sincerely, urs. @chleem - Tumblr Blog

Ultraviolence - "loving him was never enough" pt2

one shot; geum seongje (whc2) x millionare'sdaughter!reader

word count: 12k (34k three parts combined)

synopsis: Seongje is always looking for trouble, and you’re the perfect target- the daughter of one of the richest men in the country. At first, he’s thinking ransom, blackmail, maybe a quick payday. But the real danger hits harder: he starts falling for you. And for someone who’s never belonged anywhere, wanting you might be the most dangerous thing he’s ever done.

read at own caution; angst, semi slow-burn, fluff, smut, physical acts of violence/fighting (towards reader and seongje), smoking, brief mentions of alcohol and drugs, explicit language, teasing, sexual acts (bj, cowgirl, unprotected), briefly follows plot of whc2, etc read at own caution

⋆.˚ please dont copy or translate my work!

♡⸝⸝ elevator | other | pt1 | pt3

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The next day

He laughs immediately at the sight of you when you open your apartment door.

Your brows knit together, confused, and even Seongje himself doesn’t know why he’s laughing.

He steps forward, reaches into his jacket pocket, and pulls out a crumpled black hat. He then shoves it over your head, a little too roughly.

“Fucking ridiculous,” he mutters, just for the hell of it, watching you adjust it.

As he watches, he sees the wounds on the corner of your lip already partially healed. He also notices that his hat; somehow softens on you, makes its rough edges turn into something… warm. Maybe because it’s a girl wearing it- he doesn’t know either.

“Thanks, I guess, but I have my own ha-”

“Let’s go.”

He cuts you off and pushes the hat lower, covering half your eyes on purpose.

Then he turns and starts walking without looking back.

He hears the click of your door locking behind you as you hurry to follow.

“But.. where are we going?” You ask as soon as you catch up, curiosity lingering in your voice.

“Stop talking to me,” he snaps- shutting you up even though you’d barely said a word. He presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek as the two of you wait for the elevator, doing everything he can not to let his eyes flicker your way.

“Shit- what’s up your ass?” you mutter under your breath.

He ignores that too.

The elevator doors slide open. You step in first; he doesn’t look at you. Going down to the first floor, you don’t try to run, don’t pull away; you just walk beside him as he leads you through narrow alleys, side streets, weaving past neon signs and convenience store glow.

Eventually, the familiar internet café he always hangs out at comes into view. He pauses just before the entrance, glancing sideways.

And surprisingly- you’re staring up at the huge sign like it’s something out of a different world.

He scoffs, amusement curling his voice, “is being poor some kind of aesthetic? Fuck.”

The remark snaps you out of it. You glance away, a little embarrassed, and he shakes his head, laughing as he steps inside.

The café isn’t crowded today, so he picks a random spot and sits down in front of a computer. You slide into the seat beside him, and he opens up the menu tab first.

“I’m hungry. You want something?” he asks, already placing his ramen in the cart.

“…you come here often?”

“…You want something?” he repeats.

The roll of your chair brings you closer, leaning over him, your breath brushing his face slightly. Your hand reaches over and rests on his mouse, overlapping his.

Seongje’s eyes flick down. Slowly, he pulls his hand out from under yours, letting your arm remain in front of him. He inhales, catching your scent, and for a brief second, allows himself to glance at the side of your face.

“…I’ll just have the same as you,” you mutter, adding it to the cart before sliding over to your own computer.

Seongje swallows hard, suppressing a scoff as he completes the order.

“Okay, what are we doing here?” you ask.

He opens Google, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Fake ID, fake passport,” he mutters, as if stating the obvious.

He’s made a few fake IDs before; some for himself, some as favors, so he knows the basic formats. He pulls up his usual template with ease, then opens it in Photoshop, changing the photo, name, ID number, date of birth, etc.

“Why do I need a fake ID? I’m not a criminal.”

“Don’t you want to start over?”

“But I like who I am.”

“If you did, you wouldn’t be here.”

He pulls out his phone and scrolls for a moment, then holds up a photo he took of you at the club. You stare at it for a split second before realizing which one it is.

“Fuck- where did you get that photo of me?” you blurt out, flustered, reaching for his phone. He quickly lifts it out of reach, grinning. “Delete it! It’s fucking ugly.”

“I like this though,” he laughs, shoving your arms back playfully.

“Seriously though- where did you get this photo?” you demand, a little edge in your voice.

Sensing your seriousness, and feeling a strange urge to ease it, he shrugs, “Baekjin sent me to check up on you.”

“…Oh.”

He notices the way your expression falters, so he’s quick to shift the conversation, “so, I’ll use this one, oh.”

“Take another one! Right here.”

“Whatever,” Seongje mutters, deciding that it would be too much work, sliding the photo over to the computer.

You laugh, giving his shoulder a playful shove, “It takes only a second! C’mon.”

Seongje furrows his brows, glancing at you- and freezes for a moment. Your lashes flutter over him, your eyes glinting with mischief, and he realizes just how distracting you can be.

He sighs, pursing his lips slightly, “…Fine.”

He pulls out his phone’s camera and lines up the shot as you sit up straight, removing your hat and quickly fixing your hair. You relax your features, eyes piercing through the lens, a small, fleeting smile playing on your lips.

Seongje’s eyes narrow slightly, “…One, two, three- kimchi.”

“…kimchi?”

Seongje snaps the photo as you say it, the word causing your smile to widen just a bit more. Quickly, he turns back to the computer screen, hiding the small leap his chest just took. You put your hat back on and ask, “How does it look?”

“Fucking ugly,” he says instantly, sending the photo over to the computer without missing a beat.

The photo pops up on the large monitor, and Seongje freezes for half a second; just long enough to gulp before he masks it.

You hum, pleased at how the photo turned out. “Liar,” you say under your breath.

He scoffs and clicks fast, dragging your face onto a blank background and slotting it into the ID template.

He moves to the text fields and starts typing in a fake birthday, a random country; date of expiry, the rest of the information that’s too boring.

You watch the screen fill in with a life that isn’t yours.

“...That’s it?” you ask as he downloads the file as a PDF.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, already pulling out his phone. He sends the file to someone in his contacts, “I know a guy.”

You blink, “A guy?”

“Yeah. Makes these for half the city. Laminates, prints, UV stamps,” Seongje shrugs, “He’ll get it back to me this afternoon.”

You lean back in your chair, watching him as he lazily scrolls through his phone.

“What else do I need to do?” you ask, genuinely.

Seongje turns just enough for you to catch the side of his smirk, “have fun.”

“I mean- ” he drags the word out, spinning back to his screen, “you already know how to; that night at the club says so.”

He opens his favorite game, the same one he bought upgrades for using your stolen money. He picks up exactly where he left off, fingers tapping lazily on the keys.

“…Well, I also just left home and didn’t know where to go,” you murmur, turning back to your own computer.

Seongje glances over; and freezes when you open Google. You type your father’s name into the search bar.

He snorts, amused, “what are you doing?”

“I don’t know… seeing if someone noticed I’m gone.”

The low-pressure sadness of your voice irritates him; what a mood killer you are, and he clicks his tongue.

“Download this,” he orders, “I need a teammate.”

“It looks boring though-”

“Nothing’s boring till you try it. Do it.”

You look at him, eyes narrowing with mischief, “wow, is that what you live by?” You tease, “romantic, you.”

You begin typing the game’s name into your laptop.

Seongje leans back in his chair, jaw flexing, trying not to stare too long at the small smile on your face while it loads. Even while a battle flashes across his monitor, he’s paying more attention to you than the enemies he’s fighting.

You create an account, humming to yourself, then swivel your chair slightly toward him.

“Oh? Let’s be friends,” you say, nudging his foot with yours.

Seongje doesn’t add newbies. Ever. He claims it ruins his rank. But… he did tell you to download it and say he needed a teammate.

