Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hi, how are ya'll doing (o_o;)


So for those who don't know/remember me.. they can really skip this honestly? Except maybe you might find this same work title tagged to an orphan account which was mine previously so... enjoy the story!!


And to those who somehow remember me, or don't because honestly why would you remember a random AO3 writer, myself Cherry!


I had disappeared from this platform like 6 months ago and that's because your girl had pneumonia.


Yep, I don't even know how am alive right now because almost everyone assumed I'd be dead - even doctors didn't really have that much hope, but then I survived unfortunately.


Either way, because of my deteriorating health condition and because my mom didn't really like the fact that her daughter writes fanfics instead of doing organic chemistry, I had orphaned my account because no matter how shitty the writing was, I genuinely loved my work.


But now am alive and back, sooo I am going to start re uploading!! Updates will be slow compared to before since being a minor and doing science should be illegal but look at me.


But if any of you do remember me, thank you so much that's honestly so much love and honour for someone like me! It'll take some time to reupload each chapter and start new uploads soooo I beg for your patience till then.


And to the new readers, hello!! I hope you enjoy my stories and help me improve along the way too :D


P.S - I'll be uploading the same author notes that was there when the chapters were initially published, so please do not be confused!!


- Cherry

Chapter Text

If I See You Again, (Will You Still Be Mine?)

Start: 9.2.25

End:

---

Single father Choi Seungcheol already has a lot on his plate.

A dead husband, an energetic yet sick child, an awesome brother and an annoying employee.

Enter Yoon Jeonghan, the annoyingly cheerful new employee who seems determined to crack through his gruff exterior. He pries too much, smiles too easily.

After all, why does Seungcheol have to be so grumpy? And why does Jeonghan feel so drawn to him?

---

Choi Seungcheol

You ever think about how love isn't what they say it is?

People make it sound like a cure, like something that mends you—but love can ruin just as much as it heals. It takes, it twists, it leaves you reaching for something that isn't there anymore.

I've seen love turn into silence. Watched it slip through my fingers, felt it linger in places it no longer belonged. Maybe I held on too tightly. Maybe I didn't hold on enough. Either way, it's gone.

And the thing about love? Once it leaves, it never comes back the same.

---

Yoon Jeonghan

You ever get the feeling that something is missing, but you can't quite name it?

Like there's a space inside you where something used to be—something important—but no matter how hard you try, you just can't remember what it was.

People tell me who I was before, what my life used to be, but their words feel like stories about a stranger. I listen, I nod, I pretend to understand. But the truth is, I don't know if I want to remember. Because if it was something good, then I lost it. And if it wasn't, then maybe I'm better off without it.

Still, sometimes... in the quiet, in the in-between moments, I wonder. I wonder if the past is looking for me. If it's waiting for me to turn around. And I wonder if, when I finally do, I'll regret it.

---

Chwe Hansol

Do people ever get used to being overlooked?

When people stop expecting things from you, stop listening, stop caring—it gets easy to disappear. Easy to let them believe whatever they want about you, because fighting back isn't worth the exhaustion.

I learned that young. Learned that in silence, in the spaces between words that never reached me. People see what they want to see. They take what they want to take. And me? I just learned to stay out of the way.

But he never looked at me like that. Never treated me like something small, something disposable. Maybe that's why I stayed. Maybe that's why I'm still here, making sure he doesn't lose himself to something that already broke him once. Because he saved me in a way no one else ever did. And if I have to be the bad guy to protect him now, so be it.

---

Boo Seungkwan

Do you ever think you're doing the right thing, only to look back and realise you might've taken everything from someone instead?

I told him to leave. Told him he didn't belong here anymore. And he listened. I thought I was protecting what was left, stopping an old wound from reopening. But all I really did was carve out something that was never meant to be gone.

Because now, I see what's left behind. The emptiness, the restless searching for something that isn't there. The weight of something missing, something stolen. And I did that. I was so sure I was saving him, but all I did was leave him with a life that feels just a little too hollow.

I can't fix the past. But I can make sure it finds its way back. And this time, I won't be the reason it slips away again.

---

Other Characters:

Choi Chan (Dino)

---

Playlist

Jeongcheol -

The Night We Met – Lord Huron
Exile – Taylor Swift ft. Bon Iver
The Scientist – Coldplay
Iris – Goo Goo Dolls
You Are the Reason – Calum Scott
Fix You – Coldplay
All I Want – Kodaline
Right Where You Left Me – Taylor Swift
Somewhere Only We Know – Keane
Say Something – A Great Big World ft. Christina Aguilera
Before You Go – Lewis Capaldi
If the World Was Ending – JP Saxe & Julia Michaels
Everglow – Coldplay
Hate That I Love You – Rihanna & Ne-Yo
Can’t Help Falling in Love – Elvis Presley 

Verkwan -

Running Up That Hill – Kate Bush 
Better Than Me – The Brobecks 
I Bet My Life – Imagine Dragons 
Half of My Heart – John Mayer 
Wicked Game – Chris Isaak 
Take Me to Church – Hozier
War of Hearts – Ruelle
Hardest to Love – The Weeknd 
It’s You – Henry 
The One That Got Away – Katy Perry 
Lose You to Love Me – Selena Gomez 
Lover, You Should’ve Come Over – Jeff Buckley 
Like We Used To – A Rocket to the Moon 
Rosyln – Bon Iver & St. Vincent 
Who Are You – Laufey 

Overall Book -

The Night We Met – Lord Huron 
Exile – Taylor Swift ft. Bon Iver 
Everglow – Coldplay 
Somewhere Only We Know – Keane 
Fix You – Coldplay
Before You Go – Lewis Capaldi
Right Where You Left Me – Taylor Swift
All I Want – Kodaline
If the World Was Ending – JP Saxe & Julia Michaels 
The Scientist – Coldplay 
Can’t Help Falling in Love – Elvis Presley 
Say You Won’t Let Go – James Arthur 
Only Love – Ben Howard 
Hate That I Love You – Rihanna ft. Ne-Yo 
Rosyln – Bon Iver & St. Vincent 
Jealous – Labrinth 
Who Are You – Laufey 
Unconditionally – Katy Perry
No Time to Die – Billie Eilish
Iris – Goo Goo Dolls 

Chapter Text

Hi! My name is Dino. Well, actually, my real name is Chan, but everyone calls me Dino.


Daddy says it suits me because I’m strong, just like a dinosaur.


I like that. Dinosaurs are cool. They have big teeth, long tails, and they can stomp really loud! I try to stomp like a dinosaur sometimes, but Daddy always laughs and tells me to be careful.

I yawn and rub my eyes as I wake up. The sun isn’t even fully up yet, but Daddy is already standing by my bed, shaking me gently.


His warm hand rests on my shoulder, and even though my blanket is cozy, his touch is warmer.

"Come on, bedhead champion. Time to get up."

I groan and try to roll over, burying my face into my pillow, but Daddy laughs softly and picks me up anyway.


He’s really strong. I think it’s because he carries me a lot. His arms are big and warm, and I like when he holds me because it makes me feel safe.

"Okay, okay! I’m up!" I mumble, rubbing my face against his shirt sleepily. He chuckles and sets me down so I can stretch my arms and wiggle my toes. My chest feels a little tight, but that’s normal in the mornings.


Daddy kneels in front of me, his dark eyes scanning my face like he’s trying to see if I’m okay. He does this every morning.

"You feeling okay today?" he asks, his voice soft but serious.

I nod. "Mhm! Just sleepy."

He exhales, like he was holding his breath, and smiles. "That’s my boy." He ruffles my hair, making it even messier, then helps me put on my socks, one by one.

In the kitchen, Daddy makes breakfast while I sit at the table, swinging my legs. Today, he’s making pancakes. The sweet smell fills the kitchen, and my stomach rumbles.


I watch as he tries to flip one in the air, but it lands on the edge of the pan instead, folding in on itself. I giggle.

"That one looks funny!"

"Hey, no judging the chef," he says, pointing the spatula at me with a fake serious face. "It still tastes the same."

Just as I’m about to take a bite, the door opens, and Uncle Vernon walks in with two cups of coffee. He always does this. I think it’s because Daddy forgets to make coffee for himself.


Uncle Vernon has a big, lazy smile on his face, and his hair is kind of messy, like he just woke up too.

He sets one cup down in front of Daddy and then hands me a juice box. "Morning, little boss. Did your dad burn breakfast yet?"

"Not yet," I say, grinning. Daddy rolls his eyes but smiles as he takes a sip of his coffee.

After breakfast, I take my medicine while Daddy watches. I don’t really like the taste—it’s bitter and weird—but Daddy gives me a juice box after, so it’s not that bad.


He watches me closely, making sure I take every pill. His eyes look a little tired, but when he sees me swallow the last one, he smiles.

"Good job, champ."

Then he helps me put on my shoes, making sure they’re snug but not too tight, and we head to school.

At school, I have to be careful. I can run, but not too much, or I’ll get really tired. My teacher knows about it, and so do my friends. They help me a lot, and I like that.


Sometimes, when I get tired, my best friend holds my hand and walks slowly with me, and the teacher lets me sit down whenever I need to. I like my school because no one makes me feel bad for needing extra care.

After school, Daddy picks me up.


He always asks about my day, and I tell him everything—the fun parts, the boring parts, and even the parts where I had to stop and rest for a bit. He listens to all of it.


Sometimes, Uncle Vernon comes too, and we stop for snacks before heading home. Daddy says I shouldn’t eat too many sweets, but Uncle Vernon always sneaks me a little extra when Daddy isn’t looking.

"Just between us, little boss," Uncle Vernon whispers, winking. I giggle and nod. Daddy always finds out later, but he only shakes his head and sighs.

One time, I woke up in the middle of the night because I was thirsty. The house was quiet except for the soft ticking of the clock in the hallway.


I walked quietly to the kitchen, rubbing my eyes, but then I heard Daddy and Uncle Vernon talking in the living room. They sounded serious.

"The doctor said the fibrosis isn’t getting worse, but we can’t be careless. He needs to stay stable," Daddy said. His voice was low, almost like a whisper, but I could hear the worry in it.

Uncle Vernon sighed. "Cheol, you’re doing everything you can. You barely sleep, you’re always checking on him. You can’t blame yourself for—"

"It’s my job to take care of him, Vernon. He’s my son." Daddy’s voice was really quiet, but it felt heavy, like when it’s about to rain.

There was a long pause, and then Uncle Vernon spoke again, softer this time. "I know. But you have to take care of yourself too. You can’t pour from an empty cup."

Daddy didn’t say anything for a while. I heard the sound of a cup being set down on the table.


"I just… I just wish he didn’t have to go through this. He’s just a kid. He deserves to run and play without worrying about breathing."

My chest felt weird. I didn’t really understand everything they were saying, but I knew they were talking about me. I didn’t want Daddy to worry so much. I wanted to tell him that I was okay, that he didn’t have to be sad.


But my feet wouldn’t move, so I just stood there for a little while longer before turning around and going back to bed. I wasn’t thirsty anymore.

At night, Daddy reads me a story before bed. He tucks me in, making sure my mask is on right, adjusting the straps carefully so it’s comfortable.


His fingers are gentle, moving slowly, like he doesn’t want to wake me even though I’m still awake.

"Good night, my strong boy," he whispers, his voice soft and full of something I don’t quite understand.

I smile, feeling warm and safe. I like knowing that no matter what, Daddy will always take care of me. And maybe one day, I’ll be strong enough to take care of him too.

It was a special day with Daddy, and I was feeling like the luckiest kid in the world.


Daddy said I could pick anything we wanted to do, so I chose the park first.


It was my favourite place because of the big pond. The ducks always made me smile. Sometimes, Daddy would even let me feed them, and they would come right up to me, quacking like they were saying “thank you.”

After the park, we were going to my favourite cafe. Daddy always said I had a sweet tooth, but I was sure he liked cake just as much as I did.


He always pretended he was just getting coffee, but I’d notice that somehow, a slice of cake would end up on his plate too, as if it magically appeared.

The cafe smelled amazing as soon as we walked inside—like vanilla and fresh coffee. I loved the way the warm air wrapped around me, a cozy feeling on a cold day.


The big glass display case was filled with all sorts of cakes and pastries, each one more delicious-looking than the last. I pressed my hands to the cold counter and stared at them, trying to choose which one I wanted.

Daddy leaned over and asked, “Which one?” His voice was kind, but I could tell he was already smiling because he knew what I’d pick.

I pointed eagerly at the strawberry shortcake. It was my favourite, with layers of fluffy cake and sweet strawberries.


“That one!” I said, my eyes wide with excitement.

“Good choice,” Daddy said, ruffling my hair like he always did. I giggled, feeling happy inside. “Go find a seat, okay? I’ll bring it over.”

I nodded, my feet tapping as I walked toward the table by the big window. I liked sitting there because I could see everything outside—the people walking past, the buses driving by, and the little shops on the other side of the street.


My feet swung back and forth under the chair as I watched all the busy world outside.

Then, something caught my eye.

A little box, sitting on the sidewalk across the street. I leaned closer, my nose almost touching the glass. Inside the box, there was something small and fluffy. I squinted, trying to make it out.

A tiny puppy. Its fur was white, like a cloud, and it was curled up, shivering a little in the cold. My heart tugged. It looked so lonely.

I glanced back at Daddy. He was still in line, his wallet in hand. I didn’t want to interrupt him, but I couldn’t ignore the puppy.

I could be fast. I’d just check on it for a second, then come right back.

Without thinking twice, I slid off my chair and glanced back at Daddy to make sure he didn’t see me. I slipped out the door and into the chilly air. It was colder outside than I’d expected, and I hugged my arms around myself to stay warm.

I remembered what Daddy always told me—left, right, left.

I looked both ways and then ran across the street. My shoes clicked against the pavement as I hurried toward the little box. It was only a few steps away now.

The puppy was even smaller up close. Its fur was all messy, like it hadn’t had a bath in days. Its little ears twitched when it heard me, and I crouched down to get a better look.


When I reached out my hand, the puppy sniffed me and then nuzzled my fingers, its cold nose pressing against my skin. I smiled, feeling a warmth inside that made my heart feel full.

“Are you alone?” I whispered, my voice soft, like I didn’t want to scare it.

The puppy made a tiny noise, almost like it was answering, and curled up tighter in the box. It was so small, and I wanted to pick it up and take it home.

But then, I remembered—Daddy would know what to do. He always knew what to do. I couldn’t just take the puppy without telling him first.

I stood up quickly, brushing off my pants, and turned to go back to Daddy. But before I could take a step, I froze.

A loud honk filled the air, followed by the blinding glare of headlights.


My heart stopped as I looked up to see a car coming straight toward me. It was speeding too fast, the tires screeching on the wet road, and I couldn’t move. My feet felt glued to the ground, and my chest was tight, like I couldn’t breathe.

And then, suddenly—air.

Someone grabbed me. Strong arms wrapped around me, lifting me off the ground, and I felt myself being pulled backward, away from the oncoming car.


The wind rushed past my ears as the car honked again, the sound sharp and loud, but I wasn’t in danger anymore. My heart was racing, but I was safe.

When I opened my eyes, I was back on the sidewalk, my feet on solid ground again.


The man who had saved me was standing in front of me now. He was looking at me with warm, kind eyes that made me feel safe, even though I didn’t know him.

He crouched down in front of me, his voice soft and gentle. “Are you okay?”

I stared up at him, still trying to catch my breath, my heart thumping in my chest. My head was spinning, but I managed to nod.

“Are you… an angel?” I asked, my voice small and unsure, but full of wonder.

He blinked at me, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. And then, he smiled, and my chest felt lighter, like the world wasn’t so scary after all.

“An angel?” he repeated, his smile never fading.

I nodded. “You saved me.”

He didn’t answer me, but the smile on his face didn’t go away. Instead, he held out his hand, his fingers warm and steady. “Come on, let’s get you back.”

Without thinking, I took his hand. His grip was firm but gentle, like he knew exactly what to do.

He walked with me across the street, his steps slow and careful, making sure I wouldn’t trip or fall. I felt safe with him, like nothing bad could happen as long as he was there.

And then, just as we reached the sidewalk, I heard it.

“Dino!”

Daddy’s voice. It was sharp, full of worry, and I turned to see him running toward me. His face was pale, his eyes wide with fear. Before I could even blink, he wrapped me up in his arms, hugging me so tight that it almost hurt.

“What were you thinking?” Daddy’s voice was shaky with worry.


“You can’t run off like that! You—” He pulled back, his hands gripping my face as he checked me over, his eyes searching for any sign that I was hurt. “Are you hurt?”

I shook my head quickly, too shaken up to speak. But then, I turned to point to the man—the one who had saved me.

But when I looked back, he was already walking away. His back was all I saw as he disappeared into the crowd, like he had never been there at all.

I tugged at Daddy’s sleeve, feeling a strange ache in my chest. “Daddy… I think I just met an angel.”

Chapter Text

The steady ticking of the clock filled the quiet office, blending with the soft hum of Seungcheol’s laptop.


His fingers moved efficiently over the keyboard, finalising yet another wedding itinerary. The bride had requested a last-minute change to the floral arrangements—peonies instead of roses.


It wasn’t a big deal, at least not to him.


But to the bride, it was everything. And that was his job: making sure that the biggest day of their lives was flawless.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he pinched the bridge of his nose.


Wedding planning had never been his dream, but he was good at it. No—he was the best at it. Years of managing high-stakes clients, last-minute disasters, and extravagant demands had made him the go-to name in the industry.


People trusted him to handle everything, from crisis control to the tiniest, most delicate details. He had built his reputation with precision, patience, and a relentless work ethic.

Still, it wasn’t the same as before.

His fingers absently traced over the thin chain around his neck, where a simple ring rested beneath the fabric of his shirt. The metal was cool against his skin, a familiar weight that had long since become second nature to him.


He never took it off. It was a reminder, a relic of something he once had—something he lost.

A sharp vibration against the polished wood of his desk pulled him from his thoughts. He glanced at the screen, his expression immediately sobering.

[Dr. Kim]

Seungcheol straightened, swiping to answer. "Doctor."

"Mr. Choi," the doctor greeted, his voice steady and professional. "I wanted to follow up on your son’s recent test results."

His grip on the phone tightened. "And?"

"His condition is stable for now, but we need to remain cautious. The medication is working, but the next few months are crucial. You need to ensure he’s not exposed to anything that could worsen his condition."

Seungcheol exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "Understood. I’ll keep an eye on him."

"Good. Let me know if you notice any changes."

"I will. Thank you, doctor."

The moment he hung up, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against his hand.


Stable. That was good. That was enough.

His son had already gone through so much.


Losing his other father, dealing with his health—Seungcheol would do anything to protect him. The guilt still lingered, heavy like a chain around his throat, but he had no choice but to keep moving forward. There was no time to fall apart.

Before he could dwell on it further, the intercom on his desk buzzed, the crisp voice of his assistant breaking the silence. "Sir, the CEO is here to see you."

Seungcheol sighed, already knowing who it was. "Let him in."

The door opened, and Vernon strolled in, exuding effortless confidence despite the exhaustion that lingered in his sharp eyes. He was dressed in an expensive suit, but somehow, it still looked casual on him.


Vernon had always been like that—unbothered, almost indifferent to the weight of his title.


But Seungcheol knew better. Being the CEO suited him, even if their so-called family refused to acknowledge it.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Vernon assessed him, eyes sharp yet unreadable, before finally breaking the silence. "You look like hell."

Seungcheol huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing his temple. "Thanks. Just what I needed to hear."

"You’re overworking yourself again." Vernon didn’t bother to sugarcoat it as he settled into the chair across from him. "Have you even eaten today?"

Seungcheol waved a dismissive hand. "I’m fine."

"Uh-huh." Vernon didn’t look convinced, but he let it slide—for now. Instead, he leaned back, studying him with a knowing expression.


"They won’t stop pushing me about you taking back the CEO position."

Seungcheol rolled his eyes. "Not surprised. I already told them I’m not interested."

"They don’t care. They think you’re wasting your talent here."

A dry chuckle escaped him. "Wasting my talent? Funny, considering they never wanted me in the first place."

Vernon tilted his head, acknowledging the bitter truth they both knew too well. "You know how they are. They only care when it benefits them."

Seungcheol rubbed his temples again, feeling the familiar headache creeping in. "And you?" he asked, meeting his brother’s gaze.

Vernon’s lips quirked into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "I think they can go to hell. You gave up the position for a reason. If they can’t respect that, it’s their problem."

A rare, genuine smile tugged at Seungcheol’s lips. Vernon had always been the black sheep—the reminder of their father’s affair, the unwanted one, the ignored one. The only reason Vernon had the CEO position now was because Seungcheol had given it up. Their family never accepted him.


But Seungcheol did.

"You know they won’t stop, right?" Vernon continued. "Not until you put your foot down."

"Let them try." Seungcheol’s voice was firm. "I have more important things to focus on."

Vernon nodded, but there was an understanding in his eyes. They both knew this battle wasn’t over.

Seungcheol glanced at the clock. It was time to go home.

"I’ll see you tomorrow, Vernon."

His step-brother raised an eyebrow. "Heading home early?"

"My son’s waiting for me. That’s more important than any company."

Vernon smiled, this time something softer. "Good. Make sure to remind them of that next time they come knocking."

Seungcheol didn’t reply, just grabbed his coat and walked out the door.

Some battles weren’t worth fighting.


But the one for his son? That was a war he’d never lose.

The soft chime of the apartment’s security system rang as Seungcheol stepped inside, the scent of warm vanilla and something savoury greeting him instantly.


The living room lights were dimmed to a soft glow, and the faint hum of an old cartoon theme song drifted from the television, a nostalgic reminder of childhood innocence.

“Daddy!”

A small bundle of energy barrelled toward him the moment he shut the door. Seungcheol barely had time to set down his briefcase before strong little arms wrapped around his legs.


A tired yet genuine smile tugged at his lips as he reached down, lifting his son with ease, the familiar weight grounding him after a long day.

“Hey, buddy,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to Chan’s forehead. “Were you good today?”

Chan nodded enthusiastically, his little hands gripping onto Seungcheol’s shoulders as if afraid he might let go.


His cheeks were still warm from the heat of the apartment, his small body relaxed yet buzzing with excitement.

“I finished my colouring book! Uncle Josh let me use his fancy crayons!” Chan exclaimed, his voice filled with pride.

Seungcheol let out a soft chuckle, his gaze shifting to the couch where Joshua sat, watching them with a fond smile. A warm mug of tea rested on the table beside him, the steam curling in the soft lighting of the room.

“He conned you into letting him use your expensive art supplies again?” Seungcheol teased, adjusting Chan on his hip, feeling the way his son instinctively curled into him, seeking comfort.

Joshua huffed in mock offence, stretching his arms over his head with a lazy grin.


“I like to think of it as nurturing young talent. Besides, his trees have significantly improved.”

Chan giggled, resting his head against his father’s shoulder, the day’s energy finally beginning to wane. “Uncle Josh said my trees are the best trees he’s ever seen.”

“Of course they are,” Seungcheol said warmly, running a hand through his son’s soft hair. “But it’s getting late, little man. You should be in bed.”

Chan pouted, his bottom lip jutting out in an exaggerated display of protest, but the drowsiness in his eyes betrayed his stubbornness.


He yawned, small fingers rubbing at his sleepy eyes as his grip on Seungcheol’s shirt loosened slightly.

