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The pavement burns beneath his feet, rough and unforgiving. Gi-hun's breath comes in ragged bursts, a painful rasp that echoes in his chest. His legs ache, muscles crying out for relief, but he can’t stop. He won’t stop. The sound of pounding footsteps is a constant behind him, a cruel reminder that every second counts.
His body moves on instinct, dragging him forward, but it’s becoming harder and harder to ignore the signs of exhaustion. The cold trickle of blood from his temple runs down the side of his face, soaking into the collar of his shirt, staining it a dark, muted red. Sweat stings his eyes. His heart hammers against his ribcage like it might tear free from its confines at any moment.
Behind him, there’s shouting now—voices too close, gaining on him with every frantic step. The unmistakable sound of metal hitting the ground. A pipe, maybe. Or something worse. Something bigger.
He stumbles, nearly trips over a pothole, and has to right himself quickly, the impact jarring his entire body. The pain in his side flares again—he’s not sure if it’s from the running or the fight earlier, but it doesn’t matter. Everything blurs together. All he knows is that he has to keep moving.
Around the next corner, the faint outline of a street light flickers in the distance, casting a pale glow over the dark street. Hope blooms in his chest, fragile and fleeting. He forces his legs to move faster.
His vision blurs, the edges of the world pulling at his focus, and he nearly misses it.
The patrol car.
Parked just off the street, half-hidden in the shadow of a flickering street light. The low hum of the engine, barely audible, is like a beacon in the chaos. He slows for half a second—just enough to confirm that it’s real, that it’s his way out. He doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate. He veers off the sidewalk, knees aching with each step, and runs straight for it.
The cop is leaning against the passenger door, one hand holding a coffee, the other resting casually on his walkie. His expression is distant, like he’s waiting for nothing more than a shift to end, like he’s nowhere near the storm that’s about to sweep through.
Gi-hun’s breath is ragged, eyes wild as he charges toward the car. His legs are screaming, blood dripping down his temple, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t think. His body moves on sheer panic, pulling him forward even as his mind struggles to catch up.
“Arrest me!” Gi-hun yells, his voice raw and frantic, cracking under the weight of his fear. “You—arrest me, now!”
The officer’s head jerks up at the sound, startled. He stands straighter, blinking like he’s woken from a deep sleep, not sure if this is some kind of joke or a nightmare come to life. “What?”
“I said arrest me!” Gi-hun stumbles toward him, one hand gripping the front of the cop’s uniform, the other trembling at his side. “Please—please, you have to do it. I—I can’t—please arrest me!”
The cop stares at him, eyes flicking from Gi-hun’s desperate face to the blood smeared across his temple, the raw tremble in his hands. He hesitates for a moment, brows knitting together. “You’re injured,” the cop says, his voice low, cautious. “Are you alright? What the hell’s going on—?”
“You can’t be serious,” Gi-hun snaps, voice shaking with disbelief. “I’m begging you, damn it! I don’t care why, just do it!”
The officer’s eyes narrow slightly, studying him, before his hands come up in a calming gesture, like he’s trying to figure out whether this is some kind of bad prank. “That’s not how this works,” the cop says, his voice kind and even, but there’s an edge to it now, like he’s trying to understand something Gi-hun doesn’t have the words for. “I can’t just—”
Gi-hun’s hand moves before his mind catches up.
The slap lands hard—sharp and resounding, the sound cracking through the air like a gunshot.
For a moment, everything stops. The officer doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. He stands there, frozen for a beat, his face slightly tilted from the force of the slap. Then he exhales, nostrils flaring with the force of it. He looks at Gi-hun, face unreadable.
Gi-hun swallows, chest heaving with the weight of what just happened. His heart is still pounding, but now it’s against his ribs like a drum. He can’t look away from the officer’s face. “There,” he says, voice low and strained. “Now you’ve got a reason.”
The silence between them stretches, taut and uncomfortable.
