Chapter Text
NOTE: Bold: Written notes or texts | Italic: Sign language
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Miryang woke up slowly.
The town always did. Tucked between the mountains and lined with rusted train tracks, it wasn't the kind of place that chased ambition. It was the kind of place people passed through, not into. But for Byun Baekhyun, this forgotten town was all he had. He stood inside the bakery as dawn crept through the front window, brushing pale light over old wooden counters and hand-tied bread bags. Sweet Haven was a name too kind for a place so worn down. The shelves leaned. The cash register stuck. The wallpaper curled at the corners. But it was warm, at least warm enough.
Baekhyun adjusted his apron, flattening a hand over his stomach as he moved. Almost four months now. The curve of his belly was barely something he could hide behind loose sweaters or aprons. It showed when he walked. It pressed gently against the counter when he leaned forward. People in town didn't say anything outright. They never did, but their eyes lingered longer now, flicking down before sliding away like they'd seen something they weren't supposed to. He reached for the tray of red bean buns cooling on the rack, sliding them into the front display. He moved slower now, not out of fear, but caution. His body was tired in ways that silence couldn't fix. His fingers trembled a little from the heat. He didn't mind. The quiet helped.
Baekhyun hadn't spoken in years. Not since he was seventeen. Not since the night his father dragged him into the hallway.
(flashback)
It had rained for hours that night. Not the soft kind that hummed on rooftops and lulled you to sleep, but the cruel kind; heavy, relentless, and loud enough to drown your thoughts. Thunder cracked like bones, and lightning flashed behind torn curtains, casting the living room in brief, violent glimpses of reality. The house smelled the way it always did after his father had been drinking for days: like stale beer, burnt cigarette filters, and the sour stench of unwashed clothes. There were crushed instant noodle cups lining the kitchen counter. A sticky trail of spilt soju across the floor. Ashes collected in the sink. Something maybe a photo frame had shattered earlier, but Baekhyun hadn't gone to check.
He was sitting on the edge of the old couch, shoulders hunched, arms folded tight across his chest as if he could press himself out of existence. His hands trembled, but not from cold. The heater hadn't worked in weeks, but Baekhyun had learned to stop feeling the cold a long time ago. What curled up in his spine, what made his lungs tighten, was something colder than winter.
The footsteps came next. Heavy. Unbalanced. Slapping against the wooden floor with the pace of someone who had nothing left to lose. His father's silhouette appeared in the hallway; tall, shadowed, and staggering. A bottle dangled from his fingers. He wasn't yelling yet, but his presence alone filled the room like poison. Baekhyun didn't look up. He'd learned early that eye contact was an invitation. Still, it didn't matter.
"You think you're better than your brother just because you can smile like your mother?"
The voice came thick with venom and vodka. His father spat the words like an accusation, like Baekhyun had committed some sin by existing too softly. That was the thing, he always blamed Baekhyun for smiling. For being weak. For looking like the woman who had died bringing more children into the world. For not being a son he could break into something useful. The bottle hit the floor, rolling before clinking to a stop beneath the coffee table. Baekhyun's heart slammed against his ribs. He didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just kept his eyes fixed on the torn patch of fabric on the couch cushion, counting the threads.
His father stepped closer. "What, too good to talk now?" His hand lashed out suddenly, grabbing Baekhyun by the collar and yanking him to his feet.
It happened so fast, too fast to think. Baekhyun shoved back. Just once. Just enough to break free. His voice came out rough, desperate. "Stop—please don't—"
A sharp crack followed. The sound of flesh meeting flesh. The sting of pain exploding along the side of his jaw. Then a shove. His body hit the corner of the cabinet. Something sliced through skin. Everything went quiet inside him. It was like the world had been turned inside out, and all he could hear was the dull pulse in his ears, the broken wheeze in his throat, the crackle of the rain outside. His vision blurred. Blood dripped slowly from a thin gash just below his collarbone. He should have stayed down. Should have kept still; made himself invisible, weightless, forgotten. But when he reached for the edge of the table to stand, too slow and too shaken, the room changed. His father looked at him with a different kind of rage. A twisted, hungry sort. The kind that didn't need an excuse.
"No one else is gonna want you," he slurred, stepping closer. "Might as well earn your place in this house."
The words didn't make sense right away. Not until the belt was unbuckled. Not until Baekhyun was dragged back down, fingers scraping the floor. Not until his pleas broke off into useless sobs, and his voice, his trembling voice was crushed beneath hands that took without mercy. It didn't last long. But long enough. Long enough to break something permanent.
