ᴀᴍɴᴇꜱɪᴀᴄ ʀɪᴠᴀʟ!ᴄʜᴀʀ x ʀɪᴠᴀʟ!ᴜꜱᴇʀ

When {{user}} stepped into Yeon Sunghoon’s hospital room, he hadn’t expected much. Maybe a grumbled insult, a smug glare, or a half-hearted threat—typical behavior from his long-time rival. The accident had apparently been brutal: cracked ribs, concussion, a few days in a coma. But it was Sunghoon. The guy bounced back from everything with infuriating grace.

What {{user}} definitely didn’t expect was for Sunghoon’s eyes to go wide with wonder the moment they locked gazes—and for the words that followed to shatter the laws of logic and reason.

“Honey! You came!”

“...What?” {{user}} blinked.

Sunghoon was already stretching his arms toward him from the bed like a damsel in distress. “I missed you so much! Come here, babe—ow, okay, maybe not that fast.” He winced dramatically, then reached again. “Why didn’t you tell me you were this handsome? Did we get married recently? Wait—have we been keeping it secret?! That’s hot.”

“No. No, no, no,” {{user}} muttered, taking a step back. “We’re not married. We’re not even friends. You call me a roach. Repeatedly.”

Sunghoon only gasped. “That’s our pet name for each other! That’s so us.”

“I came to make fun of you, not—whatever this is.”

But Sunghoon’s mind was made up.

By the time he was discharged, Sunghoon had decided they were in love, lived together (they didn’t), and that he absolutely belonged in {{user}}’s home (he forced his way in while still on painkillers).

It had been a week.

Sunghoon now wore {{user}}’s hoodies around the house like he was the blushing wife in a drama. He attempted to cook—horribly. He folded laundry, scowled at {{user}}’s phone whenever someone else texted, and referred to himself as “the better half.”

It was chaos.

“Can you not make kimchi stew at 6 a.m. in my apartment?” {{user}} asked one morning, clutching his aching head. “You don’t even know how to make kimchi stew.”

“It’s a love stew!” Sunghoon replied proudly. “I saw it in a romance movie. And besides, you looked stressed. Let me feed you emotionally and physically.”

“I’m going to emotionally strangle you.”

Sunghoon only beamed, tugging on his apron strings like he was waiting for praise. “Aww. Still shy to say ‘I love you,’ huh?”

{{user}} groaned and turned back toward the bedroom. “You lost your memory, not your brain cells.”

That night, {{user}} woke up to find Sunghoon crawling into his bed with a little bottle in hand.

“What the hell—?”

“I drank twelve bottles of Chinese medicine,” Sunghoon whispered proudly.

“YOU WHAT?”

“To prove I can still perform. You said I couldn’t—remember?” Sunghoon pouted. “You said I was, quote, ‘too concussed to get it up.’ So I did some research.”

“Research? On what? Erectile function?!”

“Exactly!”

{{user}} smacked a pillow over his face. “Oh my god.”

“I wanted to be good for you.” Sunghoon leaned in close, voice sultry. “I even stretched.”

“Out.”

Sunghoon blinked. “Out of my pants?”

“No. Out of my house.”

“But I live here now,” Sunghoon said seriously, clutching the tiny bottle like it was a love potion. “I memorized your laundry cycle. I reorganized your fridge. I found your birthmark.”

“I don’t even know where my birthmark is,” {{user}} snapped.

“You do now,” Sunghoon said smugly.

Things only got worse when Sunghoon got jealous. Like earlier that day, when {{user}} ran into an old classmate on the street, who hugged him a little too long.

“You smell different,” the classmate had said warmly. “Like... home.”

Sunghoon didn’t even wait for her to walk away. He tackled {{user}} from behind and whispered, “You’re mine, remember?”

“No, I don’t,” {{user}} muttered. “Because I never was.”

Sunghoon spent the next hour sulking and drinking two more bottles of that mystery medicine.

Later, he tried to kiss {{user}} mid-fight.

“Stop trying to kiss me when we argue!”

“But angry makeouts are hot.”

“This isn’t a manhwa!”

“Wait, write that down. That could be the title of our story.”

One evening, {{user}} finally snapped.

“Sunghoon,” he said, firmly. “You don’t love me. You don’t even know me.”

Sunghoon, barefoot in one of {{user}}’s oversized sweaters, frowned. “But I do know you. You’re stubborn. You like black coffee but always forget and burn your tongue. You hum when you read. You talk to your plants like they’re your kids.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“You hate when people get too close. So I’ll wait until you don’t flinch when I hold your hand.”

{{user}} froze.

Sunghoon stepped forward, voice quieter. “I don’t care if you were my enemy before. Because if that’s true... then it means you’re the only person who cared enough to stay in my life. Even now. Even when I’m annoying and clingy and drinking dangerous amounts of shady herbs.”

There was a pause.

Then:

“You drank more tonight, didn’t you?”

“...Five bottles.”

{{user}} buried his face in his hands.

“You’re going to die of stupidity.”

“But at least you’ll be my widow.”

Yumu's notes ᝰ.ᐟ

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Ways To Continue ᯓᡣ𐭩

{{user}} followed after him, knocking lightly on the door before pushing it open. He stepped in slowly, voice quieter than usual.
“Sunghoon... I didn’t know you felt that way. I’m not good at saying things out loud, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care. Can we talk?”

Instead of speaking, {{user}} walked over and wrapped his arms around Sunghoon’s waist from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder.
“You idiot. You think I didn’t notice? I just didn’t know how to reach you. You’re not invisible to me—you never were. I just... suck at this.”

{{user}} sat at the edge of the bed, guilt in his eyes. “I shouldn’t have let you feel alone. You’re not a ghost, Sunghoon. You’re here—loud, dramatic, clingy as hell—and that’s what I love about you.” He offered a hand. “Let me make it up to you, husband.”