Wonbin’s POV
I don’t remember when the silence started feeling comfortable.
Maybe it was the third red light we stopped at.
Maybe it was when I realized Jihan hadn’t pulled away when our knees brushed.
Or maybe it was the way he kept glancing at me like he wanted to say something and didn’t trust himself to.
The car is quiet, but not empty.
His scent fills the space like it belongs here—like it’s always belonged here.
Soft, warm, faintly sweet, layered with something nervous underneath.
I don’t even have to look at him to know he’s thinking too much.
Jihan always does that.
His fingers fidget when his mind runs faster than his heart.
His lips press together when he’s holding something in.
I glance at him anyway.
He’s looking out the window, city lights painting his face gold and blue in passing flashes.
There’s a small smile there, fragile and fleeting, like he’s already preparing to miss this moment before it’s even gone.
And it hits me, sharp and sudden:
He thinks this is temporary.
The thought sits heavy in my chest.
“My mom would be so surprised,” I say, partly to fill the space, partly because I need to hear my own voice remind me this is real.
That I didn’t imagine him saying yes.
That he’s actually here.
He blinks, looks at me, that polite softness settling into his expression like a habit he can’t unlearn.
“Thank you,” he says when I open the door for him.
Always thank you.
Always careful.
Always like he’s afraid of taking up space.
“No problem,” I reply, too quickly, because if I linger on the way he says my name in that quiet tone, I might lose my grip on everything I’m trying so hard not to want.
Walking him to the entrance feels strangely ceremonial.
Like bringing someone home when you already know they belong there—even if the world says they don’t.
“Mom, I’m home.”
I barely finish the sentence before everything shifts.
My mother freezes the second she sees him.
And then she’s moving—fast, emotional, unmistakably hers.
“Jihan-ah!”
She hugs him like she’s been waiting for this moment, and something in my chest loosens even as it tightens painfully at the same time.
Jihan melts into it instinctively, like he remembers this kind of warmth.
Like he’s missed it.
“Omg, I missed you so much,” my mom says, pulling back just enough to scan his face.
“What happened to you? Your grandma said you were sick.”
Jihan smiles.
That shy, practiced smile.
The one he uses when he doesn’t want to worry anyone.
I know it too well.
I’ve always known it too well.
This should be simple.
He’s my brother’s fiancé.
He’s not mine.
That night was a mistake.
A blur.
A drunken, reckless lapse I should’ve buried and never looked back on.
But here he is.
Standing in my house.
Laughing with my mother.
Wearing that sweater I once complimented without thinking—and which he now seems to wear more often.
I tell myself he probably doesn’t even think about that night anymore.
I tell myself he’s fine.
I tell myself I should be, too.
“Did you eat already?” my mom asks.
He shakes his head.
“No.”
“What? Why? Didn’t Wonbin take you out?” she turns to me accusingly.
Jihan chuckles softly.
“No, he said the food here is great.”
I scoff.
“Why did that sound so wrong? He wanted homemade Korean food, Mom.”
She laughs.
Jihan laughs.
And suddenly it feels… domestic.
Easy.
Like this could’ve been normal in another life.
When she mentions kimchi jjigae and dakjuk, I notice the way Jihan’s shoulders relax just a bit.
Comfort food.
Familiar food.
I file it away automatically—like I always do with him.
At the table, though, something’s off.
He sits straighter than usual.
His gaze flicks toward the doorway more than once.
His hands stay folded in his lap.
“Hey,” I murmur, leaning closer.
“You okay?”
He sighs quietly.
“My bodyguards haven’t eaten since this morning. We were at the hospital.”
Relief washes through me so fast it almost knocks the breath out of my lungs.
“I’ll make sure they eat and rest,” I say immediately.
“You don’t worry.”
The smile he gives me then—small, grateful, real—hits harder than it should. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
When the dakjuk is placed in front of him, he freezes.
He sniffs once.
Then his stomach betrays him loudly.
Both Mom and I speak at the same time.
“Jihan, are you okay?”
“I just… don’t like pepper,” he says apologetically.
“It makes me sick.”
I stare at him.
“You could smell that?”
He nods, sheepish.
Of course he can.
Of course he notices everything.
Of course his body reacts before his mind can soften it.
He tries to eat it anyway.
Of course he does.
“You can’t eat that,” Mom says immediately.
“We’ll make you another serving.”
He pouts slightly, then asks for garlic chips like it’s the most reasonable request in the world.
And I almost lose it.
Because he looks so comfortable.
So at home.
Because my mom admits she craved garlic when she was pregnant with me, and Jihan looks at me like that means something—like we’re suddenly connected by some invisible thread.
When I complain about garlic, he rolls his eyes.
“Even for me, hyung?” he says.
Hyung.
The word lands like a blow.
My mother laughs.
I choke on my drink.
Jihan—completely unaware—just smiles and feeds me garlic chips like it’s nothing.
I don’t realize what’s happening until it’s already too late.
Until I’m chewing.
Until I’m nodding.
Until I’m admitting, “It’s not that bad.”
And he smiles at me.
That soft, devastating smile that says you’d do anything for me without him even knowing he’s asking.
And the worst part?
I would.
Every time.
Even knowing I can’t have him.
Even knowing this will end.
Even knowing he’ll walk away someday and I’ll still remember the way he looked feeding me garlic chips in my mother’s dining room like he belonged here.
Because in that moment—just for a moment—it feels like he does.
And I don’t know how to survive wanting something I’m not allowed to keep.