Chapter Text
The gym was a goddamn pit reeked of sweat, blood, and ego.
Concrete walls sweating filth, overhead lights buzzing like they were moments from dying, floor smeared with decades of blood and spit and regret. The air tasted like rusted iron and burned nerves. Every breath scoured the lungs.
It stank of violence. And it throbbed. Alive.
Wonwoo kept to the shadows, as he always did—hood up, arms crossed, leaned against the wall behind the half-broken vending machine no one used anymore. From the shadows, Jeon Wonwoo watched.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t nod. Didn’t blink unless he had to. People moved around him like shadows around fire—edging close for warmth, then retreating when they got burned. He was the reigning champion, the ghost king of this concrete hell. Cold. Detached. Unfuckwithable.
They called him a machine. Said he didn’t feel pain, didn’t bleed, didn’t break.
They weren’t wrong.
He stood half-submerged behind a busted vending machine, the glass spider-webbed and humming a low mechanical groan. His hoodie cloaked his face, but not his eyes. Those were sharp. Always watching. Always hunting.
Tonight, he hunted one man.
Kim Mingyu.
That was the name buzzing around lately—fast fists, faster temper, raw, barely-contained power that didn’t give a shit about form or finesse. Just rage and instinct. Sloppy, stupid, dangerous.
Mingyu didn’t walk into the ring. He prowled. Like something born for this place—built of muscle, menace, and nothing left to lose. He cracked his neck and shook out his hands, tape already fraying from use. His eyes moved over the crowd, hungry, and then down at his opponent like he already owned him.
He moved like pain didn’t scare him. Like it fed him.
Wonwoo’s jaw locked tight.
Something in his chest twitched. He couldn’t name it. Didn’t want to. Maybe it was the way Mingyu grinned when the announcer growled his name—lazy, lethal, not for the crowd but like he already knew exactly how the night would end. Maybe it was the bruises he wore like medals. Maybe it was the madness coiled beneath his skin, waiting to snap.
The bell rang.
Mingyu struck like lightning.
Flesh met flesh, sharp and fast. A fist crashed into ribs—crack. Another into the jaw—snap. His opponent didn’t stand a chance. Mingyu drove him into the ropes, no mercy, no pause, and landed a right hook that echoed like a gunshot.
Forty-three seconds.
That’s how long the poor bastard lasted before folding like dead weight.
His opponent crumpled like a sack of bones.
The crowd exploded, feral with bloodlust. But Mingyu didn’t gloat. Didn’t lift his arms. He stood over the wreckage he left behind, chest heaving, sweat slicking down his torso like oil and sin.
Then he looked up.
Right at Wonwoo.
Not a glance. A lock. Like he’d known exactly where he was the entire time.
And he smirked.
Wonwoo didn’t flinch. Just stared back. Frozen. Daring him.
But something inside him bucked hard against its cage.
Wonwoo’s eyes narrowed.
Cocky. Predictable. Dangerous.
Exactly his type.
He hated that thought immediately
That night, Kim Mingyu stopped being a name.
The locker room was empty when Wonwoo finished beating the shit out of the heavy bag. The others had cleared out, still drunk on the violence, trailing blood and laughter behind them.
Wonwoo stood at the sink, water running cold over his knuckles, the tape peeling away in soft, wet curls. The mirror above him was cracked—his reflection splintered.
Behind him, footsteps.
Heavy. Unhurried. Confident like sin.
“You always watch from the dark,” said a voice, low and rough, “or just when you want something?”
Wonwoo’s jaw clenched. He didn’t look up didn’t turn
Mingyu.
Closer now. He could hear the bounce in his step, the scrape of a towel slung around his neck, the sound of a man too sure of himself.
“You’re Jeon Wonwoo, right?” Mingyu asked, mock-innocent. “Champion for—what? Three years now?”
Wonwoo dried his hands slowly. “You’ve been keeping track.”
“You’re not easy to ignore.”
“You fight like an animal,” Wonwoo said flatly.
“And you fight like a ghost.” Mingyu stepped forward, deliberately invading Wonwoo’s space. “Silent, untouchable, already halfway dead. You always watch from the dark,” said a voice, low and rough, “or just when you want something?”
Wonwoo didn’t move. He refused to give ground.
“You talk too much,” he muttered.
“You watch too much,” Mingyu shot back, a little too sharp. “We all have our habits.”
“I watch everything,” he said. Deadpan. Dangerous.
Mingyu came closer, the sound of his boots scraping concrete slow and deliberate.
“I’m not everything,” he said.
Wonwoo turned then.
Mingyu was shirtless, sweat streaked across his torso like fingerprints. Blood clung to the edge of his mouth, bruised cheek, split lip, and a smirk that said he liked pain too much to be afraid of it. dried into his grin. His eyes—Jesus, his eyes—weren’t cocky. They were something else. Something fucked.
Something hungry.
“I’ve seen you fight,” Wonwoo said, cool and sharp. “You’re messy. All power, no control.”
“And you’re predictable,” Mingyu said, grinning wider. “All ice, no heat. How boring.”
Wonwoo tilted his head. “You’re not the first loudmouth to think he can take me.”
“And you’re not the first ghost who needs a wake-up call.”
Their eyes locked. Close now. Too close. The air between them buzzed—not just tension, but something hotter, sharper. Wonwoo could feel the heat radiating off him, the sweat, the blood. Mingyu’s chest rose and fell, every breath ragged from the fight but grounded like he belonged there—inside chaos
“You talk too much.”
Mingyu stepped close—close enough to smell the sweat, the blood, the danger radiating off his skin like steam. “You watch me,” he said, voice dipping low. “But not like the others. You look at me like you want something.”
Wonwoo’s pulse kicked.
Then Mingyu tilted his head, voice dropping into something lower. Almost quiet.
“You ever gonna come down from that pedestal, Jeon? Or do I have to drag you down myself?”
For one breathless second, they stood toe to toe, tension snapping between them like wires stripped bare.
Then Wonwoo leaned in—barely.
“You want to take something from me?” he said, voice like smoke. “You better be ready to bleed for it.”
Mingyu smiled. Sharp. Hungry. “I hope I do.”
Wonwoo turned, grabbing the towel with stained fingers. “Get in line,” he muttered.
But Mingyu didn’t move. Just stood there, grinning like the devil found something worth sinning for.
“You’ll snap eventually, Jeon,” he said, walking backwards toward the door. “And I’ll be the one to pull the trigger.”
Wonwoo's eyes locked, voice ice-cold.
“Try it.”
That night, Wonwoo didn’t sleep.
He laid in the dark, shirt damp with sweat, eyes open to the ceiling fan spinning slow circles above him. His mind replayed the fight—not the strikes or the fall, but him. The way Mingyu moved. The fire in his eyes.
The promise in his voice.
“I’ve watched you.”
God. That was dangerous.
Wonwoo gritted his teeth and shut his eyes.
But in the quiet, the image of Mingyu’s bloody smile burned behind his eyelids like a bruise under the skin
And something deep in his chest whispered,
Let him try.
Let him fucking break you.
Kim Mingyu's POV
It started with a name.
Jeon Wonwoo.
The first time Mingyu heard it, he was hunched over a bar, blood still wet on his knuckles, vodka burning down his throat. Some guy two stools over was whispering it like a prayer—or a warning.
“You don’t fuck with him, man. Don’t look him in the eye unless you’re ready to die. He doesn’t just fight. He ends people.”
Mingyu smiled into his glass, lips split and copper-tasting. A slow, deliberate smile. The kind that curled like smoke, thick with something sharp and dangerous.
He'd always had a thing for breaking beautiful things.
And the way they spoke about Wonwoo—like he was some untouchable weapon forged from silence and scars—it only made Mingyu’s interest twist into something darker. Something feral.
He didn’t expect to need him.
But that name stuck. It curled around his ribs like barbed wire, bled into his bloodstream, and took root.
Wonwoo.
Cold. Perfect. Unreachable.
But not for long.
Wonwoo was beautiful in the most merciless way.
Not pretty. Not handsome. Beautiful. In the way black ice is—silent, slick, fatal. He moved like every breath was calculated. Hit like he was trying to erase people from existence. Never smiled. Never stayed. Left only bruises and broken ribs behind.
And Mingyu watched.
God, he watched.
At first, it was curiosity. Then it became something else. Sick. Addictive.
He devoured every video. Every grainy recording of Wonwoo in the ring, slicing through men like they were nothing. He memorized his footwork, the brutal calm in his stance, the second-long pause before every knockout. He studied his eyes. Flat. Distant. Dead.
No one touched him.
No one tried.
Everyone was too afraid.
But fear wasn’t something Mingyu ever had much of. Not when it came to things he wanted.
And he wanted to ruin him.
Not for a title. Not for pride.
But just to see if something that cold could burn.
The first time their eyes met in person, Mingyu felt his fucking heart stutter. One beat, two, like it wasn’t sure whether to race or stop altogether.
Wonwoo’s gaze didn’t waver. Didn’t acknowledge. Just locked onto his like a blade to the throat—silent, threatening.
Mingyu grinned widely.
All teeth. All want.
And Wonwoo? Nothing. A void.
But that void looked at him like it knew—like it saw the dirty things he hadn’t said out loud. Like it understood exactly how bad Mingyu wanted to fuck him up.
The ache started then. Deep. Ugly. Unshakeable.
He tried.
God, he tried.
Fought match after match, a relentless blur of fists and blood. Took down every name they threw at him like he was born to destroy. Walked out of every ring bruised but grinning, with his pulse still hammering and his fists still twitching for more.
He fucked, too. Sloppy, meaningless. Strangers in club bathrooms or pressed against the walls of his apartment, mouths hot and desperate, nails carving lines down his back. He let them scratch. Let them scream. Let them beg.
But none of them bled like Wonwoo.
None of them looked at him like they were already inside his skull, dissecting every filthy thought and finding it pathetic.
No one else haunted him.
It started slow. Flickers in the corner of his vision when he was alone. Shadows in the gym that moved like him—quick, clean, calculated.
Then came the dreams.
God. The dreams.
Raw and vivid. Too real. Too sharp. Like memories from a timeline that never existed.
Wonwoo’s mouth split at the corner, blood painting his jaw. His chest heaving. Eyes still dead and flat while Mingyu straddled him, shaking, soaked in sweat and strung so tight he thought his body would snap in half.
“Still feel nothing?”
He’d whisper it against his mouth, voice trembling.
And Wonwoo would just stare—emotionless, untouchable. Unmoved.
Even as Mingyu grinded down against him, aching with need.
Even as he begged without words for something, anything, to crack.
He’d wake up gasping.
Hard and sweating through the sheets, skin flushed and stomach tight, fingers fisted in the mattress like he was still trying to hold him down.
Every fucking time.
He’d lie there, trembling.
Hand hovering uselessly over his Erection.
Too ashamed to touch himself.
It wasn’t normal.
It wasn’t healthy.
It was fucking obsession with teeth and claws and heat.
And still—
He didn’t care.
He didn’t want clean. Didn’t want kind.
He wanted that—
That blank stare.
That blood-soaked skin.
That brutal silence that screamed louder than anyone ever had.
He wanted to dig his way into Wonwoo’s veins and never get out.
Even if it killed him.
Even if it made him a monster.
Because nothing else tasted real anymore.
Not without him.
The obsession didn’t creep up on him quietly—it slammed into him like a car crash the second week in.
Mingyu had just finished his match, the kind that left bones singing and blood rushing hot. His gloves were off, chest still heaving, sweat dripping from his brow. The roar of the crowd was still echoing in his skull when he caught sight of him.
Wonwoo.
Across the gym.
But it wasn’t just that he was there—it was who he was with.
Some trainer. New face. Tall, lean, pretty in the kind of way that used to turn Mingyu’s head before everything in him got wired to one name only. The guy was smiling—too much. Too easy. Eyes soft in that I want to take care of you way.
Worse?
Wonwoo wasn’t walking away.
No—he was standing still, posture relaxed. Not fighting. Not frozen.
And then it happened.
So small most people would’ve missed it. Just the faintest twitch of his lips. A muscle moving where it never moved.
Almost a smile.
Mingyu’s heart kicked like a gunshot to the chest.
For a second, he forgot how to breathe.
And then he saw red.
He didn’t think. Didn’t blink. Didn’t stop to ask himself what the fuck he was doing.
He was moving—rage thundering in his veins like wildfire.
Straight to the nearest ring.
Didn’t even look at who was inside. Some heavyweight, someone he’d normally warm up before facing. Didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the sick, seething jealousy boiling in his blood.
“I’m next,” he barked, voice rough, eyes already wild.
The guy barely had time to nod before Mingyu was inside the ropes, already bouncing on his heels like an animal straining against a leash.
The bell rang.
He didn’t hold back.
He hit like a man possessed.
Every punch was a scream—silent, violent, raw.
He imagined that stranger’s hands on Wonwoo. Imagined that soft smile pressed to skin that didn’t belong to anyone but him.
He saw that almost-smile and wanted to destroy it.
Crack.
Another rib.
Another scream.
The guy was stumbling. Reeling. Hands up, begging for breath, but Mingyu didn’t see him anymore.
Didn’t see anything but that twitch of Wonwoo’s lips, that flicker of warmth he’d never been given.
The taste of metal hit his tongue—blood, someone’s, maybe his own. He didn't care.
He was too far gone.
Didn’t stop when the guy hit the ropes.
Didn’t stop when the ref shouted.
Didn’t stop when hands grabbed him from behind.
He just kept swinging.
Until four men were pulling him off, dragging him backward as he fought like a beast, chest heaving, eyes blown wide and black with something beyond anger.
The world slowed.
He blinked.
The ring was a mess—sweat, blood, chaos. The fighter he’d gone after was down and groaning, barely conscious. People were shouting.
Someone slapped his back, someone else yelled his name, but Mingyu didn’t hear any of it.
His eyes were already searching.
Already scanning the crowd again—
For Wonwoo.
For those unreadable eyes.
To see if he'd been watching.
To see if he felt anything yet.
Because Mingyu was unraveling.
And if he was going to lose himself…
He wanted to drag Wonwoo down with him.
The locker room was empty when he finally peeled himself off the bench.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Faint, flickering. The kind of silence that pressed too hard against your skull, made your thoughts too loud.
He smelled like blood and sweat. Tasted copper where he’d bitten the inside of his cheek. His knuckles were torn, jaw tight with bruises. One eye swelling.
But none of it mattered.
Not when Wonwoo was still in his head.
Under his skin like poison.
Infecting everything.
That face. That voice. That fucking dare.
“Try it.”
He had.
In his mind, over and over.
Cornering him. Pushing him.
Pressing him back against a wall so hard the air left his lungs.
Mingyu imagined the sharp hiss Wonwoo would give, the flinch he'd try to hide. The way he’d grit his teeth and stare like he wasn’t afraid—like he was waiting to be ruined.
Wanted it, even if he’d never say it.
And fuck, that was the worst part.
Because it wasn’t just violence anymore.
It was lust.
It was hunger.
It was something so tangled and filthy he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
He didn’t just want to make him bleed.
He wanted to make him break.
But not from pain.
Not this time.
From need.
From the unbearable, suffocating ache of wanting.
He wanted to hear it in his breath, in the hitch of his voice.
Wanted to see those perfect lips part in a gasp he couldn’t swallow down.
Wanted those dead eyes—always unreadable, always composed—to flicker. With something real.
Something messy.
He wanted to make Jeon Wonwoo lose control.
To ruin that carefully built silence and drag the truth out of him with his mouth, his hands, his whole fucking body.
Mingyu stood up.
The ache in his bones didn’t slow him. If anything, it grounded him. Reminded him this obsession was real. Alive. Thrumming through every goddamn nerve.
He reached for his towel, wiped the blood from his chin, and turned toward the back showers.
And stopped.
Wonwoo was there.
Leaning against the tiled wall like a ghost conjured by fury and frustration. Still half-wrapped in bandages from his earlier match. Shirt damp. Collar pulled loose.
Eyes on him. Always on him.
Flat.
Sharp.
Unmoved.
But there was a flicker there. A shift.
Something quiet and dangerous.
Wonwoo’s lips parted—but he didn’t speak.
And that was almost worse.
Because silence, from him, always meant he was thinking.
And thinking meant danger.
He lay awake that night, back against the mattress, one arm thrown over his eyes as his heart beat too loud in the dark.
He could still feel the heat of their almost-touch. The tension between their bodies in the locker room. The breathless second when neither moved, neither blinked.
Wonwoo didn’t lean in. But he didn’t pull away, either.
And Mingyu could feel it. That spark. The fight under the ice. The desire masked as disdain.
He wanted to push it. Twist the knife. Dig under his skin and never leave.
You’ll break eventually, Jeon.
But that had been a lie.
Because Mingyu was already the one breaking.
Splintering into want and violence and obsession.
And he didn’t want to stop.
He wanted to go deeper.
Worse.
All the way.
Until Jeon Wonwoo wasn’t cold anymore.
Until he said Mingyu’s name like a curse—or a prayer.
Until he bled for him.
Until he begged.
Notes:
Kudos and comments are appreciated as always.
Thoughts on the first chapter?
Chapter Text
Jeon Wonwoo's POV
Jeon Wonwoo didn’t like chaos.
He liked the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. The sting of antiseptic in the air. The sound of tape tearing, gloves tightening. His body moving with method, with discipline, with purpose.
Each jab was math. Each block was instinct. Each bruise, earned. Clean. Controlled.
Control was everything.
And then Kim Mingyu arrived, all heat and noise and fucking fire, and ruined it.
Wonwoo tried to pretend he didn’t notice at first. Tall guys with ego problems were a dime a dozen in the underground circuit. He was used to it. They always burned out fast—some from the pain, most from their pride.
But Mingyu didn’t burn out.
He burned brighter.
Every time he stepped into the gym, it was like the temperature changed. Like the air grew thicker, heavier, harder to breathe. Like he knew he was being watched—and liked it.
Worse than that, he looked back.
Every win, every knockdown, every round he left bloodstained—Mingyu’s gaze would sweep the gym, slow and searching, until it found him.
And then he’d smile. That wicked, teeth-baring thing like he was about to set something on fire just to see how fast it’d spread.
It wasn’t just that he stared. It was that he saw.
Like he could peel Wonwoo open with a glance.
And Wonwoo hated that. Hated that he noticed the way Mingyu’s sweat clung to his neck like a second skin. Hated the way his voice curled around taunts like a whisper meant for him alone. Hated how his muscles bunched and flexed under bruised skin like every part of him was asking to be touched—tested—taken.
He told himself it was just analysis. Tactical. Smart. He watched all his opponents.
But he didn’t dream about his opponents.
Not like this.
Not with Mingyu pinning him down in some fevered, wordless fantasy—hips pressed hard, breath ragged, mouth dragging hot against his neck. Blood between their teeth. Hands on skin. And always that voice, rough and close and familiar.
He’d wake up sweating. Angry. Hard.
Disgusted with himself.
He didn’t get attached. He didn’t get distracted.
But Mingyu had made distraction into an art.
The locker room confrontation should’ve ended it. It was meant to intimidate, to remind Mingyu who held the reins. Who didn’t flinch.
But instead, Mingyu stood too close, breathing hard, eyes gleaming with something that didn’t look like fear—or respect.
It looked like hunger.
And when he said, “Maybe I’ll take something else,” Wonwoo didn’t feel threatened.
He felt his body react.
Blood surging. Skin buzzing. Like Mingyu had struck something deep—something buried and dormant and dangerous.
He’d told himself it was nothing. But he watched more closely after that.
At first, from the shadows. Then, near the edge of the ring. Close enough to feel the heat coming off Mingyu’s body as he trained. Close enough to want.
He noticed things. He shouldn’t have.
Like how Mingyu took hits without blinking, as if he needed them. Like how he’d suck in a breath and smile through the pain. Like how, when he thought no one was watching, his shoulders dropped just slightly—as if the weight of the world was something he only carried in private.
Wonwoo saw it.
Saw him.
And that made it worse. Because it wasn’t a strategy anymore. It wasn’t control.
It was curiosity.
It was want.
And it meant he cared.
Which was dangerous.
Because Mingyu was fire. Unruly. Wild. Destructive.
And Wonwoo?
Was supposed to be ice.
But even ice cracks under enough heat.
And he was already starting to melt
End of Wonwoo's POV
The locker room always smelled like old blood and floor polish.
Tonight, it was quieter than usual. Most of the fighters had already cleared out, their laughter and groans echoing down the corridor, leaving behind only echoes and shadows.
Seungcheol sat hunched over on the bench, elbows braced on his knees, sweat slicking the nape of his neck. His left eye was swelling shut—clean hook, miscalculated dodge. He hadn’t gone down, though. He never did.
He didn’t look up when the door creaked open.
Didn’t have to.
He always knew when Jeonghan was near.
The other man walked in without saying a word, the sound of his boots dull against the concrete floor. He didn’t ask what happened—he’d seen the fight. Everyone had. The guy Seungcheol had faced was bigger, younger, reckless. But Jeonghan had watched, arms crossed, eyes unreadable as Seungcheol took the hits and gave them back harder.
Jeonghan dropped a towel on the bench beside him. Then a water bottle. Then a cold pack.
Still no words.
Seungcheol finally looked up, and their eyes met.
Jeonghan's face was a blank canvas to most people—pretty, emotionless, unreadable. But Seungcheol had known him long enough to recognize the tightness at the corner of his mouth. The slight flare in his nostrils. The storm he kept locked behind his lashes.
"You let him get too close," Jeonghan said finally, crouching in front of him. His hands moved with the kind of efficiency born from habit—twisting the cold pack, testing the seal, pressing it gently against Seungcheol’s cheekbone.
Seungcheol hissed, but didn’t pull away. “Didn’t matter. I won.”
“That’s not what I said.”
His fingers paused, just for a moment.
There it was again—an ache buried in Jeonghan’s voice, quiet but razor-sharp. Regret, maybe. Or anger. Or something harder to name.
"You let him hit you like you wanted it," Jeonghan said, lower this time. Almost to himself.
Seungcheol didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.
They both knew.
Some nights, the pain was the only thing that kept the numbness away.
Jeonghan’s palm flattened against his cheek, not rough, not gentle—just there. Holding. Anchoring.
"You can’t keep fighting like you’re trying to disappear," Jeonghan whispered.
Seungcheol smiled, the blood in his mouth metallic and warm. “Isn’t that what you loved about me?”
Jeonghan leaned closer. His breath was soft against Seungcheol’s jaw, their foreheads nearly touching now. “Loved?” he echoed, and the word trembled in the space between them like a blade on edge.
Their mouths didn’t meet.
But their silence did.
There was no soft reconciliation. No apology. Just a long pause where the world narrowed to breath and pulse and the familiar weight of a war neither of them had ever really left.
Jeonghan stood first.
He didn’t speak again—just picked up the bloodied towel and started wiping the floor. Like this was any other night. Like it hadn’t nearly broken him.
Seungcheol watched him go, chest hollow and burning.
Some people kissed like promises.
They hurt each other instead.
And somehow, that had always been enough.
Jeonghan didn’t come back right away.
He never did.
That was the thing about him—he was always leaving. Always disappearing when things got too close, when the quiet between them thickened into something heavier than blood or bruises. Seungcheol never chased him. Not because he didn’t want to. But because he knew what waited at the end of that hallway: nothing.
Except tonight, something was different.
Because fifteen minutes later, just as Seungcheol had finished taping the gash above his knee, the door opened again.
Jeonghan stepped back in, a cigarette tucked behind his ear and a small black first-aid kit in his hand.
He didn’t say anything as he sat beside him.
Didn’t offer comfort.
Didn’t ask permission.
He just reached over, dragged the kit into his lap, and started undoing the old tape on Seungcheol’s knuckles.
“You wrap like a fucking amateur,” he muttered.
Seungcheol gave a tired laugh. “You’re still here.”
Jeonghan didn’t answer. He focused on the bloodied gauze, unpeeling it slow, careful, like the skin underneath mattered. His fingers were steady, but Seungcheol could feel the heat under them—the simmering frustration, the fury held too long behind those careful eyes.
“I’m not going to watch you throw yourself at ghosts,” Jeonghan said, voice low. “If you want to destroy yourself, do it alone. Don’t do it while I’m watching.”
Seungcheol turned to look at him, really look. And maybe it was the adrenaline finally wearing off, or the silence of the locker room pressing in too tight, but something in him cracked.
“You are watching,” he whispered.
Jeonghan’s hands stilled.
Seungcheol leaned closer, blood still drying on his temple, a line of bruises already blooming down his collarbone. He could feel Jeonghan’s breath hitch just slightly. Could feel the pull between them—hot and reckless and wrong.
“I’m still here,” Seungcheol said. “Still breathing. Still fighting. Still bleeding. For what, Hannie?”
Jeonghan flinched at the name. Not visibly—but Seungcheol felt it.
“You think I don’t see it?” Seungcheol pushed, voice just above a whisper now, dangerous and tender all at once. “How you watch every match I take. How your hands shake when you clean me up. How you only ever touch me when I’m broken.”
He reached out, caught Jeonghan’s wrist before he could pull away.
“Is that the only version of me you know how to hold?”
Jeonghan looked down.
His voice was barely audible when it came. “I don’t know how to hold the rest of you.”
For a moment, they were still.
Just two men in a blood-stained room, wrapped in years of unsaid things and bruised love that never softened—only sharpened.
Then Jeonghan leaned in, forehead pressing against Seungcheol’s. Their bodies didn’t move. They didn’t kiss. Didn’t reach for anything more.
But their breathing aligned.
And for once, Seungcheol didn’t feel like he was falling alone.
They stayed that way until the lights flickered overhead, signaling closing time.
Only then did Jeonghan pull back, gentle and quiet.
He finished taping Seungcheol’s hands in silence. Then stood. Walked away without looking back.
But just before the door clicked shut, he said—
“Don’t die tomorrow.”
Seungcheol smiled to himself, blood in his mouth and heart in his throat.
That, in Jeonghan’s language, was as close to I love you as it ever got.
The first time they stepped into the ring together, the gym was nearly silent. Empty except for the buzz of old lights, the faint creak of ropes, the subtle echo of movement against padded floors.
It wasn’t an accident.
Someone had orchestrated it—Hoshi, most likely, or Jun with one of those barely-there smirks that meant trouble. The kind of setup you didn’t question until it was too late. No fanfare, no announcement. Just a whiteboard in the corner, where names were scribbled in blue marker like an afterthought.
18:00. Jeon vs. Kim.
No title.
No exhibition.
No crowd.
Just an invitation.
Just inevitability.
Two men, alone beneath dim lights, gloves on, sweat already beginning to pearl along skin not from effort—but anticipation. Hearts beating like war drums in chests that pretended calm.
Mingyu was already there when Wonwoo walked in. He always was—early, composed, stretching with feline grace and that deceptive ease that made him look half-asleep. His long limbs folded and unfolded in rhythmic motions, taut muscle flexing under flushed skin. Each move controlled, deliberate. Relaxed in a way that meant he was anything but.
The moment he rose, his eyes found him.
As if they had been waiting for this.
As if he had been waiting.
Wonwoo didn’t speak. He never did when it mattered.
He stepped through the ropes like a shadow sliding into place, head down, gait unhurried. His silence wasn’t uncertainty—it was calculation. Restraint. That sharp-edged stillness he carried like a second skin.
No smirk.
No nod.
Just that blank, flat stare.
But Mingyu saw more.
He saw the subtle clench of his jaw that didn’t match the indifference on his face. The way his fingers fidgeted briefly on the strap of his glove, like nerves were trying to claw their way out.
Tension sat between them like a third body—palpable, humming. Heavy.
They were both strung too tight.
Both ready to break.
The bell rang.
And everything else—time, space, logic—fell away.
They began to circle, slow and silent. No words. No showy footwork. Just that thick air between them, charged like a storm about to split open the sky. Every breath was a warning. Every step a provocation. Neither lunged. Neither dared to be the first.
Mingyu’s heart pounded like a fist in his throat, but his eyes never wavered. He watched Wonwoo’s stance, the way he held himself—shoulders relaxed, posture loose, but underneath? Coiled. Ready. Dangerous. Like a blade pretending to be dull.
He wasn’t looking for victory.
Not tonight.
He wasn’t here to prove something.
He was here to feel something.
Contact.
Friction.
Heat.
A punch. A graze. A bruise.
He didn’t want to win.
He just wanted to be touched.
To see if he could make Wonwoo snap.
To see what might break loose if he did.
And across the ring, Wonwoo’s eyes met his, dark and depthless.
Neither of them blinked.
To feel the strength in those arms, the sharp calculation behind every move. He wanted to know what it would take to break Jeon Wonwoo’s control—and what would happen when it did.
Wonwoo struck first.
A blur—fast, surgical, almost inhuman. A clean arc of muscle and instinct, sharp enough to whistle through air. Mingyu ducked by a breath, feeling the wind kiss his cheek, the near-miss burning hotter than contact ever could.
His grin came easy. Reflexive.
“Careful,” he said, voice low and laced with something dangerous. “Almost thought you wanted me.”
Wonwoo didn’t rise to it. He never did.
Instead, he surged forward with another hit—this one a brutal jab to the ribs. Precise. Measured. Deliberate.
Mingyu staggered back a step, not from pain, but from surprise. His breath caught as the sting bloomed beneath his skin, a small spark against the storm he knew was coming.
And God, he loved it.
This wasn’t a fight. Not really.
This was intimacy in its rawest, most vicious form. A conversation spoken in bruises and breath. No audience. No ring girl holding a round card. Just them, writing their own language in sweat and silence.
Each punch: a question.
Each dodge: a challenge.
Each hit that landed: a confession.
Wonwoo moved like a ghost and a weapon. Efficient. Silent. Unreadable. He didn’t taunt. Didn’t talk. He watched, eyes tracking every twitch in Mingyu’s stance, every breath he took. Like he already knew what was coming. Like he was waiting for it.
And Mingyu gave him everything.
He didn’t hold back. Didn’t dance. He met each move with his own brand of reckless, chaotic power—grinning through the pain, pushing through the sweat, always close, always chasing.
Then Wonwoo drove him into the corner.
Mingyu’s back hit the ropes with a shudder. Wonwoo didn’t let up. He stepped in, fast, close, and pressed a forearm hard across Mingyu’s chest, pinning him with his entire body. Their faces were so close their breath tangled in the inch of air between them.
Mingyu didn’t flinch.
Didn’t lean away.
He leaned in.
“Tell me,” he murmured, voice more breath than sound, his lips nearly brushing Wonwoo’s. “Do you dream about this too?”
Wonwoo’s gaze didn’t waver.
Didn’t soften.
But it burned.
And the air—something in it shifted. Thickened. Like the gym had forgotten it was a gym and remembered it was a cage. Like the walls knew they weren’t built to contain this kind of heat.
Then, without a word, they dropped the gloves.
Stripped off the last layer of pretense.
No rules.
No rounds.
No bell.
They moved to the mats in the back, the ones meant for grappling and ground work—but what they were doing was neither. This wasn’t training. This was something else.
Something primal.
Something honest.
The silence between them was deafening. Every breath a shout. Every shift a scream.
Mingyu struck first this time—no jab, no warning. Just a forward surge, all muscle and want and fury. He tackled Wonwoo back with a full-body collision, not elegant but devastating. They slammed into the mat with a thud that echoed through the empty gym like a gunshot.
Wonwoo responded like lightning—fluid and violent. He twisted, blocked, grabbed—meeting each of Mingyu’s wild hits with sharp control, like a man who’d trained for this moment for years. Like he knew Mingyu better than Mingyu knew himself.
They rolled, bodies locked, legs tangling, hands grappling for control.
Then Mingyu hooked a leg, shifted weight, drove them down.
The mat slammed into their backs.
Wonwoo grunted, more sound than pain, his hands briefly caught beneath Mingyu’s grip. Mingyu straddled him, knees braced on either side of his hips, one hand pressing his shoulder down, the other flat against his chest.
Their breathing was loud now.
Harsh.
Vulnerable.
Sweat dripped from Mingyu’s brow, trailing down his jaw to fall onto the curve of Wonwoo’s collarbone. His hair hung low, shadowing his eyes.
“Got you,” he whispered, voice rough, eyes wild. “Say it.”
But Wonwoo only shifted. A slight movement—barely a twitch—but it was enough. One calculated angle, one sharp twist, and Mingyu’s center of balance cracked.
His knee buckled.
Crack.
And then the world turned upside down.
In a blink, Mingyu was flat on his back, the air punched from his lungs.
Now Wonwoo was on top.
Thighs locked tight around Mingyu’s hips. One hand braced to the side, the other slung across his throat—not choking. Just… reminding. Reminding him who was in control. Reminding him that surrender was a choice.
And this was the edge of it.
Mingyu didn’t move.
Didn’t fight it.
He could have. He could have thrown a punch, twisted free, gone for the reversal again.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he stared up at the man above him, chest heaving, heart thundering.
His fists clenched. Not in resistance—but in restraint.
There was something sacred about the silence now. Something that buzzed beneath their skin like electricity. Wonwoo’s eyes were dark—dark in a way that didn’t ask questions. Didn’t need to.
And Mingyu felt it.
The weight of him.
The heat.
The want.
Not lust. Not even quite love.
Something messier.
Something worse.
Need.
They didn’t speak.
They just stared.
And in that quiet, sweat-slicked, breathless stretch of time, the truth hung between them—
This was never just a fight.
It never had been.
Wonwoo’s jaw was set, iron-forged and tight. His breath came low and sharp, the kind of breathing you do when you're trying not to say something you can't take back. His hair fell into his face, shadowing his eyes—those eyes—like a curtain pulled between him and whatever he didn’t want Mingyu to see.
But Mingyu saw anyway.
The twitch of restraint in Wonwoo’s jaw.
The tremor in his fingers where they hovered just above skin.
