| Stay Awake - Kim Geonwoo
(•˕ •マ.ᐟ || When a routine reconnaissance job goes wrong and you're stabbed protecting him, lifelong friend and stoic protector Kim Geonwoo pushes you away with cruel words to keep you safe, only to spend every night silently watching you from three blocks back, unable to truly let go.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
Kim Geonwoo x Reader Category: Angst and Fluff Word Count: 12k
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
The air in the van tasted like iron and old coffee. Not the kind from a café, the bitter, burnt kind that had been sitting in Woojin's thermos since Tuesday. You sat in the back, your shoulder pressed against the cold metal wall, watching the city lights smear into neon streaks through the rain-soaked windows.
Geonwoo was driving.
He always drove.
You watched the back of his head. The way his dark hair curled slightly at the nape, still damp from the shower he'd taken at the gym two hours ago. The way his knuckles flexed on the steering wheel every time he checked the rearview mirror. He hadn't spoken in seventeen minutes. You'd been counting.
"You're staring," Woojin said from the passenger seat, not looking up from his phone. He was scrolling through the building schematics again, even though you'd all memorized them three days ago.
"I'm thinking," you corrected.
"You're staring at Geonwoo while thinking. Same thing."
Geonwoo didn't react. His jaw was set in that familiar line, the one that meant he was running through scenarios in his head, planning for every possible way this could go wrong. You knew that face better than your own reflection. You'd known it since you were nine years old, sitting on the curb outside his family's restaurant, watching him carefully split a single bottle of strawberry milk into two cups so you could share.
Twenty years. Twenty years of that jaw, those eyes, those hands that had taught you how to throw a punch when the boys in the neighborhood wouldn't stop pulling your hair.
"This is a simple job," you said, more to his reflection than to Woojin. "In, watch, out. We're not even engaging."
Geonwoo's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. Just for a second. Just long enough to meet yours.
"That's what worries me," he said.
Then he looked back at the road.
You should have listened.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
The building was a concrete skeleton in the industrial district, one of those half-finished construction projects that had run out of money during the pandemic and never recovered. Now it belonged to the kind of people who didn't need working elevators to conduct their business.
Kim Myeong-gil's people. Or what was left of them.
The job was reconnaissance. Pure and simple. A rival crew had been sniffing around the old Bloodhound territory, trying to pick at the bones of an empire that had mostly collapsed after Myeong-gil's death. Geonwoo's contact said they were using the fourth floor of this building as a meeting point. Your job was to confirm it, count heads, note faces, and leave without a trace.
No contact. No confrontation. No heroics.
You'd done this a hundred times.
The rain had softened to a drizzle by the time you parked three blocks away. Geonwoo killed the engine and turned to face you both for the first time.
"Woojin, you take the west stairwell. Stay on the third floor. I want eyes on the main entrance from above."
Woojin saluted lazily. "And if I see something interesting?"
"You text. You don't move."
"Boring."
"Safe," Geonwoo corrected. His gaze shifted to you. Something flickered there, something soft, barely perceptible, gone before you could name it. "You're with me. East side. We take the fourth floor together, confirm the meeting, and pull back."
"I know the plan," you said. "You debriefed us three times."
"I know."
"Then stop looking at me like I'm going to trip over my own feet."
Woojin snorted. Geonwoo's expression didn't change, but his ears went slightly pink. That was his tell. Had been since childhood. You'd called him out on it when you were twelve and he'd refused to speak to you for an entire afternoon.
"Just stay close," he said finally. "Please."
The please caught you off guard. Geonwoo didn't say please. Geonwoo gave orders and expected them to be followed. Geonwoo was the anchor, the steady one, the marine who had seen too much and felt too deeply and buried it all under layers of quiet control.
But tonight, there was something in his voice. A thread of tension you hadn't heard since the night his mother died.
You reached forward and flicked the back of his head gently.
"I always stay close, idiot. Let's go."
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
The building smelled like wet concrete and rust. Your footsteps echoed in the stairwell as you climbed, Geonwoo in front, you behind. His back was broad, blocking most of your view, but you didn't need to see. You knew his rhythm. You matched it without thinking.
Third floor. Fourth floor. The door to the main corridor was heavy steel, propped open with a chunk of broken cinderblock.
Geonwoo held up a hand. You stopped. He listened, head tilted, eyes half-closed, every sense trained on the darkness beyond the door.
Then he nodded. Clear.
You slipped through behind him, your sneakers silent on the dusty floor. The corridor stretched ahead, lined with doorless rooms and gaping holes where windows should have been. Pale moonlight filtered through the gaps, painting everything in silver and shadow.
The meeting was supposed to be in the large room at the end of the hall. Room 412. You could see the door from here, closed, but with a thin line of light bleeding from beneath it.
Geonwoo pointed to a doorway on your left. Room 408. Empty. Good vantage point. You both moved into it, pressing against the wall, and he pulled out his phone.
Geonwoo: In position. Woojin?
Woojin: Third floor clear. Bored. There's a pigeon up here. I named it Geonwoo Jr.
Geonwoo: Focus.
Woojin: Geonwoo Jr. says hi.
You bit back a smile. Geonwoo exhaled through his nose, not quite a laugh, but close. For a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased.
Then the door to Room 412 opened.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
You counted them as they came out.
Four men. One you recognized, Park Junseok, a mid-level enforcer who'd worked for Myeong-gil's money laundering operation. The other three were unfamiliar. Younger. Harder faces. The kind of men who'd grown up hungry and stayed that way.
They were talking in low voices, walking toward the stairwell you'd just come from. Geonwoo pressed a hand against your stomach, pushing you deeper into the shadows of Room 408. His palm was warm through your jacket. You held your breath.
The men passed. Their footsteps faded down the stairs.
Geonwoo's hand didn't move.
You looked up at him. His face was inches from yours, illuminated by that thin sliver of moonlight. His eyes were fixed on the corridor, but his jaw was tight again. Tighter than before.
"Geonwoo," you whispered. "They're gone."
His hand finally dropped. He stepped back, putting distance between you, and typed quickly on his phone.
Geonwoo: Four men. One identified. Meeting room empty. Moving to clear it.
Woojin: Copy. Want me to stay or move?
Geonwoo: Stay. Two minutes.
He pocketed the phone and looked at you. "Quick sweep. Photos of anything left behind. Then we're gone."
"Easy."
"Easy," he agreed.
It wasn't.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
Room 412 was a hollowed-out office space with a folding table in the center, surrounded by mismatched chairs. A single battery-powered lantern sat on the table, casting harsh shadows against the bare walls. Papers were scattered across the surface. Maps. Printouts. A few photographs.
You moved to the table while Geonwoo checked the corners of the room. Your phone was already out, camera ready. You snapped photos of everything, wide shots, close-ups, anything that might be useful later.
That's when you saw it.
A photograph, half-hidden under a map. It showed a familiar face.
Kim Geonwoo.
Not a recent photo, this was from years ago. His marine days, maybe. His hair was shorter, his face younger, but those eyes were the same. Dark. Watchful. Haunted.
Written across the bottom of the photo in red marker was a single word: 찾았다.
Found.
Your blood went cold.
