Hae-min did not go to her parents lightly.
He went in the early evening, when the house had settled into that calm hour between day and night, when worries softened just enough to be spoken aloud. He wore no designer jacket, no athlete's polish, just a simple shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from training. He bowed deeply the moment he stepped inside.
"I'm sorry to come like this," he said, voice steady but low. "I'm here to ask for your permission."
Ha-yoon sat beside her mother, hands folded in her lap, heart hammering so loudly she was sure everyone could hear it.
Her father studied Hae-min for a long moment. Not unkindly. Carefully. Like a man weighing the future of his child.
Hae-min didn't rush. He told them everything, about the pregnancy, about his intentions, about the kind of life he wanted to build. He spoke without embellishment, without promises he couldn't keep. When he said he would take responsibility, it wasn't dramatic. It was simply fact.
"I won't disappear," he said. "I won't hide. I won't fail her."
Then, unexpectedly, he turned toward Ha-yoon.
"There's something I need to ask her," he said.
Her mother's hand tightened around hers.
He faced Ha-yoon fully now, eyes softening. "I want you to go back to school."
The words startled her.
"What?"
"I'll take care of the paperwork. Tuition. Everything," he said quietly. "You don't give up your future because of me. Or because of this."
His hand hovered near her, not touching, as if giving her the choice even now. "Promise me you'll finish. Law school. All of it."
Tears welled in her eyes.
"I promise," she whispered.
Her father exhaled slowly, the tension leaving his shoulders. When he finally spoke, his voice carried both gravity and grace.
"Take care of her," he said to Hae-min. "And come back alive every day."
Hae-min bowed again, deeper this time. "I will."
______________
They married quietly.
No headlines. No flashing cameras. No spectacle.
Just truth.
The ceremony was held in a small garden chapel tucked between old trees and stone paths softened by time. Morning light filtered through the leaves, scattering gold across white fabric and wooden benches.
Only a handful of people sat in attendance.
Her parents, seated side by side, hands clasped tightly. Her best friend, eyes already red, clutching tissues like armor. And standing near the front, his uncle, Park Min-joon.
He wore a soft smile, the kind that held years of unspoken stories. To the world, he was just an uncle figure. To those who knew, he was a quiet pillar, someone who had stood behind love before, unseen but unwavering.
Ha-yoon waited just beyond the doors.
Her dress was simple. No train, no embellishment. Just ivory silk that fell like water, sleeves brushing her wrists, a veil light enough to tremble with her breath. When the doors opened, the room stilled.
She stepped forward.
And Hae-min forgot how to breathe.
He stood at the altar in a dark suit, hands clasped too tightly in front of him. The moment he saw her, his chest constricted so sharply it startled him. She looked unreal, like something sacred walking toward him, like the sum of every moment that had led them here.
His eyes burned.
He blinked hard, jaw tightening as he fought the tears rising uninvited. He had faced roaring stadiums without flinching, but this, this undid him completely.
She walked slowly, each step steady, as if grounding herself in the earth beneath her feet. Her gaze never left his.
When she reached him, he exhaled shakily, lowering his head just enough for her to hear.
"You're beautiful," he whispered, voice breaking.
She smiled, small and trembling. "You're crying."
"I know," he said, almost laughing. "I'm trying not to."
Park Min-joon watched them with quiet fondness, something wistful passing through his eyes, as if recognizing the shape of a love he once protected, now reborn in another form.
The vows were simple.
No poetry rehearsed. No grand declarations.
Just promises spoken softly, deliberately, as if each word carried weight.
"I choose you," Hae-min said. "Every version of you. Every future."
Ha-yoon's voice trembled, but she didn't falter. "I choose you too. Even when it's hard."
When they were pronounced husband and wife, the room didn't erupt.
It exhaled.
Hae-min cupped her face and kissed her gently, reverently, as though sealing something fragile and eternal all at once.
As the small ceremony drew to a gentle close, laughter loosened the air. Someone clapped first, then another, until the sound filled the quiet space like soft rain. Ha-Yoon turned, cheeks warm, eyes bright, her bouquet still clutched in her hands, white flowers tied with a simple ribbon, nothing extravagant, but chosen with care.
"Wait," her best friend teased. "You're forgetting something."
Ha-Yoon laughed, a little shy, a little giddy, and stepped forward. She glanced over her shoulder at Hae-Min, who nodded at her, eyes still glassy, still undone by the fact that she was his wife now.
She turned her back to the small group, lifted the bouquet, and paused.
For a brief second, time seemed to slow.
Park Min-Joon stood a little apart from the others, hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his suit. He hadn't expected to be here, not really. He had come as support, as witness, as someone standing quietly at the edge of someone else's happiness. He wasn't thinking of anything at all when Ha-Yoon threw the bouquet over her shoulder.
It sailed through the air in a soft arc.
There was a startled laugh. A shuffle of movement.
And then, almost instinctively, Min-Joon reached out.
The bouquet landed in his hands.
The room fell silent for half a heartbeat.
