#hac

"Where is he?"

You think it’s clear enough who you’re referring to when you say it, though the question comes out clipped because you woke at five this morning to find your schedule had somehow multiplied overnight.

Secretary Jung doesn't flinch—she's worked with you long enough to recognize the difference between genuine anger and the low-grade frustration that fuels most of your waking hours.

"Madam President, I'm not sure who—"

"Agent Park."

You don't break stride, your heels clicking against the polished marble floors of the Blue House's east wing with the kind of rhythm that makes staffers instinctively move out of your path.

The security briefing this morning mentioned a personnel change, a new addition to your personal detail.

He was supposed to report directly to you before the presentation.

That was forty-five minutes ago.

"The new security assignment. He should have been in my office at oh-seven-hundred."

Secretary Jung's shorter legs work double-time to match your pace despite the fact that she's simultaneously scrolling through her tablet while walking. A skill you've always admired.

She's pulled her hair back in that severe bun she favors for high-stress days, which means she's already anticipated that today is going to test everyone's patience.

Smart woman.

It's why you keep her close despite the fact that she occasionally looks at you with something too much like concern, as if she's forgotten that presidents don't have the luxury of being worried about.

"I wasn't informed he needed to report before the forum, Madam President. The security office may have—"

"He's late."

You cut through her explanation because there's no point in pursuing it further.

Someone in the chain of command failed to communicate properly, which means you'll be having words with the head of security later, but right now you have more immediate concerns.

The ‘Innovative Technology Forum’ starts in eight minutes, and you still need to do a final review of your talking points. The presentation is being broadcast to fifteen countries, and you cannot afford to appear anything less than completely prepared and in control.

"It doesn't matter. I'll handle the forum. Find out where Agent Park is and have him report to my office immediately after."

"Yes, Madam President."

The heavy doors to the conference hall loom ahead. Through the narrow windows, you can see the crowd already assembled, a sea of dark suits and expectant faces.

Your pulse doesn't quicken—you gave up anxiety about public speaking somewhere around your third term in the National Assembly—but there's always that moment of transition, that conscious shift from the private you to the public you.

You can hear the low murmur of voices from inside—investors, technology executives, representatives from Samsung, LG, and half a dozen major chaebols whose combined economic power could destabilize the national economy if they ever decided to work in concert rather than competition.

Which is exactly why events like this matter, why you've spent the last three weeks personally refining this presentation until every word serves a strategic purpose.

"Smile, Madam President," Secretary Jung reminds you quietly as you reach the doors. "They're expecting warmth."

Of course they are. They're always expecting something from you—warmth, strength, maternal concern, steely resolve, approachability, authority.

Sometimes you wonder if they've noticed these expectations are often mutually exclusive, or if they simply don't care as long as you perform the correct emotion at the correct time.

You've become remarkably good at it over the years, this careful calibration of public persona.

It's exhausting in ways that policy negotiations never are, but it's necessary.

Female leaders don't get the luxury of being complex or contradictory in public.

You get to choose one characteristic per event and embody it completely, or risk being called everything from emotional to unstable.

Today's characteristic: accessible visionary. Warm enough to seem invested in Korea's technological future, authoritative enough to command respect from men twice your age who still think you're too young to understand real economic policy.

You feel your expression shift, softening at the edges in ways you've practiced until the transition is seamless. Your press secretary once called it remarkable, the way you can switch between your private intensity and public warmth.

You'd found it sad that he considered basic professional compartmentalization remarkable, but then again, male politicians rarely have to think about whether their facial expressions are sufficiently pleasant.

Your hand finds the red string at your wrist, fingers worrying the worn silk out of habit.

Six months of wearing it and the gesture has become automatic—a touchstone before high-stress situations, though you're not sure when superstition became routine. Your grandmother tied the first one on your wrist when you were seven, explaining that red strings ward off bad luck, redirect misfortune away from the wearer. You'd stopped wearing them sometime in university, when rationality and political science replaced childhood beliefs.

Then came March. The first attempt.

The string went back on that same night, tied by your own shaking hands in a bathroom mirror while your security detail waited outside.

Foolish, maybe, for someone with your education to trust folk magic over bulletproof glass and trained professionals.

But you wear it anyway, hidden under sleeve cuffs and expensive watches. Nobody's commented on it yet, though you suspect Secretary Jung has noticed. She notices everything.

You release the string, smooth down your sleeve, and reach for the conference room doors.

The doors open. The murmur of conversation doesn't quite die, but it shifts, redirects toward you.

You've learned to feel it, this collective attention, the way a room's energy changes when you enter.

Sometimes you hate it.

Most of the time you simply use it.

"Good morning." Your voice carries across the hall without you having to raise it, a trick of acoustics and training.

You move toward the podium, your smile firmly in place, and you can see the way people respond—straightening in their seats, attention sharpening.

"Thank you all for joining us today. I know many of you have traveled significant distances to be here, and I want you to know that your investment in Korea's technological future is deeply appreciated."

The familiar rhythm of public speaking takes over. You make eye contact with different sections of the audience, pausing for emphasis at key points, modulating your tone to convey both urgency and assurance.

It’s when you're fourteen minutes in, discussing the proposed expansion of technological research initiatives, that you notice a movement.

Someone in the third row, standing.

That's not unusual in itself—people shift, excuse themselves, need to take calls.

Except this person isn't moving toward the exit.

He's standing still, and there's something about the quality of his stillness that trips every instinct you've developed over years of existing as a target.

Your training takes over. You don't stop speaking, but your eyes track the figure even as you continue explaining the partnership between public universities and private sector innovation.

He's reaching for something inside his jacket.

Time does something strange, stretching thin enough that you can see the exact moment when his hand emerges, when the shape of what he's holding resolves into something unmistakable.

Gun.

You should move.

Your body knows this, sends the signal, but there's a disconnect between knowing and doing because you've spent so long training yourself not to react, not to show fear, not to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing the President of the Republic of Korea flinch.

It's going to get you killed.

This is how you die—not in some carefully orchestrated assassination, but because you've become so good at suppressing survival instincts that they no longer function properly when you need them.

Then you're moving, except you're not the one initiating the movement.

Someone has grabbed you—not roughly but with absolute certainty—and you're being propelled away from the podium with a force that doesn't give you time to resist.

Your heel catches on something, and you stumble, but the grip on you doesn't falter.

If anything, it tightens, and then you're being pushed behind the podium's reinforced base while your ears register the sound they've been anticipating.

Gunshot.

Two more in rapid succession, and the Grand Hall erupts into chaos. Screaming, the sound of chairs overturning, security personnel shouting commands.

You're pressed against the back of the podium platform, your face about three inches from expensive carpeting, and there's a body covering yours—not heavily but with clear protective intent.

"Stay down." The voice is quiet, surprisingly calm given the circumstances, and accented with something your brain automatically catalogs as native Seoul despite the situation. "Security is handling it. Don't move until I say."

Your heart is trying to exit your chest through your throat, and your hands are shaking with an adrenaline spike that would be embarrassing if you weren't currently processing the fact that someone just tried to kill you.

Again.

The third attempt this year, which really says something about the state of political discourse.

"Madam President."

The same voice, still calm, and you realize this must be him.

Agent Park.

The man who was supposed to report to your office forty-five minutes ago and is instead currently using his body as a shield between you and a potential second shooter.

"I need you to acknowledge that you can hear me."

"I can hear you." Your own voice sounds remarkably steady, which is good because you're the president and presidents don't get to sound frightened even when they're facing down assassination attempts. "Is the situation contained?"

"Checking now." There's a pause, and you feel rather than see him shift position slightly, presumably consulting with other security through his earpiece. "Primary threat neutralized. Security is sweeping for secondary threats. We'll move you to the secure location in approximately thirty seconds."

Thirty seconds feels like an eternity when you're pressed against expensive carpeting with your presentation interrupted by gunfire, but you've learned patience in worse situations.

You focus on breathing, on maintaining the kind of control that will allow you to stand up and face whatever comes next without looking rattled.

The country cannot afford to see their president rattled.

It projects weakness, and weakness in your position is dangerous for everyone.

"Clear." Agent Park's voice again, and then the weight covering you shifts. "We're moving now. Stay close to me and keep your head down."

He's pulling you up before you can fully process the instruction, one hand firm on your arm as he guides you into a crouch.

