Electro's SMUT Collection

K-pop stories of possession, passion, and blurred boundaries. Follow Telegram Channel for Stories, Teasers, Updates and more. https://t.me/blackpink_smut

[electro469]

Electro's SMUT MasterList

warning: Some stories are bordering on the extreme side. Please read the blurb and pay attention to Hashtags before you invest yourselves in the story.

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*AU-Alternate Universe/Series

*Others are Stand alone stories/one-shot

Darkest Night AU - Jisoo

Darkest Night

The Nightmares (sequel)

Next Step - Jisoo x Jennie

Special one - Jisoo x Lisa(futa)

Rosé's Birthday Bash

BLACKPINK'S Valentine's special - BLACKPINK x Fangirl

More Than Okay - Jisoo x Rosé

The Final Evaluation AU

Night 1 - Miyeon

Night 2 - Jisoo

Night 3 - Rosé

Night 4 - Jennie

Night 5 - Lisa

Glitched Enhancement - Jisoo x Lisa (Bonus Blackpink ot4)

Special Enlistment AU

Wonyoung

Natty

Teddy's Angles (Rosé's POV) - BLACKPINK OT4

CITA AU

Caught in the Act - Jisoo x Seulgi

Prescription for Pleasure - Jisoo x Seulgi x Irene

Ultimate Crew Experience - Karina x Fanboy

Ultimate Crew Experience-2 - Karina x Winter x Fanboy

Melon Obsession - Sana x Fanboy

MiSaMo VIP Debut Showcase

Mommy Jisoo AU

Mommy's Special massage - Jisoo x Jennie

Claiming Rosé - Jisoo x Jennie x Rosé

Lisa's Surrender - OT4

Concierge Confidential AU

Concierge Confidential: Somi's Night

Concierge Confidential: Nayeon's Bet

Concierge Confidential: Ryujin's Awakening

Concierge Confidential: IU's Poison

Concierge Confidential: Jisoo's Literary Escape

Concierge Confidential: Yeji's Discovery

Fuckboy On Demand - A parody of Boyfriend on Demand

Episode 1 ft. Seo Inguk

Episode 2 ft. Seo Kang-joon

Shadow of Protection - Jisoo x Bodyguard fanfic

Lotus Deep Harmony - Tzuyu's Special Thai Massage

BLACKED - Jennie x Backup Dancers

UNDERPAID & OVERLOVED AU

Nayeon's Turn

Jeongyeon's Turn

Momo's Turn

Sana's Turn

Jihyo's Turn

Mina's Turn

Dahyun's Turn

Chaeyoung's Turn

Tzuyu's Turn

THE APEX ARENA SERIES

ALTEREGO - Lisa

Unchained Melody - A BLACKPINK Erotic Novella

Cognitive Climax Therapy - Aespa AU

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Next Phase Begins...

The Shadow of Ningning

The Shadow of Giselle

The Shadow of Winter

The Shadow of Karina

Lights behind the Shadow + Epilogue

Premium C*nt: The Birthday Surprise - Jennie

Premium C*nt: The Bachelor Party

Amber Hours - Chaereong x Male OC

Life Between Dreams - Jisoo AU

Opposing Forces - Asa x Anna

Sinful Confessions

Confession #001: Jang Wonyoung — IVE

Confession #002: Yu Jimin (Karina) — Aespa

Confession #003: Bae Joohyun (Irene) — Red Velvet

Confession #004: An Yujin — IVE

Confession #005: Kim Chaewon - Le Seerafim

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Electro's story collection

Where reality marges with wildest imaginations. All about K-Pop, BLACKPINK and Jisoo💜

[electro469]

Sinful Confessions

Confession #005: forbidden achievements

CONFESSION #005

SUBJECT: Kim Chaewon (LE SSERAFIM)

DEVICE: iPhone 17 — Mist Blue

APPLE ID: ████████@icloud.com

FOLDER: 개인 (Private) / 메모

FILE TITLE: "forbidden achievements"

CREATED: November 14, 2019 — 11:32 PM KST

LAST MODIFIED: February 13, 2026 — 02:44 AM KST

SYNC STATUS: Backed up to iCloud

ENCRYPTION: BREACHED

[ FILE OPENED ]

forbidden achievements

[NON-RELEVANT ENTRIES REDACTED]

[November 14, 2019 — 11:32 PM]

there's a boy. rookie idol from another company. we've been texting for a few weeks. he's tall — not hard to be taller than me, most kitchen appliances are taller than me — and he laughs at things that are actually funny which is rarer than it should be in this industry where everyone laughs at everything as a professional reflex.

year-end industry gathering tonight. venue in gangnam. hundred-something trainees and idols in expensive clothes. i found him across the room and his face did the thing where it reacts before the brain can censor it. mine probably did the same. i'm usually better at my face but he got past the checkpoint.

we talked by the drinks table for an hour. then he said he wanted to show me the hallway. i said "there's nothing in a hallway." he said "i'm in the hallway." terrible line. worked immediately.

the hallway had a vending machine and fluorescent lighting that made both of us look like we were in a hospital drama. extremely unromantic. peak ambiance for a first kiss if your standards are underground, which mine apparently are.

he kissed me. four seconds. maybe five. his lips were chapped — do boys not own lip balm? is lip balm a female-only technology? i thought male idols also care about these things? i tasted like peach because of my balm, he tasted like cola. together we tasted like a convenience store. not how i pictured my first kiss tasting but i didn't hate it. my heart was doing something interesting — not the romantic flutter that dramas promise but the adrenaline thing. the pre-stage thing. the specific chemical that hits when you're about to step into lights.

that part i liked. the cola, mid. the adrenaline, very good.

walked back inside. smiled at the right people. said the right things. the whole time my heart was still doing the thing and i kept touching my own lips without realizing it until wonyoung asked me why i kept doing that and i said they were dry and she gave me her lip balm and didn't ask further questions because wonyoung is fifteen and doesn't know what to ask yet.

i think i want to feel the adrenaline part again. the cola part is negotiable.

[March 3, 2020 — 01:08 AM]

developments since november. not documenting every text exchange because this is a diary not a court transcript but summary: we kept talking, we met twice outside of schedules, things progressed.

first time — secret date at a cafe in hapjeong. quiet corner booth. his hand started on my knee. took maybe twenty minutes to migrate from knee to inner thigh. twenty minutes of incremental progress while i sipped an americano that went cold and pretended to watch the rain outside while his fingers drew slow circles higher and higher on my leg.

the people at the next table were having a conversation about their mortgage. mortgage. while his thumb was tracing the inseam of my jeans three inches from where no thumb belonging to anyone else had ever been. the mundanity of them versus the not-mundanity of what was happening under the table was its own kind of high. like being in a movie that only two people are watching.

he didn't go further than the thigh. not that day. but my body spent the next six hours reminding me exactly where his hand had been. phantom fingerprints. i could feel them during evening practice. i messed up the chorus formation because my brain was in a hapjeong cafe booth instead of the practice room and the choreographer looked at me like i'd grown a second head because kim chaewon doesn't mess up formations.

second time — his company's practice building, after hours. he had a keycard. empty floor. just us and the emergency exit signs glowing red at the end of the corridor.

this one went further.

his hands under my shirt. the shock of someone else's fingers on my bare stomach — cold hands, warm skin, the contrast made me inhale sharply and he took the inhale as encouragement, which it was, though i would have died before admitting that out loud. he touched my chest over my bra and then under it and his thumb crossed my nipple and my back found the mirror behind me and my eyes closed and my hips moved forward into his without my brain approving the motion.

his hand went lower. under the waistband. outside the underwear first — rubbing through the cotton — and i was wet enough that we could both feel it through the fabric and his breathing changed and mine changed and we were two trainees in an empty practice room at midnight crossing lines that the industry pretends don't get crossed.

he slipped his fingers inside my underwear. skin on skin. his middle finger found me and slid between and i grabbed his wrist — not to stop him, to hold him there, to make sure he didn't move his hand away because if he moved his hand away i would have actually died.

he touched me like that for a while. i'm not sure how long. time does strange things when someone is rubbing your clit for the first time. i was close — building toward something i could feel assembling in my lower body like a countdown — when we heard footsteps in the corridor.

we separated so fast i got friction burn from the mirror. he turned away to deal with his situation. i pulled my shirt down and pretended to stretch. the footsteps passed. the door didn't open.

the almost-caught moment. forty-five seconds of absolute stillness, heart in my throat, body still throbbing from what his hand had been doing three seconds earlier. i keep thinking about those forty-five seconds more than i think about his fingers.

the risk is the thing. i know that now. the fingers were good. the risk of the footsteps was better. my brain is taking notes.

[October 22, 2020 — 02:30 AM]

haven't written here since march. a lot has happened in the world. nothing has happened in my world that i've been willing to write down because writing it makes it permanent and permanent is scary.

but something happened two days ago that i need to put here. and before i write about it i need to write about something sakura-unnie said that changed how i think about all of this.

we were in the dorm — IZ*ONE dorm, the living room, late at night. she was playing something on her switch. some action RPG with a leveling system. she was explaining the progression with the kind of focus she normally saves for food or her cat and she said something i haven't been able to stop thinking about.

she said: "the best part of a good game isn't the easy content. it's when you clear something genuinely hard. there's a specific dopamine hit from beating a level you were stuck on. and then immediately your brain recalibrates and the old hard becomes normal and you need new hard."

she was talking about games.

i was thinking about the practice room hallway and the footsteps and the specific adrenaline of almost being caught and how the cafe booth — which felt so daring in december — now feels like nothing.

"your brain recalibrates and you need new hard."

that's exactly what's happening to me. the kiss was a level. the cafe was a level. the practice room was a level. each one felt hard when i was in it and easy looking back. and my recalibrated brain keeps asking: what's next?

sakura-unnie handed me the vocabulary without knowing she was handing me anything. so i'm going to use it. because this diary isn't just a diary anymore. it's a progression log. every experience has been a level. the first kiss was level 1. the cafe was level 2. the practice room was — let's be honest — level 2.5 because we didn't finish.

which brings me to two days ago. level 3.

the rookie idol— same one, we reconnected after the march gap. he texted in september. i responded. we circled each other for a few weeks. then he suggested we meet somewhere that wasn't a practice room or a cafe. somewhere with a door that locks and nobody else's footsteps in the corridor.

i booked a hotel room. a love motel, actually, because a love motel in dongdaemun is the one place in seoul where nobody looks at your face. i used a fake name. paid cash. the room was small and pink and the bedsheets had a pattern that i'm choosing not to describe and the whole thing had the ambiance of a place that exists exclusively for what we were there to do. no pretense. no cafe americanos. just a locked door and a bed and two people who'd been circling this for almost a year.

he was nervous. i was nervous. i'm better at hiding nervous than he is because my face is a professionally trained instrument and his is not. he sat on the edge of the bed and i stood in front of him and for about thirty seconds neither of us moved and the room was so quiet i could hear the clock on the wall ticking.

i kissed him first. because waiting was making it worse and because i've learned that i prefer to initiate. something about being the one who starts — who decides "now" — gives me a specific feeling of control that makes the rest easier to navigate.

the kissing escalated faster than the practice room because there were no footsteps to worry about and no mirrors to accidentally bang into and no pretense about being there for any reason other than the obvious one. his shirt came off. mine came off. his hands went to the clasp of my bra and fumbled it for an embarrassing amount of time — i reached back and did it myself, which he looked sheepish about, and i found his sheepishness endearing in a way i didn't expect.

we were on the bed. his weight on me. the specific pressure of another body — heavier than mine, broader than mine, covering more surface area than mine — and the sensation of being underneath that weight was complex. not bad. not great. mostly just: new. a lot of new data arriving simultaneously through every nerve ending.

he had a condom. he was prepared at least for that if not for bra clasps. when he entered me it hurt — a sharp, brief, precise pain that i'd read about and been told about and thought i was prepared for and was not prepared for. i made a sound that was not sexy. he froze. i said "keep going" because stopping would have made it worse and because the pain was already fading into something else.

the something else was: pressure. fullness. an unfamiliar internal sensation that my body was processing in real time without historical reference. it wasn't the fireworks that fiction promises. it was more like the first time you hear a song that you'll eventually love but on first listen you're mostly just trying to follow the melody.

he moved. slowly at first, then less slowly. my body started to find the rhythm — not of his movement specifically but of my own response to it. there was a specific angle where the pressure shifted from neutral to actively good and when he hit that angle i grabbed his shoulder and my nails dug in and he made a sound that suggested the nails were working for him.

i didn't come. i want to be honest about that. he did — inside the condom, with a groan that he muffled against my neck — and i didn't, and when it was over he asked if i had and i said yes because the alternative was a conversation i didn't want to have in a love motel in dongdaemun at midnight on a tuesday.

but: the angle. the specific moment where pressure became pleasure. that was real. that was the trailer. ten seconds of proof that this gets better with practice and better hardware and someone who knows where the angle is without me having to find it myself.

level 3 cleared. difficulty: mechanically simple, emotionally complex. result: incomplete but promising. the game has shown me a preview of what the higher levels feel like. i want to reach them.

achievement unlocked: first time. filed under "necessary tutorial content that doesn't represent the full potential of the gameplay."

note to self: the adrenaline during was less than the practice room. the risk was lower (locked door, no footsteps) and therefore the rush was lower. conclusion: difficulty and satisfaction are directly correlated. the next level needs to be harder than a love motel with a locked door.

[January 8, 2021 — 04:14 AM]

IZ*ONE disbandment is confirmed. april.

i'm not writing about that. not here. not yet. i'm writing about something else because writing about something else is the only way i can be in my own body tonight without disintegrating.

it's late. i went out. alone. hongdae first, then further into mapo. walked until the walking didn't help. ended up in a bar where the light is low and the music is loud and nobody looks at anyone for longer than necessary.

a man. sitting near the end of the bar. not korean — something else, maybe indonesian, accent i couldn't place. mid-thirties. didn't recognize me and more importantly didn't care. we talked for an hour about nothing. the nothing-talking was the foreplay. by the time we left the bar together the nothing had done more work than any amount of something could have.

his car. parked on a side street two blocks away. not a nice car — dented, coffee cups in the console, the backseat full of what looked like work bags. not romantic. not planned. survival.

the front seats went back. he kissed me and his mouth was different from the idol — rougher, less hesitant, the mouth of someone who has done this enough times that the choreography is muscle memory. his hand went between my legs and he found me through my jeans and pressed and i pressed back and the limited space of the car made everything concentrated. no room to spread out. nowhere to retreat. just the two of us in a small metal box on a dark street.

he unzipped my jeans. i lifted my hips to help. his fingers found me and i was already so wet that the sound they made was audible in the quiet of the car and i would have been embarrassed about that except embarrassment requires bandwidth that my body was using for other things.

his fingers were better than the idol's. not because of technique specifically — because of confidence. he touched me like he knew what he was looking for and where to find it. two fingers inside me, curled forward, his thumb on my clit, and the combination was a precision instrument and my body responded to precision the way it responds to a perfectly executed choreography — instantly, completely, without the brain getting in the way.

i came. actually came. not the practice-room-almost or the love-motel-lie. actually came. in a stranger's car on a side street in mapo with the windows fogging and a streetlight turning everything orange through the condensation. my hand was on the dashboard and my other hand was gripping his forearm and my legs straightened and locked and the orgasm went through me like a electrical current — starting between my legs and radiating outward through my stomach, my chest, my throat — and i made a sound i didn't plan and couldn't control and his fingers kept moving through all of it and when it was over i was shaking.

i cried. briefly. not because of him. because five months from now my career might not exist and tonight a stranger's fingers proved i still have a body that works and responds and feels things and that proof was the only solid ground available.

he was kind about the crying. didn't ask. got me water from the console (warm, tasted like plastic). i fixed my clothes. took the subway home at 2am with my face reassembled into the expression it's supposed to have. sat in the empty carriage and thought about recalibration.

the love motel was the previous level. this was the new one. the risk was higher (stranger, car, public street) and the result was higher (first real orgasm with another person). the correlation holds. harder levels, better rewards.

level 4 cleared. achievement unlocked: first authentic completion with a partner. difficulty: emotional rather than physical. the disbandment gave this a specific texture that i'm not going to examine right now because examining it would require feeling it and feeling it would require stopping and i can't stop.

what's next has to be harder.

i need there to be a next.

[September 4, 2022 — 01:55 AM]

a lot has happened since january 2021. LE SSERAFIM debuted may 2022. i'm a leader now. the career is back. the survival mode is over.

in the gap between january 2021 and now — two encounters i'm not detailing fully because neither was significant enough for a complete entry. a stagehand at a music show in early 2022 (quick, backstage, post-debut adrenaline, adequate). a session musician who worked on one of our b-sides (his studio, after hours, better than the stagehand, worse than the car). both filed. both part of the progression. neither moved the calibration bar.

tonight moved the calibration bar.

new genre. new character class. whatever sakura's gaming vocabulary would call the experience of sleeping with a woman for the first time.

she's a personal trainer. the company assigned her to me three months ago — the standard idol package, twice-a-week sessions focused on stamina and core stability and the specific muscle groups that stage performance destroys. she's twenty-eight. korean-american. spent most of her career training athletes and dancers before pivoting to idols. she has arms that make it clear why athletes hire her and shoulders that i started noticing during the second session and haven't stopped noticing since.

the noticing was mutual. i want to record that i didn't imagine it — trainers spend two sessions a week with their hands on your body, correcting form, spotting lifts, guiding stretches, and there's a specific quality to a trainer's touch when it goes from professional to something else. she started spotting me on exercises that didn't require spotting. she started demonstrating stretches with more skin contact than the stretches required. her hand would rest on my lower back during a hip flexor stretch for approximately two seconds longer than technically necessary and i noticed and she knew i noticed and neither of us commented and the noticing became its own weekly appointment.

three months of that. mutual, escalating, unaddressed.

tonight was the last session before our comeback schedule starts. she said "you should come to my place after, i want to give you some recovery techniques for the road." she said it with the professional voice but the words were doing something the professional voice couldn't fully cover. i said "okay" with the same face i use for interview answers. we both understood the assignment.

her apartment. gangnam. small but expensive — the kind of place a successful private trainer affords by charging idols and celebrities premium rates. she opened a bottle of wine (i didn't know trainers drank wine, but of course they do, they're humans not muscle-monitoring robots). we sat on her couch close enough that our knees touched. talking about nothing the way you talk about nothing when the nothing is load-bearing structure supporting the thing you're actually there to do.

i kissed her first. because i always kiss first. because initiating is my move and has been since the love motel.

the difference between kissing her and kissing any of the men was immediate and categorical. soft where they were rough. her lips gave instead of pressed. she tasted like the wine we'd been drinking — a white, something floral — and her hand went to the back of my neck and her fingers were in my hair and the specific gentleness of the pressure was a language i didn't know i spoke.

she pulled back and looked at me and said "have you done this before?" and i said "no" and she said "tell me if you want to stop" and i said "i am very far from wanting to stop."

she laughed. i liked making her laugh with my face close enough to feel the air of it.

we moved to her bedroom. she undressed me with a care that the men never had — not because the men were bad but because their urgency was a different frequency. she took time. my shirt, folded on the chair. my bra, unclasped without fumbling (this is apparently a skill that women possess and men do not). my jeans. my underwear. she looked at me standing in her bedroom completely naked and i am 163cm of not-very-much and she looked at me like i was a landscape.

i need to document what happened next with precision because the data is important.

she laid me on her bed and kissed my neck. my collarbone. the center of my chest. between my breasts. my stomach — the muscles twitched under her mouth. lower. she kissed the line of my hip bone and my hand went into her hair instinctively and she looked up at me from below my navel and her eyes were dark and patient and she said "is this okay?" and i nodded because language had become unavailable.

her mouth between my legs. the first time a woman's mouth has been between my legs. the sensation was — categorically different. i keep using the word different because nothing else applies. her tongue was soft and exploratory and she started broad — flat strokes that covered everything — and the sensation was gentler than fingers and wetter and warmer and i felt my hips lift off the bed involuntarily.

she found the right spot — left of center, the same geography that the car man's thumb had mapped but with completely different instrumentation — and she focused there with patient, precise, circling pressure. her tongue. the specific texture of it. the warmth. i could feel her breathing against my skin. she slid two fingers inside me simultaneously and the combination of her mouth and her fingers working together was a dual input that my body processed as a full-system event.

i came faster than i expected. the orgasm built quickly — too quickly for me to modulate or control — and when it hit i grabbed the sheets with both hands and my thighs clenched around her head and i said "oh fuck" which is not eloquent but was sincere. she kept going through the aftershock. she didn't stop when i came — she slowed but didn't stop and the continued sensation on oversensitive skin was unbearable and exquisite simultaneously and i came again, a second one riding the tail of the first, smaller but sharper, and i made a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a whimper and i would have been humiliated except she lifted her head and said "there it is" with satisfaction and i found the satisfaction more attractive than anything that had preceded it.

i went down on her afterward. my first time. i was bad at it — i know i was bad because i could feel her guiding my head with gentle corrections, the way a teacher adjusts a student's form. she tasted different from what i expected — warm, specific, slightly tangy — and i was overwhelmed by the proximity of it, my face between someone's thighs, breathing her in, tongue against her most sensitive skin. when i found the right rhythm — she helped, with small sounds that served as sonar — her hand tightened in my hair and she said my name, my actual name, "chaewon," in a voice that sounded like she was discovering it for the first time.

she came with her back arching off the bed and a moan that she didn't try to suppress and i stayed between her legs through it feeling her pulse against my tongue and the power of that — the power of CAUSING that with my own mouth — was the same narcotic i felt in the practice room when the footsteps passed and i'd gotten away with something.

level 5 cleared. new genre unlocked. achievement: first female partner. difficulty: ★★★ — technically demanding but the learning curve was steep and rewarding. the tutorial was effective. the instructor was patient.

post-mission analysis: women are a different game entirely. the controls are different. the feedback loop is different. the sounds are different. the TASTE is different. filing this as a permanent addition to the active genre rotation. will replay.

skill unlocked: i apparently have a talent for reading body language at close range. translating dance training into sexual performance. the body awareness that makes me a good idol makes me a good lover. interesting. terrifying. noted.

[June 13, 2023 — 03:41 PM]

i've been thinking about something for weeks and tonight i need to write it down because if i don't write it here it's going to come out of my mouth at the wrong moment and that would be catastrophic.

yunjin.

huh yunjin. my member. my co-worker. the girl who walks into every room like she already owns it and somehow makes you agree that she does. the one who says what everyone is thinking three seconds before they think it. the one who looked at me last week over ramen at 2am and said "chaewon-unnie, you're different than you used to be" and when i said "older" she said "no, more confident, like you know something" and then went back to eating like she hadn't just cracked open my sternum with a casual observation.

she knows something. not the specifics. but she's been watching me the way i watch targets — with that specific attention that isn't curiosity, it's reconnaissance.

and here's the part that makes this entry different from every previous one: i've been watching her too. not as reconnaissance. as something else.

yunjin is — i need to be precise about this because precision is the only thing that keeps this note from being a mess. yunjin is the most physically unself-conscious person i've ever been in close proximity to. she changes clothes in front of the group without hesitation. she walks around the dorm in underwear and an oversized tee and doesn't think about it. she's physically affectionate in a way that's culturally american and therefore more casual and more devastating than the korean version — she drapes herself on people, she holds faces, she leans her entire body weight against you like gravity is a suggestion she's choosing to ignore.

she's been draping herself on me for a year and a half and i've been letting her because it's what members do and because stopping it would require explaining why and explaining why is not an option.

except now i have five levels of experience telling me that the specific electricity i feel when yunjin falls asleep on my shoulder in the van is not what leaders feel about their members. it's what players feel when they've identified the next mission and haven't committed yet.

the difference between this mission and every previous one: the risk isn't professional. it's personal. every previous target existed at a safe distance — staff, strangers, freelancers, people whose removal from my life would be logistically simple. yunjin cannot be removed from my life. yunjin is IN my life. she's in my group and my dorm and my daily schedule and my future plans. the exposure radius of this mission is infinite.

and she said "you know something about yourself."

and i think she knows something about herself too.

i'm not planning this mission the way i've planned the others. i'm not going to engineer situations or calculate approach vectors or select outfits for strategic advantage. with yunjin, the planning would be dishonest. she's too smart for architecture. she'd smell a setup from three moves away.

so instead: i'm going to create an opening and see if she walks through it.

tonight. the dorm. the others are asleep or out. i bought wine — the kind she likes, the sweet kind that she drinks too fast. a movie on the laptop that neither of us is going to watch. proximity. the specific kind of proximity that communicates without declaring.

i'm going to sit close to her. i'm going to let my leg touch hers. i'm going to see what happens.

this is either the smartest mission or the dumbest. i genuinely don't know which.

wish me luck, note.

[June 14, 2023 — 05:58 AM]

she walked through the opening.

i need to write this while it's still in my body because my body is doing things right now that it hasn't done after any previous entry and if i wait until morning i'll rationalize it into something manageable and it wasn't manageable. it was yunjin.

the movie. the couch. the wine. our legs touching. all as planned — the minimal plan, the open-door plan. we watched the movie for maybe thirty minutes. or rather the movie was on for thirty minutes and neither of us was watching it. i could feel the air between us getting heavier with each minute. the specific density of shared awareness.

she made the first move. i want that documented. i created the opening but SHE moved.

she turned to me during a scene neither of us was watching and said "chaewon-unnie." nothing else. just my name. but the way she said it — lower than her usual register, slower, with the specific weight of a word that's carrying more than its own meaning — my body heard it before my brain did. my skin responded. goosebumps from my neck to my wrists.

i looked at her. she looked at me. she said "i know what's different about you." and before i could answer she kissed me.

yunjin kisses like she does everything — boldly, without apology, with her whole self committed to the act from the first second. not tentative. not testing. she kissed me like she'd been thinking about it for exactly as long as i'd been thinking about it and was done thinking.

her hand went to my jaw. mine went to her waist. the wine glasses were on the coffee table and one of them got knocked over at some point and neither of us stopped. she tasted like the sweet wine and something underneath that was just her and her tongue found mine and i made a sound into her mouth that came from somewhere lower than my throat.

we didn't make it to the bedroom. the couch. she pulled me onto her lap — me, small, on top, facing her — and her hands went under my shirt and up my spine and her fingertips counted my vertebrae like she was memorizing them for later. i pulled my shirt off. she pulled hers off. her body underneath me was warm and lean and i knew this body — i've danced next to it for eighteen months, i've seen it in practice clothes and stage outfits and swimsuits on vacation — but knowing it visually and feeling it against my bare skin were completely different files.

her mouth on my neck. my hands in her hair. her hips shifting under me in a rhythm that wasn't dancing but used the same muscles. i was grinding against her lap and the friction through our shorts was not enough and too much simultaneously.

she pulled my shorts off. i pulled hers off. the logistical speed of two women undressing each other when both of them have dancer flexibility and zero hesitation is impressive. four seconds and we were in underwear. six seconds and we weren't.

yunjin looked at me. naked. sitting on her lap on the couch in our dorm living room at 1am. she looked at me the way the physical trainer had looked at me — like a landscape — but with an additional layer that the trainer didn't have. familiarity. she's seen me. not like this, but she's seen the adjacent version. the practice room version. the dressing room version. and now the everything version and the transition from professional familiarity to intimate familiarity was its own vertigo.

she said: "i knew it."

"knew what?"

"that you'd look like this."

"like what?"

"like you're about to win something."

i laughed. and then i stopped laughing because her hand went between my legs and her fingers found me and i was so wet the sound was immediate and obvious and she said "oh" in a voice that was mostly breath and started touching me with the casual expertise of someone who knows female anatomy from the inside out, literally, because she has the same hardware and therefore knows exactly where to go and how hard and how fast without needing a tutorial.

she was better than the trainer. i need to record that. yunjin was better because yunjin knows ME. she's studied me for eighteen months — my reactions, my tells, the micro-expressions that cross my face when i'm feeling things i'm trying not to show. she read me during sex the way she reads me during group meetings. she knew when to speed up because my breathing changed. she knew when to slow down because my jaw clenched. she knew the exact moment i was about to come because — she told me later — my eyes do a specific thing.

i came on her lap on our dorm couch with her fingers inside me and her other hand on the back of my neck pulling my forehead against hers and our eyes were open and we were looking at each other from three centimeters away and i came looking directly into the eyes of a woman who is my member and my friend and the closest thing i have to a person who actually sees me. the orgasm was not the strongest i've had physically — the car was more intense, the trainer was more technically proficient — but it was the most SEEN i've ever felt during one and the vulnerability of being watched while coming apart was a difficulty level i had not previously attempted.

i went down on her on the couch. she lay back and i knelt on the floor between her legs and i was better at this than my first time — the trainer had been an effective tutorial and i'd been practicing the skill tree — and yunjin was responsive in a way that was aggressively vocal because yunjin does nothing quietly. she moaned. she talked. she said my name. she said other things. she said "right there, unnie, right there, don't stop, fuck, RIGHT THERE" in that american-accented korean that she slips into when her filters are down and the sound of her saying "fuck" in english while my tongue was on her clit is a data point i will be accessing for the rest of my life.

she came with her legs locked around my head and her hand gripping my hair and a sound that started in her chest and came out of her mouth like she was singing the hardest note of her career and i felt her pulse against my tongue and i stayed there through every wave because i wanted to feel all of it, every contraction, every aftershock, the full duration of what i caused.

afterward we sat on the floor. naked. leaning against the couch. she was breathing hard. i was breathing hard. the wine stain on the carpet was going to be a problem in the morning.

she said: "so this is what you know about yourself."

i said: "part of it."

she said: "is there more?"

i said: "there's always more."

she looked at me with that yunjin look — the one that evaluates everything in three seconds flat — and said "okay." and then she went to her room and i went to mine and i'm writing this in bed at almost 6am with her taste still on my lips and the sun starting to come up through the curtains.

level 6 cleared. achievement unlocked: group member. highest personal significance to date. difficulty: ★★★★★ — not physical difficulty. the difficulty of risking something real.

post-mission: the risk didn't end with the mission. this isn't a one-night achievement. this is an ongoing status effect. she texted me twenty minutes ago from her room, which is twelve feet from my room.

the text said: "again soon?"

i said: "yes."

this changes the game. a recurring co-op partner who knows my face and my body and my real name and sleeps twelve feet away. the risk is permanent and so is the access.

i should be terrified.

i'm not terrified. i'm recalibrated.

note: yunjin is not documented again after this entry. what happens between us going forward stays between us. some things are bigger than the achievement log. she's one of them.

but she keeps happening. i want that noted. she keeps happening and i keep letting her and it's the best ongoing side quest i've ever played.

[November 20, 2024 — 03:07 AM]

i've been neglecting this note. not because the game paused — because yunjin occupied the bandwidth. i've been playing the yunjin side quest so consistently that the main campaign gathered dust for months.

but tonight's entry is about the main campaign. tonight's entry is about risk.

MAMA rehearsal. all-day schedule. twelve hours of stage practice and camera blocking and waiting and waiting and more waiting. by 10pm the idol holding area was a graveyard of exhausted artists and frazzled staff.

i found a gap. specifically: a storage room behind the main stage. technically off-limits. technically locked. the lock was the kind that opens with a firm push and a prayer.

the male idol from a senior group — not naming him, not describing him beyond: tall, experienced, the kind of famous that makes people stutter in his presence. we'd been circling each other for months at various events. the specific orbit of two people who know they want the same thing and are waiting for the physics to align.

tonight the physics aligned.

the storage room. lighting rigs and cable coils and flight cases stacked against the walls. he pushed me against a road case and my back hit the metal and the cold of it through my thin top made me gasp and he swallowed the gasp with his mouth. fast. urgent. we had maybe fifteen minutes before our absence would register.

i unzipped him. he pulled my skirt up. the logistics of standing sex when one partner is 164cm and the other is significantly more are a puzzle i solved by him lifting me onto the road case — seated on cold metal, legs around his waist, the height difference neutralized by furniture.

he was inside me in under a minute. no preamble. no buildup. the situation demanded efficiency and my body — calibrated by years of this game — was ready without needing the warmup that earlier levels required. i was wet the moment the storage room door closed. pavlovian response to risk. my body has learned that locked doors and stolen minutes mean pleasure is imminent and it prepares accordingly.

he fucked me on that road case with the MAMA stage on the other side of the wall. i could hear the bass from the rehearsal track bleeding through. thousands of people were in the venue. staff were looking for both of us, probably. every idol in korea was somewhere in this building.

the danger compressed everything. the orgasm arrived in under five minutes — fast, hard, concentrated by the urgency and the risk and the metal under my thighs and his hand over my mouth because i was making sounds that the thin wall would not have contained. i came with his palm pressed against my lips and my fingernails in his shoulder and the bass from someone else's rehearsal track vibrating through the wall into my spine.

he came shortly after. we separated. i fixed my skirt. he fixed his pants. we left the storage room thirty seconds apart. i walked back to the holding area and sat down next to sakura and she said "where were you?" and i said "bathroom" and she said "for fifteen minutes?" and i said "bad stomach" and she said "you want some water?" and i said "yes please" and she got me water and i drank it and my hands were perfectly steady because my poker face is the most developed skill in my entire tree.

level 7 cleared. achievement unlocked: public venue. active event. highest risk to date.

difficulty: ★★★★★ — time-limited, noise-restricted, discovery probability: extreme.

post-mission analysis: the risk multiplier is now confirmed as the primary variable driving satisfaction. the physical act itself was standard — efficient, effective, adequate partner. the CONTEXT transformed it. the same encounter in a hotel room would have been a level 3 at most. the storage room at MAMA made it a level 7.

conclusion: location and risk are more important than partner quality. the game is about the situation, not the person.

calibration update: the bar is high. the bar is very high. what's higher than a storage room behind the MAMA stage during a live rehearsal?

i'm going to have to think about that one.

[January 28, 2026 — 04:37 AM]

found it. the answer to "what's higher."

i'm writing this entry from a hotel penthouse bathroom. the shower is running. it's almost 5am. i've been in this room for six hours and my body is filing a formal complaint and i need to get this down while the details are still sharp because this entry is the most important one in this note and if i lose the details to sleep and time i will never forgive myself.

how it started:

LE SSERAFIM comeback preparations. new choreography. the company brought in a team of backup dancers — americans, professionals, the kind of dancers whose bodies are instruments tuned to frequencies that idol choreography doesn't usually access. three of them were black men. tall. built with the specific architecture of people who have been dancing seriously since childhood, all muscle memory and controlled power.

i'd been working with them for two weeks. professional. focused. noting their technique, their formations, their timing. also — and i'm being honest because that's the rule — noting other things. the way they moved off-stage. the casual physical confidence. the size of their hands when they demonstrated moves. the specific way one of them — the tallest — rolled his shoulders between sets.

week two. late rehearsal. the members had left. i stayed to work on a transition with the choreography team. most of the team filtered out by midnight. three of them stayed.

we were running a sequence. the tall one was spotting me on a lift — his hands on my waist from behind, standard partnered choreo — and after the last run-through, when he set me down, his hands stayed on my waist for approximately two seconds longer than choreography required.

i didn't move away. my body registered the extra two seconds and made a decision without consulting my brain.

we took a water break. the four of us. sitting against the mirror. talking about the choreo. and then the tall one said something to the other two in english — quiet, not meant for me, except my english is better than most people assume and i heard it clearly.

he said: "man, she couldn't handle one of us, let alone all three."

he was smiling when he said it. his boys laughed. it was bravado — the kind of thing men say when they're performing for each other. casual. throwaway. not meant as a real statement.

my brain processed the sentence in about half a second. and then my mouth opened and said, in english, clearly enough that all three of them heard: "want to bet?"

the room got very quiet.

the tall one looked at me. i looked back. the poker face. the four-second stare that has never failed in seven years of deployment. he held my gaze and i watched his expression cycle through three phases in about two seconds: surprise, reassessment, decision.

he said: "you serious?"

i said: "i don't say things i don't mean."

the next ten minutes were a negotiation conducted in the specific shorthand of adults who understand what's about to happen and need to establish parameters. phones locked in bags. no recording. no evidence. tomorrow we're professionals again. the venue was the question — the practice room had cameras (disabled after hours but the hard drives were still accessible) and a hotel was a risk but a managed one.

i booked the penthouse. from my phone. under a name that isn't mine. the credit card is one that isn't linked to any idol accounts. i've been doing this long enough that the logistics are a skill tree of their own.

the car ride to the hotel was fifteen minutes. the four of us in the back of a taxi. nobody spoke. the anticipation was its own weather system — dense, electric, pressure dropping.

the penthouse was absurd — all windows and city lights and a bed that could comfortably host a small nation. i stood at the window looking at seoul while they came in behind me and the specific sound of three large bodies entering a room i was already in was its own overture.

i turned around. three men. all taller than me by significant margins. all looking at me with variations of the same expression — want, disbelief, assessment. the smallest of the three was still over 180cm. i was barefoot. 164cm. in a practice hoodie and leggings.

i took the hoodie off. underneath: a sports bra. nothing strategic. nothing planned. i wasn't wearing battle-selected lingerie because this mission wasn't planned. this was the gap that opened and i walked through it.

the tall one moved first. same as the rehearsal — he's the initiator, the one who tests. he crossed the room and put his hand on my jaw and tilted my face up — UP, because the angle required it, because my face is at his chest height — and he kissed me and his mouth was warm and thorough and his other hand went to the small of my back and pulled me against him and i could feel him through his sweatpants and the scale of him against my body was the first data point my brain logged: this is going to be different from anything in this note.

the second one moved behind me. his hands on my waist from behind — the same position as the lift in rehearsal but with completely different intent. his chest against my back. his mouth on the side of my neck. the specific sensation of being between two bodies that size, sandwiched, held, my small frame compressed between two large ones, was a full-system input that my brain processed as: you are outmatched and you chose this and the choosing is the power.

the third one sat on the bed watching. patient. waiting for his position in the rotation. i reached out and grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him toward us and suddenly it was three mouths and six hands and my body was the center of a geometry that i couldn't fully track.

the sports bra came off. six hands on my skin. the sensation of being touched by that many hands simultaneously — on my breasts, my stomach, my back, my thighs — was a sensory flood that overrode the analytical framework entirely. i stopped counting. i stopped tracking. i stopped running the game.

the tall one picked me up. full lift. i weighed nothing to him — genuinely nothing, i could feel it in the ease of his grip, like picking up a pillow. he carried me to the bed and laid me down and stood over me and the other two flanked and i looked up at three men looking down at me and i should have felt small and i did feel small and the smallness was not vulnerability. the smallness was precision. i am a small instrument capable of very specific things and tonight i was going to prove the tall one's throwaway comment wrong.

the tall one went first. between my legs. his mouth. the specific contrast of his mouth versus the women i'd been with — rougher, broader tongue, more pressure, less finesse but more force — and his hands held my thighs apart and his thumbs pressed into the creases of my hips and i was spread open on a penthouse bed being eaten out by a man whose wingspan was twice my body width.

i came in under four minutes. the orgasm was hard and sudden and i grabbed the sheets and arched off the bed and made a sound that bounced off the penthouse windows. he didn't stop. he kept going through the aftershock and i was oversensitive and twitching and i pushed at his head and he resisted the push — gently but firmly, his mouth staying on me — and i came again, a second one extracted from the rubble of the first, smaller but sharper, and i heard myself whimper, actually whimper, which is not a sound i make and not a sound i knew i was capable of making.

the second one replaced him. different mouth. different technique. more patient, slower, building rather than attacking. his tongue traced slow circles while his fingers — two, large, filling — pushed inside me and the angle of his fingers hit the front wall and i felt the specific deep-body response that means he found the spot and my hips lifted off the bed involuntarily and he pressed his free hand on my lower stomach to hold me down and the restraint — being physically held in place by a hand that covered my entire lower abdomen — was its own achievement.

i came a third time with his fingers inside me and his mouth on my clit and the tall one's hand in my hair and the third one watching from beside me with his hand on my breast, thumb crossing my nipple, and the combined input from four different sources of stimulation simultaneously was a system overload that my brain processed by simply shutting down the analytical layer and letting the body run on pure response.

what followed — i need to try to document this in some order but the order is approximate because my memory of the next two hours is organized by sensation rather than chronology.

the tall one fucked me first. on my back. he was — big. i need to note that clinically because it's a relevant variable. the size difference between him and previous partners was significant enough that the initial entry required adjustment — not pain exactly, more like the body recalibrating to accept a new parameter. he went slow. i grabbed his forearms and my hands couldn't close around them. he held my hips and his thumbs nearly touched across my stomach. i felt full in a way that previous entries in this note had not prepared me for and the fullness was consuming.

he moved and the penthouse bed moved with him — expensive bed, still creaked — and i looked past his shoulder and i could see the seoul skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows and the city was below us and i was underneath a man who could break me in half and he was inside me and i was looking at the city where i'm an idol and a leader and a poker-faced professional and the distance between that person and this one was measurable in floors and it was exactly the right number of floors.

i came on him. fourth time. the orgasm was different from the mouth-induced ones — deeper, more internal, sourced from the specific pressure and friction of being fucked by someone that size. my body clenched around him and he groaned — a bass sound, the kind you feel in your chest — and i clenched harder because the groan was fuel and he said something in english that i heard but am choosing not to transcribe because some data belongs only to the moment that produced it.

the second one took his place. different rhythm. different angle. he turned me over — onto my stomach, face in the pillow — and entered me from behind and the angle change was acute enough that the sensation reorganized entirely. deeper from this direction. his hands on my hips pulling me back onto him with each thrust. i could hear the wet sounds of us and the creak of the bed and the city was silent outside the windows and inside the room was all sound and motion.

the third one. he'd been patient. he positioned himself near my head and i understood and i took him in my mouth while the second one was still behind me and the specific experience of being filled from both ends simultaneously was a cognitive event — my brain attempted to track two sources of sensation plus the residual afterglow from four previous orgasms plus the visual input of the tall one watching from across the bed, touching himself, waiting for his return to the rotation — and the attempt failed and i surrendered the tracking and existed in pure body for a duration i cannot accurately measure.

i lost count of orgasms after the sixth. i know there were more because my body kept producing them — smaller ones, waves rather than peaks, triggered by transitions between partners or positions or the specific moments when someone hit an angle that my oversensitized body interpreted as critical input.

the rotation continued. configurations i hadn't imagined. i won't detail every one because this entry would become a novel but i want to note specific frames:

— the tall one holding me in the air. completely off the bed. my legs around his waist, his hands under my thighs, supporting my entire weight while he fucked me standing. the physical reality of being 164cm and being held airborne by someone for whom my body weight is a rounding error. the city behind us through the window. our reflection in the glass — him, enormous, standing, holding me like i was made of paper. me, small, wrapped around him, my face against his neck, making sounds into his skin.

— lying on my back with two of them on either side. one inside me, one in my mouth. their hands on my body meeting in the middle. the specific sensation of being the junction point between two large bodies, the bridge between them, the center of a circuit. their sounds above me mixing with mine below and the room was a frequency i don't have a musical notation for.

— the moment near the end — three hours in, maybe more — where all three of them were touching me simultaneously and nobody was inside me and it was just hands. six hands' worth of touch on every inch of my skin. gentle, after three hours of not-gentle. the gentleness after the intensity was its own category. i cried. not from pain or sadness. from the specific emotional response to being handled with care by three people who had just spent three hours handling me without it. the contrast. the shift. my body interpreted the tenderness as the hardest level of the night.

afterward. we lay on the destroyed penthouse bed. four bodies. the sheets were unsalvageable. my body was — cataloguing damage. wet with sweat and our combined fluid. soreness in places that don't have casual names. muscle fatigue in my thighs and core and jaw. specific rawness between my legs that i could feel with every shift of position.

the tall one said: "so. she could handle it."

i said, from somewhere face-down in a pillow: "told you."

they laughed. i laughed. the laughing hurt because my abs were wrecked.

they left around 3am. separately. cab logistics. the tall one was last. at the door he looked at me — small, wrecked, wrapped in a penthouse bathrobe that dragged on the floor because it was designed for someone twice my height — and said "you're something else, you know that?"

i said "i know."

i'm sitting in the bathroom now. the shower ran for twenty minutes. i'm sore in ways that tomorrow's rehearsal is going to make very evident and i'll need a cover story and the cover story will involve "overdid stretching" which is my go-to and which yunjin never believes but never challenges.

forbidden achievement unlocked: co-op mode. three simultaneous players. unplanned mission. highest everything — difficulty, duration, intensity, physical demand, partner count, orgasm count.

this was not the next level. this was skipping three levels at once and clearing the boss fight on the first attempt.

the tall one said i couldn't handle it. i handled it.

being 164cm is not a disadvantage. being 164cm in a room with three men twice your size is a statement. the statement is: size is irrelevant when the smaller player has better strategy and higher tolerance.

i can't walk properly. i'm going to feel this for days. the cover story needs to be good.

calibration update: the bar has left the building. i can't see the bar from here. the bar is in a different zip code.

what the hell comes after this?

[February 13, 2026 — 02:44 AM]

Sixteen days since the penthouse.

the soreness faded by day four. the memory has not faded. my body replays specific moments at inconvenient times — during practice, during interviews, during a vlive where i was supposed to be talking about our comeback concept and instead was remembering the sensation of being held in the air by someone who could bench press my entire body weight.

i told yunjin. not the details — the outline. her eyebrows did something architectural and she said "three?" and i said "three" and she said "at once?" and i said "at once" and she was quiet for a long time and then she said "how do you walk the next day" and i said "poorly" and she laughed so hard she spilled her coffee.

yunjin is the only person alive who knows about this note. not the contents — the existence. she knows i keep a record. she doesn't know what's in it. she doesn't ask. that's one of the things about her that i —

anyway.

the question: what comes after the penthouse.

i've been sitting with this for sixteen days. the previous calibration cycle was fast — after each level the next one was visible on the horizon within days. the storage room led to thinking about multiple partners which led to the penthouse opportunity presenting itself.

but now. the horizon is different. not blank — i can see shapes on it. possibilities. but they're less clear than previous levels because previous levels escalated along a single axis: more risk, more partners, more physical intensity. that axis has reached a point where the next increment would require either genuinely reckless behavior or a fundamental redefinition of what "harder" means.

i've been thinking about different axes.

the penthouse was extreme on the physical axis. three partners, sustained duration, maximum intensity. scaling that further means four, five, more — and more doesn't automatically mean harder. more is just more. that's grinding in the boring sense.

what if harder means something different? not more partners but more specific ones. not higher risk but different risk. not physical intensity but emotional intensity.

ideas i've been turning over:

someone famous. not idol-famous — actually famous. someone whose recognition factor would make the exposure radius catastrophic for both parties. the difficulty isn't the sex. the difficulty is the approach, the negotiation, the mutual assured destruction pact that would be required.

an authority figure. someone in the industry hierarchy above me. a producer. an executive. someone where the power dynamic isn't physical but structural. the difficulty is navigating the professional aftermath.

a performance. not sex as an activity but sex as a literal performance — with an audience. the difficulty is the exhibitionism, the complete inversion of the privacy that has been the foundational rule of every previous entry.

public. genuinely public. not "behind a locked door at a public venue" public — actual public. the difficulty is the complete abandonment of safety infrastructure.

i don't know which of these is the next level. maybe none of them. maybe the next level is something i haven't conceived yet. the game keeps generating content i didn't predict — the penthouse wasn't in any plan, it was a gap that opened, and the best levels have always been the ones i didn't see coming.

what i know: the game isn't over. the game is never over. there is always a next level. the question is whether i find it or it finds me.

sixteen days ago i was face-down in a penthouse pillow being told i couldn't handle it.

i could handle it.

i can handle whatever comes next.

bring it.

[ END OF FILE ]

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[electro469]

Sinful Confessions

Confession #004: wishful, greedy, sinful thoughts

CONFESSION #004

SUBJECT: An Yujin (IVE)

DEVICE: iPhone 16 Pro Max — Desert Titanium

APPLE ID: ████████@icloud.com

FOLDER: 개인 (Private) / 잡생각

FILE TITLE: "wishful, greedy, sinful thoughts"

CREATED: October 14, 2022 — 02:47 AM KST

LAST MODIFIED: February 3, 2025 — 04:15 AM KST

SYNC STATUS: Backed up to iCloud

ENCRYPTION: BREACHED

[ FILE OPENED ]

wishful, greedy, sinful thoughts

[October 14, 2022 — 02:47 AM]

okay so something happened tonight and i need to write it down because my hands are still shaking and i can't tell anyone. literally anyone. not my members, not my friends, not my family. nobody. so i'm telling this note. this stupid little note in a folder called "random thoughts" that nobody is ever going to open because why would they, it's boring, it's nothing, just yujin's random thoughts, move along, nothing to see.

except there's something to see. there's a lot to see. and i think something might be wrong with me.

i was on tumblr. just scrolling. 1am. couldn't sleep because my back was killing me from rehearsal and i was just lying in bed doing nothing, scrolling through fan edits and memes and the usual stuff. and then i saw it.

a fic. a fanfic. about me and wonyoung.

the title was something like "practice room confessions" or "after practice" or something, i don't remember exactly because my brain has sort of melted since then. it was tagged as yujin x wonyoung. i almost scrolled past it. i SHOULD have scrolled past it. but i was curious because like... people write about us? like THAT? i knew they did, i'm not naive, but i'd never actually read one before.

so i clicked it.

it started cute. like really cute. the fic version of me was staying late at the practice room and fic-wonyoung came back because she forgot her water bottle and we were alone and we started talking and it turned into this whole thing where we were sitting on the floor sharing earbuds and listening to music and our shoulders were touching and it was just... soft. warm. the kind of scene that makes you smile at your phone. i was reading it thinking "this is sweet, these fans are creative, okay this is fine."

then chapter three happened.

the writer — whoever they are, wherever they are, i need them to know that they ruined my life — the writer started building tension. slowly. like they knew exactly what they were doing. fic-wonyoung leaned her head on fic-me's shoulder. then fic-me turned her head and their faces were close. then someone's breath was on someone's lips. and i was reading faster and faster and my heart was doing something it shouldn't have been doing because this is FICTION about me and my GROUPMATE and i should have closed the app.

i didn't close the app.

chapter four: they kissed. the writer described it in detail — the softness of wonyoung's lips, the way fic-me's hand went to fic-wonyoung's jaw, the small sound wonyoung made, the taste of her lip gloss. strawberry. the writer said strawberry. and i read that and my brain immediately supplied the information that wonyoung actually DOES use a strawberry lip gloss, the laneige one, i've seen it on her vanity a hundred times, and the collision between fiction and reality made my stomach drop in a way i cannot describe.

chapter five.

okay.

chapter five is where i should have stopped and chapter five is where i lost myself completely.

the practice room. late at night. just them. fic-me pushed fic-wonyoung against the mirror. the big floor-to-ceiling mirror that we actually have in our actual practice room. and fic-me kissed her neck and fic-wonyoung tilted her head back and her reflection was in the mirror — the writer described seeing her reflection while being kissed, her eyes closed, her mouth open — and then fic-me's hand went under fic-wonyoung's practice top and

i'm going to write what happened next in the fic because i need to get it out of my head.

fic-me touched fic-wonyoung's chest. over the sports bra first, then under it. the writer described the way wonyoung's nipples hardened under fic-me's fingers and the small gasp she made and how fic-me said "is this okay?" and fic-wonyoung said "don't stop" and then fic-me pulled the sports bra up and put her mouth on wonyoung's breast and sucked gently and wonyoung's hands went into fic-me's hair and she arched against the mirror and–

i was wet. i was actually physically wet reading this. lying in my bed in the dorm with wonyoung sleeping in the room next to mine, actually sleeping, actually RIGHT THERE through one wall, and i was soaking through my underwear reading about a fictional version of myself touching a fictional version of her and my body didn't care that it was fiction. my body responded like it was a memory.

i kept reading.

fic-me went lower. kissed down fic-wonyoung's stomach. knelt on the practice room floor. pulled her shorts down. the writer described the way wonyoung looked down at fic-me from above — tall, taller now with me on my knees — and the way the practice room lights made her skin glow and the way she said "unnie" in a voice that was nothing like how she says it in real life and everything like how i'd imagine she'd say it if

god. if.

fic-me went down on her against the mirror. the writer described it in explicit detail — the taste, the sounds, wonyoung's thigh over fic-me's shoulder, her back sliding down the mirror, the way her legs shook. and i was reading this with one hand because my other hand was between my legs and i didn't even make the decision to put it there. it just happened. like my body read the scene before my brain processed it and decided to act without permission.

i came in maybe three minutes. reading that fic. in my bed. in our dorm. while the real wonyoung was sleeping one wall away. i bit my wrist so hard there's a mark and i came so hard my legs straightened out and my toes curled and my phone almost fell on my face and i lay there afterward staring at the ceiling with my hand still in my underwear and my heart hammering and the fic still open on my screen and i thought:

oh no.

oh no oh no oh no.

this isn't a girl crush. this isn't admiration. this isn't "i think she's really pretty." this is something else. this is the something else that i've been refusing to name for a while now. since we were trainees. since she was the pretty girl who made me nervous for reasons i told myself were just competition nerves.

it wasn't competition.

i read the rest of the fic. all of it. there were nine chapters. by chapter seven fic-wonyoung was riding fic-me's face on the practice room floor and i came again, quieter this time, more controlled, biting the inside of my cheek, my eyes watering, reading about a fictional version of my own groupmate grinding against a fictional version of my own mouth and the specificity of it — the writer knew our dynamic, knew how wonyoung talks, knew the way i look at her on stage — made it feel less like fiction and more like surveillance.

someone out there has been watching us closely enough to write this. and they were RIGHT. about everything they saw between us. the difference is they think it's fiction. i know it's real.

i finished the fic. i closed tumblr. i opened this note. my hands are shaking. i have a schedule with wonyoung at 7am. hair and makeup at 6. that's three hours from now. in three hours i have to sit next to her while a stylist does her hair and look at her face and smile and be yujin-unnie, the dependable leader, the girl who has her shit together.

i have never had my shit less together than i do right now.

i should delete this. i should delete tumblr. i should delete whatever part of my brain responded to that fic the way it did.

i know i'm going to read it again tomorrow.

[October 21, 2022 — 03:30 AM]

i've read it four more times. i've also read eleven other fics. ao3 has an entire tag for us. an ENTIRE TAG. hundreds of fics. some of them are bad and i scroll past. some of them are good and i save the link in a folder on my phone that's disguised as a playlist. some of them are so explicit i can't even read them in one sitting because my body reacts so fast i have to stop and deal with it before i can continue.

"deal with it." that's what i'm calling it now. like it's an administrative task. yujin's nightly schedule: remove makeup, do skincare, check group chat, deal with it, sleep.

i've started noticing patterns in what gets me off the hardest. i want to document this because maybe if i understand the pattern i can make it stop. (that's a lie. i don't want it to stop. i want it to stop being about her specifically so i can keep doing it without the guilt.)

the fics that work best are the ones where i'm dominant. where fic-me is the one in control. where wonyoung is the one being touched, being directed, being taken apart. i think this connects to the leader thing. i spend all day making decisions for other people and apparently my brain has decided that the bedroom (even the fictional bedroom) should be the same.

the fics where i'm submissive don't work as well. which is interesting because in real life i'd probably be... actually i don't know what i'd be in real life because i've never done anything in real life. i've never kissed anyone. not really. not like it counted. i'm twenty years old and the leader of one of the biggest girl groups in korea and i've never been kissed.

i've been eaten out by jang wonyoung in eleven different fictional universes but i've never been kissed in the real one. that's so fucking funny i could cry.

last night i found a fic that almost made me pass out. the premise was that wonyoung and i were sharing a hotel room on tour and she walked out of the shower in just a towel and i couldn't stop staring and she noticed and instead of being weird about it she dropped the towel and said "you can look, unnie."

"you can look, unnie."

four words. fictional. written by a stranger. and i came so hard i had to shove my face into my pillow to muffle the sound because i could hear someone moving around in the kitchen and if anyone walked past my door i would literally have to leave the country.

i think about those four words constantly now. when wonyoung walks past me. when she changes her shirt in the dressing room. when she stretches during practice and her top rides up and i can see the strip of skin above her waistband. i hear "you can look, unnie" in my head like a loop and my body responds every single time. pavlovian. i've been pavlov'd by fan fiction. this is rock bottom.

except i don't think it's rock bottom because i keep finding new rooms below this one.

[March 8, 2023 — 01:15 AM]

i wrote something.

not reading this time. writing. my own. i wrote my own fic.

i didn't plan to. i was lying in bed trying to sleep and the scenario was playing in my head — a new one, not from any fic i'd read, something my own brain generated — and it was so vivid and so detailed and so HOT that i was scared i'd forget it by morning so i opened this note and started typing.

i'm going to write it here because this is the only place it can exist. if i wrote it on ao3 or tumblr, even anonymously, the writing style analysis people would find me in a week. those fans are terrifying. so it lives here. in my phone. in a folder called "random thoughts." where nobody will ever see it.

Here's the scenario:

we're in the dressing room. late. after a music show pre-recording. everyone else has left for the van. wonyoung stayed behind to fix her makeup and i stayed behind because i always wait for her. that's what leaders do. that's what i tell myself.

the dressing room has those bright vanity mirrors with the bulb lights. wonyoung is sitting in the chair looking at her reflection, touching up her lipstick. she's still in her stage outfit — the short one, the one that makes her legs look impossible. i'm leaning against the counter behind her, watching her in the mirror.

she catches me watching. in the mirror. our eyes meet in the reflection and she doesn't look away and i don't look away and the room is very quiet except for the hum of the lights.

she says "unnie, can you zip me up? the back came loose during the performance."

in reality this is a normal request. stylists and members zip each other constantly. it's physical and innocent and i've done it hundreds of times without incident.

in the fantasy it's not innocent and we both know it.

i walk over. i stand behind her chair. i can see both of us in the vanity mirror — her sitting, me standing behind her, my hands reaching for the zipper at the small of her back. my fingers touch her bare skin where the zipper has come apart and she inhales. small. Quiet. But i hear it because the room is empty and every sound is amplified.

instead of zipping up, i pull down.

the zipper slides and the outfit opens and i can see the line of her spine and the clasp of her bra and the smooth skin of her lower back and my hands are on her bare shoulders now, not zipping, just resting, my thumbs on the ridges of her shoulder blades. she watches me in the mirror. she doesn't stop me.

i lean down. my mouth next to her ear. i can smell her perfume — the ysl one she's been using this comeback, i know the exact scent because i've smelled it lingering in the dressing room after she's left and i've stood there breathing it in like a psychopath. i whisper: "what if i don't zip it back up?"

she turns her head. our faces are close. closer than they've ever been outside of choreography. she looks at my mouth. she says "then don't" and her voice is low and steady and nothing like the bright wonyoung-ah~ voice she uses on camera and i close the gap.

the kiss is slow at first. i taste the lip tint she just applied. cherry this time, not strawberry. her mouth opens under mine and my tongue touches hers and she makes a sound — soft, surprised, like she didn't expect it to feel like this — and my hand slides the outfit off her shoulders and it pools at her waist and she's in just the bra and i can see us in the vanity mirror and the image is

god. the IMAGE. me behind her. her half-undressed in the chair. the bright vanity lights making everything sharp and visible and there's nowhere to hide in that light. we can see everything. every detail. my hands on her skin. her chest rising and falling faster. the flush spreading down her neck.

i unclasp her bra. she lets me. she watches in the mirror while i slide the straps off her shoulders and the bra falls and her breasts are bare and i cup them from behind and her nipples are hard against my palms and she leans her head back against my stomach and her eyes close and her mouth opens and in the mirror she looks like a painting, like something that should be behind glass and i'm touching it with my bare hands.

i turn the chair so she's facing me. i kneel. the dressing room floor is cold through my tights. i pull her forward to the edge of the chair and her legs open around me and i kiss her stomach, her navel, the line of her hip bone. i pull the stage outfit down past her hips and she lifts up to help me and she's in just her underwear now — the plain ones, not stage underwear, the cotton ones she changes into after performances because stage underwear is uncomfortable — and i can see the wet spot. the dark patch on the light cotton. and i press my thumb against it and she jerks in the chair and her hips push up against my hand and the cotton is so thin i can feel the heat and the shape of her through it.

i pull the underwear down and

okay i need to stop writing the fantasy and talk about what was happening to me while i was writing it because both things were happening simultaneously and that's important.

i was typing this with one hand. my other hand was between my legs. i wasn't using anything, just my fingers, because i haven't... i haven't bought anything yet. just my hand. and i was so wet by the time i got to the part about the mirror that my fingers were slipping and i had to adjust and i was lying on my side with my phone propped on the pillow and i was reading my own words back as i wrote them and getting off to my OWN fantasy as it was being created in real time and the recursion of that — writing porn about yourself, starring someone sleeping in the next room, and masturbating to your own writing as you produce it — is so many layers of fucked up that i almost laughed except laughing would have made noise and noise was not an option.

i came when fantasy-me put her mouth on fantasy-wonyoung. i didn't even finish writing the scene. i got to the part where i described spreading her open and tasting her and my brain filled in the details faster than my fingers could type and i came with my face buried in my pillow and my whole body curling inward and i bit down on the pillowcase and i made a sound i've never made before. small and high and desperate. like air escaping from something pressurized.

i lay there for a few minutes afterward. my hand still between my legs. my phone still open to this note. the unfinished fantasy on the screen. the taste of my own shame in my mouth.

i should have deleted it.

i finished writing the fantasy instead. the whole thing. completed it. fic-me made fic-wonyoung come on the dressing room chair and then fic-wonyoung pushed me against the vanity counter and returned the favor and then we sat on the cold floor together, half-dressed, not looking at each other, and fic-wonyoung said "i've been wanting this since we were trainees" and fic-me said "me too" and it was tender and sweet and i cried a little while writing it. not from arousal. from the distance between fiction and reality.

this is my first original work. i'm a fanfic writer now. i write smut about myself and my groupmate in my notes app at 1am and i get off to it. that's who i am now. an yujin, leader of ive, secret self-published author of idol lesbian smut, audience of one.

[march 11, 2023 — 11:48 PM]

i just ordered something online. from a site that ships in plain packaging to pickup lockers. i used a fake name. it'll be ready in a few days. i'm not going to write what it is because seeing it written down would make it too real.

okay it's a vibrator. a small one. rose gold. quiet. i spent forty minutes reading reviews to find the quietest one because NOISE IS THE ENEMY when you live in a dorm with five other girls.

three days. i'm going to be thinking about this for three days.

[march 14, 2023 — 04:05 AM]

picked it up today. wore a mask and a hat and sunglasses like i was committing a crime which, emotionally, i was. the locker was in a GS25 in hapjeong. i pretended to buy a triangle kimbap while i collected the package so it looked like i was just grabbing a delivery.

i used it tonight.

oh my god.

i used it tonight and it's a completely different universe from my fingers and i came twice in maybe ten minutes and the second one was so intense my vision went dark around the edges and i had to physically stop myself from moaning by shoving my wrist into my mouth and i have a bite mark now, AGAIN, and i need to start wearing bracelets or something to cover these.

i used it while re-reading my own dressing room fantasy. the one i wrote a week ago. i read my own words while pressing the vibrator against myself and my own writing got me off harder than any fic on ao3 has ever gotten me off because i wrote it for ME. i know exactly what i want. i know exactly what details to include. i know that the moment fic-wonyoung says "then don't" is the moment my whole body clenches. i engineered the perfect fantasy for my own body and then used a machine to execute the delivery and it was efficient and devastating and i am losing my mind.

wonyoung asked me at breakfast today why i looked tired. i said i was up late watching a drama.

i was up late making myself come to fiction i wrote about eating her out in a dressing room chair.

same thing basically.

lol.

i'm not okay.

[september 15, 2023 — 03:40 AM]

it's not just wonyoung anymore.

i need to write that down because pretending it's only about one person was the last wall between me and whatever i'm becoming and that wall is gone now.

it started at the MMA rehearsal last week. we were backstage. shared dressing area with three other girl groups. you know how it is backstage — twenty girls in various states of undress, stylists running around, hair dryers going, everyone changing between outfits. normal. this is normal. i've been in these rooms hundreds of times.

except now i'm not normal in these rooms anymore.

there was a girl — i'm not naming her group, i'm not naming her — standing across the room in a bra and stage pants. she was talking to her member about something, laughing, her arms animated, and every time she moved her abs flexed and her collarbones shifted and i was staring. not glancing. STARING. like i'd been hypnotized. my stylist had to say my name three times before i heard her.

and it wasn't just her. it was the girl from the other group doing her stretches in the corner in a crop top that showed the dimples above her waistband. it was the dancer who walked past me in just a sports bra and shorts and her shoulders were broad and muscular and i wanted to put my mouth on the line of muscle that ran from her neck to her shoulder.

i wanted to put my mouth on a stranger's shoulder. in a dressing room. surrounded by fifty people.

it's metastasized. that's the word. what started as a single infection — wonyoung, specifically, exclusively — has spread to the entire population of women in my field of vision. i am attracted to women. plural. all of them. any of them. the tall ones and the short ones and the athletic ones and the delicate ones and the ones who look like they could break me and the ones who look like i could break them.

i'm gay. or bi. or pan. or whatever the correct terminology is for an idol leader who can't stop fantasizing about every woman she sees. i don't have a word for it yet. i just have this note and a vibrator hidden in my suitcase.

i wrote a new fantasy tonight. not about wonyoung. about the girl from the dressing room. the one with the abs.

i imagined cornering her in a bathroom backstage. pushing her against the door. kissing her neck while my hand slid into her stage pants. no underwear — in my fantasy she wasn't wearing any, because my fantasies have no rules and i've decided that this fictional version of her goes commando. my fingers found her and she was wet and i whispered something against her ear — i don't even know what, my brain fills in dialogue on autopilot now — and she grabbed my wrist not to stop me but to push me deeper and i fucked her with my fingers against a bathroom door while a hundred people buzzed outside and she came biting my shoulder to stay quiet.

i came to that fantasy in maybe two minutes. the vibrator on high. my face in the pillow. alone in my room. the door locked. the fantasy stranger's body still vivid behind my eyelids.

i want them. not just wonyoung, all of them.

i'm greedy. that's the word. not just wishful anymore. greedy.

