Chapter Text
The bathroom door finally opens.
She steps back out—wearing the same small smile she always does, even as her heart continues to tremble beneath it.
Felix glances up immediately—but his expression is easy, relaxed, as if nothing heavy ever passed between them. No questions in his eyes. No concern sharpened into worry.
"You took so long," he says lightly, patting the space beside him on the couch. "Come sit here."
She hesitates only a second before walking over.
"My stomach hurt a bit," she says softly, offering the excuse with a small apologetic smile. "Sorry."
Felix's gaze lingers on her face for half a heartbeat longer than necessary.
He knows.
But he doesn't call it out. He doesn't peel back the lie. He just rolls with it—because he knows she won't tell him anything she's not ready to give.
He chuckles quietly instead. "See? That's what happens when you think too much," he says, gently teasing as he shifts closer to her. "Stress always goes straight to the stomach."
She lets out a small laugh this time—lighter, steadier.
"I'm okay now," she says softly. "I already let it out."
He nods, accepting it without pressing, and leans forward slightly, opening something on his phone. Nothing serious. Nothing heavy. Just a silly clip—
a harmless distraction meant to fill the space with sound again, to give both of them somewhere soft to land.
"No worries," he says easily. "Let's just relax for a bit, yeah?"
She watches. Listens. Lets him guide the moment without forcing it.
He lets a comfortable silence stretch between them—long enough to breathe—before speaking again, his tone quieter now.
"I was thinking..." he says casually. Then softer, more careful. "Maybe later, when I get back..."
He tilts his head closer, lowering his voice like it's a secret meant only for her.
"Let's go out for a bit? Nothing fancy."
His eyes flick toward hers with familiar spark that always shows when he's planning something just for the two of them.
She meets his gaze without meaning to, the corner of her smile lifting as she listens.
"I'll take you to that street near the river," he continues, a faint smile forming. "The one with the tteokbokki stalls."
She blinks at him. "Tteokbokki?"
Then, mock-accusing—"That's spicy."
He laughs immediately, shaking his head. "Don't worry," he says easily. "I'm not plotting anything again."
A beat—then, softer, amused. "I just want to test my limits too."
She chuckles, the sound light, easing into the image he's painting.
"And after that... there's a hill nearby. Quiet place. No fans. No noise."
His voice dips, gentle and sincere.
"Just the wind, city lights... and us."
She asks quietly, the smile on her lips a little too quick, a little too practiced.
"What time will you come home tonight?"
Felix hums softly, fingers still tracing that absent rhythm against her back.
"Hmm... probably around nine," he says gently. "Chan wants to go over one track again—you know how that goes."
A small chuckle slips out, and he squeezes her hand, grounding.
"But I won't stay longer than that. I'll drive straight home."
"Okay," she says quickly, nodding. "Then, let's go tonight."
Then, lightly—too lightly—"Do I need to cook dinner too?"
Felix smiles and he shakes his head.
"Tteokbokki's enough for me," he adds with a small grin. "Unless you want something else. We can just check the stalls there."
Then his voice softens into care.
"I want you to relax tonight. No cooking, no cleaning—no thinking too much."
His thumb brushes her knuckles, steady and sure.
"Just be with me. That's all I want."
Mae nods, her voice gentle but practical.
"Okay. But I'll still prepare hot chocolate. It's already colder now compared to when we went out by the Han River."
She adds after a beat, already thinking ahead, "And I'll prepare a blanket for us too."
Felix lets out a soft laugh under his breath.
"Hot chocolate sounds perfect," he says, calm and tender. "You and your little cozy setups..."
He shakes his head slightly, smiling. "You really think of everything. Blanket, drink, warmth—I don't even have to ask."
Mae laughs softly, memories surfacing.
"Last time at the Han River, we almost went home at midnight. You were freezing, half asleep beside me—and we didn't bring anything."
She exhales, thoughtful now. " If we stay up the hill for a while, we need to prepare better. I'll get everything ready before you come home."
"You always think ahead," he says warmly. "Even when you should be resting."
