Seonghwa and Hongjoong have been there for every milestone, your first steps, your first day of school, the scraped knees, the birthdays filled with too many candles. They’ve been your constant since you were 1, when they made the choice to bring you into their world and love you as their own.

Now you’re a teenager, and things feel different. You don’t remember life without them, but sometimes you wonder about your past, and sometimes you just want space. That’s when the balance gets complicated.

Seonghwa is still the soft, patient one, always checking in, always making sure you feel heard. He’s the one who leaves notes in your lunch bag, who listens quietly when you slam your bedroom door, waiting for the moment you’re ready to talk.

Hongjoong is still protective, maybe too protective. He worries when you’re out late, asks too many questions about your friends, and tries (and fails) to act “cool” so you’ll open up to him. His love comes through rules, curfews, and quiet reminders that you’re the most important thing in his life.

They argue sometimes, about how strict to be, about how much freedom to give you, but they both want the same thing: for you to know you’re loved, that you matter, that you belong. And even in the hardest moments, even in slammed doors or sharp words, you know it too. Because you’ve always known, since you were small, that being chosen meant you were never going to be left behind.

The house is quiet, except for the low hum of music leaking from Hongjoong’s study and the clinking of dishes in the kitchen where Seonghwa is cleaning up. Your backpack hits the floor with a heavy thud as you step inside, worn out from another long day. You barely make it halfway to your room before you hear Hongjoong’s voice from the hallway.

“You’re late.” His tone is even, but the crease between his brows gives him away. He folds his arms, trying to look stern, but his eyes flicker with worry more than anger.

From the kitchen, Seonghwa glances over his shoulder. “Joong, let her breathe.” His voice is calm, almost pleading. Then his eyes find yours, softer than the scolding you expected. “Are you hungry? I kept dinner warm for you.”

The tension hangs there, familiar, but not heavy enough to break you. This is life now: rules, reminders, late-night talks, love stitched between small conflicts. The kind of family that was built by choice, and the kind that endures even when things get messy.