[november 4, 2023 — 02:12 AM]

i wrote a new one tonight. not wonyoung. gaeul-unnie.

i feel worse about this one. so much worse. because wonyoung at least started from something real — years of confused feelings, a genuine emotional attachment, something i can trace back and explain to myself as "it grew from admiration." it has a narrative. a logic. a defense, even if the defense is weak.

gaeul has no narrative. gaeul started today at 3pm during stretches when she bent forward in a fold and her oversized practice shirt fell away from her body and i was standing behind her and i could see down the collar straight to her chest, her sports bra, the skin between her breasts, and my brain didn't even hesitate. it skipped every rational checkpoint and went straight to constructing a scenario so detailed and so filthy that i lost focus on the choreography for the next two run-throughs and the choreographer asked if i was feeling okay and i said yes i'm fine just tired.

i wasn't tired. i was wet. in the practice room. at 3pm. surrounded by my members. because i saw down gaeul-unnie's shirt.

she's the oldest member. she's the person i lean on when the group stuff gets heavy. she's the one who sits with me after schedules when i'm drained and says "you did well today" in that quiet gaeul voice that makes everything feel manageable. she trusts me with things she doesn't tell the other members. i trust her with mine. she's the closest thing i have to a best friend in this group outside of wonyoung.

and tonight i wrote a fantasy about fingering her in a hotel bed while she pretended to sleep.

here's the short version:

tour. japan. shared hotel room because the company books five rooms for six members and someone always doubles up and tonight it's me and gaeul. one room, two beds — except in my fantasy it's one bed. booking error. or maybe not an error. maybe the universe arranging the circumstances that my real life will never provide.

she's lying on her stomach watching something on her phone. she's wearing what she actually wears to bed — i know this because i've shared hotel rooms with her dozens of times — an oversized grey t-shirt that goes to her mid-thigh and plain black underwear. her legs are bare. her hair is still damp from the shower. she smells like the hotel body wash and underneath it her own specific gaeul-smell that i shouldn't be able to identify but can because i've been breathing it in during every hug, every shared van ride, every time she falls asleep on my shoulder– maybe it wasn't just wonyoung after all.

i'm sitting next to her on the bed pretending to scroll through my phone but i'm looking at her legs. i'm always looking at her legs now. gaeul has these legs that don't make sense for someone her height — long and toned from years of dancing, with this specific curve in her calves that i want to run my tongue along and i HATE that i know that about myself now.

i say something stupid. "you look comfortable." she says "mmhmm" without looking up. i put my hand on her lower back. the t-shirt is soft and thin and warm from her body heat and i can feel her spine through the fabric. she doesn't react. this is normal. i touch her back all the time — backstage, in the van. this is what members do.

except my hand moves lower.

slowly. past the hem of the shirt. onto bare skin. her thigh. warm and smooth and i feel the tiny hairs on her skin rise under my fingers — goosebumps — and she still doesn't look up from her phone but her breathing changes. i can see the rhythm of it shift in her ribcage. faster. shallower.

my hand moves higher. along her inner thigh. she opens her legs. not a lot. barely an inch. but the inch is an invitation and we both know it and neither of us says a word because words would make it real and real would make us stop.

i reach the edge of her underwear. plain cotton. i trace the edge with my fingertip, along the crease where her thigh meets her hip, and she makes a sound into her arm — so quiet it's almost not a sound, more like a shift in her breathing, a tiny catch — and i feel dampness through the fabric. she's wet. gaeul-unnie is wet. from my hand on her thigh. from the anticipation. and the knowledge that my touch made her body respond like that is the most powerful thing i've ever felt in any fantasy.

i push the cotton aside. she's warm. slick. swollen. when my finger slides between her folds she presses her face into the mattress and her hips shift backward, pushing against my hand, and still — STILL — neither of us speaks. the silence is the agreement. the silence is consent and denial simultaneously. if we don't say it out loud it's not happening. we're just two members sharing a bed. my hand is just resting. everything is normal.

i find her clit. she's sensitive — more sensitive than i expected, or more sensitive than the fic versions of other women have been in my previous fantasies, because this one i'm writing from real observation. i've watched gaeul dance. i've watched the way she isolates her hips during body rolls. i've watched the micro-expressions on her face when she nails a difficult move — that tiny flash of satisfaction that crosses her features before the neutral mask returns. i know how her body responds to stimulus. i've been studying it for years without admitting that's what i was doing.

i circle her clit slowly. she grips the sheets with both hands. her phone has gone dark, abandoned. her hips are moving in small circles against my hand, matching my rhythm, finding the angle that works best, and i watch her face — turned to the side now, cheek pressed to the mattress, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted, a line of tension running from her jaw down her neck. she looks nothing like the calm, composed gaeul that the fans see. she looks wrecked. she looks desperate. she looks like she's been waiting for this as long as i have.

i slide a finger inside her. she gasps — a real gasp, sharp, loud enough that in a real hotel room it would be dangerous — and she's tight and hot and she clenches around my finger immediately. i feel her heartbeat through the walls of her. i add a second finger and she moans into the mattress, a muffled broken sound, and her hand reaches behind her and finds my thigh and grips and her nails dig in and i feel the crescents forming in my skin and i don't care. i want the marks. i want evidence.

i fuck her slowly with two fingers while she lies on her stomach. i curl them forward the way i've read about in a hundred fics and the way i've practiced on myself and i find the spot — the textured patch on the front wall — and i press and her entire body jerks and she says the first word either of us has spoken.

"yujin."

just my name. no honorific. just yujin. raw and broken and it sounds like a prayer from someone who doesn't pray.

i press harder. i move faster. the wet sounds are obscene and loud and i add a third finger because she's opened for me, her body making room, and i can feel her walls fluttering around my fingers and i know she's close because her breathing has gone shallow and rapid and her grip on my thigh is white-knuckled and her hips have gone rigid, her entire body a wire pulled taut.

she comes with her face buried in the mattress and a sound that starts as my name and dissolves into something wordless and animal. i feel her pulse around my fingers — rhythmic clenching, hard, over and over — and her legs are shaking and her back is arched and she's making small sounds into the sheets and i keep my fingers inside her through all of it, feeling every contraction, every wave, because i don't want to miss a single second of what i'm doing to her.

when it passes she goes limp. completely boneless. her hand releases my thigh. i can see the marks — four little crescents, red, raised. i look at them and something possessive and dark flares in my chest.

i slide my fingers out. they're wet. i look at them in the dim hotel room light — shiny, slick — and i

okay. here's what was happening to me.

i was using the vibrator. high setting. i was so turned on by the time i got to "yujin" — just her saying my name — that i was grinding against it desperately. i came right when fantasy-gaeul came. synchronized. my body mirrored what i was writing and the orgasm was deep and rolling and lasted longer than usual and i had to shove my entire fist against my mouth to stay quiet.

and then. the part that scares me.

after i came, after the wave passed, i didn't stop. i scrolled back to the wonyoung dressing room fantasy. the one from march. re-read it while still buzzing and started again immediately and i came a second time imagining wonyoung while the first orgasm was still about gaeul and the overlap — wanting gaeul AND wonyoung, cycling between them, stacking them — made me come so hard my legs cramped and i had to stretch them out under the blanket.

i lay there in the dark with my heart hammering and i thought: i want both of them. not one. both. and not just them.

the wishful became greedy. the greedy is becoming sinful.

this note's title is starting to make too much sense.

[april 2024 — multiple entries]

things i have done in the last six months that i need to document before i convince myself they didn't happen:

— hotel room. schedule trip. shared with liz. two beds, four feet apart. she fell asleep before me, breathing evenly, facing the wall. i lay in the dark listening to her breathe and i was so turned on i could feel my own pulse between my legs. i used just my fingers because the vibrator was in my suitcase across the room and getting up would risk waking her. i came in complete silence, jaw locked, breathing through my nose, my entire body rigid. the orgasm was mediocre but the RISK made my heart race harder than any fantasy.

— the van. long drive to a schedule in busan. everyone sleeping except the driver. blanket over my lap. i used my hand through my shorts. it took maybe ninety seconds because the combination of proximity and danger compressed everything. gaeul-unnie was sleeping in the seat next to me, her head against the window, and i came staring at the back of the driver's headrest and wiped my hand on the inside of the blanket. nobody woke up. the driver didn't look back.

— music show bathroom. during a live broadcast day. i sat on the toilet with my hand in my shorts and came in under a minute to the memory of what i'd seen in the shared dressing room ten minutes earlier — a specific idol from another group bending over in just underwear to step into her stage outfit. i went back out with my face flushed and told the stylist i was feeling warm. she gave me a cold water bottle. i pressed it against my neck and smiled.

— hotel room again. osaka. shared with rei this time. one bed. actual booking situation, not a fantasy. she fell asleep facing away from me. i moved closer. gradually. over twenty minutes. until my body was pressed against her back. full contact. spooning. my arm went around her waist like it was sleep-instinct. my face buried in her hair.

i didn't touch her inappropriately. my hands stayed still. my hips stayed still. i just... pressed. against her. and breathed her in. memorized the specific shape of her body against mine — the curve of her waist, the warmth radiating through her sleep shirt, the rhythm of her ribcage expanding and contracting under my arm. i lay there for over an hour in a state of arousal so intense it was almost meditative. trance-like. i could have stayed there forever. suspended in the wanting without acting on it. the purest form of torture.

i went to the bathroom after and came in under thirty seconds. sitting on the toilet. my face in a towel to muffle it. i barely had to touch myself — the hour of contact had wound me so tight that one touch detonated everything.

— stole one of wonyoung's worn t-shirts from the laundry. not permanently. just for one night. i slept with it pressed against my face and i could smell her on it — her specific smell, the perfume and the faint sweat and the shampoo and underneath all of that something that's just HER, just her biology — and i held the shirt against my face while i used the vibrator and i came three times and the third time i said her name into the fabric. quietly. barely a whisper. but i said it. "wonyoung." into her own shirt. while making myself come.

i put the shirt back the next morning. she never noticed. why would she. she trusts me. they all trust me.

i'm making a list of my sins now. that's what this note has become. not a journal. not random thoughts. a catalogue of sins committed by a woman who has been handed everything — fame, money, love, trust — and is still hungry. still greedy. still reaching for the things she can't have while surrounded by everything she's supposed to want.

[september 28, 2024 — 03:33 AM]

something happened two weeks ago and i haven't been able to write about it until now because every time i open this note to try, my hands start shaking and i have to close it.

i'm writing it now because the not-writing is worse. the not-writing means it just loops in my head without resolution.

two weeks ago. the dorm. my bed. maybe 1am. i thought everyone was asleep. i was doing what i do — vibrator, fantasy, the usual private horror show. i was building a new scenario in my head. not writing it down this time, just running it internally, because sometimes the fantasies move too fast for typing and i just need to close my eyes and let them play.

i was close. really close. vibrator on the highest setting because i was chasing something specific and i needed the intensity. my face was in the pillow. my body was on its side, curled inward. i was breathing in short bursts through my nose trying to stay silent.

i came. hard. too hard. harder than i expected because the fantasy escalated faster than i'd planned and the orgasm hit me like a wall and my body MOVED. involuntarily. my hips jerked and the bed frame made a sound — a creak, one single creak — and i froze.

the thing is, i wasn't alone. rei was staying in my room that night. she'd been watching a drama on my laptop earlier and fallen asleep and i'd let her stay because that's what you do, that's what the reliable leader does, you don't wake your sleeping member and send her to her own room. you let her sleep. in YOUR room. four feet from YOUR bed. while you lie awake for two hours waiting for her breathing to even out so you can do the thing you need to do to fall asleep.

i heard a shift from her direction.

i didn't breathe. i didn't move. my hand was still between my legs, vibrator still pressing against me, still buzzing — and i couldn't turn it off without moving and moving would confirm i was awake and if she knew i was awake she might say something and if she said something she'd hear my voice and my voice would sound like THAT because i'd finished thirty seconds ago.

i pressed the vibrator against my thigh to muffle it through the blanket. i lay perfectly still. i counted seconds.

she shifted again. the sound of someone rolling over.

silence.

more silence.

her breathing settled back into what i prayed was a sleeping rhythm.

i waited five full minutes before i moved. then i turned off the vibrator with shaking hands and shoved it under my pillow and lay on my back staring at the ceiling with my heart beating so hard i could hear it in my ears.

that was two weeks ago. and since then.

she hasn't said anything. she hasn't looked at me differently. not obviously. everything seems normal. we do schedules. we eat together. we practice. she laughs at my jokes. she falls asleep on my shoulder in the van.

but sometimes — sometimes — i catch her looking at me with an expression i can't read. not suspicious exactly. just... aware. like she heard a sound she's still trying to identify. like she's holding a puzzle piece she can't quite place.

i should be terrified. i AM terrified.

i'm also more turned on than i've ever been.

the idea that rei MIGHT know. that she might have heard. that she might have been lying in the dark four feet away listening to the buzz of my vibrator and the creak of my bed and pieced together what was happening. the idea that she knows what their leader does at night and hasn't said anything — because she's horrified? because she's confused? because she's pretending it didn't happen?

or because she liked listening?

i came to THAT thought tonight. tonight. just now. lying in my own bed, alone this time, safe, no witnesses. the fantasy that rei heard everything and wanted to hear more. that she lay in the dark with her eyes open, listening, not stopping me, maybe even

i came so hard and so fast to that thought that it scared me. the orgasm came from nowhere — one second i was constructing the scenario, the next my body was clenching and i was gasping into my pillow and it was over before i could even process that it was happening. like my body had been holding that specific fantasy in reserve, waiting for me to finally think it, and the moment i did it detonated.

i need to stop.

i need to stop saying "i need to stop" because we both know — me and this note — that i'm never going to stop.

[february 3, 2025 — 02:30 AM]

i'm writing this because today was the worst. today was the day that broke something in me that i don't think i can repair and i need to get it out before it eats me alive.

photoshoot. ive group shoot for a magazine. all of us. the concept was "intimate" — soft lighting, minimal styling, the kind of editorial that's supposed to show the "real" us. the photographer wanted natural. candid. close.

so we were close. physically close. arms around each other. heads on shoulders. faces inches apart. the kind of closeness that's normal for us, that we do every day, that fans see in every behind-the-scenes video.

except today the stylist put wonyoung in a silk top with no bra underneath and i could see everything. the outline of her. the shape. the specific way the fabric draped over her chest and moved when she breathed. and we had to pose with my arm around her waist and her head tilted toward me and the photographer kept saying "closer, closer, more intimate" and i could smell her perfume and feel her ribs expand under my hand and her hair was touching my neck and i was drowning.

and then there was the shot where we all had to lie down together. on a white backdrop. tangled. the photographer arranged us — limbs overlapping, heads resting on stomachs, hands loosely intertwined. i ended up with my head near gaeul's hip and liz's hand on my shoulder and wonyoung's leg draped over mine and rei's hair brushing my arm and i was surrounded by them. engulfed. every sense filled with their bodies. their warmth. their skin. their scent. the women i love and want and can never have, pressed against me while a camera clicked and a room full of staff watched and i smiled and i was professional and inside i was burning alive.

i came home. i took a cold shower. it didn't help. i went to bed. i couldn't sleep. i lay in the dark for two hours replaying the photoshoot in my head. the silk top. the tangled limbs. gaeul's hip bone against my cheek. wonyoung's thigh across mine. the weight of liz's hand on my shoulder. rei's hair against my skin.

i can't do the usual tonight. the vibrator and the fantasy and the single-member scenario. it's not enough. tonight i need something bigger because the ache is bigger. the ache is the size of the entire group. the ache is the size of every woman i've ever wanted and never touched.

so i'm going to write the fantasy i've never let myself write. the one that's been building at the back of my skull for months. the one i've been too scared to put into words because putting it into words makes it real and real is where the guilt lives.

all of them. at once. all of them. at once. every member.

except leeseo. 

i need to say that clearly because this note has 

become evidence of who i am and i need at least one piece of evidence that i'm not completely gone. leeseo is off limits. she has always been off limits. she's the youngest and i helped raise her in this industry and whatever broken wiring exists in my brain, whatever fucked up thing i am, it does not touch her. she is my little sister. genuinely. that feeling is clean and i will protect it with everything i have left.

so. everyone except leeseo. in a scenario where they all know. where they all want me back. where the dorm becomes something else entirely.

it starts after a schedule. late. we're all tired. we're in the dorm living room and someone suggests a movie and we pile onto the couch and the floor and there's blankets and pillows and the lights are off except the TV. normal night. ordinary. safe.

except in this version wonyoung sits next to me and puts her head on my shoulder and her hand is on my thigh under the blanket. not high. just resting. and i put my hand over hers and our fingers interlock and nobody can see because of the blanket and the darkness. and she squeezes my hand and i squeeze back and the squeeze means something that a squeeze doesn't normally mean.

her hand moves higher. slowly. under the blanket. my thigh. my inner thigh. i open my legs slightly and she takes the invitation and her fingertips trace the inseam of my shorts and i stop breathing and on the TV the movie plays and on the couch gaeul is watching the screen and on the floor the others are lying in their own blankets and wonyoung's fingers are pressing against me through the fabric of my shorts and

i need to stop writing and just think now. the vibrator is on. i'm... i started before i even got to the good part because the SETUP is enough now. the domesticity of it. the couch. the movie. the normalcy hiding the depravity. that contrast is what does it to me every time.

...

...

...

03:47 AM.

okay. i'm back. i need to write down what just happened in my head because i don't want to lose it and i also need to see it written down so i can understand what i'm becoming.

i stopped writing because the fantasy took over and i couldn't type anymore. my eyes were closed and the vibrator was against me and the scenario in my head went like this:

wonyoung's hand slipped inside my shorts. her fingers found me and i was wet and she made a small sound against my shoulder — surprise or satisfaction — and her finger started circling and on the couch i was staring at the TV seeing nothing and my hand was gripping the blanket.

gaeul noticed. she looked over. she saw the movement under the blanket. she saw my face. and instead of being horrified she moved closer. under the blanket. her hand went to my other thigh. she didn't say anything. she just touched me. both of them. wonyoung on one side, gaeul on the other, their hands meeting between my legs. gaeul's fingers joining wonyoung's and they worked together and i was biting my lip so hard i tasted blood.

on the floor liz lifted her head. she saw. she watched. she crawled forward on her hands and knees and got under the blanket at my feet and she pulled my shorts down and her mouth replaced their fingers and i

that's where i came the first time. the image of liz's mouth on me while wonyoung and gaeul touched me and rei watched from the floor with dark eyes. i came with my face buried in the pillow and the vibrator on high and my body convulsing and i didn't stop. i didn't turn it off. i kept the vibrator going and kept the fantasy running because it wasn't done.

in my head it evolved. expanded. the movie forgotten. the blankets pushed aside. everyone's hands on everyone. wonyoung riding my face while gaeul's mouth was on my neck. liz between my legs while i reached for rei. switching. rotating. every configuration my brain could generate. bodies and mouths and sounds and my name — yujin, yujin, unnie, please, more, there, don't stop — coming from every direction.

the fantasy fractured into images. flashes. wonyoung's face when she comes. gaeul's fingers inside me. liz's tongue. rei's hands gripping my thighs. sounds — wet sounds, breathing, moans, whispered words in the dark.

i came again. harder. my vision went white and then dark and i think i might have blacked out for a second because there's a gap between the peak and now. the vibrator was still buzzing against my thigh. my face was wet. tears. i'd been crying without knowing it.

...

04:02 AM.

i've been lying here for fifteen minutes. staring at the ceiling. the vibrator is off. my body is still twitching in aftershocks. this note is open on my phone. everything i've written over the past two and a half years is right here. every fantasy. every confession. every sin.

the guilt is here now. right on schedule. the post-orgasm clarity that arrives like a bill after a meal. i re-read what i wrote tonight — the movie scenario, everyone's hands, the configurations — and i feel sick. actually sick. these are my friends. my members. the girls who trust me to lead them, to protect them, to make good decisions on their behalf.

i make decisions on their behalf during the day and i write about fucking them at night. that's who their leader is. that's who an yujin is when nobody's watching.

i keep thinking maybe if i ever actually kissed a woman — any woman, not even one of them, just someone, anyone — maybe the pressure would release. maybe the fantasies would fade. maybe i'd stop writing in this note and start living in the real world.

but i can't kiss anyone. i can't touch anyone. i can't tell anyone. i'm an idol. i'm a leader. i'm twenty-two years old and i've never been kissed properly and i've made myself come a thousand times to the thought of women who call me unnie and trust me with their lives and i am the loneliest person i know.

tomorrow we have a schedule at 7am. i'll set my alarm for 5:30. i'll shower. i'll wash this off me. i'll put on the face and the voice and the energy. i'll stand next to wonyoung in hair and makeup and she'll lean on me because she's sleepy in the mornings and her head will be on my shoulder and she'll smell like that shampoo and i'll say something funny to wake her up and she'll laugh and the stylist will smile and everything will be normal.

nobody will know. nobody ever knows. that used to feel like safety. now it just feels like the walls of a room that gets smaller every night.

i should delete this.

i'm never going to delete this.

[ END OF FILE ]

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[electro469]

Sinful Confessions

Confession #003: notes on control and other sexual experiments

CONFESSION #003

SUBJECT: Bae Joohyun (Irene) — Red Velvet

DEVICE: iPhone 16 Pro — White Titanium

APPLE ID: ████████@icloud.com

FOLDER: 개인 (Private) / no sub-folder

FILE TITLE: "notes on control and other sexual experiments"

CREATED: September 22, 2015 — 11:22 PM KST

LAST MODIFIED: January 8, 2025 — 04:15 AM KST

SYNC STATUS: Backed up to iCloud

ENCRYPTION: BREACHED

[ FILE OPENED ]

notes on control and other experiments

[September 22, 2015 — 11:22 PM]

I'm writing this in the third floor bathroom at MBC. I'm sitting on the toilet lid with my legs pulled up so nobody can see my shoes under the stall door. Seulgi is outside waiting for me. I told her bad stomach. She believed me because why wouldn't she. I'm Irene. I don't lie.

I just lied.

Fourteen minutes ago I was on the rooftop of this building with a man inside me.

I need to write that sentence again because seeing it on screen doesn't feel real.

Fourteen minutes ago I was on the rooftop of the MBC building, eleven floors above Yeouido, gripping a metal railing with both hands while a man I've been making eye contact with at music shows since March fucked me from behind in my stage outfit.

There. Now it's real.

He's a singer. Not SM. I'm not writing his name. He's older by four years. He has this public reputation as the "gentleman" of his group. I can now confirm the reputation is inaccurate.

How it happened: we finished our Chuseok special pre-recording. Red Velvet killed it. I was still in the red outfit — the short one that the stylists pinned in three places because it kept riding up my thighs every time I did the chorus move. I went to the basement bathroom. Coming out, he was leaning against the corridor wall. He wasn't waiting for someone. He was waiting for me. I knew it before either of us said a word.

He mentioned a rooftop. Service stairwell, 11th floor. I didn't ask how he knew. I followed him up seven flights of stairs in heels and a stage outfit that barely covered my ass and I didn't ask a single question because asking would have meant admitting what was about to happen and I wasn't ready to admit it. My body was ready. My brain was still catching up.

Seoul looked enormous from up there. Yeouido lit up across the river. The air was just turning cool — mid September — and the wind hit my bare legs and the contrast between the cold air outside and the heat building between my thighs was so sharp it felt like my body was split into two climates.

He pushed me against the railing and kissed me and his mouth was harder than I expected. Not rough — determined. His hands went to my waist and pulled my hips against him and I could feel how hard he was through his stage pants. Immediately. Fully. Pressing against my lower stomach.

My first coherent thought was: oh. So THIS is what they've all been doing.

Every trainee sneaking around the practice building. Every idol with glowing eyes backstage at music shows. Every whispered conversation that stopped when I walked into a room. They were doing THIS. And I was the last to know. I'm twenty-four years old and I have been performing and smiling and being "Nation's Visual" for over a year and nobody — nobody — had touched me like my body was something that wanted things instead of something that got photographed.

He didn't bother pulling my shorts off. He just pushed them to the side. The stage shorts are tight but the fabric has enough stretch. His fingers found me first and I was wet enough that two of them slid in without resistance and I grabbed the railing with both hands and stared at the city and my legs were shaking and not from the cold.

I want to be specific because this is for me and nobody else is going to read this. His fingers were thick. Thicker than mine. He curled them forward and hit a spot that made my vision blur and I gasped — not a cute gasp, not an idol gasp, an actual involuntary intake of air that came from somewhere below my lungs — and he said "there?" and I couldn't answer so I just nodded.

He had a condom. Wallet. He'd planned this. I should feel manipulated but I feel grateful that at least one of us was thinking logistically.

When he entered me I gripped the railing so hard the metal dug into my palms. I was bent forward over it, looking straight down at the MBC parking lot below. I could see fans. Our fans. Red Velvet banners and lightsticks moving through the lot like little red stars. They were probably talking about the performance. About how pretty Irene looked. About the outfit. The same outfit that was currently bunched around my waist while their idol's body was being stretched open eleven stories above them.

He wasn't gentle. I didn't want gentle. I didn't know what I wanted until he gave me something that wasn't gentle and my body responded by pushing back against him with a force that surprised us both. The railing creaked. For one second I thought about the structural integrity of a metal railing on top of a broadcast building and then he thrust deep enough that the thought evaporated and all I could think about was the pressure building in my lower body like water behind a dam.

I came looking at the city. His hand was on my hip, gripping hard enough to bruise — I checked later, and yes, bruised, a thumbprint-shaped shadow on my right hip bone that I have to hide from the stylists now, at least for a week. The orgasm started in my thighs and moved upward and when it hit the center of me my knees buckled and he had to grab my waist with both hands to keep me standing and I made a sound into the night air that I don't have a reference for because I've never made it before.

He finished inside the condom about a minute later. I know because I was counting. Not intentionally — my brain just does that. It tracks time even when the rest of me has vacated the premises.

He pulled out and I stood up straight and the cool air hit the wetness between my legs and I felt the specific ache of something having been inside me that wasn't anymore and I smoothed my skirt and I looked at him and he looked at me and neither of us said anything meaningful. He apologized for being fast. I said don't.

Then I went downstairs and I went to the bathroom and I sat on this toilet lid and my underwear is in his jacket pocket because he pulled it down and put it in his pocket at some point and I let him and I cannot go back out there and get in the van with no underwear on with the members sitting next to me so I'm going to figure out that problem after I finish writing this.

I can feel him. Not him specifically — the aftermath of him. The condom caught everything but the ache is still there and the wetness is mine and there's enough of it that I can feel it on my inner thighs and I'm sitting in a bathroom stall in a broadcast building processing the fact that I just had sex for the first time in my life in a way that actually mattered and my group is outside the door waiting for me and the fans are in the parking lot holding my face on a banner and none of them know.

I think I'm going to do this again. With someone else. I want more data.

That's a strange word to use. Data. But it's the right one. This felt like the first data point in an experiment I didn't know I was running. I want to know if the feeling is reproducible. If it changes with different variables. If the power I felt when I came — and it was power, specifically, not pleasure, pleasure was the byproduct — if that power is consistent or conditional.

I need to go. Seulgi just knocked again. I'm going to stuff toilet paper in my underwear situation and deal with this in the van. I'll figure it out.

I want to remember this feeling. Not because it was special. Because it was the first.

—

[September 23, 2015 — 02:48 AM]

Home. Showered. The bruise on my hip is already darkening. I pressed my thumb into it and it hurt and the hurt brought the whole thing back — the railing, the city, the sound I made — and my body responded to the memory so fast it startled me. I almost touched myself but I didn't because I want to keep the ache for a while longer. The ache is evidence. Proof that it happened. That I'm not just the girl on the poster.

I'm keeping this note. I'll add to it if I do this again.

When I do this again.

—

[January 17, 2016 — 03:55 AM]

#3

Her.

I need that word on its own line because it rearranges everything I thought I knew about myself.

Her.

There was a #2 — a choreographer, November, his apartment in Hapjeong, adequate but unremarkable. He was nervous and I was impatient and the sex was functional and when it was over I felt the same clinical satisfaction you get from checking a box on a to-do list. Not worth a detailed entry. The only useful data point: I was right. The feeling IS reproducible. But the intensity varies by subject.

Now. Her.

Soojin. Not her real name. Freelance makeup artist, twenty-six, hired for a magazine shoot in November. She had short brown hair dyed warm and a habit of biting the cap of her lip liner while she worked. I spent an entire shoot watching her mouth close to my face as she applied my base and I didn't understand the tightness in my chest until three weeks later when I invited her for drinks and she kissed me on her living room floor and the tightness exploded into something so obvious I was furious at myself for not recognizing it sooner.

Her apartment in Mangwon-dong. Small. Full of plants. A cat on the bookshelf that stared at me the entire time like it understood exactly what was happening and disapproved.

She asked if I'd ever done this before. I said no. She was gentle — not cautious, gentle — and the difference matters. Cautious is someone afraid of breaking you. Gentle is someone who knows exactly how much pressure to apply and chooses softness deliberately.

She kissed me slowly and she tasted like the red wine we'd been sharing and her lips were softer than any man's lips and her hand cupped the back of my neck and her thumb stroked the skin behind my ear and my entire body flushed. Not metaphorically. I could feel the blood rushing to the surface of my skin everywhere she touched, like my body was trying to get closer to her through its own biology.

We ended up on her living room floor because neither of us wanted to break contact long enough to move to the bedroom. She undressed me and I lay on her rug — some rough woven thing that scratched my back — and she looked at me and I felt seen in a way the rooftop didn't achieve. He saw my body. She saw the thing inside it.

She started at my neck and worked down and she paid attention to everything. Every sound I made she adjusted to. When I inhaled sharply at the feeling of her tongue across my collarbone she stayed there. When my hips lifted off the floor involuntarily as her mouth moved past my navel she slowed down. She read me like a script she'd been studying.

When her mouth reached between my legs I stopped breathing for what felt like a long time. Her tongue was soft and flat and she started slow — broad strokes that covered everything without focusing on anything specific — and I was so sensitive from the buildup that even that diffuse pressure made my thighs clench around her head. She put her hands on my thighs and opened them gently and looked up at me from between my legs and said "relax, I have you" and I tried to relax but my body had other plans.

She found the right spot — slightly to the left of where I expected, which is a detail I'll remember because I hadn't even mapped my own geography that precisely — and she focused there with the tip of her tongue in small circles and I lasted approximately ninety seconds before I came so hard I grabbed a fistful of the rug and pulled it half across the floor and her cat fell off the bookshelf and she laughed with her mouth still on me and the vibration of her laughter against my most sensitive skin made me come again immediately, a second one right on top of the first, which I did not know was physically possible.

I returned it. I was bad. I want to be honest about that because this is a data record and the data includes my failures. I didn't know where to focus. I didn't know how much pressure. She tasted different from what I expected — not bad, just specific, warm, slightly metallic — and I was overwhelmed by the intimacy of it. My face buried between another woman's legs. My tongue on someone else's most private skin. The sounds she made — small, encouraging, patient — guided me more than anything visual could have.

She put her hands in my hair and redirected me twice — gently, like adjusting a microphone — and when I finally found the rhythm she responded to, her hips lifted off the floor and her breathing changed from measured to ragged and she said "right there, don't stop, right there" and I didn't stop and her back arched and her thighs squeezed the sides of my head and I felt her come against my mouth — the specific pulse of it, the way her body clenched and released in waves — and the feeling of CAUSING that was intoxicating in a way the rooftop hadn't touched.

Control. That's what it was. On the rooftop he controlled the encounter. Here, with my mouth between her legs, I controlled it. I decided the rhythm. I decided the pressure. I decided when she came and the power of that decision was narcotic. More than the orgasm she gave me. More than the novelty of her mouth on me. The control.

I left at 2am. I didn't stay the night. In the taxi home I pressed my thighs together and I could still taste her and my lips were swollen and my chin was wet and I stared out the window at Seoul and I thought: so this is who you are, Bae Joohyun. Both. You want both. Okay then. Now you know.

I saw Soojin three more times. Then she moved to LA for work. We didn't exchange numbers. That was correct. She was important not because of who she was but because of what she revealed about the scope of the experiment. The variable pool just doubled.

I've decided to keep this note long-term. It's a record. I want to see the data accumulate. I want to understand the pattern.

Rules for future reference:

No names. Descriptions only.

No one from Red Velvet. They are off-limits. Non-negotiable.

Never the same person more than three times. Attachment is a variable I cannot afford.

Never anyone whose exposure would damage the group.

Document everything. This note is the only place where Bae Joohyun exists without the filter.

—

[January 21, 2017 — 02:18 AM]

#6

Music video director. Rookie MV shoot. Two days. Mid-thirties. He watched me between takes the way men watch things they've been told they can't touch — not with desire but with resentment. Like my face was an inconvenience to his ability to be professional.

I've developed a technique. The members call it my "death stare." Fans make memes about it. They think it's a personality quirk — Irene's scary, Irene's cold, Irene looked at someone and their soul left their body haha. It's not a quirk. It's a tool I've been refining for two years. I look at someone without blinking for three to four seconds. No expression. No smile. No hostility. Just... presence. Three seconds of unfiltered eye contact from this face and their brain chemistry reorganizes. I can see it happen in real time — the slight pupil dilation, the unconscious swallow, the micro-shift in posture as their body responds to stimulus their conscious mind hasn't processed yet.

I used it on him during a lighting reset. Four seconds because he was more resistant than average. He looked away first. They always look away first. I felt the familiar click of a lock opening.

After the shoot wrapped at 1am I told the members I needed to review playback. Nobody questions the leader. The staff cleared out. The building emptied. I walked to the editing suite and closed the door behind me and the click of the lock was, again, the loudest sound in the room.

He was reviewing footage on his monitor. I stood behind him. Put my hand on his shoulder. Waited for him to turn around. When he did, I was close enough to count his pores.

He said "we shouldn't."

That phrase. I've heard it three times now. It means nothing. It's the last exhale before surrender. The verbal version of looking away first.

I sat in his lap in the editing chair. The chair squeaked. Leather against leather. His hands went to my thighs immediately — not a decision, a reflex. I was still wearing the last stage outfit from the shoot. Short skirt. I've started thinking about wardrobe logistics in advance. This is either efficiency or pathology. I haven't decided which.

I could feel him getting hard under me before I even kissed him. The specific pressure of it against me through the fabric of his pants and my underwear and the skirt and despite all those layers I could feel the heat and the shape and my body responded with a flush of wetness that I'm sure he felt too because his fingers tightened on my thighs.

I kissed him. Controlled. My pace, my depth. I unzipped his pants. He reached under my skirt and pushed my underwear to the side and touched me and I was wet enough that his fingers slipped and he exhaled sharply against my neck like the reality of touching me was different from whatever he'd been imagining.

Two fingers. Inside. The angle was different from this position — sitting in his lap, facing him — and his fingers curved upward and I felt that spot again, the one from the rooftop, the one slightly higher and to the left that makes my thoughts dissolve. I rocked against his hand and the chair squeaked rhythmically and the sound was absurd and neither of us acknowledged it.

When I decided it was enough I took his hand away and positioned myself and lowered onto him. The first moment of entry is always the sharpest data point — the specific stretch, the fullness, the way my body adjusts and then accepts. He was average in size but the angle from this position made him feel deeper than he was and I gasped once, short and sharp, and his hands went to my hips and gripped.

I rode him while my own face stared back at me from the editing monitor. Frozen mid-choreography. Mouth slightly open. Stage smile. Eyes bright with performance adrenaline. She watched me. I watched her. The girl on the screen who dances for cameras and the woman in the chair who was rolling her hips on a man she'd known for two days.

I want to remember this detail specifically: there's a moment in the Rookie choreography where I tilt my head and narrow my eyes at the camera — a move the choreographer designed to look "mysterious and sexy." It's been my signature for years. That frozen frame, that exact expression, was on the monitor while I was grinding in this man's lap with him deep inside me and I held the frozen Irene's gaze and I thought: you don't know yet. But you will.

He gripped my hips with intention. Director's hands. He adjusted the angle twice, shifting my position like he was composing a frame, and the second adjustment hit something that made me clench around him involuntarily and we both felt it and his breathing changed. I controlled the rhythm. I controlled the depth. I came once — quiet, contained, my forehead against his, my eyes closed. The orgasm rolled through me like a wave passing through a body of water — it didn't disturb the surface. I allowed it and let it pass and when I opened my eyes my own frozen face was still smiling from the monitor.

He finished inside me shortly after. I could feel it — the specific pulse of it, the way his body tensed under mine and then released. I stayed in his lap for maybe thirty seconds after. Feeling the wetness between us. His breathing slowing against my neck.

Then I stood up. Smoothed my skirt. He looked at me like I'd performed surgery on his understanding of reality.

He asked for my number. I said no. He looked hurt. I registered the hurt the way I register weather. Factually.

Walked out. Bathroom. Fixed my hair. Cleaned up. Drove home.

The monitor detail is significant. I'm filing it. My own face watching me while I'm being fucked. The performance observing the person. I don't fully understand what it means yet but the image is burned into me and I think it's going to matter later.

—

[December 2, 2018 — 04:44 AM]

Two encounters between this and #9. Both men, both industry-adjacent, both forgettable. I'm not wasting space on them. The data is plateauing with male subjects in industry settings. I need to change a variable.

—

#9

I changed the variable.

A fan.

I need to sit with how that looks on screen. A fan. One of the people who buys our albums, streams our songs, holds a banner with my face on it in the freezing cold outside a music show at 6am. I let a fan into my apartment and I let him put his hands and his mouth and eventually the rest of him on the body he's been worshipping through a screen for four years.

Not a random fan. Specific. He appeared at the COEX fansign in November. Late twenties. Well-dressed — actual clothes, not the standard hoodie-and-photocard uniform. A watch that cost real money. When he got to my seat he didn't stammer or cry or shake. He looked directly at me — directly, not at the concept of me — and said "you're more intimidating in person than on screen."

Not pretty. Not beautiful. Intimidating. That word choice, from a fan, while holding eye contact. It lodged in my brain like a splinter.

I thought about him for the rest of the signing. In the van. Through Yeri's story about her phobia with dogs that I didn't hear. The thought wasn't sexual at first. It was scientific. I wanted to know: what does worship feel like when it transfers from parasocial to physical? Is the reverence a barrier or an accelerant? Does the fantasy survive contact with reality?

I found him. Took a week. I have methods. Every idol does. We pretend we don't but the infrastructure exists if you know who to ask — a manager who owes you, a staff member who values discretion over protocol. I got his contact through a chain of three people, none of whom knew the final purpose.

I messaged him from an account that can't be traced. The conversation was brief. I told him the rules: no phones inside my apartment, no photos, no recordings, no evidence of any kind. If he ever spoke about this to anyone I would deny it, and between an idol backed by SM Entertainment's legal team and a random fan with no proof, the outcome was predetermined. He agreed instantly. He would have agreed to anything. That's the fundamental power imbalance of worship — the worshipper has no leverage. They are grateful to be in the room. I knew this going in. I used it.

He came to my apartment at 10pm yesterday. He was wearing a suit. He'd come from work. He smelled like office air conditioning and a cologne I didn't recognize — something mid-range, not expensive, not cheap. When I opened the door his face did something I want to describe precisely: his eyes widened first, then his mouth opened slightly, then he blinked three times in rapid succession as his brain processed the gap between the poster on his wall and the woman in front of him in a plain black t-shirt and shorts with no makeup and her hair clipped up. He was reconciling the idol with the human. It took him about four seconds.

"Come in," I said.

His hands were shaking when I handed him a glass of water. I watched the water tremble in the glass. This man managed money for a living. He made decisions involving millions of won daily. His hands were shaking because Irene handed him a glass of water in her apartment.

I poured myself wine. I sat on my couch. He sat on the opposite end, as far from me as the cushions allowed. I let the distance exist for about ten minutes. We talked. He was articulate when his voice wasn't cracking. He asked intelligent questions about the industry that I answered with my standard deflections. I wasn't interested in conversation. I was waiting for the right moment to begin the experiment.

The right moment came when he said: "I'm sorry if I'm being awkward. It's just — I've been looking at your face almost every day for four years. Posters, photocards, music videos. Having you this close is..." He trailed off. Swallowed. "It's a lot."

Four years. Daily. Every day for 1,460 days, this man had looked at my face with desire. Had thought about my body in specific detail. Had constructed elaborate fantasies in private about the woman now sitting three cushions away from him. The accumulated weight of that — the density of four years of daily want compressed into this room, this couch, this moment — did something to me I wasn't expecting.

I set my wine glass on the table. I moved to his end of the couch. I put my hand on his thigh and felt the muscle tense under the suit fabric and I leaned in and kissed him.

The first twenty minutes confirmed my original hypothesis. He kissed me like I was made of glass. Careful. Reverent. His hands touched my body the way museum visitors hover their fingers over a sculpture they've been told not to touch — present but barely there, afraid that full contact would trigger an alarm. He laid me back on the couch and undressed me with ceremony. He folded my t-shirt. He actually FOLDED it and placed it on the arm of the couch and I almost broke character to laugh because who folds a shirt they've just pulled off the body of a woman they've been fantasizing about for four years?

His fingers on my bare skin were featherlight. Tentative. Tracing the lines of my body like he was memorizing them for later. He touched my breasts like they were artifacts — cupping them gently, thumbs brushing across my nipples with the lightest possible pressure, watching my face for permission with every micro-movement. I was wet but not from his technique. I was wet from the situation — the voyeuristic strangeness of being worshipped in my own apartment by a man who had worshipped me through a screen for 1,460 days.

I was about to redirect the encounter — take control, guide him, move things toward a resolution — when he slid off the couch and onto his knees on my floor.

He looked up at me. The expression on his face is the single most data-rich observation I've recorded in this note. It was religious. Not figuratively. Literally. The look on his face was identical to the expressions I've seen on people in temples — total surrender to something they believe is larger than themselves. He was kneeling at the foot of my couch looking up at my naked body and he was PRAYING.

He said: "I've thought about this every single day for four years."

And then the worship broke.

The shift was instantaneous. Not gradual. Not a slow build. A switch flipped. Four years of compressed, meticulously rehearsed, obsessively detailed fantasy met reality and the collision was violent.

I told him to show me. "Show me what you thought about. All of it. Every fantasy. Don't be careful. Don't be gentle. Show me what you actually did in your room when you were alone with my photos."

Something changed in his eyes. The reverence didn't disappear — it transformed. From passive worship into active devotion. The difference between praying to a god and sacrificing to one. Both are worship. One draws blood.

He put his mouth on me with a focus that I can only describe as psychotic. Not in the pejorative sense — in the clinical sense. The singular, obsessive, reality-excluding concentration of a mind that has rehearsed this exact act thousands of times in private and is now executing it with the precision that only four years of mental practice can produce. He knew what he wanted to do. He'd planned it. Refined it. Run it in his head so many times that his mouth moved with choreographic certainty.

His tongue was broad and flat at first — long strokes from bottom to top that made my toes curl and my hand grip the couch cushion. Then focused. Then precise. He zeroed in on exactly the right spot — how did he know? How could he possibly know? He'd never touched me before. But he found it like a homing signal and he stayed there and the pressure was perfect and the rhythm was perfect and I came in under three minutes.

I never come in under three minutes with a man. That number is significant enough to underline. My average, across all previous subjects, is twelve to fifteen minutes of direct stimulation. He broke through in under three. Through the control I've spent three years building. Through the modulation I pride myself on. Under. Three. Minutes.

The orgasm was not contained. It was not a wave that I surfed. It was a detonation. My back arched off the couch and my hand went to his hair and I pulled — hard, harder than I intended — and the sound I made was loud enough that if my walls weren't soundproofed the neighbors would have heard it and I didn't care. I DIDN'T CARE. That's a first.

He didn't stop after I came. He stayed between my legs and licked me through the aftershocks and I was so sensitive that every touch made my hips jerk and I was pulling his hair and pushing his head away and pulling it back simultaneously because my body couldn't decide if it wanted more or less and he interpreted the confusion as "more" and he was right.

When he finally pulled away his chin was wet and his eyes were glazed and he looked drugged and he said "turn over" and his voice was completely different from the trembling man who had folded my shirt ten minutes ago. This voice was low and hoarse and it wasn't asking permission.

I turned over. I got on my hands and knees on my own couch and I felt him stand up behind me and heard his belt buckle and his zipper and then I felt him pressing against me from behind — the head of him sliding through the wetness, finding the angle — and when he entered me he grabbed my hips with both hands and PULLED me back onto him and the depth of it made me bury my face in the cushion and bite down.

He fucked me like a man who had been starving for 1,460 days and I was the only food in the world. Not romantic. Not tender. Desperate. The sound of skin against skin was obscene and wet and rhythmic and I could hear myself making noises into the cushion — muffled, animal, unrecognizable — and his grip on my hips was so tight I could feel each individual finger denting my flesh and I knew there would be marks and I didn't care about the marks.

He pulled my hair. Not playfully — PULLED. My neck arched back and my scalp stung and I gasped and the combination of the sting and the fullness and the relentless depth of his thrusts made something build in my lower body that felt different from the first orgasm. Bigger. Slower. Like pressure building behind a wall that wasn't designed to hold this much.

He pushed my face back into the cushion. His hand on the back of my head. Holding me down. I could barely breathe. The cushion was hot and damp from my own breath and I was drooling and my eyes were watering and I came for the second time with a full-body convulsion that made my arms give out and I collapsed flat on the couch and he followed me down and kept going, his full weight on my back, his hips driving into me from behind while I lay face-down gasping into the cushion and clenching around him in waves.

He came with a groan that vibrated through my back. I felt it — the specific heat of it inside me, the pulsing — and his weight settled onto me and his breathing was ragged against my neck and I lay underneath him staring at the arm of the couch where he had folded my shirt and I thought: the hypothesis was wrong.

Worship doesn't translate to timidity. That was the assumption. The data disproves it. Worship translates to obsession. And obsession, when the barrier between fantasy and reality is removed, is the most aggressive force I have ever experienced.

He left at 3am. At my door, he bowed. Ninety degrees. Full formal bow. The kind you give to a CEO or a senior government official. He was standing in my doorway with my taste still on his mouth and my fluids still drying on his skin and he bowed like I was royalty and said "thank you" in a voice that had returned to its original trembling register.

I stood in the doorway in my robe and I watched him walk to the elevator and I didn't know whether to laugh or cry or add a new section to this note.

I'm adding a new section.

Observation: I need to recalibrate. The fan variable was not what I predicted. The intensity was off the charts. The loss of control was more significant than any previous encounter. The data from tonight doesn't fit the existing model. I need a new model.

Rule 3 applies. I won't see him again. But I'll think about him. His data is too significant to discard. Maybe I'll have to invite another one of them to verify if the data is similar across the field or this was somewhat special.

—

[October 19, 2019 — 03:30 AM]

#11

She's an idol. Active. Different company. I'm going to be deliberately vague because if I write one more identifying detail this note becomes a weapon that could destroy two careers.

We'd been texting for two months. She initiated — unusual, I normally start the approach. Her first message wasn't a compliment. It was a complaint about the terrible wine at the year-end show where we'd been seated near each other. I liked that she led with criticism instead of worship. It suggested a mind that evaluates rather than accepts. I'm attracted to that quality in ways I'm still mapping.

The texting escalated without either of us naming what it was escalating toward. Week one: industry gossip. Week two: personal questions that went past the surface. Week three: messages at 2am when the loneliness is sharpest. Week four: I caught myself choosing specific Instagram story photos based on what I thought she'd find attractive. My subconscious had decided to pursue her before my conscious mind approved the operation.

Tonight. Seoul. She was near my apartment for a music show. I cooked for her at my apartment. Pasta. A Burgundy I selected specifically because it's soft and warm and I wanted the evening to taste like an invitation rather than a proposition.

She sat at my kitchen counter and watched me cook and her eyes followed my hands like stage lights — warm, focused, specific. We ate. We talked. We moved to the couch. Our knees touched. She was trembling.

I want to document that contrast because it's important: this girl fills stadiums. She performs choreography in front of tens of thousands of screaming fans. She has a persona so polished it could cut glass. And she was trembling because our knees were touching on a sofa.

I kissed her. She tasted like the Burgundy and her lips were softer than anyone I'd kissed since Soojin and her hand found my waist and gripped the fabric of my shirt and I could feel her fist tightening as the kiss deepened and the combination of her desire and her fear and her trembling was intoxicating in a way I haven't felt since my first encounter with a girl.

I stood up and took her hand and led her to my bedroom. She followed like she was walking into a cathedral — reverent, overwhelmed, slightly terrified. I undressed her slowly. Piece by piece. I folded each item on the chair because I wanted her to see that I was careful, precise, that she was in hands that would not be careless.

Her body was beautiful. Idol-maintained. The kind of body that costs sixteen-hour practice days and calorie restriction and it was perfect and it was also a cage and I wanted to show her what it felt like to use it for pleasure instead of performance.

I laid her on my bed and spent an hour taking her apart.

I started at her neck. I catalogued every response. Kiss below her ear: sharp inhale, head tilting to give me access. Tongue across her collarbone: her hand found my hair and twisted gently. Mouth on her breast, lips closing around her nipple, tongue circling slowly: she arched off the bed and a moan escaped that she immediately tried to suppress by pressing her lips together. I lifted my head and said "don't suppress it. I want to hear you." Her eyes were wet. She nodded.

I kissed down her stomach. Slowly. Her muscles twitched under my lips. When I reached the waistband of her underwear I looked up at her and she was staring at the ceiling with her hands fisted in the sheets and her chest was rising and falling rapidly and I hooked my fingers into the elastic and pulled down slowly and she lifted her hips to help me and the gesture — that small collaborative lift — was more intimate than anything I'd experienced in years.

I settled between her legs. She was wet. Visibly. The light from my bedside lamp caught the shine on her inner thighs and I leaned in and breathed against her and she whimpered — actually whimpered, a small high sound that a woman who fills stadiums should not be capable of making — and I put my mouth on her.

She tasted clean and warm and slightly sweet and I started slow, the way Soojin had started with me years ago, broad flat strokes that covered everything without committing to anything. She responded to everything. Every touch drew a sound. I tracked them — mapping her body the way I map choreography, noting which movements produced which responses, building a catalogue of her pleasure in real time.

When I focused — tip of my tongue, small circles, the spot I found on the left side — her entire body tensed like a wire being tightened. I added a finger. Then two. Curved them forward. Found the texture change on the front wall and pressed and she GRABBED my hair with both hands and said something in a voice I didn't recognize as hers — broken, desperate, not the voice she uses on stage.

She came hard. Her hips lifted off the bed and her thighs clamped around my head and I stayed with her through it, tongue still working, fingers still pressing, and she rode it out gasping and I felt her pulsing against my mouth and around my fingers and the power of it — the power of MAKING her do that, of conducting her body like an instrument I'd learned to play in an hour — was the purest high I've accessed in four years of this experiment.

Second orgasm: I built it slowly. Deliberately. I kept her on the edge for what felt like hours — every time she got close I eased off, changed the rhythm, let her slide back, then rebuilt. She was begging by the end. Not with words — with her body. Her hips chasing my mouth. Her hands pulling my hair. Her thighs trembling on either side of my head. When I finally let her finish she came with her whole body — a wave that started in her center and radiated outward and her legs shook for a full thirty seconds after and she lay there panting and staring at my ceiling like she'd just learned something fundamental about herself.

Third time she cried. Silent tears running down her temples. Not from pain. Not from sadness. From the intensity of being WANTED by someone she'd spent her career being compared to. I lay next to her and watched the tears track down her skin and I felt something I had to manually classify as tenderness because I don't encounter it frequently enough for automatic recognition.

She asked to touch me. I said not tonight. She looked confused. A little hurt. I kissed her forehead — an uncharacteristically soft gesture that I'm documenting because it deviated from protocol — and said "next time."

There were two more times. The second, I let her go down on me. She was enthusiastic and imprecise and I guided her with my hands and small sounds and when I came it was quiet and controlled but her face when she looked up at me afterward — the pride, the wonder — was worth more than the orgasm itself.

Third time. My floor. The bed felt too formal. We were on the carpet and our legs were tangled and I felt her wetness against my thigh and mine against hers and the friction built between us and we came within thirty seconds of each other and she laughed — a genuine, surprised, joyful laugh — and said "is that what it's supposed to feel like?" and I said "yes" even though I wasn't sure that was true for me. For her it was discovery. For me it was research. The gap between those two experiences was wider than I wanted it to be.

She stopped texting after the third time. I expected it. The ones with the most to lose always run first.

Observation: women are better subjects than men. They pay attention. They remember what works. Their sounds are more honest. But they're more dangerous because they want to talk about it afterward and talking is where the experiment becomes a relationship and a relationship is an uncontrolled variable I cannot afford.

—

[August 7, 2020 — 03:02 AM]

Two encounters between this and #14. One man, one woman. Neither produced notable data. I'm logging them here by count only.

—

#14

This entry contains no sex. It contains consequences.

A man. Industry-adjacent. Someone whose job requires proximity to idols. I'm not describing him further.

Six weeks. Violation of rule 3. I justified the extension because the sex was logistically convenient and physically efficient and I was in a difficult professional period and I was tired and tired made me sloppy.

He started texting good morning. Good morning texts are a containment breach. I should have terminated at the first one. I didn't.

I ended it directly. "This was physical. It has run its course." He did not take it well. He told someone in his professional circle. That information traveled to someone I worked with. That person confronted me during a schedule. The confrontation was not about rudeness or temperament. It was about betrayal. It was loud. Witnessed. Reported to the company.

SM constructed a narrative. The narrative went public. I apologized on camera. I cried the appropriate amount. I said the appropriate words. The public believes what they were told. The truth lives here.

I am not writing the truth in more detail because the point of this entry is not the story. The point is the lesson: rule 4 exists because I learned what happens when you violate it. Proximity breeds exposure. Exposure breeds vulnerability. Vulnerability is the only variable in this experiment that I cannot control and therefore cannot tolerate.

I'm following the rules carefully after this.

—

[June 4, 2022 — 02:30 AM]

#19

I'm still shaking. It's June. It's not the cold.

Her. A theater actress. Not an idol. Not industry. Not a celebrity. A woman who performs in a sixty-seat black box theater in Daehangno for an audience that couldn't fill a restaurant.

We met at a gallery opening in Hannam-dong three weeks ago. She didn't know who I was. Not performing ignorance — genuinely had no idea. She asked what I did and I said "performer" and she said "me too" and we talked for forty-five minutes about what performance costs and she never once asked me to name my group or show her a music video.

She was thirty-one. Sharp cheekbones. A voice like aged whiskey. She wore a men's blazer over a white t-shirt with no bra and I could see the outline of her nipples through the cotton and I spent the entire conversation redirecting my eyes and failing.

I went to see her play an evening. Alone. Mask. Small theater. She played a woman unraveling for ninety minutes and she was extraordinary. She understood something most idols never will — the difference between performing FOR an audience and performing THROUGH an audience. She used the crowd as a mirror. I recognized the skill because I do the same thing on stage but she did it with more honesty than I've ever allowed myself.

That night I went backstage. She was still in costume. Sweating. Makeup smudged. She looked more alive than anyone I've met in a year. I pulled her into the dressing room and kissed her against the mirror.

She didn't kiss like the idol. The idol was trembling and reverent and careful. This woman grabbed the back of my neck like she was trying to win something and kissed me with her whole mouth and bit my lower lip hard enough that I tasted blood and when I pulled back she looked at me with zero apology and said "I've been thinking about doing that since the gallery."

Everything I've built — the rules, the pacing, the controlled approach — collapsed in that sentence.

I lifted her onto the vanity counter. Makeup bottles scattered. A hairbrush hit the floor. I was on my knees between her legs pulling her costume aside before my brain caught up to my hands and she was so wet I could see it and I leaned in and tasted her and she was different from the idol, different from Soojin, she tasted like salt and adrenaline and stage sweat and I wasn't thinking. For the first time in seven years of this experiment I was not thinking. I was not cataloguing responses. I was not tracking technique. I was on my knees on a dirty dressing room floor with my mouth on a woman I barely knew and the only data my brain was processing was the sound she made when my tongue found the right spot — a low throaty groan that came from somewhere theatrical and primal and it made me press harder, move faster, grip her thighs tighter.

She came with her head thrown back against the mirror and her hands twisted in my hair and she was LOUD. Theater lungs. I could hear stage crew outside wrapping cables. She didn't care. The absence of shame — the complete, unapologetic, volume-unrestricted expression of pleasure — was something I had never witnessed at this proximity and it made me so wet I could feel it soaking through my underwear.

She pulled me up. Reversed us. Put me on the counter. I let her — and I want to emphasize that I LET her, which is significant because I do not relinquish positioning. I direct. I control. I decide where bodies go. She put me on the counter and knelt between my legs and looked up at me and said "my turn" with the calm authority of a woman who has spent her career commanding rooms and I let her command me.

She went down on me with no hesitation. No tutorial needed. She knew what she was doing and she did it like she had a point to prove. Her tongue was aggressive and precise and she used her hands simultaneously — two fingers inside me, curling forward, while her mouth worked above — and the dual stimulation overwhelmed me so fast I came before I realized I was close. It hit me mid-breath and I gasped and grabbed the edge of the vanity with both hands and my legs locked around her head and I looked at our reflection in the mirror behind her.

Me. On a vanity counter. In a dressing room. Legs spread. Head back. Mouth open. Eyes half-closed. Looking nothing like the woman on the magazine covers. Looking like someone I have never met.

I stayed. I never stay. I have a policy of leaving. But I stayed and we sat on the dressing room floor sharing a water bottle and she asked me real questions and I almost answered honestly.

—

[August 15, 2022 — 12:43 AM]

I saw her four more times. Rule violation. I know.

The second time — her apartment, a tiny studio in Hyehwa covered in scripts and playbills — she fucked me with a strap-on and I came three times and the third time I said her name, her REAL name, and the sound of a person's real name in my mouth during sex was a variable I had not previously introduced and the emotional payload was destabilizing.

The third time I went down on her in her shower and the water was running over both of us and she leaned against the tile and her legs gave out and I caught her and held her up while I finished her and she laughed breathlessly and said "you're going to kill me" and I wanted to say "I think you might kill me first" but I didn't because that would have been honest and honesty at that stage of contamination was too dangerous.

The fourth time she told me she was falling in love with me.

I stopped returning her messages the next day.

Her last text: "I understand. I hope whoever finally gets past your walls knows how lucky they are."

I read it eleven times before I archived the conversation. I'm writing this instead of writing back because writing back would mean the experiment failed. The experiment cannot fail. If the experiment fails then every encounter documented in this note becomes evidence of something I'm not prepared to name.

—

Three encounters between this and #23. None documented. None significant. I'm going through the motions. The methodology is intact but the results taste like nothing. I keep thinking about her voice when she said "I'm falling in love with you" — the specific vibration of it, trained on a stage, aimed directly at the center of my chest.

I need to push further. Not toward feeling. Away from it. I need an encounter that obliterates the residual data she left behind. Something that exceeds my capacity for emotional processing so completely that her voice gets overwritten.

—

[August 18, 2024 — 05:15 AM]

#23

Bangkok. Red Velvet's FANCON tour wrap. I'm in my hotel bathroom. The shower is running so nobody hears me typing. My hands are shaking so badly I keep hitting wrong keys and going back to fix them.

Two of them. At once.

I did this on purpose. I need to document that clearly. This was not spontaneous. I have been escalating toward this for two years — each encounter a controlled increase in variables. More risk. More partners. More sensation. More distance from the woman who almost broke through.

Hotel bar. 11pm. The others were either asleep or at clubs in Thonglor. I sat alone with a gin and tonic and within an hour I was talking to two men. Both Thai. Late twenties. Finance. The tall one had a sharp jaw and the confidence of someone who gets what he wants regularly. The shorter one was softer, quieter, watching me with careful eyes.

The tall one recognized me. He leaned in and said "you're Irene" and I held the stare — four seconds, maximum deployment — and said "tonight I'm not."

He understood immediately. His friend took a moment longer. When the three of us stepped into the elevator nobody spoke. The doors closed and the silence was its own consent form.

Their room. 22nd floor. Two beds, both unmade. Bangkok through floor-to-ceiling windows — the city orange and hazy, the air thick even through the glass. The room smelled like hotel soap and whiskey and the specific metabolic scent of two men who had been drinking for hours.

I undressed myself. All of it. Every piece. I stood naked in front of two strangers in a foreign city and I waited. Not submissively — observationally. I wanted to see what two men do when presented with the same stimulus simultaneously. Who initiates. Who defers. How they negotiate the logistics between themselves without speaking.

The tall one moved first. He crossed the room and picked me up. Not guided — picked up. Hands under my thighs, lifted, carried three steps, set down on the desk by the window. The physical shock of being relocated by someone else's strength — of being lighter than the force acting on me — sent a signal through my body that I'm still trying to decode. I am always the one who decides where bodies go. Being placed like a chess piece by someone who didn't ask permission first was disorienting in a way that registered as simultaneously alarming and arousing. The line between those two responses was thinner than I expected.

He spread my legs. His hands on my inner thighs, pushing them apart, and the cold surface of the desk against my bare skin made me gasp. He knelt between my legs and put his mouth on me without preamble — no kissing, no buildup, straight to the center — and his tongue was thick and aggressive and he ate me like he was trying to prove something to the other man watching from the bed.

The shorter one was watching. Sitting on the edge of the unmade bed, his hand on himself through his pants, his eyes moving between my face and the place where his friend's mouth was working. Being watched while being consumed — the triangulation of it, the awareness of an audience while being simultaneously the performer and the performance — was a variable I had not tested before. It amplified everything. Every sensation was doubled by the knowledge that it was being observed. My moans were louder because someone was listening. My body performed more dramatically because someone was watching.

I came on the tall one's mouth while staring at the shorter one across the room. Eye contact with a stranger while another stranger's tongue was inside me. Three bodies. Three lines of sight. Three separate nervous systems connected by the geometry of desire. The orgasm was sharp and concentrated and I gripped the edge of the desk and my legs shook and the tall one kept going through the aftershock and the overstimulation made me push his head away and pull it back and push it away again in a cycle of rejection and need that I couldn't regulate.

They switched. The tall one stood up and stepped aside and the shorter one took his place and he was different — gentler mouth, slower rhythm, patient where the other was aggressive — and the contrast between the two techniques within sixty seconds of each other was like hearing the same song performed by two different artists. My body had to recalibrate. The recalibration itself was pleasurable — the disorientation, the adjustment, the not-knowing-what-comes-next.

The shorter one used his fingers simultaneously. Two, curved forward, pressing on the front wall while his tongue worked above. The dual stimulation rebuilt what the first orgasm had depleted and I felt it growing again, slower this time, deeper, and I looked at the tall one who was now undressing and I watched his body emerge and I thought: this is about to exceed my operational capacity. Good.

The tall one moved behind me on the desk. His chest against my back. His hands on my breasts. His mouth on my neck. The shorter one still between my legs. Surrounded. Every nerve ending receiving input from a different source. I couldn't track it. I couldn't separate the sensations into individual data points. The analytical framework overloaded and shut down and what was left underneath was just body. Just animal. Just the wet, desperate, gasping reality of being touched in more places than my attention could cover.

The shorter one entered me first. From the front, standing between my legs on the desk. He was thicker than average and the stretch made me inhale sharply and the tall one behind me whispered something in Thai against my ear that I didn't understand and the incomprehension added another layer of sensory chaos.

They found a rhythm between themselves without consulting me. The shorter one thrusting from the front while the tall one's hands roamed my body from behind — my breasts, my neck, his fingers tracing my jaw, tipping my head back against his shoulder. I was being handled. Managed. Used. The words don't carry judgment — they carry precision. I was, for the first time in nine years of this experiment, not the one handling.

They switched again. The shorter one pulled out and the tall one took his place from behind and the angle was different — deeper, more acute — and I cried out in a way that I didn't recognize and the shorter one fed himself into my mouth and I tasted salt and pre-come and the specific musk of a man's arousal and I was being filled from both ends and my brain simply stopped.

I want to document what "stopped" means because it's the most significant data point in nine years.

For approximately ninety seconds — I don't know the actual duration, I'm estimating based on the gap in my conscious memory — I was not present as a cognitive entity. I was not Bae Joohyun. I was not Irene. I was not the scientist or the leader or the visual or the concept. I was a body receiving stimulus and producing responses and the responses were not curated or modulated or performed. They were raw outputs. Sounds I've never heard myself make. Movements I didn't choreograph. A orgasm that arrived without my permission and tore through me so violently that I bit down on the shorter one's hip and drew blood and he hissed but didn't pull away and the tall one behind me grabbed my hair and pulled and I came AGAIN before the first one ended — a second peak stacked on top of the first — and my vision went white and the sound I made was closer to sobbing than moaning and I couldn't stop and I didn't want to stop.

They both came inside me. Within seconds of each other. I felt everything — the specific heat, the pulsing, the fullness of two men's release in two different parts of my body simultaneously. I felt full. Not physically — or not only physically. Full in a way that occupied every empty space I've been carrying since 2015. Every quiet dorm room. Every van ride alone with my thoughts. Every award show where I smiled for the camera and felt nothing behind the smile. For approximately thirty seconds, the emptiness was gone.

We ate room service pad thai in hotel robes. Nobody spoke about what had happened. The silence was comfortable the way silence is comfortable between people who share a secret none of them will ever reference again. I left at 4am.

I'm sitting on my bathroom floor now. The shower is still running. The water bill is going to be obscene. I'm sore in places that don't have names. My jaw aches. My thighs ache. The skin on my hip where I was gripping the desk is raw. I feel calm. Not happy. Not satisfied. Calm. Like a machine that's been running at maximum capacity for nine years and someone finally hit the reset button.

Here's my observation there is a threshold beyond which control becomes irrelevant. Beyond that threshold is something that feels like peace. The implication terrifies me — it means nine years of optimizing for control has been optimizing for the wrong variable. The most profound physical experience of my life happened when every system I've built went offline.

I need to sit with that. The implications are significant.

Specifically if control is the wrong variable, then this entire note — every entry, every rule, every clinical observation — has been a defense mechanism masquerading as a methodology. I've been calling it research so I wouldn't have to call it what it is.

I'm not ready to call it what it is. Not yet.

—

[January 8, 2025 — 03:50 AM]

There's another gap here. Five months. Six encounters in that gap that I didn't document because they followed the pattern too precisely to generate new data. Same approach. Same controlled execution. Same detachment during. Same emptiness after. The machine resumed operating at normal capacity. The Bangkok reset faded. The calm faded. Everything faded back to baseline.

I was considering closing this note permanently. The experiment felt complete. The methodology works. The data is comprehensive. Control works. Detachment works. I can make anyone want me, control any encounter, walk away clean every time.

I was bored. Not of sex. Of myself during sex.

Then I met him.

The last one.

I'm not numbering this.

He's asleep next to me. His arm is across my waist. I'm typing under the blanket with the screen brightness on minimum. I don't want to wake him. I don't want him to see me writing this. I don't want him to know that a note like this exists.

But I need to write it because if I don't I'll convince myself tomorrow that tonight didn't mean what it meant.

His name is — no. The rules still apply. Even now. Especially now.

Corporate lawyer. Mergers and acquisitions. He talks about liability frameworks with the same focus I bring to choreography. He doesn't know what a music show is. When I first mentioned Red Velvet he asked if it was a bakery franchise and he was not performing ignorance. He genuinely thought I made cakes for a living.

I first saw him at the Hyundai Seoul winter gala in November. Cross-industry event. Entertainment meets corporate Korea. I was representing SM in a Valentino gown. He was representing his firm in a navy suit that fit well but wasn't designer.

He was the only person in the room who didn't look at me.

Not "pretended not to look." Didn't look. He was deep in conversation with a colleague about maritime shipping contract disputes and his attention was so completely absorbed by this impossibly boring topic that the presence of one of the most recognized faces in South Korea six feet away registered as zero.

I found it offensive. Then fascinating. Then necessary.

He went into my catalogue. Standard classification: next subject. I began planning the approach — identify mutual connections, engineer an introduction, deploy the stare, observe the pupil response, proceed from there.

Two weeks later SM's legal team brought in outside counsel for a licensing dispute. He walked into the conference room. Sat across from me. Opened his briefcase. Organized his documents. Shook my hand without looking up first.

"Nice to meet you, Ms. Bae." Firm handshake. Brief. Professional. Back to the documents.

