Kim Jong-hyeon was already at his desk when you walked in, posture straight, eyes focused on the file in front of him, face carefully blank in that way that made him unreadable to almost everyone. He rarely spoke unless he had to, never entertained the idle chatter that filled the room, and when a colleague passed his desk with a casual joke, he only gave the smallest tilt of his head before returning to his work.

But when his eyes lifted and landed on you, something shifted, so subtle you might have thought you were imagining it. The hardness in his gaze softened, his shoulders seemed to lose a fraction of their tension, and he said quietly, almost gently, “You’re late.” It wasn’t scolding, not really. Not the way it would have sounded if he had said it to anyone else.

You muttered something about traffic, about your alarm, about coffee. It didn’t matter - he listened, and you hated that you could feel his attention like a hand at your back. He didn’t look at anyone else that way. He didn’t speak with that patience, that faint amusement, to anyone else. It was just you. And it confused you, because if he cared - if this softness meant anything - then why had he never done anything about it? Why was he still just your colleague, your sparring partner, your friend, when you already loved him so much it made your chest ache?

Later, when you asked him to teach you self-defense, you tried to sound casual, leaning on the excuse of practicality - we’re in this line of work, it’s better if I can handle myself - but you saw the way his brow furrowed, the way he hesitated for a moment before agreeing. He didn’t hesitate because he didn’t want to; he hesitated because he worried. That was just the way he was with you, careful, as though saying yes too easily might open something neither of you were ready to name.

The precinct gym was empty that night, only the hum of the air vents and the faint slap of your sneakers against mats filling the space. He stood across from you, one hand lifting to demonstrate the proper stance, and though his movements were precise, economical, practiced from years of fencing and training, he never barked orders, never let his voice go sharp. Instead, he guided you with patience, repeating things as many times as you needed, never once rolling his eyes or sighing in frustration the way you knew he might with anyone else. His hand brushed your shoulder as he corrected your posture, light and brief, but enough to make your breath catch.

“Again,” he said, and the word came out softer than it should have, softer than he sounded with anyone else.

You lunged, clumsy but determined, and of course he caught you easily, turning your momentum into nothing. His arm circled your waist before you hit the mat, his strength keeping you steady even as his eyes searched yours to make sure you were unhurt. He did that every time, and every time it left you wondering if you were reading too much into the way he looked at you, the way he held you like you were something fragile and precious.

You joked, because that was the only way to hide the way your heart was racing. “What, enjoying throwing me around?”

His mouth tugged at the corner, but he didn’t deny it. “I’d rather you didn’t fall,” he said, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

And it was in that moment, as he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face without even seeming to notice he’d done it, that you realized: to everyone else, Kim Jong-hyeon was cool and distant, a man too disciplined and too reserved to waste words or warmth. But to you, he was something entirely different. And you didn’t know what to do with that.

You went through the motions, training together for an hour longer than necessary, laughter echoing off the mats, your hands occasionally brushing, the casual contact sending sparks up your arms that you tried to ignore. And then it happened. One of your moves - a poorly aimed punch meant to test his reflexes - caught him off guard. His block was precise, but his knuckle grazed your lip. A sudden, sharp sting shot across your face, and you tasted blood.

“Fuck-” his voice cracked in a way you had never heard, so human, so panicked, that it made you pause mid-breath. “I- I didn’t- are you okay?”

Your fingers went to your lip and came away slick with red. You tried to laugh, tried to brush it off, but your heart was pounding in a way you couldn’t pretend. “It’s nothing,” you said, though you winced.

“It’s not nothing,” His hands were suddenly everywhere - searching for the first aid kit, crouching beside you, brushing your hair back, tilting your face gently toward him as if he feared the world would break if you moved. “I should’ve been more careful. I… I wasn’t thinking. Are you hurt?”

You were stunned by the intensity of his care, the meticulousness in every motion, the way his sharp eyes softened, his body leaning toward you without hesitation. “I’m fine,” you tried to say, though your knees trembled.

“No, you’re not.” His thumb brushed your jaw as he dabbed at the cut, antiseptic making the sting worse, and you could barely breathe because you were too aware of the proximity of his face, the quiet panic in his voice, the warmth in his hands. “I can’t believe I- God, I wasn’t paying attention. I shouldn’t have-”

You laughed, weak and breathless, because that was all you could do. “You’re treating me like porcelain.”

His lips twitched. “If I didn’t, I’d be an idiot.” And just like that, the words hung in the air, heavier than anything he’d ever said to anyone else.

