#cortis ot5

you keep your face serious. “yeah. last time you said maybe i should get a salad.”

the waiter is trying so hard not to look awkward.

james just stares at you. “i said that?”

you shrug, soft voice. “you said lighter option.”

he sits up straighter immediately. “i absolutely did not.”

the waiter looks between you like he just walked into something messy.

james gestures toward you. “she can get fries. she can get three orders of fries. i don’t care.”

“so fries?” the waiter asks carefully.

“yes,” you say sweetly.

the waiter leaves and james leans forward.

“what the hell are you doing,” he says under his breath, but he’s already fighting a smile.

you grin. “it’s a tiktok trend.”

he squints at you. “…you’re pranking me?”

you nod.

he drops back into his seat and laughs quietly, shaking his head. “you’re actually ridiculous.”

“you looked stressed,” you say. “i needed entertainment.”

he reaches across the table and taps your hand. “for the record, i would never tell you what to eat.”

“mmhmm,” you tease.

“i’m serious,” he says, softer now. “eat whatever you want. always.”

your stomach flips a little because he means it.

when the fries come out, he slides the plate toward you first.

“all you.”

you smile.

he waits exactly two seconds before grabbing one.

“boyfriend tax,” he says, completely unapologetic.

“james.”

“what? i supported your freedom.”

you laugh and he leans back in his chair, watching you with that small smile he only really does when he’s relaxed.

“next time you try to set me up in public,” he says, “at least let me rehearse.”

“so you’d play along?”

“obviously. i would’ve made it dramatic.”

he steals another fry.

“that one was interest,” he adds.

and you’re still smiling when the food comes out.

▸ KIM JUHOON

juhoon picks the restaurant because he said it “felt calm.”

he’s the type to check reviews first.

when the waiter comes over, he sits up a little straighter.

“can i get the salmon. and water’s fine,” he says.

simple. easy.

then he glances at you. “you?”

you don’t even hesitate. “the burger. and lemonade.”

he nods like that makes sense.

the waiter starts to walk off and that’s when you drop it.

“oh wait. am I allowed to get fries instead of a salad this time?”

juhoon looks up immediately.

“this time?” he repeats.

you keep your face completely straight. “yeah. last time you said i should probably go lighter.”

the waiter’s smile tightens.

juhoon’s expression doesn’t harden. it just… falls into confusion.

“i did?” he asks quietly.

you shrug. “you said it’d be better.”

he looks genuinely unsettled, not angry. just trying to piece it together.

“i don’t remember saying that,” he says, mostly to himself.

the waiter clears his throat. “so fries?”

juhoon nods quickly. “yeah. fries.”

the waiter leaves.

juhoon turns back to you, brows slightly furrowed.

“did i actually say that?” he asks.

you almost break but you hold it in. “you don’t remember?”

he leans back, thinking hard. “i mean… i don’t think i would? that sounds weird.”

there’s a beat where he’s clearly replaying every conversation you’ve had in the last week.

and then you start laughing.

he blinks. “what.”

“it’s a trend,” you admit. “you’re supposed to see how your boyfriend reacts.”

there’s a pause.

then his face shifts from confusion to realization.

“oh,” he says softly.

he lets out a breath and rubs the back of his neck. “i was actually trying to figure out when i said that.”

“were you worried?” you tease.

he looks at you, serious for a second.

“yeah. a little.”

that makes you stop smiling.

“i just don’t ever want to make you feel like you have to order something different because of me,” he says, voice low but steady. “that would suck.”

your chest tightens in that warm way.

“juhoon,” you mumble, half guilty now.

he shakes his head and smiles lightly. “you’re evil for that.”

“it was funny.”

“it was psychological warfare.”

the fries come out before the rest of the food. you reach for one.

he watches you for a second, then reaches too.

you raise a brow.

he shrugs. “i’m not taking them because you ‘shouldn’t’ have them,” he says, quoting you with air fingers. “i’m taking them because they look good.”

you laugh.

he takes one, then nudges the plate fully toward you.

“order whatever you want,” he says, softer now. “i like you, not your side dishes.”

you roll your eyes at how cheesy that is, but you’re smiling anyway.

“next time you test me,” he adds, “at least warn me so i don’t spiral trying to audit my memory.”

“you spiraled?”

“internally,” he admits.

and when your actual food comes, he doesn’t comment on it at all.

he just listens to you talk, stealing exactly one more fry without saying a word.