He smiles faintly. "I still remember that night. The wind, the quiet... and you beside me. Imperfect—but real."
A quiet chuckle escapes her before she speaks again, "By the way... how long do you think we'll be out? You still have a schedule tomorrow."
Felix looks at her then—really looks. When he finally speaks, his tone is easy, reassuring.
"Tomorrow's light," he answers. "Just a short studio schedule."
He checks the time briefly, then slips his phone away.
"I'll make sure we're back before midnight. Plenty of time to walk, eat, and still slow down before tomorrow."
He leans a little closer, voice dropping.
"I don't want to rush tonight. I want it to feel slow... like we don't have anywhere else to be."
His thumb brushes the back of her hand, grounding.
"So even if it's just an hour or two up there—it'll be ours."
She glances at the clock, then back at him, a small smile playing on her lips.
"The tteokbokki, the hill, and us," she says lightly. "So make it memorable, okay? So I can bring it up again."
A playful smile follows.
"And if I cry over the tteokbokki again," he adds lightly, "at least the stars will be witnesses."
She squints at him immediately.
"You said no plotting!"
Felix laughs, holding up his hands in surrender.
"I didn't say anything," he insists. "What are you thinking?"
He tilts his head, completely innocent.
"I just said the stars would witness me crying over tteokbokki. Not... something else."
She narrows her eyes, lips twitching despite herself.
"Liar."
His grin widens.
"See? You're the one plotting now."
For a brief moment, the teasing settles into something softer—an unspoken pause where laughter fades and feeling takes its place.
Then, quieter, she says,
"I'll wait for you."
Felix's expression softens completely. He reaches out, thumb brushing her hand before resting there.
He glances at the clock again, then back to her.
"Prepare whatever you think we need, love. Just don't tire yourself out."
"Okay, love," Mae says, smiling as she squeezes his hand back.
"You should get ready now."
Felix lets his fingers linger in hers for a moment longer before he finally nods, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he squeezes her hand back.
"Yeah..." he murmurs softly, his gaze still fixed on her. "I should go get ready."
But he doesn't stand right away.
Instead, he stays there for a few seconds, studying her face as if he's trying to commit this exact moment to memory before he finally lets go.
"I'll finish quick," he promises, his voice carrying that quiet blend of focus and tenderness that is unmistakably him. "The studio won't take too long today. You won't be waiting long, love."
He leans forward and presses a soft kiss to her forehead, unhurried, affectionate. When he pulls back, that familiar smile returns—the one that always feels like home.
✦──• • •❀✧❀ MAE POV ❀✧❀• • •──✦
When the door finally closes behind him—after he checks his pockets, ties his shoes, presses a soft kiss to my forehead—the sound lands heavier than it should.
The apartment goes quiet.
Not the comforting kind of quiet I've grown used to when he leaves for work—but something denser, like the air itself has stalled.
I stand there longer than necessary, eyes fixed on the door even after the echo of his footsteps disappears down the hallway. And then it hits me—that familiar ache, sharp and dull at the same time. Love and guilt folding together in my chest until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
He's doing everything right.
He reassures me. He makes time. He softens himself around me despite a body that already carries too much—long schedules, long drives, pain he manages quietly. A herniated disc he never complains about, only works around. Therapy appointments he still goes to. Rest he rarely takes unless I remind him.
He loves me.
Of that, I'm certain.
So why does it still hurt?
Why does it feel like something is missing when I can't even name it?
Maybe it's because I see how much he already carries—and I'm terrified of becoming another weight. Another thing he has to protect. Another adjustment his body has to make space for.
Maybe it's because I'm living inside a home he prepared, surrounded by traces of him, and still feel like I'm standing on borrowed ground—careful not to shift anything too far out of place.
I don't want to be ungrateful.
But the truth settles quietly, honestly: this love makes me feel safe and afraid at the same time. Safe, because he is gentle in a way that feels rare. Afraid, because I'm falling deeper every day—and still don't know how to ask for help without feeling like I'm asking for too much.
He already gives so much. Emotionally. Patiently. Physically.
