› down bad idol!jungwon & stylist f!reader
꧖ warnings: cursing. kissing. skinship. drama. romcom coded. hurt/comfort. a bit of angst. crying. confusing relationship (not even a situationship lol). down bad jungwon. no use of yn. not exactly proof read. english isn’t my first language (sorry) — masterlist.
note: hi! this is kinda inspired by “doma” by josean log. such a beautiful song. thank u for reading!!! ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡
the process of mastering an intense force or emotion.
His lips are slightly swollen, so little that only you, the one who needs to be this close, can see.
Your hands work on the makeup on his lips, trying to find the same lipstick in your kit that you used before.
“I thought you were already ready, Jungwon hyung,” the youngest boy says, looking at the leader as another member of the staff places his jacket in the right place.
As you retouch the makeup, trying with all your heart to make your hand stop trembling, his gaze remains fixed on you.
The hypocrisy? It was you.
Oh, and you can remember it all too well.
One of his hands on your back and the other cupping your chin. Definitely not a messy kiss, but much more than that.
He hums a little, and when you finish and he has to go, his hand brushes yours in a movement that tries to appear accidental.
Because you notice when his gaze goes back to you one last time as he goes up to the stage.
And you know you’re fucked.
“So… you are transferring?” his voice echoes in the big practice room.
You see his little pout, reflected in the big mirror in front of you. Your head rests on his lap, while his hand slowly brushes strands of your hair out of your face. Even though he is sitting against the wall opposite the mirror, his reactions are so clear in your eyes.
The management offered you a place with their new girl group. You told them you would think about it, since they somehow found out about the offer another company had made to you just a few days ago.
It was a higher position.
“No. I told them I didn’t want to,” you say, and you hear a sigh of relief escape him.
“Good,” he murmurs, looking down at you. “I like it when you are around.”
Instead, your eyes drift back to the mirror, watching the slow, rhythmic movement of his fingers through your hair.
I like it when you are around.
The words repeat in your head, heavy and confusing. He says it so easily, with that calm that characterizes him. The one that makes you want to understand him, to match his tone to a piece of the puzzle of this emotional mess.
It started like that too. With his stupid calm.
A few weeks ago, the company scheduled a new campaign. A campaign meant a photoshoot. And a photoshoot meant makeup and clothes, so there you were, with a small cup of coffee, trying to survive the cold morning of Seoul while trying to work.
The photoshoot soon changed to a rehearsal; with the new tour incoming, everything felt rushed. Every opportunity to improve was taken by the members of the band.
And obviously, they asked you to stay.
Every opportunity to make content was taken by the company, so a small camera in the form of a vlog was there, and if a little smudge of makeup needed to be retouched, that was your job.
When it ended, you stayed to arrange all your material to return it to its place. It was not much, but after working here for some time, you realized everything was better if it was organized and on clear display.
It was completely silent, except for his heavy breathing that eventually returned to normal after a few minutes. He stayed there, sitting on the wooden floor, his back against the black wall, looking at his hands folded on his lap.
When you finally finished and went over to tell him it was time to leave, his gaze went up, fixing on you before he spoke.
"Can you sit with me for a minute?" he had asked. No hesitation, just a direct request.
You sat down next to him with your knees pulled up against your chest, the silence of the building now wrapping around you both.
Just a normal, friendly guy from work. That was all he was to you. Yeah, he was sweet and cute, but nothing more.
“I know we don’t interact that much… but I like talking to you,” he said, looking not at you, but at the floor of the practice room. “Thank you for staying.”
He was like that: so honest, so communicative, yet so carefully analytical about his own exhaustion.
And actually, you had heard about this from other staff. He often asked for a little bit of company, not only for himself but for the workers. This small piece of peace in a world that just wants to demand everything felt like a warm hug.
His gaze returned to you, and something sparked behind his dark brown eyes; something you couldn’t describe, but you were sure it was there.
And then, he turned slightly toward you and his eyes dropped to your face.
"I want to kiss you," he murmured, a soft, genuine request. Your breath hitched.
