#allhours

Tonight, though, at 11:40 p.m., it just felt tired. Your feet ached from standing for eight hours straight. The apron strings dug into your waist, and there was a stubborn smear of cocoa powder across your black t-shirt that refused to come off no matter how many times you brushed at it. You were the only one on closing duty tonight; your coworker Mina had left early with a mumbled excuse about a migraine. You didn’t mind too much. The quiet was nice after the afternoon rush of college students and office workers.

You didn’t know much about the people who worked at EDEN ENTERTAINMENT. You’d heard the name tossed around by regulars—something about music, idols, training, cameras. K-pop, you assumed. You’d never really gotten into it. Your playlists were full of soft indie folk, lo-fi beats for studying, and the occasional trending audio you heard while doom-scrolling at 2 a.m. Celebrities? They all blurred together. To you, they were just people who sometimes wore masks and caps and looked like they hadn’t slept in days.

The espresso machine was still warm from the last order forty minutes ago. You wiped it down slowly, the cloth moving in lazy circles as you hummed under your breath to the soft playlist drifting from the speakers. Outside, the Seoul night was cool and quiet, the streetlights casting long golden pools on the pavement. You glanced at the clock. Seventeen minutes until you could flip the sign and finally go home.

The bell above the door jingled.

You startled slightly, not expecting anyone this late. The usual late-night crowd had already trickled out. You turned toward the counter, plastering on your best remaining customer-service smile even though your cheeks hurt.

“Hi, welcome to Haven Brew,” you said, voice softer than it was during peak hours. “What can I get started for you?”

The guy who walked in kept his head slightly lowered. He wore a black oversized hoodie, the hood pulled up over a dark baseball cap. A black mask dangled from one ear, like he’d taken it off just before entering. His shoulders were tense, drawn up toward his ears as if trying to make himself smaller. He moved with the quiet exhaustion of someone who had been performing all day—whether on stage or behind the scenes, you couldn’t tell.

He stopped in front of the counter, eyes scanning the menu board for a second longer than necessary.

“Americano,” he said quietly. His voice was low, a little raspy, like it hadn’t been used much that evening. “Hot. Extra shot. No sugar.”

You nodded, fingers already moving across the register. “Got it. That’ll be 5,500 won.”

He paid with exact change—crisp bills and coins counted out carefully from a slim wallet. No flashy card, no flashy anything. You almost asked for a name for the cup out of habit, but something about his quiet demeanor made you hesitate. Instead, you just gave him a small polite smile and turned to the machine.

The grinder roared to life. You pulled the double shot, then added the extra one, watching the dark liquid stream into the paper cup before filling it with hot water. Steam rose in delicate curls. You snapped a lid on and carried it over to him personally—there was no one else to do it.

He had already settled into the far corner booth, the one mostly hidden by the large monstera plant whose leaves brushed the wall. His back was to the corner, giving him a clear view of the entire café and the dark street outside. Classic “I don’t want to be bothered” positioning. He stared out the window, jaw tight, one hand already resting on the table like he was anchoring himself.

“Here you go,” you said gently, placing the cup in front of him. For a brief moment your eyes met. His were dark, framed by long lashes and heavy shadows underneath. There was something intense in them—tired, guarded, but strangely focused. Your stomach did a tiny, unexpected flip before you pushed the feeling away. Just a customer. A very tired one.

“Thank you,” he murmured. His fingers brushed the side of the warm cup, lingering there as if the heat was the only thing keeping him present.

You gave a small nod and stepped back. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

He didn’t. For the next twenty minutes, he simply sat. No phone in his hands. No earbuds. He cradled the cup between both palms, taking slow, measured sips while his gaze remained distant. Every so often his eyes would drift across the empty café, but they never lingered on you for long. He looked like he was trying to disappear into the worn leather of the booth, like the weight of whatever waited for him outside was too heavy to carry right now.

You moved quietly through your closing routine, respecting the silence. You restocked the pastry case because it was empty, wiped down every table twice, swept the floor with slow strokes of the broom. The soft lo-fi beats continued playing—gentle piano and rain sounds that felt fitting for the late hour. Every few minutes your eyes would flick back to the corner. He hadn’t moved much. The hood stayed up. The tension in his shoulders eased only slightly as the minutes passed.

At 11:59 p.m. you dimmed the main lights, leaving only the warm string lights and the golden glow from behind the counter. The OPEN sign flickered off with a soft click.

You hesitated, then spoke from a respectful distance. “We’re officially closed… but please, take your time finishing your drink. I still have to mop the floors anyway. No rush at all.”

He blinked slowly, coming back from wherever his mind had wandered. For the first time that night, the corner of his mouth twitched upward in the ghost of a smile—small, exhausted, but real.

“Sorry,” he said, voice even quieter now. “I lost track of time.”

“It’s really okay,” you reassured him, meaning it. “This place gets lonely after closing sometimes. Having someone else here makes it feel less… empty.”

He looked at you then, really looked, like he was seeing you for the first time beyond the barista uniform. You felt oddly exposed under that gaze but held it gently.

After another long sip, he stood. Tall. Lean. Movements careful, almost graceful despite the fatigue. He left the empty cup neatly in the center of the table and gave you a small, polite bow—deeper than you expected from a late-night customer.

“Thank you,” he said again. The words carried weight, like they meant more than just the coffee. “Really.”

You smiled softly. “Anytime. Get home safe, okay?”

He paused at the door for half a second, one hand on the frame, as if considering saying something more. Then the moment passed. The bell jingled as he slipped out into the cool night air, hood still up, shoulders still carrying whatever invisible burden he’d brought inside.

You locked the door behind him and let out a long breath.

The café felt strangely quieter now. You wiped down his table last. The cup was still faintly warm. Beside it, neatly folded under the edge of a napkin, was a single 1,000 won bill— a tip. No note. No name. Just the quiet thank you and the faintest trace of his cologne lingering in the air: clean, woody, with a hint of something warmer underneath.

You slipped the bill into your apron pocket, finished mopping, turned off the last lights, and stepped out into the night. The walk to the subway felt longer than usual. Your mind kept drifting back to the boy in the corner booth—his tired eyes, the way he held that cup like a lifeline, the heavy silence he carried with him.

Just a customer, you told yourself again as the train doors closed behind you. Not your business.

But as the city lights blurred past the window, you couldn’t help wondering what had driven him to seek shelter in a nearly-closed café at midnight… and whether the weight on his shoulders had lightened even a little before he left.

⸻

Four days passed before the bell jingled again at nearly the same impossible hour.

You were wiping down the pastry case, humming along to a soft acoustic track, when the familiar sound made your head lift. It was 11:42 p.m. on a Thursday. The café was empty except for the faint smell of vanilla syrup and the low golden glow of the string lights. Your feet still ached from the longer afternoon rush—some group of trainees from the EDEN building had come in earlier, laughing loudly and ordering half the menu—but the night had settled into that peaceful, almost sacred quiet you were starting to appreciate.

He stepped inside like he belonged to the shadows outside. Same black hoodie, same dark cap pulled low, same quiet way of moving as if he were trying not to take up too much space in the world. The mask hung from one ear again. His shoulders looked just as tense as last time.

You felt an odd little spark of recognition. Not because you knew who he was—still didn’t—but because something about his presence had lingered in the back of your mind since that first night. The way he’d sat in the corner like the rest of Seoul was too loud. The single folded 1,000 won bill. The quiet “thank you” that carried more weight than most people’s entire conversations.

“Welcome back,” you said before you could stop yourself. Then you winced internally. Too familiar? But he didn’t seem bothered. If anything, his step faltered for half a second, like he was surprised you remembered.

He approached the counter, eyes lifting just enough to meet yours. Those same dark, tired eyes with the long lashes. Up close under the warmer lighting, you noticed his jawline, the faint tiredness etched beneath his eyes that makeup or good lighting probably hid during the day.

“Americano,” he said, voice low and a little rougher tonight. “Hot. Extra shot. No sugar.”

“Same as last time,” you replied with a small smile, already tapping it into the register. “5,500 won.”

He paid with exact change again. You wondered briefly if he always carried cash for moments like this—moments when he didn’t want his name or card leaving a trace.

You turned to the machine, the familiar grind and hiss filling the quiet space. While the shots pulled, you stole a couple quick glances. He didn’t head straight to the corner this time. He lingered near the counter for a moment, scanning the small chalkboard of daily specials you’d written earlier, even though nothing had changed since last time.

When the drink was ready, you added a small sleeve to the cup this time because the nights were getting colder. You carried it over yourself again.

He had chosen the exact same corner booth, back to the wall, monstera leaves brushing near his shoulder. You set the cup down gently.

“Extra hot tonight,” you said softly. “It’s getting chillier out there.”

He looked up, and for a second longer than necessary, his gaze held on your face. “Thank you,” he murmured. Then, almost like an afterthought, “You’re closing soon?”

“Fifteen minutes officially, but like last time… no rush if you need the quiet.”

A tiny nod. That ghost of a half-smile appeared again—barely there, but it softened the sharp lines of his exhaustion. He wrapped both hands around the cup immediately, absorbing the warmth.

You left him to it and returned to your closing tasks, moving slower than necessary. You restocked napkins, polished the already-clean counter, rearranged the little display of local honey and tea blends near the register. The lo-fi playlist shifted into something with soft rain sounds layered under gentle piano. It felt right for the atmosphere he brought with him.

Every few minutes your eyes drifted to the corner. He sipped slowly, deliberately. No phone. No distractions. Just him and the drink and the window looking out onto an empty street. Once, he closed his eyes for a long moment, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, and you felt a strange pull in your chest—like you were witnessing something private. You looked away quickly, focusing on folding clean aprons.

At 11:58 you dimmed the lights.

He stood before you even had to say anything, cup empty, left neatly in the center of the table like last time. As he passed the counter on his way out, he paused.

“Goodnight,” he said. Quiet. Polite. But there was the smallest upward tilt at the corner of his mouth.

“Goodnight,” you answered, offering a warm smile. “Stay safe out there.”

He gave that small bow again and slipped out. The bell jingled, and the night swallowed him.

You found another 1,000 won bill under the napkin. No note. Just the quiet gratitude and the faint trace of his cologne—woody, clean, with a hint of warmth that made the empty café feel a little less empty.

⸻

He came back three nights later.

