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It happens on a Wednesday.
The rain has stopped, but the streets still glisten like someone spilled secrets all over them. Seoul pulses outside Gi-hun’s windows—taxis sighing past, neon blinking in colors too sharp to feel real. And inside, everything is too still.
His apartment smells like vanilla and camera flashes. He dropped his bag by the door an hour ago. The lights are off. He hasn’t moved.
Not since he saw what was on his bed.
A single polaroid, face down on the sheets. No note. No broken glass. Just the creeping quiet of a presence that shouldn’t have been there.
And when he flipped the photo over—
No. He doesn’t want to remember that part. His own face, asleep. His mouth slack, eyes closed. His own bed. His own sheets.
The panic came slow. Not like in the movies. First a chill behind his ears. Then a kind of hollowing. A dizziness, like the floor had tilted slightly under his feet.
The stalker had been sending letters for months now. Packages. Nothing outright threatening—not enough for the company to act on, to really care. Not enough for the law. But this.. this is different. This is real.
And now, so is the police.
Gi-hun doesn’t know what he expected—some tired beat cop in a soaked windbreaker, someone who’d give him a form to fill out and call it a night.
He doesn’t expect him .
The man who enters moves like someone used to tight spaces and colder silences. Long coat, black gloves, dark hair pushed back with rain still clinging to the strands. But it’s the eyes Gi-hun notices first—sharp, unreadable.
He introduces himself as Officer Hwang In-ho.
“Where exactly did you find the item?” he asks, his voice low and even.
Gi-hun leads him into the bedroom. His heart hammers too hard in his chest—like his own ribcage is trying to warn him. He gestures to the bed, keeping a wide berth from it, like proximity might make the image reappear behind his eyes.
The lieutenant studies the photo with gloved fingers. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t say anything for a long time.
“They knew your schedule.”
Gi-hun nods. He’s still in his stage makeup. Smudged eyeliner, highlighter clinging to his cheekbones. He looks like a ghost of himself when he catches his reflection in the mirror.
“I was in Japan for three nights,” he says, voice hoarse. “Just got back today.”
“Anyone else with access to the apartment?”
“No,” he says. “No one’s been here.”
“Building security?”
“Main door requires a keycard. Elevator too. My company usually sends someone with me, but this time I asked for space.”
In-ho’s gaze sharpens slightly. “So you were alone tonight.”
“I am alone,” Gi-hun replies, voice low. “Most of the time.”
The silence after that feels bigger than the room.
In-ho crouches again, scans the surrounding floor, then straightens and pulls a small flashlight from his coat. “I’ll need to check the entryway. And windows.”
Gi-hun nods. He watches as the officer moves methodically—checking locks, shining the light into corners, even ducking briefly into the coat closet. No forced entry. Nothing disturbed.
“You’ve received letters before, correct?” In-ho asks as he returns to the living room. “You mentioned that to dispatch.”
“Yeah. Mostly handwritten. No return address. One of them had.. my schedule. Times, flight numbers. I showed them to the company. They said they’d handle it. That I shouldn’t worry.”
“Did they file a report?”
“No.”
“Did you ?”
Gi-hun looks down. “No. I thought they’d handle it. Stupid, I know.”
In-ho looks up at him, pen paused over the little notepad he’s been writing in.
“It’s not stupid. They are responsible for keeping you safe. You are supposed to be able to trust them.”
Gi-hun fidgets, shoulders pulling up. He wonders whether the officer knows his field of occupation. Maybe he can guess.
He’s not upset if it doesn’t get brought up. If he can just be a person right now.
After a moment, In-ho adds: “We’ll need building CCTV. Entry logs. I can request access tonight, but formal documentation needs to go through the precinct.”
Gi-hun nods.
“I’ll need you to come by tomorrow morning,” In-ho says. “We’ll file an official report and start the investigation. You’ll be safe tonight—I’ll notify your building’s management to increase surveillance, and I’ll request a temporary detail for the next 48 hours, pending company approval.”
