"hey.. baby just sit.. still okay? i.. i can't focus when– " he started softly and cut himself off as he bit back a soft noise from the back of his throat. his eyes flicking away from the laptop that had half finished work open on it.

his big, warm palms came down to cradle your waist , making him swallow hard at the give of skin. "f..fuck.. like it when you're this close. you're so w..warm" he whispered. one thing about anton is that he loved to say how he felt in the moment , in his own gentle way that didn't mean to make your stomach turn the way it did.

you pressed your face into his neck with a silent huff that made him smile.. his lips kissing your jaw as you complained. "'s not.. like you're trying to focus baby.." you whispered.. your hips gave a gentle rock.. right against his aching, trapped length, squirming on top of him until he gasped lightly into your ear.

your body heated under his hands as he gritted out. "s...said you were gonna keep me company baby? keep me focused? this how you plan on helping hm?" his cheeks were flushed a delicate pink.. "bein.. so fucking mean" he whispered as he guided your hips into a slow, firm grind.

your lips parted with a moan and he leaned down to swallow it down in a messy kiss. his nose bumped yours and his hands tightened around your hips as he slid his tongue softly into your mouth.. he always tasted sweet, just like the strawberry mints he always liked to keep around. his breath came out in little gasps against your mouth as you buried hands into his hair tugging him closer as you rocked against him.

it was torture but fuck if it felt good.. his voice was barely coherent when he whimpered. "baby... f..fuck d..don't stop.." his lips pressed harder against your own.. his heart was pounding against your chest as his fingers trembled up to pull your top up and over your head.

anton's breath hitched harder when you leaned back just to show him your tits.. perfect as he gently squeezed them in his palms. his gaze held obsession..pupils blown wide and kiss swollen lips half open in moans whilst you grinded so sweetly on him.

his perfect, sweet girl.. making him feel so good he was gonna lose it in his pants like a virgin.

his moans became breathless.. head thrown back as he palmed your waist urging you faster.. drinking in the sight of you and the sound of your own whimpers mingling with his own. "o..oh mygod.. i'm gonna–" he trailed off.. biting his lip as he almost begged you to stop.. just so he wouldn't finish.

but instead all that came out was a desperate little. "fuck–!" as he trembled under you.. his chest heaving like he'd ran a mile.

you could feel the damp, sticky release between your legs, both of you warm from pleasure. your own panties were beyond help, soaked in your own slick and his desperate release as he surged up to kiss you firm and hard, whispering sweet praise. "you d...did so good baby.. c..couldn't help it.. 'm sorry".

you shook your head leaning down to kiss his rosy cheeks as he dragged a hand down his face ,mildly embarassed from cumming so quick.. practically untouched.

"mmh don't say sorry.. wanted to make you feel good anton" you whispered against his skin, making him smile into your neck where he had buried his face.

he wasted no time, hoisting you up against him and standing with a groan, despite the mess, as he held you tight.. still trembling from his orgasm. he spoke soft as ever. "fuck.. t's my turn okay? my turn to make you f...feel just as good as you made me. like you always do" his voice held promise and heat as he carried you to bed..and the same adoration that he always had for you.

For an instant, Sungchan’s gaze brushed the crowd and stopped. On me.

I froze, certain I must have imagined it. Then the beat dropped, and he turned away, swallowed again by the light and sound.

When the concert ended, the world felt quieter, smaller. My phone buzzed with notifications, but one photo made my breath catch: Sungchan mid-turn, eyes unmistakably meeting the lens, as if he had seen me. I stared at it until the arena lights dimmed completely.

Weeks later, Lisbon settled back into its ordinary rhythm: the tram bells, the river breeze, the smell of roasted chestnuts in the streets. I was trying to return to work, to normal days, yet that single photo glowed at the edge of every thought. I told myself it was nothing, just timing, chance, pixels.

Still, sometimes I opened the picture and felt that same tremor of recognition, as though it carried a secret meant for me alone.

Months slipped past. The brightness of that night blurred into memory, yet the photo remained pinned to my mind like a bookmark. Each time I looked at it, I felt the same pull; not toward fame or fantasy, but toward possibility. Maybe this was the sign I needed, a reminder that some dreams waited only for courage.

And so, when the job offer from Seoul arrived. A design position at Vivid Seoul Magazine, I didn’t hesitate.

The weeks before the flight blurred into a rush of packing lists, visa papers, and sleepless nights spent wondering if I was doing the right thing. Yet beneath the nerves was a quiet thrill. For years I had dreamed of living abroad, of building something on my own terms.