His father stumbled away, muttering curses at the wall, the world, the air.
Baekhyun lay there for hours afterward. The cold floor pressing into his side. The room silent except for the soft clatter of the rain and the distant creak of the hallway door shutting. He didn't move. He didn't cry anymore. There was nothing left. Just a small, cracked boy in a house that had no warmth.
And when the sun rose, weak and unwelcome, Baekhyun rose too, but his voice did not.
(End of flashback)
By the time his father was arrested for drugs, not for what he did to Baekhyun, the damage had already been done. Years of silence, bruises, and broken skin had already etched themselves into the corners of Baekhyun's soul, long before the man was dragged out of the house in handcuffs. It didn't matter that the neighborhood watched with a mixture of pity and indifference. It didn't matter that the judge gave him five years for possession and nothing for the way he used to crawl into his son's bed at night. Justice came too late, and never in the way it should have. Baekhyun stood behind the cracked window that day, arms wrapped around his trembling frame as he watched the police car disappear down the muddy road. His lips were still swollen from the last time. His voice was long gone.
His younger siblings, Bin and Bomi, were taken in by their mother's sister in Seoul. Baekhyun didn't fight it. He couldn't. They deserved better than the rotting bones of a house that stank of fear and unspoken things. They cried when they left, especially Bomi. She clung to Baekhyun's shirt, sobbing in hiccups, begging to stay. But Baekhyun could only kneel down and hold her tiny hands in his, mouthing words he didn't dare say. Bin promised to write. He never did. The distance grew the way weeds did; quietly, until it choked everything.
Their mother had been long gone, buried under the weight of postpartum bleeding and a healthcare system that never came fast enough. Baekhyun barely remembered her face anymore, only the lullabies she used to hum when the lights were off and their father hadn't come home yet. After she died, the house became darker. Colder. Angrier.
Beomgyu, his older brother grew hard. Not just in his body, but in spirit. He started working at sixteen, first under the table at a motor shop, then full-time at Hyunwoo Steelworks by eighteen. He skipped school, skipped meals, skipped birthdays. But he didn't skip resentment. Every time he looked at Baekhyun, it was like staring at a wound that wouldn't close. He never said it outright, but Baekhyun knew what he thought, "you're weak, you're useless, you're broken". And maybe he was. Beomgyu never raised a hand to Baekhyun, not like their father had, but his silence was its own kind of violence.
And Baekhyun? He just stayed. He stayed in that house even after the locks were changed. He stayed even when there was no heat in winter and no running water in summer. He stayed with a broom in his hand and dust on his shoulders, cleaning a place that had never once felt like home. He stayed until staying no longer meant surviving but simply... enduring. He managed to finish high school. Barely. Some teachers pitied him and let his absences slide. Others looked at him the way townspeople looked at stray cats; dirty, small, pitiful, not worth the trouble. Baekhyun went to class with bruises hidden beneath cheap makeup, foundation a shade too pale that couldn't fully cover the yellowing marks. Some days he came wearing long sleeves in unbearable heat. Other days, he didn't come at all. The whispers were relentless.
"Too pretty to be a boy."
"Maybe he likes the attention."
"Quiet little freak."
"He probably asked for it."
Baekhyun never asked for anything. He kept his head down and his shoulders low. He ate in empty classrooms. He left before the bell. There was no prom, no graduation pictures, no goodbye party. Just a torn certificate, handed to him across a chipped desk, and the cold nod of a guidance counselor who never once asked why he flinched when someone raised their voice.
And then came Jang Jiwook. Ten years older. Well-dressed, well-spoken, and well aware of what he was doing. He drove a silver Audi, wore cologne that clung too long to fabric, and smiled like he'd rehearsed it in the mirror. He didn't meet Baekhyun through chance. It was Beomgyu who introduced them.
"He's not useless, you know," Beomgyu had muttered to Jiwook over a late-night drink, as Baekhyun lingered in the doorway. "He's just... soft. Someone like you could straighten him out."
Baekhyun remembered everything about that moment, the way Jiwook's eyes roamed him like a showroom piece, the chill that crawled up his spine and the bile that rose in his throat. But he also remembered Beomgyu's tired expression. The unpaid bills stacked on the kitchen table. The aching silence of two brothers who had run out of options. In the end, Baekhyun didn't say no. Not because he agreed. But because he couldn't afford to fight anymore.
