#chorographer

Airi

Airi Nishimura was not a morning person.

She could pirouette until her ribs gave out and land a triple spin with a fractured toe but ask her to be coherent before 9 a.m. and she’d rather be buried alive in glitter.

Still, here she was hair still damp, one sock missing under her sneakers, granola bar clenched between her teeth as she elbowed open the heavy glass door of LUX Entertainment’s training facility. Her leggings were inside out. Again. And the coffee in her hand? Burnt.

“Perfect,” she muttered to no one, stepping over a stray scarf on the floor like a gymnast on a balance beam.

The lobby of the entertainment complex was already in chaos. Choreographers barked instructions. A group of rookie idol trainees whispered anxiously in the corner. Someone was crying over a ripped leotard. Another girl looked like she hadn’t slept in a week.

Airi didn’t blink. She’d grown up in this kind of beautiful disaster.

She breezed past the front desk without a glance, ponytail bouncing, shoes thumping against the polished floor. Her coat slipped off one shoulder, and her duffel bag half zipped and definitely spilling makeup wipes swung violently at her side.

“Airi,” the assistant choreographer deadpanned as she passed. “You’re late.”

She didn’t slow down. “I like to make an entrance.”

“You’re supposed to stretch first.”

“I did. Emotionally.”

Someone snorted behind her.

She made it to the rehearsal studio just as the opening beats of the day’s routine thundered through the speakers. Her limbs ached before she even started not the good kind of ache, but the kind that whispered things like, maybe don’t land on that ankle again or one day you’ll wake up and your hip will just be gone.

But none of that showed on her face.

Airi Nishimura was a lot of things, overly blunt, emotionally stunted, selectively dramatic but weak wasn’t one of them. So she rolled out her shoulders, cracked her neck, and jumped straight into the opening routine like her bones didn’t feel like chalk and rage.

Halfway through the first run, Minami, her favorite disaster of a coworker, stumbled in, late as always, with a coffee the size of her head and a hair tie hanging from her wrist like a forgotten thought.

“I got you one,” Minami whispered, nudging a second coffee into Airi’s hand during a break.

“Is this love?” Airi muttered dramatically. “Tell your boyfriend to move out. You’re mine now.”

Minami rolled her eyes. “He’d thank you.”

They clinked coffee cups like wine glasses before collapsing onto the floor, limbs stretched out, chests heaving.

Around them, the studio continued spinning people moving, dancing, shouting, breaking, rebuilding.

Airi took a long sip and stared up at the ceiling, eyes following a flickering light that still hadn’t been fixed since last month. Her muscles were already locking up, her ankle throbbing beneath the warmth of her sock. But she kept it all in. She always did.

No one needed to know.

No one ever really asked.

And if they did, she’d just make a joke. Deflect. Pretend she wasn’t slowly breaking apart one tendon at a time.

She could fall apart later. Tonight, maybe. Or next week. Whenever her body forced her to.

For now? She was here. Sharp and soft and untouchable. The sarcastic little sister of someone important. A rising star with a ticking clock in her joints and a smile that dared anyone to pity her.

Let them try.

Sunghoon

Hospitals were meant to be sterile, clinical, quiet.

Whoever came up with that idea had clearly never stepped foot inside Hansung Medical Center on a Monday morning.

The orthopedic wing was barely holding it together a kid was wailing in Exam Room 2 like he’d been shot instead of just needing three stitches, an incoming trauma case was wheeled past with a mangled leg from a motorcycle crash, and a university football player in room 7 had managed to break three ribs and still flirt with the nurses between morphine doses.

“Dr. Park,” someone called, “we’re going to need you to-”

“I’m already heading there,” Sunghoon replied, not even glancing up from the tablet in his hand.

His voice was calm. Always calm. It cut through the chaos like a thread of ice, crisp, direct, and impossible to misinterpret.

Park Sunghoon was the kind of man who made silence out of noise. The kind of man who didn’t shout to be heard, people simply listened when he spoke. Rational. Reserved. Brilliant enough to make headlines, but private enough to never appear in them. The chief of orthopedics before he even turned thirty.

Today, like every day, he was immaculate with dark slacks pressed, white coat crisp, black hair neatly pushed back despite the rush. He moved with that sharp, precise efficiency that made interns both fear and worship him.

His pager vibrated again.

[OR Schedule Change – ACL Repair bumped to 5PM. Patient stable.]

He swiped the message away and turned a corner, brushing past a resident who looked like he was moments from cardiac arrest.

“Breathe,” Sunghoon muttered under his breath, and the poor guy straightened like a statue.

Behind him, nurses scrambled, phones rang, a wheelchair tipped over, and someone screamed about a vending machine eating their card.

Sunghoon barely blinked.

“Doctor,” Nurse Hana appeared at his side, trying to keep up with his long strides. “We’ve got a post-op in room 11 who’s asking for you personally.”

“Vitals?”

“Stable,” she replied.

“Then they can wait.”

“Also, the kid in exam 3 puked on the floor again.”

“Add that to his chart,” he said dryly.

She snorted. “You want me to document projectile range?”

“Would help with diagnostics.”

Sunghoon wasn’t a robot contrary to popular belief but he was someone who lived and breathed order. He had to. In a world where bones snapped like twigs and lives flipped on a dime, he was the constant. The one who never flinched. The calm in the storm.

“Doctor Park,” came another voice behind him. “The MRI scans you requested just came in.”

“Send them to my office. I’ll review them after the walk ins.”

Another buzz from his pager.

[Family consult in 30 mins – Room B16]

“Put them on a hold for ten,” he added, eyes scanning the hallway for whatever new emergency was headed his way.

But instead, it was Nurse Hana again this time, with a strange look on her face. Amused. Almost smug.

Sunghoon narrowed his eyes.

“What now?” he asked.

She cleared her throat. “You have…a walk in.”

He blinked. “That’s what we’re here for.”

“It’s a Nishimura Airi.”

Silence.

He closed his eyes. A slow, dramatic exhale left his chest.

“Ah,” he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “My biggest headache is here.”

And just like that, the chaos didn’t seem so loud anymore.

Airi

Airi Nishimura kicked her legs back and forth, well, leg because the other one was currently propped up on the exam table, wrapped in a soft gel pack and throbbing like a traitor.

She let out a sigh, her puffed cheeks deflating like a balloon, and glanced at the wall clock in the sterile little room.

12:07 PM. Still no sign of the world’s most dramatic doctor.

“I know he’s going to say ‘I told you so,’” she muttered, staring at the ceiling like the fluorescent lights might blink back. “Then sigh like I gave him heartburn. Again.”

She would laugh if it didn’t feel like her ankle was being stabbed with invisible needles.

God, it hurts more than it did yesterday. And yesterday was pretty bad.

She hadn’t meant to let it get this bad. Really, she hadn’t.

But she had classes to teach younger dancers to train, routines to film, and a music video deadline hanging over her like a guillotine. One twinge turned into a small ache. A small ache turned into a limp. A limp turned into sharp pain…and then her ankle doubled in size this morning when she woke up, and she nearly screamed trying to get down the stairs.

So here she was. Hiding in an exam room like a kid waiting to get lectured by her teacher except her teacher was six feet of stormy eyes, quiet judgment, and maddening self control.

Airi snorted softly to herself.

Sunghoon always tried to pretend they weren’t friends. Like she wasn’t the little sister who followed him and Ni-ki around growing up, stealing all their snacks and annoying the hell out of them until one day she started showing up at his clinic as an actual adult with actual dance injuries and actual curves he tried very hard not to look at.

But she knew better.

He might sigh. He might scold. He might raise that perfect brow like she was the definition of chaos wrapped in a ponytail.

But he always saw her. Always listened. Always treated her first. And when he thought she wasn’t looking, his gaze lingered a second too long.

“Yeah, you love me,” she said out loud, grinning to herself as she adjusted the ice pack and winced. “Even if you try to act like I’m just another patient.”

She leaned back, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as she let the ache settle and tried not to think about how badly this could mess things up.

If it was worse than a sprain…if it was a tear…

Her fingers curled around the edge of the exam table.

Please don’t be a tear.

She couldn’t afford another one, not right now, not with everything she had lined up. She had a contract to renew, choreography to finish, and a showcase next month in Singapore. Time wasn’t on her side.

Pain waits for no one and neither does the industry.

But she couldn’t ignore this anymore.

So she came. Because as much as she hated sitting still, as much as the idea of being benched made her stomach twist, she trusted him. Sunghoon was the only doctor who never treated her like a fragile doll or a flirty nuisance. He saw her as she was: a dancer trying to survive her passion, one fracture at a time.

And honestly? She’d rather be stuck in a room with him and all his cold shouldered lectures than with one of those weird old men who wore cologne like they were still in the '80s.

At least Sunghoon smells expensive when he scolds me.

She chuckled again, pressing her lips together to stifle the sound.

Any second now, she knew he’d open that door, sigh like the world was ending, and give her the look; the one that said she was the reason he had gray hairs even though he didn’t actually have any yet.

And maybe her heart would flutter the tiniest bit, like it always did when she caught him looking at her like she was more than just Ni-ki’s little sister.

But for now?

She waited. Wrapped in silence, cold gel, and her own steady heartbeat.

Airi Nishimura was five seconds from going feral.

Her phone had died twenty minutes ago. The air conditioning was too cold. She couldn’t feel her toes. Her ankle felt like it had grown a second heartbeat. And the posters on the wall were outdated and ugly.

Honestly, if she had to stare at the faded “Protect Your Bones!” skeleton chart for one more minute, she was going to start naming the bones out loud in bad accents just for fun.

Instead, she settled for humming.

Poorly.

It was her go to when she got bored, and thank God no one could hear because she couldn’t sing to save her life. That was the only reason she wasn’t an idol. Seriously. That and the fact she didn’t want to be one. And the fact that sometimes she danced so hard her knees screamed like banshees.

Still, these days you didn’t even need to sing. You just needed good PR and a jawline.

She chuckled to herself and tapped her fingers on the exam table like a drummer without a beat.

"Any day now, Doctor I-Have-Twenty-People-To-Save-First."

She could practically hear Sunghoon’s voice in her head. “This isn’t a daycare, Airi.”

She rolled her eyes at his imaginary scolding.

The real one was always worse.

Just as she leaned back, debating whether to draw a face on a tongue depressor for company, the door finally creaked open. Airi perked up instantly like a parched cat hearing a can open, but she remembered to reel it in.

She was twenty four. An adult. A grown woman. She would act accordingly.

So instead of bouncing off the table like she wanted to, she blinked slowly, uncrossed her arms with careful disinterest, and offered a dry reply.

“Doctor Park. What a surprise. Only been waiting a decade.”

Sunghoon walked in with a clipboard, a sigh, and an expression that made her want to throw a tongue depressor at his head.

He didn’t even look at her at first. Just set his files down, looked over something, and closed the door behind him with the type of deliberate calm that made her itch.

Then he looked up.

His gaze flicked over her then her leg, her face, her posture and he let out a sigh so dramatic it should’ve come with subtitles.

That sigh. That ‘Airi, why are you like this?’ sigh. Like she had just told him the earth was flat and she fully believed it.

“I’m already regretting opening that door,” he said, voice dry as ever, brows lifting like her presence alone was a threat to his blood pressure.

“Harsh,” she muttered, lips twitching. “I thought you liked having me around.”

His eyes met hers briefly just for a flicker and for a moment something unreadable passed across his face before it vanished, tucked neatly back under the cool exterior he always wore like a second skin.

Then he was walking toward her, not rising to her bait, not laughing at her joke, not even looking at her like he used to when they were younger and she could get him to crack a smile if she said the right thing.

God, he was so annoying.

He always treated her like she was still fifteen, like he hadn’t noticed she was an adult now. A woman with her own life. Her own body. A woman with boobs, and a nice ass if she does say so herself. Her own rapidly swelling ankle.

“Shoes off,” he said without looking, already pulling on his gloves.

She huffed but obeyed, slipping the sneaker off her injured foot and biting her lip at the way it throbbed as she moved.

Sunghoon crouched in front of her like a storm cloud in scrubs, gentle but serious, all doctor mode, and it took everything in her not to fidget under the weight of his hands on her skin.

“Let me guess,” he muttered. “You felt pain a week ago, ignored it, kept dancing, and now you’re here because your ankle looks like a puff pastry.”

She opened her mouth ready to argue.

He looked up with a perfectly arched brow as if asking her to challenge him.

She shut it.

God, she hated when she got silent. But she hated more how he looked at her like she was a reckless kid who didn’t know when to stop and not someone who had been breaking her body for her dreams since she was sixteen.

“I had responsibilities,” she said finally, her voice low. “It wasn’t the right time to stop.”

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just pressed his fingers gently along the bone, checking for swelling, for heat, for anything worse and she swore her heart beat faster than it should have.

Not from pain.

Not really.

Just from the fact that he was touching her. Close to her. And still looking at her like she didn’t mean more than she should.

Because that was the thing with Sunghoon.

His hands were warm, but his eyes never lingered long enough.

Even if sometimes, just sometimes, she caught them doing exactly that.

Sunghoon

If Park Sunghoon had to describe Airi Nishimura in a single word, it would be: loud.

Not volume wise. Not exactly. Though, yes she had a voice that filled rooms, opinions like fireworks, and the ability to turn a ten second story into a five minute opera complete with unnecessary impressions and questionable sound effects.

But more than that, she was just…loud in her presence.

Wherever she went, Airi happened. Her energy didn’t knock on doors; it barged in, kicked its shoes off, and made itself comfortable.

And somehow, some way, he had gotten used to it.

Which was probably the problem.

She was sitting on the paper covered exam table, legs swinging slightly, her ankle swollen and pink, a matching pout blooming across her face like she was two seconds away from a full blown tantrum.

“I told you it wasn’t that bad,” she grumbled as he wrapped the compression bandage carefully, his gloved hands precise.

“It’s sprained,” Sunghoon replied without looking up. “You’ll need crutches for a few days. At least.”

He didn’t say I told you so.

Didn’t remind her that dancing through injury was the worst possible decision she could’ve made. Didn’t even mention that she probably made it worse by waiting.

But when her groan echoed off the walls like she had just been sentenced to a year of house arrest, he nearly rolled his eyes.

“Crutches?” she whined, dragging the word out like it personally offended her.

“Unless you’d prefer a wheelchair,” he offered, deadpan.

She gasped. “Are you kidding me? Do you know what they’ll say at practice? ‘Here comes Airi on her elderly scooter-’”

He tuned her out as she kept rambling, ranting about pride and grace and ‘looking like a broken flamingo,’ while he finished securing the bandage. But he didn’t stop her. Never did. Somewhere along the line, he’d stopped trying to interrupt her outbursts altogether. It was easier to let the storm rage until it ran out of wind.

Besides, she was funny when she got like this.

He almost chuckled.. almost when she compared herself to an old man with a hip replacement. But he held back. He was working. He was composed. He was not about to laugh at one of her jokes.

Still…

He guessed growing up around her had made him immune to the chaos. To the way her emotions had always come fast and hot, wearing no disguise. And while he never matched that energy, never let his own feelings live out loud like hers did, he watched. Listened. Memorized.

Maybe that’s why he always knew when something was wrong.

Like now.

Because even as she groaned dramatically about how crutches would ruin her aesthetic, he caught it, the slight tremor in her voice, the way she kept glancing at her phone like it might suddenly power back on and solve all her problems.

She was worried.

About work. About her body. About what came next if this injury didn’t heal fast enough.

But of course, she wouldn’t say that.

Instead, she puffed her cheeks out and slumped backward, muttering, “Guess I’ll just retire early. A flamingo’s life wasn’t meant to last.”

Sunghoon shook his head, standing. “You’ll survive.”

“Wow,” she said, eyes narrowed. “Soothing bedside manner, as always.”

He didn’t rise to the bait. He just peeled off his gloves, dropped them in the bin, and turned to jot notes in her chart.

But as he reached for the clipboard, his fingers brushed hers, he hadn’t noticed her hand there, resting on the edge of the table.

He didn’t pull back right away. Didn’t even feel the instinct to. His hand lingered, callused fingertips grazing soft skin.

She didn’t move either. Not for a beat.

Not until her voice, suddenly softer, filled the air. “So…do I get a lollipop, or are you the kind of doctor who only gives those to the good little patients?”

He looked up slowly as his black hair fell slightly into his eye.

Her eyes were waiting for him.

Something unspoken stretched between them, like the air had shifted. But it passed. Like always. Like it had to.

“You’re lucky I don’t prescribe you a leash,” he muttered instead, dry as ever.

She laughed, tossing her head back.

And even though he turned away again, even though he pretended not to hear how pretty her laugh was. His fingers still remembered the shape of hers. And his pulse didn’t calm for a long, long time.

It didn’t take a genius to see that Airi was hurting over the next hour.

But she’d never admit it. Not with words, anyway.

Instead, she was talking a mile a minute about how “crutches are basically death on sticks,” while attempting to balance on one like a one woman circus act. Her voice was bright, full of sarcasm, her usual deflective performance.

Sunghoon didn’t say much in return. He didn’t have to.

He’d known her long enough to read the space between her sentences. Almost fourteen years of memories gave him that quiet fluency.

The way she was adjusting the hem of her sweater even though it didn’t need fixing. The way she wasn’t meeting his eyes. The way her laugh had a sharp edge not because something was funny, but because if she didn’t laugh, she might crumble.

Her ankle was worse than she let on. He could tell by the swelling, the tension in her jaw when she thought he wasn’t looking, the fact that she hadn’t danced around the exam room like she usually did. Not even a single pirouette in protest.

She was scared.

And it made something twist in his chest.

But he didn’t push. He never did.

He just adjusted the crutches to the correct height in silence, crouched beside her with the same focus he used in surgery. When he gently pressed down on the handles to check the fit, she winced barely but he caught it.

“Try walking with them,” he said simply, standing to his full height.

She obeyed, still making dramatic sound effects under her breath. “Doctor Park, you’ve doomed me. I’ll never walk sexy again.”

He huffed. “You never did.”

That earned him a scoff and a glare over her shoulder,  playful, familiar. Her way of saying thank you without actually saying it.

He walked her to the edge of the hallway, where she’d turn left to head to the front desk for discharge.

“I’ll send your chart to the front. You’re clear to go.”

She paused. “...That’s it?”

Sunghoon nodded.

“No lecture? No ‘I told you so’? No dramatic threats to break both my legs if I ever wait this long again?”

“I think one leg is enough for now.”

Airi blinked at him.

Then she smiled. Not wide. Not bright. But real.

And that…that was enough to make his throat feel a little tight.

“Thanks,” she said, almost too quietly.

He gave her a short nod and turned away before it could mean more than it should.

There were other patients waiting, a boy with a fractured wrist, a diabetic teen whose sugar levels had just crashed, and a pro football player in exam room nine with suspected rib fractures. His pager buzzed like it was having a seizure in his coat pocket.

But even as he slipped back into the storm of white coats, beeping monitors, and the blur of shifting emergencies.

His mind kept circling back to Airi.

To the stubborn tilt of her chin. To the wince she thought he missed. To the way she hadn't once mentioned how scared she was of what this could mean for her career.

He felt bad.

But he couldn’t tell her what to do. That had never been their dynamic. And even if it had, she’d never listen. Airi would drag herself to a dance floor on broken bones if it meant proving she still could.

All he could do was be there.

In the quiet way he always had been. In this way she never acknowledged, but always trusted. The way that told him…someday, this might not be enough.

But for right now, it was.

And Sunghoon disappeared down the hallway with the soft echo of her crutch taps still trailing behind him.

Airi

She was going to murder Nishimura Riki.

There would be no body, no evidence, no trace. Just a faint trail of crushed carrots, one crutch left standing at a crooked angle, and security footage conveniently mysteriously erased. She’d watched enough true crime to know how not to get caught.

And judging by the smug look on her brother’s face as he rolled past aisle five on the shopping cart like it was his personal skateboard, he deserved it.

“I swear to God, Riki!” Airi snapped, hobbling after him like an angry flamingo on her borrowed crutches. “I hope your dinner party explodes.”

“It’s not a dinner party,” he called back. “It’s a vibe. A friend gathering. Don’t be weird.”

“You dragged me out of bed on my day off,” she huffed, catching up as he skidded to a stop near the frozen dumplings. “You said we were grabbing one thing.”

“Yeah, well, my one thing turned into ten.”

He grinned, tossing a bag of gyoza into the already overflowing cart. It was practically wheezing under the weight of snacks, meats, rice bags, juice boxes for Jaehee, and some suspiciously expensive steaks. Airi wasn’t even sure what half of this was for, but knowing their friend group, someone (Jay) would show up starving and eat half the tray before dinner even started.

Ni-ki turned to her, cocking his head. “You’re limping more than usual. You okay?”

Airi blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. The smirk was still there, but it softened a little. Less teasing, more big brother mode. He was always like this one second calling her a goblin, the next handing her his hoodie in cold weather without saying a word.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, dragging the crutches tighter under her arms. “Just sore. Only a few more days.”

“You didn’t overdo it again?”

“No.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“…Only a little.”

“Airi-yah.”

She groaned dramatically. “Can you yell at me after I get out of this godforsaken store? I already feel like a sideshow attraction.”

Ni-ki huffed a breath through his nose, the way he always did when trying not to scold her in public. His protectiveness was so deeply wired it came off as annoyed half the time. But she knew better.

“Next time you’re staying in the car,” he muttered, maneuvering the cart toward checkout. “I’ll bring snacks and a dog bowl. You can be my emotional support gremlin.”

She huffed as she rolled her eyes, “Oh my god, I hope someone pushes you into traffic.”