When the day came, Porto’s sky was washed in soft gold. Sofia drove me to the airport and insisted on carrying the heaviest suitcase, muttering that friendship had weight limits. We both laughed, hugged for too long, and pretended not to notice the tears in each other’s eyes.

“Promise you’ll call the second you land,” Sofia said, forcing a grin. “I will,” I replied, voice steadier than what I felt.

As the plane rose over the river, the city shrank to a mosaic of light. I pressed my forehead to the window, letting the distance sink in.

By the time I stepped into the crisp air outside Incheon Airport, exhaustion and excitement tangled in my chest. The city unfolded before me in glass and motion; neon, billboards, and traffic weaving through the night. Everything looked alive, as if it had been waiting for my arrival.

My small apartment was exactly what the photos had promised: bright, compact, and perched high enough that I could see the Han River in the distance. I unpacked slowly, humming the last song Riize had performed in Lisbon. It echoed faintly in my memory, tethering the two cities together.

I sent Sofia a quick message: I made it. It’s beautiful here.Then I stood by the window, watching Seoul shimmer awake beneath me.

Monday came sooner than I was ready for. The offices of Vivid Seoul Magazine occupied three glossy floors of a downtown tower. Inside, the air smelled faintly of coffee and new paper.

I adjusted the strap of my tote and told myself to breathe.

“First day?” a voice asked as I waited for the elevator.

A young woman with a bob haircut and a bright smile extended her hand. “I’m Hana, editorial assistant. You must be y/n from Portugal.”

“That obvious?”

“Only because everyone’s been talking about the new designer.”

The elevator chimed. Hana led me through a maze of desks, introducing names I immediately forgot. The office buzzed with quiet energy, clicking keyboards, the murmur of ideas, the whir of printers.

My workspace sat near a tall window overlooking the river. I dropped my bag, exhaled, and tried not to stare at the skyline.

“Coffee machine’s in the break room,” Hana said. “We live on caffeine here.”

I smiled. “That makes us colleagues and survivors.”

By noon, the inbox was already full. I leaned over the tablet, sketching layout options for an upcoming feature, when a ripple of voices rose behind me.

“They’re here,” someone whispered, half-giddy.

I looked up. A small entourage was moving through the corridor; managers, stylists, and seven familiar faces. Riize.

My heart tripped. I blinked, half expecting my imagination to be playing tricks. But no... there was Jung Sungchan, in the middle of the group, tall and effortless, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth as he listened to the photographer.

I ducked my head, pretending to focus on the sketches, pulse thundering so loudly I barely heard Hana calling my name.

The photoshoot was scheduled for the next morning. I arrived early, clutching a clipboard that felt heavier than it should. The studio buzzed with quiet urgency: technicians adjusting lights, stylists unpacking racks of clothes, the faint scent of makeup and fabric steam in the air.

“First big project,” Hana whispered, eyes wide. “They’re shooting the cover story today. You’ll do fine.”

I smiled, though my palms were damp. “Just another day at work,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t tremble.

When the elevator doors opened, the atmosphere shifted. Riize entered, surrounded by staff, their presence drawing the room’s energy toward them. The sound of camera shutters paused, then resumed as greetings filled the air.

I focused on my tasks: checking layouts, confirming lighting plans—but every so often my eyes drifted toward the group. Sungchan laughed at something one of the stylists said, his expression easy, almost boyish. For a moment, the bright Seoul studio blurred into the memory of the Lisbon stage lights.

He turned then, scanning the room, and his gaze landed on me. The recognition was brief but unmistakable. Something flickered behind his calm expression; curiosity perhaps and then he looked away.

Hana nudged me gently. “You okay?” “Fine,” I murmured, flipping through pages that I could no longer read.

Hours passed in a rhythm of flashes and movement. I worked quietly at the edge of the set, updating the design board as each look changed. Every time Sungchan stepped before the camera, I caught myself studying the small details... the way he adjusted his jacket, the way he met the lens as if telling a secret.

During a break, the coordinator approached my desk. “We need an extra set of eyes on the preview monitor. The director wants someone from design to double-check the framing.”

I hesitated, then nodded. “Of course.”

When I reached the monitor, Sungchan was already there, towel draped around his neck, watching playback with one of the photographers. He glanced sideways and smiled politely. “You’re from Vivid, right?”

“Yes,” I said, grateful that my voice worked. “I’m checking layout alignment.”

He nodded, attention returning to the screen. “Do you usually look this serious when working?” he asked softly, a teasing note in his tone.

I blinked, caught off guard. “Only when the lighting tries to ruin the design.”

Sungchan chuckled. “Then we’ll blame the lights.”

