#undertsanding

Jiyoo

The hotel room was quiet, the kind of stillness that settled deep in her chest like dust. The curtains were drawn, city lights leaking in through the seams, casting faint lines across the floor. Jiyoo sat curled up on the edge of the bed, shirt sleeves pulled over her hands, knees tucked close to her chest as the hum of the air conditioning filled the silence.

Ni-ki’s words had been sharp again. Another verbal slap to the face, another jagged edge in a voice that never softened.

You’re a pushover.

The phrase echoed in her head like a bell that refused to stop ringing.

Was she?

Her first instinct had been anger, humiliation, the kind that twisted her stomach into knots and made her want to scream at him. But now, alone, hours later, her fury had dulled, leaving only the bitter aftertaste of truth. And doubt.

Being an idol didn’t leave much room for independence. That was the part no one saw. From the outside, it looked glamorous with perfect hair, perfect clothes, perfect smiles. But what they didn’t see was the way none of it was yours. Not the hair color. Not the lipstick. Not the timing of your meals, or your sleep, or your smile.

Your life wasn’t yours.

She hadn’t chosen any of it. Not really.

When she debuted, she’d been seventeen and grieving. Her mother had just passed. Her father was off in the military, emotionally distant even when he wasn’t on deployment. She’d had no one but a company promising her something bigger, something beautiful. So she nodded. She said yes. To everything.

Maybe she had gotten used to saying yes. To letting others speak for her. Dress her. Pose her. Choose her worth.

And Ni-ki?

He noticed.

He always noticed.

The problem was, he didn’t say it with kindness. No support. No gentle push. He threw it in her face, snarled it like it disgusted him. Like she disgusted him. She didn’t understand it. Didn’t know what she did to make him hate her so much. She’d never wronged him. Never insulted him. Never even fought back.

But somehow…somehow he always knew exactly where to hit. What to say to dig under her skin, twist something painful, and walk away like it meant nothing.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

The things he said his accusations, his criticisms they were brutal, but they made her better. They made her think. Made her burn.

She hated that.

She hated him.

But a small part of her the most dangerous part also wondered if this was what it felt like to be seen. Really seen. Stripped bare by someone who didn’t care how much it hurt.

And that made her feel even lonelier than before.

She looked down at her hands, trembling slightly in her sleeves. Only five more months until her contract ended. She hadn't let herself think about it, but now the question pressed against her ribs like a weight.

Do I want to keep living like this?

Do I want to stay in a world where saying nothing feels like doing nothing? Where silence is survival but maybe also surrender?

Maybe Ni-ki was wrong about everything.

But what if, just maybe, he wasn’t?

-

The morning air filtering through the slightly cracked window was warm, familiar in a way only Los Angeles could offer. It didn’t feel like home, but it didn’t feel suffocating either. Jiyoo had already showered, slipped into an oversized gray cardigan and straight cut jeans, and tied her hair back into a low ponytail. Her face was mostly makeup free, just gloss on her lips and a little concealer under her eyes. She looked...normal. And for once, she felt it.

She stood near the mirror in her hotel room, checking her phone while waiting for one of the female staff members. Jiwon unnie to finish getting ready. They’d promised her a few hours out before they left for their next pit stop. Just a walk through the promenade, maybe grab something sweet and overpriced at a café, just be a girl with her hoodie up and a cup in her hand.

She was safe here. No shrieking mobs. No flashbulbs in her face. No fans reaching past security to grab her. America was…quieter.

She yawned as she tapped open TikTok. She hadn’t planned to post anything today, just check some tags, maybe comment on a fan challenge or two. She loved her Dreamiz. They were clever, passionate, wild sometimes but loyal in a way that made her tear up more than once at night. But then her thumb stilled as her feed auto refreshed and a very familiar clip filled the screen.

A fan sign video. From last week.

Jiyoo was wearing a purple cardigan and cat ears, leaning forward over the table, grinning brightly as she hugged a male fan with an exaggerated pout. He’d asked her to do aegyo or die and she’d dramatically clutched her heart and thrown her arms open.

But the video wasn’t focused on her.

No.

It zoomed into something blurry, wobbly, but determined on the figure behind her.

Ni-ki.

Standing off to the side, arms crossed, expression flat and vaguely terrifying.

The fan edit had slapped a glitter filter over him. Sparkles. Zoom-ins. Slow motion. Some overdramatic ballad played in the background. The caption was worse.

when ur bf watches u flirt with other men 🥲🖤

Jiyoo blinked once and held her breath for a moment. She shouldn't doom scroll. She tapped the comments.

HE WAS SO JEALOUS OMG

That glare??? sir are you okay?

Dreamikii are you telling us something 🫣

He looks like he was gonna fight the poor fan 😭

okay but the tension is CRAZY.

When's the wedding?? 👰🏻‍♀️🤵🏻‍♂️💍

She groaned aloud and slammed the app closed, letting her phone fall to the bed.

“Why does everyone on the internet want to ship me with Satan?” she muttered into her hands. “He always looks like that. He literally glares at at air.”

It wasn’t that she was embarrassed...okay, maybe a little; it was just absurd. Ni-ki looked like he hated her ninety percent of the time and ignored her the other ten. There was no story here. No hidden glances. No slow burn rivals to lovers nonsense.

She rubbed her temples. Dreamiz meant well. But sometimes they ran with crumbs like they were holding an entire cake.

The knock on her door finally came, followed by Jiwon’s cheery voice. “Let’s go, miss cat ears.”

Jiyoo pulled on her cap and slung her little bag over her shoulder. “If I get tagged in one more video with him, I’m deleting the app.”

She said it half jokingly.

Mostly.

As the door closed behind her, the phone buzzed again with another notification from TikTok. She didn’t look.

She wasn’t risking it.

Not when the algorithm had clearly lost its mind.

It had been too long since she walked with her own feet, without a schedule printed in her palm or a camera pointed at her face. Jiwon unnie stayed a polite distance behind, letting Jiyoo pretend, just for a little while, that she was just another twenty something wandering through the LA streets on a warm weekday afternoon.

A light breeze tugged at her cap, and she adjusted it before tucking a few strands of hair behind her ears. Her sunglasses covered most of her face, but there was still a small, content smile playing on her lips as she walked through the open air promenade.

No shouting fans. No clicking cameras. Just the dull chatter of tourists, the aroma of roasted coffee and street tacos, and the sound of her sneakers on the pavement.

She stopped at a small café with white outdoor tables and twinkling fairy lights strung above them barely visible in the daylight, but it gave the place charm. She ordered an iced vanilla latte and a strawberry croissant, paid in quiet English, and took a seat by the corner near the plants. The metal chair creaked slightly as she sat, and the coolness of the drink shocked her hands in the best way.

It was peaceful.