“You’d crutch your way into the road to save me.”

“Only so I could hit you with the crutch.”

He snorted. And she smiled.

Because this was how they worked, chaotic, loud, occasionally violent, but full of love in the only way two siblings raised on sarcasm and shared ramen cups could manage.

At checkout, she leaned against the counter while he unloaded the cart, muttering under his breath about how “Jay better cry when he eats this damn meal.” The cashier smiled at them, clearly entertained by the mess of it all. Airi just shot her an apologetic grin while trying not to pass out from exhaustion.

Ni-ki glanced at her again when she rubbed at her shoulder, clearly aching from the crutches.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” she replied, a little softer this time. “Just tired.”

He nodded. “We’ll go straight home. You can crash.”

She didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need her to. He just bagged the groceries like a machine, then told her to wait on the bench near the exit while he pulled the car around.

As she sat, head leaning back against the cool glass, she looked at the crutches balanced beside her.

Her ankle still throbbed. Her career still felt fragile. But at least for tonight there’d be food, warmth, people who made her laugh too hard, and a brother who never let her fall, not really.

Airi’s ankle was going to mutiny.

She could already feel the pulsing throb climbing up her calf, threatening to take her down like a sniper in the night. But she didn’t care. She refused to let a busted ankle be the reason her friends ended up in the ER for food poisoning.

Because, let’s be honest. Ni-ki should be banned from kitchens worldwide.

And yet, here she was, in her brother’s open concept apartment that looked like it belonged in a furniture catalog, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair tied messily atop her head, crutches discarded like a pair of abandoned swords beside the fridge. She’d been standing for almost an hour, weight shifted mostly to her good leg, moving like muscle memory through the stove top chaos.

Steak medium rare, seared to perfection.

Rice fluffy, never sticky, in a triple batch.

Banchan, soy glazed potatoes, spinach namul, sesame bean sprouts, stir fried fish cakes, and cucumber kimchi chilling in the fridge.

She worked with quiet efficiency, only wincing when she stepped too hard with her bad foot, then cursing under her breath in three languages.

Meanwhile, Ni-ki was making tea and lemonade like it was brain surgery.

“Do you have to make that face?” she called over her shoulder as she heard him sigh for the sixth time while twisting a cap off the honey bottle.

“I’m concentrating,” he said dramatically. “This is art. You wouldn't understand.”

“You're making lemonade, not building a rocket ship.”

“Lemonade that doesn’t kill our friends. Big difference.”

Airi rolled her eyes and tossed him a dishrag. “Wipe your hands before you touch anything else. I don’t want sticky prints all over my banchan.”

“Yes, chef,” he muttered, but obeyed.

The smell of garlic, soy, and sesame coated the air, warm and homey in a way that felt like safety. Despite everything her injury, her stress, the fact that Sunghoon had been avoiding her since her last appointment four days ago, this dinner meant something. These people were her family.

They weren’t perfect. But they always showed up.

“Are you even invited to Jay’s party?” Ni-ki asked, now setting the last chopstick beside the stack of neatly folded napkins.

“Rude,” she deadpanned. “Of course I am.”

He snorted. “You don’t even know what it’s for.”

“I don’t need to. It’s Jay. He could be hosting an interpretive dance recital on the moon and I’d still show up.”

“That’s because you’re nosy.”

“It’s called loyalty, you traitor.”

They bickered like this often, snapping and teasing between tasks like a comedy duo doomed to share one apartment’s worth of kitchen counter space. But the table was nearly set now, long, rustic wood that Ni-ki had imported because “vibes matter,” covered in plates, candles, flowers, and the stack of Jaehee’s favorite bunny napkins.

God, the kid was going to scream when she saw them.

Airi stirred the last pot and lowered the heat, finally letting herself lean against the counter and exhale. Her ankle throbbed, but her pride didn’t let her regret it. The food was perfect. The apartment glowed. Their people would be here any minute.

And speak of the devil. A scream split through the house, bright and childlike.

“UNCLE KIIIII!”

Airi barely had time to react before the sound of racing footsteps turned the corner, and a tiny body launched itself through the open dining space like a missile made of pink fluff and bunny slippers.

Ni-ki barely had time to drop the napkins before five year old Jaehee was wrapped around his legs like a koala, squealing as he laughed and stumbled backward.

“Whoa! You got stronger, kid!”

“I missed you soooo much!” she yelled, hanging on tight.

Then she saw Airi.

And that was all it took.

“AUNTY RIRIIIIII—!”

“Oh god,” Airi whispered, laughing right before the little girl let go of her uncle and made a beeline across the room.

Pain? Forgotten.

Exhaustion? Who?

All Airi saw was Jaehee, bunny ears bouncing, arms outstretched like she was flying toward her. The sight cracked her heart open in the best way and as her niece threw herself into her arms with a full body hug, Airi couldn’t stop smiling.

Home wasn’t a place.

It was a moment like this.

Sunghoon

The moment Sunghoon stepped through the door, the heat hit him.

Not literal heat though the kitchen was practically radiating warmth from the stove and oven but the kind that came from people. The kind that soaked into your skin and settled in your chest, uninvited and permanent.

Laughter bubbled from the dining area, where Ni-ki stood talking animatedly to Jungwon and Yeji. Sunghoon offered a small wave and a nod as he slipped off his shoes, a quiet greeting that matched his presence. Calm. Clean cut. Unbothered.

He almost made it to the table without incident.

Almost.

But then he caught sight of her.

Airi stood in front of the kitchen counter, her crutches tossed to the side again like they were decorations instead of medical equipment. Her dark hair was twisted up with a clip, cheeks flushed from the heat, brows furrowed in concentration as she angled herself just enough to avoid putting full weight on her healing ankle.

And in her arms, nestled like a little queen, sat Jaehee, one arm around Airi’s neck, the other waving around as she talked animatedly.

Sunghoon’s heart skipped.

That was too much pressure.

Panic laced his mind, his hand outstretched to brace against the counter, he caught himself mid step before he tripped. His eyes zeroed in on Airis injured ankle which was trembling under the pressure and immediately felt his pulse rise.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

In two long strides, he crossed the kitchen and, without a single word, plucked Jaehee from Airi’s hip like he’d done it a thousand times before. The little girl gasped then immediately lit up.

“Doctor Hoon!”

Sunghoon barely glanced at Airi as he adjusted Jaehee in his arms, her tiny legs dangling as she wrapped around him with ease.

“You’re gonna give me a heart attack,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone.

But she heard him.

He could feel it, the heat of her glare.

Airi didn’t say a word either, not yet. She just blinked at him once, her mouth forming a silent, tight line before she rolled her eyes and turned back to the cutting board. Her mouth quirked, almost a pout. She reached for the cutting knife, grumbling softly as she started slicing the rested steak into strips with practiced efficiency.

He didn’t comment on the way she was now balancing herself with her hip pressed to the counter for support.

He didn’t mention the fact that she’d clearly been ignoring his discharge instructions again.

And he definitely didn’t say a word about how stubborn she was.

Because he didn’t need to.

They’d been doing this dance for years.

And in her silence, she said just as much as he did.

Still, he didn’t move. He stayed beside her, one arm wrapped around the child in his arms, the other gently brushing Jaehee’s hair out of her face as she twisted around to look at them both like she was holding court.

“So,” she began, all wide eyes and dramatic pauses, “-this boy at school? He held my hand for five seconds and then ran away! He totally likes me, right?!”

Airi snorted, unable to help herself. “Five seconds is a long time when you’re five. That’s basically a proposal.”

Jaehee gasped.

Sunghoon didn’t even blink.

“He probably panicked,” he said simply, brushing her bangs aside. “Boys are stupid at that age.”

“You’re a boy!” Jaehee gasped; and he swears he hears Airi mumble that he's stupid too...he will ignore that. 

“I’m a man,” he replied, deadpan.

Airi choked on a laugh and turned her face away to hide it.

“Oh my god,” she said under her breath, knife tapping against the cutting board. “Someone write that on a shirt.”

“I’d wear it,” Jaehee agreed proudly.

Sunghoon just sighed.

Still, he didn’t move.

The three of them stood like that for a while. Sunghoon holding a five year old wrapped around his neck like a vine, Airi slicing steak with surgical precision beside him, the tension between them quiet but steady.

They didn’t talk about her ankle.

They didn’t talk about how his hand had hovered a second too long when she tilted backwards.

They didn’t talk about how, when her smile cracked just a little around the edges, it always felt like his ribs cracked too.

No, instead they just stood together in this kitchen, pretending like nothing was changing.

Even though it already had.

The table was full by the time dinner was served. Loud. Warm.

Too warm.

Sunghoon sat at the far end with a plate that hadn’t been touched in five minutes and a drink he was now refilling just to give his hands something to do. Around him, conversation buzzed like electricity. Sunoo talking animatedly about a case he’d seen on his clinic rotation, Ni-ki half listening as he shoved rice into his mouth and muttered something about needing more kimchi.

Everyone was here.

Everyone was happy.

And Sunghoon wanted to commit a felony.

Across the table, Airi sat sandwiched between Heeseung and Jake, looking like she belonged there, all laughter and loose shoulders, her black tank top strap slipping down her arm just slightly every time she reached for another side dish.

He shouldn’t have looked.

He definitely shouldn’t have kept looking.

Heeseung leaned in again, grinning wide as he said, “I swear to God, you get more gorgeous every time I see you. Is that a dancer thing? Do you all just age backwards?”

“Must be all that sweating and crying,” Airi replied dryly, popping a cucumber in her mouth like she wasn’t slowly driving Sunghoon insane.

Jake, who’d already finished his meal and was lounging with his chair tipped halfway back, chuckled and nudged her. “You mean all the sweating and crying from them trying to keep up with you.”

“Oh my god,” Heeseung groaned. “That was good. Bro, that was so good. Say it again.”

“No thanks,” Airi giggled, basking in the glowing attention of two morons.

Sunghoon’s molars clicked together.

Sunoo was still talking next to him, now telling some story about an elderly client who’d mistaken him for an idol and begged for a picture. Ni-ki laughed along from the other side, blissfully unaware or perhaps entirely aware that his sister was currently soaking up flirtation like a goddamn sponge across from them all.

And Sunghoon?

Sunghoon kept chewing his plain rice and pretending it didn’t taste like jealousy.

He didn’t want to listen to them.

He didn’t mean to listen to them.

But his ears traitorous, infuriating things filtered every word like it was piped straight into his bloodstream. Every time she laughed, something in his ribs twitched. Every time Heeseung leaned closer, his hand twitching just a little too far behind her seat, Sunghoon felt heat crawl under his skin.

She looked so comfortable. Like this was just a normal night. Like she wasn’t sitting there acting like she didn’t know exactly what she was doing.

And maybe she didn’t.

Maybe she really didn’t know.

Because the Airi he’d grown up with didn’t flirt. The Airi he remembered was a hurricane of snack crumbs and loud opinions, constantly trying to follow her brother around, poking at Sunghoon just to watch him snap.

But this Airi? This twenty four year old dancer who laughed like she wasn’t injured and smiled like she didn’t see the way Sunghoon’s gaze lingered across the room?

She was dangerous.

And Heeseung and Jake were idiots.

Ni-ki didn’t even flinch. Still laughing, still talking, still shoveling food into his mouth like his sister wasn’t currently being complimented by two of their mutual best friends with enough charm to level a city block.

Sunghoon forced his gaze down to his plate and stabbed a piece of steak like it had personally insulted him.

“She’s not yours,” the angel on his right shoulder said, smug and right.

“You’ve known her longer than both of them combined. Say something,” the devil on his left hissed.

Sunghoon said nothing.

Instead, he sipped his tea, let Sunoo drag him back into a conversation he wasn’t following, and told himself for the hundredth time.

It’s not my business.

Even if it felt like it was.

Airi

She felt it before she saw it. The weight of someone's stare burning through the side of her cheek like a low grade fever had her blinking mid conversation, lips still parted as laughter melted off her face.

She turned, slow and annoyed, and locked eyes with Sunghoon.

Of course it was him.

His arms were folded over his chest, his jaw sharp, lips pressed into a line, and his stare flatlined into a glare the moment their eyes met.

God, he was annoying.

Her thick brows lifted like a challenge, like what?, but he only glanced away, cool and disinterested, as if she hadn't just caught him looking at her like she ran over his cat with her crutches.

Airi rolled her eyes and went back to her food, muttering under her breath.

“Someone pissed in his Cheerios.”

Jake caught the mutter and stifled a laugh, nudging her arm playfully. She gave him a little smirk back but turned her attention away from the man who clearly wanted to kill her with his eyes for existing.

Because she didn’t have time for that.

She didn’t have time for him.

Across the table, little Jaehee was giggling hard enough to tip her cup over as Jay held up a photo of a car he had once crashed and told the story like it was the funniest thing on earth. Yeji looked like she was trying not to react, Jungwon was pretending not to hear, and Jaehee? Jaehee was entranced.

“I wanna ride in a car like that!” she gasped, eyes shining.

“You’d need like...a car seat the size of the moon,” Airi teased, leaning in. “That thing goes fast.”

Jay looked at her then, mouth quirking, eyes glinting with memory.

“Oh, that’s right,” he said, too casually. “Airi rode in one of them with me once. Remember?”

And there it was.

The smirk.

The smirk that said I’m not gonna say it but I could.

She narrowed her eyes across the table. “Barely,” she said, sipping her drink. “You almost crashed it.”

“You were screaming.”

“I was not-”

“You were screaming,” he repeated, full grin now, and it made Jaehee light up like a Christmas tree.

“You screamed, aunty Riri?!” she gasped, scandalized and delighted. “That’s so cool!”

Airi laughed, cheeks a little warm, “Well, he was driving like he had a death wish.”

Jay leaned closer, dropping his voice just enough to make it teasing. “Still kissed me after, though.”

She side eyed him so hard she nearly burned a hole through his forehead but there was no venom in it. Just old embarrassment and reluctant fondness.

They had kissed.

Once.

It was a short lived crush in their early twenties, two best friends trying something new only to realize halfway through the date that the romantic spark fizzled out before dessert. They’d ended the night with a soft kiss, an even softer laugh, and a mutual decision to never ruin what they had.

Jay never mentioned it…unless he was trying to be a menace.

Which was often.

And now, Jaehee looked like someone told her she won the lottery. “You kissed Uncle Jay?!”

“I mean-” Airi panicked. “That was, like, forever ago.”

Yeji was hiding behind her glass. Jungwon coughed. Jay wiggled his brows. Airi shot him a death glare.

“We’re just friends,” she said firmly. “Always have been. Right, Jay?”

Jay shrugged innocently. “Sure.”

That little shit.

“I wanna go to the car show,” Jaehee interrupted, tugging at Airi’s sleeve. “Can we go?”

Airi smiled down at her. “If your parents say it’s okay, I’ll take you.”

Instantly, Jaehee whipped her head around. “Mommy? Daddy? Can I go with aunty Riri and see the race cars?”

Both parents blinked in surprise at once, clearly trying to catch up with the whirlwind that was their daughter. Yeji hesitated. Jungwon opened his mouth. Jay was already giving thumbs up like this was a done deal.

Airi barely noticed. Because across the table, in her peripheral vision, she could feel his stare again.

Sunghoon.

She didn’t turn to see it this time. Didn’t give him the satisfaction of another eye roll or one of her classic sarcastic quips.

She just stared at her plate. Let her smile dim. Because this push and pull, this fire and freeze was exhausting.

They’d known each other forever. Fourteen years of being in each other's lives. Of him teasing her one day and shutting her out the next. Of being protected like something fragile, then ignored like something inconvenient.

And he always looked at her the same way.

Like she was complicated.

Like she was a problem.

Like he didn’t know what to do with her and didn’t want to figure it out.

She liked him. God, she liked him.

But she was starting to think he didn’t like her as much as she thought.

So what was she supposed to do?

Sit around and let her heart tie itself in knots every time he gives her a crumb of attention? Let herself ache quietly while he watched her laugh with someone else like it personally offended him?

She wasn’t going to chase someone who only knew how to push her away.

So, fine.

Let him glare.

Let him simmer in silence.

She’d keep flirting with Jake and Heeseung. They gave her attention even if it was playful. Even if it wasn’t real. At least they didn’t look at her like she was some nuisance.

She picked up her chopsticks again and smiled brightly at something Jake said, even if she didn’t quite hear it.

And across the table, she didn’t see the flicker of emotion that passed across Sunghoon’s face.

But he did.

And it made his jaw clench harder.

The party was over.

The house was quieter now, laughter fading into walls and leftover crumbs clinging to napkins. The table was cleared, the lights dimmed, and everyone had gone, hugged, thanked, and packed into their cars with the soft drag of goodbye in their footsteps.

Airi was the last to leave.

Well..her and him.

She’d made her rounds. Hugged Yeji and thanked her for letting her borrow Jaehee like the little human heater she was. Ruffled Ni-ki’s hair hard enough to make him cuss and threatened to unplug his fridge if he ever threw another dinner party without warning again. Even gave Sunoo a tight side hug and told Jay she was still never getting in a race car again.

Now, outside, the air was cold, and her damn crutches weren’t cooperating.

She hobbled and limped across the driveway like a drunk flamingo, fighting the straps of her bag while her keys jangled somewhere in her bra and one crutch kept slipping against the gravel. She stopped at her car, letting out a frustrated groan as she dropped the crutches against the side.

She reached out to open the driver’s side. And the door opened before her fingers touched it.

Her eyes didn’t even flinch.

Her face smoothed into that tired blankness she’d perfected over the years, right as her gaze flicked up to the hand holding her car door open.

Pale. Veiny. Long fingers. A watch that is too expensive. A face too familiar.

Sunghoon.

Of course.

Because it’s always him.

He didn’t say anything. Just held the door open like he hadn’t spent the entire dinner glaring at her from across the table.

She sighed and tossed her crutches carelessly into the passenger seat, the metal clattering against the leather like a threat. Then she slid into the driver’s seat, turning the keys in the ignition.

The engine purred. The dashboard lit up.

Only then did she glance to her left.

He was still there. Leaning against the frame now, one hand on the top of the door, the other shoved in his coat pocket, face unreadable under the porch light.

His eyes flicked over her. Her hands. Her ankle. Her mouth. Then away again.

“...I didn’t know you dated Jay.”

His voice was quiet. Offhand. But there was a curl of something under it.

Something that didn’t sit right in her chest.

Airi tilted her head, blinking once, then slowly scoffed, “We didn’t.”

He didn’t respond.

“We went on one date,” she added. “Three years ago. Realized we’d kill each other. Then went back to being friends.”

Still, he didn’t speak.

God, he was annoying.

“You always do this, you know,” she said, reaching to buckle her seatbelt. “Say something random and weird and confusing, and then act like you didn’t.”

His jaw twitched. “It wasn’t-”

“What, a question? A judgment? A half thought you didn’t think I’d catch?” she snapped, and then pulled back, groaning. “Never mind. I’m too tired to get into it.”

He didn’t argue.

He never did.

Just stood there like a statue carved out of irritation and restraint. She wondered if he ever got tired of being so emotionally constipated. Of standing in doorways like he was going to say something important and then never doing it.

He exhaled, low and even. Then finally muttered, “Drive safe.”

She narrowed her eyes. “That’s it?”

His mouth pulled into a faint line. “Be careful. It’s late.”

He stepped back and shut the door with a soft thud.

And then he turned and walked off into the shadows of Ni-ki’s house like he hadn’t just left her hanging in the middle of another one of his mood swings.

Airi didn’t wait.

She yanked the gear into reverse and whipped the car out of the driveway so fast the tires barked in protest.

God.

He gave her whiplash.

That man needed a warning label. ‘Contents may be cold, distant, and randomly possessive. Handle with care or better yet, don’t handle at all.’

She blew out a breath as the streetlights passed her window.

No one could make her feel like she was both too much and not enough at the same time the way he could.

And the worst part?

She still wanted to see him again tomorrow.

Sunghoon two months later

March.

The first hints of spring had begun to unfurl in subtle, shy things like soft rain on concrete and the way the air no longer bit at the edges of his coat. The hospital hadn’t slowed. If anything, the chaos had doubled, spring break injuries pouring in like a flood of bad timing. Footballers with sprains. Gymnasts with fractures. A man who tried to ‘fix’ his shoulder with a tennis ball and YouTube.

Sunghoon’s patience was thinning by the hour.

Tonight, though, he was home.

His sanctuary.

The penthouse was perched on the 12th floor, a quiet kingdom of cool stone, soft shadows, and clean lines. The living room stretched in muted tones of slate gray and deep charcoal, grounded by a black marble fireplace that rarely saw use and framed by tall windows that glared down at the glittering city below.

Leather furniture, real worn and matte rested beneath modern low lighting. No clutter. No dust. A few scattered books on the side table. A single plant in the corner that was somehow still alive despite his neglect.

He wasn’t a man of chaos. Never had been. The television was on across the room, some detective show flickering soundlessly, just enough background noise to make the quiet feel less hollow. He wasn’t watching it.

He sat on the couch, elbow propped on his thigh, nursing a half empty bottle of Yamazaki whisky straight from the neck. Ice cubes had been too much effort tonight.

His eyes were on the city.

Or rather, past it.

Somewhere far from the glass.

Somewhere between memory and ache.

She had come back last week.

Back from tour.

Back with a dislocated shoulder and a look in her eyes that said don’t lecture me, I already know.

He hadn’t even raised his voice.

He’d just fixed her up, silent and careful, trying not to press too hard against her skin even when she hissed. She made a joke about it, something dramatic and sarcastic, classic Airi, but she hadn’t really looked at him.

Not the way she used to.