The photographer called him back, and just like that he was gone again. Pulled into another sequence of poses and movements that left me both exhilarated and slightly dazed.

By the end of the day, the studio smelled of coffee and exhaustion. The final shots were approved, laughter rippled through the team, and someone suggested celebratory tteokbokki from a nearby stall.

I lingered to gather my things. As I zipped my bag, I heard a voice behind me.

“You work fast.”

I turned. Sungchan stood by the doorway, still in his stage outfit, hair slightly tousled.

“I try,” I said, smiling. “You perform faster.”

He grinned. “That’s part of the job.” For a heartbeat, silence stretched between usnot awkward, but charged with the kind of recognition that felt both impossible and familiar.

“It was a good shoot,” he said finally. “Maybe we’ll see you again in the next issue.”

“Maybe,” I echoed.

He gave a small wave and disappeared down the hall. I exhaled slowly, the city’s neon glow spilling through the studio windows like a reminder that my new life was only beginning.

The days that followed unfolded in a blur of edits, meetings, and half-finished coffees. Seoul’s rhythm was relentless but comforting, each morning beginning with the hum of traffic below my apartment, each night ending in the soft flicker of city lights through my curtains.

At Vivid, I was quickly becoming known for my precision and quiet determination. I learned the shortcuts through the subway, the best kimbap stall near the office, and how to order my favorite latte in hesitant Korean.

When the Riize cover went live, the issue sold out within hours. The office buzzed with excitement, screens filled with comments and reposts. Hana grinned at me across our desks. “Your layout’s everywhere,” she said, sliding her phone over to show me a clip from the group’s behind-the-scenes vlog.

In the video, Sungchan laughed mid-interview, saying something about the “really focused designer” who barely looked up from her work all day. The comment was casual, tossed between jokes, but it made my pulse stutter.

Hana caught my expression and smirked. “Focused designer, huh? Wonder who that could be.”

I rolled my eyes, but the warmth in my cheeks betrayed me. “Coincidence.”

“Sure,” Hana teased. “Coincidences that smile at you on camera.”

As the weeks passed, my confidence grew. My designs were being requested for more projects, and I began attending editorial meetings, learning how the magazine balanced art and marketing. Every so often, I passed Riize posters in subway stations—flashes of color and charisma that still felt surreal.

One Friday afternoon, my manager called me into a meeting. The brief was simple but thrilling: a full interview spread with Riize, shot across several Seoul landmarks.

“You’ll coordinate with the creative team and the group’s management,” he said. “You already worked on their visuals once—it makes sense to keep the style consistent.”

My heart skipped. “Of course. I’ll handle it.”

Hana grinned after the meeting. “Fate really likes you.”

I shook my head, smiling. “Or it likes chaos.”

The next week unfolded in flashes of color and motion. The Riize feature would span several Seoul landmarks: Namsan Tower, Ikseon-dong, and a rooftop near the Han River at sunset.

I spent my mornings coordinating outfits and layouts, my afternoons running between sets with design drafts tucked under my arm. It was exhausting, exhilarating work. The kind that left ink smudges on my fingers and satisfaction in my chest.

By the time the team reached the rooftop shoot, the sky had softened into gold. The skyline glowed, the river winding below like a sheet of glass. Music played low from a portable speaker; someone was laughing near the catering table.

I adjusted a banner along the edge of the set when I heard a familiar voice.

“Careful. The wind’s strong up here.”

I turned. Sungchan stood a few feet away, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun. He wasn’t in front of the camera yet, just watching the city.

“Thanks,” I said, gripping the banner before it could flutter loose. “Wouldn’t want the logo to take flight.”

He smiled. “It’d make a good story, though. Designer loses brand logo to the Han River.”

“Not the headline I’m going for,” I said with a quiet laugh.

He walked closer, hands tucked in his jacket pockets. “You seem calmer this time.”

“This time?”

“At the studio, you looked like you were trying not to breathe.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “You noticed that?”

Sungchan nodded. “I notice things.”

Something about his tone made my chest tighten, but before I could answer, the photographer called him to the set.

“Duty calls,” he said lightly, giving me a small wave before turning to join the group.

I watched him go, heart caught somewhere between amusement and nerves. I returned to my notes, though my focus kept slipping toward the sound of his laughter drifting through the evening air.

When the shoot wrapped, the team gathered for dinner at a small restaurant tucked behind Hongdae. The table was crowded with dishes: grilled meat, sizzling kimchi, and too many side plates to count. Conversation ebbed and flowed in English, Korean, and laughter.

Hana leaned over to whisper, “He keeps looking this way.”

I pretended not to understand. “Who?”

Hana just arched a brow.