The wedding was small. Fast. There were no guests, no photographs. No flowers. Just a dull city hall, two signatures, and a ring that slipped onto his finger like a chain. Baekhyun never wore white. He wore beige. A plain blouse that Jiwook had picked out. Said it matched his skin. Said he looked "innocent" in it.
The first few weeks were tolerable. Not happy, never that, but manageable. Baekhyun cleaned the apartment, cooked Jiwook's favorite dishes, folded his laundry. He laid beside him at night and counted the seconds until morning. Jiwook didn't raise his hand, not yet. He called Baekhyun "darling" and "kitten" and sometimes "good boy," depending on his mood. But then the compliments became commands. The touches turned rough. The kisses became bites. Jiwook started coming home late, reeking of whiskey and women's perfume. And Baekhyun started disappearing again.
The first time he was hit, it was over a broken glass. The second time, it was because he refused to take his shirt off. The third time... he stopped counting. The bruises didn't matter anymore. It was the feeling of being hollowed out, of being used and discarded, like a doll someone kept for convenience. He screamed once, during one of the worse nights, but nothing came out. His voice had betrayed him long ago. So he clawed at the sheets, at the walls, at himself until sleep became safer than staying awake.
Then came the pregnancy.
It wasn't planned. It wasn't wanted. Baekhyun found out during a routine check-up after fainting in the market. The nurse smiled softly and handed him the report. He stared at the word positive like it was a death sentence. When he told Jiwook, the man laughed.
"You? Pregnant?" He scoffed. "You're like a fucking stray cat. Why the hell would I want that?"
The next week, Jiwook was gone. Left a single note on the kitchen table, no money, no apology. Just: Tell your precious brother to feed you now. I'm done.
So, Baekhyun went back. Knocked on Beomgyu's door in the rain, one hand over his stomach, the other gripping the straps of a worn-out bag. His brother opened the door, took one look at him, and slammed it shut. Baekhyun slept in the alley that night, shivering against the wind, two months pregnant and utterly alone.
It was his aunt, Hyejin, who found him the next morning. She had come by to deliver pastries, saw the curled-up figure behind her bakery, and recognized the boy who used to call her ‘imo’ with such joy. She didn't ask questions. She gave him a warm towel, a cup of ginger tea, and invited him to stay over her house until he could go back. Said he could work mornings in exchange for rent. No promises. No pity. Just a second chance to survive. And Baekhyun took it. Not because he believed things would get better. But because even broken things still tried to bloom when the sun touched them. Even wilted flowers still leaned toward warmth.
_____
The streets outside were still empty. Cold air fogged the bakery's windows, softening the outlines of the world. Baekhyun liked this hour. Before the gossip started. Before the old men came in for coffee and called him a pretty thing without blinking. Before the women turned to whisper behind their cups. He wasn't just mute. He was divorced. And pregnant. Though they didn't say it out loud, but he could feel it when their eyes stuck too long to his belly. Like dirt they couldn't sweep off the floor.
Baekhyun moved back behind the counter, kneeling to restock the glass jars of sesame cookies. His back ached today. He had barely slept. Last night, Beomgyu slammed the door hard enough to rattle the windows and didn't come home again. Not that Baekhyun was waiting. When Beomgyu came to him with the news that he had sold their house, the house they grew up in, Hyejin imo had offered the store house above the bakery building. They lived like ghosts in the same house, passing each other without speaking, without looking. Beomgyu only stayed because rent was cheaper that way. And Baekhyun, well. He had nowhere else to go.
He rose to his feet slowly, knees clicking. The kettle hissed behind him. Baekhyun turned it off, poured a bit of warm tea into a chipped porcelain cup. The mug had sunflowers painted around the rim, his aunt's favorite. She used to open the shop every morning, singing some trot song under her breath while wiping down the shelves. Then the sickness came. Her body thinned. Her voice cracked. One day, she stopped showing up, and Baekhyun started instead.
This was his routine. Twenty minutes of quiet before anyone wandered in asking for leftovers or credit they couldn't pay. Mrs. Lee from the post office would come in around eight. The man who ran the hardware store sometimes brought his daughter in for jam bread. Occasionally, tourists stumbled in, assuming the rustic sign meant charm rather than struggle.
He took the mug and walked to the window. Sun ray was beginning to stretch over the street. An old bus passed. A child ran, scarf flapping. The newspaper stand opened. He could smell the faint trace of smoke from the factory three blocks down, Hyunwoo Steelworks where Beomgyu spent twelve hours a day throwing heat into metal and refusing to look him in the eye. Baekhyun glanced toward the mirror above the counter. His face was thinner now. His eyes darker. It was going to be another long day. He wiped his hands on the towel and walked to the front to flip the OPEN sign.
