Part 2: The Girlfriend Rule
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Kim Gun-woo x Female Reader (! includes suggestive mature content)
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: ~4k
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: With the championship fight only hours away, Gun-woo’s determination to follow a ridiculous boxing superstition begins to crack under the weight of missing his girlfriend. As nerves, pressure, and expectations build, he starts questioning whether avoiding her is actually helping at all. Thankfully, she knows exactly how to remind him where his strength truly comes from.
Read Part 1 here
-
By the day before the fight, Woo-jin had become completely insufferable.
He followed Gun-woo around the gym like a cursed conscience, appearing at the worst possible moments to whisper warnings that sounded increasingly made up.
“Remember,” he said while Gun-woo taped his wrists, “clear mind, strong fists.”
Gun-woo didn’t look at him. “Go away.”
“Temptation is temporary. Victory is forever.”
“You read that on a bathroom wall.”
“Wisdom can come from anywhere.”
Later, when you arrived with a fresh smoothie and a bag of snacks, Woo-jin physically stepped between you and Gun-woo like a security guard protecting national treasure.
You stopped in front of him. Here comes the root cause of our blue balls.
Woo-jin held up both hands. “No sudden movements.”
You stared. “Move, or I’ll kick your balls.”
“I can’t. I am protecting the future of Korean boxing.”
Gun-woo sighed behind him. “Woo-jin.”
“She is dangerous,” Woo-jin insisted, pointing at you without looking away. “Look at her. She knows what she’s doing.”
You tilted your head innocently. “Do I?”
“Yes.”
You smiled slowly. “Interesting.”
Woo-jin immediately regretted giving you ideas.
Gun-woo saw the smile and visibly panicked.
“No.”
You took one small step forward, and Woo-jin made a strangled noise while Gun-woo looked like he was considering jumping out the window.
The entire gym watched with the kind of attention usually reserved for championship rounds.
You lifted the smoothie. “I brought him fruit.”
Woo-jin narrowed his eyes. “What kind of fruit?”
“Banana.”
Half the gym lost it.
Gun-woo turned away, ears burning red, while you stood there pretending not to understand why everyone was howling with laughter.
The coach had to intervene before Woo-jin collapsed.
“Enough,” he said, though he was laughing too. “Let the man drink his smoothie.”
Woo-jin stepped aside with great reluctance, watching the exchange like a suspicious parent. Gun-woo took the smoothie from you, his fingers brushing yours for one small second, and somehow that was enough to make both of you quiet.
You leaned closer, lowering your voice. “You okay, Woo?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Hmm.” You nodded, unconvinced.
His mouth curved slightly. “A little nervous.”
“I know.”
You wanted to touch his face, but you knew the gym was watching. So instead, you squeezed his hand once, quick and hidden between your bodies.
Gun-woo’s expression softened so much that Woo-jin groaned behind you.
“This is worse than sex,” he complained. “They’re emotionally intimate.”
Gun-woo nearly choked on the smoothie.
—
The night before the match, Gun-woo couldn’t sleep. You knew before he told you.
He always got quiet when worry found him. Not cold, not distant, just quiet in that heavy way where his thoughts seemed to sink into his bones. He had tried pretending everything was fine during dinner, had nodded through your stories, had even smiled when you stole food from his plate, but his hand kept finding yours under the table and holding on a little too tightly.
So when midnight came and he still hadn’t answered your text, you went to him.
He opened the apartment door wearing sweatpants and a loose white shirt, hair messy, eyes tired, expression guilty.
Then he knowingly and quietly stepped aside for you to come in.
His apartment was dim, the city lights slipping through the curtains in pale streaks. The place smelled faintly like detergent, rice, and the liniment he used after training. It was so painfully him that your chest ached a little.
How alone he must’ve felt.
He followed you to the couch but didn’t sit right away.
“I didn’t call because I didn’t want to bother you,” he admitted.
You turned to face him. “Bother me? Baby, you’re my boyfriend. You’re allowed to bother me.”
His mouth twitched slightly, but the tiredness in his eyes stayed.
You reached for his hand. “Talk to me, Woo.”
