Archive of Our Own

Juntae keeps his head down as the bus rumbles to a stop at the gates of the National Training Center. Through the window, glass and concrete gleam under the late summer sun. Banners flutter above the entrance, bold letters screaming: Road to World Cup 2025 - Team Korea Fighting!

His chest tightens. He shouldn’t be here.

He should be in a hospital, trailing behind doctors in white coats, learning the rhythm of patient rounds. That’s where he belongs, closer to his dream of becoming a doctor, even if for now he is only a nursing student. He never wanted this, never cared about athletes or their muscles or their sore joints. But life doesn’t ask what he wants. A surgeon’s daughter takes his spot in the hospital internship, and Juntae is sent here instead.

It stings. Nursing is already a compromise, cheaper, shorter, less prestige than medicine. It is the path he can afford. He tells himself it’s only temporary, that he will find a way to cross the gulf between nurse and doctor someday. But every detour like this feels like the world laughing at him.

He grips the strap of his medical bag, breathes through the frustration, and steps off the bus.

Inside the lobby, the air hums with energy. Athletes wheel suitcases, laugh in clusters, stretch against the walls. He hears accents from all over — French, Russian, Japanese. Sparring partners from abroad, already trickling in for joint practices. The hall smells of disinfectant and floor polish, but underneath lingers the unmistakable scent of sweat and adrenaline.

He feels out of place instantly.

“Excuse me, are you the new intern?” A woman in a polo with the federation’s crest gestures him toward the medical office. “You’ll be shadowing Dr. Hwang and the physiotherapy team. Just… do what you’re told, don’t get in the way.”

Juntae nods, polite as always. That much he can manage.

He sees him for the first time later that day.

Geum Seongje.

He walks into the training hall last, as if he knows everyone will wait. Black hoodie unzipped, fencing bag slung casually across his back. He doesn’t glance left or right, doesn’t acknowledge the coaches calling his name. He moves like gravity bends toward him, like the room exists to accommodate his stride.

On television, he looks untouchable : the golden boy of Korean fencing, the youngest Olympic champion in decades. In person, he looks sharper, heavier, more real. Broad shoulders, long legs, an ease in his posture that suggests he knows exactly how beautiful he is. His hair falls in dark waves across his forehead, messy but intentional. His jaw is freshly shaved, his mouth set in a line too precise to be careless.

But it’s his eyes that catch Juntae. Dark, steady, unreadable.

Seongje doesn’t look at him. Why would he? He passes by with the faint smell of cologne and sweat, dropping his bag with a thud that makes the floor tremble. Teammates crowd him instantly, laughing, clapping his back. Coaches mutter, some annoyed, some indulgent. No one dares press him harder.

Juntae lowers his gaze. He doesn’t care about celebrities. He doesn’t care about fencing. He just wants to survive these six weeks and get out.

Still, the image lingers.

The rhythm of camp settles quickly.

Mornings start with warm-up exercises. Juntae sets out resistance bands, distributes water bottles, notes complaints about sore calves or stiff wrists. Afternoons are sparring drills, blades clashing in a music of steel and shouts. Evenings are recovery, massages, ice baths, taping.

It is work that demands precision, but not intelligence. Juntae could do it in his sleep. He hates how useless he feels, how far this is from the life he wants.

And always, Seongje is there.

He arrives last. He yawns through stretches. He spars half-asleep and still destroys opponents. He disappears at night and returns with bruises on his knuckles or a split lip. No one asks questions. Not the coaches, not the staff. They tape him up and let him keep winning.

It infuriates Juntae.

Isn’t fencing supposed to be a sport of elegance? French gentlemen dueling at dawn, honor measured in clean strikes? And yet the country’s brightest star stumbles back to practice smelling faintly of smoke, knuckles raw from something far messier than fencing.

No one says a word.

Juntae bites his tongue until it bleeds.

He tries to ignore him. He really does.

But sometimes, when he is bent over his clipboard, recording pulse rates, he feels it, a stare. Heavy. Unwavering. He glances up, and Seongje is watching him from across the hall. Expression blank, unreadable. As soon as their eyes meet, Seongje looks away, as if it never happened.

Other times, in the medical room, when Juntae organizes equipment or sterilizes tools, he feels it again. That presence in the doorway, leaning silently against the frame. No words. Just eyes. Then gone.

It unsettles him more than if Seongje had mocked him outright.

The others worship him. They laugh too loud at his jokes, they hang on his smallest movement. He is a superstar in a world of mortals. Juntae cannot understand why.

He tells himself it doesn’t matter. He will not give Geum Seongje the satisfaction of caring.

And yet, he catches himself noticing.

The line of muscle in his forearm when he lunges. The precision of his wrist in a parry. The strange contradiction between the divine figure he cuts on the piste and the bruised, half-ruined man who slouches back to the dorms at dawn.

He notices, and he hates himself for noticing.

One evening, after sparring, the medical room is quiet. Juntae restocks gauze and antiseptic. The air hums faintly with the sound of refrigerators keeping ice packs cold.

The door opens.

Seongje steps inside without knocking, drops onto the treatment table like it belongs to him. He doesn’t speak.

Juntae waits. When silence stretches, he clears his throat. “Do you need something?”

Seongje touches his shoulder casually. “Here.”

Juntae approaches, professional mask fixed. He palpates the joint, rotates the arm. The muscle is tense but not torn. Overuse, nothing serious. He explains this flatly, prepares an ice pack.

Through it all, Seongje’s eyes never leave him. Dark, steady, unblinking.

Juntae feels his pulse quicken. He pretends not to notice.

“Twenty minutes,” he says, handing over the ice.

Seongje presses it to his skin without comment. Still staring. Still silent.

Juntae clears his throat again. “Anything else?”

For a long moment, no answer. Then Seongje’s mouth curves — not quite a smile, more like the idea of one.

“No,” he says softly. And he leaves.

The door closes. The room feels heavier.

Juntae exhales, realizes he has been holding his breath. He hates it. Hates the way his heart races, hates the way that gaze lingers in his memory long after Seongje is gone.

The days blur.

Warm-ups, drills, sparring, recovery. Ice packs and tape. Sweat and laughter. Seongje winning, always winning.

And the glances continue. Silent. Inexplicable. Sometimes hours pass with nothing. Then, suddenly, Juntae looks up from his notes and finds Seongje watching him across the hall, eyes unreadable.

Juntae convinces himself he is imagining it. He has to be. Why would Geum Seongje, of all people, waste his attention on a nursing student intern?

But then, why does it feel so real?

He lies awake at night in the dormitory, staring at the ceiling, replaying it all. The way Seongje walked past him that first day. The way silence seems thicker when he enters a room. The way he looks at him sometimes, as if Juntae is not invisible after all.

He tells himself it means nothing.

And yet, deep down, a sliver of unease sharpens into something else : Curiosity.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Two weeks into the internship, Seo Juntae finally breathes a little easier.

The first days had been agony — shuffling equipment like a nervous shadow, bowing too deeply, worrying about saying the wrong thing. Everyone had felt larger than life: athletes with broad shoulders and impossible stamina, coaches barking orders, managers pacing with clipboards.

But repetition dulls the edge of fear. Morning stretches, sparring, cool-downs. Ice packs, tape, hydration reminders. His hands remember what to do before his head catches up.

And slowly, against his own expectations, he makes friends.

Go Hyuntak is the first. Bright smile, quick laugh, always cracking jokes even when sweat drips down his face. He makes everyone feel like the center of the world, and somehow, that includes Juntae. Then comes Park Humin — Baku, as everyone calls him. Quieter, steadier, with a teasing streak that surfaces at unexpected moments.

Together, Hyuntak and Baku are the team’s pulse, lightening moods, keeping spirits high. They train hard, but they cheer harder. Even though they hold Olympic gold alongside Geum Seongje in the team category, they never act untouchable. They grin, they joke, they clap loudly for everyone.

And for some reason, they take to Juntae like moths to a flame.

“You look like a lost puppy,” Hyuntak tells him one afternoon, grinning ear to ear. “Always wide eyes, always polite. It’s cute.”

Juntae blushes instantly. “I’m not—”

“He’s blushing again!” Baku cackles, slapping Hyuntak’s shoulder. “Told you. Way too easy.”

“It’s not funny,” Juntae mutters, trying to focus on taping Hyuntak’s wrist.

“It’s adorable,” Hyuntak insists, peering down at him. “And comforting. Really, your smile is nice. When I come in sore or tired, and you’re just… smiling politely like that, it feels easier. Like the pain’s already less.”

Juntae freezes, then looks down quickly, embarrassed. No one ever tells him things like that. His professors at university only point out mistakes. Patients during his clinicals are too ill or too anxious to thank him. But here, two gold medalists tease him like he belongs.

Something warm unfurls in his chest. Maybe this internship isn’t so unbearable after all.

Of course, there’s still Seongje.

If Hyuntak and Baku are sunlight, Geum Seongje is shadow. Always on the edge, apart. He rarely acknowledges Juntae directly, but somehow his presence presses down anyway.

When Juntae laughs with Hyuntak in the corner of the gym, he feels eyes on him. He looks up, and Seongje is there, across the hall, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Staring. Not smiling. Not anything. Just watching.

The moment their eyes meet, he looks away, pushing off the wall and walking toward the piste as if nothing happened.

It unsettles Juntae.

Why should Seongje care if he talks to other athletes? He’s never spoken more than a handful of words to him. And yet, every time the warmth of Hyuntak’s or Baku’s friendship wraps around him, there’s that shadow in the corner of his vision.

He doesn’t understand it.

That evening, after dinner, they sit outside by the training center’s courtyard fountain. The night air is cooler, cicadas buzzing faintly. Hyuntak stretches his legs out with a groan, head tipping back.

“Don’t mind Seongje,” he says suddenly, as if reading Juntae’s thoughts. “He’s always moody.”

Juntae startles. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to. I see the way you freeze up when he looks at you.” Hyuntak grins, but softer this time. “He’s not so bad. Once you get to know him.”

Baku snorts, fiddling with the cap of his water bottle. “That’s generous.”

“What do you mean?” Juntae risks asking.

Hyuntak hesitates, glancing at Baku. Then he shrugs. “He’s… complicated. But not evil. Just… heavy.”

Juntae chews his lip. The question has been simmering in his chest for days, and now it bursts out before he can stop it. “Why does he always come back with bruises? After he goes out at night?”

Hyuntak’s grin falters. Baku sighs.

“He’s like a wild wolf,” Baku says finally, voice low. “Not meant to be tamed. Never meant to end up fencing, either. His family forced him into it when he was a kid. He just happened to be good at it. Too good.”

A shiver runs through Juntae. “So the bruises…?”

“Bars. Fights.” Baku says it simply, like it’s common knowledge. “That’s how he releases stress. Pick the wrong guy, or maybe the right guy, fists fly, he comes home with marks. Then he trains like nothing happened the next morning.”

“That’s insane,” Juntae blurts, too loud. He lowers his voice quickly. “Doesn’t anyone care? Doesn’t anyone try to stop him?”

Baku shrugs. “How? You’ve seen him. He does what he wants. Coaches scold him, managers sigh, the federation pretends not to notice.”

“But—” Juntae shakes his head. “Isn’t he risking everything? If the media find out, if sponsors—”

“They won’t,” Baku interrupts. “Not while he’s winning. Medals keep the press quiet. Sponsors look the other way. The country loves him too much to tear him down right now.” He twists the water bottle cap until it squeaks. “When he falls, though… that’s when they’ll come. They’ll drag out every rumor, every photo, every fight. But until then, no one touches him.”

Hyuntak nods slowly. “That’s why I said he’s heavy. Carrying too much, maybe. We don’t even know if he cares about his career. Sometimes I think fencing is just… something he does because he can’t escape it.”

Juntae stares at the rippling fountain water, heart pounding.

He thinks of Seongje’s eyes on him in the gym, dark and unreadable. He thinks of the bruises blooming like shadows on his skin. He thinks of the silence, the way he never laughs with teammates, never eases into the warmth like Hyuntak and Baku do.

A wild wolf. Forced into a gilded cage of medals and fame.

Juntae swallows hard. He doesn’t want to feel sympathy. He doesn’t want to understand.

And yet, he does.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Saturday is a rest day, at least for Juntae. No taping ankles, no hauling ice bags, no pulse checks with trembling hands. Just silence in the dormitory halls, broken only by faint laughter and footsteps from athletes still buzzing with energy.

He sits cross-legged on his bed, laptop open in front of him. A k-drama queue blinks temptingly, but he scrolls past, eyes lingering instead on the newest update of a webtoon. He hesitates for a second, biting his lip. The cover art is all sharp jaws and long limbs, two men caught mid-glance. He exhales, embarrassed even in the privacy of his own room, and clicks anyway.

The page loads slowly. He leans back against the wall, comfort seeping into his shoulders. For once, his world feels simple, just panels, speech bubbles, the warmth of knowing he doesn’t have to be polite intern for a whole twenty-four hours.

A knock startles him.

“Juntae-yah! You alive in there?”

It’s Hyuntak.

Juntae scrambles, slamming the laptop shut like a guilty teenager. “C-coming!” He opens the door, trying to look casual.

Hyuntak beams, hair slightly damp from a shower, casual clothes already on. “Good. You didn’t disappear into the void. Come with us.”

“Where?”

“Out. A drink in the city.”

Juntae blinks. “A bar?”

“Yeah.”

“I… I don’t really…” Juntae shifts awkwardly. Bars are foreign territory. His best friend from school, Sieun, always scoff at the very idea. Sieun says, better to study, better to sleep, don’t waste time. And Juntae never argues. He isn't a party-goer anyway.

But Hyuntak is persuasive, his grin too bright to refuse. “Come on. You’ve been working hard. It’ll be fun to rest for once. Just one night. You don’t even have to drink if you don’t want to.”

Juntae hesitates. Then nods, because it feels impossible to say no.

The bar hums with life. Neon glows faintly through windows, soju bottles clink, laughter spills like smoke. The fencing team crams into a corner booth, voices rising, shoulders pressed tight.

Juntae perches at the edge, tense at first. But Hyuntak keeps topping up his glass with gentle nudges, and Baku throws him reassuring looks, cracking jokes that loosen the knot in his chest.

“See?” Hyuntak says, grinning as Juntae sips cautiously. “Not so bad.”

It isn’t. Warmth spreads slowly down his throat. He doesn’t drink much, but he smiles more than he expects, caught up in their energy. The table buzzes with stories, disastrous blind dates, ridiculous sparring accidents, coaches’ quirks. Even the staff laugh, cheeks pink from alcohol.

For once, Juntae feels included. Not the outsider, not the polite intern hovering in the background. Just part of the noise.

Time slips by too easily. The clock nears eleven. The booth is loud with half-sloshed cheers when the door opens again.

And in walks Geum Seongje.

Juntae freezes.

Of course he knows the star might show up eventually. Bars are practically his second home, if rumors are to be believed. Still, the air shifts instantly. Even half the staff quiet down as Seongje strides through the crowd, casual clothes draped effortlessly, cigarette already between his fingers though the sign above the bar clearly forbids it.

He scans the table. Only one empty chair remains, right next to Juntae.

Juntae’s breath stutters.

Seongje doesn’t hesitate. He drops into the seat with a smooth, silent motion, knees brushing Juntae’s under the table. He doesn’t say hello. He doesn’t explain his lateness. He just pours himself a glass of soju, lights the cigarette, and leans back as if the whole bar belongs to him.

Juntae sits stiff as a board, glass clutched between his fingers. Hyuntak notices, of course, his grin slips into a knowing smile, warm and almost teasing. Baku, across the table, lifts a brow and hides a smirk behind his drink.

The conversation resumes, though softer, like everyone is careful not to test Seongje’s silence. He barely speaks, only drinks, smoke curling lazily from his lips. His profile glows under the dim bar light, all sharp angles and shadows.

Juntae tries not to stare.

Then it happens.

One of the staff members, clearly drunk beyond reason, leans heavily toward Juntae. “Hey, Seo Juntae, right?” His voice slurs. “You’re too cute, you know that? Always blushing, always so polite. Bet the girls love you.”

Juntae flushes instantly, throat tight. He laughs weakly, unsure how to respond. “I—I think you’ve had a lot to drink—”

The man waves him off, leaning closer. “Don’t be shy. You’ve got that smile… dangerous, huh? Makes me want to—”

“Hey,” Hyuntak interrupts, smile still there but eyes sharp. “Don’t be a jerk. Leave the kid alone.”

Baku nods firmly. “Seriously. He’s just an intern. Don’t mess with him.”

The staff member blinks, unbothered. “What? I’m just saying—”

And then, movement.

Seongje rises without warning, chair scraping against the floor. He crosses the space in two strides, fists clutching the man’s collar before anyone processes. His voice cuts low, dangerous.

“Fucking stop.”

The whole table goes silent.

The drunk man sputters, eyes widening. “H-hey, I didn’t—”

“I said stop.” Seongje’s grip tightens. Smoke still curls from the cigarette in his other hand, the ember glowing like anger itself. His eyes are black, cold, sharp enough to cut glass.

No one breathes.

Slowly, carefully, Hyuntak puts a hand on Seongje’s arm. “It’s fine. He’ll back off. Right?” His voice is coaxing, careful, as if speaking to a wild animal.

The staff member nods frantically. “Y-yeah. Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

Seongje holds him one second longer, then shoves him back into his seat. He turns, exhales smoke, and drops into his chair again beside Juntae.

The silence lingers. Glasses clink nervously, someone coughs. No one dares make a joke.

Juntae’s heart slams in his chest. He can feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on him, the center of a scene he never wanted. His cheeks burn.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts suddenly, voice too loud. Everyone looks at him. His hands tighten around his glass. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble. Really.”

Hyuntak gives him a sympathetic smile. Baku shakes his head. “Not your fault.”

But Juntae still feels it — guilt knotting in his stomach. He hates attention, hates the way it burns against his skin.

He risks a glance sideways. Seongje sits there, silent, cigarette smoke curling between them. His expression is unreadable.

Finally, Juntae forces out, “Thank you.” His voice is soft, careful.

Seongje turns his head, eyes dark. He exhales smoke through parted lips, then speaks for the first time all night.

“You should learn how to defend yourself,” he says, voice low, flat. “Instead of always being this cute.”

The words hit Juntae like a slap.

It’s supposed to be an insult. He hears it that way, sharp, dismissive, cruel. His chest tightens.

But then, just for a flicker, Seongje’s mouth curves. A smirk, small and quick, gone before it fully forms.

Juntae blinks, stunned.

And then Seongje looks away, sipping his drink as if nothing happened.

The table slowly resumes its noise. Hyuntak cracks a joke to break the tension, Baku rolls his eyes at something, glasses clink again.

But Juntae sits frozen, heart racing. His face still burns, his pulse still pounds. The scene replays in his mind, the hand on the collar, the voice like a blade, the smirk that vanished too quickly.

He tells himself it means nothing. Just another mood swing from a moody superstar.

And yet, the warmth that curls in his chest refuses to fade.

++++++++++++++++++++++

Days pass in a rhythm that feels almost ordinary.

Juntae wakes with the team, eats breakfast quietly among the chatter, follows them to training. He listens to Hyuntak and Baku tease each other endlessly, lets their energy carry him when his own runs thin. He learns which athletes prefer heat patches, which ones complain about every bruise, which ones push through pain until someone forces them to stop.

He learns, too, how to stay invisible around Geum Seongje.

The gold medalist hardly acknowledges him. Sometimes Juntae catches his gaze from across the room, steady, unreadable, just long enough to make his pulse quicken, but most days, Seongje is a ghost. Training, smoking outside, leaving at night. Coming back with bruises that no one questions.

Juntae tells himself he doesn’t care. He focuses on his work, on blending in. He even starts to smile more, especially when Hyuntak or Baku sit with him during breaks. Their warmth makes the days easier, almost pleasant.

And then, one night, everything shifts.

The dorm is silent when it happens.

Juntae lies in bed, light from his laptop casting a faint glow across the sheets. He’s not studying, not reading medical notes. Instead, he scrolls slowly through a webtoon, savoring each panel, shoulders softening with the comfort of routine. It’s past midnight. He should sleep. But tomorrow is another day of stretching tape and disinfectant, and for once, he lets himself linger.

A knock breaks the quiet.

Sharp. Urgent.

He sits up instantly, heart pounding. No one visits at this hour.

The knock comes again. Louder.

