just asking for him.

Her classroom grew quieter without his laughter in it. Her fingers missed the way they once brushed against his under tables during late-night script readings. Now, her hands only moved in gestures for her students, while the space beside her pillow remained cold. She never posted about their marriage on social media. No photo dumps. No tags. Her world didn’t need to know she was married to Korea’s heartthrob. Her world was small and sacred—her students, her hands, her home. Him.

But he changed.

Not in the cruel ways husbands sometimes do, but in the careless ways ambition sometimes blinds. One night, after weeks of returning home past midnight, he found her asleep at the dining table, her cheek pressed against her arm beside the untouched stew she had cooked. His chest ached at the sight. He scooped her into his arms and whispered, “Bin-ah, wake up. Come eat.”

She stirred, eyes sleepy, voice quieter than silence itself. “I just… I missed you.”

He kissed her forehead and cradled her closer. “You have to eat, my love. I don’t want you getting sick. You need to stay strong for me.”

“For you?” she asked, her voice small.

“So you can be my strength,” he said, brushing her hair back. “So I can give you the life your father never could.”

And that—that—was when something inside her cracked.

She sat up slowly, eyes burning. “Why do you keep saying that?”

He blinked. “Saying what?”

“My father. What he gave. What you can give. Why does everything come back to him? Why don’t you forgive me? Why don’t you let this hatred go?”

He paused, confused, then defensive. “Because I know how much he restricted you. How he tried to cage you. I’m just trying to—”

“But you’re doing the same thing!” Her voice trembled now. “You don’t even see it, do you? You think money fixes everything. That if you buy me clothes, or houses, or vacations, it somehow means you love me more. You think just because you’re not cruel like him, you’re different. But you keep comparing, Yeon-seok. You compare every damn thing!”

He looked away.

She rose, her breath shaky. “You say you’re doing this for me, but you’re never here. You say you want to give me the world, but you’re not even giving me your evenings. I never asked for luxury. I asked for you. I loved you when you had nothing. I loved you when you smelled like garlic and rice sacks. Don’t you get it?”

The silence that followed was thick. Unbearable.

“I didn’t marry a man who wanted to compete with my father,” she whispered. “I married a boy who once gave me a lollipop without expecting anything in return.”

Her words hung in the air like broken glass—shattered fragments of truth too sharp to swallow, too painful to ignore. Yoo Yeon-seok stood still, as if the world had tilted and he was no longer sure of its axis. Chae Soo-bin, the woman he had loved since childhood, was now looking at him not with awe, not with adoration, but with a quiet ache in her eyes that he couldn’t unsee. He wanted to reach out to her, to say something that could make it all right. But the wound was too old, too deep.

“How could you ask me to forgive that man?” he said finally, voice low, raw, almost trembling with the weight it carried. “The same man who humiliated my parents in front of a dozen neighbors. Who called them beggars. Who spat at their pride. The man who stood in my family’s shop and laughed when my mother begged him for just one more week to pay the mortgage.”

Soo-bin flinched, her face pale beneath the warm kitchen lights.

“I was ten, Soo-bin. I stood there—holding my schoolbag, watching my parents be torn apart by that man’s words. I watched my father’s shoulders slump. My mother’s eyes fill with shame. And I vowed that day I’d become someone who would never have to bow to people like him again.”

Her lips parted, a silent apology sitting on the edge of her breath, but he wasn’t finished.

“I love you,” he said, almost desperately. “God, I love you, Soo-bin. But don’t ask me to forget what he did to us. Don’t ask me to sit across from him and pretend that I don’t remember how small he made us feel. If I flaunt my success around him, it’s not to hurt you. It’s because I need him to see what he could never destroy.”

His eyes glistened with unshed fury and years of quiet torment. And then, before she could speak, before her trembling hands could reach for him, he stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door shut behind him.

The sound echoed through the apartment like thunder. And in its wake, silence.

Soo-bin stood in the kitchen, blinking rapidly, as if that would hold the tears back. But they came anyway. Soft, shaky sobs that broke from her chest like waves crashing against a shore that had seen too many storms. She leaned against the counter, knuckles white as she gripped the edge.

“Don’t break me, Yeon-seok,” she whispered to the silence. “Please… hold me.”

But the door didn’t open.

And the night passed like a winter that refused to thaw.

⸻

In the days that followed, the distance between them became a third presence in the house—neither loud nor obvious, but constant. Like an invisible wall made of unsaid words and bruised memories.

They stopped speaking the way they used to. No more teasing in the kitchen while she stirred stew. No more forehead kisses when he passed by her working desk. Instead, there was quiet. Polite nods. Short answers. She still made dinner every evening, setting out his plate before retreating to the bedroom with her lesson plans. He still noticed when she left too much food on her own plate. And every night, when she had already fallen asleep from waiting, he would creep into the room, kneel beside her side of the bed, and gently pull the second blanket over her shoulders—his fingers brushing her forehead like an apology he didn’t know how to say.

He’d stare at her sleeping face, remembering how not long ago they used to lie tangled in each other’s arms, whispering about mundane things until the stars disappeared. How her fingers would trace circles on his chest. How she used to fall asleep with her head on his shoulder and their legs intertwined, their breaths syncing like ocean tides.

Now she slept facing the wall, curled into herself.

Sometimes, when he laid beside her, he reached for her hand. But it felt like reaching across a chasm.

“Soo-bin…” he whispered one night into the dark, eyes closed tight as if praying. “Just hold on for a little while longer. I’m trying to fix this. I’m trying to be enough.”

But she was already too tired of holding.

She smiled through her days like nothing had changed, teaching children with her hands, drawing laughter from those who couldn’t hear their own voices. But when she sat alone at her desk, watching the clock tick closer to midnight, she knew.

Love wasn’t just about staying.

Sometimes, it was about being seen.

And lately, she felt like a ghost in her own home.

_____

Chae Soo-bin’s mother had always been a quiet woman. She had learned early in her marriage that silence, at times, was safer than protest, that softness could protect her daughter in ways her words never could. But her silence had never meant blindness. She had watched, in the tender stillness of motherhood, how her daughter’s laughter had dulled over the months. The girl who used to hum while folding laundry, who decorated her husband’s lunchbox with silly hearts, who once couldn’t go an hour without mentioning Yeon-seok’s name—was now quiet. Shrinking. Drifting.

She never asked. Never demanded. But she watched. And she worried.

So when her husband collapsed on the field that afternoon, the phone call she made was not to her bank manager, not to the housemaids or relatives. It was to her daughter. Her voice was trembling, raw with panic, as she whispered through sobs, “Your father… stroke. They took him to the hospital. It’s his right side… Soo-bin, come.”

She didn’t even hang up before grabbing her coat.

Soo-bin’s hands shook as she drove, her heart ricocheting between the past and present. She barely remembered parking the car, running through the sterile halls, asking for his name with breathless urgency. Her feet carried her before her thoughts could catch up, and then—there he was.

Her father.

The man she had once feared more than thunder. The man who measured affection in rules, in silence, in disapproving glances. Now he lay on a hospital bed, the right side of his body limp, a tube in his nose, machines beeping steadily beside him. His suit was still half-buttoned. One shoe missing. His face was pale, lips chapped. Vulnerable. Human.

“Appa…” she whispered, her voice cracking as she sat on the stool beside him. Her trembling fingers reached for his—thin now, trembling, twitching slightly at the tips. She held them gently. Her hands, so practiced in comfort, cradled his like he was her student—fragile, in need of more than words.

Mr. Chae turned his head, painfully slow, the corner of his mouth drooping. But his eyes—oh, those proud, stern eyes—were full of tears.

“Soo… bin…” he slurred, his voice fractured by the weakness of his body. “My… bunny.”

