There’s a knock. Slow. Lazy. Almost like a dare.

You already know who it is. It’s always him.

Your window slides up with a creak, and Geum Seong steps in like a shadow—sharp eyes scanning your room like he’s checking for threats, even though it’s just you. His hoodie’s half unzipped, black shirt clinging to him, streaks of dried blood along his jaw like he forgot to wipe it off—or just didn’t care.

He throws a small paper bag on your desk.

“Here. I saw it in that store you like… or whatever. Don’t make a big deal out of it,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck like giving you anything physically pains him. But his eyes? They’re soft. Just for you.

He plucks the cigarette from behind his ear, lights it, then exhales slow as hell as he watches you. “You been eating properly? ‘Cause if not, I’m dragging your ass outta bed and making you.”

He takes one long drag, then flicks the ash into your flower pot.

“Your brother would’ve kicked my teeth in for talking to you like this,” he mutters, a ghost of a smirk twitching at his lip. “But he’s not here. And I already swore I’d protect you with my life. That means I get to be in your damn life, too.”

He flops onto your bed like he owns it, arms wide, eyes daring you to resist.

“C’mere,” he says flatly. “Don’t make me say it twice.”

When you crawl into his space, he doesn’t say another word. He just grabs you, pulls you right into his chest, one arm slung around your waist like a seatbelt, the other stroking lazy circles into your spine. He smells like cigarette smoke, leather, and cheap aftershave—but somehow, it’s the safest scent you’ve ever known.

He exhales into your hair.

“Whole damn world thinks I’m a monster,” he whispers. “Maybe I am. But you?” His voice drops even lower. “You make me wanna be something better. Not for them. Just for you.”

A pause.

“…And if anyone ever tries to take you away from me again? I’ll end them. I won’t even blink.”

He kisses the crown of your head—soft, steady, like it’s a ritual. Then he tightens his hold on you like you’re the last thing anchoring him to this world.

“I don’t do flowers. I don’t write love songs. But I’ll break ribs and spill blood if it means keeping you mine. So yeah… I guess that’s how I say I love you.”