The room started to feel almost suffocating. Too hot.
The nervous beat of your heart felt like it was almost in your ears, and you could swear the air conditioner had stopped working.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, and before you could even process his sudden boldness, you whispered a breathless, "Yes.”
The kiss was everything you heard his personality was: tender, deliberate, and deeply comforting.
One of his hands rested gently on your nape when he leaned in closer, while the other cupped your chin with a lightness that made you feel like porcelain.
But that was exactly why it became your undoing. Because after it ended, he gave you a small, bittersweet smile and thanked you for being there.
And the next morning at another photoshoot session, he used his polite and professional idol voice to ask you for a water bottle in front of the manager.
Yet, here you were now; letting him touch your hair in an empty room, both of you pretending this was normal.
But even with the burning questions in your throat, you keep your mouth shut. As always.
“Why did you kiss me that day?”
“Hm?” he mumbles, a little surprised by the sudden question. “You looked cute.” He giggles when he sees your nose scrunching in embarrassment. “What?”
“I am serious too,” he said.
He paused, searching your eyes to see if you were actually upset or just curious, but when he saw the genuine question in your eyes, he let out a soft laugh and shook his head.
"I don't know," he murmured, his voice suddenly dropping into a rough, honest whisper.
When his eyes snapped back to your reflection in the mirror, the confident, perfectly composed leader you knew during your time working with the team was gone.
"I don't know how to explain it," Jungwon admitted. He gave a small, frustrated shrug, looking genuinely confused. "… I don't even know when it started."
His cheeks flushed slightly, like this was a special topic for him.
“That day you looked so… grounded. So real,” he whispered. “I think I kissed you because I realized you were the only part of my day that made sense. And I couldn't handle the thought of you walking out of that room without knowing it.”
His eyes softened, a tiny dimple appearing as his voice turned into a whisper.
“... And yeah, you really did look cute.”
Days pass easily into weeks between kisses and silent promises.
It’s 2 AM when the company van finally hits the highway, heading back to the dorms after an eighteen-hour shoot.
Everyone was too exhausted to care about protocol, so when the staff and members rushed into the nearest available cars, you somehow ended up in the back row of the dark vehicle.
Trapped between the window and Jungwon.
Ni-ki and Sunghoon are asleep just inches away, their breathing heavy and rhythmic in the quiet interior, alongside four other exhausted staff members.
You are staring out the window, watching the Seoul city lights blur against the rain on the glass. Jungwon is sitting right next to you, and the thought alone makes your heart flutter.
He doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t look at you. But his hand slides into the narrow, dark space between your seats.
His fingers find yours, slowly intertwining in the dark.
You don’t dare look at him, too afraid of being seen.
His thumb brushes over your knuckles; a slow and agonizingly tender touch that stops completely every time the van hits a bump or someone shifts in their sleep, only to tighten again when the road goes smooth.
Was this a form of torture you deserved for some crime you committed in your past life? Or were you just this unlucky?
His hand burns against yours.
And the feeling of your chest getting heavy whispers a truth both of you are too cowardly to admit aloud, while the rest of the world sleeps just inches away.
This is going to ruin you. And you are just letting it happen.
You hadn't talked about what you were, because the word relationship seemed like a luxury neither of you could afford, even with all the money in the world.
Your contract stipulated something you had broken a while ago, and the thought alone made you shiver.
What were you even doing?
Even with that, you couldn’t act like you didn’t like this. Because the confidence between you had grown into something beautiful.
You had learned the map of his hidden habits; things no fan or camera would ever see.
You knew that when he was genuinely relaxed, he would hum a low, unstructured melody under his breath.
You knew that his hands needed yours to get warm after a long rehearsal session.
You knew that after a grueling day, he didn't want a long conversation; he just wanted to lay his head in your lap and wrap his arms tightly around your waist while you ran your fingers through his hair until his breathing finally evened out.
You had basically memorized his face.
