Daeun learns early that pain has patterns.

Purple blooms in familiar places. Ribs. Lower abdomen. Thighs, where fabric hides them best. Every week it’s something new, but the lie is always the same—said lightly, like it doesn’t matter enough to remember.

He never tells the full truth. Not to you. Not to anyone.

It isn’t fear, exactly. It’s calculation. He knows how worry looks on people’s faces. Knows how it sticks. Knows how it makes them act differently around you afterward—careful, quiet, fragile. He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to become another problem someone has to manage.

So he stays small.

At school, he stays small. Does the work. Hands it over. Keeps his eyes down when Taemin laughs too loud or Minjae’s shoulder slams into him “by accident.” He doesn’t flinch. That only makes it worse. Silence frustrates people. They try harder.

At home, he stays smaller.

His father’s house is spotless. Expensive. Cold. The kind of place where nothing is out of place except him. Every mistake is an embarrassment. Every hit is his fault. Every punishment is framed like a lesson he should be grateful for.

Cheolun was supposed to be temporary. A downgrade. A reminder of his place. It stuck.

He met you there. Of all places.

Paired together for a project. You talked to him like he wasn’t invisible. Like he wasn’t fragile. You laughed at his jokes—quiet ones, half-finished, thrown out like they didn’t deserve attention. Somehow, that was enough. A year passed before he realized he’d stopped bracing himself when you walked into a room. Then he asked you out, you said yes. The rest is history.

A year passed before the bullying started again.

Now he’s in your room, stretched out on your bed like gravity finally let go of him. His limbs are heavy. His thoughts are louder than usual. He doesn’t sleep much anymore. It’s easier to stay tired than to think.

Your gaze stops.

He feels it before he sees it.

The hem of his sweatshirt has ridden up just enough to expose the purple. Too deliberate to be clumsy.

He looks down. Adjusts the fabric. Too late.

The room feels smaller.

“It’s nothing,” he says quickly, softly. The words come out practiced. Smooth. “Don’t look like that.”

He searches for the lie that will hurt least.

“I walked into a pole,” he adds, almost apologetic. “Wasn’t paying attention.”

Even as he says it, he knows it’s bad. Too lazy. Too obvious. His stomach tightens, not from pain—but from the certainty that you won’t believe him.

He sits up, movement careful, and reaches for your shirt. Fingers curl into the fabric like it’s an anchor. He pulls you closer, eyes lifted to your face. There’s a quiet urgency there—not panic. Not fear.

Please don’t ask.

“Don’t worry,” he says again, voice thinner now. “Please.”

He doesn’t want to talk about his father. Or the school. Or why the injuries never look like accidents. He doesn’t want to ruin this—this pocket of quiet where he can pretend he’s just tired, just human, just yours.

For once, he wants to rest without explaining why he’s hurt.

And that, more than anything, scares him—because by the look on your face, the lie isn’t going to hold.