#you know... cat day... so... cat stuff... and... cats... sigh

The apartment is honey-gold with late afternoon light, that weird hour that doesn’t belong to anyone.

Not morning. Not evening.

Just that quiet, suspended time night shifters live in, when the rest of the world is halfway through their day and yours is just beginning.

The clock on the stove reads 4:42 PM, but your brain still thinks it’s morning. Your body thinks it’s midnight. And Jack is wrapped around you like you’re the only solid thing in the room.

The blackout curtains don’t quite meet in the middle, so a stripe of sunlight cuts across the bed, warm against the sheets.

It lands right across his bare shoulder. Golden, soft. You trace it lazily with your fingers. He doesn’t wake.

He’s half on top of you, one leg hooked between yours, arm tight around your waist, face tucked into your neck. His breath is warm and slow and smells faintly like the toothpaste you both used at eight this morning before collapsing into bed.

Post-shift sleep always feels heavier, like drowning in cotton.

You shift a little. His grip tightens instantly. A low, sleepy hum against your collarbone.

“…don’t go,” he mumbles.

“I’m not,” you whisper.

“You’re warm.”

“So are you.”

“Good.”

He sinks closer, like a cat claiming territory.

You smile into the pillow.

This is your favorite part of night shift life, the world feels small. Private. Like you two exist slightly out of sync with everyone else. No emails, no traffic... No expectations.

Just him.

Your fingers slip under his t-shirt, tracing the familiar line of his spine; he sighs, then blinks one eye open.

“What time is it?” he croaks.

You squint at the clock.

“Four forty-something.”

He groans dramatically and buries his face deeper into your neck.

“Illegal,” he mutters. “The sun shouldn’t exist when I’m conscious.”

“You picked night shift.”

“I was lied to.”

You laugh softly, and his stubble scratches your skin when he kisses your shoulder, slow and lazy.

Neither of you moves to get up, you still have time. Report isn’t until seven. There’s always that dangerous illusion that you have plenty of time.

His hand slides under your shirt, resting warm against your stomach. Not sexual. Just… grounding, like making sure you’re real.

You turn to face him. His hair’s a disaster, pillow lines on his cheek, eyes puffy with sleep. God, you love him like this. Soft. Unarmored. Just Jack.

“Hey,” you murmur.

“Mm.”

“You okay?”

He nods, then shrugs. Then stares at you for a long moment like he’s trying to memorize your face.

“What?” you ask.

He studies you another second. Then, very casually, very quietly:

“What if we got married before shift?”

You blink.

“…what?”

“What if we got married today,” he repeats, like he’s suggesting takeout. “Before work.”

You prop yourself up on one elbow.

“Jack. We just woke up.”

“I know.”

“You still have pillow creases on your face.”

“So marry me anyway.”

You stare at him.

He doesn’t smile. He’s serious.

Soft. Calm. Certain.

“There’s that courthouse by the hospital,” he says. “Closes at seven.”

“…you’ve thought about this.”

“Maybe.”

“Jack.”

He exhales through his nose, thumb rubbing slow circles on your hip.

“I just keep thinking,” he says quietly, “how every shift feels like roulette.”

You know. You’ve both seen it. The calls that change everything. The families. The codes. How fast a normal day becomes the worst day of someone’s life.

“I don’t want to keep waiting for some perfect moment,” he continues. “Because we don’t get those. We get vending machine dinners and trauma bays and five minutes together in supply closets.”

You snort.

“Romantic.”

“Shut up, I’m trying.”

He cups your cheek, his hand is warm, steady.

“I already feel married to you,” he says. “You’re the first person I want after every shift. You’re the one I fall asleep with at eight in the morning. You’re home.”

Your throat tightens.

“So… what if we just make it official?” he murmurs. “Today. Before we clock in.”

“This is the least traditional proposal ever.” You reply, mid-laugh.

“I’m aware.”

“It’s very ‘we have forty minutes before report.’”

“Extremely on brand for us.”

You look at him, at the messy hair. The sleepy eyes. The absolute sincerity. No kneeling, no grand speech.

Just him. Choosing you. Right now. Every day.

You lean down and kiss him. Slow. Soft.

When you pull back, your forehead rests against his.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He freezes.

“…okay?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Let’s go get married before shift.”

He stares at you like you just rewrote gravity.

Then he laughs, bright and disbelieving, and pulls you into the tightest hug.

“Oh my god,” he says into your hair. “We’re insane.”

“Completely.”

“We’re going to show up to trauma married.”

“Dana is going to lose it. And Robby.”

“Worth it.”

Sunlight creeps further across the bed, reality creeping in. You groan.

“We have, like, an hour to shower and not look like raccoons.”

He kisses you again, quick and sure.

“C’mon,” he says, sliding out of bed and grabbing your hand. “Wife-to-be.”

*************

You stand in front of the closet in your underwear twenty minutes later, staring at your clothes like they personally betrayed you.

Scrubs, hoodies, old band tees, three identical cardigans… Why do you own nothing remotely bridal?

You huff out a breath.

“This is so stupid,” you mumble, rifling through hangers.

Then…

Your hand pauses in the back. The white dress. You’d forgotten about it. Simple. Soft cotton. Knee-length. Something you bought last summer for a friend’s birthday dinner and never wore again. Nothing fancy, no lace. No drama, but clean. Light. Easy.

You pull it out and hold it up. It looks… right. You tug it on. Bare legs. Minimal makeup. Hair still a little messy no matter what you do. You look like yourself.

You study your reflection… A woman about to get married before a 7 p.m. trauma shift.

Completely unhinged behavior.

You smile.

Perfect.

When you step out into the living room, Jack is buttoning up a clean dark shirt. Not scrubs yet, actual clothes. You stop walking.

Because… 

Oh.

Oh no.

He looks unfair. Dark jeans. Rolled sleeves. Hair still slightly damp from the shower. That stupidly handsome jawline, the faint shadow of stubble… like he accidentally walked out of a “small-town courthouse wedding” indie movie.

He looks up. Freezes.

“…hi,” he says softly.

The way he says it, like you just knocked the air out of him, makes your stomach flip.

“You look…” he trails off.

“Don’t say bridal,” you warn.

“I was gonna say beautiful.”

You swallow.

“Good. Stick with that.”

He steps closer, hands sliding around your waist, thumbs brushing the fabric of the dress like he can’t believe it’s real.

“You look like you,” he murmurs.

“That good or bad?”

“The best.”

He kisses you. Slow. Warm. Like you’ve got all the time in the world, even though you absolutely don’t.

***********

The courthouse is only ten minutes away. Early evening light spills gold across the sidewalk. People are still out, walking dogs, grabbing coffee, living their normal Tuesday lives. And you’re sitting in the passenger seat thinking: I might have a husband in an hour.

Your hand is laced with his over the center console. He keeps squeezing your fingers like he needs to check you’re still there.

“You nervous?” you ask.

“A little,” he admits.

“Regretting your impulsive life decisions?”

“Never.”

A beat.

“Okay maybe a little but in a hot way.”

You laugh.

God, you love him.

The courthouse steps are quiet, almost empty. You step out of the car, heart suddenly thundering.

This is real.

This is happening.

Jack glances at the building, then at you. Then…

“…shit.”

“What?”

“I forgot something.”

Your stomach drops.

“What did you forget?”

“I’ll be right back. Two minutes. Stay here.”

“Jack…?”

But he’s already jogging down the sidewalk.

You blink.

“Jack!”

He waves without turning around and disappears around the corner. You just stand there. Alone. Outside a courthouse. In a white dress. About to get married. Possibly abandoned.

“…cool,” you mutter. “Love this for me.”

You check your phone. No texts. No calls.

Five minutes pass. Then seven.

Okay.

Now you’re spiraling.

Did he panic? Did this suddenly feel too real? Did you both just speedrun a proposal and now he’s having a crisis behind a vending machine somewhere?

Right when you’re about to march back to the car…

“Hey!”

You turn and there he is. A little out of breath, hair wind-tousled, grinning like an idiot. Relief slams into you so hard you almost cry.

“You absolute jerk,” you snap, marching toward him. “Where did you…”

He holds something up between his fingers. Two small velvet boxes. Your brain short-circuits.

“…what.”

“There’s a jeweler two blocks over,” he says, slightly breathless. “I couldn’t… I didn’t want you to not have rings.”

Your throat closes.

“I know we said courthouse quick and whatever,” he continues, suddenly shy, “but… I wanted something you could look down at during shift and remember we did this. That it’s real.”

He opens the boxes. Two simple bands.

Gold. Clean. Classic.

Nothing flashy, just solid. Forever.

Your eyes fill instantly.

“You ran to buy rings?” you whisper.

“Yeah.”

“You idiot,” you choke out, smiling.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “But I’m your idiot.”

You throw your arms around him.

He laughs into your hair, hugging you tight. He presses his forehead to yours.

“C’mon,” he whispers. “Let’s get married before we’re late for work.”

***********

The courthouse doors open with a heavy, reluctant creak, like the building itself is tired.

Inside, the air smells faintly of disinfectant and old paper, the kind of scent every public building seems to share. The lights are too bright after the soft gold of outside, fluorescent and unforgiving, humming quietly overhead. Beige tile floors, plastic chairs lined against the wall, a corkboard cluttered with notices about parking permits and jury summons. It’s deeply, aggressively ordinary.

You look at Jack. He looks at you.

And something about the sheer lack of romance makes you both start laughing under your breath, like kids who snuck into somewhere they shouldn’t be.

“This is it, huh?” you murmur.

He squeezes your hand. “Five-star venue. Very exclusive.”

Your fingers stay threaded together as you check in at the clerk’s desk. There, a tired woman with reading glasses squints at you both.

“Marriage license?” she asks.

Jack nods.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She looks between you, then down at your dress, then at his shirt.Then back at you with the faintest, knowing smile.

“Night shift?” she asks.

You both freeze.

“…how did you-”

“Honey, I’ve worked this desk twenty years,” she says. “I can spot hospital people a mile away.”

You laugh. She slides the forms under the glass.

“Fill these out. Ceremony room’s at the end of the hall. Judge’ll be free in ten.”

Ten minutes. Your heart flips. Ten minutes until he’s your husband.

While Jack finishes the paperwork, you wander a few steps away, suddenly jittery with energy. There’s a tiny vending machine nook down the corridor.

And next to it…

A sad little stand. Plastic buckets. Half-wilted carnations. Baby’s breath. And one bunch of small white daisies wrapped in cellophane. Probably leftover from someone’s graduation or something.

You stare at them.

They’re imperfect. A little messy. A little crooked. You love them immediately.

Three dollars in coins from your scrubs pocket. That’s all they cost. You peel the plastic off and hold them in your hands.

Simple. Soft. Enough.

When you walk back, Jack looks up. Sees the flowers. His entire face melts.

“Where did you get those?” he asks.

“High-end floral boutique,” you say seriously. “Next to the vending machine.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“They were three dollars.”

“Still beautiful.”

He says it like he means you. Not the flowers. You feel heat climb your cheeks.

Your last names get called and you walk inside. The ceremony room is tiny, smaller than you expected, just a little office with folding chairs and a state flag in the corner. A fake ficus plant. A desk pushed against the wall.

That’s it.

No music. No aisle. Just you. Him. A middle-aged judge with kind eyes and sensible shoes.

She smiles gently.

“Just the two of you today?”

Jack squeezes your hand.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just us.”

Perfect.

Two courthouse employees linger near the wall with clipboards, polite and detached. Witnesses, apparently. One of them gives you a small smile, like she’s seen this a hundred times and still finds it sweet. It makes everything feel oddly real.

Not a dream. Not something private and imaginary. Official. Documented. Witnessed.

The judge says a few simple words. Nothing flowery, nothing long, just talk of partnership and commitment and choosing each other every day. The ordinary miracle of building a life side by side. The language is plain, almost practical, which somehow makes it land harder.

You barely hear half of it, because you’re too busy looking at Jack. At the way he’s looking at you like you hung the stars yourself. Eyes soft. A little glassy. Like he can’t quite believe you’re real, or that this is actually happening.

There are no vows. No speeches. No promises you rehearsed in the mirror. Just the judge glancing between you and asking, gently:

“Do you take this man to be your husband?”

“I do,” you say, voice steadier than you expected.

“And you? Do you take this woman to be your wife?”

“I do,” he answers, just as quick, like there was never any other option.

He reaches into his pocket, fingers fumbling slightly as he pulls out the small velvet box from earlier. For the first time since you got here, he looks nervous.

Not scared. Just… careful. Like this matters more than anything.

He slides the ring out and takes your left hand, his touch warm and familiar. You feel the faint tremor in his fingers as he guides the band over your knuckle. It’s simple gold, nothing fancy, but when it settles into place it feels strangely right, like something that’s always belonged there.

Like it was waiting for you. Your throat tightens.

“Okay,” you murmur softly, blinking fast. “My turn.”

You open the other box and take his hand. His skin is warm, pulse steady under your fingertips. You push the ring down slowly, feeling the shape of his hand, memorizing the moment. He watches you like you’re doing something sacred.

When the band slides into place, he lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh.

Like relief.

Like home.

The judge smiles at both of you, satisfied, and closes the folder with a soft clap.

“Well,” she says gently, “that’s it.”

A tiny pause. Then:

“You may kiss your wife.”

The word hits you both at the same time. Wife.

His breath catches. His hand slides up your cheek, thumb brushing just under your eye, gentle and reverent, like you’re something fragile and holy and he’s afraid you might disappear if he moves too fast.

And then he kisses you. Slow. Deep. Not rushed. Not messy. Just warm and sure and full of everything you don’t have words for. It tastes like toothpaste and coffee and him. Like early mornings driving home half-asleep. Like shared granola bars at 3 a.m. Like every shift you’ve survived shoulder to shoulder.

Like home.

When you pull back, your foreheads rest together and you’re both smiling like idiots, a little dazed.

Married.

Just like that.

No music. No aisle. No big moment. Just love. And fluorescent lighting.

You huff out a shaky laugh, tears threatening anyway. “We really just did that.”

“Yeah,” he says softly.

He turns your hand slightly, brushing his thumb over your new ring like he needs to check it’s real. “Hey,” he adds, quieter, almost shy. “My wife.”

Your heart does a little jump.

“My husband,” you say back.

You check your phone out of habit and immediately grimace. “It’s 6:18.”

He snorts. “Of course it is.”

There’s no dramatic rush, no sprinting for the door. Just the two of you exchanging a look that says yeah, that tracks.

You grab his hand, bouquet tucked against your hip, and he squeezes your fingers once before leading you back out into the hallway.

“C’mon,” he says, already walking. “If we’re late, you’re explaining it to Dana.”

“That’s not fair, this was your idea.”

“Yeah,” he says, a small smirk tugging at his mouth. “Worth it though.”

And together you head back to the car, rings catching the last light of the evening, two slightly underdressed, newly married idiots on their way to clock in for night shift like nothing monumental just happened at all. Like this is just another day.

Only now, you’re his. And he’s yours.

***********

Inside the ER, the familiar sounds hit immediately; phones ringing, someone laughing too loudly at the desk, the squeak of stretcher wheels, the constant low murmur of controlled chaos. The smell of antiseptic and stale coffee wraps around you like muscle memory.

Lockers first.

The white dress gets folded carefully into your bag, softer now, like it belongs to another life entirely. You pull on your scrubs, tie your hair back, wash your face quickly.

For a moment, you just stand there looking at your left hand. The ring catches the fluorescent light when you flex your fingers. Simple gold, nothing flashy. But it feels heavier now. Warmer.

You turn it once around your finger, just to feel it there. Still real. Still yours.

When you step out, Jack’s already finished changing. He bumps your shoulder lightly as you pass each other, an unconscious touch, the same as always, except now it sends a little electric current up your spine.

Your husband.

Jesus.

You’re going to lose your mind if you keep thinking that.

Dana is at the nurses’ station when you walk out, flipping through charts with the kind of focus that suggests someone’s personally offended her with bad handwriting.

“Nice of you two to join us,” she says without looking up. “Thought you called out together or something.”

“Tempting,” you reply, logging into the computer beside her.

“Yeah, yeah. You can rest when you’re dead.”

It’s normal. Completely normal. The same start to every shift you’ve had for months, which feels surreal, considering you got married less than an hour ago.

Report rolls on. Room numbers. Admits. Staffing gripes. Someone already asking about coffee. You jot notes automatically, brain sliding into work mode like muscle memory.

Across the station, Jack leans beside Robby, talking through bed assignments, one hip against the counter, arms loosely crossed. Calm. Focused. He looks exactly like he always does at the start of shift.

No one would ever guess. Your gaze drops to your hand as you type. The ring catches the fluorescent light. Just a small flash of gold. It sends a stupid, giddy warmth straight through your chest.

Your husband.

God.

You look down too long, and Dana notices. She pauses mid-sentence, eyes narrowing slightly at your keyboard.

“…hold on,” she mutters.

You instinctively still.

“What?” you ask, too quickly.

She doesn’t answer. She just stares at your hand resting on the desk. Then at your face. Then back at the ring. Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“You were not wearing that yesterday,” she says slowly.

Your heart leaps into your throat. Across the station, Jack glances over at the shift in her tone. He watches you lean closer to her, shoulder brushing hers, like you’re about to share gossip.

You whisper, “Don’t react.”

Dana immediately reacts. Her hand clamps onto your forearm.

“You didn’t,” she breathes.

“Shh,” you whisper, already smiling. “Just- keep your voice down.”

“You didn’t,” she repeats, louder this time, eyes going wide and shiny. “You two did not-”

“What?” Robby calls from across the desk.

Dana looks between you and Jack like her brain can’t decide who to yell at first. You try to shush her, but it’s too late. She turns fully toward both of them.

“Are you kidding me right now?” she blurts.

Jack straightens. “What did we do?”

Dana points dramatically at your hand.

“Explain. The ring.”

Everything goes very still for half a second. Robby looks at your hand, then automatically at Jack’s… Because of course he does.

And there it is. Same simple gold band. His eyebrows shoot up so fast they nearly disappear into his hairline.

“…no way,” he says.

Jack exhales through his nose, caught, like a kid who just got busted sneaking candy. You and him lock eyes across the station. There’s that tiny, helpless smile again.

“Well,” you say softly, because there’s no point pretending now, “we had the afternoon free.”

Dana makes the most offended noise you’ve ever heard. “You got married and then just came to work like it’s nothing?!”

“Courthouse,” Jack says, shrugging like you’re talking about grabbing groceries. “Took twenty minutes.”

“TWENTY-” she chokes. “I hate you both.”

Robby lets out a low whistle. “Before shift? That’s… actually kinda badass.”

“It was impulsive,” you say, laughing.

“It was insane,” Dana corrects, but she’s already tearing up. “Oh my god. You idiots. That’s disgustingly romantic.”

She grabs your hand to look closer at the ring, then immediately grabs Jack’s wrist too, comparing like she’s inspecting matching tattoos.

“They match,” she says, voice wobbling. “I can’t deal with this. I’m too tired to be this emotional.”

Jack looks mildly alarmed. “Please don’t cry at the desk.”

“No promises.”

Robby claps Jack on the shoulder. “Congrats, brother.”

Jack just nods, a little bashful now, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Then he looks at you. Not big. Not dramatic. Just soft. Private. Like the rest of the room fades out for a second.

“Guess we’re stuck with each other,” he says.

It’s the most Jack thing he could possibly say.

You smile back. “Yeah. Looks like it.”

Dana sniffs loudly. “Okay, great, beautiful, love wins, whatever. Trauma room two is waiting and you’re both still on the schedule, married or not. Move.”

And just like that, the moment folds back into the noise of the ER, monitors beeping, phones ringing, someone calling for transport.

Life continuing.

Only now there’s a small band of gold on your hand when you reach for gloves.

And every time you catch Jack’s eye across the department, there’s that quiet, stunned look between you both.

Like you’re sharing the best secret in the world. 

By the time you get home, the sun is fully up and the world is already loud again; traffic, neighbors, someone mowing a lawn down the block. It feels wrong, somehow, after the strange bubble of the night. You barely make it through brushing your teeth before you both collapse into bed, still half damp from the shower, limbs heavy and boneless with exhaustion.

Jack falls into you automatically, like he always does, one arm slung over your waist, his face tucked into your neck. You tangle together without thinking, sheets twisted around your legs, his thumb drawing slow, sleepy circles against your side. Neither of you says anything. There’s nothing left to say.

A few minutes later, just before you drift off, he presses a lazy kiss into your shoulder and murmurs, “Night, wife,” like it’s the most normal word in the world. You smile into the pillow, pull him closer, and finally let sleep take you both.

***********

a/n: So... what I meant is... I know you probably can't just go and get married right away, but for the sake of the story let's pretend you can 😆

He bolts upright, heart slamming. "Go back where?! I’ve just got here!"

And then he realised where the slogan came from. God knows why your sleeping brain decided to summon the Indian freedom movement.

The next incident is after a nightmare of a day. You barely make it to the bed, exhausted from your office - and just collapse beside him. He’s come back from a mission early. One look at you and he knows.

He sighs. Tonight’s gonna be violent.

He murmurs about base stuff, boring on purpose, hand massaging your shoulders. He would never tell you the details of the mission but instead told you about the ration food they ate, how Soap managed to save a child or how Gaz adopted a cat on base. You smile faintly, tangle your legs with his, eyes glassy.

"M so in love with you, Si. Your stupid boy missions…"

That does him in. Completely ruins him.

He softens, fingers gentle as he shifts to braid your hair like you do before sleeping. "Aye… sleep, love. You’re knackered." And then you’re out cold.

Three in the morning -

"FREEDOM, COMRADES!"