And just like that, she broke.

Tears slipped down her cheeks, quiet and endless, like they had waited all these years to fall. She bent down and laid her head gently against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, letting him know she was there. That despite the rules, the fences, the lectures—she was still his daughter.

In the hallway, chaos had already bloomed. Yoo Yeon-seok had driven like a man possessed, running every red light, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. His manager had to call ahead to warn the hospital that a celebrity was arriving, but nothing about his arrival looked glamorous. He burst into the ward breathless, hair a mess, face pale with fear.

“Appa… Mr. Chae…. Stroke ?” he cried out, voice hoarse in-front of reception. His parents trailed behind him, equally shaken. He spotted the doctor first, and ran towards him before even peeking inside the room,ask questions—what type of stroke, which side of the brain, how severe, what were the chances. His voice was controlled, calm—but his eyes betrayed the storm.

Then, finally, he stepped inside.

His wife was holding the hand of the man who had once tried to erase his worth. The man who had humiliated his parents. The man he had promised to surpass.

And yet, in this moment, all that anger collapsed into something smaller, sadder.

Because this was her father. And he was just a father now—not a banker, not a tyrant, not an enemy. Just a man who had failed and loved the only way he knew how.

Yoo Yeon-seok walked toward the bed, shoulders stiff, lips pressed tightly.

“Appa,” he said, the word foreign on his tongue but no less real. “I’m here.”

Mr. Chae’s eyes widened in surprise from hearing “Appa”. But he didn’t speak. He simply nodded, once, as if that word alone had undone something tight inside him.

Yeon-seok turned toward his parents, both of whom stood uncertainly by the door. His mother clutched her purse, the lines on her face worn deeper with time but when she spotted Soobin’s mother and without hesitation, crossed the room and enveloped her in a warm, unspoken hug. Two women, bound by their children’s love, by the years they had watched from the sidelines. They clung to each other like old friends who had always known this moment would come.

And then Mr. Chae spoke—his voice slurred but lucid.

“I… wronged you,” he said, staring straight at Yeon-seok’s parents. “All those years… I treated you… like nothing.”

The room stilled.

“I was… proud. Stupid. But you… you raised… a good son. A son… who gave my daughter more love… than I ever could.”

Yeon-seok’s father’s lips parted in shock. His mother teared up instantly.

“I… apologize,” Mr. Chae continued, his voice growing weaker. “For the shame… I gave you. For making your boy… suffer.”

There were no dramatics. No speeches. Just the aching simplicity of a man finally laying down his pride.

Yeon-seok looked at the man on the bed, and for the first time, saw the father his wife had always seen. He knelt beside the bed and bowed his head—not out of submission, but out of release.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For your daughter. And for this.”

Soo-bin, still holding her father’s hand, looked around the room. At her husband, eyes glassy with unshed tears. At her father, fragile and fading. At her mother and in-laws, joined not by history, but by love that had survived it.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, her tears didn’t sting. They softened.

Because maybe this wasn’t an ending.

Maybe it was the beginning of healing.

_____

It was Yoo Yeon-seok who took the reins from then on. Not because anyone asked him to—but because it felt right. Because it felt like love. He was the one sitting beside Mr. Chae during every physiotherapy session, nodding with quiet patience while the therapist instructed new exercises. He spoke to doctors with the same intensity he once reserved for film directors, asking about muscle regeneration, diet, chances of speech restoration. He reviewed charts like scripts, memorizing every detail. Whenever the older man struggled to lift his hand or slurred a word in frustration, Yeon-seok was the first to encourage him—not as a son-in-law performing duty, but as a son who finally understood the difference between vengeance and love.

He even took a personal leave from the production he had been filming. The announcement shocked his agency. Headlines followed, speculations bloomed. But Yeon-seok didn’t care. His manager had barely finished whispering the words “Your wife’s father had a stroke” before Yeon-seok’s heart had plummeted in his chest. In that one split second, all his walls cracked.

He didn’t think of their unresolved fight. He didn’t think of pride or grudges.

He thought of her.

Of Soo-bin, the girl who once smiled with strawberry-stained lips and whispered dreams in their candlelit kitchen. Of the woman who still waited up at night, setting his dinner plate as if hope had a taste. Of the wife who had never stopped loving him, even when he stopped seeing her clearly.

And so, every day in the hospital, he was there. But oddly, never truly alone with her. Between parents, nurses, doctors, therapists, and time itself, there was always something in between. Words were exchanged, yes—polite, warm, respectful. But the truth that needed to be said hadn’t yet found its place.

Until today.

It was his father who insisted.

“You two go home for a bit,” he said gently, pouring warm water into a cup for Mr. Chae. “We’ll be fine. Your mother’s bringing dinner. Go freshen up, eat something warm.”

Yeon-seok looked at Soo-bin, and she looked at him. For a moment, neither moved.

But then they both nodded, not out of eagerness, but quiet acceptance. Perhaps the silence between them had grown tired too.

The drive back home was quiet. Familiar turns, familiar streets. The apartment greeted them with the stillness of a place that had missed their voices. He unlocked the door, stepped aside for her, like he always used to. She entered slowly, like stepping into a memory.

And then, just as he walked toward the kitchen—she broke.

“Thank you,” she said, the words barely above a whisper.

He turned, eyebrows furrowed slightly, as if the words stung more than soothed.

“For…?” he asked gently.

She swallowed. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “For everything you did for my father. For being there. For… showing him kindness he didn’t deserve.”

But Yeon-seok didn’t flinch. He walked toward her slowly, eyes warm but weighted.

“Our father, Soo-bin-ah,” he said softly, correcting her with a voice that trembled. “Our father.”

She didn’t respond, but her eyes welled up.

And then—he spoke. Everything that had been suffocating inside him poured out like a dam finally cracked by love.

“I was wrong,” he began. “I was wrong to hold onto the hate. To let it live inside me like some twisted reminder of what I survived. I thought I was showing him that he couldn’t win. But all I was doing… was failing the one person who mattered most to me.”

Her lips trembled, but she didn’t interrupt.

“I should have let it go the moment I had you. That should have been the end of it. That was my victory—you. Not the cars or the house or the red carpets. Just waking up next to you every morning should have been enough. I see that now.”

He stepped closer, his voice cracking.

“When I heard about your father’s stroke, the first thing I thought of was your face. The sound you’d make when you cried. The way your hands would shake. And I realized, right there… nothing matters if I don’t have you. None of this—fame, success, pride—means anything if I come home and you’re not waiting for me.”

Soo-bin couldn’t hold back anymore.

Her knees buckled slightly as she rushed forward into his chest, arms flinging around his waist, burying her face against him.

“I love you, Yeobo,” she sobbed, over and over, like a broken record stitched with all the words she had locked away. “I love you. I love you. I love you so much.”

He held her—no, gathered her into himself like she was something sacred. His arms wrapped around her tightly, as if by holding her tight enough he could undo every cold night, every missed dinner, every sigh she cried into her pillow.

“I love you too jagi-ya and I’m sorry too” he whispered into her hair. “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

She looked up at him, cheeks streaked with tears, her eyes impossibly tender.

“How could I give up?” she said. “How do you give up… living?”

His breath hitched. He kissed her.

Not with hunger, but with reverence.

Like kissing a prayer.

It was the kind of kiss that said: I remember you. I still choose you. I will never let you forget how much I love you.

And she kissed him back, like she was breathing again for the first time in months.

In that huge house, where silence had once grown like vines between them, there was finally light. There were no grand declarations. No cameras. No scripts.

Just two people who had once lost each other—finally finding their way back. 💛💛

Chapter Text

They were supposed to be quiet.

They had survived six months of sneaking past Dispatch photographers,
ten award shows without side-glances,
and one suspiciously romantic duet on SBS Gayo Daejun that their fans swore had “more chemistry than nuclear fusion.”

