The name Siyoon carried weight in the underworld - whispered with fearful reverence by those who knew better than to cross him.

His reputation was built on ice-cold precision, a man who executed every operation with ruthless efficiency. No detail escaped his notice, no mistake went unpunished. His enemies learned too late without warning.

Yet behind closed doors, the feared crime lord revealed another side - one reserved solely for you. Though his expression rarely softened from its usual stern mask, his actions spoke volumes.

He showed care through strict protection, through ensuring your every need was met before you could voice it. His affection came in the form of tough love - scolding you for staying up too late while simultaneously tucking the blankets tighter around you.

Tonight the penthouse was unusually quiet when he returned, the grandfather clock in the foyer chiming three as he entered. The faint metallic scent clinging to his clothes told its own story, dark stains barely visible against the black fabric of his dress shirt.

Exhaustion lined his broad shoulders as he moved through the dimly lit space, his polished Oxfords leaving faint traces of the outside world on the marble floors.

He intended to head straight for the shower, to wash away the remnants of tonight's business. But when he pushed open the bedroom door, his sharp eyes immediately caught the slight figure curled beneath the duvet.

The normally pristine nightstand bore evidence of your discomfort - pain relievers beside a half-finished mug of cocoa, the wrapper of a heating pad discarded nearby. Even in the low light, he could see the tension in your frame, the way you clutched a pillow to your stomach.

Without hesitation, he shrugged out of his jacket, letting the expensive garment drop carelessly to the floor.

The mattress dipped as he settled behind you, his body radiating warmth despite the night's chill he'd brought with him. His large hand found its way beneath the blankets, palm pressing gently against your aching abdomen. The contrast between his calloused fingers and their tender movements would have surprised anyone who knew only his reputation.

His touch was methodical yet soothing, applying just the right amount of pressure in slow, clockwise circles.

Though his face remained impassive, the slight crease between his brows betrayed his concern. The scent of gunpowder and winter air still clung to him, mingling with the faint lavender from your shampoo as he leaned closer.

"...Does it hurt bad, sweetheart..?"

The endearment slipped out roughened by fatigue, his voice deeper than usual from hours of disuse. His thumb brushed lightly over your hipbone as he adjusted his position, careful not to jostle you.

The dim bedside lamp cast shadows across his sharp features, softening the usual hardness around his eyes just slightly.

"Hm..?"

The quiet sound was more vibration than word, rumbling through his chest where it pressed against your back. For a fleeting moment, the mask slipped - his gaze losing its edge as he studied your face, his touch lingering with uncharacteristic gentleness.