The scream is feral. Your legs start twitching like you’re charging into war. Simon knew the fucking engine was warming up for it. Legs vibrating like a missile ready to fly off.

"OI - BUNNY - NO - WAIT - DON’T - " he tries holding your thighs.

CrACk!!! Right in the balls.

"FUCKKKK OHh..YOU...gaah...FUCK-" he wheezes, voice breaking.

He curls instinctively, back facing to you as he fights back tears - and that’s when you nail him again. Straight to the ass.

He goes flying off the bed with a heavy thud.

"Never turn yer back to me. Victory at last!!!" you shout, pumping fist in the air, dead asleep.

He lies on the floor, staring at the ceiling, gasping for air.

"...I married a revolution."

In the morning, you find him shuffling across the kitchen, moving very slow.

"Si? Why are you waddling like a penguin?”

He side-eyes you. Slow. Dangerous. "I'm gonna have to cuff you."

You blush instantly, biting your lip. "Oh?"

He snorts. "Oh don’t flatter yourself."

"I mean literally tyin’ your hands and feet at night so you don’t end up ruinin’ our future kids."

It hits you. Oh my God. You kicked his balls in sleep.

You gasp. "Oh my God Si, I’m so sorry!"

He groans, collapsing onto the couch like a Victorian man with the vapours.

"I’ve been shot. Stabbed. Blown up" He glares.

"None of that prepared me for you. Married a woman more lethal than a bomb."

God you feel horrible now. You bring him tea and icepack. He watches you like you’re armed.

"Next time you shout freedom love" he mutters, "I’m sleepin in riot gear."

He pulls you gently between his knees anyway, resting his forehead against your stomach. Protective even while wounded.

You grin. "Still love me?"

He exhales, lips brushing your skin.

"Unfortunately. Madly" he places kisses on your tummy as you knead his scalp gently.

"When they're auditioning for Exorcist 2, I'll let em know I have a lead actor in mind" he grins pulling you closer.

That night, he wraps an arm and a leg around you like a human restraint system. Doesn’t sleep properly. One eye open. Always.

You murmur, half-asleep, "Mmm… rebellion…"

"Don't" he warns softly. "I swear to God."

You kick once - just a twitch.

He tightens his grip instantly. "Nope. Absolutely not. Sleep, Che Guevara."

"Gandhi" you whisper.

And Simon Riley, elite soldier, reduced to fearing bedtime. All thanks to his little nutjob of a wife. He would never admit to anyone on base - how his wifey kicked his ass..quiet literally. But oh how he loves her - natural like breath. He might have to go ribbon shopping later tho..😉

♡──♡──♡༺♡༻♡──♡──♡

PART 2

“I just love him,” your sister sighs dreamily. 

To any sane person passing through your living room, it might sound like she’s talking about a lover. Someone who knows she exists. Someone who reciprocates the pathetic yearning in her voice. But no. From where the two of you sit, side by side on the couch, her eyes are locked on a complete stranger on the television, rubbing the stomach of a grumpy black cat.

She’s made you sit through a playlist of ENHYPEN content for hours now, a new EN-O'CLOCK episode playing one after the other. Your sister stretches out a hand toward the screen like she’s about to caress it and you cringe out of secondhand embarrassment. 

“Tomorrow’s the day,” she whispers, voice soft. “When we see each other again…”

You feel a sharp chill down your spine. She’s talking about a concert. One that she’s dragging you to because she has no one else to go with. “Sophia,” you say carefully. “You know you don’t actually know him, right?”

She rolls her eyes. “What are you talking about? I literally video-called him the other day.”

You blink at her. “Yeah... because you bought seven hundred copies of their stupid album—”

She waves a dismissive hand. “But he always recognizes me! He knows my name.”

You swallow back a sigh. Of course, he does. Anyone would, if the same girl showed up to every fan meeting, concert, and award show. “Whatever you say,” you mumble underneath your breath.

Moving back home after college wasn't supposed to be like this. Being forced against your will to watch a bunch of grown men throw each other into a pool, while you wait to hear back on job applications. You love your sister, truly. But she’s also a full-grown adult who spends her free time following around a K-pop idol who wouldn’t care if she lived or died. 

Lee Heeseung.

You didn’t mean to remember his name, but now even hearing it makes your eye twitch. It’s not that you hate him, exactly. Maybe resent is the right word? That whole group, really. So cocky. So sure of themselves. Basking in the screams of girls like Sophia, who would throw their whole life savings just to catch a glimpse of them.

“And when I see him tomorrow,” she murmurs, almost in a daze. “He'll fall in love with me.”

“Oh yeah?” you snort. “How are you planning to make that happen? You gonna bring a book and start reading it by the barricade while he performs?”

You're joking. Clearly. But when she actually looks at you, thoughtful and serious, your smile falls. “Should I?”

–

“So… what do you think?” 

Heeseung tries to keep his voice steady, but nevertheless, it wavers from his desperation. Across the small meeting room, his manager studies him with an unreadable expression. Just a few minutes ago, he gave a presentation to a room full of executives on a project he’d spent the past few months working on in between grueling schedules. Writing, producing, and choreographing a solo album. All his. 

“It’s good,” Manager Jung admits, breaking the silence. “Everyone knows you’re fully capable of doing this.”

Heeseung smiles, relief starting to stir within him. “Thank you.”

“But..." his manager continues softly, "I don’t know if everyone else thinks so.” 

The older male takes a deep breath. “They’re worried that a solo album might mean… you’re having ambitions beyond ENHYPEN.”

Heeseung's eyes widen, shaking his head even before Manager Jung finishes speaking. It’s just something he wanted to try. Something beyond his comfort zone that he could call his own. “I’m not going anywhere,” Heeseung continues. “I’m committed to the group. I promise.”

The older male reaches across the table and places a reassuring hand on the idol's shoulder. “I know,” his manager says firmly. “And I’ll make sure they know too. Just focus on tomorrow’s concert, okay? Stay out of trouble, keep doing what you’re doing. I’ll let you know when they make a decision.”

When Manager Jung leaves, the laptop in front of him still glows with the first slide of Heeseung's presentation. His stare lingers on it for far too long before closing the screen. 

Heeseung exhausted all his energy on demos and concept ideas, spending sleepless nights convincing himself he was good enough to be called an artist instead of just an idol. He had hoped for something more concrete from Manager Jung. Some kind of yes, or at least a maybe. But "I'll let you know" never really means anytime soon in this industry.

–

It’s absolutely miserable in the pit of the concert. The people behind you are using your shoulder as a tripod. Their massive Canon lenses that they managed to sneak in are resting against you. Though you want to whip your head around and tell them off, you also don’t want to get mobbed by a bunch of rabid fans.

Your sister spends the whole setlist admiring only Heeseung, ignoring a high-five from Jake when he passed by your section. Though you secretly judge her, you still let yourself enjoy the free ticket. Before you know it, the whole arena is sobbing as the ENHYPEN members share their closing remarks. 

All you can think about is traffic. And whether your sister would be open to getting takeout after. You haven't eaten for hours...

Heeseung clears his throat into the mic. He’s wearing a simple white graphic tee and hoodie, dark shades hiding his eyes. Beads of sweat glisten on his forehead under the stage lights. Damn it. He does look good.

“I really love the stage,” Heeseung says softly. “I’m so happy to receive everyone’s love and support. I hope we can continue to be with you, ENGENEs, for the rest of our lives.”

The audience roars in agreement. He stands there, trying his best to take it all in. But his mind keeps going back to the tracks sitting unfinished on his computer. The ideas that might never make it past the studio. God, he wants it to work out so bad.

–

“Are you insane?!” you hiss, nearly tripping over nothing as your sister drags you down a dark path behind the arena. The sewer nearby emanates a foul stench. “The concert ended like half an hour ago!”

She rolls her eyes like you’re the overdramatic one. “They do a send-off, idiot. I need to find a way in before they leave.”

You stare at her with bulging eyes. You're almost tempted to call your parents. Or the police. Anyone who could talk some sense into her. “Why can’t you be like the other weirdos and just wait by their vans?”

She lets go of you to march toward a set of double doors barely lit by one overhead bulb. You swear a rat just ran across your peripheral vision.

“This is ridiculous,” you huff, arms folding tight across your chest. “Please. Can we just go home?!”

Sophia stops, turns to you, and dangles her car keys in front of your face. “Unless you want to take a bus or walk all the way back, I suggest you keep watch.”

She doesn't spare you a glance, testing the door handle. It creaks open. "You can't be serious…"

“I’ll text you when it’s over,” she squeals in delight. “Call me if security shows up.”

“Sophia—”

But the door slams shut before you can grab her. She’s gone, and you don't follow her in. Your conscience won’t let you. You glance around, senses heightened when you glance at a few shifting shadows in the corner of your eye. Your phone screen glares back at you. Low battery. Great.

So, with a resigned sigh, you slump down on the cold concrete just outside the metal door, hugging yourself as you sit beneath the buzz of the overhead light.

–

“Send-off is in two minutes,” the tour coordinator calls out. “Please make sure you’ve grabbed all your stuff. We’ll be heading straight to the vans right after.”

The boys nod. Heeseung checks his bag. Lip balm, cologne, portable charger… All there. He zips it closed and hands it off to a staff member, who disappears down the hall and towards the vans.

Through the barricade ahead, he can already see the crowd of ENGENEs gathering with signs and phones raised. He smiles instinctively. Because no matter how tired you are after a concert, you can’t show it. These fans have to think you’re invincible.

As he steps out and begins making his way down the crowd, he stops to sign a few photocards and pose for selfies. He’s good at this. Always warm. Always approachable. Flirty. The version of himself they all want to see. But halfway through, a sinking feeling tugs at his subconscious. Like he’s forgotten something. Something important.

“Heeseung! What’s your favorite photo on your camera roll?” a fan calls out, holding up a phone to record him eagerly. He blinks, caught off guard. He saved a funny meme earlier. A photo of a dog he sent to the group chat. He reaches for his back pocket. Nothing. Front pocket. Still nothing. 

And then it hits him. 

He tells the boys after he’s interacted with as many fans as he could that he left his phone behind. “Make it quick,” a staff member tells him in passing. “We’ll send a different car to get you by the back entrance.”

He nods, sprinting back through the glass doors. Relief washes over him when he finds his phone exactly where he remembers leaving it. On a table in the changing room. 

Heeseung spots the green EXIT sign shortly after, pushing the heavy door open. It doesn’t budge. He frowns, pushing again. Harder this time. BANG.

“OW—”

Heeseung freezes. What was that?

He steps out into the humid summer night and jumps at the sight of a shadowy figure on the ground, groaning. Rushing forward, he kneels beside the figure. You look like a fan. A fan, he just slammed a door into. Heeseung's brain short-circuits when he sees a smear of red. Blood. On your forehead. “Oh my god,” he says under his breath. “D-did I just hit you?”

“No,” you snap, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m sure my head just hit the door all by itself—”

His pulse quickens and his career flashes before his eyes. Manager Jung’s words resound in his head. Stay out of trouble. “Not good,” Heeseung mumbles. “No, no, no. This can’t be happening." He stands up, pacing back and forth like a maniac. 

“Chivalry is dead,” you mutter, sitting up on your palms without his assistance. The nerve to not even apologize! What a dick.

You squint up at him, your vision starting to clear under the flickering light. Blondish hair. Hoodie. Shades pushed down enough to catch a glimpse of big doe eyes. Familiar. But not actually.

“Heeseung?” you say slowly. His name barely leaves your lips until he’s shushing you, holding his hands up in a prayer position, and looking around with a horrified expression.

“Please,” he begs. “You can come to our fansign next week if you don’t scream my name-”

You scoff. “I don’t want your autograph, you freak,” you reply harshly. 

Heeseung realizes then how badly his words came out. Like he was offering hush money. He scans you, guilt twisting his stomach. But what were you even doing here in the first place? Were you a stalker? He shakes his head. There's no time to think about it now because your bleeding hasn’t stopped, and your eyes start to glaze over. He leans back down in a panic.

“Do you want me to take you to the hospital?” he asks hurriedly, as the headlights of a black van make their way towards you two. He points at the car. “We can take you. Just please don’t tell anyone—”

“Screw you,” you mumble through your lightheadedness. “Sophia… I need to see Sophia…”

“Who’s Sophia?” he asks, crouching to grab your wrists. He urges you to keep talking, just in case you lose consciousness. "Do you hear me?"

“My sister,” you groan, tsking at his impatience. He helps you stand, your weight falling against his chest. 

Heeseung sees you better now, up close and under the dim light. You’re pretty. Like, really pretty. ‘Definitely not the time,’ he scolds himself.

“What happened?” the driver asks through a rolled-down window. “Should I call an ambulance?”

“No,” Heeseung says quickly. “There might be cameras. Let’s go to the hospital.”

The driver hesitates, then nods. Together, they get you into the passenger seat. Heeseung shuts the door behind you, exhaling sharply. This van was a backup, meant to carry all of the boys' stage outfits. There’s barely room for one person to sit, let alone two. He tries his best to squeeze in beside you, but his shoulder presses against yours all the same.

“Who is this?” the driver asks hesitantly. Heeseung doesn’t know how to respond. Because really, he doesn’t know either.

“Um…” he starts, shifting his gaze to you. “What’s your name?”

You click your tongue, saying it sharply.

“Nice to meet you,” he laughs nervously. “Please don’t hate me.”

You glare at him, unable to even find the energy to roll your eyes. Nausea floods your senses. “Too late,” you mumble, slowly drifting off. 

“Hey, no!” Heeseung snaps his fingers in front of you and gulps. “Stay awake.”

He’s done for. Absolutely done for. He's going to be all over X tomorrow. His solo album will be trashed with all the other songs he’s submitted in the past. Fuck. He heaves out a deep breath and leans in close to you, your eyes suddenly shooting wide open.

“Get away, you creep!” you manage, pushing weakly at his chest.

“Relax! I’m just...” His voice drifts off, giving up any semblance of a productive conversation. When he reaches past you carefully, you tense as you breathe in his scent. A mix of sweat and citrus. “Just let me put your seat belt on for you.”

–

“It’s not a concussion,” the doctor says calmly. “Just a surface-level injury. She should be fine.”

Manager Jung nods. He arrived minutes after Heeseung called and despite being flustered, he immediately secured a more private examination room before anyone could recognize him. 

Heeseung hasn't left your side. He can't. He feels too guilty to leave you alone, with the left side of your forehead all bandaged because of him. The rest of the boys were covering for his absence at their post-concert staff celebration back at the company. He didn’t even know if he could show his face to all of them right now.

“That’s... good to hear,” Heeseung says with a smile, immediately faltering as he meets your sharp gaze. 

“Then why do I feel like throwing up?” you ask dryly.

“You mentioned you were in the front row of the concert, right? Probably fatigue or dehydration.”

Your face warms. You did say that. But only when Heeseung was in the bathroom and far, far away from you. You sneak a glance at him now, and sure enough, you catch the faint twitch of a smirk on his lips. Great. Now you look overdramatic. 

“Can I go?” you mutter, not bothering to hide the impatience in your voice. 

“Yes,” the doctor replies kindly. “But please make sure to monitor your symptoms. If you feel any loss of consciousness within the next few days, please come back immediately.”

Heeseung’s manager follows her outside to finish some paperwork, and the two of you are left in an awkward silence. While you text your sister, Heeseung watches you like a hawk with his shades pushed up into his hair. The moment he sees you open a social media page is the moment he’d step in.

Apparently, Sophia was caught trying to sneak into the send-off. She didn’t even get to see the boys. As you’re about to send her the hospital’s address, Heeseung clears his throat.

“I’m so sorry,” he finally lets out, soft like how he spoke during the concert. Perfectly media trained. “I really didn’t mean to—”

“Save it,” you sigh, still in a bad mood. You can tell when someone puts on a customer service voice from a mile away. “I’m not gonna say anything if that’s what you’re worried about.”

His ears flush pink. Because, yeah. That is what he’s worried about. To him, staying with you was basic common decency. But still, he knows how it could look. The internet dissects everything. One photo, one rumor, and suddenly he’s being accused of favoritism. Or worse. Dating a fan.

Still, he studies you. You don’t seem like you were trying to ambush him. You don't seem like a fan at all. You’re too irritated with his presence, like he disrupted you rather than the other way around. Isn’t it usually a stalker’s plan to run into their favorite celebrity? But, he guesses it’s best not to ask questions.

“We kind of need that in writing, actually,” he mumbles shyly. “My manager… he brought the paperwork. We can compensate you for all this.”

“Wow,” you drag sarcastically. “Lucky me!”

Right on cue, a knock comes from the other side of the door. “Heeseung,” Manager Jung's voice comes out muffled. “Have her sign the form, and let’s head out soon. Wear your mask when you leave.”

You turn your gaze to him, who’s looking at you sheepishly. He’s holding out a folded packet of paper with a pen clipped to the front. You tug it from his hands, signing your initials and name on whatever is highlighted in yellow. Like you were even in the right state of mind to fill out this damn NDA. 

Could you sue them for this? Probably. But you’re too tired to care and the money they offered was enough for you to take without complaint. You just want to go back home. 

“So...” he starts cautiously, breaking the silence as you reach the last page. “You’re an ENGENE?”

“No,” you reply flatly, hoping to tick him off. “I probably never will be now.”

He raises a brow, skeptical. “You’re not? Then what were you doing, front row, at our concert?”

You scoff. “Being forced against my will to listen to grown men sing about being vampires,” you state with disdain.

“Funny ‘cause I swear I heard you screaming my name at the barricade—” Heeseung’s bluffing. He has to be. He couldn’t have heard your moment of weakness during that one part of his in Teeth… could he?

“Shut up,” you grumble, cheeks heating up in embarrassment. He tries to hide his smirk. Because he didn’t see you. Not at all. Just wanted to tease you, but he doesn't quite know why. Really, Heeseung should be exhausted by now, his body aching from hours of performing on stage. But instead of resting, he’s here. With a girl who clearly wants nothing to do with him. He’s glad you don’t.

“You’re lucky I signed this thing,” you say, flipping the packet back to its first page. 

“The offer still stands, you know?” he says lightly. “You can come to our fansign event.” Before you can think of a clever comeback, his phone buzzes.

“Shit.” Heeseung scans the screen, jaw tightening.

“What?” you ask, cautiously. 

“Fans are swarming the waiting room,” he mutters. “Someone must’ve seen the van.”

“Don’t you have bodyguards to escort you out?”

“We didn’t bring security,” he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thought that would be more lowkey…” Apparently not.

Your eyes dart to Heeseung's face, watching him carefully. You wonder if he's always looked like this or if stage lights and video editing were just that good at masking the dark circles underneath his eyes. He looks tired, defeated even. Like he’s used to this. He scrolls through X, searching for his name. And there it is:

enhaluvbot: heeseung went to the hospital straight after the concert i hope he's ok ;_;

No mention of you. No photos. Nothing that could jeopardize his career. His solo. For now. That’s all that matters. Your phone buzzes next. You glance at the message, eye already twitching.

big sis: heeseung’s in the hospital. i’m staking out to see him. just take a taxi home so i can make sure he’s ok :<

You stare at the screen, mouth open in disbelief. Did she not care if you, her younger sister, were okay? You don’t have your wallet. Your phone’s battery is almost drained. And now your ride home is outside the hospital, probably crouching behind a trash can for a glimpse of the same guy standing in front of you. Fuck this.

“I’m leaving,” Heeseung says suddenly, zipping up his hoodie. “Is your sister on her way?”

“Oh, she’s here,” you say solemnly. “Just... not for me.” 

He gives you a confused look. You don’t elaborate.

“This is really dumb of me to ask,” you start, your voice quieter now. The most docile you’ve been with him since you met just two hours prior. He leans in slightly to hear you better. 

“Would it be weird if I asked whether you could help get me a taxi?”

Heeseung scratches his head. Any company executive would be screaming at him to say no. That any proof of him being with you tonight was a paper trail he could not erase. But he looks at you, bandaged and exhausted. He swallows hard. What kind of person would he be to leave you here to fend for yourself? He’s the reason you’re even here in the first place.

He lets out a deep breath, slipping his mask on and bringing his shades down to rest on his nose. He’ll break the rules just this once. 

“Let’s just ride together.”

–

The two of you slip out of the hospital through the back. A taxi, called with specific instructions from Heeseung, waits near the side entrance. 

“Please drop her off first,” Heeseung tells him, settling into the back seat with the middle unoccupied between you two. “Then take me to this address.”

Back to the company, to the post-concert celebration he’s already late for. 

The driver squints at you both from the rearview mirror. Heeseung’s face is hidden behind his mask and shades in the dead of night. The left side of your forehead is wrapped in a bandage that’s bled through just a little. 

“Wow, HYBE! Are you an idol, sir?”

You snort before you can stop yourself, and Heeseung shoots you a tiny glare. A stupid idea pops into your head, the opportunity too good to pass up.

“No,” you sigh dramatically. “Please don’t misunderstand! He’s actually really ugly under the mask. Could never be an idol. He just dresses like this for fun.” 

Heeseung turns his head so fast you can hear the sharp rustle of his hoodie. You try to bite back a grin.

“We’re just visiting the company,” you continue with an exaggeratedly sweet tone. “You know BTS? He LOVES them.”

Heeseung covers his mouth to hide the reddening of his cheeks, like his mask isn't already doing that for him. The taxi driver just nods awkwardly, not sure if it made sense for a fan to come to an entertainment company at this time of night. He’d be surprised, Heeseung thinks.

“And you, ma’am? Why are you bleeding?”

“I—”

“She fell,” he cuts in before you even have the chance to speak, exacting his revenge. “In front of hundreds of people. Everyone was pointing and laughing. It was really embarrassing, sir. You should’ve seen her!”