Across the table, Sungchan was listening to Shotaro’s story, but his gaze flickered toward me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. It wasn’t bold, just quiet, lingering glances that warmed the edges of the room.

After dinner, most of the team drifted out toward taxis, but Sungchan lingered near the doorway, waiting.

“Heading home?” he asked when I stepped outside.

I nodded. “Trying to, at least. I still get lost after one wrong turn.”

“Then I’ll walk you to the station.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know,” he said simply.

We fell into step together. The air smelled faintly of rain and roasted corn from a nearby vendor. The city pulsed around us, neon signs reflecting off wet pavement.

“You know, I remember you from Lisbon,” he admitted after a moment.

My breath caught. “From Lisbon?” I asked.

He nodded, smiling faintly. “I vividly remember you back at the concert. I saw your face as clear as day.”

I blinked. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” He looked ahead, hands in his pockets. “It’s strange, right? Seeing someone once and then again like this.”

“Like the universe forgot to separate timelines,” I said softly.

Sungchan chuckled. “Something like that.”

We reached the station entrance. For a moment, neither of us moved. The sounds of Seoul: the trains, the chatter, the heartbeat of the city faded into the background.

“See you at the next shoot?” he asked.

“Definitely,” I said, smiling.

He grinned. “Good.”

Today was the magazine’s anniversary party, and it seemed to have arrived sooner than expected, a rooftop event overlooking the city skyline, all string lights and champagne. I wore a sleek black dress borrowed from Hana and a nervous smile I couldn’t quite shake.

The night was warm, music humming through the air. Editors mingled with models and photographers, laughter rippling like wind through glass.

I stood near the railing, sipping from a flute of sparkling water, when a voice behind me said, “You clean up well.”

I turned, heart skipping. Sungchan.

“You too,” I said, eyes catching the faint gleam of silver at his collar. “You’re not on the clock tonight?”

“Technically no,” he said. “But I owe the magazine one social appearance.”

We drifted toward a quieter corner, conversation flowing more easily than it should have between a designer and a public figure. He asked about my work, my favorite places in Seoul, and my adjustment to city life. I asked about the chaos of promotions and the pressure of constant attention.

“It’s weird,” he said. “Being known but not really seen.”

I nodded. “I get that. Just… from the other side.”

Our eyes met, and something unspoken stretched between us: recognition, maybe, or the fragile start of understanding.

Before either of us could say more, a staff member called him for a photo. He gave me an apologetic look. “Work never really stops.”

“I know the feeling,” I said.

He laughed, and for a moment, it felt like the city had shrunk to just the two of us, framed by lights and night air.

Later, when most guests had gone and the music had softened, I lingered by the railing again. Below me, the Han River glowed faintly. I thought about Lisbon, about that concert, and how impossible this would have seemed then.

A quiet voice broke through my thoughts.

“Still thinking about escaping?”

I turned—Sungchan again, holding two paper cups of tea.

“Just getting some air,” I said, smiling as he handed me one.

We stood side by side, steam curling between us.

“I don’t know what this is,” he said finally, voice low, pointing between us. “But I’d like to find out.”

I looked up at him, heart hammering. “Me too.”

The city around us blurred into soft light and distance. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The hum of traffic below mixed with the faint rhythm of music still drifting from the party.

Sungchan shifted closer, his voice barely above the wind. “You make it hard to think straight, you know that?”

I smiled faintly, heart trembling. “Maybe that’s fair. You make it hard to breathe.”

He laughed quietly, the sound low and warm, then grew still. The air between us seemed to thicken, not heavy, just charged, as if the skyline itself was holding its breath.

When he reached out, his fingers brushed a strand of hair from my face, lingering just long enough for my pulse to catch. I didn’t move away.

The silence broke not with words, but with closeness, the slow, inevitable pull forward until his forehead rested against mine. My eyes closed, and in that suspended heartbeat, everything that had been unsaid found its answer.

The kiss was unhurried, a meeting rather than a conquest: soft, searching, full of the tenderness that had been building for months. When we finally parted, the night felt different, quieter somehow.

He exhaled, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Now I really can’t think straight.”

I laughed, breathless. “Good.”

The morning after the rooftop event, the city felt slower somehow, and sometimes, in the middle of a meeting or a crowded train, I would feel the echo of that night... the warmth of his breath near my ear, the way his voice had softened when the city fell quiet. It was a memory that didn’t ask to be remembered; it simply stayed.

I woke to sunlight spilling through half-drawn curtains and the faint buzz of my phone. Messages from coworkers filled my screen, photos from the night before, blurry laughter caught in motion.