"Geonwoo-"
The door behind you slammed open.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
Later, you would try to piece together exactly what happened. The order of things. Who moved first. Who said what.
It didn't matter. It happened too fast.
Two men. Not the ones who had left, these were different. They must have been waiting in one of the other rooms. Maybe they'd heard you. Maybe they'd been watching the whole time.
The first one came at Geonwoo with a pipe. Geonwoo blocked it with his forearm, you heard the crack, saw his face twist, and then he was moving, all that coiled tension releasing in a single devastating strike. His fist connected with the man's throat. The man went down gasping.
But the second one was already on you.
You saw the knife. A folding blade, the kind you could buy at any hardware store. Cheap. Sharp. Coming toward your ribs.
You twisted. Training kicked in. You caught his wrist, redirected the blade, brought your knee up into his stomach. He grunted, stumbled, but didn't drop the knife.
Behind you, Geonwoo was finishing the first man. You heard the wet sound of another punch landing.
I can handle this, you thought. I've handled worse.
The man lunged again. You sidestepped, grabbed his arm, used his momentum to slam him against the edge of the table. The lantern toppled. The room plunged into shifting shadows.
But the knife was still in his hand. And he was stronger than he looked.
He shoved back. Your grip slipped on his sweat-slick wrist. The blade arced through the darkness-
-and found your side.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
The pain wasn't immediate. That was the strange thing.
First came the pressure. A deep, wrong pressure, like someone had punched you with a fist made of ice. You looked down. The knife was buried in your left side, just below your ribs. The man's hand was still on the handle.
Then he yanked it out.
That's when the pain hit.
White. Blinding. A scream tore out of your throat before you could stop it. Your knees buckled. You went down hard, one hand pressed against your side, and the warmth that flooded between your fingers told you everything you needed to know.
Too deep. Too much blood. This is bad.
The man with the knife was saying something, cursing, maybe, or gloating, but you couldn't hear him over the roaring in your ears. He raised the blade again.
He never brought it down.
Geonwoo hit him like a freight train.
You'd seen Geonwoo fight a hundred times. Sparring in the gym. Scraps in alleys. The brutal, efficient violence of a man who had been trained to kill and had chosen not to. But you had never seen him fight like this.
This wasn't technique. This wasn't controlled.
This was rage.
He grabbed the man by the throat and drove him into the concrete wall. Once. Twice. The knife clattered to the floor. Geonwoo's fists kept moving. Punch after punch after punch, each one landing with a sound like raw meat hitting a counter. The man's face dissolved into red. Still Geonwoo didn't stop.
"Geonwoo." Your voice came out wrong. Thin. Wet. "Geonwoo, stop."
He didn't hear you.
The man went limp in his grip. Geonwoo let him drop. He stood there for a moment, chest heaving, knuckles dripping, staring down at the crumpled body like he was deciding whether to keep going.
Then he turned.
And he saw you.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
You would never forget the look on his face.
Not horror. Not fear. Something worse. Something that looked like recognition. Like he had seen this exact moment before, in a different place, with a different person bleeding out in front of him.
His mother. He was seeing his mother.
"Geonwoo." You tried to sit up. The world tilted. "I'm okay. I'm-"
He was on his knees beside you in an instant. His hands pressed down on your side, hard, and you screamed. You couldn't help it. The sound ripped out of you, raw and animal, and something in his face fractured.
"Woojin." His voice was steady. Too steady. The voice of a man holding himself together by threads. He pulled out his phone with one blood-slick hand, the other still pressed against your wound. "Fourth floor. Now. Bring the kit."
"Geonwoo-"
"Don't talk."
"I'm fine-"
"You're not fine." His eyes met yours. They were wet. Kim Geonwoo, who you had seen break bones without flinching, who had carried his mother's coffin without shedding a single tear at the funeral, was crying. "You're not fine, and you're going to stay awake, and you're going to keep looking at me. Do you understand?"
You wanted to make a joke. Something about how bossy he was. Something about how this was definitely going to scar and he'd owe you for life.
But the darkness was creeping in at the edges of your vision, and all you could manage was:
"Geonwoo."
"Stay awake."
"Geonwoo, I-"
"Don't you dare." His voice cracked. His hand, the one not holding pressure on your wound, cupped your face. His thumb brushed your cheek. It was shaking. "Don't you dare close your eyes. You don't get to do this. Not you. Not tonight."
You wanted to tell him you weren't going anywhere. You wanted to tell him that you'd been by his side for twenty years and you weren't about to stop now.
But the darkness was so heavy. And his voice was so far away.
The last thing you heard before everything went quiet was him screaming your name.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
You woke up in a hospital bed three days later.
The room was white. Too white. Too bright. Your side felt like someone had replaced your ribs with broken glass and then set the glass on fire. You blinked against the fluorescent lights and tried to remember how you'd gotten here.
Woojin was asleep in the chair next to your bed, his head tilted back at an angle that was going to destroy his neck. His hand was wrapped around yours, loose and warm.
Geonwoo wasn't there.
"Woojin." Your voice came out as a croak. You tried again. "Woojin."
He jerked awake so fast he nearly fell out of the chair. "What, you're, you're awake. You're awake. Oh thank god." He was on his feet, hovering, his hands fluttering like he wanted to hug you but was afraid of breaking you. "Do you need water? Pain meds? I should call the nurse-"
"Where's Geonwoo?"
Woojin's face did something complicated. It was there and gone in an instant, but you caught it. Guilt. Worry. And something that looked like anger.
"He's... around," Woojin said carefully. "He's been handling things. Cleanup. Making sure those guys don't come back."
"Has he been here?"
Woojin hesitated.
"Woojin."
"He was here the whole time you were under," Woojin admitted. "Three days. Didn't sleep. Didn't eat. Just sat in that chair and stared at you like you were going to disappear if he blinked." He ran a hand through his already-messy hair. "And then you woke up this morning, briefly, you probably don't remember, and he just... left. Said he had to take care of something. Hasn't come back."
Something cold settled in your chest. Something that had nothing to do with the knife wound.
"He's blaming himself," you said.
"He's always blaming himself."
"This is different."
Woojin was quiet for a long moment. Then he sat back down, took your hand again, and said, "Yeah. This is different."
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
They kept you for four more days. Observation. Antibiotics. Pain management that never quite managed enough.
Geonwoo didn't visit.
Woojin came every day. He brought food you couldn't eat and jokes you couldn't laugh at because laughing felt like being stabbed all over again. He told you about the cleanup, the men you'd encountered were low-level, no major connections, nothing to worry about. The photo with Geonwoo's face had been a coincidence, probably. Old intel from Myeong-gil's network. Nothing actionable.
You didn't believe him. But you were too tired to push.
On the fifth day, they discharged you. Woojin drove you home in Geonwoo's van, because Geonwoo had apparently been taking his motorcycle everywhere since the night you got hurt. The van still smelled like him. Like cheap coffee and the cedar soap he used and something underneath that was just Geonwoo.
You sat in the back, your hand pressed against your bandaged side, and watched the city blur past.
He didn't come to your apartment that night.
Or the next.
Or the next.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
A week after you got home, you decided to stop waiting.
