You and Yunho had been together for nearly a year, and in that time, he’d become your safe place—the one person you knew would always show up. That’s why when your shift ended and the parking lot emptied out, you waited. And waited. And waited until two hours later. Your fingers were numb, your phone battery nearly dead from checking it too often, calling him again and again.

The last bus left around 8:15. You ended up walking. It was freezing, and your work shoes weren’t made for the long, icy sidewalks.

By the time you got home, it was past ten. Your cheeks were windburned, nose red, and your hands shaking as you unlocked the door. You barely had time to shut it behind you before Yunho came sprinting out of the bedroom, coat halfway on, keys clutched in one hand.

When he saw you—his eyes widened with horror. “Oh my God—baby.”

He dropped everything and pulled you into him instantly, arms wrapping around you like he could erase the last two hours just by holding you tight enough.

“I’m so sorry.” He whispered again and again, his voice cracking. “I swear I set the alarm. I don’t know what happened—I fell asleep and—”

“I’m not mad.” You said softly, fingers brushing his back, even though you were still shaking. “It’s okay. Mistakes happen.”

But he didn’t let up. He knew that voice. The one you used when you were trying not to sound like you were used to being forgotten. He knew your history. The parts of you that flinched at being left behind, the ones that still carried childhood echoes of neglect.

“I didn’t forget you.” He whispered, cupping your cold cheeks, pressing kiss after kiss to your face—your forehead, your nose, your lips. “You’re not forgettable. Not ever. I’m so sorry, angel.”

The next morning, you woke up to breakfast already made, your favorite movie queued on the screen, and Yunho—still in pajamas—insisting he was staying home for the day.

“You don’t lift a finger today.” He said, curling up beside you with a blanket. “Not until I’ve made it up to you. Starting now.”