"Can you please stop?" she said quietly, her eyes fixed on the untouched food in front of her.

"Hm?" I looked up, half a smile forming—until her chair scraped back against the floor. The sound was sharp, slicing through the quiet like a blade.

When she lifted her head and met my eyes, I wished she hadn't. Not because I didn't crave her gaze; but because what stared back wasn't her. It was grief wearing her face, hollowed and trembling, a storm I'd helped create.

"Can you please stop making me feel guilty, Taehyung?" she said, leaning forward, her palms braced against the table. Her voice cracked, splintering mid-sentence into a sob that tore through the silence.

Tears spilled fast-hot, desperate, uncontrolled. Her shoulders trembled as she held her arms like she needed to keep herself from falling apart. "This—this isn't something I can control!"

"I'm not trying to—" I tried to explain.

"I am trying!" she shouted, cutting me off, her words shaking. "I'm trying so damn hard to be okay, to not fall apart every single day—and you—" she broke off, her breath hitching, "you keep doing this. Smiling. Talking. Acting like a dinner, a few questions, a bit of hope will fix any of this!"

Her spoon clattered against the plate, a metallic sting that made me flinch. Then, in a blur of anguish, she swept her arm across the table. The plate crashed to the floor, shattering into a thousand white shards. Sauce splattered, red and raw against the tiles like a wound laid open.

"I don't want this!" she screamed, her voice hoarse, breaking into pieces. "I don't want any of this! I don't want your stupid 'how was therapy?'—it wasn't great! It's never great!"

The words hit like rain on bare skin—cold, relentless, impossible to shield from. I swallowed hard, my throat closing around the words I couldn't say.

"I just... wanted us to have dinner..." I whispered. My voice barely carried over the sound of her breathing—ragged, uneven, shattering.

"For God's sake, stop making me feel like the bad one here!" she cried, her voice breaking into shards. "I lost my baby! And you—you didn't even think twice before trading it!"

The world tilted. Her words struck clean through the air, right through me. The breath left my lungs, leaving only silence and the slow sting of tears.

I had blamed myself a thousand times before; but hearing it from her mouth... it was like being gutted all over again. Maybe this was what she'd been holding in all this time. Maybe this was the only way it could come out—bloody and honest.

"It was mine too, love," I said, my voice barely a whisper. My throat burned, my chest tight with everything I hadn't said. "It was mine too."

She froze.
The tremor in her body stopped, her breath caught mid-sob. And for the first time in months, she looked at me—really looked. The distance, the resentment, the wall—it flickered, thinned. Her eyes softened just enough to see me.

And in that tiny pause, we both saw it—the wreckage between us. The floor, scattered with broken porcelain. Dinner bleeding red into the tiles. A reflection of everything we'd become; shattered and unfixable, yet still here.

Then she turned. Slowly. Too calmly. The quiet in her movement scared me more than her screaming ever had.

My heart kicked against my ribs. "Y/N?" I called softly.

No answer.

She moved with purpose, like a sleepwalker following a familiar path. When she opened the cabinet and reached for a small blue jar—the one we'd both forgotten, or pretended to—I felt the blood drain from my body.

"Y/N." My voice was nothing but air.

She circled it's cap.

"Y/N—NO." The words tore out of me as I lunged forward, panic blotting out reason. I grabbed for it, desperate, my fingers clenching hers.

Her voice came out in a whisper that scraped raw: "Please, Taehyung... let me. I can't do this anymore. Just let me die." Her hands shook, but her grip was iron, knuckles white as she held the jar close to her chest.

"No!" I shouted, the word shaking. I hurled the jar across the kitchen—it hit the floor with a dull thud and rolled under the counter, out of sight.

"Let me go!" she screamed, fighting me, her sobs dissolving into broken gasps. "Please, just let me—let it stop!"

I pulled her into my arms, gripping her so tightly I could feel her heartbeat pounding against mine. She struggled at first—wild, desperate—but her strength broke quickly, collapsing into me.