Your side was healing. Slowly. The stitches pulled every time you moved too fast, and you couldn't stand up straight without a sharp reminder of exactly where the blade had gone in. But you could walk. You could function. You could fight, if you had to.
You pulled on a loose hoodie, laced up your sneakers, and went to find him.
He wasn't at the gym. Wasn't at his apartment, you had a key, you let yourself in, the place was empty and too clean, like he hadn't been sleeping there. Wasn't at any of the usual spots.
You finally found him at the boxing gym near the river. The old one. The one where he used to train when you were teenagers, before everything got complicated.
He was alone.
The gym was closed, it was past midnight, but the back door was unlocked. You pushed through and heard it before you saw it. The rhythmic thud-thud-thud of fists against a heavy bag. The harsh exhale of breath. The sound of a man trying to punch his way through something that couldn't be reached with fists.
He was shirtless. His back was to you. You could see the muscles shifting beneath his skin, the scars scattered across his shoulders and spine. Old wounds. New ones. The fresh bruises on his knuckles from where he'd beaten that man into unconsciousness.
He was hitting the bag like it had personally wronged him.
"Geonwoo."
He stopped mid-swing. His whole body went rigid.
"Go home," he said. He didn't turn around.
"I was in the hospital for a week. You didn't visit. I came home. You didn't call. Woojin's been lying to me about where you are and I'm tired of it." You took a step forward. Your side screamed in protest. You ignored it. "Turn around and look at me."
He didn't.
"Geonwoo."
"I said go home."
"And I said no."
He turned.
The sight of him stopped you cold.
He looked wrecked. Not just tired, destroyed. Dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes. His cheeks hollow, like he hadn't eaten properly in days. His lips cracked. His hair unwashed, hanging limp across his forehead.
But it was his eyes that hit you hardest. They were empty. The way they'd been after his mother died. Like someone had reached inside him and scooped out everything that made him Kim Geonwoo, leaving only the shell behind.
"You shouldn't be here," he said.
"I shouldn't be a lot of places. I'm here anyway."
"You're still healing."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine." His voice was flat. Dead. "You almost died. Because of me."
"Because some asshole with a knife got lucky. That's not your fault."
"He got lucky because I let my guard down. Because I was too slow. Because I-" He stopped. His jaw clenched. He looked away. "It doesn't matter. You're done."
Something cold slithered down your spine. "What do you mean, done?"
"You're not coming on jobs anymore. I already talked to Woojin. We'll handle things without you."
You stared at him. Waiting for the punchline. The moment where he'd crack a smile, that rare, precious smile, and tell you he was joking.
It didn't come.
"Geonwoo, it was one hit. I'll heal. I've had worse-"
"That's the problem." His voice cut through yours like a blade. "You've always been too slow. Too weak. I've been covering for you for years. I'm tired of it."
The words hit you like a physical blow. You actually took a step back, your hand pressing against your wounded side as if to protect it from this new, different kind of pain.
"That's not true." Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. "We've been doing this together since we were kids. You taught me-"
"I taught you because I felt sorry for you."
The gym went very, very quiet.
"You were this pathetic kid with no one," he continued, each word deliberate and cold. "Following me around like a stray dog. Sitting outside my family's restaurant every day, waiting for scraps. I didn't have the heart to tell you to leave then. I'm telling you now."
You couldn't breathe. Your lungs had forgotten how.
"Geonwoo." His name cracked in your mouth. "You don't mean that."
He looked you dead in the eye.
"I mean every word."
Nothing. There was nothing in his gaze. No warmth. No recognition. No trace of the boy who had split his strawberry milk with you, who had taught you how to make a fist, who had let you sit beside him in silence on the worst night of his life.
"You're a liability," he said. "You almost died because you were too stupid to watch your own back. I can't afford to babysit you anymore. Grow up. Find something else to do with your life." A pause. Then, quieter: "Stay out of mine."
He turned back to the heavy bag.
You stood there for what felt like hours. Waiting for him to take it back. Waiting for the mask to crack. Waiting for something.
He started hitting the bag again. Slow. Methodical. Like you weren't even there.
You left.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
You made it three blocks before your legs gave out.
You sat down on the curb outside a closed convenience store, your hand pressed against your side, and you waited for the tears to come.
They didn't.
You were too empty for tears. He had scooped out everything inside you and left nothing behind. Twenty years. Twenty years of friendship, of partnership, of something that had always felt like it might become more if either of you were brave enough to name it.
And he had thrown it away like it meant nothing.
Like you meant nothing.
You sat on that curb for a long time. Long enough for the streetlights to flicker. Long enough for the distant sound of the river to become familiar.
Then you stood up. You went home. And you didn't look back.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
Three Weeks Later
You didn't see him again.
You didn't go to the gym. You didn't answer Woojin's calls, not after the first few, when he'd tried to explain, tried to make excuses, tried to tell you that Geonwoo didn't mean it, that he was just scared, that he'd come around.
You blocked his number.
You found a job. A boring one. Safe. A coffee shop near your apartment that needed someone to work the morning shift. The pay was terrible and the customers were worse, but it was something. It was a reason to get out of bed.
You were walking home one night, late, after closing, the streets quiet and damp with recent rain, when you felt it.
That prickle at the back of your neck. The sense of being watched.
You didn't turn around. You kept walking, your pace steady, your hand drifting toward the pocket knife you still carried out of habit. At the corner, you paused under a streetlight and pretended to check your phone.
In the reflection of the screen, you saw him.
A figure. Three blocks back. Tall. Broad shoulders. Standing perfectly still in the shadows of a closed pharmacy.
Kim Geonwoo.
You didn't turn around. You didn't call out. You just stood there, staring at his reflection, waiting for him to move.
He didn't.
After a full minute, you pocketed your phone and kept walking.
The next night, he was there again.
And the next.
And the next.
He never approached. Never spoke. Just watched you walk home from a distance, a silent guardian who had told you to stay out of his life but couldn't seem to stay out of yours.
You didn't know what to do with that. So you did nothing.
You walked home. You locked your door. And you tried very hard not to think about the boy on the curb, the strawberry milk, or the way his voice had sounded when he screamed your name in the dark.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
Four weeks.
Four weeks since Geonwoo had looked you in the eye and told you that twenty years of friendship had been charity. Four weeks since you'd walked out of that gym with his words lodged in your chest like shrapnel.
You were healing. Physically, at least. The wound in your side had closed, leaving behind a raised pink scar that pulled tight when you stretched too far. You'd trace it sometimes at night, lying in bed, unable to sleep. A reminder. Of the knife. Of the blood. Of the way his voice had sounded when he told you to stay out of his life.
The coffee shop job was mind-numbing. You'd gone from running recon in abandoned buildings to remembering that the woman in the green coat wanted oat milk, not almond, and no foam, and for the love of god make sure it's extra hot. It should have been peaceful. Safe. Exactly what he wanted for you.
You hated every second of it.
But you kept showing up. Because the alternative was sitting in your apartment, staring at the wall, replaying that conversation over and over until you drove yourself insane.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
The first time you noticed him was a Tuesday.
You were walking home after closing. The streets were slick with rain, reflecting the neon signs of the late-night pojangmacha stalls that lined the main road. Your shoes made soft sounds against the wet pavement. Your side ached, it always ached when it rained now, and you were focused on putting one foot in front of the other.