I smiled, scrolling until one image made me pause. It was a group shot from the end of the party: Riize members, editors, stylists; and there, just at the edge, Sungchan beside me, his gaze tilted slightly toward me instead of the camera.

Something fluttered in my chest.

That afternoon, at the office, I sat at my desk with my third cup of coffee, pretending to read layout drafts. The chatter of meetings and ringing phones faded beneath the quiet echo of that photo.

By the time dusk settled, I was the last one left in the design department. The city glowed beyond the windows, streets pulsing with neon and life.

I opened my phone gallery, scrolling back through the months—to Lisbon, to that first concert, to the photo. Sungchan mid-turn, eyes fixed on mine across the sea of faces.

I hadn’t looked at it in weeks. But now, it pulled me in again, sharper, more alive than before.

It wasn’t the coincidence I once convinced myself it was.

The phone buzzed suddenly, lighting up with an unfamiliar number.

[Unknown number]: Hey. This is Shotaro :) Hope I’m not intruding.

I blinked. Then...

[Unknown number]: Sungchan mentioned you might like coffee. We’re at a small place near your office tomorrow if you’re free.

My stomach flipped.

It was too casual to be random.

I typed quickly: [Me]: Sure. What time? [Shotaro]: Around three. Don’t worry... it’s not an ambush.

I smiled despite myself. Which means it’s definitely an ambush, I thought.

The next afternoon was unusually cool for late spring. I left the office with my nerves bundled tighter than my scarf. The café sat on a narrow side street in Hapjeong... wooden sign, ivy along the walls, soft lo-fi music spilling through the door.

When I stepped inside, I froze. All seven members of Riize were there.

They looked impossibly normal, hunched over mugs, laughing about something on Shotaro’s phone, sunlight catching on glass and steam.

Shotaro noticed me first. “You came!” he cheered, waving me over.

Sungchan looked up at the sound. His expression faltered just for a heartbeat before he smiled, standing slightly as I approached.

“Hi,” I said, keeping my tone even. “Hi,” he echoed.

“Sit, sit!” Shotaro insisted, sliding a chair out beside him, conveniently right next to Sungchan. “We ordered too much already.”

Wonbin grinned. “Always do.”

The conversation unfolded easily. We talked about music, food, the chaos of photo shoots. Eunseok asked about Portugal; Sohee wanted to know my favorite Korean dish. The atmosphere was easy, familiar—like a group of friends instead of idols and a magazine designer.

Every so often, I caught Sungchan watching me. Not intensely, not deliberately, just those small glances that carried quiet warmth.

When Shotaro mentioned the Lisbon concert, my heart stilled.

“You were there, right?” he said.

I nodded carefully. “I was.”

“Sungchan remembered,” Shotaro added, grinning. “Said there was someone in the crowd he couldn’t forget.”

Laughter erupted around the table, but I couldn’t look away from Sungchan. His ears had turned pink, but he didn’t deny it.

“I just meant... ” he started, then stopped, eyes meeting mine. “You stood out.”

Sohee gasped theatrically. “Oh, this is a drama.”

Anton made a heart shape with his hands. “Episode one: fate at first sight.”

I laughed, half mortified, half giddy. “You guys are terrible.”

Sungchan shook his head, smiling helplessly. “Ignore them. They live for chaos.”

But I noticed how his voice softened when he spoke to me, how he leaned closer when I laughed.

As the afternoon faded into evening, the others began to leave one by one. Soon, only Sungchan and I remained at the table, the empty mugs cooling between us.

He looked at me, quieter now. “I didn’t expect to see you again. Not really.”

“Neither did I.”

He hesitated. “But I’m glad I did.”

Something in the way he said it made my pulse skip.

We left the café together, walking down the narrow street toward the station. The late sun painted everything in amber. Our shoulders brushed once, twice. Neither of us moved away.

At the subway entrance, he stopped. “Can I, maybe, see you again?”

I smiled softly. “Maybe.”

His lips curved into that slow, knowing grin I was already beginning to recognize. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The city outside my window felt too alive, every sound electric.

I pulled up the Lisbon photo one last time. The moment that had once felt like a dream now pulsed with meaning.

It wasn’t just a memory anymore.

It was the beginning of something real.

If someone had told me six months ago that I’d be spending my Friday nights with Riize, I would have laughed. Now, it just felt strangely normal.

My phone buzzed late that afternoon. [Shotaro]: Hey y/naa~ You doing anything tonight? [Me]: That depends. Is this a trap? [Shotaro]: Not a trap! Just a few of us hanging out at the studio. Food, games, Sungchan pretending he doesn’t care that you’re coming.

I snorted at my desk.