"Y/N!" I whispered, my voice trembling as I pressed my face to her hair. "Please. Please come back. Don't leave me too. I can't—I can't lose you."

She sagged in my arms, her body heavy and trembling. Then the dam burst.
Her sobs came deep and raw, shaking through both of us—no longer a cry for help, but a release, an exhaustion that had nowhere left to hide.

"I'm sorry," she gasped, her words wet and broken. "I'm so sorry, Taehyung. I'm the worst. I don't deserve your love. I don't deserve you."

I sank down to the floor with her, the cold tile biting into my knees. I held her tighter, burying my face in her shoulder. "Don't ever say that again," I whispered fiercely. "Don't ever."

She cried harder, her hands clutching at my t-shirt like she was drowning.

"I lost a part of myself too," I said, the truth spilling out before I could stop it. My voice cracked, small and honest. "I thought I had to be strong—for you, for both of us—but I was breaking too, Y/N. I still am."

Something in her shifted then. Her sobs softened—not gone, just quieter. The fight in her body turned into something else; something that felt almost like surrender.

The world around us blurred—the broken dishes, the food, the shadows.
All that remained was the sound of our breathing, the trembling rhythm of two people clinging to what was left.

Grief no longer divided us. It simply sat there, between our shaking hands, no longer a monster but a wound we could finally look at together.

An hour passed. Maybe more. I didn't count. Time lost all meaning the moment I broke, the world freezing in that instant as if it held its breath for us.

The kitchen lay in a graveyard of quiet, the only sounds the faint hum of the fridge and the soft, syncing rhythm of our breathing; his heartbeat steadying from frantic thunder to a quiet anchor against my cheek.

My body ached from the onslaught; crying until my ribs bruised, trembling until my muscles screamed, holding too much grief for too long.

My eyes swelled, tears still pooling in the raw sockets, and my heart lay shattered, but for the first time, the ache was different. Softer. Because it was cradled in the safety of his arms, trying to heal the wound I'd inflicted on us both.

He held me still, wrapped like a fragile butterfly in its cocoon, my trembling form curled against his steady one, his warmth seeping through the cold tiles.

Neither of us had moved since the collapse—since I shattered in his grip and he refused to let go, his embrace a vow against the darkness.

My mind was eerily quiet for the first time in months; too quiet, a void echoing with the ghost of my accusations, words I couldn't claw back. Shame pressed against my ribs like a fresh bruise, blooming purple and unrelenting.

The floor bit cold against us, but he hadn't let them touch the chill once—his palm cupped over them like a living sock, his skin pressed firm against mine, fighting the frost with quiet defiance.

He sat there too, me cradled in his lap, shoulders hunched protectively, dark hair falling into his eyes. He wore no socks either, his own feet bare and forgotten, but all he cared about was me—even now, in this wreckage of our making.

His touch was steady. Careful. Reverent. As if he couldn't bear a single part of me to hurt anymore. When I'd been the one slashing wounds into him I couldn't even name. Yet here he was, forgiving without a word, and the weight of it made me want to dissolve into vapor, to spare him my poison.

The cold no longer stung; it was eclipsed by guilt, heavier, tightening my throat until breath hurt. How can he still care? How can he still love me when I hated myself deeper than before.

Then the silence fractured.

"Your feet are freezing," he murmured, voice low and hoarse, laced with hesitation, as if afraid to stir the fragile air between us. "Come on... let's go to bed, yeah?" So soft, so tentative, like he wasn't sure I'd follow. And that's what I'd reduced him to—the man whose only crime was loving me too fiercely.

I couldn't answer. My limbs felt leaden, uncooperative, my right to apologies stripped away; for the venom I'd spat, the walls I'd built, the fresh cracks in his already fractured heart.

But when he shifted—one arm sliding around my shoulders, the other under my thighs—I didn't resist. I let him care for me. His strength wasn't forceful; it was quiet, unyielding, coaxing life back into my frozen body.