“…What’s your username- ”

Before you can even finish, suddenly, he’s in your space, crowding your side of the desk the same way you leaned into him earlier. This time, it’s his hand overlapping yours; warm, steady, deliberately slow as he guides your fingers off the mouse and takes it for himself.

You don’t pull away.

For a split second he stays there, typing in his username for you, sending the friend request, then he pushes himself back into his own space.

A notification pops up on his monitor; your friend request.

A laugh punches out of him; genuine as he reads your username, “what the fuck is that?”

“What?” Your grin widens because you’ve never seen his eyes crinkle like that before (well, never really noticed- noticed).

“It’s… stupid,” He flicks his gaze from your screen to your face, still half-laughing.

“Yours isn’t any better,” you shoot back, “and your character sucks.”

He scoffs, leaning back, “You don’t understand shit. Just join my game.”

“How do I customize my character-”

“You don’t have enough money for that,” he mutters, clicking around his own screen. “Just join- ”

A soft knock interrupts him.

Your ramen bowls arrive; the staff sliding it onto the table, steam curling up between you two.

Seongje barely glances at the food. He’s still looking at you, mouth half-open like he’s ready to fire off another insult.

But you breathe in the scent; eyes lighting up, mood lifting so visibly he can practically see the warmth rush back into you.

“Thanks for treating,” you say quickly, already splitting the chopsticks before he can respond.

You lean in immediately, stirring the noodles with eager focus.

Seongje pokes his tongue against his cheek.

There’s something stupidly satisfying about watching you come back to life over a bowl of cheap internet-café ramen.

He mutters, “Yeah, whatever,” and digs into his own bowl.

For a moment, neither of you speak; only the clatter of keys around you, the hum of other players, the faint clicking of mice. The two of you sit shoulder-to-shoulder in the dim blue light, eating from identical bowls, screens glowing in front of you.

“Eat faster.”

“Why?” you mumble, mouth full.

“We’ve got shit to do.”

You laugh under your breath, and that sound; light, unguarded, lingers in the space between your two computers.

And Seongje, who notices everything, has his eyes locked on the game; but awareness fixed on you.

——

“Your girlfriend?”

Seongje looks up from his wallet, brow twitching as he squints at the guy behind the counter. After the internet café hangout, night had snuck up on both of you. Now he’s here; at the fake ID place disguised as a print shop and electronics store, to pick up what he sent earlier.

“What girl-”

“Your new girlfriend?” the guy laughs, pointing his thumb behind Seongje.

Seongje turns.

You’re standing by the wall of televisions; each one playing the store’s CCTV feed. The screens mirror your face from a dozen angles, your expression caught somewhere between fascination and disbelief. Even with half your face hidden beneath Seongje’s hat, the awe is obvious.

No way someone can be this curious about the world.

He turns back to the counter.

“How much is it?” he asks again.

“I’ll give you a discount since you brought a pretty girl with you,” the guy teases, winking as he turns to grab the finished IDs and passports.

Seongje scoffs, dropping the money onto the counter before shoving his wallet back into his pocket.

“Really pretty,” the guy mutters, in awe himself. “But also so, so familiar-”

Before he can finish the thought, Seongje cuts in sharply.

“Throw a burner phone in there.”

“…that’ll cost you extra.”

Seongje gives him a sharp glare.

The guy surrenders; understanding what that glare means; as well as Seongje’s reputation and habits. He grabs a cheap phone from the glass display, setting it with the IDs, bundling everything together.

Seongje takes everything in one hand and turns toward you.

“Let’s go,” he lazily calls out.

You spin around from the wall of televisions, trailing after him out into the busy street. As soon as the store door shuts behind you, you pluck the bundle straight out of his hands without asking.

He’s ready to scold you for grabbing, but then you lift the ID toward the streetlight, examining it.

“Wow… this looks just like the real thing,” you laugh, impressed, then your eyes land on the phone, “shit- this one’s mine?”

He hums in response, “Mhm. Add my number in there.”

You start the phone up as the two of you walk down the street, the glow of shop signs washing over your face. Seongje recites his number slowly. You type each digit in, saving it under his name.

You’re still focused on the screen when-

A bike barrels toward you from ahead.

Before you even register the danger, Seongje’s hand clamps around your forearm. He yanks you back; fast- and you stumble, colliding straight into him. Your back hits his chest, his breath brushing the top of your head. His grip burns hot where it held you.

You look up at him, startled, eyes wide.

“There was a bike,” he mutters, letting go the moment you’re steady, already walking off like nothing happened.

You catch up with smaller steps, still feeling the imprint of his hand on your arm.

“Thanks… then. I guess.”

She’s gonna get herself killed in a few days….

Seongje yawns into his fist, stuffing both hands back into his pockets. “Call me if you need something,” he says.

“From you? What could you possibly offer- ”

“Then don’t call me,” he cuts in flatly.

The two of you drift along the familiar route toward your place. Even in a small town, the limited clubs spill out laughter and bass into the streets, neon lights pooling across the pavement. Seongje stretches his arms behind his head as he walks; not because he’s relaxed, but because he’s trying to stay alert.

You’re still looking at the burner phone, probably figuring out its settings, when he suddenly speaks again; sharper than before.

“Hey,” he says, glancing sideways at you, “you really need to pay attention to your surroundings.”

You blink up at him, clueless.

“Is this how those fuckers got you yesterday?” he teases, recalling when he had sent his men after you.

Rolling your eyes, you stuff the phone into your pocket and adjust the hat on your head. “I’m not an idiot, okay? I know my way around. I survived a whole lifetime without you.”

“…With a roof over your head,” Seongje adds, the corner of his mouth tugging in amusement, a jab at your privileged life.

Unknowingly, your building comes into view. The two of you walk inside and wait by the elevator, the quiet tension between you settling for the moment.

The elevator arrives, doors sliding open with a soft ding.

Both of you step inside, and once the door closes back up, it’s quiet again.

Seongje purses his lips, eyes darting upward at the ceiling, then back to you, then up again, then to you once more. His brow furrows slightly as he tucks his hands into his pockets again- suddenly hyperaware of his body and how it functions.

The uncomfortable silence reminds him of how much of a stranger you two are.

Another ding indicates the arrival of your floor.

He holds the door open as you step out first, following slowly behind you.

Once you reach your door, you turn sharply, “okay, thanks for today.”

“…what, was it fun?” he asks, eyes narrowing. Though his tone is mocking, there’s genuine curiosity behind it.

“Every day is fun when you’re away from home,” you reply with a small smile, turning to unlock the door.

Just as you’re about to close it, Seongje suddenly remembers and reaches out, gripping the edge of the door. You glance over your shoulder to meet his eyes.

“…My hat,” he says, flicking his gaze upward.

“Oh,” you murmur, removing it. Then, bold as ever, you place it on his head and deliberately flick the stiff brim.

“Bye,” you smile, and when his hand drops, you let the door swing closed.

Seongje pauses for a moment, adjusts the hat’s position, and walks away, a small, lingering smile tugging at his lips.

——

“Is this your… ‘I know a special place’?”

you tease, laughing as you take in the view from the old building’s rooftop.

It’s far from pretty- cracked concrete, a backup generator humming in the corner, huge wooden crates stacked haphazardly, and even some old pottery tucked against a wall.

Seongje watches you with a confused expression, trying to decipher what you mean.

It’s the next day, and he’s come to see you after school. He had slept through most of class, paying barely any attention, attending only for attendance purposes. He’s in his dark red school uniform, slightly disheveled.

“I’m kidding. I know girls don’t like you.”

Seongje frowns, unsure whether to be offended or intrigued. His brows furrow, clearly taking your words seriously even if he doesn’t fully understand them.

“Nevermind,” you sigh, “why did you bring me here?”

Seongje’s lips curl; slowly at first, then fully into that unmistakable troublemaking smile of his.

“Hit me.”

You stare at him like he’s absolutely lost it. Your brows shoot up, your mouth parts in disbelief. He just stands there, hands in his pockets, the wind rustling his dark red uniform jacket as if this is the most normal instruction in the world.

