rooftop embers
✸synopsis: in a city overrun by deadly spheres, survival is everything — but kwon il-ha, and you find that the fiercest battles are fought not just against monsters, but against the pull between you. amid chaos, whispered confessions and stolen touches ignite a slow-burning desire neither can resist, even as danger closes in
✸genre: one-shot, canon adjacent, confession, slight enemies-to-lovers
✸pairing: kwon il-ha x reader
✸content warnings: mentions of guns, violence, smoochin'
✸wc: 2.8k
✸an: lower case intended, no use of y/n, fem!reader / my boi deserved better!
[now playing: bambi — baekhyun]
m.list
─────
the school loudspeaker crackles. a single, distorted note howls through the hallways, vibrating against the metal lockers and bouncing off the cracked tiles. the sound is jagged, like glass scraping against glass, and it sets your teeth on edge.
your classmates groan or go pale. some freeze, staring at the ceiling like the note itself might consume them. you zip up your tactical vest with trembling hands, feeling the weight of the weapon across your chest, the cold metal grounding you as the adrenaline kicks in. your heart hammers in your throat.
this is your life now. every afternoon. every dismissal bell. every heartbeat is measured in survival. fight the spheres. kill whatever climbs out. pray you make it back to the barracks alive.
you dash through the courtyard, the asphalt cracked and littered with shattered glass and scorched leaves. sandbags sag under the wind, barricades lean at odd angles, and the watchtowers loom like silent sentinels against the twilight sky. dust swirls in the air, catching the last streaks of sunlight, casting a sickly amber glow over everything.
and there he is. kwon il-ha.
he leans against the armory wall, one foot propped casually, rifle dangling effortlessly from his shoulder. his black hair falls in unruly strands over his eyes, catching the last light in a way that makes him look dangerous and untouchable. the wind stirs his shirt, untucked, sleeves rolled, hinting at the lean muscles beneath. he chews gum lazily, jaw moving with a casual rhythm, as if the siren and the impending chaos are nothing more than background noise.
his eyes lift as he sees you. one eyebrow arches.
“running a little slow today,” he says, voice lazy, velvet against the concrete chill. “were you putting on lip gloss for the monsters?”
you glare, teeth gritted. “were you practicing your attitude in the mirror again?”
he smirks, and the world narrows. your chest tightens, lungs forgetting how to fill. god, that stupid smirk. that infuriating, magnetic smirk that makes your stomach twist and your thoughts scatter.
“cute. keep it up, princess. i might start thinking you’re flirting,” he says, voice serious, but his grin betrays him, sharp and mischievous.
“you wouldn’t recognize flirting if it bit you,” you quip, letting the irritation edge your words.
“oh, i’d recognize you biting me,” he murmurs.
your brain short-circuits. that tone, that look — he knows it. and he’s proud. proud.
before you can shove him into the nearest sphere, private lee’s whistle shrieks, cutting through the tension like a knife.
“team b to sector four! spheres are multiplying!”
il-ha stretches, shoulders rolling, cracking his knuckles with a satisfying pop that makes your skin tingle. he leans close, breath warm against your ear, and whispers, “let’s make this one quick. i’ve got plans after.”
you scoff, voice sharp. “what? detention?”
“nah.” he grins again, eyes glinting in the fading sunlight. “like irritating you some more.”
the wind gusts through the courtyard, whipping loose papers and dust into the air, making the shadows dance across his face. the world feels alive with threat and adrenaline, and somehow, with him this close, intoxicating. the smell of ozone, metal, and faint tobacco clings to the air. every muscle in your body tenses, not from fear of the spheres — but from the electricity that hums between you.
the courtyard fades behind you as you and the squad slip into the broken streets of sector four. the air vibrates with a low hum, the spheres overhead pulsing like suspended suns. each one glows with an eerie green light, casting long, distorted shadows across the cracked pavement and twisted metal.
il-ha stays close, his steps silent but confident beside yours. every now and then, his shoulder brushes yours. just a whisper of contact, but enough to make your pulse spike. the sound of distant sirens, groaning structures, and faint screams blends into a soundtrack of chaos, yet here, beside him, the world seems sharper, more immediate.
the first sphere ruptures with a flash of green electricity, cracking the asphalt like lightning. a tall, skeletal creature bursts forth, limbs too long, mouth opening in a howl that shakes your teeth. its skin glistens wetly, veins pulsing with eerie light.