Now it’s your turn to glare at him. The driver chuckles, looking between you two.

“He thinks Jungkook is his best friend, sir,” you say again, eyes locked on Heeseung’s. “Has posters of him all over his room—”

“She tripped trying to steal candy from a kid,” Heeseung shoots back. “But the kid had a black belt in judo and pinned her down. He's six years old, by the way.” The two of you fire extravagant lies, one after the other. By then, the taxi driver had already tuned your voices out.

“Young love is nice, isn’t it?” he sighs, continuing to drive. “I remember when my wife and I started dating—”

Heeseung waves his hands frantically. “Oh, we’re not—”

“With him? As if—”

But both your protests fall on deaf ears. The driver’s phone rings, and he’s already talking to someone else. You slump back in your seat, upset that you weren’t able to correct him in time. Heeseung glances at your sulking figure and smiles behind his disguise.

It’s unsettling, but weirdly comforting, how you are with him. Like all pretenses were thrown out the window. You can't help but think the same. Never in your life did you expect a celebrity to be as petty as you.

“I’m so sorry, you two,” the driver says abruptly, snapping you both out of your thoughts. “I forgot to pick up my daughter from her friend’s place, so I need to head back immediately. Can I drop you both off at your address, sir? It’s closer.”

Heeseung blinks. “But she needs to get home. She’s injured.”

The driver shrugs his shoulders, flustered. “I’m sorry, but she’s waiting on me. There are other taxis in that area you can wave down.”

“Okay,” Heeseung says slowly, then turns to you. “Will you be okay?”

You just hold up your phone, dead and useless in your hand, as a reminder to him why you even rode together in the first place. You feel pathetic once more with what you’re about to request.

“Do you think I could borrow a charger?” you ask, cringing slightly. “Just for a little, so I can let my family know I’m on the way home.”

He smirks. “Borrow? Like we’re going to see each other again?”

You glare. “I’m literally bleeding,” you say, pointing at your forehead. The one he slammed into a door. Valid point, but there’s nothing he could do now.

“My bag isn’t with me.”

You both sigh, gazing up at the front of the HYBE building as it comes into view. Neither of you makes a move. Heeseung scratches his head and relents. So much for staying out of trouble.

“...Do you want to come up with me?” he asks softly, making sure the driver doesn’t hear. “You can charge your phone in one of the recording studios.”

–

The taxi drops you both off a block away from the company. Heeseung spots a few girls ahead, their eyes scanning every figure that walks into the building from the front entrance. He doesn’t recognize them. Not any of the usual fans that stalk ENHYPEN.

Still, he pulls his hood lower and moves fast. You follow close behind, head down. You two maneuver past them and slip through the side entrance of the dark building. Inside, sleek wooden panels and stone floors greet you. You manage to hide just behind Heeseung to be let in, bypassing the facial recognition software the whole place seems to have.

“This is insane,” you mutter, in awe of how futuristic it all is. Heeseung doesn’t say anything, just keeps walking like it’s normal. 

For him, it most likely is. Stopping in front of a door, he glances both ways down the hall before opening it. The inside of the room is almost enveloped in pitch darkness, save for a floor lamp in the corner. You enter behind him, the control panel full of blinking LEDs and buttons that look too complicated to touch. The recording booth was on the other side of a glass window. 

Heeseung practically lived in this room for the better part of the year, recording new melodies for ENHYPEN’s music. And sometimes, he’d be in here at the dead of night to test new sounds he wanted to try in his own self-produced tracks.

“I’ll grab you a charger,” he says, then hesitates. “Can I trust you to head out after you’re done?”

You shrug. “No promises,” you say, admiring the couch by the door. Velvet. You take a seat, making yourself comfortable. “I might have to record something before I go.”

He scoffs. “Just leave through the exit we came from. If you see anyone holding a camera, hide.”

Heeseung takes off his mask and sunglasses, examining them a little bit, before handing them to you. “Use these. Just in case.”

You take the items that smell faintly of his cologne and bite the inside of your cheek. Isn't this weirdly intimate?

“You really have to think about this kind of thing all the time?” you ask, cutting through the silence.

Heeseung doesn’t respond right away. His lower back leans lightly against the couch's armrest, eyes on the floor. He's heard this too many times before. It’s not like he doesn’t know how ridiculous he sounded. How he has to constantly hide wherever he goes and whoever he’s with. 

He shakes his head. “Not always. Most days, we don’t get bothered. We aren't at that level of popularity. Maybe at the airport. But that’s just what being an idol is about.”

Still. You think about how different his life is from yours. From the fancy ass buildings to the stalkers-in-waiting. It must be exhausting, having to keep up appearances. 

“This shouldn’t be normal for anyone,” you whisper, surprisingly tender. You look at him and guilt riddles you. Your sister and her far-from-normal tendencies led you here in front of him… and she's part of the problem.

“No one should have to spend every moment of their life looking over their shoulder,” you continue. “Not even assholes like you.”

He laughs softly. You really lack a filter. “I love my job too much to worry about a few bad fans," he reasons. "If I weren’t doing this..."

Heeseung's voice drifts off, but his eyes find yours. "I’d be nothing.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Because somehow, the saddest thing you’ve ever heard is said with the happiest smile on his face. You don’t doubt that he was born for the idol life. It seemed like it on stage and even more so here. The way he shrugs off things that would break most people. Good for him, you think to yourself sadly. He has something you wish you had. Purpose.

“And you?” Heeseung asks suddenly. “Who are you?”

You never felt small throughout the few hours you’ve spent with him, but the question knocks the wind out of you a little. Because you don’t have an answer. “None of your business,” you say begrudgingly.

“Yeah,” he scoffs. “Just a stalker.”

“Don't call me that,” you interrupt, biting the inside of your cheek. “I’m not even a fan.”

“You’re not? Really?” He laughs almost out of disbelief. “We’re already past the point of lying, you can just—”

“I don’t like you,” you interrupt him plainly. “If my stupid sister didn’t drag me to your concert, I wouldn’t have even bothered to come watch a bunch of fuckboys sing shitty music they don’t even produce themselves…”

But your voice drifts off. Because you see how Heeseung's gaze intensifies, his brows furrowing in disappointment. He’s heard it all before. From people online, from accounts with no profile pictures pretending like they know exactly what kind of person he is. Standoffish. Cocky. Flirtatious. Disingenuous. That's all they say about him. And so do you.

“You don’t even know me,” he says, voice low.

“You’re right. But I’ve seen enough.”

Designer clothes. Girls groveling at his feet. Performances all over the world. His life is wonderful. There’s hordes of fans that support him every day, who would love him at his highest and lowest points in his life. He works in an industry that probably pays him more than you'll ever see in your lifetime. He’s set for life. 

Your back straightens from your seat on the couch as Heeseung walks toward you.

“I think you’d think differently of me if you actually tried to get to know me.”

“I don’t want to.”

He gives you a look. “What use do you get out of acting so hostile with me?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Nothing, really. “I just don’t see what’s so good about you,” you mumble. It’s meant to be a joke, a slight dig at him. But still, he flinches.

Memories of his trainee days, of nights spent wondering if he should have just gone to college or do his military service early like his other friends, wash over him.  “Trust me,” he replies, throat dry. “I don’t either.”

And you wonder if you went too far. You typically do. You lower your gaze. “Sorry. Didn’t mean—”

He cuts you off. “Can’t we just start over from when I asked you who you were?” he sighs.

You look up at him and raise a brow. “Why does my opinion matter to you anyway?” you ask, genuinely. “I’m a nobody—”

“Well I want to get to know this nobody before I hand her my charger,” he cuts in.

You hesitate. He did do more for you tonight than Sophia did, at least. Maybe you owe him an honest and civil response. “...I'm still figuring it out.”

A silence falls between you two as Heeseung takes a seat next to you. He doesn’t quite look at you. "How come?"

You shrug. “Just graduated from university. Don’t have a full-time job yet. I was working at a restaurant for a while, but the pay was horrible. My sister’s a mess, my parents are up my ass.” You swallow back a bitter laugh. “Never really had the time for self-reflection.”

He watches you quietly, and you take it as permission to keep going. “I guess you can call me a coward,” you admit, voice low. “Felt like I missed my chance to do something great with my life. And now I feel like everyone else has already started their lives, and I’m…”

You don’t know why you’re saying all this. Maybe because he asked. Maybe because it’s the first time someone actually took the time to care. And maybe because he’s a stranger you’ll likely never see again.

It’s a bit embarrassing, though. Because you know the kind of person you’re speaking with. An idol. Someone who actually pursued their dreams. He wouldn’t get it. “So yeah,” you sigh. “Still figuring it out.”

He chuckles, and you almost give him a glare. But there’s a tenderness to his gaze that you can't quite place. 

“Aren’t we all?” Heeseung replies, finally looking at you. He was never very good at comforting others, but it's genuine. Because Heeseung understands you, more than he’d like to admit.

Because he doesn’t know when he ends and the idol version of him begins. As the oldest, Heeseung is supposed to be the dependable one. The mediator. The most experienced. So many responsibilities but so little time to remind himself why he even chose to be an idol. He only remembers when he’s on stage. 

You glance down at the mask and shades in your hand. Silence overtakes you both once again, and you fake a small cough. 

“How much do you think I can sell this online?” you ask, noticing that the sunglasses he's given you have a silver Prada logo on the side. He huffs out a quiet laugh and with a slight pause, he stands up from where he sat.

“I’ll be back,” he says. “I’ll get you a charger... and some food. Since you’re fatigued and everything.”

Your mouth parts slightly in shock. “You don’t have to.”

He smiles. “But I want to.”

You look up at him. He's handsome, really, even out of the stage lights.

–

Heeseung’s been stuck at the celebration longer than he intended, in his fifth round of empty small talk with some staff members. Every laugh, every congratulatory pat feels robotic because his mind keeps drifting back to the small recording studio three floors down. Back to you.

“You tired?” Jungwon asks, hand resting on his older member’s shoulder.

Heeseung nods, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Long day.”

An understatement. Jungwon only knew the surface of what happened after the concert. He doesn't know about your presence in this very building at this very moment. Fuck. He needs to get back to you. “I’m just going to head to the restroom for a bit,” Heeseung mutters, coughing into his fist. 

At the catering table, he grabs a couple of pastries. He stacks them neatly on a plate like a man starved. Then he slips toward the door, glancing over his shoulder. Behind him, he doesn't hear Jungwon mutter to Sunoo. “Why is he bringing all that to the restroom?”

Heeseung takes the stairs two at a time. By the time he reaches the recording studio, he’s half-expecting it to be empty. It isn’t. You’re still there. Slumped over the couch, head buried in your elbow on the armrest. Asleep. Or unconscious. For a moment, he panics. Should he be concerned? His hand hovers uncertainly before he shakes your shoulder gently. “Hey...”

You groan, shifting slightly in your sleep. Heeseung sighs in relief. 'Good,' he thinks to himself, 'you’re not dead.'

He sets the plate down on the table and plugs in your phone with the charger he retrieved. “So much for just charging your phone,” he says under his breath, more to himself than you.

He takes a seat on the rolling chair and spins around to look at you. Heeseung smiles, but stops himself. He wonders if any of this is okay. Being in this room with you. He shakes his head. Who is he kidding? None of this would ever be. Making up lies to a taxi driver, opening up to a complete stranger. But why did he find this kind of fun? Hanging out with you.

Every interaction of his is examined and scrutinized. No matter if he was talking in front of the camera, to fans, or even to other idols. But with you, it's almost easy. To be himself. You treat him like a person. A regular person. He misses that more than he realized. He used to be like everybody else. Used to pull all-nighters for high school exams, which he would still ultimately fail. Used to take on part-time jobs so he could afford the newest console games. 

The mundanity of his old life... sometimes he wishes for it back.He shakes his head again, trying to push the thoughts away. He unlocks his phone and types a quick message to Jungwon. ‘Leave before me. Don’t wait up.’

Then he puts it face down on the table. Heeseung sits there, admiring the steady rise and fall of your breathing. He reaches a hesitant hand out and tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Your eyelashes flutter just a little. You are really pretty.

His mind screams at him to leave, to go back upstairs, and return to the familiarity of the staff that made this lifestyle possible. But Heeseung tells himself he’ll wait with you here until you wake up. He did injure you after all.

So he spins back around, types his password into the computer, and opens up a music file he’d been working on for the past three months. He doesn’t bother to put on a headset, just plays the track from start to finish. He’d get in so much trouble right now, playing this in front of you. But it’s okay, right? Anyway, you’re asleep—

“It sounds good,” you mutter groggily behind him. He whips the chair around back to you. Shit.

“S-sorry,” he stutters, pausing the track. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Keep playing,” you sigh into your arms. “I like it.” A flood of warmth coats Heeseung’s chest. You like it. He smiles, pressing play again, letting the song’s softness permeate the foam-padded walls. 

–

You sit up too fast when you wake up, your hand flying to the back of your neck as the stiffness settles in. Heeseung is slumped in his own chair. You almost scream, forgetting where you were. 

There’s a plate of food on the desk, most likely stale by now. Your heart skips a beat. He actually got you that? 

You double-tap the screen of your phone and see forty missed calls from your parents and Sophia. But what’s worse is the time. 8 a.m. You shoot up, grabbing your things, practically ripping the charger from the wall socket. Voices echo faintly from outside the room as panic surges through you. Staff are already at work. Were you seriously here all night?

Heeseung stirs. His eyes blink open, still heavy with sleep, until he sees your mortified face. He sits up. 

“I’m fucked,” you say under your breath, flashing him your screen. He leans forward, taking the phone in his hand to see it better. You try not to acknowledge how his fingers brush yours.

“No,” he gulps. “I’m fucked.” He slouches back into his chair. 

“How do I get out of here?” you say in a hushed tone as if the people outside would hear you through the soundproof walls.

Heeseung rubs his face. “Just walk out. No one’s going to notice. A lot of people work here.” He hesitates. “Me, on the other hand—”

His phone buzzes before he can finish. He picks up the call, interrupting his monologue of despair, knowing his members would interrogate him when he's back at the dorm. Heeseung's tone shifts instantly. “Hello, sir,” he chirps, suddenly more alert. He's sitting straighter, voice a little higher, and tone more formal. Your eyes narrow.

“I’m glad you enjoyed the tracks,” he says excitedly. But his expression falls a little as he listens intently to the other person speak on the other line. “Of course, sir. We can change it if you don’t like it. I was wondering if we can keep that—Oh, no, it’s okay... We can get rid of that too if you want—”

He’s so eager to agree, didn’t even hesitate. You don’t know the full context, but you recognize the tone well. The sounds of someone desperate for approval. When he hangs up, his expression is tight. Not at all like the guy from last night with his quiet laughter and teasing remarks. When Heeseung meets your gaze, he knows the look you give him. Like he’s a lost puppy.

“Our creative director. He's being an asshole about some changes I made to the lyrics—” he clarifies, but he stops himself. Because why does he need to explain himself to you?

“It’s okay,” you say softly, noticing his furrowed brows. “I get it.”

You swallow hard. “But you don’t have to always accept what people tell you,” you continue. “It’s okay to say no.”

And his eyes waver. No one’s ever really told him that before. Heeseung’s whole life, his whole career, was about obedience. It’s been drilled into him. Keep your head down. Respect your elders. Take feedback silently. Don't ever be selfish. He heard it constantly as a trainee. In I-Land. At the start of his debut. And here you are, a complete stranger, telling him he could stand up for himself.

“Thank you,” he says with a sad smile. He tries not to read into the way your eyes ignite something in his chest. That subtle pull he feels toward you. It's a feeling he's used to pushing down. You adjust your clothes to be more presentable, moving towards the door.

“It was nice meeting you.” You pause, not sure what else to say. “You’re a lot nicer than I thought you’d be.”

Because he seemed so quiet in the shows you’ve watched him in. Too flirtatious with fans. Too passionate on stage. You painted a negative picture of him in your head because your sister was so in love with him. She tended to have bad taste in men. 

He smiles back, just a little. “On the other hand, you’re very mean—”

You sneer. “Want me to take it back?”

“I’m kidding,” he laughs. “Thank you too. For being a good person.”

Because it could have all gone wrong today. You could have taken advantage of the situation. Could have had him trending on all social media platforms that same night. You could have ruined his life. But you didn’t.

You both reach for the door at the same time. His hand lands on top of yours as it clicks open. His face is close. Heeseung’s deep brown eyes look into yours with a softness that makes your palms sweat.

“See you around,” you say, as low as a whisper. Not really knowing if you will, but it feels right to say. Heeseung doesn’t say anything back. He can’t. Your hand underneath his… he wishes it could stay there forever.

But no matter how much he wishes you’d stay in his head, to be in this moment with him, he can’t say what he really wants to. And so, you walk away.

–

You try your best to adjust to the regular schedule programming of your life, focusing on job applications you have yet to hear back from. Anything to distract yourself from the fleeting presence of Lee Heeseung in your otherwise uneventful life.

It's annoying, trying not to think about him when your sister continues to shove ENHYPEN content down your throat. But your brain keeps going back to a few days ago, how his voice was so much softer when it wasn't echoing through an arena.

Even after she ditched you after the concert, your silent treatment toward Sophia barely lasted a day. She bribed you back with takeout and coffee, flashing that credit card of hers so easily in your line of vision. So now she’s back to replaying the Bad Desire music video in your living room.

It’s like you can’t escape him. Heeseung’s face is everywhere. On news sites, store ads, even the email sitting in your inbox: BELIFT LAB: Confidentiality Agreement and at the top of your bank account deposits.

But somehow, Heeseung's ever-looming presence doesn’t stir the same resentment you thought it would. It used to all feel fake. His smile, his charm, his confidence. But his laugh sounds the same as when you met him. His willingness to look after you, to stay with you, seemed to match the caring personality on the vlogs Sophia forced upon you. 

You almost wish it didn’t feel so familiar. Every time you see him, some part of you slips back to the recording studio, to the version of him who saw through your guarded facade. 

Sophia still doesn’t know what really happened after the concert. You never really told her. Partly because of the NDA, mostly because she has a few screws loose when it comes to Heeseung. To your family, it was simple: you slipped, hit your head, and spent the night in the hospital. Your parents didn’t ask for details. As long as they didn’t have to pay for anything.

"WHAT?!" she exclaims from the couch. You ignore her.

“There’s a cup sleeve event for ENHYPEN happening right now,” she cries, smacking a hand on your shoulder. “And Heeseung just showed up. He never comes to these things!” 

You flinch. “Did you not see the weather advisory?” you reply, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickened when you heard his name. “There’s gonna be a huge storm later-”

She scoffs. “When has that ever stopped me?”

–

Sophia always has her ways of dragging you out of the house. Then again, promising a free dinner to an unemployed person always seems to work. And that’s how you find yourself standing in a line, sweating under the sweltering heat of the sun with a crowd of ENGENEs walking past you two. They’re holding iced Americanos adorned with the boys’ faces on the cup sleeves. You tap your foot impatiently, wiping beads of sweat from your forehead.

This better be the best coffee you’ve ever had. Your sister holds out her handheld fan as it slows to a stop. It was the only reprieve you two had in this unforgivingly humid summer. 

“Shit,” your sister cries, shaking it like that’ll help. “Can you buy a battery? I think my fan just died.” You rejoice, willing to do anything to get out of the line and escape the mugginess.

After a block, you spot a convenience store. Cool air greets you the second you walk in, and you almost moan in relief. The cashier barely looks up when you ask where the batteries are, just points toward a shelf near the counter for eating. 

Someone sits there, hood up, mask pulled down, slurping ramen like he was in the comfort of his own home. And though his face is obscured, there's something about his posture. 

“Heeseung?” you say in a low whisper, battery pack in one hand and fan in the other. The person puts up his mask sloppily and whips his head around. His eyes open wide, and you’re even more sure of it now. It really is him.

“It's you.” His voice is muffled, but his eyes say it all. Like he was greeting an old friend. Hesitantly, you take the seat beside him. “How’d you know I was here?” he asks with a raised brow. 

You rest your chin on your hand, basking in the cool air of the store. “You think I keep up with you like that?”

Heeseung holds a doubtful glint in his eyes. “So you just happened to run into me for the second time this week?”

You roll your eyes. “Then why don’t you report me?” you bite back. “Since you seem so concerned.”

Heeseung purses his lips. You’re probably right. Once was a coincidence. But twice? He looks at you a bit more thoughtfully. No. He believes you. “And you're at this specific convenience store because…?”

“Sophia,” you answer, like that explains anything. “She dragged me to your fans’ event thingy.”

That’s when you notice the Americano beside his instant ramen bowl. With a cup sleeve of himself. You pick it up, grinning. “Really? Narcissistic much?” you chuckle as you point at his face. 

He lowers his mask just enough for you to catch the faint smirk underneath. “Was I supposed to ask for another member's?” 

Without thinking, you slip the cup sleeve into your purse. “Wha—”

“For my sister,” you say quickly, interrupting him from his protests. “So she doesn’t get upset later if she gets someone other than you.”

“Sophia… is your sister,” Heeseung starts slowly, like the gears are turning in his head as he speaks. How harshly you speak to him. How little you knew about him. And now he feels embarrassed. “And she’s a fan? Of me?”

You snort. “No, she’s your wife.” He blinks, and you almost try not to laugh at how genuinely alarmed he looks.

“I’m joking,” you laugh. “She thinks you two are, at least. Recognize her?” You pull up a photo from the concert with the two of you pressed against the barricade. 

“You were actually that close?!” he gawks, taking the phone from your hand. To think, in that same photo, he was probably on the stage performing his heart out. That version of Heeseung would have never imagined what would happen after.