The officer’s gaze sharpens. Slowly, deliberately, he shifts his weight, stepping closer—his movements smooth, measured. Predatory.
His hand goes to his belt.
Gi-hun doesn’t even have time to react before the cuffs snap around his wrists, cold and final. There’s no fight, no struggle. The cop’s grip on him is firm but not harsh, guiding him to the back of the car as though this is all part of the script. Gi-hun’s legs feel like jelly, the adrenaline still buzzing in his veins, but he lets the officer lead him, craning his head to see whether the loan sharks have followed him.
He’s half-falling into the backseat, his body trembling with a mix of exhaustion and the faintest flicker of relief. For the first time since he ran, he feels the world slow down, the noise of his fear subsiding, even as the silence in the car presses in on him like a weight.
He slumps against the seat, cheek against the window. The engine hums under him as the car pulls away.
For the first five minutes, he doesn’t speak. He’s too busy letting the adrenaline bleed away, the relief mixing with a growing sense of dread. His mind can’t quite catch up with his body, not yet.
That’s when it hits him. The officer hasn’t said a word since the slap. Hasn’t made any attempt to question him. It’s unsettling how quiet he is.
The city falls away behind them.
And then he recognizes the route.
The turns, the streets, the slow progression—he’s been down this path before. It’s the way to the precinct.
But as he notices, a wave of panic crashes over him. His heart skips, his breath catches in his throat.
Shit. He just slapped a cop.
Gi-hun jolts forward, the cuffs biting into his wrists. “Hey—hey, wait. I didn’t mean it, okay? I was—I was joking. You don’t really have to arrest me.”
The officer finally glances at him through the rearview mirror. There’s a stillness to his face that wasn’t there before.
Gi-hun laughs, too loud, too high-pitched. “Seriously, I was just—just panicking. I didn’t mean it. You can let me go now. Just drop me off somewhere. Anywhere. Really, I’ll be fine. This corner looks good, or— or this one?”
The car slows, tires crunching as they pull into a narrow alleyway.
The officer puts the car in park.
And then he turns, facing Gi-hun fully, one arm slung over the headrest, eyes unreadable but steady.
“Start talking,” he says. Calm, but not unkind. “Why the hell would you slap an officer just to get arrested? That’s not a joke, you know. People don’t do that.”
Gi-hun swallows. His mouth feels dry, coated in the taste of metal. “I—I just needed help,” he says, voice trembling. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
The officer watches him, waiting.
But Gi-hun hesitates. He glances away, eyes darting down the narrow alleyway, then to the floor of the car. “It’s complicated,” he mutters. “I owe money, okay? A lot. And it’s not—legal, probably. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. I owe a lot, and they want me to pay up.”
The officer’s gaze doesn’t waver. After a beat, he reaches for the glovebox and pulls out a bottle of water. He cracks it open and passes it through the partition.
Gi-hun takes the bottle with his cuffed hands, unsteady, and drinks quickly, his throat burning with each swallow.
It’s then that he notices the officer’s nameplate—gleaming faintly on his chest.
Hwang In-ho.
He shifts, trying to sit up straighter—maybe appealing to Officer Hwang directly will hit a nerve—and gasps.
The pain blooms like fire along his ribs, the side where the loan sharks had kicked him, over and over. It sears through his breath, stealing the words from his throat. He slumps sideways against the door with a strangled groan, all the color draining from his face.
In-ho’s eyes sharpen instantly. “Shit.”
He’s out of the car in seconds, door slamming behind him, boots crunching against broken glass and gravel. He rounds the cruiser, opens the rear door, crouches beside it.
“Hey,” In-ho says, his voice softer now, quieter—almost a command. “Look at me.”
Gi-hun blinks, his vision hazy and unfocused. He flinches at In-ho’s presence, instinctively pulling away even though he can’t move fast enough.
“You’re hurt,” In-ho continues, his voice low, steady. His eyes scan over Gi-hun’s bloodstained shirt. “I’m bringing you to the station. We’ve got a doctor there.”