Three hours. I sat through three hours of intellectual property discussion while this man talked about contractual precedent and case law with steady, precise authority and I realized my standard methodology was producing an error. I was supposed to be planning the seduction. Instead I was listening. Actually listening. Not performing attention — experiencing it. I was interested in what he was saying. In HOW he was saying it. In the architecture of his thinking.

I have been attracted to faces. To bodies. To hands and mouths and the sounds people make. I have never — not once in ten years and twenty-three documented subjects — been attracted to how someone thinks.

After the meeting I intercepted him in the hallway. "I have a question about clause 7." I deployed the stare. Four seconds. Maximum intensity. The weapon that has never failed.

He looked back. Directly. Steadily. No dilation. No shift. No swallow.

"Clause 7 is straightforward, Ms. Bae. I'll send a summary by email."

He left. I stood in the hallway with my heart hammering against my ribs. My HEART. My heart doesn't do that. I am Bae Joohyun. I have controlled my physiological responses with precision for ten years. A man just looked through every weapon I have and walked away discussing contractual frameworks and my heart was hammering like I was a trainee standing in front of a debut evaluation panel.

Three weeks. I need to compress three weeks of obsessive behavior into something that doesn't make me sound as unhinged as I was.

I can't compress it because it was unhinged.

I engineered reasons to attend meetings he participated in. I asked questions I already knew the answers to. I timed my coffee breaks to coincide with his. I "accidentally" encountered him in the parking garage. I studied his LinkedIn profile at midnight. I read his published articles on corporate restructuring. I found them INTERESTING. I was reading legal journals in bed at 11pm and genuinely engaged and the absolute absurdity of that — me, Irene, reading about acquisition strategy under the covers like it was smut — should have been my first sign that the experiment had produced a result I was not equipped to process.

Seulgi asked why I was smiling at my phone. I said funny video. It was his professional headshot on the law firm's website. I was looking at a corporate portrait and SMILING.

Nothing worked. Three weeks of deploying ten years of refined technique against a man who was simply immune. Not resistant — immune. Resistance implies awareness. He wasn't fighting my approach. He wasn't seeing it. The stare, the proximity, the hair tuck, the silence — all of it bounced off him because all of it is calibrated for people who recognize Irene and he didn't see Irene. He saw a client's representative. A name on a meeting agenda.

That's when I understood. The weapons don't work because the weapons were designed for a target that responds to the idol. He doesn't see the idol. He sees through it. And the person on the other side of it has no weapons at all.

New Year's Eve. SM's stakeholder dinner. He was there. I wore black. Simple. Hair down. Minimal jewelry. No stare. No technique. No approach vector. I sat next to him at the bar and said the first honest thing I've said to a potential subject in ten years:

"I think maritime shipping regulations are the most boring thing I've ever heard anyone be passionate about."

He laughed. First real response. He said "you remember that?" I said "I remember everything you've said to me" and the sentence came out before I could filter it and it was true and the truth of it sat between us on the bar and neither of us picked it up or put it away.

We talked for two hours. He asked me questions nobody asks. "What did you want to be before this?" "What's the last thing you read that made you uncomfortable?" "When was the last time you did something for the first time?" I answered honestly. Each honest answer felt like removing a piece of armor. By the second hour I was sitting next to him in a dress that cost eight months of his salary feeling more exposed than I've felt naked in front of any of the twenty-three people documented in this note.

He drove me home. He walked me to my door. He shook my hand — same handshake, firm, brief — and said "goodnight, Ms. Bae."

"Joohyun," I said. "My name is Joohyun."

He paused. Something moved behind his eyes. Not desire. Recognition. Like he'd been reading a document and finally found the clause that mattered.

"Goodnight, Joohyun."

He left. I went inside. I sat on my bathroom floor and I cried. Not elegant tears. Not performance tears. The ugly kind. The kind that makes your face swell and your nose run and your chest heave. I cried on cold tile for twenty minutes because a man said my name at the door and something inside my chest that I've kept locked since 2015 broke open and I couldn't get it closed again.

One week later. Last night. January 7th.

He came to my apartment. I cooked. Standard protocol — my kitchen, my rules, my choreography.

He brought wine. A bottle from a small vineyard I'd never heard of. He said the woman at the shop described it as "controlled on the surface but complex underneath" and it reminded him of me.

I turned away and pretended to check the stove because my eyes were filling and the last thing I needed was to start crying over a bottle of wine while the pasta was boiling. Nobody has ever — in thirty-three years, in ten years of public life — nobody has ever looked at me and seen "controlled on the surface but complex underneath." They see the surface. They worship the surface. They fuck the surface. Nobody has ever even asked what's underneath it.

He did. Not with the question. With the wine. With the fact that he went to a shop and talked to a stranger and chose a bottle based on what it reminded him of about me. The effort of that. The attention. The specificity.

We ate. We talked. He told me about a case he lost years ago that still keeps him up at night and the way he talked about failure — openly, without shame, like it was just information — made me realize I have never talked about failure with anyone. Not the members. Not my family. Not my therapist. Certainly not any of the twenty-three subjects in this note. I have performed competence so consistently for so long that nobody in my life has ever seen me fail at anything and that means nobody in my life knows me at all.

Except possibly this man eating my pasta and talking about losing a case with the same steady voice he uses for everything.

After dinner. My couch. I was waiting for him to kiss me. My entire body was tuned to the frequency of anticipation — every nerve ending on alert, every breath measured, skin humming.

He didn't kiss me. He was looking at my bookshelf. Reading the spines. He asked about a poetry collection — a thin volume I bought in Kyoto during a tour stop three years ago. I told him. He asked which poem was my favorite. I told him. He asked me to read it to him.

I read a poem aloud on my couch at midnight and my voice was shaking. My voice does not shake. I have accepted daesangs in front of millions. I have performed on stages that could hold my entire hometown. Bae Joohyun's voice is an instrument she has trained to obey her for two decades and it was shaking over a poem because a man asked to hear it in my real voice instead of my stage voice and the distinction between those two voices is a distance I've never let anyone close enough to measure.

He kissed me after the last line. Not the way anyone has ever kissed me. Not hungry. Not desperate. Not with the accumulated weight of fantasy or worship or obsession. He kissed me like the kiss was the last word of the poem. Like it belonged there. Like it was the only logical conclusion to everything that had come before it.

His hand went to my jaw. His thumb traced my cheekbone. Slowly. Like he was reading something written on my skin. And I made a sound — small, involuntary, from somewhere behind my sternum — that doesn't exist in ten years of documented data. A new sound. A sound I have never made for anyone. A sound that came from underneath the scientist and the leader and the visual and the ice queen and all the other architectures I've constructed to survive this industry. It came from Joohyun. Just Joohyun. And it sounded like relief.

I need to write what happened next and I'm going to be honest about it because this is the last time I write in this note and I want the final entry to be the truest thing in it.

He picked me up from the couch. Carried me. His arms under my thighs, my legs around his waist, my face against his neck. I was breathing him in — clean skin, the wine on his breath, something warm underneath that was just him, just his specific biology — and my body was trembling against his chest. Not from cold. Not from fear. From the experience of being held by someone who was carrying me not as an object to be placed but as a person to be kept.

Bedroom. My bed. He laid me down and stood over me and I waited for the moment that always comes — the moment where my training kicks in and I take over. Where I position. Direct. Choreograph. Where I become the person in control and the encounter becomes another data point in the experiment.

The moment didn't come. Because he didn't give it to me. And my body didn't reach for it. For the first time in ten years my body didn't reach for control. It reached for him.

He undressed me slowly. His hands were steady. Not careful — steady. There's a difference. Careful implies fragility. Steady implies certainty. He removed each piece of clothing like he was solving an equation — deliberately, without rush, with the confidence of someone who trusts the process.

I lay naked on my bed and he looked at me. Not the way the fan looked at me — that was worship. Not the way the men in Bangkok looked at me — that was hunger. He looked at me the way you look at something you've been trying to understand and have finally begun to. And being understood was more exposing than being naked. The nakedness was just skin. The understanding reached bone.

He kissed down my body. Throat. Collarbone. The space between my breasts. I put my hand in his hair to guide him — instinct, muscle memory, ten years of directing every mouth that has ever been on my body — and he took my wrist. Gently. Firmly. Pinned it to the mattress beside my hip. He looked up at me from the center of my chest.

"Stop directing."

Two words. The most devastating two words anyone has ever said to me. More devastating than "I love you" from the actress. More devastating than "you're intimidating" from the fan. Two words that identified the precise mechanism I've been using to maintain distance during sex for a decade and dismantled it in a single sentence.

I started crying. Not the silent tears from after the idol. Not the ugly crying from the bathroom floor. Something between. Tears running down my temples into my hair while he kissed my stomach and my body trembled under his mouth and I cried because I realized in that moment — with absolute clarity, the kind of clarity that feels like a light turning on in a room you've been sitting in for years — that I have never been present during sex.

Every encounter. Every subject. Every orgasm. I was floating above it. Observing. Analyzing. Documenting from a safe distance. The scientist watching the experiment through glass. The choreographer watching from the wings. Present physically. Absent entirely in every way that matters.

He broke the glass.

His mouth moved lower. Down my stomach. Across my hip bone — the one that was bruised on the rooftop ten years ago, the one that has been bruised by twenty-three different hands since. He kissed it like he knew it had a history. Then lower. My thighs. The inside of my knee. Back up. Slow. Deliberately slow. Not teasing — savoring. The difference made my chest ache.

When he put his mouth on me I couldn't analyze it. I tried. The reflex fired — track the technique, note the pressure, catalogue the rhythm. The reflex failed. His tongue moved with an intuition that bypassed my analytical framework entirely. He wasn't performing a technique. He was listening. To my breathing. To the involuntary shifts of my hips. To the sounds I was making that I couldn't hear myself making. He was reading my body in real time and responding to it and the feedback loop between his mouth and my responses created something I don't have a category for. Not control. Not surrender. Something that requires both people to be fully present and fully responsive and I have never experienced it because I have never been fully present.

He slid two fingers inside me and curled them forward and found something that made my back arch completely off the mattress and I heard myself say "please" — just "please," no instruction, no direction, no choreography — and he gave me what I was asking for without me specifying what it was.

He knew. How? I don't know. I don't even know what I want most of the time because wanting requires presence and I haven't been present in years. He knew. He knew the pressure. He knew the angle. He knew the rhythm. He knew when to increase and when to hold steady and when to slow down and let the wave build naturally.

I came and it was nothing like any orgasm documented in this note. It was not a wave I surfed with practiced control. It was not a sharp detonation that I could observe from a distance. It was a collapse. My entire body seized — muscles I didn't know I could clench clenching, my jaw locking, my hands fisting the sheets so hard my knuckles went white — and the sound I made was not a moan or a gasp or a performed vocalization. It was a scream. An actual scream. Ugly and raw and torn from somewhere I didn't know still existed inside me. My whole body shook through it and when it passed I was gasping and my face was soaked and he was still there. Still steady. Still between my legs. Still present.

He moved up my body. He entered me and I said his name. His real name. Out loud.

I have never said a subject's name during sex. Not once. Not in ten years. Not for any of the twenty-three people in this note. It wasn't a rule I wrote down because it was so fundamental it didn't require documentation. Subjects are variables. You don't name variables. You number them.

His name came out of my mouth broken and involuntary and it sounded like something being returned that I didn't know I'd been holding. He pressed his forehead against mine and he was inside me and he was three centimeters from my face and his eyes were open and my eyes were open and I couldn't hide.

I have hidden during sex for ten years. Behind the stare. Behind the silence. Behind the clinical detachment. Behind the performance of control. I have hidden so effectively that twenty-three people have been inside my body without ever being close to the person who lives in it.

He was close. He was there. He was looking at me from three centimeters away and I was naked and crying and trembling and desperate and thirty-three years old and terrified and he was STILL THERE. He didn't look away. He didn't flinch. He held my gaze while he moved inside me and the intimacy of being seen while being fucked was so overwhelming that I almost told him to stop.

I didn't tell him to stop. I told him more. I said "more" and "harder" and "please" and "don't stop" and each word came out without passing through any filter and I could hear myself and I didn't recognize myself and I didn't want to recognize myself because the woman speaking was someone who wanted things and said so and I have not been that woman in so long I forgot she existed.

He fucked me hard. Because I asked. Because he understood — without explanation, without negotiation — that I am not fragile. That the tenderness came first and now I needed to be overwhelmed. He pinned both my wrists above my head with one hand and his other hand gripped my hip and he drove into me deep and steady and relentless and I wrapped my legs around him and surrendered.

That word. Surrender. I've used it in this note to describe other people's responses. The idol surrendered. The fan surrendered. The actress surrendered. I have observed and documented and induced surrender in others for ten years while never once experiencing it myself.

I surrendered. I let go of the edges of myself. I let my body make whatever sounds it wanted and move however it wanted and feel whatever it felt without observation or documentation or analysis. I was inside my own skin. Fully. For the first time. And it was terrifying and it was excruciating and it was the most honest I have ever been with another person while also being the most honest I have ever been with myself.

I came again. Harder than the first time. A wave that started low and built and built and kept building past the point where I would normally take control and modulate it and it KEPT building because I wasn't controlling it and it crested and broke over me and my voice cracked and I sobbed — actually sobbed, the chest-heaving kind — and he held my face with both hands and kissed me and I tasted my own tears on his lips and his lips and my tears and the salt and the warmth and the pressure of him still inside me and still moving —

I came a third time. On top of the second. Before the second finished. My body convulsed around him and I felt him respond — his rhythm faltering, his breathing fracturing — and he came inside me and I felt it and he pressed his face into my neck and the sound he made was quiet and raw and it vibrated through my throat and into my chest and I held onto him with everything I had because the alternative was falling and I didn't know where the ground was anymore.

Afterward.

He didn't leave. He didn't leave because I said "please stay" and my voice was wrecked and the word "please" came out like I'd been running.

He said "I wasn't planning on leaving."

I pressed my face into his chest so he couldn't see my expression. His heartbeat was steady. That same steady rhythm he brings to everything — to meetings, to conversations, to the way he fucks, to the way he holds a woman who is falling apart against him. Steady. My heartbeat was chaos. I tried to match mine to his and I couldn't and the gap between his steadiness and my chaos felt like a metaphor for everything I've been doing wrong for ten years.

He fell asleep with his arm across my waist. His breathing changed — deeper, slower, the rhythm of someone who trusts the room they're in enough to lose consciousness. I lay in the dark listening to him breathe and I thought about every numbered entry in this note.

Thirty subjects. Twenty-three numbered. Ten years. Hundreds of hours of sex documented with clinical precision. Rooftops and editing suites and dressing rooms and hotel rooms in Bangkok. Men and women and strangers and fans and idols. I collected them all. I numbered the ones that mattered enough. I tracked the data. I followed the rules. I maintained the control. I built the methodology and ran the experiment and produced consistent, replicable results.

And the conclusion — the actual conclusion, the one the data has been pointing toward since the actress said "I'm falling in love with you" and I ran, since Bangkok when the control evaporated and I called it peace, since the bathroom floor when he said my name and I cried — the conclusion is:

I was never running the experiment.

The experiment was running me. Every rule, every number, every clinical observation was a mechanism to prevent exactly what happened tonight. Proximity. Presence. The absolute fucking terror of being known.

I have spent ten years having sex with people while hiding from them and calling it research so I wouldn't have to call it loneliness.

It was loneliness.

It was always loneliness.

He just shifted in his sleep. His arm tightened around my waist. He pulled me closer without waking up — an unconscious act of want, a body reaching for another body without the brain's permission — and I let him pull me in and it was easy. Not terrifying. Easy. Like exhaling. Like putting something down that I've been carrying for ten years and realizing my arms hurt and I didn't know they hurt until the weight was gone.

I'm not giving him a number. He's not a subject. He's not a variable. He's the result. The one the whole experiment was trying to reach without knowing it was looking.

I think this is the last entry.

I think the experiment is over.

I think I'd like to find out what happens when Bae Joohyun stops collecting data and starts living in it.

[ END OF FILE ]

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[electro469]

Sinful Confessions

Confession #002: The girl in the hoodie

SUBJECT: Yu Jimin (Karina) — aespa

DEVICE: iPhone 15 Pro — Natural Titanium

APPLE ID: ████████@icloud.com

FOLDER: 個人 / 日記 / archive

FILE TITLE: (no title)

CREATED: August 12, 2024 — 02:14 AM JST

LAST MODIFIED: August 12, 2024 — 03:47 AM JST

SYNC STATUS: Backed up to iCloud

ENCRYPTION: BREACHED

[ FILE OPENED ]

The city looks fake from up here. All the little red lights on the buildings blinking at the same rhythm like they're breathing. I've been standing at the window for I don't know how long. My feet hurt. My throat hurts. My back hurts in that specific place between my shoulder blades where the wire from the in-ear monitor pack sits during shows. Everything hurts and I don't want to sleep.

I keep telling myself I'll sleep after I write this down. That's the deal I make with myself now. Get it out of my head and into the phone and then close my eyes.

We finished the second Tokyo Dome show four hours ago. Ninety-four thousand people over two nights. Ninety-four thousand people screaming my name in a language I can speak fluently in and pretending I can't for the last two hours of my night.

Let me back up. I'm doing that thing again where I start in the middle. Focus.

The show was good. Really good, actually. I hit the high note in Supernova cleaner than I have all tour. Ningning cried during Melody and I saw her and almost cried too but I did the thing where I bite the inside of my cheek and it snapped me back. Winter squeezed my hand during the ment. She always knows when I'm about to lose it. She has this radar for me that nobody else has. I don't deserve her.

After the encore we did the standard routine. Wave, bow, wave again, exit stage right. Backstage was chaos as always — staff yelling into headsets, dancers stretching, our hair and makeup team already prepping the members for the after-show meet with the sponsors. I told our manager I had a migraine coming on. He believed me because I've been careful to complain about migraines throughout this tour so tonight wouldn't seem suspicious. I'm proud of that. That level of planning. Six weeks of laying the groundwork so tonight I could disappear cleanly.

Giselle asked if I wanted her to come back to the hotel with me. She had that look. The concerned unnie look even though she's younger than me. I said no, I just need to lie down in the dark. She hugged me and I hugged her back and I hate myself a little bit for how easy it is to lie to her.

Back to the hotel by 10:40. Room 4708. Suite because I'm the leader and SM always books me the biggest room like it's some kind of reward. I don't want a bigger room. A bigger room just means more empty space to be alone in.

I showered. I did my skincare. Full ten steps because that's the muscle memory. I put on the hotel robe. I ordered room service and canceled it before it arrived. I sat on the edge of the enormous bed for a while just breathing.

And then I did what I've been planning to do for six weeks.

I opened the bottom of my suitcase. There's a specific fold in the lining where I've been hiding the clothes. Black jeans that don't fit my public image — too baggy, too plain. A black hoodie two sizes too big, unbranded, bought online through a fake account and shipped to a mailbox I rent in Yongsan. A cheap cotton bra. No makeup. No accessories. A black cap and a KF94 mask and a pair of chunky sneakers that I picked because they make me look shorter than I actually am. Shorter is important. Shorter is invisible.

I've done this in five countries now.

That's the thing I keep circling around and not saying. Let me just say it. I've done this in five countries now.

Bangkok. Singapore. Los Angeles. Jakarta. And now Tokyo, again. The first time was Tokyo actually, back in February. I've done Tokyo twice.

I know the pattern. I know the way my hands shake putting the mask on. I know the specific fear of the elevator ride down where every floor that dings I think it's going to open and someone from the company will be standing there. It never has been. Not yet. The service elevator on this floor is at the end of the hall, past the ice machine. It goes down to a loading area and there's a side exit that puts you out on a small street with no cameras. I know because I mapped it the day we checked in. That's what I do the day we check in to any new hotel now. I map the exits.

I feel insane writing that. But it's just a fact. That's what I do now.

Out on the street it was still warm. Tokyo in August is disgusting. Humid. I walked six blocks before I felt safe enough to take the mask off. The mask always comes off first. Then I fix my hair under the cap. Then I let myself breathe.

By the time I got to Shinjuku, I was somebody else.

I want to write about her. The girl who exists in this hoodie and this cap and these sneakers. She doesn't have a name. I've never given her one because naming her would make her too real. But she's the one who walks into these places. Not me. Not Karina. Not Yu Jimin either. Someone in between them.

She walked into the bar I've been to before. The one behind the third alley off Kabukicho, past the karaoke place with the broken neon sign. It's underground, no windows. The bartender doesn't ask questions. Half the clientele are hiding from something. There's a specific etiquette in that place where nobody looks at anybody for longer than half a second.

She sat at the end of the bar. Ordered a highball. Waited.

Here's the part that I need to actually be honest about.

The waiting is the best part. Genuinely. The moment right after ordering the drink and before anyone approaches. That thirty or forty minutes of pure potential. Where the entire night could go a hundred different ways. Where I've made all the decisions I need to make — I've decided to leave the hotel, I've decided to come here, I've decided to be open to whatever happens — but nothing has actually happened yet. It's the freest I ever feel. Free-er than being on stage. Free-er than being in my own apartment. Because in that bar, sipping that drink, waiting, I am nobody's product. Nobody's investment. Nobody's leader. I am a body on a barstool with money in her pocket and nowhere to be until sound check at 2pm the next day.

Sometimes nobody approaches me and I go back to the hotel and I sleep like a stone. Those nights are okay too. The freedom is enough by itself.

But most nights someone approaches. Because I know how to sit in a way that says I'm available. That's a skill I've developed. It's not the same as sitting in an idol photoshoot. It's the opposite. You have to slouch. You have to look at your drink. You have to be alone in a way that reads as chosen loneliness rather than sad loneliness. Men understand the difference. They can smell it.

Tonight he approached at maybe 11:30. I was on my second drink. He sat two seats down first, which is the correct etiquette — you don't invade immediately. He ordered something. Then he asked in Japanese if the seat next to me was taken.

Here's where I did the thing.

I looked at him with a slightly confused expression. I tilted my head. I said in bad, broken Japanese: "Sumimasen... Nihongo... sukoshi."

I speak fluent Japanese. Business fluent. I've done Japanese interviews without an interpreter. I can read a menu, negotiate with a driver, order at a restaurant without missing a beat. My accent is good enough that Japanese people compliment it constantly.

But she doesn't speak Japanese. The girl in the hoodie. She's a tourist. She's Korean but she doesn't work here, she's just visiting, she barely knows how to say hello. Her English is okay but limited. She smiles a lot to compensate for what she can't say.

He switched to English. Broken English, but functional. He introduced himself. I'll call him T because I don't want to write his real name even here. He was maybe late thirties. Salaryman type but not the polished kind — the rumpled kind, tie loosened, hair a little messy, drinking away whatever his day had been. Not handsome. Not ugly. Utterly, blessedly, gloriously normal.

We talked for maybe an hour. I gave the girl a fake name. Not going to write it here either. I gave her a fake job — teacher. I gave her a fake reason for being in Tokyo — vacation, alone, four days, staying in a small hotel in a different neighborhood. Every detail I invented on the spot. I've gotten good at improvising the girl's life.

He was a little drunk. Not too drunk. Just loose. He touched my arm at one point when he was laughing at something I said. It didn't feel calculated. It felt automatic. That's the difference between the men who approach me at industry parties and the men who approach me in bars like this. Industry men touch you like they're testing your reaction. Bar men touch you like they've forgotten you're a person they just met.

I liked it.

I asked him — using the girl's broken English — if he lived nearby. He said yes. Small apartment. Very small. Not nice. I did the smile I've been practicing. The one that's not Karina's smile. Karina's smile is symmetrical and photogenic and stops at the lips. The girl's smile is uneven and shows too much of her top teeth and reaches her eyes because she doesn't care what she looks like.

I said "show me?"

He blinked. He asked "you sure?" in English.

Here's the thing about the language game. And this is what I want to actually write about because it's the piece I don't think I've admitted to myself before.

The language barrier is a lie. But the lie is what makes it work.

Because when he asked "you sure?" I did the confused-tourist face. I shrugged. I laughed nervously. I said "sorry, I don't... it's okay?" and let him interpret it however he wanted. And he interpreted it as consent, because of course he did, because I got up from the barstool and put on my jacket and looked at him expectantly.

But the whole night, from that moment forward, I had an out. I had a permanent, unshakeable out. Because if at any point I wanted to stop, I could just retreat into the language. I could pretend not to understand. I could freeze up and go blank and become the confused foreigner and any decent man would back off immediately.

I never use the out. That's the thing. I never have.

But knowing it's there is what lets me say yes to everything else.

His apartment was a fifteen minute walk. He held my hand on the way there and I let him. Tokyo at midnight in August smells like drain water and cigarette smoke and food from all the ramen shops still open. The neon reflected off the wet pavement. I remember thinking very clearly: this is a memory I'm going to think about during the flight home. This exact moment. His hand in mine. My breath through the mask still hanging around my neck. The specific way the street lights caught in the puddles.

I take these snapshots on purpose now. So I have things to think about later when I'm back in a boardroom or a green room or a livestream.

The apartment was tiny. Genuinely tiny. Maybe twenty square meters. A single room with a kitchenette in one corner and a futon rolled up against the wall and a small television on a low stand and a window that looked directly at another building three meters away. The bathroom door was open and I could see the shower was one of those combo tub-shower things with the plastic curtain that never fully closes.

I loved it. I loved every square inch of that terrible apartment. I loved that there was nothing in it worth photographing. I loved that there was no gift bag from a brand, no leftover album from a fansign, no framed award, no mirror ring light, no evidence anywhere that anybody had ever tried to package a life for public consumption. It was just a small room where a normal man lived a normal life and did normal things and would forget about tonight in a week.

He unrolled the futon. He asked if I wanted water. I said okay. He got me a glass from a shelf. The glass had a cartoon character on it — I think it was from a convenience store promotion, one of those things you get free with a bottle of soda. I drank the water while sitting cross-legged on his futon.

He sat next to me. He asked, in his broken English, if I was nervous.

I did the girl's shrug. I said "little bit."

He kissed me.

Okay. This part I'm going to write in detail because I don't want to be a coward about it. If I'm going to write this note at all I'm not going to soften it.

He kissed me and it was clumsy and his mouth tasted like whiskey and cigarettes and I hadn't kissed anyone in three months and my whole body reacted like I'd been electrocuted. I made a sound into his mouth that wasn't planned. He took that as encouragement. His hand went under the hoodie. Rough hands. Not calloused-rough, just dry, the way office men's hands get from too much hand sanitizer and cheap soap. He touched my stomach first, then my ribs, then my breast over the cheap bra I'd worn specifically because it was cheap and forgettable.

I let him take everything off. I want to be clear about this because it matters. I let him. I didn't participate in the undressing. I lay back on the futon in that ugly little apartment and I let him unwrap me piece by piece and I watched his face while he did it. He looked hungry. Not romantic. Not tender. Just hungry. Like I was food and he hadn't eaten in a long time.

That's what I go there for. To be looked at like that.

Nobody looks at me like that at home. At home I'm looked at like an asset. Like a schedule. Like a face on a magazine cover. In Tokyo, in a tiny apartment I'll never see again, a stranger looked at my naked body like it was the only thing in the world that mattered for the next hour.

I want to write about what he did but my hands are already shaking and I have to be careful.

He didn't ask about protection. He didn't reach for anything. I saw the moment he registered the question in his own head and I saw the moment he decided not to ask, and I did nothing to prompt him. I let it happen. That's on me. That's a choice I made by not making a choice.

I told myself if it becomes a real problem he'll pull out. He didn't.

He was inside me for what felt like a long time. I don't know how long actually. The lights were off except for the neon from the pharmacy across the street bleeding through the curtain — everything was a strange sick pink. He held my wrists above my head at one point and I said "please" in Korean because I forgot to be the girl for a second, and he didn't understand it, and I let him not understand it. He took it as encouragement. Everything I did or said or didn't say, he took as encouragement, because the language barrier gave him permission to interpret me however he wanted, and I gave him the barrier on purpose.

I came twice. The first time was quiet. I bit the inside of my wrist. The second time I didn't bother being quiet because I realized halfway through that the neighbors probably didn't speak Korean either and any sounds I made would just be noise in a language they couldn't identify. So I let myself be loud for the first time in I don't know how long. Actually loud. Not the controlled porn-star sounds I used to make with the one boyfriend I had during my trainee years. Just noise. Ugly noise. My real voice.

When he came he pressed his forehead against my collarbone and made a sound I'm going to remember for a while. Something halfway between a groan and an apology, like it wasn't planned, like he couldn't held back anymore. I felt everything. I felt him finish inside me and I felt him stay there for a few seconds catching his breath and I felt him pull out slowly and I felt the specific wet warmth spreading down my thigh onto the futon cover that he probably doesn't wash as often as he should.

He rolled onto his back next to me and stared at the ceiling and I stared at the ceiling too and neither of us said anything for maybe three minutes. That silence was the most honest conversation I've had in six months.

Eventually he asked, in the broken English, if I wanted to shower. I said yes. His shower was tiny and the water pressure was terrible and the soap was some drugstore brand that smelled like fake lavender and I stood under the lukewarm water and washed a stranger out of me while looking at his single toothbrush in the cup on the sink.

I got dressed while he was still in the futon. He offered to walk me back but I said no, I was fine, I'd call a taxi. I stepped over his clothes on the way to the door. He didn't ask for my number. I didn't offer. Both of us understood what this had been. Both of us were grateful, in our different ways, for the other's silence.

The walk to the taxi stand at Kabukicho was maybe eight minutes. I put the mask back on the second I hit the street. Back in the car I felt him leak out again onto my underwear and I stared out the window and I didn't feel guilty. That's the part that I keep coming back to. I have never felt guilty. Not after Bangkok, not after Los Angeles, not tonight. I feel other things — I feel exhausted, I feel electric, I feel like I've been holding my breath for months and I finally exhaled — but not guilt. And I've stopped waiting for the guilt to arrive because it's been five countries now and it hasn't shown up and I don't think it's going to.

I got back to the hotel at 01:48 through the same service exit I left from. Nobody saw me. Nobody ever does. Nobody in my life has any idea that this is a thing that I do.

Winter texted the group chat at some point during the night. She asked how my headache was. I just saw it. It's 03:39 now. I'll respond in the morning. I'll tell her it's better. I'll thank her for checking. She'll send a heart. I'll send one back.

I'm going to be in her wedding one day. That's a thing I think about. She's going to get married eventually because she's the type who will, and I'm going to be one of her bridesmaids, and I'm going to give a speech about how she's been my sister for over a decade, and every word of it will be true, and she will still not know that her leader used to disappear in foreign cities to fuck strangers who didn't speak her language.

I don't know if that makes me a good sister or a monster. Maybe both. Maybe those aren't as different as I used to think.

I have to sleep. I really do. I have media day at 11 and interviews all afternoon and then the flight to Fukuoka in the evening and another dome show the day after that. My body already hurts. My throat is going to be shot tomorrow. I'll drink honey water and do the exercises the vocal coach taught me and I'll be fine. I'm always fine. That's my whole thing.

Tomorrow we fly to another city. Another concert. Another thousands of peoples screaming my name. I wonder if there's a bar there too.

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Electro's story collection

K-pop stories of passion, possession and blurred boundaries 💦 Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/electro469 Fanprose: https://fanprose.com/user

[electro469]

Sinful Confession

Confession #001: tonight was too much

SUBJECT: Jang Wonyoung (IVE)

DEVICE: iPhone 15 Pro Max — Rose Gold

APPLE ID: ████████@icloud.com

FOLDER: Personal / Private / unnamed

FILE TITLE: "tonight was too much"

CREATED: May 13, 2024 — 03:58 AM KST

LAST MODIFIED: May 13, 2024 — 04:41 AM KST

SYNC STATUS: Backed up to iCloud

ENCRYPTION: BREACHED

[ FILE OPENED ]

tonight was too much

3:58 am. can't sleep again.

i just showered for like forty minutes. the hot water ran out and i just stood there under the cold like an idiot. yujin knocked once and asked if i was okay and i said yes unnie just doing a hair mask. she believed me. she always believes me. everyone always believes me.

i should be sleeping. we have the vlive at 8 and hair and makeup at 6:30 which means my alarm goes off in two hours and twenty-seven minutes. i should put this phone down. i should close my eyes and think about nothing and be the good girl everyone thinks i am.

but i can't stop replaying today.

god. today.

okay let me just... write it out. all of it. maybe if i get it out of my head and into this stupid little note i'll finally be able to sleep. that's what the therapist said right? journaling helps process emotions? lol. pretty sure she didn't mean this kind of journaling.

whatever. nobody's going to read this. it's password protected. it's in a folder inside a folder inside a folder. i'm safe.

fine.

so the day started normal. wake up at 5. van to MBC by 5:40. pre-recording for music core. i wore the blue outfit — the short one with the ribbon detail that the stylists had to pin in three places because it kept riding up. we performed HEYA twice. the first take was fine. the second one was better. PD-nim said i looked "alive" today. 

yeah. i was alive today. just not for the reasons he thinks.

because here's the thing.

i wore it.

i've been doing this for... maybe two months now? three? i ordered it from that japanese site that ships in completely blank packaging. it's small. really small. rose gold (lol, matches my phone, i'm so aesthetic even when i'm being a freak). it sits right against me and the underwear keeps it in place and unless you're literally staring between my legs you cannot tell. trust me i've checked in the practice room mirror like fifteen times.

the app is on my phone. i control it myself. i'm not that crazy — i'm not giving anyone else that power. this is mine. MY secret. MY control.

so during the pre-recording i had it on the lowest setting. barely anything. like a hum. you know when your phone vibrates in your pocket and you almost don't notice? like that. except it's not in my pocket. it's pressed right against my clit and i'm hitting choreography in front of three hundred fans and four broadcast cameras and i have to look like i'm having the time of my life.

which. i mean. i WAS.

the thing about performing with it in is that everything becomes... sharper? like my senses go into overdrive. i can feel the bass from the speakers in my chest AND between my legs at the same time. when the fans scream my name during my center part it vibrates through my whole body and mixes with the OTHER vibration and i swear to god during the second take of HEYA i almost lost it during the hip move in the second chorus.

almost.

i didn't. i never do. that's the game. getting as close as possible without breaking character. jang wonyoung doesn't sweat. jang wonyoung doesn't flinch. jang wonyoung smiles like she was manufactured in a lab to be perfect and that is EXACTLY what makes it so fucking good because nobody — NOBODY — knows that the nation's princess is clenching around a vibrator on live broadcast.

i could win an oscar honestly.

okay that was the morning. that was just the warm-up. that's not why i can't sleep.

the fansign was at 2pm. coex. big venue. maybe a hundred fans? i wore a white dress. very pure. very "look at me i'm your innocent tall angel." my manager said i looked like a doll. a DOLL. i smiled and said thank you oppa~~ with the voice and everything and inside i was thinking about what i was going to do later that night but he doesn't know that. nobody knows that.

i kept the toy in for the fansign too. turned it up one level. 

there was this one fan. a guy. maybe mid twenties. he got to my seat and his hands were shaking so bad he almost dropped his album. he looked at me like i was... i don't know. like i was something sacred. like he couldn't believe i was real. and i did the thing i always do — i leaned in, i tilted my head, i said "aigoo you're shaking, are you nervous? don't be nervous, i'm just a normal girl~" and he almost cried.

i'm just a normal girl.

i said that while a vibrator was buzzing against me under a white dress at a table surrounded by fans and staff and cameras.

i'm a terrible person.

no. wait. i take that back. i'm not terrible. i'm... i don't know what i am. but i'm not sorry. i looked into that fan's eyes and he worshipped me and i could feel the vibration building and i smiled at him with my perfect teeth and i felt like a god. 

is that fucked up? that's fucked up right?

i don't care.

next fan was a little girl. maybe ten years old. she drew me a picture. it was me in a princess dress with a crown and she wrote "wonyoungie is the prettiest person in the whole world" in crayon and i held it up and the fansites got their photos and i said "wahh did you draw this yourself? you're so talented!" and she was so happy

and the entire time the toy was on level two and i was wet enough to feel it on my thighs and i had to squeeze my legs together under the table and tilt the drawing at a specific angle so the cameras would focus on it and not on the way my other hand was gripping the edge of my chair

i'm going to hell.

actually no i'm going to the miu miu show in paris in a few months and i'll sit front row and nobody will know. that's worse than hell. hell at least has consequences.

okay. the fansign ended. i signed maybe three hundred albums. my wrist hurt. i turned the toy off and went to the bathroom and cleaned up and fixed my makeup and looked at myself in the mirror for like a full minute. the girl in the mirror looked perfect. she always looks perfect. that's the problem.

i took the toy out and put it in the little pouch in my bag. done for now. back to being normal. 

except i wasn't done.

the miu miu shoot was at 7pm. a private studio in cheongdam. you know the one — the building with the white exterior that every brand uses for their korean campaigns. fourth floor. the big one with the floor-to-ceiling windows.

photographer was kim junghoon. i've worked with him maybe four times before. he's good. professional. mid-thirties. not idol-handsome but there's something about the way he moves around a set. confident. calm. he talks to you like a person, not like a product. that's rare in this industry. most photographers look at me like i'm a mannequin they need to position correctly. junghoon looks at me like he's trying to find something real underneath the styling.

the shoot went fine. three hours. six outfit changes. the last outfit was this cream-colored silk dress with an open back. it cost more than my manager's car probably. the fabric was so thin i could feel the air conditioning on my bare skin underneath. i remember thinking while they were adjusting the hem that i wasn't wearing anything under it except a single nude thong that the stylist gave me and how weird it was that fifteen people in the room were totally fine with that because it's "fashion" and "professional" but if any of them knew what i did at the fansign six hours ago they would lose their minds.

the industry is so funny like that. you can be almost naked and it's art. but god forbid you actually enjoy your own body.

anyway. the shoot wrapped around 10. the crew started packing up. my manager went downstairs to pull the van around. the stylists left. the lighting guys left. the assistants left.

junghoon was still there. reviewing the photos on his laptop at the big table near the window. 

i should have gone downstairs. the van was waiting. i should have grabbed my bag and my phone and my little pouch with the toy in it and walked out and gone home and showered and slept.

instead i walked over to him and said "can i see?"

and he said "of course"

and i stood behind his chair and looked at the screen and there i was. fifty versions of me. all perfect. all beautiful. all fake.

he clicked through them slowly. his cologne smelled expensive. not the usual korean brand stuff — something european, something warm with leather in it. i was still wearing the cream silk dress because i hadn't changed out of the last look yet and i was standing close enough that my hip was almost touching his shoulder.

"this one," he said. he stopped on a photo where i was looking directly into the camera with my lips slightly parted and my eyes half-closed. "this is the one."

"why that one?" i asked.

"because you look like you have a secret."

i laughed. the sound came out wrong. too honest.

he looked up at me. i looked down at him.

and this is the part i can't stop replaying.

i don't know who moved first. i genuinely don't. one second i was standing there looking at a photo of myself on his screen and the next second his hand was on my waist — on the bare skin of my open back — and his fingers were warm and rough and i made a sound. not a moan. more like... air leaving my body. like i'd been holding my breath for six years and someone finally pressed on my chest.

he said my name. my real name. not "wonyoung-ssi" or "wonyoung-nim." just... wonyoung. low. like a question. like he was asking permission.

i didn't say anything. i just didn't move away. and we both knew what that meant.

okay i need to

i just heard something. i stopped typing for like two minutes and listened. it was just the refrigerator. jesus. my heart is pounding. 

okay. okay.

where was i. his hand on my back. the studio. empty. the laptop screen still glowing with fifty perfect photos of me.

he stood up. he's taller than most korean men i've worked with. not as tall as me in heels but i wasn't wearing heels anymore — i'd kicked them off after the last set — so he had maybe three centimeters on me. he stood up and his hand stayed on my back and we were face to face and he smelled like leather and coffee and he looked at me like he could see through the miu miu dress and through the skin underneath and through the "nation's princess" armor i've been building since i was fourteen years old on produce 48.

"we shouldn't," he said.

"i know," i said.

and then i kissed him.

ME. i kissed HIM. i want that on the record in this stupid fucking note that nobody will ever read. i initiated it. jang wonyoung, visual of IVE, brand ambassador for miu miu and innisfree and fred jewelry, the girl who can't eat more than 1200 calories a day because the company monitors her measurements, the girl who bows ninety degrees to every sunbae and says "i'll work harder" — THAT girl grabbed a thirty-five year old photographer by the collar and kissed him in an empty studio at 10pm on a monday.

and it was messy. it wasn't like drama kisses. his stubble scratched my chin. our noses bumped. i tasted the americano he'd been drinking during the shoot. my teeth caught his lower lip and he made this sound — this low rough sound from his throat — and something inside me just... unlocked.

he lifted me onto the table. the laptop almost fell. he caught it with one hand and pushed it aside without looking and i wrapped my legs around him and the silk dress rode up to my waist and i felt the cold surface of the table against my bare thighs and his belt buckle pressing against me through the thin fabric of that stupid nude thong and i was already so so so wet because apparently wearing a vibrator at a fansign for two hours is really effective foreplay even if the main event happens six hours later.

god my typing is getting bad. my hands are doing that thing where they shake when i think about this. is that normal? whatever.

he pulled back and looked at me and said "you're sure?" and i said "if you ask me that again i'm leaving" and something shifted in his expression. like... the professional barrier finally broke. like he stopped seeing the idol and started seeing the woman. 

good. i'm so tired of being the idol.

he kissed my neck. right below my ear. the spot that makes me lose all higher brain function. i don't know how he knew. maybe he didn't. maybe he just got lucky. but i moaned — actually moaned, not the fake cute sounds i make on variety shows — and i pulled him closer with my legs and i could feel how hard he was and i remember thinking very clearly: i have a vlive in ten hours and i am about to let this man fuck me on a table covered in miu miu accessories.

the thong came off. i don't remember if he pulled it down or if i did. it ended up somewhere near the lighting rig. he touched me and i was so wet his fingers slipped and he said "jesus" under his breath and i would have laughed if i wasn't biting my own lip hard enough to taste metal.

the cream silk dress stayed on. i want to be specific about this because it's important. the dress STAYED ON. he pushed it up. he didn't take it off. and i'm glad because there's something about being fucked in a dress that costs more than most people make in a month that does something to my brain that i cannot explain and do not want to examine too closely.

he had a condom in his wallet. thank god. one tiny scrap of responsibility in this entire disaster. he put it on and i watched him and he was... i mean. i'm not going to describe his... okay fine this is my private note who cares. he was big. not pornstar big but big enough that when he pushed in i grabbed the edge of the table with both hands and my knuckles went white and i heard myself say something in korean that i'm not going to type because seeing it written down would make me want to throw this phone into the han river.

the table was not stable. it creaked. every thrust made the laptop slide an inch to the left and at some point i reached over and closed it because i couldn't handle seeing my own face on the screen while he was inside me. that was too much. even for me.

he held my hips. his thumbs pressed into the bones and i knew — i KNEW — there would be bruises tomorrow and i would have to wear high-waisted pants for a week and if any of the stylists noticed i would say i bumped into the bathroom counter. i have an excuse for everything. i'm so good at this it scares me.

i came first. i don't always. actually i usually don't with other people. but something about the combination of the fansign edging and the cologne and the way he whispered my name — not "wonyoung-ah" but just "wonyoung" like it was the only word he knew — i just. i broke. my back arched off the table and i knocked over a tray of jewelry samples and i heard the miu miu earrings scatter across the floor and i didn't care. i didn't care about the dress or the jewelry or the cameras that were definitely still set up in the corners of the studio probably recording everything.

wait. were the cameras still recording? 

oh my god were the cameras

no. no he turned them off after the shoot. i watched him do it. i remember because he pressed the power button on each one individually. there were four. he turned off all four. i'm sure. i'm almost sure. 

i'm like 90% sure.

fuck.

okay. moving on. i can't think about that right now.

he came after me. maybe two minutes after. he buried his face in my neck and i felt his whole body tense and he groaned against my skin and i held onto him and stared at the ceiling. the studio had those industrial exposed beams and one of the spotlights was still on and it was pointing at the white backdrop where i'd been posing three hours earlier doing my signature finger-heart for the camera.

the finger-heart. the same fingers that were currently digging into a man's back.

after. we didn't talk much. he handed me tissues from the makeup station. i cleaned up. he cleaned up. the condom went into a plastic bag that he tied up and put in his own camera bag to throw away somewhere that wasn't the studio trash because we both understood without saying it that evidence matters.

evidence matters. i'm twenty years old and i think about evidence disposal after sex. what is my life.

i fixed the dress. it was fine. no stains. i almost cried with relief. the miu miu earrings were under the table — i found three out of four. the fourth one is probably still there. if a cleaning person finds a single miu miu earring under a photography table in that cheongdam studio, now they know why.

i put my coat on. i texted my manager "coming down now sorry was in the bathroom." he said "okay." no suspicion. why would there be? i'm jang wonyoung. i don't do things like this. i am incapable of doing things like this. i am a doll.

the van ride home was twenty-two minutes. i know because i watched every single minute tick by on my phone. my manager was in the passenger seat. the driver had the radio on — some trot song. i sat in the back seat in my coat with my legs crossed and i could feel him leaking out of me — i know the condom was on but there's always... residual… maybe my own… whatever i don't need to explain the biology of my own body to my own note — and i stared out the window at the gangnam skyline and the neon signs reflecting in the rain and i thought:

i am two people.

there is jang wonyoung who waves at fans and holds up crayon drawings and says "i'm just a normal girl~" with a head tilt and a smile.

and there is the girl in this van right now. the one who can still feel a man's handprints on her hip bones. the one who came so hard on a photography table that she knocked over ten thousand dollars worth of borrowed jewelry. the one who is sitting three feet away from her manager with her thighs pressed together because she's scared he'll somehow smell it on her.

both of them are me. that's the part that fucks me up the most. it's not a split personality. it's not a character i play. both versions are completely, fully, one hundred percent me. the princess and the girl on the table are the same person and the world only gets to see one of them and that makes me feel powerful and lonely in equal measure and i don't know which feeling is winning right now.

it's 4:36 am. my alarm goes off in one hour and forty-nine minutes.

in less than four hours i'll be sitting cross-legged on the dorm floor with yujin, doing a vlive, talking about our favorite snacks and doing aegyo and reading fan comments and saying "i love you DIVE~" with my whole chest.

and not a single person watching will know.

i should delete this. i've written way too much. this is dangerous. this is evidence. if anyone ever found this note my career would be over. not just mine — the group. the company. the brand deals. everything i've built since i was fourteen would collapse because i let a photographer fuck me on a table in a silk dress.

i'm not going to delete it.

i don't know why. maybe because this is the only place where both versions of me exist at the same time. on camera i'm the princess. in that studio i was something else. but here, in this note, at 4:38 in the morning, i'm both. and that feels more honest than anything i've done in six years of being famous.

junghoon texted me twenty minutes ago. just a single message. "get home safe?" i replied with a thumbs up emoji. nothing else. we'll see each other at the next shoot. we'll be professional. he'll call me wonyoung-ssi and i'll bow politely and nobody will know.

except this note will know. 

i need to sleep.

...

i'm not going to be able to sleep.

i can still smell his cologne on my skin. i thought the shower would fix it but i think it's in my head now. the leather and the coffee and the way the table creaked and the way he said my name like it was the only word that mattered.

i'm going to do it again. i know i am. maybe not with him. maybe with someone else. maybe worse. 

the scary part? i'm not scared.

okay. alarm in one hour and thirty-one minutes. closing this note. locking the folder.

three hours until i have to be her again. nation's princess. god, if they knew. if they fucking knew.

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[electro469]

Sinful Confessions

Prologue: The Pandora Notes - Decrypted

A TASTE OF WHAT YOUR GODDESSES WRITE AT 3 AM

[KBS NEWS 9 EMERGENCY BROADCAST] [FEBRUARY 14, 2026 — 22:17 KST]

PARK JI-WON: Good evening. We interrupt our regular programming for a critical developing story. Within the last hour, a hacker collective operating under the name 'GhostWriter' has executed what is being described as a catastrophic breach of Apple's localized iCloud servers here in Seoul.

PARK JI-WON: The breach was not total, but its specificity is chilling. The hackers targeted and extracted data exclusively from the iOS Notes application. They have subsequently released a monolithic data package totaling 4.2 terabytes onto at least fourteen international mirror sites simultaneously. This file has been titled 'THE PANDORA NOTES.'

PARK JI-WON: Sources within the National Police Agency and the Korea Internet & Security Agency confirm that among the more than twenty thousand compromised private accounts are those belonging to public figures in the entertainment industry. While KBS cannot and will not speculate on individual identities, we can confirm that personnel from the nation's major entertainment agencies — HYBE, SM Entertainment, JYP Entertainment, and YG Entertainment — are among those affected. All four agencies have issued a rare joint statement just moments ago, calling the hack 'a profound criminal violation of human dignity' and warning that 'any access, dissemination, or reproduction of the stolen materials constitutes a serious felony.'

PARK JI-WON: A technical forensic lead we spoke to described the breach as 'surgical.' The iCloud backup architecture stores different data types in separate encrypted containers. GhostWriter's exploit cracked only the container housing text-based data — Notes, Reminders, and Drafts. Photos, messages, and media files were reportedly not compromised. The Notes App data, often perceived as ephemeral, contained everything from shopping lists and song lyrics to... personal memos. The authorities are urging the public not to seek out these files, but as our technology correspondent notes, the nature of the internet makes containment...unlikely. We now return to our scheduled programming, but will continue to update you as this story unfolds. This is Park Ji-won, KBS News 9.

***

The floodgates opened not with a roar, but with the silent, cascading failure of server arrays. Agency websites for HYBE, SM Entertainment, JYP Entertainment, and YG Entertainment — digital fortresses normally capable of handling millions of simultaneous fan clicks — succumbed first, their landing pages timing out, replaced by generic error messages. The digital stampede was global. Forum threads metastasized. The 4.2 terabyte PANDORA NOTES file, a modern-day Trojan Horse of pure text, was sliced, torrented, and disseminated across continents in minutes. Verification came swiftly and damningly. It was not a crude forgery. The files were fragments of real lives, jarring in their juxtaposition. A grocery list for kimchi and ramyeon was followed, in the same note, by a brutally honest lyric about industry loneliness. A draft of a birthday message to a bandmate sat next to a meticulous, anxious log of daily calorie intake. Passwords saved alongside unsent love letters. Therapy session notes typed in waiting rooms beside motivational quotes copied from Instagram. And then there were the other files. The diaries. They were not erotic fiction. They lacked narrative pretense. They were raw, timestamped, location-specific confessions written in the idol's own voice at three, four, five in the morning — when the dorm was quiet and the only light was the glow of an iPhone screen and the only audience was supposed to be themselves. Entries spoke of specific dorm rooms, of vans after music shows at Inkigayo, of hotel suites in Osaka and Bangkok, referenced real comeback schedules and real fellow members by first-name abbreviations or private nicknames. The language was not flowery; it was startlingly direct and, in its technical specificity about acts and desires, grotesquely intimate. The sheer, mundane accuracy of the surrounding details — the stress about a vocal lesson, the complaint about a manager's comment, the reminder to buy more contact lens solution — made the sexual disclosures impossible to dismiss as fabricated. This was the true violation: GhostWriter hadn't stolen fantasies. They had stolen the unvarnished, un-curated truth of private thought.

***

GhostWriter knew exactly what they had. Before releasing the full archive, they marketed it. A single forum post appeared twelve hours before the main data dump. The post received forty thousand replies in six hours before the forum itself was seized by Korean authorities. But the screenshots had already metastasized to Twitter, Weverse, Reddit, Threads, Naver, and every major fan community on the planet. The post was titled: [ GhostWriter Mirror Site #7 | Posted 10:05 KST ] [ Title: A TASTE OF WHAT YOUR GODDESSES WRITE AT 3 AM ] Beneath the title were six short excerpts. No names attached. No identifying information. Just raw lines pulled from six different entries:

"His hands were so big. He pinned me against the shower wall, the tiles cold, his body so hot. I couldn't even speak, just moaned. He told me to be quiet, the others were sleeping. It made me want to scream louder." "I counted them. Thirty-seven. I felt every one. My legs shook after. I had to sit in the practice room for twenty minutes before I could stand up to go home." "Sometimes I pretend the camera is a person. A specific person. I look into the lens and imagine it's his eyes, and I do the move I know would make him lose control. The fans cheer. They have no idea who I'm really performing for." "I wore it under the stage outfit. The one he gave me. All night, while I was smiling and waving, I could feel it. A secret just for me. A reminder of how wet I got last time." "He's not even my type. That's what makes it so good. It's just... physiology. Friction and release. I don't have to think about love or fans or anything. Just the machine of it. I feel like an animal. I crave it." "The stylist noona did my makeup perfect today. She doesn't know why my lips are a little swollen. He couldn't help it, he said. I tasted the champagne on his breath for hours after."

***

The reactions split immediately. Fan communities fractured along fault lines that had always existed but never been tested this violently. @MidnightArchivist — This is a crime. A violation. These women are victims. Sharing this is no different than distributing a hidden camera video. Shut it down. Protect them. @Whizzzz — Cross-referencing the 'shower wall' excerpt with known idol dorm layouts and 2023 schedules. The 'champagne' note is key — which year-end award show after-party had Moët? This is a puzzle. A terrible, fascinating puzzle. @Ryan_Nayr16 — I'm not going to lie. I'm horrified. I'm also... curious. What if the personae are that carefully constructed? What if the gap is that wide? Doesn't that make them more human? (I feel sick even typing this.)

***

Within seventy-two hours, the landscape of K-pop had fundamentally shifted. Three major girl group comebacks — billions of won in production — were "indefinitely postponed." Stock prices across the entertainment sector plummeted. SM Entertainment alone lost ₩890 billion in market value before trading was temporarily halted. YG and JYP hit 52-week lows. The Korea Entertainment Management Association held a closed-door emergency summit at the Lotte Hotel in Jamsil — not at a glossy agency building, but at a secure, anonymous business conference center. Lawyers huddled. PR firms drafted statements in a language that had no words for this particular catastrophe: the exposure not of scandalous deeds, but of scandalous, authentic thought. The National Police Agency launched "Operation Clean Cloud" to track GhostWriter, but the collective had vanished as cleanly as they had appeared. Five agencies issued cease-and-desist orders. Three idols went on "indefinite hiatus" without explanation. Multiple variety show appearances were quietly scrubbed from upcoming schedules. The idols themselves entered a state of suspended animation. Their Instagram feeds went dark. Group chat applications, once buzzing with a hundred messages a minute, fell silent. The nightmare was not that the words were fake, but that they were real. Denial was impossible. The timestamps matched their known schedules too precisely. The locations matched their confirmed appearances. The member names, the inside jokes, the specific details about dorm layouts and practice room configurations — they were all there, in plain text. And through it all, GhostWriter kept their promise. Every twelve hours, a new batch of decrypted files appeared on the mirror sites. Organized. Indexed. Searchable by device ID. This was beyond a photo leak, beyond a salacious rumor. This was the excavation of the internal self. The era of "pure idol" branding was declared dead by multiple industry analysts before the week was out. These were their words. Their thoughts. Their sins. And now, they belonged to everyone.

***

What follows is the complete decrypted archive of the most devastating files recovered from the Pandora Notes breach. Each entry is presented exactly as it was found — unedited, unfiltered, and organized by the device owner's verified identity. These are not stories. These are confessions. Reader discretion is advised.

***

[FILE RECOVERY INTERFACE — PARTIAL DECRYPTION SUCCESSFUL] CONFESSION #001 SUBJECT: Jang Wonyoung (IVE) DEVICE: iPhone 15 Pro Max — Rose Gold APPLE ID: ████████@icloud.com FOLDER: Personal / Private / unnamed FILE TITLE: "tonight was too much" CREATED: March 12, 2024 — 03:58 AM KST LAST MODIFIED: March 12, 2024 — 04:41 AM KST SYNC STATUS: Backed up to iCloud ENCRYPTION: BREACHED [ OPEN FILE ]

[electro469]

Concierge Confidential: Yeji's Discovery

When ITZY's protective leader hears twisted rumors about The Veil's "extraordinary concierge" drugging and brainwashing idols, she follows Ryujin to investigate—only to discover the truth is far filthier than fiction, and now she's the one demanding he prove every whispered legend with his thick, relentless cock. Spoiler: He doesn't disappoint. Multiple rounds, multiple creampies, and one ruined leader who finally understands why others keep coming back for more.

Book 6 of the Concierge Confidential Series.

The waiting room smelled of hairspray, sweat, and the cloying sweetness of a dozen different energy drinks. I was re-taping my ankles, the crisp white KT tape a familiar ritual, when the whisper cut through the low hum of pre-show chatter.

“…no, I’m serious. At The Veil. You have to request him specifically. They call him the Special Concierge.”

The voice was young, girlish, from behind a rack of sequined jackets two rows over. I didn’t look up, but my hands stilled. The Veil. That name carried weight. A different kind of green room.

A second voice, hushed and eager. “Is it true what Somi sunbaenim said? That he… you know. Has a magic dick?”

A stifled giggle. “That’s what she called it. But my manager’s friend said it’s not magic, it’s drugs. They say he slips something into the champagne, makes you suggestible. That’s why so many of them go back.”

I rolled my eyes, resuming my taping with a sharp rip of the Velcro. Idol gossip. The same ecosystem that claimed certain diets could change your bone structure or that a producer’s favorite got an extra high note in the mix. Ninety percent fabricated, ten percent distorted beyond recognition. I’d been to The Veil’s rooftop club once, after a particularly grueling award season. It had been exactly what I needed: anonymity, a stunning view, a cocktail that didn’t taste like battery acid. No mysterious concierges. Just expensive quiet.

“His name is Andrew,” the first whisperer confided, as if sharing state secrets. “Apparently he’s Canadian or something. But he looks… normal. Cute, but normal. That’s how he gets you.”

I stood up, testing the support on my ankle. The whispers ceased instantly. As I walked past the clothing rack, I caught a glimpse of two very young, very wide-eyed faces from a rookie group I didn’t recognize. They bowed deeply, panic in their eyes. I gave a curt, professional nod and left for the stage, the word “Andrew” sticking in my brain like a stray piece of lint. Unimportant, but irritating.

-⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰-

The dorm was unusually peaceful that evening. Lia was composing at the keyboard in her room, the soft chords drifting down the hall. Yuna was glued to a drama on the living room TV, and Chaeryeong was giving herself a meticulous facial at the kitchen table. It was Ryujin’s behavior that caught my attention.

She emerged from her room not in her usual oversized hoodie and sweats, but in a sleek, black off-shoulder top and tailored jeans that hugged her dancer’s legs. Her makeup was subtle but perfect, her hair falling in soft waves. She looked incredible. She’d been cultivating this look more and more frequently over the past few weeks.

“Going out?” I asked casually from the sofa, pretending to scroll through my phone.

“Mm,” she said, slipping her feet into a pair of chic ankle boots. “Just meeting some friends.”

“New friends?” I kept my tone light, curious. “You’ve been a social butterfly lately.”

She flashed me a grin, the one that crinkled her eyes. “Something like that. People outside the bubble. It’s… refreshing.”

“Must be a special friend,” I teased, nudging her foot with mine. “Got a secret boyfriend you’re not telling your leader about, Joanne-ah?”

Ryujin laughed, a full, genuine sound. “Yah, unnie. No boyfriend. I promise. Just… good company.” She grabbed her small leather bag. “Don’t wait up!”

I watched her go, the door clicking shut behind her. I believed her. Ryujin was many things—fierce, stubborn, effortlessly cool—but she wasn’t a liar. To us. And her work hadn’t suffered; if anything, there was a new looseness to her dancing, a confidence in her expressions that hadn’t been there before. She seemed… lighter. I pushed the worries out of my head.

-⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰-

Sleep wouldn’t come. The digital clock on my bedside table glowed 2:17 AM. I got up for a glass of water, padding barefoot across the cool floor.

As I passed Ryujin’s door, I heard it. The low, melodic murmur of her voice. She was on the phone. I paused, not meaning to eavesdrop, but held by the tone. It was soft, intimate, suffused with a happiness so pure it was almost foreign. This wasn’t her talking to a company staffer or a family member.

“…I know, I can’t wait either… Mm, tomorrow? I’ll try… You make it sound so easy, Andrew.”

My blood turned to ice in my veins.

Andrew.

The name from the whispers. The supposed “Special Concierge.” The one with the magic dick or the drugged champagne.

My hand flew to my mouth. Every protective instinct I possessed, forged from years of leading, of shielding my girls from managers’ tempers, from creepy fans, from the endless, hungry gaze of the industry, roared to life. Dongsaeng-ah, what have you gotten into?

-⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰-

Back in my own bed, the darkness pressed in on me. I wrestled with the duvet and my own conscience. Ryujin was an adult. She was sharp, arguably the most street-smart among us. Invading her privacy was a line I’d never crossed.

But the rumors… Drugs. Brainwashing. They were absurd, the stuff of tabloid headlines and malicious online forums. Yet, they existed for a reason. Where there was smoke, there was so often a terrible, burning fire. What if it wasn’t coercion? What if it was something else, something she was willingly walking into but couldn’t see the danger of? The image of her happy, smiling face as she left the dorm clashed violently with the sinister picture painted by those junior idols.

I couldn’t accuse her. Not without proof. Not without breaking the trust we’d built.

But I could look. I could watch. As her leader, and as her unnie, it wasn’t just my right—it was my duty.

I stared at the ceiling, my jaw set. Decision solidified, cold and hard in my gut.

I would investigate.

-⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰-

The following night, when Ryujin announced she was going out again, I was ready. I’d already changed into all black—a high-neck top, wide-legged trousers, a cap pulled low, a disposable mask. I looked like any other tired young person in Seoul trying to avoid attention.

I gave her a ten-minute head start before I slipped out, hailing a separate taxi. “Follow that grey Kia, please. Not too close.”

My driver, an older ajusshi, merely grunted, used to stranger requests in this city. Ryujin’s taxi wound through Gangnam, finally stopping at a sleek, unmarked building I recognized. The Veil. Its entrance was a simple, frosted glass door nestled between a bespoke tailor and a silent art gallery, identifiable only by the small, stylized ‘V’ etched into the stone step.

I paid my driver and lingered across the street, watching as Ryujin was greeted by a bowing doorman who ushered her inside. No cameras flashed. No one pointed. It was a vacuum of celebrity.

I took a deep breath and crossed the street. The doorman gave me a polite, appraising look as I approached. I didn’t break stride, projecting the aura of someone who belonged. He opened the door without a word.

Inside, the atmosphere shifted. It was cool, quiet, smelling of sandalwood and money. The lobby was all shadows and pools of low light. I knew the layout. To the right, a discreet hallway led to the private elevators for the suites. Straight ahead, through an archway, was the bar.

I chose the bar. It was dimly lit, all dark wood and deep emerald velvet. I spotted an empty booth tucked into a corner, partially obscured by a large potted fern, with a direct sightline to the entrance. Perfect. I slid in, ordered a sparkling water with lime, and waited.

It didn’t take long. Ryujin appeared, not heading for the elevators, but making her way to a circular booth in the center of the room. And already seated there were…

My breath hitched.

Jeon Somi. Im Nayeon. Kim Jisoo.

My mind stuttered. These weren’t just sunbaenims; they were institutions. Somi, the radiant solo powerhouse. Nayeon, the nation’s center. Jisoo, the elegant, untouchable visual of BLACKPINK. They represented tiers of success Ryujin was still ascending toward.

And they were waving her over with warm, familiar smiles.

Ryujin slid into the booth beside Jisoo, accepting a glass of red wine from Somi. They began talking, their heads leaning close. There was laughter—Somi’s bright giggle, Nayeon’s snort, Ryujin’s low chuckle. They looked like any group of friends sharing secrets. Nothing looked forced. Nothing looked dangerous. My protective anxiety began to curdle into something else—a profound, bewildering confusion.

-⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰-

I watched for nearly an hour, sipping my water until the ice melted. Then, he appeared.

He moved through the bar not like staff, but like a host. Confident, unhurried. Andrew. He was tall, with the lean-muscular build of a swimmer or a climber. His face was, as the rumors said, average-cute—pleasant, with kind eyes that seemed to take in the whole room. He wore a simple, well-tailored concierge uniform, dark navy. Nothing about him screamed “predator.” He looked… calm. Capable.

He approached the table. The women didn’t startle or tense up. Somi grinned, waving him closer. He bent down, saying something that made Nayeon cover her mouth as she laughed. Then his gaze turned to Ryujin.

Andrew’s eyes met Ryujin’s, and a subtle, private smile touched his lips. “Ready?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that carried just to the table.

Ryujin’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink. The fierce, charismatic performer was gone, replaced by a girl with a shy, hopeful glow. She nodded, biting her lower lip. She stood up, and without a hint of hesitation, slipped her hand into his. His fingers closed around hers, a gesture that was both possessive and reassuring.

What happened next was what truly unmoored me. Somi, Nayeon, and Jisoo didn’t look concerned or jealous. They beamed. Nayeon gave a little fist-pump. Jisoo leaned over and whispered something in Ryujin’s ear that made her blush deepen, then she waved them off with an elegant flick of her wrist. They looked like sisters sending the youngest off on a cherished date.

Andrew led Ryujin away from the bar, toward the hallway of private elevators. He never looked back, his focus entirely on the woman beside him, his thumb stroking the back of her hand.

I sat frozen in my dark booth, the cold glass of water forgotten in my hand. The elevator doors had swallowed them whole, leaving me with the echoing image of those three legendary women, smiling after them.

My theory of danger, of coercion, lay in shattered pieces. These were not naive rookies. Somi had navigated the industry’s sharks since she was a child. Nayeon had survived seven years in the absolute pinnacle of the idol machine. Jisoo was the epitome of poised, careful control. They were veterans. They would smell a predator from a mile away. They would protect one of their own.

But they hadn’t. They’d… encouraged it.

The pieces refused to fit. The sinister rumors from the waiting room clashed violently with the scene of genuine, warm camaraderie I’d just witnessed. Was Andrew a master manipulator on a scale I couldn’t comprehend? Or was the truth something else entirely, something those whispered rumors couldn’t begin to capture?

I left the bar, the weight of my confusion heavier than any fear. I had no answers. Only a deeper, more compelling mystery, and a dongsaeng who was walking into it with a smile on her face, hand-in-hand with a man who held the apparent approval of queens.

I returned to the silent dorm, to my own dark room. The stakeout was over. It had provided evidence, but no clarity. Ryujin was safe, at least from immediate, obvious threat.

But now I needed to know why. And the only way to know was to understand him.

The decision crystallized, cold and clear. Observation was no longer enough.

-⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰-

I waited until the digital clock on my phone glowed 11:47 PM. The suite at The Veil was obscenely large, all muted grays and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing Seoul’s endless neon glow. I’d booked it under “Kim Min-ji,” paying with a card linked to an account my parents managed, untraceable to Hwang Yeji. I’d texted Ryujin earlier, a casual “Working on choreo, sleep well~” and gotten a sleepy voicemail “Unnie, don’t stay up too late” in return. The guilt was a sour taste in my mouth, but it was drowned out by a sharper, more driving need: to know.

I stood in the center of the living room, having changed out of my disguise and into simple black leggings and a loose, soft sweater. I looked like I was ready for bed, not war. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs.

I picked up the heavy, landline phone. It felt archaic. My finger hovered over the button for the concierge.

