lanterninthedusk

Kwon Jiyong

In Another Lifetime

I Belong To You

FUCKED MY WAY UP TO THE TOP

IN THE FAST LANE

HALF OF ME STILL HOPES

I AM LONGING TO LINGER

I LOVE IT: Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Pt. 5, Pt. 6, Pt. 7, Pt. 8, Pt. 9 , Pt. 10, Pt. 11, Pt. 12

I LOVE IT Pt. 12

Summary: She's nervous, inexperienced, and trying to be professional. He's confident, teasing, and maybe falling faster than he expected.

Warnings: age gap (legal), angst, lack of communication, miscommunication, emotional distance, Jiyong's still oblivious

Pairing: Kwon Jiyong x reader

The days after, you cannot help but feel the crack that has started to form stretch wider, growing slowly but steadily until it no longer feels like something small you can ignore, but something vast, something that places you on one side and Jiyong on the other. 

Nothing breaks or ends, instead things continue. 

Jiyong still reaches for you without thinking. His hand finds yours when you sit beside him, fingers lacing together briefly before slipping apart again the moment someone passes by. He still pulls you closer when you are alone, his arm settling around your waist like it belongs there, like it always has. 

At night, he still falls asleep with you tucked against him, his breathing evening out slowly, his hold on you loosening only once he is fully asleep. In those moments, it is simple. But then the mornings come. And with them, everything else. 

At the agency, things feel different. 

You are not there as his guest. You are there because you are supposed to be. Because you earned your place through months of training and effort. Because you are a trainee. Someone still learning. Still trying to prove herself.

That is what you remind yourself of every time you step into the building.

It starts with small things, so small you almost miss it. You don’t even realise people are paying attention.

You move through the building the way you always have. Training, practicing, sitting in on sessions when he tells you to, following where he leads because that’s what he asked of you. Stay close, learn, observe. So you do.

It still feels like a privilege, being around him like this. Like you are learning something that most trainees don’t get to see.

It’s in one of those sessions that it happens.

He has you sitting in the corner with a notebook while he works with a few producers, people he’s clearly comfortable with, the kind of easy familiarity that comes from years of knowing each other.

You keep quiet, like you’re supposed to.

At some point, one of them glances your way, then back at him, a grin spreading across his face. 

“You’ve got a shadow now?” he says, amused. 

Jiyong doesn’t look up, only gives a noncommittal hum in response.  

The producer leans back slightly, eyes still on you.

“Damn,” he laughs,“ she really follows you everywhere.”

“She’s learning,” Jiyong says, still focused on the track.

There’s a brief pause. Then one of them leans back further in his chair, a slow smirk settling across his face.

“Yeah?” he says, glancing at you. “Wonder what exactly she’s learning.”

A few chuckles ripple through the room. It’s not outright crude but just enough. 

Another raises an eyebrow slightly, exchanging a look with the first.

“Must be some… hands-on mentoring.”

More quiet laughter follows. 

No one said anything directly. There was no clear line crossed, but the implication settles anyway and that is what makes it worse. How quickly you’ve been reduced. Not to a trainee, not to someone who belongs in the room, but to something else entirely. Your grip tightens slightly around your pen, and yet you keep your gaze down, forcing yourself not to react.

Jiyong exhales quietly, like he’s heard this kind of thing before.

“Don’t start,” he mutters, not looking up.

It’s not like he agreed with them, but he did not correct them either. 

Just like that, the conversation moves on. But it doesn’t move on for you. Because for a split second, the joke doesn’t just sound like a joke. It sounds almost plausible. 

You think about the way he pulls you closer without hesitation. The way his hands always find you easily. The way that part of your relationship has never been uncertain, when everything else is. Your chest tightens and you push the thought away almost immediately. Because you know him. Because that’s not- 

It still doesn’t fully disappear, and that’s the problem. 

It becomes harder not to notice those things. 

Training continues, and you try to focus on what you are supposed to be doing. Dance practices, vocal drills, evaluations. The things that make sense. Here there are rules, clear expectations. It’s a place where you can stand without second-guessing every step you take. Everything outside of that starts to blur.

You pass by one of the rehearsal rooms one day and hear your name mentioned inside. You don’t mean to stop and listen, but you do anyway. 

“She’s always with him lately.”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“Do you think he actually- ”

A small scoff. “As if.”

Heat creeps up your neck.

“He wouldn’t risk that,” the other adds. “Not for someone like her.”

You keep walking like you didn’t hear anything. 

Another time, someone says it more directly. 

“You’re lucky,” they tell you with a small smile. “Most of us don’t get that kind of access.”

You nod. Because what else are you supposed to do?

That night, he pulls you close again like always. Like none of it exists.

His hand rests warm at your waist, his lips brushing your temple absentmindedly while he scrolls through something on his phone, pulling you closer when you shift even slightly away.

“Stay. I missed you,” he murmurs, like it’s that easy.

And you wonder not for the first time, what this looks like for everyone else.

That is when you start to make small adjustments.  

You don’t follow him into rooms right away. You wait outside for a moment instead, and when you do go in, you are careful to choose a seat further back. Never next to him. Never close enough to invite attention. 

Jiyong notices. Of course he does.  

“Why are you sitting all the way over there?” he asks, glancing up from where he’s working.

There are people around, so you keep your tone light.

“I can hear fine from here.”

His brows pull together slightly, but he lets it go. 

It keeps happening. 

You stop walking beside him in the hall. You slow your pace just enough to fall a step behind, then another. Eventually, you stop following all together. Instead you focus on your own schedule, your own practice. On things that are yours. When you do see him, it’s in passing.

“Didn’t see you today,” he says one evening, like it’s been bothering him. 

You shrug lightly.

“I had practice.”

He glances at you, longer than usual.

“You always have practice,” he replies.

You smile, small and careful. 

“I should focus on that more.”

He studies you for a moment longer, then nods. 

“Right.”

But something about it feels off. 

The distance keeps growing in small, deliberate ways.

You stop sitting next to him in sessions. You stop waiting for him after practice. You stop stepping into rooms just because he’s in them. 

And when you do interact, you adjust.

“Run it again,” he says, standing a few feet away as you go through the choreography. 

“Yes, sunbaenim.” 

The word slips out naturally because it should. Because that’s what he is, isn’t he. 

He looks at you immediately, something like confusion flickering across his face. For a moment, he almost looks… hurt. 

“Since when do you call me that?” he asks, clearly perplexed.

You hesitate briefly, almost regretting your choice, but then you shrug. 

“We’re at the company.”

There are people around. There are always people around, is left unsaid. 

He exhales quietly through his nose, something unreadable crossing his face.

“Right.”

After that, you don’t stop. It becomes easier to stay within those lines. You keep your distance. You don’t linger where people can see. Don’t give anyone anything to talk about.

Still he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans in more when you’re alone, like he can sense that something is wrong but cannot quite understand what it is.  

At home, he still pulls you into him like nothing has changed. Like there is no gap between the way he treats you here and the way he moves around you everywhere else. He still kisses you like it’s second nature. Still rests his forehead against yours, his voice softer, quieter, like the outside world doesn’t exist here. 

Jiyong is still busy, always busy. 

It used to be something you admired about him. His dedication, his unshakable focus that allows him to move mountains if he so wishes to. His ability to tune out the world to a point where nothing seems to exist for him except music. The way he manages to achieve anything if he sets his mind to it, no matter how futile it may seem. And most of all, that unbreakable spirit that has carried him through things that would have brought others to their knees. 

It is part of what made you look up to him in the first place. 

But lately, you start to notice how hard it is to truly reach him when he gets like this. 

There is a day, somewhere in between the chaos of everything, where it becomes clearer than you would like it to be. The day of the final review before his album is released. 

Jiyong had told you to come by. It wasn’t said in an offhanded way. He had explicitly asked you to be there. More than once. Like it mattered more than he was willing to admit out loud. 

“Come later, okay?” he had said earlier that morning, already halfway out the door, but still reaching for you, his fingers briefly catching your wrist before you could step away.

When you hesitated, he looked at you with something restless sitting behind his eyes.

“I mean it,” he added, quieter this time. “Just… be there. Please.”

And you nodded. Of course you did. Because what is important to him is important to you, even when it doesn’t always seem to go both ways. 

By the time you finish practice and make your way to the studio, you can already hear the music before you even reach the door, the low thrum of bass bleeding into the hallway, voices layered over it in a way that tells you the room is already full.

For a brief second, you consider turning around. You don’t need a repeat of the last few times, where you inevitably ended up feeling like the odd one out, always there but never really belonging. Treated like something temporary rather than someone who could actually add anything of value.  

But then you remember the way he said it.

Just… be there. Please. 

So you slip inside.

The studio is even more crowded than you expected. Producers, a few familiar faces, others you don’t recognise, all of them moving through the room with the kind of ease that comes from belonging there, from knowing they are allowed to take up space. 

Jiyong is in the middle of it all. 

He is seated on a couch, body leaned forward, arms braced on his thighs, listening to overlapping voices crashing in on him like waves that threaten to pull him under if he isn’t careful. There is a tension in him that makes the entire room feel more compressed than it already is. 

You stay near the door as the minutes pass. Ten, twenty, maybe more. At some point you watch him lean back, closing his eyes, running a hand down his face, breathing in deeply, like he’s been submerged and has just come up for air. 

He stands, then sits again. He barely rests, barely pauses. Another track is played. He stops it halfway through. 

“No,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else, running a hand through his hair, before leaning forward again. 

You’ve seen him like this before  

On edge, restless. Like everything depends on getting this exactly right. The album is only days away now, and it shows. 

He shakes his head, points at something on the screen, takes a step back, crosses his arms and closes his eyes again, just listening. When they open, his gaze flicks up briefly, scanning the room. 

It lands on you.  

And something soft, almost like relief, flickers across his face. There you are, it seems to say. Or maybe that's just what you want it to mean. It disappears just as quickly as it came. And that's it. 

You continue to watch him work. The way he moves through the room, the way people listen when he speaks, the way everything orbits around him without effort. 

Slowly, the atmosphere seems to shift, loosening, softening at the edges as time passes. 

The longer it stretches, the more aware you become of yourself standing there. Of how still you are. Of how unnecessary your presence feels in a room that functions perfectly fine without you. 

You sit through it anyway. Because he asked you to be here.

At some point, Jiyong laughs at something someone says, finally stepping away from the console, exhaling like he can finally breathe for the first time in hours. The tension that had been sitting so tightly in his frame earlier seems to have eased, almost without notice, his voice is lighter now, his shoulders no longer as rigid as before. 

Someone nudges him lightly. “Take a break, man.”

He huffs out another quiet laugh.

Another voice chimes in, “Let’s get out for a bit. Drinks?”

There is immediate agreement. Chairs scrape, people stand, the line between professional and personal blurring in the way it always seems to around him. 

You remain where you are for a second, watching it happen, unsure when exactly the line was crossed from you being here because he asked you to be to you simply being… here. 

Someone glances in your direction then.

 “Oh, what are you doing here? Aren’t you a trainee?” they ask, like they are trying to place you properly. 

You nod. “Yeah.” 

They nod back easily, a faint half-smirk tugging at their lips. “Ah… you’re the shadow.”

A small pause. 

“Don’t you have practice?”

Another voice adds, more offhand, “Yeah, trainees usually can’t stay out too late, right?”

It is said like a fact. No one looks at you for confirmation. The assumption settles into the room so naturally that it doesn’t feel like a decision being made. Just a given.

You glance toward Jiyong without meaning to. For a second, it feels like he might say something. Like he might correct it. But he is already being pulled into another conversation before he can even attempt to include you. 

You stand slowly, suddenly feeling very awkward under the weight of their attention. 

“Right,” you say before anyone can think to say anything else, your voice steady in a way that surprises you. “I should head back anyway.” 

This time, he hears you. His head turns, his gaze finding you properly, that same brief softness flickering across his face. 

“You’re leaving?” he asks.

There is something in it, a hint of surprise maybe. Like the possibility hadn’t occurred to him.

You nod. “I’ve got practice early.”

It’s not even a lie, just not the full truth. 

He hesitates like something doesn’t quite sit right, but the moment is too crowded, too loud, too full of other people and expectations pressing in from all sides.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Don’t work too hard.” 

You nod again, then pause.  “Have fun.” 

His gaze lingers on you for a second longer, like he wants to say something else, but doesn’t. Someone calls his name, and he turns. Just like that.

You step out before the moment can stretch any further, slipping through the door, the noise cutting off behind you as it closes softly at your back.

The hallway is quiet.

*** 

The elevator ride up feels longer than usual. 

Jiyong leans back slightly against the mirrored wall, eyes half-lidded as he exhales, the faint warmth of alcohol still lingering in his system, not enough to cloud his thoughts completely, but enough to take the sharp edge off the day. 

The night had been longer and louder than he had originally planned. Too many people, too many opinions, too much noise layered over even more noise until it all started to blur together into something exhausting. 

He rolls his shoulders once, trying to shake it off. He is glad to finally be home. 

There is a quiet kind of anticipation settling in his chest now. It’s something he has come to rely on more than he probably realises. He can already picture it, finding her curled up in his bed, Iye and Zoa tucked somewhere close, the room dim, everything calm in a way nothing else has been all day. 

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime. The hallway is quiet. And by the time he reaches his door, he cannot help the small smile that pulls at his lips, the thought of her already easing something in him before he has even stepped inside. 

He loosens his jacket, pushing it off one shoulder as he enters, slipping out of his shoes without much thought. 

“Hey,” he calls softly. 

The door falls shut behind him with a muted click, keys landing somewhere on the counter as he moves further in. 

“I’m home.”

Silence answers him. 

He moves through the apartment like he always does, slow and familiar, shrugging off his jacket sluggishly and tossing it aside, running a hand through his hair as he heads towards the living room. 

“Did you eat something?” he calls out, voice a little louder now. 

Still nothing. 

The quiet stretches longer, and his brows begin to pull together faintly as he glances around, like he might have missed something obvious. 

The lights are off. The space is still. 

Ah… she is probably asleep already. It is rather late after all. Maybe he shouldn’t have called out, he might wake her. 

He steps further in, slowly making his way towards the bedroom. This time more careful to keep his steps light, or as light as he can manage in his current state.

His hand closes around the handle, easing the door open just enough to slip inside. 

“Baby?” he murmurs into the dark. 

His eyes take a second to adjust, his gaze moving across the room slowly. From the closet door, to the armchair, to the bed. Like she might just appear if looks hard enough.

But she doesn’t. The bed is empty, and the room untouched. And that’s when it finally hits him. 

She’s not here.  

He stills for a moment, the quiet shifting into something else, cutting through the haze of alcohol. His jaw tightens slightly, a flicker of unease settling in. 

Did something happen on her way home? Where would she even be at this hour if not here? 

Still standing in the dark, he reaches for his phone, unlocks it without thinking and immediately taps her name. The ringing doesn’t last long before the call connects, the screen shifting, her face appearing a moment later. 

For a moment he just looks at her. Then his eyes flicker past her, trying to make sense of the dark, unfamiliar background. 

His brows knit together. 

“Where are you?” 

The question comes out more direct than he intends. No greetings, no softness, just the question. 

On the other end, she pauses for a second. 

“I’m home,” she says simply. 

He frowns slightly, leaning back against the wall, the pieces not quite lining up fast enough. 

“…You’re not here.” 

Another small pause. 

“Not your home. My home,” she replies. 

The clarification is simple. But it sends a small unfamiliar ache through his chest. Right. Her place. Of course. 

He exhales quietly, dragging a hand down his face before letting it fall. 

“Oh… I thought you’d be here,” he says, the words slipping out before he can really filter them. It comes out looser than he intends, the words not quite lining up cleanly, but the meaning is there. 

On the screen, she pauses.

He shifts slightly where he’s leaning against the wall, dragging a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly aware of the quiet on both ends of the call.

“I mean- ” he huffs out a small breath, something between a laugh and an exhale, “you’re usually here when I get back.” 

He hears it after he says it, the way it sounds, too presumptuous. And maybe he’s a prick for sounding so certain, like there had never really been another option in his head. 

She doesn’t react right away, and for some reason that makes him frown harder. 

“I had stuff to do,” she says after a moment, her voice even. “And I didn’t think you’d need me there tonight, since you went out with your friends.”  

“Need you?” he repeats, slower now, like the word doesn’t quite make sense in this context. 

He pushes off the wall, pacing a step or two without really realising he’s doing it. 

“That’s not- ” he starts, then stops, rubbing his face briefly. “That’s not why.” 

He just…

He just expected her. 

“It’s just- ” he gestures vaguely, even though she can’t see it properly, “I got back and you weren’t here.”

It sounds stupid, even to his own ears. But it’s the closest thing he has right now to explain how he feels. 

She is quiet again, and he finds himself watching her face more closely, trying to find any clues that could hint at what she is thinking. 

“I had practice,” she says. “It ran late.”

“I get that,” he replies quickly, trying to fill the strange space that has started to form, “I just thought you’d come after.”

A small tilt of her head. 

“You didn’t ask me to.”

That makes him stop. Actually, stop. And for a second, his mind goes blank, thoughts delayed in a way that comes from the alcohol still lingering in his system.

“…I did,” he says automatically, brows pulling together. 

Or…

He thinks he did. Didn’t he? He must have, earlier. Somewhere between everything else. 

“Didn’t I?” he adds, quieter now, more to himself than to her, his voice losing some of its certainty. 

He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair again, the motion a little rougher this time.

“Fuck, I don’t- ” he huffs out a small breath, not finishing the sentence.

Because now that he tries to think about it properly, he can’t remember. It’s all blurred together. He paces again, the giddiness and ease from when he walked in nowhere to be found now. 

“You could’ve just come anyway,” he says after a moment, softer, less sure of himself than before. 

And it makes sense to him, because why wouldn’t it? She always came over, even when practice ran late. She came over when he asked, and sometimes when he didn’t. It had stopped feeling like something he needed to ask for and started feeling like something he could simply count on.  

She doesn’t argue, just looks at him, careful in a way that feels different from before.

“I didn’t want to assume,” she replies.

That lands somewhere he doesn’t quite know what to do with. He frowns slightly, gaze dropping for a second before lifting again. He doesn’t understand.

“It’s not like I was gonna tell you to leave,” he says, huffing out a quiet laugh, like the thought of it is simply ridiculous. 

A beat passes, then another, and it slowly dawns on him that the conversation is not going the way he expected it to. Actually, he had not expected there to be a conversation at all. He had thought she would just… be there.

“Whatever,” he mutters under his breath, not in irritation, merely giving up on trying to line it all up properly.

His head tips back slightly against the wall as he exhales.

“You’re good though?” he asks after a moment, the question almost instinctive.

She nods. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

The way she says it seems too easy, too convenient. He notices that, even through the slight haze. Still, he doesn’t push. 

Instead he simply says, “Okay.”

He pauses again. 

“Get some sleep.”

“You too.”

He doesn’t move to end the call right away, just looks at her, like he’s waiting, for what he’s not entirely sure. For her to say something else. For her to change her mind and come over. But nothing happens, and she ends the call. The screen goes dark. 

Jiyong lowers the phone slowly, staring at it for a second longer than necessary before letting his hand drop to his side. The apartment settles back into silence.

He glances toward the bedroom, then the living room, like something might have changed in the last few seconds.

It hasn’t. 

Then why does he feel like this? It’s not like they got into a fight or anything. He shouldn’t feel like this. Nothing even happened. Something about the whole thing still sits wrong. 

“Whatever,” he mutters under his breath, pushing himself off the wall.

He’ll see her tomorrow.

***

He doesn’t end up seeing her the next day. 

At first, it doesn’t feel unusual. His schedule is packed, tighter than usual with the release only days away. Every hour is accounted for before it even begins, leaving little room to stop. Meetings run long, rehearsals bleed into each other, and there is always someone pulling him in a different direction before he can settle on one thought too long. 

Still, there are moments, small ones, where he finds himself thinking of her, his mind circling back to her over and over again. Moments where he catches himself glancing toward a door when it opens, or noticing movement in the corner of his eye, half expecting her to slip in quietly. 

By the time the afternoon settles in, he’s already checked his phone more times than he would ever admit out loud. There are no messages, at least not from her. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

Once or twice, he almost texts her. His thumb hovers over her name, the message already half-formed in his head, but before he can actually commit to it, he gets pulled away again. Someone calls for him, or something demands his attention, and the moment slips past before he can decide whether it mattered enough to follow through. 

She’ll probably show up later, he tells himself at some point, the thought settling deep inside him, the only comfort he has right now. 

It never quite turns into reality. 

When he does eventually ask about her, it’s carefully casual, almost offhanded, like it doesn’t matter much either way. Someone tells him that she is still practicing. Someone else mentions that she’s been using a different studio lately. 

And when evening rolls around and he still hasn’t seen or heard anything from her, something in him feels just unsettled enough that he decides to look for her himself. 

Studio B is empty when he checks, the lights already dimmed, the space abandoned. 

He lingers there for a second longer than necessary, then exhales quietly and turns away, moving down the hallway without a clear destination in mind, just a vague sense that he’ll find her somewhere if he keeps looking. 

He steps into one of the smaller studios, the door clicking shut behind him. 

“Jiyong?”

The voice pulls him out of his thoughts. 

He looks up to find Taeyang sitting on the floor in the dim light, back resting against the wall, phone in hand, his expression calm in that familiar, grounding way that always seems to cut through the noise. 

“You hiding?” Jiyong asks, a faint hint of amusement slipping into his voice.

Taeyang huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Something like that. The quiet helps me think.”

Jiyong nods, moving further into the room before dropping down across from him, stretching his legs out in front of him. 

For a moment, neither of them says anything. 

Then Taeyang glances at him.

“You look tired.”

Jiyong lets out a short breath, his head tipping back slightly. 

“I am tired.”

Then without really meaning to- 

“She didn’t come by today.”

The words slip out before he fully thinks them through, natural in a way that only happens around someone who has known him long enough to read between the lines, long enough that explanations don’t feel necessary.  

Taeyang’s gaze shifts, just slightly more attentive now.

“The trainee?” he asks, though it’s clear he already knows who Jiyong means.

Jiyong nods once, staring somewhere past him.

“Yeah.”

Taeyang hums quietly.

“Thought you said you had her following you around these days.”

There’s a hint of teasing there, familiar, light.

Jiyong huffs, dragging a hand through his hair.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

“I didn’t imply anything,” Jiyong mutters, though there’s no real weight behind the denial.

Taeyang smiles faintly but lets it go.

“So?” he asks instead. “She busy?”

Jiyong shrugs, a little too quickly.

“I guess. Practice, evaluations… whatever.”

He exhales, leaning his head back against the wall again, eyes falling shut briefly. 

“She’s just… not around as much.”

There’s a small pause after that, like he hadn’t planned on saying it out loud.

Taeyang watches him for a moment.

“And that bothers you?”

Jiyong scoffs lightly, immediate.

“It’s not like that.”

Taeyang raises an eyebrow, not convinced, but he doesn’t push either.

Jiyong shifts slightly, gaze dropping for a second before lifting again.

“I just got used to it,” he says instead, quieter now. “I like it when she’s there.”

Taeyang nods slowly.

“Mm.”

Another stretch of quiet settles between them.

“How are things?” Taeyang asks, tone casual, but the question isn’t.

Jiyong knows what he means. He knows their situation isn’t exactly simple, and he knows Taeyang knows it too.

He exhales through his nose.

“They’re fine.”

“We’re fine.”

Taeyang tilts his head slightly.

“That convincing, huh?”

Jiyong lets out a short laugh, shaking his head.

“Shut up.”

Taeyang smiles faintly, but his gaze stays steady.

Jiyong looks away again, jaw tightening just slightly before he relaxes it.

“I don’t know,” he admits after a moment. “She’s been… weird.”

The word feels off the moment he says it.

He frowns faintly.

“Not weird,” he corrects himself. “Just- ”

He gestures vaguely with his hand, like he can shape it into something clearer.

“Different.”

Taeyang doesn’t interrupt.

“She used to just…” Jiyong pauses, searching. “Be there. Now it’s like she’s thinking about it first.”

That’s the closest he gets.

Taeyang hums quietly, considering.

“And what are you doing about it?”

Jiyong blinks, glancing at him.

“What do you mean?”

Taeyang shrugs lightly.

“I mean… are you talking to her about it? Or you just noticing it?”

Jiyong opens his mouth, then closes it again.

Because he hasn’t, not really. Has always taken the easier version of things when it comes to her. Gratefully accepted what she gave without questioning it too closely. 

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s not that serious,” he says, a little more defensive now. “She’s probably just busy.”

“Probably,” Taeyang agrees easily.

But he doesn’t look entirely convinced.

Jiyong frowns slightly, something restless settling back in his chest.

“I just- ” he stops, huffing out a quiet breath. “I thought she’d come by yesterday.”

There’s a brief pause.

“And then she didn’t.”

Taeyang watches him carefully now.

“Did you ask her to?”

Jiyong stills.

“…I thought I did.”

It sounds less certain out loud.

Taeyang nods once, like that tells him enough.

Then, after a moment 

“Jiyong,” he says, tone still light, but a little more grounded now, “you’re not exactly easy to read, you know that, right?”

Jiyong lets out a quiet scoff.

“Neither are you.”

“Yeah,” Taeyang replies with a small smile, “but I’m not the one dating a trainee who probably overthinks everything.”

Now that, that makes Jiyong pause. He frowns faintly, not because he disagrees, but because he hasn’t quite thought about it like that before.

Taeyang continues just as casually, “If you want her somewhere… just tell her.”

It sounds so simple when he says it like that. 

Jiyong exhales, leaning his head back again.

“I do tell her.”

Taeyang glances at him.

“Clearly not enough.”

There’s no accusation in it. Just honesty.

Jiyong huffs out a breath, somewhere between annoyance and reluctant amusement.

“Since when are you giving me relationship advice?”

Taeyang shrugs.

“Since I am the one who’s married and not you.”

Jiyong lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

A voice calls for him from somewhere down the hall, pulling him back in before the conversation can go any further. 

“Jiyong-ssi, they’re waiting on you.” 

He exhales quietly, pushing himself up from the floor, brushing his hands over his pants as the weight of everything waiting for him settles back into place.

“Duty calls,” he mutters, glancing at Taeyang.

Taeyang hums, watching him for a second longer. “Don’t forget what I said.”

Jiyong gives a half-hearted wave, already turning toward the door. “I won’t.” But even as he says it, he’s not really thinking about it anymore.

Not as he steps into the hallway, where despite the late hour everything is louder again, people moving around with urgency as the final stretch before the album release presses in from all sides.

He barely makes it two steps before someone is already at his side.

“Jiyong-ssi, for tomorrow, we need to confirm the setlist again, and there’s a small change to the timing- ”

“And the press will arrive earlier than expected, so we’ll have to adjust- ”

“Also the outfit for the opening- ”

He nods automatically, catching pieces of it, missing others, being pulled along as they walk.

“Yeah, okay, just send it to me,” he says, running a hand through his hair, his mind trying to keep up as everything stacks on top of everything else.

The release party is tomorrow. Another thing on his long list to get through. Another room full of people drowning him in their expectations. 

He rolls his shoulders once, exhaling. At least she’ll be there. 

***

The invitation doesn’t come from Jiyong. It comes from your manager. It’s presented as this big career changing thing, even though you technically haven’t even debuted yet. 

“It’s a big deal,” she tells you, more than once. “Rookies don’t get chances like this.” 

Her voice carries that same firm certainty every time, like she’s trying to make sure you truly understand what this means. 

“It’s going to be great,” she continues, already thinking ahead. “You’ll be introduced to so many important people. This is really going to open doors for you.”

You nod, because of course it will. She’s right, she really is. It is a big deal. It is a huge opportunity. And technically, for the first time, you actually belong there, in his world, rubbing shoulders with people you would normally only hear about, not stand beside. 

Not as someone hovering at the edges. Not as someone people quietly question or try to label. But as someone who has a reason to be in that room, a role that justifies her presence. No one will aks why you’re there. No one will look at you with underlying dismissal and ask if you wandered in by mistake. 

Still, one thought lingers beneath it all. 

He never asked. Never extended an invitation, not in a way that matters. 

You knew about the party long before your manager even mentioned it. It had been impossible not to. The entire company had been moving differently these past few days, every conversation seeming to circle back to that same thing.  

You had heard Jiyong mention it too, once or twice, in passing, somewhere between everything else. But never in a way that made it clear that he wanted you there with him. 

You should be excited. You are excited. 

Because this is everything he has been working towards for months, something you have witnessed first hand. The long nights, the frustration, the way he kept pushing even when it would have been easier not to. You’ve seen how much of himself he poured into this, how much this matters to him.

You are proud of him. That part has never been complicated. What is complicated is everything else. 

So when the day of the album release party finally arrives, you cannot quite shake the quiet wrongness of it all. 

The room you’re brought into is already prepared. Bright lights, mirrors lined up, tools neatly arranged in a way that feels almost clinical in its precision, everything exactly where it needs to be. 

“Sit here,” someone says gently, guiding you toward the chair.

You do, because at this point, it feels easier to just follow than to think too much. 

Hands move around you almost immediately, practiced and efficient, adjusting your hair, brushing against your skin, voices overlapping softly in a language of routine that doesn’t feel familiar to you yet.

“Don’t move.”

You still.

 A brush grazes along your cheek, a hand tilts your chin slightly, someone steps back only to step in again a second later. 

“You’re the one on the track, right?”

Your manager answers before you can. “Yes, she is. Handpicked by G-Dragon himself.”

There’s a shift in the air at that. 

“She’s pretty,” someone says, almost absentmindedly. “Pretty eyes. Nice smile.” 

“Well, keep it clean,” another adds. “Fresh and elegant.” 

They talk about you like you’re not really there. Like you are just something that has to be prepared, finished and presented. 

Your gaze drifts towards the mirror, catching your reflection. You can barely recognise yourself. Not because you look different, but because this version of you looks like she belongs somewhere like tonight. Like she’s someone who wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t second guess where she’s allowed to stand or who she’s allowed to stand beside. 

Your fingers curl slightly into the fabric resting in your lap.

“You’re quiet,” your manager notes.

You blink, refocusing.

“Just tired,” you answer.

The lie comes easily. It always does now. 

She nods like that explains everything. And maybe, to her, it does. 