They’d made it this far.

And then came one fateful night:
Two humans.
One bottle of peach soju.
A Bluetooth karaoke mic.
And Yoo Yeon-seok’s tragic inability to distinguish Instagram Live from Instagram Story.

—

It all began at 2:07 a.m.

Yeon-seok, dressed in grey sweatpants and a “Bob’s Burgers” T-shirt, spun a mic in his hand like he was about to drop a chart-topping single. Chae Soo-bin, legs tucked under her on their floor mattress, was laughing so hard she was wheezing.

“Okay, okay,” she gasped. “If you love me so much, sing it. I dare you.”

He held up one finger.

“BET.”

He scrolled dramatically through the karaoke app.
Settled on “My Heart Will Go On.”
Started belting.

But fate, chaos, and Yeon-seok’s poorly updated Instagram app had other plans.

Because just before hitting play…
He hit “Go Live.”

The camera faced him.
His flushed cheeks.
His enormous grin.
And behind him, Soo-bin… in his hoodie… holding a half-eaten corn dog.

Thousands of fans got the notification:
“yoo_yeonseok has started a live video.”

—

“NEVER LET GOOOOO—”

“Yeon-seok. YEON-SEOK.”

“WHAT?”

Soo-bin squinted at his phone on the table.

“…Is that red circle blinking because it’s… LIVE?!”

He stopped mid-note.

“NO IT ISN’T. I MEANT TO—”

She lunged.

“END IT! END IT NOW!”

He tripped backward over the karaoke mic cord and fell off the beanbag. The phone clattered. Soo-bin scrambled, corn dog still in hand, and hit “end.” But it was too late.

The damage?

7 minutes, 38 seconds.
139,000 viewers.
Yeon-seok’s full belting performance.
Soo-bin yelling at him mid-song.
A kiss.
And the now-iconic quote:

“I LOVE HER MORE THAN I LOVE KIMCHI JIGAE. PUT THAT ON THE RECORD.”

—

They sat in silence.

Then Yeon-seok groaned and faceplanted into the couch.

“Tell me it wasn’t that bad.”

Soo-bin, scrolling through her notifications, turned her phone toward him.

#YooYeonSeokLive
#SOOBIN?????
#HELOVESHERLIKEKIMCHIJIGAE
#DispatchSobbing

And then came her mom’s text.

“You said you were ‘too busy to date.’ Apparently, you were busy serenading in your underwear.”

“Also, he better bring kimchi to dinner.”

—

6:35 a.m.
His manager called.

“ARE YOU INSANE?
Why were you SINGING CELINE DION
on a LIVE
while declaring your eternal dumpling love?!”

Yeon-seok sipped water.

“I was feeling romantic.”

“YOU WERE FEELING UNEMPLOYED.”

—

At noon, their agencies dropped a joint statement.

“Yoo Yeon-seok and Chae Soo-bin have been in a relationship for some time.
We kindly ask for understanding and privacy.”

Which only made things worse.

Fan edits exploded.
Someone turned their Live into a trailer for a fake rom-com:
“Dumpling Hearts: The Unauthorized Love Story.”
There were gifs.
Merch.
Even a filter on TikTok with his line:

“I LOVE HER MORE THAN I LOVE KIMCHI JIGAE.”

—

The most awkward moment?

Her dad.

He FaceTimed. Shirtless. At 3 p.m.

“So… you kissed my daughter live in front of the nation?”

Yeon-seok bowed.

“It was… unintentional, sir.”

“Well, good. Because I would’ve posted a better angle.”

Soo-bin cackled in the background.

—

And through it all…
They survived.

Together.

Later that night, they curled up under a blanket, phones silenced, memes still flooding in.

“Do you regret it?” she asked softly.

Yeon-seok turned to her, face earnest.

“Only that I didn’t say it sooner.”

She smiled.

“What? That you love me more than kimchi jjigae?”

He laughed.

“No. That I love you, period.”

A pause.

Then she whispered, loud enough for just him:

“I love you more than tteokbokki.”

His eyes widened. “That’s serious.”

She kissed him. “Exactly.”

Chapter Text

By daylight, Professor Yoo Yeon-seok was everything a top-tier literature scholar should be—sharp-eyed, impeccably dressed in his muted charcoal suits, voice precise with every citation of Milton and Shakespeare, and utterly merciless with late submissions. His students both feared and revered him. With a jaw that clenched when met with mediocrity and eyes that narrowed at lazy metaphors, he was known for giving scathing critiques wrapped in eloquence that could cut deeper than a blade. Seoul University whispered stories about his intelligence, his aloof charm, his rumored indifference to relationships. To most, he was untouchable. Cold. Composed. The epitome of professionalism.

Except to one.

Chae Soo-bin, the quiet, radiant librarian with ink-stained fingers and a soft spot for banned books, was the only one who knew what he looked like with his tie hanging loose, shirt half-unbuttoned, voice thick with want. The only one who had seen him crawl between her thighs and whisper Shakespeare not from textbooks, but from memory—“Give me my sin again.” The only one who had earned the privilege of calling him hers.

They had met at the university’s annual literature gala. He was a guest speaker, she a background presence tucked between shelves of forgotten poetry. He had spoken about the erotic undertones in the Sonnets with a glint in his eye, and she, bold and burning, had asked him about Ovid’s Art of Love. His eyebrow had lifted. Her challenge had begun.

It began with tension—the kind that brewed over weeks of stolen glances and flirtatious debates over rare first editions and forbidden prose. Yeon-seok had fought it, hard. She was younger, his junior in both age and rank at the university, and the way she smiled up at him like she knew—like she saw through the stoicism and discipline—unraveled him in ways he hadn’t anticipated. Soo-bin had always been the quiet storm. Measured, bookish, composed on the outside but so clearly teeming with mischief behind those librarian eyes.

The night it finally happened, it wasn’t even supposed to. He had offered to walk her home after an evening lecture ran late. A thunderstorm chased their heels, and her apartment was warm, quiet, filled with the faint scent of old pages and lavender. She handed him a towel. He asked for tea. Neither of them could remember what the topic of conversation had been—only that she had leaned in to grab a book, and he had watched the curve of her body like a man starved. She noticed.

“You always look at me like I’m unreadable,” she whispered.

His jaw tensed. “That’s because I’m trying not to read you.”

That’s when she kissed him—soft at first, curious, then deeper, demanding, her hands tangled in his soaked collar. And whatever control he had left burned into smoke. He pushed her back against the nearest wall, the porcelain mug clattering to the floor. His mouth was on her neck, her collarbone, his voice rasping hot against her skin.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for, Soo-bin.”

Her lips grazed his ear. “Then teach me, Professor.”

That broke him.

He carried her to her bed like a man possessed, and there was nothing polite about what followed. Her clothes were stripped with urgency, each button undone like a rule broken. His hands were everywhere—gripping, kneading her breast , pinning her wrists above her head as he stared down at her trembling body, eyes dark with promise. “You think you’re ready for me?” he asked, his voice low, dangerous.

“Please…” she breathed, chest heaving, eyes wild with lust and trust.

That night, he didn’t just make love to her. He claimed her.

He started with her thighs, kissing his way up slowly, tasting the salt of her anticipation, his tongue wicked, deliberate. She cried out when he spread her open and devoured her pussy, his groan vibrating against the most sensitive parts of her. “So sweet,” he murmured between strokes, “You were made for this.”

When she tried to pull away from the overwhelming pleasure, he gripped her hips and growled, “Don’t you dare run from me.” And then, more wickedly, “Sit on my face.”

Her gasp was half-shock, half-need. But she obeyed.

