Do-yun stood in the hallway, not moving. He took off his soaked jacket and dropped it on the floor.
Seung-ho closed the door and simply watched his back for a while—narrow, tense, as if any word could break the fragile balance between "it's over" and "it can all start again."
He walked closer. — Drink, — he said softly, handing him a glass of water.
Do-yun nodded and took a gulp. The water felt icy. One sip, and his heart seemed to remind him of itself again. He sat on the edge of the sofa, staring at the floor.
— He knew where to strike, — he said after a long pause. — His movements were precise. Not like a random mercenary. — It wasn't a mercenary, — Seung-ho replied.
His voice was even, but tension could be heard beneath the calm. — I recognized the chain. The same one Lee's assistant wears.
Silence. Only the rain tapping a rhythm on the windowsill.
Do-yun looked up. — So, everything is confirmed. They aren't just covering up deals. They are at the very center.
Seung-ho sat down next to him, his elbows resting on his knees. — Yes. But for now, all we have is a chain. If we reveal this, they'll simply erase us. — I'm not backing down, — Do-yun said, and his voice, for the first time that evening, was firm. — I've been silent for too long.
He turned toward the window. The city beyond the glass was dark; only car lights flowed through the streets like living threads. — When I was a child, I also looked at this city and thought it offered protection. Now I understand—it just hides. Everything. People. Us.
Seung-ho raised his head. His eyes lingered on Do-yun's profile. — But you're not alone now. — That's what's scary, — he quietly replied. — If I make a mistake, we'll both die.
He didn't notice his voice tremble.
Seung-ho stood up, walked closer, leaned in, running his fingers through his hair, then across his cheek. — You won't make a mistake. I won't let you.
***
The rain was still falling. The city seemed to breathe through the glass, pulsing with neon reflections. Light streamed inside—in stripes across the floor, across their faces, across the shadows.
Do-yun sat with his head bowed. A hum resonated in his chest, as if his heart was beating a different rhythm, lagging behind his mind.
Seung-ho sat next to him, pulled out a towel, and began gently wiping the wet strands. The touches were soft, barely noticeable, but they brought warmth. — Your shoulders are shaking, — he said quietly. — Unclench your hands.
Do-yun hadn't realized he'd made fists. He exhaled, his fingers slowly straightening. — I can't. That alley is still in front of my eyes. The mask. The blade.
Seung-ho ran his palm down his back. — Then I will erase it.
He spoke without drama. Simply—as a fact. And there was more strength in that than in any promise.
Do-yun lowered his head onto his shoulder. — Why aren't you afraid? — I am afraid, — Seung-ho answered after a short pause. — I just can't afford to show it. If I break down, you'll decide that I can't be trusted either. And I don't want you to live in fear again.
Silence. They sat, listening to the rain.
Seung-ho put his arms around him. The scent of pheromones filled the space—calm, warm, slightly spicy, like the aroma of coffee and wood. Not dominant, but enveloping. Do-yun inhaled deeper, and his own scent—light, fresh, spring-like—responded with a soft undertone.
Seung-ho leaned close to his ear, speaking softly, almost a whisper: — Everything that happened out there is over. No one will touch you here.
Do-yun slightly turned his head. His cheek touched Seung-ho's lips, and that almost weightless contact caused a slight current beneath his skin. — You always manage to make me believe, — he said, without looking up. — Even when I don't want to. — Maybe that is your belief, — Seung-ho replied. — You're just afraid to admit it.
Do-yun quietly laughed. The laugh was hoarse, but it held relief. — Stupid. After everything I've seen, believing is a luxury. — Then let me pay for it, — Seung-ho said.
He touched his lips. Not demanding—softly. The kiss was not the start of passion, but a way to stop the storm inside. Do-yun froze for a second, then responded—cautiously, as if afraid one wrong move would destroy this fragile equilibrium.
The air grew warmer. Seung-ho framed his face with his palms, running his thumb over his cheekbone. — Don't run away into the past, — he whispered. — We are here. Now.
Do-yun nodded. — Then stay with me until morning. — I wasn't planning on leaving.
***
They lay down not in the bedroom—but right on the sofa. A blanket covered them both; the air was filled with quiet warmth.
Seung-ho lay behind his back, his chest touching his shoulder blades, his breath near his neck. His fingers moved lazily over his skin, as if memorizing every curve, every line. He wasn't seeking arousal—only confirmation that Do-yun was alive, here, breathing.
— You know, — Do-yun said quietly, — I was afraid to sleep all my childhood. Afraid of the silence. When my father came back after he disappeared, he screamed at night. And I pretended not to hear. Because if I heard—I would have had to do something. And I couldn't.
Seung-ho didn't answer immediately. His palm rested on Do-yun's chest; he could feel the uneven heartbeat beneath his fingers. — You were a child. It's not your fault. — I know, — he exhaled. — But the feeling of helplessness remained. Every time I close my eyes, it feels like it will start again.
Seung-ho moved closer; his breathing slowed. — Then don't close your eyes. Just breathe with me.
They synchronized their breathing. For several minutes—only the rhythm of inhalation and exhalation, as if the world had ceased to exist.
The pheromones grew denser, enveloping them like a soft blanket. Do-yun relaxed for the first time that night. His body no longer trembled; only occasional sighs escaped his lips.
Seung-ho leaned over and kissed his temple. — You don't have to be strong right now. — What if I forget how to be strong? — he asked. — Then I will remind you. — There was neither pride nor domination in Seung-ho's voice—only assurance, as if these words were already a fulfilled promise.
Do-yun smiled. — You talk as if everything is simple. — Nothing is simple with you. — Seung-ho chuckled slightly, running his finger across his lips. — But I'm not looking for easy.
Time seemed to dissolve. The rain subsided; the city outside the windows glowed with the soft light of the streetlamps.
Do-yun turned to face him, burying his nose in his chest. — You smell like home, — he said quietly. — Not the kind made of walls, but the kind made of warmth.
Seung-ho paused for a second. — And you smell like spring after a storm. — His voice grew even quieter. — I want it not to end.
They fell silent. The quiet no longer frightened them.
Do-yun reached out his hand, touched his face, running his fingers along his jawline. — Thank you. For staying.
Seung-ho caught his palm and kissed his fingertips. — I didn't just stay. I chose to.
And Do-yun remembered those words—not as a promise, but as the point where fear ends.
He fell asleep later than he thought. He didn't notice his breathing even out, how the heaviness lifted. Sleep came without dreams—only the sensation of hands holding him by the shoulders, and the steady rhythm of a heart nearby.
Seung-ho stayed awake for a long time. He watched Do-yun's eyelashes flutter on his face, how the shadow of a smile barely touched his lips. He ran his fingers through his hair, brushing a strand from his forehead. — Sleep, — he said barely audible. — While I'm here, no one will reach you.
The rain outside the window intensified again. But now it sounded like protection, not a threat. The room smelled of pheromones, fatigue, and warmth. It was a wakeful sleep. A silence in which one could finally just be.