Chapter Seventy-Five: While He Slept
The doctor's footsteps faded down the hallway, swallowed by the mansion's oppressive silence. The door clicked shut with a finality that left me alone with the machines—their rhythmic beeping a mechanical heartbeat filling the space where his should be strong enough to fill rooms.
He was still unconscious.
The bandages were fresh, white against his skin, stark reminders of how close I'd come to losing him. Again. The bleeding had stopped—the doctor had assured me of that, his voice calm and clinical while my hands shook behind my back—but the ache in my chest hadn't.
Wouldn't.
I sank into the chair beside his bed, the leather cool against my thighs through the thin fabric of my pajama shorts. The room was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of a single lamp and the cold blue digits of the monitors. Quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner and those damn beeps.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Each one a reminder that he was still here. Still breathing. Still fighting.
I watched his chest rise and fall.
The steady rhythm was hypnotic, grounding. Without the weight of his gaze, without that infuriating smirk or those dark eyes that saw through every wall I built, he looked... different. Softer. The sharp edges of his face relaxed in sleep, the tension that always lived in his jaw finally released.
He looked younger. Less like the devil who commanded shadows and more like a boy who'd simply gotten tired of fighting.
A boy who wanted someone to stay.
My hand reached for his on instinct—then stopped, hovering inches above his skin. I pulled back. Then reached again. This dance of hesitation, repeated until I felt foolish.
Finally, carefully, I let my fingers brush against his.
Not laced. Not held. Just... touching. The barest connection, as if I could siphon some of his warmth through that single point of contact.
"I hate that you did this to me," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the machines. "I hate that I care."
The words hung in the air, unanswered. He didn't stir. Didn't flinch. Just kept breathing, slow and steady, as if my confession was nothing more than background noise.
I looked at his face. Peaceful. Pale beneath the olive tone of his skin. The doctor had said he'd lost too much blood. That another few minutes would have—
I couldn't finish the thought.
"I was trying so hard not to fall for you." The confession came easier now, the words slipping out like water through cracked fingers. "I made rules. Kept distance. Built walls so high I thought nothing could breach them." A bitter laugh escaped me, wet and broken. "But you—"
I choked, pressing my free hand to my mouth.
"You just bled right through them."
The machines beeped on, indifferent to my unraveling.
I closed my eyes, letting the darkness behind my lids swallow me for a moment. When I opened them again, he was still there. Still breathing. Still mine in a way I hadn't fully admitted until this moment.
"I don't remember who I was." The words were barely a breath now, fragile as spun glass. "I don't even know if I loved you before all this—before the accident, before the wedding, before you dragged me into your world of blood and shadows. But I do now."
A tear escaped, tracing a hot path down my cheek before falling onto the back of his hand. I watched it land, watched it soak into his skin like an offering.
"And I hate it."
My voice cracked.
"I hate it because it makes me weak. It makes me afraid. Every time you leave, every time that phone rings in the middle of the night, every time I hear gunfire in my dreams—I'm terrified. Not for me. For you."
Another tear fell. Then another.
"I want to hate you." The words were a plea now, directed at no one and everyone. "I've tried so hard to hate you. But the truth is..."
I leaned closer, my forehead almost touching his shoulder.
"The truth is, you scare me because I think you're the only one who's ever really seen me. Not the girl with amnesia. Not the pawn in someone else's game. Just... me. And you stayed anyway."
Silence. Just the beeps. Just his breathing. Just the weight of my own heart cracking open in the dark.
I lifted his hand—carefully, so carefully—and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. His skin was warm against my lips, alive, real.
"Come back," I whispered against his fingers. "Just... don't leave me in this mess alone."
____
I don't know how long I sat there. Minutes bled into hours, time losing meaning in the quiet rhythm of his breathing and the steady beep of the machines. My eyes grew heavy, my head drooping toward the bed, my hand still loosely holding his.
Then—movement.
Barely there. A twitch of his fingers against my palm.
I jerked awake, my heart slamming against my ribs. I looked up.
His eyes were open.
Barely. Just slits, really, heavy-lidded with exhaustion and the lingering fog of blood loss. But they were open. And they were on me.
"Hey..." The word came out rough, raw from hours of silence and unshed tears. I wiped at my face quickly, embarrassed by the evidence of my breakdown. "You're awake."
His voice was cracked, barely above a whisper. "How long was I out?"
"Too long." I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to steady. "You lost a lot of blood."
He groaned, shifting slightly on the bed—then winced, his hand flying to his side. The movement pulled at his stitches, a reminder of exactly how close he'd come.
"Careful!" I grabbed his wrist, gently pushing his hand away from the bandages. "The doctor said no sudden movements. You'll tear the stitches."
He let me guide his hand back to his side, but his eyes never left my face. Even half-conscious, even pale and weak and barely able to move, he looked at me like I was the only thing in the room worth seeing.
"Is that your way of saying you were worried?" he asked, a ghost of his usual smirk tugging at his lips.
