i’m not dead my kiwis!!! i’m in the middle of a cross-country move, i think i’ll be settled in and ready to keep writing by christmas but i truly don’t know :-)
you were only in the street fighting industry for the internship hours.
paramedic training had its ups and downs, sure, but the best perk by far was the freedom to pick where you logged your hours. the last thing you wanted was to spend your days shadowing clinical rounds in some sterile hospital, or twiddling your thumbs in the back of an ambulance bay.
so here you are now, crouching on a folding stool at the edge of a chain-link cage, knuckles wrapped in tape and chalk dust still on your palms—not because you’re fighting, but because it looks more official that way. the air reeks of sweat, spit from thrown punches, and something metallic you try not to identify until it crosses over into your medic corner. adrenaline thrums like a constant heartbeat through the dimly lit warehouse, where the overhead bulbs buzz in protest and gaggles of fans shift in the stifling late-night heat.
your eyes scan the fighters as they dart in and out of your corner, logging vitals, noting ragged breaths, checking small cuts before they turn serious. each grunt, each slip, each jab demanded attention— and you gave it, professional instinct kicking in, even if your stomach twists at some of the violence.
he was there, of course. he always is.
he’s leaning against the far corner tonight, just beyond your reach but impossible to ignore. lee know. a fighter, an enigma, and somehow entirely predictable in his unpredictability. the first time you noticed him, he’d barely spared a glance at the corner; a flick of his gaze, a quirk of the brow. that was all you got. and yet somehow the moment had carved itself into memory.
he’s utterly recognizable wherever he goes in the warehouse, with that dark hair like a raven river sweeping across his forehead, sometimes fluffy, sometimes matted with sweat; and those broad shoulders always pulling deliciously at whatever tank he’s thrown on, arms lined with muscles that serve to power punches like nothing you’ve ever seen before.
he never spoke much whenever he deigned to let you patch him up after some of his rougher fights. just stared up at you with those piercing eyes that could make even the worst sinners blush like a saint. he was as stoic as he was skilled, but you tried not to let it deter you.
you filled the silences with your own chatter; if he minded, he never let on. but he always kissed his knuckles before throwing a punch after letting you bandage him up.
tonight, like always, his eyes find yours in the crowd. he doesn’t wave. he doesn’t smile. his presence is just… there, looming taut, dangerous, a little too magnetic. and when one of the fighters in the match preceding his takes a heavy blow in the ring, your pulse spikes— not for the fight, not yet— but for the quiet certainty that he’ll be there, watching, assessing, seeing the way you work against the damage he inflicts.
your coworker is dragging the sore loser of the last fight toward the small med station, murmuring reassurances you only half-register. your eyes stay locked on the ring. the fight is over, but a new one is about to begin— and the moment lee know steps in, the world shrinks.
he moves like water held in check: precise, controlled, but with the underlying promise of force ready to spill. you catch him stretching first– the slow rotation of his shoulders, the flex of his forearms, wrapped fingers splayed like he’s mapping the air itself. calves shift, heels rise, then land solid against the canvas, measuring distance with muscles you didn’t know could move that cleanly, that tautly.
he bounces lightly on the balls of his feet, a rhythm that’s both a warm-up and a warning. every shift of weight, every flick of his head, is deliberate. his eyes sweep the cage with surgical attention, noting angles, distances, posture, every detail that could become a weakness— or an opportunity. you swear you can see calculations running behind his gaze, lightning-quick, merciless. ready to win.
the air seems to bend around him. there’s heat, yes, but it’s not from exertion yet— it’s the aura he carries: taut and charged, a predator in pause. he traces imaginary punches midair, elbows slicing diagonals, wrists flicking out to test the arc. each movement is fluid, effortless, but it carries threat; the kind that makes your stomach tighten and your pulse spike even if nothing has touched you.
your notebook— meant to log vitals— is forgotten on the bench. your hands itch to touch, to reach out and feel how controlled every muscle is, how he could crush or protect with the same motion. the way his back flexes, the lines of his shoulders, the subtle twist of his torso as he shifts from one stance to another— he’s poetry, danger wrapped in sinew and solid intention.
he stops for a moment, eyes narrowing, scanning the cage. your chest aches for the briefest acknowledgment, some sign that he knows you’re watching. the corner of his mouth quirks up; not quite a smile, but almost.
it’s enough. you smile despite yourself.
then he loosens his fists, lets them fly in slow, deliberate shadow punches as he warms himself up. the sound of air slicing past— almost a hiss— draws your full attention. every punch has purpose, and you can see the lines connecting shoulder, elbow, wrist, knuckles, snapping back into guard. it’s motion honed to a razor’s edge, and your chest tightens with each strike.
and then he pauses at the center of the ring. stance perfect, posture relaxed but primed, gaze sweeping the space, measuring, calculating. the aura shifts— it’s less warm-up now and more for intimidation. he breathes, slow, steady, but every inhale seems to draw the air tight around you. you feel it. the temperature rises. the buzz of anticipation makes your fingers curl around your pen.
your coworker nudges you back to reality with a quiet, “you should be taking notes,” but the words barely register. all you can see is him: fluid, precise, unshakable.
and in that moment, you’re caught completely. enthralled, heart hammering, notebook abandoned, the taste of adrenaline sharp on your tongue.
he’s a fighter, yes.
but he’s also a storm, a controlled one; and you’re already teetering dangerously close to being pulled in.
—
the fight has been dragging on for the better part of an hour now.
the crowd’s roars are a distant hum in your ears, but the impact of each hit thuds through the cage, vibrating up your spine. lee know moves like water cutting stone— smooth, fast, lethal— but his opponent refuses to crumble. every jab, every hook, every measured strike is met with stubborn, ragged resistance.
you know you’re not supposed to be partial to any of the fighters; your job is to patch them up no matter what. but you can’t help it.
you clutch the edge of your bench, knuckles white as you watch him duck under a wild swing, pivot, and land a sharp hook to the ribs that makes his opponent grunt and stumble— just slightly, never enough to finish. sweat glistens along lee know’s jaw, the muscles in his neck flexing with every rotation, every strike controlled, purposeful, like he’s a hurricane contained in sinew.
then it happens.
a flash of movement you almost miss: the opponent counters with a sharp uppercut that snaps lee know’s head back, then rakes his nails across his jaw in a split-second scrape. you gasp, heart in your throat, as crimson beads bloom along the pale skin of his handsome face. the referee jumps in instantly, shouting for a time out.
lee know drops to the bench next to you like a wolf finally acknowledging the muzzle, shoulders sagging but still radiating danger. you jump to your feet, grabbing madly for your kit; he lets you cradle his head in your hands without protest, and suddenly all the chaos of the fight is replaced by this small, charged pocket of closeness.
“you’re a mess,” you murmur, reaching for the damp cloth; but there’s a tension in your voice, a flutter in your chest that betrays your calm exterior. your fingers trace the lines of his jaw, dabbing at the cut on his nose, pressing gently to stop the blood from dripping onto his shirt.
he smirks faintly, eyes glittering with mischief and sweat, even in pain. “only for you,” he rasps, and it’s just enough to make your heart pound ever harder in your chest.
you bite back a laugh, returning to the task. you wipe at his temple, cradle his cheek with care, adjusting the antibiotic cream before you lay little white bandages over the scrape. your hands linger a fraction longer than necessary, fingertips brushing against tense skin, memorizing the curve of his jaw and the tilt of his head.
“you always this careful?” he asks softly, voice hoarse, teasing in the barest of ways.