This time it was a Saturday, raining softly outside. The bell rang at 11:35 p.m., earlier than before. You were behind the counter organizing the syrup bottles when he entered, shaking a few droplets from his hood before pulling it back up. His sneakers left faint wet prints on the wooden floor.

“Americano, hot, extra shot, no sugar?” you asked before he even reached the counter, a playful lilt in your voice that surprised even you.

He stopped mid-step, and this time the half-smile actually reached his eyes for a split second. “Please.”

You laughed softly under your breath as you rang him up. “Coming right up. Rough week?”

The question slipped out naturally. You immediately worried it was too much, but he only shrugged one shoulder, the movement tired but not dismissive.

“Long days,” he answered simply. “This helps.”

You nodded, understanding more than he probably realized. You knew what long days felt like in this city—the kind that stretched from early morning practices or schedules into late nights where sleep felt optional.

While pulling the shots, you decided to add something extra. After setting the lid on, you grabbed a small piece of the dark chocolate you kept behind the counter for yourself on hard nights and placed it on a tiny plate beside the cup.

“On the house,” you said when you brought it over. “For the rain.”

He looked at the chocolate, then up at you. Something shifted in his expression—surprise, maybe a flicker of warmth. “You don’t have to…”

“I want to,” you replied gently. “Enjoy.”

He settled into his corner again. This time, he took the chocolate first, breaking off a small piece and savoring it slowly. You noticed how his shoulders dropped a fraction more than they had on previous nights. The rain pattered softly against the windows, syncing with the music. You moved through closing chores with that same deliberate slowness, giving him space but feeling oddly comforted by his presence.

Halfway through your mopping, you heard the soft scrape of his chair. He approached the counter this time instead of waiting until the very end.

“Thank you,” he said, placing the empty cup and plate down. His voice was quieter than usual, almost hesitant. “For the chocolate. And… for not asking questions.”

You met his eyes and offered a small, understanding smile. “Sometimes people just need a corner and a warm drink. No questions required.”

He held your gaze a beat longer than before. The moment stretched, warm and fragile, until he gave another small bow and headed for the door.

Before stepping out into the rain, he paused. “Goodnight… barista.”

You felt your cheeks warm slightly. “Goodnight, corner guy.”

The door closed behind him. Another perfectly folded 1,000 won bill waited on the counter.

You touched it lightly, smiling to yourself as you finished closing. You still didn’t know his name. He still didn’t know yours. But the corner booth felt a little more like it belonged to him now, and the late-night shifts felt a little less lonely.

Outside, the rain continued falling, washing the city clean. Somewhere in the night, a tired boy in a black hoodie walked home with a tiny bit less weight on his shoulders—thanks to hot coffee, dark chocolate, and the quiet kindness of a barista who didn’t even listen to k-pop.

⸻

The pattern settled in so naturally that you almost didn’t notice it at first.

He came on Tuesday. Then again on Thursday. Another visit on Sunday night, when the rain had turned into a persistent drizzle that made the streets glisten under the streetlamps. Each time the bell jingled between 11:30 and 11:50 p.m., and each time your heart gave the smallest, traitorous little skip before you shoved the feeling down. He’s just a regular now. A tired regular who likes his coffee strong and his silence stronger.

You still didn’t know his name. He still didn’t offer it, and you didn’t push. There was something sacred about the anonymity between you two—the way it let the late-night café become a small pocket of peace outside the chaos of Seoul.

Tuesday night was quieter than usual. You had turned the playlist down even lower, letting the soft rain sounds and distant city hum fill the space. When he walked in, his hoodie was damp at the shoulders. He pushed the hood back just enough for you to catch a glimpse of messy dark hair before the cap went back on.

“Americano, hot, extra shot, no sugar?” you asked, already smiling the small, familiar smile that was starting to feel reserved just for him.

He nodded, the corner of his mouth lifting in that ghost-smile you were growing fond of. “Please.”

While you prepared it, you decided to experiment. You warmed an extra croissant from the day’s leftovers in the small oven behind the counter, the buttery scent filling the air. When you brought the cup and the pastry over, he looked genuinely surprised.

“You keep feeding me,” he said, voice low but carrying a hint of amusement.

“You keep showing up looking like you haven’t eaten properly,” you replied gently, setting everything down. “Consider it part of the service. Corner booth special.”

He let out a soft breath that might have been a laugh. It was the most sound you’d heard from him yet. He accepted it with another quiet “Thank you” and retreated to his spot. That night he stayed until the lights dimmed. When he left, the 1,000 won bill was accompanied by the tiniest scribble on the napkin: a small, neat smiley face.

You kept that napkin.

⸻

Thursday brought clearer skies but heavier exhaustion on his part. He moved a little slower, shoulders more slumped. Dark circles looked deeper under his eyes tonight. When he ordered, his voice was quieter, almost hoarse.

“Long day?” you asked as you handed him the cup—extra hot, sleeve added without him asking.

He hummed in confirmation. “Never-ending.”

You hesitated, then added, “I put on a new playlist tonight. Calmer than usual. Hope it helps.”

He glanced toward the speakers, listening for a moment. “It’s nice,” he murmured. “Softer than what I usually hear.”

You wanted to ask what he usually heard, but you held back. Instead you said, “Good. The corner is all yours.”

He sat longer that night. Nearly forty minutes. You swept the floor in slow arcs, occasionally glancing over. Once, when your eyes met across the café, he gave a small nod—like acknowledging a shared understanding. The weight he carried seemed a fraction lighter when he finally stood to leave.

“Goodnight, barista,” he said at the counter, almost teasing.

“Goodnight, corner guy,” you answered, cheeks warming again. The nickname had stuck, and neither of you seemed in a hurry to change it.

⸻

Sunday was different.

The café felt cozier somehow, maybe because it was the weekend and the city outside moved at a gentler pace. You had baked a small batch of chocolate chip cookies earlier in the evening—your attempt at a new recipe—and the smell still lingered warmly when he arrived at 11:28 p.m.

He noticed immediately. His step paused near the counter, nose subtly lifting.

“Smells good in here.”

“Fresh cookies,” you said, a little proud. “First attempt. Want to be my official tester?”

He looked almost shy for a second. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

You plated two warm cookies with his Americano and carried them over together. This time, instead of immediately retreating behind the counter, you lingered for half a moment.

“I hope they’re okay. I’m still learning the recipes here.”

He broke off a piece, tasted it slowly, and gave a genuine—if tiny—nod of approval. “They’re good. Really good.”

The praise, quiet as it was, made something flutter warmly in your chest. You smiled and finally stepped back, giving him his space. But tonight the silence between you felt companionable rather than distant. You worked on restocking the tea shelf within view of his booth, and twice you caught him watching you—not in a creepy way, but with quiet curiosity, like he was trying to figure something out about the girl who kept his corner warm.

When the lights dimmed at closing, he didn’t leave right away. He approached the counter and set his empty cup down, then hesitated.

“You work late every night?” he asked. It was the longest sentence he’d spoken to you so far.

“Most closing shifts, yeah. Pays the bills while I figure things out.” You shrugged lightly. “What about you? Seems like your days run even longer than mine.”

He looked down at the counter for a moment, fingers tracing the edge of the cup. “Something like that. Schedules don’t really end.”

There was a heaviness in the words. You wanted to ask more—what kind of schedules? What do you do?—but the way his shoulders tensed told you not to. Not yet.

“Well,” you said instead, “the corner booth is always open for you. No questions, just coffee and whatever baked goods I don’t burn.”

That earned you another real smile—small, but it reached his eyes and made them crinkle slightly at the corners. Your stomach flipped harder this time.

“Thank you,” he said, bowing that polite little bow. “Goodnight… corner guy’s favorite barista.”

You laughed softly, surprised by the playful edge. “Goodnight.”

He left the usual tip, plus a second folded 1,000 won bill. Under it was another napkin scribble—this time a tiny doodle of a coffee cup with steam rising like a smile.

You stared at it long after he’d gone, fingers brushing over the simple ink lines. The café felt warmer than usual as you finished closing. His cologne lingered longer tonight, mixing with the chocolate chip cookie scent. You caught yourself replaying the sound of his quiet laugh, the way his eyes softened when he tasted the cookie, the rare full sentences he’d offered.

You still didn’t know his name.

You still didn’t recognize him as anything more than the tired boy who needed a quiet corner.

But something was shifting. Slowly. Gently. Like the first hints of dawn after a very long night.

As you locked up and stepped into the cool Seoul air, you found yourself hoping he’d come back soon. Not just for the tip or the routine, but because the late hours felt a little brighter when he was sitting in his corner.

⸻

By the second week, his visits had become the quiet highlight of your closing shifts. You found yourself checking the clock more often after 10 p.m., wondering if tonight would be one of his nights. The café felt different on the evenings he didn’t show—emptier, the string lights a little less warm, the lo-fi playlist missing something indefinable. But when the bell jingled in that familiar way, everything settled back into place.

Monday night arrived with a chill that seeped through the old windows. You’d worn an extra layer under your apron and kept the heater behind the counter running a bit higher. At 11:37 p.m. he walked in, rubbing his hands together once before slipping them into the front pocket of his black hoodie. The cap was pulled low, but you caught the faint redness on the tips of his ears from the cold.

“Americano, hot, extra shot, no sugar?” you greeted, already reaching for a cup.

A small nod, and that now-familiar half-smile. “You’re going to get tired of saying that.”

“Never,” you replied lightly. “It’s become my favorite order to make.”

You added a warmed blueberry muffin this time—slightly imperfect from your latest baking attempt, but still soft and fragrant. When you carried it over to his corner booth, he accepted it with both hands, fingers brushing yours for the briefest second. The contact sent a tiny spark up your arm that you immediately blamed on static from the apron.

“Thank you,” he said, voice softer tonight. “You really don’t have to keep doing this.”

“I know,” you answered, lingering a moment longer than usual. “But it makes the closing shift nicer. And you look like you could use it.”

He met your eyes then, holding the gaze long enough that your heartbeat picked up. There was something deep in his expression—gratitude mixed with a quiet kind of loneliness that made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t quite name.

“You’re kind,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then louder, “This place… it helps. More than you know.”

You smiled gently and stepped back, giving him his space. But as you moved around the café wiping tables and restocking, you felt his eyes following you occasionally. Not uncomfortably. More like he was studying the rhythm of your movements, the same way you sometimes studied him.