She scrolled through her phone, this time opening her notes app instead of TikTok. A habit she’d developed writing lyrics or just thoughts when the noise got too loud. A few lines she’d written last night stared back at her.

Tell me who I am if I don’t raise my voice, Just another pretty song in someone else’s choice…

She tapped her fingers on the table.

No one stared. No one recognized her. She could breathe.

For a moment, her thoughts drifted to Ni-ki, his voice in her head as annoying as ever. “Speak up.” “You just take it.” “Say something, damn it.”

And that night in the hotel. Telling her he wasn’t leaving until she ate. Telling her he was tired of her being so damn docile.

She sipped her latte, bitter at the top, sweet at the bottom. Just like him. She scowled at the thought, then laughed under her breath. This was why she needed breaks. He was getting under her skin again, and she wasn’t about to let a man who treated her like a burden live rent free in her head during her day off.

She bit into her croissant, crumbs flaking onto her fingers. For the first time in what felt like years, she didn’t feel like an idol. She felt like Jiyoo. Just a woman sitting alone under fairy lights with coffee and carbs. The thought made her eyes sting unexpectedly but she blinked quickly and took another bite.

Across the street, a little girl twirled in a tutu while her mother clapped. A street violinist started playing City of Stars nearby. A golden retriever poked its head out of a stroller and barked twice. And the wind whispered against the hem of her jeans like a reminder that she was still here. Still human.

Even if she went back to being perfect tomorrow, at least she had this.

A quiet day where no one asked her to be anyone but herself.

And maybe that was enough for now.

Ni-ki (A few weeks later)

Texas was hotter than hell and twice as annoying, and Ni-ki’s patience had evaporated with the morning humidity.

“Again,” he barked from behind the row of mirrors in the rehearsal room. His black hoodie was thrown off somewhere by the speakers, and sweat clung to his white tank top and neck, the ends of his hair curling from the heat. Jiyoo stood center, back straight, eyes trained forward no visible reaction.

She missed it. The spin into the drop, half a second too late, the rhythm just a hair off. He saw it. Everyone else probably didn’t but he did.

“You missed the mark.” His tone was clipped.

“I did it again,” she said simply.

“Not right.”

“I’m doing it right,” she tried, her tone still flat.

“No,” he bit out, stepping forward. “You’re doing it close. Not right. We didn’t spend six weeks drilling this for you to forget basic placement on the second chorus.” He didn’t raise his voice, but he may as well have. It sliced cleaner when it was cold.

Jiyoo’s jaw twitched, her lips pressed together. The background dancers all went quiet, shifting awkwardly in place. The tension was thick enough to choke on. Still, she reset herself in the formation, saying nothing. Of course not. Just took it like usual.

“God, you’re infuriating,” he muttered, turning his back. “Say something for once, would you?”

“I am doing it right!” she snapped finally, the edge in her voice sharp enough to echo across the room.

He stopped in his tracks.

The silence after that was deafening.

Ni-ki turned around slowly, brows lifted in challenge. “Right? You think that’s right?” he laughed, dry and humorless. “Do me a favor, next time you're not sure if you’re slacking, trust me, you are.”

He didn’t wait for her response. Didn’t even glance at the other dancers, who were now frozen mid-shuffle, caught in the crossfire.

“Take five,” he growled, wiping his face with his shirt before storming off toward the hallway exit, the door slamming open with a hard bang behind him.

He didn’t hear the soft gasp from the shadows near the doorway. He didn’t see the woman with her arms crossed and fire in her eyes. Or the man standing beside her calm but very much aware of the volcano building. And he definitely didn’t see the little girl in a baby carrier resting against his sister’s hip, gnawing on a pacifier as if she too, was unimpressed.

He pushed open the door to the staff lounge with the heel of his hand, muttering a curse under his breath. The room was blessedly empty, lights low, air conditioning humming. Finally, a place where he could breathe and not be surrounded by off-beat claps and shallow breaths pretending they weren’t exhausted.

He grabbed a water bottle from the mini fridge, uncapped it with one twist, and leaned back on the edge of the table. One sip in, and-

“Nishimura Riki!”

His spine snapped straight.

The water bottle nearly slipped from his hand.

He didn’t even need to look.

But he did.

Slowly.

Standing in the doorway was Airi his younger sister in all her five foot six fury, looking like she was about to throw something. Beside her stood Sunghoon, his best friend turned brother-in-law, calm but unimpressed. And cradled against Airi’s chest in a little sling, chewing on a pacifier like she was watching a drama unfold, was Yuna, his one year old niece.

He blinked. “…What the hell are you doing here?”

“Vacation!” Sunghoon answered, arms crossed as he leaned casually against the wall. “Surprise. We were passing through and figured we’d stop by.”

“We come to see you,” Airi snapped, storming further into the room, “and THIS is what we walk into?! You screaming at a girl in front of everyone!”

“Not just any girl,” Sunghoon added quietly. “A famous idol. You should know better.”

“She missed her mark,” Ni-ki said blandly, straightening up. “She can handle a critique.”

“That’s not a critique, that’s verbal homicide,” Airi seethed. “God, Riki do you even hear yourself? I’ve seen you with dancers, with stylists, with ME. You’re nice to literally every woman you know, but this one girl? This one girl gets your worst? Why?”

“I’m not-” he started, only to get cut off.

“Don’t say you’re not mean to her,” Airi snapped. “I’ve been watching for five minutes and I wanted to slap you. If you ever made a mistake on stage, would you want someone humiliating you like that?”

Ni-ki opened his mouth again but found…nothing. No retort. Because…okay. Maybe she had a point.

“I don’t get it,” Airi continued, stepping forward as she adjusted Yuna’s blanket. “She seems respectful. She tries hard. She listens. Is that the problem? That she doesn’t talk back?”

Sunghoon sighed. “You’re not twelve anymore, man. Pushing someone doesn’t always make them stronger it just makes you look like a jackass.”

Ni-ki ran a hand down his face, scrubbing at his jaw. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” Airi pressed, eyebrows raised.

He didn’t have a clean answer. Not one he could say aloud. Not the way his chest had clenched when Jiyoo yelled back earlier. Or how he noticed every tiny shift in her breathing when she pushed too far. Or how she never let herself break in front of him, even when she clearly wanted to.

He muttered something unintelligible.

“What was that?” Airi said, cupping her ear with exaggerated disbelief.

“I said..I don’t know, okay?!” Ni-ki finally groaned, dragging a hand through his hair and pacing a step. “I don’t know why she gets under my skin. She just…does.”

Sunghoon snorted. “Yeah, that’s healthy.”

“Handle it,” Airi said, voice low now, calmer but firm. “Fix it, Riki. You’re better than this.”

He looked up, and his sister, his tiny, fiery, boss of a sister just stared at him with mom eyes. The kind that meant she wasn’t asking.

