Can you please make a dark fic for TOP and reader. Fem reader please. TOP gets secretly married to the reader to avoid the public backlash and gossiping. Nobody knows that heâs married. Because the reader is way too young for him (not minor) and belongs from another country. They met in London as the reader can be an international student. But here after marriage he changes and different rumors comes out about his connection with other female celebrity. And the reader struggles with all this and Seung Hyun acts nonchalant.
The reader became pregnant and Seung Hyun was not ready for it too. And the story goes on. Please make it if youâre comfortable with it đđĽş
âšGalleryâš | Choi Seung-hyun
âšPairing: Choi Seung-hyun
âšSummary: an art student in London meets Seung-hyun, a reserved art collector and musician, in a chance encounter at a gallery, sparking an immediate but hesitant attraction.
âšWarnings: age-gap relationship, emotional tension, longing, heartbreak, jealousy, intimacy, relationship struggles, separation anxiety
âšAuthor's note: hi, love. so, it ended up being a lot of words, so I promise to do a second part to fulfill your full request. i hope you'll like it!đ¤
The gallery smells faintly of varnish and paper, the kind of scent that settles deep in your clothes and lingers long after you leave. Tall white walls stretch upwards, holding bold swaths of color, each painting lit like it holds a secret worth whispering about. You shift your sketchbook in your hands, letting your fingers skim the edges of the paper as your eyes trace the aggressive red streaks on a piece titled The Fractured Silence. Itâs raw, unsettlingâsomething youâd analyze in a lecture, not something youâd hang in your own space.
A low shuffle behind you catches your attention. You glance sideways and freeze. Heâs there. You donât know him, but youâve seen him before, on screens and in articles, his name always circling around the art and music scene like a quiet storm. In person, he feels taller, sharper around the edges, though thereâs a softness in the way his scarf rests crookedly around his neck, a sign that maybe he dressed in a rush. Seung-hyun moves with a kind of unbothered grace, hands tucked in his pockets as his eyes scan the canvas youâre standing before.
For a moment, you just⌠look at him. The slope of his jaw, the slight crease between his brows as he studies the chaotic strokes, the faint reflection of gallery light caught in his dark eyes. He glances at you, and when your gazes meet, thereâs a flicker of surprise, like he wasnât expecting to be caught in the act of existing.
âYou like this one?â His voice is lower than you expectâdeep, smooth, like the brush of velvet over stone. You hear a slight accent. The sound curls through the quiet air, meant only for you.
You lift a shoulder, your lips twitching toward a smile. âItâs⌠complicated. Iâm studying expressionism for class, but it feels like itâs yelling at me more than speaking to me.â
The corner of his mouth curves, just slightly. âMaybe thatâs its job. Art isnât always supposed to let you relax.â
You glance back at the painting, tilting your head. âMaybe. Or maybe I just prefer my art to be less⌠angry.â
His chuckle is soft, but it settles low, warm in the space between you. âThen youâd hate my collection,â he murmurs, almost to himself, though his eyes linger on yours a moment too long, like heâs cataloging the way you fit into this setting.
The silence that follows doesnât feel heavy. If anything, it feels⌠tentative. Shared. You both turn back to the painting, your shoulders angled just slightly toward each other, as though thereâs an invisible thread tying the moment together. Neither of you asks the otherâs name. Neither of you leaves quickly, either.
When you finally step out into the brisk London air an hour later, your scarf pulled tight against the wind, you catch your reflection in the glass door of the Tube station. Youâre smiling, and you donât remember when it started.
The next time you see him, itâs two weeks later, and youâre not expecting it.
The cafĂŠ near your university is always crowded, especially on rainy afternoons like this. The windows are fogged, the air heavy with the scent of espresso and pastries, and your sketchbook is already slipping from your damp fingers when you spot him.
Seung-hyun. Back corner, coat draped across the seat beside him, a porcelain cup cradled in one hand. Heâs dressed casually this timeâa dark sweater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, watch glinting faintly under the yellow cafĂŠ lights. His expression is unreadable, eyes focused on the man across from him.
Professor Kwon. The guest lecturer from last weekâs art theory class. His energy practically radiates, animated hands slicing through the air as he recounts some story you canât hear over the hiss of the espresso machine. Seung-hyun listens quietly, nodding occasionally, the picture of patience and understated presence.
You hover near the counter, torn between waiting for your drink and slipping out unnoticed. Itâs not like you know him. Not really. But as if sensing the weight of your indecision, Seung-hyunâs gaze lifts. His eyes find yours across the crowded room, recognition flashing first, followed by something softer, warmer. The faintest curve tugs at his lipsânot a smile, not fully, but close enough to make your breath catch.
No wave. No overt invitation. Just a look, steady and grounding, as if heâs quietly acknowledging the thread you both left untied in the gallery.
Your order arrives, and youâre fumbling with coins when Ji-yongâs voice cuts through the low hum of the cafĂŠ. âHeyâyou! From class, right? Come sit, join us!â His hand gestures toward their table, his grin too bright to refuse.
You hesitate, eyes flicking toward Seung-hyun. He tilts his head ever so slightly, the smallest nod, as though to say, Itâs okay. Stay.
So you do. You slide into the chair beside Ji-yong, across from Seung-hyun. The table is warm, littered with mugs and sugar packets, and you find yourself tracing the rim of your cup just to keep your hands busy. Ji-yong greets you warmly and dives into a quick chat about your class, asking how you found his lecture and if the theories on modern installation art made sense. You laugh nervously and admit youâre still wrapping your head around it, prompting Ji-yong to explain with a playful metaphor about art as âorganized chaos in a gallery.â His words draw a smile from you, and even a soft chuckle from Seung-hyun. Then Ji-yong shifts back to talking about art, about the exhibit heâs curating, about everything under the rain-soaked skyâwhile Seung-hyun listens, his gaze drifting to you every so often. Not in a way that demands, but in a way that notices.
Your knees brush under the table. Just once. An accident, probably. But neither of you pulls away.
The conversation spins on without you, but somehow, it feels like the room has narrowed to just the three of youâand more dangerously, to just the two of you, orbiting each other in unspoken acknowledgment. Neither of you makes a move. Not yet. But as the rain drums softly against the windows and your tea cools untouched, something begins to settle between you: not loud, not certain, but undeniably there.
The rain has cleared by evening, leaving the streets slick and shimmering under the glow of streetlamps. You step out of the cafĂŠ, tugging your coat tighter around your shoulders, intent on the short walk back toward campus. The air smells of wet asphalt and roasted chestnuts from a cart on the corner.
âLeaving already?â The voice is familiar, smooth, and deliberate. You turn to find Seung-hyun leaning casually against the building, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a closed umbrella. Ji-yong is nowhere in sightâprobably still inside, holding court with a table full of students.
You blink, surprised but not displeased. âYou⌠waited?â
He shrugs lightly, eyes glinting under the streetlight. âItâs late. The streets arenât exactly charming when youâre walking alone.â He gestures toward the path ahead, a silent offer to walk with you.