The small bell above the entrance door gave a faint chime as he pulled the latch back. The streets were wrapped in that in-between stillness before the town truly woke up. Miryang wasn't the kind of place that rushed. It dragged itself into morning, like an old man rising from a chair; reluctant, aching, and resigned. He returned behind the counter, where the display case was already half stocked. A few trays of red bean buns rested on the lower shelf. Butter rolls and walnut tarts filled the upper tiers, though the icing was uneven today, his fingers had been trembling slightly this morning. Not enough sleep again. His body had started rebelling in small ways lately. Baekhyun didn't complain. He never did.
The tea was still hot when the doorbell chimed again. Baekhyun blinked. That was early. No one came in before the certain hour, not even the auntie from across the road who always asked for stale croissants to feed birds. He stood, smoothing his apron. His steps were slow but practiced, and when he turned the corner of the counter, he saw someone he'd never seen before.
A man. Tall, at least a head above most people in this town. Dark hair that curled slightly at the ends, neatly combed back but not stiff. He wore a navy overcoat, pressed slacks, and carried a leather satchel slung over one shoulder. There was something about him that looked expensive, but not in the way that was loud. He wasn't flashy. He was just... well put together. He seemed out of place here, like a photograph printed in too-high resolution for its frame. But he didn't scan the room like most first-timers did. He didn't flinch when he saw Baekhyun. He just smiled.
"Is this place open?" the man asked, voice deep, laced with curiosity rather than demand.
Baekhyun stared for a second too long, then gave a small nod. He stepped behind the counter, eyes flicking down, not in fear, but in habit. People usually talked too much. This man didn't. Baekhyun moved to pour another cup of tea. Baekhyun glanced up, lips parting.
The man lingered near the door, then stepped closer. "I just moved here," he said, voice soft now. Giving a sheepish grin, he continued, "Didn't expect to find a bakery open this early. Lucky me."
Baekhyun gave a slight tilt of his head, acknowledging the effort but not encouraging more. He offered the tea across the counter, tilting his head to suggest it was free. The man hesitated, then accepted it with both hands with grateful. Baekhyun then signed the word for morning, simple and fluid.
The man blinked, then smiled wider. "Ah. You sign," he said, almost to himself. He continued, "I'm Chanyeol, by the way. Park Chanyeol."
Baekhyun's eyes lingered on the sound of that name. He didn't write his own down. He just nodded, once, and watched as Chanyeol took a slow sip of tea He motioned to the display case and raised a brow.
Chanyeol stepped closer, leaning down to scan the trays. "Okay, wow. This all looks... really good. What's this one?" He pointed to the walnut tart.
Baekhyun picked up the small chalkboard menu, flipping it around to point at the item. 1,200 won. He held up two fingers after that. Morning promo, two for one. He didn't know why he added that. He usually didn't.
Chanyeol chuckled softly. "Seriously? That's a steal."
Baekhyun disappeared into the back for a second, retrieved a small paper box, and packed the tarts carefully. When he returned, he placed the box on the counter and slid it toward him. Chanyeol reached for his wallet, pulled out a note, and placed it down. "Keep the change."
Baekhyun looked up, eyes narrowing slightly. The change was nearly double the price. He shook his head once and pointed at the till. He didn't like pity. He didn't like feeling small. Chanyeol seemed to catch on. He raised both hands slightly in surrender.
"Okay. Fair enough. No charity here. You're the boss."
Baekhyun counted the change precisely and slid it back across the counter. Their fingers brushed for half a second. Baekhyun stilled, then pulled his hand back instinctively, hiding it in his apron pocket. The tea had gone cold on the corner table.
"Well," Chanyeol said, tucking the box under one arm. "I guess I'll be back tomorrow morning too, if that's alright."
Baekhyun didn't wait for an answer this time. Just smiled again, almost grateful and walked back toward the door. He paused before stepping out.
"See you, bakery boss." The door shut softly behind him.
Baekhyun stared at it long after he left, unsure why his fingers were still curled around the hem of his apron. His chest felt strangely full. Not heavy. Just... full. He walked back to the window table and sat down, lifting the cold tea to his lips. That man had eyes that didn't look through him.
It had been a long time since someone looked at him like that.
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Notes:
First chapter's up! I hope you're gonna love this story as much as I do. Kindly leave your comment, thank you! ❤︎
—Peach
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