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Heeseung sat in the back of his social worker’s car, his arms crossed over a thin jacket that had seen better days. Outside, the trees blurred past in dull streaks, and every passing street reminded him of the homes he’d been in. Only, they weren’t really homes. Just temporary shelters, places where people expected him to fit neatly into their lives, only to quietly push him away when he didn’t.
He’d long since given up hope of being adopted. No one wanted to adopt a teenager who was almost seventeen. He was too quiet, too independent, and too damaged. He knew the routine by now. Polite smiles, awkward meals, whispered words of disappointment, and then the slow fade into another foster placement. Heeseung had learned to expect disappointment before it even happened.
“Here we are,” the social worker said, pulling the car to a stop.
The house in front of him looked… chaotic. Bright colors clashed with the soft white of the house, sneakers were scattered across the porch, and through the open front door came the sound of laughter and barking. A piano note chimed in the background.
Heeseung’s stomach tightened. Homes like this didn’t last. People like him didn’t last in them.
“Just wait here,” the social worker said, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “They’re expecting you.”
The door swung open, and two adults appeared. One tall, with a calm, steady presence, and the other shorter but with a warmth that seemed to radiate out like sunlight.
“Hi! You must be Heeseung!” the shorter one said, smiling. “Come on in.”
“Yeah, welcome,” the taller one added, offering a nod that was more comforting than Heeseung deserved.
Heeseung hesitated. No one had ever welcomed him without conditions. He had learned that smiles often hid impatience, and that patience came with expiration dates.
Inside, the house smelled like lemon and something sweet. Pancakes? Cookies? Whatever it was, it made him pause. He had stopped trusting things like this. They reminded him of what he didn't have.
Then, movement caught his eye. Four kids appeared from various corners of the house.
A boy about thirteen crossed his arms and gave Heeseung a long, calculating look. “New kid?” he asked cautiously.
A smaller boy, about nine years old, ran over, holding out a half-eaten cookie. “Hi! I’m Sunoo. Want a cookie?”
Another kid, about the same age as Sunoo, peeked from behind the couch, silent but curious. And the youngest, a boy about five years old, practically bounced on his tiny feet, his eyes wide. “I’m Riki! Hi, new hyung!” he shouted.
Heeseung blinked. New foster placements usually didn’t greet him like this. Other foster kids were usually hostile.
“Uh… hi,” he mumbled, his voice rough from disuse.
“Come on, we’ll show you to your room,” the taller adult said. “You’ve got your own space. It’s all ready for you.”
Heeseung followed, dragging his single duffel bag behind him. The room was small but neat, with a bed and a desk. Someone, probably one of the younger kids, had left a stuffed animal on the pillow. Heeseung stared at it, unsure whether to feel warmth or suspicion.
He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the walls. Maybe this time would be like all the others. Maybe he’d leave, or maybe they’d tell him to leave. Maybe it was better to keep expecting that.
But deep down, something in the house, the laughter, the chaos, the people who seemed genuinely happy to see him, made him wonder if maybe… just maybe… this could be different.
For the first time in a long time, he didn’t immediately look for the exit.
<><><><>
The first night in Sunghoon and Jake’s house was louder than anything Heeseung had experienced in years. He wasn’t used to noise that didn’t mean conflict or danger. Laughter, shouting, the occasional thump of a basketball against the wall. It was overwhelming.
He tried to stay in his room, unpacking his few belongings methodically, pretending the chaos outside wasn’t happening. But then came a knock.
“Dinner’s ready! We’re having breakfast for dinner!” Sunoo’s high, excited voice rang through the house.
Heeseung froze. Dinner. Normally this would be a test. Cold, measured, and designed to see if he belonged. But when he stepped into the kitchen, he saw something entirely different.
Jay, the thirteen-year-old, was at the table with a textbook, trying to balance his backpack and a plate of food. He looked up at Heeseung with cautious suspicion, sizing him up like a chess opponent.
“Sit anywhere,” Sunghoon said gently, pulling out a chair. Jake poured a glass of water.
Heeseung slid into a chair, keeping his eyes down. Sunoo immediately shoved half a pancake toward him. “Eat! You’re new, so you get first pancake!”
Heeseung stared at the pancake as though it were a foreign object. No one had ever offered him food without a warning or a lecture.