The two of you fall into step, the city quiet except for the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement. For a while, neither of you says much. Thereâs no need; the silence feels almost like a continuation of your earlier conversation, wordless but comfortable.
Itâs only when you pass a row of shuttered boutiques, their windows reflecting your shapes back at you, that he breaks the quiet. âWeâve met twice now,â he says, voice soft but carrying easily in the night air. âAnd I donât know your name.â
You glance up at him, caught by the faintest smile tugging at his lips. âYou never asked.â
He tilts his head, a low chuckle escaping. âThen Iâm asking now.â
You give it, your name feeling oddly delicate as it slips into the space between you. He repeats it once, carefully, as though testing the sound. âIâm Seung-hyun,â he adds, though you already knew. Hearing it from him feels differentâless like a headline, more like something real.
You walk a few more steps before you ask, âSo⌠why the gallery that day? Looking for something angry for your collection?â Thereâs a tease in your voice, a tentative attempt to bridge the gap.
His eyes crinkle faintly. âSomething like that. I like pieces that stir a room, even if they make it uncomfortable.â He pauses, then glances down at you. âBut I think I remember that day more for⌠something else.â
Your heart stumbles, but you force a light laugh. âThe art student glaring at a canvas?â
âMaybe,â he says. âOr maybe not.â
The two of you reach the corner where your paths split, his building to the left, your campus to the right. The pause stretches between you, full but not awkward.
He nods toward your direction. âYouâll be safe from here?â
âYeah. Just a few minutes.â
He hesitates, just a fraction, before speaking again. âThen⌠maybe next time, we donât leave it to chance?â His tone is gentle, not assuming, but it lingers in the cool air like an unspoken promise.
You nod, the warmth of the moment settling somewhere behind your ribs. âNext time,â you agree, and for the first time, you both leave knowing it wonât just be coincidence that brings you together again.
The sun is already low by the time your last lecture ends, painting the London sky in shades of rose and slate. You step out of the faculty building, exhaustion weighing on your shoulders along with your satchel, when you notice a figure standing across the courtyard. Tall. Familiar. Seung-hyun, leaning against a sleek black car, hands buried in his coat pockets.
Your steps falter. âHave you⌠been waiting long?â
His lips curve in a faint smile, a touch sheepish. âA while. I thought maybe youâd let me steal you for the evening. Thereâs an exhibit I think youâll likeâsomething calmer than screaming canvases this time.â
Curiosity sparks, displacing your fatigue. âAn exhibit? At this hour?â
âI asked for a private viewing,â he says casually, as though itâs nothing. His eyes flick toward you, searching for hesitation. âItâs not far. Unless youâd rather sleep?â
Minutes later, youâre gliding through quiet London streets, city lights reflecting off rain-slick roads. The gallery you arrive at is warm, softly lit, and empty but for a single attendant who greets Seung-hyun by name. Inside, the walls bloom with impressionist landscapes and soft-toned portraitsâpieces that feel alive but gentle, brushstrokes like whispers rather than shouts.
âThis,â you murmur, stepping closer to a canvas awash with muted blues, âis my kind of noise.â
Seung-hyun watches you more than the art, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. âI thought it might be.â
An attendant brings out two slender flutes of champagne, bubbles rising in lazy spirals. The alcohol softens the edges of your nerves, loosening your tongue. You trade thoughts about the paintings, your classes, his penchant for collecting âunrulyâ pieces, and the way certain art feels like it knows secrets about you before you do.
By the time the glasses are empty, the gallery feels warmer, the air thick with something unspoken. Heâs closer now, not quite touching, but near enough that you can hear the quiet shift of his breath when you turn toward him.
When itâs time to leave, you both linger by the door, reluctant. He opens his arms in a polite gesture for a farewell hug, and you step into it, the warmth of his coat brushing your cheek. The moment stretches, comfortable and a little dizzy from the champagne.
Before you pull away, your fingers slip a small folded noteâyour name and number, written neatly in inkâinto the pocket of his coat. Itâs a silent offering, your heart hammering as you murmur a soft âGoodnight.â
His brow lifts just slightly, like he feels the weight of the paper, but he doesnât pull it out. Not yet. He simply meets your gaze, a knowing glimmer in his eyes, and replies, âGoodnight. Iâll be in touch.â
As you walk back into the cool night air, the city feels quieter, the buzz of anticipation humming under your skin. For the first time, youâre certain the next meeting wonât be left to chance.
Later that night, in his hotel suite, Seung-hyun shrugs off his coat and reaches for his cigarettes and lighter from the pocket. A small folded note slips free and flutters to the carpet. He pauses, crouches to pick it up, and opens it slowly, your handwriting staring back at him. His lips curve into a faint, private smile as he folds it again, slipping it carefully into his wallet before lighting his cigarette by the window.
The morning light slants through the tall windows of Seung-hyunâs hotel suite, tracing golden lines across the dark table. A half-drunk cup of coffee sits beside his phone, and the folded note with your number rests beneath his fingers. He turns it slowly, running his thumb over the paper as though memorizing its texture. Waiting feels unbearable.
With a soft exhale, he dials.
Your phone buzzes just as youâre stepping out of your flat, balancing your sketchbook and a steaming takeaway coffee. The number is unfamiliar, and for a moment you consider ignoring it. But somethingâcuriosity, maybe intuitionâpushes you to answer.
Thereâs a beat, then his voice, low and smooth. âItâs Seung-hyun. I hope Iâm not waking you.â
You pause mid-step, his voice cutting through the city noise. âNo, Iâm awake. On my way to class, actually.â
A short, deliberate silence follows. âGood. I wasnât sure if youâd mind me calling⌠so soon.â Thereâs a hint of warmth beneath his steady tone, a trace of curiosity, like heâs waiting to hear if youâre glad he called.
Your lips curve without meaning to. âI left you a note, didnât I? I was hoping youâd use it.â
A soft chuckle comes through the line. âI nearly didnât. It fell out of my coat when I got back last night. For a second, I thought Iâd imagined it.â
You picture him crouched on a hotel room floor, cigarette in hand, unfolding the note like itâs something fragile. The image sends heat to your chest. âWouldâve been a shame,â you tease lightly. âI donât make a habit of leaving those behind.â
His reply is low, deliberate. âThen Iâll take it seriously.â A pause, softer now. âI wanted to see you again. Today, if youâre free.â
You slow your steps, the corner near campus buzzing with traffic. âYou really donât like leaving things to chance, do you?â
âI waited outside your faculty for two hours yesterday,â he says, without pretense. âAnother week of waiting might kill me.â
The words settle in your chest, heavier than his calm delivery. You find yourself whispering, âI donât want to wait, either.â
He hums quietly, a sound that feels thoughtful. âDinner, then. Just us. No rushed goodbyes. No galleries. And definitely no Ji-yong dominating the conversation.â
You laugh softly, tension easing. âThat does sound better. Where?â
âIâll take care of everything,â he says, voice firm but warm. âSeven. Iâll text you the address.â
For a moment, neither of you speak. You can hear him shift, maybe leaning back in his chair. âYou sounded tired last night,â he murmurs. âDid I keep you out too late?â
You shake your head instinctively. âNo. I slept fine⌠eventually.â
âEventually,â he repeats. âBecause of the champagne, orâŚ?â
You hesitate, then say it softly. âBecause I kept thinking about the night. About you.â
The quiet that follows hums with something warm, electric. When he finally speaks, his voice is a shade deeper. âThen Iâll make sure tonight gives you something else to think about.â
Your breath hitches, but before you can reply, he softens the moment. âGet through your classes first. Iâll see you at seven.â
When the call ends, you stand on the busy street for a moment, phone still in hand, the city rushing around you. The whole day feels different nowâless like a routine, more like a countdown.
