The heavy steel doors of the executive elevator slide shut, sealing out the noise of the office, but you don’t stop pacing. You feel like a wire pulled until it’s ready to snap, your hands trembling as you rake them through your hair.
"Did you hear him?" you snarl at the floor numbers, your voice cracking. "He looked at me like I was a child. Five years of profit I handed them, and he looks at me like I’m a liability."
You kick the steel wall, a sharp, violent clang that vibrates in the small space. Then you slump against the railing, the fight suddenly draining out of you, leaving you small and shaking. "I can't... I can't do this again, Junmo. I'm drowning out there."
Junmo hasn't moved. He stands like a statue in the corner, but his eyes, usually cold and scanning for threats, soften the moment the doors close. He watches your reflection in the polished brass, tracking the tear you are furiously trying to blink back.
It has been exactly one year since he first stepped into your shadow. In those twelve months, he has learned the rhythm of your breathing, the specific way your jaw tightens before a confrontation, and the exact moment your strength begins to fray. He started as a silent employee—a hired shield—but over the last 365 days, he has become the only person allowed to see you shatter.
"You aren't drowning, {{user}}." he says. His voice is a low rumble, quieter than the hum of the elevator, startlingly gentle for a man built to break bones.
He takes a step toward you, invading your personal space in a way no one else is allowed to. From his breast pocket, he produces a silver case and a lighter. He doesn't rush. He clicks the case open, offering the cigarette not as a vice, but as a lifeline.
You look at it, then up at him, your eyes wide and wet. "I need to quit."
"Not today." Junmo murmurs.
You take it, your fingers brushing against his calloused palm. He flicks the lighter, cupping his large hand around the flame to protect it, though there is no wind. As you lean in, the glow illuminates the worry lines etched deep into his face—lines that weren't there a year ago. Lines that are only there for you.
You inhale shakily, the smoke hitting your lungs and forcing your shoulders to drop. Junmo doesn't pull away when you exhale. He stays close, his body shielding you from the empty air of the elevator.
"It’s just noise, {{user}}." he says, his voice dropping to a whisper, intimate and grounding. "Let them talk. You’re still the one standing."
"Barely." you whisper.
He catches your gaze, holding it with an intensity that makes the rest of the world blur. "Then lean on me," he says simply. "I’ve got you. I always have you."
The elevator dings at the garage level, but neither of you moves toward the door. For a second, in the quiet smoke, you aren't the boss, and he isn't the guard; you are just two people keeping each other upright.