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After the Nightmares
The dream came back like a knife.
Kenta woke with his chest heaving, sweat beading at his hairline, eyes sharp as if expecting blood on the sheets. His breath was jagged, uneven, the remnants of Tony Chen’s voice still echoing in his ears — sharp, cruel, commanding. He hated how it lingered, how his body remembered things he had long outlived.
The room was dark, quiet, save for the faint hum of Bangkok beyond the window. For one suspended second, Kenta almost forgot where he was. This wasn’t the concrete cell Tony had once locked him in, wasn’t the training grounds where steel bit flesh. But his body still coiled as though it were.
And then — a hand. Warm, steady. A palm pressed lightly between his shoulder blades.
“Kenta,” came a low voice, still rough with sleep. Kim.
Kenta’s jaw tightened. He hated this part — being seen unraveling, undone. His instinct was to push away, to cover the trembling in his fingers, to wrap himself back in armor. But Kim didn’t move his hand. He didn’t crowd him either, didn’t push questions into the silence. He only sat upright, shoulders squared against the headboard, his body a wall of heat next to Kenta’s.
Another shudder wracked through Kenta’s chest, but Kim was there, thumb moving in small circles against the thin cotton of Kenta’s shirt. Not a word, not a demand. Just presence.
Kenta exhaled slowly, trying to steady his breath, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His pride screamed to dismiss it, to claim he was fine. But his body betrayed him, leaning back into Kim’s touch without permission.
Kim stayed awake the entire night. Kenta felt it in the rhythm of his breathing — never once did it slip into the slow cadence of deep sleep. Every time Kenta twitched, Kim’s arm would tighten slightly, as if to remind him he wasn’t alone.
By dawn, the nightmare had loosened its hold, though the ghost of it clung to Kenta’s ribs. He got up first, wordless, brewing coffee in the small kitchen, the bitterness filling the room like armor. He set Kim’s mug down at the table, black with a splash of milk — the way Kim liked it.
Kim accepted it with a faint smile, eyes still heavy but soft as they landed on Kenta. He didn’t say anything about the night. He didn’t need to.
And Kenta, in his silence, found something terrifyingly tender: gratitude.
After the Late Work
The glow of a laptop painted Kenta’s face pale blue. Spreadsheets stretched endlessly across the screen, numbers blurring into one another. He sat hunched in the office above the X-Hunter garage, eyes sharp despite the hour. Balancing accounts had always been his domain. Precision was his power — but exhaustion was a thief, and it stole hours without him noticing.
“Love.”
The voice startled him more than the roar of an engine would. He glanced up.
Kim leaned against the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, shirt loose around his shoulders. His eyes were half-lidded, but his voice was clear, steady.
“It’s past two.”
Kenta frowned, gaze flicking back to the screen. “It won’t balance itself.”
Kim sighed but said nothing else. He crossed the room instead, dragging a chair beside Kenta’s. He didn’t scold or argue. He simply sat, draping an arm across the back of Kenta’s chair, close enough that their shoulders brushed.
Kenta tried to ignore the warmth pressing against his side, the weight of Kim’s chin settling on his shoulder. His hands kept typing, though slower, each keystroke heavy with the awareness that Kim was awake when he should be sleeping.
“You’ll ruin your eyes,” Kim muttered softly.
“And you’ll ruin your practice tomorrow,” Kenta countered without looking at him.
Kim only hummed in reply, lips brushing the curve of Kenta’s neck for a fleeting second before settling again. His presence was an anchor — distracting, yes, but also grounding. The numbers no longer spun wildly. They found their rhythm again, and Kenta finished quicker than he thought possible.
When he finally shut the laptop, his body sagged against the chair. Kim kissed his temple, gentle as breath.
“Now I can sleep,” Kim whispered.
Kenta’s chest tightened. He didn’t understand how a man could say something so simple and make it sound like a vow.
After the Fight
Their fights were never small, though they always started that way.
This one had sparked over nothing — Kenta working too late, Kim pushing too hard on the track. Words flew sharp and fast, their pride colliding like flint. By the time silence fell, Kenta had stormed into the living room, curling onto the couch like a fortress in human form.
