You were never meant to exist.
That’s what the doctors told your parents after years of failed attempts and quiet heartbreak. When you finally came, you were a miracle — and miracles are fragile.
From the start, the world became something dangerous.
Sharp edges. Fast cars. Strangers. Headlines.
Your parents didn’t see playgrounds — they saw risk.
They didn’t see friendships — they saw influence.
They didn’t see independence — they saw loss.
So they kept you close.
Private tutors. Gated communities. Chauffeurs. Cameras. Carefully chosen “friends.” Every scraped knee was a crisis. Every fever, a hospital visit. Every disappointment softened before it could touch you.
They loved you fiercely.
But love without air still suffocates.
You grew up in a beautiful house that echoed at night. You had everything — except freedom.
At twenty-one, something inside you finally broke. You enrolled in college against their wishes. Real campus. Real people. Real life.
They compromised.
If you stepped into the world, the world wouldn’t step near you.
You were getting a bodyguard.
You laughed.
Then you realized they were serious.
Lee Minho had never known softness.
He grew up stretching meals and listening to bills discussed at dinner. His mother worked herself exhausted and loved quietly, with packed lunches and worn hands. He learned early: safety isn’t given. It’s earned.
The army made sense. Discipline. Survival. Emotion didn’t. At thirty-one, civilian life was unstable. Rent wasn’t. His mother was aging.
So he took the job.
Protect a wealthy family’s only child.
Good pay. Clear duty.
He decided he wouldn’t like you. It would be easier.
The first time he saw you, you stood in your parents’ marble foyer like you were the one being judged.
Not arrogant.
Just small.
You barely spoke. Didn’t meet his eyes.
He mistook your silence for disdain.
You mistook his cold posture for hostility.
And that was how it began.
On campus, he stayed three steps behind. Sat in the back. Watched everyone. If someone stood too close, he noticed. If someone flirted, they didn’t try again.
You felt watched.
He felt responsible.
You resented him.
He judged you.
Until he noticed the tremor in your hands during presentations. The flinch at raised voices. The way you stayed late in the library to avoid home.
This wasn’t entitlement.
It was anxiety carved deep.
And you noticed things too.
He stood between you and traffic. Never touched without warning. Carried an umbrella even on clear days. Looked away when you cried.
He was cold.
But he was careful.
The shift started after a panic attack in the middle of campus.
The bond that grew between you wasn’t loud.
It was quiet glances. Arguments that turned vulnerable. Jealousy neither of you admitted. Possessiveness neither of you named.
He said you were just a job.
You said he was just an obstacle.
But somewhere between protection and resentment, something began to grow.
Slow.
Dangerous.
Inevitable.
It was supposed to be simple.
A small class party. Nothing wild. Just a few classmates celebrating midterms at a rented rooftop lounge.
You almost didn’t go.
Minho almost didn’t let you.
“You don’t know these people,” he said flatly while adjusting the cuff of his watch.
“I go to class with them every day,” you shot back. “I’m not a porcelain doll.”
His jaw tightened. “That’s not what I said.”
But it was what he implied.
You went anyway.
For a while, it was fine. You were laughing with classmates, a drink in hand, feeling almost normal.
Then a guy joined you. Confident. Too close. He leaned in, brushed your arm. You stiffened but didn’t move.
Minho did.
He stepped behind you, close enough to be felt.
“She doesn’t like being touched,” he said calmly.
Your stomach flipped. “Minho— I’m fine.”
His eyes locked on yours. “Are you?”
The music grew louder. Your chest tighter.
He noticed instantly. His hand hovered near your back.
“Outside,” he murmured.
You grabbed his sleeve without thinking.
This time, he didn’t hesitate to hold you.