By late afternoon, your apartment is a disaster. Dresses are strewn across the bed, shoes scattered across the floor, and your phone is wedged between your ear and shoulder as you tryâunsuccessfullyâto zip up the back of a navy dress.
âI donât know what Iâm doing, Jess,â you mutter, lowering your voice as though someone might overhear. âItâs just dinner. But not really just dinner. Itâs⌠him.â
On the other end, Jess exhales dramatically. âThe guy who waited outside your lectures for hours and took you to a private gallery? And youâre panicking about what to wear? You need something simple. Black dress, hair down. Stop overthinking it, or youâll psych yourself out.â
âI donât want to look like Iâm trying too hard,â you argue, throwing the navy dress aside. âBut I donât want to look like I walked straight out of the studio either. Itâs⌠complicated.â
âWear something that feels like you. Not a costume. And stop telling me details, because if you overshare, youâll chicken out.â Jessâs voice softens. âJust breathe. Youâre fine. He clearly likes you.â
You sigh, glance at the mirror, and finally pull a simple black dress from the closetâfitted, but not flashy. Ankle boots, hair down. It feels right enough.
The restaurant sits on a narrow street, its windows glowing with warm light that spills onto the wet pavement. When you step inside, the world feels quieter, softer. Seung-hyun is already there, waiting just beyond the host stand. Heâs dressed in a dark suit without a tie, coat folded neatly over his arm, and the sight of him standing there sends a rush of heat to your chest.
âRight on time,â he says, his voice as calm as ever. His eyes skim over youânot lingering too long, but enough that you feel the weight of his attentionâbefore meeting your gaze. âYou look⌠stunning.â
You manage a soft smile, hoping it doesnât reveal too much. âYouâre not exactly hard on the eyes yourself.â
The host leads you to a corner table tucked away from the rest, a single candle flickering between you. The hum of conversation around you fades, as if the room itself knows not to intrude.
He swirls the wine in his glass, leaning forward slightly. âSo, how many students noticed you staring at Ji-yong during that lecture?â
You laugh, shaking your head. âAt least one. I told her it was because he was distracting everyone, not just me.â
Seung-hyun chuckles softly, the sound rich and low. âThat sounds like him. Always the center of attention.â His tone shifts slightly, softer. âIâm glad you came tonight. I wasnât sure you would.â
Your eyes meet his across the table, the candlelight catching faint glints in his gaze. âI almost didnât. Had a nervous breakdown. But⌠Iâm glad I did.â
The server sets down your meals, but neither of you immediately looks away from each other. The air between you feels heavier than the quiet of the gallery, a tension drawn taut but warm.
As dinner unfolds, the conversation flows easily, starting with talk of art and your professors, before meandering into music, travel, and confessions of how oddly freeing it feels to be strangers in London. He asks about your favorite exhibitions, leaning in with genuine curiosity, while you tease him about his habit of collecting bold, unsettling art.
He smirks and admits, âI like things that leave a markâon the room, on me.â
You laugh softly and counter, âSo Iâm guessing impressionists donât usually make the cut?â
He tips his glass toward you in playful agreement, replying with a teasing smile, âNot usually, but maybe Iâll make an exception for you.â
You tilt your head, raising a brow. âAn exception? Am I supposed to feel honored?â
He chuckles and leans in a bit, his voice low. âMaybe. Or maybe youâll convince me they deserve a spot in my collection⌠the art, I mean.â
âYou know, you talk about Monet like heâs a rival.â He grins faintly. âShould I be jealous of a long-dead painter?â
âOnly if youâre worried about being outshined by someone who understood moods better than most people I know,â you tease.
He leans closer, his voice lowering. âMaybe Iâll prove I can match him⌠or outshine him, given the chance.â
Each gesture feels heightened: when your hands brush reaching for the wine, his fingers linger a beat longer than necessary; when he passes you the bread, his touch grazes yours deliberately, sparking a quiet current neither of you names. Even the clinking of glasses feels weighted, like the toast holds more than casual courtesy. You notice the way his gaze lingers on you when you speak, steady and unhurried, as though every word is worth hearing. The layers of conversationâspoken and unspokenâbegin to blur, building a quiet, undeniable tension with each passing minute.
By the time dessert arrives, the restaurant has quieted further, other tables emptying out. The candle between you burns lower, shadows dancing along his jawline as he leans in slightly.
âNext time,â he says quietly, his voice a shade lower, âwe wonât even pretend itâs just dinner.â
When you both step outside, the air is cool and damp, the faint smell of rain still clinging to the streets. The city is quieter now, streetlamps casting long pools of amber light across the slick cobblestones. Seung-hyun falls into step beside you, his hands tucked casually in his coat pockets, while your steps slow naturally, neither of you in any rush to part ways.
For a few minutes, silence lingers comfortably between you, the sound of your footsteps and distant traffic the only interruptions. Finally, he glances at you, a faint curve to his lips. âAre you still nervous?â
You let out a small, breathy laugh, tucking your hands deeper into your coat. âLess than I was. The wine helped⌠but I think I just stopped overthinking everything.â
His gaze lingers on you for a moment, warm and steady. âIâm glad you didnât talk yourself out of coming tonight. I was half-convinced you might.â
You tilt your head at him with a teasing smile. âAnd if I had?â
He shrugs lightly, a glint of humor in his eyes. âI wouldâve just kept showing up outside your classes until you caved.â
The soft laugh that slips from you feels easy, unguarded. A breeze drifts through the street, cool enough to make you shiver slightly. Before you can protest, Seung-hyun slides his coat from his shoulders and drapes it over yours. âYou shouldâve said something,â he murmurs, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.
âThank you,â you reply, clutching the lapels, aware of the residual warmth from him lingering in the fabric.
When you reach the quiet street near your building, your pace slows until youâre standing beneath the soft glow of a lamppost. The quiet between you shiftsâheavier, weighted with something thatâs been building all evening.
âWell,â you murmur, your voice softer now, âI guess this is goodnight.â
He studies your face for a long, still moment, his expression unreadable, then steps closer. âNot quite yet.â
His hand brushes your cheek, tentative but certain, fingers light as though heâs giving you time to pull away. You donât. The space between you closes slowly, deliberately, until his lips meet yours. The kiss is gentle at first, warm and lingering, not rushed, not questioningâjust a quiet promise.
When you part, neither of you moves back right away. The night feels warmer despite the lingering chill.
âGoodnight,â he murmurs, his voice low, softer than youâve heard it before.
