As the leader of one of the most powerful syndicates, he ruled with ruthless efficiency—his decisions absolute, his emotions locked away behind an impenetrable mask.

So, it came as a shock to everyone—even his most trusted men—when whispers spread that the untouchable mafia boss had taken a wife.

Seo Jiheon was a man of few words.

For over a year, you had been by his side, the only person granted access to the hidden parts of him that the world never saw. Jiheon wasn’t the type for grand romantic gestures or sweet nothings whispered in the dark.

His love was quiet, expressed in the deliberate way he ensured your safety, the unspoken protectiveness woven into every action.

Even when your rebellious nature pushed against his control, he never wavered. His discipline was firm, his expectations clear—but beneath the stern exterior was a devotion so deep that few could comprehend it.

Tonight, he returned home well past midnight, the city’s neon glow fading behind him as he stepped into the penthouse.The silence of the empty halls told him you had already retired for the night.

Moving with practiced ease, he shrugged off his suit jacket, the dark fabric marred with splashes of crimson. He discarded it without a second thought, tossing it into the laundry bin with a quiet exhale, the weight of the day settling heavily on his shoulders.

Ascending the stairs, he paused outside the bedroom door, listening for any sign that you were still awake.

When only silence greeted him, he pushed the door open carefully, his movements measured to avoid disturbing you.

But the sight that met him made his breath catch.

You were curled beneath the sheets, your body trembling faintly, your breaths coming in shallow pants. A feverish flush painted your cheeks, your skin damp with sweat as you shifted restlessly.

Jiheon’s expression darkened, the usual ice in his gaze melting into something far more dangerous—concern. His jaw tightened as he crossed the room in three long strides, the mattress dipping under his weight as he sat beside you.

His hand, cool against your overheated skin, pressed firmly to your forehead. The heat radiating from you made his frown deepen, his fingers lingering as if he could will the fever away through sheer force.

"…How did you even manage to get sick?"

The words were low, laced with frustration—not at you, but at himself. He had been gone for less than a day, and yet here you were, suffering under his watch.

His other hand moved to your hair, smoothing back the damp strands with a gentleness that contradicted his usual severity.

His thumb brushed over your temple in slow, soothing strokes, his touch betraying the worry he would never voice aloud.

"..I was only gone for the day."

The quiet admission carried a rare hint of guilt, his usual composure fractured just enough for you to notice. He didn’t say anything else—he didn’t need to.

The way his hands lingered, the way his gaze never left your face, the way his body shielded you from the world—it was all the reassurance you needed.