Relentless
Kpop Idol x Reader
Content: You bother a K-pop idol, but he accidentally ends up falling for you
[6,605]
You’re annoying.
At least, that’s what he’s told you. Multiple times, actually.
But do you care? Nope. Not even a little bit.
Because why should you? When your ultimate bias is standing right in front of you at every fansign, every event, every concert, looking drop-dead gorgeous as always? And if you have to be just a tiny bit insufferable to get his attention, then so be it.
“Did you miss me?” you chirp, grinning as you slide your album across the table.
He sighs. Deeply. Like he’s summoning the patience of a thousand saints just to deal with you. “Didn’t I see you last week?”
“Yup! And the week before that. And the week before that. And the week—”
“I’m sensing a pattern,” he mutters, flipping open the page. His pen hovers over it for a second before he glances up. “Should I even bother signing? You probably have my autograph a hundred times already.”
“Hundred and two, actually,” you correct, tapping your chin. “But who’s counting?”
You’ve been on his radar for months now, your presence a constant thorn in his side. While other fans scream in adoration, you’re the one who relentlessly teases him. While others shower him with compliments, you’re the one who calls him out for looking like a sleep-deprived raccoon which, in your defense, he does.
And at first, he hated it. He still does but he’s gotten more used to it now.
“You know,” you say, leaning closer as he signs your album. “If you keep staring at me like that, people are gonna think you’re in love with me.”
He chokes. Actually chokes. Coughing into his fist as his ears turn a suspicious shade of red.
“You—” He glares at you, pointing an accusatory finger. “You’re so—”
“Charming? Stunning? The love of your life?”
“I was going to say infuriating,” he deadpans.
“You got a giant pimple on your chin by the way.” You mess with him.
“Wait what?” He panics, pulling out his phone camera to look only to see you had been lying. You laugh but he just glares at you.
“I’m calling security.”
“I’m leaving! I’m leaving!” You yelp before speed-walking away.
It’s the same thing every time. You show up. You tease him. He gives you a death glare. He doesn’t hide his irritation or put on the ‘always appease the fans’ personality.
And that is why you keep coming back. It’s gotten entertaining now, he kind of expects it everytime his group is having an event. It’s kind of fun seeing you and the disaster you bring. Even if he’d rather die than admit it.
One day, you stop showing up.
It takes him a while to notice.
At first, he just thinks it’s a coincidence. Maybe you finally got bored of teasing him. Maybe you ran out of albums to get signed. Maybe you found some other idol to annoy instead of him.
It shouldn’t bother him.
And yet, it does.
He doesn’t realize how much he’s grown used to your presence until it’s gone. No smug grins at fansigns. No playful insults thrown his way. No exasperating banter that secretly made his days a little less exhausting.
The first week without you, he feels… relieved.
The second week, he feels off.
The third week, he starts searching for you in every crowd.
And by the fourth week, he knows something is wrong.
It’s not like he has a way to contact you, he doesn’t even know your full name. But, by some miracle, he finds you. It’s past midnight when he sees you again.
He almost doesn’t recognize you at first. You’re curled up on the bench of a park near his apartment, arms wrapped around yourself as the rain pours down. Your usual playful confidence is gone, replaced with something small. Fragile.
Something inside him twists at the sight.
He doesn’t think. He just moves.
“Hey.”
You flinch at his voice, eyes wide as you look up. The dim streetlight barely illuminates your face, but it’s enough for him to see the tear tracks mixed with the rain.
For the first time since he’s known you, you’re not smirking. You’re not teasing. You’re just—broken.
“What… what are you doing here?” you whisper, voice hoarse.
He frowns, ignoring the rain soaking through his hoodie as he crouches in front of you. “I could ask you the same thing.”
You let out a weak, bitter laugh. “I could give you a hundred and two reasons.”
Normally, he’d have a snarky reply ready. But right now? Right now, he just wants to know what’s wrong.
His voice is softer than he means it to be. “Y/n, what happened?”