The battle—not with Mingyu, but with himself.
And still, Mingyu didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t even breathe.
He just lay there on the mat, heart slamming against his ribs like it wanted out, eyes pinned to the man above him.
Then, slowly, deliberately, Wonwoo leaned down.
His hand fisted in the front of Mingyu’s shirt—tight enough that the fabric bunched at the collarbone, that their torsos lifted together in a single motion. He yanked him up like Mingyu didn’t weigh a thing. Like gravity had no say here.
And suddenly they were close.
Mouths brushing distance.
Sweat-slick skin near enough to blur.
Hearts racing in the same rhythm, same tempo, same heat.
It didn’t matter how intimate it looked—how intimate it was.
It didn’t matter that the line was gone.
It didn’t matter that this was already something else.
Wonwoo’s voice dropped, cold and steady and clean like broken glass.
“Try that shit again,” he said, eyes locked on Mingyu’s mouth like it had betrayed something. “And I won’t let you up next time.”
Then—bam—he shoved him back down.
Hard.
The mat smacked against Mingyu’s spine. His breath punched out of him in a grunt, but he didn’t protest. Didn't stop him. Didn't even reach up to catch himself.
Because all he could do was watch as Wonwoo stood.
One smooth, lethal motion.
He didn’t glance back. Not once.
Didn’t give him a single look of confirmation or denial.
Just turned on his heel, muscles coiled, back straight, and walked out of the gym like he hadn’t just left a warzone behind.
Didn’t fucking need to.
Because Mingyu was still flat on the mat, staring at the ceiling like it held answers. His chest heaved. His cheek pulsed from where it had hit the floor. His ribs—God, his ribs—sang from that earlier strike, hot and bruised and perfect.
But none of it mattered.
Because he was grinning.
Wide. Unhinged. The grin of a man who’d finally seen the end of the tunnel and found not light, but fire.
Because Wonwoo touched him.
Not just physically—though that alone was burned into his skin. Not just the shove. Not just the straddle or the forearm press or the grip on his collar. No. The first hit. The rib shot. That clean, merciless strike—the one that got through, close and bare and honest.
It wasn’t just pain.
It was proof.
Mingyu pressed a palm to his side, feeling the throb echo beneath his skin. The warmth was still there, not yet faded, like Wonwoo had left a brand on him.
His other hand went to his chest, fingers splayed. He laughed—soft, almost reverent.
“Fucking finally.”
He closed his eyes, breath slow but uneven.
This wasn’t victory.
Wasn’t sanity.
Wasn’t love—not yet.
But it was something.
Something raw.
Something real.
He’d fought a hundred rounds. Taken a thousand hits. Broken his knuckles more times than he could count.
But this?
This mattered.
His ribs ached.
His jaw throbbed.
His spine screamed.
But his mouth wouldn’t stop curling upward, that crooked, manic grin still etched across his face.
Not because he won.
Because he lost—and it meant something.
Because Wonwoo cracked.
Because that mask, that control, that wall?
It slipped.
And for one goddamn second, Wonwoo felt something.
And next time?
Next time he wouldn’t run.
Next time, he’d stay
Notes:
i changed the name, the new one feels more like the vibe of the story hehe
Chapter 3: In Your Veins
Chapter Text
The gym had emptied like a battlefield after war—bodies trailing sweat and bruises, a low buzz of bloodlust still clinging to the air like smoke. Lights dimmed. Distant laughter. The scent of iron and chalk was heavy in the air.
Jihoon stayed behind, as he always did. Along with the echo of fists on leather. Wrapping his own hands even though he hadn’t fought tonight. He never did anymore. Not where people could see.
The back door creaked open.
Soonyoung didn’t announce himself. Never did. He moved like he had the right to be there—like he still owned some part of the silence Jihoon had spent years trying to rebuild.
Jihoon didn’t look up.
He didn’t have to.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low, even. Like a warning. Like a rule they both remembered breaking.
Soonyoung leaned against the far wall, eyes locked on him. “And yet.”
Jihoon kept tapping his knuckles. “Don’t start.”
“You still do it the same way.” Soonyoung’s voice dropped, almost fond. “Left wrist first. Thumb over the bone.”
Jihoon’s fingers twitched.
“Shut up.”
But Soonyoung pushed away from the wall. Took slow, deliberate steps closer, like every inch mattered. His boots scuffed the mat. He passed the same spot Mingyu had bled earlier. Didn’t flinch.
“You've been watching him?” he asked, tone quieter now. Curious. Dangerous. “Mingyu. The way you watched me back then.”
Jihoon finally looked up.
And for a second—just one—his eyes were empty.
“No one bleeds like you did.”
Silence.
Thick. Dense. Nearly alive.
Soonyoung smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”
“It’s not.”
But he still wasn’t backing away.
Neither of them did. That was the problem. Always circling. Never retreating. Just trading scars and pretending they weren’t addicted to the ache.
Soonyoung’s hand twitched toward his own ribs, like remembering something. Or someone.
“Still have the key?”
Jihoon’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t.”
Soonyoung stepped close enough that Jihoon could feel the heat radiating off his chest. His breath smelled like whiskey and blood.
“I think about it sometimes,” he murmured. “That night in the basement. The way you looked at me. Like you wanted to kill me or kiss me. Maybe both.”
Jihoon’s jaw clenched. His fists curled. The air between them cracked like it might combust.
“That night’s not real.”
Soonyoung tilted his head. “You sure? Because it still hurts like it was.”
Jihoon shoved past him. Hard. Shoulder to chest. Soonyoung staggered back with a quiet laugh, but his smile stayed frozen on his lips—haunted and satisfied.
“Still got claws,” he muttered.
Jihoon didn’t look back. Didn’t answer. Just disappeared into the dark hallway, the sound of his boots fading like a warning. Like a promise.
Soonyoung stood there for a long time.
Hand pressed to the place Jihoon had hit him.
Smiling.
Like it had been a gift.
Mingyu sat hunched on the curb outside the gym like a war hero who’d survived something noble and profoundly stupid. His tank top clung to his skin, soaked through with sweat and just enough blood to concern a stranger. His knuckles were scraped, one hand lazily wrapped in gauze that was rapidly darkening. The other clutched a warm, flat beer he’d fished from the vending machine like a prize for pain.
It tasted like regret. And aluminum. And victory.
He took another swig, winced, and let out a low groan that sounded suspiciously like a moan. His ribs throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat, hot and sharp and glorious.
Wonwoo had punched him.
Wonwoo had looked at him like a storm looks at the sea, and then he’d punched him.
And Mingyu could still feel the echo of it—sharp, blooming pain and the residual heat of skin-on-skin. He touched me. He touched me.
A laugh burst out of him before he could stop it. Low and delirious. Half-drunk on pain, half-drunk on whatever the hell Wonwoo’s eyes had done to him.
Then—
SCREECH.
A blur of headlights and tire rubber, and Seokmin’s ancient, slightly dented car swung up to the curb like it wanted to challenge Mingyu to a duel.
The passenger window rolled down with a mechanical wheeze.
And Seokmin’s face emerged like the world’s most disappointed mother.
“What the fuck,” he said flatly. “Get in the car. Now. Before someone calls the cops because you look like a bloodied cryptid trying to seduce a vending machine.”
Mingyu grinned. Full teeth. Sunshine through clouds.
“You’re so dramatic,” he muttered, dragging himself into the seat. Every movement hurt. He groaned and sighed and slouched like he was in a French film about beautiful men who died tragically young.
Seokmin stared at him. Blinked once. Twice.
“You are smiling,” he said, pointing a finger accusingly. “You are smiling and bleeding. Jesus Christ. What happened? No—don’t tell me. Actually, no—tell me. I need to know what hellhole I’m in.”
“I got hit,” Mingyu said, dreamily.
“By whom? A forklift?”
“Wonwoo.”
Silence.
Some more silence.
Then, A beat.
A recalibration of reality.
Seokmin’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “Wonwoo?”
“Mmhm,” Mingyu nodded, clutching his ribs like they were a bouquet of love letters. “Right here. He hit me hard.”
Seokmin made a high-pitched choking noise. “You got punched in the ribs by Jeon Wonwoo, and you’re smiling like you just got proposed to.”
“He made eye contact first,” Mingyu whispered, reverent. “Searing. Like laser beams. And then—bam. Right into me. I think I blacked out for a second. It was beautiful.”
Seokmin clutched the steering wheel like it was the last thing anchoring him to sanity. “You’re horny, aren’t you? OMG You’re bleeding and horny. JESUS, MINGYU.”
Mingyu cracked up.
Like, cracked up—full-body shivers of laughter, head thrown back, eyes wet, wheezing into the crook of his elbow while his bruised ribs screamed in protest.
“Oh my god,” Seokmin muttered. “He broke you. You’re broken. Romantically concussed.”
“I think I saw God,” Mingyu gasped, tears slipping down his cheeks.
“And let me guess,” Seokmin deadpanned. “God had dark eyes, a sharp jawline, and enough repressed rage to power Seoul.”
Mingyu nodded solemnly. “Yeah, and his name is Wonwoo.”
Seokmin slammed the brakes a little too hard at the next red light. “You don’t need a doctor. You need a priest. Or maybe both, take both”
Mingyu grinned, one hand still pressed over the ache in his side. It felt like it radiated light now. Sacred pain. Baptized by fist.
“It hurts,” he whispered, eyes half-lidded. “But like… in a poetic way.”
“Poetic?!” Seokmin screeched. “You’re turning into a masochist over a guy who looks like he’d rather be haunted than hugged.”
“Yeah,” Mingyu murmured, head tilting like he could still feel the punch. “But what if he wants to haunt me? Like he chose me to hurt”
Seokmin made an inhuman noise, slapped the gas, and muttered a series of curses that probably voided his warranty.
Mingyu leaned his head back against the seat, smiling like he’d been chosen. Like pain was a secret love letter written in bruises and cracked ribs.
Upstairs, the gym was quiet.
Silent in a way that felt unnatural, like something was missing. Like the walls themselves were still waiting for the next blow. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting long shadows over the scuffed mats and sweat-slick floors. The smell of blood hadn’t quite left the air.
Wonwoo stood in the locker room, alone, the sound of his breathing sharp in the stillness. His chest rose and fell like he was still in the ring. Like he hadn’t left the fight. But it wasn’t adrenaline now—not really.
It was something hotter. Something worse.
His hand was still curled into a fist.
The one that had slammed into Mingyu’s ribs.
That punch had come too easy. Too eager. It hadn’t been about defense. It hadn’t even been about winning.
It had been about feeling.
And that made it dangerous.
Wonwoo flexed his fingers slowly, watched the skin stretch over bruised knuckles. The ache shot up his arm, but it wasn’t the pain that lingered—it was the memory. The tension in Mingyu’s body beneath his. The stupid smirk on his face, even while gasping for air. The look in his eyes.
Like he’d wanted it.
Like he’d wanted him.
Wonwoo ground his teeth together. He shouldn’t have stayed on top of him that long. Shouldn’t have let his knee pin Mingyu’s hip, shouldn’t have leaned in close enough to smell his shampoo, the salt of sweat on his skin. Shouldn’t have noticed how soft Mingyu’s lips looked up close.
Like a threat.
Like a promise.
And then he left.
He hadn’t looked back. Didn’t want to see the look he knew would be there. That heat. That hunger.
Because even now, in the dim light of the locker room, it clung to him. In his clothes. Under his skin. Like Mingyu had left fingerprints all over his bones.
Wonwoo opened his locker with more force than necessary. The door banged against the metal frame and rattled. He didn’t flinch. He just stood there, staring blankly at the inside. Sweat still beaded down his spine. His shirt clung to him like a second skin.
And all he could see—reflected faintly in the dented metal—was himself.
Wide shoulders. Stiff jaw. Eyes rimmed with something sharp and unspeakable.
He looked like a man standing on the edge of something, trying not to fall.
Or maybe trying to.
The locker didn’t hold answers. Just a pair of extra wraps. A folded towel. A photo tucked into the back, half-hidden behind a box of tape. It was old. He didn’t look at it. Not anymore.
He slammed the door shut, but it rebounded instead of closing, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the hollow space.
He shouldn’t have touched him.
Not like that. Not like it meant something. Because it did—and that was the problem.
Because Mingyu—Mingyu didn’t fight like he wanted to win.
He fought like he wanted to be seen.
And worst of all?
He was.
Every second. Every motion. Every word. Wonwoo had watched him since day one, and he knew now—without question—that he should’ve kept his distance.
Because Mingyu was heat and noise and trouble wrapped in a six-foot frame and an idiot’s grin. He was everything Wonwoo had sworn off. Everything he’d buried years ago. Everything he didn’t trust himself to want again.
But here he was.
His hand was aching from a punch he shouldn’t have thrown.
Heart pounding from a moment that never should’ve happened.
He braced both palms on the edge of the bench, arms locked, spine tense, like holding himself in place might stop the rest of him from unraveling.
Control. That’s what he’d built his life on. In the gym. In the ring. In his head.
And now Mingyu was cracking it open like it was easy.
Like he belonged there.
Wonwoo squeezed his eyes shut, sucked in a breath that didn’t help, and told himself again and again: It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean anything.
But his body knew better.
His fist knew better.
And deep down, beneath the discipline, beneath the muscle and the silence and the steel, his heart was whispering the one truth he couldn’t admit:
It meant everything.
Because Mingyu had touched something inside him he’d buried with purpose.
And now that thing?
Was waking up. Hungry. And alive.
And Wonwoo didn’t know if he could kill it a second time.
The bass pounded like fists against ribs.
Low. Relentless. The kind of sound that crawled under the skin and stayed there, vibrating through bone.
Wonwoo sat in the back corner of the club, half-sunk into cracked leather, his drink untouched, Glass sweating in his palm. Light sliced across his face in erratic flashes—red, then blue, then red again—painting him in the colors of violence.
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t move.
The music pulsed. Bodies collided. People laughed with mouths open too wide, pupils blown wide with drugs or desperation. The air was thick with sweat and perfume and the cloying ache of people trying to forget themselves.
He wasn’t.
He couldn’t.
He needed silence. Stillness. Something to quiet the riot in his chest. But instead, he came here—because silence had teeth lately, and stillness looked too much like surrender.
So he chased the noise instead.
A distraction.
That’s what he told himself when she found him. All smoky eyes and wine-red lips, hunger wrapped in a too-tight dress. She didn't ask—just climbed into his lap like she'd been there before, like she had the right.
She was soft.
She was pretty.
She wasn’t him.
Her nails scraped lightly along the sharp line of his jaw, a calculated move meant to tease, to ignite. She leaned in with the confidence of someone used to being wanted, used to getting reactions, and he didn’t stop her.
Didn’t even flinch.
Her lips met his with force—mouth hot, tongue slick and searching, moving against him like she was trying to drag something out of him by sheer will alone. Like if she kissed him hard enough, deeply enough, he might start to respond. Might start to feel.
He let her kiss him.
Let her press her chest flush against his, let her fingers tangle in his shirt like she wanted to tear it off. Let her grind against him, slow and deliberate, her breath growing ragged, laced with a moan that stuttered out of her throat the moment his hands slid to her hips.
He held her. Gripped her like he was supposed to.
Felt her arch into him, heard the way her breath caught, needy and raw.
And yet—
Wonwoo felt nothing.
Not a flicker of desire. Not even discomfort. Not even guilt.
Just silence, where there should have been heat.
Just emptiness, where most people would’ve burned.
Her mouth moved desperately against his, but his stayed passive, barely reacting, like it was muscle memory rather than instinct. Her hips rolled harder, chasing something, maybe validation, maybe connection—but he wasn’t there to meet her halfway. Wasn’t even on the same map.
His body was present. His mind was not.
She moaned again, softer this time, confused maybe, but still too far gone to notice the way his eyes had drifted out of focus.
She tasted like cinnamon lip gloss and cheap vodka.
And none of it registered.
Not in the way he wanted it to.
It was like trying to spark a flame in a room that had already burned down.
No revulsion. No shame. No heat.
Just the bitter clarity of knowing exactly who wasn’t in front of him.
And knowing exactly who he wished was.
Eyes closed, he tried. Tried to trick himself—rewrite the curve of her spine, change the scent of her hair, pretend her hands were bigger, rougher, familiar. Pretend her kiss had teeth. That her breath came fast, not from wanting, but from fighting.
He tried to pretend she was taller. Louder. Smelled like blood and menthol and sweat-soaked gym mats.
He tried to pretend she was Mingyu.
But she wasn’t.
And she never would be.
His stomach turned, sharp and sudden. The weight of her. The gloss of her lips. The way she whispered into his mouth like this meant something—like he meant something—it all blurred into static. Wrong textures. Wrong voice. Wrong person.
When she whispered, "Take me upstairs," her voice breathy and hopeful, he nodded.
But it wasn’t an agreement.
It was an escape.
They made it to the VIP room.
Lights low. Music muffled behind thick velvet-lined walls. The air was heavy with sweat and perfume, spiked with bass that pulsed faintly through the floor.
Her shirt came off in seconds.
She was bare in front of him—flushed with heat and alcohol, lips parted in invitation, her eyes glassy with desire. Her fingers trembled, not from hesitation but from anticipation, from the buzz of being wanted in a way that always felt just shy of worship. She waited for his hands. For the confirmation that he was there with her.
But he didn’t touch her.
He just stared.
At the hollow between her collarbones. The gentle rise and fall of her chest. Her bra unhooked, straps sliding down her arms like an offering. She stood there, open, unguarded, her skin marked by the night—highball glasses, sticky booth leather, laughter too loud in the wrong places. She was real. And trying. Willing to give.
And yet—
His hands hung by his sides, heavy, inert. His body ached with absence, not desire. He didn’t blink.
Her breath hitched. She stepped closer. Close enough that her warmth touched his bare forearms. Close enough that her perfume turned sharp in his nose. Close enough that he should have wanted something.
But all he felt was distance.
His heart stayed locked
His hand twitched at his side.
She whispered his name, soft and questioning.
Something cracked.
He turned his back.
Didn’t say a word. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t flinch when she gasped or when her voice pitched up, offended and small. He just walked out, like he was leaving a fight he never entered, shutting the door on something he was never part of.
The hallway was colder. Harsher. Honest.
The night air hit him like a slap—clean and sharp, filled with the sounds of traffic and laughter and life that felt lightyears away from his own. He lit a cigarette with fingers that shook. Took a drag he didn’t want. Let the smoke sear the back of his throat just to feel something.
His hand trembled as he pressed it flat to his chest.
The burn was still there.
Not from shame. Not from lust denied. But from something older, something buried so deep inside him it had teeth.
Because it wasn’t just sex he was chasing.
It was a ghost.
Mingyu’s ghost.
Everywhere. In his mind. In his mouth. In the phantom ache where their bodies had collided in the ring—hot, electric, primal.
Mingyu, who’d grinned through blood.
Mingyu, whose eyes touched him like every bruise mattered.
Mingyu, who’d looked at him like he wanted him—not for a night, not for a thrill, but with a kind of reckless sincerity that terrified him.
Wonwoo exhaled, let the smoke spill from his lips like a confession.
You should’ve stayed away, Kim Mingyu.
He knew obsession. Knew what it could rot. What could it steal? He’d seen it destroy people—had felt the hunger of it once, years ago, when he was still stupid enough to believe that need could be survived.
But Mingyu?
Mingyu made it feel inevitable.
Like falling wasn’t a choice anymore.
He leaned back against the brick wall, head tilted to the sky. Ash drifted down from the tip of the cigarette, forgotten between his fingers. The city hummed around him.
And in the silence between his ribs, something whispered back.
Not her name.
Never her name.
Always—“Mingyu.”
And like the punishment it was, he let it echo.
Let it carve him out.
Let it claim him.
Because it wasn’t lust that kept him up at night.
It was the image of Mingyu—on top of him, below him, everywhere—the ghost of a fight that had morphed into something feral, something worse.
A hunger he couldn’t exorcise.
Not with women. Not with pain. Not even with silence.
Wonwoo closed his eyes, let the smoke rise, and muttered under his breath until he hissed, voice hoarse and bitter and half-prayer, half-curse:
“Fuck you, Kim Mingyu.”
But he already knew—
He’d dream of him anyway.
And he’d wake up burning. Again.
Still empty.
Still aching.
Still wanting something that would never leave him in peace.
Mingyu was sprawled on Seokmin’s couch like roadkill—shirt half off, one sock on, the other thrown god-knows-where, ribs wrapped under a crooked ice pack, and a beer can precariously balanced on his stomach like a sad trophy. A second empty one was already tipped over on the floor, and a third was hanging limp in his hand, warm and fizzing out like the last of his dignity.
He looked like a romance novel cover gone horribly wrong.
“You’re smiling,” Seokmin announced, standing over him like he was waiting for a dramatic exorcism to start. “You look like you just got laid, and your rib is literally cracked.”
Mingyu grinned wider, eyes glassy with either pain or delusion. “It’s not cracked. It’s…motivated.”
“You wheezed walking up the stairs, Mingyu. Like a haunted harmonica.”
“Still walked.”
“You also giggled.” Seokmin pointed at him like he’d caught him committing a felony. “Giggled like someone read you a dirty limerick. After Wonwoo decked you.”
Mingyu just stretched, winced, and grinned like an idiot. “He’s so strong, dude.”
Seokmin made a sound like he was about to throw a Bible at him
“You smiled.” Seokmin jabbed a finger at him like it was evidence in a murder trial. “You got decked by Jeon Fucking Wonwoo and you smiled like he gave you a Valentine’s Day card. That’s not normal. That’s—what’s the word, Josh?”
Joshua, who had been quietly sipping tea in the kitchen like a civilized adult, looked up from his mug and raised an eyebrow. “Unhinged.”
“Un-fucking-hinged!” Seokmin pointed between them like it was a relay of diagnosis. “You got hit and got horny, and I swear to God, if you moan next time he knees you, I’m calling a priest.”
Mingyu groaned, covering his face with his arm. “It’s not like that.”
“Oh, it’s exactly like that,” Seokmin shot back. “You were out laughing, smiling like a little schoolgirl with a crush. It was disgusting.”
Joshua set his tea down. “So... is this a thing now? You’re into masochistic romance via combat?”
Mingyu lifted his arm, blinking at the ceiling. “It’s not the pain.”
Seokmin rolled his eyes. “Sure. You just love getting tackled into the mat and punched in the lungs.”
Joshua sipped calmly. “To be fair, he might be concussed.”
Mingyu raised a finger from the couch. “No concussion. I remember everything. Every second. He flipped me, pinned me, leaned in, and said—”
“Nope!” Seokmin slapped his hands over his ears. “Don’t you dare say it in that tone. Not in my living room.”
“It wasn’t the pain,” Mingyu muttered, undeterred. “It was him.”
The room stilled.
Even Joshua stopped mid-sip, brow furrowed.
Seokmin stared at him. “Okay. That’s worse.”
Mingyu just breathed out a dreamy little sigh. “I swear to God, the second he grabbed my shirt, I forgot my own name.”
Seokmin crossed his arms. “Okay, okay, hold on. Let me summarize the current situation so I can process it correctly.”
He cleared his throat dramatically.
You got punched in the solar plexus so hard you squeaked. Then he straddled you like it was Tuesday, threatened you with his murder voice, walked away without even glancing back, and your brain went—‘That’s my man’? AND ‘I need him to do that again.’”
“Yes,” Mingyu said with full sincerity.
Joshua looked vaguely horrified. “You need therapy.”
Seokmin pointed at Mingyu. “You need a priest.”
“holy water and a taser,” Joshua added, and Seokmin agreed.
“He touched me,” Mingyu said again, quietly this time, like it meant something holy. Like it was something carved into his soul. “He touched me and didn’t flinch. Didn’t hold back. Like I could take it.”
Seokmin groaned and shoved a throw pillow over his face. “Why are you like this?”
“I felt it,” Mingyu kept going, manic now, high on adrenaline and obsession and God knew what else. “The heat in his hands. The rage in his voice. He looked at me like he hated me, and I’ve never been more in love in my life.”
“Oh my God,” Joshua whispered.
“I can’t stop thinking about him. I don’t stop. Every time I close my eyes, I swear I can still feel the bruises he gave me. Like a gift.”
Joshua stood up. “Okay. I’m going back to church.”
Seokmin just lay down on the floor like he’d given up. “I’m moving out. I’m getting a new couch. This one’s haunted by your horny ghost now.”
“I think I need him to hit me again,” Mingyu said with a faraway look in his eyes.
“Jesus Christ,” Seokmin and Joshua both howled.
“I mean it! He got so close, Seok. His breath was on my neck. He smelled like sweat and menthol and—justice.”
“Stop romanticizing getting your ass beat!” Seokmin shouted from the floor.
Joshua was halfway out the door. “I’m calling Jeonghan. He’s the only one crazy enough to speak your language.”
Mingyu just laughed—wild, stupid, glowing with the giddy ache of a man who'd been destroyed and liked it. He lifted the beer to his lips and winced again, ribs catching painfully.
Still drank anyway.
Because the pain meant Wonwoo was real.
And God help him, he wanted more.
By the time Mingyu passed out—half-off the couch like he lost a wrestling match with gravity, shirt bunched under his chin, sock somehow on his hand instead of his foot, and mumbling Wonwoo’s name like a prayer to the gods of violence and romance—Joshua was wiping down the kitchen counter with slow, deliberate swipes. The kind of cleaning done less out of necessity and more to keep his hands from shaking.
Seokmin leaned on the sink, arms crossed on the ledge, staring out at the flickering city lights like they held the answers to every emotional disaster they’d ever seen. He wasn’t tired-tired. He was quiet, and Seokmin only ever got like that when something inside him was caving in a little.
“You don’t actually think he’s unhinged, right?” he asked, voice low and rough.
Joshua didn’t look up from the counter. “Mingyu? He’s in love with someone who could—and did—break his ribs just to shut him up. So yeah, I do.”
Seokmin chuckled, but it sounded more like a sigh trying to wear a party hat. “You don't think that’s crazy?”
“I think it’s the kind of crazy when you write bad poetry about,” Joshua said as he folded the towel and set it aside. “The kind that tastes like blood and bad decisions. The kind that gets you into trouble you don’t want to get out of.”
Seokmin shifted, glanced over his shoulder. Their eyes met in the hush between two AM and a confession nobody was quite ready for.
“And what about you?” Joshua asked, his voice soft now. Like a match strike in the dark. “Still pretending you’re just the comic relief?”
Seokmin snorted and leaned back against the counter. “I am the comic relief. You saw earlier. I made three jokes while Gyu was practically humping the ghost of Wonwoo’s knee.”
“No,” Joshua said, stepping closer. “You’re the distraction. There’s a difference.”
The words hung in the air like thick smoke. Not heavy, but cloying. Like incense and memory.
Seokmin blinked. “And you’re what? The narrator?”
Joshua tilted his head. “The one who sees through it.”
That—that—made Seokmin pause. Just a flicker of something in his eyes, the kind of thing he usually smothered with a grin and a pun.
“You always talk like you know shit you shouldn’t.”
“That’s what happens when you watch people,” Joshua replied. “Instead of just making them laugh.”
Seokmin’s voice dropped lower. “So what have you seen?”
It came out like a dare. Or maybe a challenge. Or maybe he really wanted to know.
Joshua took one more step. Closer now. Close enough that he didn’t have to raise his voice.
“I see someone who tells jokes to keep people from asking how he’s really doing. Who gets loud so no one notices when he goes quiet. Who takes care of everyone else just enough to convince himself he doesn’t need anyone taking care of him.”
Seokmin’s hands stilled where they’d been fidgeting.
“I see someone,” Joshua continued, softer now, “who hides behind noise. Because silence makes the truth too loud.”
Another beat. A long one.
Seokmin looked away first. His jaw clenched, like he was chewing on words he didn’t want to spit out.
“And what are you doing?” he asked. “Diagnosing me like one of your self-help books?”
Joshua smiled, but it was sad around the edges. “Trying to be the exception.”
The world got quiet then, in that fragile way it sometimes did right before something cracked. The fridge hummed. A car honked four blocks away. Mingyu groaned something that sounded suspiciously like “Wonwoo, hit me again” and flopped onto the floor with a dramatic thud.
Neither of them looked away from each other.
“You’re poetic as hell when you want to be,” Seokmin muttered, reaching for a glass and pouring water like he needed to keep his hands busy before they did something dumb. Like, reach out.
“And you’re more honest when you’re scared,” Joshua shot back, watching him carefully.
The glass paused mid-pour.
Something flashed in Seokmin’s eyes. Something raw.
But then he rolled his eyes, mask slipping back into place like muscle memory. “Great. Emotional nudity. Just what I needed after a long night of babysitting our emotionally reckless tank of a friend.”
Joshua’s lips curved. “You say that like you don’t love him.”
“I do. But I also want to duct tape his mouth shut until he stops moaning ‘Wonwoo’ in his sleep. It’s been three hours. Three.”
Joshua chuckled and leaned against the counter beside him. “Admit it, though. It’s kind of romantic. In the most batshit way possible.”
Seokmin threw back the water. “Yeah, yeah. Pain is hot. I get it.”
“You don't actually think that,” Joshua said, nudging his shoulder.
Seokmin turned to him slowly. “No. I don’t.”
A pause.
“I think honesty is hot,” he added, eyes flicking to Joshua’s lips and back. “Which is so much worse.”
Joshua blinked, caught, but not backing down. “Then maybe try being honest back.”
Another pause. Longer this time. Heavy in a different way.
Outside, the city buzzed like static.
Inside, Mingyu let out a pathetic whimper and mumbled, “He said my name… he touched me…”
Seokmin groaned into the countertop.
“God, I need a sedative.”
Joshua raised a brow. “For him, or for yourself?”
Seokmin looked over the rim of his glass.
“…Both,” he said, and this time, when he smiled, it was smaller. But real.
And Joshua just smiled back.
They stood like that—close, tired, a little bruised from the truth but not broken.
And somewhere between the chaos on the couch and the quiet in the kitchen, something unspoken curled between them like a secret waiting to be said.
Joshua turned to leave the kitchen, fingers brushing the light switch, dimming the overheads until only the faint golden underglow of the cabinets remained. Outside, the hum of the city wrapped around the apartment like a pulse. Inside, everything felt too still.
His steps were light. Too light. Like he was trying not to wake something—someone.
But just as he passed the threshold, it happened.
A hand.
Seokmin’s fingers curled loosely around his wrist. Warm. Hesitant. Needing.
Joshua stilled. Looked down.
Then up.
Seokmin wasn’t smiling anymore. His face, usually so bright, so open, was shuttered—closed off—but his eyes couldn’t lie. Not now. They were dark, uncertain, restless. Caught in the pull between instinct and fear, wanting and restraint.
Joshua didn’t speak.
Neither did Seokmin.
He just held on for a second longer… then let go.
“Good night, hyung,” he said. Soft. So soft.
Too soft.
Like it meant more than it should.
Like it wasn’t a dismissal, but a confession with the wrong name.
He turned back to the counter. Reached blindly for the same glass. Trying to pretend it didn’t happen. That he wasn’t unraveling in slow motion.
But Joshua didn’t leave. Not this time.
Not after that.
He stepped back into the kitchen—no hesitation this time—crossing the space in two strides. His hand didn’t go for Seokmin’s wrist.
It landed on his waist. Then the other joined it.
Large hands. Gentle grip. Not controlling, but anchoring. Possessive in a way that whispered rather than shouted.
Seokmin tensed. Froze. A sharp breath hitched in his throat, caught and bare.
Joshua pulled him back slightly—not hard, but enough. Enough to make him turn. To feel the shift. To stop pretending.
And when Seokmin turned—reluctantly, breathlessly—he came face to face with everything he’d been avoiding.
Joshua’s gaze dropped. First to Seokmin’s parted mouth. Then dragged up slowly, lazily, until their eyes met again. Held.
His thumbs pressed against the soft jut of Seokmin’s hips.
“You don’t get to do that,” Joshua said, low and steady, almost a hum.
Seokmin’s lips parted. “Do what?”
His voice cracked. Just a little. Just enough.
“Say goodnight like it’s goodbye,” Joshua murmured. “Like you didn’t just ask me to stay with your hands and shove me away with your words.”
Seokmin blinked—fast. But his throat worked, swallowing something he wasn’t ready to name.
Joshua didn’t flinch. Didn’t back off.
“You do that a lot,” he added. “Call out and pull back. Touch me like you mean it, and laugh like you didn’t.”
Seokmin’s jaw flexed. His hands clenched at his sides. His chest rose, a slow inhale like he needed air that just wouldn’t fill his lungs.
“I don’t mean to—”
“But you do.” Joshua cut in, gentle but unrelenting. “You mean it. You’re just scared of what it means back.”
Silence.
Seokmin didn’t move.
Didn’t answer.
So Joshua leaned in, his breath brushing the shell of his ear, sending a shiver down Seokmin’s spine that he didn’t even try to hide.
“You keep doing that,” he whispered, “and one day I won’t come back when you call.”
It wasn’t a threat.
It was a promise wrapped in regret he hadn’t lived through yet.
And Seokmin—Seokmin trembled under his hands. Not from fear. From the intensity. From the crack down the middle of his mask, he couldn’t hold up anymore.
He didn’t grab Joshua. Not yet.
But he leaned in. Slight. Just enough that their chests brushed. Just enough that Joshua’s thumbs curled inward.
Then—barely audible, but raw—Seokmin asked:
“…What if I call now?”
Joshua stilled. Then slowly, achingly, pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again. Held his gaze like something sacred. Like he knew what that question cost.
“Then I won’t leave,” he said.
And he didn’t.
He stepped closer instead.
Until their bodies lined up. Until Seokmin’s breath caught again, this time less from nerves and more from sheer, painful want.
Joshua’s hand slid from his waist up to his chest—over his heart, which was pounding too fast for any kind of lie. His fingers splayed there, feeling it. Letting it speak.
