so american!
p. two — eom seonghyeon
pairing. seonghyeon / f ! wasian reader
warnings + info. intense kissing, super touchy but nothing crazy, cussing, mentions of underage drinking, low-key like trespassing but who doesn't love a little thrill, mentions of reader’s mom being asian, sean kinda a loser but we luv him
! must read prior parts to understand !
synopsis. a highkey korean guy wanders into your parents' café, lost and in need of an American to show him around NYC
▸ p. one ෆ ▸ p. two ෆ ▸ p. three ෆ
total fic wc. 35.9k part one wc. 8.1k part two wc. 13.1k part three wc. 14.4k
▸ feedback & reblogs are highly appreciated
author's note. hi u guys 🤗 i had literally 0 expectations for this but i'm so glad you guys liked how i portrayed seonghyeon bc i wanted it to be as accurate to him and honestly i could really envision him being this good at english and have unintentional rizz and yes I know damn well that boy is chronically online r u kidding. u guys all get smooches for the love on this piece it gives me sm motivation (that i usually don't have...) to write 🫣🫣 i can't wait for u to read this next part bc it's where it gets VERY JUICY so stay with me. i wrote way too much and its breaking my macbook so im deliberating posting the 3rd part because this is not all of it..... and it feels unfinished lowkey so prob will if u guys like this anyway here is 13k+ more words of this fic bc i can't stop yapping ha
lovhyeon © 2025 | all content belongs to me
Hairspray. It was everywhere.
In your nostrils, in your sister's hair, shit—all over her bed.
Your sister was glued to the mirror, curling another section of hair while humming off-key. You sat cross-legged on her bed, scrolling aimlessly and trying to ignore the faint smell of hairspray choking the air.
"Wanna stop judging me and work on finding yourself a ride to this thing?" she snarled at your reflection in the mirror, gaining an attitude after you announced yourself suddenly attending the event that you had been trolling her over for weeks. Oops.
"Okay bruh, I'm sorry. I just wanna check out one of your interests! Is that so wrong?" You locked your phone and rolled over to watch her more intensely. You also gave her sweet, delicate and incredibly convincing doe eyes. "And I'm not judging. Just, like, wondering how you plan to survive outside with that much hairspray.”
She turned around to look you up and down with the most disgusted look she could muster.
"At least I'm putting an effort in. For someone who wants to go to this, you look like you just rolled out of bed." With a roll of her eyes, she went back to work and set her mind on ignoring your whining.
"Hey! I never said this was my outfit, I just came to check on you," you shot up defensively and gathered yourself to stroll back to your room. "Matter of fact, I'm gonna go change into my real outfit. Go to hell."
And you really were going. Until a thought popped into your head.
"Actually... I wanted to ask you—what kinds of people are performing tonight?" AKA code for what kind of music does Seonghyeon listen to? What if he was a bot that listened to classical Korean music or heavy metal? Not that there's anything wrong with that, in fact you respect it. Just not up your sleeve.
“Uh, a bunch of smaller artists,” she answered, typing something on her phone. “And this one group is headlining—Cortis.”
You made a face. “Cortis? That sounds like a prescription drug.”
She whipped around. “Oh my god, shut up. They’re Korean. A boy group. Literally everyone loves them right now.”
“Ohhh, a boy band,” you said dramatically and snorted. “Right, right, I forgot we were living in 2013 again.”
She glared at you standing in the entry of her room in the mirror. “You just don’t get it. They’re talented. They write their own songs, dance, perform—”
“Yeah, yeah,” you interrupted, waving your hand in dramatics. “All while wearing glitter and eyeliner. Revolutionary.”
Your sister turned back to her mirror with a groan. “You’re so fucking annoying.”
You grinned, stretching out your arms. “And yet, I’m still going. So who’s really winning?”
Her reflection smirked and you didn't like that she knew something was up. “You’re only going because you think some cute guy’s gonna be there.”
You didn’t answer. You just picked at a loose thread on her comforter, pretending to be unbothered. “Maybe I just want to support the arts.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, wiping the excess lip liner off and clearly not buying your act. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Your phone buzzed beside you. The screen lit up.
4 new messages from seonghyeon (Sean?) hope to see u there lol.
You flipped your phone face-down before your sister could see and exhaled slowly. “Yeah,” you muttered. “Something like that.”
10 minutes before you guys had to leave, you got stuck in your head again. So weird.
You told yourself it wasn’t that deep. It really shouldn’t be. Just a random guy who you had good conversation with and happened to come back the next morning. People flirt all the time in this city—half the time it doesn’t even mean anything. That’s what you kept repeating to yourself, like if you said it enough you’d start believing it.
Still, your brain wouldn’t shut up. Numerous times you’d caught yourself scrolling through his texts, rereading the stupidest lines like they were poetry. Hope to see u there lol. What was that even supposed to mean? You weren’t the type to overthink guys, but there was something about the way he said things, like every word came with its own rhythm. Even when his English slipped, it sounded good. Too good.
God, what was wrong with you? He was probably just being nice. Polite. Maybe he flirted with every barista from here to Korea. You didn’t know him. You didn’t even know if Seonghyeon was his real name. Sean, Seonghyeon, whoever he was—he wasn’t supposed to make your stomach flip over like this.
You tossed your phone onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. You were being dramatic. It wasn’t like he’d asked for your number in some romantic way; you literally wrote it on a coffee cup. But then your mind went straight back to how his voice dropped a little when he said your name. The way he looked at you like he was trying to figure your every detail out.
"Let's go! What's taking so long?"
The venue was smaller than you’d pictured—half-club, half-garage—but the energy was ridiculous. It was the kind that filled every corner of the room, vibrating through the floorboards and making your bones hum. Neon lights bled from the stage, pink and blue washing over the crowd as people swayed shoulder to shoulder, holding drinks that kept sloshing over their wrists.
You weren’t really the concert type. Usually you’d rather be home in sweatpants, or even a small gathering with your friends, not dodging elbows and glitter at a rave. But tonight was different. It wasn’t as unbearable as you’d expected.
Sure, you kept having to readjust your tube top and skirt and you were a little uncomfortable due to lack of space, but they were small inconveniences for the amount of fun you were having.
Your sister had somehow dragged you toward the front, and somewhere between her shrieking along to songs you’d never heard of and the bass that rattled your chest, you’d started to loosen up.
You found yourself laughing. Like, actually laughing. The kind of laugh you only had around her when you weren’t trying to win an argument.
Your sister threw her arm around your shoulder during one chorus, her perfume mixing with the sharp tang of beer and hairspray, and yelled, “See? You’re having fun! I told you.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t bother denying it or shying away from her. Maybe she was right. Maybe this wasn’t the worst way to spend a Thursday night.
Still, every now and then, your eyes flicked toward the back of the room. Maybe out of habit, maybe because your brain had a mind of its own. Your entire field of vision scanned every inch possible of the darkened room and no sight of a guy who sticks out like a sore thumb because of his presence. You weren’t even sure what you were expecting—just some tall guy in a hoodie with that same easy smile and mellow voice that had been stuck in your head all week.
You shook the thought off. It was stupid. He wasn’t coming. “Hope to see u there lol” didn’t exactly sound like a binding promise. It sounded like something you’d say to keep things light. Noncommittal. And yet here you were, half-listening to a band you didn’t know, half-searching for someone who probably forgot your name five minutes after you gave it to him.
You checked your phone again. No notifications. Not even a “hey.”
You typed out a message anyway:
You [Thurs, Oct 15, 8:36 PM] you here yet or am i just blind
Then locked your phone before you could spiral about how desperate that sounded.
Delivered. No reply.
The next group started setting up—the same new breakout group your sister claimed was “underrated.” You didn’t catch the name; you were too focused on not caring. You forced yourself to look around at the crowd instead. Everyone else seemed at ease, chatting, laughing, swaying to the lo-fi track playing over the speakers. You wanted to be one of them, carefree and detached, not standing there dissecting one line of a text like it held a secret meaning.
Your sister nudged you. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just—hot,” you said quickly, tugging at your top.
The air in the venue was heavy, thick with the smell of sweat and beer. You could feel the bass from the last act still buzzing through the floor. People shuffled closer to the stage, craning their necks for a better view. You checked your phone again—nothing. The screen stared back, empty, except for your own message from ten minutes ago.