Juntae climbs out of bed, pads barefoot to the door, and opens it a crack.

His breath catches.

Seongje stands there, hoodie half-zipped, hair messy, face… bloody.

A cut glares red above his eyebrow, blood dripping sluggishly down his temple. His knuckles are raw, split open in places. Bruises already bloom across his cheekbone, dark and angry.

“Seo Juntae.” His voice is flat, cold, steady despite the mess of him. “Open the door.”

Juntae freezes, every instinct screaming to fetch the medical staff, to wake someone who actually knows what to do. But his hands move anyway, pulling the door wide.

Seongje steps inside without hesitation. His presence fills the small dorm room, heavy, suffocating. He closes the door behind him with a soft click.

“Clean me up,” he says. Not a question. An order.

Juntae stares, throat dry. Then he snaps into motion, rummaging through the drawer where he keeps supplies. Alcohol swabs, gauze, ointment, tape. His fingers tremble, clumsy.

Seongje notices. Of course he does.

“You’re shaking.” His mouth curves faintly, not quite a smile. “Relax. I’m not dying.”

Juntae swallows hard, tries to steady his hands. “You shouldn’t even be here. You should go to the medical team.”

“They’ll scold me. Again.” Seongje sits casually on the edge of the bed, like it’s his throne. His eyes follow Juntae, sharp and assessing. “You won’t say anything. You’re just an intern.”

The words sting more than Juntae expects.

He sets down the disinfectant too hard, glare flicking up before he can stop it. “Fine,” he mutters, stepping closer. “But don’t complain.”

He presses the swab against the cut on Seongje’s forehead with more force than necessary.

Seongje startles, hissing through his teeth. Then he laughs. Low, quiet, a sound that rumbles in his chest.

Juntae’s face burns. “You think this is funny?”

“You’ve got more bite than I thought,” Seongje says, voice amused. “Careful. Might ruin your polite reputation.”

Juntae scowls, focusing on the wound. “You’re so full of yourself.”

But he works carefully after that, cleaning the blood, dabbing ointment, pressing gauze. The cut isn’t too deep, shallow enough to heal without stitches if treated properly. Relief eases into his chest, though he doesn’t show it.

“Fortunately, it’s not bad,” he says quietly. “You’ll be fine.”

Seongje tilts his head, studying him. “You want to ask.”

“Ask what?”

“Why I always come back like this.” His tone is almost teasing, but his eyes are unreadable.

Juntae shakes his head, surprising even himself. “I don’t want to know.”

Seongje raises a brow.

Juntae continues, voice firmer now. “I just wonder why you treat your career so lightly. You’ve been training for years. You’re… incredible. And you risk it all for—” He gestures vaguely at the bruises, the blood. “For this. Whatever this is.”

Silence stretches.

Seongje doesn’t answer. His gaze is steady, unflinching, but no words come.

Juntae sighs, finishing the bandage. He tapes it neatly, steps back, and begins packing up the supplies. The room feels too small, air too heavy.

Seongje finally stands. For a moment, Juntae thinks he’ll leave without a word.

But then, softly, he says, “Thank you.”

Juntae blinks, startled. The gratitude feels genuine, not wrapped in sarcasm or sharpness. His lips curve before he can stop them, a real smile breaking free, dimples deepening.

Seongje’s eyes flicker, something unreadable passing through them.

He moves toward the door. Hand on the knob, he pauses. “The staff member. The one who bothered you before.”

“Choi Hyoman,” Juntae says cautiously.

“If he comes at you again,” Seongje says, voice low, certain, “tell me. I’ll take care of it.”

And then he’s gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

Juntae stands frozen, supplies still in his hands, heart pounding in his chest.

++++++++++++++++++++++

Lunch is usually the quietest part of Juntae’s day. He eats quickly, quietly, at a table in the corner meant for staff and interns, always careful not to overstep the invisible line between “medical support” and “athlete.”

Today is no different until Hyuntak and Baku drop their trays right in front of him.

The crash of plastic on plastic makes Juntae flinch. “Wait, what are you doing?” he hisses.

“Eating,” Hyuntak says cheerfully, plopping down across from him.

Baku smirks, settling beside him. “Why? You think we’re not allowed to?”

Juntae lowers his voice. “You’re athletes. I’m staff. I’m not supposed to sit with you.”

Hyuntak waves dismissively, already opening his carton of milk. “Who cares about rules like that? We wanted to eat with you.”

“And you’re too polite to tell us no,” Baku adds, grin sly.

Juntae sighs, defeated, though a small warmth creeps into his chest. The two of them are relentless but comforting. He takes a careful bite of rice, pretending not to notice how loud they are, how much space they take up.

Laughter ripples from their table. Other athletes glance over, whispering. Juntae keeps his eyes down, until he feels it.

That stare.

He looks up despite himself. Across the cafeteria, Geum Seongje sits with his teammates, chopsticks idle in his hand. His gaze is fixed squarely on their table. A smirk tugs at his lips, sharp and knowing.

Heat rushes to Juntae’s face. He jerks his eyes back down to his tray.

But Hyuntak notices. Of course he notices. He leans in, voice dropping low. “Hey. Do you… have a crush on Seongje?”

Juntae nearly chokes on his rice. “Wh—no! No, of course not!” His ears burn. “Don’t say that!”

Hyuntak grins wickedly.

“I’m serious,” Juntae whispers furiously. “You can’t—don’t joke like that. What if someone hears? I could get fired from this internship!”

Baku raises a brow, amused. “Fired? For what?”

“For—” Juntae stumbles, lowering his voice even more. “For… you know...”

“I really don’t have a crush,” he insists quickly, trying to salvage his dignity. He doesn’t mention the way his heart had raced that night when Seongje walked into his bedroom, bloodied and careless. He doesn’t mention the way he still thinks about it, unbidden, at the quietest hours.

“But…” Juntae glances up again, then away just as fast. “Why does he always stare at me like that?”

Both Hyuntak and Baku turn their heads at the same time. Across the room, Seongje is still looking, smirk intact.

Hyuntak grins. Baku chuckles. And before Juntae can stop them, Baku raises his hand and calls out, “Seongje! Come here!”

Juntae’s blood turns to ice. “What are you doing?” he hisses. “Don’t—”

Too late.

Conversations hush as Seongje stands, tray in hand, and makes his way across the cafeteria. Eyes follow him, whispers spread. He moves unhurried, confident, the kind of presence that bends space around him.

He stops at their table.

“Sit,” Hyuntak offers brightly, patting the seat beside Juntae.

And Seongje does. Without hesitation.

Juntae goes rigid. He feels the weight of dozens of eyes on them, the soft rise of gossip weaving through the room.

Baku grins, leaning back. “You know, you should start acting normal around people, instead of lurking in the shadows like a creep.”

Seongje laughs, low and amused. “Shut up.”

The sound startles Juntae. It’s not sharp, not mocking, just warm, rough around the edges. He watches, wide-eyed, as the three of them banter easily, voices overlapping. For the first time, Seongje looks less like the untouchable superstar splashed across magazines and more like… a young man. Only twenty-three. A teammate, a friend.

And then Seongje turns, catches Juntae staring.

Their eyes lock. A smirk spreads across Seongje’s mouth. “What?” he drawls.

Juntae’s face ignites. He looks down so fast his neck aches.

Hyuntak and Baku burst out laughing.

Juntae grips his chopsticks, mortified, wishing the floor would swallow him whole.

Before he can recover, a sharp voice cuts through.

“Seongje.”

Juntae looks up. A girl stands at the end of the table, tray clutched tightly in her hands. He recognizes her, Cho Subin, rising star of the women’s team. No medals yet, but everyone calls her a promise for the future.

Her eyes, however, are fixed on him. Cold. Unpleasant.

Seongje doesn’t even glance her way. He keeps eating.

Baku, ever the instigator, raises a brow. “Need something?”

“I need to talk to Seongje,” she says, clipped, polite in form but not in tone.

“Later,” Seongje says simply. “I’m busy.”

The silence that follows is heavy. Subin’s gaze sharpens on Juntae, as if he’s the problem, the obstacle. Then she turns, stiff, and walks away without another word.

Hyuntak snorts softly. “She’ll never understand.”

Juntae blinks. “Understand what?”

“That Seongje doesn’t care about her,” Baku says bluntly.

Seongje smirks, unbothered.

“She has a crush?” Juntae asks, tentative.

“Once,” Baku says, tone almost gleeful. “He kissed her once, and now she thinks they’re married.”

Seongje rolls his eyes. “I didn’t kiss her. She kissed me. I was drunk.”

Juntae frowns. “Isn’t that… sexual harassment?”

Seongje laughs, sudden and sharp. “Not when I slept with her afterward.”

Juntae’s jaw drops. He stares, flabbergasted. “You—what? Is that even allowed? Between athletes?”

Baku chuckles, eyes dancing. “Cute. Don’t tell me you’ve never imagined what goes on in the Olympic Village.”

Juntae flushes crimson.

Hyuntak grins wickedly. “You should get used to stories like this about Seongje. He’s probably slept with athletes from ten different countries.”

Something twists in Juntae’s chest. Disappointment, sharp and confusing. He doesn’t know why it stings, why it matters. He barely knows him.

But before he can think too hard, Seongje cuts in. “Enough. Don’t make him uncomfortable.”

The words silence both Hyuntak and Baku. Juntae looks up, startled.

Seongje’s eyes meet his. For the first time, his smirk softens, almost into something real. “My reputation’s mostly a legend anyway,” he says.

Baku laughs. Hyuntak joins in.

But Juntae just stares, pulse quickening. 

+++++++++++++++++

Juntae can’t concentrate.

Lunch ended hours ago, but his mind refuses to let go of it. The way Seongje sat down beside him so casually, as if it were nothing. The way he laughed, teased, smirked. The way Subin’s eyes burned into him like fire, as though Juntae had stolen something that never belonged to him in the first place.

And then Baku’s words. Hyuntak’s teasing. Seongje’s blunt admission that he had slept with her.

Juntae presses the heel of his hand against his chest, as if he can quiet the pounding there. He knows it’s ridiculous to feel this way. He has no right. He’s just an intern, here for six short weeks. After this, he’ll go back to university, to his quiet dorm, to evenings spent with Sieun and Suho, his only real friends. They’ll laugh, eat cheap ramen, and he’ll listen to their easy love, the way Sieun looks at Suho like the world is simple.

Juntae has always wanted that kind of love. A steady hand to hold, a soft voice that says stay. But he’s too shy, too invisible. Always the quiet one at the edge of the photo, the boy no one remembers.

So why—why does it sting so much that Seongje, a man who owes him nothing, who probably isn’t even interested in men, has a past littered with stories like Subin?

It shouldn’t matter.

And yet it does.

He tilts his face up to the sky. The afternoon is cooling into evening, cicadas buzzing in the trees that line the training center’s path. He’s sitting on a bench tucked away behind the dorms, his tray long returned, his break technically over. But his feet carried him here, away from the noise, the whispers, the endless glances.

A tear slips down his cheek before he realizes it. He swipes at it quickly, furious with himself. Pathetic. Crying over someone who never even looked at you properly.

He hears footsteps behind him. His heart lifts—Baku, maybe, or Hyuntak, come to drag him back with their loud voices and easy laughter.

But when he turns his head, his stomach sinks.

Choi Hyoman. From the training team.

The trainer’s smile is stretched too wide, his eyes too sharp. He’s older, maybe around Seongje's age, but something about the way he carries himself always makes Juntae’s skin crawl. It’s different from when Seongje stares at him. Seongje’s gaze is heavy but electric, pulling something alive from him. Hyoman’s feels invasive, like being studied by a predator.

“Why are you sitting out here all alone?” Hyoman asks, voice too smooth.

Juntae forces politeness. “Just… needed some fresh air.”

Without asking, Hyoman drops onto the bench beside him. Too close. The heat of his body presses into Juntae’s side. Juntae stiffens.

“You work too hard,” Hyoman says, grin lingering. “An intern should be enjoying himself. Not sitting here looking like he lost something.”

“I’m fine,” Juntae replies quickly. “I should go back soon. There’s work to finish.”

Hyoman ignores that. An arm slides casually across the back of the bench, then lower, curling around Juntae’s shoulders. Juntae freezes, breath caught in his throat.

“Relax,” Hyoman murmurs, leaning closer. “Why so tense?”

“I—I’m not comfortable,” Juntae stammers, pulling slightly away. “I really should go back inside.”

Hyoman chuckles, like it’s all a game. “We should hang out after work. Get a drink. Just the two of us.”

Juntae shakes his head quickly. “You should rest. Training is tiring.” His voice wavers, thin as paper.

And then—

“Leave him alone.”

The voice cuts sharp through the air, hard enough to make the cicadas go silent.

Juntae’s head snaps up. Seongje stands a few meters away, hands in his pockets, but his eyes are ice, his jaw set.

Hyoman stiffens. For a moment, he looks like he might argue. But then he chuckles, false and uneasy, and begins to stand.

Just before leaving, his hand lingers. It drops casually onto Juntae’s leg, fingers brushing across his thigh in a slow, deliberate caress.

Juntae jerks as though burned, the breath rushing out of him. His whole body trembles.

And then Hyoman is gone, footsteps fading down the path.

The silence he leaves behind is heavy, suffocating. Juntae’s hands clutch his knees, white-knuckled. He can’t stop shaking.

Seongje moves closer. “You okay?”

The question unravels him. Juntae’s chest tightens, his throat closing. He tries to nod, to smile, to say yes, I’m fine, but instead a sob breaks free. Hot tears spill down his cheeks, unstoppable now.

Seongje doesn’t speak. He simply shrugs off his black hoodie and drapes it around Juntae’s shoulders.

The fabric swallows him whole, oversized and heavy with warmth. It smells faintly of smoke and sweat and something sharp that’s uniquely Seongje. Juntae clutches it tight, sinking into it, drowning. For the first time all day, he feels safe.

Through blurred vision, he looks up. Seongje’s face is tight, jaw clenched, eyes hard with fury barely held back.

“I’m sorry,” Juntae whispers, voice cracking.

“Stop apologizing for that bastard’s actions,” Seongje says sharply.

Juntae flinches, but Seongje’s tone softens, though his anger still simmers. “I’ll take care of it.”

“No—please.” Juntae shakes his head desperately, wiping at his tears. “Don’t get in trouble for me. I’m leaving in a few weeks anyway. You’ll never see me again. It’s not worth it.”

But Seongje’s expression doesn’t ease. His whole body hums with restrained violence.

And then, unexpectedly, he says, “You should be protected. You’re too soft. Too cute for this.”

The words hit Juntae like a strike to the chest. His breath catches. His face burns, even through his tears.

And then Seongje does something even more unexpected—he reaches down and takes Juntae’s trembling hand in his.

The effect is immediate. Juntae’s shaking slows, warmth spreading from their joined hands up into his chest. His heart beats wildly, but not from fear anymore.

Seongje studies him, brow furrowed. “You’re still trembling.” He hesitates, then adds, almost teasing, “Should I hug you?”

It’s meant as a joke. Juntae knows it. But his body moves before his brain can stop it, he nods.

Something flickers in Seongje’s eyes. Then, without another word, he pulls Juntae into his arms.

The embrace is firm but careful, strong but warm. Juntae melts instantly, collapsing against his chest. The world outside disappears. His tears soak into Seongje’s shirt, but he doesn’t care. He feels the steady rise and fall of his breath, the heat of his body, the way his hand rests lightly at the back of his head.

It’s safe. It’s everything he’s ever wanted,comfort, warmth, someone to hold him without asking for anything back.

Seongje’s arms stay around him longer than expected.

At first, Juntae waits for him to pull back after a second or two, maybe laugh and say kidding, maybe tease him for nodding so quickly. But Seongje doesn’t move. His chest rises and falls slowly, steady, while Juntae’s own breath shudders in and out.

It’s warm. Too warm, maybe, but he doesn’t want to leave. The hoodie still drapes over his shoulders, soft against his cheek. And underneath, Seongje’s heartbeat is a solid rhythm, grounding him, reminding him that he’s not alone.

Juntae’s hands hover awkwardly at first, unsure of where to go. Then one of them grips the fabric at Seongje’s side, timid but desperate, like he might fall apart if he doesn’t hold onto something.

No one has ever hugged him like this before. Not Sieun, though Sieun is his closest friend. Sieun claps him on the back, pulls him into a quick squeeze sometimes, but it’s not the same. Not Suho either, though Suho is gentle with everyone. And certainly not his parents, who were always too busy, too distant.

This—this is different. This feels like being seen. Like being worth holding.

And it terrifies him.

Because it’s Seongje. Geum Seongje, Olympic gold medalist, the nation’s star, a man who belongs on screens and magazine covers, not here, on a quiet bench holding a trembling intern.

Juntae tries to memorize it anyway. The weight of his arms. The faint scent of smoke and soap. The way his voice, low and quiet, murmurs something he can’t quite catch against his hair.

But eventually, inevitably, Seongje lets go.

The absence is immediate. Cold air rushes back between them, and Juntae’s body sways slightly, missing the support. He swallows hard, keeping his head down, hiding his red eyes.

“Better?” Seongje asks.

Juntae nods quickly, though his throat still burns. “Y-yes. Thank you.”

Seongje doesn’t respond right away. His gaze lingers on Juntae’s face, searching, unreadable. Then, with a small grunt, he straightens and shoves his hands back into his pockets.

“Don’t let Hyoman touch you again,” he says simply, as though it’s just another instruction. “If he does, you tell me.”

The words are sharp, commanding, leaving no room for argument.

Juntae’s heart twists. He wants to say thank you again, wants to ask why do you care, but he can’t. His tongue is heavy, his courage too small. Instead, he just nods.

Seongje’s smirk flickers, brief, almost soft, before it disappears. “Good.”

And then he turns, walking away like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just catch Juntae at his weakest moment, didn’t just hold him in a way that made his entire chest ache.

Juntae stays frozen on the bench long after he’s gone. The cicadas hum again, the evening air cooling around him, but he can’t move.

His hands grip the edge of the hoodie still wrapped around him. It’s far too big, the sleeves hanging past his fingertips, but he buries himself in it. The scent clings stubbornly—smoke, sweat, Seongje.

His heart stutters painfully.

Why did he do that? Why did he hug me? Why did it feel so real?

He tries to tell himself it was just kindness. Seongje saw him crying, shaking, and decided to calm him down. Nothing more. That’s the logical explanation.

But then he remembers the way Seongje looked at him. Not like Hyoman, not like Subin, not like anyone else. Heavy. Focused. Like he mattered.

His chest tightens again.

And then the shame comes.

Because it’s stupid. He’s stupid. To sit here, trembling in a hoodie that isn’t his, pretending that for one moment, Seongje’s arms meant something. Pretending that maybe—just maybe—Seongje saw him as more than the polite intern who keeps his head down.

He knows better. Seongje is a superstar, tangled in rumors and scandals, women chasing him, men probably too. He could have anyone. And Juntae—what is he? A twenty-year-old who couldn’t even secure the hospital internship he wanted. A boy too shy to go to bars, too invisible to be noticed.

Not the kind of person someone like Seongje would ever want.

Juntae wipes at his face quickly, angry at himself. His tears have dried, but the heat in his chest lingers.

He thinks of Sieun again. Of Sieun’s easy laughter when Suho tucks an arm around his waist. Of how safe and obvious their love is. Juntae has always wanted something like that, quiet but firm, something that doesn’t make him question himself.

But tonight, on this bench, wrapped in Seongje’s hoodie, all he can think about is how warm it felt.

And how dangerous it is to want more.

++++++++++++++++

The next morning, everything looks normal.

The dorm halls buzz with athletes shuffling to breakfast, staff hurrying with clipboards, voices echoing. Juntae walks quietly, the hoodie folded neatly under his arm, ready to return.

He spots Seongje across the cafeteria almost immediately. The man is sitting with Hyuntak and Baku, laughing at something Baku just said, head tipped back, eyes crinkling. It’s the kind of laugh that makes him look his age—young, unburdened, not the cold star the media paints.

Juntae’s heart lurches.

And then, as if he feels the weight of the stare, Seongje turns. Their eyes meet across the room.

For a split second, Juntae thinks he sees it again, that softness, that warmth. But then Seongje smirks, raises his cup lazily, and looks away.

Like nothing happened.

Like the hug, the hand-holding, the words—none of it mattered.

