Triggering You | Moon Baek [Trigger] x Reader

When We Touch (part 1)

Late afternoon, a knock rattles the door. When you open it, Detective Lee Do stands there, dark jacket unzipped, eyes softer than you expect. The sight startles you more than the visit itself. "How did you find my address?"

He gives the faintest smile, unexpectedly genuine. "I have my ways."

Against every instinct, you step aside to let him in. You lead him to the small table where the infamous box still waits. Rose long past their bloom, bullets gleaming like cold candles. Lee Do leans closer, studying the display with a stillness that makes the room feel smaller. "Date me..." he repeats, fingerprints brushing a cartridge as though it might burn him. "Receiving something like this must be...overwhelming. Why didn't you call the police?"

A dry laugh escapes you. "You think they'd see this and treat it as evidence? They'd call it a publicity stunt. Attention-seeking."

He straightens, lips pressing into a thin line. "True. Only the mafia would send a gift like this."

From a folder, you pull the list of names and addresses, the one that has haunted your nights—and lay it flat between you. Your finger stops on a single entry. "Moon Baek," you say quietly. "He's on the list, there's even a phone number. Should we visit him?" Lee Do studies you for a long beat, as if weighing something heavier than the words. At last, he nods.

The motorcycle ride is a blur of wind and city lights. You cling to him instinctively, arms wrapped tight around his torso, your cheek resting against the warm leather of his jacket. Every vibration of the engine travels through you; every shift of his shoulders sends a small jolt down your spine. He glances back once, eyes catching yours over his shoulder. You think, just for a heartbeat—you hear the soft chuckle slip from him, lost in the roar of the night as the two of you race toward Moon Baek's house.

The motorcycle growls to a stop infront of a high-rise luxurious apartment building, sky scraping into the night. You climb off, legs buzzing from the ride, and pull the folded paper from your pocket. Moon Baek's number stares back at you in black ink. You're halfway through dialing when a warm hand covers yours.

"I'll call," Lee Do says, voice calm but certain. His eyes travel the length of you—not crude, just steady, almost reverent. "You...might distract him."

The words land heavier than you expect. For a moment you feel like a prop instead of a person. Your gaze flicks away, Lee Do notices the shift instantly. "Forgive me," he adds, softer now. "But you've surely noticed how...quirky he gets. Especially around you." A breath. "I don't know what kind of person he is just yet. And he might feel something about you..." His voice falters; the next words barely leave his mouth. "And I'm starting to get that too—"

He cuts himself off with a cough, eyes narrowing as though he's just realised what he admitted. Heat climbs your neck. You look down, the night air suddenly too warm. He dials the number himself. A brief exchange, measured and professional, and then clicks the phone shut. "He's coming down. Told him you're here as well."

Moon Baek appears moments later, stepping from the shadowed doorway like he's been carved from the night itself. When his eyes find you, the hard edges of his expression break. Light floods in, a rare, unguarded smile. Before you can react, he folds you into a gentle hug. Leather, smoke and something uniquely him wrap up around you. It's not rough, not demanding. Just warm. Surprising. You hesitate, then let yourself return the embrace. For a heartbeat, the city noise fades. Lee Do clears his throat, and the world rushes back.

The diner is a late-night relic: cracked vinyl booths, a jukebox humming faintly in the corner. Neon letters flicker in the window, casting red and blue ghosts across the tabletop. Moon Baek slides into the seat opposite you, hair falling into his saddening eyes. Lee Do takes the place beside you, the heat of his shoulder a quiet reminder.

A waitress appears, pad ready. Moon Baek orders without looking at the menu—a juicy hamburger. You ask for a milkshake, something sweet to share. Lee Do, unsurprisingly, orders black coffee. When the waitress leaves, Lee Do leans forward, folding his hands. "What do you do at Dongwol Industries, Mr.Moon?"

Moon Baek tilts his head, amused by the sudden formality. "I was a designer," he says, voice low and husky. "And I tested ammunition." He lets the next line linger, eyes locked on yours. "Did you know South Korea—practically devoid of firearms, is one of the world's largest bullet exporters?" A soft laugh escapes him, dark and musical. "Isn't that ironic?"

The question hangs there, heavier than the clatter of dishes or the hiss of the coffee pot, his gaze never leaving you as if the irony he's talking about isn't just about the bullets at all. The diner's humming lights seemed to dim when Moon Baek's words landed.

"I have cancer," he said, voice almost playful, as though he was confessing a harmless secret. "I have six months left. Maybe less."

Your breath snagged, you didn't know why it struck so deep, he was practically a stranger—but the world tilted anyway, a sudden hollow ache behind your ribs. Besides you, Lee Do's expression stayed carved from stone.

Moon Baek leaned his head, studying the detective's silence. "You don't believe me?" His sigh carried a rasp of mock disappointment. Then his eyes slid to you, dark and bright all at once, an implicit warning—watch closely.

He caught the hem of his shirt and, without hesitation dragged the fabric upward. Your pulse jumped. Ink and scar issue sprawled across a body hard with muscle: blackwork pieces winding through pale ridges of healed incisions. Three of them, deep and deliberate, slicing across his torso like violent brushstrokes. You felt the shock first, then a sharp pull of guilt—guilt for looking, guilt for the way you couldn't stop.

"They cut me open three times," he said, voice quieter now. "It's in my blood, spreading everywhere. First Seoul..." One finger tapped on the center of his chest. He drew the line downward, slow enough to make your stomach knot. "Then Busan..." The trail curved toward his left side. "From Busan to Gwangju." His hand slid across his right flank, tracing the map of his own undoing.

You were staring too hard—heat prickled your cheeks, when he leaned just slightly forward, eyes catching the dim neon and holding yours. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Like what you're seeing?" The air left you in a rush. Lee Do rolled his eyes, an audible scoff cutting through the tension. Color flamed up your neck. Moon Baek let the shirt fall, a ghost of a grin fading with it. "Sorry," he murmured, softer, almost contrite. "Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

For a heartbeat he looked down at the untouched hamburger, jaw tight. When he spoke again, the playfulness was gone. "It...hurts like hell," he admitted. "So I figured I'd end it with fireworks." The smile he gave after that wasn't a smile at all—just a curve of pain he tried to pass off as something lighter, and somehow that hurt more than the scars.