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The dock reeked of salt, oil and the metallic tang of steel. Containers loomed like sleeping giants in the fog, their shadows cut into neat lines by the harsh floodlights overhead. Men in dark jackets moved in silence and efficiency as the heavy thud of crates of ammunition and weapons being loaded into hauler trucks echoed in the night.
Amidst the beeline work, a sudden silence washed through as a black SUV arrived and soon enough, Moon Baek stepped out of the car, long coat shifting in the sea breeze. His men immediately straightened, the air tightening like a wire pulled taut.
“What happened?” he asked, voice low, clipped.
“The shipments are on schedule,” his lieutenant said, “but one of the containers came sealed without the proper verification stamp.”
Baek’s eyes narrowed. He stepped forward, his boots echoing on the metal ramp. Without breaking stride, he drew his pistol, the matte black steel almost merging with his gloved hand. He didn’t raise it—yet—but the weight of the gesture was enough to make the nearest dock worker break into a sweat.
Mr. Kang, the contractor burst out of the small office at the dock, panic plastered on his face. This middle-aged man in safety vest and mousy hair ran up towards where Baek is. Reaching just in time.
"Mr. Baek!!! I can explain!!!" He panted clutching at his chest.
“Open it,” Baek ordered, ignoring him.
A worker fumbled with the crowbar, the crate finally giving way with a groan. Inside—perfectly stacked ammunition, exactly what the manifest claimed.
Baek leaned in, inspecting. “Lucky for you Mr. Kang,” he murmured, “that you’re just incompetent and not a traitor. You see, incompetence can be corrected, whilst the only way to deal with turncoats is...” He aimed his gun up to Mr. Kang’s forehead which made the man tremble with fear.
“I expect a thorough job next time. No more mistakes.” He finally holstered his weapon, turning away to the relief of Mr. Kang who sank to his knees.
“Never again Sir… never!”
Baek walked back to his car and made a phone call to your lookout. His other hand taking out the silver pen in his pocket. “Report,” Baek said.
“She’s still at the office. Nine p.m.,” the lookout replied as he looks up to your office floor.
Baek’s voice dropped another degree. “Why,” his tone deceptively mild, but his blue eye turning icy “is my wife still at the office at this hour?”
“She works remote for a company that is eight hours behind our time zone. This… is normal for her.”
Baek’s jaw tightened. “Normal is home before dark. Normal is eating dinner she didn’t forget about.” His words dripped with the kind of danger that wasn’t really about you being late—it was about you being unprotected.
The lookout tried to keep his tone steady. “She’ll wrap up soon, Boss.”
Baek didn’t answer, but his mismatched eyes kept straying to the dark edges of the dock, his pen was spinning faster between his fingers. The lookout showed your office window on the remote feed. When your office lights finally switched off, he allowed himself a small breath of relief.
“Make sure she drives back safe and report to me when she’s home.” Baek ends the call and gets out once again to oversee the operation.
But his relief was short-lived when his assistant reported: “She’s home.”
Baek took the tablet and tapped into your apartment’s CCTV. The living room was dark. Kitchen, empty. Bedroom—empty. He shifted his weight, the air around him instantly heavier.
“Where is she?”, Baek frowned as he continued.
The lookout cleared his throat. “She’s at her brother’s place.”
Baek’s head snapped up. “She has a spacious, beautiful apartment that I personally—”
“Maybe she didn’t want to be alone tonight,” the man interrupted gently, knowing Baek’s temper was seconds from snapping. “Maybe she needed family.”
The words silenced him. Baek stared out at the cargo trucks, the faint rumble of engines vibrating through the dock. Loneliness. It wasn’t something you’d ever told him out loud—but it was something he could understand all too well.
The lookout ventured: “Perhaps, you could give her a reason to come home early. Every day.”
Baek’s eyes narrowed. Then something in the shadows caught his attention—a flash of movement, the gleam of eyes under a crate being shifted. Slowly, a plan began to form.
That night, back at his temporary base, Baek sat at his desk, phone in hand. The rule was ironclad: no direct contact while at work. But rules had… loopholes.
He hit record.
“Darling,” his voice was warm, but you could hear the edge under it, “you didn’t come home tonight. I made that apartment for you. For us. I know your brother’s place is… fine. But it’s not ours. Don’t make me start bribing you to come back. Or worse—start showing up at your office. You wouldn’t like that kind of attention.”
He deleted the message twice before finally sending it as a voice note—anonymous number, untraceable, but unmistakably him.
The next afternoon, you got a call from a delivery guy (aka your lookout in disguise), to come home early for a parcel delivery. You checked your online shopping app, and the date of delivery isn’t until next week. You wondered what could it be?
Curiosity won. You drove home earlier than usual, dropping your bag at the marble counter by the kitchen just in time to hear the doorbell ring, to be greeted by the delivery man holding a massive box. He left without much explanation.
When you cut through the tape and lifted the lid, two pairs of luminous yellow eyes blinked up at you. An orange Maine Coon kitten stretched lazily; a grayish-white one mewed softly. Both wore tiny collars—one with a tag that read Moon, the other Baek.
Your laugh burst out before you could stop it. “Oh, you did not!!! For crying out loud…”
Your phone rang, and his voice—smooth, warm—filled your ear.
“Darling, do you like your gift?”
“You named them after yourself? Seriously?”
“Why not? Now you can yell my name twice as much.”
“I’ll just yell at you twice as much.”
“You say that now,” he chuckled, “but you’ll be racing home every day because Moon-i and Baek-i need you.”
“And what happens when they turn out to be spoiled, demanding, and impossible to ignore?”
“Then they’ll be just like me.” He said smugly.
A week later, you unlocked your front door with a smile after work.
“My Moon Baek!!! I’m home!” you called out, expecting the scamper of tiny paws that now greet you every evening.
Instead, strong arms wrapped around you from behind, a familiar cologne curling around your senses. You froze—then melted—against him.
“Surprise,” he murmured against your ear.
His voice followed, low and amused: “I thought you’d be more excited for me than for the cats.”
You kissed his cheek, laughing. “You smell better than them, I’ll give you that.”
Sweet kisses trailed down your neck as he turned you in his arms. In one smooth motion, he scooped you up princess-style, carrying you toward the master bedroom.
“I haven’t fed the cats yet—” you protested, hands on his shoulders.
“The kids can wait,” he said with that slow, devious smile. “I can’t.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you,” he replied, “are home early. Which means I win.”
The door closed behind you.
Later that week, halfway across the country…
Baek sat in the back of the SUV, tablet in hand. His men thought he was reviewing shipment routes. In reality, the live feed on his screen showed your living room.
On screen, you were sprawled on the couch, laptop open on a side table, the kittens curled up against your legs. You absentmindedly reached down to scratch behind Moon’s ear, as Baek purrs contentedly asleep. A smile etched on your face, that sweet private one you never showed in public - something only reserved for Moon Baek.
For a second, his mouth softened—an unguarded, almost boyish smile.
“Sir?” his lieutenant asked from the front seat, catching the expression in the mirror. “Good news?”
Baek snapped the mask back into place. “Just confirming the perimeter’s secure.” Then, with lazy menace, he added, “If you have time to ask about my business, you have time to triple-check the shipment seals.”
The lieutenant straightened immediately. “Yes, sir.”
Baek shut the tablet, resting it on his knee. His thumb tapped idly against the case, but in his mind, the image of you and the kittens was still there—warm, safe, his.
And no one needed to know just how much that mattered.