Juntae drops his gaze quickly, his face burning. He sets the hoodie down on the empty table where Seongje usually sits, then scurries to the far side of the room, tray clutched tight in his hands.

He tells himself it’s fine. He tells himself he expected this.

But all through breakfast, his heart doesn’t stop aching.

++++++++++++++

The metallic clash of blades echoes through the training hall.

Juntae stands at the side, medical kit balanced against his hip, watching as the athletes lunge and parry with blinding speed. Even after three weeks, fencing still dazzles him—the precision, the elegance, the sharp bursts of movement that seem almost choreographed.

But his job is to watch their bodies, not their footwork. He notes when someone favors an ankle, when a shoulder dips too low, when fatigue seeps into their stance. He’s calmer here now, no longer drowning in nerves the way he was the first week.

Until it happens.

Seongje lunges forward, faster than the eye can follow, and his opponent’s foil twists unexpectedly. The tip scrapes across Seongje’s cheek before the referee can call halt.

Gasps ripple through the room.

The protective mask hides most of the impact, but when Seongje rips it off, a red line blooms across his cheekbone.

“Hyung!” Hyuntak calls, already jogging over with Baku close behind.

Juntae’s heart stops. His feet move before his brain does, medical kit clutched tight as he rushes forward.

“Sit,” he says, voice steadier than he feels.

Seongje obeys without protest, dropping onto the bench at the edge of the piste. He tilts his head slightly, smirk ghosting his lips despite the blood trickling down. “Relax. It’s just a scratch.”

But Juntae’s hands tremble as he pulls on gloves, opening antiseptic wipes. The whole team is watching—athletes, coaches, staff. His skin burns with their eyes on him.

Hyoman’s voice cuts sharp through the tension. “What are you doing, intern? Hurry up!”

Juntae flinches at the tone, fumbling with the packet. Heat floods his ears. “Y-yes, I’m—”

“Don’t yell at him,” Seongje interrupts coolly, eyes flicking toward Hyoman. “He’s fine.”

The room goes still. No one ever talks back to Hyoman like that.

Juntae swallows hard and focuses on the wound. He crouches in front of Seongje, close enough to see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way sweat beads at his temple. He dabs at the cut gently, but Seongje hisses softly at the sting.

“Sorry,” Juntae whispers. His hands shake more.

Seongje’s gaze drops to his fingers. “You’re trembling again.” The words are quiet, teasing.

Juntae’s stomach flips. He presses harder than necessary, partly to hide his embarrassment, partly because last time Seongje laughed at his nerves.

“Careful,” Seongje murmurs, lips curving. “You trying to scar me?”

Baku leans in from the side. “Is he okay?”

“He’ll live,” Juntae says quickly, forcing calm into his voice. “It’s not deep.”

“Thank God,” Hyuntak breathes, relief in his grin.

Juntae nods, but his focus doesn’t leave Seongje’s face. He cleans the blood away carefully, aware of every inch of space between them, or lack thereof. Their knees almost touch. His breath catches every time Seongje’s eyes meet his.

The hall is too quiet. Everyone is still watching.

Hyoman snaps, “Why is this taking so long? It’s a scratch, not surgery!”

Juntae bites the inside of his cheek. He wants to rush, to get it over with, but his hands move carefully, precise. It’s instinct, he’s training to be a nurse, not a butcher.

Seongje doesn’t seem bothered. In fact, he leans back slightly, smirk playing at the corner of his lips as if enjoying the attention. “Let him work,” he says lazily, voice carrying across the hall.

Juntae’s cheeks flame. The way Seongje says it, like this moment belongs to the two of them alone, as though the rest of the world doesn’t matter.

He applies the bandage, smoothing it gently against Seongje’s cheekbone. His fingers brush skin for a fraction of a second. Too intimate. Too much. His heart stutters wildly, and he jerks his hand back.

“All done,” he says quickly, standing too fast, nearly stumbling.

But Seongje catches his wrist before he can pull away completely. The contact is brief, but enough to send another rush of heat through Juntae’s chest.

“Thanks,” Seongje says, simple but low, meant only for him.

Juntae’s breath hitches. He forces himself to nod, tugging his hand free.

Hyuntak and Baku immediately crowd in, checking Seongje over with dramatic concern. “Does it hurt? Can you still fence? Should we call the medical director?”

“I said I’m fine,” Seongje answers, rolling his eyes.

But Juntae can’t ignore the way their knees brushed, the way Seongje’s grip lingered on his wrist. He knows everyone saw it. He can feel their stares burning into his back as he packs up his kit.

He tries to steady his breathing, tries to remind himself this was medical care, nothing more. But the heat in his body betrays him, the flush across his cheeks refusing to fade.

When he risks a glance up, Seongje is already back on his feet, mask dangling from one hand. He looks perfectly calm, as if nothing unusual happened.

But then, just before he steps back onto the pist, —he glances over his shoulder. Their eyes meet, and for the briefest second, a smile tugs at his mouth.

Juntae’s heart slams against his ribs.

And then Seongje is gone, back in the center of the hall, blade raised, like the moment never happened at all.

++++++++++++++

Juntae stands in front of Hyuntak and Baku’s shared room, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He isn’t sure why he agreed to come. He had been ready to retreat to his own space after dinner, maybe scroll through webtoons or catch up on a drama, anything quiet, anything that would allow him to disappear. But when Hyuntak slung an arm around his shoulders in the cafeteria and insisted, and Baku nodded along with that easy grin of his, Juntae found himself mumbling a soft “okay.”

Now he’s here, heart tapping nervously, hand hovering near the door handle. It feels silly—Hyuntak and Baku are harmless, the most welcoming people in the entire team. They’ve treated him like a little brother since his first week. Still, he hesitates, worried about drawing more attention to himself. He already feels watched these days.

He exhales slowly and finally knocks. A second later, Hyuntak’s cheerful voice booms, “Come in!”

Juntae pushes the door open and steps into a room that is pure chaos compared to his tidy little dorm. Snack bags are scattered across the desk, two empty soda bottles roll on the floor, and the TV screen blazes bright colors from a racing game. Hyuntak jumps up from his spot and greets him like he hasn’t seen him in years.

“You came! I thought you’d chicken out,” Hyuntak teases, grabbing Juntae’s wrist and pulling him inside.

“I didn’t… chicken out,” Juntae says quickly, though his ears burn. He lets himself be dragged in, trying not to stumble.

Baku is on the floor, controller in hand, completely absorbed in the game. He lifts his chin when he sees Juntae, offering that crooked grin that always seems to hide mischief. “Hey, Jun” he says lazily.

“Hi,” Juntae murmurs, taking a seat on the edge of Hyuntak’s bed. The mattress dips under his weight, and he clasps his hands in his lap, trying to look comfortable. He isn’t sure what he expected, but the atmosphere in the room is… warm. Loud, messy, familiar, like stepping into the middle of a friendship that has years behind it. It makes something in his chest ache.

They hand him a soda, press a spare controller into his palms, and for a while, the world is nothing more than the blur of cars speeding across the screen, Hyuntak’s loud curses, and Baku’s triumphant shouts when he wins another round. Juntae even manages a few smiles, though he keeps his eyes mostly on the game to avoid the inevitable moment when the conversation will turn—

“So,” Baku says, stretching his arms behind his head after another victory. His tone changes just enough to make Juntae tense. “That patch-up earlier. Looked pretty intimate.”

The words hit Juntae like a stone to the chest. He fumbles with the controller, almost dropping it. “It wasn’t—” he blurts, far too quickly. His ears feel like they’re on fire. “It just happened. He needed someone to clean him up, and I was there. That’s all.”

Hyuntak smirks, nudging him with a shoulder. “Come on. Seongje? Letting someone fuss over him in front of the whole team? That’s not ‘just happened.’ That’s unheard of.”

Juntae shakes his head, eyes fixed stubbornly on his lap. “It’s not like that. He… he only helped me before. With Hyoman. Maybe he feels a little protective because of that. Nothing more.”

At the name, both Hyuntak and Baku exchange a look. Their grins falter, replaced by something darker. Baku sets his controller down with a soft clatter. “Did he do something again?”

Juntae stiffens. He hadn’t meant to say too much. “Not—well… He’s just… weird around me sometimes. But it’s fine.”

Hyuntak’s usual playful tone hardens, a rare edge to his voice. “He’s not even a coach yet, just a trainer. And he’s already acting like he runs this place. If he’s bothering you, you should tell your internship director.”

Juntae shakes his head quickly. “No one’s going to listen to an intern. It’s only six weeks. I’ll be done soon.”

Neither Hyuntak nor Baku looks convinced. The room is quiet for a moment, only the faint hum of the paused game filling the silence. Then Hyuntak sighs, flopping back on the bed beside Juntae. “Still. Stick close to us, okay? Don’t let him corner you.”

Baku nods, then forces a grin back onto his face. “Anyway, let’s get back to Seongje. You do realize he’s usually never protective of anyone, right? The guy barely acknowledges people exist unless he has to. For him to step in, to let you patch him up like that—it’s weird. Strange.”

Juntae’s cheeks blaze again. He opens his mouth to argue but can’t find the words. Because… they aren’t wrong. He doesn’t understand it either. He can still feel the weight of those stares in the training hall, the press of silence when his hands worked clumsily over Seongje’s cut. Too close. Too intimate. Everyone saw it.

Before he can respond, a knock sounds at the door. All three of them freeze, glancing at each other. At this hour, there’s only one person it could be.

The door swings open without waiting for permission. Seongje steps inside, casual as if the room is his own. He isn’t in training gear. No sleek white fencing uniform, no sharp lines of luxury clothes from magazine spreads. Just loose sweatpants, a black hoodie, and his face—calm, unreadable. In one hand, he carries a bag of chips.

“Seongje?” Hyuntak blurts, eyebrows shooting up. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be…” He trails off, the words dying. Everyone knows where Seongje usually is at this hour: bars, backstreets, anywhere trouble finds him.

“Not feeling like it tonight,” Seongje answers simply. He drops onto the bed right beside Juntae, close enough that their knees almost touch. He tears open the bag of chips, grabs a handful, and starts eating. Unbothered. Like he belongs here.

Juntae sits rigid, every muscle tight. His heart hammers painfully against his ribs. He is too aware of the warmth radiating from Seongje, the casual brush of his arm whenever he shifts.

He blurts out the first thought that crosses his mind, desperate to break the silence. “Don’t you… have a strict regimen? How are you allowed to eat junk food? And smoke?” He remembers vividly the cigarette at the bar, the way the smoke curled around Seongje’s fingers.

Seongje turns his head, smirk tugging faintly at his lips. “I’m allowed to do anything,” he says, voice low, almost amused. “Because I’m the best.”

All three of them groan in unison, rolling their eyes. Hyuntak grabs a cushion and hurls it at him, which Seongje doesn’t even bother to dodge.

Gathering a shaky breath, Juntae asks softly, “Is your cut better? Do you… need anything?”

Seongje doesn’t look at him directly. He crunches another chip, swallows, then says, “It’s fine. I’ve seen worse.”

Baku seizes the moment with a grin sharp enough to cut. “You always act tough. But earlier? At training? You went soft for him.” He tilts his head toward Juntae.

The words hit like a slap. Heat floods Juntae’s cheeks instantly. He stares down at his hands, throat tight, unable to form a denial. His heart pounds so loudly it feels impossible that the others don’t hear it.

Seongje doesn’t answer. He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t confirm it. Just eats another chip, calm as ever. But the corner of his mouth curves, almost imperceptibly. A smirk, maybe. Or maybe something softer.

The room feels suddenly smaller, warmer. Too much air pressed into too little space. Juntae can’t look up. He can feel the weight of three pairs of eyes—Hyuntak’s amused, Baku’s sharp, and Seongje’s… something else. Something he can’t name.

And his heart doesn’t stop racing.

The evening drags into laughter and noise, the small room carrying the warmth of camaraderie. Hyuntak’s loud cackles, Baku’s mock complaints, the rhythm of buttons clicking on controllers, everything makes Juntae feel folded into a space he never expected to belong. He almost forgets that he shouldn’t be there, that he is only an intern, someone temporary. But eventually, the fatigue of the day creeps into his bones, and his sense of responsibility tugs at him.

Juntae clears his throat, setting down the controller after losing yet another round. “I… I should go,” he says softly. His voice almost gets drowned out by Hyuntak’s groan of victory. But when they both turn to look at him, he forces a smile. “It’s almost midnight. You two should sleep, or the coaches will scold you to death tomorrow.”

Hyuntak waves dismissively, but Baku stretches his arms with a yawn. “He’s right. We’ll regret this in the morning.”

Juntae stands, bowing his head slightly. “Thanks for inviting me. It was fun… really. I had fun.” He’s shy, genuine, dimples faint in the corner of his cheeks. For a moment, he looks like he doesn’t want to leave at all.

As he reaches the door and pulls it open, he feels rather than hears someone behind him. A taller shadow falls over his shoulder. His heart skips, quick and shallow, when he glances back.

Seongje.

“Going back to my room,” Seongje says, casual, though his eyes are fixed on Juntae. “I’ll walk you to yours.”

Juntae blinks, startled. “Ah, that’s not necessary, I—”

But Seongje cuts him off with the faintest tilt of his head, like it isn’t up for debate. “In case you run into someone we don’t want you to deal with.”

Behind them, Hyuntak and Baku share a look so obvious it feels like thunder. Juntae wants to vanish into the floor, heat rushing up his neck. His heart races, traitorous, because being singled out by Seongje always unravels him.

They step out into the corridor. The building is quieter now, the buzz of nightlife dulled by thick walls. Their footsteps echo lightly on the polished floor. Seongje’s room is in the athletes’ wing, far from where Juntae stays with the medical staff. Yet Seongje falls into step beside him, unhurried, matching his pace.

Silence stretches. Juntae feels it more than he hears it, the weight, the tension, like electricity beneath skin. He can’t help but speak, his voice hesitant. “Why… why are you so nice to me?” He doesn’t look at Seongje, stares instead at the floor ahead, where shadows pool. “Everyone says… you have a reputation.”

Seongje’s answer comes low, steady. “Don’t want you eaten by sharks.” A pause. His eyes slide sideways, dark, unreadable. “Only a wolf would be allowed to chase you.”

Juntae stumbles on air, blinking rapidly. His face burns so hot it almost hurts. Did he hear it right? His chest tightens, heart thundering like it’s trying to escape. Is Seongje… flirting? No, that can’t be. Seongje doesn’t do that. Not with him. Not with anyone like him.

But as they walk, the distance between them shrinks. Their arms brush once. Then again. The barest touch of hands grazing, barely-there friction that sends sparks racing through Juntae’s veins. He knows it’s an accident, knows it, yet his palms sweat and his ears ring.

At last, they stop in front of Juntae’s door. He swallows hard, clutching at his keys. “Thank you,” he says, voice soft. “For… protecting me. And for caring.”

He dares to lift his gaze. And what he sees isn’t the smirk, the cold mask, the distant arrogance. Seongje is looking at him with something else, something quieter, gentler. A softness that almost undoes him completely.

Then Seongje reaches forward, fingertips brushing lightly against his face. Juntae freezes, breath caught, as the older boy adjusts his glasses, sliding them back up the bridge of his nose. The gesture is so intimate, so tender, it’s almost unbearable. Everything Seongje isn’t supposed to be.

“You’re blushing,” Seongje says, voice low.

Juntae wants the ground to open and swallow him. “O-of course I’m blushing!” he blurts, mortified. His words tumble too fast, rambling. “I mean, I’m just—surrounded by some sports god and you—you’re just—” He stops himself, horrified, realizing too late that Seongje is hearing all of it.

But instead of mocking, Seongje lets out a small laugh. Soft. Almost kind. “You’re so cute.” His smile lingers, the warmth of it slipping under Juntae’s skin, unraveling him entirely.

He steps back, gaze holding Juntae’s for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “Good night,” he says, simple, final.

Juntae can only nod, still burning, his heart hammering as Seongje turns away down the hall. When the door closes behind him, he leans against it, palms pressed to his chest. His heart feels like it might explode.

+++++++++++

The days begin to fall into a rhythm. Morning warm‑ups, athletes drifting in and out of the medical room with minor bruises, Hyuntak and Baku’s endless chatter. Evenings where laughter spills into narrow corridors. And always, Seongje’s presence, drifting closer to Juntae in ways that feel deliberate, though he can never be sure. He tells himself not to overthink it, but he always does.

By the time the team prepares for the pre–World Cup competition (a short three‑day trip to a city near Seoul), Juntae feels half‑settled and half‑adrift. He assumes he won’t be needed. He’s only an intern, after all. But when the schedule is handed out, his name is listed with the rest of the medical staff. He swallows down his disappointment. Three days of quiet rest would have been nice, but he doesn’t get to choose.

Departure morning is chaos. Bags bang against bus steps, coaches call out instructions, the younger athletes tumble about like restless energy barely contained. Juntae hovers on the sidelines, backpack clutched tightly against his chest, waiting for direction. When the vans are assigned, he learns that the medical car is full. The juniors’ bus already departed. Which means he has no choice but to climb into the main bus—the one with the national team athletes.

The moment he steps up, he feels every set of eyes. Or maybe it’s only in his head. He keeps his gaze low, makes himself small, and slips into a seat near the back, pressed against the window. His entire body folds inward, as if by shrinking he can make himself invisible. He repeats it like a mantra: stay small, don’t attract attention, don’t cause trouble.

It lasts barely two minutes.

“Juntae!” Hyuntak’s voice crashes through the aisle like thunder. A moment later, the tall fencer drops into the seat across the aisle, grinning ear to ear. Park Humin follows, sliding in behind Juntae with a wide grin that already spells trouble.

“Why are you sitting all the way back here like a ghost?” Hyuntak demands, his voice carrying too easily.

Juntae flinches, heat blooming in his cheeks. “I—I didn’t want to take anyone’s seat. And it’s quieter back here.”

“Quieter?” Baku leans forward, resting his chin on the back of Juntae’s seat. “Not anymore. You know you can’t hide from us, right?”

“I’m not hiding,” Juntae insists, but the words come out too soft. His hands tighten on the straps of his bag.

Hyuntak chuckles, nudging his shoulder. “You’re always trying to disappear. No wonder we call you puppy. Small, polite, always following rules.”

Juntae groans quietly, wishing the earth would swallow him. Around them, heads turn at the noise. He can feel stares prickling, murmurs rising. He bows his head lower.

And then… Seongje.

The sound of his steps is subtle, but Juntae senses it before he sees it. The atmosphere shifts; conversation dips, laughter hitches. When Juntae lifts his eyes, he catches sight of the tall figure entering the bus. Subin, already seated two rows ahead, brightens instantly. She leans forward, hair falling over her shoulder, voice pitched sweet as she calls his name. But Seongje doesn’t slow. His gaze skims briefly across the rows until it lands, steady, on Juntae.

Without hesitation, he strides down the aisle and drops into the empty seat beside him.

Juntae’s breath stutters. He feels the press of the shoulder next to his, the weight of Seongje’s presence filling all the air. His chest tightens, and before he can stop it, a smile slips free—small, helpless, dimple showing. It embarrasses him, how automatic it is.

Hyuntak and Baku exchange a glance that Juntae pretends not to see.

The bus lurches into motion. The noise of chatter swells again, though it never fully drowns the silence between Juntae and Seongje. Juntae keeps his eyes fixed on the window, the blur of streets slipping past. His mind spins with rules: don’t speak first, don’t make a fool of yourself, don’t give anyone more reason to whisper.

But warmth seeps in, steady, solid. He tells himself to stay alert, to keep from relaxing. Yet the steady hum of the engine, the sway of the bus, the nearness of Seongje,it all begins to pull him under.

He doesn’t realize when his head tips.

When his cheek rests against fabric, when the sharp scent of smoke and soap fills his senses. His breathing slows, eyelids heavy. He doesn’t realize he’s asleep until he isn’t.

When he opens his eyes, everything is wrong. Bright daylight pours through the window. His cheek is still pressed against Seongje’s shoulder. For a second, he doesn’t move, disoriented. Then realization slams into him. His body jerks upright, heat flooding his face. “I—I’m so sorry—”

Before he can recover, his phone buzzes. He fumbles, unlocks it, and freezes.

A photo fills the screen. Him, asleep against Seongje, looking far too peaceful. Sent by Baku. With a heart emoji. His ears burn.

He whips around, finding Baku laughing so hard he nearly falls sideways. Hyuntak joins in, grinning like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen. Juntae wants to sink into the floor. He covers his face with one hand, mortified.