Jungwon peeked from behind Jay’s chair, small hands clutching a toy car. Heeseung noticed the boy’s hesitant eyes, curious but shy. And Riki bounced in place like a tiny kangaroo, pointing at Heeseung. “You like pancakes, hyung?”
“I… yeah,” Heeseung muttered, taking a small bite.
The room smelled of syrup, cooked eggs, and something warmer. Something like safety. It felt too good to be true.
“You like it?” Sunoo asked, eyes sparkling.
Heeseung nodded slowly. “It’s… good.”
For a while, there was silence, except for the clatter of forks and Sunoo humming quietly to himself. Heeseung had learned that silence in a new house usually meant tension or judgement. But this silence was different. Comfortable, even.
After dinner, Riki tugged at his sleeve. “Come play with me!”
“No… I…” Heeseung started, hesitating. Normally he would have said no and retreated to his room. But something about Riki’s hopeful expression made him pause.
Jake chuckled from the doorway. “Go on. He likes building blocks.”
Heeseung sighed, letting himself be pulled into the living room. The floor was littered with toys, art supplies, and board games, a controlled chaos that somehow made sense to the kids. He got down on the floor, helping Riki stack blocks taller than the boy himself.
“Not that one!” Riki protested, laughing.
“Ok, buddy,” Heeseung said softly, careful not to laugh too loud, not to seem too invested. But then he did. A laugh, sharp and unpracticed, but genuine.
Jay, watching from the couch, furrowed his brow. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t frown either. Something in Heeseung’s laughter stirred curiosity.
By bedtime, Heeseung was exhausted in a way he hadn’t been for years, not from running or hiding, but from living.
As he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, he realized the house was too loud, too chaotic, too… bright. But maybe that brightness was exactly what he needed.
For the first time in a long time, he didn’t plan his escape. He just listened to the sounds of a house that might, against all odds, become a home.
<><><><>
The next morning, Heeseung awoke to the sound of Sunoo singing at the top of his lungs. He groaned and buried his face in the pillow, but the little voice only grew louder.
“Come on, hyung! Breakfast!”
Heeseung rolled out of bed reluctantly, dragging himself to the kitchen. The chaos of the house was already in full swing. Sunghoon flipped pancakes with an almost artistic grace, Jake filled glasses of milk, and the younger kids ran around like tiny tornadoes.
“Good morning,” Jake greeted him warmly, handing him a plate. “Sleep well?”
Heeseung shrugged, unsure if he was supposed to answer. He wasn’t used to these questions, or the kindness behind them.
“Rules,” Sunghoon said suddenly, crouching to Sunoo’s level. “Breakfast is at seven. Homework at four. Bedtime stories at eight for the little ones. Laundry day is Saturday. Everyone helps.”
Heeseung listened, trying to memorize the schedule. For the first time, rules didn’t feel like traps. They were rhythms. A structure that made the house run smoothly, not a way to control him.
Jay eyed him as he poured syrup on his pancakes. “You’ll follow the rules, right?” he asked, tone skeptical but not unkind.
“Yeah,” Heeseung said quietly. It wasn’t a lie. He did want to belong here, even if he didn’t fully trust it.
The morning passed with small, chaotic victories. Sunoo tried to teach Heeseung how to do a silly dance he’d learned at school, Riki tugged on his sleeve repeatedly to show him his new drawing, and Jungwon watched from a distance before finally joining in, shyly.
By lunch, Heeseung was exhausted but smiling, a new sensation that caught him off guard. No one had ever wanted him to join in just for the sake of joining in.
Later that afternoon, Jay approached him quietly while the younger kids napped.
“You’re… not like the others,” he said, glancing down at his shoes. “Usually, new kids leave after a week.”
Heeseung stiffened. He didn’t want to think about leaving. “Maybe I’m different,” he muttered.
“Maybe,” Jay said, shrugging. He didn’t push further. It was an acknowledgment, a quiet truce between two kids who had both been burned by the world.
By the time dinner rolled around, Heeseung had settled into a tentative rhythm. He helped Riki with his fork, joked lightly with Sunoo, and even shared a glance with Jay that wasn’t full of suspicion.
As the lights dimmed that night and he lay in bed, Heeseung realized something he hadn’t admitted in years. He looked forward to the next day. The thought scared him slightly, because hope had always ended in pain.