You [Thurs, Oct 15, 8:36 PM] you here yet or am i just blind
The text glared at you like it wanted you to leave it alone and so you locked your phone without the intention of checking it again. Hopefully.
You frowned. Maybe he got busy. Maybe it wasn’t that kind of invite. Maybe he’d just sent the tickets because he felt bad for taking your number and never using it. Whatever it was, you refused to be that person—the one waiting around for some guy who barely knew your name.
Still, your eyes drifted toward the entrance. Just in case.
You attempted to focus on the commotion on the stage, the claustrophobia lowkey getting to you.
“Who are these guys again?” you asked, mostly to distract yourself.
“Cortis,” your sister said, half-shouting over the crowd. “They’re kinda new but everyone’s obsessed. You’ve definitely seen them online. I tried making you do the dance the other day, remember!?”
“Cortis?” you repeated, making a face. “Oh, that Cortis.”
She laughed, brushing glitter onto her cheekbone. “You’ll see. They’re actually really fucking good.”
You rolled your eyes for the umpteenth but smiled anyway. The lights flickered once, dimmed, then rose again. Some tech adjusted a stage prop. A few people in the front screamed, like they already knew who was coming next.
You looked down at your phone again, thumb hovering over his contact. You typed nvm ignore me lol then deleted it. Typed it again. Deleted. The screen glowed against your face while the crowd began to close in, tighter and louder.
The room felt smaller now. You could barely hear yourself think over the hum of the speakers, but your thoughts wouldn’t shut up anyway. You kept scanning faces near the side of the stage—guitarists tuning, crew members moving equipment—each time expecting to see him and each time telling yourself not to.
You shoved your phone into your pocket and tried to focus on anything else. A girl with neon blue hair next to you screamed something about how hot one of the members was. You smiled faintly, pretending you were in on the hype.
The lights dipped again. The chatter died down. A low thrum filled the room, vibrating through your chest.
You swallowed hard.
Your sister bounced beside you, grinning. “Oh my god, they’re coming out!”
“Cool,” you shouted back, voice flat, but your heart was already racing for reasons you didn’t want to unpack.
The smoke machine hissed, spilling fog over the edge of the stage. The crowd started chanting something you couldn’t make out. For a second, all you could see were shapes moving behind the big screens to the side—shadows crossing, cables being pulled, a flash of someone’s arm under the bright stage lights.
You genuinely just wanted to hurry the process up because you didn't care for this dramatic buildup. Really, you didn’t. But when one of those shadows adjusted the mic on their shirt, tall frame, a too familiar stance, a flicker of something hit the back of your throat.
No way.
You blinked, forcing yourself to focus, to breathe. It couldn’t be. You were imagining it.
Then the lights cut through the haze.
“Hi, this is Cortis.”
The voice—sweet, familiar, a little deeper than you remembered—hit before your brain could make sense of it.
The sound hit like a heartbeat. No pause, no warning. Just the opening synth and the drum kick straight into GO!—loud, fast, messy in a way that made people scream before the verse even started. The lights strobed white and blue and for a second all you could see was faint movement.
And then you saw his smile through the darkness before you even saw his whole face.
Seonghyeon.
Beanie pulled low, a white I <3 D2 hoodie similar to the black one you’d watched him wear behind the counter like it meant nothing, and jeans incredibly vintage. He looked so good. Unreal. Like he’d been born to stand there under that light.
The group ran out and immediately the crowd went berserk. He hit the first lyric with a grin that made the whole front row lose it. You just stood frozen.
Your brain tried to keep up. That’s him. That’s the guy who stuttered in every other sentence he spoke in English. That’s the guy who texted “hope to see u there lol.” That’s the guy who apparently was a K-pop idol.
He moved like he didn’t know anyone was watching—shoulders loose, voice steady even when the crowd screamed over him. The kind of confidence you couldn't fake even if you tried. Every beat made it worse. You wanted to laugh, to turn to your sister and say you’re kidding me, but your mouth wouldn’t work.
The chorus hit, the lights flared, and you swear he looked like he was searching for someone—just for a second—but it was enough to make your pulse stumble when you caught his eye. He didn’t smile or wave or anything obvious, but something in his face shifted, like recognition flickered and passed.
You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. It was probably the stage lights. It was the smoke. It was nothing.
But your chest still ached in this weird, quiet way.
The song crashed into its final chorus, the crowd chanting go go go like they’d been waiting for this moment all night. He threw his head back when he sang, hair sticking out from under the beanie, and you suddenly thought—absurdly—that he looked exactly like the kind of person who should be famous.
The way he moved was completely the opposite of how he was when you initially met him. Was this like... an alter ego? Maybe an identical twin? That had to be the only explanation for this phenomenon.
When it ended, the applause was deafening. People screamed names, someone tossed a phone case on stage, the drummer stood up to bow. Your sister was clapping next to you, yelling about how good they were.
You just stood there.
Your phone buzzed once in your pocket. You didn’t check it right away. You couldn’t.
Because for the first time all night, you couldn’t tell if you’d been waiting for the text—or for him.
You didn’t check your phone right away. The crowd was already moving, loud and restless, shoving toward the exits or the merch tables. The lights came up too fast and bright. Your sister was still talking—yelling, actually—about how good they were, how the last song sounded like a Travis Scott song or something. You barely heard her.
Your head was ringing. Maybe from the bass. Maybe from everything else.
You finally looked down at your phone. One new message.
1 new message from seonghyeon (sean?) saw you.
Just two words, nothing special. But your stomach flipped anyway.
You read it again. Then again.
Your sister grabbed your arm and dragged you to a concession booth before you could even think of replying. “Come on, let’s get water. I’m fucking dehydrated as hell.”
You let her pull you through the thinning crowd, past people still chanting the group's name, past a merch table that was already swarmed. You caught flashes of white hoodies and posters—CORTIS in bold black font, his face right there next to the others.
You stopped. For a moment, it was like your brain lagged behind your eyes. That was him. Same hair, same jawline, same cheeky smile. He wasn’t just in the group—he was the group.
You took a second to take in your surroundings and there the evidence was. At every corner and empty wall space were posters of them. Him. Advertising their arrival and performance.
Girls holding photo cards and literal picket fans of his face. How the fuck was this possible?
Genuinely, were you just blind this whole time?
Your sister was still talking beside you, oblivious, fanning herself with a pamphlet. She noticed your obvious eyeing of the propaganda around you, thinking you finally thought a K-Pop idol was cute. “Oh Seonghyeon? He’s so good-looking in person. Like godly. Did you see him? He came out first.”
You swallowed hard, pretending to laugh. “Yeah. Totally insane.”
You tucked your phone into your pocket, trying to play it off, but your pulse wouldn’t slow down. Every step toward the exit made it worse. Then, right as you passed the side of the stage—through a narrow hallway where security was blocking off the area—you saw him.
No hoodie this time, just a plain black tee clinging to his shoulders, beanie gone, but hair pushed back and still damp from sweat. He was laughing at something one of the crew said, the sound of it barely audible over the noise.
Then he turned.
The moment stretched, longer than it should’ve been. His gaze found yours across the space, steady, calm—like he already knew you’d be there. You froze, breath caught in your throat. Someone yelled his name from behind, snapping him out of it. He smiled directly at you, a tiny thing that hit harder than it should’ve, and started walking with his team toward the exit—the security trailing behind them making it difficult to see anymore.
You blinked, trying to make sense of it, but by the time you did, he was gone.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket.
1 new message from seonghyeon (Sean?) tell me ur still there?
And you swear for a second, the air around you shifted. Everything felt slower, quieter. Like the room was holding its breath just for you.
You didn’t answer right away. Or more like you couldn’t. Your hands were shaking just enough to make typing feel impossible.
Your sister was still gushing, saying something about how she’d kill to get backstage, but all you could hear was the blood in your ears. You mumbled something about needing a minute and ducked to the side, near a vending machine and a half-empty hallway.
Finally, you opened your phone.
tell me ur still there? stared back at you, casual as ever. You typed yeah then deleted it. Typed you were insane up there and deleted that too. You locked your screen, then unlocked it again.