“I really am sorry,” he whispers again, this time to Seongje, voice trembling. He braces himself for cold indifference. Or worse, mockery.

But Seongje doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smirk. Instead, with the same ease he shows when stepping onto a piste, he reaches up, nudges gently at Juntae’s head, and guides it back down onto his shoulder.

Juntae freezes. His heart slams so hard it hurts. He can hear whispers ripple through the bus, feel eyes watching, curiosity sparking. But all of it blurs at the edges. Because right now, he is leaning against Seongje again, and Seongje doesn’t seem to care.

“Stay,” Seongje murmurs, almost too quiet to catch.

Juntae doesn’t know if the word is real or imagined. But he doesn’t move. He lets the warmth sink in, lets his eyes close once more. For once, he doesn’t care about whispers or stares. For once, he feels safe. Even if it’s dangerous. Even if it means nothing.

Even if, when this internship ends, it will all disappear.

++++++++++++++

The air outside the bus is heavier than expected, filled with salt from the nearby sea and with that faint hum of city life that never fully sleeps. Juntae adjusts the strap of his bag over his shoulder, still flushed from the ride, from the weight of Seongje’s shoulder under his cheek, from the whispers that spread like wildfire among the athletes. He tries to ignore them. He tries harder to ignore the way Baku winked at him when they stepped out of the bus, or the fact that Seongje never once looked bothered.

But then—

“Figures,” Subin mutters, loud enough that it can’t be a mistake. “Clingy interns know how to climb fast.”

The words cut sharper than they should, slicing through Juntae’s fragile attempt at pretending nothing had happened. His ears burn; he doesn’t even look back. If he does, if he sees their faces, Seongje’s, Baku’s, Gotak’s, it’ll only make the humiliation worse.

“I’ll, uh—go check with the medical team,” he blurts. His voice cracks, thin. He forces a smile, dimples barely flashing, before he ducks away. “See you later.”

The three of them call his name, Baku even makes a noise of protest, like he wants to shout back at Subin, but Juntae hurries off, head down. Better to disappear than to stay long enough for anyone to defend him. He doesn’t need defending. He just needs this day to pass.

++++++++++++++++++++

The competition is not unlike what he’s been observing for almost four weeks now. The venue smells of sweat and resin, the clash of blades ringing sharp across the open space. Juntae lingers at the edge, notebook in hand, kit beside him, watching every movement with the dutiful patience of someone who knows he won’t be asked to step in unless something goes wrong.

The men’s matches roll out first. Seongje is a storm as usual, barely giving his opponents time to breathe. The crowd eats it up, the staff barely watching anymore because they know how it’ll end. Gotak and Baku follow, strong, confident, victories claimed with more effort but no less glory.

On the women’s side, Subin carves through her matches like a blade through silk. She’s good, no one can deny that. Juntae sees the pride in her coach’s eyes, hears the applause. And yet, every shout from her lips feels like it’s aimed at him. Like every victory only sharpens the disdain she had this morning.

He ignores it. He’s good at ignoring things.

The first day passes without incident, and by the time evening falls, the athletes are restless.

“Beach is right there,” Baku says, stretching his arms. “Would be a crime not to enjoy it.”

Someone suggests drinks, someone else agrees, and before long it becomes a plan: the whole group, staff and athletes alike, will head into the city for food and a bar.

Juntae hesitates. He could bow out, claim paperwork, claim exhaustion, slip into anonymity the way he always does. But then Gotak drags him in with a grin, and Baku locks his arm around his neck like a brother.

“You’re coming,” Baku declares. “Intern or not.”

Juntae gives up, laughing weakly. He tells himself it’s fine. He’ll stay quiet. No one will notice him.

Except—

Seongje is coming too.

And that, apparently, is a miracle. Because everyone stares when he follows the group, hands shoved into his pockets, no hint of his usual detachment. He doesn’t roll his eyes. He doesn’t excuse himself for a fight or a club. He just walks, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, as though joining them were never unusual.

Juntae nearly trips over the sidewalk.

Because of course this is happening. Of course the one time they go out as a group, the one time Juntae can pretend he’s just another face in the background, Seongje decides to appear. And not just appear, walk close enough that Juntae can smell his clothes, close enough that their shadows almost overlap under the streetlights.

His brain short-circuits. Completely.

He wants to scream into his sleeve like a high schooler watching the lead in a K-drama smile at the second lead. He wants to text Sieun and say, I understand now. I get it. All those webtoons where the dangerous bad boy has a soft side? They weren’t exaggerating. Except here, in the flesh, it’s worse. So much worse. Because Seongje is not a character; he’s real, and he’s unpredictable, and he’s walking right there beside him.

Juntae can’t lie anymore. He has a crush. A big, fat, humiliating crush.

The kind that makes him stare too long at Seongje’s jawline under the neon lights. The kind that makes his chest tighten at the memory of falling asleep on his shoulder. The kind that makes him forget how to breathe when Seongje slows his pace to match his.

I’m doomed.

The bar sits just off the beach, glowing with warm lanterns, laughter spilling out onto the street. The smell of grilled fish and salt air mixes in the breeze. The team files inside, loud and bright, tables pulled together to make room for everyone.

Juntae hovers at the edge, searching for a safe corner seat. Maybe next to Baku. Maybe—

“Hey,” Hyoman’s voice cuts in, too close. “Empty spot?”

Juntae stiffens. He doesn’t want this. Not here, not after the bus, not with Seongje somewhere behind him. He opens his mouth, fumbling for an excuse—

And then a shadow falls across the table.

“Move.”

Seongje doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. His tone is sharp enough, his glare pointed enough that Hyoman falters, scowls, and steps back.

The seat is empty again. Seongje slides into it like it was always meant for him.

Juntae nearly dies on the spot.

Because what is this? What kind of cinematic, drama-worthy nonsense is this? The bad boy hero swooping in to save him from the creepy side character? The protective stare, the subtle claim of space?

His brain combusts. He’s melting into the wooden chair, dimples threatening to betray him even as he desperately hides behind his hands.

Is this real life? Am I—am I in a drama? Did someone script this? Is there a camera?

He sneaks a glance at Seongje. The man is casual, almost bored, reaching for the menu, not even acknowledging the ripple of whispers that spreads down the table. To him, it’s nothing. Just another move in a game Juntae doesn’t understand.

To Juntae? It’s everything.

The food is good. Or maybe it isn’t, Juntae can’t taste much through the storm in his head. He chews politely, nods when Gotak cracks a joke, forces a smile when Baku nudges him under the table. All the while, his pulse races, pounding behind his ears like a drum.

Because Seongje is sitting right there. Right next to him, casual as anything, eating grilled fish with one hand, phone in the other, as though this isn’t the first time in months he’s bothered to join the team in something so ordinary. And Juntae, poor fool that he is, can’t stop sneaking glances at the line of his jaw, the way the lantern light softens the sharpness of his cheekbones, the lazy slouch in his shoulders that somehow screams control.

Every detail feels like it’s designed to ruin him.

It’s fine, Juntae tells himself. It’s just dinner. Just a meal. You’re not in a webtoon, you’re not the timid protagonist falling for the bad boy—

Except he is. Exactly that.

And worse, he knows it.

He wants to bury his face in his hands, groan into the tabletop, disappear into the sand outside. Instead, he shoves rice into his mouth and hopes no one notices the way his ears are burning.

The team is loud around him, laughter and chatter filling the air, drinks clinking. Coaches exchange stories, the junior athletes sneak glances at the seniors, the women’s team occupies a cluster at the far end. And that’s when the first voice cuts through, sharp, mocking.

“So,” Subin says. She isn’t even looking at Seongje. Her eyes are fixed on Juntae, lips curled in amusement. “What about you, intern? What do you even want after this?”

The table goes quiet around him. Not fully, but enough that Juntae feels the spotlight burn. He swallows.

“I, uh… I hope to become a doctor. One day.”

Her laugh is immediate. Dismissive. “A doctor? You’re barely a nurse.”

The words sting more than he expects. He forces a smile, dimples shallow. “I’m still studying. It takes time.”

“Sure,” she drawls. “Or maybe you just weren’t good enough to be someone’s first choice. Hospitals pick the best, you know. The rest get tossed to whatever scraps are left.”

The laughter around the table continues without a pause, but to Juntae it feels like the sound has been sucked out of the room. He nods again, quiet, not trusting his voice.

And then Hyoman, because of course it can get worse, leans in from his seat a little too close, his grin oily. “Doesn’t matter, does it? Cute little interns don’t need a hospital. Not when they’ve already caught someone’s eye.”

Juntae freezes.

“There’s no wonder,” Hyoman goes on, voice dipping into something slimy. “Why Seo Seongje gets protective. He got himself a toy for a few weeks.”

It’s a whisper and a shout all at once. The words hang, thick, poisonous.

And Subin, never one to miss a chance, snickers. “He’s right, you know. Once your internship ends, you’ll be long forgotten. Seongje doesn’t keep toys. He breaks them.”

Juntae’s hands tremble under the table. He hides them in his lap, nails digging into his palms, forcing himself to stay composed. Baku and Gotak are too far to hear. Seongje—he looks at the seat beside him, and his stomach drops. Empty. Of course. Seongje is outside smoking.

He’s alone.

“Excuse me,” he says, voice thin. “I just… need some fresh air.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply. Doesn’t look at Subin’s smirk or Hyoman’s grin. He stands, nearly tripping over the chair, and makes for the door, heart hammering, breath short.

And he doesn’t see him. Doesn’t see the tall figure leaning casually at the entrance, cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers.

Seongje.

The night air slams into him, cooler, sharp with salt. Juntae doesn’t stop walking. He can’t. He runs, almost, down the wooden steps to the beach, shoes sinking into the sand as his chest constricts tighter and tighter. His throat closes, breaths shallow, shaky.

By the time he collapses onto the sand, knees drawn up, he’s trembling.

He can’t breathe.

“Hey.”

The voice is low, steady.

“Juntae. Look at me.”

He does, barely. And there’s Seongje, crouching in front of him, the cigarette gone, his eyes narrowed not in annoyance but focus.

“Breathe,” Seongje says firmly. “In. Out. Right now, just breathe.”

“I—I can’t—” Juntae stammers.

“You can.” Seongje’s tone sharpens. “Look at me. You’re fine. Just breathe. In. Out. Copy me.”

He demonstrates, slow, deliberate. Juntae tries, lungs stuttering, but the rhythm slowly matches. In. Out. In. Out. His chest eases, just a little.

“There you go,” Seongje mutters. “See? Not so hard.”

Juntae’s vision blurs. He wipes at his face quickly, embarrassed. “Sorry. I—I don’t know why—”

“Don’t.” The word is curt, but not cruel. “Don’t apologize. Panic’s a bitch. I know.”

Juntae blinks. “You…?”

“Yeah.” Seongje shrugs, looking away. “Happens. Sometimes. My way of dealing is fighting in bars. Not exactly your thing.”

Despite himself, Juntae lets out a tiny laugh. “Probably not.”

“Thought so.” Seongje smirks faintly, then tilts his head. “What happened in there?”

Juntae hesitates. Then shakes his head. “Nothing. Just… got carried away. Too emotional.”

“Bullshit,” Seongje says simply.

Juntae looks down at the sand, fingers digging in. “It’s true I should learn to defend myself better.”

There’s silence. Then Seongje asks, quieter, “Why do you always make yourself so small?”

The words strike something raw. Juntae exhales shakily. “Because it’s what I learned. My parents… they never really cared. When they had people over, they told me to stay in my room, not make a sound. I got good at being quiet. Invisible.”

He swallows, the words tumbling now, too heavy to hold. “Then in high school, I got bullied. Badly. And being invisible felt safer. Easier. Until Sieun—my best friend—he defended me. Last year wasn’t as bad. But still… it’s hard to change. It’s deep inside me now.”

Seongje listens, silent. His expression unreadable.

Then, finally: “You’re allowed to scream, you know. Or clap back. Especially at nasty people like Subin.”

The name makes Juntae wince. Without thinking, he blurts, “But you slept with her.”

It’s out before he can stop it. His eyes widen. “I—I didn’t mean—”

But Seongje laughs. Full, sudden, real. “What, are you jealous?”

“I—no! I—” Juntae stammers, face on fire.

Seongje leans back on his hands, grin sharp. “You are.”

“I’m not!” Juntae insists, but the denial is weak, crumbling under the heat in his cheeks.

The air shifts, lighter now. The waves crash soft against the shore, the breeze cool on their skin. Juntae shivers.

Without a word, Seongje shrugs off his hoodie and drapes it over Juntae’s shoulders.

Juntae stares. “You’re way too cliché to be true.”

Seongje chuckles. “Maybe. But I’m still full of surprises.”

The silence that follows is heavier. Not uncomfortable, charged. Juntae looks up, and Seongje is already watching him. The world narrows to the space between them, to the sound of the waves, to the warmth of fabric against his skin.

And Juntae does the unthinkable.

He leans forward and presses his lips to Seongje’s.

It’s quick. Barely a brush. He pulls back immediately, face scarlet. “I—I’m sorry, I don’t know why I did that, I—if you don’t want—we don’t have to talk again—”

“Shut up,” Seongje murmurs. 

The world narrows to a single point: Seongje’s lips, impossibly close, and Juntae’s heart hammering so violently it feels like it might burst. His hands shake as they hover near Seongje’s chest, unsure whether to touch, to push away, or to pull closer. The air between them is electric, heavy with anticipation, every second stretching taut.

He breathes in sharply, startled by the nearness, the heat radiating off Seongje, the faint scent of smoke and something uniquely Seongje. The sharp inhale trembles out of him, and it’s almost enough to break the tension but then Seongje leans in, slow, deliberate, and their lips meet in a tentative, feather-light brush.

Juntae’s body jolts at the contact, his knees weakening slightly in the sand. His chest rises and falls rapidly, breaths shallow and desperate. He wants more, but his mind races: Is he really doing this? Seongje? Me?

Seongje’s lips press again, firmer this time, testing, demanding, as if daring Juntae to pull away. Juntae gasps, caught between surprise and longing, and his hands find their courage, fumbling over Seongje’s chest, pressing, anchoring himself. Every nerve ending feels alive, humming with tension, heat spreading from his chest through every limb.

Their glasses bump awkwardly with a soft clink. Juntae freezes for a heartbeat, flustered, but Seongje’s hands are already on him, tugging both of them back slightly to lift the glasses away, tossing them onto the sand carelessly, the action intimate and unflinching.

And then Seongje kisses him again. Harder, slower, deliberate. His tongue brushes tentatively at Juntae’s, seeking permission, exploring, coaxing. Juntae’s breath catches in a strangled moan, chest heaving, heart racing beyond control. His own tongue meets Seongje’s, hesitant at first, then with a desperate eagerness, as if he’s trying to memorize the taste, the feel of him, to anchor himself to this impossible reality.

Juntae’s hands drift to Seongje’s neck, fingers tangling in his hair, gripping tightly as if afraid he’ll vanish if he lets go. Seongje’s hands are hot against his skin, moving from neck to shoulder, pressing him closer, keeping him tethered, each motion deliberate and consuming. Their breathing mingles in ragged gasps, fast, shallow, heavy, the air thick with heat, salt, and the sound of waves crashing faintly behind them.

Every second stretches, endless, intoxicating. Juntae trembles, knees weak, body melting into Seongje’s hold. The world outside, the city, the competition, even Subin’s mocking voice, ceases to exist. All that matters is this, the connection, the tension, the heat, the wild, dizzying impossibility of being so close to someone he’s been drawn to for weeks.

When they finally pull apart, even just a fraction, both are breathless, chests rising and falling rapidly, foreheads nearly touching. Juntae’s lips part, words caught in his throat. “Wow,” he whispers, voice husky, trembling.

Seongje laughs softly, a low, warm sound that makes the back of Juntae’s neck tingle. His eyes crinkle at the corners in amusement and disbelief. “Never thought you’d be the one to make the first move,” he murmurs, voice roughened with exertion and something else—interest, desire, teasing.

Juntae swallows hard, cheeks aflame, heart hammering like a drum. “I’m… full of surprises too,” he breathes, voice shaking but defiant, because in this moment, vulnerability feels like courage.

++++++++++++++

Juntae’s legs feel like jelly as he follows Seongje back toward the restaurant. Every step is a battle between relief and panic. He can already feel the swelling in his lips, the heat of his blush spreading down his neck, and he’s sure that everyone will notice. They’ll see. Everyone will see. They’ll know.

“Relax,” Seongje murmurs beside him, his hand resting lightly but firmly on Juntae’s back, guiding him forward. The touch is grounding, yet it makes Juntae’s heart hammer even faster. How can someone be so calm, so… in control, when I feel like I might faint from embarrassment?

Juntae swallows, nods, and allows himself to be led to his seat. He sits down carefully, eyes glued to his hands in his lap, hoping that no one notices anything unusual about him. But his hopes are dashed almost immediately.

Subin is sitting at the table, eyes flicking up from her drink as he approaches. Her smile is too bright, too calculated. “Feeling better?” she asks, tilting her head in mock concern, her voice sweet enough to make it feel like a trap.

Juntae opens his mouth to respond but only manages a polite nod. “Yes… thank you,” he murmurs, keeping his gaze firmly on his knees.

Hyoman, lurking near the edge of the table, smirks faintly, leaning just enough to get a good view. His eyes linger on Juntae for a beat too long, and Juntae swallows hard, wishing he could disappear entirely.

Seongje’s hand doesn’t leave his back. Instead, it presses a little more firmly, anchoring him. “Sit still,” Seongje mutters quietly in his ear. His tone is soft but carries an unmistakable edge of warning. Juntae shivers not from fear of him, but from the sensation of having that protection so close, so immediate.

Then, Seongje speaks, louder this time, cutting through the low chatter at the table. His voice is sharp, blunt, and it carries. “Subin. Remember. Nothing will happen between us ever again.”

The words hang in the air, final, uncompromising. Subin’s smile falters just for a moment before she smooths it over. She opens her mouth, apparently to reply, but Seongje doesn’t give her the chance. He leans back in his chair, calm and collected, eyes darkening slightly with a warning glare that makes Subin falter.

Juntae feels his own chest unclench slightly, relief flooding him even as the blush continues to burn across his cheeks. He glances at Seongje, his lips still tender and swollen from the beach, and the sight of Seongje’s eyes meeting his, steady and protective, makes his heart skip a beat.

Hyoman, sensing the shift in mood, backs off slightly, his smirk fading. He mutters something under his breath but doesn’t press.

The rest of the table’s attention seems to fracture at that moment. Subin is distracted, Seongje’s presence commands a sphere of unspoken dominance, and Juntae can finally breathe a little easier. He relaxes into his chair, the weight of Seongje’s hand on his back reassuring him, grounding him back into reality.

Still, his mind races, replaying everything that happened on the beach. The kiss, the closeness, the intensity, the warmth… Every nerve ending is alive, and the memory makes it hard to concentrate on even the act of picking up his chopsticks.

Seongje, sensing the tension still coiling around him, gives a faint nudge to keep him focused. “Eat,” he says softly, his eyes catching Juntae’s. There’s no teasing now, just quiet insistence. “Stop overthinking.”

Juntae swallows, trying to obey. The food tastes better than before, though he knows that his mind is still halfway back on the sand, on the weight of Seongje’s hands, on the way the world narrowed to just the two of them.

Subin finally speaks again, pretending to care, her tone dripping with forced sweetness. “Really, are you okay now? Don’t strain yourself.”

Juntae, ever polite, nods again. “I’m fine. Thank you for asking,” he says, voice soft, careful.

Seongje leans slightly, his breath brushing against Juntae’s ear as he murmurs under his breath, sharp and low, “Ignore her. She’s not worth it.”

Juntae feels a shiver of warmth run through him, the combination of protection and intimacy making his heart pound. He can’t help but glance at Seongje, taking in the sharp line of his jaw, the glint in his eyes, the subtle curve of his lips that doesn’t quite smile but doesn’t scowl either.

The rest of the dinner proceeds in relative silence from Subin and Hyoman. Baku and Gotak are busy chatting and teasing each other about their drinks and games, oblivious to the tension that crackles just a seat away. Seongje, however, remains a silent anchor for Juntae, his hand occasionally brushing against the small of his back, each touch intentional, grounding him against the storm of nerves and paranoia.