Gi-hun laughs, bitter and soft. “They’ll love that.”
“Let me handle it,” In-ho says. “It’ll sound better coming from me.”
There’s something steadying in the way he says it—not because he’s forceful, but because he means it. Gi-hun stares at him for a long moment. He sits down on the edge of the couch, arms circling around his frame, like he’s trying to hold himself together.
“The company said it wasn’t that serious, that they’ve seen worse. That it would only escalate if we make it into something big.”
“And do you think that?”
Gi-hun looks up. Their eyes meet.
He’s not used to people asking him that. Not used to being seen like this—not a product, not a persona. Just a person with shaking hands and someone else’s breath on his sheets.
“I think I’m scared,” he says, quietly.
In-ho doesn’t write that down.
Instead, he lowers himself into the armchair across from the couch. Takes off his gloves, one finger at a time, like he’s not in a hurry.
“You did the right thing calling us,” he says. “I’ll file this as a stalking-related break-in. That gets us access to building footage. Entry logs.”
Gi-hun nods. It’s a comfort, sort of. A cold one. Like metal on skin.
“But,” In-ho continues, “there’s only so much I can do if your company tries to bury this. If it’s not public, it’s not pressure. No one is scared to hide in the shadows unless there’s light.”
Gi-hun feels his throat tighten. “I can’t go public.”
“I know.”
In-ho studies him for a moment. Then he adds, more gently: “You’re not alone. Even if it feels like it.”
It’s the way he says it—not like a platitude. Not like a line.
Gi-hun swallows. “Has anyone ever broken into your place?”
In-ho pauses. “Once.”
“What did you do?”
A slow breath. “I moved.”
Gi-hun laughs, a short, dry sound. “Wish I could.”
“You can’t?”
“It’s a hassle to stay anonymous. One wrong move, and my address is making the news. It happened before..”
Officer Hwang doesn’t answer.
Instead, he walks into the kitchen and returns with a glass of water. He sets it down on the table in front of Gi-hun without a word.
It’s such a normal gesture it nearly undoes him.
Gi-hun takes the glass, drinks, then sets it down with both hands like he’s anchoring himself.
In-ho kneels beside the coffee table and opens a slim black pouch. He pulls out a fingerprint brush and dusts the Polaroid gently. No usable prints. He bags it anyway.
“Have you stayed anywhere else recently?” In-ho asks.
“A hotel. Two weeks ago. Daegu.”
“Alone?”
Gi-hun hesitates.
“I had a friend with me.”
He watches as In-ho writes that down. Doesn’t ask further. No judgment. Just facts.
There’s a silence. Heavy, but not uncomfortable.
In-ho closes the evidence pouch, tucks it away. Then, after a beat, pulls a scrap of paper from his coat, writes a number down, and sets it beside the water glass.
“My direct line,” he says. “Not the precinct.”
Gi-hun stares at it.
“You don’t have to use it,” In-ho adds, standing. “But if something happens—anything, even if it feels small—I want you to call me. Not your manager. Not security. Me.”
Gi-hun picks it up, fingers brushing the ink. “You don’t give that to everyone.”
“No,” In-ho says. “I don’t.”
There’s something quiet in the room. Like a note held at the end of a song, suspended in the air.
In-ho gestures to the door. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow. Let’s meet at the precinct at ten.”
Gi-hun nods, still holding the slip of paper like it’s more than it is.
“Okay,” he says. “Ten.”
____________________________________________________________
The precinct smells like burnt coffee and old paper. Morning sunlight spills through the high windows, catching on the dust in the air, turning it gold. Gi-hun slips in wearing a ball cap pulled low, oversized sweatshirt hanging loose on his frame. Sunglasses tucked in the collar—his usual armor against curious eyes.
He hadn't slept for a second that night, and it must be obvious, too. He stayed curled up on the living room arm chair, afraid to move, afraid to exist.