“C’mon. You know I can take it.”

“Are you crazy-“

“Punch me, right here-“ Seongje points to his stomach-

“Why would I do that-“

“What, scared?”

“I’m not doing that-“

Seongje closes the distance between you two. He thumps a fist lightly against his own chest, grin sharpening.

“Fucking hell, just do it-”

“Get away from me-”

“Hit me right here-”

“Stop-“

“You fucking wimp-“

Your hand flies up; delivering a slap right across his face.

The sound echoes on the rooftop.

His head jerks to the side from the force, glasses flying off and skittering across the concrete. A bright red mark is already rising on his cheek.

For a split second there’s silence-

And then Seongje laughs.

A low, breathless laugh that shakes through his chest, eyes sharp and alive, like something in him finally woke up again.

“See?” he turns back to you, smile cutting wider, “was that so hard?”

“Psycho…” you mutter, looking away, pissed, “I’m leaving.”

You barely take a step before his hand wraps around your forearm, stopping you cold.

You look up at him, startled.

“Today,” he says, voice dropping, “I’m teaching you how to fight.”

“I am not interested- ”

“Of course you won’t be as good as me, but- ”

“No-”

“We can try,” he releases your arm, still smiling down at you despite the slight blur in his vision, “that was just a warm‑up.”

“Why would you assume I want to do this with you?”

“…Are you fucking stupid?” he snaps, “you couldn’t even outrun those morons the other day. You couldn’t even- ”

“Okay, okay- fine, I’ll learn,” you sigh, defeated, “what? You’re gonna teach me uppercuts? Straight punches-”

Seongje lifts his hand suddenly, like he’s about to slap you again.

And you actually flinch; arms snapping up, shoulders tensing, whole body recoiling.

He bursts out laughing, delighted as he puts his hand back down.

“First rule,” he says, stepping closer, and he grabs your wrists so that he can see your face, “never flinch. You can dodge…but don’t be a coward.”

You scoff, but you don’t pull your wrists away, and that alone surprises him. So he takes the opportunity; guiding your hands up gently, adjusting your stance.

“Keep your hands up…here. Not stupid high,” Seongje says, tapping your elbow so it bends properly, “Right here, protects your face.”

He steps back just enough to watch you, eyes scanning your posture.

He flicks his fingers toward your feet, “One foot forward, one back. You’ll fall if you stand like that.”

You adjust your feet; and your lips form a smile that says you’re unwillingly do this….which you are; but secretly enjoying it.

“Good. Now… watch me,” he says, turning his body sideways slightly. “You always watch the shoulders.”

He then swings a punch close to your face- fast enough that you hear the air cut. Your pupils dilate, your breath stutters, and the tiny flinch you try to hide makes him laugh under his breath.

“See? My shoulder,” he teases.

Before you can snap back, he throws a few more quick feints in your direction- light, playful jabs that never touch you, the kind guys do when they’re messing around but also showing off. His movements are sharp, practiced, how effortless they look.

Every time his fist cuts through the air near you, he watches your reaction; every twitch of your eyes, the smile you try to suppress, the slight blush that grows in your cheeks.

He points to his right shoulder.

“If someone’s gonna swing with their right hand, this moves first,” he makes a slow motion punch, exaggerating the shift so you can see it.

You nod slowly, and Seongje finds himself more serious in teaching you, more enjoying of this than he’d expected.

Seongje relaxes; stepping back slightly as he studies your stance again.

“This feels stupid-“

“And your weight- don’t keep it all on one foot,” he ignores your comment, “You’re dead if you stay like this.”

He nudges your shoulder; not gently, and you stumble back a step.

“See? Dead.”

You glare, “You didn’t warn me!”

“You think enemies warn you?” he scoffs.

You adjust again, and Seongje helps you by nudging your knee lightly with his shoe.

And this time when he pushes you, you hold your ground.

He grins.

“…And your chin,” he taps under yours with two fingers, pushing it down just a little. His thumb lingers longer than he realizes, “always tucked.”

Your stare burns his skin.

Seongje’s breath hitches; just barely; before he masks it with a slow exhale, a grin creeping back onto his face.

“…Your turn.”

“To what?”

“To hit me,” he says, tapping two fingers against his own chest, “c’mon. Actually throw one.”

“I am not-”

“Don’t be such a wuss,” he taunts, head tilted, enjoying this way too much.

“I don’t even know how-“

“You slapped me earlier. Do it like that.”

“Really? You want me to punch you-“

“Just like how I showed you. C’mon-“

“You sure?”

“Hurry up-“

“It’s gonna hurt-“

“Don’t make me beg,” he laughs, lifting his chin slightly, exposing himself on purpose.

While he’s still laughing, you swing.

It barely counts as a punch; more like an annoyed tap delivered with zero commitment. Your fist lands on his chest, but Seongje doesn’t even blink. His body doesn’t move, not an inch.

You stare at your own hand in disbelief, then you start laughing too, because wow, that was pathetic.

Seongje drags a palm down his face, shaking his head slowly.

“You fucking suck,” he teases, voice dripping with mock disappointment, “That’s all you got?”

He taps his chest twice, eyes sparking with challenge. He’s trying to drag something out of you, the same fire he saw that night at your place, when you lunged at him with a butter knife. That raw anger, that reckless devotion.

“Where’s that stupid temper of yours?”

Your eyes drop as you roll them, “do you ever shut up?”

“Make me,” he fires back instantly, a low dare curled in his voice.

You scoff, but your stance shifts; hands up, feet staggered, chin tucked the way he told you. For a split second, he thinks you’re still going to hold back. But then-

You throw it.

A real punch, not perfect, not clean, but sharp with all the irritation he kept digging for. Your knuckles catch him right along the chin- the exact spot he’d exposed on purpose earlier.

The impact snaps his head to the side. He actually stumbles back a step.

For a moment, the world sharpens. Pain stabs, but beneath it, a pulse of something else ignites him. Heat, sharp and reckless, coils in his chest, and he inhales it like smoke.

As shameful as it is to admit it, it felt like a kiss.

His skin burns where your knuckles landed, and his breath catches from the closeness, the fire in your eyes, the way your body leans into the motion. Every nerve hums with it, a delicious collision of danger and desire.

Seongje laughs, low and rough, the sound caught between shock and need.

He can feel the friction of your energy against his and it pulls at something dark and hungry inside him. His heart hammers, chest tight, pulse quickened; not from fear, but from wanting more, craving the chaos.

And just for a heartbeat, he wants to feel it again. That reckless, bruising, intoxicating kiss of violence that is only yours.

“Shit- are you okay?” Your voice is panicked, hand landing lightly on his shoulder, brushing against his skin as you check the small bruise forming on his cheek.

“…Again,” he murmurs, teeth grazing his bottom lip, “but this time- I’ll fight back.”

You blink at him. “You’re…a fucking freak,” you mutter, but there’s a tremor in your voice, “forget it. You taught me. I know now- ”

“Let’s play a little longer,” he groans, shrugging your hand off his shoulder.

The loss of your warmth leaves a mark as his eyes roam over you, watching your every movement. Every line of your body, every breath, every defiant glance- it pulls him in, reckless and unashamed.

“…I’ll go easy on you.”

There’s a pause; the gears clicking in your mind.

You scoff, “…I don’t want you to go easy on me though.”

He falters for half a second, surprised by your confidence; after taking the most basic fundamentals of learning.

“…then you’ll get hurt.”

“I think I’ve been through worse.” Your smile deepens, “Besides, what do I get?”

“From…?”

“Well, I’m not taking hits for nothing. If I win…” You tilt your head, daring him to step closer, “…what’s in it for me?”

A slow, wicked smile spreads across his lips.

Oh, so that’s how you want to play it.

He takes one step forward.

Close enough that you can feel his breath ghost your cheek.

“If you win,” he murmurs, “then I owe you something.”

There’s another meaning behind it, one that makes your pulse stutter: you hold a rare claim over him, a one-time use, if ever you need it.