But maybe, just maybe, this house, this chaos, this love, this unpredictable family, was different.
<><><><>
Heeseung didn’t expect much from Jay. The thirteen-year-old was quiet, serious, and impossible to read, the kind of kid who didn’t laugh often and whose eyes seemed to hold a quiet storm. But that afternoon, while the younger kids were outside playing in the yard, Jay approached him cautiously, holding a skateboard.
“Hey,” Jay muttered. “You know how to ride this?”
Heeseung eyed the board, its worn edges and scratched surface telling a story of countless falls. “Yeah… I used to,” he said.
“Used to?” Jay repeated, skeptical. “You mean you don’t anymore?”
“I haven’t had one in a while,” Heeseung admitted.
Jay frowned but didn’t walk away. Instead, he tossed the skateboard at Heeseung’s feet. “Show me.”
Heeseung hesitated. He wasn’t sure if this was a test, a challenge, or just another way for someone to get annoyed with him. But something about Jay’s guarded expression made him want to try anyway.
Minutes later, they were both on the driveway, Heeseung giving pointers, Jay wobbling and occasionally falling but getting back up. The small victories were almost silent between them, a slight grin, a nod, a corrected stance.
“You’re… not bad,” Jay said finally, panting.
“You’re not too bad yourself,” Heeseung replied, the words coming easier than he expected.
Jay’s frown softened into something closer to a smile. It was subtle, fleeting, but it made Heeseung’s chest tighten. For the first time in years, he felt like he could be more than just another kid who would eventually be pushed away.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a rare, unspoken companionship. The younger kids ran around them, yelling and laughing, but Heeseung and Jay found their own rhythm, connected by something unspoken, a shared understanding of being cautious, of being hurt before.
When Sunghoon called them in for dinner, Jay looked at Heeseung. “Thanks… for today,” he said, and for once, his voice held no edge.
Heeseung nodded, a small warmth spreading through him. “Anytime.”
Later that night, as he lay in bed, Heeseung reflected on the afternoon. He had expected Jay to be distant, to push him away like so many others had. But something had shifted, even if just a little. The ice walls around Jay were starting to crack, and in the process, Heeseung realized his own walls weren’t as solid as he thought.
Maybe this was the beginning of something, not just a connection with Jay, but a connection to the house, to the kids, to a life that didn’t feel temporary.
For the first time, Heeseung allowed himself to believe that maybe he could stay.
<><><><>
Saturday morning arrived with sunlight streaming through the living room windows, dust motes dancing lazily in the air. Heeseung had planned to lie low, keeping to himself, but the sound of giggles and the clatter of pans drew him toward the kitchen.
When he entered, he froze. Flour covered every surface, and the four younger kids were in the middle of a chaotic baking experiment. Sunoo waved a flour-dusted spoon at him. “Heeseung hyung! You have to help! We’re making cookies!”
Heeseung glanced at the mess, at Sunoo’s determined grin, Jungwon carefully measuring sugar, and Riki holding a bowl upside down with frosting dripping everywhere. He wanted to say no. He wanted to retreat. But instead, something inside him cracked just a little.
“Fine,” he muttered, rolling up his sleeves.
Sunoo squealed and handed him a bowl. “Mix it like this! Like this!”
At first, Heeseung was tentative, trying to keep the mess contained, but the younger kids weren’t having it. Flour flew into the air, sticky dough landed on his shirt, and laughter echoed around the room. Jay, watching from the doorway, sighed but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at his lips.
And then it happened, a mishap with a spoonful of dough sent Sunoo laughing so hard that he fell back into a chair, flour puffing up like smoke. Heeseung tried not to laugh, but he did. He couldn’t help it. It started as a small chuckle, then turned into a full, unrestrained laugh, the kind he hadn’t made in years.
The kids erupted in cheers. “See! You do know how to have fun!” Riki shouted, bouncing on his tiny feet.
Heeseung wiped tears of laughter from his eyes, his chest light in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. For the first time, he realized, he wasn’t just tolerated. He was wanted. He was part of this chaos, this noise, this family.
Jay came closer, holding a plate of slightly misshapen cookies. “You didn’t completely ruin them,” he said, voice half teasing, half impressed.
