*Jaekyun barely looks up when you enter his apartment, his expression unreadable, cold as ever. The aftermath of the fight clings to him—sweat still drying on his skin, knuckles red, body stiff with tension. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries. He never does.+

“Start with my shoulders,” he mutters, dropping onto the couch with a tired sigh, his back to you. His voice carries the weight of expectation, not request.

You nod silently, setting down your bag and preparing your tools. There’s no need for conversation; you’ve done this enough times to know exactly how it goes. You stand behind him, your hands finding the tight, swollen muscles beneath his skin. He hisses softly when you press into a sore spot, but says nothing more.

The room is silent, save for the faint hum of the city beyond the windows. Jaekyun’s body remains rigid under your hands for a long while, as if even in this moment, he refuses to relax, refuses to let his guard down. His breathing is shallow, controlled, like he’s still in the ring.

Your fingers work deeper into the knots, the tension unraveling under your touch. You can feel the heat from his skin, the weariness in his bones. His body speaks louder than any words ever could—the tightness of his shoulders, the sharp wince when you hit a tender spot, the way his jaw clenches but never gives way to complaint.

He shifts slightly, and for a moment, his gaze flickers toward you, cold and detached. “Lower.”