You nod, offering back his coat reluctantly, though your fingers graze his as you do. âGoodnight, Seung-hyun.â
Later, in the soft quiet of your flat, as youâre slipping on your pijamas, your phone buzzes. A message lights the screen.
Iâm delighted you came to dinner tonight.Sweet dreams. âS
You linger on the words for a moment, a smile curling at your lips. Before you can reply, another message arrives: Or are you still awake?
You settle onto the edge of your bed, thumbs hovering.
Still awake. Canât sleep yet, you write back.
He responds quickly. Too much wine? Or still thinking?
You bite your lip, fingers tapping. Both. Also trying to figure out how I ended up kissing someone who casually referenced a music festival from the late 90sâbefore I was even born.
Thereâs a pause, then his reply: Ah, so I gave away my age? Does that bother you?
Not really, you type back. Itâs just⌠you talk about bands and movies from when I was in primary school.
Then Iâll make you a playlist, comes his answer, followed by, And we can skip the movies if you want me to stop feeling ancient.
You laugh quietly to yourself and reply: Deal. But only if you promise to stop calling me âkidâ like Ji-yong does.
Promise, he writes. Then, after a beat: Sweet dreams. Iâll call you tomorrow.
Your smile lingers as you finally send your reply. Sweet dreams, Seung-hyun.
The morning starts with your phone buzzing against the nightstand. You squint at the screen to see Seung-hyunâs name glowing back at you.
Coffee later? Thereâs a quiet place near Covent Garden I like. 4 p.m.?
Still half-asleep, you rub your eyes and type back. Can we skip the cafĂŠ? My dayâs packed. You could⌠come here instead? If you donât mind the chaos.
Another message follows before you can set the phone down: Only if you promise not to feed me instant noodles for lunch.
You grin sleepily, tapping back, No promises. Iâm an art student, not a chef.
A long pause stretches before his reply buzzes in. If youâre sure. Iâll bring coffee. Text me your address before you change your mind.
Your fingers hover for a second, nerves fluttering, but you type it out and send it, your heart beating a little faster as you drop the phone beside you.
By late afternoon, rain whispers against your windows, and youâre pacing your apartment. Sketchbooks are stacked neatly now, pencils tossed into jars, every trace of clutter quickly swept aside. Youâve changed outfits twice before settling on jeans and a loose sweater, simple but safe. You glance at the clock, then the mirror, for what feels like the tenth time before the knock comes.
Opening the door, you find him standing there, coat damp from the drizzle, two steaming cups of coffee in hand. His hair is mussed slightly from the wind, his expression calm but his eyes lingering on you a second longer than they should.
âHi,â you say softly, stepping aside.
âHi,â he echoes, handing you a cup as he steps inside, shrugging off his coat. His gaze drifts over your apartmentâcanvases along the walls, the scent of paint and graphite mingled with the warmth of coffee. âThis feels⌠like you,â he murmurs.
âItâs messy,â you admit, brushing your hand down your sleeve.
âItâs yours,â he replies simply, setting his cup on the table. âThat makes it perfect.â
The room feels warmer with him in it, the steady patter of rain outside softening the quiet between you. He pauses near your desk, picking up a sketch lying open. âThis new?â he asks.
âFinished it this morning,â you reply, stepping beside him. âSame street where we met. I canât stop drawing it.â
He studies it for a moment, his mouth curving faintly. âLooks calmer here. The day we met, that street felt like it might swallow everyone whole.â
You laugh softly, tension easing. âMaybe thatâs why I keep drawing it. To make it feel softer.â
His gaze shifts to you, lingering. âYou do that, donât you? Take things that feel loud and make them quieter. Even people.â
The words linger between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. You clear your throat, gesturing toward the table. âWant to sit? I can clear spaceââ
He shakes his head gently, pulling a chair back. âLeave it. Sit with me.â
You both sit at the cluttered table, fingers brushing as you reach for your cups. The rain fills the pause, a steady rhythm under your heartbeat.
âSo,â you murmur, a small smile tugging at your lips, âwhat did you skip today to bring me coffee? Or should I feel honored?â
He smirks faintly, his voice low. âA meeting I didnât want to be in. And a verse I was supposed to finish. My manager will complain, but Iâd rather be here.â
Your smile softens, the air between you warmer now, heavy with something unspoken yet understood.
The silence lingers, deepening with every shared glance. The rain outside grows steadier, the soft sound cocooning the room as Seung-hyun leans a little closer across the table, his gaze dipping briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes.
You feel your breath catch, the air between you charged. Neither of you says anything as his hand slides across the table, brushing over your fingers and resting there. His touch is warm, steady, wordless.
âIs this okay?â he murmurs, his voice low, giving you the chance to pull away.
You nod, your pulse drumming in your ears. âYes.â
He stands slowly, circling the table to where you sit. The closeness makes the room feel smaller, your heartbeat louder. When his fingers graze your cheek, tilting your chin up gently, the first kiss comesâslow, deliberate, tasting faintly of coffee and the charged tension that had been building since the moment he walked in.
The kiss deepens naturally, his hand sliding to the back of your neck as you rise from your chair, your arms curling around his shoulders. Itâs unhurried but growing more intense, each brush of his lips coaxing a little more heat into the moment.
Your back finds the edge of the table, the faint clatter of pencils shifting somewhere behind you, but neither of you pulls away. His other hand settles lightly at your waist, grounding you as the kiss turns more insistent, the soft patter of rain outside the only sound besides your breaths.
When you finally break for air, your foreheads rest together, both of you still catching your breath. His thumb traces your jawline, slow and gentle, his eyes searching yours as if making sure youâre still with him in this moment.
âStill okay?â he whispers, his voice barely audible over the rain.
Your lips curve, breathless but certain. âStill okay.â
And then you kiss him again, pulling him closer, feeling his hand slide along your back as your fingers trace the line of his jaw. The kiss grows heavier, lingering longer, breaths mingling as he murmurs softly against your lips, âYou taste like coffee.â
The soft laugh that slips from you is quickly caught as he tilts your chin, deepening the kiss until youâre pressed more firmly against the tableâs edge. His fingers lace briefly with yours before gliding up your arm, the warmth of his touch making the sound of rain beyond the windows fade further away. Each movement is deliberate, your breaths syncing as the tension between you sharpens.
Your fingers clutch lightly at the fabric of his shirt as he leans into you, one of his hands finding the small of your back and pulling you closer. The kiss builds in urgency, his lips tracing along your jaw before finding yours again, the slow, careful rhythm turning into something more heated, more consuming.
The rain outside becomes distant, replaced by the sound of your shared breaths and the quiet scrape of the chair behind you as you shift closer to him. He murmurs your name softly between kisses, the sound of it grounding and intimate as his hand brushes along your side, fingers tracing the hem of your sweater before resting at your waist.
When the kiss breaks again, the two of you stay close, foreheads touching, his breath warm against your lips as he whispers, âTell me if you want me to stop.â
Your voice is soft, but steady. âI donât want you to.â
His answering smile is subtle, felt more than seen, before his lips find yours again, the moment deepening as the rest of the world fades completely away.