But in reality, you’re anything but tired. Your mind won’t settle. Thoughts keep drifting, circling back to Jiyong no matter how many times you try to redirect them.  

You haven’t really seen him. Not since everything started to feel different. And this time it’s not timing that is to blame, or missed opportunities, not even your busy schedules that just don’t line up. 

It’s you, you’ve been avoiding him. And successfully so. But it’s not like he’s really reached out either, which somehow makes this worse, makes everything feel even more uncertain.

Tonight though, there is no avoiding it, no avoiding him. Your manager made sure of that. The thought settles somewhat uneasily in your chest. Because a large part of you, despite everything, still reacts the same way. Still feels that flutter at the idea of seeing him. Still remembers the way things feel when it’s just the two of you, when everything is quiet, when none of this exists. Still wants that. 

And that’s the problem.

Because you don’t know what version of him you’re going to get tonight. The one who reaches for you without thinking. Or the one who lets you stand three steps away like you don’t belong to him at all.

“Almost done,” someone says.

You hum softly, your eyes flicking towards your phone resting nearby.

There’s no messages, nothing from him. You could text him. But what would you even say?

Your thumb hovers, then stills. You don’t send anything, because you don’t want to have to announce yourself. Like you need permission to exist in his world, exist next to him. 

“Okay,” the stylist says, stepping back. “Take a look.” 

You turn slightly, your gaze settling on your reflection.

Everything is exactly as it should be. Your hair falls perfectly, your makeup soft but precise, your outfit fitting like it was made for you. You really do look beautiful, and for a moment you almost believe it. That you belong there. But belonging in the room is not the same as belonging with him. 

You stand, smoothing your hands over the fabric, grounding yourself in the motion.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

They smile, already moving on, the moment finished for them.

You pick up your phone, slipping it into your bag without checking it again. Because you already know, there’s nothing there.

I LOVE IT Pt. 11

Summary: She's nervous, inexperienced, and trying to be professional. He's confident, teasing, and maybe falling faster than he expected.

Warnings: age gap (legal), angst, lack of communication, miscommunication, power imbalance, slight jealousy, Jiyong's still oblivious

Pairing: Kwon Jiyong x reader

a/n: Just like I promised, here’s the next part. Thank you for waiting. it means a lot <3

The halfway they lead you down is narrower than the main hall, though still grand in the same way everything in the mansion seems to be. You marvel at the intricate wallpaper, absentmindedly tracing one of the delicate golden flowers with your finger as you walk past.

Eventually you stop outside a large set of double doors. On one of them, a white sign with bold black letters reads: G-DRAGON.  

Inside, bright lights line a long mirror. Racks of clothing crowd one side of the room, dark suits, coats and carefully pressed shirts hang in neat rows. The clothes are dull and muted, greys, deep navy, dark red. So unlike the colourful pieces he usually prefers.  

Several people are already waiting inside the makeshift dressing room. The moment Jiyong steps through the doorway, the room shifts into motion. 

“Good morning.” 

“Morning, Jiyong-ssi. Let’s start with makeup.”

You hover near the doorway at first, unsure where exactly you’re supposed to stand. No one asks you to leave, but no one addresses you either. 

Jiyong slips into the chair in front of the mirror as the makeup artist begins setting out brushes and small palettes across the counter.

“Did you sleep?” she asks, slightly scolding.

“Better than usual,” he replies with a faint smile. 

The thought that you probably had something to do with that, makes your cheeks warm. 

“That’s new.” she says, laughing softly before leaning in to start applying makeup.

You drift a little closer, stopping beside one of the clothing racks. From here you can see his reflection in the mirror. 

Under the bright lights his face looks shaper. But the harsh light also accentuates the dark circles beneath his eyes that weren’t quite as noticeable before. The makeup artist works quickly, blending foundation, brushing light powder across his cheekbones, darkening his eyes. 

“Turn slightly,” someone says.

He does without hesitation.

More hands appear, adjusting his hair. 

You watch quietly.

The room moves around his presence. 

“We can try the outfits now,” someone says, they flip through the rack of clothes beside you.

“Let’s switch shirts first,” the wardrobe stylist adds.

Jiyong hums in agreement, and without much thought, he reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head.

You blink. 

At home it wouldn’t feel strange. You’ve seen him half dressed countless times after all. Mornings when he wanders around the apartment looking for coffee, late nights when he’s wrapped around you wearing nothing but his underwear.

But here it’s different. The room is full of people. 

Stylists move closer immediately, completely unfazed. One of them takes the shirt from his hands while another pulls a darker one over his head. No one hesitates. And why would they? To them, it’s routine. 

You however instinctively shift your weight, suddenly unsure of where exactly to look. When you glance up again, one of the assistants is watching you. Her eyes flick briefly between you and Jiyong before returning to the clothes in her hands. Another stylist joins her at the rack beside you. 

“A jacket maybe?” she asks. 

“Good call. Feels incomplete like this.”  

The two of them pull out a jacket together, but you can feel their attention drifting back toward you ever so often. It’s subtle, a small pause here, a quick glance there. Like they’re trying to figure out if you’re some crazy fan who snuck in or if you actually belong here. 

You become very aware of where you're standing. Right in the middle of everything. You shift uncomfortable again with the weight of their gazes. 

Behind you someone steps forward with a dark red shirt. 

“Arms up.”

Jiyong lifts them without hesitation while the stylist pulls the fabric down over his shoulders,smoothing it into place. Then she runs her hands through his hair to settle it again. 

“Maybe leather pants with this,” Jiyong says, already reaching to unbutton his jeans. 

No one reacts to that either. Everyone keeps working around him easily, comfortably, like this is something they do every day.

The assistant beside you gives you another look and hesitates before speaking. 

“Are you… with the team?” she asks, tone polite but suspiciousness is laced through the words. 

You open your mouth, unsure what the right answer even is.

Before you can figure it out, Jiyong glances up from the mirror.

“She’s with me.”

The answer comes out casually, like it’s obvious.

The assistant nods, though curiosity lingers in her expression.

“Ah.”

Then she gestures lightly toward the door.

“Do you want to step outside for a bit?” she asks kindly. “Just while we finish changing.”

Heat creeps up your neck. You hadn’t realised you might be in the way.

Before you can respond, Jiyong speaks again.

“She’s fine.”

His voice is calm, almost distracted as he finishes pulling on the new pants. 

“She can stay.”

The assistant glances between the two of you for a moment. Then she nods.

“Alright.”

Just like that, the moment passes. No one questions it further.

You shift closer to the clothing rack, pretending to study the coats hanging there, when really you’re just trying to disappear between the rows of fabric. 

A darker jacket with structured shoulders is brought over next. 

“Let’s try this one.”

Jiyong slips his arms into the sleeves while the stylist smooths the fabric across his back.

“Turn.”

He turns obediently. Fingers adjust the collar. Someone tugs lightly at the hem.

There’s a quick knock before the door opens, and a familiar face appears in the doorway before anyone has even told them to come in.  

“Well, that’s new.” Misun leans casually against the doorframe, her eyes slowly drifting up and down Jiyong's frame. “You’ve been working out again.” It’s said lightly, almost teasing.

One of the stylists laughs.

“He’s preparing for comeback season.”

Misun steps a little closer, studying the fit of the jacket.

“You can tell.”

Her gaze flicks briefly toward the mirror, and for a second, toward you. Not long enough to be obvious, just long enough that you notice.

Then she looks back at Jiyong again.

“Director wants to start blocking in about fifteen minutes.”

Jiyong nods once.

“Alright.”

A stylist reaches up to adjust the collar of his jacket one last time while Misun watches with mild interest.

You remain near the rack of dark coats, still half hidden between them, your eyes drift back to the mirror. Jiyong's reflection catches yours. And for a moment the corners of his mouth lift. A small, quick smile. Then the stylist steps between you again, blocking the view.

“Okay,” she says after a moment, stepping back to examine her work.

“Let’s see it under the set lights.”

Jiyong stands, rolling his shoulders once as someone smooths the back of his coat.

“Ready?”

He glances toward the door.

Then, almost automatically, his eyes flick toward you. Another small tilt of his head is all it takes and you push away from the wall, following him out again.

Jiyong walks ahead without slowing, the long coat shifting slightly with each step. You fall into place beside him automatically, half a step behind.

When you enter the main hall you’re once again hit by the beauty of the place. Your gaze drifts upwards again towards the large chandelier, the empty space of the missing crystal catches your eye again before someone calls out from across the room.

“Jiyong-ssi, over here.”

The director stands near a cluster of monitors while a few crew members adjust the placement of a camera on a rolling track.

Jiyong moves toward them, and you follow without really thinking about it.

“Morning,” the director says, giving him a quick once-over. “Wardrobe looks good.”

One of the stylists removes lint from the back of Jiyong’s coat again before stepping away.

“We’re just going to block the first section,” the director continues, gesturing toward the center of the hall. “I just want to get a feel for the space.”

Jiyong nods.

You hover a little to the side while the crew shifts into position around him.

Someone rolls a camera slightly closer. Another adjusts one of the lights overhead, bathing the center of the room in a warmer, yellow glow.

“Okay,” the director says. “Start here.”

He taps a piece of tape on the floor.

“Then walk toward the staircase. Pause under the chandelier.”

Jiyong glances up briefly.

You follow his gaze automatically.

The missing crystal flashes in your mind again.

“Then Misun comes in from here,” the director continues, pointing toward a side doorway. “You meet in the center.”

Misun steps forward from the edge of the room as if on cue.

“Romantic tension,” the director says casually. “Not too much yet.”

She smiles faintly.

“Got it.”

The crew begins adjusting positions and you instinctively drift a little closer to Jiyong as everyone spreads out, stopping just behind one of the cameras. From here you can see everything clearly.

“Ready?” someone calls.

Jiyong nods.

“Okay. Let’s try it once.”

The room quiets slightly as the camera operator settles behind the monitor.

“Rolling.”

Jiyong steps onto the taped mark and begins walking, his pace slow and  deliberate. He knows how to move, how to angle his face just so for the camera. 

“Good. Just like that,” the director says as Jiyong reaches the center of the floor. “Pause there.”

Misun steps forward from the side doorway. She moves easily into the scene, stopping a few feet in front of him. They exchange a look.

“Closer,” the director says.

Misun takes another step forward. The camera rolls slowly along the track beside them. From where you’re standing, it almost feels like you’re watching something private.

Then someone behind you mutters quietly.

“Who’s she with?”

You glance slightly to the side.

Two crew members are standing near a lighting stand, both looking vaguely in your direction.

“Not sure,” the other replies.

You turn back toward the set quickly, pretending you hadn’t heard them. 

But the words linger. Making you aware of how close you’ve been standing to Jiyong all morning. How every time he moves somewhere, you move with him without even thinking about it. Following a few steps behind, adjusting your path to match his, like a shadow. You’re hovering. And you know it. The thought makes heat creep up your neck. 

You should probably step farther away. Blend into the edges of the room like everyone else seems to know how to do. The crew moves through the space with an easy certainty, slipping in and out of conversations like they know exactly where they belong.

You very much don’t.

Jiyong is the only familiar thing here. So you stay close. His presence offers a quiet sense of security, even if part of you is still unsure where exactly you stand with him.

The rest of the morning passes in a blur of small adjustments and repeated takes. More blocking. More repositioning of lights. Someone constantly shifting the camera track a few inches left or right. Eventually they begin filming actual scenes.

You stay near the edge of the set now, careful to stand a little farther back than before, though your eyes rarely leave him.

Jiyong moves through the space with an effortless confidence that still surprises you sometimes. It’s different from the version of him you see when it’s just the two of you. Here he becomes something else. Even the smallest movements feel intentional.

You find yourself watching him the way everyone else in the room does. With quiet attention. And something warm settles in your chest, pride.

You know how hard he works and how talented he is. Know how respected he is. But seeing it like this. Watching an entire room shift around him, watching how easily he commands the space, makes it feel different somehow.

The speakers crackle to life at one point, and the opening notes of the song fill the hall. Your breath catches. It still feels surreal hearing it here. Your song.

Jiyong’s voice flows through the room first, smooth and familiar. Then, a few seconds later, your own voice joins his. The sound echoes against the high ceilings, filling the vast space in a way that makes it almost feel unreal.

For a moment you just stand there, listening.

It’s strange hearing yourself like that. Your voice woven so naturally into Jiyong’s, carried through the same speakers that moments ago were blasting directions across the set.

A quiet thrill runs through you. You did that. You’re part of this.

Across the room the crew shifts again, preparing for the next setup. This time they move into one of the adjoining rooms of the mansion, a smaller space dressed with tall windows and sheer curtains that let soft light spill across the wooden floor.

“Let’s try the dance here,” the director calls.

Misun steps into the frame first. Jiyong joins her a moment later.

“Just move with the music, ” the director continues. 

Jiyong’s hand settles lightly at Misun’s waist. They begin to sway slowly in time with the song. Not quite dancing, just moving together. The camera circles them quietly while the music fills the room.

Your voice flows through the speakers again, layered with his. You watch them turn slowly beneath the soft light, their movements easy, intimate in the quiet of the scene.

The shot looks beautiful, exactly the way it’s supposed to. And suddenly the thought slips in before you can stop it. Your voice is here, but you’re not, not really. You swallow the feeling down before it has time to settle too deeply. Around you the crew continues working, calling out adjustments, resetting lights, preparing the next shot.

Eventually the director claps his hands once.

“Alright,” he calls out. “Let’s take a break everyone!”

Conversations start up immediately, shoes scuff across the floor, and bodies move toward the catering area. The careful focus of the morning dissolves into a loose, easy buzz.

Jiyong is already being pulled away by one of the producers, falling into step bedside them. Misun appears at his side not long after. They continue talking as they walk. 

You follow, of course. Mindful not to step close enough to interrupt. 

Catering is set up in one of the adjoining rooms. Long rows of neatly arranged tables hold an array of delicious looking dishes. The smell hits you all at once, and only then do you realise how hungry you actually are. 

The flow of people carries you forward and somewhere in the shuffle, you lose Jiyong. One second he’s there, just ahead of you, still deep in conversation, and the next he’s gone, swallowed by the movement of bodies. 

You hesitate for a moment, then step into line. You’ll find him once you sit down. You’re sure. Hopefully. 

You pick up a plate, moving along slowly, barely paying attention to what you’re taking. Your focus is elsewhere, eyes flicking up every now and then, searching the room.

You finally spot him, already seated at one of the tables near the windows. Misun sits across from him, leaning slightly forward as she talks. He’s listening, elbow resting on the table, fingers absently playing with the cap of his water bottle. His gaze drifts across the room, almost searching. 

“They really do look good together.” The words slip in from your right, quiet but clear enough for you to catch. 

Two crew members stand just behind you, plates in hand, piling on food. You don’t mean to listen. But you do anyway. 

“They always have,” the other replies. “It just works with them.” 

A soft clink of utensils. 

“Yeah. They match really well. It’s natural.” 

The words settle uncomfortable in your chest. You look away quickly and move forward in line, pretending you hadn’t heard anything at all. By the time you reach the end of the buffet, your plate feels heavier than it should. 

You swallow, step aside and scan the room again. Your eyes find them, still talking. Misun says something that makes Jiyong huff out a quiet laugh, his head tilting slightly as he looks at her. 

Watching them like this, you can’t deny it. They fit.

You shift your weight, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of your plate. You should sit somewhere else. It would probably even make more sense and it’s not like anyone would question it. 

Your feet start to shift, and then Jiyong looks up. His gaze moves over the room once more, then lands on you. His eyebrows lift slightly, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. His whole demeanor seems to soften almost instantly. He lifts a hand, waving you over, and your steps change direction before you can think about it and you start walking towards them. 

“Hey,” he says as you approach. “You got food?”

You nod, offering a small smile. “Yeah.” 

He taps the empty chair beside him. 

“Sit.” 

You nod again and lower yourself into the chair. 

Jiyong glances at what you picked, then back at his own selection. 

“Oh, you got the good stuff.” 

Before you can react, he reaches over and casually steals one of your saba sushi rolls. 

You blink, then shoot him a look. “Hey- you can’t just steal my food.” 

“I can,” he replies easily, already taking a bite. “I didn’t see them.”

“That doesn’t make it yours.”

He hums, clearly unbothered. 

“You weren’t eating it.”

“I just sat down!”

A quiet laugh slips from him.

“I guess you’re just too slow.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “You’re actually the worst.” 

Across the table, Misuns watches the exchange, her lips curve into something polite. 

“You’re very comfortable,” she remarks lightly. 

There’s no bite to it, not really, but something in the way she says it makes you pause. 

“Most people are more polite, “ she adds, almost as an afterthought. “With their seniors, I mean.” 

Heat creeps up your neck, the words catching you off guard. You didn’t think you were coming across as impolite or worse disrespectful. You straighten slightly in your seat, suddenly aware of how you must look. 

“I didn’t mean- “ you start quietly. 

“It’s fine,” Jiyong cuts in before you can finish. 

He reaches for his drink, taking a slow sip before glancing at you. “I don’t mind.” 

Misun hums softly, shooting you one last look before picking up right where they must have left off before you arrived. They fall into discussion easily, go back and forth on things you haven’t even heard of before. 

There’s not really anything you can add to the conversation so you just sit beside Jiyong, eating quietly and listening more than speaking. 

Around you, the room hums with conversation, easy and familiar. People laugh, plates clink. And across from you, Misun says something that makes Jiyong smile again, small and unguarded.

You feel it then. A quiet, steady awareness settling somewhere deep. They really do look right. You lower your gaze to your plate, pushing your food around for a moment before taking another bite. It tastes fine. You barely notice anymore.

Besides you, Jiyong shifts slightly, his knee brushing yours under the table, grounding, and somehow it isn’t enough. “You okay?” he murmurs. 

You nod. Of course you are.

The break doesn’t last much longer, and eventually someone calls out, “Five minutes!” 

Chairs scrape softly against the floor as people begin to stand, conversations trailing off as quickly as they started.

Jiyong exhales, running a hand through his hair as he pushes his chair back.

“Guess we’re back.”

You follow a few steps behind Jiyong as he is guided to yet another part of the mansion. The room is smaller compared to the ones before. Tall windows line one wall, sheer curtains diffuse the afternoon light into a soft golden glow. The furniture looks antique, a faint layer of dust covering everything. 

“Alright,” the director calls. “We’ll do the close-up here.”

You move toward the side again, stopping near one of the walls. Not too close. You remember now. You are trying to take up less space.

Jiyong steps into position. A stylist immediately moves in, adjusting the collar of his shirt, fixing a strand of hair that fell loose near his eyes.

Misun joins him a moment later, stepping into place beside him. Her makeup is touched up and her dress is adjusted with quick, practiced fingers. 

“Okay,” the director says, stepping closer to the monitor. “Remember, guys, this is supposed to be the confession scene.” 

He gestures between them, “You move in, hold eye contact. Let the tension sit for a second.” After a small pause he adds, “Then the kiss.”

Your heart drops in your chest. You blink, a light shake of your head follows, maybe you misheard. A kiss scene? You swallow. Why hadn’t Jiyong mentioned it? Had he not known, or had he chosen not to tell you? You shift your weight, uncomfortable with how quickly your thoughts turn in that direction.

The speakers hum softly as the track is cued again. 

“Alright then, positions.”

From where you are, you can see Jiyong’s profile clearly. The slight tension in his jaw. The way his shoulders tense, then loosen as he settles into the role.

Misun tilts her head slightly, watching him. 

“Rolling.” 

The room stills. They hold eye contact. One second, two. It feels like forever. Jiyong’s hand lifts slowly, brushing against Misun's arm before trailing down to settle at her waist. 

She steps even closer. Her hand slides up over his chest, fingers grazing the side of his neck as she leans in. 

“Perfect, hold that,” the director murmurs. 

They stay like that for a second, close enough that there is no space left between them, breaths mingling. Then Misun closes the distance. 

The kiss is soft at first. Just two pairs of lips pressing together. And then, it lingers longer than it needs to. Not enough to question. Just enough for you to feel it. 

Your fingers curl at your sides. You do not realise you have stepped forward until someone brushes past you sharply. 

“Careful,” a voice mutters. 

You blink, stepping back instinctively. “Sorry.” 

The camera shifts slightly. 

“Keep going, guys,” the director says. 

They pull apart just enough, foreheads almost touching. Misun’s hand stays at Jiyong’s neck a moment longer before slipping away.

“That was good,” the director says, “Let’s go again from the top.”

They reset, and you shift again, trying to find a better angle, leaning slightly past a light stand. 

“Hey.” The voice is firmer this time. 

You turn. 

A crew member gestures toward you, a hint of irritation in his expression. “You cannot stand there.” 

Heat rushes to your face. “Oh, sorry.”

You step back quickly. 

“There’s tape,” he adds matter-of-factly, pointing down. 

You follow his gesture, and sure enough there’s a thin line running across the floor you somehow hadn’t noticed before. 

“Stay behind that, please.” 

“Okay. Sorry.” You nod and move behind it.

You don’t step forward again. From here, the view is a lot worse. The camera blocks part of them and it doesn’t help that people move in and out of your line of sight. You have to tilt your head just to see. 

“Reset,” someone calls. 

They move back into position. Jiyong adjusts his stance and for a brief moment his gaze drifts. It passes over the room, over the crew. Not over you. 

“Rolling again.” 

They step in and Misun's hand finds his neck again. This time sliding higher, her fingers threading into his hair. The kiss comes quicker, but also deeper. It’s still controlled, still for the camera, of course. At least, that is what you tell yourself. It is fine, really. Until it’s not. Until her lips start moving against Jiyong’s more intently. You don’t understand why it needs to be this intense. You’re pretty sure your on camera kiss with Jiyong wasn’t like this. Then again what do you know? 

“Cut.”

You exhale. 

Movement rushes back in. Stylists step forward, touching up makeup, reapplying Misun’s lipstick, wiping the faint traces of it from Jiyong's lips. 

You stay where you are, behind the line, carefully placed out of sight. You don’t miss the small, knowing curve of Misun’s lips as she glances at him. 

A few moments later, Jiyong steps back and glances around again. This time, his eyes do find you. For a second, something shifts, like he might say something. 

Then-

“Jiyong, we need you for the next setup.” 

He nods. “Yeah.” 

And just like that, he turns away again. You remain where you are, the thin strip of tape at your feet suddenly feeling much more solid. You had tried to stay out of the way. Tried to be smaller, quieter. And still, it was not enough.

For a while, you just stand there as the set shifts around you again. People pass in front of you without looking, voices blur together as the next set up begins. 

You glance down at the line again, then back up at the scene. You watch it all unfold like an outside spectator looking in through a milky window, as if  you were never part of it to begin with. No one is looking for you. No one is waiting for you to be anywhere specific.

You’re not needed here. You would only be in the way again. 

The thought settles quietly, almost gently. So, slowly, you take a step back. No one notices. You move along the edge of the room, careful not to interrupt anything, slipping past cables and light stands, past people too focused on their tasks to pay attention to you.

When you reach the doorway you turn slightly, just enough to look over your shoulder.

Jiyong is already focused again, unreachable. Talking to the director, nodding along as something is explained to him. Misun stands beside him, listening just as closely, occasionally adding something of her own.

You hesitate, just for a second. Then you step out into the hallway. The door closes softly behind you, and just like that, the noise fades into something distant. 

Outside, you pause, unsure where to go. Then your eyes lift, drawn down the long corridor stretching ahead of you, and you start walking. 

For a while, you just walk. There is no real direction to it. You follow the curve of the corridor as it bends, passing tall windows that let in muted light, the curtains here heavier. 

You slow near one of the windows, your fingers brushing lightly along the wall beside it. The surface is cool beneath your touch. You just stand there, looking out at the overgrown garden beyond the glass. 

Your gaze drifts. That’s when you notice it. 

A thin crack running through the paint just beside the window frame. It’s small, easy to miss if you're not looking for it. You tilt your head slightly, your fingers tracing along it. The line is uneven, splitting the smooth surface in a way that feels out of place. 

You step back, your eyes moving across the wall slowly, more careful this time. There, another one. And another one. Faint lines run through the plaster, subtle but present. You hadn’t noticed things like this when you arrived. Everything had felt… flawless. 

Your chest tightens. You move on. 

The next room you wander into is larger, though emptier than the others. A tall, ornate mirror stands against one wall. You step closer without thinking.

At first, all you see is your reflection. Then your eyes shift. A thin fracture cuts through the corner of the glass, spidering outward just enough to catch the light when you move. 

You stare at it longer than you mean to. It doesn’t ruin the mirror. From far enough away, you wouldn’t notice it at all. It is still beautiful, still impressive. And yet, once you’ve seen it, you cannot unsee it.

Your fingers curl slightly at your sides. A quiet thought presses in, uninvited. The mansion had looked perfect at first glance, just like your relationship with Jiyong. Now all you can see are the cracks beginning to surface, and you can’t help but wonder if anything was ever as flawless as it seemed. 

You inhale softly, like you might shake the thought loose before it settles. But it lingers anyway.

You turn away from the mirror.

The next corridor feels narrower. The light doesn’t reach as easily here, shadows settling deeper into the corners. The wallpaper has started to peel in places, the edges curling slightly away from the wall.

You slow again, your fingers brushing along one of the lifted seams. It comes away just a little under your touch. You let it fall back into place.

You think about the way you had looked at this place when you first arrived. How everything had felt overwhelming in the best way. Like something out of a fairytale. You think about the chandelier and the missing crystal. You swallow.

Somewhere in the distance, you can still faintly hear movement from the set. The world you had just stepped out of continuing without you.

Your arms fold loosely around yourself. You are not sure how long you stand there before you hear footsteps approaching from the other end of the corridor.

You glance up.

A crew member appears, carrying a small case, slowing slightly when he notices you. You expect the same look. The same question. Why are you here? But it doesn’t come.

Instead, he offers you a small, friendly smile.

“Hey,” he says, voice light. “You okay?”

The question catches you off guard. For the first time you actually wonder. Are you okay? 

You blink, then nod quickly.

“Yeah. I just… needed some air.”

He glances past you down the corridor, then back again.

“Yeah, it gets a bit much,” he says. “First time on a set like this?”

You hesitate for a fraction of a second, because technically it isn’t. You’ve been on set before. It just hadn’t quite been like this. 

“…Yeah.”

He nods like he understands.

“Thought so,” he says. “It’s always a little chaotic. You get used to it.”

His tone is casual, No edge, no judgment. Just… normal.

“You’re not in the way, by the way,” he adds after a second, almost as an afterthought. “People just get tunnel vision when we’re shooting.”

Something in your chest shifts at that, small, but noticeable. You nod again, a little more genuine this time.

“Thanks.”

He adjusts the case in his hand.

“There’s a quieter lounge down that way,” he says, gesturing past you. “If you don’t want to go back just yet.”

Your gaze follows where he points.

“Okay,” you say softly.

There’s a brief pause, like the moment could end there. Like he could just nod and leave. But instead, he shifts the case in his hand and gestures lightly with his head.

“I’m heading that way anyway,” he says. “I can show you.”

You hesitate again, then nod.

“Okay… thanks.”

He falls into step beside you, not too close, not too far either. Just enough that it doesn’t feel like you’re wandering alone anymore. 

Neither of you speaks.

Your footsteps echo softly against the floor as you move deeper into the quieter part of the mansion, the noise from the set fades further with every turn.

“You’re with the artist?” he asks after a moment, tone casual.

The question makes your shoulders tense slightly.

“Sort of…” you say, not quite sure how to explain it.

He glances at you briefly, then nods like that answer is enough.

“Got it.”

No follow-up. No curiosity that feels invasive. You hadn’t realised how much you needed that.

The corridor opens into a smaller sitting room.It’s dimmer here, the curtains half drawn, letting in filtered afternoon light that settles softly over a pair of worn couches and a low wooden table.

“Here,” he says, stepping inside first and setting the case down near one of the walls. “No one really comes here during shoots.”

You hover near the doorway for a second before stepping in. It’s quiet here, really quiet.

“Thanks,” you say, more genuine this time.

He gives you a small shrug, like it’s nothing.

“No problem.”

You move toward the window, your fingers brushing lightly over the back of one of the couches as you pass. The fabric is worn, softer from age. Used.

And again, that strange contrast settles in. From far away, everything in this place still looks beautiful. Up close, it tells a different story.

“You okay?” he asks again, softer this time.

You glance back at him.

He’s leaning lightly against the wall now, arms loosely crossed, not imposing, just there.

“I’m fine,” you say automatically.

Then, after a small pause, “It’s just… a lot.”

He nods.

“Yeah. It can be.”

Silence settles again, but it isn’t uncomfortable. It stretches into something easier. Conversation follows naturally after that, drifting between small things and nothing at all. And it feels easy, because for the first time since you stepped onto set, you don’t feel like you’re in the way. 

At some point, you stop keeping track of time altogether. 

The quiet of the room, the steady calm of it, the absence of expectation pressing in on you from all sides. It makes everything else feel far away.

You don’t know how much time has passed when the door suddenly opens. You don’t notice at first, laughing softly at something the crew member says, but he does. 

His gaze lifts, attention moving past you toward the doorway, his expression changing just slightly. 

You turn, following his line of sight. 

Jiyong stands in the doorway. 

At first he doesn’t say anything. He just looks. His gaze moves over the room quickly, taking in the space, the distance between you and the other man, the way you’re standing a little closer than you had been earlier, the way your posture has softened. 

Then his eyes settle on your face. 

“There you are,” he says, voice calm and even. 

You straighten slightly without meaning to, suddenly feeling like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t, even though, technically you didn’t do anything wrong. 

“I… yeah, I just- “ you start, words catching as you glance briefly at the crew member beside you. “It was quieter here.” 

Jiyong’s gaze shifts to him then, just for a second. 

A polite nod. 

“Thanks,” he says. “For keeping her company.”

It sounds courteous. It doesn’t quite feel like it. The crew member pauses, then nods back.

“Yeah. Of course.”

He reaches for his case, glancing at you once more, something small and reassuring in the look, before stepping past Jiyong and out into the hallway.

The door closes softly behind him. Silence settles, and Jiyong steps fully into the room now. 

“We’re done,” he says, his eyes tired. “They wrapped.” 

A small pause. 

“I was looking for you.”

You blink.

“Oh,” you say quietly. “I didn’t realise it took that long.”

His gaze lingers on you.

“You’ve been gone for a while.”

It’s not an accusation, but it feels pretty close to one. 

You shift your weight slightly.

“I didn’t think I was needed,” you admit, softer now. “Everything was… busy. I didn’t want to be in the way again.”

Something flickers across his face at that. It’s gone in an instant, too quick to fully read.

“You could’ve told me you were leaving.”

There’s a slight edge now. Still controlled, but present nonetheless. 

“You were working,” you reply, almost instinctively. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“I wouldn’t have cared,” he says, quieter now, his jaw tightening just barely.

You’re not sure if that’s meant to reassure you. It doesn’t quite. Silence stretches between you. Then his gaze drifts briefly around the room again, like he’s taking in the space you chose to be in. The quiet, the distance from everything else.

When his eyes return to you, they’re unreadable again.

“We’re heading out,” he says. “Car’s waiting.”

Another pause.

“Come on.”

He turns before you can say anything else, already moving toward the door.

The ride back is quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just quiet. Jiyong leans back in his seat, eyes closed for a moment as he exhales. He runs a hand through his hair, shoulders sinking slightly like the day is finally catching up to him.

You sit beside him, watching the city pass by outside the window. Neither of you says much. At one point, he shifts, glancing out at the road ahead before settling back again. His jaw tightens briefly, like something is still lingering from earlier.

You notice, but don’t mention it.

The car turns and it takes you a second to realise the direction. This isn’t the way to your place.

You glance at him.

“We’re going to yours?” you ask, quiet.

He nods once, already leaning his head back again.

“Yeah. It’s closer.”

“I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

He doesn’t check if that’s okay with you. It’s just decided.

You nod. “Okay.”

Your voice comes out easy enough. Neither of you adds anything after that. The rest of the drive passes in the same quiet. Jiyong stays leaned back beside you, eyes closed again, like he is trying to rest while he can.

You wonder briefly if he’s actually asleep. The tightness in his jaw tells you he isn’t. You turn your gaze back to the window. By the time you step into his apartment, the quiet from the car ride hasn’t lifted.

Jiyong moves ahead of you without saying much, slipping off his shoes and dropping his keys onto the counter a little harder than necessary, the sound cutting through the stillness of the space. He shrugs off his jacket, tossing it aside before running a hand through his hair, his shoulders tense in a way that doesn’t quite match the calm he’s trying to maintain.

You linger near the doorway for a second before slipping off your shoes. Something is off, but you can’t quite place it. You watch him for a moment, then step further inside.

“Did something happen?” you ask carefully. “On set, I mean.”

He pauses, glancing at you briefly like the question catches him off guard.

“No,” he says, turning away again. “Why?”

You hesitate.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “You just seem… off.”

He exhales through his nose, running a hand through his hair again before finally turning back to face you.

“Why did you just disappear like that?”

You blink, taken aback slightly. That is not what you expected. 

“I didn’t disappear,” you say, a little confused. “I just… stepped out for a bit.”

“You were gone for hours,” he replies, his tone still controlled, but sharper now. “You didn’t say anything. You didn’t text. Nothing.”

You frown slightly. 

“I didn’t think it mattered,” you admit. “You were working. Everyone was.”

“It mattered,” he says, more firmly this time. “I was looking for you.” 

You shift under his gaze. 

“I didn’t want to interrupt."

There is a brief pause. 

“You still should’ve said something,” he replies, then adds, “If you needed a break or whatever.”

The words settle heavily between you.

You hesitate, then exhale softly. 

“You told me to stay close,” you say, quieter now. “So I did.”

His expression changes slightly, but you keep going before he can interrupt.

“I stayed near you the whole morning,” you continue, your voice steady but soft. “I followed you around, stood where I thought I was supposed to stand, tried not to get in the way, and still…” you pause briefly, your fingers curling slightly at your sides, “I was.”

“There were people asking why I was even there,” you add, the words coming a little quicker now. “They were looking at me like I didn’t belong, like I was just… in the way.”

You swallow.

“One of them even told me to move,” you say, quieter now, the embarrassment still sitting somewhere under your skin. “So I did.”

The words hang between you.

“I didn’t think you needed me there,” you finish. “You weren’t really paying attention to me anyway.”

For a second, he just looks at you. Then his jaw tightens slightly. 

“That’s not- ” he starts, then stops himself, exhaling again before continuing, “That’s not the point.”

You meet his gaze.

“Then what is?”

“The point is that you don’t just leave like that,” he says, his voice measured. “If you’re there with me, you stay. Or you tell me where you’re going.”

You let out a quiet breath, something in your chest tightening. Why is he not hearing you? 

“You didn’t even tell me about the kiss scene,” you say, your voice softer now, more fragile. “I found out when everyone else did.”

His expression shifts, but he doesn’t look away.

“It’s work,” he says simply.

“I know,” you reply quickly. “I know it is. I’m not saying it isn’t.”

You hesitate for a moment, then continue anyway.

“But that doesn’t mean it feels like nothing,” you add. “Watching it like that, with everyone else, hearing people talk about how well you two fit…”

You trail off slightly, your gaze dropping before lifting again.

“You looked comfortable,” you say quietly.

Something tightens in his expression.

“It’s acting,” he replies.

“I know,” you repeat. “But I’m not part of that world the way you are. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.”

Silence settles again, heavier now.

“We talked about this,” he says. “About how it is on set. I can’t exactly-” he gestures vaguely, frustration slipping through, “stop everything to make it comfortable for you.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.” 

“Then what are you asking?” he shoots back.

The question hangs between you.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Maybe just… to not feel like I shouldn’t be there at all.”

He exhales sharply, looking away for a second before shaking his head.

“I told you from the start this isn’t going to be normal,” he says. “No public dates, no- ” he cuts himself off, then continues, “We agreed on that.”

“I know that,” you say quickly.

“You said yourself you didn’t want people thinking you got where you are because of me,” he adds, his gaze steady on you. “That you didn’t want that attached to you.”

The words are not harsh, but they still sting. 

“I know what I said,” you reply, quieter now.

“Then you know why things are the way they are,” he says, sharper.  

He’s not wrong. There is logic to it, a reason. You were the one who set that boundary in the first place. Even so-

“It still felt like I wasn’t supposed to be there at all,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Like I didn’t fit anywhere.”

Something shifts in his expression again, but it doesn’t settle into anything you can hold onto. Instead, he exhales and looks away briefly, running a hand over the back of his neck, underlying frustration in the movement. 

“And yet you seemed fine when I found you,” he says after a moment.

You blink.

“What?”

“You were laughing,” he continues, tone even, but there is something else in it. “Didn’t look like you were that uncomfortable.”

The words hang there. It takes you a second to process what he’s implying. 

“That’s not- ” you shake your head. “He was just being nice.”

“I’m sure,” Jiyong says, a little too quickly.

There it is.

You stare at him.

“You were the one kissing someone else,” you say before you can stop yourself.

“We just talked about this. It’s part of the job.” 

“You still could have told me,” you reply, your voice tightening. 

“I didn’t think it mattered,” he says.

That lands wrong.

“Then why does it matter if I talk to someone else?” you ask. “He was the only one who actually treated me like I belonged there.”

You hadn’t meant to say it like that. But it’s out now.

His gaze sharpens.

“You’re saying I didn’t?”

“I’m saying you were busy,” you reply, a little firmer now. “Which is fine, I get that. But that doesn’t change how it felt.”

Jiyong runs a hand over his face, tension still lingering there.

“It’s just work,” he repeats, quieter now.

You nod slowly. “Right.” 

The word feels hollow. 

With every exchange, the distance between you seems to grow. It’s not physical, not missed timing or busy schedules like before. It’s something else entirely. It feels like you are slipping past each other, like you keep reaching and missing at the same time.

And you don’t know how to fix it. Everything you try only seems to make it worse.You look at him, searching for something familiar. Something that still feels like the two of you. 

And then you remember. 

The way he softens when you are close. The way tension leaves his body when you touch him. The way things seem easier after. It feels like something you can still do right. 

Slowly, you step closer. 

He watches you, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.

Your hand lifts, hesitating for just a second before resting lightly against his chest.

“It’s fine,” you murmur, even though it’s not. “You were tired. It was a long day.”

“I don’t want to fight.”

Your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his shirt, your other hand drifting down towards his belt. 

“We’re fine,” you add, as if saying it makes it true. 

Jiyong’s gaze drops briefly to your hand, then back to your face.

Something in his expression shifts. Not irritation this time. Something more uncertain.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

His hand comes up, gently catching your wrist before you can move any further.

“Don’t.”

You freeze.

“Not like this.”

His voice is not harsh. If anything, it is softer than before.

But it still stops you. For a second, you just stand there, not fully understanding. Then your hand slowly falls back to your side.

“Oh.”

It comes out smaller than you expected.

Jiyong lets go of your wrist, his hand lingering for a second before dropping as well.

“That’s not what I- ” he starts, then stops, like he cannot quite find the right way to explain it.

You nod quickly.

“It’s fine,” you say, even though it clearly is not. “I just thought…”

You trail off, because you are not even sure what you thought anymore.

Silence settles again, stretching between you in a way that feels foreign but familiar at the same time. 

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling under his breath. You take a small step back without fully realising it.

The space between you returns.

You remain where you are for a moment, frozen in place, not moving, not speaking, like if you stay still long enough the moment might shift back into something else, something easier to hold on to.

It doesn’t.

The quiet lingers, thin and fragile, and eventually you turn, stepping past him with careful, measured movements, like you are trying not to reveal too much, trying not to let him just see how much his rejection actually stung.

You don’t go far. Just down the hallway, past the living room, into the bedroom. The door stays half open behind you. For a moment, you just stand there without purpose, unsure what you’re even doing. The room is dim, the faint light from the city outside spilling in through the curtains.

Everything looks the same as it always does and yet, nothing feels the same.

You let out a slow breath, your arms folding loosely around yourself as you move further into the room, your thoughts already circling back, replaying the moment whether you want them to or not.

The way he stopped you. The way he said it.

Don’t.Not like this.

You swallow.

It wasn’t harsh. If anything, it had been gentle, which almost makes it worse. There is something about that softness that feels almost condescending. Like an adult gently turning down a child who doesn’t quite understand what they are asking for.

You sit down at the edge of the bed, your hands resting in your lap, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of your clothes. You try to think about it rationally. There are reasons, probably. He was tired. It had been a long day. He said it wasn’t like that. 

Reasons you just can’t seem to fully grasp right now. Because it didn’t feel like that in the moment. It just felt like rejection.

Your gaze drops to your hands.

You had thought it would fix things, maybe. That it would bring you back to something familiar. It used to work like that with him. Or at least felt like it did. This time, it only made the distance clearer.

You press your lips together and push yourself up from the bed, the room suddenly feeling too small, too quiet, too full of thoughts you cannot sort through.

You move toward the bathroom, flipping on the light. It’s too bright at first, forcing you to blink as you step inside.

The mirror catches you immediately. Your reflection stares back at you, unchanged, familiar, and yet somehow different in a way you can’t quite name. You tilt your head slightly, trying to see something you might have missed before.

Your eyes linger on your expression, on the tension still sitting there, on the remnants of everything the day has left behind. You frown faintly.

Is this why? Why he didn’t want you. That’s not what he said. But he didn’t say anything else that denied it.

Your hands come to rest against the edge of the sink, fingers gripping lightly. Maybe you read it wrong. Maybe you pushed too much. Or maybe he just did not want you. 

The thought hits sudden and unsteady. You stare at yourself trying to confirm it, like the answer might be written somewhere in your reflection. Trying to see it from the outside. From his side.

You think about the way he is in public. Always so careful and controlled in the way he interacts, almost distant.

You think again about the way he barely looked at you on set. The way he moved around you like you were just another person in the room. The way he didn’t notice when you left, didn’t realise until hours later.

You had told yourself over and over again that it made sense. That it had to be that way. But now you’re not so sure anymore.

Your stomach twists slightly.

What if it wasn’t just for the public? What if that distance was real? What if-

You inhale sharply, your grip tightening against the sink.

That’s stupid. You know it is. He wouldn’t. But then again, he hadn’t even told you about the kiss.

You let out a shaky breath, your gaze dropping for a second before lifting again.

Your eyes sting before you fully register it. You blink quickly, but it doesn’t help. A tear slips down before you can stop it. You huff out something that almost sounds like a laugh, except it’s not.

This is ridiculous.

You wipe at your cheek quickly, but more tears follow. You lean forward slightly, resting your weight against the sink, your head dipping just enough that your hair falls forward, shielding part of your face.

You don’t cry in the loud, dramatic way you want to. It comes out quiet instead, carefully contained. Like everything else. You’re too scared of Jiyong’s reaction, or worse, that there won’t be one at all if he finds you like this.

For a few moments, you remain like that, focusing on your breathing, trying to steady yourself, trying to make sense of something that refuses to settle into anything clear.

Then you hear the bedroom door open, followed by Jiyong’s soft voice. 

“Baby? You there?”

You inhale sharply, straightening almost immediately, reaching for the tap and splashing cool water against your face before grabbing a towel and dabbing at your skin, meticulous, like you trying to erase any trace of what just happened.

By the time you look back up, your expression is composed again. Almost.

You take one final steadying breath, then push the bathroom door open.

Jiyong is in the bedroom, standing near the foot of the bed, his phone in hand like he had just been about to call you. His gaze lifts the moment he sees you.

He studies your face for a second, something in his expression narrowing slightly, not in suspicion, but in recognition.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod a little too fast.

“Yeah,” you say. “I just needed a second.”

His eyes linger on your face a moment longer, like he is trying to read something you are not giving him, before he exhales and steps a little closer.

“Hey,” he says, quieter now.

You stay where you are.

“About before,” he starts, running a hand through his hair again, a familiar sign that he is trying to find the right words. “That wasn’t- ”

He stops himself, like the sentence doesn’t come out the way he wants it to.

You watch him, waiting.

“It wasn’t what you think,” he says instead.

You nod slightly, even though you are not entirely sure what he thinks you are thinking.

“I didn’t think anything,” you reply, a little too quickly.

He gives you a look that makes it clear he does not believe that. 

“I just didn’t want it to be like that,” he continues, his tone softer now. “You trying to… fix things like that.”

Your fingers curl slightly at your sides.

“I wasn’t trying to fix anything,” you say, even though you know that is not entirely true.

“You were,” he says, not accusing, just sure. “And I’m not going to let you do that just because you think you have to.”

You know what he means. You really do. 

It still doesn’t land the way it should.

“I know I didn’t have to,” you say quietly.

His expression shifts slightly, like he didn’t expect that.

“Okay,” he replies, but there is hesitation there now, just enough to make it feel less certain than before.

You glance away, your arms folding loosely.

“It’s fine. You were tired.”

“That’s not- ” he says, exhaling again, frustration slipping through. “It’s not about that.”

You look back at him.

“Then what is it about?”

He hesitates, his jaw tightening slightly, like he is trying to explain something that doesn’t come easily.

“I just don’t want you to feel like you have to do something like that for me when I’m stressed,” he says finally. “Or to… to make things easier.”

You nod slowly.

“That’s not how I see it,” you say.

“I know,” he replies quickly. “I just- ” he pauses again, searching. “I don’t want to take something like that if you’re not fully there.”

The words are close to what you needed. Really close but something about them still feels off.

“Fully there?” you repeat quietly, eyebrows furrowing. 

He rubs the back of his neck, like he realises how that sounds.

“You know what I mean,” he says.

You’re not sure you do. Or maybe you do, and that is the problem.

“I was,” you say, your voice softer now, but steady.

Something flickers across his face again. Uncertainty, maybe. Or doubt, it’s hard to tell.

“I know,” he says again.

But this time, it feels even less convincing.

The silence that follows is heavier than before.

You shift your weight slightly, the distance between you suddenly more noticeable again, even though he is standing right there.

“I didn’t mean to make it weird,” you add after a moment.

“You didn’t,” he says quickly.

Another pause.

“But you also don’t have to.” he stops again, exhaling under his breath. “You don’t have to do things like that to keep things… good between us.”

There it is again. That phrasing. Like something that needed to be maintained. Like something that could slip.

Your chest tightens slightly.

“I wasn’t trying to keep anything,” you say, quieter now.

He looks at you, something unreadable in his expression.

“Okay,” he says.

It is not dismissive, but it is not reassuring either. Just an end.

Silence settles again, stretching longer this time. You are not sure what else to say, and neither is he.

For a moment, it feels like you are both standing in the same place, but somehow having two completely different conversations.

His phone suddenly vibrates in his hand, the sound cutting through the quiet.

He glances down at the screen, his expression shifting almost immediately, something more focused taking over. You see the moment the outside world pulls him back in.

“I have to take this,” he says, already turning away. “I’m sorry.”

You nod, even though he is no longer really looking at you.

“It’s fine.”

He lifts the phone to his ear as he steps toward the door.

“Yeah,” he says, his tone changing. “I just got back.”

And just like that, he is gone. The door doesn’t close fully behind him. His voice carries faintly from the other room, you remain where you are.The space he left behind still feels full, heavy with everything that was said and everything that was not.

Sure technically, things were explained. And yet you feel no clearer than before. If anything, you feel a little smaller. A little more unsure.

You wrap your arms loosely around yourself again, your gaze drifting toward the doorway. He had tried, you know that, but somehow it still feels like he made the decision for both of you. Again.

At some point, you lie down. You are not sure when exactly. You do not remember making the decision.

The room is quiet, dim, the faint glow from the city filtering through the curtains, but sleep does not come. Your mind keeps circling back, replaying pieces of the conversation in fragments, picking at them, trying to make them fit into something that makes sense. They never quite do.

You turn onto your side, then onto your back again, the sheets shifting restlessly beneath you.

Time stretches, an hour passes, maybe two. Jiyong still hasn’t come to bed. That part, at least, is familiar.

You have known him long enough now to recognise the pattern. When he is stressed, when something is unsettled, he struggles to sleep. He keeps himself moving, working, distracting himself, anything to avoid the quiet.

There have been nights where you had to coax him into bed, gently pulling him away from his studio, from unfinished tracks and half-written lyrics, convincing him that rest mattered too.

Tonight seems to be one of those nights. 

You stare at the ceiling for a moment longer, then exhale softly and push the covers back. The floor is cool beneath your feet as you stand, the apartment dim and still as you step out into the hallway.

You expect to find him in the studio. That is where he has been spending most of his time these past weeks anyway, with the comeback getting closer, every detail sharpened and reworked until nothing is left to chance. He has always been like this, but lately it feels even more intense, like he is carrying something heavier than usual.

You move quietly past the living room, already halfway expecting to see the faint glow of his equipment spilling out from the door at the end of the hall. But you stop short.

Jiyong is stretched out on the couch. One arm rests behind his head, the other is draped loosely across his stomach, his phone abandoned somewhere beside him. The TV is still on, casting a soft, flickering light across the room, shifting shadows over his face in slow, uneven patterns.

The exhaustion in his frame is unmistakable. It shows in the way his shoulders have finally dropped, in the stillness of him now that he is no longer moving, no longer holding himself together for anyone else.

Even like this, though, something about him still feels restless. Like he did not mean to fall asleep here. Like his body simply gave in before his mind did.

You take a small step closer.

And despite everything that has been building up, you can’t help the way something in your chest softens. Because this is familiar too. This version of him. The one that lets himself unravel just enough when no one else but you is watching.

For a moment, you hesitate. Then you move toward the couch, careful not to disturb him. You stop near the edge, looking down at him, the quiet stretching.

You could wake him. Tell him to go to bed properly. You have done it before. Instead, you crouch slightly, reaching for the remote to lower the volume, the sound dipping into soft, distant background noise. 

He stirs faintly at the movement. Not fully awake, just enough that his brows pull together slightly, his head shifting against the cushion.

“Mm…”

His eyes open only halfway, unfocused at first, then settling on you as recognition slowly catches up.

“You’re still up,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

“I could say the same,” you reply quietly.

He huffs out the faintest breath of something that might be a laugh, eyes slipping shut again for a second before reopening.

“Wasn’t planning to stay here,” he says, barely audible.

You nod, even though he probably doesn’t see it.

“I figured.”

Without really thinking about it, you reach for the blanket draped over the back of the couch, pulling it down and spreading it over him more carefully than necessary.

He watches you, fully awake now, even if he still looks tired.

At first, neither of you says anything.

Then his hand lifts, slow, like the motion costs him something and his fingers close gently around your wrist before you can pull away.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

There is no hesitation, his tone soft and familiar. It used to be enough. Just that. 

You hesitate, however, just for a second too long before moving.

It’s subtle, small enough that he probably doesn’t register it, but you do. You feel it in the way your body doesn’t quite follow as easily as it used to.

Still, you shift, letting him pull you in without resistance. His arm slides around you without a second thought, drawing you against his side, his hand settling warm against your waist, thumb brushing back and forth in that absent, familiar way.

You let yourself lean into him, and for a moment, it feels the same. This is what you had been trying to get back to earlier, isn’t it? Something easy. Something that feels like the two of you without all the noise around it. 

Jiyong exhales softly, his chin resting briefly against the top of your head. 

“Told you it was a long day,” he murmurs. 

You hum quietly in response. 

He doesn’t say anything else about earlier. Not the argument. Not what you said. Not what he said. And somehow, that feels intentional. Like this, right here, is his way of smoothing things over. Of moving past it without having to look at it too closely.

Your gaze drifts toward the TV, though you’re not really watching.

His hand starts drawing slow, absent circles along your arm.

Everything looks normal from the outside. It should feel normal, but now that you’re paying attention, you notice the gaps. The things that aren’t being said.  

You think of all the times you have been unsure where you stand with him. About the way people look at you when you’re with him. About the way he never clearly explains himself, and how you’re just supposed to smile and accept it.

Your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his shirt. You could say something. You could ask.

What exactly are we? Do I even belong with you?

The questions are right there, close enough to reach. You don’t ask them. Instead, you lean into him more, letting your head rest fully against his shoulder, letting the moment settle the way he seems to want it to. 

His arm tightens around you in response. Like nothing has changed. 

The next part is almost finished now. And yes, I know I said that like a month ago, but this time I actually mean it.

Since the chapter got so long, I decided to split it up because it was honestly becoming too much for a single update. Right now I’m rereading and editing everything, but the next chapter should hopefully be posted within the next one or two days!

I LOVE IT Pt. 10

Summary: She's nervous, inexperienced, and trying to be professional. He's confident, teasing, and maybe falling faster than he expected.

Warnings: age gap (legal), explicit sexual content (humping), angst and fluff, lack of communication, power imbalance, kinda oblivious Jiyong

Pairing: Kwon Jiyong x reader

a/n: Hey, sorry for disappearing again! This should be the second-to-last chapter. I really hope you enjoy it, and I’d love to hear your thoughts! <3

Night has settled over the city. Beyond the glass, the skyline is reduced to scattered ribbons of light, distant and quiet, blinking against the dark.

You’re at Jiyong's place again. Because that’s what you do now. When he calls, you come.

The bathroom is warm, washed in soft yellow light that makes everything feel less harsh, more quiet. The mirrors are still slightly fogged from the shower Jiyong took earlier. 

You are standing side by side at the sink, toothbrushes moving in unison.  

Jiyong looks half asleep. His hair is still damp, strands falling into his eyes. He leans one hip against the counter like he might slide to the floor if he relaxes any further. 

You spit, rinse, and glance at him through the mirror. He's already watching you, or maybe just resting his gaze in your direction. 

Foam gathers at the corner of his mouth when he speaks. It comes out garbled. 

You don’t quite understand what he’s trying to say, only catching fragments. Something that sounds suspiciously like tomorrow. 

You blink. “Huh?”

He spits, rinses, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smiling sheepishly, eyes crinkling. “Sorry,” he murmurs. 

He tries again, voice rough with fatigue. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

You shrug, reaching for your face wash on the counter beside him. “Nothing planned. Probably training in the afternoon.”

He nods slowly. 

“We’re finishing the video tomorrow,” he says. “Last setup.”

Your reflection stills. 

“For our track,” he adds, unnecessarily.

“I figured,” you say softly, slipping on your headband and lathering your hands. 

He studies you for a moment through the mirror.

“You should come.”

You turn toward him fully. “To set?”

He nods once.

“I know you’ve seen one before,” he says, voice quiet, “but this time it’s different. More crew. Bigger setup.”

A small pause. 

“And maybe this time you won’t be as nervous, so you can actually take it all in.” The corner of his mouth lifts teasingly. 

You stop rinsing your face and shoot him your best glare.

Before you can respond, he adds, smirk forming fully, “I know I’m partly to blame for that.”  

He nudges your shoulder with his. “Besides,” he says, “I might actually get to sit down for five minutes.”

His hands slide to your hips, gently pulling you in. “You can keep me company.”

You smile. “Tempting.”

“Please?” he asks, softer now. Something unguarded flickers in his eyes.  

“I won’t be in the way?” 

His brow creases slightly, like the question genuinely puzzles him.

“You never are.”

The words land softly, but they settle somewhere deep, threading themselves between doubt and uncertainty, like a small beacon of light. 

The apartment falls into dim quiet as you move toward the bedroom, the city glow faint against the walls.

The sheets are cool when you slide beneath them, goosebumps rising along your skin. 

Jiyong joins you a moment later, the mattress dipping with his weight. He’s shirtless, skin still warm from the shower, hair faintly damp against the pillow.

You tug his shirt down over your thighs and turn onto your side.

He moves closer without thinking about it. His arm slips around your waist, drawing you back against him until your spine fits along his chest like pieces of a puzzle.

A slow breath leaves him.

His nose brushes the back of your neck, then drifts lower, unhurried, nuzzling into the curve where your throat meets your shoulder.

You feel his inhale. Then another.

His voice is barely more than a breath.

“I like when you smell like me.”

Warmth spreads across your skin, deeper than his touch. 

His hand settles flat against your stomach, thumb brushing once, subconsciously, as if confirming you’re really there.

The city hums faintly beyond the glass. The world feels very far away.

You cover his hand with yours.

He presses closer still, a quiet exhale against your shoulder. His fingers drift lazily along your hip, pinky tracing idle, familiar paths beneath the hem of your panties. 

You inhale softly, a familiar tingle running down your spine and straight to your core. 

His touch is absentminded at first, the way he always touches you when he’s half asleep. 

But when your fingers tighten over his hand, he stills.

A beat. 

Then his thumb presses gently into your skin, a quiet question. 

You answer by shifting back into him. You can feel the warm, familiar press of him against the small of your back. 

His breath deepens against your throat. He turns his face into your neck, nose nudging your skin, lips brushing slow and unhurried over your pulse. 

Your body softens instinctively, like it knows this language. 

One of his hands slides upward, fingers trailing across your skin, palm gently closing around your breast, warm and heavy, languidly kneading the soft flesh.  

A quiet sound leaves you before you can stop it. 

He sighs, exhales your name into the curve of your neck. 

Not urgent. Not demanding. Just present. Wanting. 

His touch skims across your nipple, rolling it between his thumb and pointer until it turns into a hardened peak. 

Warmth blooms low in your belly, wetness gathers between your thighs and you press your hips back, seeking more of him without thinking. 

He answers with a soft groan, hand on your hip tightening. He presses himself further into you, fully letting you feel the weight of his hard length. 

A soft kiss is pressed behind your ear. Tongue flicking against the sensitive skin there. 

Your fingers curl in the sheets. 

Hips continuing to rock against your ass, his hand slides from your hip down over the thin fabric of your panties, fingers skimming against the damp fabric sticking to your folds. 

You would be embarrassed about how wet you are, if it weren’t for the breathy groan that slips past his lips. “Baby” 

You can feel him twitching against you.

Your skin flushes with heat. There it is again that name. It sends even more arousal pooling in your panties. 

His thumb drags feather-light up your pussy, nudging your swollen bud. 

“Please, Jiyong.” you whimper. 

A low, fond chuckle vibrates against your shoulder. “Please what, baby?”

Cheeks burning you turn your face into the pillows, hiding. 

His thumb lazily skims over your throbbing bud again. “You gotta tell me what you want.” 

Frustrated you huff, arching your back instinctively, hoping he understands without words. 

“Nuh-uh,” he murmurs softly. “Use your words.” 

You take a shaking breath. 

“Please… touch me.” 

“Of course baby.”

But to your surprise, he doesn’t. Instead, his hand slips away completely. You turn your head, looking back at him over your shoulder.

Jiyong is smiling, that soft, tender curve of his lips you’ve grown helplessly attached to. He leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your mouth, lingering just long enough to quiet the confusion beginning to rise.

His palm comes up to cradle your cheek.

“Can I try something?” he asks, lips still brushing yours as he speaks. 

Unsure, but trusting him not to cross a boundary you wouldn’t want crossed, you nod and face forward again.

His hand disappears between your bodies, pushing your shirt upward until it rests just beneath your breasts. You feel him shift behind you, the quiet rustle of cotton, the subtle movement of his hips. Then something hot and firm presses against you. 

You swallow, breath catching, heart pounding high in your throat. Is he trying to have sex with you right now?   

“Jiyong I…” you trail off, unsure what you’re trying to say. 

He trails a soothing hand down your spine. “Shh,” he murmurs. “Relax. We’re not going to have sex.”

The words settle over you like a blanket, comforting, and yet something in your chest tightens at the same time. 

Does he not want you? 

No, that's ridiculous. He wouldn’t be touching you like this if he didn’t.

As if sensing the flicker of doubt, his lips brush your shoulder.  

“Let me make you feel good,” he whispers. “You trust me, right?”

“Yes,” you breathe. 

You feel him shift behind you, settling closer until his chest aligns with your spine again. The steady rise and fall of his breathing presses into you, grounding, familiar.

His thigh nudges between yours, guiding one leg slightly forward. His hand drifts lower, fingers slipping beneath the thin fabric of your panties. His thumb stokes once, slow and reassuring.

“You okay?” he murmurs against your skin.

You nod, then realize he can’t see it. “Yes,” you whisper.

The fabric is pulled to the side just enough to make room for him, the firm heat of him pressing into the slick warmth of your core.  

A quiet exhale leaves him, almost a sigh.

Then his hips begin to move, slowly dragging his cock through your wet folds, nudging you sensitive clit ever so often. 

You inhale sharply, feeling the way his breath changes in response to the friction. 

His lips drift back to your neck, brushing along the curve where your pulse flutters, his hands slide down your sides, fingers gripping your hips. 

The friction is delicious. Each slow glide of his length sends sparks through you, heat coiling tighter and tighter low in your belly.  

You rock together like this. There is only warmth, unsteady breathing and the soft whisper of fabric shifting between your bodies. 

His nose brushes behind your ear again, a faint groan slipping free.  

The rhythm begins to falter. His thrusts grow uneven, cock twitching against you.

“I’m close,” he breathes. “Need you to come for me.” 

His hand slides between your thighs, thumb finding your clit, circling in slow, controlled motions.

“Jiyong,” you moan. 

“Fuck… baby.” 

You bite your lip, trying to hold back the sounds building in your throat, but your body gives you away, muscles tightening, back arching as your orgasm flows through you in powerful, rolling waves.

A final tremor passes through you before you go limp against him, boneless and breathless.

As if your release grants him permission, he follows close behind. His hand slides upward, fingers grabbing your throat in an oddly possessive way, as his hips stutter against you. 

With a rough exhale of your name, he comes, warmth flooding your panties. 

His grip loosens, his forehead settles between your shoulder blades and he just breathes against you, slow and heavy.

For a few soft moments, there is nothing but the shared rhythm of your uneven breaths, a quiet echo of what just passed between you.

His hand slides from your throat, returning to its familiar place at your waist. His fingers curl there, possessive tension melting into something softer, sleepier.

You think he might drift off like this. You almost do.

Then

A low vibration hums against the nightstand. So soft it’s barely there, but in the quiet, it feels incredibly loud. 

Jiyong exhales, not quiet in frustration but close enough. His arm tightens around you, as if anchoring you to him before he blindly reaches toward the sound. 

The screen lights the darkness. You don’t mean to look, you do anyway. 

Misun.

The name glows briefly on the screen before he answers. 

He doesn’t sit up, doesn’t move away, but stays wrapped around you, voice low and sleepy against your hair. 

“Yeah?”

A pause.

You can’t hear her words, only the faint murmur of a woman’s voice through the receiver. Unhurried, comfortable in its lateness.

His thumb begins tracing slow patterns along your stomach without thinking.

“Mm… I saw it,” he murmurs. “We can shift the opening shot.”

Another pause.

His nose brushes lightly along the back of your neck as he listens.

“No, that’s fine,” he says quietly. “Earlier works.”

A faint huff of breath leaves him, almost a tired laugh.

“I didn’t disappear. I went home.”

Your chest flutters at that word.

Silence as she speaks again.

He closes his eyes, pressing a soft kiss into your shoulder.

“No,” he murmurs. “Not tonight.”

Another beat.

“I said I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Something about the way he says it settles strangely in your chest. Not alarming, but not quite right either. Just enough to leave a faint ripple of confusion. 

“Get some sleep, Misun.”

He ends the call without ceremony and lets the phone fall back onto the nightstand. The room returns to darkness, the glow disappearing as if it never existed.

For a moment, he doesn’t move.

Then his arm tightens around you again, drawing you closer until there is no space left between your bodies. His face buries into the curve of your neck.

A slow breath.

His lips brush your skin, absent, drowsy.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

The question rises before you can stop it. Still you hesitate.

“What did she want?”

It comes out softer than you intend, almost swallowed by the dark.

His thumb pauses on your stomach.

“Work,” he says quietly. “Storyboard stuff.”

You wait. Part of you wants to ask more. Part of you thinks he’s not telling the whole truth. Part of you is afraid to.

He presses a lingering kiss beneath your ear.

“We should sleep,” he murmurs. “Call time’s early.”

It’s a reasonable thing to say. Something in you sinks however, and you feel small again. Feeling as if he can’t, or won’t, let you stand beside him in the parts of his life that weigh the most. As if he sees you as something to protect, to shelter, rather than an adult strong enough to carry the weight with him. The thought stings with a strange irony, considering how easily he lets you share the most intimate parts of himself. 

“Okay,” you whisper.

Held in his arms, wrapped in his warmth, you stare into the dark a little longer. You drift off with the quiet awareness that even in the softest moments, his world never fully lets him go.

Morning arrives too quickly. 

You wake before him, even though he’s the one with the early call time. The room is still dim, the air warm where his body had been pressed to yours all night. Your gaze drifts lazily across the room until it settles on his sleeping form. 

For a moment, you just watch him. The softened edges of his face. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The pout of his lips. The crease between his brows, even in sleep. 

It’s almost impossible to reconcile this version of him with the one the world sees.

Your eyes lift to the alarm clock on the bedside table. With a sigh, you drag a hand through your sleep rumbled hair, smoothing the tangled strands. You should probably wake him. 

“Jiyong,” you whisper, gently grazing his shoulder. 

He doesn’t wake, only scrunches his nose lightly and mumbles something incoherent. 

You try again, a little louder this time. “Jiyong, wake up.” 

Still nothing. 

It amazes you how deeply he can sleep. Then again, years of stealing rest whenever possible probably taught him to sink into it fast and without hesitation.

Shaking your head, you gingerly untangle yourself from his embrace. To your amusement, that seems to do the trick. Almost immediately he stirs, hand sleepily searching the sheets for your presence. When his fingers brush your thigh, they curl there instinctively, pulling you back before you can fully escape.

“Mm,” he hums, eyes still closed. “Where’re you going?”

“You have work,” you remind him softly. “Important, remember?”

He frowns faintly at that, lashes fluttering before he finally cracks one eye open to look at you. 

“You’re very strict in the mornings,” he mumbles.

You bite back a smile. “Someone has to be.”

He exhales dramatically but pushes himself up onto one elbow. His hair falls into his eyes, and he makes no move to fix it, just watches you. Then, without warning, he reaches for you again and pulls you down with him.

A quiet gasp leaves you as you land half on top of him, palms braced against his chest. He smiles properly now, sleepy and unguarded, and presses a slow kiss to your shoulder.

“Five minutes,” he murmurs against your skin.

“You said that last time.”

“And I was right then too.”

His hands slide up your bare back, warm and familiar, settling there as if that’s simply where they belong. He rests his forehead lightly against your collarbone, breathing you in.

For a moment, you let yourself sink into it.

This version of him. The one who clings. The one who doesn’t make you question.

Your fingers drift into his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. “You’ll be late,” you whisper, though there’s no real insistence behind it.

“I won’t,” he says quietly. “They’ll wait.”

The confidence in it isn’t arrogance. It’s simply a fact.

Eventually he sighs and releases you, sitting up fully this time. He stretches, the lines of his body shifting from relaxed to deliberate in seconds. You watch the transition happen, the slow reassembly of the man the world knows.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed and glances back at you.

“You ready for today?” he asks, tone casual but searching.

You hesitate only for a heartbeat before nodding.

“I’m excited,” you admit, the word coming out more sincere than you expected. The thought of spending the whole day with him feels bright in your chest, hopeful and warm.

He studies you for a second, something unreadable flickering in his expression, before he reaches out and squeezes your knee gently.

“Good,” he says. “Stay close.”

You nod again, holding onto the warmth of the moment.

***

The drive takes you farther from the city than you expected.

The skyline slowly dissolves behind you, replaced by long quiet roads and stretches of green pine trees. Eventually the car turns onto a narrow gravel path lined with tall iron gates that hang slightly crooked on their hinges.

Beyond them, an old mansion rises from the landscape like something out of a fairytale.

You hadn’t expected something so… grand.

The building is enormous, its pale stone walls softened by age. Ivy climbs the exterior, the lush green vines winding themselves around the windows and up the columns like someone deliberately placed them there, like even nature decided the house was too beautiful to leave alone.

A sweeping staircase leads to a massive set of carved wooden doors. Even from a distance you can see the delicate ironwork of the balcony railings.

For a moment you just stare through the window.

“Wow,” you breathe softly before you can stop yourself.

Jiyong glances up from his phone beside you, following your gaze.

“Oh,” he says simply, like he had forgotten it was there. “Yeah.”

You look at him.

“That’s where you're filming?”

“Mm.”

The driver pulls up near the front steps where several black vans and production trucks are already parked. Crew members move around the entrance carrying equipment cases and garment bags, voices drifting through the cool morning air.

Everything hums with quiet urgency. 

Your stomach flutters. 

As soon as the car stops, Jiyong exhales and a mask slips into place. It’s not a dramatic change, more like something settling over him. Focus if you will. He pushes the door open and steps out first.

Instantly someone notices him. 

A production assistant jogs toward him with a clipboard in hand, bowing quickly as she approaches. 

“Good morning. The director is inside already. Makeup is set up in the east wing.”

He nods, already following her. Then he glances back over his shoulder at you. 

“Come on.”

You climb out of the car quickly and follow, suddenly very aware of your surroundings. 

No one is looking twice at him and yet everyone is. The effect of his presence is unmistakable. Conversations pause, people straighten slightly. Heads turn for a second before politely looking away again.  

Awareness ripples through the crew like a quiet current. 

You’ve always known how famous he is. You just hadn’t quite understood what that actually looked like. You had always seen him at the company, or in private, behind closed doors, where he was just Jiyong.  

Inside, the mansion is even more breathtaking. 

Sunlight spills through towering windows, cutting long golden beams across the marble floor. The entry hall opens into a cavernous space dominated by a sweeping staircase that curves upward before splitting at a landing that overlooks the entrance hall. 

The space has already been transformed. Softboxes are mounted to antique columns, cables snake across the floor, a camera crane even stretches overhead. It’s chaotic and beautiful all at once. 

You turn slowly, taking everything in. 

“Careful.”

Jiyong’s hand presses briefly against the small of your back, guiding you around a thick coil of cable you almost stepped on.

“Film sets are basically obstacle courses.”

You smile sheepishly.

He studies your face for a second, catching the way your eyes keep drifting around the room, overwhelmed. 

Amused, his mouth curves slightly. 

“Setup’s different from last time, right?” 

You hesitate, then nod. 

“Yeah. It’s… “ You trail off, searching for the right word.

Your shoot had felt different, smaller, more intimate. You’d been part of it, directed, carefully positioned, told where to stand and when to move. 

This feels entirely different. 

You look around again, taking in the towering ceiling, the glittering chandelier, the quiet swarm of people moving with quiet efficiency. 

“Much grander," you finally settle on. 

The sheer splendour of it makes your head swim a little. It’s beautiful, impressive and strangely disorienting. 

Before either of you can say anything else, a ripple of movement stirs near the entrance. 

The large doors creak open again. Footsteps echo across the marble floor. Several crew members instinctively step aside as someone enters, attention shifting almost immediately. 

You glance over. 

Misun walks in like the place belongs to her. 

Confident, composed, hair pulled back loosely, but nothing about it looks careless. She moves with purpose, the way people do when they expect everyone else around them to move. 

And they do. 

Assistants fall into step beside her, one handing her a coffee. Someone with a tablet begins updating her on something before she’s even halfway across the room. 

She listens while walking, nodding once. 

You feel the shift in the room almost physically. It’s different from Jiyong’s presence. His draws attention. Hers commands it. And you can’t help but dislike her a little for it. 

Her gaze sweeps across the hall, quick and assessing, before landing on Jiyong.

“Jiyong-ah,” she calls, lifting a hand in greeting. “You’re here already.” 

She approaches easily, stopping in front of him with the comfort of someone who's done this a thousand times. 

Then, as if just now noticing you, her eyes flicker toward you. A brief pause.  

“And you brought your friend again. How lovely.” 

The smile she offers is polite, but something about it feels more dismissive than anything else. Just as quickly, her attention shifts to Jiyong again. 

“We should run the lines again before the first scene. It’s easier when there’s someone to practice with.” 

Jiyong nods easily. 

“Okay.”

He turns back to you then, like he almost forgot you were still standing there. 

“Hang around,” he says casually, as Misun already pulls him away. 

The words are harmless, but suddenly the mansion feels even bigger. 

And you realize something. You’re not part of this. You’re standing just outside everything, an observer. It’s a strange feeling. You swallow it down quickly.

You watch as Jiyong starts walking away with Misun, already deep in conversation, their voices blending into the quiet chaos of the set. 

For a moment you remain where you are. Alone in the grand entrance hall. Above you, the massive chandelier catches the sunlight. That's when you notice it. Most of the crystals glint beautifully, scattering tiny shards across the ceiling. But one small section is empty. Just a thin metal hook where something used to hang. You tilt your head slightly, studying it. 

Then eventually you follow after him. 

“Jiyong, look.”

You point upward. “There’s one missing.”

He glances up briefly, following where you’re pointing. 

“Mm.” 

The response is distracted, his attention shifting elsewhere as the same  assistant from before approaches him. And you can’t help but feel a little silly for pointing out something so unremarkable. 

“We’re ready for wardrobe.” 

Jiyong nods, then looks back at you. He doesn’t ask, doesn't say anything. Just glances towards the hallway the assistant came from, followed by the smallest lift of his chin. 

A silent come on. 

You fall into step beside him automatically.  

I LOVE IT Pt. 9

Summary: She's nervous, inexperienced, and trying to be professional. He's confident, teasing, and maybe falling faster than he expected.

Warnings: age gap (legal), angst, lack of communication, Power imbalance (I guess), Jiyong is kind of an asshole in this one

Pairing: Kwon Jiyong x reader

a/n: Okay, so we’re heading toward the end of this series, and I just want to say how thankful I am for every single one of you 🤍

As always, I hope you enjoy, and please let me know what you think.

Also, I have to share this because I’m ridiculously excited: I ordered the black MOTTE Act III T-shirt from the Japanese leg of the tour, and it arrived yesterday. It looks SO good and I’m so happy I made the purchase.

Despite the earlier encounter still lingering at the back of your mind, practice is actually going well.

Better than well.

The time spent with Jiyong at his apartment and his lingering promise to come see you later, has done wonders for your mood. You feel lighter, more present in your own body, like something that’s been knotted tight inside you has finally loosened.

You try not to think too hard about why.

When you arrive at Studio C, music is already thundering through the speakers, sharp and relentless, vibrating in your chest as bodies move in practiced unison.

You slip into the routine more easily than you have in days, finding your place without effort. Your shoulders roll loose, your muscles warm as you stretch, breath syncing naturally with the beat.

Hajoon is there too.

You spot him near the mirrors, laughing with someone, hair damp, posture loose in that annoyingly effortless way of his. When he notices you, he lifts a hand in greeting, smile open and warm.

“Morning,” he mouths.

You smile back. Despite everything, you still count him as a reliable friend.

Practice flows.

The choreography comes easily, counts landing exactly where they should. Your body remembers without needing to be pushed. There’s energy in you, bright, steady, like you’re finally dancing without carrying extra weight.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you register that it’s because of Jiyong.

The thought barely has time to form before you push it aside. It’s not worth unpacking, not now. You just let yourself enjoy the ease of it, even with the woman from this morning lingering faintly at the edges of your thoughts.

Halfway through, Hajoon leans in during a break.

“You’re different today,” he says quietly. “In a good way.”

You laugh, a little embarrassed. “Am I?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “More… grounded.”

The word settles warmly in your chest.

Lunch is light and loud, shared with a few other trainees. Someone makes a dumb joke. Someone else spills their drink. You find yourself laughing easily, the sound surprising even you.

For a while, everything feels simple.

The second practice session starts the same way, easy, energetic. You joke with Hajoon between sets, trading playful complaints about sore muscles. Your body keeps up without protest.

Then the door opens.

You don’t see him at first.

You feel him.

The air in the room shifts, subtle but immediate, like something tightening. Conversations trail off. Someone straightens. The music feels louder all at once.

Jiyong steps inside.

Your stomach dips.

You catch his reflection in the mirror and smile at him. It's a small thing saying, you came, but his expression is closed, shoulders squared as he scans the room. He looks tense, wired thin in that particular way you’ve learned to recognize.

You don’t know why, but your smile falters.  

The music starts again.

You dance. You know you’re dancing well. Your movements are clean, confident, exactly where they should be.

Still, you feel his eyes on you.

You laugh softly at something Hajoon mutters under his breath as you reset for the next section.

“Stop.”

Jiyong’s voice cuts through the room.

The music dies instantly.

He steps forward, gaze locked on you.

“Again,” he says. “From the top.”

You swallow and reset.

The energy in the room shifts, like a wire pulled taut. A few trainees straighten instinctively. Someone misses a step.

Jiyong moves to the back, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Don’t overthink. Just dance.

But you’re suddenly very aware of Hajoon beside you. Of how close he is. Of the way he mirrors you too well, grinning when you hit a difficult section clean.

You push harder. Cleaner lines, sharper hits. You’re determined to prove… what, exactly, you’re not sure.

Halfway through, Hajoon leans in slightly during a transition, murmuring, “Nice save.”

It’s barely audible.

You almost smile.

“Stop.”

The music cuts again.

“What was that?” Jiyong asks. His voice is calm, but there’s an underlying edge beneath it. 

Your smile fades. “Sorry?”

“That last sequence,” he says. “You’re sloppy.”

The word lands all wrong. Too harsh for how good you felt just seconds ago.

“I didn’t mean to- ”

“You’re distracted,” he continues, stepping closer. “You’re anticipating again.”

Heat floods your face. “I was just- ”

“Don’t,” he cuts in. “This isn’t the time to be casual.”

Casual.

You glance instinctively toward Hajoon. He’s gone very still, avoiding your eyes, jaw tight. 

Jiyong notices. His own jaw tightens. 

“If you can’t keep your focus during practice,” he says, almost offhandedly,  “maybe you need to rethink what you’re prioritizing.”

He doesn’t stop there.

“You’re not here to socialize,” he adds coolly. “If you can’t separate practice from everything else, that’s a problem.”

Everything else.

The implication lands heavy.

The room is silent.

Something inside you sinks, sharp and sudden.

Your throat tightens. “I can.”

“Then show it,” he replies. “Because right now, it looks careless.”

Careless.

“Yes,” you say quietly, bowing your head. “I understand.”

But as the music starts again, the earlier energy is gone.

You dance harder than you ever have, chasing approval that feels just out of reach. Every correction feels sharper than necessary. Every glance from him weighs more than it should.

When it finally ends, your body aches in that deep, punishing way.

You look up at your reflection, searching the room for Jiyong. All you catch is a flash of colour and a set of sharp but undeniably tired eyes, already turning away. 

As you grab your things, Hajoon hesitates beside you.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod automatically. “Yeah.”

He looks like he wants to say more, then thinks better of it. “See you.”

You don’t see Jiyong again. 

No check-in. Not text. Nothing. 

And as you leave all you can think is: 

How easily he dismantled something that had made you feel good, and how unfair it feels that he gets to react, to feel jealous or territorial or stressed, while you’re still not allowed to ask what any of this means.

How frighteningly easy it is for him to give you happiness and take it away again without even seeming to notice.

***

By the time you get home, it’s late enough that the hallway lights feel too bright.

Your body aches in that deep, lingering way that doesn’t fade with a shower. Muscles sore, feet throbbing, throat tight from holding everything in all day. You kick off your shoes by the door and don’t bother lining them up properly.

You don’t have the energy.

Your bag slides off your shoulder and lands where it lands. You change into something soft, something worn thin with comfort, and collapse onto your bed like gravity finally remembered you exist.

For a moment, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling.

The day replays in fragments you don’t want, his voice cutting through the studio, the way your smile died, the look he didn’t give you when it ended.

You roll onto your side and grab your phone. Anything to distract yourself from the ache in your chest. Just something mindless, you tell yourself. A drama you’ve already half-watched. Something to fill the quiet.

The screen lights up your dark room.

You scroll without really looking. A few messages, nothing urgent. Notifications you’ll answer tomorrow.

Your thumb keeps moving.

And then… You stop.

It’s a photo.

Canid, not posed, familiar. 

Jiyong is there, jacket draped loose over his shoulders, hair pushed back in that careless way he only does when he’s comfortable. Misun sits close beside him, too close to be accidental. Her hand rests lightly on his arm, fingers curled like they belong there.

He’s smiling.

Not the polite smile. Not the public one.

The tired, genuine one. The one you saw this morning over coffee.

Your chest tightens.

You tap the photo before you can stop yourself.

There’s another. And another.

Different angles, different moments. The same closeness.

They look easy together, comfortable, like this isn’t new.

You scroll to the caption.

Nothing incriminating. Just a tag. A vague comment about late meetings and long days. About running into old friends. Laughing emojis from people you recognize. People who know him.

No one asks who she is. No one questions why they’re together.

Your phone feels heavy in your hand.

You lock the screen and toss it onto the bed beside you, like it might burn.

For a long moment, you sit there in the dark, listening to the hum of the city outside your window.

Earlier today, you’d walked into practice feeling light, happy, almost steady.

And now…

Now it hits you all at once.

How easily he does this. How effortlessly he lifts you up and how quickly he pulls the ground out from under you again, without even seeming to notice. 

You press your face into your pillow, breathing slow and controlled, like you’re trying not to spook yourself.

You’re overthinking, you tell yourself. It doesn’t mean anything.

But the thought doesn’t settle.

Instead, another one slips in, quieter and far more dangerous.

What if you’re not the only place he goes to feel better.

You don’t cry. You just lie there, exhausted and wired, the image burned behind your eyes, him smiling like that, with someone who doesn’t have to guess where she stands.

Your phone buzzes sometime after midnight.

You’re half-watching the drama on your laptop, volume low, eyes unfocused. You haven’t really absorbed anything in the last hour, just let the dialogue wash over you while your thoughts loop lazily around things you don’t want to name.

The vibration pulls your attention anyway and you glance down.

Jiyong (oppa) 

Something hopeful sparks in your chest before you can stop it. You open the message.

Jiyong (oppa): You up?

It’s simple, casual, like it always is.

Your thumb hovers over the screen. You check the time without meaning to.

12:47 a.m.

You think about all the other times, how often it’s like this. Late, quiet hours. When the world has narrowed down to just the two of you, when no one is watching, when he’s done being everything else to everyone else.

You tell yourself it’s because he’s busy. Because his schedule is brutal. Because nights are the only time he gets to breathe.

You still answer.

You: Yeah.

The reply comes almost immediately.

Jiyong (oppa): Come over?

No explanation. No mention of practice. No sorry about today. Just that.

Your chest tightens in a way that isn’t entirely anticipation.

You stare at the message, the glow of the screen reflecting faintly off your ceiling. Earlier, you’d been curled up, exhausted, telling yourself you just wanted to sleep. To shut everything out. To stop replaying his voice in the studio, the photos on your phone.

You sit up.

A small, inconvenient thought nudges its way forward.

It’s always like this.

Always late. Always when he’s finished with his day. Always when he needs something quiet, something soft.

You hate the direction your mind takes, even as it goes there.

Does he only want me when it’s convenient?

The thought stings, sharp and unfair, because part of you knows it’s not that simple. You know how hard he works. You know how much pressure he’s under. You know he wouldn’t ask if he didn’t want you there.

Still.

He never asks about your day first. Never seems to notice how much you rearrange yourself to fit into the spaces he leaves open.

Another message appears.

Jiyong (oppa): Long day. Could really use you.

Your breath catches.

There it is, the thing that undoes you every time.

Could really use you.

Not I miss you. Not I want to see you.

Use.

You close your eyes, just for a moment.

You think about the photos. About Misun’s hand on his arm. About how he smiled with her like the world wasn’t pressing down on him.

Then you think about how he looked this morning, half-asleep and gentle, standing in his kitchen making you breakfast like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You type.

Delete.

Type again.

You: Okay.

The word sends before you can reconsider.

Almost instantly:

Jiyong (oppa): I’ll send a car to pick you up.

You set your phone down and sit there for a long moment, staring at nothing.

Part of you is relieved. Part of you is wary. Part of you is already bracing for how easy it will be to soften again the moment you see him.

As you pull on your jacket and grab your keys, you push the thoughts aside.

You always do.

And you go anyway. 

By the time you reach his building, your mind is a tangled mess. You barely remember walking through the lobby, barely remember the elevator ride.

The door opens almost immediately after you knock.

“Hey, baby.”

The word stops you short. Your heart stutters. He’s never called you that before. 

Jiyong stands there in a loose T-shirt and soft pants, hair slightly mussed, eyes tired but warm. He smiles when he sees you, really smiles, and before you can process it, his hand is already at your waist, pulling you inside.

He kisses you. Warm and familiar and gentle. 

“Come here,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours. “I missed you.”

You let him pull you in.

As the door closes behind you, you can’t help the confusion blooming quietly inside you.

Because he’s so sweet now. So soft. Like the version of him from this morning never left.

He keeps a hand at the small of your back as he leads you inside, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. 

“You look exhausted,” he says softly, helping you out of your jacket. “Rough day?”

The question feels almost comical, as if he wasn’t part of that ‘rough day’, but it still makes your chest tighten.

“Something like that,” you answer. It’s the safest truth you have.

He hums, thumb brushing slow circles against your spine. “Come sit. I’ll get you something.”

You let him guide you to the couch, sinking into the familiar cushions. He moves around the space with practiced ease, tea poured, blanket draped over your legs like it’s instinct.

You thank him quietly.

He sits beside you, close enough that your knees touch. His arm slips around your shoulders, pulling you in. You let it happen, but you don’t melt the way you usually do.

He notices.

Not immediately, but his fingers still, then resume more gently, like he’s recalibrating.

“Tired?” he asks, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Mm,” you humm.

He accepts that answer easily.

“Rehearsals were long,” he says, almost to himself. “You pushed yourself too hard today.”

There’s something careful about his tone. Something like remorse that never quite forms into words.

You wonder if this, this softness, is his version of an apology.

His hand drifts up to your hair, combing through it slowly. It feels good, too good. Your body reacts before your heart can catch up, leaning into the touch despite yourself.

He exhales, satisfied.

“Stay tonight,” he murmurs. “We can sleep in tomorrow.”

You nod, even though you haven’t actually agreed.

He presses another kiss to your forehead, then your cheek. Each one unhurried. Affection given freely, like nothing between you is wrong.

And that’s what makes it confusing.

Because if he felt bad, if this was guilt, then he knows he hurt you.

And if he knows… why hasn’t he said it?

His fingers trace idle patterns against your arm. “You were really good today,” he says suddenly. “I saw.”

Your breath catches.

“You didn’t look it,” you say before you can stop yourself.

He blinks, then chuckles softly, brushing it off. “I was stressed. Comeback stuff. You know how it is.”

You nod. You do know.

Still, the warmth of his body beside you doesn’t reach all the way in. The photos flicker at the back of your mind. Misun’s hand. His smile.

He pulls you closer again, the TV hums softly in the background, some late-night drama neither of you is really following. Your head rests against his shoulder, cheek warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. His arm is around you, fingers moving through your hair in slow, absentminded strokes.

He exhales, long and tired, like he’s finally letting the day go.

“Today was a nightmare,” he mutters. “Everyone wants something different, and somehow all of it is urgent.”

You hum, a small sound of acknowledgment.

“They keep changing things last minute,” he goes on, “Concepts, visuals. Even the plans for the final music video aren’t locked yet.” He scoffs quietly. “I swear, no one understands how much of this ends up being my problem.”

His fingers slow, tracing the same path through your hair again and again.

“I’m burnt out,” he admits. “They act like I can just pull something perfect out of nowhere.”

Your chest tightens, just a little.

“They want chemistry,” he says. “Something that looks real. Like that’s something you can just manufacture on command.”

You keep your eyes on the screen, waiting for him to continue. 

He shifts slightly beneath you. “I’m tired of explaining myself to people who already decided what they want.”

There’s frustration there, but also something softer, something almost vulnerable. Like he’s letting you see behind the curtain.

It feels intimate. Like trust.

The silence stretches.

You take a deep breath and before you can stop yourself

“The woman from this morning,” you say, keeping your tone light. “Who was she?”

His hand stills.

Then it resumes, slower now, more deliberate.

He glances down at you, expression unreadable. “Why?”

The word isn’t sharp, but it isn’t gentle either.

You swallow. “I saw some pictures. Online.”

He exhales through his nose. “You mean Misun.”

You nod, eyes still on the TV. “She’s… involved with the album?”

“Yes,” he says shortly. “She’s part of the video.”

Something in your chest sinks. Of course she is.

“Oh,” you say. “That’s how- ”

“How what?” he cuts in, not harsh, but clearly bracing.

You hesitate. “That’s how you and I met,” you say quietly. 

He doesn’t answer right away and his fingers pause again, longer this time.

“That’s different,” he says at last. 

You finally look up at him, confusion flickering across your face. “How?”

He looks away first.

“It’s work,” he says, voice firmer now. “You know that. I don’t blur lines like that.”

Not anymore, hangs unspoken in the air.

You nod slowly. “I know.”

But your voice betrays you, shaking just a little.

He notices.

A flicker of irritation crosses his face, not at you exactly, but at the situation. 

“I think you’re tired,” he says, rubbing his thumb against your arm, soothing, calming. “And sensitive because today was rough.”

Sensitive.

The word lands heavier than he seems to realize. 

“I don’t have the energy for games,” he continues. “If I’m with someone, it’s because I want to be.”

There’s an edge there now.

“And honestly,” he adds, softer but heavier, “I thought you of all people would understand that.”

The words land wrong. Again. 

Not angry. Worse, disappointed.

Like you’ve failed a test you didn’t know you were taking.

“I’m not accusing you,” you say quickly.

“I know,” he replies, but his tone says are you sure? “I’m just saying… trust matters.”

You nod again, even though something in you recoils.

“I do trust you,” you say.

That seems to satisfy him. He presses a kiss into your hair, conversation clearly over in his mind. “I’ve been doing this a long time,” he murmurs. “I know what matters.”

His arm tightens slightly around you.

You settle back against him, smaller than before.

Because he’s not wrong, he has done this longer. He does know more.

His hand resumes its gentle rhythm through your hair, unaware of the distance you’re holding, because it’s easier than explaining something you don’t fully understand yourself.

The TV keeps playing.

*** 

Jiyong doesn’t say much at first.

You’re walking beside him through the hallway, the late afternoon light slanting in through tall windows, the building is quiet. He keeps glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. 

“Why are we here?” you ask finally, slowing your steps.

He looks over at you, lips quirking into a small, pleased smile. “Patience.”

You huff. “That’s not an answer.” 

He chuckles under his breath. “You’ll survive.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but there’s something in his expression, contained, almost excited, that makes you let it go. He opens the door to one of the smaller company studios and gestures for you to step inside.

The room is dim, lights low, equipment humming softly.

You frown. “We’re not practicing, are we? You said we were done for the day.”

“We are,” he says, closing the door behind you. “This is different.”

He moves past you toward the console, fingers already moving with practiced ease. You hover near the couch, still unsure, watching him out of the corner of your eye.

“Sit,” he says without looking at you.

You do.

He glances back then, eyes catching yours. There’s something almost shy in the way he holds your gaze for a second too long before turning back to the screen.

“I finished something,” he says.

Confusion flickers across your face, not quite catching on. 

“Last time we were here, we were recording a little something,” he adds. “Remember?”

Your stomach flips, but you don’t quite know why.

“You finished the song?” you ask cautiously.

He nods once. “Yeah.”

You sit up straighter. “Already?”

He shrugs. “Actually, I finished it a while ago. I wanted you to be the first to hear it.”

The words ignite a warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest. 

Before you can respond, he presses a button.

The room fills with sound.

It’s familiar, the opening notes you remember laying down together, the rhythm you’d struggled with until it finally clicked. Then your voice comes in, clearer than you remember, layered and polished, sitting perfectly in the mix.

Your breath catches.

It sounds… good.

No, better than good.

You glance at him instinctively, but he’s already watching you.

At some point while the track plays, he sits down beside you, knee brushing yours.  

Your chest tightens as the song unfolds, your voice weaving in and out, blending seamlessly with his own. It feels almost too intimate to hear it like this. 

When the track fades out, the silence feels loud.

You swallow. “That’s… that’s me?”

He smiles, small and genuine. “Obviously.”

“No, I mean- ” You laugh softly, a little breathless. “I don’t sound like I thought I would.”

“That’s because you never hear yourself the way other people do,” he says. “You’re always way too critical.”

He angles his body more towards yours. His hand comes to rest briefly on your thigh, just a gentle squeeze, before he drops it again. 

“You were good,” he says. “You were ready. You just didn’t know it yet.”

The warmth in your chest intensifies, fragile and bright.

“You don’t have to- ” you start.

“I want to,” he interrupts easily. “And it’s true.”

You hold his gaze, unsure what to say to that.

For a moment, it feels like the rest of the world has narrowed down to this room again. To the shared creation. To the quiet understanding that this, this, is what started everything.

He leans back slightly, arms crossed, studying you. “You should be proud,” he says. “A lot of people don’t get here at all.”

There’s praise there, but also something else. A reminder of distance. Of unequal experience.

Still, it doesn’t dull the glow.

You nod, a little overwhelmed. “Thank you. For letting me be part of it.”

He tilts his head, considering you. “You earned it.”

The door handle clicks.

Both of you glance toward the sound.

The door opens before either of you can say anything.

“Jiyong?”

Misun steps into the studio without hesitation, already halfway inside as she speaks. She looks comfortable here, like she’s been in this room plenty of times before. Her eyes land on him first.

“There you are,” she says lightly. “I was starting to think you ditched me.”

Jiyong straightens immediately. His knee moves away from yours. The loss of contact is subtle, but you feel it instantly. 

“Sorry,” he says, already rising and turning back toward the console. “Lost track of time.”

Misun hums. “You always do.”

Only then she notices you, still awkwardly sitting on the couch. 

“Oh,” she says, pausing. “It’s you again.”

Her head tilts slightly, brows knitting as if searching for something. Your name, maybe. It doesn’t come.

“Well,” she continues easily, abandoning the effort, “small world.”

You offer a polite smile, “Hi.”

She nods once, already redirecting her attention back to Jiyong. “I’ve been looking for you. We’re supposed to go over the storyboard revisions before the meeting.”

“I know.” He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I just needed a minute.”

Her gaze flickers toward the couch, then back to the console. “Were you working?”

“Yes.” He gestures toward you. “I was playing something for her.” 

Misun’s interest sharpens, surprised. “Oh?”

Her eyes settle on you properly, studying you more closely now. 

“So you finally finished it.”

He hums in confirmation. 

A slow smile curves her lips. “Play it for me?” 

She steps closer, peering at the screen over his shoulder. Close enough that you notice. “You’ve been annoyingly secretive about it,” she adds.

Then, as if remembering you're still here, she glances your way. “I’ve only heard the rough structure. No vocals yet.” A faint smile. “Must’ve been exciting, watching the great G-Dragon work?”   

“It was,” you say, softly.

She nods approvingly, looking back at Jiyong, one hand now lightly resting on his arm. “I can’t believe you made me wait.”

He shrugs, eyes flickering to you briefly. “I wanted it right first.”

“Of course you did.” She nudges his shoulder lightly. “You’re ever the perfectionist.”

She doesn’t move away, if anything, she leans closer.

“Are you going to make me beg?” she asks, amused. “Play it.” 

There’s the smallest pause.

Jiyong’s gaze finding yours again.

Then he turns back to the screen and presses play.

The opening notes fill the room.

Misun listens with her arms loosely crossed, weight shifted onto one hip. She nods faintly at certain transitions, humming under her breath when the production swells.

When your voice comes in, she stills. 

“Oh,” she murmurs.

Not unimpressed but not quite impressed either. 

She glances at Jiyong. “That’s different.”

He says nothing, just watches the levels.

Your voice carries through the speakers, vulnerable, textured, alive in a way that felt intimate when it was just the two of you. Now it feels exposed.

When the chorus hits, Misun exhales softly through her nose.

“It’s raw,” she says after a moment. “It works.”

There’s a pause.

“Feels untrained,” she adds thoughtfully. “But sometimes that’s better.”

Your fingers curl slightly against your knees.

She turns then, finally looking at you directly.

“You’re still training, right?”

It’s phrased gently. Almost kindly.

You nod your head. “Yes.”

She nods, as if confirming something she already suspected. “I can tell.”

The smile she gives you is polite, controlled.

“But that’s not a bad thing,” she continues. “There’s something… unpolished about it. It makes his production feel more grounded.”

Her gaze shifts back to Jiyong, approval flickering there. “You were right. The contrast is interesting.”

He gives a small hum of agreement.

Misun leans closer again, pointing lightly at the screen. “Maybe we should lean into that for the video. Keep the styling minimal. Less performance, more honesty.” Her gaze flicks to you again. “Which works well for something like this.”

You’re not sure if that’s praise.

Jiyong checks the time. “We really are late.”

Misun sighs softly, but she’s smiling. “See? This is what happens when you disappear.” 

Her hand returns to his arm, familiar, absentminded. “I told you we didn’t have time.”

He doesn’t react to the touch. Doesn’t remove it either. 

When he looks back at you, his expression shifts, subtly warmer, gentler.

“I’ll walk you out,” he says.

It’s kind. It’s also unmistakably different from how he spoke to her.

You rise from the couch, suddenly aware of how quiet you’ve been.

As you step past him, his hand brushes your elbow, brief, apologetic. A small squeeze that feels like a quiet reassurance. Or maybe a dismissal.

Misun is already at the door, holding it open without looking back, confident he’ll follow.

I LOVE IT Pt. 8

Summary: She's nervous, inexperienced, and trying to be professional. He's confident, teasing, and maybe falling faster than he expected.

Warnings: Implied sexual content, age gap (legal), slight angst, lack of communication

Pairing: Kwon Jiyong x reader

a/n: Hey guys, it’s been a while, sorry about that. I honestly just haven’t had the time or motivation to write. But I’m back now and I hope some of you are still invested in this story.

Thank you so much for sticking around. I hope you enjoy <3

The days after feel slow. Muted, somehow. Like the world has been turned down a few notches.

Even fate doesn’t seem to be on your side. It keeps happening that you go days without seeing Jiyong. Missed timing, opposite schedules. A message left unread a little longer than usual. None of it dramatic. None of it intentional, probably. 

You know you’re both busy. You tell yourself that over and over.

Still, a small, nagging voice settles in the back of your mind, persistent and cruel in its quiet effectiveness.

What if you’re wanting too much? What if this was never as serious to him as it felt to you? What if you are just… a moment?

A convenience, a distraction. A pretty face, at the right time. 

The thought makes your chest tighten, shame and doubt curling together in a way that feels familiar. You hate that your mind goes there. Hate that it feels so easy to believe.

After that night, after the closeness, the vulnerability, the way he held you like you belonged to him, you don’t know how to go back to expecting so little. You don’t want to. It’s not that you think he owes you anything. It’s just that intimacy rearranges things. It raises the stakes without asking permission.

Before, his attention felt like a gift. Now, its absence feels loud. It feels like a punishment. 

You try to remind yourself of what you do have. The nights at his place. The way he touches you without thinking. The care in his voice when he tells you to eat, to rest, to be careful. Surely he wouldn’t do that with just anyone.

Right?

But it’s hard to hold onto certainty when nothing has been said out loud. When everything between you exists in gestures instead of words. In moments instead of definitions.

You don’t know where you stand with him. Not really.

And that uncertainty settles into you, quiet but heavy, shaping the way you read everything gesture that follows. A delayed reply, a distracted tone, a touch that lingers, or doesn’t.

You tell yourself you’re overthinking. 

That you just need to be patient. That feelings don’t always move at the same pace. That this is normal.

And truthfully, you don’t really have anything to compare this to. 

Still, the question remains, unresolved and aching beneath it all:

If we crossed that line… shouldn’t something have shifted for him too?

Your reflection in the studio mirror glares back at you, it feels harsher today. 

You can’t quite explain why. The lights are the same. The smell is the same. You even look the same. And yet something feels off.  

“Again,” the instructor says.

You nod and reset, wiping your palms against your leggings. Your body knows the choreography. You’ve drilled it into muscle memory. But today, something keeps slipping. A half-second delay. A turn that lands just slightly off. You catch it every time, and that almost makes it worse.

You’re thinking too much.

You try again.

“Focus,” someone calls from the side.

You are focusing, just not on the right thing. 

And again your foot lands wrong. Not enough to hurt, just enough to mess up the sharp line of the next step. 

The music cuts. 

“Stop.”

Heat floods your face. You bow automatically, murmuring an apology.

“What’s with you today?” the instructor asks, arms crossed. “You’re rushing. You were cleaner last week.” 

Last week, right. 

You swallow. “I’ll fix it.”

“You’re overworking,” she continues, “and under-committing at the same time. Decide which one you want to do.”

You nod again. Apologise again.

The music starts once more. 

This time you force yourself to breathe. Count. Eight, seven, six.

Your body moves, sharp, precise, obedient. It’s technically good, but something feels hollow about it, like you’re watching yourself from a distance. Like your mind is somewhere else entirely. 

During the break, you sit against the wall, back sliding down until you’re on the floor. You check your phone. 

Nothing.

You sigh and set it face-down beside you. Your reflection stares back at you from the mirror, flushed, tired, eyes a little too glassy. 

Get it together.

This is important. This is your future.

You press your palms into your knees, grounding yourself. Remind yourself of all the reasons you’re here. Of how badly you wanted this. Of how hard you worked.

Still, your mind betrays you.

You wonder what he’s doing. You wonder if he’s thinking about you. You wonder if you’re ridiculous for even caring this much.

When practice finally ends and most of the other trainees have already filtered out, laughter and footsteps fading down the hallway until it’s just you. Your muscles burn in that dull, familiar way that usually feels rewarding. 

Tonight, it just feels exhausting. 

You run the sequence one last time alone, slower this time. You catch your reflection mid-movement and correct yourself automatically, shoulders down, jaw unclenched, breathe.

You land the final step and stop the music.

Silence rushes in.

You stand there for a moment, hands on your hips, chest rising and falling. You should feel satisfied. You pushed through. You always do.

Instead, your thoughts drift again.

You wonder how late he’s working tonight. You wonder if he’s eaten. You wonder if it would be weird to text first.

You tell yourself not to. 

Your phone vibrates against the floor.

For a second, you don’t move. You don’t let yourself hope. You really don’t. Then you reach for it

Jiyong (oppa)

Warmth spreads through your chest so fast it almost hurts.

You unlock the screen.

Jiyong (oppa): You still at the company?

Your lips part on a soft exhale. Relief, immediate and undeniable.

You: Yeah. Just finished practice.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Jiyong (oppa): That late again?

You smile faintly, sinking down to sit on the floor, back against the mirror.

You: They’re working us hard.

A pause. Just long enough for doubt to creep back in.

Then:

Jiyong (oppa): You must be exhausted.

The words do something to you. The fact that he noticed. That he asked. Your shoulders loosen without you realizing they were tense.

You: A little.

You stare at the screen, thumb hovering. You don’t add anything else. You don’t want to sound needy. You don’t want to invite something he didn’t offer.

The typing bubble appears again.

Jiyong (oppa): Want to come over?

Your breath catches.

Just like that, the heaviness that you’ve been carrying lifts, replaced by something bright and almost giddy. You hate how fast it happens. How easy it is.

You force yourself to stay calm.

You: Are you sure? It’s pretty late.

The reply comes immediately.

Jiyong (oppa): Yeah. I’m bored and I want to see you.

See you.

The studio suddenly feels too quiet. You glance around and realize how little you want to be here anymore.

You: Okay.

Jiyong (oppa): I’ll come get you.

You hesitate, fingers hovering over the screen.

You: You don’t have to.

Jiyong (oppa): I want to.

Your throat tightens.

You lock your phone and sit there for a moment longer, letting the feeling wash over you. The relief, the warmth, the quiet certainty that settles in your chest just because he reached out.

You’re waiting in the lobby, halfway through zipping up your jacket when headlights sweep across the front of the building. Even though you already knew he was coming, your heart still jumps in your chest. 

The car pulls up to the curb, engine idling. The window rolls down. 

His voice sounds tired.

You walk over, bag slung over your shoulder. When you open the door and slide into the passenger seat, warmth wraps around you instantly. The car smells faintly like his cologne and coffee that’s gone cold.

He glances at you as he pulls back into traffic.

“Long day?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say. Then, softer, “Yours?”

He exhales through his nose, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “Don’t even get me started.”

You watch him from the corner of your eye. The dark circles beneath his eyes. The way his shoulders stay tense even when he’s sitting still. He looks… worn down.

“You okay?” you ask.

He nods automatically. “Yeah. Just tired.”

You don’t push. You never do. You don’t know if it’s your place too. 

The ride is quiet after that. Not awkward. Just subdued. The city slides past the windows in a blur of lights. At one stoplight, his head tips back against the seat for a second, eyes closing like he’s stealing rest wherever he can get it.

Something tightens in your chest.

At his building, he parks and turns the engine off. For a moment, neither of you moves.

“Sorry,” he says suddenly. “If I’m not great company tonight.”

“It’s okay,” you reply too quickly. “I’m just glad to be here.”

He smiles faintly at that, reaches over and squeezes your knee once before getting out of the car.

Upstairs, his place is dim and quiet. Familiar now in a way that still feels surreal. He kicks off his shoes and drops his keys on the counter.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says. “I just need a minute.”

He sinks onto the couch, rubbing his face with both hands. You hover nearby, unsure what you’re allowed to do. He leans back, eyes closing.

“I swear,” he murmurs, half-asleep, “my brain hasn’t shut up all day.” 

You smile softly at that, even though something tightens in your chest.  Exhaustion clings to him, visible in the slump of his shoulders, the way his hand rubs at his face like he’s trying to wipe the day away.

“Do you want me to go?” you ask quietly, the question surprises even you.

His eyes open immediately. “No.”

He reaches for you then, fingers curling around your wrist, gentle but insistent. He tugs you closer until you’re standing between his knees. He rests his forehead against your stomach for a moment, like he needs the contact to ground himself. 

“Come here,” he murmurs. “Just… stay.”

You do. You always do. 

His hands slide up your thighs as you shift closer, palms warm, familiar. He exhales, long and deep, like he’s finally letting go of something he’s been holding all day. His lips brush your bare stomach, slow and soft, more comfort than hunger. 

It feels different from last time. Quieter, less charged.

Still, your body reacts immediately before your mind can catch up. Familiar warmth blooming low in your belly, breath catching when his hands pull you closer, when he looks up at you through tired eyes and kisses you.

You melt into it, into him. Because when he kisses you, it’s easy to ignore everything else. 

He guides you without asking, hands steady, like he knows exactly where to touch you to coax the warmth higher, to keep you grounded in him. You follow instinctively, trusting him to take care of you, even as a small, traitorous part of you tries to read meaning into every sigh, every lingering press of his mouth against yours.

Tentatively, your hands slide into his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands, nails scraping lightly at his scalp. The sound he makes in response, low, pleased, almost surprised, shoots straight through you, sending a shiver down your spine.

He pulls back just enough to rest his chin against your shoulder, eyes closed again, breath warm against your skin. Encouraged, you keep your hands there, massaging gently, and he hums softly, the vibration settling deep in your chest.

His mouth drifts to the sensitive spot beneath your jaw, teeth grazing your skin in a way that makes you inhale sharply. When you tilt your head to give him better access, he chuckles under his breath, indulgent and fond, trailing kisses slowly downward. His palms slide beneath your shirt, warm and sure, fingers brushing along your ribs in a way that makes your stomach flutter.

His lips leave your skin for just a moment. “This okay?” he murmurs, voice muffled against you.

“Yes,” you breathe, barely audible.

Satisfied, he eases you back onto the couch, guiding you carefully until your back sinks into the cushions. He pauses then, gaze flickering over your face like he’s memorizing it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says quietly.

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you turn your face away, suddenly shy under the weight of his attention.

He laughs, soft and tired. “I mean it. Have I ever told you how cute you look when you blush like that?”

“Jiyong…” you protest, the sound more breath than complaint.

He leans down to kiss you again, slow and unhurried, like he’s savoring something he doesn’t get often enough. When he leans back, his hands wander over you, unhurried, until they come to rest at your waist. His fingers toy briefly with the button of your jeans, waiting.

When you don’t stop him, his eyes darken just a little. He undoes them slowly, never breaking eye contact, before lifting your hips enough to slide the fabric away and discharge it somewhere behind him.

His gaze follows the movement, lingering, deliberate. The intensity of it makes you squirm beneath him, warmth pooling low in your stomach as his attention settles fully on you. 

Something in you tightens. Not fear, but awareness. Of yourself, of how exposed you feel under his attention, how seen. 

You try not to think too hard about any of it, to stay in your body instead of your head but it’s harder than you want it to be. 

His hands return to you, gentle, grounding, He touches you like he has all the time in the world, like there’s nowhere else he needs to be. The contrast between his exhaustion and the care in his movements makes your chest ache in a way you don’t quite understand.

He’s tired and he’s still doing this. Taking care of you. 

That thought alone sends warmth curling low in your stomach.

Your thoughts scatter as he leans closer again, his presence closing in around you. His mouth traces slow, unhurried paths, warm breath ghosting over damp skin. His touch is attentive and patient. He watches you carefully, dark eyes fixed on you. Watches the way your breath changes, the way your body responds, adjusts without a word, like he’s listening to you even when you’re not saying anything. 

You cling to the couch cushion with one hand, the other drifting back into his hair without thinking. Your mind keeps trying to catalog the moment, to memorize it, afraid it might be something you’ll need to hold onto later.

The sensations build gradually, his ministration are insistent, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You feel yourself giving in, piece by piece, letting go of the self-consciousness, the questions, the constant wondering. There’s a soft sound you don’t recognize at first, until you realize it came from you.

His eyes flick up at that, a faint smirk touching his mouth, like he’s pleased you’re finally letting yourself feel it. He dives back in doubling his efforts. 

The feeling becomes too overwhelming and you close your eyes. 

When the moment crests, it surprises you, not in intensity, but in how deeply you feel it. It’s not just physical. It’s the way he stays with you through it, steady and present, murmuring soft and unintelligible things near your skin, grounding you even as everything inside you feels loose and warm. 

When the feeling ebbs, you’re left breathless, limbs heavy, heart racing like you just ran a mile. 

For a little while there’s nothing but closeness and neither of you moves. 

Then you open your eyes and find him watching you, pupils blown,  expression unreadable in that tired, quiet way of his. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “You okay?”

You nod quickly. “Yeah. I- ” You swallow, suddenly shy all over again. “I want to… I mean, I can- ”

You shift, starting to sit up, intention clear even if the words won’t come out right.

He stops you gently, hand resting at your waist. 

“It’s fine,” he says softly. “Really.”

You frown a little. “Are you sure?”

He nods, already easing back, the edges of his exhaustion catching up with him again now that the tension has drained from his body. “Yeah. I needed that,” he admits, voice low. “Helped me relax.”

The words sit strangely in your chest. I needed that. Not you. Not us.

Before you can untangle the feeling, he’s shifting beside you, settling back against the couch. His eyes close almost immediately, one arm settling around you, heavy and familiar. 

You watch him for a moment, heart slowing, warmth cooling into something quieter.

Within minutes his breathing evens out, sleep claiming him. 

You lie there beside him, still buzzing faintly, staring up at the ceiling while the room settles into silence. A small part of you aches, not from disappointment exactly, but from the whiplash of going from feeling so seen to suddenly being alone with your thoughts again.

You tell yourself it’s fine. He’s exhausted. You’re being unfair.

Still, you can’t help the thought that by refusing your offer, he also refused you.

You wake up slowly, dragged out of sleep by warmth and a smell that doesn’t belong to dreams.

Something savory. Toasting bread and coffee.

For a second, you don’t move. The bed is too comfortable, the sheets too soft. Then awareness settles in, and your eyes open.

When did you get to bed?

Sunlight spills in through the curtains, pale and early, catching on the edges of furniture. A small weight shifts on your chest.

“Zoa,” you murmur, voice rough with sleep.

She responds by climbing higher, settling herself right under your chin like she owns the place. You smile despite yourself, scratching absently behind her ears.

The sound of movement comes from the kitchen. Footsteps, a drawer closing, the quiet clink of dishes.

Then Jiyong appears in the doorway, hair messy, sleeves pushed up, holding two mugs.

“Oh,” he says softly when he sees you awake. “Morning.”

Your heart does something stupid, and all your worries from last night evaporate like grey smoke. 

“Morning,” you reply, pushing yourself up on one elbow. “I- when did I?”

“We fell asleep on the couch,” he says easily, crossing the room. “I carried you in.”

You blink. “You did?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, setting one of the mugs on the nightstand. “You were out cold. I didn’t want to wake you.”

The casualness of it hits harder than it should.

“And I made breakfast,” he adds, nodding toward the kitchen. “Nothing fancy. Just eggs and toast.”

You sit up fully now, pulling the sheet around yourself, suddenly aware of how intimate this all feels. Him standing there, barefoot and comfortable. Zoa curled against you. Coffee within reach.

“Oh,” you say again, quieter this time. “Thank you.”

He watches you take a sip of coffee, eyes soft, like he’s checking whether you’re really awake. When you hum appreciatively, his mouth curves into a small smile.

“Eat with me,” he says. 

You nod immediately.

In the kitchen, the two of you move around each other easily. He slides a plate toward you. You sit on the counter without thinking. Zoa and Iye weave between your ankles, waiting for their own breakfast. 

This feels good, comfortable. It provides a shred of normalcy you’ve been craving so desperately and you cling to it harder than you mean to. 

For a few minutes, there’s no tension. No wondering. Just quiet conversation and the hum of the city waking up outside his windows. He tells you he slept better than he has in days. 

You tell him about practice, about the things you’ve been working on. He listens, smiling faintly, even as he rubs at his eyes like they burn.

“You okay?” you ask, studying him.

He exhales, slow. “Just tired. It’ll pass.”

When it’s time to leave, he grabs his jacket and keys, glancing at you. “Ready?”

You nod, heart light in a way that scares you a little.

As the door clicks shut behind you and you step into the hallway together, you think, If only it could always be like this. 

The car ride is quiet, but not uncomfortable. 

Jiyong’s focused on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely near the gearshift. He still looks tired in that specific way he’s been looking a lot lately, jaw tight, eyes slightly shadowed, like sleep isn’t quite enough even when he gets it.

You sit beside him, hands folded in your lap, watching the city slide by through the window. Every so often, he glances over at you, quick and checking, like he’s making sure you’re still there.

“You good?” he asks once, casual.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He hums, satisfied, and turns his attention back to traffic.

It feels almost domestic, riding like this. Like something that belongs to the two of you now. You let yourself sit in that feeling for a moment, even though you know better than to get too comfortable with things that seem to change in the blink of an eye. 

When you arrive at the company building, the illusion cracks.

The moment he cuts the engine, Jiyong’s posture shifts, shoulders squaring, expression settling into something more neutral, more guarded. The version of him the world gets.

You notice it immediately.

He gets out first, walks around to your side and opens the door for you without thinking. It’s a small thing, instinctive. It steadies you more than it should.

Inside, the building hums with activity. Stylists rushing past, managers on phones, trainees bowing quickly as they pass him. You follow half a step behind, the way you’ve learned to, matching his pace.

Then. 

“Jiyong?”

The voice sounds warm, familiar, confident.

You look up to see a woman approaching from down the hall. She’s tall, dressed effortlessly, nothing flashy, but everything intentional. She looks like she belongs here in a way you don’t.

Her smile widens when she reaches him.

“You’re in early,” she says, lightly teasing. “That’s new.”

He smiles back, easy. “Says the one who’s always painfully early. It’s good to see you, Misun.”

She laughs, the sound unrestrained, and then her gaze flicks to you.

“Oh,” she says, eyebrows lifting slightly. “I didn’t know you had company.”

There’s a split second, just one, where you think he might say something else. Something different.

Instead, he answers smoothly.

“Yeah. This is Y/N,” he says. “She’s one of our trainees. I’ve been mentoring her.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it.

The words land softly in their cruelty. 

You want to say something. Anything. You want to undo the lie sitting between you. Instead, you smile and bow, because that’s what’s expected of you.

“Nice to meet you.”

Her gaze sharpens with interest, not unkindly, just assessing.

“A trainee,” she repeats. “Wow. You must be working really hard then, for this guy to take you under his wing.”

You nod. “I try.”

She smiles again, but this time it feels different. Like she’s already decided where you fit. 

“That’s cute,” she says, not quite dismissive, but close enough that you feel it anyway. “This place can be a lot when you’re just starting out.”

She turns back to Jiyong. “You heading to the conference room? They’re already asking for you.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

She nods, gives him a familiar hugh, and then she’s gone, heels clicking down the hallway.

The silence that follows feels louder than the conversation did.

Jiyong doesn’t seem to notice.

“You’ve got practice in Studio C today, right?” he asks, already shifting gears. “I’ll come check in later if I can.”

“Okay,” you say.

He squeezes your shoulder briefly, reassuring, like this is all normal. Like he didn’t just carefully place you somewhere you can’t be seen.

“Don’t overthink things,” he adds lightly. “You’ve been doing well. I’ll see you later”

Then he’s walking away, phone already out, expression focused.

You stand there for a moment longer than necessary, watching his back disappear into the crowd.

Mentor.

The word echoes quietly in your head, settling somewhere uncomfortable.

You know what he meant. You do. It makes sense. It’s the safest thing he could have said.

Still, your chest feels hollow as you turn away. 

You tell yourself you’re being ridiculous. That labels don’t matter. That it’s better this way.

But as you walk down the hall, the woman’s words replay just as clearly as his.

I LOVE IT Pt. 7

Summary: She's nervous, inexperienced, and trying to be professional. He's confident, teasing, and maybe falling faster than he expected.

Warnings: sexual content, dry humping, age gap (legal), teasing/flirting, fluff

Pairing: Kwon Jiyong x reader

a/n: I still feel kind of awkward when writing spice, so I’m never quite sure if it comes across as hot or just cringe. I’m also really curious whether you guys can tell what kind of dynamic I’m trying to set up between the two.

Thank you, as always, for all the love. Updates might be a bit slower since I’ve got another lab coming up, so please bear with me <3

His answer is a breath against your lips.

“This.” 

He kisses you, soft at first, like testing the air between you. Then deeper, coaxing, patient but hungry. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone like he’s memorizing you. When you respond, unsure but willing, he exhales like relief.

When he finally pulls back, he says close. Foreheads still touching. 

“You really should put ice on that ankle,” he murmurs, voice rough.

“You’re the one holding it,” you whisper back. 

He huffs a laugh, like he hadn’t realized.

“Right.” He shifts, adjusting the pack. “I can multitask.”

“Jiyong?”

“Yeah?”

“If this is all we can have right now… I’m okay with that.”

His thumb strokes your jaw once, slow, reverent.

He exhales, eyes dropping to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

“I don’t know what this is yet,” he admits, voice rough around the edges. “But it’s not nothing.”

Your heart jumps around in your chest. It’s the closest thing to a promise he’s given you yet.

And somehow, it’s enough.

It’s not a conversation, not a decision, not even something either of you acknowledges. It just… becomes.

One night turns into two. Two turns into a pattern. A pattern turns into something that feels dangerously like home.

After another evening of laughter and warmth, you fall asleep on his couch, swaddled in a blanket Jiyong tucked around you with quiet, ridiculous precision. You wake to the smell of coffee and a soft kiss to the forehead. Jiyong stands over you in sweats and a loose shirt, hair sticking in every direction, voice rough with sleep. His knuckles brush your cheek. “Breakfast, sleepyhead.”

When practice runs late again, he doesn’t ask, he just shows up. Snacks in hand, a hoodie held out like an offering. “You’re cold,” he says. “You always say that.” He shrugs. “Because you always are.” You walk home together. 

There's music playing in his living room, rough demos, his voice threaded through the unfinished pieces. He sits on the floor, back against the couch, eyes closed, expression tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. Without thinking, you sit beside him. Your head finds his shoulder. He doesn’t move away. He tucks you closer. “Hard day?” you ask quietly. Jiyong doesn’t answer at first, just sighs. “I hate disappointing people.” “You won’t,” you say. He huffs out a breath. “Feels like I will.” You don’t know what you’re allowed to do, so you try the smallest thing, your hand over his. He looks down. Then he turns his palm, lacing your fingers with his. “Stay,” he says. It’s not a question.

It rains. You’re both half-asleep on the couch, a movie playing that neither of you is watching. Your head ends up on his chest, his arms wrapped around you. His fingers trace slow patterns down your spine, absentminded, like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. “You’re good to have around,” he murmurs, voice low. Your heart beats too loud. You don’t ask what he means.

It starts to feel normal. Your toothbrush beside his. Your laugh echoing in his kitchen. Your body leaning into his like muscle memory. None of it defined. None of it labeled. But every time he brushes your hair behind your ear, every time he rests his hand on the back of your neck, thumb warm at your spine, every time he pulls you close without thinking… It feels like something.

Something almost real. Something almost safe. Something that could break you if it goes wrong.

And at night, when you fall asleep in his bed and he chooses the couch again, you stare at the ceiling and whisper to yourself:

“Don’t fall too hard.”

But you already are.

***

You’re at his place again, not because it was planned, but because it’s where you keep ending up.

Jiyong is sitting at his home studio setup, leaning back in his chair while a new track plays through the speakers. 

He’s watching you, not the screen.

“Well?” he asks, a slow grin curving at the corner of his mouth. “Tell me I’m a genius.”

You laugh, quiet, a little smile playing at your lips. “You want praise that badly?”

“I always want praise,” he says, leaning back further, arms folding behind his head. “Especially from you.”

Your chest does that dangerous ache again.

You look at the screen, the production is clean, sharp, unmistakably him. It feels like something that will fill stadiums, thousands of people screaming the lyrics word for word. 

“It’s really good,” you say softly. “I mean it.”

He hums, not fully satisfied. “Just ‘really good’?”

“It’s amazing,” you correct, cheeks warm. “You’re amazing.”

That lands. His eyes drop, and something prideful but vulnerable tugs at his expression, like he needed to hear that more than he wants to admit.

He turns back to the screen, fiddling with a dial, pretending he’s not flustered.

“Album drops soon,” he mutters. “Interviews. Press. Showcases. A lot of eyes. A lot of opinions.”

You nod, even though you don’t exactly know what that world feels like.

“You’ll do fine,” you say. “You always do.”

His jaw tics. “I used to. When I was younger.”

You blink. “You’re not that old.”

He snorts. “Tell the industry that.”

“You’re not old,” you repeat, nudging his shoulder. “I’d tell them myself if I could.”

He glances at you then, surprised, almost touched. Then his phone buzzes.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Whatever softness was in his expression drains out. His posture changes. His face shifts. The song pauses mid-chorus.

And he’s someone else.

He checks the screen. You try to read his expression, but there’s a wall there now, one you haven’t seen before.

“Sorry,” he says, not looking at you. “I have to deal with this.”

You nod quickly. “Of course.”

The message goes unanswered for a beat too long. He sighs, running a hand through his hair, not dramatic, just tired.

“We should wrap for today,” he says. “I need to focus. And you should rest.”

It’s gentle. It really is. But it still feels like being pushed to the outside of a glass house.

“Oh,” you say. “Yeah. Sure.”

You stand, grabbing your bag. He doesn’t turn, not right away. You wait for him to look up, to smile, to pull you back like he always does.

He doesn’t.

Just as you reach the doorway, he calls your name, too late, like a thought he almost lost.

“Hey,” he says, softer this time. “Don’t… think too much.”

You force a smile. “I won’t.”

The lie tastes like ash.

You close the door quietly behind you.

***

After weeks of soft touches and lingering looks, you’ve almost convinced yourself this is normal. Your normal. His place, his touches, his presence like gravity.

So when the news comes, when your manager pulls you aside and tells you your debut has officially been moved up to February next year, there’s only one person you want to tell. Not your members. Not your instructors. Him.

Now you’re here, lying on his couch, head resting in his lap. Jiyong’s fingers comb lazily through your hair, slow and absentminded.

“So…” you begin, the smile you’ve been fighting finally curling at your lips, “I have to tell you something.”

He hums, eyebrow lifting as he glances down at you. “Oh?”

“You know how they’ve been working me like crazy these past few weeks?”

His hand pauses. “I noticed.”

“Well,” you say, excitement bubbling in your chest, “apparently, it paid off. They’re pushing my debut forward. February next year. They want to start prepping teasers next month.”

The words hang in the air, real, solid, terrifying.

For a moment, Jiyong just looks at you. Then the corners of his mouth lift, slow and warm, like pride is something he has to hold carefully.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

You shift, and his hand slides from your hair to your cheek. He tilts your face up toward him.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, voice low, certain. “I’ve been proud. But this? This is huge.”

Your throat tightens unexpectedly. You swallow. “I’m excited. I just… I don’t know. Part of me is scared.”

His thumb strokes the corner of your jaw. “Scared of what?”

A beat. You breathe in.

“What people will think of me. Of… this.” You gesture vaguely between you. “Of how close we are. How it might look. I don’t want to start my career already being seen as- ”

He cuts you off gently, hand tightening just enough to anchor you.

“Hey,” he whispers, “look at me.”

You do.

“You don’t owe anyone your fear. They don’t get to decide what you are.”

“I know, it’s just- ”

“People will always have opinions,” he finishes gently. “You don’t have to make room for them in your heart.”

You nod without thinking. Because when he speaks like that, so sure, so calm, it feels easier to believe him rather than yourself. 

He exhales slowly, eyes drifting from yours to your lips, then back again, like he’s checking for permission he already has.

“You’re allowed to want big things,” he says. “A debut, a career, a future. And you’re allowed to want…” His gaze drops to your mouth again. “…this. At the same time.”

Your pulse stutters.

He shifts, and suddenly you’re sitting upright, knees between his, his hands firm on your waist. You end up straddling him before you fully register how you got there, his fingers guiding, his body welcoming.

“Jiyong,” you breathe, unsure if it’s a question or a warning.

He leans in, mouth brushing the corner of your lips, not quite a kiss, not yet, just enough to make your breath catch.

“You’re not alone in this,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’m right here.”

Your hands find his shoulders without thinking. His grip at your waist tightens, thumbs pressing slow circles into your skin like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“Can I…?” His voice drops, rougher now. “Touch you?”

You nod, small, instinctive, but your heart is racing. 

His hands slide beneath the hem of your shirt, warm palms meeting bare skin. Not rushing, just exploring. Learning.

The contact steals the air from your lungs. You’re suddenly aware of everything, how close you are, how warm his hands are, how little space exists between your bodies now. 

“I’m… a little nervous,” you admit, voice barely audible.

He doesn’t tease. He doesn’t smirk. He just looks at you, eyes warm and dark and patient.

“I know,” he chuckles softly. “I can feel it.”

His thumb traces slow circles over your hipbone enough to ground you, to remind you he’s here. That he’s in control of the moment so you don’t have to be.

“You tell me where your line is,” he murmurs. “And I won’t cross it.”

Your breath shakes. “What if I don’t know yet?”

His hand slides up your back, guiding you just a little closer, your bodies aligning in a way that makes your stomach drop.

“That’s okay,” he says. “I’ll move slow. You just follow.”

The words go straight through you.

He leans in and kisses you, not light, not tentative. Deeper. The kind that pulls a sound from your throat you didn’t mean to make. His hand cups the back of your neck, angling your mouth beneath his, guiding the pace. His tongue traces yours, slow and deliberate, coaxing rather than taking.

Your fingers curl in his shirt, and he groans into your mouth.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, foreheads touching, your noses brushing.

“This is okay?” he asks, voice strained.

You nod, heartbeat trembling against him. “Yes.”

His hands travel a little higher, over the curve of your waist, the line of your ribs, until his thumbs brush lightly against the fabric of your bra, not going further. 

“Still okay?” he asks.

You swallow. “Yes. Just… nervous.”

He leans his forehead against yours. “Then let me lead.”

His fingers slip underneath the elastic, slow enough for you to stop him if you need to. You don’t. His thumb grazes your nipple, and your breath stutters. Your back arches without meaning to, body reacting before your mind can catch up.

“Can I take this off?” he murmurs, toying with the clasp at your back. 

“Yeah,” you nod shakily, fingers threading into the hair at the back of his neck. 

With an easy flick your bra is gone. His hands return immediately, exploring with more confidence now, palms warm against newly exposed skin. 

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“I know,” you whisper.

One hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up. The kiss he gives you this time is slower and you feel it everywhere. His other hand remains where it is, thumb brushing the underside of your bare breast. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes heavy, voice rough.

“Tell me if you want to stop.”

You meet his gaze, nervous but sure.

“Don’t stop yet.”

Something in his expression shifts, heat, restraint, control. Like he’s holding back a version of himself he’s not sure you’re ready to meet.

“Then come here,” he whispers.

He pulls you closer, guiding you to sit more fully in his lap. His mouth grazes your jaw, breath hot against your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. His lips find your pounding pulse, licking, sucking, carefully, teasing the thin, sensitive skin between his teeth. His hand cups your breast fully now, thumb circling a stiff peak.  

Overwhelmed by the foreign warmth blooming low in your core, you shift forward, seeking relief. 

“Fuck,” Jiyong hisses, voice low spine tingling. Startled, ready to apologise, to get up from his lap, you move again. 

And that's when you feel it. The unmistakable heat of him, hard and pressing against you. 

“Oh… “ you breathe. You might be inexperienced but you're not naive. You know exactly what that firm bulge is, pressing against your core. The realisation hits you light a freight train. This man, this legend, older and experienced and wanted by so many, is hard because of you. 

You. 

His breath stutters when you shift again, unintentionally at first, then with purpose.

His hand flexes on your hip, the other pinching your nipple. He looks up at you like he’s trying to steady himself, voice rough at the edges.

“Don’t move like that unless you mean it,” he warns quietly.

Your breath catches. “I- I think I do.”

“Then do it again,” he murmurs. 

His hands guide your hips forward, slow at first. The pressure increases, fabric dragging deliciously against your core. Your head drops to his shoulder on a quiet gasp. 

“That’s it,” he breaths, fingers digging into your hips as if he’s been waiting to hold you like this. 

You move once more, hesitant, testing, hands now resting on his shoulders to steady yourself. 

He groans into the side of your neck, the sound low and wrecked.

“Just like that. Good girl.” 

His words send another wave of heat straight to your core. On instinct you roll your hips forward again. 

His grip tightens. “You’re killing me.”

You freeze, worried you did something wrong.

His thumb strokes your hip, soothing. “No. Not bad. Just- ” He laughs under his breath, strained. “too good.”

You swallow hard, then try again, another gentle roll of your hips.

This time he meets you halfway, grinding up into you, letting you feel the shape of him. 

Your breath breaks on a soft, involuntary moan. “Jiyong…”

He groans like the sound of his name physically hurts, his hand sliding up your spine, fingers gripping the nape of your neck as he guides your mouth back to his. 

“Doing so good for me,” he praises as he continues to guide you. 

You lean into him, movements becoming more urgent as the heat continues to build. Every shift of your hips is met with a low groan from him. 

“Keep going,” he murmurs, voice almost hoarse. “Just like that. Let me feel you.”

With every roll of your hips, you feel his hard length drag against your clit, sparks of pleasure shooting through you. You shudder, biting your lip in a weak attempt to hold back your moans.

“Don’t,” he murmurs immediately. “Let me hear your pretty sounds.” 

Your cheeks burn as you tuck your face into his neck, hesitant whimpers slipping free despite yourself.

“That’s it,” Jiyong pants, hands sliding down to grip your ass, fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he guides you in slow, tight circles against him. 

Your thighs tense around him. Every drag of fabric sends heat pooling low in your core, a tightening you don’t have a name for yet. Your nails drag lightly against his neck. Jiyong hisses, hips jerking up into you like he can’t help it.

Your skin prickles as the heat in your core builds and builds, until it turns into an aching inferno, every nerve alight. The unfamiliar intensity has you tightening your grip on his shoulders, breath coming out in shallow gasps. 

Jiyong seems to feel it the moment you’re close.

“My perfect girl,” he murmurs, voice dark and coaxing. “That’s it. Let go for me.”

You whine softly, rolling your hips one last time before the sensation crests, pleasure rippling through you in waves. You go slack against him, walls clenching around nothing as you gasp his name.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Good girl. Just, just need a little more… “ 

His words trail off as he continues to grind up into you, his cock twitching beneath the fabric between you. His hips stutter once, twice, before he buries his face in your neck, a low, satisfied sound spilling from him as his body finally stills.

When he lifts his head, he looks wrecked. Hair mussed, eyes glazed, chest rising and falling unevenly. He smiles faintly, lifting a hand to stroke gently over your hair before pulling you down just enough to press a soft kiss to your forehead.

His lips linger there, barely brushing your skin as he whispers, “You were perfect.” 

The words are quiet, reverent. Offering a warm, steady reassurance.

Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with what just happened.

For a moment, neither of you moves. You’re still straddling him, heartbeat slowly finding its rhythm again, your body buzzing and loose and suddenly very aware of itself.

And then the haze fades.

Embarrassment creeps in fast.

You duck your head, shoulders curling inward like you’re trying to make yourself smaller, hiding your face against his neck.

“Hey,” he murmurs, immediately gentle. His hand slides up and down your back in slow, grounding strokes. “What's going on?”

You shake your head, cheeks burning. “I just- I feel… shy.”

That earns a quiet laugh from him, soft and fond.

“Now?” he teases lightly. “After all that?”

You peek up at him, mortified. “Don’t.”

He smiles, wide and helpless, like this version of you might actually undo him. “I like this part too, you know.”

You groan softly and hide again, pressing your face into his shoulder. He lets you, arms coming around you without hesitation, holding you close until your breathing evens out.

“Come on,” he says after a moment. “Let’s get ready for bed.

In the bathroom, you stand side by side at the sink, brushing your teeth in comfortable silence. You keep sneaking glances at him through the mirror, then immediately looking away when you catch his eye.

He notices, of course.

“What?” he asks around the toothbrush.

“Nothing,” you mumble.

He raises an eyebrow at your reflection. When you finally meet his gaze again, your cheeks flare pink instantly.

He grins.

“Cute,” he says simply.

You groan and turn back to the sink, but you can feel his eyes on you the entire time, warm and steady and unmistakably fond.

When you crawl into bed together, it feels surreal in the best way. The sheets are cool, his body warm beside yours. You hesitate for half a second before scooting closer, unsure.

He answers without words, an arm sliding around you easily, pulling you in until your back rests against his chest.

You relax immediately.

His chin dips to rest lightly against the top of your head.

“Comfortable?” he asks.

You nod, then whisper, “Yeah.”

The room is quiet. Different from all the other nights you’ve spent here.

This time, he doesn’t sleep on the couch. 

As sleep creeps up on you, your thoughts blur, but one thing settles firmly in your chest, warm and steady and terrifying all at once.

Whatever this is… it’s changed everything. At least for you. 

You wake up slowly, not to an alarm, not to noise, but to warmth.

For a few seconds, you don’t move. You’re afraid that if you do, the spell will break. You don’t even open your eyes. You just breathe, aware of the steady rise and fall beneath your cheek, the solid weight of an arm draped around your waist like it belongs there.

When you do open your eyes, the first thing you see is his shoulder. Bare skin. The faint shadow of morning light tracing the curve of his collarbone.

Your heart stutters.

You’re in his bed and this time, you’re not alone .

You’re tucked against him, one leg tangled between his, your hand curled into the fabric of his shirt like you fell asleep afraid he might disappear. His arm is snug around you, palm warm at your lower back, thumb resting just above the curve of your hip.

Last night comes back to you in pieces.

Hands, heat, his voice in your ear. The way everything inside you shifted afterward, like the world tilted and never quite settled back.

You smile before you can stop yourself.

Carefully, so you don’t wake him, you shift just enough to look at his face.

He looks different like this, softer. His lashes rest against his cheeks, mouth slightly parted, hair falling messily into his eyes. No polish. Just… him.

Your chest warms with affection.

You wonder if he’s dreaming. You wonder if you’re in it.

You trace a tiny circle on his arm with your thumb, barely touching. He doesn’t wake, but his hold tightens slightly, instinctive, pulling you closer like his body knows you’re there even if his mind hasn’t caught up yet.

Your breath catches.

This feels… intimate in a way that scares you.

A beat passes. Then another.

He stirs.

Not fully awake, just a quiet exhale, a shift of weight. His forehead presses briefly against your hair, and you feel his lips brush your temple. It’s absent minded, unaware.

But it still makes your heart leap.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

You freeze, then soften. “Morning.”

You wait.

He doesn’t say anything else. Just breathes. Stretches slightly behind you. His hand traces your side absentmindedly, warm and familiar.

You swallow.

He shifts again, more awake now. “What time is it?”

You tell him.

“Mm. I’ve got a meeting in an hour,” he sighs, more to himself than to you. His tone isn’t dismissive, just practical.

“Oh,” you say quietly.

He hums in acknowledgment, thumb brushing your skin in slow, subconscious arcs. You can feel yourself shrinking into that touch, craving something you can’t quite name.

You want him to say it.

About last night…

You want him to bring it up. He’s the older one. He knows how these things are supposed to go. You want him to look at you and tell you what you are to him now.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he runs a hand over his face, already slipping into something more awake, eyes scanning the room like he’s already orienting himself to the day. You can almost see the shift happening behind his eyes, the way thoughts line up, responsibilities clicking into place.

Your smile fades, just a little.

His hand never leaves you, but his mind feels like it’s somewhere else now.

“You okay?” he asks, casual. Not the question you were hoping for.

You hesitate. This is your chance, you realize. If you’re going to say something, it has to be now.

“I- ” Your voice catches, embarrassingly soft. You clear your throat. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He smiles, presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Good.”

That’s it.

The arm around you loosens. It’s not abrupt. It’s not cruel. It’s just… gone.

He slips out of bed to shower, already checking his phone, already halfway gone. 

You sit up too, pulling the sheets around yourself, suddenly very aware of how exposed you feel, even though you're fully clothed. 

You tell yourself not to read into it.

Of course he cares. Of course last night mattered.

He wouldn’t hold you like that if it didn’t.

Still, when you finally get up and catch your reflection in the bathroom mirror, hair mussed, cheeks flushed, eyes a little too bright, you barely recognize yourself.

You look younger somehow. Smaller.

And the thought sneaks in, unwanted and sharp:

Did last night mean as much to him as it did to you?

The maturity difference suddenly feels louder than it did yesterday. Like he’s already turned the page, and you’re still rereading the same line.

I LOVE IT Pt. 6

Summary: She's nervous, inexperienced, and trying to be professional. He's confident, teasing, and maybe falling faster than he expected.

Warnings: age gap (legal), teasing/flirting, fluff

Pairing: Kwon Jiyong x reader

a/n: Hi loves <3 I hope you all had a wonderful holiday season and are easing gently into the new year. Thank you, as always, for reading and showing so much love!! <3

P.S. The next chapter will contain some very long-awaited spice

You’re halfway down the hallway when you hear your name. You slow before you even turn. 

He’s standing near the practice rooms, phone in one hand, coat still on, like he just got here. When he sees your face, his expression softens immediately, like something in him settles. 

“Hey,” he says.

Your heart does that stupid little stumble it’s been doing far too often lately.

“Hi,” you reply, a little quieter than you mean to.

His eyes flick over you quickly, not in a way that feels invasive, just… attentive. He notices things. You’ve learned that.

“On your way to a lesson?” he asks.

You nod. “Vocal.”

“Thought so,” he says easily, like this confirms something for him. “You’re always early.”

You huff a small laugh. “Habit I guess.”

There’s a brief pause. Not awkward. Just suspended.

“Did you have breakfast?” he asks then, casual, like it’s the most obvious question in the world.

Your chest tightens unexpectedly.

“I- yeah. I had a coffee,” you say. 

He hums, giving you a disapproving look. “That doesn’t count.”

Before you can respond, he steps a little closer. And suddenly you’re aware of how narrow the hallway feels.

His fingers reach out, light and familiar, and he adjusts the hood of the hoodie you’re wearing, his hoodie, tugging it straight where it’s folded awkwardly at your neck.

“You’re wearing it wrong,” he murmurs, amused.

Your breath catches.

“There,” he says, dropping his hand. “Better.”

The contact lasts less than a second. The warmth of it lingers much longer.

You swallow. “Thanks.”

He smiles at you, soft and unguarded. The same smile from last night. Or maybe you’re imagining that.

“Good luck,” he says. “Don’t overthink it.”

You almost laugh at that.

“I’ll try,” you say.

As you step past him, your shoulders brush. It’s barely anything. Accidental. Probably.

But he glances back anyway.

“Oh,” he adds, like it just occurred to him. “I’m glad you stayed last night.”

Your steps falter for half a beat.

“I- ” You hesitate. Then manage, “Me too.”

His smile widens just a touch.

“Good,” he says simply.

And then he’s walking the other way, already pulling his phone back out, already busy, already moving forward like nothing monumental happened at all.

You stand there for a moment longer than necessary.

Your chest feels warm. Your stomach feels hollow.

He didn’t bring it up. He didn’t ask why you left early. He didn’t act strange.

Which should feel reassuring.

So why does it feel like you’re the only one carrying the weight of last night?

You turn toward your lesson, heart still fluttering, trying to convince yourself that this, this normal, is a good thing.

You’re not sure if it is.

*** 

It’s been days since you’ve actually been in the same room. Days of easy texting, small jokes, late replies that stretch just a little too long. Enough to keep you warm. Not enough to feel steady.

Him checking if you’ve been resting enough. You sending a blurry photo of you lying flat on the floor of the dance studio. Him replying: That doesn’t count.You: It absolutely does. Him: We’ll argue about it later.

Only later hasn’t happened yet.

By the time you reach the studio, your heart is beating a mile a minute. You stop outside the door and take a deep breath.

Get it together. There is absolutely no reason for you to feel this antsy about seeing him again.

When you step inside, he’s already there.

Jiyong looks up from the console the moment he hears the door, and the smile that crosses his face is immediate, easy, familiar. It makes your knees buckle just a little.

“Hey you,” he says.

Something in your chest loosens instantly, like you’d been holding your breath without realizing it. You can’t remember why you were worried in the first place.

“Hey,” you echo, suddenly too aware of your posture, your hands, your whole body.

He rises from his chair and closes the distance between you in two unhurried steps. His eyes flicker over your face, brief and searching, like he’s checking something only he can see. Then his hand lifts, fingers brushing your cheek lightly as he leans in, slow enough that you could pull away if you wanted to.

You don’t.

His lips meet yours in a quick, soft peck.

It’s nothing. Barely a kiss at all. And yet every nerve in your body lights up like a live wire.

Then he’s stepping back already, turning toward the computer like he didn’t just short-circuit your brain.

“You made it,” he says casually, like there was ever any doubt.

“You told me not to be late,” you say, trying to sound normal. “Even though I never am.”

“I did,” he agrees easily, eyes already on the screen. “There can only be one of us who can get away with being late.”

He jokes, glancing back at you. “You ready to get started?”

“Yup,” you answer, popping the p.

He hums in approval. “Good. Come here.”

You do, without thinking.

He leads you into the small booth and gestures toward the mic. When he steps closer to adjust it, his fingers brush your wrist as he reaches past you. Your body reacts immediately, heart giving a small, traitorous kick.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, eyes flicking to your face.

“Yes,” you say a little too fast. Then, softer, “Yeah.”

One eyebrow lifts, unconvinced, but he lets it go. “Alright.”

He stays close as you run through the first warm-up, his presence at your back familiar now. Comfortable. When you miss a breath, he taps lightly at your ribs.

“Here,” he murmurs. “Breathe lower.”

You do. His hand lingers at your stomach longer than necessary.

You focus on his voice instead of the way that simple touch makes your thoughts blur.

“Better,” he says. “You’ve been practicing.”

You smile before you can stop yourself. “You can tell?”

He glances at you sideways. “Of course I can.”

The session flows easily after that. Too easily. Like slipping back into something you didn’t realize you missed this much. He jokes when you stumble, praises you when you nail a line, leans in close to listen to playback, his shoulder brushing yours.

The door opens behind you.

It’s quiet, just the click of the handle, the soft shuffle of footsteps, but Jiyong reacts immediately.

He straightens. Steps back.

The warmth disappears so fast it leaves you blinking.

“Hyung,” someone says from the doorway. One of the producers, already glancing between the two of you. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No, it’s fine,” Jiyong replies easily.

He’s already moving away from you, crossing the room toward the console. His voice shifts, smooth and professional, like a switch flipped without effort. “We were just warming up.”

He doesn’t look at you.

Not once.

You stand there for a second longer than necessary, headphones still resting around your neck, suddenly very aware of how close you’d been to him just moments ago. Of how his hand had lingered at your waist. Of how casually he’d kissed you earlier.

You take a small step back on instinct, giving them space. No one asks you to, you just… do.

The producer starts talking about schedules, about who’s coming in later. Jiyong nods along, focused, hands busy adjusting settings. He laughs at something the producer says, relaxed, unbothered.

Like nothing shifted.

Like you weren’t still standing there with your heart beating too loud in your ears.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. Of course he pulled away. This is work. This is normal. This is what adults do.

Still, something tightens painfully in your chest.

You slip the headphones fully off and set them down, the small clink of plastic against the table sounding too loud to your ears. Neither of them notices.

Oh.

The realization lands quietly, heavier than you expect.

He knows how to do this. How to compartmentalize. How to step back like the closeness never happened.

You wonder if that means it never meant as much to him as it did to you.

When the producer finally leaves, the room feels too open.

Jiyong turns back to you, expression warm again, familiar like he’s picking up right where you left off. “Sorry about that,” he says easily. “Where were we?”

You hesitate, just a fraction, before pointing toward the mic. “Uh… second chorus.”

“Right.”

He steps closer again, reaching to adjust your headphones, fingers brushing your hair as if nothing changed. As if he didn’t step away so easily a minute ago.

You stand a little straighter. A little farther.

He notices, barely. A crease forms between his brows for a second, then smooths away.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… focusing.”

He smiles, approving. “Good.”

You sing. You do well. He tells you as much.

And you believe him.

You just don’t know anymore what else you’re supposed to believe.

*** 

You’re sitting on the floor of the dance studio, back pressed against the mirrored wall, legs stretched out in front of you like they might give out if you try to stand too quickly.

It’s late. The company is mostly empty now, the usual hum of voices replaced by silence and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.

Your muscles ache in that deep, heavy way that comes from pushing past what you thought was your limit, and then pushing again.

Lately, your schedule has been packed beyond anything you’re used to. Extra lessons. Longer rehearsals. Fewer breaks. They said it means you’re progressing faster than expected. That they want to push you. See if you’re ready. See if you can handle the pressure of an early debut.

It sounds exciting when they say it like that.

Right now, it just feels exhausting.

You’ve just finished the final run-through of the choreography when your instructor finally claps their hands and tells you you’re done for the day. Your body sags with relief the second the music cuts off.

You stay where you are, breathing hard, staring up at the ceiling, letting the quiet settle around you.

That’s when your phone buzzes beside you.

You reach for it without thinking.

Jiyong (oppa): You still up?

Your heart gives that now-familiar little jump.

You stare at the message longer than necessary.

You type back:

You: Yeah. Just finished practice.

The reply comes almost immediately.

Jiyong (oppa): This late?

You glance at the darkened studio around you, the empty mirrors, the abandoned water bottles.

You: They added extra lessons. I’m still at the company.

There’s a pause. Long enough that you think maybe he got distracted.

Then:

Jiyong (oppa): Did you eat?

You sigh softly, a tired smile tugging at your lips.

You: I had something earlier.

Jiyong (oppa): Earlier when?

You grimace.

You: …This afternoon.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Jiyong (oppa): Stay where you are.

You frown at the screen.

You: Why?

No answer.

You push yourself up off the floor slowly, testing your weight as you gather your things. There’s a dull ache at your ankle when you step down, nothing sharp, nothing alarming. Just sore. Tight. You roll it gently, wincing under your breath.

Probably nothing.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and limp very slightly toward the door, telling yourself you’re just stiff from hours of practice.

Your phone buzzes again.

Jiyong (oppa): I’m bored.

You huff out a tired laugh.

You: That’s tragic.

Jiyong (oppa): Come downstairs.

Your heart skips.

You: Huh?

Before you can ask what he means, headlights sweep across the glass doors at the front of the building.

A familiar car idles at the curb.

You stop short.

Your phone buzzes one last time.

Jiyong (oppa): I’m here.

You hesitate only a second before pushing through the doors.

Cold air bites at your cheeks immediately, sharp and clean. Snow drifts lazily from the sky, catching in your hair, settling on your shoulders. It’s quiet out here, the city muted, like everything’s been turned down a notch.

He’s leaning against the car when he sees you.

The moment his eyes land on you, his expression shifts, warmth, something unmistakably pleased.

“There you are,” he says, pushing off the hood.

“You didn’t say you were coming,” you protest, though there’s no real heat behind it.

He shrugs, already reaching for your bag. “You said you were still here.”

“That doesn’t automatically mean- ”

“It does to me,” he cuts in easily.

You huff, but you let him take it.

Snowflakes land in his hair as he looks you over, eyes quick, instinctive. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t say anything as the car pulls away again. 

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s walk a bit.”

You blink. “Walk where?” 

He glances down at you, then back at the quiet street ahead. “You said you barely ate.”

“I said I ate,” you protest weakly.

“Mm. Hours ago,” he counters. “Humor me.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he’s already starting forward, tugging you gently along. “There’s a convenience store a few blocks down,” he adds. “Let’s get you some snacks. Something sugary, something warm.”

You hesitate, then fall into step beside him, the crunch of snow under your shoes loud in the quiet street. The cold seeps through the soles almost immediately, your ankle protesting with a dull ache. You adjust your stride without thinking, easing the stain just enough to keep moving.

Jiyong chats idly, pointing out a café that just opened, complaining about being trapped indoors all day. You nod, laugh at the right moments, focused on not limping too obviously.

A gust of wind cuts through you.

You shiver.

Without a word, he reaches up and pulls his beanie off his head, settling it over yours instead. It slips low over your eyes, warm and faintly smelling like him.

“Hey- ” you start.

“Don’t argue,” he says. “You’re freezing.”

You duck your head, fingers curling into the edge of the knit. “I’m fine.”

“Mm,” he hums, unconvinced.

A few steps later, his hand brushes yours. Then, deliberately, he nudges your hand into the pocket of his jacket, enclosing it in his own and tucking you against his side like you belong there.

Your breath catches.

He pretends not to notice.

By the time the convenience store comes into view, your ankle is throbbing. You slow without meaning to, just for a second.

He feels it.

His steps falter. He glances down.

“…Why are you walking like that?”

You freeze.

“I’m not.”

He stops fully now, turning to face you. His gaze drops to your feet, then lifts back to your face, sharp and assessing.

“Don’t lie to me.”

You hesitate, then shrug. “It’s nothing. I think I just twisted it earlier.”

His jaw tightens.

“How long has it been hurting?”

“Since practice,” you admit. “It’s really not a big deal.”

He exhales slowly through his nose, reaching for his phone.

“It is a big deal,” he says flatly.

“I can walk,” you insist, gesturing weakly toward the store. “It’s right there.”

He doesn’t even look at you. His phone is already at his ear.

“Yeah,” he says into it. “Can you turn around?”

You stare at him. “Jiyong- ”

He lowers the phone just long enough to shoot you a look. Not angry, worse. Worried.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to make a fuss.”

“That’s not your decision to make.”

You blink.

He sighs, softer now, hand coming up to rest lightly at your elbow. “You’re terrible at taking care of yourself, you know that?”

You mumble, “I’m a trainee. I’m supposed to- ”

“I know,” he interrupts gently. “You’re supposed to be tough.” Then, quieter, “But you're not supposed to get hurt. Especially not alone.”

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, sensing how worked up he’s getting. “I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

He huffs, some of the tension bleeding out of him. “Don’t. I’m not angry at you.” A pause. “I’m angry at the fact that you think your health is worth so little.”

Before you can respond, he gestures toward the convenience store. “Now come on. Let’s get you something.”

He takes your arm and slings it over his shoulder, practically carrying you inside. Once you’ve made your selection, he insists on paying, like there was never any other option.

The car pulls up moments later, tires crunching over snow.

He guides you toward it, hand firm but gentle at your back, scolding under his breath as he helps you inside.

“Next time,” he mutters, “you tell me. Even if you think it’s stupid.”

You look at him, heart aching in a way that feels dangerously close to hope.

“…Okay.”

He pauses, then softens, brushing snow from your hair.

“Good.”

The ride back to his building is quiet, warm. The city blurs past the windows, snow catching in the headlights like tiny sparks. You keep your hands tucked in your lap, ankle throbbing more than you want to admit. Jiyong keeps glancing your way like he’s checking you’re still there.

In the elevator, he finally speaks.

“You should’ve messaged me,” he says, voice low. “I would’ve come sooner.”

You don’t know what to say, so you just nod.

Inside his penthouse, everything is warm and golden. Familiar. He guides you to the couch like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“Sit,” he orders, but it’s softer than it sounds.

You lower yourself onto the cushions, and he disappears into the bathroom. He comes back with a first aid kit, an ice pack, and, because it’s him, an apology already forming on his face.

“Give me your foot.”

You hesitate, then slowly place your leg across his lap. His hands are careful as he rolls up the cuff of your sweatpants, fingertips brushing your skin. The contact sends a quiet jolt straight through you.

“It’s swollen,” he mutters.

“It’s not that bad,” you try.

His jaw clenches. “It’s bad enough.”

You look at him, really look. His brow is furrowed, his mouth tight. The worry in his eyes so real it aches.

“You don’t have to take care of me,” you whisper.

He meets your gaze. “I want to.”

The room goes quiet.

His thumb traces just above your ankle without thinking. Your breath catches. You feel it in your chest, your ribs, your throat.

“I wish I could take you out,” he says suddenly, voice quiet. “Somewhere real. Dinner. A movie. A night that doesn’t end in the back entrance of this building.”

Your heart stumbles.

“Why can’t you?” 

He looks down, adjusting his hold on your leg so he doesn’t have to meet your eyes.

“People would recognize us,” he murmurs. “And they’d talk. And twist things. And I don’t ever want you hurt because of me.”

The truth sits heavy between you, too big for this room.

“So that’s why we’re here,” you realize.

He lifts his head. His eyes are warm, sincere.

“It’s not because I don’t want to be seen with you,” he says. “It’s because I don’t trust the world with you yet.”

The words spark something inside you, small, hopeful. 

You stare at him, heart thudding, unsure of what comes next, but feeling, for the first time in a long while, that maybe some things could be okay.

“Jiyong…”

He leans in, slowly, giving you every chance to back away. Forehead to forehead. His hands bracket your hips, steady.

“You deserve normal,” he says. “I just… can’t give you that. Not right now.”

I LOVE IT pt. 5

Summary: She's nervous, inexperienced, and trying to be professional. He's confident, teasing, and maybe falling faster than he expected.

Warnings: age gap (legal), teasing/flirting, fluff

Pairing: Kwon Jiyong x reader

a/n: First off, thank you to everyone who reads, comments, and shows love to this story, it genuinely means more to me than I can put into words <3 This chapter took longer than expected because I’m still working out how I want the story to progress. I have a very specific ending in mind, I just need to figure out how to connect all the pieces. Thank you for your patience and for staying with me while I do <3

You’re rinsing out Iye‘s bowl when the front door clicks.

Not the soft hum of the air conditioning. Not the cats skittering across the floor. But an actual, unmistakable click.

You freeze, breath snagging in your throat. Every muscle in your body goes rigid. You’re supposed to be alone. No one’s supposed to come in.

Your brain scrambles through possibilities at lightning speed.

Burglars? Security? A ghost? A ghost burglar??

None of it makes sense.

Heart pounding, you crouch down behind the kitchen island, only your head peeking out like some terrified meerkat. You grip the cat bowl a little too tightly, your only possible weapon, which is deeply depressing.

Soft footsteps draw closer.

You brace yourself, though for what, you have absolutely no idea.

And then he appears.

Jiyong.

He steps into the warm spill of the hallway lights, half-shadowed, jacket in hand, hair slightly tousled, breath uneven like he rushed all the way here.

Air whooshes out of your lungs in one long, shaky exhale. Your shoulders drop instantly.

You straighten slowly from your half-crouched hideout behind the kitchen island, heat rushing up your face. You were hiding from him. Like some kind of startled woodland creature. “J-Jiyong?” you whisper, voice barely cooperating.

He blinks at you, taking in the ridiculous scene: you clutching a cat bowl like a weapon, half-kneeling behind his counter, eyes wide like you just lived through a horror movie.

“J-Jiyong?” you repeat, voice embarrassingly high.

For a dangerous second, he looks like he’s about to laugh.

“What…” he breathes, “…were you doing?”

You straighten up too quickly. “I-I thought you were… someone else.”

One brow lifts. “Someone else?”

“I don’t know!” you blurt. “A burglar. A home invader. A murderer maybe…”

“A murderer,” he repeats, amused.

You nod vigorously. “Yes. I was ready to fight for my life.”

“With a cat bowl?” He gestures toward your hand.

You look down at the bowl, you’re still holding it, like some kind of emotional support weapon.

“I panicked okay?“ you defend, mortified, and set it down a little too fast.

He bites back a smile. Actually bites his bottom lip, like he’s trying not to laugh in your face.

You want the floor to open up and swallow you.

He steps forward, hands raised slightly in surrender. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” you lie immediately.

His eyes flick down to where you’re still half hiding behind the counter.

“Right,” he says softly, “of course not.”

You glare weakly. He smiles, slow, warm, fond and your knees almost buckle.

“How-” you clear your throat, “how are you home right now? I thought you were… on a trip.”

He shifts his jacket in his hand, suddenly looking a little less amused, a little more something else, something warmer, steadier, something that makes your stomach flip.

“Finished early,” he says simply.

It’s not a good lie. Not even close. You can tell by the way his eyes stay on you a little too long, the way he keeps breathing like he hasn’t fully caught up to himself yet. Like he rushed to get here.

You try to play it cool. Fail spectacularly. “I was just feeding the cats.”

Your comment is unnecessary, because the evidence is everywhere. The open bag of kibble, the bowls lined up on the counter, Iye weaving proudly around your ankles.

He steps closer, just a fraction. “I can see that.”

And suddenly the tension shifts sharply from panic to something else. 

Your heart flutters painfully.

You’re still wearing his hoodie. The realization hits like a brick when his eyes linger on the oversized sleeves draped over your hands. Heat floods your cheeks.

He looks you over, slow and careful.

Tension easing out of him as he takes you in. Damp hair from your shower, flushed cheeks, leggings, his hoodie drowning you in soft fabric.

His breath catches. Barely. But you hear it.

You tuck a strand of damp hair behind your ear, your fingers shaking

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, gentle.

You nod. Then shake your head. Then nod again.

A soft huff of laughter escapes him.

You swallow hard. “I didn’t know you were coming home.”

“I know.” His voice is low now. “I wanted to surprise you.”

Your heart stops.

“Me?”

A tiny pause. Then, almost too quietly

“…Yeah.”

Zoa chooses that moment to rub against your leg, which would be adorable if you weren’t actively malfunctioning as a human being.

You force your gaze anywhere but his face, the plants, the couch, the floor, anywhere, because if you keep looking at him, you’re going to combust.

Jiyong steps closer.

Not too close, but close enough that you can smell his cologne.

“You really thought I was a murderer,” he murmurs.

You cover your face with both hands. “I hate everything.”

“No,” he says gently, “don’t. It was… cute.”

You freeze and slowly lower your hands.

He stands there, nodding slowly, eyes never leaving you. There’s something in his expression you can’t quite name, something soft, something intense, something that steals the air from your lungs.

And suddenly, the intruder panic feels like a distant dream.

Because the real danger is standing right in front of you.

You clear your throat, desperate to say something that might pull your brain back into functioning.

“I should, um… probably go,” you murmur, stepping back a little. “I didn’t know you’d be home, so I don’t want to be in your way.”

His brows lift almost imperceptibly. “In my way?”

You nod quickly, hugging your arms to your chest. “Yeah. I mean… this is your place and I just… barged in with cat food and- ”

“Hey,” he interrupts softly. “You didn’t barge in. I asked you to be here.”

Your breath hitches.

He watches you for a moment. Like he’s debating something. Like he wants to say more but isn’t sure if he should.

Then his gaze sweeps over you again, your still-damp hair, flushed cheeks, his hoodie drowning you, your fingers fidgeting with the oversized sleeves.

“You ate already?” he asks suddenly.

You blink at him. “What?”

“Dinner.” He shifts his weight, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. “Have you eaten?”

You stare at him, thrown. “Um… no. But it’s fine, I was just gonna- ”

“Don’t,” he cuts in gently. “Don’t go home hungry.”

Your heartbeat stutters.

He tries again, a little quieter. “Stay. I’ll order something.”

You swallow hard. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “I want to.”

You blink at him.

He nods toward the dining area. “Sit with me. Just… eat before you leave.”

You hesitate, not because you don’t want to, but because you want to too much.

He notices.

“Unless,” he says softly, “you really want to go.”

You look up at him, really look. At the way he’s standing, shoulders tense, jaw tight, hands stuffed in his pockets like he’s waiting for a verdict. At the faint flush along his neck, the exhaustion in his eyes, the hope he’s trying to hide.

And the truth slips out before you can temper it.

“No,” you whisper. “I… don’t want to go.”

He exhales slowly, a breath you didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Then stay.”

Your pulse jumps.

He steps past you to set his jacket down, the moment is small but intimate in a way that makes your skin warm.

Then he looks back at you.

“You pick the food,” he says gently. “Whatever you want.”

His voice is so soft you almost miss the way it dips, warm and careful, like he’s inviting you into something bigger than dinner.

You nod, unable to form actual words.

Jiyong moves around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, turning on warm lights, washing his hands, opening drawers like he’s suddenly trying to look busy. Like he needs something to do with his hands. Like standing still near you is too dangerous.

Meanwhile you scroll through delivery apps, except you're not actually seeing anything. Your pulse is still in your ears. Your stomach is still somewhere near your throat.

You can feel him behind you, feel the weight of his presence before he even speaks.

“What are you in the mood for?” he asks, voice low, closer than you expected.

Your thumb freezes mid-scroll. “I- uh, I don’t know. Something easy?”

He hums. “You always say ‘I don’t know.’ ”

You gasp softly, offended. “I do not.”

“You do.” When you turn to glare at him, he’s already smiling. A small, teasing, dangerous smile.

Heat floods your face. “Well… you pick something.”

“All right,” he says quietly. “I will.”

He orders quickly, effortlessly, then sets his phone down. Relief settles in your shoulders, until you realize he’s looking at you again.

Not in a casual, mentor kind of way.

In a you’re wearing my clothes and standing in my kitchen and I can’t stop looking at you kind of way.

You tuck your hair behind your ear again. A nervous habit. One he definitely notices.

He leans back against the counter, arms crossed loosely. “Long day?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Practice was… a lot.”

He nods. “You look tired.”

“Wow,” you say, pressing a hand to your chest dramatically. “Rude.”

He laughs, soft, warm, real. “Not like that. You look…” He hesitates.

You wait.

“You look like you worked hard,” he finishes quietly. “That’s a good look on you.”

Your stomach flips so violently you almost grab the counter for support.

You stare at him. He stares back.

Silence stretches, soft, buzzing around the edges.

The cats save you. Zoa hops onto the sofa, meowing loudly, breaking the spell.

You breathe again.

“Sorry,” you murmur. “I should… uh… wash the other bowl.”

“No rush,” he says. “Let me do it. You’re not working right now.” You blink. “Neither are you.”

He tilts his head. “Who says I’m not?”

You frown.

And he smiles, small and devastating.

“Technically,” he says, “I’m working on winning the cats back.”

A smile breaks across your face before you can stop it. You look away. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m serious.” A beat. “They like you more.”

You shake your head, still smiling. “I was joking. They don’t.”

“Yes, they do,” he insists, stubborn but soft.  

“They really don’t.”

He steps closer, slowly, like he’s checking whether you’ll pull away.

You don’t.

“They do,” he says quietly. “But I’m okay with that.”

You look up at him, heart thudding painfully.

“Why?” you whisper.

He holds your gaze for a beat too long, long enough that you feel seen. 

“Because it means you’ll have to keep coming back.”

Your breath disappears.

Gone.

Completely gone.

Something flickers across his face, not panic, not regret, but awareness.

You stare at him, wide-eyed.

He softens.

“I mean,” he adds calmly, “for the cats. They’d miss you.”

A pause. “Thats what I meant.”

You don’t answer.

Because you both know that's not all he meant.

Before you can say anything, the doorbell buzzes.

“Food’s here,” he murmurs, giving you another one of his secretive smiles. 

You walk to the door together, shoulders nearly brushing, tension humming between you like a wire pulled too tight.

When you finally settle on the couch, takeout arranged neatly on actual plates at Jiyong’s insistence, “It tastes better if it looks like effort”, you can’t help but feel like this is what something is supposed to feel like. Comfortable, easy. Real. You sit side by side, shoulders barely apart, somehow ending up close enough that your knees brush every so often. Not enough to be obvious. Enough to be noticed. His arm keeps bumping yours whenever he gets animated, which is… often. He talks with his hands, expressive, laughing at his own stories before he even finishes them.

You ask about his trip. He answers vaguely, easily, clearly not interested in going into detail.

He asks about practice. Wants every detail. Wants to know which parts were hardest, which counts keep tripping you up. He listens like it matters, nodding, chiming in with encouragement, offering quiet advice only when you ask.

At some point he pours you both a glass of wine.

You sip carefully at first. He does not.

The food disappears slowly, conversation stretching long after the plates are empty. Your cheeks are warm, your body loose, laughter coming easier than it has in weeks.

Mid-story, he stops.

Just… stops talking.

You glance over.

He’s looking at you.

Not in a dramatic way. Not intense. Just quiet, soft, like he’s really seeing you for the first time tonight.

“What?” you ask, suddenly shy again.

He tilts his head, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. His eyes are warm, a little unfocused, mind definitely more wine muddled than yours.

“Nothing,” he says. Then, after a beat, “I’m just… glad you’re comfortable around me now.”

Your heart stutters.

“I was always comfortable,” you protest weakly.

He snorts. “You were terrified.”

“I was not.”

“You couldn’t look at me without panicking,” he says fondly. “You bowed like five times in the first minute.”

You groan and cover your face. “Please don’t remind me.”

He laughs, full and warm. “You were so nervous during the music video shoot. I thought you might actually pass out.”

“I thought you might pass out,” you mumble. “You were standing so close.”

“That was the point.”

You peek at him. “It was?”

He hums. “You kept freezing. I figured if I stayed close enough, you’d forget to overthink.”

“…It did not work.”

“It worked a little,” he says. “You stopped shaking.”

Your face burns.

“And,” he adds gently, “you did great.”

The air shifts.

Your fingers fidget with the sleeve of his hoodie. “You teased me so much.”

“Because you were cute, are cute,” he says easily. Then, realizing how that sounds, softens. “Because you were honest. You weren’t pretending.”

You swallow. “I was scared. Especially since I had to just… kiss you.” 

“I know.”

A pause settles between you. 

His voice drops, quieter. “I didn’t realize it would be your first kiss.”

Your breath catches. You nod, barely.

“I couldn’t believe it,” he continues, not mocking, more awed. “You looked like someone had just knocked the air out of you.”

“I think they did,” you whisper.

He smiles softly. “I should’ve been more considerate.”

You shake your head quickly. “No. You were fine. I just-” You stop searching for the words. “I was nervous because it was my first. And then it was with you, of all people.”

He goes still. Just for a second. Then lets out a quiet breathy laugh, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information. 

“With me,” he repeats, amused. His eyes drop, then lift again, lazy now, warm, unmistakably affected. 

“... Yeah,” he says slowly. “I can see why that would be terrifying.” 

You huff a weak laugh. “You’re not helping.” 

He grins, tilting his head. “I’m trying to.”

He shifts just closer, close enough that your thighs press together fully now. He doesn’t touch you otherwise. He doesn’t rush.

“But,” he adds quietly, eyes holding yours, “I’m glad it was me.”

Your heart pounds loud enough you’re sure he can hear it.

The jazz playing softly in the background feels suddenly too aware of you.

Neither of you moves. Neither of you looks away.

“Me too,” you whisper. 

Something flickers in his expression, satisfaction, warmth, desire all tangled together. He doesn’t move right away. Instead, he watches you, like he’s checking in, like he’s making sure you’re still here, still okay.

“You know,” he says quietly, voice low “I’m not like this with everyone.”

Your breath stutters. It’s not a confession. But it’s close enough that it feels like one.

His thumb brushes the fabric of your sleeve. A question.

“If I’m crossing a line,” he adds softly, “tell me.”

You don’t. You tilt your chin up instead, just a little, heart racing. 

His gaze flicks to your lips. That’s all the answer he needs.

He leans in slowly, so slowly you’re aware of every inch of space closing between you. He pauses just before your mouths touch, breath warm against your skin, giving you one last chance.

Then his lips meet yours, soft and unhurried. Nothing like the first time.

You freeze for half a second, instinct taking over before your brain can catch up. You’re not sure what to do, where to place yourself, how much pressure is right.

He notices immediately.

His mouth moves gently against yours, coaxing rather than taking. He shifts just enough to guide you, tilting his head slightly, easing the kiss into something that feels natural instead of overwhelming.

You follow.

Tentative at first, then a little more certain when you realize he’s not rushing you. That he’s matching you. That every time you hesitate, he slows too.

His hand comes to rest at your waist, light, grounding, like he’s reminding you that you’re safe, that you’re here with him.

The kiss deepens just a fraction.

Enough to make your head spin. Enough to make your chest feel too full.

When he finally pulls back, it’s not abrupt. He stays close, foreheads nearly touching, breath uneven now.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, then laugh softly, a little breathless. “I think… I’m getting better at this.” You hesitate, then add shyly, “But maybe I should practice a little more. ”

His smile is warm, unmistakably fond.

Your heart does something slow and dangerous in your chest.

This time, when you lean in again, just a little, it’s with more confidence. He meets you halfway. 

The kiss is deeper this time. Hungrier. It feels like he’s trying to slow himself down, trying to let you lead, but failing just slightly. The intensity makes your head spin, warmth blooming in your chest. 

At first, you don’t know what to do, so you let him guide you. He keeps it unhurried, showing rather than taking. When you start to understand the rhythm, you follow it, responding more confidently.

The moment you do, he lets out a low sound, barely there, but unmistakable, and his hands tighten at your waist.

When he pulls back, it’s with a dazed smile. 

“Okay,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “That’s… enough for tonight.”

You blink, breathless, heart racing, then nod. There’s surprise there and something warm you don’t quite have a name for yet.

“Yeah,” you manage softly. “Okay.”

Silence settles between you again, but it’s different now. Not tense. Not awkward. Just… full.

He leans back against the couch, running a hand through his hair. “You hungry?”

The question catches you off guard. “I-” You hesitate. “I mean, we already ate.”

“I know,” he says easily. “But that was hours ago. And you worked hard today.”

You smile despite yourself. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s usually true.”

He stands and gestures toward the kitchen. “Come on. I’ll make something simple.”

“You don’t have to,” you say quickly. “I’m really not hungry.”

He considers you for a second. “Let me at least make you some tea. Please?

So you follow him, lingering near the counter while he moves around his kitchen like it’s second nature. He heats the water, then reaches for a sleek black-and-gold tin, opening it carefully. The scent of dried leaves blooms softly as he scoops them into a strainer, precise and unhurried. When the tea finishes brewing, he pours it into two mugs and slides the larger one toward you, instinctive, like he didn’t even think about it.

You take a careful sip, mindful of the steam curling up from the cup.

At the first taste, you let out a quiet, involuntary, “Mmm.”

Your eyes lift over the rim, and you find him already watching you.

You drink standing side by side, shoulders brushing as you lean against the kitchen island, stealing glances at each other between sips. Every now and then, your arms bump lightly, close enough to make your chest feel warm again.

When you’re done, he takes your mug without comment and rinses it, waving you off when you try to help.

“You’re the guest,” he says. “Go sit.”

You do.

The clock on the wall ticks past midnight without you noticing.

Eventually, he glances at it and frowns. “It’s late.”

You straighten. “Oh, yeah. I should probably- ”

“You shouldn’t,” he cuts in, gentle but firm.

You pause. 

He turns to face you fully now, expression calm, steady. “It’s late, and I don’t like the idea of you going home like this.”

“Like what?”

“Tired,” he says. Then, softer, “And distracted.”

Your face flushes and your heart gives a strong unsteady beat. 

“Stay…” he adds quickly. “If you want.”

There’s no expectation in his voice. No pressure. Just an offer.

You hesitate, unsure if he really wants you here. “I don’t want to… impose.”

“You’re not.” He smiles faintly. “You’re already here. “

You consider it, the quiet penthouse, the cats curled comfortably on the couch, the way your body still feels warm from the wine and the kiss and him.

“…Okay,” you say finally.

Echoing your words, his shoulders relax, “Okay.”

“I’ll take the couch,” he adds, like he’s thought this through already. “You can have the bed.” 

Your eyes widen. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.” He shrugs. “But I want to.”

You take a breath. 

“You’re sure?” you ask.

He meets your gaze. “Yeah.”

He disappears briefly down the hall and comes back with a folded blanket, throwing it carelessly onto the couch behind him. 

“Bathroom’s the same one as before,” he says. “Take your time.”

The bedroom feels different now. Less overwhelming. Familiar, almost. You change quietly, still wearing his hoodie, and slide into the bed. The sheets are cool, his scent faint but unmistakable. Your heart slows. From the living room, you hear him settle onto the couch, fabric rustling, a quiet exhale. The lights dim. For a long moment, you stare up at the ceiling, replaying the evening in your head. Eventually, sleep finds you. Still wondering what all of this means. 

Morning comes gently.

Pale light filters through the curtains, soft and hesitant, casting the room in washed-out gold. The city outside is quiet, caught in that fragile in-between hour where it hasn’t quite decided to wake up yet.

For a moment, you don’t remember where you are. Then you do.

Your breath catches as you reach out, fingertips brushing against the duvet. The fabric is cool, smooth beneath your skin, carrying the faint scent of laundry detergent and something unmistakably him. Clean, warm and familiar.

Your heart gives a small, startled jump.

You lie very still, staring up at the ceiling, listening. No voices. No movement. Just the distant hum of traffic far below, muted and steady.

Slowly, last night comes back to you in fragments. The food. The wine. The way his crinkled when he laughed. The way his eyes lingered on you like you were something fragile, something precious.

The kiss. Soft at first, careful. Then deeper, like he was savoring it, like he was trying to memorize the way you felt.

Heat blooms across your cheeks at the memory. 

And then, inevitably, doubt creeps in. 

You swallow. 

He drank more than you did. You remember that clearly. Remember watching him refill his glass. The easy looseness in his movements, the way his laughter came quicker, freer than usual. You remember noticing it, filing it away even then.

What if that’s all it was?

What if the warmth, the closeness, the way he looked at you like you mattered, was just the wine talking? 

Your chest tightens. 

What if he wakes up and regrets it? What if he realises he crossed a line? What if you misread everything?

Slowly you sit up. 

The room feels different in daylight. Less forgiving, more real. Being here no longer feels like a dream, it feels heavy, solemn, like you’re somewhere you don’t quite have permission to be.

Carefully, quietly, you pad out of the bedroom. The living room is washed in soft morning light. 

And there he is. 

Asleep on the couch. He’s sprawled a little awkwardly, one arm draped over his eyes, the blanket kicked halfway to the floor, hair a mess. He looks softer, younger somehow without the usual careful styling. His face is peaceful and unguarded, like nothing in the world is weighing on him. 

Your heart aches at the sight. 

You stand there longer than you mean to, just watching him breathe, slow and even. Like nothing in the world is wrong. As if last night didn’t fracture something inside you. As if it didn’t mean anything. 

That thought stings more than you expect.

You hug his hoodie tighter around yourself, fingers curling into the fabric. For a fleeting, dangerous moment, you want to sit beside him. Wake him gently. Ask him what last night meant. Ask him if it meant anything at all.

You don’t. 

Instead, you turn toward the kitchen. The cats immediately notice you, weaving around your ankles, demanding breakfast like nothing monumental happened at all. As if the world is exactly the same as it was yesterday.

You smile weakly and feed them, grateful for the distraction.

When you glance back toward the living room, he hasn’t stirred.

A strange mix of relief and disappointment settles in your chest.

Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe you should leave before he wakes up, before things get awkward, before you have to see that careful distance in his eyes. Before he remembers.

You rinse your hands at the sink, staring at your reflection in the glass. You look the same. A little tired. A little flushed. 

Like someone who kissed a man she shouldn’t have. A man that could never be hers.  

Quietly, you gather your things. Slip your shoes on by the door. You pause once, just for a second, glancing back toward him.

He confirms everything you’re afraid of.

Still asleep. Still peaceful.

You hesitate, then turn away.

The door clicks softly behind you.

And just like that, you’re gone.

***

He wakes slowly. 

His head feels heavy, pleasantly fogged, the kind of slow clarity that comes after wine and a good, deep rest. His neck twinges as he shifts, groaning softly, one arm still thrown over his eyes. His body aches from sleeping on a couch that was never meant for rest. 

Morning light filters in, pale and gentle. 

For a few seconds, his mind is blank.

Then warmth rushes back in all at once.

Her laugh. The way she looked at him over the rim of her mug. The kiss. Real enough that it stays with him even now. 

His mouth curves faintly. He drags his arm away from his eyes and sits up, running a hand through his hair. 

The penthouse is quiet.

Too quiet.

He glances toward the bedroom instinctively.

Nothing. She’s probably still asleep. A pause. 

Then he stands, stretching and pads down the hall, expecting to find her curled up in his bed, swallowed by the sheets. 

The room is empty. The covers are smooth, barely disturbed. Cold. 

A flicker of something, confusion, maybe, passes through him.

He stops, stands there hand on the doorframe, scanning the room. The air still smells faintly like her. 

For a moment, something twists in his chest. Not panic. Not quite disappointment either, just a small, unexpected dip. A pause.

Ah.

He exhales through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck.

She must’ve left early.

That makes sense. She’s a trainee. Early mornings, relentless schedules. He remembers what that was like. He glances at the clock on the wall, still early, but not impossibly so.

Still.

He stands there longer than necessary, eyes lingering on the empty space where she should be.

Did I push too far? The thought comes unbidden.

He replays the night quickly, not with anxiety, but with care. He remembers her leaning into him. Her smile, soft, certain. The way she kissed him back, tentative but sincere. The way she didn’t pull away.

His shoulders loosen.

No.

She wasn’t uncomfortable. She wasn’t pressured. He knows the difference.

He steps into the kitchen next.

The cat bowls are filled. The counter wiped down. Everything in its place.

A small smile tugs at his mouth.

“She’s too polite,” he mutters to no one.

Something warm settles in his chest.

The cats weave around his legs, fed and smug, clearly unconcerned with the emotional ramifications of last night.

“So she left you too, huh?” he mutters dryly.

He pours himself a glass of chocolate milk, leaning against the counter, staring out at the city as it slowly wakes up. There’s a brief, passing thought, should he text her? Ask if she got home okay?

He hesitates. Then decides against it. Doesn't want to seem too clingy. She’ll text him. She always does now. 

And if she doesn’t… well. He’ll see her soon enough.

The kiss lingers in his mind, warm and untroubled. To him, it was simple. Something that didn’t need words yet. 

He finishes his chocolate milk, glances once more towards the bedroom, then grabs his phone and his keys. 

Work waits.

And somewhere between the elevator ride down and the noise of the day pulling him back in, he misses the quiet truth: 

I LOVE IT pt. 4

Summary: She's nervous, inexperienced, and trying to be professional. He's confident, teasing, and maybe falling faster than he expected.

Warnings: age gap (legal), teasing/flirting, fluff

Pairing: Kwon Jiyong x reader

a/n: Hey guys, I’m back with part 4! Hope you enjoy!! <3 Also, these recent concert videos are killing me… He sounds and looks so good.

You knock on his apartment door with your tote bag slung over your shoulder, nerves spiking.
Despite getting to know him better over the past few weeks, this is completely different terrain. Sure, you’ve gotten more comfortable around him, less shy, more steady, but this… coming to his home to watch his cats, feels intimate in a way that has nothing to do with a mentor–protégée dynamic.

You absolutely feel like you’re going to die, but when he told you he needed you, you sure as hell weren’t going to deny him.

You square your shoulders, mentally rehearsing the list he texted:

Feed the cats. Scoop litter. Fresh water. Don’t let Iye explore the balcony alone.
Simple, efficient, in-and-out.

You expect him to be long gone.
You expect silence.

You do not expect the door to open immediately.

And you definitely do not expect… him.

Standing right in front of you, in sweatpants, barefoot, hair fluffy and messy, like he’s been pacing or running his hands through it all evening.

Your brain short-circuits.

“Oh- ” you gasp. “I… thought you’d already left.”

For a split second, something like pure panic flashes across his face.

Then he tries to fix it, horribly, terribly, unsuccessfully.

“Ah. Right. Yes. I was. Leaving. I was literally about to walk out.”
He gestures vaguely behind you, toward the hallway.
“In that direction.”

You blink at him.

He looks nothing like someone who was about to walk out the door.
No suitcase. No coat. No shoes.
Not even socks.

“Oh. Um… okay.”

He steps aside a little too quickly.

“Come in.”

You slip inside, careful, almost afraid to disturb anything.
His penthouse is warm, bright, and lived-in, nothing like the glossy museum you imagined. Soft blankets draped over the couch, a half-finished cup of tea on the table, a hoodie tossed over a chair, a few music notebooks fanned out on the kitchen counter.

It feels… human.
Personal.
Private.

He clears his throat, trying to act casual despite clearly being caught off-guard.

“So,” he says, forcing steadiness into his voice. “I guess I should… show you around.”

“Oh, you don’t have to. I’m sure you have a flight or something to catch.”

“No,” he blurts.

Then he winces at himself.

“I mean… it’s fine. I have time.”

You follow him into the living room. He keeps a small distance ahead of you, almost like he isn’t used to someone else being in his space. You know he’s a very private person, which somehow makes this feel even more significant, that he’d trust you like this.

He gestures to the couch.

“This is where they usually hang out. They’re shy with strangers.”

Iye chooses that exact moment to trot straight toward you, chirping loudly before rubbing against your ankles like you’re his favorite person in the world.

Jiyong stares at him in betrayal.

“…Traitor.”

You laugh, soft and surprised, and crouch to pet him.
Iye immediately flops onto his side, showing his belly.

“He… likes me,” you say quietly, almost in awe.

“Apparently,” he mutters.

There’s something warm in his expression when he looks at you, something soft and unreadable. Your skin prickles with awareness under his gaze and when you look up, he quickly glances away.

He gestures to the kitchen next.

“Food’s there. I portioned everything. Water filters here. Treats in that cabinet, don’t give too many, Zoa has no self-control.”

You nod.

“And the litter box is down the hallway. You don’t have to do it every day. Every other day is fine. Only if you want to.”

“I don’t mind,” you reassure him.

He swallows, a small, almost invisible motion.

Then he leads you to the balcony, sliding the door open. The city spills in like a river of lights.

“This is the only place you have to be careful,” he says quietly. “Iye likes to test his boundaries.”

You step beside him, closer than you mean to.
He smells faintly of cedar and laundry detergent.
Your heart jumps.

“Don’t let him out here without you,” his voice barely above the wind.

“Okay,” you whisper.

For a moment, neither of you speak. You’re too scared to look at him because you already feel the weight of his attention, warm and focused, like he’s memorizing the shape of you in the city light.

He clears his throat and steps back.

“So.”
He claps his hands lightly.
“That’s… everything.”

Then he hesitates. Scratches his neck.
Avoids your eyes even though you can feel how aware he is of you.

“Ah, almost forgot. I should show you where you’ll sleep tonight.”

You straighten, face going hot.

Right.
You hadn’t actually thought about that.
You figured you’d feed the cats and head home before it got too late.

“I- I really don’t need to stay over,” you rush. “I can just take the tube home after- ”

He gives you that look.
The one he uses when he pretends he’s not as stubborn as he is.

“Absolutely not,” he says, tone firm. “You know how I feel about you taking the subway at this hour.”

Your face heats again, partly because he’s right, partly because he says it so confidently, like your safety is non-negotiable.

He leads you down the hallway, and you expect a guest room.

But then he opens a door and flicks on a light, revealing his bedroom.

You stop dead.
He doesn’t.

He walks in like this is completely normal, gesturing around casually.

“You can sleep here,” he says simply. “It’s the warmest room. And Iye likes to sleep at the foot of the bed, so he’ll probably keep you company.”

Your face burns.

You’re standing in his space.
His actual private space. Soft sheets, a faint trace of his cologne, books stacked unevenly by the nightstand, a guitar propped in the corner.

It feels wrong to be here.
It feels right to be here.
You can’t decide which is worse.

He turns, finally noticing the look on your face.

“What?” he asks, genuinely confused.

“Nothing, I‘m fine,” you say too fast.

His eyebrows knit slightly.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

Before you can answer, he steps closer, instinctively, unthinking and suddenly he’s right in front of you, close enough that you can see the tiny flecks of gold in his irises.

“You look kind of flushed,” he murmurs. “You’re not getting sick on me, are you?”

You open your mouth to deny it, but then his hand lifts.

He presses the back of his hand to your forehead.
Then slides it lightly to your cheek, slow, gentle, careful.

And then it just… stays there.

Not a quick check. Not an accidental touch.
Just resting against your skin like it belongs there.

Like touching you is normal.
Like touching you doesn’t make your entire body go hot.

Your breath catches, and the air between you changes, warmer, thicker, charged with something you don’t have a name for.

He speaks softly, so quietly you almost think you imagined it.

“Thank you for doing this,” he says, thumb brushing the edge of your cheekbone. “It… really means a lot.”

You barely hear him over the pounding in your chest.

This position, him leaning in slightly, his eyes focused on your lips, your cheek cradled in his palm, it’s familiar. Too familiar.
It’s exactly like the day of the music video shoot.
The moment he’d cupped your face just like this.
The moment you’d shared your first kiss with him.

You never forgot it.
You haven’t stopped thinking about it.
And being around him these past weeks, the teasing, the sudden shift to when he started treating you gently, has been torture.

Because you know exactly how you feel.
And you know exactly how impossible it is.
He doesn’t date.
He doesn’t get attached.
Most importantly he doesn’t… fall for trainees.

Someone like him would never…
He couldn’t possibly…

But then why is he looking at you like this?
Why does he seem afraid to blink, like he’ll miss something?
Why does it feel like he’s about to…

Your gaze drops to his mouth.
You can’t help it. It’s instinct. Hunger.

He notices.

You feel it, in the way his hand grows still against your cheek, in the quiet inhale he tries to hide, in the barely-there tilt of his head that carries him closer to you.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe you both do.

But suddenly he’s inches away.
Your noses nearly brush.
You feel his breath against your lips, soft and warm and unbearably close.

He leans in, and then-

thump

The closet door nudges open.

Zoa saunters out like a celebrity making a late entrance, meowing with dramatic offense.

You jump.
He jerks back even faster.

“Oh!” you blurt. “Zoa! Hi.”

Your face is lava.
He looks like he might spontaneously combust.

“Right,” you stammer, clinging to the first logical sentence that enters your panicked brain. “Don’t you… need to leave? For your trip?”

He blinks at you.

Then blinks again, like the word trip reminds him he’s supposed to be somewhere.

“Oh. Uh. Yes. Leaving.”
He grabs the nearest shirt blindly.
Then a charger.
A random book.
Then a hoodie.

Something that looks suspiciously like pyjama pants.
All of it goes into a bag that is absolutely not meant for travel.
He doesn’t even check what he packed.

You watch him, torn between confusion, disbelief, and the uncontrollable urge to laugh.

After one last frantic scan of the room, he shuffles toward the door and pauses.

“Text me if you need anything,” he says softly.

“You too- ”
Then you correct yourself, flustered.
“I mean… safe travels.”

“Right. Yeah.”
He nods a little to earnestly.
“Of course.”

And he disappears into the hallway.

You stand in his bedroom, heart pounding, cheeks burning, skin still tingling where his hand had been.

And you realise, breathless, overwhelmed, terrified, that none of that felt like a simple favor at all.

That maybe…
just maybe…

You aren’t imagining things.

***

He doesn’t stop walking until the elevator doors slide shut.
And even then, he still can’t breathe right.

His heart is doing something completely unreasonable in his chest, pounding too fast, too loud, like it’s trying to break out. He tightens his grip on the bag stuffed with absolute nonsense and stares at the glowing elevator numbers.

He left.
He actually left.

He left her.
In his penthouse.
In his bedroom.

He scrubs a hand over his face.

“Fuck.”

It comes out low, helpless.

He hadn’t meant for tonight to go like this. It had been his stupid jealousy, that ridiculous, possessive flash he absolutely could not let her or Hajoon see, that had started this whole mess.
He hadn’t planned on getting flustered when he saw her in his doorway, small and bright-eyed and nervous.
He definitely hadn’t meant to panic like someone caught doing something wrong.

Because yes, technically, he had lied to her.

But honestly?
He doesn’t feel nearly as guilty as he probably should.

Because the second he’d seen her standing in his home, everything inside him had tilted.

She’d looked so soft under the warm lights.
So out of place and somehow exactly right at the same time.
Like she belonged there in a way no one else ever had.

And then she flushed.
That tiny, pink, startled flush that knocked the air right out of him.

He didn’t stand a chance.

He leans back against the mirrored wall of the elevator, pressing a hand to his chest.
Not in panic.

In disbelief.

In relief.
In victory.

The way she looked at him.
The way she leaned in.
The way her eyes darkened, her breath caught when he touched her cheek…

He knew it. He knew she felt something. And now he’s sure.

By the time he reaches the hotel, he’s buzzing. Alive in a way he hasn’t felt in years.

He tosses the useless bag onto the bed and sits down heavily, a breathless laugh escaping him as he runs a hand through his hair.

She’s sleeping in his home.

In his room.
In his bed.

He can still feel the shape of her cheek under his palm.

He’d meant to check her temperature.
He’d meant to be casual.
He’d meant to be responsible.

He’d completely failed.

He lifts his head as the memory hits him again: her wide eyes, the soft intake of breath, the way she stared at his mouth before she leaned in, just a little.

She wanted him.

He drops back against the headboard, eyes closing as a slow smile spreads across his face.

God.
They were going to kiss, again.

No cameras, no script, just them.

He squeezes his eyes shut and mutters, with genuine pain:

“…Fucking Zoa.”

He loves that cat.
He also wants to put her in time-out for the rest of the decade.

He drags both hands through his hair, pushing it back roughly as he tries, and fails, to settle the heat that’s been simmering in him since she walked into his apartment.

He’d been careful around her the past few weeks. Measured. Holding himself back so she wouldn’t feel overwhelmed.
He hadn’t been sure if he was imagining the tension.

But tonight?

Tonight she made it obvious.

He laughs softly into the quiet room.

“Finally.”

Because right now she’s in his penthouse, in his space, surrounded by the things that mean something to him. Breathing in his air. Leaving traces of herself everywhere she steps.

He imagines her curled under his blankets.
Her head on his pillow.
Her scent sinking into the sheets.

She’ll fall asleep surrounded by him.
She’ll wake up surrounded by him.

It feels right.
It feels good.

And thinking about her in his bed?
Yeah… that does something to him.

His jaw tightens, not with frustration, but anticipation.

Because now he knows she wants him.
Now he knows he can stop second-guessing every look, every smile, every moment he let his guard down around her.

He doesn’t need to chase blindly anymore.
He doesn’t need to guess.

She likes him.
She wants him.

He can take his time, move steady. Make sure she feels safe, wanted, chosen, not overwhelmed. But he’s done pretending he doesn’t want her.

He closes his eyes, letting the image wash over him again: her lips inches from his, her body leaning toward him, that soft, hopeful look in her eyes…

Yeah.

Next time?

He’s not stopping. Not unless she tells him to.

And something tells him…
she won’t.

***

The moment the door clicks shut behind him, the entire penthouse feels too quiet.

You stand there for a few seconds, frozen, pulse thudding in your ears.

He’s gone.
And you’re… here.

In his home.
In his space.
In his bedroom.

Your face heats just remembering how close you came, how close he came, and you press both palms lightly to your cheeks.

“Get it together,” you whisper to yourself.

Zoa trots over, tail high, as if sensing your incoming meltdown. She bumps her head against your shin, purring so loudly it echoes off the wood floors.

“Okay,” you murmur, kneeling to pet her. “Right. You’re here. I’m here. It’s fine. Totally fine. Just… cat-sitting. That’s all.”

Zoa blinks at you like she absolutely does not believe that.

You eventually peel yourself off the floor and wander slowly through the place, turning off lights he left on, checking the balcony door lock exactly three times because he told you to be careful.

When you reach his bedroom doorway, you pause.

Then hover.

Then pause again.

The bed looks so soft. 
You shouldn’t stare at it this long. You do anyway.

You place your bag down on the floor and move carefully inside, like you’re afraid to disturb something sacred. You sit at the edge of the mattress, just sit, and the moment you do, his scent rises around you.

Clean laundry. Cedar. Something faintly smoky and sharp.

Your stomach flips violently.

You lie back slowly, staring at the ceiling for a few seconds before your eyes slide shut and you turn your head to the side, burying half your face into the pillow.

It smells like him.

Of course it does. It’s his bed.

But still.

You inhale again, deeper this time, and your chest tightens. Your spine tingles.

You open your eyes way too fast and sit up, flustered.

“Nope,” you mutter. “Absolutely not. We’re not doing… that.”

You escape to the bathroom quickly, desperate for something to do other than think about Jiyong in a bed-related context.

The bathroom is warm, softly lit, and stocked like a luxury hotel. Towels rolled perfectly, soaps arranged aesthetically, one of his colognes sitting on the counter like it’s watching you.

You eye the shower.

You really need one.
The day, dance practice, the almost kiss, the panic.

You peel off your clothes and step inside. The hot water hits you all at once, melting knots in your shoulders you didn’t even know you had. You lean your forehead against the tile, letting steam wrap around you.

Then the realization slams into your brain like a thunderclap, you don’t have pajamas.

You freeze mid-rinse.

Oh no.
No no no…

You literally didn’t pack anything because this was supposed to be an “in-and-out” situation.
Feed cats. Scoop litter. Go home.
Not “sleep in his bed and shower in his bathroom like you live here.”

You finish your shower as fast as humanly possible and wrap yourself in one of his huge towels that smells faintly like eucalyptus.

Back in the bedroom, Iye hops onto the bed and watches you like he’s enjoying the show.

“Do not judge me,” you whisper to him.

You stare at your phone.

Then at the closet.

Then at your phone again.

You could text him.
Ask if you can borrow something to sleep in.

But he’d… read that and picture you in something of his.
Which would immediately make your brain explode.

You pace the room three full laps.

You pick up your phone.
Put it down.
Pick it up again.
Put it down harder.

Finally you sigh, long, dramatic, defeated. You’re only other option is sleeping naked and you’re definitely not doing that in his bed.

You type and erase the message six times.

Then:

You: Hi, um… do you maybe have something i can borrow to sleep in? I forgot to pack. Sorry

You stare at the message.
Then at the ceiling.
Then at your soul leaving your body.

Before you can chicken out, you hit send.

Iye chirps and flops on his side like he’s watching peak comedy.

“I know,” you groan, flinging yourself onto the mattress beside him. “I’m never going to survive this.”

You bury your face into the pillow again, heart racing, waiting for your phone to buzz.

You’re in his bed.

Wrapped in his towel.

Smelling like his soap.

Every thought in your head is a chaotic, a looping real of:

We almost kissed.
He almost kissed me back.
What if he wanted to?
What if he did?

What if-

Your phone vibrates.

You flinch so hard Iye startles.

You snatch the phone of the sheets.

One message from him.

Jiyong (oppa): Of course. Bottom drawer on the left. Take whatever you want.

Your heart stops, restarts, then stops again.

His contact name alone is still enough to make you blush.

“Whatever… I want?” you whisper.

You’re not sure if you’re breathing anymore.

Because suddenly this doesn’t feel imaginary.
Or hopeless.

Or one-sided.

Not like an unrequited crush you been trying to ignore.

It feels real.

Real enough that your hands shake when you open the drawer.

Inside: soft shirts, loose sweats, hoodies worn at the collar, a few things that definitely smell like him.

Your fingers brush the fabric and your breath catches.

You pick one up hesitantly, a black vintage tee, worn soft, the hem a little frayed from years of use.

You hold it to your chest.

Then whisper into the empty room, “…I’m so screwed.”

***

You don’t remember falling asleep.

One second you were face-down in his pillow having a crisis, and the next, something heavy lands on your stomach. You jolt awake with an embarrassing squeak.

Zoa blinks down at you, entirely unbothered, plops her full weight onto your ribs, and starts kneading your shirt like you’re a very disappointing pillow.

“Ow, okay. Good morning to you too,” you groan, voice rough and sleep-thick

You rub your face, trying to force your brain to boot up. It takes ten whole seconds for reality to hit.

This isn’t your ceiling.
This isn’t your bed.
This definitely isn’t your shirt.

You are in Kwon Jiyong’s bed, wearing Kwon Jiyong’s shirt, after a night of spiraling over the fact that he almost kissed you.

Heat crawls up your neck so fast you swear you hear it.

“Nope,” you whisper, gently nudging Zoa off your abdomen. “Nope nope nope, we’re not thinking about that yet.”

Zoa meows at you like she absolutely is thinking about that and has thoughts.

You push yourself upright, the hem of the shirt slipping off one shoulder, and immediately tug it back up like the world’s most flustered nun. His scent clings to the fabric, cedar, clean laundry, something smoky and your stomach flutters so hard you genuinely consider lying back down and pretending you died overnight.

Instead, you drag yourself out of the bed and pad across the cool floor. You catch your reflection in the mirror across the room and freeze.

You look soft.
Sleep-rumpled.
Pretty, in an unfamiliar way.

Like someone who fits here.

You immediately look away before that thought can ruin you.

Iye chirps and trots past you, tail flicking like he’s herding you toward the living room. You follow him, rubbing your eyes, still half asleep.

The city spreads out below the floor-to-ceiling windows, sun rising, sky pale and quiet. The whole apartment feels like it’s holding its breath.

You yawn, stretch and your phone. 
No messages.
Right. He’s probably busy.

Your chest sinks a little before you can stop it.

“Okay,” you mumble, forcing down the stupid feeling. “Just do your job. Feed the cats. Lock up. Breath.”

The cats weave around your legs as you scoop their food, Zoa brushing you’re ankles like sees been starved for days.

You fumble with the bag, nearly knock over a very expensive looking vase, and catch it at the last second with a panicked gasp.

“O-okay, nobody saw that,” you tell the cats.

They absolutely saw that.

Once their bowls are down, they dive in with dramatic enthusiasm. You’re smiling at them when your phone buzzes.

Your heart flies into your throat so fast you actually choke on air.

You grab your phone like it’s a live grenade.

Jiyong (oppa): Morning. Did they eat?

You stare at the message like it’s in another language.

Then, after overthinking for a solid five seconds, you type:

You: Yeah! They were… uh… very enthusiastic.

You hesitate.

You hesitate, then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you crouch and snap a quick selfie: you, sleep-soft, oversized shirt swallowing you, cats munching away behind you.

You add:

You: Good morning.

A moment later.

Jiyong (oppa): Good. And good morning.

Another message comes trough.

Jiyong (oppa): That shirt’s big on you. Cute.

You breathe out, a quiet, shaky smile tugging at your lips.

You’re doomed.

You decide, like an idiot, that you can handle making coffee. How hard could it be?

Turns out, very, very hard.

The machine is huge, sleek, intimidating. You press one button.
It whirs ominously.

You press another.
It hisses like it’s about to launch into orbit.

“Oh my god, please don’t explode,” you whisper.

You mash one more button in desperation.
The machine SCREAMS steam.

You flinch so hard you nearly throw yourself across the counter.

You end up with something vaguely warm and definitely caffeinated, and honestly that’s enough. You sip it carefully, grimacing, and pray Jiyong never asks how much chaos you inflicted on his kitchen appliances.

With coffee in hand, you wander the penthouse, straightening tiny things that feel too intimate to touch but you do anyway.

Then you stop at the bedroom doorway again.

Your heart tips sideways in your chest.

He let you stay here.
He told you to take whatever you wanted.

You realise, slowly, terrifyingly, that you slept better here than you have in weeks.

Eventually you gather your bag and head toward the door, checking the balcony lock exactly three times the way he told you to.

When you turn to say goodbye, Iye is sitting near the couch, staring at you with an expression that can only be described as betrayal.

You crouch down with a soft laugh.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you whisper, reaching to scratch his chin. “I’ll be back tonight.”

His ears perk. Like he understands.

You straighten, heart doing something unhelpful and warm.

You shouldn’t like being here this much.
You shouldn’t feel this… attached.

But as you step into the hallway and the elevator doors close around you, his scent still clinging to your skin, you know the truth:

You’re already gone for him.

And you have no idea how to stop.

By the time you reach the YG building, your heart has mostly stopped racing.

You keep tugging at your jacket, trying to hide the fact that you’re still wearing his shirt underneath. It’s ridiculous, no one here knows what Jiyong’s clothes look like. No one here knows you slept in his bed. No one here knows you spent the morning smiling at your phone like a lovesick idiot.

You take a breath.

You’re fine.

Except you’re absolutely not.

Because the second you walk into the practice room, your friend Nari looks up from stretching, freezes, then narrows her eyes at you like she’s staring directly into your soul.

“Wow,” she says immediately. “Someone’s glowing.”

You blink. “Glowing?”

“Yes.” She points at your face accusingly. “That’s a glow. A post-something glow.”

Another trainee, Minseo, glances over. “You do look… different today,” she agrees, squinting at you. “Like you slept well for once.”

Your brain short-circuits.
Slept well?
In his bed?

Wearing his shirt?

“No!” you blurt. Too loud. Way too loud. “I mean- I just- I was home early. I did laundry. I cleaned my room. I slept. That’s- that’s it. Really.”

Nari raises a brow so high it could touch the ceiling.

“You did laundry?” she repeats slowly. “That’s your lie? You look like someone who got carried home in a drama.”

You’re positive your face is bright red by now, still you try to act nonchalant as your soul tries to leave your body.

You let out a high-pitched scream-laugh. “HAHA, what? No. Nobody carried me. That’s- that’s ridiculous.”

Minseo’s jaw drops.
Nari gasps dramatically. 
You clap a hand over your mouth.

“I mean it. No one carried me anywhere! I was just- exaggerating! For… emphasis!”

You want to climb inside the nearest air vent and never come out.

Nari pats your shoulder like you’re the funniest person she’s ever met. “Uh-huh. Sure. Definitely no mysterious man involved. Definitely not.”

There was.
A very famous one.
Who nearly kissed you last night. 
And told you to “take whatever you want.“
And texted you cute thirty minutes ago.

You decide you need to shut up forever.

Thankfully the instructor arrives and calls everyone to warm up. Music fills the room, loud and bright, and you stretch your arms above your head, trying to bury yourself in routine.

But you’re distracted.

Hopelessly, embarrassingly distracted.

You dance well, surprisingly well, considering your head is somewhere else entirely.

Every time you roll your hips, you remember his hands guiding you. Every spin brings back the memory of him stepping behind you, his breath brushing your neck. Every time the shirt slips against your collarbone-

You choke on air again.

Focus.
Focus.
FOCUS.

After running through the routine three times, your instructor claps sharply. “Good. Take ten.”

You sink to the floor, wiping sweat off your jaw, trying to breathe normally. Nari plops down beside you and nudges you gently with her knee.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks softer this time, genuine concern replacing teasing.

You nod for to quickly. “Totally. I’m just… tired.”

“Tired,” she repeats. “Right. Didn’t you say you want to bed early?“

You mentally punch yourself for blowing your own cover again.

“I-I did. I mean, I meant, I was…”

Nari gives you a look. The kind that says, you are absolutely lying and doing it badly.

You whine into your hands.

Nari laughs and leans back on her palms. “Whatever happened, it’s making you dance better. Use it.”

You peek at her through your fingers.

She winks.

You wish you could tell her nothing happened.
You wish you could pretend everything is normal.
But your heart gives a heavy, traitorous thud.
Because something did happen.

Even if it was only almost.

***

Jiyong stares at the ceiling of the hotel suite like it personally offended him.

He’s been here less than twenty-four hours and he already hates it. The generic art on the walls, the air-conditioning humming too loudly, the stupid modern lamp that flickers when he looks at it wrong. Everything feels sterile. Temporary. Wrong.

He drops his arm over his eyes and exhales.

He should’ve just told her he’d be gone for the night.
But that wouldn’t explain why he needed her to watch his cats.

Not that he really regrets lying.
If anything, the lie got him something he never expected:

Proof she likes him back.

But still, this distance he put between them himself?
It feels like a punishment.

The warmth of her pressed against him.
Her breath ghosting across his mouth.
That tiny, shaky inhale before he almost kissed her.

He groans into the pillow.

This is torture.
Why did he think leaving was a good idea?

He flips over, snatches his phone from the nightstand, and opens her message again, the one he keeps pretending he isn’t checking every five minutes.

And there it is.

Her selfie.

Sleep-soft. Hair messy. A smile so sincere it knocks the air out of him.
His shirt swallowing her whole, slipping off her shoulder in a way that should be illegal.
His cats eating behind her like she’s lived there forever.

He breathes out, slow and helpless.

Taking a picture like that should be classified as a weapon.

He zooms in without even thinking.

First the cats.
Zoa looks smug.
Iye looks like he’s judging him for not being home.

Then her face.

Eyes half-lidded from sleep.
Cheeks flushed.
A tiny, hesitant smile. The kind someone wears when they’re thinking of the person they’re sending it to.

His fingers tighten around the phone.

God.

She took this for him.
She’s in his space.
She’s wearing his clothes.

He scrolls to the message he sent back, the one he regrets and doesn’t regret at all:

That shirt’s big on you. Cute.

He shuts his eyes, pressing his phone to his forehead.

Why did he say that?
Why that word?

He knows why.

Because he wasn’t trying to be subtle.
Because he wasn’t thinking about restraint.

He was thinking about her.

About how small she looked in his shirt.
About how she must have slept curled up in his bed.
About how she probably woke up warm and soft and-

He cuts himself off before his brain gets him into trouble.

He tosses the phone aside and scrubs both hands over his face.

“Get it together,” he mutters.

But he knows he won’t.

Not when she’s the only thing he wants to think about.

He tries to distract himself.

He opens Instagram, scrolls aimlessly, then closes it two seconds later because everything feels wrong, too loud, too bright, too far from the person he actually wants to see. He turns on the TV, lasts maybe five seconds, turns it off again. Opens Instagram a second time. Closes it again. Stands. Sits. Stands again. Paces.

Nothing helps.

Eventually he gives up and reaches for his laptop.

If he can’t stop thinking about her, he might as well pretend he’s doing something productive. Work usually helps. Music usually helps. Losing himself in sound is the one thing that reliably pulls him out of his head.

Usually.

He puts on his headphones and pulls up a project file, specifically, the demo they recorded together.

The moment her voice fills his ears, something in him eases. Calms. Softens. Warms.

Her first takes are exactly how he remembers them: careful, shy, a little breathy, like she wasn’t sure if she deserved to be in the booth at all. Then the chorus arrives, the moment she relaxed, and her tone blooms, bright, rich and unmistakably hers.

He closes his eyes.

He can see her standing beside him in the studio again, hands tucked behind her back, shoulders a little tense. He remembers the way she kept sneaking glances at him, waiting for any kind of reaction, and the way her whole face lit up when he told her she sounded good.

A small ache curls in his chest.
God, he wants to hear her sing for him again.

He shakes his head, forcing himself to refocus. He adjusts levels, smooths out the harmonies, tunes one rushed line. Slowly, the entire track comes together, cleaner, brighter, almost glowing.

It feels alive.

Mostly because she’s in it.

By the time he finishes, hours have passed without him noticing. It’s the first time in days that anything has felt effortless.

He leans back in the chair, listening to the final mix play through the speakers, and instead of satisfaction, a strange hollowness settles in his ribs.

He’s proud.
But he’s lonely.

He shouldn’t be the only one hearing this.

She should be here, beside him, listening with him, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, twisting the hem of her sweater the way she always does when she’s nervous.

He listens to the last seconds of the song fade out, then reaches for his phone without thinking. He shouldn’t text again. He’s already messaged her once this morning.

But the room feels too quiet without her voice.
And he wants, God help him, he wants to know how her day went.

He types before he can talk himself out of it:

Jiyong (oppa): Practice go okay?

He sets his phone down, pretending he’s not waiting, pretending he isn’t ridiculous.

It buzzes almost immediately.

You: Yeah!! It was good. Tiring but good.

He smiles before he can stop himself. He‘s sure she worked hard, wishes he could’ve seen it.

He types:

Jiyong: Don’t forget to eat.

Her reply is instant:

You: I will! Well… eventually. Still at YG actually. Gonna head to your place after to feed the cats.

Something warm flickers in his chest.

She’s going back to his home.

Back to his space.

He exhales slowly, thumb hovering.

Jiyong: Good. They’ll be happy to see you.

Her typing bubbles appear.
Disappears.
Appears again.

Then:

You: I think they like me more than they like you lol

His mouth curves.

Jiyong: Impossible. But if they do, I’ll have to win them back.

A pause.

Long enough for him to imagine her biting her lip, thinking too hard.

Then:

You: You can try ;)

He sits up straight.

Did she-
Was that-
Is she flirting with him?
His pulse spikes.

He reads the message again.

And again.

And again.

Jiyong: Is that a challenge?

This time she takes longer to reply.
He imagines her flushed from practice, leaning against a wall at YG, trying not to smile too obviously.

Finally:

You: Guess you’ll have to find out…

He goes still.

She’s opening a door she’s never opened before.

And he’s supposed to stay here another night?

No chance.

Absolutely not.

He wants to see her so badly it feels physical.

Something in him snaps cleanly, decisively.

He stands so fast the chair skids across the floor.
He grabs his jacket.
His bag.
His cap.

“Fuck it,” he mutters under his breath.

He’s done pretending to be on a trip.
Done waiting three days when every part of him is dragging him in one direction only… home

To her

He leaves the hotel without looking back.

The hall outside his penthouse is dim, the motion lights flickering on as he approaches. His pulse is hammering, ridiculous, considering this is his place, his home.

But she’s inside.

And he wasn’t supposed to be back.

He slides the keycard, the lock clicks open, and he pushes the door gently.

The lights are low.
Soft, golden light spills across the floor.

“Hey- ” he starts, softly.

Nothing.

The space is still.

Then he notices movement. A shadow near the kitchen island.

His brows knit together.

“Hello?” he says gently.