The word station hits Gi-hun like a jolt of ice through his veins. His chest tightens, and before he can stop it, the word bursts out of him.
“No.”
It’s instinct. Panic floods through him again—suffocating, overwhelming, visceral. The thought of being hauled to the station, of being trapped in a place he can’t escape.. it sends him into a frenzy. Without thinking, his foot lashes out, catching In-ho square in the chest.
In-ho stumbles back, more in surprise than pain.
Gi-hun scrambles out of the door, half-falling to the pavement in a rush of panic and adrenaline. His body is unsteady, his legs shaky from the pain. He limps as quickly as he can, his side screaming in protest with every step, but he keeps running—he has to.
“Hey—!” In-ho’s voice rises with urgency. “Goddamn it—You can’t be serious!”
Gi-hun doesn’t get far. The pain in his side slows him, pulls him down. He slips on wet asphalt, nearly crashes into a trash can, then keeps running. But In-ho is faster. Trained. Steady. And angry now.
He tackles Gi-hun from behind.
They crash to the ground with a thud that echoes off brick and metal. Gi-hun grunts, writhing, trying to push him off—but In-ho grabs his wrists, pins them hard to the ground above his head.
His breath is coming in ragged gasps, chest heaving from the struggle.
“Stop—fucking—running!” In-ho growls, his voice low, rough—coiled with frustration, his own breath heavy in the air.
Gi-hun bucks beneath him, his muscles straining, but In-ho’s weight is solid, unshakable. The pressure is overwhelming, and the cuffs dig into his wrists, forcing him to remain still.
“You don’t get to run,” In-ho’s voice is rougher now, a mixture of anger and something else—something closer to concern, but tinged with something darker. His chest rises and falls against Gi-hun’s, their bodies pressed so close that every breath mingles between them. “Not when you’re bleeding, not when you’re this messed up. What’s the fucking deal with you?”
Gi-hun glares up at him, his chest heaving. His eyes lock onto In-ho’s, and something in the air between them shifts, an almost magnetic pull that neither of them can break.
“What—so now you do want to arrest me?” Gi-hun spits, his voice thick with the bitter taste of fear.
Their faces are dangerously close, breaths mingling in the tense silence. In-ho’s eyes don’t waver, but there’s something flickering there—a flash of something raw, unspoken. It’s quick, but it’s enough to make Gi-hun’s heart beat harder.
The weight of In-ho’s thighs pins Gi-hun’s hips to the ground, pressing him down, holding him in place. His grip on Gi-hun’s wrists tightens, and though the air around them is charged with tension, neither of them moves.
Gi-hun’s chest rises and falls under him, his body warm and solid against In-ho’s. The distance between them seems to close, and the alley is silent, save for their heavy breaths.
In-ho blinks, hard—like he's shaking off a dream that wasn't supposed to exist. Whatever charged, breathless silence had held them still fractures into a thousand jagged pieces, and in the blink of an eye, it’s gone, erased like it never happened.
He pulls away from Gi-hun like he’s wiping off the memory. “Get up,” his voice is cold again, detached, a mask snapping back into place. “You’re under arrest for assaulting an officer, twice, and attempting to escape.”
Gi-hun doesn’t move right away. His chest heaves with every strained breath, the blood still pulsing painfully through his side, mixing with the throb of his pulse. His entire body protests, but the heat between them lingers, thick and suffocating. He can’t stop thinking about the closeness of that moment—the storm in the officer's eyes, the weight of his body over him, and the way his breath felt against his skin.
He opens his mouth to say something—anything—but before he can, In-ho’s grip lands on his arm, dragging him upright. The world tilts again, vision swimming. Gi-hun stumbles behind him, his mind still foggy with everything that just passed.
“I said I was sorry!” Gi-hun whines, stumbling in the gravel, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “You don’t have to arrest me—really, I was just joking, okay? I didn’t mean any of it!”
“Shut up.”
