#kpdh fandom

as a member of the new and up and coming idol group PULZE, and the main singer and leader, you were beat after a full day of back-to-back training.

vocals, formation drills, press walkthroughs, another performance check. your body was drenched in sweat, your shirt clung to your spine, and your legs were seconds away from giving out.

everything was soaked—your spare shirt was in your bag, which you’d left at the penthouse like a genius.

“anyone have a spare?” you asked your members, breathless.

they checked.

no luck.

everyone had already used up their extras—and you weren’t about to squeeze into one of their crop tops after a day like this. so you weighed your options, grabbed your water bottle, and made your way down the hall toward the only other studio still lit at that hour.

the saja boys' studio.

you knocked once. the door cracked open.

“oh.” mystery blinked. “hey.”

he was flushed, damp from training, a towel slung over his neck. his shirt was off, bare chest rising and falling gently with post-rehearsal adrenaline.

sweat beaded at his collarbones, and the lighting behind him made him look stupidly unreal.

you tried not to look.

keyword being tried.

“you guys still practicing?” you asked, leaning on the doorframe.

“just finished.” his gaze dropped to your shirt, and his brows furrowed slightly. “you okay?”

you glanced down at yourself—wet shirt, sports bra faintly visible underneath, thighs bare from your practice shorts.

“forgot my extra,” you muttered. “felt like I was gonna melt through the floor.”

he blinked. “wait here.”

he disappeared, then came back holding a plain black shirt from his bag. oversized. soft. smelled faintly like him and detergent.

you took it with a grateful smile. “lifesaver.”

you turned slightly away and peeled your sticky shirt off, too exhausted to care—slipping mystery’s over your head with a soft sigh.

it hung comfortably over your frame, big enough to swallow you whole. when you turned back to thank him—

his face was unreadable.

“...what?” you asked.

he didn’t answer at first. just looked at you.

his shirt on your body. your collarbone just visible in the wide neckline. the sleeves draping past your hands. the hem hitting you at mid-thigh.

he stepped in closer.

"don’t wear that outside."

you blinked. “what?”

his voice was lower now. firmer. "you heard me."

“mystery—”

he moved closer, gaze sharp, possessive in a way that made your breath catch. “you don’t get it. you look like… you’re mine. wearing that.”

your stomach flipped.

he wasn’t teasing. not even a little.

“i'm your best friend,” you managed, but it came out soft. weak.

his fingers brushed the hem of the shirt near your thigh.

"no one else gets to see you like this,” he murmured. “in my clothes. skin flushed. hair messy.”

“wearing me.”

your breath caught in your throat.

he leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

-

you ended up wearing his shirt out of the studio anyway.

he didn’t stop you. not really.

he just stared the entire time you gathered your stuff, lips parted slightly, jaw tight, like he was debating whether or not to throw you over his shoulder and lock the door.

he didn’t say a word as you left, but his eyes never left you.

the fabric was soft. it smelled like him. the neckline dipped low every time you moved, the sleeves drooped over your fingers, and the hem covered just enough to be dangerous.

it didn’t hit you how dangerous until the elevator opened in the lobby.

and someone else was there.

“oh, hey,” said one of the backup dancers from your showcase team. nice guy. very male.

which made mystery very jealous.

he blinked at you, then let out a short, surprised laugh.

“damn. new concept? or just rocking the ‘boyfriend shirt’ look today?”

your heart stuttered. cheeks flushed.

“it’s not—” you started, but your voice caught as you turned… and saw mystery.

he’d followed you.

he stood at the far end of the lobby, arms crossed, watching.

his jaw clenched. his eyes were dark.

and when he saw the dancer looking exactly where he shouldn’t have been—at your bare legs, the way the hem of his shirt shifted when you moved—

something snapped.

mystery didn’t say anything.

he just crossed the lobby, fast and quiet, like a storm cloud with a singular target. the dancer backed off immediately with an awkward laugh and a muttered apology, disappearing into the hallway.

“mystery—”

you didn’t get to finish.

his hand slid around your waist and pulled you flush against his chest, fingers gripping the small of your back, firm and possessive and warm.

his voice was low. dangerous.

“do you like wearing my shirt?” he asked.

you nodded. slowly.

“good. because now you’re not allowed to take it off unless it’s in front of me.”

your breath caught. “you’re being ridiculous.”

you were friends. why would he say things like this all of a sudden?

he leaned down, nose brushing your jaw. “am i?”

you swallowed. “i-uh—”

his grip tightened, cutting you off.

“no one else gets to look at you like that,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“no one else gets to imagine what’s under it. no one else gets you in my clothes.”

your fingers curled into the fabric at his chest. “you’re serious.”

he kissed just below your ear, lips hot and slow.

“dead serious.”

you didn’t go back to the dorm right away.

mystery didn’t let you.

he didn’t take the shirt off of you either.

he just… held you.

walked you back to his studio. sat you in his lap. tucked your legs over his thighs. and watched you like you were something fragile and explosive all at once.

his shirt on your body.

your skin under his hands.

his name behind your smile.

and in that moment, his delicate touch made you forget that you were just friends.

especially with the quiet, yet commanding way he murmured against your skin.

“you’re mine.”

-