Juntae eats in small bites, his mind half on the food and half on replaying Seongje’s words, Seongje’s proximity, the gentle authority in his tone, the way he claimed control over the situation with just a look. He wonders briefly what it would be like if this were different, if this closeness were allowed to blossom without fear, without the restrictions of their worlds colliding.

He pushes the thought away. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t owe me anything. I’m just an intern. In a few weeks, this will be over. I’ll be forgotten. Just… enjoy it while it lasts.

Still, every time Seongje’s hand brushes his back, every time his dark eyes catch his, every time he speaks softly but firmly, he feels the melt deep in his chest that he can’t stop. The warmth, the tension, the danger, all wrapped up in one impossibly magnetic presence.

And despite everything, despite the fear of others noticing, the embarrassment, the past, the warnings in his head, Juntae can’t help but feel safe. Protected. Seen.

Seongje, clearly attuned to him even when he doesn’t speak, gives a subtle squeeze to the small of his back as if to say, I’ve got you, and Juntae melts further, wishing this moment could stretch into infinity.

The whispers and sideways glances around the table don’t matter. They might be seeing, they might be noticing, but Seongje’s hand, his presence, his protection—it’s all that matters.

+++++++++++++

The morning after the kiss feels like a fever dream.

Juntae wakes in his room, heart racing before his mind even fully registers where he is. The cheap curtains let in too much light, his phone alarm blares, and his body feels sluggish from a night of tossing and turning. But none of that explains the heat still blooming in his chest, the phantom touch still tingling across his lips.

It’s Seongje. It’s always Seongje.

The kiss replays on an endless loop. The salty taste of the sea air, the way Seongje’s hands held his neck, the gentle pressure of his lips deepening into something wild and breath-stealing. Juntae buries his face in his pillow, groaning quietly. What was I thinking?

He kissed him. He, an intern, a nobody, invisible except when people want to mock him, kissed Geum Seongje, the country’s fencing superstar. The thought alone is enough to make him want to crawl into the floor and never come out again.

But the worst part isn’t the kiss. The worst part is how much he wants it to happen again.

At breakfast, Juntae decides to avoid him. Entirely. He sits at the far end of the table, squeezed between two assistant coaches, picking at his rice porridge while the rest of the team filters in. His plan is simple: stay quiet, stay small, stay invisible.

It almost works.

Almost.

Because Seongje walks in, still damp from his morning run, shirt clinging to his chest, hair sticking slightly to his forehead, and Juntae immediately forgets how to breathe.

He shoves a spoonful of porridge into his mouth and stares straight down at the table. Do not look. Do not look. Do not look.

Except he looks.

Just for a second, eyes flicking up. Enough to see the broad line of Seongje’s shoulders, the easy way he moves through the room, the faint smirk curling at his lips when he spots Juntae.

Their eyes meet. Heat rushes to Juntae’s face so quickly he nearly chokes on his porridge. He coughs, mutters something about the food being hot, and pretends to be very invested in refilling his cup of water.

He hears it before he feels it: the scrape of a chair, footsteps approaching. Then, without a word, Seongje sits down right beside him, casual as anything, as if there weren’t empty seats everywhere else.

Juntae freezes. His spoon clatters against the bowl. Why here? Why me? Why now?

“Morning,” Seongje says, voice low, almost a whisper meant only for him.

Juntae manages a strangled, “M-morning,” without looking up. His hands shake as he lifts his cup of water, taking a sip just to have something to do.

And then, warmth. A brush of skin against his. Seongje’s hand, just lightly grazing his fingers as he reaches for the soy sauce. The touch is fleeting, barely noticeable. But to Juntae, it feels like a spark that shoots all the way up his arm, straight to his chest.

He jerks his hand back, pulse skyrocketing, nearly spilling his water. Seongje doesn’t react, doesn’t smirk, doesn’t tease, just continues calmly with his breakfast. But the corner of his mouth twitches like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Juntae spends the rest of the meal in silence, hyper-aware of every move, every breath, every brush of fabric between them.

The day passes in a blur of matches and routines. Juntae stations himself at the sidelines, his medical kit at the ready, eyes fixed on the athletes. He tapes ankles, checks hydration, records notes for the official medical staff. He focuses on the job because it’s the only thing that makes sense.

But even here, Seongje finds him.

A whisper as he passes: “Stop frowning, you’ll get wrinkles.”

A quick brush of his hand when Juntae hands him water: “Thanks, doc.”

A glance during warm-ups, sharp and lingering, like he’s not watching the opponent but watching Juntae.

And Juntae—poor, hopeless Juntae—burns every single time.

He tries not to look, but his eyes betray him. They follow Seongje across the piste, catch on the sharp lines of his movements, the precision in every strike, the power that thrums beneath his composure. Watching him fence is like watching a storm contained in a body, all grace and violence, and Juntae feels it deep in his chest, in places he doesn’t want to admit out loud.

It’s ridiculous. It’s reckless. And it’s not stopping.

By evening, he’s exhausted—not from work, but from holding himself together. The team decides to relax by the pool. Juntae goes only because Baku and Gotak insist, dragging him along like a little brother.

He regrets it the second he sees Seongje shirtless.

His towel slung carelessly over one shoulder, damp hair clinging to his temples, chest gleaming in the low light, Seongje looks like he stepped out of one of the dramas Juntae secretly binges at night. Except this isn’t fiction. This is real. And Juntae is one badly-timed sigh away from combusting.

“Juntae,” Seongje calls, spotting him instantly.

Juntae stiffens, clutching his towel like a shield. “Y-yeah?”

“Check my shoulder.”

It takes him a second to process. “What?”

Seongje turns slightly, pointing at the curve of his left shoulder. “Feels tight. From the morning run.”

And just like that, Juntae’s doom is sealed.

He steps closer, hesitant, placing tentative fingers along Seongje’s shoulder blade. The heat of his skin radiates through him like fire. He swallows hard, trying not to think about how close they are, how easily his hand could slip lower, how desperately he wants—

Stop. Stop thinking. You’re supposed to be professional.

“It’s fine,” he manages to say, voice too high, too fast. “Just… don’t overdo it.”

Seongje smirks, eyes glinting. “Worried about me?”

Juntae nearly chokes. “N-no! I mean, yes—of course, but—professionally—because that’s my—”

The smirk deepens. “Relax. I’m teasing.”

Juntae feels like throwing himself into the pool fully clothed. Instead, he mutters something about needing to check supplies and flees, his ears burning.

The next day blur into a cycle of the same torment. Juntae avoids. Seongje pursues. Always subtle, never loud, but constant.

A brush of hands when passing water bottles.
A whispered joke only Juntae can hear.
A chair pulled out beside him, even when others are free.

And always, always, those glances, sharp, knowing, impossible to ignore.

Juntae tries to bury himself in work. But every quiet moment is filled with thoughts he can’t control. Thoughts of kisses, of hands on skin, of danger wrapped in warmth.

He knows it’s reckless. He knows it can’t last. He knows Subin and Hyoman’s words are probably true: he’s just an intern, a temporary distraction. Two weeks from now, he’ll be gone, forgotten, invisible again.

But still—he lets himself dream. Just a little.

At night, lying in his bed, he stares at the ceiling and imagines what it would be like if Seongje were beside him. If those hands that held him on the beach held him here too, softer, slower, without the fear of being caught.

It’s stupid. It’s impossible. And yet it’s all he can think about.

The competition ends as expected. The team dominates. Seongje wins with ease, Baku and Gotak cheer like maniacs, Subin basks in her own victories. The medical team packs up, coaches congratulate, and Juntae stays small, quiet, except for when Seongje’s shadow looms close beside him, an unspoken claim no one dares question.

On the bus ride back, Juntae takes his spot by the window, heart heavy with everything unsaid. He tells himself it’s better this way. Two weeks left. Don’t get attached. Don’t make it harder than it already is.

But when Seongje slides into the seat beside him without hesitation, shoulder brushing his, arm resting casually along the back of the seat, Juntae knows he’s already lost.

Because he doesn’t want this to end. Not the whispers, not the brushes, not the way Seongje looks at him like he’s worth noticing.

And as the bus pulls away, city lights fading in the distance, Juntae realizes with a painful, exhilarating certainty—

He’s falling. Hard.

++++++++++++++++

The morning begins like every other.

Juntae wakes with his alarm, groggy and heavy-eyed, thumb automatically reaching for his phone on the nightstand. He rubs sleep from his face, yawns, and scrolls through the usual, messages from Sieun checking in, a photo of Sieun and Suho looking disgustingly cute over coffee, some posts from classmates buried in textbooks. Normal. Predictable.

And then he freezes.

His thumb stills on the glowing screen. His brain halts.

There, front and center on his Instagram feed, is Geum Seongje.

Not the Seongje he sees every day at the training center moody, sharp-eyed, perpetually chewing on nicotine gum or sneaking cigarettes. No, this is a Seongje from another world. A magazine world.

Juntae blinks, heart stuttering. The post is everywhere, already reposted by fan accounts, tagged with hashtags that burn themselves into his brain: #GeumSeongje #FencingPrince #BodyGoals.

The picture is… insane.

Seongje is half-naked, wearing nothing but low-waist jeans that ride so low they should be illegal. His torso is bare, glistening like sunlight on water, muscles sculpted in sharp lines down to his abdomen. Wet hair sticks to his forehead, his skin dusted with freckles like some sun-kissed fantasy. His hands, layered in silver rings, tug casually at his belt as if daring the camera to look lower. Necklaces catch the light at his collarbone.

His gaze is direct, burning.

And Juntae? Juntae forgets how to breathe.

He stares at the screen, mouth open, thumb hovering like he’s afraid to scroll further. His entire body heats up, from his ears down to his chest. His blankets suddenly feel suffocating. He throws them off, sits upright, and mutters, “Oh my god. Oh my god oh my god.”

It doesn’t help. If anything, looking longer makes it worse. His eyes trace every line, every shadow, every gleam of damp skin. His brain short-circuits between this is inappropriate and I would sell my soul to touch that stomach.

He fumbles his phone, nearly dropping it on his face. He recovers, presses the screen to his chest, and groans. “I’m doomed.”

By the time he makes it to the cafeteria for breakfast, he’s still rattled. He tries to convince himself it’s fine, it’s just a photo, it’s not even real life. But his hands won’t stop shaking as he carries his tray, steamed rice, fried egg, kimchi, and every time he blinks, the picture flashes in his mind.

He chooses a quiet corner, far from the chaos of the athletes. He needs calm, silence, maybe a lobotomy. He sets his tray down, unlocks his phone again because apparently, he enjoys suffering—and pulls the photo back up.

His spoon hovers over his rice as he stares, cheeks flaming. His heart thuds so loud he swears people can hear it.

And then—

“Enjoying yourself?”

The voice comes from right behind him, low and amused.

Juntae jolts so hard his spoon clatters against the tray. He whirls around and nearly chokes.

Seongje is standing there. Real, alive, messy-haired from morning training, towel draped around his neck, a bottle of water in hand. He’s smirking, eyes glinting with far too much awareness.

For a second, Juntae genuinely wonders if he’s hallucinating. Because the man in the photo and the man in front of him—same face, same sharp gaze, but two entirely different universes.

He fumbles his phone, almost hiding it under the table, but it’s too late. Seongje leans down just enough to catch the screen.

“Oh,” Seongje says, voice dripping with laughter. “That.”

Juntae wants to die. Right here, right now, in the middle of the cafeteria.

“I—” He sputters, his brain tripping over words. “I wasn’t—It just—It popped up—I didn’t—”

“Relax,” Seongje cuts in, chuckling. He slides into the seat across from him, casual as anything, stretching long legs under the table. “You like it?”

The words drop like a stone in Juntae’s stomach.

His face burns so hot he might actually combust. “I—what—no—yes—” He clamps his mouth shut, groaning into his hands.

Seongje leans his chin on one hand, watching him with infuriating calm. “Cute.”

Juntae glares weakly, still half-hiding his face. “Don’t—don’t call me—”

“I have more, you know,” Seongje interrupts, lips curling. “Unpublished ones. The stylists kept some. If you want to see them.”

The words hit Juntae like a slap. His head jerks up, eyes wide, mouth moving before his brain catches up. “Yes, please—”

He freezes.

Silence.

Seongje’s smirk widens, slow and wolfish. “Oh?”

Juntae wants the earth to open and swallow him whole. “No! I mean—I didn’t mean—That’s not—I just—”

He covers his face again, muffled groan spilling out. “I hate myself.”

Seongje laughs. Actually laughs. The sound is warm, rich, like something rare and dangerous. “You’re unbelievable.”

Juntae sinks lower in his seat, praying for divine intervention.

The humiliation only worsens when Baku and Gotak arrive a few minutes later. Both are loud, both are grinning, both holding their trays like they own the room.

“Yah, Seongje!” Gotak booms. “We saw it. The cover. You’re trending again, you bastard.”

“Half the comments are just people drooling over your abs,” Baku adds, sliding into the seat beside Juntae. He elbows him lightly. “You seen it? Impossible not to, huh?”

Juntae chokes on his water. His eyes flick to Seongje, who is still smirking, still looking far too pleased with himself.

“Of course he’s seen it,” Seongje says smoothly, gaze cutting directly at Juntae. “Didn’t take his eyes off it.”

Juntae sputters, nearly slamming his tray shut. “That’s—that’s not—”

Baku leans in, eyes glinting. “You okay, Juntae? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Gotak bursts out laughing. “Not a ghost. More like… an angel of thirst.”

Juntae’s ears turn scarlet. He curls his fingers into fists under the table, desperately focusing on his rice. Don’t react. Don’t react. Don’t react.

But the image won’t leave his mind. The abs, the low jeans, the freckles. The ridiculous, impossible beauty of it. And now—now it’s paired with Seongje’s real voice, real smirk, real presence, sitting across from him like he knows every thought running through Juntae’s head.

Breakfast descends into chaos.

Baku and Gotak argue over who’s louder. Seongje eats slowly, unbothered, occasionally tossing a teasing glance at Juntae that makes his stomach flip. Juntae does everything he can to stay invisible, but fails spectacularly.

Every time he lifts his cup, he feels eyes on him. Every time he swallows, his throat burns. Every time he dares glance up, Seongje is already looking.

By the time he finishes his tray, he’s convinced he’s radiating humiliation like heat waves.

He pushes back his chair, mumbling, “I should—I need to get to the medical office—”

“Already?” Baku pouts. “We’re just getting started.”

“I—I have work,” Juntae insists, standing quickly. He adjusts his glasses, grabs his tray, and makes for the exit.

But just as he turns, just as he thinks he’s escaped, a hand brushes his arm.

Warm, firm, deliberate.

Juntae stops dead, breath caught in his throat. He glances down—Seongje’s hand, resting lightly on his sleeve, thumb just barely stroking the fabric.

The touch is fleeting. Barely there. But it shoots straight through him like lightning.

When he looks up, Seongje’s gaze is steady. Soft, even. No smirk this time. Just something unreadable, something that makes Juntae’s stomach flip so violently he has to grip his tray tighter.

And then—just as quick—the hand is gone.

“See you later, doc,” Seongje says, voice low.

Juntae stumbles away, heart pounding so hard he barely hears anything else.

All morning, the cafeteria scene replays in his head. Over and over. The photo. The teasing. The hand on his arm.

He tries to focus on his tasks—organizing medical supplies, updating reports, checking hydration levels. But every time he stops moving, his brain slips back into chaos.

Do you like it?
Cute.
I have more… if you want to see them.

+++++++++++++++++

The last week of Juntae’s internship begins quietly.

Everything seems normal at first, routine and manageable, the way it’s been since he arrived. He wakes, he eats with the athletes when invited, he shadows the doctors, he patches minor injuries, he takes notes. Smooth. Safe.

And yet… there’s an ache under his skin.

Because he still hasn’t talked to Seongje about the kiss.

It happened. It was real. Juntae knows he didn’t dream it. He can still feel the warmth of Seongje’s lips, the roughness of his hands in his hair, the dizzying way the world spun. But since that night on the beach, they haven’t spoken about it. Not once.

Seongje hasn’t brought it up. Juntae hasn’t dared.

And every day that passes, it gnaws at him. His internship has less than a weeks left now, only one. What happens after? Will he ever see Seongje again? Did that kiss mean anything at all to him? Or was it just—heat of the moment? Something Seongje’s already forgotten, while Juntae lies awake every night replaying it until his chest hurts?

He tells himself not to think about it. Focus on the work. Keep your head down. But of course, that’s when everything falls apart.

It begins with Subin.

She appears in the medical wing mid-afternoon, casual as if she’s just stopping by, complaining about a scratch on her hand from a practice blade. Juntae almost rolls his eyes, she doesn’t need him, not really but he forces politeness, gestures for her to sit.

He fetches disinfectant, bandages, gloves. Professional. Calm.

Except the second he touches her hand, she leans in. Too close.

Her voice drops, sugar sweet, poison underneath. “So… how’s life as Seongje’s little pet?”

Juntae stiffens. His hands freeze.

She smiles, sharp and knowing. “He has a type, you know. All shy, pretending to be innocent. He likes the game. Lets him play hero. Lets him look dangerous without actually committing.”

Juntae swallows hard, eyes on her hand. “Please don’t—”

“You really think you’re special?” she interrupts, laughter laced in every word. “You’re not. He’s done this before. With me, for example.”

The words pierce him like needles. He fumbles the bandage, his chest tightening.

Subin leans even closer, her breath brushing his ear. “Do you know what his body feels like, Juntae? Because I do. Every muscle, every scar. I touched all of it. I had all of it. And you?” Her laugh is cruel. “You’ll never get close.”

Juntae’s throat closes. He stares at her hand, blinking fast, trying to stay steady.

“You act cute,” she continues. “Head down, big glasses, all polite. But I know what you’re doing. Scheming. Playing innocent to get attention. Pathetic.”

Her words slice, echoing the voices from his past. Weak. Useless. Nothing.

“Face it,” she says. “Seongje used you. A distraction, that’s all. When your internship ends, so will his interest.”

Juntae bites his lip so hard he tastes iron. His hands shake as he tapes the bandage in place. He wants to scream, to shove her away, to finally use the voice Seongje told him he was allowed to use.

But he doesn’t. He stays silent.

Coward.

When she finally pulls back, smirking, she tilts her head. “Oh—almost forgot. Hyoman wanted to see you. Trainer’s office.”

She leaves without another word, without looking back.

And Juntae sits there, alone, blood roaring in his ears, chest caving.

He tells himself not to go.

Every instinct screams at him: don’t. Avoid. Hide.

But the guilt burns hotter. He didn’t clap back. He didn’t defend himself. Again.

You’re allowed to scream, Seongje had said. Allowed to clap back at people like her.

But he hadn’t. He’d folded. Like always.

So maybe, maybe if he goes to Hyoman, does his job properly, keeps his head down… he can salvage something.

He wipes his face, forces his legs to move, and walks to the trainer’s office.

The room is quiet when he enters. Too quiet.

Hyoman is there, leaning against the desk, arms folded. He looks up, a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Juntae. Good. Sit.” He gestures toward the couch.

Juntae hesitates, hand still on the doorknob. “…I’d rather stand.”

Hyoman’s smile tightens. He pushes off the desk, steps closer. Taller. Stronger. The room shrinks with every step.

“Suit yourself,” he says lightly. “I just wanted to talk. Your internship’s almost over. You’ve done well.”

The words are harmless, but the tone—off. Slippery.

Juntae’s heart pounds. He grips the strap of his bag. “Thank you. I should—”

He turns slightly toward the door.

And Hyoman moves.

Fast.

Suddenly, he’s right there. Too close. A hand brushes Juntae’s arm, then his shoulder. Heavy. Unwelcome.

Juntae freezes.

Hyoman’s voice drops, low, coaxing. “Relax. You’ve worked hard. You deserve… something more.”

Panic flares. Juntae stumbles back. “No.”

But Hyoman follows, steps matching his retreat, taller, broader, looming.

“You think I don’t see it?” Hyoman says, smile gone now, eyes sharp. “You play shy, but you want the attention. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

His hand lands on Juntae’s wrist, squeezing. Hard.

Pain shoots up his arm. Juntae gasps, twisting, but Hyoman’s grip is iron.

“Stop—” His voice cracks.

Hyoman leans in, breath hot, words venom. “If you can be Seongje’s little toy, why not mine? Or maybe share with the other coaches. That’s what you’re good for, isn’t it?”