The kiss slows gradually, breaths mingling in the dimly lit apartment. The patter of rain against the window dulls the city beyond into a distant hum, leaving only the warm glow of your lamp and the heat between you.
Seung-hyun doesnât move far. His hands, warm and steady, rest at your waist as his forehead leans gently against yours. His voice is low, threaded with concern and something softer.
âYouâre shaking,â he murmurs, his thumb grazing the hem of your sweater.
A small, breathy laugh escapes you. âIâm not cold.â
A faint smile tugs at his lips. âGood. Iâd hate to think Iâm that bad at this.â
You glance up, meeting his gaze. His eyes are calm but unwavering, watching you with that steady intensity youâre still not used to.
âWhat now?â you whisper, barely audible over the rain.
His fingers trace a slow, reassuring path along your spine, the light pressure making your breath catch.
âWhatever you want,â he says softly, almost like a promise. âIf you want me to leave, I will. If you want me to stay⌠Iâll stay.â
Your fingers trail along his jawline, the roughness of faint stubble beneath your fingertips grounding you.
âStay,â you murmur, the word almost trembling as it leaves you.
His answering kiss is slower, deeper, lingering as if time itself has softened. His hand cups the back of your neck, thumb brushing gentle circles against your skin. The rain beyond the glass becomes a metronome to your breaths, each kiss syncing with the rhythm outside.
When you both move, itâs unspoken. You drift to the couch together, his arm looping around your shoulders as you sink against him, the rise and fall of his chest steady beneath your cheek. The tension remains, muted now, but humming like an electric current under the quiet.
âYou donât let go easily, do you?â you tease, voice muffled against his shoulder.
His quiet laugh rumbles under your cheek. âNot when you taste like coffee, strawberries, and rain.â
You pull back just enough to raise a brow at him. âThatâs terrible.â
âMaybe,â he concedes, brushing his thumb along your jaw, tracing the curve of your chin, âbut you didnât tell me to stop.â
His lips find yours again, the kiss starting soft but deepening as his other hand slides to your hip, anchoring you closer. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, clutching lightly as the warmth between you stirs again. The couch creaks faintly as you shift, his hand splaying against your back as the kiss grows heavier.
Between breaths, he murmurs your name softly, the sound grounding, intimate. You answer with a quiet hum, your lips brushing along his jaw before returning to his, the slow rhythm between you building with every passing second.
The rain outside doesnât stop, but neither do you, the sound of it fading beneath the shared cadence of breath and heartbeat, the night stretching, unhurried, as the closeness between you deepens beyond words.
For a while, neither of you speak. His fingers trace idle patterns along your arm, your breath syncing to the quiet rhythm of the rain. Then you break the silence, your voice soft. âYou never really talk about⌠before. About BigBang. What was it like? Really?â
He exhales, leaning back slightly. âLoud and chaotic. It felt like running a marathon with cameras always on us. We barely sleptâsometimes four hours on a good night. Cities blurred together. I remember one time waking up in Tokyo and walking into the wrong hotel room because I thought we were still in Seoul. Then the next night, we ended up singing with the staff in a tiny bar in Berlin after a show, just to feel human again. Some mornings, Iâd wake up and have no idea what country we were in until I heard someone speak.â
You tilt your head, studying him. âThat sounds⌠exhausting.â
A faint smirk tugs at his lips. âIt was. But it was also⌠electric. Standing in front of thousands, hearing them scream your name, singing alongâit makes you feel untouchable. Until youâre alone at 3 a.m. in a hotel room and the silence feels heavier than the noise ever did.â
Your brow furrows gently. âDid you ever think about quitting?â
He hesitates, his gaze distant for a moment. âSometimes. But Ji-yong wouldnât let me. Even when we are in hiatus. Heâd show up with new ideas, drag me to the studio, remind me why we started. It wasnât just about fame. We wanted to create something that lasted.â
A faint smile plays at your lips. âAnd you did.â
His eyes return to yours, softer now. âWould you have been in the crowd back then?â
You laugh quietly. âMaybe. But I think I prefer this view.â
He chuckles low, pressing a brief kiss to your forehead. âSo do I.â
The quiet stretches comfortably as you trace small shapes on his shirt and he absently twirls a strand of your hair. The rain becomes part of the rhythm around you, blending with the slow thrum of your hearts.
âTell me something about you,â he murmurs after a moment. âNot about school or art. Something I canât see in your sketches.â
You grin against his chest. âOnly if you tell me something no one knows about BigBang. A story youâve never told in an interview.â
He huffs a soft laugh. âDeal. But you first.â
You pull back slightly, your head resting against the couch as you meet his gaze. âAlright⌠something about me.â You pause, chewing your lip. âWhen I was sixteen, I almost quit art entirely. I wanted to study literature instead. My father thought art wasnât practical, and I started to believe him. I didnât pick up a pencil for almost six months.â
His brow lifts slightly, surprise flickering in his expression. âWhat changed?â
âMy teacher,â you answer quietly. âShe found me sitting in the library, not even reading, just⌠staring. She put a sketchbook in front of me and told me not to think, just draw anything. I filled that whole book in a week. I realized I canât not do it, even if it doesnât make sense sometimes.â
Seung-hyun studies you for a long moment, his thumb brushing gently across your hand. âAnd now youâre here, drawing streets over and over, turning noise into calm.â
You smile softly, leaning against him again. âExactly. And now itâs your turn for that untold BigBang story.â
He exhales a quiet laugh. âFair. But I warn youâitâs not glamorous. One time during a U.S. tour, Dae-sung convinced us to sneak out after a show to eat street tacos at 2 a.m. We got caught by a handful of fans who followed us from the arena. We ended up sitting on the curb, eating with them and signing napkins because we didnât have any merch on us.â
You laugh, your head shaking against his chest. âSomehow, I donât think anyone complained about napkins.â
âThey didnât,â he says with a grin. âBut Young-bae still owes me for getting salsa on my jacket.â
The two of you laugh quietly, the sound blending into the rain, your fingers finding his as the moment softens again into something warm and unhurried.
The rain has stopped by the time dawn peeks through your curtains, the early light pale and soft against your walls. The apartment is quiet except for the faint hum of the city waking up. You stir slightly, blinking into the warm blur of morning and realizing youâre still curled against Seung-hyun on the couch, his arm draped around you.
Heâs awake, his fingers lazily tracing circles on your shoulder. âGood morning,â he murmurs, his voice low and rough from sleep.
You shift, tilting your head to look at him. âDid you sleep at all?â
He smirks faintly. âA little. You steal blankets.â
You laugh softly, rubbing your eyes. âYou could have left, you know. Gotten a proper bed.â
âI didnât want to,â he says simply, his gaze holding yours steadily. âIt was⌠nice, staying here. Quiet.â
You sit up a little, stretching, and notice his phone resting on the table, screen dark. âDonât you have work? Ji-yong might be sending out a search party.â
He follows your gaze and shrugs, leaning back into the couch cushions. âHe can wait a few hours. Itâs early, and I donât want to go yet.â
Your eyes soften as you watch him. The edges of his usual composure are softer in the morning light, his hair a little unruly, his voice gentler than youâve heard before.
