#20211224

Synopsis: JYP’s most dysfunctional team is back and but not necessarily better. Sequel to Apologies in Advance.

Warning: alcohol, death, knives, murder, poisoning

Word Count:3.5k

Pairing: fem!reader x secret agent!Minho; enemies-to-lovers

The case file became fuel for the fireplace the second you finished reading about the targets: an American couple who allegedly had ties to the Chicago mob. Johnny Suh and Wendy Son-Suh had been on JYP’s radar for years, so once it had been discovered that the couple would be vacationing in the Korean countryside for the winter holidays, you were immediately stationed in the nearby vicinity.

The house for your cover had already been set up with a fully stocked fridge and a selection of vintage wines that would make even the most pretentious connoisseur impressed. Humming appreciatively, you picked up a bottle of red from 1949. With a wine as rare and aged as this, the bitterness of cyanide could be masked as part of the drink.

It was decided then.

After you acquainted yourself with the targets, they would be invited over for a dinner with a lonely vacationer, whereupon they would be served one of the world’s most exquisite wines and die.

The main issue now was convincing them to spend an evening with a stranger.

While you pondered over the best possible strategy, checking around the kitchen and living room to see what weapons the company may have hidden, the sound of footsteps on the front porch made you stop. You stepped down from the chair you were standing on and waited for the sound of the doorbell. Instead, keys jingled.

The house belonged to the company. No one but you should have the keys. If there was another agent stopping by, the case file said nothing about it.

You dropped behind the couch and reached for the vase of fresh flowers on the coffee table. Whoever set up the place did a wonderful job. They knew that you would be knowledgeable enough to recognize that the flowers weren’t just a pretty decoration. Coming into contact with the leaves of the hogweed plant wouldn’t kill a person, but phototoxic dermatitis was still irritating enough that you could grab your syringes and finish the job.

The door swung open, revealing the smug face of Lee Minho, JYP’s best field agent and the person on the top of your hit list.

You threw the vase.

Unfortunately, Minho was the company’s best field agent for a reason. You swore under your breath and got up to greet him with the most neutral face you could muster. He glanced down at the broken glass on the floor before sweeping it aside with his foot.

“Even after all this time, still an amateur field agent,” he smirked. “How you doing, Y/N?”

“I’m a chemist,” you lamely retorted, cheeks growing warmer with each passing second. “Not my job.”

A harsh wind slammed the door closed, making you and the whole building jump. Minho, however, stood solidly in place. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the lab somewhere, inhaling poisonous fumes? What are you even doing here? ”

“I could ask you the same question,” you replied. You crossed your arms, trying to hide yourself from his appraising gaze. The last time you saw him, he abandoned you on the sidewalk after a completed mission. “This place isn’t a safe house anymore, so go hide out somewhere else.”

He rolled his eyes and waved the manila folder in his hands. “I’m here for a mission. Nayeon doesn’t make mistakes, you know.”

“She’s my friend, I know,” you snapped, snatching the case file from him. “You probably read the address wrong because I’m here for a mission.”

Minho loudly sighed as you flipped through the pages, trying to find the listed address. His cover was eerily similar to yours, from being a lonely vacationer to having a wealthy family, and when you finally found the correct page, dread washed over you.

No.

This couldn’t be right.

As if on cue, your phone rang with a call from headquarters.

You put her on speaker, so Minho could hear it from the head case officer herself. “Nayeon, what’s going on?” you asked, hoping that this truly was a mistake.

However, when she cheerfully answered, “Oh, good,” you knew it wasn’t.

“Surprise! The boss thought the last mission you did together went well, so he wanted you two to be paired together again since this is an important one. I knew you two wouldn’t agree to it, so I had to do this instead. I’m really sorry, but I can’t ignore direct orders. I did try to dissuade him, but to quote his email, ‘They’re not that dysfunctional of a team.’” After a few seconds of no response, she continued. “So your new cover is a happily married couple who are also vacationing in the area. Take your time with completing the mission. You have about two weeks before they head back to America. And remember to be discreet. We can’t have the mob and the federal authorities after us.” Then she wished you luck and promised to buy you a week’s worth of coffee before hanging up.

Minho groaned. “Great. I’m stuck with the amateur again.”

You ignored his snide remark and walked back to the wine cabinet for the 1949 red. “We’re finishing this tonight.”