Juntae’s stomach lurches. The words cut deep, too familiar. Weak. Useless. Trash.

“No,” he whispers, trembling. “Let go.”

Hyoman laughs, dark. “What are you gonna do, hm? Cry?”

Tears blur Juntae’s vision. His body shakes, memory flashing—bullies in school, lockers slamming, fists grabbing, voices jeering. Stay quiet. Stay invisible. Don’t fight back.

But another memory cuts through.

Seongje’s voice. You’re allowed to scream.

Something shifts. Breaks.

“No,” Juntae says again. Louder. Stronger.

He pushes. Hard.

Hyoman staggers back a step, surprised.

“I said leave me alone!” Juntae shouts, voice raw, cracking, but real.

Hyoman’s face twists, fury replacing amusement. “You little—”

He lunges, shoving Juntae against the wall. Pain explodes in his back. Hyoman’s grip clamps his wrist, squeezing harder, cruel.

Juntae cries out, tears spilling, fear choking him. He’s small, too small, too weak—

But not this time.

“I said NO!” he screams, twisting, shoving with all his strength.

Somehow, it works. Hyoman loses balance, his hand slips, and Juntae wrenches free.

He doesn’t wait. He bolts.

Out the door, down the hall, heart pounding, vision blurred with tears.

He doesn’t know where he’s running. Only that he has to get away.

His wrist throbs, already swelling, bruises blooming. His chest heaves, breaths ragged.

Weak, useless, nothing. The voices echo, relentless. But underneath them, louder now: You’re allowed to scream.

He bursts around a corner, and nearly collides with Gotak.

“Juntae?” Gotak’s eyes widen at the sight of him—red-eyed, shaking, tears streaming. “Hey—what—what happened?”

Juntae stumbles back, words stuck in his throat. He wants to explain, wants to scream it, but the shame crushes him. The fear is too fresh.

Gotak reaches out, gentle. “Juntae—”

But Juntae shakes his head, choked sob tearing out. He runs. Past Gotak, down the hall, away from everything.

He doesn’t stop until he’s alone, curled in his room, door locked, body trembling.

He presses his injured wrist to his chest, tears soaking his pillow.

For the first time in years, he’d fought back. But it doesn’t feel like victory. It feels like breaking.

+++++++++++++++++++

The knock on his door is distant at first. Dull. Muted through the fog pressing down on him.

Juntae sits on the floor of his small dorm room, back wedged against the side of the bed, knees pulled tight against his chest. His arms are wrapped so hard around them his fingernails dig into his skin. His breathing is fast, shallow, too loud, not enough.

The panic claws higher, unstoppable. His chest is a cage too small to hold his heart. His vision blurs at the edges. He can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t move.

Weak. Useless. Trash.

Subin’s voice. Hyoman’s voice. His parents’ voices. The laughter of the kids who shoved him into lockers years ago. All layered, crushing him.

Another knock. Louder this time. Urgent.

He flinches, buries his head into his knees. His body shakes, every nerve screaming hide, hide, hide.

Then, the sound of the door opening. Not a knock this time, but the click of the handle, the scrape of the hinges.

Footsteps. Heavy, steady, deliberate.

Juntae doesn’t lift his head. He can’t. His lungs are too tight, throat locked, body trembling.

The footsteps stop. Then a voice.

Low. Familiar. Warm.

“Juntae.”

Seongje.

The sound of his name in that voice cracks something inside him.

Of course Seongje would come. Gotak must have told him, he’d seen Juntae running through the corridor, a mess of tears and panic, and there was no way Gotak would keep that to himself. If anyone was going to come after him, it was always going to be Seongje.

Seongje kneels. Close enough that Juntae feels the shift of air, hears the quiet rustle of clothes.

“Hey,” Seongje says softly. “Breathe for me. Just breathe.”

Juntae’s breath hitches, too fast, too shallow.

“I know it’s hard,” Seongje continues, tone patient, coaxing. “But you can. In—” He inhales loudly, slow, steady. “And out.”

Juntae tries. His chest burns. The breath catches halfway. Tears spill harder, blinding him.

“It’s okay,” Seongje murmurs. “Even if it’s messy. Just try again. In. Out. That’s it.”

The rhythm of his voice steadies something in Juntae. He clings to it, shaky breaths rasping out, uneven but there.

Seongje doesn’t move closer, doesn’t force. Just stays. Solid. Present.

Minutes pass like this, or maybe seconds, it’s impossible to tell. Slowly, the storm eases. His breathing evens, if only a little.

Juntae lifts his head, barely, eyes red, cheeks wet. And that’s when he sees it.

Seongje’s gaze drops. To his wrists.

The sleeve of Juntae’s hoodie has ridden up, exposing angry purple bruises, already swelling, fingers marked from Hyoman’s grip.

The calm in Seongje’s face flickers. Tightens. Shifts. His voice, when he speaks again, is lower. Dangerous.

“Who,” he says, each word clipped, sharp, “did this to you?”

Juntae jolts, yanks his sleeves down. His heart spikes all over again. “I—”

Seongje’s eyes narrow. And then he sees more. A faint cut on Juntae’s cheek, a thin line he hadn’t even noticed, probably from where Hyoman shoved him against the wall.

The room feels smaller. Hotter.

“Juntae.” Seongje’s tone is quieter now, but no less fierce. “Tell me what happened.”

Juntae shakes his head. His throat works but no words come. His chest constricts, panic pressing close again.

“I—I’m sorry,” he blurts finally, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry for being so weak. Sorry for being useless. I just—” His words trip over each other, fast, desperate. “I get it now, why you won’t want to see me after this. After the internship ends. I’m not—worth—”

“Stop.”

Seongje cuts him off, sudden, sharp.

Juntae flinches.

Then—warmth.

Arms around him. Pulling him in. Strong, firm, unyielding.

Seongje hugs him, tight, holding his trembling body against his chest. One large hand cradles the back of Juntae’s head, the other grips his shoulder.

“Shh,” Seongje murmurs. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Juntae chokes on a sob. He can’t stop it. His body collapses into the hold, shaking, tears soaking Seongje’s shirt.

Seongje doesn’t let go. He rocks him slightly, shushing, whispering words too low to catch but warm all the same.

Minutes blur. Five. Ten. Maybe more.

Finally, when Juntae’s sobs soften, Seongje speaks again.

“Who did this?” His voice is different now. Low. Dangerous. The edge of something sharp barely restrained.

Juntae freezes. He can feel the anger in the way Seongje holds him—protective, but simmering.

“I…” Juntae swallows. His throat burns. He knows Seongje already suspects. Already knows.

But saying it feels like opening a wound too deep. If he admits it, if he names Hyoman, then the storm will break.

He shakes his head. “Please. Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t do anything. Please.” His voice cracks. “My internship ends in a week. It’ll be over soon. If you do something, it’ll ruin everything. And I’m not—” He swallows again, bitter. “I’m not worth it.”

The air shifts.

Seongje pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes sharp, dark.

“Not worth it?” His voice rises, incredulous. “Do you hear yourself?”

Juntae can’t meet his eyes. He stares at the floor, at his bruised wrist hidden in his sleeve.

“I’m tired of this,” Seongje snaps. “Tired of you never defending yourself. Tired of you acting like you deserve this.”

The words hit like blows. Juntae flinches, chest aching.

“You need to toughen up,” Seongje continues, harsh now, anger spilling out. “You can’t just curl up every time someone comes at you. You can’t keep letting people walk all over you.”

Each word slices deeper. Juntae’s breath stutters.

“I did,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I did fight back. I pushed him off. I—I screamed. For once, I—” His throat closes, tears rising again. 

Seongje doesn’t answer right away. He looks at Juntae, jaw tight, eyes conflicted, but the anger still there, simmering.

And something inside Juntae cracks.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. Final. “I’m sorry for disappointing you.”

The silence is heavy.

Juntae forces himself to stand, legs shaking. He wipes his face with trembling hands, but the tears keep coming.

“Maybe,” he says, voice hollow, “it’s better if we don’t talk anymore.”

The words fall like stones between them.

Seongje’s eyes widen slightly, but Juntae doesn’t wait for a response. He turns, fumbling with the door, desperate to get away before his chest shatters completely.

He doesn’t see the way Seongje’s hands clench into fists. Doesn’t see the storm gathering behind his eyes.

He only hears the door click shut behind him.

And for the first time since the kiss, the space between them feels like an ocean.

+++++++++++++

The sound comes first, an ugly, echoing thud, followed by gasps and shouts. Juntae is on his way back from delivering supplies to the medical office when it reaches him. For a split second, he thinks maybe it’s just a training accident, another spar gone wrong. But the sound repeats, thud, thud, thud, and this time it’s accompanied by a chorus of horrified voices.

He drops his folder on the desk without thinking and rushes toward the gymnasium. The closer he gets, the more frantic the noise becomes: sneakers squeaking against polished floorboards, panicked shouts, the unmistakable crack of skin meeting skin.

When he pushes through the double doors, the sight freezes him.

Seongje is on top of Hyoman. Not fencing, not sparring—punching. His fist slams down once, twice, again, each blow landing with terrifying force. Hyoman’s head jerks back against the mat, his lip already split, blood trickling down his chin.

“SEONGJE!”

Baku’s voice rings out across the gym, raw with alarm. He and Gotak are trying to pull Seongje back, each grabbing an arm, but it’s like trying to stop a storm. Seongje’s eyes are wild, his face twisted in rage, every muscle straining as he shrugs them off and lands another punch.

“Stop it! You’re going to kill him!” Baku shouts, desperation breaking through his usual loud bravado.

But Seongje doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even hear. He’s somewhere else, lost in the blind tunnel of fury, his knuckles already raw and bleeding.

Juntae feels his stomach churn. His knees nearly buckle. The world tilts, because he knows. He knows exactly why this is happening.

And it’s because of him.

The commotion draws the rest of the staff. Three coaches rush in, barking orders. It takes all three of them to drag Seongje off, prying his fists from Hyoman’s shirt, holding him back as he thrashes. Hyoman collapses sideways, gasping, spitting blood onto the mat.

“You’re finished!” Hyoman screams hoarsely, pointing a trembling, bloody hand toward Seongje. “Your career is OVER, you hear me? Enough with your attitude, enough with your violence, you’re DONE!”

The words reverberate across the gym. Juntae’s chest tightens painfully.

And then, as if to make everything even worse, Subin’s voice cuts through the air. Sweet, fake concern dripping like poison.

“Shouldn’t someone investigate why this happened?” she says, loud enough for everyone to hear. Her gaze flicks deliberately to Juntae, lingering. “I mean… doesn’t the little intern know something? He’s always hanging around Seongje. Maybe he’s part of the problem.”

Juntae’s throat closes. His hands tremble at his sides. The heat of a hundred eyes falls on him, suspicion already brewing.

He wants to scream, No. I’m not part of this. I didn’t ask for this. But his voice is gone, stolen by fear.

The coaches haul Seongje out of the gym. He doesn’t resist anymore, but his chest rises and falls like a caged animal, fury radiating from him.

Juntae waits for him to glance back. To look at him. To send even the smallest signal that it’ll be okay.

But Seongje never does. He’s taken away without so much as a glance.

Juntae’s heart splinters.

News spreads fast inside the training center. Within an hour, everyone knows. Seongje is locked in an office with two directors, his future being debated behind closed doors. Hyoman is in another room, bellowing curses, demanding Seongje’s dismissal.

Juntae lingers outside, pacing the hallway, trying to catch fragments through the heavy doors.

“…unacceptable behavior…”
“…the World Cup is in two weeks…”
“…sponsors will be asking questions…”

Every word drives another nail of dread into his chest.

He presses his palm against the wall, dizzy. This is all spiraling out of control. Because of me.

It doesn’t take long for the outside world to catch the scent of blood. By evening, headlines flood social media:

“Olympic Champion Seongje In Violent Altercation With National Team Trainer.”
“Golden Boy Gone Rogue? Fencer Suspended Ahead Of World Cup.”
“Is Seongje A Danger To His Own Team?”

Juntae stares at his phone, the words blurring. Each headline cuts deeper, twisting his stomach until he feels sick.

Scrolling down, it gets worse. Comment sections turn brutal:

“He’s a psycho, always had an attitude problem.”

“Kick him out, he’s embarrassing Korea.”

“Disrespectful thug. No place in the national team.”

Seongje’s face is everywhere, magazine covers from months ago plastered next to violent descriptions, the contrast almost cruel.

Juntae’s chest aches so much it’s hard to breathe.

That night, Juntae knocks on the door to Gotak and Baku’s shared room, his phone still clutched in his hand. His reflection in the screen looks pale, haunted.

Baku opens the door, frown softening when he sees him. “Kid. Come in.”

Gotak is sprawled on his bed, scrolling through his own phone with a grim expression. The room feels heavy, silent except for the occasional buzz of notifications.

“What’s going to happen to him?” Juntae blurts, voice cracking. He shoves his phone forward, the headlines glaring in the dim light. “They’re calling him a psycho, saying he doesn’t respect the rules. They can’t just—he’s not—” His words stumble into pieces.

Gotak sighs, sitting up slowly. “He’s suspended. Won’t be part of the World Cup. That’s what they decided today.”

The words slam into Juntae’s chest like a blade.

“No,” he whispers, shaking his head. “That’s my fault. If I hadn’t—if I’d—” He can’t even finish.

Baku cuts him off sharply. “Don’t. Don’t blame yourself. This isn’t on you.”

But Juntae can’t stop. “If I talk to the directors, explain—maybe they’ll listen. Maybe they’ll understand.”

“They won’t.” Gotak’s tone is flat, final. “You’re an intern, Juntae. They don’t care. They barely even see you.”

The truth of it makes Juntae flinch.

“And Seongje?” he asks, voice breaking. “Where is he?”

“Home,” Baku says quietly. “They sent him back. Since he won’t be in the World Cup, no point keeping him here.”

The words hollow Juntae out. He thought maybe he could at least see Seongje, talk to him, say something, anything. But he’s gone.

+++++++++++++

The final week of his internship drags like a nightmare. Juntae goes through the motions, handing out ice packs, taping wrists, stocking supplies, but his mind is never there. Every time he passes Subin in the hallway, her satisfied smirk cuts him open.

He tries, a few times, to talk to the directors. To explain. But they shut him down before he can even finish his sentences.

“It’s not your place.”
“He’s done enough damage.”
“It was only a matter of time.”

When he reminds them that Seongje is an Olympic gold medalist, their silence says everything. They’ve already erased him.

On his very last day, the team is sent out for a PR event. Juntae doesn’t even get the chance to say goodbye to Baku or Gotak. He packs his things in silence, his dorm room emptier than ever, the walls echoing with absence.

The bus ride back to his university feels endless. For six weeks, this place had become his world. Now it’s over and everything is worse than when he started.

He scrolls through his phone, headlines still multiplying. Social media threads spiral out of control, each nastier than the last.

Seongje is being torn apart in real time. Sponsors rumored to be dropping him, fans calling him a disgrace, strangers mocking every flaw.

Juntae tries calling him. Once. Twice. Ten times. Every time, no answer.

And the last words he’d spoken to Seongje echo like poison: maybe it’s better if we don’t talk to each other again.

The bus rattles along the highway, neon signs streaking past the window. Juntae’s chest aches with a mix of guilt and rage.

He thinks of Seongje’s fists slamming into Hyoman, of the wild fury in his eyes. Seongje had been willing to risk everything—for him.

And what has he done in return? Stayed quiet. Stayed small.

Enough.

For the first time in his life, Juntae feels something burning inside him, hotter than fear, stronger than doubt.

If Seongje was brave enough to stand up, to fight back, then so can he.

Not for himself. Not anymore.

For Seongje.
For Seongje’s honor.

++++++++++++++

It starts with a phone call. Juntae doesn’t even realize he’s crying until Sieun’s voice sharpens on the other end:

“Juntae. What happened?”

He tries to explain between shallow breaths, words tumbling: internship, Seongje, fight, suspension, media, me, it’s all because of me.

There’s a pause, then Sieun says firmly, the way only he can:

“Stop. Breathe. You’re not alone in this.”

And just like that, Juntae believes him.

By the time they meet at a café near campus, Juntae’s hands are still shaking, but Sieun listens without interrupting once. When Juntae finishes, Sieun leans back, eyes sharp with calculation.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “So they’ve made Seongje the villain. And Hyoman—the predator—he gets away with it. Typical.”

Juntae swallows hard. “What can I do? I’m just… an intern. No one listens to me.”

Sieun’s lips curl. “Then we make them listen. You forget who my mother is.”

He doesn’t forget. Mrs. Yeon is practically a household name, a TV host with connections sprawling across the media world. Sieun never flaunts it,but right now, Juntae sees how powerful that web could be.

“You mean…?” Juntae asks.

Sieun nods. “Journalists. The right kind. Ones who care about truth, not clicks.”

Hope sparks in Juntae’s chest for the first time in weeks.

It takes only a few days. Sieun shows up at Juntae’s dorm with a small notebook, names scrawled in his neat handwriting.

“Here. I asked around. These are the ones you can trust. They’re not scared of the federation.”

Juntae stares at the list. His throat tightens. “You did this… for me?”

“For Seongje,” Sieun corrects gently. “But also for you. You’ve been hurt too.”

Juntae hugs the notebook to his chest. For the first time in a long while, he doesn’t feel so small.

He calls them all. Voice trembling, words stumbling. Some don’t answer. Some politely decline. But one voice doesn’t.

“Yeongi,” she introduces herself. Her voice is clear, clipped, professional. “I know your name. Yeon Sieun vouched for you.”

“Y-yes,” Juntae says, gripping the phone so tight his knuckles ache. “I—please. I need help. It’s about the fencing team. About Choi Hyoman. About… Geum Seongje.”

There’s silence, then a sharp inhale.

“Meet me,” Yeongi says.

+++++++++++++

She’s nothing like he imagined. Small, slight, dressed plainly in black jeans and a sweater. Dark hair cropped at her chin. But her eyes sharp, assessing, cutting straight through him.

“You know my work?” she asks.

“Yes,” Juntae nods quickly. “The skating scandal.”

“Then you know I don’t deal with gossip. Only proof.”

Proof. Juntae’s hands shake as he opens his phone, scrolling to the photos he took after the incident: his bruised wrists, the faint cut on his cheek. He pushes the phone toward her, heart hammering.

“It was him,” he whispers. “Choi Hyoman. He harassed me for weeks. Seongje told him to stop. He didn’t. And then…” He swallows. “The fight.”

His voice falters, but he forces himself to keep talking. “I was only supposed to be there six weeks, just an intern patching people up, keeping notes, running errands. Somehow I got to know them—the athletes. Baku, Gotak… they treated me like a friend, like I belonged…” He stops himself, pressing his nails into his palms. “They made me feel like those weeks mattered. Like I wasn’t invisible anymore.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver. “And Seongje?”

Juntae bites his lip. Not the kiss. Never the kiss. That part of the story is his secret to guard, a fragile thing that could shatter both their lives if spoken aloud. In a country like this, in a sport like theirs, outing Seongje would destroy him faster than any scandal about a fight. So Juntae swallows it down, keeps it buried, even if it aches to hide the one moment that meant everything.

“He protected me,” he says instead. “That’s all. He protected me when no one else did.”

Her expression softens, just slightly. Then she leans forward. “If it happened to you, it’s happened to others. I’ll find them. But I need you to go on record.”

Juntae’s stomach twists. His parents would hate this. His professors might worry. He’d be sticking his neck out for someone who hasn’t even called him back.

But then he remembers Seongje’s voice: you’re allowed to fight back.

“I’ll do it,” Juntae says. His voice shakes, but it’s firm. “Use my name.”

Days blur. Weeks. Yeongi works fast, faster than Juntae expected. She sends him short updates: got someone from the women’s team. A junior from three years ago. A boy who quit because of him.

Each testimony is like a blade: stories of humiliation, coercion, even physical intimidation. Juntae reads them, hands trembling, rage boiling where fear used to be.

But the article isn’t ready before the World Cup.

Juntae watches from home, laptop balanced on his knees. He sees Baku win bronze, Gotak silver. He texts them congratulations, heart aching when they send back a smiling selfie.

And Subin? She crashes out early, fails to medal. Juntae can’t help the sharp satisfaction that flares.

But the emptiness is heavier. No Seongje on the piste. No fire, no brilliance. Just silence.

And when the team fails to win gold, the media turns again.