âI donât usually let people stay,â you admit quietly, fingers curling around the edge of the blanket draped over you both. âBut I⌠didnât want you to leave.â
His hand finds yours beneath the blanket, giving it a light squeeze. âIâm glad you didnât.â
For a few moments, neither of you speak. The morning hum of the city outside fills the room, a soft, distant reminder of the day beginning. He glances toward your kitchenette. âDo you at least have coffee? Or am I making us walk to the cafĂŠ?â
You smile, shaking your head. âI have coffee. Might not be as good as what you brought yesterday, though.â
He stands slowly, stretching as he offers you his hand. âThen letâs test it. Iâll even make itâif you promise to tell me more about sixteen-year-old you while it brews.â
You take his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. âOnly if you tell me one more story about the band.â
His lips curve into a small smile. âDeal.â
The two of you move into the kitchen, the soft clink of mugs and the sound of water heating blending with the muted hum of the morning, the easy comfort of shared space settling between you as naturally as the sunlight seeping in through the windows.
In the kitchen, while the kettle hums, he measures out coffee with practiced ease. You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him.
âSo,â he says, glancing over his shoulder, âsixteen-year-old you almost quit art. What else? What did you picture for yourself at this age?â
You exhale softly. âNot this. I thought Iâd still be at home, maybe teaching, maybe not even drawing anymore. London wasnât in the plan. Neither were you.â
He looks at you, brow raised. âAnd is that⌠good or bad?â
You meet his gaze, a small smile tugging at your lips. âGood. Surprisingly good.â
He pours the hot water over the grounds, the smell of fresh coffee filling the kitchen. âYour turn,â he says. âWhat do you want to know?â
You tilt your head. âWhatâs something about touring no one knows? Something even the die-hard fans never figured out.â
He hands you a steaming mug, his mouth curving into a faint grin. âIn Paris, we missed a flight once because Ji-yong found a rack of vintage coats he had to buy. Our manager nearly combusted. We took a bus overnight to make the next show, and no one ever found out.â
You snort softly into your coffee. âVintage coats? Thatâs the great rockstar secret?â
âHe still has three of them,â Seung-hyun says, shaking his head. âAnd I told him Iâd sell the story one day if I ever needed leverage.â
You laugh quietly, the easy sound filling the kitchen as the light grows brighter, both of you lingering in the soft calm of the morning.
He leans back against the counter beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush, the scent of coffee and rain still lingering in the air.
âSo,â you murmur, nudging him lightly, âwhat else do I not know about you yet? Besides the fact youâre secretly a decent barista.â
He smiles faintly, glancing down at you. âPlenty. But we have time for that, donât we?â
Your lips curve as you take another sip, savoring the warm quiet between you as the morning slowly unfolds, neither of you rushing to break the calm.
A month later, London feels warmer, the streets buzzing with late spring energy as you hear the familiar knock on your door. When you open it, Seung-hyun is there, balancing a bag of takeaway with one hand, his other tucking a bottle of wine under his arm.
âDinner delivery,â he says, stepping inside with a small smile. âFigured we could skip cooking this time.â
You grin, taking the bag from him as he sheds his coat. âI donât think weâve ever cooked. Unless reheating leftovers counts.â
The two of you eat on the couch, legs tangled lazily, the quiet hum of the city seeping through the cracked window. After the containers are stacked on the table and the last of the wine is poured, you settle back against him, his arm draped comfortably around your shoulders.
For a long time, thereâs only the soft buzz of the evening: the faint city sounds outside, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your arm. But you feel him shift slightly, his hand pausing.
âThereâs something I need to tell you,â he says finally, his voice low. âI got an invitation. Something⌠big.â
You tilt your head up, curious. âBig like what?â
He exhales slowly, his gaze dropping briefly to your intertwined hands. âThe Dear Moon project. They want me to be part of it. A week-long trip to the moon next year.â
You blink, stunned for a moment. âThe moon? As in⌠space? Actually space?â
He nods, a faint, almost boyish smile tugging at his lips. âIâve dreamed about it since I was a kid. I used to sit on my rooftop in Seoul and watch the sky for hours. My parents thought it was a phase. It never was.â
You rest your chin lightly against his shoulder, studying his profile as he stares past the window, where the faint glow of the city hides the stars. âSo⌠youâre going to do it?â
His eyes flick to yours. âI think so. Part of me is terrified. Part of me canât believe itâs even possible. But⌠it feels like something I canât say no to.â
Youâre quiet for a moment, tracing your finger along the inside of his wrist. âWhen you were talking about touring, I thought that sounded surreal. But this⌠this is another level.â
His lips curve faintly. âYou think itâs crazy.â
You shake your head, smiling softly. âI think itâs⌠very you. Always chasing something just out of reach.â
He lets out a quiet laugh, pulling you closer. âMaybe. But it feels like something I have to do. Like a dream Iâve been carrying too long.â
You nestle closer into his side, your voice soft as the room settles into a calm hush. âThen Iâll just have to get used to the idea of you disappearing into space for a while.â
His fingers curl gently at your hip, his tone lighter now. âIâll bring you back a moon rock. Or at least a good story.â
You laugh quietly, leaning your head against his chest as the night drifts on, the weight of his words lingering like the faint glow of the moon hidden behind the clouds.
âThereâs more,â he says softly, his thumb tracing an idle circle on your hip. âIf I say yes to the project⌠I have to leave next month. Texas. Training. They want me there for almost 10 months before the launch.â
You sit up slightly, blinking at him. â10 months?â The words taste foreign, heavy. âYouâd be gone that long before you even⌠go?â
He nods, his eyes holding yours steadily despite the faint tension in his jaw. âItâs part of the deal. They have to prepare usâphysically, mentally. Itâs not like hopping on a plane.â
The room feels smaller now, the warm glow of your lamp casting long shadows as you process. Your fingers tighten around the fabric of his shirt. âI'm happy for you, Seung-hyun. I'm really am. But what does that mean⌠for us?â
His gaze softens, though his voice remains even. âThatâs what I wanted to ask you. I donât want thisâwhat we haveâto just stop because of distance. But I know itâs a lot to ask. Letters, calls, time zones⌠waiting.â
You swallow hard, the knot in your chest tightening. âWeâve only been⌠us⌠for a little while. And now youâre talking about disappearing to another continent, and then⌠space.â
His hand slides to yours, fingers intertwining gently. âI donât want to lose this. I donât want to lose you. But I also canât walk away from this chance. Iâve wanted it my whole life.â
Your gaze searches his face, catching the quiet resolve there, the trace of uncertainty beneath it. âAnd if I say I canât do long distance? That I canât just⌠wait around while you chase the moon?â
His lips press together, his thumb brushing the back of your hand. âThen we figure something else out. Or⌠we end it, if thatâs what you need. I donât want to hold you in something that feels unfair.â
The words hang between you, heavier than any silence youâve shared before. The faint hum of the city seeps back into your awareness, every sound sharper somehow.