Joshua took that as his cue to grab his coat, slipping it on with practised ease. He gave Seungcheol a knowing look as he adjusted his scarf.


“Thanks for watching him,” Seungcheol said sincerely, walking Joshua to the door. “I know you have your own work to do.”

Joshua waved him off. “Please, you know I love hanging out with this little gremlin.”


He glanced at Chan, who was now blinking sleepily. “Though I think he might’ve overworked himself being the next Picasso.”

Seungcheol chuckled, shifting Chan slightly as the boy’s grip around his neck loosened. “I owe you dinner for this.”

Joshua smirked. “You owe me a raise.”

“You already get paid more than you should.”

Joshua laughed, shaking his head as he stepped out. “Get some rest, Cheol.”

“You too,” Seungcheol replied before shutting the door behind him, locking it with a quiet click.

With a sigh, he glanced down at Chan, who had fully relaxed against his chest, his breathing slow and even.


His little fingers were still curled slightly into the fabric of Seungcheol’s shirt, warm and trusting. Seungcheol shifted his weight slightly, savouring the rare stillness of the moment.

As he carried Chan to his room, he let his mind wander to work.


Mingyu from HR had mentioned hiring a new person for their department earlier that day—someone sharp and efficient, apparently, though Seungcheol hadn’t had time to look at the file properly.


He also mentioned assigning a personal assistant to Vernon, finally putting an end to his disastrous routine of skipping meals and running on barely any sleep.


Seungcheol knew that convincing Vernon to actually listen to his assistant would be a battle in itself. But at least it was a step in the right direction.

He carefully tucked Chan into bed, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead before pulling up the blanket. The dim glow of the nightlight cast soft shadows along the room, the faint sound of the city outside muffled by the warmth of their home.


Chan murmured something incoherent in his sleep, shifting slightly before settling again, and Seungcheol’s heart ached with a tenderness that never faded.

Pressing a final kiss to his son’s forehead, he whispered, “Goodnight, buddy.”

Tonight, at least, everything felt okay.

The apartment was silent, save for the occasional rustling of the wind against the windows. The dim glow of the bedside lamp cast long shadows across the room, a soft contrast to the exhaustion weighing heavily on Seungcheol’s body.


He lay sprawled on his bed, one arm thrown over his eyes, muscles aching from the relentless stress of the day. But at least he was home. At least Chan was safe, curled up in his room under the warmth of his blankets.

Then he heard it—laboured breathing, faint but distinct. A sound so fragile yet so piercing that it sent an immediate bolt of terror through him.

His eyes shot open, adrenaline slamming into his veins. For a moment, he held still, straining to hear past the frantic pounding of his heart.

“Daddy—”

The call was barely a whisper, strangled and wheezing, followed by a gasping, desperate struggle for air.

Seungcheol was out of bed in an instant, feet barely touching the ground as he bolted down the hall.


His fingers fumbled with the doorknob, and the second the door swung open, his breath caught in his throat.

Chan was curled in on himself, his tiny body shaking, hands clutched desperately at his chest as though trying to force air into his failing lungs. His lips were tinged blue, his dark eyes wide with panic, glistening with unshed tears.

“Chan!” Seungcheol’s voice cracked as he dropped to his knees beside the bed, hands trembling as he reached for his son.


“Hey, hey, baby, just breathe for me, okay? Look at Papa—just breathe.”

But Chan couldn’t. His frail body fought desperately for oxygen, each attempt coming out as a broken wheeze, his ribs visibly straining with every shallow, failing breath.

Seungcheol’s mind went blank with terror, his body moving on sheer instinct. His hands flew to the emergency oxygen tank by the bedside—kept there for moments like these. But his fingers fumbled, slick with sweat as he struggled to attach the mask.

“Come on, baby,” he choked out, forcing steadiness into his voice even as his heart pounded violently. “Deep breaths, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

Chan’s body jolted with another sharp gasp, and the world tilted beneath Seungcheol’s feet. The oxygen mask wasn’t helping—Chan wasn’t getting enough air.

He didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate.

Scooping Chan into his arms, he cradled the boy’s trembling frame against his chest, his own breath coming fast and ragged.


His phone nearly slipped from his grip as he snatched it from the nightstand, but he managed to dial Vernon’s number even as he rushed out the door, his bare feet hitting the freezing pavement.

The call connected just as he strapped Chan securely in the backseat. His little hands grasped at Seungcheol’s wrist in silent desperation, his fingers so cold they felt like ice.

“Hyung?” Vernon’s groggy voice was barely audible over the roaring panic in Seungcheol’s mind.

“It’s Chan—” Seungcheol’s voice broke. “He—he can’t breathe. I’m taking him to the hospital. Meet me there.”

There was a beat of silence, then Vernon’s voice sharpened, all traces of sleep vanishing. “I’m on my way.”

Seungcheol barely registered the response before throwing his phone onto the passenger seat and peeling out of the driveway, tires screeching against the pavement.


The world outside blurred past him, streetlights streaking through the darkness, but all he could hear— all he could focus on—was the sound of Chan’s wheezing breaths from the backseat.

“Hold on, baby,” Seungcheol whispered, voice thick. His grip on the steering wheel was tight enough to turn his knuckles white. “Papa’s got you. Just hold on.”

Chan let out a soft whimper, his tiny fingers still clinging to Seungcheol’s sleeve as if it was the only thing tethering him to safety. Seungcheol felt something deep inside him fracture.

The drive felt endless, every red light an unbearable eternity. But the moment he pulled up to the hospital entrance, the doors flew open, and a team of nurses rushed toward them.

Seungcheol barely managed to unbuckle Chan before strong hands took him from his grasp, whisking him away into the blindingly bright corridors of the emergency ward.

He tried to follow, but a nurse gently stopped him. “Sir, please, let the doctors work. We need you to wait outside.”

Wait?


How could he wait when his baby was in there fighting for air?

Seungcheol stood frozen, his arms still outstretched, Chan’s warmth still imprinted against his skin.


His breath came in uneven gasps, panic clawing at his throat. His baby—his sweet, fragile baby—was inside those doors, and he couldn’t do a damn thing.

A firm hand landed on his shoulder.

“Hyung.”

Seungcheol turned sharply, eyes wild, and met Vernon’s gaze. His brother was slightly dishevelled, his hair tousled from rushing over, but his eyes were steady, filled with nothing but concern.

Seungcheol opened his mouth, but no words came out. His chest heaved, breath catching on a strangled sound that was too raw, too close to breaking.

Vernon didn’t hesitate. He pulled Seungcheol into a firm embrace, gripping him tightly, anchoring him.

“It’s okay, hyung,” Vernon murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I know you’re scared, but Chan is strong. And you’re not alone in this.”

Seungcheol stiffened for a fraction of a second, then exhaled shakily, his forehead pressing against Vernon’s shoulder. His grip on Vernon’s jacket tightened, his fingers digging into the fabric like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice barely audible.

Vernon pulled back slightly, squeezing Seungcheol’s shoulder. “Always, hyung. Always.”

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours before the doctor finally emerged. Seungcheol’s stomach clenched painfully, his throat too tight to speak.

“How—”

“It was a relapse,” the doctor said solemnly, pulling off his gloves.


“His lungs are constricting more than before. We’ve stabilised him, but his medication regimen will need to change. He’ll require even stricter monitoring.”

Seungcheol swallowed hard, every word pressing against his chest like a weight.

Vernon exhaled beside him, his voice quieter this time. “What does this mean for him?”

The doctor’s gaze softened. “We’ll keep him here for observation and adjust his medication accordingly. But this means his condition is progressing. You’ll have to be extremely cautious moving forward.”

Seungcheol nodded stiffly, his jaw clenched. He would do anything—anything—to keep his son safe.

Vernon stayed close, his presence grounding. “We’ve got this, hyung,” he said firmly. “You’re not doing this alone.”

The doctor gave them a reassuring nod. “You can see him now.”

Seungcheol didn’t need to be told twice. He was already moving, his heart hammering as he pushed through the hospital doors.

Nothing else mattered.

Chan needed him, and he would be there.

And Vernon would be, too.

Chapter Text

The golden afternoon sun painted the garden in warm hues, casting long, dappled shadows across the grass as a gentle breeze wove through the leaves. The air smelled of earth and blooming flowers, the quiet rustling of trees blending seamlessly with the soft, eager breaths of the children gathered around Jeonghan.

He sat cross-legged in the middle of them, his posture relaxed, yet his expression animated, eyes twinkling with mischief as he spun his tale.


The children leaned in, hands clutching at their knees, eyes wide with anticipation, hanging onto his every word like it was the most important thing they’d ever hear.

“And then,” Jeonghan continued, voice dipping into a dramatic whisper, “Just as the prince stood before the princess, waiting for her to recognise him…”


He sucked in a sharp breath and threw his hands up. “She looked at him and said—‘Who are you?’”

A collective gasp rippled through the tiny audience.

“No way!” one boy yelped, hands flying to his head in sheer disbelief. “She forgot him?!”

Jeonghan nodded gravely, suppressing a smile at their exaggerated reactions.


“Every single thing,” he confirmed, tapping his temple. “His face, his voice, their love—gone!” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

The little girl beside him scowled, her small arms folding tightly across her chest. “That’s so unfair! If she really loved him, she should’ve remembered him!”

Jeonghan hummed, tilting his head as if considering her words.


“Mmm… but you see, sometimes, even when we love someone, life makes us forget for a little while.” He gently tapped the girl’s nose, his tone softer now. “But do you think love just disappears like magic?”

The children shook their heads furiously. “Nooo!”

A grin tugged at Jeonghan’s lips. “Exactly,” he said, clapping his hands once. “That’s why her sister had a plan.”

Instantly, the kids perked up. “A plan?”

“Oh, a very sneaky plan,” Jeonghan teased, wiggling his fingers like a mischievous sorcerer.


“She made sure the princess and the prince had to see each other every single day! At first, the prince was all grumpy—” he crossed his arms and scrunched up his nose, mimicking a deep frown—“because he didn’t want to be near someone who didn’t remember him.”

The children giggled, delighted by his exaggerated pout.

“But,” Jeonghan continued, lowering his voice again, “The princess started feeling all funny inside.”


He placed a hand over his chest, his expression turning thoughtful. “Like something was missing. Like she was supposed to know him, even though her head didn’t remember.” He smiled.


“Because hearts don’t forget, even when memories do.”

Silence fell over the group, the weight of those words settling over them like a spell. Even the most fidgety of the bunch sat still, waiting, anticipating.

“And then, one day,” Jeonghan whispered, leaning in, “Everything came rushing back. All at once. She remembered how much she loved him, how much she missed him, and—”


He gasped dramatically, clutching his own face. “How much she had hurt him.”

One of the smaller boys clutched his chest in horror. “Oh no,” he whispered.

Jeonghan smiled gently. “And do you know what she did?”

The children shook their heads, eyes impossibly round.

“She ran straight to him,” he said, voice warm, “Tears in her eyes, and said, ‘I’m so, so sorry! Can you ever forgive me?’”

The little girl beside him gasped, her tiny hands flying to her mouth. “Did he?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

Jeonghan let a pause stretch, savouring the moment before softening his expression. “Of course he did,” he murmured. “Because he never stopped loving her. Not even for a second.”

A relieved sigh passed through the group like a wave. One of the boys flopped onto the grass, arms spread wide as he exhaled dramatically. “That was so scary, hyung.”

Jeonghan chuckled, reaching over to ruffle his hair. “But they lived happily ever after, didn’t they?”

The children nodded vigorously. “Happily ever after!”

Just then, a familiar voice rang out from the house.

“Jeonghan-ah!”

He turned to see his mother standing at the doorway, hands planted firmly on her hips.

“Uh-oh,” he muttered under his breath, then clapped his hands together. “Looks like story time’s over!”

“Noooo!” the children wailed in unison, reaching out as if they could physically hold him in place.

“Tomorrow?” a girl with pigtails asked, tugging at his sleeve.

Jeonghan grinned, giving her cheek a playful poke. “We’ll see.”

As he pushed himself up, brushing stray blades of grass from his pants, he took a moment to glance back at the children. They were already reenacting the story, one boy twirling dramatically as the lost princess while the others argued over who got to be the grumpy prince.

A chuckle escaped Jeonghan, fondness curling deep in his chest.

Love always found its way back. That’s what fairy tales said, anyway.

And maybe, real life wasn’t so different after all.

Jeonghan stepped inside, stretching his arms with a lazy sigh as the familiar scent of freshly brewed tea wrapped around him like a warm embrace.


The house had always been the same—cozy, lived-in, filled with small trinkets and mismatched furniture that had been around since he was a child. The framed photographs on the shelves captured frozen moments of time: birthdays, vacations, awkward school portraits his mother refused to take down no matter how much he begged.

He took a deep breath, letting the warmth of home settle over him before he padded into the living room, where his mother sat comfortably on the couch, a steaming cup of tea in her hands.

The moment he met her gaze, he knew.

That look.

The one she always wore when she was about to bring up something he had no interest in discussing.

“Jeonghan,” she called sweetly, patting the cushion beside her.

Uh-oh.

He hesitated, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “...Yes, Mother?”

Her smile remained unchanged, pleasant and knowing as she took a slow sip of her tea, drawing out the moment before finally dropping the inevitable bomb.

“I was just speaking to Mrs. Park earlier today.”

Jeonghan immediately groaned.

“She mentioned her son, Minjae. You remember him, don’t you?” His mother continued, ignoring his suffering. “Such a nice young man—handsome, well-mannered, from a good family—”

“Nooooo,” Jeonghan whined dramatically, throwing himself onto the couch like a lifeless ragdoll. “Not this again.”

“Yes, this again,” she said, completely unfazed. “You’re twenty-eight, Jeonghan. A young man in his prime, yet still unmarried. Do you want to be alone forever?”

“Forever sounds peaceful,” he mumbled into a cushion, muffling his voice.

A light smack to his thigh had him yelping. “Don’t be ridiculous,” his mother chided.

Jeonghan lifted his head just enough to pout at her.


“Why do I need a husband? I’m happy just the way I am! Besides, marriage is so much work. Imagine all the commitment, the responsibilities, the waking up to the same person every single day—ugh!”


He groaned loudly, flopping onto his back with an arm thrown over his forehead. “The horror.”

His mother sighed, shaking her head at his dramatics. “You make it sound like a life sentence.”

“It is!”

Before she could reply, another voice chimed in from the hallway.

“Finally, something we agree on.”

Jeonghan turned his head just in time to see Seungkwan striding into the living room, arms crossed over his chest and an expression of pure exasperation etched onto his face.

His younger brother scoffed. “Jeonghan doesn’t need a husband, Mom. He’s already insufferable on his own.”

Jeonghan gasped, placing a hand over his chest as if personally wounded. “Excuse me?! I am a delight!”

Seungkwan shot him a withering look before turning back to their mother. “Besides, why are you only pushing him? It’s not like you’ve arranged one for me.”

Their mother waved him off. “That’s because you’re still young.”

Seungkwan blinked. “I’m twenty-six.”

“Exactly—still a baby.”

The sheer disbelief on Seungkwan’s face had Jeonghan cackling as he clutched his stomach, wiping away an imaginary tear.

Their mother sighed before refocusing on her eldest son. “Look, darling. I just want you to have someone who will take care of you.”

At that, Jeonghan’s laughter softened.

He knew she meant well.

She had been like this ever since…

He forced the thought away before it could fully form, unwilling to let his mind wander down that road. Instead, he sat up properly and leaned against her shoulder, draping himself over her like an oversized cat.

“Eomma~” he whined, stretching out the syllables as he nuzzled into her arm. “You take care of me just fine, don’t you?”

His mother sighed but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at her lips. She reached up, gently patting his cheek. “I do. But I won’t always be here.”

For a fraction of a second, Jeonghan’s smile faltered. It was brief—so brief that if someone blinked, they might’ve missed it.

But he recovered quickly, pulling away just enough to give her a cheeky grin. “You say that, but I fully expect you to haunt me in the afterlife just to nag me about marriage.”

She flicked his forehead. “You little brat.”

“Your little brat,” he corrected with a grin.

Seungkwan groaned loudly. “You two are impossible.”

Jeonghan stuck his tongue out at him childishly before sighing dramatically, flopping onto his mother’s lap as if the weight of the conversation had exhausted him.


“No marriage for me! I’m a free spirit, destined to roam the world without being tied down.”

His mother rolled her eyes, fingers absently carding through his hair. “One day, Jeonghan, you’ll meet someone who changes your mind.”

Jeonghan hummed noncommittally, but his gaze drifted toward the window, watching as the wind swayed the tree branches outside.

He was still comfortably sprawled in his mother’s lap, basking in the warmth of her absentminded fingers combing through his hair, when Seungkwan cleared his throat. The sound was pointed, deliberate—too deliberate.

Jeonghan cracked one eye open, immediately suspicious.

His younger brother wore a look that was far too smug for his liking, arms crossed as he leaned against the doorway with the air of someone who knew something he didn’t.

“So, hyung,” Seungkwan began, his tone positively dripping with mischief. “Since you have so much free time, I went ahead and did you a favor.”

Jeonghan immediately sat up, his eyes lighting up like a child promised candy.

“A favour?” he echoed, voice rising in pitch with excitement. “Ooooh, is it a surprise? Is it something fun? Did you finally get me that limited edition skincare set?”

Seungkwan’s smirk twitched. “No.”

Jeonghan gasped, placing a dramatic hand over his chest. “What kind of favour is it if it’s not skincare?”

“The kind that gets your lazy butt out of this house,” Seungkwan shot back, his smirk widening.

Jeonghan blinked.

Then, after a beat—

“Huh?”

Seungkwan took a slow, triumphant breath. “I applied for a job for you.”

For a moment, the room was silent.

Then—

“AAAAAHHHHHH!!!”

Jeonghan screeched so loudly that their mother nearly spilled her tea. He shot up from the couch, grabbing Seungkwan’s shoulders in a vice grip and shaking him in pure exhilaration.


“YOU DID?! WHAT IS IT?! WHERE?! AM I FINALLY GOING TO BE A RICH, WORKING MAN?!”

Seungkwan, used to his brother’s dramatics, merely smacked his hands away and dusted himself off. “Calm down, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

Jeonghan, of course, ignored him entirely, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Am I going to be a celebrity? A model? A luxury brand ambassador?” He gasped, hands clasping together. “Oh my god, am I going to be a flight attendant? I’d look so good in one of those uniforms—”

“Jeonghan, no,” Seungkwan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s an actual stable job, not some ridiculous fantasy you just made up in your head.”

Jeonghan huffed, flopping back onto the couch dramatically. “Boring. What is it, then?”

Seungkwan smirked.

“It’s in an event planning company.”

Jeonghan’s interest piqued instantly. His head snapped up, eyes gleaming. “Ooooh, that actually sounds fun! Wait, what kind of events?”

“Weddings.”

Jeonghan gasped again, this time more dramatically, pressing a hand to his forehead like a Victorian maiden about to faint. “Romantic!”

Seungkwan rolled his eyes as Jeonghan clutched his chest, now fully immersed in a fantasy of his own making.

“Do I get to taste wedding cakes? Play matchmaker? Try on expensive wedding suits?” Jeonghan gushed, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Probably not, but sure, let’s go with that,” Seungkwan muttered. “You’ll be in the department that handles wedding planning. And before you ask—yes, it’s a real job. With real pay. And benefits. You’ll finally be able to stop mooching off Mom.”

“I do not mooch!” Jeonghan protested, crossing his arms.

Their mother, who had been silent up until now, let out an amused scoff.

Jeonghan scowled at her betrayal, but before he could argue further, Seungkwan pulled out his phone, tapping a few times before flashing the screen at him.

“You start next week,” he announced. “Mingyu from HR already processed your application. Just show up for orientation, and you’re set.”

Jeonghan blinked, taking in the message displayed on the screen.

Next week.

A real job.

Something in his chest warmed.

It had been a while since he had something to look forward to—something to break up the monotonous routine of aimless days and idle hours spent lounging around. He didn’t know why, but the idea of working again felt… exciting.

Like something new. Something fresh.

Something important.

He grinned, nudging his younger brother playfully. “Guess I should thank you for once.”

Seungkwan smirked, ever so pleased with himself. “Damn right, you should.”

But before Jeonghan could say anything more, a quiet clink interrupted the conversation.

A delicate sound, barely noticeable, yet strangely loud in the comfortable warmth of the living room.

Jeonghan turned his head, brows furrowing slightly.

His mother had set her teacup down a little too hard, her fingers stiffly curled around the handle.

Something about her posture seemed off.

“Mom?” Jeonghan called, his voice softer now.

For a second, her expression remained unreadable—her shoulders just a tad too tense, her lips pressed together like she was holding something back.

Then, as if snapping out of it, she exhaled lightly and smiled. “Nothing, dear.”

The reply was smooth, her tone gentle as always. But Jeonghan knew his mother.

And something about that smile felt… different.

Like it had been carefully placed there.

Like there was something she wasn’t saying.

His stomach curled with unease, but before he could dwell on it, Seungkwan clapped his hands together.

“Great! Now, let’s celebrate by going out for dinner. My treat.”

Jeonghan immediately perked up. “You? Paying? Is the world ending?!”

Seungkwan rolled his eyes. “Take the offer before I change my mind.”

Jeonghan laughed, shaking off the strange feeling as he hopped to his feet.

With one last glance at his mother—who now seemed perfectly normal again, her warm smile in place—he brushed the unease aside.

His new job awaited.

As Jeonghan disappeared into his room, practically skipping with excitement, the air in the living room seemed to shift—like the warmth had been sucked out, leaving only something heavy in its wake.

Seungkwan barely had time to turn when he felt the faintest pressure on his wrist, his mother’s fingers curling around him—not tight, but enough to make him pause.

“Wait,” she murmured.

Her voice was quieter now, almost hesitant, like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to say the words aloud.

Seungkwan frowned, glancing down at her. She was looking at him, but her gaze wasn’t quite focused—her eyes distant, lost in thoughts she hadn’t voiced yet.

Something cold settled in his stomach.

“What’s the name of the company?” she asked.

The question was simple. Casual, even.

But Seungkwan knew better.

She wasn’t asking because she didn’t know.

She was asking because she already did.

Still, he answered, keeping his voice even. “Clair de Lune Events.”

The moment the name left his lips, something shifted in her expression.

It was subtle—just the smallest flinch, the way her fingers tightened ever so slightly around his wrist. But Seungkwan saw it.

She exhaled sharply, her hands falling back to her lap.

“You shouldn’t have done this, Seungkwan.”

Her voice wasn’t scolding. It wasn’t harsh or angry.

It was weary.

Tired.

Like she had been bracing for this moment, and now that it had arrived, she wasn’t sure how to handle it.

Seungkwan had been expecting this reaction. He had known it was coming the second he sent in Jeonghan’s application. But that didn’t make hearing it any easier.

“He’s happy,” he said, his tone carefully measured. “For the first time in a long time, he’s actually excited about something. He deserves that, doesn’t he?”

His mother shook her head, her gaze dropping to the teacup she had abandoned on the table.

“Jeonghan shouldn’t go there,” she said, softer this time.

Seungkwan inhaled deeply, forcing himself to keep calm. “And why not?”

She hesitated.

Then, finally, she met his eyes.

