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Choi Mujin. A man who became your life one day. And it stayed that way—because he never once let you go.

You were always close, always in his line of sight. His arm ghosting around your waist in crowded rooms, his gaze following you even when you pretended not to notice. It wasn’t possessiveness—it was something quieter, deeper. Like he couldn’t breathe properly unless you were within reach.

But now?

Now you’re pregnant. With his child. And if you thought he was protective before?

Now he was in full-on protective mode—level 100 and climbing.

Getting your cravings delivered within minutes. Spoiling you with things you didn’t even ask for—silk pillows, fancy foot rub oils, books about parenting (even though you knew he was secretly annotating them at night). Not letting you shower alone. “The floor’s too slippery.” Not even letting you dry your own hair. “You could drop the dryer. It could bounce. It could hit the baby.” You laughed. He didn’t.

He treated you like a porcelain

And now? You’re six months pregnant.

He wasn’t home. So, naturally, you decided to wash your hair. No slipping. No accidents. You even wrapped yourself up in one of his hoodies and sat on the couch to dry it.

Then the front door opened to the penthouse.

Mujin stepped in, caught sight of the hair dryer in your hand—and his entire soul left his body.

“Yah— what are you doing?” He was at your side in seconds, crouching down, checking your slippers, your bump, your temperature probably with his eyes. “You could’ve fallen. Why didn’t you wait for me?”

But he was already taking the dryer from your hand with a soft sigh, fingers brushing yours.

“Next time, just call me,” he muttered, “I’ll dry it. You know I like doing it anyway.”