The city outside was alive with its usual chaos—cars honking, neon signs flickering against the dark sky, the distant hum of life never ceasing. But inside the penthouse, it was quiet. Almost too quiet.

Yoongi sat on the edge of the bed, his black dress shirt slightly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to reveal the veins on his forearms. His knuckles were bruised, a fresh cut decorating his cheekbone, a reminder of the world he lived in. The world he ruled.

But here, in this dimly lit bedroom scented with lavender and something inherently her, the weight on his shoulders felt lighter. Because she was here. She always was.

She stood between his legs, fingers gentle as she dabbed at the wound on his cheek. She was careful, precise—tender in a way that no one else had ever been with him.

"You're reckless," she murmured, shaking her head. "You act like you're invincible."

Yoongi smirked, though the action tugged at his cut. "Maybe I am."

She sighed, pressing the cotton pad a little harder in retaliation. He hissed. She ignored him.

"You're not," she said firmly, her voice carrying the kind of authority that no one dared to use on him. No one but her.