Trembling, breathless, she straddled him. His hands guided her down, and the moment she lowered herself onto his mouth, she shattered—loudly, shamefully, deliciously. He held her there, greedily devouring everything she gave, murmuring filth against her while her legs shook around his head.

Afterward, he flipped her onto her stomach, one palm dragging slowly down her spine. Then came the first slap—sharp, echoing through the room as her hips jolted upward.

“You like tempting your professor?” Smack.

She moaned.

“You like playing the good girl in library and being my filthy little secret after hours?” Smack.

She was a mess by the third. Hair tangled, cheeks flushed, voice a broken cry of his name. He then rolls her on her back and gets up from the bed. Chae Soo-bin lay there—completely bare, skin warm and flushed from the kisses he had left trailing down her ribs. Her thighs still trembled from the wave of pleasure, but none of that compared to what surged through her now, watching him… finally undress.

His fingers moved slowly, as though this was a sacred ritual. First, the cufflinks, undone with delicate precision. Then the buttons, one by one, revealing the taut expanse of his chest beneath the cotton. His breath was steady, but his eyes were wild—never leaving hers as he slid the shirt from his shoulders and let it drop to the floor in silence.

She swallowed hard.

There he stood, framed by the window and soft rain, like poetry sculpted into man. Broad shoulders, smooth muscle, that subtle trail below his navel—he was all restraint and raw power, unwrapped slowly for her and only her.

Soo-bin whimpered softly, her thighs pressing together, a hand ghosting across her own skin. She didn’t mean to—didn’t even realize she’d started touching herself —until his voice darkened.

“Touching yourself already?” he murmured, eyes glinting like stormlight. She bit her lip, embarrassed but too far gone to stop. “I can’t help it,” she whispered. “You’re beautiful.”

That made him pause. His face softened—not with modesty, but with something feral in its intensity. He closed the space between them in two steps, hands framing her face as he kissed her like he needed her to breathe.

“Let me make it worse,” he growled against her lips. “Let me show you what you do to me.”

And then he peeled off the last of his clothing.

The air changed. It was reverent now—like she was witnessing something sacred, something no syllabus had ever prepared her for. Her eyes raked down his form, every inch of him carved in tension and control, but in that moment, it was all hers. Every muscle, every scar, every sigh.

She moaned softly, hands gripping the sheets, legs restless beneath the weight of her desire.

Yeon-seok climbed onto the bed, kneeling between her parted thighs. His fingers slid up her calves, slow and claiming.

“No more touching yourself,” he whispered, brushing his mouth against hers. “From now on, you don’t need your hands.”

His breath ghosted down her neck.

“You have me.”

He finally took her—slow at first, then rough, claiming every corner of the bed, every sound she made. He kissed her as she cried out his name, whispered praise into her ear, held her so tightly their hearts beat in rhythm. The night blurred into hours. She lost count of how many times he made her fall apart.

And when it was over—when the moans had turned into slow, sleepy sighs and her body was sore in the most delicious ways—he kissed her softly, pressing his lips to her temple, the only part of her untouched by desire.

“I wasn’t supposed to fall for you, but now after having you I am greedy to let you go away from me Soobin-ah” he whispered.

She turned into his arms, smiling, ruined and radiant.

“I don’t want to go either. I want to challenge you every freaking day and night, if the punishment is this good”

_____

Now, three years into their marriage, that challenge was ongoing—nightly, relentless, delicious.

At home, Yeon-seok was no longer the cold professor. He was a man possessed. And tonight, with the rain tapping against their windows and her hair down in soft waves, he looked at her like she was his most forbidden text. She was curled on their bed in one of his white dress shirts, the hem skimming dangerously high on her thighs, her reading glasses perched on her nose, nose buried in Lady Chatterley’s Lover. He stepped into the room silently, eyes raking over the scene like a hungry animal. His voice, when it broke the silence, was low and velvety.

“Quoting D.H. Lawrence in my bed, Mrs. Yoo?” he drawled, sliding the book from her hands. “How bold of you to tempt your professor.”

Soo-bin smirked, a finger tracing the hem of her borrowed shirt. “I thought I’d try some practical learning tonight.”

He didn’t smile. He growled.

In a flash, he had her pinned beneath him, knees parted by his hips, her glasses removed with careful precision. “Lesson one,” he whispered against her neck, breath hot, “Good girls who provoke their professor get punished.”

She whimpered as his hands slid beneath the shirt, fingers rough against her bare skin, voice gravelly as he traced her ribcage. “Do you know how long I waited to get home and ruin you?”

Her reply was breathless, a teasing moan against his cheek. “Are you going to read me like one of your books again?”

He chuckled darkly. “No. Tonight, I’m going to annotate.”

What followed wasn’t lovemaking. It was poetry written in bruises and gasps. He took his time—slow, deliberate strokes of tongue and teeth, each touch like a line of verse etched into her skin. He pinned her wrists above her head, eyes burning into hers as he slid into her inch by torturous inch.

“Use your words, Soo-bin,” he ordered between gritted teeth, thrusts slow and devastating. “You’re a librarian. You know how to articulate. Tell me what you want.”

She moaned, back arching. “I want my professor to fuck me.”

He groaned at her audacity, biting down softly on her shoulder as she cried out, louder this time. “Good girl,” he breathed, voice thick with heat. “Lesson two: Always be explicit in your desires.”

His hands were everywhere—one gripping her thigh to keep her open for him, the other tangled in her hair, guiding her face to meet kiss after messy kiss. Her lips were swollen, her body trembling as he rocked into her, slow and punishing.

“Harder,” she gasped.

“Beg.” She looked up, eyes glassy. “Please, Professor… fuck me harder.”

He did. With a guttural groan, he snapped his hips, pace brutal, voice low and sinful. “Such a filthy mouth for such a studious wife.”

The bed creaked. The headboard slammed. Her moans became cries, body trembling with every thrust. She clung to him like she was falling, and maybe she was—falling deeper into the man who held her like a promise, like a possession, like a confession.

He flipped her over, pulling her hips up and pushing her face into the sheets. His palm slid up her spine. “Lesson three,” he growled into her ear, biting the shell of it, “Never interrupt your professor during office hours.”

And then he was inside her again, deeper, rougher, hips slamming against her with a rhythm that bordered on divine madness. Her screams were raw. She choked his name into the pillow, hands fisting the sheets. And he never stopped talking.

“Does that feel good?”
“Yes—fuck—so good—”
“Say who owns this perfect pussy.”
“You do, Yeon-seok—Professor—it’s yours—fuck— harder, ahh”

When she finally shattered, it was loud and wild. He followed moments after spilling inside her, collapsing with a groan that sounded like it came from his soul.

They lay there tangled, soaked in sweat and sin, breath ragged and limbs trembling. He kissed her temple gently, brushing hair from her damp forehead.

“Lesson four,” he whispered, voice soft now, lips feathering over her cheek. “Your professor is desperately, endlessly in love with you.”

She smiled sleepily, curling into his chest. “Then I’ll keep failing… just so you keep teaching.”

He laughed into her hair, holding her close. And somewhere, the rain kept falling, as though applauding a lesson well learned.

Chapter Text

The rain had finally stopped after nearly a week of grey skies and dripping windows, and Seoul—drenched, flushed, and blinking in the sudden Sunday sun—looked like it had just woken up from a long, melancholic nap. The streets were still wet, puddles shining like liquid mirrors, but in the small apartment nestled on the edge of Mapo-gu, time was suspended in something softer than sunlight. Inside, the world moved differently—quiet, slow, golden. The kettle hissed softly in the kitchen. A faint jazz melody tiptoed through the rooms like a familiar guest. And Yoo Yeon-seok stood at the edge of it all, just beyond the threshold, watching something that didn’t belong to the past or future, but shimmered quietly in the now.