“…Fine.”

“Good,” she said, before brightening like she hadn’t just delivered a verbal smackdown. “Now. Let’s go grab lunch.”

“Wait. We’re not? You're not here to stay and-”

“Oh no,” Sunghoon smirked. “You’ve got rehearsal in five, remember? We’re just the emotional support drive by.”

“And by emotional,” Airi added, shifting Yuna with a kiss to her forehead, “I mean we brought your karma with legs. Ill see you later tonight.”

Ni-ki blinked as they turned and left, door swinging behind them with a light click.

He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair.

God help him.

He just got parented by his sister and best friend in front of his niece.

And the worst part?

They were absolutely right.

Jiyoo

The rooftop was quiet.

High above the city lights of Huston, where the air still clung to the heat of the day but cooled just enough to soothe the skin, Jiyoo sat with her knees pulled up to her chest. Her hoodie sleeves swallowed her hands, and the ends of her curls tickled her jaw as the soft wind moved lazily around her. She hadn’t tied her hair back tonight. She didn’t care. Not now.

The stars above were faint, barely visible against the haze of city glow, but she looked for them anyway. Something to anchor her. Something that wouldn’t look away from her just because she wasn’t perfect.

She was so, so tired.

It wasn’t just the concerts, or the rehearsals, or the interviews where she had to smile even when her voice cracked from overuse. It wasn’t just the endless expectations shoved into her arms like they were hers to carry alone. No this weight was old. Heavy. Familiar in a way that had long since embedded itself into her spine, her lungs, her smile.

Her eyes burned as she blinked up at the sky. She didn’t want to cry. She hated crying.

But she was already crying.

Silently, of course because that was all she ever knew how to do. Silent suffering. The kind no one noticed unless it messed up a dance move or showed up in a photo that was too unpretty.

A small, broken sound escaped her, barely audible over the quiet hum of the city below. She pressed her face into her knees, trying to breathe through it, but her body trembled anyway. The tears came faster, her breath catching in uneven gasps, and still she didn’t stop.

“Why?” she whispered into her own sleeves, voice hoarse. “Why am I never enough?”

She wasn’t trying to be dramatic. She was just broken. Tired of being picked apart, of being seen only when she stumbled. Of being held to a standard she never agreed to, while others floated by untouched.

Ni-ki’s voice echoed in her mind harsh and dismissive.

She didn’t even know why it hurt so much. He wasn’t someone she cared about. He hated her. Made it a point to remind her daily. But somehow, out of all the people in her orbit, he was the only one who ever truly saw when she was faltering. And he threw it in her face like it was a game.

Why? What had she done? She had been polite. She worked hard. She always worked hard.

And yet.

Her mother had died before her dreams ever took flight. Cancer had taken her so fast she barely had time to understand what goodbye meant.

The girl group she had trained with for two years, her friends, her sisters had debuted without her after a sponsor pulled out and she was deemed nonessential to the group’s marketability. A fancy way of saying she wasn’t good enough.

And now, finally, she had made it.

Except she still felt like a shadow. A placeholder. Someone who only mattered when she messed up.

Like she was just disposable.

More tears slid down her cheeks, and she let them. No cameras. No stylists. No staff. No fans. No Ni-ki.

Just her and the stars that refused to blink.

“I don’t know how much more I can take,” she whispered, the words raw and trembly. “I’m trying. I swear I’m trying…”

She wished someone could hear her. Really hear her. Not the version of herself she presented onstage.

Just her.

Not perfect.

Not poised.

Not a product.

Just a girl who used to dance in her bedroom and sing to the night sky, hoping someone would think she was special.

The wind picked up a little, brushing through her hair like a gentle hand, and she closed her eyes. Not for rest. Not yet. But for stillness.

She just wanted a moment where her heart didn’t ache.

Where she didn’t feel so alone.

The stars had shifted overhead.

She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting up here, legs folded under her, back pressed against the short rooftop wall, hoodie pulled tight over her body like armor. Her eyes were no longer wet, but they ached, dry from the wind and the crying that had passed through her like a storm.

Jiyoo tilted her head back and stared at the night sky.

This city was foreign and familiar all at once. America had always been like that for her, somehow gentler, slower, quieter. Not because people cared less, but because they didn’t demand all of her. At least not yet. Not like back home.

Here, she could slip into a hoodie and wander the streets with a staff member trailing behind her like a distant shadow. Here, she could breathe for five minutes without worrying about the perfect angle of her smile or whether her outfit matched the image someone else had crafted for her.

But even now, in this rare moment of silence, peace evaded her.

She leaned her cheek against her knee and blinked up at the black canvas sky, littered with faint stars some blinking, some steady, some barely there.

Five more months.

That’s all she had left on her contract.

Just five months, and she could disappear if she wanted. No more schedules. No more interviews or tightly timed meals. No more fans scrutinizing her every expression, dissecting her every move. No more of Ni-ki barking at her in rehearsal rooms like she was some broken toy he didn’t know how to fix but couldn’t stop trying.

She could leave it all behind.

And yet her throat tightened.

She loved to perform. God, that part was still real. The moment she stepped on stage and the lights hit her face, when the beat pulsed in her veins and her body moved like it belonged to the song that was the only time she ever felt truly alive.

But it wasn’t enough anymore. That flicker of joy, that sliver of passion it wasn’t strong enough to hold up the crushing weight of everything else.

The pressure.

The exhaustion.

The loneliness.

Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment.

If she were a normal girl, she’d probably be asleep right now in a messy bedroom scattered with textbooks and makeup and half folded laundry. She might be lying in bed texting a friend or sneaking snacks under the covers, dreaming of stupid things like road trips and collage graduation photos. Maybe even love.

She could have fallen in love by now.

God, she was twenty three. Twenty three, and she had never been kissed off camera. Never held hands without it being part of a script. Never been on a date without the presence of managers, stylists, and a signed agreement with her company outlining what was allowed and what was off limits.

If she were normal, maybe she’d be curled up on someone’s couch right now, sleepy and laughing, heart full of warmth instead of static.

But no. She wasn’t normal.

She was Jiyoo. Dreamiz’ Jiyoo. Soloist. Icon. The idol who rose from the ashes of a failed girl group to become the face of power and elegance and resilience. Who smiled like her world had never cracked beneath her feet.

And somewhere along the way, she stopped being a person.

She became a product.

She sniffed, trying to breathe through the weight on her chest.

I signed my life away thinking it would give me my dreams, she thought bitterly. But I didn’t know that once I had them, I wouldn’t even recognize them anymore.

The silence answered her. Only the hum of the city far below and the occasional wind brushing against the rooftop.

She pulled her phone from the pocket of her hoodie. No messages. No missed calls.

A long time ago, she would’ve called her mom on nights like this. Just to hear her voice. Her mom would’ve said something cheesy and ridiculous and tried to sing one of her songs off key until she laughed.