“You know why.”

The weight in his stomach grew heavier.

Of course he knew why.

And that was exactly why he had done it.

Even so, he squared his shoulders, standing firm. “Even I’m going,” he said. “I’ll be in the same company as the Executive Assistant. He won’t be alone. Nothing is going to happen to him.”

His mother’s lips pressed together, her fingers curling into her palm.

“That’s not the point,” she murmured.

Seungkwan frowned. “Then what is?”

She let out a slow breath, her gaze flickering—like she was debating whether to say it out loud.

Then, at last, she spoke.

“We don’t deserve to see him again.”

The words hit harder than Seungkwan expected.

For all the frustration he carried, for all the resentment and anger and guilt—he couldn’t ignore the pain in her voice.

She had suffered too.

But still.

“That’s not why I’m going,” he admitted, his voice softer now. “I’m not doing this to make things harder for him.”

He swallowed, looking away.

“I’m doing this to apologise.”

His mother blinked, her expression faltering.

Seungkwan looked down, unable to meet her eyes.

“For everything.”

For the things they had said.

For the choices they had made.

For the things they could never take back.

For years, he had told himself that what they did was necessary. That keeping Jeonghan away was what was best for him. That they were only protecting him.

But now, after five years, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

His mother let out a slow breath, her gaze searching his face. She looked exhausted—more exhausted than he had ever seen her.

Finally, she gave him a small nod.

She didn’t agree.

But she understood.

Seungkwan reached for her hands, giving them a gentle squeeze.

“It’s okay, Mom,” he murmured, his voice steady now. “This is something I need to do.”

For Jeonghan.

For himself.

Jeonghan walked along the sidewalk, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, the cool evening breeze ruffling his hair.


He hummed absentmindedly, a soft, airy tune escaping his lips as he glanced around, taking in the city around him. The streetlights flickered above, casting a warm golden glow against the pavement.


The distant chatter of passersby mixed with the hum of traffic, creating a familiar kind of comfort. The scent of freshly baked bread from a nearby bakery lingered in the air, making the evening feel even softer.

It was one of those nights—the kind that made him feel light and free. The kind where he could simply exist, unbothered, enjoying the quiet beauty of a world that kept moving.

A sudden tug on his sleeve pulled him from his thoughts.

“I’m getting us ice cream,” Seungkwan announced, excitement buzzing in his voice as he waved toward a small stand across the street. “Stay right here, okay? I won’t take long!”

Jeonghan grinned, tilting his head. “If you take more than five minutes, I’m eating yours.”

Seungkwan scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Jeonghan only shrugged, the corners of his lips curling in playful challenge. “Try me.”

Huffing, Seungkwan didn’t argue. Instead, he turned on his heel and hurried across the street, grumbling under his breath as he went.

Left alone, Jeonghan rocked back on his heels, hands still buried in his coat pockets, letting his gaze wander.


He watched the people around him—couples strolling hand in hand, a man balancing a coffee cup while texting, a group of friends laughing over something he would never know. It was peaceful, in that distant yet intimate way cities could be.

Then—something caught his eye.

A small figure.

A child.

Jeonghan’s humming stopped. His gaze sharpened.

The boy stood on the opposite side of the street, near the curb. He was small—maybe five, maybe six—with dark hair curling over his forehead. His tiny hands were clenched into hesitant fists at his sides, his head tilting slightly as if debating something.

Jeonghan followed his gaze.

A small, worn cardboard box sat on the sidewalk just a few steps away.

He couldn’t see what was inside from this distance, but the child was fixated on it.

Then, in the span of a breath, the boy moved.

Jeonghan’s stomach dropped.

The child stepped off the curb.

He didn’t look.

He checked but—

The street wasn’t empty.

Before Jeonghan even had time to process it, the sharp blare of a car horn shattered the air.

The boy froze.

Headlights beamed through the night.

And Jeonghan moved.

His feet barely registered the pavement beneath him as he ran, his heart slamming against his ribs. The car wasn’t slowing fast enough.

In the very last second—just before impact—Jeonghan reached out, fingers closing around the child’s arm, yanking him back with all the strength he had.

The world blurred.

The rush of wind.

The screech of tires.

The distant gasp of a stranger.

And then—solid ground.

They tumbled onto the sidewalk, Jeonghan twisting his body at the last moment to shield the boy from the impact. His back hit the pavement hard, a sharp sting shooting through him, but he barely noticed. His arms remained wrapped tightly around the small, trembling figure in his grasp.

The car honked once more before speeding away, disappearing into the night.

Jeonghan barely heard it.

His entire focus was on the boy—the tiny, shaking child pressed against his chest, gripping his coat with trembling fingers.

Slowly, Jeonghan loosened his hold, pulling back just enough to see his face.

Wide, startled eyes blinked up at him. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, his breath coming in quick, uneven bursts.

And then, in the smallest, most awed whisper—

“Are you… an angel?”

Jeonghan stared.

For a moment, he didn’t know how to respond.

An angel?

He had been called many things in his life. Clever. Charming. Annoying, on multiple occasions. But never an angel.

Still, something about the way the boy said it made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain.

He let out a breathless laugh, the sound barely escaping his lips.

“An angel?” he echoed, voice softer now.

The boy nodded, still gripping his coat as if afraid to let go. “You saved me.”

Jeonghan’s lips curled into a small, fond smile.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you back.”

He stood, dusting off his coat before holding out his hand. The child hesitated for only a moment before slipping his small fingers into Jeonghan’s palm.

His grip was tiny. Warm.

And it reminded Jeonghan, strangely, of something he couldn’t remember.

They crossed the street together, the city lights casting their shadows along the pavement. Jeonghan kept his steps slow, his fingers curled securely around the child’s hand. Only when they reached the curb did he let go, kneeling slightly to meet the boy’s gaze.

The boy's lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something—but before he could, a man's voice called out from nearby.

“Dino!”

The boy flinched at the call of his name. Then, in an instant, he turned and ran toward the voice, disappearing into the crowd before Jeonghan could say anything else.

Jeonghan exhaled slowly, his heart still pounding as he watched the child rush into the arms of a man standing a few feet away. The man, dressed in a dark coat, immediately knelt down, gripping the boy’s shoulders as his face filled with a mixture of worry and relief.

“What were you thinking?” the man scolded, his voice thick with emotion. “You can’t run off like that! You—” 

Jeonghan’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile as he watched the interaction. He didn’t need to stay any longer—Dino was safe. That was all that mattered.

With that, he turned on his heel and made his way back across the street, his breath finally beginning to even out.

By the time he reached Seungkwan, the younger was standing there with an unimpressed look, two ice cream cones in his hands.

“You look like you just fought a war,” Seungkwan said, squinting at him. “Did you chase after a street cat again?”

Jeonghan grinned, plucking the ice cream from his grasp and taking a victorious bite.

“Something like that.”

Seungkwan groaned. “One day, I’m going to actually witness these absurd things you do instead of just hearing about them afterward.”

Jeonghan only hummed, his attention drifting as he glanced back toward the street. The little boy’s words still echoed in his mind.

Are you… an angel?

He shook his head with a soft chuckle, licking his ice cream as he let Seungkwan complain beside him.

Then, something clicked in his memory.

“The puppy,” he murmured, turning to Seungkwan. “It’s still there.”

Seungkwan blinked. “What?”

“The puppy the kid was looking at.” Jeonghan pointed across the street, his expression suddenly serious. “It was in that box.”

Seungkwan followed his gaze, his eyes widening slightly as he spotted the small, crumpled cardboard box near the curb. “Wait, you’re telling me there’s an actual puppy in there?”

Jeonghan didn’t wait to answer—he was already moving.

With quick strides, he made his way back across the street, Seungkwan trailing behind him, muttering under his breath about how their ice cream was going to melt.

When they reached the box, Jeonghan crouched down, carefully lifting the top flaps.

Inside, nestled in a worn blanket, was a tiny puppy.

Its fur was a mix of soft  whites, and its ears were slightly drooped, making it look even smaller than it already was. When Jeonghan reached out, the puppy let out a soft, sleepy whimper, its body curling in on itself.

Jeonghan’s heart ached at the sight.

“Someone abandoned it…” Seungkwan whispered, his voice unusually quiet.

Jeonghan ran his fingers gently over the puppy’s fur. It was cold—too cold.

“Well, we can’t just leave it here,” he said firmly, scooping the tiny thing up into his arms. The puppy barely stirred, only letting out a faint sigh as it pressed into the warmth of his coat.

Seungkwan let out a long-suffering groan. “I just know I’m going to regret this.”

Jeonghan grinned, rocking back on his heels as he held the puppy closer. “You regret everything fun.”

“This isn’t fun—this is another responsibility,” Seungkwan grumbled, but there was no real bite to his words. He sighed, shaking his head. “Fine. But if we take it home, you’re the one dealing with it.”

Jeonghan hummed, stroking the puppy’s tiny head as he stood. “I’m sure it’ll love you too, Binnie.”

Seungkwan scowled. “I take it back. You’re dealing with this alone.”

Jeonghan only laughed, hugging the puppy close as they made their way back down the street. Seungkwan continued to complain beside him, but Jeonghan barely paid attention—his focus was entirely on the warm, tiny life curled in his arms.

Tonight had turned out to be more eventful than he expected.

And somehow, he didn’t mind one bit.

Chapter Text

“CHOI CHAN! CHOI HANSOL!”

Seungcheol’s voice boomed through the apartment, carrying the familiar frustration of a man who had been through this battle too many times before. He stormed into the kitchen, one hand aggressively fixing his tie while the other jabbed at the buttons on the coffee machine. The stupid thing beeped at him in protest, flashing an error message he was too frazzled to read.

With a sharp inhale, he exhaled through his nose.

Calm. Stay calm.

It was just another chaotic morning. Just another battle against time. Just another struggle against two sleepyheads who refused to cooperate.

“If you two aren’t in here in five seconds,” he warned, his patience thinning, “I’m eating your breakfast myself!”

Silence.

Then, slow, uneven footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Vernon was the first to emerge, looking half-conscious at best. His hoodie was barely on, one sleeve dangling off his shoulder, and his sweatpants were twisted in a way that looked both uncomfortable and utterly ridiculous. His hair—oh, his hair—was an absolute disaster, sticking out in every possible direction, as if he had been electrocuted in his sleep.

Without saying a word, Vernon shuffled into the kitchen and headed straight for the coffee machine, blinking lazily as he mindlessly pressed buttons.

Seungcheol squinted at him. “You think I called you just to drink coffee?”

Vernon lifted the mug to his lips, took a slow sip, and blinked. “…Yeah.”

Seungcheol sighed.

Just then, another set of footsteps—much tinier, much slower—shuffled toward the kitchen.

A very, very sleepy five-year-old Chan appeared in the doorway, his small frame swallowed by his oversized pajama shirt, which was hanging off one shoulder. His chubby cheeks were still puffy from sleep, and his hair—fluffy and sticking up in all directions—made him look like a baby chick who had just hatched.

His tiny fists rubbed at his eyes, a soft whimper escaping his lips as he let out a long, whiny yawn.

“Daddy…” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep, dragging his feet across the floor. “M’so tired…”

He clumsily climbed onto his chair, flopping forward onto the table with a dramatic sigh. His head rested on his folded arms, his little shoulders rising and falling in exhaustion.

“Why’s morning so early…?” he grumbled.

Seungcheol chuckled, placing a warm plate of eggs and toast in front of him. “That’s just how mornings work, buddy.”

Chan groaned dramatically. “Mornings are mean…”

“You say that every day,” Seungcheol muttered, rolling his eyes fondly as he reached for his own cup of coffee.

Chan only whined in response, kicking his little legs under the table as he sluggishly reached for his fork.

But then—

His chewing slowed. His small, sleepy brain was processing something important.

His tiny feet suddenly stopped swinging.

His whole body stiffened.

Then—

His eyes flew open.

He gasped—loud and dramatic—before kicking his legs wildly.

“TODAY IS THE DAY!!!”

Before Seungcheol could even react, Chan had sprung to life, sitting up so fast that his chair wobbled. His entire face lit up, his exhaustion forgotten in an instant.

“I GO TO WORK WITH DADDY!!!”

Seungcheol barely had time to open his mouth before Chan was bouncing in his seat like a tiny, over-caffeinated bunny.

“I’m gonna spin on the spinny chairs! And—AND—maybe I get my own desk!!!”

Seungcheol groaned, pressing his fingers to his temples. “Chan, it’s not a playground—”

“But it’s like a playground, right?!”

Vernon, now somewhat awake, snorted into his coffee. “He’s got a point.”

Chan nodded furiously, turning to Vernon with wide, eager eyes. “Yeah! It’s like a big place where grown-ups wear fancy clothes and yell about cakes and flowers and stuff!”

Seungcheol exhaled sharply. “It’s a wedding planning company, not a circus.”

Chan gasped.

His hands smacked the table in excitement.

“YESS! LIKE FOR PRINCESSES AND PRINCES!!”

Seungcheol barely managed to suppress a groan. Why did he say that?

Chan’s entire soul ignited with excitement.

“I LOVE PRINCESSES AND PRINCES!!!” he squealed, his little hands clapping together.

Vernon, thoroughly entertained now, leaned on the counter and hummed. “Honestly, I’d let him be the boss for a day.”

Chan whipped his head toward Seungcheol. His eyes were huge with hope.

“CAN I BE THE BOSS TOO? PLEEEAAASE?!”

Seungcheol stared at him.

Chan stared back. Big, hopeful, puppy eyes.

Vernon took another slow sip of coffee. “Just say yes. It’s easier.”

Seungcheol groaned, running a hand down his face.

Today was going to be very long.

And something told him… this was only the beginning.

Seungcheol had managed to wrangle both himself and Dino into a somewhat presentable state—a feat that felt like winning a battle before the war had even started. Getting a five-year-old dressed, fed, and ready to go before eight in the morning was nothing short of a miracle, especially when that five-year-old had the attention span of a goldfish and a seemingly endless supply of morning energy.

Now, as Seungcheol stood in the living room, adjusting his tie in the reflection of the TV screen, he exhaled deeply.


One step down. The next challenge? Actually getting out of the house.

Meanwhile, Vernon was still slumped at the kitchen table, looking like he was seconds away from face-planting into his plate. His toast sat half-eaten beside him, a smear of butter melting into the surface. His hoodie hung loosely off one shoulder, his sweatpants were twisted like he had put them on in the dark, and his hair—oh, his hair—looked like it had lost a fight with a tornado.

Seungcheol checked his watch and sighed. “We’re leaving early today.”

Vernon barely reacted, just lazily blinking at him before taking a slow, deliberate bite of his toast. “Why?” His voice was still thick with sleep, almost a lazy drawl.

“On-site designing,” Seungcheol answered, tightening his watch strap. “The client wants a full lighting assessment before finalising the theme.”

Vernon hummed as if he were interested, but it was clear he wasn’t. Instead, he took an excruciatingly slow sip of his coffee, making a satisfied noise when the caffeine hit his system.

Seungcheol ignored him and turned to grab Dino’s tiny backpack from the couch, slinging it over his shoulder along with his own bag.

“And the kid?” Vernon finally asked, rubbing a hand over his face.

Seungcheol glanced at Dino, who was currently spinning in circles near the doorway, his oversized hoodie flapping around him like a superhero cape. He was talking to himself, something about “spinning chairs” and “big boss things,” though Seungcheol was only catching every other word.

“He’ll be in the daycare corner at the office,” Seungcheol replied, watching his son twirl one last time before collapsing in a dizzy heap on the carpet. “Minghao and Jun’s daughter will be there too.”

That got Vernon’s attention. He smirked around his coffee mug. “So, you’re just dumping him on Minghao and Jun’s kid?”

Seungcheol shot him a pointed look. “It’s called letting him socialise.”

“Mm. Right.” Vernon took another sip, eyes half-lidded with amusement.

Seungcheol rolled his eyes and slung an arm around Dino’s waist, lifting him effortlessly off the floor. The little boy squealed with laughter, kicking his legs playfully.

“Alright, no more spinning,” Seungcheol said, setting him down near the doorway. “You’re gonna make yourself sick before we even leave.”

Dino grinned up at him, his tiny hands grabbing onto the front of Seungcheol’s coat for balance. “But I like spinning!”

“You’re not gonna like it when you throw up in the car,” Seungcheol deadpanned.

Dino pouted dramatically. “I won’t throw up!”

Seungcheol didn’t trust that in the slightest.

Vernon, clearly enjoying the chaos, stretched in his seat and leaned back with a yawn. “What about you? Shouldn’t you be leaving early too? Your new executive assistant starts today.”

That earned him a dramatic groan as Vernon slumped further into his chair, draping himself over the table like a man who had just been sentenced to life in prison.


“Ugh. They’ll figure it out.”

Seungcheol frowned, crossing his arms. “You’re seriously going to let your new assistant—who doesn’t know anything about this office yet—handle things alone on their first day?”

“They’re an assistant,” Vernon replied lazily. “Assisting is literally their job.”

Seungcheol exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “You are the worst CEO I have ever met.”

“And yet, somehow, this company still runs.”

“Because I do all the work.”

“Exactly.”

Seungcheol huffed in exasperation and, without thinking, grabbed a napkin from the counter and threw it at Vernon’s face. The younger man barely reacted, letting it hit him before peeling it off with a smirk.

Dino, having watched the entire exchange, burst into giggles. He turned to Vernon with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Uncle Nonie, you’re so lazy.”

Vernon smirked. “It’s called efficiency, buddy.”

Dino nodded seriously, as if Vernon had just imparted some great wisdom upon him. Seungcheol stared at them both, unimpressed.

“Alright,” he muttered, ushering Dino toward the door. “We’re heading out. Try not to fall asleep at your desk.”

Vernon waved a lazy hand in response. “No promises.”

“Bye, Uncle Nonie!” Dino chirped, already hopping toward the front door.

Vernon lifted his coffee mug in response, still unmoving. “Later, kid.”

As the door shut behind them, Seungcheol let out a long breath, adjusting his bag on his shoulder.

He had a feeling today was going to be exhausting.

“—and then, Uncle Nonie said he’d eat ten whole pancakes, but he only ate two because he fell asleep at the table! And then—oh! Oh! Daddy, guess what?”

Seungcheol barely glanced up from the stack of files in his hand, flipping through the pages as they walked into the office building. His thoughts were preoccupied with the day ahead—client meetings, design revisions, budget discussions. The weight of responsibility sat heavy on his shoulders, but the tiny hand gripping his pant leg grounded him in reality.

“What?” he asked absently, scanning the notes attached to the latest project report.

“I bet I can eat three pancakes!” Dino announced proudly, practically bouncing with every step he took beside his father. His small frame, bundled up in an oversized hoodie, made him look even tinier against the backdrop of the sleek office walls.

Seungcheol huffed out a laugh, briefly tearing his attention away from the file to glance down at his son. “That’s my boy.”

Dino giggled, his fingers still clinging tightly to the fabric of Seungcheol’s trousers. “And then—wait, Daddy, wait! I forgot my story! The one about the puppy!”

Seungcheol, already flipping through another set of papers, nodded absentmindedly. “Mhm.”

Dino gasped dramatically, stopping in his tracks to stomp a foot. “Daddy! You’re not even listening!”

“I am,” Seungcheol muttered, sidestepping a passing employee without really looking. “You were talking about pancakes and a puppy.”

“No, no, no! First the puppy, then the pancakes!” Dino huffed, tightening his grip as he tried to keep up with his father’s long strides. His little sneakers squeaked against the polished floor as he hurried along, determined to finish his story before they reached their destination. “And then—”

A solid thud.

Seungcheol barely registered the impact until he felt the sudden stop, the abrupt shift in movement. The scent of something faintly sweet—jasmine, maybe, or something softer—lingered in the air between them.

A sharp inhale. A small gasp.

The files in Seungcheol’s hands crinkled slightly as his fingers reflexively tightened around the edges. He blinked, his attention snapping up from the documents.

The man he had just walked into took a small step back, his hand lifting to his chest in mild surprise. The touch was fleeting, his fingers barely grazing the fabric of his neatly pressed shirt before falling away.

His hair was a warm, golden brown beneath the soft office lights, the strands curling faintly at the ends as if they had been tousled by the wind. His lips parted slightly—not in annoyance, but in the kind of gentle surprise one might have when encountering something unexpected but not unwelcome.

And then—

“Angel!”

Dino’s voice pierced through the air, filled with pure, unfiltered delight.

Seungcheol’s grip on the files stiffened.

The man’s gaze flickered downward, his initial look of surprise melting into something softer—warmer. His eyes widened just slightly before his lips curved into a smile, bright and familiar, like the first break of sunlight after a long, cold night.

For a moment, the air in the hallway felt thinner, the sounds of the office fading into a dull murmur.

Seungcheol didn’t move.

There was something about the way this man smiled at Dino—something about the way his expression seemed to hold an unspoken warmth, like a memory just out of reach.

And then, as quickly as it came, the feeling passed.

Jeonghan barely had time to register the impact before he stumbled back, the air leaving his lungs in a quiet gasp. His feet faltered for just a moment, instinct taking over as his hand shot out to steady himself—fingers curling around something solid. Warm.

No—someone.

He blinked, head tilting up as his gaze met dark, piercing eyes.

His breath hitched.

The man in front of him was—

God.

A sharp jawline, a strong nose, and those eyes—deep, intense, unreadable. His black dress shirt fit snugly over broad shoulders, the top button undone just enough to reveal a hint of his collarbone. The sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, the fabric slightly creased from movement, exposing veins that ran subtly along his skin.

He held a stack of papers, though they were now slightly askew, his grip firm yet controlled.

Everything about him screamed composure—power wrapped in restraint, a presence that was both commanding and distant.

But it wasn’t just his looks that had Jeonghan frozen. No—he had seen attractive men before, plenty of times.

It was the familiarity that struck him like lightning.

This man—he had seen him before.

That night.

That terrifying, heart-stopping moment when he had lunged forward, barely managing to grab a tiny, trembling boy from the street just in time.

The child who had looked up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes.

And now—

“Angel!”

A bright, excited voice shattered the moment.

Jeonghan blinked, startled out of his thoughts, his gaze snapping downward.

The little boy clinging to the man’s pant leg was beaming up at him, eyes sparkling with recognition and pure, unfiltered joy.

The same child.

The same sweet, bright eyes—except this time, instead of fear, they were filled with delight.

Dino.

Something warm and unexpected curled in Jeonghan’s chest.

A soft smile found its way to his lips before he even realised it, his expression unconsciously softening as he crouched down. He tilted his head playfully, his golden-brown curls shifting with the movement.


“Angel, huh?” he teased, voice light. “You still remember me.”

Dino nodded so enthusiastically that his little curls bounced. His tiny fingers remained clenched around the fabric of his father’s slacks, but his excitement was impossible to contain.


“Yes! Because you saved me! And that means you’re an angel!”

Jeonghan chuckled, warmth bubbling up in his chest. Adorable.

He reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from Dino’s forehead, his touch painfully gentle. “Well, I’m honoured, little one.”

But before he could say anything else—

“Dino.”

A deep, steady voice cut through the moment like a blade.

Jeonghan’s gaze flickered back up.

The man’s expression was unreadable—calm, composed, yet distant. Too distant. Like he was deliberately holding something back, forcing himself into indifference.

But Jeonghan caught it.