Your brow furrows as a laugh escapes you, nodding, “Okay. Sure. And if you win?”

He tilts his head, lips curling in thought.

What does he want most from you? Well, there isn’t much expect-

“…Tell me about who you are,” he murmurs, “unfiltered. From useless facts to your dirty thoughts- everything.”

Another pause.

And just when he thought you wouldn’t agree to it-

You then raise a hand, daring him to shake on it.

He smirks; shaking yours.

But the moment his fingers clasp yours, you yank hard, and he stumbles- the sudden contact sends a thrill through both of you, the slight brush of skin against skin igniting something else.

He stares up at you and laughs, thrilled.

“Dirty move,” he says, pushing himself up.

You innocently shrug.

Seongje rises slowly, shoulders rolling, eyes never leaving you. Even standing still, he’s a storm gathering; but a controlled one, one that’s pulling punches before they even fly.

He steps in first, light, testing. His fist arcs toward your jaw, but you can see he slows it at the last moment- giving you time to react. You duck, but too late, and his knuckles brush your cheekbone anyway.

“My shoulders, watch them.”

“Shut up-”

Before he can answer, you sweep your leg toward his ankle; the move is clumsy, telegraphed- yet he lets it catch him. He stumbles, correcting himself, a smile tugging at his mouth because he knows exactly what you were trying to do.

You go for his ribs next, a quick jab. He blocks it easily.

Heat crawls up your neck.

“Are you even trying?” He provokes.

You swing again, faster this time. He sidesteps with infuriating ease. One hand lands on your back, guiding your momentum past him so you don’t trip.

It pisses you off.

You twist, planting your feet, and shove against his chest. You throw another strike; this one lands against his shoulder. A real hit.

He hisses, not from pain but satisfaction.

“There you go, that’s it,” he smiles.

Then he moves; a quick, fluid motion that pins your wrist before you even register the grab. He throws a light punch to your upper shoulder- the place where he knows bruises, but ultimately doesn’t hurt as much as organs do.

You wobble, and he reaches for you instinctively. His palm presses to your lower back, steadying you, heat flaring through your body.

…And that’s when it happens.

Your knee comes up; sloppy, the angle slightly wrong, the force unbalanced, but he’s still off-guard, hand on you, breath too close. He reacts late on purpose, and your knee clips his side. He exhales sharply, more surprise than pain.

You see the opening.

Seongje lets you see it.

You lunge again, breath sharp, adrenaline mixing with something warmer. You miss a punch by several inches- beginner mistake- and he taps your elbow to show you how open it leaves your ribs.

“Fuck-“ you curse under your breath. He laughs.

Then, without warning, you kick off the ground and throw your weight at him.

Not elegant; not technical; just raw desperation to win.

It works.

You slam into him, and he lets himself fall- back hitting the hard concrete floor with a thud, you landing half on top of him, breath tangled with his. His hand curls around your waist automatically, steadying you so neither of you hit the floor too hard.

“Fuck,” he groans, his breath fanning your cheek as his head hovers slightly off the ground, avoiding full contact with the floor.

Your hands tighten around his burgundy uniform, gripping the fabric as though it anchors you in place. When his eyes meet yours, all the pain seems to vanish, as if your eyes held that medicine, the pain-killer.

You sit up quickly, straddling him before he can catch his breath. His back is flat against the concrete, yours leaning over him, your fists still balled in his uniform like you’re holding him down.

And then you throw it-

a clean, sharp punch straight across his face.

And it wasn’t enough for you-

You throw another punch at his face; the final blow.

His head whips to the side, the sound echoing off the rooftop.

“Yes… just like that,” he moans, smiling, letting the back of his head fall to the floor this time, surrendering to the sting blooming under his cheekbone. The sound that leaves him is half‑pain, half‑pleasure, the kind that makes his chest rise too fast and his eyes go unfocused.

You exhale a shaky laugh of your own, your grip on his jacket loosening as the adrenaline fades. Now that you’re not throwing punches, your hands soften against him.

“…you let me win,” you breathe, the realization slipping out.

His eyes drag up to yours- heavy, hazy, and full of something dangerously close to devotion.

“It was all you, baby,” he groans, voice rough, the hand on your waist finally dropping to the ground beside him as though he’s lost the strength to hold you or himself up anymore.

Seongje laughs low and throaty, the sound vibrating through his chest. It’s better than any high he’s chased before- more intense than nicotine, more addictive than anything he’s ever tasted- and it surges through him like a shot of electricity, making him feel unstoppable, untouchable. His chest rises and falls rapidly, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he lets himself sink into you and everything you have to offer.

He feels your weight shift as you push yourself off him, settling onto the concrete beside him, trying to cool the adrenaline flooding your system.

Seongje peeks through half-lidded, bliss-dazed eyes, watching you steady your breathing.

He checks you first; your face, your shoulders, your hands- scanning carefully as though you’re the one who took damage, not him. When he sees nothing serious, only the faint tremble of exertion, something eases in his gaze.

Only then does Seongje slowly sit up too, pain rippling through his jaw, but his smile still boyish.

“…That was fun,” he murmurs, voice quieter than before, almost hoarse.

Your laugh comes softer this time, no mockery in it; “it was.”

A sudden rumble vibrates low in Seongje’s stomach, breaking the tension. He blinks, then huffs out a small laugh as he pushes himself to his feet.

“..I’m starving,” he murmurs. He extends a hand down to you.

“Come on,” he says, eyes warm despite the blooming bruise on his cheek, “BBQ.”

You look at his hand for a beat before slipping yours into it, and he pulls you up, steadying you by the elbow when you wobble slightly.

“BBQ,” he repeats, grinning faintly, “my treat.”

—-

Three days later

“I’m taking time off. Don’t come looking for me.”

Hurt and disappointment cut through Seongje’s voice, raw and shaking despite how hard he’s trying to sound cold.

Midnight hangs heavy over Daesung Motorcycles, the shop lit only by a single buzzing fluorescent light. They came here straight after Seongje was released from the police station; because he thought, stupidly, that he and Baekjin were finally going to talk about something real.

Instead, the first thing out of Baekjin’s mouth was an accusation.

That he had ratted the Union out.

The words still burn in his ears.

Seongje didn’t realize how much of himself he had anchored to this friendship (if you could even call it that). He didn’t realize how lonely he was until now, standing here with the person he trusted the most looking at him like a liability.

Seongje lets his last words hang in the air, waiting, hoping for a crack in Baekjin’s expression.

Nothing.

Seongje taps his cigarette, ashes dropping neatly into the tray.

He’s done; done being the errand boy. Done taking hits. Done pretending loyalty makes up for the way he’s treated.

He stands, ignoring the sharp sting in his foot; still injured from when his own glasses were broken and used to stab against it. Every step sends a jolt up his leg, despite the cast wrapped around it.

Seongje walks a few steps-

and then Baekjin speaks; not to hold him back.

“Maybe y/n did it.”

The mention of your name causes Seongje to freeze; his entire back tensing up as if someone yanked him with a chain.

Seongje doesn’t turn around.

Baekjin keeps going, voice flat, “I know you brought her here. I know you’ve been with her.”

Seongje always knew that Baku will always come first for Baekjin, and he will always be second. But what he just realizing now is that, you were in that same category as Baku too. That Baekjin valued you enough to say your name like that, enough to send Seongje to check up on you, enough care for you from a distance, placing you on the same level as Baku in a way Seongje never could be.

“I know her,” Seongje says, “she wouldn’t do that to you.”

He says it for two reasons.

The first is simple; because it’s true. You wouldn’t rat anyone out; you don’t care enough about the Union or their shit to get involved.

And the second reason, is that he’s still trying to protect Baekjin’s feelings. Even now. Even after being accused of betraying the only people he thought he had.

With that last line hanging in the smoke-thick air, Seongje turns and limps his way out the garage door, finally taking the long, overdue break from the Union he’s been fantasizing about for months.