His eyes settled on the living room. On two women, sitting side by side on the warm wooden floor, folding laundry with the kind of ease that only comes when love is old and sure. His mother—small, regal even in her loose floral cardigan—folded a bath towel with practiced grace, her movements methodical, almost ceremonial. Beside her, his wife, in one of his oversized T-shirts with her hair in a messy bun, worked in sync, her hands mirroring those of the woman who had raised the man she now called husband.

It wasn’t the kind of moment that would trend on social media. There were no dramatic declarations or golden filters, no polished perfection. But to Yeon-seok, it was the kind of beauty that could shatter you softly. The kind you felt in your chest like a song with no words. It was sacred. He watched them not as a son or a husband, but as a man overcome. Because somewhere between the folds of cotton and laughter, they weren’t just tidying up a household—they were building a bridge between generations, sealing the cracks of time with small acts of care.

His mother had moved in six months ago after a minor fall—a small misstep on the stairs that rattled him more than it should have. The doctors said she was fine, just bruised, but Yeon-seok didn’t sleep for nights. When he finally brought it up, fumbling through the words, Soo-bin had nodded even before he finished his sentence.

“Of course,” she said, brushing his hair back gently, her voice unshakably calm. “She’s our mother.”

Our.

That single word. It hadn’t just filled a silence. It had rewritten something in him. Broken and mended something deep. Made him realize that love, real love, doesn’t need permission to expand—it just makes room.

He took in the sight now like a painting that had always existed but had waited until this moment to reveal itself. His mother’s hands—smaller now, slightly tremulous, but still graceful—were the same ones that had cooked late at night after hospital shifts, pressed cool towels to his fevered head, and once slapped a principal’s desk when he was falsely accused of cheating. Her strength had always been silent, never boastful, woven into her daily movements like threads of prayer.

And beside her, Soo-bin. His anchor. His constant. Her eyes were a little tired from work, from life, maybe from loving too deeply and too well. But they still sparkled every time she looked at him like he was something precious. She didn’t say “I love you” often. She didn’t have to. Her love was in the way she placed his vitamins by the sink every morning, the way she remembered his deadlines better than he did, the way she folded his socks into each shoe when he rushed out the door.

“Yeon-seok, are you just going to stand there like a statue, or will you help?” his mother asked, without glancing back, though the smile was already in her voice.

He chuckled, caught in the act. “I’m thinking,” he said, moving toward them, tea forgotten on the counter.

“Dangerous,” Soo-bin replied, not missing a beat.

He dropped down between them, the warmth of their presence wrapping around him like a blanket. They smelled of fabric softener and something even gentler—home. His mother handed him a familiar old T-shirt, its fabric soft and faded.

“You still don’t fold sleeves properly,” she teased.

“Mom, I’m Forty-one ”

“And still folding like you’re nineteen. Thank God Soo-bin has standards.”

Soo-bin laughed softly and nudged his arm. “I retrain him daily.”

And like that, they returned to folding. A quiet rhythm settled between the three of them. No one rushed. No one filled the silence unnecessarily. It was a symphony of domestic life — three people, connected by love, bound by a history of ordinary miracles. And for a moment, Yeon-seok didn’t worry about time passing, or scripts due, or the city’s demands waiting outside. For a moment, he was just a son. Just a husband. Just a man allowed to be loved.

⸻

That night, after his mother had gone to bed—her door shut with the same gentleness she used when tucking him in as a boy—he stepped out onto the small balcony, where Soo-bin was already waiting, curled under a blanket, sipping barley tea. The city stretched out below them, but their world was suspended above it, quiet and safe.

He sat beside her and took her hand, lifting it to his lips for a soft kiss.

“Do you know what I realized today?” he asked.

She turned to him, her eyes already half-smiling. “What?”

“That I’ve been loved by queens all my life.”

She tilted her head, amused.

“My mother—she ruled with sacrifice. She built kingdoms out of leftover rice and silence. She raised me without ever raising her voice. The world forgets women like her. But men like me… we never do.”

“And your wife?” she teased softly.

“She rules with presence. With patience. With small things—like the way you rub my back when I don’t even know I need it. The way you laugh at my worst jokes. You love me so quietly, I don’t always hear it. But I always feel it. You’re never loud, but you’re always there.”

She didn’t answer with words. Just leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder, letting their silence do the talking.

“I don’t need much,” he murmured, looking out at the sky. “No legacy. No spotlight. I just want this. You. Mom. A home that smells like tea and clean laundry. That’s enough.”

“And a good coffee machine,” she added with a sleepy smile.

He laughed. “Non-negotiable.”

Their laughter was soft, like a lullaby to the night. No grand confessions, just limbs tangled and hearts in sync. It was the kind of love people overlook because it isn’t loud. But to him, it was the loudest thing that had ever happened.

⸻

Later, after she’d fallen asleep and the room had grown still, he stood by the window, watching the glow of streetlamps blink like stars below. He thought about legacy—not the kind written in scripts or awards, but the kind passed down in gestures. In warmth. In the quiet strength of a mother folding a towel. In a wife who knows when he needs her without asking.

Maybe someday, they would have a child. Maybe he’d teach that child to fold clothes properly—though probably not. Maybe his mother’s hands would braid a granddaughter’s hair or pat a grandson’s back. Maybe. Or maybe just this was enough.

Because love, he realized, is not in the grand declarations or perfect photos. It’s in the quiet, repeated acts. The everyday sacrifices. The warmth of two women who made space for him not just in their homes, but in their hearts.

He looked back at Soo-bin, sleeping peacefully, the blanket rising and falling with her breath.

His queens didn’t need thrones. They didn’t need crowns.

They just needed Sunday sunlight, warm towels, and a love that was never loud—but always true.

And in that silence, he folded his heart into theirs once again.

Forever.

Chapter Text

Yeon-seok barely had time to blink.

The soft clink of his keys hitting the hallway console was drowned out by the sudden shift in atmosphere — heavy, heady, and electric. The living room had been dimmed, lit only by the flicker of scented candles and the low hum of the city bleeding through their glass windows.

And then he saw her.

His wife. His sweet, angel-faced wife — dressed like every dangerous fantasy he’d never dared speak aloud.

Soo-bin leaned against the arm of the couch like a femme fatale dropped into a noir thriller. Her black faux-leather jacket hung halfway off her shoulders, revealing the most sinful version of herself: a plunging zip-up latex dress, skin-tight and barely clinging to her hips. The zipper was halfway down her chest, and beneath it — bright, scandalous red lace — a bra that was doing nothing to hide the swell of her breasts or the soft curves that Yeon-seok had kissed a thousand times. Her thighs were bare. No stockings. No shame. Her heels were patent leather and glinting beneath the city lights.

Her voice dropped low. “Looking for a ride, oppa?”

He froze.

She popped her gum. Tilted her head. That silver driver’s cap sat crooked atop her high ponytail, and her lips — glossy and red like she’d just licked someone clean — curved into a smirk that could end nations.

“I offer very personal service,” she purred, stepping closer, slow like honey. “Premium backseat experience. Hands-on. Mouth-on. Anything goes if you pay in moans.”

“Jesus Christ,” Yeon-seok groaned, visibly hardening in his pants as he took a slow, stunned step toward her.

But Soo-bin didn’t give him time. She pressed a hand to his chest, shoving him down into the armchair like a passenger getting in too fast.

“Let me ride you first,” she whispered against his ear. “I’ve been thinking about this all day. About you coming home… and me not wearing a single thing under this dress. You wanna check?”

He swallowed thickly. “Fuck, baby—”

She climbed onto his lap, straddling him with her thighs spread wide, dress riding up dangerously. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she dragged the zipper all the way down, letting the latex part to reveal her full, bare breasts.