This is it. The point of no return.

I pressed it.

A male voice answered on the first ring. “Concierge. How may I assist you?”

My voice, when it came out, was steady. Cool. The voice of a leader giving an order. “I need the special concierge. Andrew. Please send him up.”

There was the briefest pause. “Of course, madam. Right away.”

I hung up. The silence that followed was absolute, thick enough to choke on. I crossed my arms, hugging myself, and waited. Five minutes. Then, a soft, firm knock at the door.

I walked over, took a deep breath, and opened it.

He stood there, exactly as I’d seen him the night before. The calm, capable posture. The simple, impeccable uniform. In his hands was a silver tray holding a single bottle of imported water and a crystal glass. The universal prop. His eyes met mine, and there was no surprise in them. None. Just a quiet, assessing look, as if he’d been expecting me.

“Good evening,” he said. His voice was a low, pleasant baritone.

I didn’t move from the doorway. I blocked it, crossing my arms again, letting my sharpest, most unblinking cat-eye stare do the work. “Andrew-ssi.”

“Yeji-ssi,” he acknowledged, and the use of my real name, without title, sent a jolt through me. He knew.

“We need to talk. Come in.” It wasn’t an invitation. It was a command.

He stepped inside, and I shut the door behind him with a definitive click. He set the tray down on the console table without being asked.

I launched in, my words coming out in a controlled, furious rush. “I know about you. I’ve heard the rumors. The ‘magic dick.’ The drugged champagne. The brainwashing.” I took a step toward him. “I’ve seen you with Ryujin. I’ve seen you with Somi sunbaenim, Nayeon sunbaenim, Jisoo sunbaenim. I see the way they look at you. What are you doing to them? What have you done to my dongsaeng?”

He listened, his hands now loosely at his sides, his expression one of patient attention. He didn’t flinch.

“I can destroy you,” I hissed, my voice dropping, trembling slightly with the force of my conviction. “One anonymous call to Dispatch with what I know—the names, this hotel—and your life is over. You’ll never work in this city again. You’ll be in a jail cell before sunrise.”

Finally, he spoke. “You could do that,” he said, his tone infuriatingly calm. “But you haven’t. You called me up here instead.”

“I want the truth.”

He nodded slowly. “The rumors are… twisted versions of the truth. Yes, I sleep with idols. They come to me. I don’t pursue, I don’t pressure, I don’t promise anything. They find me, through word of mouth. One trusted friend to another.” He listed them off, his gaze never leaving mine. “Somi. Nayeon. Ryujin. Jisoo. IU. Others. They share a secret, and in that secret, there’s safety. No strings, no scandals, no emotional complications. Just… release. The kind they can’t get anywhere else in their lives.”

I stared at him, my mind reeling. The logic was perversely sound. The industry was a gilded cage. Dating was a career risk. Most men were either intimidated, obsessed with your fame, or utterly vanilla. The idea of a discreet, skilled, shared outlet… it was insane. It was brilliant.

“You expect me to believe,” I said, my voice dripping with skepticism, “that all these women, at the very top of this industry, willingly share a hotel concierge?”

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It wasn’t smug. It was… weary. “I don’t expect you to believe anything, Yeji-ssi. I’m just telling you the truth. Ryujin is happy. She’s safe. She’s in control. They all are.”

My competitive nature, that burning drive that made me push for one more perfect rehearsal, one more flawless note, roared to the surface. This was a challenge. He was presenting himself as this myth, this solution. I had to test it. I had to prove him wrong.

“Prove it,” I heard myself say, the words leaving my lips before my brain could fully censor them.

He raised an eyebrow. “Prove what?”

“Prove you’re not full of shit. Prove you’re what they say you are. Right now.” I gestured vaguely at the spacious, opulent room. “Fuck me like you fuck them. Show me.”

The air between us crackled. Andrew’s gaze traveled over me, from my defiantly set jaw down to my white-knuckled fists, then back up. “Are you sure?”

The doubt in his question ignited me. “I’m Hwang Yeji,” I stated, my chin lifting. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

That slow smile returned, wider now. Amused. Intrigued. Not predatory. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He took a single step forward, closing the distance I’d carefully maintained. He didn’t touch me. He just… entered my space, and the atmosphere shifted from confrontational to something else entirely—charged, inevitable.

He reached past me, and I heard the soft, final snick of the deadbolt sliding home.

-⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰-

He didn’t kiss me. He didn’t grab me. He simply said, “Stand in the center of the room.”

I obeyed, my legs moving on autopilot, my heart hammering. The city lights painted shifting patterns on the polished floor. He came to stand behind me, so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body.

“Look,” he murmured, his voice a vibration against my ear. He placed his hands on my shoulders and turned me gently to face the wall of dark windows. My own reflection stared back—a pale, wide-eyed girl in workout clothes.

His hands went to the hem of my sweater. He lifted it, so slowly, exposing my stomach, my ribs, the plain black sports bra underneath. The cool air kissed my skin, raising goosebumps. He pulled the sweater over my head and let it fall to the floor. His fingers traced the line of my spine through the bra strap.

This is just investigation, I told myself, watching his hands in the reflection. This is to prove he’s a liar. I’m not attracted to him. He’s… normal. Cute, but normal. This is clinical.

His hands went to the waistband of my leggings. He hooked his thumbs in them and began the agonizingly slow descent, peeling the fabric down over my hips, my thighs, my knees. He made me step out of them. I stood there in just my bra and simple cotton panties, reflected in the window for him—for both of us—to see.

“Touch yourself,” he said, his voice still calm, instructional.

I flinched. “What?”

“You’re wet already, aren’t you?” It wasn’t a guess. It was a statement. “Prove it to me. Prove it to yourself.”

Shame and a shocking, jagged bolt of arousal shot through me. My hand trembled as I brought it down, sliding over the cotton of my panties. He was right. The fabric was damp, soaked through. A soft, involuntary gasp escaped me.

“Say it,” he commanded softly, his lips now brushing the shell of my ear.

“I’m… wet,” I whispered to my reflection, the admission feeling more intimate than any touch so far.

-⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰-

He guided me to the large, low-backed sofa. “Bend over the arm. Hold on.”

I did, gripping the plush velvet, my face turned to the side. I heard the rustle of clothing, then felt his hands on my hips, pulling my panties down. The air was cool on my exposed skin. Then, heat.

He didn’t tease. He dropped to his knees behind me, spread me open with his thumbs, and his mouth was on me.

I cried out, my fingers digging into the sofa. It wasn’t a kiss. It was devouring. His tongue was flat and firm against my clit, licking in broad, demanding strokes. Then it pointed, flicking with impossible speed. A finger, slick with my own wetness, pressed against my entrance and slid inside, curling upward.

Oh my god.

My ex-boyfriends had tried this, briefly, clumsily, like they were checking a box. This was different. This was focused, expert, relentless. He read my body’s twitches and hitches like sheet music, adjusting pressure, rhythm, location. The coil in my lower belly, wound tight from the moment I’d opened the door, snapped without warning.

My orgasm ripped through me, a shocking, violent wave that made my legs buckle. I would have collapsed if he hadn’t held me up by the hips. I sobbed into the velvet, my body convulsing around his finger.

He didn’t stop.

The sensitivity was excruciating, overwhelming, but he didn’t let up. His tongue softened, circling, coaxing, while a second finger joined the first, stretching me gently. The overstimulation blurred into a new, rising peak. I came again, a softer, deeper unraveling, tears leaking from my eyes.

“Please,” I heard myself beg, my voice ragged and unfamiliar. “Please, stop, I can’t…”

He pulled his mouth away. I sagged with relief. Then his fingers curled hard, pressing against a spot inside me that made stars explode behind my eyelids.

The third orgasm was a silent, breathless shock, a full-body tremor that left me boneless, trembling. He finally withdrew his fingers, and I slid gracelessly from the sofa arm to the floor, a panting heap at his feet.

Andrew looked down at me, his lips glistening. His expression was still calm, but his eyes were dark, intense. “You asked me to fuck you,” he said quietly. “Do you still want that?”

All I could do was nod, a desperate, pathetic movement.

-⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰-

He stood up. I watched, dazed, from the floor as he unbuckled his belt. The button of his trousers. The zipper. He pushed them down along with his boxers.

My brain short-circuited.

The rumors about size weren’t twisted. They were understated.

It was thick. Impossibly, mouth-wateringly thick, the prominent veins mapping its length like roots. It had to be nine inches, curving slightly upward, the head a broad, flushed plum. It was fully, aggressively hard. It looked heavy.

“Touch it,” he said.

I reached out, my hand looking small. I wrapped my fingers around the base. I couldn’t close my thumb and middle finger. The heat of it was shocking, the skin like silk over steel. I gave an experimental stroke, feeling the weight, the power contained there. A drop of clear pre-cum welled at the tip. A helpless, hungry sound escaped my throat.

He took my arm and helped me up, leading me to the massive bed. He laid me down on my back. He positioned himself between my legs, which fell open willingly, still shaking from the aftershocks. He took his cock in hand, nudging the broad head against my soaked, trembling entrance.

“Breathe,” he instructed, his voice low.

I sucked in a ragged breath. He pushed forward.

The stretch was instantaneous, intense. A burning, delicious pressure that stole the air from my lungs. I cried out, my back arching off the bed. He kept going, an inexorable, slow invasion, inch by impossible inch, filling me in a way I didn’t know was possible. I felt every ridge, every vein. I felt full in a profound, fundamental sense. When his hips finally met mine, he was buried to the hilt. I was impaled, stretched to my limit, and a strange, perfect peace washed over me.

Then he moved. A slow, deep withdrawal, then a thrust that brushed against that deepest, most secret place.

My eyes flew open. A fourth orgasm, different from all the others—deeper, internal, a radiant explosion of pleasure that originated from where we were joined—bloomed through my core. I clenched around him, screaming, my nails scoring his back.

That seemed to be his undoing. With a guttural groan that was all the more powerful for his previous calm, he drove into me, his rhythm breaking into short, punishing thrusts. I felt him swell even larger inside me, then pulse. A jet of hot liquid flooded my depths, followed by another, and another, a seemingly endless torrent that filled me until I felt it seep out around where we were joined.

I lay there, wrecked, feeling the hot proof of his release inside me. Spent.

But he wasn’t.

He was still rock-hard. He kept moving, shallow thrusts through the mess he’d made, his cock slick with our mixed fluids. The sensation was obscene, overwhelming. He looked down at me, a sheen of sweat on his brow, his calm expression finally cracked to reveal something raw and hungry.

He pulled out slightly, and I whimpered at the loss. He smiled, that same faint, knowing smile.

“We’re just getting started, Yeji-ya.”

He wasn’t bluffing.

Before I could even process the thought, his hands were under my thighs, lifting me from the bed as if I weighed nothing. He carried me, still impaled on him, across the room to the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. My back met the cool, unforgiving glass. The entire glittering grid of Seoul sprawled fifty stories below us, a sea of silent, watchful lights.

-⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰-

He braced me against the pane, my legs locking around his waist. The chill of the glass seeped into my skin, a stark contrast to the burning heat where we were joined. He began to move, deep, lifting thrusts that jolted my body against the window. My reflection stared back—a wild-haired stranger with parted lips, eyes glazed and desperate, breasts bouncing with each impact. A distant police siren wailed far below, a tiny red and blue streak weaving through the streets. The sound, the knowledge that anyone in the towers across from us with a powerful lens could see a silhouette, a blurred shape… it should have terrified me. Instead, a fresh flood of wetness slicked his already dripping cock. The risk was an aphrodisiac. My orgasm crashed over me without warning, a silent, breath-stealing convulsion that made my head thump back against the glass. My nails dug into the hard muscle of his shoulders, seeking anchor.

-⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰-

He carried me to the suite’s heavy marble-topped desk. He bent me over it, my cheek pressed to the cold stone, my hands flat against its surface. I heard the sharp crack before I felt it—a stinging, open-handed slap on my right ass cheek. I yelped, the sound echoing. Another, on the left. A sharp, bright pain that melted instantly into a deep, throbbing heat. He gathered my hair in his fist, not yanking, but pulling firmly, arching my back, forcing me to look at our reflection in the dark TV screen.

“Look at you, Hwang Yeji,” he murmured, his voice calm, almost analytical, as he positioned himself behind me. “The fierce leader. The perfect unnie.” He pushed inside in one smooth, brutal stroke, filling the aching emptiness. “Bent over a desk. Taking a concierge’s cock like a common slut.”

I should have been furious. Insulted. But the words, paired with the deep, pounding rhythm he set, unraveled me. My composure, already in tatters, vaporized. “Yes,” I sobbed, the admission torn from me. “Yes, yes—” Another orgasm, sharper than the last, ripped through my core, and I screamed into the marble, my body clenching around him so tightly I saw stars.

-⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰-

He lay back on the ruined bed, pulling me atop him. I straddled him backward, facing away, taking his thick length inside me with a slow, controlled sink. For a moment, I had the illusion of power. I set the pace, rising and falling, watching in the mirrored ceiling above as my body swallowed him. The visual was obscenely erotic. My own pleasure built, a steady, coiling tension.

Then his hands found my hips, not to guide, but to anchor. And one hand slipped around my front, his fingers finding my swollen, oversensitive clit.

My rhythm broke. I gasped, my back arching. He rubbed tight, relentless circles, his thrusts from below meeting my desperate bounces. “You look so good taking it,” he grunted, his calm fracturing for the first time. The dual stimulation, the visual, his voice—it was too much. I came with a broken cry, my body seizing, collapsing back against his chest.

He held me there, my back to his front, and kept moving. With a deep, guttural groan, I felt him pulse inside me again. His second release was a hot, sudden flood, a fresh wave of liquid heat joining the first, so much it immediately began to leak out around his still-hard cock, tracing a warm path down my inner thighs. He didn’t soften. He didn’t stop. He kept rocking into me, milking his own orgasm and prolonging mine until I was a sobbing, boneless weight in his arms.

-⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰-

He laid me back, then took my legs, folding my body almost in half, pressing my knees toward my shoulders. The angle was inhuman, exposing me completely. He entered me slowly, and the head of his cock brushed a place so deep inside it stole my breath. Our eyes locked. I couldn’t look away. His gaze was dark, intense, possessive.

He began to move. Slow, deep, grinding thrusts that massaged that deepest spot with every stroke. Pleasure, so intense it bordered on pain, radiated from my core. I came, a continuous, rolling wave that had no beginning or end. My vision spotted. My ears rang. And then, with a particularly deep, sustained grind, something new happened.

A gush of warm liquid, not his, erupted from me with a soft, wet sound, soaking the sheets beneath us. I flinched, a bolt of pure embarrassment shooting through me.

He didn’t pause. A ragged, approving groan tore from his throat. “Fuck, yes,” he breathed, driving into me again. “Let go. All of it.” The shame vanished, burned away by the sheer carnal approval in his voice. He fucked me through the squirting orgasm, and then into another, until I was half-conscious, my body humming like a live wire.

-⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰-

Somehow, we were on our feet again. He pinned me against the wall near the suite’s entrance. My ear was pressed to the cool surface. From the hallway outside, I heard the faint ding of a distant elevator, the muffled sound of a door closing down the hall. The risk was immediate, tangible.

He read the tension in my body. “Quiet,” he whispered, slamming into me. The wet slap of our bodies meeting seemed deafening. I buried my face in his neck, biting down on the firm muscle of his shoulder to stifle my cry. He rewarded the silence with deeper, more deliberate thrusts. I felt him swell and pulse—his third release—a hot rush that made me moan against his skin. He didn’t stop. A few minutes later, after a series of faster, harder strokes, he came again—the fourth—the warmth spreading inside me, a continuous, overflowing fullness. I’d lost count of my own peaks. My body was just a vessel for sensation.

-⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰-

We sank to the floor, onto the plush, ivory carpet. I lay on my back, utterly spent, my legs splayed open. He knelt between them, his cock—miraculously, impossibly still hard—glistening with our mixed fluids. I was raw, stretched, used. A beautiful ruin.

“Please,” I begged, my voice a hoarse scrape. “Finish. I can’t… I need you to finish.” It wasn’t a request for it to end. It was a plea for culmination, for the final proof.

He lined himself up and pushed in one last time, a slow, complete sheathing. He leaned over me, his weight on his arms, and began to move. Not fast, but with a profound, deep intensity. His eyes held mine. The coil in my belly, which I thought had been permanently dissolved, tightened one final time.

“With me,” he commanded, his voice thick.

I felt my inner muscles clamp down in a final, shuddering climax. At the same moment, he drove home and stilled.

His fifth release was different. It wasn’t a jet, but a deep, pulsing flood, a seemingly endless series of hot bursts that filled me to overflowing. I felt each distinct pulse, each spurt of seed adding to the incredible volume already inside me. It leaked out around the base of his cock, a warm pool forming on the carpet beneath my hips. He collapsed beside me, his breath coming in ragged gulps.

Silence, save for our breathing. I stared at the ceiling, unable to move a single muscle. My mind was blank, wiped clean. Then, one thought surfaced, clear and undeniable:

He wasn’t bluffing. He’s not evil. He’s something else entirely.

-⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰-

I don’t know how long we lay there. The city lights through the windows had softened from the black of deep night to the indigo of approaching dawn. Every muscle in my body felt like water. My pussy was throbbing, pleasantly sore, gaping slightly. I was lying in a cooling pool of sweat and cum, my hair a tangled mess across my face. I had never, in my entire life, been so physically devastated. I’d lost count of my orgasms after eight. I’d squirted. I’d been creampied five times in one night by the same man, who hadn’t even softened.

Andrew stirred first. He sat up, and without a word, walked naked to the bathroom. I heard water running. He returned with a large, steaming washcloth. Gently, he began to clean me. He wiped between my legs, my thighs, my stomach, his touch clinical yet tender. The care he took, after the brutal, mind-breaking pleasure, made something tighten in my throat. I had to close my eyes.

“You’re not evil,” I whispered, my voice raw. “You’re some kind of sex superhero.”

A soft, genuine laugh rumbled from his chest. He rinsed the cloth in a basin he’d brought. “I’m just a concierge who’s very good at his job.”

“How?” I managed to ask, turning my head to look at him. “The stamina… the size… the control. How?”

He finished cleaning me and sat back against the foot of the bed. “Genetics. Practice. And…” he met my gaze, “I genuinely enjoy making women feel good. Truly good. Not the performative, rushed stuff they’re used to.”

The confession hung in the air. I pushed myself up on trembling elbows. The room spun for a second. “I didn’t just come here to protect Ryujin,” I admitted, the truth spilling out in the vulnerable dawn light. “I was… curious. I’m the leader. I’m always in control. I’m lonely under all of it. My ex-boyfriends were kind. Considerate.” I swallowed. “Boring. I’ve never been… taken. Never been fucked. Not until tonight.”

He nodded, as if he’d already known. “The rules are simple,” he said, his voice returning to that calm, professional tone, though he was still naked on the floor. “No exclusivity. No jealousy. No relationships outside this room. I’m shared among friends. If you choose to see me again, you will run into the others. You might see them on their way in, or on their way out. You have to be okay with that.”

My competitive nature, the part that wanted to be the best, the only, flared for a second. Then the honest, exhausted, satiated part of me smothered it. I didn’t want a boyfriend. I didn’t want dates or promises. I wanted this. The obliterating release. The sacred secrecy. The freedom to be a slut, just for a few hours.

“I can handle it,” I said, and my leader’s voice was back, firm and sure. “I’m good at managing difficult situations.”

A slow smile touched his lips. “Welcome to the club, Yeji-ssi.”

-⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰-

The first true rays of dawn were painting the Han River pink when I forced myself to stand. My body screamed in protest. Dressing was a slow, wincing process. Every movement reminded me of how thoroughly I’d been used.

He lay on the bed, watching me, still gloriously nude, already semi-hard again. The sight sent a fresh, aching throb between my legs.

At the door, I turned back. “Same time next week?”

“If your schedule allows.”

I pulled out my phone. I added a new contact: M. Kim. I sent a single text: 🐱

From the bed, I heard his soft chuckle.

The elevator doors closed on my reflection—a woman who looked the same, but felt fundamentally remade. I came to protect Ryujin. Instead, I found something I didn’t know I was missing. The whispers in the waiting room echoed in my head, but now I understood them. They weren’t warnings. They were invitations.

-⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰-

A few days later, in the ITZY dorm, the quiet of a rare free evening settled like a blanket. Yeji stood in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, her body still humming with a deep, pleasant ache. As she reached for a teacup on a high shelf, a sharp twinge in her inner thigh made her wince, a small, involuntary intake of breath hissing through her teeth.

She didn’t notice Ryujin leaning against the doorway, already changed out of practice clothes into oversized sleepwear.

Ryujin’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the flinch. She watched, silent, as Yeji carefully lowered the cup.

Yeji felt the gaze and turned. “What?”

Ryujin hesitated, then pushed off the doorframe and walked into the kitchen. She stopped close, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Unnie… you went to The Veil, didn’t you?”

Yeji froze. The ceramic cup clicked too loudly against the countertop. A dozen denials sprang to her lips, but the look on Ryujin’s face wasn’t anger or betrayal. It was knowing. Almost… shy.

“How did you know?” Yeji whispered back.

Ryujin’s eyes flicked to the side of Yeji’s neck. She reached out, her fingers barely brushing the collar of Yeji’s shirt, nudging it down a centimeter. There, just above the collarbone, was a small, fading bruise, the color of a storm cloud—she had forgotten to cover it up with concealer.

“He leaves those,” Ryujin said softly, letting the fabric fall back. “On purpose, I think. So we know we’re not alone.”

Yeji’s hand flew to the mark, her face flooding with heat. “Joanne-ah… I followed you. I heard those rumors about Andrew, the bad ones, and I was worried, I thought he was hurting you, I—”

“I know,” Ryujin interrupted, her expression softening. She leaned her hip against the counter, crossing her arms. “I figured you would, eventually. I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

Ryujin looked at her then, really looked, and a small, secretive, profoundly understanding smile spread across her face. “That the rumors are wrong. He’s not evil, unnie.” She paused, letting the truth hang between them. “He’s… the best thing that ever happened to my sex life.” Her smile turned a little wicked. “And apparently, yours too.”

A laugh burst from Yeji’s lips—a genuine, relieved sound that broke the last of the tension coiled in her shoulders. “You’re not mad?”

“How could I be mad?” Ryujin shrugged, but her eyes were warm, sisterly. “Now we have something to bond over. Just… don’t tell Chaeryeong. She’ll want to investigate too, and then it’ll get really complicated.”

Yeji nodded, absorbing it. She looked at Ryujin—saw the calm confidence, the relaxed set of her shoulders, the happy secret shining in her eyes. It was the same quiet glow Yeji had caught in her own reflection in the mirror that morning.

“Does it ever get… weird?” Yeji asked, the question tentative. “Sharing him with the others? With… sunbaenims?”

Ryujin considered it. “Sometimes. But also… it’s nice. Knowing I’m not alone in this. That it’s not some dirty secret I have to keep all to myself. Somi-unnie and Nayeon-unnie and Jisoo-unnie… they’ve become real friends. We don’t talk about him much, but we know. There’s a… sisterhood, I guess.”

The concept was strange, foreign. Yet, standing there in their shared kitchen, it didn’t feel unpleasant. It felt like finding a door in a room she’d thought had only four walls.

Ryujin pushed off the counter, heading towards her room. At the doorway, she paused and glanced back over her shoulder, her voice dropping to a playful, intimate whisper. “Same concierge, same suite, same rules. If you ever want to go together… some of us do that sometimes. Girl’s night.”

She disappeared, leaving Yeji alone with the steaming kettle and a mind suddenly, brilliantly full of new, impossible possibilities.

Girl’s night. With Somi, Nayeon, Jisoo, and my own dongsaeng. Sharing the same man.

Yeji poured the hot water over the tea leaves, watching them swirl and expand.

This isn’t what I expected when I started investigating.

She took her cup and walked to the living room window, looking out at the same city lights that had witnessed her undoing.

But somehow… it feels right.

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[electro469]

Life Between Dreams - A Jisoo AU Fanfiction

Chapter 1&2

Kim Jisoo falls asleep wondering what a normal life would feel like — and wakes up in 1994, pregnant and wrapped in the arms of a husband she’s never met. Convinced it’s just an incredibly vivid dream, she lets herself enjoy the fantasy… until morning proves otherwise.

Chapter 1: A Dream That Breathed

2026 | Seoul

The silence in the Gangnam apartment was a polished, expensive thing. It wasn’t the absence of sound—beyond the double-paned windows, Seoul thrummed with its perpetual, electric heartbeat—but a curated quiet, built from soundproofed walls, plush carpets, and the kind of space that swallowed echoes. Kim Jisoo, age thirty-one, stood in the center of her living room and felt the day finally drain from her bones.

It had been a good day. A full day. The kind that left a pleasant, buzzing fatigue in its wake. The morning had been a Dior fitting—a whirlwind of crisp white shirts, tailored blazers, and the heady scent of new fabric under studio lights. The head designer, a perpetually energetic Frenchwoman, had kept up a running commentary in rapid-fire English while Jisoo turned slowly before the three-way mirror. “Parfaite, Jisoo-ssi. The line on you is… it is a dream. You make the clothes speak.” Jisoo had smiled, the professional, grateful curve of her lips, and murmured her thanks. She knew her body was a mannequin in these moments, a canvas. It was a role she played well.

The afternoon had been BLISSOO. Seated at a sleek glass table in the company’s conference room, the air cool and smelling of coffee and printed presentations. Charts, projections, market analyses. Her team spoke in a language of engagement rates, conversion metrics, and brand synergy. Jisoo listened, her chin propped on her hand, her focus shifting between the PowerPoint slides and the way the late winter sun cut a sharp, golden rectangle across the table. Sometimes, in these meetings, she felt like two people. Kim Jisoo, the artist, the idol. And Kim Jisoo, the CEO, the brand. They were learning to live together, these two selves, but the seams between them still sometimes showed, fine as hairline cracks in porcelain.

The last stop had been the recording studio. A potential solo release, just exploratory vocals laid over a simple, haunting piano track. The producer, an old friend, had grinned at her from behind the console. “Just feel it, Jisoo-yah. No pressure. It’s just us.” In the isolation booth, headphones sealing her in, she’d closed her eyes and let the melody wash over her. The lyrics were about longing for something you couldn’t name, a quiet ache for a different shade of light. She’d sung them softly, feeling the vibration in her throat, the strange vulnerability of singing without choreography, without a stage, without anyone but the microphone to witness her. When she finished, there was a long beat of silence over the intercom before his voice crackled, “Wow. Okay. That’s… that’s the one.”

Now, home. The apartment was beautiful in a way that felt almost impersonal. All clean lines, neutral tones, and statement art pieces chosen by an interior designer who understood ‘luxury minimalist’ better than she understood ‘home’. Jisoo toed off her heels, the relief immediate and profound, and padded barefoot to the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of water, the ice clinking softly, and leaned against the cool marble countertop.

Her phone glowed on the surface beside her. A final scroll through Instagram before bed, a mindless ritual. Feed after feed of polished moments: a colleague’s vacation in Jeju, a brand announcement, a fan’s intricate digital art of BLACKPINK’s debut era. Then she saw it. A fan edit, posted by an account with a username full of hearts and ‘oo’s. Two side-by-side images. On the left, a paparazzi shot of her from a recent event, hair styled, in a dazzling sequined gown, smiling that bright, perfect smile under a barrage of camera flashes. The caption read: Kim Jisoo, Princess of Dior. On the right, a piece of soft, watercolor-style fanart. It depicted a woman who looked like her, but softer. She was wearing a simple, oversized sweater, her hair in a messy bun, holding a cup of tea. She stood in a cozy-looking kitchen, sunlight streaming onto a wooden table. The caption here: What if Kim Jisoo was just… our neighbor? The title over both images: Celebrity Life vs. Normal Person AU.

Jisoo stared at it. A slow, genuine smile spread across her face, one that didn’t feel practiced. She let out a soft puff of air, almost a laugh. It was sweet. Absurd, but sweet. Her thumb hovered, then tapped screenshot. She saved it to her camera roll, a tiny digital piece of someone else’s imagination about her own life.

“Dalgom-ah,” she called softly. The white poodle trotted in from the bedroom, nails clicking on the hardwood. She scratched behind his ears. “What do you think? Would I be a good neighbor?”

The shower was a ritual of steam and scent. She used Dior Prestige La Crème—part of the ambassadorship, yes, but she’d come to genuinely love the rich texture, the subtle floral-woody fragrance that lingered on her skin. She massaged it into her face, her neck, the routine precise and calming. It was a way of washing off the day, the layers of makeup, the persona. In the fogged mirror, her reflection was blurred, just a shape. Herself, but not.

She pulled on oversized cotton pajamas, the fabric soft from countless washes. In the bedroom, she slid under the duvet. Dalgom jumped up and settled at her feet with a contented sigh. She turned off the lamp, plunging the room into a deep blue gloom, lit only by the faint, constant glow of the city seeping around the edges of the blackout curtains.

Silence. Or the apartment’s version of it. The hum of the refrigerator. The distant, muffled whine of a scooter on the street below.

Her mind, finally stilling, drifted into that pre-sleep limbo. The fanart floated back into her thoughts. A normal person. What did that even mean? For her, normalcy was a foreign country she’d left at sixteen. She knew its contours only from movies, from watching the staff live their lives, from fleeting glimpses out of car windows. What would she be doing right now, at thirty-one, if she wasn’t… this? If there was no BLACKPINK, no cameras, no schedules that mapped her life in fifteen-minute increments?

Would she be married? The thought wasn’t sad, not even wistful. It was a gentle curiosity, like wondering about a book she’d never read. Would she have children? A small, warm weight in her arms, a different kind of exhaustion at the end of the day? Would she live in a house with a little yard, would she argue with her husband about whose turn it was to take out the trash, would she know all her neighbors by name?

Would she be happy?

It was an impossible question. She was happy. She loved her life, loved the art she’d helped create, loved her sisters, loved the roar of a stadium full of light. But happiness wasn’t a monolith. It could have different shapes, different textures. The curiosity was about the shape of the other ones, the roads her feet had never touched.

Her breathing deepened. The weight of the day, of the week, of the year, settled over her like a second blanket. Dalgom twitched in his sleep. Jisoo’s last conscious thought was a hazy, abstract feeling—not an image, but a sensation. The feeling of a hand, warm and sure, resting on the small of her back.

Then, nothing.

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

It began with sound. Or the absence of it.

The low, consistent hum of Seoul—the bass note of her reality for over a decade—simply faded. It didn’t stop abruptly; it dissolved, like sugar in water, leaving behind a different kind of quiet. This quiet was textured. It had layers. The creak of wood. The faint, papery rustle of… something. A soft, rhythmic sigh that wasn’t her own.

Then, smell. The clean, neutral scent of her linen spray was gone, replaced by something complex and unfamiliar. Old paper, yes, like a library. Polished wood. A hint of lemon cleaner. And underneath it all, something cooking—ginger, garlic, the earthy depth of doenjang. Homey. Deeply, overwhelmingly domestic.

Touch. The mattress beneath her changed. It was softer, yet thinner. She felt the give of the bedframe beneath it. The sheets were cotton, but a different weave—slightly rougher, starched. And warmth. A profound, solid warmth pressed against her back, from shoulders to calves. A line of heat. The sigh she’d heard repeated, a soft exhalation that stirred the hair at her nape.

Body heat. Someone was there.

Jisoo’s eyes snapped open.

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

Yellow light.

That was her first coherent thought. The light was yellow, pale and buttery, filtering through thin curtains printed with a faded pattern of tiny blue flowers. It lit up motes of dust dancing in a slow, silent waltz.

This was not her ceiling. Her ceiling was smooth, white, and recessed with discreet LED lights. This ceiling was textured with old plaster, a hairline crack meandering from the corner like a tiny river on a map. A single, bare bulb hung from a wire in the center.

She was lying on her side. Her body felt… wrong. Her center of gravity was off. There was a heavy, round weight pulling at her middle, a deep, dull ache in the small of her back. She shifted, trying to roll onto her back, and the weight shifted with her, a firm, unignorable presence against the mattress.

Jisoo looked down.

A swell of fabric. A rounded dome straining the soft cotton of her nightgown. She placed a hand on it, slowly, as if approaching a strange animal. It was firm. Warm. And as her fingers pressed gently, something… moved. A slow, rolling pressure against her palm from the inside.

She snatched her hand back as if burned.

A sound escaped her lips, a choked-off gasp that was half shock, half a system error—the blaring, internal DOES NOT COMPUTE.

Pregnant. She was very, very pregnant.

Okay. The word formed in her mind, calm and flat amidst the screaming of her nerves. Okay okay okay. I’m dreaming. This is obviously a dream. A very realistic, very detailed, very PREGNANT dream. This is what I get for thinking weird thoughts before bed. The universe heard me and said ‘bet.’

The logic, dream-logic, settled over her panic like a blanket. It made perfect sense. The fanart, the late-night musings about alternate lives—her subconscious had simply decided to run with it. And it had committed. Full period drama. She almost wanted to give it points for the production design.

The person behind her—the source of the warmth—stirred. An arm, heavy with sleep, slid across her waist, coming to rest just above the impossible curve of her belly. The touch was careful, practiced. A hand splayed possessively, gently, over her. A face nuzzled into the space between her shoulder blades. A voice, thick with sleep, mumbled into her nightgown.

“Sooya… sleep a little more…”

The voice was deep, softened by drowsiness. It wasn’t a voice she knew. The name wasn’t her name.

Jisoo became a plank of wood. She stopped breathing. She stared at the faded flowers on the curtain and counted her heartbeats, which were currently attempting a drum solo against her ribs. Nine seconds. Ten. Eleven.

The arm around her tightened just a fraction, pulling her back snugly against a solid, warm chest. The man—Suho, her dream-brain supplied, remembering the prompt—let out a contented sigh and fell still again, his breathing evening back into sleep.

Right. Suho. The husband. Of course her dream would include a husband. Go big or go home.

The initial shock began to recede, replaced by a bubbling, hysterical curiosity. Well, if this was a dream, she might as well explore it. She’d always been a “let’s see what happens” person. Jennie called it her 4D personality. Lisa called it chaos. Right now, it felt like a survival mechanism.

With painstaking slowness, she peeled the arm from her waist. The man—Suho—didn’t stir. He slept with the profound depth of the innocent. She slid out from under the covers, the morning air cool on her skin. Standing up was a revelation. Her body was unfamiliar territory. The weight in her front pulled her forward. She had to adjust her stance, settling her weight back on her heels to keep her balance. A faint, rhythmic pressure low in her belly—the baby, shifting. The dream-baby, she corrected herself firmly.

The room was small, cozy in a way her apartment never was. Wooden floors, worn smooth in paths from bed to door. A simple wooden wardrobe. A dresser with a small, oval mirror, its silvering flecked at the edges. A framed photograph sat on the dresser, but the light was too dim to make out the details. Her eyes were drawn to the window, to the yellow light and the quiet street beyond.

She caught her reflection in the dark mirror as she passed.

She still looked like herself. Kim Jisoo. Same eyes, same nose, same mouth. But… softer. Younger, maybe? Her hair was longer, falling in loose, unstyled waves past her shoulders, ink-black without a trace of dye. Her skin was bare of makeup, showing a faint dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks she hadn’t seen since trainee days. There was a healthy, sun-kissed glow to it. And her face held a different kind of quiet, a stillness that wasn’t about being camera-ready.

And then there was the profile. The dramatic, graceful curve from her breasts down to the proud swell of her stomach. She placed both hands on it. It was real. In the way dreams feel real. Solid. Alive. She swayed slightly, a wave of dizziness that was both physical and metaphysical.

“Okay, dream,” she whispered to her reflection. “Lead the way.”

She found a pair of slippers by the door and slipped them on. They were padded, warm. The bedroom door opened onto a short, narrow landing. Stairs led down directly into what looked like… a shop.

The smell hit her first, stronger now. Paper. Glue. Ink. Wood polish. It was a pleasant, nostalgic smell. She descended the stairs, her hand on the smooth wooden banister.

달빛 문방구 (Moonlight Stationery).

The shop was small, crammed full of inventory but meticulously organized. Shelves from floor to ceiling were packed with notebooks of all sizes—simple wire-bound ones, thicker journals with plain covers, stacks of loose-leaf paper tied with string. There were boxes of pencils, rows of pens in basic blue, black, and red, bottles of ink, pots of glue. A spinning rack held postcards with painted landscapes of Gunsan—the seaport, the mountains. A glass countertop displayed finer items: fountain pens, sets of watercolors, beautiful hanji paper. At the front, two large windows looked out onto the street, letting in the morning sun which illuminated the dancing dust in the shop air.

It was charming. Quaint. And, her professional eye noted immediately, the merchandising was terrible. The best items were hidden. The lighting was atrocious. There was no cohesive branding. The “packaging” was essentially non-existent. A part of her brain, the BLISSOO part, immediately began drafting a restructuring plan. She shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips. Why am I brand-strategizing in a dream?

The front door was locked, a simple bolt. She slid it open, the metal clack loud in the quiet, and stepped outside.

The air was cold and crisp, carrying the damp, salty tang of the sea. Not the filtered, climate-controlled air of Seoul. Real air. She breathed it in deeply.

The street was narrow, paved with old, worn cobblestones. The buildings were low, a mix of traditional Korean hanok structures with curved tile roofs and simpler, Japanese-colonial style buildings with wooden facades. Across the street, an elderly woman was sweeping the steps of a small eatery, the rhythmic swish-swish of her broom a peaceful sound. A bicycle bell ting-a-linged in the distance. Somewhere, a radio was playing a trot song, the melody tinny and faint.

She looked down the road. At the end of the street, the land opened up, and she could see the dark green folds of mountains in the distance. And beyond them, a sliver of shimmering grey-blue. The sea.

Where am I? The thought was calm. WHEN am I?

Her eyes fell on a newspaper rack fixed to the wall beside the shop door. A single copy of the Gunsan Ilbo was tucked inside. She pulled it out.

The headline was about a local fisheries dispute. Her eyes dropped to the date.

March 15, 1994.

She stared at the numbers. 1994. The year before she was born. She was looking at a newspaper from the day she was, in her other life, a newborn baby in Ilsan, oblivious to everything.

A laugh bubbled out of her, sudden and bright in the quiet street. It was a pure, delighted sound. “Okay, dream-brain,” she said aloud, folding the paper and tucking it back. “1994. Full period drama. I love the commitment. The detail is impressive. A-plus.”

Convinced, utterly convinced of the dream’s narrative, she felt a wave of relaxation. The rules were set. She was Sooya, pregnant wife of a stationery shop owner in 1994 Gunsan. Her only task was to experience it.

She was about to go back inside when a voice, warm and laced with sleepy concern, came from behind her.

“Sooya-ya? Why are you down already? You’re barefoot.”

She turned. Suho stood in the shop doorway. He was more awake now, his glasses perched on his nose, his black hair charmingly messy. He wore a soft, well-worn flannel shirt over a plain white t-shirt, and his trousers were slightly too short, showing his socks. He wasn’t tall, but he had a solid, comfortable presence. His eyes, behind the glasses, were fixed on her feet with a faint frown.

Before she could respond, he disappeared back inside and emerged a moment later with a pair of padded indoor slippers. He came to her, knelt on the cold cobblestones without a second thought, and gently took her foot, guiding it into the slipper. He did the same with the other, his touch firm and careful. It was an act of such unthinking, habitual tenderness that Jisoo’s breath caught in her throat.

He stood up, dusted his knees, and looked at her face. His expression softened. He leaned in and kissed her forehead. His lips were warm. “Hungry?” he asked, as if this was the most normal morning in the world. “I’ll make it. What do you want today?”

Jisoo, operating on dream-logic autopilot, smiled. “Anything?”

Suho’s eyebrows shot up. He narrowed his eyes playfully, a dimple appearing in his cheek. “Anything? Our Sooya says ‘anything’? Usually you’re pickier than a restaurant menu. ‘Suho-ya, not too salty.’ ‘Suho-ya, make the eggs runny.’ ‘Suho-ya, I think I want juk instead.’” He imitated a whiny voice, but his eyes were full of affection.

He laughed at his own impression, a warm, open sound that seemed to fill the cool morning air. Despite everything—the impossible pregnancy, the wrong year, the wrong life—Jisoo felt the corner of her mouth twitch in response. The dream had excellent casting.

“Surprise me,” she said.

His smile widened. “A challenge. I accept. Go sit. I’ll bring it up.”

He ushered her back inside, his hand a light, guiding pressure on the small of her back—the exact spot she’d felt a phantom touch just before falling asleep. She shivered.

She sat on the high stool behind the counter as he bustled through a door behind the shop that led, she presumed, to a kitchen. She explored the counter. A simple cash register, an abacus dusty with disuse, a ledger book with neat columns of numbers. She opened a drawer. Pens, paper clips, a few loose stamps. And a wallet.

Curiosity won. She opened it. There was some worn won notes—the old-style currency she’d only seen in museums. An ID card.

Lee Soo-ya. Female. Born: March 3, 1969. Address: Gunsan-si…

The photo was black and white, slightly grainy. It was her face. Younger. Serious. But undeniably her.

“Finding everything?” Suho’s voice made her jump. He was leaning in the kitchen doorway, holding two steaming bowls. He didn’t look suspicious, just amused.

“Just… checking the inventory,” Jisoo said lamely, sliding the drawer shut.

He chuckled. “Of course. CEO-nim.” He placed a bowl in front of her. It was a simple, beautiful gyeran-mari—a rolled omelette—perfectly golden, sliced into delicate rounds, served over a bed of warm rice. A small dish of kimchi and some spinach namul sat beside it. It was humble, perfect.

“It’s beautiful,” Jisoo said, and meant it.

They ate in a comfortable silence broken only by the sounds of their spoons and Suho’s occasional soft comments about a customer who might come by later. Jisoo watched him. The way he pushed his glasses up his nose with a knuckle. The way he carefully picked the greenest pieces of kimchi for her bowl. The quiet, contented focus he gave to his food. He was nothing like anyone in her world. He was utterly real.

After breakfast, Suho opened the shop. He moved with a methodical, quiet efficiency. Flipping the hand-painted sign on the door from ‘CLOSED’ to ‘OPEN’. Using a feather duster to gently sweep the tops of the notebook stacks. Rearranging the front window display to feature a new set of colored pencils. He hummed while he worked, a tune she didn’t recognize, gloriously off-key.

The customers came slowly. A harried mother buying a stack of notebooks and complaining about school fees. An elderly man who spent twenty minutes browsing the used paperback novels on a back shelf, finally selecting a worn copy of a Korean translation of Les Misérables. A pair of middle-school girls giggling over sparkly stickers. Suho handled them all with the same patient, kind attention. He knew the mother’s children’s names. He discussed the themes of Hugo’s work with the old man. He teased the girls about which boy they were making the stickers for.

Jisoo observed from her stool, the silent dreamer. She found a blank, high-quality notebook under the counter and began flipping through it. The paper was thick, creamy, with a slight tooth. It would be perfect for watercolor. The cover, however, was a drab, utilitarian brown. This needs a redesign, she thought, her mind automatically crafting a vision: a soft, moon-blue cover, the shop’s name embossed in silver, a simple line drawing of a mountain and sea. A limited edition Moonlight Stationery journal. Market it to the university students in Jeonju… She shook her head, smiling at herself. Stop it. This isn’t a brand workshop. It’s a dream.

The bell above the door jingled, and a new scent entered—savory, meaty, delicious. A small, spry elderly woman bustled in, holding a covered plate. She had a face like a kindly apple, wrinkled and bright-eyed.

“Sooya-ya!” she called, her voice a loud, cheerful rasp. “I saw Suho opening the shutters. You’re up! But why does your face look like that? Pale! Didn’t you sleep well? I told you, pregnant women need to sleep a lot! In our day, we worked in the fields until our water broke, but that doesn’t mean it was right! You modern girls need to rest!”

This, Jisoo understood, was Halmeoni Ok-soon from the dumpling shop next door. The torrent of unsolicited advice was delivered with such blunt, grandmotherly force that it bypassed Jisoo’s usual filters. In her dream-logic state, with no social calibration for 1994 small-town etiquette, she responded with equal directness.

She took the proffered plate, uncovering it to reveal six perfect, plump mandu, still steaming. “Oh, yes. Thank you, Halmeoni. But these are really good.” She took a bite right there. The flavor was incredible—garlicky, juicy, the wrapper tender. Her eyes widened. “Seriously. Do you have the recipe?”

Halmeoni Ok-soon stopped mid-stride, her next lecture dying on her lips. She blinked. Sooya was usually so quiet, smiling and nodding politely. This Sooya… was looking her right in the eye, chewing with genuine appreciation, and asking for her recipe. A slow, delighted smile spread across the old woman’s face. She puffed up like a little bird.

“The recipe? Pah! It’s in here!” She tapped her temple. “A little of this, a little of that. The secret is the kimchi. You have to use the right fermentation. I’ll show you sometime. When you’re less… round.” She patted Jisoo’s belly with a surprisingly gentle hand. “Different today, our Sooya. I like it.” With a final nod to Suho, she bustled back out.

Suho was looking at Jisoo with a curious, soft expression. “She’s right,” he said after a moment. “You are different today.”

Jisoo felt a flicker of panic, but drowned it in dream-rationale. “Just… a good dream,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

The day unfurled slowly, a lazy ribbon of time. Jisoo explored the living quarters behind the shop—a small kitchen with a two-burner gas stove, a bathroom with a deep, old-fashioned tub, a living room with a sagging but comfortable sofa and a small television with rabbit-ear antennas. It was all modest, worn, but cared for. Love was in the details: the crocheted blanket draped over the sofa, the well-seasoned cast-iron pots, the stack of library books on the side table.

She went upstairs and examined the wardrobe. The clothes were simple, practical maternity wear—loose dresses, elastic-waisted pants, soft sweaters. No brands, no labels. She chose a long, navy blue dress made of a soft cotton blend and put it on. It felt strange, the fabric draping over the unfamiliar landscape of her body. She looked in the bedroom mirror. She saw a woman who looked like her, but who belonged here. A woman who knew how to season a soup, who mended socks, who waited for her husband to come home from work. I look… domestic, she thought, with a distant wonder. I look like someone’s wife.

As evening drew in, Suho closed the shop, pulling the heavy shutters with a final, definitive clatter. The world outside dimmed to shades of blue and grey. He made dinner—doenjang jjigae, the rich, fermented soybean paste stew bubbling with tofu, zucchini, and potatoes. The smell filled the small kitchen, deep and comforting. They ate at the low table in the living room, knees almost touching underneath.

He talked about the day’s sales—not great. A distributor had increased paper prices. The school down the street was switching to a different supplier. He spoke without self-pity, just stating facts. The part of Jisoo that was a CEO itched to analyze, to strategize, to suggest a loyalty program or a social media campaign. She bit her tongue. Don’t get invested. It’s a dream.

But watching him, the soft worry line between his brows, the way he diligently finished every grain of rice in his bowl, she felt a strange, protective pang. This man, this dream-husband, was trying his best.

After washing the dishes (he washed, she dried, a silent, efficient dance), they went upstairs. The room was dark now, lit only by a small lamp on his side of the bed. He sat propped against the headboard, reading a worn paperback with a cracked spine. She changed into a soft nightgown and slid into bed beside him, hyper-aware of every detail: the rustle of the pages, the faint scent of soap on his skin, the deep, regular sound of his breathing, the occasional, miraculous shift of the baby inside her.

Her mind was a whirlwind. The realism was staggering. The sensory overload was complete. This felt less like a dream and more like… a possession. She was inhabiting a life.

He put the book down on the nightstand with a soft thud and turned off the lamp. The room plunged into darkness, broken only by the silver moonlight now streaming through the curtains. He turned to her. She could feel his gaze even in the dark.

His hand came up, fingers gently brushing her hair back from her face. His thumb traced the line of her cheekbone, a touch so tender it made her heart ache. His hand lingered on her cheek, warm and solid.

“You were a little different today,” he whispered. His voice was a low rumble in the dark. Not an accusation. Not a complaint. A simple, loving observation.

Jisoo’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird. This was the edge of the dream. The intimate core. It’s just a dream, she chanted internally. He’s not real. I’m not really here. None of this counts. The logic held, but her body didn’t seem to believe it. Her skin was alive under his touch. Her breath hitched.

In dreams, you don’t have to be careful. You don’t have to guard your image, protect your brand, maintain a distance. In dreams, you can just… feel.

She didn’t pull away.

A soft sound escaped him—a sigh of contentment, of homecoming. His hand slid from her cheek, down her neck, over her shoulder, coming to rest on the slope of her belly. He splayed his fingers wide, feeling the curve, the life beneath. The baby shifted, a rolling pressure against his palm. He stilled, then let out a breathless, wondrous laugh.

“Hello there,” he murmured to her stomach.

Then his touch moved again, tracing the neckline of her nightgown, his fingers slipping beneath the thin fabric to cup her breast. His thumb stroked her nipple, and it tightened instantly into a hard, sensitive peak. A sharp gasp tore from Jisoo’s lips. It had been so long since she’d been touched like this, with such uncomplicated, devoted desire. Not for a camera, not as part of a fantasy, but as a man wanting his wife.

“Suho…” she breathed, his name foreign and familiar on her tongue.

“Shhh,” he whispered, shifting closer. His lips found hers in the darkness.

The kiss was slow, deep, and devastatingly sweet. It wasn’t frantic or performative. It was a rediscovery. His mouth was warm, his lips soft but sure. He tasted of green tea and home. One hand remained cradling her breast, his thumb still making slow, maddening circles, while the other arm wrapped around her, pulling her as close as the swell of her belly would allow.

Jisoo surrendered to it. To the dream. Her arms came up around his neck, her fingers tangling in his soft, messy hair. She kissed him back, letting the strange, wonderful sensations wash over her. The scratch of his flannel shirt against her arms. The solid muscle of his back under her palms. The hot, insistent pressure of his erection against her thigh.

He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, and trailed his lips down her jaw, her neck, to the sensitive hollow of her throat. His hands worked the buttons of her nightgown open, one by one, until the fabric fell apart. The cool night air hit her skin, followed immediately by the heat of his mouth on her breast. He took her nipple inside, sucking gently, his tongue flicking over the peak.

A moan, low and involuntary, ripped from Jisoo’s chest. Her back arched off the bed, pushing herself deeper into his mouth. Pleasure, sharp and bright, lanced through her, pooling hot and heavy between her legs. She was already wet, her body responding with an eager, ancient logic that her mind had no hope of governing.

“Sooya…” he murmured against her skin, his voice thick with reverence. “My beautiful Sooya.”

His kisses trailed lower, over the taut, stretched skin of her belly. He worshipped it with his lips, his whispered words lost against her skin. He moved down, down, pushing the nightgown completely aside, settling between her thighs.

The first touch of his tongue there made her cry out, her hands flying to fist in the sheets. It was so intimate, so vulnerable. He held her hips gently, his grip firm but yielding, as he tasted her. He was slow, thorough, attentive. He learned her rhythm, her responses, with the same patient focus he gave to his shop. His tongue circled her clit, flat and broad, then focused into a precise, relentless point. One of his fingers, slick with her arousal, pressed gently at her entrance, then slid inside, curling just so.

The orgasm built slowly, a rising tide of heat and tension, coiling tighter and tighter in her belly. She was panting, her hips moving helplessly against his mouth. The world narrowed to the dark room, the sound of his breathing, the exquisite pressure of his tongue and finger.

“Suho… I’m going to…” she gasped, a warning, a plea.

He answered by sucking her clit firmly into his mouth, his finger pressing deep.

The release shattered her. It was a wave of pure, blinding pleasure that crashed over her, pulling a long, ragged cry from her throat. Her body convulsed, trembling uncontrollably as he gentled his touch, drawing out every last pulse and shudder until she lay boneless, gasping into the dark.

He moved up her body, kissing her stomach, her breasts, her collarbone, her lips. She could taste herself on his mouth, salty and intimate. He was still fully dressed, his flannel shirt rough against her sensitized skin. She fumbled with his buttons, her hands clumsy with aftershocks.

“Let me,” he whispered, sitting up to strip off his shirt and trousers. The moonlight caught the lines of his body—lean, strong, beautiful in its ordinary masculinity. He leaned over her again, his eyes dark pools of affection and hunger.

“Okay?” he asked, his voice rough. Always checking. Always caring.

She nodded, reaching for him. “Yes. Please.”

He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his cock nudging against her slick, swollen flesh. He pushed in slowly, inch by exquisite inch, giving her body time to stretch and accommodate him. The fullness was overwhelming, a perfect, aching pressure. He buried his face in her neck, groaning as he seated himself fully inside her.

“God… you feel… you always feel like heaven,” he choked out.

Then he began to move. His thrusts were deep, slow, and measured, a rhythm set to the beating of their hearts. Each stroke dragged against a spot inside her that sent sparks flying behind her eyelids. One of his hands slid under her hip, tilting her to take him even deeper. The other hand found its way between their bodies, his thumb resuming its gentle, circular massage on her clit.

The second orgasm crept up on her, different from the first. Not a crashing wave, but a warm, golden sunrise spreading from her core outward. It was tied inextricably to the feeling of him inside her, to the love in his touch, to the profound, impossible reality of this shared moment. She clung to him, her nails digging into the sweat-damp skin of his back, her cries muffled against his shoulder as she came again, a soft, continuous unraveling that seemed to go on forever.

It tipped him over the edge. With a final, deep thrust, he groaned her name—Sooya—and she felt the hot pulse of his release inside her. He collapsed onto her, careful to keep his weight on his elbows, his forehead resting against hers, their breath mingling in the dark.

For a long time, they just lay like that, connected, hearts hammering in unison. Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. He didn’t roll away. He gathered her into his arms, turning them onto their sides, her back to his chest, his arm draping possessively over her waist, his hand once again resting on the curve of her belly. He kissed her shoulder.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice slurry with impending sleep. “So much.”

Jisoo said nothing. She couldn’t. The words were a stone in her throat. She lay in the circle of his arms, feeling the baby stir lazily within her, feeling the warm, sticky evidence of their lovemaking between her thighs, feeling his steady breath against her neck.

My subconscious really said the full drama, huh? she thought, drowsiness beginning to pull at her. OST and everything.

A faint, incredulous smile touched her lips. She had never felt so physically satiated, so emotionally… touched. In her world, intimacy was a concept, a rumor, something that happened to other people in movies. This felt like belonging. This felt like home.

It was just a dream. But it was the most real dream she’d ever had.

She let her eyes close. She let herself be held. She fell asleep to the rhythm of his heartbeat against her back.

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

2026 | Seoul

Beep. Beep. Beepbeepbeepbeep—

Jisoo’s eyes flew open. Darkness. Then the familiar, dim pre-dawn glow of her bedroom. The insistent, electronic shriek of her phone alarm.

A warm, wet tongue swiped across her cheek. Dalgom.

She sat up, gasping. The movement felt strange. Light. Unbalanced. She looked down, throwing the duvet aside.

Flat stomach. The smooth plane of her own abdomen under her silk pajama top. No weight. No curve.

Her hands flew to her belly, pressing. Nothing. No movement. Just her own firm muscle and skin.

She was alone in the bed.

The room was silent except for the alarm and Dalgom’s panting. Her room. Her bed. The city’s faint hum beyond the windows.

“What…” she breathed.

She stumbled out of bed, her legs shaky, and rushed to the bathroom, flipping on the blinding LED lights. She stared at her reflection.

Kim Jisoo. Perfectly styled sleep-messy hair. Flawless skin, courtesy of last night’s Dior Prestige routine. Her own face, her own body, slender and familiar.

But her skin felt… different. Not physically. Emotionally. It felt alive, humming, sensitive in a way it hadn’t for years. She could still feel the phantom weight of an arm across her waist, the warm press of a body against her back. She raised a hand and touched her cheek where his thumb had traced her cheekbone. The skin there felt electrified.

She looked at her reflection, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted. A deep, hot flush was spreading across her chest and up her neck, a blush that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature.

“I must really be crazy,” she said aloud, her voice hoarse.

The shower was a mechanical routine. The water hit her skin, and for a second, she imagined it was the sweat cooling on her skin from another world. She shook her head violently, as if to dislodge the thought. Stop it.

But she couldn’t stop her hands. As she dried off, she kept touching her stomach, her breasts, her thighs. Her body remembered. It remembered the slow, deep thrusts, the curl of a tongue, the careful, worshipping hands. Arousal, faint and persistent, thrummed low in her belly, a leftover echo from a dream that felt more like a memory.

She dressed on autopilot: simple black trousers, a cream-colored knit sweater, minimal jewelry. She applied her makeup with a steady hand, constructing the public face of Kim Jisoo. But underneath the foundation, her skin still felt flushed. Her eyes in the mirror held a bewildered, haunted depth.

Her manager, Seri, was waiting in the black sedan idling at the curb. Jisoo slid into the back seat, the familiar scent of lemon disinfectant and leather filling her nose.

“Good morning,” Seri said, not looking up from her tablet. “Schedule today: 9 AM, Meeting about potential drama projects. 11:30, a potential brand collaboration proposal meeting with Salomon. 2 PM, Vogue Korea magazine photoshoot for Upcoming Dior Beauty campaign. 6 PM, vocal coaching for the solo track—”

“Unnie,” Jisoo interrupted, her voice softer than she intended.

Seri looked up, surprised. Jisoo rarely interrupted.

“Do you happen to know,” Jisoo asked, staring out the window at the streaming Seoul traffic, “a shop called Moonlight Stationery? In Gunsan?”

Seri’s brow furrowed. She blinked. “What? Moonlight… stationery? In Gunsan? No. Why? Do you need office supplies? I can have someone—”

“No,” Jisoo said quickly, a faint, strained smile on her lips. She waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing. Never mind. It was just… a dream I had.”

She turned back to the window, watching the cityscape blur past. Her reflection in the glass superimposed itself over the moving world—her polished, perfect image, but in the transparency, she could still see the mountains, the narrow street, the yellow morning light of another time.

Something had started. A door had cracked open in the fabric of her reality. She didn’t understand it. She couldn’t explain it.

But her body remembered. The warmth, the weight, the love that didn’t belong to her, yet had been poured into her all the same.

She touched her stomach once more, a secret gesture hidden in the folds of her sweater.

And for the first time in a long time, Kim Jisoo felt completely, terrifyingly awake.

»»——————————-　♡　——————————-««

Chapter 2: The Weight of Ordinary Life

2026 | Seoul

The morning after the dream-that-felt-too-real dream, Kim Jisoo made toast.

It felt like an act of profound normalcy, a ritual to tether herself to the reality of her stainless steel kitchen, her marble countertops, her life. The bread was artisanal sourdough from a bakery in Hannam-dong that charged ₩12,000 for a loaf. She placed two slices in the chrome toaster and pressed the lever down with more force than necessary. The clunk was satisfyingly real.

While the bread heated, she measured coffee beans—Ethiopian Yirgacheffe, single-origin—into the grinder. The machine’s whirr filled the silent apartment. Dalgom padded into the kitchen, his nails clicking on the polished concrete floor, and sat politely by his food bowl, looking up at her with expectant eyes.

“Good morning,” Jisoo said, her voice still rough with sleep. “You have a busy day today? Lots of naps scheduled? Some strategic pillow rearrangement?”

Dalgom thumped his tail once.

“Right. Important work.” She poured kibble into his bowl, the dry rattle another anchor in the real world. “I have two meetings and a shoot. You’ll hold down the fort?”

He began eating with single-minded focus, which she took as agreement.

The toast popped up. Perfectly golden. She spread unsalted butter—French, of course—and a thin layer of homemade plum jam a fan had sent to the BLISSOO office. The first bite was crisp, sweet, tangy. She chewed slowly, leaning against the counter, and looked out the floor-to-ceiling window. Seoul stretched before her, a geometric tapestry of glass and steel under a pale morning sky. The city was waking up. Tiny cars crept along the Han River bridges. In the distance, the jagged silhouette of Namsan Tower pierced the haze.

This is my life, she told herself firmly. This is real.

But her skin still remembered the weight of a flannel shirt against it. Her lower back held the faint, phantom ache of a different body’s posture. And when she closed her eyes for a second, she didn’t see the cityscape—she saw a narrow street with cobblestones, and mountains in the distance, and the sea.

“Stop it,” she muttered to herself, opening her eyes.

She took her coffee—black, no sugar—and the remaining toast to the small dining table by the window. Her journal lay there, a beautiful leather-bound thing from a stationery shop in Milan. She’d bought it thinking it would be filled with profound thoughts about art and legacy. Mostly it contained grocery lists, random lyrics, and doodles of Dalgom.

She opened it to a fresh page. The blank cream paper stared back at her.

Pen in hand, she hesitated. Then she wrote, her script neat and controlled:

March 17, 2026. Strange dream last night. Very vivid.

She paused, took a sip of coffee.

I was in the 1990s. In a small town. Gunsan, I think. I was pregnant. (????)

She drew a little arrow and sketched a quick stick figure with a huge, round belly. She added two dots for eyes and a straight line for a mouth. The figure looked bewildered.

I was married. His name was Suho. He owned a stationery shop. Moonlight Stationery. He put slippers on my feet when I went outside barefoot.

Her pen hovered. The memory of his hands on her feet—warm, careful, kneeling on cold stone—was so tactile it made her shiver. She wrote faster, the letters becoming less precise.

It felt completely real. The smells. The light. The way the bed creaked. The taste of the food. The sound of his voice.

She stopped. Her face grew warm. She could feel the flush creeping up her neck.

And then…

She didn’t write it. Instead, she drew a series of frantic, scribbling lines, blacking out the bottom third of the page. Then, over the scribbles, in bold, emphatic strokes:

MY SUBCONSCIOUS IS A MENACE.

She underlined it three times.

She closed the journal with a soft thump. Picked up her coffee cup. Drained it.

The cup was empty. The toast was gone. The city outside was still there. Dalgom was licking his bowl clean.

Normal. Everything was normal.

She opened the journal again. Flipped to the same page. In the margin, very small, as if trying to hide the words from herself, she wrote:

He was gentle.

Then she snapped the journal shut so hard Dalgom looked up, startled.

“Don’t give me that look,” she told him. “You don’t know anything.”

He blinked slowly, which felt deeply judgmental.

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

The BLISSOO office occupied the top floor of a modest building in Nonhyeon-dong. It was sleek but not ostentatious—white walls, exposed concrete accents, furniture in muted tones of grey and navy. Large windows offered a view of the bustling street below, a constant reminder of the industry they were navigating. Jisoo’s own office was at the back, separated by a glass wall. She kept the blinds open. She wanted to be visible, approachable. She was still learning what that meant.

Her small team—fifteen people, mostly in their late twenties and thirties, a mix of marketing, branding, and operations specialists—were already at their desks when she arrived at 8:45 AM. A low hum of conversation and keyboard clicks filled the space. The smell of coffee was permanent.

“Good morning, Jisoo-ssi,” her head of operations, Min-ji, said, falling into step beside her as Jisoo walked toward her office. Min-ji was in her early forties, fiercely competent, and had the calm demeanor of someone who had survived multiple entertainment industry cycles. She was Jisoo’s anchor.

“Morning. What’s first?”

“10 AM. The drama production meeting. The packets are on your desk. Three scripts.”

Jisoo nodded. “And the Salomon proposal?”

“Revised and in your inbox. They conceded on the creative control clause. I think they really want you.”

A small thrill, familiar and professional, went through her. “Good.”

Inside her office, she set her bag down and shrugged off her coat. The scripts sat in three neat piles. She settled into her chair, put on her reading glasses—a simple, tortoiseshell pair she’d bought specifically for this role—and opened the first one.

Love in the Moonlight (working title). A historical romance. A plucky palace maid catches the eye of a brooding crown prince. By episode three, he was saving her from a vicious rival. By episode five, she was teaching him about the “common people” through the power of her pure heart. Jisoo read the synopsis, then skimmed a few scenes. The dialogue was stiff. The female lead’s primary characteristics were “spunky” and “kind.” Her only conflict was whether to choose love or duty.

Jisoo put it down. Picked up the second.

My Lawyer, My Love. A modern rom-com. A chaotic, food-loving public defender falls for the cold, efficient corporate lawyer who is opposing her in a case. It was better. The banter had potential. But by the end of the treatment, the female lead had given up her job at the non-profit to join the male lead’s fancy firm, because “love means compromise.”

Jisoo sighed. She rubbed her temples.

The third script was thinner. Island of Shadows. A mystery-thriller. A reclusive forensic photographer on a remote island is forced to confront her traumatic past when a body washes ashore. The lead character, Soo-jin, was sharp, damaged, brilliant, and silent for long stretches. The story was about the pictures she took, the secrets they revealed, and her own slow journey back to the world. There was a potential love interest—a local fisherman with his own quiet sorrow—but he didn’t save her. They saved each other, sometimes by just sitting together in silence, watching the sea.

Jisoo read the first fifteen pages without looking up. When she finally did, the office outside her glass wall had come fully to life. She realized she’d been holding her breath.

The 10 AM meeting convened in the small conference room. Her creative director, Tae-hyun, and Min-ji joined her.

“So,” Tae-hyun began, tapping his tablet. “Love in the Moonlight. The production company is big. The PD wants you badly. It’s a guaranteed ratings hit. The public loves a palace romance.”

Jisoo leaned back in her chair. “The female lead has no interiority. She’s a plot device with a cute face.”

Tae-hyun blinked. “Well… it’s a romance. The focus is the love story.”

“The love story is boring if one of the people is a cardboard cutout,” Jisoo said, her voice mild. “Next.”

“My Lawyer, My Love. The writer is young, hot. The dialogue is very now. It’s fun.”

“It is fun,” Jisoo agreed. “Until she gives up her career that she’s passionate about because he has a nicer office. Why does she have to be the one to compromise? Why can’t he leave his soulless corporate job and go work at the legal aid center with her?”

Min-ji hid a smile behind her hand.

Tae-hyun looked pained. “That’s… not the fantasy.”

“I’m not interested in that fantasy,” Jisoo said. She pushed Island of Shadows across the table. “This one.”

Tae-hyun picked it up, scanned the title page. His eyebrows shot up. “This is… dark. Small production. First-time writer. The director is known for very arty, very low-budget indie films. There’s no guaranteed audience.”

“I like it,” Jisoo said simply. "Soo-jin. She’s not just reacting to things happening to her. She’s doing things. She’s solving something. Her silence is active. It means something. I want to play someone who has a rich inner life, even if the camera isn’t spelling it out with a voiceover. But the ending was a little too unrealistic. Keep your eyes open. Find me something similar to this.”

There was a beat of silence. Min-ji nodded slowly. Tae-hyun looked at the script again, a new respect in his eyes.

“Okay,” he said finally. “We'll keep our eyes open. But Jisoo-ssi, these kinds of indie project isn't guaranteed success. It's not safe for—”

“I don’t want safe,” Jisoo said, and for a dizzying moment, she wasn’t sure if she was talking about the script or something else entirely.

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

The brand collaboration meeting was smoother. Salomon, the outdoor apparel company, wanted her not just as a face, but as a collaborator on a limited-edition line of hiking wear. “For the urban explorer,” their sleek Korean marketing head explained. “For the person who finds nature in the city.”

