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The blue light of a dual-monitor setup was the only thing illuminating the cramped studio apartment. Kim Dokja sat hunched over, his fingers flying across the mechanical keyboard.
A sudden, sharp knock at the door made him jump. He didn't need to check the peep-hole. There was only one person who knocked with that level of aggressive authority at 2:00 AM.
When Dokja opened the door, Yoo Joonghyuk was standing there, looking like he had stepped off a high-fashion runway that ended in a street fight. He was wearing a black turtleneck and a long trench coat, his hair slightly damp from the drizzling rain.
"Joonghyuk-ah? It’s the middle of the night," Dokja blinked, rubbing his tired eyes. "Did you lose your keys again? Or did you just come here to stare at me judgmentally?"
Joonghyuk didn't answer. He simply pushed past Dokja into the apartment, the scent of expensive cologne and cold rain following him. He set a heavy paper bag on Dokja’s cluttered kitchen counter.
"You haven't eaten since yesterday," Joonghyuk stated. It wasn't a guess; it was an observation made by someone who monitored Dokja’s life with the precision of a professional gamer—which, in this life, he actually was.
"I had ramen," Dokja lied, closing the door.
Joonghyuk pulled a container of high-quality dakjuk out of the bag, still steaming. "Sodium-filled trash doesn't count. Sit."
Dokja obeyed, mostly because arguing with a top-tier pro-gamer was a losing battle, and partly because his stomach chose that exact moment to growl. He sat at the small table, watching Joonghyuk move around his kitchen with an effortless grace that felt far too domestic for a man known for his icy "Protag" persona.
"How was the tournament?" Dokja asked, blowing on a spoonful of porridge.
"Short," Joonghyuk replied, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. "The opponent was predictable. Boring."
"Not everyone can be a god-tier regressor in a past life, Joonghyuk-ah."
Joonghyuk’s gaze sharpened. "You always say strange things when you're tired."
The air in the room shifted. In the silence of the night, the barriers they kept up during the day—the banter, the professional distance—began to thin. Joonghyuk stepped closer, reaching out. Dokja froze, a spoon halfway to his mouth, as Joonghyuk’s thumb brushed a stray smudge of ink from Dokja's cheek.
The contact lasted a second too long. Joonghyuk’s hand was warm, a stark contrast to the rainy chill he’d brought in.
"Your health is a mess," Joonghyuk muttered, his voice dropping an octave. "If you collapse, who’s going to write the commentary for my next match?"
Dokja smiled, a small, genuine thing that rarely reached his eyes when he was around others. "Ah, so that's it. You just need your favorite critic."
"I need you to stay alive," Joonghyuk corrected him, his eyes dark and intense. "That's all."
Dokja leaned back, the warmth of the food finally settling the hollow ache in his chest. He looked at Joonghyuk—this man who was too handsome, too stubborn, and far too focused on a lowly editor.
"Stay for a bit?" Dokja asked, the bravado slipping from his voice. "The rain sounds depressing."
Joonghyuk didn't move toward the door. Instead, he pulled out the chair opposite Dokja and sat down, claimed by the quiet gravity of the room. "Finish your food. I'm staying until you sleep."
"You're a terrace-grade stalker, you know that?"
"And you're a fool who can't take care of himself."