Now, she only had the echo of her memory. That, and the overwhelming emptiness that came from being surrounded by thousands of people but never truly being seen.

Her hands trembled slightly, not from the cold, but from something deeper. A sadness so old it had roots inside her.

Would it ever go away?

Would she ever wake up and feel like herself again?

Or was that version of Jiyoo gone lost in the glitz, the expectations, the polished perfection she wore like armor?

She tucked her chin to her knees.

“I don’t think I can do this much longer,” she whispered to no one. “I’m so tired of pretending.”

And still, the wind kept moving, soft and steady, like it was the only thing that heard her.

Ni-ki

The door clicked shut with a soft finality, and Ni-ki sighed as he leaned back against the dresser in his hotel room, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

Yuna was fast asleep in the middle of his bed, her tiny form curled beneath a soft pink blanket her mother had draped over her. Her long lashes flickered every so often, the peaceful kind of sleep that only belonged to children who had never known exhaustion beyond playtime. She looked like a doll lying there, a tiny fist nestled under her cheek.

Sunghoon took a seat in the armchair near the bed, and Airi paced like she was preparing a closing argument in court. Which knowing her was exactly what she was doing.

When Airi wanted to get something across, there was no stopping her. And tonight, her fire was simmering just under the surface.

"Okay," she said, stopping in the middle of the room with her arms folded and her brow furrowed. “We’re not here to yell. Just talk. Honest talk.”

Ni-ki gave a sarcastic huff. “That sounds fake as hell coming from you.”

Sunghoon cracked a quiet smile, but Airi ignored both of them.

“I want to know why,” she said simply. “Why you treat her like that.”

Ni-ki rolled his eyes and dropped into the other armchair with a thump. “I don’t treat her like anything. I’m just not kissing her ass like everyone else.”

“Ni-ki.”

The full weight of Airi’s voice snapped his name in half.

He scowled and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m serious. You want to know why? Fine. I see her. And I don’t mean the fake lashes and idol smile crap. I see her. I know there’s more in there. I can feel it, she’s got something. But she does nothing with it.”

He sat forward, elbows on his knees, voice sharp.

“She lets everyone control her. Tells her what to wear, how to act, when to smile, and she lets them. Doesn’t fight. Doesn’t push back. She just takes it. Like she’s some fragile doll that can’t break character. I’ve worked with rookies, hell, I’ve trained with idols who’ve been doing this for ten years, and she’s the only one who looks like she’s been drowning for seven and still acts like she’s fine.”

Airi didn’t interrupt. She just listened. That was worse somehow.

Ni-ki exhaled through his nose. “I want her to break. Just once. I want her to snap back. To yell at me. To cry. To show something that isn’t perfectly packaged. Maybe then she’ll finally become someone, not just this…pretty puppet.”

There was silence.

Yuna shifted in her sleep. Sunghoon rubbed his thumb against his bottom lip, glancing toward his wife. He knew what was coming.

Airi took a deep breath and crossed to sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb her daughter. She looked at Ni-ki the way only a sister could, with love and disappointment both held in equal measure.

“That’s the cruelest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” she said quietly.

He blinked. Huh?

Airi shook her head. “You think she’s not strong because she doesn’t yell at you? Because she doesn’t shove back? Ni-ki, do you have any idea what kind of strength it takes to live her life? To wake up every single day and perform for the world even when she’s breaking inside?”

He didn’t respond, so she kept going.

“She’s not soft. She’s probably one of the toughest people in that industry. But you...you’re pushing her like she’s your enemy, like her silence is weakness. And maybe it’s not weakness. Maybe it’s survival.”

The words landed like a slap.

Sunghoon spoke for the first time. “You treat every woman in your life with care. You love your nieces. You call our moms twice a week. You open doors for strangers. But her? You treat her like she’s nothing.”

Ni-ki’s jaw clenched.

“I don’t hate her,” he muttered, but even to him, it sounded weak. Airi looked at him sharply. “Then stop treating her like you do.”

She stood and walked to the window, arms hugging her own waist.

“You think you're trying to get the best out of her, but you’re not building her up, Ni-ki. You’re tearing her down. You want her to break? Maybe she already has. You just don’t see it.”

The words hit deeper than he expected.

Yuna gave a tiny sigh in her sleep, a breathy hum that reminded him of the kind of peace he hadn't felt in years. He looked at her, then at Airi. At Sunghoon.

He didn’t say anything else.

But he didn’t argue either.

The hotel room had gone still again. The soft hum of the air conditioner filled the silence, brushing over the tops of their heads like a whisper. Yuna shifted slightly on the bed, smacking her lips in her sleep, her little fist now curled against Ni-ki’s pillow.

Ni-ki sat slouched in the armchair, his hands clasped loosely between his knees, head ducked but eyes lifted toward Sunghoon, whose stare hadn’t wavered once since Airi finished speaking.

Then Sunghoon asked the simplest thing.

“What do you even know about her?”

Ni-ki’s brow furrowed. “She’s twenty three. Been an idol since she was sixteen. Korea’s sweetheart or whatever,” he muttered. “Face of like, five brands this year alone. She sings well. Dances decent enough if she actually listens.”

Sunghoon’s eyes didn’t move. “I didn’t ask for her wiki page.”

Ni-ki’s jaw ticked.

Sunghoon sat back against the couch arm, one ankle propped on his knee. His voice was calm. Patient. But laced with disappointment.

“I asked what you know. About her. Not the surface level idol bullshit. What do you actually know about Roe Jiyoon?”

Ni-ki opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

His silence said everything.

Airi’s sigh was heavy as she leaned against the dresser, her arms crossed.

“That’s the problem,” she said quietly. “You want to get a reaction out of someone whose life is built on not reacting. You want her to push back, fight, scream just so you can feel like you cracked the code. But that’s not how it works.”

Ni-ki didn’t look at her, eyes now locked on the sleeping curve of Yuna’s back.

“She’s been through more than you think,” Airi continued. “I’ve met her a few times. Not often, but enough. Award shows, backstage events. I never worked with her, not directly she’s a different label. But that girl’s always kind. Not in that fake, bow until your neck breaks way. She sees people. She asks questions. Listens. I watched her stop in full glam to crouch down and tie a kid trainee’s shoe once because the girl was shaking too hard to do it herself.”

She crossed to the window, voice softer now. “That’s not a character. That’s who she is.”

Ni-ki stayed silent.

“Do you remember what we said when we first started doing this?” she asked, looking over her shoulder. “We agreed choreographers were supposed to inspire. Motivate. Help idols love their craft again after it's been picked apart and scheduled to death. We’re supposed to be the people they look forward to working with..not the ones they dread.”