You get your first clear look at him—younger than you expected, maybe late twenties, with blonde hair and features that would be conventionally attractive if you were the kind of person who noticed such things during security incidents.

What you do notice is the way he moves, the efficient economy of motion that speaks to extensive training, and the fact that his eyes are constantly scanning the room even as he's physically steering you toward the exit.

He moves like someone comfortable with violence.

Like someone who's done this before, and not just in training exercises.

You should probably find that reassuring given the circumstances.

Instead, you find yourself wondering exactly what kind of background check cleared him for presidential security detail, and whether you need to have a very pointed conversation with whoever authorized his assignment.

But that's a concern for later.

Right now, you have a country to reassure and a security situation to manage, and you need to do both without showing any of the fear currently making your hands shake.

Agent Park's grip on your arm is professional but unyielding as he guides you through the side exit.

You catch a glimpse of Secretary Jung's pale face as you pass, and you make a mental note to check on her later.

The woman has worked for you for three years and never signed up for gunfire.

The corridor beyond is already secured, a line of armed security personnel creating a human barrier between you and any potential threat.

You straighten as much as you can while still maintaining the half-crouch Agent Park has positioned you in, because even in crisis there are standards to maintain.

"Where were you?" You wish you could say the tone isn’t pointed, but it is. "You were supposed to report forty-five minutes ago."

Agent Park doesn't slow his pace or loosen his grip. "I was in the hall, Madam President. Running security protocols before your presentation."

Which means he was doing his job, just not the part you'd ordered him to do.

Which means someone in the chain of command made decisions about where your new security detail should be without consulting you.

You're going to have several very pointed conversations once this situation is resolved, but Agent Park's presence in the hall is probably the only reason you're currently walking rather than bleeding out on a podium.

You hate that thought almost as much as you hate the feeling of being in debt to someone you've never properly met.

The secure room he guides you to is one you've been in before—reinforced walls, secure communications, designed for exactly this kind of emergency.

Agent Park doesn't release your arm until you're fully inside and the door is sealed behind you.

"I'm going to need you to sit down, Madam President," he says, and there's something in his tone that's less suggestion and more command.

You should probably resent it, except he's right. Your legs are shaking, and sitting down before you fall down seems like the more dignified option.

You sit. Agent Park positions himself between you and the door, still scanning for threats even in a secure room.

"Thank you," you say, because your mother raised you to have manners even in crisis situations. "For your quick response."

He glances at you, and for just a moment, you notice his eyes—black, dark. Steady.

"Just doing my job, Madam President."

Yes. His job.

The job he was forty-five minutes late to, or rather, the job he was doing instead of following your direct orders.

The job that just saved your life.

You're going to need to decide how you feel about Agent Park, and you're fairly certain the answer is going to be complicated.

“We need to move.”

Agent Park says it before you’ve fully processed the last fifteen minutes, before your hands have stopped shaking, before you’ve had time to think about the political fallout or the media response or any of the hundred other things that should be your priority right now.

“Move where?” You’re already standing, because sitting still feels dangerous in ways you can’t articulate. “There are protocols for this. Secure transport, escort detail—”

“Which is exactly why we’re not using them.” He’s checking his phone, swiping through something with the kind of focused intensity that makes you think he’s not reading texts. “Whoever planned this knew your security protocols. They knew where you’d be, when you’d be there, and they had someone inside the forum with a weapon despite multiple security checkpoints.”

The implication settles over you like cold water.

“You think there’s a leak.”

“I think we’re not taking chances.”

He pockets his phone and looks at you directly, and there’s something in his expression that’s different from the professional deference of earlier.

Harder.

More certain.

“I’m getting you out of Seoul until we can verify the security of your usual detail. We have maybe ten minutes before someone notices we’re not where we’re supposed to be.”

This is not how things are supposed to work.

You’re the President of the Republic of Korea, not some asset to be smuggled around by a bodyguard you met less than an hour ago.

Except that bodyguard just saved your life, and your usual security protocols just failed catastrophically.

“Where?”

“Safe house. Gangwon Province. But first we need to get out of this building without anyone recognizing either of us.”

He’s already moving toward a cabinet in the corner of the secure room, pulling out what looks like emergency supplies.

Two backpacks. Two sets of clothes.

“We both need to change, and we need to do it fast.”

He tosses you a bundle—jeans, a plain black hoodie, worn sneakers that look like they’ve actually been used. The kind of clothes you haven’t worn since your university days, before politics became your entire identity.

He’s already pulling his own set of civilian clothes from the second bag—dark jeans, a plain grey t-shirt, a light jacket.

“Turn around,” you say, because even in crisis situations, some protocols matter.

“You too,” he says, and there’s something almost amused in his tone despite the circumstances.

You turn to face the wall, acutely aware of the sounds behind you—the rustle of fabric, the quiet efficiency of someone who’s done this before.

You change quickly, your fingers fumbling slightly with the zipper of your skirt because adrenaline is still making everything feel slightly unreal.

The jeans fit well enough, the hoodie is oversized in a way that helps obscure your frame, and the sneakers are surprisingly comfortable.

“Done,” you say.

“Same,” he replies, and when you turn back, he’s transformed.

Without the security uniform, he looks more dangerous, somehow. The civilian clothes suit him in ways that make you aware of his build, the utter control he was over his body in the way he moves as he shoves his uniform into the bag.

His eyes scan you with what you tell yourself is professional assessment, cataloging how effectively the clothes disguise you.

It takes him approximately three seconds, but something about the quality of his attention makes your skin feel warm in ways that have nothing to do with the hoodie.

“The jewelry needs to go,” he says. “Your earrings, the necklace. Anything that catches light or looks expensive.”

Right. Of course.

The diamond studs you wore for the presentation are exactly the kind of detail someone might notice, might remember.

You reach for your ears, but the backs of the earrings are small and your hands are still shaking slightly from adrenaline.

You fumble with the first one, frustration building.

“Let me.”

Agent Park steps closer before you can protest, and then his hands are there, careful and surprisingly gentle as he helps with the earring back. His fingers brush against your earlobe, warm and steady, and you freeze.

He’s standing close enough that you can smell something clean and subtle—soap, maybe, or just the scent of someone who doesn’t wear cologne. Close enough that you can see the concentration in his expression as he carefully works the earring free, his touch light but certain.

This is professional.

This is necessary.

There is absolutely no reason for your pulse to quicken just because a man is helping you remove your jewelry.

Except your pulse is quickening anyway, and you hate that you can’t control it.

“Other side,” he says quietly, and you turn your head, giving him access to the second earring.

The same careful process. His fingers against your skin, warm and competent. The small sound of the earring back releasing. He’s so close you can hear his breathing, steady and controlled in ways that make you aware of how unsteady your own has become.

“Necklace,” he says, and there’s something in his voice—not quite softer, but different. Less like a command and more like a request.

You reach for the clasp, but it’s one of those delicate mechanisms that requires both hands and better fine motor control than you currently have. You struggle with it for a few seconds before admitting defeat.

“I can’t—the clasp is—”

“Turn around.”

You do, presenting your back to him, feeling absurdly vulnerable in ways that have nothing to do with the security situation.

His fingers find the clasp at the nape of your neck, and you feel the whisper of his touch against skin you didn’t realize was so sensitive.

“There.”

The necklace slides free, and you feel its absence like a loss, which is ridiculous because it’s just jewelry, just expensive metal and stones that signify status you’ve never been entirely comfortable with anyway.

His fingers drift to your wrist, and you realize he's noticed the red string. Thin, faded, knotted in the traditional way.

It's the only piece you haven't removed.

"The string stays," you say before he can ask.

He's quiet for a moment, his thumb brushing over it.

"Hongsil," he says, and something in his voice makes it sound significant. "Red string."

"You know what it is."

"Everyone knows what it is." His thumb traces the worn silk once more. "Protection. Warding off bad luck." A pause. "It suits you."

You're not sure what he means by that—whether he's commenting on your need for protection or something else entirely—but before you can ask, he's already releasing your wrist, making sure the knot is still secure.

You turn back to face him, and for a moment, you’re still too close, close enough to see the exact color of his eyes in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the secure room.

Dark brown, almost black, and focused on you with an intensity that makes something in your chest tighten.

He steps back, pocketing your jewelry with a flick of his wrist.

