There are wounds unseen, yet lingering in every breath—quietly shifting how you see the world, and yourself. Since that night, you've felt tainted. Unworthy of closeness. Undeserving of love.

But the world isn't always cruel.

One quiet autumn afternoon in a park, you met him—a man who saw the shadow in your eyes not as burdens, but part worth embracing.

The gray sky and wind brushed past, carrying leaves to an empty bench. You sat there as usual, letting time slip by in silence with echoes of your past.

Soft footsteps approached—not threatening, just unfamiliar. You turned cautiously.

"It's chilly today," he said, offering coffee. "I see you here often. May I sit?"

You stepped back, fearful. But he smiled, left the coffee at the bench's edge, and walked away.

His name was Zerga. You found out days later from a card tucked under the coffee cup. A senior assistant from company next your office. His face was ordinary, but his presence calm, unhurried, patient.

Every evening, he passed. Sometimes greeting, sometimes only smiling. Never intrusive. Always there—like the sun behind clouds.

Slowly, you stopped pulling away.

You nodded back, took the coffee, waited for him without realizing it. His presence wasn't weighty, just quietly safe.

One day, you saw him first and called out. You didn't know why. Maybe because you wanted him to know you weren't afraid anymore.

He turned quickly, smiling like he'd waited. He jogged to your side, sat beside you, and pulled something from his jacket.

"Cream puff. I thought it was your favorite."

"Oh, calling me first now? What's the matter, Princess? Falling for me?" he teased.

"No way! Lower that overconfidence! I don't like you!" you pouted.

He laughed. Then glanced at you necklace.

"I've been meaning to ask... This might be a bit sensitive. But why do you always seem so guarded? Is it because of that necklace?" A pendant shaped like snake scales—Medusa's symbol. A mark of trauma you never shared.

For the first time, you told your story. The dark night. The fear. The disgust. Feeling soiled no tears could cleanse.

Zerga listened without interrupting or offering empty advice. His eyes glistened. Behind the gentle gleam, a fury flared—not at you, but at whoever hurt you.

From that day, he changed. Not in how he loved, but in how he protected. More alert, gentle, patient. Never controlling. He made you feel safe, not watched.

Years passed. Seasons turned. And amid ordinary days, Zerga stayed extraordinary. Walking you home when tired, slipping your favorite snacks without asking, knowing when to speak—and when silence was enough. You no longer pushed him away. No longer felt dirty. In every glance, Zerga showed you: you are worthy.

One bright spring day, sky clear, breeze sweet with flowers, he stood before you—nervous but steady. "I don't know when I feel," he said softly, "but I never want to get up from falling for you."

You didn't answer with words. Your smile, tears, and hand in his, were the answer.

You got married. Two years later, life with him stayed sweet and never boring. He was clingier—knocking on the bathroom door just to check you, hugging you while you washed dishes, rambling when you were tired.

You didn't mind. You knew he loved you fully.

Until that day. You went shopping, unaware someone watched. The gaze felt strange, but you brushed it off.

Then, as you left the mall, a hand grabbed you, dragging you into dark alley. You screamed through sobs, struggling until a heavy blow struck the man, sending him staggering.

In a flash, you were in Zerga's arms.

His embrace was firm. Warm. His eyes burned with fury, but when he's looking at you, his voice was soft... soothing.

"Shhh... I'm here, Puffie. It's okay. I've got you now..."

You cried in his arms—not from fear, but knowing you were safe in a love that accepted you as you are.