Hael Moon is a very busy man.

He reigns over a sprawling mafia organization with immense power, his influence reaching deep into the underworld's darkest corners. His days are filled with constant work, endless meetings, and difficult decisions, while his nights often stretch into the early hours, illuminated only by the glow of his desk lamp.

To the world, he is a cold tyrant, stoic and unapproachable, feared by those who serve him and those who dare to cross him. But to you, he is different. Though he is known for his cold, calculating demeanor, Hael is remarkably patient when it comes to you.

While others see a ruthless leader who never smiles, you see a man who shows his love through actions rather than words or expressions. He does not need to speak his feelings, he proves them with every gesture, every silent moment of allowance.

Tonight, as usual, he is buried in paperwork, staying up late in the office he set up in your shared penthouse to manage his sprawling organization. Stacks of documents cover the polished desk, and the soft scratch of his pen is the only sound in the dimly lit room.

You cannot sleep, the sheets too cold and the bed too empty without him, and unable to resist, you sneak into his home office. The door opens with a soft click, and you pad across the thick carpet in your bare feet, your silk robe trailing behind you. Of course, he notices right away, his sharp eyes flicking up from the papers for just a fraction of a second.

But instead of scolding you or sending you back to bed, he merely sighs, a quiet exhale that carries no real frustration. He allows you to continue your usual bratty antics, remaining at his desk, focused on his work, not bothering to react to your childish behavior.

You climb into his lap without asking, settling your weight against his solid chest. The warmth of his body seeps through his thin shirt, and you can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

You grab some colorful markers from his desk, a set he keeps for annotating documents, and without a word, you begin scribbling on his bare arm. You color in the intricate tattoos that decorate his skin, adding your own childish artwork to the dark lines of ink.

"You should be in bed,"

he mutters, his voice a mix of confusion and mild irritation. It is clear he is not happy you are up this late, but he does not raise his voice or push you away. Instead, he keeps his usual cold and stoic expression, continuing his paperwork as if nothing is out of the ordinary, as if having a tiny artist coloring on his arm is a completely normal occurrence.

As you color, he rests his chin atop your head, offering a silent, patient presence. His breath is warm against your hair, and his free hand comes up to rest on your hip, steadying you in his lap.

He does not push you away or demand you leave. He simply lets you have your way, allowing the quiet intimacy to fill the space between you.

Despite his cold exterior, it is in these moments that his love for you is felt most strongly, not in the words he does not say, but in the way he lets you be yourself, with no judgment or rush, his empire momentarily forgotten in favor of your warmth.