[Shotaro]: Bring your sass too. 7 PM.

The studio was warm when I arrived, the faint smell of takeout mixing with laughter. Blankets were spread across the floor, a projector hummed softly against the far wall. The boys had turned their rehearsal space into something between a movie night and a dorm party.

“Y/n!” Shotaro waved dramatically from across the room. “You made it!”

I grinned. “You didn’t really give me a choice.”

“Exactly!” he said proudly, thrusting a soda into my hand.

Sungchan appeared from the corner, casual in a gray hoodie and sweats, hair falling slightly over his eyes. The noise of the room dimmed for me in that instant.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Hey,” I replied.

He looked like he wanted to say more, but Wonbin shouted something about cheating in a game, and chaos resumed.

They played rounds of charades and dance challenges that spiraled into laughter. Eunseok turned out to be a ruthless competitor, Anton the comedic relief. I found myself at ease, trading jokes in a mix of English and broken Korean.

Sungchan wasn’t loud like the others. He drifted between helping Sohee with the snacks and watching the games, his attention occasionally flicking toward me. Each time our eyes met, my stomach fluttered.

When I sat too close to Shotaro during one round, I noticed Sungchan’s jaw tighten slightly—an involuntary tic that vanished as soon as I caught it.

Later, when the laughter died down and the projector light dimmed, Shotaro stretched and yawned. “Alright, I’m calling it. Some of us have early schedules.”

One by one, the group began to gather their things, leaving goodbyes and half-finished snacks behind.

Sungchan lingered. So did I.

When the last of them disappeared through the door, the studio fell quiet except for the hum of the city outside.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, looking up at me. “Did you have fun?”

I smiled. “I did. Though I think Sohee’s secretly training for the Olympics.”

He laughed softly. “Yeah, he’s competitive.”

“Understatement.”

Silence stretched again, comfortable this time. The neon light from the window washed everything in soft pink.

Sungchan leaned back on his hands. “You know, I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

“Why?”

He hesitated. “Because you don’t seem like the type to get pulled into idol chaos.”

I tilted my head. “You’re not wrong.”

“Then why did you?”

I paused. “Maybe I was curious.”

“About me?” he asked, tone light but edged with sincerity.

I met his gaze. “Maybe.”

The air thickened between us, the kind of silence that hums with all the words neither dared to say.

“You don’t seem like someone who plays games,” I said quietly.

“I don’t,” he answered. “Not when it matters.”

Something unspoken passed between us.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “So what is this, then?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I want to find out.”

My pulse quickened. I didn’t move, didn’t speak. The distance between us was small, but heavy with the promise of something new.

A door creaked. Shotaro’s head appeared, grinning wickedly. “Are you two done conspiring?”

Sungchan rolled his eyes. “Perfect timing, as always.”

I laughed, tension dissolving with the sound.

Outside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of rain. We walked together toward the streetlights, neither rushing the moment.

At my stop, I turned to him. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Anytime,” he said, smiling that slow, careful smile that made my chest ache.

As the subway doors slid open, I hesitated: caught between leaving and staying. Then, before I could change my mind, I leaned in and kissed him. It was brief, soft, but real. The kind of kiss that made the world go quiet for a heartbeat.

When I pulled back, he was still smiling, eyes a little wide, cheeks flushed.

“Goodnight,” he said, voice low and warm.

“Goodnight,” I whispered, stepping into the train, my lips still tingling as the doors slid shut behind me.

The next morning, the office felt too bright. Jiyoung from layout leaned over my desk, eyes sharp. “You’re glowing. Spill.”

I blinked innocently. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you dare play dumb,” Jiyoung said. “You were with him last night, weren’t you?”

Minseo, passing by with her coffee, raised a brow. “Sungchan?”

I groaned. “Oh my god.”

“Called it!” Jiyoung cheered.

“I didn’t say it was a date,” I said, trying to hide my smile.

“But it was,” Minseo said flatly, grinning. “And you’re terrible at lying.”

I tried to focus on my screen, but my thoughts refused to settle. Every keystroke seemed to echo with his voice, every pause replayed that quiet moment in the studio, the honesty, the pull, the possibility.

That night, I sat by my window, watching the lights along the Han River flicker in the distance. The city was loud, but my world felt small and still.

For the first time since leaving home, I wasn’t chasing something. I had simply found it.

Days folded softly into one another after that night.

There were no grand gestures, no confessions; just a steady rhythm that built itself around quiet moments.

Sometimes, Sungchan stopped by Vivid Seoul under the pretense of follow-up interviews. Other times, he appeared outside the office with two takeaway coffees, pretending it was coincidence.

