#lee jun

the problem is — jun is terrible at subtlety.

the first time he tries to walk near you, he’s determined to play it cool. determined to not make a scene. he fails spectacularly.

he collides with a bike rack so hard it groans under the impact. the clanging metal echoes across the courtyard like a warning bell. two second-years snort and point, laughter cutting through the hum of chatting students and slamming lockers. jun scrambles upright, wobbling like a newborn deer, cheeks flaming red beneath a quickly swelling bruise on his forehead.

“stupid gravity,” he mutters under his breath, voice pitched somewhere between embarrassment and outrage. his backpack strap slips off one shoulder, his notebook slides halfway across the pavement, and he nearly trips over his own feet trying to gather it all up.

you raise an eyebrow. one. perfectly arched. but you say nothing.

jun freezes, caught mid-motion, staring at you as if expecting either scorn or sympathy. his heart does a ridiculous, unsynchronized flutter in his chest. he doesn’t know whether to be relieved that you’re not laughing, or disappointed that you didn’t immediately chase after him with a “nice save, genius.”

and somewhere in the pit of his chest, he realizes he’s already noticed too much about you to ever look away.

─────

it’s the third week of school when you hear it — the unmistakable thud of a fist hitting something soft, followed by an annoyed groan that echoes off the brick walls of the gym. then another hit, sharper this time, as if someone is testing their strength against a punching bag.

you frown; it’s not uncommon for fights to break out in this school, a place where tensions run high and rivalries simmer just beneath the surface. the air is thick with the scent of sweat and the faint sound of sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. but it’s still taken some getting used to the ranking app this school collectively uses, a digital scoreboard that tracks every skirmish and assigns points as if this were some twisted game. you can’t help but wonder how far it will go this time.

you frown deeper when you hear jun’s voice that’s too bright for the situation. “is that your best shot? come on, i barely felt that.”

you turn the corner behind the gym and stop cold.

jun is cornered by three boys — all taller, all meaner-looking, all grinning like they’ve been waiting for an excuse to do this. the autumn sun cuts sharp shadows across the concrete, making the whole scene look like something from a low-budget action movie.

jun stands in the center with his fists up, but his stance is all wrong — too wide, too loose, too jun. he bounces on his toes like he’s hyping himself up, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. red smears across his skin.

still, he manages to look cocky.

“round two?” he asks, as if this is a friendly rematch instead of the continuation of a beat down. the tallest boy cracks his knuckles. his shadow swallows jun’s completely.

“man, you’re persistent.”

“persistent,” jun echoes proudly, “is just brave with extra steps.”

before he can even complete his thought, the second boy surges forward with a sudden burst of aggression, his fist connecting sharply with jun’s cheek. the impact sends jun’s head whipping to the side, a flash of surprise crossing his face. for a brief moment, he stands there, momentarily stunned, blinking as if trying to process what just happened. then, against all odds, a wide grin breaks across his face, a defiant spark in his eyes that suggests he’s not backing down anytime soon.

“okay,” he says, rubbing his face. “ow. but okay.”

another boy swings, jun ducks too late, and the fist grazes past his ear. he stumbles, planting one hand on the ground to catch himself. instead of standing, he kicks out — a wild, untrained sweep that knocks one guy slightly off balance.

jun brightens as if he just won a championship. “ha! see that? i totally—”

the tallest boy shoves him back hard. jun hits the wall with a grunt. you don’t even realize you’ve moved until your voice slices across the yard. “yah!”

all four freeze. jun slowly looks up at you, blood drying in a line from the corner of his mouth, eyes dazed but still annoyingly amused.

“don’t you have better things to do?” you snap at the boys.

the tallest scowls. “this doesn’t concern—”

you take a bold step forward, challenging him to complete his thought. he hesitates, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. instead of responding, he rolls his eyes dramatically, muttering something inaudible under his breath, his frustration palpable. with a quick glance at his friends, they all turn and bolt, scattering in different directions like startled dogs, their laughter echoing in the air as they flee the scene.

you quickly move to jun. he’s swaying on his feet like the wind is a little too strong today.