“Obviously. I’m not wasting two weeks with you. Did you bring whatever you used on the last target? We’ll do it the same way, quick and easy.”

You compared the two plans. As much as you hated Minho being right, tetrodotoxin would be quicker and easier than spiking a bottle of wine with cyanide and resealing it. On the last mission, Yoshifumi Shido and his wife Kaguya were dead within seconds when you injected them both with tetrodotoxin, one of the world’s deadliest poison and one that was naturally produced by pufferfish.

Pufferfish sashimi and red wine made for an awfully delicious meal.

While you were busy scouring the markets for the precise species of pufferfish you desired, Minho was tasked with getting an invitation to the targets’ vacation home. Your original plan of having the Suhs over was considered indiscreet. You reluctantly agreed that the authorities finding the corpses of two prominent people on JYP’s property was not ideal. Instead, you would be bringing over a dish.

Minho wasn’t thrilled that the entire scheme hinged on an invite, but Americans were always friendly and eager to open their doors. Besides, the file on Wendy Son-Suh stated that she had a “sophisticated palate” and that she “only ate the finest foods.” If the promise of perfectly prepared torafugu sashimi and a 1949 Domaine Leroy didn’t entice her, then nothing else would.

Fortunately, a fish market nearly an hour away had live tiger pufferfish, and you were able to buy two. You carried the heavy plastic crate into the kitchen yourself even though Minho was already back from his assignment and tousling his hair with all of the self-satisfaction of a cat. However, you noted that the entry way was no longer littered with glass and hogweed.

“Dinner’s at 7,” he announced. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Yeah, thanks so much for your help,” you said as you tapped the side of the crate. The fishes still swam in tiny circles inside, unaware of their fate. You nodded towards the exit. “There’s a mirror missing its egotist.”

“Look who’s got a personal vendetta now. It’s been months since that last mission. Besides, someone came by and picked you up eventually.”

He neglected to clarify how long ‘eventually’ actually was. Since waltzing back into the scene of the crime was not an option, you had to pretend to admire the mansion’s gardens for two hours, in the cold, in those wretchedly high heels wardrobe put you in. The three glasses of champagne you had sipped on, did nothing to help.

The worst part of it all was that you didn’t even get the chance to kill Minho once you got back to headquarters. According to Nayeon, the coward had already picked up a new mission in Singapore.

“Do you think I enjoy working with you?” you spat out, pulling out the nearest drawer with so much force, the utensils inside rattled. There had to be a fuguhiki knife somewhere. “All you do is insult me and talk trash about my field work skills when I know for a fact that you wouldn’t be able to tell poison from antidote even if the vials were labeled. So, Minho, you should really watch your mouth, especially since I’m in charge of dinner tonight.”

He contemplated over your threat, warily eying the wickedly sharp blade you used to cleanly slice off the mouth of the first fish. “Don’t you need a license to prepare pufferfish?”

“You do.” You elected not to mention that you actually have one. It didn’t matter anyway, not when you had to do a poor job and were also planning to inject more tetrodotoxin into the sashimi slices for a quicker kill. “We have to eat it, so they don’t get suspicious. There’s no way around it.”

When he swore, you smiled and made sure that the most dangerous part of the pufferfish, the liver, touched the muscly flesh. Minho set down his bourbon. “You have the antidote, right? It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been unprepared for a mission.”

It was the worst time you heard him sound actually worried, and you relished in his fear. All that arrogance, gone. “Trust me, I’m never unprepared when it comes to poison.”

“I’m serious.”

“I am too. So, Lee Minho” — you pointed the knife at the living room on the other side of the archway — “if you want to survive, get out.”

He obeyed.

However, Minho went back to his typical ways only a half an hour after you threatened him. He sauntered back into the kitchen just as you finished loading up syringes. “I have to admit, you got me good. But I know you won’t kill me. If you kill JYP’s best field agent, you’ll be next.”

“I’m their best chemist,” you pointed out. “They can’t afford to lose both of their best assets.”

“Why don’t we find out then?”

With precision, you injected the poison into the slices. “You won’t be alive when it happens, but sure.”

There were two plates of gossamer-thin pufferfish sashimi but three varying levels of toxicity: one that was deadly, one that was less so, and one that was completely safe. Unfortunately for all the guests in attendance, only you would know which slices were which.