He stayed longer that night. Almost fifty minutes. You mopped slowly around the other tables, the soft swish of the mop syncing with the gentle music. At one point you glanced over and saw him with his eyes closed again, head tilted back against the booth, the tension in his jaw finally relaxed. The warm light cast gentle shadows across his face, highlighting the elegant line of his nose and the way his dark hair fell slightly messy under the cap. He looked… beautiful, in a tired, human sort of way. You quickly looked away, cheeks warming.

When he finally stood, he brought his empty cup and plate to the counter himself.

“Busy day tomorrow?” you asked, trying to keep the conversation light.

He let out a quiet breath. “Always. But I’ll try to finish earlier if I can.” He paused, then added, “Do you close every night?”

“Most of them for now. I’m still the newest hire, so I get the late shifts.” You shrugged with a small laugh. “Gives me time to think, at least. And now I have my favorite regular to keep me company from afar.”

The words slipped out warmer than you intended. He looked slightly surprised, but the tiny smile that followed made your stomach flutter again.

“Favorite regular,” he repeated quietly, like he was tasting the words. “I like that.”

He left the usual neatly folded 1,000 won tip, plus another napkin doodle—this time a simple steaming mug next to a tiny plant that looked suspiciously like the monstera by his booth. You traced the lines with your fingertip after he left, smiling to yourself in the quiet café.

⸻

He returned on Wednesday, then again on Friday. Each visit layered something new and fragile between you.

On Wednesday the conversation stretched a little further. After you brought his drink (and a slice of banana bread you’d saved just in case), he asked, “How long have you worked here?”

“About a month,” you answered, leaning against a nearby table while he took his first sip. “I moved to Seoul a couple months ago for… well, figuring life out. This job pays the rent while I take some online classes.”

He nodded slowly, listening like your words actually mattered. “What are you studying?”

“Mostly literature and some creative writing. Nothing glamorous.” You laughed self-consciously. “I like stories. The quiet kind that build slowly.”

His eyes softened. “I think I understand that.”

You wanted to ask about him—about the long days, the schedules he’d mentioned, why he always came alone so late—but the guarded way he held himself made you hold back. Instead you said, “What about you? Do you get any days off, or is it always… never-ending?”

A shadow crossed his face, but he answered honestly. “Rarely. But moments like this make it bearable.”

The honesty in his voice made your heart squeeze. You nodded, understanding without needing details. “Well, the corner booth has your name on it. Metaphorically.”

That earned a real, soft chuckle—low and warm. It was the first time you’d heard him laugh properly, and the sound lingered in your ears long after he’d gone home.

⸻

Friday night felt special somehow. The café was especially quiet, and you’d lit one of the small scented candles on the counter (lavender and vanilla) to combat the late-autumn chill. When he arrived at 11:29 p.m., he paused inside the door, inhaling deeply.

“It smells nice in here tonight.”

“Trying to make the place cozy,” you admitted. “Figured we could both use it.”

You brought his Americano with two small cookies this time. Instead of retreating immediately, he gestured lightly to the chair across from him in the booth. “You can sit… if you’re not too busy. Just for a minute.”

Your heart skipped. You glanced at the empty café, then nodded. “Yeah. I can take a quick break.”

You sat across from him, keeping a respectful distance. Up close like this, you noticed more details: the way his hands were elegant but strong, faint calluses on his fingertips, the subtle scent of his cologne mixed with whatever faint stage-like product lingered in his hair. He looked exhausted tonight, but there was a quiet peace in sitting here with you.

For a few minutes you simply shared the comfortable silence. Then he spoke.

“You never ask many questions,” he observed, breaking off a piece of cookie.

You shrugged. “You seem like someone who comes here to escape questions. I get it. Life’s heavy enough without random baristas interrogating you.”

He looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his dark eyes. “Most people would be curious.”

“I am curious,” you admitted softly. “But I figure if you wanted to share, you would. Until then, the coffee and cookies are enough.”

The smile he gave you then was small but incredibly warm. It made the late hour, the tired feet, and the long shift feel completely worth it.

“Thank you,” he said again. This time it felt like it carried years of weight behind it. “For making this corner feel safe.”

You stayed a few more minutes, talking about nothing important—the weather turning colder, your terrible attempt at a new latte art design earlier, the way the monstera plant was finally thriving. He listened attentively, offering quiet comments and another rare chuckle.

When he finally stood to leave, the usual tip waited on the table along with a new napkin. This one had a tiny doodle of a smiling coffee cup waving at a little stick-figure barista.

You locked the door behind him that night with a stupid, uncontrollable smile on your face. You still didn’t know his name. You still had no idea what he did during those long days that left him so drained. But you knew the quiet rhythm of his presence, the warmth of his rare smiles, and the way the café felt fuller when he was in his corner.

⸻

The air in Haven Brew felt heavier lately, charged with something you couldn’t quite name. Or maybe it was just you—overtired from back-to-back closing shifts and too aware of how your pulse quickened every time the bell rang after 11 p.m.

He came more frequently now. Almost every other night, like the corner booth had become his unspoken anchor. And you… you had started saving the best pastries for him, adjusting the playlist to softer tracks, even wearing the apron that didn’t have the cocoa stain because you knew he’d see it.

It was a Wednesday night, the kind where the city felt muted under a blanket of low clouds. You were behind the counter at 11:25 p.m., polishing glasses that didn’t need polishing, when the bell jingled. He stepped in, hoodie slightly rumpled, cap low, but his shoulders looked tighter than usual tonight. The mask came off slowly, revealing the sharp line of his jaw and the faint sheen of exhaustion on his skin.

“Rough one?” you asked gently as he approached, already pulling his usual cup.

He exhaled through his nose, a sound that was half sigh, half agreement. “Yeah. Very rough.”

You made his Americano extra hot, added a touch more crema on top just because, and warmed two pieces of the fresh lemon poppy seed bread you’d baked earlier. When you carried everything over, instead of setting it down and retreating, he looked up at you with those dark, intense eyes.

“Sit with me?” The request was quiet, almost hesitant. “If you have time.”

Your stomach did a slow flip. You glanced at the empty café, the clock, then nodded. “Yeah. I can take a break.”

You slid into the booth across from him, closer than last time—the monstera leaves brushing your shoulder on one side, his presence warm on the other. The table between you felt both too wide and too narrow. He pushed one piece of bread toward you.

“Share it,” he said simply. “You made it. You should taste it too.”

You broke off a piece, fingers brushing his as you did. The contact lingered a second longer than necessary—his skin warm from the cup, slightly rough at the fingertips. You pulled back quickly, but not before noticing how his gaze dropped to your hand for a beat.

The bread was good, bright and tangy. He hummed in approval, eyes closing briefly as he savored it. In the soft golden light, his features looked almost unfairly beautiful: the elegant slope of his nose, the way his lashes cast shadows, the subtle movement of his throat when he swallowed. You caught yourself staring and looked down at your piece instead.

“You’re getting better at baking,” he murmured after a moment. “This is really good.”

“Thanks. Trial and error. My roommate says I’m turning the apartment into a bakery at this point.” You laughed softly, trying to ignore the way his quiet compliment made warmth bloom in your chest. “What about you? Do you cook or bake when you have time?”

He shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Not really. My schedule… doesn’t leave much room for that. Mostly takeout or whatever the company provides.” He caught himself, then added quickly, “Work provides, I mean.”

You nodded, respecting the vague line he drew. “Must be exhausting. Having days that bleed into nights like this.”

“It is.” His voice dropped lower, more intimate in the quiet café. “But coming here… it resets me. You reset me.”

The words hung between you, simple but heavy. Your eyes met his across the table and held. The tension thickened like honey—slow, sweet, impossible to ignore. Your heart beat a little harder. You noticed the way his gaze traced your face, lingering on your eyes, then your mouth for a fraction of a second before flicking away.

“You’re easy to talk to,” he continued, almost like he was admitting it to himself. “Most people want something from me. You just… give quiet and good bread.”

You smiled, cheeks warming. “I like the quiet too. Especially with you in it.”

The admission slipped out before you could stop it. His eyes darkened slightly, something unreadable flickering there. He took another slow sip of his Americano, but you saw how his fingers tightened around the cup.

For the next twenty minutes you talked in low voices—about favorite late-night songs, the way Seoul smelled after rain, your terrible attempt at latte art that morning (a heart that looked more like a blob). He listened with full attention, offering quiet stories of his own: a funny moment from rehearsal (he called it “practice”), the way certain melodies got stuck in his head for days. Every shared sentence pulled you a little closer, even though neither of you moved.

At one point you reached for the same napkin at the same time. Your fingers brushed again—longer this time. Neither of you pulled away immediately. The air felt electric. You could smell his cologne mixed with the faint coffee scent on his breath. When you finally drew back, your skin tingled where he’d touched.

“Sorry,” you whispered, though you weren’t really.

“Don’t be,” he replied, voice rougher than before.

⸻

He came back two nights later on Friday, and the tension followed like a shadow.

This time he arrived at 11:18 p.m., earlier than usual, carrying a faint chill from outside. You’d been thinking about him more than you wanted to admit—replaying the brush of fingers, the way he’d looked at you like you were the only steady thing in his chaotic world.

“Americano?” you asked, but your smile was softer, warmer.

He nodded, but his eyes stayed on you longer. “And whatever you’re baking tonight. It smells incredible.”

You plated warm cinnamon rolls—fresh from the oven, gooey and fragrant. When you brought them over, he didn’t wait for you to ask. He simply gestured to the seat across from him.

You sat.

This time the booth felt even smaller. Your knees nearly brushed under the table. He broke a cinnamon roll in half and handed you the bigger piece without a word. Steam curled between you as you both took bites. The sweetness melted on your tongue, but it was nothing compared to the way he watched you eat—dark eyes focused, a tiny smear of icing at the corner of his own mouth.

Without thinking, you reached across with a napkin. “You have a little…” Your fingers hovered near his lip.

He froze. You gently wiped it away, the touch feather-light. His breath hitched. For a heartbeat, time slowed. Your faces were closer than they’d ever been. You could see the faint freckle under his left eye, the way his pupils dilated slightly. The tension crackled—thick, undeniable, wrapping around both of you like the string lights overhead.

You pulled back slowly, heart hammering. “Sorry. Instinct.”

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “It’s okay.” His voice was lower, almost husky. “Thank you.”