And there's still a part of me he can't see.
The part that worries about money. About legality. About what happens when he returns fully to his world and I'm left here trying to survive quietly, invisibly—counting groceries, counting days, counting how much I'm allowed to need.
I sink onto the couch and pull a pillow into my chest. It still smells faintly of his cologne—warm, familiar—and that alone is enough to make my eyes sting.
I hate myself for crying.
For feeling this way when I should be happy.
But I can't stop.
Because loving someone this deeply doesn't always erase loneliness. Sometimes it sharpens it—turning every unspoken thought into something that aches to be heard, even when I'm too afraid to say it out loud.
I sit there, knees drawn close, my phone warm in my hands.
The screen lights up—and there it is.
That photo.
The stolen one.
His half-smile caught mid-moment. The soft blur at the edges. The way our heads lean almost together, like the rest of the world didn't exist for that second.
My chest tightens—not painfully. It's the kind of ache that reminds me why I love him. Because even in something this small, he makes me feel seen.
I swipe, and the pinky-promise photo fills the screen. The light hits just right—his thumb curved slightly over mine, the faint tension in his grip, like even frozen in time he's saying, don't let go.
Carry it together.
I stare at it for a long time.
That promise is both my comfort and my dilemma.
I want to believe it applies to everything—that it means this too. My worries. My needs. The helplessness I keep folding smaller so it won't press against his already aching back, his already tired body.
But it isn't that simple.
I don't want him to feel burdened.
I don't want him to think I'm asking because I can't stand on my own.
I just... want him to notice.
My thumb hovers over the photo, tracing our joined hands.
Maybe tonight.
Maybe just groceries.
That's not too much, right?
That's normal. That's what couples do—share what's needed without turning it into something heavy.
I take a slow breath.
Yeah. I can ask for that much.
Just groceries.
I whisper it to myself, like I'm practicing the words before they matter:
"Love... can we buy groceries tomorrow?"
It sounds small. Ordinary.
But to me, it feels like asking the world.
I nod faintly, trying to convince myself.
"Just groceries," I murmur again. "That's all."
Because even if I'm not his wife—
even if my name isn't written on any of his things—
I'm still here.
Holding the same promise.
And maybe... maybe that's enough to start with tonight.
✦──• • •♡✦♡ FELIX POV ♡✦♡• • •──✦
The drive to the studio feels longer than usual.
The road blurs past the windows, but my thoughts stay behind—at lunch, at her voice, at the way she smiled like she always does, even when something was clearly sitting heavier underneath.
She laughed. She always laughs.
But today, it sounded... careful.
The way she joked about us not surviving if we only talked and laughed—it wasn't really a joke. It felt like a door half-opened, something she wanted me to notice without having to say it out loud.
At a red light, I stop, fingers tightening slightly around the steering wheel.
She's not talking about food.
I know that now.
She's talking about us. About standing beside me and still feeling like she has to do everything on her own. About this place that's supposed to be home, but maybe still feels like mine more than hers.
I saw it—the glance toward the fridge, the way her smile slipped for just a second before she looked back down. It was worry.
It wasn't also about the bibimbap memory. It wasn't just nostalgia.
And I hate that I didn't know how to reach it without making her pull back even more.
She tries so hard not to lean. Not to ask. Like depending on me would somehow take something away instead of letting me give it.
What she doesn't realize is that I want her to lean.
That it wouldn't be a burden. That it would be a relief.
Maybe I've been telling myself that being there—laughing with her, making time, holding her when I can—is enough.
Maybe it isn't.
She deserves more than warmth.
She deserves to feel secure. To feel like she belongs without having to earn it.
The light turns green.
I press the gas, the engine steady beneath my hands.
That's why I suggested the hill. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere just ours. No pressure. No explanations. Just space to breathe—together.
I'll make her laugh tonight. I'll hold her hand in the cold. I'll remind her, in every small way I can—
She's not a guest in my life.
She is my life.
"Tonight," I murmur to myself as the road opens ahead.
"I'll make sure she remembers that."
·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·