Ni-ki rubbed at his neck. “She’s so…”

“What? Frustrating?” Sunghoon offered. “Hard to read? Sounds like someone else I know.”

“She’s nothing!” Ni-ki snapped, then immediately shut his mouth.

Airi blinked. Sunghoon tilted his head.

Ni-ki exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face.

“She just...she doesn’t fight back. She doesn’t ask for anything. She lets herself get dragged from stage to interview to rehearsal like she’s on autopilot. How the hell is anyone supposed to reach someone who won’t even try?”

Airi didn’t flinch. She stepped forward, voice gentle but firm. “Maybe that is her trying.”

He frowned.

“Have you ever thought,” she continued, “that maybe staying quiet isn’t weakness? Maybe it’s the strongest thing she knows how to do.”

He didn’t respond.

“I’ve seen idols break down from less,” Airi added. “But she hasn’t. She’s still standing, still smiling, still performing. That’s not a fragile girl. That’s a damn fortress. You’re not making her stronger, Ni-ki. You’re trying to shatter her.”

He felt the words crawl down his spine like ice.

Sunghoon let out a quiet breath. “You don’t have to like her,” he said. “But you do owe her basic decency. She’s not your rival. She’s your artist.”

Airi sat back down, reaching to brush hair from Yuna’s forehead.

“I’m not asking you to baby her,” she said. “I’m asking you to look closer. See her. The way you claim you already do.”

Ni-ki couldn’t answer.

Because he hadn’t been seeing her.

Not really.

He had been seeing the version of her that annoyed him, the idol she was trained to be, the version who never fought back, never yelled, never cracked and because of that, he had never even thought to ask why.

He’d been so focused on getting her to snap. He never realized she might already be broken.

Jiyoo

Three days.

That’s how long it’s been since the roof, since she let herself cry for the first time in…she didn’t even know how long. Since that night, she’s kept her head down. Went to rehearsals. Took her vitamins. Smiled when spoken to. But she hadn’t spoken to him.

Not that he ever said much outside of yelling.

But she still felt it.

A shift.

A silence that pressed into her ribs like guilt.

She wasn’t sure what she’d done wrong, but today, the anxiety was stronger than ever.

The rehearsal room lights flickered overhead as she pushed the door open with trembling fingers. Her bag strap slipped off her shoulder, and she caught it just in time before it fell to the floor. Her sneakers squeaked against the polished wood as she stepped inside, the empty space echoing louder than usual.

He was already there.

Ni-ki sat on the floor, legs stretched long, arms propped behind him, head bowed like he’d been thinking too hard for too long.

She didn’t say anything. Just gave a small nod, as always, and moved to her corner of the room.

No barked instructions. No biting sarcasm. No “you’re late” or “fix your hair” or “those shoes are wrong.”

He didn’t even look pissed. He just…looked at her. She froze for a long moment her eyes catching his. And he didn’t glare. Not even a little.

That scared her more than anything. Her brows furrowed slightly. Had she done something wrong? Was this the kind of quiet anger before a storm?

Maybe she wore the wrong sneakers. No, she triple checked those. Was she late? No, her phone said 8:50 a.m. Practice will start at 9.

Then why did he look like that?

She started backing away.

"Sit down." His voice, low and even, cut through the air like a drop in a still lake.

Her breath caught. He’d never told her to sit before. Dance, yes. Start over, absolutely. But sit?

She hesitated, clutching her bag strap again as her heart did a full somersault. “Did…I do something?”

“Sit, Jiyoo.” Still no edge to his voice. Still terrifying.

She dropped her bag slowly and lowered herself to the floor, the cool wood grounding her. She kept her knees close to her chest, hands curled together in her lap as she watched him warily.

He shifted forward, just a little. And now he was too close. Only inches between them.

It felt like the breath in her throat couldn’t figure out whether to stay or go.

“I didn’t wear the wrong shoes,” she mumbled first, voice small. “And I was early.”

“I know.”

She blinked.

He sighed, dragging a hand through his dark hair before letting it fall into his lap. His shoulders were tense, jaw clenched like he was swallowing something thick and sharp.

And she braced for it. The lecture. The eye roll. The why are you always like this.

But instead she was greeted with something stranger than ever.

“…I’m sorry.”

She blinked again. What?

“What?” she asked, almost automatically.

His gaze flicked up, meeting hers, “I said I’m sorry.”

Her whole body tensed, “Is this a prank?”

He almost smiled. “Do I look like someone who pranks people?”

“…No,” she whispered, narrowing her eyes.

“Then maybe just take it.”

She didn’t answer right away.

He sighed again, deeper this time, and rested his elbows on his knees. “I’ve been…too hard on you.”

Too hard didn’t even begin to cover it.

“You work harder than I give you credit for,” he continued, more to the floor than to her. “You show up. You rehearse until you’re sick. You don’t complain. Not once. And I...” he paused, forcing the next words out like pulling teeth, “...I didn’t respect that. I wanted to push you. I wanted to see what was under the surface.”

She looked at him like he was a stranger. A very confusing stranger.

“And?”

“I was wrong.”

That stunned her into silence.

He glanced at her then, catching the open look of disbelief on her face. “You gonna pass out?”

“I might.”

He huffed a laugh and looked away.

She didn’t know what to say. Her throat was tight, but not with fear this time. Not even with anger. It was just…confusion. Relief. Sadness. All of it mixing together like tangled yarn in her chest.

“Why now?” she finally asked.

He ran a hand over his mouth. “Because I’ve had some things pointed out to me. Things I’ve ignored about you. About this job. About…how I’ve been acting.”

Jiyoo swallowed hard.

There was so much she wanted to ask. So much she wanted to say. But all she managed was, “Thank you.”

And it was quiet again. Not awkward quiet. Just soft approval.

Her eyes dropped to the floor between them. He stood then, brushing invisible dust off his pants and offering her a hand. She looked at it. Hesitated.

Took it. And for the first time since meeting Roe Jiyoon, Ni-ki didn’t pull away.

The tension wasn’t gone. It was just different now.

Mutated into something she couldn’t name.

Ni-ki hadn’t yelled at her once all morning. Which didn’t mean he’d stopped pointing out every missed beat, every lazy transition, every move that didn’t hit quite right. He still corrected her, still huffed a little when her timing wasn’t clean, but the words weren’t sharp anymore. They didn’t cut. They just…guided.

Like an actual instructor.

Which would’ve been normal, if he were normal.

But this was Ni-ki.

The guy who called her a doormat. The guy who once told her she danced like a wind up doll. The guy who literally said if she wanted water, she could crawl for it.

Now, he simply tapped the mirror with his knuckle and muttered, “Shoulders down, Jiyoo,” in that rough edged tone of his.

She was confused. And cautious.

Like a deer waiting for the trap to snap.