That split-second flicker of recognition in those dark eyes.

Oh.

Oh.

So he remembered him from when he saved Dino? But did he even see him—

Jeonghan felt something stir beneath his ribs, something dangerously close to amusement. A slow smirk threatened to tug at his lips, but he kept it at bay.

Instead, he stood up smoothly, brushing off his blazer with deliberate ease, his movements slow—measured. His gaze flickered over the man once more, trailing just a little longer than necessary.

Tall. Broad. Sharp.

And cold.

That last part intrigued him the most.

“We’re going,” the man said, voice firm, as he gently nudged Dino forward.

Dino let out a tiny whine of protest but obeyed, reluctantly shuffling toward his father, though not without glancing back at Jeonghan one last time. His expression was full of longing, like he wasn’t ready for the moment to end.

Jeonghan watched them go, crossing his arms over his chest, a thoughtful smile lingering on his lips.

So that was his new boss, huh?

Well.

This just got a whole lot more interesting.

Jeonghan had barely taken a step away from where he had bumped into his new boss when the sharp buzz of his phone vibrated against his palm.

He sighed, already knowing who it was before he even pulled it out of his pocket. Sure enough, the name flashing across the screen made a smirk tug at his lips.

Seungkwan

With a flick of his thumb, he answered, raising the phone to his ear as he braced himself.

“Hyung,” Seungkwan’s voice came through immediately, exasperated, just as expected. “Tell me you’re in the lounge.”

Jeonghan hummed, drawing out the silence as if he were genuinely considering the question. “Define ‘lounge.’”

There was an audible groan from the other end. “Hyung!”

Jeonghan chuckled, running a hand through his golden-brown hair. “Relax, Kwan. I was just making new connections.”

A sharp pause. Then, suspicion laced Seungkwan’s voice. “What kind of connections?”

“Oh, I think I just met my boss.” Jeonghan said it easily, absently adjusting the cuff of his blazer. “And he’s—” He tilted his head, lips pressing together as he thought. “—a little cold.”

Another groan, but this time, Jeonghan could hear the faintest hint of amusement behind it.

“Hyung, don’t get in trouble on your first day. Just—go to the lounge and wait for the P.A. of Mr. Choi. He’ll introduce you to the office surroundings.”

Jeonghan rolled his eyes, shifting his weight onto one foot. “Fine, fine. And who’s the P.A.?”

“No idea,” Seungkwan admitted. “I just know he’s been working with the company for a long time.”

That made Jeonghan pause. His fingers tapped lightly against the edge of his phone. “Huh.”

He dismissed the thought just as quickly as it came. “Alright, I’m heading there now. See you in a bit.”

Without waiting for a reply, he hung up and slid his phone back into his pocket, already regretting his decision to be here.

When he finally made it to the lounge, Seungkwan was already waiting, seated near the glass coffee table with his phone in hand, scrolling mindlessly.

“You’re late,” Seungkwan muttered, not even looking up.

Jeonghan smirked, dropping lazily into the chair beside him. “You’re early.”

Seungkwan shot him a flat look. Before he could retort, the sharp click of footsteps against the polished floor made them both glance up.

A man approached, dressed in a navy-blue suit that looked as if it had been tailored with precision. His presence was composed, effortlessly professional, and something about the way he carried himself made it clear he wasn’t just some office worker.

There was a quiet confidence to him—calculated, deliberate.

And yet—

For just a second, something flickered in his expression.

Barely noticeable.

But Seungkwan stiffened beside him.

Jeonghan’s eyes flicked between them, observing the brief tension, the way Seungkwan’s fingers twitched slightly on his phone screen.

The man stopped in front of them, his posture unwavering, his gaze sharp yet unreadable. His hands twitched at his sides before he clasped them together smoothly, as if catching himself.

And then he spoke.

"Welcome," he said evenly, voice calm, practised. "I’m Joshua Hong. Or as registered in the company files, Hong Jisoo. I serve as Mr. Choi’s personal assistant and will be guiding you through the office today.”

His tone was polite, perfectly neutral.

But Jeonghan noticed the way Seungkwan’s throat bobbed slightly, his jaw tightening.

Something was off.

Jeonghan stared at the man, something nagging at the edge of his thoughts, just out of reach. The name didn’t mean anything to him. Joshua Hong.

Yet…

That feeling. That odd, lingering sense of familiarity.

Like a word on the tip of his tongue.

It slipped away before he could grasp it.

Still, he dismissed the thought for now and offered a lazy smile, reaching out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Joshua—”

“Mr. Hong,” Joshua corrected smoothly, his polite smile never faltering.

Jeonghan’s hand hovered in the air for half a second before he let it drop, eyebrows raising slightly.

The tone wasn’t harsh, but there was something firm about it. A quiet distance.

It wasn’t the usual formalities of the workplace—it was something else.

Seungkwan glanced away, eyes flickering to the side, jaw clenched.

Jeonghan tilted his head slightly, his smile curling at the edges, just barely.

Interesting.

"Right," he said lightly. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Hong."

Joshua gave a curt nod, as if approving the correction. “Follow me.”

As they walked through the office, Jeonghan found himself glancing at the man once or twice, the odd feeling lingering in his chest.

It wasn’t recognition.

Not really.

But something about Joshua felt… familiar.

Jeonghan trailed behind Joshua, his eyes sweeping across the open workspace as they moved through the office. It was lively, filled with the soft hum of conversations, the faint rustling of fabric swatches, and the rhythmic clatter of keyboards.

Sunlight streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, golden streaks across the polished floors. Employees sat at sleek, modern desks, some hunched over blueprints pinned to oversized boards, others debating over colour palettes and floral arrangements. One table was completely covered in wedding invitations and seating charts, its occupants deep in discussion.

Despite the whirlwind of activity, there was an underlying sense of organisation. A structured chaos.

Joshua, maintaining his brisk pace, barely spared a glance at the teams around them.


His presence commanded a quiet authority—acknowledged but never intrusive. Every now and then, someone would look up as they passed, some eyes filled with curiosity at the new face trailing behind the personal assistant.

Jeonghan, ever the observer, took it all in.

And then Joshua came to a stop.

They had reached a glass-walled meeting space at the center of the office. Inside, a handful of employees were gathered around a large conference table, deep in discussion. Papers, tablets, and coffee cups cluttered the surface. The moment Joshua entered, however, the conversation stilled.

There was an unspoken shift in the air—an acknowledgement of his presence.

Joshua adjusted the cuff of his sleeve before speaking.

“Everyone, this is Yoon Jeonghan,” he introduced, his voice even, clipped. “He’s the new trainee assigned to the wedding department.”

Jeonghan straightened slightly as eyes landed on him, scanning him with varying degrees of curiosity.

One man, tall and lean with sharp eyes behind thin-framed glasses, regarded Jeonghan for a quiet moment before giving a subtle nod of acknowledgement.

Joshua’s gaze flicked to him. “This is Jeon Wonwoo. He handles budgeting and contracts. If you need approvals, you go through him.”

There was a brief pause before Wonwoo finally spoke, his voice calm, measured.

“Welcome.”

Short. Simple. No unnecessary pleasantries.

Before Jeonghan could respond, an arm suddenly draped itself over Wonwoo’s shoulder from behind.

“Hoshi,” the newcomer corrected with a grin before Joshua could introduce him. His eyes gleamed with mischief as he leaned in. “Assistant event coordinator, and I make sure things run smoothly around here.”

Jeonghan arched a brow, amusement creeping into his expression. “I don’t know if that’s reassuring or concerning.”

Wonwoo sighed, looking used to the antics. Joshua, meanwhile, merely exhaled.

“You’ll understand soon enough,” he said dryly before moving on.

Just then, another figure stepped forward, practically radiating energy. His smile was bright, almost blinding, as he clapped his hands together.

“Lee Seokmin!” he announced enthusiastically. “Head of entertainment and performances. It’s nice to meet you!”

Jeonghan blinked. “Entertainment?”

Seokmin nodded eagerly. “Anything related to music, lighting, or special performances at weddings goes through me. If a couple wants a grand entrance, fireworks, or even a live orchestra, I make it happen.”

Joshua interjected smoothly, his tone laced with the slightest trace of exasperation.

“And by that, he means he turns meetings into personal concerts.”

Seokmin gasped, placing a hand over his chest in mock offence. “Excuse me, I provide ambience!”

Jeonghan fought the urge to smirk. This one was entertaining.

Joshua, however, ignored the dramatics and moved on, his voice retaining its professional edge.

“Xu Minghao,” he introduced next, gesturing toward a man with sharp features and an air of quiet confidence. “Lead stylist and wardrobe coordinator.”

Minghao barely spared Jeonghan a glance, his expression unreadable. “You need fashion advice? Come to me.”

Simple. To the point.

Beside him, another man with tousled hair and a knowing smirk leaned forward slightly.

“Wen Junhui,” he said smoothly. “Co-stylist and décor consultant. If you want the wedding to look perfect, I’m your guy.”

Jeonghan’s gaze flicked between them. He could already tell these two were an interesting pair. One cool and refined, the other effortlessly charming.

It was clear, now, that each person in this room had a specific role, a speciality that made the department function like a well-oiled machine.

Joshua, standing rigid beside him, exhaled lightly, as if the introductions had been a necessary formality rather than an opportunity for engagement.

“That’s all for introductions,” he stated, voice crisp, unwavering. “Your desk is over there. If you have any questions, direct them to the appropriate person.”

Jeonghan turned to glance at him, frowning slightly.

It wasn’t what Joshua said—it was how he said it.

Polite, proper, efficient.

And yet, distant.

Too distant.

Jeonghan had met plenty of people who liked to keep things strictly professional, but this was different. There was something about Joshua’s demeanour—controlled, measured, deliberately detached.

Like he was keeping a wall up.

Like he was keeping Jeonghan out.

And for some reason… Jeonghan found that far more intriguing than he should.

Still, he shook the thought away.

It didn’t matter.

He wasn’t here to make friends.

Jeonghan had barely settled into his seat, his fingers idly tracing the smooth surface of his desk, when a chair was unceremoniously dragged beside him.

Hoshi plopped down into it, grinning like he had been waiting for this moment his entire life.

“So,” Hoshi started, drawing out the word dramatically. His eyes gleamed with mischief, and Jeonghan didn’t miss how the rest of the team subtly leaned in, their curiosity practically buzzing in the air.

Jeonghan blinked, his brows drawing together. “So… what?”

Hoshi wiggled his eyebrows in a way that made Jeonghan instinctively brace himself.

“We saw you earlier.”

“With Mr. Choi,” Seokmin added, arms crossed and smirking like he had just uncovered the biggest office scandal of the century.

“And his kid,” Jun finished, leaning back in his chair like he was solving a mystery.

Jeonghan tilted his head, still not quite catching on. “Okay…? And?”

Hoshi gasped, his hand flying to his chest like he had been personally offended.

“And?! My dear Jeonghan, that wasn’t just any encounter! That was a historical moment in this company’s history.”

Seokmin nodded sagely. “You, my friend, are officially the first employee to witness the rare phenomenon of Choi Seungcheol freezing up.”

Minghao, who had been sipping his tea quietly, set his cup down and regarded Jeonghan with mild curiosity.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice smooth and thoughtful. “I’ve never seen him react like that before. Usually, he’s professional, polite, all business—but with you?” He tilted his head slightly.


“He looked like he saw a ghost.”

Jeonghan frowned at that. So it wasn’t just his imagination, then.

"Are you sure we’re talking about the same guy?” he asked. “Because the man I ran into was cold. Like, ice age cold.”

“That’s exactly what we’re saying!” Hoshi exclaimed, leaning in closer. “He’s strict, yeah, but he’s never cold. Even when he’s scolding us for nearly burning the office down—”

“That was one time!” Seokmin interjected, looking personally offended.

“—he still manages to sound polite,” Hoshi continued, ignoring him. “But with you? He looked like he wanted to run for the hills.”

Jun hummed. “Or punch a wall.”

“Or both,” Minghao added.

Jeonghan let out a small huff of amusement. He wasn’t used to this kind of energy in an office setting. Workplaces were usually stiff, professional, full of quiet workers going about their business.

This? This was something else entirely.

And strangely… it was nice. Familiar, even.

“Okay, so, what’s the deal with him?” Jeonghan asked, crossing his arms and leaning back slightly. “Is he really that scary?”

“Scary?” Wonwoo finally spoke, pushing up his glasses as he observed Jeonghan with a calm, calculating gaze. “Not exactly. He’s just intense. He’s one of those bosses who doesn’t settle for less than perfection.”

“Basically, a workaholic with control issues,” Hoshi whispered conspiratorially.

Seokmin nodded. “But he’s also… I don’t know, warm? Like, he actually listens when you talk to him, you know? Even if he’s strict, he’s not unreasonable.”

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow. “You just said he was intense, strict, and a perfectionist. How is that not scary?”

The group exchanged glances before Jun shrugged. “He’s kind of like a dad, I guess? A really tired dad.”

“A hot dad,” Hoshi corrected, and Jeonghan nearly choked on air.

“What—”

“Hoshi,” Minghao sighed.

“What?” Hoshi grinned shamelessly. “You can’t tell me I’m wrong.”

“Just because you have a thing for older men doesn’t mean the rest of us do,” Minghao deadpanned.

“I—” Hoshi gaped at him, looking betrayed. “I do not—”

“Then why are you subscribed to that ‘CEO Daddies’ podcast?”

Hoshi gasped, clutching his chest like he had just been stabbed. “Minghao, that was private!”

The entire table erupted into laughter.

Even Jeonghan found himself laughing before he even realised it.

These guys were insane—but in the best way possible.

As the laughter died down, Seokmin leaned forward again, still grinning.

“So…” he dragged out. “What did you think of him?”

Jeonghan thought back to the hallway. To the way Seungcheol had frozen, his features caught between recognition and something unreadable. The way the air had shifted, heavier than it should have been.

How, for a brief moment, it had felt like something important had happened.

But Jeonghan merely shrugged. “He’s my boss. That’s all.”

The others exchanged looks again, as if silently communicating something. But none of them pushed further.

“Well, good luck,” Jun finally said, smirking. “You’re gonna need it.”

Jeonghan rolled his eyes. “Great. Just what I wanted to hear on my first day.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you,” Seokmin assured him, throwing an arm over Jeonghan’s shoulders.

“Yeah, we’re your team now,” Hoshi grinned. “Welcome to the chaos.”

Jeonghan found himself smiling despite himself.

Maybe—just maybe—this job wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Joshua walked with precise steps, the sharp click of his polished shoes echoing against the sleek marble floors of the office corridor. His posture was impeccable—stiff yet graceful, composed in a way that spoke of years spent mastering the art of restraint. The air around him carried an unspoken authority, the kind that commanded attention without effort.

Behind him, Seungkwan followed, hands tucked into the pockets of his neatly pressed slacks, shoulders slightly hunched. The contrast between them was stark—where Joshua moved with effortless poise, Seungkwan carried a lingering hesitance, his steps just a fraction too slow, his breath just a bit too measured.

“You didn’t need an introduction to the company.”

Joshua’s voice was smooth and even, neither cold nor warm, just distant. It was the tone of a man who had long since learned how to keep emotions at bay, how to build walls so high they became impenetrable.

Seungkwan exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck.


“Guess I just wanted to see how the new hires were being treated.” He forced a chuckle, though even he could hear how strained it sounded. “Or maybe I just wanted to see you play tour guide. Never thought I’d live to witness that.”

Joshua hummed in acknowledgement, tilting his head slightly, but not enough to look at him. “And here I thought you had enough work keeping Vernon in check.”

Seungkwan flinched.

It was barely noticeable—just a brief twitch in his shoulders, a flicker of tension tightening his jaw—but Joshua caught it. He always did. His gaze flickered to Seungkwan for half a second, sharp and observant, before turning back toward the towering windows lining the hallway. If he had noticed the reaction, he gave no indication.

Seungkwan let out a slow, controlled breath, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Vernon’s a grown man. He doesn’t need me breathing down his neck every second.”

Joshua finally came to a stop near the window, hands slipping into the pockets of his tailored suit. His gaze drifted over the sprawling cityscape below—miles of high-rise buildings, bustling streets, tiny cars weaving through traffic like veins pulsing with life. For a long moment, he simply stood there, unmoving, unreadable.

Then, without turning, he asked, “Then what exactly are you doing here, Seungkwan?”

Seungkwan stiffened.

The question was deceptively simple. Casual, even. But it hit like a punch to the gut.

Joshua wasn’t just asking about today.

He was asking about everything.

The past. The choices that had led them to this moment. The silent weight Seungkwan carried on his shoulders every time he looked at him.

“I—” Seungkwan hesitated, fingers curling into fists at his sides. He swallowed the lump in his throat, his voice quieter when he finally spoke. “…I wanted to help.”

Joshua let out a quiet chuckle. It wasn’t amused. It wasn’t bitter. It was just… hollow. “Help?” he echoed, tilting his head slightly. “Now that’s interesting.”

Seungkwan clenched his jaw. “Joshua—”

“No,” Joshua interrupted smoothly, finally turning to face him. His eyes weren’t cold, but they weren’t warm either. They held something far worse—understanding. A deep-rooted, unsparing knowledge of the situation that Seungkwan wished he could ignore.

“You’re here because you think it’ll make up for the past,” Joshua said, his voice unnervingly steady. “That doesn’t mean it actually will.”

Seungkwan inhaled sharply, his nails digging into his palms. He wanted to argue. Wanted to say that Joshua was wrong.

But was he?

Hadn’t he spent the last few months convincing himself that if he just tried hard enough—if he just did something—he could fix what had already been broken?

Joshua watched him carefully, the silence stretching between them, thick and suffocating. And then, after what felt like an eternity, he sighed. The sharpness in his expression softened—just barely—but it was enough for Seungkwan to catch it.

“You should get back to work.” Joshua’s voice had lost its earlier edge, but it still carried a firm finality. “Wouldn’t want you slacking on your first day as executive assistant.”

Seungkwan let out a breathy chuckle, hollow and tired. “Yeah. Wouldn’t want that.”

Joshua didn’t respond. He simply gave him one last unreadable glance before turning on his heel and walking away, his footsteps fading into the distance.

Seungkwan stood there for a long moment, staring at the spot where Joshua had just been.

No matter how much time passed.

No matter how much effort he put in now.

Nothing would erase what had already been done.

And that was the part that scared him the most.

Seungcheol exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose as he leaned back in his chair.


His office was dimly lit, the golden hues of the summer sun castes long shadows across the sleek mahogany desk. The heavy silence of the room pressed against his temples, amplifying the dull throb that had settled at the base of his skull—not from exhaustion, but from the sheer force it took to keep himself together.

The moment from earlier still clung to him like an unwelcome ghost, lingering at the edges of his mind no matter how hard he tried to shake it off. No matter how many reports he reviewed, no matter how many emails he answered, the weight of it refused to fade.

He clenched his jaw, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to dispel the tension coiling within him.


It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. He had work to do.

And yet, his pen remained still between his fingers, hovering just above the paper, his mind elsewhere.

A soft giggle broke through the oppressive quiet.

Seungcheol’s gaze flickered to the side, drawn toward the small figure sprawled across the leather couch near the window. Dino lay on his stomach, his tiny feet swinging lazily in the air as he played, the plush cushions swallowing his small frame.

His toy dinosaurs clashed against each other in an imaginary battle, his little hands making them stomp and growl with exaggerated ferocity. His face was scrunched up in concentration, eyes bright with excitement, completely immersed in his own world.

Completely oblivious.

Completely untouched by the weight his father carried.

A quiet breath left Seungcheol’s lips, something deep in his chest easing just slightly at the sight. It was moments like these that grounded him, reminded him that—no matter how much everything hurt—there was still something worth holding on to.

His fingers twitched at the thought, and just as he was about to turn back to his work, his eyes landed on the photo frame sitting at the edge of his desk.

The glass reflected the warm glow of sunlight spilling through the windows, but the image beneath remained strikingly clear.

Two figures stood frozen in time.

A man—his features sharp, eyes filled with something unreadable—stood rigidly, his arms carefully cradling a tiny bundle against his chest. The baby in his grasp looked impossibly small, swaddled in soft white fabric, his tiny fingers curled into delicate fists.

The man’s grip was protective, hesitant.

Like something fragile. Something precious.

Like he was terrified of hurting what he held.

Seungcheol’s fingers hovered over the frame before brushing against its surface, tracing the outline of the figures as if the simple motion could bring the moment back to life. As if it could undo the years that had unravelled since that day.

His chest tightened.

His throat burned.

“…What would you have done if you were here, Jihoonie?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

But there was no answer.

Only silence.

The same silence that had lingered for years.

The sound of the office door bursting open shattered the moment.

Seungcheol barely had time to school his expression before Joshua strode in like he owned the place, clipboard in hand, his polished shoes clicking against the marble floor with precise, measured steps. His tailored suit was pristine, not a wrinkle in sight, his tie knotted perfectly as if he had never known the concept of disorder. His expression was composed, unreadable—just as it always was.

If the weight of the past had unsettled him, he didn’t show it.

“Morning, boss,” Joshua greeted, voice light, effortless, as if today was no different from any other.


“I’ve got your schedule updates. The on-site wedding design meeting got pushed to after lunch due to some supplier delays. Your afternoon is still packed, but I moved a few things around—”

“You don’t have to act normal.”

The words left Seungcheol’s mouth before he could stop them.

Joshua’s voice cut off mid-sentence.

For just a second—barely even a fraction of a moment—his grip on the clipboard tightened. It wasn’t obvious, not to the untrained eye, but Seungcheol noticed. Because he always noticed.

A brief pause.

Then, Joshua blinked, tilting his head slightly, his voice as smooth as ever. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Seungcheol exhaled through his nose, fingers tapping once against the surface of his desk. “You do.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy like the air before a storm.

Joshua let out a quiet, almost amused laugh, setting the clipboard down on the desk with deliberate care—too careful, too controlled.


“And what do you want me to do, then? Lose my mind over it?” His tone was calm, practised, but there was an edge beneath it, something razor-sharp that hadn’t been there before.


He lifted a brow, gesturing vaguely with his hand, like he was waving off the tension in the room. “I’m your assistant, Seungcheol. I have a job to do.”

Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “You froze earlier.”

Joshua inhaled slowly, his mask of indifference slipping—just a little. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but he hesitated.

Seungcheol caught it instantly.

“You weren’t expecting it.”

Joshua finally exhaled, shaking his head with a quiet scoff. “And you were?” His tone was light, almost mocking, but his posture betrayed him.

Seungcheol didn’t answer.

Because Joshua was right.

Neither of them had expected him.

Joshua’s fingers tapped against the desk once, twice, a steady rhythm that betrayed the slightest bit of unrest beneath his cool exterior. His eyes flickered toward the couch in the office, where Dino had stopped playing, his tiny fingers clutching a toy dinosaur as he blinked up at them sleepily.

Seungcheol could see the moment Joshua registered the little boy’s presence—the way his jaw tensed, the way something unreadable flickered in his gaze for just a second before he masked it once more.

Joshua shifted his attention back to Seungcheol. “Look,” he started, his voice quieter now, smoother, but still unwavering.


“I didn’t react because there was nothing to react to.” He straightened, running a hand over his tie in a small, unconscious motion of control. “I am not the one who has a problem here.”

