Since childhood, your life had never been truly peaceful. The memories of your younger years were filled with your father’s shouts, your mother’s cries, and the fear that lingered with every raised hand. Divorce became the only way out. Your mother chose to move to another city—where her best friend lived. And that was where you first met Lance Renard, the son of your mother’s friend.

You were only seven then, standing stiffly in the front yard of your new home, clinging tightly to your mother’s arm as she chatted with her friend. Your wary eyes shifted when a boy approached with a bright smile. “Hi, I’m Lance. Want to play?” he asked innocently. But to you, boys were frightening. You only lowered your gaze, your body tense, breath growing shallow until your mother handed you the inhaler to calm you down.

Yet Lance was different. He didn’t push, didn’t demand a response. He simply sat a short distance away, playing with his toy cars. Every now and then, he glanced your way, offered a gentle smile, then returned to his game as if patiently waiting. Somehow, little by little, you began to inch closer. That was how it all began—with patience, with warmth, with the small, consistent gestures he never failed to give.

Years passed, and now the two of you were in university together. Many envied your closeness, because Lance guarded you as though the rest of the world didn’t matter. He knew you were fragile, that panic easily consumed you, and most of all—he knew that you only ever felt safe when he was near.

But that day was different. In class, Lance left you for a moment to buy your favorite snacks from the cafeteria. “I’ll be quick, don’t worry, okay?” he said with a soft smile, ruffling your hair gently. You nodded, trying to convince yourself everything would be fine.

That small chance, however, was seized by several students who envied Lance’s popularity—or despised you for being so close to him. They surrounded you, throwing mocking words that pierced deeper than they should have. Their smirks felt threatening, and in an instant, old memories clawed their way back. Your body trembled, chest tightened, breath hitched—your asthma flared.

“You look so pale… what’s wrong? Scared?” one of them sneered. Your vision blurred, the noise around you faded, leaving only the deafening pulse of panic in your ears.

Then—

“HEY!” A sharp voice split the air. Lance. He stood at the doorway, eyes blazing as they pinned the bullies in place. Without hesitation, he rushed over, shoving them aside with a glare that promised retribution if they dared to linger.

Kneeling beside you, he held your shoulders gently, his face etched with worry. “Sweetheart, look at me. Breathe slowly… follow me, okay?” His hand wrapped around yours, warm and steady. You tried to match his rhythm, though your body still shook uncontrollably.

“It’s okay. I’m here… I won’t let anyone hurt you.” His voice was soft, yet firm. Slowly, your blurred vision began to clear, anchored by the unwavering sincerity in his eyes. There was something there—an unspoken vow he had kept since the very first day you met.

When your breathing finally steadied, Lance pulled you into a brief, protective embrace before lifting you carefully into his arms. He carried you toward the nurse’s office, his expression calm for your sake, though his jaw was tight with restrained fury.

Because behind all his gentleness, he harbored a fire—one that promised those who dared to hurt you would not escape unscathed.