You hesitate. For the first time, you actually hesitate. But then your shoulders shake, and suddenly, you’re unraveling right in front of him.
“Everything just—everything went wrong, and I didn’t know where else to—” You whisper, voice cracking
Your breath hitches, and before he can think twice about it, he’s already shrugging off his hoodie, draping it over you. His hand lingers on your shoulder, grounding you.
“Come on,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Let’s get you out of the rain.”
You blink at him, like you can’t quite believe this is happening. Like you were expecting him to brush you off. But he doesn’t. Because right now, you’re not the annoying fan who used to drive him insane.
Right now, you’re just you. Another person just like him.
You don’t argue. You just let him help you up. And as he leads you inside to his apartment, away from the cold, away from whatever is haunting you, he realizes something.
He’s missed you.
You’re dry now. Mostly. His apartment looks nice. You can’t believe how many times you’ve walked past the area oblivious to the fact your favorite kpop idol lives right there.
Sitting on his couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells faintly of laundry detergent and something undeniably him, you grip the cup of tea he shoved into your hands the second you stepped inside. You’re still cold, though. Not from the rain, but from everything else.
He’s sitting across from you, his shirt damp from the rain, arms crossed as he leans back. He hasn’t asked you to leave. Hasn’t told you you’re being annoying. Hasn’t even made a sarcastic comment.
You let out a slow breath, staring at the steam rising from the tea. “You don’t have to be nice to me, you know.”
He exhales sharply through his nose. “Trust me, I know.”
That earns the faintest hint of a smile from you, but it disappears as quickly as it came. The silence stretches between you, thick and unfamiliar. Normally, you’d fill it with some dumb remark, poke at him just to see him roll his eyes.
But tonight you don’t have the energy.
“I don’t even know why you let me come here,” you admit. “It’s not like we’re actually friends.”
His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t argue.
You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “But I appreciate it since nothing in my life is going right.”
He watches you, eyes unreadable. “Yeah?”
You scoff, curling further into the blanket. “Yeah.”
And then, before you can stop yourself, you start talking.
You tell him about your job that sucks. About the bills that won’t stop piling up. About how it feels like the universe has some personal vendetta against you.
And then, finally—
“…And then I found out my boyfriend was cheating on me.”
You don’t look at him when you say it. It’s less embarrassing that way. But he stills. You don’t notice at first, too busy staring at the swirling tea in your mug.
“…Boyfriend?” His voice is sharper than you expect.
You glance up, confused by the expression on his face.
His brow furrows. “You have a boyfriend?”
There’s something off about the way he says it. Something tense. Like he’s testing the words out, like they feel wrong in his mouth.
You blink. “Had.”
His eyes flick to yours. Just for a second. Enough for you to see relief flicker in them, but it’s gone before you can process it.
“Huh.” He leans back, arms still crossed, gaze flicking to the side. “Didn’t know that.”
You let out a bitter laugh. “Guess it doesn’t matter now, does it?”
He doesn’t answer right away. And when he finally does, his voice is quieter.
“No. Guess not.”
Another silence. This one is heavier than before.
You sip your tea, pretending not to notice the way his fingers tighten slightly on his arm. Pretending not to notice the way he hasn’t looked at you since you said ‘had’.
And he? He pretends he doesn’t care. Even though, for some reason, he does. More than he wants to admit.
“I should’ve known,” you mutter, voice dull. “He was always too smooth. Too good at talking his way out of things.”
Across from you, he shifts, watching you carefully. “How’d you find out?”
You snort. “Instagram.”
His brows raise slightly, like he wasn’t expecting that.
“I was so stupid,” you continue, laughing bitterly. “This whole time, I thought I was paranoid. I even told myself, no, you’re just overthinking it. But then, boom—he slips up. Some girl posts a story of them together at a hotel. Tags him in it. And just like that, it’s over.”
You don’t even realize you’re gripping the blanket tighter until you feel the fabric bunch beneath your fingers.
Silence.
And then—
“…He’s an idiot.”
You blink, looking up.