The rest of the night passed in that same charged quiet. You stayed at the table longer, knees brushing once when you shifted. Neither of you moved away. He told you a little more about his days—“constant movement, constant eyes on me”—but still vague, still guarded. You shared how you sometimes felt invisible in a big city, how the café made you feel useful.

When closing time came, he didn’t leave right away. He stood at the counter while you wiped it down, watching your hands move.

“You work too hard,” he said quietly.

“So do you,” you replied, meeting his gaze. The air between you hummed.

He left the usual tip and a new napkin doodle: two simple stick figures sitting across a tiny table, each with a steaming cup. One had messy hair like yours in a ponytail. The other wore a little cap.

You stared at it for a long time after he left, fingers pressed to your lips where the memory of near-touch still lingered. Your cheeks were warm. Your thoughts kept drifting to the way his eyes had darkened, the hitch in his breath, the undeniable pull that was growing stronger every night.

You still didn’t know his name.

You still didn’t know what heavy world he escaped from every time he stepped into your café.

But you knew one thing for certain now: the corner wasn’t just his anymore.

It was becoming yours too.

And the space between you was starting to feel dangerously small.

⸻

Your day off felt like a rare gift.

The café was closed for a deep clean, so you had the whole afternoon to yourself—no espresso machine hissing, no late-night mopping, no quiet corner booth casting long shadows. You’d slept in, treated yourself to a lazy brunch at a small café near your apartment, then decided to wander. Gangnam had been calling your name for weeks; everyone said the shopping streets were magical in autumn, with golden ginkgo leaves drifting down like confetti and luxury stores displaying coats that cost more than three months of your rent.

You took the subway to Sinnonhyeon station and emerged into the bustle of Garosu-gil—tree-lined streets packed with boutiques, cafés, and the kind of polished energy that made Seoul feel like it was showing off. Earbuds in, playing your usual indie playlist, you window-shopped slowly, hands buried in your coat pockets against the crisp November chill. The air smelled like roasted chestnuts from a street vendor and expensive perfume drifting from open doors.

It was easy to lose yourself here. You paused at a bookstore, flipped through a few poetry collections, bought a small iced americano (even on your day off, the habit followed you). The city moved around you—stylish couples, groups of friends laughing too loud, the occasional masked person hurrying past like they had somewhere important to be.

You turned a corner onto a wider stretch lined with bigger storefronts and promotional banners. Huge digital billboards flickered above the street, cycling through fashion ads, new drama posters, and—inevitably—entertainment promotions. You’d seen them before but never paid much attention. K-pop was still background noise to you, something your coworkers mentioned in passing but never something that stuck.

Until today.

Your steps slowed as your eyes caught a massive promotional standee and banner setup outside a large music store. Bright, professional lighting. Bold text in sleek fonts. The group name stood out first in oversized letters:

ALL(H)OURS

‘VCF’ Comeback Promotion

Seven boys in sharp, coordinated outfits—stylish streetwear mixed with elegant details, hair perfectly styled, expressions intense and charismatic for the camera. Your gaze drifted across their faces, casual at first, the way you might scan any advertisement.

Then your heart stopped.

Smack in the middle, slightly forward in the formation, was a face you knew too well. The same sharp jawline. The same dark, expressive eyes with those long lashes. The same faint tiredness softened here by professional lighting and makeup, but unmistakably him. Hoodie and cap replaced by a sleek black jacket and styled dark hair falling just so. He wasn’t smiling big like some of the others, but there was that familiar ghost of a half-smile, the one that had started living rent-free in your mind during late nights at the café.

ON:N.

Maknae. Vocalist & Dancer.

Real name: Kim Ji-hwan.

The banner listed it all clearly. Underneath, smaller posters showed individual shots—him mid-dance, sweat-glistened under stage lights; another in a soft concept, looking almost vulnerable; a close-up where those eyes stared straight into the camera like they sometimes stared at you across the corner booth.

You stood frozen on the sidewalk, iced americano forgotten in your hand, condensation dripping onto your fingers. People brushed past you, but the world narrowed to that one face.

Corner guy.

The quiet boy who showed up past 11 p.m. like clockwork. Who cradled his Americano like it was the only warm thing in his world. Who left tiny napkin doodles and folded 1,000 won tips and made the empty café feel full. Who had brushed fingers with you over cinnamon rolls and looked at you like you were the only real thing in his exhausting schedule.

He was an idol.

The pieces clicked into place with an almost audible snap. The EDEN Entertainment building just down the block from Haven Brew. The way he always paid cash, hood up, mask half-on. The exhaustion that clung to him like second skin. The vague mentions of “schedules” and “practice” and “constant eyes on me.” The graceful way he moved even when dead tired. The fact that he never offered his name, and you never pushed—because some part of you had sensed the boundary.

Your cheeks burned. Your stomach twisted in a dizzying mix of emotions: embarrassment for not recognizing him sooner, a strange rush of warmth because he chose your tiny café to escape to, and a sudden, sharper pang of something like longing mixed with fear.

He’s famous. Like, actually famous.

You pulled out your phone with shaky hands and typed “ALL(H)OURS ON:N” into the search bar before you could stop yourself. A flood of images, videos, fan pages. Clips of him dancing with impossible precision, singing with a voice that was both powerful and delicately emotional. Interviews where he seemed polite but reserved—the same quiet intensity you saw at 11:45 p.m. under string lights.

One fancam autoplayed briefly: him on stage, lights flashing, sweat flying, the crowd screaming his name. ON:N! ON:N! It was so far removed from the tired boy who doodled steaming coffee cups on napkins that your brain struggled to reconcile the two.

You locked your phone quickly, heart hammering. The billboard seemed to loom larger now, his printed eyes following you no matter where you shifted.

A soft laugh escaped you—half disbelief, half wonder. “Corner guy…” you whispered to yourself, the nickname feeling both intimate and suddenly distant.

You stood there for another long minute, leaves crunching underfoot as a breeze passed. Part of you wanted to text your roommate immediately. Part of you wanted to pretend you hadn’t seen it, to keep the bubble intact—the anonymous late-night ritual where you were just the barista and he was just the boy in the corner.

But you couldn’t unsee it.

Eventually, you forced your feet to move. You walked past the banner slowly, stealing one last glance at his face on the poster. In the printed version he looked untouchable, larger than life. In your memory, he was the one who said “You reset me” in a voice barely above a whisper.

The tension that had been building between you—the lingering touches, charged silences, shared bread and quiet laughter—suddenly felt heavier. More complicated. Because now you knew what he was escaping every night. The screaming crowds. The cameras. The weight of being ON:N.

And he still didn’t know that you knew.

You continued down Garosu-gil, the golden leaves blurring a little as your mind raced. Your next closing shift was tomorrow. He would probably show up again, hood up, eyes tired, ordering the same Americano.

Would you act normal?

Could you?

The corner booth waited for him like always. But everything else… everything else had just shifted.

⸻

You barely slept that night.

The image of his face on that massive banner kept flashing behind your eyelids every time you closed them—ON:N, sharp and charismatic under stage lights, versus the quiet boy who doodled on napkins and called your corner his safe place. By morning you’d made a decision: you weren’t going to say anything. Not yet. Maybe not ever. This thing between you—whatever it was—felt too fragile, too precious to shatter with the weight of his real world.

So when your next closing shift rolled around, you did what you always did. You prepped the extra hot sleeve for his Americano. You warmed the pastries you’d set aside. You told yourself you could handle this.

But your hands still shook a little when you tied your apron.

⸻

The bell jingled at 11:41 p.m.

He looked exactly the same as always—black hoodie, cap low, shoulders carrying that invisible weight. The mask dangled from one ear. Nothing about him screamed “idol” in this lighting. He was just… him. Your corner guy.

And yet now you knew the screaming crowds, the choreography that left him exhausted, the reason he paid in exact cash and kept his head down.

“Americano, hot, extra shot, no sugar?” you greeted, forcing your voice to stay light and familiar. Your smile felt a little too wide, but you hoped he wouldn’t notice.

He paused, studying you for half a second longer than usual. “Yeah. Please.” That ghost-smile appeared, softening the exhaustion on his face. “You look like you had a good day off.”

Your heart stuttered. He remembered. “I did. Wandered around Gangnam, window-shopped, pretended I was a tourist. How about you?”

“Long,” he answered simply, sliding cash across the counter. His fingers brushed yours when you took the bills. The spark was still there—stronger now, because you knew exactly how many people would kill to be this close to him. You pulled back quickly, turning to the machine before your face could betray you.

While the shots pulled, you stole glances. The same elegant hands, the same tired slope of his shoulders, the same way he carried himself like he was trying to shrink. On the banner he’d looked untouchable. Here, he looked like he needed the warmth of this tiny café more than ever.

You added two warm chocolate croissants tonight—fresh and flaky—and carried everything over to his booth yourself. The monstera leaves brushed your arm as you set the plate down.

“On the house again,” you said, keeping your tone playful. “Don’t argue. You look like you need them.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and warm. “You’re spoiling me, barista.”

If only you knew how much I want to, you thought, but shoved it down hard. Instead you smiled. “Someone has to.”

You started to step away like usual, but he gestured to the seat across from him again. “Stay? Just for a bit. The quiet feels better with company tonight.”

Your pulse spiked. Act normal. Act normal. You slid into the booth, closer than last time because the tension between you had already been building before your accidental discovery. Now it felt electric—dangerous, even. Your knees nearly touched under the small table.

He broke one croissant in half and handed you the larger piece without asking. Steam curled up between you. When you took it, your fingers brushed again. This time you let the contact linger a heartbeat longer, pretending it was accidental. His eyes flicked down to your hand, then back up to your face. Darker than usual. More intense.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he observed softly, taking a slow sip of his Americano.

“Am I?” You laughed lightly, hoping it sounded natural. “Just tired. Long week. Same as you, probably.”

He hummed, watching you over the rim of his cup. The golden string lights caught in his eyes, making them look impossibly deep. “You always seem to get it. The tired part. Most people don’t.”

Your chest ached. You knew why now—the endless schedules, the performances, the pressure of being ON:N. But you couldn’t say that. So you just nodded, breaking off a piece of croissant and savoring it to buy yourself time.

“I like this,” he continued after a moment, voice lower. “Sitting here. No expectations. Just… warm bread and someone who doesn’t want anything from me.”