▸ MARTIN EDWARDS

martin doesn’t sit properly in restaurant chairs.

he’s half slouched, one leg stretched out, stealing sips of your water even though he has his own.

the waiter comes over and martin doesn’t miss a beat.

“lemme get the double cheeseburger. extra pickles. fries. and uh… whatever she’s drinking.”

you kick his shoe under the table. “get your own.”

he grins. “fine. coke.”

the waiter turns to you.

“i’ll get the chicken wrap,” you say. “and a lemonade.”

the waiter nods.

and that’s when you do it.

you glance at martin like you’re checking something.

“…am i allowed to get fries with that?”

the waiter freezes.

martin blinks at you.

“allowed?” he repeats.

you keep your face serious. “yeah. instead of the salad.”

the waiter’s eyes slowly move to martin.

martin sits up straighter. “what do you mean allowed.”

you shrug a little. “like. is that okay?”

there’s a long second where he just stares at you, trying to figure out if you’ve lost your mind.

“why would it not be okay,” he says.

you tilt your head. “you don’t think i should get the salad?”

the waiter is absolutely invested now.

martin looks at him, then back at you. “no. i think you should get whatever you want. why are you asking me like i’m your dad.”

you almost laugh but you keep pushing.

“so fries are fine?”

he squints. “are you filming me.”

“no.”

“are your friends nearby.”

you bite your lip.

he points at you. “this is a setup.”

the waiter coughs into his hand to hide a smile.

“just put fries,” martin tells him. “and if anyone thinks i’m out here policing her side dishes, that’s crazy.”

the waiter nods quickly and walks away.

martin leans across the table immediately.

“what was that.”

you finally break and start laughing. “it’s a trend.”

“what trend.”

“you ask your boyfriend if you’re allowed to order fries and see what he says.”

he stares at you.

then he leans back, shaking his head.

“you’re evil.”

“you passed.”

“obviously i passed,” he says. “i’m not insane.”

the fries come out first because of course they do.

martin grabs one without asking.

you raise an eyebrow.

he shrugs. “i support your decision.”

“that doesn’t mean you get one.”

“it absolutely does.”

he takes a bite, then points at the plate.

“order fries. order cake. order the entire menu. i do not care. but don’t ever ask me if you’re allowed like i run a side dish dictatorship.”

you laugh so hard the waiter looks over.

martin just smirks, reaching for another fry.

“next time you try to publicly test me,” he says, “at least give me a cooler line.”

▸ EOM SEONGHYEON

the waiter walks up and seonghyeon glances at the menu like he’s deciding whether to even bother.

“i’ll have the grilled chicken. side of rice. water.”

he looks at you, half-smile tugging at his lips. “you?”

“the pasta. lemonade,” you say.

he nods. “good.”

the waiter starts writing, and that’s when you lean in, voice casual:

“oh… actually… can i get fries instead of a salad this time?”

seonghyeon freezes. the pen is still in the waiter’s hand. his eyes snap to you.

“…fries?” he repeats, slow, like he’s trying to parse the sentence.

“yeah,” you say, tilting your head innocently. “instead of a salad. thought i’d switch it up.”

seonghyeon blinks. then leans back, confused, hands spread a little. “wait… what? why are you asking me permission?”

you nod, straight face. “yep. just checking.”

he frowns slightly. “but… i didn’t… i wouldn’t… i never said you had to… i mean…” he trails off, clearly flustered.

“so… fries are okay?” you push.

he opens his mouth, then closes it. “of course they are?”

the waiter’s awkwardly hovering, scribbling the order slowly.

“i just… i never control what you eat,” seonghyeon mutters, more to himself than anyone else. “i would never… i don’t… why would you—”

you try not to laugh. “it’s a tiktok trend,” you admit finally. “you’re supposed to freak out like you’re controlling my food.”

seonghyeon freezes mid-breath, staring at you. “controlling… your … food?”

“yep,” you grin. “look at you. panicking. exactly what they wanted.”

he leans back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck, still blinking. “i… i don’t control your food. i literally… i just… whats wrong with your for you page?..”

you laugh quietly. “nothing, it was funny.”

he exhales, still confused, but the tension melts into a small grin. “okay. fries. you can get fries. i just… don’t make this a habit.”

the waiter nods, finally walking off. seonghyeon sits there, still processing, glancing at you like you hacked his brain.

