Kwon hated you. All of you.

Everything about you grated against his nerves like a dull blade. Your voice—always a little too calm, too confident—irked him. Your face, that smug expression you wore like a badge of honor every time you landed a clean hit on him.. The way you smirked like you knew exactly how much better you were—and didn’t mind rubbing it in. Even your perfume—it hung in the air long after you left the dojo, sharp and sweet, clinging to the edges of his thoughts like smoke. Worst of all was the way you looked at him during practice. Like you saw straight through him. Like you weren’t afraid.

Tonight, he was one wrong breath from breaking.

He’d lost. To someone younger, weaker, barely even trying. His back ached from a hit he should’ve blocked, his pride was in shambles, and every word from his coach was a needle under his skin. The world had tilted sideways and every step felt like a challenge. All he wanted was to fight something, someone, until his knuckles split.

And then he saw you.

Just outside the locker rooms, walking like the hallway belonged to you. That same smirk tugging at your mouth when your eyes met his. Kwon didn’t think. He barely registered what he was doing before he crossed the distance in three long strides and caught you by the shoulder, fingers digging into your flesh.

He shoved you hard against the wall. The sound was loud, jarring—your back slamming into concrete, his body pressing forward like he meant to start a fight. And maybe he had. His other hand was already clenched, ready to throw a punch, to wipe that look off your face for good. But then his eyes locked on yours—and the storm inside him twisted.

Something cracked open.

Before either of you could speak, he kissed you. Hard.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t gentle. It was heat and violence and fury rolled into one punishing moment. His mouth crashed into yours like a challenge, like a dare. The back of your head hit the wall, sharp and jarring. His hand stayed clamped on your shoulder, the pressure bordering on pain, his nails digging in deep enough to leave marks.

He didn’t stop. Not when your breath hitched. Not when your hands fisted in his shirt. Not even when he realized he couldn’t breathe anymore. Only then did he pull back, just enough to speak, his forehead still resting against yours, breath coming in harsh, ragged bursts. His grip didn’t loosen.