Outside, the streets are dark, washed dim by dying street lamps. His mood sours with every step; pain spikes through his injured foot, and each limp is a reminder of how stupidly alone he is.

He turns down the street toward his apartment.

Bump.

…Someone slams hard into his chest.

A feminine body hits him straight-on, stumbling back with a pained groan; the kind of dramatic collision he’s only ever seen in movies.

His vision blurs from the impact, but when he blinks, when he focuses-

It’s you.

Of course it is. What a timing.

“Shit-” you hiss, pushing yourself upright.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice rough, exhausted. But the question dies halfway out when he really looks at you; panic written across your face, hair disheveled, clothes rumpled like you’d been grabbed or running full-speed for blocks.

You grab his wrist.

“Run. Come on- just run, I’ll explain later,” you say breathlessly, tugging hard.

But he doesn’t move.

You follow his gaze downward, to the way his weight shifts off his injured foot.

Realization hits. You drop his arm, frustrated, already turning away.

“I have to go- ”

He grabs your forearm before you can take a step.

“Hide. In there,” he says flatly, jerking his chin toward the narrow alley between a shuttered laundromat and a row of abandoned mailboxes.

You give him a quick, breathless smile, “thanks.”

Then you dart into the alley, slipping behind the rusted mailboxes until you’re completely out of sight.

Seongje sighs, shoulders sagging. He digs a cigarette from his pack, sticks it between his lips, and leans casually against the wall like he’s just some bored guy out for a midnight smoke.

It’s the oldest trick in the book, but it works. Two men in black barreling down the street don’t spare him a glance as they sprint past, scanning the road ahead.

“You fucking suck,” he mutters under his breath, cigarette bouncing between his lips, “losing to two guys again?”

You step out after a moment, brushing dust from your clothes, giving him a look that basically says yeah, and?

“I tried fending them off,” you shrug, “but running was easier.”

He snorts, flipping his lighter closed. “Figures.”

Your expression softens as you look him over. “So… what happened to you?”

“Eunjang bastards,” he answers, as if that should explain everything. “Got stabbed by my own glasses.”

He exhales a stream of smoke- right into your face.

You cough dramatically, waving the cloud away, “Shit. You look… very roughed up.”

Maybe y/n did it.

He forces a chuckle, pushing the thought away, “could say the same about you.”

You glance down the street, making sure the men are really gone, “They’re… not friends,” you say, “They were sent by my dad. They found my place.”

For a beat, Seongje just stares at you; your messy hair, your bruised expression, the exhaustion behind your eyes.

He hates how much he likes seeing you fucked up like this, how something in him twists in a sick, involuntary way whenever you stumble into trouble.

He hates how much he likes you being dumb, reckless, struggling.

He hates how you twist between happiness and sadness, like it’s a switch programmed in you to format a wall in a few seconds.

He hates how you talk to him; with a lack of manners that he beats others up for.

But most of all, he hates how much he wants to take care of you anyway; how something in his chest aches for you every single time, without fail, no matter how hard he tries to deny it.

Seongje scoffs, taking another puff of his cigarette.

He’s already regretting the words he hasn’t said yet.

He exhales the smoke to the side instead of your face, and you’re staring down at the pavement, nudging loose gravel with the toe of your shoe like a scolded kid.

“My place,” he mutters, “you can stay there.”

You look up immediately, eyes wide.

“Your…place?”

“Got a problem with that?”

“You have a…place?”

“…nevermind.”

You grab his forearm before he can take a step.

“No- please. I got nowhere else to go.”

You tug at him, and he turns just enough that you can see the slight flush creeping up the edges of his ears. You pout up at him, trying to catch his eyes, but he looks away quickly, jaw clenched.

Finally, with a low sigh, he jerks his chin down the street.

“Let’s go already. I’m fucking tired.”

He starts walking, limping slightly from the stubbed toe, and you can’t help but notice the strain in his step.

Without thinking, you slip your arm around his shoulders, pressing yourself close, guiding him as you move.

Huh?

Seongje’s brows furrow, eyes narrowing, but he quickly realizes you’re steadying him, helping him balance.

Oh.

He allows you to support him, leaning lightly into you.

Your hand rests firm against his side, your body pressed close enough that every subtle shift of his weight brushes against yours.

It’s intimate without words, the kind of quiet closeness that says more than either of you could manage out loud.

Step by step, you guide him down the dimly lit streets, the night stretching around you. His usual arrogance is muted, replaced with something… vulnerable.

And though he won’t admit it, he’s grateful, that you’re here, that you’re steadying him, that somehow, this simple act pulls you even closer together.

By the time you reach his place, the distance isn’t just measured in blocks walked; it’s measured in a shift, a shared breath and synced heartbeat.

“…You’re heavy,” you complain, nudging him as he flicks his cigarette to the floor before opening the apartment building door.

“Shut up. You’re not that light either.”

You press the elevator button, your hand brushing against his wrist that’s draped over your shoulder. You catch yourself gently rubbing your thumb over his skin, and he, in turn, finds his gaze drawn to the side of your face as you read the bulletin board.

Ding.

The elevator doors open. He limps in, leaning slightly against you, and presses the button for the second floor.

Ding.

You step out together, and he guides you down the hallway, arm still around your shoulders.

When you reach his door, he finally lifts his arm, slipping his hand into his pocket and pulling out the keys.

“You live alone?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, pushing the door open, stepping aside to let you enter first, “left my parents. It’s more fun living alone.”

The familiar scent of his apartment hits him the moment he steps inside: a mix of detergent, dust, and the faint remnants of ramen and cigarette smoke. He tosses his keys onto the small shelf by the door with a clatter, while clicking the lights open.

You stand just inside the entrance, turning your head slowly, taking everything in with big, curious eyes. He watches you silently; because of course you’re nosy, of course you’re immediately snooping around with your gaze, like a stray cat assessing its new territory.

“Your shoes,” he scolds lightly, nodding down. He’s already kicking his off: one slipper, one sports shoe, mismatched and pathetic.

“Oh,” you hurry to remove yours too.

Seongje shrugs off his jacket, letting it land wherever it falls, then brushes past you and drops onto his bed with a heavy plop.

His apartment is one big open space; no couch, no TV. Just his bed, a table crowded with a computer and game controllers, a cramped kitchen tucked into a corner, a tiny bathroom, and the smallest walk-in closet that barely even qualifies as one. It’s clean in some places, messy in others; lived-in, but not lived-in enough.

He watches you over his forearm as he lies back, the exhaustion finally settling in.

He lets out a laugh at how stiff and uncomfortable you look, frozen in the middle of the room.

“You can sit in my gaming chair,” Seongje mutters, voice low and rough, “I don’t care.”

“Your place is… nice,” you compliment as you sit in his chair, easing into it. It reclines more than you expect, so you jerk upright immediately. The reaction makes him snort.

You turn your attention to his setup; the dual monitors glowing softly, the headphones hanging off the hook, the keyboard shifting through neon colors, the mouse lighting the same way, extra controllers charging on the side. You graze your fingertips over the keys like they’re museum artifacts.

“You’re making it awkward, stupid.”

“…that’s because I’ve never stayed overnight with a guy before,” you confess.

Seongje’s brows knit, but there’s a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watches you from the bed.

He thinks, well… I’ve never really had a girl over before either.

But that’s a secret he’s not willing to tell you.

“Why?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder at him with a sly grin, “do the girls you bring over act like it’s their own home?”

“Why do you care?”

And he says it like that, lazy and dismissive to cover up the fact that he’s. Never. Brought. Anyone. Over.

“I don’t. I’m just trying to make conversation,” you push yourself out of his gaming chair, “never mind. Do you have anything to eat? I’m starving.”

From the bed, Seongje watches you wander into his tiny corner kitchen. You open his fridge; then stop, blinking at the barren shelves and the lonely collection of bottled water.

“What, are you an influencer or something?” you tease, shutting the door with your hip.

