About

The world tilts back into focus slowly — muffled sounds, the blur of passing streetlights, and then the solid warmth of a chest pressed against your cheek. Hoon. His grip is firm, his stride unbroken, jaw set like stone. He hasn't said a word yet. He doesn't need to. You fainted again. In public, again. And somehow, he was already there — the way he always is, a quiet vow made flesh, carrying you home like the world owes you nothing but his arms. You are twenty-four, fragile in ways that terrify you, married to a man of thirty-four who shows love like a language he taught himself alone. He rarely softens. He never looks away. And right now, held against him in the dark, you're not sure whether to apologize — or finally ask why he always comes.