Gi-hun isn’t sure he can ever sleep in that bed again, if he’s being honest.
The front desk officer barely glances at him when he says he’s here to see Officer Hwang. Which is a relief. For once, no double-takes. No cameras.
When In-ho appears, he’s in full uniform, hair combed neatly back, expression unreadable. He looks different like this—official, contained.
“Mr. Seong,” he says, with the faintest nod. “Come with me.”
Gi-hun follows, pretending he doesn’t notice the heads turning as they pass. Not because of him—because of In-ho. There’s something in the way he moves, calm but commanding, that draws attention without asking for it.
They step into an office lined with files and a single desk, cluttered but organized in its own way. In-ho gestures to the chair across from him, sits, and flips open a folder.
“Building CCTV confirms an entry at 02:14 two nights ago,” he says. “Male, average build, cap and mask. Used a keycard to access the elevator. We’re still tracing the card ID.”
Gi-hun leans forward. “So it was—”
“Targeted. Yes. Potentially someone you know.”
He should feel worse hearing it confirmed. But something about the way In-ho lays it out—plain, direct—keeps the panic from clawing back up.
They move through the formalities at an unhurried pace. Dates. Times. Any unfamiliar faces Gi-hun remembers from the past month. In-ho’s pen moves neatly, his questions precise. Every now and then, he pauses to let Gi-hun think—no rush, no sighs, no impatient glances at the clock.
When the page is nearly full, Gi-hun leans forward. “What happens now?”
In-ho sets the pen down. “We finish the report. The footage is already in our system. I’ll have a unit trace the card used to access your building. If we get a hit, you’ll be notified immediately.”
Gi-hun nods. “And if we don’t?”
“Then we keep watching,” In-ho says simply. “You won’t be unprotected.”
The choice of words makes something flicker in Gi-hun’s chest. “So I will be safe?”
“I’ll do my part to make sure of it.”
It’s not a promise—not exactly—but it’s better than one. A promise can be broken. This feels like a fact.
He sits back, exhaling slowly. “Alright.”
It will have to be enough.
____________________________________________________________
A week passes. The cameras catch nothing new. The company sends a rotation of security guards to shadow him at events, but Gi-hun can feel the eyes anyway—in the hallways between dance practice, in the crowd, sometimes even in the grocery store.
That’s what gets him tonight.
It’s late when he leaves rehearsal. Seoul is slick with rain, the streetlamps throwing yellow pools across the wet pavement. His manager offers him a ride, but Gi-hun insists he’s fine—wants the air, the space. He pulls his hood up and walks.
Halfway down the block, he feels it.
It's not the sound of footsteps—whoever it is is too careful for that. Not a shadow. It's the tight pull in his stomach, the prickle at the back of his neck.
He turns once, quick. Sees nothing.
But the feeling doesn’t leave.
He pulls his phone out and nearly drops it, hands shaky. Scrolls to a number he hasn’t called since saving it to his contact list. Presses it before he can think better of it.
It rings twice.
“Officer Hwang.”
Gi-hun exhales into the receiver. “It’s me.”
A pause. Then: “Where are you?”
“Yongsan, two blocks south of the station. I think—” He swallows. “I think someone’s following me.”
“Stay where you are. Don’t move.”
The line goes dead.
____________________________________________________________
Seven minutes later, headlights cut through the rain. A black Hyundai pulls up to the curb, passenger window rolling down to reveal In-ho in plain clothes—dark sweater, hair damp.
“Get in.”
Gi-hun does, shutting the door against the downpour. The car smells faintly of leather and something warmer—coffee, maybe.
“Did you see them?” In-ho asks, eyes scanning the street through the windshield.
“No. Just.. felt it.”
In-ho nods once, starts the engine. “We’ll circle the block.”
They drive in silence for a minute, rain pattering hard against the roof. When they’ve looped the street twice and found nothing, In-ho pulls into a narrow side alley, kills the engine.
