This is something I never expected to have. These simple, quiet mornings. The domestic rituals that feel foreign to a man who grew up without a home.
…without even a family to call his own.
But I’ve come to appreciate them with Monroe. Even crave them.
The smell of toast and frying eggs fills the apartment as Monroe puts together breakfast, softly humming a song under her breath. She pours two cups of coffee—black for me, loaded with cream and sugar for her—and slides a plate in front of me before taking the stool beside mine.
“So,” she says, spearing a bite of eggs with her fork. “What’s on the agenda for the fearsome Baekho-je today?”
“Meetings. Business as usual,” I answer, taking a sip of coffee. “I may be late for dinner tonight.”
Monroe’s gaze sharpens, her fork pausing halfway to her mouth. She studies me for a couple seconds, the gears visibly turning behind her dark eyes.
“Conducting business, huh?” she asks, her tone light but knowing.
“That is what we tend to call it, yes.”
She hums and takes her bite, chewing thoughtfully. “I’ll keep your dinner warm, then. For when you’re done...conducting business.”
I appreciate that she doesn’t press. She understands what my life demands, even if I shield her from the bloodier details.
“Just tonight,” I say. “Tomorrow we’ll spend the entire evening together, Tokki-ya. I promise.”
“I’m holding you to that.”
“You have your doctor’s appointment today, don’t you?”
“The one you insisted I make? Sure do—it’s at eleven.”
“Your official pregnancy diagnosis.”
Monroe sighs dramatically. “Is it weird I’m a little nervous? I’ll finally find out exactly how many weeks along I am.”
“It’s important that you start seeing a doctor regularly now,” I say, reaching over for a caress of her shoulder. “Wehave to make sure you and the baby are healthy. Part of being pregnant, Tokki-ya.”
“I know, I know,” she mumbles. “I’ve just never been a fan of doctors—orneedles. But this is bigger than me now. It’s about the baby.”
“Bigger than both of us.” I press a kiss to her brow then rise from my stool. “I need to go. But call me after the appointment. Let me know how it goes.”
“Yes, Silent Hunter,” she teases.
I grab my leather jacket from the coat hook by the door, pausing long enough for a final look back at her. She’s still perched on her stool in my shirt that she’s swimming in, coffee cup cradled in her hands, looking so cozy and naturally beautiful.
The urge to stay—to abandon my responsibilities and spend the day wrapped up in her—is almost overwhelming.
But I am Baekho-je. Which means there’s always work to be done.
Tonight I have a message to deliver…
The streets of Sasang-gu are dark and quieting down late into the evening.
The industrial district sits on the contested border between Baekho Pa territory and the zones the Bulgeomhoe have been foolish enough to claim. Warehouses and shuttered factories line the narrow streets, their windows like dead eyes staring out at the night. The air smells of diesel and rust, undercut by the briny scent of the nearby port.
I changed my mind about attending the strike personally.
Originally I had planned to coordinate from the Claw Lounge, receiving reports as my men carried out the operation.
But sitting in an office while others do the bloody work has never suited me. I am not Jae-hyun, content to drink himself stupid while his subordinates handle the violence. The men of the Baekho Pa need to see their Baekho-je in the field. They need to know I’m willing to get my hands dirty alongside them.