“someone has to keep you in one piece,” you reply, tone clipped but your heart racing. the words are professional enough, but your pulse betrays your growing awareness of just how close he is.
he tilts his head into your touch, eyes closing briefly. “maybe i like it when you fuss,” he admits quietly, almost shy if you didn’t know any better; but there’s heat in his chest and throat that you can feel through your palms.
the time-out bell is ticking down, the distant hum of the crowd returning. you give him one last dab at the wound, press the cloth to the scrape along his jaw, and lift your gaze. he watches you with an intensity that makes the air between you electric, his near-smirk returning as he grips the bench. you rewrap his knuckles with lightning speed– just to be sure.
“am i all patched up, y/n?” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous, teasing, the ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his lips.
you smile back against your better judgement and nod. “go get ‘em, tiger,” you say softly, and he raises his freshly wrapped knuckles to his mouth, kissing them once with a smirk before the bell rings and the fight resumes.
—
the gym is almost empty now, the crowd thinned to the last few diehards who shuffle toward the exit, shouting their goodbyes or slapping each other on the back. the overhead bulbs hum low, casting long shadows across the sweat-slicked canvas. your coworker has already packed up, leaving you alone with him, the quiet settling like a second skin.
lee know is still sitting on the bench, shoulders tight from the fight, knuckles still wrapped in your white tape, sweat glistening along the sharp lines of his forearms. you crouch in front of him again, kit open at your side, fingers brushing against the newest shallow cut along his cheek as you dab at it with antiseptic. his jaw is tight, lips pressed together; but he leans into your hands, just enough to tell you that your touch doesn’t feel like an intrusion.
“you should ice this one,” you murmur, careful, tracing the curve of his jaw where a faint bruise promises to bloom later. it’s only yellow for now, but it’ll brighten into an ugly purple soon enough if he’s not careful.
“i’ll live,” he answers lowly, his eyes flicking up to meet yours for a fraction of a second before returning to where he’s slowly unraveling the wraps around his fists.
“you always brush your injuries off,” you press, tone soft but insistent, wanting to hear more than the clipped surface. you smooth out the tiny white bandage across his nose, whispering a soft sorry when he winces ever so slightly.
“habit,” he murmurs with a shrug, letting the word hang. it’s neutral enough; but the tilt of his head, the way his gaze keeps catching yours, says otherwise.
your fingers linger, brushing gently over the edge of his cheek where the blood has dried in a faint line. his eyes are half-lidded, chin tipped just so that your touch reaches the curve of his jaw. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t jerk away; he just lets you patch him up, stoic, silent, like he’s anchoring himself to the moment. like he’s letting you anchor yourself to him.
“does it hurt?” you ask softly, though you already know the answer– he always says no. your hand hovers over the still-healing cut on his temple from a previous fight, your thumb brushing the edge of his skin as if testing for a reaction. he doesn’t lean in, but he doesn’t pull back, either.
“not like it did last week,” he murmurs, voice clipped, but there’s something in the tone— barely perceptible— that tells you he’s amused by all your fussing. a flicker in his eyes betrays it.
you dab lightly at the last little scrape, antiseptic cooling against his warm skin, tracing the line of the cut with care. your pulse hammers a little harder in your chest with each brush of your fingertips. he shifts subtly, just a fraction, trusting you to take care of him. you always do.
“you’re quiet,” you murmur, brushing the damp cloth across his temple again. “usually you’d be muttering complaints or some cryptic advice.”
“not tonight,” he says flatly, gaze dropping to the floor. the words are short, yes, but there’s weight to them. he doesn’t want to speak, but he also doesn’t move away. he allows this— he allows your hands on him; allows your focus, your presence.
you tilt your head, studying him. there’s a faint sheen of sweat along the curve of his jaw, along his neck, and the muscles beneath flex gently under your fingertips when he adjusts his posture. your eyes trace him with care, memorizing the lines, the tension, the way his body moves even when he’s still. you press the damp cloth to his forehead once more.
“you let me do this too easily,” you say; your voice is almost a whisper, your fingers still lingering over the scrape along his cheekbone.
he meets your eyes, and you swear you forget how to breathe. “yeah, well. someone’s gotta keep me from falling apart.” he leans his head into your hand for a fraction more than necessary, and you swear you can feel his heartbeat through his skin. it’s steady, strong, almost mocking your own racing pulse.
“how do you do it?” you ask suddenly, voice low. “how do you keep so… precise? so controlled in there?”
“practice,” he answers, clipped, eyes finally meeting yours, “years of it.” his gaze is sharp, calculating, but something softer flickers in it— respect, acknowledgment, maybe even a trace of humor.
“come on. there’s more to it than just practice,” you press, leaning in just slightly, your hand brushing over his shoulder as you adjust a bandage you’ve fussed over too many times already.
and then the words crystallize before you have time to think about them: “teach me.”
he freezes. for a fraction of a second, his expression remains unreadable, lips pressed tight. then his eyes flick down to your hands, brushing against his skin, brushing against him in ways that maybe aren’t just for clinical care. he swallows, subtle, and finally exhales. “maybe someday.”
you catch his eye with a spreading grin, “someday? c’mon, you’ve got to give me a starting point,” you pester, refusing to let him hide behind his usual stoicism. “just a little. just enough for me to understand. i’ll be careful, i promise.”
he glances away, jaw tight, fingers flexing. the faintest smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “mm…you’re relentless, you know?” he murmurs, voice low, almost indulgent, almost a warning.
“if you’re trying to flatter me into dropping it, that was a miserable failure,” you say teasingly, eyes locking with his. the heat between you thickens, silent and charged. your hands hover near his temple again, touching nothing yet holding everything. your fingers squeeze the cloth still in your grasp like it’s a tether to reality.
he finally leans back slightly, that smirk firming into something more real. “fine,” he concedes eventually— but the weight in his tone is enough to make your chest lift. “i’ll teach you. step by step. but not now; i apparently have some injuries i need to ice tonight.”
you smile despite yourself, pulse still fast, savoring the victory hidden in the concession. “deal,” you say firmly. the promise of learning how to hold your own hangs heavy in the quiet gym, louder than any fight you’ve watched tonight.
he watches you a beat longer, expression still revealing too little, but the faintest warmth in his eyes betrays some small part of him that’s already anticipating the lesson. your fingers twitch, itching to trace the lines of his face again, but you no longer have any real reason to do so. nothing professional, anyways.
so you step back, careful; letting him remain ever the enigma, the storm, the controlled force that yields to you in small and stolen moments.
and as the last of the sparse crowd files out, the gym hums low, filled only with the two of you, the quiet aftermath of chaos, and the unspoken promise of what’s to come.
—
the practice room is half-dark by the time lee know wanders in, the overhead light buzzing like it’s on its last leg. the stale air smells like chalk dust and old sweat, concrete floor stained where gloves and knuckles have bled out. you’re perched on a low bench, knees bouncing.
you catch his eye as he approaches, smiling faintly; he doesn’t grant you one back, but you do catch his lips twitching once before he drops onto the stool in front of you without a word.
he’s holding a roll of hand wraps.