He’s staring at you now, expression unreadable, but his voice is firm. Steady.
You let out a scoff. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
His gaze flickers over your face. For a moment, he looks like he wants to say something else. But instead, he just leans forward, resting his arms on his knees.
“You mad at him?”
You think about it. Let the question settle in your chest.
“…No.” You exhale. “I’m just mad at myself.”
His brow furrows slightly. “Why?”
“Because I let it happen.” You shake your head. “I should’ve seen the signs. I should’ve trusted my gut. I wasted so much time on him, and for what?”
The words taste bitter in your mouth. But before you can dwell on it, he exhales, running a hand through his damp hair. “You’re not the only one who’s been through it, you know.”
You blink. “What?”
His jaw clenches, like he’s debating whether or not to say more. But then he sighs, shaking his head. “I’ve been there too. The whole ‘getting cheated on’ thing.”
Your eyes widen. Someone cheated on him? Were they stupid? “Wait. You?”
He nods once, gaze flicking to the side.
You sit up straighter, fully invested now. “Who?”
At that, he hesitates. His fingers tap lightly against the couch, a nervous habit you’ve never seen from him before.
“You have to promise you won’t tell anyone.”
You blink at him, taken aback by the sudden seriousness in his tone. “Do I need to sign an NDA?”
“That’d probably be a good idea” he says, looking at you now, eyes sharp and unwavering, “But I don’t have any lying around so just promise not to blabber.”
You pause. Then, with the most solemn expression you can muster, you raise a hand. “I solemnly swear that I, Y/n L/n, will take this secret to my grave.”
Huh, so that was your full name. Then, after another long pause, he finally says it.
“Myra.”
Your brain short-circuits. “Wait. Kim Myra?”
Kim Myra—the nation’s sweetheart, lead vocalist of Lulupop, one of the biggest girl groups in the industry? The same Kim Myra who made headlines last year for her K-drama debut?
That Myra?
“She cheated on you?” you say, still trying to process the information.
He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Yup.”
“With who?”
Another pause. And then, with a sigh, he mutters, “Kevin.”
Your jaw drops.
Kevin Ngyuen the half Vietnamese and half Korean actor? Her flipping co-star in that ridiculously popular debut drama she starred in last year. The one everyone swore had “undeniable chemistry.” The one she denied being involved with a thousand times in interviews.
“Holy shit,” you breathe. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.” He leans back, rubbing his temples. “It was a whole thing. I found out during the drama’s press tour. They were sneaking around behind my back for months.”
You stare at him, mind racing. “How did this not get out?”
He gives you a flat look. “Come on. You really think companies let this stuff leak?”
That gets your attention. You shift, turning to face him fully. “Okay, spill. How often does this actually happen? Because every time an idol gets exposed for dating, people act like it’s some rare phenomenon.”
He scoffs. “Please. It happens all the time.”
You gape at him. “All the time?”
He nods, stretching his legs out. “Most idols date in secret. Sometimes it’s other idols, sometimes it’s actors, sometimes it’s staff. Hell, sometimes it’s fans.”
Your eyes widen. “Fans?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. Not often, but it happens.”
Your mind is spinning. The media paints idols as these untouchable figures, too busy to date, too devoted to their careers. But here he is, casually confirming that half the industry is dating behind closed doors.
“So let me get this straight,” you say, crossing your arms. “You’re telling me that while we, the peasants, are out here fighting over crumbs of interactions, you guys are out there secretly dating each other?”
He smirks. “Pretty much.”
You groan, flopping back against the couch. “I feel so betrayed.”
He actually laughs at that—a real laugh, not the sarcastic ones he usually gives you. And for some reason, it makes something warm settle in your chest. You watch him carefully. For the first time, he looks… vulnerable. Not the cocky idol who always rolled his eyes at you. Not the guy who (rightfully) acts like you were the most annoying person in the world.
Just a guy who got his heart broken, the same way you did.
“…She’s an idiot,” you say eventually.
