Chapter 31: The Sick Day
The morning skyline of Seoul stretched beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows like an oil painting still wet, all smeared golds and bruised purples bleeding across the Han River. Jensen stood at the glass, one hand pressed flat against it, watching the city stir to life below. Behind him, his desk sat immaculate—contracts stacked in neat columns, his laptop closed, a single cup of black coffee growing cold.
The quiet felt wrong.
He checked his watch. Eight forty-five. Thirty minutes until his first meeting.
His phone buzzed on the desk, and he crossed the office in three strides, snatching it up. Leonid's name glowed on the screen.
I'm downstairs.
Jensen's jaw tightened. "You're supposed to be in bed."
I'm coming up.
"Leonid—"
The line went dead.
He stood there for a long moment, phone still pressed to his ear, the dial tone humming like an accusation. Of course Leonid had come. Of course he had. The man had been raised on stubbornness, fed on refusal to accept the world as it was presented to him. A fever of 102 degrees was never going to keep him contained in their bed, no matter how many times Jensen had begged him to stay.
Jensen had left the house at seven-thirty that morning, pressing a kiss to Leonid's burning forehead, whispering reassurances he didn't fully believe. Leonid had mumbled something incoherent about lunch orders and tomato supplier contracts before drifting back into a restless sleep. Jensen had told himself it was fine. That Leonid would sleep through the day. That the restaurant could survive without him for one day.
He should have known better.
The elevator chimed at the end of the hall, and Jensen moved to the door of his office just as Leonid stepped out.
The sight of him stopped Jensen cold.
Leonid was bundled in an oversized gray sweater that swallowed his frame, his face pale beneath his natural coloring, dark circles carved deep under his eyes. His curls were flattened on one side, sticking up on the other. He looked like he'd been dragged through a hedge backward and then left out in the rain. He was also, unmistakably, devastating.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Jensen demanded.
Leonid shuffled forward, clutching a thermos to his chest like a lifeline. "You forgot your lunch."
"My—" Jensen blinked. "I have a full kitchen downstairs. There's a cafeteria on the third floor. I have an assistant whose entire job is to order me food."
"You still forgot your lunch," Leonid said, his voice rough and scraped raw, a hint of congestion making each word thick. "It's a routine. I don't break routine."
"You're burning up and you took the subway across the city to bring me a container of food I didn't need?"
Leonid's eyes glinted with something defiant, even in his misery. "Didn't take the subway. Took a taxi."
"And that makes it better?"
"Taxi's faster. Less exposure to germs." Leonid coughed, a wet, rattling sound that made Jensen's chest constrict. "I'm being considerate."
"You're being insane."
"Tomato, potayto."
Jensen stared at him for a long moment, caught between fury and something so tender it ached. Then he sighed, running a hand through his hair, and stepped aside, gesturing into the office.
"Get on the couch."
Leonid shuffled past him, and Jensen caught the scent of him—honey and ginger and something medicinal, layered over his natural smoky warmth. The smell was so distinctly Leonid that Jensen's heart twisted painfully.
"The couch," Leonid said, eyeing the crimson leather with amusement despite his glazed eyes. "Always the couch. You have a private conference room. A lounge. A spare office. But I'm relegated to the couch."
"You're relegated to the couch because it's closest to the window and the light helps with produce—" Jensen stopped himself. "Just sit down, Leonid."
Leonid complied, sinking onto the leather with a groan that was equal parts relief and misery. He immediately curled onto his side, tucking the thermos against his chest, and closed his eyes.
"Your assistant looked at me like I was a ghost," he murmured.
"Yuna is used to you visiting. She's not used to you looking like death warmed over."
"Charming."
"Go to sleep."
"I'm not tired."
"You're delusional."
Leonid cracked one eye open. "You're pretty when you're worried."
"I'm not worried."
"You're worried."
Jensen crossed to the couch and knelt beside it, pressing the back of his hand to Leonid's forehead. The heat emanating from his skin was alarming—a dry, radiating warmth that spoke of infection and exhaustion. Jensen's jaw tightened.
"You feel like a space heater."
"I feel like hell."
"Then why did you come?" Jensen's voice cracked slightly, betraying him. He tried to recover with a cough of his own. "You should've stayed in bed."
