Chapter 69: Cold Hearts & Warm Mornings
The morning after, I made a firm decision: distance.
No more stolen glances. No more soft hands adjusting my scarf or helping with bandages as if we were something fragile and precious instead of reckless and secret. I would give him space—real space—and finally, give some to myself.
It sounded mature. Sensible. Necessary.
I executed my plan perfectly in the hallway, walking past him without a word. No greeting. No inquiry about his pain. Not even a glance at the white bandage peeking arrogantly from beneath his black shirt.
He paused mid-step.
I felt it before I heard it—the weight of his attention, sharp and amused.
"Ignoring me now?" he asked.
I didn't answer. I kept walking, retreating into the kitchen's sterile quiet like it was neutral territory.
Behind me, I heard the faint scrape of a chair.
Of course he followed.
"Do I at least get coffee?" he asked mildly, like this was a normal married morning and not a battlefield disguised as a home.
Silence was my only reply.
I focused on the kettle, on the clink of ceramic, on the way my fingers shook slightly as I reached for the mugs. I refused to acknowledge the presence behind me—the tall, breathing problem wrapped in black fabric and arrogance.
His exaggerated sigh echoed through the kitchen, dramatic enough to deserve an audience.
Then footsteps.
Then arms encircling my waist from behind.
I inhaled sharply as he pulled me back into the warmth of his chest, firm and familiar and unfairly comforting.
"What are you doing?" I snapped, palms bracing against the counter.
"You said you need space," he mumbled into my hair, voice still rough with sleep. "I'm giving you… shared space."
I tried to wriggle free, but he only tightened his grip, chin resting on my shoulder. He felt like a human bandage—constricting, protective, impossible to peel off without reopening wounds.
"Taehyun," I warned.
"Don't be so cold," he whispered, his nose brushing the shell of my ear. "You weren't so cold last night when you were all over me like tangled earphones."
Heat flooded my face.
I elbowed him—lightly, more a protest than an attack.
"You're unbelievable."
"Unbelievably in love with you, yes."
I turned in his arms to glare at him.
It was a mistake.
He looked criminally good, like he knew exactly what he was doing to my resolve. A crisp black shirt undone at the top, silver chain peeking through. The stark white bandage across his chest only made him look more dangerous, more real. His hair was artfully messy, like he'd raked his fingers through it with intention.
And that smirk.
That lethal, infuriating smirk.
"Why are you like this?" I muttered, the fight draining from my voice.
"Like what?"
"Shameless."
He leaned closer, lips brushing just above my temple in a ghost of a kiss.
"Because my wife is trying so hard not to fall for me," he murmured. "It's adorable."
"I'm not falling."
"Mmhm." His hum vibrated straight through me. "You already fell. Tripped. Face-first. Onto me."
I rolled my eyes, extracting myself before my body betrayed me completely. I grabbed my bag and scarf—my armor for the day.
"I'm going to university," I said. "Alone."
He leaned against the counter, arms crossed carefully to avoid his injury, lips pulling into a theatrical pout.
"You'll miss me by lunch."
"In your dreams."
He winked.
"Every night, baby."
---
University was supposed to be my sanctuary.
A place of ordinary chaos. Of deadlines and lectures and gossip that didn't involve blood oaths or bullet wounds. I took my usual seat beside my best friend, spine straight, expression neutral, determined to pretend my life wasn't a tangled mess of secret marriages, mafia threats, and a clingy, injured husband.
The calm lasted exactly eleven minutes.
The door opened.
And he walked in.
Professor Kim Taehyun commanded the lecture hall without trying. All black, as usual. Shirt tucked into fitted slacks, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A sliver of bandage was visible on his forearm—subtle, deliberate. A warning or a flex. Probably both.
His presence shifted the air.
He placed his notes on the desk with unhurried precision, gaze sweeping the room with academic detachment.
Then his eyes found me.
And lingered.
Just a second too long.
A spark ignited under my skin.
I looked away, pulse betraying me.
"He's looking at you again," my best friend whispered urgently, elbowing my side.
"No, he's not."
"Girl, please. If he looked any harder, you'd catch fire."
I buried myself in my notes, pretending my handwriting wasn't suddenly illegible.
His lecture was on criminal psychology.
Irony was cruel like that.
His voice was smooth, deep, hypnotic as he explained how trauma reshapes the mind.
"Sometimes," he said, pacing slowly before the board, "a person's trauma molds them into something unrecognizable. What once was kind turns calculating. What was soft becomes stone."
He paused.
"Not by choice," he continued quietly. "But survival."
His eyes lifted.
Locked onto mine.
"And when someone comes along who reminds them of their old self…" he said slowly, "they don't know whether to protect that person… or destroy them."
My heart stuttered.
The room felt too warm.
My best friend leaned in, eyes wide.
"Okay," she whispered. "That was totally aimed at you. Are you guys—?"
"No," I hissed. "Shut up."
But doubt curled low in my stomach.
After class, I moved with the herd, head down, shoulders tight. A desperate fish swimming downstream, hoping not to be noticed.
His voice cut through the noise behind me.
Soft.
Intimate.
"Miss Wildflower."
I stopped.
Turned.
Clutched my bag like a shield.
"Professor."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. The scent of ink and something darker surrounded me.
"How was your lunch?"
"What lunch?"
"The one you skipped."
My blood chilled.
"…You've been following me?"
"Observing," he corrected smoothly. "As your professor… and husband."
"You're unbelievable."
"You said that this morning too."
"I meant it both times."
He leaned closer, breath warm against my ear.
"Coffee after class?" he murmured. "I promise to behave."
I glared at him.
His grin widened, boyish and unrepentant.
"Okay," he admitted. "Maybe seventy percent."
---
All I wanted was a moment of peace.
A solitary walk to the washroom. A brief escape from the cafeteria's noise and bad decisions.
But as I turned into the quieter hallway, a firm hand caught my wrist.
Pulled.
My back met the wall with a soft thud—more surprise than force.
Taehyun.
Here. On campus. With students mere feet away.
"What are you doing?" I hissed, heart racing. "You're still healing!"
"I needed to see you."
His voice was low. Dangerous. Soft in a way that stripped me bare.
His gaze dropped to my lips.
"Still thinking about this morning," he murmured.
Then he kissed me.
Gentle. Desperate. Unfairly tender.
The world narrowed to warmth and breath and the way my hands fisted in his shirt—not to push him away, but to hold on.
For one stolen second, I kissed him back.
Then sense returned like a slap.
I pulled away, gasping.
"Are you insane?"
He didn't retreat. He brushed his nose against mine, grin crooked and honest.
"Completely," he whispered.
"For you."