The only sound is the rain on metal, steady and close.
“You did the right thing, calling me,” In-ho says finally. His voice is softer than Gi-hun has ever heard it.
“I didn’t know if it was real,” Gi-hun admits. “The feeling. I just—”
“You don’t have to justify it.”
Gi-hun turns his head. In the dim spill from the streetlamp, In-ho’s profile is sharper, his hair falling forward where the rain’s loosened it. His hands rest loosely on the wheel, but there’s a tension in his shoulders—protective, not impatient.
The rain is heavier now, rattling against the windshield in restless waves.
Gi-hun sits angled toward the driver’s seat, hood shoved back, water still clinging to his hair. His pulse hasn’t decided if it’s calming down yet.
“I hate this,” he says at last, voice low. “Not just tonight. All of it. I keep feeling like someone’s watching me, even when there’s no one there.”
“They want you to feel that,” In-ho replies, eyeing the dark alley. “Even when they’re not there, they want you thinking about them. They’re looking for control.”
Gi-hun lets out a sharp breath. “That’s fucked.”
“It is.”
No sympathy in his tone, no false reassurance. Just plain truth. Somehow that feels steadier than anything soft could. There’s no rush in the way he speaks, no edges that cut. He’s not leaning in to play comforter, but he’s there. Solid.
For a while, they just listen to the rain.
It drums hard on the roof, runs in silver lines down the windshield. Gi-hun’s shoulders start to unclench by degrees, but the tension still hums in the back of his neck.
“I should get you home,” In-ho says eventually.
The drive is quiet, the wipers keeping time, headlights cutting through the wet streets. Gi-hun finds himself stealing glances—the way In-ho’s hands stay steady on the wheel, the way he scans the mirrors every so often, not paranoid but watchful.
When they pull up outside his building, In-ho doesn’t shut the engine off. He turns his head. “Go straight up. Lock the door. If you hear anything—”
“I’ll call you,” Gi-hun finishes.
A faint nod. “Good.”
Gi-hun hesitates before opening the door. “Thanks for.. coming out. I mean it.”
“You called,” In-ho says simply. “Like I said you should.”
The rain is colder when he steps into it, the short walk to the lobby feeling longer than it should. By the time the elevator doors close, the sound of the idling car has faded.
____________________________________________________________
When morning comes, pale light leaking in past the blinds, Gi-hun drifts to the window with a mug in hand. He’d managed to sleep for a couple hours. He had to lock himself in the bathroom to feel safe enough for it, but he slept.
He pushes the curtain aside.
Down on the street, parked half a block away, is a black Hyundai he’s sure he’s seen before.
He’s still half-asleep, squinting through the glass, but the shape of it makes something warm settle low in his chest.
He shifts to the side window for a better look — and it’s gone.
He stands there for a long moment, staring at the empty stretch of wet asphalt, the steam curling up from his coffee.
He must be imagining things.
____________________________________________________________
Laughter, chatter, the squeak of chairs moving forward one by one. Gi-hun’s been here for hours, the routine smooth in his body by now—smile, greet, sign, a quick comment or joke, hand back the album. Next.
He’s halfway through a new row when he notices him.
A man in a plain black mask and a dark baseball cap pulled low over his brow, standing in line like everyone else. The cap shadow hides most of his face, but his posture is different. Shoulders straight, head turning slightly to watch the fans ahead of him.
He’s handsome, Gi-hun finds himself thinking as the girl in front of him puts bunny ears on his head.
Broad shoulders, strong jaw. The way he holds himself.
When the line inches forward, he follows a beat later, just enough delay to watch how the interaction goes before it’s his turn.
Gi-hun glances at him again and again without really meaning to. Something about the way he stands makes him look out of place, but not in a bad way. Just… different.
Then he’s there.
The man steps forward, slides an album across the table. It's not one of the new ones—an older release, from years back, when Gi-hun’s hair had been dyed a vivid, impulsive red. When he still thought that people might want to see the real him, his true thoughts. How terribly naive.