And when Seokmin finally moved, it wasn’t a flinch.
It was forward.
He leaned in like he was done running, like he was tired of pretending, like he wanted to fall for once and be caught.
Their foreheads touched. Not lips. Not yet.
The tension curled tighter—like a held breath, like the space between two magnets desperate to close.
And Joshua whispered, “Tell me to stop.”
But Seokmin didn’t.
Couldn’t.
Because he’d been calling for Joshua this whole time.
Without words.
And now he didn’t want him to leave.
Seokmin looked away, head ducked, shoulders tight with something fragile and shaking. His breath hitched, chest rising a little too fast, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to run or collapse into the warmth in front of him.
His blush was obvious—even in the low kitchen light, it burned across his cheekbones like a confession he couldn’t swallow. He looked young like that. Open. Unarmed.
And Joshua saw it.
All of it.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t tease. Didn’t reach for a laugh to defuse it.
Instead, he stepped in again, the distance between them something ridiculous now, laughable, really—like they hadn’t already touched, hadn’t already fallen halfway.
He reached out—slow, deliberate—and tilted Seokmin’s face back up with a single finger beneath his chin. Warm. Steady. Unshakable.
Their eyes met.
And the moment held.
Time cracked at the edges. Silence stretched out into something sacred, something heavy with meaning and breath and everything neither of them had said out loud. Not really.
Joshua’s thumb brushed along Seokmin’s jaw, slow and reverent. Not to coax—just to know him. Just to be there. And the soft, almost broken sound Seokmin made was raw and real and full of want.
And then—
BOOM.
Joshua kissed him.
No warning. No permission asked.
Just heat. Just pressure. Just the sharp, breathtaking clarity of finally.
Seokmin gasped into it, sound ragged and wrecked, hands flying up to grab at Joshua’s shirt, bunching the fabric between trembling fingers. Like he needed to hold on. Like letting go would kill him.
Their teeth knocked. Noses bumped. It wasn’t choreographed.
It was messy.
Real.
So fucking real.
Joshua angled his head, deepened the kiss, hand sliding up Seokmin’s spine, the other curling into the back of his neck. He held him close like a secret, like a promise, like something precious and necessary.
And Seokmin—
Seokmin kissed back like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
His lips moved with a hunger he’d buried under jokes and grins and loud laughter for too long. There was no room for pretending now. No armor. Just fire and feeling and love, raw and devastating and earned.
They kissed like they were making up for every second lost.
Every moment spent looking the other way.
Every silent night, Joshua had lingered too long in the doorway, and Seokmin had pretended not to notice.
When they finally broke apart, it was with heaving breaths and shaky limbs. They stood there—chests rising and falling in sync, foreheads pressed together, lips red and swollen and utterly ruined.
Joshua laughed, breathless. Soft. A little stunned.
“That didn’t feel like goodnight,” he said, voice low, barely steady.
Seokmin blinked, eyes still closed like he was afraid the moment would vanish if he looked too directly at it.
Then he whispered—
“Then don’t leave.”
His voice cracked on the last word, and that did it. That shattered the last of Joshua’s restraint.
Joshua leaned back in, cupped his face with both hands this time, and kissed him again—not messy this time, but slow.
Devotional.
Like he had time now. Like he wanted to memorize the shape of this mouth and every soft sound Seokmin made when it was just the two of them and no one watching.
Like he wasn’t going anywhere.
And he wasn’t.
When they pulled apart again, Joshua rested his forehead against Seokmin’s, eyes half-lidded, smile lazy and full of something too warm to be anything but love.
“I wasn’t planning on it,” he whispered. “Not tonight. Not like this.”
Seokmin let out a breath that shook. Then leaned into the space between them like he was finally—finally—home.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”
Joshua wrapped his arms around him, pulled him in fully now, no hesitations left.
And Seokmin, for once, didn’t flinch.
He just stayed.
He just loved. Quietly. Fiercely. With his whole chest.
Right there, at the kitchen table, with the lights low and the city buzzing just beyond the glass, two boys who’d spent too long pretending finally stopped pretending at all.
The apartment had never felt this quiet before.
Not even when Mingyu was passed out and snoring, sprawled across the couch like a crime scene. Not even when the city itself seemed to hold its breath outside the windows.
This quiet was different.
It was shared.
Joshua trailed his fingers down Seokmin’s arm as they padded silently down the hall, shoulder to shoulder, not saying much because they didn’t need to. Seokmin’s hand brushed his once, twice—then finally just stayed there. Their fingers laced easily. Like they’d done it before in another life.
Joshua let it happen. Let it mean something.
The bedroom was dim, lit only by the sliver of streetlight sneaking through the blinds. The sheets were rumpled—half from last week’s laundry schedule being missed, half because Seokmin had kicked them off during a nightmare three nights ago and hadn’t bothered fixing them since.
Joshua noticed. He always did.
“Sorry, it’s a mess,” Seokmin muttered as he tugged off his hoodie and dropped it somewhere near the edge of the bed.
Joshua just smiled faintly. “You’re letting me stay. That’s more than enough.”
Seokmin paused, then looked back at him. Something softened in his face—something small and hard and buried, breaking open just a little more.
He nodded. Said nothing.
They got into bed fully clothed. Not out of awkwardness—just a kind of careful respect for the quietness between them. Joshua lay on his back, arms behind his head, eyes on the ceiling.
Seokmin lay on his side, facing him, hands curled under his cheek.
Minutes passed like that. No one moved.
Then—
“Hyung.”
Joshua turned his head. “Yeah?”
Seokmin’s voice was small. “You scare me.”
Joshua blinked. “Why?”
“Because you see me.” The words spilled out like they’d been waiting too long to be said. “Because I don’t think I’ve ever let someone do that before. Not really.”
Joshua was quiet for a second.
Then he turned on his side, mirroring him, close enough to see the way Seokmin’s lashes cast shadows over his cheeks.
“You think I’m not scared, too?” he asked softly.
Seokmin’s mouth twitched. “You don’t look it.”
Joshua reached out, brushing a hand through his hair, fingers gentle at his temple. “I am. Every second. But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.”
Seokmin stared at him.
Then, quietly, like a breaking tide, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Joshua’s.
And there it was again—that feeling. That peace. That hum. That warmth.
Joshua’s hand found the space between Seokmin’s shoulder blades and stayed there, holding him close. Their legs tangled beneath the sheets. Their breathing evened out together.
Minutes passed.
Then Seokmin’s voice again, barely a whisper. “If I fall asleep like this, I’m gonna wake up and think it was a dream.”
Joshua smiled into the curve of his neck. “Then I’ll still be here in the morning.”
Seokmin swallowed.
“I won’t run,” Joshua added, breath warm against his skin. “Not from you. Not ever.”
“…Even if I’m too much?”
“Especially if you’re too much.”
Seokmin made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. He buried his face in Joshua’s chest.
And finally—finally—he let go.
Of fear. Of doubt. Of everything he’d been holding back.
Joshua kissed the top of his head.
Outside, the city kept buzzing.
But inside, in the soft dark, under warm sheets and whispered promises, two people who had been afraid of love fell into it anyway.
And for once—
Neither of them tried to stop it.
Chapter 4: Look At Me Like You Hate Me (So I Can Breathe Again)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
There were things Jeon Wonwoo didn’t allow himself to feel.
Need was one of them.
He walked into the gym the next morning like his skin didn’t still buzz from the club. Like his mouth hadn’t gone dry when that girl touched him. Like he hadn’t stood there in the half-dark, thinking about someone else’s hands instead—larger, rougher. Calloused from too many fights. Gripping his jaw. Bruising his ribs.
He didn’t sleep after that.
Didn’t want to.
Sleep meant dreams. And dreams meant him.
So he trained.
Hard.
Until his muscles screamed. Until he was all burn and breath and shaking fists. Until his knuckles split and stung like confessions he’d never say out loud. Until he could almost forget the heat of eyes that followed him like a curse.
Almost.
Because even when he looked away, he felt it—him.
Mingyu.
Like gravity. Like a presence pressed behind his ribs.
That fucking look again—somewhere between fascination and violence. Like he wanted to tear Wonwoo open and crawl inside. Like he already had.
It made him furious. And worse—it made him ache.
Because the truth?
Mingyu looked at him like he mattered. Like he was the answer to a question no one else dared ask. Like he was the sharpest, sweetest poison in a life already steeped in blood and sweat.
No one had ever looked at him like that.
And god help him—he looked back.
Across the gym. In the mirrors. Through the haze of steam rising from bodies too tired to care.
When Mingyu stretched, back arching, sweat trailing down the curve of his spine, Wonwoo's eyes followed.
When Mingyu threw a punch, he tracked the motion, jaw tight, heart a little too loud in his ears.
And when Mingyu smiled—that crooked, bloodthirsty grin he gave after a clean hit or a smart dodge—Wonwoo felt it in his throat. Like a swallowed scream.
They didn’t speak.
Not since that last spar. Not since the moment Mingyu had pinned him, weight crushing, breath fanned across his jaw like a taunt.
Wonwoo had walked away. But he still felt it—every inch of where their bodies touched. Felt it now, days later, like the ghost of a bruise that refused to fade.
He told himself silence was better. Safer.
But silence had never been so loud.
It roared in the way their eyes met across the ring. In the way Mingyu slowed when passing him at the lockers, letting their arms brush. In the way he laughed louder around others, like he wanted to prove he didn’t care. Like he needed to remind everyone he could still look at anyone else.
But he always circled back.
And so did Wonwoo.
It became a game they didn’t name—who would look away first, who would stand their ground, who would blink under the weight of wanting.
And then that morning—just after round two—Wonwoo looked up from the punching bag and saw him. Mingyu, shirtless, bruised, laughing too easily with Seokmin, like the world wasn’t burning under his skin. Like he hadn’t spent a whole night awake, dreaming of fingers that didn’t belong to the girl on his lap.
Wonwoo’s pulse skipped.
He hit harder. Let his fists talk.
But his eyes betrayed him—darting back, just once. Just long enough.
Because Mingyu was watching.
Always fucking watching.
And Wonwoo? He wanted to be seen. Not touched. Not held. Just seen.
Seen the way Mingyu saw him—like he was the storm before the flood. Like he was something to survive.
Their gazes locked, and the world bled out around them.
No words.
No smiles.
Just heat. Lingering and vicious.
There was no love in it. No softness. No safety.
Only the kind of want that kept you up at night. The kind that felt like fire pressed under your tongue. The kind that hurt.
Wonwoo didn’t flinch.
He let it burn.
Let the silence stretch and snap and stitch them together in all the places they never touched.
And in that moment, without a single word, they both knew:
This wasn’t over.
This was only the beginning.
A staring contest made of hunger and hate.
Of everything they weren’t allowed to feel—
But already did.
ִֶָ 𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆★⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ
It wasn’t healthy.
Mingyu knew that.
God, he knew that.
The way he sat on the gym bench every morning like fucking clockwork, pretending to tie and re-tie his shoes just to time it right—just to be there when he walked in.
Wonwoo.
He could feel it before it happened. That shift in the air. That thrum under his skin like thunder was about to roll in. He didn’t have to look to know when Wonwoo entered—he always knew.
But he looked anyway.
Every time.
Like it wasn’t the millionth time.
Like it wasn’t a ritual now—his daily self-destruction, wrapped in black sweats and a hoodie with the sleeves shoved up, jaw set, eyes sharp.
And then it happened. That flick of the eyes.
Wonwoo didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Didn’t acknowledge him at all.
But he looked.
And that was enough.
Because Mingyu needed it.
He was fucking starving for it.
He sat there with his laces still undone, heart jackhammering behind his ribs like a rookie before a first fight. Not from nerves. Not from fear.
From hunger.
It had been days since their last sparring match—since Wonwoo had grabbed him by the front of the shirt, fists twisted in fabric like he wanted to tear Mingyu apart and god if Mingyu hadn’t wanted that too.
"You want pain? Learn to take it," Wonwoo had snapped.
Mingyu remembered the way his voice had broken against his ear, low and raw and unforgiving. The heat of it, the weight of it. The punch that followed—a hard, clean strike to his ribs that knocked the air out of his lungs.
And he had loved it.
Not the pain. Not exactly.
But what it meant.
Contact.
Wonwoo had touched him. Had seen him, if only for a split second, through all that rage.
It was sick. God, he knew how sick it sounded.
But Mingyu hadn’t stopped thinking about it since.
He kept chasing shadows of it. Imagining the shape of his hands again, the fire in his voice. Every whisper of air in the gym felt like the echo of that moment—something brushed his shoulder and he’d jerk around, only to find it wasn’t him.
It never was.
And yet—
Every glare? Every sharp glance from across the mats? A fucking high.
A fix.
A new excuse to spiral deeper.
Because this wasn’t just about sex.
It never really had been.
It was about control. It was about recognition. It was about the one person in the whole damn world who made Mingyu feel like he could fall apart and still be worth something.
Wonwoo had a stillness to him that scared Mingyu. Like he’d spent his whole life learning how not to need anything. Not love. Not comfort. Not people.
Especially not people.
And Mingyu was the fool who wanted to be the exception.
The idiot who tracked every step he took during training like a magnet drawn to flame. The one who watched every jab, every kick, like it was art carved into motion. Who stared too long at the beads of sweat trailing down the slope of his throat, jaw clenched so tightly it made his teeth ache.
He’d have to look away or he’d start to shake.
Because touching wasn’t allowed.
Because even thinking about it felt like stepping on sacred ground.
And still he sat there, day after day, waiting.
For glances.
For scraps.
For something that could justify the war crawling under his skin.
And when it came—when Wonwoo’s eyes cut to him, hard and fast and dangerous—Mingyu froze.
Held his breath.
Like that one second of being seen might be enough to carry him through another week.
Like it meant something.
Like it meant everything.
But it wasn’t enough. Of course it wasn’t.
It never fucking was.
And that day, when training ended and Wonwoo walked past him without a word—without a glance—disappearing into the locker room like Mingyu hadn’t been watching him the whole goddamn time?
It left him wrecked.
He sat there, on the edge of the ring, staring at the sweat stain on the mat where Wonwoo had been standing like it could give him answers.
Like it could say, he looked back this morning. You saw that, right?
He didn’t follow.
He almost did.
But he didn’t.
Because if he did—if he pushed that door open and finally let everything spill out—
And when he caught one, when Wonwoo’s dark eyes flicked up just long enough to see him—Mingyu held his breath.
Just long enough to make it hurt.
Just long enough to remember why he couldn’t act.
Because what if he tried?
What if he reached for him and everything shattered?
What if he kissed him and it tasted like nothing?
Worse—what if it tasted like everything?
Mingyu scrubbed a hand through his hair, hard, trying to shake it loose. Trying to tear it out of his head. He grabbed his towel, wiped sweat from his face, cracked open his water bottle and chugged it like he could drown whatever the hell this was.
Trying to breathe.
Trying not to follow.
Trying not to imagine what it’d feel like to finally press him against that wall and—
No.
No, fuck
But it didn’t go away.
It never did.
Because this wasn’t just want anymore.
It was survival.
It was the last flicker of light he chased in a place that kept going dark.
When Seungcheol stepped outside into the night, the air hit sharp and cold, cutting straight through the sweat on his skin.
He didn’t expect anyone to be there.
But Jeonghan was.
Leaning against the alley wall, cigarette tucked between his lips, eyes hidden under the brim of his hood. Like he hadn’t been pacing for the past ten minutes. Like he hadn’t almost left twice.
He didn’t look up when Seungcheol emerged. Just said, calm and low, “You walk like someone looking for a fight.”
Seungcheol stopped a few feet away, jaw tightening. “And you wait like someone who doesn’t know what they want.”
That made Jeonghan glance over, one brow arching. “I never said I didn’t know.”
“No?” Seungcheol stepped closer. “Then say it. Say what you came back for.”
Jeonghan took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaled. The smoke curled between them like a barrier.
“I came to make sure you weren’t bleeding out behind the lockers,” he said coolly. “Anything else you want from me, you’ll have to earn.”
The words should’ve stung.
They did sting.
But Seungcheol was used to bleeding.
So he kept moving forward, step by step, until they stood toe to toe in the dim light of the alley.
“You think I haven’t already?” he asked, voice low. “Every time I step into that ring, I leave pieces of myself behind. And you—” his hand rose, not to touch, but to hover near Jeonghan’s jaw, “—you only ever show up to count what’s left.”
Jeonghan didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. But the cigarette between his fingers trembled.
“And yet,” he murmured, “you keep doing it.”
Their eyes locked.
Electric.
Unforgiving.
Seungcheol leaned in, slow, testing, breath brushing Jeonghan’s cheek. “Because part of me still thinks you’ll catch me when I fall.”
Jeonghan’s lips parted—soft, almost startled—but then his expression steeled.
He turned his head away, deliberately, letting the smoke drift between them again like a shield. “You mistake observation for rescue.”
Seungcheol’s throat bobbed.
“I mistake a lot of things when it comes to you.”
He reached out—lightly, just fingers grazing Jeonghan’s wrist—but Jeonghan pulled back like it burned.
“Don’t,” he said. Firm. Final.
Seungcheol froze. Let the space expand again. Watched as Jeonghan tapped the ash from his cigarette, lips tight.
“You want something real?” Jeonghan said, voice rough now, like the truth cost him. “Then fight for something that isn’t pain.”
Seungcheol’s mouth twitched—bitterness or amusement, even he couldn’t tell. “You think I wouldn’t?” he asked. “You think I haven’t tried?”
“You’ve tried bleeding,” Jeonghan shot back. “You’ve tried surviving long enough for someone else to fix you.”
He turned, just enough that the shadows caught half his face, eyes unreadable.
“I’m not going to be your bandage, Seungcheol.”
Seungcheol looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded.
“Then be my bruise,” he said softly. “At least that way, I’ll know you were real.”
That broke something.
In Jeonghan’s face. In the space between them.
But still—he didn’t move forward. Didn’t touch. Didn’t fall.
He took one last drag, let the cigarette drop, and crushed it beneath his heel.
“I’ll see you at your next match,” he said.
And this time, when he walked away, he didn’t look back.
But Seungcheol didn’t chase him.
Not yet.
Because for the first time, he wasn’t sure if Jeonghan wanted to be caught.
And maybe that was the point.
Jeonghan would always make him work for it.
And Seungcheol?
He would.
God help them both—he would.
It was late when Wonwoo left the gym.
Too late.
The kind of late where even the night seemed to hold its breath, streets slick with humidity, sky rumbling quietly in the distance like a warning. The air was heavy—thick with something that hadn't broken yet, the kind of pressure that settled into the back of your neck and made you feel like you were being watched even when you weren’t.
He should’ve gone home hours ago.
Should’ve stopped hitting the bag after the second round, after his hands had gone numb and his shoulders ached like they’d been pried loose from their sockets. But he hadn’t. He’d stayed. Kept punching like it might knock something loose in his chest—something tangled and mean and getting worse by the day.
All he’d managed to do was wear out his body.
His mind was still a fucking storm.
He needed quiet.
What he got—was voices.
Rough. Low. Drunk.
They slurred through the dark from behind the alley near the chain-link fence. Three figures emerging like shadows with weight—older, built more like ex-football players than fighters. Not from the gym. Not regulars. Not even the usual reckless types who wanted a challenge.
No. These were just men. Bored, drunk, and dangerous.
“Hey, pretty boy,” one of them called out, voice thick with amusement and something uglier. “You hit like that in bed too?”
Wonwoo didn’t stop walking.
Didn’t flinch. Didn’t stiffen.
Just kept moving like they were nothing. Because they were nothing.
Until fingers—rough and thick—grabbed the back of his hoodie.
That he reacted to.
He spun, sharp and clean, elbow to the gut—satisfying. The air left the man’s lungs in a wet grunt, doubling him over. Wonwoo followed with a step back, eyes scanning—
—but he missed the third.
Didn’t hear the shuffle of feet behind him until it was too late.
A hard shove. Balance gone. The sudden, sharp crack of shoulder meeting asphalt. Pain flared white-hot down his side. A fist scraped across his cheek—weak, clumsy—but it didn’t matter.
Because he was on the ground. Cornered.
And that never ended well.
He was halfway to rolling back to his feet when a voice cut through the night like a knife.
“Back the fuck off.”
Low. Furious. Undeniable.
Wonwoo’s head jerked up.
Mingyu.
Of course it was fucking Mingyu.
Because the universe had a twisted sense of humor. Because of all the nights, of all the corners of all the city—he had to be there.
And he looked terrifying.
All rage and shadow and motion, crashing into the scene like a force of nature—like he’d been waiting for an excuse. One punch sent a man sprawling. Another hit the fence with a sickening clang and slid to the ground, unmoving.
The third one? He ran like hell.
And then it was just the two of them.
Wonwoo sat up slowly, mouth coppery with blood, chest heaving.
Mingyu stood there, chest rising and falling like he couldn’t get enough air, fists still clenched so tight they trembled.
“Are you okay?” Mingyu asked, stepping closer, voice low and rough like he’d torn it out of himself.
Wonwoo didn’t answer right away. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, slow, measured. His voice came out cold. Detached.
“Why are you here?”
Mingyu blinked, startled by the question, by the tone. “I was getting food,” he said, eyes searching his like they might find something there. “And then I saw you. And them. And—”
“And what?” Wonwoo cut in, voice sharp, slicing through the space between them. “You decided I needed saving?”
Mingyu’s expression shifted—flickering with something pained. “No,” he said, voice cracking just slightly. “I decided they needed stopping.”
There was a silence.
Dense. Breathless.
Wonwoo stood slowly, stiffly, dragging himself up with the edge of the fence, shoulder screaming in protest. Every movement was deliberate, a warning—like the strike of a blade just before it drew blood.
Mingyu didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
And for a second, for the length of a breath—they were close.
Too close.
Hot air. Cold tension. Something bright and volatile burning in the space between their bodies, tightening like a drawn wire. Like a lit fuse, nearing the end.
Wonwoo’s chest rose and fell, sharp, like his body hadn’t caught up to what just happened.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he said quietly. But there was steel in his voice. An edge honed from things that weren’t being said.
Mingyu’s jaw clenched. “And yet.”
And yet.
There it was again. That impossible thing between them. That and yet—the reason Mingyu stayed, watched, waited. The reason Wonwoo was tired and furious and bleeding and still couldn’t look away.
The street went silent.
Their breathing was the only sound.
Wonwoo’s hand twitched at his side, a ghost of motion, of instinct—like he was about to strike or about to reach.
And Mingyu—fucking idiot Mingyu—stepped closer.
Like he didn’t understand danger.
Like he didn’t care.
Like getting torn apart by Wonwoo might be better than being ignored by him.
And Wonwoo didn’t move.
Didn’t stop him.
Didn’t speak.
The rain hadn’t come yet. But the storm had.
Right there. Between them.
Waiting.
Wonwoo’s eyes narrowed, voice quiet but cutting. “And you think this changes anything?”
The words hit like a slap—not loud, not explosive, just precise. Like he already knew the answer. Like he needed to say it anyway, just to make Mingyu feel small.
But Mingyu didn’t back down.
Not this time.
“I don’t know what the fuck it changes,” he bit out, voice rising, shaking with heat he couldn’t contain. “But I’m not gonna pretend I didn’t want to kill them when I saw their hands on you.”
His fists clenched again, more from memory than anything—like his body was reliving it. That split-second image of Wonwoo on the ground, the flash of someone else’s fingers on him, and something ugly had roared up inside him. Primal. Raw. Uncontrollable.
He sucked in a breath, hard and ragged. “I saw them touch you and I—” His voice caught, mouth twisting like the words were acid. “It felt like someone was carving something out of me.”
Wonwoo didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Just watched.
Too still.
Too quiet.
Like he was testing how far Mingyu would go before he broke.
And maybe that was the worst part—Mingyu wanted to break for him.
Wanted to throw all of it out there. Every fucked-up feeling. Every night he’d stood too close. Every breath he’d stolen from the air between them. Every time he’d imagined what it’d be like to finally touch Wonwoo and not feel like he was trespassing on holy ground.
His voice dropped, rough and low. “I shouldn’t care. I know that. I know I don’t have the right. But the second I saw his hand on your jacket—” Mingyu shook his head, almost laughing. Bitter. Breathless. “God, it made me want to rip his arm off just for trying.”
Silence again.
Wonwoo’s jaw ticked.
Mingyu stepped forward. Just one step. Just enough for the air between them to tighten again.
“You think I don’t know how this looks?” he said, quieter now. “You think I don’t know how fucking pathetic it is? I can’t even brush past you without feeling like I’ve done something wrong.”
His hands twitched at his sides, aching with restraint.
“Because every time I imagine touching you,” Mingyu said, his voice breaking, starved, “it feels like I’m taking a bite of something I’m not allowed to want.”
His eyes locked on Wonwoo’s, the words dragging out of him like confession. Like sin.
“Something that’ll ruin me.”
Wonwoo’s breath hitched. Just barely. But it was enough.
Mingyu saw it.
And it nearly undid him.
The silence between them didn’t break.
It fractured—hairline and splintered—under the weight of everything left unsaid.
And Mingyu moved first.
Not with grace. Not with calm. But like something had snapped inside him, like if he didn’t reach out right now, he might never be able to move again.
His hand closed around Wonwoo’s wrist.
Not tightly. Not to restrain.
Just enough to feel.
And God—God—even that was too much.
Because touch was not allowed.
Not between them.
It was the first rule they’d never spoken, the line drawn in blood and stubborn silence: Don’t reach. Don’t cross. Don’t want.
But Mingyu was breaking it now, skin to skin, and the world didn’t end.
It just shuddered.
Wonwoo flinched—but not in rejection.
It was worse than that.
He didn’t pull away.
His eyes dipped down to where Mingyu’s hand curled around his wrist, and for one suspended second, he let him. Let the warmth sink in. Let the contact carve itself under his skin like a brand. Let it happen.
“Come with me,” Mingyu said.
And his voice—it was ruined.
Too quiet. Too raw.
Like the simple act of touching him had hollowed out his lungs.
Wonwoo looked at him then. Really looked.
Like he couldn’t believe it either.
Like he’d felt the jolt too—felt it everywhere.
He opened his mouth, probably to throw a verbal knife, to shove Mingyu back behind the wall they’d both been clinging to with bloodied hands.
But then—Mingyu’s thumb moved.
Just a brush. Just a shift of pressure against the inside of his wrist, right below the sleeve, where the skin was soft and unbruised.
Where it was real.
And the words dried up on Wonwoo’s tongue like dust.
Because it wasn’t about the pain anymore.
It wasn’t about adrenaline or ego or control.
It was about the fact that Mingyu touched him. Gently. Reverently. Like he didn’t know if he was allowed, but he couldn’t stop himself anyway.
And for a moment—for one unbearable breath—Wonwoo let him.
Not because he trusted him.
Not because it meant forgiveness.
But because some part of him needed it.
Needed to be wanted that desperately. That quietly. That tenderly.
Even if they’d both pretend later that it didn’t happen.
Even if the bruise on his wrist tomorrow said otherwise.
Mingyu didn’t let go.
Not even after Wonwoo nodded—small, stiff, almost imperceptible. Not even when they crossed the street or passed the glowing eyes of a late-night convenience store. He kept holding his wrist like it meant something. Like he meant something.
And Wonwoo let him.
He let the city blur around them. Let the hum of the streetlights and the hiss of traffic fade into background noise. Let himself be led, for once. Dragged, almost, by the quiet force of Mingyu’s grip.
They didn’t speak as they walked.
Didn’t need to.
The air between them was thick enough to drown in, every step crackling with the weight of what had almost happened—and what still could.
Mingyu’s grip had loosened once Wonwoo started moving, but he hadn’t let go. Not really. His hand hovered, fingers brushing just close enough to be felt, like the echo of a touch neither of them could forget. And Wonwoo didn’t move away. He should have. Every cell in his body was screaming at him to cut this off before it turned into something else—something real.
But he didn’t.
He followed.
Quietly.
The streets were empty, lit by the flickering glow of half-dead streetlamps. The scent of impending rain still hung in the air, clinging to their clothes, to their skin. It made everything feel charged, electric—like the whole city was holding its breath right alongside them.
By the time they reached Mingyu’s apartment, Wonwoo’s jaw was locked so tight it ached.
Mingyu fumbled with the keys more than usual. The silence between them wasn’t peaceful—it was volatile, a match an inch from flame. When the door finally creaked open, Wonwoo stepped inside first, not waiting for an invitation.
It felt like trespassing.
It was trespassing.
But Mingyu didn’t stop him.
Just shut the door behind them, slow and quiet, like any louder noise might snap the thread between them entirely.
The living room was dim, spare, and quiet. The hum of the fridge was the only sound as Mingyu disappeared into the bathroom, came back with a first-aid kit he didn’t open.
Not right away.
He looked at Wonwoo—really looked at him. The bruise forming at his jaw. The smear of blood drying near his mouth. The rip in the sleeve of his hoodie. His chest rose and fell with something sharp and unfinished.
“Sit,” Mingyu said.
Wonwoo did.
Not because he was told to.
Because he wanted to see what Mingyu would do next.
Mingyu knelt in front of him. Pulled the antiseptic. A cotton pad. His hands shook—but just slightly, just enough to betray him. He dabbed at the cut on Wonwoo’s cheek, slow and precise, his eyes never quite meeting his.
Neither of them spoke.
Because if they did, it might spill.
And that was the danger of it—this wasn’t just tension. This was everything they’d buried, everything they refused to name.
Their faces were close. Too close.
Wonwoo could feel Mingyu’s breath, shallow and warm, ghosting across his skin as he worked. Every time their eyes accidentally met, they looked away—fast, like it hurt to see too much.
But then Mingyu’s hand paused.
Right at Wonwoo’s jaw.
He didn’t move. Didn’t pull back.
His thumb hovered just barely beneath his lip, like he wanted to brush away the dried blood there but knew the second he did, it’d be over.
“Don’t,” Wonwoo said, voice raw.
Mingyu froze.
“I wasn’t going to,” he lied, voice lower than it should’ve been. “I just…”
He didn’t finish.
Couldn’t.
Because the silence answered for him.
I just want to touch you. I just want to know what it feels like without it breaking me.
Wonwoo didn’t move.
Neither did Mingyu.
They stayed like that, still and brimming with something unbearable. The heat between them didn’t fade—it built. Quietly. Relentlessly. Every second it didn’t erupt made it worse.
Finally, Mingyu leaned back—just an inch.
“I should keep going,” he said.
“Yeah,” Wonwoo whispered. “You should.”
But he didn’t.
Not yet.
And Wonwoo didn’t look away.
Because whatever this was between them—it wasn’t done.
Not by a long shot.
Mingyu leaned in closer, careful, eyes scanning the bruises like a surgeon tracing a wound. His breath hitched slightly as his gaze flickered over the tender skin at Wonwoo’s jawline, then dipped lower to the faint marks on his neck. His fingers trembled ever so slightly as they hovered, hesitant to touch too much.
And then their eyes met.
There was no pretense, no shield, no deflection.
Because eyes don’t lie.
And those eyes—Mingyu’s and Wonwoo’s—were raw, shimmering pools of want and hunger neither could deny.
Mingyu’s dark gaze dropped, slow and deliberate, to the curve of Wonwoo’s lips—full, parted just enough to show the slightest trace of breath. A silent invitation, a question hanging heavy in the air.
Wonwoo’s eyes didn’t leave Mingyu’s face. He memorized the tense set of his jaw, the way the light caught the sharp line of his cheekbone, the slight parting of his own lips in anticipation and something deeper—need.
“Mingyu... we—” Wonwoo’s voice trembled, barely more than a fragile whisper, the start of something urgent, raw, and dangerously close to breaking free. But the words caught in his throat, tangled in a knot too tight to unravel. His mouth opened again, desperate to speak, to explain, to stop what was building inside him—but no sound came.
Because it wasn’t just a want anymore. It was something deeper. Something that clawed its way up from inside his chest, searing through his veins like wildfire.
It was need.
A need so fierce, so uncontrollable, that it erased every thought except one: the desperate craving to taste Mingyu’s lips—to press his mouth against that soft curve and finally drown out the ache gnawing at his insides.
His breath hitched. His heart slammed against his ribs like a warning bell.
Wonwoo’s gaze flicked to Mingyu’s mouth, tracing the line where lips met. Every second felt stretched thin, every heartbeat a thunderous echo. His fingers twitched at Mingyu’s arm, aching to close the distance, to bridge the space that suddenly felt like a chasm.
There was no hesitation in his movements, no room left for restraint. His lips moved toward Mingyu’s, slow and deliberate at first, trembling with the weight of all the unsaid words and buried longing.
When their lips finally touched—just a featherlight brush at first—it was like the world shifted beneath them. An electric shock that sent sparks racing through their skin. It wasn’t tender or soft—it was fierce, desperate, and chaotic, like biting into something forbidden and tasting both poison and sweetness all at once.
Wonwoo’s body surged forward instinctively, hungry and raw, as if this kiss was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
And in that moment, all the walls he’d built came crashing down.
Their skin sparked where it touched—like nerves had been waiting for this moment, crackling to life under the heat of contact. Their breaths hitched in sync, shallow and sharp, caught somewhere between panic and surrender. Their hearts pounded in their chests, frantic and erratic, like they were trying to break free from ribs that had grown too tight to hold them.
And then—without warning, without hesitation, without even a breath to reconsider—they dove in.
Fierce and desperate. Hungry and trembling.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.
It was a collision.
Mouths meeting with the force of everything they had tried to bury, everything they'd starved themselves of. The kiss tasted like fire and fury, like the edge of a blade dipped in honey. Mingyu’s hand curled into the fabric at the back of Wonwoo’s shirt, pulling him closer like he was afraid he’d disappear. And Wonwoo—Wonwoo all but crashed into him, clutching Mingyu’s jaw with shaking hands, nails biting into skin, grounding himself in the only thing that felt real anymore.
