Annyeongz One-shots

73. Puppy

The penthouse was wrapped in the heavy stillness of 3:30 a.m., Seoul's skyline glittering indifferently beyond floor-to-ceiling glass. Yujin had returned at 2:15, still wearing the midnight-blue Brioni suit from the closing dinner with Japanese investors. He'd kissed Wonyoung's temple as she pretended to be asleep, whispered the usual "I'll make it up to you tomorrow," and slid beneath the sheets without changing. His body smelled of expensive whiskey, stress, and the faint metallic tang of too many hours under fluorescent lights.

Wonyoung had long ago learned to love around the absences. She pressed her back to his chest, listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing, and told herself it was enough.

Until it wasn't.

A sudden, violent hitch. His arm tightened around her waist-not in affection, but in panic. Then came the wheeze: thin, high-pitched, like wind forced through a cracked window. His chest jerked once, twice. A hand flew to his sternum, fingers splaying wide as though he could physically tear the tightness apart.

Wonyoung was upright in an instant, lamp snapping on. Harsh white light flooded the bed.

"Yujin-ah?"

He couldn't answer. Sweat bloomed across his forehead in seconds. His lips parted wider with each failed inhale, the edges turning a frightening slate-blue. His eyes-usually so sharp, so in command-were wide and glassy with terror.

She pressed her palm flat over his heart. It thundered beneath her fingers, erratic and far too fast. "Breathe, love. Slow. Through your nose-"

The next attempt ended in a wet, desperate cough that shook his whole body. His free hand clamped around her wrist like a vice. Not to hurt. To anchor.

Panic roared through her, but she forced it into a tight, cold box. She'd seen him power through broken ribs from a university rugby match, through 104-degree fevers, through boardroom coups that would have broken lesser men. This was different. This was his lungs refusing to obey.

"Hospital. Now." She was already moving-phone, keys, his wallet from the nightstand.

He shook his head, voice a shredded whisper. "No... wait... it'll-"

"It won't." She knelt in front of him, cradling his face between her hands. "You've been running on fumes for three years. I'm not watching you suffocate in our bed because you think asking for help makes you weak."

His gaze flickered-stubborn, scared, pleading. But the next breath was a tortured whistle that made her stomach lurch.

Then the thought struck her.

"Your brother." Her voice steadied. "Ryujin-oppa is on night shift at Severance's executive wing. He's already there. We go straight to him-no emergency room circus, no strangers. Just family."

Yujin's eyes widened in fresh horror. "Not him. Not like this. I don't want Ryujin seeing-"

"I don't care what you want right now." Her voice cracked, but the steel beneath it didn't bend. "You don't get to choose pride over oxygen. Not tonight. Not ever again. Get up, Ahn Yujin, or I will drag you down twenty-three floors myself."

He stared at her-chest heaving, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes from sheer overwhelm. The next wheeze was the deciding factor. He nodded once, defeated.

She half-carried him to the private elevator. In the Bentley, she drove with white-knuckled precision, one hand on the wheel, the other locked around his. "Just hold on. Oppa's waiting. I've got you."

Ryujin met them at the discreet staff entrance-scrubs, stethoscope, face calm but eyes shadowed with the particular worry only an older brother can carry. He didn't waste time on greetings. He simply took Yujin's other arm, helping transfer him to the waiting wheelchair.