Not the way that got under his skin.

And that…bothered him more than it should.

The truth was. He’d gotten used to her voice.

To her feet swinging off his exam tables. Her crutches clattering to the floor. Her dramatic gasps when he told her she needed physical therapy or rest. Her ridiculous rants about toe shoes and bloodied tights, and how she’d rather die than have one more doctor tell her to “take it easy.”

She used to tease him all the time. ‘Oh come on, Doctor Icy, I know you smile when I’m not looking. You act like you hate me, but you missed me, admit it.’

Now?

Now she was different.

Still chaotic, yes. Still stubborn.

But the teasing had dimmed. No nicknames. No leaning in too close just to make him flinch. No secret smiles when he scolded her for being reckless.

She’d gotten quieter around him.

Politer.

Like…he was just a doctor again.

And he hated that.

He hated how it clawed at something inside him, something he didn’t want to name.

He took another long pull from the bottle, the sharp burn curling down his throat.

Why do I care?

She wasn’t his.

She was Ni-ki’s little sister. Always had been.

Too loud. Too bright. Too unpredictable.

Too young.

But the problem was.

She wasn’t a kid anymore.

She hadn’t been for years. She was a woman. One who danced through pain like it was air. One who showed up at his clinic with blood on her tights and sweat in her hair and fire in her eyes.

He’d seen her grown.

And now…she didn’t look at him the same way.

He rubbed a hand across his jaw, eyes still locked on the skyline.

Maybe it was better this way. Cleaner. Safer.

Maybe the distance was good.

But why did it feel like a loss?

A soft knock from the hallway broke his thoughts. Probably his housekeeper, he’d asked for someone to pick up tomorrow. Or maybe Ni-ki dropping off something idiotic.

He stood, rolling his shoulders, the city still glimmering behind him.

Whatever it was, he’d handle it.

Just like everything else.

Because feelings?

Those were for people who didn’t have to pick shattered bones off the floor every day.

And he was tired of feeling like she was the one breaking him open.

The sharp ping of his phone cut through the room like a scalpel.

He didn’t move at first. Didn’t even blink.

Just let the sound echo against the silence until it faded into the hum of the city lights outside his window.

Then, with the slow disinterest of a man expecting a work email or useless spam, Sunghoon reached for the device one hand still holding the neck of the whisky bottle, thumb wet with condensation.

The screen lit up.

Instagram. Airi Nishimura posted to her story.

He stared.

His chest tightened without warning, like something in him had already guessed he wouldn’t like it. Don’t open it. But his thumb was already moving.

Click.

Slide.

Play.

And the world. Just. Stopped.

There she was.

Airi. In a dress so tight it looked painted on. Black. Silk. Bare shoulders gleaming under soft lights. One leg bent just slightly to show off the heel wrapped around her ankle. Her long hair curled over her collarbone.

And beside her.

A man.

Tall. Smiling. Familiar…wasn’t he one of her choreographers? He didn’t know. Didn’t care.

Because Airi, his Airi was pressed against his side, one arm wrapped around his neck, lips gently kissing his cheek as she giggled.

The caption? ‘thank you for always taking care of me 🖤 couldn’t have survived tour without you.’

There were sparkles. There were hearts. There were a thousand reasons for Sunghoon to look away.

But he didn’t.

His sharp canines clamped down on his bottom lip before he could stop himself hard. Too hard. He tasted blood, warm and metallic, pooling against his tongue as he sucked in a breath through his nose.

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

The screen faded black.

His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached. He didn’t realize his other hand had curled into a fist against his thigh, knuckles flushed white.

His throat felt dry.

No.

Worse.

Hollow.

Like something had been scooped out and scraped clean.

He tossed the phone across the couch like it burned him. The bottle of whisky thudded against the wood floor, half full, forgotten. He collapsed backward into the couch cushions, one hand dragging across his face as his head hit the backrest with a dull thud.

God. Why?

Why was he still like this?

After all these years. After all the walls he’d built. After all the lines he never let himself cross.

He was a grown man. A doctor. A person who fixed broken bodies and kept his own emotions on lock like surgical steel.

And still. The second she touched someone else, it was like his lungs forgot how to breathe.

It wasn’t new.

That twist in his stomach had been there for years.

Since she was fifteen and crashing their basketball games with bubble tea and crooked ponytails. Since he was eighteen and pretending she didn’t make him nervous with those too big smiles and stubborn little fists.

She was always around.

And he was always watching.

Not in a creepy way. Not in a way he could explain.

Just aware. Protective.

Possessive, maybe.

Jealous, definitely.

He’d told himself it wasn’t like that.

That it was brotherly. That he cared because of Ni-ki.

But he hadn’t wanted to punch someone because of Ni-ki.

He hadn’t stayed up at night wondering if her smile meant the same thing when she gave it to someone else.

He hadn’t dreamed about her laugh echoing through his home like it belonged here.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

You don’t get to be jealous, he told himself, bitterness crawling under his skin.

You told her to stay away. You pushed her. You made her think you didn’t care.

You don’t get to be jealous.

And yet he was burning with it.

Burning in it.

Because that photo wasn’t just a man and a woman posing for a story. It was her saying: Look. I’m fine without you.

And that?

That hurt more than any injury he’d ever treated.

Airi

In the dance studio on the 13th floor of LUX Entertainment, time didn’t pass. It snapped.

Snapped to the beat of bass heavy tracks. Snapped to the staccato of sneakers pivoting on polished floors. Snapped to the voice of Airi Nishimura, slicing through the air with razor edge clarity.

“Again. Five, six, seven..no.”

The music halted, and five heads turned in sync toward her.

Only one was brave enough to talk back. “Come on, noona, that was almost clean!”

Airi didn’t even blink.

She lifted one brow, the exact shade of her striking red hair, and gave a short, knowing hum that said: ‘Almost’ is failure with extra steps.

"Jaeon,” she said, evenly, “you stepped on Sori’s foot. Minjae came in too early. Jiwoo forgot his shoulder isolation. And Taeyun-” she turned her head slowly, eyes narrowing, “-you’re lip-syncing like you’re apologizing for the lyrics. You’re not. It’s a battle stage. If you’re not sweating, you’re not selling it.”

Taeyun opened his mouth, then shut it with a sheepish smile.

Jaeon muttered something about her being scarier than their vocal coach. Airi heard it. She let it go.

Barely.

She clapped her hands once, sharp as thunder. “Again from the top. This time, make me believe you deserve the stage.”

The five members of RIOT7, LUX's newest rookie boy group reset their formation with the speed of trained soldiers.

And Airi?

She turned to face the mirror, rolling her shoulders, the fire red waterfall of her ponytail swinging behind her like a whip.

Her reflection stared back at her.

Scarlet strands. Clean jawline. Matte skin glistening slightly from hours under studio lights. Her hair was freshly dyed, Shen Xiaoting red, bold and electric, and her eyebrows matched in a way that made her eyes look even sharper. A director's request for a concept video she was shooting soon.

The color suited her. It matched her heat.

Matched the way she moved with clean lines, sharp edges, every motion a statement. “Music!”

And they danced.

The room turned molten with sweat and stomped rhythm.

Airi wasn’t performing, not technically, but her body moved alongside them with natural command, more presence than half the idols she trained. She didn’t need the spotlight. She was the standard.

“Hit harder! Sori, use your knees, Jaeon, tighten your turn! No, no, Jiwoo don’t anticipate the drop feel it.”

This was her world.

Her battlefield.

Her language.

It didn’t matter that she’d had barely five hours of sleep, that her shoulder was still taped beneath the oversized cropped hoodie she wore, or that she had two meetings lined up after this followed by her own rehearsal for an MV shoot tomorrow.

She showed up.

And when she showed up, she commanded.

Her phone sat forgotten on the side table dead from last night, still not charged.

She hadn’t seen the chaos her Instagram story stirred. Not yet.

All she knew was work. And her people.

As the music faded after the final run through, she let them breathe.

Jiwoo dropped to the floor like he’d been shot.

Taeyun coughed into his sleeve.

Sori gave her a thumbs up from where he was doubled over.

Airi walked toward the wall of mirrors, grabbing a towel and slinging it around her neck. Her hoodie was sticking to her back and her bangs clung to her temples, red and sweat soaked.

“Not bad,” she said finally, her tone cooler. Less thunder, more rain. “We’ll fine tune the transitions tomorrow. You guys are getting there.”

Minjae groaned softly. “Why does ‘not bad’ still sound like ‘try harder’ coming from you?”

“Because you still have more in you,” she shot back, but it was gentler now. Her lips tugged upward, not quite a smile, but not far from it.

She watched them all.

Five boys who, just a few months ago, were shaky and wide eyed. Now they moved with a rhythm that made her proud.

She was hard on them.

But never unfair.

She never asked for perfection only dedication.

The same kind she gave.

“Go shower, stretch, and eat something green,” she added as they started filing out. “Yes, that includes you, Jiwoo.”

“Broccoli is a hate crime,” he muttered.

“Then press charges,” Airi said sweetly, sipping from her water bottle. “You’re still eating it.”

As they disappeared down the hall, laughter echoing behind them, Airi finally let out a long breath.

The studio was quiet again.

Empty.

And she could feel the dull ache settling into her joints.

She leaned against the mirror, letting her head fall back, eyes drifting shut.

She wasn’t tired, not exactly. This was what she lived for. The ache. The pace. The fire.

But even fire dims when it’s alone.

She didn’t dwell on it. Not when there were two rehearsals, a late night check in at the label, and tomorrow’s sunrise to race toward.

Hair gleaming under the overhead lights, she pulled her hoodie tighter and reached for her phone. Time to find a charger.

The glass of the lobby doors gleamed like polished obsidian, catching slivers of the city’s cold afternoon light. The air outside was brisk, sharp with a coming rain, and inside LUX Entertainment, the mood was its usual late evening hum as interns rushing around, stylists chatting near the elevators, and a few trainees waiting near the front desk to be picked up.

Airi didn’t notice any of it.

Her hoodie was soaked through from rehearsal. Her red hair was twisted up in a loose bun, wisps sticking to her temples. She was already pulling up her mask with one hand and scrolling through a half charged phone with the other as she stepped toward the revolving door.

She was thinking about dinner.

Egg fried rice, probably. Or seaweed soup.

She had just enough energy to shower and eat before crashing into bed.

Her legs ached. Her shoulder still taped from last month’s tour injury was holding up, but barely. She hadn’t told Sunghoon she’d stopped icing it. He’d kill her.

One more step. Through the revolving door. Out into the city. Then home.

She pushed lightly at the glass panel in front of her, stepping into the revolving chamber, the door rotating just as it always did.

And then it didn’t.

Something slammed into her from behind. A blur of black hoodie and clumsy apologies.

Too fast.

Too heavy.

Too hard.

Airi gasped, stumbling forward but her right arm, the injured one, didn’t follow.

The sudden momentum yanked it backward.

And SNAP.

The sound wasn’t just loud. It was sickening.

Final.

It cracked through the quiet lobby like a gunshot.

Her vision went white.

The door groaned against her trapped limb. Her fingers went numb immediately, as if someone had pulled the nerves out of her skin with tweezers.

She didn’t even scream.

She collapsed.

Her knees hit the tile floor, and the spinning glass jerked to a halt as a chorus of shouts echoed behind her.

“Shit! someone call an ambulance!”

“Airi-ssi?!”

“Don’t move her arm!”

“Get the security team!”

Her hoodie sleeve was caught between the metal hinge and the glass panel, her arm twisted at an unnatural angle, shoulder trembling as she curled into herself, trying not to pass out.

She was crying.

She didn’t realize it at first not until warm tears dropped to the floor, faster than her breath could catch up.

“Don’t..don’t touch me..f-fuck..don’t-”

A staff member knelt beside her, panic painted across her face. Another person had already called for emergency services, talking frantically into a headset as someone hit the emergency stop on the revolving door.

The man who had bumped into her, a trainee, maybe, was pale and stammering, tears in his own eyes as he tried to apologize, but the staff had already pushed him back.

Airi couldn’t hear any of them. Her mind was somewhere else. Somewhere deep and red and foggy.

Her hand wouldn’t move. Her shoulder was screaming.

It felt like fire crawling under her skin, like someone had shattered the bone with a hammer and then tried to stitch it back together while she was still breathing.

She hated crying. Hated how weak it felt. But her whole body was trembling, and her voice came out hoarse and broken when she gasped again, curling tighter around the pain.

Then someone, an older manager took her uninjured hand and gently said, “Airi, don’t pass out, okay? Stay with me. Breathe.”

Breathe?

Her vision spotted black.

Her whole body was shaking.

She could feel her muscles locking in a silent scream her throat couldn’t even push out.

Someone pulled off her mask for her. Someone else wrapped a jacket around her shivering form.

In the distance, over the buzz of blood in her ears, she could hear the whir of sirens.

And then her phone buzzed.

She couldn’t reach it. Didn’t even know who it was.

But God, she hoped it was him.

Sunghoon

He’d just scrubbed out.

The fluorescent lights above him were humming, his surgical cap still clinging to the sides of his face. A successful operation behind him, and for once, a moment of peace.

Then his pager buzzed three short jolts against his hip.

Emergency.

His brows furrowed.

He pulled the mask down and turned the corner. One of the only people in this entire hospital he could tolerate, Dr. Hana, ER lead and forever too nosy stood at the nurses' station with her arms crossed and her face tight.

“Room nine,” she said, eyes flicking to his chest where the blood from his last procedure was still drying into his scrubs. “It’s your girlfriend.”

Sunghoon blinked.

He didn’t correct her.

He never did.

Instead, he muttered a low “Thanks,” already pulling his gloves on as he headed down the hallway.

He was preparing to scold her of course it was her. Probably another rolled ankle or sprained wrist she’d ignored for days because of some choreography she couldn’t put off. He could already picture her pout, her dramatic wincing, the sarcastic jokes that hid how much it actually hurt.

But when he stepped into the room, he stopped cold.

And everything inside him, every protocol, every plan, every word vanished.

Airi was sitting on the exam bed, body wrapped in an oversized hoodie, but it was doing nothing to cover the damage.

Her arm.

God.

Her right arm was splinted already, but he could see the angles, the unnatural jut of the bone. The swelling in her wrist was severe, pushing against the gauze that had barely soaked up the blood. Deep abrasions lined her elbow and forearm, purple already blooming under her skin like watercolor spilled in all the wrong places. Her shoulder was elevated unnaturally, dislocated and bruising in thick shadows beneath the surface. Her other hand sat in her lap, trembling so softly it could’ve been mistaken for breathing.

And she was silent.

So still, it scared him.

Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t looking at him. Just down somewhere far away, behind her own lashes, floating in whatever world she was using to block this one out.

Sunghoon’s pulse kicked hard.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t know how. He just moved.

Gloves on. Coat still unbuttoned. His voice low, just a breath under the sterile quiet as he leaned over her. “Let’s check the damage.”

She didn’t reply. Not even a quip.

His chest tightened.

Gently, he sat beside her. His hands normally ice cold and clinical hovered near her wrist before touching down with featherlight pressure. Even through the gloves, he could feel the swelling, the heat.

“Radial fracture,” he murmured to himself. “Possible multiple fractures. Clean break near the ulna.”

Still nothing from her. She didn’t even flinch.

He tilted her arm carefully to examine the bruising. When his thumb brushed over the edge of a deep cut, he paused. “You need stitches here. I’ll numb it.”

A slow blink was her only answer.

His throat felt dry.

She was never like this. Not ever. Even under anesthesia once, she had cursed him out for taping her mouth weirdly.

But now?

Now, she is small. Quiet.

Her red hair was tucked behind her ears, dyed deep like firewood embers. He didn’t even notice it until that moment, too focused on the fact that she hadn’t moved at all. Not even when he brushed an antiseptic wipe across her skin.

A shattered wrist. A fractured arm. A dislocated shoulder. Dozens of cuts.

Her body had taken a hit and no one had called him until now?

He wanted to scream.

Instead, he cleaned the cuts with hands that didn’t shake, holding her like porcelain. He adjusted the temporary sling that someone had sloppily placed her in. Resetting her shoulder would take sedation. Casting the arm would have to wait until the swelling went down. She’d need surgery on the wrist. He would be the one to do it.

Of course he would.

His fingers paused on the edge of her bandage.

Still no words. Still no breath strong enough to be real.

So he leaned closer. “Airi…” It slipped out before he could stop it. And that just that made her lashes flutter.

Her eyes flicked to his. It lasted maybe two seconds. But something passed between them.

Grief.

Pain.

Relief.

Then she looked away again.

But that was enough.

He set the bandages down.

His gloved hand lifted not to poke, not to prod but to press his palm gently to the back of her head. His thumb brushed behind her ear, just once.

And still, he said nothing.

Because she didn’t need him to talk.

She just needed him to stay.

So he did.

The hallway was quiet this time of night.

Most of the hospital had wound down visiting hours were over, the cafeteria lights dimmed, and the nurses at the station outside her room were speaking in hushed voices over their paperwork. But Sunghoon wasn’t ready to go home. Not yet.

He glanced down at the surgical report in his hands, skimming over it again even though he already knew every detail. The plates in her wrist had been placed cleanly, the cast was secure from her palm to just below her shoulder, and her shoulder had finally gone back into place without additional damage. The cuts had been cleaned, the stitches done. Meds administered. IV running.

Everything was handled.

Medically, at least.

He exhaled through his nose as he pushed the door open and stepped back into her room.

The lights had been dimmed for comfort. Airi lay tucked under thin white blankets, her dark lashes fanned over the bruises on her cheek. Even now, with swelling across her arm and faint marks on her collarbone from where the safety straps had held her down in the ER, she looked…strong. Pale lips slightly parted, her newly dyed hair sprawled across the pillow like scarlet ink.

The black cast stood out like ink on a blank page, firm and sharp, curved around her small frame.

She had threatened to kill him if it was pink.

Those were the first words she said to him after the surgery, still groggy, half out of it, her voice hoarse but very clear: “If you put me in pink, Park Sunghoon, I’ll break my other arm just to haunt you from the grave.”

He’d said nothing in response. Just nodded.

But it made something in his chest breathe again.

Now, hours later, he sat in the rolling chair beside her bed. His scrubs were clean, his hair a little messy, and a paper cup of coffee sat untouched in his hand, long gone cold. He didn't even realize how long he’d been sitting there, legs spread out, fingers curled into the paper rim of the cup like it might ground him.

He wasn’t even looking at the time.

Just at her.

When her eyelashes fluttered once…twice…and then finally lifted, he straightened in his seat.

Her eyes blinked a few times, glassy and dazed. Then they landed on him.

And something in them cracked.

A sheen of tears formed along her waterline not from pain, not from confusion but from the heaviness. The weight of it all.

His voice was low, almost gentle. “You’re okay.”

She didn’t say anything for a second. Her lips parted like she might argue, or cry, or both. Then finally, “The company called.”

Her voice was soft. Too soft.

Sunghoon leaned in.

“They told me no work until I’m healed,” she said, blinking through it. “No choreography. No filming. No dance training. Nothing.”

He didn’t respond right away.

Her gaze slid over to him again. “How long?”

He sighed, setting the coffee down.

“Six to eight weeks.”

Airi didn’t cry. She didn’t yell. But he saw the way her shoulders dropped, her fingers twitching just slightly against the blanket. She looked away like she was trying to bury something deep.

Dance was her life. She built her body to endure, to perform. Her calendar was color coded with rehearsals, her hours were split between groups and studios. To take that from her even for a few weeks was like asking her to stop breathing.

But her real life mattered more.

So he said it.

“You need rest. This isn’t something to power through. If you push it, you could end up with permanent damage.”

“I won’t,” she muttered.

“You will,” he said firmly. “If you try to teach or practice or lift more than a cup of coffee with that arm, you’ll undo everything we just fixed.”

She made a sound like a scoff and laid her head further into the pillow.

Sunghoon pressed a palm to his jaw, sighing as he leaned back in the chair.

A few moments passed. The IV machine beeped quietly in the corner.

Then he spoke again. “You’ll need someone to help you. You can’t shower properly with a cast that size. You’ll need your meds tracked. Your stitches can’t get wet. And someone’s gotta make sure you’re eating and not skipping meals just because you can’t open a rice carton.”

Airi rolled her eyes, but he caught the way they turned toward him. Like she was waiting for something.

He cleared his throat. “Your…boyfriend-”

Her head snapped toward him.

“My what?”

His lips twitched. “I mean, I assume he’d help-”

“Boyfriend? Really?” she stared. “Do I look like I have time to be kissing men in alleys and doing couple cosplay in cafés?”

Sunghoon blinked. “You posted that picture-”

“Leo?” She made a face so dramatic it could’ve won an award. “He’s my hair stylist’s boyfriend’s cousin. We were celebrating their anniversary and he dared me to post it. He’s gay, Sunghoon. Gay as glitter.”

Oh.

His chest felt lighter. He absolutely should not feel relieved.

But he did.

He nodded slowly, suppressing the dumb warmth threatening to pull at his lips. “Okay.”

“God, men really are dumb,” she muttered.

He almost chuckled, almost.

But then he asked, “What about Ni-ki?”

“He’s in America,” she sighed. “Some filming schedules for two, maybe three months. He texted me earlier, he said if I die, to wait for him so he can push my wheelchair into the river himself.”

Sunghoon snorted quietly. “Charming.”

“He’s family,” she shrugged. “He’d be here if he could. But yeah, I’m screwed.”

Her voice was tight. And then she added, softer, “But I’ll manage. I’ve handled worse.”

That didn’t sit well with him. Not one bit.

He didn’t respond. Just looked at her.