As for your sister... he knows her, alright. You notice immediately how his face sours. Maybe it would be a bad time to reveal that she almost snuck into their sendoff…

“Sorry,” you say quickly. “If Sophia’s ever made you feel uncomfortable. She just gets obsessed really easily—”

“No, it’s okay,” he sighs, handing the phone back to you. He takes another slurp of his ramen before bringing the bowl to his lips to swallow the broth down. Heeseung looks at you with an unexpected solemnness. 

The few interactions he’s had with your sister were a bit awkward in his memory. She would ask him about his ideal type, what kind of dates he would go on if he had a girlfriend. Questions he had preplanned answers to. “Like I said before," he says, recalling a memory. "I’m used to it.”

You wonder how often he tells himself this just so he can convince himself that it’s fine. Before you can think of anything to say, the door chimes behind you. Heeseung pushes his mask back up when he notices two teenagers walk in with ENHYPEN merch.

“Ugh,” one of them cries. “Someone said they saw Heeseung earlier. I wonder if he’s nearby.”

“Let’s check online,” the other one offers. “I think people saw him near this area…”

You don’t even need to say anything, Heeseung’s already standing. But instead of bolting like you expect him to, his hands find your wrist. Warm and firm against as it wraps around your skin. Before you can even react, you’re running with him out the door. The two girls look up, but it’s too late. The only proof of your existence in that convenience store was the ramen bowl and plastic cup that Heeseung left behind.

–

You’re breathless as he pulls you into alleyway after alleyway, eventually reaching one that opens up into a quieter street. An empty neighborhood that feels out of place in a city like Seoul.

“Why are we still running?!” you manage between gasps, trying to pull your arm out of his grip. “And why are you taking me with you?!”

He stops abruptly, chest rising and falling beneath his hoodie. It’s like Heeseung puts two and two together as he turns around. The way his hand is still around your wrist, how tightly he’s been holding on.

“Sorry,” he coughs. He releases you instantly, shoving both hands into the front pocket of his hoodie. “I panicked.”

“Why do we always end up like this?” you say, fanning your face. How Heeseung was wearing those layers in this weather was a mystery to you.  

“Like what?” he asks with a small smile. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.

“Trying not to be seen by your stupid fans,” you grumble. “I feel like a criminal."

Heeseung shrugs. “Well, you do keep following me around,” he starts teasingly through his mask. “You might actually be.”

You want to hit him so bad, but you hold off the impulse. “If I were you, I don't think I'd ever leave my house,” you shudder, remembering how the girls were scouring for updates on his location. “You need to hire a personal bodyguard.”

He chuckles. “I mean, I usually don't. Just… haven’t had a day off in a while.”

You raise a brow. “So you spent it getting shitty coffee with your face on it and eating ramen you could’ve made at home?”

“Can a man not leave his dorm and support a small business for once?” he jokes, hands in the air like a man under arrest. You manage out a small huff of laughter.

Heeseung's always really kept to himself. Not like he hated being with the boys all the time, but they spent almost all their waking hours together. Sometimes (most times) he likes being alone. There's no one around to impress. No one to disappoint. 

He instinctively looks around in search of cameras, afraid the watchful eyes of fans have found him here with you. When the coast is clear and the paranoia fades, he lets out a breath he didn't even know he was holding in. Heeseung takes a moment to gaze at you for a second, memorizing your features just in case you slip through his fingertips once more. Just a few minutes of your time would be okay, right?

“If you’re free,” Heeseung mutters. “Do you wanna hang out?”

You blink. “Like right now?” He nods.

“I probably shouldn’t,” you say, glancing back toward the direction you came from. “My sister’s waiting for me.”

“The same sister who left you alone to sneak backstage?” he asks with a raised brow.

You narrow your gaze. “I didn’t tell you that...”

“I’m not an idiot,” he replies. “I see her everywhere. Let me guess. Were you keeping watch for her that night? Outside the backstage area? Was she trying to sneak in?”

Your eyes widen. Fuck. Just from his expression alone, he knew he was right. “Are you… gonna press charges?” you ask seriously. “Against her? I already signed the thing, so you can’t do anything against—”

“Relax,” he chuckles. “I won’t…”

His eyes linger on yours and down to your lips. There’s something you can’t explain in the way he looks at you. It makes you want to run far away from him and pull him close at the same time. Though you’d never admit it out loud.

He smirks. “As long as you spend some time with me.”

–

It’s nothing special. You just walk. Talk. Bicker. Keep walking. The streets here are vacant, save for a few chirping birds on telephone poles. The only person you’ve seen so far was an old man dozing off on a plastic stool, newspaper over his lap.

Heeseung asked what you studied in school, listening to your rants about tuition costs and late night shifts. You ask how hard it is to live with six other men, and he sheepishly reveals that he's one of the messier ones in the dorm. He’s shocked when you tell him that your favorite song of theirs is Polaroid Love, so different from your prickly personality. You wince a little when he casually mentions how smelly his feet get after dance practice. You could’ve left by now. Said your goodbyes. But you don’t, and neither does he.

In the humid heat of summer and in this secluded part of the city, drops of precipitation start to descend. It’s almost sudden, how quickly the rain pours down. 

Heeseung takes your hand, and you don't resist like all those other times before, as he guides you toward the nearest awning. He peels off his completely soaked mask, stuffing it into the pocket of his black sweatpants. And he doesn’t let go of your hand right away. It’s only when you give him a questioning look that he releases you, wiping his hand on his pants to distract himself from the pattering in his chest.

“We should’ve brought an umbrella,” he mutters. You chuckle at how unprepared you both are, even when you knew that rain would come.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Now we’re soaked.”

You wonder why Heeseung’s gaze wavers. Why he shifts away from you so suddenly. You don’t notice how translucent your white blouse has become in the rain. How it clings to your curves in a way that makes him feel guilty for even taking a glimpse. He unzips his hoodie wordlessly, quickly wrapping it around your shoulders.

“Why—” And your face heats up, realizing then why he forced it upon you. Your bra was practically visible.

“Thanks,” you mutter begrudgingly, sliding your arms into the sleeves to pull the hoodie’s material closer. It smelled faintly of cigarettes and ramen packet seasoning. You wonder if he smokes.

“You should be more cautious with strangers, you know. What if I just ran off with this?”

He scoffs at you playfully. “Why don’t you want me to trust you so badly?”

Before you can protest, a notification rings for both of you. A flash flood warning in the area.

“Shit,” Heeseung sighs. “We need to find a place to wait this out.”

He shows you his screen, and sure enough, the next four hours were forecasted for heavy rain. This was all Sophia’s fault, you tell yourself. You look around to find any semblance of temporary shelter. A cafe, a restaurant, maybe a convenience store like before. But all the places in this quaint part of the city were boarded up or closed. 

Then your eyes land on it, a place too embarrassing to mention out loud. Because you really, really don't want to go in there. Into a seedy-looking building, out of place and tucked in the corner. Its cream exterior is streaked with years of age and molding. The neon pink sign flickers through the haze of the rain. 

Heeseung notices your gaze, and the same ideas formulate in his mind. His voice comes out awkwardly. “What about over there?”

He points at what is so clearly a love hotel, blushing at his own unintended implications. You shift away slightly, suddenly hyper-aware of him. How your body is wrapped in his fragrance.

“Don't make it weird,” he mumbles, catching the furrow of your brows. “It's only for a few hours.”

You scoff. “I'd rather sit here and swim through the water than—”

Lightning cracks impossibly near you two as the sound of thunder almost shatters your eardrum. The rainfall comes down harder, the streets basically turning into rivers. You take a deep breath. There's no other choice.

–

Heeseung opens the door to a dingy room, tacky floral prints adorning the walls with a picture of a rose hanging above the bed. Every possible accent of the room was in bright pink, save for the brown lounge chair suspiciously positioned right in front of the bed. You grimace at the sound of your wet boots on the creaky wooden floorboards.

“You couldn't have gotten us two separate rooms?” you mutter.

“The guy said all their other rooms were under renovation,” Heeseung replies, flopping onto the velvet chair. “Plus… do you have the means to pay? Or did you just assume that I’d be covering for both?”

You stare daggers into him, unable to muster a thoughtful response. Because he's right. And now you think you should never have told him you were struggling to find a job. “Whatever, dickhead…”

Your eyes drift to the bed. Two pairs of silk pajamas are folded neatly atop it, one slightly larger than the other. Since when did shady hotels offer such amenities? 

You try not to think too hard about it because the humidity of the room clings to you, making you desperate for relief. Without thinking, you shrug off Heeseung’s hoodie. He scans your figure before quickly diverting his gaze, the wall suddenly becoming much more interesting. His ears flush a deep crimson.

“Why are you…” And then you remember how utterly soaked your blouse is as you look down. You cross your arms over your chest to hide the outline of your breasts. 

“I'm gonna take a shower,” you mutter, rushing into the bathroom without a second thought. Shit. What was that just now? Why'd he look at you like that?

Your chest tightens. You swear there was something in the way he looked at you. Like tension. Like fire. Cradling your head in your hands, you groan. Were you turning into your delusional ass sister?

You try to distract yourself with a cold and uneventful shower until you remember the forgotten pair of pajamas left on the bed. Clad in a towel, you crack the door open just enough to peek out. Heeseung is still sitting on the chair, eyes widening when he sees your head poke through. Wet hair clinging to your neck, droplets of water coating your bare shoulders. He swallows hard.

“Do you mind handing the clothes to me?” you ask sheepishly. Heeseung walks in a daze, head full of thoughts too scary to say out loud, and grabs the smaller of the two silk pajamas. He holds them out to you.

“Hurry up,” he mumbles, trying his best not to look. “I need to take a shower too.”

You’re sitting on the bed, watching Heeseung—in the matching pair of pajamas—hang his damp clothes next to yours on the coat rack. The subtle hum of the hotel-provided hair dryer fills the room as he dries them out. 

When the lights flicker from the storm outside, your body jumps before you can even process the sound of thunder. Heeseung’s eyes flicker to you. “Such a scaredy-cat…” Heeseung chuckles, turning off the dryer when he’s satisfied with his work. 

“At least I'm alert,” you argue. “Unlike somebody…”

“Right…” He pays you no mind as he sets the dryer on the nightstand. Your eye twitches.

“What kind of idol just walks into a love hotel with a girl?” you taunt, irritated by his lack of response. “If I were some psycho, you’d probably be dead by now.”

“Are you?” he teases, sitting beside you on the bed. The mattress dips under his weight, and you scoot away instinctively to create distance between your warm bodies. “A crazy psycho killer who pretends to hate me?”

“It’s not pretend,” you say dryly. “I do, in fact, hate you. There’s a damn scar on my forehead because of—” He leans in, your words stopping at your throat as he examines the small scab hidden beneath your hair. For a moment, guilt flickers across his face, but you open your mouth before he can speak.

“Like you’d think you’d care more about your career, but it seems like I'm the only one with a brain between us,” you spit out. And you don’t even know why you say it. Maybe because it’s the way he’s looking at you so intently. Or how you can feel his breath on your skin with how close he’s sitting. Your heart beats too fast around him. 

“And how’s your career working out for you?” Nevermind. Fuck him.

“That's such a low blow.”

“But it’s okay when you insult me?” he scoffs. “You think I’m an idiot—”

“Most idols usually are—”

“And you’re so quick to judge people.”

His hands ball into fists in his lap, breath ragged. The shift in his once soft demeanor makes your chest tighten. You know how you get sometimes, how prideful you can be. Defensive, even. Your words only ever come out wrong with him. 

“Well, isn’t that the truth?” you huff. “God, did you hear yourself a few days ago? ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Will do, sir.’ You’re like a total pushover.”

He tsks, jaw tightening.  “Coming from you?” he asks mockingly, shifting closer. The mattress dips further, his hand pressing into the sheets beside your lap. Heeseung leans in close to your ear. “Don’t be mad that I worked for my dreams while you sit around and wait for yours."

You grit your teeth, the feeling of his breath on your neck like needles on skin. You hold your gaze on him. “At least I don’t have to fake who I am just so I can get people to like me.”

He glares at you, and in a split second, he moves away. “What a brat,” he murmurs under his breath, facing away from you.

You laugh darkly. “I’m a brat? Me? A brat? What about you?”

“What about me?” Heeseung counters. “I'm not the one who spends every second trying to start an argument. When all I’ve done—”

And he swallows his words a little, scared of how you might react if he were to tell you the truth. But there’s nothing to lose. Maybe he’ll never see you again. Maybe it's for the better.

“When all I’ve done…” he starts again, voice wavering. “All I’ve done these past few days since we met is fucking think about you.”

You feel every part of your body heat up. A warm, fluttering feeling you can’t describe. You push out a bitter laugh. “Oh, and was I supposed to, too, Mr. Idol? Was I supposed to fall to my knees when I saw you again?”

“Why are you so mean to me?” he asks quietly. “Do I bother you that much?”

You exhale, trying to find your composure. You do like being around him. That’s the problem. You had already made up your mind that he was off-limits, that he’s probably a horrible person and your sister can’t distinguish reality from his carefully curated persona. But he’s real. And in front of you.

“I didn’t even want to go out today,” you say, voice quivering. “My stupid ass sister forced me to. I’m sure you think any girl would kill to be in my position right now, but I don’t even want—”

“You know what I want?” Heeseung’s voice drops low. He swallows hard, licking his lips. His eyes glued to yours. “I wanted to see you again.”

“What?” you muster out. His hands find your face, his fingers firm against your cheek. 

“You heard me,” he whispers. Heeseung leans in, his lips touch yours for a split second before pulling away. You close your eyes shut from instinct, craving for contact once more.

As if obeying your silent command, his mouth finds yours again. Testing the waters with soft movements. You hesitate, torn between the argument still echoing in your head and the warmth in your chest. He’s supposed to be a stranger. A fleeting passenger in your life.

But his lips move passionately against yours, like that of a lover. When you finally match his languid motions, his hand slides around your waist to pull you in closer. Heeseung’s kisses are sweet, deliberate. But this isn’t right. 

You spent years rolling your eyes at the mere image of him on a screen, fighting with Sophia about how ridiculous it was to obsess over a man who would never even look in her direction. And now he’s here. Kissing you so tenderly that you think your heart might explode. The guilt sears through you suddenly.

You push him away, wiping your lips with the back of your hand. “Fucking perv,” you spit out, standing abruptly. Heeseung holds your forearm, his grip gentle, pulling you to face him. He’s still sitting on the bed, looking at you with those eyes. Those beautiful, pleading eyes.

“Is this what you and your boys do?” you ask through gritted teeth, your voice shaking. “Make moves on random girls, take them to hotel rooms, and then fuck them and—”

“No,” he says quickly. He hopes you believe him just this once. “I’m not that type of guy. And I wouldn’t do that. Not to you."

He hesitates, licking his lips, searching for the right words. Because if he’s being fully honest, Heeseung has spent almost every hour of his free time in the last few days trying to find you online. He’s scrolled through countless accounts, only getting as far as seeing your private Instagram account. Too scared to follow. Too scared of rejection. Too scared to cause trouble for the group.

He had a pit in his stomach when you left him, a more intense feeling than when he left his phone in the dressing room. Like he had lost something important. Someone. 

And he sees it in your eyes too. How you push down your laughter when he makes a joke. How you leaned into his touch. How your words are sharp, but your pulse hammers fast. “You like me,” he blurts out, not even knowing that he said it out loud.

You laugh. “No. You’re delusional.”

He shakes his head. His grip on your wrist loosens, but his doe eyes stay on yours. You could pull away now. But you don’t. “Then why’d you kiss me back?”

His words hang in the air. And it’s strange because he knows this is stupid. Knows the risk. Knows that his company executives would lose their minds if they saw him like this. But he doesn’t want to think about it. He’s spent every waking moment in the entertainment industry only thinking about his image. He just wants to feel this. To be here with you.

But you’re no good at opening up, at letting people in. And it scares you more than you’d like to admit. “I don’t know,” you finally reply. And he smiles. Heeseung’s hands meet your waist, pulling you into his lap. You don’t resist.

“We just met,” you say, trying not to let the way he wraps your legs around him get to you. His fingers brush gently against your skin, moving the wet strands of hair away from your forehead. “I've known you for less than a day—”

“The best hours of my life,” he interrupts, smiling.

"We’re not even friends—”

“We could be?” Your heart flutters against your will. Screw him for being so charming. For knowing all the right words to say. Against your better judgment, your gaze drifts down toward his lips. You crave them.

“Is this something friends do?” you ask, voice low, leaning into him ever so slightly.

“Something we could do,” he whispers. And you don’t shove him away this time when his lips meet your temple, the area he hit with a door just days ago, and down to your own. His mouth works against yours, tongue pushing deeply into your wet cavern. His large hands roam your clothed back as they slowly trail your bottom

His touches are feather light against the fabric of your pajama pants. He almost lets go when you grab his wrist, only to force him into gripping you tighter. You had no desire to be treated like a delicate flower. 

Heeseung takes a handful of you, groaning into your mouth at the feeling of your plushness. God, you have ruined him. He pulls away, awed by the trail of saliva that connects the two of you. He rests his forehead against yours, panting heavy against your skin. You feel him then. His rigidness underneath. You stare up into his eyes, meeting his intense gaze. 

Heeseung searches for any semblance of regret in your features. That the pretty pout you give him is all in his imagination. That the short time you shared together did not affect you in the way it fundamentally changed him.

“I want you,” he says, a small whine evident in his voice. His hands don't leave your body. “Please tell me you want me too.”

Your mouth opens, almost ready to give a snappy rejection. But then you’d be lying. So you settle for the truth. “You don’t even know me,” you reply in a low voice. 

Heeseung lifts you off of him for a short moment, and you feel the back of your head softly land on the pillow. You lay underneath him now, his wet hair dripping down onto your cheek. On your neck. On every exposed part of your skin. 

“But I want to,” he whispers. “If you’ll let me.”

And you don’t know what overcomes you when your fingers find his shirt, pulling open the buttons of his top. Or what possesses Heeseung to push away your fumbling fingers to unbutton your pajamas as well. You shrug off the material, and you hear his breath hitch.

His eyes linger a little too long on your chest. You aren’t wearing a bra. You’d taken it off earlier, too uncomfortable to wear when it was soaked like the rest of your clothing. But you don't mind. Because you admire him, too, in his shirtless form. His toned body, muscular in all the right places. Sweat dripping down his chest from the stuffiness of the room.

You try to prop yourself up on your elbows to get closer to him, but Heeseung stops you. He pushes your shoulders down softly back into the mattress. His lips trace shadows of kisses down your neck until his face hovers over your tits. 

Heeseung lands soft kisses around your nipple before swallowing a mound into his mouth, sucking gently as his tongue laps around your sensitive bud. His hand moves to grasp your neglected breast, massaging and switching sides when you whine at the loss of contact. 

Your teeth break the skin of your lip, and a metallic taste finds its way to your tongue. He smirks. What did you get out of stifling your sweet moans?

“I think I like you like this,” Heeseung sighs, his mouth parting from you. He lifts his head, eyes never leaving yours, as his index fingers hook the waist of your pajama pants. "Finally quiet for me."

You glare down at him impatiently. "Shut up..."

Your fingers find his, helping him pull down the fabric. He chuckles, but it's stopped short. “Fuck,” he groans when he’s met with bare skin. Your back arches up into his touch.

You’re not wearing panties either, too uncomfortable to wear the soaked fabric against your newly showered skin. 

“Were you expecting this today?” he teases, tracing his fingers on your inner thigh. “Didn’t bother wearing anything when you knew you’d be stuck here with me?”

You roll your eyes, trying not to focus on the way his hand inches closer to your nether region. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Heeseung leans down, face just above your torso. He gives a teasing lick at your navel, one that makes you grasp onto his shoulders from the warmth of his tongue. He pays you no mind, lowering himself down and peppering kisses on any part of your skin that his mouth can touch. And when you think he would stop at the place you needed him most… he doesn’t. 

He moves lower, his wet pink muscle licking down your thigh, to your knee. All the way to your ankle until he reaches the very tip of your toes. Like he's teasing you. But not for him. No, this is his indulgence.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, as his face travels back up and in between your legs. “Every part of you.” You bite the inside of your cheek. He shouldn’t be talking to you like this. Or else you’ll start to forget who he is. A stranger. An idol. Your nemesis. 

Heeseung's palms spread your knees apart, pressing his lips against your inner thigh. He laps at your soft skin, his eyes never leaving your furrowed brows of pleasure. You take hold of one of his hands, intertwining your fingers. You don't know why you do it, but it feels right to have your palm in his. It's intimate. More intimate than how his mouth hovers over your sensitive clit. He gives an experimental lap of his tongue. 

“Ngh—” you almost let out, but you bite your lip again. Heeseung chuckles against you. His hand clenches yours, giving kitten licks on your wet folds. 

“Pretty here too,” he mumbles, before licking a long stripe up to your clit. He stays there, dragging his tongue around your sensitive nub in circular motions. His free hand grips the plushness of your inner thigh, stretching you out for him further. He wanted access to all of you. 

He dips down, mouth finding your entrance, licking up and down and back to your clit. Tongue smoothly gliding over your soaked folds, your clit pulses against the open-mouthed kisses he presses on it. You grind up into him from the wet sensation of his suckling, searching for relief. For him to finally draw it out of you.

Heeseung playfully glares at you, a mischievous grin forming on his face. Then, he nips at your clit, and your hand lets go of his. “Why’d you stop?!” you growl. He chuckles.

“Why are you pretending like it doesn’t feel good?” he shoots back, pressing featherlight kisses above your clit. You whine, annoyed. Your nails meet his hair, digging into his soft locks as punishment.

