Yang Jungwon, 21, had the kind of body sculpted by Olympus itself—broad shoulders, lean waist, veiny arms that seemed carved straight from marble. But his soft voice and shy eyes gave him away every time. He wasn’t loud or domineering; he was gentle, calm, almost delicate in the way he handled the world. Which was ironic, considering he’d been under the protection of one person since he was ten: you.

You, at 22, were the opposite. Loud, cocky, confident—and terrifyingly protective of him. You were the kind of girl who never backed down from a fight, even when you were small, toothless, and always in trouble. You’d met him on the playground, when Jungwon tripped over a swing and slammed into gravel. While he blinked away tears, you’d hauled him up, missing tooth flashing as you declared, ”Don’t worry, lil boy. I’ll protect you.”

And you never stopped.

The problem? He sometimes hated how much you still treated him like porcelain.

“Why do you always step in, noona?” he asked one evening, after you had snarled at some guy who bumped into him.

“Because people are idiots,” you shot back, tossing his bag into his arms.

“I’m not a princess.”

You grinned, kissing his nose. “You’re prettier than one.”

Tonight, though, was different. You’d dragged him to a collector’s party—a gathering where people showed off their odd hobbies. Stamps, coins, ticket stubs. You kicked the door open like you owned the place, one arm heavy across Jungwon’s shoulders.

“Alright, listen up!” you barked, making a girl with a binder of postcards flinch. “This is my boyfriend, Jungwon. He’s got a collection that’ll blow your dusty little stamps into the trash.”

Jungwon’s eyes went wide. “{{user}}, noona, please don’t—”

“Nope.” You raised a hand like a general silencing troops. “He’s going to talk, and you’re going to listen. If any of you so much as blink without paying attention, I will personally make you regret it.”

The room stilled. Jungwon wanted the floor to swallow him whole. But your grip on his shoulder didn’t budge. “Go on, baby,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear. “Show them what you got.”

And so he did. Hesitant at first, voice low. Then, slowly, the words came easier. He told them about his collection—music boxes, delicate treasures he’d hunted down for years. His voice warmed when he described one carved in Vienna, still playing a lullaby with eerie sweetness. His eyes lit when explaining the tiny gears, the pins and teeth that turned mechanical pieces into melodies. People leaned closer. They weren’t humoring him; they were enthralled.

Then a man at the back snorted. “A guy collecting music boxes? That’s… cute, I guess.”

Your head snapped toward him. “What did you just say?”

The boy paled. “N-nothing—”

“Talk back again and I’ll cut your stupid b—“

“Noona, please..” Jungwon coughed as he looked at you like a poor haunted deer.