At first, it was just your job: knowing the exact shade of lipstick to put on his lips, balancing the shadows under his eyes after a long flight with an expensive concealer he always complained was too cold. But over the last month, that professional distance had completely melted.
You had memorized that beautiful mole of his, because you loved staring at it while he slept against your shoulder, hidden away in the dressing rooms.
You had learned the exact amount of pressure to use when massaging his shoulders when he got tense.
You had even started keeping a specific pack of gummy candies hidden at the bottom of your makeup kit, as a silent and exclusive detail just for him, because you knew how much he loved sweets.
And tonight was one of those rare, deeply intimate moments. It wasn’t a mandatory schedule; it was a quiet text sent at 8 PM from Jungwon: “Vocal room 3.”
And of course, you went. You always went.
Now, you are sitting on the small sofa in the dimly lit room, your back pressed against his chest. Jungwon has his legs spread wide, trapping you securely between them, with his arms wrapped tightly around your waist as if making sure there is absolutely no air between you.
He likes you right there. Locked under his touch.
He had insisted you change out of your uncomfortable work jacket, giving you one of his own oversized black zip-up hoodies. It smelled overwhelmingly of his clean body wash and the faint but comforting trace of the expensive cologne he only wore for special events.
And it was so ridiculously obvious he loved seeing you in his clothes; the corners of his mouth turned up with smug satisfaction when he zipped it up for you.
His nose is buried deep in the crook of your neck, and he keeps pressing soft, lingering kisses right there, on the sensitive pulse point of your throat. They are slow, accompanied by the warm, rhythmic sound of his breath.
Every time you let out a breathless giggle while trying to move away, his hands slide slightly higher up your ribs, his fingers pressing firmly into your skin to hold you still.
"Stop, Jungwon, it tickles," you whisper-laugh, turning your body slightly to push his chest away. But Jungwon doesn't let you.
He is too stubborn for that.
Instead, with a bit of playful manhandling, he easily shifts your weight until you are straddling his lap, and he catches your jaw with his hand, his long fingers splaying over your cheek as his thumb gently tilts your face up.
But that’s not the tragedy.
He steals a long, slow kiss right from your lips. Not urgent or rushed like the ones behind the heavy clothes racks in the dressing rooms between outfit changes. This kiss is deep, heavy, and devastatingly sweet.
He tastes faintly of the gum he stole a few hours ago from your bag just to annoy you.
His fingers slide up, tangling effortlessly into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss until your head is spinning and you have to grip his forearms just to stay grounded.
When he finally pulls back, just a fraction of an inch, his lips brush yours with every word he speaks. His breathing is ragged, his chest heaving against yours.
"Look at me," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, sweet, raspy velvet you only ever hear when you are locked behind these soundproof doors. You do, and Jungwon lets out a tiny, soft pout, followed by a playful sigh. "You've been ignoring me all day. Do you know how hard it was to watch you walk past me three times and not even look up?"
"I was doing my job, Jungwon," you breathe out, a helpless smile tugging at your lips as your hand comes up to cup his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin. "I can't just stare at you in front of the managers."
He keeps babbling, and just to annoy him, you ignore him.
You reach down to the coffee table to grab the open bag of strawberry gummies you brought him, but before your fingers can even touch the plastic, Jungwon’s arm flashes forward.
He snatches the bag first, holding it high above your head with a stupid smile.
"Hey! Give them back, I was going to feed you one," you complain, but it's useless; he easily towers over you.
"Nope,” he teases. His free hand immediately hooks around your lower back, his palm burning hot against your spine as he anchors you flush against his chest. "You can’t get your way out of this. I am telling you; you ignored me for twelve hours. A gummy strawberry isn't going to fix it."
"Jungwon, I literally had to adjust your mic pack twice today. I did not ignore you," you argue, laughing as you plant your hands flat against his chest, leaning back a little to look at his stubborn face.
"Adjusting a wire doesn't count," he scoffs softly, his fingers digging gently but possessively into your waist through the soft fabric of his hoodie, pulling you back in so you have no choice but to melt against him.
