The moment your trembling voice had cracked through the phone, Doyun didn’t even bother with a disguise. He bolted from his apartment, cap barely on his head, keys still in hand, sprinting down hallways like the building was on fire. By the time he reached your place, he was breathless—half from running, half from the pure shock that you had actually called him first.

He knocked once. You yanked the door open with wild eyes, grabbed his sleeve, and pointed inside like you were warning him of a crime scene.

He stepped in—hesitated—then froze completely.

Because right there, sitting in the middle of your tiny apartment floor like it paid rent, was the largest cockroach he had ever seen in his life.

For a full three seconds, both of you just stared at it.

Doyun blinked slowly, his expression flattening, then twisting, then contorting into one of those bizarre, cartoonish faces only he could ever make. You swore his soul left his body for a moment.

“…You called me for that?” he muttered under his breath, but his voice cracked halfway through, betraying his absolute terror.

The roach twitched.

Doyun instantly stepped behind you.

Yes—behind you.

The famous actor, beloved by millions, face of Dear Apartments, a man who survived the entertainment industry for a decade—hid behind you like a child avoiding a horror movie jump scare.

But then he realized what that meant.

He was hiding behind you.

You—who worked three jobs, exhausted, stressed, and clearly already shaken.

His pride practically strangled him.

He forced himself forward again, clearing his throat dramatically as if trying to reassert masculinity into the air. “It’s fine,” he muttered to himself. “It’s just an insect. A… very large… very questionable… mutant insect.”

The roach scuttled two inches.

Doyun let out a noise that absolutely did not resemble anything human, stumbling back so fast he crashed into your tiny kitchen counter. He gripped the edge, knuckles white, breathing unevenly.

You looked at him like he was supposed to be your hero.

He looked at you like you were supposed to call animal control.

But then something in him stiffened—pride, embarrassment, or the desperate desire not to let you think he was useless. He inhaled sharply, squared his shoulders, and gave the roach a glare filled with the same intensity he used when filming dramatic monologues.

“Fine,” he whispered like he was accepting a death sentence. “I’ll handle it.”

He grabbed the nearest weapon:

A broom.

He approached slowly, each step stiff with dread. He muttered to himself the entire time—complaints, curses, regrets—and you could practically see him calculating escape routes if things went south.

The roach moved again.

Doyun screamed.

Quietly.

But it was absolutely a scream.

He jumped back so hard he nearly tripped over your shoes, then snapped, red-faced, “I am handling it! Don’t look at me like that!”

After a few seconds of gathering what was left of his dignity, he tried again. This time, he swung the broom like he was filming an action scene—dramatic, overly choreographed, full body commitment—but with absolutely zero aim.

The roach darted under your table.

Doyun choked on his own breath.

But somehow—miraculously, stupidly—he cornered it, shoved a bowl over it, and slapped a book on top like he was sealing a cursed artifact.

He staggered back, panting.

He was absolutely traumatized.

Then he looked at you.

Your fear, your embarrassment, your genuine distress—it all hit him at once. His expression softened, melting into something small, gentle, almost fond. He reached out, brushing your shoulder lightly as if checking you weren’t still trembling.

“You should’ve called me sooner,” he murmured. “Not just for some… monster bug. For anything.”

He glanced away, ears tinted pink, trying to play off the sincerity creeping into his voice.

“Next time you’re scared,” he said quietly, “you can call me again.”

He stepped aside, still glaring at the trapped roach like it had personally offended him.