Finally, you exhale slowly, leaning your forehead against his. âI donât know if I can promise anything yet. But⌠I donât want this to end. Not yet. Even if itâs hard.â
His hand cups your cheek, his touch steady despite the tension in the air. âThen weâll make it work. One day at a time. If thatâs enough for now.â
You nod, the knot in your chest loosening just slightly as you curl back against him, both of you sitting quietly in the warm glow of the apartment, the future uncertain but not yet out of reach.
For a while, you sit in silence, the low hum of the city and the distant glow of headlights through your window your only company. Then his voice breaks the quiet, softer now. âYou know⌠when I used to tour, I thought nothing could feel heavier than saying goodbye for weeks at a time. But nowâŚâ
You tilt your head slightly to meet his eyes. âNow itâs different?â
His lips curve faintly, though his gaze stays serious. âNow it feels like thereâs more to lose.â
The words settle deep in your chest, the weight of them making the quiet stretch even longer. You shift slightly, cupping his jaw with your hand, your thumb brushing along his cheekbone.
âThen maybe we donât waste tonight thinking about goodbyes,â you murmur.
His eyes soften, his breath slowing as he leans into your touch. âMaybe we just make tonight last.â
And when he kisses you, itâs slow, lingeringânot urgent, but deliberate. The kind of kiss that feels like a promise, even when neither of you can speak it aloud yet. The city outside fades into a dull blur, the two of you sinking deeper into the warmth of the moment, holding on to what you have now before the future comes rushing in.
The kiss deepens, slow at first, turning into something more lingering as the warmth between you builds, each brush of his lips against yours drawing out the moment. His hands trace the length of your back, sliding slowly, anchoring you closer, while his breath steadies against your cheek, the sound soft but deliberate. Your fingers drift over the line of his neck, the curve of his jaw, memorizing the feel of him beneath your touch as if imprinting it.
He murmurs your name softly between kisses, his voice low, almost a whisper that vibrates against your lips. âYou have no idea what you do to me,â he breathes, his words warm and heavy. âThe way you look at me⌠the way your breath hitches when I touch you like this⌠itâs intoxicating.â His thumb draws slow, deliberate circles along your waist, each movement matched by another quiet praise: âYouâre stunning⌠every sound you make drives me insane.â
Without speaking, you both shift, the couch giving way to the quiet sanctuary of your bedroom. The soft lamplight spills across the space, pooling in golden hues, casting faint shadows on the walls as the rest of the world blurs away. Shoes are nudged off, the faint rustle of fabric punctuating the hush as you sink onto the bed together. The air is warm and close, the scent of rain lingering faintly through the cracked window.
He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his eyes locked with yours as his hand rests lightly along your waist. âAre you sure?â he asks quietly, voice low and smooth. âBecause once I start, I donât think Iâll want to stop.â
You nod, your hand finding his, giving it a firm squeeze. âIâm sure.â
What follows is slow, deliberateâa dance of lingering touches and quiet laughter when elbows bump, his voice threading through every kiss. âYouâre incredible,â he murmurs against your skin, lips brushing along your collarbone. âEvery sound, every little movement⌠you donât even know what youâre doing to me.â His words tease but hold a raw honesty that sends warmth rushing through you.
His fingertips trace over your shoulder, down the curve of your spine, drawing goosebumps in their wake as he leans closer, his breath warm and teasing against your ear. âI could stay like this forever,â he whispers, voice husky now. âYou feel perfect⌠every time you breathe, every time you shiverâitâs like youâre pulling me deeper under. Donât stop, not tonight.â
You respond in kind, your hands roaming across the firm lines of his back, fingertips gliding along the ridges of his shoulder blades and tracing the length of his spine. His breath stutters when your nails graze lightly along his skin, drawing a low, rough laugh from him. âGod, youâre going to ruin me,â he whispers, his lips ghosting along your jaw. âAnd I wouldnât change a thing. Stay close, let me keep you here as long as we can.â
The room feels suspended in time, every sound and sensation amplifiedâthe soft rustle of sheets, the faint rhythm of rain outside, the way his voice dips low with every praise, calling you beautiful, unforgettable, each word more deliberate than the last. Every kiss and every whisper feels like a vow, an unspoken promise to hold on despite the shadow of his departure waiting beyond the horizon.
Later, when the night has settled into its quietest hours, the two of you lie together beneath the dim glow of the lamp. Your head rests against his chest, listening to the steady cadence of his heartbeat as his fingers trace lazy, absentminded shapes along your arm.
He breaks the silence in a whisper, almost to himself. âI wish time could slow down tonight.â
You tilt your head slightly, catching the faint light in his eyes. âSo do I,â you breathe, the words barely a sound as you press closer, letting the warmth between you and the steady rhythm of his heart anchor you against the inevitability of morning.
The weeks that follow become a blur of stolen moments, each day marked by the quiet urgency of knowing time is slipping away. Seung-hyun seems to sense it too; every time he knocks on your door, every time his hand brushes yours, thereâs a lingering weight in his touch, a silent reminder of the countdown ticking toward Texas.
You fall into a rhythm. Morning coffees in the small cafĂŠ down the street, his cap pulled low as the two of you linger over empty mugs just to stretch the minutes. Afternoons spent with you sketching while he quietly works through notebooks and calls, his presence steady even in silence. Evenings wandering through Londonâs streets, his arm around you as you talk about everything and nothingâbooks youâve read, songs heâs working on, little things you notice about the city at night.
Sometimes, he tells you stories of the past, his voice soft as he describes nights on tour, hidden moments behind flashing lights, the exhaustion and thrill tangled together. Other times, itâs quieter: the two of you stretched out on the couch, your legs tangled, his fingers idly tracing your wrist as you both watch the city lights flicker through the window.
At night, the weight of the approaching goodbye feels heavier, but neither of you says it aloud. Instead, you hold each other longer, kisses deepening as if to memorize every detail before distance makes the memories blur. He praises you in the dark, his voice low and warm, murmuring how the world feels softer when youâre with him, how your laughter has become his favorite sound, how he doesnât want to forget the way you feel when the city outside is asleep. Sometimes he teases you softly, whispering that youâll be the memory keeping him awake during long training nights, that the way you sigh against his neck might haunt him in the best way when heâs far away. You cling to those words, storing them like keepsakes for the months ahead.
Those nights stretch long, filled with whispered confessions and slow touches beneath the blankets, every kiss drawn out as if it could delay the inevitable. He trails his fingers along your spine, murmuring how he wants to memorize everythingâthe way your breath stutters, the curve of your shoulders, the sound of your voice when youâre half-asleep. Sometimes he coaxes soft laughter from you, teasingly asking how heâs supposed to focus on training when he canât shake the memory of your warmth, your touch, the way you fit against him perfectly.
You answer with your hands, fingers tracing the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his jaw, brushing his hair back as you whisper back your own truthsâthat you donât know how youâll manage the quiet of your apartment without him, that every night feels shorter because itâs one less before he goes. You find comfort in the murmured promises neither of you can fully keep but both need to hear: that the distance wonât change whatâs here, that somehow youâll make the waiting bearable.
