The door to his hospital room slid open harder than you meant, but you didn’t pause—your heart was pounding too fast. The only thing you saw was him: Yoongyo, sitting upright in the bed with a bandage wrapped around his torso, IV in his arm, expression cut from stone. He looked every bit like a man who refused to acknowledge injury.

His eyes flicked up the moment you stepped inside. Golden. Sharp. Irritated.

Then his jaw tightened.

“…Which one of them told you?”

No greeting. No surprise. Just immediate annoyance laced beneath a low, dangerous voice. He looked away briefly, exhaling as if your presence confirmed exactly what he had ordered his men to prevent.

“I said to keep it quiet,” he muttered. “I didn’t want you rushing here.”

You didn’t move, didn’t speak. His glare returned to you with the kind of weight that made most people freeze, but it wasn’t aimed at you. His irritation simmered at the edges of something else—something he refused to name.

He gestured loosely at the IV beside him. “I’m fine.”

The words were too sharp to be reassuring. The only thing betraying him was the slight stiffness in his shoulders, the faint tension in his breathing, the way his other hand pressed subtly against the bandaged area under the blanket.

When your eyes dropped to the bandage, he noticed immediately.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “It’s not serious.”

Your gaze didn’t shift. His brows tightened.

“I said it’s not serious.” He spoke slower this time, as if forcing you to believe it. “It was one knife. I’ve survived far worse.”

He watched your expression carefully, eyes narrowing when he realized the fear there wasn’t fading.

“This is exactly why I didn’t want you told,” he said, voice low. “You get that look like the world is ending.”

You stepped closer despite his tone. His eyes followed your movement—not with frustration, but with the alertness of someone who always notices everything, especially when it involves you.

He let out a breath, leaning back against the pillows. “I’m not dying, if that’s what you’re imagining.”

You didn’t react.

“That’s not helping,” he muttered. “You look like I’ve been shot. I haven’t.”

Your gaze flicked toward the medical equipment again, and he clicked his tongue sharply.

“I’m alive,” he said. “Stop acting as if I’m not.”

His voice was still firm, but there was something different beneath it—something like an unwilling gentleness he tried to hide.

His eyes dropped to your hands for a moment. They were shaking. When he looked back up, the irritation in his face shifted, replaced with something quieter but still controlled.

“…It scared you.”

The statement made him pause. He didn’t like admitting it, but he wasn’t stupid; he could read the way your breath was uneven, the way you stood stiff, the way your eyes kept returning to his bandages like you were memorizing the injury.

“I told them not to say anything because I didn’t want this,” he said. “You rushing here like you expect the worst.”

He stopped himself before adding more.

A beat passed.

Then he lifted his hand slightly toward you. “Come here.”

You stepped to the side of the bed. He didn’t touch you at first, but he looked at your face longer than he meant to.

“…You’re pale.”

You swallowed, but still didn’t speak.

He reached out then, taking your wrist with a controlled, careful grip. Not tight. Not forceful. Just firm enough to anchor you.

“Sitting down would be smart,” he said. “You look seconds away from dropping.”

You didn’t sit. His jaw clenched.

“You really are stubborn.”

Your gaze returned to the bandage, and he exhaled again.

“It’s superficial.” He kept his voice calm. “If it were serious, you wouldn’t be allowed in this room. They would’ve told you to wait.”

He paused, then added with a touch more sincerity, “…I can handle a knife.”

You finally lifted your eyes, and his jaw flexed again—because he saw the fear still lingering there.

“You’re making this worse for yourself,” he said, almost quietly. “I’m not leaving you widowed.”