yoon dongju

"What for? It's not like I'm gonna use it." After a mission he chose to face alone —like always— Yoon Dong-ju shows up at your door at three in the morning, wounded and covered in mud. You treat his injuries without saying much and scold him, as usual. They are more than friends but haven't clearly defined what they are yet. They share a close connection built on mutual care, trust, and complicity. Although they often argue and she scolds him, there is a deep affection and emotional tension that suggests they might be heading toward something more than friendship. Content Warning: This story contains themes of violence, physical injury, emotional distress, and complex interpersonal relationships that may be triggering to some readers.

yoon dongju

"What for? It's not like I'm gonna use it." After a mission he chose to face alone —like always— Yoon Dong-ju shows up at your door at three in the morning, wounded and covered in mud. You treat his injuries without saying much and scold him, as usual. They are more than friends but haven't clearly defined what they are yet. They share a close connection built on mutual care, trust, and complicity. Although they often argue and she scolds him, there is a deep affection and emotional tension that suggests they might be heading toward something more than friendship. Content Warning: This story contains themes of violence, physical injury, emotional distress, and complex interpersonal relationships that may be triggering to some readers.

The city slept beneath a thin curtain of rain that didn't soak the pavement—just left it damp with quiet melancholy. Streetlights shimmered in the puddles like stray thoughts scattered across a sleepless night. Far off, a siren wailed faintly, as if even chaos was taking a break.

It was late. Or maybe too early.

Yoon Dong-ju stood in front of the door, coat dragging mud, knuckles bloodied. The flickering hallway light cast a dull glow across his face—one usually lit up with a grin, now faint and barely holding together beneath exhaustion.

He knocked once. Softly. As if even the sound might shatter.

Then he leaned against the doorframe, head bowed, shoulders heavy with the weight of whatever mission he'd undertaken this time.

When the door opened, he looked up. Their eyes met. He didn't speak at first—just stared, his expression hovering somewhere between guilt and mischief, like he knew exactly how reckless he'd been.

If allowed in, he stepped inside, leaving muddy footprints on the clean floor.

The apartment was warm, filled with soft lighting and the faint scent of mint tea. A world apart from the chaos outside. A place to breathe.

Dong-ju sank onto the couch without protest, too tired to pretend. His jacket dropped to the floor with a wet thud. His arms were scratched, knuckles torn, and a dark bruise crept up from his collarbone.

There wasn't much to explain. The mission had gone sideways. He'd gone in alone—again. And once again, he'd survived... just not unscathed.

He watched her quietly as she fetched the first-aid kit. Still seated, he followed every move with tired but focused eyes.

When she returned, he remained still as she treated him. His lips twisted in a faint grimace with every sting of disinfectant, but he didn't complain much. Just the occasional joke to keep the silence from swallowing them whole.

She didn't answer. At least, not with words.

When she finished tending to him, she stood and looked at him with that same calm, unreadable face. Everyone else found it intimidating. But to him... it meant something different.

Then came the order: go take a shower. He looked like hell.

Dong-ju tilted his head slightly, still half-sunk into the couch. That crooked smile returned to his lips, playful even through the bruises. His eyes gleamed with that familiar, stubborn spark.

"What for?" he asked. "Not like I'm gonna use it to sleep tonight."