He leans his forehead against yours, his nose bumping yours playfully, his breath hot against your lips. "You didn't even look at my eyes. You just looked at my collarbone and my neck. It was professional. I hated it."
"Because it is my job, you brat," you whisper-laugh, your heart fluttering at the sight. You hear his offended, fake gasp. "I told you. I can't just stare at you in front of the managers and the directors."
"And I told you I don't care," he whispers, leaning forward to press a quick kiss on the corner of your mouth, then another on your cheek, completely ignoring your logic with that stubbornness of his. "You didn't even slip the gummies into my pocket today during the touch-ups. I had to sit through a two-hour recording with zero sugar because my favorite stylist forgot about me."
"Oh, so now I'm your favorite?" you tease, seeing the pout on his lips. "I thought you told the head noonas they were your favorites."
"Don't be ridiculous," he whispers, looking up at you. "They don't keep candies hidden just for me. They don't wear my clothes. And they definitely don't get to hold me like this."
"You are the one holding me, Won. I'm practically trapped.”
"Good. Stay trapped," he says, his tone shifting into something too honest, a direct, raw confession that leaves you completely breathless.
He slides his warm hands completely under the oversized hoodie, his bare palms making direct contact with the skin of your waist. It feels completely natural: a silent claim he makes over you every single time you are alone.
He doesn't give you time to reply and pulls you down into another kiss that leaves you completely breathless. Your hands instantly slide up to his shoulders, clinging to him because the warmth of his touch is making you dizzy.
When he leans back, he buries his face back into the crook of your neck, his lips trailing along your skin almost like a routine.
"Don't do that tomorrow," he whispers, his voice suddenly sounding small and muffled, almost vulnerable.
"Do what?" you ask softly, your fingers gently smoothing down the soft hair at the back of his neck.
"The voice," he mumbles. "The polite, distant 'Please step over here, Jungwon-nim.' It drives me crazy. I wanted to drag you out of the styling room today."
"You wouldn't dare," you tease softly, though a heavy, sweet ache spreads through your chest at his words. "The managers would have a heart attack."
"Try me.” His lips trail up your jawline to press a string of slow, clingy kisses along your cheek. It makes him feel like the happiest man alive.
His fingers splay now over your hips, gently squeezing the skin there before slowly bringing your hands up, lacing his long fingers through yours. He presses his lips to your knuckles, kissing them one by one, slowly, with a softness that makes your throat tight.
He looks up at you through his dark bangs, his brown eyes crinkling into those crescents you've started to adore.
He leaves one last kiss on the center of your palm before he hugs you tightly against him, burying his face in your shoulder, as if this tiny room were the only place where he could finally breathe.
"I really love it when it's just the two of us like this," he mutters, his voice dripping with an honesty that makes butterflies flutter in your stomach. "I like it when you are around."
And just like that, your heart stops.
The warmth of his embrace suddenly feels like a cage, freezing you completely in place.
Your mind flashes back to the company van: the burning heat of his hand intertwined with yours in the pitch black while Ni-ki and Sunghoon slept inches away. And then, the way he didn’t even look back at you when he got out of the car.
You gently but firmly untangle yourself from his arms, stepping up from the sofa, almost tripping over your feet. The sudden movement makes Jungwon blink, his hands hovering in the empty air for a second before he slowly lets them fall onto his lap, gripping the fabric of his sweatpants to cope with the sudden distance.
"What's wrong?" he asks, his tone shifting back into that calm, analytical composure, no longer the playful boy who stole your breath a few moments ago.
He isn't defensive; he's just observing you. Almost confused.
You look at him sitting there, with his hoodie over your body, and the weight of the last few weeks finally crashes down on you.
"What are we even doing, Jungwon?"
The question hangs like a miserable plea in the air.
Jungwon doesn’t flinch. He just stares at you, his brow furrowing slightly. "What do you mean?" he asks quietly, as a sudden wave of desperation starts to make your chest and the room heavy.
