Seungho woke up first, even before dawn.
His body ached, but his mind was razor-sharp. He checked his phone: Oh-hwa had sent a report — the perimeter was stable.
He turned to Do-jun. He was sleeping heavily, his breath deep, a sheet imprint on his cheek. Despite the trauma, a quiet scent still emanated from him, which Yun instinctively sought.
Seungho moved closer, his hand resting on Do-jun's abdomen, checking, seeking confirmation that everything was in place. Do-jun, even in sleep, leaned into him, pressing close to his warmth.
Yun leaned over and kissed his lips — lightly, but with demand.
Do-jun groaned, his eyes only half-open; he was sleepy, but compliant.
— Morning, — Do-jun croaked, his voice sleepy and weak.
— Morning, — Yun agreed. — Let's seal it.
This was not a continuation of the night's fury, but neither was it tenderness.
It was a necessity.
Yun entered him again, quickly, without preamble, as if driving a stake into the ground to mark territory.
Do-jun cried out, but immediately muffled the sound. He wrapped his arms around Seungho's shoulders, accepting his force and his authority. It was hot and wet under the blanket, and their movements were instinctive, focused solely on the feeling of completeness.
— You are mine. Only mine, — Yun growled, pouring all his responsibility and rage into every word.
— Yours, — Do-jun breathed out, his eyes closed again, and his body clenched around Seungho's rhythm.
It was a quick, deep act, designed to cleanse and secure both of them before the new day.
Yun finished almost immediately and remained inside him, breathing heavily.
Do-jun was semi-asleep again, but a peaceful calm, which seemed impossible yesterday, settled on his face.
— That's better, — Do-jun whispered.
— Yes, — Yun kissed his temple, feeling his body relax. — Now — breakfast.
They lay like that for another minute.
Yun slid out from under the covers. This time he did not look broken, like he did last night, but worn down. He walked to the window, behind which the gray, hostile dawn was breaking.
Control had been reclaimed — but only until the next call.
⋆⋆⋆
Coffee was cooling on the table when the phone vibrated.
On the screen — a message from security:
"Man found. Parking lot under the old building. You should see this."
Yun froze.
— What is it? — Do-jun asked.
— Nothing good. Stay home.
He knew Do-jun wouldn't listen, but he said it anyway.
Do-jun nodded silently, his eyes too clear to believe the promise.
The parking lot greeted them with the smell of dampness and gasoline.
Under the yellow glare of the headlights, a man lay. Dead.
On his chest — a sheet of paper, pinned with a safety pin.
"We see how you protect. Let's see how you bury it."
Yun stood silent. His fingers trembled not from horror, but from cold, controlled anger.
He knew this man — one of those responsible for the club's internal security.
Now the enemy wasn't hiding.
He was signing crimes like letters.
⋆⋆⋆
In the evening, Do-jun couldn't sleep.
The shadow from the lamp swung across the ceiling like a pendulum.
He lay, face buried in the pillow, and every rustle brought pain.
Seungho sat nearby, silent.
A book in his hands, but he wasn't reading.
— I don't want to close my eyes, — Do-jun exhaled. — As soon as it's dark — I see him.
— The one from the parking lot?
— No. The one behind him. He's like he's waiting for me to blink.
Yun put the book on the nightstand and lay down next to him, embracing him.
— Then don't blink. I will watch with you.
Do-jun smiled weakly.
— You don't know how to comfort yourself.
He ran his palm over his back, through his hair.
Do-jun's body tensed, then gradually relaxed.
The silence melted away.
Only their breathing — slow and shared.
— All this will end, — Yun said.
— They think they can touch us through fear. But fear doesn't break — it tempers.
— You speak as if you're not afraid.
Do-jun pressed closer to him, almost dissolving into the embrace.
— Just be here, — he whispered.
— I'm here, — Yun replied. — And I will stay here.
⋆⋆⋆
When dawn broke, the morning was quiet and almost peaceful.
They were still lying under the same blanket, their warmth mingled, their breathing unified.
Outside the window, the fog was lifting, and it seemed as if the world didn't know that a new war had already begun beneath it.
But Seungho knew.
He felt its trace — cold, sticky, smelling of blood and smoke.
And he understood: the next strike would not be at him —
but at the one who was now sleeping on his chest.