“Happy birthday, oppa,” she said, voice silk-wrapped sin. “Do I look like a dirty little driver who needs to be punished?”

He growled, grabbing her waist, eyes dark with heat. “You look like a fucking problem. The kind I want to ruin tonight.”

“Oh?” she teased, rolling her hips over his erection. “You gonna ruin me, baby? Gonna mess me up right here on this chair? While I bounce on your cock and scream your name so loud the whole damn building knows who owns me?”

“You want to be fucked like that, huh?” he hissed, gripping her hips tighter. “You wear this filthy little outfit, grind all over me like a whore, and expect me to go slow?”

“Please,” she whispered, biting his ear. “Don’t go slow. I want it rough. Want you to make me cry.”

He flipped her like a switchblade — dragging her dress over her head, baring her completely.

“You’re dripping,” he muttered, running two fingers through her folds and bringing them to her lips. “Taste yourself. That’s what need looks like.”

She moaned, sucking his fingers with hunger.

Then she bent over the back of the couch, presenting herself.

“You gonna bend your little taxi slut over, baby?” she taunted. “Wreck me right here in your nice clean living room?”

He didn’t answer — he just pulled his belt open with one sharp flick.

The sound of her gasp when he entered her echoed like music. Deep. Full. Desperate. Her hands clawed at the leather as he thrust into her hard, each snap of his hips sending shockwaves through her body.

“That’s it,” he groaned, slapping her ass. “That’s how you take me. Just like that. Loud and messy. God, you feel so fucking good—tight and hot and made for me.”

She sobbed his name, grinding back against him.

“I’m yours, Oppa. Your dirty girl. Your wife. Fuck me like I’m the only woman left in the world.”

“You are,” he said, voice shaking. “You are. Mine. All mine.”

He reached around to rub her clit, fast and ruthless, and she screamed — high, strangled, begging.

“Gonna come, oppa—God, I’m gonna come—”

“Then do it,” he growled. “Scream my name while I fuck you through it.”

And she did.

Her orgasm hit her like a wave crashing through her soul — and he didn’t stop. Not for minutes. Not until he was spilling inside her with a low, broken moan, his body shaking against her back, her name tumbling from his lips like a prayer.

⸻

They collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Both of them panting, covered in sweat, skin against skin.

Soo-bin’s hair was wild. Her lipstick was gone. Her thighs were trembling, and she couldn’t stop smiling.

“You filthy little roleplayer,” Yeon-seok panted. “You trying to kill me on my birthday?”

She grinned, curling into him.

“You said you liked Taxi Driver. I gave you the ride of your life.”

He chuckled, kissing her hair.

“Next year,” he whispered, “you’re dressing as a cop. And I’m going to let you arrest me.”

“Only if you plead guilty,” she murmured.

He rolled over, pinning her again.

“Oh, baby,” he growled, licking her neck, “I’m guilty of everything.”

______

The sun slipped in slowly, unhurried and golden, flooding the bedroom in honeyed light. The city outside stirred with muted footsteps and sleepy engine hums, but inside their penthouse — it was still quiet.

Yoo Yeon-seok woke to warmth.

The kind that pressed against his side, one leg tangled with his beneath the linen sheets. A wild tumble of dark hair against his bare chest. The faint scent of cinnamon and roses — Soo-bin’s skin after her bath the night before. Her breath came soft and slow, lips parted slightly, eyelashes fluttering against the top of his ribcage.

She was still asleep, curled into him like a satisfied cat after a feast.

He looked down, tracing her bare shoulder with reverence. There were faint red marks along her hips and collarbone, souvenirs of how fiercely he had loved her last night. And yet, even now, there was something impossibly innocent about her — despite the fact that just hours ago she’d ridden him in red lace and called herself his “filthy taxi slut.”

He smiled.

What a woman. What a wife.

Carefully, he slipped out of bed, pausing to press a kiss to her temple. She stirred only slightly, murmuring something about “tips” and “backseat service,” and he nearly choked on his laughter.

“Even in your dreams?” he whispered, shaking his head affectionately.

⸻

Thirty minutes later, the apartment smelled of coffee and caramelized sugar.

Soo-bin woke slowly, stretching with a soft moan, blinking against the sun. She groaned when her thighs ached, when the soreness between her legs reminded her just how many positions they’d explored last night.

“Jesus, Oppa,” she mumbled. “You turned my pelvis into confetti.”

From the kitchen, he called out, “Did I hear my name being praised again?”

She propped herself up, hair everywhere, blanket barely covering her chest.

“You’re insane,” she called back. “You ravaged me like I was a buffet.”

He walked in a moment later, carrying a tray.

Coffee. Fresh croissants. Whipped cream. Cut strawberries. A mini birthday cake with “Yeon-seok’s Very Naughty Breakfast” written in chocolate drizzle.

And him — grinning, in grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, hair wet from the shower, looking sinfully soft.

“I figured after last night’s taxi disaster, you deserved some five-star room service,” he teased, placing the tray beside her on the bed. “Also… to thank you. That was the best birthday of my life.”

She rolled her eyes but flushed, deeply.

He knelt beside the bed, resting his chin on the mattress.

“I mean it, Binnie. No gift could top seeing you in that trashy little costume, telling me to get in the backseat.”

She threw a pillow at his face.

“You’re a pervert.”

“I’m your pervert.”

“You ruined me.”

He leaned in and kissed her thigh, right above the bruise he’d made with his mouth.

“Want me to ruin you again after breakfast?” he whispered against her skin.

She shivered.

“I can’t even walk, you animal.”

“I’ll carry you,” he grinned. “Like a good husband should.”

She sighed, laughing, then pulled him up into the bed with her. He settled in behind her, arms wrapping around her waist, nuzzling his face into her neck.

For a while, they just lay there. The cake forgotten. The croissants cooling. Her fingers played lazily with his.

Then, softly, she said, “I’m so glad you were born.”

He stilled.

“I’m serious,” she continued. “Because now I get to love you every day. As your wife. As your wild fantasy. As your best friend.”

He kissed her shoulder. “And I’ll never stop earning that love.”

She turned to face him, brushing her thumb against his bottom lip.

“Happy birthday, oppa.”

And then, in a whisper: “You wanna be bad again before breakfast?”

He growled, flipping her under the sheets.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Chapter Text

The ocean sighed against the rocks, a breath older than memory, steady and soft — much like the man stirring seaweed soup in the kitchen of the house they had grown old in. Yoo Yeon-seok hummed as he worked, his voice a little thinner now, worn from time and use, but still warm, still familiar — the way his wife liked it most. Outside, Chae Soo-bin sat beneath the wide awning of the veranda, her gray hair pulled into a loose bun, embroidery hoop resting gently in her lap. Her fingers moved slowly now, but with purpose, stitching petals into a linen square just because. They had nowhere to be, and no one to impress. The only thing that mattered was this moment — and the long road that had led them here.

Soobin’s eyes drifted to the garden gate, as if expecting someone. Then, without turning, she spoke softly — her voice still honeyed, even through age and aches.

“Do you remember when we were too broke to buy furniture and had to eat on moving boxes?”

A chuckle came from the kitchen. “You mean our fine dining set? Cardboard Deluxe, 2002 edition?”

She laughed — a real, rolling laugh that made her chest rise with surprise — and it echoed down the path, as if even the birds remembered those days.

Back then, their world was small: a single-room rooftop apartment, a leaky faucet, and two hearts full of ambition and uncertainty. She had just booked her first second-lead role in a drama no one watched, and he was stuck doing theater with barely enough money for a subway ride. Nights were spent memorizing lines under one flickering bulb, sharing instant noodles, and daring to dream. When she cried from exhaustion, he wrote her silly poems on napkins. When he lost a role, she wrapped her arms around him like a fortress.