Jisoo reviewed the mood boards—photos of misty mountains, dew on spiderwebs, the textured bark of trees in Bukhansan. The proposed designs were functional but stylish. She pointed to a jacket. “This color. The olive green. It’s too… military. Make it softer. Like the color of moss after rain.” She tapped a pair of pants. “The cut here is too tight for actual movement. If we’re selling freedom of movement, the clothes need to allow it.”

The marketing head nodded, making notes. “Of course. We want your genuine input.”

“Good,” Jisoo said. “Because I won’t wear something I wouldn’t actually hike in.”

As the meeting wrapped up, her phone buzzed on the table. A text from her older sister, Jiyoon.

Unnie:Mom made kimchi jjigae… when are you coming? I’ll send you a picture.

A second later, a photo arrived. A steaming, rust-red clay pot of kimchi jjigae, bubbles breaking on the surface, packed with tofu, pork, and translucent noodles. On the side, a dozen small banchan dishes covered the table—spinach, bean sprouts, seasoned cucumbers, fried fish. Their parents’ kitchen table, the wood worn shiny with years. Her father’s hand was visible at the edge of the frame, holding a spoon.

A sudden, visceral ache hollowed out Jisoo’s chest. It wasn’t just hunger. It was a longing for that specific chaos, that loud, overlapping talk, the way her mother would scold her father for taking too much kimchi, the way the television would be on in the background to some afternoon drama.

And then, unbidden, another kitchen table superimposed itself over the image in her mind. Smaller. Wobbly. In a tiny kitchen that smelled of doenjang and wood polish. A single bowl of stew, steam rising in a shaft of morning light. A man across from her, pushing his glasses up his nose, telling her a silly story about a customer as he carefully picked out the best pieces of tofu for her bowl.

The memory was so vivid she could taste the fermented soybean paste on her tongue.

“Jisoo-ssi?” The Salomon representative was looking at her, concerned.

Jisoo blinked, forcing the other kitchen away. She smiled, the professional one. “Sorry. Family text. The stew looks delicious.” She held up her phone as proof.

“Ah, mom’s cooking. Nothing compares,” the woman said with a sympathetic smile.

“Nothing,” Jisoo agreed, her voice a little tight.

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

The Dior photoshoot was in a studio in Gangnam, all white cyclorama walls and towering softboxes. Jisoo was transformed—hair sleeked back into a severe ponytail, makeup bold and graphic, emphasizing her eyes and cheekbones. She wore a structured black blazer over nothing but a lace bodysuit, the lines sharp and powerful.

She knew this dance. The photographer, a renowned Italian named Marco, called out directions in a mix of English and enthusiastic Italian.

“Yes! Jisoo, give me strength! Like you are queen of the world! Perfetto! Now, softer. Look through me. Like you have a secret. Sì! Bellissima!”

She shifted her weight, tilted her chin, let her gaze go distant then sharp. The camera shutter was a rapid, mechanical heartbeat. Click-click-click-click. She was good at this. She knew how her body looked from every angle, knew how to create a narrative with a single glance. It was a performance, and she was a master performer.

During a lighting change, she checked her phone. The BLACKPINK group chat was alive.

Jennie: [A 47-second voice note. The sound of Parisian traffic, then wind, then her voice, slightly muffled.] “I’m in Paris. It’s raining. I’m eating a croissant that cost €9. It’s good, but not €9 good. I miss Korean food. Life update over.” [The sound of a bite, then a thoughtful hum.]

Rosé: jisoo unnie did you try the pasta recipe I sent? the one with the lemon and chili? it’s so easy i promise

Jisoo: yes

(She had not. The recipe involved zest and a specific kind of pecorino she was sure she couldn’t find in Seoul.)

Lisa: [A 3-second video of a fluffy white cat attempting to jump onto a table, misjudging, and sliding off in a slow, graceful collapse. The camera shook with silent laughter.]

Jisoo smiled, a real one this time. She typed a string of crying-laughing emojis.

Jisoo: that’s me trying to adult

Jennie: you ARE an adult. a CEO adult. it’s terrifying.

Jisoo: don’t remind me

Rosé: unnie are you eating well?

Jisoo looked at the text. Are you eating well? The universal Korean check-in. She thought of the toast, the delivery tteokbokki she’d order later. She thought of the mandu from Halmeoni Ok-soon, steaming and perfect.

Jisoo: yes. you?

Rosé: yes! made kimchi fried rice at 3am

“Jisoo! We’re ready!” Marco called.

She put her phone away, the smile lingering on her lips as she walked back to the mark. The lights were blinding. She took her position, let the persona settle back over her like a second skin.

Click-click-click.

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

The vocal lesson was in a small, soundproofed studio in Apgujeong. Her coach, Park So-min, was a legend—a tiny woman in her sixties with the presence of a general and the ears of a bat.

“Warm up from the middle,” she instructed, her hands moving as if conducting an invisible orchestra. “Don’t push from the throat. Support, support.”

Jisoo stood at the microphone, eyes closed, running through scales. Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah. Her voice felt good. Clear. The solo track they were working on was a ballad, melancholic and soaring. It was about memory, about something beautiful and lost that you couldn’t quite grasp.

They ran through the first verse and chorus. Jisoo’s voice wrapped around the melody, soft on the verses, opening up on the chorus with a controlled power that made the hair on her own arms stand up.

“Good,” So-min said from behind the console. “Now, the second verse. More intimacy. Like you’re whispering a secret to someone sleeping next to you.”

Jisoo nodded. She took a breath, opened her mouth to sing.

“The shape of your hand on the pillow next to mine…”

And suddenly, she wasn’t in the studio. She was in a dark room, yellow light just extinguished, the scent of old paper and clean skin in the air. A warm hand was splayed over her stomach. A voice, thick with sleep and love, murmured into her hair.

“Sooya…”

Her voice cracked. A flat, ugly note where a soft, floating one should have been.

The music stopped. The silence in the studio was absolute.

Jisoo’s eyes flew open. Her face was burning.

So-min was looking at her through the glass, one eyebrow arched. She didn’t say anything. She just pressed a button on the console. “Again. From ‘pillow.’”

Jisoo swallowed. Her throat felt tight. She nodded.

This time, she nailed it. The note was perfect, the emotion pitched exactly right—aching, tender, distant. She finished the run-through flawlessly.

When she came out of the booth, Soo-ah was sipping tea. “Better,” she said. “What was that before? A ghost walked over your grave?”

“Something like that,” Jisoo mumbled, busying herself with her water bottle.

“Hm.” So-min’s eyes were knowing. “The best art comes from a real place. Even if that place is… inconvenient.” She stood up, patting Jisoo’s arm. “Good work today. Don’t be a stranger to the feeling. Use it.”

Jisoo just nodded, her ears still hot.

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

Home, again. The automatic lights flickered on as she entered, revealing the pristine, empty expanse of her apartment. Dalgom came skidding around the corner, tails whipping, overjoyed at her return. The explosion of life, of noise, of need was a relief. She knelt, letting him lick her face, his warm body wriggling against her.

“Okay, okay, I missed you too,” she laughed, the sound echoing in the space.

She ordered tteokbokki and fried mandu from the place down the street that knew her order by heart. While she waited, she changed into soft sweatpants and an old BLACKPINK hoodie from their debut days. The fabric was worn thin, comforting.

She ate on the large sectional sofa, a drama playing on the huge television. It was a popular one, a fantasy romance. The male lead, a celestial being, was confessing his eternal love to the human female lead on a cliff under a magical moon. The dialogue was poetic, sweeping. The music swelled.

Jisoo chewed a rice cake, watching. It was pretty. It was empty.

Her mind drifted. To the shop. To the ledger with its neat columns. To Suho’s worried frown over the price of paper. A real problem. A small, tangible problem. She found herself mentally calculating—if they offered a discount for bulk school orders, if they created a simple loyalty stamp card, if they rearranged the window to highlight the beautiful hanji paper near the light…

She shook her head. Not your problem. Not your shop. Not your life.

But the thought persisted, a persistent, nagging tune.

After eating, she opened her laptop. The glow of the screen was the only light in the dark living room. Dalgom and Love were asleep on the rug, a pile of fluffy limbs.

She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the keys. Then she typed, the letters clicking softly.

달빛문방구 군산

Search.

Results: Modern office supply chains with similar name. Nothing exact.

이수야, 군산, 1969년

Search.

A few results for people named Lee Soo-ya. A graduate student in Seoul. A nurse in Busan. None born in 1969 in Gunsan.

임수호

Hundreds of thousands of results. A common name. A baseball player. A politician. A poet.

She closed the laptop with a loud snap.

She sat back, a strange mixture of disappointment and relief washing over her. Of course there was nothing. It was a dream. A spectacularly detailed, emotionally devastating, physically convincing dream, but a dream.

“See?” she said aloud to the empty room. “Just a dream.”

But her body didn’t believe it. The memory of physical sensation was too precise. The soreness in muscles she hadn’t used. The ghost of a touch on her skin. The way her own body had responded, eagerly, to a stranger in the dark.

A stranger she had thought was a figment of her imagination.

A fresh wave of heat flooded her face. She put her head in her hands. Oh my god. She had… with a dream character. Because she thought it was safe. Because in dreams, you don’t have consequences.

But what if it wasn’t a dream?

The question, once allowed, was terrifying.

She opened the laptop again. Typed a new search.

Can dreams feel physically real?

She read three articles from psychology and neuroscience websites. They talked about lucid dreaming, about the brain’s ability to simulate sensation, about how emotional memories could be remembered and slowly fade over time. It was all very rational, very scientific.

It didn’t explain the taste of the doenjang jjigae. It didn’t explain the specific grain of the wood on the banister. It didn’t explain the feeling of a hand, calloused and gentle, guiding her foot into a slipper. Didn't explain the Ultra HD memory with every minor detail, not fading, but printed permanently on her memory.

She closed the laptop with a definitive click that was louder than necessary in the quiet room.

“It was a dream,” she told Dalgom, who had lifted his head at the sound. “A very, very, very detailed dream. My brain is just… creative. And maybe a little lonely. And has weird pregnancy fantasies. That’s all.”

Dalgom rested his head back on his paws, his expression one of profound canine skepticism.

She tried to call it an early night. She went through her skincare routine with robotic precision. She read a few pages of a novel but the words swam meaninglessly. She lay in the center of her king-sized bed, in the silent, temperature-controlled darkness, and stared at the ceiling.

The memories played behind her eyes, unbidden and in high definition.

The forehead kiss. The way his lips had felt, warm and dry against her skin. A simple, domestic gesture that had felt more intimate than any staged photoshoot kiss.

The slippers. Him kneeling on the cold floor for her.

The hand on her stomach. The awe in his voice. “Hello there.”

And then… the lamp clicking off. The darkness that wasn’t empty, but full of him. The warmth of his body covering hers, the scratch of flannel, the solid weight of him. The way he’d whispered “Sooya” against her neck like it was a prayer, a secret, a promise. The feeling of being known, wanted, loved in a way that was quiet and total and had nothing to do with being Kim Jisoo.

Her face burned in the dark. A full-body cringe of retrospective mortification twisted through her. She had participated. Eagerly. She had arched her back and tangled her hands in his hair and moaned into the dark of a stranger’s bedroom.

“It was a dream,” she whispered fiercely to the empty air. “Dreams don’t count. There’s no such thing as dream infidelity. It’s not… it’s not real.”

But her protest sounded weak, even to her. The line between felt real and was real had blurred into nothingness.

She rolled onto her side, punching the pillow. Dalgom, from his dog bed in the corner, let out a soft whuff.

“Don’t judge me,” she muttered. “You dream about chasing squirrels.”

Sleep, when it finally came, was a slow, reluctant surrender. Her mind was a whirlpool of half-formed thoughts—ledger columns, script pages, the smell of old paper, the sound of a rooster, the pressure of a hand on the small of her back.

Her last conscious thought was a desperate, silent plea: It was just a dream. A one-time, hyper-realistic, incredibly embarrassing dream.

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

1994 | Gunsan

The transition was different this time.

It didn’t start with a fade-in of sound or smell. It started with a knowing.

One moment, she was adrift in the dark soup of near-sleep, the expensive Egyptian cotton sheets cool against her skin.

The next, she was aware. The air was cooler, damper. It smelled faintly of mildew and wood polish and the lingering scent of ginger. The mattress beneath her was softer, lumpier. And there was a profound, solid warmth pressed against her entire back, from her shoulders to her knees.

A heavy arm was draped over her waist, a hand splayed possessively over the pronounced swell of her belly.

Jisoo’s eyes flew open.

Yellow morning light. Faded blue flowers on thin cotton curtains. A hairline crack in the plaster ceiling.

Her heart didn’t just hammer; it seemed to attempt a violent escape from her ribcage. A cold, sharp clarity sliced through the last remnants of sleep fog.

This is not a dream.

The thought was not a question. It was a statement of terrifying fact. The evidence was too multisensory, too consistent, too continuous. She remembered this room. She remembered the feel of these sheets. She remembered the exact pattern of the crack on the ceiling.

And she remembered, with a lurch of her stomach that had nothing to do with pregnancy, what had happened in this bed the last time she was here.

She had slept with him. She had let him touch her, kiss her, make love to her, thinking it was a safe fantasy. A private theater of her own mind.

But it wasn’t private. He was real. This body was real. The consequences, whatever they were, were real.

A wave of pure, unadulterated panic, hot and nauseating, rose up her throat. She had violated a life. She had stepped into someone else’s marriage, someone else’s pregnancy, and she had…

From behind her, Suho stirred. He made a soft, sleepy sound—a contented hum—and nuzzled the back of her neck. His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer against his chest. His hand on her belly splayed wider, a gentle, claiming weight.

“Sooya-ya…” he murmured, his voice thick and gravelly with sleep. “Five more minutes. The shop can wait.”

Every muscle in Jisoo’s body went rigid. She was a statue, a log, a piece of furniture. She stared straight ahead at the floral curtains, barely breathing.

His words from the other night—*their* night—echoed in her memory. “I love you. So much.” He had whispered it into her skin like a truth as fundamental as breathing.

And she had said nothing. Because to her, he was a phantom.

To him, she was his wife. The woman carrying his child. The woman he had fallen asleep inside just hours ago.

The nausea intensified. She had to get out. Now.

With a force of will that felt Herculean, she peeled his arm from her waist. It was heavy with sleep, but he let it go easily, mumbling something incoherent. She slid out from under the covers, the morning air chilling her sweat-dampened skin. Her movements were jerky, uncoordinated.

“Hmm? What’s wrong?” Suho’s voice was clearer now, laced with concern. She heard the rustle of sheets as he propped himself up on an elbow.

She couldn’t look at him. If she saw his face—sleep-soft, affectionate, trusting—she might shatter.

“Bathroom,” she choked out, the word strangled and too high-pitched. “I just… need the bathroom.”

She didn’t wait for a response. She fled, her bare feet slapping against the cool wooden floorboards, her borrowed nightgown tangling around her legs. She shut the bathroom door behind her and turned the old-fashioned lock with a shaky hand. The click was a feeble, pathetic barricade.

She gripped the edges of the small, porcelain sink, her knuckles white. She stared into the mirror above it.

Sooya’s face stared back. Her face, but not. The same eyes, wide now with panic. The same mouth, parted in a silent gasp. But the hair was longer, black and unstyled. The skin was bare, showing those faint, sun-kissed freckles. And there, unmistakable, was the proof: the curve of her belly stretching the thin cotton of the nightgown. A life growing inside a body that was both hers and not hers.

She saw the flush on her cheeks, the redness at the corners of her eyes. She looked like a woman who had been thoroughly loved and was now thoroughly terrified.

“This isn’t a dream,” she whispered to the reflection. The sound was swallowed by the small, tiled room.

The reality of it crashed down on her, wave after crushing wave.

She was here. In 1994. In Gunsan. In the body of Lee Soo-ya, wife of Lim Suho, proprietor of Moonlight Stationery. She was pregnant with his child. And last night, she had shared a bed with him. She had shared everything with him.

Kim Jisoo, idol, actress, CEO, a woman whose image was controlled down to the pixel, who hadn’t been on a real date in years, had somehow, impossibly, had married, pregnant, 1994 sex.

A hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat, sharp and painful. It came out as a sob.

What have you done?

The question had no answer. There was no protocol for this, no manager to call, no PR strategy to enact. She was alone in a way she had never been alone before.

A soft knock on the door made her jump.

“Sooya?” Suho’s voice was gentle, worried. “Are you okay? Do you feel sick?”

The concern in his voice was a knife to her heart. He thought his wife was unwell. He had no idea that the woman behind this door was a stranger, an imposter drowning in guilt and cosmic confusion.

She had to pull herself together. She had to act. For now, survival meant playing the part.

She took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing air into her lungs. She splashed cold water on her face, the shock helping to clear the panic from her eyes. She patted her face dry with a rough towel hanging by the sink.

“I’m okay,” she called out, aiming for normalcy and landing somewhere near strained cheerfulness. “Just… morning sickness. I think.”

It was the first excuse that came to mind. Pregnant women got morning sickness. It was plausible.

There was a pause on the other side of the door. “Do you need anything? Ginger tea? I can run to the market…”

“No! No, it’s passing. I’ll be out in a minute.” She winced at the brittleness in her own voice.

Another pause. “Alright. I’ll start breakfast.”

She heard his footsteps recede down the short landing and then the creak of the stairs.

Jisoo slumped against the door, her forehead pressing against the cool wood. The immediate crisis was averted, but the ocean of impossible reality remained.

She was stuck here. In this life. In this body. With this man who loved a woman who was, in some fundamental way, currently her.

And she had no idea how to get home.

»»——————————-　♡　——————————-««

More chapters are available on Fanprose:

Life Between Dreams - A Jisoo AU

Every night, Kim Jisoo falls asleep in 2026 — surrounded by fame, luxury, and aching silence. She wakes in 1994 — in another woman’s body,

[electro469]

Opposing Forces

(Babymonster) Asa x Anna (Meovv)

Two beds. One tape line. A month to write a song about tension. They're about to learn that opposing forces don't cancel out — they combust.

The air in YG’s main conference room was sterile, chilled by overactive air conditioning that made the long, polished table feel like a slab of ice. On one side, BABYMONSTER sat in a line of practiced casualness—hoodies, slouched postures, the quiet rustle of sneakers against floor. On the other, MEOVV arranged themselves with the unconscious symmetry of former models and trained dancers—backs straight, hands in laps, expressions of polite attention. Managers and production staff lined the walls like shadows, a silent audience to a meeting that felt, to Asa, vaguely like a tribunal.

She leaned back in her chair, the front legs lifting off the ground a centimeter. Her left hand fidgeted with the thick silver ring on her middle finger, turning it around and around. The silence was a live wire. Across the table, directly in her sigh-line, Anna sat as if posing for a portrait. One leg was crossed over the other, a sleek black pump dangling precariously from her toe. Her hands were folded on the table, nails a perfect, neutral shell. She hadn’t blinked in what felt like an eternity.

The door swung open and Teddy Park ambled in, a storm of casual authority in a faded black hoodie and a cap pulled low. He carried a paper cup of coffee, took a long sip, and grinned at the room.

“Morning. Or, whatever time it is,” he said, his voice a familiar, gravelly comfort. He didn’t sit. He perched on the edge of the table near the head, looking at the two lines of young women. “You’re all probably wondering why I called you here instead of just texting. It’s because this is stupid. And fun. And I hate explaining fun things over text.”

A ripple of amused curiosity went through both groups. Ahyeon leaned forward, leader’s instinct engaged. Gawon tilted her head, a small smile playing on her lips.

“Netflix came to us,” Teddy continued, gesturing with his coffee cup. “They want a show. A month-long show. Not a competition. A… collision.” His eyes swept the room. “We’re taking the old building on the back lot—the one that smells like 2003 and mothballs—and we’re turning it into a house. A creative dorm. Upstairs, bedrooms. Downstairs, kitchen, living room, practice room, a small studio. You,” he pointed at BABYMONSTER, then at MEOVV, “and you. Living together. For one month.”

The silence broke into a wave of startled murmurs. Eyes widened. Whispers crisscrossed the table.

“Live together?” Ruka echoed, a grin spreading.

“For a month?” Ella from MEOVV asked, her voice genuinely curious.

“Are there cameras?” Pharita questioned, ever-practical.

“Everywhere,” Teddy confirmed, not unkindly. “But not like you think. This isn’t BLACKPINK HOUSE. It’s a documentary. The point isn’t the show. The point is what happens when you stop being two separate groups and start being one big, messy, creative pile.”

He took another sip, letting the idea settle. “The goal is a collaborative mini-album. Six tracks. Written, produced, performed by all of you. In that house. The show films the process—the arguments, the stupid late-night snack runs, the moment a melody clicks at 2 AM because someone was humming in the shower.”

He leaned forward, his tone shifting, becoming more intense. “I don’t want idol politics. I don’t want two groups being painfully polite to each other for a month. That’s boring. I want you in each other’s faces. I want you arguing about a bridge because you actually care. I want the kind of music that happens when people stop performing and start being… real. Even if real is kind of annoying.”

The excitement in the room was now palpable, a physical vibration. Members started whispering across the table, boundaries dissolving.

“We can use the studio anytime?” Chiquita asked, her eyes alight.

“Anytime,” Teddy nodded.

“What about cooking? Who cooks?” Rami wondered aloud.

“Figure it out,” Teddy shrugged, smiling. “That’s the whole point. You figure it out.”

Amidst the burgeoning chaos of plans and questions, the narrative lens narrowed, sharpening to a single point of stillness.

Asa hadn’t moved. The front legs of her chair were still airborne. Her ring was still turning. Her gaze had never left the one point of equal stillness in the room.

Anna.

Anna, who had also not joined the chatter. Who had simply uncrossed her legs and recrossed them the other way, a motion so slow and deliberate it seemed to warp time. Her hands remained folded, but her thumbs were now pressing together, hard. Her expression was a masterpiece of neutral composure, but her eyes—dark, unblinking—were locked on Asa’s.

A silent, charged circuit completed between them, humming over the din of their teammates’ voices.

One month, Asa thought, the words cold and clear in her mind. A whole month in a fishbowl. With her.

One building, Anna’s mind supplied, equally cold. Every room, every hallway. Nowhere to hide.

Teddy pushed off the table, draining his coffee. “You move in Saturday. Pack light. But pack… honestly.” He crumpled the cup, made a perfect shot into a trash can in the corner. “See you there.”

As he left, the room erupted into proper noise. Chairs scraped as members stood, crossing to the other side to talk, laughing, already planning. The space between Asa and Anna filled with moving bodies, but for a three-second window, the line of sight remained clear.

Neither looked away.

Neither smiled.

***

Saturday morning dawned bright and harsh over the converted YG building. It stood three stories tall, old red brick weathered by Seoul smog and time, but with new, large windows cut into the ground floor. A faint hum of activity buzzed around it—camera crews in branded black shirts lugging equipment, producers with clipboards, a stylist rolling a rack of clothes up a temporary ramp.

Asa arrived first, a single large duffel bag slung over her shoulder, a travel mug of Americano in her hand. She wore loose, black cargo pants and an oversized grey hoodie, a cap pulled low over her eyes. She surveyed the building with a critic’s squint. “It looks like a factory that makes anxiety,” she muttered to no one.

The BABYMONSTER van pulled away, and she was joined by Ahyeon, Ruka, Rami, Pharita, Rora and Chiquita, each with their own luggage. A minute later, the MEOVV van arrived. Anna emerged first, and the very air seemed to change texture. She wore cream-colored, wide-legged linen trousers and a simple black tank top, a thin silver necklace catching the light. She carried a matching set of hard-shell luggage—a large one she wheeled, a smaller one perched atop it—and a leather tote. She looked less like she was moving into a dorm and more like she was arriving for a curated photo shoot at a boutique hotel. Sooin, Gawon, Narin and Ella followed, their energy brighter, chattering loudly.

The two groups converged in the open-plan ground floor. It was, Asa had to admit, cool. Exposed brick walls, polished concrete floors softened by huge, worn Persian rugs. A modern kitchen with a massive island took up one side, opposite a sunken living area piled with mismatched but incredibly plush-looking sofas and floor cushions. Doors led off to what looked like a practice room with mirrored walls and a smaller, professional-looking recording studio.

“This is insane,” Ruka breathed, spinning in a circle.

“The couch is so deep I could get lost in it,” Pharita said, already falling backward into it.

While the others explored, the leaders instinctively gathered. Ahyeon caught Gawon’s eye. A silent, significant look passed between them. With subtle head tilts, each group drifted into a separate huddle in opposite corners of the living area.

BABYMONSTER’s huddle was a knot of suppressed glee.

“So,” Ahyeon whispered, her eyes sparkling. “We all agree?”

Rora bit her lip. “This is mean.”

“This is necessary,” Rami corrected, her face solemn.

Pharita nodded sagely. “For science.”

Chiquita, arms crossed, looked between her members and the MEOVV huddle across the room. “For peace. If they fight it out in close quarters, maybe they’ll finally shut up about each other. Asa mentioned Anna three times in meetings last week. I counted.”

Rami’s grin was wicked. “Two-person room. The one at the end of the hall. Farthest from everyone.”

Asa, returning from a reconnaissance mission to the kitchen where she’d confirmed the coffee machine’s quality, walked back into the living room. She saw the tail end of the huddle breaking, her members wearing identical masks of exaggerated innocence.

“What?” Asa asked, suspicious.

“Nothing!” they chimed in unison, a chorus of guilt.

Across the room, the MEOVV huddle was a mirror image.

“It’s the only logical solution,” Gawon was saying, her voice low.

“It’s diabolical,” Sonin whispered, delighted.

“She packed her skincare in alphabetical order,” Ella murmured, glancing at Anna, who was calmly inspecting the joinery on a kitchen cabinet. “She will not survive Asa’s… ecosystem.”

Narin’s smile was all teeth. “Exactly. The numbers work out perfectly. They have to share.”

The official “room assignment” moment came ten minutes later. Everyone gathered in the living room. Ahyeon, holding a piece of paper with exaggerated formality, cleared her throat.

“Alright! Room assignments, as democratically decided by… well, by us.” She began reading. “Ruka and Ella, room one. Pharita and Gawon, room two. Rami and Chiquita with Narin in room three, the triple…”

She went on, pairing members off in seemingly random but friendly combinations. The list felt natural, uncontroversial. Asa sipped her coffee, only half-listening, her eyes tracing the line of Anna’s spine as she stood by the window.

“And the last room,” Ahyeon said, her tone not changing one iota, “at the end of the hall. Asa and Anna.”

The silence was instantaneous and absolute.

Asa’s head snapped up. “No.”

The word was flat, final, like a door slamming.

Anna turned from the window, her expression perfectly smooth. “Absolutely not.”

Gawon stepped forward, a picture of apologetic reason. “We tried every possible combination, you guys. The math just… works out this way. Odd numbers, room sizes…” She shrugged, helpless.

Ahyeon nodded, her face a mask of sympathy. But her eyes flicked meaningfully toward a camera crew that was setting up a shot by the stairs. “It’s just for sleeping, really. And, well,” she added, her voice dropping to a stage whisper, “if we make a big deal and ask to change it now, with them here… it kinda becomes a Thing. For the show.”

The unspoken threat hung in the air: Refuse, and you look like you can’t handle it. You look weak. You look like there’s a problem.

Asa saw the logic, hated it, and felt the stubborn, competitive pride rise in her chest like a wave. Her tongue pressed against the inside of her cheek. She saw Anna’s chin tilt up a fraction, a sure sign of her own pride engaging.

Without another word, Asa bent down, grabbed the strap of her duffel bag, and hoisted it. “Fine. I don’t care.” She said it to the room, to no one, to the universe.

Anna smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from her trousers. “It’s one month. I’ve endured worse.” Her voice was so calm it was itself an act of violence.

As Asa stomped toward the stairs and Anna followed with glacial grace, Ahyeon and Gawon, standing several feet apart, each lifted a hand. Without looking at each other, they mimed a perfect, silent fist-bump in the air.

The room at the end of the hall was small. Not uncomfortably so, but intimately so. Two single beds with plain wooden frames were positioned about four feet apart, a single nightstand between them. One window looked out over the quiet back alley. One closet with two doors. One desk against the far wall. The walls were painted a soft grey. You could, Asa thought immediately, hear a pin drop. You could definitely hear someone breathe.

Anna entered first. She wheeled her luggage to the bed by the window, placed her tote on it decisively. Claimed.

Asa entered, dropped her duffel on the other bed with a soft thud. “I wanted the window bed.”

Anna was already unzipping her large suitcase, revealing a interior of terrifying organization. “Then you should have walked faster.”

What followed was a study in profound contrasts. Anna’s unpacking was a silent, precise ritual. Clothes emerged, already on velvet hangers, and were placed in the closet by color—whites, creams, blacks, then a sparse selection of muted colors. Skincare products were arranged on the nightstand by function and then by height, creating a minimalist sculpture. A separate, zippered pouch contained lip products. A small, framed black-and-white photograph of a seascape was placed on the windowsill. A silk sleep mask was folded neatly under her pillow.

Asa’s unpacking was an act of controlled entropy. She unzipped her duffel and things seemed to expand outward. Hoodies and jeans were shoved into drawers with no regard for folding. A tangle of chargers, cables, and a power bank were dumped on the desk. Her laptop, a few notebooks, and a handful of pens followed. Her favorite black cap was hooked on the post of her bed’s footboard. Several silver chains were tossed into the shallow drawer of the nightstand with a jangling crash.

Anna watched this process from the corner of her eye. A tiny muscle in her jaw tightened. When Asa deliberately shook out a wrinkled graphic tee and draped it over the back of the desk chair instead of hanging it or folding it, Anna visibly flinched.

“You’re not seriously going to leave it like that,” Anna said, her voice strained.

“It’s my side,” Asa replied, not looking at her.

“We share air. Your chaos is a physical presence in my peripheral vision. It’s visually loud.”

Asa finally looked at her. Anna’s composure was still there, but it was brittle, like thin ice over dark water. Without a word, Anna turned back to her own suitcase and retrieved a small roll of blue painter’s tape. She peeled off a length, walked to the nightstand, and with the care of a surgeon, ran a perfectly straight line of tape down its middle.

“Your side,” she said, pointing to the half nearer Asa’s bed. “My side. Your things do not cross this line.”

Asa stared at the blue line, then at Anna’s perfectly serious face. A bizarre, unwanted sensation bubbled up in her chest—not quite laughter, not quite anger. It was the first spark of something alive in their cold war. “Did you pack tape?” Asa asked, her voice deadpan. “Specifically for this?”

“I packed tape for several organizational purposes,” Anna said, returning the roll to a designated compartment in her suitcase. “None of which concern you.”

Asa shook her head slowly, turning back to her duffel to hide the involuntary, almost-smile that threatened her lips. “You’re insane.”

“I’m organized,” Anna corrected, her tone implying these were mutually exclusive concepts. “You should try it.”

They finished in a silence so tense it had its own sound—a high-frequency hum of mutual awareness. Asa was hyper-aware of the soft snick of Anna’s suitcase locks, the rustle of her silk pajamas. Anna was acutely conscious of the heavy thump of Asa’s boots hitting the floor, the scent of her coffee and faint, clean detergent cutting through the room’s neutral air.

The line on the nightstand seemed to glow.

***

Night in the old building had a different texture. The daytime sounds of the city faded, replaced by the building’s own ancient language: the groan of pipes, the creak of settling wood, the distant, muffled laughter from Ruka and Ella’s room down the hall. The darkness in their small room was profound, broken only by the faint orange streetlight glow seeping around the edges of the window blind.

Asa lay on her back, hands behind her head, staring at the ceiling she couldn’t see. She was rigid, every muscle taut with the effort of pretending to be asleep. In the bed four feet away, she could hear Anna breathing.

It was a controlled, even rhythm. In-through-the-nose, out-through-the-nose. Too even. The breathing of someone who was also awake, also staring into the dark, also pretending.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. The awareness of each other’s fraudulent sleep was a third presence in the room, pressing down on them.

Asa’s patience, never her strong suit, frayed to nothing.

“You’re not asleep,” she said flatly to the ceiling.

There was a pause, just long enough to be deliberate.

“Neither are you,” Anna’s voice came back, equally flat, a mirror in the dark.

“You breathe loud,” Asa accused.

“I breathe at a perfectly normal volume. You’re just listening.”

“I’m not listening.” Asa’s left hand fidgeted under her head, twisting the sheet. “You’re two meters away. I can’t not hear you.”

She heard the sheets rustle on Anna’s bed, the sound absurdly loud and intimate. It was the sound of someone turning, likely onto their side, facing the wall just as Asa was.

“Then put in earphones.”

“I can’t sleep with earphones in.”

“That sounds like—”

“If you say ‘a you problem’—” Asa hissed, the words sharp.

A sound cut her off. A low, soft, breathy exhale from Anna’s bed. It wasn’t the polite, tinkling laugh she used on camera. This was the real one, caught off-guard and released into the dark before she could stop it. It was a warm, genuine sound, and it disarmed Asa completely.

The laugh was swallowed quickly. A beat of silence, thicker than before.

“Go to sleep, Asa.”

The way she said it—not Asa-ssi, not with a teasing lilt, just her name, bare and simple—landed in the dark room with a soft, unexpected weight. It felt closer than any physical proximity. It felt like a secret.

Asa rolled onto her side, facing the wall, pulling the thin blanket up higher. Her voice, when it came, was quieter, the edges sanded off.

“Stop breathing so loud.”

From the other bed, the reply was just as quiet, a whisper in the shared dark.

“Stop listening.”

Silence finally descended, not tense, but settled. Exhaustion, or perhaps a temporary truce, took over. Their breathing slowly synced, deepened, and eventually, both drifted into a fitful, real sleep.

***

The cold-war rhythm established itself over the next three days. On camera, during group meals or planning sessions in the living room, they were models of distant civility. Asa would grunt a response if asked a direct question; Anna would offer a slim, polite smile that never reached her eyes. It was off-camera, in the confines of their room and the upstairs hallway, that the sharp, petty warfare continued.

Anna would find Asa’s phone charger snaking across the blue tape line and, with a look of profound disdain, use a pen to push it back onto Asa’s territory. Asa, in retaliation, would leave her cap not on her bedpost, but perched precariously on the very corner of Anna’s meticulously organized desk. Anna would move it with two fingers, as if handling contaminated material.

The other members watched it all unfold like the best kind of reality TV. Ahyeon and Gawon would exchange significant looks over breakfast. Ruka would mime fencing moves when she thought no one was looking. Chiquita kept a running, silent tally in a small notebook.

The bathroom door on the second floor had a sticky, unreliable lock. Asa had complained to a PA on the first day, but it was a low-priority fix. The protocol became a simple, unspoken knock.

On the fourth morning, Asa woke early, her mind already buzzing with a rhythm that wouldn’t settle. She needed to move. She grabbed her towel and toiletry bag, saw Anna’s bed was empty (she was an even earlier riser, likely already downstairs doing gentle stretches), and headed for the shower. The hallway was quiet. She didn’t bother with the broken lock, just pushed the door closed. It didn’t catch. She turned on the water, let the room fill with steam, and placed her portable Bluetooth speaker on the sink counter, cranking up a gritty, percussive hip-hop track to drown out the world.

Anna came upstairs earlier than usual. A slight smudge of mascara from the previous night’s tiredness bothered her. She preferred to wash her face in the upstairs bathroom’s better light. She heard the music thumping through the door—a heavy bassline. She frowned. Someone left their speaker again, she thought, irritation flaring at the disregard for shared space. Without a second thought—the room was supposed to be empty, the door was clearly not locked—she turned the handle and pushed it open.

The scene that greeted her was not an empty room with a forgotten speaker.

The bathroom was thick with steam, warm and damp against her face. The shower was running behind a frosted glass partition—frosted, but not opaque. The silhouette behind it was unmistakably human, and unmistakably Asa. The glass was wet, clouded in patterns, but thinner near the top where the steam hadn’t fully condensed. Asa was turned halfway, one arm raised as she washed her hair, the lines of her back, the curve of her shoulder, the taper of her waist all rendered in soft, blurry detail through the distorting glaze.

The music thumped.

The water roared.

Anna froze.

Her composure, that flawless, practiced armor, didn’t just crack—it evaporated. A wave of heat, violent and immediate, surged up her neck and flooded her cheeks. Her lips parted on a silent inhale. Her brain, usually a symphony of orderly thoughts, short-circuited into a loud, staticky hum. She was caught, transfixed, her body refusing the command to retreat.

Behind the glass, Asa turned her head. The motion was slow, confused. Then her eyes—dark, sharp—found Anna’s silhouette in the doorway through the steam and water-streaked glass.

Two seconds.

Two hours.

Two lifetimes.

Asa’s body stiffened. Then, reaction crashed over the shock, and anger was the easiest vessel. Her voice ripped through the steam, raw and loud over the music. “GET OUT—”

The sound acted like a physical blow. Anna jerked backward, slamming the door shut with a force that shook the frame in the hallway. Her back hit the opposite wall, her hand pressed to her own burning cheek. “THE DOOR WAS UNLOCKED—” she shouted back, her voice higher than she’d ever heard it.

“BECAUSE THE LOCK IS BROKEN!” Asa’s voice was muffled by the door but no less furious. “KNOCK. EVER HEARD OF KNOCKING?”

“I THOUGHT THE ROOM WAS EMPTY!”

“DOES RUNNING WATER SOUND EMPTY TO YOU?”

“THE MUSIC WAS— I THOUGHT SOMEONE LEFT A SPEAKER—”

The bathroom door wrenched open so violently it bounced off the wall. Asa stood there, wrapped in a thin, damp white towel clutched tightly just under her arms. Her hair was a dripping, black mess, water streaming down her neck, over her collarbones, into the valley the towel barely covered. Her skin was flushed pink from the heat and from rage. She was breathing hard, her eyes blazing.

“Do you always just walk into bathrooms without knocking?” Asa spat, taking a step forward. Water dripped from her elbows onto the wooden floor. “Is that a model thing? Are you used to people just being naked around—”

She stopped. Abruptly.

Because Anna’s eyes, wide and dark, betrayed her. They dropped. Just for a fraction of a second—a fleeting, involuntary descent—from Asa’s furious face down to the water beading on her clavicle, to the desperate, white-knuckled grip of her hand holding the towel, to the paths the droplets traced down her sternum toward the towel’s edge.

Then Anna’s gaze snapped back up, meeting Asa’s. Too fast. Guilty.

Asa saw it. The look. The drop. The hunger. The shock of it was a physical thing, a jolt that stole the breath from her next accusation. They stood there in the steam-filled hallway, the air thick and wet between them. Asa became hyper-aware of everything: the cool air on her damp shoulders, the precariousness of the towel, the hammering of her own heart, the way Anna’s chest was rising and falling just a little too quickly.

Anna’s voice, when she finally spoke, was forcibly steady, an overcorrection of calm. “I apologize. The lock should be fixed. I’ll tell staff.” Each word was precise, brittle.

Asa’s own voice felt rough. “Yeah.” She tightened her grip on the towel. “Do that.”

Neither moved. The standoff had shifted into something else, something charged and silent and terribly, terribly aware.

A door creaked open down the hall. Ruka emerged, toothbrush in hand, hair sleep-mussed. She took in the scene: Asa dripping and nearly naked in a towel, Anna backed against the wall looking like she’d been struck by lightning, the thick, sexual tension so palpable it seemed to warp the light.

Ruka’s eyebrows shot up. She slowly raised her toothbrush in a silent salute. “…I’m gonna come back later,” she murmured, and vanished back into her room.

The spell broke. Asa retreated into the bathroom, slamming the door shut again. This time, Anna heard the slide of the flimsy lock, the futile click.

Anna walked to their room. Her steps were measured, each one placed with deliberate care, as if she were walking a tightrope over a canyon. Inside the empty room, she closed the door and leaned against it, closing her eyes. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. The image was seared into the backs of her eyelids: the blur of skin through wet glass, the lines of a body, the shock of exposure. She brought a trembling hand to her forehead.

***

That evening, the room held a new kind of silence. It wasn’t the competitive quiet of the first night. It was a thick, saturated quiet, heavy with the thing they were aggressively not talking about.

Asa sat cross-legged on her bed, a notebook open in her lap, a pen in her hand. She hadn’t written a word in twenty minutes. She was tracing the same loop over and over in the margin, her mind replaying the hallway on a loop: the look in Anna’s eyes, the drop of her gaze, the heat on her own skin.

Anna sat on her own bed, a book open. She hadn’t turned a page. She was staring at the same paragraph, the letters swimming meaninglessly. All she could see was the water on Asa’s skin, the way the towel had clung to damp curves.

The blue tape on the nightstand seemed childish now, a relic from a simpler, colder war.

Anna finally spoke, her eyes fixed on her book. She kept her voice carefully neutral, a flat plane. “I genuinely didn’t know you were in there.”

Asa’s pen stilled. “I know.”

A pause, stretching tight.

Anna swallowed. “I didn’t… see anything.”

It was a bald-faced lie. Delicate, but obvious. The frosted glass had hidden details but revealed shape, movement, silhouette. It had shown enough. More than enough.

Asa’s pen pressed down hard, leaving a dark, angry dot on the paper. “Good.”

“Good.”

They lapsed back into the silence. It was worse now. The denial was a transparent sheet between them, and they were both painfully aware of its fragility.

From two rooms down, they heard Ruka’s voice, loud and gleeful, followed by a burst of howling laughter—Pharita’s, then Chiquita’s, then a muffled snort that was definitely Ahyeon.

“…and she was just standing there, and Asa was like, and the towel was—” More laughter, uncontrollable.

Asa groaned, low and deep in her throat. She pulled her pillow over her face, pressing it down as if to suffocate herself. On the other side of the room, Anna carefully, slowly, closed her book. Her hand, resting on the cover, trembled just slightly.

The first battle was over. The war, a silent, simmering, deeply personal one, had just escalated into uncharted territory.

***

The fluorescent lights of the makeshift Netflix set in the living room hummed with a sterile, invasive energy. Day Six. Cameras rolled, a silent, omnipresent audience. The members of BABYMONSTER and MEOVV were arranged on the large sectional sofa and floor cushions, playing a ridiculous “getting to know you” game that involved guessing each other’s favorite childhood snacks. The mood was light, performatively so.

Asa sat on the floor, leaning against the arm of the sofa, one leg drawn up. She wore a loose black tee and jeans, a cap shading her eyes from the harsh key lights. Anna was perched on the sofa itself, two cushions away, a study in elegant composure in a soft cream sweater and tailored trousers. The distance between them was precisely calibrated—close enough to not look like avoidance, far enough that no part of them could accidentally touch.

When the game required partners for a relay—passing an orange using only their chins—fate, or more likely a mischievous producer, paired them. A ripple of suppressed amusement traveled through the other members.

They stood facing each other. The room felt suddenly hotter.

“Just don’t drop it,” Asa muttered in Japanese, the language a private fortress.

“I have excellent balance,” Anna replied coolly, in the same tongue.

The orange was placed between their foreheads. They had to shuffle across the room. It was absurd, intimate, and torture. Asa’s world narrowed to the citrus scent, the faint warmth of Anna’s skin just centimeters from her own, the impossible focus required to not look directly into her eyes. They moved in stiff, tiny steps. Anna’s composure was a visible strain; a tiny muscle feathered in her jaw. They made it halfway before the orange, slick with nervous warmth, slipped.

Anna stumbled back a step. Instinctively, Asa’s hand shot out, catching Anna’s forearm to steady her. The contact was electric.

Asa’s hand was warm, the palm slightly rough from hours of gripping pens and microphone stands. Anna’s arm was smooth under the fine wool of her sweater, the bone slender and precise under Asa’s fingers. Anna’s other hand came up, fingers brushing Asa’s wrist for balance.

They froze. The camera zoomed in.

One second. Two.

Anna regained her footing. She nodded, a sharp, polite little dip of her chin. “Thank you.”

Asa released her arm as if burned. “Yeah.”

They finished the relay in silence, lost spectacularly to Ruka and Ella, and returned to their separate spaces. The point of contact buzzed on Asa’s skin for the next hour. She saw Anna, once, subtly rubbing the spot on her forearm where Asa’s fingers had been.

Later, in the confessional booth—a tiny, dark room with a single camera—the mask was tested.

Asa’s Confessional

The producer’s voice was gentle through the speaker. “How’s living with Anna?”

Asa shrugged, looking somewhere past the camera lens. “It’s fine. She’s clean. I’m clean. No problems.” Her voice was a monotone. She fidgeted with the ring on her middle finger.

“Some of the other members have mentioned you two have a very… interesting dynamic.”

Asa’s eyes flicked to the lens, a slight edge hardening her deadpan expression. “We’re professionals. We work well together.” She said it with the flat conviction of someone reciting a hostage statement under duress.

Anna’s Confessional

Anna sat with her hands folded in her lap, a gentle, attentive smile on her face. The lights caught the delicate silver of her necklace.

“How is rooming with Asa treating you?”

“It’s great,” Anna said, her voice warm honey. “She’s very focused. I admire her work ethic.” The smile didn’t waver.

“Fans online are already analyzing the preview clips. They’re saying you two have quite a bit of chemistry.”

Anna let out a soft, tinkling laugh—the polite one, the one that lived in her throat, not her chest. “Really? That’s sweet. We’re just getting to know each other as colleagues.” Her smile was perfect, and it reached exactly zero percent of her eyes.

***

When the cameras finally clicked off, the living room exhaled. The performative energy dissipated, replaced by the familiar chaos of eleven young women making dinner. Asa was at the stove, aggressively stirring a pot of ramyeon, when Ahyeon bounded into the kitchen, phone in hand.

“You guys have to see this,” Ahyeon announced, her voice singing with glee. “The preview clips from today are up. The comments are… wow.”

She thrust her phone into the center of the group. On screen was a expertly edited fan clip. It was the moment from the relay—Asa catching Anna’s arm—but slowed down, zoomed in, set to a snippet of a dreamy, romantic indie song. The caption blazed across the bottom: THE TENSION??? HELLO??? #AsAnna

Ahyeon looked directly at Asa’s back. “They’re shipping you.”

Asa didn’t turn from the stove. “Shipping who?”

Gawon scrolled, pulling up another post. “'AsAnna.' That’s your ship name. It already has a hashtag. And a mood board. Look, this one has pictures from the press conference last year where you were glaring at each other.”

Anna, who had been calmly setting the table, froze, a pair of chopsticks suspended in her hand. “A what?”

“AsAnna!” Rami chirped, peering over Gawon’s shoulder. “That’s actually kind of cute—”

Asa turned from the stove, pointing her own ladle like a weapon. “No one in this room says that word again.”

Pharita, typing furiously on her own phone, chanted under her breath, “AsAnna, AsAnna, AsAnna—”

With a growl, Asa lunged. Pharita shrieked, ducking behind Ahyeon, who laughed as Asa tried to reach around her. The kitchen dissolved into chaos—Rami filming on her phone, Chiquita egging them on, Sooin trying to rescue the boiling ramyeon.

Anna remained at the table, statue-still. A slow, creeping flush was rising from the collar of her sweater, painting the back of her neck a delicate pink. She stared at her empty bowl as if it contained the secrets of the universe.

Ella slid into the seat beside her, voice low. “You okay?”

Anna’s composure snapped back into place, a visible shutter closing. “I’m fine. It’s just a fan thing. It doesn’t mean anything.” Her voice was perfectly even.

Ella studied her, then looked across the kitchen at Asa, who had Pharita in a loose headlock, both of them laughing breathlessly. Then she looked back at Anna, who was very carefully, very deliberately, not looking in that direction at all.

***

The recording studio on the ground floor was a sanctuary of focused chaos by Day Eight. Lyric sheets littered the couch, a half-eaten pizza sat on the mixing board, and the air was thick with the scent of coffee and creativity. Teddy Park lounged in the producer’s chair, nodding along to a rough instrumental track.

The disagreement started quietly, a difference of artistic opinion on a group track’s pre-chorus.

“It needs more teeth here,” Asa said, pointing at the waveform on the screen. She was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “The beat gets swallowed. Add a harder rap line, cut some of the ad-libs.”

From the opposite corner, where she was scribbling notes on a pad, Anna spoke without looking up. “The melody is what makes it memorable. The space is intentional. No one walks away from a song humming a hi-hat.”

Asa’s tongue pressed against the inside of her cheek. “They do when the hi-hat is the only thing with any rhythm. Your vocal arrangement is three layers of pretty noise over nothing.”

Anna’s head lifted slowly. Her eyes, sharp and dark, met Asa’s across the room. “Nothing?” Her voice was dangerously soft. “Would you like to step into the booth and show me ‘something’? Or do you only perform when there’s a mirror to watch yourself in?”

A silent gasp seemed to suck the air from the room. The other members froze. This wasn’t creative friction anymore; it was a direct hit, personal and precise.

Teddy swiveled slowly in his chair. He looked at Asa, standing rigid by the wall. He looked at Anna, poised like a dagger on the couch. Then he looked at Ahyeon, who was trying to become one with the wallpaper.

“Are they always like this?” Teddy asked, his voice dry.

Ahyeon offered a diplomatic smile. “They have… very strong creative opinions.”

Gawon, less inclined to diplomacy, snorted. “They’ve been like this since before we ever got in this building.”

Teddy tapped his pen against his knee. His gaze traveled between the two of them, a calculating spark in his eyes. He nodded, as if coming to a conclusion.

“Change of plans,” he announced, his voice cutting through the tension. “Track five. I’m scrapping the group concept. I want it to be a duet.” He pointed his pen. First at Asa. Then at Anna. “You two.”

The silence was absolute, cinematic in its weight.

Asa blinked. “What?”

Anna’s polished composure slipped for a full second, revealing sheer disbelief. “Excuse me?”

Teddy was already turning back to the board, adjusting a fader. “You clearly have strong opinions about each other’s artistry. Good. Prove it. Write it together. Record it together. It’s due by the end of the month.”

Asa took a step forward. “Teddy-nim, with respect, I work better sol—”

“This isn’t a request,” Teddy said, not unkindly, but with a finality that brooked no argument. He put his headphones on.

Across the room, several members bit their lips raw trying to suppress their smiles. Rami’s phone buzzed incessantly under a cushion as she texted the group chat.

Anna was the first to speak, her voice a masterclass in controlled acquiescence. “Of course, Sajangnim. We’d be happy to.” She sounded like someone agreeing to defuse a bomb with ceremonial scissors.

Asa sank back against the wall, the fight leaving her in a defeated exhale. “Yeah. Fine. Whatever.” She infused the words with the profound enthusiasm of a root canal.

“Rough demo in a week,” Teddy said, his voice muffled by the headphones. “Rap and vocal. Make it work.”

As he immersed himself in the mix, Ahyeon and Gawon locked eyes from across the studio. Gawon slowly, deliberately, mouthed two words: ‘This is going to be incredible.’

Ahyeon, her eyes sparkling with gleeful terror, mouthed back: ‘Or fatal.’

***

The songwriting sessions were a special kind of torture, conducted primarily in the battleground of their shared room after the cameras stopped rolling. Days Nine through Fourteen blurred into a montage of late nights, bad lighting from the single desk lamp, empty Americano cups, and the soft glow of laptop screens.

The initial shift was glacial. Night One, they sat on their respective beds, the taped nightstand a demilitarized zone between them.

“So,” Asa said.

“So,” Anna echoed.

“What do you want to write about?” Asa asked.

“What do you want to write about?” Anna replied.

“I asked first.”

“And I deferred. It’s polite.”

Asa stared at her. “Since when are you polite to me?”

Anna’s smile was thin. “I’m always polite. You just don’t recognize it because I suspect no one has ever been genuinely polite to you before.”

“Okay,” Asa said, leaning back. “Great start. Really feeling the creative synergy.”

They glared in stalemate. Then Anna let out a breath—not quite a laugh, but a release of pressure. She shook her head, a strand of perfect hair falling from its loose knot. “This is going to be a disaster.”

“Probably,” Asa agreed, the corner of her mouth twitching.

The admission seemed to crack the door open a millimeter.

Asa, staring at the blank page in her notebook, spoke first. “Tension. Two forces that can’t get away from each other. Push and pull.”

Anna considered this. Her gaze lifted, sweeping over Asa with an evaluative intensity Asa felt on her skin like a physical touch. “Like magnets.”

“Like a fight,” Asa countered.

“Like gravity,” Anna murmured, her voice lower.

Asa met her eyes. The air between the beds tightened. “Like something you can’t name,” she said, her own voice dropping, “but you know it’s going to end badly.”

The metaphor hung in the room, transparent and fragile. Neither acknowledged its thickness.

Anna picked up her pen. “Fine. Tension. I can work with that.”

They wrote in hostile parallel, trading notebooks like passing contraband. Anna’s lyrics were abstract, poetic—*“a silent war in a shared atmosphere,” “the quiet before the fracture.”* Asa’s were blunt, percussive—*“step closer, I dare you,” “a spark waiting for the wrong breath.”* They argued over every word, but the arguments were different now. They were about impact, not insult. About the feeling of a syllable, not the person who wrote it. The friction began to produce something with its own strange heat.

Night Three, Asa hooked up the small MIDI keyboard she’d borrowed. She played a rough, looping melody—low, minor-key, driven by a simple, relentless bass note. It sounded like a heartbeat in a dark room.

Anna listened, her head tilted. Then, softly, she began to hum. It wasn’t the melody Asa played. It was a counter-melody, a higher, weaving line that danced around Asa’s anchor without ever touching it. It was mournful and beautiful, and against all logic, it fit.

Asa’s fingers stilled on the keys. She looked at Anna. “Do that again.”

Anna hummed the line again, her eyes closed in concentration. Asa played underneath, adjusting a chord, finding a harmony that made the combination ache. For sixty seconds, there was no rivalry, no tape line, no bathroom incident. There was only the sound they were making together. It was undeniably, frustratingly good.

Asa stopped. The room felt too quiet. “That’s… not bad.”

Anna opened her eyes. “High praise from you.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Asa muttered, but she was already scribbling the chord progression down in her notebook. She felt Anna’s gaze on her left hand as it moved across the page—the tight grip on the pen, the quick, slashing notation. Anna watched for a moment too long, then abruptly turned to arrange her own notes with excessive focus.

Night Five. 1 AM. They had migrated to the floor, lyric sheets and notebooks spread in the no-man’s-land between the beds. The demo track played on a low loop from Asa’s laptop, a skeletal beat holding their fledgling creation. They were stuck on the bridge.

“The bridge is the release,” Anna insisted, her finger tapping a line on her page. “It needs to breathe. Strip everything back—just voice, no beat. If you put drums under it, you’re giving the listener armor. Let it be exposed.”

“Exposed is just another word for unprotected,” Asa shot back, running a hand through her hair. “The beat gives it structure, gives it a spine.”

“Not everything needs a spine!” Anna’s voice rose, frustration cutting through her calm. “Some things just need to exist. Raw. Uncontrolled. Why are you so afraid of that?”

The question echoed in the small, lamplit room. She wasn’t talking about the bridge anymore. The shift was seismic. They both heard it.

Asa went very still. Her voice, when it came, was dangerously quiet. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

Anna leaned forward, bracing her hands on the carpet. The distance between them shrunk to less than a meter. Her eyes were fierce. “Then prove it. Rap your verse. The bridge part. Right now. No beat. No backup. Just you. If the words are strong enough, they don’t need anything behind them.”

It was a challenge, pure and simple. And Asa’s competitive pride, that stubborn, unwavering flame, would not let her back down. She looked down at her notebook, then back at Anna. She took a breath, and let the words out into the silent room.

Without the driving percussion to hide behind, her rap was transformed. The lyrics about push and pull, about unnamed forces and inevitable collisions, sounded stark. Naked. They sounded, in the intimate dark, like a confession. Her voice was low, a little rough from the late hour, every consonant sharp, every pause weighted.

When she finished, the only sound was the faint hum of the laptop fan.

Anna was staring. Her composure was still technically intact, but it was now a glass pane—Asa could see straight through it to the wide-eyed, stunned recognition beneath. There was fear there, and a kind of hungry awe.

Anna’s voice was barely a whisper. “We cut the beat on the bridge.”

Asa’s throat felt tight. “Yeah.”

Their eyes held. The space between them on the carpet felt charged, like stepping into the space before a lightning strike. Asa’s gaze, entirely against her will, dropped. It flickered to Anna’s mouth—the soft, parted lips—for a fraction of a second before snapping back up in panic.

Anna saw it. She definitely saw it.

Asa scrambled to her feet, gathering her notebook like a shield. “I need water,” she mumbled, and fled the room.

Anna remained on the floor, surrounded by the scattered pages of their shared tension. She slowly pressed her palms flat against the carpet, as if trying to ground herself, and took a long, trembling breath.

***

Day Eighteen. The recording booth downstairs was a soundproofed, velvet-lined pressure cooker. A producer sat behind the glass, giving them minimal direction, effectively leaving them alone together in the warm, cramped space. A single large-diaphragm microphone stood between them like a silent witness.

Takes one and two were technically fine but emotionally sterile. They traded lines with robotic precision—Asa’s rap sharp and defensive, Anna’s vocals smooth and distant. The contrast was there, but it was cold.

The producer’s voice crackled in their headphones. “The bridge needs more. You’re both holding back. Whatever you’re feeling in there, put it in the take. I don’t want pretty. I want real.”

Asa and Anna looked at each other over the microphone. Whatever you’re feeling. The instruction was a dare.

Take three. The instrumental track dropped out for the bridge, leaving only a faint, haunting synth pad. Anna stepped close to the mic, her lips almost brushing the pop filter. She sang her line, the one about “the quiet before the fracture,” and her voice was no longer just beautiful—it was vulnerable, aching with a want she never permitted herself.

Asa leaned in from the other side. Their faces were inches apart on opposite sides of the metal stand. She could see the faint dusting of powder on Anna’s cheek, the dark fan of her lashes. She closed her eyes, and let the words out.

She rapped the bridge raw, the way she had on the floor at 1 AM. No armor, no beat. Just the stark, confessional flow about gravity and sparks and unnamed things. As she finished her last line, Anna’s voice swept in, not overpowering, but entwining—a melodic cry that wrapped around Asa’s gravel and lifted it. Their voices blended in the headphones, a desperate, tangled braid of rap and melody that sounded less like a song and more like a truth they were finally speaking aloud.

The beat slammed back in for the final chorus. Neither of them moved. They remained frozen, faces too close, the shared breath from the intense take hanging in the air between them. The microphone was no longer a barrier; it was a focal point pulling them closer.

Asa opened her eyes. Anna was right there. Her composure was gone, replaced by something open, flushed, and utterly captivated. She was looking at Asa’s mouth.

“That was it,” the producer’s voice shattered the moment, buzzing with excitement. “That’s the take. You guys feel that?”

They sprang apart as if electrocuted.

Asa, her voice slightly hoarse, mumbled into her own microphone, “Yeah. That felt fine.”

Anna was adjusting her headphones, her fingers uncharacteristically clumsy. “We can move on to the next part.”

They didn’t make eye contact for the rest of the session.

***

That evening, Teddy gathered everyone in the living room to play the rough mix. He cued it up without ceremony. The track filled the space—the driving start, the sharp trade-offs, and then that bridge, stripped and vulnerable, their voices a tangled confession in the quiet.

When the last note faded, there was a beat of genuine, stunned silence in the living room.

Teddy leaned forward and stopped the playback. He looked from Asa, who was studying a loose thread on the couch cushion with violent intensity, to Anna, who had adopted a posture of polite, detached interest.

“Well?” Teddy asked the room.

Ahyeon was the first to speak, her voice hushed. “You two… made that? Together? Without, like, actual homicide?”

“It was a professional collaboration,” Anna said smoothly, the words automatic.

“Strictly business,” Asa grunted, echoing the sentiment without looking up.

Gawon wasn’t having it. She pointed a finger at the Bluetooth speaker as if it had testified against them. “That bridge. Let me hear that part again.”

Teddy, a faint smile playing on his lips, rewound and played the bridge section alone. In the context of the quiet living room, without the studio headphones, it was somehow even more damning. Their voices, raw and close, filled the space with unspoken electricity.

Gawon listened, her eyebrows climbing higher. When it ended, she shook her head slowly. “Nope. I’m calling it. That’s a love song.”

Dead silence.

Asa’s head snapped up. “It’s about tension. Opposing forces.”

“It’s about creative friction,” Anna insisted, her voice a degree cooler.

Rami nodded sagely. “She’s right, unnie. That’s the most romantic ‘creative friction’ I’ve ever heard. I got chills.”

“It’s not—” Asa began, but Pharita cut her off.

“The way your voices fit together on the ‘gravity’ line? That’s not friction. That’s harmony.”

Ella simply fanned her face dramatically.

Asa stood up so fast the couch cushion bounced. “I need air,” she announced, her voice tight, and stalked out of the living room toward the front door.

A second later, Anna also rose, her movements precise and fluid. “I believe I need to reorganize my skincare shelf. Excuse me.” She turned and walked not toward the dormitory hallway, but toward the stairs leading to the second-floor practice rooms—the opposite direction from Asa.

The room watched them go. Then, all eyes swiveled back to Teddy.

He leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “That exactly went how I thought it would,” he said to no one in particular. “Put two strong, volatile elements in a sealed container. Apply pressure.” He nodded toward the door and the stairs. “You get something explosive.”

He knew exactly what he had done.

***

Asa didn’t go far. She ended up on the small, dimly lit fire escape at the side of the building, the cold night air biting through her hoodie. She gripped the rusty railing, leaning her forehead against the cool metal. The city sounds were a distant murmur. All she could hear was the echo of their own voices in her head, that braided harmony, and Gawon’s verdict: That’s a love song.

It wasn’t. It was about conflict. It was about the infuriating, constant awareness of another person who should not matter. It was about the unbearable tension of a shared silence. It wasn’t love. It was…

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it. It buzzed again. And again. With a frustrated sigh, she pulled it out. The screen was lit up with notifications from the group chat, but one from Ahyeon, sent privately, was at the top.

Ahyeon: don’t look at the edits.

Attached was a link.

Cursing her own masochism, Asa clicked it. It was a video edit on a fan site. It used the leaked, low-quality audio clip of their bridge—someone must have recorded it from outside the booth—and set it to a supercut of every glance, every near-touch, every moment of charged silence between her and Anna that the Netflix cameras had ever captured. The relay. The confessional cuts side-by-side. Them writing on the floor. The final clip was a slow-motion zoom on her face in the recording booth, eyes closed, from today. The caption read: THE DUET IS A CRY FOR HELP. THEY ARE NOT OKAY. #AsAnna

Asa slammed her phone against her thigh, once, twice, a sharp, painful thud. She sucked in a ragged breath of cold air.

***

Anna did not go to the practice room. She walked to the very end of the second-floor hallway, to a window that overlooked the back alley. She stood perfectly still, her arms wrapped around herself. The composure she had displayed downstairs was gone, leaving behind a quiet, trembling urgency.

Love song.

The words were ridiculous. Profane. It was a technical exercise. A challenge met. The vulnerability was a tool, a choice to make the art better. It didn’t mean anything.

But her body betrayed the lie. Her skin still hummed from the proximity in the booth. Her ears still rang with the sound of Asa’s voice, stripped bare. She could still feel the phantom heat of Asa’s hand on her arm from a week ago, the shocking clarity of her shape through the steamy glass.

Her phone, set to silent, lit up in her hand. It was a notification from a social media monitoring service the company used. A trending keyword alert: #AsAnna.

She opened it. The top post was a screenshot from the duet’s metadata, leaked somehow, showing the track title. They had tentatively named it “Gravity.” The fan had circled it. The text below screamed: THEY NAMED IT AFTER THEIR SHIP DYNAMIC. I AM DECEASED.

Anna powered her phone off completely. She stared out into the dark alley, seeing nothing. The careful, controlled world she had built—the pristine side of the room, the polite smiles, the measured distance—felt like it was cracking at the foundations, threatened by a force as simple and terrifying as a magnet, a fight, a spark.

Asa needed air. Anna needed to reorganize a shelf. Both were lies. They needed an escape from the thing they had just created together, the thing that sounded, to everyone else in the world, like a truth they were too terrified to speak.

Downstairs, the members replayed the demo one more time. No one spoke. They just listened, and grinned, and waited for the inevitable explosion.

***

The living room on Day 21 had become a digital war room. Phones glowed in the hands of every member, casting eerie blue light on their amused, horrified, and gleeful faces.

Chiquita read aloud, her voice trembling with suppressed laughter. “‘The way Asa looked at Anna during the relay game… that’s not rivalry, that’s a PROPOSAL.’ It has two hundred thousand likes.”

Ella scrolled, squinting. “‘Analysts’ on the forum are pointing out micro-interactions. ‘Did anyone else notice Anna fixing Asa’s mic pack during the group recording? She didn’t adjust anyone else’s. Not Ruka’s, not Ahyeon’s. She has a FAVORITE.’”

Ruka whistled low, showing her screen. “There’s a compilation thread. ‘AsAnna Moments: Episodes 1-3.’ Forty-seven screenshots.”

“Forty-seven?” Rami shrieked, snatching the phone. “We’ve only aired three episodes! How are there forty-seven moments?”

Pharita silently turned her phone around. On it was a beautifully rendered piece of digital art. It depicted Asa and Anna in the practice room, not as they were, but as the fans imagined them: foreheads nearly touching, Asa’s hand hovering near Anna’s jaw, a palpable heat between them rendered in strokes of gold and deep violet. The caption read: unspoken tension (i speak it anyway).

A collective gasp-howl erupted. Sooin clutched her chest. Gawon pretended to faint backwards onto the couch.

This was the scene Asa walked into from the kitchen, an apple in hand. She froze, sensing the conspiratorial energy. “What?”

“Nothing!” Ahyeon chirped, too fast, shoving her phone under a cushion.

Asa’s eyes, sharp and suspicious, landed on Pharita’s still-outstretched hand. She strode over. “Is that a drawing of me and—”

Pharita yanked the phone back as if burned. “It’s artistic interpretation! Of, um, creative synergy!”

Asa stared her down, then at the circle of wide, guilty eyes. A deep, foreboding understanding dawned on her face. She pointed a finger at Pharita, then at everyone. “Delete your history. All of it. Now.”

At that moment, Anna appeared at the top of the stairs, drawn by the commotion. She’d changed into loungewear, her hair in a soft ponytail. “What’s happening?”

Gawon, ever the agent of chaos, grinned. “You’re trending. Both of you. Together.”

Anna’s steps slowed. “Trending for what?”

“Love,” Gawon said, simply.

Anna’s flawless mask didn’t crack, but it did go perfectly, terrifyingly blank. “I’m going back upstairs,” she announced, her voice devoid of all inflection.

“I’m going outside,” Asa muttered simultaneously, already turning toward the front door.

Ahyeon called after their retreating backs, unable to resist. “The hashtag has over a million posts, you know!”

From outside the front door, a furious yell in Japanese cut through the wall—a curse so creative it made Ruka’s eyebrows shoot up in respect. From upstairs, the firm, definitive click of a door shutting echoed.

The members looked at each other in the sudden quiet.

Ruka broke it, nodding sagely. “So. The whole world sees it.”

Chiquita popped a grape in her mouth. “The whole world has always seen it.”

Ahyeon pulled out her wallet. “Twenty bucks says they actually figure it out before the month ends.”

Gawon matched the bill, slapping it on the coffee table. “Twenty says they combust into a million little pieces first.”

