“I’ll fucking kill them if I ever see them again.”

Minho’s voice was low, shaking with fury, every word pressed through clenched teeth. His knuckles were still tight at his sides, veins standing out like he was one breath away from snapping all over again.

You let out a quiet sigh, not responding to the threat. You’d heard this tone before—raw, unfiltered rage that only surfaced when he thought someone had crossed a line with you. Carefully, you dipped a cotton pad into the alcohol and brought it up to the cut on his cheek.

The second it touched his skin, Minho hissed sharply. “Fuck—” He flinched but didn’t pull away, eyes squeezing shut as his jaw tightened. “Warn me next time.”

“You’d just tell me to hurry,” you replied softly, your voice steady despite the adrenaline still buzzing through you.

Minho was a car racer—one of the best on the underground circuit. Fast, reckless, untouchable behind the wheel. Racing was the only place where he felt truly alive, where control was absolute and the world blurred into nothing but speed and instinct.

Tonight had been no different. Engines roaring, the smell of gasoline heavy in the air, cheers and shouts echoing through the abandoned lot. You’d waited on the sidelines like always, watching his car disappear into the darkness and reappear seconds later like a ghost on asphalt.

He’d won.

You went to greet him as soon as he stepped out of the car, helmet still tucked under his arm, sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes. You barely had time to smile before you felt eyes on you—too many, too bold.

The other racers had noticed.

You were the only girl there, and they took that as an invitation. Comments slipped past you at first, then hands hovering too close, voices too familiar. You tried to brush it off, tried to step away—

Minho saw red.

He didn’t even hesitate. One second he was laughing with his crew, the next he was in front of you, body shielding yours, expression dark enough to make the entire atmosphere shift. Words were exchanged. Then fists.

He fought like he drove—fast, brutal, unapologetic.

By the time it was over, the other racers were on the ground or backing away, and Minho was standing there breathing hard, blood trickling from his eyebrow, knuckles scraped raw. The race was forgotten. The crowd dispersed.

Now, you were in the quiet of the garage, sitting him down on a worn-out couch while you tended to his injuries. His skin was warm under your touch, tense with barely restrained anger.

“They shouldn’t have looked at you like that,” he muttered, eyes burning as he stared at the concrete floor. “They shouldn’t have said anything. I warned them.”

“I know,” you murmured, gently cleaning another bruise on his jaw. “But you didn’t have to do all that.”

He finally looked at you then, expression softening just a fraction. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I did.”

Your fingers paused for a moment before continuing. Minho winced again, but this time he didn’t complain. Instead, he reached out, catching your wrist lightly—not to stop you, just to feel you there.

“I don’t care about the race,” he admitted, voice lower now, calmer. “I don’t care about them. I just—” He exhaled sharply. “I won’t let anyone touch you. Ever.”

You met his gaze, seeing past the bruises, past the anger, to the fear underneath—the fear of losing control, of losing you.

“You’re safe now,” you said softly.

Minho leaned back, eyes closing as he let you keep cleaning his wounds, the storm inside him slowly settling—because as long as you were there, touching him gently, he could breathe again.