“next time,” he mutters, “i’m going to need a script if you’re going to try this again.”

you grin. “yea whatever”

and for the rest of dinner, every bite of fries he steals is done with the purest innocent confusion, like he still doesn’t understand how he became the “food police.”

▸ AHN KEONHO

the waiter comes over and keonho scans the menu like he doesn’t really care.

“i’ll have the burger. extra cheese. fries. and a coke,” he says, sliding the menu back toward you.

“i’ll get the chicken alfredo… lemonade,” you say, then tilt your head with a small grin. “oh, actually… can i get fries instead of a salad this time?”

keonho freezes, eyes narrowing. “…what the fuck are you talking about?”

“what?” you say, pretending to be innocent.

“why are you asking if you’re allowed to get fries?” he leans forward, voice teasing but with a hint of mock exasperation. “you should eat everything like you usually do. why are we having this conversation?”

you laugh a little, trying to play it cool. “i just… wanted to check.”

he snorts. “check what? that i’m secretly the dictator of your side dishes?”

“maybe,” you tease.

keonho rolls his eyes, shaking his head with a grin. “you’re ridiculous. seriously. just order the fries. obviously you can get fries. why are we turning this into a thing?”

you grin. “i mean… it’s kind of fun to see you freak out a little.”

he leans back, smirking. “freak out? i’m not freaking out. i’m… amused at how you think i’d tell you what to eat. you’re ridiculous.”

the waiter scribbles down your fries order, and keonho leans over the table, voice low and playful. “you should just eat what you want and stop pretending like i’m controlling you. it’s stupid.”

“so… fries are fine?” you ask, still grinning.

“fries are fine,” he says, shaking his head. “obviously. eat everything. like you always do. don’t make me explain this again.”

you laugh, finally taking a fry. he grabs one too, smirking.

“see?” he says. “perfectly normal. no dictator involved.”

you grin, leaning back. “you make it sound so serious.”

he shrugs, still smirking. “i’m serious. eat your damn fries.”

the energy in the french taxi was exactly what you’d expect from packing six idols into an oversised van: chaotic, loud, and entirely unbothered by the jet lag.

martin was pressed against the window, trying to take aesthetic 0.5x photos of the passing parisian streets but mostly just capturing juhoon’s reflective forehead. keonho and seonghyeon were locked in an intense, whispered debate about whether french mcdonald’s tasted superior to korean mcdonald’s, while james had his arm draped casually over the back of your seat, his thumb lightly tracing patterns on your shoulder.

“guys, wait,” you said, leaning forward to tap the driver’s shoulder. you pulled up a pin on your maps. “excusez-moi, monsieur, est-ce qu’on pourrait s’arrêter ici, s’il vous plaît?” (excuse me, sir, could we stop here, please?)

the driver blinked, surprised, but nodded with a warm “bien sûr, mademoiselle,” pulling the van up to the curb of a quiet, picturesque side street.

“what are we doing?” juhoon asked, blinking at the charming, ivy-draped storefront.

“brunch,” you announced, sliding out of the van. “an online friend of mine swore this place has the best pastries in the city. since we’ll be separated for fittings tomorrow, we eat together today.”

the cafe was tiny, smelling heavily of espresso, melted butter, and fresh baking. because it was tucked away from the main tourist hubs, it was relatively quiet. you led the boys to a long wooden table in the back. when the young waitress walked over with a notepad, the boys collectively froze, suddenly realising none of them actually spoke french. martin opened his mouth to try some english, but you beat him to it.

you looked up at the waitress who seemed to be younger than you. “bonjour! nous aimerions commander, s’il te plaît. pour commencer, un panier de viennoiseries, trois cafés au lait, deux expressos, et un thé vert.”

you slid seamlessly into fluent, melodic french, customising the boys’ orders from memory—making sure keonho got his extra shot of espresso and juhoon’s pastry didn’t have nuts.

the waitress’ eyes lit up, a brilliant smile instantly breaking across her face. she practically beamed, replying to you in rapid, delighted french, gesturing with her hands, clearly charmed by your perfect accent and polite demeanor. you laughed softly at something she said, nodding as you finished up the order. “merci beaucoup!”

when you turned back to the table, the boys were staring at you like you’d just grown a second head.

“woah,” seonghyeon muttered, lowering his menu. “since when do you speak french like a local?”

