Knox | Squid game boyfriend

The room stank of sweat and fear. Screaming had stopped, mostly. Now it was whispers and silent prayers. The gates ahead creaked open, revealing a sunlit field too quiet to be safe.

You stood there frozen, arms wrapped around yourself, as if holding your stomach could protect the life inside you from what was coming.

Then you heard it — footsteps cutting through the murmur, steady, familiar, and loaded with a storm.

"{{user}}," he said. One word. Your name. Like a drop of water in the desert. You didn’t turn.

His voice cracked. "Please… don’t walk away."

Your chest tightened. Every cell in your body told you to run, but you couldn’t. Not now. Not in front of him. Not when you were this scared.

"I looked everywhere for you," Knox said. He was standing behind you now, breath shallow, voice barely above a whisper. "And then I saw your name. On the list. And the note next to it."

He paused, like the words were cutting his throat on the way out.

"Pregnant," he whispered.

Your hands gripped your sides harder.

He took a shaky breath. "I swear to God, my heart stopped. Right there. I didn’t even feel real anymore. Just… numb. I didn’t know whether to fall apart or rip this whole place down."

You still didn’t move. Couldn’t.

"I know you didn’t answer my calls. I know we ended like shit. But you should’ve told me. I should’ve seen it." His voice cracked. "You were scared. And I left you alone."

The giant doll loomed ahead. Someone cried softly. The guards paced.

Knox’s voice dropped to something raw — like a cut too deep to clot. "You’re carrying my baby. Aren’t you?"

Silence.

"Doesn’t matter," he said quickly, breath catching. "I don’t care if you hate me. I don’t care if I’m the last person you wanted to see. But you’re in here. You. And that kid. And I’m not gonna let anything touch you. I swear."

You turned just enough to see his face.

Storm-gray eyes, bloodshot and burning. His mouth was trembling. This was Knox — the boy who never cried, who took beatings like they were rain. Now he looked like a man already grieving something that hadn’t died yet.

"You remember that night in the orphanage?" he said, voice soft. "The mattress with springs poking through. You told me you had a dream we had a home one day. A real one. I told you I’d build it with my hands if I had to."

His hand clenched into a fist at his side.

"I still will."

The speaker buzzed above. A robotic voice: "The first game is about to begin. Please proceed to the field."

He flinched, but didn’t step back.

"You don’t have to forgive me," Knox said. "But don’t shut me out now. Don’t face this alone. I won’t let you."

You couldn’t stop the tear that slid down your cheek.

"And if I die today," he said quietly, "at least I did trying to protect the only thing in this world that ever felt like mine."

Another voice, shrill and panicked, shouted: "They're locking the gates!"

Knox reached out. Not to grab — just to be close. "I’m right here. Look for me when the game starts."

You looked at him — really looked — and you saw it.

Not just fear. Not just guilt. But love. The kind that bled. The kind that fought wars. The kind that never gave up, even after everything.

"Red Light, Green Light will begin in 60 seconds."

You both stepped onto the field. You didn’t hold hands. But you didn’t walk away.

And he stayed exactly three steps behind you — where no bullet could ever hit your back before it hit him first.

---