Gun-woo looked down at your fingers intertwined with his. For all his strength, for all the intimidation his body could carry in a ring, there were moments like this where he seemed almost too gentle for the world he had been put in.
“I keep thinking about the fight,” he said. “What if I get too slow? What if I disappoint everyone?”
“You won’t disappoint us.”
“What if I disappoint myself?”
That one sat between you for a while. You squeezed his hand.
“Then you’ll come home, rest, and start again. Because that’s what you do.”
He let out a breath, looking away as if the simplicity of it hurt. You stepped closer, placing your free hand against his chest. His heartbeat was strong beneath your palm, steady but fast.
“You don’t have to be perfect tomorrow.”
His eyes returned to yours.
“You just have to fight like you.”
Something in him cracked open quietly then. Gun-woo never needed drama to be vulnerable. It was in the small things, in the way his shoulders lowered, in the way his hand covered yours against his chest, in the way he finally allowed himself to look scared.
“I really want to win,” he whispered.
“I know, love.” His eyes softened at that.
“And you can want that without punishing yourself for being human.”
He laughed faintly, embarrassed. “I’m not punishing myself.”
“Boooo. You haven’t kissed me properly in three days.”
His ears reddened immediately. “That’s discipline.”
“That’s emotional violence.”
He actually laughed then, a real one, the sound low and warm in the quiet apartment.
You smiled, relief blooming inside you, as you nudged his side.
“There he is.”
Gun-woo looked at you for a long moment. Then, carefully, like he had been waiting for permission from himself more than anyone else, he leaned down and kissed your forehead.
You closed your eyes as his lips lingered. When he pulled back, you caught the front of his shirt and tugged lightly. “Nooo, that’s it?”
He looked pained again, nodding disappointingly.
“You’re evil.”
He sighed at your pained expression, defeated by his own choices, then cupped your face with both hands and kissed you properly.
It was soft, aching, full of everything he had been too nervous to say. You melted into him immediately, hands sliding up his arms, feeling the warmth of him, the strength, the exhaustion, the love.
When he pulled away, his forehead stayed against yours.
“You make it hard to focus,” he murmured.
You smiled. “Good. Very good.”
He shook his head, but he was smiling too now.
You stayed that night, though nothing happened beyond the kind of closeness Gun-woo had been starving himself of. You lay together on his bed, your head on his chest, his arm around your waist, his breathing slowly evening out beneath your ear. Every now and then, his fingers moved gently along your back like he was reminding himself you were there.
Before he fell asleep, he whispered your name.
“Mm?”
“If I win tomorrow…”
“You will.”
“If I win,” he repeated, stubborn, “I’m compensating you.”
You lifted your head, amused. “Hmm? How so?”
He smirked knowingly, staring at the ceiling. “You’ll see.”
“What will you do?” you asked, excitement stirring as you leaned on his chest, trying to get him to look at you.
“Maybe I will first carry you around the arena.”
“You’ll be sweaty.”
“I don’t care.”
“There will be cameras.”
“I don’t care.”
“Woo-jin will never shut up.”
“He already doesn’t.” You laughed and stared at him. He stared back, completely serious.
Then you dropped your head back onto his chest, laughing softly.
“Fine. Win first.”
His arm tightened around you. “I will.”
—
The arena on fight night felt alive.
Every sound seemed larger than it should have been. The roar of the crowd, the slap of gloves, the announcer’s voice rolling through the speakers, the camera flashes bursting like lightning over the ring. You had watched Gun-woo fight before, but never like this. Never with this much on the line. Never with his entire future sitting somewhere beneath the lights.
Woo-jin sat beside you and had not been still for a single second.
“I feel sick,” he muttered.
“You’re not the one fighting.”
“I know. That’s why I feel sick. If I were fighting, I would be focused. Right now I’m just suffering.”
You glanced at him. “You look like you’re about to throw up. Are you good?”
“I might.”
Before the conversation could continue, Gun-woo walked out, and the arena shifted.