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't look away. Couldn't break the connection. "Is almost dying your way of asking for attention?"
His smile deepened—soft this time. Less smug. More... human.
I stood, moving automatically to adjust his pillows, to smooth the blanket over his chest, to do something with my hands that wasn't reaching for him. "You shouldn't move much. The doctor said the stitches are fragile, and if you—"
"You cried."
I froze.
He was staring at me again, that intensity back even through the exhaustion. "You cried while I was out."
"No, I didn't." The denial was instant, automatic.
"Liar."
His voice was smug now, but soft. And weirdly... comforting. Like he was drawing strength from my weakness instead of using it against me.
I busied myself with the blanket, not meeting his eyes. "I was just worried. You're my husband. Legally."
He raised a brow—slow, deliberate, the movement costing him effort but worth it for the expression. "Legally?"
"Don't make me take it back."
But he didn't answer. Just kept watching me with those dark eyes, reading the words I hadn't said aloud, seeing through every defense I'd built.
"I heard you," he said finally.
My throat tightened. "Heard what?"
He reached for my hand, his grip weaker than usual but steady. Certain. His fingers found mine and held.
"Everything."
I looked down at our hands. At the bandage wrapped around his stomach. At the broken, bleeding man who still had the power to shatter every wall I'd built.
"I meant it." The words came out barely above a whisper. "Every word."
"I know."
Silence stretched between us, but it wasn't empty. It was full—of things unsaid, of fears unspoken, of a truth we were both too afraid to name.
Then, quietly: "I won't make you choose me."
I looked up, startled.
His eyes held mine, steady despite everything. "But I'll make it impossible for you not to."
A laugh escaped me—wet, broken, real. "You already have, idiot."
His smile widened, and for a moment, he looked almost young. Almost hopeful. Almost like a man who believed he could be loved.
For the first time since this twisted, tangled story began...
I let my hand stay in his.
____
●Criminally Clingy
The doctor had been very, very clear.
No walking alone. No sudden movements. No lifting anything heavier than a fork. Absolute bed rest for at least a week, preferably two.
Which meant the great, feared Mafia King, Mr. Kim Taehyun, was now stuck in bed with bandages, mood swings... and me as his full-time, very unwilling nurse.
He hated it.
But not as much as he pretended to.
"I should've died that night," he muttered under his breath as I carefully pulled his shirt over his head—slowly, gently, making sure not to jostle the wound.
"Oh please." I rolled my eyes, tugging the fabric into place. "Don't be dramatic. I'm the one suffering here."
He gave me a tired glare, but there was no heat in it. "You are?"
"Yes." I brushed his hair back from his forehead as I helped him sit up straighter against the pillows. "Do you have any idea how exhausting it is taking care of a six-foot mafia child?"
He snorted, the sound turning into a wince as it pulled at his stitches. "You enjoy this."
"I enjoy seeing you weak." I smirked, adjusting the blanket over his legs. "Humbled. Shy. Like some schoolboy when I accidentally brush your collarbone."
"I was a schoolboy once." His voice was dry, but his eyes were warm. "Didn't like that either."
I fed him quietly for a while—soup, mostly, bland and warm per the doctor's orders. He let me, only grumbling when I made him drink water like a toddler, holding the cup to his lips and waiting until he'd finished every drop.
But then, suddenly, he looked away. His voice dropped, softer than I'd ever heard it.
"You should leave me."
My hand froze halfway to his mouth.
"What?"
"I can't even walk on my own right now." He wouldn't meet my eyes. "I can't protect you anymore. What use is a man like me, huh? A husband who has to be carried inside his own home—"
"Protect me from whom?" I interrupted, raising an eyebrow.
He blinked, thrown.
I leaned closer, mock-whispering, "I think I need protection from you, Mr. Shadow."
His brows furrowed. "What?"
"Always following me around. Watching me at the university. Staring holes through Professor Namhyun." I counted off on my fingers. "How clingy can one mafia boss be?"
He looked scandalized. "I wasn't staring—!"
"Oh yes, you were." I grinned, enjoying this far too much. "Every time I spoke to him, I felt smoke coming from behind me."
He looked away, but not before I caught the flush creeping up his cheeks.
"You didn't seem to mind," he muttered.
I sat on the edge of the bed, crossing my arms dramatically. "Ah, life was so peaceful before I had this shadow breathing down my neck."
He scoffed, trying not to smile.
"You missed me when I was on the mission," he said quietly.
I shrugged. "Debatable."
"I almost died."
"Still debatable."
He gave me a look—that dark, intense look that usually made my knees weak. But I was getting better at resisting. Mostly.
I sighed, softening despite myself. "Don't ever say I should leave you. You're not useless. You're not broken."
"I'm clingy, though."
"That," I said, poking his cheek gently, "is unfortunately true."
His smile returned, shy and smug at the same time—a combination that should have been impossible but somehow worked on him.
"I'll heal fast," he said.
I raised a brow. "So you can protect me again?"
"No." His eyes held mine, warm and certain. "So I can cling better."