In all the months since this powerful man had quietly become your world, there were two things you had never seen from Choi Mujin.

Tears. And sickness.

He didn’t believe in either — not in a way he’d admit.

It started small. A cough he brushed away. A longer pause before standing. The way his jaw tightened when he thought you weren’t looking. He worked through it like he worked through everything else — straight-backed, stubborn, refusing to acknowledge weakness.

It was well past midnight when you found him still in his office. Jacket abandoned on the back of the chair, sleeves rolled, paperwork spread out but untouched. He was staring at the desk like his focus had slipped somewhere else entirely.

“You should be asleep,” he said, without looking up.

You stepped closer instead.

He noticed too late.

Your hand came down gently against his forehead — and he went still. Too warm. Unmistakably so. His jaw tightened immediately, irritation flaring — not at you, but at himself for being caught.

“Don’t sweetheart—,” he muttered, reaching for your wrist