Chapter Seventy-Seven: Koala on My Heart
The clock blinked 2:47 AM.
I woke without reason—just that subtle ache in my chest, that whisper of anxiety that never really left. The kind that lived in the space between heartbeats, waiting for silence to creep out.
My breath caught.
Was he still here?
I turned my head slowly, afraid of what I'd find—or wouldn't find. Afraid that the bed beside me would be empty, cold, stained with the ghost of him and nothing more.
But there he was.
Still wrapped around me like a vine, face buried in the curve of my neck, one leg thrown possessively over mine, arm caging my waist like I might disappear if he let go. Clinging. Peacefully. Like a child who'd finally found home after a lifetime of nightmares.
I let out a shaky breath, relief washing through me so intense it was almost painful.
He didn't move. Just nuzzled closer, his lips brushing against my skin in unconscious sleep, his breath warm and even against my collarbone. His long lashes rested against his cheeks, dark crescents shadowed by exhaustion. His hair was a mess—tousled and soft, falling across his forehead in a way that made him look years younger. The scar near his temple was faintly visible in the moonlight, a pale reminder of a life I still didn't fully understand.
So dangerous by day.
So soft by night.
My heart betrayed me again. That treacherous organ that refused to listen to reason, that kept softening when it should harden, kept warming when it should freeze.
I tried to shift—just a little, just enough to reach the water bottle on the nightstand. My throat was dry, my lips parched.
Bad idea.
He whined.
Actually whined, half-asleep, like a spoiled cat being pushed off its favorite pillow. A sound so completely at odds with the terrifying kingpin who made men tremble that I almost laughed.
His grip around me tightened, one eye cracking open—groggy, dazed, but instantly alert. Instantly searching for danger.
"You okay?" he mumbled, voice hoarse from sleep, rough like gravel wrapped in velvet.
"I just woke up," I whispered. "Didn't mean to wake you—"
"You leaving?" The question was sharp, edged with something that sounded almost like fear.
"No."
He buried his face in my neck again, the tension draining from his body in a single exhale. "Good."
"Taehyun—"
"You're warm," he muttered, the words slurring as sleep pulled him back under. "Stay."
"I can't breathe."
"Then die here with me."
I rolled my eyes, trying not to laugh. Trying not to let the absurd tenderness of the moment crack the walls I'd spent weeks rebuilding.
But my hand still rose, almost of its own accord, fingers threading gently through his hair. The silky strands slipped through my touch, and he relaxed instantly—a full-body surrender, like my touch was the only thing anchoring him to peace.
"Sleep," I said softly.
"You'll be here?" The question was barely audible, vulnerable in a way he'd never allow in daylight.
"I'm not going anywhere."
A small smile tugged at his lips—soft, genuine, devastating—before sleep finally claimed him completely.
Koala.
Idiot.
My idiot.
And just like that, I stopped fighting sleep too. Because for the first time in longer than I could remember, being wrapped in his arms felt less like danger and more like home. The kind of home I'd never had. The kind I'd stopped believing existed.
I pressed my lips to his forehead—just once, feather-light—and let my eyes close.
---
_____
Morning came too fast, pale light filtering through the curtains. I'd barely opened my eyes when I sensed it—movement, stealthy and deliberate.
By the time I came back from brushing my teeth, he was already half out of bed. Phone in one hand, the other gripping the wall for support. His face was pale with effort, a fine tremor running through his arms.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" I asked, hands on hips.
He looked up—caught red-handed like a child stealing cookies before dinner. That infuriating, boyish guilt flickering across features too sharp to pull it off.
"I have a meeting," he said, aiming for innocent and landing somewhere around "unrepentant."
"You have stitches."
"I can sit."
"You can also die." I marched over, grabbing his arm and guiding him back toward the bed with more force than necessary. "Get your mafia ass back in bed!"
He winced slightly as I maneuvered him, his hand flying instinctively to his side. The bandage was already loosening, edges curling away from his skin.
"What is wrong with you?" I hissed, settling him against the pillows and immediately checking the wound. Fresh pink stained the gauze—nothing serious, but enough to make my stomach clench. "Do you think you're invincible? Or just incredibly stupid?"
"Neither," he murmured, grinning up at me with that infuriating charm. "But you yelling at me like this is kinda hot—OW. Okay. Don't hit me, nurse. I'm injured."
I sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion and something softer I refused to name. "You need rest. That's it. That's the end of the discussion."
But of course, it wasn't.
A knock on the door. One of his men—the younger one, the one who always looked slightly terrified of everything—peeked in, holding a tablet like a shield.
"Boss, just a quick update—"
"No updates," I growled, not even turning.
The poor man blinked. "But—"
"Out. All of you. Mafia closed today. CEO on sick leave. Take it up with HR."
The door slammed. Footsteps retreated at impressive speed.
I turned back toward the bed to find him smirking, lying flat again like an obedient child—but with that look in his eyes. That warm, devastating look that made my pulse stutter.
"What?" I narrowed my eyes, defensive.
"You're scary when you're protective," he said, clearly amused. "Is this how you take care of everyone you hate?"
I crossed my arms. "Don't start."
"I'm just saying," he continued, shifting slightly against the pillows, "for someone who claims to hate me, you sure act like my wife."