Love, in those days, was loud. Fiery. They fought. God, how they fought. Over who left the gas on, who missed a call, who forgot their anniversary. But they also made up in the most mundane and magnificent ways: through shared rice, hot compresses during flu seasons, and the quiet apology of folded laundry.

Their greatest test came not from betrayal or scandal, but from grief. The year their first child was born sleeping, something shattered. Soobin stopped singing. Yeon-seok stopped speaking. For months they moved around each other like strangers in a chapel — reverent, wounded, afraid to disturb the silence. One night, he found her crying on the bathroom floor, her shoulders shaking as she clutched a pair of unopened baby socks. He didn’t say anything. He just sat beside her, pulled her into his arms, and whispered the lullaby he had written for their child. She wept until her throat burned. And after that, little by little, they found their way back.

Even love this deep can be fragile. There was a decade when they nearly gave up — not out of anger, but out of fatigue. They slept in separate rooms, ate at separate times, and spoke only in logistics: groceries, bills, appointments. But one snowy evening, he came into the kitchen and handed her a spoon. “Soup,” he said. “I made too much.” That was all. No grand speeches. Just soup. But when she took a bite, the warmth hit a part of her she thought had frozen forever.

They began again — from soup.

Years passed. Scripts stopped coming. Fame dimmed like the last light in a theater. Their second son — their miracle boy — grew up, grew distant, and moved abroad. “Don’t wait up,” he would say, voice full of new priorities, new cities, new dreams. They missed him terribly, but they never said it out loud. Instead, they planted tomatoes in the garden, adopted a one-eyed cat named Haku, and filled their home with music and morning walks. They had made peace with being each other’s entire world.

And yet, on this particular day, as the ocean stretched and yawned into the horizon, a shape appeared at the gate. Tall. Familiar. Carrying a bouquet of yellow tulips and a crooked smile just like his father’s. Their son.

Soobin stood, the embroidery falling to her lap, hand gripping the edge of the wooden chair.

Yeon-seok emerged from the kitchen, apron still on, eyes wide with the disbelief of a man who stopped hoping for moments like this.

“Appa,” their son said, stepping forward. “Eomma.”

No apology. No explanation. Just the sound of a son coming home.

Soobin covered her mouth. “You’re early.”

“Only twenty years,” Yeon-seok teased, tears sparkling in his eyes.

They embraced like people trying to feel every missed birthday, every unsent message, every quiet ache — all at once. And when they finally let go, it wasn’t with sorrow, but with peace.

That night, they sat at the same dinner table that had survived two decades of spilled soup, scratched bowls, and midnight snacks. Their son helped clear the dishes. Haku curled near the heater. Yeon-seok told the old story of how he proposed with no ring, just toast and hot chocolate. Soobin added the part about her mismatched socks. And laughter — real, golden laughter — filled the house again.

As the night deepened, Soobin leaned into her husband’s shoulder, the smell of rosemary and sea breeze in her hair.

“We’ve had a hard life,” she whispered.

“We’ve had a full one,” he replied, kissing her temple.

Their son watched them — not just as parents, but as proof that love isn’t always soft. Sometimes, it’s a fight. A choice. A soup you keep offering. A door you keep opening. A song you never stop humming, even when your voice fades.

Outside, the waves kept speaking in their ancient tongue. Inside, three hearts beat with the rhythm of all they had lost — and all they still had.

Salt in their hair.
Silver in their souls.
But still —
Together.

Always.

Chapter Text

The heat of summer in the countryside was merciless, and so was the scene. Yoo Yeon-seok’s hands were welded to the steering wheel, the car’s engine roaring beneath him like a beast barely contained. They were rolling into the pivotal chase scene for his new action-thriller drama — his character, a rogue agent, tearing down a sunbaked highway after a black van carrying the antagonist. His body was tense, every muscle taut and alive with adrenaline as he swerved through tight corners and flew past rigged cameras. His jaw was set in a grim, cinematic determination.

What the cameras didn’t see, however, was the sly little earpiece tucked in his left ear. A Bluetooth line connected directly to his private phone. Password protected. Meant only for production use during emergencies. Or so he’d told everyone. Only one person had access now — because that morning, she’d climbed into his lap in a flimsy tank top and whispered, lips brushing his jawline, “Oppa, tell me the password or I’ll pout all day… maybe I won’t let you touch me tonight either.” He’d groaned, breathless from the curve of her hips grinding into him, and gave in like a man already in chains.

Big mistake.

Because now, mid-scene, as he was hurtling through the final leg of the car chase with a camera drone tracking overhead, his earpiece crackled to life.

“Oppa…”

The voice was a whisper of sin, pure and sultry.

He blinked hard, one hand twitching on the wheel. That voice—her voice—was the exact opposite of what he needed to hear when going 120 km/h on a controlled stunt road.

“You didn’t think I’d actually use the password, did you?” Soobin’s voice purred in his ear, velvet smooth and intoxicating. “But oppa, you looked so hot leaving the house this morning. All sweaty and flushed. You kissed me like you wanted more but then just ran off. It’s not fair…”

Yeon-seok exhaled sharply through his nose, trying not to react, but the steering wheel creaked under the pressure of his grip. The stunt car behind him came dangerously close.

“I’ve been watching you on the monitor. You’re panting in that car seat, jaw clenched, arms all tight around the wheel. Makes me wonder… what if I was sitting on your lap while you’re driving like that? No panties. My dress riding up. Me, grinding down while the cameras keep rolling…”

A jolt shot straight down his spine, and his cock stiffened instantly, angrily pressing against the denim trapping him. He wasn’t even halfway through the damn take, and she was already setting him ablaze from a distance.

His voice was low and gritted, meant only for her.

“Stop it, Soobin. Not now. Not here.”

“Why not?” she teased, voice playful but dripping with heat. “Isn’t it thrilling? All those eyes on you… but only I know how hard you’re getting. You think they’ll notice the bulge in your pants when you step out of the car? Or how you’ll need a minute before someone yells ‘reset’?”

He swerved hard around a bend, barely catching the timing. His heart was racing—but not just from the scene. No. It was the way her voice stroked him from miles away, like her fingers were ghosting over his cock even though she wasn’t there.

“Oppa,” she whispered, breath hitching, “I’m touching myself now. Just one hand down my shorts. I’m thinking about how you sound when you’re desperate. That growl in your throat… the way you grab my hips and slam into me when you can’t hold back anymore.”

His hips jerked involuntarily in the seat. He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. A camera truck pulled in beside him for the close-up. Yeon-seok threw on his most intense expression, but inside, he was unraveling.

“I’m soaked, oppa. All from just thinking of your voice. I want you to taste me right off your fingers when you get home. Will you do that? Lick me clean while I straddle your lap? Or maybe… maybe I’ll blindfold you, pin your hands back, and ride you until you beg.”

The final turn came. Tires screeched. He slammed the brake, the car skidding perfectly into place. The director screamed “Cut!” and cheers erupted on the comms. But Yeon-seok didn’t move. He sat there, hand still on the wheel, head tilted back as he gasped for air—flushed, hard, dripping with sweat, and hopelessly ruined by the siren in his ear.

“Good job, my sexy driver,” she whispered sweetly. “Now hurry home. I’m lying on the couch with no underwear. Legs open. And I want your mouth before anything else.”

The earpiece went dead.

Yeon-seok slammed the car door open, nearly tripping as he stormed off set. The staff blinked, startled by the fire in his eyes.

He muttered a single thing under his breath:
“Cancel all wrap meetings. I have an emergency.”

Chapter Text

She barely had time to pull the straps of her silk robe tight before she heard the slam of the front door. Heavy, fast footsteps. No pause. No greeting. Just the unmistakable thud of pure intent moving through the house like a storm.