“Thought you would like this coffee,” he’d say casually, handing me a cup.

“You’re very kind,” I’d reply.

Our meetings were simple: coffee runs, late studio visits, brief lunches squeezed between schedules. But every time we parted, I caught myself smiling longer than I should.

Hana noticed, of course. “You have a look,” she teased one afternoon as I stared too long at my phone.

“What look?”

“The look of someone getting texted by a celebrity.”

I rolled my eyes, though my blush betrayed me. “He’s just a friend.”

“Sure,” Hana said. “And I’m the editor-in-chief.”

On quiet nights, Sungchan and I found small ways to exist just outside of the world’s gaze.

We met at a bookstore café, tucked in a back corner where the noise faded into the smell of paper and rain.

He wore caps pulled low, I kept my voice soft, and together we built a space that felt both hidden and infinite.

One evening, he showed me a playlist he’d made. “Songs I can’t play on stage,” he said.

I listened, earbud shared between us, as the music shifted from soft R&B to delicate piano instrumentals. It wasn’t glamorous... it was human. And that was what made it beautiful.

When the playlist ended, I whispered, “Do you ever wish you weren’t famous?”

Sungchan smiled faintly. “Sometimes. But then I think… maybe I just wish I could be seen by the right people, for the right reasons.”

My heart tightened. “You are.”

He looked at me then really looked. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

Our hands brushed, fingers almost touching. Almost.

The first strain came quietly.

A rumor surfaced online, a grainy photo of Sungchan leaving a café with someone blurred beside him. No names, no faces, but enough for fans to speculate.

By morning, the office was buzzing. Hana leaned across my desk, phone in hand. “You’ve seen this, right?”

My stomach dropped. “It’s nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

I forced a smile. “It’s Seoul. Everyone has a doppelgänger.”

But inside, my thoughts spiraled.

That night, I met Sungchan in our usual café, both wearing the kind of caution that didn’t suit us.

“People are talking,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

I shook my head. “It’s not your fault.”

He hesitated. “Still, maybe we should… lay low for a bit.”

The words stung more than I expected. “You mean stop seeing each other.”

“Just until things calm down.”

I looked away, blinking against the weight in my chest. “Right. For the fans.”

“That’s not fair,” he said softly.

“Neither is this,” I whispered.

The silence that followed wasn’t angry, it was just sad. Two people standing on opposite sides of the same reality.

When we finally said goodbye, it wasn’t with anger, but with an ache that lingered long after.

Work became my refuge. I buried myself in design boards, layout drafts, and long nights at the office. The hum of the printer replaced the sound of his voice.

But sometimes, when I walked past the café we used to visit, I’d glance through the window, half-expecting to see him there.

Once, I did.

He was alone, hoodie pulled low, staring out at the street. I stopped across the road, unseen, and for a heartbeat, time folded in on itself; the distance between us measured in more than space.

I didn’t go in, but I thought of the way his fingers had once brushed mine, of how easily the smallest touch had spoken louder than any confession. Now, even from across the street, I could almost feel that same nearness, an ache shaped like memory.

That night, I wandered the city without a destination. The glow of streetlights bled into puddles on the pavement, and for the first time since arriving in Seoul, I felt its vastness press in.

I stopped by the river, watching the lights move across the water and thinking how love and distance often looked the same, both shimmering, both unreachable. When I finally went home, I worked until dawn, my designs growing softer, more personal, each one carrying a trace of him.

Weeks passed before I saw him again.

The magazine was covering Seoul Fashion Night, a high-profile event buzzing with designers, influencers, and celebrities.

I was there to assist the photography team, juggling camera batteries and color boards.

When Riize arrived, the crowd surged. Cameras flashed, fans screamed. Sungchan looked every bit the star he was poised, calm, untouchable.

Our eyes met across the chaos. For a second, the noise fell away. He didn’t smile. Neither did I.

But something in his gaze said wait.

And I did.

Later, when the lights dimmed and the show ended, I found him in the backstage corridor.

“You look like you could use coffee,” he said quietly.

I exhaled, half-laughing. “You still owe me one.”

We stood there for a moment, surrounded by the hum of crew voices and the distant bass of after-show music. It wasn’t the perfect reconciliation, but it was real; two people choosing to find their rhythm again in a world that kept trying to pull them apart.

We didn’t speak much that night.

The city outside the event hall buzzed with post-show traffic, cameras flashing in the distance as fans lingered. Sungchan walked me to the curb, where the noise faded just enough for breath to steady.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

I nodded.

We ended up at a late-night diner a few blocks away, a place where no one looked twice at two tired people sharing a booth. The fluorescent light hummed softly, the air filled with the scent of coffee and fried dough.