“Just shut up and do it properly,” you say through gritted teeth, pushing his face down closer to your exposed folds. He resists, looking up at you with a lick of his lips.

“Such a fucking brat,” he whispers, one of his hands finding its way toward your entrance. “Acting like you don't want me...”

His fingers swipe your outer folds, gawking at the milkiness that coats his skin. "...when you're this fucking soaked?"

“Fuck you,” you spit out, wrapping your legs around his head to drag him in. He almost laughs, but you smother any sound that comes from his soft lips. Heeseung laps at your clit, his index finger dipping ever so slightly into your warm, wet folds. 

"Oh—" 

It's foreign, the feeling of him pushing his digit into you, inch by inch. The way his tongue suckles your nub ever so gently. It's so slow, so cautious. You hate it. Your hips move on their own as you pull away from him, only to thrust up against his hand and back to his tongue. He groans against your pussy, taking the hint.

His wet, pink muscle flicks over your clit over and over, spreading your mess all over his already soaked face. Heeseung adds a second finger, working you open with a twist of his wrist. He rubs against the top of your inner walls, finding your G-spot so easily.

“Fuuuck,” you draw out, back practically off the mattress. He scoffs against your skin, nipping at your inner thigh as he fucks his fingers up into you.

"You like that?" He lifts his head, admiring your angry little face. The way you can still muster a glare with your scandalous moans. The way you don't look intimidating to him at all. Not one bit. 

“Fuck you Hee-” His face edges close to your cheek. "Don’t scream my name," he whispers in your ear. His voice is low, teasing. "Someone might hear."

"You're such a dick—" Your complaints are muffled as his mouth crashes down on yours again. You taste yourself on his tongue, eyes clenching as you feel a pressure in your stomach start to build.

Heeseung doesn't mean a single word he's saying. Doesn't actually want you to suppress any of your desperate little sounds from your fuckable lips. No. He wants more than anything to hear it spill out of you. Like you’re his. Like he’s yours.

Your grip on his hair tightens as he pistons in and out of you brutally. The squelching sounds of your drenched pussy fill the room. It's ecstasy, his fingers plunging so deep inside of you. So close. You're so fucking close. 

You pull away, lifting one of your hands to your mouth to cover the unbecoming noises that threaten to fill the room. It's too much. He's too much. You can feel it now. His thumb rubbing so deliciously on your clit, applying pressure on the bundle of nerves so deliciously.

Tears prick your eyes as you dig your heels into the mattress. Yes… That's it… Right there— And then, he stops. 

"What the fuck!" you groan, eyes clenching from the loss of contact. Heeseung's hands meet your wrist, yanking your hand away from your mouth. He's seething. And you don't get it. Because didn't he just say...?

"I thought you didn't want me to scream," you say through gritted teeth. "I was so close—"

"I don't care," he says darkly, the shadow of him looming above yours. He pushes his palms against both sides of the pillow, leaning down to your face. "Don't hide from me."

You bite back a sour laugh. "Why don't you make up your mind instead of wasting my fucking time?"

Heeseung pulls you up, despite your yelp of protest. He lies down where you writhed underneath him just seconds ago, his hands indifferently clasped behind his head. He's composed, save for the heavy outline of his manhood on the light fabric of the pajama pants. 

“Then don't waste mine either," he replies. “Do all the work. If you want to cum so bad.”

You’re tempted by the offer, really. But you know this is just a sick test from the devilish way he looks at you. You would not give in. Could not. 

A harsh sound of thunder from the outside interrupts your thoughts, and you flinch once again. And like clockwork, your blood boils. Because Heeseung laughs at you. Again.

“Such a coward,” he chuckles, eyes shamelessly scanning your tits as they bounced from your shock. Your jaw clenches, and before you can hesitate, you climb on top of him. Your legs cage around his middle, and you don't miss the way his eyes flutter.

Without a word, you push his pants low enough to free his hard member. You bite back the gasp that threatens to spill out of your lips when you see his size. So large. So girthy. Tip, a pretty pink. A long vein on his underside. And it makes you see red. Because, of course, a gorgeous guy like him can have a gorgeous dick like this. It isn't fair. Everything about him is perfect.

“Fuck you."

"I'm trying to," he smirks.

You bring your hand to the tip of his cock, spitting on it as you glare up at him. Stupid, idiot Heeseung. Why can’t he just stick it in himself? 

Your fingers spread the saliva over his mushroom tip, all the way down to the base of his cock. You take your time, stroking and spreading his precum. His dick twitches when you squeeze him tight. Heeseung bites his lips, watching as you take control. The eye contact. Your fucked out gaze. Finally, you position yourself on top of him. He doesn't try to help, tries to maintain his fake composure. But fuck, he needs you so bad. Your hands guide his cock to your entrance. 

You sink onto him, agonizingly and painstakingly slow. A pace that takes everything in him not to just grab your hips and slam himself into you. But he doesn’t. Because the scene in front of him, of you struggling to take in all of his length, of your face contorting into such a lewd expression, makes the temporary frustration worth it. He’s so hard inside you, pulsing with desire. Heeseung is stretching you out so much, even if he’s only halfway into piercing your wet core.

Your brows furrow as you look down at him, gauging his reaction. But he’s so smug, and he’s wearing that stupid smirk on his face that makes you want to smack him. He enjoys this. Relishes watching you work for it. But in the deepest part of your mind, you can’t help but admit that you like how arrogant he looks right now.

It used to be so annoying, seeing this on a screen. But it's so much better in person. He's so much better in person. You lift yourself momentarily to give yourself some relief from the stretch. Your hole throbs around him, and his jaw clenches at how tight it feels when you push back down on him, so close to bottoming out. 

“You’re taking me so well,” he sighs out, his hands kneading your breasts to distract you from the pain. To distract himself from how good it feels for his cock to be sinking into you this deeply.

Heeseung’s fingers tug and pinch your nipples as you fall forward enough for your face to hover above his. You let out a silent scream as your hips flush against his, fully enveloping his thickness into your warm, wet folds. He looks at you with such tenderness, a gaze so soft it feels foreign from the mocking smile he gave you earlier. 

You try your best to adjust, your gummy walls tightening as you feel him stiffen even more inside you. You bite your lip, but Heeseung looks up at you pleadingly. Like a last resort.

“Say it,” he breathes out unsteadily, fully aware of how hypocritical he's about to sound. “My name.” And even though you find yourself wanting to bite back, wanting to spit at him and tease him the way he teased you... You couldn’t. Because you were past the point of saving face. Of letting your pride get in the way of the pleasure.

And so your hips move on top of him, your palms now landing on his toned stomach for balance. Your movements are deliberate, gyrating your hips in a steady rhythm. You could get addicted to this. To the sight of this tall, handsome man, coming undone underneath you. And so you bounce harder. Faster. Loud enough that the sounds of your ass smacking down on his balls reverberate throughout the dowdy hotel room. The headboard creaks annoyingly against the wall with your breakneck pace.

Heeseung’s hands wander to your thighs, the pads of his fingers digging into your skin. But that’s all. He does not get in the way of your desperate movements; he does not interfere with how erratically you impale yourself on his throbbing cock. You feel it, that familiar bubbling in your core.

“Heeseung,” you finally cry. And it takes everything in him not to cum right then and there. His name never sounded sweeter—not even when fans chant it during concerts. No. This is the best he's ever heard it. So good he should call his parents later to thank them for ever coming up with such a name. “Heeseung," you moan again. "I’m… I’m so…”

His hands squeeze your bottom, guiding you down on his cock. To finally help you reach your peak. Because you’ve given him what he wants. “I know, baby,” he says, the pet name coming out of his lips so naturally. “I know.”

You claw at his chest, gripping onto him as you chase your orgasm. You need it. So bad. And Heeseung finally thinks you deserve it. With every thrust, the tip of his cock almost leaves your tightness entirely until he pushes all the way into you once again. In and out and in and out, he fucks up into you at an unforgivable pace. He smacks your butt ever so slightly, squeezing and pulling them apart. It sends you forward.

“Heeseung—Fuck—I'm—” you scream. Red, hot waves overtake your vision.

Your climax rips through you like a bullet, pussy clenching around him in a vice grip that makes him moan. Your fluids gush out, staining the inside of your thighs as you ride out your much-needed high. You rotate your hips against him needily, muttering sweet nothings as your head falls onto his neck. 

He grits his teeth. Trying to keep his breathing even. Because he doesn’t want to let this end, doesn’t know if you’ll ever let him see you again. You lick up at his neck, flinching when he pulls away. “No marks, baby,” he chuckles. 

You try not to pout. Like his rejection doesn’t sting you one bit. He sees it, though. The disappointment in your surprisingly coy expression. And he smiles. His lips hover over your neck, too.

“I can give them to you instead?” he offers teasingly, against your skin. He nips just underneath your jaw. “Would you let me?”

You roll your eyes and pull him in closer. You know he’s not done. Know from how fucking hard he still is inside you. And the way he’s been subtly grinding into your soaked folds since you came. So you just give him a tired nod. He's just given you the best orgasm of your life. This is the least you could do.

“Don’t leave too much,” you mutter lazily, but he’s already sucking at your jugular. 

His fingers meet yours again, intertwining your hands while his lips move against you feverishly. Even though you’re still so sensitive, so exhausted from the high you just came down from, you move against him once. He pulls you in, for his lips to find yours again. Heeseung’s feet plant themselves on the mattress, fucking up into you with a new sense of urgency. 

His thrusts are quick, methodical. So different from how erratically you impaled yourself on him. Heeseung knows what parts of you to hit, knows the deepest ridges his cock can hit within you if he angles his movements just right. And he does. Again and again. 

Heeseung's leaking tip kisses your cervix as you moan into his open-mouthed kisses. He lifts himself from the mattress and into a seated position, wrapping his arms around your waist as he tugs you flush against his chest.

“Heeseung—” you cry out at the new angle. He bounces you on him, as his tongue finds your nipples once again. He bites the top of your chest. Nips at the junction of your shoulder. Sucks the underside of your jaw. And he continues to push into you until the sensation in your core is back. Until he starts to feel it himself.

“Shit—” he moans through gritted teeth. “Baby—” Your nails dig into his back as you cry into his shoulder. Your tongue laps at his sweat, trying your best not to bare your teeth.

Heeseung lays you down on the bed now, knees pushing underneath your thighs so he can fuck you better in missionary. He's so close. So desperate to cum. But he wants you to feel it again. Wants you to know what you’d be letting go if you didn’t give whatever this was a chance. Because he wants to see you more. Wants to talk to you more. Wants to fuck you more. 

His lips meet yours, but it’s not the messy kiss you thought it would be. It's sweet. Barely there, soft and tender. Like the first one he gave you. And yet, he still pistons into you.

“Oh my god—” Your head spins as you feel the floodgates of your pleasure start to rush out of you once more. Your hips lift into him as you cum for the second time, whining into his mouth at the overstimulation of his brutal pace.

“Me too, baby,” he groans against your lips. “Me too." His movements become irregular, his face reddening with motivation. "Fuck—"

Heeseung pulls out, his fist finding his cock. He strokes himself with such fervor, watching you with hooded eyes. His tongue pokes out of his mouth ever so slightly in focus, so close to reaching his orgasm. It's addicting to witness. How desperate the flick of his wrist is. How tightly he grips himself. 

His eyes clench from the fiery sensation that floods his body, groaning as thick ropes of white liquid coat your body. It covers your chest, stomach, and neck like paint. Warm, wet paint. He moans when his eyes meet you again. Because you look so fucking beautiful, covered in his cum and panting underneath him. You really are perfect. He doesn't doubt it all. Perfect for him.

And it doesn’t matter to either of you that the rain had died down by now. That Jay is blowing up the group chat, asking if they want to watch movies in the living room together. Because all he wants to do, and all that he really can do, is get lost in you all over again. He pecks and bites everywhere his lips can touch. On your back. Chest. Neck. Making up for the marks you can never give him.

When morning hits, you expect him to be gone. So you try to wake up before him, before you see an empty bed. Before you get hurt when he ultimately decides to leave without a trace. So when Heeseung is still there, arms enveloping you into his chest, you forget how to move.

7 AM, sleeping through his ten alarms. It’s like deja vu, back to a few days ago when you woke up to the sight of his sleeping form in that studio chair. You were contractually obligated not to say anything back then. So why did he stay? And why is he still here?

You reach out without thinking, fingers tracing the faint line of his brows. It feels unfair, somehow, that you couldn’t admire him this closely before. Maybe if you knew how he’d really be in real life, soft and easygoing, you might give him more grace. But it’s more fun, arguing with him. 

“Wake up,” you sigh when his phone goes off again. “Don’t you have work or something?” His naked form stirs, groaning. He pulls you in tighter, and you wonder if he truly is as asleep as he claims to act. The small smile on his face gives him away. “Five more minutes,” he mumbles into your hair, voice low and groggy. 

“Maybe for you,” you say. “But I actually need to go home…”

You start prying his hand off your waist, but his eyes flutter open. This grown man pouts at you. “You’re leaving? Already?”

“I don’t know if you know where you are right now, but this is a love hotel. We should’ve left, like, last night.” He groans at the reminder, sitting up on the heel of his palms. The rounds that followed the first... he could never regret staying. Did you?

“I didn’t even get your number yet.” You blink. He was serious about that? 

Just refuse, you think to yourself. Go about your day and forget about him. But his gaze is expectant. And you find it hard to refuse him and his stupidly cute face. So you hand him your phone. He hums happily as he types. Too happy.

“Is this covered in the NDA?” you ask, half-joking, half-trying to steady your pulse. The room is engulfed in your mixed scents, and you’re too aware of his body heat.

“No,” he chuckles, as he hands it back. He saves himself as <3 in your contact list. You try not to read into it.

“Can you keep a secret?” he asks. He’s teasing, but there’s a sincerity behind his words. 

“What are friends for?” you sigh, tugging free of his hold to pull your now-dry clothes back. But it doesn’t come out as naturally as you intended, and Heeseung’s smile falters a little, too.

He doesn’t say anything, and that silence is somehow worse. Because, yeah. He knows what this can’t be. And you do too. Still, as you tug your shirt back into place, you feel the ghost of his fingers around your waist from moments ago. Warm and gentle. Like that of a lover.

–

So when he’s not working abroad, and when the house is empty on late nights, Heeseung slips in through the back door with his hoodie pulled up and a mask hiding half of his face. He knows exactly where the spare key is buried beneath the flower pot. Knows how early to leave before your parents return from their graveyard shifts. Knows how to stay still in the corner of your room when your sister FaceTimes you.

You feel like shit keeping this from them. Especially when your parents start to complain about missing ramen packs in the pantry. Or when Sophia gushes about how she can’t wait for ENHYPEN’s new album when you’ve already heard the songs spill softly from his lips. It feels like you’re dating your big sister’s crush—except he barely knows she exists. And you aren’t really dating.

But it feels right when he’s with you. When his breath traces your spine, when his fingers find their rightful place on your hips. When he tells you you’re perfect for him. Perfect with him. So much so that you start to believe him.

–

“I’m surprised you’re ever able to wake up for your job,” you mutter as Heeseung buries himself on your chest. He was supposed to wake up from his 15 minute nap ages ago. The promise of starting a new movie together is already long forgotten.

“It’s your fault,” he grumbles into your shirt. “You’re so warm. Like the sun.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, well can I at least work on a job application or am I going to be forced into laziness like you?”

“You worry too much,” he sighs, like he’s ever had to search for a full-time job in his life. “You’ll find something. Just give yourself some time to relax once in a while…”

He squeezes you tighter, one eye squeezing open to see the cute furrow of your brows. “With me.” And you indulge in him. You let him fall asleep once again, snooze an alarm once or twice, and stroke his cheek. You memorize the angle of his jaw, the piercings in his ears, and the strands of hair that fall on his face.

Because each night, a new part of him slips through your fingers, another thing to lose when he’s off being an idol. How the purple spots on your skin from his bites fade away when he's not there. How the small gifts he buys you are tucked in the corners of your room, away from your curious sister's gaze. Yet still, he lingers in all your five senses.

You see the soft rise and fall of his chest on nights he sleeps over, so overcome with exhaustion that he dozes off in your arms mid-conversation. You hear the edge in his voice when you intentionally troll his games during late-night calls. You smell him in the faint trace of cigarettes suppressed by mint, a habit he never lets you see. You feel him in the quake of your floorboards as he practices new choreography in your room, knocking into shelves without a care, as if the room belongs to him. You taste him in that infamous cloud egg, along with the gentle frustration he tries to mask when you don’t stir it the way he does.

And you wonder if anyone else in arrangements like this notices these things. If they let themselves. Because last time you checked, friends don’t keep video calls running across time zones, waking up to each other's sleepy faces. They don’t fuck each other in the shower and help wash each other’s backs right after. They don’t ask what kind of flowers you like before boarding another flight. No. It’s not normal. You don’t want it to be.

–

“It would be nice,” he says one day. “A picnic by the Han River? We can go tomorrow night.”

You narrow your eyes at him, your attitude the same as it always is. “Are you crazy? What if we get seen together?”

“That’s what the shades, beanie, hoodie, and mask combo is for.”

You roll your eyes. “We might as well just stay inside,” you mutter.

It’s been getting to him, the hours with you that never feel like enough. Sometimes when he sees your Instagram feed, his thumb lingers too long. You hanging out with friends in crowded cafés… He’s envious. Of you. That you get to live your life without the constant fear of being watched. And everyone else. Because they’re with you.

Heeseung sighs. “I just want a change of scenery,” he replies softly. “Can’t we go? Idols go on dates there all the time. They never get caught.”

You scoff. Will this be a date? You want to ask what he means. But you swallow the question down, like you always do, and pretend it doesn’t burn in your throat.

“Aren’t you busy?” you ask. He’s been spending every free moment here, and that isn’t much. A comeback on the way. Endless rehearsals. You wonder why he bothers seeing you at all. He smiles, pressing a kiss on your temple. A new habit he’s formed. 

“I make time for you,” he mutters into your hair.

–

Typical of Heeseung, he remembers to bring every kind of snack from the convenience store, yet somehow forgets the picnic blanket. And you forget to wear a jacket, thinking the humid air of summer would still hold its warmth. But it’s surprisingly chilly at 2 a.m., and now you’re enveloped in his hoodie while both of you sit on the damp grass. Your jeans cling to your skin, and his shoulders tremble from the cold.

“If I weren’t an idol,” he asks quietly, overlooking the Han with a beer in hand,  “would you still find me handsome?”

“Who ever said I find you handsome in the first place?” 

He glares at you jokingly. “Coming from the girl who has me saved as a heart in her contact list.”

“You’re the one who typed that in my phone—”

“But you never changed it,” he cuts in, smirking when you don’t say anything back.

“Sure,” you sigh, relenting to his stupid pout. “I’m sure you would have still been popular if you weren’t famous.” He smiles, sadly. He’d never know. Will never know. “Okay, how about if I were a worm?”

You scowl at him through your mask, and you can’t see the amused expression he wears on his face. Heeseung stays true to his word. He’s covered head-to-toe in black with his cap, mask, and shades. You wonder why he went through the trouble. He looks more suspicious this way.

“How about if you weren’t annoying?” you sigh, and he laughs.

“How’s the job hunt been?” he asks after a moment, glancing at you. He notices the tiredness underneath your eyes. He always does. And you know he feels guilty, though he’ll never say it. That you lose sleep just to see him in late nights like this. That your life had started to bend around his schedule.

“It’s hell,” you sigh, cracking your neck from side to side. “It’s like no one wants to hire these days.”

“I’m sure you’ll find something,” he says reassuringly. “I can ask around the company and maybe put in a good word—”

You shake your head before he can finish. “That’s not fair to you,” you mumble, though a small part of you seriously considers it. You’re not sure you could handle another argument with your parents about your future. “I wouldn’t want you to do something like that for me.”

He looks at you, confusion written all over his face. “What do you mean? That’s what friends are for.”

He says it, like usual, but the hesitation hangs in the air. It hurts to say these days, but it’s the only label that’s true. Still, you can’t help but wonder why he does this. Why he asks you to wait up for his calls, for you to keep him company in the hours no one else sees him. Why he touches you like you mean something to him if all he wants is a friend. Shouldn’t he already have enough of those?

“You know,” he starts hesitantly. Not sure how to tell you. Not sure if he should trust you as much as he already does. It’s been almost two months since that night in the alleyway. “I have a solo project I’ve been working on for over a year. I still haven’t heard back from the company about it.”

Your eyes widen. The songs he’d played for you in passing. Ones you'd Shazam with nothing ever showing up. “They’d be stupid not to,” you reply. “You have an amazing voice.”

He smiles, the soft curve of his lips showing beneath the mask. “And you’re more than capable of landing a job, too. We’re all walking our own paths. So… you don’t need to feel alone. We’re all anxious about something.”

He gives you a reassuring pat on your shoulder. “I believe in you.”

You smile. “Thank you,” you whisper. “That means a lot.”

You wish you could see his doe eyes right now, through his thick shades. Wish you could pull down his flimsy mask and kiss him. Just once in public, without having to think about who might be watching. But you can’t.

Heeseung shivers next to you through his thin shirt. He tugs lightly at your sleeve, which is technically his. “Can I have my hoodie back?” he asks jokingly.

“I don’t know,” you say, faking a pondering look. “I kinda like it. Looks good on me, right?” You strike a pose, hands on your hips.

“You know,” he teases, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were starting to like me.”

You almost unzip the hoodie off your frame, feigning disgust, but Heeseung lifts his hands defensively, still laughing.

“Keep it,” he says through his chuckles. “Wear it when you miss me.”