“give me your hand.” his voice is flat, the kind that doesn’t bother making room for argument; you have half a mind to ask why. but you find the words die out on the tip of your tongue.
you hold a hand out for him, palm stiff, like you’re not entirely sure what you signed up for. he catches it, and his hand dwarfs yours— skin rough, knuckles scarred, but grip steady. the cloth stretches as he threads it around your wrist the way you’ve done for him so many times; tight, but not too tight. his fingers brush the inside of your palm when he anchors it between each of your fingers, and you swear your heart hits the ceiling.
he doesn’t look at you, only at the slow rhythm of wrap after wrap, like you’re another fight he’s breaking down into steps. “you’ll break your thumb if you tuck it wrong,” he mutters. when you shift into making a fist with the hand he’s wrapped, he huffs through his nose— annoyed— and repositions your grip himself.
his touch is clinical. it shouldn’t feel like anything. but it does.
he removes your thumb from inside the fist and nudges it to the side, then presses over your closed fingers once to check your strength. he sighs, but doesn’t move you any further; you must’ve done something right. he moves on to wrapping your other wrist.
by the time he finishes the second hand, he’s close enough that his knee knocks yours when he straightens. he nods sharply toward the bag hanging in the corner. “stance.”
you copy what you’ve seen him do a hundred times from your side of the ring— feet planted, fists up. it earns you nothing but his signature exhale. “too wide. weight’s off.” he says shortly. he taps your heel with the toe of his shoe until you shift. then he presses your shoulder, making you bend just slightly. “lower.”
you roll your eyes. “are you always this bossy?”
his gaze flicks up, unreadable. “depends, princess. you always this sloppy?”
you should fire back. you should. but his chest brushes your back when he steps in to adjust your form, and your brain blanks out completely at the touch. his hand closes over yours, angling your wrist until the punch feels like it could actually land.
he doesn’t move away once he’s done fixing your stance; just stays there, breathing steady, the air between you far too heavy to ignore. finally, he steps back, allowing you to drive a jab into the bag.
the sound is satisfying—sharp, solid. you think it’s a decent enough punch.
but before you can pull back for another, his hand flashes out and catches your fist mid-air, sparks humming to life in your veins. the cloth’s tight against your skin, your pulse hammering into his palm through it.
he studies you for a beat too long. “not bad.” the praise comes low, almost reluctant. and then he lets go like he’s been burned, stepping away before you can ask what the hell that look in his eyes was.
“you need more weight behind it though,” he says, “throw your body into it.” he jerks his chin toward the bag again. “punch.” so you do. or— you try.
your fist thuds against the bag, more of a sloppy swing than a clean strike. the bag barely shivers, and you hear that sigh you could recognize anywhere from behind you once more. “again.”
his voice is clipped, but not wholly unkind. just focused– like you should be.
you throw another. you’re still off.
he exhales yet again, the sound closer to a growl this time, and steps in. one scarred hand circles your wrist, the other steadying the back of your elbow. he guides you through the motion slow, almost painfully slow, showing you the correct form.
“straight line, no curve. your shoulder leads.” he pushes until your arm extends exactly the way he wants it, knuckles brushing the bag. “you don’t throw with your arm. you throw with everything.”
you crane your head back to blink at him, confused. “everything?”
he doesn’t bother explaining; instead, his palm finds your hipbone, nudging it until your stance shifts, then taps your core with two fingers. you think your eyebrows can’t possibly fly any higher up your forehead. “here. start here.”
the touch is fleeting but it leaves heat under your skin nonetheless, like he’s markimg you through the fabric. you feel like if you were to peel the material away, you’d see his handprints branded over every place he’s touched you tonight.
“try again.”
this time you hit the bag with the full twist of your body. the sound is louder, cleaner. you look back for his reaction; his mouth barely twitches— approval, maybe— but he doesn’t linger on it.
he circles around, pacing. “give me some combinations. one-two, right-left.” you follow his example after he punches the bag in demonstration, jabbing twice after him. the second throw slips, and your fist collides weakly with the bag.
he catches your hand before you can reset. “stop aiming for power, y/n. aim for precision. power comes later.”
you want to snap at him— you’re trying, damn it— but he’s already moving, standing directly behind you now, one arm guiding yours through the motions again like a puppeteer. your back presses flush with his chest every time you extend, driving you slowly mad. the bag sways gently with the echo of your punches.
the room has gone too quiet, still except for the drag of wraps with every punch, the smack of fabric on canvas, the rasp of both your breaths. finally, he steps back, eyes narrowed. “spar it.”
your jaw threatens to drop. “you mean… spar with you?”
he shakes his head, gaze unreadable. “with the bag.” then, after a beat, “i’ll push.” he braces the bag with his forearms, those muscles lining his arms pulled taut, waiting.
you hit it again— jab, once, twice. each strike drives the bag into him, but he doesn’t budge. just stares at you over the top of it, sweat beading along his temple, absorbing your every move like it’s nothing. his mouth is a firm line, just as unyielding as the rest of him.
“harder.”
you grit your teeth and throw another set, putting your whole body into it. your knuckles sting under the wraps, your lungs burn, your muscles protest loudly; but the feeling is liberating, addictive. you keep going under his neverending gaze. his voice cuts in low, steady: “better. go again.”
by the time your arms ache to the point of screaming, he finally lets the bag swing free. it collides back into your chest harder than expected, knocking you back a step with an ungraceful ‘oomph’.
he lets out a chuckle; it might be one of the first you’ve ever heard from him. you think he should laugh more. “maybe i should teach you dodging next,” he mutters.
you roll your eyes, taking the chalk he’s offered from his outstretched hand. “shut up, minho.”
–
you find yourself back in the gym the following week, lee know at your side as he shows you how to block incoming punches.
the lights overhead flicker faintly, buzzing like they’re the only other ones awake this late. sweat and chalk hang heavy in the air, and the bag sways idly from its chain as if it’s already bracing for impact. you’re jittery with anticipation, fists balled, ready to swing like last time.
but before you can even so much as cock your arm back, his palm flattens firmly against your wrist, halting you mid-motion.
“guard first,” he says evenly, eyes cutting to yours in a way that makes the order sharper than the words themselves. “you’ll get wrecked if you can’t protect your face. fists up.”
you frown, but obey, raising your hands. they hover somewhere near your cheeks— close enough, you think.
apparently not.
he huffs through his nose, stepping closer until his shadow nearly swallows you. his fingers slide over your knuckles, nudging them higher into a more protective position. the rough drag of his hard-fought calluses over the back of your hand sends sparks down your spine.
“too low,” he mutters. “like this.”
he curves your elbow inward with a guiding press, his touch patient but unyielding. your chest tightens. he’s not even really looking at you, more focused on your stance than he is on the deep blush rising to your cheeks, but every adjustment has you fighting to keep your pulse steady.
you drop your guard instinctively just to catch your breath. big mistake.
his hand darts out, quick as a strike, flicking you lightly on the forehead. “dead,” he says simply, smirk curling at his lips.
your jaw drops. “you didn’t even—”
“exactly.” he interrupts smoothly. his gaze finally flickers up, that same half-grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “block, or take a hit. there’s no in-between in a fight.”
you groan but reset anyways, throwing your hands up again. he doesn’t look impressed.
when he raises his own hand, curling it into a loose fist, you realize belatedly that he intends to test you. “ready?”
you nod, determined this time— only to flinch when his knuckles ghost slowly toward your cheek, the barest shell of a punch meant only to simulate reality. your hands fly up too long after they should’ve.
he catches your wrists midair, holding them in place. “you’re distracted,” he murmurs observantly. “can’t afford to be distracted in a real fight, though. if you ever get in one.”
your pulse is erratic against his grip– you are distracted, far too caught up in how his hair is falling into his eyes and not worried enough about your less-than-perfect guard form. he doesn’t squeeze your hands, doesn’t fully restrain; but somehow the steadiness of his grip feels stronger than anything.
“again,” he orders, releasing you.
this time you plant yourself, knees bent, fists tighter. when his hand comes forward, you meet it with your forearm. the block isn’t clean, but it’s contact.
a quiet hum escapes him, low in his throat— approval, maybe. he takes your elbow then, shifting the angle. “closer. you don’t want space for anything to slip through.”
his chest brushes your shoulder as he leans in to demonstrate, his own arm lifted in a perfect guard. the proximity alone makes your head spin.
“copy it,” he tells you, voice steady, but you can feel the heat radiating off him where he lingers.
you mimic his posture, and he adjusts slowly, one fingertip tapping the dip of your ribcage to tell you to tighten up; then a palm steadying your wrist, his other hand ghosting over your jawline just to tilt your face into the right alignment.
you’re melting. completely. utterly.
he notices— of course he notices— but his expression doesn’t betray more than the faintest twitch of amusement, of awareness, before he drops his hand back to his side.
