Soft things I can't lose
🎴 pairing: na baek-jin x gn!reader (or fem!reader — up to you) 💉 genre: hurt/comfort, gang au, sick!reader, soft!baekjin, protective boyfriend 🧊 warnings: blood, violence (not toward reader), injury mention, illness, tenderness in hell 📎 summary: you’re sick. he’s scary. but only to everyone else.
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The room smells like metal and sweat.
It always does after Baek-jin’s punishments. The air tastes like a warning — like regret and control and someone else’s pain echoing off the walls.
His voice cuts through it.
“You think you can lie to me and walk away breathing?”
The guy on the floor doesn’t answer. Can’t. His lip’s split open, and one eye’s swelling shut. Baek-jin’s boot rests heavy on his chest — he’s not pressing down yet, but he will.
Everyone else stands silent. Tense. Waiting.
“Tell me who you gave the tip to, and maybe I won’t rearrange your spine.”
And then:
The warehouse door slides open.
And a quiet voice breaks the world in half.
“Baek-jin?”
The second your voice hits his ears, everything inside him goes still.
His head jerks up.
You’re standing in the doorway. Pale as ever, hair tucked into a soft scarf, arms trembling from the weight of the tiny bento box in your hands.
His breath catches.
“What are you—?”
The guy under his foot coughs, and Baek-jin slams him into the floor without blinking. Doesn’t even look down.
His eyes are locked on you.
“Hyung,” one of the lieutenants whispers nervously. “She shouldn’t be here—”
“Shut up.”
The command is sharp enough to slice skin.
Baek-jin stalks across the room, fast and silent, brushing past the gang without a word. His fists are still bloodstained, and you flinch when his hand reaches you.
“Didn’t I tell you to rest?”
“You weren’t answering your texts,” you mumble. “And you skipped lunch again…”
You lift the box like a peace offering.
“I made it this morning.”
His jaw clenches.
“You walked all the way here?”
You nod.
“Baek-jin, I’m fine—”
“No, you’re not.”
His hand cups the back of your head, pulling you into his chest like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
Your fingers crumple against his shirt. He smells like smoke. And copper. And home.
“You look like you’re about to collapse.”
“I wanted to see you.”
“And I wanted you safe. In bed. Not walking into this.”
Behind him, the lieutenants glance nervously between each other.
No one speaks.
No one dares.
Because this man who was breaking bones five seconds ago… is now cradling your cheek like it’s spun glass. Stroking your lower back. Holding you like you’re something holy.
“Go home,” he says gently, brushing your bangs from your forehead. “I’ll bring dinner. I promise.”
“Only if you eat this.”
He huffs, torn between frustration and awe.
“You shouldn’t have to worry about me when you’re still healing.”
“I do.”
You place the box in his hands, and he holds it like it weighs a thousand things.
i didnt know how to end this :)