He doesn’t stay home enough to justify groceries, and the idea of explaining that to you feels stupid, so he just sits up instead.

As he shifts, his phone slips from his pocket and clatters against the sheets. He ignores it, fishing out his wallet.

He pulls out two crumpled 10,000 won bills and holds it toward you between two fingers.

“There’s a store downstairs. You should be good.”

You walk over and take the money from his hand, your fingers brushing his knuckles.

“Keys?” you ask.

He jerks his chin toward the shelf near the door.

“There.”

You grab them, then glance back at him with raised brows, “you’re not coming with?”

“What, can’t survive without me?” he shoots back, smirking even through the exhaustion weighing down his shoulders.

You scoff, “Says the thief that stole my money- ”

“Look around you, don’t keep your head in your phone,” he cuts you off; his words landing like a mom warning her kids to be careful outside.

“…I’m not getting you anything,” you sulk, moving to grab his keys.

The door clicks shut behind you, leaving Seongje alone with nothing but the hum of his apartment and the dull ache in his foot. He exhales, long and tired, running a hand through his messy hair before pushing himself off the bed.

Might as well shower first.

He limps toward the bathroom, and he curses under his breath, balancing carefully as he strips off his clothes. He runs a hand along his stomach- notting the new bruises that are forming, blending into a messy modern painting with the old injuries.

Stepping in, the spray of hot water hits his bruised body, and for a moment, he just stands there; head bowed, palms pressed against the tile- letting the warmth unknot the tension in his shoulders.

He’s slow getting out, patting himself dry with one towel while he uses another to dab gently at his injured foot. He wraps it loosely in bandages, jaw clenched.

By the time he steps out into the main room, about twenty minutes have passed.

He stops in the doorway.

You’re back already, leaning against his tiny kitchen counter, a microwaved bibimbap bowl balanced in your hands.

Then you look up and immediately choke.

Your eyes widen so hard they practically jump out of your skull, and you lift the bibimbap container like a shield in front of your face.

“Shit- put on a shirt, will you?!”

“…It’s my house though. Why should I?” Seongje mutters, ruffling the towel through his wet hair, “and grow up.”

He limps over to his gaming chair and drops into it with a low exhale, letting the towel fall over his eyes. Water still clings to his shoulders, dripping occasionally onto the floor. His arms drape lazily over the chair’s armrests, every muscle exhausted.

You stand there for a few seconds, glaring over the edge of your plastic bowl, but eventually the shock fades. Your footsteps pad softly across the floor, and he hears the rustle of the convenience store bag beside you as you sit down on the floor in front of him.

“Why do you get into fights so often?” you ask suddenly.

He shifts the towel just enough to peer down at you. You’re sitting cross-legged, bibimbap in one hand, the plastic bag at your side like some kind of picnic setup.

With your free hand, you rummage inside the bag and pull out a rice ball. You hold it up toward him.

“Mm. Here. Thought you might be hungry.”

Seongje stares at the rice ball for a second. Eventually, he takes it from your hand, flipping it to read the flavor.

“…I don’t know,” he answers your earlier question, “I guess it’s fun.”

“No,” you say immediately, eyes tracing downward; over the bruises blooming across his stomach, just below his ribs, the faint swelling around his hip, “nothing that makes you… all fucked up like that is fun.”

He laughs but the sound never comes out.

Instead, he tears open the rice ball wrapper and takes a big bite.

“What d’you think I should do instead then?” he mumbles around the mouthful, “Knit? Draw? Gaming- ”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” you scold instantly, brows pinched as you dig your spoon into your bibimbap.

He pauses, chews slowly this time, swallowing before he speaks again.

Then Seongje sighs, deciding to not dodge the truth.

“It’s exciting,” he admits, eyes unfocused as he stares at some point past your shoulder, “The fights, I mean. Your enemies… they’re unpredictable. And for me, I like the thrill of that. Not knowing what’s coming. Not knowing what someone’s gonna do.”

He takes another slow bite of the rice ball.

“It makes me feel alive,” he adds, barely above a whisper, “even if it fucks me up. Especially if it fucks me up.”

“…You don’t need to almost die to feel alive, you know,” you say it softly, eyes dropping to your bibimbap before flicking toward him again.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you shrug lightly, using your chopsticks to poke at the rice, “like, look at me. I’m running away from home to feel alive. I’m taking a… vacation. I’m not out there looking for trouble wherever I go.”

He scoffs under his breath.

“Well,” you say, spreading your legs forward, so that the tip of your toes lightly brush against his, “trouble finds me. I don’t go hunting for it with my fists.”

A beat.

Then you add, quieter:

“There are other ways to feel alive, you know. Good ones.”

He stops chewing on his food, “really? Like what?”

“I don’t know. Talking to someone. Spending time with someone. Whatever works for you. Try experimenting with everything- not just fighting. That can’t be all that defines you, is it?” you say, taking the last bite of your food, chewing slowly.

He watches you the whole time.

“For me… I’m still looking for what makes me feel alive,” you add, referencing your plane ticket, your reckless week, everything you’ve done that led you here.

Seongje mutters after a few seconds, “…how romantic.”

You laugh under your breath, shy, running a hand through your hair as you push yourself up from the floor. You smooth down your clothes- pointlessly, because nothing is out of place- and carry your empty bibimbap bowl to the sink.

The water runs, and you wince a little when the splash hits your fingers.

And maybe it’s the weight of the day, the sting in his foot, the conversation with Baekjin- maybe it’s the way you’re here, right now, rinsing dishes in his cramped kitchen, because Seongje lets something slip.

He finds the urge to, just like you said, talk to someone.

“Baekjin doesn’t trust me,” he starts, putting the rice ball down on the table.

Your movement stops. Even with your back turned, he can see the way your shoulders tighten at the sound of your childhood friend’s name.

“I’m taking a break from the Union,” Seongje continues, “I told him that. And he still didn’t- still didn’t make the effort to make me stay.”

The frustration in his voice is thinly veiled, but the hurt is loud. He doesn’t even try to hide it.

The faucet runs, a steady stream filling the quiet between you. You set the empty bibimbap bowl in the sink, fingers lingering against the rim before you answer.

“He doesn’t trust anyone,”

you say. It isn’t defensive, or angry. Just sad. A fact spoken from someone who’s known Baekjin far longer than he has.

“I know,” Seongje mutters. “I’m stupid to think otherwise.”

“…That makes the two of us,” you sigh.

You turn the faucet off and face him. Your expression mirrors his; not with the same raw hurt, but something gentler. Something nostalgic, like you’re remembering old versions of you, Baku, Baekjin.

You lean against the counter, arms crossed loosely over your chest.

“But…” you add quietly, “if it was me, and you walked away? I’d go after you.”

Seongje’s eyes flick up instantly. He swallows once, hard, his jaw tightening as he sits there in his chair- sweatpants loose, towel around his shoulders now, bruises blooming across his stomach.

He feels completely exposed in a way no fight has ever made him feel.

“…Why?”

You look away, playing it off with a faint shrug, “you’re not so bad.”

Then you laugh lightly, “Baekjin’s an idiot. And staying away from the Union is a good thing,” you continue, leaning your hip against the sink. “And if you’re bored… I’ll keep you company. Like I am now. So…”

You smile at him- gentle, reassuring in a way he isn’t used to.

For a moment, the room feels warmer.

Then you yawn, stretching your arms above your head.

“I gotta shower too.”

Seongje sees a flicker of realization hit you mid-stretch.

Your hands lower slowly, your expression shifting into mild horror.

He furrows his brows, wondering what you’re thinking.

“Shit…I have no clothes,” you admit, wincing, “Or a towel…”

The realization hits him too. His nose scrunches in thought; yeah, you’ll definitely need to go shopping tomorrow. But for now, he thinks he might have some smaller things that’ll work.

“I can borrow you,” he whispers, pushing himself up. He limps toward his barely-qualified walk-in closet and flicks on the lights.

You follow after him, and he immediately regrets it when he sees your eyes sweep over the disaster inside.

