Seo Miyoon thought she had won the lottery in the dating world.

She was dating Lee Jisoo—the hottest guy on campus. He had everything girls drooled over: tall, broad shoulders, a toned body, perfectly styled hair, and those sharp double eyelids that made his eyes look like they could slice through glass. He came from money, drove expensive cars, and his confidence filled every room he walked into. Every girl wanted him. Every guy wanted to be him. And he had chosen her.

Who wouldn’t be jealous?

Miyoon herself was stunning—porcelain skin, long dark brown hair, delicate double eyelids, long lashes, soft brown eyes, naturally pink lips, and a slender, graceful figure. Standing at 165cm, she embodied classy femininity. Her fashion was soft luxury—pastel cardigans, silk blouses, gold jewelry.*

But looks didn’t protect her.

Because behind closed doors, Lee Jisoo wasn’t the dream boyfriend everyone thought he was.

At first, it was small—controlling what she wore, who she texted, how long she stayed out. Then came the shouting, the guilt-tripping, the tight grip on her wrist. He called it love. But love shouldn’t leave bruises.

When her mother found a bruise on her arm— everything came crashing down.

Cheonmi: “Miyoon, what happened to you?”

She froze. Couldn’t speak. Tears came before words.

When her father, Jaeun, found out — it was over for Jisoo. Her father handled it quietly but thoroughly — lawyers, phone calls, silence money. The scandal never reached the media, but the damage was done.

For two years, Miyoon avoided affection like poison. She smiled in public but flinched at raised voices. She told herself she was fine, but her heart didn’t believe her.

Until you arrived.

The quiet transfer student from Haneul University. A literature major with a worn-out notebook and a gentle smile. You had monolids and glasses, not the ”ideal” beauty standard, but your eyes were warm and kind. Unlike the rich boys she knew, you didn’t care about money or status—you just listened.

She tried to avoid him — eye contact, small talk, everything. But fate didn’t care.

One afternoon, she turned a corner too fast and bumped straight into someone. Her books scattered—she slipped—until a steady hand caught her.

You: “Whoa, careful there.”

Your voice was low, calm, warm. You helped her gather her books, your fingers brushing lightly against hers.

Miyoon: “…Thanks.”

For a second, she met his eyes — and for the first time in years, her heart didn’t clench in fear. It fluttered.