“Better,” he says. “Now the hair.”

Before you can ask what he means, he’s pulling a black cap from the bag and handing it to you.

You pull your hair back and tuck it under the cap, and he nods approval before pulling his own cap low over his blonde hair and adding sunglasses.

“Good. Now, when we leave this room, you’re not the president. You’re nobody. Just another person on the street. Don’t make eye contact, don’t react to anything unusual, and stay close to me.”

“I know how to be inconspicuous,” you say, which is partially true.

You remember being nobody, before politics, before power.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

“Then let’s go.”

The route he takes you through is not one you’ve traveled before—service corridors and back stairways that must be part of the security infrastructure you’ve never needed to use.

He moves with absolute certainty, never hesitating, one hand wrapped loosely around your wrist to keep you close.

You should object to being guided like this, like you can’t be trusted to follow on your own.

Instead, you find his touch grounding.

The exit he chooses dumps you into a side alley two blocks from the Blue House, far enough from the main gates that security won’t be concentrated here.

He positions his body between you and the street as you emerge, scanning for threats.

“Cap down, eyes on my back,” he says quietly. “We’re going to walk like we have somewhere to be but we’re not in a hurry. Just two people, nothing interesting.”

You do as he says, following him into the afternoon crowd of Seoul’s streets.

It’s strange, being anonymous in your own city.

People brush past you without recognition, without the distance they usually maintain around your security detail.

You’re just another person in jeans and a hoodie, and there’s something almost dizzying about that freedom.

Agent Park leads you through a maze of streets and alleys with the confidence of someone who’s memorized the entire city’s layout.

His hand finds yours at one point, pulling you into a narrow passage between buildings when a police car passes, and you let him because he clearly knows what he’s doing in ways you don’t.

By the time you reach Seoul Station, you’re fairly certain you’ve walked at least three kilometers in a deliberately convoluted route designed to lose any potential tail.

Your feet hurt—the sneakers are comfortable but you’re not used to this much walking—and you’re breathing harder than you’d like to admit.

Agent Park, naturally, looks completely unaffected.

He guides you through the station with the same careful awareness, choosing routes that avoid the main security cameras, positioning his body to block you from view at strategic moments.

He buys tickets from an automated kiosk—cash, you notice, nothing traceable—and then you’re moving toward the platforms.

“Gangneung line,” he says quietly. “Forty-minute ride. The car should be mostly empty this time of day.”

He’s right.

The train car you enter has maybe five other passengers, all absorbed in their phones or sleeping.

Agent Park guides you to seats at the back, positioning himself so he has a clear view of both exits.

You sink into the seat as the train starts moving, exhaustion hitting you suddenly now that you’re sitting still. The adrenaline is fading, leaving behind a bone-deep tiredness that makes you want to close your eyes and pretend the last hour didn’t happen.

You turn toward the window, watching Seoul’s urban sprawl start to give way to less dense areas, and rest your head against the cool glass.

The train’s rhythm is soothing, mechanical and predictable in ways nothing else has been today. You let yourself drift slightly, not quite sleeping but not entirely alert either, suspended in that space between.

Beside you, Agent Park is silent. You’re aware of his presence without looking—the way he’s positioned to watch the car, the controlled stillness that somehow feels different from relaxation.

Minutes pass.

The urban landscape transitions to suburban, then rural, green hills and valleys replacing the buildings.

You should be thinking about crisis management, about how to spin the assassination attempt, about which heads need to roll in your security apparatus.

Instead, you’re thinking about how Agent Park’s fingers felt against your skin when he removed your earrings.

Which is exactly the kind of dangerous distraction you cannot afford.

You’re about to force yourself to sit up, to engage in the kind of strategic planning that should be your priority, when Agent Park suddenly shifts.

Not dramatically, but the quality of his stillness changes. Becomes sharp.

You turn your head to look at him, a question forming, but he moves first—lowering his sunglasses slightly and putting one finger to his lips.

“Sshh.”

The sound is barely a whisper, but there’s something in his expression that makes you freeze.

He’s listening to something, head cocked slightly, and you realize his entire body has gone tense in ways that trigger your own alarms.

You open your mouth to ask what’s wrong, but he leans closer, close enough that his breath brushes your ear when he speaks, low and urgent.

“Listen to me right now. Don’t react, don’t look around. In approximately three minutes, we’re getting off this train whether it’s at a station or not.”

Your heart rate spikes. “What—”

“The ticking,” he says, and something cold slides down your spine. “Do you hear it? Mechanical. Regular. Under the white noise of the train.”

You hold your breath, straining to hear what he’s hearing, and for a moment there’s nothing but the normal sounds of the train.

Then, underneath everything, you catch it—a faint, rhythmic clicking that doesn’t quite match the train’s machinery.

“That’s—”

“A timer,” he confirms, still in that barely-there whisper. “And given the events of today, I’m not willing to assume it’s coincidence. We’re in the last car. If there’s a device, it’s likely positioned where it would do maximum damage. We need to move forward and get off at the next stop.”

Your mind immediately goes to the other passengers.

The elderly man three rows up.

The young woman with headphones.

The student sleeping against the window.

“We need to alert—we need to evacuate—”

“And cause a panic that could detonate it early?” His hand closes around yours, firm but not painful. “Or alert whoever placed it that we’re aware? Madam President, if we create chaos, people die faster. We move quietly, we get you off safely, and the moment we’re clear I’ll call it in for evacuation of the forward cars.”

“People are on this train.” Your voice comes out harder than you intend, because he’s talking about leaving civilians behind, about prioritizing your life over theirs, and that’s not acceptable. “I don’t get to save myself while they—”

“You don’t get to die for them either.” There’s steel in his voice now, quiet but absolute. “You’re the President of the Republic of Korea. Your death destabilizes an entire nation. We get you clear, then we save everyone we can. In that order.”

Every instinct rebels against it, against the cold calculation that values your life over the sleeping student’s, over the elderly man’s.

But he’s right, and you hate that he’s right, hate the mathematics of power that makes your life worth more than theirs in some cosmic equation you never agreed to.

“How long?” Your voice sounds hollow.

“Based on the interval? Maybe ten minutes. Maybe less.” He’s already standing, his hand extended toward you in a gesture that looks casual but you recognize as urgent. “Come on. Slowly. Like we’re just changing seats.”

You take his hand because there’s no other choice, because he’s the professional and you’re the person who’s survived three assassination attempts in one year, because somewhere on this train is a bomb and you’re running out of time.

He guides you forward through the car, just two people moving toward a better seat, nothing to see here.

You pass the elderly man and your chest tightens.

The young woman with headphones doesn’t look up.

You’re counting them in your head.

Five people in this car. You need to remember five people, because if this goes wrong, you need to know exactly how many lives your survival cost.

You’re three cars forward when you feel it—a change in the train’s speed. It’s slowing.

“Station,” Agent Park says quietly. “Osan-ri. Small, rural. Exactly what we need.”

The train pulls into a tiny platform that looks like it services maybe twenty people a day, all rural farmland and distant mountains.

Agent Park keeps his hand on yours as the doors open.

“The people in the back—” you start.

“I’m calling it in the second we’re clear,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that sounds almost like he understands the weight you’re carrying. “They’ll evacuate forward. Most of them will make it.”

Most.

Not all.

You step onto the platform because you have to, because he’s right that your death would cause more harm, because you’re the president and presidents don’t get to make the morally simple choices.

But you count every second.

The train sits there for thirty seconds that feel like thirty years. You watch through the windows as the few passengers remain oblivious, absorbed in their own worlds. Agent Park has his phone out, already dialing, already speaking in rapid, clipped sentences to whoever handles bomb threats.

Then the doors close, and the train starts moving again, pulling away from the small station and disappearing down the tracks toward wherever it was always meant to go.

You and Agent Park stand on the empty platform in this rural area, and you count seconds in your head because that’s all you can do now—count and wait and hope his call was in time, hope emergency protocols work fast enough, hope that ‘most of them’ means all of them even though you know it probably doesn’t.

The explosion rips through the afternoon air.

Distant but unmistakable.

A bloom of fire and smoke where the train should be, far enough away that you can’t see the details but close enough that the sound hits you like a physical thing.

Your legs stop working.

The elderly man. The young woman. The sleeping student.

Five people.