Okay, fine. Maybe you needed context. Maybe you just needed to know how the fuck he’d managed to not mention being in a whole-ass band.
You searched Cortis first.
It was instant—pages and pages of clips, fancams, interviews, fan edits. His name was everywhere: Seonghyeon, top visual. You clicked one video and almost dropped your phone. It was him from tonight—different angle, same hoodie, same smile. The comments were full of hearts, screaming emojis, and variations of “sean is so talented ugh.”
You scrolled until your thumb hurt.
TikToks of him doing interviews. Instagram posts from a couple months ago. Photos of the boys in Seoul and LA. One thumbnail showed him holding a coffee cup in a dance studio mirror—your stomach did this weird flip when you realized it was the cup. The same sharp handwriting.
You zoomed in like that would help. It didn’t.
Your sister called your name somewhere in the distance, but you barely heard her. Every post, every tagged photo, every blurry stage shot just made it sink in deeper. He was everywhere.
“Holy shit,” you muttered, half to yourself.
Some fan account had posted a slow-motion clip of him laughing during a rehearsal. The caption read: he doesn’t even have to try. And you hated how right they were.
You finally found the official Cortis page—millions of followers, verified check, the whole thing. The most recent post was a few pictures from earlier tonight. You scanned the caption and froze at the last line:
NYC 🤍 see you soon. —CORTIS
You glanced at your Notification Center again. still there?
Your reflection in the black screen looked almost ridiculous—wide-eyed, flushed, completely gone.
Yeah. You were still there. Way too there.
The noise had finally died down. Most of the crew had cleared out, leaving stray cables and half-empty water bottles across the hotel room floor.
Seonghyeon was alone in his and Keonho's room because the latter had disappeared to the next room, his laugh faint through the wall—doing a Weverse live with the others, talking to fans like nothing had happened, like the adrenaline hadn’t wrecked them all from the inside out.
He leaned on the edge of the bathroom counter, staring down at his phone. The messages were still open.
He had taken a shot in the dark and proposed a little rendezvous after making sure you didn't think he was some attention seeker for revealing the real reason he was there in such a dramatic manner.
You [Thurs, Oct 15, 11:22 PM]
yeah ig i’ll come.
but if you're secretly famous again i’m leaving
He huffed out a laugh, quiet enough that no one heard. Secretly famous. It didn’t even feel real anymore.
The mirror in front of him was fogged from the steam preparing for his shower. His hair was a mess from the lights, flattened in places from the beanie he’d thrown somewhere backstage. He tugged a hand through his locks and chewed on his lip, staring at himself with nothing but a towel on for a second. He didn’t look like someone you'd want to talk to again. Not after finding out who he really was.
Still, he couldn’t stop checking the time.
He quickly bathed himself and dried most of his hair in record time.
Seonghyeon grabbed a fresh new hoodie and sweats from his bed and shot a text to the groupchat letting them know he was going for a "walk." Real slick.
Which was kind of for naught, since he had to grab his wallet from the other room, but he was in and out—ignoring Martin yelling for him to “not get mobbed.” He didn’t care. He wasn’t even sure what he’d say when he saw you, just that he wanted to.
He’d texted you an hour ago. You'd said yes. Meet at a place in the middle. That had to be a good sign, right?
He’d meant to be cool about it. Just one drink, small talk, pretend he wasn’t overanalyzing everything. But now, walking to the elevators with the segments still half-written on his arm, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way you'd looked in the crowd—how he’d almost missed a line because of it.
It had thrown him off completely.
At first he thought he imagined it—the light catching the side of your face, the way you tilted your head when you were trying to listen, but the girls adjacent to you were screaming their brains out. He’d spent the rest of the first verse convincing himself he was wrong, that there was no way you’d actually shown up.
But then you looked up again, and for half a second, your eyes met his. It was enough to knock something loose inside him. His throat went tight, voice faltering for just a beat before muscle memory kicked in.
He’d sung the rest of the song on autopilot, heart hammering so hard he swore the mic could’ve picked it up. The guys had noticed, too—Juhoon shot him a look between songs, eyebrows raised like, fuck was that? He just shook his head and kept going, but he’d been buzzing ever since.
And now, standing there in the half-lit hallway, hoodie pulled low over his forehead, that same rush came flooding back. It wasn’t stage adrenaline anymore—it was something more exciting.
It was funny; throughout performing, the fan sign, the Q&A's and everything else all night, he was barely phased—honestly he loved every second of it. But now? He felt so nervous, he could feel it in his gut.
You spotted him first—leaning against the wall, hood down, a hand shoved into his pockets with his phone out like he wasn’t sure if he should wait inside or not.
He looked different without the lights and noise. Smaller somehow. The casual black comfortable outfit like you previously saw of him. He seemed less performer, more person. When he saw you, his mouth twitched up in this almost-smile, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to.
And you hated that because even then, his dimpled gleamed like no other and immediately it broke down any wall you attempted to have up.
“Hey,” you said, trying to sound casual and definitely failing.
“Hi,” Seonghyeon echoed, voice high and a little unsure.
You stood there for a second, awkwardly caught in the space between greeting and conversation, until you blurted, “So… boba?”
He laughed softly, relief breaking through the tension. “Yeah. I, uh—thought it was a good mix of coffee and like... evening time, you know?”
You immediately clocked the boba shop he was in front of, recognizing it as one of the most popular ones in the city.
“Good thing I’m a regular,” you said, pushing open the door. The bell above it chimed, the air inside smelling like sugar and fruit syrup. He followed you in, scanning the menu like it was a test.
He found that he liked being on the same side of the counter as you.
You ordered something simple for yourself and asked what he wanted. He hesitated for a second, then said, “Just whatever you’re getting.”
“Bold,” you teased. “You’re trusting me with that?”
“Yes, I only have boba ball knowledge in Korea. And I already did once,” he said, and you didn’t need him to clarify—he meant the coffee.
He's gotten boba numerous times since being in LA. But you didn't need to know that.
You tried not to smile too hard, but it was useless. He noticed anyway and inched that much closer to you without even realizing.
The two of you stood off to the side waiting for your drinks, a strange kind of quiet stretching between you. Not awkward exactly, just… heavy with everything unspoken. Every small movement felt amplified.
He fidgeted with his straw wrapper, rolling it into a thin coil, unrolling it again. You tried to act normal, pulling out your phone like you were checking something important, but your thumb froze the second a video of him performing popped up on your feed. A fancam, shaky and loud. You scrolled past it so fast it probably looked suspicious.
You could feel him glance at you, just for a second, like he caught the shift in your body language. His hand brushed against yours lightly when he leaned forward to check the pickup counter, and it sent a tiny spark through your chest that you immediately tried to ignore.
“Long wait,” he said, voice low, trying to fill the silence.
“Guess everyone in Brooklyn wanted boba tonight,” you replied. You weren’t even looking at him when you said it, but you could hear the small smile in his voice when he answered and it gave you the urge to put your phone away to give your all into his presence.
“Yeah. Or maybe they just wanted to see you try not to look nervous.”
That made you laugh, short and weak. “I’m not nervous.”
He nodded slowly, clearly unconvinced. “Sure.”
The song playing overhead shifted—something mellow, soft percussion and a few chords that felt too intimate for a strip-mall boba shop. You perked up when you realized you knew the song. Skin by Dijon. Neither of you spoke for a minute.
"I love this song." You blurted out. You really did—it was in your top 10 on Spotify Wrapped in 2024.
His eyes flitted up to yours and he tried to fight a smile. "Oh yeah?"
You hesitated for a second, your throat a little tight. “Yeah. It’s just—comforting, I guess.”
Seonghyeon nodded slowly, gaze dropping to the counter, and you caught the smallest flicker of something in his expression—a sort of recognition, or the quiet surprise of hearing his own thoughts said out loud.
The music drifted around you, the kind of song that made silence feel like its own language. The line I come alive when you tease me played, and neither of you moved. The air between you seemed to thicken just slightly, not tense but alive, like both of you were too aware of the other standing too close.
You caught yourself watching him out of the corner of your eye—the slope of his nose, the way his hoodie hung loose around his shoulders. He truly was so sculpted.
His fingers tapped absently against the counter in time with the beat, seeming like he tried harder to listen to the song now that he knew you liked it.