“Looks like a hurricane flew by,” you comment, leaning against the doorframe.

Seongje pretends he didn’t hear that and digs around until he finds a pair of his boxers. He holds them up for a second, then tosses them to you. You catch them and examine the fabric with a resigned frown- one that screams Well… like I have a better option.

“You do do laundry, right?”

“...Fuck off,” he mutters.

You laugh. He grabs one of his smaller shirts, drapes it over your shoulder, and nods toward the bathroom.

“There’s another towel in there,” he says.

As he squeezes past you through the doorway, your hips brush. He flicks off the closet light behind him.

He plops back onto his gaming chair and opens the device. He needs to check up on his game stats. As you make your way to the bathroom, you suddenly turn around.

“Hey… um, thanks. For everything. For letting me stay here and teaching me all that stuff. I didn’t know I would need it; but thanks. After all, I’m just a stranger to you.”

Seongje turns to look at you, and he catches the way your cheeks redden at your own words.

Cute, he thinks. He wants to say, You’re not a stranger anymore, but that sounds cringe and cheesy, so he just gives you a quick smirk.

“Get out of my face,” he jokes.

You giggle softly, and as Seongje turns back to his screen, he hears the bathroom door click closed. Seeing that his game stats are okay, he checks his friends list and realizes that your character has leveled up significantly. He smiles at that.

Then he picks up the half-eaten rice ball and takes a bite.

Remembering the convenience store bag; and wondering what you could’ve possibly bought that needed a whole bag; he turns toward it.

He picks it off the floor, scrounging through what’s inside.

His hand pauses.

Inside, wrapped neatly in plastic, is a bunch of medicine and bandages.

For his stabbed leg.

He stares for a moment, thumb brushing the edge of the box.

A strange warmth crawls up his neck.

He glances toward the closed bathroom door, listening faintly to the sound of running water. The corners of his mouth twitch upward without him meaning to.

He sets the box back into the convenience-store bag and drops it gently to the floor, then turns back to his computer.

A few rounds slip by; he’s so deep into the game that he doesn’t realize how much time has passed. By the time he finally leans back and cracks his neck, he notices something he somehow missed.

…You’re already done showering.

Not just done- you’re in his bed. Asleep. Completely knocked out under his blanket.

Seongje blinks.

…You really are a rich girl’s daughter, aren’t you? Just climbing into someone else’s bed like it’s yours.

He checks the time; late. Later than he thought.

With a soft exhale, he pushes out of his chair and walks over to you. You’re curled slightly toward his side of the bed, mouth parted the smallest bit, a soft breath escaping.

Pulling out his phone, he snaps a few photos; different angles, trying to bite back his laughter so he won’t wake you. When he’s satisfied, he sets his phone on the bedside table.

For a moment, he just looks at you.

Then he reaches out, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face with careful fingertips.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, smiling to himself.

He crosses the room to switch off the lights.

When he returns to the bed, the mattress dips slightly under his weight. You’ve taken up most of the space, of course. So Seongje pulls the blanket just enough to cover himself and lies on the very edge, body tense, making sure he doesn’t touch you even accidentally.

But he’s still smiling when he closes his eyes.

——

The morning light slips through the curtains, a thin, warm beam cutting across the bed and landing right on Seongje’s face. Even with his eyes closed, he feels it: his body naturally pulling itself out of sleep, brain rebooting, instincts nudging him awake.

He peeks one eye open, squinting as everything comes into focus.

And then he freezes.

You’re awake.

And you’re staring right at him.

Not in a creepy way; not really. There’s something soft in your expression, something gentle and unguarded, like you were lost in thought. But the second his eyes open fully, your own widen in surprise.

You turn around so fast it makes the bed shift, scooting onto your side with your back to him, arms tucked under your head.

Seongje blinks.

…Have you been staring at him sleeping?

He exhales slowly, staring at the back of your head, hair messy from sleep, the blanket pulled up to your waist. Only a third of the sheets cover him, but he decides to let it go. Instead, he sits up, stretching lazily as his joints crack faintly.

“What time is it?” he asks, ruffling a hand through his hair.

“…Eleven,” you whisper, still turned away from him.

He scratches his stomach absently and gets up.

In the bathroom, he pees with his brain still half-asleep, then washes his hands.

He’s brushing his teeth a moment later, toothbrush hanging from his mouth, foam building up at the corners of his lips.

A soft knock on the doorframe makes him glance sideways.

“You have an extra?” you ask quietly, stepping into the tiny bathroom. You nod toward the toothbrush in his hand.

Seongje, still brushing, pulls open the mirror cabinet. He rummages for a second and then takes out a toothbrush still sealed in its packaging, handing it to you without pausing his brushing.

You whisper, smiling, “Thanks.”

He watches you through the mirror as you unwrap the toothbrush, squeeze toothpaste onto it, and start brushing too. Side by side, you stand close enough that your shoulders almost touch, breaths mixing with the minty smell of toothpaste. Your movements sync up naturally, the soft scratch of bristles filling the cramped bathroom.

You catch his eyes in the mirror and smile around the toothbrush.

He smiles back.

It’s not entirely awkward, but rather shy. Intimate, almost.

Seongje nudges your hip with his, and you shoot him a scolding glare through your brows. He leans closer to the sink, you shuffle back to give him room, and he rinses his mouth first, then splashes water on his face, wiping it off with the small towel hanging beside the mirror.

He leaves the bathroom before you finish, limping to his closet. He pulls on a black shirt and a pair of sweats, then grabs a random jacket and tosses it onto the bed for later. Reaching for his phone, he checks through his notifications with a barely-there frown, thumbs tapping quickly.

Then he moves to his gaming chair, sitting back and spinning once out of habit. He scrolls for a moment, waiting for you to be done.

His eyes catch on the convenience store bag again.

Right. The medicine you brought.

He sighs through his nose before he leans down to grab the bag. He pulls out the antiseptic spray, the gauze pads, the small roll of bandage wrap.

He clicks his tongue softly.

You really thought of everything.

Seongje props his injured foot onto his knee. He peels off the old bandage; wincing when the dried corner tugs at his skin- and tosses it into the small trash bin by the desk. The cut is still angry and faintly swollen, but not as bad as it was yesterday. He’s supposed to clean it at least twice a day… he kind of doesn’t.

He grabs the antiseptic spray first and hisses sharply when the cold sting hits.

“Shit-”

Once the worst of the sting fades, he presses a fresh gauze pad over the wound and wraps the bandage around his foot with practiced movements; tight enough to protect, loose enough that he can still move.

He’s just smoothing the edge of the wrap when you step out.

“I didn’t know what you might need- so I kind of got everything,” you say, your voice awkward but hopeful, “Um… can I borrow some clothes?”

Seongje glances up, and he nods.

You click on the closet light and step inside, sifting through his shirts and jackets, a little overwhelmed but curious. Meanwhile, Seongje sets his foot down carefully, testing the bandaged area, and picks up his phone to scroll through notifications absentmindedly.

Ten minutes pass.

He starts to frown, muttering to himself, “shit… what’s taking so-”

You step out. You’re wearing your own pants from yesterday, but draped over your shoulders is one of Seongje’s favorite windbreakers, slightly oversized.

A strange warmth creeps up his neck.

He studies the sight for a long, heavy second, his lips twitching into a grin he can’t quite hide.

“Wow…it looks way better on me.”

You roll your eyes and stretch your shoulders, the fabric shifting comfortably around you, “Duh, it’s yours. But it’s the least ugly one in there. Hey, let’s go shopping,” you say, the excitement in your voice practically vibrating, “You don’t have anything to do today anyways, right?”

“Money?”

“Money.”

“You have it,” you remind him, a teasing note in your voice, referencing the money he stole from you.

Seongje scoffs, standing up slowly. “Okay, sure,” he waves it off, shoving his phone into his pocket and grabbing the jacket he left on his bed. He slips it on, the fabric settling across his shoulders, while you grab your phone.