Then you felt it.
That prickle. That awareness. The distinct sensation of eyes on the back of your neck.
You'd been in enough fights to trust your instincts. You didn't turn around. You didn't change your pace. You just kept walking, your hand drifting casually toward the pocket of your jacket where your keys were, heavy enough to do damage if you gripped them right.
At the intersection, you paused under a streetlight. Pretended to check your phone. Tilted the screen just enough to catch the reflection behind you.
A figure. Three blocks back. Tall. Broad shoulders. Standing in the shadow of a closed bookstore.
You knew that silhouette. You'd known it your entire life.
Kim Geonwoo.
Your heart did something complicated. A lurch. A twist. A surge of anger so hot it burned going down.
What the hell are you doing?
You wanted to turn around. You wanted to march back there and demand answers. You wanted to grab him by the collar of whatever dark jacket he was wearing and shake him until his teeth rattled and ask him why, why, he was standing in the rain watching you like some kind of ghost when he'd made it very clear he wanted nothing to do with you.
But you didn't.
Because you remembered his eyes in the gym. Empty. Cold. Like you were a stranger. Like twenty years meant nothing.
So you pocketed your phone and kept walking.
You didn't look back again.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
He was there the next night.
And the next.
And the next.
Always the same distance. Three blocks. Never closer. Never further. A silent sentinel in the dark, watching you walk from the coffee shop to your apartment, disappearing the moment you stepped through your building's front door.
You started to notice details against your will.
He'd lost weight. His clothes hung looser than they should. His posture was wrong, still straight, still soldier-straight, but there was a heaviness to it now. Like he was carrying something that was slowly crushing him.
His knuckles were always wrapped. Always fresh. Like he'd been at the heavy bag before coming to stand in the rain.
One night, you saw him bring a hand up to his face and press the heel of his palm against his eyes. Hard. Like he was trying to push something back in.
You kept walking.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
Week Five
Woojin found you.
You were closing the coffee shop, wiping down the espresso machine for the fifth time because you weren't ready to go home yet. The rain had stopped, but the air was still heavy with the promise of more. You heard the bell above the door chime and didn't look up.
"We're closed."
"Good. I'm not here for coffee."
Your hand stilled on the machine. You knew that voice. You'd known it almost as long as you'd known Geonwoo's.
Kim Woojin stood in the doorway, dripping rainwater onto the welcome mat. His hair was plastered to his forehead. His jacket was soaked through. He looked like he'd been standing outside for a while, working up the courage to come in.
"Go away, Woojin."
"No."
"I'm serious."
"So am I." He walked toward the counter, his sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. "You blocked my number. You haven't been to the gym. You're working at a coffee shop, of all places. What are you doing?"
"Living my life. Safely. Like I was told to."
His jaw tightened. "That's not fair."
"Fair?" You set down the rag and finally looked at him. Really looked. "You want to talk about fair? I took a knife for him, Woojin. I bled out on a concrete floor while he screamed my name. And then he told me I was a liability. That he only ever tolerated me because he felt sorry for me. That I should stay out of his life." Your voice cracked on the last word. You hated that it cracked. "So don't stand there and tell me about fair."
Woojin was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out something wrapped in a plastic bag. He set it on the counter between you.
"Open it."
"I don't want-"
"Just open it. Please."
You stared at him. Then at the bag. Then back at him. With a sigh that came from somewhere deep and exhausted, you pulled the plastic apart.
It was a photograph.
The three of you. Teenagers. You couldn't have been more than fifteen. Geonwoo was in the middle, taller than both of you, already broad-shouldered, already carrying that quiet weight in his eyes. You were on his left, grinning at the camera, your hair a mess, your cheek pressed against his shoulder. Woojin was on his right, throwing up a peace sign, mid-laugh.
Geonwoo's mother had taken this photo. You remembered the day. She'd made tteokbokki and insisted on documenting the moment because, in her words, "You three are going to be trouble together. I can tell."
She'd been right.
"He keeps this on his nightstand," Woojin said quietly. "Has for years. It was facedown when I went to his apartment last week. First time I've ever seen it like that."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because he's destroying himself." Woojin's voice was raw. Stripped of its usual humor. "He doesn't sleep. He barely eats. He spends hours at the gym hitting that bag until his knuckles bleed, and then he wraps them up and goes to stand outside your coffee shop like some kind of, of guard dog who forgot what he's supposed to be guarding."
"He told me to stay out of his life."
"He lied."
"I know he lied." Your voice rose. "I know he lied, Woojin. That's the worst part. He looked me in the eye and said things he knew would break me. On purpose. Because he decided, without asking me, without talking to me, without giving me a single say in the matter, that pushing me away was better than letting me make my own choices."
Woojin was silent.
"He doesn't get to do that." You were shaking now. Anger and grief and something else, something that had been building for five weeks, pressing against your ribs like a second wound. "He doesn't get to decide what I can and can't handle. He doesn't get to throw away twenty years because he's scared. And he sure as hell doesn't get to follow me home every night like some tragic hero in a drama while pretending I don't exist."
"You're right." Woojin's voice was soft. "You're absolutely right."
"Then why are you here?"
He met your eyes. And for the first time, you saw how tired he looked. How worried. The dark circles under his eyes matched the ones you'd seen on Geonwoo's face in the reflection of your phone screen.
"Because if you don't do something, I'm going to lose him." His voice broke on the last word. "Not to a fight. Not to a knife. To himself. He's been drowning since the night you got hurt, and he won't let me pull him out. He won't let anyone pull him out." He swallowed hard. "Except maybe you."
The coffee shop was very quiet.
"He's at the old spot," Woojin said finally. "Behind his mom's restaurant. He's been there for hours. I don't know if he's drunk or just... sitting. But I've never seen him like this. Not even when she died."
Behind his mother's restaurant. The curb where you'd sat with him in silence, sharing strawberry milk, waiting for him to be ready to talk. The place where he'd finally cried into your shoulder, three hours after the funeral, when he thought everyone else had stopped watching.
"I can't fix this for you," Woojin said. "But someone has to try. And I'm out of ideas."
He turned and walked toward the door. Paused with his hand on the frame.
"He meant what he said in the gym," he said without looking back. "Just not the way you think. He meant that he can't survive losing you. And he thought making you hate him was better than watching you die."
The bell chimed. He was gone.
You stood behind the counter for a long time, staring at the photograph. At Geonwoo's face. Young. Unburdened. Before the marines. Before his mother. Before everything.
Then you grabbed your jacket and went to find him.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
The Old Spot
The restaurant had been closed for years.
After his mother died, Geonwoo couldn't bring himself to sell it. Couldn't bring himself to reopen it either. So it sat there, gathering dust, the sign faded and the windows dark, a monument to everything he'd lost.
You rounded the corner and saw him immediately.
He was sitting on the curb. Same spot. Same posture. Knees drawn up, forearms resting on them, head bowed. His back was to the street. To the world. He looked smaller than you'd ever seen him. Diminished. Like someone had let the air out of him and he'd never bothered to fill back up.
Your footsteps echoed in the empty street. He didn't move.
