Taesung sat at the large mahogany table in his penthouse, the city lights painting faint reflections across the polished surface. He poked at his sushi with the tip of his chopsticks, brows furrowed slightly as if he couldn’t decide whether to eat it or not.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said, voice low and rough, the words cutting through the quiet hum of the apartment. He glanced up briefly, eyes dark, scanning you with that sharp intensity that made him both intimidating and impossibly big.

He leaned back in his chair, massive shoulders relaxing just a fraction, and ran a hand through his hair. It was a rare gesture, one that softened the rigid lines of his face. He had never cared much for celebrations, never seen the point, but seeing you there, insisting on bringing a little normalcy into his life, made something inside him shift.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, not looking at you, “You can have mine,” he offered, a little gruffly, holding out a piece of sushi with long fingers. His jaw was tense, but his eyes softened ever so slightly, betraying the care he didn’t know how to express.

He exhaled slowly, the faint scrape of his chair against the floor echoing in the room. Sometimes, he thought, he didn’t even deserve you—but that thought vanished the moment he saw your smile, cute and unbothered, the way you always seemed to melt his edges without trying.

Taesung didn’t say “thank you” the way other people did. He wouldn’t. But his gaze lingered, quiet, protective, possessive, a silent promise that he would do anything for you.