They shook on it.

***

The air in the ground-floor practice room on Day 25 was thick with the smell of polished wood, sweat, and unresolved everything. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, bleaching color from the world and casting their movements in stark relief across the mirrors that covered every wall, creating infinite, multiplying reflections of their standoff.

Teddy’s choreography for their duet was a physical manifestation of the song: push and pull, advance and retreat, a dance of opposing forces. The key moment was brutal in its simplicity. Asa would rap the final bars of the bridge advancing, backing Anna against the mirror wall. Anna’s vocal response was a defiance, ending with her hand on Asa’s chest, pushing her away on the very last beat.

Take one was mechanical. Take three was better, but sterile.

Asa stopped the music with a sharp slap of her palm against the wall panel. “You have to actually push me,” she said, breathing harder than the steps warranted. “It’s supposed to look like you mean it.”

Anna, barely flushed, wiped her brow with the back of her wrist. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not going to hurt me. Push me like you’re angry.”

“I’m not angry,” Anna said, her voice calm.

Asa took two steps closer, well into Anna’s personal space. Her eyes glinted, goading. “Then think about something that makes you angry.”

Anna’s gaze, usually so controlled, sharpened. A flicker of something real.

Take five. The energy shifted. It was sharper, closer. When the moment came, Asa rapped the bridge walking Anna backward, her voice dropping to a possessive growl for the final lines. Anna’s back met the cool mirror. Her hand came up, planted flat on Asa’s sternum, and shoved. It wasn’t a choreographed push; it was a real, frustrated, powerful thrust that sent Asa stumbling back two full steps, breaking the frame.

They both froze, chests heaving. The silence was deafening.

Asa straightened up. A dangerous, almost-smile touched her lips. Her eyes were alive with fire. “There it is.”

Something in the room’s pressure changed. The atmosphere became charged, liquid.

By take eight, they weren’t rehearsing. They were performing for an audience of one—each other. The steps were the same, but the intention was entirely new. Asa’s movements were predatory, a relentless closing of space. Anna’s were magnetic, a defiant refusal to truly retreat, pulling Asa in even as she was meant to be pushed away.

The mirror moment arrived. Asa closed the final distance, her hands coming up to slam against the glass on either side of Anna’s head, caging her. Not touching, but the heat of her arms was a brand. Anna’s back hit the mirror with a soft thump. Their faces were close enough that Anna could see the faint freckle under Asa’s left eye, the quick flutter of a pulse in her throat.

Asa delivered the final rap line not to the room, but directly into the space between their mouths, her voice a low, raw murmur that vibrated in Anna’s bones.

Anna’s hand came up. Not to push. It settled against Asa’s chest, right over her heart. The thin, sweat-damp fabric of Asa’s tank top did nothing to hide the frantic, hammering rhythm beneath her palm.

“Your heart is racing,” Anna whispered, her own breath coming short.

“I’ve been dancing for two hours,” Asa breathed back, not moving a millimeter.

Anna’s eyes locked onto hers. “Liar.”

The last note of the track faded. The room was silent save for the ragged, synchronized sound of their breathing, echoing in the cavernous space. The mirrors showed them from every angle: an infinity of trapped moments, of two girls standing too close, pretending too little.

Asa’s gaze dropped. It didn’t flicker. It didn’t dart away in shame. It fell, deliberately, to Anna’s mouth, and stayed there. A blatant, unhidden look of want.

Anna’s fingers against Asa’s chest curled slowly, gripping the damp fabric, twisting it in her fist.

The moment stretched, thin and screaming.

Then Asa spoke. Her voice was raw, stripped bare, barely audible. “Anna.”

Just her name. Not a jab, not a challenge. It was an offering, and a surrender.

Anna’s breath caught in her throat, a visible, shaky hitch. Her grip on Asa’s shirt tightened until her knuckles were white.

“Don’t,” Anna pleaded, her voice trembling.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say my name like that,” she whispered, eyes wide and vulnerable, “when you’re this close to me. Not unless you—”

She cut herself off, but the unfinished sentence hung between them, more intimate than any touch. Not unless you mean it. Not unless you’re going to do something about it.

They were frozen, a live wire of tension. Mouths inches apart. Anna pinned against the cool glass by Asa’s heat. The fluorescent lights hummed their judgment.

Asa didn’t finish her sentence. Instead, she let out a sound—a broken, frustrated, desperate thing that was half laugh, half sob—and let her forehead fall forward to rest against Anna’s.

The contact was electric. Simple, profound. Skin to skin. They both inhaled sharply, a shared gasp. Anna’s eyes fluttered closed. Asa’s remained open, watching the play of agony and want on Anna’s features from an inch away.

“I really hate you,” Asa murmured, the words a warm breath against Anna’s lips.

Anna’s eyes stayed closed. A single, traitorous tear escaped, tracing a path through the fine sweat on her temple. Her voice was wrecked. “No, you don’t.”

Asa’s own defiance crumbled. “No,” she admitted, the word a confession. “I don’t.”

She tilted her head, slowly, giving Anna every possible chance to rebuild the walls, to shove her away, to resurrect her composure and walk out.

Anna didn’t move. Her hand slid up from Asa’s chest, over the column of her throat, to cradle the side of her neck. Her fingers were trembling violently against Asa’s skin.

Asa closed the final, infinitesimal distance.

The kiss was not gentle. It was not sweet. It was the inevitable collision of three weeks of shared, loaded silence. It was the silhouette through frosted glass, the voice stripped bare at 1 AM, the heartbeat under a palm, the bridge with no beat, a name said like a secret. It was every argument, every barbed comment, every stolen glance collapsing into this single, undeniable point.

Asa pressed forward, pinning Anna more firmly against the mirror. Anna’s response was immediate and fierce; her fingers speared into Asa’s hair, gripping tight, pulling her closer as if to devour the distance whole. The glass was a shock of cold against Anna’s back, Asa a furnace against her front, and the contrast wrenched a gasp from Anna’s throat. Asa swallowed the sound, her tongue sweeping into Anna’s mouth, a claim and a question all at once.

They broke apart only when lungs screamed, foreheads still pressed together, breathing each other’s air in ragged gulps. Their eyes searched, pupils blown wide, checking that this was real, that the other wasn’t about to laugh or run.

Anna looked utterly undone. Her lips were swollen and glistening, her perfect hair disheveled from Asa’s hands and the mirror, her composure incinerated. She looked like a revelation.

The realization that she had done this—that she, Asa, was the force that could shatter Anna’s perfect world—hit Asa with the force of a physical blow, leaving her dizzy.

“Tell me to stop,” Asa rasped, her own voice unfamiliar.

“No.”

“Anna—”

Anna’s hand fisted in the front of her tank top and pulled her back. “I said no,” she breathed against Asa’s mouth, her voice fierce and final. “Don’t you dare stop.”

The second kiss was deeper, slower, less desperate but infinitely more deliberate. Anna kissed like she did everything—with precision and devastating intent, as if mapping the feel and taste of Asa, committing it to memory. Asa kissed like she rapped—direct, all-consuming, with a rhythmic intensity that stole thought.

Hands began to move. Asa’s slid from the mirror to Anna’s waist, her thumbs digging into the soft dip above her hip bones, pulling their bodies flush. Anna’s back arched off the glass at the contact, a soft, broken moan vibrating into Asa’s mouth. The sound went straight to Asa’s core, hot and liquid.

Clothes became an intolerable barrier. Asa’s hands found the hem of Anna’s fitted practice top and yanked it up. Anna broke the kiss just long enough to raise her arms, letting Asa pull it off and toss it aside. Her own fingers made quick, impatient work of the knot on Asa’s tank top, pushing the damp fabric off her shoulders.

They stood there for a moment, chests heaving, just looking. The mirrors reflected the scene back a hundred times: Anna in her simple black bra, her skin glowing under the harsh lights; Asa, lean and taut, in a grey sports bra, a faint sheen of sweat making her skin gleam.

“See something you like?” Asa managed, the old bravado a thin veneer over the awe in her voice.

Instead of a retort, Anna’s gaze was worship. Her hands came up, hovering for a second before settling on Asa’s waist, then sliding up her ribs. Her thumbs brushed the undersides of Asa’s breasts through the sports bra, a touch so tender it made Asa’s knees weak. “You’re so…” Anna whispered, her voice full of wonder. “All this time. Right here.”

She leaned in and pressed her mouth to the swell of Asa’s breast above the bra line. The kiss was soft, then open-mouthed and hot. Asa’s head fell back with a choked gasp, her hands flying to Anna’s shoulders for balance. Anna’s hands went to the clasp of her own bra, flicking it open with practiced ease, letting it fall. Then her fingers hooked into the waistband of Asa’s shorts and underwear, pushing them down in one rough, urgent motion.

Asa kicked them away, stepping out of the puddle of fabric, gloriously, terrifyingly naked. Anna’s eyes darkened, her gaze a physical caress that left burning trails on Asa’s skin. She followed suit, shedding her own remaining clothes until they were both bare, surrounded by the discarded evidence of their surrender.

The dynamic shifted again. The one who had been pinned now guided, pushing Asa backward until her legs hit the low bench used for stretching. “Sit,” Anna murmured, and Asa obeyed, the wood cool against her thighs.

Anna knelt on the practice room floor before her. The sight was so profoundly erotic, so submissive and dominant all at once, that Asa could only stare, her heart a wild thing in her chest. Anna’s hands settled on Asa’s knees, gently pushing them apart. She looked up, her eyes meeting Asa’s, holding her gaze as she leaned forward.

The first touch of Anna’s tongue was a lightning strike. A slow, deliberate lick from bottom to top, through slick, aching folds. Asa cried out, a sharp, unfiltered sound that echoed off the mirrors. Her hands flew to Anna’s head, not to push her away, but to hold on as the world dissolved into sensation.

Anna ate her out with the same focused intensity she brought to everything. It was meticulous and devastating. She learned what made Asa jerk and gasp—the firm circle of her tongue over Asa’s clit, the shallow thrust of her tongue inside, the soft suck of her lips. She alternated between broad, flat strokes and pinpoint flicks, building a rhythm that had Asa writhing, her heels digging into the small of Anna’s back.

“Anna—fuck—right there, don’t stop, please—” Asa babbled, her vocabulary reduced to pleas and curses. The coil of tension in her gut, a constant companion for weeks, was tightening to a breaking point. This was her first time, the first time anyone had touched her like this, and the vulnerability was terrifying, the pleasure obliterating.

Anna hummed against her, the vibration wringing a sob from Asa’s throat. One of Anna’s hands slid up Asa’s thigh, then inward, her fingers joining her tongue. One finger, slick with Asa’s arousal, pressed inside, slowly, stretching. The fullness was exquisite. Asa’s back arched off the bench.

“More,” she gasped. “Please.”

A second finger joined the first, curling, searching. Anna’s mouth never left her, her tongue working in counterpoint to the deep, steady thrust of her fingers. She found a spot inside that made Asa see white behind her eyelids, a sharp, bright burst of pleasure that had her screaming Anna’s name.

The orgasm ripped through her without warning, a seismic wave that started deep in her core and radiated outwards, shaking her to the foundations. Her body convulsed, her thighs clamping around Anna’s head as she rode the relentless waves of Anna’s tongue and fingers, crying out until her voice was hoarse.

As she came down, trembling and boneless, Anna gentled her touches, placing soft, reverent kisses on her inner thighs before slowly withdrawing. She looked up, her chin glistening, her expression one of awed triumph.

Before Anna could move, Asa slid off the bench, her legs shaky but determined. She pulled Anna up and into a searing kiss, tasting herself on Anna’s lips, a primal, possessive thrill shooting through her. “My turn,” she growled against Anna’s mouth.

She guided Anna down onto the matted practice room floor, following her down, covering her body with her own. She kissed her way down Anna’s throat, over the frantic pulse, down her sternum. She took one of Anna’s breasts into her mouth, sucking the peaked nipple deep, swirling her tongue. Anna’s back bowed off the floor, a ragged moan tearing from her. Asa lavished equal attention on the other, her hand palming and kneading the soft weight, learning what made Anna gasp and clutch at her hair.

“Asa, please,” Anna begged, her hips rolling up, seeking friction. “I need…”

“I know what you need,” Asa murmured, her voice thick. She kissed her way down the flat plane of Anna’s stomach, over the delicate hip bones, and settled between her thighs.

Anna was already soaked, glistening for her. Asa didn’t tease. She dove in, her tongue finding Anna’s clit with unerring accuracy. Anna’s cry was a shattered thing. Asa licked and sucked, drinking her in, one hand sliding up to pinch and roll a nipple, the other bracing herself on the floor. She was relentless, fueled by a desperate need to give Anna what she’d just been given, to unravel her completely.

When Anna was a writhing, pleading mess, Asa slid two fingers inside her. Anna was tight, hot, clenching around her instantly. Asa fucked her with deep, steady strokes, her thumb rubbing tight circles on Anna’s clit. She watched Anna’s face—the parted lips, the fluttering eyelids, the tears leaking from the corners of her eyes—and felt a possessiveness so fierce it stole her breath.

“Look at me,” Asa commanded, her voice rough.

Anna’s dark eyes flew open, locking onto hers. The connection was absolute. In that gaze, Asa saw all the frustration, the longing, the buried want of the past weeks reflected back at her, finally acknowledged.

“Come for me, Anna,” Asa said, curling her fingers just so.

Anna’s orgasm hit her like a train. Her body seized, a silent scream on her lips before sound finally broke free—a long, trembling wail that echoed in the cavernous room. She clenched around Asa’s fingers, her hips bucking uncontrollably as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her. Asa rode it out with her, gentling her touch but not stopping until Anna went limp beneath her, spent and shaking.

Asa collapsed beside her, both of them breathing in ragged unison, slick with sweat, their skin glowing under the harsh lights. The air smelled of sex and salt and them. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their lungs fighting for air.

But it wasn’t enough. The fire, banked for a moment, roared back to life, hotter, hungrier. The sight of Anna, utterly ruined and beautiful, ignited something even deeper in Asa. A need not just to take, but to join. To be consumed in the same flame.

Anna turned her head on the mat, her eyes hazy but burning. She seemed to feel the same relentless pull. Without a word, she shifted, rolling onto her side, facing Asa. Her hand found Asa’s hip, pulling her close until they were nose to nose, their legs slotting together.

Understanding passed between them in a flash. Asa mirrored her, turning, their bodies aligning in the mirror’s cruel, honest gaze. An infinite reflection of two girls, tangled and wanting.

Anna hooked her top leg over Asa’s hip, drawing her closer. Asa did the same, their bodies pressing together from chest to thigh. The contact was electric, a new kind of intimacy. They were face to face, breathing the same air, eyes wide open.

Slowly, deliberately, Anna rocked her hips forward. The slick, swollen heat of her pressed against Asa’s own. A shared, shuddering gasp tore from both of them. The sensation was unbelievable—direct, wet, overwhelming friction.

Asa met the movement, grinding against her. There were no more roles, no giver and receiver. They moved together in a desperate, searching rhythm, each thrust and roll a shared sentence in a language of pure need. Their foreheads pressed together, eyes locked, refusing to look away from the truth of what they were doing.

“You feel—” Anna gasped, her voice shattered.

“I know,” Asa choked out, her hands gripping Anna’s waist, holding her tight as their bodies slid together. “I know, I know.”

The pace built, frantic and uncoordinated. It was messy, imperfect, the slide of their bodies loud in the quiet room. Their moans mingled, breathless and broken. Asa could feel the hard nub of Anna’s clit rubbing against her own with every roll of their hips, sending jolts of white-hot pleasure straight to her core. Her second orgasm was already building, coiling tighter and deeper than the first, fed by the sight of Anna coming apart beneath her, by the feel of her everywhere.

Anna’s cries grew higher, more desperate. Her nails scored down Asa’s back. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare stop, I’m so close, Asa, please—”

“Look at me,” Asa demanded again, her own control fraying. “Look at me when you come.”

Their hips pistoned against each other, a slick, frantic dance. The world narrowed to the point where their bodies met, to the wildfire in Anna’s eyes. Asa felt the exact moment Anna began to fracture. Her inner muscles fluttered wildly against Asa’s thigh, her whole body tensing like a bowstring. A broken, sobbing cry was torn from her lips.

That sound, that final surrender, was Asa’s undoing.

Her own climax detonated a heartbeat later, a simultaneous eruption that felt less like pleasure and more like annihilation. It was a seismic release that tore through her, wringing a raw, guttural shout from her throat. They clutched each other as the waves crashed over them, shaking, convulsing, riding the shared cataclysm until there was nothing left, until they were both spent, hollowed out, and utterly still.

Silence. But a different kind—a thick, liquid quiet, heavy with the scent of their joining and the echo of their cries. The fluorescent buzz was a distant hum.

Asa’s forehead rested against Anna’s shoulder, her body a dead weight. Anna’s arms were locked around her, holding her as if she might float away.

After a small eternity, Anna spoke, her voice husky and wrecked. “So.”

Asa didn’t lift her head. “So.”

“This is a problem.”

A weak, breathless laugh escaped Asa. “Yeah.”

“The cameras. The groups. The show. The… everything,” Anna whispered, the reality seeping back in at the edges.

“I know.”

“We can’t just—”

“I know.”

A pause. Asa, moving as if through syrup, lifted her head. She ran her thumb gently across Anna’s hipbone, over the red marks her own fingers had left. Anna shivered.

“Can we figure that out later?” Asa asked, her voice soft.

Anna looked up at her. The low, real laugh—the one Asa had been cataloguing since day one—bubbled up, tired and warm. “You’re impossible.”

“And you followed me here,” Asa said, a faint, triumphant smile touching her lips. “Again.”

Anna opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. Because it was true. To the practice room. To the floor. She always followed. She always stayed.

“Call me Unnie,” Anna murmured, the old tease in her eyes, but softer now.

Asa looked down at her, the corner of her mouth lifting. “No.”

“Asa—”

“I told you,” Asa whispered, leaning close until their lips almost brushed again. “I like the way you look at me when I say your name.”

She said it again. “Anna.” Low. Private. Just for her.

Anna pulled her into a third kiss. This one was slow, deep, and tasted of salt and smiling.

***

They walked upstairs together much later, after cleaning up in the practice room sink with paper towels, moving in a shared, exhausted haze. The building was asleep. In the narrow hallway, their shoulders brushed, a conscious, steady point of contact.

They stopped at the door to their room. The small room with two beds four feet apart, the masking tape line on the nightstand, the monument to their separation.

They looked at the two separate beds. Then at each other.

“So…” Asa said, her voice dry. “Which side of the tape are we on?”

Anna didn’t hesitate. She reached down, found the end of the masking tape on the nightstand, and peeled it off in one long, clean pull. The rrriip sounded final in the quiet room. She crumpled the tape into a small, sticky ball and dropped it into the wastebasket.

“Mine,” she said, sitting on the edge of her bed by the window. “My bed’s better.”

Asa leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “Your bed is the same bed.”

“My bed has the window.”

“You’re really going to be insufferable about this,” Asa said, but there was no heat in it, only a fond exhaustion.

Anna looked up at her, and the expression on her face was a new thing—soft and sharp and certain, all the contradictions they housed finally settling into place. “Always.”

Asa looked at her for a long, quiet moment. Then she pushed off the doorframe and crossed the four feet of floor—the same charged distance they had measured and guarded for three weeks—and sat beside her on the bed.

The small room held them. Two girls on one bed. The four-foot gap, finally closed. From two rooms down, the muffled sound of someone laughing at a phone video. The old building creaked around them. Outside the window, Seoul glittered, indifferent and alive.

Neither of them slept for a long time. But for the first time, it wasn’t because they were pretending.

***

The next morning, the kitchen was a symphony of controlled chaos. Bacon sizzled. Rice cookers steamed. Sooin was arguing with Ruka over the last yogurt.

Asa and Anna came downstairs together. Not holding hands. Not making eye contact. But they entered the room at the same time, their steps synchronized. Their shoulders were close, almost touching. And Anna was wearing a black hoodie, oversized and slightly frayed at the cuffs, the fabric straining across her shoulders in a way her own perfectly tailored clothes never did. It was distinctly, undeniably, streetwear.

It was Asa’s.

Ahyeon, mid-bite of a kimbap roll, froze. Her eyes tracked from the hoodie to Anna’s face, to Asa’s carefully neutral expression, and back to the hoodie. Slowly, she put her chopsticks down. She turned her head, millimeter by millimeter, to meet Gawon’s gaze.

Gawon had seen it. Her eyes were wide, her body vibrating like a tuning fork. She looked at the hoodie, then at Ahyeon, her mouth forming a silent, ‘Oh.’

A ripple went through the room. One by one, every member stopped what they were doing. Rami’s spoon hovered over her soup. Pharita slowly lowered her coffee mug. Ella’s toast remained unturned in the pan, beginning to smoke. The silence was profound, deafening, vibrating with the sheer force of nine people not screaming.

Anna, seemingly oblivious, glided to the table and sat down. Asa went to the coffee machine. She poured two mugs: one black Americano, one with a careful pour of milk and two sugars. She brought them both to the table, setting the sweetened one in front of Anna without a word. Their fingers brushed during the handoff. Neither flinched.

Ahyeon opened her mouth, a thousand questions visibly erupting behind her eyes.

“Don’t,” Asa said calmly, not even looking at her as she took her own seat.

Ahyeon’s mouth snapped shut.

A beat of pulsing, unbearable quiet.

Gawon, unable to contain it a second longer, whispered, “So… should I cancel the bet, or—?”

Anna took a serene sip of her coffee, then lifted her eyes. They were clear, calm, and held a glint of familiar, teasing steel. “What bet?”

Ahyeon kicked Gawon under the table. “NOTHING!”

Under the table, hidden from view, Asa’s hand found Anna’s knee. Anna’s free hand drifted down and covered it, her fingers lacing through Asa’s.

Across the kitchen, the members exchanged a series of frantic, silent looks. Smiles were bitten back. Eyes sparkled with triumphant, gleeful mischief. Sooin quietly picked up her burning toast from the pan and dropped it into the sink.

It was going to be a long, wonderful, absolutely insufferable month.

END.

[afterhours37]

Jisoo Oneshot: The Umbrella Rule

Word Count: 13,400 Genre: Slow Burn, Romance, Fluffy Smut

Rain always made film sets worse. Not dramatically worse— just inconveniently worse. Cables needed covering. Staff moved twice as fast while pretending not to panic. Makeup artists hovered with tissues. Managers muttered into phones. Someone always slipped at least once and then immediately pretended they meant to do that.

Jisoo watched all of this from beneath the narrow shelter of a production tent, still wearing the coat from her final scene which was too elegant for the weather, too expensive-looking… too thin.

She stared at the rain falling beyond the tent’s edge and decided, very calmly, that whoever scheduled a night shoot during monsoon season deserved at least one mild inconvenience every morning for a week. Not a major curse. She was not unreasonable. Just enough that their socks never fully dried.

“Jisoo-ssi, your van is ready,” one of the assistants called. Jisoo nodded politely “Thank you.” A very professional voice and smile despite the fact that her toes were cold and one strand of hair kept sticking to her lip gloss in a way that felt personally targeted. Her manager was arguing with someone near the parking area, which meant Jisoo had approximately thirty seconds to solve her own umbrella problem.

There was a rack beside the tent entrance. Black umbrellas. All of them identical in the way production umbrellas usually were. She took the nearest one. A practical decision.

The umbrella opened with a soft snap above her head, wider and sturdier than expected. The handle was wooden, smooth beneath her fingers, warm in a way plastic never was. Not a production umbrella then. Jisoo paused, looked at it, then at the rain, and finally back at the umbrella.

“…Borrowing,” she decided quietly.

The rain didn’t object. So she walked. By the time she reached the van, her manager was still on the phone, the assistant director was apologizing to someone who looked too tired to accept apologies, and Jisoo had successfully avoided becoming dramatically soaked. It was a small victory to her.

She slid into the backseat and closed the umbrella carefully before handing it toward the empty space near the door. That was when something white slipped from inside the curve of the handle. A folded note. Jisoo stared at it. The van door closed beside her. Rain softened against the roof. Her manager climbed into the front seat, still talking quickly into his phone.

Jisoo unfolded the paper, there were only two lines written in neat, dark ink.

“If you return this, you owe one honest answer.”

Below it was a small address. Nothing else. No name. No phone number. No explanation. Jisoo blinked once, then again “…Annoying,” she murmured. Her manager glanced back “What?”

“Nothing.” She folded the note again and looked at the umbrella resting beside her. It looked perfectly normal. Black canopy. Wooden handle. Slight scratch near the metal tip. A faint smell of rainwater and cedar. It did not look cursed… probably.

Still, Jisoo narrowed her eyes at it. The umbrella said nothing. That was suspicious. Her phone buzzed in her lap. Jennie had sent a message to the group chat.

Jennie: Did you survive filming? Lisa: If she did, ask her to bring snacks. Rosé: Why are snacks always your first emergency response? Lisa: Because I’m emotionally consistent.

Jisoo typed with one thumb.

Jisoo: I stole an umbrella. Lisa: Finally. Crime era. Rosé: Please return it. Jennie: Was it expensive?

Jisoo looked at the umbrella again. Then at the note.

Jisoo: It has rules. Lisa: Never mind. Haunted umbrella era.

Jisoo put her phone face down.

Outside the window, Seoul blurred through rain and neon. Headlights stretched across wet streets. People hurried under convenience store awnings. The city looked softer in bad weather, like someone had smudged its edges with a thumb. She should have ignored the note. That would have been the normal thing to do. It was an umbrella. People lost umbrellas constantly. The entire country was basically built on accidental umbrella exchange.

And yet— Jisoo picked up the note again “If you return this, you owe one honest answer”. She frowned faintly. Not because the line was charming. It was not. It was irritatingly confident. The kind of sentence written by someone who thought they were more interesting than they probably were.

Naturally, that made her curious, which was also irritating. She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes “I’m returning it tomorrow,” she decided. Her manager glanced back again “The umbrella?”

“Yes.” “Okay.”

A pause. Then he asked carefully, “Is there a reason?” Jisoo opened one eye “It has bad manners”. Her manager stared at her for one second too long before deciding, wisely, not to ask anything else.

—

The address led to a narrow side street two blocks away from the filming location. Jisoo found it the next afternoon between a closed tailor shop and a tiny café that smelled aggressively of burnt espresso. The sign above the door read:

NOON RAIN REPAIRS

Underneath, in smaller letters:

Umbrellas. Bags. Small Things Worth Keeping.

Jisoo stood outside for a moment, holding the umbrella like evidence “…Of course,” she said. Because apparently she had not stolen a normal umbrella. She had stolen one from someone poetic. Absolutely terrible luck, she told herself.

A small bell rang when she pushed the door open. The shop was warmer than expected. Umbrellas hung from the ceiling in neat rows: black, navy, yellow, clear plastic, one ridiculous green one with ducks along the edge. Shelves held jars of screws, spools of thread, replacement ribs, folded fabric, and small tools Jisoo couldn’t name. Rain tapped lightly against the front window. Behind the counter, a man looked up from repairing the handle of a red umbrella. He had dark hair slightly too long near his eyes, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and the calm expression of someone who had chosen a quiet profession on purpose.

His gaze moved from her face to the umbrella in her hand. Then back to her face. He didn’t gasp. Didn’t reach for his phone. Didn’t say her name like it belonged to the world before it belonged to her. He only said “You found it.” Jisoo lifted the umbrella slightly “You lost it.”

“I lent it to someone.” “You lent it badly.”

The corner of his mouth moved. Not quite a smile. Almost though.

“That depends. It came back.” “I brought it back.” “Then the system worked.”

Jisoo stared at him. He looked entirely too pleased with himself for someone whose business model apparently relied on strangers having moral responsibility. She placed the umbrella on the counter “There. Returned.”

He wiped his hands on a cloth before picking it up carefully, checking the wooden handle first like he was greeting an old friend. Jisoo noticed that. Unfortunately. People who cared about objects in specific ways were harder to dismiss “You read the note?” he asked.

“No.”

His eyes flicked toward her. Jisoo held his gaze calmly. The silence lasted three seconds. Then he said, “That was your first lie.”

“That wasn’t your question.” This time, he did smile. Annoyingly amused “You’re right.”

“I usually am.” “I can tell.” Jisoo narrowed her eyes. “That sounded sarcastic.” “It was an observational conclusion.” “That sounds worse.”

He leaned one elbow lightly against the counter. “I’m Kang Doha.” Jisoo did not immediately answer. Not because she was being rude. Because there was always a small moment, whenever introductions happened, where people stopped speaking to her and started speaking to the idea of her instead.

Doha seemed to notice the pause. He didn’t fill it, that was interesting. Eventually, Jisoo said, “Jisoo.”

“I know.” There it was. She waited. For the shift, the awkwardness. For the widened eyes or delayed excitement or sudden change in posture. But Doha only reached beneath the counter and pulled out a small tag attached to a string “Do you want a receipt?” Jisoo blinked “For returning an umbrella?”

“It feels official.” “It feels unnecessary.” “Most official things are.”

That surprised a laugh out of her. Barely there, but real enough that Doha’s expression changed slightly, like he had noticed something without meaning to. Jisoo immediately became suspicious “So,” she said, folding her arms. “The note.”

“Yes.” “You put rules inside umbrellas?” “Only that one.” “Why?” “It gets borrowed often.” “And the answer rule helps?” “Not usually.” “At least you’re honest.” “I try.” “Is that why you make strangers do it too?”

Doha looked down at the umbrella, thumb brushing once over the worn wooden handle “It started as a joke,” he said. “People return things faster when they feel like there’s a story attached.”

Jisoo hated that this made sense. “That’s manipulative.”

“A little.” “You admit it?” “That was my honest answer.” “It doesn’t count if nobody asked.” “Strict.” “Efficient.”

His mouth curved again. Jisoo looked away first, which annoyed her more than it should have. Outside, the rain grew heavier, soft afternoon drizzle turning into a steady gray sheet across the windows.

Of course it did. She had returned the umbrella. Now the weather was punishing her for being responsible. Doha noticed her glance toward the door “Do you need to leave?”

“Yes.” “With what umbrella?”

Jisoo looked slowly back at him. He looked innocent. Badly. She pointed at the counter “That one.”

“You returned it.” “I can unreturn it.” “That’s legally complex.” “This is an umbrella repair shop.” “We respect procedure here.” “You hide emotional homework in handles.” “And yet you came.”

Jisoo opened her mouth and closed it. A mistake that he noticed. Terrible man. Finally, Doha picked up the umbrella and held it out toward her “Borrow it again.”

Jisoo stared at him. “That is a trap.” “It is an umbrella.” “It has conditions.” “One condition.” “One too many.” “You can walk in the rain then.”

Jisoo looked outside. Rain hammered the pavement with immediate theatrical timing. She looked back at him. Doha’s expression remained calm. Patient. A little smug. She took the umbrella “Fine.”

“The rule still applies.” “I haven’t answered the first question.” “I haven’t asked it yet.”

Jisoo paused with her hand on the door. The bell above it swayed slightly from the movement. Doha leaned against the counter, thoughtful now, like he was choosing carefully. Then he asked “Do you always pretend you’re less curious than you are?”

Jisoo turned her head slowly. The rain blurred the world behind her into gray light. For a second, she considered giving him something easy. Something dismissive. Something clever enough to end the conversation without giving him anything real. But the umbrella was already in her hand. The note had been clear. One honest answer. So Jisoo exhaled softly through her nose.

“Yes.”

Doha’s smile softened. Not triumphant. Just quietly pleased that she had played along.

“That was better than lying.” “I’m leaving now.” “Because you answered?” “Because you look satisfied and I dislike it.” “That’s honest too.” “It’s free. Don’t get used to it.”

This time, Doha laughed. Warm and brief. Unexpectedly nice. Jisoo stepped outside before he could become more annoying. The umbrella opened above her with that same soft snap from the night before. Rain slid down its black canopy while the tiny shop glowed warmly behind her. She should have felt ridiculous. Instead, as she walked back toward the waiting car, Jisoo found herself glancing once at the wooden handle.

The folded note was gone. But somehow the rule remained anyway. Her phone buzzed again.

Lisa: Did you return the haunted umbrella?

Jisoo looked back at the shop window. Doha had returned to repairing the red umbrella, head bent beneath warm light, as if nothing unusual had happened at all. Jisoo typed:

Jisoo: No. Jennie: Why?

Jisoo looked at the umbrella above her. Then, after a moment—

Jisoo: It started raining again. Rosé: That sounds reasonable. Lisa: That sounds fake.

Jisoo slipped the phone into her pocket before anyone could ask more questions. The rain kept falling. The umbrella stayed open. And for reasons she had no intention of examining yet, Jisoo walked a little slower than usual.

The umbrella stayed with Jisoo for four more days. Not because she forgot to return it, that would have been too convenient. She simply kept finding practical reasons not to.

The first day, it rained again. The second day, there was a schedule too far from the shop. The third day, Lisa asked if the haunted umbrella had demanded her soul yet, and Jisoo decided returning it immediately after that would feel like losing.

By the fourth day, she stood outside Noon Rain Repairs with the umbrella in one hand and a convenience store coffee in the other, staring through the front window like the shop had personally inconvenienced her.

Doha was inside, repairing a yellow umbrella with a broken rib. He looked up before she knocked. The bell chimed softly as Jisoo opened the door.

“You kept it longer this time,” he said. “Observation or accusation?” “Both.” She placed the umbrella on the counter “Returned.” Doha looked at the coffee in her other hand “For me?” “No.” “Then why are there two?”

Jisoo paused. Looked down. There were, in fact, two coffees “I was thirsty twice”. Doha nodded slowly “That sounds medically concerning”. She pushed one coffee toward him “Take it before I change my explanation”. He accepted it with the kind of small smile that made her feel like he had won something. He checked the umbrella carefully, then looked back at her “You know what this means.”

“It means your umbrella has returned safely.” “It means you owe one honest answer.” “I was hoping you forgot.” “I repair umbrellas for a living. My memory has to compensate for the excitement.”

That almost made her laugh. Doha leaned lightly against the counter, choosing his question with unnecessary patience. Jisoo hated that part Finally, he asked, “Do you always answer questions like someone is cross-examining you?”

“Yes.” “That was fast.” “It was easy.” “Why?”

Jisoo pointed at him. “That is another question.”

“True.” “I respect rules.” “You stole my umbrella.” “I borrowed it with weather-based justification.”

Doha laughed into his coffee and Jisoo looked away first.

—

The umbrella returned three more times after that. Once because it rained outside a recording studio. Once because Doha claimed he needed to replace the handle grip and then somehow forgot to take it back. Once on a day it didn’t rain at all.

Jisoo noticed that last part. So did he. Neither of them mentioned it. The questions changed slowly. At first, they were harmless.

“Do you actually like rainy days?” “No. I like being inside while other people suffer through them.” “Do you always walk this slowly?” “I’m preserving energy.” “For what?” “Surviving conversations like this.”

But then Doha became worse. More precise. More dangerous. One evening, after Jisoo returned the umbrella just before closing, he asked:

“Do people usually misunderstand you?”

Jisoo’s hand paused on the counter. The shop smelled like rainwater, metal, and old fabric. Outside, the streetlights had turned the pavement gold. She should have made a joke. She almost did. Instead, she looked at the umbrella hanging between them.

“Sometimes,” she said. Doha didn’t smile this time. He only nodded once. Like he knew the difference between an answer and something that had cost her a little. That was the problem with Kang Doha. He did not push. Pushing would have made him easier to dislike. Instead, he waited and Jisoo kept answering.

—

By the third week, the umbrella rule had become less of a rule and more of an inconvenience they were both pretending not to enjoy. Jisoo left it at the shop. Doha returned it to her filming location. She brought it back the next day.

He said the strap needed stitching. She said that sounded fake. He said most meaningful things did at first. She stared at him long enough that he quietly returned to work.

The BLACKPINK group chat became suspicious before Jisoo admitted anything.

Lisa: Is this still the haunted umbrella? Jisoo: It is repaired now. Lisa: That does not answer the question. Jennie: It answered enough. Rosé: Is this a romance thing? Jisoo: No. Lisa: That was the fastest lie I’ve seen all week.

Jisoo put her phone face down. Doha glanced up from the counter.

“Trouble?” “My members are dramatic.” “Are they wrong?” “Yes.”

He waited. Jisoo narrowed her eyes.

“Do not look at me like you’re preparing a question.” “I wasn’t.” “You were.” “I was thinking one.” “Worse.”

Doha set down the small screwdriver in his hand.

“All right.” “No.” “I haven’t asked it yet.” “I can feel it.” “That sounds serious.” “It is. I’m suffering.”

He smiled faintly. Then asked, quieter than usual: “Do you like being alone, or are you just good at it?”

Jisoo went still, not visibly. She was too practiced for that. But something inside her paused.

The rain outside had softened to a drizzle, tapping lightly against the shop windows. Umbrellas hung overhead in neat shadows, swaying faintly whenever the door let in a draft. Doha did not take the question back. He also did not look pleased with himself. That helped a little.

Jisoo looked down at the umbrella between them. The wooden handle had been polished recently. She noticed because her thumb no longer caught against the old scratch near the curve.

“You fixed this,” she said. “I did.” “You didn’t tell me.” “You noticed.”

That was annoying too. She inhaled quietly. Then answered.

“I think being alone is easier to explain.”

Doha watched her for a moment “Than what?” Jisoo’s eyes lifted to his “Than wanting someone to stay.”

The shop went quiet. Not awkward. Just suddenly honest in a way neither of them had fully prepared for. Doha’s expression changed slowly. Not dramatically, just enough. Jisoo immediately regretted being sincere. So naturally, she reached for the umbrella.

“I’m leaving.” “It stopped raining.” Doha pointed out the obvious. “I enjoy unnecessary accessories.” “That sounds fake.” “It is. But you only get one honest answer.”

This time, when Doha laughed, Jisoo allowed herself to smile before turning away. It was small and brief. But it was real.

—

The storm came a week later. Not rain. A storm. The kind that made Seoul look briefly unreasonable. Jisoo had just finished a late shoot when the sky broke open hard enough to make even the staff curse under their breath.

The van was delayed. Her manager was trapped somewhere near the other entrance. And the umbrella—Doha’s umbrella, because apparently everyone had accepted that now—was the only thing between Jisoo and complete disaster.

She opened it with a familiar snap. Then a gust of wind hit sideways. The umbrella inverted immediately. Jisoo stared at it. The umbrella stared back, inside out and deeply embarrassing “…Traitor.”

Another gust pushed rain beneath the canopy, soaking her coat sleeve in seconds.

By the time she reached Noon Rain Repairs, she was damp, irritated, and holding the broken umbrella like a wounded animal she blamed personally. Doha opened the door before she knocked. His expression shifted instantly. Not amused. Concerned. Which was worse.

“Come in.” “I killed it.” “So I see.” “It died dishonorably.” “It’s an umbrella.” “It had responsibilities.”

He stepped aside, and Jisoo entered the warmth of the shop with rainwater dripping from the hem of her coat. Doha locked the door behind her and flipped the sign to CLOSED. That small action should not have felt like anything. It did anyway. The shop was dimmer after hours.

Only the lamps above the repair counter remained on, casting warm circles of light across fabric, tools, thread, and half-finished repairs. Rain hammered the windows hard enough to blur the street outside completely.

Doha took the umbrella from her carefully. One rib bent sharply outward. The canopy twisted near the top. He examined it in silence. Jisoo crossed her arms. “Be honest.”

“It looks bad.” “How bad?” “Emotionally or structurally?” “Both.” “Structurally fixable. Emotionally dramatic.” Doha continued to inspect the umbrella. “That sounds like me.”

Doha glanced up. Jisoo realized what she had said a second too late. A slow smile threatened the corner of his mouth. “Do not,” she warned.

“I didn’t say anything.” “You thought something.” “I respect your privacy.” “You do not. You ask questions for sport.” “For structure.” “For sport.”

Doha set the broken umbrella on the counter and reached for a towel from beneath it. Instead of handing it to her immediately, he paused. Then gently draped it over her shoulders. Jisoo froze for half a breath. The gesture was practical. That was the annoying part. Not romantic enough to accuse. Not casual enough to ignore. “You’re dripping on the floor,” he said.

“I see.” “I was protecting the wood.” “Of course.” “Historic floor.” “This building is not historic.” “It is emotionally historic.”

Jisoo looked at him. He looked back, entirely serious. She laughed first. A small, helpless sound she did not manage to stop in time. Doha smiled then. Properly. And the shop suddenly felt much smaller. Jisoo tightened the towel around herself and looked away.

“You owe me a question,” Doha said. “I returned your umbrella broken.” “It still returned.” “That feels generous.” “I’m in a generous mood.” “You’re enjoying this too much.” “A little.”

Rain filled the silence between them. Doha leaned against the repair counter, arms folded loosely, the broken umbrella lying between them like the remains of an excuse.

Then he asked: “Do you want to leave?”

Jisoo looked toward the door. Rain battered the glass. Her car was still not here. Her manager had not called. She had a hundred practical reasons to stay. All of them were true. None of them were the answer.

She looked back at Doha. His expression was calm, but not unaffected. That mattered. Because for once, he looked like he was waiting for an answer he actually needed. Jisoo could have made a joke.

She could have said the weather was bad. She could have blamed the broken umbrella, the delayed van, the flooded street, the fact that leaving now would be inefficient. Instead, she let the towel slip slightly from one shoulder and answered honestly.

“No.”

Doha’s gaze softened. The rain kept falling. The rule had no umbrella left to hide behind now. Jisoo stepped closer first. Doha did not move immediately. Still giving her room. Still letting her choose. That made the warmth in her chest turn sharper.

“You are very annoying,” she said quietly. His mouth curved faintly. “That wasn’t a question.” “I know.” “Was it an honest answer?” “Yes.”

Jisoo reached for the front of his shirt and pulled him down before he could say anything else. The kiss landed softer than she expected.

Not a hint of hesitation or uncertainty. Just controlled enough to give either of them the chance to stop. Neither of them did.

Doha’s hand settled at her waist, warm through the damp fabric of her coat, while Jisoo tilted her face slightly higher and kissed him again. Slower this time. Less like an answer. More like the first honest question neither of them needed to say out loud.

The broken umbrella lay forgotten on the counter beside them.

Rain blurred the windows and for once, Jisoo didn’t think about leaving first.

The rain continued its rhythmic assault on the storefront, a relentless drumming that turned the rest of Seoul into a blurred, watercolor smear of neon and grey. Inside Noon Rain Repairs, the world had shrunk to the size of a few square meters of polished wood and warm, amber light.

The kiss was not a tentative beginning. It was an arrival.

Jisoo’s hands were still slightly damp, her fingers curling into the fabric of Doha’s shirt, pulling him closer as if trying to erase the very air between them. He tasted of the coffee he’d been drinking and something uniquely him—clean, like cedarwood and the metallic tang of the tools he spent his days wielding. His hand remained firm at her waist, the heat of his palm seeping through the towel draped over her shoulders, anchoring her.

The broken umbrella lay on the counter just inches away, its ribs twisted and its canopy collapsed. It looked pathetic, a skeletal ruin of the object that had dictated their movements for weeks. The rule was dead. The shield was gone.

Jisoo pulled back just an inch, her breath hitching, her lips swollen and glistening. She looked up at him, her eyes searching his. For the first time, she didn't look for an exit. She didn't calculate the social cost of the moment. She just looked.

"You're staring," Doha murmured, his voice a low vibration that she felt in her chest. "I'm observing," she countered, though the usual dry edge in her voice had softened into something breathy. "It's an observational conclusion."

Doha’s lips quirked. "And what is the conclusion?"

Jisoo didn't answer with words. Instead, she shifted her grip, her hands sliding from his shoulders down to the buttons of his shirt. Her movements were deliberate, devoid of the hesitation she usually applied to her life. She began to undo them, one by one, her fingers brushing against the warm skin of his chest.

Doha let out a sharp, shallow exhale, his grip on her waist tightening. He didn't stop her, but as she reached the third button, he tilted his head, his nose brushing against hers.

"Jisoo," he whispered.

"Don't tell me you're getting cold feet now," she teased, though her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "That would be a very dishonest development." "Not cold feet," he said, his voice thickening. He paused, his eyes flickering to the shop around them—the jars of screws, the hanging umbrellas, the open workbench. "The shop is... still a shop. My apartment is just upstairs."

Jisoo stopped, her fingers resting against his heartbeat. She blinked, her expression returning to that familiar, affected neutrality, though her cheeks were flushed a deep, tell-tale crimson.

"Is that a request for me to move locations?" she asked. "It's a practical suggestion," Doha replied, his gaze steady. "Unless you prefer the workbench."

Jisoo let out a soft, huffing laugh. She stepped back just enough to look him up and down, her eyes shimmering with mischief.

"You're so responsible," she murmured. "It's almost irritating."

She reached out, grabbing his hand and interlacing her fingers with his, her grip tight and commanding.

"Lead the way, Mr. Repairman."

The staircase was narrow, a steep climb of dark wood that creaked beneath their weight. They didn't make it to the top in silence. Doha stopped halfway, pinning her against the wall with the weight of his body, his mouth finding hers again with a sudden, hungry intensity. The kiss was different here—less about discovery and more about demand. Jisoo groaned into his mouth, her legs instinctively winding around his hip, her coat sliding further off her shoulders.

The friction of their clothes, the scent of the rain still clinging to her skin, and the claustrophobic warmth of the stairwell created a pressure cooker of anticipation. Every time they paused, it was only to catch a breath or to exchange a look that said everything they had spent weeks pretending not to feel.

When they finally reached the top, Doha pushed open a door that led into a space that felt like an extension of the man himself. The apartment was small and lived-in, smelling of old paper, tea, and a hint of oil. A low futon sat in the center of the room, surrounded by stacks of books and a box of spare umbrella parts that looked like they had been forgotten in a moment of inspiration. A single lamp cast a soft, golden glow over the room, and the rain hammered against the skylight above, creating a private sanctuary of sound.

Doha stepped inside and closed the door, the click of the lock echoing in the quiet room.

The energy shifted. The frantic heat of the shop and the stairs settled into something deeper, more deliberate. The silence stretched, not as a void, but as a space for them to finally be honest.

Jisoo stood in the center of the room, the towel finally slipping from her shoulders to pool on the floor. She looked around the small apartment, then back at Doha. She felt exposed, not just physically, but emotionally. The control she prized so much felt flimsy, a paper umbrella in a hurricane.

Doha didn't move toward her immediately. He stood by the door, his eyes tracing the line of her silhouette. He was giving her the room to choose, the same way he had given her the room to return the umbrella.

"You can still leave," he said softly. "The storm is bad, but the door is right there."

Jisoo stared at him. A small, genuine smile touched her lips.

"That sounds like a question," she whispered. "It's not a question," Doha replied. "It's an option."

Jisoo took a step toward him, then another, until she was standing within the circle of his warmth. She reached up, her fingers grazing the nape of his neck.

"I've already decided I dislike leaving first," she said.

Doha’s expression softened, the quiet mischief replaced by an intense, raw sincerity. "Are you sure?"

Jisoo paused. She could have made a joke. She could have deflected with a comment about the weather. But she looked into his eyes and felt the weight of the last few weeks—the stolen umbrellas, the honest answers, the slow realization that she didn't want to be alone anymore.

"Yes," she said, her voice plain and steady. "I'm sure."

That was the final seal. Doha reached for her, his arms wrapping around her with a strength that nearly knocked the breath from her. He kissed her with a desperation he had previously kept under lock and key, his tongue sliding against hers in a slow, rhythmic exchange of saliva and heat.

Jisoo responded with equal fervor, her hands working frantically to rid them of the remaining barriers. The damp coat hit the floor, followed by her dress, the fabric sliding away to reveal the pale, elegant curves of her body.

Doha stepped back for a heartbeat, his breath hitching. In the warm light of the lamp, Jisoo looked like a piece of art—all long lines and soft edges. Her skin glowed like porcelain, and as her breasts lifted with her heavy breathing, he saw the delicate, vivid pink of her nipples, peaked and hardening in the cool air of the room.

"You're..." Doha started, his voice cracking. "Observational conclusion?" Jisoo teased, though her voice trembled.

"Beautiful," he answered simply.

He moved back to her, his hands exploring her with a reverence that made Jisoo’s toes curl. He traced the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, and the dip of her spine, his touch light but intentional. He kissed her way down, his lips grazing her collarbone, the valley between her breasts, and the soft skin of her stomach.

Jisoo arched her back, a soft moan escaping her lips. "Doha..."

He didn't stop. He descended further, his hands sliding down to her thighs, parting them gently. He knelt before her, his gaze lifting to hers for one last silent check. Jisoo nodded, her fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer.

When his tongue first made contact with her clit, Jisoo’s entire body jolted. He was patient, using the same meticulous care he applied to his repairs. He started with slow, swirling laps, tasting the salt and sweetness of her, before increasing the pressure. His tongue flicked with precision, finding the exact rhythm that made her breath come in short, jagged gasps.

At the same time, his fingers slid inside her, stretching her gently, mimicking the motion of his tongue. The combination was overwhelming. Jisoo felt the tension building in her lower belly, a coil of heat that tightened with every flick of his tongue.

"Doha, please... I can't..." she whimpered, her hips beginning to buck against him.

He didn't let up. He sucked the sensitive bud of her clit into his mouth, creating a vacuum of pleasure that sent sparks exploding behind her eyelids. Jisoo’s fingers tightened in his hair, her voice rising in a series of melodic, broken moans. The world narrowed down to the sensation of his mouth and the sliding of his fingers.

Then, the coil snapped.

Jisoo cried out, her body shuddering in a violent, crashing orgasm. She felt the waves of pleasure radiate from her core to her fingertips, leaving her limp and breathless. Doha didn't pull away immediately; he stayed there, kissing the inside of her thighs, letting her come down from the peak.

As her breathing slowed, Jisoo felt a surge of desire that wasn't just about her own pleasure. She wanted him. She wanted to feel him the way he had made her feel.

She pushed herself up, guiding him back onto the futon. With a level of determination that was quintessentially Jisoo, she began to undress him. When he was finally bare, she marveled at the sight of him—strong, lean, and fully aroused.

She moved down his body, her lips trailing fire across his skin. When she reached him, she looked up at him with a playful, challenging glint in her eyes.

"My turn for an honest answer," she whispered.

She took him into her mouth, her lips sliding over the crown of his cock with a slow, deliberate suction. She used her tongue to swirl around the head, tasting the pre-cum, before sliding deeper. She was not practiced, perhaps, but she was attentive, watching his face to see what he liked.

Doha let out a low, guttural groan, his hips twitching involuntarily. "Jisoo... wait..."

She didn't wait. She increased the intensity, her throat tightening around him, her hand gripping the base of his shaft to add more pressure. She focused on the sensation of him filling her mouth, the heat of him, the way his breath hitched every time her tongue brushed the underside of the head.

"I'm... I'm close," Doha warned, his voice strained.

Instead of slowing down, Jisoo leaned into it. She used her hand to stroke him faster while her mouth created a tight, warm seal. She wanted this. She wanted to feel the moment he broke.

Doha let out a choked sound, his back arching off the futon as he came. He released a massive, hot load into her mouth, the volume surprising her. Jisoo didn't flinch; she swallowed every drop, her throat working in a rhythmic, elegant motion until he was spent.

She pulled back, wiping her lip with the back of her hand, a small, triumphant smile on her face.

"That," she murmured, "was a very honest response."

Doha looked at her, his eyes glazed with pleasure and disbelief. He reached for her, pulling her up onto the futon so she was straddling his lap. The air between them was electric, the tension returning even stronger than before.

He entered her in one smooth, deep thrust.

Jisoo gasped, her head falling back as she felt him fill her completely. It wasn't like the fingers; it was a fullness that felt right, a puzzle piece finally clicking into place.

"You feel... incredible," she moaned, her voice strained. "Doha, keep... keep kissing me."

He complied, his lips meeting hers in a passionate, messy kiss while his hips began to move. The rhythm was slow at first, a steady grinding that emphasized the friction of their bodies. Every thrust was deep and deliberate, sending jolts of electricity through Jisoo’s nerves.

Doha’s hands were never still. He cupped her breasts, his thumbs grazing her pink nipples, while his other hand reached down to stimulate her clit, ensuring that she was riding the wave of pleasure alongside him.

"Is this... okay?" he whispered against her lips. "Don't ask," she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. "Just... don't stop."

The pace quickened. The sound of their bodies interacting—the wet, squelching shlick of skin against skin—filled the room, competing with the sound of the rain. Jisoo was vocal, her moans turning into short, sharp cries of pleasure. She felt herself climbing again, the tension building in her core.

"I'm close... again," she whispered, her voice breaking.

Doha didn't slow down. He drove into her with a sudden, fierce intensity, his movements becoming more urgent. As Jisoo hit her second orgasm, her internal muscles clamping tight around him, Doha felt his own control slip.

He groaned, his voice a low roar in his throat. Just as he reached the peak, he gripped her hips and pulled back, sliding out of her at the last second. He came across her stomach and thighs, the white heat of his release splattering against her skin.

They both collapsed against each other, hearts racing, skin slick with sweat and lubrication.

But the fire hadn't fully died.

After a few minutes of heavy breathing and soft kisses, Doha shifted, pulling her back on top of him. He entered her again, but this time, the energy was different. It was softer, more intimate, but underscored by a desperate need for connection.

They moved together in a synchronized dance, the friction building slowly. Doha continued to use his hands, massaging her breasts, kissing her neck, whispering things that were almost confessions.

As they approached the second climax, Jisoo felt a shift. She didn't want him to pull away this time. She wanted the fullness, the permanence of the act.

She wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, locking him inside her.

"Don't pull out," she whispered, her voice urgent. "I want... I want to feel you inside."

Doha’s eyes widened, his breath hitching. The request was the most honest thing she had said all night. He didn't hesitate. He surged forward, his thrusts becoming deeper, more primal.

He felt her walls contracting, the rhythmic pulses of her third orgasm beginning to take hold. The sensation of her gripping him, the heat of her interior, and the sight of her flushed face drove him over the edge.

Doha let out a long, shuddering groan as he came deep inside her. He felt the hot surge of his seed filling her, a physical manifestation of the bond they had built through a broken umbrella and a series of honest answers.

At the exact moment he released, Jisoo peaked again, her body shaking in unison with his. They clung to each other, the world outside the room disappearing, leaving only the sensation of being one.

—

The afterglow was a slow, warm descent.

Doha didn't leave her immediately. He stayed inside her for a long time, his forehead resting against hers, their breathing gradually syncing. Eventually, he withdrew and pulled her into his arms, wrapping a large, oversized blanket around them both.

They lay in the dim light, the rain finally slowing to a gentle drizzle. The room was quiet, save for the ticking of a clock and the distant sound of a car splashing through a puddle downstairs.

Jisoo rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart. She felt a strange sense of peace, a lack of the need to manage or control the narrative.

"You're very quiet," Doha noted, his voice soft. "I'm processing," she replied, though there was no dryness in her tone. "It's a lot of data to analyze."

Doha laughed, a low, warm sound. He kissed the top of her head. "And what is the conclusion?"

Jisoo shifted, looking up at him. "The conclusion is that you're surprisingly efficient at your job." "I repair things," he murmured. "It's what I do." "Is that what this was? A repair?" Doha looked at her, his eyes sincere. "No. I don't think anything was broken. I think it was just... waiting to be opened."

Jisoo didn't respond with a joke. She just closed her eyes and snuggled closer to him.

—

The next morning, the world was bright and scrubbed clean. The sun filtered through the skylight, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.

Jisoo woke up wrapped in one of Doha’s shirts, the fabric smelling of him. She felt a lingering warmth in her limbs, a softness in her heart that she found slightly alarming but entirely welcome.

She wandered downstairs to the shop, her bare feet padding on the wooden floor. Doha was already there, standing behind the counter. He had not opened the shop yet. The sign still read ‘CLOSED’.

On the counter sat the broken umbrella, now carefully disassembled, its ribs laid out like a surgical patient. Beside it was a steaming mug of tea.

Jisoo leaned against the counter, watching him work. He looked calm, steady, and entirely too pleased with himself.

"Good morning," he said, not looking up from the rib he was straightening. "Good morning," she replied.

Doha paused and pushed the mug of tea toward her. "I made this. It's a blend of something I found in the back of the cupboard."

Jisoo took a sip. Her face immediately twisted into a grimace. It tasted like boiled grass and old socks. Doha looked up, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Well?"

Jisoo set the mug down with a deliberate click. She looked at the broken umbrella, then at the man who had spent the last few weeks dismantling her defenses.

"Do you regret staying?" he asked, his voice quiet, devoid of the usual game. Jisoo looked at the terrible tea, then at Doha's expectant face. She smiled—a real, uncalculated smile.

"No," she answered honestly. "But your tea is terrible."

Doha laughed, the sound echoing through the quiet shop, and for the first time in her life, Jisoo didn't feel the need to leave the conversation first.

—

The umbrella took nine days to repair. Doha said it was because the bent rib needed replacing. Jisoo suspected he was lying.

She returned to Noon Rain Repairs three times during those nine days. Once because she was nearby after a fitting. Once because Lisa asked whether the haunted umbrella had been exorcised yet and Jisoo felt professionally obligated to investigate. Once because it was raining.

That last reason was technically valid.

Unfortunately, she had brought a different umbrella that day. Doha noticed immediately.

“That one isn’t mine.” Jisoo placed it on the counter. “Observation or jealousy?” “Structural concern.” “It works.” “It looks morally weak.” “It kept me dry.” “Low standards.”

She stared at him. He looked back calmly. The shop felt different after that morning. Not awkward— that would have been easier. Awkwardness had rules. Awkwardness gave people something to step around. This was worse. This was familiar.

Doha would reach past her for thread, and she would remember his hands at her waist.

Jisoo would pick up a jar of umbrella tips and pretend to inspect them while remembering the small apartment upstairs and rain against the skylight. Nothing between them had become loud. That was the dangerous part. Everything simply felt more honest now.

—

On the ninth day, Doha finally set the repaired umbrella on the counter between them. It looked almost new. The wooden handle had been polished again. The canopy was smooth, black, and neatly stretched. The ribs folded properly when he closed it, no longer bent into the humiliating shape it had taken during the storm.

Jisoo picked it up and opened it once inside the shop. It snapped into place cleanly. She inspected it with great seriousness.

“You saved its life.” “It was structurally fixable.” “Emotionally?” “Still dramatic.” “That does sound like me.” Doha smiled faintly. “I wasn’t going to say it.” “You thought it.” “I respect your privacy.” “You do not.” “No,” he admitted. “Not always.”

Jisoo looked at him over the top of the umbrella. There it was again. That quiet honesty. No rule. No question. No debt.

Just an answer given freely.

She closed the umbrella slowly. “So,” she said “What happens now?” Doha leaned one hip lightly against the counter. “You take it back.”

“And the rule?” His gaze stayed on hers. “Only if you still need one.” That settled strangely in her chest. Not heavy. Just noticeable. Jisoo looked down at the repaired umbrella in her hand.

For weeks, it had been a reason. A ridiculous one, but still a reason. Return it. Borrow it. Answer. Leave. Come back.

A structure.

Now Doha was quietly removing the structure and asking if she still wanted what had grown inside it. Annoying man. Emotionally competent men were a public hazard. Jisoo lifted her eyes again.

“That sounds suspiciously mature.” “I apologize.” “You should.” “Do you still need one?”

It was almost a question. Almost. Jisoo tightened her grip around the wooden handle.

“No.”

Doha’s expression softened slightly.

“Good.” “I didn’t say I was done answering.”

His smile changed. It was a small, slow, and warm smle.

“No,” he said. “You didn’t.”

—

After that, Jisoo and Doha started seeing each other. Not publicly. Not officially. Not in any way Jisoo would ever describe out loud unless someone had evidence, witnesses, and possibly a search warrant.

But deliberately.

That was the important part. She still came to Noon Rain Repairs after schedules, sometimes with the umbrella, sometimes without it.

Doha still pretended not to notice when she arrived on days the forecast was aggressively clear.

The repaired umbrella eventually stopped feeling like an object being returned and started feeling like something that simply moved between their lives. Some nights, it rested beside Jisoo’s apartment door. Other nights, it leaned against the counter in Doha’s shop.

Once, inexplicably, it ended up in Jennie’s living room after a dinner Jisoo refused to explain properly, which caused Lisa to send fourteen messages in a row about haunted umbrella custody rights.

The girls found out slowly, then all at once.

Lisa noticed first because Lisa noticed everything inconvenient. Jennie understood first because Jennie rarely needed people to finish their sentences. Rosé was the first to ask if Jisoo was happy, which Jisoo found deeply unfair because questions asked kindly were harder to insult.

Jisoo did not announce Doha like a confession. He simply began appearing in the edges of her life. Coffee after late shoots. A repaired bag strap after a fitting. A quiet walk to her car when the street outside looked too crowded. A short nod to Jennie when she visited the shop with Jisoo and pretended very badly that she was only interested in umbrella craftsmanship.

Lisa, naturally, made it worse.

“So,” she said one evening, looking around Noon Rain Repairs with far too much satisfaction “This is the haunted umbrella man.”

Doha glanced toward Jisoo. Jisoo stared at Lisa “Say that louder,” Jisoo said, “and I will tell everyone about your emergency ramen phase.”

Lisa gasped. “That was private.” “So is this.”

Jennie, standing near a row of hanging umbrellas, looked between them once and smiled like she had already solved a mystery nobody else knew existed.

Rosé touched the wooden handle of one repaired umbrella and said softly, “This place feels like you.”

Jisoo frowned “Old?” “Careful,” Rosé said.

Doha looked down at the repair he was working on. Jisoo looked away first. Unfortunately, she was smiling. That was how it happened. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Doha did not enter her life like a man trying to become important. He became important by being there often enough that absence started feeling noticeable.

He learned which schedules left her quiet. He learned not to ask for details when her day had been full of too many people. He learned that Jisoo did not like being managed, but she accepted being remembered.

Jisoo learned things too.

That Doha forgot to eat when he was focused. That he kept broken umbrella handles because he believed the wood could still be reused. That he pretended not to be sentimental while repairing things people had already given up on. That he never once made her feel like loving her meant surviving her fame.

That mattered more than she expected. Because there were difficult days. There were cameras outside restaurants. Managers who asked careful questions. Schedules that changed suddenly. Messages Jisoo ignored because answering them would mean explaining something she was still learning how to hold properly.

Doha never asked to be paraded around. He also never made himself disappear. He simply adjusted. Not in a passive way, in a steady one.

If they had to arrive separately, he did not act wounded.

If she could only see him for twenty minutes between schedules, he brought coffee and did not make the time feel smaller by complaining about it.

If someone recognized her while they were walking, he stepped half a pace away without making it feel like retreat.

And when they were alone again, he came back to her side like nothing had been lost.

That was when Jisoo began to understand the shape of it. This was not new-relationship impulse. It was not the storm, or the broken umbrella, or the kind of desire that confused itself for fate because rain made everything prettier.

It was the way his umbrella looked normal beside her door. The way his sweater on her chair no longer felt misplaced. The way the other members teased her about him and she found herself annoyed, not because they were wrong, but because they were enjoying being right.

It was the way Jisoo kept making room for him and never felt like she was losing space. That was the dangerous realization. The permanent one.

—

It came on a clear night. No rain. No wind. No dramatic weather behaving symbolically for once and the forecast was very clear about that.

Jisoo had finished a long shoot earlier than expected, which felt suspicious enough on its own. She came home with takeout, changed into loose clothes, removed her makeup halfway, then sat on the floor near the couch with her phone in one hand and a dumpling in the other.

The apartment was quiet. Comfortably quiet. Not empty.

That was new.

Nothing had changed visibly. Her furniture was still hers. Her schedule still waited on the table. Her shoes were still arranged the way she liked them near the entryway.

But Doha’s umbrella rested beside the door. One of his books sat on her coffee table. A gray sweater he claimed was not his but absolutely was hung over the back of one chair.

Jisoo stared at all of it while chewing slowly. Then she realized the thought had already formed before she could stop it. I could live like this. She froze. The dumpling remained halfway to her mouth “…Ridiculous,” she told the room.

The room did not argue.

Which was also suspicious. Her phone buzzed.

Doha: I left my sweater there, didn’t I? Jisoo: No. Doha: That was fast. Jisoo: I am efficient. Doha: I can see it in the photo you just sent by accident.

Jisoo looked down.

She had, somehow, sent him a blurry photo of the floor, the edge of the couch, and the very obvious sleeve of his sweater.

Jisoo closed her eyes.

Jisoo: Your sweater broke into my apartment. Doha: Should I come retrieve the criminal?

She stared at the message. The easy answer was yes. The dishonest answer was no. The honest answer sat somewhere deeper. Jisoo looked toward the umbrella by the door. Then back at the phone.

Jisoo: It’s not raining. Doha: I know. Jisoo: Then why would you come?

For a full minute, he didn’t answer. When he finally did, the message was simple.

Doha: Because you opened the door before.

Jisoo stared at it long enough for the screen to dim. Jisoo: That is not a practical reason. Doha: No. Jisoo: Bring the ugly tea you like. Doha: So I’m invited?

Jisoo looked around her apartment again. At his sweater. At his umbrella. At the quiet that no longer felt like defense.

Jisoo: Yes.

—

Doha arrived thirty-seven minutes later with tea, his allegedly criminal sweater still hanging over Jisoo’s chair, and the repaired umbrella in one hand despite the sky being completely clear.

Jisoo opened the door and looked at it first. Then at him.

“It’s not raining.” “I know.” “Then why did you bring it?”

Doha glanced at the umbrella, then back at her.

“Habit.” “That is a suspicious answer.” “It is.”

Jisoo stepped aside anyway. He entered her apartment like he always did now: carefully at first, then naturally, leaving his shoes beside hers, setting the food on the counter, placing the umbrella near the door where it had started to belong.

That was the problem.

Everything about him had started to belong. Dinner was ordinary. That made it worse. Lisa sent three messages accusing Jisoo of hiding umbrella crimes. Jennie somehow knew Doha was there without being told. Rosé asked if they had eaten properly. Jisoo answered none of them. Doha noticed.

“Trouble?” “My members are emotionally invasive.” “Are they wrong?” “Yes.”

He waited. Jisoo glared.

“You are very brave inside my apartment.” “I’ve repaired your umbrella twice. I fear very little now.” “That umbrella betrayed me first.” “It was under pressure.” “So was I.” “And yet you came back.”

The words were casual. Softly spoken. But they settled between them with more weight than either of them expected. Jisoo looked toward the umbrella by the door. Then at the apartment around them.

Her apartment. Her quiet. Her space. No rain outside. No rule forcing honesty. No excuse left. Just Doha, standing inside the life she had somehow made room for.

“I think about it,” she said.

Doha looked at her.

“About what?”

Jisoo’s fingers tightened lightly around the edge of the counter. She could still turn it into a joke. She could say something about umbrella custody, or Lisa’s crimes against privacy, or the legal risks of allowing repairmen into apartments. Instead, she gave the answer before she could protect it.

“I keep picturing you still being here.”

Doha went still. Not startled. Not afraid. Just quiet in a way that told her he understood exactly what she meant. Jisoo looked at him directly.

“I don’t mean dating.”

His expression softened slowly.

“I know.” “I mean…” She exhaled through her nose, annoyed at herself for needing language. “Longer than convenient.”