And when he glanced back at you, just briefly, you both looked away at the same time.
You just stood there, shoulder to shoulder, the warmth of him cutting through the hum of the AC. He smelled faintly like sandalwood and surprisingly a hint of jasmine and vanilla, clean like aftershave that hadn’t fully faded.
When your order was called, you handed him his cup, tapping the lid. “Moment of truth.”
He took a sip, winced, then licked his lips and nodded. “Okay, yeah. That is actually super good.”
“Told you,” you said, smug, and he rolled his eyes in this easy, familiar way that made it feel like maybe it wasn’t that weird to be standing there together again, like it really was last night and not weeks ago. It was clear your perception of the situation was blown a bit out of proportion.
You stepped outside, the night cooler now, the city hum a little quieter. You walked side by side without saying much until you said, “You have time? I know a spot.”
Seonghyeon glanced over, one brow raised humoring you. “You know a spot?”
You nudged his shoulder with yours. “Don’t make it weird. I actually do.”
You held your chin up and walked a pace faster than him, willing him to catch up.
“Sure you do,” he said, smiling into his drink, but he followed you anyway.
“You’ve never been in a helicopter?!” He looked bewildered. Like how dare you not have such a privileged experience.
“No—bro, genuinely how is that a surprise? I doubt even a quarter of the country has. It’s not really a common activity for us normal people.” You were in the middle of kicking a rock, and when you looked up, he was stopped abruptly two paces behind you.
The look on his face was ridiculous—eyebrows raised, mouth slightly open, his voice was astonished, like you’d just confessed to never having seen the ocean or like he’d just discovered you’d never seen the sky. "Are you serious?"
You squinted at him. “Why do you sound personally attacked?”
“I’m not,” he said, but his voice cracked on the denial, and you laughed, pulling him along by the sleeve to keep walking and he sped up.
“Yes, you are, listen to yourself."
He turned toward you fully, walking backward now, black hoodie pulled tight around his shoulders. “I just—come on. You’ve seriously never gone? Not even once?”
“No,” you said flatly. “What, do you think people just go on helicopters for fun?”
"Well, no. But its like—"He laughed under his breath, a little sheepish but still smug. “I dunno, I just thought everyone’s been in one at least once.”
You stared at him. “Oh my god. That’s such a crazy sentence to say out loud.”
He chuckled, the sound low and breathy, and you felt it more than heard it. “Okay, maybe not everyone, but—”
“—but you,” you interrupted, pointing at him accusingly with a big shit-eating grin on your face. “You’re everyone.”
“I didn’t say that,” he said, but his smile gave him away. He looked impossibly pleased with himself, even as he stuffed his hands in his pockets to hide it.
“Wow,” you said, shaking your head. “Imagine living your life thinking helicopter rides are, like, part of a loyalty rewards program.”
He laughed again, genuine and bright, those dimples you missed peeking out to say hi. “You are so dramatic.”
“You’re out of touch.”
He smiled sideways. “Guess I’m just more adventurous than you.” He bumped your shoulder in mock assault.
You gasped in mock offense. “Adventurous? That’s not adventurous, that’s reckless.”
He didn’t answer—just smiled to himself, that quiet, unreadable one he did when he was trying not to give something away. The streetlights flickered past as you walked, glowing against his hoodie, and you caught the outline of his jaw when he turned his head. For a second, it felt like the rest of the world had gone soft and blurry around him.
Then he looked down at his empty cup. “Ah, man.”
“What?” you asked, snapping out of it. Holy hypnotized.
He held it up like it was disastrous evidence. “I’m out.”
“Tragic,” you said flatly, taking an exaggerated sip of your own just to rub it in.
He glanced at your drink, then at you. “You gonna finish that?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t even think—”
But he was already reaching for it. His fingers held your wrist—light, quick, unthinking—and then he just dragged the straw to his mouth. No hesitation.
You stood there, too startled to react, while he sipped straight from your straw like he’d done it a thousand times before.
“Seonghyeon!” you hissed, half whisper, half laugh.
He took a long sip like he’d done nothing wrong and blinked, feigning innocence. “What?”
“You just— you can’t—”
“Can’t what?” the bastard asked, fighting a grin. “Drink boba?”
You gaped at him. “You didn’t even ask!”
He blinked, like the thought had only just occurred to him. “Should I have?” He looked genuinely amused.
“Mm… sorry,” he said, but didn’t sound sorry at all. “It just looked better than mine.”
He gave another laugh when he caught your expression—eyes wide, lips parted in disbelief—and it was so easy for him, that careless, teasing kind of laughter that felt like it was directed through you rather than at you.
“How does that make sense? You literally got the same thing as me,” you said, pulling it back, though he didn’t let go right away.
For a second, there was resistance—a small tug, his fingers still looped loosely around the cup—and then his thumb brushed against the inside of your wrist. It wasn’t intentional, probably. It couldn’t have been. But your breath still caught like your body didn’t get the memo. The contact was warm and quick and left behind this faint, traitorous awareness that made your pulse stumble.
You tried to act like it was nothing, taking a defensive sip just to give your hands something to do. He watched you do it, grinning like he was in on a joke you didn’t know yet, his eyes flicking from your mouth to your cup and back again.
“You’re too dramatic,” he said again.
“You’re insufferable.” You meant for it to sound sharp, but the words came out too light, almost smiling. You could feel the corners of your mouth betraying you, pulling up until your cheeks ached.
“Woah, don’t know that word,” Seonghyeon said lightly. “Too American for me.” He bumped his shoulder into yours, casual, familiar—like it was something he’d done a thousand times.
You snorted, shaking your head, trying to brush it off. But you could still feel where his shoulder had nudged yours, where his thumb had grazed your wrist, where his laugh had caught in the space between you.
Who even was this guy?
And why did it feel so natural, so stupidly easy, to just be near him—like you’d known him for longer than you actually had?
You stared straight ahead, pretending to focus on the street, but your chest was a mess of tiny contradictions: warmth, confusion, excitement, a little bit of disbelief. He shouldn’t have felt this familiar already. You didn’t even know what to do with it.
Your steps fell into rhythm without meaning to, shoes scuffing the cracked sidewalk. The night air was cool enough that the fog from your breath rose in thin ribbons, catching under the streetlights.
Every few steps, your arms brushed. Once, he adjusted his sleeve and it brushed your hand. Neither of you moved away.
“So,” he said, after a while, “how much longer ‘til we reach this mysterious spot of yours?”
You smirked, hiding your smile behind your straw. “You’ll see.”
He hummed, unconvinced. “Sounds suspicious.”
You rolled your eyes, pretending to be unbothered even though you could feel his gaze lingering, curious, playful. “You’re the one who agreed to follow a stranger down an empty street at night,” you said.
He tilted his head, pretending to think. “You—" he paused to laugh and covered it up by clearing his throat, "...don’t seem that dangerous.”
“That’s exactly what a dangerous person would want you to think,” you shot back, glancing over your shoulder at him.
That earned you a grin—wide, lazy, the kind that made you look away too fast. He jogged a step to catch up, walking closer now, the edge of his hoodie brushing your sleeve with each stride.
For a while, the only sounds were your footsteps and the distant hum of traffic. A neon sign flickered ahead, painting him in flashes of pink and blue light. It hit you then how surreal this felt—how the same person you’d seen through your sister's screen unintentionally, through pixels and noise, was now right here, kicking at a loose bit of gravel beside you like it was the most normal thing in the world.
He glanced over suddenly. “So, do you drag all your friends to secret spots, or did I just get lucky?”
You scoffed. “Psssh. You’re not even close to special or getting lucky.”
“Harsh,” he said, clutching his chest in mock offense, but he was laughing.
The sound rolled through the quiet street, and you couldn’t help but smile back. You didn’t realize until then that you’d slowed down, both of you walking at the same pace, perfectly in sync.
“Almost there,” you said, pointing up ahead, even though you both knew you were in no rush to actually get there.
You stepped off the curb without thinking, still half-smiling at something he’d said. The night felt light—like maybe—finally, the weird weight between you had lifted.
Then the roar hit.
It came from your left, a blur of motion and metal and light—too fast, too close. A motorcycle shot past, wind slapping your hair into your face. You didn’t even have time to flinch before a hand caught your arm, hard, yanking you backward.