Seungcheol’s eyes darkened at the unspoken implication.

Joshua didn’t falter. He met his gaze evenly, unreadable as always.

“I’ll remind you of your next meeting before lunch,” he added coolly, picking up his clipboard again. “And let me know if you need anything else.”

With that, he turned on his heel and walked out, the office door clicking softly behind him.

A heavy silence settled in the room, the tension lingering like an aftertaste.

Dino yawned sleepily, rubbing at his eyes with tiny fists. “Daddy?”

Seungcheol’s head lifted instantly, the sharp edges of his thoughts dulling at the small voice. “Yeah, buddy?”

“Why you look mad?” Dino pouted, his lower lip sticking out slightly as he looked at his father with concern.

Seungcheol forced a small smile, reaching out to ruffle the boy’s soft hair. “I’m not mad, champ.”

Dino studied him for a long moment before tilting his head. “You look like Uncle Nonie when he doesn’t get coffee.”

A quiet chuckle left Seungcheol’s lips, the unexpected comparison loosening some of the tightness in his chest.

But as his gaze drifted toward the glass walls of his office, landing on the hallway where Joshua had disappeared, the weight of his thoughts remained.

He had convinced himself for years that he had buried it all. That he had packed the memories away, shoved them into a locked drawer in his mind and thrown away the key.

But today, with a single unexpected collision—

Everything had started to resurface.

Chapter Text

The wedding department was, as usual, a whirlwind of activity.


The air buzzed with the chaotic yet synchronised energy of professionals who had long since mastered the art of multitasking. Minghao and Jun flitted between desks, their hands full of fabric swatches as they compared textures and debated colour palettes.


Hoshi sat at his desk, adjusting schedules and triple-checking venue bookings with a furrowed brow, lips pressed into a tight line. The soft, fragrant scent of fresh flowers from sample bouquets intermingled with the sharp tang of coffee, an ever-present aroma in the office.


The familiar chime of incoming emails rang from multiple laptops, blending seamlessly into the background noise of ringing phones and hurried conversations.

Somewhere across the room, Seokmin was deep in what sounded like a heated debate with a vendor over the phone. His voice fluctuated between professional diplomacy and barely restrained exasperation, making Jeonghan smirk as he flipped through the sample portfolio in his hands. He was still getting used to the department’s lively atmosphere, but there was something oddly comforting about it—like a well-rehearsed dance where everyone knew their steps.

A loud groan disrupted his focus.

“Ugh, Vernon’s gonna be on my ass about this,” Hoshi grumbled, tossing his pen onto the desk before leaning back in frustration. “If this scheduling mess doesn’t get fixed, I swear he’s gonna drag me into another hour-long meeting.”

Jeonghan blinked, caught off guard by the casual mention of the CEO’s name.

“You guys talk about the CEO like he’s just some coworker.”

Seokmin, who had just ended his call, let out a laugh. “That’s because he is, kind of. Vernon stops by here a lot.”

“Yeah,” Jun chimed in. “He’s pretty hands-on with this department.”

Jeonghan tilted his head, still puzzled.


Shouldn’t they be more formal about it? He had always pictured CEOs as distant figures—powerful, untouchable, the kind who rarely mingled with employees unless it was necessary. Yet, everyone here seemed so nonchalant about Vernon’s presence.

Minghao stretched his arms lazily, rolling out the tension in his shoulders before saying, “Well, it makes sense. Vernon’s Seungcheol-hyung’s stepbrother, after all.”

Jeonghan stilled slightly. “Stepbrother?”

“Yup,” Jun confirmed. “They’re not blood-related, but they grew up together. Seungcheol practically raised Vernon.”

Jeonghan frowned slightly, processing that information. He had never imagined Seungcheol as the kind of person to ‘raise’ someone, let alone the company’s CEO. The idea of Seungcheol—who had always seemed distant, cold, and detached—guiding someone else through life felt contradictory to the image he had built in his mind.

He was about to ask more when Jun added casually, “Well, it makes sense Vernon took over, considering the company was Seungcheol-hyung’s before that.”

Jeonghan blinked. “Wait, what?”

Hoshi turned to him, eyebrows raised. “You didn’t know? Seungcheol was the original CEO and chairman of Claire de Lune.”

Jeonghan’s mind stalled for a moment, the revelation throwing him completely off balance. He had assumed Seungcheol was always just a high-ranking executive, a key figure in the company but never the one at the very top.


But no—he had been the one in charge. He had built this empire. And yet, now, he was just the head of a department?

“What happened?” Jeonghan asked, a frown forming between his brows.

“Five years ago, he stepped down,” Minghao explained, resting his chin in his hand. “Gave Vernon the position and kind of just… kept to himself after that.”

“Why?”

There was a brief moment of silence, a beat of hesitation before Seokmin sighed. “Most people think it was because of his husband.”

Jeonghan felt an unfamiliar tightness in his chest. “His… husband?”

“Yeah,” Jun nodded. “The one he had Chan with.”

Husband. The word echoed in Jeonghan’s mind like a struck bell, reverberating through his thoughts. The one he had Chan with. His stomach twisted, though he wasn’t sure why.

“No one really knows who he was, though,” Seokmin continued, leaning forward slightly as if sharing a secret. “Only Seungcheol-hyung, Vernon, and Joshua-hyung know for sure, and they never talk about it.”

“Passed away five years ago,” Hoshi added, tapping his pen against the desk absentmindedly. “Same time Seungcheol stepped down.”

Jeonghan’s grip on his own pen tightened slightly.

Five years ago. That was when Seungcheol had given up his position. That was when his husband—someone no one knew about—died.

The weight of that realisation settled over him like a thick fog.


Seungcheol, who had built an entire company from the ground up, had walked away from it all at the same time he had lost his husband. It wasn’t hard to see the connection, but there was something about it that didn’t sit right with him.

Why had no one ever mentioned this before? Why did Seungcheol, a man so deeply woven into this company, become just another department head? Why did it feel like there was an entire story buried beneath those simple facts—one that no one was willing to talk about?

And most of all… why did Jeonghan feel like he should already know the answer?

Vernon entered his office like it was any other morning, his mind already occupied with the ever-growing list of tasks he needed to tackle. A meeting with investors in an hour, a report to review before lunch, and—

He stopped abruptly.

Someone was there.

A figure stood near his desk, their back to him, still as stone. The sight sent a flicker of irritation up his spine, but more than that, an old, unwanted sense of familiarity settled in his gut like a lead weight.

His fingers tightened around the door handle. “Are you my new executive assistant?”

The person stiffened at his voice, shoulders going rigid. Slowly—hesitantly—they turned around.

Vernon’s breath caught for just a fraction of a second.

Seungkwan.

The name rang in his mind, an echo of something both distant and painfully close. Something buried yet never quite forgotten.

A chill settled over him, quiet and sharp. His chest felt too tight—too full of things he had no desire to unearth. But his face remained impassive, his expression smoothing into something unreadable, distant. His hand, still gripping the door handle, tightened before he forced himself to relax.

Seungkwan, on the other hand, looked as though he was searching for words that wouldn’t cut. Words that wouldn’t break the fragile space between them even more than it already was.

“…It’s been a while,” Seungkwan finally murmured, voice careful, unsure.

Vernon tilted his head slightly, considering. “Yeah,” he said, voice light but empty. “Guess it has.”

Seungkwan shifted, took a tentative step forward, but Vernon’s sharp gaze pinned him in place. He stopped.

Vernon exhaled slowly, clicking his tongue. “So. You’re the one they hired.”

Seungkwan swallowed. “I—” He hesitated, then straightened. “Yes.”

A beat of silence stretched between them, heavy and thick with things left unsaid.

Then Vernon let out a soft, humourless chuckle. “That’s funny.”

Seungkwan frowned, his fingers curling at his sides. “Vernon—”

“Mr. Choi,” Vernon corrected, voice sharp, cutting clean through the air between them like a blade.

Seungkwan flinched—just barely—but Vernon caught it. And for some reason, that flicker of vulnerability in his expression only made the bitter taste on Vernon’s tongue worse.

Stepping further into the office, Vernon shut the door behind him with a quiet, controlled click.


“So, tell me.” His voice was deceptively calm, but there was an edge to it, something simmering beneath the surface. “Did you come back to finish what you started?”

Seungkwan’s breath hitched. “That’s not—”

Vernon scoffed, shaking his head. “No? Then what?” He leaned back against his desk, arms crossing over his chest, his gaze unwavering, dissecting. “What exactly do you want, Yoon Seungkwan?”

Seungkwan’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his fists clenching at his sides. “I want to fix things.”

Vernon barked out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Fix things?” His eyes darkened, voice dropping lower, cold as ice. “You don’t get to say that.”

Seungkwan clenched his jaw. “I know what I did. I know what I—” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I just—I regret it, Vernon.”

Vernon didn’t even blink. His expression remained cold, distant.


“Regret?” he echoed, voice eerily quiet. “Regret doesn’t erase anything. Regret doesn’t undo the damage. And it sure as hell doesn’t bring back the years you took from him.”

Seungkwan flinched this time, unmistakably. “I was wrong.”

For a brief second—just a fleeting moment—something flickered in Vernon’s gaze. But just as quickly, it was gone, locked away behind the same indifference he’d mastered over the years.

“Yeah,” he said, voice quieter now, but no less sharp. “You were.”

Seungkwan looked at him, something raw in his expression, something pleading. But Vernon didn’t move. Didn’t soften. Didn’t give him anything.

“Let me try,” Seungkwan whispered, desperation laced in every syllable. “Please.”

Vernon studied him for a long, heavy moment. Silence stretched between them, suffocating, weighted with a history neither of them could rewrite.

Then, he shook his head.

“You’ll have to do a lot more than just try.”

With that, he turned away and walked towards his desk, dismissing him, leaving Seungkwan standing there—alone in the heavy silence of a past they never quite buried.

Seungkwan’s fingers twitched at his sides, nails pressing into his palms as he swallowed back the lump in his throat. He had braced himself for this—he wasn’t naive enough to think Vernon would just welcome him back. He had known, the moment he stepped into this office, that there would be no easy forgiveness waiting for him.

But knowing that didn’t make it any easier.

“…How are they?” he asked, voice quiet, hesitant.

Vernon didn’t look up. His fingers idly traced the edge of a file on his desk, movements slow, deliberate—practised disinterest.

Seungkwan shifted his weight, resisting the urge to fidget. “Joshua and Seungcheol,” he clarified, watching for even the smallest reaction. “Are they doing well?”

Vernon scoffed, a barely audible sound, but Seungkwan caught it.

“Why do you care?” Vernon asked, still not looking at him.

Seungkwan inhaled deeply. “Because I still do.”

That made Vernon pause. His fingers stilled against the paper.

The air between them stretched tight, too heavy with things left unsaid. Then, finally, Vernon turned his head just slightly, glancing at Seungkwan out of the corner of his eye.

“You still do,” he echoed, his voice softer, but laced with something unreadable.

Seungkwan nodded, his throat tight. “Yes.”

For a moment, Vernon said nothing. Then, finally—

“Joshua’s fine.” His tone was clipped, distant.

Seungkwan’s shoulders sagged, a breath of relief slipping from him.

But then—

“Seungcheol…” Vernon hesitated, jaw tightening. “He’s managing.”

Seungkwan frowned. “Managing?”

Vernon didn’t answer.

Something uneasy settled in Seungkwan’s chest. He wanted to ask more—to understand—but before he could, another question slipped out, softer than the rest.

“…And Dino?”

The reaction was instant.

Vernon’s entire body went rigid. His head snapped toward Seungkwan so fast that for a second, Seungkwan swore he felt the room tilt.

But it wasn’t the sharp movement that sent his pulse racing—it was the look in Vernon’s eyes.

Gone was the cold indifference, the carefully constructed mask of professionalism. In its place was something raw, something almost pained.

Seungkwan barely had time to register it before Vernon’s voice cut through the air, low and simmering with restrained fury.

“You don’t get to ask about him.”

Seungkwan’s breath hitched. “Vernon—”

“No.” Vernon’s tone sharpened, like a blade slicing through whatever pitiful excuse Seungkwan had been about to offer. “You don’t get to be concerned now.”

Seungkwan felt his hands tremble. “I just—”

“You left him.”

The words hit like a punch, knocking the air from his lungs.

Vernon’s voice wavered—not with hesitation, but with something deeper, something unspoken. “You left us.”

Seungkwan inhaled sharply, his chest squeezing with something close to guilt, regret, something he didn’t even have the right to name.

Vernon’s gaze burned into him, dark and unwavering. “You don’t get to show up after all these years and ask if we’re okay, like you didn’t—like you didn’t destroy everything in the process.”

His voice cracked on the last word. Just barely.

Seungkwan flinched.

The weight of it settled in his chest, heavy and suffocating.

“I didn’t want to—”

“But you did,” Vernon cut in, softer now, the anger in his voice dulled into something more exhausted. “You did, and you never looked back.”

Silence.

Seungkwan swallowed, his throat burning with the words he wanted to say but couldn’t.

Vernon turned away first, blinking rapidly, as if trying to shove something back down before it could surface.

Seungkwan forced himself to speak, his voice barely above a whisper.

“…I just wanted to know if he was okay.”

Vernon let out a slow breath, the sound almost weary. His shoulders rose and fell, tension still thrumming through him.

When he finally spoke, his voice was void of emotion.

“He’s alive.” A pause. “That’s all you need to know.”

And just like that, Vernon turned his back on him.

Seungkwan stood there, staring at the man he once knew—once loved.

But the warmth in Vernon’s eyes, the softness that used to be there when he looked at him—

It was gone.

Jeonghan spent the morning navigating different subjects, trying to familiarise himself with the intricate process of wedding planning. He had sat through a consultation where a couple argued over flower arrangements, observed Hoshi and Wonwoo juggle endless phone calls and client requests, and even endured a logistics meeting filled with numbers and schedules that made his head spin.

It was fascinating—watching the chaos somehow mold itself into order—but none of it quite clicked with him. Not until he stepped into the décor section.

The moment he entered, surrounded by cascading florals, rows of intricate fabric swatches, and lighting setups carefully designed to enhance every detail, something inside him settled.

It was strange—familiar, almost. Like walking into a place he’d been before, except he couldn’t quite remember when or why.

“Alright, newbie,” a voice called out, breaking him from his thoughts. Jun, the lead decorator, was watching him with an amused smirk.


“You’re here to observe. That means no sudden movements, no knocking over arrangements, and definitely no trying to ‘improve’ anything. Just take it in.”

Jeonghan barely acknowledged him, his gaze caught on the floral arch standing at the entrance of the mock wedding setup. The arrangement was perfect—technically. The flowers were symmetrical, evenly distributed, and balanced in structure. But it was too rigid. Too… lifeless.

It should feel like an archway leading into a dream, a garden in full bloom, a place where something beautiful was about to begin. Instead, it looked like a well-calculated display—constructed rather than grown.

His fingers twitched at his sides, an ache building in his chest. He knew, instinctively, how to fix it.

Before he could think better of it, he stepped forward. “What if we changed the arch design?”

Jun raised a brow. “Oh? Do tell.”

Jeonghan moved closer, his mind already adjusting the placement of flowers before his hands could.


“It’s too structured,” he murmured, eyes scanning the setup. “If we let the flowers cascade naturally instead of stacking them, it’ll look softer—more like a garden, less like a stage prop.”

Jun crossed his arms, intrigued. “Keep going.”

Encouraged, Jeonghan gestured toward the centerpiece arrangements next. “The centerpieces need variation in height. Right now, they’re all placed at the same level, which makes the tables look stiff and uniform. If we stagger them—some taller, some lower—it creates depth and movement, like an actual floral meadow instead of a grid.”

He turned to the drapery, fingers brushing against the fabric. “And this—” He tugged lightly at one of the swags.


“The lighting should be layered behind the fabric, not just in front. Right now, everything is too flat, but if we move a few of the lights behind the drapery, the glow will create depth and make the entire setup feel warmer.”

A heavy silence followed his words.

When he looked up, the entire team was staring at him, eyes wide with something between admiration and surprise.

A whistle broke the quiet. “Damn,” one of them muttered.

Jun tilted his head, watching him closely. “You sure you haven’t done this before?”

Jeonghan hesitated.

Had he?

Because the way his hands moved, the way his mind immediately knew where things belonged, how to balance colours, textures, and space—it wasn’t foreign to him. It felt natural. Instinctive. Like a skill he hadn’t realised was his.

He shook his head after a moment, forcing a small smirk. “Just have an eye for it, I guess.”

Jun exchanged a glance with the others before letting out a huff. “Well, if that’s the case…” He clapped his hands together, the sound sharp and decisive. “Forget observing. You should put this together properly and pitch it to Seungcheol.”

Jeonghan froze.

“Wait, what?”

“You heard me,” Jun said, clearly enjoying his reaction.


“You’re onto something with these changes. If anyone’s gonna approve them, it’s Seungcheol. He’s picky about aesthetics, but if he likes something, he pushes for it.” He smirked. “And trust me, he’s not easy to impress.”

Jeonghan swallowed, something uneasy twisting in his chest.

Seungcheol.

The name sent an odd jolt through him, heavier than it should have. He barely knew the man, but their encounters—though brief—left an unfamiliar weight inside him. Like a whisper of something just out of reach, something important he had forgotten.

Still, he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge.

Jeonghan straightened his shoulders, rolling them back as he exhaled. “Fine,” he said, feigning confidence. “I’ll pitch it.”

Jun grinned, clapping him on the back. “That’s the spirit. Let’s see if you can surprise the boss.”

Chapter Text

As Seungcheol walked away, his fingers wrapped tightly around Dino’s tiny hand, he couldn’t shake off the mess of emotions boiling in his chest.


His steps were heavy, each one echoing with thoughts he’d tried so hard to bury. The office lights felt harsh and sterile, the quiet hum of the building doing nothing to drown out the pounding in his ears.

Dino’s little legs struggled to keep up with his hurried pace, but he didn’t complain, only letting out small, breathy huffs of effort. The boy’s soft protests about wanting to keep playing still clung to the air, a faint, innocent plea that Seungcheol had forced himself to ignore.

He could feel eyes on him.


Not from the bustling office workers or curious glances of his colleagues.


No, it was a gaze that felt far more intense, like a whisper of something once precious but now broken beyond repair.

Jeonghan.

The image of him kneeling down in front of Dino, his eyes gentle, his smile so pure—like he truly saw Dino, not his illness, not his weaknesses. Just him.

The memory twisted something sharp and painful inside Seungcheol’s chest.

By the time he reached his cabin and pushed the door shut behind him, his breathing was shallow, his hands trembling with the effort to keep himself together. Without a word, he guided Dino over to the small couch in the corner, his touch unintentionally rough as he settled the boy down.

“Stay here, alright?” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “Just… just for a little while. Papa needs to… to work.”

Dino blinked up at him, confusion clouding his soft gaze. “But, Papa, I—”

“Just stay,” Seungcheol snapped, sharper than he intended. The instant the words left his mouth, he felt the crushing weight of guilt wrap around him.

Dino’s lips wobbled slightly, but the little boy only nodded, clutching his plushie—Bongbong—to his chest like a shield. He looked so small. So fragile. And Seungcheol had never felt like a worse father than he did at that moment.

But he couldn’t do this now. He couldn’t crumble when Dino was still watching him with those big, innocent eyes.

Swallowing the thick lump in his throat, Seungcheol turned away and stumbled over to his desk.


His fingers gripped the edge like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart entirely.

He closed his eyes, his shoulders heaving with shallow, frantic breaths. The air felt like it was made of glass—sharp, cold, slicing into his lungs every time he tried to breathe.

“Never treat him like how my parents did to me, okay?”





The voice surged through his mind, clear and desperate. Words someone had — Jihoon had once whispered with such raw, fervent emotion that it had left Seungcheol speechless.

“Please… don’t make him feel like he’s a burden. Let him feel wanted, always.”

But you failed, didn’t you? You broke your promise.


You’ve been breaking it ever since the day everything went wrong.


Fucking failure.

“I’m trying—” he choked, the words splintering in his throat. His hands pressed harder against the desk, nails digging into the polished wood.

His mind spat out another memory, unfiltered, merciless.

“Then put him up for adoption!”

The words were so cold, slicing through him like a knife. 

“You clearly can’t take care of him on your own. You couldn’t even keep your own damn husband safe, so why the hell are you still trying?”

Useless. Insignificant.

You should have actually put Dino up for adoption, he is so miserable with you. 

STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP






Then for a second, everything fell silent — as if the impact of the words were resounding in his ears when—






"You broke your promise Cheol. You did it again..."
"You broke your promise Cheol. You did it again..."
"You broke your promise Cheol. You did it again..."
"You broke your promise Cheol. You did it again..."
"You broke your promise Cheol. You did it again..."
"You broke your promise Cheol. You did it again..."
"You broke your promise Cheol. You did it again..."




Only ringing.


Ring.


Ring.

You hurt him. Didn't you Choi Seungcheol?

You know you hurt him, yet you have the audacity to play vicitm??

Seungcheol’s breathing turned into shallow, panicked gasps, his chest tightening painfully as if iron bands were constricting his ribs. His legs trembled, threatening to give out beneath him.

“Let’s divorce.”
“Let’s divorce.”
“Let’s divorce.”
“Let’s divorce.”
“Let’s divorce.”
“Let’s divorce.”
“Let’s divorce.”
“Let’s divorce.”
“Let’s divorce.”
“Let’s divorce.”
“Let’s divorce.”

He is happy. Happier than he ever could be without you, fucking useless excuse of a human.

That one always hit the hardest. Always left him feeling hollow and bleeding.

It was the last thing he had heard before everything fell apart. Before his whole world shattered in the most brutal way imaginable.

The memory was a raw, festering wound, one that never quite healed no matter how much time passed. It ate away at him, gnawed at his sanity, clawed at his heart until all that was left was the guilt. The unrelenting, crushing guilt.

He was trying so hard. Every single day. But it never felt like enough.

Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes, his vision blurring as he pressed the heels of his hands against them, desperately trying to push the voices away. Trying to keep himself from falling apart completely.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered brokenly to the cold, sterile air. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

But the silence offered no forgiveness. Only the endless, crushing weight of his own failure.

Failure.Failure.Failure.Failure.Failure.Failure.Failure.

“Papa?”

The soft, worried voice barely registered. Seungcheol’s hands clutched the edge of his desk, knuckles paling from the force of his grip. His head bowed low, his shoulders trembling as if the pressure building in his chest would tear him apart.


The echoes in his mind grew louder, voices entwining in a vicious tangle of memory and regret.

COME BACK
COME BACK
COME BACK
COME BACK
COME BACK

"Papa?"

The small voice cut through the suffocating fog successfully this time, like a beam of light piercing through the darkness. Seungcheol’s eyes snapped open, his tear-blurred vision struggling to focus on the small figure standing before him.


Dino’s wide, innocent eyes were filled with worry, his little hands clutching his plushie—Bongbong—tightly against his chest like a shield.

“Papa, are you sad?” Dino’s voice was trembling, the concern etched into his small face striking something deep and fragile within Seungcheol. “You look like you’re hurting.”

“I-I’m okay, Dino,” Seungcheol forced out, his voice cracking under the effort. “Just... just a little tired.”

Dino’s expression didn’t change. The worry only deepened, his small brows furrowing in a way that made Seungcheol’s heart twist painfully.


