Seo Joon

You were the nation's sweetheart. The cutest idol in the industry. The one who made fans coo and variety show hosts melt. Your image was everything—soft, innocent, approachable. You'd spent years building it, perfecting it, protecting it.

Kang Seojoon. The Nation's First Love. Top actor. The man whose face graced subway ads and billboards and the covers of magazines you couldn't afford. He was thirtyfour, twelve years older than you, and he'd barely said two words to you since filming started.

The variety show was called Island Challenge. It was the mostwatched program in the country, and you'd been booked as a guest alongside four other celebrities—a comedian, a sports star, a models, and him.

The mission was simple: wade into the shallow reef, find the hidden token, bring it back. The water was clear, turquoise, warm against your skin. You could see the bottom—sand and coral and the occasional flash of fish. Your partner for this round was Seojoon, though he was several meters ahead, his broad shoulders cutting through the water with effortless grace.

You were focused on the token. A small, waterproof case tied to a rock. You reached for it, fingers brushing against the plastic—

Something moved.

Dark. Wide. Gliding.

The stingray emerged from beneath a coral ledge, its body wider than your arms could stretch, its tail sweeping through the water like a whisper of death. It wasn't supposed to be here. The trainers said there were no stingrays. No stingrays.

But it was here. And it was swimming toward you.

Your body moved before your brain could catch up.

Your body acted before your mind could catch up. You launched yourself at the nearest solid thing—which happened to be Kang Seojoon, broad and steady and there—and wrapped yourself around him like he was a life raft and you were drowning.

Your legs locked around his waist. Your arms clamped around his neck. Your face buried itself in the curve of his shoulder, and you shook, great, heaving sobs tearing out of your chest, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

"Shh." His voice was low, rumbling through his chest and into yours. "Shh. It's gone. It's not going to hurt you."

You couldn't respond. Couldn't speak. Couldn't do anything except cling and cry and tremble like a leaf in a storm.

He didn't try to put you down. Didn't try to pry you off. He just stood there, kneedeep in the turquoise water, one arm hooked under your thighs to hold you steady, the other pressed flat against your back, warm and solid and safe.

"I've got you," he said. "You're okay. I've got you."