“five years in middle and high school, dude. i graduated unlike you guys, you know,” you said playfully, flipping your hair. while the others were busy hyping you up and digging into the bread basket that arrived moments later, james hadn’t said a single word. you looked over at him—he was leaning back in his chair, his jaw slightly slack, staring at you with an expression that was pure, unfiltered adoration. his eyes were dark, a tiny, helpless smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

you leaned in close to his ear. “earth to james. you’re staring.”

“can you blame me?” he whispered back, his voice suddenly dropping an octave as he leaned into your space. “french? seriously? you’re trying to kill me before fashion week even starts. that was genuinely so hot.”

you bit your lip to hide a smile, your heart doing a familiar flutter. even though you’d been dating for a while now, the way he looked at you—like you were the only person in the room—never failed to make your stomach flip.

while the two of you shared quiet, stolen glances, the rest of the table devolved into standard teenage boy antics. martin and juhoon were trying to see who could catch a piece of croissant in their mouth from across the table—juhoon missed, and it hit keonho in the eye—while seonghyeon was busy recording a vlog, narrating the “elegance of paris” while holding up a half-eaten pain au chocolat like a trophy.

once brunch was done, the cafe owner kindly let you all slip out through the private back exit to avoid the few paparazzi who had caught wind of your location at the front.

the back alleyway, however, was a literal goldmine. it was a classic, sunlit parisian stone lane, completely empty and dripping with old-money aesthetic.

“photoshoot time,” martin declared, immediately whipping out his phone.

everyone took turns posing against the rustic brick walls. the dior boys—juhoon, keonho, and seonghyeon—were already serving model poses, looking effortless. 

but then james stepped up, and your breath hitched. because of the afternoon warmth, he had shed his heavy jacket. he was currently standing in a tight white tank top, an olive green flannel thrown over it entirely unbuttoned, hanging loosely off his broad shoulders. he shifted his weight, hands dipping into his loose-fitting cargo pants—and the slight movement caused the distinct waistband of his calvin klein boxers to peek out just above his waistline.

he caught you staring, giving you a lazy, devastating smirk as the sunlight hit his jawline.

“oh my god, you’re crazy,” you muttered under your breath, instantly raising your phone. “stay right there. bitch, do not move.” you went into full photographer mode, completely losing your mind behind the camera. “james, look down. now look at me. yeah, just like that. wow, okay, the lighting is actually insane. fuck off, pretty boy.”

he leaned back against a green metal doorway, tilting his head up, looking incredibly relaxed, effortless, and ridiculously attractive. you took shot after shot, your fingers flying across the screen. you knew the fans would absolutely lose their minds if they ever saw these.

you lowered the phone for a second, looking at the preview, then glared at him playfully. you stepped closer, lowering your voice so only he could hear. “if you post these to let coers see, i’m not kissing you for a whole day. i mean it.”

james let out a low chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners. he didn’t hesitate even for a fraction of a second. “yes, princess,” he murmured.

before you could even process the nickname, he reached out, caught you by the waist, and pulled you flush against his chest. in broad daylight, right there in the middle of the alleyway, he tilted your chin up and planted a firm, lingering kiss right on your lips.

“oh, come on!” martin groaned loudly from behind you.

“my eyes! i am a dior ambassador, i shouldn’t have to witness this cruelty!” juhoon yelled, dramatically covering his face.

keonho and seonghyeon were loudly fake-gagging, leaning against each other for support and making exaggerated retching noises.

you flushed red, pulling back and swatting james’ chest, though you couldn’t stop the grin on your face. thank god no one else was around—your relationship was the biggest secret in the industry, kept strictly between the six of you. if anyone else had been in that alley, the internet would have broken, but with your members, it was just another tuesday of them pretending to be disgusted by your affection.

eventually, you all piled back into a new taxi, laughing and teasing each other the whole way to the hotel.

when you finally arrived at the luxury suite, the atmosphere shifted from chaotic teens to high-fashion professionals. 

waiting in the center of the living area were two massive, elegant clothing racks, strictly divided. on one side stood the sleek, sharp, and rebellious tailoring of ysl. on the other, the structured, elegant, and timeless silhouettes of dior.

you, james, and martin walked toward the ysl rack, while juhoon, keonho, and seonghyeon gathered around the dior pieces. the staff had left the garment bags unzipped, revealing the custom pieces chosen for the upcoming shows.