“move!” il-ha shouts, grabbing your arm and yanking you behind a concrete barricade.
your rifle snaps up, fingers trembling as you fire. bullets tear into the creature’s legs, sparks flying as metal claws scrape against concrete. it stumbles but keeps coming, a grotesque parody of a predator.
il-ha sprints forward — reckless, infuriating — sliding under the creature’s reach and firing upward. the recoil of his weapon jerks his body, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t falter. you can’t decide if you’re more scared for him or about how impossibly magnetic he looks in motion.
another sphere cracks open nearby. the air grows thick with pollutants. shadows stretch unnaturally as two more creatures lurch toward you, limbs jerking, mouths dripping with green slime.
“il-ha! watch out!” you scream, firing wildly. bullets tear through one creature’s torso, but the second one swings toward him with unnatural speed.
he spins, narrowly dodging, boots scraping sparks from the rubble. he plants a foot on its shoulder, kicks it back, and vaults aside, rifle blasting. every movement is precise, fluid, a deadly dance.
your heart races. fear and something else, something sharp and heavy, twist together. he lands near you, chest heaving, a dark smudge of soot across his cheek. his hair sticks to his forehead, wild and perfect in the chaos. he grins—a stupid, infuriating grin.
“you worried?” he asks, voice low, teasing, almost casual.
you slap his shoulder. hard. “you nearly died, you idiot!”
instead of pulling away, he catches your wrist, holding your hand against his chest. his fingers are warm, firm, grounding you amid the chaos.
“relax,” he murmurs, voice low, intimate. “i told you — i’m not going anywhere.”
you can’t breathe. not just from the fight, but from him. the way his dark eyes look at you, the faint curve of his lips, the tension in every line of his body. you don’t even notice the creatures collapsing around you anymore; the world has narrowed to him.
by the time the squad finishes clearing the sector, smoke, and green haze cling to the air like mist. the corpses of monsters smolder faintly in the dim light. your legs ache, your arms burn from recoil, but none of that compares to the tight, electric ache between you and il-ha.
he falls into step beside you, brushing dust off his uniform. his proximity is nearly unbearable. his fingers twitch, like he wants to reach out — but doesn’t. not yet.
“you were amazing,” he says quietly, eyes on yours. not teasing. serious. soft.
“you mean… lucky?” you retort, heart hammering.
he smirks, just barely, and shakes his head. “no. you’ve got skills. and stubbornness. both dangerous.”
you can’t stop the laugh that breaks out. it’s sharp and short, echoing in the empty sector.
“you’re impossible,” you breathe.
“only with you,” he murmurs, leaning a fraction closer, so close that the tip of his nose almost touches yours. his breath is warm, carrying the faint smell of smoke, metal, and something uniquely him.
the world seems to hold its breath. the wind gusts through the broken streets, tugging at hair, clothing, papers — remnants of normal life that no longer exist. and here, amidst the rubble and danger, you feel something raw and fragile and unspoken stretching between you.
il-ha tilts his head, eyes dark and searching. “next time… i won’t stop.”
you shiver, and it isn’t from the cold. you whisper, barely audible, “i don’t want you to.”
and for a moment, the chaos fades. not the world — but the storm inside you. the slow burn of longing, danger, and desire settles into something sharp, impossible, and undeniably real.
