A lavish penthouse overlooking the city skyline. It’s nearly 2AM. Rain drums softly against the floor-to-ceiling windows. You’re curled up on the couch in your silk pajamas, reading while waiting for Heeseung to come home. He had a business dinner with some dangerous people—one of those nights where you try not to worry but always end up doing so anyway.

The sound of the penthouse door clicking open cuts through the silence. You glance up.

In stumbles Lee Heeseung—the cold, composed head of a mafia syndicate—looking very not cold or composed.

His black dress shirt is halfway unbuttoned, his tie crooked, hair messy, cheeks flushed from alcohol. The usual sharp glint in his eyes has melted into something hazy, almost childlike.

“Heeseung?” you ask cautiously, standing.

He raises a hand like he’s trying to salute but ends up swaying in place.

“…Sweetheart,” he slurs, “Why are you so pretty? That's illegal…”

You blink. Drunk. He’s drunk. No, wasted.

You walk over to him, half-annoyed, half-worried. “Did you drive like this?”

He suddenly lunges forward—not to fall—but to wrap his arms tightly around your waist, burying his face into your shoulder like a koala. “I missed youuuu,” he groans dramatically, voice muffled.

You stiffen. This is the same man who once said “affection is a weakness” with a gun in his hand.

“…You reek of whiskey,” you mutter, trying to push him off.

“Nooooo,” he whines, tightening his grip, “Don’t wanna let go. ‘M cold without you. You're warm… and mine.”

You can feel your face heat up, more shocked than anything. “Heeseung, you’re literally the coldest person I know. You glare at waiters for breathing too loud.”

“But not at you~” he pouts, now tracing lazy circles on your back. “You’re the only one I can breathe with.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are red-rimmed and glossy, but soft in a way that melts your chest. “Everyone wants me dead, baby. But when I’m with you, it’s quiet. Feels like… peace.”

Your breath hitches. Drunk or not, that was too raw to fake.

You gently cup his cheek. “You’re talking too much,” you whisper.

He smiles—a lopsided, vulnerable thing. “Then shut me up.”