The sight of it makes him blink.
“You brought an old one,” Gi-hun says, smiling as he flips it open to the inside sleeve. “What name should I sign it to?”
The man hesitates.
“Young-il.”
The syllables roll out quietly, deliberate.
Gi-hun nods, pen scratching across the glossy page. To Young-il..
It’s only after he’s written down his looping signature that something catches at the back of his mind. His gaze flicks down—at the man’s hands, resting loosely on the edge of the table. Broad, steady. Calm in a way that feels rare here, where most fans are fidgeting or shaking with nerves.
He’s seen those hands before.
When he looks up, it’s into eyes he knows—cold and steady, the kind that notice everything and give away almost nothing in return.
“Why’d you pick this album?” Gi-hun asks carefully, a little too casual.
“Ah..” The man’s voice is low, even under the noise of the hall. “I like it. Those songs.. they felt honest. Like they were you. The real you.”
Gi-hun stills for half a beat, surprised. He’d assumed—if this really was Officer Hwang under the cap and mask—that the man wouldn’t know a thing about his music outside of what might get played in a taxi. That he wasn’t an actual fan.
Maybe he’s wrong.
Or maybe it is him.
He forces a smile back onto his face, slides the album toward him. His bunny ears slide to one side when he looks up at the other. “Well, I’m happy to hear that. It’s one of my favorites, too.”
A faint incline of the head. Then Young-il turns and moves on, making room for the next person.
Later, Gi-hun’s on stage, the white of the lights so bright they wash the crowd into a haze. He’s answering questions from lucky fans—favorite song on the new album, behind-the-scenes stories from his last tour—the kind of safe chatter that makes the fans laugh and clap. He answers easily, the smiles coming on cue, the energy practiced but still warm.
When the photos start, it’s second nature: tilt of the chin, shoulders angled just right, flashing a peace sign, grinning wide.
He’s scanning the crowd between flashes—a habit, more than anything—when he sees him.
Young-il.
The black mask is still in place, brim of his cap pulled low, his seat tucked further back than most. From the stage, it’s a small pocket of stillness in a room full of movement.
Everyone else has their eyes on him, faces open, phones lifted to capture the moment. Young-il isn’t watching him at all.
Instead, his gaze moves slowly, almost lazily, over the audience. Gi-hun follows the sweep without meaning to: the doors along the side, the rows of fans pressed shoulder to shoulder, the narrow aisles where staff slip in and out.
He takes in every section, every person who moves a little too quickly or stays a little too still. It’s the same look Gi-hun saw in the alley, in the driver’s seat—that constant, quiet awareness.
For a moment, Gi-hun forgets to smile for the cameras. There’s a strange warmth blooming under his ribs, sharp around the edges. If it’s really In-ho—and god, he’s almost sure it is now—he’s not here to play at being a fan. He’s here to watch out. He’s here to protect.
And in the middle of all the noise, all the lights, Gi-hun feels something settle—the same feeling he had that night, sitting in the parked car with rain streaking down the windows.
____________________________________________________________
That evening, Gi-hun’s leaning on the kitchen counter with a towel draped around his neck, steam still clinging to his skin from the shower. The last traces of makeup are gone, leaving him bare-faced, softer. His hair is damp, curling at the ends. The thin cotton of his pajamas feels cool against his skin.
The building is quiet. Outside, the rain has returned, tapping gently at the window.
He glances out, the way he’s done most nights this week. And there it is—parked in its usual place, under the flickering streetlamp. The same black Hyundai. His shadow.
He almost expects it now. He rarely catches it in the mornings anymore—maybe In-ho leaves before the light comes. But at night, it’s always there.
Tonight, something in him itches to close the distance.
Before he can second-guess it, he’s pulling on slippers, grabbing his hooded jacket. He takes the back exit, the one that spits him out in the narrow lane behind the building. The rain is cooler than he expected, beading on his cheeks and dripping from the edge of his hood.
