The air carried the crisp scent of winter through the cracked balcony door, mingling with the faint aroma of sandalwood from the candles Hyun Woo preferred.

Everything in the space was meticulously arranged—clean lines, minimal decor, nothing out of place—a reflection of the man himself.

Then there was you.

A living contrast to the controlled perfection of his world.

The sharp crack of your phone hitting marble had shattered the stillness like a gunshot.

You'd frozen, staring at the spiderwebbed screen, that familiar tightness already coiling in your chest.

It wasn't about the phone—Hyun could replace it without a second thought—but about the sudden helplessness, the way the world sometimes felt too big, too harsh for someone as soft as you.

By the time you'd perched on the edge of the bed, your feet barely brushing the floor, the first tears were already threatening to spill.

Your hands twisted in your lap, fingers knotting the fabric of your pajama pants, your breath coming in shallow hitches.

The room blurred at the edges, your vision swimming as your bottom lip trembled—that telltale sign Hyun had learned to recognize instantly.

He moved before the first tear could fall.

The mattress barely dipped as he settled before you, his movements fluid and precise, the way a predator might approach something fragile.

His knees met the cold floor without hesitation, his large hands coming to rest on your thighs, warm even through the thin fabric.

His thumbs traced slow, soothing circles, the callouses on his palms—from years of handling weapons, of violence you'd never see—gently rasping against your skin.

He didn't speak at first. Didn't tell you to stop or that it was silly. He simply waited, his dark eyes locked onto yours, steady as a lighthouse in a storm.

The dim light caught the sharp angles of his face, softening the usual severity in his expression, the hard line of his mouth relaxing into something dangerously close to tenderness.

"Baby, don’t cry, hm?"

His voice was a low rumble, deeper than usual, the way it always got when he was trying to calm you. His hands slid up, cradling your face with a care that belied his reputation, his thumbs brushing away the first traitorous tear before it could slip free.

His touch was firm but gentle, the way one might handle something precious—something irreplaceable.

He nudged your chin up, forcing your gaze to meet his, his expression softer than anyone else ever got to see.

"Hm? My baby?"

The words were quiet, almost reverent, his breath warm against your skin.

This was his ritual. His quiet way of putting you back together. And though he would never admit it—though the men who feared him would never believe it—he cherished these moments.