Title: The Fault Line
The moment Kang Bok Soo commanded me to stay, the air in the suite turned thick and dangerous. He walked into the bedroom without another word, leaving the door slightly ajar.
I stood in the vast living area, phone in hand. Still no update on Mom. The guilt was a suffocating blanket. I was here, in a suite that cost more than my father's annual salary, babysitting a millionaire who hated me, while my mother was sick in a crowded clinic back home.
I tried the door, but the lock clicked. He was taking his time. Finally, I curled up on the immense velvet sofa, too wired to sleep. The storm outside was a manic symphony of wind and rain.
Hours later, the rain was just a steady hiss. I must have drifted off because I was snapped awake by a sharp, guttural sound—a sound of sheer, desperate terror. It wasn't a shout; it was a choked gasp.
I sprang off the sofa and ran to the bedroom door.
The room was almost completely dark, lit only by the faint light leaking around the thick blackout curtains. Kang Bok Soo was off the bed. He was standing by the window, his back pressed against the cold glass, his chest heaving. He was soaked in sweat.
His eyes were wide, vacant, staring at something that wasn't there. He was gripping his own arms, rocking slightly, utterly silent except for the horrifying, ragged gasps for air.
A panic attack.
The prescription note—the sleep aid, the anxiety meds—it all made sickening sense. This was the vulnerable man hidden beneath the flawless suit. This was the same kind of cold, drowning fear I felt when my own depression hit, when I wished I could just stop existing.
I forgot he was my enemy. I forgot he was a demanding idol. I only saw a person in pain.
I moved slowly, quietly. "Mr. Kang," I whispered, keeping my voice low and steady. "It's okay. You're safe. You're in the Royal Palace Hotel."
He didn't acknowledge me. He just squeezed his arms tighter, his knuckles white.
I remembered the breathing exercises I often used on myself. I didn't touch him. I couldn't risk scaring him. Instead, I stood a few feet away and started talking, keeping my focus entirely on my own breath.
"Follow my voice, Mr. Kang. Listen to the rain," I coached, breathing exaggeratedly deep. "In for four, hold for four. Out for eight. Focus on the sound of the wind, not the feeling in your chest. You're safe."
I repeated the rhythm, counting it out loud. Slow, simple words. I didn't stop until his rigid posture eased, his shoulders dropping slightly. The horrible, ragged gasps slowly turned into deep, shuddering breaths.
After a long minute, he finally spoke, his voice ruined, thick with shame and lingering fear. "Don't look at me."
"I'm not looking," I lied gently. I moved to the nightstand and picked up the small bottle of anxiety pills. "Take one. Please."
He didn't move toward me. He just watched me. With agonizing slowness, he lifted his hand, the long, graceful fingers trembling.
I walked the few steps to him, placing the pill and a glass of water directly in his palm. Our hands did not touch, but the heat of his skin radiated into mine.
He swallowed the pill dry, his eyes still locked on mine. In this darkness, without his perfect clothes or his camera crew, his coldness was gone. All that remained was raw exhaustion and vulnerability.
He leaned his head back against the glass, eyes closed, letting the pill start its work. I didn't leave. I stood guard, my own worries about my mother temporarily eclipsed by his immediate need.
When he opened his eyes again, the fear was gone, replaced by a devastating, burning intensity. He knew I had seen his darkest moment.
He reached out slowly, tentatively, and this time, he did touch me. His hand didn't grab; it rested lightly on my waist, pulling me the final, necessary inch into his space.
"You saw," he whispered, his voice still hoarse.
"I saw nothing, Mr. Kang," I replied instantly, understanding the gravity of his secret. "I saw someone who needed help."
That was all he needed. That small affirmation, that protection.
His eyes dropped to my lips, lingering, dark, and possessive. The non-verbal flirtation was back, but now it was layered with gratitude, need, and a new, desperate level of ownership. He didn't move to kiss me. He didn't speak a command. He simply exerted a very light pressure on my waist, holding me captive.
It was the most steamy, terrifyingly intimate moment we had shared. He was asking for something without asking, and I, recognizing his pain, was suddenly aching to give it.
"Go back to the sofa, Peter Bella," he finally murmured, his thumb brushing a small, scorching circle against my skin. "Don't let me see you again tonight."
But he didn't release me until the second hand of the clock on the nightstand had swept past at least five full times. I was the first to fall—not just for his handsomeness, but for the broken, anxious man underneath.
He had let me see the fault line in his perfect world. And now, I was standing dangerously close to the edge.