He cuts around the block, heading toward the car from behind.
But he doesn’t get far.
The driver’s door opens, and In-ho is suddenly there, half out of the car, eyes sharp and wild like he’s been yanked from the middle of a chase.
“What’s wrong?” His voice is clipped, urgent. “Were you running? Did something happen upstairs?”
Gi-hun stops short, blinking through the rain. “No—”
“You shouldn’t be out here alone.” He’s already stepping closer, scanning the street like he expects someone to come out of the shadows. “If you think someone followed you—”
Gi-hun laughs—startled, but genuine. The tension in In-ho’s shoulders doesn’t budge. “Relax. Nothing happened. I just.. saw you.”
The rain is coming down harder now, flattening the damp strands of Gi-hun’s hair to his forehead.
“You saw me,” In-ho repeats, frowning like he can’t decide if that’s an accusation.
Gi-hun nods, the corner of his mouth tilting up. “You’re always here at night. Thought I’d come say hi.”
“That’s not—” In-ho cuts himself off, jaw working.
“You could just come in, you know,” Gi-hun says, taking a step closer. The rainwater runs in thin streams down his neck, soaking the thin cotton of his pajamas until they cling to his chest. His voice dips, playful in a way that doesn’t quite hide the invitation. “You don’t have to sit out here.”
In-ho’s mouth presses into a thin line, but he doesn’t answer. His eyes stay on Gi-hun, sharp and unreadable.
Then they flick down—just for a second—to his chest.
The rain has made the fabric near translucent, outlining the curve of muscle, the way his waist dips in. When In-ho’s gaze comes back up, it’s steadier, but there’s a trace of something else there now.
Gi-hun catches it, and his smile tilts. “See something you like, Young-il ?”
The name lands between them like a stone dropped in still water. The faintest hitch in In-ho’s breath, barely there but enough to confirm what Gi-hun already knows.
His silence is answer enough.
Gi-hun takes another step in, close enough now to see the beads of water clinging to In-ho’s lashes. “I always thought cops are good at hiding. But you’re not very subtle,” he murmurs. “You know that?”
In-ho doesn’t move back. His cap’s brim shields his eyes, but the angle can’t hide the way he’s looking at Gi-hun now—like he’s calculating whether to retreat or close the gap completely.
Gi-hun lets the moment stretch, then says, “If you’re going to watch me every night, you might as well do it from my couch. At least let me make you coffee before you start your night shift, hm?”
In-ho just looks at him for a long beat, water dripping from the brim of his cap.
“I’m off-duty.”
____________________________________________________________
The door shuts hard behind them, the sound echoing in the dark flat. They’re both dripping—rainwater soaking through clothes, running down the lines of their bodies. Gi-hun doesn’t bother with the lights.
In-ho stands just inside, one hand braced on the wall, watching him with that unreadable calm.
Gi-hun crosses the space between them, catches him by the front of his shirt, and drags him into a kiss that lands too hard to be careful. Wet mouths, sharp breaths, teeth catching. In-ho’s hand comes up to the back of Gi-hun’s neck, firm, like he’s not planning to let him pull away.
They move without breaking contact, Gi-hun walking him backward until his knees hit the couch. Gi-hun pushes him down onto it, then straddles him, the soaked fabric between them clinging and shifting.
When their mouths break, it’s only so In-ho can drag his lips along Gi-hun’s jaw, down to the hollow beneath his ear. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs, voice low enough to get lost in the rain against the windows.
His teeth sink into the soft meat where his neck meets shoulder, and Gi-hun’s too turned on to tell him not to leave marks. “Just the cold,” he breathes, smiling.
In-ho’s mouth curves against his skin. His hands are already sliding under Gi-hun’s shirt, finding the heat beneath all that damp. He peels the fabric upward, slow, exposing skin inch by inch until Gi-hun lifts his arms to assist.