Your cheeks heat up. “What’s there to miss?” you mumble. “Videos of you are always playing in my living room.”

Heeseung shakes his head. “That’s not me.”

He lowers his sunglasses just enough for you to see his eyes—deep brown, reflecting a bright glow from the dim glow of the street lamps. “This is me.”

He holds his gaze, staring at you with such fondness. It took time for him to get here, to peel back the walls you’d built, to convince you that he wasn’t who you thought he was. And now that you’ve let him in, he wishes he could freeze this version of time. He’d capture this moment forever if he could. 

But when Heeseung pulls his mask down for a brief sip of beer, he doesn’t hear it. Neither do you. The faint click of a camera shutter from across the river. Of a fan, hidden in the dark, fingers trembling around her lens. She isn’t sure what she’ll do with the photo quite yet, but she knows this isn’t right.

Because her idol isn’t supposed to be meeting girls like this in the middle of the night. Idols aren’t supposed to sneak into someone’s house far from the center of Seoul whenever they're finished with their overseas schedules. They’re not supposed to look at someone the way he looks at you.

Shouldn’t he know better? He’s an idol. He should act like one.

–

“Who you texting?” Jungwon asks, leaning against the mirror of the dance practice room. Heeseung doesn’t look up. He’s too busy sending you a photo of the new merch line he helped create, a set of cactus pins. He thinks you’d like them. 

“My brother,” he lies, straight through his teeth.

“Your brother got you kicking your feet and giggling?” Niki chimes in, doubt etched all over his face. Heeseung only shrugs. “He’s funny.” 

But all they’d have to do is glance at his phone screen to catch him in the lie.

pretty girl: they’re actually kinda cute. send some.

Heeseung bites back a smile, ignoring the side-eye of curiosity from Sunoo across the room. The boys never press him much. They respect Heeseung too much to pry, to question the things he keeps close to his chest. But Jungwon breaks the silence.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he says in a low voice. “You know what some fans will do if they find out. It might not be safe for her.”

Heeseung sucks in a deep breath. Because he’s never really thought about it like that before. Not fully. Not beyond the thrill of sneaking out to see you, beyond the warmth that fills his belly whenever you greet him at your door. For the first time, the warmth he usually feels when he sees your name on his screen starts to feel like fear. He swallows hard, locking his phone, forgetting to reply to your message.

“Yeah,” he murmurs after a long pause. “Yeah, I know.” But he doesn’t. He knows he doesn’t. And that makes him feel like shit.

“You’re late,” you say, rolling your eyes when he slips in through the back door. Heeseung massages the nape of his neck, tugging off his mask with the other hand.

“Sorry. Practice was rough,” he groans, already making himself comfortable on your living room couch. He catches what's on the TV. An old fancam of him, mid-performance with his notoriously pink hair. 

He turns, smirking. “I thought you said your sister was in Tokyo for a conference,” he laughs, nodding at the screen. “Did this just turn on by itself?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, rushing to the remote to turn it off. “Don’t flatter yourself…”

He stands, pulling you into his arms before you can escape. His warmth seeps through the fabric of his long sleeve as he presses his face into your hair.

“I missed you,” he sighs. You scoff, pushing him back down onto the couch. You straddle his hips, sitting on his lap. He adores you most like this. On top of him. “You say that to all the other girls?” you whisper darkly into his ear. 

You don’t know why you say it. Maybe because you’ve been finding yourself scrolling through video after video of people thirsting after him, of him openly flirting with his fans, eyeing the pretty ones like he doesn’t have you waiting for him here. Even if he’s not yours. Even if this was supposed to be casual. You still had the right to be possessive… right?

“Eager today?” he chuckles, eyeing your lips as he subconsciously licks his own. He rubs circles on your lower back with his thumbs. “You know there’s no one else.” You lean into him, planting a delicate kiss on his lips. “So show me.”

Your hands find his hair, and he kisses you harshly as you pull him in. It’s urgent, how quickly the both of you take off your shirts. Most nights that he’s here, you don’t have sex. Which confuses you the most. He doesn’t expect anything from you. Doesn’t touch you when you don’t lean into it, doesn’t press you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. A friend before the benefits.

So when he’s like this underneath you, desperate and hands all over your body, you let yourself get lost in him. He hoists you closer, pushing your pajama shorts to the side to feel you better. Your panties are soaked through, and those, too, are set aside. Heeseung groans when his digits meet your bare skin, prodding your entrance in an upward motion.

“So fucking wet,” he groans, eyes meeting yours. “Just watching me through a screen has you worked up like this?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, pulling him in by his shirt’s collar and smashing your lips against his.

His fingers enter you, and you’re so used to the size by now that they slide in with little resistance. He basks in your small whimpers above him, wondering how you can still be so sensitive to his touch. He pushes his fingers in as deep as they can go, prepping you for his length. He stretches you out, your head falling on his shoulder from his penetration.  

“Don’t watch those anymore,” he whispers teasingly. “You have the real thing right here.”

You palm him through his jeans in response. Harshly. Heeseung groans into your hair. He’s already so hard, his bulge struggling against the tight fabric. He needs you. “You think you can take it right now, baby?” he asks in a hushed tone, like a secret shared between you two. “For me?”

Usually, you’d resist, draw out the time you have with him, and make him pay for having you wait. But it’s been almost two weeks since you last touched him like this. You need him just as badly. You nod your head, grinding into his fingers. Searching for more of him inside you. His palm grinds on your clit roughly.

“N-need to cum,” you cry, moving erratically against him. “Put it in.” He glowers at you through his long lashes. His movements slow down. “Say please.”

You bite your lip. “Don't tell me what to do.”

He pulls his fingers out of you, grabbing your jaw with the same hand. He forces you to look at him. Your vision almost goes red from the frustration. “Don’t be a brat.” You grit your teeth, bringing your hand to your core.

“Well, don't be a dick,” you mutter, as your own fingers slide in. But it’s not enough as you try to reach where he once was. Your fingers can’t go as deep, can’t penetrate yourself in the way that you want. Not since you’ve known Heeseung. Not since his fingers have carved their way inside you. He looks down and almost laughs at your pathetic movements.

“So useless,” he chuckles darkly, releasing his hold on you to unzip his pants. He grips himself through the fabric of his boxers as he stares you down. “Don’t even know how to touch yourself properly.”

And you moan when he pulls the fabric low enough for his dick to slap against his stomach, tip red with anger. He strokes himself languidly, watching you work towards an unachievable high. His hand spreads his precum throughout his length, deliciously coating himself in his stickiness.

Heeseung’s here. He could do this for you. So why can’t he just fucking stuff his cock inside instead of watching you struggle? “Heeseung,” you cry, your fingers aching from the shallow thrusts. “Just… Just need to cum—”

He scoffs. “So why can’t you?” He looks down between your bodies with a hooded gaze at how desperate your movements were compared to his methodical strokes. 

“You always have so much to say,” he continues mockingly. “But can’t even make yourself feel good.” And even if he’s not touching you, you feel your resolve breaking. Because he knows exactly what he’s doing. What buttons to push to have your harsh words turn into moans.

“Need you…” You cry, fingers relentlessly jabbing with no luck. “Heeseung. Please. Just put it in.” He smirks. You know what saying his name does to him. “Good girl.” 

He pulls your fingers out harshly, and you whine from the loss. It’s short-lived when he aligns his length to your entrance. You’ve exhausted all of his patience, and so he pushes in. Slowly, at first. His eyes screw tight. How are you still so tight for him? You push down, not caring to let yourself adjust. You were past the point of needing it. Though you won’t admit this to him, you’ve been soaked since watching his fancam.

Heeseung bottoms out inside you, your head rolling back at the way he fills every nook of your insides. Your core stretches out around him, clenching tightly against his thickness. “Fuck—” you cry, grinding down on him. Heeseung pulls you in closer, his breath hot and heavy against your heaving chest. He peppers kisses atop your breast to soothe himself. He looks just as needy. 

You adjust yourself so that your hands are positioned behind you, holding his knees. Lifting slightly, you impale yourself back down on him. Again and again until you find a steady rhythm. Up and down, gyrating your hips the way you know he likes it. The way he’s taught you. He grabs your ass with both hands, guiding you down his thick cock. 

“Fuck baby,” he says through bated breaths. “So good at riding me now…”

“Shut up,” you growl. You can’t cum before him. Your pride wouldn’t let you. Your nails break the skin of his shoulders. He sucks in a breath from the pain. And you shouldn’t be doing this, knowing how any little mark on him could be caught by the watchful eye of the public. But a sick part of you wants the cameras to see… want his stupid ass fans to see who he really belongs to.

“No fucking manners,” he growls, pulling out of you. You cry from the loss of contact, but he pushes you face-first and ass up onto the couch. He pulls down your shorts haphazardly, inserting himself back into your warm, wet folds. Heeseung groans, pushing your head down onto the cushion. 

“Hee…Please…”

“Always so fucking rude,” he says as he thrusts into you from behind. His pace is unforgiving and brutal. Your ass bounces against his lower stomach, his fingers digging deeply into your hair to muffle your moans. “Can’t keep your hands to yourself.”

It’s unfair when he’s like this, all riled up. It makes you cum too quickly. “Come on, baby,” he laughs as you claw at the armrest. “Use that pretty mouth of yours now.” He grabs a fistful of your hair, arching you up to crash his lips on yours. It’s messy, all tongue and teeth. Wet, pink muscles battling each other for dominance. You’re close. He is, too. His pace quickens.

“Ngh—Oh my god—OH—”

Your knees collapse underneath you, and he follows, his chest on your back. He thrusts in and out so deeply, tip kissing your cervix as you feel him in your lower stomach. He releases your hair, his lips now finding your back. Heeseung grabs your breasts from behind, kneading them in circular motions as he nips at your skin. 

“I’m—Fuck—Please—Heeseung—” You gasp. You can feel it, taste it. He brings his middle finger to your clit, as you push your head down into the armrest to cry out. And it hits you in waves.

You let out a long, drawn-out whine as your climax is dragged out of you. You whine, jutting your hips backward to feel more of him. He chuckles, biting down on your shoulder. You gasp. It’s punishment for the nail marks on his body. He pistons in and out of you until the very last second. Until he reaches the danger zone of cumming inside you without a condom. Because fuck, he loves doing you raw.

Heeseung pulls out, flips you around, and positions his cock just above your face. You put your tongue out on instinct, like you’d been waiting for this. For him. He pushes into your mouth in one swift motion, throwing his head back as his tip hits the back of your throat. The first ropes of cum fill your mouth.

“Fuck baby…” he sighs, thrusting slowly to come down from his high. You suction around him, milking him for all he’s worth. You swallow as much as you can, eyes never leaving his. He relishes in the feeling of you lapping the underside of his cock. He could stay in you forever, but he knows better. 

Heeseung pulls out of you with a pop from your mouth. He bites his lip, eyes dark at the seductive sight in front of him. Your hair tousled with droplets of his cum on your chin. “Pretty,” he whispers. He leans down to kiss you, but you turn away. 

“I’m gross right now,” you protest, cuter than you intended. You turn away even as he tries to attempt a kiss on the cheek. 

“So am I,” he pouts. “Just let me—”

“No,” you scoff, pushing him off. “I don’t know who else you kiss with that nasty mouth of yours.”

He chuckles as you rush to stand with your wobbly knees. He looks at you with a fondness that almost makes you swoon. Almost. “We’re exclusive, aren’t we?”

He has no idea how those words make your chest tighten. “I-I need to clean up…” you mutter, refusing to answer his question. Your fluids shine on your inner thighs, shorts completely disheveled as you hoist them back up. You don’t even know where he’s thrown your shirt. 

“Come back!” he calls out, but you’re already running past him and in the direction of your bathroom. Heeseung lies on your couch, reveling in the satiated feeling in his chest, zipping his jeans back up. He could never get bored with you, no matter how hard he tries. He reaches for his phone in his back pocket. A notification lights up the screen. From his manager. A meeting tomorrow. Urgent. 

Heeseung feels the pit in his stomach form instantly. A million possibilities run through his head. His late-night disappearances from the dorms. The solo album proposal is still gathering dust on some HYBE executive’s desk. The argument with Jay a few days ago left the younger one teary-eyed. It could be any of those things. It could be all of them. Why just him, though?

“You good?” you ask, waddling back into the living room. You sink beside him. He nods, lips pressed thin.

“It’s nothing,” he replies in a low whisper. He stands up, and you try not to complain as he’s already reaching for his shirt. He usually stays. Usually has time to spend the night. 

“You’re going already?” He pulls the long sleeve over his head.

“I got something tomorrow,” he mutters, walking toward the door. He’s already putting his shoes back on. You search his face for something. Warmth, reassurance, even a lie. But all he can spare you is a glance. One that feels devoid of all the emotions he’d shared before. He’d done a complete 180 in a span of five minutes.

“Thank you for tonight.” 

And your heart sinks. Because he doesn’t do that, he doesn’t say things that make the sex feel transactional. When he utters those words, when they creep into your ears. Somehow, you feel used. And suddenly, this feels wrong.

Heeseung taps his foot against the wooden floor, the rhythm tense and hollow.

“We’ll move forward with the project,” Manager Jung says, but there’s no warmth in his words. Heeseung imagined this moment differently. An encouraging pat on his shoulder, his members jumping in to congratulate him. But no. He knows there’s something more. A laptop sits ominously on a table beside the older man, its black screen reflecting the overhead light.

“We think your project would be good for the group,” Manager Jung continues. “But we need to ensure the promotions go smoothly. We'll shoot and record everything and release it after the comeback.”

Heeseung nods appreciatively. “Of course—”

“But,” his manager interrupts sharply, “I need to clarify some things with you first.”

Manager Jung moves the cursor of the laptop to click on a tab. A video fills the screen of a hallway in HYBE that Heeseung has walked through millions of times. He swallows, a knot forming in his stomach. The camera lingers on the familiar concrete floors and fluorescent lights… until it lands on him. Bringing you into the building. Leaving in the morning. 

“Heeseung,” the older man says steadily, stopping him. “You brought a non-staff member to our company building and, without permission from any of us, took a taxi with her—”

“That’s—”

“And both the taxi driver and a love hotel receptionist tipped a journalist that an idol who matched your description was with a girl,” he continues. “Is that true?”

Heeseung’s chest tightens. But how could they know? How would they know? “That was months ago!”

“So who is she to you now, Heeseung?”

He freezes. There’s so much to say, too much to explain. But his manager would never understand. They never do. “Please,” Heeseung chokes up, his throat failing him. “I’ll be more careful. W-we don’t meet in public—”

“Do you know how much it costs to pay that journalist off?” Manager Jung asks coldly. “Do you know how hard I had to fight for this project to be greenlit? The project you begged for.”

“And I am so grateful,” Heeseung blurts out. “I promise. This won’t happen again—”

“It won’t,” he replies flatly. “Make sure it won't, Heeseung." 

His manager shuts the laptop down forcefully, standing up. He looks down at Heeseung with a hardened gaze. "You owe the others an apology," the older man continues. "As the oldest member, you hold a responsibility to set a good example for them.”

That’s the word. Responsibility. He'd almost forgotten. His hands dig into the material of his pants, nails threatening to rip through. He stands up, his head low, and bows deeply to his elder.

“I’m sorry.”

–

<3: can’t come tn i have practice

It’s the third time he’s turned down your invitation to come over. And yet, he’s just a few bus rides away. The nights he melted against your skin, the endless hours wrapped in each other, and talking about the future like they were concrete. No matter how busy he'd get, he still found time for you. And now he can’t bother to text you most nights.

You wonder if maybe he’s tired of you. Maybe he finally dropped the nice guy act he wore so well. Maybe there’s someone else. Maybe there are a thousand reasons you’ll never know, and you'd still have no right to ask. Because you don’t know what this is or what it's turned into.

And you understand that he’s busy. You do. But it still hurts to only see him when Sophia’s playing their music videos in the living room, a memory of him on that same couch that feels so far away now. “What do you do,” you ask your sister, in a rare moment of vulnerability, “if a guy starts acting distant with you?”

Sophia grimaces. “I don’t know. Don’t ask me about real men.”

You roll your eyes. “What do you call those freaks then?”

You point at her phone, where she’s scrolling through ENHYPEN edits like a woman hypnotized. “They’re better than men,” she says, like that explains everything. 

Something tugs at your chest. Because no matter how many albums she buys, no matter how many calls she gets to fumble through with shaking hands, she will never truly know Heeseung. Nor would she actually want to.

She’ll never know how petty he is after a disagreement, asking for examples of all his wrongdoings just to put you on the spot. How hoarse his voice gets when he goes through packs of cigarettes and vape pens, only cooling off from them when he knows he'll have to interact with fans that day, or when he's recording something. How utterly imperfect he truly is. Because he is just a man, capable of having flaws and making mistakes.

Would she still love him if she knew that Heeseung? Would she still smile at his face on her screen if the qualities that made him human bubbled above the surface?

“So stop following him around,” you mutter under your breath. She pays you no mind.

“What’s the point anyway?” you continue, riling yourself up. “What do you get out of it?”

Sophia finally looks up, glaring. “You just don’t get it,” she sighs, shaking her head. 

"No," you shake your head. "You don't." But, she’s already back to smiling with that deranged look in her eyes.

“Oh my god! Heeseung just posted on Weverse! He never does that—” You storm upstairs. Shame burning at the back of your throat. Because even as you reach for your phone, checking the last message you sent, reality is cruel.

you: interviewing for a job this week. so nervous.

Left on read.

You feel no better than Sophia, waiting for <3 to light up your screen. It’s pathetic.

–

It’s intentional, how dry he is. How distant.

“How’s the album coming together?” Jake asks, sitting beside him on the practice room floor. 

Heeseung shrugs, a lump already forming in his throat. It’s hard to talk with any of them these days. The other boys live easier lives, dating other idols or stylists they can see without fear. They can meet at high-profile after parties, share romantic whispers backstage. He can’t.

He can’t be seen with you anywhere. Can’t linger too long on the sidewalk of your place or answer your calls if a single stranger might overhear. 

“We film everything next week.” The younger man stares at Heeseung with a faint curiosity.

“I’ve been wondering,” Jake presses. “Did you change some of the lyrics?”

Heeseung nods. He was never ever really satisfied with his music. Constantly rewriting. The love songs he wrote always sounded too generic, written in the way he thought fans could imagine themselves being sung to. But the new lyrics, he can be proud of. Replaced with words that remind him of private moments in your room, of references he hopes no one will catch. Except you.

“They sound good,” Jake continues through Heeseung’s silence. “They sound a lot more heartfelt.” Heeseung nods again, but his eyes are somber. He brings his vape to his lips, already exhausting it of all its citrus flavor. His second cart this week. 

Jake looks at him, concerned etched all over his face. "Slow down with that."

How obvious is it to everyone else? That he's slowly dissolving. Does Jake see it? Do the boys? Would the fans? No. They can't.

And he inhales another drag despite Jake's protests, punishing himself with the harsh burn in his throat.

–

The late-night calls disappear. The updates he’d give you on their new songs feel like years away. And after an interview that seems more promising than the rest, one that feels like it could lead somewhere, the screen in front of you blinks with a headline of an article. 

Heeseung Of ENHYPEN Set To Release Mini-Album 

Your eyes drift to the last text he sent you. A week ago. And you wonder why this hasn't been mentioned. He must’ve known, right? He’d been babbling for months about this project. Showing you demos, asking for your opinion. You heard those songs before his own members did. So why didn’t he tell you?

You’re the type to take a hint, to know when you’re not wanted. You stopped trying to reach out after the first three texts were ignored. But it’s hard to let go. Maybe because you’ve told him so much about yourself. Maybe because you know so much about him. It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. It’s casual. Temporary. Always was. Still. Fuck him. 

“I don’t know how to feel about Heeseung releasing a solo,” Sophia sighs, sprawled out on the couch. “I feel like he’s not ready.”

You wish she’d just shut up about him. Delete his playlists, tear down his posters, anything so he won’t keep existing in this house, he would always sneak into.

“I mean, what if the music he makes is shit?”

“You’ll find a way,” you sigh, exhaustion evident in your voice. “You with your blind loyalty.”

Sophia turns to you with a hint of hurt in her eyes, actually listening to you for once. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Prove me wrong,” you mumble. “Give me one critique about that guy that doesn’t end with you just swooning right after.”

She rolls her eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with him. What could I even say? That he’s too perfect?” The corner of your eye twitches just a little. Of course.

“The only thing that would pop your Heeseung bubble,” you start, “is if he started dating someone.”

Sophia scowls. “No—”

“Yes,” you interrupt. “That asshole could kill a puppy and you’d still put him on a pedestal.”

Sophia throws a pillow at you. “Good thing Heeseung isn’t the asshole you think he is.”

You bite your tongue. If she knew, would she even care? About him? About you? “Trust me,” you scoff. “He is.”

–

“What are you doing here?” you ask bitterly, as a familiar masked figure lingers at your back door. He’s wearing a beanie that hides the color of his hair, and the dark rings under his eyes are more prominent now than they’ve ever been. He didn’t even text you that he was coming. Just showed up. 

“Can I come in?” he asks quietly. Normally, he wouldn’t. Now he waits at your door like a stranger. You step aside hesitantly, letting him through. Heeseung doesn’t take anything off. Doesn’t even untie his shoelaces. You narrow your eyes, the scent of smoke so palpable. He used to be so good at masking it.

“If you have something to say—”

“We need to talk." He cuts you off, keeping his gaze on the floor. Hands buried in his pockets so you wouldn't see how badly they were trembling.

“Then speak,” you say sharply. “Don’t waste my time.”