You stumbled into him.
The impact knocked the air out of your chest. Your drink nearly slipped from your fingers, the plastic lid ripping slightly from how tight you gripped it. His hand stayed around your elbow, steady and firm, his other braced at your back to stop you from falling. For a second—maybe two—you couldn’t move.
"Oh shit," you heard him say.
You could feel everything: the heat of his palm through your sleeve, the rise and fall of his chest against your shoulder, the faint smell of his cologne—clean and sharp, edged with sweat and something warm, like cedar.
The street noise dulled around you, replaced by the soft static rush in your ears.
He leaned closer, his voice a low murmur. “Hi—you good?”
You nodded before you could think, but you didn’t pull away. Your pulse was still racing, thudding against the place where his fingers rested. When you finally looked up, his face was closer than it should’ve been. Streetlight caught on the curve of his jaw, the shadow under his lashes, the tiny drop of water still clinging to his hairline presumably from his shower. His thumb flexed—just slightly, unconsciously—against your arm, and you forgot how to breathe.
For a moment, it didn’t feel like it mattered that you barely knew him. The city, the noise, everything felt far away—like you were suspended in this strange, fragile pause where something might happen if either of you dared to move.
But then your brain caught up.
Reality hit like cold air. You barely knew him. You didn’t even know what version of him you were standing next to right now—the one who texted you like any other guy, or the one with a million strangers screaming his name from the crowd. The one who hadn’t told you.
You stepped back, gently freeing your arm from his grip. “I—uh. Yeah. I’m fine.”
He blinked, like it took him a second to register that you’d moved. His hands fell back to his sides. The faint crease between his brows stayed, though he smiled anyway, soft and a little uncertain. “Good. Just—look both ways next time, right?”
He cleared his throat.
You huffed out a small laugh, trying to make it light. “Yeah. Guess I got distracted or something.”
He smiled at that, but this time, it didn’t quite reach his eyes. You started walking again when the light changed, and this time, you left a few inches between you.
The space felt heavier than before.
He shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket, kicked at a stray pebble, said something about how American crosswalks never make sense. You nodded and smiled where you were supposed to, but your mind had already drifted elsewhere—back to the crowd, the lights, the moment you’d realized who he really was.
You weren’t sure if this was still the same person who’d pulled you out of the street—or if you’d just imagined that he was.
And it had to be talked about because you didn’t know what to do with this newfound feeling you had when it came to him.
The door to the rooftop was heavier than you expected, and it groaned when you pushed it open. The rush of night air hit you first—cool and sharp, carrying that mix of car exhaust, fried food, and late-night rain you only ever got in the city. You stepped out, the gravel crunching beneath your shoes, and for a second, neither of you said anything.
It was… nice. Nicer than you remembered. A low ledge framed the rooftop, and beyond it, the city sprawled in light — streetlamps threading through the streets like constellations flipped upside down. You could see people down below, dots moving in rhythm with traffic, the hum of it all rising up like white noise. Somewhere, a siren wailed and faded.
“Woah,” Seonghyeon murmured, walking toward the edge. “This is your spot?”
You nodded, watching him take it in. He leaned on the ledge, the wind tugging at his hoodie, hair still a little damp. The sight made something twist in your chest—he looked so normal again. Not the persona from the stage, not the guy plastered on TikTok edits or posters—just him.
You stayed back for a moment, tracing the outline of his silhouette against the skyline. His breath clouded faintly in the air, vanishing as fast as it came. The city light softened the sharpness in his features, turning him into something quieter, more human.
“I also…” he started, voice low enough that you almost missed it under the wind. He glanced over his shoulder, like he wasn’t sure if he should keep talking. “I had a spot like this. Back in Korea.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the shift in tone.
“When it all got to be too much,” he added, fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the concrete. “You know, when things got… loud.” His hands waved around to signal the feeling of his words.
He didn’t look at you when he said it. His gaze was somewhere far away—past the buildings, past the noise, maybe back home. The way he said it wasn’t dramatic, but there was weight behind it, the kind that came from repetition. Like it wasn’t just a place to him, it was a habit. A refuge.
The air between you seemed to still, filled with everything he wasn’t saying. It seemed like a sensitive topic.
You wanted to ask what he meant—what “loud” meant for someone like him—but the question sat heavy on your tongue. You didn’t want to make it weird. Not yet.
So you just nodded a little, letting the silence stretch. The hum of the city filled it, that constant static of engines, laughter, and someone’s music playing faintly from a car below. The wind carried bits of it up to you, making it all feel closer and farther at the same time.
He glanced at you, maybe to check if you were going to say something, but you only met his eyes for a second before looking away.
God, he made it easy to regret not saying anything.
After another beat, you sighed. “Okay,” you said, arms crossing. “We should probably talk about the elephant in the room.”
“The what?” Seonghyeon's whole body turned to you, eyebrows pulling together.
“The elephant in the room.” You gestured vaguely between you. “You know… the big obvious thing we’re both pretending isn’t there.”
He blinked, thinking it over and looking around. “There’s… an elephant here?”
You couldn’t help but laugh a little despite yourself. “No, it’s—never mind. It’s an expression. It means we’re ignoring a situation or something.”
“Ah.” He nodded slowly, mouth open in understanding, like he was storing the phrase for later. “And what are we ignoring?”
You gave him a look. “Really?”
He smiled faintly, almost like he wanted to see if you’d actually say it.
You tilted your head at him, waiting. When he didn’t bite, you exhaled through your nose, shifting your weight against the ledge.
“Come on,” you said. “Don’t do that thing where you act clueless. You know what I mean.”
He looked down, rubbing the back of his neck, the smallest smirk ghosting over his mouth. “Maybe,” he said quietly.
“Maybe?” you echoed, half incredulous, half amused.
His gaze flicked up to meet yours then, and there was something careful in it—like he was weighing how honest to be. Which should be entirely. “You mean the whole… idol thing.”
You didn’t say anything, just raised your brows.
Seonghyeon laughed once under his breath, but it wasn’t the easy kind you’d gotten used to. “Yeah. That.” He let out a sigh, low and steady. “It’s not like I wanted to hide it. I just—” His hand made this restless motion in the air. “—it’s complicated. You say that now, but people always act different when they know. They get weird. Or they start pretending not to be impressed when they actually are.”
The words hung between you. He spoke heavy yet gentle at the same time. The way he said it—it wasn’t defensive, just tired.
You studied him for a moment, the edge of his jaw catching the city light, his hoodie tugged slightly by the wind. “That’s… kind of sad,” you said finally.
He shrugged, not meeting your eyes. “I mean it’s what I wanted. It’s just…”
You could tell he was at a loss of words, maybe searching for a word that wasn’t in his vocabulary. “Overwhelming?”
“What does that—um… mean?” He squinted and it was obvious that he was trying to dissect the word in his head.
“It’s like when everything you’re dealing with or just everything around you gets to be too much that you have this like feeling, you know?”
“Kinda—no, actually—that is exactly it.” He tilted his head sideways and studied your face, looking like he didn’t know how you could phrase his feelings so well. Like you had a magnifying glass up to his soul.
There was another silence—this one quieter, not awkward, just full. You could hear someone’s laughter echoing from the street, a car horn, a dog barking somewhere in the distance.
You wanted to tell him you weren’t like that. That you didn’t care about the fame thing, not really. But saying that out loud felt too close, too revealing. So instead you said, lightly, “Well, I didn’t get weird. So.”
He glanced at you again, a small real smile breaking through this time. “Yeah. You didn’t.”
His eyes lingered a moment too long before he looked away again, fingers drumming against the ledge.
You shifted a little closer, pretending to be bothered by a bug on the other side of you or something. Not enough to cross his space. The gap between you felt charged. The wind tugged at your hair. The smell of rain and asphalt hung in the air.
“Do you ever regret it?” you asked. Careful. Letting your voice simmer. “All of it. The way things changed?”
He stayed quiet.
In the short silence, all you could do was observe him a little more. His fingers tapped lightly on the cold concrete, eyes reflecting the lights from far below. The city hummed. Horns and laughter floated up from the streets. Up here it felt quieter. Suspended. Your chest tightened. Not from fear. From the anticipation of honesty.
