Hae-Min had always believed that his hands were the one thing in his life he could trust.
They had carried him through rain-soaked training fields and blinding stadium lights. They had gripped jerseys, clutched trophies, signed contracts that changed the shape of his future. Strong, steady, reliable, his hands had never betrayed him before.
That morning, he was seated at the long glass table in the club's office, sunlight spilling in through tall windows, turning everything bright and sterile. Papers were stacked neatly in front of him. His manager was talking, something about schedules, endorsements, upcoming matches, but Hae-Min was only half listening.
He picked up the pen.
Or tried to.
For just a fraction of a second, his fingers didn't respond the way they should have.
The pen slipped.
It wasn't dramatic. It didn't crash loudly to the floor. It simply slid from his grasp and rolled once, stopping near the leg of the table.
The sound was small. Almost polite.
Everyone froze.
The manager paused mid-sentence. "Hae-Min?"
Hae-Min stared at the pen like it had personally offended him.
Then he laughed.
"Guess I need more coffee," he said easily, bending down to retrieve it. "My grip's off today."
He picked it up again. This time, it stayed where it belonged.
The room relaxed. The manager chuckled, shaking his head. "You're overworking yourself."
"Yeah," Hae-Min agreed. "That's probably it."
He signed the papers without issue after that, his handwriting clean, controlled, familiar. If there was a faint tremor in his fingers, no one mentioned it. And if he felt a strange tightness creeping up his arm, he ignored it.
Athletes learned early how to ignore discomfort. Pain was temporary. Weakness was mental. You pushed through. You always did.
Still, as the meeting wrapped up and people filed out, Hae-Min remained seated for a moment longer than necessary.
He flexed his hand under the table.
Just once.
Everything felt normal.
So he stood, straightened his jacket, and walked out like nothing had happened.
___________
Seon-Woo's mornings had changed.
He woke up earlier now, not because he had to, but because his mind no longer fought him when daylight came. The table by the window was no longer cluttered with old grief but organized with intention, sketches stacked neatly, tools cleaned, notes written in careful handwriting.
There was a schedule taped to the wall.
Not strict. Just honest.
He packed his bag and left the apartment with purpose, not urgency. On the bus, he reviewed designs, adjusting proportions, correcting flaws. He no longer second-guessed every line.
At the shared studio, people knew his name.
Not loudly. Not reverently.
But enough.
"Morning, Seon-Woo," someone said as he passed.
"Morning," he replied, and meant it.
He worked steadily, focused, aware of time in a way he hadn't been before. Success hadn't made him reckless, it had made him careful. Every piece mattered now. Every decision carried weight.
During lunch, he caught his reflection in the window.
He looked… different.
Not happier, exactly. But steadier. Like someone who had stopped apologizing for existing.
———————
That evening, Hae-Min dropped his phone.
Again, it wasn't dramatic. He'd been distracted, talking to Ha-Yoon, laughing at something she said. The device slipped from his grasp and hit the floor.
This time, there was no audience.
Just silence.
He picked it up quickly.
"You okay?" Ha-Yoon asked.
"Yeah," he said too fast. "Clumsy today."
She watched him for a moment longer than usual but said nothing.
When he turned away, he rolled his shoulder, irritation flickering through him. Athletes broke bones and tore ligaments. They didn't lose pens. They didn't fumble phones.
This was nothing.
It had to be.
————————-
Seon-Woo locked up the studio late.
As he walked home, the night air felt lighter. He thought about the designs waiting on his desk, about the expectations now placed on him, not by others, but by himself.
For the first time in a long while, the future didn't feel like something chasing him.
It felt like something he was walking toward.
That night, Hae-Min sat alone, pen poised over a notebook.
His hand hesitated.
Just for a moment.
He closed the notebook without writing.
Tomorrow, he told himself again.
Tomorrow would be better.
_________________
Morning arrived gently in their house.
Not with alarms or urgency, but with the soft padding of small feet against the wooden floor and the low hum of the kettle warming in the kitchen. Ye-Joon appeared first, hair sticking up in defiance, clutching his blanket like it was still night's responsibility.