Leonid's smile was tired but genuine, lighting up his face from within despite the pallor of his skin. "And miss the view of you in that suit?" His gaze traveled down Jensen's frame, lingering on the crisp white shirt, the tailored charcoal jacket, the silk tie the color of dried blood. "Worth every second of the taxi ride."
Jensen glared at him, but the heat in his cheeks betrayed him. "You're impossible."
"You love that about me."
"I love nothing about you. You're a menace."
"You love—"
"Go to sleep, Leonid."
Leonid's eyes were already slipping closed. "Will you stay?"
"I have a meeting in twenty minutes."
"After."
Jensen's throat tightened. "After."
Leonid hummed, a soft, contented sound that dissolved into a cough. Jensen grabbed a throw blanket from the armchair—one of the absurdly expensive cashmere ones his mother had insisted he keep in the office for "when guests visit"—and draped it over Leonid's curled form. Leonid burrowed into it like a cat finding a sunbeam.
"Honey-ginger tea," Jensen said, holding up the thermos. "Did you make this at home?"
"Mm. Added extra honey. Medicinal."
"Since when are you a doctor?"
"Since I have a very capable boyfriend who taught me that honey coats the throat and ginger reduces inflammation." Leonid's voice was muffled, half-asleep already. "Or something like that. Mostly I just like the taste."
Jensen's heart did something complicated in his chest—a twist and a flutter and a painful squeeze all at once. He set the thermos on the side table and brushed a curl off Leonid's forehead.
"Rest now," he murmured. "I've got you."
Leonid was already asleep.
Jensen watched him for a long moment, the vulnerability of it hitting him like a physical blow. In sleep, Leonid looked younger. Softer. The hard edges of his face, the sharp jaw and prominent Adam's apple, all smoothed into something almost boyish. He was so strong, so unshakeable in his waking life, that seeing him diminished felt like watching a mountain crumble.
Jensen's fingers itched to stay, to keep touching, to absorb some of Leonid's fever into his own skin. But the meeting was in eighteen minutes, and Yuna would be messaging him any second to confirm the conference room was ready.
He forced himself to stand, to walk to his desk, to open his laptop and pretend the words on the screen made sense.
They didn't.
The meeting was a blur of spreadsheets and quarterly projections and two board members whose voices were the exact texture of nails on chalkboard. Jensen sat at the head of the conference table, his face carefully neutral, his mind orbiting a single gravitational point in his office down the hall.
Every sniffle he heard through the glass walls—every muffled cough, every rustle of the blanket—pulled his attention like a fish on a line. He caught himself staring at the wall separating him from Leonid, mentally cataloging the minutes until he could return.
"Mr. Kim?"
He blinked, refocusing. The board member to his right was looking at him expectantly.
"I'm sorry—could you repeat that?"
"The Q3 margins. East Asian expansion. Should we proceed with the Vietnam proposal?"
Jensen glanced at the papers in front of him—he'd been staring at the same page for twenty minutes without reading a single word.
"Yes," he said, the word automatic. "Proceed. But I want the risk assessment revised before we commit. The current model doesn't account for the regional currency fluctuations we saw in Q1."
The board member nodded, apparently satisfied, and the meeting lumbered on.
Jensen's phone buzzed against his thigh. He slipped it out under the table.
Your boyfriend is snoring. It's adorable. Should I wake him? —Yuna
Jensen's lips twitched. He typed back: Let him sleep. He needs it.
He also keeps kicking off his blanket. Should I tuck him in?
Don't you dare. He bites when startled.
A pause. Then: I'm not sure if you're joking.
You'll find out if you try.
Jensen pocketed his phone and forced his attention back to the presentation on screen. Vietnam. Expansion. Risk assessment. The words blurred together into a meaningless soup. He checked his watch. Forty-five more minutes.
The meeting ended eleven minutes early, which Jensen attributed to divine intervention or the fact that the board members were hungry and there were sushi reservations involved. He didn't care. He was out of his chair before the last sentence finished, striding down the hall with a purpose that bordered on desperation.
He pushed open the door to his office and stopped.