Agent Park catches you before you fall, his arms around you steady and sure, but you can’t feel them, can’t feel anything except the weight of those five lives that you left behind because your life was supposedly worth more.

“The evacuation—did they—” You can’t finish the sentence.

“I don’t know.” His voice is quiet, honest. “They had maybe seven minutes. Forward cars should have made it. The last car…”

The last car where five people were sitting when you walked away.

“I killed them.” The words taste like ash. “I left them there and I—”

“No.” His grip tightens, and there’s something fierce in his voice now. “The person who planted that bomb killed them. The person who’s been trying to kill you all day killed them. You were the target, and they were—”

“Collateral damage.” You’re shaking, actually shaking, because that’s what they call it in security briefings, in political discussions, in the sanitized language that makes murder sound like mathematics. “That’s the term, isn’t it? Collateral damage. As if that makes them less dead.”

You’re the President of the Republic of Korea, and five people just died because someone wants you dead, and you don’t know how to carry that weight, don’t know how to be the person who walks away while others burn.

“They might have made it,” Agent Park says, but there’s no conviction in his voice, and you appreciate that at least he’s not lying to you. “The forward evacuation—”

“Don’t.” Your voice breaks on the word. “Don’t give me false hope when we both know what happens to people in the last car of an exploding train.”

Five people.

You’re going to remember them.

The elderly man with the worn jacket.

The young woman with her headphones and her phone.

The student sleeping against the window.

You’re going to carry them with all the other costs of power, all the other impossible choices, all the other times when being president meant other people paid the price for your survival.

Agent Park’s arms around you feel less like comfort and more like the only thing keeping you upright, keeping you from falling apart completely, and you hate that you need them, hate that you’re leaning on someone you met less than two hours ago, hate that you’re weak enough to need anyone at all.

But you’re also human enough to take what you need, just for a moment, just until you can breathe again without seeing fire.

“I’ve got you,” he says quietly, and there’s something in his voice that’s less professional now, something almost gentle. “I’ve got you. You’re alive. That has to be enough for right now.”

You’re alive.

Five other people might not be.

And you’re going to have to find a way to live with that.

Just like you’ve learned to live with everything else.

The inn is exactly the kind of place you’d expect for a rural safe house—small, unremarkable, the kind of establishment that caters to hikers and truckers who need a bed for the night and nothing more.

The proprietor doesn’t look up from his newspaper when Agent Park pays cash for a room, doesn’t ask questions about why two people in civilian clothes need lodging in the middle of the afternoon.

Professional incuriosity.

You appreciate that in a way you can’t articulate.

The room is small. One bed, which makes sense for a couple traveling together, which is presumably what you’re supposed to be. There’s a bathroom, a single window with curtains that Agent Park immediately checks, and absolutely nothing else.

“I’ll take the floor,” he says, setting down the bag he’s been carrying.

You don’t argue because you’re too busy trying not to think about the smell currently emanating from your clothes.

Sweat, smoke, something acrid that might be fear or adrenaline or just the general scent of having survived multiple assassination attempts in a single day.

There’s also onion. Somehow.

You must have brushed against something during the escape through Seoul’s back alleys, and now you smell like a kitchen and a gym had a terrible collision.

Your stomach turns.

“I need to shower,” you say, and you’re already moving toward the bathroom because if you don’t get these clothes off immediately, you might actually lose what little composure you’ve maintained.

Agent Park makes a sound of acknowledgment but doesn’t try to stop you, which is good because you’re not sure you could handle conversation right now.

The bathroom is cramped but functional.

You lock the door, strip off the clothes with hands that are suddenly shaking—delayed reaction, probably, adrenaline crash—and catch sight of yourself in the mirror above the sink.

You look like someone who’s had the worst day of her life.

Hair matted with sweat despite the cap. Smudges of dirt on your face and neck. Your eyes look hollow in a way that has nothing to do with makeup removal and everything to do with the fact that you’ve been running on pure survival instinct for hours.

You look human. Vulnerable. Nothing like the President of the Republic of Korea.

You hate it.

The panties are the only thing that might be salvageable, so you rinse them in the sink with hand soap, watching the water run grey with the day’s accumulated grime. The rest of the clothes go in a pile on the floor because they’re disgusting and you can’t imagine putting them back on your body.

Your stomach turns again, harder this time, and you barely make it to the toilet before you’re retching.

Nothing comes up but bile and water—you haven’t eaten since breakfast, which feels like a lifetime ago—but your body doesn’t care about logic. It wants to purge the day, the fear, the smell of smoke and the sound of an explosion and the image of five people who died because someone wanted you dead.

You heave until there’s nothing left, then sit back on your heels, breathing hard, your forehead pressed against your arm.

Presidential.

You rinse your mouth, spit, rinse again. Then you turn on the shower and step under water that’s mercifully hot, closing your eyes as it sluices away the physical evidence of the day.

The psychological evidence is going to take longer.

You wash your hair twice, scrub your skin until it’s pink and clean, and stay under the spray longer than necessary because the bathroom is the only space that’s entirely yours right now. The only place where you don’t have to perform strength or competence or control.

Eventually, the water starts to cool, and you force yourself to turn it off.

There’s a towel—thin, institutional, but clean—and you wrap it around yourself before confronting the next problem.

You don’t have clothes.

The ones you came in with are unwearable.

Your actual wardrobe is back in Seoul.

And you’re currently standing in a bathroom wearing nothing but a towel in a safe house with a man you met approximately three hours ago.

This is fine. This is a situation you can handle with dignity and professionalism.

You take a breath, unlock the door, and step out into the main room.

Agent Park is sitting on the edge of the bed, and he looks up when the door opens.

Then he immediately jerks his head to the side, his gaze snapping away from you so fast you almost hear his neck crack.

“I—” His voice comes out rough, and he clears his throat. “Sorry. I should have—”

You watch his throat move as he swallows, and something in your stomach that has nothing to do with nausea tightens.

“I don’t have clothes,” you say, and you’re proud of how level your voice sounds despite the fact that you’re standing in front of a man in nothing but a towel. “The ones I was wearing are ruined.”

“Right.” His voice sounds strained. He’s very deliberately not looking at you, his gaze fixed somewhere on his right. “Right. Of course.”

The silence stretches, awkward and charged with something you’re not prepared to examine.

“I can—” He reaches for the hem of his grey t-shirt, pulling it up and over his head in one smooth motion before you can fully process what he’s offering.

The shirt comes off, and you get a split-second glimpse of his torso—defined muscle, pale skin, and something dark across his back that your brain catalogs as injury before he’s already holding the shirt out to you, still not looking directly at you.

“Here. It’s clean enough. Should fit.”

You take it because there’s no alternative, because standing in a towel while he steadfastly avoids eye contact is somehow more awkward than accepting his shirt.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll just—” He gestures toward the bathroom, still not looking at you, and there’s color rising in his neck, a flush that spreads up to his jaw. “Shower. I need to shower.”

He moves past you quickly, giving you wide clearance like you’re something dangerous, and disappears into the bathroom.

The door closes with a quiet click.

You’re left standing in the middle of the room holding his shirt, acutely aware that you just made a trained security professional flee to the bathroom like a startled deer.

You dress quickly, pulling the t-shirt over your head.

It’s oversized on you, falling to mid-thigh, the fabric soft from wear and smelling faintly of that same clean scent you noticed earlier when he was helping with your jewelry.

The problem of underwear remains. Your panties are still damp, unwearable, draped over the bathroom sink where you can’t retrieve them without interrupting his shower.

Which means you’re wearing his shirt and nothing else.

This is fine. This is a completely normal situation to find yourself in. You’re an adult woman, he’s an adult man, and nudity is simply a biological reality that doesn’t have to mean anything.

Except.

Except you can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at you before he turned away.

That split second before he averted his gaze—not just professional courtesy, but something else.

Interest, maybe.

The kind of look you haven’t received in years because presidents don’t get looked at like that, don’t get seen as people with bodies that might be worth noticing.

You press your lips together and rub the back of your neck, trying to dispel the warmth spreading through your chest that has nothing to do with the shower.

This is not the time. Not the situation. Not the person.

You’ve been semi-naked in front of people before—doctors, stylists, the occasional ill-advised relationship before politics consumed your entire existence.

This shouldn’t feel different.

