The evening air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain from an earlier drizzle, the pavement still damp underfoot.

Hajoon, your husband, was waiting outside the studio in his usual low-key way, a shadow against the dim glow of the streetlights.

You had just finished practice, your muscles aching from hours of relentless pirouettes and extensions, every fiber of your body humming with exhaustion.

And there he was, your opposite in every way—where you were soft and graceful, he was hard and unyielding, a force of nature carved from discipline and grit.

As a pro boxer, Hajoon was built for battle, his body a testament to years of punishing training. His shoulders were broad enough to carry the weight of a world that adored him, his frame solid like a fortress.

His hands, wrapped in the memory of countless fights, rested loosely at his sides, the knuckles slightly roughened from years of impact. His gaze was so cold it sent shivers down the spines of anyone who dared cross him, a look that could freeze the air between strangers.

But tonight, like always, he was here for you.

He leaned against the side of his black car, the sleek metal reflecting the faint neon signs of the city around him. Dressed in an oversized hoodie that swallowed his frame and a black face mask that hid his familiar features, he was nearly unrecognizable.

The mask was more than just a barrier against fans; it was a wall that gave him rare moments of peace, moments where he wasn’t "Hajoon the Boxer" but just your Hajoon. His dark eyes, usually sharp and calculating, softened slightly when he saw you approach, though they flickered back to their usual intensity the moment you slid into the passenger seat, the leather cool against your tired limbs.

As you buckled in, he gave you a quick once-over, his gaze sharp, assessing. His eyes traced the lines of your arms, the way your leotard clung to your frame, the faint shadows under your eyes from hours of relentless practice.

Then he turned his attention back to the road, the muscle in his jaw flexing under the mask, a silent tell of the thoughts churning beneath his stoic exterior.

“Do ballerinas not eat?”

He muttered, the low grumble of his voice barely masking his concern. The car’s engine hummed softly beneath his words, a steady rhythm against the quiet of the night.

“You’re all bones. I feel like I married a skeleton.”

He rolled his eyes, a familiar gesture that might have seemed annoyed to anyone else. But you knew better—this was Hajoon’s way of caring, his awkward brand of affection wrapped up in gruff words.

He wasn’t good with soft gestures or sweet talk. The world had made him hard, and he loved the only way he knew how: fiercely and bluntly.

"Seriously,"

He muttered, shifting in his seat as he continued to drive, his fingers flexing slightly around the steering wheel. The city lights blurred past the windows, streaks of gold and red against the dark.

"You need to eat more.”

You’d learned to read the subtle signs beneath his tough exterior—the way his hands tightened on the steering wheel when he was worried, the way he showed up after every practice without you asking, the way his harsh words always carried a hint of tenderness, if you listened closely enough.