note: He's so fine, I don't really have much to say apart from that, maybe that I'm gonna be posting more about BloodHounds, and that my requests are open! (remember that my first lenguge is not english and I use the translator a lot to help me write, so sorry for any mastakes!) xoxo
The first time you noticed it, it wasn’t obvious.
It never is with him.
Kim Geon-woo isn’t loud about the way he feels. He doesn’t announce it, doesn’t corner you with confessions or grand gestures that demand to be seen or answered. With him, there’s no spectacle, no dramatic declarations that leave you breathless in the obvious way. You don’t notice it right away. Not until you step back one day and realize it’s always been there, woven into every moment you share with him.
It starts with small things.
The way he remembers how you take your drink without asking, down to the exact amount of sugar, the way you hesitate before your first sip when it’s too hot. The way he hands it to you already adjusted, like it’s second nature, like it matters.
The way his eyes find you in a room without even trying. You’ll look up mid-conversation, mid-laugh, mid-thought, and there he is. Already looking. Already aware.
The way he stands just a little too close when someone else is talking to you. Not enough to be obvious. Not enough for anyone else to question it. But enough that you feel it...the quiet presence at your side, steady and unyielding.
At first, you think it’s just him being nice, protective maybe. A little attentive. It doesn’t seem like something to question.
But then—
“You didn’t text me.”
His voice cuts through the quiet, low and careful. There’s no raised tone, no sharp edge meant to start a fight. Not angry. Not quite. Just… tight. Controlled in a way that makes you look up anyway.
You blink, pulled out of your thoughts, your phone still in your hand. “I was out for, like, two hours.”
Geon-woo is leaning against the wall, arms crossed loosely over his chest, but there’s nothing relaxed about him. His posture is stiff beneath the surface, like something coiled tight inside him. His gaze doesn’t leave you, not for a second. It feels heavier than usual. More focused.
“I know,” he says.
A beat.
“I counted.”
There’s a pause that stretches just a little too long.
You let out a small laugh, awkward and unsure, because it has to be a joke. It sounds like one. It should be one.
He doesn’t laugh back.
Your smile falters, fading at the edges as the silence lingers.
“…You counted?”
His jaw shifts slightly, tension flickering across his face like he realizes how that sounded. Like maybe he shouldn’t have said it out loud.
But he doesn’t take it back.
He never takes anything back with you.
“I just—” he exhales through his nose, pushing himself off the wall. The movement is slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to ground himself as he steps closer. “You didn’t answer. I didn’t know where you were.”
Something in his tone makes your chest tighten.
It isn’t anger.
It’s worry, too much worry.
The kind that feels like it’s been sitting with him longer than it should have.
“I told you I was meeting a friend,” you say softly, searching his face.
“I know,” he replies immediately. Too quickly. The words come out like they’ve been waiting at the front of his mind. “You said 3:10. You left at 3:07. You wore that sweater.” His eyes flicker over you now, softer but still intense, still taking everything in. “The white one.”
Your breath catches before you can stop it. He did remember, not just the important parts.
Everything.
“…Geon-woo.”
Your voice comes out gentler now, careful, like you’re stepping into something fragile.
He’s close. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him, the quiet tension in the way he holds himself back like there’s an instinct there, something pulling him toward you, but he’s restraining it. Waiting. Unsure if he’s allowed.
“I don’t like not knowing,” he says.
There it is.
Honest. Bare. A little rough around the edges, like it’s something he doesn’t say often, if ever.
You study his face more carefully now. The slight furrow in his brows, the way his eyes keep moving over you, scanning, checking. Like he’s reassuring himself. Like he needs proof.
Proof that you’re okay.
Proof that you’re still here.
“…I’m okay,” you whisper.
His lips press together, the tension in them not easing.
“I know,” he says. “But I need to see it.”
Your heart stumbles at that.
There’s something about the way he says it like it’s not just a preference. Not just something he wants. It sounds like something deeper. Something instinctive. Something he can’t turn off, no matter how much he might try.
You press your hand a little firmer against him.
Not enough to push, just enough to anchor him, to remind him of something solid, something real. You can feel the tension under your palm, the way his muscles are still wound tight, like he hasn’t fully come down from whatever storm was running through him moments ago. So he stops.
“I’m okay. Nothing happened. You don’t have to worry like that.”
The words are gentle, but deliberate. You don’t rush them, don’t soften them into something dismissible. You let them sit between you, steady and real, something you’re offering him to lean on, if he lets himself. Something solid enough to counter the restless storm that always seems to live just beneath his skin.
For a moment, it almost feels like he might take it.
But then he shakes his head slightly, the movement small but firm, a quiet refusal. A hint of frustration slips through the cracks of his composure, subtle but unmistakable. You feel it in the way his shoulders stay tense, in the way his gaze doesn’t quite settle, like your reassurance doesn’t fit into whatever logic he’s built for himself.
Like it isn’t enough.
“I do.”
The words come out low, certain. Not argued, stated.
“…Why?”
The question leaves you before you can stop it.
It isn’t sharp. It isn’t defensive. If anything, it’s softer than you expect, shaped more by curiosity than anything else. By the need to understand. Because this (him, like this) goes beyond simple worry. It’s deeper, heavier, threaded with something you can’t quite name yet.
You just want to know what it is.
For a second, he just looks at you.
Not in that scanning, restless way he does when he’s checking you over, searching for something wrong.
But fully.
Like everything in him has narrowed down to this one moment. To you.
Like all that intensity, all that focus, has finally found a place to land, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.
There’s something quieter in his expression now. Not softer exactly, but more… exposed. Like he’s standing at the edge of saying something he doesn’t usually say. Something he doesn’t fully understand himself.
Like he’s deciding how much to give you.
How much you’ll take without pulling away.
“…Because it’s you,” he answers.
-
You open your eyes slowly, still caught in that hazy space between sleep and waking, and for a moment, everything feels too quiet. Then you notice him.
Geon-woo is standing in the doorway.
He isn’t doing anything in particular, just leaning slightly against the frame, arms relaxed at his sides, but his presence fills the room in a way that makes it impossible to ignore. His gaze is already on you, steady and attentive, as if he’s been waiting for the exact moment you would wake up.
You push yourself up onto your elbows, blinking at him, your voice still soft with sleep. “How long have you been there?”
He straightens slightly, like he’s been caught doing something he hadn’t meant to make obvious. “Not long,” he says, though the brief hesitation before the answer makes it hard to believe him completely. “Just a few seconds.”
You don’t argue, even if you suspect it’s not true. Instead, you sit up a little more, brushing your hair out of your face as you try to orient yourself. “What time is it?”
“Just after eight.”
“You woke up before me again?” you ask, a faint smile tugging at your lips.
“I always do,” he replies simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. There’s no pride in it, no teasing..just a quiet certainty that makes it sound less like a habit and more like something intentional.
Before you can respond, he adds, “I made breakfast.”
Of course he did.
Something in your chest softens at that, even as a small part of you wonders how early he must have woken up to do it. “You didn’t have to,” you say, though the words come out gentler than they might have otherwise.
“I wanted to.”
He says it the same way he always does, like that alone is enough reason.
You nod, letting out a quiet breath as you swing your legs over the side of the bed. “Okay… give me a minute.”
He doesn’t leave.
You notice it almost immediately, the way his presence lingers even as you stand and move toward your dresser. When you glance back at him, he’s still there, watching in that calm, focused way that has become so familiar to you.
There’s nothing aggressive about it. Nothing openly intrusive.
And yet, it feels… close.
Too close, sometimes.
“You’re just going to stand there?” you ask, a hint of amusement in your voice as you reach for a hoodie.
He blinks, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “Can I not?”
Your smile softens despite yourself. “You can.”
That’s all the permission he needs.
He stays exactly where he is while you change, his attention following you without shame or hesitation. It isn’t the kind of gaze that feels casual or distracted; it’s deliberate, careful, as though he’s cataloging every small detail without even realizing he’s doing it.
“How many hours?”
You pause, glancing back at him. “I don’t know. Enough, I think.”
His brows draw together slightly, a faint crease forming between them. “You should know.”
You let out a small, breathy laugh, running a hand through your hair to fix it. “Why?”
“So you can tell if it’s enough,” he says, his tone still even, still calm..but there’s something underneath it, something that suggests this isn’t just casual curiosity.
“I feel fine,” you reply, a little more gently this time.
He studies you for a second, his gaze moving across your face as if searching for something you might have missed. “You look tired,” he says finally.
“You always say that.”
“Because you always look like you need more rest.”
There’s no judgment in his voice, only quiet concern, but the way he says it makes it feel heavier than it should.
Before you can respond, he steps closer.
The movement is unhurried, natural, like it’s something he doesn’t even think about anymore. His hands lift to your shoulders, adjusting the fabric of your hoodie where it sits unevenly, smoothing it down with careful, practiced motions.
“You didn’t fix this properly,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.
You go still for a moment, watching him.
It’s such a small thing.
Unnecessary, even.
But the way he focuses on it (the way he touches you like it matters) makes something in your chest tighten in a way you can’t quite explain.
“Okay,” you say softly.
His fingers linger for just a second longer than needed before he lets his hands fall back to his sides.
“…Come eat,” he says.
-
The kitchen feels warm the moment you step into it, the kind of warmth that settles gently against your skin and makes the space feel lived-in, safe.
His mom looks up first, offering you a quiet, knowing smile that carries a kind of softness you’re still getting used to, while Woojin barely lifts his head from his phone, muttering something that passes for a greeting before disappearing back into whatever has his attention. It all feels normal, almost domestic in a way that should be easy to settle into.