This was the kiss of two men who had held back too long. Who had tried to pretend. To ignore. To fight the gravity between them—only to be dragged under anyway.
Their lips moved with urgency, with desperation, with the kind of want that bordered on agony. They kissed like it hurt. Like it healed. Like the world might fall apart the moment they stopped.
It wasn’t just about desire. It wasn’t about lust.
It was every unspoken word, every lingering glance, every touch that never landed. It was every sleepless night and breathless moment in the gym. Every time Mingyu had stared too long, and every time Wonwoo had let him.
Their mouths clung to each other like they were trying to rewrite the ache inside.
Like they were trying to survive it.
The kiss wasn’t an answer.
It was a scream.
A breaking point.
A confession too volatile for words.
It was a promise.
A need.
An obsession.
And once they tasted each other, there was no going back.
The kiss pulled them apart and pulled them back again, a slow, fevered dance that neither wanted to end.
Because in that moment, all that existed was the fire they’d ignited—and neither of them wanted to be the one to snuff it out.
The kiss tasted like sin—dark and forbidden, wrapped in a sweetness that threatened to unravel them both. It was the kind of kiss that burned at the edges, like a flame licking too close to skin, intoxicating and dangerous all at once.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was urgent, desperate, a collision of everything they’d tried to deny—every secret ache and hidden hunger finally set loose.
Their mouths moved with a fierce recklessness, as if the world might end if they pulled away too soon. The air around them thickened, heavy with heat and want, pressing in from all sides until their heads spun.
Every brush of lips, every flick of tongue, was a jolt—electric, addictive, toxic.
It was sweet like poison; the kind that intoxicates first, then consumes. Each touch tasted like something they knew was wrong but couldn’t stop craving.
Their bodies swayed, unsteady, caught in a dizzying storm of sensation that left their hearts pounding, their breaths ragged and shallow.
The kiss blurred time and space—everything outside that moment faded to shadows. All that mattered was the raw, aching need between them, a dangerous addiction neither wanted to admit.
It was sin and salvation all at once.
And when they finally broke apart—hearts racing, foreheads pressed together—their breaths mingled in the small space, both aware they’d crossed a line they could never uncross.
Dizzy and burning, they were caught somewhere between destruction and longing—two halves of a fragile whole, addicted to a kiss that was both their undoing and their only refuge.
Their foreheads remained pressed together, skin damp and flushed, breaths weaving together in the narrow space that separated them. The silence around them was deafening, thick with the echo of what they’d just done and what it meant—what it could mean. The world, steady seconds ago, now felt off-kilter, spinning on an axis neither of them recognized anymore.
Wonwoo’s chest heaved in uneven bursts, the effort to keep himself composed written in the tremble of his hands. His fingers hovered, ghosting over Mingyu’s shirt like they couldn’t decide whether to hold on or let go. Every instinct in him screamed to step back, to reclaim the distance, to smother the raw, unraveling truth burning behind his ribs.
But his eyes wouldn’t leave Mingyu’s.
Couldn’t.
Mingyu stared right back, wide-eyed and barely breathing, as if any sudden movement would send them both toppling over a cliff they’d been circling for far too long. The taste of Wonwoo still lingered on his lips—sweet and sharp and utterly consuming—and it crawled down his throat like something forbidden, something he’d only dared to fantasize about in moments too quiet and too dark.
His body thrummed with heat, the aftermath of the kiss pulsing through him like static under skin. The kind of heat that didn’t fade—it simmered, demanding more.
They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.
Words would only shatter this—this fragile, dangerous quiet. This pocket of suspended time where reality hadn’t caught up to them yet. Where it was still just breath and skin and the echo of a kiss that had no business being as devastating as it was.
Instead, Mingyu’s fingers curled tighter around Wonwoo’s wrist, not pulling, not restraining—just holding. Like he couldn’t bear to let go. Like this was the only way to keep himself from falling apart. There was a question in that grip. A plea.
And in the twitch of Wonwoo’s fingers, there was an answer—reluctant, terrified, but real.
Wonwoo’s throat worked around a knot, the ache in his chest stretching too tight. “This changes nothing,” he whispered, even as every part of him betrayed the lie. His voice cracked on the edges, scraped raw by the truth he couldn’t hide.
“No,” Mingyu breathed, gaze fixed on him, unflinching. “But it changes everything.”
They stayed like that, trembling in the quiet storm they’d created. Two figures cast in shadow and longing, stuck in the breath between ruin and surrender. Because the kiss—that kiss—was no longer just a slip. No longer just need bleeding through the cracks.
It was a claim.
A fire lit with bare hands.
A spark too dangerous to ignore.
And both of them knew—if they moved, if they gave in even once more—there’d be no turning back.
But beneath all the fear, beneath the ache, beneath the war still raging behind their ribs...
They wanted it.
They wanted the fall.
They wanted the fire.
They wanted the chaos.
And they were starving for the destruction that would come with it.
Notes:
Guys, sorry for not updating for 2 days, I wasn't feeling well, plus I was writing the epilogue of one of my previous fic "love at first bullet" hahha I'll make sure to upload that too after some proofreading, hope you all enjoy it ;)
Chapter Text
The city moved on. So did they.
At least, that’s what they told themselves.
Wonwoo was busy. Contracts. Sponsorship meetings. Night trainings and morning drills. He kept his head down and his gloves tight, said all the right things, hit all the right marks.
But every time his body stilled, every time he paused between rounds and let himself breathe—he remembered.
The kiss.
The burn.
The way Mingyu had looked at him like he was already his.
It played in loops when he least expected it. In the mirror after a shower. In the silence before sleep. On the train ride back home when the sun had set too early and the city looked too much like a bruise.
And Mingyu?
He tried. God, he fucking tried.
He buried himself in matches. In bruised ribs and bloodied lips. In exhaustion and sweat and half-numb nights where he nearly begged the ache to go away.
But it didn’t.
Because nothing hit as hard as Wonwoo’s mouth had.
Nothing left him gasping the way one goddamn kiss did.
He hadn’t seen him since.
Not in person.
But he thought of him every time he laced his gloves. Every time someone dared to flirt with him, and all he could think was—you’re not him.
And then, one night—
He saw him again.
It was late. The underground gym was almost empty, pulsing low with fluorescent light and the sound of fists meeting sand. That place smelled like old blood and electricity. It buzzed in Mingyu’s teeth, in his bones.
And there, across the ring, like something summoned by obsession—
Wonwoo.
Loose hoodie. Gloves half-on. Standing near the taped heavy bag like he belonged to the shadows again.
Mingyu froze.
Everything hit him at once.
The kiss. The heat. The taste.
The need.
He felt something crack inside his chest. Something primal, something ugly. Something that had spent weeks clawing its way up and now had no cage left.
Wonwoo didn’t look up at first. Just threw a hook, right shoulder rolling with deadly precision.
But he felt the eyes. He always did.
Their gazes locked.
The sound of the gym faded.
Mingyu crossed the floor without thinking.
Didn’t say a word.
Didn’t have to.
Wonwoo dropped his stance as Mingyu stopped in front of him, close. Too close.
And still—
Silence.
Sweat. Heat. Breathing. Eyes.
Then:
“You remember it,” Mingyu said, voice low, dark, barely tethered.
Wonwoo’s eyes flicked to his mouth. A breath. “No.”
“Liar.”
Wonwoo stepped back. “You should go.”
But Mingyu didn’t.
He stepped in.
Gloved hand reached out, slow, unsteady, trembling with everything he shouldn’t be feeling—and pressed against the front of Wonwoo’s hoodie, over his chest.
Wonwoo tensed, but he didn’t pull away.
Mingyu's mouth was dry. His voice came out strangled. “You kissed me. And I haven’t been able to breathe right since.”
Wonwoo’s jaw locked. “That was a mistake.”
“Then stop looking at me like that,” Mingyu snapped, voice suddenly sharp. “Like you want me to lose control.”
A pause.
Wonwoo didn’t move.
And that was all it took.
Mingyu slammed him into the wall of the ring.
It wasn’t violent—not really. Just force. Just fire. His body pressing against Wonwoo’s, his gloves at his sides, his head dipped low.
Their lips didn’t touch.
But they didn’t have to.
Because Mingyu’s mouth hovered there—over his throat, his jaw, his pulse.
His voice dropped to a whisper, full of agony.
“I want to fuck you so bad I can’t think straight.”
Wonwoo’s breath stuttered. His hand twitched at his side.
“But I won’t,” Mingyu hissed, pulling back just enough. “Not unless you beg.”
Wonwoo’s face gave nothing away.
Except his eyes.
His eyes screamed.
It didn’t go further that night.
It could’ve.
Should’ve.
Mingyu almost kissed him again—almost shoved him against the door, almost ripped that hoodie off with shaking hands and teeth pressed to skin. Almost dropped to his knees and begged—not with words, but with his mouth, with his hunger, with everything he’d been starving to give.
But he didn’t.
Because Wonwoo had looked at him with those pitch-black eyes—sharp and bottomless, like he was daring him to cross a line. Like he was inviting sin and judging it in the same breath. Like he was waiting for Mingyu to fuck up.
So Mingyu backed off.
Physically.
Mentally?
He was ruined.
He tried. God, he fucking tried. He drowned himself in distraction—bare-knuckle sparring, bag drills until his wrists screamed, cold showers that left his skin raw and still aching. He let Seokmin drag him to some smoke-filled bar where the lights were low and the girls were hungry.
One of them touched his thigh. Leaned in. Whispered filth into his ear that would’ve made him crumble on any other night.
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Because it wasn’t Wonwoo’s voice.
It wasn’t Wonwoo’s heat.
She didn’t look at him like she wanted to rip him apart and wear his ruin like a crown. She didn’t radiate that unbearable silence, that pulse of restrained violence wrapped around want, around ache, around something darker than lust.
She didn’t look at him like she owned his fucking soul.
And Mingyu was suffering for it.
He needed to fuck, needed to move, needed to purge Wonwoo from his system like poison—but the truth dug deeper than bone:
He didn’t want anyone else.
He wanted Wonwoo.
Bent. Open. Snarling. Moaning.
Fighting him with lips and nails and heat until surrender wasn’t loss—it was goddamn devotion.
He wanted to crawl into that cold detachment, that steel wall of composure, and shatter it. Hear Wonwoo’s voice crack. Hear him beg. Hear him say his name like it hurt.
And it was driving him insane.
Wonwoo wasn’t doing any better.
He trained harder than ever. Longer. Past midnight, when the gym emptied and silence roared. His fists split open and healed again. His body ached, but not the way he wanted.
He told himself it was about discipline. Control. Survival.
But he was lying.
Because every night, when he closed his eyes, it wasn’t technique he saw. It wasn’t victory.
It was Mingyu.
Mingyu’s grin. Mingyu’s sweat-slick neck. Mingyu’s voice, low and rough and trembling on that night in the ring:
“I want to fuck you so bad I can’t think straight.”
That moment hadn’t left him.
It had rooted into him.
It had opened a door he couldn’t fucking close.
And now?
Now he woke up every night aching.
Rock-hard. Breathless. His back arched, sheets tangled, mouth parted like he was begging for something.
For someone.
He didn’t touch himself. Couldn’t.
Not when it was Mingyu’s name on the tip of his tongue.
He didn’t want release.
He wanted ruin.
Because Mingyu didn’t just want to take him.
He wanted to break him open.
Slowly.
Desperately.
And Wonwoo—who’d spent his whole life building walls—found himself wanting to be broken.
Not out of weakness.
Out of something else.
Choice. Surrender. Need.
But he didn’t speak.
Not to him. Not to anyone.
And neither did Mingyu.
Their silence was a war now.
Every gym session a battlefield of glances and ghost touches. Mingyu shadowboxed too close. Wonwoo stretched just slowly enough for his shirt to rise, muscles flexing like sin offered on a platter.
Their eyes would meet. Hold.
And burn.
No touch.
No words.
Just two men vibrating with want, unraveling in slow motion.
And beneath all of it—
The knowing.
That this was going to snap.
That soon, one of them would break first.
Would grab.
Would push.
Would bite.
Would fuck.
And it wouldn’t be soft.
It wouldn’t be sweet.
It would be filthy. Unholy. Senseless.
The kind of hunger that left bruises.
The kind of obsession that didn’t let go.
And both of them—
God help them—
Were already reaching for the match.
The days bled into each other. Then the weeks. Then time itself stopped meaning anything at all, except for the moments when they were near each other—too near and never near enough.
They crossed paths often now. Daily. Clockwork. Always in the gym, beneath the dying hum of old fluorescent lights and the thick, stifling air that reeked of blood, metal, and sweat-soaked longing. But they didn’t speak. Not directly. Not anymore.
Because words would be a mercy.
And they didn’t want mercy.
Instead, they fed on silence. On glances sharp enough to cut. On that impossible proximity that curled like a fist in the belly—tight, hot, unbearable. It was the inhale of restraint and the exhale of lust held too long between teeth.
It was Mingyu showing up early—always early—just to watch Wonwoo stretch in the corner of the mat, muscles taut and glistening with sweat, every curve of his body drawn in shadow and light like something sacred and sinful all at once. Mingyu would pretend to warm up, but all he was doing was watching—watching that spine arch, that throat tilt back, that sliver of skin at the hem of his shirt lift just high enough to make his fists curl.
And every time, he wanted to sink his teeth into it.
Into him.
It was Wonwoo staying later in the locker room than he needed to, towel hanging loose around his neck, pretending to scroll through his phone when he heard the door creak open. He wouldn’t look up—not right away. But his eyes would flick toward the mirror, and there Mingyu would be. Towering. Terrible. Beautiful. Stripping his shirt off like it was nothing. Like his body wasn’t carved to punish.
Wonwoo’s fingers would twitch, but he wouldn’t move.
Because this wasn’t just lust anymore.
It was an obsession weaponized into discipline.
And when they passed each other—briefly, shoulder to shoulder, skin brushing skin like a threat—they wouldn’t pause. Wouldn’t speak. But the moment would hang there, suspended like a breath right before a kiss.
Like a fuse that begged to be lit.
Like a question that had no clean answer.
Their eyes would meet—too long, too deep—and every time it happened, something in them frayed. Because beneath the restraint, beneath the silence, was a fire so volatile it refused to be smothered.
They both wanted.
They both burned.
Mingyu would lie awake at night, sheets kicked off, sweat clinging to his chest as he stared at the ceiling and imagined what it would be like to finally touch him—really touch him, not in passing, not in memory, but pressed up against a wall, hips grinding, mouths crashing like war and worship colliding.
And Wonwoo—god, Wonwoo was just as wrecked. He'd jerk awake in the middle of the night, sheets clutched in his fists, pulse racing like he’d just lost a fight, only it was his own mind he was trying to defeat. He’d drag cold water over his face, over his chest, trying to feel something other than the heat of Mingyu’s phantom breath at his ear, the imagined weight of his hands on his hips, the unbearable thought of giving in.
Because that was the truth of it.
This thing between them—it wouldn’t be gentle.
It wouldn’t be sweet.
It would be desperate. Filthy. Final.
It would be fingernails clawing down backs.
It would be teeth at throats, gasps swallowed between kisses that felt more like confessions and punishment than love.
It would be Mingyu’s mouth on his skin, hungry and unrelenting.
It would be Wonwoo pinned and biting, bucking and giving in, fighting to stay above water in the storm they made together.
And they both knew—
The second they let go, they wouldn’t come back from it.
Because this wasn’t tension anymore.
This was a countdown.
To a detonation.
To destruction.
To need in its purest, most unholy form.
And still—
They waited.
Because the longer they waited, the sweeter the collapse would be.
Because the ache was its own kind of pleasure.
Because if they ever touched again, they wouldn’t stop.
And somewhere deep down, they both wanted that.
To break.
To burn.
To belong to no one but each other—if only for one night.
Wonwoo Trained harder. Hard enough to bleed. Hard enough to forget. Or at least try.
He threw himself into motion like it could scrape the ache from under his skin—each punch against the heavy bag sharp, punishing, like a prayer offered up to silence the low, constant hum of want that had rooted itself in his bloodstream.
But the silence?
It was screaming now.
Not in words. In sensation.
In the way his body buzzed at the mere scent of sweat and leather. In how he couldn’t scrub the heat of Mingyu’s gaze from the back of his neck.
How every breath he drew felt shared, like it had already passed through Mingyu’s lungs first.
And when the gym emptied out, when the lights flickered overhead and he stepped alone into the night—sore, aching, raw to the bone—he told himself it was discipline.
That all of this was just discipline.
But the truth curled dark and hot under his skin.
Because when he walked home, headphones in but no music playing, all he could think about was him.
Mingyu.
That voice.
That body.
Those eyes that looked at him like they were starving, like they wanted to eat him alive just to see what he tasted like beneath the control.
And god help him—
Part of Wonwoo wanted to let him.
Wanted to fall to his knees and feel the weight of Mingyu’s obsession crash down on him. To give in. To submit—not in defeat, but in choice.
But that would mean letting go.
Letting himself be seen. Felt. Taken.
And Wonwoo wasn’t used to being taken.
He was the one in control. Always. That was the only way he knew how to survive.
And yet—
Wonwoo would strip the second he got through the door, pace across the small apartment like the heat in his veins might boil over, and step into the shower with the lights off—just steam and shadow, his breath echoing in the tight space like confession.
He’d brace one hand flat against the cold tile wall, head bowed, the other hovering uselessly by his side, fingers twitching—because he wanted to touch himself.
But he didn’t.
He couldn’t.
Because it wasn’t enough. Not anymore.
The fantasy wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t romantic. It was Mingyu’s hands gripping his waist, hard enough to bruise. It was being shoved against the nearest surface—mouth open, gasping, marked.
It was the sound of Mingyu's voice, low and wrecked, whispering filth against his throat.
It was the burn of a kiss that never asked permission.
It was Mingyu taking—and Wonwoo letting him.
Not in surrender. Not in shame.
But in something far worse: want.
Need.
A need so filthy and raw it scared him.
It was pathetic.
It was real.
He hadn’t let anyone touch him in months.
And when the steam clouded the mirror, when Wonwoo stepped out soaked and breathless, he would still catch his reflection—chest rising too fast, eyes glassy, lips red from biting down every impulse that tried to claw its way out.
He’d stare at himself like he was trying to find the version of him that wasn’t coming undone.
But all he’d see was hunger.
All he’d feel was an ache.
A knot of heat low in his belly that refused to go away.
A ghost of Mingyu’s hands where no one else had ever been allowed to touch.
And his fists would curl.
Because he hated himself for craving it.
For needing it.
He didn’t want softness.
He didn’t want sweet.
He wanted to be ruined.
And he wanted Mingyu to be the one to do it.
But he wouldn’t give in. Not yet.
Even as the need carved itself deeper into his bones, sharp and burning.
So he told himself he could wait.
Even as his body betrayed him every night.
Even as his dreams dripped with sin and sweat and surrender.
Even as the silence screamed louder than ever before.
Mingyu stopped sleeping.
Every night was the same
Not just because he was restless, not because of sore muscles or post-training exhaustion—but because every time he closed his eyes, he saw him.
Jeon Wonwoo.
Silent. Still. Untouched.
And it fucking haunted him.
Night after night, he lay there on his back, the room too dark, the air too thick, one hand pressed to his chest like he could force his heartbeat to slow, to settle—but it never did.
The sheets tangled around his legs like bindings. Sweat clung to his skin. His body ached, yes—but not from the gym. Not from fighting.
It was want.
A slow, suffocating hunger that throbbed between his ribs and sank lower—hot and heavy—into the pit of his stomach. He was coming apart and no one saw it. Not Seokmin. Not Joshua. Not even Wonwoo.
Especially not Wonwoo.
Because Wonwoo didn’t look at him like he wanted him.
He looked at him like he was a sin waiting to happen. Like touching him would cross some final, irredeemable line.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Because when Mingyu tried to take the edge off—alone, breath stuttering, hand working himself under the sheets—the image that came wasn’t of Wonwoo beneath him, moaning and gasping.
No.
It was of Wonwoo staring.
That stare.
Blank. Silent. Controlled.
Watching him fall apart without offering a single sound in return.
And fuck, it ruined him.
Because Mingyu didn’t want to just fuck him. Didn’t want to rut against him in some messy, meaningless way.
He wanted to crack him open.
He wanted to watch the control bleed out of Wonwoo’s eyes.
He wanted to see that stillness melt into something desperate—hips grinding, teeth biting, hands gripping onto him like he was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
He wanted Wonwoo to beg without words.
To give in without surrender.
To choose to unravel for him, with him.
Mingyu imagined the scrape of his knuckles along that pale throat, fingers curling just tight enough to make Wonwoo’s breath catch, not from fear—but from trust.
Intimate. Dangerous. Rare.
That kind of trust.
He wanted to earn that gasp.
That broken moan.
That look that said “take it—I want you to.”
But instead, he laid there every night, wrecked and pulsing with the kind of lust that no one talks about. The kind that’s more than physical.
The kind that eats you alive.
He didn’t sleep.
He just burned.
Slow. Steady. Constant.
It wasn’t just lust anymore. Wasn’t a crush. Wasn’t even an obsession.
It was need.
And that kind of need?
That kind of want?
It didn’t go away.
It just hollowed him out, day by day.
It had teeth.
It had claws.
And it was hollowing him out day by day.
He’d wake up in the morning sore and aching, eyes bloodshot, mind still spinning—and then he’d see Wonwoo at the gym, cool and collected, pretending nothing had happened.
And Mingyu would want to scream.
Because he could feel him.
Even from across the room.
Even when they didn’t speak.
Especially when they didn’t speak.
That tension—the unbearable, smoldering silence between them—wasn’t just foreplay anymore.
It was war.
And Mingyu was losing.
The worst part?
They knew exactly what they were doing.
This wasn’t a mistake.
Wasn’t coincidence.
Wasn’t some shy, repressed maybe-I-like-you game.
It was intentional. Deliberate. Calculated torture.
A slow-burn ritual they both upheld with vicious devotion, as if the ache between them was holy and too sacred to be touched with something as ordinary as action.
They lingered like gravity—orbiting each other in the dim locker room light, under the buzz of the gym’s overhead lamps, in the stale, blood-tinged air of early morning sparring sessions.
They didn’t speak.
They didn’t have to.
Because everything was already said in the silence.
Wonwoo would arrive just as Mingyu was peeling off his gloves, arms flushed and sweat-slicked, jaw clenched in frustration. And instead of nodding or offering a greeting, he’d walk right past him, eyes forward, jaw tight—but with his breath trailing behind like a fingerprint across Mingyu’s neck.
A whisper. A ghost. A dare.
Mingyu would freeze, just for a second. Eyes hooded, pulse wrecked, suddenly aware of every nerve ending like they’d lit up under the weight of that nothing-touch.
Later, it would be Mingyu’s turn.
He’d sit at the edge of the mat, stretching out those long, sweat-damp limbs, knowing exactly when Wonwoo would step out of the showers. He’d glance up slowly, tracking him like prey, letting his eyes drag—neck, shoulders, towel hanging low, muscles coiled like tension waiting to snap.
He wouldn’t speak.
Wouldn’t smile.
Just watch.
Like a man starved in a banquet hall—surrounded by plenty, but wanting only the one thing he couldn’t touch.
Wonwoo would notice. He always did. His steps would slow—not stop—but just enough to acknowledge the heat. Just enough to feed it.
Still. Nothing.
No contact.
No confirmation.
Just eyes. Breath. Space.
But God, the tension—
It was unbearable.
It clung to their skin like sweat, soaked into their shirts, twisted into the air between them like static before a lightning strike.
Every brush of proximity was a punishment.
Every missed chance, a silent, mutual sin.
Wonwoo would pretend not to hear Mingyu’s breath catch when he stretched too close.
Mingyu would pretend not to stare when Wonwoo sparred hard enough to make his lip split and bleed.
And neither of them would touch. Not even a shoulder. Not even a graze of fingers.
Because if they did—
They’d unravel.
The game would end. The silence would split.
And neither of them were ready to lose that kind of control.
So they played on.
Holding the fire between them like a secret.
Starving with their mouths shut.
Dying with their hands clean.
And the worst part?
They liked it.
They liked the way denial made everything feel sharper.
More painful.
More alive.Like they were both standing on the edge of a cliff—daring the other to jump first.
Something was going to break.
Not tonight.
Not yet.
But soon.
The air between them was already fracturing—molecule by molecule—from the weight of everything unspoken.
This wasn’t the kind of desire that softened with time.
This wasn’t a crush. Or lust. Or even love—not yet.
This was fixation.
And fixation doesn’t fade.
It sharpens.
It carves itself deeper with every glance that lingers too long.
With every inhale drawn from the other’s proximity.
With every second they pretend not to feel it coil between their ribs like a slow-burning fuse.
They tried, both of them.
God, they tried.
Wonwoo buried himself in discipline—fists tight, jaw tighter, sparring until the skin split over his knuckles and bled into the mat like confession. He trained like he was trying to sweat it out, to purge it from his bloodstream.
But it stayed.
Because no matter how hard he fought, he still felt that gaze on him.
Mingyu’s.
Burning from across the gym. Searing into him from locker room reflections. Haunting him in dreams he didn’t dare describe, where heat and control and shame twisted into something filthy and sacred all at once.
And Mingyu?
He was unraveling.
He moved like he could outrun it—took more matches, harder fights, bruised his ribs and his pride, but it didn’t fix anything. Because every time he looked across the room and saw Wonwoo arch his neck, stretch his arms, pull his lip between his teeth in deep thought—his body reacted like it was being called.
There was no logic in it.
Just need.
Feral. Devouring. Permanent.
And the worst part?
It was mutual.
It was mirrored.
It was fucking fated.
They were running out of distractions.
Out of space.
Out of control.
Because eventually, one of them would crack.
It might be in a spar gone too hard.
Or in the quiet of the locker room when everyone else had left.
Or maybe just in a single moment—a glance too long, a breath too heavy, a whisper too close.
And then?
There’d be no undoing it.
No pretending the silence hadn’t turned into foreplay.
No erasing the way their bodies already knew the rhythm, the ache, the choreography of want without ever touching.
Obsession builds.
It doesn’t ask permission.
It doesn’t wait for the right time.
It creeps into your bones, wraps around your lungs, and waits—**patient and venomous—**for that final, fatal snap.
And both of them?
They were dangerously close to the edge.
One more glance.
One more slip.
One more heartbeat—
And the game would be over.
No more denial.
No more distance.
Just them.
Colliding. Consuming. Completely fucked.
Notes:
Heeeyyyyyy everyone, guess who’s back? That’s right, it’s meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Sorry for the radio silence, but I was in such a deep writer’s block that I considered deleting all my work and becoming a goat herder in the Himalayas. They say goats are great listeners, right? lolol But thankfully, I finally found some inspiration from songs—shout-out to musicians everywhere! Who knew belts and heartache could be so motivating? (*cough cough* red lights by chan & hyunjin skz *cough cough*)
Anyway, I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint
Chapter Text
The gym was packed tonight.
It always swelled before fight nights—more bodies, more heat, more noise. Trainers shouting, gloves thudding against bags like war drums, egos vibrating in the air. The scent of iron and sweat, testosterone, and tension thickened every breath.
Wonwoo hated it.
Too loud. Too exposed. Too easy for his control to crack.
So he slipped through like smoke—hood up, earbuds in, head down. His strides were calm, precise, and calculated. He didn’t make eye contact. Didn’t linger. Didn’t feel.
Until he showed up.
Kim Mingyu.
Late. Loud. Larger than life, like always. The kind of presence that pulled the air around him tight. Laughter first—low and careless, too sharp—and then that fucking swagger. Shoulders loose, smile lazy, neck glistening under the lights like he knew eyes were on him.
And they were.
One in particular.
Wonwoo didn’t mean to look.
He told himself it was nothing.
But his gaze found him anyway.
And he saw her.
That girl.
Too pretty. Too eager. Arm looped through Mingyu’s like she had a right. Pressed against his side like she belonged there. Laughing at something he said. Fingernails grazing the hem of his sleeve like she didn’t know whose space she was trespassing.
Wonwoo looked away. Fast. Jaw clenched so tight it ached.
He turned back to the mirror, adjusted the wraps on his wrists like the motion could anchor him, distract him from the wildfire starting to crawl under his skin. He yanked his hoodie off. Flexed his fingers. Counted to ten.
It doesn’t matter.
He can do what he wants.
He can flirt.
He can fuck.
You don’t care.
Lie.
Because even as he forced himself through his warmup—jabs slicing the air, sweat rolling down the back of his neck—his body betrayed him. He could feel the tension curling in the pit of his stomach, sharp and possessive and wrong.
His gloves tightened until the leather bit his knuckles.
He told himself to focus.
Then he felt it.
That shift.
That pull.
The kind of awareness he hated himself for knowing so well.
He didn’t have to look to know Mingyu was watching him now.
But he did anyway.
And when their eyes locked across the gym—music thumping, voices shouting, time slowing—something in the air snapped.
Wonwoo’s face didn’t move.
But his stare?
Feral.
It was jealousy bottled into a single breath. Hunger disguised as indifference. Fire wearing the mask of stone.
Mingyu’s smirk stuttered. Twitched. Twisted into something darker.
He didn’t hear a word the girl beside him said.
Because now all he could hear was need.
The need to drop her hand. The need to walk across the gym and press Wonwoo into the wall until he stopped pretending. Until that look turned into a sound—broken, breathless, real.
Wonwoo dropped his gaze first. On purpose.
But Mingyu knew better.
Knew it was a challenge.
A warning.
Don’t push me.
So, of course, he did.
He leaned down. Said something into the girl’s ear that made her laugh again, louder. His hand brushed her waist. His gaze didn’t move.
Straight at Wonwoo.
Watching him twitch. Watching that control fracture.
And fuck—Mingyu loved it.
Because if he had to suffer in silence every night, hard and aching and wanting—
Then so would Wonwoo.
Because nothing tasted better than hunger when you knew it was mutual.
And the gym? It was just the stage.
The real fight hadn’t even started.
Wonwoo didn’t get jealous.
He didn’t.
He wasn’t the type.
Jealousy was messy. Loud. Emotional.
And Jeon Wonwoo was none of those things.
So when he told himself that the curl in his stomach had nothing to do with Mingyu’s hand on that girl’s back—
He believed it.
At first.
He hit the bag harder. Sharper. Let his gloves thud into leather like they could knock the thought loose.
But it came back.
That image.
The way Mingyu smiled at her. Carefree. Effortless. Like it cost him nothing to be that soft. That touchable.
Like he didn’t burn when someone got too close.
Wonwoo tried again.
Focused on his form. Breath control. Footwork.
Control. That was his weapon. His shield.
But somewhere between round three and round five, his head turned. Just slightly. Just enough to catch a glimpse of Mingyu laughing across the gym.
Still with her.
Still touching.
Still looking comfortable.
And something—something—cracked.
His next punch missed.
That had never happened before.
He told himself it was a fluke.
Told himself he wasn’t angry.
But the next time Jihoon called his name, he barked back without thinking, voice sharp enough to draw blood.
He didn't apologize.
He didn’t explain.
Instead, he went to the locker room early and sat on the bench, head bowed, breathing hard. His hoodie clung to his spine, soaked through, but he didn’t move to change.
He just stared at his reflection in the dark glass of the lockers.
And saw it.
That look in his own eyes.
Jealousy.
Ugly. Bitter. Wild.
He tried to laugh at himself. Failed.
It wasn’t even the girl. Not really.
She didn’t matter.
It was the access.
The ease.
The fact that she could touch Mingyu without trembling. Could smile at him without fear of burning.
Could kiss him without wondering if she’d survive it.
He couldn’t.
Not because Mingyu was dangerous.
But because he was.
Because if he let himself have it—that kiss, that body, that heat—it would ruin him.
Because Mingyu made him want.
And want was something Wonwoo couldn’t control.
But now that he’d tasted it—felt it in the air between them, in the kiss they never talked about, in the tension that curled under his skin like smoke—
Now that Want had a face, a name, a voice that haunted his fucking dreams?
He couldn’t stop.
He couldn’t stop remembering the way Mingyu looked at him—like he was the only thing worth burning for.
Couldn’t stop imagining what it would feel like to give in.
So when Mingyu brushed past him later that evening, their arms barely touching—
And lingered—
Wonwoo flinched.
But not from discomfort.
From craving.
Because god help him—
He was jealous.
And worse?
He liked it
in the locker room, they crossed paths again.
But this time—
This time, the world didn’t keep spinning.
No movement. No soft echo of footfalls over tile. No distant hum of showers or low chatter. Just the two of them, standing inside a moment that crackled too loudly to ignore. Static in the air. Blood in their teeth.
Wonwoo didn’t pass him like a ghost.
No—this time, he stayed.
He stood there, back pressed against the lockers like a statue carved out of tension, hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, sweat still clinging to the sharp cut of his collarbones, glinting in the dim, yellow light like it was placed there on purpose, like his body was offering up its hunger just enough to tempt. His arms were crossed, lips set, his eyes sharp and merciless—but not cold. No. Not anymore.
This wasn’t ice.
This was control.
Barely.
And when he looked up at Mingyu—looked through him like he owned every breath he took, every dirty thought that had dragged him out of sleep gasping—Mingyu felt the air collapse between them.
Because there was no more pretending.
Wonwoo wasn’t running anymore.
He was waiting.
Like a sin waiting to be committed.
Like a challenge waiting to be ruined.
Like a goddamn invitation wrapped in silence.
And Mingyu—God, Mingyu—felt his pulse trip, stutter, spiral. His heart kicked up the second he saw him, pounding like it remembered everything his brain was trying to forget. Every look. Every breath. Every almost. Fuck. Just look at him.