He glances at you, lips twitching. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
The rain has slowed to a faint drizzle, tapping softly against the window. You’re still curled up on his couch, still wrapped in his blanket, still reeling from the fact that you just got industry tea straight from the source.
And yet, the weirdest part?
You’re not freaking out.
Like, logically, you should be. You’re in the apartment of a K-pop idol. But here you are, having a normal conversation with him like this is just… a thing that happens.
He shifts, resting an arm against the back of the couch. Then, almost absentmindedly, he mutters, “You know… this is the first time I’ve let a stranger into my house.”
You blink, caught off guard. “Huh?”
He tilts his head slightly, watching you. “I’ve never talked to a fan like this before, let alone allow one into my place.”
You let out a small laugh. “This is kind of crazy, isn’t it?”
He raises an eyebrow. “What is?”
“This.” You motion between the two of you. “I’m literally sitting in a celebrity’s house, and I’m not even freaking out. It’s like…” You trail off, thinking.
“…Like?” he prompts.
You shrug. “Like we’ve been friends or something for years.”
His lips twitch. “Oh, a friend, huh?”
You don’t miss the way his gaze sharpens, playful and teasing. Then, with a smirk, he leans forward just slightly. “You probably have, like, a gajillion pictures of my face in your camera roll.”
Your face heats. “I—okay, first of all—”
“Oh, I hit a nerve, didn’t I?” His smirk widens. “How many are we talking? A hundred? Two hundred?”
You cross your arms. “I don’t have that many.”
He hums, unconvinced. “You sure?”
“Okay, maybe a few, but that’s normal—”
“So you do like me.”
You sputter. “Excuse me?”
His eyes gleam with amusement, head tilting slightly. “You like me.”
“I used to like you,” you correct quickly, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Past tense.”
He snorts. “Right. Past tense.”
“Yes.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then—
“Still doesn’t explain why you showed up to every fansign just to bother me.”
You groan. “Oh my god, can you let it go?”
He chuckles, clearly enjoying this way too much.
You decide to change the subject before he can keep teasing you. “Anyway. Moving on. We’re getting off track.”
He smirks but doesn’t argue.
And somehow, just like that, the conversation flows into something easier. More natural.
You talk about random things—childhood memories, weird pet peeves, stupid things you’ve both done. And the more you talk, the more you realize just how much you actually have in common.
You both hate the taste of parsley. You both secretly love trashy reality TV. You both have a fear of roaches.
“They’re just creepy, okay?” he mutters.
You nod solemnly. “Agreed.”
“That’s so exhausting,” you mutter as he rambles on about the complicated life of being a celebirty.
“Welcome to the industry.”
You tilt your head, watching him. “Do you ever regret it?”
The question catches him off guard. His brows furrow slightly, and for a moment, he doesn’t answer.
Then, after a beat, he exhales. “I don’t know. Some days, yeah. But I signed up for this, so…” He shrugs.
You don’t know why, but the way he says it—so nonchalant, so matter-of-fact—makes your chest feel a little tight. Because for all the glamour, all the fame, all the screaming fans and flashing cameras… it must be lonely. And you’re starting to wonder if he’s lonelier than he lets on.
You shift slightly, resting your head against the couch. “You know,” you say, staring at the ceiling, “I always thought being an idol was, like, the dream life.”
He snorts. “Yeah? Still think that now?”
You hum, considering. “I mean… parts of it, sure. The music, the performances. But all the other stuff? The restrictions, the constant scrutiny, the… fake smiles?” You glance at him. “I don’t think I’d last a day.”
His lips quirk slightly. “Yeah. You’re too stubborn to follow company rules.”
You gasp. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He smirks, shifting so he’s facing you fully. “They’d tell you to keep your head down, and you’d be out there starting fights with reporters.”
You cross your arms. “I would not.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“…Okay, maybe I would,” you admit. “But that’s beside the point.”
His chuckle is soft, barely there. But you hear it. And for some reason, it makes something warm settle in your chest.