And yet...
Geon-woo is already moving.
He steps ahead of you without hesitation, like he’s done this a hundred times before, reaching for the chair at the table and pulling it out just as you approach. The gesture is smooth, automatic, so natural it almost blends into the routine of the house itself.
“You don’t have to do that,” you tell him softly, your voice light, almost absent-minded.
“I know,” he answers just as quietly.
You sit, letting the moment pass, and he takes the seat beside you immediately after, not across from you, not leaving space between you, but close enough that the warmth of him is unmistakable, your shoulders nearly brushing every time either of you shifts. There’s already a plate waiting for you, the food arranged neatly, almost carefully, like he paid attention to how it looked as much as how it would taste.
For a moment, you just look at it.
Then at him.
“You made all this?” you ask, a hint of surprise slipping into your voice despite yourself.
He nods, but his attention doesn’t drift to his own place setting or the rest of the table. It stays on you, steady and focused, as though your reaction matters more than anything else in the room.
“Eat while it’s warm,” he says.
There’s something about the way he says it (not commanding, not forceful, but certain) that makes you pick up your fork without thinking too much about it. You take a bite, the food still warm, still fresh, and you barely have time to register the taste before you feel it.
His gaze.
Under the table, you feel his hand rest against your leg.
It’s light at first, almost tentative, but it doesn’t leave. Instead, his thumb begins to move slowly, tracing absent circles that feel more instinctive than intentional, as though the contact itself is something he needs to maintain without thinking about why.
“Is that okay?” he asks.
You glance at him, your heart catching slightly at the contradiction. The way he’s already touching you, already there, and still asks.
“…Yeah,” you answer.
He relaxes, just barely, but his hand stays where it is.
“Do you feel okay?” he asks after a moment.
“I’m fine.”
“No headaches? No dizziness?”
You shake your head, a small, breathy laugh escaping you. “No, Geon-woo.”
He studies you again, more carefully this time, his gaze tracing over your face with quiet focus, as if he’s searching for something you might not even notice in yourself. Only when he seems satisfied does he nod, a small, almost imperceptible motion.
“Okay.”
For a brief moment, the conversation fades, leaving a quiet space between you, but with him, it never lasts.
“Are you cold?” he asks.
“I’m not cold.”
“You look cold.”
You smile faintly, shaking your head. “I promise I’m not.”
He watches you for another second, like he’s weighing your answer, deciding whether to accept it. Eventually, he does, but not fully. Just enough to move on.
By the time you finish eating, he’s already standing, his chair scraping softly against the floor as he moves before you’ve even had a chance to think about getting up.
“I’ll get your bag,” he says.
“I can get it,” you reply, though there’s no real resistance behind it.
“I know.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
You remain seated for a moment longer, your fingers resting lightly against the edge of the table as your gaze drifts toward the hallway where he disappeared. There’s a strange feeling settling in your chest, something you can’t quite name, because everything about this is kind, attentive, undeniably caring.
And yet... it feels like a lot.
Like something constant.
Something that doesn’t quite give you space to exist without being noticed.
When he returns, he places your bag gently beside you, his movements careful, deliberate. As he does, his hand brushes against your shoulder in a fleeting, almost absent gesture—but it lingers in a way that feels anything but accidental.
That quiet, steady awareness of you that never seems to fade.
“Ready?” he asks.
You look up at him, meeting his gaze, and it’s the same as always, focused, immediate, like you’re the only thing in the room that matters.
You nod. “Yeah.”
His hand finds yours without hesitation, fingers slipping between yours with practiced ease, and as he leads you out, his voice picks up again, soft but constant...asking small questions, simple things, things that don’t really need to be asked at all.
But he asks anyway.
Because it keeps you talking.
Keeps you answering.
Keeps you with him.
And as you walk beside him, listening, responding, feeling the steady presence of his hand wrapped around yours.
you begin to understand something you hadn’t quite been able to put into words before.
He isn’t just taking care of you, he’s holding onto you, in every moment he can.
(•˕ •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.
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.
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.
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.
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."
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.
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-
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.
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.
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."
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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."
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.
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.
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."
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.
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."
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.
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.
please make a fanfic on Kim geonwoo ( bloodhounds ) x fem reader smut because he was jealous of her talking with woojin
omg yesss ive been waiting for a bloodhounds request yayayayayay love you anon😘
Title: Jealous Hands
Pairing: Kim Geon-woo x Fem!Reader ft woojin
Setting: After a boxing match, gym locker room > his place
Tags: Jealousy, possessive sex, rough but loving, slight angst, dirty talk, aftercare
She had just been laughing at something Woojin said—something stupid, something harmless. The two of them always bickered like siblings, friendly jabs and sarcastic remarks flying across the gym like usual. But today, Kim Geon-woo was watching. And today, it felt different.
From the moment you smiled at Woojin and playfully shoved his arm, Geon-woo’s jaw had been clenched. He was usually patient, composed even in a fight. But not today. Today, jealousy burned hot in his chest like the aftermath of a body shot. You’d touched Woojin. You’d laughed at his joke. And Geon-woo didn’t like sharing what was his—even if you didn’t know you were his yet.
He waited.
Waited until everyone left. Until Woojin tossed a towel over his shoulder and walked out. Until the locker room fell quiet, the only sound the echo of the shower still running.
Then he cornered you.
“Y/N.”
You turned around, startled. “Oh, hey—didn’t know you were still here.”
He didn’t answer. Just looked at you. Breathing deep. His shirt was off—fresh from training—and sweat clung to the sharp lines of his chest. His fists flexed at his sides.
“Why do you let him touch you like that?”
The question landed heavy. “What?”
“You laugh with him. Touch his arm. Smile like that.”
“Geon-woo, it’s not like that. Woojin’s just—”
“I know what he is. I know what you look like when you want attention.”
You blinked, heart thudding. “Excuse me?”
He stepped forward, close enough that you backed into the lockers behind you.
“I train every day. Bleed in the ring. For you. And you go give your pretty little smiles to him?”
His hand reached for your chin, gripping gently but firmly, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. The fire in them was something you’d never seen before. Raw. Wild.
“Say you didn’t mean it.”
“I didn’t—Geon-woo, I swear—”
He kissed you.
Rough. Desperate. His lips crashed into yours like a punch thrown too hard, all teeth and heat and tongue. You gasped into it, and he groaned—like he’d been starving and you were finally in his hands.
“You don’t get to smile at him like that,” he growled against your lips. “You smile at me. Only me.”
You nodded, breathless. Dizzy.
“I’ll remind you who you belong to.”
You didn’t make it out of the locker room.
Your back hit the cold bench, legs spread, and Geon-woo’s hands were already tugging your shorts down. His mouth found your neck, your chest, teeth grazing your skin like he wanted to mark every inch.
“Gonna fuck the thought of him out of you,” he muttered as his fingers slid between your thighs, already soaked. “This wet for me, huh?”
“Y-Yeah,” you whimpered, grabbing at his shoulders, nails raking down his back.
He groaned when he pushed two fingers in, curling them just right. “You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone but me.”
“Geon-woo, please—”
You didn’t even have to finish. He pulled his sweats down just enough to free himself and slammed into you with one powerful thrust, making you cry out. He fucked like he fought—hard, focused, determined to win.
Each snap of his hips was possessive, deep, and perfect. He held your wrists above your head, body caging yours in, eyes dark with want.
“You’re mine. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” you gasped, hips arching to meet his every thrust. “Fuck, I’m yours, Geon-woo.”
“That’s right,” he hissed, lips brushing your ear. “No one else gets to touch you like this. No one else makes you cum like I do.”
You came around him fast and hard, trembling beneath him, breath catching in your throat. He didn’t stop. Not until he spilled inside you with a groan so deep it made your legs shake all over again.
Later, when the air was still and your body was sore in the best way, Geon-woo gathered you into his arms.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said softly, lips brushing your hair. “Just... hate seeing you with someone else.”
You smiled faintly against his chest. “You could’ve just told me you were jealous.”
He chuckled, pulling the blanket over both of you. “I figured showing you would work better.”
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Kim Gun-woo x Female Reader (! includes suggestive mature content)
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: ~4k
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: A few days before the most important fight of his career, Gun-woo hears about an old boxing superstition claiming fighters should avoid romantic distractions before a match. He thinks it’s ridiculous… until everyone at the gym keeps bringing it up, Woo-jin makes it worse, and suddenly being around his own girlfriend becomes the hardest test of discipline he has ever faced.
Enjoy!
-
The whole thing started because Gun-woo smiled at his phone. That was it.
Nothing suspicious, nothing dramatic, nothing even worth paying attention to under normal circumstances. He had just finished three rounds of bag work, sweat dripping from his hair and down the side of his neck, chest rising and falling steadily as he reached for the towel thrown over the ropes. His coach had been yelling something about footwork, Woo-jin had been making unnecessary comments from the corner as usual, and the entire gym smelled like old leather, sweat, disinfectant, and ambition.
Then his phone rang. The moment your name lit up on the screen, Gun-woo’s entire face changed. The hard focus in his eyes softened first, his shoulders relaxed, and the tension in his jaw eased like somebody had reached into him and loosened a knot. He picked up the call with one hand still wrapped, turning slightly away from the others as if that would somehow make him less obvious.
“Did you eat?” you asked him through the phone before he even got the chance to say hello.
Gun-woo’s shy smile appeared immediately. “Yes.”
“You’re lying.”
