You and Hongjoong had been dating for eight months, and despite his busy schedule, he always made time for you—especially on nights like this, when you were getting ready for a special event together. But things had been running late, and the stress was getting to him.

“Can you please hurry up?” He snapped, pacing near the door, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. “We’re already behind.”

Your hands froze where they fumbled with the zipper of your skirt. You didn’t say anything—just looked down, shoulders tensing as you turned slightly away and tried again, more urgently this time. He saw the shift in your expression instantly. That sudden quietness. That way you pulled inward. It wasn’t just annoyance anymore—it was hurt.

Guilt hit him like a wave. He knew how easily you shut down around anger. You’d told him before—how raised voices made your chest tighten, how it reminded you of things you worked hard to move past. And now here he was, becoming someone you’d be scared to ask for help.

He crossed the room without hesitation, his hands gentle as they slid around your waist. He pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder before whispering, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

His lips trailed up—your neck, your jaw, your collarbone—soft, apologetic, lingering. “You look so beautiful.” He murmured, voice low with regret. “I should’ve told you that first.”

You didn’t respond right away, but you let him finish the zipper, leaning back into his hold just enough to let him know you weren’t pulling away anymore.

The next morning, you woke up to your favorite flowers on the nightstand, tucked beside a handwritten note full of messy lines and crossed-out sentences, but every word was his.

I’m sorry. I love you. I’ll be better.