Doha set the takeout container down.

“Permanent?”

Jisoo frowned faintly.

“That word is dramatic.” “It is.” “I dislike it.” “Do you?”

She looked at him. Then, with the kind of honesty that still felt like stepping into weather:

“No.”

Doha crossed the small distance between them, not rushing, not assuming, but moving like something inside him had finally been answered too.

“I think about it too,” he said. Jisoo’s throat tightened “You answered very fast.” “It wasn’t fast,” Doha said. “I just stopped pretending I hadn’t already decided.”

That was deeply unfair and emotionally irresponsible. Jisoo looked away, but there was nowhere to put the feeling now. Doha’s hand found hers on the counter.

“I don’t want the famous parts,” he said quietly. “I don’t want the easy parts either.” “There are easy parts?” “Sometimes.” “Name one.” “You steal my food with no shame. That’s easy to predict.”

Despite herself, she laughed. Doha smiled, but his voice stayed soft.

“I want the life after all of it. After the cameras. After the rain. After the jokes. The part where you come home and stop explaining yourself.”

Jisoo looked back at him.

“And if that becomes difficult?” “It will.” “That was not comforting.” “It was honest.”

She hated how much that worked on her. Doha’s thumb brushed once over her knuckles.

“I don’t need easy,” he said. “I need real.”

Jisoo stood very still. Then slowly, she reached for the front of his shirt. Not pulling yet. Just holding.

“You are very inconvenient.”

His mouth curved faintly.

“Honest answer?” “Yes.” “Good.”

Jisoo drew him closer. This time, when she kissed him, there was no storm outside and no broken umbrella waiting downstairs. No rule nor a borrowed reason. Only the clear night beyond her apartment window. Only Doha’s hand settling carefully at her waist.

Only the certainty that she wanted this man in every version of the life she was still learning how to choose.

The silence that followed the admission of permanence was not a void; it was a bridge. For the first time in her life, Jisoo didn't feel the urge to retract a statement or shield her heart with a well-timed joke. She looked at Doha, and the man she had known as a mysterious rule-maker, a quiet repairman, and a steady companion now looked like the only fixed point in her spinning world.

The kiss that followed was different from the one in the shop. It wasn't the breaking of a dam or the desperation of a storm. It was an arrival. It was slow, deep, and heavy with the weight of a thousand unsaid things. Jisoo leaned into him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, not to pull him down in a rush, but to hold him there, as if anchoring herself to the reality of him.

Doha’s hands settled on her waist, his thumbs grazing the skin just beneath the hem of her shirt. He breathed her in—the scent of her expensive perfume mixed with the lingering smell of the takeout they had just shared. He pulled back just a fraction, his forehead resting against hers, his eyes searching hers with a tenderness that made her chest ache.

"You're sure about this?" he whispered, his voice a low, resonant vibration. "Not just the permanence. This. Now."

Jisoo let out a soft, huffing laugh, though her eyes remained locked on his. "I've already told you I dislike leaving first, Doha. Why would I start wanting to leave now?" She didn't wait for him to answer. Jisoo stepped back, her gaze never leaving his, and reached for the buttons of his shirt. Her movements were decisive, her fingers steady. She undid the first button, then the second, pushing the fabric aside to reveal the warm, lean expanse of his chest. She felt the heat radiating from him, the steady, rapid thrum of his heart beneath her palm.

"I think," Jisoo murmured, her voice dropping to a sultry, velvet tone, "that we've spent far too much time talking about rules. I'm tired of rules."

Doha’s breath hitched. He didn't stop her; instead, he mirrored her actions, his hands moving to the hem of her top. He lifted the fabric slowly, his eyes tracing the line of her stomach, the dip of her waist, and the elegant curve of her breasts as she stepped out of the garment. In the soft, amber light of her living room, Jisoo looked like a masterpiece of porcelain and grace, her skin glowing with a quiet radiance.

"You are breathtaking," Doha said, his voice thickening. "Observational conclusion?" she teased, though her breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. "A fact," he replied.

He leaned in, his lips finding the sensitive hollow of her throat. Jisoo arched her back, a soft moan escaping her as his tongue traced a path toward her collarbone. The sensation sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core, a familiar heat that had been simmering for weeks, now boiling over. She reached for the belt of his trousers, her fingers working with a focused urgency.

They didn't make it to the bedroom immediately. The friction of their bodies, the raw need for contact, pushed them against the wall near the counter. Clothes were discarded in a passionate blur—a discarded sweater here, a fallen pair of socks there—until there was nothing left but skin and the clear, silent night outside the window.

When Doha finally pressed her against the cool surface of the wall, the contrast of the cold plaster and his searing heat made Jisoo gasp. He lifted her, her legs instinctively winding around his hips, locking him in. He kissed her with a hunger that was balanced by a profound reverence, his tongue sliding against hers in a slow, rhythmic dance of desire.

"I want you," she whispered against his lips, her voice strained. "Right here. Now."

Doha groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through her entire body. He shifted his grip, guiding himself to the entrance of her heat. He paused for a heartbeat, his eyes searching hers one last time.

"Tell me," he murmured. "Stay," she answered, the word a command and a plea all at once. "Stay inside me."

He entered her in one smooth, deep thrust. Jisoo’s head fell back against the wall, her eyes fluttering shut as she felt him fill her completely. It wasn't the frantic surrender of their first time; it was a homecoming. The fullness was overwhelming, a physical manifestation of the permanence they had just promised each other.

"Oh... Doha," she whimpered, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

He began to move, his rhythm slow and deliberate. Every thrust was a conversation, a steady build of pressure and pleasure that echoed the slow burn of their relationship. The sound of their bodies interacting—the wet, rhythmic squelch of skin meeting skin—filled the quiet apartment. Jisoo was vocal, her moans turning into melodic cries that encouraged him to go deeper, to push further.

"More," she gasped, her hips bucking against him to meet every stroke. "Please, don't stop. I love the way you feel... I love everything about this."

Doha’s breathing was heavy, his movements becoming more urgent as the tension coiled tighter in his lower belly. He pulled back slightly, his gaze locking onto hers. He saw the desire, the trust, and the absolute certainty in her eyes.

"Jisoo," he whispered, his voice raw.

He drove into her one last time, his body stiffening as he reached the peak. A low roar escaped his throat as he came, the hot, pulsing surge of his release filling her deeply. Jisoo cried out, her own orgasm crashing over her in waves of shimmering heat, her internal muscles clamping tight around him in a desperate, loving grip.

They stayed like that for several minutes, chests heaving, foreheads pressed together, the only sound the rhythmic drumming of their hearts. Slowly, Doha lowered her to her feet, though he didn't let go. He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, and finally her lips, a soft, lingering contact.

"Let's move to the bed," he whispered. "I don't think I can get enough of you tonight." Jisoo smiled, a genuine, sleepy expression of contentment. "For once, I agree with your practical suggestion."

The bedroom was a sanctuary of soft linens and dim light. As they tumbled onto the mattress, the energy shifted from the urgent heat of the wall to something more intimate and expansive. They explored each other with a slow, methodical passion, as if they had all the time in the world.

Jisoo took the lead, pushing him back onto the pillows and straddling his lap. She loved the power of it—the way she could look down at him and see the absolute devotion in his eyes. She leaned down, her breasts brushing against his chest, her hair falling like a silk curtain around them.

"You're so beautiful," Doha murmured, his hands reaching up to cup her face.

Jisoo paused, her gaze softening. The silence stretched, but it wasn't awkward. It was the kind of silence that only exists between two people who no longer have anything to hide.

"Jisoo," he whispered, his voice was full of sincerity, completely devoid of doubt "I love you."

The words hung in the air, crystalline and pure. Jisoo's expression shifted, a look of profound emotion crossing her face. She pulled him closer for a deep, searing kiss, and when he pulled away, her voice was a trembling but steady, a certain vow.

"I love you too, Doha. More than I know how to put into words."

The confession acted like a catalyst. The intimacy that followed was more intense, more connected. Jisoo moved above him, her movements fluid and elegant, her body arching as she guided him back inside her. The friction was exquisite, the heat building a slow, agonizing tension that made her toes curl.

"Kiss me," she pleaded, leaning down to capture his lips. "Keep kissing me while you... while you do that."

Doha complied, his tongue tangling with hers while his hips surged upward, meeting her descent with a powerful, rhythmic force. He reached down, his fingers finding the sensitive bud of her clit, adding a layer of stimulation that sent Jisoo spiraling. She was loud now, her voice filling the room with breathless declarations of pleasure, her nails leaving faint red crescents in the skin of his arms.

"Yes... right there... oh god, Doha, don't stop!"

The build-up was slower this time, a steady climb toward a peak that felt inevitable. As Jisoo felt the first tremors of her second orgasm, Doha’s own control snapped. He gripped her hips, pulling her down hard against him as he released a second, massive load deep inside her. The sensation of him filling her again triggered a violent, shuddering climax for Jisoo, her body shaking in unison with his.

They collapsed into each other, skin slick with sweat, their breathing synchronized. They lay in a tangle of limbs and sheets, the air in the room thick with the scent of sex and love.

"I think," Jisoo murmured, her voice a breathy whisper, "that your 'observational conclusions' are becoming very accurate."

Doha chuckled, the sound vibrating against her chest. He rolled her over, pinning her gently to the mattress, his eyes dark with a lingering desire. "I'm not finished observing you yet."

This time when their bodies were intertwined again was the most intimate of all. There was no urgency, only a deep, pulsing need for connection. They moved together in a slow, synchronized dance, a side-lying position that allowed them to stay face-to-face, their breaths mingling. Every thrust was shallow and teasing, building a tension that felt like a physical weight.

Jisoo wrapped her arm around his neck, pulling him close, her lips grazing his ear. "I want to feel every bit of you," she whispered. "I want to know that you're really here. That you're staying."

"I'm not going anywhere," Doha promised, his voice a low growl.

He increased the pace, the friction becoming a searing heat that threatened to consume them both. The sound of their bodies—the wet, rhythmic shlicking of their union—was the only music they needed. Jisoo felt the tension building again, a coil of electricity tightening in her core. She could feel him reaching his limit, his movements becoming more primal, more urgent.

As they hit the final peak together, Doha let out a long, shuddering groan, his body locking as he came for the third time, pouring everything he had into her. Jisoo screamed his name, her body arching in a final, explosive orgasm that left her feeling completely undone, completely open, and completely loved.

The aftermath of their lovemaking was a slow, warm descent into peace. Doha didn't pull away immediately; he stayed inside her, his forehead resting against hers, their breathing gradually syncing. Eventually, he withdrew and pulled her into his arms, wrapping a large, plush duvet around them both.

They lay in the dim light, the clear night outside the window acting as a silent witness to their union. Jisoo rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady, calming thrum of his heart. She felt a strange sense of weightlessness, as if the armor she had worn for years had finally been dismantled, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but this.

"You're very quiet," Doha noted, his voice soft and drowsy.

"I'm just... happy," Jisoo replied, the honesty coming effortlessly now. "I don't think I've ever felt this quiet inside my own head."

Doha kissed the top of her head, his arms tightening around her. "That's because you don't have to fight for your space anymore, Jisoo. I've already made room for you."

Jisoo smiled, closing her eyes as she snuggled closer to him. "I love you, Doha."

"I love you too, my beautiful, stubborn Jisoo. Now go to sleep."

She did, falling into a deep, dreamless slumber with a smile on her lips, anchored by the warmth of the man who had turned a stolen umbrella into a lifetime of honesty.

The next morning arrived with a gentle, golden light that filtered through the curtains, illuminating the room in soft hues of amber and cream. Jisoo woke up slowly, the feeling of Doha’s arm draped across her waist the first thing she registered. She didn't move for a long time, simply savoring the comfort of the moment.

The apartment felt different today. It was still her space, but it no longer felt like a fortress. It felt like a home.

She eventually slipped out of bed, wearing one of Doha’s oversized t-shirts that reached mid-thigh, the fabric smelling faintly of cedar and him. She wandered into the kitchen, finding Doha already there. He was leaning against the counter, wearing only his lounge pants, staring at the tea kettle with a look of intense concentration.

"Are you attempting to make that grass-tea again?" she asked, her voice still husky from sleep. Doha looked up, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Actually, I bought a new blend. I thought I'd try to improve my rating."

Jisoo walked up to him, sliding her arms around his waist and pressing her face into his bare back. "I don't care if the tea is terrible, as long as you're the one making it."

Doha turned in her arms, pulling her close for a soft, morning kiss. "That is a very dangerous level of affection, Jisoo. I might start thinking you actually like me."

"Observational conclusion," she whispered, leaning back to look at him. "You're stuck with me, Mr. Repairman."

They spent the day in a state of blissful, domestic inertia. They ordered breakfast, lounged on the couch with a book they both pretended to read, and talked about everything and nothing. There were no schedules, no cameras, no rules. Just the two of them in the quiet of a clear day.

As the afternoon waned, Jisoo’s phone, which had been resting on the coffee table, began to vibrate incessantly. She glanced at the screen and sighed, though the smile remained on her face.

The BLACKPINK Group Chat was exploding.

Lisa: THIS IS ME WAITING FOR THE UPDATE. Lisa:

Jisoo looked at the messages, then looked up at Doha, who was watching her with an amused expression "Your members are very persistent," he noted.

Jisoo picked up the phone, her fingers dancing across the screen.

Jisoo: I am alive.

The reply came almost instantly.

Lisa: SHE LIVES. Jennie: Good. Then we’re coming over. Rosé: We’re bringing food and coffee. Lisa: Please be dressed.

Jisoo stared at the screen. Doha, unfortunately, read it over her shoulder. His mouth twitched.

“Don’t laugh,” she warned. “I’m not.” “You are internally laughing.” “That’s harder to prove.”

Another message appeared.

Lisa: Also, if haunted umbrella man is there, tell him we’re emotionally prepared. Jennie: We are not. Rosé: I’m happy to meet him properly. Lisa: I’m happy to interrogate him properly.

Jisoo closed her eyes. Doha leaned closer, voice warm with amusement. “Haunted umbrella man?”

“You have branding now.” “That sounds serious.” “It is. Lisa is hard to rebrand.”

The phone buzzed again.

Lisa: Are you pregnant? Jisoo: Don’t make me send Dispatch your relationship details. Lisa: SHE THREATENED DISPATCH. Jennie: That means she’s serious. Rosé: Lisa, maybe stop asking pregnancy questions before coffee. Lisa: Fine. Wedding questions after coffee.

Jisoo dropped the phone face down onto the blanket. Doha had fully given up hiding his laughter now.

“You are enjoying this too much,” she said. “They love you.” “They are menaces.” “They’re coming over?” “Apparently.” “Should I be scared?”

Jisoo looked at him. Then at the phone. Then back at him “Yes”. That only made him laugh harder.

For a few more seconds, before the chaos arrived at her door, Jisoo let herself stay exactly where she was. Wrapped in the afternoon sun. In his shirt. In her apartment. With Doha beside her and the repaired umbrella leaning quietly near the door like it had always belonged there.

That was the strangest part. Not the confession. Not even the fact that Lisa had somehow escalated from coffee to pregnancy in under five messages. It was the umbrella.

The same umbrella she had stolen by accident. The same umbrella that had dragged her into an annoying repair shop with an annoying man who asked annoying questions. The same umbrella that had once felt like a rule.

Now it just looked like home.

Jisoo glanced toward it, then toward Doha. He noticed immediately. Of course he did.

“What?” “Nothing.” “That was your first lie today.” She narrowed her eyes. “You are very brave before coffee.” “I’ve survived Lisa in group chat. I fear very little now.” “You haven’t survived Lisa in person.” “That is less comforting.”

The doorbell rang before she could answer. Once. Then twice. Then three times in a rhythm so deliberately obnoxious that Jisoo knew exactly who was responsible.

“Lisa,” she said flatly.

From the other side of the door, a muffled voice yelled, “WE BROUGHT COFFEE AND EMOTIONAL SUPPORT.”

Jennie’s voice followed, calmer but no less amused. “And apologies in advance.” Rosé added, “Mostly coffee.”

Jisoo closed her eyes. Doha stood from the couch, still smiling.

“I should probably get dressed properly.” “You should have done that five minutes ago.” “I was distracted.” “That is not a legal defense.” “It might work in umbrella court.” “There is no umbrella court.” “There should be.”

The doorbell rang again.

Lisa shouted, “IF YOU TWO ARE STILL AT IT LIKE BUNNIES, SAY SOMETHING NOW.”

Jisoo walked toward the door with murder in her posture and affection in her eyes.

“Lisa,” she called through the door, “if you say one more thing before I open this, I’m telling everyone about the ramen incident.”

Silence.

Then Lisa, much quieter “That was private.”

“So is this.”

Doha laughed softly behind her. Jisoo looked back at him once. He stood in her living room wearing the shirt he had finally managed to button correctly, his hair still slightly messy, his expression calm despite the obvious incoming disaster. He looked nervous. Not about her. About them. About being folded into the loud, ridiculous, loving part of her life that refused to stay politely outside the door.

Jisoo softened before she could stop herself. “You’ll survive,” she said. “Honest answer?”

She reached for his hand.

“Yes.”

Then she opened the door.

Lisa entered first, because of course she did, holding iced coffee in one hand and a paper bag in the other. Her eyes immediately flicked from Jisoo’s shirt, to Doha’s face, to the umbrella by the door. Her smile became dangerous “Oh.” Jisoo pointed at her. “No.”

“I didn’t say anything.” “You said ‘oh.’” “That is a vowel.”

Jennie stepped in behind her, graceful as ever, taking one look at the apartment before smiling with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had already guessed correctly weeks ago.

“Good morning, Doha.” Doha bowed slightly. “Good morning.” Lisa leaned toward Jennie. “She said his name normally. That’s serious.”

Rosé entered last, carrying a box of pastries and looking between Jisoo and Doha with warm, slightly teary affection that Jisoo immediately found threatening. “No,” Jisoo said.

Rosé blinked. “I didn’t say anything.” “You looked sentimental.” “I’m allowed.” “You’re not.”

Rosé smiled and hugged her anyway. Jisoo tolerated it for exactly three seconds before patting her back stiffly. Lisa, meanwhile, had already spotted the umbrella. She pointed at it like she had discovered evidence at a crime scene “There it is.”

Doha looked at Jisoo. Jisoo sighed. “The haunted umbrella.” Lisa turned to him immediately. “So. Are you a wizard?” Doha considered this seriously “No.”

“Suspicious answer.” “He does that,” Jisoo said.

Jennie set the coffee on the table and glanced toward the umbrella “It’s repaired.” Doha nodded “Completely.” Lisa gasped “So the curse is lifted?”

“The only curse here is your personality,” Jisoo replied.

Rosé looked at the umbrella, then at the way Jisoo’s hand had found Doha’s without her seeming to notice. Her expression softened again. Jisoo caught it instantly “Stop.”

“I’m not doing anything.” “You’re emotionally narrating.” Rosé laughed. “Maybe a little.”

They settled into the living room with coffee, pastries, and exactly the kind of noise Jisoo usually pretended to hate more than she actually did. Lisa interrogated Doha about umbrella repair like she was conducting a national security briefing.

Jennie asked three calm questions that somehow revealed more than Lisa’s entire interrogation.

Rosé mostly watched Jisoo. That was worse. Because Rosé noticed the quiet things. The way Jisoo passed Doha coffee without asking. The way Doha shifted slightly so Lisa’s dramatic gestures wouldn’t knock over the cup beside Jisoo. The way Jisoo rolled her eyes at him, but leaned closer anyway. Eventually, Lisa pointed between them with a half-eaten pastry “So when is the wedding?”

Jisoo set her coffee down very slowly “Lisa.” “What? I waited until after coffee.” Jennie lifted her cup. “Technically true.” Rosé smiled into her drink “She did follow the rule.”

Jisoo stared at all three of them. Betrayal everywhere. Doha, traitorously, looked amused. Jisoo turned to him “You are not helping.”

“I wasn’t asked a question.” Lisa snapped her fingers. “Okay, then I’m asking. Doha, when is the wedding?”

Jisoo’s head turned slowly back toward Lisa “Don’t make me send Dispatch your relationship details.” Lisa clutched her chest “Again with Dispatch.” Jennie laughed quietly. Rosé hid her smile behind her coffee. Doha glanced at Jisoo. For a second, beneath all the teasing, something quieter passed between them.

The kind they had already spoken aloud when the apartment was still quiet and the morning had not yet been invaded by three women carrying caffeine and emotional violence. Jisoo looked away first, but her hand stayed in his.

Lisa saw it. Her expression softened for half a second before the menace returned.

“Okay,” she said. “Fine. I’ll stop asking.” “Thank you.” “For now.” “Lisa.” “I’m being respectful.” “You are being threatened.” “Same effect.”

The room dissolved into laughter. Jisoo sighed like she was suffering, she was not. Doha squeezed her hand once beneath the table, small and steady. She squeezed back. Outside, the sky stayed clear.

No rain.

No storm.

No rule.

No excuse.

Just coffee on the table, her members filling her apartment with noise, Doha sitting beside her like he belonged there, and the repaired umbrella resting quietly near the door. Jisoo looked at it once. Then at him.

Then at the three women she loved, who were already arguing about whether “haunted umbrella husband” sounded better than “repair shop boyfriend.”

Her life was still complicated. It would always be complicated. There would still be cameras, schedules, careful exits, and questions she did not feel like answering.

But for once, the thought did not make her want to step back.

Because Doha was not another thing she had to explain. He was the person she wanted beside her when the explaining finally stopped. Lisa waved a hand in front of her face.

“Yah. You’re smiling.” Jisoo immediately stopped “No.” Jennie tilted her head “You were.” Rosé nodded “You really were.”

Doha looked at her, mouth curved faintly. Jisoo narrowed her eyes at all of them.

“I hate this room.” Lisa grinned “This is your apartment, you know.”

Jisoo picked up her coffee. Took one slow sip. Then, very calmly, said, “Unfortunately.” Doha laughed first. Then Rosé. Then Jennie. Then Lisa, loudest of all. And Jisoo, despite every instinct that told her to deny it, let herself smile again. But because this time, she already knew the honest one.

[electro469]

Coming soon 📣

Kim Jisoo has everything people dream about — fame, success, luxury, and a life built under bright lights.

Then one night, she falls asleep in her high-rise apartment in Seoul…

…and wakes up in 1994. Not as herself.

But as Lee Soo-ya — a small-town bookshop owner’s wife, five months pregnant, living above a struggling stationery shop in Gunsan with a husband whose quiet kindness feels far too real to be a dream.

At first, Jisoo tells herself it’s impossible. Then she wakes up there again. And again.

Now, every night means another life: one of camera flashes, scripts, and lonely city silence—

and one of handwritten receipts, warm kitchens, soft laughter, and a man who loves her like she hung the moon.

But the deeper Jisoo falls into this other life, the harder it becomes to call it borrowed.

Because the shop begins to feel like home.

Because the baby starts to feel like hers.

Because Lim Suho stops feeling like a stranger.

And because when morning comes, she has to leave them all over again.

A soft fantasy romance about identity, longing, ordinary love, and the quiet lives we might have lived –

this upcoming Kim Jisoo AU series asks one impossible question: What if closing your eyes didn’t mean escape… but returning to the life your heart can no longer leave behind?

## Fanprose Exclusive. Profile Link:

Electro

[electro469]

Amber Hours

Late at night, when ITZY’s Chaeryeong hums her favourite indie track on a Han River bench, the last thing she expects is for the handsome stranger lying on the other side to s — by Electro

Amber Hours is now available on Fanprose too. 

[electro469]

Amber Hours

Chaeryeong x male OC

Late at night, when ITZY’s Chaeryeong hums her favourite indie track on a Han River bench, the last thing she expects is for the handsome stranger lying on the other side to sing the next line — because it’s his song. Now she’s convinced that this self‑taught producer with a second‑hand studio and a habit of buying hazelnut chocolate “just in case” is exactly what her solo debut needs… but the real missing piece might be her own scaredy‑cat heart.

The Han River at night was a study in quiet contradiction. The distant, glittering spine of Seoul’s skyline pulsed with silent energy, while the water below absorbed it all, reflecting only fragments of light in slow, dark ripples. The breeze carried the faint, damp scent of the river and the distant murmur of a city that never quite slept, but here on the walkway, it was just the soft lap of water against concrete and the occasional sigh of the wind.

On a double-sided bench facing the water, June lay flat on his back, a black baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. The worn leather of his jacket creaked softly against the wooden slats. In his head, a melody looped, fractured, and stubbornly refused to resolve. Broken Dreams. The track was almost there—the chord progression in the bridge ached perfectly, but the second verse’s lyrics felt like someone else’s memory. He hummed a fragment, the sound barely leaving his lips, a low, frustrated vibration in his chest. ‘The space between what is and what could be…’ No. Wrong. He let the thought dissolve into the night air.

On the opposite side of the high-backed bench, Chaeryeong slowed to a walk, her breath forming little clouds in the cool air. Her earbuds dangled, unused; the playlist in her head was on a relentless, single-song repeat. The oversized hoodie swallowed her frame, and her ponytail was a messy testament to a jog that had started with determination and ended with distraction. She patted the pocket of her jacket, her fingers finding the familiar crinkle of foil. Pulling out a half-eaten bar of milk chocolate, she broke off a piece and let it melt on her tongue, the sweetness a small, grounding comfort. She spotted the empty bench—the river-facing side—and with a quiet groan of relief, flopped down, unaware of the occupied other half.

For a moment, there was just the river and two separate silences.

Chaeryeong scrolled mindlessly through Instagram, the blue light painting her face. The chocolate and the familiar, haunting melody in her head loosened something. Softly, almost unconsciously, she began to hum. It was the chorus of Unrequited Feelings, a little off-key, the notes bending with a wistful emotion her technically perfect vocal training would never allow in a studio. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she hummed, her thoughts drifting to the SoundCloud page she’d bookmarked, to the raw ache in the singer’s voice that spoke directly to her own secret, romantic heart.

On the other side, the melody drifted over the bench back. June, still deep in his creative fog, his eyes closed under the cap, heard it. It wasn’t his own humming—this was lighter, sweeter, inflected with a feeling he’d written but hadn’t quite heard back until now. Without a single conscious thought, still chasing the ghost of the song in his mind, his voice lifted, singing the next line aloud. It was low, melodic, and startlingly close. “Is it a memory, or just a dream I keep…”

The effect was immediate and explosive.

Chaeryeong shrieked—a genuine, piercing yelp of terror. She launched off the bench as if propelled, her phone clattering onto the walkway. The chocolate bar flew from her hand, a dark arc against the night. Both hands flew up in a defensive, instinctive pose. “Aish! What the—!” she gasped, her heart hammering against her ribs. A ghost? A serial killer? Her scaredy-cat brain short-circuited, leaving only pure, adrenaline-fueled panic.

June jolted upright as if electrocuted. His cap tumbled off, revealing tousled dark hair and wide, startled eyes. He saw a woman—beautiful, terrified, staring at him like he’d risen from the river itself. His system flooded with mortification.

“Oh god—” he blurted, scrambling to his feet, hands up in surrender. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to—I was just—the song, I heard the song and my brain just… sang along. I swear I’m not a creep. That was so creepy. I’m so sorry.” The words tumbled out in a warm, frantic, deeply apologetic ramble.

Chaeryeong, panting, one hand pressed to her racing heart, slowly registered the rambling. Not a ghost. A person. A flustered person. Her eyes adjusted, taking him in: the leather jacket, the handsome, sharp lines of his face now etched with genuine panic, the cap lying forgotten on the ground. Fear ebbed, replaced by a hot wave of embarrassment, which then cooled into dawning, incredulous curiosity. Her fingers, moving on autopilot, flew to her hair, tucking and untucking the same escaped strand.

“You…” she managed, her voice shaky. “You just sang that song.”

He nodded, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I’m—it’s my song. I wrote it. I’m June. I make music. In my apartment. Not usually scaring people on benches, I promise.” He gave a helpless, awkward shrug.

His song.

The words connected in her brain with the sound of his voice—the same voice from her headphones, the one that had made her cry into her pillow. Her eyes, already wide, went impossibly larger. All remaining embarrassment was vaporized by sheer, starstruck shock.

“Wait.” She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Your song? ‘Unrequited Feelings’? That’s your song?”

He nodded again, confused by the intensity of her reaction. “Yeah…?”

The floodgates burst. Chaeryeong’s hands flew to her cheeks. “No way. No way,” she breathed, her voice pitching higher with unrestrained excitement. “I found your SoundCloud a week ago. I’ve listened to all four songs on repeat. ‘Meridian’ made me cry—like, actually cry into my pillow. I’m obsessed.” She caught herself, realizing how she sounded, and groaned, hiding her face for a second before peeking through her fingers. “Oh my god, I sound like a stalker now. I’m not a stalker. I’m just a fan. A big fan.” She was rambling, her cheeks burning, her hair now thoroughly disheveled from her nervous fingers.

June stared, utterly stunned. The fear, the apology, the entire bizarre situation melted away, leaving only a profound, disbelieving warmth. A shy, lopsided smile broke across his face. “You… you actually listen to my stuff? That’s… that’s crazy.”

Trying to claw back some semblance of dignity, Chaeryeong straightened her posture. She smoothed her hoodie and extended a hand formally, slipping into the polite, public-facing persona that was second nature. “I’m—”

“Chaeryeong,” he said quietly, his voice softening. He took her hand, his grip warm. “From ITZY. I know.”

She froze mid-handshake. Then a low, despairing groan escaped her as she used her free hand to cover her eyes. “So you saw me scream like a banshee and curse. Very idol-like. So professional.”

He laughed then—a genuine, warm, surprised sound that seemed to startle even him. It was a nice laugh. “Honestly, I’d scream too if a voice started singing behind me in the dark. Valid reaction. Ten out of ten.”

The tension snapped. Chaeryeong dropped her hand from her face, revealing a reluctant, then genuine, smile. She finally looked at him—really looked. The rugged handsomeness, the intelligent eyes still holding a trace of bewilderment, the way the leather jacket seemed like a part of him. A tiny, silent beat passed where they both just saw each other.

“So,” she said, gesturing to the bench. A silent truce. They sat back down, this time on the same side, a careful, respectful foot of space between them. The fallen chocolate bar lay a few feet away, a sad, forgotten casualty.

Now seated, a different kind of nervousness took hold of Chaeryeong. This was no longer about fangirling. This was about a dream. She took a steadying breath, tapping into a core of professional determination she rarely showed outside the practice room.

“I’m working on my solo debut album,” she began, her voice more measured. “I’ve been… searching. For a sound. Something emotionally raw, R&B-tinged, something that feels real, not just produced.” She turned to face him, her eyes earnest in the dim light. “It sounds exactly like your music. The feeling in it.” She hesitated, the question feeling huge in the quiet night. “Would you want to work with me? Produce one of the songs maybe?”

June’s reaction was immediate and visceral. He looked as if she’d gently shoved him. Flattery washed over him, followed by a tidal wave of disbelief. He rubbed the back of his neck, once, twice, three times—a quick, nervous tic.

“I’ve never done anything professional,” he said, the words rushing out. “I’m self-taught. My studio is literally second-hand gear I found online, crammed into my apartment. I don’t know the first thing about the industry, about budgets, about… any of it. I’d probably mess it up for you.”

Chaeryeong listened, then leaned forward, her gaze fierce. The hidden savage spark, the one her members knew well, flickered to life. “How do you make your songs, then? The ones that made me cry.”

He blinked. “Alone. In that apartment. With those second-hand things.”

“That,” she said, her voice firm, “is exactly what I want. That raw, honest sound. Not the polished industry machine.” She paused, a new idea forming. “Where do you live?”

A little dazed, he pointed across the river toward a small, modest two-story building nestled among taller complexes. A single warm light glowed in an upper window. “Right there. The one with the flickering balcony light. That’s my apartment. The studio.”

Chaeryeong stood up, brushing invisible lint from her joggers. A grin played on her lips—teasing, mischievous, full of a daring she hadn’t felt in months. “Great,” she said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She turned to jog away but stopped short. Her eyes landed on the discarded chocolate bar, now slightly melted and smeared on the concrete edge of the walkway. A pang of genuine loss hit her. Her chocolate.

She walked over, bent down, and picked it up delicately with two fingers, holding it aloft like a forensic investigator. “My chocolate,” she announced mournfully. Then she looked back at June, who was still frozen on the bench, watching her every move with captivated confusion.

Her expression shifted into a playful, faux-serious pout. “You owe me a replacement. And not just any chocolate. The good kind. The one with hazelnut filling.” She wagged the sad, ruined bar at him for emphasis. “Bring it tomorrow. With coffee. As your new producer-client tax.”

June just stared, utterly dumbfounded, his mouth slightly open. The whirlwind of the last ten minutes—the scare, the recognition, the monumental offer, and now a chocolate ransom—left him speechless.

Seemingly satisfied, Chaeryeong tucked the melted chocolate back into her jacket pocket with a resigned sigh. She shot him one last smile—a complex blend of starry-eyed fangirl and confident future collaborator—then turned and began to jog back down the path, her figure gradually dissolving into the shadows.

June remained frozen. The bench felt colder without her presence. He replayed it all: the humming, the scream, her wide, excited eyes, the direct question that still echoed in his ears. A breathless, disbelieving laugh finally escaped him. He ran a hand through his hair again and muttered to the empty night, “What… just happened?”

As he stood to collect his cap, a small, cinematic detail caught the distant light: a single, smeared fingerprint of melted chocolate on the wooden slat where she had sat. He stared at it for a second, then picked up his cap, brushing off a tiny, old chocolate stain of his own near the brim. Slinging his jacket tighter, he began the short walk home, a new, unplanned melody—light, curious, and sweet—already humming softly in his chest, keeping perfect time with his quickening heartbeat.

***

The morning sun filtered through the dusty window of his ground-floor apartment, painting stripes of gold across a floor littered with coiled cables. June had been awake since five, wiping down monitors, rearranging foam panels that didn’t need rearranging, and brewing a pot of coffee so strong it could probably stand up on its own. He’d also made a specific trip to the convenience store. The hazelnut chocolates sat in the center of his small kitchen table, a silent, hopeful testament.

A knock, soft but definite, echoed at exactly ten.

He opened the door, and the breath left his lungs in a quiet, surprised rush.

Chaeryeong stood in the hallway, backlit by the morning light from a distant window. She was a vision of effortless, off-duty chic that felt leagues away from the scared, hoodie-clad jogger of the night before. A black tube top hugged her frame, paired with relaxed, high-waisted plaid trousers that pooled slightly over sleek sneakers. An oversized, cream cardigan was slung off one shoulder, revealing a collarbone and the thin strap beneath. A statement Chanel hobo bag was hooked on her elbow. Her hair was in a low, loose ponytail, but soft, face-framing layers had been carefully styled to escape, and her makeup was minimal, just a hint of gloss and mascara that made her eyes seem even larger. In one hand, she held a sleek acoustic guitar case; in the other, a stylish canvas tote.

For a second, they just stared. Her fingers, free of bags, instinctively went to tuck a strand behind her ear.

“You came,” June finally said, his voice a mix of wonder and relief. A beat passed where he just blinked, as if confirming she was real. “I— part of me really, honestly thought you wouldn’t show up. Like, I half-expected to open the door and just find… a gust of wind and a hallucination I’d conjured from too much coffee and wishful thinking.”

A slow, teasing smile spread across Chaeryeong’s lips. She tilted her head. “I said I’d come. I’m a woman of my word.” She lifted the tote bag meaningfully. “Plus…” Her eyes sparkled with mock severity. “You still owe me chocolate. A whole replacement bar. With hazelnut filling. I specified. Very clearly. In the dark. While holding a melted tragedy. I have a photographic memory for chocolate-related debts.”

June laughed, the sound warm and a little breathless. His hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing once, twice, three times before he stepped aside to let her in. “I actually— I bought hazelnut ones this morning. Just in case.” He grimaced, suddenly self-conscious. “Is that pathetic? It feels a little pathetic. Over-eager, at least.”

Chaeryeong stepped past him, her perfume—something subtle and floral, like night-blooming jasmine—washing over him. She glanced around the small, tidy living area before turning that smile back on him. “It’s not pathetic. It’s optimistic. There’s a difference.” She held his gaze, her tone softening just a fraction. “I like optimistic.”

She then reached into her tote and pulled out a small, elegant box of premium Belgian chocolates, the kind with gold foil lining. She held it out to him. “And because I also believe in backup chocolate. Consider it a… studio-warming gift.”

He took the box, his fingers brushing hers. He stared at it, the expensive weight of it in his palm feeling disproportionately significant. “You didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to,” she said simply, cutting off his protest. She looked around again, her curiosity genuine. “So… do I get the tour? Starting with the source of the coffee smell, preferably. My caffeine dependency is waving a white flag.”

He led her to the tiny kitchen nook, barely more than a counter, a sink, and a two-burner stove. The pot was still warm. “How do you take it?” he asked, already reaching for a mug.

“With enough sugar to make a pastry jealous,” she declared, leaning against the counter. “Like… three spoons. Maybe four. Don’t judge me. My members judge me enough for it.”

“I’m a black coffee guy,” he said, pouring the dark brew. “So I’m definitely judging. Silently. In my head.” He found a sugar bowl and began scooping, his movements meticulous. “Three… and a fourth for the pastry’s wounded pride.”

She giggled, the sound bright and spontaneous. He thought it sounded like a melody he’d want to sample—a glockenspiel run, maybe, or a wind chime.

He handed her the mug. As he prepared his own black coffee, she opened the box of chocolates he’d bought, placing two on the counter between them. “New rule,” she announced, her tone faux-official. “Every studio session starts with chocolate. It’s a creative stimulant. Scientifically proven.” She paused for effect. “By me.”

He picked up his piece solemnly. “I accept the rule. Do we… toast?”

She raised her chocolate. He raised his. They clinked the little squares together instead of the coffee cups. She giggled again, and this time he couldn’t help the full, unreserved smile that broke across his face.

“What?” she asked, catching his expression, a faint blush on her cheeks.

“Nothing,” he said, quickly looking into his coffee. “Your sugar-to-coffee ratio is just… impressively committed. I respect it.”

“Good,” she said, taking a bite. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second. “Oh, these are the good ones. You’re forgiven for the bench-scare.”

“Whew,” he fake-wiped his brow. “My eternal soul rests easier.”

After coffee, he led her to a door beside the kitchen. “The upstair is the living space and the bedroom. And, this is where the magic happen.” he said, a rare thread of pride and nervousness in his voice. “Prepare for organized chaos.” He pushed the door open.

The studio was small, perhaps the size of a walk-in closet, but every inch was lived-in. Mismatched squares of acoustic foam in grey and blue covered parts of the walls, with a few peeling at the corners. A slightly battered MIDI keyboard sat on a wobbly stand, next to a pair of second-hand studio monitors that had seen better days. Cables ran in neat, color-coded coils along the floor, pinned in place with gaffer tape. The centerpiece was a vintage-looking condenser mic on a boom stand. The only sources of light were a single desk lamp with a green glass shade and a string of fairy lights haphazardly draped over the one window, which looked out onto a tiny, tangled patch of garden outside. The air smelled faintly of old wood, ozone from electronics, and the ever-present coffee. A worn, but incredibly soft-looking olive-green sofa took up one wall, piled with a faded quilt and a few throw pillows.

Chaeryeong didn’t offer polite praise. She stepped in slowly, as if entering a chapel. Her eyes traveled over every detail. She moved to the keyboard first, pressing a single key. The note rang out, slightly dull on the middle C.

“This place has a soul,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. She turned, her expression awed. “JYP’s studios are… technically perfect. State-of-the-art everything. But they feel like a hospital sometimes. Sterile. This…” She gestured around the room, a slow sweep of her hand. “This feels like music already lives here. Like it’s been waiting in the walls.”

June rubbed the back of his neck. “Most of it I got piece by piece since I was fifteen. Saved up lunch money, did odd jobs. Hunted second-hand forums for months for those monitors. They have a buzz in the left speaker if the humidity’s wrong. And the keyboard, well, you heard middle C…”

Chaeryeong turned to him, her gaze intense and serious, cutting off his self-deprecation. “But you built it yourself. From nothing.” She took a step toward him, her voice firm. “That’s not a ‘but.’ That’s the whole point. This is… amazing, June. Truly.”

Her sincerity was a physical thing, disarming him completely. He just nodded, his throat feeling suspiciously tight. To fill the silence, she pointed to the vintage mic. “What’s the story with this? It looks like it has stories.”

The tension broke. A fond smile touched his lips. “Flea market find. About four years ago. The guy selling it thought it was just a broken old prop. Got it for ten bucks. Had to re-solder the wiring, but… it’s my favorite thing in here. It picks up every breath, every little click in the throat.”

“It’s perfect,” she said, and she meant it.

They settled in—her on the sofa, him in the rolling chair by the desk. She sipped her sugary coffee, watching him over the rim. The initial awe settled into a comfortable, curious quiet.

“Can I ask you something?” she said after a moment.

“Sure.”

“If you’ve been doing this since you were a teenager… why only four songs on SoundCloud? I’ve been wondering since I found your page. You have this whole world in here.” She gestured around the room. “There must be hundreds of fragments, ideas. Why only those four?”

June leaned back in his chair, the old leather creaking. He looked at the ceiling, choosing his words. “Music was… always a diary, I guess. A private one. I never thought of it as a career, something to put out there. It was how I survived being a weird, quiet teenager. How I processed things I didn’t have words for.” He brought his gaze back to her. “Those four songs are the first ones I didn’t completely hate the next morning. The first ones that felt… finished, even if they aren’t technically perfect.” He gave a small, self-deprecating smile. “I’m a bit of a perfectionist. The kind who writes a whole song and then deletes the project file in a fit of frustration.”

Chaeryeong nodded slowly, her fingers playing with the end of her ponytail. “So you hide behind ‘hobbyist’ so you don’t have to risk failing. You call it perfectionism, but it’s really fear dressed up in really nice, introspective clothing.”

June blinked, then let out a short, surprised laugh. “That’s… an incredibly accurate and slightly terrifying callout. Do you have a degree in psychology or just a really perceptive vibe?”

A grin, sharp and a little savage, flashed across her face. “I know the type. I’m an idol, remember? Half my trainee life was trying to be perfect—the perfect note, the perfect move, the perfect smile. The other half was pretending I wasn’t absolutely terrified that I’d never be enough. I cried in practice rooms more times than I can count, just deleting takes of myself because my ad-lib wasn’t ‘genuine’ enough.” She met his eyes, a shared understanding passing between them. “So I recognize a fellow scared perfectionist. We’re a specific breed.”

Their eyes held. She tucked the same strand of hair behind both ears, a nervous flutter. He looked down at his hands, smiling faintly. “Well. Guess we’re both a bit of a mess, then.”

“A mess with good taste in music,” she countered, her tone lightening.

“Deal.”

The mood shifted from confessional to collaborative. She pulled the sleek hard drive from her bag—black, with a few cute ITZY stickers and a handwritten label in neat hangul that read “Ryeong’s Solo Dream.” He plugged it in, and his screen filled with folders. Voice memos labeled things like Hotel Melody 3am and Shower Idea. GarageBand demos with simple piano chords. Text files full of lyrical fragments.

For the next hour, she walked him through them. Her voice changed with each file—confident when explaining a chord choice, quietly vulnerable when playing a voice memo of her singing a raw, unprocessed melody in what sounded like a stairwell.

“This one,” she said, pointing to a simple piano loop, “I want it to feel like your song ‘Meridian.’ Emotional, honest, like you’re overhearing someone’s diary entry. That’s why I… I jumped on the opportunity yesterday. It wasn’t just fangirling.” She looked at him, her eyes earnest. “I’ve been searching for this sound, this feeling, for months. And then I found you on a random 2 a.m. SoundCloud deep dive. It felt like… I don’t know. A sign. Or a lifeline.”

June listened, his musician’s mind absorbing the textures of her ideas, but his heart was caught by the raw hope in her voice. When the last demo finished, the room was quiet save for the faint hum of the computer.

“These demos are beautiful, Chaeryeong,” he said, his voice low and serious. He turned to face her fully. “You’re not just an idol. You’re an artist. A real one. I mean that.”

Her blush was instantaneous, a deep rose spreading from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. She looked away, her fingers frantically twisting a lock of hair. “You don’t have to say that. They’re just scraps.”

“I’m not saying it to be nice. Listen to this melody here—” He clicked a file, and a haunting, wordless vocal run filled the small space. “—that’s not manufactured. That’s not a producer’s trick. That’s you. That’s the thing you’re searching for. It’s already in you.”

She slowly brought her eyes back to his. The vulnerability in them was breathtaking. “Thank you,” she whispered. It was the first time someone from outside her group, outside the industry bubble, had seen that hidden, artistic core and named it real.

“So,” he said, clearing his own tight throat. “Do we polish one of these? Or do we start something new? From scratch. Today.”

A spark of excitement lit her face. “New. Something that belongs to this room.”

She picked up her acoustic guitar, unzipping the case with reverence. “Fair warning,” she said, a little sheepish as she settled it on her lap. “I’m not an expert. I just use it to find melodies. I’ll mess up chords. A lot.”

“Mess-ups are where the best songs come from,” he said, rolling his chair to the keyboard. “Show me what you’ve got.”

She played a tentative, melancholy chord progression—D minor, B-flat major, F major, C major—looping it slowly. It sounded like late nights and unresolved feelings. Without a word, June layered a soft, warm pad sound underneath it, a bed of synth that made the simple chords feel expansive and cinematic.

They began to hum, almost at the same time. Her melody was light, searching, floating above the chords. His was lower, a counter-melody that anchored hers, giving it direction. They’d hum a phrase, stop, try another.

“What about lyrics here?” she asked, pointing to a spot in the structure they were building. “Something about… unspoken words? The weight of things you don’t say?”

June made a face, his nose scrunching. “A little on the nose, don’t you think? ‘Unspoken words’ is in, like, every other ballad.”

She gasped in mock offense. “Excuse you! It’s a classic for a reason!”

“It’s a cliché for a reason,” he fired back, grinning. “What about… ‘the echo in the space between us’?”

She considered it, humming the line with the melody. “Hmm. Less direct. More… atmospheric. I like it.” Then she teased, “See? You’re not just a pretty voice and a scary bench presence.”

He threw a crumpled Post-it note at her. She ducked, laughing.

The song took shape over the next two hours. They named it “Amber Hours,” for that golden, fleeting time between night and dawn when secrets feel safe to whisper. They recorded a rough guide vocal, Chaeryeong standing at the vintage mic, eyes closed, singing the words they’d woven together. Her voice, without any production, was raw, clear, and trembled slightly with emotion on the high notes. He hit record and let the tape roll, capturing every breath.

When the final note faded, he stopped the recording. He played it back, and they listened in the dark room, the fairy lights twinkling like distant stars.

The last chord hung in the air. June, who had closed his eyes, didn’t open them. “That’s the one,” he breathed.

Beside him on the sofa, Chaeryeong let out a slow, shuddering breath. “Yeah,” she whispered, her voice thick. “It is.”

A heavy, charged silence settled between them. It was more than just creative satisfaction. It was the intimacy of having built something beautiful together, of having seen into each other’s process. The professional line blurred, vibrated, and for one heartbeat, felt nonexistent. He could feel the warmth of her arm just inches from his on the sofa cushion.

She cleared her throat, the sound loud in the quiet. “We should… probably break. I have a schedule later.”

“Right. Yeah,” he said, snapping back to reality, rolling his chair to the computer to save the project file a little too forcefully.

She packed her guitar with deliberate slowness. She left the hard drive with him. “For inspiration,” she said. At the door to the studio, she turned. “Same time tomorrow evening? I’m free after six.”

June leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed, trying to look casual. “I’ll have coffee and extra suger ready. And maybe a backup chocolate for your backup chocolate. A chocolate-ception.”

Chaeryeong smiled, a softer, more private smile than she had given all day. “Good. Don’t think I won’t show up this time, either.” She slipped past him, through the living room, and to the front door. He followed, a step behind.

She opened the door, stepped out into the hallway, then glanced back over her shoulder. That smile again. Then she was gone, the click of her sneakers fading down the hall.

June closed the door. He stood there for a full minute, his forehead resting against the cool wood. Then, a slow smile spread across his face as he walked back to the studio. He didn’t turn on the lights. He just sat at the keyboard in the glow of the fairy lights and the monitor, and began to hum the melody of “Amber Hours,” adding a new, tentative harmony beneath it.

***

The first week blurred into the second in a haze of chord charts, lyric sheets, and an ever-growing pile of empty coffee cups and chocolate wrappers. The professional collaboration remained the anchor, but around it, a new ecosystem began to grow.

---

She arrived one evening looking utterly hollowed out, dark circles under her eyes visible even through her light makeup. “Two-hour photo shoot, then three hours of vocal coaching for the group comeback,” she mumbled, collapsing onto the studio sofa like a marionette with its strings cut. “My brain is soup.”

Wordlessly, June disappeared and returned with a mug of hot chocolate—not coffee—and the soft quilt from the back of the sofa. He draped it over her. “Just rest for ten minutes. The song can wait.”

They were supposed to be working on the second verse. But as she sipped the sweet drink, her eyelids grew heavy. He, thinking she was still listening, started playing soft, aimless piano chords on the keyboard, not “Amber Hours,” just meandering, peaceful progressions.

In that liminal space between waking and sleep, Chaeryeong began to hum. It was a fragile, improvised melody, a wandering thread of sound that wove perfectly through his chords. It was melancholic and sweet, a lullaby for no one. He stopped playing, his breath catching. Moving silently, he reached over and hit record on his interface, capturing the next minute of her sleepy, unconscious composition.

She woke with a jolt an hour later, disoriented. “Did I… fall asleep? Oh, no, I’m so sorry, that’s so unprofessional—”

“Shh,” he said, a finger to his lips. He played back the recording.

Her own voice, soft and dreamy, filled the room. Her eyes widened in horror, then slowly shifted to wonder as the melody unfolded. “Did I really…? That’s so embarrassing. I was basically snoring a tune.”

“You wrote that half-asleep,” he said, his voice filled with awe. “Imagine what you can do when you’re fully awake. Chaeryeong… this is our bridge. This is the missing emotional turn for ‘Amber Hours.’ It’s perfect.”

What she didn’t know, what he would never tell her, was that halfway through her humming, a long strand of hair had fallen across her face. In the dim light, without thinking, he had reached over and gently, so gently it was barely a touch, tucked it behind her ear. He’d pulled his hand back as if burned, a strange, tender guilt flooding him. It felt like a violation of her trust, even as it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Now, they listened to the lullaby-bridge together on the monitors, the professional reason for the recording pushing the personal moment aside. “It’s actually… kind of perfect,” she whispered, hugging a pillow to her chest.

He nodded, his eyes still on the waveform on the screen. “You’re kind of perfect.” The words left his mouth before his brain could catch them. He froze, then stammered, “At melodies, I mean. For this song. Specifically.” His ears turned a brilliant shade of pink.

Chaeryeong stared at her hands, her own cheeks flaming. “Right,” she murmured. “For the song.”

---

A few days later, they hit a wall. The second verse of “Amber Hours” refused to coalesce. After an hour of fruitless tinkering, Chaeryeong slammed her notebook shut.

“Nope. Creative block. Chocolate Emergency Level Red.” She stood, decisive. “We’re going on a field trip.”

She dragged him to the nearby convenience store. He watched, amused, as she filled a basket with an absurd variety of chocolates: milk, dark, mint, orange, one with popping candy. He quietly added a bag of shrimp chips to the pile.

Walking back with their haul, she nudged him. “Let’s go to the bench.”

He hesitated. The bench was where this had started, where the lines were undefined. “Yeah. Okay.”

They sat on the same side now, the river a shimmering sheet in the evening light. They tore into the snacks, passing things back and forth.

“Tell me something embarrassing,” she said, mouth full of chocolate. “Worse than singing from the shadows.”

He laughed, thinking. “High school talent show. I tried to sing this big, emotional ballad. Got to the key change, my voice cracked so loud the microphone feedback squealed. The entire auditorium went silent, then this one kid in the front row just started… slow-clapping. It was the most humiliating ten seconds of my life.”

Chaeryeong cackled, almost choking on a shrimp chip. “Oh, no! That’s amazing. My turn. Last year, during a year-end show, my mic pack came undone during the hardest part of the choreography. It flew off, hit the stage, and my voice just cut out while I was mid-spin. I had to finish the routine in complete silence, pretending nothing happened, while Yeji unnie was singing her heart out next to me. I wanted to melt into the floor.”

They laughed until their sides hurt, the sound carrying over the water. When their laughter subsided, she grew quiet.

“This bench is dangerous,” she said softly, looking at the water. “Every time we sit here, I end up sharing things I’ve never told anyone. You’re a bad influence.”

June leaned back, looking at her profile. “Same. I think it’s cursed. Or blessed. I’m not sure.” He took a breath. “I haven’t talked this much… about anything real… to anyone in years.”

The weight of the admission settled between them. This is becoming something. What is this?

Chaeryeong broke the tension by picking up a piece of chocolate and tossing it at his head. He caught it against his chest, grinning. The moment passed, but the echo remained.

---

She was struggling with a difficult F-barre chord transition, her fingers fumbling on the neck of her guitar. “Aish, it just won’t— my hand cramps.”

“Here, your index finger is too flat,” he said, scooting closer on the sofa. Without thinking, he reached over, his calloused fingers gently positioning hers on the fretboard, applying the correct pressure. “You need to roll it slightly, like this.”

His hand was warm and solid over hers. Her breath hitched, a tiny, audible sound in the quiet room. He heard it, felt the jolt that went through her, and immediately pulled his hand back as if shocked.

“Sorry— I shouldn’t have—“

“No, it’s— it helped,” she said quickly, her voice a pitch higher. She stared at the guitar, not seeing it. To cut the electric tension crackling in the air, she blurted, “Okay, new rule! If you teach me guitar, I get to teach you how not to be a recluse. Deal?”

He laughed, a nervous release. “What does that entail?”

“It entails you showing me a secret spot. Right now. Somewhere you’ve never shown anyone.”

He considered her, then sighed in mock defeat. “Fine. But it’s not that impressive.”

He led her up a narrow, unused staircase in his building, to a door that stuck. He shoved it open, revealing a tiny, forgotten rooftop. It was just a concrete square with a low wall, but it had a stunning, unobstructed view of the Han River and the bridges lit up like necklaces in the dusk.

Chaeryeong’s gasp was genuine. “June… this is incredible.”

“I come up here when the studio feels too small,” he admitted, leaning on the wall beside her.

They watched the sunset bleed from orange to deep purple in comfortable silence. She told him about her dream: a solo stage where she didn’t feel like ‘ITZY’s Chaeryeong,’ but just herself, her voice filling the silence. He told her his: to be walking down a street and hear a stranger humming a melody he’d written, unknowingly carrying a piece of him with them.

When it was time to go, she turned too quickly. Her hand brushed his forearm, a fleeting, accidental touch. Neither pulled away immediately. The contact lingered for a half-second too long before she tucked her hand safely into her cardigan pocket. They walked back down in a silence that felt charged, alive with everything they weren’t saying.

---

A sudden, violent downpour trapped her at his apartment. They abandoned the studio and made ramen in his tiny kitchen, sitting on the counter because there was only one chair. While he stirred the pot, she snooped through his open laptop, pulling up his music library.

A gasp of pure, undiluted delight echoed in the small space. “Oh my god. Oh my god. June. You have the entire ‘Boys Over Flowers’ OST? And… is this a playlist titled ‘2008 Emo Feels’? With Dashboard Confessional?”

June spun around, his face draining of color. “I can explain— no, I can’t. It’s a tragedy. A relic of my teenage years. I forgot it was on there—”

She was beaming, pointing at the screen. “This is the greatest discovery of my career. Greater than finding your SoundCloud! This is gold!”

“It’s mortifying is what it is,” he groaned, burying his face in his hands.

Twenty minutes later, they were singing a terribly off-key, passionate duet of “Paradise” by T-Max, shouting the dramatic lyrics over the sound of the rain, laughing so hard they had to hold onto the counter for support.

When the rain slowed to a drizzle, she was shivering in her thin cardigan. He wordlessly fetched a worn, grey hoodie from his room. It swallowed her whole, the sleeves extending past her fingertips. She hugged herself, enveloped in the faint scent of laundry detergent and him.

“I’ll return it next time,” she said, peeking up at him from within the oversized hood.

She never did.

---

Chaeryeong arrived early, a mission in her heart. She’d procured a ridiculous ghost mask from a variety show gag gift basket. Hiding behind the studio door, she waited, her heart pounding with mischievous glee.

The door opened. June walked in, balancing two mugs of coffee. She leaped out with a loud “BOO!”

He yelped, a genuinely undignified sound. Coffee sloshed over the rim of the mugs, splattering his t-shirt. He stared at her, at the grotesque mask, then at the stain spreading on his chest.

Chaeryeong ripped the mask off, her face alight with triumphant, savage joy. She doubled over, laughter shaking her frame. “Your face! Oh, payback is sweet!”

“You—” he sputtered, setting the mugs down with a clatter. He grabbed a nearby sponge from the desk, damp from wiping down the keyboard. “You think that’s funny?”

Her eyes widened. “Don’t you dare—”

He did. A brief, shrieking, giggling chase ensued around the small studio until he cornered her by the sofa. He didn’t use the sponge. Instead, they both collapsed onto the cushions, breathless and laughing.

At some point in the tangled heap of limbs, she realized her head was tucked against his shoulder, his arm was behind her back, and her laughter had died in her throat. The silence was sudden and deep. She could feel the steady thump of his heart through his damp shirt. Neither moved.

She swallowed. “We should… probably work now,” she whispered, the words barely audible.

He nodded, his chin brushing her hair. “Yeah.”

Neither moved for another ten seconds. Then, slowly, as if pulling against a magnetic force, she sat up. He cleared his throat and busied himself with the computer, clicking random files. The air was thick, sweet, and unbearably tense.

---

Chaeryeong’s phone buzzed on the mixing desk, the screen lighting up with a picture of Yuna making a duck face. Without thinking, Chaeryeong hit ‘answer.’

“Unnie!” Yuna’s bright, bubbly voice filled the studio. “Where are you? That’s not the dorm. That’s definitely not a JYP studio.” Yuna’s pixelated face squinted, then her eyes went round. “Are those fairy lights? Oh my god, are you at his place?”

Chaeryeong fumbled, lowering the volume. “Yuna, I’m working. I told you. The solo album. The indie producer I found.”

“Right, right. The mysterious producer,” Yuna said, her tone dripping with playful suspicion. “The one you’ve been spending every free second with for weeks. You know the unnies and I barely see you anymore. Yeji-unnie was asking if you’d moved out.”

“I haven’t moved out!” Chaeryeong hissed, her ears turning red. “I’m just… focused. The album is really coming together—”

At that exact moment, June walked into frame, holding a fresh mug of coffee for her. “Here, I added the fourth sugar— oh.” He froze, realizing she was on a video call. He was now fully visible on Yuna’s screen: messy hair, simple tee, holding a pink mug.

Yuna’s eyes went huge. A beat of dead silence. Then, a slow, mischievous grin spread across her face. “Oh. Oh. Unnie.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper that was still loud enough for the entire room to hear. “I would totally believe this was just professional and you’re super focused on music… if the producer weren’t that hot.”

“YUNA!” Chaeryeong shrieked, her entire face combusting. “He can hear you! Oh my god—” In her flustered panic, she swatted at the phone, knocking it off the desk. Yuna’s cackling laughter echoed from the floor.

June, standing frozen like a statue, slowly turned and pretended to be intensely interested in tuning an already-tuned guitar, the back of his neck a deep, telltale pink.

Chaeryeong scrambled for the phone, grabbing it and hissing into the screen. “I’m hanging up. We’re discussing this never.”

“Bring him to the dorm!” Yuna yelled, her grin taking up the whole screen. “I want to meet Hot Producer Oppa!”

Click. Chaeryeong threw the phone onto the sofa as if it were on fire and buried her face in her hands with a long, despairing groan.

June cleared his throat. The silence was profoundly, utterly awkward. “So…” he managed. “Coffee?”

Her muffled voice came from behind her hands. “Yes. Please. And maybe a memory wipe. Or a hole in the floor to swallow me.”

---

The denial was a dance they both mastered.

She noticed a tiny, old chocolate smear on the edge of his mixing desk and teased him for being a “closet chocolate holic.” The next day, she left a new bar of the expensive stuff with a sticky note: “For emergencies. — Ryeong.”

He saved a sunset photo she’d sent from their rooftop to his phone. It became his wallpaper. He’d quickly flip his phone face-down whenever she reached for hers nearby.

Her hair-playing became an Olympic sport. Any direct gaze from him, any moment that felt too heavy, and her fingers would fly to her ponytail, tucking, twisting, braiding invisible strands.

He opened a new project file and wrote lyrics that were unmistakable: “Eyes that hold every unspoken word / A melody I found but never heard.” He stared at it for a full minute, then deleted the entire file. Five minutes later, he dug through his digital trash bin to recover it, cursing himself under his breath.

After the Yuna call, they couldn’t look at each other for a full hour without one of them blushing. She found his flustered avoidance unnervingly, secretly cute. He found her embarrassed pout utterly devastating.

The final evening of the fourth week. The studio was warm, bathed in the green glow of the desk lamp and the gold of the fairy lights. “Amber Hours” played through the monitors for what felt like the hundredth time. It was 95% complete. The verses glowed with intimate detail, the chorus ached with soaring release, and the bridge—her accidental lullaby—was a moment of heartbreaking, fragile beauty.

But the final crescendo, the last eight bars that should have delivered the song’s emotional payload, fell flat. They’d tried three different instrumental builds. A driving drum loop. A swell of strings. A distorted guitar riff. Each felt wrong, like a lie tacked onto a truth.

They sat side-by-side on the sofa, a single pair of headphones split between them, her left ear, his right. The final attempt faded to silence. Chaeryeong slowly pulled out her earbud, a frown of deep frustration on her face. “It’s almost there. It’s right there. But there’s… a ghost of something. A thing we’re not saying.” She glanced at him. “Musically, I mean.”

June set his earbud down on the desk. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, running his hands through his hair. “I know. It’s like the song is holding back. It’s built up all this feeling and then… politely excuses itself.” He looked at her, his eyes reflecting the tiny lights. “Like we’re holding back.”

A loaded pause stretched between them, filled only by the hum of the computer fan.

Chaeryeong’s voice was barely a whisper. “Maybe the song needs us to… trust it more. Trust what it’s trying to be.” She swallowed. “Trust each other.” She didn’t clarify the scope of that trust. The music, or the thing humming louder between them with every session.

June held her gaze, the air in the room growing thick and still. “Then we’ll find it,” he said, his voice low and certain. “The missing piece. Together. Next session.”

She nodded, the motion slow, as if moving through water. She stood, suddenly needing space from the proximity, from the unspoken answer that hovered in the silence. She gathered her bag, her movements slightly rushed. “Same time next week. We’ll crack it.”

He walked her to the door, the familiar ritual now laden with new weight. She stepped out into the cool hallway, then turned back. She looked at him—really looked—her lips parted as if to say something else. She bit the thought back, and all that came out was a soft, “Goodnight, June.”

“Goodnight, Chaeryeong.”

The door clicked shut. Inside, June leaned his back against it, eyes closed. He listened to the faint sound of her footsteps disappearing. In the quiet of his apartment, he whispered to the empty room, “What are we missing?”

The answer was a melody he was too afraid to sing, a lyric waiting in the space between every look and every almost-touch.

Outside, Chaeryeong paused under a streetlamp, several paces from his building. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the frantic, hopeful drum of her heart against her palm. She looked back at the window where the fairy lights still glimmered, then turned and walked into the night.

The song—and the unnamed, trembling thing between them—remained an unfinished, aching bridge, waiting for one of them to find the courage to play the final, resolving chord.

***

ITZY Dorm – Saturday

The dorm living room was quiet, a rare pocket of stillness between schedules. Chaeryeong sat curled on the couch, a bowl of expensive assorted chocolates—a gift from a fan—balanced in her lap. Her phone screen glowed in her hands, illuminating her face in the dim afternoon light. On the screen was a file: Amber Hours_Guide Vocal_Ryeong.wav. Her thumb hovered over the play button. She didn’t press it. She just stared.

Her mind wasn’t on the song’s technical issue, the missing piece of the bridge. It was a relentless reel of specific, sensory memories: the shocking warmth of his hand over hers on the guitar fretboard, the calluses on his fingers rough against her skin. The sound of their off-key, rain-drowned duet, his laughter mingling with hers. The low, vulnerable rasp of his voice in the dark studio, saying, “You’re the first person who’s ever really seen me.” The words had settled in her bones, a constant, humming truth.

The click of the door broke her trance. Ryujin padded in, heading for the kitchen. She stopped, backtracked, and peered at Chaeryeong. Her eyes flicked from Chaeryeong’s blank face to the full bowl of chocolates, then back.

“Whoa,” Ryujin said, her voice laced with playful, genuine concern. “Hold on. Time out. Did the Chocolate Holic just… ignore chocolate? An unopened, untouched, gourmet assortment? Should I call a doctor? Do we need a medical team? Because this is unprecedented. This is a code-red, system-failure-level event.”

Chaeryeong startled, the phone nearly slipping from her hands. “What? No, I was just—” she fumbled, grabbing a chocolate at random and popping it into her mouth too quickly. The rich hazelnut cream tasted like dust. “I was just thinking.”

“Thinking,” Ryujin repeated, one eyebrow arching high. She leaned against the doorway, crossing her arms. “Sure. And I’m just casually observing that you’ve been ‘thinking’ in that exact spot, with that exact expression, for forty-five minutes. About the song?” Her tone made it clear she wasn’t buying it.

“The song is… complex,” Chaeryeong mumbled, her eyes dropping back to her phone.

“Mhm.” Ryujin pushed off the doorframe, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. “Well, don’t think too hard. You’ll short-circuit your cute little brain.” She muttered under her breath as she walked away, “Thinking. Yeah, right.”

Later, Lia found her. The drama was playing on the TV, a flashy historical romance, but Chaeryeong’s eyes were unfocused. Under her breath, almost inaudibly, she was humming the unresolved melody of the missing bridge, a looping, aching phrase that went nowhere. Lia didn’t say a word. She simply picked up the soft fleece blanket from the armchair, unfolded it, and draped it gently over Chaeryeong’s shoulders. She gave her shoulder a soft squeeze, caught Chaeryeong’s briefly startled gaze, and smiled a small, deeply knowing smile before gliding out of the room.

Chaeryeong sank deeper into the couch, the blanket a feeble shield. On screen, the drama’s protagonists, having survived countless battles, finally found a moment alone in a moonlit garden. The music swelled. The hero cupped the heroine’s face, his thumb stroking her cheek. They leaned in—

Chaeryeong’s hand flew to her own lips, her fingers absently tracing them. She wasn’t seeing the actors. She was seeing June’s face, exhausted and open in the studio lamplight. The way he’d look at her sometimes, a question held in the silence between words. What would it feel like if he—

She caught herself with a jolt, a hot flush crawling up her neck. “Ugh, get a grip,” she hissed to the empty room. In a frantic, punitive motion, she grabbed three chocolates from the bowl and shoved them all into her mouth at once, chewing with grim determination as the saccharine sweetness overwhelmed her senses.