The words hit harder than they should have. You swallowed, throat tight. “Good. Because I don’t. I just like the company in my corner booth.”

His half-smile grew into something softer, almost fond. The tension thickened. You could feel it in the small space between you—the way his gaze lingered on your lips when you licked a flake of pastry away, the subtle shift of his shoulders as he leaned a fraction closer. Your heart was racing so loudly you worried he might hear it.

At one point you reached for a napkin at the same time. Your hands overlapped fully. Neither of you pulled away right away. His thumb brushed the side of your finger—deliberate this time, you were almost sure. Heat rushed up your arm and straight to your face.

“Sorry,” you whispered, even though you weren’t.

“Don’t be,” he murmured back. His voice had that slight huskiness again. The air felt too warm, too small. The rest of the café disappeared; it was just the two of you in this golden bubble, the monstera leaves creating a private little world.

You stayed longer than you should have. Twenty-five minutes. Thirty. You talked about safe things—how the leaves were changing color outside, a funny customer story from earlier, his vague mention of “rehearsal running late again.” Every word felt layered now. You kept your knowledge locked tight behind your teeth, smiling when he smiled, laughing softly when he chuckled. But inside, your mind was spinning.

He’s ON:N. He performs for thousands. And he keeps coming back here. To me.

When the lights finally dimmed at closing, he walked his empty cup to the counter like always. He lingered while you wiped it down, watching your hands move in the low light.

“You okay?” he asked suddenly, quiet and concerned. “You seem… a little distant tonight.”

Your heart squeezed. He noticed. Of course he noticed.

“I’m fine,” you assured him, meeting his eyes with what you hoped was a convincing smile. “Just thinking too much. You know how it is.”

He studied you for a long moment, like he wanted to say more. Then he nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

Before leaving, he placed the usual neatly folded 1,000 won tip on the counter, plus a new napkin. This doodle was different—two stick figures sitting close in a booth, tiny hearts floating above the steaming cups. Nothing overt. Just… sweet. Vulnerable.

“Goodnight, barista,” he said softly at the door, that small bow you’d grown to love.

“Goodnight, corner guy.”

The bell jingled. He disappeared into the night.

You locked the door, leaned back against it, and let out a long, shaky breath. Your fingers traced the new doodle, heart hammering. The weight of what you knew sat heavy in your chest, but so did something warmer. Deeper.

He trusted this space.

He trusted you.

Even if he didn’t know you now carried his secret.

And the tension between you—the real, aching kind—was only getting stronger.

⸻

He came in at 11:33 p.m., two minutes earlier than usual.

You’d been on edge the entire shift, replaying every interaction from the night before like a looped video in your head. The doodle with the tiny hearts was still tucked safely in your apron pocket, burning a hole through the fabric. Every time the espresso machine hissed, your stomach twisted. Act normal. Smile like always. Don’t let him see.

But the moment the bell jingled, you knew it was going to be harder than you thought.

He looked worn down tonight—hoodie slightly askew, cap pulled lower than usual, dark circles more pronounced under his eyes. Still, when he approached the counter, that familiar half-smile appeared.

“Americano?” you asked, voice brighter than necessary. Too bright.

He nodded, sliding exact change across the counter. His fingers brushed yours again, and you pulled back a fraction too quickly. You felt his eyes on you as you turned to the machine.

You added two warm almond croissants and a small piece of the new honey cake you’d tested earlier. When you carried the tray to his booth, your hands trembled just enough for the cup to wobble.

He was already settled in the corner, back to the wall, monstera leaves framing him like always. But tonight his gaze followed you the entire way.

“Sit with me,” he said softly when you set everything down. It wasn’t a question this time. It was gentle, but there was a weight behind it.

You swallowed and slid into the booth across from him. Closer than last night. Your knees brushed under the table, and neither of you shifted away. The golden string lights cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tiredness in his eyes, the quiet intensity that now made perfect sense.

He broke a croissant and handed you half. You took it, but your fingers were clumsy. A flake fell onto the table. You laughed nervously and brushed it away.

“You’ve been tense since I walked in,” he murmured after a long sip of his Americano. His voice was low, careful. “Last night too. Did something happen?”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “I’m fine. Really. Just… long shift. Busy day.”

He watched you. Really watched. Those dark eyes—ON:N’s eyes, the ones you’d seen on that massive banner—searched your face with a patience that made your throat tighten. The silence stretched, comfortable for him, agonizing for you.

Then he set his cup down slowly.

“You know, don’t you?”

The words landed softly, like a single raindrop before the storm. No accusation. Just quiet understanding.

Your breath caught. The café suddenly felt too small, the air too thick. Heat rushed to your face. You stared at the half-eaten croissant in your hands, mind racing.

“I—” Your voice cracked. You tried again. “I didn’t mean to. I swear. I had the day off and I was just walking in Gangnam and there was this big sign for ALL(H)OURS and… your face was right there. In the middle. I didn’t even connect it at first but then I looked closer and it was you and—”

You were rambling. Panic bubbled up fast and hot, tightening your chest.

“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to ruin this,” you continued, words tumbling out. “This corner, the coffee, the quiet nights. You come here to escape and I didn’t want to be another person who knows ON:N instead of… instead of just you. The guy who doodles on napkins and needs extra hot Americanos. I thought if I pretended I still didn’t know, we could keep having this but now you probably think I was lying or hiding it or that I’m some kind of fan who—”

Your voice broke. You pressed your lips together, eyes stinging. The monstera leaves blurred in your vision.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t want you to hate me for knowing.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You kept your gaze fixed on the table, terrified to look up and see disappointment or distance or the polite idol mask sliding into place. Your hands twisted the edge of your apron under the table. He’s going to stop coming. He’s going to leave right now and never come back and this little safe bubble we built is going to pop and it’ll be all my fault—

A warm hand covered yours.

Gentle. Steady. His fingers slid between yours, thumb brushing slow circles over your knuckles. The touch grounded you instantly.

“Hey,” he said softly. So softly. “Look at me.”

You lifted your eyes, blinking hard. His expression wasn’t angry. It wasn’t guarded. It was… tender. A little surprised, a little sad, but mostly warm in a way that made your heart ache harder.

“I don’t hate you,” he murmured. “Not even close.”

Relief crashed over you so strongly your shoulders sagged. But the panic still lingered at the edges.

“I found out two days ago,” you admitted, voice small. “I’ve been trying so hard to act normal but… I keep thinking about how you’re ON:N and you perform for thousands of people and I’m just some random barista who feeds you pastries and I feel stupid for not realizing sooner and—”

“Stop.” His thumb kept its slow, soothing rhythm. “You’re not stupid. And you’re not ‘just some random barista.’” His voice dropped even lower, almost shy. “You’re the only person who’s made these late nights feel… bearable. Safe. You never pushed. You never asked for photos or autographs or anything. You just gave me quiet and warm bread and that smile when I walk in.”

He squeezed your hand once. “That matters more than you know.”

Tears pricked harder at your eyes. You let out a shaky laugh. “I was so scared you’d think I was weird for hiding it. Or that you’d stop coming because the secret’s out.”

“I almost didn’t say anything tonight,” he confessed quietly. “I could feel something was off and I thought maybe you were pulling away. That maybe you were uncomfortable now that you knew.” A small, self-deprecating smile tugged at his lips. “Guess we were both overthinking.”

The tension between you shifted—still thick, still electric, but now layered with something deeper. Vulnerability. Relief. The quiet acknowledgment that this thing you’d been building had just grown more real, more complicated, and somehow more precious.

You turned your hand under his, lacing your fingers properly. His grip tightened in response.

“So… what now?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead he lifted your joined hands slightly, studying them like they were something fragile and important. The string lights reflected softly in his eyes.

“Now?” he said finally. “We keep doing this. If you still want to. Just… no more pretending on your side. You can ask questions if you want. Or not. Whatever feels right.”

You nodded, throat tight. “I still want the corner guy more than the idol. If that’s okay.”

His smile this time was small but real—reaching his eyes, crinkling them at the corners. “That’s more than okay. That’s exactly what I need.”

You sat like that for a long while, hands linked across the small table, pastries forgotten and cooling. The café lights dimmed on schedule, but neither of you moved to end the night. Outside, Seoul kept moving—loud, bright, demanding. Inside, the corner booth held its own small world.

When he finally stood to leave, he didn’t let go of your hand right away. At the door he paused, looking back at you with that same intense, soft gaze.

“Goodnight… barista who knows my secret.”

You laughed wetly, the last of the panic fading into something warmer. “Goodnight, corner guy.”

He left the usual tip and a new napkin doodle: two stick figures holding hands across a tiny table, with a little heart above them. No masks. No hoods. Just them.

You locked the door behind him, pressed the napkin to your chest, and let out the longest breath you’d held in days.

The secret was out.

The tension hadn’t broken.

If anything… it had only grown deeper.

⸻

The next night felt different the moment you tied your apron.

Not in a scary way. More like the café itself had exhaled—string lights warmer, the lo-fi playlist softer, the air carrying that faint woody cologne scent even before he arrived. You’d saved the last two slices of honey cake from the batch you’d perfected during your afternoon prep. Your hands were steadier today. The panic from last night had faded into a quiet, fluttering anticipation.

When the bell jingled at 11:29 p.m., you looked up with a real smile this time. No forced brightness. Just honest warmth.

He stepped in, hoodie slightly less rumpled, cap still low but pushed back just enough for you to see his eyes clearly. The exhaustion was still there, but his shoulders seemed lighter. He met your gaze across the counter and held it, the corner of his mouth lifting in that now-familiar half-smile.

“Americano?” you asked, already reaching for his cup.

“Hot, extra shot, no sugar,” he confirmed, voice low and a little playful. “You know the order better than I do now.”

You laughed softly as you rang him up. “Been practicing it in my sleep at this point.”

The cash exchanged hands with a lingering brush of fingers—deliberate on both sides this time. No pulling away. The spark traveled up your arm and settled warmly in your chest.

You warmed the honey cake slices and carried everything to the corner booth yourself. He was already settled, back to the wall, monstera leaves framing him like a private little greenhouse. When you set the plate down, he looked up at you with those dark, expressive eyes—ON:N’s eyes, but somehow softer here under the golden lights.

“Sit?” he asked, gesturing to the spot across from him. Then, quieter, “Please?”