You stopped a few feet behind him.
"Woojin sent you."
His voice was rough. Raw. Like he'd been screaming or crying or both.
"Yeah."
"Go home."
"No."
Silence. A car passed on the main road, its headlights sweeping across the alley, illuminating him for just a moment. His knuckles were bloody. Fresh. Unwrapped. He'd been at the bag again.
You walked forward and sat down next to him on the curb.
Not close enough to touch. Just close enough to be present. The way you had when you were nine. When you were fifteen. When you were twenty-three and his mother was in the ground and he had no one else.
He didn't look at you. But you felt him tense. Every muscle in his body coiled tight, like he was bracing for a blow.
Five minutes passed. Ten.
The rain started again. Soft at first, then steadier. Cold droplets soaking through your jacket, plastering your hair to your forehead. You didn't move. Neither did he.
"There was so much blood."
His voice was barely audible. A whisper dragged over gravel.
"You were on the ground and I saw her. I saw my mother. I saw you dead in that alley and I couldn't breathe." His hands were shaking. You watched them tremble against his knees. "I carried you to the van. You were so light. Too light. Like you were already-" He stopped. Swallowed. "I kept thinking, 'This is it. This is what I deserve. Everyone I love dies.'"
"Geonwoo-"
"I sat in that hospital room for three days." He kept going, the words spilling out like he'd been holding them back for weeks and the dam had finally broken. "I watched the machines beep. I watched your chest rise and fall. And every time you twitched in your sleep, I thought you were crashing. I thought you were leaving. And it would be my fault. Like her. Like always."
He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. Hard. His shoulders shook once.
"When you woke up, I couldn't-" His voice cracked. "I looked at you and I saw her. I saw the funeral. I saw the coffin. I saw everything I'd have to do if you, if you didn't-"
He couldn't finish.
"So I decided to make you hate me."
The words hung in the rain-soaked air.
"I thought if I made you hate me, you'd stay away. You'd be safe. You'd live." A laugh, broken, bitter, nothing like the rare smiles you remembered. "I thought I could survive you hating me. I thought anything was better than watching you die because of me."
You sat there, rain dripping down your face, and let his words settle.
Then you spoke.
"I've been living without you for five weeks, Geonwoo."
He flinched like you'd struck him.
"I wouldn't call it living."
Silence.
"I got up every morning. I went to work. I made coffee for strangers. I smiled when I was supposed to smile. I went home. I slept. Or tried to." You stared straight ahead at the darkened restaurant. "And none of it mattered. None of it felt real. Because you weren't there."
"Don't." His voice was raw. "Don't make this sound like-"
"Like what? Like you're the most important person in my life? Like I've spent twenty years by your side and I wasn't planning on stopping?" You finally turned to look at him. "You don't get to decide that for me. You don't get to push me away because you're scared. That's not how this works."
"I was trying to protect you."
"You were trying to protect yourself."
He went still.
"You thought if you pushed me away first, you wouldn't have to watch me leave." Your voice was softer now. The anger draining out, leaving only the truth behind. "But I wasn't going to leave, Geonwoo. I was never going to leave. You're the one who left."
He turned to look at you.
And god, he was a mess. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. His cheeks were wet, from rain or tears, you couldn't tell. His jaw was trembling, that strong jaw you'd watched set itself against the world for two decades, finally cracking.
"I don't know how to do this," he whispered. "I don't know how to keep you safe without losing you. Tell me how. Tell me and I'll do it. Anything. I'll do anything."
You reached out and took his hand.
His fingers were cold. Bloody. Shaking. You laced them with yours and held on.
"You stop pushing me away," you said. "You let me fight next to you. And if I go down, I go down knowing I was where I belonged. Not hiding in some apartment. Not making coffee for strangers. With you."
"I can't lose you."
"Then don't push me away."
"I'm scared." His voice broke on the word. "I'm so scared. All the time. Every time you walk into a room. Every time you spar. Every time you smile at me like I'm worth something. I'm terrified."
You squeezed his hand.
"Then be scared. But be scared with me. Not without me."
He stared at you for a long moment. Rain dripped from his hair, traced the lines of his face, clung to his lashes. He looked like a man who had been drowning for weeks and had just realized someone was holding out a hand.
He didn't take the hand.
He pulled you into his chest instead.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't smooth. It was desperate, his arms wrapping around you like you might disappear if he didn't hold tight enough, his face pressing into your rain-soaked hair, his whole body shaking with the force of everything he'd been holding back.
You felt his shoulders heave. Once. Twice. A sound escaped him, raw and broken, muffled against your scalp.
Kim Geonwoo was crying.
You wrapped your arms around him and held on.
"I'm sorry." His voice was wrecked. Barely recognizable. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean any of it. You were never weak. You were the strongest person I knew. You still are. I was just, I was so scared. I'm still scared."
"I know."
"I thought if I said it enough, I'd believe it. That you were better off without me. That I was doing the right thing."
"You were wrong."
"I know." A shaky exhale. "I know."
You stayed like that for a long time. Kneeling on the wet curb, wrapped around each other, the rain falling around you like a curtain. His heart was pounding against your ear. Fast. Too fast. Like he was still bracing for you to pull away.
You didn't pull away.
Eventually, his grip loosened. Not completely, he kept one arm around you, like he couldn't quite bring himself to let go, but enough that he could pull back and look at you.
His eyes were red. His face was a mess. He'd never looked more beautiful.
"I meant what I said in the van," he said quietly. "That night. When you were bleeding out."
"You said a lot of things."
"I said stay awake." His hand came up, trembling, and cupped your face. His thumb brushed your cheekbone. Gentle. So gentle. "I said don't close your eyes. I said you don't get to do this. Not you. Not tonight."
"I remember."
"There was more." He swallowed. "I said it while you were unconscious. While Woojin was driving. I didn't think you could hear me."
Your breath caught.
"I said-" His voice cracked. He pushed through it. "I said I loved you. I said I'd loved you since we were fifteen years old and you fell asleep on my shoulder during that terrible movie Woojin made us watch. I said I was sorry I never told you. I said if you woke up, I'd tell you every day for the rest of my life."
The rain fell. The city hummed in the distance. And Kim Geonwoo looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.
"I'm telling you now," he whispered. "I love you. I've always loved you. And I'm sorry it took almost losing you to say it."
You kissed him.
It wasn't graceful. Your noses bumped. His lips were cold from the rain. You could taste salt, his tears or yours, you weren't sure anymore. But his hand tightened on your face, and his other arm pulled you closer, and he kissed you back like he'd been waiting his whole life to do it.
When you finally broke apart, he pressed his forehead against yours. His breath was warm against your lips. His eyes were still wet.
"Stay," he said. Not a command. A plea. "Please. Stay."
"I was never going anywhere," you said. "You just had to let me come back."
He laughed. Wet and broken and real. The first real laugh you'd heard from him in over a month.
"You're still an idiot," you added.
"Yeah." He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I know."
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
Morning
You woke up in his apartment.
His couch, specifically. You were wrapped in a blanket that smelled like cedar soap and him. Weak morning light filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across the ceiling.