─────
night has fallen like a velvet sheet over the city. sector four lies smoldering below, the faint glow of ruptured spheres painting the streets in green and gold. fires flicker in abandoned buildings, and the distant hum of sirens reminds everyone that the fight is far from over.
you and il-ha climb to the roof of your dormitory, boots thudding against the cracked concrete. the wind whips at your hair and the hem of your jacket, cold and sharp. he leans against the edge, rifle resting casually across his lap, though his muscles remain coiled, ready. you sit beside him, knees pulled up, feeling the concrete under your fingers.
for a long moment, you watch the city together. no words. just the quiet pulse of your racing hearts and the occasional distant explosion echoing like a drumbeat across the skyline.
then il-ha shifts, brushing his knee against yours. not by accident.
you freeze. your chest hammers. he doesn’t move away. he lets the contact linger, subtle but deliberate, as if testing the waters.
“you’re… quiet,” he murmurs, voice low, almost a growl, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile moment.
“i’m thinking,” you say softly, not meeting his eyes.
he scoots a fraction closer, knees brushing yours again, this time more boldly. his arm hovers near your shoulder, the tip of his fingers almost grazing your skin.
“about what?” he asks.
“about surviving,” you whisper. “about… how many times i thought we wouldn’t. and who didn’t make it.”
il-ha swallows hard. his hand finds yours, fingers brushing and lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch. “hey…” he murmurs. “don’t do that. not here. not to me.”
you look up. his dark eyes are fixed on yours, intense and soft all at once. his thumb traces the back of your hand, slow, deliberate, grounding. your pulse spikes.
“you know,” he continues, voice dropping lower, “i shouldn’t even be letting you sit this close. not after today. not after… everything.”
“everything?” you echo, voice barely audible.
he leans a fraction closer, enough that your shoulders almost touch. “every time a sphere cracks open, every time a monster comes out, all I can think about is you. where you are. if you’re safe. if—”
he stops, swallows, eyes flicking to the distant streets below. then back to you. “if i lose you… i don’t think i’d survive it.”
your chest aches, and you find yourself leaning slightly into him. his shoulder brushes yours again, this time intentionally, warm and grounding.
“il-ha…” you whisper.
he shifts closer, knees pressing against yours lightly, fingers brushing your arm as he adjusts his grip on the rifle. the tension is electric. his hand hovers near your waist, but doesn’t land. his thumb traces lazy circles over the strap of your vest.
“do you… feel this too?” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “this… between us?”
your breath catches. “every second,” you whisper.
his gaze drops to your lips. inches away. you can feel the heat radiating from him, smell the faint smoke and gunpowder clinging to his uniform. his hand twitches, hesitant, almost like he’s fighting against the desire to touch you more.
“you have no idea how long i’ve wanted this,” he admits softly, leaning even closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours. “to be this close. to feel you.”
your fingers curl into the edge of your jacket. his hand brushes your cheek — soft, tentative, almost reverent.
“i’m not going to hurt you,” he whispers, barely audible over the wind. “i… i just want to keep you safe. keep you… here. with me.”
your breath catches, chest tight. “i’m here,” you murmur, voice trembling.
his eyes flicker up to yours. dark. intense. vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before. and then, impossibly slowly, he leans in — closer than before. his lips hover over yours. not a kiss yet. just the promise of one.
the wind catches, tugging at your hair, swirling dust and ash around your legs. the city stretches out below, dangerous and alive, but up here, the world has narrowed. to the two of you.
“i shouldn’t… but i can’t stop myself,” he whispers.
you tilt your head slightly. “then don’t.”
for a moment, nothing else exists — just the brush of his lips against yours, tentative, searching, soft but full of heat. fingers curl in his shirt, pulling him closer, and his hands find your waist, hesitant but insistent.
the city hums below. spheres pulse in the distance. and up here, on the cold concrete rooftop, the slow burn between you ignites.
the wind whips through the rooftop, carrying the faint metallic tang of smoke and ozone from the distant sectors. the city below flickers with green light from ruptured spheres, fires dotting the streets like scattered embers. the world is alive with chaos — and yet, up here, the two of you exist in a bubble, isolated and dangerous.
il-ha leans closer, forehead brushing yours. his dark eyes search yours, intense and raw, and you can feel the steady, relentless beat of his pulse against your hand. his fingers curl around yours, thumb brushing slowly over your knuckles. the brush of his skin is fire.
