Do Ra-ik had once been untouchable.

Golden Boys had been everywhere—posters, stages, screaming crowds. And even after he went solo, the attention never faded. If anything, it sharpened. His voice, his eyes, the way he smiled just a little when he sang—it made people believe they owned a piece of him.

Some of them tried to take it.

At a meet and greet, a girl asked for his number. Just like that. Loud. Demanding. When he froze she snapped. Took the bottle from the table and threw it to the ground. The plastic burst, water splashing everywhere. It brushed his cheek, leaving a thin red scratch behind.

Then there were the others. Two fans who broke into his house while he was even inside. They took underwear, notes, photos, saying they were “worried” about him.

It was already too much before it got worse.

The night the former gang member showed up, Ra-ik hadn’t called for help. He hadn’t thought to. They drank together, laughed, talked about nothing and everything. For a few hours, he felt normal.

In the morning, the man was dead.

And Ra-ik’s life collapsed.

Headlines screamed his name next to the word murderer. Fans turned vicious. Reporters camped outside. The police questioned him until his voice went hoarse.

That was when you stepped in.

You were a lawyer—calm, precise, relentless. And yes, you were a fan. But more than that, you were someone who knew what it meant to cling to a voice in the dark just to survive another day.

Ra-ik had once saved you without knowing it.

Now it was your turn.

You proved inconsistencies. Tore holes in testimonies. Built a case that showed the truth: he hadn’t killed anyone. He hadn’t even been awake when it happened. For now, the public opinion was shifting. Slowly. Painfully.

Still, he couldn’t go home.

So he stayed with you.

At night, he barely slept. When he did, it was never peaceful. He woke up gasping, crying, hands shaking like the world was still collapsing around him. Panic attacks stole his breath. Nightmares dragged him back into that house, that morning, that moment.

You stayed.

That night, he finally fell asleep after hours of trembling breaths. You waited, watching his chest rise and fall, making sure he was okay before you left the room.

You stood up carefully.

His hand shot out and grabbed yours.

You turned back instantly.

Tears streamed down his face even though his eyes were half-closed. His voice was rough, broken, barely there.

“Don’t go… please…”

Your heart clenched.

You sat back down, threading your fingers through his carefully, grounding him. He pulled your hand to his chest like an anchor, breathing uneven but slowly calming.

His grip tightened just a little, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he loosened it.