Chapter Seventy-Six: Sneak Peek Confession
The morning light filtered through the curtains in pale golden streaks, painting the bedroom in soft warmth. I sat on the edge of the bed, first-aid kit open beside me, trying to focus on the task at hand instead of the way his bare chest rose and fell with each breath.
He was watching me.
Of course he was.
I pressed the antiseptic-soaked cotton gently against his wound, avoiding his gaze, but it was useless. His smirk was practically burning a hole through my skin.
"So… my wife really does sneak peeks," he murmured again, smug, but trying not to wince as the antiseptic stung.
"I said I wasn't looking—" I snapped, flustered.
"But you saw."
"You noticed."
I glared at him, my cheeks heating. "You're bleeding. Shouldn't you be dying quietly instead of flirting?"
He chuckled—instantly regretting it as the movement pulled at his stitches. He hissed, grabbing his ribs.
I froze.
All the teasing vanished from his face, replaced by a sharp wince of genuine pain.
"Taehyun?" My voice softened before I could stop it.
He leaned back against the pillows, eyes closing, jaw tight. "It's nothing. I've had worse…"
That didn't comfort me.
I gently placed his hand aside and unwrapped the gauze properly, needing to see. His chest was a landscape of old scars—some thin and pale, others thick and knotted—testaments to a life lived on the edge of violence. But this… this one was fresh. Deep. Still seeping red through the hastily applied bandages from last night.
I felt my breath hitch.
Why was my heart aching like this?
Why did I feel like crying?
He opened his eyes again, catching my expression. The pain was still there, but something softer flickered beneath it. He tried to smile.
"Don't cry," he whispered.
"I'm not crying."
"You're trembling."
I looked down at my hands. He was right. The cotton in my fingers shook slightly, betraying every wall I'd tried to build.
I hadn't even noticed.
"I should hate you," I murmured, more to myself than to him. "I said I hate you—why am I the one trembling?"
He watched me quietly, his dark eyes glowing with something unreadable. Something that made my chest ache in ways I didn't want to examine.
I took the ointment, my movements careful, precise, as I gently applied it to the wound's edges. My voice dropped to barely a whisper. "Does it hurt?"
"Only when you're not with me."
I paused, my fingers stilling against his skin.
He chuckled again, softer this time. "Okay, now I'm dying," he said dramatically, closing his eyes like a child playing dead, his head lolling to the side with theatrical flair.
"Idiot," I murmured, but my heart was pounding too fast, and the word came out fond despite myself.
When I finished wrapping the bandage, I wiped my hands on a cloth, gathering the supplies, trying to escape before I did something stupid—like kiss him or cry or admit the truth I wasn't ready to face.
But his hand caught my wrist.
"Stay."
I froze.
He looked up at me, and for once, there was no armor. No smirk. No walls. Just vulnerability in those eyes I'd thought were made of steel.
"Just for a while," he said quietly.
I didn't speak. I couldn't. My throat was too tight, my heart too loud in the silence.
Instead, I knelt beside the bed, leaned forward, and placed a soft kiss on his forehead. His skin was warm against my lips, slightly damp from the pain he was trying so hard to hide.
"Sleep," I whispered.
His eyes fluttered closed, the tension in his jaw slowly releasing as exhaustion finally claimed him. But his hand didn't let go of mine immediately—it lingered, his fingers loosely wrapped around my wrist as if even in sleep, he needed the connection.
Just as I thought he'd drifted off, his lips curved in that familiar half-smile. "You really saw me?" he whispered again, barely audible.
I rolled my eyes, but my heart wasn't in it. "Taehyun."
"Hmm?"
"I will stab you with the scissors in that kit."
"Worth it," he grinned faintly, and then sleep finally pulled him under.
___
● The Morning After – Chaos, Teasing & Vulnerability
The next morning, I walked into the kitchen with the first-aid box tucked under my arm, trying to look normal. Casual. Like I hadn't spent half the night watching a man breathe, terrified each exhale might be his last.
I was calm.
I was fine.
Except—
"Morning, my sweet nurse."
The deep voice came from directly behind me, sending a shiver down my spine.
I flinched. Turned.
There he was.