“i shouldn’t be feeling this,” he whispers, voice low, hoarse, carried on the wind. “not now. not ever.”
“feeling what?” you breathe, leaning closer without thinking, drawn like gravity to him.
“this,” he murmurs, lips hovering over yours. “this pull. this… you.”
before you can reply, he closes the distance. the first kiss is tentative — soft, testing, seeking permission in the curve of your lips. you respond instinctively, letting your hands curl into his hair, tugging him closer. the kiss deepens, slow, deliberate, heat coiling through you as his arms slide around your waist, holding you flush against him.
your fingers trace the line of his jaw, brushing against his neck, and he shivers. a low, guttural sound escapes him as he tilts his head, lips moving against yours with more urgency. every brush of his tongue is teasing, exploratory, sending sparks racing up your spine.
“you’re impossible,” he mutters between kisses, voice rough and full of need. “do you know that?”
you laugh softly against his lips, breathless. “i could say the same about you.”
his hands roam lower, fingers tracing the curve of your hips over the vest straps, pulling you impossibly closer. your breath hitches as you feel the heat of him through the uniform, the hard muscle under your hands.
“i’ve been… waiting for this,” he murmurs against your mouth. “waiting for a moment when i could just… be close to you without thinking about the chaos, without thinking about monsters.”
you tilt your head up, lips brushing his again. “then… stay. stay close.”
he groans softly, half frustration, half need. “i will. always.”
for a long moment, the world shrinks to the sound of your breath, the taste of him, the press of his body against yours. fingers entwine, hair tangles, hearts pound in dangerous sync. each touch is teasing and intimate, a dance on the edge of confession.
“you’re too reckless,” you whisper between kisses. “not just with monsters… with me.”
“and you love it,” he retorts, a teasing grin brushing his lips, though it’s softened by the hunger in his eyes.
you can’t help the small laugh that escapes, muffled against his chest. “maybe i do.”
he kisses you harder, deeper this time, teeth grazing your lower lip in a daring tease. your hands roam freely over him, tugging, holding, demanding as he finally gives himself over to the moment. the slow burn, the tension, the longing — all combusting in a kiss that feels like survival.
then — suddenly — footsteps. sharp. precise.
il-ha stiffens instantly, breaking the kiss with a low sound. you stumble back slightly, heart racing, still pressed close to him.
yoo-jung, your class president. perfection incarnate, clipboard in hand, eyes wide with shock.
“what… what are you two doing?” she asks, voice high and incredulous. the wind catches her words, carrying them like a scream over the rooftop.
il-ha stands, chest heaving, face flushed, but he doesn’t let go of your hand. his grin is dangerous, teasing, and infuriating all at once.
“uh… practicing… combat readiness?” he says, voice smooth, perfectly deadpan. “yeah. that’s it.”
you glare at him. “you just had to say something, didn’t you?”
“wouldn’t you rather me be honest?” he whispers, leaning close so only you can hear, lips brushing your ear. “i am honest. about… you.”
yoo-jung’s eyes narrow, hands on her hips, clearly unimpressed but flustered. “uh-huh. sure.” she scribbles something on her clipboard, muttering about discipline and curfews, but you barely hear her. il-ha squeezes your hand once, just enough to remind you that the moment, the intimacy, isn’t over.
the wind whips again, carrying the faint hum of distant spheres, but for a second — long, electric, impossible — you feel untouchable. you and il-ha. teasing, confessing, tangled together on the rooftop with the world burning below.