It was not just that people cheered. They did, loudly, but that wasn’t what made your throat tighten. It was the way he looked under the lights, calm and focused, shoulders loose, gaze forward, every inch of him carrying the discipline he had built over years. He looked intimidating in a way that still sometimes startled you, because you knew the man beneath it. You knew the man who blushed when you teased him, who listened when you reminded him to eat, who held your hand in his sleep, who you so eagerly wanted to devour as soon as you got back home.
But in the ring, he became something else.
Woo-jin leaned toward you without taking his eyes off him. “He looks good.”
You swallowed, eyes drying from ogling at him. “My man sure does.”
The first round began fast. You understood that Gun-woo liked pressure. He absorbed it differently than other people. He watched, adjusted, measured the rhythm of the man in front of him until the fight began revealing itself. Still, every punch that landed against his guard made your body tense. Every time his opponent pushed forward, your fingers curled around the edge of your seat.
Woo-jin noticed. “You okay?”
“No.”
“Good. Me too.”
The second round was worse. Gun-woo took a hit near the ribs that made the crowd gasp, and your heart nearly climbed out of your chest. He recovered quickly, but you saw the tiny shift in his expression. You knew when something hurt him. He always tried hiding it, but his mouth tightened in a certain way.
“Come on,” you whispered, barely aware you had said it aloud.
And he heard you.
You didn’t know how. The arena was too loud, the lights too bright, the entire world too chaotic. But for one impossible second, Gun-woo’s eyes flickered toward your side of the crowd.
Then he moved.
The next combination was beautiful. Sharp, clean, disciplined. His fist found the opening like he had been waiting for it all night, and the sound of the hit cracked through the arena. His opponent stumbled back. Gun-woo followed, controlled but relentless, every movement carrying the weight of the months he had poured into this moment.
By the final round, the whole arena was on its feet. You barely remembered standing. Woo-jin was shouting something beside you, voice breaking. Your hands were shaking. The final bell rang, and for a moment, nobody breathed.
Then the announcer called his name.
Gun-woo won.
The gym team exploded around you. Woo-jin practically jumped over a chair. Cameras flashed from every direction as Gun-woo’s arm was lifted, his face stunned for half a second before joy finally broke through.
You pressed both hands over your mouth.
He had done it. He had actually done it.
Everyone rushed toward him afterward. Coaches, staff, reporters, people who wanted interviews and photos and quotes before he had even caught his breath. Woo-jin made it into the ring somehow and nearly tackled him, shouting directly into his face while Gun-woo laughed, dazed and sweaty and glowing with victory.
But even through all of it, his eyes were searching.
You saw the moment he found you.
Everything else disappeared from his face. The cameras, the reporters, the team, the noise, all gone.
He moved before anyone could stop him. Down from the ring, through the swarm of people, past hands trying to grab his attention. You barely had time to step forward before he reached you, arms wrapping around your body and pulling you so tightly against him that your feet almost left the floor.
“Gun-woo,” you laughed, breathless.
His face pressed into your neck. You felt his breathing, heavy and uneven, felt the damp warmth of him, the tremor still running through his body from adrenaline and disbelief.
“You won, Woo!” you whispered against him as his arms tightened.
“You saw that?!” The simplicity of his excitement ruined you.
You pulled back just enough to hold his face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. He was sweaty, bruised, exhausted, and the happiest you had ever seen him.
“I told you!!” you said softly.
His smile grew, slow and bright and entirely yours. Then suddenly his expression shifted.
You knew that look and smirk too well.
“No.”
Gun-woo bent.
“Gun-woo, no.”
He lifted you over his shoulder in one smooth motion, and the arena erupted. From afar, you could distinguish Woo-jin hollering.
You slapped Gun-woo’s back, laughing so hard you could barely breathe. “Put me down!”
“No.”
“There are cameras!”
“I know.”
“You’re insane!”
“I don’t care. I won!”
He carried you straight past the team, past his coach who looked both proud and exhausted, past Woo-jin who was laughing too hard to stand properly. You hid your burning face against Gun-woo’s back while he walked out like this was the most normal celebration in the world.
Only when he finally reached the quiet hallway outside the locker rooms did he set you down.
The noise of the arena faded behind the door, muffled now, distant. For the first time all night, it was just the two of you in the dim corridor, his body still close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him.
