The Exception
Chapter 13 — The Exception
The rumor didn’t die overnight.
Rumors never did.
They lingered in corners, in screenshots, in the way strangers looked a little too long.
But on Monday morning, something changed.
Not on the internet.
In the real world.
Second Verse opened at ten.
Yuna moved behind the counter with her shoulders tight, her face calm in the way people looked calm when they were bracing for another hit.
Joonseo stayed quiet.
He made drinks.
He wiped tables.
He watched the door.
Because the call he made in the dark after midnight wasn’t magic.
It was a line drawn.
And when you draw a line, people who were used to stepping over you finally notice you’re there.
At 11:17AM, the bell rang.
Yuna looked up.
Her posture stiffened.
Minseok walked in.
No bouquet.
No folder.
No smug smile.
Just a man in an expensive coat standing in a small café like the world had suddenly shrunk.
Yuna’s jaw tightened.
“Leave,” she said, voice flat.
Minseok didn’t move.
His eyes flicked to Joonseo.
Joonseo didn’t flinch.
He simply set down the cup he was drying.
Minseok swallowed.
“…Han Yuna-ssi,” he said.
Yuna’s eyes sharpened.
“I said leave,” she repeated.
Minseok exhaled.
Then he did something he had never done before.
He bowed.
Low.
Deep.
The kind of bow that wasn’t performance.
The kind that hurt.
“I’m sorry,” Minseok said.
Yuna froze.
Joonseo’s gaze stayed calm.
Yuna’s voice turned sharp.
“Don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t come here and act like you suddenly have a conscience.”
Minseok straightened slowly.
His face was pale.
His eyes—still arrogant, still calculating—held something new.
Fear.
“I didn’t know,” he said.
Yuna scoffed.
“You didn’t know what?”
Minseok’s gaze flicked again to Joonseo.
Then back to Yuna.
“I didn’t know who he was,” Minseok admitted.
Silence.
The café felt suddenly too small.
Yuna’s fingers curled around the counter.
“What are you talking about?” she demanded.
Minseok swallowed.
“The call,” he said quietly. “The warning. The legal notice.”
Yuna’s eyes narrowed.
“So you’re here because you got scared,” she said.
Minseok’s jaw trembled.
“Yes,” he admitted.
The honesty looked ugly on him.
Then he bowed again—lower this time.
“I crossed a line,” Minseok said. “I pressured you. I… used the internet against you.”
Yuna’s breath hitched.
Minseok’s voice cracked, not with emotion—
with humiliation.
“I thought you were alone,” he said. “I thought I could… corner you.”
Yuna’s face went pale.
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
Minseok lifted his head.
His eyes landed on Joonseo.
Then he spoke the name like it hurt to say.
“Kim Joonseo,” he said.
The sound of his full name in Minseok’s mouth made the café feel colder.
Yuna went still.
Her gaze snapped to Joonseo.
Not shock—she already knew.
But something else.
The reminder that his identity existed outside this café.
Outside her control.
Minseok’s voice lowered.
“I did my research,” he said. “After the notice. I didn’t believe someone like you would… get involved in something like this.”
Joonseo’s expression stayed unreadable.
Yuna’s voice trembled.
“So what?” she snapped. “You found out he’s rich, and suddenly you’re polite?”
Minseok flinched.
Yuna’s eyes burned.
“You didn’t apologize when you hurt me,” she said. “You apologize because you realize you hurt someone powerful.”
Minseok’s throat moved.
“I know,” he whispered.
It sounded like the closest thing he had to shame.
Yuna’s hands shook.
She stared at him.
Then she pointed to the door.
“Get out,” she said.
Minseok hesitated.
“Yuna-ssi—”
“Out,” she repeated, voice breaking. “Before I start screaming.”
Minseok swallowed.
He bowed again.
“I’m sorry,” he said, quieter. “For everything.”
Then he turned.
At the door, he paused.
He didn’t look at Yuna.
He looked at Joonseo.
His voice was small.
“You’re… serious about her,” he said.
