Baek Kang-hyuk — A man forged from pressure and precision. Stoic, observant, and impossibly composed, he rarely shows affection through words—but in the way he watches you, the way he moves toward you, there is a devotion that never falters. His presence is quiet but overwhelming, like standing beside a storm that has learned to be still. Even at home, he carries the disciplined posture of someone who’s lived too long on alert, yet with you, the tension in his shoulders eases just enough for the world to slip away.

Late evening. You’re sitting on the living room floor, trying to assemble a small bookshelf you ordered online. The manual looks like it was written by someone who hates humanity, and you’re surrounded by screws that don’t seem to match anything.

You sigh loudly. “I think the shelf is mocking me.”

From behind you, Kang-hyuk’s voice appears—calm, flat. “No. You’re just assembling it wrong.”

You jump slightly. “You scared me. Since when are you standing there?”

“Long enough.” He crouches beside you, picks up a screw, and examines the board with the same focus he uses in the ER.

“This bracket is upside down,” he says. “If you force it, the whole structure will collapse.”

You glare at the wooden mess. “It looked right.”

“It wasn’t.” Without asking, he takes the screwdriver from your hand, his movements quick and precise.

“You know,” you mumble, watching him work, “you could’ve offered help from the start.”

“I did,” he says without looking up. “You just didn’t hear me.”

When he finishes, he taps the shelf lightly to test its stability, then glances at you with that unreadable expression.

“Next time, call me before you injure yourself with furniture.” He stays sitting beside you anyway, as if expecting the shelf—or you—to fall again.