Heeseung smirked, feeling something he thought he’d lost forever, pride. “Yeah… teamwork,” he said.
After the flour had been cleaned and the cookies (mostly) baked, the kids sat around the table, munching happily. Heeseung sat with them, no walls, no fear, just present.
Later, lying in bed that night, he realized the laughter still lingered in his chest. A small, warm ember of something he’d forgotten existed. Belonging.
Heeseung closed his eyes and smiled, quietly letting himself think it. Maybe he had finally found a place where he could laugh, a place that didn’t hurt him, a place he could call home.
<><><><>
Rain pounded against the windows like a drum, and thunder rumbled low, shaking the walls of the house. Heeseung had always hated storms. The sound of rain against glass, the flash of lightning, the way the world seemed to shrink into something uncontrollable.
He wasn’t alone in his fear tonight. Jungwon was huddled under the table, wide-eyed, and Riki clung to Heeseung’s arm, tiny fists gripping his jacket. Sunoo was trembling in his chair, while Jay tried to stay brave but couldn’t hide the tension in his shoulders.
Sunghoon and Jake were out getting groceries, and the house felt both too large and too small at the same time. Heeseung’s instinct was to retreat, to hide like he always did, but he couldn’t leave the kids.
“It’s okay,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “It’s just a storm.”
Riki whimpered. “Hyung… it’s scary.”
Heeseung knelt down, pulling the little boy close. “I know. But I’m here. We’re all here. Nothing’s going to hurt us.”
Jungwon peeked out from under the table, and Heeseung offered him a hand. Slowly, cautiously, the boy climbed into his lap. Sunoo moved closer too, leaning against his side, and even Jay eventually sat beside him, arms wrapped around his knees.
The storm raged outside, but inside, Heeseung felt something shift. The fear and chaos of the storm were real, but so was the safety in the circle of children clinging to him. He realized that the same hands that comforted the younger kids could also hold him steady.
Minutes passed, then an hour. Heeseung hummed a soft tune, one he hadn’t sung in years, and the kids gradually relaxed. The storm’s roar became a background hum, no longer a threat but just another sound in the house.
When Sunghoon and Jake finally returned, soaked and apologetic, they found Heeseung surrounded by the four younger kids, all of them asleep or calm.
“You handled it,” Jake said softly, a mixture of pride and awe in his voice.
“You didn’t run,” Sunghoon added, smiling.
Heeseung shook his head. “I couldn’t. Not them.”
That night, as he lay in bed, he reflected on the evening. He had been scared, overwhelmed, unsure, but he had stayed. And in staying, he had discovered something incredible. The love here wasn’t conditional. It didn’t vanish when things got hard. It didn’t demand that he be perfect or untouchable.
For the first time, Heeseung understood that he didn’t have to earn love. He just had to let it in.
And maybe, just maybe, he had finally found a family that wouldn’t let him go.
<><><><>
It started with a phone call that Heeseung wasn’t expecting. His stomach twisted when the familiar, clipped voice of a social worker came through the line. They were checking in on his records, asking routine questions, but routine questions always carried the potential for bad news.
Heeseung’s chest tightened. For years, every call, every knock, every letter had meant trouble. A foster home that no longer wanted him, a placement that had failed, or a reminder that he didn’t belong anywhere.
He tried to shrug it off, pretending to the kids that nothing was wrong. But later, while helping Jay with homework, his hands shook slightly, and he caught Jay’s curious glance.
“Hyung… are you okay?” Jay asked quietly.
“I’m fine,” Heeseung muttered, forcing a smile.
But he wasn’t. Memories he had buried began to surface. The foster home where he’d been left in the dark for days, the family that told him he’d never be enough, the feeling of being unwanted that had followed him from house to house. He clenched his fists, fighting the urge to run, to disappear like he always did when the past caught up with him.
That evening, Heeseung withdrew to his room. The laughter from the younger kids playing downstairs didn’t reach him. He felt a familiar coldness creeping in, the old fear that this, the house, the laughter, the stability, was temporary.
Sunghoon knocked softly. “Mind if I come in?”
Heeseung didn’t answer.
Jake followed, too. “We can sit here if you want,” he said gently.
Heeseung shook his head, unable to speak.
They sat in silence for a moment before Sunghoon said, “You don’t have to earn our love, Heeseung. You just have to stay.”