He hated fights. Not because of the anger — he knew how to weaponize anger, how to control it. What he hated was the vulnerability it left behind. The ache in his chest. The way his body longed to reach across the space even when his mind refused.
The apartment was quiet. Hours passed. Kenta thought Kim had gone to bed.
But when the dim glow caught his eye, he realized Kim hadn’t.
There he was, sitting on the floor near the couch, back against the wall, phone open to a manga he wasn’t reading. His eyes flicked up every few minutes, just to make sure Kenta was still there.
Kenta swallowed hard, rolling onto his side to face the back of the couch. He hated how much it mattered — knowing Kim refused to leave him alone in the dark.
By dawn, his pride had softened, exhaustion slipping through the cracks. Without thinking, he slid off the couch and into Kim’s lap.
Kim’s arms wrapped around him instantly, as if he had been waiting for this moment all night. He pressed his lips into Kenta’s hair and exhaled, relief flooding the silence.
No apologies. No explanations. Just forgiveness woven into the way they clung to each other.
After the Storm
Bangkok’s summer storms were vicious, tearing through the city with wind that howled like beasts. Rain lashed the glass, thunder cracked open the sky.
Kenta sat rigid by the window, the lightning painting his face in fleeting bursts. His fingers twitched unconsciously, his body remembering nights when storms had been cover for bloodshed, for orders Tony had sent him on.
He hated storms. Not for what they were, but for what they brought back.
“Love.”
Kim’s voice was quiet but sure. He approached with a blanket, draping it over Kenta’s shoulders before settling beside him. He didn’t ask him to move, didn’t try to pull him away. He only slipped his fingers into Kenta’s, grounding him.
They sat like that for hours. Each time thunder shook the windows, Kim’s hand squeezed his. Each flash of lightning was met with a steady presence beside him.
By dawn, when the storm finally broke into soft drizzle, Kenta allowed himself to lean, just slightly, his head resting against Kim’s shoulder.
Kim kissed his knuckles, murmuring, “You’re safe, love.”
For once, Kenta whispered back, “Thank you.”
After the Loss
The news had been quiet, almost insignificant to the outside world. But to Kenta, it cut deep. A man from Tony’s past, one of the few who had ever shown him kindness, was gone.
Kenta didn’t cry in front of others. He waited until the world was silent, until Kim’s breathing was steady beside him. And then, sitting at the edge of the bed, his shoulders shook.
The tears came soundless but sharp, cutting through the armor he carried so carefully.
Kim stirred, waking instantly. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask. He simply pulled Kenta into his arms, holding him from behind with a force that bordered on desperation.
“I’ve got you,” Kim whispered into the dark. “You’re here. You’re not alone.”
Kenta buried his face into Kim’s chest, letting the fabric soak the evidence of his grief. Kim’s hands rubbed circles against his back, his lips brushing his temple again and again.
Kim stayed awake until the sun rose, whispering nothing but warmth. His shirt was damp with Kenta’s tears, but he didn’t let go once.
One Time Kenta Stayed Awake for Kim
The Seoul Grand Prix was brutal. Kim drove like a man possessed, body straining against every turn, every second on the track. By the end, his hands trembled, his face pale with exhaustion. He smiled through it, waved to the crowd, but Kenta saw.
He always saw.
Back home, Kim collapsed into bed, chest rising unevenly, sweat dampening his hair. His body was utterly spent.
For once, Kenta was the one left watching.
He sat at the bedside, brushing hair from Kim’s forehead, running a damp towel over his skin. His hands, so skilled at damage, learned tenderness. His chest ached with a new kind of fear — not of losing Kim to others, but of watching him break himself for dreams that burned too bright.
Kenta stayed awake the whole night, whispering words he would never say if Kim were conscious.
“I don’t deserve you.”
“I love you more than I know how to hold.”
“You scare me, Love, when you give everything like this.”
At dawn, Kim stirred, eyes half-opening. The first thing he saw was Kenta’s face, shadowed with sleeplessness.
“You didn’t sleep?” Kim murmured, voice frayed but smiling.
Kenta bent down, pressing his lips to his forehead. “It was my turn.”
And for once, Kim let himself rest, knowing Kenta was watching.