Minho, in his dark green sweater and with a bottle of red wine, looked perfectly festive when he knocked on the door of the targets’ vacation house. You had fantasized how you could weave hogweed leaves into the knit fabric, but he had either buried or burned the flowers. The trash can had yielded nothing but a plastic bag of glass shards.

“Could you stop looking so murderous?” he whispered. “You’re going to blow our cover.”

“Happy wife, happy life,” you replied back, but you still plastered on a smile so sappy, trees would have been jealous. Just he wait.

Soon, Johnny Suh answered the door and welcomed you both inside. Introductions were made, compliments exchanged. Lively music played from the TV along with a video of a roaring fire, giving the impression of a warm home. As you scanned the elegant living room for any weapons, the target laughed merrily at Minho’s cheesy Christmas holiday greeting and clapped him on the back like a stereotypical mobster. He spoke Korean apparently. His surname was Suh after all, but you hadn’t expected his accent to be this good.

After he readily took the wine, the target turned to receive you, his eyes first falling to the dish you brought.

“My wife’s been waiting to try this all day,” he sighed, taking the plates from you. “Wendy, darling!”

At the mention of his wife, Minho snaked his arm around your waist, likely because he realized that the two of you were not being the most picture-perfect couple. After your last cover with him, the feeling wasn’t foreign, but it was still uncomfortable. Your fingers twitched for the security of your syringes.

Minho leaned over to kiss your cheek. The grimace was easy to keep off your face since you had to hide it every time his name was even mentioned, but the gesture reminded you all too well of how your last mission ended. Your body evaded him on its own, but his tight grasp caught you. “Stop,” he hissed between a gentle smile.

For a second, you considered throwing away the plan and killing everyone in the room at once. It would be a bloody scene to clean up, but at least you wouldn’t have to endure any more time with Minho.

“You two look adorable!” cried Wendy Son-Suh. With outstretched arms, she emerged from the dining room and made a beeline for the pufferfish her husband held. “Matching sweaters! We should have done that.”

“It was her idea,” Minho replied, gazing at you with artfully disguised homicidal eyes. “I hope you guys like dinner tonight since that was her idea as well.”

You slapped him “playfully” on the chest. You doubt it hurt him, but catharsis felt good even if it didn’t work. “Speaking of dinner, why don’t we start? Sashimi is only good if it’s fresh.”

There was a chorus of “Of course!” as the targets unknowingly ushered their assassins into the dining room. Wendy Son-Suh hung your purse on the coat rack, and you tried not to appear too uneasy. You had full confidence that your meal was properly overdosed with tetrodotoxin, but a backup plan never hurt. You supposed the company set you up with Minho for a reason though.

He was the backup plan.

The table was already set for four, with a bowl of japchae as the centerpiece. At least there would be something edible tonight.

You took the seat next to Minho and made idle conversation with the targets to avoid speaking to him.

“How did you find pufferfish around here?” Wendy Son-Suh wanted to know, to which you lied about being flown in from your favorite fugu chef in Tokyo. When she asked about the 1949 Domaine Leroy, you lied once more about it being an early Christmas gift from your relatives. She accepted them both. The designer sweaters you and Minho wore must have helped.

Meanwhile, Johnny Suh uncorked the bottle of wine and poured it into glasses for everyone. A toast was made to new friendships, and you hid your impatient expression behind a long sip. No one dared to unwrap the plates; the targets were being polite and waiting for you, and Minho, despite his earlier confidence, seemed too occupied with nursing his drink. Coward.

As such, you did the honors. You had arranged the slices into a large flower, each petal being a thin slice of pufferfish. “If you don’t mind, I’ll serve you all. I have an eye for the best pieces,” you winked.

“She’s an art collector,” Minho added, knowing full well that you knew nothing about art. Johnny Suh, the case file clearly stated, was a major donor to the Art Institute of Chicago and owned a few rare paintings himself. “What’s the name of your favorite piece again? It’s by Picasso, one of his more obscure ones.”

As anticipated, Johnny Suh was eager to hear, and he handed you his dinner plate almost in exchange for this piece of information. “I’m an art lover myself. Which one is it?”

Wendy Son-Suh pushed her plate to you as well, so you busied yourself with choosing the most poisonous slices for them both while trying to figure out how to wriggle out of this conversation. “He’s so forgetful,” you finally decided. “Van Gogh’s Starry Sky is my favorite. I know it’s almost everyone’s favorite, but it’s such a lovely painting.” You pressed your lips together and started serving Minho before he could protest.

