-Disclaimer: This is not my story. I got full permission from the author to repost this on AFF-

The Challenge by The Lucky Kind of fanfiction.net

"Minho, it's time for bed," the nurse said gently as if he were a toddler instead of a fully grown man. Dara picked up on this too, if the narrowed glare she gave the nurse was any indication.

He sighed, slowly lifting himself off the armchair and climbing into his bed. The nurse smiled in satisfaction before closing the door of the room.

As soon as her retreating footsteps could no longer be heard from the hall, he sat up, flinging the blanket off of his body.

"God, I hate that b!tch," he muttered with a huff, now sitting at the edge of his bed.

Dara's eyes widened in shock as dropped open. "Dad!" she screeched.

"What?" he asked. "You know how horrible she is. Yesterday she asked if I wanted to drink my milk from a sippy cup!"

Dara huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Still," she said with a grimance, "she's just doing her job."

"Yea, if her job was to piss me off," he muttered still loud enough for both of us to hear.

Dara threw her hands up in the air and let out an audible groan, obviously aggravated that her thirty-year-old father had a dirtier mouth than she did. I chuckled, standing from my chair to walk towards Dara.

"Mr. Park, I think you should listen to the nurse and get some sleep," I said. I placed a hand on Dara's back as she rubbed her temples and muttered incoherent words under her breath.

"I can't go to sleep now! It's only seven o' clock!" he protested, crossing his arms with an exaggerated huff.

I looked between the two Parks who both had their arms crossed over their chest and a dominant expression on their face. Both of them were too stubborn for their own good. I sighed, like father, like daughter.

"How about a bedtime story?" I suggested, motioning to the mountains of books piled in every nook and cranny of the room.

"I've read all of those books already," he said as he dismissed the idea with a simple wave of his hand.

"Well, you can read it again," I offered, walking over to a pile and picking up an old, dusty, paper-back edition of Othello. Dara roamed around the room too, shifting through the piles of books.

"I've read those books way too many times to count," he sighed. "The ending has become way too predictable and boring. Sometimes I hate writers because it is always their ending or no ending. The ending in those book are completely set in stone and they will never change. It's very much like life itself."

I whirled around to face him. "Are you saying that a person can never undo their mistakes?" I asked, a large knot twisting and coiling around my stomach.

"That's exactly what I'm saying," he said, pointing a finger at me. "Fate only has one ending and if someone goes and screws that up, it's gone forever. No rewinding, no do-overs, no second chances. That's it."

I gulped, looking over at Dara who was currently absorbed into a story of Aslan and White Queens. She ran her fingers through the yellow pages as she read, already lost in the world of Narnia.

"So, you're saying if someone messes up, the story is finished and it can never be changed again?" I asked, nearly wincing at the answer I knew was coming.

He nodded his head. "That's it. That person can only start a new story with new characters and hope they don't screw up again."

The knot in my stomach s its way around my lungs, squeezing it until my breath came out short and ragged. I desperately tried to calm my unsteady breaths but it felt like my lungs were now made of iron and my legs could no longer support the weight of my body. I gripped a pile of books as I slowly regained my breath and my heartrate felt normal again.

"I don't want to read any of those books," he sighed. "I've read them far too many times."

"If one cannot enjoy reading a book over and over again, there is no use in reading it at all," Dara said as she closed the novel by C.S. Lewis.

"Oscar Wilde," I said instinctively. My eyes widened as soon as those words left my mouth. I looked over at Dara, who was wearing an impressed smile on her face.

"That's right," she grinned, her eyes widening slightly as well.

I chuckled shyly, looking down at my fingers. I stole a glance of Dara from the corner of my eyes, wondering when I became the person who could properly quote an author when a few weeks ago I couldn't even tell you who Oscar Wilde was.

"How about a lullaby?" Mr. Park suggested, motioning to the baby grand sitting in the corner of the room.

I clapped my hands in agreement. "Yes! Come on Dara, let's see some of that infamous New York talent," I grinned, striding over to where she stood with her arms crossed and a smug smile on her face.

"Oh you wouldn't be able to handle it," she said slyly, smirking up at me.

"Is that a challenge?" I asked, crossing my arms as well as I raised one eyebrow at her.

"No, it's the truth," she remarked, stepping closer to me.

"Are you guys going to play some music? or are you going to continue to have eye s3x in the middle of my room?" Mr. Park's voice carried over from where he lay on his bed.

Dara's face flushed red and she quickly looked towards the ground. My smirk faltered as I felt my face heat up as well. I coughed, my throat becoming dry, as I looked around the room at anywhere but Dara's face.

"Dad," Dara whined.

"Honey, I said I wanted grandkids, not to watch my grandkids being made in front of me," he said with a voice that suggested he was enjoying our flustered appearances much more than he should.

"Dad!" she shouted, her voice raising at least five octaves higher than normal.

"Oh God," I groaned, finding it uncomfortable to look anywhere but the white ceiling right now.

"Let's just play a song," Dara said far too enthusiastically with a clap of her hands.

I finally looked at her as she was pressing her cool palms to her flushed face and I was sure my face was no better. We walked over to the small piano bench and sat down. My eyes stayed focused on the piano keys as an attempt to ignore her side pressed tightly against mine. We were so close that I felt her goosebumps on her arm and if I tried hard enough, I was sure I could feel the steady sound of her heartbeat.

"So just follow along," she said as she placed her fingers on the keys.

"Wait. I-uh can't write songs," I admitted with an embarrassed smile.

She laughed, guiding my hands to the keys. "It's okay. The only people that will here are me and my dad. Just follow the melody and sing what you feel."

"What if what I feel can't be put into words?"