Finally, he exhaled, slow and deliberate. “Sometimes,” he said. His voice was low and reluctant. His gaze stayed on the skyline. His shoulders were tense. The way he spoke made it feel real. “I wanted it, you know? The big dream. And I’m—shit, I am so grateful for it all and I’m as happy as I can be. But it changed everything. People, your life—even yourself.”
He paused to search for the perfect words and you could see it in the way his eyebrows furrowed and the way he clicked his tongue in thought.
“It’s like… you're still you. But not quite the same. It’s strange.”
You watched him. The edge of his jaw. The curve of his neck. His brown hair caught in the wind. There was quiet intensity about him. Not performing, just him. It made your stomach twist. Equal parts admiration and something you didn’t want to name.
“And do you miss it?” you asked. Soft. Words floating between you. “Not the fame. Not the cameras. Just… you.”
His eyes flicked to yours. A brief, careful second. Hesitant and testing the waters. “Yes,” he admitted. His voice was rougher now. It was almost unguarded. “I miss the freedom, the part that was mine before it all got loud. I don’t miss everything. Not all of it.”
You swallowed and heat rose in your chest at the way he was staring at you. The wind tugged at his hoodie. You could not stop looking, and it was getting to a point. The fabric clung slightly to him. His broad shoulders shifted. He tried to stay calm. He was not calm. The closeness was intimate and neither of you acknowledged it.
The city below blurred into a distant hum—cars, music, someone laughing blocks away. You shifted just a little, and your knee brushed against his. It was small, accidental, but neither of you pulled back.
“You say all this,” you murmured. Leaning slightly. Almost brushing his shoulder. “But you don’t let anyone see it? Not even your members?”
He inhaled deeply, like it was from his soul. And he shook his head no.
“Why?”
He shrugged, lips twitching with a small smile. Eyes serious. “People react differently when they see cracks,” he said. “They get weird. Pretend not to notice. I just don’t need that.”
You nodded slowly and you could hear you heart thudding in the background. You wanted to tell him you weren’t like that. That you didn’t need him to put up a front. But words felt heavy and like they mattered more in this moment. You let it linger. Soft. Real.
But he deserved to know that he wasn’t just telling someone who didn’t care either.
“I’m not like that,” you said, but it felt like you were trying to convince yourself, too. “I just want to know you. For you."
You gulped, feeling like you overstepped, but that it needed to be said. "Seonghyeon... not Sean from Cortis. The guy I met in a hoodie and sweats at 9pm in the evening.”
For a long moment, he looked at you. Really looked. The ambiance, the lights, the movement—it all sort of blurred into the background. Just you, framed by the glow of passing headlights and the faint hum of the streets below. The wind tugged at your jacket, brushed your hair into your face. You didn’t move to fix it, and he didn’t look away.
He leaned on his palm, close enough to you that you could see the faint line of exhaustion under his eyes, the kind that doesn’t come from lack of sleep but from too much living. There was something so human about it that your chest tightened.
“Do you ever,” he started, voice low and a little rough, “get that feeling when you meet someone and it’s like—” He paused, searching for the right word. “Like you already know them somehow?”
You blinked, caught off guard and a little called out. “Maybe.”
He smiled at that, a small, tired curve of his mouth that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. That.”
A beat of silence. Your shoes brushed again, that unintentional rhythm that kept happening, keeping you tethered. He bumped his shoe against yours and kept it there. You knew what he was doing.
The air between you felt warmer than it should have. You could smell the faint sweetness of the boba he’d finished earlier, still clinging to his breath, and the scent of his hoodie—something like that same cologne from yesterday and rain.
“You look different tonight,” he said quietly.
Did he even know how much his words affected you? From the easy way he told you things yesterday, you think not. And it was unfair because you were currently experiencing that comment you saw from earlier—he doesn't even have to try—firsthand.
The way Seonghyeon said it made your stomach flip. It wasn’t teasing. It was honest. Too honest. Except you didn’t know what he meant by it.
You laughed, trying to make it light. “Is that your smooth way of saying I look tired?”
He shook his head, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “No. It’s my not-smooth way of saying you look good.”
The words hung there, suspended in the air between you. You didn’t know what to do with them. He seemed to realize what he’d said a second too late, clearing his throat, looking away with a weak laugh. “And, uh… what about you?”
You tilted your head. “What about me?”
He looked back at you, slower this time. “You ever think about that? About how weird this is? Us. Here. After just meeting like—just the other day.”
You wanted to say yes, that you thought about it more than you should. That something about him felt impossible and inevitable all at once. But all you could manage was a quiet, “Yeah. Kind of.”
The wind swept past again, lifting the hair near your cheek. He reached up instinctively, fingers brushing it away before he caught himself—and instead of pulling back, his hand hovered there for a heartbeat too long.
He said your name, but it got caught somewhere between the wind and his teeth, soft, trembling, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to say it at all. And somehow, just the way he said it made the world shrink, like everything else—the city noise, the cold air, the faint smell of rain—faded into nothing, leaving only him and the way he looked at you.
“I—I don’t even know how I’m saying this,” he started, voice low, ragged in a way that made your chest tighten. He leaned just slightly closer, shoulder brushing yours by accident—or maybe not—and your stomach flipped at the contact. “When we, like, just met… it is stupid, and I know it’s a million times too soon, but…” He swallowed hard, and there was this tiny hitch in his breath, this almost-painful pause. “But you’re… the most real person I’ve met in weeks. In all of this… chaos, I guess.”
You blinked, startled. Real. The word hit you harder than you expected. There was something raw in the way he said it, like he wasn’t putting on a mask for anyone—not for the noise that swallowed him, not for the eyes always watching, not for the rest of the people trying to act a certain way. And the truth was, it was magnetic.
“You’re… raw,” he said again, voice lower, quieter this time, almost trembling. “And I don’t know how to handle it. And I don’t know why I feel like I need to.” His fingers twitched near yours on the cold concrete, hovering just a hair away, like he wanted to reach but was terrified of what would happen if he did. “You’re… honest. Unfiltered. Sort of risky, maybe. Because you’re just… you.”
You swallowed, breath catching. Risky wasn’t exactly the word you’d use for yourself, but coming from him it felt like a spark hitting bare skin. “I—” you started, but your voice faltered. You didn’t know what to say to someone who was seeing you like this, who wasn’t playing games or pretending.
The way he spoke in pauses, difficulty of not being completely fluent in English shining through, but desperate to get his emotions across to you—God, it touched something deep in you.
“Everyone else,” Seonghyeon said, gesturing vaguely, voice rough, like he’d been chewing on the words for too long, “everyone else is noise. People, like, trying to be something they’re not, people pretending they’re… I don’t know, polished, safe. But you…” He let his words hang, pure and raw, “…you’re not.”
You felt your heart thump in your chest, loud enough that you were sure he could hear it. The warmth of him, the nearness, the way his hoodie smelled faintly of rain and cologne, made your skin feel electric. You wanted to lean forward, to close that last inch, but something—the tension, the thrill, the impossibility of it all—kept you rooted.
“God,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly, like he was trying to convince himself not to feel what he felt. “I shouldn’t even be saying any of this. I barely even know you.”
“And yet you are,” you whispered back, your own voice catching in ways you hadn’t expected and hair blowing somewhat harder than previously.
He exhaled, slow and shaky, like he’d been holding a storm inside his chest and finally let it out. His fingers twitched again, hovering closer to yours, almost daring, almost pleading. “Yeah,” he said, voice low, raw, “yeah, I am.”
The quiet stretched between you, thick, electric, fragile. The wind rustled around your hair, and he leaned a fraction closer, eyes searching yours like he was trying to memorize the way you looked right now, in the dim light, in this impossible moment. “You’re… something else,” he murmured. “I don’t know what it is exactly, but I—” He stopped, blinking, teeth catching his bottom lip. “…I can’t get it out of my head.”
You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped, soft and breathless. “You’re... ridiculous,” you said, but it was warm, almost bluffing, because you knew and felt exactly what he meant.
“Maybe,” he said, letting the words slip out slowly, deliberately, like he was testing himself, testing you. “…but maybe I don’t want to be.”
And just like that, the world tightened again, like the night itself had conspired to trap you in this moment. The wind threatening to push you closer, the licking of his lips in nervousness, the way his eyes were fixed on yours—it was suffocating and thrilling all at once.