Shirtless. The fresh white bandage a stark contrast against his skin, peeking out just above the waistband of his low-slung sweatpants. His hair was artfully messy, still damp from a shower he definitely shouldn't have taken alone. And his lips were curved in that devil's grin that made my knees weak no matter how many times I swore I was immune.
Kim Taehyun.
"Sleep well?" he asked, like he didn't look like a walking sin wrapped in bandages and arrogance.
I turned away abruptly, busying myself with the coffee maker. "Eat your breakfast."
"How can I?" He appeared at my elbow, far too close, his voice dropping to that intimate register that bypassed my defenses entirely. "You're my favorite meal."
"Taehyun!" I gasped, spinning to face him—which put me even closer, trapped between him and the counter.
From the kitchen table, Minho choked on his coffee. "God, not when I'm trying to eat!"
Taehyun glanced over his shoulder, utterly unrepentant. "You're welcome."
Minho turned to me, one eyebrow raised, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips. "So… you really saw it, huh?"
I narrowed my eyes, still trapped against the counter by Taehyun's too-close presence. "You want another scar beside his?"
Minho held up his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes sparkled with amusement. "Touché."
He took a deliberate step back, retreating to his coffee with the air of a man who knew exactly when to exit a losing battle.
That's when Mrs. Han appeared in the kitchen doorway.
Her presence always commanded respect—she'd raised these boys, after all, and no amount of mafia power could erase the fear of a woman who'd once made Kim Taehyun do his own laundry as punishment. But today, her sharp eyes landed on me, then on Taehyun's bandaged chest, and something mischievous sparked in their depths.
"So," she said slowly, her voice carrying that knowing tone that made my stomach drop, "this time really a baby coming, huh?"
"WH—WHAT?!"
I rushed forward, hands flailing, nearly tripping over my own feet in my haste to reach her. I clapped a hand over her mouth, my face burning hotter than the coffee maker.
"No! He just got injured! That's it! Nothing else happened!"
She chuckled against my palm, her eyes crinkling with mischievous wisdom. "Mmm-hmm. That glow says otherwise."
I turned to Taehyun for help, but he was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed—carefully, mindful of his wound—smirking like the absolute bastard he was.
"Stop smiling!" I hissed.
"Can't." His voice was warm with amusement, his eyes soft in a way that made my heart stutter. "You're glowing, babe."
"I will end you."
"Not before breakfast, you won't." He pushed off the counter—slowly, favoring his injured side—and limped toward the table, but not before pressing a quick kiss to my flaming cheek.
Minho made a gagging sound. "Get a room. Actually, no—get therapy. Both of you."
Mrs. Han patted my shoulder as she passed, her voice low and conspiratorial. "He's stubborn, that one. But he's good. Don't let the scars fool you."
I watched Taehyun settle carefully into a chair, wincing slightly as he moved, and something in my chest cracked open just a little more.
"I know," I whispered, so quietly only Mrs. Han could hear.
She smiled, patting my cheek, and shuffled off to harass someone else.
---
Later, when breakfast was finished and the others had scattered to their various corners of the mansion, I found Taehyun in the library. He was sitting in one of the armchairs by the window, a book open in his lap, but his eyes were distant—staring out at the garden, lost in thought.
I hesitated in the doorway.
"Come here," he said without turning. "You're hovering."
"I don't hover."
"You do." He finally looked at me, and his expression softened. "Come here."
I walked over slowly, stopping beside his chair. He reached up, catching my hand, tugging gently until I perched on the arm of the chair beside him.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"For what?"
"For staying. For not running." His thumb traced circles on the back of my hand. "For the forehead kiss."
My cheeks warmed. "Don't get used to it."
"Too late." He lifted our joined hands and pressed a kiss to my knuckles, his eyes never leaving mine. "I'm already addicted."
I looked away, unable to hold his gaze when it was that intense, that raw. "You're impossible."
"And you're still here." He tugged me closer, until I was half in his lap, careful of his wound but insistent. "That's all that matters."
I should have moved. Should have pulled away, rebuilt the walls, protected myself from the inevitability of loving someone this dangerous.
But his arms were warm around me, his heartbeat steady against my back, and for the first time in longer than I could remember—
I didn't want to run.
I wanted to stay.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.