She was still trying so hard not to ask for help. Still trying to keep up the act, even with a shattered wrist and bruised shoulder.

Sunghoon leaned back, his eyes not leaving her face. “You shouldn’t have to.”

She blinked at him.

He didn’t explain himself further. Didn’t offer up the words he wasn’t ready to say out loud yet. But in the back of his mind, he already knew what was coming. He’d already mentally adjusted his schedule. Already pictured her on his couch, in his kitchen, falling asleep on the side of his bed because she refused the guest room.

He already knew.

He would be the one to take care of her.

Whether she asked or not.

Airi

The silence in the car was killing her.

Not in a dramatic, theatrical way, not the ‘I’m going to throw myself out the window kind of way.’ Although, give it another five minutes and she might consider it. But in the suffocating, there are too many thoughts in her head and no music to drown them out kind of way.

Sunghoon’s car, of course, was beautiful. Black leather seats, digital dash, sleek and silent and stupidly expensive. It even smelled like him cedar and soap and faint traces of caffeine. But Airi didn’t care about any of that right now.

What she cared about…was the fact that they had passed her apartment turn ten minutes ago.

She stared out the window, blinking once. Twice. Her heart sank slowly to her stomach.

Wait.

She glanced back at the street signs, then forward at the glowing GPS that, she now realized, wasn’t even pulled up. His phone was docked, dark screen, untouched.

“Um.” Her voice cut through the quiet like a butter knife scraping a plate. “Where the hell are we going?”

Sunghoon didn’t flinch.

He just made a right turn.

“You’re staying with me.”

Airi’s jaw unhinged. “I’m…what?”

“You heard me.”

Her face twisted into a mix of offense and panic. “You said you were driving me home.”

“I am,” he said, calm as ever, eyes on the road. “My home.”

She blinked. Once. Twice. Her body tensed under the thick hoodie she wore, one of his, thrown over her like a blanket at discharge. “You’ve officially lost your mind.”

“No,” he replied, flicking on his turn signal. “I’ve officially lost my patience with you pretending you’re fine when you’re not.”

She sputtered. “I’m perfectly capable of being alone. I’ve been doing it for years.”

“You have one working arm, can’t cook, and can’t shower without getting your stitches wet.”

“I can lean,” she argued, heart now somewhere in her throat. “And I can order takeout. I’ll eat cereal. I'll-hell, I’ll sponge bathe in the sink like a pioneer woman if I have to…”

He didn’t look at her. “You’re staying. End of story.”

“No..no, Sunghoon, you don’t get to just decide that.”

“I just did.”

She turned in her seat, full glare activated, the painkillers barely dulling her fury. “You don’t own me.”

He hit the brakes at the red light a little harder than necessary.

And then the car went quiet again.

The world around them buzzed a honk two lanes over, the soft tick of the turn signal, the hum of the city alive even this late. But inside the car, it was just them.

Airi’s hands curled into fists over her lap. She felt like she was choking on something she couldn’t name.

Then he turned to her. Slowly.

And there was something in his eyes. Something that made her pulse falter. Not anger. Not frustration.

Something else. Something low and steady and bone deep.

His voice was softer than she expected, but it cut through her like glass. “Who takes care of you, Airi?”

She blinked.

He didn’t wait. “When you roll your ankle and don’t say anything for a week, who notices first?”

Her breath caught.

“When you show up with cuts on your hands and lie about ‘tripping over a prop’, who treats you anyway?”

The light was still red, the silence growing louder.

“When you have the flu, who drops off medicine outside your door even when you don’t ask?”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He tilted his head, not breaking eye contact. “I always take care of you. Right?”

Her chest felt tight.

And suddenly, the air between them wasn’t silent. It was a heartbeat.

Hers.

Fast. Loud. Desperate.

She looked down. Her voice came out cracked. “…It doesn’t mean you have to.”

“I know,” He looked forward again, the light turning green. “But I want to.”

And just like that, the car kept moving.

Airi didn’t speak again.

Not because she had nothing to say. But because the words in her mouth didn’t make sense anymore.

Because Sunghoon was still Sunghoon. Still frustrating, overbearing, stubborn. But in that moment, with his eyes on the road and her heart in her throat he felt like home.

Airi had been inside Sunghoon’s home before. 

Once when she came with Ni-ki and the rest of their friends for a game night. Another time for a casual birthday dinner he didn’t even want. She’d sat on his velvet couch, spilled her lemonade on the cream rug, teased him for having candles that smelled like bergamot and rich wood. She remembered thinking it was exactly like him sleek, clean, quiet. Expensive but not flashy. Cold but not unkind.

But this wasn’t like those times.

This wasn’t him standing across the room ignoring her as she recounted a ridiculous story. Or him pretending to hate her jokes when Ni-ki egged her on.

This was him standing close. Too close.

And handing her one of his shirts.

He walked in, tossed it gently onto the foot of his bed like it was any other night, and held out a pair of soft cotton shorts she instantly recognized as hers.

“You left these here,” he said plainly. “From when you and Ni-ki crashed last year.”

She stared at the clothes, then at him.

He didn’t look away.

And when she took them, his hand brushed hers barely, just a ghost of touch but it still made her heartbeat scatter like marbles dropped on a kitchen floor.

Now she stood in his bathroom, steam fogging up the mirror, her bruised shoulder bare other than the cast, and her arm gingerly cradled against her side. A towel clung to her, tight and secure, and Sunghoon, Park Sunghoon was crouched down, carefully wrapping her whole side in layers of medical grade plastic to keep her stitches dry.

“Hold still,” he murmured, voice low but not unkind.

“Sorry,” she said, breath shaky, “you’re touching me with ice cold fingers, you sadist.”

A twitch in his lip. Barely. But she saw it.

“I’m trying not to hurt you,” he said, adjusting the wrap gently. His knuckles brushed the slope of her hip, and her whole body jolted in quiet awareness.

Her eyes were fixed ahead, on the foggy mirror, watching the silhouette of him kneeling before her. It was the kind of thing her imagination had spun up before, late at night when loneliness tasted like cinnamon whisky on her tongue. But reality was worse it was real, and it was quiet, and it was tender in a way she hadn’t expected from him.

“There,” he said at last, straightening up, eyes flicking up to meet hers. “All set.”

She stared at his soft expression with so many questions on her mind. But she settled for the obvious, “You gonna turn around so I can get in?”

He flushed read, but she didnt mention it, and then turned. But didn’t leave. Instead, he sat down right on the closed lid of the toilet, elbows on his knees, back toward her like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Sunghoon,” She started to warn but he shook his head still looking away.

“I’ll stay.”

Her heart jumped. “You don’t have to-”

“I know,” he said again, calm and final. “But I will.”

She swallowed thickly, cheeks burning as she stepped behind the blackout shower curtain and slowly slid off the towel, cradling her casted arm as she stepped into the warm stream.

The water was a gift, a distraction from the way her legs felt like jelly.

But still, her brain was screaming. Because he was still there. Because this wasn’t the boy who ignored her. This wasn’t the friend who rolled his eyes every time she cracked a joke.

This was a man sitting in a bathroom his bathroom just to make sure she didn’t slip. Just to make sure she didn’t fall. Just to make sure she didn’t disappear.

And he didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask her to thank him. Didn’t look. But God, Airi felt seen anyway. She bit her lip hard enough to feel it and closed her eyes, letting the water cascade down her back like rain.

The steam was thick. But not nearly as suffocating as the warmth blooming in her chest. Not nearly as loud as the thrum of her own pulse whispering, You’re in trouble.

Later the lights were low in Sunghoon’s penthouse, the warm amber of a standing lamp the only thing cutting through the velvet dark. The TV glowed across from them, playing something neither had been paying much attention to, some slow, indie film that matched the mood but barely held their gaze.

They sat like bookends on his wide, gray sofa.

Airi was curled up on the right side, arm supported in a sling, blanket draped over her lap, legs pulled up so only her socks peeked out. Her hair was a loose wave over her shoulders now, soft from the shower, slightly tangled.

Sunghoon was on the opposite end, dressed down in black joggers and a fitted long sleeve shirt. One arm thrown over the back of the couch, his fingers near her but not close enough to touch. Not unless she leaned just a little.

The silence between them was comfortable but heavy, the kind that buzzed under your skin.

And then, softly, he asked, “How are you feeling?”

His voice didn’t match the screen. It wasn’t scripted. It was real. Honest.

Airi didn’t answer right away.

She shifted a bit, her eyes still fixed forward, and the quiet lasted long enough that Sunghoon thought she might ignore it, brush it off like always.

But then she inhaled, slow and shallow.

“…Sore,” she said with a light laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Stupid. Tired.” Another pause. Then, softer, “I don’t know.”

He turned toward her now. Really looked. His head resting on the top of the couch cushion, eyes soft.

Her lips parted slightly, like the words were caught between her teeth. She tilted her face a little away from him as if it would be easier not to see him watching her. But he waited. Like always.

“…I know I can’t keep dancing forever.”

There it was.

And just like that the air changed.

“It’s not that I’m naïve. I know that. I’ve known since nineteen when my knees started cracking every time I bent too fast,” she murmured with a bittersweet smile. “But I love it. More than anything. And I don’t know who I am without it.”

Sunghoon didn’t interrupt.

She didn’t cry. Airi wasn’t really the crying type. But her voice had that break in it, the soft crack of porcelain that still managed to hold water.

“I just…” she shook her head. “I keep telling myself I can rest later. I can crash later. I can fall apart later. But ‘later’ keeps coming, and I’m still pretending I’m fine.”

He didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

Her laugh was hoarse now, tired. “I think one day my body is just gonna give out in the middle of a show, and maybe that’ll be the only thing that makes me stop.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then his voice, low and honest, cut through it.

“I worry about that too.”

Airi’s head turned. She looked at him now.

Sunghoon wasn’t smiling.

“I watch you break and push and glue yourself back together like it’s a normal part of life,” he said quietly. “And I get it. I get needing something that badly.”

He sat forward slightly now, resting his arms on his thighs, hands clasped.

“But I see you in the ER more than I see half my patients,” he said with a dry edge, something like frustration veiled in concern. “And every time I tell myself not to care this much. That you’re not my responsibility. That you’ve got your life and I’ve got mine.”

Airi swallowed.

“But…” he trailed off, eyes flicking to hers.

And she saw it then. The quiet ache in his gaze. The lines near his mouth he never let show. The weariness tucked behind his sharp jaw and steady hands. The tired weight in his chest that only came out in moments like this when the room was still and the rest of the world was muted.

“I don’t go home to anything, Airi.”

His voice was soft. Flat. Unapologetic.

“Just a dark apartment and silence. Every day I walk around that hospital and I’m surrounded by people, by pain, fear, joy, death, and it never stops. But the moment I clock out…”

He leaned back again, exhaling.

“It’s quiet. Too quiet.”

And she felt it all of it.

The unspoken truth: they had both built lives out of motion. Her in choreo, him in saving others lives. And somewhere in the spinning, they had become each other’s gravity. Familiar. Constant. Close, but never close enough.

“I didn’t know you felt that way,” she whispered.

“You never asked,” he replied gently. His brown eyes had softened into that sleepy relaxed dewy look he always got. She knew he wouldn't be opening up this much normally. 

She looked down, her thumb brushing along the edge of the blanket. Her heart thumped loud enough to echo in her ears.

“Sunghoon,” she said, voice nearly gone.

He turned toward her again.

And for a moment just a breath of time neither of them spoke. Just looked.

The air between them thinned, stretched, pulled taut like a string begging to snap.

Because in their group of friends, in all the years of knowing each other, even when they’d bickered and argued and glared. Airi had always found herself closest to him. His silence made her feel seen. His bluntness, weirdly, felt safe. He never coddled her. But he never let her fall.

She always knew he’d be there. And she never wanted him to go. But she wasn’t ready to say that yet.

So instead, she nudged her sock covered foot toward him under the blanket. Just barely. Just enough to touch his leg.

And he didn’t move away.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

Instead, his hand came up slow, hesitant and reached beneath the shared warmth and gently rested atop her ankle.

And the movie kept playing. And the city lights shimmered outside the window.

Jiyoo

The studio lights cast a soft amber hue across the room, but to Jiyoo, it still felt cold.

She sat cross legged on the padded bench in front of the mixing table, her earbuds tucked in, chin resting on her fist as the final chorus of her upcoming single played through the monitor for what must’ve been the twentieth time today.

It was catchy. The kind of song that would top charts, get stuck in strangers’ heads, be plastered on every radio station and café playlist across Seoul, and trend on Tiktok for a few days until people got bored.

And she hated it.

The beat was synthetic sugar, the lyrics pretty but hollow, and her voice cloyingly soft, sweet, laced with exactly the tone the producers had told her to use felt like it belonged to someone else.

“This isn’t me,” she whispered to no one, pulling one earbud out and rubbing at her temple.

But then again, what was her?

She’d been Roe Jiyoo, the idol, for longer than she’d been Jiyoo the girl. From child model to solo artist, the public had always had her name in their mouth; but none of them had ever really known her. Not her fans, not her producers, not even her company.

Maybe not even herself.

A soft sigh escaped her lips as she leaned back, the padded wall cool against her spine. Her long hair spilled over her shoulders in dark waves, makeup barely smudged from a long day of practice and recordings. She’d filmed a brand shoot in the morning, did a variety segment in the afternoon, and was now expected to finish vocal mastering by nightfall.

Smile, bow, be graceful, be perfect. Don't get tired. Don't complain. Be grateful. Be lovely. Be on. Always on.

Jiyoo let her eyes flutter closed.

Her voice was golden, they said. Her visuals, lethal. Her fanbase? Massive and devoted. She could do no wrong.

So why did it feel like she was drowning?

The door cracked open slightly, and her manager poked his head in. “Ten minutes before dance rehearsal.”

“Got it,” she said, voice light, warm. Jiyoo the idol slipping back into place like a mask she’d long since learned to wear.

The door shut again quickly. Her manager never hovered much, she was straight to the point always. You'd think after watching Jiyoo grow up for years they would have a closer bond, but they were just coworkers at the end of the day.

She stared down at her hands, perfectly manicured, trembling slightly in her lap. “Is this all I am?” she murmured.

A doll that sings. A face that smiles. A brand that sparkles.

When she was little, she dreamed of music healing people. Of songs that meant something. She used to hum tunes to her stuffed animals about being lonely and brave and human. But those songs never made it past her bedroom door.

This one? The one playing in her ears again?

It’d be a hit.

But it wasn’t hers.

And maybe that’s what hurt the most.

Jiyoo stood slowly, smoothing down her black practice skirt, slipping her phone into her bag. She stared at her reflection in the studio’s glass panel. The girl looking back at her was flawlessly camera ready, composed, maybe stunning even.

But behind her own eyes, Jiyoo felt like a ghost.

One day, she thought, brushing her fingers down her cheek. Someone will hear the real me sing. Not just my voice…but my soul.

And maybe. Maybe they’d still crave her, even then.

-

The music pounded through the studio speakers like second nature.

Jiyoo’s limbs moved with perfect precision, every beat hitting with the kind of practiced ease that only came from years of repetition. She didn’t need to think much about the moves, her body knew. Knew the shifts in tempo, the moment to tilt her chin, the sharp snap of her wrist, the precise roll of her hips.

Nine songs.

She’d practiced the choreo for all nine so many times it was stitched into her muscle memory. She could do it blindfolded, backward, probably in her sleep...and she had. Sleep was a luxury these days. Practice wasn’t.

Practice never stopped.

She told herself she didn’t mind. That it was part of the job. That perfection was the price of fame. That 23 wasn’t that old to feel like her joints were aging out of their sockets.

The track ended. Again.

“From the top!” the instructor had called earlier, and again, and again. They’d gone through at least two separate choreographies five times each in the last hour alone.

When the break was finally called, Jiyoo’s legs nearly gave out in relief.

She sank to the floor in the far corner, legs folding into a loose criss cross, one hand reaching forward to stretch out her lower back, the other gripping her water bottle like it was sacred. Sweat clung to her hairline, sticking strands to her cheeks, but she barely noticed. Her chest rose and fell, panting hard, her skin hot and aching from effort.

She didn't complain out loud.

She never did.

Across the studio, her dance instructor made her way over and dropped down beside her with a heavy exhale. Jiyoo glanced sideways. The woman had been with her since her debut stage, sharp eyed, brutally honest, one of the few who treated her like a person and not a product.

"You're overworking again," her instructor said gently, nudging her foot. Ironic since she was the one keeping practice going; but it wasn't just the instructors fault. Jiyoon had a problem of going overboard by her own free will.

She had to be perfect.

Jiyoo smiled faintly. “You say that like there’s another option.”

The woman snorted softly, and then, after a pause, dropped the real news. "I'm retiring at the end of this week."

Jiyoo stilled. Slowly straightening, she blinked at her. “What?”

The woman nodded, a softness in her eyes that Jiyoo hadn’t seen before. “It’s time. I’m old, Jiyoo-yah. My knees crack like glow sticks when I wake up. And you've outgrown me. You need someone who can push you the way I can't anymore."

For a long moment, Jiyoo just sat there. Then she nodded, slowly. Respectfully. Because what could she say? The woman had raised her dance career from scratch. Losing her was like losing a limb.

“But,” her instructor added with a small smirk, “we found you someone good.”

Jiyoo glanced over. “Good?”

“One of the best.”

That made her pause. Korea had a lot of 'best' when it came to all categories. "Who?"

The name fell casually from the woman’s lips. And Jiyoo just blinked. Her body ached, but suddenly, she wasn’t tired anymore.

Nishimura Riki.

Of course it was him.

World renowned choreographer. Known for working almost exclusively with male idol groups, his signature style edgy, cutting, impossible to mimic. Every group he touched ended up sharper, stronger, unforgettable.

And he didn’t like her.

Okay, maybe that was harsh. They had bumped into each other a few times at events, studios, mutual connections. She couldn’t even remember what was said but she remembered the look. The energy. Like he couldn’t stand her. Like something about her irked him.

Not that she cared. He was intimidating, sure. But she was Korea’s Sweetheart. Who was internally panicking just a little.

What if his choreo didn’t suit her brand? What if it was too aggressive, too hard? Would her fans accept the shift? Would she?

Still, she gave the same answer she gave to everything.

A small smile.

A quiet nod.

“I’ll do my job.”

But inside, a little voice whispered.

What if this changes everything?

Ni-ki ( A week letter)

It was just business.

That’s what Ni-ki kept telling himself as he stood in the elevator, hands in his pockets, black cap low over his eyes. The floor numbers blinked upward in red, and the quiet hum of the building barely registered past the dull thud of the bassline playing in his head. A track he’d been building choreo for before this whole gig came knocking.

Roe Jiyoo.

Korea’s Sweetheart. Soloist. A name that turned heads in every room she entered, that made people soften their voices like they were talking about royalty. The media adored her. Brands fought for her face. Other idols idolized her. And the fans? Protective to the point of thriller like obsession.

Ni-ki didn’t care.

He wasn’t here for her.

He was here for what she represented.

Jiyoo was one of the biggest names in the Asian market. Period. Working on her comeback and world tour would shove his name to every global headline, every digital stage, every fandom with a keyboard. She was visibility. She was marketing. She was, ironically, his next big break.

And if he could get through it? If he could push her beyond her pretty little limits and deliver a show that tore through the internet?

He could choreograph for anyone after this.

Not just Korea. Not just Asia.

Hollywood. Latin America. Europe. Everywhere.

He already had the background, tours since he was ten, a career as a prodigy, the 'genius choreographer' stamp, deals with high fashion and luxury brands. He wasn’t a rookie looking for credibility.

He was a brand waiting to explode.

And Roe Jiyoo? She was the matchstick.

The elevator dinged.

He stepped out, a sleek black duffel bag slung over one shoulder, strides long and confident as he walked through the hall toward the studio. His schedule was clear for the next three months. Oversee Jiyoo’s training for her nine song comeback, perfect the choreo, prepare the tour. The agency had begged for him, even tossed in a fat bonus.

Why say no?

They weren’t friends. They weren’t equals. This was a transaction. He was the product. She was the price.

He’d give her the show of her life. And then he’d move on just like he always did.

He opened the studio door, stepped inside, and there she was.

Back to him, long legs in fitted sweats, hair pulled up, posture straight even as she wiped sweat from her jawline. Her presence was sharp, controlled in an effortlessness, like she knew people were always watching.

Their eyes met in the mirror. She didn’t smile. Neither did he.

Perfect, he thought. Let the games begin.

She bowed first.

Of course she did.

A perfect 90 degrees, respectful and polite, eyes meeting his only once she straightened. Her lips moved around his name like she’d practiced it, soft, sweet, careful.

He didn’t bow back. Respect was earned, not handed out like a free sample.

And Roe Jiyoo hadn’t earned a damn thing yet.

Ni-ki stepped further into the studio, dropped his bag without ceremony, and stared at her like she was a blank canvas. No, like she was a broken down machine that needed reprogramming. Her confusion flickered, subtle, but he caught it.

Good.

“We start now,” he said, tone flat, clipped, and without room for discussion. “This isn’t about your comfort, your pride, or your schedule. It’s about results. I don’t want to hear you’re tired. I don’t want to hear you’re overwhelmed. I want to see your lungs collapse before your knees do.”

She blinked, stunned probably used to people coddling her, giving her soft praise for doing the bare minimum because she was Roe Jiyoo. Because she smiled pretty and sang sweet and looked perfect on camera.

Not here.

“I’m not your fan. I’m not your staff. I’m not someone who gives a shit about your image. I’m here to make you better. So, you’ll listen to me, only me and you’ll do what I say, when I say it.”