“better,” he says simply. then, after a beat, “again.”
you block the next slow jab cleaner. the one after that is even sharper. he doesn’t praise, not outright; but his eyes linger a little longer on your stance, and when his hand comes to reset your elbow once more, it feels less like correction and more like… confirmation.
“you’ll get there,” he murmurs, almost too low to catch.
your chest is tight, your fists trembling— not from the exertion, but from the way every brush of his hand leaves an aftershock. a trail of fire zips down your skin, radiating, spreading from each point of contact.
lee know doesn’t comment on it. doesn’t have to. the twinkle in his dark eyes says it all.
when the bag sways in the corner, begging for more strikes, you glance at it eagerly; but his voice cuts through. “not yet. you should work on your guard until it’s second nature.”
you pout petulantly, “but punching is the fun part.”
his lips twitch again, fleeting amusement warming the otherwise cool set of his features. “punches are only fun if you’re still standing to throw one.”
and then his fist comes toward you again in slow motion, testing, relentless— forcing you to block, to feel the weight of his presence in every correction, until your muscles ache and your chest heaves.
by the time your arms feel like lead and your guard’s trembling more than holding, he finally steps back, head tilting as he studies you. his gaze flickers from your fists to your flushed face, then back again. if you didn’t know any better, you’d think there’s an appreciative glint behind those dark eyes you’ve become so fond of.
“…good enough,” he says at last, almost begrudging. “you’ve earned a swing.”
you don’t bother hiding your grin as he jerks his chin toward the bag. the thing sways gently, chain creaking overhead like it’s mocking you.
you draw back your fist, exhilaration rushing your veins— only to feel his palm flatten lightly between your shoulder blades. you jolt.
“not like that.” his voice rumbles close to your ear, his breath grazing the side of your face. “reset.”
your knees nearly buckle, but you obey, planting yourself again.
his hand doesn’t leave. it slides down, pressing at your spine, coaxing you to square your shoulders. the heat of him is everywhere— his chest just behind you, his knee brushing the back of yours when he nudges your stance narrower.
“weight here.” his palm finds your hip, guiding until your balance shifts. “drive through it.”
your throat goes dry. you’re barely listening to the words— only the cadence of them as they brush past your ear from behind, steady and close. the hand on your hip is purely instructional; but it’s not. right now, it’s so much more. it leaves you dizzy and exhilarated, fighting for your next breath as much as you’ve been fighting to keep a perfect form.
he doesn’t wait for you to ask. his hand covers yours over the wraps, guiding your arm back into position. “again. with me this time.”
you punch forward, his hand slowly directing your line and then releasing as you put power behind it. the bag shudders weakly.
“better,” he mutters. but he doesn’t move away. instead, his other hand lands lightly on your stomach, fingertips just grazing your abdomen as he presses. “tighter here. everything comes from here– all your strength and power.”
you swallow hard, pulse hammering. your whole body feels strung taut between his steady hands, splayed almost possessively over your skin– shoulder, stomach, everywhere.
the next strike lands sharper, cleaner. the sound echoes with a satisfying thwack across the empty gym.
his approval doesn’t come in words, not at first; only in the way his grip lingers a fraction longer than necessary before falling away, and you find yourself missing it instantly.
finally, he circles around with an arm that trails your waist too gently, sliding himself in front of you. his own fists rise, demonstrating a quick one-two against the bag. the muscles in his arms shift, smooth and powerful, and you swear you forget how to breathe.
he lowers his fists and cocks his head at you. “copy.”
you mimic his form, your punch colliding with the bag. this time, when it rebounds, it drives into his forearms where he braces it, his body catching the weight of your throw; off-kilter, but not wholly bad. a solid enough punch that he nods, just once.
your knuckles throb. your chest heaves. you can’t look away from the faint smirk curling at his lips, from the way his eyes pin you steady to the spot.
“see?” he says, low and even. “power’s nothing without control.”
you’re not sure if he’s talking about boxing anymore.
you drop to a bench, arms shaking, chest heaving. your fists still wrapped, sweat stinging your eyes from exertion and— honestly— how close he’s been.
he steps up to you, quiet. no words yet, just presence. his fingers brush your forearms, and you freeze, looking up into those captivating eyes.
“hand.” his voice is clipped as always, but there’s a softness beneath it you catch only because you know him.
you hold out both your fists. he cups your wrist in one hand with a touch so soft you could cry and gently starts to pry the tape free, rolling it down your wrists with care, each tug deliberate but tender. his thumbs brush lightly over the back of your hands as he inspects your knuckles, eyes scanning smudges of chalk and faint bruises from your swings. it’s an odd thing to be the one receiving care instead of giving it, especially from him; but you’re far from complaining.
“you’re raw in a few spots,” he murmurs, almost to himself, but loud enough for you to hear. he presses a fingertip to a tiny scrape at the base of your knuckle, testing the sting. “not bad. pretty clean for a beginner.”
you tilt your head back, letting him work, marveling at the way his hands are confident and careful all at once— like he’s simultaneously checking and protecting.
“don’t laugh,” he warns softly as he tightens the last wrap around your wrist, “but i’m actually a little impressed. you’re a fast learner.”
you grin, chest pounding with how loudly your heart has taken to calling his name. “a high compliment, coming from you.”
he smirks faintly, but the tension in his shoulders softens just a fraction. “i’ll teach you more next time. but for now…” he trails off, brushing a hand over the back of yours one last time before letting go, lingering long enough that the warmth presses into your skin.
you glance down at your hands, pulse still high, and back up at him. “thank you.”
he meets your gaze, eyes flicking to your flushed cheeks. “you don’t have to thank me, y/n.”
you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, smiling despite the ache in your arms, the fire in your chest, and the pull of him so close, so careful. “if you say so.”
he steps back finally, giving you a little space— but not too much, not entirely. you can feel the residue of his presence, the weight of him in the quiet gym, the soft insistence that he’ll be there, guiding, teaching, protective… his eyes say that he’s nowhere near immune to all your small, stolen moments.
and as you stretch your sore fingers, rubbing at the knuckles he just checked with such tender care, you can’t stop the grin spreading across your face.
he’s addictive.
and you’re already hooked.
—
the bell rings sharply, echoing through the packed warehouse, and the sound is electric. lee know moves like a hurricane trapped in the ring— controlled and fluid, every step sure, every pivot deliberate. he circles, eyes scanning his opponent, reading angles and posture and intent. his opponent shifts, tries to bait him into throwing an early punch; but lee know is untouchable, a predator already three moves ahead.
your eyes are glued to him, heart hammering, chest tight. every flex of his back, every tight rotation of his shoulders, it all screams power and precision. the world shrinks to the canvas beneath his feet and the rhythm of his body moving like liquid steel.
then the dam breaks.
in a flash— too fast to fully process— his opponent lands an unfair elbow to the face, a strike meant to sneak past defenses. lee know’s head snaps back, blood spurting from his nose. the sound hits your ears like a physical blow. your stomach drops.