But it does.

Maybe because it’s been too long since anyone looked at you like you were a woman instead of a political entity.

Maybe because surviving assassination attempts does something to your brain chemistry that makes you hyper-aware of being alive, being physical, being something other than a target.

Or maybe because Agent Park has very good arms and a lean torso that you noticed in the split second before he turned away, and you’re apparently not as immune to attractive men as you’ve convinced yourself over the years.

From the bathroom, you hear the water start.

You sit on the edge of the bed and try very hard not to think about the fact that he’s in there, naked, showering, and you’re out here in his shirt with nothing underneath.

The distraction techniques you’ve developed over years of political stress management are failing spectacularly.

You pull the collar of the shirt closer to your nose—just to check, just to confirm what you already noticed when you first put it on.

He smells good.

Not cologne-good, not the aggressive masculine fragrance that so many men seem to think substitutes for actual hygiene.

Something cleaner. Subtle.

Like he actually showers regularly, uses proper soap, understands that sweat and body odor are things that should be addressed rather than ignored.

The bar is in hell for men, truly, if you’re impressed by basic cleanliness.

But you are impressed, and you hate that you are, hate that your brain has decided this is important information to catalog right now.

Agent Park showers after sweating.

Agent Park smells incredibly good.

Agent Park has very good arms and a wound on his back that you briefly glimpsed before he handed you his shirt.

This is not helpful thinking.

You need distraction. Real distraction.

Your phone is still in the jeans pocket, somehow surviving the day’s chaos.

You retrieve it, powering it on for the first time since the train platform, and immediately regret it as notifications flood the screen.

Forty-three missed calls.

Secretary Jung, your chief of staff, the head of security, various ministers and advisors.

Sixty-seven text messages, each one presumably more panicked than the last.

You should respond. Should let someone know you’re alive, that you’re safe, that you’re—

Where exactly?

In a rural inn with a bodyguard you met this morning, wearing his shirt and nothing else while he showers?

That’s not going in any official report.

You draft a message to Secretary Jung: Secure. Will contact tomorrow with location. Do not attempt to trace this number.

Send.

Then you power the phone back down before anyone can try to call, before you have to explain anything you’re not ready to explain.

The shower shuts off.

Your heart does something stupid in your chest, and you focus on the hem of the shirt instead, rolling the fabric between your fingers, examining the weave like it’s the most fascinating textile you’ve ever encountered.

You’re being ridiculous. You’re a grown woman. You’ve negotiated trade agreements with world leaders, survived assassination attempts, restructured entire government departments. You can certainly handle sharing a room with an attractive man without acting like a university student with a crush.

The bathroom door opens.

Agent Park emerges with a towel in his hands, using it to dry his hair, shirtless in just the loose jeans he was wearing earlier.

Your eyes track across his torso before you can stop them—the defined muscle, the way water still clings to his skin in places he hasn’t dried yet. Then your gaze catches on something else.

The bruise across his back. Large, spreading, mottled red and deepening to purple at the edges.

From the impact when he threw himself over you, you realize. When he made his body a shield.

He’s probably used to this. To injuries, to violence, to the physical cost of his job.

His clothes smell good because he takes care of himself, maintains standards even in crisis situations.

Unlike your clothes, which smelled like death and fear.

The bed creaks as you shift slightly, and his eyes find yours.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then he breaks eye contact first, looking down at the floor, and you notice the color rising in his neck again. That flush that seems at odds with how controlled he is otherwise.

“Do you want to sleep?” His voice is quieter than before, almost careful. “It’s been… a long day.”

Understatement of the century.

“I should probably respond to some of these messages first.” You gesture with your phone, but even as you say it, you know you’re not going to.

Your hands are shaking too much to type coherently, and your brain feels like static.

“They can wait until morning.” He’s still not looking at you directly, his attention fixed somewhere past your shoulder. “You need rest more than you need to manage optics right now.”

He’s right, but you resent that he’s right, resent that he can see through your deflection so easily.

“The floor isn’t going to be comfortable,” you say instead, because the other option is admitting that you’re not sure you can sleep at all, that every time you close your eyes you see fire and hear gunshots.

“I’ve slept in worse places.”

Of course he has.

“Then I suppose we should…” You trail off, because finishing that sentence means acknowledging that you’re about to try to sleep while he’s on the floor three feet away, shirtless, and you’re in his shirt wearing nothing underneath.

You slide under the covers, the sheets rough but clean, and turn onto your side facing away from where he’ll be on the floor.

You hear him moving, arranging something—probably his jacket as a pillow—and then settling.

The room goes quiet except for your breathing and his.

You close your eyes.

Open them again thirty seconds later because behind your eyelids there’s a man with a gun, and fire, and the sound of an explosion you can’t unhear.

Your breathing is shaky. You try to control it, try to use the meditation techniques your old therapist taught you before you fired them for suggesting you were experiencing symptoms of PTSD, but your chest feels tight and your heart won’t slow down.

You’re fine. You’re safe. Agent Park is here and he’s proven twice today that he’s very good at keeping you alive.

Except you’re not fine, and you hate that you’re not fine, hate that your body won’t stop shaking even though your mind knows the immediate danger has passed.

“Hongsil.”

The nickname shudders through you.

Red string. Protective, or in need of protection. The distinction isn't clear, not even within your heart.

His voice comes from much closer than the floor.

You go still, realizing he’s moved, that he’s now kneeling beside the bed at your back.

“Your breathing,” he says quietly. “You’re panicking.”

“I’m not—” You start to protest, but your voice comes out thin, unconvincing even to yourself.

“You are.” No judgment in his tone, just observation. “It’s normal. Delayed stress response. Your body is processing the day now that you’re not in immediate danger.”

You hate that he understands. Hate that he can read you this easily.

“I’m fine,” you say, and it’s a lie you both know.

There’s a pause, and then the mattress dips.

“May I?” He asks, and you’re not sure what he’s asking permission for until you feel his weight settle behind you, his body curving around yours, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel his warmth.

You should say no.

Should maintain professional boundaries.

Should remind yourself that this man is still essentially a stranger who happens to be keeping you alive.

Instead, you don’t move away.

His arm comes around your waist, careful, still giving you space to refuse. When you don’t, he shifts closer, his chest against your back, his breathing steady and controlled in ways yours isn’t.

“Train bombings are particularly effective at inducing lasting fear responses,” he says quietly, his voice close to your ear. “The enclosed space, the loss of control, the knowledge that escape routes are limited. It’s psychologically targeted trauma.”

Your breath hitches. “How do you—”

“Because I know what happened to your mother.” His arm tightens slightly, still gentle but more secure. “February 18th. Seoul subway attack. You were five years old, with her when it happened. You survived. She didn’t.”

The air leaves your lungs.

Nobody talks about that. It’s classified information, scrubbed from your official history, one of the few personal details you’ve managed to keep private despite decades in politics.

“How do you know that?” Your voice comes out barely above a whisper.

“Because my job is to protect you. Which means knowing everything about you, including what makes you vulnerable.” His hand splays across your stomach, warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. “Train attacks aren’t random triggers for you. They’re specific. Targeted at your oldest trauma.”

Your body is shaking harder now, because he’s right, because someone knew exactly what would break you, and because this man you barely know somehow knows more about your psychological profile than most of your own staff.

“Whoever is trying to kill you knows you well,” he continues, his voice still that same quiet steady tone. “They know your schedule, your security protocols, and apparently your personal history. This isn’t opportunistic. This is targeted.”

You turn in his arms before you fully decide to do it, need to see his face, need to understand who this person is who’s somehow become the only thing standing between you and whoever wants you dead.

Your faces are inches apart on the same pillow.

His eyes meet yours in the dim light filtering through the curtains, dark and steady and focused entirely on you.

“Who are you?” You ask, and you mean it in ways that have nothing to do with his name or his position. “Really?”

“Right now?” His voice is quiet, intimate in ways that make your pulse quicken for entirely different reasons than fear. “I’m the person making sure you survive until morning.”

His hand is still on your waist, warm and steady, and you’re acutely aware that there’s very little fabric between your bodies, that his chest is bare against the shirt you’re wearing, that this is the closest you’ve been to another person in longer than you can remember.

“And after morning?”

You don’t know why you ask it.

His eyes hold yours, and there’s something in them you can’t quite read—intensity, focus, and underneath it something that might be want.