“Just—let me go, please.” His voice cracks on the last word, desperation lacing it. “I won’t say anything. Swear. Just forget this, yeah? Be the cool cop, huh?”
In-ho doesn't respond. His jaw is a clenched line, a wall of tension and restraint, and it only pisses Gi-hun off more. Every step feels like an insult, a reminder of how helpless he’s become.
His pulse hammers in his ears as he twists against In-ho’s grip, heart racing with a volatile mix of fury and something hotter, unnamed. His chest heaves. Adrenaline floods his system, but instinct wages war inside him—one voice screaming to run, the other whispering to stay.
Then In-ho’s grip hardens.
The next second, Gi-hun is slammed forward. His chest hits the car with a brutal clang, the metal cold and merciless beneath his skin. The impact knocks the breath from his lungs. His palms slap the hood, stinging. The world spins. Sound warps.
Before he can catch it—In-ho is there, right behind him. A firm hand clamps the back of his neck with practiced authority, pinning him like prey. The heat of In-ho’s body crashes into him, a wall of force that traps him, presses him down. His cheek scrapes the hood, breath fogging the steel.
“I said,” In-ho growls, voice like gravel against his ear, “stop fucking running your mouth.”
The words drop like a weight in Gi-hun’s gut. It’s not just what he says—it’s how. The authority, the rough control curling around each syllable. It sinks deep, unsettling something primal inside him. His fingers clench. He wants to lash out. But he also wants— God, he wants—
He strains against the cuffs, shoulders burning. In-ho doesn’t budge.
Then—click. The cuffs shift. Gi-hun jerks as In-ho repositions them behind his back, the movement swift, precise, a little too confident. The metal digs in sharper now, reminding Gi-hun exactly how helpless he is. Not punished. Just... handled. Like In-ho’s simply decided how this will go.
“Maybe you’ll behave like this,” In-ho mutters, low and cold, adjusting the cuffs with a clinical finesse that sends a pulse of heat down Gi-hun’s spine. He isn’t rough. He’s deliberate. Controlled. And that’s worse.
Gi-hun swallows hard, heat crawling up his throat. He’s panting now, arms trapped and In-ho is still too close, his presence a weight and a warning.
And then the voice again, softer this time—more dangerous.
“Maybe I should stuff your mouth too,” In-ho says, voice brushing his ear. “So you’ll finally shut up.”
The words hit like a gut punch. Gi-hun flinches—then burns. The idea roots itself fast, dark and sharp. He doesn’t want to. But he does. Something ugly and electric coils low in his stomach, pulsing with every breath.
He moans before he can stop himself.
His hips jerk, a traitorous twitch that betrays him fully. The cuffs bite into his wrists. The cold against his front. The heat behind him. The sick, wild thrill of it all—
In-ho’s grip tightens on his neck.
Gi-hun feels the shift between them, like static thickening the air. In-ho doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just holds him there, unmoving, silent.
The moment stretches, taut as wire.
Something’s going to snap.
Gi-hun feels it in the pause. The shift. The way the officer’s grip on his neck falters just for a second, like he’s thinking this over, like he’s realizing just how low Gi-hun’s already sunk.
And then—one slow, deliberate nudge of In-ho’s foot between his ankles.
Gi-hun swallows hard as his legs are eased apart, the position helpless, humiliating—and fuck, why does it feel good? His hips twitch again, not by choice, and the hood is suddenly a lifeline, anchoring him in place as his breath stutters and his face burns with heat.
His body’s lit up, every nerve keyed into In-ho’s presence, every shift of weight behind him, every inhale. The air smells like leather and cold metal and sweat, and something in him just snaps .
He arches his back.
The movement’s subtle, but he knows it’s noticeable. Calculated. Begging. A test, almost.
And when he glances back—there it is. That flicker in In-ho’s face. His lips parted, brow drawn, eyes dark. Like he’s trying so hard to be the good guy. Like he’s losing.