So cold. So fucking beautiful. Fury carved into something elegant. Every inch of him unreadable, every beat of his pulse a secret—but Mingyu didn’t need him to speak. Didn’t need a map to know what his body was screaming.
Because they weren’t teasing anymore.
This wasn’t a game.
This was the edge of something they couldn’t walk back from.
And Mingyu didn’t smile this time. Didn’t deflect. Didn’t mask the hunger behind cocky grins or lazy shrugs. Didn’t pretend he wasn’t already wrecked.
He slowed to a stop, barely two feet away, gaze dragging over Wonwoo’s face, the line of his throat, the slow rise and fall of his chest behind the zipper of that hoodie like it was struggling to contain the heat underneath.
Wonwoo looked at him like he was daring him to reach for it.
Daring him to burn.
And Mingyu did.
He swallowed hard, stepped in just a little more—barely, but enough to feel the gravity of him.
“Say the word, Jeon.”
His voice was raw. Not a threat. A plea. Torn from somewhere low and feral.
“One word. I’ll ruin you so good, you’ll never stop crawling back.”
The silence that followed didn’t break them.
It bound them.
It ripped through the tension, sharper than any blade. Charged, deafening, alive.
Wonwoo’s head tilted, just barely. That twitch in his jaw. That one long blink. That stillness.
And then—
His arms dropped to his sides.
That was it.
That was all it took.
Mingyu snapped.
He crossed the space like a storm breaking land, fists twisted in the front of Wonwoo’s hoodie before either of them could breathe, and slammed him back against the lockers with a force that echoed, a metallic crash that bounced off tile and rattled through bone.
Metal groaned.
But Wonwoo didn’t flinch.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t fucking move.
No—he gripped back. Hands curled tight around Mingyu’s hips, fingers digging in, dragging him closer like he’d been waiting for this, like he was done with distance, done with control, done pretending he didn’t feel the same pull that had been rotting them both from the inside out.
And then—
Then their mouths collided.
Not a kiss. A collision.
No hesitation. No grace. No romance.
Just raw, blistering heat.
Teeth clashing. Tongues fighting. Breaths caught between them like smoke in a sealed room. Mingyu devoured him—finally, finally—one hand fisting in Wonwoo’s hair, yanking his head to the side, the other crushed against his lower back, holding him in place, pressing their bodies together until it felt like a goddamn cage.
Wonwoo gasped into his mouth, and fuck, that sound—
That sound nearly broke Mingyu in half.
This wasn’t lust.
This wasn’t release.
This was months of restraint tearing itself open and bleeding all over the floor.
Wonwoo shoved him once—hard—into the lockers, their bodies slamming together again, forearm pinning against Mingyu’s throat not to choke, not to stop—to ignite. To dominate. To remind him that no matter who moved first, Wonwoo was still holding the blade.
Their hips rolled once—twice—and Mingyu groaned, filthy and unfiltered, the sound ripped from the base of his spine.
“You’ve wanted this,” Wonwoo hissed, his breath a brand against Mingyu’s mouth.
Mingyu choked on his own voice. “Still do.”
Their mouths met again. Messy. Hungry. Tongue and teeth and war.
Mingyu kissed him like he didn’t know what would happen if he stopped—because he didn’t. Because maybe if he let go now, he’d die. Maybe he’d fall to his knees. Maybe he’d beg.
And Wonwoo—
Wonwoo gave just enough.
Let him feel it. Taste it. Almost believe it.
But didn’t give in.
Because that’s who he was. Controlled. Precise. Always holding the knife where no one could see.
And he broke the kiss first.
Of course he did.
Pulled back slow, lips swollen, hair wrecked, pupils blown wide—but voice steady. So goddamn steady.
“You call that ruining me?”
It was mockery, venom and breathlessness wrapped around satin.
He pressed two fingers against Mingyu’s chest.
Shoved once.
And walked away.
Not fast. Not flustered.
Just—gone.
And Mingyu stood there, panting, lips raw, cock aching, body buzzing like he’d just taken a hit straight to the soul.
And he smiled.
Sharp. Broken. Hungry.
Because finally—finally—
Wonwoo had stopped running
Wonwoo had barely made it three steps toward the exit.
Three.
And that was all the grace he got.
A rough hand caught his wrist—tight, unforgiving, demanding.
Yanked.
And his back hit Mingyu’s chest with enough force to knock the air from his lungs. His breath hitched, sharp and involuntary, shoulders colliding with solid heat, the weight of Mingyu pressing into him like punishment. Like a reminder.
Too hot.
Too close.
Too good.
He froze.
Not out of fear—but out of flooding want.
Because it wasn’t just a grip. It was claiming.
And then—
That voice.
Low. Gritty. Right at his ear.
“Not so fast, doll.”
Not whispered. Not casual. Not thrown away.
It was said like a sin.
Like a possession.
Like a brand, pressed into skin still tender from denial.
The word slid through him like smoke and heat and the edge of something filthy.
Doll.
Wonwoo’s knees nearly gave.
Just one word.
Just that word, in that voice—the kind of voice that didn’t ask. That took. That knew.
And God, the way Mingyu said it—like he’d been holding it back, tasting it, waiting for the right moment to unleash it—like it belonged to him, like Wonwoo belonged to him—twisted something deep in his gut. Something base. Something aching.
He didn’t have the strength to lie to himself anymore.
Because he wanted it.
All of it.
Wanted to be spoken to like that. Touched like that. Wanted to feel teeth at his throat and fingers at his hips and breath in his ear like he was being kept.
He could feel every inch of Mingyu behind him—could feel the rise and fall of his chest against his spine, the faint tremble in the arm locked around his torso, gloved knuckles brushing up just beneath his ribs. Restraint barely hanging by a thread.
Mingyu’s mouth hovered closer, voice darker now. Softer. More dangerous.
“You think you can kiss me like that…”
His nose grazed the edge of Wonwoo’s jaw. A slow drag. Measured. Deliberate.
“…and walk away?”
Wonwoo didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
He should’ve shoved him off.
Should’ve snapped a reply, clean and sharp.
Should’ve walked out and locked it behind him.
But he didn’t.
Because the heat had already won.
The want had already sunk its claws in.
And that kiss—God, that kiss—was still echoing in the corners of his mouth.
“You kissed me,” Wonwoo said, but it wasn’t a defense.
It was a confession, thin and cracked.
Breathless. Broken.
Mingyu laughed.
Once. Low. Hungry. Close enough to taste.
“Right. And you let me.”
A pause. The edge of a smirk in his breath.
“You liked it.”
Wonwoo’s jaw clenched.
Because it was true.
Because it was fucking true.
And hearing it out loud felt like being stripped bare.
Mingyu leaned in further, and the tip of his nose slid along the curve of Wonwoo’s throat, ghosting his pulse. A shiver rolled through him, shoulders twitching—unwanted, unhidden.
Mingyu felt it.
And smiled again.
“You're shaking, sweetheart.”
Wonwoo grit his teeth.
“I’m not,” he lied, voice low and brittle, steel already bent.
And Mingyu’s hand—God, that hand—slid lower. Not touching. Not yet. Just hovering at the hem of his hoodie, just above his waistband, the promise of contact more dangerous than the real thing.
“Say the word,” Mingyu whispered. Not teasing now. Not cocky. Just hungry.
“Say it, and I’ll ruin you right here.”
The words soaked into his skin, slow and burning. Made him ache.
Wonwoo’s breath stuttered.
His control—tight for so long—slipped another inch.
He turned his head slightly, just enough to breathe against Mingyu’s jaw.
“Not here,” he rasped.
It was all he could manage.
All he could allow.
Mingyu’s mouth skimmed his ear again, teeth catching just enough to make him shiver.
“Then where?” he asked, voice deep and ruined and wrecked with want.
Wonwoo didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
Because Mingyu could feel it.
The way his body leaned back—just enough. The way he was holding his breath. The way his fingers twitched instead of pulling away.
They stood like that too long.
Too close. Too charged.
Every inch of their bodies screaming what neither of them could say.
And then—just as it all threatened to break—
Wonwoo twisted his wrist free.
His movements sharp, breath catching. A flash of resistance. A flicker of fight.
He turned.
Faced him.
Eyes sharp, lips kissed raw, chest heaving.
He looked wrecked.
But undefeated.
And he grabbed the front of Mingyu’s shirt, dragged him down with one hand like he owned him—and whispered against his mouth, voice laced in fire and satin:
“You’ll know when.”
Then he let go.
And walked away.
Gone, just like that.
Leaving Mingyu standing there—chest rising too fast, mouth parted, hands curled into fists, skin burning with a need that had nowhere to go.
And fuck.
That made it worse.
Because now he knew—
Wonwoo wanted it just as bad.
And when the moment came?
When he said the word?
Mingyu wouldn’t hold back.
He wouldn’t stop.
He’d tear that last thread of control from both their throats—and devour him
Mingyu’s head was still swirling from the night’s tension, his mind tangled with every word, every heated look with Wonwoo. But instead of going home like a normal person, he found himself walking to Seokmin’s place—because honestly, who needed normal?
He knocked on the door, pushing it open without waiting for an answer. The smell of cooking hit him first, then laughter. A good sign.
But what wasn’t a good sign?
The sight waiting in the living room.
Seokmin and Joshua—mid-kiss.
Full-on, awkwardly passionate, with Seokmin’s hand tangled in Joshua’s hair and Joshua’s arms wrapped tight around Seokmin’s waist.
Mingyu froze, caught mid-step, mouth hanging open like he’d just walked into a soap opera that forgot to warn him.
“Uh... I’ll just... come back later?” Mingyu tried, voice cracking on the last word.
Joshua pulled back, cheeks flushing a shade of red that could rival the chili Seokmin was probably cooking. Seokmin looked equally horrified but also amused, like he was silently saying, Well, we got caught. Now what?
Seokmin grinned, brushing a stray hair from Joshua’s forehead. “Dude, you’re late. You missed dinner.”
Joshua shoved Seokmin playfully, shooting Mingyu a sheepish look. “We thought you were joking about dropping by.”
Mingyu pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting the urge to laugh and facepalm at the same time. “You two are unbelievable.”
Mingyu ate dinner at Seokmin’s—laughter echoing around the small apartment, teasing and jokes lightening the weight pressing on his chest. The awkward moment with Joshua and Seokmin is already becoming a story for the future.
After the meal, Mingyu excused himself, the heat from the food making his skin itch for a shower. He peeled off his sweaty clothes, letting the water wash over him—hot and relentless—trying to rinse away everything except the taste of Wonwoo’s mouth that clung to his skin like a secret.
Wonwoo paced his small room like a caged animal, each step a frantic beat against the cold floor, the silence pressing down on him heavier than any opponent he’d faced in the ring. His mind was a storm of contradictions—chaotic, wild, and terrifying in its intensity.
He had kissed Mingyu.
Not just kissed him—but let himself be kissed.
Let Mingyu’s mouth claim him, tug at something he’d spent months denying even existed.
And now?
He was panicking.
Because part of him wanted to pull Mingyu closer, to lose himself in that raw heat again, to give in to the ache that had settled in his chest like poison. But another part—a voice sharper than any jab—whispered warnings. Told him this was dangerous. Reckless. That Mingyu was trouble wrapped in temptation.
You can’t let yourself get burned.
You have to keep control.
But control was slipping through his fingers like sand.
He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms until the sharp sting grounded him. But it didn’t stop the memory—the weight of Mingyu’s body pressed against his, the frantic heat of the kiss, the way his own breath had hitched like he was drowning.
Wonwoo bit his lip, heart pounding louder than his own thoughts. He was supposed to be the one who held power, who stayed calm when everything else threatened to unravel. Yet here he was—torn between the urge to call Mingyu back and the need to push him away, unsure if he wanted to taste that fire again or burn it out before it consumed them both.
His fingers hovered over his phone, the cursor blinking at the empty message box like a silent dare.
Say something.
Don’t.
What if he laughs?
What if he wants more?
The fear tangled with desire, a vicious knot in his chest.
And finally, trembling, reckless—
Wonwoo typed his address.
His thumb hesitated over the send button.
A final breath.
And then—
He sent it.
The message came through at midnight.
Mingyu sat on the floor of Seokmin’s guest room, half-wrapped in a towel, ice pack pressed tight against his ribs, the sting of the bruise still sharp beneath his skin—but nothing compared to the ache still thrumming in his chest. The kiss. Wonwoo’s voice lingering in his ear, low and dangerous.
You’ll know when.
He hadn’t expected anything else. No calls. No words.
Just a ping.
A single text.
No letters, no promises.
Just a location pin.
Wonwoo’s address.
Mingyu stared at the screen, breath caught somewhere deep and ragged in his throat. The world seemed to narrow into that glowing little icon, pulsing with quiet demand.
It felt like a wire had been pulled taut inside him—buzzing, electric, stretched thin over nerves raw with want and warning.
His heart slammed.
His pulse hammered in his ears.
He could taste the salt of his own sweat on his lips.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard, fingers trembling.
He typed. Erased.
Typed again.
There were no words that could match what Wonwoo had already said without saying anything.
By sending that pin, he’d handed over more than just a location.
He’d given up control.
Given up his walls.
Given up the question of when, how, or why.
Mingyu didn’t reply.
He didn’t need to.
He stood up slowly, silence hanging thick in the small room.
Dressed without ceremony.
Grabbed his keys.
And walked out the door.
Meanwhile, Wonwoo stood by his window, one hand buried deep in his hoodie pocket, the other gripping a glass of cold water he hadn’t touched in nearly twenty minutes.
The city sprawled below, blurred and shimmering, indifferent to the turmoil tearing through him.
He didn’t regret sending that message.
His regret was how long it had taken him to finally do it.
Because the ache in his chest wasn’t leaving.
Because every quiet moment without Mingyu felt like a slow suffocation.
Tonight—finally—he was done fighting it.
His apartment was clean, dimly lit, the windows cracked open to let in the faint night air.
A low fight playlist pulsed through the speakers, the steady beat like a held breath waiting to be released.
And him?
He didn’t know if he was ready.
But his hands were steady.
His jaw was set.
He waited.
And then, at exactly 12:37 a.m., a sharp knock sounded at the door.
He didn’t flinch.
He didn’t hesitate.
He moved to open it, every nerve taut as wire.
And there, framed in the doorway—
Was Mingyu.
Black hoodie hanging loose, damp hair still clinging to his forehead.
Eyes wide—blown open with something raw, something hungry, something that matched the wild pulse thudding beneath Wonwoo’s own skin.
Neither of them spoke.
Not at first.
Mingyu’s gaze swept down the length of Wonwoo’s body—the bare feet, the low-slung shorts, the way the hoodie slid just enough to reveal skin heated by their lingering tension.
Wonwoo stepped back without a word.
An unspoken invitation.
Mingyu stepped forward.
A silent promise.
The door closed behind them with a quiet click.
And the air snapped tight—charged, electric, dangerous.
They were here.
Together.
At last.
The room was still.
Too still.
The kind of still that screamed.
The kind of still where every second felt like it was waiting to be shattered.
Wonwoo leaned back against the kitchen counter, body casual, posture loose—one hand curled lazily around a sweating glass of water he hadn’t touched in ages. The hoodie hung loose on him, sleeves pushed to his elbows, the neckline dipping low over his collarbones. It had slipped slightly off one shoulder, revealing a sliver of bare skin kissed by the glow of the city lights bleeding through the window.
He looked calm.
Untouched.
A little bored, even.
But Mingyu knew better.
Because he was a mess.
Still standing near the door, breath shallow, pulse unsteady, mouth too dry to speak. Every part of him was caught on the image in front of him—the way Wonwoo didn’t even pretend to be surprised he was there. No questions. No nerves. Just… waiting.
Like he knew.
Like he planned this. Which he did
Like he’d sent that pin not as a question, but a command.
Mingyu’s tongue dragged over his bottom lip, slow. He stepped forward. Then again. The floor creaked beneath him, soft and deliberate. The sound of movement between the long-held breath of silence.
Wonwoo didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Just watched him, eyes sharp, glass still perched near his lips, unmoved.
And then—
Voice low, dark, deliberate—
“Are you going to make me beg?”
It came out rough. Wrecked.
Not playful. Not performative.
Real.
And finally, finally, Wonwoo looked up.
His gaze met Mingyu’s without flinching, like he was used to being stared at, wanted. Like he knew what he was doing to him.
And then—
That smirk.
Small. Controlled. Cruel in its elegance.
A slow curl of lips that hit Mingyu like a goddamn punch to the chest.
“I wouldn’t mind,” he said, smooth as silk.
Unbothered. Measured.
But the glint in his eyes—sharp, dangerous—said otherwise.
It said: Come closer.
It said: Try me.
Mingyu huffed a breathless laugh, head tilting slightly to the side.
“Of course you wouldn’t.”
His voice was different now—thick with something heavy, slow, starving. Like all his restraint had melted and hardened into something hotter. Darker. A hunger that couldn’t be dressed in jokes or cocky smiles anymore.
He took another step.
Then another.
Until the air between them was tight—tense like something strung up and straining.
His hand lifted slowly, eyes never leaving Wonwoo’s.
Fingers brushed the drawstring of his hoodie—just barely. A soft graze. Not pulling. Not tugging.
Just touching.
Testing.
Wonwoo’s eyes flicked down, cool and calculated, gaze following the movement. Then slowly back up.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
His voice—low and even—wasn’t a warning.
It was a challenge.
And fuck, did it make Mingyu ache.
He stepped closer, not even pretending now.
His breath ghosted over the edge of Wonwoo’s jaw, his lips hovering a hair’s breadth away. Not kissing. Not touching. Just… there. Like a threat. Like a promise.
“Who said I’d finish?” he whispered, voice like wet velvet.
“Maybe I just want to make you fall apart.”
And for the first time—
Wonwoo shifted.
Barely.
But Mingyu saw it.
Saw the flicker of tension in his jaw.
Saw the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed.
Saw how his fingers tightened around the edge of the counter, knuckles flexing just once.
It wasn’t fear.
It wasn’t hesitation.
It was need.
That sharp, unbearable kind that cut deeper the longer it was denied.
When he spoke, it came out in a whisper edged with steel:
“You’ll have to earn that.”
Mingyu’s mouth quirked—not a smirk, not a grin.
Something softer.
Something worse.
Something sincere.
“Then let me start working.”
He pressed in.
Not rough. Not fast.
Just enough for Wonwoo to feel the heat radiating off of him, just enough for his lips to barely ghost against the shell of his ear.
His hand found the side of Wonwoo’s waist—fingers splayed wide, not pushing, not pulling. Just there. Like an anchor. Like a claim waiting for consent.
His breath spilled across Wonwoo’s neck.
“Tell me where you want me.”
A pause.
The kind that lasts forever.
The kind where time doesn’t move—only want does.
Wonwoo’s breath hitched.
His voice cracked on the edge of restraint.
“Anywhere.”
And with that—
The first thread of control snapped.
Mingyu didn’t rush.
Not tonight.
Not when he finally had Jeon Wonwoo beneath his hands, standing quiet and still between the kitchen counter and his chest — eyes storm-dark, lips parted, hoodie hanging loose off one shoulder like an invitation too sacred to touch without trembling fingers.
His breath came heavier now. Not from nerves, but from the weight of it. The moment. The want.
He leaned in, slow, deliberate.
And kissed Wonwoo.
Not like before. Not rushed. Not desperate. But steady. Deep. Mouths molding into each other as if they'd been designed to meet exactly this way — soft lips, hot breath, no space.
Wonwoo didn’t move at first.
But when Mingyu’s hands slid down—palms wide over the curve of his waist, gripping, claiming—his hips tilted forward instinctively. Slowly. Needily. A small friction, a subtle grind, just enough to spark.
Mingyu swallowed the sound he made. Didn’t say a word.
He just slid his hands up again, bunching the soft cotton hoodie in his fists. His lips left Wonwoo’s just long enough to pull it off over his head, revealing skin so pale and smooth it made his throat tighten.
Wonwoo’s chest was bare under it, save for the faint flush blooming high on his collarbones. He wore nothing but black shorts that clung too well to his hips, and the sight of him nearly brought Mingyu to his knees.
His voice was hoarse when he finally whispered, “Fuck, you’re—”
He didn’t finish.
Didn’t need to.
He bent instead—kissed down the long line of Wonwoo’s neck, slow and reverent. His tongue dragged lightly across the skin there, warm and wet, before his teeth grazed the edge of his collarbone.
Wonwoo’s fingers twitched at his sides.
But he didn’t push him away.
He tilted his head back.
Mingyu bit—just lightly, just enough to leave a ghost of teeth—and the tiny hitch of Wonwoo’s breath nearly undid him.
And then he slid lower.
Hands still gripping the tops of Wonwoo’s thighs, Mingyu pressed soft kisses down his chest. His tongue followed the path of his sternum, tracing with sinful slowness, tasting the salt and skin and soundless submission.
Until he reached his nipples.
Wonwoo's breath caught.
Mingyu didn’t hesitate.
He gave one a slow lick — flat tongue, firm pressure — and then sucked it between his lips, lips wet and warm, tongue flicking once, twice, teasing.
Wonwoo let out a sharp breath through his nose, body twitching against the cold countertop behind him.
Mingyu felt that.
Felt the tension, the restraint, the way Wonwoo was fighting the urge to give him more.
Good.
He pulled off with a soft pop and shifted to the other nipple, lavishing it the same way — hand sliding around to press into Wonwoo’s lower back, keeping him there, hips pressed tight together now, their hardness brushing through layers of fabric that were starting to feel like punishment.
He looked up once.
Wonwoo was staring down at him — chest rising, lips parted, eyes wild beneath the cool mask cracking at the edges.
“You’re so fucking quiet,” Mingyu whispered against his chest. “But your body’s loud, baby.”
Wonwoo didn’t answer.
But his hips pressed forward again—slow, searching, desperate for friction.
And Mingyu?
He smiled against his skin.
Then bit down. This time harder.
Wonwoo gasped — hand flying up, fingers sinking into Mingyu’s hair, finally breaking the silence with a sound he couldn’t swallow back.
Mingyu groaned, dark and wrecked. “There you are.”
Wonwoo’s fingers weren’t still anymore.
They roamed.
Up Mingyu’s chest, palms pressed firm over muscle and heat. Down his sides, across his ribs, slow and possessive. He touched like someone trying not to show how badly he needed it—and failing.
Mingyu’s mouth was still at his chest, teeth grazing, lips dragging. But his hands?
They were hungry.
One stayed at Wonwoo’s waist, grounding him. The other—God.
It moved lower.
Slipping beneath the band of his shorts, slow and hot, knuckles grazing bare skin. Wonwoo gasped, the sound sharp and cut off, head falling back against the cupboard edge with a dull thud.
Mingyu kissed down the center of his stomach, soft open-mouth presses over trembling skin, like he was praying through his tongue.
His fingers dipped further.
And then he found it—the curve of him.
Bare.
Warm.
Soft muscle beneath his palm.
He groaned into Wonwoo’s abdomen, lips dragging across twitching skin.
“Fuck,” he breathed, fingers curling slightly, gripping the underside of that perfect ass, skin to skin now. “You’re—Jesus, Wonwoo.”
Wonwoo’s hands fisted in his hoodie.
Because God, that hand.
That hand cradling him like he was breakable. That hand not rushing—just holding. Mapping the dip, the shape, the weight. Mingyu's thumb brushed low, slow circles, cruel and loving at once, just enough to make his hips jerk forward against him.
And when they did, when their cocks met again through layers of cotton, their groans tangled in the space between them.
Mingyu pulled up, finally, dragging his mouth back up Wonwoo’s chest with lips slick and wet, licking the red bite mark he'd left like he could soothe it.
Wonwoo caught his face with both hands. Pulled him in. Kissed him like he was starving.
This one was different.
Messy. Frantic. Less control.
Their hips pressed together harder now, grinding slow, friction building in unbearable waves. Mingyu’s hand still cupped beneath, the other buried in Wonwoo’s hair, gripping like he was afraid to let go.
Wonwoo’s fingers slipped under the hem of Mingyu’s hoodie—searching, clawing, needing skin. And when they found it, he sighed against Mingyu’s mouth. Pressed closer. Let himself fall forward just enough to pin Mingyu back to the countertop now, chest to chest.
“Take it off,” he growled.
Mingyu chuckled darkly, out of breath. “What, the hoodie?”
“No,” Wonwoo hissed, hips dragging slow over Mingyu’s again. “The rest.”
Mingyu’s eyes snapped open.
Fuck.
But then—
He stilled.
Smiled like a man seeing God for the first time, and realizing He moaned his name.
“I will,” he whispered. “But not yet.”
And then he rolled his hips, slow, taunting, grinding right back against Wonwoo until he felt the sharp gasp from his mouth melt into a groan.
“First,” Mingyu murmured against his lips, “I want to feel you come undone with your clothes still on.”
Wonwoo froze.
Just for a second.
Not because he didn’t want it—God, he did—but because of how Mingyu said it.
“I want to feel you come undone with your clothes still on.”
The words burned into his ears like ash and gasoline. A fuse already lit.
He didn’t move, didn’t breathe.
Mingyu felt the stillness. Pulled back enough to look at him.
Eyes wild. Pupils blown. Lips wet and red.
He didn’t smile this time.
Not cocky. Not smug.
He looked hungry.
Like he was about to kneel and worship something holy.
And then he leaned in again.
His mouth crashed against Wonwoo’s—sloppier this time, hotter, deeper. Tongue licking into him like he couldn’t get close enough, hands greedy over every inch of Wonwoo’s body.
Wonwoo moaned into his mouth—quiet, but shattered.
Mingyu groaned at the sound. Grabbed his hips with both hands now, grounding him, forcing him into a slow, punishing grind. Cloth against cloth. Heat against heat. Friction building like a storm with no mercy.
Wonwoo gasped—sharp and broken—as Mingyu rolled their hips again, tighter this time, deeper, like he wanted to feel every second of the pressure.
“You’re shaking,” Mingyu whispered against his lips, voice raw.
Wonwoo clenched his jaw. “I’m not—”
“You are,” Mingyu breathed, dragging his mouth down, over the edge of his jaw, to the place under his ear that made him twitch. “It’s okay.”
Another grind. Another drag of cock against cock through those thin layers. God, those shorts.
“Let go for me,” Mingyu whispered, one hand slipping up under the back of Wonwoo’s hoodie again, fingers trailing spine, palm warm and grounding. “Just let go.”
Wonwoo’s hands gripped the hem of Mingyu’s hoodie like a lifeline.
He wasn’t speaking anymore. He couldn’t.
His hips moved on instinct now, chasing friction, panting against Mingyu’s cheek. His legs started to shake—not from fear, but from the sheer, blinding pressure building with every push, every kiss, every grind that missed and missed but felt like so much more.
Mingyu’s mouth found his again.
Kissed him like he meant it. Like he was promising something he wouldn’t say out loud. Like he was trying to rip the control right out of Wonwoo’s chest and keep it.
And Wonwoo let him.
He broke.
Just a crack.
But it was enough.
His hips rolled faster now, short little thrusts that bordered on desperation. His hands slid up Mingyu’s back, under his hoodie, nails dragging over the skin.
He whimpered. Whimpered.
And Mingyu’s body shuddered.
“You’re so close,” he rasped. “You’re right there, baby.”
Wonwoo let out a broken, muffled noise into Mingyu’s neck.
Mingyu bit his earlobe. “Come for me just like this. Don’t take it off. Let me have you like this.”
Wonwoo arched his back once—hard—hips jerking.
And then he did.
With a strangled moan, hips bucking, fists clenched in Mingyu’s hoodie.
He went still in his arms, breath hot and panting against his collarbone, skin flushed and trembling.
And Mingyu—
Mingyu just held him.
Kissed the top of his shoulder.
Pressed their foreheads together.
Smiling like he’d just tasted heaven and burned for it.
Wonwoo came with a broken moan, head pressed into Mingyu’s shoulder, hips twitching, breath unraveling from his lungs like he’d been holding it in since the moment this whole thing started.
And when he opened his eyes—wet, glassy, chest still heaving—he looked at Mingyu.
God.
Just looked.
And Mingyu—who had handled beatdowns, knockouts, bones cracking under pressure—unraveled.
Right there. From just that one look.
Eyes glistening, lips parted, his voice wrecked in silence. Wonwoo, who never broke. Never flinched. Never gave in.
Now? Red in the cheeks, trembling in Mingyu’s arms. And still trying to pretend it meant nothing.
Mingyu’s hoodie suddenly felt like too much.
Too heavy. Too tight.
He shrugged it off, letting it fall somewhere onto the kitchen floor with a dull thud. His chest was bare now—golden skin stretched over sinew and scars, the history of too many fights carved into him like warnings.
Wonwoo’s eyes snapped to it.
He stared.
At the bruises. The pale pink of old cuts. The angry red of new ones.
And something lit in him again.
Something raw and instinctive.
He didn’t think.
He just kissed him.
Hard.
Hands grabbing Mingyu’s face, dragging their mouths together like it was the only language left that could explain what was happening between them.
And Mingyu?
He gasped into it. Just once. And then melted.
Mouth moving against Wonwoo’s with dizzying need, hips chasing the ghost of that earlier friction, his hands gripping the other’s waist like he didn’t trust him to stay standing.
Wonwoo didn’t say a word.
He just pulled him—step by step—toward the bedroom.
He walked them backward, lips never leaving Mingyu’s. His hand curled around the back of Mingyu’s neck, thumb brushing against the place just behind his ear that made him shiver.
When they stumbled into the dimly-lit room, Wonwoo pushed him.
Pushed him.
Mingyu’s legs hit the edge of the bed and he dropped onto it, breathless, eyes wide, lips kiss-swollen and shining.
And Wonwoo climbed on top.
Still fully dressed—bare-chested, yes, but shorts riding dangerously low on his hips, muscles tight with something animal beneath the skin.
He straddled Mingyu’s lap.
Eyes half-lidded, jaw clenched, hair messy and damp with sweat.
And then?
He kissed him again.
Slower now. Deeper.
Kissing like he was punishing him.
Kissing like he needed this to hurt.
Mingyu’s hands slid up his back, feeling the tension, the control, the restraint still trying to hang on.
“You’re shaking,” Mingyu murmured, voice ruined and fond.
Wonwoo pulled back just enough to whisper:
“You did this to me.”
And then he ground down once—just once—and Mingyu swore, low and guttural, head falling back against the sheets, hands flying to grip Wonwoo’s hips.
“Then let me do it again.”
Mingyu’s breath hitched as his fingers curled into the waistband of Wonwoo’s shorts—thumbs slipping beneath the hem, dragging the fabric down slow, like he was unwrapping something sacred.
Wonwoo’s boxers slid with them.
And then he was bare.
Completely.
The soft lamplight bathed his pale skin in gold, a flush crawling up his chest, painting the line of his throat and ears in blooming pink. A smattering of old bruises and training scars marred his otherwise perfect skin—flaws that somehow made him more dangerous, more real.
Mingyu’s mouth parted like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
Like he forgot how to breathe.
He just sat there for a second, his hands resting uselessly on his thighs, eyes raking over every inch of Wonwoo’s bare body like he’d been starving for it.
Because he had.
And now that it was in front of him, his, his heart thundered like it wanted to break out of his chest.
Wonwoo squirmed—just a little.
Tried to stay still, but the weight of Mingyu’s stare made his throat close. His arms instinctively pulled toward his lap before he forced himself to stop. He wasn’t going to hide. Not from him.
But the heat in his cheeks betrayed him anyway.
And when he spoke, it came out as a breathy whine, sharp-edged and embarrassed.
“Why am I the only one naked?”
Mingyu’s eyes finally met his.
Dark. Wild. Worshipping.
Then came the smirk.
The one that always meant danger. And heat. And a promise unspoken.
His voice dropped to that rough, honey-thick register that made Wonwoo’s spine arch on instinct.
“Then take it off for me, doll.”
His words landed like a slap and a kiss at once.
Wonwoo’s mouth opened, no sound.
But something shifted in his eyes.
A flicker of control returning. Of challenge. Of want buried beneath layers of control that had already been stripped thin.
He didn’t say anything.
He just reached.
Slowly. Hands brushing under the hem of Mingyu’s sweatpants, fingers curling into the waistband.
And as he tugged it down—inch by agonizing inch—Mingyu lifted his hips, eyes never leaving his face.
And there it was.
All of him.
Hot. Hard. Bare.
And so ready it hurt.
Wonwoo looked down once—eyes dragging over everything he just uncovered—and bit his bottom lip hard.
Mingyu swore under his breath. “Fuck, baby. You’re looking at me like you’re about to ruin me.”
Wonwoo’s voice came low and dangerous.
“Maybe I am.”
Mingyu was bare now—his sweatpants pooled around his ankles, skin flushed with heat, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. He looked at Wonwoo like he was oxygen, like every scar, every muscle, every inch was a goddamn miracle carved just for him.
Wonwoo’s gaze darkened.
No hesitation.
No doubt.
He reached out, hands sliding over Mingyu’s ribs, thumbs pressing into the taut muscles beneath, grounding them both.
Then, slow, deliberate—Wonwoo took what was his.
His hips pressed forward, sliding between Mingyu’s thighs, rocking a torturous grind that left them both breathless and desperate for more.
Mingyu’s fingers curled into Wonwoo’s hair, tugging him down as their mouths found each other again—hungry, messy, claiming.
Wonwoo’s hands traveled lower, gripping Mingyu’s hips tight, fingers digging in just enough to make him shiver.
The room filled with their ragged breathing, whispered curses, and skin sliding against skin.
Wonwoo rode the tension like a storm—every movement calculated, every touch meant to own and unravel Mingyu simultaneously.
But soon, his breath hitched, muscles trembling with the effort of holding both himself and Mingyu in place.
His jaw clenched, eyes dark with need and exhaustion.