“no!” you shout instinctively, leaping to your feet, kit forgotten, muscles coiled to charge in– only to realize you can’t. you’re frozen in the medical corner, eyes locked on him.
lee know hits the mat— just for a heartbeat— and everything around you stops. silence presses against your ears, thick and suffocating. the referee starts a countdown.
then he’s rising slowly after the second count, flicking the blood from his nose with a tilt of his head; he’s deadly calm, controlled, unshaken. every movement is deliberate, measured; nothing betrays the sting of the strike. your chest swells with relief and something else, something like fierce admiration.
he resets exactly the way he’s been teaching you to do in practice: stance perfect, hands guarding, weight balanced evenly on the balls of his feet. his opponent hesitates, suddenly aware of the storm standing before him. lee know’s eyes sweep, calculating, laser-focused, pupils sharp, measuring the tiniest shift, the slightest weakness.
the first punch is clean, precise, a snapping jab that makes the opponent flinch. lee know doesn’t overcommit, doesn’t rush— each strike is surgical. the crowd barely registers the rhythm, but you can feel it in your bones: this is more than just punching. it’s choreography, deadly and beautiful.
he pivots, fluid, whipping a combination of hooks that land exactly where he wants— rib, shoulder, side of the head— enough to unbalance without overextending. his footwork is hypnotic, a dance of power and grace.
the opponent swings wildly, anger breaking his form, desperation cutting into technique. lee know reads it instantly, sidestepping, slipping punches that would floor anyone else. the thick blood trickle down his face glistens under the harsh gym lights, sweat and red mingling, but he moves as if nothing weighs on him but the fight itself.
he sets up— his stance lowering, weight shifting, muscles coiled. the precision is art. jab, uppercut, hook; every motion exact, every strike timed with the calculation of a master. the opponent wobbles, staggered, realization dawning.
and then— he unleashes the final move.
a combination that’s all him: three hits, pivot, snap. every strike lands clean, deliberate, the last punch folding the opponent onto the mat, finality in the thud. silence fills the gym, only broken by the countdown climbing until it hits ten, a bell ringing to declare a knockout. lee know stands, chest heaving lightly, eyes scanning the ring, the canvas, the aftermath.
the crowd roars. the bell rings again to signal the end of the match, and lee know graces the audience with a smile– small, but real. deadly sharp. a little proud.
your own breath comes in bursts, heart thundering. you can’t stop staring, frozen by the violence, the beauty, the precision, him. he wipes at his blood again, calm and composed; your hands ache to reach out, to cradle that jaw, to steady that proud, stubborn head.
finally, he steps toward the ropes, glancing at you. a flicker of acknowledgment. a twitch of a smirk until that smile softens; and just for a fraction of a heartbeat, the storm that is lee know becomes something more tender in your chest. kingly and untouchable, yes, but tethered to you in ways that leave your pulse electric.
the fight is over. victory is his. and you know, you know, you’ve just witnessed something rare: controlled chaos, lethal grace. a man who fights not just with skill, but with the full weight of his presence.
he steps out of the ring, sweat still dripping down the sharp lines of his face, blood from his nose streaking in slowly-drying lines that aren’t nearly enough to mask his intensity. every motion is controlled, deliberate, even as exhaustion tugs at the edges of his posture.
your kit is open in your hands before he even reaches the bench, your fingers itching to touch him after watching that display of raw, calculated power.
“that was insane,” you murmur, voice a mix of half-scolding, half-admiring. “i’ve never seen anyone move like that. like.. a storm on the mat.”
he doesn’t respond right away, just lets the words hang, eyes flicking up to meet yours. a glint of something soft, almost shy, flickers there— a brief flicker of flattery, humility, before his stoic mask reasserts itself. “storm’s not the word i’d use,” he says lowly, voice clipped, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “just… precise.”
you step closer, crouching beside him as he lowers onto the bench. your fingers hover over his jaw first, brushing away a bead of blood from a lesser scratch along his chin. he tilts his head slightly into your touch the way he always does; never quite enough to admit vulnerability, but always enough to let you in. the contact sends molten heat straight to your chest.
“you haven’t had a bleed this bad in a while,” you murmur, dabbing at the thick gush of blood from his nose with an antiseptic towelette. your touch is gentle, almost reverent against his skin, warm beneath your palms, muscles taut even as they finally start to release some tension. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t jerk away, and you feel that quiet trust settling between you like a dust cloud.
“don’t make it sound like i’m delicate,” he murmurs back, just above a whisper, but the edge is gone. there’s no sharpness— just acknowledgment, and maybe even relief that he can lean on you, even a fraction.
“i’m not saying that,” you reply softly, eyes tracing the line of his jaw, memorizing the tilt of his head, the tension in his shoulders, the sweat-slicked muscles that move under your fingers when he shifts slightly. “i’m just saying…you’re something else.”
he lets out a short breath, half a chuckle, half a sigh, and leans just slightly closer, enough to let you cradle the back of his neck while your other hand smooths out the wraps over his knuckles. each adjustment is slow, careful; you linger just a fraction longer than necessary, fingertips brushing the sharp planes of his hand, memorizing him.
“you always fuss like this?” he asks, tone teasing just enough to make your heart stutter.
“someone has to make sure you survive your own fights,” you murmur, brushing the last streak of blood off the bridge of his nose. your fingers linger on his cheek, tracing the scar from last week, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours.
he tilts his head into your touch again, eyes closing for the briefest second, and your chest hammers. you swallow, heart racing, and finally reach for the final act of care: undoing the knuckle wraps. your fingers work slowly, teasing the tape away, revealing the scarred, steady hands beneath. he flexes his fingers gently, letting you examine each knuckle as if you were checking him under a microscope.
then, almost on impulse, you bring his hand to your lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his rough knuckles. your eyes lift shyly to his, cheeks warm. “speeds up the healing process,” you murmur, voice almost lost under the weight of the moment. “or at least that’s what i’ve heard.”
he freezes, chest rising slightly faster than normal, pupils dark, molten, unreadable— before the faintest smirk tugs at his lips. “should’ve had you kiss it to make it all better ages ago,” he says quietly, a little teasing and a lot more appreciative. you feel your ears flush bright red.
your pulse threatens to burst out of your chest, but you can’t help smiling, lingering just a moment longer, fingers still brushing his. he doesn’t pull away— doesn’t move a muscle, letting you claim this small, stolen tenderness.
finally, you set the hand down, both of you catching breaths. for a heartbeat, the gym feels like it’s shrunk to just the two of you: quiet aftermath of chaos, the hum of distant lights, and the weight of unspoken promises. lee know’s stoic front is cracking, just a fraction, revealing the man beneath— the one who lets you in, who yields, who lets himself be cared for.
and you? you wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.
—
the gym smells of sweat and anticipation tonight. you bounce on the balls of your feet, fists up, heart hammering— not just from exertion, but from the thrill of being here with him. lee know stretches casually in front of you, chest rising and falling steady, the muscles in his arms flexing with every small movement. he looks effortless, untouchable… and yet, somehow, he’s about to let you punch him.
“ready?” he asks, voice teasing just enough that your stomach flips. he shifts into his stance, weight balanced perfectly, feet planted like a predator. his hands hover— guarded, precise, like he’s daring you to even try.
“ready,” you say back, forcing your best glare, though your knees are bouncing and your pulse is racing. he chuckles faintly at your weak attempt to intimidate.
he lunges first, slow, exaggerated; it’s barely an attack, more like a suggestion of one. he meant it when he said he’d go easy on you. you throw a jab and it’s sloppy, more of a flail than a punch, and his eyes flick to yours, one eyebrow raised. “hmm,” he mutters, almost a laugh laced in the tone. “you’re trying for power too soon. focus on the footwork, y/n. balance comes first.”
you huff, frustrated, circling him, trying to anticipate, trying to land something. he moves like water, slipping and shifting just enough to make you swing too early or miscalculate. each near-hit sends your chest pounding, not just from effort— there’s something else in the way his eyes never leave yours, the way his body glides next to you, the brush of his shoulder when he shifts slightly too close.
“hey—hey! stop teasing me!” you snap, panting, swinging a left jab that he catches mid-air with just the tip of his fingers. your pulse rockets when his hand brushes yours, guiding, correcting, but there’s a treacherous weight in the touch.
“teasing?” he says softly, just a murmur; but the smirk pulling at his lips gives him away. “i’m just teaching.”
you glare, but there’s no real bite behind it— just embarrassment and attraction and frustration, all tangled in a tight knot rising to your throat. his cheek threatens to dimple with the hint of a real smile; and the smirk, the calm, the impossibly-still control, makes your chest ache.
he steps in, adjusting your elbow with one hand, nudging your shoulder with the other. his chest brushes yours, and your brain shorts out. “control,” he murmurs. “fists first, follow through second.”
you throw again, trying to put more into it, and this time he lets your fist hit him— the impact is soft, but it’s not nothing. the fleeting contact sends a shock straight up your arm. he barely reacts, but the faint twitch of his lips betrays him anyway.