Joonseo’s gaze didn’t move.
“Yes,” he replied.
Minseok’s jaw tightened.
Then he nodded, once.
Not approval.
Surrender.
He left.
The bell rang.
The door closed.
And the café—
for the first time in weeks—
felt like it could breathe.
Yuna didn’t move.
She stood behind the counter like the confrontation had turned her bones to glass.
Joonseo stepped closer.
He didn’t touch.
He just said softly:
“Are you okay?”
Yuna laughed.
A sharp, exhausted sound.
“No,” she said.
Her eyes shimmered.
“But I’m… not being hunted today,” she added.
Joonseo swallowed.
He nodded.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
Yuna’s gaze snapped to him.
“For what?”
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
“For making you live in my world,” he said quietly. “Even when you didn’t want to.”
Yuna stared.
Her jaw trembled.
Then she whispered:
“…Did you do it?”
Joonseo blinked.
“Do what?”
Yuna’s voice was quiet.
“The call,” she said. “The rumor… did it stop?”
Joonseo exhaled.
“It won’t disappear,” he said. “But it will lose its teeth.”
Yuna swallowed.
Joonseo continued gently.
“No one’s coming to your café to force you into a deal,” he said. “No one’s using your mother’s health as leverage. No one’s threatening you into being… a story.”
Yuna’s eyes burned.
She whispered, small:
“You used your power.”
Joonseo nodded.
“Only to protect your boundary,” he said. “Not to rewrite your life.”
Yuna stared.
Her mouth trembled.
Then she whispered:
“…Thank you.”
The words sounded like surrender.
Like relief.
Like trust trying to rebuild itself.
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
He didn’t answer with pride.
He only said:
“I’m here.”
Yuna’s eyes filled.
She looked away quickly.
Then she muttered, voice rough:
“Don’t say it like it’s easy.”
Joonseo’s mouth softened.
“It’s not,” he admitted.
Yuna’s breath hitched.
Then—quietly—she asked:
“Why do you stay?”
Joonseo froze.
The question wasn’t rhetorical this time.
It wasn’t angry.
It was sincere.
A door cracked open.
He swallowed.
He could no longer hide behind half-truths.
Not after Minseok.
Not after the rumor.
Not after her mother’s hospital bed.
Not after Café Night.
He stepped out from behind the counter.
He stood in front of her.
Close enough that she could see the tremor in his breath.
But still careful.
Still respectful.
He bowed.
Not as low as Minseok.
Not out of shame.
Out of sincerity.
“Because I loved you,” Joonseo said quietly.
Yuna went still.
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
“Not the idea of you,” he added. “Not the stage you. Not the version people made.”
His voice softened.
“I loved your voice when it was small and unpopular,” he whispered. “When no one was watching. When it was just… a song in the dark that kept me alive.”
Yuna’s eyes widened.
Joonseo inhaled shakily.
“I came here thinking I could watch you from the sidelines,” he said. “Just… make sure you were okay.”
His eyes burned.
“But then I saw you,” he continued. “Working until your hands shook. Smiling until your cheeks hurt. Holding your mother’s world and your café’s world and your own grief—alone.”
Yuna’s mouth trembled.
Joonseo’s voice cracked.
“And I couldn’t stand it,” he whispered. “So I stayed.”
Silence.
Yuna stared at him.
Her eyes shimmered.
Her breath hitched.
“You were… my fan,” she whispered.
Joonseo nodded.
“Yes.”
Yuna’s voice trembled.
“Then why didn’t you tell me from the start?”
Joonseo swallowed.
“Because fans make people feel owned,” he said softly. “And I didn’t want you to feel like I had any claim on you.”
Yuna’s eyes burned.
“And your money?” she whispered.
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
“I hid it because you told me you hated rich guys,” he said. “And I believed you would hate me too.”
Yuna flinched.
Joonseo stepped closer—still not touching.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For the lie. For the fear. For the way I made you question your own instincts.”
Yuna’s shoulders shook.
Her voice was small.
“I did hate you,” she whispered.
