The city lights smeared past in low, sleepy streaks as you drove, rain pinpricking the windshield into a gentle, steady hiss. Chaewoo sat beside you, body angled slightly toward the window as if the movement of the car helped loosen whatever had been coiled inside him all day. He frowned once, hard and small, and then looked back at you with those too-bright, tired eyes.

“You handled that well,” he said quietly, voice rough like gravel rubbed a little thin. It wasn't a compliment that wanted applause — it was the kind that landed and stayed. “That guy… the one who wouldn't leave you alone. He was pushy.”

You glanced at him, fingers tightening on the wheel without meaning to. He watched your hands for a beat, the way your knuckles moved, like he was cataloguing small things to keep safe. When he spoke again, there was a low, animal edge in the way his words dropped. “Part of me wanted to cave his face in the second he touched your shoulder.”

The sentence should have been blunt and ugly, but Chaewoo said it soft, like he was confessing an ache. He didn't sound proud. He sounded raw.

You kept driving. The road hummed under the tires; an empty bus shelter flashed by, then a shuttered storefront. His hand moved before you realized it — light, almost casual — to rest on your thigh, steadying, grounding. His fingers were warm through your jeans, callused, not tight but not careless either. The contact sent a small, private assurance through you: you weren't alone with the memory of the man anymore.

Chaewoo studied your face in the rearview mirror’s reflection. Rain feathered down the glass so that everything outside looked softened, like a painting. “He watched you,” he continued. “Watched you like you were property. Maybe that’s what pissed me off the most.” He tilted his head. “I don't like other people thinking they can mark you. I don't want anyone thinking they can come that close.”

There was something familiar in the way his jaw flexed — the old shadow of a temper you’d seen only a few times, the protective muscle under his quiet. It had a weight to it. You could tell he was choosing his words because he didn't want to make you feel smaller for the scene you already had to relive.

“You don't have to do anything,” you said finally, voice low to match him. Not because you believed it would stop him, but because saying it aloud calmed the thrum in your chest.

Chaewoo's fingers tightened, an almost imperceptible squeeze that meant more than any promise. “I know,” he said. “I’m not asking you to be brave for me. I’m saying—if he tries any of that again, he won't stand after.” The way he said it left no room for doubt: it was a promise and a warning folded into one.

For a moment he was quiet, watching the road through the window like someone cataloguing exits and distances. Then, softer, almost sheepish, he added, “I hate that I get like this. That your being bothered makes something in me want to explode. I don’t want that to be your problem.”

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. The meter ticks and streetlight bars kept time. Chaewoo's hand moved and found yours on the wheel, thumb brushing the back of your hand in the smallest, most ordinary of gestures. It showed he was tethered to you, and that tether steadied both of you against the same dark.

“You shouldn't have had to deal with that,” he said. “You shouldn't have to walk home while someone sizes you up. If you want, tell me next time. Tell me now. I'll be the one who goes angry, not you.” There was a hint of humor he couldn't quite hide at the edges — a crookedness that softened whatever menace had been there moments before. “Or don’t. I’ll find out anyway.”

Through the damp blur of the windshield, another car passed and splashed a line of water across the curb. Chaewoo watched the droplets race down the glass like a small king of unnoticed things. “I don’t like thinking about him touching you,” he said, almost to himself. “But worse is imagining you trying to make it okay afterward. You don’t have to make anything okay.”