The world blurred at the edges as he lifted me effortlessly, my cheek brushing his chest where his heart stuttered fast and uneven again, a drumbeat of quiet fear.

He said nothing more, just breathed—slow, deliberate, as if each step up the stairs risked splintering the invisible thread holding us.

In the bedroom, he eased me onto my side of the bed, the pillows warm and yielding against my back. He perched on the edge beside me, but I couldn't look up, couldn't meet his eyes. My head stayed low, gaze fixed on my hands twisting in my lap, his presence a soft, safe weight I didn't deserve.

I felt his gaze begging, pleading for connection, but guilt anchored me—heavy, unforgiving. I didn't merit his care, his patience, his mercy.

"Y/N," he said softly, voice tender, endless patience woven through. "Look at me." His hands enveloped mine, warm and steady.

I shook my head, throat slamming shut. "I can't." Tears clung to my lashes, trembling.

"Please," he whispered, a breath of supplication. "Just look at me."

My lips quivered. "I don't know how to," I choked, voice splintering. "I've hurt you so much. I can't look into your eyes." My body shivered.

Please don't look at me.
Please don't make me look at you.
Please make me.

Silence stretched, taut as a wire. Then, gently—achingly—his fingers brushed my chin, tilting it upward with such reverence it nearly undid me again.

"Then start now," he murmured. "Look at me, love."

And when I did—when my eyes finally met his, tracing the planes of his face—I broke anew. Quietly. Completely. Fresh tears spilled, hot and relentless.

His eyes were swollen too, rimmed red and exhausted, the fatigue carving lines that physically twisted my heart. Tired from me—my silence, my flinches, my cruelty.

The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the man who'd never once skipped shaving, now didn't care because he'd forgotten to live without me. Because of me.

But they were the same eyes from our wedding day, sparkling with forever; the same that gazed at me before our first kiss, soft with wonder; the same I'd drowned in tears just moments ago. And they looked at me now—with love unbroken, fierce even when I'd rendered myself unworthy.

Don't.

"How can you still love me?" I whispered, words quaking as they escaped. "After everything, Taehyung. Why?"

He shook his head, the ghost of a smile haunting his lips, voice raw when he spoke. "Because ever since I swore to be yours, that's the only thing I know how to do, love."

He pressed our joined hands together, an anchor in the storm. "There's nothing to hate about you. Nothing."

"Didn't you hate me? Even once?" I pressed, desperate for a fracture in his devotion.

He shook his head, tears brimming, spilling over. Then, voice quiet but resonant like a midnight confession: "I only hated myself." His gaze dropped to our hands. "For becoming the man you were trying so hard not to hate."

His words shattered something inside me, a silent fracture that reverberated through my bones. My chest tightened, each breath a jagged effort, as if my lungs had forgotten how to expand.

Without thinking, I surged into his arms, my own wrapping around his neck as sobs tore through me, raw and hysterical.

"Taehyung..." His name scraped my throat, raw with ache, a plea and a prayer in one syllable.

He didn't pull away. His hands found my back, tracing slow, steady circles, grounding me in their warmth. It was the same tenderness I'd spent months dodging—because it mirrored everything I'd destroyed, every fragile piece of us I'd let slip through my fingers.

"I'm sorry, Taehyung," I choked out, my voice splintering like brittle glass. I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, my hands trembling as they clutched his. "I'm so, so sorry."

He didn't interrupt. He never did. His silence was a sanctuary, his gaze steady, absorbing every fractured word I offered.

"I forgot how to walk out of that hospital room," I whispered, the memory clawing at me. "I stood there, and everything... stopped. Time, sound, me. I couldn't carry my own grief, let alone yours."

The words spilled in fragments, tangled with hiccups and tears. "I never hated you. Not for a second. I just didn't know how to say I loved you—for choosing me that day. For saving me when I didn't even want to be saved."

His hand lifted, his thumb brushing away the tears that carved rivers down my cheeks. The touch was feather—soft, yet it anchored me, tethering me to the moment. I leaned into it, my body aching with the desperate need to stop fighting, to let the walls I'd built crumble.