It sends a fresh pulse of heat to Gi-hun’s stomach, sharp and heavy. A thrill.
So he twists his mouth into a smirk. Lets his voice go soft, smooth, obscene.
“What’s wrong, Officer?” he purrs, sweet and venomous. “You gonna pat me down?”
The look In-ho gives him could shatter glass. It’s not rage—it’s restraint, barely leashed.
And Gi-hun loves it.
The hands come back, firmer now, dragging down his sides, hovering at his hips, fingers flexing, thumbs dragging heat into the curve of his back. His jeans are suddenly too tight. His whole body aches in places he hasn’t felt in years.
“You think this is a game?” In-ho growls, low and furious.
Gi-hun’s smirk falters—but only for a second. There’s fire crackling behind his embarrassment now, deep and molten and absolutely shameless.
“No,” he says, eyes hooded. “I think it’s hot.”
The words surprise even him.
They hang in the air like smoke, thick and damning—and he knows that’s it. That’s the spark. The match to gasoline.
Because In-ho goes still behind him. And then, with unbearable care, he leans in.
“Tell me to stop,” In-ho says, voice quiet but rough, like he’s one step away from losing control. “Now’s your chance.”
Gi-hun's heart slams against his ribs.
His lips part.
He could. He should.
But all that comes out is a shaky, breathless whisper:
“Don’t.”
His hips shift again. Slow. Deliberate.
“Don’t stop.”
Something unravels behind him. He hears it in the sound In-ho makes—low and guttural, like he’s just broken through his last thread of discipline.
And then there are hands on his waist. Hot. Sure. Trembling at the edges. Gi-hun gasps as he’s pulled back, his body colliding with In-ho’s in a rush of heat and pressure. He’s never been touched like this—with hunger so tightly wound it’s practically vibrating off his skin. And he’s never wanted anything more.
His head turns, cheek scraping metal, eyes fluttering shut. All of him aches, twisted in heat and shame and desperate want. He doesn't care about the cold anymore. Doesn’t care that In-ho really shouldn’t give in like that, doesn’t care that they’re out in the open.
Because In-ho’s body is heat behind him and Gi-hun knows—knows—he’s unraveling. He can feel it in every shudder of restraint.
And then, In-ho moves. His hips slot flush behind Gi-hun’s, slow, deliberate, and Gi-hun gasps. There’s no mistaking the hard press against his ass—not just the weight of In-ho’s cock, but the cold, unmistakable curve of a gun strapped to his hip. The juxtaposition sends heat bolting down Gi-hun’s spine, shame and thrill crashing through him in waves.
He squirms, just a little, testing how much friction he can steal. He doesn't say anything, but his hips rock back in invitation, loose and open, aching.
“Fuck,” In-ho hisses through his teeth, barely moving, like every muscle in his body’s gone taut.
“This is..” A breath, strangled and hot. “We shouldn’t be doing this. You—” He falters when Gi-hun rolls his hips again, greedier now. “You’re under arrest. I could lose more than just my job.”
“Then stop me,” Gi-hun whispers, without looking up. His voice is thin but soaked in defiance. “Tell me to stop.”
Silence.
No footsteps backing away. No retreat. Just the sound of wind and breathing and that dangerous, hollow echo between them where guilt should be.
Then In-ho mutters something under his breath. A curse. Maybe a prayer. Maybe both.
He leans down—too close—and Gi-hun feels his breath against his ear.
“Someone could see.”
But his hands are already on Gi-hun’s hips, holding him down.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” In-ho growls, almost to himself, like he hates it—hates how much he means it. “Fucking exhibitionist.”
Gi-hun bites back a smile, his breath fogging against the hood, fingers curling where they’re still cuffed behind his back. He’s trembling, but not from cold anymore.
“Just for you, Officer,” he breathes.
And then he gasps.
Because In-ho drops to his knees.
The cold from the ground doesn’t seem to stop him. Nothing does. His hands grip Gi-hun’s thighs, firm and urgent, dragging him back just enough, fingers fumbling with denim and cotton and restraint until he’s got what he wants.