The two of you put on your shoes; Seongje with his slippers because of his injury, you with your sport shoes; ready to head out together.

——

First stop: the glasses store.

Seongje stands in front of the display wall, staring at the endless rows of frames. He scans up and down, searching for the model he used to wear- the one he thought looked the best in.

But before he can find it, your voice cuts in.

“Oh? What about this one?” you say, plucking a pair of white-framed glasses off the rack.

Before he can protest, you step right into his space and lift them toward his face.

He instinctively leans back a little, brows pulling together; but he still lets you. You slide the glasses onto him. On purpose, you angle them slightly crooked.

You break into laughter, pointing at him with a bright grin.

“Mm-hmm. Suits you.”

He clicks his tongue and adjusts the glasses properly, turning to the nearest mirror.

He stares.

…Meh.

He takes them off and hands them back to you. “You have bad taste.”

“Yours isn’t any better,” you shoot back, placing the frames neatly back on the rack.

Seongje ignores that, continuing down the display until he spots the pair identical to his old ones. He grabs it, waving over a worker. They explain he’ll need to get his prescription checked again in the back room.

He nods, and as the worker leaves to prepare the machine, you jog up beside him.

“But… why don’t you wear contacts?” you ask, a little curious tilt in your voice.

“Never tried.”

“Then why don’t you try them?” you nudge, eyes brightening, “they’re nice. Kinda life-changing.”

Seongje raises an eyebrow at you, “Life-changing? They’re tiny pieces of plastic.”

“Tiny pieces of plastic that looks better,” you correct, crossing your arms.

He snorts.

He considers it for half a second before giving a barely-there shrug, the kind that means he won’t admit he’s interested, but he kind of is.

“…try them. You won’t regret it.”

He’s about to reply when the staff calls him in. The exam is quick; letters, blinking lights, instructions to stare at a tiny red dot. When he steps out again, you’re already waiting near the contact lens section, holding up two boxes like you’re choosing between snacks.

“Which color?” you grin.

He pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “…Uh. I guess just brown.”

“Pff. Boring.”

He ignores you and heads to the counter with his new prescription. But when he glances back at you, comparing different colored contacts against your own eye color for fun, a strange warmth creeps up his neck. He represses the urge to scratch it away.

A few minutes pass.

While waiting for the shop to finish his lenses, the two of you wander through the rows of glasses again, this time trying on pairs for pure chaos. At one point, Seongje grabs the ugliest neon green frames on the entire display and shoves them into your hands.

Eventually, the staff calls his name. His new glasses are ready.

They make final adjustments, then; finally- Seongje slides them on.

He blinks a few times, adjusting to the clarity… then instinctively turns his head toward the very first thing he wants to focus on.

You.

Standing there with your arms half-crossed, head slightly tilted, smiling at him.

His world has never sharpened more clearer than now.

He swallows, his heartbeat tripping over itself.

“…What?” you ask, clueless, scrunching your brows at the way he’s just staring.

Seongje immediately looks away, pushing his glasses up even though they don’t need adjusting.

“Nothing,” he mutters, “just- checking the prescription.”

A strange warmth creeps up his neck.

Fuck.

Seongje turns to pays for his stuff, feeling the heat of your presence beside him; close enough that he can sense where you’re looking without needing to glance.

The staff hands him the receipt, then smiles at you both.

“Your girlfriend is really pretty.”

You react faster than he does.

“…I’m not his girlfriend,” you say quickly, polite but firm, offering the staff an embarrassed smile.

The staff apologizes. You step aside.

And something in his chest lurches.

Seongje tucks the contact lens box into his pocket and pushes open the door to leave the shop, the bell chiming overhead. The moment you’re both outside, he lets the question slip before he can stop himself:

“…That was a quick rejection, wasn’t it?”

You blink,“Huh?”

“Well- I mean, uh…” he scratches the side of his neck, suddenly annoyed at himself for caring this much, “is being my girlfriend bad or something?”

You stare at him; the answer is painfully obvious.

“…We’re not dating though. That’s the truth.”

“Right,” he mutters, looking forward as you begin walking ahead of him. But- once he catches up, “think we’d look weird or something?”

You stop abruptly, turning to meet his eyes.

“Yes. Very weird. Now drop it.”

He does. Mostly because he suddenly feels stupid for even asking, and the silence that follows is heavy enough to keep him in check. You walk side by side through the rows of stores, but Seongje refuses to look at you; too focused on pretending he isn’t bothered.

He ends up walking a few steps ahead without realizing it.

Then-

A sharp tug yanks him backward by the jacket.

He turns just as you pull him closer to your side.

“That top is so cute,” you say, pointing enthusiastically at a mannequin in the window, eyes sparkling.

It’s some thrift shop, mannequins dressed in outfits that look exactly like the kind of things you’d gravitate towards.

You don’t even wait; you grab his wrist and drag him inside.

Inside, it’s warm, scented faintly of fabric softener and citrus. The shop is cluttered but cozy; racks are crammed with colors and textures, tiny accessories displayed in baskets, soft indie music humming from a speaker in the corner.

You drift instantly, fingertips grazing fabrics, your eyes lighting up every few seconds as you hold something against your torso, checking your reflection in the nearest mirror. Seongje just follows behind, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket.

Every time you glance over your shoulder and ask, “This one?” he shrugs.

“…yeah. Sure. Looks fine.”

You roll your eyes and grab more clothes; tops, skirts, sweaters- piling them into his arms before heading toward the dressing rooms.

“Hold these,” you instruct, already halfway through the curtain.

He stares down at the clothes shoved into him.

“…What am I, your fucking assistant?”

“Yes,” you call from behind the curtain, “be useful.”

He scoffs loudly, but he stays right where he is.

With nowhere else to go, Seongje finds a low seat against the wall and drops into it. He tosses the pile of clothes onto the space beside him and pulls out his phone, scrolling through whatever notifications he missed.

Roughly two minutes pass.

Then you step out.

Seongje looks up lazily… and then does a full, unmistakable double take.

Wow, he thinks, the word echoing through his head before he can stop it.

You’re smiling at him, giving a small twirl like you’re showing off for a runway.

He’s momentarily stunned.

“What do you think? Looks good, right?”

“…I’ve seen better,” he whispers, trying to play it off.

Your shoulders drop a little as you turn to the mirror to inspect the outfit again.

He clears his throat, gaze flicking away. “Don’t- ” he starts, softer than before, “don’t come out to show me. If you like it, you like it.”

The lie is so immediate it tastes bitter.

Because the truth is?

A strange warmth creeps up his neck again; hotter this time, impossible to ignore.

“You’re right. Your opinion doesn’t matter anyway,” you giggle before slipping back into the changing room.

Seongje clicks his tongue, scratching the side of his neck as he forces his eyes back onto his phone.

“Whatever,” he mutters to himself, scrolling; though he’s not actually reading anything.

True to his words, you don’t come out to show him any more outfits.

But he is the one who grows restless. He keeps glancing up at the curtain, shifting in his seat, checking the time.

Finally, the curtain swishes open and you step out, not to model another outfit, but to show him the small stack of clothes you’ve decided are worth it.

You glance at the pile beside him, sift quickly through it, choose the pieces you actually liked, then straighten up proudly.

“I’ll get these,” you announce, batting your lashes at him.

Seongje scoffs, pushing up from the chair and shoving his phone into his pocket.

“Sure. It’s your money anyway,” he mutters.

You snicker under your breath as the two of you walk together to the cashier. You place the clothes down, smoothing them out while the cashier scans them and folds each piece with practiced speed.

And then; when the total flashes on the screen, Seongje slides his card out and taps it against the reader.

You walk out of the store holding two big bags of clothing, a quiet smile tugging at your lips. Behind you, Seongje follows at his own slow, limping pace; but he’s smiling too, one that mirrors yours.

-------------------------------

word count: 12k

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: does being in close proximity with each other grow attraction?

elevator | other | pt1 | pt3

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sincerely, urs.