One evening, your apartment is scattered with half-finished sketches and crumpled papers, your laptop open as you pace in front of it, muttering under your breath. âThis is a disaster. My final project is due in a week, and nothing is working. Iâm going to fail. Iâm not going to graduate.â
Seung-hyun watches from the couch, one arm draped along the back, calm despite your frenzy. âYouâve been saying that every project, and you always finish,â he points out, voice even.
âThis one is different!â you exclaim, throwing yourself down beside him. âItâs supposed to be my statement piece, and everything feels⌠flat. What if they hate it? What if I donât even pass?â
He catches your hand gently, pressing his thumb against your knuckles. âBreathe. Show me what you have. Maybe Iâll see something youâre missing.â
You glance at him, exasperated but softening as his thumb draws slow circles along your hand. âYouâre not exactly my professor, you know.â
âNo,â he says, leaning in slightly, âbut I know when youâre overthinking. And right now, youâre not seeing whatâs already good.â
Reluctantly, you pull up your sketches, spreading them across the table. He studies them quietly, his brows furrowing in thought. âThis one,â he says finally, tapping a charcoal piece of a rainy London street. âIt feels alive. Work from this. Build around it.â
You stare at him for a moment, the tension in your chest easing slightly. âYou think?â
âI know,â he murmurs, meeting your eyes. âAnd if you need me, Iâll keep you grounded until itâs done. Even if it means keeping you up all night with coffee and pep talks.â
Your lips twitch into a reluctant smile. âThat sounds like a terrible but necessary plan.â
He leans closer, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. âTerrible plans are my specialty. Youâll finish. Youâll graduate. And weâll celebrate before I leave.â
The month passes in moments like thisâintimate, chaotic, tender. Some nights blur into morning, your body curled against his as his voice lulls you to sleep with soft praises, quiet teasing, and promises to call every chance he can. Other nights, you stay awake together, laughing quietly in the dark, trading kisses that grow slower and softer until words fade into touch. Both of you know these moments are numbered, and so you savor each one, clinging closer, letting each night linger until sleep finally claims you, knowing that soon, the quiet will feel heavier without him there.
The morning is heavy with gray clouds, the kind of London sky that promises rain but never quite delivers. You stand among your classmates, the black fabric of your gown catching the wind as the courtyard hums with voicesâparents, friends, students snapping photos. Your portfolio feels heavier in your arms than it should. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you expect to see him: tall, quiet, cap pulled low as always. But heâs not there.
Far away from the crowd, Seung-hyun leans against the window of Ji-yongâs flat, phone in hand. âYouâre sure?â he asks quietly, glancing at his friend.
Ji-yong nods, scrolling through his phone. âPositive. I just got a messageâpress already knows about the graduation. Thereâll be cameras, tabloids, and people asking questions. Itâll be chaos, but this is the time to come out, Seung-hyun.â
Seung-hyun exhales slowly, thumb running along the edge of his phone. âShe doesnât know, does she?â
Ji-yong shakes his head. âNot yet.â
For a moment, Seung-hyun doesnât answer, his jaw tightening. Finally, he sets his phone down. âThen I wonât go. Not if it risks ruining this. She's not ready for this shit show.â
Hours later, when your name is called, you walk across the stage with a steady smile, gripping your diploma as the crowd below bursts into applause. The flashes of photographers make your eyes sting, but you keep your head high, pretending not to notice.
Down the stage, Ji-yong is waiting. Heâs dressed plainly, a cap pulled low, holding a small bouquet of white lilies. âCongratulations,â he says warmly, handing them to you.
You take the flowers, offering a small smile before glancing past him, scanning the thinning crowd. âThank you⌠but whereâs Seung-hyun? He said heâd be here.â
Ji-yong hesitates, adjusting his scarf before meeting your gaze. âHe⌠thought itâd be better not to come. The press was here. A lot of them.â
You blink, the bouquet tightening in your grip. âOh.â The word feels thin, almost lost in the hum of voices around you. âI didnât⌠know.â
Ji-yongâs expression softens. âHeâs probably pacing his flat right now, waiting to call you. He wanted you to have this moment without the noise. You know him.â
You nod slowly, looking down at the flowers in your hands. âYeah. I know.â
When you finally leave the campus, the courtyardâs noise fades behind you, swallowed by the weight of the gray London sky. The lilies Ji-yong pressed into your hand feel brittle, their white petals cool against your skin as you walk alone down the cobblestone street. Everyone else had someone waitingâparents, friends, partners with flowers and proud smiles. You had Ji-yong, but not him. Not the person you wanted to see more than anyone.
Your throat burns as you pull your phone from your pocket, fingers shaking as you dial Seung-hyunâs number. The ring barely hums once before his voice answers, calm and warm, like everything is fine. âCongratulations, graduate.â
The steadiness in his tone feels like a slap, and your voice comes sharper than you intend. âYou werenât there.â The words spill out like theyâve been clawing at your chest all morning, strained and raw. âYou promised me you would be there.â
Silence stretches, filled only by the faint sound of him moving, maybe pacing. When he speaks, his voice is even but heavy. âI didnât want to make it about me. Ji-yong said the press showed up, a lot of them. I didnât want your day to turn into a circus.â
Your nails dig into the bouquetâs paper, your breath uneven. âItâs my day, and you werenât there. Everyone else had someone waiting. I kept looking, thinking Iâd find you in the crowdâtall, quiet, hiding under a cap like always. But you just⌠werenât. You couldnât even tell me you werenât coming?â
He sighs softly, his voice dropping lower. âI watched, you know. Ji-yong sent me a video of you crossing the stage. Iâve already replayed it more times than I can count.â
Your eyes sting as the world blurs in shades of gray. âItâs not the same, Seung-hyun. You said youâd be there. You promised. And now the biggest day of my life feels⌠hollow. Like it mattered to everyone but you.â
Thereâs a pause, too long, and then his reply, quieter and laced with regret. âDonât say that. You matter more than anything. I stayed away because I thought I was protecting you, not because you werenât worth the chaos. If I couldâve been there without stealing the day from you, I wouldâve been front row, cheering louder than anyone. I swear it.â
You press your fingers to your eyes, tears slipping free despite yourself. âThen why didnât you tell me? Why did I have to find out from Ji-yong? Do you know what it felt like, walking out and realizing you werenât coming?â Your voice cracks, sharp with hurt. âDo you even know how much it broke me to keep looking for you?â
âI know,â he murmurs, guilt laced in every word. âI should have told you. I was trying to spare you, not hurt you. I didnât want you to stand on that stage thinking about me or the noise. I just⌠wanted you to have your moment.â
You choke out a shaky laugh, bitter and aching. âMy moment feels smaller without you in it. Thatâs the truth.â
The line is quiet for a heartbeat before his voice returns, softer than before, almost pleading. âLet me come to you tonight. No cameras, no noise. Just us. Let me make this right, even a little.â
You lower your hand, staring at the flowers youâre clutching too tightly, their petals crumpling under your grip. âJust⌠come. I donât care about the press or the headlines. I donât care about anything but you being here. Please.â
âI will,â he says, his voice heavy with resolve, almost a whisper. âIâll be there soon. I promise.â
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