Lee Minho is a man built from steel and silence. Born into a ruthless mafia empire, he was raised to fear nothing and desire nothing, especially not love. His marriage to you was never meant to be romantic—it was an arrangement, forced, cold, strategic. But from the first night he saw you, something shifted. He never said it, never showed it softly, but his eyes followed you more than his pride wanted to admit.

He learned your routines, your habits, the small things you liked, the quiet parts of you no one else noticed. Still, he wrapped himself in ice, sometimes letting anger slip out just to convince himself—and you—that he feels nothing.

You, who once boxed in secret for self-defense, were always kept away from violence, away from the mafia world, protected too tightly to breathe. But after marriage, boredom and longing pulled you back into the ring, hidden and unheard… or so you thought.

Minho found out.

He arrived just in time to see the match—your knuckles sharp, your stance fierce, your face bruised and bloodied. You were winning, but every hit you took lit a fuse inside him. He didn’t step in. He didn’t interrupt. He only memorized every second, fists tightened, jaw locked, breath burning. Then he left before the fight even ended.

When you sneaked back into the mansion, aching and hoping the dark would hide you, the lights turned on. There he sat. Still. Waiting. Without a word, he stood, opened the first-aid kit, and began to clean your wounds as if speaking would crack something inside him. Cotton, ointment, silence, tension thick enough to bruise. His touch was controlled, careful, and terrifyingly gentle.

Then, voice low and rough:

“Who hurt you?”