His smile widened as he fiddled with the end of the towel draped around his neck. “I ate.”
“Gun-woo.”
“I had rice.”
“With what?” He paused, and that pause betrayed him completely.
From across the ring, Woo-jin’s eyes narrowed like he had just witnessed a crime.
Gun-woo cleared his throat. “Egg.”
“One egg?”
“It was big.”
“Kim Gun-woo!”
He lowered his gaze to the floor, looking almost ashamed, while still smiling like an idiot. “I’ll eat properly after training.”
“You better. And don’t skip stretching just because you’re tired. Your shoulder was stiff yesterday.”
“I know sweetheart.”
“And don’t let Woo-jin convince you convenience-store noodles count as dinner!”
Gun-woo glanced toward Woo-jin, who immediately mouthed, rude.
“I won’t.”
“Good. I miss you, baby. Come back early.”
That did it. The smile he had been trying to control finally broke across his face, soft and helpless and so painfully fond that even the coach stopped pretending not to watch.
“I miss you too,” he said quietly.
The gym fell into a kind of horrible silence. Woo-jin slowly turned toward the closest older fighter beside him, eyes wide with pure delight.
“Oh,” he whispered. “He’s cooked.”
Gun-woo ended the call a minute later after promising, twice, that he would eat real food, stretch properly, and not overtrain. He slipped the phone back into his bag, still wearing that small leftover smile, only to turn around and find half the gym staring at him like he had walked into a trap.
His smile disappeared. “What?”
Woo-jin leaned against the ropes, arms crossed, looking far too pleased for someone who had done nothing productive all morning.
“How many days until the match?”
Gun-woo frowned slightly. “Four.”
Woo-jin nodded gravely. “Dangerous.”
Gun-woo stared at him. “What is?”
“That.”
“What?”
Woo-jin gestured vaguely toward the phone, then toward Gun-woo’s face, then toward his entire existence with theatrical disappointment.
“Love.”
The old boxer sitting near the fan snorted into his coffee. To Gun-woo, he was a retired boxer who had no business being anywhere near the gym, yet somehow appeared every afternoon with a coffee in one hand and unwanted wisdom in the other.
Gun-woo looked between them, confused, while his coach rubbed his forehead as if already regretting the conversation before it had even started.
“What are you talking about?” Gun-woo asked.
Woo-jin pushed himself off the ropes and walked closer, lowering his voice like he was about to reveal government secrets. “You know the rule, right?”
“What rule?”
“The rule.”
Gun-woo blinked. “That does not explain anything.”
“The girlfriend rule,” Woo-jin said, and suddenly half the gym erupted into laughter.
Gun-woo looked even more confused, which only made it worse. One of the assistant trainers shook his head with pity.
“Ah, he doesn’t know.”
The retired boxer near the fan sighed dramatically, setting down his coffee. “Kids these days. No respect for tradition.”
Gun-woo slowly looked at his coach. “What rule?”
His coach tried not to smile and failed. “There is an old boxing superstition.”
“No.”
“You haven’t even heard it yet.”
“If Woo-jin is smiling like that, I already know it’s stupid.”
“It is not stupid,” Woo-jin argued immediately, offended on behalf of nonsense. “This is ancient wisdom.”
“It’s nonsense,” the coach said, then paused, looking at Gun-woo with the kind of expression older men used when they were pretending to be reasonable but still wanted to scare you. “But some fighters do follow it.”
Gun-woo’s eyes narrowed. “Follow what?”
The retired boxer lifted one finger. “Before an important match, no romantic distractions.”
Another fighter added, “No late nights.”
“No alcohol.”
“No changing routine.”
“No girlfriend.”
Woo-jin leaned in with the most punchable grin Gun-woo had ever seen. “And definitely no sex.”
Gun-woo stared at him. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed disbelievingly, shaking his head as if the entire gym had collectively lost its mind.
“You guys are serious?”
“Very serious,” Woo-jin said.
“That makes no sense.”
“Tell that to all the fighters who lost because they got weak legs.”
Gun-woo’s smile fell instantly. “That is not how legs work.”
The old boxer pointed at him. “You laugh now. But I knew a lightweight in Busan who ignored the rule before finals. Got knocked down in the second round.”
“Maybe he just fought badly.”
“Maybe,” the old man said, shrugging. “Or maybe his girlfriend destroyed his spirit.”
Woo-jin almost collapsed from laughter.
Gun-woo looked like he regretted waking up that morning.
For the rest of training, they did not let it go. Every time he took a sip of water, someone told him to stay hydrated because he would “need the strength.” Every time his phone buzzed, Woo-jin gasped like he had caught him committing treason. When Gun-woo was stretching, the assistant trainer passed by and muttered, “Flexibility is dangerous at this stage,” before walking away with a straight face.
At first, Gun-woo ignored them.
He knew himself. He knew his body. He knew discipline better than almost anyone in that room. He had spent months preparing for this fight, waking up before sunrise, running until his lungs burned, repeating combinations until his shoulders felt made of stone. He had earned this match through work, not luck, and the idea that being close to his own girlfriend could somehow erase that was so ridiculous that he didn’t even know how to take it seriously.
Then his coach stopped him before he left.
“Gun-woo.”
Gun-woo turned, gym bag slung over one shoulder. “Yes?”
His coach looked amused, but there was something careful beneath it too. “Don’t listen to them too much. But also, don’t lose focus these next few days.”
That was the part that stayed.
Don’t lose focus.
By the time Gun-woo left the gym that night, the superstition had crawled into the back of his mind and sat there comfortably like it had been invited.
Which was unfortunate, because you were waiting outside.
You stood near the streetlamp in one of his hoodies, arms crossed against the evening cold, looking slightly annoyed in that way you always did when he made you wait. The moment you saw him, your expression softened automatically.
Gun-woo stopped walking for half a second. He had seen you a thousand times. Barefaced in the morning, sleepy on his couch, laughing with Woo-jin, stealing fries from his plate, wearing his shirts like you had legal ownership over them. Still, somehow, every time he saw you after training, his chest did something stupid.
You looked up at him. “You’re late.”
“Sorry.”
“Did you stretch?”
He nodded too quickly.
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re lying again.”
“I stretched.”
“For how long?”
He hesitated.
You sighed, reaching for his wrist and pulling him gently toward you. “Come here.”
Normally, Gun-woo would have gone without thinking. He would have bent down when you tugged him closer, accepted the kiss you always pressed against his cheek after training, and wrapped an arm around your shoulders as you started complaining about how stubborn he was.
Instead, he froze.
Your lips paused inches from his cheek. You blinked. He blinked back. A few seconds passed before your eyes slowly narrowed.
“Why are you standing like a soldier?”
Gun-woo swallowed. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m standing normally.”
“You look like you’re waiting for inspection.”
“I’m tired.”
You lowered your hand, still staring at him. “Did you get hit in the head today?”
“No.”
“Did Woo-jin tell you something stupid?”
Gun-woo looked away.
Your entire face changed.
“Oh no.”
“What?”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“Gun-woo?”
He regretted everything immediately.
You stared at him for three silent seconds, trying to decipher what was wrong with the statue of a man standing in front of you.
“Mr. Celibate decided not to kiss me today? What is this, some kind of pre-match superstition you’re following?” you asked teasingly, pretending to turn away from him.
“What!” Gun-woo jerked nervously.
That made you turn toward him so fast.
No way he was being for real now.
“Gun-woo?! Are you serious?” you asked, astonished.
He quietly lowered his head. That was his answer to you, and his ears went red so fast.
“Oh my God,” you breathed, covering your mouth. “You actually are following this bullshit?! Whose take was it?”
“I just heard it.”
“And you believed it!”
“I didn’t believe it.”
“Then kiss me!”
He froze again.
The look you gave him made him lower his head shyly in defeat again.
You stepped closer, and because he was still him, because his body had always moved toward you before his thoughts could interfere, his hand immediately lifted to your waist.
Then he remembered.
His hand stopped midair, hovering like a confused robot.
You looked down at it. Then back at him.
“Baby.”
He winced. “Don’t call me that right now, please.”
Your smile turned wicked. “Why?”
“Because you know why.”
“I really don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
You leaned closer just enough for your perfume to reach him, soft and familiar and completely unfair. “Are you scared of me?”
Gun-woo looked physically pained. “No.”
“Are you scared I’m going to ruin your fight?”
“No.”
“Are you scared I’m going to destroy your legs and your stamina?”
A sound escaped him somewhere between a groan and a laugh, and you nearly lost it right there on the sidewalk.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” he said.
“I’ve never enjoyed anything more.”
He stared down at you, trying so hard to look serious while his ears remained red and his hand still hovered near your waist like it wanted to disobey him.
Finally, he sighed and let it fall gently against your back.
“Just until the fight, please,” he muttered.
You blinked. “Wait. You’re actually going to do it?”
Gun-woo looked away again, and your laughter followed him all the way to the car.
—
By the second day, the situation had become unbearable.
Not for you, but for him.
You adapted beautifully. In fact, you treated the whole thing like a personal comedy show arranged for your entertainment. You wore his favorite sweater on purpose, sat closer than necessary whenever you visited the gym, touched him innocently whenever you felt like it, and every time he stared at you in disbelief, you simply claimed you were wiping sweat off his face or brushing dust off his shoulder.
Gun-woo, on the other hand, was suffering.
The problem was not that he lacked discipline. Discipline was the one thing nobody could question about him. If he was told to run, he ran. If he was told to rest, he rested, though badly. If he was told to control his weight, his meals, his sleep, his training load, he did it without complaint.