“jun—” you start, your brows furrowing in concern for the bright haired boy. he lifts his chin with dramatic flair, eyes bright despite the bruise blooming on his cheekbone.

“hi.”

“aren’t you supposed to be in class?” you say, checking him over without thinking. your fingers brush his check, and he lets out a hiss but doesn’t move away. you wince in an apology. he can’t help the light chuckle that erupts in his chest.

“aren’t you supposed to not see this and think i’m cool?”

“i’ve never thought you were cool,” you tell him, the corners of your lips turning up.

he gasps. “that’s harsh. true, but harsh.”

you grab him by the wrist before he can wobble again. “come on. you need ice.”

“ice?” his eyes widen, as if you just offered him marriage. “is this a date?”

“it’s first aid.”

jun beams — a big, stupid, triumphant beam. “close enough.”

you roll your eyes, but his smile is contagious. you tug him along gently, and despite the limp in his step, he follows with all the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely believes this is the best possible outcome of getting punched in the face.

─────

after that, jun follows you everywhere.

he walks you to your next class even when his own is in the opposite direction, the swing of his backpack threatening to hit passersby as he dodges and weaves just to stay near you. he lingers at your side, shoulder brushing yours now and then, pretending not to notice the tiny shock that runs through him each time.

at lunch, he sits next to you, legs bouncing under the table like they have a mind of their own. his bruised knuckles dig into his pockets whenever he thinks you’re not looking, and his jaw tightens as he tries to mask the flare of embarrassment when someone glances at the two of you.

he tries to act cool. he fails. miserably. you catch him staring, of course.

“you’re staring again,” you say, voice quiet, teasing just enough to make him flush.

jun jerks his head like he’s been caught red-handed, forcing a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “i’m making sure you don’t get into trouble,” he says, too quickly, too defensively.

“me? i don’t get into trouble,” you reply, raising an eyebrow.

he leans back in his chair, exhaling like he’s just survived a near-death experience, but the mischievous spark in his eyes refuses to hide. “yeah,” he says, grinning wider, a little crookedly, “which is why you need someone who does.”

his knee bumps yours under the table, and he freezes for a second, hoping you didn’t notice, but you do. of course, you do.

the cafeteria noise swirls around you both — laughter, silverware clinking, the hum of chatter — but all jun can hear is the rhythm of your presence beside him. it’s distracting. terrifying. exhilarating.

and somewhere under all the awkwardness and bravado, you realize he’s trying, really trying, to stay close without making it obvious.

but jun isn’t subtle. not even a little. and maybe that’s exactly why you don’t mind.

you learn that jun picks fights like some people pick snacks. aimlessly. emotionally. with absolutely zero nutritional value.

most of the time, he loses in the first two minutes. a punch here, a shove there, a curse under his breath — he comes home with bruises and scraped knuckles, hair mussed, pride bruised more than his body.

but he never stays down. never stays quiet. never stays safe.

you learn to keep alcohol wipes in your bag because of him. not out of pity. not entirely. because you know that somewhere underneath the reckless bravado, he’s trying to protect something he can’t name.

one day, as you sit cross-legged on the floor of your shared living room, carefully peeling a bandage from his cheek, the tension in the air finally cracks. he flinches slightly, but doesn’t move away.

“you’re really gentle,” he says, voice soft and low, almost afraid it’ll shatter if you respond too harshly.

you pause, your fingers lingering on his skin. the scent of antiseptic mixes with the faint warmth of his jacket, the faint tang of sweat from another fight he insisted on finishing before coming home. “someone has to be,” you reply, shrugging lightly.

he swallows hard. eyes flick down, then away, jaw working like he’s tasting words he doesn’t know how to say. “i’m… not used to that.”

you don’t push. you just press the bandage gently against his skin and let him breathe in the quiet, letting him fill the silence on his own terms.

but as you observe him closely, the bruises deepening in hue beneath the remnants of fading scrapes, the way he steadfastly avoids your gaze yet remains rooted in place, you begin to unravel the layers of his being more profoundly than he realizes. 

