*Night – Outside the Loft*
The bass thumped one last time inside, then fell silent. The doors slammed open as the group rushed out, eyes wide, hearts pounding.
*Alpha boys:* Lorenzo, Ace, Adriel Hudson, Caleb Harrison.
*Idols:* Adriel, Jace, Kai.
They spilled onto the slick pavement, scanning the dim street. The neon sign of a 24‑hour diner buzzed overhead, casting a sickly pink glow.
A few steps away, near a black sedan, a body lay motionless.
*Han.*
His jacket twisted, a smear of blood at his lip, his chest barely rising. The faint scent of iron lingered.
Lorenzo dropped to his knees first.
*"Han! Han, can you hear me?!"*
Ace knelt, pressing a hand to Han's shoulder, feeling the tremor of a lingering growl.
*"We got you, bro."*
Adriel (Hudson) checked his pulse, eyes flicking to the shadows.
*"Someone—what the hell happened?"*
Jace and Kai stood back, frowning, trying to spot any movement in the darkness.
From a rooftop across the street, a figure cloaked in a swirling dark aura watched, eyes black as obsidian. He lingered in the shadows, barely breathing.
*Taejoon, from the distance, muttered under his breath:*
*"I'm sorry, Han… but it's not time for us to meet yet."*
He slipped farther into the night, the darkness swallowing him whole, leaving the group huddled around Han's unconscious form, unaware of the silent watcher.
*Next Day – Morning*
The doorbell rang, sharp and persistent, slicing through the stale silence of Han's apartment. A dull ache thudded in his stomach, the bruise from the back‑kick still throbbing. He growled low, a guttural rumble in his chest, forced himself upright, and shuffled to the door, half‑bent, eyes narrowed.
He pulled the door open.
Standing there was a delivery guy—tall, shoulders broad, a black cap pulled low, a white face mask covering his mouth and nose. Their eyes met. Behind the mask, a pair of familiar black eyes stared back—Taejoon, in disguise.
Han clutched his stomach, barely able to stay on his feet. Without a word, Taejoon slipped the mask down just enough to reveal those eyes, then lifted Han into his arms. Han's weight fell against a chest that felt oddly warm despite the chill of night's remnants. Han's eyes widened, shock and fury flickering.
*"What the— put me down!"* he snarled, voice rough, half‑growl.
Taejoon ignored the protest, carried him to the bed, and gently set him down. He reached for an iPad in his bag, swiped it on, and typed:
*"I'm just helping. Sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable."*
Han stared at the screen, breath ragged, stomach still pulsing with pain. He read, then muttered:
*"It's fine. I don't know you, so I felt uncomfortable."*
Taejoon tapped again:
*"It's okay. I'm glad to help."*
Han's gaze snapped back to the masked figure. *"Who are you? Why are you writing? What's wrong with your voice?"*
Taejoon typed once more:
*"I was born mute. I'm a delivery guy."*
Han frowned. *"Delivery guy from where?"*
Taejoon wrote:
*"From Mark Pharmacy."*
Han respond
*"I didn't order anything."*
Taejoon typed:
*"We received an order for you."*
Han's brow furrowed. *"Really? What did I order?"*
Taejoon typed the last line:
*"Ointment and pain killer."*
A silence fell, broken only by the soft hum of the city outside. Han,** still clutching his stomach, whispered:
*"Thanks…"*
Taejoon nodded, tapped the iPad one final time:
*"Get rest. I'll go."*
*Han Calls Him Back*
The door had barely clicked shut when Han's voice cracked through the thin hallway.
"Hey—wait! Come back. I… I need help putting this on."
Taejoon paused on the stairwell, mask still covering his mouth, cap shadowing his eyes. He turned, stepped back inside, and closed the door gently.
Han was already half‑sitting on the edge of the bed, back hunched, stomach tight, a bruise darkening his forehead. He swallowed, eyes glancing up, a mix of pain and something softer.
Taejoon reached for his iPad, swiped it on, and typed:
*"Where does it hurt?"*
Han lifted a trembling hand, pointing first to his forehead, then dragging his fingers down his back, and finally pressing lightly over his stomach.
"Forehead, back, stomach," he whispered, eyes never leaving Taejoon's.
Taejoon nodded,He dipped his fingers into the ointment, spreading a cool, slick layer on his palm.
*Forehead:* He brushed the ointment gently over the bruised skin, his thumb feather‑light, wiping away a stray tear that slipped from Han's eye.
*Back:* He shifted behind Han, placing a warm hand on the sore muscles. Slow, circular motions eased the sting, his palm gliding over the tense flesh while Han's breath hitched.
*Stomach:* He leaned in, careful not to press too hard, massaging the balm in soft, soothing strokes. The heat of his touch seemed to melt some of the pain, and Han's eyes fluttered, trying to catch every detail of Taejoon's face—still hidden, still safe.
Han's gaze lingered, searching for any flicker of recognition, a hint of the man from the alley. Taejoon kept his movements deliberate, never breaking the rhythm, never giving away a tremor or a glance that would raise suspicion.
"Feels… better," Han murmured, voice low, a hint of awe.
He typed on the iPad:
*"Just a little more. Then you can Rest now."*
He handed Han a pill, poured water, and watched him swallow.
*The Ointment, Moment by Moment*
Taejoon's fingers moved slowly, spreading the cool balm over Han's forehead, then slipping down to his back, pressing in gentle circles. Every sweep of his hand brushed a whisper of warmth against Han's skin, the scent of menthol rising, filling the small room.
*Forehead:* His thumb glided over the bruise, feather‑light, wiping away a stray tear. He lingered a heartbeat, eyes flickering up—caught Han's profile, lips bitten tight to stifle a wince.
*Back:* He shifted behind Han, hand firm on the sore muscles. As he massaged, his gaze drifted, stealing glances. Han's head tipped back, eyes half‑closed, jaw clenched, the pain evident in the tremor of his breath.
*Stomach:* Leaning in, Taejoon's palm rested just above the waistband, applying the ointment in soft, soothing strokes. His eyes kept slipping to Han's face—lips pressed together, a soft gasp escaping when the balm met a particularly tender spot.
Taejoon Each stolen glance was quick, careful—never lingering long enough to raise suspicion, just enough to notice the flush spreading across Han's cheeks, the way his chest rose and fell a little faster.
Han's eyes fluttered open for a split second, catching Taejoon's gaze. He bit his lower lip harder, trying to keep the pain inside, a small whimper muffled by his own teeth. Taejoon's hand paused, thumb brushing a stray strand of hair from Han's forehead, his expression softening behind the mask.
"Okay?" he typed on the iPad, voice still silent.
Han nodded, voice low and hoarse, "Yeah… it hurts, but… it's… better."
. He continued the rhythmic motions, each touch a quiet promise, each glance a silent apology for the pain he'd caused—yet unable to stop the tenderness seeping through.
The room fell into a hushed intimacy, the city lights outside flickering like distant stars, as the two lingered in that fragile, romantic moment—Han fighting the pain, Taejoon fighting his own conflicted feelings, both caught in a dance of glances and gentle touches.