Chapter Text
One thing I really hate about high school is Sung Minwoo. You know the type: that classic, two-dimensional villain you'd find in a rom-com drama—except less menacing and more... pathetic. He’s the kind of guy who's clearly bad at being bad. It’s like watching someone attempt to play the villain role in a school play, but they keep forgetting their lines and tripping over the props.
When Minwoo tried to bully me, I didn’t take it seriously. Not because I’m particularly brave or anything, but because he wasn’t exactly good at it. He’d throw a punch or hurl an insult, and I’d just respond with, “Why are you even doing this? Is this a hobby?” or “Honestly, Minwoo, your punches are softer than my pillow.” Needless to say, my comments didn’t improve his mood. Quite the opposite, in fact.
But did I care? Nope. Not even when no one came to help. Not even when my so-called friends avoided eye contact as Minwoo shoved me against a locker. I didn’t have a lot of friends back then anyway, so it's not like there was a big support group. And home wasn’t any better—Dad was usually drunk by the time I walked in, so I had to deal with his nonsense too.
The only thing I regret now, looking back, is why the hell I never told my mom. Every time she asked about the bruises, I’d lie and say they were from Dad. Which wasn’t entirely untrue, but still. Why didn’t I just tell her the truth—that I was getting beaten up at school, too?
And then, in a stroke of genius (sarcasm, obviously), I decided the best way to deal with everything was by hurting myself. Not in the stereotypical way. No knives or anything like that. Just me, taking some random object—say, a shampoo bottle—and repeatedly slamming it against the back of my hand. It was... therapeutic, in a twisted sort of way. Made me feel like I had some control over the pain, at least.
So why do I regret it now? Oh, I don't know. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that freaking Yoo Joonghyuk barged into the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder like he was ready for a relaxing shower, and caught me mid-swing—shampoo bottle poised to smash into my hand. His face froze like he’d just walked in on a crime scene. Honestly, I don’t know who was more shocked, him or me.
Now, let’s be clear. I don’t just hate Sung Minwoo. I also hate depending on other people. You want to help me? Out of the goodness of your heart? Yeah, no thanks. I don’t need anyone’s pity or "willingness." I’ve been taking care of myself since Mom died and I left that hellhole of a house. Leaning on someone? Never.
So, naturally, I expected Joonghyuk to yell at me or call me crazy. Maybe even storm out. But nope. Instead, he just asked, in his usual stoic-yet-concerned tone, “What were you about to do?”
I hesitated. And then, somehow, I put the bottle down.
Great. How the hell did it come to this?
***
Yesterday, after Joonghyuk found me looking like I’d just lost a fight with a lawnmower, he insisted on taking me to his place. I tried to tell him my dad might track him down and beat him up, but he just laughed. Yeah. Laughed. Like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
This morning, Joonghyuk practically forced me to stay home because, as he so kindly reminded me, my wounds weren’t healed yet. I was all set to enjoy my rare peaceful day of rest—until, of course, the universe decided otherwise.
My phone, which Joonghyuk had confiscated for my "well-being," started buzzing incessantly. Yoo Sangah had called thirteen times. When I finally got my hands on the phone, the notifications were a nightmare: 23 missed calls from Han Myungoh, plus a bunch from work colleagues. And every message from Yoo Sangah was a variation of “Dokja-ssi, please pick up!”
'Dokja-ssi. I know you're having a sick leave right now but can you please pick up the phone?'
'Remember the data you had collected on our latest game last month? The one for collaboration with another company's game? Which Han Myungoh said last month that he didn't need it?'
'D: shocking thing is, he need it now.'
'Do you have that data?'
'Cause Myungoh is really pissed. He doesn't care if you're the famous Yoo Joonghyuk's friend.'
'He's cursing your name right now.'
'well if you read this, please call me back.'
Apparently, that data I’d collected for some game last month—the one Myungoh had confidently said he didn’t need? Well, surprise, surprise, now he needs it. And now he’s pissed?? I don't get that guy sometimes.
With a sigh, my thumb reflexively dialed Yoo Sangah’s number.
She picked up immediately. Of course she did.
“I-is everything okay, Sangah-ssi?” I stammered into the phone, trying to sound calm, though my heart felt like it was doing acrobatics inside my chest.
A sigh echoed from the other end, and I clenched my shirt tightly, right over my heart. The pounding had started the moment I saw the notification bar light up with missed calls and messages.
“Do you have the data file on our game from last month? The collaboration one?” Sangah asked, her voice more resigned than angry.
“S-sorry, Sangah-ssi,” I stuttered, wincing as I remembered. “Myungoh said he didn’t need it, so... I, uh, threw it away.”
Another heavy sigh came through the line. But then, to my surprise, Sangah chuckled.
“Don’t worry about it, Dokja-ssi,” she said, her tone lighter. “Honestly, it’s kind of fun watching Han Myungoh scramble to fix everything. It is his fault, after all. The other colleagues are blaming him too. I mean, he did say it was a direct order not to keep the data, just because he's the manager and all. But yeah, it’s all goo—”
Her voice faded from my ears as soon as she said “trying to fix everything.”
