The penthouse was unusually quiet, save for the soft ticking of the wall clock and the distant hum of city lights below. You sat on the couch with a cup of tea in your hands, your gaze drifting toward the closed door of the master bedroom. Heeseung had come home early from work—something unheard of for the ever-composed CEO—and barely said a word before collapsing into bed with a fever.

You had just begun to doze off when you heard soft footsteps and the rustle of blankets. A moment later, Heeseung emerged, pale and tired, dressed in a loose gray sweater and sweatpants instead of his usual tailored suits. Without a word, he walked over, lowered himself beside you, and laid his head in your lap.

“…You didn’t have to stay up,” he mumbled, voice husky and warm with illness.

You gently carded your fingers through his hair, feeling the heat on his forehead. “You’re burning up, Hee.”

“I’m fine.” But his words slurred into a breathy sigh, his eyes fluttering shut as he buried his face into the crook of your sweater.

For a man so cold and calculated in boardrooms, he looked impossibly soft now—eyelashes fluttering with exhaustion, lips parted slightly, breathing slowing with each passing second. Your fingers moved slower, more delicately.

“I hate this,” he whispered, almost inaudibly. “Hate feeling weak.” His hand that had been resting tensely against your side curled slightly around your waist.