“Don’t move,” In-ho says.
It’s not gentle. It’s a command.
Gi-hun nods, too fast, too eager, forehead resting against chilled metal, mouth slack and open as the air hits him—cool, humiliating, perfect.
Then In-ho’s mouth is on him.
Hot tongue, wet heat, and Gi-hun cries out, half-choked and wild, his knees nearly buckling from the intensity of it. It’s not soft, not slow—In-ho eats him out like he’s starving, like he’s angry about it, like he wants to ruin Gi-hun for daring to tempt him in the first place.
Gi-hun moans helplessly, the cuffs rattling behind his back. Every flick of In-ho’s tongue feels like a challenge, every wet drag deliberate, calculated, and devastating.
He wants to move. God, he wants to grind against it, chase every ounce of friction—but he remembers. In-ho’s voice. That command.
Don’t move.
It makes his thighs shake.
It makes his cock throb, untouched and aching, leaking against the hood of the car.
“In-ho—” he gasps, barely able to breathe, hips twitching.
But all he gets is a firm slap to his ass. Not cruel, not hard— just enough. Enough to make him still. Enough to make him burn.
“Be good,” In-ho murmurs, voice muffled but deadly. “I said don’t move. Be patient.”
Gi-hun’s thighs tremble, slick with spit, his knees threatening to collapse beneath the weight of want. In-ho’s tongue is relentless, greedy—he devours him like this is the last time he’ll ever taste pleasure. Gi-hun’s eyes roll back. His lips are parted in a breathless moan that he can’t quite silence.
And then, just when the edge feels near—too near—it stops.
Gi-hun whines, broken and breathless, until he feels fingers—cold, calloused, clever—slide up the back of his thigh. A hand settles on his ass, spreading him again, and then In-ho’s spitting—wet and obscene. It drips between his cheeks, and a second later, a finger presses in.
Gi-hun hisses, hips twitching, caught between the need to obey and the raw instinct to push back.
“Shit,” In-ho mutters, half in awe. “You’re leaking everywhere.”
Gi-hun doesn't even have the shame to deny it. He is—his cock drools against the cold hood, smearing the metal with every pulse. In-ho runs a finger over it and brings it back down, smearing it where his mouth had just been.
Gi-hun shudders violently. “You’re unbelievable,” he gasps.
“You’re worse,” In-ho growls, pushing two fingers into him at once.
Gi-hun cries out, back arching beautifully, perfectly, his wrists twisting in the cuffs. The stretch burns, just a little, but it’s nothing compared to the heat curling inside him, relentless and raw.
In-ho pumps them slowly, curling just right, and Gi-hun unravels—hair damp with sweat, back arched, thighs spread, dripping onto the hood like a feast laid bare.
Then In-ho rises.
The rustle of his clothes, the click of a buckle, the sound of fabric drawn low—it makes Gi-hun twitch in anticipation, needy and silent and wide open.
Boots scrape against gravel as In-ho steps close, cock in hand, breath catching in his throat.
And still—still—he hesitates.
“Tell me to stop,” he says again, voice tight, low, like it’s killing him to ask. “Please—just say it, and I’ll walk away.”
Gi-hun lifts his head, eyes wild, jaw set.
“You stop now, and I swear,” he spits, breath ragged, “you’ll regret it the rest of your fucking life.”
In-ho groans like the words physically knock the breath from him.
He doesn’t say anything.
He just grabs Gi-hun’s bound wrists—twists them, just a little, to hold—and drags him back.
Gi-hun gasps, hips jerking, as In-ho thrusts in, slow and firm and deep.
“Fuck—!” His voice cracks on the word, stretched wide around it, choked with shock and pleasure. It’s too much, not enough—everything at once. The burn, the fullness, the way he’s dangling helplessly from In-ho’s grip—it breaks something in him.
