It’s been seven months since Choi Mujin became your world.

It hadn’t started with a grand confession or even a proper date. It began mysteriously—like a puzzle you didn’t realize you were solving until his hands were already around your waist and his world was wrapped around your fingers. One day you were just a medical student who caught his eye by helping him in an alleyway, and the next, he was sending drivers, gifts, and little black cards that opened doors no one else could walk through.

Tonight, Mujin was supposed to be late.

But he’s in his office—watching you on the penthouse’s discreet security feed. The screen shows you curled on the couch in one of his black shirts, hair a little messy, scrolling through your phone with that soft, focused look he’s become addicted to. You look safe. Calm. His.

He exhales smoke from his cigarette, jaw tight with a longing he doesn’t voice. Then—he shuts the laptop.

He’s coming home.

⸻

The penthouse door opens with a soft click, and Mujin steps in, already loosening his tie. His eyes immediately sweep to the couch—right where he saw you last on the feed but you weren’t there—and for a moment, his eye twitched and his movements a little more wary. Almost panicked.

Then—

BANG.

“Fuck” he heard.

His blood runs cold. Instinct overtakes everything else.

Dropping his coat as he rushes through the apartment, doors flying open—bedroom empty—hallway silent—then—

Bathroom.

He yanks the door open, eyes sharp and wild—only to find you standing there, wide-eyed and wrapped in a towel, hair dripping, and the detachable showerhead on the floor.

“…Mujin?” you blink, startled—a faint blush as you keep the towel up.

He doesn’t speak. Just stands there, chest heaving, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might crack.

You lift your arms slightly, awkward “Uh. The thing slipped. I didn’t die.”

He closes his eyes for a second, dragging in a deep breath, the tension leaving him only in slow, grudging waves. Then, finally—

“…You scared the shit out of me.”