“Without Seongje, Korea loses its edge.”
“He cost us the title.”
“Strip him of his Olympic medal.”

Juntae slams his laptop shut, tears burning his eyes.

++++++++++++++

One month later, it hits.

Four pages, printed in bold, with Yeongi’s byline stamped at the top.

The Hidden Scandal of Korean Fencing: Choi Hyoman’s Reign of Abuse.

Testimony after testimony. Names, dates, details. Former athletes—girls, boys, juniors—each one echoing the same horror. Humiliation. Bullying. Abuse of power. Dreams shattered. Voices ignored by directors who valued Hyoman’s connections more than human beings.

And then, Juntae. His name, his story. His photos. His words.

“Geum Seongje was never the bad guy. He is a hero who saved me when I was no one, just an intern.”

When Juntae sees it printed, his heart stutters. It’s everywhere. Clipped into headlines, tweeted, shared on Instagram stories. His quote becomes a rallying cry.

#HeroSeongje trends worldwide.

Interns from every industry flood social media with their own stories of harassment, abuse, exploitation. Thousands of voices rise up: I wish I had a Seongje to protect me.

Suddenly, Seongje isn’t the villain anymore. He’s the hero. The one who punched back.

But Yeongi isn’t done. A week later, she publishes another bombshell:

Proof of Corruption in the National Team Federation.

Bank transfers. Nepotism. The reveal that Hyoman is the nephew of a key sponsor.

The public explodes.

“NEPO BABY!”
“Protecting abusers because of family ties?”
“Seongje was right all along!”

The directors can’t silence it this time. The scandal is too big, the rage too loud.

And then, finally, Juntae sees it.

A single headline that makes his knees buckle:

“Geum Seongje Reinstated to National Team.”

He stares at the screen, vision blurring with tears. He did it. He actually did it.

Not for himself. For Seongje. For the man who once told him he was worth protecting.

Now it’s Juntae who protected him.

+++++++++++++++++

The vibration wakes him.

Juntae blinks at the glow of his phone, still tangled in the sheets of his university dorm bed. His body feels heavy from another late night of studying, but the notification on the screen forces his eyes to focus.

It’s everywhere. News alerts, Instagram posts, Twitter hashtags.

Geum Seongje reinstated to the national team.

But that’s not what makes Juntae’s heart squeeze. What makes his lips part and his chest warm is the official statement attached to the headlines.

He scrolls through slowly, every word sharp in his sleepy mind.

“To everyone who has followed me, trusted me, and cheered for me: I want to apologize. Violence is never the answer, not in life, not in sport. Especially in fencing, a discipline built on control, precision, and respect. I failed to uphold those values. I am ashamed for it.

I promise to work harder to be the kind of athlete younger generations can look up to. I will fight, not with my fists, but with my dedication. I will train, I will sweat, I will give everything to bring gold medals back to our country.

Thank you to those who stood by me when I didn’t deserve it. Your faith is the reason I can stand back up again.”

Juntae stares at the words until they blur. A stupid, helpless smile curls across his face. He can almost hear Seongje’s voice saying it, low, steady, stripped bare of arrogance.

His phone buzzes again.

A new message. From Gotak.

Just an address.

Juntae frowns, typing back immediately:
“What is this?”

Three dots appear. Then Gotak’s reply:
“His place.”

Juntae’s throat tightens. His fingers hover.
“Why are you sending me this?”

Gotak doesn’t make him wait long.
“Because we’re all home now. Season’s over. Don’t be an idiot. He didn’t forget you.”

For a moment, Juntae just sits there, staring at the address as if it’s a live thing, pulsing on his screen. His chest is a mess of panic and longing. Go? Don’t go? What if Seongje doesn’t want to see him? What if Gotak is wrong?

Before he can spin himself into another knot, he hears laughter from the other side of the room. Sieun. His best friend leans against the desk, mug of instant coffee in hand, eyes sparkling with trouble. Beside him sits Suho, cross-legged on the chair, smirking knowingly.

Juntae stares at the address on his phone, frozen. He doesn’t even know if he should go.

“Wait… what’s this?” Sieun asks, leaning over his shoulder.

“It’s… Gotak sent me Seongje’s address,” Juntae mutters, voice barely above a whisper, cheeks heating.

Sieun raises an eyebrow, peering at the screen. “He sent you his address?”

Juntae nods, looking anywhere but him.

Sieun smirks. “Well, then. You’re going, right?”

“I—I don’t know,” Juntae stammers, still gripping the phone like it might explode.

“Please. That man practically bled for you, and you’re hesitating over a visit?”

Sieun cackles. “Also, look at you! You’re already blushing. You’re gone for him.”

Juntae groans, pressing a pillow over his face. “I’ll just embarrass myself—”

“No,” Sieun interrupts firmly, yanking the pillow away. “You’ll go. And you’ll make yourself sexy. Wear something that says ‘I’m not just your cute little intern, I’m a man who knows what he wants.’”

Juntae splutters. “I can’t—”

“You can. And you will. Because if you don’t, you’ll regret it forever.”

And that’s how, hours later, Juntae finds himself in front of a tall, modern high-rise, nerves chewing him alive. Security had stopped him at the entrance, but when he gave his name, they only checked a list, nodded, and waved him through.

Seongje had put him on a list.

By the time he’s in the elevator, his heart is slamming against his ribs, palms clammy. He almost presses “Lobby” to escape, but the doors ding open before he can.

The hallway is quiet, lined with sleek black doors and golden numbers. He finds the right one. Stands frozen in front of it, phone gripped like a lifeline.

He could still leave. Pretend he never got the message. Pretend he never wanted this.

But then he remembers Seongje’s bruised knuckles, Seongje’s hoodie around his shoulders, Seongje’s voice saying his name like it mattered.

So he rings the bell.

The seconds stretch. His stomach churns. He’s about to die of nerves when the door finally opens.

And there he is.

Geum Seongje.

Exactly as Juntae remembers him, except worse because now he’s real, standing in front of him in sweatpants and a loose black T-shirt, glasses sliding down his nose. His hair is damp, messy, like he just stepped out of the shower.

He blinks, clearly not expecting this, and for a fleeting second, Juntae almost bolts.

“...Hi,” Seongje says at last, his voice calm but low, smooth as ever.

“Hi,” Juntae breathes, too fast, too small. He clutches the strap of his bag like it might anchor him. “I—uh—I can go back, if now’s not—”

“Don’t-.” Seongje steps aside, opening the door wider. “Come in.”

The soft click of the lock behind him echoes too loud in the silence. Juntae’s chest tightens as he takes in the apartment: sleek black furniture, minimalist and sharp, expensive in a way that feels untouchable. The walls are lined with medals and trophies, lit by soft recessed lighting that makes them gleam like pieces in a museum. Even the air smells like money, clean, faintly cologne, faintly soap.

Juntae feels small here, an intruder.

“Sit,” Seongje says, nodding toward a long, low sofa. “You look like you’re about to faint.”

Juntae obeys, perching on the edge of the sofa like it might swallow him whole. He hears Seongje moving in the kitchen and a moment later, a glass of water is set on the table in front of him.

“Drink.”

“Th-thank you,” Juntae stammers, his hands trembling slightly as he lifts the glass. The water is cold, grounding, but doesn’t calm the pounding of his heart.

Seongje sits at the opposite end of the sofa, one arm draped over the backrest, posture deceptively relaxed. His gaze is steady, unreadable behind his glasses, and Juntae feels it like a weight pressing against him.

Silence stretches. Juntae fiddles with the rim of the glass, searching for something—anything—to say.

Finally, Seongje breaks it. “You called me.”

Juntae freezes. “I… yeah. A few times. You never answered.”

“I know.” Seongje’s voice is even, but softer now. He exhales, looking briefly toward the medals on the wall. “I couldn’t. Not then.”

The words sting, though Juntae knows they’re true. He swallows, staring down at his hands. “I thought maybe… you didn’t want to hear from me. After… after what you said.”

Seongje shifts, and when Juntae dares to glance up, his expression has changed, less guarded, more human. “I shouldn’t have said it. What I told you that night… about being weak. I didn’t mean it. I was angry at Hyoman, at the situation, at myself. Not at you.”

The memory cuts through Juntae like glass, the room, his bruises, Seongje’s cold words. He’d replayed it so many times, wondering if he’d imagined the cruelty. Hearing this apology now, something in him loosens.

“I… I believed you,” Juntae admits, voice thin. “I thought maybe you were right. That I was just… useless.”

Seongje shakes his head. “No. You’re not.” He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, gaze steady. “I was wrong. You were stronger than I gave you credit for.”

Juntae’s chest tightens. He wants to cry, laugh, both. “I’m sorry too,” he whispers. “For making things worse. For not being able to… stop it.”

“You did more than anyone,” Seongje says quietly. “More than I expected. More than I deserved.”

Juntae blinks at him, stunned, and then Seongje adds, “I saw the article.”

The words drop heavy in the room. Juntae grips his glass harder.

“You went public,” Seongje continues, his tone neither sharp nor soft, just steady. “Why?”

Juntae swallows, heat rising in his cheeks. “Because… because they were blaming you. Saying you lost control, that you were dangerous. But you were defending me. I couldn’t let them turn you into the villain when I knew the truth.”

Seongje’s jaw tightens slightly, but not in anger. He studies him for a long moment, then says, “And you… learned to fight back.”

Juntae nods, hesitating. “Someone taught me. That I didn’t have to keep quiet.”

Silence follows, but it’s different this time. Seongje leans back, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wants to smile but won’t let himself.

“You risked a lot,” Juntae says finally, voice quieter. “Your place on the team. Your reputation. For me.”

Juntae shakes his head, words tumbling out before he can stop them. “For the truth. For what was right. I couldn’t just stand there and let them—”

“Juntae.” Seongje cuts him off gently, his tone uncharacteristically soft. “Thank you.”

The word lingers in the air, heavier than anything else they’ve said.

Juntae feels heat spread through his chest, his throat tight, his hands still shaking around the glass. He nods, unable to speak.

For a moment, the silence between them isn’t heavy anymore. It’s warm.

The thank you still hangs in the air. Juntae doesn’t know what to do with it. His fingers fidget against the cool surface of the glass, his throat tightening as if the word has lodged itself somewhere deep inside his chest.

He’s never heard Seongje sound like that before. Not in practice, not in interviews, not even in private when the others were around. Soft. Bare. Vulnerable.

It makes him want to curl into himself and lean forward at the same time.

The silence stretches, but it isn’t uncomfortable now. It’s something else, charged, dense, like static gathering in the air before a storm. Juntae can feel every beat of his own heart, every shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Seongje moves first. He shifts closer on the sofa, still keeping a careful distance but close enough that Juntae feels the weight of him, the warmth radiating across the space. His thigh brushes the edge of the cushion near Juntae’s, not touching but near enough that Juntae’s skin buzzes with awareness.

Juntae dares a glance at him.

It’s unfair, really. Seongje isn’t dressed up, isn’t styled like he is on magazine covers or in tournaments, but that only makes him worse. The loose T-shirt clings faintly to his chest where it’s still damp from the shower. The glasses slipping down his nose make him look sharp and unreachable, but also… devastatingly human. And that combination is what kills Juntae.

His mind flashes, unbidden, to the beach. The salt air, the hoodie draped over his shoulders, the first kiss that had seared through him like lightning. He remembers the taste of it, the shock, the way it left him burning for hours after.

And then he remembers the bad things too, the room, the bruises, the harsh words. The silence after. Weeks of it.

His stomach twists.

But now… now they are here. Together. And Seongje isn’t looking away.

“You really thought I wouldn’t want to hear from you?” Seongje asks suddenly, breaking into his thoughts. His tone is quiet, but there’s something underneath it… hurt, maybe, or disbelief.

Juntae’s cheeks burn. “I… you didn’t answer. I thought maybe I was just… another problem. Another thing you didn’t need.”

For a second, something flickers across Seongje’s face, pain, guilt, regret. He leans in, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers loosely interlaced. “You were never that.” His voice is low, almost fierce. “Never.”

Juntae swallows, blinking rapidly, the words hitting him harder than they should. He stares at the floor, afraid his face will betray too much.

And then he feels it, almost hesitant. The brush of fingers against his own.

His breath stutters.

Seongje’s hand lingers just enough to test, to ask permission without words. Juntae doesn’t pull away. His fingers tremble but remain there, barely touching, like they’re standing on the edge of something neither dares to name.

“You’re shaking,” Seongje observes softly.

“I’m not—” Juntae starts, but the denial dies quickly. His voice is too unsteady, his chest too tight. He exhales shakily. “Okay… maybe I am.”

Seongje’s lips curve faintly, not into a smirk this time, but something gentler. “Relax. It’s just me.”

Just me.

As if that’s supposed to calm him down. As if the very problem isn’t that it is him, Geum Seongje, golden boy, the one who fills every room, the one who kissed him once and shattered everything.

Juntae swallows again, trying to steady his breathing. He can hear it,too loud in his own ears, uneven, like every inhale drags the scent of Seongje deeper into him. Soap, faint cologne, skin still warm from the shower. It’s intoxicating.

And then he notices Seongje’s breathing too. Not as steady as it should be. A little heavier. Controlled, but not perfect.

That realization nearly undoes him.

Seongje isn’t unaffected.

The thought makes something wild and reckless spark in his chest.

Juntae dares another glance up. Their faces are close—closer than before. The glasses catch the soft light from the ceiling, but behind them, Seongje’s eyes are fixed on him.

He looks away quickly, heart hammering.

“Juntae,” Seongje says softly, breaking the silence again.

His name in that voice cracks something inside him.

He dares to look up, and it’s a mistake. Seongje is looking at him the way he did that night on the beach—like he’s the only thing in the room, like he’s something fragile and important at once.

Juntae’s chest feels too small, his lungs too tight.

“I…” Juntae tries to speak, but nothing comes out. His throat is dry, his voice strangled.

Seongje leans just slightly closer. Not enough to cross the line. Just enough to make it impossible to think of anything else. “Breathe,” he murmurs.

Juntae realizes he’s been holding his breath. He forces an inhale, shaky and uneven, then an exhale. His whole body trembles with the effort.

“Good,” Seongje says quietly, watching him with that same steady gaze. His hand brushes Juntae’s again, more deliberate this time, a warm, grounding touch that makes Juntae’s pulse thunder in his ears.

Juntae wants to scream. He wants to lean in. He wants to run. He wants all of it at once.

And still—he doesn’t move.

“Do you ever think about it?” Juntae blurts suddenly, the words out before he can stop them.

Seongje’s brow tilts faintly. “About what?”

Juntae’s face burns. He can’t look at him. “The beach.”

A pause. Heavy.

Then, softly: “Yes.”

The single word almost destroys him.

Seongje shifts, his thigh brushing closer against the cushion. He doesn’t move further, but the space between them feels smaller now, tighter, like the air itself is pressing them together.

Juntae dares to glance up again, and his chest seizes. Seongje’s gaze is steady, unwavering, but there’s something in it—heat, memory, the same pull that’s tearing Juntae apart.

And then Seongje exhales slowly, leaning back just slightly, enough to ease the pressure but not enough to break it. “I remember,” he murmurs. “Everything.”

Juntae swallows, throat dry. His own voice shakes when he whispers, “Me too.”

The words hang there, trembling in the charged air.

And then Seongje moves.

Not fast, not rough, slow, deliberate, like he’s giving Juntae every chance to pull away. His hand slides more firmly against Juntae’s, fingers pressing, grounding, and then he leans in.

Juntae’s breath stutters. His chest burns. He doesn’t think—he can’t think.

Their foreheads brush first, a whisper of contact that makes Juntae’s lungs collapse. Then Seongje tilts his head, glasses slipping slightly down his nose, and closes the last inch between them.

The kiss lands soft at first, testing. Juntae lets out a broken sound, half gasp, half whimper, and that’s all it takes.

Seongje deepens it immediately, lips pressing harder, hungrier, as if weeks of restraint have finally snapped. The sound is low and rough in his throat, vibrating against Juntae’s mouth. Juntae shudders, clutching blindly at the front of Seongje’s T-shirt, his fingers curling into the damp fabric.

It’s nothing like the beach. It’s more.

Heat surges between them, raw and urgent. Their breaths mix, harsh and uneven, filling the quiet apartment with the ragged sounds of want. Juntae can hear himself—small, desperate noises spilling from his throat every time Seongje’s lips move against his, every time his tongue brushes the edge of his mouth.

Seongje growls low, a frustrated, hungry sound, and cups the back of Juntae’s neck, pulling him closer, until Juntae’s whole body is pressed against him. The sofa creaks faintly under the shift of their weight, drowned by the wet, breathless sounds of their mouths colliding again and again.

Juntae gasps between kisses, air catching sharp in his chest. His heart is a wild drum, his whole body trembling as if it can’t contain the force of it. He’s dizzy, overwhelmed, every nerve alive with fire where Seongje touches him.

And Seongje… Seongje kisses like a man starved. His lips drag, suck, press hard, leaving Juntae no space to think, no chance to breathe. Only to feel. His breathing is heavy now, hot and ragged, spilling into Juntae’s mouth with every desperate clash.

When they break for air, just barely, their foreheads slam together, both panting. The sound of it, their sharp exhales, the tiny wet click of lips parting, fills the silence, louder than anything. Juntae stares at him, lips swollen, chest heaving, and Seongje’s eyes are darker than he’s ever seen.

Neither speaks.

Because words can’t touch this.

Juntae makes a small, broken sound—half sob, half laugh—and then Seongje is on him again, crushing their mouths together like he can’t stand the space. Their teeth clash, messy, breathless, and Juntae doesn’t care. He kisses back harder, every ounce of fear and longing spilling out of him, muffled into the wet heat of Seongje’s mouth.

Time dissolves. The world dissolves. There’s only the heat, the sound, the taste of him.

Juntae clings desperately, fingers fisting in the fabric of Seongje’s shirt, tugging like it’s the only thing keeping him from floating away. Seongje’s mouth devours his, lips moving rough and insistent, teeth dragging across his lower lip until Juntae whimpers into the kiss.

That sound, soft, broken, makes Seongje groan deep in his chest. The vibration rumbles against Juntae’s lips, into his bones, and then Seongje is shifting, pushing him back against the sofa.

“God, you—” Seongje mutters against his mouth, the words ragged, swallowed between kisses. “Do you have any idea… how long I’ve wanted this?”

Juntae shakes his head frantically, breath catching, “Me too—Seongje, me too—” and then he’s cut off, Seongje kissing him harder, swallowing every confession like it’s oxygen.

Their hands move wildly now, no restraint. Seongje’s palm skims down Juntae’s side, hot even through the thin fabric of his shirt, sliding under it in a desperate rush. Juntae gasps when fingers brush bare skin, shivering at the contact.

“Off,” Seongje growls suddenly, tugging at the hem. His voice is rough, nearly unrecognizable, and Juntae nods without thinking, lifting his arms. The shirt is gone in a second, tossed somewhere unseen. Cool air hits his skin, raising goosebumps, but then Seongje’s hands are there, broad and warm, tracing up his chest, over his ribs.

Juntae moans, helpless, head falling back against the sofa. The sound makes Seongje curse under his breath, mouth dropping to his throat, kissing and biting down the column of his neck. The wet drag of his tongue, the scrape of teeth, Juntae can’t hold back the broken noises spilling out of him.

“Seongje—ah—”

That does it. Seongje’s hands tighten on his waist, dragging him closer, pressing their bodies flush. Heat sparks everywhere they touch—chest to chest, thigh to thigh, the unmistakable hardness pressing against him through fabric. Juntae gasps, hips jerking before he can stop himself.

Seongje swears again, low and guttural, then crashes their mouths back together. It’s messy now, frantic, tongues sliding, lips bruising. The sounds echo, the wet pull of their mouths, the sharp catch of breath, the soft, involuntary whines Juntae can’t suppress.

His hands move without thought, up Seongje’s arms, gripping tight at his shoulders, then sliding under the loose black shirt. The feel of bare skin under his palms makes him dizzy, smooth, hot, muscles shifting as Seongje moves.

“Take it off,” Juntae pants against his mouth, voice wrecked. “Please—”

Seongje pulls back just enough to smirk, breathless, eyes dark and wild. “So polite,” he teases, then tugs the shirt over his head in one swift move. His glasses go with it, discarded, leaving him even more devastatingly beautiful, hair messy, lips red, chest heaving.