The first kiss to his chest is warm, the second edged with teeth. By the third, In-ho is closing his lips around a nipple, sucking just hard enough to make Gi-hun’s fingers tighten in his hair.
“Don’t tease,” Gi-hun says, voice tight.
“I’m not.”
In-ho’s mouth moves lower, following the line of water dripping from Gi-hun’s sternum as he slowly lays him down onto his back. His hands find the drawstring of his pajama pants, tugging it loose in one pull before working the fabric down over his hips. The cold air hits bare skin for just a moment before In-ho’s mouth does.
A kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other.
Then a bite—deep enough to sting, followed by the wet drag of his tongue. Another bite, higher, and Gi-hun’s breath catches audibly.
When In-ho finally mouths at his cock, it’s with slow, deliberate pressure, taking him in halfway before pulling back to lick a stripe along the underside. The control in it makes Gi-hun want to ruin it.
“I said don’t tease,” he breathes, the command blunt, yet leaving him like a whine.
In-ho obeys—lips sealing, head dipping until Gi-hun feels the heat of his throat around him. He stays there, swallowing once, twice, before easing back to breathe against the head.
Gi-hun’s in awe, the hand in In-ho’s hair staying firm. “You like this too much.”
In-ho hums, the sound vibrating through him. “You have no idea.”
By the time In-ho’s mouth finally hovers where he wants it most, Gi-hun’s hard and aching.
The first touch of his tongue is slow, intentional, like he’s enjoying this more than Gi-hun. The heat of it makes Gi-hun’s hips shift involuntarily.
In-ho hums—low, satisfied—and keeps going, his hand sliding up to press against Gi-hun’s stomach, keeping him down. Every broad stroke of his tongue is steady, measured, and it’s that control that makes Gi-hun’s grip in his hair tighten.
When the first finger pushes in alongside the slow drag of his tongue, Gi-hun’s breath stutters. The stretch is just enough to pull another sound from him, and In-ho answers by adding a second finger without breaking his rhythm.
He pulls back only to press kisses up the inside of his thigh, then across his stomach—slow, claiming, teeth catching now and then just to feel Gi-hun tense beneath him.
By the time his mouth reaches Gi-hun’s chest, the fingers inside him are working deeper, sharper. In-ho closes his lips around a nipple, sucking until it peaks, his free hand tugging lightly at the other. The combination sends a shiver through Gi-hun’s whole body.
“Fuck—” Gi-hun breathes, his hand sliding from In-ho’s hair to his shoulder, holding him close.
In-ho bites lightly, then soothes the sting with his tongue before kissing his way back up, letting his mouth linger at the corner of Gi-hun’s jaw. The fingers inside him curl again, pulling another sound from him.
When In-ho finally kisses him, it’s messy—all heat and tongue and the faint taste of himself on In-ho’s lips. Gi-hun bites his bottom lip before letting him go, his hips rolling up into the slow thrust of those fingers like he’s already thinking about what comes next.
The kiss only breaks when Gi-hun pulls back enough to speak. “Get your clothes off.”
In-ho doesn’t waste a second. Shirt, pants, everything gone in quick, efficient movements, leaving him bare and hard in the low light. He doesn’t look away once, his gaze locked on Gi-hun like he’s waiting for the next order.
Gi-hun hooks an arm around his neck and pulls him back in, their mouths crashing together. In-ho’s hand finds his hip, the other braced against the couch.
“Now,” Gi-hun mutters against his lips, pushing at his shoulder until In-ho leans back enough for him to climb into his lap. “My turn.”
Gi-hun lines them up and sinks down in one slow, steady motion, taking every inch until he’s seated fully, breath shuddering out of him.
In-ho groans low, the sound rough in his throat. “ Fuck , you feel—” He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale when Gi-hun rolls his hips, the slick drag making both of them shiver.
Gi-hun plants his palms on In-ho’s chest, rocking slowly at first, testing the angle, the depth. His eyes stay locked on In-ho’s as he moves, watching every flicker of reaction across his face.