Leonid was still on the couch, but he'd shifted—curled now on his side facing the windows, the blanket pulled up to his chin, one hand tucked under his cheek. The afternoon sun had swung around to pour golden light through the glass, illuminating the space with a warmth that felt almost sacred. Dust motes danced in the air like tiny stars.
Jensen's chest tightened. He crossed the room quietly, toeing off his shoes and kneeling beside the couch.
Leonid's breathing was shallow but even. The flush on his cheeks had faded slightly, leaving behind a fragile pallor that made him look vulnerable and young. His lips were chapped, slightly parted, the lips Jensen had kissed a thousand times but still couldn't get enough of.
Jensen reached out and pressed his palm to Leonid's forehead.
Still warm. But cooler than before. The honey-ginger tea had helped.
"You're burning through more sick days than you have," he murmured, more to himself than to Leonid.
Leonid stirred, his eyes fluttering open. Dark circles still shadowed them, but there was something clearer in his gaze than there had been this morning. He blinked up at Jensen, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"Hi."
"Hi," Jensen said softly.
"Meeting done?"
"Three meetings done. Are you going to tell me you've been asleep this whole time?"
Leonid's smile deepened. "Maybe. I had to rest so I could be a better audience for your aftershow."
"My aftershow?"
"Mm. You usually give me a recap. I like the one about the finance guy who keeps trying to give you his daughter's number."
Jensen rolled his eyes. "Mr. Park. Still doing that. I told him I'm married."
"You're not married."
"He doesn't know that."
Leonid let out a hoarse laugh that dissolved into a cough. Jensen's stomach dropped, and he reached for the thermos of tea—still warm, the thermal insulation doing its job. He helped Leonid sit up slightly, pressing the thermos into his hands.
Leonid drank, and Jensen watched his throat bob with each swallow, watched the way his hands trembled slightly around the metal. The fever was taking more out of him than he'd admit. Jensen wanted to scoop him up and carry him home, tuck him into their bed and feed him soup until his strength returned. But Leonid was stubborn, and Jensen loved that about him, and hated it too.
"Park has a daughter?" Leonid asked, handing the thermos back. "I thought he had twins."
"He has three kids. The daughter is the youngest. Looked her up the first time he tried to set us up."
Distrust flashed in Leonid's eyes at the thought of some beautiful young heiress being pushed into Jensen's path. "And? What does she do?"
"She's a pediatric surgeon in Busan. Very accomplished. Divorced with no kids, if you can believe the background check Yuna ran."
Leonid's cough worsened, turning into a sharp, rattling hack that made Jensen wince. When it finally subsided, Leonid's eyes were watering. "You ran a background check on Park's daughter?"
"I ran a background check on everyone who gets within ten feet of me. Old habits." Jensen shrugged, trying for nonchalance. "It's how I found out my first assistant was skimming expense reports."
Leonid stared at him for a long moment, a strange look crossing his face. Then he laughed—a genuine laugh, cracked and raw but warm. "You're absolutely insane, princess."
"I'm thorough."
"You're insane. But I love you anyway."
Jensen's heart did that complicated thing again. He leaned down, pressing his lips to Leonid's forehead first, then his cheeks, then gently, softly, his mouth. He could taste the honey from the tea, the salt of fever sweat, the unmistakable essence of Leonid.
"Drink more tea," he murmured against Leonid's lips. "You need fluids."
"I need you to stop treating me like I'm dying."
"You look like you're dying."
"Rude."
"Honest."
Leonid's eyes glinted. "You know what I need?"
"To sleep?"
"To watch you work." He shifted, making room on the couch. "I want to see you in your element. Being all serious and businessman-y and sexy."
Jensen's cheeks flushed. "You're feverish."
"Im feverish but I'm not blind. You're hot when you're intimidating board members. I want to watch."
"You'll find it boring."
"I'll find it fascinating."
"You're going to fall asleep within five minutes."
"Then I'll have a nice nap with a pretty view." Leonid patted the couch cushion. "Come on. Just for a little while."
Jensen hesitated. His email inbox was overflowing. There were three contracts that needed his signature by end of day. The Q3 projections were still a mess of conflicting data that needed to be reconciled.
None of it mattered half as much as the man on his couch.
"Fine," he said, the word escaping before he could stop it. "But if you snore too loud, I'm moving you to the conference room."