"I'm sorry for what I did earlier," I murmured, my voice barely audible. "I don't even know how it happened. It wasn't planned—I just... I couldn't bear us breaking in silence anymore."

His fingers slid to my jaw, cupping it with a care that felt like forgiveness. His touch was a quiet promise, steadying me when I felt like I might unravel.

"You didn't break us." he said, his voice soft but unyielding, like a candle flame in a storm.

A shaky breath escaped me, my shoulders trembling under the weight of his words. He leaned closer, his forehead pressing against mine, the contact warm and delicate, a fragile bridge spanning the chasm between us.

In that moment, I understood: it wasn't forgiveness that healed. It was being seen—completely, painfully, truthfully seen.

His breath trembled against my lips, warm and uneven. "We'll find a way back," he whispered, his voice a thread of hope woven through the quiet. "Even if it's slow. For now, I'm just glad we're acknowledging."

I closed my eyes, tears still falling, but they no longer seared. They felt like release, like rain washing away ash. I nodded, the motion small but certain, and sank into his embrace again. He let us collapse onto the mattress, our bodies folding into each other, weightless yet anchored.

He drew me gently against his chest, my cheek resting where his heartbeat pulsed, steady and unwavering. His arms encircled me—not to claim, not to mend, but to hold. To remind me we were still here, that we had always been here, even in the ruins.

__________________

—6 months later, April 2014.

After that night, days blurred past us like seasons; but not the natural kind. These were the seasons of feelings: sometimes pain, sometimes fleeting happiness, and sometimes that thick, suffocating sorrow we tried to share.

We weren't trying to return to our lives—we were trying to return to ourselves. And somehow, we did. It wasn't fast; healing never is. It came slow, like sunlight creeping its way through grey clouds after a storm that had frozen the world for decades.

Some days, healing meant waking up next to him and daring myself to stay in his arms for just five minutes longer. And he never once complained, never pulled away, never woke up before me.

He simply let me try, to reclaim my right to the warmth that had always been mine. It wasn't grand or special to anyone else, but for us, it was a beginning.

Other times, healing came when he took me out—not for therapy, not for company, but simply to breathe. He knew I hated being caged between four walls, even if I'd chosen them myself to rot quietly in guilt.

So, he would just take my hand and walk beside me through quiet streets at night, along the empty beach, saying little, but giving everything.

I made him breakfast sometimes, tea other times. He worked from home mostly, so I got to spend hours just being near him.

Slowly, I started staying around him without needing to do anything—just existing wherever he was: working, cooking, resting. That's how I found my way back to him—by being present, by letting him care for me, touch me, hold me... and in that, he found pieces of healing for himself too.

Therapy helped as well. It didn't feel as heavy as before, maybe because Taehyung was with me this time. We attended couple's therapy together, learning to understand each other's pain, to give space and time instead of distance and silence.

We didn't hide from our past anymore. We faced it. We spoke about it—how it hurt, how it shaped us; and sometimes we cried, sometimes we smiled through the tears. But it was beautiful, that raw honesty, after so long.

We'd even rewatch the vlogs we had recorded for our baby. We'd smile, we'd ache, we'd let the memories play again—but now, they didn't haunt us. They healed us.

It was Taehyung who suggested donating the baby things we had bought to the adoption centre. He wanted to keep only a few things—the camera, the pregnancy kit, the first sonogram, and the stuffed duck plushie—at the memorial home, so we could visit every year and cherish what once was.

Later, he even took an adoption centre under his company's wing, to help children there and support them.

Healing, I've learned, isn't about forgetting pain. It's about finding little sparks of happiness within it—learning to live gently again.

It didn't mean that I didn't miss my baby. I did. I missed how we could've been playing with our little one if only it had the chance to survive, how we could've named it, cradled it, been parents to a little version of both of us.