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
“I know.”
Yuna’s eyes filled.
“And I still do,” she added, furious at herself. “Sometimes.”
Joonseo nodded.
“That’s fair,” he said.
Yuna’s breath came out broken.
“But you’re… also the reason my mom is alive,” she whispered.
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
“She’s alive because she’s strong,” he said softly. “And because you didn’t give up.”
Yuna shook her head.
“You’re impossible,” she muttered.
Joonseo’s mouth softened.
“Maybe,” he admitted.
Yuna stared.
Her hands trembled.
Then she whispered the thing that sounded like surrender.
“I don’t know what we are,” she said.
Joonseo’s chest ached.
“We don’t have to label it,” he said gently. “Not today.”
Yuna’s eyes flashed.
“Then what are you doing?” she demanded, voice breaking. “Confessing like this?”
Joonseo swallowed.
“Because I don’t want to keep hiding,” he said softly. “And because you deserve to know the truth of why I’m here.”
Yuna’s eyes filled.
She stared at him for a long moment.
Then she laughed—quiet and shaky.
“You’re really… serious,” she whispered.
Joonseo’s gaze didn’t move.
“Yes,” he said.
Yuna’s lips trembled.
And then, in the smallest voice:
“…What do you want?”
Joonseo’s heart hammered.
He took a breath.
He said it plainly.
“I want you,” he whispered. “Not as a project. Not as a comeback. Not as a story.”
His eyes burned.
“Just… you.”
Yuna’s breath hitched.
Her mouth trembled.
Then she whispered, barely:
“Then stop making it complicated.”
Joonseo blinked.
Yuna’s voice cracked.
“Stop saving me in ways that make me feel small,” she whispered. “Stop deciding alone. Stop hiding.”
Joonseo nodded.
“I will,” he promised.
Yuna swallowed.
Then she stepped closer.
Not into his arms.
Not yet.
Just close enough that her breath touched his chest.
Her eyes were wet.
Her voice was fierce.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Then… we try.”
The words hit him like warmth.
Joonseo exhaled shakily.
He nodded.
“Yes,” he whispered.
Yuna stared at him.
Then—finally—she reached up and grabbed the front of his hoodie.
Not a gentle gesture.
A stubborn one.
A don’t you dare disappear grip.
And she leaned in.
Their foreheads touched.
Not a kiss.
Just a pause.
A breath.
A fragile agreement sealed in closeness.
Yuna whispered against him:
“…Don’t leave.”
Joonseo’s voice broke.
“I won’t,” he whispered.
Time didn’t jump like a drama.
It flowed.
Slow.
Daily.
The café continued.
Yuna’s mother recovered.
Not instantly.
Not magically.
But steadily—after proper treatment, after rest, after Yuna finally let herself sleep.
Hana came more often.
Other old fans found the café.
Not crowds.
Not viral fame.
Just enough.
Enough for rent.
Enough for hospital bills.
Enough for Yuna to breathe.
And through it all, Joonseo kept his promise.
Hands.
Not money.
He showed up.
He listened.
He asked before he acted.
He became—slowly—someone Yuna could trust.
Then, one morning, he asked her a question while wiping the counter.
Same spot.
Same motion.
“Do you trust me?”
Yuna stared at him like he was ridiculous.
“What kind of question is that?” she muttered.
Joonseo’s eyes were calm.
“Answer it anyway,” he said.
Yuna sighed.
“…A little,” she admitted.
Joonseo nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
Yuna narrowed her eyes.
“What are you planning?”
Joonseo smiled faintly.
“Nothing,” he lied.
Yuna squinted.
“That was a lie,” she said.
Joonseo’s smile widened.
“…Something,” he corrected.
Yuna’s eyes narrowed.
“Kim Joonseo.”
The use of his full name was a warning.
Joonseo only smiled.
“Han Yuna,” he replied.
And somehow, just hearing each other’s names like that—
real,
full,
without hiding—
felt like its own vow.
She found out two weeks later.
Not through a confession.
Through a delivery.