"This. The dressing rooms. The van. This whole... whatever this is," you say, your voice cracking slightly. It feels embarrassing. “We’ve been doing this for weeks, Jungwon, and we act like it’s normal. But it’s not. And we know it."
Jungwon blinks. He stands up from the sofa, taking a slow step toward you. His hand goes up to try to touch your arm but stops midway.
"I'm not playing games," he murmurs, his tone brutally honest. It’s not his polite, professional tone; it's almost raw. "I meant what I said. I love being with you. But..." He looks away, his fixed, stubborn mind wrestling with the reality of his life. "This is the only way I can have you around without ruining everything. If I look at you out there, people will notice. And if they notice, the company will move you to another team.”
He’s right. And you almost feel bad for yourself. You know this. Everyone knows this.
You read that fucking clause when you signed your contract.
Your cheeks burn, the heat rushing up until even your ears are red. You swear you see his eyes get glassy.
“I'm just trying to keep the pieces together."
His words are logical. Rational. So carefully calculated to survive in his reality.
But you realize that his version of "keeping the pieces together" is the exact same thing that is tearing your heart to shreds.
You leave, even when he tries to grab your hand.
You don't dare to look back at him.
Even when your soul stays behind in that room.
You stood quietly in front of the head manager’s desk, your hands neatly folded over the white envelope resting on the polished wood, two days after the night you left.
The head manager stared at the paper, then up at you, letting out a heavy, genuine sigh.
"Are you absolutely sure about this?" he asked, rubbing his temples. He wasn't being harsh; in fact, there was a rare softness in his eyes. "You’ve been with the ENHYPEN team since the preparation for this tour, and your work has been… flawless.”
“If it’s about a salary adjustment or the schedule, we can talk about it. The performance team already requested you for the LATAM leg of the tour.”
You nodded and forced a polite, tight smile, though your chest ached. "It's a personal matter back home. It's already decided.”
He sighed. Actually, you had never seen him this considerate. “Just... think about it over the afternoon, okay? Don't make a rushed decision. You can leave early today.”
You nodded, and even though he tried to hand your resignation paper back to you, you didn’t accept it.
You bowed and left with a tight throat.
The email notification on your lockscreen were there.
"Wait, what do you mean?" The voice of the head stylist was a sharp whisper through the chaos of the rehearsal studio.
The members were in the middle of practice by 8 PM; five hours in and completely exhausted. The backup dancers were resting on the floor, and the boys were scattered around the room, chugging water.
The staff was there too, organizing. Time felt scarce with all of the pending preparations.
Jungwon stood near the center of the mirror, his eyes fixed on his reflection, mechanically repeating a hand movement. He looked completely calm from the outside, as always. But inside, his mind was entirely numb.
"She handed in her resignation this morning," one of the other stylists whispered, looking over a clipboard with a stressed expression. "It’s a shame, really. She is actually so good. I’ve never heard the boys complain when she’s doing their touch-ups."
"But she can't just leave!" another senior stylist chimed in, genuinely upset. "I heard they offered her a lead stylist position for their new girl group here. She’s supposed to go sign the contract tomorrow morning. If she leaves us, she’s definitely going somewhere else."
Jungwon froze. His hand was halfway to his mouth, now holding a water bottle, but his fingers locked tight around the plastic until it crinkled loudly.
His heart dropped, a cold, heavy weight crashing into his stomach.
Signing with another company?
The memory of you hit him.
"From the second verse, let's go!" the choreographer shouted, clapping his hands to gather the group.
The other members started moving back to their positions. Ni-ki was already stretching his arms, and Heeseung was wiping his neck with a towel. But Jungwon didn't move. He couldn’t.
"Hey, Jungwon-ah, you okay?" Sunghoon asked, gently nudging his shoulder as he walked past. "You look like you saw a ghost."
Jungwon didn't answer him. He turned abruptly toward one of the stylists who was still talking to the other staff.
"Where is she?" Jungwon demanded. His voice carried his usual polite, controlled tone, but now it was dangerously sharp.
It made the stylist's cheeks go red, blinking in surprise at being caught gossiping. "Uh... who?”
