It started subtly, the way most of Dae-Ho’s colds did—quiet, slow, impossible for him to admit to himself.
First came the sniffles. Then the tired eyes. Then the gentle clearing of his throat every few minutes.
But the real giveaway—the thing that told her immediately—was the way he tried to act totally normal.
She was working at the dining table when she heard it: a small, muffled sneeze from the hallway followed by a muttered, “아씨… 젠장…”
She looked up just in time to see him poke his head around the corner, clearly hoping she hadn’t heard him.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Dae-Ho straightened instantly, chest puffing up like a startled cat. “Me? I’m fine!” he declared. “Perfectly healthy. Strong. Powerful.”
His nose turned pink.
His voice cracked.
And he swayed a little before catching himself on the wall.
She raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. Totally fine.”
“I am!” he insisted, sniffling quietly behind his sleeve. “Jagiya, trust me, I’m—”
He sneezed so hard he nearly folded in half.
“…healthy,” he finished weakly, eyes watering.
She got up from her seat and walked toward him with her arms crossed. “You are absolutely not fine.”
He tried to walk past her toward the kitchen. “I can still cook dinner—”
“No,” she said firmly.
“I can do laundry—”
“No.”
“I can at least wash the dishes—”
“No, Dae-Ho.”
“But jagi—”
She gently took his face in her hands. He stopped immediately, shoulders drooping. His eyes looked glassy, feverish, and a little embarrassed.
“Why are you trying so hard to pretend you’re okay?” she asked softly.
He hesitated, then mumbled so quietly she almost didn’t hear it:
“Because… I wanted to take care of you today.”
Her expression softened. “You take care of me every day. Let me take care of you today.”
His stubborn façade cracked. He sniffled again—and finally nodded.
“…Okay.”
She guided him to the couch, and the moment he sat, he melted into the cushions like a wilted flower. She tucked a blanket around him, placed a cold washcloth on his forehead, and handed him a mug of warm honey-ginger tea.
He accepted it with both hands like a tired child. “Thank you…” he murmured, eyes drooping.
She brushed his hair back. “You don’t have to be strong all the time, you know.”
He leaned into her touch, cheeks warm—not just from the fever. “But I want to be… dependable.”
“You are,” she whispered. “Even when you’re sick.”
He blinked slowly. “Really?”
“Really.”
After a moment, he reached out and grabbed her sleeve like he always did when he wanted affection but was too shy to ask.
“Can you… sit with me?” he mumbled.
She sat, and he immediately curled up against her, resting his head on her lap, arms looped loosely around her waist. Even sick, he was clingy. Even feverish, he tried to hide how much he needed her.
She stroked his hair, tracing soothing lines behind his ear. He sighed—a deep, relieved, exhausted sound—and his entire body relaxed.
“Jagiya?” he murmured, half-asleep.
“Yes?”
“…I think I’m dying.”
She snorted softly. “You have a cold.”
“Feels like death,” he insisted in a weak, dramatic whisper.
She laughed and kissed his forehead. “You’ll survive, you big baby.”
He sniffled, nuzzled her stomach, and whispered, “Love you…”
“I love you too.”
Within minutes, he was asleep—quiet, safe, wrapped in her care—and for the rest of the day, she stayed right there, running her fingers gently through his hair whenever he stirred.
Because if there was one thing stronger than Dae-Ho’s denial, it was the way he softened the moment she held him.