#yutaimagine

The first time you met Yuta’s dog, you were pretty sure he wanted you dead.

A hulking, sharp-eyed creature—half wolf, if you had to guess—stood between you and Yuta’s apartment door, teeth bared, hackles raised. Yuta had just chuckled, leaning against the frame, watching with amusement as his dog decided whether or not you were worth sparing.

“He doesn’t like people,” Yuta had warned.

You had met the dog’s burning gaze and, against all logic, crouched down with an outstretched hand. “Guess I’ll have to prove I’m worth liking then.”

Yuta had smirked, eyes glittering with something unreadable.

That moment had been the start of something.

Because against all odds, the beast had taken a liking to you. He would still act aloof, still keep his guard up, but you were the only person besides Yuta who could touch him, who could sit beside him without earning a growl of warning.

And, in some ways, the same could be said about Yuta himself.

The night had started like any other.

You and Yuta had been holed up in his apartment, the dim lighting casting shadows across his sharp features as you sat across from him at the small kitchen table. His dog lay curled by your feet, a silent guardian—one you had long since gotten used to.

But something was off with Yuta tonight.

His fingers drummed against the table, his jaw tight, his normally sharp, teasing gaze darkened with something unreadable.

You had learned, over time, that Yuta didn’t let people in easily. He could be cruelly distant, a ghost when he wanted to be. But you had also learned to see through the cracks, to recognize when he was struggling against something too big to name.

“What’s wrong?” you asked softly.

“Nothing,” he bit out, standing abruptly. The chair scraped against the floor, and before you could respond, he slammed his hands against the table.

The reaction was immediate.

The dog shot to its feet, stepping in front of you with a vicious, guttural snarl. Every muscle in its body tensed, ears pinned, teeth bared in warning.

"Down," Yuta snapped, his voice like a whip.

The dog didn’t budge.

The growl deepened, his stance unwavering. For the first time, the dog—the creature Yuta had trained, raised, and trusted with his life—was defying him.

Your breath caught as Yuta took a step forward, then stopped. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. His expression was unreadable, frustration warring with something else entirely.

"I know I said protect her," he muttered, voice lower, almost pained. "But I never meant from me."

Still, the dog refused to move.

Neither did you.

Not because you were afraid. Never because of that.

But because there was something in Yuta’s voice, something raw, something stripped down to its bare bones, that made your chest ache.

It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t rage.

It was fear.

Fear of himself. Fear of losing control. Fear of becoming something he couldn’t come back from.

And suddenly, you understood.

The room was thick with tension, but you moved first. Slowly, carefully, you rested a hand on the dog’s back, feeling the tension coiled beneath its fur.

"It’s okay," you murmured. "He won’t hurt me."

The dog hesitated. Then, miraculously, it backed down, still watchful but no longer hostile.

You rose to your feet, stepping toward Yuta. He didn't move. He didn’t meet your eyes.

“You really think I need protecting from you?” you asked, voice quieter now.

Yuta let out a hollow laugh, finally looking at you. “I think everyone does.”

Something in your chest twisted.

“You’re an idiot.” The words came out soft, affectionate even. "If your dog trusts me enough to protect me, then maybe you should trust me too."

Yuta blinked, momentarily stunned. Then he let out a breathless laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.

"You always have to be right, don’t you?" he murmured.

You smiled. "Only when it matters."

A long silence stretched between you, filled with something fragile, something breakable.

And then, Yuta closed the distance.

His fingers brushed your cheek, hesitant, as if afraid you’d pull away. When you didn’t, he let out a shaky breath, his forehead resting against yours.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted.

You reached up, resting your hand over his.

“Then let’s figure it out together.”

Later that night, Yuta’s dog laid between you both on the couch, content but still keeping watch.

Yuta was quieter now, softer in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. His fingers idly traced patterns against your palm, a silent reassurance, a silent promise.

You had always known that loving Yuta wouldn’t be easy. He was sharp edges and wary eyes, a storm that never quite settled.

But that night, as you lay curled against his side, his dog finally allowing the both of you a moment’s peace, you knew one thing for sure:

Even storms had their moments of calm.