"Appa," he said, voice rough with sleep.
Hae-Min looked up from the counter and smiled immediately, the way he always did, full, instinctive, as if nothing in the world mattered more than this small person standing barefoot at the doorway.
"Morning, champ."
Ye-Joon walked straight into his arms. Hae-Min lifted him easily, settling the boy against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of soap and childhood. Ye-Joon rested his head on Hae-Min's shoulder, half-asleep again.
From the hallway, Ha-Yoon watched them.
This was her favorite moment of the day, the quiet one, before the world asked anything of them. When Hae-Min wasn't a footballer or a name in headlines. When she wasn't making choices or carrying guilt or pretending she had healed.
They were just here.
"You're spoiling him," she said softly.
Hae-Min turned, grinning. "It's my job."
He shifted Ye-Joon slightly and reached for the mug on the counter with his free hand. The cup wobbled, just barely, before he steadied it.
Ha-Yoon noticed.
She always noticed.
But she didn't say anything.
They ate breakfast together, slow and unhurried. Ye-Joon talked about kindergarten with the seriousness of someone who believed his stories mattered. Hae-Min listened like they did.
"Teacher says I draw well," Ye-Joon announced proudly.
"That's because you get it from your mom," Hae-Min said.
"No," Ye-Joon corrected. "From you. You draw football plays."
Hae-Min laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. "Then maybe you'll be better than both of us."
"Maybe," Ye-Joon said, already distracted by his cereal.
Ha-Yoon watched Hae-Min carefully.
The way he leaned back in his chair. The way his smile lingered a second longer than usual. The way he seemed… tired, but in a way that didn't ask for help.
She had learned this version of him well.
After breakfast, Ye-Joon dragged his backpack across the floor. Hae-Min knelt to zip it, his movements precise, practiced. His fingers paused briefly at the zipper.
Just a second.
Then he pulled it closed.
"All set," he said.
Ye-Joon hugged him hard. "Come to my game today."
"I'll try," Hae-Min said.
Ha-Yoon didn't miss the way he avoided saying yes.
The park was quiet when they returned, the afternoon stretching long and gentle. Ye-Joon ran ahead, chasing pigeons, laughing freely.
Hae-Min sat on the bench beside Ha-Yoon.
"You're quiet today," she said.
"Am I?"
She nodded. "A little."
He shrugged. "Just thinking."
She waited. He always told her when he was ready.
"I've been thinking about the future," he said finally.
Her breath caught, but she kept her voice steady. "That's new."
He smiled faintly. "I know."
They watched Ye-Joon kick at fallen leaves.
"I want to make sure he's okay," Hae-Min continued. "No matter what."
Ha-Yoon turned to him then. "He is okay. He has us."
He looked at her, really looked, as if memorizing her face.
"And if one day," he said slowly, "you need help...:"
"Hae-Min," she interrupted gently.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said quickly, almost too quickly. "I just… I like knowing things are planned."
She reached for his hand.
He held hers differently than usual, not tight, not loose. Just deliberate.
That night, after Ye-Joon fell asleep, Ha-Yoon found Hae-Min in the living room.
He was sitting on the floor, back against the couch, notebook open in front of him. He looked up when she entered, a little startled.
"What are you writing?" she asked.
"Nothing important."
She smiled knowingly. "You always say that."
She sat beside him, their shoulders touching. He closed the notebook without protest.
"Do you ever think about the choices we made?" he asked quietly.
She inhaled slowly. "Yes."
"And?" he asked.
She thought carefully before answering. "I think… choosing you wasn't the same as being healed. But it was still the right choice."
He nodded. "I know."
She turned to him. "Do you?"
He met her gaze. "Yes."
There was no accusation in his eyes. No regret. Just acceptance.
They sat in silence, comfortable and heavy all at once.
Later, when Ha-Yoon had gone to bed, Hae-Min stayed behind.
He opened the notebook again.
Tried to write.
The pen slipped from his fingers and rolled across the floor.
He stared at it.
Then he picked it up, slowly, and placed it back on the page.
Tomorrow, he told himself.