You slid in without hesitation. Your knees brushed under the table again, and this time you let them stay. The small space between you felt charged but safe now. No more secrets pressing down.

He broke one slice of cake in half and slid the bigger piece toward you. “You first. Tell me if it’s any good.”

You took a bite. The honey sweetness melted on your tongue, warm and fragrant. “It’s really good tonight. I think I finally nailed the glaze.”

He tried his own piece and hummed in approval, eyes closing for a second. “You did. This might be my new favorite.”

For a while you just ate in comfortable silence, the kind you’d built over weeks of late nights. But now there was a new layer—openness. You could feel him watching you gently, like he was waiting for you to set the pace.

Eventually, you spoke.

“Can I ask… something small?” Your voice was hesitant but curious. “Nothing invasive. I promise.”

He nodded, setting his fork down. “Anything.”

You traced the edge of your plate with a fingertip. “The long days… are they always like this? The kind that make you come here at midnight just to breathe?”

He leaned back slightly, but not away from you. “Most days, yeah. Practice starts early. Schedules run long. There’s filming, recordings, meetings, fan meetings… it never really stops. Sometimes it feels like I’m running on a stage that never ends.” His thumb brushed a crumb off the table. “Coming here is the only time the noise quiets down. No cameras. No expectations. Just good coffee and someone who looks at me like I’m just… a person.”

Your heart squeezed. You reached across and rested your hand over his again, the same way he had last night. His fingers turned immediately, lacing with yours.

“I’m glad you have this place,” you said softly. “And… I’m really glad you kept coming back even after I found out.”

“I almost didn’t last night,” he admitted with a small, sheepish smile. “I thought maybe you’d changed how you saw me. That the corner would feel different.”

“It did feel different,” you confessed. “But only because I was scared of messing it up. I still see you the same. The guy who needs extra hot Americanos and draws smiley coffee cups on napkins.”

His thumb started those slow circles on the back of your hand again. The touch sent gentle sparks through you. The tension was still there—thicker now with honesty—but it felt sweeter. Like honey cake instead of espresso shots.

You stayed like that for nearly forty minutes. He told you a few light stories: how he sometimes got lyrics stuck in his head at 3 a.m., the way the dorm could get chaotic with six other guys, how he loved dancing but the endless repetitions could make his body ache. You shared more about your classes, the way Seoul still felt overwhelming sometimes, how working at Haven Brew made the big city feel smaller and kinder.

Every shared word pulled you closer. Your knees pressed together comfortably under the table. At one point you laughed at the same time over a silly customer story, and the sound mingled warmly in the quiet café.

When the main lights dimmed on schedule, neither of you moved right away. He kept holding your hand, studying your joined fingers like they anchored him.

“I should let you close,” he murmured, but made no effort to stand.

“You should,” you agreed, smiling. “But I don’t mind the company while I do it.”

He helped you this time—carrying his own cup to the counter, wiping down the table while you mopped. The domestic little routine made your chest feel full. When everything was done and the OPEN sign was off, he lingered by the door with you.

Before he could say goodnight, you found your courage.

“Thank you,” you said quietly. “For trusting me with this. With you.”

He looked down at you, expression incredibly soft in the low golden glow. The moment stretched, heavy with everything unsaid and everything newly acknowledged.

Then he spoke, voice barely above a whisper but perfectly clear.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

Your breath caught. Hearing your name in his voice—low, warm, personal—sent a rush through you stronger than any stage light or banner ever could. It felt intimate. Real.

You smiled, heart soaring, and answered without hesitation.

“Goodnight, Jihwan.”

His eyes widened slightly, then crinkled with the biggest smile you’d seen from him yet—small, but genuine and bright enough to light the whole café. He repeated it softly, like he was tasting how it felt.

“Y/N,” he said again, almost reverent.

“Jihwan,” you echoed back, the name feeling perfectly right on your tongue. Not ON:N. Not corner guy. Just him.

He reached out and brushed a stray hair from your cheek with gentle fingers. The touch lingered. The air between you hummed with new possibility—slow, careful, but undeniably growing.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promised.

“I’ll have your Americano waiting.”

He gave that little polite bow, but this time it felt different. Warmer. More personal. Then he slipped out into the night, the bell jingling softly behind him.

You locked the door, leaned against it, and pressed your fingers to your cheek where he’d touched you. Your name in his voice still echoed in your ears. His name felt like a secret you now got to keep together.

On the counter, he’d left the usual tip and one last napkin. This doodle was the simplest yet: two stick figures, no table between them this time. Just them, standing close, with a single heart above their joined hands.

You smiled so wide your cheeks hurt.

The corner booth had a name now.

And so did the boy who sat in it.

⸻

The nights were getting colder.

Seoul had slipped fully into late autumn, the kind where the wind carried the promise of winter and made the string lights inside Haven Brew feel like the only warmth in the world. You’d started keeping an extra blanket folded behind the counter for the final hour of your shift, and you’d taken to brewing a small pot of herbal tea just for the scent it added to the air.

Jihwan had come every night this week.

Tonight was no different—except everything felt a little more.

He arrived at 11:27 p.m., shaking a few raindrops from his hood even though the drizzle outside was light. His cap was pushed back slightly tonight, like he didn’t feel the need to hide quite so much anymore. When he reached the counter, his eyes found yours immediately, and the small smile that curved his lips made your stomach do that familiar, traitorous flip.

“Americano, hot, extra shot, no sugar… Y/N?” he said, voice low and teasing around your name.

Hearing it from him still sent warmth rushing through you. You grinned, cheeks pink. “Coming right up, Jihwan.”

The name felt intimate on your tongue now. Like a secret you were both allowed to share.

You made his drink with extra care, adding a fresh slice of the cinnamon streusel cake you’d baked that afternoon. When you carried it to the corner booth, he was already waiting, monstera leaves brushing his shoulder like an old friend. You set everything down and slid into the seat across from him without being asked this time. Your knees pressed together comfortably under the table. Neither of you moved away.

“Thank you,” he murmured, wrapping his hands around the cup. “For always making it feel like this.”

“Like what?” you asked softly, breaking off a piece of cake to share.

“Like home. Or the closest thing I get to it lately.”

The honesty in his voice made your chest ache in the best way. You talked for a long time that night—longer than usual. He told you about a particularly grueling choreography practice earlier, how his shoulders were sore but the new song was starting to feel right. You told him about the online literature paper you were struggling with, the way certain poems made you think of late-night café moments like this one.

You used his name more freely. “Does the dancing ever feel overwhelming, Jihwan?”

He answered with your name like it grounded him. “Sometimes, Y/N. But then I remember there’s a corner waiting.”

The tension between you hummed steadily now—warm, sweet, impossible to ignore. Every brush of fingers when you passed him a napkin, every shared laugh, every time your eyes met and held just a second too long. The air felt thicker with possibility.

At 12:15 a.m., long after closing time, you finally stood to finish the last tasks. He helped again, wiping down tables while you mopped, moving around each other in the quiet space like it was the most natural thing in the world. When everything was done and the café was dark except for the golden string lights, he lingered by the door with you.

“It’s raining a little harder now,” he said, glancing outside. “Let me walk you home? It’s late.”

Your heart skipped. You’d walked these streets alone hundreds of times, but the thought of doing it with him made everything feel softer.

“Yeah,” you said, smiling up at him. “I’d like that.”

You locked up, pulled your coat tighter, and stepped out into the cool night beside him. The rain was gentle—more mist than droplets—making the streetlights glow in soft halos. He kept his hood up out of habit, but stayed close enough that your shoulders brushed as you walked. The city was quieter at this hour, just the distant hum of traffic and the soft patter of rain on pavement.

For the first few blocks you walked in comfortable silence, shoulders touching, breaths syncing. Then he spoke.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” he said quietly. “About how long I kept coming here without telling you who I was. I worried it was unfair to you.”

You shook your head, bumping his arm lightly. “It wasn’t. I liked not knowing at first. It let me see you, Jihwan. Not the version everyone else sees on stage.”

He stopped under a streetlamp, turning to face you. Rain misted his lashes. The light cast warm shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp jaw you’d first noticed that very first night, the tired but gentle eyes that had become your favorite sight after midnight.

“You still see me that way?” he asked, voice barely above the rain. “Even now?”

“Always,” you whispered. “ON:N is incredible. I’ve watched a couple fancams since finding out—don’t laugh—but Jihwan is the one who sits in my corner booth and makes me laugh with napkin doodles. That’s the one I—”

You caught yourself, cheeks burning. But he stepped a little closer, eyes darkening with that same intense focus that always made your pulse race.

“The one you what, Y/N?” he murmured.

Your back was nearly against the quiet brick wall of a closed shop. He wasn’t crowding you, but the space between you had shrunk to almost nothing. You could smell his cologne mixed with rain, feel the warmth radiating from him despite the chill. His gaze dropped to your lips for a heartbeat, then back to your eyes.

Your breath hitched. “The one I look forward to seeing every night.”

He lifted a hand slowly, brushing a raindrop from your cheek with his thumb. The touch lingered, warm against your cooled skin. You tilted your head up instinctively. He leaned in, just a fraction—close enough that you felt his breath fan across your lips, close enough to count the tiny raindrops caught in his lashes.

Time slowed. The world narrowed to the golden streetlight, the soft rain, and the magnetic pull between you. His eyes fluttered half-closed. Yours did too. You could almost taste the moment—the almost-kiss hovering right there, sweet and inevitable and terrifying in how much you wanted it.

Then a car passed nearby, headlights sweeping across the street and breaking the spell.

Jihwan pulled back slightly, exhaling a shaky breath. A soft, self-conscious laugh escaped him as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “I… got carried away.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you said, voice barely steady. Your heart was still racing, lips tingling with the kiss that hadn’t quite happened. “I wasn’t exactly pulling away.”

He smiled then—small, shy, but bright enough to rival the streetlamp. “Good. Because I’ve been thinking about that for longer than I probably should admit.”

You laughed softly, the sound mingling with the rain. He offered his arm, and you took it, walking the rest of the way to your apartment building with shoulders pressed close and unspoken promises hanging in the misty air.

When you reached your door, he lingered on the steps, hands in his hoodie pockets like he didn’t want the night to end either.

“Thank you for walking me, Jihwan,” you said, using his name like a caress.

“Thank you for letting me, Y/N.” He bowed that polite little bow, but this time he added a tiny wave—playful, personal. “Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow night?”