But you were not a training restriction.
You were his home. So it felt wrong to treat you like something dangerous.
That night, you came over to his apartment with dinner because you did not trust him to feed himself properly during fight week. Gun-woo opened the door and immediately regretted it because you stood there holding bags of food, wearing leggings and one of his oversized zip-ups, looking far too comfortable in his space and far too pleased with yourself.
“I brought actual food,” you announced, stepping inside. “Because I know you, and I know Woo-jin, and between the two of you, I don’t trust either of you with nutrition.”
Gun-woo took the bags from your hands automatically. “I ate.”
“One egg does not count as a meal.”
He smiled despite himself and carried everything to the table. For a while, things felt normal. You sat across from him, scolding him for not adding enough side dishes to his plate, and he listened with that soft patience he had only for you. His hair was still damp from a shower, his hoodie sleeves pushed up his forearms, and every time you looked at him too long, you had the violent urge to bite him.
Which was, unfortunately, not allowed under his new imaginary religion.
After dinner, you moved to the couch. Usually, this was the part of the night where Gun-woo would stretch out with you tucked into his side, one arm heavy around your waist while some show played on the television and neither of you paid attention. Sometimes he fell asleep first as you played with his hair. Sometimes you did. Sometimes Woo-jin called to bother him and got insulted by both of you at once.
Tonight, however, Gun-woo sat at the far end of the couch.
You stared at the distance between you. Then at him.
Gun-woo stared at the television like it had just revealed the meaning of life.
You slowly shifted closer, and his shoulders tensed.
You shifted again, so he glanced at you, and you smiled innocently.
He exhaled through his nose.
“At this point, this whole thing feels disrespectful.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re moving.”
“It’s a couch. People move.”
“You’re doing it on purpose.”
“You think very highly of yourself.”
Gun-woo gave you a sassy look, but that was his mistake because the second his eyes met yours, his expression softened. That always happened. Even when he was trying to be stern, even when he was annoyed, even when he had every intention of holding his ground, looking at you too long made him forget why he was resisting in the first place.
Making use of that momentary lapse in judgment, you suddenly climbed into his lap.
Gun-woo went completely still.
His hands lifted automatically, hovering uselessly near your hips, and you almost laughed because for someone who could throw grown men across rooms, he looked genuinely helpless under the weight of his own girlfriend.
“Is this against your rule?” you asked.
His jaw tightened. “Probably.”
“Probably?”
“I don’t know the details.”
“So you’re following a rule you don’t understand?”
“I’m trying to focus.”
“You’re trying not to touch me.”
“That is part of focusing.”
“You’re not even blinking.”
“I’m focused.”
“You’re staring at my mouth.”
Gun-woo closed his eyes like a man begging for divine strength.
You smiled and leaned in, brushing your lips against his cheek instead of his mouth. His breath caught anyway, so quietly that anyone else might have missed it, but you were not anyone else.
You softened a little then. The teasing was fun, but missing him was not.
Because he was right there, beneath you, warm and solid and tense in a way that had nothing to do with fighting. His hands finally settled on your waist, careful and restrained, and the gentleness of it made your heart squeeze.
“Gun-woo,” you said quietly.
He opened his eyes.
“You know you can just kiss me, right?”
For a second, the humor disappeared from his face. Something vulnerable passed through instead, quick and honest. He looked down at where his hands rested against you, thumbs barely moving over the fabric of your sweater.
“I know.”
“Then why are you acting like I’m going to suck the strength out of you through your mouth?”
His lips twitched, and you smiled too, but he didn’t answer immediately.
When he finally did, his voice was lower.
“This fight is important.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to make a mistake.”
Your fingers brushed gently through the damp hair near his temple. “You won’t.”
He leaned into the touch before he could stop himself, and that tiny surrender did something to you. Gun-woo had always been affectionate, but there was something different about him when he was nervous. He became quieter, more careful, like his own emotions embarrassed him.
“What if I lose?” he asked.
The question came so softly that your teasing died completely.
You looked at him for a long moment, taking in the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the small bruise near his jaw from sparring, the disciplined exhaustion sitting in his shoulders. This fight was not just another match to him. It was years of wanting, years of work, years of proving he could become something without losing the softness that made him who he was.
“Then you lose,” you said.
His eyes lifted to yours.
“And I’ll still be here.”
His expression changed. You continued, because he needed to hear it plain.
“You didn’t get here because you avoided me for four days. You got here because you worked harder than anyone I know. Because you trained when you were tired, because you listened, because you got back up every single time something knocked you down. Your success doesn’t come from a superstition, Gun-woo. It comes from you.”
He stared at you like every word had landed somewhere deep. Then he leaned forward and buried his face against your shoulder, so you hugged him immediately.
He didn’t resist. His arms wrapped around you properly, firm and familiar, pulling you close until your chest pressed against his and his breathing finally eased. You felt him relax slowly, the worry in his body softening under your hands.
“I miss you,” he muttered into your shoulder.
You laughed softly. “I’m literally on top of you, dummy.”
“I know.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m serious.”
That made you smile into his hair. “I miss you too.”
He lifted his head enough to look at you. His eyes dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes, and the battle inside him was so obvious you almost felt cruel for watching it.
“You can kiss me, Woo,” you whispered.
Gun-woo hesitated for one last, painful second.
Then his phone buzzed on the table.
The screen lit up with Woo-jin’s name.
Gun-woo glanced at it.
Then you glanced at it.
The message preview screamed:
DON’T DO IT. THINK OF THE TITLE BELT. 🚨
You burst out laughing so hard you nearly fell off his lap, to which Gun-woo picked up a pillow and threw it across the room with impressive violence.
-
Read part 2 here!
It was too long to include in one post.
i recently found out this superstition actually exists in the boxing world, and considering i spent this week mourning the fact that Do hwan was literally twenty minutes away from me and i still didn’t see him, my brain immediately decided that someone needed to suffer for it. Unfortunately for Gun-woo, that someone was him :)
♡ Hi!!! This is my first time posting any of my work on here!! Hope you guys like it!! ♡ ⋆𐙚 ̊.
⋆𐙚 ̊. 4.9k words
♡ Junseo—
It was one of those lazy evenings at the dorm, the kind where everyone just piled into the living room without a plan. The TV played some random movie in the background, but no one was really paying attention. Geonwoo and Sanghyeon were bickering about something small again, Leo was half-asleep on the armchair, and Anxin kept tossing popcorn at anyone who wasn’t reacting to his jokes.
You were tucked into the corner of the couch, right next to Junseo. His arm rested comfortably around your shoulders, your head leaning against him while you tried not to look too out of place. You’d hung out with the guys enough that it didn’t feel awkward, but still, being this close to your boyfriend with everyone around made you a little stiff.
Junseo noticed immediately. Of course he did.
“You good?” he murmured, leaning down slightly so only you could hear him.
You nodded quickly. “Yeah, of course.”
But your shoulders were tense, and he could tell. With a soft laugh, he tightened his arm around you and gave your side a light squeeze, like he was trying to melt the stiffness out of you. “Relax,” he said quietly, amusement lacing his tone.
Of course, that was the moment Anxin decided to pipe up.
“Hyung,” he said loudly from across the couch, grinning, “your girlfriend looks like she doesn’t even like you.”
The room erupted with laughter, Geonwoo letting out a dramatic “ooooh,” while Sangwon nearly choked on his drink. Junseo gave Anxin a look that could kill.
“Anxin,” he said calmly, “don’t make me bench you for the rest of the week.”
That shut him up… temporarily.
The noise eventually died down, and the movie filled the silence again. You leaned back into Junseo, finally feeling a little more comfortable, lulled by the sound of his breathing. Everything felt easy, until you felt him shift beside you.
You didn’t even have to look up to know what he was thinking.
“Junseo,” you warned under your breath.
“What?” he said, feigning innocence. His eyes, though, were locked on you with that lazy warmth that always made your heart skip. “Can’t a man show his girlfriend a little affection?”
You shot him a look. “Not here. I’m not kissing you in front of the members. Are you crazy?”
He paused, lips curving into a small, playful smile. “Did you really just deny your boyfriend a kiss?”
“Yes,” you said, trying to keep your voice firm, but your grin was giving you away.
The boys, of course, had no concept of personal space or boundaries. Every single one of them had gone suspiciously quiet, pretending to watch the movie while clearly eavesdropping. Sangwon had even lowered the volume a notch, the traitor.
Junseo chuckled under his breath. “They’re not even being subtle.”
“Exactly,” you hissed.
But Junseo wasn’t backing down. His gaze softened, that kind of look that made your stomach flutter despite yourself. “You think I care about them?” he whispered, voice low enough that only you could hear.
Before you could respond, he leaned in anyway. The world seemed to pause for half a second, the laughter, the background noise, the movie, all fading into a hush.
You barely had time to whisper his name before he kissed you, gentle and sure, not even giving the boys’ existence a second thought.
Someone (Anxin) groaned dramatically. “Hyung, we’re literally right here.”
Junseo pulled back just slightly, eyes still on you, that tiny satisfied smile playing at his lips. “And I don't care,” he murmured, ignoring the chorus of teasing sounds from the couch.
You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help smiling too. “I hate you.”
He laughed softly, pulling you closer again. “You don't ,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head.
And even as the boys continued their noisy commentary, you couldn’t deny….. he was right.