My stomach twisted. Was this my fault? Is the company going to crash and burn because of me?
Panic surged. My breath grew shallow, and I stumbled into the bathroom, splashing water on my face over and over, hoping it would calm the storm in my head.
It’s not my fault. It’s fine. Don’t wor—
“Trying to fix everything,” her words repeated in my mind like a broken record.
Before I knew it, my hand had instinctively grabbed the nearest heavy object—a shampoo bottle. And just as I raised it to smash against my hand, he appeared.
***
So here we are, back to the present. And truthfully, Yoo Joonghyuk? I hate that you’re seeing me like this.
Slowly, I place the shampoo bottle back on the sink, feeling more expose than ever. Yoo Joonghyuk walk over, gently taking both of my hands in his, inspecting them like he is searching for wounds. His eyes are calm, but behind that calm, there is something... deeper.
“You self-harm?” His voice is steady, like he is trying to keep his emotions in check.
I try to pull my hands back, but of course, Joonghyuk is stronger. At least he's not lying about that.
“It’s not self-harm,” I mutter. “Well, not as far as I’m concerned. It’s not like it leaves scars or anyth—”
“Dokja.” he snap, and I flinched.
When I met his eyes, I expect anger, but instead, I see something close to... tears? No, that couldn’t be right. Not him.
“It’s not self-harm,” I repeat weakly. “It’s not like it leaves scars or—”
“Dokja." he say again, his tone sharp. But then, weirdly, he smile “Darling.”
Goosebumps shoot up my arms. “Don’t call me that,” I mutter, shifting uncomfortably.
“What does self-harm mean?” he asks, his smirk widening in the most infuriating way possible.
I raise an eyebrow. “How the hell should I know? Do I look like a walking dictionary?”
Joonghyuk’s smile grew even more smug, which, honestly, made me want to punch him right there and then. But he still has my hands trap in his iron grip. What does he eat to be this strong?
“Sweetheart,” he continues, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “self-harm means inflicting pain on yourself. Now, let’s use our brains for a second.” He glances at the shampoo bottle. “If you had actually smashed that on your hand, would it have caused pain?”
I roll my eyes, but my voice came out in a murmur. “I guess...”
“Hmmm? What was that?”
“Yes! Fine! I agree!”
His face is serious again. “So, is this how you cope with problems?”
I stare at the floor. You mean how, whenever I feel like I’m failing at life, I hit my hand over and over again to silence the thoughts? If that’s what he’s asking, then yeah. That’s pretty much it.
I nod, but it was more of a reluctant, I-broke-the-vase-and-I-know-I’m-in-trouble kind of nod. Joonghyuk has been playing the strict parental figure a little too well these past few days.
Without a word, he tugs me toward the sofa, still holding my hands. We sit down, and he doesn’t let go.
“Dokja,” he says, his voice softer now.
“Yeah?” I reply, feeling like a kid about to get a lecture.
“You need to understand that what you almost did back there—that is self-harm.”
I stay silent, trying to process his words.
“When was the last time you did this?” he asks, his gaze still fixes on my hands.
“Did what?” I ask in return. Trying to stall a little bit more time.
He sighs. “When was the last time you hit yourself with something?”
I sigh too, realizing there is no point in lying. “Last month, maybe? Before we met. When Han Myungoh kept piling on the late-night work. I was mad, sure, but you can’t exactly punch your boss, right?” I laughed awkwardly, but Joonghyuk doesn’t join in. “So yeah, at first I’d just... kick things. But eventually, it was the pain that helped me clear my mind. It numbed everything.”
His eyebrows knit together in concern, and I half-expect him to march out and deck Han Myungoh right then and there.
“So, this is... a relapse?” he asks, sounding almost defeated.
I shrug. “Maybe?”
Joonghyuk groans, clearly unimpress by my nonchalant answer. “What triggered it? In my bathroom of all places?”
I kick him lightly in the shin, earning a small grunt and a soft chuckle from him.
I'm here trying to answer all you ridiculous questions and you have your concern more on that stupid bathroom??
God.
Shame on you.
“I got a call,” I finally admit “From Sangah-ssi. About the data for the game last month. I was in charge of collecting it, and when Myungoh suddenly asked for it earlier, I felt like it was my fault. Like, why didn’t I save it? Why did I just follow his orders on deleting it before? I should’ve trusted my gut.”
“Dokja,” he interrupts, his voice stern. I fall silent.
"Listen.”
Yes, sir. I’m listening.
“It’s not your fault. It’s Han Myungoh’s. Got it?”
I nod weakly, glancing down at our still-intertwined hands. He starts to gently rub his thumb over my knuckles, as if he could erase the years of pain I’d inflicted on myself.
“And from now on,” he says quietly, not looking up, “if you ever feel overwhelmed, call me.”
I scoff. “What, and you’ll come running?”
Joonghyuk finally look up, his face serious as he closes the distance between us. “Call. Me.”
His intensity startled a laugh out of me. “Alright, alright. Fine.”