A girl Y/N who lost her mother after birth, her father got married to another women who never think of Y/N as her daughter, she hit her called her useless, but Y/N's grandmother raise her but she died when Y/N was a child...
She gets young as a simp...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
____________🦋
They sat on the bike as Namjoon started to drive toward the house. Y/N, however, was lost in her thoughts. Her mind replayed the moment when her brother had asked if Namjoon was her husband.
"Why did he say yes?" she thought, frowning in confusion. Her mind wandered further, and a warm feeling spread in her chest.
"If it is possible, I'd love to be his wife," she admitted silently, a smile tugging at her lips. As the thought settled, her grip around his waist tightened.
She leaned forward, resting her head against his broad back, letting his scent earthy and clean wrap around her like a comforting embrace.
The ride ended too soon, and they entered the apartment. Namjoon walked straight to the kitchen, placing the shopping bags on the counter.
He began unpacking the items and pulled out a neatly wrapped bar of soap.
"Go take a shower. It'll help to clean out the bacteria." he said, handing it to her. His voice was firm, yet his eyes held a gentle concern. "Then apply this to your wounds."
She frowned, tilting her head. "But I've already showered. Do I stink or something?" she asked, sniffing at her shirt with a playful pout.
Namjoon chuckled, the corners of his lips curling slightly. He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "No, you don't stink," he replied softly. "But Soojin said this mild soap is necessary to prevent infection. It's for your own good."
Her frown melted away, and she nodded obediently. Taking the soap, she disappeared into the bathroom.
Namjoon settled himself on the couch, his focus shifting to the stack of students' assignments he had been grading. The room was quiet except for the faint rustling of papers.
After some time, Y/N emerged from the bathroom, her hair damp and her skin glowing from the steam. She wore loose, comfy pants and a bra, leaving her wounded skin accessible for the ointment. She caught her reflection in the mirror and froze.
Tears welled up in her eyes as she took in the scars scattered across her body. Some were faint, fading reminders of old wounds, while others were fresh and angry. The sight of them made her chest tighten, but she refused to cry. She didn't want to feel weak.
Opening the small box of ointment, she began applying it carefully. The first touch to the wound on her shoulder made her hiss in pain.
She gritted her teeth and moved to her collarbone, then to the tender skin of her cleavage, and finally her stomach. Each time, the cooling sensation of the ointment seared her like fire.
When it was time to tend to her back, she turned toward the mirror and gasped. Her back was worse than she had thought so many scars, so many memories etched into her skin.
Tears slid down her cheeks silently as a wave of shame and helplessness washed over her.
"I look so... ugly" she whispered to herself, the words a knife to her heart.