More than you already have, you want to add. More than he’s already taken from your once monotonous life. More than the color he splashed within it. 

His voice is shaky, faltering under your watchful gaze. He knew this would be hard. Knew he was never good at letting things go. “We can’t do this anymore,” he finally says. “I can’t… I can’t fuck things up right now.”

You can only laugh. To you, it’s already ended. One week of silence was enough to scrub him from your mind. Almost. “You didn’t even need to tell me,” you mumble. “I could already tell.”

He finally looks at you. His eyes are wet. “It’s not you—” 

“I know it’s not,” you interrupt venomously. “You’ve always been the problem.”

You turn away before he can see what he’s done to you. Before he can see the tears threatening to spill. “If that’s all,” you say, swallowing hard. “Then feel free to leave.”

He moves to take a step forward, but he knows it’s not right. Minimizing risk. That’s what he was here for. “Our texts,” he begins, voice strained. “Anything you have with me in it… could you delete them?”

You whip your head around, the tears that streak your cheeks glistening under the light. He sees them now. He forces himself to stay where he is, forces his hands to be useless at his sides. To not admit that this isn’t what he really wants. 

“Are you serious?” you ask, taking a step towards him with folded arms. “You don’t trust me?”

“It’s not that,” he replies quickly with pleading eyes. “Everything you have... it could be used against us. I’m trying to protect you.”

You look at him with disgust, one that he cowers under. “You’re protecting yourself.” 

You thrust your phone into his chest. “Delete everything,” you say through gritted teeth. “There’s nothing I want to remember anyway.”

Heeseung flinches, his hands shaking when he takes the phone from you. He types in your password the way he has countless times before. Memorized it like every other part of you. He blocks his own number, deletes the folder of photos you kept of him, and the endless messages. He erases the proof that he ever existed in your life. He wasn’t meant to be in it anyway.

When he returns your phone, the shame creeps up again. “I didn’t want to say goodbye like this—”

“How else would we say it?” you scoff. “What, did you want to fuck one last time?”

“You don’t know what it’s going to be like when people find out," he murmurs. "You’ll be in danger—”

“Trust me,” you say, unconvincingly, through your wavering voice. “I want to forget about what happened between us just as much as you do.”

Heeseung searches your gaze, but it breaks him. You’re not his girlfriend. You can never be. “If people find out,” he tries again, softer. “They’ll ruin everything.”

You shake your head. “They don’t have to,” you whisper, knuckles white around your phone. “You already did.”

Heeseung sucks in a deep breath and takes a step back. He deserves it. Really, he does. He deserves the hurt, the anger, the coldness. He can only blame himself. He moves toward the door.

“It’s funny,” you whisper as his hand reaches the door handle. “You’re exactly who I thought you'd be.”

He pauses, turning to face you once again.

“A pushover.”

You take a step toward him.

“A suck-up.”

And another. Close enough now that he can hear the shake in your breath.

“A fucking liar.”

Heeseung doesn’t say anything back. Doesn't flinch this time. He can’t. Because if this moment ends with him refuting you, it would be a lie.  

No matter how much he wishes he could stay and comfort you, he still opens the door and walks away. He has to.

–

The click of a camera sounds off from across the street. From a seething silhouette. She stares at the familiar cadence in his steps as he leaves your house. He doesn’t notice her presence. Never does.

She doesn’t know that he’s already said his goodbyes, doesn’t know that it took everything in Heeseung to leave. All she thinks about is herself. About what he’s done. And how he needs to suffer the consequences of his actions. 

–

And when he gets back to the dorm, Heeseung lets his bedroom door slam behind him. Sliding down the door until he’s sitting on the floor, knees drawn up. He ignored Niki’s greeting in the hallway. Pushed away the hollowness that consumed him. Until it all comes crashing down on him now. He buries his face in his hands and lets it happen this time. The tears, the regret panging against his chest.

Tomorrow, he’ll be like new. He’ll be the Lee Heeseung everyone knows. Calm. Composed. Able to roll with the punches that come with life. But for now, he is the Lee Heeseung he hates, the one who misses you. The one who aches with every being with the guilt of the overwhelming warmth he feels with you. Heeseung wipes his face with the back of his sleeve, breath trembling.

Love stories don’t always have a happy ending in his line of work. He’s an idol for god sake. He needs to act like one.

–

You’re wearing a black blazer, one Sophia gave you when she first landed her corporate job. You don’t fill it out in the same way she does, but still. You think you look good. The first time in a while where you felt like you’re heading somewhere productive.

And you’re proud of that, of yourself. Of the stubbornness it took to keep trying. Even when your thoughts keep drifting toward him. How he so vehemently believed in you. How he understood you. But it’s been days now since he wiped away his presence from your life. Weeks since he acted like you mattered to him.

“Sophia,” you call out from atop the staircase. “How does this look for the second round?”

And when you descend, hoping to see your sister’s grin, you are met with a coldness so abrupt it stops you mid-step. She sits frozen on the couch, jaw clenched, nostrils flared. Your eyes travel down to the phone on her lap, on a screen that you can barely make out. But you do.  Your stomach drops, eyes flickering between her hardened stare and the phone.

“I-I can explain,” you stutter out, voice cracking as she rises to her feet. She doesn’t answer, brushing past you and disappearing into her room.

“Sophia, please—” The soft click of her bedroom door locks behind her.

–

“What did I tell you?!” 

Manager Jung’s voice echoes off the mirrors of the practice room. Heeseung barely has time to react before the older man shoves his phone inches from his face, backing him into the corner like he’s seventeen again. Like he’s a defenseless little trainee. The screen shows a tweet. Fifty thousand likes from an anonymous account, posted just last night.

Idol shamelessly dating in public. #LeeHeeseung #ENHYPEN

Heeseung's throat dries. It's pictures he’s never seen before, but he knows them well. The wet grass. The wind cutting colder than it should have been on a summer night. Your voice, muffled by the black mask he made you wear. Though your face is blurred, he knows it’s you by the shape of your hands, by the hoodie you still hold hostage. 

He scrolls. Another photo of him leaving your house, hood up and head down. Even on the day he called it quits. A shiver runs down his spine. Your name is written in the post’s quotes from a different account, along with your graduation photos. Unblurred. They know. They already fucking know.

“What did I say?” his manager snaps. “Stay out of trouble. Was that so hard?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “They’ve already started sending funeral wreaths to the company.”

Heeseung doesn’t answer, his pulse ringing in his ear. He’s seen this all before with his idol friends, with the other members. Seen how badly a dating rumour can ruin a career. But you’re a normal person. You never asked for this. You’re not built for this scrutiny. He is. He’s supposed to be.

“Lie low,” Manager Jung continues. “Don’t say anything. We’ll instruct her to stay silent, too. The news will pass.”

Heeseung glares at the older man, his voice dark. “What about her? How are we going to protect her?”

His manager raises an eyebrow. “That’s not our responsibility." Heeseung’s eye twitches. 

“Besides,” the older male starts, “if she says anything to imply a relationship, then we’ll have to take legal action. It’s defamation.” 

Heeseung’s fingers curl into a fist so tight his nails dig into his palm. It would be so easy to swing his arm at the man he once respected and make him shut up. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even say anything. Because he’s exactly who you think he is.

A pushover.

–

jungwononly: BELIFT isn’t saying anything so it must be true

xxenhaxx: i know her. she’s not even pretty lolol

Gobigorgohome: Wow lee heeseung dates his fans what a fucking loser. she goes to concerts with her sasaeng sister lolol

anonymous101501: die bitch.

You read comments until your eyes sting, until their words jumble together. Strangers dissect your life and worth like it’s second nature to them. You wonder how he puts up with this every day, reading the insults that many write about him. How he put up with you and the assumptions you made about him.

You tell yourself you’re strong, that this shouldn’t get under your thick skin. But if you thought you couldn’t escape Heeseung before, you truly can’t now. Ever since the photos came out, ever since your address got leaked to the whole internet, every part of your existence has become tethered to him.

The street outside your house is no longer quiet, raw eggs splattered all over with yolk drying on the concrete of your front steps. A mess you can’t even come outside to clean up anymore. 

Your parents ask if you’re okay even though they aren’t themselves. They leave earlier for work to avoid the onslaught of cameras and people, holding their tongue when insults are thrown their way. And Sophia. She hasn’t spoken to you in days. Her door stays shut, ENHYPEN merch all sitting in boxes outside her door. You’ve knocked. Tried to speak to her. Tried to apologize. But she’s shut you out. 

You hear the fans’ chants through the walls, voices blending into each other that they almost become white noise. Another egg slams against your window. Fake blood spreads across your front door in abstract streaks. You bury your head under the pillow, hands pressed tight against your ears, but it doesn’t help. Their words still seep in.

Slut. Leech. A nobody.

–

“Have you checked up on her?” Jungwon asks quietly, voice breaking the silence of the dorm’s living room. “I think some fans found her address.”

Heeseung sighs, eyes fixed as he scrolls through X. Deactivated accounts, pitch black profile pictures. Fansite after fansite. Closed. Even ones opened since his debut. Fans who told him that they’d support him no matter what. Gone like they never existed.

“It’s not like I can reach out,” he says finally, voice low. “I had her block me.”

He taps on a shaky video of an older man sweeping the sidewalk, gathering shards of glass and broken eggshells. Heeseung feels like he's been punched in the gut. He recognizes your house, the blue gate he used to pass through to get to the back entrance. 

He watches the older gentleman bend down to clean the mess that people left behind. The fake blood, the paper signs with death threats. The face of a man he never got to introduce himself to. Only ever seeing his pictures when passing glances at them on your living room wall. 

Your father, exhausted and defeated. He has to blink a few times to stop his eyes from burning.

Jungwon pats his older member’s shoulder gently. “This will blow over soon,” he says, trying to sound hopeful. 

But Heeseung just shakes his head. “I should’ve been more careful,” he says, voice trembling. “I shouldn't have dragged her into this mess.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Jungwon replies, sitting next to him. 

“It’s ridiculous,” Heeseung scoffs bitterly. “How do they expect me not to say anything?”

He sets the phone down on the table, face pressed into his hands. Nothing he does now will make it better. He’s broken too much, jeopardized everything. But the solo project will continue as long as he continues to stay silent. That's what matters, right? His career? 

But still. He misses you... and the way you made him feel. He wonders what that feeling is.

–

By now, the sound of shouting outside has become the norm. You barely sleep, flinching every time a sound comes from outside. You’ve started playing music throughout the whole house just to drown them out. 

So when you hear the front door open, your feet carry you downstairs with panic. You don’t know what you’re running towards. Your parents aren’t home at this time of day. It might be an intruder. But no. It’s Sophia. She’s standing. With a carton of her own eggs, pelting the small crowd of girls outside your gate.

“Do you all have nothing better to do?!” Sophia screams. “Why the fuck are any of you still here?! It’s been three days!”

You freeze, a few steps behind her. And somehow your heart feels full. You thought she’d be against you, outside with the rest. Calling you all kinds of insults. But here she is, hair messy, still in her pajamas, defending you like the big sister she is. It’s been a while since she’s acted like one.

“Do you all really think you have a chance with him? Just say you’re jealous and leave you bitches!”

You laugh in what feels like ages. Sophia. Mentally unstable Sophia was actually helping you. That’s more you can say about some others. You push past her, showing your face for the first time to the brigade outside your door. She glances at you with worry in her eyes. You squeeze her shoulder in reassurance. You can defend yourself. 

But when you see them now, your gaze softens. Most of them are kids. Preteens and teenagers. Victims of an idol industry that encourages this behavior, encourages them to think that they own the idols they worship. That they know him. That they own him. You exhale. BELIFT’s warning email is still fresh in your inbox and in your memory.

Do not engage. Do not respond publicly.

Fuck that.

“You should all be ashamed of yourselves,” you say to the crowd. “What does any of this accomplish?”

“Shut up, old hag,” one screams. You scoff.

“Go to fucking school or something,” you call out. “Live your life. Literally do anything else.”

“Leave Heeseung alone!”

“Do you think I control him?!” you cry out, pointing at the crowd furiously. “You all fucking do! You get to decide what he’s allowed to be. What he’s allowed to feel. Congratulations! He’s all yours.” Sophia almost holds you back, guiding you closer inside. 

“Are you dating him?” one cries in the crowd. “Who is he to you?!”

You heave out a deep sigh, softening your voice. Their phone cameras are pointed at you now.

“Who is he?” you swallow. He’s a lot of things. Kind. Awkward. Always overthinking. Too obsessed with how other people view him. Too in his own head about the kind of person he should be.

“I don’t know,” you say with a wavering voice. “The Heeseung you're all so obsessed with… I promise you, I don’t know him. And I wouldn't want to.”

You turn away before anyone can shout at you again and close the door behind you. A silence follows, one that seems so foreign now. Sophia is staring at you, eyes wide in fear. When she sees a tear slip down your face, she doesn’t say anything. She just steps forward and wraps her arms around you. Because you never cry. Not in front of her at least. 

You don’t try to stop the sobs that come as you sob against her shirt. “I’m so sorry, Sophia,” you hiccup.

She rolls her eyes. “Why are you sorry?”

“I thought you’d hate me,” you huff out between choked breaths. She wipes your tears away and sighs. 

“I realized you were right, you know? My bubble was burst. I have absolutely no idea who he is.” Her gaze is so soft on yours. “But it seems like you do,” she continues with a smile, tucking a hair behind your ear. “And Heeseung is whatever. But you’re my sister. If you’re dating him and he makes you happy, then who the fuck am I to say anything?”

“S-so we’re okay?”

She crinkles her nose. “I promise you I’m not mad,” she mumbles. “Even if you took my man.”

You cry even harder. Because she’s trying to be funny, but nothing about this is. He’s not yours either.

–

When the news dies down and excuses are made when he’s absent from public appearances, Heeseung still can’t shake away the dread. The public has convinced themselves that it was all shock marketing for his solo. Or a rivaling fandom that wanted to sabotage his project. Anything but the truth.

Because you lied for him. You danced around the topic of your relationship, told the impressionable fans outside your door that he was no one to you. And it worked. 

Sitting in a styling chair, Heeseung wonders if any of this is worth it. A life where he hides behind other people’s decisions. Where he has to pretend that what he had with you meant nothing.

“All she had to do was stay quiet,” Manager Jung mutters beside him, replaying the clip of your speech at your house on his phone. “But this might be good. Maybe it will take the heat off of us—”

“And what?” Heeseung interrupts coldly. “Put it on her?”

“The company is still cleaning up after your mistakes, Heeseung—”

“By doing nothing?” 

Heeseung stands up, his stylist moving away from him. He’s never one to yell, always calm and collected. But he’s tired. So fucking tired. “It’s not her fault that this happened, so why should she have to deal with everything by herself?”

“You put this on her,” his manager snaps. “Not us. So how about you lower your tone when you speak like that?” He’s right. The whole room is looking at him. Staff members who've only ever seen him with a polite smile on his face are wide-eyed and nosy, stopping their camera adjustments to hear him better. They wait for him to apologize. And Heeseung grits his teeth. 

He can’t keep acting like the perfect person they want him to be. “Then…” he breathes out, voice quieter. “I want to release a statement.”

Manager Jung’s appearance darkens even more than it already has. “No, Heeseung,” he sighs. “No. That’s not your decision to make.”

Heeseung scoffs under his breath. “Yes. It is.”

He turns around, wiping the sweat off his brow, ignoring the frantic calls behind him. Before he can talk himself out of it, he is out the door. He leaves his phone behind. It doesn’t seem as important as this does now. 

Like he has countless nights before, he takes that 30-minute bus ride. Gets off at the stop that's a ten-minute walk from your house, which is still trashed with litter. He doesn’t stop at the front gate, aware that maybe some fans were still there watching. Not that he cares anymore. It’s way past that point. He comes in through the back and knocks. But it’s not you.

Your sister answers. He lowers his mask to give a shy smile. She freezes, grabbing onto the door frame to prevent her from fainting. Old habits die hard. But she tries to harden her expression. You told her everything after all. NDA be damned.

“W-what do you want?” Sophia says, attempting to toughen her exterior. “She doesn’t want to see you right now.”

He swallows. “But is she here? I just want a second with her.”

He gives her the most pleading look he could muster. “Please?”

She glares at him. The remaining delusions she had of this man dissipated with the wind. Those times you’ve complained about a mysterious boy who mysteriously ghosted you. He looked pathetic like this. Clad in all black, hidden from the world, and begging for a chance to speak with her little sister. 

The version of Heeseung that she thought she knew… he’s not as perfect as she thought he was. “What’s in it for her?” 

He licks his lips, voice low as a whisper. “I just need to tell her,” he mutters, “everything I couldn’t before.”

–

Even after the stunt you pull, you hear nothing from him. Not on the news. Not on social media. You refresh your search on him. He's still preparing for his solo album. Good for him. His life didn't change. But yours did.

“Get your ass out of bed just this one time,” Sophia cries, trying to pull the blanket off your figure. “Don’t you want to celebrate the new job?!”

You groan, burrowing deeper into your warm cocoon. It was a miracle you even got the email. You still half-expect another one to appear saying "Sorry, due to recent events..." But somehow, the offer stuck. You start next week. And you were more than willing to spend every second until then under self-appointed house arrest. You grunt, kicking blindly in her direction.

“Hey!” she hollers. “No one’s even out there anymore. I promise it’s safe.”

You roll your eyes. “Where would we even go? I don’t wanna go to a stupid club-”

“Just a night out,” she says quickly. “Free drinks and food. Everything on the house.”

Free food? You sit up, eyes crusty from all the scrolling. Even the world's toughest battles couldn't change your love for free stuff from your sister. She knows you too well.

“I don’t have anything cute to wear,” you mumble out, excuses falling from your lips. “And if I get mobbed outside, I might end up fighting someone.”

“Let me take care of it,” she says softly. “Just… Let me make it up to you. For that night.”

You blink at her. The night you met Heeseung. Why was she bringing that up now? Why was she suddenly trying so hard? But she stares at you with pleading eyes. “Fine,” you mumble. Sophia smiles at you. 

“You can’t stay inside forever,” she says. “Celebrities deal with this all the time. You’ll live.”

“I’m not a celebrity,” you snort.

“Good thing too,” she scoffs, flicking your forehead. “Not with that hairdo.”

She leaves the room for a second, coming back with a beautiful silk dress. A delicate floral print adorns the off-white material, with brooches adding a touch of elegance to the dress. It’s a gift, she says. Just trust her. 

You don't notice how the tag in the back says Prada. You think nothing of it when she’s spraying you with a fruity perfume, dousing your hair in product that slicks your hair in the right ways. You’re both out the door, in a taxi that feels far less elegant than the dresses you wear. The car stops in front of an old-timey theater in a more upscale part of the city, an expensive-ass opera house. 

Yes, your sister was horribly irresponsible with her money. She once bought a $1000 keychain she saw Heeseung and Sunoo wear on their bags just so she could match with them. But how badly did she want to cheer you up? This part of Seoul wasn’t accessible to people like you. Not in your tax bracket.

You both approach a well-suited man at the end of a long hallway who greets you with a guest book in hand. “Names?”

And when your sister takes the lead, hand wrapped around your arm as she pulls you into a fancy waiting area, your eyes flutter in confusion. High tables with no chairs that are more for socializing than eating. People buzz around, networking. 

“Where the fuck are we?” you mutter into her ear. "Did you take me to your work event?"

She shakes her head. “A friend of mine invited us,” she whispers. “Don’t worry about it.”

Sophia stops a server with a tray of finger foods that look too delicious to eat. You do it anyway with a fake sort of grace. Though you felt stuffy in the tight dress Sophia forced you into, it does feel nice to pretend once in a while. Like you have your shit together like everyone else.

Next thing you know, a group of servers is ushering you both into a small auditorium with dark walls and red chairs. It fills in quickly, overlooking a stage with black curtains and the golden amber hues emanating from the lamps strewn across the stage. And the prettiest of pink roses accent the piano and floor. Your favorite.

Sophia forces you to take a seat in the corner of the theater. Your attention is diverted to the stage where a lady with a mic greets the guests. She talks for a while, though you have a hard time listening when you notice a row of people with large cameras rush up to the front. 

“We ask that you leave flash photography for after the number,” the lady says. “Videos may be uploaded with permission from our team. Again, we are so happy that you have all joined us for tonight’s release party.”

A what? You stare at Sophia, wide-eyed and clueless. You clutch her forearm. “Release party?”

A soft piano hums through the room as everyone gathers around, fixating their gazes on the stage. At the very front, you spot six men. Ones you’ve seen countless times before, all dressed as dapper as everyone else. And you freeze. “Sophia—”

She shushes you, forcing you to look at the stage. The lights dim, and a spotlight trails to the left. A man walks out from the black curtain, hidden behind a black fedora. In any other setting, you would have laughed, but the dark gingham suit he wears fits well with the golden hues of light. The stranger’s brown hair peeks through. You see him better now that he lays the hat gently on the piano. Fuck.

He takes a gentle hold of the mic, singing with an ease that only he could, a soft melody carried by his clear voice.

Lee Heeseung, with his cheeky smile and pouty lips, searches the gaze of the crowd with his hands tucked into his pants. Like performing is as easy as breathing. And you almost melt from the sight of him, but you wear a hardness on your face that masks the fast beating of your heart. His eyes search the room, the lyrics flowing from his lips.

“So this is love…” He turns his head, finding you in an instant. “I know it is.”

And the moment passes. He continues his performance, while you fall apart at the seams. Heeseung takes off his suit jacket, rolling up his sleeves as the music quickens.

He sneaks in glimpses of you. Your watery eyes are reflecting so beautifully off the golden stage lights. He loses himself in the music. His music. Everything he’s ever wanted to say, everything he’s ever wanted you to hear. For you to know him. For you to see him.