Still, she pushed through it—ran the set for her album straight through once, barely stopping to breathe, and tried not to crumble when her knees buckled on the final count.

She landed the final pose with a small stumble, hands on her thighs, sweat clinging to her hair and the back of her neck. Her chest heaved as she looked at herself in the mirror, jaw tight, trying to hide how winded she was.

He didn’t say anything for a second. Just stared.

Then, with a nonchalant nod he spoke, “You did good.”

She blinked. Whipped her head toward him like he’d spoken in tongues. “I… what?”

“You did good,” he repeated, slower this time, already packing up his notes and headphones.

Now she really was suspicious. “What the hell is going on with you?”

Ni-ki glanced at her from over his shoulder. “What?”

“You’re being..” she narrowed her eyes, “..tolerable.”

He gave a short, dry snort. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late,” she muttered.

He smirked and dropped into a chair near the speakers, resting his arms on his knees. He looked tired but not in a worn out way. More like someone who had finally stopped resisting something.

And that made her ask.

“…Why?”

He looked up, brow arching. “Why what?”

“Why the change of heart? Why the apology? Why this sudden...non-demon version of you?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly, “You want the long version?”

She nodded, already nervous.

He exhaled, leaning back against the chair. “I became a choreographer because there’s something addictive about seeing someone transform in front of you. You take this raw version of a person and you train them. Push them. Make them see what they’re capable of. And when they hit that beat...when they finally nail that move they’ve struggled with for weeks it feels…right. Like you helped light a fire.”

She listened, silently, not expecting something so honest.

“But with you…” he scratched his brow, suddenly uneasy, “I wasn’t doing that.”

“…Why not?” Her voice came out smaller than she wanted.

He didn’t look at her.

“I thought you were fake.”

The words dropped like a weight between them.

“I thought your whole sweet girl, soft voice, sunshine thing was an act,” he continued. “Like a strategy. A way to get people to feel bad for you, coddle you, hand you things.”

She stared at him.

He finally met her gaze.

“But you’re not. Are you?”

Her throat tightened. Slowly, she shook her head. “No.” Then she said it, barely above a whisper. “The only thing that’s an act…is pretending I still love doing this.”

It was a raw confession. Bare. No glitter. No mic pack. No screaming fans or flashing cameras. Just her. And the floor. And the weight of years she hadn’t let herself feel.

The room fell completely silent.

Until she heard it.

A small sound from Ni-ki’s throat. Like something between a gasp and a groan. Almost like a wounded animal.

She blinked and suddenly, his arms were around her.

Warm. Solid. Steady.

Her breath hitched in her chest.

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there stiffly as his arms anchored her like she might float away if he let go.

She hadn’t been hugged in years.

Not really.

Not by someone who didn’t expect something back. Not without a camera around. Not without a script to follow.

Her eyes stung. She tried to blink the burn away, but it swelled and swelled until the tears began to slide down, uninvited. A soft sob escaped her throat one she didn’t mean to make.

He felt it.

“It’s okay,” he said, voice closer to a whisper than she thought he was capable of. “Cry.”

Her fingers clutched at the back of his shirt, the fabric warm from his skin.

And this time, she did.

She cried.

For everything she’d lost. For everything she’d been forced to carry. For the years of smiling when she wanted to scream. For the girl she could’ve been. For the one she was still trying to be.

She cried until her knees gave out and they both dropped to the floor, his arms still around her like a lifeline.

And Ni-ki the man who never praised her for anything, who had been downright mean to her from the begining seemed to have a change of heart and he held her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Ni-ki

The arena pulsed with light and heat.

Thousands of fans screamed her name, waving light sticks and banners, their chants echoing through the walls like thunder. The floor vibrated beneath his boots with every bass drop, every beat that rolled out of the speakers and wrapped the crowd in music.

Ni-ki stood just off stage, arms crossed, headset looped around his neck, watching her.

Jiyoo.

It was the first time he’d seen her perform since that day.

Since she cried into his chest like her ribs might crack open from the force of it. Since she whispered that she didn’t love this anymore, and the sound of her voice had sliced through his chest like dull glass.

He hadn't stopped thinking about it.

About her.

She was glowing under the stage lights now, golden and graceful, bouncing across the stage with a smile that could’ve fooled the entire world. Her energy was seamless. From solo ballads to group choreo with the dancers, her transitions were flawless, her movements precise. She worked the crowd with a fluidity only years of experience could bring.

To anyone else, she was on fire.

But he could see it now. What he hadn’t bothered to look for before.

There was something hollow in her eyes. Not empty because Jiyoo had never been empty. Just mentally exhausted.

And still, she gave them everything.

Ni-ki’s chest ached in a way he wasn’t used to.

It felt like carrying something heavy for too long, then finally letting it go. That weird ache that comes with relief. With clarity.

His sister had been right.

She always is, he thought bitterly.

Airi had dragged him by the ear in that hotel room three nights ago and ripped him a new one. Told him he didn’t know a damn thing about what Jiyoo carried, what she had to face, day in and day out under the spotlight. She said it was cruel the way he’d treated her, the way he’d tried to break her, like she wasn’t already fractured in ways he couldn’t see.

He hated to admit it. But his sister had been right about everything.

Ni-ki exhaled slowly, gaze trailing her movements as she danced. Even her fan service was on point, waving, smiling, blowing kisses to the crowd, tilting her head for photos, accepting plushies and signs with warmth that almost looked real. Almost.

He’d always assumed she was one of the industry’s lucky ones.

Pretty. Popular. Debuted young. Made it solo. Always trending.

He’d thought she was the type the world just handed things to.

And maybe that’s why he’d been so hard on her. Why he’d pushed until she bled through her smile.

Because deep down, he'd resented what he didn’t understand.

But now?

Now he knew better.

He knew the cost of that smile.

She hadn’t asked for this. The schedule. The image. The weight of being everyone’s sweetheart while never knowing if you belonged to yourself.

And for someone who claimed not to love the stage anymore, she still honored it.

Still gave every piece of herself to the people watching.

There was something about her.

He didn’t know what exactly. Not yet. But it was there. Something warm. Something real. Something that curled around the sharp corners of his usual indifference and softened it.

Maybe it was the fire she still carried in her bones, even after everything. Maybe it was the way she didn’t yell back at him when he’d pushed and how she just kept going. Or maybe it was that moment in the practice room, when she said it out loud. When she admitted she’d been pretending, and he realized how long she must’ve been holding that in.

Kind. Soft. Broken. But somehow still standing.

Ni-ki didn’t smile. That wasn’t him.

But as he watched her twirl across the stage, sweat catching the light like glitter, arms outstretched to thousands of strangers who thought they knew her.

He felt something close to pride.

Not because she was perfect.

But because, even on the days she wanted to give up, she still gave the world the best of her.

And maybe…maybe now that he knew better he could start giving the best of himself too.