Sunday Evening

Chaeryeong was buried in his hoodie. The oversized grey fabric swallowed her, the cuffs stretched past her fingertips. She was on her bed, laptop open to her meticulously organized solo album vision board—mood images, color palettes, lyric snippets. She wasn’t seeing any of it. She was hugging a pillow to her chest, her face half-buried in it, breathing in the faint, lingering scent that clung to the hoodie’s collar: a mix of studio dust, clean laundry, and something uniquely, undeniably him.

The door flew open without a knock.

Yuna barreled in with the force of a tropical storm, followed by Yeji, who closed the door with a calm, definitive click. This was not a casual visit. This was an intervention, and the leaders had arrived.

“Okay. Enough,” Yuna declared, flopping onto the bed so dramatically the mattress bounced. She pointed an accusatory finger. “Unnie, you’ve been walking around this dorm like a ghost who lost her unfinished business. And you’re wearing that hoodie again. It’s Sunday. You wore it Saturday. And I’m pretty sure you slept in it Friday night. The math is mathing, and the math says you’re down bad.”

Chaeryeong clutched the pillow tighter, a defensive barricade. “It’s comfortable. It’s just a hoodie. It’s… it’s soft.”

Yeji sat gracefully on the edge of the bed, her presence a steady counterpoint to Yuna’s whirlwind. Her voice was gentle but unyielding. “Ryeong-ah. You’ve been absent even when you’re here. You missed your turn during Mario Kart yesterday. You never miss Mario Kart. You live for destroying Ryujin on Rainbow Road.”

“You let Ryujin-unnie win,” Yuna interjected, horror-stricken. “Ryujin. The one you’ve been trying to annihilate in that game since debut. She did a victory lap around the dorm. She was singing her own theme song. It was humiliating to witness.”

Chaeryeong’s hand flew to her hair, twisting a nonexistent strand. Her eyes darted anywhere but at them. “I’m just… stuck. The song. ‘Amber Hours.’ The final bridge. We can’t figure out what’s missing and it’s been weeks and I keep hearing it in my head but the piece won’t come—it’s like a word on the tip of my tongue, and it’s driving me crazy—”

Yuna cut in, not unkindly but with blunt finality. “Unnie. Respectfully. It’s not the song that’s stuck. It’s you. You like him. Like, like him like him.”

Chaeryeong froze. The air left her lungs in a soft whoosh. All the practiced denials evaporated. She just stared at Yuna, her eyes wide and guilty.

“He’s my producer,” she whispered, the protest weak even to her own ears. “We work together. That’s… that’s what it is. Professional.”

Yeji reached over and took Chaeryeong’s fidgeting hands, stilling them in her own warm grasp. “That’s what you tell yourself. But I’ve seen you after schedules. You don’t come straight home anymore. You go to that little studio by the river. You come back at 2 a.m. smelling like someone else’s coffee and… and quiet happiness. And you smile. Different from your stage smile. Different from your ‘I just ate good chocolate’ smile. It’s… softer. Like you’ve got a secret you’re treasuring.”

“It’s the ‘I’m falling for someone and I’m terrified’ smile,” Yuna supplied, nodding sagely. “I’m the maknae, not blind. I know things. I watch dramas. This is classic drama behavior.”

The carefully constructed dam inside Chaeryeong began to crack. Her chin trembled. “What if I…” Her voice dropped to a threadbare whisper, confessing her deepest fear to the safe darkness of her own lap. “What if I tell him and it ruins everything? The song isn’t even finished. We’ve been building it for weeks. It’s… it’s the best thing I’ve ever been part of. If I mess this up, I lose the album and I lose him. Both. At once.”

Yeji’s grip on her hands tightened. “And what if you don’t tell him? You stay scared forever. The song stays unfinished, a ghost between you. And you lose him anyway, slowly, because you were too afraid to try for something real. Which one sounds worse?”

“Unnie, you’re literally the group’s scaredy cat,” Yuna said, her voice softening into encouragement. “You scream at spiders. You jumped three feet when the toaster popped yesterday. But you also survived Sixteen. You debuted. You’re a total savage when you need to be—I’ve seen you destroy Yeji-unnie’s ego with one perfectly timed sentence. This is one of those ‘need to be’ moments. This is your Rainbow Road. Don’t let Ryujin win this one, too.”

Chaeryeong looked from Yuna’s earnest face to Yeji’s steady, supportive gaze. A long, shaky exhale escaped her, and with it, the first hot tear spilled over. Then another. “I like him,” she choked out, the admission a relief and a terror. “I really, really like him. It’s not just the music. It’s… him. The way he rubs the back of his neck when he’s nervous—exactly three times, every time. The way he bought hazelnut chocolate ‘just in case’ before I even showed up that first morning. The way he listened to my stupid, messy demos and called me an artist, not an idol, an artist, and he meant it, I could tell he meant it. The way he didn’t laugh when I screamed on the bench, he just… understood. The way he tucks hair behind my—” She stopped, catching herself, wiping her cheeks with the hoodie’s sleeve. “I’ve never felt this. About anyone. And it’s terrifying.”

Yuna scooted closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Then go get him. Finish the song. Finish the feelings. Stop hiding in this hoodie that definitely smells like him, by the way, I can tell from here.”

Chaeryeong took a shuddering breath, the chaos in her mind clearing into a single, sharp point of resolve. She looked at Yeji, her eyes still wet but focused. “Unnie… can you talk to manager-nim? Can I have tomorrow off? Just one day. No lessons, no rehearsals. I need to—I have to go there. Early.”

Yeji was already pulling out her phone, a small, proud smile on her lips. “I’ll handle it. You handle your heart.”

“And bring Hot Producer to the dorm officially sometime,” Yuna added, her playful grin returning. “I want to interrogate him properly. Over dinner. With wine. His wine. He’s paying. Those are my terms.”

Chaeryeong laughed, a wet, hiccupping sound, and nodded. After they left, the room settled into a deep quiet. She sat alone for a long moment, the weight of her confession still humming in the air. She brought the hoodie’s collar to her nose, inhaled his fading scent, and whispered to the silent room, her voice firm, “Tomorrow. No more scaredy cat.”

June’s Studio – Saturday to Sunday Night

Time lost all meaning in the green-gold cave of the studio. Daylight through the high window bled into orange dusk, which faded to black, then grudgingly gave way to grey dawn, and the cycle repeated. June hadn’t left the chair, not really. He’d stumble to the bathroom, to the kitchen for more brutal, black coffee, and return, his body moving on autopilot.

The evidence of his siege was everywhere. Empty coffee mugs formed a precarious tower on the desk. The bag of hazelnut chocolates she’d left behind was now just a crumpled wrapper. And scattered around him like fallen leaves were dozens of notebook pages, each a battlefield of scribbled, crossed-out, and violently circled lyrics.

Fragments, all about her:

*  “Eyes that hold every unspoken word / A melody I found but never heard.”

*  “Hands that find melodies in the dark / Tracing constellations where you leave your mark.”

*  “Hair that falls like a midnight sigh / And I just want to be the one who tucks it back, and tries…”

He’d crumple a page, hurl it at the wall with a grunt of frustration, only to get up moments later, retrieve it, and smooth it out with desperate care, as if destroying the words might destroy the feeling itself.

His own voice, hoarse from disuse and caffeine, was his only conversation. “It’s not a production problem,” he argued aloud to the blinking cursor on the screen. “The frequencies are fine. The arrangement works. The structure is solid. It’s… me. I’m the missing piece. I can’t finish it because I don’t want this to end, and I’m too terrified to say why. Because if I say why, and she doesn’t… then it ends anyway.”

Around 3 a.m., on Sunday night bleeding into Monday morning, his mind finally broke. The overthinking engine ran out of fuel. Exhaustion became a kind of clarity. He sat at the keyboard, closed his eyes, and let his hands fall onto the keys. No plan, no theory, just feeling.

His fingers found a progression—not complex, but profound. A series of lifted, questioning chords that climbed, hesitated, and then resolved not with a triumphant major bang, but with a soft, sustained minor-add-nine, a sound that was both hopeful and aching, a musical question that finally allowed itself a gentle, tentative answer. It sounded like golden light through dusty windows. It sounded like her.

His eyes flew open. He stared at his own hands as if they belonged to a stranger. “That’s it,” he whispered, the sound raw in the silent room. “That’s the bridge. That’s… that’s her.”

A frantic energy seized him. He scrambled, firing up the recording software, laying down the piano track with trembling fingers. He added a soft, warm bassline that held the hope, leaving wide, open spaces for her voice to fill. He wrote the final lyrics in a white-hot rush, the words pouring out unfiltered: “So let the amber hours stretch / Beyond the fading edge of night / I’ll be the one who stays, who catches every light / That falls from you, from you who finally saw me right.”

His hands were shaking so badly he had to stop typing and just breathe for a minute. When he finally clicked ‘Save’ on the file labeled Amber Hours – FINAL MIX v1, the clock on his screen read 7:03 a.m. Monday. He hadn’t slept in over thirty-six hours. He slumped back in his chair, staring at the screen, feeling not exhaustion but a profound, trembling relief. The song was finished. The truth was in it. Now he just had to wait for her.

Monday Morning

He was still slumped there, head buzzing with caffeine and sleep deprivation, eyes glued to the finished waveform on the screen, when a knock echoed through the quiet apartment. Sharp, clear, insistent.

He blinked. It was too early for the mail. Too early for anyone. A slow, irrational hope sparked in his chest. He stumbled to the door, his movements stiff from hours in the chair.

He opened it.

Chaeryeong stood on the other side, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She was wearing his grey hoodie—the one she’d never returned—paired with simple light grey sweatpants. Her hair was down, the untied, slightly messy look he’d come to recognize as her “off-duty” state. Minimal makeup. She looked simultaneously determined and utterly terrified, like someone standing at the edge of a high dive, toes curled over the brink.

“Chaeryeong?” he said, his voice rough and gravelly from lack of sleep. “It’s—it’s early. Like, 7 a.m. early. You usually come in the evening. Is everything okay? Are you okay?” His brain, still fogged with fatigue, defaulted to concern.

She opened her mouth, closed it, swallowed, and then forced the words out in a rushed, jumbled stream. “I needed to—I came because I—there’s something I have to tell you. About the song. About—about us. I’ve been thinking all weekend, and my members staged an actual intervention, and I couldn’t sleep, and I just—I need to say it before I lose my nerve—”

But his face, previously lined with exhaustion, suddenly lit up with a manic, excited energy. He wasn’t hearing her confession; he was bursting with his own. Before she could finish, he reached out and grabbed her hand, his grip firm and urgent.

“Wait—wait,” he said, cutting her off. “I finished it. The song. ‘Amber Hours.’ I was up all weekend. I haven’t slept. I think I’ve had seven coffees. But I finally figured out what was missing. You have to hear it. Right now. Before anything else.”

Chaeryeong blinked, completely derailed. Her carefully rehearsed speech evaporated. “You—you finished it? The bridge? The thing we couldn’t—”

“I finished it,” he said, his eyes blazing with a tired, triumphant joy. “Come on.” He tugged her hand, already pulling her toward the studio, and she let him, her confession temporarily swallowed by overwhelming curiosity and the sight of his exhausted, hopeful face.

He pulled her into the warm, familiar chaos of the studio, guided her not to the usual chair but to the worn sofa, and hit play on the main monitor before she could even sit down properly.

The track filled the room. It started with the verses they’d built together—the intimate, detailed snapshots of golden-hour light and quiet yearning. Then her own voice, soft and dreamy, floated in for the lullaby bridge she’d hummed half-asleep, the melody he’d preserved like a sacred artifact. And then… the new part. The final bridge she’d never heard.

His piano, aching and hopeful, played the progression he’d found at 3 a.m. It wasn’t flashy; it was heartfelt, a series of chords that felt like a heart slowly opening. Then his voice, rough but tender, singing the lyrics he’d written in the dark: “So let the amber hours stretch / Beyond the fading edge of night / I’ll be the one who stays, who catches every light / That falls from you, from you who finally saw me right…” The music swelled softly, not with orchestral grandeur, but with a warm bed of synth and a soft, sustained chord that felt like a long, peaceful exhale. Then it gently faded back into the final chorus, now feeling complete, resolved.

They listened in complete silence, side by side on the sofa. Chaeryeong’s hand drifted unconsciously to her chest, as if trying to hold the feeling inside. Her eyes grew wide, then glassy, shimmering with unshed tears. It was perfect. It was them.

The song ended. The studio was quiet again, save for the hum of the computer.

June turned to her slowly. His earlier excitement had melted into a vulnerable, nervous hope. His voice was barely above a whisper. “So… how is it? Is it—does it work? I changed the bridge completely. I wrote it at like 4 a.m. so if it’s terrible, just tell me, I can rework it—”

Chaeryeong didn’t answer with words.

Instead, she reached out, her fingers finding the soft cotton of his t-shirt. She grabbed a fistful of fabric and pulled him toward her, bridging the small space between them on the sofa, and kissed him.

The kiss was impulsive, heated, a dam breaking after weeks of pressure. It wasn’t gentle or exploratory; it was a direct, desperate transfer of all the feeling she’d been carrying. June made a surprised sound against her lips—a soft, muffled “mmph”—then his hands found her waist, anchoring her, and he was kissing her back instinctively, his body responding before his mind could catch up.

But then Chaeryeong’s brain, always a few steps behind her heart, caught up. She broke the kiss with a sharp gasp, but didn’t pull away—their faces remained inches apart, her hands still fisted in his shirt. She started mumbling rapidly, words tumbling over each other in a panic.

“Oh god—I’m sorry—the song was just so beautiful and I was already emotional and I came here to tell you something important and then you played that and the bridge was perfect and I just—I didn’t mean to just grab you like that, that was so unprofessional, we should talk about the song first, I had a whole speech planned, I practiced it in the mirror three times—”

June cupped her face with both hands, his palms warm against her cheeks, stopping her spiral mid-word. “Ryeong. Stop.”

She stopped. Her lips were still parted, her eyes wide and worried. He looked at her—really looked, his tired eyes searching hers, seeing the fear, the hope, the love all tangled together—and then he leaned in and kissed her again.

This time, he was the one initiating. It was slow, deliberate, a deep and tender question and an answer at once. When he pulled back, his voice was rough with emotion. “I’ve been wanting to do that for three weeks. Maybe four. Since the bench. Please don’t apologize for it. Don’t ever apologize for that.”

They kissed again, deeper this time, and the world narrowed to the soft press of lips, the shared breath, the feel of his hands sliding from her waist to her back. He stumbled backward onto the sofa, pulling her with him, and she climbed onto his lap naturally, knees bracketing his hips, settling against him with a sigh that was half-relief, half-desire.

Between kisses, their withheld confessions tumbled out in fragments—not in one long, formal speech, but broken up by breathless pauses and the desperate need to reconnect physically.

Chaeryeong, against his lips: “The song wasn’t the only reason I kept coming back.”

June, kissing the corner of her mouth, then her jaw: “I know. I hoped. Every time you walked through that door I hoped. I was terrified I was wrong.”

Chaeryeong, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, her hands on his shoulders: “My members staged an intervention. Last night. Yuna called you ‘Hot Producer’ and Yeji told me to stop being a scaredy cat. Those were her exact words.”

June laughed, a real, bright sound, and dropped his forehead against hers. “I like your members. Remind me to send them chocolates. The most expensive ones I can find.”

“I came here to confess, to finally stop being a scaredy cat,” Chaeryeong whispered, her nose brushing his. “But this… this is far better.”

She kissed him again, slower this time, savoring the taste of him—coffee and sleep and want. Her hips shifted unconsciously against his lap, a small, experimental rock. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her—a tiny moan swallowed by his mouth. He groaned in response, his hands tightening on her back.

They broke for air, both panting, eyes dark and wide with newfound hunger. Her lips were slightly swollen, his hair was a complete wreck from her fingers. Her playful savagery emerged through the haze of nerves and desire.

“So…” Chaeryeong said, her voice unsteady but with a hint of familiar teasing. “You mentioned it once. The first day. ‘Living space and bedroom. Very mysterious.’ Is it… is it finally time for the tour upstairs?”

June laughed, dazed and happy. “You remember that? That was weeks ago. The chocolate and scream day.”

“I remember everything you’ve said to me,” she said softly, her gaze unwavering. “Every single thing.”

He kissed her again, a deep, claiming kiss that left them both breathless. Then he gripped her thighs firmly and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist with a squeak of surprise that melted into laughter. He carried her through the studio door, into the narrow, dim stairwell, and they kept kissing as he navigated the steps—clumsy, giddy, nearly tripping on the top step when she nibbled his earlobe. They stumbled into the hallway wall, both dissolving into breathless, helpless giggles.

Chaeryeong, deadpan against his shoulder: “Romantic. Very smooth. I feel so carried.”

“I’m an indie producer,” June said, grinning as he adjusted his grip on her. “We don’t do smooth. We do heartfelt chaos. It’s in the job description.”

He pushed open his bedroom door with his shoulder—a small, simple room with an unmade bed, a bookshelf overflowing with vinyl records and books, morning light filtering through thin, plain curtains. He laid her down on the mattress gently, as if she were something precious and fragile. He hovered above her, one hand braced beside her head, and just looked at her for a long moment—her hair spread out on his pillow, wearing his hoodie over her own clothes in his bed, her eyes bright with nerves and want and a trust that made his heart ache.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, not as a smooth line, but as a quiet, awed revelation. “I’ve thought it since the bench. Every single time I saw you. I was just too scared to say it out loud.”

She reached up, touched his jaw, her fingers tracing the line of it. He leaned into her palm, his eyes closing briefly, savoring the contact.

He lowered himself, kissing her again—softer now, slower, savoring. His hand found the hem of the hoodie, fingers playing with the fabric, a silent question. She answered by pulling back just enough to grip the hem herself, and in a bold, decisive motion, she pulled it over her head and tossed it aside. Underneath was a simple, pretty bra—light pink, delicate, entirely her.

His breath caught audibly. He just looked at her—not with hunger alone, but with adoration, wonder, and a deep aching tenderness that made her suddenly self-conscious. Her arms instinctively moved to cover herself, crossing over her chest.

“What?” she asked, her voice suddenly small. “Why are you looking at me like that? You’re staring. Again.”

He shook his head slowly, his expression reverent. “Like… I can’t believe you’re real. Like I’ve been writing songs about someone my whole life and she just… appeared on a bench at midnight and started humming my song and screaming at me. And now she’s here. In my bed. Wearing my hoodie. Looking at me like I matter. I’m staring because I’m terrified I’ll blink and you’ll disappear.”

Her bravado crumbled completely. The nerves rushed back in a wave. Her fingers curled into the sheets beside her, and she couldn’t meet his eyes. He noticed the shift immediately. He pulled back, his hands withdrawing to safe, neutral territory on the bed.

“Hey. Ryeong. Look at me.” His voice was gentle but firm. She did, reluctantly. “We can stop. Right now. If you’re not ready, if this is too fast, we stop. No song is worth you feeling pressured. No album. Nothing. You’re worth more than all of it. Okay?”

Chaeryeong shook her head quickly. “No—that’s not—I want this. I really, really want this. I’ve been thinking about it… for weeks. About you. About… this. It’s just…” She took a deep breath, her voice dropping to a whisper barely audible in the quiet room. “I’ve never done this before. With anyone. I’m—it’s my first time. And I’m nervous. And I don’t want to be bad at it. I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

A visible wave of relief washed over his face—not because his desire dampened, but because the fear of misunderstanding dissolved. “Oh. Oh, Ryeong.” He took her face in his hands again, thumbs brushing her cheeks. “You could never disappoint me. Never. This isn’t a performance. There’s no score. No stage. No cameras. It’s just… us. Just you and me, figuring it out together. That’s all it has to be.”

“Really?” she asked, her eyes glistening. “You’re not just saying that?”

“Really,” he vowed. “I like you. Not ‘idol Chaeryeong.’ Not ‘client Chaeryeong.’ You. The woman who screams at benches and hoards chocolate and writes melodies in her sleep. The woman who jumped out at me in a ghost mask and laughed so hard she couldn’t breathe. I like that woman. A lot. An embarrassing, wrote-lyrics-and-fished-them-out-of-the-trash, didn’t-sleep-for-two-days amount.”

Chaeryeong laughed, a wet, relieved sound. “That’s a very specific amount.”

“I’m a very specific person.”

She exhaled, a long breath that seemed to release the last of the tension from her shoulders. “Okay. Okay. I… I’m ready. I trust you.”

He looked down at her, his expression solemn, almost a vow. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

He removed his own t-shirt, revealing a torso that was lean, not heavily muscular but defined. She reached up and touched his chest with curious, tentative fingers, tracing the line of his collarbone, the dip between his pectorals. He shivered under her touch.

He lowered himself on top of her, careful not to put his full weight on her, and resumed kissing her—slow, thorough kisses that moved from her lips to her cheek, to the tip of her nose, to her closed eyelids, to her forehead. Each kiss was punctuated by a murmured, fragmented compliment.

“You’re so soft here,” he whispered, kissing the hollow of her throat.

“Your voice does something to me,” he said against her skin as he reached her collarbone.

Her breath hitched. “Good something or bad something?”

He nuzzled the spot, playful. “Dangerous something.” She arched slightly, a silent plea.

When he reached her chest, his hand paused at the clasp of her bra. He looked up, his eyes asking a clear, patient question. She gave a tiny, decisive nod.

He unclasped it with careful fingers, drawing the straps down her shoulders slowly. He cupped her breasts—soft, a perfect fit for his palms—and pressed a reverent kiss to the valley between them. “Beautiful,” he murmured into her skin. “Everything about you.”

When his mouth finally closed over one erect nipple, his tongue circling gently, and his eyes flicked up to meet hers, she released a moan so soft and involuntary it was almost a sigh. He groaned in response, the sound vibrating against her skin. He spent long, devoted minutes there, alternating between her breasts, lavishing attention with his lips and tongue until her breathing was ragged and her hands were fisted in his hair, not pushing him away but holding him close.

He kissed a path down her stomach, over her navel, to the waistband of her sweatpants. He looked up one more time—his eyes always asking silent permission. She lifted her hips in answer, helping him slide the sweatpants and her matching, simple panties off in one smooth, slow motion.

He paused at the sight of her—glistening, pink and perfect, with a small neat patch of hair above. His expression was awed, reverent. “You’re staring again,” she said, shy, her thighs trembling slightly.

“I’m appreciating,” he replied, his voice husky with emotion. “There’s a difference.”

He gently parted her thighs, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of each one before finally lowering his mouth to her center. He started at her clit—gentle, exploratory, reading her every gasp and flinch—then delved deeper, drinking her in like he’d been dying of thirst. Her moans grew in frequency and pitch, soft little cries that spurred him on. He added two fingers, curling them gently inside her, and the combined sensation pushed her over the edge with startling speed. She grabbed his hair, held him there, and came with a silent cry and a full-body shudder that seemed to surprise even her. He didn’t stop—he gentled his movements, working her through the intense waves until she tugged his hair lightly from over-sensitivity.

She guided his face back up to hers, pulled him into a deep, messy kiss, tasting herself on his lips. The intimacy of it made her whimper against his mouth.

When they broke apart, both breathing hard, she looked directly into his eyes. Her voice was soft, almost innocent—but the words were anything but. “June… I want you inside me. Please.”

His brain visibly short-circuited. He froze, staring at her like she’d just spoken a language he was still learning. Then she said it again, the same gentle, adorable tone: “June. Please fuck me.”

He groaned, dropping his forehead to hers. “You can’t—you can’t say things like that in that voice. It’s not fair. That’s the voice you use when you’re talking about chocolate. Not—that.”

She smiled, clearly enjoying his struggle, some of her playful confidence returning. “What voice?”

“The voice. The one that sounds like a lullaby. While asking for—that. It’s going to kill me.”

“A good death?” she teased, shifting her hips beneath him.

“The best. The absolute best death.”

He quickly shed his remaining clothes. She watched, her eyes curious and wanting. When he instinctively reached for the bedside drawer, she stopped him with a gentle hand on his wrist. “You don’t need it. I’m on the pill. And I want—I want to feel you. All of you. For my first time. Please.”

His eyes squeezed shut. He took a long, steadying breath. “You’re going to be the end of me. In the best possible way.”

He positioned himself above her, settling between her legs, and took himself in hand, rubbing the tip through her slick folds, coating himself in her. She squirmed impatiently. “Don’t tease,” she whined.

“Not teasing,” he said, his voice strained with control. “Preparing. You’re—you’re really tight, and I don’t want to hurt you. I won’t hurt you.”

He began to push in, achingly slow. She gasped at the stretch, the unfamiliar fullness, her hands flying to his shoulders, nails pressing lightly into his skin. He paused, letting her adjust, kissing her forehead, her nose, her lips—soft, reassuring, patient—before inching deeper, millimeter by millimeter. When he was finally fully seated, he stopped completely. They were both panting, foreheads together, connected in every possible way.

Chaeryeong’s voice trembled with wonder. “I feel so… full. You’re everywhere. Is it always like this?”

June’s response was strained but tender. “I don’t know. It’s never been like this for me. Not ever. Not even close.”

He began to move—slow, shallow thrusts that gradually deepened as her body relaxed and welcomed him, finding a rhythm that matched the way her hips started to meet his tentatively. Her second orgasm built differently—deeper, more consuming, a slow burn that tightened her core—and when it broke, she cried his name into the quiet room and he felt a sudden, hot gush around him, a flood of release that startled them both.

“Did you just—?” he asked, amazed, still moving gently within her.

“I don’t know—I don’t know what that was—” she managed, mortified and blissful all at once.

“That was incredible,” he whispered, kissing her shoulder. “You’re incredible.”

When she calmed, still trembling with aftershocks, she pushed lightly at his chest. “I want to—can I be on top? I want to try.”

He rolled them carefully, settling her above him in a cowgirl position. She moved tentatively at first, finding a rhythm, a slow rise and fall, and then her confidence built as she saw the effect on his face—his eyes dark with pleasure, his hands gentle on her hips. She rode him at her own pace, hands braced on his chest, her hair falling around her face like a curtain, utterly unguarded. He watched her like she was the sunrise after a long night.

When her rhythm faltered and she clenched tightly around him—close to another peak—he felt his own control unravel. He gripped her hips and thrust up from below, meeting her movements, fast and deep, chasing the edge with her. “Together—I’m—” he gasped, his voice breaking.

“Yes—yes—June—” she broke, her voice shattering into a wordless cry as the sensation overwhelmed her. They shattered together, a shared, explosive release that tore through them both—his hips driving up into her one last, deep time as her inner muscles clenched and fluttered around him in rhythmic pulses, milking his own climax from him in hot, urgent spurts that filled her, a searing intimacy that had them both crying out into the quiet morning air.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing, the hammering of two hearts against each other's skin. He collapsed back onto the mattress, pulling her down with him so she lay sprawled on top of his chest, a boneless, sweaty, spent weight. His semi-erect cock was still nestled inside her, their combined fluids a warm, damp testament on the sheet beneath them. Neither moved to separate. His arms came around her, one hand mindlessly drawing small, lazy patterns on her sweaty back—circles, then music notes, then what might be the letters of her name.

The silence was comfortable, heavy with everything that had been said and done, glowing with a new, profound quiet.

The morning light grew stronger, painting golden stripes across the rumpled sheets and their tangled legs. Chaeryeong’s ear was pressed to his chest, listening to the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat gradually slow to a steady, strong thump. His fingers never stopped their gentle tracing on her skin.

She was the one to break the quiet, her voice soft and thoughtful, muffled slightly against his skin. “The final version… it’s perfect. ‘Amber Hours.’ You really fixed it. The bridge—it was like hearing everything I’ve been feeling but couldn’t say.”

His hand stilled for a moment, then resumed its path. “It wasn’t broken,” he said, his voice a low rumble in his chest beneath her ear. “The song was just… waiting. For me to be honest. I couldn’t finish it because I was holding back. From the music, from you, from myself.”

She lifted her head slightly, just enough to rest her chin on his sternum and look at him. Her eyes were clear, soft. “How did you figure it out? What was the missing piece?”

He was quiet for a long moment, looking past her at the ceiling, gathering the words. Then his gaze dropped back to hers. “I stopped trying to fix the song and started thinking about… you. About us. The bench that first night, how you screamed and dropped your chocolate. The way you made ‘every session starts with chocolate’ a rule. The way you hum in your sleep and it becomes the best melody I’ve ever heard. The way you’re terrified of everything—ghosts, bugs, toasters—but when it comes to your music, you’re fearless.” He paused, his thumb coming up to brush a stray strand of hair from her cheek. “I wrote what I felt. About you. And it fit. Like it was always supposed to be there. Like the song was waiting for me to admit that I’m falling for you.”

The words hung in the air, simple and devastating. Falling for you.

Chaeryeong stayed silent for an even longer moment, settling her head back down on his chest, feeling the solid, real beat of his heart beneath her ear. Then she spoke again, quieter. “We should start working on the next track soon. Track two. We have a whole album to finish.”

A teasing lilt entered his tired voice. “Was this all an elaborate scheme to keep me producing your album? Seduce the indie producer so he can’t say no to track two?”

She lifted her head fully now, propping herself up on her elbows to look directly into his eyes. Her expression was suddenly dead serious—no teasing, no deflection, just raw, unveiled truth. “No. It wasn’t about the album. It was about me thinking about you for weeks—every minute, every spare thought. My feelings growing so fast and so big I couldn’t contain them inside me anymore. It was about me finally giving myself to you. Completely. Not to a producer. To you. June. The person. I’ve never done that before—given myself to anyone. But I wanted it to be you. Only you.”

They looked at each other. Both of their eyes were shining with unshed tears and raw, unguarded feeling. Neither of them spoke for a long, suspended moment. The air was thick but not uncomfortable—full, heavy with a truth finally spoken aloud, a bridge not just in a song, but between them, now irrevocably crossed. He reached up and tucked a strand of her damp hair behind her ear, his thumb lingering on the apple of her cheek, catching a single tear that escaped.

He broke the silence finally, his voice a little hoarse. “We should… get up. Get freshened up. And then start on the next track—I actually have some ideas, if you want to hear them. Maybe we could grab some lunch after. In a nice restaurant. With menus and chairs and other people. Like an official date. A real one. If you want. If that’s not too—”

Chaeryeong laughed—that bright, unguarded, bell-like sound he’d come to love. “That all sounds perfect. All of it. Except—” She shifted slightly, winced, and then grinned up at him, a playful, satisfied spark in her eyes. “—I don’t think I can walk two steps right now without falling over. You might have to carry me to the shower. And maybe to the restaurant. Possibly everywhere, for the rest of the day.”

June grinned, a wide, effortless smile that transformed his tired face. He was already shifting, carefully slipping out of her and gathering her limp, pliant body into his arms in one smooth motion. “I seem to recall carrying you up here. I’m getting good at it. It’s becoming my specialty.”

As he lifted her, she wrapped her arms around his neck, nuzzling into his shoulder, her voice sleepy and content. “Next track idea: ‘Stairway Fumbles.’ About a producer who almost dropped his artist on the stairs.”

“That’s a terrible title,” he chuckled, carrying her naked and glorious toward the bathroom.

“You’re right,” she sighed, feigning deep thought. “I’ll workshop it. Over chocolate.”

“I’ll buy hazelnut,” he said, nudging the bathroom door open with his foot.

“It’s a date,” she murmured, her eyes already drifting closed against his skin. “Our second one.”

He carried her into the steamy warmth soon to come, the bathroom door closing softly behind them. A moment later, the sound of water starting to run whispered through the thin walls. And then, faint but unmistakable, came the sound of one of them humming the bridge of “Amber Hours”—the new, perfect, hopeful bridge. A pause, and then the other voice joined in, harmonizing softly, effortlessly, a private duet for two.

The End

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K-pop stories of passion, possession and blurred boundaries 💦 Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/electro469 Fanprose: https://fanprose.com/user

[electro469]

Do you like BDSM or Bondage? Do you have any plans to write?

Personally, I'm not really a fan of these two categories. I've tried some light stuff on the Mommy Jisoo series but that didn't really hit. For the future, who knows 💁‍♂️

[electro469]

Could Jisoo, Rosé and Lisa appear in Premium C*nt? Will The Velvet Rope contact them, too? Or will Jennie invite them?

No. The Velvet Rope is Jennie's own secret. But I have a bigger plan that involves 'Premium C*nt' Jennie and the other members.

[electro469]

Premium C*nt

The Bachelor Party

On a moonlit luxury yacht off Sardinia, BLACKPINK’s Jennie becomes the ultimate forbidden prize at a multimillion-dollar bachelor party — where three powerful men learn that one night with her can shatter vows and rewrite pleasure itself.

1st Act: Premium Cunt: The Birthday Surprise

---

The silence in her Seoul apartment was a different kind of noise. Not the quiet of peace, but the heavy, expectant hush of a stage after the final encore, when the adrenaline still hums in your veins but there’s nowhere left to pour it. Morning light cut across the marble floors, illuminating particles of dust dancing in the beams. Jennie stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, a silk robe slipping off one shoulder, and scrolled through her investment portfolio on a tablet.

The numbers were satisfying. Very satisfying. But her eyes kept drifting to a different image, pulled up in a separate, encrypted gallery. A snapshot of white curves against impossible turquoise water. The down payment on the villa at the Palm Jumeirah. Her villa. Bought outright, no mortgage, no bank approvals. Just a transfer of a number so large it had felt abstract until the deed appeared in her name.

A secret trophy. The only physical proof of the night at the Calloway estate.

She should have felt pure triumph. She’d played a high-stakes game and won. The Velvet Rope had delivered on its promise of discretion—the $1.8 million had landed in two days, laundered through a labyrinth of shell accounts in Singapore and the Caymans, untraceable. It was just a number in a digital vault now, clean and quiet.

So why did she feel this restless, itchy emptiness?

Her gaze drifted to the minimalist sideboard. Inside the top drawer, beneath a stack of branded stationery, lay the burner phone. It hadn’t buzzed in over a month.

Almost disappointed, she thought, a wry twist to her lips. The concierge’s polished voice echoed in her memory: An exceptionally thin client list. Perhaps one or two bookings a year. She’d believed her. How many men in the world truly had two million dollars to spend on a single night of fantasy? Let alone the audacity.

But her body remembered. It wasn’t the money that haunted her in the quiet moments before sleep. It was the ghost of sensation: the clinical precision of Calloway’s fingers, the overwhelming stretch of Devon, the raw, star-struck hunger in Ethan’s eyes. She’d catch herself in the middle of a rehearsal, a fitting, a mind-numbing corporate dinner, and a fragment would flash—the smell of scotch and sex, the feel of leather against her cheek, the guttural sound Marcus made when he came. A shiver would follow, then a slow, creeping heat that had her pressing her thighs together under the table.

The world still saw Jennie Kim. The idol. The human Chanel bag. Ice-cold, untouchable, a product of impeccable curation.

But she carried a secret now, a live wire beneath her skin. It was a heat that made the staged performances feel like cardboard. It made her feel, for the first time in years, terrifyingly, exhilaratingly real.

---

“You bought a house in Dubai without even seeing it?” Rosé’s laughter was a bright, chiming sound in the hushed ambiance of the restaurant. “That’s the most Jennie thing I’ve ever heard. What if it’s haunted by a billionaire ghost who only complains about the yield on his bonds?”

Jennie smiled, pushing a piece of sashimi around her plate. “Then I’ll charge him rent. Or exorcise him. Whichever pays better.” They were in a private room at a place in Gangnam where the walls were bare concrete and the dishes were works of art that disappeared in three bites. Both were in designer casual—Rosé in an oversized blazer and jeans, Jennie in a simple slip dress. Their personal phones lay face-up on the table, a silent testament to their perpetual availability.

“Jisoo said she might be in Paris next month,” Rosé continued, sipping her sparkling water. “And Lisa’s buried in dance rehearsals for that collab. It’s like herding cats, trying to get us all in one city these days. Remember when we’d just pile into someone’s apartment and order jjajangmyeon until we passed out?”

“The good old days,” Jennie murmured, her smile feeling thin. She did remember. She also remembered the constant scrutiny, the diet protocols, the manager hovering by the door. A different kind of cage.

A muffled vibration, low and persistent, came from her Chanel bag on the chair beside her. Not a phone call. A specific, encrypted alert.

Both of them glanced at the table. Both phones were dark and silent.

Rosé paused, her chopsticks hovering over a piece of tuna. “Okay, what is that? You’ve got, like, a secret pager in there or something?” Her tone was light, teasing, but her eyes were sharp with curiosity.

Jennie’s heart gave a single, hard slam against her ribs. Idiot. You should have left it at home. She forced a breezy laugh, her hand darting to the bag. “God, no. It’s—ugh, it’s this stupid prototype. For a tech endorsement. Keeps buzzing at the worst times. Total piece of junk.” The lie slid out, smooth and practiced. She’d gotten good at those.

“Sounds annoying,” Rosé said, her gaze lingering on the bag for a second too long. “Just send it back before it actually explodes.”

“Trust me, I’m about to.” Jennie’s fingers found the bag’s clasp, her movements casual as she peeked inside. The burner phone’s screen glowed with a single, stark notification icon. “I’ll have my team kill the deal tomorrow. Should’ve never taken it.”

The rest of the dinner was a blur of Rosé’s voice and Jennie’s own strained replies. The food turned to ash in her mouth. Every atom in her body was screaming to open the message, to see the words, to know.

After a few more minutes of agonizing politeness, she saw her opening. “Shit, Rosé—I’m so sorry.” She feigned a glance at her regular phone, her eyes wide with manufactured panic. “I completely blanked. I’ve got this online meeting, a producer in L.A. I got the time zones backwards like an idiot.”

Rosé sighed, but her smile was fond, exasperated. “You and your meetings. Go, go. Text me when you’re home. Next time you’re staying for dessert, promise?”

“Promise. All the cake. I’ll make it up to you.” The air kisses were quick, the farewell a blur. Jennie walked out of the restaurant with measured, idol-perfect steps, her spine straight, her smile placid for any hidden cameras.

The calm lasted until the tinted windows of her chauffeured car slid shut. Then she fumbled the bag open, yanking the burner phone out. Her fingers trembled as she entered the passcode.

The concierge’s face appeared on screen, his silver hair and warm smile as polished as ever. “Ms. Kim. We have an opportunity that may be of interest.” The video ended, replaced by crisp, elegant text.

OCCASION: Private Bachelor Party

LOCATION: Luxury Yacht Inference Engine, Sardinia, Italy

CLIENT: First-Time User of The Velvet Rope

NUMBER OF GUESTS: Three (including the bachelor)

FEE: $3,000,000

INSTRUCTION: Make a lasting impression. Make them regular.

DATE: This coming weekend.

Three million.

Her mind did the math instantly, a cold, clinical calculation. After the agency’s ten percent, that was $2.7 million. The Dubai villa, nearly paid off in full. The vintage Lamborghini Miura she’d been eyeing in a Monaco catalog. Financial freedom, not in decades, but now.

Then she processed the rest. Three guests.

She’d handled four last time. But three were teenagers, and one was a middle-aged man whose control was more terrifying than his stamina. She scrolled down. Attached was a client profile. A photo showed three men on a sun-deck, sunglasses hiding their eyes, but their builds were clear even through the pixels: broad-shouldered, athletic, tall. All Black, late twenties. Tech entrepreneurs. "Well-built" was an understatement.

Her mind flashed, unbidden, to Devon. Just a kid, and his thickness had made her feel like she’d been split in two, remade. The soreness had lasted for days, a constant, aching reminder.

Three of them. All night. Devon was just a kid and I could barely walk for two days.

A genuine tremor went through her, starting in her knees and climbing up her spine. It was fear, pure and simple. The kind that tightened your throat.

But beneath it, like a second heartbeat, a sudden, involuntary surge of heat bloomed low in her belly. A slick, unmistakable warmth. Her body was reacting before her mind could catch up, remembering not just the pain, but the fullness, the overwhelming presence, the sheer animal reality of it.

Three men like this… I’m going to be destroyed.

She took a shaky breath, the air-conditioning in the car suddenly too cold on her skin.

For two-point-seven? Fine. I’ll die trying.

Her thumb hovered over the ‘Accept’ button for only a second before she pressed it.

The week that followed was a strange purgatory. She moved through her scheduled life—photo shoots, vocal coaching, meetings—like a ghost. At night, alone in her vast, silent bed, the anticipation became a physical thing. She couldn’t stop her mind from supplying the details: hands, larger than Calloway’s, spanning her waist. The weight of a body, muscled and heavy, pinning her down. The smell of salt and male skin. She touched herself in the dark, frantic and ashamed, chasing a climax that felt like a pale imitation of the annihilation she’d signed up for.

---

The private jet was a whisper over the Alps. The car that met her at Olbia Costa Smeralda Airport was black and silent. It delivered her to a marina where the yachts weren’t boats but floating monuments to wealth. The Inference Engine was a blade of blinding white against the Mediterranean blue, 50 meters of sleek, arrogant engineering.

A steward in crisp whites took her small suitcase—she’d packed light, unsure of the costume requirements—and led her aboard. Her cabin was below deck, smaller than a hotel suite but sumptuous: cream leather paneling, soft ambient lighting, a porthole looking out onto water so turquoise it looked fake. A bottle of Dom Pérignon sat in a bucket of ice beside a bowl of ripe, purple figs.

“The gentlemen will greet you when they are ready,” the steward said, his voice neutral. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

The door clicked shut, leaving her in a silence broken only by the low, constant hum of the ship’s engines and the gentle lap of water against the hull. She was alone. No costume laid out. The instructions had been vague this time.

She showered in the small, marble ensuite, scrubbing every inch of her skin until it glowed pink. She washed her hair, dried it, let it fall in its natural waves. She had no idea what was expected. So she chose armor: a simple black silk robe, embroidered with her initials in delicate thread—a gift from Chanel. It was hers. It felt like a claim to a self that was rapidly slipping away.

Standing before the porthole, she caught her reflection in the thick glass. A woman, pale against the dark silk, her eyes wide and dark. She looked nervous. She was. But beneath the nerves was a sharp, bright edge of hunger. A wakefulness. She hadn’t felt this acutely present in weeks.

A knock at the door, firm and confident.

She took a breath, smoothed the robe, and opened it.

They filled the doorway, blocking out the soft light of the corridor. Two men, exactly as in the photo, but life and size added dimensions a picture could never capture.

The taller one grinned. He had a fade haircut sharp enough to cut glass, diamond studs glinting in both ears, and a smile that was all easy, infectious confidence. He wore a linen shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, and shorts that showed off legs roped with muscle. “Oi,” he said, his voice warm and loud with a South London cadence softened by a Jamaican lilt. “It’s really you. Ms. Jennie Kim. In the flesh.” His eyes traveled over her, appreciative and bold. “Pictures don’t even come close, swear down.”

The other man stood slightly behind, stockier, quieter. His presence was a solid, watchful weight. He had a quiet handsomeness, a thin gold chain against his throat, and arms crossed over a chest that strained his own linen shirt. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Welcome aboard.” His voice was deeper, more measured.

“You mind if we step in for a minute?” the first man—Dom, she presumed—asked, already moving forward. “Got a few things to run through, yeah? Before the main event kicks off.”

Jennie stepped aside, the cabin shrinking instantly around their presence. Dom leaned against the dresser as if he owned it, crossing his ankles. Mark stayed near the door, his arms still folded, his dark eyes missing nothing.

“Right. So.” Dom clapped his hands together once. “I’m Dom, that quiet one’s Mark. The man we’re here for—the bachelor—that’s Daniel. We three go way back. Built a company together, got lucky. Made… well, a lot of money. Now we’re all stupid rich.” He said it with a charming shrug, no false modesty.

Mark’s voice cut in, dry and to the point. “And Daniel’s getting married next Saturday.”

“Yeah.” Dom’s grin faded a fraction. He glanced at Mark, and the easy energy in the room shifted, grew heavier, more intent. “To a woman named Rachel. We’ll circle back to her, ‘cause that’s a whole thing. But first—logistics. Daniel don’t know you’re here. He’s down in the salon right now, sipping some fifty-year-old cognac, probably boring the crew about cricket stats. He thinks it’s just a lads’ night. Last hurrah, all that.”

Jennie leaned against the edge of the bed, the silk of her robe cool under her hands. “Okay.”

Dom’s expressive face grew serious. He uncrossed his ankles, leaning forward. “Thing is… that’s not the whole picture. There’s a reason we hired you, specifically.”

Jennie’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

Mark answered, his tone flat. “Daniel’s faithful. Proper faithful. Hasn’t touched another woman since he met Rachel. Problem is, she’s not.”

Dom scoffed, a harsh, ugly sound. “She’s a fucking gold-digger, mate. Knew about the money before she even introduced herself. We got suspicious, so… we tested her.”

A cold knot formed in Jennie’s stomach. “Tested her how?”

“We both slept with her,” Mark said, his gaze steady on Jennie. “Same time. She thought she was playing us—get a piece of all three brothers, right? We recorded it. Hidden camera, whole thing.”

The cold knot turned to ice. “You filmed her without her knowing?”

Dom shrugged, utterly unapologetic. “And she tried to shake us down for extra cash after. So no, we don’t feel bad. Look, the video is solid proof. But if we just drop it on Daniel now, a week before the wedding, he’s gonna lose it. Might blow up the whole company—he’s the brains. We can’t afford that.”

Mark picked up the thread, his voice low and logical. “We need to soften the landing. Even the score.”

The pieces clicked together with a sickening finality. Jennie stared at them, the reality of the proposition settling over her. “You want me to be the landing.”

Dom pointed at her, a flash of triumph in his eyes. “See? She’s quick. You’re his ultimate, Jennie. He’s got posters, albums, the lot. If anyone can make him slip, it’s you. He cheats with his fantasy woman, then when we show him the Rachel tape, he ain’t the victim. He’s just as guilty. Might actually listen instead of burning everything down.”

Disgust. It rose in her throat, sharp and acrid. She wasn’t a homewrecker. She was a luxury service, a fantasy for a night. This was… manipulation. Poison.

But she heard the raw, protective anger in Dom’s voice. She saw the cold, certain logic in Mark’s eyes. Rachel didn’t sound like an innocent. And the money… the money was already singing its siren song in her head, loud enough to drown out the moral static.

And something else stirred, darker, more curious. A professional itch. Can I break a truly faithful man? What does that say about his faithfulness? What does that say about me?

“No.” The word came out firmer than she felt. “I didn’t sign up to wreck someone’s relationship. Find someone else.”

Dom leaned forward, his energy intensifying, filling the small cabin. Not threatening, but overwhelmingly persuasive. “Listen. We already dropped three mil just to get you on this boat. We don’t want some random escort. We need you. And we’re not asking you to hurt him—we’re asking you to help him dodge a bullet.”

“There’s extra in it,” Mark added, his voice cutting through. “Off the books.”

Jennie’s gaze flicked to him. “How much?”

“Five hundred thousand. Cash. No agency cut. You make him break his own rules tonight, and it’s yours.”

The numbers danced in her vision. Three-point-two million. Total. The villa, the car, freedom so complete it was dizzying. The silence stretched, thick with the hum of the ship and the sound of her own heartbeat. She saw it all—the disgust, the challenge, the greed—and made her choice.

She exhaled slowly, the fight leaving her shoulders. “Fine. I’ll do it.” She held up a finger before they could react. “But I have one rule.”

“Name it,” Dom said.

“You don’t drop the Rachel bomb while I’m still on this boat. I don’t want to be anywhere near that explosion. I leave in the morning—just a memory. Then you do whatever you need to do. I’m here for the gig, not the fallout.”

Mark studied her for a beat, then glanced at Dom. A silent communication passed between them. He gave a single, curt nod. “Fair enough. You have our word.”

Dom’s grin returned, brighter than ever. “Yeah, done. Make him want you. Make him think it was all his idea. That’s all we need.”

He pushed off the dresser, and Mark uncrossed his arms. The meeting seemed to be over. But as Dom turned to leave, he stopped, patting his pockets. “Ah, one more thing.” He dug into his shorts and pulled out a small, sleek silver pill-box. He flicked it open with his thumb, shook a single, oblong white tablet into his palm, and held it out to her.

“You ever been with fellas like us before?” Dom asked, his tone conversational. “I mean, built like us.”

Jennie’s eyes dropped to the pill, then back to his face. Her pride prickled. “Once. A teenager.”

“Yeah,” Dom said, not unkindly. “Not the same, is it. Look, no disrespect—you’re gorgeous, but you’re tiny. And we’re not planning to go easy on you tonight. Not for what we’re paying.”

“What is that?” Her voice was flat.

Mark answered. “Something from a clinic in Switzerland. It’s not a roofie, nothing like that. No blackout, no trip. Just a muscle relaxer with a mild stimulant. Keeps your body from locking up, gives you a bit more stamina. You’ll be fully present.”

“We ain’t forcing you,” Dom added, his palm still open, the pill sitting innocently in the center. “If you don’t want it, fine. But I’d hate to see you tap out after an hour, yeah?”

Jennie stared at the small white tablet. It looked so clinical. So deliberate. Her pride screamed no. She was a professional. She didn’t need chemical help.

But her body remembered. The deep, muscular ache that had lingered for days after the Calloway estate. The feeling of being stretched to her absolute limit. That was with a teenager. These were three grown men, athletes, who had just paid a fortune and had a very specific, emotionally charged night planned. They would use her. Thoroughly.

Her hand moved before her mind fully consented. She reached out and took the pill, her fingers brushing the warm skin of his palm. It was cool and smooth.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice quiet.

Dom’s grin was back, wide and approving. “That’s our girl. You just relax now. We’ll send the signal in about an hour.” His eyes swept over her robe. “Wear something nice—but not too nice. Gotta leave something to the imagination.”

With a final nod from Mark, they left. Their laughter, loud and easy, echoed down the corridor before fading away. The door clicked shut with a heavy, final sound.

Silence rushed back in, deeper now.

Jennie stood alone in the center of the cabin, the pill resting in her palm. It felt heavier than it was. A small, dangerous promise. Outside the porthole, the Mediterranean was turning molten gold, the dying sun painting fire across the water.

She walked to the nightstand and placed the pill down. It sat there, a stark white comma against the dark wood. Her robe had slipped open, and she saw the curve of her own breast in the porthole’s reflection, her breathing shallow, her eyes wide and dark.

The woman in the glass looked back at her—poised on the edge of something immense, terrifying, and electrifying. She didn’t know if she was more afraid of what was coming, or more desperate for it to begin.

---

The champagne emoji glowed on the burner phone’s screen. The signal.

Jennie stood before the cabin’s mirror, the single white pill resting on her tongue. She lifted the flute of Dom Pérignon, the bubbles sharp and cold, and washed the tablet down. For a moment, nothing. Then, a faint tingle began in her fingertips and toes, a subtle effervescence beneath the skin. It spread up her limbs, not as a drug but as a deep, liquid warmth, melting the tension from her muscles like butter. A pleasant, humming alertness sharpened her focus, while a profound looseness settled into her joints. She flexed her fingers, feeling capable, pliant. Her nerves felt closer to the surface, hypersensitive.

She let the black Chanel robe pool at her feet. In its place, she fastened the sheer lace bra, the transparent cups doing nothing to hide the dusky peaks of her nipples. The satin bows were a mocking touch of innocence. The high-waisted mesh panties hugged her hips, the ruffled edge framing the full, pale curves of her ass. She stepped into the strappy stiletto heels, the height arching her back. Finally, she secured the black lace masquerade mask, her eyes glittering through the openings. A final coat of deep red on her lips, a slow breath held and released.

She was no longer Jennie Kim. She was the surprise.

Barefoot, she padded out of the cabin and up the silent, carpeted corridor toward the master suite, the only sound the distant hum of the engines and the thunderous beat of her own heart.

The master bedroom was a cavern of shadows, smelling of polished teak, expensive linen, and the faint, sweet haze of cognac. Daniel, pleasantly drunk and stubbornly moral, was being steered by his two best friends.

“You ready for the final surprise, mate?” Mark asked, a rare grin playing on his lips as he pushed the door open to pitch blackness.

Daniel swayed, suspicion cutting through the fog. “If you hired a stripper, I swear to God… I told you, I’m not interested. Rachel would kill me.”

Dom’s loud laugh boomed in the dark. “Relax, it ain’t no stripper. Way better. Trust me. Live a little—it’s your last night of freedom, bruv. Just us in here. What happens on the yacht stays on the yacht. No one’s ever gonna know if you have a little fun.”

“Seriously, I don’t want—”

“Shut up and sit. Just sit.” Dom’s hands were firm on his shoulders, guiding him backward. “One surprise, that’s it. You can say no after.”

Daniel’s knees hit the plush upholstery of an ornate chair placed in the center of the room. He grumbled but sank into it, the cognac making resistance feel like too much work. He heard Dom and Mark retreat, their footsteps fading toward the door. Silence, thick and expectant, pressed in on him.

Then, a low, sub-bass note thudded through hidden speakers, vibrating in his sternum. A single spotlight snapped on with a sharp click, blinding him.

Music seeped into the room—Seoul City. A throbbing, minimalist R&B track, all whispered synths and a heartbeat rhythm. Through the glare, a silhouette emerged.

She moved into the light, and Daniel’s breath caught in his throat.

She was a vision wrought from shadow and desire. The sheer black lace of her bra showcased her breasts like precious fruit offered on a plate. The high-waisted mesh panties cut across her hips, the ruffled edge drawing his eye to the perfect, paleness of her ass cheeks below. The stiletto heels made her legs look endlessly long. The mask hid her identity, but the shape of her—the feline confidence, the hypnotic roll of her hips tracing a slow, deliberate figure-eight in the air—was artistry of the highest, most carnal order.

She advanced, each step a silent, predatory glide. The heat of her body reached him before she did, a radiant warmth that smelled of jasmine and clean, female skin. She paused, a breath away. A single, red-tipped finger trailed from his knee, up the inside of his thigh, over the growing bulge in his trousers, to the center of his chest. She leaned in. Her lips, soft as crushed velvet, brushed the shell of his ear.

“Hello, Daniel,” she whispered, her voice honey and smoke. “I’ve heard so much about you. Are you happy to see me?”

She drew back, just enough for him to see the smirk on her glossy red lips. Then, with agonizing slowness, she raised her hands and untied the mask. It fell away.

Daniel’s world stopped.

The face from his posters, his screensaver, his most private, guilty fantasies was here, inches away, smiling a smile that promised sin. His brain short-circuited. Jennie. Jennie Kim. A sound, half-gasp, half-prayer, escaped him. He tried to speak, to form a question, but she placed that red-nailed finger against his lips, silencing him.

Shock. Disbelief. Then, a tidal wave of something so primal it erased every vow, every thought of Rachel. A roaring, possessive hunger he’d never known he possessed. He was star-struck and, in his trousers, painfully, achingly hard.

The music deepened, slid into the dirtier, bass-heavy grind of One of the Girls. Jennie’s demeanor shifted. The artistry became predation. She turned her back to him, and with a sinuous roll of her spine, lowered herself onto his lap.

She started with her back pressed against his chest. He could feel the heat of her through his shirt, the delicate bones of her spine. She began to move, rolling her hips in a slow, circular grind. The pressure was direct, maddening, against his trapped erection. A groan was torn from him.

She reached an arm back, wrapping it around his neck, and arched. The movement pushed her breasts forward, the sheer lace straining, her nipples pebbled and visible. He could only stare, his hands gripping the chair arms like a lifeline.

Then she rose and turned in one fluid motion, straddling him facing him now. Her knees planted on the chair on either side of his thighs. She hovered, centimeters above his lap, the heat of her core a phantom brand through the layers of clothing. She never fully settled, maintaining a torturous, tantalizing distance.

Her hands went to her own body. She raked them through her dark hair, down the elegant column of her neck, over the slopes of her breasts. She cupped them, squeezed, her thumbs brushing over her nipples, her eyes locked on his, letting him watch her pleasure herself. Then she leaned in again, her mouth finding the pulse point at the base of his throat. Her whispers were poison and salvation.

“You’ve imagined this, haven’t you?” Her breath was hot. “All those lonely nights watching my videos. Dreaming of my mouth. My hands. Now I’m right here. Wet for you.”

His hips bucked involuntarily.

“Feel how hard you are,” she purred, grinding down just enough to make him hiss. “Does Rachel make you this hard? Does she know how to ache for it like I do?”

“Don’t…” he managed, but it was a weak protest, his resolve crumbling to dust.

“You deserve this,” she murmured, her lips tracing his jaw. “Just one night. You can be my good little fan and let me ruin you. I want you to forget about her tonight. Forget everything except my tight little pussy grinding on you.”

That did it. His control shattered. His hands, which had been white-knuckled on the chair, flew up and seized her breasts over the lace, fingers digging into the soft flesh. A raw, possessive sound ripped from his throat. He yanked her face to his and kissed her.

It was not a gentle kiss. It was a claiming. Desperate, clumsy, hungry, all tongue and teeth and years of pent-up fantasy. Jennie kissed him back, matching his fervor, her fingers tangling in his hair. When they broke apart, both were breathing raggedly.

With a wicked smile, she slid from his lap to her knees on the plush carpet between his spread thighs. She looked up at him through her lashes, the picture of debauched submission. Her fingers made quick work of his belt, the button, the zipper. She freed him.

Daniel’s cock sprang out, thick and dark and heavily veined. It was longer than she’d anticipated, the girth formidable, a true adult counterpart to Devon’s challenging size. A flutter of genuine apprehension was instantly swallowed by the pill’s warm, humming confidence and her own slick, rising hunger. Her eyes widened with appreciative lust.

She didn’t tease. She leaned forward and licked a long, slow stripe from the base to the swollen tip, tasting salt and musk. Holding his stunned gaze, she parted her lips and took him into her mouth.

The wet, obscene sound of her sucking filled the room. She hollowed her cheeks, creating a vicious vacuum, her hand working in tandem to pump the thick length she couldn’t yet take. The pill’s effect was immediate here too—her jaw felt loose, supple, her throat relaxing open with an ease that should have been impossible. She took him deeper, until her nose pressed into his trimmed pubic hair, and she swallowed around the head.

“Oh my God,” Daniel choked out, his head falling back against the chair, his hands fisting in her hair. “Jennie. Your mouth. I’m not going to last.”

She pulled off with a wet, resonant pop, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his glistening crown. She stroked him lazily, firmly. “Not yet,” she said, her voice husky from use. “I want you inside me first.”

She stood, her movements liquid. Hooking her thumbs into the sides of the mesh panties, she pulled the flimsy fabric aside, exposing her bare, glistening folds. She didn’t bother removing them. Straddling him again, she positioned the head of his cock at her entrance. She locked eyes with him, and sank down.

It was a slow, devastating conquest. The stretch was immediate, breathtaking. He was so much more than he looked. She felt her body yielding, opening, the pill’s muscle-relaxing warmth turning what should have been a painful stretch into a deep, fulfilling burn. She took him to the hilt, a guttural, broken moan escaping her as she was impaled fully. Her head fell back, her back arching.

She began to ride him. Her hands braced on his broad shoulders, her hips setting a deep, circular, grinding rhythm. The chair groaned in protest. Her breasts, freed from the bra cups he’d tugged down, bounced with each movement. Daniel was lost, his mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard, his hands gripping the firm globes of her ass, guiding her, slamming her down onto him.

It was then that Dom and Mark stepped from the shadows, each holding a fresh glass of amber liquid, their grins wide and triumphant.

Dom raised his glass. “So, bruv. How’s the surprise?”

Daniel could barely speak, his voice strained with the effort of not climaxing. “Better… so much better than I thought,” he panted, his hips meeting her downward thrust. “Her pussy… it’s so tight, but she’s taking all of me. God… so much better than Rachel.”

Mark took a slow sip, his dark eyes fixed on where their bodies joined. “Knew you’d come around.”

Jennie smirked against Daniel’s neck, a dark thrill of victory shooting through her. She clenched her internal muscles around his buried cock, a vicious, milking pressure, and was rewarded with his shout of pleasure. She rode him harder, faster, chasing the coil of pleasure tightening in her own belly.

Suddenly, Daniel stood, his arms hooking under her thighs, keeping her impaled on him. He carried her the few steps to the massive, low bed and dropped her onto the silken duvet. In an instant, he flipped her onto her hands and knees. He mounted her from behind, one hand fisting in her hair, the other guiding his cock back into her soaked, clutching heat. He slammed home.

Jennie cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound of pure satisfaction. The impact jarred through her, the fullness sublime. “Harder,” she gasped, pushing back against him. “Fuck me harder. I’m not going to break. I can take it.”

Her words, filthy and demanding, ignited the final fuse of his restraint. He let go, fucking her with a brutal, athletic rhythm, the sound of his hips slapping against her ass a rapid, obscene percussion in the room. Jennie’s first orgasm took her by surprise—it ripped through her, violent and shattering, making her vision whiten at the edges. Her walls convulsed around him, and she screamed into the duvet.

But instead of satisfaction, it was like throwing gasoline on a fire. The pill’s stimulant edge and her own awakened hunger turned the climax into a catalyst. The pleasure didn’t recede; it amplified, leaving her emptier, needier. “Is that all you’ve got?” she taunted, her voice ragged. “I thought you’d been saving this for years. Show me. Ruin me like you mean it!”

Daniel, driven to a frenzy, looked over his shoulder at his friends, his face a mask of carnal abandon. “Get over here!” he roared. “Join me. Let’s break this cock-hungry slut. Just like the old days.”

Dom and Mark needed no further invitation. Mark shucked his trousers and moved to the front of the bed. He fed his cock, thick and uncut, into Jennie’s waiting, hungry mouth. She took him deep, her throat working, no gag reflex to hinder her. Dom positioned himself beside Daniel, watching for a moment, stroking his own impressive length.

“Look at her,” Dom narrated, his voice thick with lust. “A fucking legend. Taking us like a champ.”

Jennie was in heaven. Stuffed full at both ends, her body rocked on the relentless tide of their thrusts. Daniel pounded her pussy from behind while Mark fucked her mouth with deep, measured strokes. She moaned around the cock in her throat, the vibrations drawing a guttural groan from Mark.

“Her throat is unreal,” Mark panted, his usual reserve gone. “She’s taking it all.”

They found a brutal rhythm, Daniel thrusting deep as Mark withdrew, then reversing. Jennie felt another orgasm building, a tidal wave from the core of her being. It crashed over her, making her shudder and clamp down violently on Daniel’s cock while her throat fluttered around Mark’s. Both men cursed, driven to the edge.

They repositioned her on her back, her legs pushed up and apart. Dom, his cock glistening with her juices, entered her soaked, well-used pussy first, sinking in with a gratified sigh. Daniel, his own member slick, positioned himself at her other, tighter entrance.

“Look at me,” Jennie commanded Daniel, her eyes glazed but fierce. He met her gaze as he pressed the broad head against her rosebud. With a slow, relentless push, he breached her.

Jennie screamed. The stretch was immense, a white-hot spear of fullness that the pill miraculously transmuted into blinding pleasure. She was stuffed beyond reason, stretched to a breathtaking limit. They began to move, Dom and Daniel finding a synchronized, alternating rhythm so one was always buried deep within her. She was never empty. Her hands flailed, finding Mark, pulling him to her mouth again, but she could barely focus on sucking him; her world had narrowed to the two cocks claiming her, filling her, destroying her.

“Fuck, Daniel,” Dom grunted, sweat dripping from his brow. “Her pussy’s gripping me. She’s cumming again, I can feel it.” And she was, a continuous, rolling orgasm that seemed to have no end, each clench pulling them deeper into madness.

This was the summit. Spent but insatiable, they arranged her on her side, one leg hiked over Dom’s shoulder. Daniel, behind her, once again pressed into her well-stretched ass. Mark, facing her, guided his cock back into her throbbing, sensitive pussy. Dom, kneeling by her head, cupped her cheek.

“Open up, premium,” he murmured, and she did, taking the head of his cock past her lips.

Then, with a collective groan, they all sheathed themselves fully.

Jennie’s consciousness fragmented. She was nothing but a vessel, a collection of holes stretched to absolute capacity. The feeling was beyond fullness; it was consumption. She was packed, stuffed, airtight. The sounds were animalistic—wet, squelching slides, ragged breaths, her own choked, muffled whimpers of ecstasy. They held there, joined in a obscene tableau, each man shuddering with the effort of holding back.

Daniel broke first. With a cry that was half-sob, he erupted deep into her bowels, hot pulses that seemed to go on forever. The sensation triggered Mark’s release; he pulled out just in time to paint her stomach and trembling breasts with thick, white stripes. Dom, watching it all, finally lost his rhythm, fucking her mouth with short, sharp thrusts before groaning and spilling his load down her throat. She swallowed convulsively, greedily, milking him with her tongue until he was soft.

The night dissolved into a sweaty, carnal blur. The pill’s magic held, granting her a stamina that matched their own. She rode Dom reverse-cowgirl while sucking Daniel back to hardness and stroking Mark. She was bent over a teak dresser, taking Daniel in her ass again while Dom fucked her pussy from behind. She was sandwiched between Mark and Daniel, both in her pussy at once, a stretch that made her scream until she was hoarse.

She lost count of her orgasms. They became a constant state of being, one blurring into the next, each one stoking the embers of her need rather than quenching them. The men, fueled by adrenaline, rivalry, and her bottomless hunger, used her in every configuration imaginable. The room reeked of sex, sweat, and spent desire. Her lingerie was torn, lost somewhere in the tangle of sheets. Her body was a map of their possession—finger-shaped bruises on her hips and thighs, love bites on her breasts and neck, the sticky, drying evidence of their pleasure painting her skin.

As the deepest black outside the porthole began to soften to indigo, the energy finally, irrevocably, drained. One by one, they collapsed. Daniel, spent and unconscious, draped across her chest. Dom and Mark lay on either side, limbs heavy, breathing deep and exhausted. Jennie lay in the center, a used, ruined, triumphant prize.

The first razor-thin line of gold appeared on the horizon, slicing across the Mediterranean and into the ravaged room. In its cool light, Jennie carefully disentangled herself from the pile of sleeping men. Her body felt profoundly hollowed out, every muscle soft and liquid with fatigue, a deep, satisfying ache resonating in her bones. She retrieved her torn mesh panties from the floor, a ruined souvenir, and padded naked to the bathroom.

The woman in the mirror was a stranger. Mascara was smudged into dark shadows under her eyes. Her lips were swollen, bruised from kisses and friction. Her hair was a wild, tangled mane. Cum was drying in streaks on her stomach, between her breasts, on her thighs. She looked… thoroughly fucked. Destroyed.

A slow, private, utterly triumphant smile curved her ruined lips.

She showered in water as hot as she could stand, washing the night from her skin, though she knew the feeling of it—the fullness, the stretch, the relentless pressure—would linger for days. She dressed in a simple, clean white sundress and flat sandals. She packed her small bag, leaving the torn lingerie in the cabin’s waste bin.

She slipped out just as a steward approached with a breakfast cart. The yacht was serene in the dawn, the decks washed in pale pink and gold light. She walked to the aft deck, leaning against the polished railing. The air was clean and salty, scouring the last of the night’s musk from her lungs. She looks towards the vast emptiness of the ocean and thinks about the money. The villa. The car. The next call.

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K-pop stories of passion, possession and blurred boundaries 💦 Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/electro469 Fanprose: https://fanprose.com/user