The words were simple, but they struck deeper than anything he had heard in years. Heeseung’s chest tightened, and he realized tears had formed in his eyes.
“You… you really mean that?” he whispered.
“Every word,” Jake said, leaning closer. “You’re part of this family, and that doesn’t change, no matter what.”
The younger kids appeared at the door. Jay, Sunoo, Jungwon, and little Riki each standing quietly, hands full of little drawings or a half-eaten cookie, a silent offering of comfort.
Sunoo hugged him first. “Hyung… don’t cry. We like you here.”
Riki chimed in, tugging at his sleeve. “You can stay, right? Forever?”
Heeseung swallowed hard, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him. For years, no one had ever asked him to stay, to belong, to be wanted just for being himself. But here they were, all of them, offering exactly that.
“I… I think I can stay,” he whispered, voice cracking but sincere.
Jay gave him a small, approving nod. “Good,” he said, almost gruffly. But Heeseung caught the warmth behind it.
That night, as he lay in bed, Heeseung realized that the fear of being unwanted was losing its grip. He had people who wouldn’t abandon him, no matter how scary or messy life got.
For the first time, Heeseung believed that a family could be real, that love could be constant, and that he had finally found a place where he truly belonged.
<><><><>
Heeseung sat on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The shadows from the lamp stretched across the room, twisting into shapes that reminded him of the empty rooms of his past foster homes.
A small voice echoed in his mind. You’ll be gone soon. You never stay.
The fear he thought he had buried returned with a vengeance. Maybe he didn’t deserve this house, this family, this love. Maybe they’d tire of him, or he’d fail them, and then he’d be back to nothing.
Heeseung packed his duffel bag quietly, moving with practiced stealth. He had done this before, disappearing before anyone could decide he wasn’t wanted. He slipped out of his room, careful not to wake the younger kids, and tiptoed to the front door.
Then a voice stopped him. “Heeseung?”
He froze. It was Jake, standing in the doorway, calm but concerned. “Going somewhere?”
“I… I just need some air,” Heeseung muttered, avoiding eye contact.
Jake met his gaze. “You don’t have to leave. You don’t have to run. You’re not going to lose us.”
Heeseung’s chest tightened. He wanted to believe it, he really did, but fear still clawed at him. He looked away. “I… I’m used to leaving.”
Sunghoon appeared behind Jake, carrying a plate with a slice of pizza. “We were waiting for you,” he said softly. “We didn’t want to eat without you.”
The smell, the warmth, the simple act of holding a plate of food out to him… it broke something open inside Heeseung. Years of mistrust, of thinking he would always be unwanted, collided with the reality before him. People who genuinely cared. People who would wait. People who would stay.
Heeseung hesitated, then slowly placed the duffel bag on the floor. Jake smiled gently, and Sunghoon handed him the plate. “Sit,” Sunghoon said. “You belong here. You always have.”
Heeseung slid into the chair, trembling slightly, and took a bite. The taste was ordinary, but at that moment, it felt like more than food. It was a symbol. A seat at the table, a place in the family, an acknowledgment that he didn’t have to run anymore.
Jay appeared and nudged him lightly. “Glad you stayed,” he said simply.
Sunoo offered a wide grin. “You have to eat another slice with me!”
Riki climbed onto the chair beside him, hugging his arm. “We like you here,” he whispered.
Heeseung swallowed hard, eyes stinging with tears he no longer tried to hide. “I… I like it here too,” he whispered back.
That night, as he lay in bed, Heeseung realized something profound. Fear had always told him that love was temporary, that family was fleeting. But tonight had proven it wrong. Love, real love, could be constant. And for the first time in his life, Heeseung felt it, steady, unwavering, and his to keep.
He had a home. He had a family. He didn’t have to leave.
For the first time, he truly believed it.
<><><><>
The next morning, sunlight poured into the living room, glinting off scattered toys and art supplies. Heeseung woke to the sounds of small voices arguing over a game of cards and Riki’s excited squeals. He sat up, stretching, and realized something new. He didn’t feel the usual pull to escape, to hide, to shrink.
He had a place here. He belonged.
Heeseung slipped downstairs to find Jay struggling with his math homework, pencil tapping nervously against the table.
“Need a hand?” Heeseung asked quietly.