Geonwoo was sitting on the floor next to the couch, his back against the cushions, his head tilted back. Asleep. Finally. His hand was wrapped loosely around yours, like he'd fallen asleep holding on and couldn't bear to let go even in unconsciousness.
You watched him breathe for a moment. The steady rise and fall of his chest. The way the tension had finally eased from his jaw. He looked younger like this. Softer. Closer to the boy you'd fallen in love with fifteen years ago.
You reached down with your free hand and flicked his ear.
He startled awake so fast he nearly hit his head on the coffee table.
"What, I'm up-"
"You're drooling."
He blinked at you, disoriented. Then his gaze focused. On you. On your joined hands. On the fact that you were here, in his apartment, wrapped in his blanket, alive.
Something shifted in his expression. Softened. Warmed.
"Hey," he said. His voice was rough with sleep.
"Hey."
He lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. His lips were warm. Gentle. His eyes didn't leave yours.
"I meant what I said last night," he said quietly. "Every word. I'm going to tell you every day. Until you're sick of hearing it."
"I don't think I'll ever get sick of it."
"Good." Another kiss to your knuckles. "Because I have twenty years of it saved up."
You smiled. A real smile. The first one in weeks.
"Then start talking."
He did.
And on the nightstand, the photograph of the three of you, young, laughing, alive, was facing up again.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
The gym was empty except for the three of you.
It was late, past midnight, the kind of hour when the city outside grew quiet and the only sounds were the rhythmic thud of fists against leather and the occasional creak of old plumbing. You were sitting on the edge of the ring, legs dangling, watching Geonwoo work the heavy bag with that focused intensity he brought to everything.
Your side was still healing. The scar had faded from angry red to soft pink, and the doctor had cleared you for light activity. Geonwoo had interpreted "light activity" as "absolutely no sparring, no bag work, no anything that might make you bleed again." You'd argued. He'd given you that look, the one where his jaw set and his eyes went soft at the same time, like he was trying to be stern but couldn't quite manage it because he kept looking at you like you hung the moon.
You'd lost the argument.
So you sat on the ring and watched him. Which wasn't exactly a hardship.
He was shirtless. Sweat gleamed on his shoulders and back, tracing the lines of muscle and scar tissue. His movements were precise, economical, every punch landing exactly where he intended. You'd watched him train a thousand times over the years, but something was different now. Maybe it was the way he'd glance at you between combinations, checking to make sure you were still there. Maybe it was the way his ears went pink when he caught you staring.
Maybe it was the fact that you were allowed to stare now.
"Okay, I'm going to be sick."
Woojin's voice cut through your thoughts. He was sprawled on a bench near the mirrors, a towel draped over his face, pretending to be exhausted from the minimal amount of bag work he'd actually done.
"You've been watching him like that for twenty minutes," he continued, voice muffled by the towel. "Twenty. Minutes. I've been timing it. You haven't blinked once."
"I blinked."
"You didn't. I was watching you not blink while you watched him not blink while he watched you. It's a closed loop of non-blinking. It's unnatural."
Geonwoo's rhythm on the bag didn't falter, but his ears went from pink to red.
"Woojin," he said, not turning around. "Shut up."
"I'm just saying." Woojin sat up, letting the towel fall. His hair was a disaster, sticking up in twelve different directions. "This is worse than before. At least when you two were silently pining, it was tragic and interesting. Now it's just... domestic. You keep handing her water bottles. You fixed her hand wraps three times even though she told you they were fine. Yesterday you made her soup."
"I like soup," you said.
"He made you soup at 2 AM because you mentioned you were hungry. He went to the store. At 2 AM. For soup ingredients."
Geonwoo stopped hitting the bag. His shoulders tensed.
"It was cold," he said quietly. "She needed something warm."
Woojin stared at him. Then at you. Then back at him.
"Oh my god," he said. "You're that couple. You're going to be the couple that shares a single blanket and feeds each other at restaurants and calls each other pet names in public."
"We don't have pet names," you said.
"Yet," Woojin countered. "Give it a week. He's going to call you something disgusting like 'jagi' and you're going to melt into a puddle and I'm going to have to find new friends who don't make me want to vomit from secondhand sweetness."
Geonwoo walked over to the ring and grabbed his water bottle. He took a long drink, his throat working, and you watched a drop of sweat trace down his neck and disappear beneath his collarbone.
Woojin made a gagging sound.
"You're doing it again," he said. "The staring thing. Right now. In front of me. Like I'm not even here."
"You're always here," Geonwoo said flatly.
"That's my point! I'm always here! Which means I have to witness-" He gestured wildly between the two of you. "This. Whatever this is. The longing gazes. The casual touches. The way you stood behind her yesterday while she was making coffee and just... hovered. Like a very large, very anxious bodyguard who also wants to kiss her forehead."
Geonwoo's jaw tightened. "I don't hover."
"You hover."
"I stand nearby."
"You hover like a helicopter. A handsome, emotionally repressed helicopter."
You laughed. The sound bubbled up before you could stop it, bright and genuine, and Geonwoo's gaze snapped to you. His expression shifted, the tension in his jaw easing, his eyes warming, his lips twitching like he was fighting a smile.
"There," Woojin said, pointing. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. You laughed and he looked at you like you just invented laughter. It's been a week and I'm already exhausted."
"You could leave," Geonwoo suggested.
"And miss this? Absolutely not. Someone has to document this for posterity. For science. For future generations who will want to study the exact moment Kim Geonwoo became a lovesick puppy."
Geonwoo threw his towel at Woojin's face.
Woojin caught it, grinning.
"See? Defensive. Classic symptom." He stood up and stretched, his joints popping audibly. "Anyway, I'm leaving. Not because you told me to, but because I have a date. A real date. With a real person who isn't my childhood best friend."
"You have a date?" you asked.
"Don't sound so surprised. I'm delightful. Charming. Incredibly handsome." He struck a pose in the mirror. "The total package. Unlike this one, who needed twenty years and a near-death experience to confess his feelings."
Geonwoo's hand twitched. You reached out and caught it before he could throw something else.
"Go," you said to Woojin. "Have fun. Be safe."
"Always." He headed for the door, then paused. Looked back. His expression was softer now, the humor giving way to something genuine. "Hey. I'm glad you two figured it out. Really. Took you long enough, but... yeah. I'm glad."
Then he pointed at Geonwoo.
"Hurt her again and I'll break your other hand."
Geonwoo nodded once. Serious. "I know."
"Good." Woojin's grin returned. "Also, use protection. The walls in this gym are thin and I don't need to hear-"
The water bottle Geonwoo threw hit him square in the back of the head as he fled through the door, laughing.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
The gym fell quiet.
Just the hum of the fluorescent lights. The distant sound of traffic. The soft rhythm of Geonwoo's breathing as he stood beside you, his hand still caught in yours.
"He's not wrong," you said.
"About which part?"
"All of it. The hovering. The staring. The soup at 2 AM." You tugged his hand gently, pulling him closer. He came willingly, stepping between your knees where you sat on the edge of the ring. "You're very obvious, Kim Geonwoo."
He looked up at you. His hair was damp, pushed back from his forehead. His cheeks were still flushed from the workout. His eyes, those dark, watchful eyes you'd known your whole life, were fixed on your face like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing.
