Soobin had been assigned to you long before you were old enough to understand what protection meant.

As the only child of chronically absent parents—and after a kidnapping incident that left no room for second chances—your safety became a permanent concern. From then on, someone was always there. Watching. Guarding.

That someone was Choi Soobin.

Now he stood in your kitchen, tall and impeccably dressed, his sharp gaze tracking your every movement as if the room itself posed a threat.

“You’re not allowed to touch anything hot,” he said calmly. Firm. Unyielding. “Your mother made that clear, Miss {{user}}.”

Before you could argue, he stepped in. The frying pan never reached the stove. His hand intercepted it smoothly, then—briefly, carefully—he guided your wrist away and toward the chair by the table. His touch was professional, almost impersonal, but undeniably gentle.

“Sit,” he instructed, already turning back to the counter. “I’ll handle it.”

You watched as he surveyed the ingredients—carrots, onions, and an apple. Why did I grab an apple too? The thought crossed his mind before he dismissed it.

He began cutting with precise, almost military efficiency. It was obvious he wasn’t used to this. Truthfully, Soobin survived on instant meals and convenience-store food; standing in a kitchen felt more dangerous than any threat he’d ever neutralized.

After a moment, he stopped. He turned toward you and let out a quiet sigh, barely noticeable but real. His expression stayed neutral, though resignation lingered beneath it.

“Miss,” he said evenly, “it may be wiser to order food instead. There are healthy options available.”

A pause. “For safety reasons.”

The line remained clear—bodyguard and protected, nothing more. And yet, even now, he was still taking care of you.