A Backstage Love I Han Jisung x Reader

Condemned Anxiety

The days following the break-in were a blur of sleepless nights and strained nerves. Every creak of the floorboards made my heart race, every shadow in the corner of my eye set my pulse pounding. The police and PI assured me they were closing in on the culprit, but the attacker's words lingered in my mind like a poison: "You won't be so lucky next time."

Han noticed the change in me almost immediately.

"You're not sleeping, are you?" he asked one afternoon as we sat on my couch, the TV playing quietly in the background.

"I'm fine," I replied, forcing a smile. "Just stressed with work."

He didn't push further, but his eyes lingered on me, his concern evident.

I had gotten better at hiding the slice on my neck—a strategically placed scarf or high-collared shirt did the trick—but I couldn't disguise the way I flinched whenever someone tapped my shoulder or walked into a room unexpectedly.

The breaking point came a week later, during one of our rare evenings together. I had made dinner, trying to keep my hands steady as I chopped vegetables, the knife feeling far too familiar in my grip. Han leaned against the counter, watching me with a curious expression.

"Did something happen?" he asked suddenly, his voice gentle but probing.

I froze. "What do you mean?"

"You've been... different lately." He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from my face. His fingertips grazed my neck, and I winced before I could stop myself.

"Y/N..." His voice was sharper now. "What's that?"

I stepped back, pulling the scarf tighter around my neck. "It's nothing," I said quickly.

"Nothing?" His tone hardened. "Let me see."

"Han, please," I begged, my voice trembling.

He didn't listen. Before I could protest, he gently tugged the scarf aside. His face paled as he saw the faint, healing slice across my neck.

"Who did this to you?" he demanded, his voice low but seething with anger.

"It's not—" I started, but he cut me off.

"Don't lie to me, Y/N. Tell me the truth."

An overwhelming wave of anxiety crashed over me, stealing my breath and leaving me frozen in place. Before I could fully process the shift, Han had closed the distance between us. What was once feet apart dissolved in an instant as he pulled me into a tight, reassuring embrace.

I felt the solid strength of his chest press against me, the rhythm of his heartbeat steady and grounding. His arms wrapped around me with protective warmth, as though they were the only shield I needed. The subtle, woodsy scent of his cologne—rich and earthy with hints of cedar and sandalwood—enveloped me, sinking into my senses and pulling me away from the storm inside my mind.

One of his hands cradled the back of my head, his fingers weaving gently through my hair with a touch so tender it almost broke me. He didn't rush to say anything; instead, he simply held me, his presence a silent assurance that I wasn't alone. His chest rose and fell steadily beneath me, a quiet reminder to breathe, to let go, even for a moment.

As he rested his chin on top of my head, the dam of my soul broke. I told him everything—the text messages, the break-in, the attack. Every detail spilled out as tears streamed down my face. Han's expression shifted from anger to horror, and finally to something unreadable.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked softly when I finished.

"Because I was scared," I admitted. "For you. For us. If they found out about our relationship..."