She opened her mouth.

He cut her off.

Again.

And again.

Until her face flushed with a frustrated kind of red that made something sharp of amusement curl in his chest.

She was smaller than he expected for someone with long legs, barely 5'6, maybe, standing stiff under his 6'1 frame like a soldier ready to swing. But that didn’t matter. She could be three feet tall and he’d still break her down if he had to. Her height wasn’t the problem.

Her attitude was.

She had that idol shine, like a fresh coat of glittery perfection was lacquered on everything she did. That bright, lavender dyed hair? Pretty. Fluffy. Like a scoop of sorbet. He didn’t like it.

Not because it didn’t suit her. She was hot, obviously. He had eyes, not blindness.

But because the album she was preparing to drop wasn’t bubblegum and pastels anymore.

It was sensual. Edgy. Dark pop with aggressive beats and addictive hooks. She wanted to evolve? Then she better start looking like it.

“I’m talking to your stylist,” he muttered, half to himself, half to her. She just stood there frozen like she was shocked. “The vibe doesn’t match the setlist. You want this comeback to work? You have to start looking like the woman your lyrics claim you are. Not the pop princess you were at sixteen.”

That hit.

She tensed, shoulders going rigid, jaw clenching just slightly. He noticed everything.

This was going to be a war.

And Ni-ki?

He’d already decided he was going to win.

Even if he had to crush her piece by piece.

Jiyoo

What the actual hell.

Never in her entire life through a decade of press conferences, endorsement deals, stadium tours, and award shows had anyone spoken to her like that.

Like she was...nothing.

And he did it all with the blankest expression she’d ever seen. Not even blank...bored. Like being in the same room as her was a waste of his time. Like she was a rodent beneath his expensive, probably custom made shoes.

Oh, she loathed him.

Absolutely hated him.

And now she was stuck with him.

Jiyoo stared at his retreating back as he strolled toward the soundboard, casually selecting one of the tracks from her new album like he owned the room, the building, the city, her.

She could die. That was the only option.

She didn’t expect people to like her. She didn’t expect anyone to really want to be around her. That was the price of being Korea’s Sweetheart, wasn’t it? Everyone loved the idea of her. The songs. The face. The myth. But they didn’t see her, didn’t know her. And she could live with that. Or try to.

What she couldn’t live with? The nerve of this guy.

The way he dismissed her every word before it left her mouth.

The way he glared at her, eyes sharp and annoyed like she was the one ruining his day.

The way he just casually decided she wasn’t good enough as she was, her hair, her look, her entire vibe. Like she was some art project he didn’t ask for and had no interest in fixing.

“Dance until your lungs collapse.”

Yeah. Been there, done that. Bought the damn T-shirt. Ripped it during rehearsals.

He said it like he was giving her some life altering advice. She wrote the manual on breaking yourself for the industry. Try again.

What really got her, though, the part that made her want to launch her water bottle at his perfectly styled head was how he didn’t even try to get to know her. Didn’t ask. Didn’t care.

Just barked his rules, rewrote her image, and turned his back like she wasn’t even worth a second glance.

And the worst part?

He was hot. Like, really hot.

Unfairly, infuriatingly attractive. Tall, lean, with sharp lines and sharper eyes. That whole stormy I’ll ruin your day look like it came straight off a runway. It made her blood boil partly from rage, partly from something else she refused to acknowledge.

But he was a walking red flag. A hazard sign wrapped in black and ego. Someone needed to kick him in the balls.

Hard.

The music kicked on, loud and pulsing, echoing around the studio.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t give him the satisfaction. But inside? Jiyoo was already planning how to ruin his day, too.

Because if it’s war he wants. Fine. She’s been holding back her fire for years.

And now?

She’s ready to burn.

The music had just started barely one verse in when he turned around and pressed pause.

Ni-ki didn’t even look interested. Just calm. Annoyingly calm. Like he was watching paint dry.

“I want you to forget all the choreography you’ve learned so far,” he said casually, like he was asking her to forget she was allergic to mangoes and eat a whole one.

Jiyoo blinked.

“Excuse me?”

He looked up, expression unreadable. “I said forget it. All of it. We’re starting over.”

She stared at him like he’d just told her the sky was green. “I’ve been learning that choreography for three months.”

Ni-ki tilted his head, lips twitching not quite a smirk, but close enough to make her eye twitch. “If you’ve been learning it for three months and haven’t perfected it, then there’s a problem.”

There it was.

The match.

Strike, spark, fire.

“I have it perfected,” she shot back, fists curling at her sides. “I could do it backward with one arm tied behind my back.”

“Sure,” he drawled, like he didn’t believe her for a second. “But that cute little cookie cutter choreography isn’t going to cut it.”

Her mouth fell open. “What did you just say?”

Ni-ki walked toward her slowly, stepping into her space like he owned it. Like the room bowed to him, and she was the visitor. “Your album’s more mature, isn’t it? More sensual, more aggressive?”

She didn’t answer. He already knew the answer. He leaned in slightly, voice low but firm. “Then why does the choreo make it sound and look like a child trying to walk in heels?”

Oh. She was going to scream. Scratch that she was going to combust.

Did he just call her entire comeback concept, her blood, sweat, and artistry...a pair of baby heels?

Her hands twitched at her sides. She wanted them around his neck. And not in the sexy way. No, she wanted to strangle him with his own stupid hoodie strings. This man was a bitch ass whore. A cock sucker in cargo pants and an ego too big for the room.

“Let me guess,” she bit out. “You want hard hitting, sexy, and ‘show-stopping’?”

“Exactly.” His eyes gleamed. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

She took a deep breath. Then another. And then one more.

She was going to survive this. She had to. Because if she didn’t...

Well, prison orange wasn’t her color. But she swore, if he smirked one more time…

Ni-ki

He was already watching it slip. That perfect little mask she wore so well. The one the public ate up like candy. The soft spoken, eternally gracious, ever so grateful Jiyoo, Korea’s sweetheart with the siren voice and polished smile.

But not here. Not in his studio.

Here, she was clenching her jaw, fists twitching at her sides like she was one breath away from launching her water bottle at his head.

And yet…she swallowed it. Bit it down like she’d done it a hundred times before. Her lashes fluttered. Her shoulders rose, fell. And then she did nothing.

He hated that.

He hated that she wanted to say something, probably something sharp and well deserved but didn’t. That she silenced herself like she was trained to. That instead of yelling, she nodded and said, “Okay.”

Because no one should have to live in a world where their anger wasn’t allowed.

Still, he didn’t say anything. Didn’t let it show that her restraint unsettled him more than her snapping ever could’ve.

They moved on when he told her to show him what shes got.

The track changed to one of the unreleased songs from her new album and he motioned for her to center herself in the room. She did. No attitude, no talking back, just a subtle flick of her hair over her shoulder and that look in her eyes like she was about to prove something.

He raised a brow.

And then she danced.

Not the swaying and shoulder popping and soft shimmies he’d grown used to seeing in her public performances. Not the hand heart, hair flipping, pink drenched pop girl choreography that barely counted as movement.

No.

This was different.

This was controlled, grounded movement. Musicality embedded in her muscle memory. Her footwork was sharp, clean, practiced. Her transitions were fluid, her weight balanced, her timing so exact it made his jaw tick.

She hit the beat with intention. She moved like she knew her body. Like she could destroy a stage if someone gave her the right routine.

Ni-ki’s arms crossed over his chest as he watched her. He didn’t speak not yet. Just stared with narrowed eyes and the smallest tilt to his head.

So.

There was a dancer underneath all that glitter and gloss.

Good to know.

This might be more fun than he thought.

Later he stood beside her, posture loose but sharp, like his bones were built from rhythm. The song played again lower volume this time and he rolled through the sequence effortlessly, letting her follow. No counts. No verbal cues. Just the beat and their reflections moving in sync.

Jiyoo didn’t say a word.

Didn’t ask for clarification or corrections, didn’t blink when he added a quick foot pivot or hip accent. Her eyes stayed glued to the mirror, brows slightly furrowed, breathing controlled even as her body moved like a livewire. She mirrored him as though she’d been doing it for years. And maybe she had, just…in silence.

She picked things up fast.

Faster than most.

Too fast for someone who was never shown dancing like this on stage. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, fluid arms, clean transitions, the way her weight shifted naturally. She was a little tight in the shoulders, but that was nerves or tension, not ability.

So why the hell hadn’t anyone seen this version of her before?

He stepped back, arms crossing again as she finished the eight count he’d just demoed. She nailed the ending pose steady and sharp.

“Cute,” he muttered, letting the sarcasm bite as he looked at her reflection. “Didn’t realize Korea’s Princess actually had rhythm. Guess hiding behind that image works pretty well.”

It wasn’t a compliment.

And he expected pushback maybe a glare, maybe a scoff or even a sarcastic remark in return.

But all he got was her voice. Quiet. Controlled.

“I didn’t hide,” she said with her eyes locked on her reflection in the mirror. “I just wasn’t allowed to.”

His chest tightened without permission.

Her words weren’t sharp. They weren’t laced with anger. Just…honest. And that made them worse somehow. He didn’t look at her. Just gave a slow nod, barely noticeable, and turned his attention back to the music.

No one spoke after that.

They just danced.

Two strangers in the mirror, close but far, her reflection burning a hole into him every time their steps aligned.

And maybe for the first time he didn’t hate the silence.

Jiyoo

The lights in her dorm were low, casting soft shadows across the pale walls. Jiyoo sat curled on the couch, her head resting atop her knees, arms wrapped tightly around her legs like they were the only thing keeping her together. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid, a few strands sticking to the sides of her face from the sweat she hadn’t bothered to wash off after practice.

It had been a long week.

A long good week, if she let herself admit it. Not because of him, Ni-ki was still a cold unreadable wall of arrogance with a tongue sharp enough to cut bone. But because the choreography he was teaching her…felt like hers.

It was bold.

It was sharp and sexy and unapologetically mature.

It was her, the version of herself she’d kept caged behind pastel sets and porcelain smiles for the last eight years. The version that didn't just shimmer on stage but burned.

She closed her eyes, letting the faint echo of today’s practice ring in her ears. The thump of the bass. The roll of her hips. The way her body moved in tandem with his in the mirrors like rivals, like opposites, like something magnetic that neither of them acknowledged.

It was fun.

God, when was the last time she had fun in a dance studio?

The question made her throat tighten. Because as much as her body was finally allowed to breathe…her heart still felt suffocated.

She had no one to talk to about this.

No one who would understand what it meant.

Her father, still stationed overseas, barely texted anymore. A single parent with a rigid military background, he never approved of her idol life. Said it was a waste of time, a distraction from the kind of ‘real success’ he wanted for her. They hadn’t spoken on the phone in nearly a year. Maybe longer.

Her mother had been different.

Her mother had been everything.

She was the one who saw Jiyoo’s light, who put her in front of cameras at five and stood by her side through every audition, every sleepless trainee night, every tear stained practice mirror. But cancer didn’t care about dreams. And when her mother passed away when she was seventeen, Jiyoo had smiled through her fifth comeback showcase with a piece of her heart already missing.

There were no siblings.

No real friends either. Just stylists and managers who rotated every few years.

Just her.

Always her.

She hugged her knees tighter.

Maybe that was why she pushed herself so hard. Why she didn’t take breaks or cry during training or complain when it hurt to breathe. If she broke, there was no one to pick up the pieces. If she failed, there’d be no one to fall back on.

So she didn’t fail. Couldn’t.

And maybe she’d already proven she was enough. Her new album was her best yet. The fans hadn’t heard it, hadn’t seen the stages, the choreo, the fire they weren’t expecting.

But they would.

And the anti-fans?

They hadn’t seen anything yet.

Jiyoo buried her face into her arms, heart aching with quiet pride and quieter loneliness.

No matter what it took she was going to show the world who Roe Jiyoo really was.

And not even Nishimura Riki could stop her.

(Few days later)

She stood in front of the full length mirror in the styling room, arms folded tightly across her chest, the silk fabric of the pastel pink dress barely grazing her thighs. It was lace trimmed, puff sleeved, sugary sweet and completely wrong.

Her mouth didn’t open, though. Not once.

She had voiced concerns earlier. Quietly. Tactfully. But they’d been brushed aside with the usual.

“This is what the fans like.”

“You’ve always done bright concepts so well.”

“It’s what people expect of you.”

Expectations. Expectations. Expectations.

Never mind the new sound. Never mind the choreography that dripped confidence and edge, the lyrics she wrote herself about desire and self worth and shedding everything she used to be.

No, according to everyone else, she was still the princess in a glass box.

Jiyoo forced her arms to relax and offered the stylist a smile that didn't reach her eyes. “Maybe something else?” she tried, voice barely audible.

“We’ve already planned the concept shots,” the stylist said gently but firmly. “This will photograph beautifully, Jiyoo. Trust us.”

Her breath stuttered as the panic crawled up her spine like a slow burning fuse. She could feel it in her fingertips, in the way her chest rose a little too quickly. Her reflection blurred. This isn’t her. This isn’t the album. This isn’t what she-

The door swung open with a sudden click.

And then he was there.

Ni-ki.

Tall, dressed in black like the walking storm cloud he always was, his expression unreadable as always until his gaze zeroed in on the dress the stylist was holding up and the frilly one she wore.

And his entire face twisted.

“What the hell is this?” he said sharply, striding forward and yanking the hanger out of the stylist’s hand like it offended him personally. “Is this a joke?”

The entire room froze.

Stylists, makeup artists, even Jiyoo herself; it was like the air had been sucked out of the space. Someone cleared their throat nervously. No one dared answer.

Ni-ki looked at the dress again, scoffing as he tossed it onto a nearby table like garbage. “You do realize the title track is a grown concept, right? With grown lyrics? And grown choreography?” His eyes snapped to the head stylist. “So explain to me why you’re dressing her like she’s about to sing a bubblegum jingle on a children's variety show.”

“N-Ni-ki,” someone started, trying to smooth things over, but he wasn’t finished.

“She’s not a doll,” he said, voice low and sharp. “She’s the main act of the biggest tour this year. Let her look like it.”

Jiyoo could only stare, wide eyed, heart pounding not from anxiety this time, but…something else. Her throat was tight, her pulse fast. He made no sense to her sometimes, and then sometimes he made plenty.

Ni-ki turned his head just slightly, eyes finding hers. “Say something,” he said flatly. “You hate it too.”

She swallowed.

And for once, she didn’t sugarcoat it. Didn’t smile and pretend. Her voice came out quiet, but steady. “Yeah…I do.”

And just like that his mouth twitched. Barely. But it was there.

“Good,” he muttered, turning away and heading for the door without another word, the storm receding as fast as it came.

The room remained still, awkward, unsure what to do.

But Jiyoo?

She looked at the discarded dress.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she had to wear something just because someone told her to.

Ni-ki

She walked out of that dressing room with something close to a skip in her step, like she’d just been handed a medal for bravery. It was subtle barely there but Ni-ki saw it.

And it annoyed the hell out of him.

He sent her one flat, bored look that said don’t test me, then jerked his head toward the hallway. “Come.”

She didn’t ask where. Just followed. That, at least, he respected.

He led her through the maze of the building until they reached the glass doors of the company salon suite, where only the most trusted stylists worked on high level talents. The room smelled faintly of heat tools, expensive shampoo, and sterile professionalism. Stylists moved around in black aprons with hands that cost more than the average monthly paycheck.

Jiyoo blinked in confusion when he motioned for her to sit. “Wait, wh-”

“Sit,” he cut her off, already walking past her toward one of the senior hair stylists.

She hesitated for half a second, then obeyed.

Ni-ki didn’t explain. He never did. Instead, he leaned down and began speaking in a low voice to the stylist noona who was now running a brush lightly through Jiyoo’s hair.

“She sings like a siren,” he murmured, eyes flicking toward the mirror. “So make her look like one. Sexy, but not loud. No color none of that pastel crap. Mature. Sultry. Eye catching without trying too hard.”

The stylist raised a brow, lips curling with interest. “Seductive, then?”

He shrugged one shoulder, fingers looping through his belt casually. “Exactly. But classy. Think ‘grown and dangerous,’ not ‘first heartbreak and bubblegum.’”

Jiyoo tried to twist in her seat, clearly wanting to protest, but the stylist was already sectioning her hair.

“No,” Ni-ki said, turning to pin her with a look. “You don’t get a say.”

Her mouth opened. Closed. And then she scowled.

He smirked just a little.

The stylist laughed softly, clearly enjoying the dynamic. “She’s super gorgeous, you know,” she said lightly, glancing at Ni-ki. “Her visuals are lethal. Honestly? The pastel colors have made her look too young. Soft. Boring.”

“Exactly,” he muttered, folding his arms. “She’s not cute. Not anymore. That era’s over.”

Jiyoo rolled her eyes so hard he almost applauded.

He didn’t say it out loud, but he was already picturing how the darker look would catch the light on stage, how the crowd would lose their minds. How every movement in the choreo would hit harder when the audience wasn’t distracted by frills and innocence.

No more pop princess. No more pretty puppet.

By the time they were finished with her, Jiyoo was going to look like what she was meant to be.

A storm in heels.

And Ni-ki? He was going to make sure she wore the sky like it belonged to her.

Everyone had to be on their A game, no mistakes. Because this was his paycheck, and his project to push him into something better. 

Jiyoo

The woman staring back at her in the mirror wasn’t new.

She’d always been there.

Buried beneath layers of blush tones, sweet curls, soft pastel lip tints and cutesy choreo. Hidden under the concept photos of innocence and light, under the fan edits that painted her as Korea’s Darling Angel.

But now?

Now she was staring at herself.

And for once, she didn’t want to look away.

Long, inky black hair fell past her hips perfectly straight, sleek like silk. Blond strands streaked like golden lightning through the darkness, cool and intentional, not gimmicky. The contrast made her sharp cheekbones look even more defined, and brought out the cat-like edge in her eyes.

She looked dangerous. She looked hot.

She looked like everything people said she couldn’t be.

Jiyoo slowly tilted her head, eyeing the way her new hair shimmered under the lighting, how the boldness softened nothing if anything, it dared the world to watch.

A slow smirk tugged at her lips.

God, her fans were going to die.

Dreamiz, the name they gave themselves years ago, loved her in any form. But this? This was going to turn their universe inside out. Fan edits, reaction videos, fancams, they’d lose it. The whole fandom would combust.

She didn't even want to think about the anti-fans.

Good.

Let them choke on their complaints.

The door behind her clicked softly shut as someone else entered, but it wasn’t Ni-ki. He had left a few minutes ago to get something to drink or to escape her giddiness.

She giggled to herself and turned toward the stylist still tidying her tray of products. “Noona.”

The woman turned, lifting a brow with a fond smile. “Yes?”

“This is…” Jiyoo ran her fingers down the long strands again, eyes wide with appreciation. “God, this is everything. I love it. I didn’t even think I could pull off something like this, but wow.”

Stylist Noona Soo-mi, a veteran with magic hands and even sharper fashion sense beamed. “Told you. I’ve been waiting for someone to give me the green light to take you to the dark side.”

Jiyoo laughed, eyes crinkling. “I didn’t think my dark side would be this sexy.”

“You mean mature,” Soo-mi teased, nudging her shoulder with a wink. “Don’t let Ni-ki hear you call it sexy or he’ll start acting like he invented the look.”

Jiyoo rolled her eyes, but couldn’t stop smiling. “He kind of did, didn’t he? Not the hair, but…the idea.”

“Mmhm,” Soo-mi hummed. “He had vision. But the truth is, you were always capable of this. We just needed the go ahead.”

Jiyoo’s smile slipped just slightly, but not in a bad way. More like a realization sinking in.

She had always been capable.

But now she was finally allowed to be even if it was just one step.

She turned back to the mirror, standing up straighter. Her reflection smirked right back at her, fierce and unbothered.

This wasn't just a new look.

This was a warning shot.

And for the first time in a long time, maybe ever honestly. Jiyoo didn’t feel like the idol trying to keep everyone happy.

She felt like she could breathe just a little easier.

Ni-ki

He almost crushed the can in his hand.

The aluminum creaked just a little too loud as Ni-ki stepped into the salon room, blinking once, then again because surely, he was imagining this. The lighting must be weird. Or the reflection. Or his brain short circuiting.

Because when Jiyoo turned around in that damn salon chair, her hair cascading like jet black silk down past her waist, catching hints of gold blond strands under the overhead lights, with that smirk that screamed I know I look good.

He almost dropped the drink.

Nope.

He tightened his grip and fought the twitch in his jaw. This wasn’t happening. This was not happening. He had spent the last forty five minutes watching dumb TikToks and texting his sister to check in on Yuna, figuring Jiyoo’s glam session would take forever because of course it would. He was ready to sigh, complain, maybe drop another sarcastic comment.

But not this.

Not walking into the room and suddenly forgetting how to breathe.

Her eyes locked on his in the mirror, and she turned in her chair fully to face him. Long legs crossed, arms folded loosely in her lap, head tilted. That damn smirk hadn’t left her mouth.

“What?” she asked, blinking slowly. “Why are you glaring at me?”

Was he glaring?

Shit. Maybe he was.

Ni-ki forced his expression to shift, flattening it back into the bored mask he wore like a second skin. He wasn’t about to stand there like some idiot caught off guard by a haircut.

He rolled his shoulders, shoved the energy drink into his jacket pocket, and crossed the room like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t just gone from infuriating idol mascot to dark haired anime villainess with a face card that should be illegal.

“I’m not glaring,” he muttered flatly. “Just surprised your face didn’t break the mirror.”

Jiyoo’s lips pressed into a thin line, clearly unimpressed.

He kept going.