I've stopped asking why it happened and started whispering thank you for the little time it was ours—for the heartbeat we heard, the dreams we built, even if they never reached tomorrow. Some days I still ache, but the ache no longer devours me. It simply exists, quietly, beside my love for it.

It's been six months since that night—since I broke down in his arms after hurting him, six months since he promised me us back.

And tonight, I was making myself a sweet snack after dinner, waiting for Taehyung to come back home. Nothing had really changed, honestly—but it felt good to fall back into a routine again.

The kitchen was quiet, except for the soft simmering sound from the pan as I deep-fried the churros I'd started craving halfway through a drama playing on the TV.

The scent of cinnamon and sugar lingered in the air, wrapping the room in warmth. I turned off the stove, dipped the golden strips into the sugar mixture, and hummed absentmindedly along to the OST drifting from the living room.

Then, I heard the faint beep of the entrance sensor, followed by the soft thud of shoes on the floor. I didn't need to turn around. Of course it was him. Taehyung was home.

I smiled without meaning to, continuing to coat the churros as his quiet presence filled the space. But before I could turn, I felt him step up behind me.

His arms slipped around my waist, pulling me gently against him, and his face buried into the crook of my neck with a low hum. His skin was warm, his touch a little clumsy and still, it made my heart race like the first time.

My smile brightened... until the sharp scent of alcohol reached me. I blinked, half amused, half caught off guard.

"Are you drunk?" I asked, laughing softly, pressing a finger under my nose. I'd known he'd be drinking at the event, but I hadn't expected this.

Taehyung let out a small, guilty sound, pressing his cheek to my shoulder. The faint scent of wine mingled with his cologne. "Mm," he hummed, smiling against my skin like a boy caught red-handed. "A lil... bit."

He raised his hand to show me the approximate amount of his crime—his fingers wobbling in the air.

I rolled my eyes but couldn't fight the smile that tugged at my lips. "That's a little bit?"

He nodded confidently, cheeks flushed cherry-red. "I bragged about you," he slurred, words tumbling out, "and I kept drinking, and drinking, and drinking..."

His voice faded under the weight of his own confession. I shook my head in disbelief, amused.

I reached for a churro, dipped it into a scoop of strawberry ice cream—half-melted into a milkshake—and turned in his hold to feed it to him. "Here." I said, holding it up.

He blinked slowly, eyes glassy but impossibly soft—so soft—before leaning forward and taking the bite like an obedient child. He chewed, gaze fixed on me instead of the food.

"Well?" I prompted, raising a brow.

"Well?" he echoed, smiling stupidly.

"How is it?"

"Good." he murmured, the faintest curve of a smile at his lips. He kept looking at me like I was something sacred.

"Really?" I teased.

"Really." he chuckled, though it came out breathy and uneven.

I shook my head, laughing under my breath. He clearly had no idea what he'd just eaten—he was too busy staring at me like I was the moon in a night sky only he could see.

I turned back to the counter and took a bite myself. It wasn't bad, honestly—though the ice cream could've used a little more time in the freezer.

Taehyung didn't move. His arms only tightened around me, palms spreading over my stomach, his breath warm against my skin. "I love you." he said suddenly, his voice small but steady, threading through the quiet.

I smiled softly, leaning back into him. "I love you too."

"I really love you." he whispered again, slower this time, as if each word needed to find its way into me. He kissed my shoulder once, then again, like a puppy too in love to stop himself.

I stilled, my heart thudding fast. He had no idea what he was doing to me—how his slurred sincerity broke me open in the sweetest way. The way he held me— heavy, safe, trembling—made me want to melt right into him, to disappear inside the warmth of us.

"Alright," I breathed out a small laugh, turning slightly to cup his flushed face. "Now—"

"Thank you." he interrupted softly.

I blinked, surprised. "For what?"

"For everything," he said, voice low, stripped of drunken humor. "Just... everything."

The silence that followed was tender—thick with meaning, with peace. I didn't know what to say, but maybe I didn't have to. Sometimes, just being was enough.