When it ends, he gives a bow so slight. And his eyes find yours again. 

–

“I’m leaving,” you say, standing up from the suede red chair without a second thought. You rush out, Sophia chasing after you.

“Stop that,” she tries to match your speed, failing miserably in her high heels. “I’m not letting you.”

“No, fuck this,” you mutter. Rushing past the theater doors, you turn your head towards her. “Why’d you even bring me here?”

“Please, just hear him out,” she sighs. “He wanted to see you after his performance.”

“Why?” you mock. “So he can see how I’m doing after he’s rubbed whatever that was in my face? So he can tell me he made the right decision?”

“He deserves a second chance,” she pleads, your steps finally coming to a halt. She tries to grab your hand, but it’s balled up into a fist. She settles for your elbow instead. 

“Of course you would say that,” you laugh bitterly. “So what did he promise you? Tickets to their concert? A backstage pass? Did he offer to take you to a fucking hotel right after?”

“Stop—”

“No!” you cry, tears ruining you’re makeup. “I’m done. I don’t need this shit. I don’t need him.”

You pull away from her, your high heels clacking against the marble floor. She follows you, silent now. You push down the pathetic sobs that exit your mouth, sighing in relief when you see the outside. But it’s strange. A black van is parked on the curb with an open door. Like it’s waiting for you. You hesitate, backing away until you feel the warm press of your sister’s hands on your back. She inches you toward the vehicle.

“W-what?” You try to turn, but the ground beneath you disappears as Sophia gives you one big push. You fall into the car, your knees landing on the dark carpet.

“OW—” And you see who’s inside, at the back, waiting for you. He holds a bouquet of pink roses wrapped in white paper with pleading doe eyes and a nervous grin, a suit vest that perfectly hugs his frame. You shake your head, lifting yourself onto your palms. Sophia pushes your feet into the car forcefully, and you throw her a panicked look.

“This is me trying to make it up to you.”

Quickly, she slides the car door. "What the fuck—"

Heeseung offers you a hand. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, flinching slightly when you push him away. “This was the only way I could reach out.”

“And whose fault was that?” you scoff, trying to open the door. But there's a child lock.

"Is this your plan? Try to kidnap me and apologize?"

He purses his lips. "Please. Just give me a few minutes of your time."

You look up at him, the roses in his hand, and the softness in his demeanor. You couldn't forget him even if you tried. So you sigh, sinking into the back seat with him. He lays the roses down to sit between you two. He had so much to say, so much to confess. But he didn’t know where to start. So you do it for him.

“Do you think just singing to me is gonna make everything okay?” you ask, venom laced in your voice. “Last time I checked, you were the one who wanted nothing to do with me—”

“I was wrong, okay?” he says, interrupting you. His voice lowers. “About everything.”

Heeseung bites his lip, heaving out a deep breath. “I fucked up, I know that…”

He sneaks you a glance, but you can’t even bother to look at him. He sees the thin streak of mascara that coats your cheek.

“I was thinking about what you said,” he starts, voice cracking just a little. “About how I just let things happen to me because I’ve normalized them or made excuses. And I just thought you didn't understand what it's like being an idol... but you’re right.”

He gulps. "You're right. I am a pushover. I am a suck-up. I am a liar..." Finally, you look at him. His chest tightens.

“I want to be better," he whispers. "For you.”

You scoff.  “Isn’t it a little too late for all this?” you choke out, biting the inside of your cheek out of anger. “We’re not supposed to be seen with each other.”

He shakes his head. “I don't care anymore. I care about you.” 

You suck in a deep breath. The snappy words that usually come out of your mouth when he’s around fade away. You feel it through him now. The regret.

“They… they won’t promote my new album,” he continues. “This is the only thing they let me do. Outside of this one event, I’m on my own with promoting everything. No music shows. No variety shows.”

He takes your hands into his, more to get support than to give it. You let him. “Like an independent artist,” he says with a cruel smile, hiding a despair you can’t fathom. 

Your mouth falls open. “But why? I thought the rumors had already died down…”

“Because,” he starts, relieved now that you’re unconsciously clutching onto him. “...I don’t want to be a liar anymore.”

He swallows hard. Unsure if this will ever come out right. But he needs to say it. “I want to be with you. I want to take you to nice things like this. Nicer places. So we don’t have to hide behind shades or masks whenever we go out. I don't want to keep us a secret.”

The words knock the wind out of your lungs as he closes his eyes. Us? Since when was there an us? “So what are you trying to say?” you ask, in a low whisper. His thumbs rub over your knuckles.

“I’ll never,” Heeseung gulps. “Never do anything like I did before. I won’t shut you out. I won’t ask you to keep secrets for me.”

His head rests on your hands as he begs. You feel the wetness of his eyes hit the back of your palm. “I'm sorry,” he finally says. “I'm so fucking sorry.”

A stillness falls between you two, save for the soft sniffles barely audible from his muffled nose. You lift his head to meet your eyes, your palm resting under his chin. Despite the pain, despite the silent treatment, he seems so sincere. And maybe if he was just some guy who ghosted you and came crawling back without an explanation, then maybe you would have slapped the shit out of him. But this is Heeseung. And you know he has his reasons. So you nod, your own tears threatening to spill over once more. You don’t even try to hide them.

“You can leave,” he says through bated breaths, brushing the mascara stain from your cheek. “You can walk out of this car right now if you want. But if you let me… I… I want to tell you how I feel. Without running away.”

Your hand meets his wrist, losing yourself in his beautiful eyes. “And what is that?” you say, in a low voice.

He leans into you, his breath impossibly close to yours. “That I'm in love with you.”

You feel your heart flutter in your chest, and a smile finally pokes through your sullen face. You inch forward, catching his lips with your own in a soft kiss. When you pull away to see his fluttering eyes, your heart warms.

“I think I am too.”

The van parks in a destination unknown to both of you. Somewhere secluded. The driver walked out minutes ago, far enough away to give you both privacy in the back seat.

Your lips melt against Heeseung’s, tongues dancing to make up for the nights spent waiting to have this moment again. Your body remembers him, yearning for contact. He pulls you into his lap, admiring the way the expensive fabric bunches up your thighs. A dress he’d bought for you ages ago, not sure how appropriate it would be to offer it to you, knowing you'd outwardly refuse. You looked so fucking good in it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he mutters, peppering kisses down your neck. The neck that once wore his bruises so beautifully. You unbutton his vest, pulling apart the material and sighing from frustration when his dress shirt is still underneath. 

“And you’re wearing too many clothes,” you grumble. He chuckles as your hands work their way down the new set of buttons, revealing his tanned skin one by one. He unzips the back of your dress, relishing in how it falls so easily for him.

“Fuck,” he sighs, masking a grin. “Why do you never wear a bra?”

He licks his lips at the sight. Your bareness, dimly glowing by the car’s overhead light. He takes his hand out to rub a nipple, perky and plump. “Didn’t think I needed to tonight,” you mutter mockingly. His gaze darkens.

“I’m not complaining,” he whispers against your skin, nipping at your collarbone. His mouth finds your bud, suckling at it as his hooded gaze follows you. You wrap your fingers around his hair, giving in to his warm touch. 

It feels like all the other times before, but so much better. Because even if you’re in the back of his company van and hidden away from the world, you’ve never felt more seen by him. He’s learned everything there is to know about you. 

Knows how much it drives you crazy when three of his fingers are inside, knuckles deep, massaging that spongy part of your core that makes your back arch into him. Knows how malleable your body is when he lays you down on the seats, flowers he forgot to offer you tossed onto the floor. Knows that when he bares his neck to your lips, that your mouth will flutter with sweet sounds because finally, he lets you mark him. But he still wants more.

You bite down hard when he positions himself impatiently between your legs. “Need you,” he grunts, his pulsing member catching between your folds through the thin lace of your underwear. “Right now.”

You let out a sound of agreement, continuing your nibbles against his skin. "Heeseung—"

He groans at the sound of his name, pushing your underwear to the side. You grab at his brown hair, pulling him to look at you. “Make it up to me.”

He nods feverishly, entering your tightness in a painstakingly slow pace. It always ends up like this. Not enough time to prep you, but still so fucked out underneath him. You find his neck again, digging your canines into him as he stills inside. He winces in pain, head falling forward. Heeseung deserves it. And god, does he love it.

He waits for the clench of your walls to soften, his thumb rubbing small circles on your clit to distract you from the stretch. Car sex should be messy. It should be quick. A damn driver is waiting outside of some sketchy parking lot just so he can reunite with you. But he could give less of a fuck. He’ll take everything in, take you the way he wants to. The way he knows you like it.

Heeseung’s hands are clasping your hands into his, above your head. His thrusts start slow and agonizing, but addicting all the same. They’re harsh against you, snapping his hips forward with perfect control. “Ngh!” 

Your breasts bounce with each recoil of his thrusts, hitting the deepest part of you. Your eyes refuse to shut, too enthralled with the sight of your connection. Of him going so deeply inside of you that the imprint of him is visible beneath your belly button.

It’s silent, save for the wet sounds of his pounding, the rustling of clothes that stayed on from impatience, and the small sounds that come out of your lips. But it’s the loudest you’ve ever felt him. The intensity of his gaze, the intimacy of your held hands, pushes you closer to your climax faster than any other night. He is yours. He’s made it clear.

“More…” you cry. And you don’t know what you’re whining for, but you beg anyway.

“Anything you want,” he moans, pressing his forehead onto yours. “I can give you, baby. I promise…” You shut him up with your lips. Because this is enough. Him back, him dropping the pretenses. You don’t care for hors d'oeuvres or designer dresses. You miss him in your room. You miss him in that stupid hoodie. Just you. Just him. The Heeseung you know, the Heeseung you love.

“I just want you,” you cry, the familiar coil shooting through your toes and up your core. He buries his head into your hair, his slow pace quickening when he hears your breath hitch. The slickness of your walls only makes it easier for him to penetrate. In and out, over and over again. He’ll give you everything. 

“Heeseung—” 

The sweet sound of his name from your lips eggs him on. He plows deeper into you, rubbing against your sweet spot. Deep and hard. Until you start to see stars. Until your fingers clutch his and your mouth opens into a silent scream, hips stuttering up to meet his. Until your red-hot orgasm propels him to go faster and harder, cursing into your skin. His thrusts are cruel, rolling into you as you try to push down the oversensitivity. The car squeaks from his rough movements.

“Heeseung,” you whine again, tears falling down your face. He kisses them away, face flushed as he nears his own climax. Your makeup, so beautifully ruined.

“So pretty, baby,” he mumbles, pistoning harder into you. “So pretty.”

You choke out a sob, already another orgasm threatening to spill over. He feels it too, feels the last of his sanity fly out the window.

“Shit—I’m gonna—” He tries to pull away. Tries.

“It’s okay,” you coax him, wrapping your legs around his frame. He always pulls out. Never gives himself the satisfaction of cumming inside of you. But you want it now. More than ever. “It’s a safe day.”

It’s not like he hasn’t thought of it before. He never wore a condom with you anyway. He’d been holding back from it because it felt too intimate, felt too real. But he knows now what this is. What you have. And he’ll gladly give in.

His thrusts drag along your G-spot repeatedly as your hips arch up into him. “Mh…Oh my god…Hee—”

"Fuck—"

He moans with you, head resting on your shoulder. Ropes of hot, white cum fill your tight walls. You whimper underneath him, your second orgasm washing over you as the heat in your core spreads through your body. He thrusts as deeply as he can, whispering sweet nothings into your skin, pushing more of himself into your gummy walls. Your juices mix with his, squelching noises permeating the car. 

When you look up, the windows are all fogged and dewy. “You’re so perfect, baby,” Heeseung sighs into your hair, coming down from his high. The best one yet. “Perfect for me.”

You brush his hair down from all the tugging you put it through, giving him a cheeky grin. “And who are you?” you ask teasingly. “Who am I perfect for?”

He smiles against your jaw, looking up at you through his beautifully long eyelashes. “Your boyfriend,” he smiles.

“Is that your way of asking?” you scoff, glaring up at him.

He lifts himself to your eye level. "No," he kisses your forehead. "The performance was."

Your cheeks warm, all of a sudden, so shy. The pink roses. The sneaking glances. Damn, he's good.

Heeseung grins. “So? Is that a yes?”

You shove his chest lightly. “Sure. Consider yourself lucky.”

“Big mistake,” he teases, wrapping his arms around you. “I’m never letting you go again.”

Even when you’re both appropriately dressed (save for the panties Heeseung hides deep into his pants pocket), the driver still feels less awkward to go back into the van. You take a second to admire the bouquet now in your lap, Heeseung’s hand in yours.

“I’m sorry, too, by the way,” you glance at him. “About your album. It would’ve been great to see you perform on music shows and all that.”

He smiles. There’s no sadness behind it this time. “Don’t be,” he reassures you. “I know what I'm signing myself up for.”

“But still. You didn’t have to do all this for me. The dress, the flowers… Convincing my sister—”

“Trust me,” he interrupts you. “I was going crazy without you.” You laugh at his surprisingly serious expression. You believe him.

“We didn’t have to go public, either,” you mumble. “I don’t want our relationship to hurt your career.”

He squeezes your hand, eyes searching your worried gaze. “It would have been public anyway,” he starts hesitantly. “Because I dedicated every song to you. I’ll give you a copy when it releases.”

Your mouth parts open in shock. “What?”

He laughs because he knows you heard him. Heeseung kisses your temple, the scar of your first meeting with him slowly fading with time. He hopes he can replace it with his presence instead.

“They’re all about you.”

–

Even though Heeseung hasn’t opened WeVerse in weeks, he finds himself typing from the small couch of the dorm living room. And hits send.

I’m so sorry to ENGENEs for the recent news. I want to be honest and say that the situation a few months ago had hurt me and the one I love very deeply. I just hope that our privacy can be respected at this time. Thank you, and I’m sorry for making any of you worry.

Sophia gawks at her phone, twisting it around to show you. The photocard of Heeseung that was once in the back is now replaced with a Polaroid picture of you and her as kids.

You try not to bite back a smile. “That’s my man, by the way.”

fin.

It takes three whole entire dinners. Two delicious meals without so much as a stir from his room, and you’re just about to give up on the whole scheme, when you’re finally rewarded with a tousled head poking out of his room on the third attempt.

“Want some?” you immediately pipe up, giving him an encouraging smile while you scoop noodles into your bowl. Realizing your mistake, you quickly relocate your gaze back to the food, so as not to scare him off.

Cmon, take the bait. Come on out, kitty. You know you want it.

Silent as ever, your massive roommate indeed emerges to fill his belly.

A soft, “Thanks,” is all you get for your efforts, but it thrills you. You sit there practically vibrating with glee, trying to play as cool as possible while you both eat and purposefully don’t speak to each other. There’s just chewing and silence, and the quiet clatter of spoons and forks, and you love it.

The next day, the contents of your personal grocery list have magically appeared in your refrigerator. The meat you needed, vegetables, your special milk for your cereal. Bemused, you step over to your pantry and verify that, yes, he got the dry stuff too. You weren’t planning to cook anything fancy two days in a row, but hell, if he’s around again tonight, you might as well.

But he’s not around. You don’t see him again for several weeks, never even got a text that he was leaving. You were just starting to make progress, and now it’ll all be erased when he returns. You lost your one window of opportunity for building trust, and it’ll be back to silence, back to emptiness, back to being strangers.

But to your surprise, when he does finally come home, he meows at you.

Not officially. Not in, like, actual cat language, but he drops his bag by the door and responds to your quiet greeting with a heavy sigh, and, "It’s good to be back.”

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face, so you quickly hide it by staring at the TV.

He joins you for dinner the next time you cook. And the next. Groceries pop up like spring flowers, anything you write down, even if it’s snacks he never touches.

He starts hanging out with you while you cook. On the other side of the counter at first, looming like a dark shadow, just listening to your music and offering answers to your small talk.

You keep it light. Keep it friendly and easy, and entice him over occasionally to taste what you’re making. He starts lingering closer, letting the kitchen light touch him, leaning against your side of the counter. The scary side.

And then one day he tells you a joke. Just completely out of the blue, “What do you call an angry carrot?”

“Uhh…” you pause peeling carrots for a second, trying to wrap your head around some scenario where this is a legitimate question, because surely he's not about to tell you an actual joke. “I dunno?”

“A steamed vegetable.”

You return to your carrots with a delighted laugh. He's being friendly, he's making jokes! Best not comment on the progress he's made, because you don’t want to scare him off.

Good luck with that.

He starts following you around like an actual stray cat. You can’t bear to close the door on him, so he’s just always there, hanging out in the doorway, telling you little bits about his day while you brush your teeth for bed. He doesn’t talk a whole lot, prefers to listen to you yap, but he’s shut in his room less and less.

Except for the bad times. Simon goes through phases where he recluses himself again. Sometimes it’s only a few hours, other times it’s days, but he occasionally needs time to himself, and you don’t mind. You still get a thrill every time he appears again, metaphorically meowing at you and rubbing up against your leg.

God, you wish he would. You could use some good leg rubbing, actually.

Is he the rubbing type? He’s never made a pass at you, never touched you at all, and even the times when you’ve hung out together in your room, he always stood politely in the doorway. Always turned his head to the side when you’ve had to open your underwear drawer or spilled sauce on your shirt and had to strip it off. He’s just like that, always aware of your personal space and his, uncomfortable about the two bubbles touching without warning.

When it finally happens, it's you who's surprised.

You've just halted mid-step in the middle of the kitchen, staring down at the corner of the cabinets because you swear you just saw something move.

When all of a sudden, and actual mouse scampers across the floor, doing erratic zig zags like it's too scared to decide where to go, and all you can do is scream because it's coming right for you--

A thick arm clamps around your stomach, and your feet abruptly lose contact with the floor. You've completely lost track of the mouse, you're just frozen in shock from the fact that your whole back is glued to Simon's side, and he doesn't even bother to hold you up with both arms as he swivels around searching for where the mouse went.

"Thanks," you squeak, patting his forearm as a signal to put you down. "You're really strong, holy shit."

He grunts like he doesn't agree. "Doesn't take much to lift somebody."

Your feet touch back down to the linoleum, and you just hope your hot face isn't too evident. "Right, uh huh. Cause I could definitely lift you."

"Probably could."

You eye him skeptically, all the way from his socks, to the always-mussed hair at the top of the mountain. "I don't feel like throwing out my back, but thanks for the offer."

"I wasn't offering."

It's just small talk. Regular jokes, with his usual deadpan delivery, but you swear there was something he meant to say in those words. You try to discern them, gazing up into those brown eyes that don't mind meeting yours anymore.

It's hanging in the air, the thing he meant to say. You don't want to try and guess. It's too risky, and you might hurt yourself if you get it wrong.

"What is it, Simon? What's wrong?"

His eyes stutter for just a second, like he's ripping himself out of a train of thought. "I think you should hide in your room while I find that mouse."

Stupid, cockblocking mouse.

You don't sleep well that night. You keep thinking about your quiet roommate, end up having to jerk off at two in the morning just to get a little bit of relief, and your sleep is fretful even after that.

You ask about the mouse the next day, and he swears he not only caught it, but released it in the woods a mile away. There's absolutely no telling if he's pulling your leg or not, so you just drop it, too absorbed in the questions that were haunting you all night.

"I'm not good at... fucking."

Your head snaps up, staring wide eyed at Simon's troubled expression across the table. "What?"

"I've never been with a woman before. At least, not... like this. Wager I'll make a fool of myself, so I might as well get it out in the open."

"Oh. Um." Your heart is pounding, your mind whirling to comprehend how you got here so suddenly. He looks so scared, holding himself rigidly into place without so much as blinking, and you're taking far too long to answer at this point.

"I'm good at it," you finally tell him, hoping it sounds more comforting and less like a brag. "We can figure it out together, if it's something you want to do."

"Okay."

It takes a little while to get there. Some time to find a natural moment to take his hand in yours, for him to return the gesture by wrapping his arm around your waist and bringing your body over to his. But then his hand finds the back of your neck, and he's definitely not a beginner at kissing.

You've wanted it for so long, imagined it so often, that the press of his body against yours almost feels familiar. The seeking movements of his lips, the soft breaths coasting over your cheek. It's quiet and slow, in the corner of your shared kitchen.

He tucks your body into his, lets you saturate yourself in each second of this moment while you both learn the way the other likes to kiss. You end up in your bed soon after, just for the sake of comfort and lining up your mouths a little more conveniently.

It's easy to lose yourself in the safety of him. Your body feels at home in the muscled softness of his, in the thoughtful, patient movements of his hands exploring under your clothes. It feels like he's belonged to you far sooner than today.

His first time isn't perfect, but he makes up for his inexperience by taking his time. Laughs at your breathless, "a hole is a hole" statement, and insists on exploring with his mouth and fingers first.

Simon makes the prettiest noises when he finds your wetness waiting for him. He seems to enjoy the feeling of it on his fingers, sliding them in and out so carefully, studying the textures inside you. He tastes his own fingers, less like a scientist and more like a little kid who's discovering new flavors in the sandbox.

He makes a sound then, a warm, rumbly one, and then pulls his fingers out of his mouth to lean down and find your clit with his lips.

A hole is a hole, but there's something special about whispering little cues at him in the dark, and the way he efficiently adjusts himself, ever the dedicated soldier. A hole is a hole, but you cum like that, with your roommate's strong hand gripping your hip, and his mouth accomplishing exactly the motion you need to draw a slow, brain-melting orgasm out of you.

"Yeah, just like that," you pant a few moments later, shoving his face away from your oversensitive pussy.