“Fuck,” Wonwoo breathed, pulling back just enough to meet Mingyu’s gaze.
“Your turn,” he rasped. “I’m tired of holding on.”
Mingyu’s smirk was wicked, eyes gleaming with that dangerous promise.
In one fluid motion, he twisted, shifting their weight until he was on top, chest flush against Wonwoo’s.
His hands traced fire trails down Wonwoo’s sides, fingers pinching and teasing.
Then his lips hovered over Wonwoo’s ear, voice low and throaty.
“You want to be ruined, baby? I’m gonna show you what that really means.”
Wonwoo shuddered beneath him, breath catching.
The push and pull was endless.
And it was everything.
Mingyu didn’t rush.
He could’ve.
He wanted to.
The sight of Wonwoo—bare, breathless, flushed and pliant beneath him—lit something so fierce in his chest it was almost hard to breathe.
But he didn’t rush.
Instead, he watched.
Watched the way Wonwoo’s back arched ever so slightly, the way his fingers clenched at the sheets, the way his thighs trembled, even though he still tried to act like this wasn’t undoing him.
It was.
And Mingyu wanted to feel every second of that descent.
“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he murmured, voice low and rough as his hands ghosted over the backs of Wonwoo’s thighs.
Wonwoo huffed a laugh, but it caught—choked halfway through, collapsing into a shiver.
Mingyu leaned in, kissing down the line of his spine, mouth hot and reverent against skin slick with sweat.
Every scar, every mark, every inch—he kissed it all.
Worshipped it.
Owned it.
“You’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he whispered, fingers brushing lightly between his legs, not quite touching—just enough to make Wonwoo jerk and groan. “And I’m not planning to share. Ever.”
Wonwoo didn’t respond—not in words. His head dropped into the pillow, breath stuttering, body still humming with aftershocks.
“Good boy,” Mingyu murmured as he grabbed the small bottle from the nightstand.
He worked slow.
Methodical.
Gentle, but firm.
He coated his fingers and traced lower, eyes never leaving the way Wonwoo shifted and sighed—his body already arching into the promise of what was coming.
“I’ve got you,” Mingyu whispered, pressing soft kisses to the dip of his lower back. “I’m gonna take my time with you, baby. Gonna make you feel so good you’ll forget your own name.”
Wonwoo moaned into the pillow, low and broken.
His whole body was trembling—too raw, too stretched thin between power and surrender.
And God, he looked perfect like this.
Ruin hadn't come yet.
But it was close.
Very close.
Mingyu’s fingers were patient. Thorough.
He didn’t just prep—he learned.
Every twitch. Every gasp. The way Wonwoo’s thighs trembled when he was touched just right, the softest sounds he tried to swallow into the pillow. Mingyu found them all. Memorized them.
Wonwoo was slick with sweat and heat, muscles taut but giving, chest heaving like he was still fighting—himself, his need, Mingyu.
But it was over.
The fight was long gone.
Mingyu watched his fingers sink in, heard the low, wrecked sound that tore from Wonwoo’s throat, and he knew—
He’d never be the same after this.
Neither of them would.
“You feel that?” he whispered, voice molten. “That’s your body begging for me. Even if your mouth won’t say it.”
Wonwoo didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
He was breathing hard, knuckles white around the sheets, legs spread and shaking.
“Say something, doll,” Mingyu crooned as he withdrew his hand slowly. “Tell me you want it.”
Wonwoo turned his face to the side, flushed and slick with sweat, lashes wet.
“Just—fuck,” he breathed. “Just take it.”
That was all Mingyu needed.
He lined himself up, one hand braced on Wonwoo’s hip, the other running soothingly down his spine.
Then—
A slow, firm push forward.
Wonwoo arched, a strangled sound punched from his lungs, mouth falling open.
Mingyu held still for a second, head falling forward, body trembling with restraint.
“Shit, baby,” he breathed against Wonwoo’s shoulder. “You feel like sin.”
Wonwoo whimpered—actually whimpered—and Mingyu moved.
A slow drag out, then back in, and again, each stroke building rhythm like a war drum, grounding them in something primal and holy and destructive all at once.
Wonwoo broke fast.
His hands slipped on the sheets. His voice caught and cracked. His back bowed like he was being pulled apart from the inside.
And Mingyu?
Mingyu lost his mind.
“This what you wanted?” he panted, bending low enough to press his mouth to the back of Wonwoo’s neck. “To be fucked until you can’t think? To be ruined like this?”
Wonwoo sobbed—muffled by the pillow—hips grinding back, greedy for more.
“Sweet little thing,” Mingyu growled. “Mine. All fucking mine.”
His pace snapped from slow to punishing.
Wonwoo cried out, knees giving, thighs twitching, body boneless but clinging to every push like it was the only thing keeping him whole.
His moans turned broken, high-pitched, soaked in overwhelmed need.
And Mingyu watched—obsessed.
Every twitch. Every moan. Every shiver.
This wasn’t just lust.
It was a claim.
And he wasn’t going to let go.
Not now. Not ever.
The room was thick with heat and silence.
The kind that hummed in the walls. That clung to the skin like sweat and smoke and sin.
Wonwoo lay half-sprawled across the mattress, cheek pressed into the pillow, hair damp and messy, skin flushed down to the curve of his spine. His body still trembled — spent and stretched, marked and worshipped. His back bore faint impressions of fingers. His thighs bore the ache of being held open.
But he wasn't broken.
He was glowing.
Mingyu leaned over him, chest bare, lips parted as he dragged in shallow breaths. His eyes were molten, roaming over every inch of the man beneath him like he was art, or war, or something too holy to name.
He let one hand slide down Wonwoo’s back. Possessive. Gentle. Heavy with intent.
Then—
A sharp slap to the curve of Wonwoo’s ass.
Wonwoo twitched, a soft grunt falling from his lips. Not in protest. Not in shame.
Just instinct.
Mingyu smirked.
“You really are something else,” he murmured, voice thick with post-climax rasp. “My filthy little doll.”
Wonwoo turned his head just enough to shoot him a glare — or maybe it was a plea. His eyes were still glassy, heavy-lidded, lips kissed raw.
“Don’t start,” he mumbled, but it was ruined by the softness in his voice. The vulnerability.
The need.
Mingyu dragged his fingers along the back of Wonwoo’s thigh. “You loved it,” he said, low. “Every word I whispered into you. Every time I pulled you back. Every time I made you mine.”
Wonwoo didn’t reply.
He didn’t need to.
The proof was still written across his skin — in the tremor of his muscles, in the bruise blooming where Mingyu’s mouth had kissed too hard, in the way he hadn’t moved an inch from where he’d collapsed.
Mingyu bent down, lips brushing the curve of Wonwoo’s ear.
“You like being my good boy, don’t you?”
Wonwoo’s breath hitched.
Another small slap, more tease than sting. “My pretty little mess. So sweet when you fall apart. So good when you let go.”
“Mingyu—” Wonwoo warned, but his voice cracked halfway through, betraying him.
“Don’t worry,” Mingyu murmured. “I’ve got you now. You’re not going anywhere.”
And for a long moment, they just breathed.
Wrapped around each other, heavy with what they’d just done, what they’d just crossed.
Because there was no going back now.
The line had been shattered. The obsession fed.
And neither of them had any plans of stopping
It wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t slow.
It was everything.
Mingyu’s hands gripped Wonwoo like he was made of something divine and destructible. His mouth was on his skin, rough and worshipful, whispering filth between groans, words he’d never say out loud outside these four walls.
Wonwoo gave in—and gave back.
His fingers clawed at Mingyu’s back, legs wrapped tight around his waist, sweat-slick and gasping. He met every thrust with his own bite, every kiss with a bruising pull, every breath with a broken moan choked down hard into Mingyu’s shoulder.
The room shook with their rhythm, their fury, their surrender.
It was chaos.
It was home.
And when the end came—hot, sharp, explosive—they both felt it. Not just in their bodies but in something deeper. Something fraying. Something sacred.
Wonwoo’s head dropped back, a strangled sound ripping from his chest as his whole body arched. Mingyu buried his face in Wonwoo’s neck, teeth grazing skin, holding on like he’d never let go.
They collapsed together, limbs tangled, lungs heaving, hearts thudding loud enough to drown out everything else.
Time stopped.
The room pulsed with heat and heavy breath.
Wonwoo's fingers were still twisted in the bedsheet. Mingyu’s hands stayed locked on his hips, possessive even now, thumbs brushing slow circles on sweat-slick skin.
Neither of them spoke.
They didn’t need to.
Not when Mingyu leaned down, forehead pressed to Wonwoo’s, letting silence speak in the way he softened his grip. The way his thumb brushed the corner of Wonwoo’s lip. The way he stayed close.
Not when Wonwoo’s eyes fluttered open—stormy, glassy—and searched Mingyu’s face like he didn’t trust it was real.
Not when their bodies still trembled—not from exhaustion, but from the weight of what it meant.
They weren’t just touching anymore.
They were held.
And in that raw, quiet afterglow, where nothing moved but the rise and fall of breath, a truth settled between them:
There was no going back now.
They were wrecked.
Ruined.
Forever changed.
And somehow, neither of them looked away.
.
Notes:
pheww done with this one!
Chapter Text
The scent hit Mingyu first.
Wonwoo’s sheets didn’t smell like detergent or cologne — they smelled like him. Clean and sharp, edged with sweat, laced with that faint herbal tinge from whatever he washed his hair with. Something expensive, understated.
Mingyu inhaled deep before his eyes even opened.
His body was sore. Heavy. Spent.
But not in a way he regretted.
Not even close.
Last night had cracked him open. And now he was lying in the center of the wreckage, chest bare, sprawled in Jeon Wonwoo’s bed.
A thought that made his pulse spike.
He opened his eyes.
The apartment was quiet — quiet in a way that said private. Dark walls. Sparse furniture. Everything in its place. Cold. Controlled. Just like its owner.
And yet...
The mess of sheets tangled around Mingyu’s hips. The dent in the mattress next to him. The faint warmth still lingering there.
Wonwoo had gotten up.
Mingyu sat up slowly, bones aching in that satisfying way, and ran a hand through his hair.
His hoodie was on the floor. Along with Wonwoo’s shorts.
And that fact alone made his throat dry.
He padded out of the bedroom, bare feet against the hardwood. His voice was still raw, but he called out anyway—
“Jeon?”
Nothing. Then a faint clink of porcelain.
He followed it.
Found Wonwoo in the kitchen, back to him, sleeves rolled up, hair still slightly damp from a shower, making coffee like he hadn’t wrecked Mingyu a few hours ago.
Mingyu leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him for a second too long.
“You made enough for two?”
Wonwoo didn’t look over. “Didn’t think you’d be awake yet.”
Mingyu’s lips twitched. “Didn’t think you’d be walking straight yet.”
That earned him a sharp side glance — but not a denial.
Wonwoo poured two mugs, slid one toward the edge of the counter without a word. His poker face was back on, clean and sharp.
But Mingyu had seen it slip. Had felt it slip.
And now?
Now it was his favorite fucking game.
He stepped in close — close enough that his chest brushed Wonwoo’s back. One arm reached around, took the mug from the counter, but his other hand stayed there, at Wonwoo’s hip.
Casual. But firm.
“Still pretending this meant nothing?” he asked, voice low.
Wonwoo’s jaw ticked.
“You’re in my house. Drinking my coffee. Don’t push it.”
Mingyu chuckled — leaned in, let his breath graze the side of Wonwoo’s neck. “Push it? Baby, you pulled me into your bed and begged.”
“I didn’t beg.”
“You wanted to.”
Wonwoo turned to face him — mug cradled in both hands, arms tense, eyes narrowed.
“I let you once. Don’t get attached.”
Mingyu tilted his head, smiling slowly and dangerously. “Too late.”
The silence that followed was sharp — one of those seconds that could end in violence or another kiss, depending on how either of them breathed.
Then Wonwoo moved — stepping past him, brushing their shoulders.
Not looking back.
“Finish your coffee. Then leave.”
Mingyu didn’t follow. Didn’t speak.
But the smirk on his face deepened.
Because no matter what Wonwoo said—
He hadn’t forgotten.
And next time?
He’d beg without saying a word.
The door clicked shut behind Mingyu with a soft finality.
It didn’t slam.
Didn’t creak.
Just… clicked.
But somehow, it still sounded like a challenge.
He stood in the hallway outside Wonwoo’s apartment, hoodie slung back over his bare skin, fingers curled around his phone, and his mouth still tasting like him.
Salt. Sweat. Skin.
Like sin had a flavor, and it wore Jeon Wonwoo’s name.
He stared at the screen of his phone for a second. Blank. Then pulled up Seokmin’s contact.
Mingyu [7:14 AM]:
you’re never gonna believe where I woke up
Seokmin [7:15 AM]:
ur grave?
bc that’s where i’m putting you if u tell me this is about wonwoo again
Mingyu [7:15 AM]:
his bed.
:)
Three dots appeared. Then vanished. Then came back.
Seokmin [7:16 AM]:
you
what
no wait.
back up.
you mean THE Jeon “I will eat your heart for breakfast” Wonwoo?
Mingyu [7:17 AM]:
yup
and I’m still hard just thinking about it lol
Seokmin [7:17 AM]:
JOSHUA GET IN HERE
HE DID IT
HE WENT FULL PSYCHOPATH
also. why do i lowkey wanna know what his bedroom (activity)looks like ykwim ykwim 😼😼
Mingyu [7:17 AM]:
shut up..
but his room was cold. dark. sheets smelled like him.
I’d let him kill me and say thank you.
Seokmin [7:18 AM]:
ew
anyway
are you okay
like emotionally. spiritually. legally???
Mingyu didn’t reply right away.
Because that was the thing — he didn’t know if he was okay.
Not really.
His legs still ached. His neck was bruised where Wonwoo had bitten him, silently, without warning — a claim more than a kiss. His ribs were sore where fingers had pressed down too hard.
But it wasn’t the pain that stuck with him.
It was the way Wonwoo had looked at him after.
Not confused.
Not ashamed.
Not even guilty.
Just… scared.
Like he knew this had just changed everything.
And maybe it had.
Because Mingyu had known want before. Lust. Obsession. He’d burned for other people.
But nothing had ever felt like this.
This wasn’t hunger.
This was starvation.
And now that he’d had a taste, he didn’t know how to go back.
Mingyu [7:21 AM]:
I think I’m in trouble
Seokmin [7:21 AM]:
no shit
Seokmin [7:21 AM]:
be careful okay?
Mingyu [7:22 AM]:
I’m not the one who’s going to get hurt
He slid the phone into his hoodie pocket, exhaled slowly, and looked up toward the sky.
Morning was bleeding into the world, turning the streets soft with gold.
And still—his thoughts dragged back to Wonwoo’s voice. His hands. That look right before the door closed.
Mingyu ran a hand through his hair.
Then smiled.
Because this?
This was only the beginning.
The door clicked shut.
And then—
Stillness.
Wonwoo stood in the center of his apartment like a ghost in his own space. One hand still on the doorknob. The other clenched at his side like he was trying to remember how to let go.
The air was too quiet.
The sheets were still warm.
And the scent—his scent, Mingyu’s—clung to the walls like smoke from a fire that hadn’t quite gone out.
Wonwoo moved on autopilot.
He didn’t clean the bed. Didn’t wash the sheets. Didn’t open the windows.
He just sat—slowly, carefully—on the edge of the mattress and stared down at the floor.
His knees were still sore from the way he’d dug them into the mattress last night. His lips stung.
And his ribs—
He swallowed.
His ribs felt like they’d been carved open and filled with something else. Something raw. Dangerous.
Want.
He pressed a hand to his chest like he could calm the beat. Like that would stop it from pounding out Mingyu’s name.
It didn’t work.
He stood up suddenly, grabbing his hoodie off the floor, tugging it on like it could protect him from something.
But even then—
The stretch of fabric over his shoulders reminded him of Mingyu’s hands.
The soft cotton brushing his skin felt like Mingyu’s mouth.
The echo in the room sounded like his voice—
“Say the word, Jeon. One word. I’ll ruin you so good, you’ll never stop crawling back.”
Wonwoo exhaled shakily and walked into the kitchen. Opened a cupboard. Closed it again.
He wasn’t hungry.
He wasn’t anything but restless.
So he did what he always did. The thing that used to work.
He trained.
The gym in his apartment wasn’t huge—just a punching bag, mats, a bench. But it had always been enough.
Until now.
Now, every time his fist hit the bag, he saw him.
Not as an enemy. Not even as a rival.
As the man who had him bent over and trembling the night before, whispering filth into his ear, calling him doll, sweet thing, like he meant it.
He hit harder.
Again.
Again.
Until the skin on his knuckles screamed and the rhythm collapsed and he dropped against the bag, breathless.
His hand slid up to brace his forehead.
His other curled into a fist again.
Eyes shut tight.
Because no matter how many times he hit—
The truth wouldn’t fall out of him.
He wanted Mingyu.
He still wanted Mingyu.
But worse—
He wanted to be wanted by him.
And that was dangerous.
That was the thing he didn’t let himself feel.
Not with anyone.
Not ever.
He swallowed thickly and opened his eyes.
The room swam a little.
His chest burned.
He looked down at his knuckles—red, raw, trembling.
He hadn’t even realized he was shaking.
Wonwoo turned, leaned his back against the wall, and slid down to sit.
The cold ground was the only thing anchoring him now.
He brought his hand to his face and whispered, as if Mingyu could hear him from wherever the hell he’d gone:
“…What the hell did you do to me?”
No one answered.
But inside his chest—his cracked, split-open chest—
He already knew.
Mingyu kicked open Seokmin’s apartment door with one foot, a bag of takeout swinging in his hand, and a glow on his face that was way too smug for 10 a.m.
“Your favorite homewrecker has arrived!” he called.
Inside, Seokmin was already at the kitchen counter, hair messy, coffee halfway to his mouth. Joshua, wrapped in Seokmin’s hoodie—the beige one Mingyu had seen Seokmin wear to the gym like, daily—was leaning against the counter, scrolling his phone.
Mingyu paused mid-step. Blinked.
Then pointed at Joshua dramatically.
“…You live here now?”
Joshua looked up, deadpan. “Morning to you too.”
“No, seriously.” Mingyu dropped the food and raised both eyebrows. “Did I miss the U-Haul? The ceremony? Did you two already start fighting over curtain colors?”
Joshua shrugged. “I make coffee. He lets me stay.”
Seokmin coughed into his mug. “He also has his toothbrush here.”
Mingyu gasped. “Oh my god. You domesticated a church boy.”
Joshua smiled sweetly. “And you’re acting this dramatic because...?”
Seokmin didn’t even look up. “Because he got laid.”
“Not just laid,” Mingyu said, dropping into the nearest chair like his knees gave out from sheer memory. “Ruined.”
Joshua raised a brow.
Mingyu sighed. “I told you already,” he said to Seokmin, who was already pouring another cup of coffee like he regretted all his life choices. “Last night. Wonwoo’s bed. Me. Him. A lot of sweat. Some bruises. Emotional damage. Heaven.”
Seokmin deadpanned, “You texted me at 7 a.m. and said, and I quote, ‘still hard thinking about him.’”
Joshua choked on his coffee.
“Because it’s TRUE,” Mingyu shouted. “He bit me. And then—then—he called me ‘Mingyu.’ Hyung. Do you even understand how unwell I am??”
Seokmin didn’t even look up from his coffee. “Maybe because that’s your name?”
Mingyu sat up slowly. “Shut up.”
Joshua looked at Seokmin over his coffee. “So… should we expect him to move in with his new man next week?”
Seokmin snorted. “He’ll show up with a house key and matching underwear and still act surprised when Wonwoo punches him.”
Mingyu just smiled like a man in love and way too deep.
“I wouldn’t mind,” he said dreamily. “If he punched me again. Or pinned me. Or—”
“Nope,” Seokmin said, holding up a hand. “Shut your mouth and eat.”
Mingyu popped open the food and practically moaned at the smell. “God, if this was Wonwoo’s cooking, I’d marry him.”
Joshua looked him dead in the eye. “So you are planning the wedding?”
Seokmin groaned. “This is what happens when enemies kiss. You get delulu.”
“I’m not delulu,” Mingyu said. “I’m possessed.”
Joshua and Seokmin: [blank stare]
Mingyu: “By love.”
Seokmin looked at Joshua. “This is your future if we ever break up. Just letting you know.”
Joshua leaned in and kissed Seokmin’s cheek. “I’ll just haunt your new boyfriend. Quietly.”
“See?” Mingyu mumbled, mouth full. “That’s love.”
The apartment door clicked shut behind him with a dull thunk.
No laughter.
No Joshua’s sharp wit or Seokmin’s dramatic groaning.
Just stillness. And silence. And himself.
Mingyu dropped the keys into the bowl on the counter, kicked off his shoes with less energy than usual, and padded straight to the bedroom.
The second his body hit the mattress, it was like his brain finally caught up.
No distractions now. No takeout. No jokes. No audience.
Just memory.
Wonwoo.
His fingers clenched against the sheets. He’d changed the bedding before he left earlier. Fresh. Clean.
But it didn’t matter.
He could still feel him.
The weight of Wonwoo straddling his hips.
The dig of fingernails down his chest.
The sound of his broken moan when he came apart, voice trembling but eyes still sharp, like even in the middle of being ruined, he was still trying to win.
Mingyu shut his eyes and exhaled through his teeth.
He wasn’t sure what he expected — closure? Satisfaction?
But all he felt was a deeper need.
Not just to have Wonwoo again. But to undo him, own him, witness every fucking crack that he hid behind all that ice.
Because Wonwoo had been beautiful before.
But now? After tasting him — after feeling the way he trembled and still tried to stay in control?
Now he was dangerous.
And Mingyu wanted more.
He rolled onto his side, one hand slipping beneath his head, the other still fisting the sheet beside him.
He tried not to think about how Wonwoo sounded when he whispered his name.
Or the way he’d looked — flushed, fucked-out, and still trying not to beg.
Mingyu bit his lip, jaw clenched tight.
If he touched him again — and god, he would — it wouldn’t be slow next time. It wouldn’t be cautious.
He’d push him deeper. Harder. Until he was breathless and honest and unable to hide behind silence or sarcasm.
He’d take his time. But he’d destroy him.
“You want to break me?” Wonwoo had asked once, voice low and amused.
No.
Not break.
Bend.
Twist.
Unravel.
And then claim.
Because the thing clawing in Mingyu’s chest now wasn’t just desire.
It was possession.
He didn’t want to share Wonwoo’s skin.
Didn’t want someone else learning the way he bit his lip when he was too sensitive.
Didn’t want anyone else pulling those gorgeous, angry sounds from his mouth.
No one else deserved that.
Only him.
Only Mingyu.
He lay there in the dark, heart loud, breath slow, vision buzzing with images from last night like a fever dream.
And the worst part?
He knew this wasn’t over.
Not even close.
Because when it came to Jeon Wonwoo—
Once was never going to be enough.
Notes:
Bit short, innit? But update in 24hrs?????!!!!!!!!!! 🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯
So what do we think of this chapter hehe???
Chapter Text
A week passed.
Seven days.
One hundred and sixty-eight hours.
Ten thousand minutes where they didn’t talk. Didn’t touch. Didn’t fight. Didn’t exist in the same space.
It should’ve been enough distance to clear their heads.
But It wasn’t.
Wonwoo’s Apartment. Wednesday. 2:13 a.m.
The cursor blinked on his laptop screen, waiting. Taunting.
Wonwoo stared at lines of code that usually came to him like breathing. But tonight, the logic bled together. Syntax blurred.
Because his brain was somewhere else.
Because he was somewhere else.
Pinned beneath Mingyu. Chest to chest. Mouths locked. That goddamn voice, low in his ear—“good boy”—echoing like a ghost between his ribs.
He closed the laptop with more force than necessary and dragged a hand through his hair.
Sleep wouldn’t come easy. It hadn’t for days.
He’d thought the sex would burn it out of him. That giving in would make the obsession collapse.
But it just made it worse.
He still saw Mingyu in the sweat-dark corners of his dreams. Still felt his breath at the base of his neck when he got too quiet. And fuck—his own hand didn’t feel right anymore.
Not when he knew what it felt like to have Mingyu’s there instead.
He hadn’t texted. Hadn’t gone back to the gym. Work was busy. Deadlines. Clients. Bugs in the backend.
But none of that stopped his mind from chewing on the memory like an open wound.
It was supposed to be one night. It wasn’t supposed to matter.
So why did he miss the bastard?
Mingyu’s Office. Thursday. 4:47 p.m.
“Kim, you good?”
Mingyu blinked up from the spreadsheet he’d been staring at for ten minutes straight.
One of the marketing team guys—Taehwan?—was hovering beside his cubicle.
“Huh? Yeah. Yeah, sorry. Zoning out.”
Taehwan chuckled. “Dude, you’re usually the one making noise. You’ve been quiet all week. Thought maybe you died inside.”
Mingyu smiled thinly. “Just busy.”
Lie.
He was haunted.
There wasn’t a single quiet moment that didn’t become about Wonwoo.
He saw him in the way his coffee steamed in the mornings.
In the smudge of ink on his palm.
In the silence between emails and clicks.
“Take it off for me then, doll.”
Mingyu rubbed a hand over his jaw, trying to ground himself. His desk was scattered with work, but none of it stuck. None of it mattered.
He hadn’t gone back to the ring, either. Not because he was avoiding him—no, definitely not that—but because if he did see him again, he wasn’t sure he’d keep it together.
That night hadn’t given him closure.
It had opened something.
And now, Mingyu was starving again. Not just for sex. For him.
For the goddamn chase. The fight. The tension that came from being in the same room. The way Wonwoo looked at him—like he hated him. Like he needed him. Like neither of them could ever walk away clean.
Two apartments. Two men. One shared spiral.
Neither texted.
Neither called.
Neither returned to the gym.
But every night they lay awake, hungry in different ways, wondering how the other could possibly be going on like nothing happened.
They weren’t moving on.
They were holding still.
Waiting.
Grinding their teeth through the ache.
Wrestling pride with obsession.
Drowning in memory.
It was only a matter of time.
Because nothing between them was done.
It was just the eye of the storm.
And soon?
The ring wouldn’t be enough to hold it.
It was Jun’s voice that started it all.
“You’re almost 29, Wonwoo. You can’t marry your laptop.”
Wonwoo didn’t look up from his screen.
“I can try.”
Jun groaned from across the room, dramatically throwing himself onto the couch like the world had personally offended him. “You work twelve-hour shifts, spend your off-days punching bags and staring at that new guy like you want to set him on fire—”
“I don’t.”
“—and the last time you went on a date, we were still in our twenties.”
Wonwoo finally blinked. “We are still in our twenties.”
“Barely,” Jun snapped. “And let’s be honest, the last guy was a walking red flag.”
“Unlike me, a picture of emotional availability?”
Jun threw a pillow at him. “You need to get laid.”
Wonwoo raised a brow. “I was laid.”
Jun froze. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
Wonwoo sighed. “Fine. A date. One date. You can stop whining.”
Jun grinned like a devil. “I already have someone in mind.”
Same Day. 6:17 p.m. Downtown.
Mingyu did not want to go out. Especially not to some overpriced gift shop that smelled like cinnamon and lavender oil.
But Seokmin had insisted.
“Come on, man. Joshua’s been working hard. I want to get him something dumb and sweet.”
“You’re the dumb and sweet part.”
Seokmin grinned. “Exactly.”
Mingyu trailed behind him, hands in pockets, hoodie slouched, mind far away. He hadn’t seen Wonwoo since—
Well.. Since.
And it was fine. Totally fine. Not like he was going insane replaying every second of that night. Not like he’d gone back to the gym three times only to turn around when he didn’t see him.
He was fine.
Normal even
Until the universe decided to punch him in the face.
They were rounding the corner of the plaza, laughter still lingering between them, when Mingyu’s steps slowed.
Because there—on the other side of the glass café window—was Wonwoo.
In a black button-up. Sitting at a small table. With a man across from him.
Mingyu stopped walking.
Dead. Still.
Seokmin kept going for two steps before he noticed the absence. “Gyu? What the—”
“Shhh,” Mingyu said sharply.
Through the window, the guy leaned in. Smiled. Said something. Wonwoo looked down and—fucking hell—smiled back.
And then it happened.
The man reached out, fingers brushing Wonwoo’s hair, gently tucking it behind his ear.
Mingyu saw red.
Like, actual blood-in-the-eyes, world-tilting, primitive red.
“What the fuck,” he whispered.
Seokmin followed his gaze and winced. “Oh.”
Mingyu’s fists clenched at his sides.
He couldn’t hear what they were saying. Didn’t need to. Because that guy? That soft little pretty-boy with too-perfect hair and a half-assed grin?
He didn’t know Wonwoo. He didn’t know what he sounded like when he broke. What his voice did when he whispered Mingyu’s name. How he looked with his back arched, hands trembling, lips bitten raw.
That guy hadn’t earned the right to touch him like that.
“Hey,” Seokmin said cautiously, stepping in front of him. “Deep breaths, man. You’re growling.”
“I’m not growling.”
“You’re literally growling. You look like you’re about to walk in there and rip his spine out.”
Mingyu’s jaw tightened.
He couldn’t move.
Couldn’t stop staring.
The guy leaned in again. Closer this time. And Wonwoo let him.
Mingyu’s vision pulsed.
“Gyu.”
Seokmin grabbed his arm, grounding him. “This isn’t your business.”
“Yes,” Mingyu whispered, voice low and rough, “it is.”
“Then make it your business,” Seokmin snapped. “But not here. Not like this.”
Inside, Wonwoo’s smile had already faded.
Because even though the man across from him was kind, attractive, funny—safe— but he didn’t make his pulse spike.
Didn’t make his skin burn. Didn’t make him ache.
He looked past the guy’s shoulder, just once, for no reason at all.
And for a second?
He swore he saw Mingyu.
Frozen. Jaw tight. Fists clenched. Staring straight at him through the window like he’d rip the glass apart if it meant reaching him.
Wonwoo blinked, and he was gone.
Or maybe he never left.
Because he was always there, wasn’t he?
Even now.
The scent of the gift store hit Mingyu like a wave of sugared hell.
Vanilla candles. Floral soaps. Too many plushies. Soft acoustic music playing from somewhere above the racks of overpriced trinkets and hand-lettered cards.
Mingyu looked like a lost bear in a pastel dreamscape.
Seokmin was already three steps ahead, humming as he combed through the shelves with a mission in mind.
“Why are we here again?” Mingyu muttered, trying very hard not to think about what he’d just witnessed outside—the way that guy had tucked Wonwoo’s hair behind his ear like he had the right.
Seokmin didn’t answer.
He turned around instead, holding up a tiny, round, pink plush cat with closed eyes and a permanent smile stitched on its face.
Mingyu blinked.
“What is that?”
“Here,” Seokmin said, and shoved it into Mingyu’s chest. “For you.”
“What?”
“Emotional support.”
Mingyu stared down at it. The cat stared back, eternally content. Mingyu, on the other hand, was still vibrating from his existential spiral.
“I’m not five.”
“You’re acting like it,” Seokmin shot back cheerfully. “Now hold the cat, and don’t punch anyone in the face while I find something for Joshua.”
Mingyu clutched the plush instinctively, deadpan. “You dragged me out while I was spiraling just to babysit me with a stuffed animal.”
“I dragged you out because if I didn’t, you’d probably be halfway through committing a federal offense,” Seokmin replied. “I saw that look on your face. You were about to go feral in public.”
“That guy had his hands on him.”
“And that guy also had no idea he was summoning Satan himself by doing so,” Seokmin said. “You’re obsessed, bro. Obsessed and pouty. It’s kind of pathetic. Very entertaining. Tragic.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
Mingyu sighed, leaning against the nearest display as Seokmin picked up a ceramic mug shaped like a bear’s face. His grip on the plush cat tightened just slightly.
He wasn’t over it.
Wouldn’t be over it.
Because Wonwoo had let that guy get close. Had smiled—almost smiled.
And Mingyu wasn’t fucking okay about it.
His brain was still painting vivid pictures.
Of dragging him away.
Of slamming him against the nearest wall.
Of reminding him who touched him first. Who broke him open. Who made him come undone with just a whisper and a grip on his hips.
Not some random man with decent hair and safe energy.
Him. Only him.
Mingyu shifted, rubbing a hand down his face, trying to erase the heat building again in his stomach.
The cat plush squished against his chest.
Seokmin reappeared with three more items: a duck keychain, a set of matching socks, and a heart-shaped lollipop.
“He’s not five either,” Mingyu muttered.
“No, but he has the soul of a five-year-old,” Seokmin grinned. “Now c’mon. You’re buying the cat.”
“I’m not buying the—”
“You’re buying the cat.”
Mingyu grumbled, but didn’t let go of it.
He didn’t say it, but holding it in his hands—soft and stupid—did help a little.
Not enough.
But enough to stop him from walking back to that café and ruining everything.
Wonwoo had felt it.
The second, Mingyu vanished from the corner of his gaze, from the air — like someone had knocked the wind out of him.
It had taken all of three minutes after the man across from him tucked his hair behind his ear for that… hollow to settle.
The weight of the eyes was gone.
Mingyu’s eyes.
He shouldn’t have noticed. Shouldn’t have cared. The guy in front of him was good-looking, polite, and laughing at all the right moments. Jun had chosen well, in theory.
But Wonwoo had barely heard a thing he said.
The food sat on his plate untouched.
His wine glass remained nearly full.
And his throat was tight.
Because all he could see, all he could feel, was the way Mingyu had stared at him. Through the glass, through the crowd, through every layer he wore to protect himself.
He wasn’t supposed to look like that.
Like a man on the verge of burning something to the ground.
Like he’d already burned for him once, and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.
Wonwoo’s date was mid-sentence when he suddenly stood.
