I hadn't slept.
Which — let's be real — wasn't exactly new. Between the company, the lectures, and a never-ending stream of grown men who somehow turned into headless chickens the moment an email got slightly complicated, insomnia and I had been on a first-name basis for years.
But this was… different.
I wasn't up revising contracts or chasing some idiot investor halfway across the globe. Wasn't glued to my security updates. Wasn't even scrolling memes to numb the stress.
I was pacing.
In my own damn apartment.
Back and forth, from the kitchen to the living room, phone in hand, checking it every three minutes like some lovesick teenager in a cheesy Wattpad romance fic. Disgusting. I hated it.
I hated that my stomach twisted every time a message came through and it wasn't Ayaan with an update. Hated that every time my phone stayed dark, the knot in my chest tightened.
He was fine.
He had to be fine.
If anything had gone south, Ayaan would've sent one of his trademark stupid memes about death or ghosts to break the tension. Or, you know, actually called.
But it had been hours.
I pressed my palm to my forehead, scowling when it came away clammy. Stress. Not a fever. No way in hell was I catching whatever Lucian had. Not happening.
God, Lucian.
I could still see him, burned into my mind — skin too pale, eyes glassy, burning up like a cursed anime character in the middle of his tragic arc. And then me, carrying him bridal style like I was auditioning for the world's most dramatic K-drama remake. Gross. Who even was I?
I should've left him at the hospital. Should've kept my distance.
This wasn't supposed to be a thing.
I was his professor. Calm. Collected. The type of woman who didn't get rattled. Not… this.
A soft ping from my phone snapped me out of my spiral. I grabbed it so fast it nearly flew across the counter.
Ayaan: He's awake. Ate like a gremlin. Still got a fever but already being a pain. You can stop pacing, woman.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
My fingers hovered over the screen. I should text back. Something chill. Professional. Good. Hope he rests. Keep me posted. That sort of thing.
But before I could type a single word, my phone lit up again — this time with a call.
Mrs. Kim.
I blinked.
What was she doing calling me? Shouldn't she be in Korea? Or, like, literally talking to her son, who was at death's doorstep a few hours ago?
I hesitated, then picked up on the third ring.
"Hello?"
"Daphne," came her voice — smooth, crisp, polished. The kind of voice that ran boardrooms and had people scrambling to fix their mistakes before she even finished a sentence. "I hope I'm not disturbing."
"Not at all," I said, sitting up a little straighter because apparently, my survival instincts were intact. "Is everything alright?"
"I should be asking you that," she replied. "Ayaan called me. Said Lucian wasn't doing well and that you were the one looking after him. Told me — and I quote — 'ask Daphne, she knows him best.' So here I am."
A tight, surprised smile tugged at my lips. "It wasn't a problem. He's… stubborn."
A soft, knowing hum came through the line. "Like his father. Impossible, that one. But I'm grateful you've been there. Not everyone has people they can trust with the people they love."
I didn't really know what to say to that. So I cleared my throat. "He's awake now. Fever's better."
"Good," she murmured. Then, with a pause, "And you? You holding up?"
The question caught me off guard. I blinked. "I'm fine. Just… tired."
"I imagine," she said, a trace of humor slipping into her tone. "Listen — and I know this isn't really my place, but I get the sense my son's… quite taken with you."
I froze.
"I—Mrs. Kim, I—"
"Relax," she cut in lightly, a touch of a smirk in her voice. "I'm not here to cause a scandal. Life's short, professor. Don't waste it pretending you don't care about the people who matter."
I didn't know if that was advice, a warning, or both. It felt like both.
"One more thing," she added, her voice going soft, but still with that unmistakable CEO sharpness. "When you see him… give him a kiss from me. On the cheek, before you panic. From his mother. And tell him if he's giving you grief, you have full permission to put him in his place."
My stomach did a weird little somersault.
I managed a quiet, "Understood."
"Goodnight, Daphne," she finished smoothly — and hung up before I could respond.
I just sat there, staring at my phone, equal parts rattled and weirdly impressed.
A kiss on the cheek. From his mom.
Classy. Calculated. Genius power move.
I groaned, leaning my head against the back of the chair.
God.
I was so screwed.