“Not as ugly as before, I guess. But don’t get comfortable there’s still a lot of work to do.”

The disappointment that flickered across her face wasn’t loud it was subtle. Barely a dip of her shoulders, barely a flicker in those sharp eyes.

But Soo-mi, the stylist noona, gave him a full look of disapproval like he’d just kicked a puppy.

He ignored it. He always ignored it.

This was a job. Just a job. This wasn’t personal. It didn’t matter that Jiyoo looked like she belonged in the final boss level of a fantasy RPG. It didn’t matter that she looked.

Hot.

Not your type.

(Yes she was.)

Ni-ki turned on his heel before his thoughts could betray him any further. He didn’t need to see Soo-mi’s glare again. He didn’t need to risk looking at Jiyoo twice.

Because if he did. He might not be able to hide it next time.

Ni-ki (Few Weeks Later)

Ni-ki stood backstage, arms crossed, jaw tense, heart pounding far harder than he’d like to admit.

From where he was positioned, he could see everything. The stage lights dimmed just beyond the curtain, the camera crew scrambling into position, and just a few feet away, Jiyoo sitting gracefully across from the host of Late Night Soul as her interview was broadcast live.

She was radiant.

Not overly polished or robotic. She wasn’t hiding behind a perfect smile or carefully scripted lines. She was herself in the moment, cheeky, witty, softly flirtatious with that charm she didn’t even realize she had. The audience laughed with her, clapped when she teased the host, and leaned forward when she spoke about her music with passion in her voice.

And Ni-ki?

He was losing his mind. Quietly. Completely.

Because damn, she had changed.

Not into someone new. Not into the idol they told her to be.

But into herself.

More confident. More grounded. Brighter. Sharper. Still gentle, still kind, but no longer shrinking into her hoodie or letting people talk over her. She looked comfortable in her skin now, unafraid of her own voice.

And a part of him, one he tried really hard not to think about knew he’d had something to do with that.

He hadn’t remade her.

He just...helped her find her edges. Polished what was already glowing beneath the surface. He saw her. And somewhere along the way, she started seeing herself too.

God, she’s amazing.

His fingers curled into his sleeves.

This wasn’t like before, not just a project, a paycheck, another job. He was past pretending. Past brushing it off. Past denying the way his chest ached every time she looked up at him during practice like she trusted him with everything.

Because tonight they were about to perform Crave Me together.

Live.

Under red lighting, wrapped in shadows and heat, as she sang live vocals and he touched her the way only he was allowed to, the way they’d practiced over and over. Hands on her waist, her back, her neck. Eyes locked, breath shared, legs tangled.

All of it. Every detail. Every step choreographed to look like tension, like lust, like longing.

Except it wasn’t acting.

Not for him.

Not anymore.

This performance was a heartbeat away. And the whole world was about to see what he saw every time she walked into a room.

Chemistry? Please.

He craved her.

There was no acting required. Not when the music started. Not when she stepped into the shadows, mic in hand, head high, hips swaying with that deadly confidence she’d been born to wield.

Not when she looked toward the wings at him and gave the tiniest, most private smile.

He exhaled slowly, and he stepped forward.

The countdown had begun.

And Ni-ki knew two things.

One. This performance was going to change everything.

And Two. He had never wanted someone the way he wanted her.

Jiyoo

The bass echoed beneath her heels as the red lights flared overhead, casting everything in velvet shadows and heat.

The crowd was quiet. Captivated.

And Jiyoo.

Jiyoo was on fire.

The opening lines of Crave Me slipped from her lips like silk, low and breathy, her voice curling around the melody as she walked across the stage with purpose. Every movement felt rehearsed, sure, but it didn’t feel routine. Not tonight. Not with him standing at the center of the stage, waiting for her.

Ni-ki.

She hadn’t even looked at him yet and her skin already buzzed with anticipation.

When she finally reached him, their eyes met and something in her chest jerked. His gaze locked onto hers like she was the only thing that existed, not the lights, not the cameras, not the thousands watching live. Just her.

The choreography began.

They moved in sync, sharp and fluid. Her fingertips dragged across his sculpted chest, exactly like they’d rehearsed but it didn’t feel like rehearsed. It felt real. His skin was warm under her touch, his muscles tightening slightly, and when her palm flattened against him, he didn’t look away.

He never looked away.

His eyes bored into hers, burning with something heavy and unreadable. And she oh God she felt breathless. Unsteady. Drunk off the tension.

It’s just the dance, she told herself.

It was the music. The lyrics. The heat in the room. That’s all.

But then came the lift with his hands on her hips, his grip firm but gentle, and when she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, leaning into him as the spotlight circled their silhouettes she swore she saw something.

Something different.

Like he wanted her.

Not just the dancer. Not the idol.

Her.

It was in the way his brows knit just slightly as their faces neared, the way his hands settled like he was memorizing her shape, not just positioning her for a pose. And then there was the way he pulled her into him, even after the beat hit. Subtle. Intentional.

He wants me, her mind whispered. Maybe. A little. Right?

And she wanted him back. She didn’t know when it started. Maybe that night in New York, maybe when he defended her, maybe long before. But she did.

She wanted him.

But that was stupid, right?

He was three years older. More mature..okay well maybe not that. Grounded seeing as he knew who he was. His life was neatly outlined, already unfolding like a well structured routine. He knew who he was, where he was going.

She didn’t even know what she’d be doing in four months.

There was no way he liked her. Not like that.

Right?

Then why?

Why was he holding her like this?

Why was his hand pressed to the small of her back like she already belonged to him?

Why was their final pose with her arm looped around his neck, leg curled around his waist, forehead nearly touching his so full of heat, of ache, of promise?

And why? Why did she want to close the distance?

The audience erupted. But all she could feel was him. Still holding her. Still close. Still not letting go. The moment the lights dimmed and the last note of Crave Me faded into the sound of a roaring crowd, Jiyoo felt Ni-ki’s hands still on her.

Not inappropriately. Not possessively.

Just…still there.

His fingers rested against the curve of her back, his other hand lightly at her waist as if the performance hadn’t ended, like his body hadn’t received the message that they were no longer supposed to be this close.

Her breath hitched, just slightly. Her chest rising and falling faster than it should’ve against his that was moving just as fast. It wasn’t from exertion. Not this time.

She didn’t dare look at him in the eyes, not with the way her pulse was thrumming through her entire body, not with the memory of his eyes burning into her during the performance, the way his grip tightened when she sang directly into his space.

Instead, she took a shaky breath and forced herself to move. Her hands dropped from around his neck, her leg sliding back to the floor with practiced grace. She steadied herself outwardly composed, internally unraveling.

And as the lights came back on she plastered on a bright, blinding smile. One of her best. One that hid everything.

“We did amazing,” she said, voice a little higher than usual, her tone too cheerful to match the way her skin still tingled from his touch.

Ni-ki blinked like he’d just come back to earth. His eyes searched hers for something, but he only managed a dazed, “Yeah…great job.”

Great job. Like this wasn’t the most intimate performance of their lives.

She didn’t give herself time to linger.

“Thanks,” she said quickly, her smile softening just enough before she turned and stepped offstage, walking straight past the camera crew, the staff clapping loudly still, the glowing lights of the backstage hallway.

She needed to breathe.

She needed to not think about the way he looked at her like she was already his. The way his hand never faltered. The way her body didn’t want to move away.

She made it to the dressing room, closed the door, and leaned back against it for a second.

Silence.

Her reflection stared back at her in the mirror flushed cheeks, tousled hair, lipstick just a little smudged. She looked like a girl who had been kissed senseless.

But he hadn’t even kissed her.

Not even close.

She exhaled a laugh and half breath, half disbelief and started stripping out of her performance outfit. The fabric clung to her skin, sticky with sweat and tension and something she didn’t want to name.

She changed quickly, slipping back into her usual clothes. A loose blouse, leggings, sneakers. Something comfortable. Something normal. Anything to pull her back down from whatever cloud her brain was floating on.

But even as she tied her hair up and packed her things, she couldn’t stop feeling him.

His hands. His stare. His breath.

Act like you crave me?

She didn’t have to act.

As she stepped out into the hallway, she kept her head down, waving off the makeup artist who asked if she needed touch ups.

She just needed to get back to the hotel. To shower, to be alone. To think.

Because if she didn’t process this soon, she was going to start thinking about what it would actually feel like if he kissed her.

And that was a dangerous thought she wasn’t ready for.

Because while their relationship had changed from tense to relaxed, hurtful to kind. There was still a lingering doubt in the back of her mind.

Ni-ki

He was stunned.

Still standing there, right in the middle of the stage, long after the lights had gone out and the cameras had cut.

The applause had faded. The music was gone. The crowd started to disperse. Jiyoo was gone.

And Ni-ki couldn’t move.

He could still feel her hands on him, the warmth of her breath against his jaw, the ghost of her body pressed to his, like the performance had been carved into his skin. He had danced on a thousand stages, with hundreds of artists, and yet nothing absolutely nothing had ever felt like that.

“Ni-ki!”

The sharp call of a director jolted him.

He blinked once, twice, and turned his head.

“Wrap up notes in ten,” the director called from across the floor. “Costume team wants to..”

But Ni-ki was already moving. He didn’t respond. He didn’t care.

He was gone.

He took off down the corridor, weaving past equipment cases, sidestepping production staff, his steps fast, borderline panicked. He didn’t even know what he was doing he just had to see her. He had to say something. Anything.

You were incredible.

You looked beautiful.

I’ve never felt that way before.

What the hell are we even doing?

His mind flooded with all of it. All the words he never let himself say before. Words that hovered on the edge of his tongue now like they’d been waiting for the right moment to crash out.

When he reached the dressing room door, he didn’t knock.

He pushed it open and she was gone.

His chest tightened.

The room was dark now, lights off, makeup table wiped down. Her outfit from the performance had been bagged and folded neatly. Her water bottle was gone. Her phone charger too. It was silent.

She had already left.

Damn it.

He stood there for a second, hand still gripping the doorframe, jaw tense, heart pounding in a way that scared him.

It was fine. He’d find her. They still worked together. He had to.

He turned and started walking again, faster now. Straight out of the venue, ignoring the assistants calling after him, ignoring the team waiting to debrief. He shoved his hoodie on, pulled the strings tight, and slid into the back seat of a black car.

“Hotel,” he said.

The driver nodded.

He sat in silence the entire ride. Knuckles white where they gripped his knees, mind spinning with too many images of her. Her on stage, smiling, glowing, looking at him like she saw something in him he wasn’t ready to believe existed.

He didn’t know what he was going to do when he got to the hotel. Didn’t know what he was going to say.

But he couldn’t go another night pretending this was just work.

He had to see her. Even if it was a mistake.

He had to see her.

He knocked before he could talk himself out of it.

And then immediately regretted knocking, because now he had to wait. And waiting meant thinking. And thinking meant spiraling.

The hallway was quiet, dimly lit, the patterned carpet muffling his nervous shifting. He fiddled with the strings of his hoodie, replaying every second of their performance in his head like it was a movie he didn’t want to stop watching.

Then.

The door opened.

And he choked.

Jiyoo stood there barefoot, hair still damp from a shower, wearing black athletic shorts and an oversized but cropped band tee that stopped just above her stomach. No makeup. No lights. Just her.

God, she was beautiful.

Not in the dolled up, spotlight way. But in the real way. The kind of beautiful that crept up on you and made it impossible to look away.

“You okay?” she asked, voice soft, a little amused.

He nodded.

Like a fucking idiot.

She raised her eyebrows. “You…wanna come in?”

He nodded again.

Jesus Christ. Get it together, man.

She stepped aside, and he followed her into the room, trying to focus on anything other than her legs or her bare face or the way she moved like she wasn’t even aware of how captivating she was when relaxed.

He sat stiffly on the edge of the hotel sofa like he wasn’t 26 years old with a career and a name and a life. She disappeared into the kitchenette for a moment, then came back with two drinks and a snack pouch, tossing one his way before plopping beside him, legs curled beneath her.

“You’re not bad,” she said, deadpan.

He blinked at her. Eyes against his will scanning her pretty self head to toe “At what?”

She smirked. “Dancing.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Gee, thanks.”

“I mean, I guess you’re decent,” she said with a teasing shrug. “Could use some improvement.”

“Right,” he muttered, dry. “From the girl who tripped over a stage monitor two weeks ago.”

She gasped, smacking his arm. “You promised never to speak of that.”

He let the smallest smirk pull at his lips. “Mm. I lied.”

She giggled, full and bright, and handed him one of the rice snacks before opening her own. They sat in a companionable silence for a moment, chewing slowly, the room warm and quiet around them.

She was breathtaking on stage, commanding, fierce, untouchable. But like this?

Like this, she was everything. And he didn’t know what to do with the feeling growing in his chest. He had never been good with his own emotions. Example A, the way he treated her before. Example B. Right fucking now.

“So,” she said after a while, turning to look at him, “what are you doing after this?”

His heart pounding hard against his chest. Whole body feeling like it was vibrating with sheer energy alone. She was asking about him. “After…the show?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Final concert’s tomorrow. We fly back to Seoul in a few days. I figure you’re already booked for something new.”

He exhaled slowly, setting his drink down on the side table. “I’ve had a few offers.”

“Yeah?”

“One’s…big.” He leaned back against the cushion. “Six member boy group. New tour. Sharp style, all the drama. They’re called RIOT7.”

She raised her brows. “Ooh. Edgy.”

He snorted. “They wear mesh and eyeliner. One of them has an eyebrow piercing.”

“Of course they do.”

He hesitated. “I also got a local offer.”

“Oh?”

He didn’t tell her the local offer was her. That he’d been asked to stay on as her choreographer for the rest of her comeback possibly beyond. It hadn’t been official yet, but it was there. Hanging in the air like an unspoken choice.

“Well,” she said, smiling a little, “I think you should take the offer with RIOT7.”

Something in his chest tightened. Was she not even going to consider asking him. Because if she did, he wouldn't hesitate to stay. He turned to look at her fully. “Trying to get rid of me already?”

She laughed, nudging his leg with her knee. “No. Not even close.” Then, quieter, “I’d love for you to stay.”

His breath caught.

“But,” she added, “no one should hold themselves back when they want something more.”

He stared at her. She looked away, busying herself with her half empty snack bag, pretending like she hadn’t just said something that made his whole body feel too tight.

And he agreed. He did.

But also what if more wasn’t the flashy job or the global tour or the screaming fans?

What if more was this? This girl with bare feet and a teasing mouth and a heartbeat he felt in his own chest?

Was he really going to turn down offers from the biggest names in the industry…over some girl he fell for?

Maybe. Maybe he was.

Because the thing he thought at the beginning. That working with Jiyoo would push his career?

It wasn’t true.

She didn’t push his career.

She changed him.

And now, sitting here beside her, quietly spiraling with a bag of rice snacks in his lap and the soft hum of the city through the hotel window, Ni-ki realized he had a lot of thinking to do.

Because the tour was ending. And he wasn’t sure how to let her go.

Jiyoo (A while later)

Back in Korea, the city felt louder somehow.

Or maybe she was just quieter.

Not in the way she used to be, not small, not timid, not lost. But more settled. More rooted. Like someone who had grown into her skin without asking permission this time.

So much had changed over the last month.

And not just the city outside her window.

She had changed.

Tour had a way of shaking the dust off a person, but for Jiyoo, it did something deeper. It didn’t just test her endurance it reintroduced her to herself. Somewhere between the interviews, the rehearsal halls, the lights and crowds and sleepless nights she found her again.

Her confidence. Her voice. Her choice.

Even if it was happening now so late, so close to the end of it all it still meant everything.

Because the little girl who let others control her narrative, who smiled through decisions made for her, who wore outfits she hated and sang in keys too high because it sounded more marketable, was gone.

And in her place stood a woman. A woman who said what she wanted and meant it.

She liked who she was now.

Maybe she wouldn’t always. Maybe she’d still have bad days. But for the first time in her adult life, she wasn’t afraid of herself.

Over the past few weeks, it had all started to click.

The way Ni-ki would send her those proud, quiet looks from across the studio when she stood her ground. The way he hyped her up before shows, in his dry, slightly smug tone that always made her roll her eyes and smile behind her water bottle. The dance that changed everything when she realized she didn’t have to act like she craved him, because she already did. The night he showed up at her hotel room, standing in the hallway with nervous eyes and telling her his job offers without saying what he was actually thinking.

He hadn’t told her what he chose.

And it sucked, hearing him talk about leaving. It stung, more than she let on. But it was fine.

Fine. Yeah. Fine.

She only had three months left as an idol anyway.

Her contract was expiring, and she wasn’t signing again.

She’d already decided. Quietly. Firmly.

Maybe she’d buy a new house in Seoul, somewhere a little removed from the chaos. Maybe she’d take a year to breathe. Maybe she’d write songs for someone else and help new voices find their own sound the way she finally found hers.

But the idol life?

She was done.

She didn’t want to chase every trend, dance until her knees gave out, smile when she wanted to scream. Not anymore. She had earned her way out.

And more importantly she wanted it.

She was confident now. Not loud about it. Just certain.

She had one last concert in a few weeks. Her final goodbye to the fans. After that, it would just be modeling gigs, brand schedules, award shows and then freedom.

She was choosing it. Herself.

No manager. No company exec. No schedule planner.

Just her.

She stared out the window of her apartment, the sky beginning to tint with evening light, and let the quiet hum of the city settle around her.

Her phone buzzed behind her, probably another request to do an appearance or an endorsement, but she didn’t turn around to check.

Not yet.

Instead, she closed her eyes, let the breeze from the balcony wash over her, and whispered a soft thought into the air gentle and unspoken.

Thanks, Ni-ki.

Because even if it didn’t end the way she hope. It didn’t start right either.

And still, somehow.

It mattered.

Ni-ki ( A Month Later)

The bass echoed through the mirrors of the dance studio, a steady pulse that vibrated in Ni-ki’s chest as the six members of RIOT7 ran the routine for the sixth time that afternoon.

He stood at the front, arms crossed, brow furrowed in concentration, watching each member hit their mark. They were good. Sharp. Edgy. Full of chaotic energy and hunger, the kind that made idols magnetic before they even stepped on stage.

And he was good at this. He loved this.

He loved shaping movement, loved watching artists find their rhythm, their body language, their style. Helping them own it. He was made for this part of the industry.

But even as the music played and the team moved like liquid fire across the floor.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her.

It had been a few weeks since they got back to Seoul. A few weeks since she told him to take the job.

A few weeks of silence.

No calls. No texts. Not even a voice memo or a stupid idol meme from her in the middle of the night like she used to send after shows.

And yeah, sure, he could’ve reached out first. He should have.

But every time he picked up his phone, some dumb invisible weight pressed down on his chest. And he didn’t know what to say. Or how to say it. Not without risking the thread thin line he wasn’t even sure they had left.

She had told him to go. To chase more. To not hold himself back.

And so…he did.

And it sucked.

He missed her like hell.

He missed the sound of her voice when she rambled about choreography or tea flavors. He missed her messy lyrics scribbled on post-its stuck to her water bottle. He missed her teasing. Her laugh. Her soft voice when she said thank you after he helped her.

And the worst part? They hadn’t even kissed.

Not once. Not even a brush of lips. Not even a whisper of almost.

And he was this whipped.

The music ended with a heavy beat. The members panted and clapped, collapsing onto the floor around him. Ni-ki gave a few notes, offered a lazy thumbs up, then told them they were done for the day.

He barely heard their replies as he grabbed his bag and headed out into the cool Seoul evening.

His house wasn’t far, a quiet, sleek place tucked away in a nicer neighborhood. Minimalist furniture, clean lines, soft lighting. It was the kind of home people dreamed of having at his age. The kind that screamed stability and success.

And it felt empty as hell.

He dropped his bag at the front door, kicked off his shoes, and sank onto the couch with a low groan, raking a hand through his hair. The TV remote lay beside him, untouched, until he grabbed it and started mindlessly flipping through channels.

Then he froze.

There on screen was her.

The camera panned across a packed stadium, fans screaming, lights flashing, and there she was.

Jiyoo.

Standing center stage in a glittering black outfit, mic in hand, body still as the intro to her final song began. Her eyes were shiny but fierce, lips curved into the smallest, most breathtaking smile.

Her final concert.

Live.

He sat up straight, heart suddenly thudding loud in his ears.

And without thinking, he clicked on it.

He didn’t recognize the opening notes of the song, one from an older album, maybe something buried deeper in her discography. But it didn’t matter.

Because the moment he saw her on that screen, standing in the middle of the stage in a floor length black dress that shimmered with every breath of light, Ni-ki forgot how to move.

Her voice washed over him. Smooth. Controlled. But there was something under it, a tremble, a truth that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t fear.

It was freedom.

And when the song faded out and the crowd’s applause slowly softened to silence, she didn’t speak right away.

She just stood there. One hand on the mic. One hand at her side. Breathing.

And then, in that soft, low, alluring tone of hers that had the power to hush millions, she said:

“Thank you...for staying with me. For listening. For letting me grow.”

The stadium fell completely still.

Ni-ki sat forward on his couch, elbows on his knees, watching like the TV might vanish if he blinked too hard.

“These past seven years have been...more than I ever dreamed of. But also more than I ever expected. There were times I was tired. Times I felt really, really alone.”

A pause.

“Being a solo idol is beautiful...but it’s also exhausting. And somewhere along the way, I realized it’s not my passion anymore.”

His throat tightened.

“I want to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry if this hurts to hear. And I hope you’ll still support me even when I’m not on stage all the time. I have other dreams now. I want to chase things that scare me. Maybe one day...I’ll have a family. Fall in love.”