You looked up at him, still smiling. “You are ridiculous. Outing me publicly like that?”
He stepped closer. “You teased me all week.”
“You deserved it.”
“But I missed you.” That softened you instantly.
His voice had changed, no longer playful. Beneath the sweat and victory and adrenaline, there was still that same softness from the night before. That same need to come back to you first.
You touched his chest gently. “I was right there.”
“But not close enough.” Your breath caught a little.
Gun-woo noticed. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then returned to your eyes, asking without saying it. Even after years together, he still searched your face for consent first.
You stepped closer and kissed him.
The moment your lips met, the last of his restraint disappeared. His hands found your waist, pulling you in with the kind of relieved desperation that made your knees feel weak. You smiled against his mouth, and he made a small sound like that alone offended him.
“You’re laughing?” he murmured.
“You’re so sweaty,” you giggled mid-kiss.
He kissed you firmly, deeper this time, pressing you gently back until your shoulders met the locker room door. Somewhere down the hall, people were still shouting his name, but he didn’t move. His forehead rested against yours for a second, breathing uneven, smile tugging at his mouth despite the hunger in his eyes.
You couldn’t take it anymore, the heat already pooling.
“Woo, open the door,” you whispered.
Gun-woo froze, then looked at you like he needed to make sure he heard correctly.
You raised an eyebrow, gaze finding his eyes. “Does your superstition still apply after the fight?”
His entire face changed. The shy part of him surfaced first, ears flushing red immediately, but it barely lasted before something warmer and more confident replaced it. He yanked the locker room door open without taking his eyes off you and guided you inside, shutting out the noise behind you.
The room was empty for now, lit by harsh overhead lights and smelling faintly of leather, soap, and victory. His gloves were still somewhere outside. His wraps were half undone. His hair clung damply to his forehead.
You barely had time to take him in before he kissed you again. This time there was no superstition to hide behind, no fight to protect, and finally no Woo-jin lurking around with unwanted wisdom. There was only a needy Gun-woo, warm and solid and finally letting himself have what he had been missing all week.
His hands were careful when taking off your clothes, even when the kiss became less careful. That was always him. Strong enough to break bones, gentle enough to make you ache. You laughed softly when he picked you up against him, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carried you farther inside before sitting on the bench in the middle of the room.
“Still think I ruined your stamina?” you whispered against his mouth, breaking the kiss.
He huffed out a laugh, breathless. “You’re never going to let this go.”
“Never.”
His lips brushed against your jaw. “I won.”
“You did.”
“So I was right.”
You pulled back, offended. “About what?”
“Waiting.”
You stared at him, then he smiled, sweet and shameless in a way that made you want to scream.
“You’re annoying me now.”
“You love me.”
Your answer came immediately. “So much.”
The teasing left his face for a second, replaced by something quieter. His thumb brushed along your cheek, eyes soft and impossibly fond.
“I love you too,” he softly reminded you as he slowly inserted himself in.
The celebration outside continued without him for a while. Woo-jin probably looked for him. His coach probably sighed. Someone definitely made a joke about the superstition finally being broken. But Gun-woo didn’t seem to care, especially not when your hands were tugging his hair and your laugh kept catching against his mouth.
He had won the biggest fight of his career and still looked at you like coming back to you was the part that mattered most.
Later, when the noise finally found its way closer and Woo-jin banged on the locker room door with absolutely no respect for romance, Gun-woo pulled back just enough to glare at the door.
“Yo! Are you alive in there?”
You buried your face against Gun-woo’s shoulder, trying to bite your moans and laughing silently.
Woo-jin knocked again. “If you broke the superstition, that’s allowed, but we have reporters waiting!”
Gun-woo closed his eyes impatiently. “I’m going to kill him.”
You kissed his cheek, and just like that, his anger disappeared. Outside, Woo-jin groaned dramatically. “I heard that silence! Disgusting!”
Gun-woo looked at you, tired and happy and still flushed, and all you could do was smile back.
He had been wrong all week. You were never the thing that would ruin him.
You were the thing he came home to after winning.
