(no) Strings Attached

Until You Do

He meets Wooyoung's eyes again, and there's no guard left. No mask. Only wreckage.

"You gave me your heart. And I didn't even hold it. I dropped it." His voice drops to a whisper, barely above breath.

"I didn't mean to make you feel worthless. Or stupid. Or small. You were the only real thing I had." A pause.

"And I broke it because I was scared it might actually last." He moves a step closer, but not enough to touch. Not yet.

Not unless he's invited. "You were brave. I wasn't. I was a coward with your love in my hands and I didn't deserve it." He swallows hard, voice trembling.

"But if there's even a piece of you—any piece—that still wants me to make this right..."
He exhales, shaky and slow.

"I'll stay. I'll prove it. I'll do whatever it takes, Wooyoung. I just—I'm so fucking sorry." A beat. Then, softer, wrecked,

"I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I left. And I'm sorry it took losing you to realize you were never just something casual to me." His voice almost breaks again.

"You were everything."

After the silence that dragged with this raw confession San took a shy step forward, hand hovering above Wooyoung's elbow; scared to touch. "Can you give me the chance to show you?"

Wooyoung sniffs, once, hard — like he's sealing it all back inside before it spills out again.

Then he turns, arms still folded, eyes fixed on the quiet road ahead.

"Well," Wooyoung mutters, voice dry, brittle. "I can't exactly kick you out."

His thumb rubs the inside of his palm—little nervous tell—but he keeps his face neutral. "My mom invited you."

He doesn't look at San, but there's a flicker in his voice—something softer hidden under the sharp. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But something close to hope wearing a disguise.

"You're her guest now," he adds, a little quieter. Then shifts, like he suddenly hates that he said it aloud. "So. Congrats. Pohang's most wanted."

He doesn't look at San, but there's a flicker in his voice — something softer hidden under the sharp. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But something close to hope wearing a disguise.

"You're her guest now," he adds, almost like an afterthought. "So, congrats, I guess. You're Pohang's most wanted."

It's meant to sound dismissive. Maybe even a little annoyed. But it lands like a door cracked open — just enough.

San watches him for a long moment, trying not to show how much it means. How much everything still means.

He doesn't say anything. He just follows. And between them, the silence walks too — quiet, aching, waiting for whatever comes next.

The tension in Wooyoung's shoulders loosens—not from forgiveness, but from exhaustion.

That bone-deep kind of tired that settles in your chest when you've run out of ways to pretend you're not hurting.

He exhales, short and sharp through his nose, then turns with a bitter half-smile. "Let's go back."

He doesn't wait for San to answer, just starts walking. Not fast, not slow—just steady, like he's done fighting for today.

"I'm sure my mom's already planning our wedding or something." It's a joke. Sort of. Dry, bitter, a little too close to the truth to be funny.

But it breaks the moment just enough. Loosens the weight. San huffs a quiet laugh behind him—uncertain, but grateful.