Before he could say anything else, Dino tottered closer, his little legs unsteady but determined.

Seungcheol’s hands shook as he tried to swipe at the wetness clinging to his cheeks, but he couldn’t erase the devastation that had torn him apart. It was still there, festering beneath the surface.

Without hesitation, Dino reached up, his arms stretched out towards Seungcheol’s lap.


His legs struggled to find purchase, but he didn’t give up, his tiny fingers curling against the fabric of Seungcheol’s pants for support. His persistence made something ache deep in Seungcheol’s chest.

“Dino—”

The child didn’t stop until he had clambered onto Seungcheol’s lap, his small arms wrapping around Seungcheol’s neck in a clumsy, but earnest hug. His chubby cheek pressed against Seungcheol’s shoulder, warm and real and so heartbreakingly gentle.

“It’s okay, Papa,” Dino whispered, his voice muffled but soothing. “Bonbong always makes me feel better when I’m sad.”

He shifted back just enough to hold out the plushie to Seungcheol. Bongbong, his most precious comfort, was held out to him with a sincerity that shattered the icy wall constricting Seungcheol’s chest.

“Here, Papa. You can hug Bonbong too. He’s really good at making bad feelings go away.”

For a moment, Seungcheol could only stare at the bunny, his hands still trembling.


His mind screamed at him that he didn’t deserve this kindness, this purity. That he would only ruin it, like everything else.

But when Dino pushed the plushie into his arms with a determined pout, Seungcheol couldn’t bring himself to refuse.


His fingers closed around the worn, soft plushie, his grip gentle and almost reverent.

The warmth seeped into his chest, like cool rain soothing the scorched, barren land that was his heart. His breathing slowly evened out, the crushing weight on his lungs easing enough to let air in.

“Thank you, buddy,” Seungcheol whispered, his voice thick and raw with emotion as he hugged the plushie close. “Bonbong’s... really nice.”

Dino’s smile lit up his entire face, the brightness of his eyes chasing away the shadows clinging to Seungcheol’s mind.


“Bonbong likes you a lot! And I like you a lot, too! So you have to be happy now, okay?”

Seungcheol’s arms instinctively tightened around Dino, holding him as if he were the only thing keeping him from drowning.


And maybe he was. The warmth of his son’s embrace seeped into him, slowly melting the ice that had gripped his heart.

“I’ll try, Dino,” he whispered into the child’s soft hair, his voice a broken, raw promise. “I’ll try. Papa is sorry...”

And now, the silence didn’t feel quite so crushing.

Vernon’s fingers tapped impatiently against his polished mahogany desk, the rhythm sharp and uneven, like his thoughts.


The phone rang on speaker, filling his office with its shrill tone.


Outside the glass walls, employees moved with purpose, unaware of the tension crackling through their boss’s office. Vernon’s jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed at the phone as if willing the call to connect faster.

Finally, the other end picked up with a familiar, laid-back voice. “Yo! Vernon, what’s up?”

“Mingyu.” Vernon’s voice was clipped, sharp like a knife.


Beneath the forced calm, irritation vibrated like a taut wire, threatening to snap. “You mind explaining to me why the hell you hired Jeonghan and Seungkwan?”

There was a pause on the other end, the kind that felt thick with unsaid things. When Mingyu finally spoke, his tone was far too casual, far too unaffected.


“I was wondering when you’d call. Wasn’t expecting it to take you this long.”

“This isn’t a joke, Mingyu.”


Vernon gritted his teeth, every syllable bitten off with barely concealed frustration. His knuckles turned white as his grip tightened around the phone.


“You know what they did. You know how much damage they caused. And you let them in here like it’s nothing?”

Mingyu’s voice softened, but he didn’t lose that calm, infuriating composure. “It’s not nothing. But it’s not everything either.”

“Excuse me?” Vernon’s voice rose, incredulity bleeding into every word.

He couldn’t believe Mingyu had the audacity to downplay the situation like this. “They left him to suffer alone. Do you get that? And now you’ve put them right in his path—”

“Did I?” Mingyu interrupted, his tone still steady, unruffled by Vernon’s anger. “Or did Seungkwan do that himself when he called me, practically begging for the chance to make things right?”

Vernon’s teeth ground together. “Making things right?” he echoed, the words dripping with bitterness.


A humourless, hollow laugh slipped past his lips. “Is that what you call it? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like a repeat of history. And this time, I won’t let it happen.”

“You sound like you’re trying to protect him from getting hurt,” Mingyu observed, his voice still maddeningly calm. “But are you sure you’re not just trying to shield yourself from it too?”

Vernon’s breath hitched, anger momentarily faltering. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Running away from pain, pretending it’s not there—it doesn’t make it any less real, Vernon,” Mingyu said gently, his words cutting deeper than Vernon cared to admit.


“I’m just saying, maybe Seungkwan’s trying to fix something. Maybe he’s trying to water a garden that’s already withered.”

“Or maybe he’s just messing with the broken pieces, making it worse,” Vernon shot back, voice harsh with a touch of something more fragile—fear, maybe.


“You didn’t hear the things Jeonghan said that night. You didn’t see the way Seungcheol broke. They tore him apart. And Dino...”

Mingyu sighed, the sound soft but resonant through the phone.


“You’re right. I didn’t see all of it. But I did see the aftermath. I saw how Seungkwan’s voice trembled when he asked me to let them join. I saw the desperation, the regret. How long are you both gonna keep running from hurt and fear? From each other?”

“And what, just forgive them? Pretend like none of that happened?” Vernon’s voice shook now, and he hated how raw he sounded. Anger gave way to pain, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to keep it together.

“Maybe it’s not about forgiveness. Maybe it’s about understanding. Letting the past be a lesson, not a cage,” Mingyu said, softer now but no less firm.


“But if you think throwing Jeonghan and Seungkwan out is the answer, then you’re not really helping him, Vernon. You’re just hurting him in a different way. Trying to overprotect him like Seungkwan and his mother did to Jeonghan.”

The mention of the past made Vernon’s stomach twist, guilt gnawing at his insides like a relentless parasite. “That’s...”

“That’s exactly what happened back then, isn’t it?” Mingyu pressed on, voice thoughtful but unyielding.


“They tried to keep Jeonghan away from the pain, away from what hurt him, thinking it was the right thing. But all it did was break everyone apart. And you—by trying to keep him away now—you’re doing the same thing, Vernon. To him, to yourself, to all of them.”

Vernon’s breath stuttered, the weight of Mingyu’s words settling heavy on his shoulders.


“You really don’t get it, do you?” he whispered, voice strained and trembling.


“You didn’t see Seungcheol’s shattered pieces. The nights he stayed awake because Dino couldn’t breathe, the way guilt ate him alive. And Joshua...” His voice broke, a barely audible whimper escaping.


“...but you saw how Joshua suffered either. It’s easy for you to act like some goddamn wise man when you weren’t here to see the wreckage.”

There was a quiet hum on the other line, like Mingyu was considering his words carefully.


“Maybe not,” he admitted, voice thoughtful. “But I saw the aftermath. I saw Joshua crumble, Vernon. You think I didn’t notice my own brother avoiding his pain, running from what hurt him the most? He’s been withering away, just like the rest of you. Maybe even more.”

Mingyu let out a bitter chuckle.


“And believe me, watching him bury himself in work and shut away from everything that reminds him of the past... It’s not healing. It’s hiding. And you’re not much better, Vernon.”

“Don’t—”

“I get it. You’re trying to protect him. But at some point, Vernon, you have to ask yourself: Are you protecting him? Or are you just building more walls to keep him from moving forward?”


Mingyu’s voice softened, almost pleading now. “Because if you keep hurting him by trying to overprotect him from them, then you’re just making the same mistake they made back then.”

Silence stretched between them, suffocating and thick. Vernon loosened his grip on the phone, his hand shaking.


“So what am I supposed to do?” he whispered, the vulnerability stark and aching. “Just... let them ruin everything again?”

“No.” Mingyu’s response was firm, unyielding.


“You let them try. Let them prove themselves. And if they fail, then at least you’ll know for sure. But if you don’t... you might just be the one tearing things apart this time.”

Before Vernon could respond, the line went dead. He stared at the phone, numb and reeling, the silence swallowing him whole.


And somehow, that silence felt louder than anything else, pressing down on his chest and suffocating him with its weight.

Joshua walked briskly through the bustling hallway, his shoes clicking against the polished floor in a rhythm that matched the frantic pounding of his heart.


His eyes were sharp, searching desperately for Seungcheol’s familiar broad shoulders amidst the throng of employees chattering around him. The office was alive with murmured gossip and wide-eyed looks, co-workers sneaking glances his way before turning away with startled expressions.

He ignored them all, his chest tightening with something between worry and frustration. It had already been a gruelling day—an endless parade of paperwork, back-to-back meetings, and networking calls.


And of course.. Jeonghan.


Yet, the moment he caught wind of the whispers—those hushed words drifting through the air like poison—his world had tilted sideways.

Jeonghan. With a child. With Seungcheol’s child.

The thought alone twisted his stomach painfully.


The name that used to feel so soft and familiar was now jagged and sharp, scraping against his insides. It had been years since Jeonghan vanished from their lives, leaving wreckage in his wake.


But the anger wasn’t just for what Jeonghan had done to Seungcheol; it was for how easily he had cast aside their friendship as if it meant nothing. 

He found Seungcheol’s office door ajar, the man himself leaning against the edge of his desk, shoulders slumped like the world had pressed its entire weight directly onto his spine.


The usually immaculate desk was cluttered with scattered files and half-empty coffee cups.


Sunlight seeped through the blinds, leaving fractured lines of light and shadow across Seungcheol’s exhausted figure.

Joshua’s chest clenched. He hadn’t seen Seungcheol look this wrecked in a long time. Not since...

He shook the thought away, clinging to his composure as he stepped inside. His presence was unannounced, but never unwelcome.


They had always been each other’s anchor, even when the world felt like it was crumbling around them.

“Cheol.”

The man’s head jerked up, his eyes still glassy and distant, like he was fighting his way back to reality from some terrible place in his mind. Joshua closed the door softly behind him, approaching with careful steps.

“I heard... well, I heard what happened. Are you okay?” Joshua’s voice came out quieter than intended, the worry threading each syllable.

Seungcheol let out a bitter laugh, one that cracked in the middle like it had been dropped and shattered.


“Okay?” he repeated the word, his tone dripping with disbelief, as if it was a foreign, ridiculous concept. “No. Not even close.”

He was still wearing his coat, its hem wrinkled from being tugged on in agitation.


His hair was a mess, strands sticking out where his fingers had raked through them repeatedly. The redness of his eyes spoke of more than just exhaustion; it was pain, pure and undiluted.

Joshua stepped closer, his gaze never leaving Seungcheol’s. “Tell me what happened.”

Seungcheol’s hands dragged over his face, fingers pressing hard against his skin as if trying to scrape away the tension that had rooted itself deep within him.


“I finished the on-site designing session earlier than planned. Thought I’d surprise Dino, pick him up from the daycare corner before heading home. I even brought his favorite snacks, the ones he keeps bugging Vernon to get for him.”

The words trembled, slipping out like shattered glass, every piece sharp and cutting.


“But when I got there, he wasn’t in the daycare. One of the interns mentioned seeing him wandering into the lounge area. And when I found him... he was with him. With Jeonghan.”

The way Seungcheol said his name was like a curse and a prayer all at once. His voice cracked, splintering into something vulnerable and raw.


“He was sitting there, talking to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. And Dino... Dino was so happy. He called him Angel, Josh. Angel.”

The anguish in his eyes was a mirror of the turmoil twisting within him. “And Jeonghan just... smiled at him like he was the sweetest thing he’d ever seen.”

Joshua stared, his mind spinning like a hurricane. His thoughts flickered back to how Jeonghan used to smile, that blinding warmth capable of making the worst days feel bearable.


But it wasn’t for him anymore. It wasn’t for Seungcheol, either.

“Cheol...” Joshua’s voice trembled, but he steadied himself.


This wasn’t about him. This was about his best friend slowly crumbling right before his eyes. “Jeonghan... he doesn’t remember. That’s not his fault.”

“But it’s mine.” Seungcheol’s fists clenched at his sides, his eyes wild and pained. “I shouldn’t have let them cross paths. I shouldn’t have... I failed again. I failed Dino again.”

Joshua’s chest twisted with sympathy and frustration. “You didn’t fail him. You were trying to surprise him, right? How could you have known?”

“I should’ve known!” Seungcheol snapped, his voice breaking like something irreparable. “I made a promise, Josh. I swore I’d protect him. And the second I let my guard down, I—”

His breathing quickened, the air growing heavy with a tension that threatened to crush them both.


Joshua saw the panic clawing its way through Seungcheol’s chest, the way his hands trembled ever so slightly.

Joshua’s own emotions churned in his gut.


He wanted to be angry at Jeonghan, to cling to the bitterness he had nurtured all these years. But this—seeing Seungcheol unravel—made everything else fade into the background.

“Cheol, you’re spiralling.” Joshua stepped closer, his voice low and grounding. “You’ve been through hell, and you’re trying your best to be a good dad. But you’re not perfect. You’re just... you.”

“But that’s not enough,” Seungcheol whispered, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I’m not enough.”

“Stop.” Joshua’s voice was firm, steady, a lifeline through the chaos.


“You’re more than enough. You’ve built a life for Dino. You’ve given him everything you can. And no one’s expecting you to be perfect. Not me. Not Vernon. Not even Dino.”

“But Jeonghan...”

“Jeonghan doesn’t remember, Cheol. And whatever happened before, whatever you both went through... he’s not the same person. And neither are you.”


Joshua’s voice grew quieter, but the conviction in it held strong. “You need to stop hurting yourself just because you’re trying to protect everyone else.”

Seungcheol’s gaze finally met his, the anguish dulling just enough for something softer to take root.

“You’re doing your best. And if you fall apart, that’s okay. You have people here to help you. Vernon. Me. Even Dino. You’re not alone, Cheol. You never were.”

The evening sun filtered through the glass panels of the building, casting a golden glow that stretched long, hazy shadows across the polished floors.


The quiet hum of people wrapping up their work echoed softly, mingling with the rhythmic clacking of keyboards, the rustle of papers, and the low murmur of voices. It was the comforting sound of productivity winding down—a subtle hum of peace before the world outside swallowed everyone whole.

But peace was the last thing Jeonghan felt.

He lingered near the exit, fingers curled so tightly around the strap of his bag that his knuckles had turned bone-white. His eyes traced the retreating figures of colleagues moving in pairs or small groups, their laughter and chatter soft, comforting, human.


The kind of warmth Jeonghan found himself aching for, his chest twisted up in something akin to loneliness. Or maybe frustration.

Today had been... strange. The kind of strange that leaves a bitter aftertaste in the back of your throat, the kind that crawls under your skin and sits there, festering.

Seungkwan’s message felt like a slap to the face, a text so curt it barely resembled his brother’s usual cheerful nagging.


“Go on ahead, Hyung. Just have some extra load to take care of.”

No reassurance. No eagerness to pester him about how the first day went. Just... cold words hiding behind professionalism.

Jeonghan had stared at the message for far too long before sliding his phone back into his pocket, the knot in his chest only growing tighter. Everyone was acting weird, distant, like he was some sort of walking disaster they were trying desperately to avoid.


And that encounter...

He let out a shaky breath, his steps faltering as he played the memory over and over again like a broken record.

The little boy—Dino—had been so... sweet. Gentle eyes, a smile so bright it could have melted the iciest of hearts. But the way he’d called him ‘Angel’... it had torn something open inside of him. Something old and raw and terrifyingly vulnerable. And then there was Seungcheol.

Seungcheol.

The name alone was enough to make Jeonghan’s hands tremble.


The man’s gaze had been a storm, filled with fury and desperation and something darker that Jeonghan couldn’t even begin to decipher.


It was like Seungcheol had been seconds away from either tearing him apart or breaking down right in front of him.

He wanted to understand. God, he needed to understand. But everyone was so hellbent on keeping him away from the truth.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and Jeonghan stepped out into the cool expanse of the lobby. His gaze wandered aimlessly, searching for something—anything—to ground him. To distract him from the restless, angry pulse of his own heartbeat.

And then he saw him.

Joshua’s tall figure moved briskly toward the exit, his shoulders stiff and his pace quick like he couldn’t get out of the building fast enough.


His back was ramrod straight, his footsteps precise and controlled, the kind of poise that came from years of practice. But even from this distance, Jeonghan could see the tension coiled around his frame like steel wires ready to snap.

“Joshua!” The name burst out of his mouth before he could stop himself, his voice echoing a little too loudly in the quiet lobby.


Heads turned, curious glances flickering in his direction before quickly looking away.

Joshua’s shoulders tensed, his steps faltering just enough to betray his reluctance.


For a moment, he stood perfectly still, like he was debating whether to keep walking and pretend he hadn’t heard anything. But eventually, he turned around, his expression carefully controlled, every muscle in his face pulled tight.

“Oh. Jeonghan,” Joshua said, his tone polite but clipped, eyes flitting away before meeting his gaze. His usual warm smile was nowhere to be found, replaced by something distant. Cold.


“Did you need something?”

“I...” Jeonghan stumbled over his words, his mind racing and his chest clenching with something between frustration and desperation. “I just wanted to talk. About earlier. The kid—Dino.”

Joshua’s face immediately hardened, a shadow flickering across his gaze that made Jeonghan’s stomach drop. “What about him?”

“Just... I was curious.” Jeonghan’s brows furrowed, his voice turning tentative. “He’s really sweet. And he... he called me ‘Angel.’ Like he’s known me for a long time. And Seungcheol...”

He swallowed, his throat dry. The memory of Seungcheol’s furious, unrestrained glare seared into his mind like a scar. “Seungcheol was furious. Like I’d done something terrible just by talking to the kid.”

“Maybe you did,” Joshua snapped, his words harsh and sudden, like glass breaking. The coldness in his voice slammed into Jeonghan with a force that left him breathless.

“What... What do you mean?” Jeonghan asked, his voice cracking at the edges. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Joshua’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze darting away like he couldn’t bear to look at Jeonghan for more than a few seconds. “Maybe you should take the hint, then.”

“Take the hint?” Jeonghan echoed, confusion threading his voice, his eyes searching Joshua’s face for any sign of explanation.

“I’m saying, if someone’s clearly uncomfortable with you being around their kid, then maybe you should keep your distance.” Joshua’s voice was low, strained, like every word was dragged out against his will.


“Dino is...”

He trailed off, jaw clenched so tight Jeonghan swore he could hear the grind of teeth.

“I didn’t mean to make anyone uncomfortable,” Jeonghan whispered, his hands shaking.


“I just... Why does everyone keep treating me like I’m some sort of plague? And you—you’re talking to me like I’m a stranger. Like... like I did something terrible to you.”

Joshua’s silence was deafening.

“Joshua, please.” Jeonghan’s voice cracked. “What the hell is going on?”

For a moment, Joshua’s gaze softened. Just a moment. And then his eyes went cold again, his jaw setting with a finality that left Jeonghan’s chest aching.

“Just... stay away from Dino, okay?” Joshua’s voice was a rasp, eyes hard and unyielding. “For your own good. And everyone else’s.”

Before Jeonghan could say another word, Joshua turned on his heel and stormed off, his hurried footsteps echoing like a judge’s final sentence.

Jeonghan stood there, frozen, his heart thudding unevenly in his chest, his hands trembling at his sides.


The chill of Joshua’s words seeped into his bones, leaving him hollow and raw. And still, the question lingered, clawing at his mind with ruthless persistence.

Why did everyone look at him like he was something that needed to be kept away?

Seungkwan’s knuckles trembled slightly as he clutched the stack of files against his chest, his eyes glued to the polished silver nameplate beside the heavy mahogany door. The letters gleamed in the dim light of the hallway, taunting him with their authority.

Choi Vernon — CEO.

He had spent the past fifteen minutes pacing the narrow hallway, his polished shoes scuffing softly against the pristine marble floor.


Words tumbled over each other in his mind, scripted and re-scripted, but now, standing here, all those well-rehearsed lines had melted into a muddled mess of tangled emotions.


His fingers fidgeted, nails digging into the crisp manila folders pressed against his chest as if the fragile paper could anchor his spiralling nerves.

But this was it. There was no running away. Not again this time.

He sucked in a breath, the air burning his lungs as he lifted a trembling hand and knocked. The sound was soft, too soft, like the weakest of ripples against a storm-tossed sea.

“Come in.”

The voice was muffled but unmistakable. Vernon’s tone was clipped, strained, the usual crispness frayed at the edges. Fatigue bled through the words, exhaustion clinging to them like shadows.

Seungkwan pushed the door open and slipped inside, his heart pounding with a rhythm that felt almost sickening.


The office was immaculate, just as he remembered. Sleek modernity sprawled across the spacious room with its glass walls offering a panoramic view of the city skyline.


Expensive leather furniture and minimalist decor gave the place an aura of power and precision, but none of it was new to him. He’d seen this very office so many times before, spent hours lounging on the couch, tossing sarcastic remarks to a younger Vernon who would roll his eyes and smile at him like he was the sun.

Now, there were only layers of dust over those memories.

Vernon was hunched over his desk, posture rigid, his shoulders locked so tight it looked painful. His hair was dishevelled, unruly strands falling into his eyes as he sifted through documents with an intensity that bordered on desperation.


The furrow in his brows looked almost permanent, etched into his features by nights of sleeplessness and days of merciless work.

Still running himself ragged when life threw more at him than he could bear. It was achingly familiar. Heartbreakingly familiar.

“Still the same old habit, huh?” The words slipped out before Seungkwan could stop them, his voice a delicate thread spun from memories and regrets.


“Burying yourself in work when you’re stressed or... when you want to avoid something.”

The scratching of pen against paper stilled. Vernon’s fingers, which had been anxiously scribbling notes, froze mid-motion. His gaze slowly rose, dark eyes locking onto Seungkwan’s with a mixture of surprise, bitterness, and something that looked too close to pain.

And for a moment, something fragile cracked through the polished mask Vernon always wore.

“Old habits die hard, I guess.” The words were barely a whisper, raw and edged with exhaustion. His voice had always been steady, a constant Seungkwan could rely on, but now it sounded frayed, brittle.


“But... why are you really here, Seungkwan?”

The question was so quiet. So careful. As if Vernon was bracing himself for another wound.

Seungkwan’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening around the files like a lifeline. His pulse thundered in his ears, his throat feeling tight and dry.


“I-I brought the files you asked for. The ones for the advertising project.” He forced the words out, tried to keep his tone steady, but the quiver in his voice betrayed him.

“I see.” Vernon’s gaze dropped to the files Seungkwan was practically crushing against his chest. His hands reached out, movements slow, hesitant, as if touching something that could burn him.


“But that’s not all, is it?”

The weight of Vernon’s question sliced through him, leaving his chest hollow and aching. Seungkwan’s lips parted, but the apology tangled on his tongue, too big, too heavy to voice properly.

“No. It’s not.” The admission felt like tearing off a bandage over a wound that had never healed. “I... I wanted to talk. To explain.”

Vernon’s eyes snapped up to meet his, and this time, the pain was unfiltered, exposed and raw. His knuckles tightened around the file, the crease of his brows deepening.


“You’re a little late for explanations, don’t you think?”