-

The air was still warm from the earlier heat of the day, sticky with the kind of summer haze that never quite let go, even after the sun dipped below the skyline.

The concert had ended two hours ago.

Most of the crew and staff were inside the venue, still buzzing, some already halfway into their celebratory drinks, others sprawled on couches or lying on the floor backstage like corpses revived by adrenaline alone. The high of a successful night clung to everyone, laughter echoing down the halls, camera flashes going off, backup dancers recounting favorite moments. It was always like this. The afterglow.

But Ni-ki had slipped away.

Now he stood outside the venue, leaning against a company car, cool night wind rustling the hem of his shirt, a sleek black keycard swinging lazily around his index finger. He stared at the pavement, at the sharp gleam of asphalt under the streetlight, mind elsewhere.

His body was tired. His throat dry.

But his heart was pounding.

He heard her before he saw her.

He always did, somehow.

Light footsteps, low giggles with someone on staff, the soft lilt of her voice carried by the wind. When he glanced up, there she was walking toward the company cars, her long hair spilling down her back in waves, loose and pretty, catching the light like silk.

She was in a cream skirt that brushed her knees, paired with a simple blouse, all fluttering edges and soft lines. Effortless. Natural. God, she looked like something out of a damn daydream.

Ni-ki swallowed hard, jaw tightening.

He wasn’t a liar. He’d already admitted it to himself weeks ago.

She was beautiful. Has always been beautiful.

He had eyes. He wasn’t blind.

But tonight it hit different.

Because now he knew her.

Even just a sliver. Even just one of the heavier things she carried. It was enough to shift the way the world looked at her through his eyes. And seeing her smiling, walking lightly like she hadn't just given everything she had to the stage hours ago, it made something shift in his chest.

He watched her walk toward the line of vans, oblivious to his stare.

And something about that how she still didn’t expect anything from him made him call out.

“Hey.”

She stopped.

Turned.

And when her amber brown eyes locked onto his, wide and blinking under the low glow of the parking lights his damn heart tripped in his chest.

Ni-ki scowled immediately. What the hell was that?

She tilted her head, squinting slightly like she wasn’t sure she heard right. “You talking to me?”

“No,” he deadpanned. “I’m calling the wind.”

She laughed a little still light, still bouncy with leftover adrenaline and walked over. “What’s up?”

“You got plans?” he asked, flipping the car key once more before catching it in his palm.

She shrugged, tugging on the sleeve of her blouse absently. “Manager Daejin said we could grab food. I think he was gonna meet me in the lobby. You can come, if you want.”

Ni-ki stared at her.

That soft smile. Those careful words. Always inviting, even now.

He shook his head slowly.

“Nah. You’re coming with me.”

She blinked. “Huh?”

He clicked the key, and the lights of a sleek black car blinked to life a few steps away.

“I said get in. I’m driving.”

She hesitated just for a second. And he could see it. That familiar wariness in her posture, the one that had built up from the months of his coldness, his barking, his bullshit.

But then she nodded.

No sass. No questions.

Just a quiet, curious “Okay.”

She moved toward the car, and Ni-ki opened the driver side door, slipping in as she did the same. She didn’t ask where they were going. Didn’t need to.

Because he didn’t know either.

He just needed to get her away from here for a while.

To let her breathe.

He typed in an address, the glowing screen casting soft blue light over the dashboard as the GPS started calculating.

And then, without another word, he pulled out of the parking lot.

The night swallowed them whole.

Jiyoo

The ride was quiet.

Not awkward but not exactly friendly either. Ni-ki drove like he did everything else; efficiently, eyes sharp on the road, jaw tight. One hand on the wheel, the other draped lazily over the gearshift. It was kind of annoying how effortlessly cool he looked doing absolutely nothing.

Still, Jiyoo didn’t mind the silence. For once, it wasn’t cold. Just calm.

They’d been driving for maybe twenty minutes, weaving through quiet streets lit with the soft glow of passing neon signs and scattered traffic lights when Jiyoo leaned her head slightly against the window and asked, “Are we there yet?”

Ni-ki didn’t even glance her way. “Be patient,” he muttered, pure attitude laced into every syllable.

Jiyoo smiled to herself.

It didn’t even bother her.

Because now she knew.

He was secretly nice. Deep, deep under all the layers of sarcasm, insults, and emotional constipation was a guy who let women cry in his arms. Soft boy behavior, if you asked her. And he was never going to live that down.

Not in her head.

Not ever.

Finally, the car turned into an empty parking lot and rolled to a stop. The engine cut, and the sudden stillness made her sit up straighter. She looked around, blinking at the neon-drenched building in front of them.

An arcade.

A massive, old school, two story arcade with glowing signage, claw machines pressed against the windows, and the muffled sound of retro music spilling out from inside.

Her stomach flipped.

“You…” she started, but her voice caught in her throat.

Ni-ki didn’t look at her, just stared out the windshield. “Heard you telling one of the staff you wanted to go. They said no.”

She blinked again.

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t explain. But he didn’t need to.

He’d heard her.

He’d remembered.

He brought her here.

And it felt like someone had gently cupped her heart in their hands.

She almost cried. Almost. But she didn’t because shes not a bitch.

Instead, she swallowed hard and let the smallest smile touch her lips, one of the first genuine ones in a long time. “Wow,” she whispered.

Ni-ki side eyed her immediately. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Too late.

She unbuckled her seatbelt and grinned. “Tell you what,” she said, already pushing open the door. “If you can beat me at DDR, I’ll pretend I don’t know you’re a big baby who comforts girls after making them cry.”

He scoffed, low and sharp, but she caught the twitch of his mouth as he slammed his door shut behind him. “You wish you were that good.”

“Mmhm,” she sang, skipping slightly ahead of him.

Ni-ki followed hands in his pockets, steps slow, head tilted like he was already planning her defeat but he didn’t stop her when she reached for the arcade door.

Didn’t yell.

Didn’t push.

Just let her walk into something good for once. And for the first time in a very, very long time, Jiyoo felt light.

Like she was seventeen again. Like being an idol wasn’t all she was. Like maybe she could just be Jiyoo for one night.

The second the doors swung open, she was hit with a wall of light and sound.

The arcade was alive, neon lights pulsing like heartbeats, machines buzzing with energy, kids screeching over jackpot tickets, and the nostalgic hum of pixelated music vibrating through the air. It smelled like cheap popcorn, candy, and childhood.

Jiyoo didn’t even know where to look first.

She turned her head slightly and caught Ni-ki watching her.

He wasn’t smiling of course he wasn’t but there was something unreadable in his expression. Like he was waiting to see how she’d react. Like this was some kind of test and she didn’t know what passing it meant.

So she did what came naturally instead, she grinned.