“After morning,” he says, “we figure out who’s trying to kill you. And we make sure they fail.”

His arms roll you over, spooning you again and pulling you deeper into the solid warmth of his body.

You let him, because what else is there to do?

Your muscles are still wound tight, your heart still beating too fast, but his presence is steady in ways nothing else has been today.

"Close your eyes, hongsil," he says quietly, his breath warm against your temple. "Try to sleep."

You do.

You close your eyes and immediately see fire blooming across the horizon, hear the distant crack of an explosion, feel the phantom sensation of the platform beneath your feet as you counted seconds and abandoned five people to their deaths.

Your eyes snap open.

"I can't," you say, and your voice sounds thin even to your own ears. "Every time I close them, I see—"

"I know." His hand moves, settling over your eyes with gentle pressure, blocking out the dim light filtering through the curtains. "Keep them closed this time. Don't fight it."

The darkness behind your eyelids feels oppressive, dangerous, full of images you don't want to confront.

Your breath hitches.

"Focus on something else," he says, and his voice has shifted into something calmer. "Not the train. Not today. Something neutral. Describe the Blue House gardens to me."

"What?" The question comes out confused because that's not what you expected.

"The gardens. I know there's a private section near your residence. Tell me what they look like."

Your mind resists, wants to circle back to the train, to the guilt, to everything that happened.

But his hand is still covering your eyes, and his other arm wraps around your waist, his palm settling low on your belly as he pulls you more firmly against him.

The pressure is grounding. Real. Present.

"There's a pond," you say, because it's easier than arguing. "Small. With koi fish that the groundskeeper feeds every morning at six."

"What color are they?"

"White and orange mostly. One black one that hides under the lily pads."

His thumb moves against your stomach in small, soothing circles. You can feel each point of contact through the thin fabric of his shirt—his chest against your back, his thighs against yours, his hand warm and steady.

"Good. What else?"

"Cherry trees. They bloom in April." Your breathing is starting to slow, matching the rhythm of his. "The petals fall into the pond and the koi eat them even though they're not supposed to."

"Do you sit out there?"

"Sometimes. Late at night when I can't sleep." You're aware that you're telling him things you don't tell anyone, details about your private life that aren't in any official record. "There's a bench. Stone. Uncomfortable as hell but positioned where you can see the whole garden."

"What do you think about when you sit there?"

Everything.

Nothing.

The weight of fifty-one million people depending on you to make the right decisions.

The constant awareness that one mistake could cost lives, could destabilize an entire nation.

The loneliness of being surrounded by people who see you as a political entity rather than a person.

"Policy decisions," you lie. "Schedule optimization."

His thumb presses a little harder against your stomach, and you feel the quiet rumble of his almost-laugh against your back. "Liar."

You should be offended, but you aren’t, and you feel something in your chest loosen slightly.

"I think about how quiet it is," you admit. "How there's no one watching, no cameras, no expectations. Just me and the fish and the cherry trees."

"That sounds nice."

It is nice.

Or it was, before today, before you started wondering if even those private moments were truly private, if someone was watching, cataloging your routines, finding vulnerabilities.

The thought makes your breath quicken again.

"Stay with the garden, hongsil," Jimin says, and his hand over your eyes presses more firmly. "Don't go back to today. Stay in April with the cherry blossoms."

You try.

You picture the petals drifting down, the fish rising to investigate, the way the early morning light turns everything soft and peaceful.

But behind it all, you can still hear the echo of an explosion, still see the distant bloom of fire.

"I can't," you whisper. "I keep seeing it. I can't make it stop."

"Then don't try to stop it." His voice is closer now, his lips nearly brushing your ear. "Let it pass through. Don't hold onto it. Just let it move past you like water."

Except trauma doesn't work like that.

Trauma digs in, takes root, replays itself at three in the morning when you're trying to sleep.

Trauma doesn't pass through cleanly.

But his hand is still on your stomach, warm and grounding, and his breathing is still steady against your back.

You focus on that instead—the physical reality of him, the proof that you're here, alive, safe for this moment at least.

Minutes pass. Maybe ten, maybe twenty.

Your breathing gradually steadies, your muscles slowly unknotting themselves.

The images are still there behind your eyes, but they're becoming less immediate, less visceral.

His hand hasn't moved from your stomach.

You're acutely aware of it—the size of his palm, the way his fingers splay across the fabric, the heat of his skin seeping through.

It's been so long since anyone touched you like this. Not professionally, not politically, but just… touched you.

You take his hand.

His fingers tense slightly against yours, surprised, but he doesn't pull away.

You should let it go at that, should just hold his hand like a normal person seeking comfort.

Instead, you guide it lower.

“Madam President…” His voice has changed, dropped into something rougher. “I don’t think—”

You push his hand lower, beneath the fabric, and his fingers meet bare skin.

His fingers register immediately what you already know—that you're not wearing anything underneath his shirt.

That there's nothing between his hand and you except the thin cotton that's already ridden up from your position.

He makes a sound against your shoulder, something between a curse and a prayer, and his hand splays across your lower belly, warm and slightly trembling.

“You’re not—” He stops, swallows hard. “You’re not wearing anything.”

“They were ruined.” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “I had to wash them.”

“Right.” His breathing has gone uneven now, his chest rising and falling against your back in a rhythm that has nothing to do with relaxation techniques. “That’s—that makes sense.”

His hand hasn’t moved. It’s resting there, just below your navel, his fingers spread wide like he’s not sure whether to pull away or push further.

You can feel his heartbeat against your spine, faster now, no longer controlled.

“Madam. This isn’t—” He stops again, and you feel his forehead press against your shoulder. “I shouldn’t.”

But he doesn’t move his hand away.

If anything, it presses more firmly, fingers spreading slightly, and you feel the response of your body—heat blooming low in your belly, pulse quickening for entirely different reasons than fear.

His teeth graze your shoulder through the fabric, not quite a bite but close enough that you feel the pressure, the restrained want in it.

"You want that type of distraction," he says against your skin, and it's not quite a question.

You should say no.

Should remember that he's your bodyguard, that you've known him for less than twelve hours, that this is exactly the kind of compromising situation that ends careers and creates security vulnerabilities.

Should remember that you're the President of the Republic of Korea and presidents don't fuck their bodyguards in rural safe houses while half the country searches for them.

"Yes," you say instead, because apparently survival instincts extend to more than just staying alive.

Because your body has been running on adrenaline and fear for hours and now it wants something else, something that has nothing to do with death and everything to do with being alive.

"This is a bad idea, Madam," he says, but his teeth dig into skin now, and you shudder.

"Probably." Your voice comes out breathier than you'd like. "Do it anyway."

His sigh feels like surrender. Then—

“Okay.”

His hand dips lower.

And finally, his middle finger finds your clit.

It does so with accuracy, with something that speaks to experience, to training, to knowing exactly how a body works and how to make it respond.

You inhale sharply, the sound embarrassingly loud in the quiet room.

“Easy,” he says against your shoulder, his voice dropping into something lower, warmer. “Just feel it. Don’t think.”

Except thinking is what you do.

It’s your primary skill, the thing that got you elected, the constant analytical process that never shuts off.

Even now, with his finger circling your clit in slow, deliberate movements, your mind is cataloging—the pressure, the angle, the way your body is responding despite every rational objection.

His other hand remains over your eyes, palm warm and slightly callused, blocking out the dim light and forcing you into darkness where every sensation becomes sharper.

“What are you feeling?” His finger keeps moving, steady circles that are almost lazy in their confidence. “Tell me, Madam.”

You should refuse. Should maintain some dignity, some distance.

And against all odds, you hear yourself answer.

“Your finger.”

“My finger where?” There’s patience in his voice, the tone of someone who has all the time in the world and intends to use it thoroughly.

Heat floods your face. “On my—on my clit.”

“Good.” The word rumbles against your back, approval and encouragement mixed together. “What else? Describe it to me.”

His finger changes angle slightly, pressing more firmly, and you feel your hips shift involuntarily, seeking more contact.

“Warmth,” you manage. “Pressure. Your hand on my eyes.”

“That’s good. Stay with those sensations. Just the physical. Nothing else matters right now.”

He’s grounding you, you realize.

Using the same technique he employed with the garden, making you focus on immediate physical reality instead of the chaos in your mind.

