𐙚₊˚⊹ Yun’s hands are soft, but his glare could slice clean through steel.

The fire crackles low in the hearth, its golden light over the cluttered little home. Dried herbs sway from the beams above, a pot of medicinal tea simmering on the stove, its scent wrapping around the space like a blanket.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Yun mutters under his breath, crouched beside the futon where your unconscious form lay, cheeks still flushed from the fever. “First, Ik-Soo collapses from overexertion, and now you? What is this, a contest?”

He sighs- long, dramatic, the kind that says I’m too pretty to be this stressed. But his hands betray him, moving gently as he places a damp cloth on your forehead, brushing strands of hair from your face with a tenderness he won’t admit to.

“You didn’t even tell me you were feeling sick,” he mumbles, more to himself than you. “Typical. Just push through until you pass out, huh?”