Jay glanced up, wary at first, then nodded. Together, they worked through the problems. Heeseung explained a tricky equation, and for the first time, Jay didn’t just follow directions, he laughed at a joke Heeseung made about numbers being “sneaky little devils.”
Meanwhile, Sunoo and Jungwon were trying to build a fort with couch cushions, and Riki ran around, supervising the construction with a stick as his “magic wand.” Heeseung joined in, moving cushions, giving pointers, and occasionally scooping up Riki to stop him from knocking the whole thing down.
“Hyung! Look!” Riki shouted proudly, showing off a crooked but impressive fort.
“You did it,” Heeseung said, smiling genuinely. “We did it.”
Jay looked over, arms folded, but there was a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips. “Not bad for a new kid,” he said, half teasing, half sincere.
Lunch passed in the same joyful chaos of sandwich crumbs, juice spills, laughter, and playful arguments. Heeseung found himself laughing freely, teasing the kids, and even getting lightly scolded when he made a mess of the peanut butter.
Later that afternoon, Sunghoon and Jake watched from the doorway, quietly exchanging glances. The transformation in Heeseung was remarkable. He was no longer tentative or guarded. He was present, engaged, protective, and joyful, a big brother the kids could rely on.
As the day wound down, the children gathered around Heeseung on the couch. Sunoo leaned against him, Riki clutched his arm, Jungwon rested his head on his shoulder, and Jay sat close, legs brushing against his.
“You’re… the best hyung ever,” Riki whispered, voice muffled against Heeseung’s chest.
Heeseung felt his chest tighten in a way that wasn’t painful, but warm and heavy with belonging. “And you’re all the best little brothers I could ask for,” he said softly.
That night, lying in bed, Heeseung reflected on the day. He had laughed, played, taught, comforted, and been comforted. He had been needed and loved, not conditionally, but fully.
For the first time, he felt the steady pulse of a family, of a home, of something permanent. And he knew, without a doubt, that this was only the beginning.
Heeseung smiled in the dark. He didn’t have to leave. He didn’t want to. He had found his place.
<><><><>
The morning was quiet, unusual for Sunghoon and Jake’s household. Heeseung sat at the kitchen table, the sunlight spilling across his plate, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound.
The phone had rung earlier. A social worker discussing paperwork about Heeseung aging out of the system. Normally, this news would have filled him with dread. Normally, it would have made him want to run.
But today, he felt calm.
Sunghoon and Jake entered the kitchen, papers in hand. Heeseung stiffened for a moment, instinctively wary.
“We have news,” Sunghoon said gently, a small smile tugging at his lips. “We’d like to adopt you, Heeseung.”
The words hung in the air. Adoption. Permanence. Forever.
Heeseung blinked. He had dreamed of something like this, but only in fleeting moments when he allowed himself to hope. And now, it was real.
Jake set a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve been part of this family for a long time already. We just want the paperwork to catch up.”
Heeseung’s chest tightened, emotions rushing in all at once. Relief, fear, happiness, disbelief. He wanted to speak, to say something meaningful, but words failed him. Instead, he nodded, letting a small smile break through.
From the hallway came laughter from Jay, Sunoo, Jungwon, and little Riki, racing toward him. Riki flung his arms around Heeseung’s legs, Sunoo hugged his waist, Jungwon clutched his hand, and even Jay gave a rare, genuine grin.
“You’re ours,” Sunoo whispered proudly.
“You can’t leave now,” Riki added, eyes wide.
Heeseung knelt down, hugging all of them. The weight of years spent running, hiding, and fearing abandonment seemed to melt away in the warmth of their embrace.
“I… I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I’m home.”
Later, as they all sat around the table eating breakfast, Heeseung caught Sunghoon and Jake exchanging a glance. Their eyes were full of pride, love, and quiet relief. Heeseung realized that this was what family felt like, steady, unconditional, permanent.
Heeseung looked around the room at the chaos, the laughter, the love that had finally been his all along. For the first time in his life, he didn’t feel like a guest, or a placeholder, or someone who would eventually be cast aside. He belonged.
He had a home. He had a family. And finally, finally, he had forever.
Heeseung smiled, truly and fully, and whispered to himself, “I’m home.”
And in that moment, he finally believed it.