The words weren’t harsh, but they were laced with resentment, a wound too deep to scab over. “You left, Seungkwan. You left me. And even now, I can’t figure out why you had to hurt me, too.”

Every syllable was a dagger, stabbing into the hollow of Seungkwan’s chest. His breathing grew shallow, voice trembling when he tried to respond.


“Vernon, I...” The words twisted in his throat, choking him. “I made so many mistakes. I was selfish. I was... trying to fix something else, and in the process, I ended up breaking you, too.”

“Fix something else?” Vernon echoed, his voice tight with disbelief. “So... what, I was just collateral damage?”

“No!” Seungkwan’s protest broke through the icy tension.


“No, you were... You were everything, Vernon. And that’s the problem. I was so consumed by trying to save what was left of my family that I forgot how much you meant to me. I hurt you when you didn’t deserve it. And I will never be able to forgive myself for that.”

Vernon’s face twisted, his eyes burning with a fire that came from years of buried pain. “I spent so long wondering what I did wrong. What was it that made you leave like that?”

“It wasn’t you.” Seungkwan’s voice cracked, desperation clinging to every word.


“It was never you. It was... everything else. My family. My fears. My guilt. And I was too much of a coward to face it. To face you.”

A heavy silence filled the air, suffocating in its thickness. Vernon’s gaze wavered, his fists clenching and unclenching as if trying to grasp something just out of reach.


“I loved you, you know.” His voice was barely a breath, his eyes glistening. “I loved you more than I thought was even possible. And you just left. Without a word. Without giving me a chance to understand.”

Seungkwan swallowed the bile rising in his throat, his voice a broken plea.


“I know. And I’ll never be able to make up for that. But... I’m trying. Even if you can’t trust me. Even if you can’t love me like before... I’ll keep trying. I’ll keep trying until you believe me.”

Vernon looked away, his expression tangled with hurt and something deeper. “I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to.”

Seungkwan’s smile wavered but remained, held together by sheer determination. “Then I’ll wait. As long as it takes. Even if it’s forever.”

Jeonghan’s head spun with unanswered questions, his thoughts tangled in a mess of confusion and irritation as he pushed open the door to his family’s house.


The familiar scent of lavender and vanilla wafted through the air, soft and soothing, a fragrance his mother had always favored. Yet today, it did nothing to ease the weight pressing against his chest.

The house was quiet, bathed in the gentle hues of early evening. His shoes clattered against the tiled floor, loud and clumsy, a harsh contrast to the unsettling calm that blanketed the space.


His mind raced, the events of the day replaying in relentless loops.


The suffocating awkwardness of his encounter with Seungcheol, the flood of confusing emotions that came with seeing him, and the way Joshua seemed to tiptoe around him with guarded politeness.

He barely registered the soft padding of his mother’s footsteps drawing closer. Her face brightened as she stepped into view, lips curving into that too-perfect smile.


A smile he’d long since started to see as a mask.

“Oh, you’re back!” she greeted, her voice wrapped in gentle warmth. “How was your first day at work, darling? Did everything go well? Did Seungkwan help you settle in?”

The questions spilled from her like an over-rehearsed script, her eyes searching his face with an urgency that only made him feel more suffocated. Jeonghan stared at her, chest heaving as the frantic rush of thoughts and emotions clawed their way to the surface.


His hands trembled at his sides, clenched so tightly his knuckles ached.

“What the hell are you hiding from me?”


The words ripped from his throat like a wounded animal’s cry, his voice raw and laced with a desperation he could no longer contain. It echoed in the silence, ricocheting off the walls and hanging heavily in the air.

His mother’s eyes widened, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second before she quickly forced it back into place. But her hands betrayed her, fingers twitching as if unsure of whether to reach out to him or hold herself together.


“Jeonghan, what are you—”

“Don’t.” His voice cut through her attempt at feigned innocence like a blade. His eyes narrowed, and for once, he didn’t let her gentle tone sway him.


“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. Ever since I woke up, you and Seungkwan have been treating me like I’m some fragile thing. Like I’m someone who needs to be shielded from everything.”

“Jeonghan, you’re overreacting—”

“Am I?” His voice rose, the anger bleeding into his words until they shook.


“Every time I ask about the past, you dodge the question or brush it off like it’s nothing. But I’m not stupid. I know something happened. Something bad. And you’re all trying so damn hard to pretend like it never did.”

The tremor in her hands worsened, fingers clasping tightly together as if the act alone could hold her composure in place.


Her gaze flitted away from his, her entire posture crumbling under the weight of his glare. “We just... We just wanted you to be happy. To move on and not dwell on things that would only hurt you more.”

“And what exactly are those things, Mom?” Jeonghan’s fists trembled at his sides, the frustration boiling over into something dark and twisted and relentless.


“What are you so afraid of me remembering? Is it so horrible that you can’t even bring yourself to tell me? Or do you just not want me to know?”

“Jeonghan, you don’t understand—”

“Then make me understand!” he shouted, his voice cracking from the force of his own desperation. His chest heaved, his breath ragged and unsteady.


“You’re keeping something from me. Something important. And I’m done playing along with this... this charade of pretending everything’s fine.”

His mother’s gaze snapped back to him, her expression twisted with something between panic and guilt. “It’s not... It’s not like that, Jeonghan. We just... we wanted to protect you. To keep you safe from—”

“Safe from what?” Jeonghan’s voice was sharp, his eyes boring into hers.


“From my own life? From whatever happened before the accident? I deserve to know, Mom. You can’t keep me in the dark forever.”

“Jeonghan, please.” Her voice was a broken whisper, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “We were only trying to protect you. To... to give you a fresh start. You were so hurt, and we thought it would be better if you just...”

“If I just what?” His voice cracked, the frustration strangling the words in his throat. “If I just lived the rest of my life not knowing what the hell happened to me? Not knowing who I really was?”

A trembling silence stretched between them, his mother’s hands clasped so tightly together that her knuckles had turned white. Her shoulders were hunched like she was bracing herself for another blow, her gaze desperately searching for something to say that would make it all better.

“Please, Jeonghan,” she whispered, her voice a fractured plea. “Just... just leave it be. Can’t you trust us when we say it’s better this way?”

Jeonghan’s eyes burned, his throat tightening as the weight of her words crashed over him. But instead of placating him, it only solidified his resolve.

“I can’t trust you if you keep hiding the truth from me,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt. “So either you tell me what really happened... or I’ll find out on my own.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and stormed past her, his footsteps echoing down the hall until he slammed his bedroom door shut behind him.


His breathing was ragged, his fingers shaking uncontrollably as he leaned back against the door, eyes squeezing shut as if he could somehow block out the turmoil brewing inside him.

But even then, his mother’s shattered expression stayed burned into his mind.

And so did the haunting knowledge that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Chapter Text

The house was quiet when Vernon stepped inside, the kind of deep, settled silence that felt too fragile to disturb. He closed the door with a soft click, the sound swallowed by the thick, heavy air that clung to every corner of the house.


Dropping his keys on the small table by the entrance, the metallic clinking was too loud, like a disruption in the uneasy calm.

His feet moved on autopilot, the familiarity of the house guiding him through the darkened hallway. The world outside had been bustling with noise and life, but here, everything felt stagnant—trapped in a limbo where pain and solace coexisted in a fragile truce.

He stopped in front of Dino’s room, his hand hesitating over the doorknob before he turned it with the utmost gentleness.


The door creaked just a little, the sound making his breath hitch as he peeked through the small gap.

Dino was fast asleep, his tiny frame curled beneath the soft blue blanket, the slight rise and fall of his chest the only indication of the life nestled within. The oxygen mask was securely in place, the soft hum of the machine a constant, its rhythmic whirr a painful reassurance of his fragility.

In his sleep, Dino clutched Bonbong tightly to his chest, the little plushie’s ear bent and wrinkled from the force of the child’s grip. The sight of him like that—so vulnerable, so innocent—always made Vernon’s chest clench with a fierce, protective ache.

Vernon stayed there for a moment, his hand still on the doorknob, his eyes never leaving Dino’s face.


Only when his shoulders began to loosen, the tension melting away like snow under sunlight, did he quietly shut the door again.

Dino was safe. That was all that mattered.

His footsteps felt heavier as he made his way to the living room, the warmth of the house a poor shield against the chill that seeped into his bones.


He stopped short when he saw Seungcheol’s figure standing by the kitchen counter, his broad shoulders pulled taut and hunched, his head lowered as if the weight of the world was crushing him down.

There was a glass of wine in his hand, the crimson liquid swirling lazily as he stared at it, lost in whatever thoughts had clawed their way into his mind.

“You’re late today.” Seungcheol’s voice broke the silence, calm and low, but the tension beneath it was unmistakable. He didn’t turn around, his gaze still fixed on the wine as if it held answers to questions he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

Vernon swallowed, his throat suddenly parched. “Yeah, work ran a bit longer than usual.”

The words sounded hollow, and he hated it. Hated how the air between them felt like jagged glass. How the silence that followed was suffocating.

He took a tentative step forward, his fingers curling and uncurling by his sides. “I met him today.”

The grip Seungcheol had on his glass froze. His shoulders went rigid, the lines of his back stark under the dim kitchen light. “Who?”

“Seungkwan.” Vernon forced the name out, his voice steady despite the tremor threatening to crawl up his throat. “He’s… he’s my executive assistant now.”

The silence that followed was sharp, cutting, a blade suspended in the air. When Seungcheol finally moved, it was slow, measured, like he was trying to keep himself from shattering.

“I see.” His voice was rough, like gravel scraping against stone. “I met Jeonghan today too.”

Vernon’s eyes widened. “What?”

“He’s working under my department.” The words came out clipped, tight, as if forcing them out took effort. Seungcheol’s hands gripped the counter, his knuckles turning white. “He… He didn’t remember me. Or Dino.”

Vernon’s mouth fell open, disbelief sinking like lead in his stomach. “Obviously,” he snapped before he could stop himself, the bitterness of the word lashing out like a whip.


The sound of it hung in the air, ugly and accusing.

When Seungcheol finally turned around, his eyes were dark, shadows etched deep into the lines of his face.


He looked weary. The kind of weary that went beyond sleepless nights and heavy workloads. The kind of exhaustion born from years of trying to keep yourself from falling apart.

“He said he’s here to fix things.” Vernon’s voice came out softer this time, the anger crumbling into something raw and vulnerable. “That’s what Seungkwan said too.”

A hollow, bitter chuckle escaped Seungcheol’s lips. “Fix things… That’s rich. As if things can be fixed just like that.”

“Maybe they can’t.” Vernon looked down at his own clenched fists, forcing his fingers to relax even as the ache of his own tangled emotions clawed at his chest.


“But maybe… Maybe they’re trying. And I don’t even know if I want them to.”

He lifted his gaze, meeting Seungcheol’s stare. There was so much pain there. Anger, yes, but also something deeper. Something that looked like the twisted remains of hope.

“Why are you telling me this, Vernon?” Seungcheol’s voice trembled, though his hands remained steady on the counter. “What are you trying to say?”

Vernon’s eyes burned, his throat tightening with the weight of his confession.


“I don’t want them to hurt you again.” His voice cracked, the words spilling out raw and unfiltered. “But… But I also don’t want to hurt you by trying to protect you. And I feel like I’m already failing.”

The words hung heavy between them, like stones dragging them both down. And when Seungcheol looked at him, really looked at him, Vernon felt something inside him tremble, a question left unspoken.

Because how much longer could he try to shield Seungcheol from pain without suffocating him in the process? Without repeating the same mistakes their families had made?

Without becoming the very thing he feared?

Vernon didn’t know. And the uncertainty tore at him like thorns, leaving him standing there, tangled in his own guilt and desperation.

He wanted to reach out. Wanted to tell Seungcheol that he’d be there no matter what. But the words wouldn’t come. They were stuck, lodged deep in the cracks of his own fractured heart.

So, he just stood there. And prayed that somehow, some way, Seungcheol would find the strength to forgive him.

Even if Vernon couldn’t forgive himself.

His words hung heavy in the air, their weight lingering even as Seungcheol picked up the bottle of wine again.


The dark liquid swirled smoothly into another glass, the sound soft, almost gentle, as if trying not to disrupt the tension between them. It was just the two of them in the quiet of the kitchen, the world beyond the apartment fading into something distant and irrelevant.

"And who," Seungcheol began, his voice rough but steady, eyes still fixed on the stream of wine before him, "Dropped this bit of wisdom about hurting me by protecting me?"

"Mingyu," Vernon answered, his voice wavering before he steadied it.


"We talked on the phone. He said... he said maybe Seungkwan’s trying to fix things, that maybe I’m just running away from something that needs to be faced." Vernon’s fingers tightened against the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white.


"He also... told me that I shouldn’t end up hurting you by trying to protect you from Jeonghan and Seungkwan." The words felt sour on his tongue, the bitterness of truth twisted into his veins, leaving a raw, festering ache in its wake.

Seungcheol let out a deep, tired breath. “Mingyu, huh.” His gaze finally shifted to Vernon, eyes tired yet calm.


“He’s speaking from a neutral point of view. Not an empathetic one. He sees things clearly, but that clarity is detached. It’s easy to offer insight when you’re not living the aftermath.”

He set the wine bottle aside, his fingers pressing down against the counter as if grounding himself from the whirlpool of emotions stirring inside him. “Mingyu is good at staying objective, but neutrality has its disadvantages.”

“What do you mean?” Vernon’s voice trembled, just slightly, a crack in his usually steady demeanour.

“It’s like looking at a shattered vase and saying, ‘Oh, it’s broken. You can glue it back together.’ It’s true. You can. But the person who broke it, who saw it fall apart, isn’t just thinking about whether it can be fixed.”


Seungcheol’s fingers traced the rim of his glass, his touch gentle despite the turmoil beneath his composed exterior.


“They’re thinking about why it broke, how it broke, and if trying to fix it will only make it worse. That fear, that pain... neutral advice can’t touch that. It only sees the logic, not the ache that comes with it.”

Vernon’s hands clenched into fists, his chest tightening with a pressure he couldn’t name. His throat felt dry, his own emotions clouded and thick.


“I don’t even know what to feel, hyung. I’m angry. I’m confused. And I feel...” His voice broke, just slightly, a hint of vulnerability rarely shown. “I feel like if I let myself feel, I’ll break. Like if I even try to understand what Seungkwan’s trying to do, it’ll tear me apart.”

Seungcheol’s gaze softened, the sharpness of his eyes melting into something infinitely gentler. The weight of Vernon’s pain didn’t slip past him, nor did the helplessness threading itself into his brother’s trembling voice.

“Maybe it will.” His voice was softer now, the rough edges soothed by an understanding Vernon hadn’t realised he needed.


“But feeling isn’t about what you’re supposed to feel. It’s about letting yourself feel what’s already there. Pretending you don’t feel anything doesn’t mean the hurt goes away. It just means you’re letting it rot beneath the surface.”

“But what if... what if I’m just too angry to see it? What if all I feel is bitterness and betrayal?” Vernon’s shoulders hunched, his gaze dropping to the untouched wine glass before him.


“I trusted him. I trusted him so much, and he... he tore me apart.” His voice cracked with the force of the confession, raw and broken and exposed. The kind of pain that didn’t heal just by pretending it wasn’t there.

Seungcheol’s expression twisted, the ache of seeing Vernon like this tearing at his own heart. “You trusted him because you cared. Because he mattered to you. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”


His words were low but firm, each one laced with an intensity that only came from someone who understood the struggle of trying to keep his own world from crumbling.


“You’re allowed to be angry. To be bitter. To feel like everything you built just got smashed into pieces. But don’t run from it, Vernon. Don’t force yourself to swallow everything down just because it’s easier than admitting you’re hurt.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” Vernon’s eyes were rimmed red, the frustration and hurt melding into something desperate and vulnerable. “I just—It feels like if I let it all out, I’ll drown in it. And I... I don’t want you to see me like that.”

Seungcheol reached out, his hand resting on Vernon’s shoulder with a firmness meant to reassure, not restrain.


“I’m already seeing you like that, Vernon. And it doesn’t change anything. You’re still my brother. You’re still someone I care about more than my own damn pride. And if you break? Then I’m here to help you pick up the pieces.”

Vernon’s eyes closed, his breath shuddering as he tried to release some of the storm swirling inside him.


His walls were cracking, the layers of anger and resentment peeling away to reveal the agony beneath. But Seungcheol’s words were there, steady and unyielding, offering him something he didn’t know he needed—permission to just be.

“Thanks,” Vernon whispered, his voice rough and small, the gratitude tangled with the pain he was only starting to acknowledge.

“Anytime.” Seungcheol offered a ghost of a smile, the heaviness between them not quite lifted, but at least acknowledged. And sometimes, acknowledgement was the only step that mattered.

Vernon lingered in the kitchen, the cool marble countertop pressing against his palms as he watched Seungcheol turn away, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of his own words was too much to carry.


It was supposed to be a quiet night. Vernon had planned to distract himself with paperwork or a movie, something to drown out the buzzing anxiety that seemed to crawl beneath his skin lately.


Instead, he was here, unravelling Seungcheol’s hurt like it was his own, just like Seungcheol did for him.

"You didn’t say anything about Jeonghan," Vernon spoke again, his words cautious but deliberate, slicing through the silence like a blade.


He wasn’t sure why he couldn’t just let it go. Maybe it was the fact that Seungcheol looked like he was ready to shatter with just the smallest push. Or maybe it was the way he himself was barely holding it together.

Chapter Text

The first lie of the day was the sunlight.

It streamed through the large kitchen window, a brilliant, optimistic gold that caught the dust motes dancing in the air and painted the world outside in soft, welcoming hues. It was the kind of light that promised new beginnings, a clean slate.


But inside the Yoon household? It felt like a mockery.

The second lie was the normalcy.

The table was set with the usual care: a small vase of fresh lavender, the good ceramic plates, steaming bowls of rice and soup.


His mother moved between the stove and the table, her movements a practiced ballet of domesticity. The clink of spoons, the gentle scrape of a chair—it was all a meticulously maintained performance, a stage play where everyone knew their lines. This morning, however, one of the actors seemed to have forgotten his script.

Jeonghan sat in his usual seat, a statue in a bathrobe.

He wasn't the vibrant, dramatic presence that usually held court at the breakfast table, telling elaborate, exaggerated stories or teasing Seungkwan until he squawked in protest.


He was… still.


Paler than usual, the vibrant light doing nothing to warm the pallor of his skin. His hands were wrapped around a mug of tea, but they weren't seeking its warmth; they were just… holding on, as if it were the only solid thing in a tilting world.

His mother placed a plate of perfectly fluffy scrambled eggs and toast before him.


"Here you go, darling. Your favorite." Her voice was a careful, melodic thing, polished to a high shine.


She was trying to weave the frayed threads of their morning back together with sheer force of will.

Jeonghan’s eyes, which had been fixed on some distant, invisible point outside the window, drifted slowly down to the plate. He blinked, once, twice, as if processing a foreign object. There was a profound disconnect in his gaze, a million-mile stare that saw straight through the food, through the table, through the very fabric of their constructed reality.

"Thank you," he murmured.


The words were correct, polite, but they were hollow, devoid of the warmth that usually coloured his tone. It was the echo of a response, not the thing itself.

From across the table, Seungkwan watched it all unfold with a sinking heart that felt like a stone in his chest.


He’d barely slept, the memory of last night’s hissed argument with their mother echoing in his mind. He’d expected fallout. He’d braced for a cold shoulder from Jeonghan, maybe some pointed comments over breakfast—a direct consequence of their mother’s pushiness and his own subsequent defiance.

But this… this was different.


This wasn't the sharp, clean cut of anger. This was a deep, internal bleed. Jeonghan wasn't ignoring them; he was simply… absent. The brilliant, chaotic light that usually lived behind his eyes had been snuffed out, leaving behind a quiet, unnerving void.

Trying to bridge the chasm, Seungkwan cleared his throat.


"The kimchi is really good today, Eomma," he said, his voice a little too loud in the stifling quiet. "Perfect level of ferment."

His mother shot him a look of strained gratitude. "I made it just the way you like it, Jeonghan-ah," she added, turning her hopeful gaze back to her eldest son. "Nice and crisp."

Jeonghan gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod.


He picked up his fork, the movement sluggish, as if he were moving through water. He speared a single piece of egg, lifted it halfway to his lips, and then paused, the fork hovering in mid-air. His focus seemed to dissolve, his eyes glazing over again, losing themselves in that middle distance. After a long, suspended moment, he lowered the fork back to the plate without taking a bite. The soft clink was deafening.

The performance was falling apart.

His mother’s smile tightened at the corners. The worry she was trying so hard to suppress began to leak through the cracks of her composure. She wrung her hands subtly in the folds of her apron.

"Is… everything alright at the company, sweetheart?" she ventured, her tone laced with a fragile hope. Perhaps this was just first-day jitters, amplified. "The people are nice? Your boss… he isn't too demanding?"

The question hung in the air. Seungcheol’s name was an unspoken ghost in the room.

Jeonghan’s reaction was delayed, as if the words had to travel a great distance to reach him.


He slowly turned his head to look at her, and for a fleeting second, something flickered in the depths of his eyes—something dark and unreadable, a shard of a truth they couldn't possibly imagine. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced once more by that unsettling vacancy.

"The company is fine," he said, his voice flat. "The people are… fine."

He took a small, deliberate sip of his now-lukewarm tea, the action feeling like a full stop, a dismissal of her line of questioning. The silence that followed was thick and heavy, punctuated only by the frantic, hopeful chewing of his mother and the nervous tap of Seungkwan’s finger against the table.

After a few more agonising minutes of this non-breakfast, Jeonghan carefully set his napkin down beside his untouched plate. The gesture was final.

"I took a leave today," he announced, his tone still that same, unnervingly calm monotone.

The statement sucked all the air out of the room.

His mother froze, a piece of toast halfway to her mouth.


"A… leave?" she repeated, the words brittle.


"But Jeonghan, it's only your second day. Whatever small thing is bothering you, I'm sure it will pass. You can't just… run away from a new opportunity." Her voice was pleading, desperate to corral him back onto the safe, predetermined path.

Seungkwan held his breath, watching his brother. This was it. The direct challenge to their mother’s control. He expected a retort, a flash of the familiar, defiant Jeonghan.

It didn't come.

Jeonghan simply looked at her, his expression unreadable. "I'm not running," he stated, and the simple, quiet conviction in his voice was more terrifying than any shout could have been. "I just need a day."

He didn't elaborate.


He didn't need to.


The sheer, unprecedented nature of him taking initiative, of making a decision that went against their mother’s wishes, was a seismic shift in the family dynamic.

He pushed his chair back, the sound unnaturally loud. "I'll be in my room," he said, not as a request, but as a simple, unassailable fact.

He didn't look at either of them as he walked out. His footsteps were silent on the floorboards, but his departure echoed through the kitchen like a thunderclap.

The moment the sound of his bedroom door clicking shut reached them, the whispered tension shattered into a frantic, hushed argument.

"What did you do?" his mother hissed, her composure evaporating as she turned wide, panicked eyes on Seungkwan.


"What did you say to him last night after I went to bed? You filled his head with something, I know it!"

"I didn't do anything!" Seungkwan shot back, keeping his voice low but fierce.


"This isn't about last night! This is about five years of… of this!" He gestured wildly at the empty space Jeonghan had left behind. "He's a ghost at the table, Eomma! Can't you see that?"