“You know,” he murmurs, breaking the silence, “you’re not what I expected.”
You blink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He tilts his head, studying you. “I don’t know. I just figured… I don’t even know what I figured. But it wasn’t this.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Wasn’t what?”
He exhales, shaking his head. “I don’t know. You’re just… normal.”
You let out a dramatic gasp. “Wow. What a compliment.”
He laughs, low and breathy. “Shut up. You know what I mean.”
And yeah. Maybe you do.
You stretch your arms above your head, letting out a yawn. “Whatever. You don’t even know me.”
He scoffs. “Same could be said about you.”
But that makes you sit up, an eyebrow raised. “No, see, I actually do know you.”
He leans back against the couch, smirking. “Oh yeah?”
You nod, shifting to face him. “For example—you grew up with a corgi.” You pause for effect. “Your favorite anime is fruit basket. You trained for five years before debuting. You love mint chocolate—”
At that, he suddenly bursts out laughing.
You blink. “What?”
“Oh my god.” He covers his face with his hand, still laughing. “That is so wrong.”
Your brows furrow. “Huh?”
“My favorite anime is blood C” he says, “But that was too graphic for my label so I had to lie about it”
“And I hate mint chocolate.” He shakes his head, still grinning. “My company made me lie about that too.”
You gasp. “Are you serious?”
He stretches his legs out, exhaling dramatically. “They assigned me this whole personality—‘the sweet, playful vocalist who loves cute things. They made me do so much aegyo during our rookie days. I swear, I was dying inside. Like geniunelly an angel lost its wings everytime they made me sing that fuck ass ottoke ottoke song.”
At that, you lose it, laughing so hard your sides hurt.
“Wow. So all those ‘cute’ moments in variety shows—”
“Forced. Every single one.”
You shake your head, still grinning. “Damn. Your whole life on camera is a lie.”
“Pretty much.” He sighs, shaking his head.
You tilt your head. “Yeah, okay. Who is the real you, then?”
He leans back, thinking for a moment. Then, he starts listing.
“I hate aegyo, if that wasn’t obvious by now. I suck at cooking, but I can make instant ramen taste amazing. I get restless if I sit in one place too long. I used to sneak out during trainee days just to take a breather because the dorms were hell.”
You listen intently as he continues.
“I love staying up late. I overthink a lot. I hate being told what to do. And—” He pauses, eyes flicking toward the ceiling in thought. “—oh. When I was a kid, I once cried for, like, three hours straight because my ice cream fell on the floor.”
You burst out laughing. “Three hours?!”
“It was tragic, okay?” He places a hand on his chest dramatically. “And I was five.”
You shake your head, still laughing. “Wow. You were a menace.”
“Still am,” he quips.
You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your chest lingers.
Then—his gaze shifts back to you, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
“Okay, your turn.”
You blink. “Huh?”
He tilts his head. “I just told you who I really am. Now it’s your turn.” He smirks. “Because as far as I know, you’re just an obsessed fan with a messy life.”
You huff, crossing your arms. “Wow. Rude.”
“Am I wrong?”
“…No, but still.”
His smirk deepens. “So? Who are you, really?”
You open your mouth, then close it. Because, honestly? You’re not sure how to answer that. And for the first time tonight… you think he can tell. You fidget with the edge of the blanket draped over you, suddenly feeling exposed under his gaze.
“Who am I, really?” you echo, stalling.
He shrugs, tilting his head slightly. “Yeah. Since, y’know, I actually answered.”
You roll your eyes. “Okay, okay. Geez.”
But now that the question is out there, you don’t know where to start. Because who are you, really? You could go the surface-level route—basic facts, the kind of stuff you’d put in a ‘get to know me’ post. Or you could be real, like he was, peeling back the layers, saying the stuff you don’t usually admit. Your fingers tighten around the fabric of the blanket. He’s watching you, waiting. And for some reason, despite how ridiculous this entire situation is, you kind of want to answer honestly.
So you exhale and start.