“Starry Night, you mean?” the target said.

It was difficult not to smash Minho’s plate over his head. “My husband’s rubbing off on me,” you laugh, hoping that they would buy it. “He calls it by the wrong name every time. Everyone, enjoy!”

Noting that you hadn’t gotten yourself any, Minho reminded, “Don’t forget yourself. This is a delicacy after all.”

“Of course.”

You had laid out the sashimi in a flower configuration not just for aesthetic purposes. The ones in the center had been injected with extra poison, while the outer ring was entirely safe for consumption. The middle ring was what Minho had been served.

After seeing that their guests had food in front of them, the targets ate first, both of them marveling at the tenderness of the fish. In a few minutes, they would be dead. Ingesting poison always took some time. You started on yours as well, relieved that the mission was as good as complete. However, you noticed that Minho was working his way through the japchae despite the delicacies in front of him.

“No need to deprive yourself,” you prodded him. “I know pufferfish is your favorite.”

The targets leapt onto your words, encouraging him to eat more and assuring him there was no need to be polite because “we’re all friends here!” Under the building pressure, Minho finished all of what you had given him.

“Delicious,” he said. He drained his wine as if you had mixed the antidote in the alcohol.

The conversation drifted to future vacation plans, but by the time Johnny Suh was describing the blue waters of the Caribbean, his wife was undergoing some strange symptoms. She sipped on her drink, gripped the edge of the table, and breathed shallowly.

“Call for help,” she managed to get out through her numb lips. Her glass slipped through her fingers. “The— this…”

Unfortunately, her husband was also developing the same symptoms. You ensured that his slices were particularly deadly because of his large build. It was a gesture of kindness, having the couple die together.

“Call for help!” Johnny Suh repeated at you and Minho. You began to clean up the evidence, disposing of yours and Minho’s dinnerware and wiping any surfaces you touched with your sleeve. “What are you do—?”

“Exactly. What are you doing?” you called to Minho, who was now storming to the coat rack. “We have a crime scene to cover up.”

“Where’s the antidote?” he shouted. “How are you even okay? My mouth is on fire.”

Unbothered, you stepped over to the targets slumped over in their chairs. Wendy Son-Suh was no longer alive, and her dear devoted husband cupped his hand over hers as he took one last breath. His lips parted. You didn’t know if it was a curse at you for killing him and his love or at himself for allowing you into his home.

Either way, it didn’t matter.

The mission was complete, and you had gotten your revenge on Minho.

While you staged the dinner scene to appear more natural, you observed him as he emptied the contents of your purse onto the floor, pawing through the mess he made. This was the least composed you had ever seen him. Honestly, it was disgraceful for JYP’s best field agent to be acting in such a way. Didn’t he trust his partner?

“Of course the chemist has poison resistance,” he muttered. He paused on a vial of batrachotoxin, an even deadlier one than tetrodotoxin, before throwing it to the side. “You have it on you, don’t you?”

You laughed, swinging the bag of evidence in your hands. “There’s no antidote for tetrodotoxin.”

“What?”

You shrugged. “I would say ‘I’m sorry,’ but I’m really not. I did consider killing you, but you were right. The company would probably come after me, and I do like my job.” You selected a vial of black powder and set it in front of him. “Your dosage is only enough to procure a tingling sensation, but here’s some activated charcoal if you’re worried. It should be over in a few minutes anyway.”

Minho sighed, and you couldn’t tell if it was relief or exasperation. “For all that you hate me for, at least I haven’t tried to kill you. And I thought I had no morals. Let’s go. I don’t want to waste any more of my life being around you.”

He got up to fix his disheveled appearance. While he was enamored by his reflection in the mirror above the coat rack, tousling and fluffing his hair one way and the other, you picked up a pre-loaded syringe and set it between your fingers. Before he could notice you, you stuck the needle into his exposed forearm and pushed down the plunger.

He yanked his arm back, but it was too late. “Tried to finish the job?” he taunted, but it lacked its usual venom.

“No, it’s just a sedative. It’ll knock you out for a few hours,” you said to his wilting form. Even then, he still had the energy to give you one last glare. “Don’t worry. I’ll call for someone to pick you up, just like you did for me. We’re a team after all.”

~ ad.gray

Description: Y/N and Jisung finally grew to love each other after their arranged marriage. However, not every marriage gets a happily ever after. Sequel to Even If Things Were Different.