“I’m sorry,” Wonwoo said. “This was… I shouldn’t have come.”
Confusion. Surprise. The man called his name once as Wonwoo grabbed his coat and walked out, head low, heart pounding.
He didn’t look back.
Couldn’t.
Because the guilt wasn’t for leaving the date.
It was for what he already knew he was doing.
He drove.
He didn’t put in an address. Didn’t check the turns.
His hands just followed.
The city blurred past. Buildings, lights, traffic. White noise. The hum of his engine matched the hum under his skin — a static that only quieted when his eyes landed on a too-familiar street, a building with ivy curling up the sides.
He’d only been here once.
Back when everything started to go wrong. Or maybe right.
Back when Mingyu had kissed him like it was instinct. Like they’d done it before. Like he’d waited too long, and couldn’t anymore.
Wonwoo hadn’t meant to memorize the way there.
But he had.
He parked one street away, engine still running.
And he just… sat.
Hands gripping the wheel. Eyes on the soft spill of streetlight across the pavement. Mouth still tingling from the phantom of that last kiss — the one they hadn’t talked about.
He knew what this meant.
Knew he was the one who left.
Knew exactly why he was here, even as his fingers curled tighter around the wheel like he could hold back the truth if he gripped hard enough.
Mingyu was under his skin.
Still.
Always.
Even now.
And he didn’t know if he had the strength to knock on that door.
Not yet.
Not when his pride and fear still whispered Don’t give in.
So he sat there.
In silence.
In want.
In everything unsaid.
And above him, the apartment light flicked on — a shadow moving past the window.
Wonwoo’s breath caught.
Because even though he couldn’t see him clearly, he knew.
Mingyu was there.
And he was only ever one choice away
The car was silent.
Too silent.
The kind that made you hear things you shouldn’t. Breathing. Thoughts. The exact way your heart slammed against your ribs when you were trying not to feel anything at all.
Wonwoo stared at the dashboard, engine idling low. The glove compartment was cracked open from earlier—he didn’t even remember why.
But what caught his eye was the coin.
An old one. Foreign, even. He didn’t remember where it came from—might’ve been from that trip with Jun, or maybe left behind by someone years ago. But it was there.
And he picked it up.
It felt heavy in his palm. Cold.
A decision.
He didn’t want to make it himself. Couldn’t. Not when he knew exactly what it would cost. Not when his pride still wrapped around his ribs like armor.
But God—he wanted.
He rubbed his thumb over the face of the coin, steady. Slow.
Then, in a whisper, as if saying it too loudly would make it real:
“Tails, I go and talk to him.
Heads… I drive home.”
His voice cracked a little.
The silence after rang louder than the words.
He lifted the coin.
Paused.
Held his breath.
Flipped it.
The silver disk spun in the low light of the car, catching flashes from the streetlamp above. Suspended. Floating.
Then it landed—soft against his palm.
He didn’t look.
Not yet.
Because this wasn’t about the coin. It was about what he wanted it to be.
Because he knew—he knew—that if it said tails, he wouldn’t just walk to Mingyu’s door.
He would fall.
He stared down at the coin.
Tails.
A simple, scratched-up tail. Etched and worn.
Wonwoo exhaled, deep and hollow.
The kind of breath you take before drowning.
His fingers closed over it.
But he didn’t move.
Not yet.
Because knowing he could go to Mingyu’s door was different than doing it.
He leaned back in the seat, heart pounding.
Then:
The light upstairs flickered again.
A shadow passed by the window.
Mingyu.
Something low and dangerous twisted in his stomach.
His hand opened.
The coin rested in his palm.
Tails.
Tails.
The answer he’d asked for. The one he thought would make this easier.
But his fingers curled tighter around it instead of moving. Because even with a decision, even with his chest heavy and mind loud, he didn’t know what to do with the truth.
Because he didn’t come here with a plan.
He didn’t even mean to drive here.
But the second he’d walked away from that date—from that carefully curated, well-behaved conversation with a man who smiled like he was trying to impress him—his body had chosen for him.
It had turned the wheel and hit the gas and brought him here.
To Mingyu.
Because even now, with the windows fogging and the streetlamp flickering, the only thing in his chest wasn’t guilt.
It was need.
The need to explain. To say something, anything. That the guy from earlier didn’t matter. That he hadn’t felt a single thing when he’d smiled at him. That he hadn’t been able to laugh or flirt or even pretend.
Because he kept thinking about Mingyu—all voice and heat and bruising kisses, that feral softness when he whispered “Doll” like it meant something. The way his hands had held tight around Wonwoo’s waist, fingers splayed wide, protective, claiming.
God. He missed it.
He missed him.
His arms. His mouth. The weight of him, the way Mingyu looked at him like he was the only thing that made sense in a world full of noise.
But he couldn’t say it.
He couldn’t even say it to himself.
He clenched his jaw, breathing through his nose, heart rattling like a pipe about to burst.
Why did he care this much?
Why did it feel like something in him was caving in just thinking about Mingyu not knowing—not knowing that the date meant nothing?
He swallowed, throat dry.
What if he thinks I moved on? What if he thinks I don’t want him anymore?
Why does this matter so much to me?
why am i thinking of wanting him?
The thought stung worse than a punch.
He gripped the steering wheel, suddenly restless, suddenly so, so close to cracking.
Just tell him.
No.
Just explain.
He couldn’t.
He didn’t know how.
Not when everything inside him was knotted so tightly he didn’t even recognize himself.
He looked back up at the apartment window.
The light was still on.
And somewhere up there, Mingyu was breathing. Existing.
And that alone made his chest ache.
He didn’t get out.
But he didn’t leave either.
He just sat there, coin cold in his palm, mouth pressed into a line, a million words swelling on his tongue—
And not a single one brave enough to make it out.
Mingyu lay in bed, arms folded behind his head, eyes wide and unblinking as the ceiling stared back.
It was late. Quiet. The kind of stillness that made things louder in your head.
He hadn’t said a word to anyone since Seokmin dropped him home.
Not even when Joshua winked and whispered something smug about "love-sick puppys" before dragging Seokmin.
Mingyu had just smiled.
But now? Alone, stripped of distractions, every breath in his lungs felt heavier than the last.
He kept seeing it.
That man brushing Wonwoo’s hair back, close enough to kiss him.
And Wonwoo—stone-faced, sure, but his mouth had twitched.
Not a full smile.
But almost.
And it hadn’t been for him.
Not for Mingyu.
He turned on his side, fists curling in the sheets.
He’d kissed that mouth. Touched that skin. Heard the way Wonwoo broke when he said his name. Felt the way he clung when the pleasure got too much, when words weren’t enough.
It meant something. Didn’t it?
Didn’t it?
But maybe it didn’t. Maybe it really was just that night. That heat. That one sweet, brutal moment that burned fast and left ash.
Maybe he was the only one still stuck in it.
He let out a breath, low and bitter.
"Fuck."
His eyes drifted to the far side of the bed.
There, slouched against a pillow, was the stupid little cat plushie Seokmin had shoved into his arms at the gift shop.
“Emotional support,” Seokmin had teased, winking.
Mingyu had laughed it off.
But now, staring at it in the half-dark, he realized—
The cat looked kind of annoyed. Cold. Aloof.
A little pouty.
And—
“God,” Mingyu mumbled, lip twitching. “It looks like you.”
Like Wonwoo.
He rubbed a hand down his face, groaning into the silence.
“I’m fucking losing it,” he said to no one.
But then he turned onto his side again, gaze locked on the plush, voice dropping soft. Honest. Tired.
"You’re ruining me, Jeon."
And for a moment, the ache in his chest wasn’t just jealousy or confusion or even lust.
It was the ghost of hope.
The hope that maybe—maybe—Wonwoo was thinking about him too.
That maybe he hadn’t been the only one who fell a little too deep that night.
That maybe, just maybe… this wasn’t over.
The knock came like a gunshot.
Mingyu’s breath stalled halfway in his chest.
He sat up from the edge of his bed, phone discarded, cat plushie face-down on the pillow beside him like it couldn’t stand to watch him spiral any longer. He hadn’t planned on sleeping tonight—not with that image burned into the back of his skull.
Wonwoo, standing too close to someone who wasn’t him.
Wonwoo, letting another man brush the hair back from his face.
Wonwoo’s mouth twitching like it might’ve smiled.
His jaw clenched again at the thought. Bit down on the ache like it owed him something.
Another knock.
This one sharper. Impatient.
Mingyu stood. Barefoot, heartbeat heavy in his throat, he moved to the door and pulled it open—
And the world tilted.
Jeon Wonwoo stood there.
hoodie clinging to his frame, the hallway light catching on his cheekbones and casting his eyes in shadow. He looked like a ghost. A threat. A temptation. Something that belonged nowhere and everywhere all at once.
Mingyu’s chest caved in.
But his mouth still worked, even when everything else didn’t.
Wonwoo’s gaze lifted to meet his, unflinching.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
It was low. Flat. But underneath it—Mingyu could hear the strain.
He stepped aside silently. Gave him space. Watched him pass like something inevitable.
The door clicked shut behind them.
And the quiet snapped.
“Had fun tonight?” Mingyu asked, voice sharp like broken glass.
Wonwoo didn’t answer. Just stood there. His back facing Mingyu. Hood still up. Hands in pockets.
Mingyu laughed—cold, breathless.
“No? Not gonna say anything?” He stepped forward. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself. Real cozy. Talking, smiling—”
Still nothing.
“He even fixed your hair,” Mingyu said, bitter twisting under every word. “how romantic.”
Wonwoo’s jaw tensed.
But he didn’t interrupt.
So Mingyu kept going. Because he was unraveling now, and he needed to bleed somewhere.
“Did you go home with him too? Huh?” Mingyu’s voice dropped, a breath away from begging. “Did he kiss you like I—”
“Shut up.”
Wonwoo’s voice was quiet. But cutting.
And then?
Then it broke.
Wonwoo closed the space between them in a single breath, fists in the front of Mingyu’s shirt, yanking him down until their mouths collided.
The kiss was messy. Desperate. Teeth. Tongue. Rage. Regret.
And underneath all of it—
Need.
Mingyu gasped against it, arms coming up to hold, to grip, to keep.
This wasn’t soft. This wasn’t slow.
This was what happened when obsession boiled too long in silence.
When two people burned so badly they forgot what language was, they only knew how to speak in bruises and breaths and the weight of want.
And Mingyu—bitter, breathless, helpless—mumbled against Wonwoo’s mouth:
“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
Wonwoo didn’t pull back.
Didn’t say a word.
But the way his nails scraped down Mingyu’s spine?
Said everything.
Their lips were still pressed together, breathing each other in like oxygen tasted better shared.
Wonwoo didn’t break the kiss—just moved with it, stepped forward with the same controlled ferocity he fought with in the ring. His hands didn’t tremble, but his breath did—short, shallow, tinged with frustration and fire.
Mingyu stumbled back when the edge of the couch hit the backs of his knees.
Wonwoo didn’t stop.
He pushed.
Hard.
Mingyu fell into the cushions with a grunt, and before he could speak—before he could think—Wonwoo followed. Climbed over him like he belonged there. Like this was always going to happen. Like he was done pretending he didn’t want it.
Hood still clinging to him, breath fogging at the corner of Mingyu’s jaw, Wonwoo settled on his lap.
Firm. Close. Dangerous.
Mingyu’s fingers dug into the fabric of his hoodie, knuckles pale.
“Wonwoo—”
“Don’t,” Wonwoo said, voice low. “Don’t talk. Not now.”
His thighs tightened around Mingyu’s hips. He could feel it—the way Mingyu’s chest rose, too fast, too much. The way his body leaned in like instinct. The tremble under his skin that said finally.
Wonwoo’s hands went to Mingyu’s shoulders. Pressed down. Anchoring him. Controlling him.
He wasn’t blushing. He wasn’t hesitating.
He was choosing.
Slowly, he rolled his hips once—just once—against Mingyu’s. The friction made Mingyu’s head fall back, a groan dragged from somewhere guttural.
And still, Wonwoo didn’t kiss him again.
He just looked.
Eyes heavy-lidded, mouth swollen from earlier, chest barely rising with how hard he was holding back.
“This…” Mingyu said, voice rough, “feels like a dream I’m not waking up from.”
Wonwoo stared down at him.
Then, leaning in, he spoke near his ear—his voice a whisper, dangerous in how calm it was.
“Maybe it is. Or maybe I’m about to make it worse.”
Mingyu laughed—breathless. Desperate.
“Worse is good. Ruin me again, Jeon.”
Wonwoo’s lips ghosted down the side of his neck.
Not a kiss.
Just a threat.
“You talk too much.”
And then he ground down again—harder this time.
Mingyu swore under his breath, hands sliding down to Wonwoo’s waist, holding him there, needing him closer, needing more.
But still—no clothes came off.
No rush.
Just two people suffocating in tension, in silence, in everything they’d denied for too long.
Clothes still on. Boundaries still technically intact.
But this?
This was foreplay of a different kind.
This was the ache that made pleasure feel holy.
Then the clothes came off like confessions.
Bit by bit. Tossed aside. Torn, maybe. Neither of them remembered. Neither of them cared.
By the time Wonwoo’s back hit the mattress, skin bare and flushed and trembling, his breaths came in broken stutters. His legs wrapped around Mingyu’s waist. His fingers buried in the short strands of Mingyu’s hair, pulling when it got too much.
Which was always.
Mingyu hovered above him, muscles tense, lips bruised from kissing him too hard, too long, not nearly enough.
And his voice?
Low. Dangerous.
“Did he make you feel like this, Jeon?”
Wonwoo’s eyes fluttered open.
Pupils blown wide. Chest rising too fast. Sweat clinging to his skin like proof of sin.
“Tell me.”
Mingyu’s hips moved again, drawing a shattered cry from the man beneath him.
And still—
“Tell me.”
Wonwoo’s nails dug into his shoulders.
“No—” it came out as a gasp, a sob. “Only you, Min—ahh, f-fuck, faster, ple-please—”
Mingyu grinned—something dark, ravenous—and dipped his head down to kiss the wet corner of Wonwoo’s eye.
“That’s what I thought.”
The rhythm picked up, cruel and careful, like Mingyu wanted him to break and needed to be the one to do it.
Wonwoo clutched at him like he was drowning.
Legs trembling.
Breath hitched.
Moans caught between his throat and Mingyu’s mouth.
“Mine,” Mingyu whispered against his neck, again and again. “Mine. Mine. Mine.”
And every time he said it, Wonwoo gave more of himself away.
Until the only thing left was skin, sound, and surrender.
And when they finally stilled—when the heat gave way to silence, and Mingyu collapsed beside him, panting, lips brushing Wonwoo’s shoulder—
Wonwoo didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
He just turned his face to Mingyu’s, eyes glassy, lashes damp.
And breathed him in.
Because he knew the truth now—raw and bleeding in his chest:
No one else would ever touch him like that.
No one else could.
And God, he didn’t want them to.
Mingyu shifted carefully, drawing Wonwoo closer until his chest was flush against the warmth of Wonwoo’s back. His lips pressed featherlight kisses along the pale curve of Wonwoo’s shoulder, each touch lingering like a whispered promise — soft and steady.
“Bath?” Mingyu asked, voice low, rough with something like hope, but gentle enough to give Wonwoo the space to say yes or no.
Wonwoo’s head dipped slightly, a subtle nod, eyes heavy and glassy, still swimming in the hazy afterglow of everything that had just happened. He felt like he was floating — somewhere between exhaustion and exhilaration — the kind of vulnerable calm that makes the skin itch with needing, and the heart ache with the weight of what’s been given and taken.
His fingers twitched absently on the cat plushie nestled between them — the soft fabric crumpled under his touch. It was absurd, almost comical, this small, innocent toy that somehow seemed to hold a fragile kind of comfort in this chaotic mess of their lives. The cat’s stitched eyes looked almost knowing, watching silently over the room as if it understood the silent language unfolding here.
Mingyu’s gaze lingered on Wonwoo’s hands, tracing the delicate movements like a prayer, before slipping quietly off the bed. His movements were careful — as if he was afraid to break the spell they were both caught in.
“Wait here for a moment,” he murmured, voice rough with tenderness. There was no rush, no urgency — only the softest invitation to hold onto this fragile moment a little longer.
The soft padding of his steps faded as he went toward the bathroom, leaving a quiet stillness behind. The faint sound of water running soon filled the space, steady and warm — a reminder of comfort, of cleansing, of the possibility to wash away the chaos for just a little while.
Mingyu set to work, preparing the bath with practiced hands — the water steaming, laced with a subtle scent that reminded him of clean sheets and early mornings. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, as if preparing not just the water but his own nerves to hold Wonwoo again, to be the shelter and the storm.
When he returned, the sight stopped him for a heartbeat.
Wonwoo sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the cat plushie, eyes unfocused but peaceful. His chest rose and fell slowly, his body still trembling from the intensity of what had come before — raw, exposed, and utterly unguarded.
Without a word, Mingyu crossed the room, knelt down in front of him, and slid his hands under Wonwoo’s arms. The contact was electric — warm and steady, grounding — pulling Wonwoo into his hold with a silent promise of safety.
Wonwoo didn’t resist. Instead, he leaned into Mingyu’s touch, letting himself be carried without hesitation. The weight of their shared silence pressed close between them, heavy but healing.
Mingyu carried him to the bath, the world outside the apartment melting away into nothing but the steady rhythm of their breaths and the soft splash of warm water.
As Mingyu eased Wonwoo into the tub, he kept his hands firm but gentle on his hips, guiding him into the water like someone cradling a fragile flame.
Wonwoo’s skin glistened with the steam, and for a moment, the vulnerability between them was almost unbearable — a raw openness that neither had ever allowed themselves before.
Mingyu settled beside him on the edge of the tub, letting his fingers trail lightly over Wonwoo’s wet skin, tracing invisible patterns of comfort and need.
They didn’t speak.
Words felt heavy, unnecessary.
Instead, their connection hung in the air — thick and palpable, filled with all the things they couldn’t say but desperately wanted to.
Wonwoo’s head fell against Mingyu’s shoulder, breath mingling with his in the warm, scented air.
And in that quiet, shared moment, everything was understood.
Notes:
yall, it's my birth month YAYYYYYYY and wonwoos toooooo!!! also another update??? Sheesh I'm feeling it
Chapter Text
The steam had curled softly around them, wrapping the room in warmth and something more dangerous — quiet, undisturbed closeness.
Wonwoo leaned back against the tub, his hair damp, eyes half-lidded. Water lapped gently at his chest, and his fingers floated idle, brushing against Mingyu’s wrist where he still sat beside the tub, arm propped casually on the porcelain rim.
It should’ve been easy to part ways now.
The room had calmed. The heat between them had softened into something more breathable, more manageable.
But as Mingyu started to stand, reaching for a towel—
Wonwoo’s voice broke through the silence.
Soft. Measured. But shaking, just slightly.
“Stay.”
Mingyu paused mid-movement, his hand frozen in the air. He turned, slowly, eyes locking with Wonwoo’s.
“Here?” he asked, voice low, as if the question might shatter if said too loud.
Wonwoo’s gaze flicked down for a second, like he was reconsidering. But then he met Mingyu’s eyes again, steady.
“In the tub,” he clarified. “With me.”
The words shouldn’t have meant what they did. But they did.
They landed.
Like a heartbeat skipping.
Like air getting caught in your throat because your chest already knows — this means something.
Mingyu stared at him for a beat longer. Then, wordlessly, he pulled his shirt over his head and stepped out of his sweats, eyes never leaving Wonwoo’s.
There was no hunger in the movement this time.
No teasing grin.
No tension from before.
Just... quiet honesty.
He slid into the tub behind Wonwoo, legs on either side, the water rising slightly from the weight of him.
Wonwoo didn’t look at him, not directly.
But when Mingyu’s arms slowly — carefully — wrapped around his waist, settling with a hesitant kind of reverence, Wonwoo exhaled like he’d been holding that breath in his whole life.
Their bodies fit like they had always belonged in this shape.
Back to chest. Heart to heart.
Mingyu pressed his face into Wonwoo’s damp shoulder, not kissing, not touching — just being.
And somewhere in that stillness, their heartbeats started to race.
Not from arousal.
But from fear.
From closeness.
From the terrifying ache of something starting to feel real.
Because neither of them had words yet — not for this.
But their bodies...
Their bodies were already speaking fluently.
Tension was gone, but something deeper had taken its place — weight, meaning, undeniable want. The kind that made your chest ache because it wasn't just about skin anymore.
And as the water cradled them, quiet and warm, Wonwoo’s fingers slipped to rest over Mingyu’s on his stomach — light, almost trembling.
Mingyu’s grip tightened just enough to answer.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever.
Notes:
fluff? YOU THOUGHT HAHHAHAHAH HA..HA..haa.... ahem.. anyway,
Wonwoo is an emotionally constipated kid; he needs time, don't hate on him, ok?
Chapter 10: hold me tight
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The night he came home felt deeply wrong—like he’d left his soul behind somewhere, dragging only his bones and body back as if to prove something to his own shadowed self. He had gone to bed right away, but sleep felt like a foreign treasure that was out of his reach. The night stretched on, shadows creeping in, and the comfort of dreams felt like a faded memory lost in a fog.
~
The underground gym was nearly empty.
Only the hum of the fluorescent lights above, the low thud of fists against leather, and the metallic stench of sweat and iron filling the air. Familiar. Comforting in its violence.
Wonwoo’s knuckles were already raw.
He didn’t bother with gloves today. Didn’t wrap his hands. He wanted to feel it — the sting of skin tearing, the ache deep in bone. He needed to be present, to hear the crack of each punch, to force himself into the now.
Because last night’s silence had been too loud.
His body had burned with the imprint of Mingyu’s touch, lips still swollen from kisses he didn’t want to forget. But it wasn’t Mingyu’s voice he heard when he laid in bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark.
It was hers.
"You ruined my life."
"I wish I killed you in my stomach."
"You aren’t worth loving."
The same venom.
Always the same.
It didn’t matter how old he got — those words clung to him like rot. He could scrub his skin raw and they’d still be there, seeping through his pores, dragging him back to the floor of that apartment, ten years old and trembling while the woman who was supposed to love him spat hatred with a face twisted in grief and rage.
He had loved her once.
Before.
Before the bottles.
Before the slaps.
Before she stopped being his mother and became something else. A stranger in her own skin. The shell of a woman who only ever looked at him with disgust after his father walked out and took every light with him.
His brother had protected him from most of it.
Minjae.
Always stepping in. Always smiling, telling Wonwoo to go to his room, to cover his ears, to wait until it was over.
But Minjae was gone now.
Gone because he tried to shield Wonwoo one last time — in a dark alley, against men who didn’t like boys walking home alone.
Wonwoo still remembered the warmth of his brother’s blood on his hands.
And after that?
There was nothing left.
No home.
No family.
No softness.
Only fists.
Only control.
Because control was the only thing he had left.
So now, years later, with his heart twisted by something as dangerous as affection, Wonwoo did what he knew best:
He fought.
Punch after punch after punch.
Breathing hard.
Sweat dripping down his temples.
Eyes locked on the bag like it was the past, like it was her, like it was himself.
And still, it wasn’t enough.
Because when he paused — just for a second — the image returned.
Mingyu.
In his bed.
Smiling like he meant it.
Asking him to stay with a touch, not a word.
And Wonwoo, who had left.
Not because he didn’t want to stay.
But because he didn’t know how.
How do you stay, when your own mother told you that love was a lie?
How do you believe someone won’t leave you, when everyone always does?
How do you let someone have you, when you were raised to believe you weren’t worth it?
His breath hitched.
He leaned his forehead against the punching bag, chest heaving, fists trembling, temples ringing.
This wasn’t about Mingyu anymore.
This was about a lifetime of running. Of denying. Of pretending he didn’t want. Didn’t need.
But now…
Now he was scared.
Because what if this thing with Mingyu was real?
And what if he ruined it the way he ruined everything else?
He was just nine.
Still small enough to believe in the good of people, but old enough to know that bedtime stories were lies.
The apartment reeked of liquor and old smoke. It always did. The television buzzed in the background, a game show laughing to an empty room.
Wonwoo stood in the hallway barefoot, back pressed to the peeling wallpaper, watching his mother scream at no one.
Or maybe at him.
It was always hard to tell.
“You want to eat?” she spat, slamming a half-empty bottle on the counter. “Go fucking beg for it. I didn’t ask for you.”
His lips pressed together. His stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday.
“Standing there like your bastard father. All quiet and smug.” She laughed bitterly, a sound like broken glass and cigarettes. “You think you’re better than me, huh?”
He shook his head. Slowly. Carefully. He’d learned by then not to speak unless asked.
She crossed the room in seconds, staggering, fast despite the vodka. Her hand struck his face before he saw it coming.
“Don’t you look at me like that, Jeon Wonwoo.”
His head whipped to the side. The floor creaked under their feet. His cheek stung, pulsing hot. But he didn’t cry.
He never cried.
That only made it worse.
“Fucking brat. Ruined my life. Should’ve drowned you in the tub when I had the chance.”
That night, he slept in the closet.
Not his room. Not a bed. Just the dark corner of a dusty old closet with the door cracked just enough to see light from the kitchen. The bulb flickered on and off.
He pressed his face to his knees.
Waited.
Listened.
Not for help. No one ever came.
He waited for his older brother to come home.
Minjae always came home.
And when he did, he opened the closet door without a word, eyes red from working late again, and crouched down beside Wonwoo like he’d done a hundred times before. His arms wrapped around him.
Tight. Warm. Safe.
“I’m here,” Minjae whispered into his hair. “It’s okay. Just breathe. One day we’ll get out of here. Just you and me, alright?”
Wonwoo nodded.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t believe it.
But he wanted to.
So badly.
Years later, those nights still lived inside his ribs. Still pressed against his spine when he lay awake. Still tightened his throat when someone touched him too gently.
Even now — grown, hardened, a name feared in the ring — there were nights when all he could hear was her voice.
You ruined my life.
You’re not worth loving.
He had bled, broken bones, and taken beatings from men twice his size.
But none of it ever hurt as much as the words of someone who meant the world to him. Who turned into a monster.
Minjae, the 14-year-old sweet Minjae, was his only light. In a world full of darkness and uncertainty.
He was six years older. Not old enough to be a parent. Not old enough to be anyone’s savior. But he became one anyway—because life didn’t ask permission.
Because when their mother started slipping away—falling into bottles, yelling words that cut sharper than knives, smashing plates and promises with reckless hands—Minjae didn’t run. He stayed. He held on tighter. He carried them both.
When the nights grew heavy and cold, and the house smelled like smoke and broken dreams, Minjae was the one who wrapped his arms around Wonwoo’s small frame.
Shielded him from the chaos that clawed at their skin.
Fed him when their mother forgot or didn’t care to.
Lied to teachers who asked questions nobody dared answer.
Stayed awake reading stories under dim lights even when his own eyes burned with exhaustion from part-time jobs that barely paid for the rent.
His voice was a promise.
“You’re safe, okay?”
A whisper against a world that felt like it was falling apart.
“Don’t listen to her. She’s sick. It’s not your fault.”
Words meant to hold back the storm that raged inside the walls of their broken home.
“When I turn eighteen, I’ll get us out of here.”
And Wonwoo believed him.
Because when Minjae hugged him, the world slowed. The sharp edges dulled, and the noise faded.
Because when Minjae smiled—tired, cracked, like the weight of the world pressed into every curve—it meant something would be okay.
Maybe not today.
Maybe not tomorrow.
But someday.
They didn’t have much.
They had nothing but each other.
And for a long time, that was enough
Wonwoo was fifteen when Minjae died.
It was late. Cold. Rain was falling like needles through the alleyway near the old train tracks. Wonwoo had taken a shortcut — stupid, he knew that — but it had been a long day, and he just wanted to get home.
They cornered him near the dumpsters.
Three men. Drunk. Mean.
Laughing like it was a joke.
He remembered the way their faces looked when they grabbed his arms.
The panic choking his throat.
The flash of a broken bottle.
The scream that never made it past his lips.
And then —
Minjae.
Out of nowhere.
Throwing himself into the fight like a fucking wildfire.
“RUN, WOO. GO!”
Wonwoo didn’t run.
He couldn’t.
He froze.
He watched.
Watched the blur of fists and blood.
Watched his brother fall.
Watched the man stab him —
once,
twice,
three times.
Minjae’s eyes found his in the dark.
“Go.”
That time, he did.
He ran until his lungs gave out.
Until his legs collapsed in the middle of the street.
Screaming Minjae’s name until his voice was gone and no one came.
He ran.
Not because he wanted to.
Not because he was brave.
But because his brother told him to.
Rain slapped the pavement in icy sheets. His lungs burned. His shoes slipped on the wet concrete, and the breath in his throat felt more like a scream than air.
He ran until his body gave out.
Until his knees buckled on the side of a nameless road, skin scraped and shaking, gasping for a voice that wouldn’t come.
“Minjae—”
It tore from him — hoarse, broken, the kind of sound that shouldn't come out of someone so young.
And no one heard.
No one came.
Not one car slowed. Not one light flickered. The whole world kept moving, uncaring, unfazed — while his world had shattered in an alley.
But he went back.
God, he went back.
Because maybe.
Just maybe.
Minjae was okay. Maybe he scared them off. Maybe he was waiting. Maybe he was hurt, but alive.
Hope was a cruel thing, and it carried Wonwoo on trembling legs, dragging him through the rain, back toward the place where everything had gone silent.
His heart pounded like it knew better.
When he turned the corner, it all stopped.
The alley was empty.
The men were gone.
But Minjae—
Minjae was lying in the rain.
So still.
Face half-lit by a flickering streetlamp, eyes open toward the sky like he’d been watching for something. For someone. Maybe for Wonwoo.
Blood pooled beneath him — deep, dark, seeping into the cracks of the pavement like it belonged there.
Wonwoo’s breath caught.
The sob broke out of him before he could stop it.
He dropped to his knees beside him, hands slipping over his brother’s chest, pressing—shaking—whispering—
“Wake up. H-hyung, please—wake up.”
His brother’s body was warm.
Too warm.
But his eyes didn’t blink.
And his arms never opened again.
The funeral was small.
Pathetically small.
There was no father. There never had been—just a name on a certificate, someone long gone before Wonwoo was old enough to understand what having a father meant.
No mother, either.
She had been too drunk to come. Passed out on the bathroom floor when the social worker came knocking, bottle still clenched in her hand like it was the only thing worth mourning.
So it was just Wonwoo.
Fifteen years old, swallowed by a too-big black suit someone else picked out for him. The sleeves nearly covered his hands. The shoes didn’t fit. The collar scratched his neck and the fabric smelled like plastic and dust.
He stood there, small and shaking, while the wind howled through the cemetery trees. Autumn leaves blew across the uneven stones like no one had told the world it should stop turning. That someone had died.
That someone—his someone—was gone.
There was no casket. No line of mourners. Just a ceramic urn.
Just ash.
All that was left of Minjae was reduced to powder and silence, and the empty space at Wonwoo’s side where something solid, something safe used to live.
He clutched the urn to his chest like it might burn through his skin. Like he wanted it to.
His fingers went white from gripping it too tightly, jaw clenched so hard it ached. But he didn’t cry. Not in front of the woman who led the service, not in front of the social worker standing stiffly at the edge of the grass, pretending not to check her watch.
He didn’t cry when they said his brother’s name.
Didn’t cry when they called Minjae brave.
Didn’t cry when the wind knocked over one of the cheap plastic flowers someone had laid on a nearby grave.
Because crying would’ve meant letting go.
And Wonwoo wasn’t ready to let go.
Not of Minjae.
Not of the only person who had ever looked at him like he was worth something.
Like he mattered.
Minjae had never said it out loud—he didn’t need to.
It was in the way he passed over his own dinner plate without asking.
In the way he took every punch their mother threw—verbal, emotional, once even physical—so that Wonwoo wouldn’t have to.
In the way he stayed awake at night after long shifts, reading to him, tucking blankets around his shoulders, whispering that someday, things would get better.
That someday, they’d be free.
That someday never came.
And now there would be no more warm hands on Wonwoo’s head. No more tired smiles. No more voices breaking in the dark to make him feel like he belonged somewhere, to someone.
The urn in his hands didn’t speak. Didn’t hold him. Didn’t tell him he was safe.
It just sat there.
Heavy.
Silent.
Gone.
After that, Wonwoo never believed in safety again.
How could he?
Safety had been a voice whispering “You’re okay” in the dark—
a hand that shielded, a body that stood between him and the world’s worst intentions.
And it had bled out in front of him.
So he stopped trusting light.
Stopped believing in warmth.
Stopped thinking that love could be anything but a loaded gun with the safety off.
Because Minjae was gone.
And whatever was left of Wonwoo that night—it wasn’t a child anymore. It wasn’t someone who hoped anymore.
He didn’t become brave. He became cold.
He didn’t become strong. He became sharp.
He learned how to keep his head down.
How to clench his fists.
How to shut doors and mean it.
He learned to carry silence like armor.
To speak only when he needed to.
To look people in the eye without letting them see him.
He learned to fight—not for glory, not for sport—but because if the world ever tried to take something from him again, it was going to bleed for it.
And beneath all of that—the rage, the grit, the frost in his voice—was a scar that never healed.
Minjae wasn’t just a memory. He was a ghost stitched into every breath.
Not just the guilt—not just the replay of that night, again and again, as if maybe if Wonwoo just remembered it hard enough, he could change how it ended.
But the unbearable truth:
That the only person who had ever loved him enough to stay—
to protect him—
to choose him—
had to die for it.
That loving Wonwoo came with a cost no one else had ever been willing to pay.
So he stopped letting people try.
No more closeness.
No more promises.
Because deep down, in some quiet, broken corner of himself—
Wonwoo believed that if anyone got close enough again...
They’d end up dead, too.