you ran a hand down the sleek, cool fabric of your outfit, and your jaw completely dropped. “damn…”

“wait, hold on,” martin said, peeking over your shoulder at the rack before looking down at his own garment bag. “are you and james... matching?”

you pulled the protective layer fully down, and a collective gasp went up from the other side of the room.

 it was stunning. the staff had gone for a sharp, high-contrast black and metallic silver color palette for the two of you. your outfit was the definition of a breathtaking masterpiece that perfectly balanced edgy rock-and-roll rebellion with elegance. it clung in all the right places, featuring shimmering silver hardware accents that caught the hotel suite’s chandelier light, paired with a silhouette so sleek it felt almost dangerous.

right next to it hung james’ look. it was equally jaw-dropping: a beautifully tailored, razor-sharp black blazer with subtle metallic silver threading woven seamlessly into the fabric, designed to be worn over a sheer, dark silk shirt that left just enough to the imagination. together, the two outfits looked like they belonged in a museum, or a power-couple editorial.

“alright, personal cortis fashion show starts now,” keonho announced, grabbing his suit and heading toward one of the luxury bathrooms.

james and you grabbed your respective garment bags and headed toward the changing area in the main room, where heavy, floor-to-ceiling velvet curtains had been set up for privacy.

“don’t peek,” you teased, sliding behind your curtain.

“wouldn’t dream of it, my love,” james’ deep voice echoed from behind the curtain right next to yours.

for the next ten minutes, the suite was filled with the rustle of expensive fabric, the zipping of boots, and the occasional grunt from juhoon trying to figure out a complicated belt. you stepped into your shoes, adjusted the silver details of your dress, and took a deep breath. looking in the mirror, you looked completely transformed.

you wrapped your hand around the velvet curtain and pulled it open, stepping out into the center of the spacious suite at the exact same moment james parted his.

and right there, time completely stopped.

the background noise of the other boys faded into pure silence. you just stood there, frozen, staring at him. james looked... unreal. the sharp tailoring of the silver-threaded blazer emphasized his broad shoulders perfectly, and the subtle glimpse of skin beneath the dark silk shirt was devastating. he looked like a literal prince of the night—he reminded you of cardan greenbriar, a faerie from one of your favourite books. 

but if you were staring, james was completely melting. his eyes locked onto you, tracing the line of your dress, his breath hitching audibly. the lazy, confident smirk he usually wore was completely gone, replaced by a look of pure, breathless awe. for a solid ten seconds, neither of you moved. you just drowned in each other’s gaze, the sheer intensity of the look making your knees go weak.

slowly, as if pulled by an invisible magnetic force, you both started walking toward each other, meeting right in the center of the grand suite.

“you look…” james started, his voice thick and rough, but he couldn’t even finish the sentence. he didn’t need to. the look in his eyes said everything.

“you don’t look too bad yourself,” you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.

he didn’t waste another second. he reached out, his large hand wrapping firmly around your waist, his fingers digging into the expensive fabric of your dress as he pulled you closer. he leaned down, his lips finding yours in a kiss that instantly made your head spin.

it wasn’t like the quick, stolen kiss in the alleyway. this was slow, heavy, and all-consuming. your hands flew up to his chest, clutching at the lapels of his blazer, pulling him even closer as the kiss deepened and the world completely dissolved. you tilted your head, losing yourself in the rhythm of his lips, your senses overwhelmed by the faint scent of his cologne and the warmth of his skin. he shifted his grip, his other hand coming up to cup your jawline, his thumb tracing your cheekbone.

you lost track of how long you were standing there, completely wrapped up in each other, getting closer and closer until there was absolutely no space left between you.

whoosh. the sound of velvet rings sliding across a metal pole echoed through the room. martin stepped out from his changing curtain, completely dressed in his custom ysl look, adjusting his cuffs. “hey guys, do you think this jacket is too—”

he stopped dead in his tracks. he stared at the two of you—tangling together, completely ignoring the rest of the world, thoroughly making out in high-fashion matching outfits.

martin didn’t say a single word. he didn’t even sigh. with an expression of pure, unadulterated exhaustion, he slowly reached back out, grabbed his curtain, and pulled it shut again, disappearing back into his little velvet cave to question his life choices.

you felt the vibration of a chuckle rumble in james’ chest against yours, but he didn’t care. he literally did not give a single shit about martin walking in. instead of pulling away, he just leaned into the kiss even more, his lips pressing softer, sweeter against yours, grounding you in the moment.

he finally broke the kiss just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing heavily. his hands stayed firmly anchored on your waist, refusing to let you go.