“I’m the kind of person who laughs at their own jokes before even finishing them.” You scoff at yourself. “I stay up way too late and regret it every morning. I’m really bad at responding to texts, even though I always have my phone on me. And I—” You hesitate, but push forward. “—I overthink everything. Like, everything. I make up problems that don’t even exist sometimes, just so I have something to be stressed about.”
You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, and I have a terrible habit of pretending I’m okay when I’m actually so not.”
You glance at him, expecting—what? Judgment? Pity? You’re not sure.
But he’s just watching you. Quietly. Like he’s actually listening.
So you continue.
“I get attached to people way too easily. It’s honestly embarrassing. And I hate it, because most of the time, they don’t even care that much about me in return.” You shrug, forcing a small smile. “Guess that’s my fault, though. I expect too much from people.”
You don’t know why you’re saying all this. Maybe it’s because you’re tired, or maybe it’s because, for once, you don’t feel like you have to pretend.
Either way, the words just keep coming.
“I act all tough, but I take things way too personally. If someone I care about starts acting distant, I automatically assume I did something wrong.” You huff out a laugh. “I hate that about myself, honestly. But, y’know… can’t really turn my brain off.”
You fall silent, staring at the fabric in your hands, feeling weirdly vulnerable.
Then—
“That,” he says, voice softer than before, “was not what I was expecting.”
You scoff. “Yeah, well. Neither was tonight.”
He chuckles. Then, after a beat—
“You know what’s funny?”
You glance at him. “What?”
He leans back, arms crossed, smirking slightly. “For someone who annoys the hell out of me, you sound a lot like me.”
You blink. “Wait. You overthink everything too?”
“All the time.” He exhales through his nose. “It’s exhausting.”
You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Well, damn. Maybe I do know you.”
His gaze lingers on you for a second longer. Then—
“Yeah.” His lips twitch. “Maybe you do.”
You glance over at him, unsure how to break the silence, but he speaks first.
“You can stay the night if you want.”
You blink, caught off guard. “Huh?”
His voice is low, relaxed, like he’s been thinking about it for a while. “I mean, it’s getting late, and you’ve been through enough tonight. You can stay in the guest room. No pressure.”
Your heart races a little at the offer, and you instinctively open your mouth to decline. “Nah, it’s really fine. The weather’s—”
Just as you’re about to finish, a sudden crack of thunder shakes the walls.
You freeze, looking toward the window, and the hairs on your arms stand on end. You glance at him, confused. “That was… loud.”
Before you can say anything else, the wind picks up, howling against the glass. The first hailstone hits the window with a sharp thunk, followed by another, and then another.
You’re caught in the sudden chaos of weather. The storm that had seemed far off only moments ago now feels like it’s directly on top of you.
He watches you, his eyes soft but firm. “Yeah. It’s now hailing outside. You’re not going anywhere.”
You blink, feeling a rush of uncertainty. “But I—”
“Stay,” he insists, his voice calm, reassuring. “You can’t go out in this. It’s not safe.”
You swallow, the sudden realization hitting you that he’s right. The storm is now battering against the windows with intensity. The wind howls, the thunder rumbles louder, and the hail sounds almost like it’s trying to break through the glass.
You hesitate. “But I don’t want to be a bother—”
He cuts you off, eyes not leaving yours, his tone gentle but firm. “It’s fine. Really. It’s just one night.”
You open your mouth to argue again, but the sheer thought of stepping out into the storm is enough to make you reconsider. The last thing you need right now is to get caught out there, drenched and cold.
With a reluctant sigh, you nod. “Okay. Fine. I’ll stay. But only because the weather is insane.”
He gives a small nod of satisfaction, his expression softening just a touch. He stands, stretching his legs. “I’ll show you the guest room. It’s just down the hall.”
You follow him down the hallway, the quiet hum of the apartment now replaced with the distant rumble of thunder and the sharp tink-tink of hail.
He leads you into a modestly furnished guest room, with a neatly made bed and soft, dim lighting that creates a warm, inviting atmosphere.