Then I heard the soft rustle of fabric, the shuffle of his feet, and a familiar tune started playing from his phone—a lazy jazz melody curling through the room. He set it on the counter and turned to face me, holding out his hand with that boyish, lopsided smile that always undid me.

"Dance with me." he said.

"Taehyung?"

He didn't let me finish. His fingers caught mine—steady and sure. I laughed and let him pull me in. The churros and melting ice cream were forgotten as we swayed in the middle of our small kitchen, bare feet brushing against cool tiles, his forehead resting against mine.

He hummed along to the rhythm; offbeat, clumsy, but it didn't matter. We were moving. Together.

After a while, he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. "I really love you." he said, trembling just enough to shatter something inside me.

I felt him smile against my skin, breath shaky, before he pressed his forehead to my shoulder, hiding there like it was the only safe place left in the world.

I chuckled softly, running my fingers through his hair. "You're cute when you're drunk." I whispered, my voice catching with affection.

He only tightened his arms around me, breathing me in. And I let him—let us stay like that—two souls swaying to quiet music, the night folding gently around us, warm and endless.

-------------

Getting Taehyung to the bedroom was like trying to guide a sleepy cat who thought he was a golden retriever. He refused to leave the kitchen, stubbornly sitting on the floor and dozing off between laughs, as if gravity had personally offended him.

I had to drag him up—literally. He kept tripping over his own feet, giggling softly to himself as though the floor was playing tricks. His arm hung heavy and warm around my shoulders, his breath tinged with wine and laughter. And still, even with the smell of alcohol clinging to him, I adored him.

When we finally reached the bed, I made him sit. But before I could even straighten up, he leaned forward, eyes half-lidded and soft, trying to steal a kiss.

I pressed my palm against his cheek, pushing him back. “You reek of alcohol, Taehyung. Brush your teeth.”

He grinned like a five-year-old caught stealing cookies. “I brushed them this morning…” he mumbled.

“Then brush them again tonight.”

He pouted, lips jutting out adorably, but I was already loosening his tie, laughing under my breath at the ridiculous mess he was. “Do you want to shower before you pass out?” I asked, tugging at his sleeve.

He looked up at me through sleepy lashes, the corners of his mouth curling into that lazy grin that could undo entire galaxies. “Only if you’re joining.”

I gave him a flat look. “No.”

He laughed, a sound so boyish and unguarded it almost made me give in. Almost. I shook my head and guided him toward the bathroom anyway.

Inside, he obediently stepped under the shower, still chuckling as the first rush of water hit him. I leaned against the sink counter, arms folded, watching him blink through the droplets. He ran his hands through his wet hair like he was in a slow-motion commercial—all smug and gorgeous in the most absurd way.

When he caught me staring, his lips quirked. “Like what you see?”

I raised a brow. “Not my first time seeing anything, you know.”

He gasped dramatically. “Wow. That’s offensive.” Then, with a perfect pout, “Does that mean you’re bored of me?”

I turned off the shower and tossed a towel straight at his face. “Dry yourself before I dunk your head in cold water.”

His laughter came muffled through the towel. “You love me.” he said, voice teasing.

“Barely tolerating you right now.” I muttered, though my smile betrayed me.

I left him to clean up and went to the kitchen to make him warm honey water. By the time I returned, he was dressed in his sleep shirt, his hair damp and clinging to his forehead. He sat cross-legged on the bed, rubbing his eyes like a sulky child who didn’t want to sleep yet.

“Here,” I said softly, handing him the cup. “Drink.”

He obeyed for once, taking small, careful sips—eyes on me the entire time. Tired. Glassy. But filled with a kind of tenderness that made my chest ache.

I grabbed a towel and gently patted his hair dry, the quiet rhythm filling the space between us. Then, just as the silence began to settle, he leaned forward and nuzzled into my stomach like a sleepy cat searching for warmth.

“Tae,” I laughed, feeling the tickle of his breath through the fabric of my shirt. But he only hummed, voice muffled.