Her eyes lit up, wide and warm, and she practically jogged toward the nearest machine. “Oh my God, is that the claw game with the strawberry plushies?!”

He snorted behind her. “You’re seriously that excited over a rigged machine?”

“Yes,” she replied instantly, already slipping a token in. “I have hopes and dreams, thank you very much.”

“You’ll be disappointed.”

“I usually am.”

He blinked at that too slow to catch if she meant it as a joke or not.

The claw descended, grabbed the plush, and of course let go at the very last second.

She sighed like she’d just been betrayed by life itself.

“I told you,” he muttered.

“Shut up,” she grumbled, tossing another token in. “You’re here. That already ruined the vibes.”

“Wow,” he deadpanned. “You’re actually developing a backbone. I’m proud.”

She rolled her eyes and missed the way his lips twitched.

Eventually, she gave up on the claw machine after three failures, and they moved on to other games.

She destroyed him at air hockey, giggling every time he cursed under his breath. In retaliation, he deliberately blocked her view during a rhythm dance game until she tripped over her own foot. She hit him in the arm, and he shoved a churro in her mouth to shut her up.

Somehow between sticky fingers, flashing lights, and chaotic laughter it became easy.

Effortless.

Natural.

The first time she really noticed the shift was during a basketball shootout. She was focused, lips pressed together, arms pumping as she tried to keep up with the timer. But when she sunk a clean shot, she heard Ni-ki’s voice.

“Nice!”

It was surprised. Not sarcastic. Not mocking.

Just genuine.

She glanced over and saw him watching her not like she was an idol, not like she was some fragile creature but just a girl who was killing it in a stupid arcade basketball game.

And for some reason, her cheeks flushed.

What the hell was that?

He looked away first.

They went to the photo booth next, her idea, obviously. He rolled his eyes like it was beneath him, but he followed anyway. Inside, the lighting was awful, the space tiny. Their shoulders brushed. Neither of them moved.

Jiyoo picked the ugliest filters on purpose. Devil horns. Bunny ears. Sparkles. Whatever was cringe worthy, she chose it. She expected him to complain.

He didn’t.

He just stared at the screen, half lidded eyes and a neutral expression while she made the most ridiculous faces. At the last second on the final flash he stuck two fingers behind her head like bunny ears and smirked.

She gasped. “You sabotaged me!”

He shrugged. “You said if I beat you at something, you’d let me off the hook.”

“That wasn’t even a game!”

“Still counts.”

She glared. He laughed.

Laughed.

Like…full body, chest shaking kind of laugh.

She didn’t think she’d ever seen him laugh like that. Not at her, not around her, not in any of the tense, cold, loaded spaces they’d shared for weeks. And it caught her off guard, how different he looked like that.

His laugh was nice to hear. The deep tone he spoke in carried over into his joy and made her skin prickle.

She didn’t say anything.

Just watched him.

Just felt it. The warmth. The shift. The quiet, undeniable change curling beneath her ribs.

She didn’t know what it meant yet. Didn’t want to name it. Didn’t want to ruin it.

So instead, she pulled the printed photo strip from the slot and looked at it like it was a relic from another life.

He glanced over her shoulder. “Burn that.”

She laughed softly. “Never.”

When they walked out into the warm night air, Jiyoo had her photo tucked in her bag and a strange feeling swirling in her chest.

Maybe it was just the lights.

Maybe it was the sugar crash from the churro.

Or maybe for the first time in a long time she wasn’t pretending to be okay.

She was okay.

With him.

Even if it wouldn’t last.

Even if he’d go back to being cold and blunt tomorrow.

Even if this was just one night.

It had been hers.

Ni-ki 

The drive back was quiet.

Not awkward. Not tense.

Just quiet.

The kind of quiet that settled soft in the bones and didn’t demand to be filled. The windows were cracked a little, letting in the night breeze as the city lights passed them in blurs of gold and red.

Jiyoo was leaning against the passenger door, her head tipped toward the window, hair tousled and long, still smelling faintly of vanilla and something floral. Her hands were tucked into the sleeves of her shirt, and she had the smallest, sleepiest smile on her face like she was still coming down from the arcade high.

She didn’t know.

Didn’t know that the photo booth had printed two strips, not one.

Didn’t know that while she was too busy laughing at the devil horns and bunny ears versions of herself, Ni-ki had quickly snagged the second strip and shoved it in his back pocket without a word.

He didn’t even know why.

It was stupid. Sentimental.

But when he glanced at her now barely illuminated by the dim car light and relaxed in a way she rarely ever was, it didn’t feel so stupid anymore.

He'd had fun.

Real fun. Not the kind masked by sarcasm or buried under the weight of work.

He hadn’t just enjoyed himself. He’d enjoyed her.

And he’d noticed how different she looked when she was free. When she wasn’t being watched, judged, scheduled to death. When she wasn’t rehearsing or filtering her tone for interviews. She was just Jiyoo. Loud, competitive, a little too smug when she won, and sweet in the most irritatingly natural way.

He hadn’t seen her like that before. Not really.

And he liked what he saw.

Not in any grand, life altering way, he didn’t even try to define it.

But he didn’t stop thinking about the way she threw her head back when she laughed. The way she’d side eyed him for being nice, like it was the biggest betrayal she’d ever experienced. The way she’d slowly let her guard down not all the way, but enough to let the cracks show.

And he’d let her win at air hockey. On purpose.

God, if anyone asked, he’d deny it with his whole chest.

But watching her bounce on the balls of her feet, biting her lip to keep from grinning too hard while trash talking him?

Worth it.

He wasn’t a romantic. Wasn’t soft like that. And he sure as hell didn’t collect pictures or mementos. But that photo strip in his pocket was burning a hole through the denim, and he knew damn well he wasn’t throwing it away.

Not yet.

They pulled into the hotel parking lot, headlights slicing across the curb.

Neither of them said anything until the elevator dinged on their floor.

Her room was just a few doors down from his, same hallway, same boring wallpaper, same low hum of hotel silence.

Jiyoo turned toward him, reaching for her key card. Her hair fell into her face and she blew it out of the way with a puff of air.

He didn’t smile. But he did nod toward her door. “Go to sleep, Jiyoo.”

She sighed softly, but it wasn't in any way. Just the tired kind.

He added, “So you don’t look like a mess tomorrow. Again.”

There it was, the mockery. The teasing edge. His fallback.

She stared at him, face blank for a second. Then she stepped forward and without warning she hugged him.

It was fast.

Warm.

Soft.

Then over.

She pulled back so quickly it almost felt like it didn’t happen, and before he could process it, she was unlocking her door and slipping inside. The door shut with a click.

He just stood there for a moment.

Alone in the hallway.

Arms at his sides.

Heart? Weirdly calm.

Yeah.

He could get used to this.

He reached back into his pocket, fingertips brushing the edge of the photo strip.