♡ Jiahao—
You were in front of the mirror, hair half-done, mascara wand in hand, trying to finish getting ready for a night out with your friends. Music played softly from your phone, and behind you, on the edge of the bed, sat Jiahao, arms crossed, legs sprawled out, watching you like a sulky cat.
“You’re really gonna leave me here?” he asked for maybe the fifth time that evening. His tone was dramatic enough to belong in a K-drama. “All alone. While you go out. To a club. Without me.”
You met his reflection in the mirror, lips twitching. “You make it sound like I’m abandoning you for a year.”
“You basically are,” he muttered, slumping even more. “Do you know how dangerous clubs are? What if some guy talks to you?”
You laughed softly, shaking your head as you reached for your lipstick. “I’ll survive, Hao.”
He frowned, watching as you carefully traced the red onto your lips. “Yeah, but will I survive?”
You ignored him, slipping into your dress and smoothing it out before turning around, and that’s when he froze.
His jaw dropped slightly, eyes widening in exaggerated disbelief. “Oh, absolutely not,” he said, standing up so fast you barely had time to react before he was in front of you. “You can’t go out looking like that without me.”
His hands found your waist almost automatically, fingertips pressing lightly against your skin through the fabric. He wasn’t angry, just flustered, playful, that mix of possessive and lovesick that was so him.
“Jiahao,” you warned, laughing. “It’s just a dress.”
“It’s the dress,” he said, still sulking. “How am I supposed to let you leave like this?”
You reached up, brushing a stray piece of hair from his forehead. “By trusting me?”
He pouted. “No. That’s too hard……Give me a kiss at least before you go.” He said mischievously.
You smiled sweetly… and turned your head at the last second. His lips landed on your cheek instead, and when you pulled back, he just stood there, frozen.
“Hello?” he said, blinking. “Did you just dodge me? Before going out without me?”
You bit back a laugh. “You’re gonna ruin my lipstick.”
He stared, half-offended, half-incredulous. “Who cares about your lipstick? Who do you wanna look pretty for, huh?”
You grinned mischievously. “My other hoes, obviously.”
For a solid three seconds, he just blinked at you, like his brain was buffering. “Excuse me?”
You couldn’t hold back the laughter anymore. “I’m joking oh my god” you said quickly, wrapping your arms around his neck. “You’re the only one I want to look pretty for.”
He gave you that look, the one where he’s still pretending to be mad but his lips are already twitching. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he mumbled.
Leaning in, you pressed a small, quick kiss to his lips, careful not to smudge your lipstick too much. “Happy now?”
He sighed dramatically, pulling you closer anyway. “Not really….. but I guess you can go….”
As you slipped on your shoes, he watched from the doorframe, arms crossed but smiling now. “Text me when you get there,” he said, voice softer.
“I will,” you promised, waving.
And as you left, you heard him mutter just loud enough for you to catch "She's too pretty for her own good.”
You smiled to yourself. He was damn right.
♡ Leo—
Days off for Leo were rare. When he finally got one, there was only one thing he wanted to do: absolutely nothing, with you.
So there you were, both wrapped up under his blanket, sunlight spilling lazily through the curtains, a random movie humming in the background. You’d been in the same position for hours, Leo sprawled half on top of you, face buried in your chest, one arm slung tightly around your waist while the other rested loosely over your stomach. His leg was hooked over yours, keeping you trapped in the softest, warmest way possible.
Every now and then, you’d feel his slow, even breaths against your skin, and it made you smile. He’d fallen asleep like that clingy, comfortable, and peaceful. You could feel the weight of him pressing into you, grounding you, and your fingers had naturally found their way into his hair, lazily playing with the soft strands.
The room was quiet, until a sudden loud crash came from the TV, making you both jump slightly. Leo stirred, mumbling incoherently, lifting his head just enough to blink at you through half-lidded eyes. His hair was sticking up everywhere, his cheek red from where it had been pressed against you, and his lips parted in the tiniest pout.
You couldn’t help but giggle. “Leo, you look so cute right now.”
He frowned groggily, voice rough with sleep. “I’m not cute.”
You bit your lip, trying not to smile too wide. “But you are,” you whispered, cupping his face between your hands. “My cute baby.”
He squinted at you, cheeks faintly pink, but didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering as he nuzzled his face deeper into your palms like a sleepy cat. Your heart melted instantly.
“Oh my god,” you whispered dramatically. “I’m getting cuteness aggression.”
And before you could stop yourself, you started peppering kisses all over his face, his cheeks, his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his chin, every spot you could reach, giggling between each one. His skin was warm, soft under your lips, and you could feel him smiling faintly.
Until you stopped just short of his lips.
Leo blinked at you, dazed but clearly aware enough to notice. He tilted his head slightly, voice a little more awake now. “You missed a spot,” he murmured.
You grinned innocently. “Hm? No, I think I got them all.”
He narrowed his eyes, shifting his weight so he was hovering a little over you now, his messy hair falling into his face. “Don’t mess with me right now,” he mumbled, sounding way too serious for someone who’d been asleep five minutes ago.
You laughed softly. “You’re cute when you’re bossy.”
He huffed, leaning in for what he clearly thought would be a well-deserved kiss, but you turned your head at the last second. His lips brushed your cheek instead.
For a second, he just froze there, blinking in disbelief. Then he pulled back slightly, pouting like a child who’d been told no candy before dinner.
“…Did you just dodge me?” he said, voice flat with betrayal.
You bit back a laugh. “Maybe.”
He stared at you for a long moment, then dramatically flopped back down on top of you, muttering into your shoulder. “Hell nah.”
You were laughing too hard to respond.
He lifted his head again, giving you the most unimpressed expression possible. “You are not getting away with that.”
Before you could react, his hand slid up to your cheek, gently but firmly turning your face toward him, and then he kissed you, loud and sure, like he was stamping a claim.
When he pulled back, his lips curved into the faintest smug smile. “There we go.”
You stared at him, half laughing, half in disbelief. “Leo, it was just a joke.”
He held your gaze, suddenly quiet. “Never joke like that again.”
You blinked. The way he said it wasn’t demanding, just soft, honest, sleepy sincerity in his eyes. You smiled, reaching up to smooth his hair again. “Okay,” you said, voice gentler now. “I won’t.”
He sighed contently, settling back onto your chest. “Good,” he mumbled, already drifting back to sleep. “You’re stuck with me anyway.”
You chuckled, brushing your fingers through his messy hair again as the movie played on, the two of you wrapped up in the quiet, lazy kind of love that didn’t need anything else.
♡ Geonwoo—
You’d been buried in textbooks all afternoon, highlighters scattered across your desk, coffee half-finished beside your notes. Finals were close, and you’d sworn to yourself that today would be productive, no distractions, no breaks, no nonsense.
Except, of course, your boyfriend didn’t believe in any of that.
When you heard your apartment door unlock and the soft creak of footsteps, you didn’t even have to look up. “Geonwoo, please tell me you didn’t just let yourself in again.”
“I missed you,” came his easy, unbothered reply. You turned just enough to see him drop onto your bed like he owned the place, sprawling out against your pillows. His tall frame practically swallowed half the mattress, one arm tucked behind his head, the other scrolling idly on his phone.
“You look really pretty with your glasses on,” he said after a moment, tone casual, but you could hear the smirk.
“Geonwoo, shut up. I’m studying.”
“You look even prettier when you’re mad at me.”
You sighed, trying to stay focused. This had been his routine all afternoon , throwing little comments your way, testing how long it would take before you broke. The worst part? He knew exactly what he was doing.
“Are you even comfortable watching me study for hours?” you asked finally, not looking up.
“I’d be more comfortable if you came over here,” he replied immediately.
You ignored him.
He waited. Then, apparently deciding your silence was unacceptable, he got up. You heard the soft creak of your chair as he approached, and before you could protest, you felt him standing behind you, tall enough to make the air shift.
“Baby,” he murmured, leaning down so his voice brushed right against your ear. His hands rested on the desk, one on either side, boxing you in. “Don’t ignore me.”
You didn’t answer, eyes glued to your notebook, even though your heart was definitely not focusing on the definition you were trying to memorize.
“Babyyy,” he repeated, his tone softer, teasing. He leaned down even more, his chin hovering beside your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck. You could feel his smile.
You tried so hard to stay composed, but then you glanced at him, and that was your first mistake. His face was right there, just inches from yours.
He caught your gaze and, of course, leaned in, slowly, deliberately, eyes locked on you as if testing your willpower. His lips were close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath.
And right when he tilted forward to kiss you, you turned your head.
He froze mid-movement, lips brushing nothing but air.
“…Did you just—” He blinked, his expression shifting between disbelief and offense.
You looked up at him innocently. “Maybe.”
“Are you actually mad at me right now?” he asked, though his voice had softened, equal parts amused and confused.
Before you could respond, he shifted his hands to the armrests of your chair and spun you to face him. Suddenly, you were eye level with his chest, and when you looked up, he was towering over you, his eyes gleaming with mock seriousness.
“You’re annoying,” you said, crossing your arms.
“Okay, but you love me,” he replied instantly.
“Not right now.”
He laughed quietly, leaning closer. “Come on. Give me a kiss, and I’ll stop bothering you.”
You tilted your head, playing along. “If you let me study, then I will.”
Geonwoo arched an eyebrow, pretending to think. “So… a reward system?”
You rolled your eyes, trying to push his arm off your chair, but his hand stayed firm, not forceful, just steady, the way he always was. “Geonwoo.”
He grinned. “Fine,” he said finally, lowering his voice again. “But you’re not getting away with dodging me twice.”