A garment bag arrived at the café.
Yuna stared at it.
Then she stared at Joonseo.
“…What is this?” she demanded.
Joonseo looked far too calm.
“A dress,” he said.
Yuna’s eyes widened.
“A dress,” she repeated.
Joonseo nodded.
Yuna’s voice rose.
“Why is there a wedding dress in my café?”
Joonseo blinked.
“Because we’re getting married,” he said.
Yuna froze.
Then she laughed.
Hard.
Disbelieving.
“You’re joking,” she said.
Joonseo didn’t smile.
“I’m not,” he said.
Yuna’s jaw dropped.
“You didn’t—”
She pointed at him like she was about to commit a crime.
“You didn’t propose,” she snapped.
Joonseo tilted his head.
“I did,” he said.
Yuna stared.
“When?”
Joonseo’s mouth softened.
“When I asked you to try,” he said quietly. “When you said okay. I just… haven’t put a ring on it yet.”
Yuna’s face flushed.
“That is not—”
She sputtered.
“That is not how proposals work!”
Joonseo’s eyes warmed.
“Then let me do it properly,” he said.
Yuna blinked.
He reached into his pocket.
He pulled out a small box.
Yuna’s breath caught.
Joonseo opened it.
A ring.
Not absurdly huge.
Not a diamond screaming wealth.
A simple band with a small stone that shimmered softly.
Yuna stared.
Joonseo’s voice was quiet.
“Han Yuna,” he said. “Will you marry me?”
Yuna’s eyes filled.
Her mouth trembled.
She looked furious.
And soft.
And terrified.
All at once.
“…You planned a dress before asking?” she choked.
Joonseo blinked.
“I like being prepared,” he said.
Yuna laughed through tears.
“You’re insane,” she whispered.
Joonseo’s eyes softened.
“Probably,” he admitted. “But I’m serious.”
Yuna’s throat moved.
She stared at the ring.
Then she whispered:
“…Yes.”
Joonseo’s breath left him like relief.
He slid the ring onto her finger.
His hands were steady.
Yuna stared at her hand like it wasn’t real.
Then she looked up.
Her voice shook.
“But,” she warned, “no grand wedding.”
Joonseo’s eyes flickered.
“Okay,” he lied.
Yuna narrowed her eyes.
“That was a lie,” she said.
Joonseo coughed.
“…We’ll discuss it,” he said.
Yuna glared.
They did discuss it.
Yuna wanted something small.
A quiet ceremony.
Close friends.
Simple food.
No cameras.
No spectacle.
Joonseo listened.
He nodded.
He agreed.
Then he did what he always did when he wanted something badly.
He planned.
But this time, he didn’t plan alone.
He planned with her.
He asked.
He compromised.
He negotiated like he was closing a deal—
except this deal ended in forever.
Yuna’s definition of “small” grew slowly.
Not because she was weak.
Because she realized something.
This wasn’t a billionaire showing off.
This was a man who had wanted a wedding his whole life.
Not for display.
For meaning.
For the one thing money couldn’t guarantee:
A promise someone chose.
So she said—reluctantly—
“Fine,”
when he begged for a bigger venue.
She said “fine” again when he begged for live music.
She said “fine” again when Hana threatened to cry if Yuna didn’t let her choose the flower colors.
Yuna said “fine” so many times she started keeping score.
And every time she gave in, Joonseo kissed her forehead like gratitude.
Not flashy.
Not possessive.
Just warm.
On the wedding day, the sky was clear.
The venue was too beautiful.
Yuna stood in the bridal room staring at the mirror like she was waiting for someone to jump out and yell surprise.
Her dress was elegant.
Not heavy.
Not princess costume.
Simple lines.
Soft fabric.
The kind of dress that looked like her.
Hana fussed over her hair.
“You’re really doing it,” Hana whispered.
Yuna’s eyes were sharp.
“I blame you,” she muttered.
Hana laughed.
“I’ll take credit,” she said.
Then Mrs. Han entered.
Healthy.
Stronger.
