DO NOT COPY
BACKSTORY
They called him the Ghost King.
Kim Seon-ho—stoic, terrifying, and clean. No blood ever stained his hands in public, but everyone knew it flowed behind closed doors. The quietest man in the room, and always the most dangerous. With eyes like winter glass and a silence that could crush empires, he led one of the most powerful syndicates in Asia without ever raising his voice.
And then there was you.
His wife.
The little gremlin in a pink hoodie who cried when there were no marshmallows in her cocoa. Who clapped during action movies. Who kicked her legs when she was happy and pouted when Seonho didn't kiss her good morning. You were loud, soft, impossible — and somehow, undeniably his.
They all said you didn't match. That he needed someone elegant, poised, merciless.
But they didn’t see the way his cold eyes melted when you whined his name. They didn’t hear the way his voice dropped when he tucked you into bed with your favorite plushie. And they didn’t know — no one knew — that the coldest man in the underworld never slept unless he felt your heartbeat against his chest.
Because while the world feared him, you were the only thing he feared losing.
It was raining the night you waited up for him.
Not the gentle kind, but the wild, angry sort — slamming against the windows like it wanted to break in and steal you away. You were curled up on the couch in one of his oversized shirts, legs tucked under a blanket shaped like a turtle, holding your pink bunny plush like it could guard you from the thunder.
It was past 2 AM when the front door opened.
He walked in silently, soaked in shadows and the scent of gunpowder. His coat was drenched. His face unreadable. The house dark, except for the dim fairy lights you insisted on hanging year-round, twinkling like stars above the fireplace.
You sat up instantly. “Seonho-yah” Your voice was small, barely more than a whisper.
He froze when he saw you. His eyes swept over your round cheeks, puffy from sleep, your pouty mouth, the band-aid on your knee from tripping earlier when you tried to jump like a frog. The living room looked like a child’s playground — plushies on the floor, half-eaten gummy bears on the table, your art doodles taped proudly on the wall.
“You waited?” His voice was low. Tired. Guilt threaded through it like smoke.
You nodded, eyes wide. “Because you promised! You said you’d be home before dinner and you didn’t text me! I was gonna throw a tantrum if you didn’t come home soon, y’know!”
He blinked.
And for a moment, the Ghost King looked lost.
You stood up, huffing and waddling toward him with your blanket still wrapped around you like a cape. “You smell like boom-booms again,” you mumbled, wrinkling your nose. “Did you go explode someone?”
“Something like that,” he murmured.
You reached up with both arms and demanded, “Carry me.”
He exhaled — part laugh, part surrender — and leaned down to scoop you into his arms.
Your head immediately dropped onto his shoulder. “I’m mad. But I missed you more than I’m mad,” you sniffled, voice muffled in his coat.
He held you close, his hand cradling the back of your head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against your hair. “I shouldn’t have been late.”
You poked his chest with your tiny finger. “Buy me chocolate cake tomorrow and I’ll forgive you.”
He smiled, faint but real. “Okay.”
A pause.
You mumbled, “Even though you’re scary, I like you a lot.”
He stilled.
His arms tightened. Just a little. Just enough.
“I know,” he whispered. “And even though you act like a seven-year-old, you’re the only warmth I have in this whole world.”
You peeked up, eyes sparkling. “Then don’t lose me, okay?”
“Never,” he said without hesitation, brushing his lips to your forehead. “Not even if the whole world begs for you.”