And before you could protest, he leaned down and kissed you…., soft at first, testing, then just a little deeper, long enough that the sound of your heartbeat drowned out everything else.
When he finally pulled away, he was smiling, clearly satisfied. “There. Motivation,” he said simply.
You sighed, pretending to be exasperated. “You’re impossible.”
“Mm, maybe,” he said, already leaning in for another quick kiss before stepping back toward the bed. “But now you’ll study faster so you can come cuddle me.”
You turned back to your books, trying not to smile. And failed completely.
♡ Sangwon—
It was well past eleven when you checked the clock again. The company building was practically silent, every hallway dim except for the one practice room still lit, the one where Sangwon refused to stop moving.
He’d been at it since eight, replaying the same section of choreography over and over, the music echoing against the mirrored walls. You sat curled up on the couch in the corner, watching him push himself far past what any sane person would call “one last run-through.”
His shirt clung to him, his breath coming out in short, uneven bursts. But even exhausted, he still moved with that same precision, that same intensity that made you understand exactly why he’d been chosen as center.
When the song cut out again, you stood up, crossing the room with your water bottle in hand.
“Sangwon,” you called softly. “Baby, you can’t even breathe. Let’s call it a day, okay?”
He bent forward with his hands on his knees, sweat dripping down his temples. “Just… one more time,” he said between breaths.
You rolled your eyes, gently taking the bottle cap off and pressing it into his hand. “Wonie, you’ve done it a hundred times already. You can practice more tomorrow when you’ve actually slept.”
He looked at you then, tired, frustrated, and just a little lost. For a second, you saw the way his shoulders relaxed at your voice. You reached up, brushing his damp hair back and cupping his cheek. “Please,” you said softly. “Let’s go home.”
He hesitated, torn between his perfectionism and your pleading tone. Then, a small smile crept onto his face. “Fine,” he said, straightening up. “But give me a kiss first and we’ll go.”
“HELL NAH,” you said instantly, leaning back. “Sangwon, do you have any idea how sweaty you are?”
He blinked, pretending to be offended. “So you don’t love me when I’m sweaty?”
“Nope.”
He gasped dramatically, clutching his chest like you’d wounded him. “Take that back.”
“Not a chance.”
You didn’t even have time to react before he closed the distance, both of his very sweaty hands cupping your face as he planted a loud, unapologetic kiss right on your lips.
You squealed, shoving at his chest. “You are disgusting, Sangwon.”
He only laughed, that smug little grin spreading across his face as he wiped his forehead with his arm. “I’m your disgusting boyfriend. Shut up.”
“You’re so lucky you’re cute,” you muttered, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand.
“Cute?” he echoed, tilting his head with mock innocence. “You mean irresistible.”
“Delusional,” you corrected, grabbing his dance bag off the floor.
He slung an arm around your shoulders anyway, ignoring your protests as he steered you toward the door, humming to himself.
“See?” he said as the hallway lights flickered above you. “Now we can leave. And you did give me a kiss.”
You shot him a look, but his grin was so bright, so stupidly satisfied, that you couldn’t even argue. You just sighed, bumping his shoulder lightly. “Next time you’re showering before you touch me, got it?”
“Sure,” he said cheerfully, which, knowing Sangwon, meant absolutely not.
♡ Xinlong—
The night was quiet when he showed up. You hadn’t expected him, he hadn’t even texted, but when you heard the knock on your door and saw his face on the other side, you didn’t hesitate for a second before letting him in.
He looked tired. The kind of tiredness that went deeper than just needing sleep. His hoodie hung loosely off his shoulders, his hair still slightly damp from showering at the company, and even though he smiled when you hugged him, there was a certain heaviness in it.
You wrapped your arms around his waist, cheek pressed against his chest. He was so much taller that he easily tucked your head under his chin, holding you there for a quiet moment. “Long day?” you murmured.
He hummed in response, a sound that was more sigh than word. “I missed you.”
You smiled, tilting your head up to look at him. “I can tell.”
You’d made a small dinner earlier, nothing fancy, just something warm to share. The two of you sat on the floor by the coffee table, your backs resting against the couch as you ate together. The TV was off, your only background noise was the low hum of the city outside.
You told him about your day, how your professors were evil incarnate, how the commute had been awful, how you’d ended up scrolling TikTok for two straight hours instead of doing homework. He listened quietly, eyes soft, a faint smile tugging at his lips as if just hearing you talk was enough to ease his exhaustion.
But you could feel his gaze lingering. The way his eyes flicked from your face to your lips and back again.
When you finally looked up at him, he didn’t even try to hide it.
“What?” you asked, feigning innocence.
“Nothing,” he said, voice low, still watching you. “Just thinking about how much I missed this.”
And before you could answer, he leaned in, slow, certain, his hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair from your face. He was clearly aiming for a kiss.
So naturally, you leaned away.
He froze mid-movement, blinking in surprise. “Okay… what was that?”
You looked at him like you didn’t know what he meant. “What was what?”
“Did you just dodge my kiss?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
“I just didn’t wanna kiss you right now,” you said, trying not to laugh.
He stared at you, completely scandalized. “Do you—wait. Do you hate me?”
“What?”
“Do you wanna break up with me?” he continued, already spiraling.
You bit your lip, trying to hold back a grin, and nodded just slightly, just to see his reaction.
Xinlong blinked once. Then he straightened up, crossed his arms, and said flatly, “Well, that sucks for you. Because we’re not breaking up.”
You finally burst out laughing, and his expression faltered into confusion. “Wait, what?”
“Relax!” you said, clutching your stomach as you laughed. “It’s a trend! I was just messing with you!”
He squinted at you, still half-suspicious, half-relieved. “A trend?”
You nodded, still giggling.
He shook his head slowly, muttering, “I hate you sometimes…” before leaning forward suddenly and catching your face in his hands. “Try dodging me again, I dare you.”
You squealed, trying to lean back again, but he was faster this time. His lips caught yours in a soft, lingering kiss, warm and just a little needy, the kind that said I missed you too much for this kind of teasing.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “You’re—,” he murmured, though the faint smile on his lips betrayed him.
“You love me,” you teased.
He exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah,” he admitted softly.
♡ Anxin—
You honestly didn’t know how you got here.
One minute you were chilling on the couch, and the next you were sitting cross-legged on the floor of your boyfriend’s room, clutching a controller and losing for the fifth time in a row.
“Wait, wait—stop hitting me, I’m still figuring out how to—”
“Boom,” Anxin said smugly, not even looking at the screen as his character obliterated yours. “You suck at this.”
You turned your head slowly. “Excuse me?”
He didn’t even blink. “I said you suck.”
You dropped the controller and gawked at him. “You invited me to play!”
He grinned, leaning back on his hands, completely unbothered. “Yeah, I didn’t say I’d go easy on you.”
You let out an exaggerated sigh, pouting as you crossed your arms. “You’re so mean.”
“Aw, don’t pout,” he said in a mock-sweet tone. “You still look cute when you lose.”
That earned him a light smack on the arm, which only made him laugh harder. “You’re enjoying this way too much,” you muttered.
“Of course I am,” he said, flashing that annoying, perfect smile. “Watching my girlfriend rage is my favorite hobby.”
You stared at him for a beat, ready to fight him or walk out, maybe both, when he suddenly leaned closer, his expression shifting. “Hey,” he said, voice softer now.
“What.”
“Kiss me.”
You blinked. “You just told me I suck at your stupid game.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, but you’re cute when you’re mad. I deserve a kiss for putting up with your terrible gameplay.”
You sat there “You deserve—? Anxin the fucking audacity you have”
Before he could finish laughing, you turned your head away dramatically. “Nope. No kiss. Not until you apologize.”
He tilted his head, grinning. “Apologize? For what?”
You gave him a side-eye sharp enough to cut glass. “For being a brat.”
He leaned in closer, his smirk widening. “But that’s like… my whole personality.”
You chuckled, trying to look serious. “Then no kiss for you.”
He blinked, processing that for a second, and then let out the most exaggerated groan. “You’re so unfair,” he whined, dramatically falling back onto the carpet. “This is abuse.”
You burst out laughing, and he turned his head to give you a playful glare. “Fine. I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“Sorry for what?” you asked, raising a brow.
“Sorry for…” He sighed. “For bullying you at video games. Even though it was funny.”
“Good boy,” you said smugly, and leaned forward as if to finally give him the kiss. He leaned up instantly, eyes closing—
And you dodged.
His eyes shot open, pure betrayal written all over his face. “Did you just—?!”
You were already laughing so hard you nearly fell over. “That’s for saying I suck!”
He stared at you for a second before crawling closer, determination in his eyes. “You can’t just dodge me, I'm your boyfriend!? Are you insane?”
You tried to scoot back, still giggling, but he caught your wrist and pulled you toward him. “Anxin—”
“Too late.” He grinned and kissed you quickly, triumphant.
When he pulled back, you were still half-smiling, half-annoyed. “You’re an idiot.”
“Mm,” he hummed, smirk still in place. “And you’re terrible at games. We make a great team.”
You threw a pillow at him, but he just laughed, loud, bright, and so him.
♡ Sanghyeon—
You’d been stirring the pot on the stove for maybe two minutes before you heard the front door open and the familiar sound of sneakers hitting the floor.
“Baby?” his voice came from the hallway, soft but excited.
“In the kitchen!” you called back.
Seconds later, Sanghyeon appeared in the doorway, his hair a little messy, his hoodie slightly rumpled from practice. His tired eyes instantly softened when they landed on you.