I leaned closer, arching an eyebrow. "For someone who just got stabbed, you sure act like a smartass."
His smirk widened. "You took my phone. Yelled at my men. Fluffed my pillow." He ticked each point off on his fingers. "Admit it. You like me."
I paused, letting the silence stretch. Then I grabbed the blanket and yanked it up to his chin with a dramatic flourish.
"I like peace," I said. "And you don't bring it."
But my hands lingered a second too long near his face. And he saw it. That stupid, knowing flicker in his eyes that said he'd catalogued every hesitation, every soft glance, every moment my walls cracked.
I stood quickly. "Sleep. Now. Or I'm duct-taping you to the mattress."
He closed his eyes with a smug smile, utterly unrepentant. "You know I dream better when you're mad."
I stared at him for a beat, caught between exasperation and something far more dangerous.
God, he's impossible.
But still.
I picked up his phone again, made sure all the calls were silenced, checked that his notifications were off. Then I sat beside the bed—pretending to scroll through my own messages, but mostly watching.
Watching his chest rise and fall.
Watching the tension slowly leave his face.
Watching him drift into sleep, trusting me to stand guard.
Because even if I hated him—even if I told myself a hundred times a day that I did—I hated the idea of something happening to him more.
____
The room was quiet except for the sound of my frustrated sighs and the gentle rustle of gauze.
He sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, chest rising and falling slowly as I peeled back the old bandage from his abdomen. The bruising was deep—purple and black spreading across his ribs like a map of violence. The wound itself was angry red, the stitches neat but the flesh around them inflamed and tender.
I tried not to wince.
"Stop staring like I'm dying," he murmured.
"You almost did."
"I'm still here, aren't I?" That familiar smirk, though softer now. "Thanks to my terrifying little wife."
I rolled my eyes, focusing on the wound. "Hold still."
He flinched just a little as I applied the antiseptic—just a sharp intake of breath, quickly suppressed. But I felt it. My hands trembled the slightest bit, not from fear of the wound itself, but from the proximity. From the warmth of his skin under my fingertips. From the way every inch of him was carved in sharp muscle and tension—a fighter's body, softened only by pain and the unexpected gentleness of my touch.
"You know…" he began lazily, watching me work, "I could've hired a nurse."
"You refused one."
"Obviously."
I frowned, not looking up. "Why?"
"I don't like strangers touching me."
I stopped, my hands stilling against his skin.
He added, quieter now, "Especially not women. Especially not when I already have a wife."
From the hallway, we heard it—a chorus of poorly-stifled laughter. His men. His brothers. One of them snorted audibly, followed by a whispered, "You hear that? Mafia king won't let a nurse touch him but lets his angry wife undress him."
"Simps hard," another voice agreed. "Certified lover boy."
He scowled toward the door, his eyes promising future violence. "I should kill them."
I bit back a laugh—actually bit my lip to keep it in—but he caught it. Of course he did. That sharp, knowing gaze flicked to me, and something in his expression softened.
"I just don't want anyone else," he said quietly. "That's all."
The silence that settled between us was different. Heavier. Fuller.
Then—
"I need a shower," he announced, trying to stand.
I snapped back to reality. "You're not going alone. You can barely walk straight."
"You'll help me?"
"No choice, right?" I muttered, grabbing his arm. "Since I'm your unpaid nurse."
He chuckled, the sound warm and genuine, and let me guide him toward the bathroom.
____
Steam curled around us, thick and obscuring. The water wasn't even running yet.
I stood behind him in the bathroom, trying to undo the wrappings near his shoulder while ignoring every cell in my body screaming at me to flee. This was too much. Too intimate. Too close.
He was standing there with a towel low on his waist, back muscles flexing slightly as he shifted his weight. Still weak. Still stubborn. But still undeniably, overwhelmingly him.
I avoided looking at the mirror, because I'd see myself blushing. I'd see the truth written across my face, the one I wasn't ready to admit.
"Are you really this shy?" he teased, his voice soft in the steam-filled space.
"I'm not shy," I muttered, focused on the bandage. "Just… respectful."
"Of what? My dignity?"
"Of your half-naked body and the fact that we barely act like a real couple."
He laughed—a real laugh, warm and unguarded. "You think I don't notice the way your hands hesitate when they touch me?"
I wanted to disappear. Wanted the steam to swallow me whole.
"I'll leave," I said quickly, stepping back. "You can call if you need help—"
But his hand caught mine. Gently. Just a brush of fingers, but it stopped me cold.
"Don't go."
I turned my head slightly, and in the mirror, our eyes locked.
His voice dropped low—that intimate register that bypassed every defense I'd built. "You don't have to love me. But let me keep loving you. Even like this. Quietly. In pain. In silence." He paused, his thumb tracing a slow circle on my wrist. "Just… let me have this moment."
I swallowed hard, my throat tight.
"…Fine."
I turned on the water. Helped him step inside.
He didn't say anything more.
And neither did I.
Because even though it was awkward, too close, and wrapped in unsaid words—it was also real. More real than anything we'd dared to admit in daylight. More real than the lies and the secrets and the blood that stained our past.
In the steam, with his hand in mine and his weight leaning on me, I let myself feel it.
Not love. Not yet.
But something that looked terrifyingly like its beginning.
And for once, I didn't run.
___