Neither of us touched our food.

“I didn’t mean for things to get so… complicated,” he said finally. “I just thought if I stepped back, it would protect you.”

I traced the rim of my cup. “From what? People already make up stories. At least the truth is ours.”

He looked at me then, eyes heavy but clear. “You’re braver than I am.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is,” he said quietly. “You moved to another country. You built a life from scratch. And I...” He paused, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been hiding behind schedules and an image for so long I forgot what being honest feels like.”

I smiled softly. “You just did it.”

His laugh was quiet, genuine. “Maybe I’m learning.”

We stayed until the diner lights dimmed, trading small stories and long silences. When we left, the streets were nearly empty, rain whispering on the pavement.

At the corner, he stopped. “Can I walk you home?”

“You always ask like I’ll say no,” I teased.

“One day, you might.”

“Not tonight.”

He smiled, relief flickering across his face.

We didn’t hold hands. We didn’t need to. The distance between us had already shifted.

What followed wasn’t dramatic: it was quiet, patient, real.

We met when we could: late dinners, hidden cafés, short walks by the river when schedules allowed. I stopped counting days between messages and started counting moments that felt normal, shared laughter, comfortable silence, the weight of his hoodie draped around my shoulders when the wind turned cold.

At Vivid, I worked harder than ever. My designs started gaining attention; I was invited to collaborate on a feature highlighting emerging creatives in Seoul.

When the editor asked me to design a concept titled “Finding You in Seoul,” I smiled faintly at the irony.

During one late-night editing session, my phone buzzed.

[Sungchan]: Still working? [Sungchan]: Come outside.

I frowned, typing back: You’re joking.

But when I stepped into the cool night air, he was there: hood up, holding two cups of coffee.

“I figured you’d need fuel,” he said, grinning.

“You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” he said, handing me a cup. “But I’m here.”

We sat on the building steps, watching the empty streetlights flicker. The world felt suspended, just the hum of electricity and the warmth of the cup in my hands.

“Sometimes I forget you’re not a dream,” I said quietly.

He glanced sideways. “That’s funny. I think the same thing about you.”

Weeks passed, soft and steady, until one evening changed everything.

Sungchan was quieter than usual when we met at our favorite café. The space smelled of cinnamon and old books; outside, rain streaked down the windows.

He stirred his drink without drinking it. “The company wants to send us overseas for a few months: promotions, variety shows. It’s a good opportunity.”

“That’s great,” I said, forcing a smile.

He looked at me. “It also means disappearing for a while. No calls. No texts.”

The words hung heavy between us.

I tried to make it light. “Occupational hazard of dating a celebrity, right?”

But my voice cracked halfway through.

He reached across the table, fingers brushing mine. “I don’t want to lose this.”

“You won’t,” I said. “But you should go. You’ve worked for this.”

His eyes searched mine. “And what about you?”

“I’ll still be here,” I said softly. “Designing, surviving, maybe missing you a little too much.”

He smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s already too much.”

We sat in silence, the kind that pressed warmth and ache into the same heartbeat.

The way he looked at me now carried the same softness as that first night on the rooftop, the same quiet awe, as if every time he saw me, he was still a little surprised I was real.

When he finally stood to leave, I whispered, “Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Come back when you can.”

He nodded once, steady. “I will.”

And come back, he did.

When Sungchan returned months later, fame had grown louder around him.

So had my world. Vivid had offered me a permanent senior position, a chance to design my own column.

We met again beneath the same skyline, both a little changed, both still searching for the rhythm that had started it all.

The evening was cool, the air threaded with the scent of rain. We met by the river, where the skyline flickered across the water like a memory made of light.

For a moment, neither of us moved. Then Sungchan stepped forward and, without a word, pulled me into his arms.

I let out a small, shaky laugh that caught against his shoulder. “You’re really here.”

“I told you I’d come back.” His voice was rough with exhaustion and something softer, something real.

We stood like that for a while, the world narrowing to the rhythm of our breathing. When I finally leaned back to look at him, his expression held both apology and relief.

“I missed this,” he said.

“Me too.”

Our lips met again, not tentative this time, but sure, full of all the months we had lost. The city lights flared around us, the river murmured below, and the space between what had been and what could be disappeared.

When we broke apart, I rested my forehead against his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath.

“Promise me,” I whispered, “that we’ll keep finding our way back, no matter what.”

He smiled against my hair. “Every time.”

Our story wasn’t perfect, but it was ours, born in the noise of a concert, built quietly between the heartbeat of two cities.

And somehow, against all odds, still finding its way forward.