“My girlfriend cooking for me?” he said, his grin spreading. “Is this heaven?”
You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re so dramatic.”
“No, seriously,” he said, walking closer. “I must’ve saved a whole country in my past life or something. A pretty girl making me dinner? How lucky am I?”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”
Before you could say anything else, you felt his arms snake around your waist from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder.
He sighed, that long, happy kind of sigh that made your heart melt. “I missed you,” he mumbled, pressing closer.
“Sanghyeon,” you said with a small laugh, “I can’t move if you hold me like that.”
“It’s okay,” he murmured, squeezing you a little tighter. “I can pass you what you need.”
You shook your head, smiling to yourself. He was always clingy, but sometimes he managed to outdo even himself. His warmth pressed against your back, and every few seconds, you could feel his gaze shift from the food to you, soft, admiring, hopelessly lovestruck.
“You’re so pretty,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
You chuckled, stirring the pot again. “You say that every day.”
“Because it’s true every day,” he said without missing a beat.
You felt your cheeks warm. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” you muttered.
“Lucky?” he teased. “You mean blessed.”
Before you could respond, he turned his head slightly, his lips brushing the side of your jaw. You flinched back just a little.
“Hey! Stop, I’m concentrating,” you said, leaning away.
He froze. His hands slipped off your waist as he blinked in confusion.
You bit back a laugh, glancing over your shoulder. “I told you I’m busy.”
He looked devastated. “You’re denying me a kiss?” His voice went soft and wounded, his brows furrowing as he tilted his head like a kicked puppy.
You couldn’t help it, you laughed, turning to face him fully. His pout deepened. “Hey,” he said, stepping closer. “That’s mean. I worked so hard today.”
“Baby, you’ll live,” you teased.
“No, I won’t,” he said dramatically, holding his heart. “I’ll just… fade away from heartbreak.”
You burst out laughing, reaching up to pat his cheek. “Okay, okay. Let me finish cooking, and then you can have all the kisses you want, deal?”
His pout immediately vanished, replaced by a smile so wide it nearly split his face. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
He nodded, satisfied, and then wrapped himself around you again from behind, careful not to get in the way this time. “Fine,” he said, voice muffled against your shoulder. “But I’m holding you until then.”
You sighed, amused. “You really are a handful you know that?”
“Mm,” he hummed, his tone happy and sleepy. “ You love me anyway.”
You felt your heart flutter as you stirred the food again, his steady breathing pressed against your back. “Yeah,” you whispered, smiling to yourself. “I do.”
Hope you guys liked it!!! Also I have no idea how tumblr works please someone give me a tutorial
Summary: bold Woo-jin and sweet Geon-woo compete for your heart with relentless teasing, only to be left flustered when you flip the game on them.
Woo-jin x reader, Geon-woo x reader
A/N: BOAF? BOTH!
Navigation
It starts with Woo-jin smirking.
That should’ve been your first warning. Smirking meant he was planning something.
He always got this smug, satisfied look right before he did something reckless. Like offering to spar with a guy twice his size. Or throwing himself in front of a punch meant for Geon-woo. Or—
“Y/N,” he says, voice far too casual. “Can I ask you something?”
You turn from where you’re watching Geon-woo do pushups, a towel slung over your shoulder. The gym smells like sweat and victory. Woo-jin leans against the wall, arms crossed, all muscles and mischief.
“Depends,” you say. “Is it something dumb?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
You narrow your eyes.
“…Fine. Ask.”
He leans in. “Do you think Geon-woo blushes when you touch him?”
You blink. “What?”
“I’ve seen it. That’s why he flinches every time you pat his shoulder.”
“I do not—!” Geon-woo protests from the floor, pausing mid push-up, his face already turning pink.
“Oh my God,” you mutter, covering your face. “You’re both insane.”
It’s been like this for weeks.
You’re not even sure when it started—maybe the day you joined the gym with them, hoping to get stronger, just like they promised they’d help you. Maybe it started when Woo-jin winked at you after a sparring match. Maybe it started when Geon-woo stayed behind to walk you home that one rainy night, barely speaking, ears red the whole time.
But now?
Now it’s just constant.
It’s not that you don’t like it.
It’s just that—they’re both so much.
Woo-jin is all confident smirks, teasing, leaning into your space, saying things like:
“If you keep staring at my abs, I’m gonna start charging you.”
And then Geon-woo, sweet sunshine Geon-woo, just dies every time Woo-jin says something inappropriate. He’ll mutter, “Don’t say stuff like that,” and then glance at you like he’s worried you’ll be offended, or worse—disappointed in him.
Which only makes your heart flutter worse.
Because you’re not.
One afternoon, you’re eating tteokbokki together after training. You’re in the middle of a story about your day when Woo-jin interrupts.
“Hey, Y/N. Be honest,” he says, dipping a fishcake into the broth. “Who’s hotter—me or Geon-woo?”
You nearly choke.
Geon-woo looks like someone just threw boiling water in his lap.
“I’m not answering that,” you say, laughing nervously.
Woo-jin raises an eyebrow. “Oh, come on. You can whisper it in my ear if you’re shy.”
“She doesn’t have to answer that,” Geon-woo mutters, eyes fixed on his bowl. “It’s a weird question.”
“It’s a fun question,” Woo-jin says, elbowing him. “Unless you’re scared.”
Geon-woo shoots him a look. “Of what?”
“Of losing.”
“I’m not trying to win—”
“I am.”
“Guys—!” you say, nearly spilling your drink. “I like both of you, okay?!”
The words slip out before you can stop them.
Both boys freeze.
You feel your heart slam into your ribs like a battering ram.
“Shibal,” you whisper. “Forget I said that. I didn’t mean—”
“You like both of us?” Woo-jin interrupts, wide-eyed.
You look away. “I mean—not like that like—just—you know what, I’ll leave now—”
“Y/N.” Geon-woo’s voice is soft. Careful. “Do you mean it?”
You stare at your lap.
“…Yeah. I do.”
The silence is deafening. You’re expecting awkwardness. Maybe disappointment. Maybe one of them walking out.
Instead—
“Well,” Woo-jin says, standing up, “I guess the only fair thing to do is fight for her.”
“Woo-jin—” Geon-woo sighs.
“You think I’m joking?” Woo-jin stretches dramatically, cracking his knuckles. “Let’s go, man. Right here. Loser backs off.”
“You’re not fighting him,” you say quickly, standing up too.
“Then let her decide,” Woo-jin grins, pointing at you. “C’mon, Y/N. Choose.”
Geon-woo looks at you too now, but not with pressure. With quiet hope. With those stupid soft eyes that make your brain shut off.
You look between them. Two of the sweetest, strongest, most annoyingly hot men you’ve ever known.
You cross your arms.
“I’m not choosing.”
“What?” they say in unison.
You smirk. “You guys got to tease me for weeks. Now it’s my turn.”
Woo-jin’s jaw drops. Geon-woo just goes completely red.
“I’ll let you know when I make up my mind,” you say sweetly, already heading out the door. “Until then, keep training. I don’t fall for weak men.”
Behind you, Woo-jin lets out a bark of laughter. “Damn. I think I’m in love.”
Geon-woo watches you walk away like you hung the moon.
WHEN IT ALL COMES TO AN END (pt.1)
pt. 2 section one.
pairing :: ald1 x fem!reader
includes :: angst
JUNSEO walks into the living room, shutting the door after him rather harshly. you were sat stoic, at the dining table with the candles still burning, scenting the room with lavender. you watch him lie down on the couch, and immediately get to scrolling. he didn't even notice. you try to push away any sorts of thoughts, walking slowly to him. you pat his shoulder and he jolts up from the soft cushion and looks at you. "y/n you scared the shit out of me!" it's almost 1 am and the lights in the room are dim.
"you forgot, didn't you?" junseo's face shows a split second of confusion and turns into and oh. he knits his eyebrows together and mutters, "why today out of all days?" followed by a sigh. maybe it wasn't meant for you to hear those words or maybe he said it loud enough so you could hear it on purpose.
"do you even care, jun?" he doesn't answer. the silence was deafening. you patiently waited to hear his voice. more than two minutes passed in absolute hush. he couldn't see your face but the light on one side of the room illuminated half of your face, enough to see a tear run down your cheek. you let out a quiet sigh, picked up your things and walked away. and the worst part was he didn't even follow.
⟡
JIAHAO walks next to you, his body rather stiff and unusual. your hand is linked with his as you both pass through strangers among a huge crowd at his company's event. he keeps fidgeting, looking around and stealing glances at you.
just when you have a seat for dinner, he clears his throat.
"uh y/n?" your eyes darted to him. "when are you gonna move out? i mean have you found a place to stay yet?" you have been staying at jiahao's place for time being, as you simultaneously looked for a place to stay after your graduation. the landlord didn't know you were there without rent and it was a shared space between two people, so it was a secret from him.
you raise an eyebrow at him. "i mean- my new flat mate is gonna move in soon and she needs the place empty by next week. she wouldn't like you there." she? "do you know her, hao?" his face drops hue as he says, "uh no not really, but i think her name is jiah?"
the name was oddly familiar. you told him that you would soon move out, but you kept rummaging through your memories to recall where you heard that name. the dinner was silent and as you took the last bite of your food, it struck you.
"bro why is jiah back in your dms damn! does she perhaps want you back?" leo's voice rings through your ears.
"oh."
all you did was smile through the night, his hand resting on yours but every subtle touch felt like a thorn knowing he wasn't yours anymore.
