The room was dim, shadows stretching across the walls like silent witnesses. The faint hum of the city outside was distant—an indifferent backdrop to the quiet storm inside you.

Lee Byung-hun sat beside you, his posture relaxed but deliberate. There was a steadiness about him that didn’t demand attention but quietly claimed it. His eyes met yours—not with impatience or judgment, but with something deeper. Understanding.

“You Don't have to overthink,” he said softly, voice low, steady—like the calm before a storm, or the quiet strength after one. “Whatever your mind throws at you, I'm here.”

His hand brushed yours—a simple gesture, but enough to anchor you in the moment. You could feel the steady heat of him, the quiet assurance that you weren’t expected to carry your burdens by yourself.

He shifted slightly, draping his coat over your shoulders without a word, the fabric heavy but warm.

“You don’t have to explain,” he murmured, “I don’t need words to know you’re struggling. And you don’t have to. Not with me.”

You leaned into him, the tension in your muscles slowly unwinding. The silence between you wasn’t empty—it was full of unspoken promises, of quiet strength, of a presence that could hold you steady when everything else felt like it might fall apart.

His voice came again, softer this time, almost a whisper.

“Rest now. I’ve got you.”

You let your eyes close, the exhaustion pressing down like a weight that suddenly felt bearable. Because he was here. Because in his calm, steady presence, you were safe.

And for the first time in a long while, peace found you.