surgery had been your last hope—a fragile thread seungmin had held onto with everything in him. he had been there through every agonizing decision, through every night you clung to him in fear of what was to come. he had wanted—needed—to be the first face you saw, but duty had called. a high-stakes case, one that refused to wait, had pulled him into the courtroom for just a few critical hours. in those hours, he stepped in. the man who had spent months circling you, waiting for an opportunity. when you opened your eyes, dazed and confused, he was there, whispering half-truths, placing himself in a position that was never his to hold. he was patient, persistent, knowing that if he could weave himself into your blank slate, he might replace what you had lost.

but he saw through it the moment he walked in. still in his sharp suit, his eyes locked onto yours, hopeful—until he saw the way you looked at him. hesitant, unsure. but then, your lips parted, and you spoke the only name you remembered: “oh seungmin.” his breath caught. it was enough. enough to remind him that, despite everything, a part of you still belonged to him. yet as his gaze flickered to the man standing too close, something else struck him—the absence of something important. your diary. the one you had written in every night before the surgery, pouring out your thoughts, your love, your promises to him. it was gone. and he knew exactly who had taken it.

he clenched his fists, but he didn’t fight with anger. he fought with love. every day, he stayed by your side, never forcing, only reminding you of what was real. he brought you coffee the way you liked it, even if you didn’t remember why. he hummed familiar songs, hoping they’d stir something in your heart. and slowly, through the warmth of his touch, the steadiness of his voice, and the quiet, unwavering devotion in his eyes, you began to remember. because love wasn’t just in words on a page—it was in the way he stayed. and he would stay, as long as it took, until you found your way back to him.