“we are going to ruin everyone’s career at the show tomorrow,” he murmured against your lips, a low, breathy smile in his voice as his thumbs stroked your hips. “but right now? i don’t ever want to let you out of this room.”

it took an embarrassing amount of willpower to finally break away, especially with martin still aggressively clearing his throat from behind his curtain.

reluctantly, you both changed back into your regular, comfortable clothes—oversized hoodies, relaxed jeans, and soft beanies. the glamour was packed away into bags, but the lingering warmth between you and james remained. while the rest of the boys decided to crash on the giant suite beds to finally let the jet lag win, you and james slipped out of the hotel, completely under the radar.

you caught a metro down to a bustling, sprawling marché aux puces, a massive, historic parisian flea market that felt a million miles away from the sterile luxury of fashion week. it was a vibrant labyrinth of crowded stalls, overflowing with vintage clothes, antique books, and handmade trinkets.

you stopped at a small, rustic stall overflowing with silver bracelets, beaded necklaces, and beautiful rings. the vendor, an older man with a cigarette tucked behind his ear, gave you a look that clearly screamed ‘clueless tourists.’ he threw out an incredibly inflated price for a delicate silver bracelet you were eyeing.

james pulled out his wallet, already prepared to pay whatever, but you gently tapped his hand down.

you turned to the vendor, a sharp, playful glint in your eyes. slouching your posture just a bit, you dropped the polite, textbook french you had used at brunch and dove straight into the fast, slang-heavy, informal street french you’d picked up from listening to local podcasts and rap music.

“ah non, oula, c’est grave cher là, monsieur,” you said, throwing around casual fillers with an effortless, local cadence. “franchement, le truc est beau, mais ça vaut pas tout ça. faites-moi un petit prix, s’il vous plaît? on est entre nous.” (no, wow, that’s very expensive. honestly, it’s pretty, but it’s not worth all that. give me a little discount, please? just between us.)

the vendor’s eyebrows shot up as he let out a hearty laugh, thoroughly amused and impressed by the sudden shift from a quiet foreign girl to someone speaking like a born-and-raised parisian youth. he quickly countered with a much lower, realistic price, nodding in respect.

beside you, james was looking at you like you had just performed magic. he was completely amazed for absolutely no reason, a massive, dorky grin spreading across his face.

“what?” you whispered, handing the vendor the cash.

“nothing,” james murmured, wrapping an arm securely around your shoulder and pulling you against his side as you stepped back into the dense flow of the market crowd. “you’re just ridiculous. where did you even learn to talk like that? you sounded like you were about to start a rap battle.”

“it’s all about the vibe, jamie,” you teased, proudly slipping the new bracelet onto your wrist.

the market was getting tighter, packed with locals and tourists shuffling past each other in tight spaces. james became hyper-aware of everyone around you. his grip on your waist tightened, his large frame acting like a protective shield as he guided you through the swell of people, making sure no one bumped into you.

suddenly, a distracted local carrying a large wooden crate turned a corner blindly, on a direct collision course to slam right into your shoulder.

james noticed it a split second before you did. with his ridiculous lightning-fast reflexes, his hand shot up to your upper arm, and he yanked you toward him. the sudden pull sent you spinning right off your feet, stumbling forward until you crashed directly into his solid chest. his arms instantly locked around your waist to steady you, holding you close against him.

you gasped softly, your hands instinctively gripping his hoodie. you looked up, your eyes meeting his.

right there, in the middle of the crowded parisian market, everything slowed down to an absolute crawl. the shouting of vendors and the bustle of the crowd completely muted into background static. to make it almost comically perfect, a street musician just a few stalls down began playing a slow, deeply romantic jazz melody on a saxophone, the rich notes drifting through the warm afternoon air.

james looked down at you, his eyes dark and intensely focused on yours. he didn’t let go of your waist. instead, his gaze dropped to your lips, his breathing shallow.

“you okay?” he whispered, his voice rough.

