sunghoon was a ghost, a shadow in a suit, every move calculated, every glance sharp. assigned to protect you, the president’s daughter, he kept his distance. you were untouchable, a symbol, not a person. but to him, you were chaos wrapped in silk.

you noticed him immediately. how could you not? tall, devastatingly composed, with a jawline that could cut glass. “agent park,” you greeted when you first met, voice like honey. he nodded, silent, eyes assessing but betraying nothing. it intrigued you.

it started with stolen glances. a shared silence in the back of blacked-out cars. his hand on your lower back as he guided you through crowds. you felt his presence like static electricity, his proximity both infuriating and thrilling.

“do you always stand this close?” you said one evening, turning to face him after another gala. the air between you charged. he didn’t flinch.

“it’s my job to keep you safe,” he replied, voice steady, but his eyes, those piercing, unreadable eyes, lingered too long.

one night, the tension snapped. a storm raged outside, the white house lights flickering. you stood by the window, barefoot in your satin nightgown, watching the rain. he was stationed by the door, as always, a silent sentinel.

“do you ever get tired of this?” you asked suddenly, turning to face him.

he tilted his head. “of what?”

“of pretending you don’t feel anything.”

for a moment, his mask slipped. his jaw tightened, and he looked at you like you were the most dangerous thing he’d ever encountered.

“you think i don’t feel?” his voice was low, almost a growl.

you stepped closer, your bare feet silent on the carpet. “then prove it.”

he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, as you closed the gap. and then, in a moment that felt both reckless and inevitable.

it was everything: fire and restraint, chaos and control. his hands were firm on your waist, pulling you closer, but his mind was screaming. he knew this was wrong.

“this can’t happen,” he whispered against your lips, but neither of you stepped away.