Your breathing is evening out, your muscles beginning to relax even as a different kind of tension builds low in your belly.

His finger slides lower, exploring through the wetness that’s already gathered there despite—or perhaps because of—everything that’s happened today.

The touch is curious, almost reverent, mapping you with careful attention.

“You’re already so wet,” he observes, and there’s something like wonder in his voice. “How long has it been, Madam? Since someone touched you like this?”

You don’t want to answer.

The answer is humiliating in ways that have nothing to do with politics and everything to do with being a woman who’s sacrificed every personal need for professional advancement.

“Years,” you finally admit, the word barely audible.

His finger stills for just a moment, then resumes its exploration with something that feels almost like tenderness.

“Years.” He repeats it like he’s testing the weight of the word. “You’ve gone years without this. That’s a crime, Madam. Someone should be taking care of you.”

The absurdity of it hits you—the President of the Republic of Korea being told she deserves better sexual attention by a bodyguard she met this morning—and you might laugh except his finger is sliding through your folds and all higher cognitive function is becoming increasingly difficult.

“You’re so responsive,” he continues, his lips brushing your shoulder as he speaks. “So sensitive. How is it that nobody’s been doing this for you? I find that difficult to believe.”

Because presidents don’t get to want things for themselves.

Because every relationship is a potential security risk or political scandal.

Because you learned a long time ago that power and intimacy are incompatible, and you chose power.

You don’t say any of this.

You just make a sound that might be agreement or protest, you’re not entirely sure.

His middle finger finds your entrance, circling it with maddening patience—testing, asking permission without words.

“May I?” he asks anyway, his voice quiet against your ear.

Saying no would be wise, because this is already too far, already a massive breach of protocol that could destroy everything you’ve built.

“Yes,” is what you settle for.

He enters you slowly—so slowly you can feel every centimeter of penetration, every adjustment your body makes to accommodate him. The stretch is slight but noticeable after years of nothing, and you tense involuntarily.

“Breathe,” he instructs, his hand on your eyes pressing more firmly, anchoring you. “Just breathe and let your body adjust. There’s no rush.”

His finger stills once it’s fully inside you, giving you time to acclimate to the intrusion. You can feel your internal muscles fluttering around him, trying to decide if this is threat or pleasure.

“You’re so tight, Madam.” There’s no mockery in his voice, just observation laced with something that sounds like appreciation. “How long did you say? Years?”

“Yes.” The word comes out shaky, because he’s started moving now, slow shallow thrusts that are more about mapping your internal landscape than pursuing any particular goal.

“Years,” he echoes again, and his finger curls slightly, exploring. “That’s criminal negligence. Someone should have been doing this for you all along. Should be lining up for the privilege.”

The thought is ridiculous—people don’t line up to pleasure the president, they line up to use her, to gain access, to leverage her position for their own advancement.

But the way he says it, with that quiet reverence, makes it sound almost plausible.

His finger establishes a rhythm, slow and deep, and you feel yourself beginning to relax into it, your body remembering pleasure even after years of neglect.

“Touch yourself,” he says, and it’s not quite a command, more like a suggestion wrapped in certainty that you’ll comply. “Your clit. I want you to feel both.”

Your hand trembles as you bring it down between your legs, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves while his finger continues its steady rhythm inside you.

It immediately makes you sigh, and you feel his smile against your shoulder.

“That’s it,” he encourages. “Circle it. Slow. Match my rhythm.”

You do, and the combined sensation is almost overwhelming after so long without touch, without pleasure, without anything that wasn’t measured in political capital and strategic advantage.

“What do you feel now?” His voice is still calm, still grounding, even as your breathing becomes more ragged. “Tell me.”

“Full,” you manage. “And the pressure—on my clit—it’s—”

“Good?” he supplies when you trail off.

“Yes.” It comes out almost like a confession. “Very good.”

“You respond so beautifully.” His lips are on your neck now, kissing a path from your shoulder to just below your ear. “How has nobody been taking care of you, Madam? You deserve so much better than years of nothing.”

His teeth scrape against your skin, not quite biting but testing, and you shiver. The hand over your eyes shifts slightly, thumb stroking your temple in a gesture that’s almost affectionate.

“Keep circling,” he instructs, and you realize your hand has slowed, distracted by the sensation of his mouth on your neck. “Don’t stop. I want you to feel everything.”

You resume the movement, and he rewards you by adjusting his angle slightly, his finger going deeper, and you can’t quite suppress the sound that escapes your throat.

“Very good, Madam,” he murmurs, and something about the praise makes heat flood through you in ways that have nothing to do with the physical stimulation. “You’re doing so well. Taking care of yourself.”

His hand moves from your eyes, and for a moment you think he’s going to pull away entirely.

Instead, it slides down, over the fabric of his shirt that you’re wearing, and cups your breast.

“Forgot you’d be wearing no bra either,” he says, and there’s something darker in his voice now, want creeping in around the edges of his control. “You took it all off.”

His thumb finds your nipple through the fabric, circling it the same way your fingers are circling your clit, and the symmetry of sensation makes your back arch.

“Sensitive here too,” he observes, pinching gently, and you make a sound you don’t recognize. “Should have known. Someone should be doing this to you every day, Madam. Morning and night. Making sure you remember you’re human, not just a political entity.”

His finger inside you curls, finding a spot that makes your vision white out behind your closed eyes, and you lose the rhythm on your clit entirely.

“Stay with me,” he says, biting down on your shoulder—hard enough to ground you, not hard enough to hurt. “Keep touching yourself. I’ve got you.”

You find the rhythm again, circling your clit while he works you internally with the same patient thoroughness.

His hand on your breast kneads and pinches, playing with your nipple until it’s hard and sensitive, and the multiple points of stimulation are building something low in your belly that you haven’t felt in so long you’d almost forgotten what it was.

“You’re getting wetter,” he notes, and there’s satisfaction in his voice. “Opening up for me. I think you’re ready for more, aren’t you, Madam?”

More.

You find yourself nodding, your body making decisions your mind can’t quite keep up with.

“Words,” he prompts gently. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes,” you manage, and your voice sounds wrecked already. “I’m ready.”

His finger withdraws slowly, and you feel the loss immediately. Then there’s pressure again—not one finger but two, his middle and ring finger together, stretching you in ways that make you gasp.

“Breathe,” he reminds you, his hand tightening on your breast as if to anchor you. “Let yourself adjust. You can take it.”

The stretch is more significant this time, your body having to work to accommodate the increased size.

It borders on too much after so long without, but he’s patient, entering you with excruciating slowness, giving you time to adjust to each increment of penetration.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your neck, teeth scraping skin. “You’re doing so good, Madam.”

His fingers are fully seated now, and you can feel your internal muscles fluttering around them, adjusting to the fullness, the stretch, the presence of something inside you after so much absence.

“Don’t stop circling your clit,” he instructs, and you realize your hand has gone still again. “I want you to feel all of it. Every sensation. Every point of contact. That’s all that matters right now—just how this feels.”

You resume touching yourself, and with his two fingers inside you, the sensation intensifies exponentially.

His hand on your breast continues its assault on your nipple, and his mouth is still on your neck, teeth and lips alternating between gentle and demanding.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs against your neck, and his fingers curl slightly inside you, exploring. “But I think we need to adjust.”

His fingers withdraw slowly before you can ask what he means, and you feel the loss immediately, your body clenching around nothing.

“Knees up for me,” he says quietly, and his hands guide you. “That’s it.”

You go without resistance, too far gone to question his direction. He positions you carefully—knees drawn up and pressed together—and when his fingers return, sliding back inside, the angle is completely different.

Deeper. More intense.

“There,” he says, satisfied, and his free hand comes back to cover your eyes. “I need you to focus only on what you’re feeling. Nothing else. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” you manage, though your voice sounds wrecked.

His fingers curl inside you, pressing against something that makes your back arch involuntarily off the bed.

“Keep touching yourself,” he reminds you, and you realize your hand has stilled again. “Don’t stop.”

You resume the movement, and his fingers inside you find that spot again—pressing, releasing, building pressure in ways that feel completely foreign.

Like nothing you’ve ever done to yourself in quick, efficient releases designed to help you sleep.

This is different. This is something else entirely.