Warning:miscarriage

Word Count: 1.9k

Pairing:fem!reader x Han Jisung

“THAT’S MY WIFE! THAT’S MY WIFE! PLEASE, I— THAT’S MY WIFE!” 

Jisung thrashes and thrashes, but the police firmly hold him back. People are talking over radios and cars are honking in traffic on the other lanes, but he can still hear every rock your gurney rolls over and every puff of air they squeeze into your lungs. He can barely see you through the swarms of first responders and reporters though. All he can see is your limp arm hanging off the stretcher, your wedding ring staining with blood.

“Please. Please! That’s my wife,” he wails. “That’s my wife. Y/N! Please. Y/N!”

Jisung walks down the hall, looking at the cup of tea in his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots some flashing lights that make him jump and all the hairs on his back stand up.

“Y/N.”

His heart is still pounding in his ears from the scare, but he soon realizes the lights are just from a Christmas tree twinkling in the corner. He sighs and shakes his head before continuing on his way, his shoes clicking against the white tiles with every step.

He slides the door to your room open. The humidifier hums softly. The sheets are spread smoothly over your body. A select stack of books sit neatly on the coffee table. 

It’s quiet. 

He walks over and places the cup on your nightstand. You are turned away from him, and he can’t tell if you are actually sleeping.

“It’s chamomile.”

No response.

He sighs and crawls under the sheets. He wraps his arm around your waist and gently rubs circles on your belly. The skin still resembles an orange peel with all its bumps and crevices. 

“I love you,” he whispers.

He feels you curl up ever so slightly at his words. So you are awake.

“This doesn’t change anything.” He uncurls you so you lay a bit more flush against his chest. You haven’t washed your hair in days, but he still closes his eyes and snuggles his nose into it. He hopes you can feel a second heartbeat in your body again if he holds himself close enough to you.

How did this happen? It’s Christmas Eve. It’s supposed to be merry and bright, so how. How did this happen? 

It was supposed to be a short errand. You were just going to pick up some extra ribbons to wrap up the pacifiers you were going to give your and his parents. Now, there is no more use for those gifts.

He would wish for a Christmas miracle, but there is no point. It’s not as if what has been taken out can go back in. Now, he just wishes you’d talk to him and eat something. He’s never seen you stop for anything—not when you had to get married or even when you threw up every morning—but now you’ve come to a complete halt. It’s so hard to see you like this, and it scares Jisung so much, he hasn’t even had time to cry yet.

“It’s not your fault.” He knows his words are futile, but he has to say them anyway. 

You, of course, remain motionless. He sighs again and lets his mind wander. If anything, it’s his fault. He should have been there. Who would let a woman in your condition drive at night? Sure, it was just a five minute commute, but anything could happen in five minutes, and something did. It’s his fault the hope you’ve been holding onto for five months is now gone. It’s his fault you are now like this. He’s killed your and his dreams. He’s killed the what-if’s. All that’s left now are memories.

He remembers the day you told him the news. You were a little nervous; you weren’t sure how he’d react. He remembers you were happy though. No, that’s an understatement. You were overflowing with so much joy, you could barely contain yourself. Usually, you were calm and composed. That day though, he could tell something was special the moment he stepped through the door.

You greeted him with a smile that made his stomach flutter away. 

“I made lemonade,” you told him. You said it like you made Forbes’ front cover. “Would you like some?”

“Sure,” he replied. 

“Great. Meet me in the kitchen.”

He did as told, sliding into one of the chairs by the counter as you pulled out two tall glasses from the cupboard. You set them down on the marble and turned back around to bring out a smaller glass which you set between the first two.

Jisung looked at you curiously. You began filling the two taller glasses with lemonade, eyes flicking up every other second to read his expression. Finally, when you were done, you took his hand and guided it to pour some of the juice from his glass into the smaller one. You then took your glass and poured some of that into the smaller cup. After that, you sat down with your fingers laced in front of you, watching as his brows knit together as he tried to figure out what just happened.

You giggled the second you saw the realization hitting him. First, his eyes grew impossibly big and his jaw dropped to the ground. Then he looked at you to confirm his suspicions. 

“Is it— Are you— Is there a—!” He couldn’t finish a sentence, and you couldn’t control your giggles.

“Yes, I am.”

He leapt across the table and screamed of joy as he swung you around. He put you down quickly though and took a step back. “No wait. I can’t do that anymore. You’re carrying precious cargo now.”