Min-Joon blinked, clearly surprised, staring down at the flowers as if they had chosen him by mistake. A few soft chuckles rippled through the room. Someone gasped. Someone else whispered, "Oh."
Ha-Yoon turned around.
When she saw who had caught it, her smile softened, not playful, not teasing, but full of something quieter. Gratitude. Recognition. A kind of affection that didn't need to be named.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, neither of them said anything.
Min-Joon gave a small, almost embarrassed laugh, lifting the bouquet slightly as if to say, I don't know how this happened. His ears were faintly red.
"Well," her best friend said gently, breaking the silence. "I guess it knows where it's going."
Min-Joon didn't respond. He only smiled, a little crooked, a little helpless, but there was no bitterness in it. No ache. Just acceptance, and something like hope, faint but present.
Hae-Min noticed it too.
He tightened his grip around Ha-Yoon's hand, then looked at Min-Joon and nodded once, a quiet, wordless acknowledgment. Not a challenge. Not a warning. Just respect.
Min-Joon returned the nod.
He held the bouquet carefully, as if it were fragile, not because it promised romance, but because it represented possibility. Not now. Not immediately. But someday.
And for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to believe that someday might still be waiting for him.
___________________
After the wedding, life did not slow.
It deepened.
Hae-min handled the paperwork late at night, hunched over the dining table with files spread out, eyes bleary but determined. Applications. Transfers. Appeals. When Ha-yoon was officially reinstated, accepted back into law school, she cried into his shoulder until her knees buckled.
"You did this," she whispered.
"We did," he corrected.
Their relationship grew in the in-between moments.
Shared meals eaten quietly. Fingers brushing in passing. The way he always reached for her hand without looking. The way she learned the rhythms of his silences.
On game days, she sat in the first row, cap pulled low, mask hiding her face. To the world, she was anonymous. To him, she was everything.
Before one match, just as the crowd roared to life, Hae-min broke from his warm-up and ran toward the stands.
The cameras followed.
He leaned into her, resting his forehead against her shoulder, breathing her in like a talisman.
"Be careful," she whispered.
"Always," he murmured back.
She patted his head softly, fingers brushing his hair in a gesture so intimate it felt private despite the thousands watching.
The big screen caught it.
The stadium hushed, then erupted.
Commentators scrambled. Fans speculated. Girlfriend? Family? Secret lover?
Hae-min didn't explain.
He didn't deny.
He simply smiled as he ran back onto the field, grounded, claimed, whole.
The world didn't need a title.
It just needed to know one thing.
He was taken.
And for the first time, the future didn't feel like something to fear, but something they were already building, step by step, together.
Author's Note
Some characters refuse to stay in one story.
Park Min-Joon is one of them.
For readers who have walked with me through When the Sky Forgets the Dawn, you may recognize him, not as a man who stood at the center of the narrative, but as one who stood quietly behind it. He was never the loudest presence in the room. He did not demand the spotlight. Yet again and again, he showed up, steadfast, observant, offering support when the main characters needed it most, even when his own story remained unwritten.
I always felt that he carried something unfinished with him.
So when I began writing this novel, I knew I wanted to bring him back, not to retell his past, not to rewrite what has already been loved, but to let him exist in a different way. Here, he is not the protagonist. He is not a romantic lead. He is something just as important, a witness to love, a quiet anchor, a reminder that some people enter our lives not to be chosen, but to help us survive until we can choose again.
Giving Park Min-Joon a place in this story is my way of honoring the invisible characters, the ones who support without reward, who love without claiming, who remain even when the narrative moves on. This is not a sequel to his story, but a continuation of his presence. A soft echo, rather than a rewrite.
For new readers, you do not need to know where he came from to understand who he is here.
For returning readers, I hope seeing him again feels like meeting an old friend, older, quieter, still kind.
Some characters don't need a grand ending.
Sometimes, simply being remembered is enough.
Here's a clean, heartfelt author's statement that ties the bouquet moment directly into Park Min-Joon's presence, soft, intentional, and meaningful without breaking immersion. You can place this at the end of the chapter or as a brief note to readers before the next chapter begins.
He was the kind of man who stood behind others, holding umbrellas he never stepped under himself. He gave, supported, stayed, often without being seen.
I brought him into Almost Home for the same reason.
When Ha-Yoon threw the bouquet, it wasn't meant to announce a love story. It wasn't a promise. It wasn't fate knocking loudly. It was something quieter than that.
It was acknowledgment.
Min-Joon catching the bouquet wasn't about romance arriving on time. It was about the world finally pausing long enough to notice someone who had always been there, someone who had loved gently, waited patiently, and never demanded anything in return.
That moment was my way of saying:
Your story isn't over.
You are not forgotten.
Some people arrive late to happiness, not because they were undeserving, but because they were busy protecting others.
This novel is about timing. About how love doesn't always come when we're ready, and how sometimes, it comes only after we've learned how to survive without it.
Min-Joon's hands closing around that bouquet weren't about what he gains next.
They were about what he has already endured.
And somewhere, quietly, his turn is waiting.
— Moonstone Novels