The ache of his knuckles was dull beneath the fire in his chest.
He didn’t want to feel protected.
He wanted to hurt.
Skin split across his knuckles, blood smeared down his wrists, but still he kept punching.
“You ruined my life.”
“I wish I killed you in my stomach.”
“You aren’t worth loving.”
The words rang in his skull like a curse chiseled into bone.
He didn’t remember when he first heard them. He just knew he never forgot.
They clung to him—like mold in his lungs, like rot beneath his skin.
His mother’s voice.
His ghost.
The way she spat them, eyes wild and full of hate, as if he were some kind of punishment. As if his existence hurt her.
As if he had asked to be born.
He swung harder.
His fists hit the bag with a desperation that wasn’t about strength anymore.
It was about silence.
About erasing.
Erasing the sound of her voice in his head.
Erasing the image of Minjae on that cold alley ground.
Erasing himself.
Punch after punch.
Until his breath came in gasps.
Until blood stained his knuckles and sweat dripped from his jaw.
Until the copper taste on his tongue became overwhelming—he didn’t know if it was from a split lip or just the memory of biting it to stop from screaming when he was ten years old and hiding in a closet.
He hit the bag one more time—hard—and the impact rattled through his bones.
Then he stumbled back.
Chest heaving. Wrists throbbing. Vision blurred.
And that’s when it happened—
A single tear.
Not from sadness.
No.
From rage.
From years of swallowing screams. From years of pretending it didn’t hurt.
From the weight of never being enough to be loved without consequence.
It fell like a betrayal. Hot and sharp down his cheek.
He wiped it off too quickly. Like it had shamed him.
Like softness was weakness. Like vulnerability was poison.
He turned away, biting the inside of his cheek so hard it tasted like iron.
And then—
He froze.
Because Mingyu was there.
Leaning against the far wall.
Silent.
Arms crossed over his chest, jaw set hard enough to crack a tooth.
His eyes locked on Wonwoo—not in anger. Not in pity.
But in something sharper. Something painful.
Something real.
Wonwoo couldn’t breathe.
His fists hung useless by his sides—bloodied, shaking, raw.
He couldn’t move.
Couldn’t hide.
Couldn’t pretend.
Because Mingyu saw him.
Not the fighter.
Not the controlled, quiet, ice-cold version he wore like armor.
Him.
The version that still shook when someone raised their voice.
The one that still dreamt of alleyways and blood and a brother’s last breath.
The one that never stopped being fifteen.
And Mingyu didn’t speak. Not right away.
He just stared.
At the broken skin.
At the sweat.
At the tear that hadn’t dried fast enough.
At him.
And in that unbearable silence—something passed between them.
Something raw.
Something unspoken.
Something so intimate it hurt more than a blow ever could.
Then Mingyu stepped off the wall.
Footsteps slow. Deliberate. Heavy with everything he wasn’t yelling.
“What the fuck are you doing to yourself?”
His voice wasn’t loud. But it cracked like lightning.
Wonwoo couldn’t answer.
His throat felt like it was stitched shut.
There were no words that didn’t taste like blood and memory.
But Mingyu didn’t stop.
He moved closer.
Closer than he should have.
Closer than Wonwoo could handle.
His voice dropped, rough around the edges.
“You think this is control?”
“You think bleeding makes you stronger?”
And then—his hand snapped forward.
Caught Wonwoo’s wrist.
Tight.
Firm.
Real.
Wonwoo flinched.
Only for a second. Barely enough to notice.
But Mingyu saw.
And his voice came again—quieter now. No less fierce.
“You’re not the only one with ghosts,” he said.
“But this—this isn’t how you fight them.”
The air around them felt thick, like it couldn’t carry the weight of what was unsaid.
Wonwoo’s lungs refused to cooperate.
His chest rose and fell like he’d just run a hundred miles—but he hadn’t moved.
He was just... seen.
Stripped bare.
And it terrified him.
More than fists.
More than knives.
More than death.
He yanked his wrist free like it burned.
Stumbled a step back.
Eyes wide. Voice wrecked.
“You don’t know anything,” he rasped.
But even as he said it—
Even as the words left his mouth like a slap—
He knew they weren’t true.
Because Mingyu hadn’t looked away.
Not when he saw the tear.
Not when he saw the blood.
Not even when he saw everything.
And that was the part that broke something inside Wonwoo all over again—
That someone could see the worst of him.
And stay.
“But I want to.” Mingyu’s voice cracked through the room like a fault line splitting stone.
Not loud.
But devastating.
Thick with desperation, shaking with the kind of emotion people don’t let themselves say out loud unless they’re breaking.
“I want to know everything about you…”
He stepped forward, fists clenched at his sides, eyes burning—not just with want, but with ache.
“With every part of me. But only if you let me.”
The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful.
It was the kind that comes before storms.
Wonwoo’s shoulders stiffened. His spine straightened like he was bracing for impact—like those words had hit him.
He didn’t breathe.
Because he felt that. Felt it like heat against a bruise. Like hands against a wound.
His voice came out sharp. Too sharp.
“Why do you care so much?”
It wasn’t a question. It was a defense.
A flinch dressed as anger.
Wild. Wounded. Desperate to push away what he didn’t think he deserved.
Mingyu stilled.
His lips parted, but nothing came at first.
Because how do you explain something like that?
How do you explain that someone who built a fortress around themselves could still make you want to kneel at the gates?
How do you explain caring for someone who keeps handing you knives instead of keys?
Why do I care so much?
The question echoed inside Mingyu’s chest—louder than the roaring in his ears, louder than his own heartbeat.
And the answer didn’t come in neat words.
It came in memories.
Wonwoo under him, eyelashes damp, chest rising fast, mouth parted like he couldn’t believe what he was feeling.
The way his name sounded—Mingyu—when it left Wonwoo’s mouth in a whisper, cracked and beautiful.
The alleyway. That kiss. How it had burned like fire and tasted like pain.
And it wasn’t lust. It wasn’t obsession. It wasn’t adrenaline anymore.
It was something else now.
Something worse. Something better.
Something that scared him.
“I care,” Mingyu said, finally—his voice quieter now, like it had to come from somewhere deeper.
“Because you matter to me.”
His voice cracked. His eyes didn’t move from Wonwoo’s.
“Because you are worth the time.”
And that did it.
That destroyed him.
Those words hit harder than any blow ever had.
Because in the space left behind by them, her voice came crawling back like a sickness.
You ruined my life.
I wish I killed you in my stomach.
You aren’t worth loving.
It didn’t matter that years had passed.
Didn’t matter that the voice was old, wasted, soaked in liquor and fury.
It still lived in him.
Still slept in the walls of his ribs like it paid rent there.
And now—
Now someone was telling him the opposite.
Telling him he mattered.
That he was worth the time.
And it hurt.
The contrast was too sharp. Too much. Too loud.
His vision blurred.
His knees gave out—not like in stories, not dramatically. Just a slow, broken collapse. Like the weight finally won. Like something inside had shattered too far to stay upright.
But Mingyu—
Mingyu was already there.
Arms wrapping around him fast. Steady. Sure. Like he’d been waiting to catch him from the start.
Wonwoo didn’t fall to the ground.
He fell into him.
And for a second, just one second, he let it happen.
He let himself be held.
Mingyu’s breath was warm against his temple. His voice low, trembling.
“I’ve got you.”
Three words.
And somehow, they said everything.
Wonwoo didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Because what do you say when someone hands you exactly what you never believed you deserved?
When someone sees every ruined piece of you—
and stays?
His fingers twisted into Mingyu’s shirt. Tight. Desperate. Like if he let go, he might vanish too.
And in that moment—
For the first time since Minjae died—
Wonwoo didn’t feel like a mistake.
He didn’t feel broken.
He felt held.
And the sob that escaped him was small. But it was real. Shaky and silent and soaked in years of grief.
And Mingyu just kept holding him tighter.
As if he already knew—
That this wasn’t the end of a breakdown.
This was the start of healing.
Notes:
The next part is going to be fluff, I promiseeeee, don't hate on me okay (ಥ _ ಥ)
anyway, now that we know wonwoos fucked up past we know why he didnt let anyone stay. Also, I forgot to mention that Minjae worked illegally when he was only 14 (because giving a job before 18 is child labour, at least in my country), but what can we do? he had a brother to feed.
Chapter 11
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Wonwoo didn’t know if he had passed out or just… shut down, don't know if he had just drifted somewhere beyond time—into a soft void of silence and safety.
The weight of everything must’ve been too much because one minute he’d been wrapped in Mingyu’s arms, chest tight and head spinning, and the next—his knuckles had dulled to a throb, the floor beneath him had become something warm
Now he was waking up, wrapped in the comfiest clothes.
A loose hoodie, cotton-soft against his skin. Sweatpants far too big to be his.
He blinked slowly, head fuzzy but light, like some weight had been lifted. He sat up gently, instinctively wincing—but the sharp pain didn’t come. Instead, he glanced down and saw his hands, freshly cleaned and neatly bandaged. Someone had taken their time. Someone had… cared.
And when his eyes landed on the familiar grey plush cat resting beside him on the bed, tucked half-under his arm—he couldn’t help the way his lips pulled into a soft smile.
That idiot had tucked it there like it was normal. Like they did this all the time.
A smile—small, private—curved at the corner of his lips.
He tried to sit up, only to realize his hands felt tight. He glanced down and blinked.
Clean.
Bandaged.
The blood was gone, the raw skin neatly wrapped, palms tucked in gauze like they were something precious. Like someone had cared.
His throat pinched.
And that’s when he heard it—the soft click of the bathroom door swinging open.
He looked up.
Mingyu stepped out, towel around his neck, hair still damp, wearing nothing but a pair of black sweats slung too low on his hips.
“Hey,” he said, voice warm with something that sounded too much like relief. “You’re up.”
Wonwoo opened his mouth to say something—he didn’t even know what—but then Mingyu said, way too casually:
“Lemme change real quick.”
And proceeded to do it right there.
No shame. No hesitation.
Wonwoo’s eyes went wide.
He looked away immediately, cheeks flushing with heat, eyes darting to the wall like it held the secrets of the universe. The pink hue blooming across his cheekbones betrayed him, rising fast and hot as he tried not to stare.
Goddammit, he’s built like sin.
And he knows it.“
Oh my god,” he muttered under his breath, turning so sharply he nearly knocked the plush off the bed.“I—uh,” Wonwoo cleared his throat, voice hoarse. “You could’ve… changed in the bathroom.”
Mingyu just chuckled—chuckled—behind him, completely unbothered.
“What? You’ve seen me shirtless before." and Mingyu could see the tips of his ears turning red now too..
God, he was cute like this.
“Not—not like that.” Wonwoo’s voice cracked like it was betrayed by his own lungs.
Mingyu pulled a shirt over his head, a grin visible in his tone. “You literally touched my abs, like, two nights ago.”
“That was different,” Wonwoo said, still staring at the wall like it owed him salvation. “That was... in battle.”
Mingyu let out a full laugh at that.
“In battle?” he teased. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
Wonwoo grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him without looking.
“Put some damn pants on.”
“I have pants on!”
“Pants that work, Kim.”
Mingyu caught the pillow with one hand, still laughing, still glowing, like Wonwoo being embarrassed was the best thing that had happened all week.
After tugging his shirt down and ruffling his damp hair with the towel once more, Mingyu padded over to the bed with the kind of quiet care that made the air feel softer. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight as he sat at the edge, right beside Wonwoo—close enough that their knees brushed.
Wonwoo didn’t look at him.
He was still facing away, eyes trained on the far wall like it had done something deeply fascinating overnight. His fingers tugged idly at the hem of the borrowed hoodie, sleeves swallowed halfway past his hands. The pink in his cheeks hadn’t faded—not even a little.
Mingyu sat at the edge of the mattress, close but not crowding. He watched for a second, soaking in the curve of Wonwoo’s back, the delicate rise and fall of his shoulders. Then, slowly, carefully, he reached out and turned Wonwoo’s face toward him with two fingers under his chin.
Wonwoo resisted for a breath. Then let him.
And when their eyes met, Mingyu leaned in and kissed the tip of his nose. A small, sweet press—so soft it felt like a promise.
“Hey,” Mingyu murmured, lips pulling into the gentlest smile.
Wonwoo blinked, stunned by the simplicity of it.
He didn’t pull back.
He didn’t hide.
But the confusion on his face was real. A little dazed. A little shy. A lot pink.
“Hi,” he muttered, barely above a whisper, like he was still trying to figure out how to breathe.
Notes:
had to add a little bit of drama in it to keep the fic interesting innit?
And YAYYY the fluff that I promised, also ... Wonwoo letting Mingyu LOVE HIM?????? very cutesy, what do y'all think?
Chapter 12: Him.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
After the laughter settled into something quiet and warm, they were left in the stillness of the apartment again—just the two of them, standing close, the soft glow of kitchen light bathing them in gold.
Wonwoo leaned against the couch, arms folded, trying to will away the stupid smile on his face. Mingyu stood a few feet away, watching him like he always did—like he couldn’t not.
Their eyes met.
And for a moment, nothing else existed.
Just breathing.
Just closeness.
Just them.
Then Mingyu, softer this time—gentle, honest—spoke.
“You have very beautiful eyes.”
Wonwoo blinked.
Then blinked again.
A faint blush rose on his cheeks, but he tried to deflect, looking off to the side as he mumbled, “Thanks. But… they don’t work.”
Mingyu’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean they don’t—”
“I don’t see well,” Wonwoo said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I wear contact lenses.”
Mingyu froze.
And then—exploded.
“WHAT?”
Wonwoo blinked again, startled. “What?”
“You mean to tell me,” Mingyu said, pacing in a full dramatic circle with his hands on his head, “that these god-tier, celestial, galaxy-core, heartbreak eyes—are not even in their final form?!”
Wonwoo stared. “What are you—”
“YOU’RE TELLING ME YOU’RE NERDY HOT TOO?!” Mingyu cried, pointing an accusatory finger. “That there exists, somewhere in this universe, a version of you wearing glasses?!”
Wonwoo narrowed his eyes. “That’s a weird way to phrase my astigmatism, but sure.”
“I need to see it.”
“You really don’t—”
“I’LL TAKE OUT A LOAN.”
“I only wear them at night!”
“PERFECT,” Mingyu declared, spinning toward him with the wild energy of a man possessed. “Just in time for bedtime! (it is not) You—me—Netflix—and glasses-Wonwoo. Let’s go.”
Wonwoo covered his face with both hands. “You’re insane.”
“I need it,” Mingyu said, dead serious now, as he stepped forward and gently tugged one of Wonwoo’s hands down so he could look at his face. “I need to see the full edition of Jeon Wonwoo, Eyewear Version. My heart is ready.”
Wonwoo finally broke, snorting out a laugh. “You're so dramatic.”
Mingyu grinned. “And you're so pretty. Especially when you can’t see me clearly.”
“I can see you fine right now,” Wonwoo said, but he was smiling.
“Damn,” Mingyu whispered. “Even with impaired vision, you still choose to look at me. Must be love.”
Wonwoo turned bright red and shoved him. “Get out.”
Mingyu only laughed louder, wrapping his arms around him from behind and whispering near his ear, “Glasses. I’m gonna get them out of you one way or another.”
Wonwoo groaned. “You’re unbearable.”
“And you’re legally blind,” Mingyu teased.
“Shut up.”
And in that moment—with laughter lingering in the air and arms tangled loosely between heartbeats—
Wonwoo wasn’t just smiling.
He was seen.
Glasses or not.
Notes:
Okay, a fluff and Seoksoo, Verkwan moment? woohoooo say ' yayyy '
Any thoughts about this chap? I was actually thinking of adding Soonhoon too, but then I forgot about their lore, so .. even I have to go back to do some homework and read about their part lolol. I hope this chapter was fun to read.
Until next time, caratdeul~ ఇ ◝‿◜ ఇ
Chapter 13: The Weight of Silence
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The hallway swallowed Jihoon whole.
The gym’s silence roared now, louder than any crowd ever had. It was the kind of silence that buzzed in your teeth, crawled under your skin, and set your jaw tight. Soonyoung dragged a hand down his face, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to peel something off—grief, maybe. Regret. Memory. It clung anyway.
The floor was slick in places with sweat and old blood, the stench of iron and chalk thick in the air. He moved toward the punching bag like it was familiar territory, a place he knew better than any home. Fingers brushed the cracked leather, tracing over the darker blotches that didn’t come out, even after all these years. Someone’s history was still soaked into the fabric. Maybe his. Maybe Jihoon’s. Maybe both.
He punched it once.
Not hard. Not to hurt. Just to feel.
Just to make something move.
The chain creaked, swinging the weight back with slow inevitability.
It felt like time had circled on itself, dragging him right back to where it had all started. Where he left. Where he ran.
“He doesn’t sleep,” came a voice behind him.
Soonyoung didn’t turn. He didn’t have to.
The voice was light, familiar—razor-edged beneath the silk. Jeonghan stood by the side door, framed by the soft halo of the security light filtering in from the alley. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. The same way he always was: too pretty, too dangerous, too knowing.
“He walks the halls at 3 a.m. Doesn’t eat unless someone reminds him. And he wraps his hands every night like he’s still waiting for the next fight.”
Soonyoung’s jaw ticked. He looked over his shoulder, eyes dim like the last glow of a fire left to die in the dark.
“I know.”
Jeonghan raised a brow, lips pressing into a line of cool amusement that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Then why are you back?”
Silence bloomed like a bruise.
Soonyoung turned, finally, facing him fully. There was no posturing, no false bravado left. Only the weight in his shoulders, and the hollowness in his voice.
“Because no one hits like Jihoon.”
The answer was too quiet to be triumphant. Too honest to be poetic.
Jeonghan’s gaze sharpened.
“That’s not love,” he said flatly.
“I never said it was.”
It landed heavy in the space between them.
Jeonghan didn’t blink. “He’s not the same kid you left bleeding in the rain.”
Soonyoung’s smile twitched—cracked and uneven, like something half-remembered and half-felt.
“Good.”
“You’re not the same either.”
Soonyoung rolled a shoulder, like that truth was easier to carry than most.
“Yeah. Now I stay.”
That one made Jeonghan falter.
He looked at Soonyoung like he was trying to see something through him. Like he was sifting through ash, searching for the last live coal.
Then, with a breath more resigned than bitter, he pushed off the wall.
“You think you’re doing this for him. But you’re not.”
Soonyoung didn’t argue.
“I know,” he said quietly.
Jeonghan stepped closer, and this time his voice was softer. Tired.
“Then don’t make him pick between surviving you… or forgetting you.”
Soonyoung looked down at his hands. They were trembling, barely perceptible, but still.
He didn’t respond.
Didn’t need to.
Elsewhere, in the flickering light of a locker room bulb, Jihoon sat alone.
The room had emptied hours ago, but he stayed, like a ghost too stubborn to leave. The light above him buzzed—weak and stuttering—casting long shadows across the tiles. His gym bag sat untouched at his feet. His hoodie was off, folded too precisely for someone who claimed not to care.
The tape around his knuckles was too tight. Digging into skin that had long since stopped protesting.
He didn’t loosen it.
Didn’t move.
He sat on the bench across from the mirror, the warped glass reflecting the quiet wreckage he’d become.
He looked like himself.
But he didn’t feel like himself.
His jaw was still bruised from sparring two nights ago. His ribs still ached from a hit he didn’t bother dodging. But that pain was clean. Manageable. The other kind—the ache that curled in his chest like smoke in a locked room—wasn’t.
He stared into the mirror like he wanted to punch through it.
Like he wanted to find something real inside the lie of his own reflection.
“I never threw out the key,” he whispered.
The locker room held its breath.
And then—
He punched the mirror.
Once.
Hard.
The sound cracked through the silence like a gunshot. The glass split instantly, veins of shattered reflection spidering across the surface. A shard fell with a delicate clink, landing at his feet.
Blood welled at his knuckles.
He didn’t flinch.
The pain felt honest.
He leaned forward, breath catching against his chest, staring at what was left of the reflection.
Most of it was fractured now, broken into pieces. Distorted.
But one shard—deep in the center, where the hit had landed—remained intact.
And in it—
For just a moment—
He could’ve sworn Soonyoung was smiling.
And maybe that’s the problem.
Jihoon’s knuckles throbbed where the glass had cut deep, but he barely noticed.
Pain like that was background noise now—white static in a life full of louder wounds. It pulsed faintly beneath skin, hot and wet, trickling toward his wrist in slow trails, but it was manageable. Measurable. Predictable. He could understand it.
The ache in his chest, though—
That was something else.
That was chaos wrapped in silence.
That was waking up and not knowing which part of you had died in your sleep.
He dropped his fists to his knees, shoulders curling inward like the fight had finally emptied out of him. Blood smeared down his fingers, settling into the creases of the tape he hadn’t bothered to cut away. The mirror in front of him—spiderwebbed and still trembling from the impact—reflected a dozen versions of him.
All of them broken.
All of them looking back.
One of them still looked like the boy who used to laugh.
The others?
Just ghosts with fists.
A soft knock came at the door.
Once. Then silence.
Jihoon didn’t move.
Then again—gentler this time, like the knuckles tapping against the wood didn’t want to startle the pieces already cracked.
“Jihoon…”
The voice was soft. Measured.
Cautious like it had learned how to approach him the way one approaches a wounded animal.
Minghao.
Jihoon’s throat tightened.
“Go away,” he rasped. It wasn’t cruel. Just tired.
But the door opened anyway, slow and deliberate, hinges creaking like they knew the weight of what was happening. Minghao stepped inside with that same quiet grace he always carried—like walking through someone else’s pain without making it worse was something he’d mastered.
He didn’t speak right away. Just knelt in front of Jihoon and let the silence settle around them, soft as snowfall.
His eyes went to Jihoon’s hands, to the bloodied wraps hanging limp, soaked in red. Gently—carefully—he reached for them.
“You’ll bleed more like this,” he murmured, already starting to unravel the mess.
Jihoon didn’t stop him, but he flinched at the touch. Not from pain. From something deeper.
Minghao’s hands were steady, his movements practiced. These were the same hands that had taped Jihoon’s wrists before matches, the same ones that had once pulled him out of a fight he didn’t even remember starting. Hands that had held him steady when he thought everything else was slipping.
“Why do you fight like you’re trying to hurt yourself?” Minghao asked quietly, his voice almost lost beneath the buzzing of the light above.
Jihoon stared at the floor.
His voice was flat, but the rawness cut through.
“Because sometimes hurting myself feels easier than letting someone in.”
Minghao stilled for a moment. No judgment. No pity. Just breath.
Then, slowly, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled something out. Small. Dull silver. Strung on a thin chain that had long since tarnished.
He held it out between two fingers.
A key.
Familiar. Worn. Too heavy for its size.
Jihoon’s gaze snapped to it, recognition flashing like a struck match.
“I found this in the locker room,” Minghao said, barely above a whisper. “Thought you might want it back.”
Jihoon stared at it like it might burn him.
The key.
Soonyoung’s key.
The one he used to wear around his neck when they were stupid and young and thought promises could be locked into things.
The one Jihoon had once said he threw away.
But hadn’t. Not really.
He had just buried it.
In the back of a drawer. In the back of his mind. In the part of him that still remembered how it felt to be chosen.
His fingers moved before he could think. He took it slowly, the metal cold against his blood-warm skin. It felt heavier now.
More real.
Minghao watched him, eyes unreadable.
“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” he asked, voice threading between gentleness and something sadder.
Jihoon finally looked at him, the fight gone from his posture but not from his eyes.
“Because some things…”
He swallowed.
“…don’t get fixed by words.”
And wasn’t that the truth of it?
Minghao’s lips curled into a faint smile. Not mocking. Not amused. Just… gentle.
“Then maybe it’s time to start with actions.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the key pressing warm into Jihoon’s palm. The blood on his hands had stopped flowing. His heart hadn’t.
And for the first time in a long while, something inside him softened. Not healed, not mended—but loosened.
Like breathing might not always feel like drowning.
Then, outside the door, footsteps.
Slow. Familiar. Steady as the heartbeat Jihoon had forgotten he still had.
Soonyoung.
No words were spoken. Not yet.
But Jihoon looked at the door. Then at the key. Then at Minghao, who gave him a look that said you’re allowed to want more than pain.
And maybe… maybe this time, the ache wouldn’t be so alone.
Maybe it wasn’t about fixing anything.
Maybe it was just about finally opening the damn door.
[Time Skip – 3 Weeks Later]
Wonwoo’s apartment was dimly lit, the kind of warm low lighting that made everything feel a little softer. The takeout boxes were half-empty on the coffee table, a movie they weren’t really watching playing quietly in the background.
Mingyu was sprawled across the floor with a cushion under his head, lazily tossing popcorn into his mouth. Wonwoo sat on the couch above him, one leg tucked underneath, laptop pushed aside after pretending to work for the last hour.
They’d been spending more time like this lately — not saying much, not doing much. Just being.
And somehow, that meant more than any grand gesture.
Mingyu craned his neck up to glance at Wonwoo. “You know this movie sucks, right?”
Wonwoo nodded. “You picked it.”
“Exactly,” Mingyu grinned. “So I’m allowed to hate it.”
Wonwoo snorted, barely. But it counted. Any sound that left his mouth in a laugh-like shape felt like a small win.
Mingyu sat up, legs crossed now, closer to Wonwoo’s knees. “Hey,” he said softly, like he didn’t want to ruin the moment but couldn’t keep the words down.
Wonwoo blinked, eyes meeting his.
“You okay?” Mingyu asked.
Wonwoo looked at him for a long second, then gave a quiet hum. “Yeah. Just tired.”
Not just physically. Mingyu could hear the weight in his voice — the kind that didn’t go away with sleep.
“You wanna talk about it?”
Wonwoo shook his head. “Not yet.”
Mingyu nodded, leaning his head against Wonwoo’s knee. “That’s okay.”
They sat like that for a few minutes — not talking, just breathing. The silence wasn’t awkward anymore. It was something else. Something closer to trust.
Eventually, Wonwoo broke it with a murmur. “You’re really patient.”
“I like you,” Mingyu replied simply, like it was obvious. “You don’t rush people you like.”
Wonwoo’s hand moved. Just a little. Then it rested lightly on Mingyu’s head, fingers threading through his hair. He didn’t say anything for a while.
Then: “I want to be better at this.”
Mingyu looked up.
“I’ve spent so long trying not to feel,” Wonwoo admitted. “Now it’s like I don’t know how.”
“That’s okay,” Mingyu whispered, sitting up fully again. “You’re still here. That’s more than enough.”
There was a flicker of emotion across Wonwoo’s face, like he didn’t know whether to smile or cry.
And then, quietly, he said, “I thought you were scary at first.”
Mingyu blinked. “Me?”
“Yeah. Scary how you seem to forget everything when you’re in the ring. Like your eyes go blank, and you just… snap. You’re a whole different person.”
Mingyu laughed, easing the tension. “Please, I’m just built like an action figure. You wanna talk scary? You at 2 a.m. trying to debug code in absolute silence? That’s terrifying.”
Wonwoo rolled his eyes. “You’re such a puppy now.”
“That’s my real form,” Mingyu said again, mock serious. “Boxing? Just my villain arc.”
Wonwoo actually laughed, the sound warm and small. He looked down at Mingyu, eyes softened behind his glasses — because yes, he was wearing them tonight — and Mingyu was still not over it.
“My boyfriend wears glasses,” Mingyu mumbled like he was still processing.
“I’m not your boyfriend,” Wonwoo said, though his ears were bright pink.
“You will be,” Mingyu grinned, bold as ever, winking up at him.
Wonwoo gave the tiniest shake of his head, then whispered a shy, “Mmhmm,” before glancing away, that small smile blooming on his lips.
Mingyu scooted closer. “So… can I kiss you?”
Wonwoo looked back down at him, his eyes calm. “You don’t have to ask anymore.”
And Mingyu did. A soft, slow kiss — no rush, no pressure, just mouths pressed together in the safety of low light and quiet walls. A small promise between them.
Later, when they lay curled up on Wonwoo’s couch, legs tangled, Mingyu whispered something into the space between them.
“I don’t care how long it takes,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Wonwoo didn’t say anything. But he reached out, fingers brushing Mingyu’s, and held on.
That was enough.
The living room had sunk into a kind of quiet that felt earned—like the world outside had dimmed just enough to let them pretend, for a while, that nothing else existed. The TV screen cast a soft, bluish glow over the walls, bouncing lazy shapes across the ceiling. The movie had long since ended, replaced now by a floating screensaver—a bouncing logo that changed color every few seconds, softly illuminating the contours of their limbs tangled beneath the blanket.
Wonwoo was curled up next to Mingyu, tucked snug beneath his chin. His knees were pulled in close, body folded small but not withdrawn. Their legs brushed and overlapped under the blanket like the pieces of a puzzle that hadn’t tried to fit in a long time but suddenly… did.
It should’ve felt awkward. Too intimate. Too soon.
It didn’t.
It felt easy.
Like quiet didn’t have to mean distance.
Like touch didn’t have to mean pressure.
Notes:
Guys, I’m really sorry for dropping off the grid for who knows how long. I’m back with this not-so-great chapter. Honestly, I got super lost with this fic since I originally just wanted to wrap it up quickly. But every time I tried to write, nothing felt right, so I ended up stopping. Now I’m just trying to get anything down so the story can keep going. If you’ve got any scene ideas, throw them my way—I’d love to include them!
Pages Navigation
Dina (Guest) on Chapter 1 Fri 23 May 2025 04:36AM UTC
Comment Actions
Hoshilux on Chapter 1 Fri 23 May 2025 06:59AM UTC
Comment Actions
Dinaaa25 on Chapter 1 Sat 24 May 2025 08:11AM UTC
Comment Actions
Hoshilux on Chapter 1 Sat 24 May 2025 10:16AM UTC
Comment Actions
YuuLazyAss on Chapter 1 Fri 23 May 2025 05:38PM UTC
Comment Actions
Hoshilux on Chapter 1 Sat 24 May 2025 06:38AM UTC
Comment Actions
Gyujin_ParkAkari on Chapter 1 Sat 24 May 2025 04:26PM UTC
Comment Actions
Hoshilux on Chapter 1 Sun 25 May 2025 03:46AM UTC
Comment Actions
Iam1han13 on Chapter 1 Sun 07 Sep 2025 10:57AM UTC
Comment Actions
Juns_nyang on Chapter 2 Fri 23 May 2025 09:07AM UTC
Comment Actions
Hoshilux on Chapter 2 Fri 23 May 2025 10:06AM UTC
Comment Actions
YuuLazyAss on Chapter 2 Fri 23 May 2025 05:46PM UTC
Last Edited Fri 23 May 2025 05:47PM UTC
Comment Actions
Hoshilux on Chapter 2 Sat 24 May 2025 06:36AM UTC
Comment Actions
Dina (Guest) on Chapter 3 Sun 25 May 2025 07:15AM UTC
Comment Actions
eVange on Chapter 3 Sun 25 May 2025 05:35PM UTC
Comment Actions
eVange on Chapter 4 Tue 27 May 2025 06:11PM UTC
Comment Actions
Hoshilux on Chapter 4 Tue 27 May 2025 07:14PM UTC
Comment Actions
YuuLazyAss on Chapter 4 Wed 28 May 2025 06:31AM UTC
Comment Actions
Hoshilux on Chapter 4 Wed 28 May 2025 03:21PM UTC
Comment Actions
YuuLazyAss on Chapter 4 Sun 08 Jun 2025 04:41PM UTC
Comment Actions
Hoshilux on Chapter 4 Mon 09 Jun 2025 02:40PM UTC
Comment Actions
YuuLazyAss on Chapter 4 Mon 09 Jun 2025 03:35PM UTC
Comment Actions
eVange on Chapter 5 Sun 22 Jun 2025 06:33PM UTC
Comment Actions
Hoshilux on Chapter 5 Mon 23 Jun 2025 04:05AM UTC
Comment Actions
YuuLazyAss on Chapter 5 Mon 23 Jun 2025 03:52PM UTC
Comment Actions
Hoshilux on Chapter 5 Sat 28 Jun 2025 04:07PM UTC
Comment Actions
eVange on Chapter 6 Sat 28 Jun 2025 03:20PM UTC
Comment Actions
Hoshilux on Chapter 6 Sat 28 Jun 2025 04:08PM UTC
Comment Actions
YuuLazyAss on Chapter 6 Sun 29 Jun 2025 03:13PM UTC
Comment Actions
Hoshilux on Chapter 6 Mon 30 Jun 2025 06:25AM UTC
Comment Actions
eVange on Chapter 7 Mon 30 Jun 2025 06:07PM UTC
Comment Actions
eVange on Chapter 7 Mon 30 Jun 2025 06:34PM UTC
Last Edited Mon 30 Jun 2025 06:34PM UTC
Comment Actions
Hoshilux on Chapter 7 Wed 02 Jul 2025 03:32AM UTC
Comment Actions
seunginluvs on Chapter 7 Mon 30 Jun 2025 07:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
Hoshilux on Chapter 7 Wed 02 Jul 2025 03:31AM UTC
Comment Actions
coupofwonu on Chapter 7 Tue 01 Jul 2025 03:07PM UTC
Comment Actions
Hoshilux on Chapter 7 Tue 01 Jul 2025 04:51PM UTC
Comment Actions
YuuLazyAss on Chapter 7 Tue 01 Jul 2025 03:41PM UTC
Comment Actions
Hoshilux on Chapter 7 Tue 01 Jul 2025 04:51PM UTC
Comment Actions
YuuLazyAss on Chapter 7 Wed 02 Jul 2025 03:31PM UTC
Comment Actions
seunginluvs on Chapter 8 Tue 01 Jul 2025 07:27PM UTC
Comment Actions
Hoshilux on Chapter 8 Wed 02 Jul 2025 03:32AM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation