JoonsDimples

You send your text and look up, thinking you have a moment before he shows up. One look to the left proves you wrong. You know that look, like he's annoyed and plotting, but playing nice in public. You can see it in the way his eyes are sharp but he's composed otherwise, hands in his pockets as if he's relaxed until he gets closer. Then they slip out calmly, clench and unclench, and you know they're going to grab you like the leash he texted about. 

You smirk and stand, sticky tanghulu fingers and all, squeezing your blind box under your arm and making a nonchalant, super chill speed-walking escape. 

“Don't run.” Chan says, not even loud but you hear it and you know he's talking to you. You blow out a breath through puckered lips, fighting not to break out into a cheek burning smile. 

“That just makes me wanna run more.” You mutter over your shoulder, the blind box slipping as you see how close he is now. If you weren't in the mall, you'd sprint. And if you sprint, he'll still catch you. You squeal instead, small and anticipatory, and turn around to face him. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” You start, the apples of your cheeks aching the way you were trying to avoid.

He doesn't say anything, just lifts his brow at you like you're overreacting, even though he's the one hunting you down with his gaze like there's a red dot on your back. He slows down once he approaches you, sticks out a hand to take the tanghulu you bought him.

Your eyes squint in suspicion, but you hand it over slowly like he's an animal you're trying to tame. 

Only once it's in his hand does he glance down at it, tongue in cheek like he's trying not to laugh now too. If you could see your expression, you'd get it. 

“You good?” he asks, half genuine and half his way of asking if you're done doing whatever it is you're doing. He reaches up to wipe his nose with his thumb, a chuckle tickling the skin.

“Mhm.” you nod, a knowing smile on your lips and at least three shopping bags that are sticking to your fingers. Three new shopping bags you obtained on your own while getting distracted after leaving the bathroom. And only one thing in each, which annoys him even more. 

You pull your blind box out from under your arm. “Look what I got, it's a sanrio blind bo– okay,”

Chan takes it from you mid-sentence, tucking it away into another small bag from an earlier stop, and ushering you closer with two fingers. “C'mere.” 

You start to move before you even fully process the command, stepping forward until you're right in front of him. You look up, sugary fingers hooked neatly around several paper and plastic shopping bag handles, and a pleading glint in your eyes that might buy you some gentleness later on.

He lifts one brow this time, entertained by how cooperative you are now after just trying to make a run for it a second ago. He points to his side, the space right next to him, “Stay here.” 

“Alright,” You nod in understanding, fighting between a straight face and a laugh. As you're moving to stand beside him, his hand grips around your wrist securely, palm immediately warm and knuckles flushed from how firm his grip is. Your temporary leash.

Chan rolls his shoulders a bit, side eyeing you but finally letting a bigger smirk through. “Be good while we're out.” 

You love that, ‘while we're out.’ 

Before you can respond with protest or something else that would probably acutely annoy him, he starts to walk again and leads you to walk with him, setting the pace the way he always does. 

You can't help but laugh under your breath, a literal “Hehehe.”

He glances down at you and you catch his gaze, pretending not to be cackling to yourself. Once he looks away, you stick your neck out in his direction and laugh silently again just to tease him. 

He sighs, seeing you from his peripheral view and shaking his head. “Fucking brat.”

಄ more fake texts

Because yes, for a man to take concubines was even expected, but a woman! Absolutely not! And what's more, the queen, the empress, takes a secret lover and becomes pregnant by him? The entire palace heard Heeseung scream for hours at his wife and her troop of maids for the offense committed. Everyone knew that the child would not be the emperor's, and it would be a dishonor to him and his entire family. He was furious and had banished his wife to the winter palace, where she would spend her pregnancy.

But even with this incident, it didn't mean Heeseung visited his concubines more often, on the contrary. He had distanced himself from the presence of women as if they repulsed him, and this worried the ministers who hoped for a legitimate heir to ensure the lineage.

"I doubt the emperor will share the empress's bed after this," declared the Minister of Finance. "Even if it was only affection he shared with her, everything is dead now."

"But the eyes of our enemies are upon us now, and the absence of an heir is a weakness," agreed the Minister of Agriculture. "However, the emperor does not seem willing to visit his concubines."

"Perhaps we could force his hand a little."

The gazes turned to the Prime Minister at the end of the table on the right. The man stroked his beard with an enigmatic air, a thin smile stretching his lips. "What do you mean?"

The Prime Minister reached into the pocket of his hanbok and pulled out a small vial, signaling the servant carrying the wine pitcher to approach. "This is an aphrodisiac that I procured from a trusted source." He removed the stopper and poured the mixture into the wine, which diluted.

"An aphrodisiac? Minister!"

"It's the only way to get our emperor to decide to share the bed of one of his concubines. We only have to choose the one who will be suitable to bear the heir. I believe Concubine Y/N will be perfect. She is the only one of high rank and Heeseung's childhood friend. They will be perfect together."

"I doubt the empress will agree…" remarked the Minister of War.

"She no longer has a say since she became pregnant by her lover. Guards!"

A soldier detached himself from the wall where he was posted to step forward toward the ministers, bowing respectfully. "Prime Minister?"

"Take a few soldiers and take the concubines for a stroll through the city. But do not inform Concubine Y/N, let her remain in her apartments."

"Understood, Minister."

The man turned on his heel and disappeared into the palace to give the orders. Since the queen was confined to the winter palace and all the other concubines would be gone, the emperor would have no choice but to go to Y/N. "You are diabolical, Prime Minister."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, Gentlemen."

They changed the subject when Heeseung pushed the doors open to enter the council chamber. The general of his armies closed the doors behind him while the emperor went to sit at the head of the table, already looking irritated despite the early hour.

"Tell the empress to send her messengers if she wants to speak to me, because I don't want to see her!" Heeseung ordered, angrily grabbing parchments.

"Understood, Lord."

"Wine, for fuck's sake!"

The servant consulted the Prime Minister with a look, the man gave a slight nod, and the young man stepped forward to fill Heeseung's glass, which he downed in one go, then filled it again, leaving it on the table.

"Well, what are today's requests?"

"The harvests are finished, and they were abundant, Lord. We will have sufficient provisions for the winter."

"Excellent, at least one piece of good news."

During the council, Heeseung continued to sip his glass of wine, unaware of the aphrodisiac that had been poured into the pitcher. He often asked the servant to refill his glass, half-listening to his ministers' declarations, who threw him sideways glances.

Only, as time passed, Heeseung felt his body aching. A weight had settled in his stomach, and he was hot despite the room's temperature being normal. He pinched the bridge of his nose to regain his composure, breathing deeply despite his heart's rapid beating.

"Are you alright, Lord?"

He hid his trouble, though it was becoming difficult, his groin pulsed painfully under his hanbok, and excitement coursed through his body. Heeseung jumped up from his chair, unable to stay seated there doing nothing. "Lord?"

"This council is adjourned!"

He turned on his heel, leaving the council chamber with the doors slamming against the walls, the Prime Minister wore a satisfied smile. His personal guards followed his quick steps as he headed toward his apartments.

"Where are the concubines?!" he barked.

"They went into the city, Lord. Only Concubine Y/N is still at the palace."

"Summon her!" The soldier nodded and walked away, Heeseung closed the door to his apartments with a kick. He removed the first layer of his hanbok and tossed it onto the sofa, pacing in his room.

Why was he so hot? He was so excited when he had no reason to be. Perhaps because he hadn't let the accumulated pressure subside in a while? He had many worries to manage in addition to the queen's pregnancy.

A servant opened the door for Y/N to enter, quickly closing it behind her to give them privacy. The young woman saw Heeseung pacing through the room, a thin layer of sweat covering his forehead. "My Lord?"

He turned to her, as if relieved that she was finally there. Her navy blue hanbok fell perfectly on her body, the low neckline leaving her neck exposed, the fine, plump skin calling to be marked.

Heeseung closed the distance between them, taking her face in his large, calloused palms to take possession of her lips in a hungry kiss, all teeth and tongues. "I'm so sorry," he panted, guiding her toward the bed. "I don't know what's wrong with me, I'm so excited that I can't think of anything else."

He was already beginning to untie the fastenings of her robes, laying her on the bed to tower over her with his body. His shirt had disappeared, leaving his bare, muscular chest in her view, a few scars from past battles covering his skin.

"Please… Please, let me…"

Y/N nodded, sliding her hands over his bare chest and returning his kiss. Heeseung sighed against her lips, unfastening her hanbok until she was naked before him, quickly standing up to remove his pants, which joined the pile of clothes on the floor.

"Heeseung," she moaned as he slowly pumped his fingers into her warmth.

"Fuck, say my name again, baby."

"Heeseung!" He groaned against her throat, licking the drop of sweat that had rolled down her skin. Heeseung quickly replaced his fingers with his sex, making them moan in unison as he entered her.

"Ahh, Heeseung," she moaned, her head thrown back.

"Such a sweet girl, you feel so good."

He began slow thrusts, burying himself deep inside her with each movement, circling her clit with small motions of his thumb, which heightened her pleasure. Their warm, erratic breaths mingled until their mouths met.

Y/N came quickly, Heeseung's thrusts, combined with his playing on her clit, gave her no respite. She let out a cry of pleasure, digging her nails into his shoulders, leaving small pink crescents.

The emperor didn't stop there, he turned her over on her stomach to take her from behind, continuing his thrusts without having yet reached his peak. The aphrodisiac heightened all his senses and sensations, the multiplied pleasure made him dizzy.

Y/N gripped the sheets between her fingers, her body moving back and forth with the rhythm Heeseung imposed. His fingers dug into the flesh of her hips, surely leaving marks the next day. "Heeseung!" she moaned loudly, her knuckles white from gripping the sheets. "T-Too much…"

"I know you can take it, baby. You want a baby, don't you? You want to carry my heir? Fuck!" he roared, quickening his thrusts. "You'd be so beautiful carrying my baby."

"Ahh, yes, yes! I want it!"

Heeseung growled, rolling onto his back on the mattress so Y/N could ride him, allowing him to go deeper inside her as she pressed her hands flat on his chest to lift herself and sit back down on his hips.

Outside, the guards keeping watch at the king's apartments were close to dropping their spears to cover their ears, while the servant crouched on the floor waiting for orders was beet red.

The young woman's third orgasm came embarrassingly fast, her nails raking across the emperor's pectorals as he gave a few more thrusts inside her to finally reach the long-awaited climax.

Y/N collapsed on him, her head nestled in the crook of his neck as they caught their breath in the warmth of the room. She waited for her heart to return to a normal rhythm, drowsiness already overtaking her. Heeseung noticed, his fingers tracing small circles on her back as he kissed her temple. "Guards!"

The soldiers opened the doors, and the servant presented himself to them, keeping his eyes lowered so as not to see what was happening before him. "My Lord?"

"Open the windows, draw a warm bath for Y/N, and order a meal to be prepared in the kitchen. Have it brought here. And in that order."

"Yes, my Lord." The servant bowed, crossing the room to open the windows, letting in a fresh breeze, then went into the adjoining bathroom to fill the basin with water, adding flower petals and other bath salts.

He left as quickly as he had come to give the instructions to the kitchen. Y/N mumbled when Heeseung sat up, taking her with him to lift her in his arms. Still naked, he walked to the bathroom and descended the steps of the basin, from which steam rose from the water's surface.

Heeseung gently lowered Y/N into the warm water, which relaxed her muscles, a soft lavender scent rose from the bath. The emperor kept her in his arms, gently rubbing her skin to remove the sweat. "Y/N."

"Mmm?" she hummed, her head on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry."

She frowned, opening her eyes again to look at him. "Why?"

"You are a person dear to me; you are more than a concubine in my eyes, and I'm sorry for being so…"

"Hungry?" she teased. Heeseung grimaced, which made her laugh. "It didn't bother me, Heeseung. You were perfect."

"Really? Because you are the only person I tolerate in the palace, and I wouldn't want to have frightened or hurt you."

"You didn't," Y/N assured, caressing his cheek. "I know you. I trust you, Hee."

The emperor sighed, reassured, and kissed her forehead, continuing to bathe her with him. However, his anger flared when they were disturbed, the doors opened on the queen entering in a fury, her round belly following her steps.

"Heeseung!" She turned red with anger when she saw him in the bath with Y/N in his arms, both naked. "What is the meaning of this?!"

"How dare you enter my apartments without permission?!" he retorted. "You are confined to the winter palace until your childbirth!"

"I am your wife! I don't have to stay locked up there like a cow being prepared to give birth!"

Heeseung fumed, gently releasing Y/N to step out of the basin, standing before the empress without caring about the water dripping from his naked body. The woman swallowed when he brought his face close to hers, a gesture far from tender. "You lost all authority the day you let yourself be impregnated by your lover."

"That's unfair! You have the right to take concubines, but not me?!"

"I don't get them pregnant! You have conceived a bastard, you have brought shame upon my family, and you think you'll get away without consequences?! You are queen, yes, but only in title. There is no way you will be the one to bear my heirs or receive my love. Go play with your lover as much as you want, I don't care. Guards! Take the empress back to the winter palace!"

"No, Heeseung! You have no right! Think of our child!"

She was dragged out of the room by the soldiers, her screams fading down the hallway. Heeseung put on a long robe and signaled Y/N to get out of the water. He took his time drying her, running a soft towel over her skin, his hands pausing for a moment on her stomach, thinking of his heir who might already be forming inside her.

Dressed in one of his large shirts, Y/N went to sit on the sofa, where the servants had placed the meal on the table. Heeseung sat beside her, an arm on the backrest as he watched her eat. "Is it good?" She nodded with a smile, and Heeseung smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

He may have been betrayed, but it would surely only make things better.

Masterlist

“She’s been here every day this week,” Yunho informed you, clearly aware of your annoyance toward the woman giving bedroom eyes at Mingi, “claims something different is wrong every time she comes in, but when she gets here everything works fine. Then she never leaves. She’s luck it’s been a slow week, or he would have fully lost it by now”

You scoff quietly, “have you tried to ‘help’ her?”

“Yes,” he sighs, “but she always dodges my help and finds a way to drag him back over.”

Of course she does. 

“Anyway, is anything wrong with your car?”

“Of course not,” you laugh, “but, if you wanna take a look, be my guest.”

Yes, you were fully aware of the irony of you and this woman having identical motives when pulling your cars into the shop, but at least you were always a welcome surprise who didn’t go around trying to sleep with other people’s boyfriends.

“Sure. I’ll look,” Yunho grabbed your keys from you. “Um, by the way, I can tell you he certainly wouldn’t mind if you went over and saved him. You know, assert your dominance.”

That line made you giggle. You brushed out your black mini skirt and checked your lip gloss in the side mirror of your car. Luckily, you were feeling incredibly cute today, in your possibly too short skirt and sweater that totally belonged to your boyfriend. The heels on your feet were a gift from him as well, and you always felt sexy hearing the sound they made when you walked. And that was the noise they made as you made your way over to them.

She saw you first. “I’m sorry, can we help you? Isn’t he helping you out?” She asked, clearly annoyed, pointing her finger at Yunho who was checking out your tires. Clearly trying to ward you off, and you got the idea that she knew exactly who you were.

Her acknowledgment of you though, made Mingi turn around. Finally seeing you for the first time since you’d stepped foot in his shop today. He was visibly relieved as he took a step toward you, “hey baby, I didn’t realize you were coming in today.”

He grinned when you placed a manicured hand on his chest. He wouldn’t bring it up now, but he fucking loved when your jealous side came out. And he knew that this specific touch’s purpose was to stake your claim.

“I missed you,” you sighed, stepping closer, “you’ve been so busy this week, and I haven’t seen you at all.”

His hands found your waist and pulled you all the way into him, “I know baby. I’m so sorry.” He placed a chaste kiss on your cheek, “I've had a lot of customers waste my time this week, and I just can’t catch a break.”

You giggle as the girl next to you scoffs, “Wow Mingi, you didn’t tell me your girlfriend was so,” she eyed you up and down again but, before she can finish what was bound to be a wonderful insult, you cut her off.

“Oh so you knew he had a girlfriend and were still all over him like a bitch in heat.”

She laughed at you, "he doesn't mind. Right, Min? Sorry sweetheart, you're not as special as you might think. Maybe, he needs someone a little more real, not some plastic bitch who doesn't even know how to change her own tires."

Sensing that you were about to fully unleash yourself onto this fucking cunt, Mingi put a soothing hand on your shoulder and spoke sternly, “Get out.”

She gaped at him, “Wha-”

“You can fucking fix your car yourself, if there’s even anything wrong with it, but make sure you see Yunho on your way out. He’ll charge you before you leave.”

“You can’t be serious.” 

“Of course I’m serious. You’ve wasted a lot of fucking time for me this week with your perfectly fine car. My time is precious, and since you wasted it, I'm gonna need you to pay up.”

He looked back over at your car, “Yunho, please deal with this.”

The other man’s shoulders slumped, clearly not keen on dealing with this woman, but he made no effort to argue. You made a mental note to bring him lunch next time you came in to make up for it.

Mingi grabbed the hand that’s still on his chest and leaned down to your ear, “come with me.”

✭✭✭✭

“God, I’ve missed you so fucking much baby,” he breathed into you neck as he placed kisses on it. 

You smiled and placed a hand in his hair, gripping lightly onto his dark hair, “I’ve missed you, too.”

You were in the back of the shop, where Mingi kept his own car. You didn’t know the make or the model, but you knew it was a sexy car. And you were well acquainted with it. From it pulling up outside your apartment for the occasional lunch date. To late nights in the backseat when you both knew you couldn’t make it to a bed. And then to moments like these. Days in the shop where your boyfriend wanted nothing more than to see you all on display for him on top of the hood.

“Why didn’t you tell me someone was bothering you, Min?” you pouted as his hands fiddled with the edge of your (his) sweater.

“Oh, y/n I can handle myself, baby, you don’t need to worry yourself with stuff like that.”

Sighing, you placed a hand on his cheek, “you know I just wanna help and be there for you. Will you at least tell me next time?”

“Of course. I’m sorry I didn’t bring it up. I promise I’ll tell you next time. Ok?”

You nodded as you moved your hand from his cheek to the back of his head, pulling him back down to your lips. His hands started wandering as the two of you explored each other’s mouths. He removed a hand that was tangled in your hair and caressed your neck. His mouth followed the hand, leaving plenty of dark spots all over your pretty neck.

When he reached for the hem of the sweater you were wearing, you grabbed at his hand, “I don’t wanna get naked in here.”

And you really didn’t. As much as you loved your boyfriend, getting fully undressed anywhere but the bedroom was a line you very rarely crossed. Especially in a place as unkempt and naturally messy as the shop he spends most of his days in. You were a woman of at least a little class, but keeping your clothes on didn’t mean that sex was off the table. Not at all, actually.

“Ok, love,” he moved his hands to fiddle with the edge of your skirt, “it’s a good thing you wore such a tiny skirt today then, right?” 

You nodded, biting your lip to suppress your smile, “you can take my panties off if you really want to, though.” You said through a whisper.

He didn’t need any convincing because in the next moment he’d slipped your panties off your legs and put them in his pocket. His hands were under your skirt now. One gripping your waist and holding you in place. The other teasingly stroking your inner thigh.

“Mingi, please,” you begged breathily, desperately trying to shift closer to his hand, but the other one on your waist was completely preventing that.

He smirked at your desperation, “patience, baby. I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

As a man of his word, his thumb brushed your clit, and you let out a whine when he pushed two fingers into you. He worked over your clit with his thumb as he pumped his fingers in and out of you. 

“Oh, Min–” you moaned and gripped his shoulders tight.

The hand from your waist moved to grab your throat as he leaned close to your ear, “God, baby, you moan so pretty for me. You’ll let me know when you’re close, yeah?”

You could barely get out a breath “yes” before he slid another finger into your already soaking cunt. Your grip on his shoulders tightened. Wrapping a leg around his back, you arched your back, trying every option to get as close to him as possible. You lost all control of your hips and ground yourself into his hand in sync with his own movements.

When you felt the familiar knot in your stomach, you whined, and your eyes fluttered shut, “I’m close! So close.” 

“Let go for me baby. I got you.”

As you reached your climax, you wrapped your legs around his waist. 

“Good girl,” his lips reached your own as you came down from your high. He pulled you off the hood of his car and set you on the ground. He looked you up and down, admiring you fully. He lifted a hand to caress your face and his thumb brushed over your cheek. Smiling, he said, “you always do so good for me baby. Turn around for me, yeah?”

You turned around quickly, eager for what you knew was coming next. Without him even having to ask, you leaned over the hood of his car. Giving him just the view he wanted. His hands were quick to flip up your skirt and smooth his hands over your ass. He gripped one cheek in his hand, and you braced yourself on your forearms. When he let go, you wiggled your ass and looked back over your shoulder. Challenging him with your eyes.

He brought his hand back down on your ass, slapping it. When you let out an obvious and loud moan, he smirked and leaned down over you, “you’re so fucking impatient baby, are you really so worked up? Let me help you out. Does that sound good?”

“Please, Mingi,” you begged (god he loved when you couldn’t stop begging), “I need you!”

“Where do you need me, baby?”

“Inside,” you moaned when he slapped your ass again.

“You want my cock, baby?” You could hear him unzipping his pants and the rustle of fabric behind you. Fucking finally.

All you could do was nod desperately and look back at him over your shoulder with begging eyes. He couldn’t fucking hold it together when you gave him those eyes. So desperate and needy that he could almost see tears. And the pout on your lips was the cherry on top.

You braced yourself again when he gripped his hips with one hand. When he finally pushed into you, you moaned out softly.

With one hand gripping your waist hard enough to bruise and the other playing with your clit, he thrust into you. His car shook, and you struggled to hold yourself up but, god, it felt so good. After a week of missing him constantly, you couldn’t think of anything but how full you felt with each thrust. He couldn’t help himself, either from telling you how good you felt.

Shit, baby, you just keep getting wetter.

You just love it when I fill you up like this, don’t you?

Oh, you’re close, baby. I can feel you closing around me so good.

Fuuuuck, god angel I’m almost there. Can I fill you up?

“Yes, yes, yes, please!” you cried. Your loud and pornographic moans bounced off the walls as you reached your climax.

He followed soon after, filling you to the brim. You felt so warm and flushed. Your eyes fluttered in post-orgasm bliss. Panting, he flipped you back over onto your back and helped you sit up. He kissed you one more time, “thank you for coming to visit.”

“Of course,” you laughed softly, “I mean if you reward me like this everytime, then I’ll just come in every day like that bitch earlier, but I can’t promise I’ll pay you for your time.”

“Oh baby, you being here is enough, and your pretty pussy is the perfect payment,” he moved a finger back down to your core and pushed his cum back inside of you.

“Mmmm,” you ran hand through his hair, nails scraping his scalp, “as much as I’d love to go again, you closed an hour ago, and Yunho’s probably waiting for you to lock up.”

Mingi groaned as he finished putting his pants back on. He lifted you off the car, “can I have my panties back please?” You reached a hand out to him.

“Oh,” he laughed as he reached into his pocket to give them back to you.

✭✭✭✭

“Did she leave?” Mingi asked his friend who was finishing up putting new tires on your car. So maybe you actually did need something done with it. 

The other man laughed, “oh she left alright. She tried to stick around, but when she heard you two having fun back there she took off. Kinda felt bad for her honestly.”

You rolled your eyes and scoffed at his sympathy even though you felt an immense sense of satisfaction at knowing you had fended her off so easily. You had “asserted your dominance” to quote Yunho.

Mingi placed a hand on your lower back, “don’t worry baby, we won’t be seeing her for a while.” He turned to Yunho, “You can go man, I’ll finish locking up. Thanks for your help.”

“Good night man, have fun locking up.” Clearly implying that you might distract him from such a task. 

When Yunho was gone, it was only seconds before you were backed into the back door of your own car, and Mingi reached around you to open the door. “Get in, baby.” 

You could only giggle as you climbed in, pulling him in after you by the collar of his t-shirt. When he shut the door behind him, he leaned over you, “just one more. Ok, baby?”

“Ok,” you responded breathlessly. Knowing full well you would be under him in your bed soon enough.

✭✭✭✭

note ✭ thank you for reading. i'm trying my best over here, but university is kicking my ass. so i appreciate you reading what is essentially a coping mechanism 😀🥲

also this was so nerve racking to post so SEND ME VALIDATION (if you want 😙)

srsly though, thanks for reading! feel free to lmk what you think. reblogs and comments are much appreciated!

have a wonderful day!

Normally, he had no problem keeping rhythm. In fact, he was quite good at it. If he were really paying attention, he would’ve noticed this cacophony of sounds and likely pulled out his old laptop to record a sample or type something out quickly. Inspiration, he often said, was found any and everywhere, if you simply took the time to stop and listen.

He wasn’t about to listen to his own advice right now, though.

Your giggles — usually a source of his own happiness (and inspiration) — were at the moment getting on his nerves. Not because it was you, and not because he thought your laugh was annoying, no — he loved your laugh, loved you. But the fact that Jeongin was the one making you giggle and blush like that… well, that simply wasn’t acceptable.

He glares over at you, where you’re curled up in the corner of the couch and glued to your phone, squealing and giggling as you watch and re-watch Jeongin’s parts in the new music video.

He looks sooo good in this video, Channie!

I can’t believe how much he’s grown into his features, he looks so different now…

Ah, his biceps! Has he been coming to the gym with you more often?

“No, he hasn’t.” Chan’s voice is sour, bitter and jealous. His cheeks flush slightly with embarrassment — here he was, a grown man of nearly 30, throwing a hissy fit over his dongsaeng. Jeongin, of all people! Of all the other members! It made it that much more humiliating, that he was jealous of Jeongin. His baby brother.

If you notice the sullenness in your boyfriend’s voice, you don’t show it, which adds to Chan’s annoyance. Why weren’t you watching his parts? His clips? What was so fascinating about Jeongin in this video?

“Maybe he’s been going with Bin, then… because he’s gotta be working out pretty damn hard for those…” you marvel, rewinding the video again to catch another glimpse of Jeongin’s biceps flexing as he raises his arms.

That was it. Chan’s scowl darkens, and he moves over next to you to grab your phone from your hands — the video still playing — before scooting back over to his end of the couch, a smug smile on his face now as he hears your protests.

“Chan, wha…” you grumble, your gaze finally settling on your attention starved boyfriend. His face lights up as you regard him — never mind that your expression is confused and annoyed — and he shuts off your phone, beaming.

“You’re not paying attention to me,” he pouts, and his cuteness almost makes you forget about his thievery.

“Give it back,” you pout back, playfully reaching for your phone.

“Uh-uh… Jeongin time is over. It’s Channie’s time now.” He grins wider, holding the phone even further out of your reach. You groan in exasperation.

“Babe, come on…”

“I said, it’s time to pay attention to Daddy now.”

A chill runs down your spine at the dominant turn in Chan’s voice. You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly feeling very dry, and your heart starting to pound faster. When you meet his gaze, his eyes are dark with lust and control. He makes sure that you’re watching his every movement, as he stands up and places your phone on the nearby table, screen side down. You can hear it buzzing, and he clicks his tongue as he watches you twitch with hesitation.

“Why’re you so focused on other things, baby girl? I’m right here… I need you too,” he croons, slowly walking towards you. You feel exposed, bare, despite the fact that you’re still completely clothed.

Once he’s standing before you, he nudges between your legs so that he’s able to get right in front of you, smirking as he watches your expression change to a flustered one. Your eyes lock with the sight before you — his crotch, his erection straining at the confines of his jeans. A strong, firm hand at the back of your head gently guides you closer, until your plush lips press against his hardness. You let out a small whimper as you feel his cock throbbing, pulsing against your hot mouth.

“Seems like you might need me just as much as I need you,” he murmurs, a teasing edge to his voice as he lets out a shaky exhale, feeling every quiver of your desperate, eager mouth. “Is that right, baby?”

“Mm… mhm…” you moan, your voice muffled. He lets out a low groan, the vibrations of your voice making him shudder with arousal.

“Good girl. ‘S what I like to hear.” His grip on your hair tightens, and he pulls you back, away from his crotch. It makes you whine again, but he shushes you as his free hand fumbles with his belt, with his button and zipper before roughly shoving his jeans and his boxers down at the same time. His jaw clenches with impatience and the strain of holding back as his cock twitches and bobs right before your eyes — it’s a bit cruel how he holds you back, makes you watch as a bead of precum forms at his slit. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, salivating as he watches you with amusement and satisfaction.

Finally, finally, he loosens his grip on your hair once more, grunting as you take that as permission to touch him. You move forward eagerly, your hands grabbing at his muscular thighs to pull him even closer, needing him to overwhelm every one of your senses. You press messy kisses to his hip, his upper thigh, making him groan and leak more precum, the sticky fluid dribbling down his aching shaft. You’re careful to not tease too much, knowing his patience is thin already tonight. And anyway, you want to please him. He needs it, and you’re completely willing to give it — to show him just how much you want him, more than anyone else. Forget everyone else.

He lets out an uneven, shaky breath as your lips finally close around his tip, your tongue swirling around his slit and tasting his bitter essence. You put on a bit of a show, moaning at the taste as you flutter your lashes and look up at him, further spurred on by the sight you’re met with — him, his head thrown back already, groaning as he lets you worship him.

You take more of him in your mouth, eager to please him more now, your grip tightening on his creamy thighs as you hollow your cheeks and tighten your lips around his throbbing length. His tip prods the back of your throat, and you hold back a gag as you swallow around it, eliciting a strained grunt from the man above you.

He takes things into his own hands now, mind blurred with lust. He curses under his breath, using both hands to grab your head and thrust fully into your mouth, chuckling breathily at the sound of your surprised, garbled moan. Your nose presses against his crotch, nosing at the short, fine hairs there. You take the opportunity to use your tongue to swipe at his balls, making him grit his teeth and shiver at the sensation.

“Fuck… taking me so good, aren’t you?” he practically purrs, looking down at you with adoration. “My good girl…”

Eagerly, you let out a whimper, the vibrations of your throat around his cock making him mutter a quiet “fuck” under his breath.

Once he’s sure that you’re adjusted, sure that you’re ready, he draws his hips back, sucking in a deep breath as he looks down at his spit slicked length. His hips snap forward, thrusting his cock into the back of your throat roughly, and he moans loudly as you let out a choked splutter. He thrusts hard and fast, chuckling darkly at the sight of your spit dripping down his chin, dribbling down his balls and making a messy puddle of fluids on the floor between the two of you.

“Mn, fuck… ‘y like that? Like the feeling of my cock down your throat?” he grunts, biting his lower lip hard as he feels your tongue swipe along the underside of his length, teasing despite his rough treatment.

Your nails dig into his skin, as if to wordlessly say, yes.

The hungry, lustful look in your eyes paired with the hot, wet cavern of your mouth proves too much for Chan to handle, at least for too long. You’re far from done when he pulls you off of his cock, and you let out a hoarse whine of protest. His chest is heaving, the exposed skin of his lower stomach shiny with perspiration.

“Bedroom,” he growls, dark eyes trained on your shivering form as you stand up immediately, obeying his words like a well trained dog. He kicks off his jeans and boxers, leaving a trail of clothes behind him as he follows you to the bedroom, stalking you like a predator closing in on its prey.

You feel like you’re being hunted too — stumbling on shaky legs (even though you hadn’t even been fucked yet), short of breath. You cast a look over your shoulder every few steps, slowing your pace as you watch Chan’s shadowy form trailing after you. He too pauses, to take off his shirt. Your breath hitches as you watch him pull the sweat soaked garment over his head, his muscles flexing deliciously in the limited light.

“I didn’t tell you to stop, baby.” You shiver, your panties dampening and your heart rate increasing as his voice echoes down the dim hallway. You quicken your pace, skittering down the hall and entering the bedroom. You perch delicately, nervously, on the edge of the bed — watching the doorway, waiting for Chan.

He enters momentarily, but every second feels like an eternity until he appears in your line of vision again.

Completely nude now, he looks like a Greek god standing there. There’s a slightly cocky, arrogant look on his face as he watches your hungry expression, and he shifts to wrap his thick fingers around his even thicker cock. Stroking slowly, teasingly, he lets out a low groan, squeezing his tip before letting go, smirking at the way you squeeze your thighs together and suck in a quick, eager breath.

“Strip. And lay back for me,” he orders, watching from the doorway. Refusing to come closer, unless you listen to what he says. Holding the reward of his cock just out of your reach.

What else can you do?

It’s not like you wanted to disobey anyway.

You fumble with your clothes, the fabric suddenly becoming extremely confusing as you try to rip everything off as fast as possible. Chan hides a smile behind a stoic demeanor as he watches you struggle to get your shirt over your head.

You eventually figure it out, your cheeks flushed with sheepishness as you settle in the middle of the bed, propping yourself up slightly with your elbows. Just enough that you can still see Chan.

He’s looking over your nude frame appreciatively, a low grumble of a growl in his throat as he finally begins to approach. He crawls onto the foot of the bed, slowly making his way up to you, back muscles rippling with every slight movement. He doesn’t stop until he’s hovering over you, his cock pressing against your inner thigh, hot and throbbing right next to where you need him most. You’re sure he can feel it too, from the way his length slips against your slick skin, dampened with your juices.

He leans down, pressing his face into the curve of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. Memorizing everything about you, as if he didn’t already have it committed to memory.

He adjusts, angling his hips slightly differently, making you gasp as he presses against your sopping slit instead of your inner thigh. It was like he could read your mind — or, he was just thinking the same thing.

Your hands find refuge on his back, nails taking up and down his milky, rippling skin. His hands settle on your hips, squeezing the plush flesh there, anchoring himself before he pulls back slightly, nudging your legs onto his shoulders, that same cocky grin spread across his handsome features as he looks down at your flustered expression. He leans over to press a surprisingly tender kiss to your quivering leg, before he looks down and lets out a shaky breath, tapping his tip against your clit.

“Ready?” he murmurs softly, his other hand reaching up to find yours — both of your hands were lost, clutching at the sheets desperately after you removed them from his back. You squeeze his hand gently, the feeling comforting.

You nod, biting your lower lip in anticipation. And so he presses forward, a guttural groan escaping his lips at the same time a whimpery mewl escapes yours.

There’s a slight bit of resistance as he presses the blunt tip of his cock against your tight slit, reminding both of you that it had been too long since the last time this happened. You wince slightly at the burn, the stretch, as his tip wedges its way inside, pressing deeper and deeper. It begins to satisfy that gnawing hunger from within, making you let out a sob of relief as he bottoms out inside you, despite the slight pain that remains.

Chan lets out a snarl, upper lip curling as he presses your legs up against your chest, nearly folding you in half as he starts to fuck you hard and fast — mirroring the rough pace he’d set when fucking your face just minutes before.

“Fuck, fuck… fuck yes,” he groans, letting out a pleased hum as he hears your mewls increase in volume. He bottoms out, grinning widely as you squirm when he swirls his hips in circles, grinding his tip against your cervix. It feels so deep, so intense — it’s no wonder you can’t help but sputter and babble for more, even though he’s giving you more than you can handle.

“Baby girl likes it when Daddy’s rough with her, hm?” he coos, snapping his hips against yours, the emanating squelches making you moan with embarrassment and arousal. “Come on… say it. Tell me how much you love it, how good you fuckin’ feel right now…”

He reaches down, thumbing at your sensitive, ignored clit, making you gasp at the sudden dual pleasure. “F-feels so good!” you manage to stutter out, finding it extremely difficult to properly form words at the moment.

He pulls out suddenly, and your skin screams for his touch to return. Your legs fall back limply, aching from the position that they had been pressed in all this time. His expression is one of pure lust, endless longing, as he looks at the sweaty sheen of your skin, the way the dim light highlights your curves and dips.

“Flip over for me, baby.” His voice is commanding, that dominant edge not leaving despite the growing exhaustion in his aching muscles.

You do so, your legs shaking as you get on all fours. Chan’s touch is back on you instantly, sending fire through your veins, bringing you back to life. You find your voice, whimpering his name — Daddy — desperately, loudly, as he shoves your face into the sheets and presses his hips against yours.

He drags his tip over your clit, over your aching and swollen hole, stopping just before he reaches your ass. He sucks in a quivering breath, in a trance as he stares at the glorious sight before him. Never before has anyone been able to evoke such animalistic instinct from him before, such primal urge. He stares at your vulnerability, drooling at the implications and potential possibilities. “Pretty… my baby girl has such pretty holes, all for me to use…”

“Daddy, please!” you plead, your cries muffled, tears and snot and saliva soaking the sheets beneath your face.

He growls in response, slapping his cock against your swollen pussy. You sob, your feet kicking against the mattress weakly, listlessly, uselessly.

He plunges his cock back into you without any warning, without even another word. Your sob turns to a deep moan, your walls clamping down around his thick girth, sucking him in deeper.

It takes everything in him to not fill you up right there, right at that moment.

Drawing back slowly, his balls tight and full, he has to hold back even more, biting his tongue. There’s a circle of cream around the base of his cock, your combined fluids making a painfully erotic sight. He needs more, needs to feel you cum on his cock.

He changes his position, faster than you can protest. One hand cements itself on your hip, the grip bruising. The other reaches around, pressing hard against your puffy clit and rubbing in tight circles. He has to muffle a moan by leaning down and biting your shoulder as he feels your pussy clench around him again. His hips start thrusting again, frantic and needy. His teeth release your flesh, soothing the sting with his soft lips, pressing sloppy kisses everywhere you need him.

“D-Daddy…” you moan, the new position bringing you to your orgasm much faster than before. You can feel him so fucking deep, feel the roughness of his calloused fingers directly on your clit. It’s too much, and you both know it. You can practically see the smug grin on his face as you close your eyes, focusing on the feeling of his tip dragging against your g-spot with each knowing draw of his hips.

“Go on, cream on my cock, baby. Know you wanna,” he growls, pinching your clit between his h thumb and forefinger, moaning in harmony with the scream it brings from your lungs. “G-gonna breed this pussy so fuckin’ full…”

You think you black out for a second, but you can’t be sure. All you know is that one moment you’re crying Chan’s name, and the next his front is pressed against your back as he whispers your name back, heat blooming inside you as he spurts ropes of thick cum deep into your womb.

He presses kisses to your sweaty shoulder, hands coming to gently smooth over your waist, soft praises falling from his lips — so sweet in comparison to the dirty filth he’d been spewing just before.

He pulls out with a sharp inhale, watching the pearly rivulets of your combined release flowing from your sweet pussy. He nearly leans back in, but you flip back over to pull him into a searing kiss instead. He kisses back, heart skipping a beat as he gently pulls you into an embrace.

“Satisfied now?” you murmur, voice hoarse but still teasing.

That was something (one of the many things) he adored about you — your insatiable, never ending spark. He rolls his eyes, resting his head on your chest.

“Mm… maybe for now,” he concedes, indeed content for now, as long as your phone (and the replays of Jeongin’s parts) stay away from his girl.

petrichor-han 2026. do not translate or repost without my permission.

please consider reblogging and/or leaving a few kind words if you enjoyed this fic :) tumblr posts revolve around reblogs, and i'd appreciate the gesture!!

The first time it had happened heat crept from his neck to his cheeks, leaving him a pretty shade of pink.

The two of you were standing in between the aisles of a book store looking for the novel you wanted, and he was browsing through some when you spotted the item.

Without hesitation—and without noticing—your index finger had curled around the belt loop of his jeans and tugged him closer to you.

Heeseung had followed with this mouth parted in surprise, eyes blown wide, blushing face, and thundering heart.

Then it kept happening again and again, neither of you said anything about it. You kept on taking him place to place by the same method, and he went without a second (or even first) thought. It had been 33 days since you first did it—not that your boyfriend’s been keeping track.

He should be used to it by now. He is used to it.

Or so he thinks. ──── ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ────

His lips are slotted against yours as the two of you share a kiss in the kitchen. You’re sitting on the island, caged between his arms, one hand tugging his hair and the other resting on his bicep. You pull back, chest heaving with the lack of oxygen as you look at him.

Heeseung’s once neat and styled hair is a ruffled mess all thanks to you. His mouth is swollen, lips slick with spit, and eyes shining. Before you even notice you’re doing it again.

Your finger slides from his bicep to loop on his jean and you pull him closer.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, just loud enough for you to catch.

You look at his face, eyebrow raising. “What? Is something wrong?”

“No it’s nothing,” your boyfriend tries to dismiss and leans in to continue kissing you, but you lean back, retracting your hands away from his body.

“Tell me.”

Heeseung stares at you, a blush slowly creeping onto his face. You give him a confused look. “You pulled me closer by the belt loop,” he says, voice low almost as if he didn’t want you to hear.

A beat of silence passes where you look at him without blinking. And then a grin splits your lips. “Oh?”

Your boyfriend gulps and you watch as his Adam's apple bobs. “Didn’t even notice it Hee. But you’re blushing so so pretty ‘cause of that.”

Before he could reply, you slip your index finger into a belt loop and draw him closer to you.

A sound leaves the back of his throat at your action and he refuses to meet your eyes. “Look at me,” you say, your free hand sliding up to hold his face. “You’re so cute.”

With those words you press your lips to his again and kiss him.

Heeseung’s hand make their way to your waist and he tugs your body as close to his as possible and he loses himself in the feeling you give him.

His blush hasn’t calmed down in the slightest, leaving his skin warm to the touch. Your hand moves from his cheek and goes back to his hair tugging at it lightly. The action makes him part from your lips and a desperate noise leaves him.

“Why’d you pull away?” he asks, already trying to resume kissing you.

You dodge him before asking a question of your own.“Do you want me to stop?”

“What?”

You pull at his belt loop that’s still held in your finger. “Pulling you in like this?”

“No.”

Heeseung doesn’t let you get another word in before his lips are back on you, and you smile into the kiss.

Your head is spinning with his scent. You truly didn’t expect him to react like this when he saw the bento box. One minute he was hugging you from behind littering your neck with sweet kisses of gratitude and the other you’re bent over the counter with Chan ramming into you from behind, thick enough to press every ridges inside you.

Your knees buckled a long time ago, now, the only thing holding you up was Chan’s hand wrapped tightly around your neck. “Fuck you feel so good. Exactly what I needed to start my day.” Your moans bounced off of the walls filling the room with the sweet symphony of you.

The wet slapping of your skin with his was damn near hypnotic. “Such a good girl making lunch for me this early. I’m gonna do you a favor and fuck you right back to sleep yeah?”

“Chris please” You don’t even know what begging for anymore. Your mind is too foggy to think and your body is numb with that beautiful pressure building deep inside of you. “You gonna cum for me pretty girl?” He knows you’re too far gone to answer but he still asks you anyway. And the way you’re pulsing around him already gave him his answer.

“That’s it beautiful, let go for me” Your eyes roll to the back of your head as pure serenity washes over you. Chan groans in response to you gripping him like a vice and his thrusts begin picking up in pace. “Channie I can’t!” You cry out.

You wake up with that heavy, sticky feeling of having slept way too little. The room is still dark, the blinds drawn almost all the way down, with only a thin sliver of light cutting through the edge and tracing a line across the floor.

You don't know what time it is, but you do know exactly what you're going to do first.

You reach out, fumbling around the nightstand until your hand finds your phone. The screen lights up, and the glare forces you to squint. You blink a couple of times, waiting for your eyes to adjust, and then you see it.

His name, right at the top of the screen.

A long notification.

Several messages.

It’s not unusual for him to text you while you’re asleep. What’s unusual is the sheer amount.

You swipe and open the chat. The scroll bar is tiny; he’s written a lot. You can already picture him: lying on the hotel bed, his hair still damp from the shower after the concert, the room in semi-darkness and the distant hum of the AC filling the silence. Exhaustion deep in his bones, but his mind way too awake to fall asleep.

You start reading.

We just got back to the hotel. The concert was incredible, but I can't stop thinking about how I wish you were here.

You feel a soft ache in your chest. Biting your lip, you lean your back against the headboard as you keep scrolling.

I miss you so much. I feel like it's been way too long since we've talked properly… it’s always quick texts, or voice notes when one of us is half-asleep…

You swallow hard. It’s true. Between your schedule and his, the calls have started to shrink: ten minutes before he leaves for rehearsal, a thirty-second voice note while you’re on your way to work, a "text you later" that sometimes arrives hours later, when one of you has already fallen asleep.

I know it’s because of the time difference and our jobs, but I can’t help feeling like I’m letting you down a little.

Your hand grips the phone a little tighter. You can perfectly picture his expression as he writes that: his brow slightly furrowed, staring blankly at some spot on the ceiling, carrying a guilt that doesn't belong to him, but that he shoulders anyway as if it were his own.

I’ll be there soon. Wait for me, please, okay?

You feel your stomach drop. He always tells you that. "Wait for me." And you do. You wait for him in calls, in messages, in silences. And you would do it a thousand times over. But reading it like this, in black and white, leaves you with a bitter sense of helplessness.

Sometimes I'm scared that this pace will eventually wear you out… that one day you’ll wake up and think it’s easier to be with someone who isn't always far away, busy, exhausted..

You close your eyes for a second.

It’s not the first time he’s talked about this fear. He’s confessed it more than once, in a low voice, almost ashamed, as if worrying about you were a flaw. But he had never written it so clearly. You had never read it this way, with so much weight in every word.

You take a slow breath, refocusing your gaze on the screen.

If you ever feel like you're getting tired of this, promise me you'll tell me. Maybe I can do something. I don't want you to suffer in silence just to avoid worrying me. I don't want things to grow cold between us. I don't want the distance to make you feel lonely.

Your own eyes begin to sting. Not because you’re tired, but because of the way he blames himself for things beyond his control: the schedules, the flights, the cities changing every week, the stages packed with people cheering while, inside, he wonders if you’re still there, on the other side of the screen, with the same strength as before.

You move your thumb again.

Sorry, I got emotional again… you know me. I love you. Way more than I know how to explain in texts.

Everything stops there.

The room is still silent, but inside your chest, something has started to shift. A strange warmth, a mix of tenderness, anger at the distance, and a determination you didn't have the night before.

You stay motionless for a moment, the screen illuminating your face, skimming back over the lines you’ve already read. Every phrase of his hits differently now. "I'm scared that this pace will eventually wear you out." "I don't want things to grow cold between us." "Wait for me, please."

You don’t want him to keep asking you to wait for him from the other side of the world, with you unable to do anything more than reply "I'm here."

You don’t want him going to sleep in unfamiliar hotels thinking that, at some point, you might get tired of this.

You take a deep breath and, before you can stop yourself, your fingers are already moving. You exit the chat. You open the browser. You type in the name of the country he’s in right now, the name of the city of the last concert on the tour. Your pulse quickens a little when you see the list of dates, the posters, the image of him and the guys promoting the tour.

His next concert. His next city.

Your next vacation days, still unused.

You feel the idea plant itself in your mind with a firmness that borders on madness.

You could go.

You could ask for those days off.

You could buy the ticket.

You could be in that city, in that stadium, among that crowd.

It could be you he sees when he looks up toward the front row.

You swallow hard, feeling your heart begin to beat faster—this time not from sadness, but from a mix of vertigo and excitement that forces you to sit up properly, straightening your back, as if your own body needed to brace itself for what you are about to do.

You go back to his chat before you have time to second-guess yourself.

You reply to his messages, of course. You couldn't do anything else.

You read it one more time, that "I'm scared that this pace will eventually wear you out," before letting your thumbs drop onto the keyboard.

You take a second to organize what you want to say to him. You don't want to sound rushed, or spill everything that's stirring inside you without a filter. You want him to feel a little lighter when he reads it.

You start typing.

Good morning, love. I just woke up. I've already read all your messages.

You delete the period, then put it back. You let out a sigh, and keep going.

First of all: you are not letting me down in anything. Absolutely anything.

Pause. You reread it.

I know exactly what your pace is like, what your job is like, and it has never been a problem for me. Quite the opposite.

You feel something inside you click into place as you write it. It’s not just for him; it’s a reminder for yourself, too.

I’ve always known there would be crazy schedules, new cities every week, and endless rehearsals, and I still chose to be with you. I’m not getting tired of it. I promise. Yes, sometimes it’s hard. I miss you, a lot. I wish I could have you here every day, see you come home exhausted from the studio and make you a coffee, or fall asleep with you on the couch. But I wouldn’t change a single thing about what you’re experiencing right now.

A small smile escapes your lips as you picture him, his cap pulled down to his eyebrows, walking through the front door.

I am so proud of you, honey. Of everything you do, how hard you work, what you’ve achieved. I’m always going to be the first one to support you, even if that means that sometimes we have to settle for late-night voice notes.

You pause for a second, feeling the lump in your throat tighten just a little more.

And no, our relationship isn't growing cold. The distance hasn't changed how I feel about you. If anything, it’s only made me want to hug you tighter when I finally have you in front of me. If something ever weighs too heavily on me, I’ll tell you. I promise. I’m not going to leave in silence or pretend everything is okay if it isn't. But right now, the only things I’m feeling are that I miss you, and that I love you, so much.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you review what you’ve written and add, almost without thinking:

So stop thinking that I’m going to get tired of you, okay? There is no one else I’d rather be with, even if you are thousands of miles away. I love you. Get some rest if you can. When you wake up, send me a voice note, I want to hear your voice.

You reread everything one more time. You don't mention how much the distance hurts, because he already knows; you don't mention the emptiness in the bed, or the nights when you also find it hard to sleep. You've made it clear to him: yes, it’s hard. No, you’re not getting tired.

You hit send.

The messages shoot out, one after another. His last active status is still locked in the early hours of the morning. You know he must be fast asleep by now, exhausted after the concert, after writing all of that to you. You don’t expect an immediate reply.

You close the chat, but you keep the phone in your hands. The browser tab is still open in the background, with the tour dates shining like a persistent reminder.

This time, words aren't enough for you.

You scroll until you find the city he’s in right now. You recognize the name of the country, the photo of the stadium, the tour poster.

The concert is in just a few days.

Your vacation days are still untouched on the calendar.

Your pulse quickens as you open another app—the flights one. You type in the departure city, the destination city. The numbers start appearing on the screen: times, layovers, prices.

It’s a reasonable madness, you tell yourself. It’s not impossible. You’d have to adjust a couple of things, request the days off right now, organize everything very quickly. But it can be done.

You imagine his face when he sees you in the front row.

You imagine the exact moment his eyes scan the audience, pause, and recognize you.

The thought pulls a smile from you that you didn't know you needed.

Before you keep looking at flights, you know you need someone on his side of the world. Someone you can trust. Someone who can help you make sure all of this doesn't turn into a logistical disaster.

You know exactly who to text.

You look for his name among your pinned chats and open the conversation.

“Felix 🐣”.

Your fingers fly across the keyboard.

Lixie, are you awake?

The double checkmark appears almost immediately. “Online.” It doesn’t surprise you; his schedule is just as chaotic as Chan’s. The ellipsis indicates he is typing.

Yesss, I can't sleep haha. Is everything okay?

You take a deep breath. This is the delicate part.

Everything's okay, I promise. I just need to ask you for a very, very big favor. And don't say ANYTHING to Chan.

He takes a little longer to reply this time.

Okay now you're actually scaring me 😭 are you really okay?

You can't help but laugh a little.

Really, I'm okay. It's about him, but in a good way. I want to surprise him.

The reply comes almost instantly.

Omg WHAT KIND OF SURPRISE

You stare at the screen for a second, hesitating. Once you put it in writing, it will be real.

I want to go see him at the next concert. To your country, to the city of the concert. I don't want anyone to find out, just you and the manager, in case you need help.

You know you’re heading straight into chaos: curious members, a tour in progress, impossible schedules. But if anyone can get as excited about the idea as you, it’s Felix.

He takes a moment to reply. You wonder if he’s jumped out of bed, if he’s gone to knock on someone’s door, if he’s just processing what you’ve just told him.

Finally, the message appears.

NO. WAY. WAIT You, here. At the concert. For real for real?

You smile, biting your lip.

For real for real. I have accumulated vacation days, I can request those days off. But I need your help to organize it. And make sure nobody lets it slip, you know how you guys are 😅

The ellipsis appears again.

HAHAHA ok, you're right, better if everyone doesn't find out. If I tell Hyunjin, he'll let it slip during a live by accident. Or Seungmin will accidentally spill it in front of Chan.

You laugh quietly to yourself. You can picture it perfectly.

So… will you help me?

Not even a second passes without a reply.

Of course I will 😤 I'm going to text the manager right now. I'm going to tell him that we NEED you to come.

You rush to slow him down a bit.

Wait hahaha tell him I want to talk to him first, I want to explain the plan to him.

Ok ok ok, chill Send me the exact dates you can come and I'll get you the ticket. VIP, obviously. Chan won't find out a thing, I swear.

You feel the adrenaline rush. This is no longer just an idea in your head. Now there is someone else involved, someone on the other side of the world, moving along with you.

You open the flight app again, take quick screenshots of the schedules that work best for you, and send them to him.

These are the options I have. I can arrive the day before the concert or the same day in the morning.

The day before That way you can restttt and you don't pass out on me in the middle of the concert 😂 I'm going to show this to the manager.

You feel a sweet, strange weight settling in your chest: complicity.

And the ticket… don't buy anything yet. Let us handle that. We'll get you a VIP pass so you can come backstage afterwards.

Your heart leaps.

Backstage.

After the concert.

The hug you’ve been practicing in your head for months.

You stare at the screen for a moment, the open chats, the tabs with flights and dates. All the exhaustion you woke up with seems to have transformed into a nervous energy that you don’t quite know where to put.

You type one last time.

Thank you, Lix. Really.

The reply comes quickly.

Don't thank me yet. Thank me when I see Chan's face when he sees you in the front row 😉

You cover your mouth with your hand, as if you could hold back your smile that way.

You look at the chat with Chan one more time. His last messages are still there, heavy with fear and love in equal measure.

"I’ll be there soon. Please wait for me, okay?"

You look down at the flight screenshots.

At the concert dates.

At the chat with Felix, where the word “VIP” shines like a beacon.

For the first time in a long while, you’re not just going to wait for him from a distance.

This time, you are going to him.

The rest of the day passes strangely, with the feeling of living two lives at the same time.

In one, you go about your normal routine: you eat breakfast, reply to emails, check your to-do list at work.

In the other, every free second you get, you reopen the chat with Felix, review the flight screenshots, and mentally repeat the concert dates.

By mid-afternoon, the message you’ve been waiting for finally arrives.

From: "Felix 🐣".

I talked to the manager 😳 He says that if you want, he can do a video call with you in a little bit. Does an hour from now work for you?

Your heart races.

This is becoming too real to back out now.

Yes, I’m free at that time. Tell him to let me know how: WhatsApp, Zoom, whatever works best for him.

Felix doesn't take long to reply.

He's adding you. Don't freak out if you see a weird number hahaha

Almost instantly, a notification pops up: a new contact has messaged you.

Hello, I’m the boys’ manager. I’m 'Minho hyung' in Felix’s phone, I guess 😂 Does a video call in 10-15 minutes work for you?

You take a deep breath before replying.

Yes, that works perfectly for me. Thank you for taking the time.

You get up from your chair, tidy up the living room a bit almost out of habit, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You know it’s not a job interview or anything like that, but you still want to look somewhat presentable. It’s not every day you get to talk to the person who manages Chan’s life down to the exact minute.

Your phone vibrates.

Incoming call: Video call.

You settle in and accept.

It takes a few seconds for the image to stabilize: a bright room, bookshelves, a desk. He appears on screen with a polite, slightly tired smile, wearing glasses and with headphones hanging around his neck.

"Hello," he says. "Can you hear me alright?"

"Yes, perfectly," you reply, noticing your voice is a little higher than usual due to nerves. "Nice to meet you… and sorry for the trouble."

He shakes his head, still smiling.

"No trouble at all. Felix told me about your idea. It sounded… very Chan," he adds, a playful glint in his eyes. "Tell me in your own words so we can get it all straight."

You swallow hard, nodding.

"I want to go see him at the concert," you begin. "I know you’re in the middle of the tour and the schedules are crazy, but I have a few days off that I can use. I was planning to travel to the city you're in and…" you pause, searching for the clearest way to put it, "and be in the front row, without him knowing anything. Felix told me you might be able to help me with the ticket and backstage access, if possible."

The manager nods slowly as you speak, as if piecing it all together.

"And Chan knows absolutely nothing?" he asks.

"Nothing," you confirm. "Only Felix, and now you. I’d prefer it if no one else found out, just in case it slips out by accident."

His smile widens a bit, as if he knows exactly what you’re talking about.

"Good call. They’re good boys, but when they get excited..." he laughs. "The fewer people who know, the better."

You relax a little, seeing him so calm, almost like an accomplice.

"Logistically speaking," he continues, "there’s no problem with you coming. In fact, I think it’s a very good idea… for him," he emphasizes. "He could use a little bit of 'home' in the middle of the tour."

The word pricks you softly, right where your chest is most sensitive.

"Thank you," you murmur.

"The only thing we have to watch out for is not interfering with work," he explains. "On the day of the concert, Chan will be busy from quite early on: rehearsal, soundcheck, warm-up, and so on. But if you come the day before, Felix can pick you up from your hotel and take you to the venue so you can look around a bit without any stress. On the day of the concert, we’ll give you a VIP pass and your front-row ticket. After the show, we’ll bring you backstage as soon as we finish up with production."

You nod, trying to process all the information.

"I can take care of the flight and the hotel," you clarify. "I just need you to… help me get in and make sure he doesn't find out ahead of time."

"Consider it done," he replies seriously, but with warmth. "I’ll send you the details I need through here: your full name for the pass, passport if necessary, and I’ll let you know which stadium gate you need to go to on the day of the concert. Someone from the staff who already knows who you are will be waiting for you there."

You feel a shiver of vertigo run down your spine. This is real. There is a plan. There is an itinerary.

"One more thing," the manager adds. "If for any reason there are schedule changes, delays, or anything at all with your flight, message me directly. It’s better not to use the boys as middlemen, just in case one of them is with Chan at that moment."

"Alright," you reply. "I understand."

There is a brief silence. He looks at you with a mix of professionalism and something softer, something that isn't just about work.

"It’s very obvious when he misses you," he says suddenly, without too much solemnity. "He doesn't say it out loud, but you can tell."

Your throat tightens a bit.

"I miss him a lot too," you admit.

"Then let's make this concert count for several," he states. "I’ll handle my part, you handle yours. And Felix… well, Felix will handle trying not to laugh too much in Chan’s face before the show."

You can’t help but laugh too.

"Thank you, truly," you repeat. "For helping me with this."

He nods.

"Thank you for coming. It’ll do him good. You’ll see. I’ll text you in a little bit with all the details."

The call ends, and the screen goes back to the main menu. You sit still for a moment, phone in hand, staring at your own faint reflection in the dark glass.

You are going.

You are going to be there.

It’s no longer just a pretty idea before going to sleep.

The following days pass at a strange pace: slow in the daily routine, fast in the preparations.

You request your days off at work with a simple excuse: you need to disconnect for a few days. You’ve given it your all over the last few months, so no one objects. Your boss nods and wishes you a good rest. There's no need to go into details.

You buy the flight. The confirmation arrives in your email: date, time, seat. You read and reread the information until you’ve practically memorized it.

You book a hotel not too far from the stadium—discreet, no luxuries, but good enough.

You make lists: things to pack, documents, clothes. And on a separate, mental list, the things you want to say to him when he’s finally standing in front of you.

He keeps texting you every day, completely clueless.

He sends you blurry photos of dressing rooms, short videos of the places they visit, and late-night voice notes with his tired voice telling you anecdotes from the tour. You reply just like you always do: you listen, you laugh, you encourage him, you ask how he’s feeling. You guard the secret with care.

There are moments when you're on the verge of letting something slip. A "it won't be long now" that almost turns into "it won't be long until you see me." A "wish I were there" that you almost type as "wish I were there… just like I will be."

You hold yourself back.

You want him to find out on his own.

The night before the trip, you find it hard to sleep. The suitcase is zipped up next to the door, your passport is ready on the table, and your phone is charging beside the bed. You toss and turn between the sheets, mentally reviewing everything: flight schedule, arrival time, the manager’s instructions, the meeting point with the staff.

The airport.

The check-in line.

People with suitcases, families, couples, business suits.

You move forward with your electronic ticket in hand, more aware than ever of the weight of your backpack and the constant fluttering in your stomach.

You go through security, taking your belt off and putting it back on, taking your laptop out and packing it away. It’s routine, almost automatic, but every single step brings you closer to him.

While you’re waiting at the boarding gate, a text from him arrives.

Good morning ❤️ We’re leaving for the venue in a little bit, long day ahead today.

You check the time. It’s already noon over there. He’s heading to the stadium. You’re heading to his country.

Good morning, love I have a long day ahead today too, but I’ll try to listen to your voice notes whenever I can. Don't push yourself too hard.

You aren’t lying. It will be a long day. You’re just omitting a few details.

I promise to send you a picture of the dressing room 🙈

You smile to yourself, sitting in the row of plastic seats at the terminal.

You look up when your flight is announced over the loudspeaker. You stand up, take a deep breath, and join the line.

As you step onto the plane, something inside you settles. You can’t back out anymore. It’s no longer a matter of deciding whether to do it or not. All that’s left is to follow the plan.

You take your seat by the window. As the plane taxis down the runway, you look at the gray sky, the wings vibrating slightly. You think of him, maybe at that exact moment getting into a van on his way to the venue, hood up, headphones on.

You close your eyes just as the plane takes off. You imagine the two of you moving across different maps, slowly drawing closer to a common point.

Hours later, when you finally land, the announcement in another language and the jolt of the landing gear shake you out of a light doze.

The air in the airport is different: it smells of heavy air conditioning, vending machine coffee, and people speaking in a language you only half-recognize. Everything feels a little surreal.

You pick up your suitcase, follow the signs, and walk out into the public area. Your phone vibrates with an avalanche of notifications: network changes, spam messages, emails. Among all of them, you see one that matters.

From the manager.

Did you arrive safely? If everything is going according to plan, today you just need to go to the hotel and rest. Tomorrow at 15:00, someone from the staff will pick you up at the side entrance of the stadium (location attached). Felix will be with them.

You reply quickly.

Yes, I just landed. Thank you for everything. I’ll be there tomorrow.

He sends you a thumbs-up and a message: "Don’t text any of the boys anything weird today 😅 Chan is paying closer attention to his phone than you think."

That coaxes a nervous laugh out of you. You put your phone away, look up, and walk out of the airport. A blast of hot air hits you right in the face. It smells like a new city, like asphalt, like life.

You catch a taxi to the hotel. The city flashes past the window: signs, pedestrians, traffic lights you don’t recognize. Everything is unfamiliar, and yet, it feels like the exact place you are supposed to be.

The hotel is modest, functional. Check-in, key, elevator. You set your suitcase aside and lie on the bed for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, letting the exhaustion of the trip wash over you.

Your phone vibrates again.

A voice note from Chan.

You open it. His voice fills the room.

Hey… I know you must be busy, but I wanted to leave you this before today's chaos starts. I miss you so much. Last night I dreamed you were at the concert, and when I woke up, I almost laughed because of how real it felt. I wish… well, you know. I wish it could happen someday.

You bite your lip hard, feeling the tears well up without permission.

"Someday."

Tomorrow.

You hold your breath, letting the voice note play to the end.

Anyway, just that. I love you. I’m going to give it my all today, as always, but just a little bit more for you.

You cover your eyes with your forearm. The irony of his dream, of his "someday," squeezes your chest in a new way—both sweet and painful at the same time.

You reply with a short voice note, keeping your voice steady.

"I listened to your message…" you say. "I miss you so much too. Give it your all today, as always. I'm with you, you know that. I love you."

You cut it off before your emotion becomes too obvious.

You turn off the screen, roll over on the bed, and let the exhaustion of the trip, the excitement, and the nerves blend together until you drift off to sleep without even realizing it.

Tomorrow will be the day.

Tomorrow, he will look out at the crowd and see you.

And all the words you’ve shared through a screen will fall short compared to what it's going to feel like then.

The day of the concert dawns differently.

You can't really explain it, but even the silence of the hotel sounds strange. You are woken up by a mix of light filtering through the curtains and that persistent fluttering in your stomach. For a few seconds, you don’t remember where you are. You stare at the unfamiliar ceiling, the neutral walls, and then, all at once, it all hits you:

New country.

Concert.

Chan.

You sit up slowly. Your phone rests on the nightstand. You pick it up carefully, as if the simple gesture could arouse suspicion from thousands of miles away.

You have a text from him.

Good morning ❤️ Today is the big day. I'm a little nervous, but excited.

You swallow hard and type.

Good morning, love. You’re going to do amazing, as always. I’m with you, you know that.

Your thumb hesitates for a second before adding:

I’m going to be keeping a very close eye on you today.

You send the message. It’s not a lie. Just a different kind of half-truth.

You get up, take a shower, and choose your clothes with more care than you’d care to admit. Nothing over-the-top, nothing too flashy… but you want to feel good when he sees you. When he sees you.

In front of the mirror, you study yourself for a second. It's you, the same as always, but for the first time in a long time, you aren't just going to be "her" on the other side of the phone. You are going to be part of the crowd. Part of his landscape tonight.

Time passes slowly until the scheduled hour.

At 14:45, your phone vibrates.

From the manager.

The staff car will be at the hotel door in 10 minutes. White van, small tour logo on one side. Don't worry, they’ll recognize you.

You sling your small backpack over your shoulder and check for the fifth time that you have the ticket on your phone, your passport in its case, and your phone fully charged. You go down in the elevator with your heart beating a rhythm against your ribs.

The van is right there, exactly as described. A staff member rolls down the window and calls you by your name. You nod, introduce yourself, and he opens the side door for you.

"Nice to meet you," he says kindly. "Felix is already at the stadium. He’s really looking forward to seeing you."

That sentence coaxes a nervous smile out of you.

The ride to the venue feels surreal. Through the window, the city stretches out in buildings, billboards, and crosswalks. And suddenly, as you turn a corner, you see it.

The stadium.

Bigger than you had imagined, with the tour banners hanging from the facades, the logo, and giant photos of the boys staring down at you from the walls. Several rows of metal barricades are already starting to organize the crowd, even though it’s still hours before doors open.

Your chest tightens.

You’re entering through a different way.

The van drives around the stadium to a less conspicuous side entrance, guarded by security. The staff member shows his pass and says something in his language. The barrier lifts.

When you step out, the air smells of cables, metal, and a distant scent of generator exhaust. There are trucks packed with gear, flight cases, and people moving around with walkie-talkies and clipboards in hand.

Before you can feel completely out of place, you hear someone call your name.

"Noona!"

You turn around just in time to see Felix running toward you, wearing a cap, his mask pulled down to his chin, and a smile so wide it practically takes up his entire face.

You don’t even have time to say anything before he hugs you tightly, lifting you a little off the ground.

"I can’t believe you’re actually here, seriously," he laughs, letting you go but holding you by the shoulders to get a good look at you. "You are really here."

You laugh too, your nerves easing up a bit just from his presence.

"I can’t believe it either," you confess. "This place is huge…"

Felix looks around, proud.

"Yeah, it’s impressive, isn’t it?" he says. "Come on, I’ll show you around a bit, but without letting anyone 'dangerous' see you."

"'Dangerous'?" you ask, amused.

"You know," he lowers his voice, giving you a knowing look. "Anyone who might run into Chan and leak that you’re here. Better keep the surprise factor at a maximum."

He guides you through corridors packed with sound equipment, stacked lights, and people working. At times, it feels like being inside an organized anthill.

You pass near the stage access. From there, you can see part of the still-empty stands and a few technicians testing spotlights. The distant rumble of a drum kit echoing away signals that soundcheck is going to start soon.

"Chan is inside, backstage," Felix says, pointing toward a hallway that turns to the right. "We’re not going that way, don't worry. The manager has him tied up with interviews and stuff."

He gestures for you to follow him in the opposite direction.

"I'm going to show you where you’re going to be," he adds. "So you can get an idea."

You walk out through a tunnel that leads directly to one of the front areas of the stadium. It’s not the entrance the crowd will use later; you are slightly elevated, looking straight at the stage.

The empty venue is breathtaking. The stands curve around like a gigantic amphitheater, the unlit ceiling lights look like sleeping stars, and the stage… the stage is a black monster, still dormant, with screens, runways, and cables waiting to wake up.

"Wow…" you whisper without realizing it.

Felix smiles beside you.

"Tonight, all of this is going to be packed," he says. "And you are going to be…" He leans in, pointing right in front of the stage, where the barricade separating the crowd from the security pit stands out. "Right there. Front row. Right in the center."

Your heart leaps so hard it almost makes you dizzy.

"That close?" you ask, your voice a little higher than usual.

"That close," he confirms. "Chan is going to lose his mind."

You laugh, imagining it.

Suddenly, a few chords ring out from the speakers. A recognizable guitar rift, a familiar beat. They’re starting to test things out.

Felix turns to you, his eyes shining.

"Do you want to watch a little bit of the soundcheck from up here? You can’t really be seen from the stage, it’s still pretty dark out there. It’s safe."

You hesitate for a second, but curiosity and longing win you over.

"Yes," you nod, almost in a whisper.

You both lean against the railing. From that angle, you watch them start walking onto the stage, one after another, in their rehearsal clothes—comfortable, with no perfect makeup or spotlights on them. Technicians adjust microphones, and someone gestures from the soundboard.

And then, you see him.

Chan.

Cap, oversized hoodie, water bottle in hand. He walks toward the center of the stage, looks around, and claps a couple of times as if testing the echo, saying something to the technician that you can’t quite catch from up there.

Your breath catches for a second.

He is right there.

Just a few yards away.

And you… you are seeing him live for the first time in months.

He laughs at something someone says in the wings, puts in his in-ear monitor, and adjusts his microphone. When he starts singing a few test lines, his voice filling the empty stadium pierces through you in a way no phone call ever could.

Felix looks at you out of the corner of his eye, in silence, as if respecting the moment. You feel the emotion welling up in your eyes, but you blink quickly, fighting it back.

“I’m not going to cry now,” you tell yourself. “I’ll save that for later.”

After a while, the manager discreetly appears from behind and motions to Felix. He nods.

"We have to go now," he whispers to you. "I don’t want to risk Chan looking up toward here."

It’s hard to tear your eyes away from him, but you obey. You turn your back on the stage with your heart racing wildly. As you head back inside the stadium, you can still hear his voice in the background, laughing between songs.

They take you back to the backstage area, but to a more secluded hallway with a few small rooms. One of them is empty; the staff tells you that you can wait there until it’s time to open the doors for the public. Felix stays with you a little longer.

"Are you okay?" he asks, sitting on the plastic chair across from you.

You nod, still processing everything.

"It’s… a lot," you admit. "I’ve spent months only seeing him through a screen, and now he’s right there, on the other side of a wall."

Felix smiles understandingly.

"And he still has no idea," he says. "It’s going to be so intense when he sees you."

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Remember: when the doors open, you go in just like any other fan," he explains. "The staff members we spoke with will guide you to your spot, but Chan won’t suspect a thing because we don’t go near the front row right as the concert starts."

"Okay," you reply, memorizing every detail.

"You’ll have your regular ticket and your pass. You show the ticket to get onto the floor, and we’ll use the pass after the show ends to bring you backstage. Don’t show it to anyone beforehand unless they are staff, okay?"

"Understood."

He looks at you for a second in silence, then laughs softly.

"Of all the crazy plans I’ve heard, this is one of my favorites," he comments. "Seriously."

That relaxes you a bit.

After a while, he has to leave. The schedule is tight, rehearsals continue, and the pre-concert routines begin.

You are left alone in that small room, with a table, two chairs, and your own nerves. You check the clock. There are still hours before it starts, but time seems to have compressed into a sort of electric wait.

At a certain hour, one of the staff members knocks on the door.

"It’s time," he says kindly. "We’re going to open the doors in a few minutes. Come on, I’ll walk you out."

He hands you an envelope with your printed ticket and, inside, a laminated pass with your name on it. You tuck it away carefully, as if it were a treasure.

You head back to the internal tunnels, but this time you take a different exit, closer to the regular entrances. Through a few gaps, you see the lines and hear the growing murmur of excited crowds, laughter, and screams. The atmosphere has changed completely: the stadium that was dead before is now beginning to burst with life.

The staff member points out where to go in. When you cross the checkpoint with your ticket, you blend in, for the first time, with the rest of the crowd.

It’s strange. You are there, surrounded by fans with signs, lightsticks, and tour t-shirts. Some are talking excitedly in different languages, others are staring at the stage with shining eyes. You feel like one of them, and at the same time… you don’t.

The same staff member who came with you discreetly guides you toward the center section. You walk along the side of the floor, through groups of people who are already running to find a spot.

"Through here," he tells you, opening a small gap in the inner barricade. "This is your spot. Stay here and don’t worry about anything else."

You take your place right behind the security barricade, in the exact center of the stage. So close that you could almost count the screws on the edge of the platform.

"Thank you," you tell him, your voice a bit shaky.

He nods and walks away, blending back in with the staff.

Little by side, the floor fills up around you. You feel the warmth of the crowd starting to press against your skin, and the murmur rising until it becomes a constant noise of pent-up excitement. Lights, screens playing pre-show videos, background music.

You pull out your phone. You have a text from Chan.

Just finished soundcheck 🥵 The stadium is huge… I'm a little scared haha. Will you be awake by the time we start? I just want to think that you're with me somehow.

You are. Much more than he imagines.

Of course I’ll be with you. Always.

You put your phone away. You don’t want to risk your screen giving anything away at any point. Besides, from now on, your eyes are going to be fixed on one single spot.

The lights dim a bit. The cheering swells like a tidal wave. The screens light up, projecting the tour logo and an introductory video. You feel the goosebumps rising on your arms.

And then, all at once, the lights go out almost completely.

Darkness.

Screams.

The roar of the crowd filling every single corner.

The first chords ring out. The screens explode with light. Shadows appear on stage, rising up on lifts, taking their positions.

Your heart is beating so hard you think the security guard in front of you might hear it.

When the main spotlights flash on all at once, they are there.

All of them.

You’ve seen them hundreds of times in concerts, fancams, official recordings. But nothing has prepared you to see them like this—so close, so real, moving, jumping, smiling, filling the stage with a brutal energy.

Among all of them, your eyes search for one.

Chan.

You find him almost instantly. Your body knows where to look before your head does. He is in his position, right in the center, the jacket of his first outfit glittering under the spotlights, microphone in hand, his gaze sweeping over the ocean of people screaming his name.

They start the first song. They dance, they sing, the crowd around you moving in unison. You try to keep up, but your awareness is split between the madness of the show and the simple existence of him just a few yards away.

During the first few songs, he doesn’t see you.

He has too much on his plate: millimeter-perfect choreography, lyrics, interacting with cameras, formation changes. Still, at times, when he gets close to the front of the stage, your heart races, convinced that this will be the moment.

It isn’t.

Not yet.

During a short breather between songs, he catches his breath, smiles at the crowd, and speaks in the local language with some effort, saying phrases he’s probably been rehearsing for days. The crowd screams, laughs, and replies to him. Then he switches to a language you understand better, thanking everyone, saying how happy he is to be there.

"Seriously…" you hear him say, "you have no idea how much it means to us to see you here. Every city, every stadium… reminds us why we do this."

His words hit you differently, because you also know exactly what you are doing here.

The concert moves forward. The adrenaline never drops. You sing along to the choruses, let yourself go during the most powerful moments, and jump when everyone else jumps. At times, you almost forget the plan and are just another fan, completely lost in the show.

Until that song comes on.

The one you know matters so much to him. The one he has hummed with you over the phone more than once, his voice soft, late into the night. The one where the tempo slows down, the lights soften, and the atmosphere is dyed with something deeper and more intimate.

The boys take different positions. The stage darkens except for a few warm spotlights. Chan walks toward the edge of the center runway, heading right in your direction, a mic stand in front of him.

Your throat goes dry.

He begins to sing. His voice, more stripped-back now, floats over the low murmur of the crowd singing along. He closes his eyes at times, gripping the mic stand with one hand, as if he needed to hold onto something.

And then, during one of those breaths between verses, he opens his eyes and looks straight ahead.

He looks your way.

He doesn't see you yet, you tell yourself. He's just taking in the crowd. There are hundreds of faces, banners, and lights. His gaze moves from side to side, capturing the moment.

He keeps singing.

He takes another step forward, right at the part of the song where his voice cracks just a tiny bit, even though he's rehearsed it a thousand times.

And there, mid-step, his eyes stumble upon you.

It’s just a second.

A second where his brow furrows ever so slightly, as if his brain had recognized something that the rest of him hasn't caught up with yet. His eyes lock in. His body remains on autopilot with the song, but his face changes.

The spotlight doesn't move, but it feels like the world does.

You see, with absolute clarity, the exact moment he understands what he is looking at.

His eyes widen a bit.

His mouth parts slightly, taking in a breath that the mic catches as a faint, almost inaudible gasp.

For a fraction of a second, the note he was singing trembles.

Instinctively, you raise your hand. You don't make any grand gesture—you just give him a small, restrained wave, with a smile that feels like it’s going to break your face.

He blinks once. Twice.

A smile spreads across his face—slow, incredibly genuine, and completely different from any of the ones he’s been giving the crowd all this time. It’s softer, more open, almost incredulous.

He doesn't stop singing. He can't. He's a professional; he's in the middle of a show. But his eyes are no longer drifting aimlessly through the crowd. They are anchored to you.

You feel it physically, like a direct electric current.

When the verse ends and the spotlight shifts to another member for their part, Chan steps slightly away from the microphone, bringing a hand to his chest, laughing in disbelief at the floor.

From where you stand, you see him say something quickly into his in-ear monitor, as if he needed confirmation that he isn't hallucinating. He licks his lips, looks out at the crowd… and looks right back at you, just for a second, as if to make sure you haven't disappeared.

You haven't.

You're still there.

So is he.

And, for the first time in many months, you have each other right there. In the flesh. In the middle of a packed concert, with thousands of eyes watching, but with a silent current that belongs only to the two of you, pulsing between the stage and the front row.

There, in that locked gaze, you know that the entire journey, all the flight hours, all the nerves, have been completely worth it.

For a brief moment, the stadium ceases to exist.

There is only his eyes and yours, connected by an invisible line cutting through spotlights, smoke, and noise.

But he is who he is. And he's right where he's supposed to be.

As soon as the song transitions to another member, you see Chan blink rapidly, take a deep breath, and pull himself back together, almost as if he were splashing cold water over his face.

He looks back out at the rest of the crowd, opens his arms, and encourages everyone to sing along to the chorus. The professional leader takes the reins again.

From the outside, to anyone who isn't you, it was just another moment in the show.

To you, it wasn't.

From that point on, you notice everything shifts.

Now that he knows you are there, every time he approaches the center of the stage, you feel his attention like a silent spotlight aimed in your direction… but with extreme caution.

He can’t look at you too much.

He can’t just stop right in front of you for no reason.

He can’t give you anything he wouldn't give to any other person in that front row.

So, he plays right on the edge.

He moves from one side of the stage to the other, handing out smiles, waves, and winks. When he passes through your section, he raises his hand toward the crowd around you, as if cheering on that whole area in general. But you see—because you know him—the millimeter of difference: the way his eyes brush against yours a second longer than everyone else's, the way his smile subtly softens when he is standing right across from you.

During one of the high-energy songs, he crouches at the edge of the stage to hype up the crowd, pointing to different spots on the floor. At one point, he gestures vaguely toward the center, toward your group, with that "I see you, thanks for coming" expression. The people around you scream and respond. You do too.

Only you notice that, right before standing back up, his eyes catch yours again and soften—quick, fleeting. A blink, nothing more.

Halfway through the concert, during the member introductions and their crowd interactions, Chan does his part just like always: jokes, thank-yous, words in the local language. At one point, he places his hand over his heart and says something like:

"Honestly, I was feeling a bit tired these past few days… but seeing you all here today has given me so much strength."

The stadium roars.

You do too.

He smiles. And even though he directs it at everyone, you know that, deep down, he is sending it to you too.

There are small, almost imperceptible gestures that only you can decipher: the way he bites the corner of his lip right before coming back over to your side of the stage; the way, during a choreography, as he turns to face the front, his eyes search for that exact spot on the barricade where you are standing.

But he never stays too long.

He never does anything that could arouse clear suspicion.

It’s a constant balance between "I’ve seen you" and "I can't look at you too much."

During a slower song, he walks relatively close, and the crowd in your section raises their hands to form small hearts. You do the same, just to blend in. His eyes scan all those hands, laughing, returning a few hearts to different spots.

When his gaze passes over you, for a fleeting instant, he lowers his chin slightly, as if the heart you’re making with your hands held a different kind of weight for him. He doesn't return the gesture directly—it would be too obvious—but he brings his hand to his chest for a second just as he passes by, as if keeping the beat… or as if he needed to hold something in.

No one else seems to notice.

You do.

And so, song after song, you keep weaving that second layer of the concert: the show everyone else sees, and the invisible thread that only the two of you are following.

Time flies, and yet, it feels heavy. When they announce the final song, the entire stadium erupts. The boys line up, waving, giving their thanks a thousand times over.

Chan speaks at the end, as always, with that mix of a professional leader and a guy who gets emotional easily. He talks about the tour, about how grateful he is, about how hard it’s been, and how much strength it gave him to see people filling every single venue.

And at one point, he adds, looking straight ahead without locking eyes on any specific spot:

"There are things… that you sometimes miss so much when you’re far from home. People, moments…" He laughs, downplaying it. "But today, I feel a little bit closer to everything I love."

The crowd screams, completely unaware of what he actually means.

You feel those words pierce right through you.

The final song ends. There is confetti, jumping, goodbyes. They walk across the stage, waving to every section, bowing, blowing kisses. When Chan passes through the center, near you, he raises both arms in the air, spinning around to take in the whole crowd.

During that turn, as he passes right in front of you, his lips move in a "thank you" that seems general… but his eyes, once again, lock onto yours for a second longer.

And then he’s gone, running with the others toward the backstage area, behind the curtain of lights.

The concert is over.

The crowd around you keeps screaming, talking, taking photos of the empty stage, and recording the final seconds. You stand still, hands resting on the barricade, feeling the echo of the music still vibrating in your chest.

He didn't come any closer. He didn't do anything that could jeopardize either of you. But he saw you. You know it. And he knows you’re here.

Now comes the second part.

The part where there will be no spotlights, no cameras, no thousands of eyes.

Just him and you.

You force yourself to take a deep breath, clear your throat, and move. The crowd is beginning to disperse. A staff member approaches from the inner side of the barricade, searching for you with his eyes. Upon recognizing you, he gives an almost imperceptible nod.

"This way," he murmurs, making a discreet gesture for you to follow.

You exit through the side, blending in just enough with the crowd as you slip through a small, discreet doorway. No one pays much attention; everyone is too busy checking videos, talking, trying to prolong the moment.

The moment you cross the threshold, the noise muffles. You leave the roar of the stadium behind and step into a concrete hallway with white fluorescent lights, stacked cases, and staff members bustling back and forth.

The same staff member guides you without saying much, just ensuring you keep up. Your heart, however, knows nothing of discretion: it’s beating so hard it’s difficult to swallow.

You reach a door where other staff members stand with headsets and clipboards. One of them looks at you, checks your pass, and nods, cracking the door open just a bit.

"Wait here a second," the one who accompanied you says. "I’m going to let the manager know."

You nod, even though your legs feel like jelly.

The door closes in front of you. You are left in a small hallway, alone, listening to the muffled sounds from the other side: voices, footsteps, something metallic clanging against the floor.

A few seconds pass, or maybe minutes—you can no longer measure time—until the door opens again.

The manager appears, a bit flushed, carrying that post-concert mix of exhaustion and adrenaline. He smiles upon seeing you.

"You made it here safely," he says, almost as if it were a given.

You nod, gripping the strap of your backpack tighter than necessary.

"Yes… It was incredible," you manage to say.

He looks at you, reading something on your face, and his smile softens.

"He’s in the dressing room, changing," he explains. "He already knows there is 'someone' special waiting for him, but we didn’t tell him who. Just told him not to run."

That coaxes a nervous laugh out of you.

"Ready?" he asks.

You aren’t. But you nod.

"Yes."

The manager steps back, opens the door all the way, and holds it, clearing the path for you.

"It’s the third door on the left," he indicates. "I’ll hang around here. Take your time."

Your throat goes dry.

You take the first step.

The hallway smells of deodorant, damp fabric, cologne, and something sweet you can’t quite identify. There are doors with makeshift signs, muffled laughter trailing from behind some of them. You pass a couple of staff members carrying clothes, boxes, and towels. None of them pay you much attention; they seem to know exactly who you are and what you’re doing there.

You reach the third door. The sign bears the boys' names, not just his. You knock with your knuckles, once, softly.

Silence.

You knock again.

You hear a slight noise inside, a movement. Then, a voice.

"Yes?"

It’s him.

Without a microphone, without an echo, without anything.

Your chest tightens.

"It's me…" you say, noticing your voice break just a little on the last syllable.

There is a second of absolute silence.

Then, quick footsteps toward the door, the sound of the handle turning.

The door swings open.

The first thing you see is his face. Messy hair, his skin still slightly flushed from the exertion, his neck damp as if he’d taken a quick shower, wearing a clean change of t-shirt. His eyes are wide open.

For half a second, it feels like time goes blank.

He looks at you as if he can’t quite believe it. As if he were still on stage, dreaming that dream he told you about in the audio. His lips move, but nothing comes out.

And then, all at once, he reacts.

"Is it really you…?" he whispers, his voice almost gone.

You don’t even get to answer.

In two strides he is all over you, his hands finding your shoulders, your waist, as if he physically needed to confirm you aren't an illusion before holding you. And he does.

He wraps his entire body around you. It’s not a pretty embrace for a photo; it’s clumsy, desperate, tight. He presses you against him as if the space between you were something he had to eliminate completely, right here, right now.

He buries his face in your neck. Your nose is nestled into his shoulder, smelling of soap, recent sweat, and just him.

You feel him take a deep breath, as if wanting to fill his lungs with you. You feel a slight tremor in his hands, in his chest.

"You're here…" he murmurs against your skin, his voice broken. "You're really here."

You let it all go. Your arms, your knees, your throat—everything goes weak. You return the hug with the same intensity, digging your fingers into the fabric of his t-shirt, clinging to him as if you also needed to prove he is real.

"I’m here," you answer in a whisper. "Chan, I’m here."

You don’t know how long you stay like that. It could be seconds or minutes. He doesn’t seem to have any intention of letting go, and neither do you.

At some point, he pulls his face back just enough to look at you. His hands remain on your waist, his eyes scanning your face as if he were looking at something he’s been remembering by heart for months, yet still feared he might have forgotten a single detail.

"When…? How…?" he asks, between a nervous laugh and a suppressed sob. "How long have you been here?"

Your eyes well up with tears seeing him like this, so completely defenseless.

"I just got here yesterday," you reply. "I spoke with Felix… and the manager. We organized everything so it would be a surprise."

He shakes his head, almost in disbelief, a shaky smile curving his lips.

"Felix…" he murmurs, as if promising to lovingly get his revenge later. "I can’t believe it."

His hands move up to your face, framing it gently, as if you were something fragile. With his thumbs, he wipes away a tear you didn’t even realize had fallen.

"I saw you in the crowd…" he confesses, his voice low, still raspy from the concert. "I thought I was hallucinating. I kept saying, 'it can’t be, it can’t be, it can’t be.' And then you were still there and… I almost forgot the lyrics."

You laugh through your tears.

"You did so well," you say. "I tried not to draw attention to myself."

He laughs too, his laugh cracking.

"Do you know what it was like to sing knowing you were out there?" He shakes his head, clenching his jaw for a second. "I had so many things to tell you, such a strong urge to climb down from the stage and…"

He cuts himself off, as if the emotion were rising too fast.

You take a breath.

"I know," you whisper. "That’s why I wanted to come."

He looks at you intently, as if every word you speak is something he is going to keep forever.

"I read your messages, Chan," you continue. "The ones from that night. About how you were scared I’d get tired… that this would cool things down between us."

He lowers his gaze a bit, embarrassed, as if he’d just been caught in a moment of weakness.

"I’m sorry…" he begins.

You touch his chin with your fingers, forcing him to look at you again.

"Don’t be sorry," you say firmly. "You had every right to feel that way. And I had every right to show you that I’m not going anywhere."

He swallows hard, his eyes glistening.

"So that’s why you’re here…" he murmurs. "You made this whole trip, all alone, for…"

"For us," you correct him gently. "For you. I didn’t want you to keep believing for a single second that I was getting tired. I wanted you to see it."

He closes his eyes for a moment, as if your words hurt because of how good they felt.

When he opens them, there is a look of determination in his eyes. He leans in and rests his forehead against yours, very close, breathing your same air.

"I love you so much…" he whispers, almost without a voice. "You don’t know how much I’ve thought about you on this tour. How many times I wanted to do just this—hold you like this—and couldn't."

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

"Well, do it now," you reply. "We have time."

He laughs softly, a wet sound that is almost a sob.

"Don’t let go of me yet," he asks, childish and sincere.

"I wasn’t planning to," you say.

He stays there for a second simply absorbing you: the touch, the scent, the warmth. Then, all at once, he remembers the real world outside.

"I have to…" He looks to the side, as if he could see through the walls. "I have to wrap some things up with the manager, the usual post-concert stuff. But after that… after that, I don’t plan on leaving your side."

You see him struggle for a moment between duty and desire. Between the leader and the boy who just wants to stay wrapped up in here with you.

"Go," you encourage him gently. "I’ll be here. Or outside, wherever you say. I’m not going anywhere."

He nods, swallowing hard.

"I’m going to ask you one thing," he says with a half-smile. "Don’t disappear, okay? Don’t make me go through another concert thinking I dreamed you up."

You laugh and nod.

"I promise I won't."

He leans in and, this time, he kisses you.

It’s a kiss that tastes like everything you’ve put on hold: calls cut short by sleep, text messages that fell short, and "I miss yous" that couldn’t fit into words. It’s gentle at first, careful, as if he were afraid of breaking you, and then a bit firmer, more urgent, as if he wanted to reclaim months of distance in just a matter of seconds.

You hold onto his t-shirt, the back of his neck, the entirety of him, and for those moments the whole world shrinks down to this small dressing room, this closed door, and two people who finally have each other face-to-face.

When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours again, his breathing heavy.

"Okay…" he says, almost to himself. "Okay. I’m going to go with the manager, do everything I need to do, and then I’m coming back for you. Don’t move too far away."

"I’ll be wherever you tell me," you reply.

He gives you one last look—long and deep—one of those looks that seem to want to memorize you. Then he forces himself to take a step back, lets out his breath, and puts the professional mask back on… though he can't quite erase that shaky smile from his lips.

Before leaving, he turns around one more time.

"Thank you for coming," he says with a simplicity that almost breaks you. "You have no idea what this means to me."

"I think I do know," you reply. "Because it means the exact same thing to me."

He nods, as if surrendering to that shared truth, and walks out the door.

You stay in the dressing room, alone for a moment, surrounded by hanging clothes, water bottles, towels, and the leftover chaos of the concert. You sit on a couch, bury your face in your hands, and finally let everything wash over you: the trip, the concert, his gaze in the front row, his embrace, his voice so close, his "I love you" without any interference.

Outside, the backstage noise continues: footsteps, orders, muffled laughter. Inside, you can only think of one thing:

You crossed half the world to show him you weren't getting tired.

And, seeing his reaction, you know you couldn't have made a better choice.

As soon as he finishes with everything out there, time will start again.

But this time, together, in the same place.

You don’t know how much time passes before he comes back.

You stay in the dressing room, sitting on the edge of the couch, your skin still imprinted with the concert and with him. Every now and then, you hear footsteps in the hallway, familiar voices filtering through the door, tired laughter. The world goes on, but you are in a sort of bubble.

Your phone vibrates.

It’s a text from him.

The manager has kidnapped me for five minutes 😭 But don’t move, okay? I’m heading your way the second he lets me go.

You smile to yourself.

I’m in your dressing room. I’m not going anywhere.

It doesn’t take long before you hear those rushed footsteps in the hallway again. The door opens with much less caution this time. Chan walks in, his hair a bit drier, a clean t-shirt on, and a light jacket draped over his shoulders. The adrenaline from the concert is still lingering in his eyes, but now it's mixed with something else.

"I'm sorry," he says, nearly breathless. "I've been signing papers as if I were leaving the country."