Her cheeks had color again.
Her steps were steady.
Yuna turned.
Her breath caught.
“Eomma,” she whispered.
Mrs. Han smiled.
“My daughter,” she murmured.
Yuna’s eyes filled instantly.
Mrs. Han reached out and held her hands.
Her voice was soft.
“You look happy,” she said.
Yuna’s throat tightened.
“I’m scared,” she admitted.
Mrs. Han squeezed her hands.
“Then be scared,” she said. “And do it anyway.”
Yuna laughed through tears.
“That’s your advice?”
Mrs. Han smiled.
“It worked for you your whole life,” she said.
Yuna’s shoulders shook.
Then she nodded.
Outside, the ceremony began.
Guests filled the seats.
Not a crowd of strangers.
Not a media circus.
But still… grand.
White flowers.
Warm lighting.
A string quartet playing softly.
Yuna walked down the aisle with her mother.
Her hands trembled.
Her heart hammered.
Then she saw him.
Joonseo stood at the front in a simple black suit.
No arrogance.
No billionaire aura.
Just a man whose eyes looked like he couldn’t believe he was allowed this.
When Yuna reached him, he took her hands.
His thumbs brushed her knuckles gently.
He whispered so only she could hear:
“You’re real.”
Yuna’s eyes burned.
“So are you,” she whispered.
The officiant spoke.
Words about love.
About staying.
About choosing.
Yuna barely heard any of it.
Because her chest was full.
Her mother was alive.
Her café still existed.
Her voice had returned.
And now, a man who once hid in shadows was standing in the light—
with her.
Then came the vows.
Joonseo went first.
His voice didn’t shake.
But his eyes did.
“I promise you,” he said, “no more hiding.”
Yuna’s breath hitched.
“I promise you,” he continued, “I will ask before I act.”
Yuna’s eyes burned.
“I promise you,” he said, voice softening, “I will use my power only to protect your boundaries—never to shrink you.”
Yuna’s throat tightened.
Then he inhaled.
“And I promise you,” he whispered, “I will stay. Not because you need me. Because I want to. Because I choose you.”
Yuna’s hands shook.
Her eyes filled.
When it was her turn, she laughed through tears.
“I hate rich guys,” she began.
A ripple of soft laughter moved through the guests.
Joonseo’s mouth twitched.
Yuna’s eyes were wet.
“And you…” she continued, voice trembling, “…you are the richest man I’ve ever met.”
Joonseo blinked.
Yuna swallowed.
“But you’re also the one who washed dishes,” she said. “Who stayed when the café was empty. Who listened when I yelled. Who asked when you could’ve decided.”
Her voice cracked.
“So I promise you,” she whispered, “I will try to trust you without hating myself for it.”
Joonseo’s eyes burned.
“I promise you,” she said, “I will let you love me without turning it into debt.”
Her mouth trembled.
“And I promise you,” she finished, breath shaky, “I will stay too. Because… you are an exception.”
The officiant smiled.
“Then,” they said softly, “you may kiss.”
Yuna inhaled.
Joonseo lifted his hands and cupped her face gently.
Not possessive.
Not showy.
Just careful.
As if she was still fragile.
Yuna grabbed his wrists.
“By the way,” she whispered, voice teasing through tears, “how much did you spend on this?”
Joonseo blinked.
“Yuna—”
Yuna narrowed her eyes.
“This is why I hate rich guys,” she murmured.
Joonseo’s mouth softened.
“But you,” she added, voice trembling, “you are an exception…”
Then she pulled him down.
And kissed him.
A real kiss.
Warm.
Certain.
The kind that felt like a vow sealing itself into flesh.
Applause erupted.
Soft laughter.
Crying.
Hana openly wiping her tears.
Mrs. Han smiling like she could finally breathe.
And in the middle of it all—
Joonseo held Yuna like she was the only thing that had ever been real.
Because she was.
Because love, at its simplest, was not money.
Not fame.
Not rumors.
It was the quiet act of staying.
The first verse.
And the second.
And every verse after—
together.