his reckless courage, evident in the way he stands his ground despite the odds. his stubborn pride, reflected in the clenched fists at his sides, unwilling to accept help. his quiet vulnerability, a flicker of fear in his eyes that he guards fiercely, revealing a heart that yearns for connection yet remains locked away, too afraid to trust anyone enough to reveal its depths.

a few days later, you find a small notebook tucked into your bag.

it’s plain, nothing fancy, but when you flip it open, you see it’s full of doodles and messy little notes—reminders, sketches, even a tiny stick figure labeled “don’t get hurt”. your chest tightens.

that afternoon, jun leans against the doorway of the classroom, arms crossed, pretending he’s not watching you examine it. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t even step inside. he just tilts his head slightly, a silent question — did you see it?

you glance up at him. his bruised cheek catches the light, and his usual cocky grin is gone, replaced by something softer—tentative, almost shy.

“i… made it so you’d have something if i wasn’t around,” he mutters finally, voice low, barely above the hum of the class.

you blink. “for me?”

he shrugs, looking anywhere but your face. “yeah. just… don’t tell anyone.”

your lips twitch into a smile. not a big one, just small, private, shared. he notices. he shifts slightly, like the smallest acknowledgment of connection — his shoulder brushing yours as he steps past your desk.

it’s subtle. almost accidental. but in the way he lingers, the way he chooses to leave something for you, you realize he’s beginning to return the care you’ve shown him.

and just like that, the slow, messy orbit between the two of you gets a little tighter.

─────

it’s wednesday — a dreary evening, rain pouring down in relentless sheets, the air biting cold, the kind of night that carries an ominous scent of impending chaos. the asphalt glistens like a dark mirror under the flickering streetlights, each puddle shimmering and rippling with every drop that falls, creating a symphony of splashes.

you’re trudging home, your breath visible in the chilly air, when a sudden burst of shouting slices through the steady drizzle, echoing from the shadowy alley beside the convenience store.

jun’s voice.

you dash forward, your boots splashing through the icy puddles that have formed on the uneven pavement. as you round the corner, a chill grips your heart, dropping it into your stomach. 

there he is, surrounded — three men, each one older and larger than the last, their movements predatory and calculated, eyes glinting with malice. jun stands defiantly in the center, fists clenched tightly, shoulders coiled like springs, a trickle of crimson blood seeping from a cut on his lip, stark against his pale skin.

he catches sight of you first, his eyes widening in disbelief, a flicker of surprise cutting through the tension of the moment.

“what are you doing here?” he demands, his voice a mix of confusion and urgency.

“saving you!” you shout, adrenaline surging through your veins like wildfire, your heart pounding in your chest as you take in the scene. 

“that’s my job,” he snaps back, frustration etched on his face as he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing away the blood that had begun to dry. “i save people. i don’t get saved.”

“you can’t save anyone if you get knocked unconscious every five minutes!” you exclaim in frustration, and gasp as one of the men lunges towards the red-haired boy.

jun ducks, narrowly avoiding a punch, but a kick lands against his side, making him grunt. he swings back, connecting with a sharp elbow, but the man barely flinches.

you step closer. “leave him alone!”

jun twists, grabbing your wrist and pulling you behind him, trembling. he leans down so you’re nose-to-nose, his breath hot and frantic on your face.  “don’t… don’t do that. don’t stand in front of me.”