Juntae’s breath catches. He can’t stop staring, can’t stop his trembling hands from reaching out, splaying across Seongje’s bare chest. The heat, the strength, the reality of him, it’s overwhelming.

“You’re—” Juntae chokes on the words, unable to finish.

Seongje leans in, catching his mouth again. “Say it,” he demands against his lips.

“Beautiful,” Juntae breathes, half a sob, half a moan. “You’re so—”

Seongje growls, kissing him harder, like the word set him on fire. His hands roam lower, gripping Juntae’s hips, dragging him into his lap. Juntae gasps as he straddles him, thighs pressed wide, the heat between them undeniable.

The friction makes them both moan, sharp and unrestrained, the sound echoing in the quiet apartment. Juntae clutches at Seongje’s shoulders, rocking helplessly, lips parting for every rough kiss, every desperate drag of their bodies.

“You’re driving me insane,” Seongje mutters, voice dark, lips ghosting over Juntae’s ear. His breath is hot, ragged, sending shivers down Juntae’s spine. “Do you know what you do to me?”

Juntae shakes his head, too lost to answer, only managing another gasp as Seongje’s mouth finds his collarbone, biting, sucking, marking him.

“Mine,” Seongje growls against his skin, and Juntae whimpers, arching into him, every nerve alive.

It’s chaos, hands everywhere, breaths uneven, shirts discarded, skin flushed and damp. The sofa creaks with their movements, but neither cares. The only sounds are their ragged breathing, the wet heat of kisses, the sharp little gasps when teeth scrape or fingers dig too hard.

Juntae feels like he’s burning alive, every inch of him alight under Seongje’s touch. His mind is gone, melted into nothing but want, need, the overwhelming reality of Seongje pressed against him.

And Seongje, he’s relentless. Mouth, hands, body, all consuming, all desperate, like he’s been starving and finally allowed to feast. Every kiss, every touch, every broken noise Juntae makes only fuels him further, until there’s nothing left but the raw, undeniable hunger pulling them tighter, closer, until they can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

“Seongje—” Juntae gasps against his mouth, but the rest of his words dissolve into a moan when Seongje’s lips find the curve of his throat, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

“God, you taste—” Seongje growls low, biting down just enough to make Juntae arch, “—so fucking good.”

Juntae’s fingers dig into his shoulders, nails scraping skin. His body feels electric, on fire, like he’s seconds from burning alive. He can’t stop the sounds that slip out, every gasp and whimper only spurring Seongje on.

They fumble backward, lips locked, until Seongje guides them toward the bedroom. His hands slide down Juntae’s thighs, grip strong, lifting him as if he weighs nothing. Juntae clings to him, dizzy, overwhelmed, their mouths still devouring each other between shaky breaths.

The bedroom swallows them whole: shadows thick, sheets a dark sheen under the low light. Seongje lowers him onto the bed with surprising care for how wild the heat between them feels. But then he’s over him again, chest pressed to chest, grinding down until Juntae cries out, helpless against the sheets.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Seongje pants against his ear, even as his hands slide lower, bolder.

“It’s not,” Juntae breathes, voice wrecked. “It’s not enough.”

That breaks something in Seongje. He kisses him again, feral, tongues tangling, teeth clashing. Their jeans scrape together, fabric burning against overheated skin, and Juntae bucks up helplessly, desperate for more friction.

“Off,” Seongje growls, tugging at the waistband of Juntae’s jeans. “Now.”

They tear at clothes with shaking hands, laughter and groans mixing with the rustle of fabric until finally there’s nothing left between them but bare, burning skin. The sight steals Seongje’s breath for a moment, Juntae spread across his sheets, flushed and trembling, eyes wide and blown dark.

“Fuck, you’re—” Seongje cuts himself off, lips crashing back onto Juntae’s before the words can betray just how undone he feels.

Hands roam everywhere, across ribs, down thighs, over hips, exploring, claiming, memorizing. Every touch draws a new sound from Juntae, every sound pushes Seongje further into desperation.

“Seongje—wait—” Juntae pants suddenly, gripping his wrist. His chest heaves, his eyes searching. “Do you… have—?”

“I’ve got it,” Seongje says immediately, voice rough but steady. He leans to the nightstand, the unmistakable sound of foil tearing filling the dark room. Juntae exhales, relief and anticipation crashing together, heat flaring even higher.

When Seongje returns, he slows for a moment, pressing his forehead to Juntae’s, grounding them both. “I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs, low and certain. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know,” Juntae whispers, voice trembling but sure. “I want this. I want you.”

Those words undo Seongje more than any touch. He groans, kissing him again, slower this time, deeper, reverent. His hand slides lower, preparing him carefully, patient even in his hunger. Juntae gasps, clutches at his shoulders, bites his lip against the flood of sensation.

“Relax,” Seongje breathes, kissing the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his throat. “Breathe for me. That’s it… good.”

Juntae tries, forcing himself to unclench, to melt into the sheets as Seongje works him open. The mix of discomfort and heat blurs quickly into something else—something sharper, sweeter—and when Seongje crooks his fingers just right, Juntae cries out, back arching, body bowing up against his.

“Fuck—please—” Juntae gasps, half-broken.

“Shh,” Seongje murmurs, pressing their mouths together again to swallow the sound. “I’ve got you. You’re perfect. So fucking perfect.”

The words melt through Juntae, scattering his thoughts, leaving him pliant and trembling under Seongje’s touch. When Seongje finally pulls back just enough to roll the condom on, Juntae watches with wide, hungry eyes, chest heaving.

And then,he’s there. Pressing forward, slow, careful, every muscle in his jaw tight with restraint. Juntae gasps, clutching at his arms, nails digging crescents into skin.

“Look at me,” Seongje whispers, voice hoarse. Juntae forces his eyes open, meeting his gaze through the haze of heat and nerves. And what he sees there, desire, yes, but also control, care, reverence, steadies him more than anything else.

When Seongje pushes in fully, they both break, moans tearing free, muffled against each other’s mouths.

The rhythm builds slow, deliberate, every thrust drawing a new sound, a new gasp, a new plea. Sheets twist beneath them, fabric damp with sweat. Juntae’s voice rises, high and broken, Seongje’s name spilling from his lips like prayer. Seongje grits his teeth, every nerve lit with fire, fighting to keep his control when all he wants is to let go, to take and take until nothing is left.

“Tell me—” he pants against Juntae’s ear, “—tell me you feel it too.”

Juntae sobs out a laugh, trembling. “I—fuck—I can’t—” His fingers dig into Seongje’s back, clutching him close. “I feel everything.”

That’s all it takes. The pace builds, faster, harder, until the room is filled with nothing but their sounds: gasps, moans, the slap of skin against skin, the creak of the bed under their weight. Juntae writhes beneath him, lost, undone, every nerve sparking white-hot.

And when it breaks, it’s overwhelming. Juntae cries out, body clenching, vision blurring, and Seongje follows with a groan, collapsing against him, both of them shaking, gasping, clinging to each other like they might fall apart otherwise.

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of their ragged breaths, the faint rustle of sheets as they shift, the pounding of their hearts in sync.

Seongje presses a soft kiss to Juntae’s damp temple, his voice low, rough. “You’re… unreal.”

Juntae can’t speak, his throat is raw, his body boneless, but he buries his face against Seongje’s neck, a trembling hand clutching at his shoulder.

For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, Juntae feels whole.

+++++++++++++++

Juntae wakes slowly, drifting in and out of sleep like the tide. His body feels heavy, boneless, still humming with the memory of the night before. For a few seconds, he can’t tell if it really happened, if the fevered heat, the kisses, the whispered words were just another one of his restless fantasies.

Then he shifts slightly, and something warm and solid brushes against him. A steady breath ghosts across his shoulder. A hand rests possessively on his waist, fingers curled like it never let go.

Juntae’s eyes blink open, and reality lands with a dizzying rush.

They’re in Seongje’s bed.

The sheets are cool, freshly changed last night after they stumbled laughing into the shower together, washing away the sweat and heat before crawling back under clean covers. The room is dim, the curtains drawn, but a slice of morning light cuts across the black furniture, catching on the faint gleam of the medals displayed along the wall.

And beside him, so close their skin is pressed together, so close he can hear every steady inhale, is Seongje.

His hair is messy, falling into his eyes. His glasses are gone, leaving his face strangely softer, almost boyish, if not for the faint stubble along his jaw. His chest rises and falls slowly, broad and warm against Juntae’s back, their legs tangled beneath the sheet.

Juntae swallows. He glances down at himself and flushes crimson. He’s wearing one of Seongje’s shirts, far too large, slipping off one shoulder, leaving the pale skin there exposed. The fabric smells like him and the intimacy of it makes Juntae’s heart pound in his chest.

A soft noise escapes him and he freezes, terrified of waking him. But Seongje stirs anyway, shifting closer, pressing his mouth to the curve of Juntae’s shoulder.

“You’re so hot like this,” Seongje murmurs, voice rough with sleep, lips brushing skin. He places a gentle kiss there, warm and lingering.

Juntae shivers, biting his lip. “I… good morning,” he manages, cheeks aflame.

Seongje hums, kissing him again, softer this time. “Morning.” His voice is quiet, deep, still coated in drowsy warmth. He pulls back just enough to study Juntae’s face, his eyes hooded but sharp. “Are you hurting anywhere?”

The question is so careful, so tender, that it knocks the breath from Juntae. He shakes his head quickly. “No. I’m… fine. Really.”

But then his gaze drops, and his face burns all over again. Across Seongje’s chest and neck, faint marks bloom : evidence of his own hands and mouth the night before. Red, purple, scattered like constellations. He stares, wide-eyed, at the proof, unable to hide the way pride flickers hot in his chest.

“You like that, don’t you?” Seongje teases, following his gaze. His lips curve in a lazy smile.

Juntae’s ears go red. “I—I didn’t mean to… but—”

“But you’re proud of yourself,” Seongje finishes for him, amused. He tilts his head, smiling faintly. “Good. You should be.”

Juntae tries to glare, but the dimples that betray his smile give him away. He can’t stop it, even as he hides half his face in the pillow.

The sight makes Seongje chuckle, soft and warm. “God, you’re adorable.” He leans in to kiss him lightly, brushing lips over lips, feather-soft.

And just like that, Juntae’s heart is a mess again.

He smiles, he blushes, but beneath it all, the thoughts creep in. The fear. The questions.

What are they now?

Was last night just passion, just a release after weeks of tension? Was he just another conquest for Seongje, whose reputation on and off the piste has always been larger than life? Will this morning end with awkward silence, with Seongje telling him to get dressed, to go back to his dorm, to pretend nothing happened?

The idea twists something sharp inside him.

Juntae bites his lip, trying to hide the storm of thoughts. But Seongje shifts, propping himself up on one elbow, studying him.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to his temple.

Juntae startles. “I—what?”

“You get this look,” Seongje explains, voice low, fond. “Like you’re trying to solve an impossible math problem. Tell me what’s going on in that head before you drive yourself insane.”

Juntae swallows hard. His throat feels dry, but he forces himself to speak. “I… I’m scared.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “That… that last night was just… a dream. That when I go back to my dorm, it’ll be over. That it didn’t mean… what I thought it meant.”

Silence stretches for a moment, heavy and unbearable. Juntae’s chest tightens.

Then Seongje exhales softly and leans closer, pressing his forehead against his. “You were never just a one-time thing,” he says firmly, voice steady. “Not for me.”

Juntae blinks, startled. “But—”

“Listen to me.” Seongje’s thumb brushes across his cheek, grounding him. “Do you want to know the truth? The first day of your internship, when you walked into the training hall, holding your clipboard like it was a shield, I noticed you immediately.” His lips curve, a small, secret smile. “You caught my attention from the start.”

Juntae’s breath stutters. “I… what?”

Seongje chuckles, kissing the corner of his mouth lightly. “You’re the prettiest boy in South Korea. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”

Juntae’s face burns scarlet. He buries his hands over his face, groaning. “Don’t say things like that—”

“Why not? It’s true.” Seongje pries his hands away easily, pressing soft kisses against his knuckles, his wrists, his cheek. Each one makes Juntae squirm, giggle helplessly, face red but heart soaring.

“You’re impossible,” Juntae mumbles, dimples deep as he tries not to smile too wide.

“And you love it,” Seongje teases, nipping at his jaw.

“I—” Juntae huffs, giving up on hiding his smile. “Maybe.”

Seongje grins, satisfied. He shifts back just enough to meet Juntae’s gaze. “For the record, I think I’m pretty too.”

That makes Juntae laugh, startled and bright. “Pretty? No.” He shakes his head firmly, eyes shining. “You’re not pretty. You’re hot. The hottest.” His voice softens, still shy even in his teasing. “And it makes me… jealous. Of everyone who got to spend the night with you before me.”

The words hang in the air. He meant them half as a joke, but the sting of truth lingers beneath. He bites his lip, unsure if he went too far.

But Seongje doesn’t look offended. His expression softens, and he cups Juntae’s cheek gently. “Don’t,” he murmurs. “Don’t waste time thinking about anyone else. None of them ever made me feel like this.”

Juntae blinks, stunned. “Like… this?”

Seongje nods. His voice is low, honest, raw in a way Juntae has never heard from him before. “Like I can breathe. Like I want to hold on. That’s why I clung to you so much during your internship. Why I couldn’t stay away, even when I knew I should.”

Juntae’s chest aches, too full of emotion. His eyes sting, though he forces himself not to cry. He hides his face against Seongje’s chest instead, inhaling the familiar scent of soap and skin, feeling the strong heartbeat under his ear.

“I don’t know what to say,” he whispers.

“Don’t say anything,” Seongje murmurs, kissing the top of his head. “Just stay. Right here.”

EPILOGUE 

Time has a way of smoothing the sharpest edges.

It’s been months since the chaos, the scandal, the articles, the sleepless nights of waiting and worrying. Months since Juntae stood in that café with trembling hands, determined to protect someone he had no right to but couldn’t let go of. Months since Seongje’s world turned upside down, only to steady itself again, stronger than before.

Now, life is quieter. Different. Better.

Sieun and Suho are part of the group now. Somehow, they fit right in with the fencers — Suho with his dry humor that even Gotak can’t argue with, and Sieun with his razor-sharp wit that leaves Baku crying from laughter more often than not.

Juntae has changed too. The boy who once flinched at whispers in corridors, who shrank when voices got too loud, isn’t the same anymore. No one dares push him around these days, and even if they tried, Juntae doesn’t let himself be small. His focus is set firmly on the future, applications for internships at hospitals, the path he dreamed of months ago when everything seemed impossible. He’s steadier now, not just surviving, but moving forward.

And Seongje — Seongje is back. Back on the national team, back on the piste, but something about him is different. Lighter. The reputation that once clung to him like a storm cloud is gone, replaced by a new kind of respect. He isn’t just the aggressive genius of fencing anymore; he’s the athlete who came back from scandal with a promise, to be better, to set an example. For once, he actually seems to mean it. Interviews paint him as mature, calm, even warm. Variety shows show him smiling, teasing, letting people laugh with him instead of at him. His image is better than ever, and the world seems to love him more for it.

What the world doesn’t know — what they can never know — is why.

Why Seongje is calmer now, why he doesn’t reach for a cigarette after training anymore, why his laugh comes easier, why his eyes don’t carry that same restless edge they used to.

Why Juntae walks with his shoulders straighter, his voice firmer, why his dimples appear more often, unburdened by fear.

The world can only guess. But the people closest to them know the truth.

And maybe the rest never will. Because whatever exists between Seongje and Juntae, it has to stay theirs alone. Korea isn’t ready for a gay athlete, not yet, maybe not ever. So they hide it. They let the world believe in Seongje’s flawless smile, his new discipline, his softer edges, while the real reason remains tucked away in quiet moments, in borrowed shirts and whispered reassurances.

Juntae doesn’t mind. He’s never wanted the spotlight; the thought of attention makes his skin crawl. And Seongje, for all his boldness on the piste, is selfishly glad to keep him hidden, safe from prying eyes, safe from judgment : his, and his alone. Jealous, possessive, protective, it doesn’t matter what word fits; all that matters is that this part of his life is untouchable.

And so they go on like this, hidden, yes, but not unhappy. Because in the secrecy, there’s a kind of peace. A kind of freedom that belongs only to them.

+++++++++++++++++

The smell of garlic and soy sauce hangs in the air, filling the sleek black-and-steel lines of Seongje’s apartment with something warm, almost homely. The lights are dim, soft gold against polished surfaces. Bowls of side dishes scatter across the table, chopsticks set in slightly crooked pairs that Juntae keeps straightening.

“Juntae,” Seongje says from the kitchen island, sleeves rolled up as he pours water into glasses. His voice carries amusement, dry and lazy. “If you move that plate again, I’ll take it away entirely.”

“They’re crooked,” Juntae insists, dimples flashing as he shifts the kimchi pancakes a centimeter to the left. “Now it looks better.”

Seongje’s laugh is low, indulgent. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re lazy,” Juntae fires back, cheeks warming but eyes sparkling.

Before Seongje can answer, the doorbell rings.

Juntae almost jumps. “Saved by the bell.” He sticks his tongue out before darting to the door.

The second it opens, the apartment fills with noise.

“Yo! Chef Seongje at it again?” Baku barrels in first, Gotak right behind him, Sieun balancing a dessert box, and Suho lugging a bag of beer like a trophy.

“Shoes,” Juntae says automatically, hands on his hips.

“Look at you, little host,” Gotak teases, toeing his sneakers off. “You’ve changed.”

Juntae rolls his eyes, but his chest warms. They’re right—he has changed.

The table is loud from the start, laughter bouncing off the walls as plates are passed and bowls emptied. Seongje moves easily among them, pouring drinks, topping up rice, his calm presence balancing Baku’s booming voice.

Gotak takes a bite of japchae and groans dramatically. “Okay, okay. This is better than my mom’s.”

Baku smirks. “She’d kill you for that.”

“She already knows,” Gotak says with a grin, clapping Seongje on the shoulder. “So? We haven't seen you lately.”

“I had a schedule,” Seongje says smoothly, sipping water. “Interviews. Shoots.”

“And smiling in all of them,” Sieun adds, grinning. “Even journalists are noticing. One of them literally wrote that you’re finally being a ‘good example to the youth.’”

The table erupts into laughter.

Seongje only smirks, unbothered. “Maybe I am.”

Gotak leans forward, eyes glinting. “Translation: someone finally whipped him into shape.” He flicks his gaze at Juntae.

Juntae nearly chokes on his rice. “What— I didn’t—”

“Oh please,” Sieun cuts in, grinning. “You’re barely at the dorm anymore. You think we don’t notice?”

Juntae turns scarlet. “I— That’s not—”

“It is,” Suho says calmly, reaching for more side dishes. “You’re always here.”

Seongje hides his laugh behind his glass, eyes sliding toward Juntae, smug.

Gotak waves his chopsticks. “Next you’ll tell us you made him quit smoking too.”

A beat of silence.

“…He did,” Seongje admits.

Everyone stares.

“No way,” Baku says, wide-eyed. “You? Mr. chain-smoke-outside-every-venue?”

Seongje shrugs, casual. “Didn’t have a reason to anymore. No need to smoke. No need to fight in bars either.”

Gotak gasps theatrically. “Who are you and what did you do with our captain?”

“Domesticated,” Sieun mutters, and laughter shakes the table again.

Juntae hides his face in his hands. His ears burn, but pride hums beneath his embarrassment.

Under the table, Seongje’s hand brushes his, secret and grounding. Juntae’s heart flips.

When the laughter dies down, Baku smirks again. “Speaking of temptations… Subin’s gonna love seeing you back with the national team.”

Seongje freezes. “What?”

“You know how she is,” Baku teases. “Always flirting. Now that you’re free again, she’ll try twice as hard.”

Seongje stiffens, eyes darting immediately to Juntae. His voice drops. “That’s not—”

But Juntae surprises everyone by laughing.

“She can try,” he says, dimples showing. “I don’t mind.”

Seongje blinks. “You don’t…?”

Juntae shakes his head, smiling. “I trust you. And honestly? She’s kind of a bitch.”

The table goes silent—

Then explodes.

Gotak wheezes. Baku slaps the table. Sieun doubles over. Even Suho cracks a grin.

“Look what you’ve done,” Gotak gasps. “Bad influence!”

Seongje is laughing too, shoulders shaking. He ruffles Juntae’s hair with a hand that lingers too long. “You’re perfect.”

Juntae groans into his hands, mortified but glowing.