“Americano will be waiting. And maybe more honey cake.”

He waited until you were safely inside before turning to leave. Through the glass door you watched him disappear into the rain, hood up, steps lighter than when he’d arrived.

You leaned against the inside of your door, fingers pressed to your lips, replaying that almost-kiss on a loop. The tension hadn’t broken.

It had only grown warmer. Deeper.

And tomorrow night, the corner booth would be waiting—along with whatever came next.

⸻

Walking you home became the new rhythm.

It started the night after the almost-kiss and simply… continued. Every closing shift, Jihwan would stay until the last light dimmed, help you with the final tasks, then step out into the Seoul night beside you. Sometimes it drizzled. Sometimes the air was crisp and clear. But always, he stayed close—shoulder brushing yours, fingers occasionally intertwining when the streets were quiet enough.

The walks stretched longer than necessary. You took the scenic route some nights, detouring past glowing convenience stores or quiet parks where autumn leaves still clung to the trees. He’d tell you about his day in soft fragments: a particularly difficult vocal recording, the way the members teased him for disappearing after schedules, how your honey cake had become a secret craving he hid from the dorm. You’d share yours in return—funny customer stories, the paper you finally finished, how hearing him say your name still made your stomach flutter.

He always waited until you were safely inside your building before leaving. A soft “Goodnight, Y/N,” a lingering look, and then he’d disappear into the dark with his hood up.

It felt safe. It felt right.

And every night, the tension between you grew heavier, sweeter, more impossible to ignore.

Then came that night.

It had been a particularly long shift for both of you. Jihwan arrived later than usual—11:52 p.m.—looking drained but determined. His eyes lit up the moment they found you behind the counter. You made his Americano extra strong, added two slices of warm chocolate cake, and the two of you spent nearly an hour in the corner booth. Hands linked across the table. Knees pressed together. Names whispered like secrets every few sentences.

When you finally locked up at 12:40 a.m., the city was unusually still. A cold front had rolled in, but neither of you minded. Jihwan took your hand immediately this time, lacing your fingers tightly as you started the familiar walk.

The conversation stayed light at first, but the air between you crackled. Every brush of his thumb over your knuckles sent sparks racing up your arm. You could feel him stealing glances at you under the streetlights—dark eyes lingering on your lips, your throat, the way your coat hugged your frame.

By the time you reached your apartment building, the tension was unbearable. You stopped at the steps leading to the entrance, turning to face him. The street was empty. The only light came from the soft glow of the lobby behind the glass doors and the distant amber streetlamps.

“Thank you for walking me again, Jihwan,” you whispered, stepping just a little closer.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead he cupped your face with both hands—gentle at first, then firmer as he tilted your chin up. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, eyes searching yours with raw intensity.

“Y/N…” The way he said your name was different tonight. Rougher. Hungrier.

You rose onto your toes at the same moment he leaned down.

The kiss wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t sweet.

It was deep.

His mouth met yours with weeks of built-up longing, hot and urgent. You gasped softly into it and he took the opportunity to tilt his head, deepening the kiss instantly. His lips were soft but demanding, tongue tracing your bottom lip before slipping inside to taste you properly. A low sound rumbled in his chest—half groan, half sigh—and it sent heat flooding through your entire body.

You pressed closer, hands fisting in the front of his hoodie. He backed you gently against the cool wall beside the entrance, one thigh sliding between yours as the kiss turned heavier. Tongues tangled slowly, deliberately. The taste of coffee and chocolate lingered between you. His hands slid down to your waist, gripping firmly, pulling you flush against him until you could feel the hard line of his body, the way his breath had already grown ragged.

Your own body responded instantly—heat pooling low in your stomach, thighs pressing against his leg, a soft whimper escaping into his mouth. Jihwan shuddered at the sound, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck while the other gripped your hip harder. He kissed you like he was starving for it, slow and filthy and perfect, hips rolling subtly against yours in a way that made you both acutely aware of how turned on you were getting.

You could feel him hardening against your thigh. The realization sent another rush of heat through you. Your fingers tangled in his hair under the hood, tugging lightly, and he groaned into your mouth—deep, needy, barely restrained.

The kiss went on and on, growing messier, breaths mingling hotly, bodies pressed so close there was no space left for doubt. His thigh pressed firmer between your legs, giving you the slightest friction that had you gasping and rocking against him instinctively.

Then, with a sharp inhale, Jihwan pulled back.

Just enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breathing was harsh, chest heaving. His hands trembled slightly where they gripped your waist. You could feel how hard he was against you, how much he wanted to keep going.

“Y/N…” he rasped, voice wrecked. “If we keep going… I’m not gonna be able to hold myself back any longer.”

The words hung heavy between you, raw and honest. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, lips kiss-swollen and glistening. He looked like he was using every ounce of willpower he had left.

“I want you,” he continued, barely above a whisper, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “So fucking badly. But not like this… not against a wall after midnight when I have to leave for schedules in a few hours. You deserve better than rushed and desperate.”

You were breathing just as hard, body aching with the sudden loss of contact. Your hands stayed fisted in his hoodie, unwilling to let go completely.

He pressed one last, softer kiss to your lips—lingering, tender, full of promise—then pulled back with visible effort.

“Get inside,” he murmured, voice strained. “Before I change my mind.”

You nodded shakily, legs unsteady as you stepped toward the door. At the threshold you turned back once more.

“Goodnight, Jihwan,” you whispered, the words heavy with everything unsaid.

He smiled—small, pained, but warm. “Goodnight, Y/N. Dream of me?”

“Only if you dream of me.”

He waited until the door clicked shut behind you, watching through the glass as you disappeared into the elevator. Only then did he turn and walk away, hands shoved deep in his pockets, head tilted back toward the cold night sky like he needed the chill to cool the fire you’d lit in him.

Inside your apartment, you leaned against the closed door, fingers pressed to your thoroughly kissed lips, heart pounding and body still buzzing.

⸻

The days after that first heavy kiss blurred into a haze of stolen touches and aching anticipation.

Jihwan still came every night. The corner booth remained sacred—hands linked across the table, knees pressed together, his name on your lips and yours on his like a private ritual. But the walks home had changed. Every night the air grew heavier. Lingering kisses at your door became longer, deeper, his hands gripping your waist harder, your fingers tangling in his hair as you both fought for control. He always pulled back first, breathing ragged, whispering against your mouth, “Not yet, Y/N… not like this.”

You respected it. You wanted it to be right.

But the tension was becoming unbearable.

By the fifth night, you could barely focus during your shift. Every glance from him across the café made heat pool low in your belly. Every time his thumb brushed your knuckles, you felt it between your thighs. He knew it too—his dark eyes would darken further, jaw tightening like he was barely holding himself together.

That night, the walk home started like all the others.

Rain had been threatening all evening, the air thick and electric. Jihwan’s hand found yours immediately after you locked the café, fingers laced tightly as you strolled the quiet streets. The conversation stayed light on the surface—his latest recording session, your upcoming literature exam—but underneath it hummed something feral.

Halfway to your apartment, the sky cracked open.

Thunder boomed suddenly, loud enough to rattle windows. Rain poured down in a sudden, violent sheet, soaking you both instantly. You squealed, laughing in surprise, and Jihwan tugged you closer, trying to shield you with his hoodie even though it was useless. Lightning flashed, illuminating his face—wet hair plastered to his forehead, eyes intense, lips parted.

By the time you reached your building, you were both drenched. Water dripped from his hood, ran down the sharp line of his jaw. Your clothes clung to your body, and you caught him staring at the way your shirt stuck to your chest.

You stopped at the entrance, breathing hard from the run through the rain. Another thunderclap shook the air.

“You’re not walking back in this,” you said firmly, grabbing his hand tighter. “Come inside, Jihwan. Please.”

He hesitated for half a second, eyes searching yours. Rain streamed down his face. Then he nodded once, voice low and rough. “Yeah. Okay.”

The elevator ride was silent, charged. Your apartment door had barely clicked shut behind you before he was on you.

Jihwan cupped your face with both hands and kissed you like he’d been starving for days. Deep, filthy, immediate. His tongue slid against yours instantly, tasting rain and longing. You moaned into his mouth, hands fisting his soaked hoodie, pulling him closer. He backed you against the wall of your entryway, one thigh pressing between your legs as the kiss turned messy and desperate.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he growled against your lips, voice wrecked. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His hands roamed—sliding down your sides, gripping your waist hard enough to leave marks, then lower to squeeze your ass and pull you flush against the obvious hardness in his soaked sweatpants. You gasped at the feel of him, already so hard, grinding slowly against your core through wet fabric.

He broke the kiss only to trail his mouth down your neck, sucking and biting gently. “Been thinking about this every night. About how wet you get for me just from kissing.”

You whimpered, hips rolling against his thigh. He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Such a needy little thing. My sweet barista’s been hiding how much of a slut she is for me, hasn’t she?”

The mix of praise and degradation made heat flood through you. You nodded frantically, fingers threading through his wet hair. “Only for you, Jihwan.”

He groaned and lifted you suddenly—strong hands under your thighs, carrying you like you weighed nothing. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively as he carried you down the short hallway to your bedroom, still kissing you breathless the entire way.

He laid you on the bed with surprising gentleness, but the look in his eyes was anything but. Rain pounded against the windows, thunder rumbling like background music to the storm building between you. He stripped his soaked hoodie and shirt off in one motion, revealing toned muscle and smooth skin glistening with rainwater. Your mouth went dry.

“Clothes off, baby,” he ordered softly, already reaching for your shirt.

You obeyed, peeling off wet layers until you were bare beneath him. Jihwan’s gaze raked over you hungrily, hands following—slow, reverent at first, then firmer. He cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they pebbled, then leaned down to suck one into his mouth while his fingers teased the other.

“So perfect,” he murmured against your skin. “So fucking pretty for me.”

His hand slid lower, trailing over your stomach until he reached between your thighs. He groaned at how wet you already were. “All this for me? You’re dripping, Y/N.”

Two fingers circled your clit slowly, teasing, before sliding down to push inside you—deep and easy from how soaked you were. You arched off the bed with a moan. He pumped them slowly at first, curling them just right, thumb pressing steady circles on your clit.

“Look at you,” he praised, voice low and filthy. “Taking my fingers so well like a good little slut. So tight and wet… been dreaming about this pussy for weeks.”

