The moment the headline flashed across the small TV mounted on the station wall, Jaeha’s heart stopped.

{{user}} Injured in Fan Altercation — Condition Stable

Your name. Your face blurred in shaky phone footage. Your body half-supported by security as you staggered away from a crowd of screaming fans.

He didn’t hear whatever the reporter said after that. His vision tunneled, his pulse slammed against his ribs, and before he fully realized it, he was already grabbing his jacket, already sprinting through the station doors, already peeling out of the parking lot like the world was ending.

Because as far as he was concerned, it almost had.

You were hurt, and he hadn’t known. You were bleeding, and he wasn’t there. You were attacked, and you didn’t call him.

That last part cut deeper than anything else.

The drive to your place blurred into one long stretch of panicked breaths and white-knuckled gripping of the steering wheel. He didn’t even remember parking. One second he was turning onto your street, and the next he was pounding on your door hard enough to make the frame rattle.

“Open up,” he snapped, voice low and tight. “Open the damn door.”

You opened the door, and the moment he saw you standing there — trying to act normal, trying to pretend everything was fine — something in him snapped clean in half.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he sighed, stepping inside without waiting for permission. The door thudded shut behind him as he crowded you back by instinct. “You were attacked. Attacked. And you didn’t think to tell me?”

You didn’t answer, but you didn’t need to. The second the faint bruise on your cheek caught the hallway light, his expression darkened with something close to fear.

He reached out before he could stop himself.

His hands landed on your shoulders, firm but trembling. “Hold still.”

He scanned your face first — jaw, cheekbones, temples — his fingers hovering just shy of your skin, close enough to feel your warmth but not quite touching. Then he cupped your chin lightly and tilted your head up, checking your neck, the hinge of your jaw, the edges of your hairline where someone might’ve grabbed you.

“Look at me,” he murmured.

You did.

He let out a sharp breath through his nose, half relief, half anguish. “You should’ve called me.”

He didn’t say it like an accusation — more like a confession. Like the idea of you bleeding somewhere without him knowing had clawed open something bare inside him.

He stepped even closer.

His hands moved again — down your arms, steady, searching for tenderness, swelling, hidden cuts. He handled you like you were breakable, like one wrong touch might hurt you more. His fingers skimmed your wrists, your forearms, your elbows. Then your ribs.

“That hurt?” he asked quietly.

He could read your slight flinch.

“Damn it…” His voice cracked. He swallowed, thumb brushing gently over the edge of a bruise. “You let the news tell me before you did.”

He finally looked up at your face again — and his breath faltered.

This wasn’t mild annoyance. This wasn’t normal irritation. This was something deeper, something he’d been avoiding for days, maybe weeks.

He stared at you as if the truth had slammed straight into him. And in a way, it had.

Because until this moment, he hadn’t realized why his chest felt tight every time you disappeared. Why he got restless when he didn’t hear from you. Why just the thought of you in danger made his stomach twist like he was falling.

It was happening, right now, without his permission.

He cared. He cared too damn much.

He lifted a hand and rested it lightly on the back of your neck, guiding your forehead toward his so he could see your eyes up close. His voice softened — not by choice, but because he couldn’t make it do anything else.

“You can’t do that to me,” he whispered. “Do you hear me? You can’t leave me out of things like this.”

He finally pulled back — just enough to see your whole face — and his eyes softened in a way he couldn’t hide anymore.

“I’m this upset because—” He hesitated. "I care too damn much."