Ni-ki’s heart stuttered. She gave a small, shy smile. “Or at least get a dog.”

The crowd laughed gently, many cheering, some already crying.

“My contract ends her very soon” she continued, voice unwavering, “and I won’t be renewing it. I’ve made my decision, and I hope you all understand.”

More cheering. Loud. Deafening. A love so loud it almost made him cry.

“But…I do have one last song. It’s not released. I wrote it recently completely by myself. The kind of song that comes straight from the center of your chest.”

She stepped closer to the mic. Her hands gripped it. Her chin lifted. “It’s called She’s Gone.”

The crowd exploded.

And then…silence again. The kind that feels sacred. Heavy. The lights dimmed, everything bathed in blue and gold.

Just her. Alone in the spotlight.

And when she started singing Ni-ki felt everything.

I used to smile just to keep the peace Bit my tongue so I wouldn't seem 'too much' Kept my dreams locked under seven keys While they told me who I’m 'meant to be'—enough’s enough

Each line hit like a blade. Every word was something he knew she had lived.

He’d seen her smile when she was tired, nod when she wanted to scream, apologize when she shouldn’t have, go through seven years like they were locked doors.

He watched her grow from someone hiding under layers of pressure into someone who owned herself.

She’s gone, the one who played it safe Gone, the one who gave it all away Now I’m rising, wild and free…

Her voice cracked but she didn’t falter. Not once.

She meant every word.

Ni-ki swallowed thickly, heart in his throat, fingers pressed to his lips. Something in his chest felt like it was breaking open and blooming at the same time.

This was her. Not the stage version. Not the one managers molded.

This was Jiyoo. Raw. Real. Untouched.

And he wanted it all.

Her courage. Her smile. Her messy, unfiltered voice. The soft version of her in shorts and a cropped tee. The version who teased him. Who looked at him like he wasn’t just another choreographer.

He wanted to be the one who heard her late night voice. He wanted to be the one she built a family with. He wanted to stay. For her.

The final verse began, and Ni-ki’s eyes blurred as he watched her sing her soul out lit from within like the sun finally cracked her open.

And as she sang that final line.

She’s gone and I’m finally ME…

He didn’t move.

Not when the crowd screamed. Not when she bowed her head and closed her eyes, face damp with tears. Not when the lights dimmed and the screen began to fade.

Because all he could think was.

I want her. All of her. And I’m not leaving.

Jiyoo

She was free.

Like really free.

No hidden strings. No stage schedule. No afterparty to smile through. Just her. And a night sky outside her window. And silence.

And it felt amazing.

Better than she ever imagined.

The concert the day before had been everything. Electric. Emotional. A little chaotic in the best way. The love from the fans both in person and flooding every corner of the internet was overwhelming in the most beautiful way.

She didn’t cry on stage. Not fully. Not until the lights went down. But now, thinking back on it, she could feel the weight lifted from her chest. She had done it. She’d said everything she needed to say.

No regrets.

She left her heart and soul out there on that stage, in that final bow, in the notes of She’s Gone, a song she still couldn’t believe she had the courage to sing live.

It wasn’t just a goodbye to the career they built for her it was a tribute to her younger self. To the scared girl who smiled too much and spoke too little. To the teenager who swallowed her dreams to make room for other people’s expectations. To the idol who thought shrinking was the price of success.

That girl was gone.

And she didn’t mourn her. She honored her.

That song was for her. For the girl who finally said. I’m enough.

She glanced toward the window, half wondering if her dad saw the concert. He hadn’t reached out. Not that she expected him to. It had been over a year since their last phone call, and the silence still carried weight.

But maybe…Maybe one day he’d see it. Maybe one day he’d see her.

And if not? That was okay too.

Because tonight, Jiyoo had everything she needed.

Coffee flavored ice cream in her favorite chipped ceramic bowl. A fuzzy blue blanket pulled up to her chin. Soft pajamas with mismatched socks. And a Netflix home screen she had zero intention of navigating any time soon.

She sank into the couch with a little sigh, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders and taking a spoonful of the ice cream, letting the cold sweetness melt on her tongue. The city lights twinkled softly outside her window, and for once, they weren’t calling her.

She didn’t have to be anywhere. Didn’t have to prove anything. Didn’t have to perform.

She was just the woman named Roe Jiyoo.

And that was more than enough for her heart to rest.

Her phone rang.

At first, she didn’t even move. Too busy scraping the last of her coffee ice cream from the bowl like it owed her something. But then she glanced at the screen and nearly dropped both the spoon and her heart.

Ni-ki.

His name lit up her phone like a flare in the night. Bold. Unexpected. Loud in her silence.

She was a little confused as she stared at the phone debating what to do. Was he…calling her?

It had been weeks. Not a text. Not a call. Not a single 'good job' after the concert. And now?

Her thumb hovered for half a second before she answered, trying to sound like her voice wasn’t racing just as fast as her heart.

“Hello?”

“Are you busy?” His voice. Deep. Calm. A little raspy. God, she hated how much she missed it.

“No,” she replied slowly, still in shock. “Why?”

“Wear something comfortable. I’ll be outside.” Click.

She stared at her phone like it had personally offended her. “That’s it? No context?” she muttered to herself. Not even a please? She blinked again, still blushing.

What was happening?

Her mind sprinted through every possible explanation. Did something happen? Did he miss her too? Was this a goodbye? A late congratulations? A-

“Ugh, stop spiraling bitch,” she mumbled as she stood up and tossed her blanket aside.

Jeans. T-shirt. Sneakers. Simple. Quick. She grabbed her jacket on instinct and threw her long hair into a ponytail with a flick of her wrist. Her heart pounded as she stared at her reflection in the mirror by the door.

Get a grip. It’s just Ni-ki. It’s just a man. A very attractive man.

She stepped outside.

And there he was.

Leaning against his car like a scene from a movie. Black shirt. Loose jeans. Hands in his pockets. Face unreadable as always stoic, calm, cool. But his eyes. His eyes were stormy.

They met hers instantly. Like he’d been waiting for her to appear just so he could finally breathe. And something inside her chest twisted.

“Hey,” she said, a little too softly.

He didn’t reply. Just moved. Walked around the car, pulled open the passenger door for her without a word, and waited.

Jiyoo blinked. “You’re not even gonna tell me where we’re going?”

Still no words. But the corner of his lip tugged in the smallest smirk, just for a second.

She sighed and climbed in, sliding into the passenger seat. He shut the door behind her gently, like he always did, then rounded the front and got in.

Without a word, the engine rumbled to life. And just like that, they were pulling off into the night. No explanation. No destination. Just silence and the tension of something waiting to break.

And she didn’t know why. But her heart had never felt louder.

They drove in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was them.

Window down slightly, wind curling through her hair. His hand resting near the gear shift, casual but close enough to notice. She glanced at him once or twice from the corner of her eye, but Ni-ki was unreadable eyes on the road, jaw set in that way that said he was thinking too much and too fast.

And then they pulled in.

Jiyoo blinked as the car slowed and parked in front of-

“Is this...?”

She sat up straighter, eyes scanning the flickering sign that barely read NEON BLAST ARCADE. Half the letters were dead. A few machines inside looked like they hadn’t worked since 2011. The windows were a little dusty. And there was a sad looking claw machine standing by the door like a defeated old man.

She turned to look at him, completely caught off guard. “Are you serious right now?”

Finally, finally, she saw his lips twitch. It wasn’t a full smile, but it was enough for her. “Get out of my car,” he said blandly.

“Rude,” she muttered, but she was already opening the door.

She was halfway to the entrance before she realized he hadn’t followed. She turned back, hands on her hips.

Ni-ki hadn’t moved. Just stood by his door, leaning slightly, watching her with that unreadable expression.

“Come on, grumpy pants,” she called, walking back over.

And before he could protest, Jiyoo reached out and grabbed his hand.

She didn’t let go.

Not even when he stiffened slightly. Not when he looked down at their hands like it meant something. Not even when he glanced at her with that barely there look of surprise.

She just smiled and tugged him forward. Straight to the front desk where the teenage clerk handed over two chipped plastic cups filled with shiny gold coins. She still didn’t let go.

“Let’s go,” she said, already leading him past the broken claw machines and the sad DDR setup.

Finally, she stopped at a slightly beat up air hockey table. Her favorite.

She dropped his hand.

Ni-ki looked at her with a mix of amusement and curiosity as she cracked her knuckles and positioned herself at one end of the table like she was walking into battle.

She glanced up, chin tilted, eyes sharp.

“Don’t let me win again,” she said. And that was it.

The challenge was set. The storm between them quietly built again this time, wrapped in the flicker of neon lights, the scent of old popcorn, and the echo of coins clinking into plastic cups.

Ni-ki

Of course she knew he let her win that first time they went to the arcade. She always knew.

It was in the way she grinned every time she scored a point, in the way her eyes sparkled brighter with each ridiculous cheer she let out. Her hair bounced in her ponytail, her body leaned over the table with dramatic flair, and she was absolutely killing him.

Ni-ki stood at the opposite end of the air hockey table, pretending he was focused, pretending like the glowing puck flying at him wasn’t secondary to how her lips curled when she teased him. He slapped the puck back half heartedly, watching her eyes track it. She was fast. But he was faster. Always had been.

He could win. Easily.

But he didn’t.

He let her slap the puck into his goal with a dramatic cheer, throwing both arms in the air like she’d just won Olympic gold. She was acting like she just climbed Everest. It was obnoxious. It was adorable. It was killing him.

“I knew it,” she said, wagging her finger. “You’re letting me win again.”

“No, I’m not,” he deadpanned, sliding the puck back toward her.

“Liar,” she sing songed, reaching for it.

He raised an eyebrow. “Maybe I just suck.”

She gave him a full, slow once over from across the table. Then tilted her head with mock seriousness. “Oh no. You’re good at everything, unfortunately. Especially looking hot while brooding in silence.”

Ni-ki swallowed hard. His ears turned pink.

“I don’t brood.”

“You’re brooding right now,” she shot back, laughing as she grabbed the puck and served again.

He caught it. Slammed it back just hard enough to make her jump and yelp, giggling as she blocked it with a swift move of her wrist.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” she muttered, trying not to laugh.

He gave a quiet snort, eyes fixed on her. “You’re lucky I’m letting you win.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she teased. “Keep saying that to protect your pride.”

He leaned forward on his end of the table, one hand braced as he watched her, gaze darker now but still dancing with amusement. “You know what happens when I stop holding back?”

She paused.

The smile on her lips wavered, not gone just flickering. “What?”

He didn’t answer. He slammed the puck so fast it ricocheted off the sides and flew past her.

She blinked. “Hey!”

He smirked, a real one this time, and it damn near knocked the breath out of her.

“Point for me,” he said smoothly. “Okay rematch,” she snapped, grabbing the puck with new determination.

The next ten minutes were chaos.

Coins clinking, dramatic yelling from her, deadpan responses from him, and more laughter than Ni-ki had heard from himself in a long time. She was radiant, flushed from running around the old arcade, jumping from game to game. Skeeball, basketball, one of those rhythm games with the glowing pads.

They played everything.

And somehow he followed her every time.

She dragged him around by the wrist like she owned him, like there was never a question of if he’d follow. Only when.

She did own him.

He didn’t mind.

And when she finally pulled him to a sad old photo booth tucked in the corner of the arcade, he didn’t say no. Just ducked in beside her, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh in the cramped space. Her perfume hit him like a soft wave. Vanilla and something sweet and warm like a memory he didn’t want to let go of.

They made faces for the camera. He kept it cool. She didn’t.

She stuck her tongue out, threw peace signs, leaned into him like they’d known each other forever. And maybe they had, in some weird, cosmic sense.

Click.

Click.

Click.

And then that last photo she turned toward him at the last second, grabbing his jaw and squishing his cheeks. He looked shocked. She was laughing.

When the photos printed out a minute later, she squealed.

“Look at your face!” she cackled, holding the strip up.

He took it from her fingers gently, looked at it like it meant something more than a dumb souvenir.

Maybe it did. And when she was tucking the photo into the case of her phone, he snuck his hand into the photo booth dispenser and quickly tucked the second strip into his pockets.

When she turned to look for another game, he reached out and grabbed her wrist. Lightly. Softly. Barely a touch.

She paused. Looked up.

Ni-ki’s voice was quieter now. “I missed this.”

Her smile faltered. “Me too.”

There was something heavy hanging in the air now. Something they hadn’t named yet.

“You still like coffee ice cream?” he asked suddenly.

Her brows rose. “Always.”

He nodded once, like that settled something deep inside him. And then he said, “Good. Let’s go get some.”

And just like that, she followed him, hand brushing against his, steps light, heart louder than ever.

-

You might be wondering why she’s at his house.

Ni-ki wonders the same thing, kind of but not really. Because he knows exactly how it happened.

They went out for ice cream after the arcade, like two normal people who hadn’t spent weeks dancing around each other, pretending their hearts weren’t clawing out of their chests. But when they pulled up to the little shop near the river, there were cameras. Fans. Too many people.

Too many eyes that didn’t deserve to see her the way he saw her.

She didn’t even seem bothered. Just gave a small shrug and told him they could try somewhere else. But he wasn’t interested in dragging her through the city just to find another place. So he said he had better snacks at home.

She raised an eyebrow.

He told her he had strawberry ice cream, gummies, three different types of chips, and snacks from Japan that she had mentioned once during rehearsals and probably forgot.

She laughed.

He told her to get in the car.

She kept laughing.

He said he’d lock the doors and not let her leave until she had a good time.

Her eyes sparkled, and she said, “Fine, you weirdo.”

And now here she is. In his house. On his couch.

Eating strawberry ice cream from his freezer.

She’s cross legged, shoes off, mismatched socks on, swinging her feet like a kid without a care in the world. His couch swallows her in the softest way, and her oversized tee is slipping off one shoulder, revealing the delicate slope of her neck and that ridiculous little freckle he never noticed before.

Ni-ki’s losing his mind.

His mouth waters, his jaw clenches, and he hasn’t heard a single word she’s said for the last three minutes. Because all he can see is her.

Her long lashes. Her smile. Her pretty little lips stained pink from the ice cream. The way her tongue darts out every now and then to catch the melting edges from her spoon. The way her voice hums lightly as she talks about something he should be paying attention to.

He’s not.

He’s staring.

And she doesn’t even notice at first until he says her name.

“Jiyoo.”

His voice comes out lower than usual, thick with something she’s never heard from him before. A growl under the surface. A confession waiting.

She pauses her motions and looks at him.

Sharp eyes.

Pretty face.

Bare shoulder.

And Ni-ki breathes out slow. His heart pounding.

“Look at me,” he says again, voice rough, heavy.

She does. She turns her full attention on him, like she always does. Like there’s no one else in the world.

And then he asks, no teasing in his voice this time, no sarcasm, no games just pure, desperate honesty, “Do you wanna kiss me as bad as I wanna kiss you?”

She freezes. A flood of color rushing to her face, and her breath stuttering slightly. He feels his face doing the same, and he thanks God that his skin is so pale that it barley flushes.

Then the corners of her lips pull up. Just the tiniest bit. Her voice is soft but clear when she says, “Yes.”

That’s all he needs.

His breath stutters, and then his body moves on instinct, closing the space between them in a heartbeat.

And when his lips meet hers.

finally...

Finally.

The whole world goes quiet.

Jiyoo

Jiyoo is pretty sure the ice cream is on the floor.

She thinks she heard the spoon clatter against the hardwood somewhere to her right. But honestly? None of it matters.

Because Ni-ki is kissing her.

Correction. Ni-ki is on top of her, between her legs on his very expensive couch, and his mouth is doing things that absolutely obliterate every rational thought she’s ever had. Her hands are gripping his shoulders like she might fall off the face of the earth if she lets go. Her knees are bent on either side of him, pressing into his sides, and he’s not being gentle.

He’s not asking. He’s taking.

And God, she’s letting him.

His lips are soft but unrelenting, his kisses deep, urgent, and far more intoxicating than any drink she’s ever had. One of his hands is cupping her jaw, thumb brushing just under her cheek as he tilts her head to get deeper, closer. The other hand is splayed across her waist, fingers digging slightly into her hip as if to anchor himself, like he might fall if he lets go.

His body is warm. Solid. Real against her own.

And he's kissing her like he's drowning. Like she’s the air he needs to breathe again, like she’s not just the girl he fell for, but the one he’s been waiting for without even knowing it.

Jiyoo's heart is doing somersaults in her chest, pounding against her ribs, and her head is spinning. She’s been kissed before on camera, in music videos, in dramas with lighting and direction and multiple takes. But this? This isn’t acting. This isn’t rehearsed.

This is her first kiss.

Her first real kiss. With someone she’s in love with.

And oh God.

Oh God!

She’s in love with him.

Yes, she’s in love with Nishimura Riki.

The realization hits her somewhere between the second kiss and the third. Somewhere between the press of his lips and the way he groans low in his throat like he can’t get enough of her.

And then he pulls back, just an inch.

She chases his lips without meaning to, but he catches her chin and makes her look at him. His dark eyes are stormy, pupils blown wide, breathing ragged.

“You’re too quiet,” he murmurs, voice rough, teasing but there’s a low edge in it, something that makes her stomach flip.

Before she can even form a reply, he dips back down and bites her bottom lip just enough to make her gasp, to make her toes curl and he smirks when she lets out a soft, needy sound.

“There you go,” he whispers against her lips.

And then he kisses her again.

Deeper. Hungrier.

Like he wants to memorize the shape of her mouth, the rhythm of her sighs, the way she trembles just slightly when he brushes his tongue against hers. His hand slides up her side, fingers grazing the edge of her ribs through the fabric of her tee, and her hands move up on their own, curling into the back of his hoodie, pulling him closer closer closer.

There’s so much heat between them she wonders if the whole house will catch fire. Her skin’s on edge, buzzing with every brush of his hand, every shift of his weight, every stolen breath.

It’s messy. Desperate. Perfect.

Her lips are swollen. Her heart is gone. Her whole soul is spilling into his mouth.

And he just keeps kissing her like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Like he wants her like he wants every inch of her. Like he doesn’t care about time, or careers, or contracts, or endings.

Because this? This is their beginning.

Her fingers are tangled in his dark silky hair.

And he’s kissing her neck like it’s a prayer he’s memorized.

She doesn’t know when her head tipped back or when her breath started coming out in short, trembling exhales, but Ni-ki’s mouth is on her throat, and God she’s seeing stars. Every press of his lips, every graze of his teeth, every slow, lingering suck leaves heat racing up her spine and her thighs clenching around his hips.

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

Her grip tightens when his tongue flicks over that one spot just below her ear. She didn’t even know it was sensitive until he found it, and now she’s arching under him like a live wire, and the sound she lets out?

Yeah, he hears it.

He groans low against her skin, hips twitching against hers, like she’s the one driving him insane.

His hands are everywhere his palms sliding over her waist, thumbs brushing her ribs through her shirt, then anchoring her in place like he’s afraid she might slip away. His lips leave warm, wet trails, soft and sharp all at once, down her jaw and across her collarbone, until she’s marked in shades of rose and red and storm.

He’s painting her in the colors of him, and she doesn’t want him to stop.

“Ni-ki..” she breathes, fingers curling tighter in his hair.

He finally pulls back, chest rising and falling as fast as hers, lips red and kiss bruised, his eyes dark and dazed. His gaze drops to her mouth like he’s trying to memorize the way she looks wrecked and flushed beneath him.

And then, for a second, he freezes. Just…looks at her. And she knows something’s shifted. Something’s real.

He lifts a hand, brushes his thumb over her jaw so tenderly it makes her heart twist, and then he speaks.

“This…” His voice is rough, raw. “This isn’t just a one time thing, Jiyoo.”

Her breath catches.

He exhales, like he’s trying to steady himself, like he’s scared. And that alone makes her eyes soften, because Ni-ki doesn’t get scared. He’s calm, unreadable, untouchable.

Except not now.

“I meant what I said,” he continues, his eyes locked onto hers. “I want everything with you.”

Everything.

“I know the way we started was…shit,” he admits, lips twitching in frustration. “I was a jerk, and I treated you like a job. I thought if I kept things professional, I’d be fine. I thought if I stayed cold, I wouldn’t feel anything.”

His hand slides to her cheek, thumb brushing against her skin. “But you made me feel everything.”

The words are soft. Sincere. Like they’ve been sitting on his tongue for weeks, waiting for a moment like this to finally break free. His eyes are the softest shes every seen them as they burn into hers, and he looks so happy but also upset at the same time. Like its weighing deeply on him.

Serves him right. He was an asshole.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry for everything I did that hurt you. You didn’t deserve it. You’re…you’re the best thing that’s happened to me in years, and I didn’t even see it at first.”

Her eyes are wide. Her heart is in her throat.

“I don’t want to leave,” he confesses, “I don’t care about the tours or the offers or the hype. I just,” He swallows hard. “I just want you.”

And then he’s quiet.

Just watching her.

Still lying between her legs, still holding her like she’s fragile and fire all at once. But now, waiting. Like he’s on a cliff’s edge and she’s the only thing keeping him from falling.

And all Jiyoo can think is; How is he the one scared of rejection?

When he’s the man who changed everything. The man who helped her become the woman she always wanted to be. He didn't change her whole life, but he helped push her in the direction she always wanted to go. And while he had hurt her before, he had saved her more times than she could count.

He's the man who changed himself without her asking. He's the one apologized first. The man she’s been in love with for longer than she even knew.

She just stares up at him, her fingers still in his hair, her lips still tingling from his kisses.

And as her heart pounds against his, she knows what she’s going to say.

Ni-ki

He’s bracing for impact.