"Deal."
Jensen settled onto the couch, careful and deliberate, then signaled to Leonid. "Come here."
Leonid shifted, lifting his head and letting it drop into Jensen's lap. He sighed as Jensen carded fingers through his curls, his eyes sliding closed.
"Better," he murmured. "Much better."
Jensen pretended not to notice the tenderness pooling in his chest. He reached for his laptop one-handed, balancing it on the armrest while his other hand remained buried in Leonid's hair, stroking through the soft dark curls.
The afternoon lengthened around them. The city hummed beyond the windows, indifferent to the quiet intimacy unfolding in the corner office. Jensen read contracts and sent emails and pretended the weight of Leonid's head in his lap wasn't the most grounding thing he'd felt in weeks.
Leonid slept. Occasionally he would cough, a dry, rasping sound, and Jensen's hand would still until the fit passed. Occasionally he would shift, murmuring something unintelligible, and Jensen would trace patterns on his scalp until he settled again.
The shadows crept across the floor, lengthening and blending. The sun fell lower in the sky, painting the office in shades of gold and amber. Jensen worked on, his focus divided between the glowing screen and the warm weight in his lap.
At some point, Yuna appeared in the doorway, raising an eyebrow. Jensen shook his head, and she disappeared with a knowing smile.
The last meeting of the day was cancelled—some minor emergency with a client in Japan that Jensen delegated to his VP without a second thought. He sent the email, closed his laptop, and looked down at Leonid.
The fever had broken. He could feel it through his palm, in the cooler temperature of Leonid's skin, the reduction in the heat that had been radiating from him all morning. The flush in his cheeks had faded, and his breathing seemed easier, less labored. He looked peaceful in a way he rarely did when awake, all the tension and vigilance of his everyday life smoothed away by exhaustion and rest.
Jensen wanted to freeze this moment. To keep Leonid forever in this state of quiet vulnerability, wrapped in Jensen's care like the blanket covering him. He wanted to be the one who always held him like this, the one who kept watch while the rest of the world slept.
The desire was fierce, and sudden. He crushed it down.
Instead, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Leonid's temple.
"Wake up," he murmured. "Time to go home."
Leonid stirred, blinking awake slowly. For a moment, he seemed confused—head in Jensen's lap, blanket tangled around his legs, evening light painting the room in shadows.
"Did you get any work done?" he asked, his voice still rough.
"Do you care?"
"Partially. Mostly I care that you didn't let me drool on your expensive pants."
Jensen glanced down at his now-ruined trousers—there was indeed a small damp spot on his thigh. He laughed, the sound startling even himself.
"I'll survive."
Leonid sat up slowly, wincing as his fever-bruised muscles protested. Jensen supported him, one hand on his back, until he was steady.
"I need to go home," Leonid said, something vulnerable in his voice. "I just want to sleep in our bed."
"Let's go."
They packed up Jensen's things in a kind of quiet choreography, the one that comes from years of knowing each other. Jensen's laptop, Leonid's thermos, folder of contracts that could wait until morning. The house would wait, surrounded by its books still in boxes and paint stains on the floor, so much louder than the glossy silence of Jensen's family home.
In the elevator, Leonid swayed, and Jensen caught him without a second thought.
"I'm fine," Leonid protested weakly.
"Sure you are. That's why you just imitated a willow tree in a windstorm."
"I don't know what that means."
"It means he's stubborn," said Jensen. And when Leonid blinked, he pressed on, gentle and firm. "Lean on me. Just for a minute."
Leonid, too exhausted for pride, leaned.
The evening air hit them as they stepped out of the Kim Tower, cool and carrying the scent of rain. Leonid tipped his face up to the sky, letting the last rays of sun warm his cheeks at the same moment a few fat raindrops splashed against his skin. He laughed, soft and bone-tired.
"Something about that feels symbolic," he said.
Jensen opened the back door of the waiting car. "Get in before you get soaked."
Leonid complied, but his smile carried into the backseat with him. Jensen climbed in next to him, sliding close without a word as the driver pulled away.
The city scrolled past in rivers of light, reflections of neon smearing across the wet glass. Leonid's head drifted down onto Jensen's shoulder.
And Jensen let him stay there as the car carried them home.