"I see a son who is stressed and needs our support, not our criticism!" she retorted, her hands gripping the back of Jeonghan's chair as if for support.


"I told you to be gentle with him! To encourage him to stick with it! But you… you always have to push! You had to have your little rebellion and now look at him! He's retreating!"

"He's not retreating, he's thinking!" Seungkwan argued, his own frustration and guilt boiling over.


"For the first time in five years, he's actually thinking for himself, and it's scaring you! You'd rather he be a happy, brainwashed puppet than a man who might question the perfect little world you've built for him!"

"To what end, Seungkwan?" Her voice cracked, tears of sheer frustration welling in her eyes. "So he can be confused? So he can be hurt? We protected him! We gave him a peaceful life!"

"You gave him a cage!" The words tore out of him, harsh and true.


"And you made me the warden! You made me lie for you, you made me push away the people he loved because you decided his pain was too ugly to look at! Well, guess what? He's starting to see the bars, and he doesn't understand why they're there!"

The accusation hung between them, raw and suffocating. His mother flinched, her face crumbling. The fight seemed to drain out of her, leaving behind a woman haunted by her own choices.

"He can't handle the truth," she whispered, the sound ragged and broken. "You don't understand… the darkness that was in him… it would consume him. We'll lose him for good."

Seungkwan looked toward the hallway, toward the closed door behind which his brother was silently grappling with a past they had stolen from him. A profound sorrow washed over him.

"I think," he said, his voice barely audible, "we had lost him a long time ago."

The cheerful morning sunlight continued its relentless, beautiful assault.


It streamed into the kitchen, a brilliant, liquid gold that felt almost aggressive in its optimism. It set the honey-toned wood of the floorboards aglow, made the white ceramic mugs gleam, and cast long, warm shadows that stretched across the room like lazy cats.


Outside the window, the world was a postcard of serenity. A breeze ruffled the leaves of the maple tree in the garden, making them shimmer like a thousand emerald coins. A bird—a sparrow, bold and cheerful—hopped along the fence, chirping a mindlessly happy tune.


The sky was a flawless, untroubled blue, a vast canvas of pure potential. It was the kind of morning that begged for bare feet on cool grass, for laughter echoing in a garden, for the simple, uncomplicated joy of a new day.

It was the cruelest possible backdrop for the scene unfolding inside.

The same sunlight that gilded the edges of the lavender in its vase also illuminated the dust motes dancing in the stagnant, heavy air between Seungkwan and his mother.


It highlighted the untouched, congealing eggs on Jeonghan’s plate, the food now looking like a still-life of neglect. It gleamed off the single, forgotten fork lying askew, a tiny, metallic monument to a meal that had never truly begun.

The cheerful light did not warm the chill that had settled in the room.


It did not soften the sharp lines of his mother’s posture as she stood, rigid and pale, her knuckles white where she gripped the chair. It did not reach the shadowed worry in Seungkwan’s eyes, or dispel the phantom presence of their brother, whose absence was a louder, more devastating sound than any slamming door.

The bird’s happy chirp outside the window seemed to mock their silence.


The perfect, sun-dappled scene beyond the glass was a world away, a separate universe of normalcy they could see but could no longer touch. They were trapped in a diorama of their own making, two figures frozen in a kitchen that was too bright, too quiet, standing amidst the ruins of a perfectly normal breakfast.


The vibrant, living world outside only served to heighten the profound stillness within, amplifying the fragile, suffocating silence of a truth that was slowly, inexorably, beginning to surface from the depths they had buried it in.

The walk from the kitchen to his bedroom was a slow, agonising march.


Each step Jeonghan took on the sun-drenched floorboards felt heavy, as if he were wading through thick, invisible tar. The cheerful, golden light spilling from the hallway window seemed to cling to him, a mockery of the storm cloud brewing in his chest.


It was too bright, too clean, too normal for the turmoil churning inside him. The pristine, orderly silence of the house was a lie, and he was the flaw in its perfect facade.

The moment his bedroom door clicked shut behind him, the fragile dam holding back his emotions finally broke.

A low, wounded sound escaped him, part groan, part sob, stifled by the sheer force of his will.


He didn't explode into motion; instead, he seemed to fold in on himself, his shoulders slumping as he stumbled further into the room, away from the door, away from the performance he could no longer maintain.


His hands, trembling slightly, rose as if pulled by invisible strings, his fingers diving into the soft strands of his hair, tangling, gripping, seeking an anchor in the storm of his own mind.

What did you expect?

The thought didn't just appear; it seeped into the cracks of his consciousness, cold and cruel.

What did you honestly, truly expect? To sit there at the breakfast table, with the sun shining and the kimchi just the right level of ferment, and for your mother to suddenly clutch her chest and say, 'Jeonghan-ah, there's something we must confess'?

He could almost laugh at the absurdity of it.


They were still playing their parts with such dedication.


His mother, the worried, doting parent, fretting over a job.


Seungkwan, the conciliatory brother, trying to keep the peace.


They were treating him like a moody child who’d had a bad first day at school. They had no idea that the ground had already given way beneath his feet. No idea that he had already seen the horrifying, clinical proof of their deception.

Major Depressive Disorder. Severe.

The words were no longer just typed letters on a page; they were a brand on his soul.


He hadn't just lost his memory; he had lost himself. He had been a person so consumed by a darkness he couldn't even remember that his own family had decided the truth of his own life was a poison too potent for him to handle.


They had looked at his broken pieces and decided to sweep them under the rug, presenting him with a smooth, sanitised, and utterly false floor to walk on.

And Seungcheol.

The name echoed in the hollow spaces of his mind, a dissonant chord that vibrated with a pain he could feel but not comprehend.


His boss.


The man whose presence was a physical weight in any room, whose dark, intense eyes held a universe of something that felt terrifyingly close to recognition. The man who looked at him and saw a ghost.

And Dino.


Sweet, fragile Dino with his wide, trusting eyes and his little plush bunny. The child who had called him ‘Angel’. His boss’s son. The pull he felt towards that boy was visceral, a deep, aching tug in his chest that defied all logic. A child who had spoken of two papas with the simple certainty of a fact.

His mind recoiled, the pieces refusing to fit.


It was an impossible puzzle.


No.


The only logical explanation was that Seungcheol had a past, a previous spouse, a life that had ended in tragedy. Jeonghan was just an unfortunate bystander, a new employee who had accidentally wandered into the aftermath of someone else's heartbreak.


That had to be it!


Anything else… anything else was a chasm too terrifying to peer into.

The pressure built, a screaming, white-hot static behind his eyes. The contradictions and the lies and the gaping voids where his history should be collided, overloading every circuit in his brain. A raw, panicked energy, with nowhere to go, surged through his limbs. His fingers, still clenched in his hair, tightened their grip until his knuckles ached.

He pulled.

The sharp, stinging pain in his scalp was a bizarre and fleeting anchor—a single, clear, physical sensation in the maelstrom of psychic noise. And in that exact moment, the world tilted.

A dizzying, profound wave of déjà vu washed over him, so potent it stole the air from his lungs.


This… this frantic, desperate motion of his hands in his hair, the pull at the roots, the feeling of being so utterly overwhelmed that he was trying to physically tear the chaos from his own mind… it was a horrible, deeply ingrained habit. A ritual of distress he had performed before. Many times.

And then, a voice. Faint, as if heard from the other end of a long, dark tunnel, but unmistakably real.

"Hey… shhh, hey, it's okay, babe. It's okay."

The voice was young, male, and threaded with its own layer of panic, a frightened tremor underlying the words. But beneath that fear was a fierce, desperate tenderness, a will of steel trying to project calm.

"Just breathe. Look at me. Come on, look at me."

A soft pressure on his wrists, gentle but firm, trying to coax his hands down.

"What happened? Talk to me. Just tell me. I'm here. I'm right here."

The echo faded, leaving behind not just a memory of sound, but a ghost of a feeling—the warmth of hands on his wrists, the scent of clean laundry and something uniquely, comfortingly masculine, the visual blur of a concerned face hovering close to his.


It was a memory woven from sensation, and it was gone as quickly as it had come, leaving a void so profound it made his chest ache.

His hands fell from his hair, limp and heavy at his sides.


He stood there, swaying slightly, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps that sounded obscenely loud in the sudden, ringing silence of his room. The phantom warmth on his skin was a brand. The ghost of that voice was a key, sliding into a lock deep within him, turning with a click that reverberated through his entire being.

The frustration, the blind rage, the suffocating confusion—it all didn't vanish, but it shifted. It coalesced, cooled, and hardened in the space left by that fleeting memory. It sharpened into a single, unwavering point of crystalline clarity.

They would never give him the truth. His family was a fortress built on lies, and they would defend it to the end.

But there was one person.


One person whose eyes held a pain that mirrored the ache in his own hollow chest.


One person who looked at him and didn't see a blank slate or a broken doll, but a living, breathing ghost.


One person who held the other end of this severed thread.

He opened his eyes, his vision clearing, the last of the fog burning away in the heat of his newfound resolve. His gaze, once distant and vacant, was now sharp, focused, and terrifyingly calm.

He knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, exactly what he had to do.

He wouldn't beg for answers from the people who had stolen them. He would demand them from the man who had been forced to live with the consequences.

He was going to see Seungcheol.

The gentle hum of the office was a familiar soundtrack to Seungcheol’s morning.


He sat at his desk, the sprawling, polished surface a sea of fabric swatches, venue blueprints, and budget reports. Sunlight, filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, cast a clean, professional light over everything, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, restless spirits.

Joshua stood opposite him, a picture of impeccable composure.


Dressed in a tailored, soft-grey suit, he held a tablet, his finger scrolling smoothly through Seungcheol’s meticulously organised schedule for the day.

“The final walkthrough with the Kwon clients is at eleven,” Joshua stated, his voice even and pleasant. “I’ve already confirmed the florist will be on-site with the sample arrangements. Then, after lunch, you have the—”

“Joshua.”

Joshua’s voice cut off mid-sentence. He looked up, his sharp, intelligent eyes meeting Seungcheol’s. The interruption was subtle, but from Seungcheol, it was as loud as a shout.

“Hm?” Joshua prompted, tilting his head slightly.

Seungcheol leaned back in his leather chair, the movement feigning a casualness that didn't reach his eyes. He picked up a pen, fiddling with it, his gaze drifting towards the open blinds of his office, looking out at the main floor.

“Is… Jeonghan here today?” The question was delivered with a studied nonchalance, as if he were asking about the weather. “I didn’t see him at his desk.”

There was a beat of silence. Joshua’s expression didn’t flicker, but a knowing glint appeared in his gaze, so faint it was almost imperceptible.

“He took a personal leave today,” Joshua replied, his tone perfectly neutral. “The notification came in this morning. You would have seen it if you’d checked your emails.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He set the pen down with a quiet click.


“I see,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Second day on the job. Not a great impression to make.”

It was a weak, managerial critique, the kind of thing any boss might say. It sounded hollow even to his own ears.

Joshua didn’t even blink. He set his tablet down on the edge of the desk, the gesture final. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips—not a happy one, but one laden with a deep, weary understanding.

“You wouldn’t fire him even if he burned this entire building down, Seungcheol.”

The statement landed in the quiet office with the force of a physical blow. Seungcheol’s head snapped up, his carefully constructed mask of indifference cracking. Confusion and something akin to panic flashed in his dark eyes.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice losing its forced calm, sharpening with defensiveness.

Joshua’s gaze was unwavering, piercing through the facade with an almost surgical precision.


“This company,” he said, his voice soft but clear, “Clair de Lune… this building, this dream… it was always more his than it was ever yours, and we both know it.”

He took a small step closer, his eyes holding Seungcheol’s captive.

“You built it with your hands, you fought for it, yes. But the soul of it? The passion for creating these perfect, beautiful days for people? That was Jeonghan’s dream long before it was your business plan. He’s the one who talked about light and fabric and emotion like it was a language. You just learned to speak it for him.”

Seungcheol felt the air leave his lungs. He couldn’t look away from Joshua’s knowing eyes.

“He doesn’t remember any of that,” Joshua continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper.


“He walked in here with a blank slate. But some part of him, some ghost of a memory, led him back here. To live a dream he can’t even recall.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.


“And you… you would never, ever be the one to snatch that away from him. Not even now.”

His gaze then dropped, not to Seungcheol’s face, but to the base of his throat, where the top buttons of his crisp, black shirt were undone. There, against the fabric, a fine, silver chain glinted, almost hidden.

With that, Joshua picked up his tablet, gave a small, respectful nod that was somehow more devastating than any argument, and turned, walking out of the office with his characteristically silent, graceful steps.


The door clicked shut behind him, leaving a silence that was louder than any noise.

Seungcheol sat perfectly still, the world outside his glass walls continuing its busy, oblivious hum. Slowly, as if the movement pained him, his hand came up. His fingers, trembling slightly, found the thin, cool metal of the chain.


He followed its path beneath his shirt until his fingertips brushed against the small, solid shape it held.

He didn’t need to pull it out to see it.


He knew its weight, its shape, the faint engraving on the inside by heart.


His ring.


The one he’d slipped onto Jeonghan’s finger on a day that felt a lifetime ago. The one he’d taken back from a hospital nightstand five years ago, a cold, metallic placeholder for a warmth that had been stolen.

A small, sad smile, fragile as glass, touched Seungcheol’s lips. His shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him.

Yeah.. Joshua was right.

He’d genuinely never do that.

The silence in his office after Joshua left was a heavy, living thing.


It pressed in on him, the low hum of the air conditioner doing little to fill the space where his friend’s painfully accurate words still hung. His fingers still rested against the cool metal of the ring beneath his shirt, a familiar, comforting weight.

He leaned his head back against the cool leather of his chair, closing his eyes.


The sterile, modern scent of his office faded, replaced by the phantom fragrance of damp earth and cherry blossoms.


The present dissolved, and for a moment, he was twenty-three again, but the memory he slipped into was from a time even before that. A time when the ring around his neck was a future promise, not a relic of the past.

-------------------------------------------------

He was eighteen again, and the world was soft-focused and saturated with colour.

It was that stubborn, fleeting week in spring when the cherry blossoms on campus decided to put on their final, spectacular show before surrendering to the green.


He remembered the feeling of his camera, a heavy, professional-grade thing his father had given him, a symbol of the future he was supposed to want.


He hadn't been taking it seriously that day. He’d been using it to harass Jihoon, his older friend whose default expression was a mixture of profound calm and simmering, unimpressed sass.

"Your face is going to get stuck like that," young Seungcheol had laughed, walking backward, the camera clicking. "Future generations will study your scowling portrait and wonder what great tragedy befell you."

"The tragedy is my wasted potential, being your personal court jester," Jihoon had deadpanned, not looking up from his music theory book. "Watch where you're—"

The impact had been sudden.


He’d walked straight into someone, the force sending him stumbling back, his legs tangling.


The world tilted, and he landed flat on his back on the grass with a soft, undignified thud. The wind was knocked out of him. For a second, he saw only the brilliant blue sky and a shower of pink petals drifting down, a few landing on his face like a gentle, mocking kiss.

Then, a face eclipsed the sun.

It was… it was like nothing he’d ever seen.


Features so finely drawn they seemed unreal, framed by hair the colour of sunlight through honey.


But it was the eyes that held him captive—large, luminous, and filled with an emotion he now, with the clarity of hindsight, could identify as pure, unadulterated annoyance. This wasn't a meeting of souls; it was a celestial being inconvenienced by a mortal fool.

His brain, addled by the fall and the sheer visual shock, had short-circuited. All the poetry he’d ever half-listened to in class evaporated, leaving only one, utterly ridiculous word.

"Angel?" he’d mumbled, the sound barely a breath.

The angel’s perfect lips, which he would later learn could curve into the most devastating smile in the world, had thinned into a line of supreme distaste. Those beautiful eyes had raked over his sprawled form with a look of such profound dismissal it should have withered him on the spot.

"Creep."

The single word was delivered with icy precision.


And then the vision was gone, straightening up and brushing a petal from his sleeve as if wiping off something unclean before walking away without a backward glance. A quieter, handsome boy with kind, startled eyes had trailed after him, offering Seungcheol a faint, apologetic look.

He’d just lain there, stunned, the cold seep of the grass a stark contrast to the sudden, inexplicable heat in his chest. He could hear Jihoon’s sigh from above.

"I take it back. You're not a golden retriever. You're a stunned mullet," Jihoon had said, his voice dry as dust. "Get up before you start a new campus trend."

But he hadn't wanted to get up.


He’d wanted to live in that moment forever—the moment before the rejection truly sank in, when all he felt was the breathtaking wonder of having seen something so beautiful it redefined his entire world.


A slow, dazed, lovesick smile had spread across his face.


"Creep" hadn't felt like an insult. It had felt like a starting pistol.

-------------------------------------------------

Seungcheol opened his eyes, the memory receding like a tide, leaving behind the cold, hard shore of his present.


The ghost of that youthful, besotted smile still tugged at his lips, but it was a sad, twisted thing now.


He looked out his glass wall, at the empty desk where Jeonghan now sat, a stranger who had once called him a creep and set his entire life on a new, wondrous, and ultimately heartbreaking course.

The boy who had fallen flat on his back for an angel was gone.


The man he became was left with the echo of a voice calling him a creep, and the crushing weight of a ring that held a love so vast it had nowhere left to go.

The four walls of Jeonghan’s bedroom were starting to feel like the sides of a coffin.


The initial, white-hot shock of his discovery had cooled into a simmering, relentless energy that had him pacing the length of the soft rug, back and forth, a caged animal running on a track of his own spiraling thoughts.

Confront Seungcheol. 


The idea had been a flash of brilliant, desperate clarity. But now, in the cold light of his rational mind, it seemed like the worst possible move.

He replayed every interaction with the man in his head.


The frozen stillness in the hallway. The cold dismissal in his office. The raw, barely-contained terror in his eyes when he’d found Jeonghan with Dino. Seungcheol was a fortress, his walls built from pain and fortified by years of silence.


He wasn't just a difficult source; he was a vault sealed shut from the inside. Marching up to him and demanding answers would be like throwing himself against a mountain. It would achieve nothing except maybe confirming to Seungcheol that he was as unstable and disruptive as everyone seemed to fear.

No. He couldn't start with the mountain. He needed to find a foothold first. He needed someone who wouldn't look at him with personal, agonising history in their eyes. He needed facts. Cold, hard, clinical facts.

The files.

He stopped his pacing, his breath catching.


He strode to his bedside table, his fingers closing around his phone with a sense of grim purpose. Unlocking it, he navigated to the hidden folder where he’d stored the photos—the evidence he’d stolen from his mother’s study in the dead of night.

His thumb swiped across the screen, the images blurring past. The stark diagnosis of his amnesia. The chilling details of his depression. The dates, the timelines, all laid out in impersonal, bureaucratic typeface.


His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of dread and determination. He forced himself to slow down, to read, to look for a thread he could pull.

And then he saw it.

At the top of the initial emergency room report from the night of October 15th, was the name of the attending physician. The one who had first assessed his head trauma, who had signed off on the forms that would change the course of his life.

Dr. Park Jaehwan.

Neurology.

The name meant nothing to him.


It was just a name.


But it was a name attached to the single most pivotal moment of his forgotten life. This doctor had seen him broken and bleeding. He had been a witness. He wouldn't be clouded by family loyalty or heartbreak. He would have records. Objective, medical records.

A plan, cold and clear, crystallised in his mind.


It was a long shot.


Patient confidentiality was a formidable barrier. But he had to try. He was Jeonghan Yoon, the patient. That had to count for something. He could play the part of a confused amnesiac seeking closure—which, he supposed with a bitter twist of his lips, wasn't even playing a part. It was the truth.

Without another moment's hesitation, he grabbed a hoodie from his chair, pulling it over his head. He didn't bother changing out of his sweatpants. The urgency thrumming under his skin was too great for vanity.


He had a name. He had a destination.

He slipped out of his room, moving silently down the hall. He could hear the low, tense murmur of his mother and Seungkwan's voices still arguing in the kitchen. Good. Let them. They were trapped in their web of lies, trying to manage a narrative that was already spiraling out of their control.

He didn't look back as he eased the front door open and stepped out into the daytime. The bright, ordinary world outside felt alien, but for the first time all day, he had a direction.

Pulling his hood up, he started walking, his pace quick and purposeful.


He didn't know what he would say to Dr. Park, or if the man would even see him. But it was a start. It was a thread, and he was going to pull it until the whole, tangled tapestry of his past began to unravel.

He was going to the hospital.

The hospital was a universe of its own, a sprawling complex of glass, steel, and hushed urgency. The air smelled of antiseptic and a low-level, pervasive anxiety. Jeonghan stood before the main reception desk in the neurology wing, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie to hide their slight tremor.

The receptionist, a woman in her fifties with a kind but weary face and glasses on a chain, looked up at him with a practised, neutral smile. "How can I help you?"

"I'm here to see Dr. Park Jaehwan," Jeonghan said, forcing his voice to remain level. He tried on a small, helpless smile, the one that usually made people want to help him. "I'm a former patient."

"Name, please?" she asked, her fingers poised over her keyboard.

"Yoon Jeonghan."

She typed, her eyes scanning the screen.


Her smile became a touch more fixed, a touch more distant. "I'm sorry, Mr. Yoon. Dr. Park's schedule is fully booked for the next several weeks. You'd need a referral from your primary care physician for a consultation."

The bureaucratic wall was going up. He could feel it.


"It's not for a consultation," he clarified, his heart beginning to beat a little faster. "It's… a personal matter. Regarding my previous treatment. I just have a few questions."

"I'm afraid without a scheduled appointment, I can't authorize a meeting with the doctor," she said, her tone firm but not unkind. "Patient or not, he's a very busy man. If you have questions about your records, you can file a formal request with medical records on the third floor. The processing time is usually—"

"Please," Jeonghan interrupted, the word coming out more desperate than he intended. The carefully constructed calm was cracking. "It will only take a moment. I just need to speak with him."

Her expression softened with pity, which was somehow worse than her professional dismissal. "I understand, but my hands are tied. Hospital policy. Now, if you'd like the forms for the records department…"

He was losing.


The thread was slipping through his fingers before he'd even had a chance to pull it. Desperation clawed at his throat. What was he thinking? That he could just walk in and the secrets of his past would be handed to him?

Just as he was about to turn away, defeated, a voice cut through the low hum of the waiting room, clear and direct.

"Mr. Yoon?"

Jeonghan froze. He turned slowly.

A man in a white coat stood a few feet away, holding a tablet.


He was younger than Jeonghan expected, with sharp, intelligent features and an air of calm efficiency. His name was embroidered in neat script over his breast pocket: Park Jaehwan, M.D., Neurology.

The doctor's gaze was fixed on him, not with recognition, but with a curious, clinical assessment. As if he were a fascinating, long-dormant case file that had just walked back into his clinic.

The receptionist looked up, startled. "Doctor! I was just explaining to Mr. Yoon that—"

"It's alright, Nurse Hwang," Dr. Park said, his eyes never leaving Jeonghan's face. A faint, almost imperceptible flicker of something—surprise, curiosity—passed through his expression.


"Yoon Jeonghan. It's been a long time."

He took a step closer, his head tilting slightly.

"I was wondering if you'd ever come back."