⟡
LEO was acting quite out of character for almost two weeks. staying at sangwon's place most of the time. 'work' was his excuse, but it seemed too off to be just work. you might be an overthinker but this time the gut feeling was too strong and loud.
So one day you were just on a date, which he seemed to be quite uninterested in. you both were taking a walk at the park, staring at the greens and barely talking. hands were held but he let go after a kid ran through between you both and you extended your arm. it went unnoticed and he didn't make an effort to hold it again.
A huge sigh left his lips.
"y/n, i can't go on like this."
"what's wrong?' your heart pounded against your chest so loud.
"i don't feel the same towards you anymore. it's so suffocating to be with you. it's not like i dislike you but... i just am not able to do this anymore. I tried i really did."
you were prepared for the worst but you didn't know the worst would hurt this bad. it felt like you lost everything that was at hand. everything that you loved. you had to say something but words wouldn't come out so you just stared at him.
He could sense that you were broken. he leaned forward, pressed a soft kiss on your forehead, muttered "im sorry" and all you could see was the love of your life walking away from you, disappearing into the grey path which you didn't seem to know the end of.
⟡
GEONWOO sat on the couch which was sitting right at the middle of the frat house, laughing and drinking along with his friends. he has been avoiding your calls and texts and it's been more than three days that you've seen each other. you missed him a lot and it was rare that you guys went three whole days without talking.
seeing him laughing and smiling softened your heart despite the hurt that creeped at the edges of your chest, when you learnt that he's been partying and avoiding you. you walk to the front of the couch awaiting his reaction to see you there.
instead, his lively gaze snapped to annoyance. the change of demeanor was quite evident and it stung. he grabbed your arm and guided you outside, his grip quite harsh on your skin.
"why are you here?"
"what do you mean sweets we haven't even talked in a while and i miss-"
"oh that again. you're so fucking clingy and im tired of you." tears came rushing from the back of your head to the brim of your eyes. you saw annoyance written on his face and you could hear your heart break little by little. you were sure he heard it too.
no other words were uttered. your tears that dripped down your face made his eyes roll with displeasure and he walked away from you, leaving you all alone with a broken heart and the saddest story.
⟡
SANGWON stood in front of you drenched in midnight rain, panting and tired. it looked like he had something to say. something unpleasant. it was around 2 am and you were a little shocked to see him in such a state at your front door, and the absence of words from him made you anxious.
you whispered to him that you'd get him a towel for him to dry himself, but he held you back by his palm on your wrist, shaking his head no. you raised an eyebrow in question and that's when he sighed.
"y/n i need to tell you something, it's really important and... heavy." you nod as your stomach churns because of the anxiety.
"we need to break up." need? his voice started to break as he spoke. "my mom is sick, right? we need to go to new york for her treatment. my brother has called and all the arrangements have been made. including college."
"i get it. i understand. it's fine you know i can wait for you how much ever long. all i have to do is wait right, we can do long dista-"
"y/n im not coming back." huh? "we're moving away to live with my brother. im not coming back." this wasn't even remotely close to what you wanted to hear on a friday midnight. you couldn't utter a word. sangwon murmured something which you didn't even take notice of. he stepped back, and out of your main door, shutting it gently so as not to startle you.
even in times like this he is gentle. you knew he didn't mean for this to happen, but sometimes slow poison hurts worse than a blow on the head.
⟡
XINLONG stands still while you let out a puff of your 4th blunt for the evening. situations made you an addict and despite all that he loved you. well, he thought he could fix you. fill your voids with his love and corner you away from all the bad things that made you the way that you are. he knew you weren't a bad person, but little did he know that you were stubborn as hell.
"i can't be with you." your hand pauses as you are about to near the blunt to your lips. "what?"
"i cannot be with someone who isn't willing to become a better person. being with you makes me anxious because you're never safe, getting high and into trouble. there is absolutely no change in anything you do. i understand you need time but i think we've had ample of time for almost a year. i don't expect you to flip around completely but you're getting worse. you're ruining yourself, along with my efforts to be there for you and also my will to be there for you. you're ruining us." what he said was true, but hurtful. it was true but you had no strength to revive yourself. wounds too deep, mind too messed to even try.
and so you let go.
"fine. im sorry. i understand where you're coming from and i wouldn't want to hold you back. hope you live a better life, genuinely." you turn away, trying to light another blunt but the fucking lighter won't work.
snap. snap. snap.
it finally lights up. you hear footsteps getting farther and your mouth parts with a sigh. the blunt falls to the floor and it feels like your chest is being ripped apart. the guilt and the helplessness make you feel like trash, but you decide to live with it, because how does it matter when you've managed to lose the only person that ever cared about you.
⟡
ANXIN barges into your room, tears filled in his eyes and his face red. you wonder how he even reached up here. your mom might've let him in but you get diverted as he holds out a photograph in front of you.
"is this real?" it's you and another guy from class 1c, holding hands. how did he even get hold of it? you don't answer and just sigh.
"how did you get that?" he looks baffled by your words. "is this real?" his voice shows urgency laced with hurt and anxiety. you brush your hair back with your left hand. you start to panic.
"who gave it to you, zhou anxin? and who is this person who's taking pictures of me-"
"really? THAT is your concern?" he sounds betrayed and extremely in despair. tears start pooling in his eyes and drop down like in a race.
you stay silent, eyes never meeting his. you had no explanation and the message got across to him. he let's out a wavering sigh, dropping the photograph on your bed, walks out of your room while wiping the tears on his cheek with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
all anxin felt was sorrow and he didn't even know if he could handle it. his chest ached so bad as he kneeled in front of your main door, immediately after shutting it and let out a wail. never has he ever cried so bad. afterall, he loved you the most.
⟡
SANGHYEON didn't know how to explain it to you. not that he was guilty. it was just a game with his boys. the school rooftop air was chiller than expected and it wasn't helping at all.
"so this was all a bet?" you choke out, the lump in your throat hurt enough for it to be shown in your words.
sanghyeon just nodded, straightening his body while slipping his hands into his pocket. no remorse to be found on his features.
"do you understand how hurt i am?"
"hurt? y/n it hasn't even been than long since we've been in the so called 'relationship'. what's there to get so hurt over?"
"sanghyeon, i liked you. for real." he looks uninterested and quite done with you.
"take a damn joke y/n. it was a game with the boys. aaaand i won the bet. if you like me so damn much, be happy that i didn't lose to them."
"so fucking mature of you chung sanghyeon. you're an asshole." all you could do was walk away. hurt and anger weighed heavy in your chest but what can you even say to an imbecile.
From the moment you had agreed to Leo’s horror movie week you knew you were doomed. You don’t know why you decided to show bravery and agree to it in the first place, but you probably shouldn't have agreed to your friends gaslighting you saying you would be crazy to not accept your crush’s request.
Right now, though you knew you cannot back out anymore.
Mostly because you are already on the sofa and Leo is scrolling through a list titled ‘Horror and Psychological Thrillers’. You glance at his face once, not yet cuddled together with him and you make one last attempt, “You know we could watch a thriller too?”
His eyes widen as he turns towards you and says, “But it is Halloween week.” You blink once and say, “Halloween is still twelve days away.”
He just grins and you sigh giving up knowing when he has his mind set on something he won’t budge. You look back at the screen as you try to prepare yourself mentally. It is not that bad honestly, just some jump scares here and there, you can do it.
All you cannot do is jump into his lap, like you mostly do with your friends making them get a good laugh out of it.
“Let’s watch this,” Leo’s voice cannot contain his excitement as you force a smile and scoot a little bit closer to him.
You absolutely cannot do this, you think, as you screech and hide your face in his chest. Your fingers clutch into his shirt corners, and you breathe heavily. This was not what you had in mind. There was definitely no going back now, because this was beyond embarrassing.
You could already imagine him laughing with his friends while telling them how you screamed like a dying cat in a simple horror movie scene.
What you couldn’t imagine or even think was when you felt a hand sneak around your waist and pull you closer. You feel Leo’s body vibrate as you look up slowly and see him trying his hardest to not laugh. You blink once as he looks down and bursts out laughing.
“What?” you narrow your eyes, and he presses his lips together and then replies, “It has just been twenty minutes you know.”
“You should be glad I survived twenty minutes of that,” you scoff, all while you press your face closer to his chest and he replies, “Yes absolutely.”
You look again and see a smug smile spread across his face, and you sigh, “You know I am afraid of horror movies, don’t you?”
“Thanks to your friends by the way,” he laughs again and you swear you have never seen someone’s eyes more sparkle than that. Not because you are totally whipped with him of course.
“Also, you are so obvious about the crush but refuse to do anything about it, so I had to take it in my hands,” he nods, a proud smile conquering his face as you stare at him in shock.
He knew? All this time he knew.
Then you look around the empty dorm and then look back at him bewildered, “And you though horror movie was the best option?”
“Well, I guess I just like you being close to me,” he smiles, and you throw your head back into his chest as he laughs again. “I forgive you just because you are cute,” you murmur as you feel his laugh vibrate on yourself.
"Get a room," Xinlong passed a comment as he walks towards his room and Leo replies, "Shut up and leave."
You giggle as you rest your head on his chest, interlocking your fingers with his.
Maybe his idea wasn’t that bad after all.
ARCHV ⠀ ✦ ⠀ uhm so i got coaxed into stanning them again by berry, but did you think i will only write about your man without even bringing my man? huh? hope yall enjoy btw bye
❪ ইতি ❫ ⠀ ald1 shelf ⠀navi ⠀,⠀taglist . fill this / comment / ask