He stayed by your side even after your lip had stopped bleeding, offering ice, fussing over you like you were more fragile than you felt. You hated him for it and loved him for it all at once - hated him for the way he didn’t realize what he was doing to your heart, loved him because it was him. Only him. Always him.

“You really should be more careful,” you murmured as he cleaned up the supplies, voice tinged with exasperation. “One more slip, and I’m blaming you for everything.”

His brow furrowed, hands still gentle. “I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.” His voice was calm again, but in his eyes there was a storm of worry, a carefulness he reserved for no one else.

Behind the glass of the gym, someone shifted - Dong-ju. There was a pleased and knowing grin written all over his face and you averted your eyes as soon as possible, trying to avoid embarrassing yourself any further while blood crept into your cheeks. That only made his grin bigger as he gestured to Jong-hyeon to come after him into the hall. Jong-hyeon got up with a sigh, looking at you twice as he walked towards the door as if checking if you were still alive and breathing.

The teasing started immediately after the door clicked shut. “You know, most people don’t cradle their coworkers’ faces like that unless they’re in looooove,” Dong-ju sang, and Jong-hyeon was already done with him.

“I’m not having this talk right now. Especially not with you.” The coldness in his voice was a stark contrast with the softness of his words a minute ago. 

“Well, who could blame me for being actually interested in this? You don’t do that for anyone else. When I scrape my hand, you hand me a towel and tell me to go bleed elsewhere. When she bleeds, you act like the world is ending. Think about that, idiot.” Dong-ju’s eyes turned into a puppy-like gaze, his lips pouting. 

“I said I’m not-” Jong-hyeon’s voice dropped, even colder this time, sharp enough to slice through Dong-ju’s teasing, but he still didn’t meet his friend’s eyes fully.

“Not in love. Right.” Dong-ju shook his head, smirk widening. “I get it, Mr. Stoic. You only reserve your… delicate, careful, soft side for her. I see it, I watch it, and I’m a little hurt, not gonna lie. You could be slightly less dramatic about everyone else and save it for me, you know?”

Jong-hyeon’s lips twitched, half in irritation, half in embarrassment. “Shut up.”

Dong-ju stepped back with a mock sigh, grinning. “Fine, fine. Go back in there before she decides you’re too oblivious to notice her or something. And seriously, don’t screw this up.”

Jong-hyeon stood there, heart thudding, cheeks warm, a whirlwind of thoughts in his head. He hated that Dong-ju had called him out, and yet… the words had stirred something undeniable. Something he couldn’t ignore any longer.

He walked back toward the gym slowly, deliberately, almost afraid of what he might feel when he saw you again, the soft, fragile way you had looked at him, the warmth lingering even after the panic had faded.

He paused at the doorway, watching you gather your bag, your movements casual, but every small gesture somehow amplified in his mind. The briefest brush of your hair over your shoulder, the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled - it all pressed against his chest like a weight he had no choice but to carry.

“I will walk you to your car,” he said finally, voice low, hesitant, almost unsure of itself. His hand hovered near the doorframe as if seeking permission to step closer.

You looked up at him, startled for only a moment before grinning. “Really? You’re offering your services as my personal bodyguard now?”

He didn’t smile, not fully, but there was a faint twitch of amusement at the corner of his lips. “Only for you,” he said, deliberately careful. “No more injuries tonight. Even though I might just make it worse.”

You laughed softly, feeling your heart thump in a way that had nothing to do with the fight earlier. “I appreciate the caution, but I think I can handle you just fine.”

He followed you down the quiet street, walking close enough that your shoulders brushed with every step. The night air was cool, carrying the faint hum of distant traffic, but the warmth radiating from him kept the chill at bay.

“You really didn’t have to come all the way,” you said softly, glancing up at him as you approached your car.

“I wanted to,” he replied, voice low and steady, eyes fixed on yours.

You stopped in front of your car, fumbling for the keys, and he waited, close, hands tucked in his pockets, but his presence pressed against you like a shield. 

“Why?” you finally found the courage to look him in the eyes, hoping for something, anything. 

“I like you. That’s why.” 

And then he leaned in, pressing his lips gently to the grazed spot on your bottom lip, soft and tender, lingering just enough to make your chest tighten. It was careful, protective and full of warmth. When he pulled back just slightly, his forehead rested against yours, and his gaze searched yours like he was trying to read your heart. 

“There,” he said softly, almost shyly. “Better?”