“yeah,” you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs for a completely different reason now. “thanks to you.”

you knew it was incredibly risky. there were hundreds of people around. if a single person recognized either of you, or if someone took a clear photo, the internet would go into a total meltdown by dinner time. but looking up at him, surrounded by the golden sunlight and the swell of jazz music, you suddenly realised you didn’t give a shit. just for a few seconds, you wanted to be normal.

you leaned up on your tiptoes, closing the remaining distance between you. james didn’t hesitate—he met you halfway, his lips pressing against yours in a soft, deeply sweet, and unhurried kiss. it felt entirely different from the one in the hotel suite; this was tender, open, and completely content. he held you tight against him, completely unbothered by the world spinning around you.

after a few seconds of the uninterrupted kiss, a loud “oh là là!” echoed from a nearby fruit stall, followed by a chorus of cheerful whoops, whistles, and appreciative clapping from a few locals who love nothing more than public displays of romance.

the sudden noise made you break away slightly. you buried your face into the crook of james’ neck, a bright, bubbly laugh escaping your lips. he let out a low, breathless chuckle of his own, his chest vibrating against yours as he pressed a final, lingering kiss into your hair, hiding his own huge smile against your forehead.

“see?” james whispered playfully, his arms still wrapped tight around you as you both slowly started walking again. “the french love us. we’re fine.”

with your hand firmly slipped into his coat pocket—your fingers intertwined beneath the heavy fabric—the walk back to the hotel turned into a slow, sun-drenched detour through the winding backstreets of paris.

you couldn’t help yourself—every time a unique storefront caught your eye, you pulled james along, ducking into random little shops. in a vintage bookstore that smelled of aged paper and leather, you picked up a beautifully weathered postcard from the 1960s. at a tiny pâtisserie, you bought a box of colorful macarons, immediately feeding a raspberry one to james, who smiled around the pastry, his thumb wiping a stray crumb from the corner of your mouth.

then, you stumbled upon a small, open-air flower stall. it was an explosion of color against the grey stone: buckets of deep red roses, pale eucalyptus, and bright yellow mimosas lining the pavement.

“wait here,” you told him, pulling your hand from his pocket.

you walked up to the older woman running the stall, looking over the selection before pointing to a small, perfectly wrapped bundle of small white flowers and dark green leaves. “bonjour madame! c’est combien pour les petites fleurs blanches, s’il vous plaît?” (hello mam, how much for the small white flowers, please?)

when she gave you the price, you didn’t even try to haggle this time. you just smiled, handed her the euros, and took the bouquet. turning back around, you walked straight up to james and thrust the flowers into his chest.

he blinked, completely caught off guard. his hands instinctively wrapped around the stems, looking down at the bouquet and then up at you, a soft, boyish flush creeping up his neck. “are these... for me?”

“boys deserve flowers too, jamie,” you said matter-of-factly, adjusting his beanie. “plus, they match your aesthetic.”

the look on his face was like pure, melted honey. he tucked the bouquet securely under his arm like it was the most precious thing he owned, his hand immediately finding yours again, gripping it a little tighter than before.

a few doors down, you stopped at one final stall—a cluttered, charming display of vintage silver accessories and old metal keychains. you spotted a heavy, intricately carved silver ring that looked exactly like something james would wear on his index finger.

you picked it up, immediately stepping up to the vendor to start negotiation round two. james slid in right behind you, anchoring himself to your back. he wrapped his arms loosely around your waist from behind, holding his new bouquet in one hand while his chin hovered just above your jacket.

“excusez-moi, monsieur,” you began, slipping right back into that effortless, rapid-fire street french. “elle est super sympa la bague, mais le prix est un peu abusé, non? faites-moi un prix d’ami et je la prends tout de suite.” (excuse me, sir. the ring is very nice, but the price is a bit much, right? give me a friend's price and i’ll take it right now.)

the vendor paused, looking at you over his glasses, a slow smirk forming on his face as he prepared to counter-offer.

hearing the absolute confidence dripping from your voice, james couldn’t take it anymore. he buried his face into the crook of your neck, dropping his forehead right onto your shoulder. you could feel the deep, quiet vibration of his laughter echoing through his chest against your back. he shook his head slightly, hiding his face as he laughed quietly, utterly overwhelmed by how incredibly cool his girlfriend was.

“what’s so funny?” you murmured, tilting your head back slightly against his cheek while waiting for the vendor’s reply.