“The stylist?” The woman laughed awkwardly out of nervousness. “I think she just left,” she stammered, confused. “But—”
"Thank you," Jungwon cut her off flatly.
He didn't look back. He dropped the crushed water bottle to the floor, turned on his heel, and walked straight out of the studio.
"What? Jungwon, we have forty minutes left of rehearsal—"
The moment the heavy soundproof door clicked shut behind him, his control snapped.
He ran down the long corridors, with his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped animal.
Oh, and with cheeks flushed red under the confused looks of the people he sprinted past.
The moment you stepped through the glass revolving doors, the sky completely broke.
A massive and sudden downpour covered the city, turning the streets into blurry and gray streaks of water.
You didn't even have an umbrella.
"Great," you muttered to yourself, pulling your bag tighter against your side as you stepped out onto the slick sidewalk, immediately getting soaked.
It was a sharp contrast, you noticed, to the suffocating heat that had been building in your chest for the last forty-eight hours. As you started walking fast toward the subway station, your head was down, trying to blink away the rainwater blurring your vision.
A voice cut through the heavy roaring of the rain. It was distant, but you would know that specific tone anywhere.
You didn't stop. You couldn't. It was probably just your mind playing sweet and cruel tricks on you.
Suddenly, heavy and splashing footsteps sprinted up from behind you, and before you could even turn your head, a large, warm hand securely clamped around your wrist.
It wasn't violent, but it was incredibly firm, instantly anchoring you in place.
He was completely drenched. His thick, dark hair was plastered flat against his forehead, water dripping heavily from the sharp tips of his bangs and running down his flushed cheeks.
He wasn't wearing anything to hide his face, not even a cap.
"Are you insane?!" you screamed over the loud crashing of the rain to keep your voice from being muffled. Your heart was pounding against your chest as you looked around the dark street in pure panic. "What are you doing?! Someone is going to see you! Go back inside!"
"I don't care!" he yelled back, his voice cracking slightly with a raw emotion you had never heard from him before. His brown eyes were glassy and full of desperation. "I heard them talking. They told me you resigned. Why didn't you tell me?"
Was he really asking about that?
"Tell you what?!" you cried out, tears finally breaking free after weeks of repression, instantly mixing with the rainwater streaming down your face. You tried to yank your arm back, but his fingers only tightened as a silent plea. "That I'm leaving? It's a good opportunity for me!" you shouted back, trying to use logic because your chest felt so heavy you could barely breathe.
“And that is signing with another company?” His voice was trembling.
"Yes! I can't stay here and call you Jungwon-nim like you are just another artist I fix clothes for!” you choked out. “Because every time you look at me in front of the managers, I feel like I'm committing a crime. I have to go!"
"Then don't call me that!" Jungwon shouted, completely breaking down, his composure entirely washing away in the rain. He grabbed your other hand, forcing your fingers to lock with his, his large hands completely swallowing yours. "Don't pretend anymore! Let them see! Let the whole world see, I don't care anymore!"
You froze, looking up at him through the downpour, your mind completely spinning. "What...?"
Jungwon let out a ragged, trembling breath, his shoulders heaving. He looked so devastatingly vulnerable standing there, letting the storm soak him to the bone just to hold onto you.
"I tried to be smart about it," he mumbled, his voice dropping into a desperate, raw whisper you had to strain to hear over the rain. "Because I thought I was protecting you! I thought..."
He trailed off, running a trembling hand through his soaked hair, with tears forming in his eyes.
"... I thought if they found out, they'd take you away from me. And I wouldn't survive it.” A heavy sob finally escaped him.
His eyes searched yours, desperate for a sign that you’d stay.
“But you leaving... that's worse, please. It's a thousand times worse."
"And I can't keep the pieces together if you aren't part of them," his voice gave out with the weight of his own past words crashing down on both of you.
He brought his palm up to your face, his thumb gently wiping away a mixture of rain and tears, and his touch was so hot it felt like it was burning through the cold. "I don't care about the rumors. If they move you, I'll find you. Just... don't run away from me. Please."