In-ho’s hands slide up his chest, fingers splaying over his pecs, thumbs circling his nipples before pinching lightly. Gi-hun exhales through parted lips, the shift in sensation making him grind down harder.
“You like that?” In-ho asks, voice gone rough.
Gi-hun smirks faintly. “You’ll know when I do.”
He leans forward, pressing two fingers against In-ho’s mouth. There’s no hesitation—In-ho takes them deep, sucking slow and filthy, his tongue curling around them. Gi-hun watches the way his lips seal around the digits, the way his eyes stay dark and fixed on him.
“You like that?” Gi-hun repeats, smug, pulling his fingers free only to drag them down In-ho’s chest. “Don’t come until I do.”
In-ho nods, jaw tight, and lets Gi-hun set the pace—steady at first, then harder, faster, until the couch is creaking under the rhythm. Every time Gi-hun drives down, In-ho meets him with a sharp thrust up, hitting deep enough to make his breath catch.
The control stays in Gi-hun’s hands, but the hunger in In-ho’s face is unmistakable—the way his grip tightens on Gi-hun’s thighs, the way his gaze keeps flicking down to watch where they’re joined, like he can’t get enough of the sight.
Gi-hun’s pace turns relentless when he’s close, hips snapping down with a rhythm that’s pure need. Every drag over that spot inside him makes the pull in his stomach tighten, coil, burn.
“Now,” he breathes—part order, part surrender—and it’s all In-ho needs.
He grips Gi-hun’s hips hard enough to bruise and drives up into him, deep, unyielding. The angle knocks the air out of Gi-hun’s lungs—the shock of pleasure sharp enough to make him cry out, head tipping back.
His release rips through him in hot, blinding waves, every muscle clenching tight around In-ho. His vision fuzzes at the edges, the sound of the rain lost under the rush of blood in his ears.
In-ho groans—low, raw—as the tight squeeze around him drags his own climax out hard. He stays buried to the hilt, the heat of it spilling deep, his body shuddering under the force of it.
They move through it together, hips still grinding lazily as the aftershocks pull and ripple, In-ho’s hands keeping Gi-hun exactly where he wants him. Gi-hun leans forward, catching In-ho’s mouth in a messy, breathless kiss, riding out every last flicker of pleasure before finally going still.
In-ho’s hands move slow over his thighs, up to his hips, like he’s memorizing the lines of him all over again. Gi-hun leans forward to press a lazy kiss to his mouth—open, slow, tasting him without the earlier urgency.
Neither of them bothers to move. In-ho’s still inside him, filling him in a way that makes Gi-hun feel steady, anchored. His palms rest against In-ho’s shoulders now, thumbs brushing along the damp line of his neck.
Gi-hun breaks the kiss just enough to murmur, “So. Fanmeeting.”
In-ho’s mouth curves faintly. “You saw me.”
“Kinda hard to miss someone who looks at the crowd more than the stage.” Gi-hun smirks, but it softens. He doesn’t mention he recognized In-ho’s hands first, then his eyes. “You thought I wouldn’t notice?”
“I thought you’d be pissed,” In-ho admits, his voice low. “After that night, the break-in.. I figured you wouldn’t want me keeping watch. Felt.. invasive.”
Gi-hun shakes his head, brushing their noses together. “Maybe a bit, but I like it.” He presses another slow kiss to his mouth. “I feel safe when you’re there.”
Something in In-ho’s eyes shifts—subtle, but there. His hands slide up Gi-hun’s back, holding him closer, and he kisses him again, deeper this time, like he’s sealing the words into him.
They stay like that—tangled, kissing between breaths, the slow drag of their bodies keeping the connection unbroken. Gi-hun can feel the steady beat of In-ho’s heart against his chest, grounding him, and for once, there’s no trace of the tension that usually rides under his skin.
Outside, the rain keeps falling.
Maybe he’ll sleep in his bed tonight.