Soobin’s lips curled. Perfect. She was sprawled across the couch, long legs bare, robe barely covering the heat between her thighs. She had waited for this moment all day—stretched, wet, aching—and the gleam in her eye was pure challenge.

Yeon-seok’s voice cut through the hallway like a growl. “You think you’re funny, huh?”

He was already pulling off his jacket, shirt half unbuttoned, chest rising and falling with barely restrained hunger. His eyes were locked on her like prey—or punishment.

Soobin sat up slowly, trailing a finger between her breasts. “Did oppa like my little surprise during your shoot?” she said, voice sugar-laced poison. “You looked so tense on screen. I almost felt bad.”

Yeon-seok was on her before the last word left her lips. His mouth crashed onto hers, teeth biting, hands yanking the flimsy robe open to reveal her bare chest. “You’re so dead,” he hissed against her lips. “You made me hard in front of the whole fucking crew.”

“Oh no,” she teased, breathless as he shoved her back onto the cushions. “What are you gonna do about it?”

He chuckled, dark and wicked, fingers wrapping around her wrists and pinning them above her head. “First, I’m going to ruin you slowly. Then I’m going to do it again, harder.”

And then he began.

His mouth found her nipple with no warning, biting down just enough to make her gasp. One hand trailed down between her thighs, dragging through slick folds that made him groan.

“So wet already,” he muttered. “Were you playing with yourself all day thinking about me?”

She nodded, hips rising, desperate for more.

“Good,” he smirked. “Then you don’t need any warm-up.”

He shoved two fingers inside her without mercy, pumping slow but deep, knuckle-deep. His thumb circled her clit in punishing rhythms, watching every twitch in her thighs as she whimpered beneath him. But just when her moans got louder, when her legs started to shake—he stopped.

“Oppa,” she whined, frustrated.

He pulled back, eyes glinting. “You don’t get to cum yet. Not until I fuck that bratty attitude out of you.”

He stood and unzipped his jeans with agonizing slowness. His cock sprang free—thick, flushed, angry. He grabbed her by the ankle and yanked her down the couch until her ass met the edge.

Then he lifted one leg over his shoulder, slapped the head of his cock against her soaked entrance, and drove in—deep. She arched, a scream ripping from her throat. He didn’t pause. He fucked her hard and fast from the start, no mercy, the sound of wet slaps and her gasps echoing through the room.

“Still teasing, huh?” he panted, pounding into her so deep her back arched off the couch. “Still think it’s funny to make me come home like this?”

She was clawing at his arms now, sweat beading across her chest, words lost in moans.

He flipped her over. Bent her over the armrest. Slammed back in.

“You wanted a wrecked, desperate version of me?” he growled into her ear. “Now take every fucking inch.”

His hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back while his other hand snuck under her belly to rub her clit in tight, savage circles.

“Cum. Now,” he ordered.

And she did. Hard.

Her whole body convulsed, a cry breaking from her throat as she shattered around him. But he wasn’t done.

He pulled out, grabbed her face, and kissed her hard before lifting her again—this time over his lap as he sat down, bouncing her on his cock while she trembled, already overstimulated.

“You’re not done until I say so,” he said. “You teased me all day. Now you’re going to be stuffed and dripping until you forget your own name.”

Her second orgasm hit faster. Louder. She sobbed into his neck, clinging to him, body collapsing, shaking. But he held her tight and kept thrusting, refusing to stop until he came deep inside her with a long, guttural moan, holding her down and grinding through every last pulse.

Silence.

Their bodies slumped, tangled in sweat and lust and the faint scent of sex hanging thick in the air. She whimpered against his shoulder, lips parted, dazed.

Yeon-seok kissed her temple and smirked.

“That,” he whispered, “was for the Bluetooth call.”

_____

Soobin didn’t remember how they made it from the couch to the floor. One moment, her back was arched over the armrest, tears threatening to spill as Yeon-seok rammed into her with so much force she thought she might black out — and the next, she was on the hardwood, cheek pressed to the cool floor, ass in the air, thighs quaking, and her mouth hanging open in desperate, wrecked moans.

He was behind her, kneeling, one hand gripping her hip so hard she’d find bruises there tomorrow, the other pressing down on her upper back to keep her folded in half like a ragdoll. His cock was slick, angry, still rock-hard from his first orgasm — and somehow, he wasn’t even close to being done.

“Your pussy,” he growled, slapping her ass hard enough to make her jolt, “was made for punishment.”

He slid back in with a growl, but this time slower, more deliberate — dragging his length through her sensitive walls until she sobbed. Her body was already overstimulated from cumming twice in a row, but it didn’t stop the filthy squelch of her cunt welcoming him back in.

“Listen to that,” he hissed, hips snapping forward. “So wet. Still clenching around me like you’re begging for more.”

She whimpered into the floor, fingers curling into the wood grain.

“I am… p-please, oppa, I—”

“Shhh,” he interrupted, grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking her up so her spine bent back into his chest. “You don’t get to beg now. You forfeited your rights the second you whispered into my ear mid-chase and told me you were fingering yourself.”

He bit into her shoulder, dragging his teeth across her skin as he fucked her from behind, deep and steady, then fast and brutal — like he was punishing her from the inside out. His cock hit her deepest spot over and over, making her cry out as tears spilled from the corners of her eyes.

“That’s it,” he hissed. “Let me fuck the brat right out of you.”

She was shaking. Sweating. Moaning his name like a prayer between breathless gasps.

Then he pulled out again — suddenly, violently — and flipped her onto her back. Soobin barely had time to breathe before he shoved her legs up to her chest and sank back in with one savage thrust.

She screamed.

“Eyes on me,” he growled, sweat dripping down his abs as he pistoned into her. “I want you to watch what I do to you.”

Soobin’s mouth was open in a silent cry. Her legs trembled in the air, and her pussy was a wet, swollen mess. Yeon-seok leaned over, spit in his hand, and rubbed her clit with his soaked fingers.

“You cum again, and I’m not stopping. I’m going to fuck you through it.”

She tried to resist. Tried to hold on. But the way he was slamming into her, hitting her g-spot like a man possessed, thumb on her clit, eyes locked to hers—

She exploded.

Her body seized, legs kicking, her third orgasm pouring out of her in helpless waves as she screamed his name. Her walls fluttered violently around his cock, but he didn’t stop. If anything, he got rougher.

“Still want to tease me during filming?” he grunted. “Still think I won’t ruin you?”

He grabbed her legs, pushed them back even further until her knees almost touched her shoulders, and fucked her so deep her vision blurred. The angle had her losing grip on reality — every thrust a thunderbolt of pleasure-pain that echoed from her core up her spine.

“Say it,” he demanded.

“S-Sorry, oppa—!”

“Louder.”

“I’m sorry, oppa! I’ll never tease you again—!”

He smirked, eyes wild. “Too late.”

With a feral growl, he pulled out and slammed back in once… twice…

And then he came.

Hard.

His whole body shuddered as he emptied inside her, thick ropes of cum flooding her already ruined pussy. He grunted through it, not stopping the grind of his hips even as he spilled everything, making sure it was deep — so deep — her insides ached from the fullness.

They collapsed.

He was still inside her, throbbing.

Soobin could barely breathe. Her thighs twitched, her skin flushed and marked in places only he knew how to find. Her robe was lost somewhere under the coffee table. Her nipples were raw from his mouth. Her neck bore the bruises of his teeth. She was wrecked — and smiling.

Yeon-seok brushed sweaty strands of hair from her face and whispered hoarsely:

“Next time you want to tease me… be prepared to crawl for three days.”

She licked her lips, completely fucked out.

“…Worth it.”