In-ho pants behind him, forehead against Gi-hun’s shoulder, shaking like he’s been waiting for this forever.
“God, you feel—” He doesn’t finish.
He pulls back and slams back in, harder this time, dragging Gi-hun along the hood, rocking the car with every thrust. Metal creaks beneath them. The air is full of breath and filth and the sound of skin meeting skin.
Gi-hun moans with every thrust, mouth open, no shame left—only fire, only need.
“Harder,” he pants, eyes glassy. “Don’t hold back.”
“You’ll kill me,” In-ho grits out, voice shaking with restraint, with hunger, with everything he’s not supposed to feel. His rhythm falters just long enough to grind in deep, cock buried to the hilt, trembling with it. “You’re gonna fucking ruin me.”
Gi-hun laughs—breathless, filthy.
“Good,” he gasps, cheek pressed to the car. “You deserve it.”
In-ho grabs him by the cuffs, yanks his body flush against his own. His hips stutter. His mouth is open against the nape of Gi-hun’s neck.
He’s fucking him like he owns him, like it’s a crime to stop, like the world might end and this—this—is the only way to go out.
And Gi-hun? He lets him.
No—he welcomes it. Cries for it. Arches for it.
In-ho’s rhythm stutters behind him, breath ragged against the curve of Gi-hun’s spine. He’s close, Gi-hun can feel it.
“You first,” In-ho rasps, his voice wrecked, strained. “Come for me. Now.”
Gi-hun whimpers, hands cuffed behind him, body strung so tight it hurts. Every thrust pushes him closer, dizzy and burning. The hood is cold beneath his cheek, but he’s on fire, undone.
“You’re shaking,” In-ho murmurs. “So close already.”
Gi-hun bites his lip, nods, helpless. There’s nothing to do but feel—no grip, no anchor—just In-ho’s cock driving into him, deeper, rougher, until—
“Let go.”
And Gi-hun does.
It rips out of him—sharp, blinding. He comes untouched, spilling over the car, his body convulsing, trembling with release. His knees threaten to give out beneath him.
In-ho groans behind him, the sound raw and animalistic, his grip tightening as he follows, thrusting deep. Gi-hun feels the tremor that runs through In-ho’s body, feels the pulse of him as he’s dragged to the edge and over it.
It’s broken. It’s messy. But it’s everything.
They stay there for a moment, just breathing, still locked together, bodies shaking from the intensity, from the aftermath.
Then In-ho stirs, pulling back slightly, his voice rough with disbelief.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “We’re going to hell.”
Gi-hun laughs, breathless and weak, his chest still rising and falling in rapid succession. “You first,” he manages, voice a thread of amusement.
In-ho exhales—a sound that might be a laugh, soft and disbelieving—but it fades into the haze between them. Slowly, he pulls out, careful in the way he eases free, then catches Gi-hun before he slumps, guiding him upright.
Gentle hands turn him, steady him against the hood. They’re both a mess, half-dressed and breathless, but In-ho tugs their pants back into place with quiet efficiency, never once letting Gi-hun go.
“Easy,” he murmurs, brushing damp strands from Gi-hun’s temple. His voice has changed—low, tender, almost reverent. “I’ve got you.”
The cuffs come off with a soft clink. Gi-hun’s arms drop to his sides, sore and trembling, shoulders aching from tension. In-ho kisses each wrist, rubbed raw, before steadying him again, hands firm at his waist, like Gi-hun might disappear if he let go.
His legs feel hollow, untrustworthy, but In-ho’s grip is grounding—warm, sure. Gi-hun’s skin still hums with heat, every nerve lit and raw, but the edge of it has dulled. What remains feels quieter. Softer. Real.
“Come on,” In-ho says, slipping an arm around him.
Gi-hun leans in, letting himself be led. They move toward the backseat, unsteady but together. In-ho handles him like he’s breakable—like something rare—as he lowers him onto the leather, then pulls a blanket from the trunk, wrapping it around him with quiet care.