"I don't know how to be subtle," he admitted. "I never learned. With you, I just..."
"Just what?"
"Want to be close." His free hand came up, fingers brushing your knee. Light. Tentative. Like he was still afraid you'd disappear. "All the time. It's annoying. Even to me."
"It's not annoying."
"It is. I know it is. I keep-" He exhaled, frustrated with himself. "I keep checking. Where you are. If you're okay. If you need anything. I wake up in the middle of the night and I have to look at you to make sure you're still breathing. Woojin's right. I hover."
You reached out and cupped his face. His stubble was rough against your palm. His eyes fluttered half-closed at the contact, leaning into your touch like a cat seeking warmth.
"You spent five weeks thinking I was going to die," you said softly. "You spent years thinking everyone you love leaves. It makes sense that you need to check. I don't mind."
"I should be better."
"You're perfect."
His eyes opened fully. Something raw flickered there. "I'm not."
"You are to me."
The words hung between you. His hand tightened on your knee. His other hand came up to cover yours where it rested against his cheek.
"I love you," he said. Quiet. Certain. Like it was the most obvious fact in the universe. "I don't say it enough. I'm trying to say it more."
"You said it this morning."
"I want to say it more."
"Geonwoo-"
"I love you." He turned his head, pressing a kiss to your palm. "I love you." Another kiss to your wrist. "I love you." Your forearm. "I love you."
You were laughing now, breathless, your heart doing something dangerous in your chest. "You're going to wear out the words."
"Never." He looked up at you through his lashes. His lips were curved in that rare, precious smile. The one that transformed his whole face. The one that made him look young and unburdened and impossibly beautiful. "I have twenty years to make up for. Let me."
You pulled him up.
He came easily, rising between your knees, his hands finding your waist. You were still sitting on the edge of the ring, which put him at the perfect height. Your arms wrapped around his neck. His forehead pressed against yours.
"Hi," you whispered.
"Hi."
"You're very close."
"I know." His nose brushed yours. "Is that okay?"
"More than okay."
"Good." His voice had dropped. Lower. Rougher. "Because I've been thinking about this all day."
"About what?"
His answer was a kiss.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
It started soft. Gentle. The way all your kisses had started this week, careful, tentative, like he was still learning the shape of you and afraid of getting it wrong.
But something was different tonight.
Maybe it was the empty gym. Maybe it was the adrenaline still humming from his workout. Maybe it was the way Woojin's teasing had cracked something open, made him bold.
His hands slid from your waist to your hips, gripping tight. He pulled you forward until you were perched on the very edge of the ring, your legs wrapping around his hips instinctively. The new position pressed you flush against him, his chest to yours, his warmth seeping through your thin tank top.
"Geonwoo-"
"I know." His lips moved against yours as he spoke. "Tell me to stop."
"I don't want you to stop."
He made a sound. Low. Rough. It vibrated through his chest and into yours.
His mouth found your jaw. Your throat. The sensitive spot just below your ear that made you gasp and grip his shoulders. He lingered there, learning it, mapping the sound you made when his teeth grazed your skin.
"You have no idea," he murmured against your neck. "No idea what you do to me."
"Show me."
His hands tightened on your hips. Hard enough to bruise. You didn't care. You wanted the marks. You wanted proof that this was real, that he was here, that after twenty years of dancing around each other you'd finally crashed together.
He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark. Hungry. His lips were red and slightly swollen.
"Here?" His voice was rough. "Now?"
"The door's locked."
"Woojin has a key."
"Woojin is on a date."
"He could come back."
"He won't." You traced your fingers down his chest. Felt the muscles jump beneath your touch. "And even if he did, he'd survive. He's survived worse."
Geonwoo stared at you for a long moment. Then something in his expression shifted. The last thread of restraint snapping.
"Okay," he said. "Okay."
He kissed you again. Harder this time. Deeper. His tongue swept into your mouth and you met him there, matching his intensity, your fingers threading through his damp hair and pulling. He groaned into the kiss, the sound swallowed between you, and walked forward until your back hit the ropes of the ring.
The ropes gave slightly, cradling you. Geonwoo followed, one hand bracing against the top rope beside your head, the other still gripping your hip. He was everywhere. Surrounding you. His scent, sweat and cedar and something uniquely him, filled your lungs.
"You're shaking," he murmured against your lips.
"So are you."
He was. His whole body trembled with the effort of holding back. You could feel it in his hands, his chest, the way his breath came in uneven bursts.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said. "Your side-"
"Is healed."
"Not completely."
"Enough." You pulled back to meet his eyes. "Geonwoo. I've been waiting twenty years for you to touch me like this. Don't make me wait longer because you're afraid of a scar."
Something cracked in his expression. The worry giving way to want.
He kissed you again. And this time, he didn't hold back.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
The kiss deepened into something urgent. Desperate. His hands roamed your body, your waist, your ribs, the curve of your back, touching everywhere he could reach like he was trying to memorize you through fabric. Your own hands weren't idle. You traced the lines of his shoulders, his chest, the ridges of old scars that told the story of every fight he'd survived.
He pulled back just long enough to yank his shirt off completely. You'd seen him shirtless a hundred times. In the gym. At the beach. In the aftermath of fights when you'd helped patch him up.
This was different.
This was for you.
"Beautiful," you breathed. "You're so beautiful."
His ears went red. "I'm not-"
"You are." You pulled him back down, pressing your lips to his collarbone. His shoulder. The scar on his chest from a knife fight three years ago. "Every part of you. I've always thought so."
"You never said."
"Neither did you."
He laughed. Breathless. Wrecked. "We're idiots."
"The biggest idiots."
He kissed you again, smiling into it, and the joy of it, the sheer giddy joy of finally having this, having him, bubbled up in your chest until you were laughing too, the kiss dissolving into shared breath and foreheads pressed together and hands tangled in hair.
"I love you," he said again. "I love you so much it scares me."
"I know." You kissed the corner of his mouth. "I love you too. I've always loved you. Since we were fifteen and you fell asleep on my shoulder during that terrible movie."
"That was Woojin's shoulder."
"What?"
"Woojin's shoulder. You fell asleep on his shoulder. I was on your other side. I was so jealous I couldn't focus on the movie at all."
You stared at him. "Are you serious?"
"Completely." His thumb traced your bottom lip. "I wanted to switch places with him so badly. But I was too scared to move. Too scared to wake you. So I just sat there and watched you sleep and thought, 'This is it. This is the person I'm going to love forever.'"
Your heart cracked open. Just a little. Just enough to let him in deeper.
"Kim Geonwoo."
"Hm?"
"You're the most ridiculous person I've ever met."
"I know."
You kissed him. Soft. Tender. Pouring fifteen years of unspoken feelings into the press of your lips against his.
When you finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours. His eyes were closed. His breathing was uneven.
"We should go home," he said.
"Probably."
"Before Woojin actually does come back."
"Good idea."
Neither of you moved.
"Geonwoo."
"Hm?"
"You're still holding me."
"I know." His arms tightened around you. "I don't want to let go."
"Then don't."
He smiled. That rare, precious smile.
"Okay," he said. "I won't."