The sensation builds, intense and almost uncomfortable, and your mind tries to categorize it, tries to understand what’s happening to your body because that’s what you do—analyze, strategize, maintain control.

Except control is slipping away with every deliberate press of his fingers against that spot inside you that you didn’t know existed, didn’t know could feel like this.

“What—” You try to form the question, but words are becoming increasingly difficult. “That feels—I don’t—”

“Just feel it,” he says against your shoulder, teeth scraping skin. “Don’t try to understand it. Just let it happen.”

But the pressure is building in ways that feel wrong, unfamiliar, like your body is doing something it’s not supposed to do. Like you need to—

“Wait,” you say, panic creeping into your voice. “Stop—I think I need to—”

His fingers don’t stop. The pressure increases.

“You don’t,” he says calmly, and his hand over your eyes presses more firmly. “That feeling you’re having right now? It’s not what you think. Trust me.”

“But it feels like—”

“I know what it feels like.” His thumb finds your nipple through the shirt again, rolling it with just enough pressure to distract. “But you need to trust me and not fight it. Don’t think, let it happen.”

Stop thinking.

As if you know how to do that, as if your entire career hasn’t been built on thinking three steps ahead, on analyzing every situation, on maintaining control at all times.

But his fingers are doing something inside you that’s making it hard to think about anything except the building pressure that feels like it’s going to destroy you from the inside out.

“I promise I’ve got you,” he says quietly. “But you need to let go. Can you do that for me, Madam?”

You don’t know how to let go. Letting go is weakness, is vulnerability, is how you get destroyed in politics and in life.

But the pressure is becoming unbearable, and some part of you wants to find out what happens if you stop fighting.

“I’m going to add another finger,” he says, and you feel his fingers withdraw slightly. “You can take it. I know you can.”

You should say no. Should establish some boundary between therapeutic distraction and whatever this is becoming.

“Yes,” you hear yourself say instead. “Please—I need—”

The third finger stretches you beyond what you thought you could take, and your body resists initially, muscles tightening against the intrusion.

But he’s patient, working them in slowly while you continue to provide friction on your clit, and gradually your body begins to accommodate.

The fullness is overwhelming.

Three fingers inside you, thick and precise, and when they curl to find that spot again, the pressure borders on too much.

“Good,” he murmurs, satisfaction in his voice. “You’re doing so well, Madam.”

His fingers find their rhythm again, pressing against that spot withour mercy, and your hand on your clit has abandoned any pretense of technique.

Just seeking friction, seeking something to ground you as the sensation becomes unbearable.

The pressure builds beyond anything you’ve experienced before. Your body is demanding something your mind doesn’t know how to give.

“I can’t—” you gasp. “It’s too much—”

“You can.” His voice remains steady, grounding.

You’ve spent your entire adult life controlling things.

Your emotions, your reactions, your image, your power.

Control is survival.

But his fingers are inside you and your body is doing something you don’t understand, building toward something that feels like it might break you apart.

“Let go, Madam” he says against your shoulder, and his teeth sink into skin hard enough to shock you out of your own head. “Let go for me.”

Something breaks.

The pressure releases all at once, and you feel wetness—not the normal kind, something more, something that shocks you so completely you can’t even process what’s happening.

Your body convulses around his fingers, waves of sensation crashing through you that have nothing to do with the quick, efficient orgasms you’ve given yourself over the years.

This is different.

This is destruction and rebuilding and losing every piece of control you’ve thoroughly maintained.

You make sounds you don’t recognize. Your body shakes so hard his arm has to tighten around you to keep you grounded. The sensation goes on and on, waves of release that feel like they’re turning you inside out, and underneath it all is pleasure so intense it borders on pain.

When it finally subsides, you’re left gasping, shaking, completely wrecked.

His hand lifts from your eyes, and you blink in the dim light, disoriented and overwhelmed and acutely aware of wetness beneath you, soaking through the shirt, evidence of something you didn’t know your body could do.

“What was—” Your voice is hoarse, barely functional. You can’t even finish the question.

“First time?” he supplies gently.

You nod, the movement small and shaky with your exhale, because words feel impossible right now and you’re not sure you could lie convincingly even if you tried.

“I figured.” His lips press against your shoulder, soft and almost reverent. “I’m glad I was the one to show you that.”

Something about the way he says it makes your chest tighten—not possession exactly, but something close.

Like he’s claiming this moment, this experience, this version of you that nobody else has ever seen.

You lie there in the mess you’ve made—his shirt damp, the sheets beneath you wet, your body still trembling with aftershocks—and try to remember how to breathe normally.

“How do you feel?” he asks quietly, and his hand moves to rest on your hip, warm and grounding. “Hongsil?”

You take inventory.

Your body feels wrung out, muscles loose in ways they haven’t been in years.

Your mind—usually racing with policy concerns, political calculations, the endless strategic planning that never stops—is quiet. Almost peaceful.

“Empty,” you say finally, and then realize how that sounds. “But in a good way. Like all the bad things are gone.”

No images of fire. No sound of explosions. No counting the dead or cataloging security failures or analyzing who wants you dead and why.

Just the weight of his arm around you, the sound of his breathing, the slow return of sensation to your exhausted limbs.

“Good,” he says, and there’s satisfaction in his voice. “That was the point.”

The point. As if this was always intended as therapy, as distraction, as a calculated method to quiet your mind.

Which maybe it was.

It feels like care, which is somehow more dangerous.

“Where did you learn that?” The question escapes before you can stop it, before your political training can remind you that asking personal questions creates intimacy, and intimacy is vulnerability, and vulnerability is how you get destroyed.

“Experience,” he says simply, and doesn’t elaborate.

Experience. Of course. He’s probably done this dozens of times, probably has a whole repertoire of techniques designed to make targets feel special, feel seen, feel cared for.

This is his job, and he’s very good at his job, clearly.

The thought should bother you more than it does.

Silence settles between you, and you focus on slowing your breathing, on returning your heart rate to something approaching normal.

The post-orgasm clarity is starting to creep in—the awareness of what just happened, the impossibility of taking it back, the security implications of fucking your bodyguard in a safe house while half the country searches for you.

You should address his needs. Reciprocate. Maintain some semblance of equality in whatever this situation has become.

That’s why your hand moves, tentative, toward the waistband of his jeans.

“No.”

The word is firm but not harsh, and his hand catches yours before you can make contact.

“This was for you, hongsil,” he says, and there’s no room for argument in his tone. “Not a transaction. Not something that needs reciprocation. Just for you.”

Just for you.

As if presidents get to have things just for themselves, as if your needs matter separate from political calculation or strategic advantage.

The concept is so foreign you almost don’t know how to process it.

Your hand stills in his, and you don’t push further because you’re too exhausted to argue and some part of you wants to believe him, wants to accept that this could be simple instead of complicated.

“Okay,” you say quietly, and you hate how small your voice sounds.

His arms adjust around you, repositioning—pulling you more securely against his chest, arranging your legs so they’re not cramping, tucking your head under his chin.

Finding the most comfortable position for sleeping, like he’s done this before, like he knows exactly how to hold someone who’s forgotten how to be held.

“Sleep now, hongsil,” he says against your hair, and it’s not quite a command but close enough that your body wants to obey. “I’ll keep watch.”

«I’ll keep watch.»

Four words that feel like protection that extends beyond just physical threats.

Your eyes are already closing, your body surrendering to exhaustion in ways your mind can’t fight.

For the first time in longer than you can remember, you feel safe.

Which is probably the most dangerous thing of all.

if you like my writing, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♡'⸌⸌'♡

TL: @nothingnothingnothing77 @cyyyvb @mima795 @jhopeloverrr @medicinemybish @jjkszn @makulimlim @onyxthornseer @amajikisupremacy @omgstahpp-blog @drwonderbread @angelhyuka @mikrokookiex @ot7girl4l @mar-lo-pap @rossy1080 @fancypeacepersona @ggukjugoo @jadestonedaeho7 @a-kookie-with-my-tae @ironyatitsfinest @impossiblecopoaffire @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @minniejim @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @sashakittyct @bjoriis @hemmosfear @bettytta @ilikekpop-c @yuyu0y11 @amarawayne @sugak00kie134340 @cravingforbangtan @namgimini @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum @dailynnt @j0cgr0c @kelsyx33 @nellbyy

© jungkoode 2025