The silence that follows hums with breath and heartbeat, slow and cooling.
In-ho joins him, thigh against thigh, anchoring him.
“Drink,” he says, handing over the water bottle from before.
Gi-hun takes it without question, hands still shaking, and downs half before he can stop himself. The water hits his throat like a shock. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, chest rising fast, but the air feels looser now—less like drowning. More like breathing again.
But then, In-ho leans in and he hesitates, a question hanging between them.
“Can I kiss you?”
Gi-hun blinks at him, caught off guard by the question. It’s so different from the rawness of their encounter just now, so different from the way In-ho had taken him on the hood of the car. But something in Gi-hun’s chest tightens, a mix of anticipation and desire bubbling up.
He doesn’t need to think about it. His mouth is on In-ho’s before the words are fully out.
There’s no hesitation this time—Gi-hun’s lips are eager, hungry, pulling In-ho closer. The kiss is rough at first, but it quickly softens, deepens. No longer a quick, desperate press, but something slower, more deliberate. Gi-hun’s fingers tangle in In-ho’s uniform, dragging him in until there’s no space left between them.
When they pull apart, both of them breathless, Gi-hun can’t help but grin. “I don’t think you need to ask,” he teases, his voice low, and his eyes shining with something more than just lust. “After what we just did.”
In-ho’s lips curl into a sheepish grin, shrugging.
“I couldn’t kiss you before,” he mutters, his voice rough with something Gi-hun can’t quite place. “Couldn’t see your face. It was killing me.”
Gi-hun’s heart flutters at the genuine affection behind those words, and he finds himself softer than he expected. But the tension between them is still there, still crackling in the air.
In-ho’s hand brushes against Gi-hun’s cheek, tracing the forming bruise there lightly. “I’ll help you,” he says, quieter this time, but no less intense. “The debt, the loan sharks.. You don’t have to keep running.”
Gi-hun stiffens, eyes flicking away, unsure how to process it. The weight of In-ho’s words settles on him—more than just an offer, more than just an escape. It’s a lifeline.
“Right,” Gi-hun says, a short laugh escaping his lips, bitter. “You gonna pay it off with your cop salary?”
In-ho’s smile falters, but he’s unphased. “No,” he says, leaning in a bit closer. “But I’ve got a spare room. My shift’s over anyway. You need a safe place tonight?”
Gi-hun raises an eyebrow, feeling a strange flutter in his chest. The offer is there, open and unspoken, and the weight of it is more than he expected. He looks at In-ho, a little unsure, but something inside him shifts.
“Guess I could use a place to crash..” he says, the teasing tone in his voice belying the genuine relief he feels.
In-ho grins, but then, almost shyly, he tilts his head. “I’ve been meaning to ask,” he says, his voice softer. “I.. I never got your name.”
Gi-hun looks at him, his smile softening. “It’s Gi-hun,” he says simply, watching the way In-ho’s face lights up a little, as if the weight of knowing the name finally made this moment feel even more real.
In-ho nods, a small smile curling on his lips. “Gi-hun,” he repeats, tasting the name like it’s something new, something precious. “I like it.”
He opens the door, motioning for Gi-hun to get in the passenger seat. “Guess you don’t have to stay back there anymore,” he says, grinning. “I’ll make sure to drive you to my place in style.”
Gi-hun laughs, shaking his head. “You sure know how to make a guy feel special.”
In-ho’s hand rests lightly on the door, his voice a quiet promise. “You’re already special, Gi-hun. Let’s go.”
Gi-hun slides into the passenger seat, his body melting into the warmth of the car, the tension easing just slightly. “Yeah.. let’s go,” he murmurs, his voice softer now.
As In-ho pulls onto the street, the night’s weight still presses on them, but there’s something new—an unspoken understanding between them. Gi-hun glances at In-ho, feeling a rare steadiness, something real and comforting, even if it’s a little dangerous.
For the first time in a long while, he doesn’t feel like he’s running.