“not bad,” he says, clipped, almost reluctant, and you glare at him but can’t deny the thrill.
you pivot, lunge, try for a sloppy roundhouse; he steps into you before you have the chance to execute, chest pressed tighter against yours, guiding your motion with firm, steady hands. his fingers brush over your ribs and forearm as he corrects your form, and you swear you’re melting under the sheer proximity.
“direct your body weight, y/n,” he instructs, his voice private, intimate even when he’s masking it as instruction. “power comes from stance. not just arms.”
you groan before reluctantly throwing another series, and he moves behind you, arms brushing yours as he guides each motion. you can feel the heat radiating off him. every pulse of his muscles under his skin, every adjustment, every gentle nudge feels like he’s imprinting himself on you.
“stop swinging blindly,” he mutters, leaning close enough that his shoulder grazes yours, his chest brushing your back. you inhale, and the air feels charged, humming with electricity. “precision first.”
“ugh, you’re so impossible!” you gasp, sweat running down your temple, hair sticking to your forehead, and he just chuckles softly behind you, the sound low, dark, intimate.
“i’m your teacher,” he says, voice clipped but amused, hand pressing flat and sure against your back to adjust your stance. “so pay attention.”
you throw a jab— too slow, too high— and he catches it, fingers brushing yours, and your heart skips a beat. his eyes flick to yours, molten and teasing; you trip over whatever words you’d been about to fire back.
he doesn’t let you go.
instead, he tugs– just a fraction, just enough to send you off balance; and suddenly your stumble tips you forward into him. his shoulders meet yours, solid heat pressing through the fabric between you; your hands falter in their guard, falling to land on that broad chest. every muscle dances under your fingertips, pulled taut, waiting.
your breath stutters, your own chest rising sharp against his. he doesn’t move back— doesn’t let you go. one wrapped hand rises to cup over yours, anchoring you to him; his weight holds you caged, steady, immovable as his fingers brush over your knuckles in secret rhythm.
his eyes flick down— too fast. too telling. the smallest shift, the barest tilt of his head, it all gives him away despite the stone set of his face. his heated gaze lands on your lips and stays there; and you’re suddenly sure he’s going to close the distance. heat coils low in your stomach, every nerve begging for the brush of his mouth.
lee know is about to kiss you. and you’re going to shamelessly let him.
he leans in closer, so close that the heat of him presses through the thin fabric, every inch deliberate. the sharp inhale he steals just before your lips nearly brush sets your blood roaring; your pulse hammers like it wants to break your ribs. his exhale feels like velvet when his breath canvasses across your lips.
his gaze flicks back up to your eyes, his own dark and deliberate, assessing, tasting the possibility. the space between you is electric, strung tight with want, your knees threatening to give under the weight of proximity. your chest is caught in a perfect trap between his restraint and your certainty.
your eyes begin to flutter closed, waiting, wanting.
and then— he doesn’t close the final millimeter.
he holds himself there instead, suspended, his mouth hovering just shy of yours. he’s so close; you can taste his breath, but not the kiss you’re aching for. your pulse hammers against your ribs in heady anticipation.
then, with precision so measured it’s almost cruel, he eases back half an inch. not enough to free you, just enough to smother the promise. his gaze lingers on your mouth for one last beat before it sharpens, cutting clean.
“keep your guard up,” he says evenly, as if nothing just happened; as if your knees aren’t about to give out. he releases your wrist and nudges at your stance like it’s any other spar.
you swallow hard, still reeling, every nerve screaming from the almost that just slipped through your fingers. he doesn’t look rattled at all, damn him— only that faint glimmer in his eyes betrays him, the one that says he wanted it, too.
“my guard is just fine,” you mumble hotly, trying to regain composure. you start swinging again. he dodges just enough to make you adjust– just enough to keep your focus on him, just enough to make you want to get closer, hit harder, be near him.
he steps back finally, letting you land a clean hit on the outside of his right arm. he yields to it, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable; but the faintest hint of approval is evident in the way he tilts his head.
“better,” he murmurs, voice soft, almost private, and your chest swells. you swing again, adrenaline and tension coiling together, heart hammering in time with every contact of your fists falling against him in sparring.
he moves in when you go for a new shot, adjusting, correcting, guiding— his body brushing against yours, hands resting lightly on your elbows, shoulders, even just a ghost of a touch across your back— and you can’t stop the heat rising in your cheeks. your brain knows he’s teaching, that he’s careful, that he’s professional; but every second, every brush of skin, every whispered instruction sends molten sparks through your chest.
finally, he steps back completely, allowing you to spar him more freely, your fists clean, your soft hits sharp, your body twisting properly. he watches your stance, the way your muscles flex, the sweat dripping down your neck. he doesn’t move in closer— doesn’t have to— but you can feel the intensity in his gaze.
“next time,” he mutters, voice low, clipped, but something softer flickers in his eyes, “we’ll spar properly.”
you grin, exhausted, exhilarated, and a little weak in the knees. “i’m holding you to that,” you tease. he smirks faintly, silent, controlled— but those searing eyes betray that he’s already anticipating it.
the gym hums low around you, your bodies still warm from more than just the exertion. the air feels thick, electric. almost like it’s charged with all the touches, the corrections, the proximity, the teasing, the heat— teaching, sparring, melting, all of it rolled into one chaotic, perfect storm.
—
the bell clangs for the third and final round of the night, sharp and unforgiving– the crowd’s roar swells with it, a tide that thrums through the ring and up your spine.
you’re pressed against the barrier, knuckles gripping the metal, heart in your throat. lee know circles his opponent like a king patrolling his domain: muscles coiled, eyes sharp, every movement calculated, fluid, lethal. sweat gleams along his forearms, along his jaw, catching the overhead lights like a blade. small scratches litter his cheeks, proof of the grueling first two rounds.
they trade blows like it’s a language only fighters can speak. the first few hits reverberate like drums beating in your chest. his opponent is skilled— fast, hungry for the win— but lee know is faster, smoother, reading each motion like it’s an open book. every counter, every pivot, every jab is poetry in motion; but there’s fire in it, raw energy that makes your chest ache with anticipation.
then— a hard, sudden jab lands square on lee know’s cheek. the crowd gasps in unison. your hand flies to your mouth. a thin line of red drips from the corner of his lip, and your stomach plummets. most people would stagger, maybe falter. maybe even fall to the mat.
not him.
his head snaps back, eyes flashing with the tiniest flicker of surprise— and then calm, razor-sharp control sets in. he shakes it off as if it were nothing, resets his stance like a predator, and the air in the ring seems to shift, dense with intent.
he pivots. he ducks a counter. his strikes come now— calculated, brutal, precise, every movement a testament to his years of mastery. the blows land on his opponent with the weight of a hurricane contained in muscle and sinew, each punch a statement: he’s still standing. he’s in control. he’s unstoppable.
the opponent stumbles. the audience leans forward, breathless, watching the reversal, the artistry in the violence. lee know doesn’t let up— he whirls, he pivots, he strikes. his face is a mask of focus and feral energy, lips pressed tight even as blood blooms red at the edges of them; his brows are furrowed with the force of his focus, every line of his body screaming discipline and raw power.
then— a crushing hook, a sharp uppercut, and the opponent collapses, breath wheezing, chest heaving.
lee know steps back with his fists raised, his own chest heaving too, sweat and blood streaking across his skin like war paint. he looks like some kind of god standing alone in the ring, opponent bowed before him in defeat.