He wrapped his arms around my waist, still clutching the half-empty cup. “You’re so soft…” he mumbled, slurring the words slightly.

“Stop talking and drink.” I scolded lightly, brushing my fingers through his hair.

He tilted his head back, his eyes hazy and shining, his smile slow and devastatingly tender. “Can’t,” he whispered. “You’re distracting.”

Before I could roll my eyes, he leaned in and pressed a small, clumsy kiss to my stomach—gentle, warm, and full of unspoken love. It stole my breath for a heartbeat.

I sighed, half exasperated, half melting. My fingers slid through his damp hair. “You’re impossible.”

He grinned against me. “Mm,” he murmured, “but I'm cutee.”

I didn’t bother to argue. Instead, I cupped his jaw, tilted his face up, and kissed him—soft, certain, full of every quiet truth we’d ever found our way back to.

Because yes. I absolutely loved him.

___________________

Epilogue:-

“Why are you looking at me only?” I laughed, pointing at the photo in our wedding album. It was from our engagement day—right after the rings were exchanged, when both families had gathered for a group picture.

Taehyung glanced at it, and a shy smile crept onto his lips. His cheeks bloomed pink as he buried his face halfway into the album like a guilty child.

I chuckled, ruffling his hair. “Oh my God, Kim Taehyung!”

He groaned softly, still grinning. “Alright, fine,” he sighed, sitting up straighter on the sofa, pretending to be serious. “I had a crush on you.” His voice dipped into a playful confession. “Is it wrong to have a crush on your fiancée?”

“No, it’s not,” I teased. “But it is strange that you stared at me in every photo when, at that time, you could barely meet my eyes in person.”

Flipping through the pages, I pointed at the next few pictures, laughing.

Flip. Wedding reception.
Flip. Cake-cutting.
Flip. The pictures which wasn't even ours, we were in the background.
Every single one: his gaze arrowed straight to me.

“Look—You’re looking at me in almost every single one! How did I never notice this before?”

“You were busy being polite to uncles and aunties,” he grumbled, pout in full force. “I had to steal my moments.”

“Oh?” I arched a brow. “So now I’m the rude one?”

He smirked. “Or else what?”

I huffed and turned toward him. “Why do you think I married you? You think I just did it out of pity?”

He looked at me then, his eyes catching mine with something soft and precious that words couldn’t quite name. “You had a crush on me too?”

“Maybe,” I drawled, leaning in until our noses brushed. “Guess we’ll never know.”

He gasped, theatrical. “Playing hard to get after a whole marriage? Rude.” then sulked looking away.

I leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. It made him smile, and I swear, that same blush from the photo returned to his face.

“By the way,” I said, flipping the album shut, “why aren’t there any pictures of you from your teenage years?”

“Because,” he said simply, “I never took any.”

“Liar.” I squinted at him. “Who doesn’t take pictures in their teens?”

“An. Extremely. Handsome. Boy.”

I rolled my eyes so hard it almost hurt.

“Your mom must have them.”

“Do not call her,” he pleaded. “You’ll laugh for a decade.”

“Brace-face? Bowl cut? Let me guess—frosted tips?”

He clutched his heart. “Bad face-card does not exist in Kim genes.” he tried to cover up but I was already reaching for my phone.

He tackled me sideways, album sliding to the rug. We landed in a tangle of limbs and laughter, the kind that starts in the belly and ends in tears.

“Truce?” he wheezed, pinning my wrists.

“Only if you admit teen Taehyung wore eyeliner.”

A horrified pause. “…It was one time.”

I howled. He silenced me the best way he knew—lips on mine, slow and syrupy, until the room tilted and the years collapsed into this single, sunlit moment.

When we broke apart, foreheads touching, he whispered, “Still staring at you.”

I smiled against his mouth, looking up into his gorgeous eyes. “Good. Don’t stop.”

_________________

A/n:- sorry ppl, I was only able to complete one draft. But smile a little ig :)