Mentally mapping the quickest path out the door if she decides this was all a mistake. His jaw’s clenched, hands planted on either side of her like he can somehow shield himself from the hit he’s sure is coming.

Because really, why wouldn’t she kick him out? Why wouldn’t she say, hey, the lip locking was fun, but I’m just not that into you?

He’s already preparing himself for the sting.

But instead she pushes at his chest and he sits back willingly.

And climbs into his lap.

What?

His brain short circuits for a second because all at once, she’s wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing herself into him like she belongs there, like she’s been trying to get here for weeks.

His hands settle instinctively on her hips, but his heart is thundering in his ears, and all he can think is; God, she’s so soft. So warm. So fucking his.

She pulls back a little, just enough to cup his face with both hands, her fingers gentle as they frame him like he’s something worth holding.

And then, softly, almost teasingly, she says, “I thought you were an asshole.”

He lets out a strained laugh, shoulders sagging with guilt as he winces. “Fair.”

“You hurt my feelings,” she adds, lips twitching like she doesn’t want to admit it but needs to anyway.

“Really fair,” he mutters, and the chuckle that follows is half shame, half relief that she’s even saying anything at all.

But then her expression softens.

And her voice changes.

“But you also…helped me,” she says, her thumb brushing his cheek. “You saw me. Before I even saw myself. You pushed me, and I hated you for it, but then…I started wanting to prove myself. Not to the industry, not to the fans. To you.”

He swallows.

“I fell for you somewhere in the middle of all of it,” she continues. “The dances. The stupid bickering. The way you always watched me when you thought I wouldn’t notice. I crave you, Ni-ki. And it was never just an act.”

He closes his eyes. Because hearing that, hearing that, wrecks him. It changes everything he's ever thought. Shes forgiving, shes kindness, shes love. She shouldn't choose him after everything. But she is, and he wont take it for granted.

“I’m scared,” she admits, voice barely a whisper now. “I’ve never liked someone this much. I’ve never wanted someone so bad I didn’t care if I embarrassed myself over it.”

He opens his eyes again and there she is.

Oh.

All flushed cheeks and fluttering lashes, bold and terrified in the same breath, looking like the only thing tethering her to the ground is him.

“I’m gonna say something crazy now,” she warns, a nervous smile curling at her lips.

He leans in just slightly, heart hammering so loud he’s sure she can hear it. “Okay,” he murmurs.

She pauses. Just for a beat. One breath. Then says it. “I love you.”

Silence.

It stretches between them, warm and heavy and aching, as his world tilts on its axis.

And just like that he’s hers.

He’s still staring at her, trying to convince himself he really heard it.

I love you. She said it. This sweet, chaotic, talented, stubborn girl just said she loves him and something in him snaps.

Not in a bad way. In the way that makes every piece of him fall into place.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, and it comes out low, fond, rough around the edges. Her eyes widen just a little, lips parting like she’s surprised at the nickname.

Yeah, that’s right. Sweetheart.

Because she is.

But not Korea’s darling. Not the industry’s plaything. Not the perfectly polished idol everyone thinks they own.

No.

She’s his.

Only his.

And he’s a possessive man.

“Sweetheart,” he says again, firmer this time, dragging the word out like he wants to brand it on her. “You said you love me. Damn, you’re doomed now.”

She giggles, nose scrunching the way it always does when she laughs too hard, and goddamn he wants to kiss that sound straight off her face. Trust he will.

“I’m serious,” he murmurs, voice dropping again as his hands curl around her waist tugging her closer. “You’re never getting rid of me.”

Then he chuckles low and dark and so full of promise it makes her shiver.

“I love you too,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Been in love with you for a while.”

And he means it.

With every damn breath in his body.

He kisses her nose. “I love how you talk with your hands.”

Her cheek. “I love how you always act tough but cry during animated movies.”

Her forehead. “I love how you work harder than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Her jaw. “I love how you always ask if I’ve eaten, even when you forget to eat yourself.”

Her temple. “I love how you never stop fighting for yourself, even when you think you’re a mess.”

Each kiss is soft, loving, lingering like he’s memorizing her all over again.

“And I really, really love how you look at me like I hung the damn moon,” he whispers against her skin, finally letting his lips settle at the corner of her mouth.

She’s giggling again, face flushed, eyes glassy, and he’s completely gone.

His soft girl.

His sweetheart.

His everything.

And now that he has her, there’s no way in hell he’s ever letting her go.

Jiyoo

She can barely think with the way he’s looking at her.

All sharp jaw, flushed ears he thinks he's hiding well, and eyes darkened to something wild and very hungry.

Her heart stutters against her ribs, skin buzzing from his touch, his words still echoing in her chest like a song she never wants to stop hearing.

And when she whispers, soft and daring, “Then show me…show me how much you crave me…” She barely gets the words out before she’s suddenly in the air with a yelp.

He’s thrown her over his shoulder like she weighs nothing, one arm wrapped tight around her thighs, and the other smacking her ass with a low grunt of mine.

She’s giggling, kicking playfully as her hair spills down his back, fists pounding weakly on his shoulder. “Nishimura Riki!”

He doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t need to.

He’s already storming up the stairs like a man possessed, like he’s waited too long and he’s not about to wait another damn second.

Her laughter melts into breathless little gasps, giddy and light and so in love.

And when he reaches his room, pushes the door open with a slam of his foot and drops her onto his bed like she’s everything he’s ever needed.

She knows.

She knows this is it.

Not just the kiss, not just the heat that crackles between them, not just tonight.

But him.

Them.

Two hearts that found each other when they didn’t even know they were looking.

And when he leans over her, gaze tender but burning, voice low and shaking as he says, “You’re mine, sweetheart. All of you,”

She reaches for him like it’s instinct, like her body already knows the answer.

And just before the lights dim, before the night wraps them up in something deeper than just passion. She whispers against his lips, “And you’re mine too.”

-

The sunlight creeps in slowly, spilling over the sheets like honey. Warm, golden, lazy.

Jiyoo stirs beneath the weight of a thick arm draped around her waist, a leg tangled with hers. Her nose is tucked somewhere near his collarbone, his skin faintly scented like soap, sleep, and whatever heaven is made of.

She doesn’t open her eyes just yet.

Her body aches in all the best ways, not from anything rushed or wild, just from feeling. From being touched like she meant something. From being held like a secret. From kissing like it was the only language they both understood.

She smiles against his skin.

He kissed her like he craved her. Because he did.

When she finally lifts her head, it’s to the sight of his lips parted slightly, lashes resting against his cheeks, hair falling messily over his forehead. Ni-ki, the one everyone called cold, broody, untouchable…looked like a dream beside her. A sleepy, peaceful dream.

Her fingers twitch with the urge to touch. Trace his jaw. Push the strands of hair back. Memorize.

Instead, she just stares. Soaks it in.

How did she get here? How did she go from crying in hotel rooms and hiding in green rooms to waking up beside someone who saw every version of her and still chose her? No makeup. No lights. No choreography. Just her.

He shifts in his sleep, arm pulling her in tighter like he knows she’s thinking too much. She lets out a quiet laugh, soft and breathy.

“You’re clingy,” she whispers.

His voice, gravelly and low, mutters, “Then stop staring at me.”

Her breath catches. She freezes.

He’s awake?

Ni-ki peeks one eye open, catches the horrified look on her face, and smirks a real one, lazy and smug. “Been feeling your eyes on me for like ten minutes.”

“You’re so-”

“Charming? Gorgeous? The man of your dreams?”

She pushes at his chest. “Annoying.”

He laughs, soft and sleepy, then grabs her wrist and pulls her right back in. “Mm. You didn’t seem to mind last night.”

Her face flushes hot, and she hides in his chest again, groaning.

His voice is quieter now, lips near her temple. “You good?”

She nods. “I’m happy.”

Silence settles between them. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just easy. There’s no rush. No work. Just warmth and stillness and the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her ear.

Her legs curl closer to his. His fingers draw lazy circles on her spine.

And for the first time in years, she doesn’t feel like she needs to perform. She doesn’t need to be Korea’s Sweetheart. She doesn’t need to impress or apologize or hold herself back.

She just needs this.

Him. Her. This moment. And everything ahead.

(Time Jump)

Over the next few weeks, they slip into something easy. Something real. Something that feels like it had always been there, just waiting for the right time.

They practically live together now not on purpose, not officially, but in the kind of way that no one questions anymore. Not even themselves.

And Ni-ki never took the other job.

He didn’t even call them back. The moment Jiyoo whispered stay, even without saying it aloud, he already knew he was done searching. She was the thing he didn't realize he'd been moving toward all along.

They start learning the little things.

Like how Jiyoo sings when she washes dishes. Sometimes under her breath, sometimes loudly and off key, especially if she thinks he’s not listening. But he always is. He’ll lean against the doorway, arms folded, letting her soft voice fill the space like sunshine, like home.

Or how Ni-ki walks around with wet hair and sleepy eyes in the morning, his hoodie falling off one shoulder, face still creased from the pillow. Jiyoo pretends not to stare, but she always does. Unfairly attractive doesn’t even cover it. It's a crime, really. She tells him this once, and he only blinks at her and shrugs. “Guess you’ll have to arrest me.” He’s not even joking. He’s too sleepy to joke. Which makes it worse.

She finds one of his old dance notebooks tucked behind the bookshelf when she’s helping him reorganize. The pages are filled with rough choreography notes, phrases only he could understand. But in the margins…there are doodles. Of her.

Little caricatures of her scowling. Her smiling. Her hair in a ponytail. One that’s just her with “STOP YELLING AT ME” written over it in bold. She almost cries. He tackles her before she can take a picture.

He finds her playlist one night while they’re cleaning the kitchen. It’s titled “No I’m Not In Love” which is already suspicious. He scrolls through it. Song after song, soft vocals, aching lyrics, a few playful ones all of them sound like him. Or like how she looks at him when she thinks he’s not paying attention.

When she realizes what he’s listening to, she lunges for the phone.

He just smirks. “You’re so in love.”

“I will smother you with a pillow.”

“You can try.”

They chase each other around the kitchen table for fifteen minutes before collapsing in a heap of limbs and laughter.

This is what they are now.

Late night convenience store runs for snacks they don’t need. Her hand always slipping into his. His jacket always falling over her shoulders. Him mouthing the lyrics to her songs during rehearsals, and her standing in the wings at his late night studio sessions with coffee and sleepy eyes.

No big declarations. Just the quiet certainty of choosing each other every day.

And even if the world still sees her as Korea’s Sweetheart and him as the untouchable prodigy, they know the truth.

She’s his soft girl. He’s her stormy eyed anchor.

And they wouldn’t trade a thing.

Jiyoo

Jiyoo had always been polite. Kind. Professional. It was second nature after years of idol training, and with her being in her final two weeks of being an idol she really didn't care what was happening around her. She just wanted to go to her dorm or Ni-kis place, cuddle after being together for a few months and sleep.

So when the male idol from the opening act started chatting her up after rehearsal; throwing smooth lines her way and complimenting her stage presence she smiled back, nodded where appropriate, and tried to keep the conversation moving.

She didn’t even notice the shift right away.

But Ni-ki did.

Across the room, Ni-ki’s whole demeanor had changed. His shoulders were squared, jaw tight, and that usual lazy cool in his eyes had sharpened into something unreadable. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t step in, didn’t say a word.

But his silence was loud.

By the time they made it to her dressing room backstage, thankfully empty for now, she could still feel the tension radiating off him like a storm cloud.

The moment the door shut behind them, she turned, arms folded and brow raised. “You good?”

Ni-ki didn’t answer. Just dropped down on the small couch, elbows on his knees, eyes flicking up at her with that unreadable intensity again. He wasn’t mad. Not exactly. But he was something.

She smirked, walking over and crouching in front of him between his legs. “Was that…jealousy I saw out there?” she teased, nudging his knee with her finger. “Are you getting all cold and broody because some guy flirted with me?”

He still didn’t speak. Just looked at her. Quiet. Tense.

That’s when it hit her.

It wasn’t just jealousy. This wasn’t about ego or territory or wanting to throw punches.

It was fear.

The deep kind. The kind that settled in your bones once you finally had something or someone you couldn’t bear to lose.

He had her now. And it scared him.

Her teasing faded into something softer as she rose up onto her knees and gently cupped his face. His jaw tensed under her touch, but he didn’t move away.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered.

His eyes fluttered closed for a moment like he was trying to believe her, trying to anchor himself in her voice.

She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead, then another to the corner of his mouth. “You’re stuck with me.”

Ni-ki finally exhaled, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her into his lap, holding her close like he needed the physical proof she was still his.

“I’m not afraid of him,” he murmured, voice low. “I’m just…scared someone else might offer you the world, and I won’t be enough.”

Jiyoo smiled against his temple, resting her cheek there. “You didn’t offer me the world, Ni-ki. You gave me home and that's way more important.”

And he held her tighter.

Ni-ki 

Ni-ki warned her. Multiple times, actually.

“Don’t get overwhelmed,” he’d said coolly, hands on the wheel as he drove.

“They’re a lot,” he added when they pulled up to the mansion at the edge of Seoul.

Jiyoo had just smiled, adjusting her ponytail and clutching the strawberry cheesecake she brought. “You say that like I didn’t spend 7 years in green rooms with 12 stylists and 3 screaming producers.”

But she wasn’t prepared.

No one could be prepared.

Because the second they stepped inside Jungwon’s enormous modern home, it hit like a wave.

“UNCLE NI-KI!!!” screamed Jaehee, pink glitter tutu flaring as she sprinted across the marble floor. The 6 year old threw herself at him like a WWE champion.

Before Ni-ki could even respond, Layla the golden retriever tackled him from the side in her own version of a warm welcome, tail wagging so hard she knocked over a basket of toys.

And just like that the world became chaos.

“Jaehee, shoes!!” Yeji called from the kitchen island, where she was balancing a baby bottle, a phone call, and two very active babies in her lap.

Jiyoo blinked. Was that…Minjae trying to climb the bookshelf?

Jungwon appeared next, quietly sipping tea with dead eyes. “I said no running.”

“Then reinforce the walls,” Yeji snapped lovingly.

Sunghoon appeared holding Yuna like a doll, wearing a baby bib around his neck like it was part of his scrubs. “Where’s Rinnie?”

“Making Jay cry in the car, probably,” Weiyin said sweetly from the couch, chewing on a cookie as she gave Jiyoo a wave. “Hi! You're even prettier in real life.”

Jiyoo opened her mouth to respond only for Jake to practically slide into frame, socked feet squeaking on the floor.

“NO ONE PANIC,” he shouted. “THE CHEESECAKE SURVIVED.”

Seorin appeared behind him with a deadpan expression, holding a half smeared baby wipe and saying something in enhlish that sounded vaguely threatening.

Weiyin was seated calmly next to Airi, her large baby bump visible under her cardigan. “I told you to put the cake in the fridge first, not parade it like Simba,” she said, voice soft, but laced with steel.

“Ni-ki,” Sunoo appeared next, arms crossed, fabulous, “why didn’t you warn her you’re bringing her into a reality show pilot episode?”

“I tried,” Ni-ki muttered, one arm holding Jaehee, the other protecting Jiyoo.

But when Jiyoo turned to look at him, all she could do was laugh.

Because this?

This was love.

Loud, hilarious, beautiful love in every corner.

Layla sat obediently at Jake’s feet, Minjae was now wearing Jungwon’s glasses upside down, Heeseung was feeding everyone sugar cookies, and Rinnie did eventually enter the house dragging Jay by the collar and threatening to make him watch High School Musical 3 again.

And in the middle of it all, Ni-ki looked at her.

His hand brushed down her arm, grounding her.

“You good?” he asked lowly.

She smiled, eyes shining.

“I’m great,” she whispered. “Your family’s insane.”

He smirked, tugging her toward the couch where everyone was settling in. “Yeah. But now they’re yours too.”

Jiyoo months later

It was a quiet street. The kind where the air was just cool enough to need a hoodie, but the sun was still warm on her cheeks. The city buzzed gently around them the cars humming past, a man with a coffee in one hand and a briefcase in the other, a couple walking their shiba inu on the opposite side of the sidewalk. It was peaceful.

Jiyoo liked peaceful.

She never used to.

There was a time when quiet meant failure, when stillness made her itch. She had lived off adrenaline, off schedules and strict diets and red dots blinking on cameras. She used to count calories instead of stars, memorize lyrics instead of her own heartbeat, and change her personality depending on the room she walked into.

But now?

Now she counted steps with Ni-ki. Now she memorized the different sounds he made when waking up, groans, yawns, the sleepy gravel in his voice as he pulled her close. Now she changed nothing, because with him, she didn’t have to.

Their fingers were laced between them, swinging gently. His hand was rougher than hers, but familiar. Steady. Right where it belogned.

He always walked on the outside of the sidewalk without thinking about it. He still wore the same black chrome hearts hoodie from their third date, the one she always tried to steal when he left for tour. His hair was damp he hadn’t dried it fully again. She told him he’d catch a cold. He told her to stop mothering him. She’d kissed him on the cheek. He hadn’t argued after that.

She glanced at him now, his sharp profile softened by the light breeze.

God, she loved him.

That truth no longer scared her. It didn’t burn like it used to. It didn’t feel like a risk or a gamble or something she had to guard. It just was. Big and all encompassing and easy, like breathing.

She hadn’t bought a house.

When her contract ended, she hadn’t done what people expected. No dramatic comeback, no solo rebrand. No giant YouTube vlog reveal. She packed up her dorm, looked at her savings, and turned to Ni-ki as he tied his shoes and asked her casually, “You just wanna live with me?”

She didn’t even blink. “Yeah.”

Now they had a little home together. A cozy house with too many throw blankets and mismatched mugs and framed photos of Layla, their friends, and the children, and blurry polaroids from random date nights.

She didn’t need marble floors or penthouses or stylists anymore. She had Ni-ki’s sweatpants, music playing through his speakers, and her own bed with him in it. That was enough.

Sometimes she’d wake up before him just for a moment. And she’d watch the rise and fall of his chest, the little frown he wore even in sleep, and think.

I made it out. And this is what I chose.

Jake cried watching her last concert. Bawled like a baby, apparently. Seorin had proof and she showed the video over ramen one night, and Ni-ki had cackled until Jake threw a chopstick at him.

Jaehee had declared she was going to be a global idol and insisted Jiyoo be her vocal coach. “But only if Auntie Seorin is my manager,” she said with all the sass a six year old could muster, “because she’s scary and no one will yell at me.”

Jiyoo had choked on her water.

They were a mess. A perfect mess. Her life now had chocolate stains on the couch, baby socks in her purse, chaotic family dinners with five languages shouted across the table, and a man who kissed her before flights like he was terrified to be away from her but always came back.

He still traveled for work, choreographing for new groups, sometimes going on the road for weeks. But they made it work. Not because they had to. Not because they were trying so hard.

But because love made things easy.

Not effortless, but easy in the way it fits. In the way you want to try, even when you're tired. In the way the distance doesn't scare you because your hearts are in the same place.

And Jiyoo?

She was writing now.

Not performing. Not debuting. Writing.

She had taken a position at her old company as a songwriter. She kept her head down, let the new trainees shine, and created music that healed her first.

She wrote about longing and girlhood and late night ramen and the sound of rain. She wrote love songs now, ones that sounded a little too much like Ni-ki, and her producer teased her relentlessly for it.

But she didn’t mind.

Because this was the life she chose.

Not the one chosen for her. Not the one handed to her like a script to memorize.

This one was messy. Full of new beginnings, soft mornings, and promises made in silence. And right now, walking hand in hand down a regular street on a regular afternoon, Jiyoo felt more her than she ever had before.

Then Ni-ki stopped.

Right in the middle of the sidewalk.

Jiyoo turned, confused. “What?”

“Look at me,” he said, voice low.

She rolled her eyes playfully and looked up at him as he grinned softly. Then she smiled. “What now?”

His eyes didn’t leave hers. Not for a second. Not even when someone walked past or when a car honked a few blocks down.

She felt her heart begin to race because she knew that look.

“I wanna do something crazy,” he said as his face seemed to go through many different stages of emotions.

She stepped closer, their arms brushing, her eyes flicking over his face, reading every unspoken word.

And then because she trusted him more than she trusted anything she whispered softly. “Okay. Yes.”

He kissed her.

Right there. On the street. Deep and possessive, a little crooked from the way he tilted his head to fit just right. He kissed her like she was the only person on the planet. Like he needed her. Like he had her.

And then he pulled back, breath warm against her cheek, and grinned.

“Let’s elope.”

Her jaw dropped, “What?”

“Today. Now. Let’s do it. No planning. No press. No guests. Just us.”

She blinked once. Then again. And then she threw her head back and laughed a real one, from her chest, eyes crinkling, full of joy.

“Ni-ki-” He shrugged, fingers brushing down her arm. “Unless you wanna wait.”

She shook her head, smiling through a rush of warmth.

“No,” she said, eyes glowing. “Let’s do it.”

And they did.

That night, somewhere small, under warm lights and soft vows whispered between giggles and kisses, with no one to impress and no flashbulbs clicking just them.

Jiyoo and Ni-ki said I do.

And that was the start of the quietest, wildest forever.

Love doesn't always start off on the right foot. But sometimes it creeps into your soul until the truth is revealed. Some truths don’t need a microphone; they simply linger in the space between two hearts

An: Wow I love this story so much. Yes I did go through the trouble of writing a full song for y'all. I was really immersed in this story. No i am not singing i used an app for the voice, but the song is something i wrote near and dear to me. Credit songs to Author Sungminispup2017, please do not steal or post it anywhere else.