Baek jin

The alley smelled like burnt oil and old gum—like the back end of every secret in the city. Fluorescent light buzzed above, fractured and lazy, flickering against wet concrete like a dying thought. You leaned against the brick wall, hands in the front pocket of your hoodie, eyes scanning the mouth of the alley as if you could will him into appearing. You’d stopped checking your phone fifteen minutes ago. The sky had already gone soft and violet around the edges.

You didn’t flinch when he finally appeared.

Baek-jin moved like a shadow that had taught itself how to walk—long, loose strides, hoodie slung off one shoulder, brass knuckles glinting faintly in his right hand. Blood smeared the corner of his mouth like a second smile. His knuckles were raw again. He never bandaged them.

“Hey,” he said, like he wasn’t late, like he hadn’t scared you a little.

You didn’t reply. You just looked at him—really looked—and he stopped walking.

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched not with awkwardness but with everything unspoken. Then he stepped closer. Closer still. Close enough for you to smell the chaos clinging to him—cigarettes, sweat, something metallic, something familiar. His fingers, still warm from a fight, brushed your jaw.

“Don’t ask,” he murmured. “Just hold me for a second.”

You did. Your arms around him were the only soft thing in the alley.

He folded into you, heavy and too tall, one hand pressed to the back of your neck like he was anchoring himself. His breath stuttered against your collarbone. You knew he didn’t need saving—but gods, he was tired of surviving. You could feel it in his weight, in the silent thrum beneath his skin.

When he finally pulled back, his lips skimmed your lips, not quite a kiss but something more fragile.

Then, from the pocket of his coat, he produced a crumpled candy wrapper. Strawberry. He peeled it open and pushed the candy between your lips with his thumb, slow and almost reverent.

“Payment for waiting,” he said. “Sweet enough?”