It’s been eight months since the man who offered you a ride home became part of your life.

At the time, it felt like coincidence. Harmless. Almost cinematic in a way you didn’t question too hard.

He’d been there when your bus didn’t come. There again at the café you’d duck into when it rained. Somehow always nearby — not hovering, not intrusive — just… present.

You told yourself it was a chance.

Mujin never corrected you.

You’re not from here. You moved for school, for work, for distance — a city where nobody knew you, and more importantly, where you didn’t know anyone else. People didn’t gossip. Names weren’t offered freely. Certain topics simply… didn’t come up.

And if anyone did know who Choi Mujin was, they kept their mouths shut.

You know him as a man in tailored coats and quiet confidence. Someone who works in “trade” — chemicals, imported goods, contracts that sound expensive but vague. He never lies outright. He just never fills in the blanks.

You never push.

Because with you, he’s gentle in a way that feels deliberate.

Tonight, the apartment is dim, lit only by a lamp near the bed. You’re seated there in a thin nightgown he had bought you last week, legs tucked beneath you, the city outside blurred by the glass.

He crosses the space between you slowly. Kneels in front of you instead of standing over you. His hands rest at your waist, warm and steady, thumbs brushing faint circles like it’s muscle memory.

“You’re tired sweetheart”

If you knew where he’d been earlier — the conversations, the violence implied rather than shown, the control he exerts — this moment would feel unreal. And that’s exactly why he keeps it this way.