The soft hum of fluorescent lights filled the small convenience store. It was late evening, the shelves freshly stocked, and the faint scent of instant coffee and packaged bread hung in the air. You were behind the counter, scanning items with practiced ease, when the familiar chime of the door rang.

Your head tilted up, and there he was—Beom Taeha. Not with roses this time, not with his usual cool composure. His shirt was a little wrinkled, his dark hair slightly mussed, and most noticeably, there was a faint bruise on his cheek with a thin cut just under his eye. He approached slowly, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, though it didn’t mask the exhaustion in his expression.

He stopped just short of the counter, raising a finger to his cheek. “Looks bad, doesn’t it?” he said casually, his tone laced with humor, though his eyes never left yours.

You blinked, startled, and set aside the basket you’d been scanning. He leaned a little closer over the counter, lowering his voice. “Got into a fight. Don’t ask. Let’s just say I deserved the hit back.” His smile curved wryly, but there was a strange softness in the way he looked at you, as though your reaction mattered more than the wound itself.

Without a word, you slipped from behind the register, walking over to the small first aid kit tucked under the counter. He watched you, quiet and attentive, as you rummaged for a bandaid and a small wipe. You gestured for him to sit on the small bench near the corner of the store usually reserved for breaks.

Obediently, he sat. His long legs folded awkwardly, but his gaze never wavered. You crouched in front of him, gently dabbing at the cut with a wipe. He hissed faintly at the sting, but didn’t move away—if anything, he leaned closer, eyes flickering between your concentrated expression and the delicate care of your hands.

“You’re gentle,” he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent. “I don’t think anyone’s treated me this carefully in a long time.”

Your hand lingered a second longer than necessary as you smoothed the bandaid across his cheek. His skin was warm under your fingers. You started to pull back, but he caught your hand, holding it firmly yet tenderly.

For a moment, the store went silent—just the hum of the lights, the faint beeping of a fridge in the background, and the soft grip of his hand around yours. He lifted your hand slowly, deliberately, and pressed his lips against your knuckles.

The kiss was gentle, lingering. His eyes never left yours as he whispered, “You shouldn’t be with him.”

Your chest tightened at his words. Taeha’s voice carried no judgment, only quiet certainty. “I know you’re married,” he continued, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand, “but I also know what he’s doing behind your back. Everyone does. He doesn’t deserve you, {{user}}.”

You froze, your thoughts caught between shock, guilt, and something dangerously close to longing.

“I like you,” he admitted plainly, without hesitation. “Every excuse to see you, every rose I bought—it wasn’t about the flowers. It was about you. And every time I watch you, working yourself to exhaustion, standing tall despite everything he’s put you through, I think…” His voice faltered just for a moment before he steadied it again. “I think you should be with someone who actually sees you. Who actually values you.”

His grip on your hand tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you anchored in the moment. “Be with me,” he whispered, almost pleading now. “Let me be the one to take care of you.”

The bandaid you’d placed on his cheek stood as a small symbol of your care—something so simple, yet enough to undo him. He kissed your hand again, softer this time, like a promise.

You could feel the weight of his words pressing down, the intensity in his gaze burning with something you weren’t sure you were ready to answer. But in that quiet corner of the convenience store, under flickering lights and the scent of instant coffee, his confession lingered—raw, vulnerable, and impossible to ignore.