You moaned louder, hips rocking against his hand. He added a third finger, stretching you, fucking you deeper while his mouth claimed yours again. The wet sounds of his fingers moving inside you mixed with the rain and thunder outside. He kept the pace torturously slow, building you higher and higher until your thighs trembled.

“That’s it, baby. Ride my fingers. Show me how bad you need it.”

When you were right on the edge, whimpering and clenching around him, he pulled his fingers out. You whined at the loss, but he was already moving down your body, settling between your spread thighs.

He looked up at you, eyes dark and hungry. “Gonna taste you now. Want you to cum on my tongue first.”

Then his mouth was on you—hot, wet, relentless. He licked a broad stripe upward before focusing on your clit, sucking it gently while two fingers pushed back inside you. The combination had you crying out, hands fisting the sheets. He ate you out like he was savoring every drop, moaning against your pussy, the vibrations sending shocks through you.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he groaned, tongue fucking into you alongside his fingers. “My pretty girl’s pussy is perfect. So sweet and sloppy for me.”

He added a third finger again, curling them against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. His other hand reached up to wrap around your throat—light pressure, just enough to make your head spin in the best way. You gasped, hips grinding against his face as he devoured you.

“Cum for me, Y/N,” he commanded against your clit. “Be a good slut and cum on my tongue.”

The orgasm crashed over you hard—waves of pleasure making your thighs shake, back arch, a broken moan of his name spilling from your lips. He didn’t stop, licking you through it, drawing it out until you were trembling and oversensitive.

Only then did he pull back, lips shiny with your arousal, eyes wild. He stripped off the rest of his clothes, revealing his hard cock—thick, flushed, leaking at the tip. You whimpered at the sight, reaching for him.

Jihwan crawled over you, forcing your thighs wider apart. He rubbed the head of his cock against your slick folds, teasing your clit until you were begging.

“Please, Jihwan… need you inside me.”

He leaned down, kissing you deeply so you could taste yourself on his tongue. “Gonna fuck you now, baby. Gonna ruin this pretty pussy until you’re cock drunk and can’t think straight.”

He pushed in slowly—inch by thick inch—stretching you open with a long, guttural groan. The fullness was overwhelming in the best way. When he bottomed out, buried to the hilt, he stilled, forehead pressed to yours.

“Fuck… so tight. So perfect around me.”

Then he started moving. Deep, slow thrusts at first, letting you feel every inch. The wet slap of skin and your combined moans mixed with the thunderstorm outside. Gradually he picked up pace, hips snapping harder, one hand wrapping around your throat again while the other pinned your hip down, manhandling you exactly how he wanted.

“You take my cock so well,” he praised between thrusts, voice rough. “Such a good little cumslut for me. Look at you—already going dumb on my dick.”

You were. Pleasure fogged your mind, every thrust hitting deep and perfect. He fucked you harder, angling to hit that spot inside you over and over. Your nails raked down his back, legs wrapped tight around his waist as another orgasm built fast.

“Cum again for me,” he growled, choking you lightly. “Want to feel you milking my cock.”

You shattered around him with a cry, clenching so hard he groaned loudly, pace faltering for a moment. But he didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, then flipped you over suddenly—repositioning you onto your hands and knees.

“Arch your back, baby. Let me fuck you deeper.”

He slammed back in from behind, one hand fisting your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. The new angle had you seeing stars, moaning brokenly into the mattress as he pounded into you relentlessly.

“That’s my good girl. Taking every inch like you were made for it. Gonna fill you up so good.”

You lost track of how many times you came—each one blending into the next until you were limp and cock drunk, babbling his name, tears of pleasure slipping down your cheeks. Jihwan’s thrusts grew erratic, breath ragged.

“Gonna cum, Y/N—fuck, where do you want it?”

“Inside,” you gasped. “Please, Jihwan, fill me up.”

With a deep, broken moan he buried himself to the hilt and came hard, pulsing inside you as thunder crashed outside. He kept thrusting through it, grinding deep, filling you until you were leaking around him.

Finally he collapsed over you, carefully pulling out and rolling you both so you were tucked against his chest. His arms wrapped around you tightly, lips pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your temple, your swollen lips.

“You okay, baby?” he whispered, voice hoarse but gentle now. “Was that… too much?”

You shook your head, nuzzling into his neck, still trembling from aftershocks. “Perfect. You’re perfect.”

He chuckled softly, holding you closer as the rain continued pouring outside.

⸻

The rain was still falling hard outside, thunder rumbling distantly like a fading echo of everything that had just happened between you.

Jihwan hadn’t let go of you for even a second.

His arms stayed wrapped around your trembling body, one hand gently stroking up and down your spine while the other cradled the back of your head against his chest. His heart was still racing under your ear, but his touch had turned impossibly soft—reverent, careful, like you were something precious he was afraid to break now that the intensity had passed.

“You with me, baby?” he whispered, voice hoarse and low. He pressed a slow kiss to your temple, then your damp forehead. “Talk to me, Y/N.”

You managed a small, shaky sound—half hum, half whimper. Your body felt boneless, limbs heavy with exhaustion and lingering pleasure. Your mind was still floating somewhere far away, fuzzy and warm.

Jihwan chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest. “That’s okay. Take your time. I’ve got you.”

He stayed like that for a long while, just holding you as your breathing evened out. Eventually he shifted carefully, slipping out of bed despite your soft protest. You heard him pad to the bathroom, water running, then he returned with a warm, damp cloth and a glass of water.

“Easy,” he murmured, helping you sit up against the pillows. He held the glass to your lips first, supporting the back of your head with one hand while you drank in small sips. “Good girl. Slow.”

The praise, so gentle now compared to the filthy things he’d said earlier, made fresh heat bloom in your cheeks. He smiled at that, brushing hair from your face.

Once you’d had enough water, he guided you to lie back and parted your thighs with careful hands. The cloth was warm and soothing as he cleaned you up—gentle strokes between your legs, wiping away the mess of both of you. Every touch was tender, apologetic almost, like he was thanking your body for what it had given him.

“Does it hurt anywhere?” he asked quietly, eyes focused on his task. “I wasn’t exactly gentle at the end.”

You shook your head, finally finding your voice. “No… felt good. Really good.” Your words were still a little slurred, but clearer. “Just… floaty.”

He smiled again, soft and fond, and finished cleaning you before tossing the cloth aside. Then he climbed back into bed, pulling the covers over both of you and tugging you into his chest once more. Skin to skin, warm and safe. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your bare shoulder while rain pattered against the window.

“You were perfect,” he whispered after a while. “So beautiful when you fall apart for me. I could watch you like that forever.”

You nuzzled closer, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. The post-orgasm haze was finally lifting enough for coherent thoughts to return. For the first time since he’d carried you to bed, your mind felt steady.

“Jihwan?” you asked softly.

“Hm?”

You hesitated, fingers tracing the line of his chest. “What are we?”

The question hung in the quiet room, heavier than the thunder had been. Jihwan’s hand stilled on your back for a moment, then resumed its slow stroking.

He let out a long breath. “I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”

You shifted so you could look up at him. His dark eyes met yours—tired, vulnerable, but open in a way they rarely were with anyone else.

“I know what I feel,” he continued, voice low and careful. “I’ve never had this before. Someone who sees me as Jihwan first. Not ON:N. Not the maknae of ALL(H)OURS. Just… me. The guy who needs a quiet corner and strong coffee and someone who doesn’t expect anything except honesty.” He swallowed. “You give me peace, Y/N. In a life that barely lets me breathe. And tonight… being with you like that? It felt like everything I’ve been holding back finally made sense.”

Your heart squeezed. You reached up to trace his jaw. “I feel the same. I didn’t fall for an idol. I fell for the boy who left napkin doodles and remembered my name like it was important. But… your world is so big. Schedules, fans, cameras, the company. I’m just a barista trying to figure out her life in Seoul. I don’t want to make things harder for you.”

He rolled you gently onto your back so he could hover over you, elbows braced on either side of your head. Not trapping you—just close. Intimate.

“You’re not making anything harder,” he said firmly. “If anything, you’re the only thing keeping me grounded. I know it won’t be easy. There’ll be nights I can’t come. Secrets we’ll have to keep for a while. Dates that might just be late-night walks or hidden café corners. But I want to try. I want us.”

He paused, forehead resting against yours. “I’m not asking you to be my secret forever. But right now… while things are this intense with promotions and everything… can we be this? Just ours? You and me. No labels the outside world gets to touch yet. But between us? You’re mine, Y/N. And I’m yours. If you’ll have me.”

Tears pricked at your eyes. Not from sadness—from the overwhelming warmth of it all. You cupped his face with both hands, thumbs brushing his cheeks.

“I’m yours,” you whispered. “I’ve been yours since the first time you sat in that corner and looked at me like I was the only real thing in your night. We’ll figure out the rest. Slowly. Like everything else we’ve done.”

Jihwan’s smile was small but radiant. He leaned down and kissed you—soft this time. Slow and sweet, full of promise instead of hunger. When he pulled back, he rested his head on your chest, letting you thread your fingers through his hair.

“I’m scared,” he admitted quietly after a while. “Of messing this up. Of the company finding out and making things difficult. Of you getting tired of all the hiding.”

You held him tighter. “I’m scared too. But I’ve never wanted anything more than I want this. Us. The corner booth, the walks home, nights like tonight… and mornings after.”

He lifted his head again, eyes searching yours. “Then we protect it. Together. No matter how slow we have to go.”

You nodded, pulling him back down for another kiss. This one lingered longer, tender and deep, sealing the quiet agreement between you.

Outside, the storm had eased into a steady, soothing rain. Inside, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world felt small and safe again.

Jihwan eventually reached for the water glass again, making sure you drank more before pulling the covers higher around you both. He tucked you against his side, one leg thrown over yours possessively, lips brushing your hair.

“Sleep, baby,” he murmured. “I’ll be here when you wake up. We’ve got time.”

You believed him.

For the first time since you’d discovered who he really was, the future didn’t feel terrifying. It felt like a slow, beautiful continuation of the story that had started in a quiet corner booth at 11:47 p.m.

Just two people.

One storm outside.

One storm finally calmed inside.

TYSM for reading!!

Feel free to check out my master list part 1 and Masterlist part 2 to see more of my works! (Part 2 has my newer and better ones)