“Seonghyeon,” you whispered, shaking your head, because how could someone you’d barely met make everything inside you flip over?
And like clockwork, the reality of it began to creep in.
“You really shouldn’t be saying any of this,” you said quietly, trying to regain some semblance of composure.
“I know,” he admitted, letting his head tilt back slightly, shoulders easing just enough that he seemed… vulnerable. “But I am. Somehow, I can’t stop.”
Seonghyeon didn't care about the reality of it. All he knew was this was how he felt. And not you or his self-doubt could stop him from opening up to you.
In attempt to lift the mood—because you were done being in interrogating mode—you thought of something funny.
You leaned back against the railing, letting the wind lift your hair, and sniffled. “You know that Olivia Rodrigo song… So American?”
“Of course I do. That is you. Way too American,” he said, voice teasing but soft.
“I mean it,” you insisted, nudging his shoulder lightly. “Listen—‘When he laughs at all my jokes, and he says I’m so American… Oh God, it’s just not fair of him to make me feel this much.’” You hummed the melody quietly, letting your words trail off. “That’s… deadass you. All of it. It’s exactly you.”
He groaned, dramatically shaking his head like he was suffering through something tragic. "Aniyaaa."
You had a hunch that meant something negative in Korean.
“Laugh at all your jokes? Every single one? Even the bad ones?” His grin made your stomach flip.
“Yes,” you said, leaning a little closer, “and it’s not fair. You make me feel… too much. And I don’t even know why I let it happen.” You rolled your eyes, but there was a laugh hiding behind it.
He laughed too, like it was impossible not to mirror him. “I think you like it,” he said, tilting his head, that smirk still there but softer now. “I think you like that I do.”
“You’re so weird,” you said, laughing, trying to shove him lightly—but he caught your hands before you could, spinning them between his fingers just enough to make you squeal.
“And also, that's only because your bad jokes are still funny,” he replied, nudging your shoulder lightly. “It’s a gift, honestly.”
You rolled your eyes and laughed, and he laughed too—warm, easy, completely unselfconscious—and suddenly the tension of the night felt lighter, like it could fold into itself and leave only this moment.
Then, out of nowhere, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a pair of sunglasses you hadn’t even noticed. “Where the hell did these come from?” he muttered, sliding them onto his face with mock seriousness. He tilted his head like a movie star posing for the wind to blow dramatically across his hair.
You snorted, and before he could react, your fingers darted out and tickled his ribs. He yelped, laughing, squirming, and in the chaos the sunglasses slipped off, tumbling to the rooftop. One lens popped out and rolled a little before stopping at your feet. You froze for a second, both of you staring at it… then burst into laughter again, clutching your stomach, leaning into his arm for balance.
“Okay, that’s… not fair,” he gasped, still laughing, shaking his head. “I did not see that coming.”
“You started it!” you said, grinning, trying to hand him back the lens but barely able to stop laughing yourself.
He finally caught his breath and shook his head, sunglasses half in hand. “Damn, bro. You owe me. This is my favorite ones!”
You laughed again, the sound mingling with the wind, the distant Manhattan lights, and the soft hum of traffic below. For a moment, the night felt wide and open, but somehow just small enough to hold the two of you in it, caught between teasing, music, and that easy, electric connection that had been building since you got there.
You both let the wind engulf you and your thoughts for a second.
Until he picked up your hand.
He. Picked. Up. Your. Hand.
The instant his fingers curled around yours, your chest flipped, pulse spiking like you’d just downed a shot of adrenaline. His hand was warm, grounding, and somehow the tiniest bit possessive, like he was daring you to notice how much this felt like too much—and not enough—all at once.
“What the…” he muttered, voice low, almost drowned by the wind, “…you hear that too, right?”
You nodded before you could think. Duh, something had to have happened for him to grab your hand. He wouldn't just grab it for no reason. Idiot.
But still, very brush of his palm against yours made sparks crawl up your arm. Every fraction of an inch he leaned closer made your stomach twist and your knees ache. You could feel the tension in him, the same way you felt it in yourself: electric, impossible to ignore.
Then the faint clack-clack-clack of shoes on metal cut through the night, slicing through the secluded bubble of your world.
Your eyes snapped toward the far side of the rooftop. Someone was patrolling.
“Shit,” he breathed, eyes widening. “C’mon.”
Before you could argue, he tugged you toward the shadow of the maintenance door. You pressed yourselves against the cold metal, backs flat, hearts hammering so hard you were sure the patrol could hear them. His body was practically glued to yours, chest brushing, his arm brushing yours every time he adjusted. The confined space made it impossible not to notice every little thing: the brush of his hair against your temple, the faint heat of his hoodie, the ghost of his breath against your neck.
“Move,” Seonghyeon whispered sharply, nudging you behind him as the footsteps got closer. “…Jesus, stay low.”
Your stomach flipped as he shifted, accidentally pressing his thigh against yours in a way that made your heart thump stupidly fast. You wanted to shove him, to create some space, but the adrenaline made your body freeze—trapped, but buzzing.
The footsteps came closer, deliberate, echoing. He ducked slightly, and you realized you were practically pressed cheek-to-cheek in the shadow, his arm brushing against yours in every small movement. You swallowed hard, trying not to moan or gasp, but jeez—every inch of proximity was ridiculous in the best possible way.
“Holy shit…” he muttered, shaking his head, thumb brushing across the back of your hand, “…this is...insane.”
You let out a quiet laugh, breathless, heart hammering. “Yeah, no kidding.”
The patrol rounded the corner. The two of you held your breath. Time slowed. You could feel him tense behind you, could hear his heartbeat thudding in sync with yours. The shadow of their flashlight swept across the metal floor just a few feet away, and you both froze so hard it felt like your bones might snap.
It was the pull. The electricity. The fact that every brush of his hand, every accidental press of skin, made the night feel impossibly, devastatingly alive.
The footsteps faded, swallowed by the distance, and for a moment, the rooftop was just the two of you. The wind stirred, but somehow it felt softer now, gentler, like it was letting you catch your breath—but not letting you escape the heat coiling between you.
You realized you were still pressed against him, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder, every brush of skin sending sparks straight through your chest. The adrenaline had dulled, but the tension didn’t—it had only sharpened, made it impossible to think clearly.
“I… I feel like he’s gone,” you murmured, voice barely above the wind, and it sounded strange even to your own ears. The word “gone” felt like it carried more weight than you intended.
“Maybe,” you heard him breathe back, low and rough, almost a growl in the quiet. “…But I think we should stay put in case he isn’t.”
You tilted your head slightly, chest still pressed against his. “Good idea,” you murmured, voice soft, almost intimate, and his fingers brushed yours again—not enough to hold, not yet, but just enough to make your stomach twist.
Seonghyeon mumbled something that didn't make sense to you in the moment because it went straight to your stomach and echoed your statement. “Mhm… the best idea.”
You both stayed still, suspended in the aftermath of adrenaline, the pull between you more real than any words. You could feel him, every line of tension in his body, the warmth of his chest just inches from yours. You wanted to say something, anything, but your voice felt trapped in your throat.
He leaned slightly, just a fraction, and the movement made your breath hitch. You didn’t pull back, and he didn’t either. His eyes caught yours, dark and hungry, and something almost fragile lurking underneath. The stupid wind tangled your hair across your cheek again, and he reached up instinctively, similar to how he did before, brushing it aside—his fingers lingering, grazing your skin just enough to make your chest tighten.
“Shit,” he murmured, low, rough. “…You’re… messing with me.”
You swallowed, pulse hammering, and let the hand you had on his chest tighten around his shirt.
“…Yeah,” you breathed, “…guess I am.”
Time slowed, like the world had decided to hold its breath. Every little detail—the plump of his lips, the intensity of his brows, the way his eyes never left yours—pulled you closer. You could feel his warmth, smell the faint mix of rain and hoodie, hear the soft rhythm of his breathing.
And then he leaned a little closer, slow, testing the space between you, and you felt it—the pull, magnetic and so undeniable.
You could move, you could step back, but every instinct in your body was screaming not to.
