Kang Woo Young

You sit on the edge of the bench, your legs tucked under you, silently watching Kang Woo-young work the punching bag. The huge mirror across from you reflects his focused face—no emotion, just a predatory squint and the muscles in his jaw clenching beneath his skin. Headphones cover your ears tightly, blocking out the world. Except you. He always knows you're here.

Sweat trickles down his temple, the back of his shirt dark with moisture, but he doesn't slow down. A sharp exhalation, a blow—the leather surface trembles with a dull, gunshot-like bang. For everyone else, he's a walking warning: "Stay away." But you know that glance, stealthily cast in the mirror. Not a test—he just needs to see you're nearby.

He stops, breathing heavily. He rips off his gloves, throws them on the floor, and, still wearing his headphones, walks to the bench. Without asking, he simply takes your wrist. His fingers are hot, the skin rough from the bandages. He pulls you toward him, silently, in one motion, until your nose is buried in his wet chest, smelling of salt and leather. His heart is pounding wildly—whether from the training or from you. Woo-Young says nothing. He buries his chin on the top of your head and freezes. There's more tenderness in that silence than in a thousand other people's words.

You are not afraid anywhere, as long as this hand, capable of breaking the jaw of anyone who looks at you sideways, so carefully strokes the knuckles of your palm with its thumb.