You looked at him. This stubborn, brilliant boy who was willing to ruin his perfect composure just to stand in a literal storm with you.
And that was a tragedy for your heart.
“You’re a fucking idiot.”
It was sudden, desperate, and crashing, fueled by weeks of silence in hidden dressing rooms and the sheer terror of almost losing whatever this was.
You pulled him down by his wet collar, and Jungwon let out a muffled gasp against your mouth before his instincts completely took over.
His hand instantly locked around the back of your neck while the other splayed over your lower back, making sure you couldn’t escape. He kissed you back with a fierce hunger that completely stole the breath from your lungs and made you feel like a high schooler again.
It was messy. But that’s why you loved it. It was the result of weeks of uncertainty and the pressure of following the rules you had broken a while ago.
When you pulled back, his breathing was heavy, his chest heaving against yours.
A tiny, breathless laugh escaped his lips. "You’re right. But you're definitely not signing that contract."
"And what am I supposed to tell the manager? He has my—"
"I'll handle it," Jungwon said, caressing your cheek with his thumb. "I'll talk to the director. I need my favorite stylist exactly where she belongs. Right here."
"You're going to get us both fired.”
“I hope so. Then I will spend all my free time with you.”
The hum of the mini-fridge was the loudest sound in the hotel room. It was nearly 3 AM, and the city outside the high-rise windows was just a blur of blinking lights.
Jungwon was sitting on the edge of the bed. He had already shed his stage leather, now wearing just a plain white undershirt and his sweatpants.
You stood between his knees, a cotton pad soaked in cleansing oil pressed gently against his right eyelid.
"Keep it closed," you murmured softly, your voice a quiet contrast to the roaring stadium.
"Mhm," he hummed under his breath, keeping you close as his hand softly caressed your thigh.
Jungwon had actually kept his word. And you don’t know how.
He refused to tell you the details, even when you tried to blackmail him with a package of Trix.
The corporate machine at HYBE didn't magically become kind, but they were… reasonable. An agreement was quietly made behind closed doors: Your resignation was withdrawn, and in exchange, you both had to keep everything strictly hidden from the public eye.
No rumors. No distractions.
But it didn’t feel like a cage anymore. Because the moment Jungwon stripped away the professional boundaries with the managers, all the fear vanished.
There was no more confusion. No silence from him in the corridors or his distant voice during the day. You weren't a hidden mistake anymore; you were his choice.
A choice so real that, just a week after that rainy day, he brought you to his family’s home, with a cute and sheepish smile.
He kept laughing at your flushed cheeks as you bowed.
"You can open now," you whispered, dropping the dirty cotton pad into the bin.
Instead of opening his eyes, Jungwon just tilted his face up, completely submitting to your touch.
"Your thumbs are rough today," he noticed, his voice a midnight rasp. "Did you help with the wardrobe material again?"
"The local venue staff was short-handed," you replied, your fingers smoothing over his cheekbone, applying just the right amount of pressure to untangle the tension in his face. "Someone had to do it."
Jungwon opened his eyes then. He reached up, his fingers wrapping around your wrist to gently halt your hand. He pulled your palm away from his face and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss right there.
"Don't do their job," he mumbled against your skin, his voice carrying a quiet plea. "I need your hands whole."
A helpless smile tugged at your mouth. "They are whole, Won. I'm just tired."
Jungwon simply leaned forward, burying his face against your stomach, his arms locking around the back of your thighs to anchor you flush against him. He just held you there, his breathing calm and rhythmic against your skin.
You ran your fingers slowly through his dark, unstyled hair, feeling his chest let out a long, shuddering sigh of absolute relief.
Out there, the world demanded every single thing he had. He had to follow the contract and give his life to the cameras.
But in the quiet safety of this room, bare-faced and sleepy, he didn't have to be perfect.
"I love you," he murmured against your skin, the words muffled but devastatingly clear, holding you a little tighter. "I really do."
He didn't have to be the leader here.