the referee calls the match: it’s over. victory, earned. brutal. raw. hard-fought.
and you— heart hammering, knees weak, fingers trembling on the barrier over in your medical corner— feel every pulse of him in the aftermath. every strike, every dodge, every calculated blow is burned into your memory.
he lowers his hands finally, his face slick with sweat, lips parting just slightly, breaths coming in short, controlled bursts. his eyes sweep the crowd, but when they land on you… the intensity doesn’t break. it sharpens, sure and quiet and magnetic, and you know: he sees you.
only after the crowd roars fade and the adrenaline lingers does he step toward the edge of the ring, every movement measured, and your chest aches– because even bruised, beaten, bloodied, he carries himself like a king who’s just proven his reign. a king coming home to you.
the fight’s left him wrecked; the roar of the crowd is still echoing through the cement walls when lee know stumbles into the corner, sweat running down his temple, blood dripping from a split at his lip. his chest heaves like the air itself is burning him alive.
you’re already there with gauze in hand, jaw set tight, muttering under your breath as you start fussing over ever little cut and scratch before he can even sit down. “you could’ve dodged that one blow, you know. he almost had you on the ropes in the second round.”
he doesn’t answer. doesn’t even flinch when you press the gauze to his cheek, murmuring a soft warning for the sting of the antiseptic. he just stares down, eyes locked on you, that sharpness softening only for you even in the noise and heat of the crowd at every angle.
“you’re impossible,” you snap, voice shaking as the hand with the gauze trembles against his cheek. you cup his face if only to still your fingers, holding him upright. “one day you’re not going to walk out of that ring and—”
his hand shoots up, catching you mid-motion. his rough, bandaged fingers circle your wrist.
his voice is hoarse, ground down to gravel, but the words cut clean like a right hook to the heart:
“you’re a knockout.”
your brain blanks. air sticks hard in your throat, wedged deep by the shock of his composure breaking.
and then he pulls you in before you can find an answer.
the kiss is brutal and tender all at once— bloody and slick and desperate, his mouth crushing itself to yours like he’s been starving for it through every round he’s ever fought in this dingy warehouse. copper floods your tongue where his split lip works against you, but it doesn’t matter. not when his hand is steady at the back of your neck, holding you close to him like he’s terrified you’ll slip away.
his other hand snakes to your waist, pressing you impossibly close, letting you feel the tense pulse of muscle beneath skin. every ragged breath he steals vibrates against your lips, mixing with your own contented sigh, echoing in your chest like a drumbeat you can’t escape.
the crowd’s chants melt into nothing along with the sounds of the bell that signals the next match starting and the referee’s sharp whistle. nothing matters but this. the world has shrunk to this small, electric pocket where time has slowed, where only the press of his body and the desperate rhythm of your mouths exist.
your free hand clutches the damp wrap at his wrist like a lifeline, anchoring him back. the gauze you’d been pressing to his cut falls useless to the floor. your fingertips trace the tension along his forearm, memorizing every line, every hardened muscle, every twitch of effort as he folds himself into you, yielding fully, finally.
he tilts his head just slightly, deepening the kiss; it’s a slow, consuming kind of ache that spreads somewhere deep beneath your ribs. a groan— low, muffled, unintentionally yours— slips past his lips, and it rattles through your chest, your knees threatening to buckle beneath the weight of want and exhaustion and adrenaline.
the heat between you is suffocating, intoxicating; it coils hot in your bloodstream, threads along your spine, sets your pulse hammering in tandem with his. his tongue teases, claims, works you until you’re pliant in his arms, and you answer back with the same fierce urgency– desperate for every inch, every taste, every second.
his grip at the back of your neck tightens imperceptibly, a silent plea for proximity, and your hands— one planted on his chest, the other drifting up to cradle his jaw with tender fingers— draw him impossibly closer. sweat and blood mix at your lips, his heartbeat thrumming under your palm like a war drum.
a shudder runs through you both as his arms encircle you fully, silent but volcanic, and he doesn’t pull back— can’t, won’t— letting the moment stretch until it feels like the air itself is charged, trembling with the collision of want and the rawest kind of vulnerability.
finally, somewhere deep in the marrow of both your bones, the kiss loosens just enough to leave you gasping, noses brushing, breaths mingling, lips swollen and raw.
when he finally pulls himself back, he stays close. forehead pressed against yours, both of you panting, the air between you thick with sweat and heat and everything you’ve been refusing to say.
a beat of silence. then, rough, the corner of his mouth twitching in something almost like a smile— “told you.”
you shove him softly before he catches you and drags you back in for another slow, tender kiss.
and this time, you can taste how freely he smiles.
i’m not dead guys i promise! however i’m in the midst of debating whether to take a job offer in oregon (BIG switch up bc i live in florida) so yeah 🫠 i’m still active tho dw!!
sooo i have lots going on in my life rn (all good things!! yay!!!) and i’m actually considering relocating for work because I GOT THE PROMOTION!!!!! so… that said, i prob won’t be very active for a little bit </3 i’ll ofc publish “malum in se” + “and they were roommates” as well as keeping “call light” chapters running, but otherwise,, prob don’t expect much activity from me for like a month or two. love all my kiwis so muuuch 🥝 you guys have my heart!! i’ll be hanging around!!
sorry i’ve been so inactive my loves, i’m up for a promotion at work so i’m really focused on that!! i’ll let you guys know when my next fic will be ready to drop 💕
it had been so long since you last saw seungmin. too long. and you hadn’t seen the city since him; but now, on your way through for the first time after the hardest breakup of your life, you’d reached out to find you were no longer blocked– and asked if he’d want to meet up one last time, as friends, to give yourselves a softer goodbye.
you never expected he’d say yes.
you never expected that when you hesitantly stepped off the train a few hours ago to meet him in the heart of the city, your knees would still buckle.
but they did. because it’s still him.
your heart recognized his face before his eyes ever found yours on that crowded platform; and just like every other time– yet so different now– your feet found the path straight to him through the madness.
he’d donned a grin equal parts sorrow and surprise, and nodded awkwardly with his hands in his coat pockets. “hey, you,” he’d said simply; the two words weren’t much, but they wormed their way into your marrow anyways. his voice was still everything you remembered it to be.
you don’t know if you’d smiled or grimaced; but he’d taken your arm, the casual action reawakening years of old flames in its wake, and led you through the station to the street.
the awkwardness had melted fast by the time you sat down at a familiar restaurant in the bustling heart of the city, string lights illuminating the face you’d tried so hard to forget. conversation bloomed; he asked how your mom was. (she’s great, still has a soft spot for him.) you asked how baseball has been this season. (his team is on a winning streak and approaching playoffs.) you talked as if you didn’t beg each other to change enough to stay together three years ago.
dinner alone didn’t feel like enough time, so you’d let seungmin show you a new hot cocoa stand that had opened up near the streetcorner that used to be yours. you’d talked as you walked, side by side but not touching, gloves wrapped around your cocoa as if you could will the warmth to somehow transfer out of the cup and into both of your hardened hearts.
you laughed until your sides started hurting. you’d kept conversation flowing like it was an art form. you had both smiled past the pain of the past and the weight of the future and the scars you’d given each other, and let the night draw onward like a string pulled taut.
but trains stop running at eleven sharp.
so now, you’re here.
you’re standing with your arms wrapped around yourself on that platform, streetlights making shadows pool at your feet as seungmin walks you to the middle to wait for the train that will take you out of his life for good.
it’s just the two of you up here. everything feels distant, muted; like the world is underwater. even the hum of the station, the flicker of the security light, the soft wind curling around you— it all blurs, feeling like background to the charged silence between you.
the train isn’t here yet– the last train out of the city.
but it will be.
seungmin has his hands stuffed deep in his coat pockets, shoulders stiff. you stand beside him, just close enough to hurt, fending off the cold of the air and the fast-approaching truth of goodbye. you’ve been like this all night— laughing too loudly, sharing stories with too-bright eyes, pretending the undercurrent isn’t pulling you under. pretending tonight isn’t anything more than nostalgia.
but the ache still presses in, a living, breathing thing in the few inches of air between you. it was there in every glance, every pause, all night long. it’s here now, rising in your throat.
