The apartment was suffocatingly still, the kind of silence that made every small sound unbearable. My muffled gasps broke through it, weak but stubborn, as I twisted under the stranger's grip. The cloth pressed over my mouth reeked of chemicals, burning my throat and lungs. Fever made my body heavy, sluggish, but I refused to go limp. My fists clenched, nails digging into his arm as I fought against him.
He was strong, too strong. Every attempt to scream was swallowed by the fabric, my voice reduced to a faint, desperate sound.
Then—something shifted.
Footsteps. At first faint, then closer. Sharp. Purposeful.
A thud echoed in the hallway outside. My chest tightened—was it my fever playing tricks again? But then I heard the faint click of my door handle. My heart leapt, wild with fear and hope all at once.
The man froze, grip faltering for a split second.
And then the door was flung open.
Min Jae.
The look on his face wasn't shock—it was pure, cold fury. His gaze cut across the room and landed on me, weak but still fighting beneath the intruder's hand. That was all it took.
In one fluid motion, he lunged. His arm wrapped around the man's shoulders, yanking him back with such force that the cloth tore away from my mouth. Air rushed back into my lungs, burning as I coughed violently.
The struggle was brief but brutal. Min Jae's movements weren't wild—they were sharp, precise, like he knew exactly how to dismantle someone. The intruder staggered under the blows, scrambling in panic until Min Jae shoved him so hard he crashed against the wall.
The man bolted, stumbling out of the apartment as quickly as he had come.
For a moment, the silence returned. Only my shallow breaths and Min Jae's harsh exhale filled the room.
Then he turned toward me.
I was still trembling, clutching the blanket with white knuckles, but my eyes were sharp, refusing to collapse into fear. Even so, relief hit me like a wave at the sight of him standing there.
"You're okay, it's okay Hannah." Min Jae said quietly, kneeling in front of me. His tone wasn't commanding—it was steady, grounding, as if he was reminding me of something I already knew. His hand brushed my hair back from my damp forehead, lingering just enough to steady me.
I swallowed hard, forcing my voice through the rawness in my throat. "…Who was he?"
"I don't know yet," Min Jae admitted, eyes flickering with restrained anger. "But I'll find out."
The certainty in his voice was like steel, and it anchored me. I let out a shaky breath, finally allowing myself to lean back against the headboard. My fever pulled at me, but my spirit refused to give in.
The chemical finally did its work, and I fainted against his chest and shoulder.
For a moment, everything was soundless—just the dull thud of his heartbeat against my ear. Then came his voice, low and shaken, "Hannah… hey, stay with me."
My body went limp, and he caught me instantly, one arm circling my back, the other cradling my head with a gentleness that didn't match the panic in his eyes. My cheek pressed against the warmth of his chest, and I could feel the way his heart raced—uneven, desperate.
He eased me onto the bed, his movements careful, like even gravity could hurt me. My skin burned under his fingertips, and his brows furrowed, the calm mask he always wore cracking at the edges.
"Your fever's still high…" he muttered, half to himself, voice tight. He pressed the back of his hand to my forehead, then my neck, and I could see the worry flicker through his gaze.
He exhaled shakily and rose, fetching a towel. The sound of water running filled the silence, then the soft wringing of cloth. When he returned, he pressed the cool towel against my skin, his touch trembling slightly despite his effort to stay composed.
"Please…" he whispered under his breath, the word barely audible. "Just let it break."
The towel warmed too quickly. He replaced it again. And again. Each time, his fingers brushed my temple like a silent promise that he wasn't going anywhere.
Minutes turned into hours, but he didn't move far. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, watching me with a kind of focus that hurt to look at—like he was memorizing every breath, terrified of missing one.
When I stirred, shivering, he was there before I even opened my eyes, adjusting the blanket, tucking it beneath my chin, whispering, "You're okay. I've got you."
But his voice betrayed him. It was steady, yes—but softer, heavier, carrying the weight of fear he didn't want me to see.
At one point, I whimpered, caught between dreams and fever. He brushed a damp strand of hair from my face, his thumb lingering at my jawline. The moment stretched—fragile and achingly intimate.
"I'm right here," he murmured, his tone breaking just a little. "I'm not leaving you, not even for a second."
The night deepened, shadows spilling across the room. He leaned back slightly, exhaustion written across his face, but his eyes never left me. Every time my breathing hitched, he straightened instantly, hand reaching for mine.
When my fingers twitched weakly, he laced them with his—warm, steady, protective.
The fever still refused to go down. His jaw clenched, eyes glistening with worry. He pressed another cool towel to my forehead, his voice barely holding together.
"Come on, Hannah… don't do this. You're stronger than this," he whispered. "Just wake up and yell at me for fussing. Anything. Just—please."
And then, when I murmured something incoherent, his lips curved into the faintest, broken smile. He brushed his thumb over the back of my hand.
"There you are…" he breathed, voice trembling with relief and love he couldn't yet name.
Outside, the night hummed quietly, but inside the small room, everything stilled—the fever, the fear, the world—until there was nothing but the sound of two heartbeats, beating unevenly in the dark.