He walks up to you and kisses your forehead, as if needing to make up for every single minute he hasn't been by your side.

"Do you know what I’ve been thinking?" he adds, looking at you from up close.

"What?" you ask, not pulling away.

"That I’m not letting you sleep in a different hotel," he says simply, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. "Call the front desk and cancel yours. You’re coming with us."

Your eyes widen slightly.

"And… how are you going to explain a girl walking down to the same hotel with you?" you ask, half-joking, half-serious.

He has already thought it through.

"The manager already knows," he replies. "They’re going to give you a cap, a tour t-shirt, and a mask. Tonight, you’re part of the staff. No one is going to ask questions."

Your heart skips a beat.

"Are you sure?" you insist. "I don’t want to get anyone into trouble."

"I’m sure," he states without hesitation. "No one is going to suspect one extra person walking down with the whole crew. And I prefer that a thousand times over knowing you’re alone in another hotel when I could have you with me."

You don’t need much convincing.

You call your hotel, canceling the reservation with a quick excuse. After a little while, the manager appears at the door holding a bag.

"Here you go," he says, handing it to you. "If anyone asks, you’re part of the international support crew."

He gives Chan a knowing nudge on the arm.

"Don’t oversleep tomorrow, we’ve got another long day ahead," he teases before leaving.

Chan helps you slip the t-shirt over yours and adjust the cap. When you put on the mask, you look at yourself in the dressing room mirror and barely recognize yourself: you could easily be any of the staff members you’ve seen running back and forth for hours.

"It looks good on you," he says proudly. "You’re officially hired."

"I don’t plan on working for free," you reply, crossing your arms theatrically.

He laughs, steps up behind you, and wraps his arms around your waist.

"Your salary will be paid in hugs," he whispers against your ear. "And kisses. Lots of them."

You don’t complain about the deal.

Leaving the stadium with them is a surreal experience.

You are right in the middle of the group: members, staff, a few security guards. Everyone is exhausted, laughing, and talking about the show. You keep your cap low, your mask securely on, and your eyes down.

Felix winks at you from a few paces ahead. One of the guys makes a comment about "the new staff member" without looking too closely at you. The manager smooths it over with a simple excuse that no one questions. They are all far too drained to notice.

You get into the vans. You end up in Chan’s, but in a seat a bit further back. He doesn’t turn around much; he doesn’t look at you more than necessary. He knows how to play this game. Every now and then, however, you catch the reflection of his smile in the window, and you know that, at some point, it’s because of you.

When you arrive at the hotel, the entrance is heavily controlled. A few fans are waiting in the distance, trying to snap blurry photos of silhouettes in hoodies and caps. The hotel staff rushes the process along. You enter almost in a single file line, with the crew leading the way.

No one pays any mind to one more person in a tour t-shirt and a mask.

You split up to go up in the elevators. You end up in one with several members and the manager. No one says anything out of the ordinary. Every so often, you catch Chan’s gaze reflected in the metal of the door, but he doesn’t allow himself anything more.

In the hallway outside the rooms, the group disperses. Everyone heads to their own space; some say goodbye with a tired "good job today," while others don’t even speak, just dragging their feet.

You stay to the side for a moment, not moving, waiting for the signal.

The manager walks right past you, completely casual, and mutters under his breath:

"His is 608."

You nod.

You wait for the hallway to clear, until the only sound left is the muffled noise behind the closed doors. When everything settles down, you walk down the hall and knock softly on room 608.

Not even a second passes before the door swings open.

He is standing there, his hair still damp, wearing a simple t-shirt and sweatpants. More him than ever. Not the leader, not the idol. Just Chan.

He closes the door behind you before even saying hello. The moment the lock clicks shut, he turns around and looks at you as if he’d been waiting years for this exact moment.

"Now we're good," he says, letting out a breath. "Now you’re finally with me."

You take off the mask, the cap, and the tour t-shirt, leaving them on a chair. The room is huge—a large bed, a table, a small couch, open suitcases, a couple of water bottles, vitamins, and papers with schedules printed on them.

Chan opens his arms without another word. You walk into them almost by instinct. This time, the embrace is different: less desperate urgency, more of a calm weight loaded with everything you still want to say to each other.

At the same time, you both feel the exhaustion hit you… and yet, somehow, it lifts.

He buries his face in your hair.

"You have no idea how good this feels," he murmurs. "It’s like…" He searches for the right word. "Like I can finally breathe properly."

You pull back just enough to look at him.

"Do you really feel less stressed?" you ask.

He nods without hesitation.

"So much less," he replies. "Before the show, I was a total mess inside. I missed you, I was questioning a thousand things… From the second I saw you in the front row, everything fell back into place. And now, here…" He lets out an incredulous laugh. "I can’t believe how lucky I am."

You both sit on the bed, side by side, facing each other. He takes off his concert wristband and sets it on the nightstand, like a symbol that "stage mode" has been left outside.

"Tell me everything," he says, resting his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand. "How you put this all together, from the very beginning. I want every single detail."

So, you tell him.

From that morning reading his texts to the sudden idea of looking up flights. You tell him about your conversation with Felix, the manager, the screenshots, the airport, and the audio he sent you about the dream where you were at his concert.

He listens with absolute attention, barely interrupting, wearing that specific expression he gets when something truly matters to him.

"I didn’t know you were staying until the end of the tour," he says when you explain your vacation time.

You smile.

"You didn’t think I’d show up in the front row either," you reply.

"Fair point," he admits, laughing.

You sit up a bit, leaning back against the headboard.

"I had vacation days saved up," you explain. "A ton of them. I can stay for the two weeks left on the tour. And fly back to Korea with you."

You watch his eyes widen, like someone receiving a gift they didn’t even dare to ask for.

"You’re staying until the end?" he asks slowly, as if needing to make sure he heard correctly. "Flying back with me on the same flight?"

"That’s the plan," you nod. "I already cleared everything with work. While you’re finishing the tour, I can just live normal life during the day, do my own thing, and at night..." You shrug. "At night, I’ll be your undercover number one fan."

He buries his face in his hands for a second, as if it’s all too much to take in.

"You have no idea how much you just put my mind at ease," he murmurs, uncovering his eyes afterward. "I thought I’d only have you for today. Or, if I was lucky, tomorrow morning…"

"Well, you’re going to have me for a lot longer," you say.

He leans in and kisses you—gentle, filled with gratitude. There’s something new in this kiss: the silent promise of days, not just hours.

When you pull apart, his expression turns a bit more serious, though it doesn’t lose any of its warmth.

"I want to talk again about what I wrote to you," he says. "About my fears."

You nod. You knew this was bound to come up.

"My life… you already know how it is," he begins. "Absurd schedules, cameras, rules. I’ve seen colleagues try it with someone and end up breaking up because one of them just couldn’t take it. Or because someone caught them, news articles came out, and everything turned into a living hell. The company, the fans, the rumors… They have to deny things that are actually true just to protect everyone's jobs."

He sighs, toy with the edge of the sheet between his fingers.

"And sometimes I think…" he continues, "what if you wake up one day and say, 'I don’t want this for myself'? What if it’s just too unfair to you? What if we get caught? What if they hurt you? I don’t want to put you through that."

He isn’t telling you anything new. You’ve talked about this before. From the very beginning.

"I know," you respond. "And I’ll tell you again today: I knew all of that before I started dating you. I knew how everything works—in Korea, in the industry, at your agency. And still…" You look at him, steadfast. "I chose to be with you."

He clenches his jaw, as if fighting back his emotions.

"We’ve been together for a long time now, Chan," you remind him. "We’ve been through tours, comebacks, hiatuses, crises, good nights, and bad ones. If something were going to make me doubt that I wanted this, it would have happened by now. And yet, here I am. I crossed half the world just to hear you sing, to hug you in a dressing room, to watch you sleep without a screen in between us."

A smile slips through—sad and happy all at once.

"I don’t want you living with that fear every day," you add. "I’m not saying there aren’t risks; I’m not stupid. But I want you to trust us. Trust yourself, trust me, and trust what we have. Not what happened to other people."

He closes his eyes for a second, letting your words sink deep into his chest.

"I want us to go the distance," he whispers, opening them again. "Not just be together 'while it lasts,' but… for real. All the way to the end."

You laugh softly, trying to lighten the weight of the conversation a bit.

"Well, you better get used to it," you reply. "Because I plan on putting up with all your tours, all your schedules, all your dark circles…"

He laughs too, his gaze softening even more.

"All of them?" he asks.

"All of them," you confirm. "I’m going to endure this and a thousand other things for you: tours, masks, hotels, hiding spots…" You look at him with a playful glint in your eyes. "Until one day I finally end up becoming Mrs. Bang."

You say it in a teasing tone, but without breaking eye contact. He freezes, as if every word had landed with far more weight than you expected. You see his pupils dilate slightly, a different kind of spark igniting his gaze.

"Mrs. Bang, huh…?" he repeats, almost in a whisper, as if testing the sound of it.

You swallow hard. You didn’t mean to get so serious, but the way he looks at you completely disarms you.

"It was just a figure of speech," you try to downplay it, laughing. "Well… a figure of speech that isn’t too crazy, I guess."

Chan leans in a bit closer to you, more attentive than ever.

"Seriously…" he says slowly, "would you really be my wife?" He doesn't say it mockingly, or with a laugh. He says it like someone asking a question that has been spinning around in his head for a very long time.

Your heart races.

"I…" You clear your throat. "If we stay together for many years, if everything keeps going well… I guess at some point we’d get married, wouldn't we?" You shrug, but your eyes never wander from his.

He doesn't hesitate for a single second.

"For me, it’s an 'of course,'" he replies. "If I could, I’d ask you right now. Right here. Just like this."

"And if you did?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper. "What do you think I’d say?"

It doesn't even take him half a second.

"Yes," he says. "Always yes. That’s what I believe."

You hold his gaze.

"Well, you’re right," you admit. "Now, and whenever it happens. In whatever way it has to be, when the time comes… with you, it would always be a yes."

He reaches out, intertwining his fingers with yours.

"I want us to get there," he confesses softly. "I don’t know when, or how exactly, or what I’ll have to negotiate with the universe to make it happen without destroying anything. But I want it. And what scares me most… is that you’ll get tired before we can."

You squeeze his hand.

"And what I want most is for you to stop living your life waiting for me to get tired," you respond. "Because I’m not going to. I’ll get tired of many things in this life, but never of you."

He chuckles—that specific laugh of his that comes more through his nose when he gets emotional. His eyes glisten. He looks at you as if you had just set the world a little straighter for him.

"I’m going to endure this and a thousand other things for you," you add, your tone lighter now, trying to ease the mood. "Tours, schedules, masks, hotels, hiding under caps… until one day, in the end, I finally end up becoming Mrs. Bang."

This time you say it with a smile, without hiding behind it.

He stays perfectly still, as if every word were a gentle strike to his chest. His eyes fill with tears, though he fights to keep a single one from falling.

"You have no idea how happy it makes me to hear that," he finally says. "Not just the 'Mrs. Bang' part. All of it."

He leans down and kisses your knuckles, one by one, as if he were sealing a pact.

"So…" he adds with a calmer, subtle smile, "let’s make sure this tour isn't something that breaks us, but something we remember as 'the one where you showed up in the front row and put my mind at ease.'"

"Deal," you reply.

You both stretch out on the bed, side by side, turned toward each other, face-to-face. You talk. A lot. About things big and small.

He tells you backstage anecdotes from the tour that couldn’t fit into voice notes: a technical glitch that almost left them without an intro, a terrible meal in a city they’ve all sworn never to visit again, and a moment on the plane when he thought about texting you a single word—"come"—without any explanation.

You tell him about your job, about the people who know nothing and just suspect you’ve been "very busy" lately, and about those sleepless nights when you’d stare at the ceiling mapping out his schedule in your head.

The more you talk, the easier he breathes. You can tell. His shoulders lose their tension, his voice softens, and his laughter comes without that shadow of exhaustion you had noticed in his recent messages.

At some point, the conversation fades into comfortable silences. You look at him and notice his eyes starting to drift shut, his body finally demanding rest.

"Sleep," you whisper, running your fingers through his hair. "Tomorrow I have to watch another concert from the front row. I need you in top shape."

He chuckles, half-asleep.

"I’m going to be better than ever," he promises. "Now I have my motivation… in the crowd and at the hotel."

He curls up closer, resting his forehead against your collarbone, one of his arms wrapping around your waist.

"Thank you for not getting tired," he murmurs, already slipping into dreams.

You kiss the crown of his head.

"Thank you for letting me stay," you respond.

Slowly, his breathing becomes deep and steady. The leader, the producer, the guy with a thousand responsibilities melts away against your chest until only the simplest part remains: Chan, sleeping, finally, without the distance in between.

You close your eyes too.

You know that tomorrow the spotlights will return, along with the noise and the role he has to play every single day. You know the risks, the secrets, and the precautions will still be there. You don’t live in a fantasy.

But you also know this:

You crossed half the world to prove to him that you won't get tired.

And he, with every look, every word, and every plan for the future, proves to you that he won't give up.

Meanwhile, in the quiet darkness of an anonymous hotel room, with his warm breath brushing against your skin, you think that maybe, someday, when everything falls into place, a door will open not to a dressing room on tour, but to a home shared together.

Maybe, someday, someone will call you "Mrs. Bang" and it won’t be a joke.

Until then, you are here.

With him.

Without screens.

And, for now, that is more than enough.

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