OBSESSED
pairing: Kim Geon-woo x OC
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.