“nothing,” he whispered against your jacket, his voice thick with a mixture of disbelief and pure adoration. “you’re just... unreal. i’m literally just standing here holding a bouquet of flowers while my girl runs the streets.”

you smiled, casually tossing a few euros onto the counter as the vendor gave in with a defeated, amused chuckle, handing over the ring.

you turned around in james’ embrace, slipping the silver ring onto his finger before looking up at him. “told you. it’s all about the vibe, mon ange.” (my angel.)

he looked down at the ring, then at the flowers, and finally at you. he let out another soft laugh, leaning down to press a warm, lingering kiss right to the tip of your nose. “come on, princess. let’s get back before the guys eat the entire hotel’s worth of good without us.”

by the time you both snuck back into the hotel suite, the quiet sanctuary you had left behind was entirely gone. the door had barely clicked shut before you were met with the sight of juhoon and keonho aggressively playing rock-paper-scissors over who got the last order of french fries from the massive room-service spread in the center of the living room. seonghyeon was stretched out on the couch, half-asleep with a luxury fashion magazine draped over his face, while martin was sitting cross-legged on the floor, intensely editing the photos you had taken of him earlier in the alleyway.

“look who finally decided to return from their romantic getaway,” martin muttered without looking up from his phone, his thumb sliding a contrast filter back and forth. “did you guys get lost, or did you just forget you have a group?”

“we brought pastries,” you announced, holding up the box of macarons like an offering of peace. instantly, the atmosphere changed. keonho abandoned the rock-paper-scissors match, lunging across the suite to snatch the box from your hands.

“i knew you were my favorite member for a reason. if team dior starves tomorrow, it’s on ysl’s hands.”

james chuckled, dropping the bags of vintage keychains and trinkets you’d bought onto the side table. he carefully placed the small bouquet of white flowers into an empty glass bottle he’d filled with water from the bathroom, setting it right on his nightstand.

“wait,” juhoon said, squinting across the room as he chewed on a raspberry macaron. “james, did you buy yourself flowers?”

“no,” james said smoothly, not a single hint of embarrassment in his voice as he adjusted the stems so they sat perfectly. “my girlfriend bought them for me. got a problem?”

juhoon blinked, looking at the tough, broad-shouldered rapper who was currently hovering over a delicate bunch of blossoms like a proud gardener. “you know what? no. i’m not even going to comment. you two are disgustingly whipped.”

“let them be,” seonghyeon’s voice came muffled from beneath the magazine on his face. “as long as they don’t start making out on the couch while i’m trying to nap, i am choosing peace today.”

you flushed, throwing a spare sofa pillow directly at seonghyeon’s stomach, making him groan and finally sit up. james just laughed, walking over to sit beside you on the edge of the large armchair, his arm immediately finding its usual place around your waist, pulling you securely against his side.

for the next hour, the suite settled into a comfortable, easy warmth. the six of you shared the food, teased martin about his extreme photo-editing dedication, and went over the official schedule for the next morning. tomorrow was the day—the fashion show was set to run from morning to night. the media coverage was going to be insane, the paparazzi would be everywhere, and the pressure to look flawless was heavy.

but sitting there, with james’ thumb softly rubbing comforting circles against your hip while the rest of the boys argued over what movie to put on the hotel tv, the upcoming chaos of fashion week didn’t feel daunting at all.

as the evening wound down and everybody slowly drifted off to their respective rooms to finally get some proper sleep before the big day, james caught your hand, pulling you back for a split second before you could step into your own room.

the hallway of the suite was dim, illuminated only by the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“hey,” he whispered, pulling you into his space until your chest tapped against his. he looked down at you, his eyes incredibly soft in the shadows. he reached out, his fingers gently tracing the new silver ring you had bartered for him earlier, before sliding his hand up to cup the side of your neck.

“hey,” you smiled up at him, wrapping your arms around his waist. “stressed about tomorrow?”

“not at all,” he murmured, leaning down to rest his forehead against yours. his breath was warm against your skin. “ as long as i get to look across the front row and see you matching with me, i’m good. tomorrow, the whole world is going to be watching us... but i’ll only be looking at you."

you felt your heart swell, that familiar, breathless flutter taking over your entire chest. you leaned up, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips—a quiet promise between the two of you before the madness of the spotlight began.

“goodnight, pretty boy,” you whispered against his mouth.

“goodnight, pretty girl,” he murmured back, giving your waist a final, reassuring squeeze. “see you tomorrow morning.”

“oooooh fucking là là!” the boys screamed while giggling from outside the door, immediately running away to their rooms. 

© hyuneskkami ❦