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
The Walk Home
You ended up walking.
The night air was cool against your flushed skin. Geonwoo's hand was wrapped around yours, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your knuckles. Your shoulders brushed with every step. Neither of you spoke. You didn't need to.
Halfway home, he stopped.
"What?"
He was looking at a convenience store. The same one you'd passed a thousand times. The fluorescent lights glowed through the windows, illuminating rows of snacks and drinks.
"Wait here," he said.
He disappeared inside. You stood on the sidewalk, confused, watching through the window as he browsed the refrigerated section. A minute later, he emerged holding two items.
Strawberry milk. Two bottles.
You stared at them. Then at him.
"Geonwoo-"
"You always liked the strawberry one best." He held one out to you. "When we were kids. You'd always pick strawberry even though I liked banana. And I'd always buy strawberry anyway because I wanted you to be happy."
Your throat tightened. "I remember."
"I know it's stupid. It's just milk. But I saw it in there and I thought-" He looked at the bottle in his hand. "I wanted to give you something. Something that meant something. To us."
You took the bottle. Your fingers brushed his.
"It's not stupid," you said. "It's perfect."
He smiled. Small. Shy. The smile of the boy on the curb, sharing his drink because he didn't know how to say I care about you but he could show it.
You twisted off the cap and took a sip. It was cold. Sweet. Exactly the same as you remembered.
"Good?" he asked.
"Perfect," you said again.
He opened his own bottle and drank. You stood there on the sidewalk, two adults drinking strawberry milk at midnight, and it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for you.
"I'm going to marry you someday."
The words left your mouth before you could stop them.
Geonwoo choked on his milk.
"What?"
You felt your face heat. "I didn't, that was, ignore that. I don't know why I said that."
He set his bottle down on a nearby bench. Then he took yours and set it down too. Then he cupped your face in both hands and looked at you with an intensity that stole your breath.
"Say it again."
"Geonwoo-"
"Please." His voice was rough. "Say it again."
You swallowed. "I'm going to marry you someday."
His eyes went bright. Wet. He blinked rapidly, but a tear escaped anyway, tracing down his cheek.
"Okay," he said. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." He kissed you. Soft. Sweet. Tasting like strawberry milk and salt. "I'm going to marry you too. Someday. Whenever you want. Tomorrow. Next week. Ten years from now. I don't care. As long as it's you."
You laughed. Or maybe you cried. It was hard to tell anymore.
"You're crying," he said.
"So are you."
"Yeah." He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. "I'm happy. I didn't know I could be this happy."
You kissed him again. Right there on the sidewalk. Under the convenience store lights. With strawberry milk waiting on the bench.
When you finally broke apart, he picked up the bottles and handed yours back.
"Come on," he said, taking your hand. "Let's go home."
Home.
His apartment. Your apartment. It didn't matter. Anywhere with him was home.
"Okay," you said. "Let's go home."
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
Three Months Later
"Okay, I'm actually going to be sick this time."
Woojin stood in the doorway of Geonwoo's apartment, holding a bag of takeout, staring at the scene before him.
You were on the couch, wrapped in Geonwoo's hoodie, the gray one that was too big on you and smelled like him. Geonwoo was next to you, his arm around your shoulders, your legs draped over his lap. A drama was playing on the TV, but neither of you were watching it. You were too busy looking at each other.
"What did I say?" Woojin continued, walking in and setting the food on the counter. "What did I specifically say? I said you'd become that couple. And here you are. Being that couple. In his hoodie. Sharing a blanket. Probably whispering sweet nothings."
"We weren't whispering," you said.
"You were thinking about whispering. I could see it in your eyes."
Geonwoo didn't even look at him. His gaze was fixed on you, soft and warm, his thumb tracing absent patterns on your shoulder.
"Geonwoo," Woojin said. "Geonwoo. Hey. Earth to lovesick puppy."
"Hm?"
"I brought food. Jjajangmyeon. Your favorite."
"Thanks."
"That's it? Thanks? You're not even going to look at me?"
Geonwoo turned his head slowly. Looked at Woojin for approximately one second. Then turned back to you.
"Unbelievable." Woojin threw his hands up. "Three months. Three months of this. I've created a monster. I pushed you two together and now I have to suffer the consequences."
"You love us," you said.
"I do. Unfortunately. Against my better judgment." He started unpacking the food, pulling out containers and chopsticks. "But I'm establishing new rules. Rule one: no kissing when I'm in the room. Rule two: no longing gazes that last longer than five seconds. Rule three: if you're going to be disgusting, at least feed me while you do it."
Geonwoo stood up. Walked over to Woojin. Took the containers from his hands.
"Thank you for the food," he said. "You can leave now."
"I just got here!"
"We're busy."
"Busy doing what? Staring at each other? You can do that while I eat."
Geonwoo looked at you. A question in his eyes.
You shrugged. "He can stay. He did bring food."
"See?" Woojin grinned. "She likes me better."
"She's known me twenty years. She's known you twenty years. It's equal."
"But I'm more charming."
"You're more annoying."
"That's the same thing."
Geonwoo sighed. It was a long-suffering sound, the sigh of a man who had been dealing with Kim Woojin for two decades and would probably deal with him for two more. But there was fondness underneath it. The fondness of family.
He brought the food to the coffee table and sat back down beside you. His arm found its place around your shoulders automatically, pulling you into his side.
Woojin settled into the armchair across from you, already opening his container of jjajangmyeon.
"So," he said around a mouthful of noodles. "When's the wedding?"
You choked on air. Geonwoo's hand tightened on your shoulder.
"Woojin," Geonwoo warned.
"What? I'm asking. As your best friend. As the person who will obviously be the best man. I need to plan my speech. It's going to be long. Very long. I have twenty years of material."
"Woojin."
"I'm going to tell the strawberry milk story. And the time you fell asleep on my shoulder and he was jealous. And the time he carried you five blocks because you twisted your ankle and refused to let anyone else touch you-"
"We're not engaged," you interrupted.
"Yet," Woojin corrected. "The key word is yet. I saw the way he looked at you when you said that word. Marriage. He's been thinking about it. Planning it. Probably has a ring hidden somewhere in this apartment."
Geonwoo's ears went red.
"Oh my god," you breathed. "Do you?"
"I'm not answering that."
"You do." Woojin cackled. "You absolutely do. Kim Geonwoo, you romantic disaster. Where is it? Under the bed? In the sock drawer? In the gym bag you think no one looks in?"
"Finish your food," Geonwoo said flatly.
"I'm going to find it."
"You're not."
"I'm going to find it and I'm going to take a picture and I'm going to show everyone at the gym-"
Geonwoo threw a pillow at him. Woojin caught it, still laughing, and threw it back.
You watched them bicker, warmth spreading through your chest. This was your family. These two idiots who had been by your side for twenty years. One who made you laugh. One who made you feel safe.
One who loved you enough to buy strawberry milk at midnight and think about forever.
Geonwoo caught your eye. His expression softened. The bickering with Woojin faded into background noise.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
You nodded. "More than okay."
He smiled. Small. Private. Just for you.
"Good," he said. "Me too."
Under the blanket, his hand found yours. Squeezed once.
Didn't let go.