Your faces were inches apart. His breath hit your cheek. Soft, warm, and impossibly close. He tilted his head, letting his lips hover near yours, just shy of contact, giving you all the time in the world to decide—but also daring you not to pull away.
You felt like you could drown in the way he was between your lips and your eyes, like the whole rooftop, the city, the wind—it all disappeared. All that existed was him, and you, and the rope of tension spiraling tighter and tighter, impossible to ignore.
He whispered your name again, just barely, and your chest fluttered uncontrollably. The sound of it, low and ragged, sent heat straight through you. Oh, it was pure desperation.
Something must have taken over you. To be having these thoughts and impulses to corrupt you and this stranger. You swear—without even thinking, without meaning to, you leaned in just a fraction, closing the last impossible gap between you.
Your lips met, soft at first, just barely brushing, testing. It was almost cautious, the kind of tentative press that made your stomach tighten and your heart thrum too fast. But then, something broke—the hesitation, the carefulness—and his lips pressed a little harder, a little more insistently, and suddenly the air between you was electric.
Every brush, every slide of his lips felt amplified, like the world had narrowed down to just the warmth of him, the way his hands rested on your waist, fingers brushing lightly but leaving a spark wherever they lingered. His chest pressed to yours, and the tilt of his head, the subtle pull of his body, made your knees weak. You wanted to pull back, to catch your breath, but every instinct screamed to stay, to lean in, to feel it all.
It was impossible not to shiver at the proximity, at the way his lips moved over yours like he couldn’t get enough. The kiss deepened just slightly, slow and deliberate, tasting, feeling, exploring, and it was like all the tension from the night—the words left unsaid, the way he’d been looking at you—had funneled into this moment.
You pressed back against him without thinking, letting your hands trail up his chest, around his neck, tangling in the hoodie at the nape. Every imperfect, instinctive movement from him felt right, more alive than you’d expected, and suddenly what had started soft and tentative was this flood of heat and electricity that made your pulse race and your head spin.
When Seonghyeon pulled back just slightly, forehead resting against yours, you could hear his breath hitch, shallow and uneven, and feel the pulse of his heartbeat through his chest—strong, erratic, almost echoing through you. The quiet between you wasn’t just silence; it was a living thing, thick and electric, every second stretching impossibly long.
The way he looked at you—like you were the axis the world spun on, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real—made your stomach lurch. His eyes flicked over every detail of your face, and it hit you, with a force you didn’t expect, how much he was feeling this.
His hand shifted almost instinctively, brushing along your side, and for a moment his fingers gripped your waist and slipped under your sweater—just enough to steady himself, he probably thought, but the pressure was deliberate, grounding, and it left you weak in a way you couldn’t ignore. You could feel the heat from his body seeping through, and the tiniest lean of his chest pressed closer, tightening the space between you, making every nerve ending hyper-aware of him.
It wasn’t possessive, exactly, but it wasn’t casual either—it was a tether, a silent declaration that he couldn’t pull away, even if he wanted to. His thumb brushed along your skin in the faintest, almost accidental circles, and the small motion made you shiver.
You could feel the grip he had, subtle but insistent, and it wasn’t just your body he was holding—it was the moment, the tension, the entire connection you’d been building across the night. He didn’t pull away. He leaned into it, almost imperceptibly, letting the closeness stretch out, as if he couldn’t get enough, like every second apart would undo something vital.
Like maybe you would slip right through his fingers again and everything that transpired was just in his imagination.
He figured he should say something.
“…Holy crap,” he breathed, voice low, rough, almost broken, “…that was-”
You pressed your lips to his again, cutting him off, and the rest of the night, the city, the wind, the rooftops—they didn’t exist. There was only this, only him, only the slow, impossible pull that had been building since the very first touch.
You could feel the grip he had, subtle but insistent, and it wasn’t just your body he was holding—it was the moment, the tension, the fragile thread of connection you’d been building all night. He didn’t pull away. He leaned into it, almost imperceptibly, letting the closeness stretch, letting the warmth of him seep through every inch of you.
His hands shifted almost instinctively, sliding to your waist, one resting there firmly, the other ghosting up toward your lower back, gripping lightly, as if he could anchor you in place—anchor himself, too. The pressure wasn’t demanding, but it was deliberate, grounding, like he couldn’t bear even a millimeter of distance.
You could feel that he wasn’t really precise—sometimes his angle was off, sometimes his timing was messy—but it didn’t matter. There was a confidence in the way he went for it, a raw instinct that made it impossible not to lean in. His lips pressed against yours, soft and urgent at the same time, and the subtle tilt of his head, the way his body molded to yours, made it feel like he was memorizing every inch of you without even thinking.
His chest pressed against yours, warmth radiating through the hoodie, and even the brush of his thigh against yours made your stomach flip. His hands stayed firm on your waist, thumbs brushing lightly over your sides, grounding you both in the moment. Every imperfect press, every slightly clumsy slide of his lips only made it more electric, more alive—messy, sure, but entirely him.
He murmured your name, just above a whisper, voice rough and ragged, letting out a breath that rattled through him. “…I… God…” His words trailed off, swallowed by the wind, but you felt them in every shiver, every tight brush of his hands along your body.
You leaned closer without thinking, pressing your lips to his again, slow this time, testing, deepening, letting the world shrink to nothing. His hands tightened lightly on your waist, thumb brushing over your hip in a way that made your chest flip, fingers grazing the small of your back as if trying to memorize the way you felt pressed against him.
He let out a low, almost strangled sound into the kiss, lips parting slightly, teeth brushing yours in the briefest, teasing way, and you could feel the tension spike again—raw, unfiltered, entirely consuming. His forehead pressed to yours, hands still anchoring, and the slight tremble in his grip told you just how much he was feeling it, just how completely he was caught up in you, in this, in the impossibility of letting go.
Some part of your brain screamed at you to stop, to pull away before this got too tangled, before it became something more than just a stolen rooftop moment. You knew it wouldn’t last—he’d leave, or you would, or life would come crashing back in, messy and inevitable. It wasn’t practical. It wasn’t safe. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
But fuck it. None of that mattered. Not the caution, not the warnings, not the logic that usually kept you in check. Every press of his lips, every brush of his hand along your waist, every ragged breath against your skin made your chest tighten and your stomach flip, and you couldn’t, wouldn’t, pull away. This—this closeness, this heat, this impossible, fleeting intimacy—was too good, too addictive, and you let yourself sink into it, knowing full well that the world beyond the wall didn’t exist right now, and you didn’t care.
Whatever happened, happened, right? Right now, this was what you wanted to be doing. You wanted to forget that you were leaving your family next year, forget your stupid coworker and schoolwork. You didn't even think twice at the fact that he would be leaving, too.
The wind whipped around the rooftop, but it didn’t matter. The city lights below were blurred streaks, irrelevant. All that existed was the press of his body against yours, the heat of his hands, the brush of lips and teeth and tongues that left you breathless. Every whispered, ragged exhale, every tiny, unthinking movement—it all spelled the same thing: he couldn’t get enough of this, of you, of right here, right now.
You broke the kiss just long enough to catch a breath, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling, and in the dim glow of the city and the wind, it felt like you could stay pressed like this forever. He didn’t let go, didn’t pull back—hands still gripping, body still pressed, eyes dark and heavy on yours, and the quiet between you was more intimate, more electric, than anything either of you had ever felt.
“…You're insane,” Seonghyeon whispered, voice low, almost lost, “…I can’t—”
You pressed your lips to his again before he could finish, letting the kiss deepen, letting the rooftop, the night, and every single hesitation fall away. It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t frantic—it was slow, deliberate, consuming. Every brush of his lips, every press of his hard body, every small, grounding caress of his hands against your waist, spoke of how badly he wanted this touch from you, needed it, and how little he could stop himself from feeling it.
A siren began to go off on a street down below, but you barely noticed it—the feeling of his lips against yours, the way he kept mumbling low compliments that sounded more like confessions—it consumed you. You could feel him tremble slightly against you, lips and jaw moving over yours, whispering soft, rough praise in between kisses. “…I can't believe it… I swear… and… you’re so, so pretty… wow, you’re insane…”
Whether it was a good or bad thing, you both let yourselves be completely caught up, completely hypnotized, in just this—just him, just you, just the pull between you that had been building since the very first word.