You laughed and pulled him into a hug. “Are you happy?”

“So much so. So incredibly much so,” he hummed. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

You turned your head to rest your ear against his racing heart. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” His emotions rolled into a tear that trickled down his face.

He wonders if it was all a dream. He wonders if happiness only exists inside dreams. He didn’t even realize he had fallen asleep until the lights from the window made him grimmance.

“—ung! Jisung!” 

His eyelids fly open at the sound of your panicked voice. He looks and sees you sitting up, your hand reaching out for him and your face etched with worry.

“Y-Y/N, you’re sitting—”

“Are you okay?” you ask.

He nods, too stunned to make a noise.

You sigh in relief and collapse back down, facing him this time. “You were shaking and crying. I thought something was wrong. I thought I was going to lose you too. I thought… I thought…” 

“Shh, shh, shh.” He draws you close again. 

“You’re alright, right?” Your voice is muffled against him. “You promise? You aren’t going to leave me behind too, right?”

“I’ll always be by your side. I promise,” he assures you. “I just had a dream.”

You nod against his chest and sniffle. 

“How are you feeling?” 

“Dizzy.” Of course, you went on full flight-or-fight mode after being on an IV drip for almost a week. Still, you replied, and Jisung feels a huge wave of relief wash through him.

“You really love me, don’t you?” he chuckles.

“Of course,” you mumble.

“And I really love you.”

You pause for a minute, and he panics, thinking he’s pushed you too far. Finally though, in a small voice, you say, “But I lost her.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not—”

“No, but it is!” He can hear the panic rising again in your voice. “I was driving! I should have seen the headlights. I should have swerved lanes. On impact, I should have protected her more. I should have done something. Don’t you see? I lost her. Me.”

He grabs your hands and forces you to look into his eyes to slow you down. He has on a scowl, and he speaks firmly and pointedly. “Welost her. There’s things you could have done differently. There’s things I could have done differently. There’s things that no one could have possibly done differently. But the fact of the matter is, this is our reality, and we’re going to face it together. I won’t let you go through this alone, so Y/N, don’t make me go through it alone either, okay?”

You pause for another minute. This time, he knows you are thinking about his words. When you seem to have come to a conclusion, you drop your head back onto him. He then feels you drawing something on his back. Your signature, he realizes, to this agreement. Perhaps there is still room for a little Christmas miracle after all.

Christmas eve. It’s been just over a year now since the accident. Jisung raises a brow when you walk into the living room in a red sweater. Red. It’s a sign of life and a sign of celebration. The last time you were seen with that color was when you were in the back of an ambulance. In fact, that was the last time you were seen wearing any color.

You sit up straight with your knees pressed together and your hands folded in your lap. In other words, you are sitting much too properly for a couch in your own home. 

“Y/N?” Jisung calls carefully. “What’s the matter, love?”

“I’m… I’m scared.”

He uncrosses his legs and sits up too. “Why? What’s wrong?”

You look down at your lap then at him. “I’m scared to hope. I’m scared something will go wrong again. I’m scared to hurt you.”

He scoots next to you and wraps his arm around your shaking torso. You look so small under his arm. He wraps his other hand around the front and shields you with his body. Gently, he rubs his thumbs over your skin, letting his actions speak the words his lips cannot.

You take a long moment to absorb his strength before you’re able to hand him a rectangular gift box about the length of his hand. 

“Merry Christmas,” you barely squeak.

He takes it while still keeping an arm around you. He looks at the box, then at you, then at the box. Finally, he lifts off the top cover.

He doesn’t react as he stares at what’s inside. After an eternity, he sets the present aside and turns so that he is completely facing you. He takes your hands and looks you square in the eyes.

“The doctor said there’s an increased risk after what happened,” you ramble, nervous under his sudden gaze. “What if—”

He cuts you off. “Hope. Please, hope. Hope, and be happy. Be happy knowing you can hope, and hope because you know there is love supporting that hope. No matter what—”

“—I love you,” you finish for him.

He smiles and nods. You smile too and wrap your arms behind his waist. 

“Do you like your present?” you ask.

The fireplace crackles. “I love it. Thank you.”

You hum and close your eyes, falling asleep. Jisung brushes the hair from your face and plants a kiss on your temple. Outside, a bright star twinkles over the house. 

“Merry Christmas, my love.”