“so,” you say, voice low. the word trembles, just slightly. “i… guess this is it.”
he nods. slow, like even that takes a kind of effort he can no longer give. “yeah.”
neither of you move.
“i almost forgot,” you say after a beat, “how cold these platforms get.”
he gives a small smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. you see the struggle on his face; the longing, the hurt, the regret. it mirrors your own. “you always used to hate the cold.”
you give a rueful grin in return. “still do.”
another silence falls. this time it’s a heavy one, saturated with the things you haven’t said, and will never get the chance to again. he shifts, half-turned toward you. you look up.
your eyes meet—finally, truly meet, laying every card bare out on the table for the other to see—and something cleaves the world into two.
not violently. not dramatically. but it cracks quiet and loud all at once, like ice melting and re-sharpening in the same instant.
seungmin reaches for you first, hands raising to cup your face achingly gentle. it’s a tentative motion, like he doesn’t trust himself. like he doesn’t know if he’s still allowed to touch you.
but you’re already leaning in, already folding into him, letting yourself melt with his hand against your cheek. your arms fold around his neck as the hand on your face pulls you in to the spot between his neck and shoulder where you’ve always fit perfectly into; his other hand wraps around your waist, holding you close.
the hug is desperate in its stillness: tight arms, held breath, racing hearts. it’s the kind of hug people give when they don’t want to let go. you press your face into his shoulder as he shuts his eyes, and he cradles you softly against him as though he’s scared holding onto you too tight will shatter you all over again.
you rock gently together, a small sway side to side, arms around each other once more.
and it could’ve ended there. it should. it needs to.
but when you pull apart— only inches, still holding onto the impossible— your faces hover too close. and your eyes linger too long.
your breath catches in your chest, bruised and battered heart fluttering with something you’ve ignored for three years now. his thumb, almost unconsciously, brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. you close your eyes like the touch hurts. it doesn’t– but it will.
he leans his forehead against yours, and your noses brush.
“you haven’t changed,” you whisper.
seungmin gives a breath of a laugh. “i have. we both have.”
you open your eyes and find him gazing headlong at you, that devastating mix of hope and heartbreak pooling like low tide in those eyes you’ve loved for too long now.
“but you still look at me like that,” you say. “like i’m yours.”
he doesn’t answer. his eyes say it for him, and you still know how to read him like his body speaks for you alone: you are mine. you never stopped being mine.
you don’t know if you hate or love the fact that it’s true.
and then— like something magnetic, inevitable— the space between you vanishes, slowly at first, then all at once.
his lips brush yours, and the floodgates open. you kiss him slow and hard and sad, hating yourself for wanting this, hating him for leaving you, loving him just the same. it’s too familiar. too much like coming home. you missed him so much that just a kiss is now enough to undo you wholly, entirely, until you’re back to being pieces of a once-whole heart beating weakly in his hands.
he kisses you like you’re all he wants; you are. you can feel it. his lips capture yours like it’s an admission of love that never faded into grey like it should’ve, like his kiss is an apology for all the years and missed calls and tears you’ve put each other through. you kiss him with forgiveness and bittersweet sorrow mixing together on your tongue.
the kiss deepens. not in urgency, but in ache. in love with nowhere to go. in everything you haven’t said, can’t say without throwing any hope of healing to the wolves. your hands tremble as you hold his face, memorizing it beneath your fingertips for what you know will be the last time.
seungmin’s fingers curl into your coat like he thinks if he can hold you there, it might just keep you from vanishing again. it isn’t passion you taste in every inch of the kiss you can’t seem to stop, not anymore. it’s grief. it’s memory that still refuses to stay buried.
time bends. lines blur until you don’t know whether your heart is still in your own chest or if it’s crawled back into his. your hands found their way into his hair somewhere in the rush of love and longing and loss, and your fingers are still gripping the strands as though you have the strength to fight to keep him this time.
you don’t.
he breaks away first, a sigh escaping him like ending it pains him. he doesn’t go far; he cups your face in his palm once more, forcing you to look at him as he tries to commit the shade of your eyes to memory one last time.
your lips are trembling, hands slipping from his hair and reaching up to cup his own as it holds you together. “seungmin…” you breathe, and he winces like the sound of his name on your lips is a blow like no other.
and then the low rumble of the train rolls in from the distance. a sound that splits the moment, and the world, open.
your eyes widen. the tears well hot, fast, unforgiving; you can’t do this. you can’t leave him; not again, not now. you can’t yank your heart back when he’s only just begun to hold it again.
you need more time.
“no,” you start denying it, denying the quickly-approaching reality that your time is well and truly up. you shake your head, voice cracking, tears brimming until they start flowing over your cheeks in rivers of untimely love and grief. “no, no, not yet. please.”
he’s already blinking fast, jaw clenched, trying to keep it together and failing. you stare like you’re begging him to pause time and space, watching as the first tear rolls down his own cheek.
you look at him, wrecked. “i can’t leave you again, seungmin.” your voice is watery, every word a plea.
he exhales hard, the pain in his chest sharp and visible, splitting you apart once more. “i know.”
you clutch his face desperately. “then tell me to stay.”
he closes his eyes like he’s never been in more pain, another tear slipping out anyway. “i want to.”
“then—” you start, full of hurt that tangles with impossible hope.
“but you can’t,” he says with a shudder that holds back a sob. “you can’t stay.”
the train grows louder, the rumbling steadily drawing near. the headlights cut through the night. you turn to look at it like it’s something monstrous, something cruel. and it is; it’s going to take you away from him against everything your heart has ever wanted.
you don’t bother holding back the tears that come fast and unforgiving as the train slows and pulls into the station.
he takes your hand— grip tighter than it’s ever been— and walks you toward the edge of the platform, toward the door every atom of your body is screaming at you not to step through.
you wipe at your cheeks, breath shaking, chest heaving. “i can’t do this again. i can’t say goodbye like this.”
“i know,” he says gravely, voice thick. “me neither.”
you stand there, face to face, the doors hissing open beside you. cold air rushes around you, harsh and uncaring, no room left onboard for lovers to work out a way to keep the world from pulling them apart again.
he looks at you with the weight of the world behind his gaze, eyes red and glassy. “but we’ve already said goodbye. we’ve just been pretending we didn’t.”
you swallow hard, trembling. “i still love you.” you’re too devastated to be ashamed that it’s true.
he cups your face one last time, kisses your forehead with something tender enough to bring you to your knees. “i do too, y/n. i never stopped. i don’t think i ever will.”
a voice echoes overhead, announcing final boarding.
you don’t move.
“please,” he whispers, forehead to yours, “don’t make me watch you leave.”
you step back, shaking, dragging your gaze from his. one foot, then the other, you force yourself to move against everything you’ve ever wanted, away from all you’ll ever love.
you climb onto the train.
you turn, once more, to look at seungmin.
he’s still there, hands at his sides, breaking in real time on the other side of the doors as they slide closed with a sound that cracks your chest in two with bitter finality.
you press your hand to the glass.
he doesn’t wave. doesn’t move.
but he mouths the words– one last time.
“i love you.”
you start to say it back, tears still flowing unrestrained down your crestfallen face.
the train pulls away before you can finish saying it.
and seungmin stands there, alone on the platform, watching the only thing he’s ever truly loved vanish into the night.
he watches love leave him on a train he can never board again.
—
not sure why i felt like destroying lives with this one, but i hope you liked it…? lol. thanks for reading :) taglist: @annyeongffs (my only friend on here lol)