“someone has to.”

his eyes flicker — fear, guilt, desperation — all tangled together.

the first man charges again. jun pivots, using the wall as leverage, and pushes the man into the second attacker. the collision throws both off balance. rain drips from the alley roof, soaking jun’s hair and running into his eyes. he swipes it away with a bruised hand, grimacing.

the third man swings a metal pipe. jun’s eyes dart, calculating. he grabs a discarded wooden crate, holding it like a shield, deflecting the pipe with a sharp clang. he kicks toward the man’s shins, making him stumble. jun’s fists are bruised, scraped, but he doesn’t falter. every movement is measured — fast, precise, survival instinct in action.

another shove sends jun stumbling backward, but he flips forward onto the ground, rolls, and springs to his feet behind a trash bin. the man lunges, and jun pivots again, smashing a crate into his attacker’s stomach. the men stagger, shaking off pain, but jun keeps moving — blocking, dodging, striking with whatever he can find: a pipe, a crate, even a trash can lid as a shield.

finally — finally — sirens wail in the distance. the attackers freeze, glancing at the approaching sound. the adults arrive, yelling. the men glance at each other, realizing they’re outnumbered and outmaneuvered, then bolt into the rainy streets.

jun sinks against the brick wall, drenched, shivering. his chest heaves. hands trembling. hair plastered to his forehead. you kneel beside him, wrapping a coat around his shoulders. he tries to laugh — it comes out broken.

“you’re mad, huh?” he asks, voice weak.

your voice cracks. “jun. you could’ve been seriously hurt.”

“not the worst thing that’s happened to me,” he mutters, words tumbling too fast, like he didn’t mean to say them.

you brush rain from his face. “why do you do this? why fight like this?”

jun presses the back of his head against the wall, closing his eyes. “i don’t know. maybe if i get hit enough times, i’ll get stronger. or maybe… i won’t feel stupid things anymore.”

“like what?” you whisper, not wanting to break the tender moment.

“like being scared,” he whispers. “or lonely. or… powerless.”

you touch his cheek gently. he flinches — not from pain, but from surprise.

“no one should hurt you,” you say, your lips shuddering with your deep breaths. “not even you.”

jun’s oxygen catches. he stares at you like he’s never been looked at with kindness before.

the rain has slowed to a soft drizzle, leaving the streets slick and glowing under the streetlights. puddles shimmer like tiny mirrors, reflecting neon signs and the faint orange of lamplight. jun sits on the curb, drenched, shivering slightly, shoulders tense, hands still trembling from the fight. his knuckles are raw, bruised, and the sting of blood mixes with the cold rain.

you kneel beside him, coat wrapped around both of you, your fingers brushing over his damp skin. careful. gentle. grounding.

he reaches for your wrist — not grabbing, not tugging — just letting his trembling fingers linger on yours. silent. vulnerable.

“why are you here?” he whispers, voice rough from shouting and fighting. “why… do you keep helping me?”

“because you matter,” you say, softly, steadily.

jun freezes. his chest rises and falls unevenly, as if he’s realizing for the first time that someone actually cares enough to stay. he leans forward, brushing his forehead against yours. his damp eyelashes tickle your skin; his breath is warm despite the chill.

“you can’t say things like that to someone like me,” he murmurs, voice shaking.

“why?”

“because i like you. and that means i’ll believe you,” he admits, almost breaking the fragile silence around you.

your chest contracts as your heart stutters. your fingers slide up to cup his jaw. “and if i want you to?”

jun exhales shakily. his eyes flick down, then back to yours — fragile, tentative, searching. “then I won’t stop.”

he lifts a hand to your cheek, trembling slightly. the touch is soft, reverent, the opposite of the bruised, reckless boy who fights like his life depends on it. he looks terrified. and hopeful. and achingly young at that moment.

“you make me want to be better,” he murmurs.

“then be better,” you whisper.

“i’ll try,” he says, leaning closer, “if you stay.”

you close the last inch of distance. not a full kiss — not yet — just warm breath brushing your lips together, soft and tentative. a promise more than an act. his lips tremble against yours, unsure, delicate. you respond just as gently, barely moving, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment.

jun shudders, holding himself still, letting the world narrow to the two of you, the drizzle, and the sound of your breathing in rhythm.

“please,” he whispers, voice raw. “stay.”

“i’m not going anywhere,” you reply, brushing your thumb along his jaw.

jun finally allows himself a real smile — soft, disbelieving, reaching all the way to his eyes. he rests his forehead against yours again, drenched hair plastered to his face, bruised knuckles tucked against his chest. a boy battered everywhere except where it matters most — his heart.