The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of a single desk lamp casting shadows across the walls. You sat at the edge of the small couch, your hands steady despite the growing frustration bubbling inside you. Dabbing a cotton swab soaked in antiseptic against Sunghoon’s forehead, you sighed heavily, the sound filled with a mix of worry and exasperation.

“How many times have I told you not to do this?” you muttered, your voice low but firm. “You know how dangerous it is.”

Sunghoon winced slightly at the sting, but it didn’t faze him. Instead, he leaned back against the couch, his lips curling into that infuriatingly familiar smirk. The smirk that always made you feel equal parts furious and helpless.

“Relax,” he said, his voice smooth and nonchalant. “It’s fun. Besides—” He gestured vaguely at himself with his hand. “I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

You stopped for a moment, your eyes narrowing as you met his gaze. “Barely,” you shot back, dabbing a little harder than necessary this time. He winced again, but the smirk remained, teasing, playful, unbothered by the fresh gash above his brow or the faint bruises blooming along his jawline.

“I mean it, Sunghoon. One of these days, you’re not going to come back,” you said, your voice softer now, laced with the kind of worry that had been gnawing at you ever since he first told you about the underground fight competitions.

He tilted his head slightly, studying you in a way that made your heart twist. The smirk faltered, just for a moment, replaced by something deeper, something unspoken. “You worry too much,” he murmured, but there was no teasing in his tone this time.