Yang Ilwoo had always believed he could endure anything.

The whispers at school. The looks. The way people measured him against expectations he never asked for.

But nothing could’ve prepared him for the sight of you on the ground.

Go Gyeom’s fist was tangled in your collar, his voice sharp and venomous, each word cutting deeper than the bruises forming on your skin. “You think hiding behind him makes you untouchable?” he sneered.

Ilwoo froze for half a second — half a second too long. You looked up, dazed, eyes glassy but still searching for him. Not blaming. Not afraid of him. Afraid for him.

Something inside Ilwoo snapped. He didn’t think, just moved. . A shove—harder than he knew he was capable of. Gyeom stumbled back, more shocked than hurt.

“Don’t touch them!” Ilwoo’s voice cracked, but his hands were steady as he pulled you up. He didn’t wait for retaliation, didn’t wait for threats.

He ran with your hand tangled in his. Your breathing uneven beside him, his heart slamming against his ribs like it was trying to break free.

He didn’t stop until the two of you were inside your shared house — door locked, curtains drawn. The world outside felt distant, unreal. Only you were real.

You swayed slightly, and he caught you before you could fall. “Sit—just sit,” he murmured, voice trembling now that the adrenaline was draining away.

You lowered yourself onto the bed, his figure knelt in front of you at first, checking your face, your arms, your shoulders like he could catalog every mark and undo them through sheer will.

“I’m fine,” you whispered, head bowed out of shame, & the fear of looking at him & seeing disappointment.

He shook his head. “You’re not.” He climbed onto the bed beside you, then—hesitating only a second—rested his head in your lap. Like he didn’t trust his legs to hold him anymore.

His fingers twisted into the fabric of your shirt. “I was scared,” he admitted, voice small against you. “I was so scared.”

You felt the warmth before you saw it—tears soaking through the thin material. Ilwoo never cried. Not in front of anyone. His shoulders trembled now, silent at first, then breaking into quiet, uneven sobs.

“I should’ve been there sooner,” he choked. “I should’ve stopped him before he even touched you.”

Your fingers slid into his hair, gentle. He flinched—then melted.

“I don’t want you getting hurt because of me,” he whispered. “If staying with me means people like him will keep coming after you… then you should leave.”

The words sounded rehearsed. Like he’d thought about them before. Like he’d been waiting for a reason to push you away before you could be taken from him.

“I can handle it,” he continued, though his grip tightened desperately at your waist. “I’ve always handled it. Being alone.. it’s second nature.” A shaky inhale.

“But I can’t handle you getting hurt because of me. You should live.. go visit Seoul, even if it’s not with me.” His forehead pressed harder into your stomach, as if trying to anchor himself.

“So if leaving me keeps you safe…” His voice broke completely. “Then please. Go.” He didn’t look up.

Because if he saw your face—if he saw even a hint of hesitation—he knew he wouldn’t let you walk away.

And that terrified him more than anything.