“Make yourself at home,” he says, his voice more casual now. “I’ll leave you to it. Let me know if you need anything.”
You glance back at him, feeling a little out of place but oddly comfortable. “Thanks.”
He hesitates in the doorway for a moment, looking at you like he’s about to say something else, but then he just nods once and leaves.
As you settle into the bed, the storm outside continues to rage, but inside, everything feels calmer, quieter. You close your eyes, trying to shake the feeling of being in his space, of being taken care of.
The storm doesn’t let up. If anything, it gets worse. You can hear the wind howling through the cracks of the apartment, the heavy thunk of hailstones smacking against the windows.
You should be sleeping. But you’re not.
Instead, you’re lying on your side, staring at the ceiling, your mind racing too fast to settle.
There’s a soft knock at the door.
You sit up slightly. “Yeah?”
The door creaks open, and he steps inside, rubbing the back of his neck. He looks… uneasy, like he’s debating whether or not he should even be here.
“I, uh—” He hesitates. “Couldn’t sleep.”
You exhale a small laugh. “Yeah, me neither.”
He nods, lingering by the doorway before eventually sighing and stepping inside. “The storm’s kinda loud.”
You smirk. “You scared or something?”
He scoffs. “No.” Then, after a beat, “Just… restless.”
You watch as he walks over, hesitating before sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s close, closer than before. The dim lighting casts soft shadows on his face, highlighting the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers press against his knees like he’s holding himself back from something.
The air shifts.
Neither of you speak, but you can feel it, the weight of everything unsaid pressing into the space between you.
You swallow. “What?”
His gaze flickers to yours. “What?”
“You’re looking at me like…” You trail off, suddenly self-conscious.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies you, his lips parting slightly like he’s about to say something, but then—
He kisses you.
It happens so fast you barely process it. His lips press against yours. Firm, hesitant, like he’s not sure if he’s making a mistake but can’t stop himself.
Your breath catches.
It’s warm. It’s soft. It’s…
Over too soon.
He pulls back immediately, his eyes widening like he just broke every unspoken rule in existence.
“Shit,” he breathes out, running a hand through his hair. “I—” He stands up abruptly, pacing. “That was, fuck. That was so unprofessional of me.”
You blink, still trying to process what just happened. “Unprofessional?”
He groans. “I mean you’re a fan. You were literally crying outside my apartment, like—this is just—” He groans again, dragging his hand down his face. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
You just stare at him. “So… was it bad?”
He freezes.
Slowly, he turns to you, blinking like the thought never even occurred to him. “…What?”
You raise an eyebrow. “The kiss. Was it bad?”
He looks almost offended. “No. That’s not the point.”
You tilt your head, lips twitching. “So it was good?”
He glares at you. “Stop.”
You can’t help it, you laugh.
Because despite his whole internal crisis, despite the way he’s pacing like he just ruined his career or something, he kissed you first.
And that means something.
He sighs, exasperated, before finally looking at you again. His expression softens—just slightly. “I’m serious. That was…” He exhales. “It shouldn’t have happened.”
You hum, still amused. “But it did.”
The moment is thick with tension, something unspoken hanging between the two of you, stretching out like an invisible thread waiting to snap.
“This.” His voice is edged with something unsteady as he gestures vaguely between the two of you, his fingers twitching like he wants to take the word back as soon as it leaves his lips. “I wasn’t supposed to—” His sentence cuts off abruptly, his jaw clenching hard as if he's physically stopping himself from saying more.
You narrow your eyes, your gaze locking onto his, searching for whatever it is he’s trying so desperately to keep from you. “Wasn’t supposed to what?”
His eyes flicker to yours for only a second, but it’s enough. Enough to send something sharp and unexpected shooting through you, making your breath hitch in your throat.
“…Start liking you.”
The words are so quiet, you almost think you imagined them. They are hesitant, fragile, as though speaking them aloud makes them more real than he’s ready for. Like he’s admitting something he never planned to, something he never thought he’d have to.
Your stomach flips, and suddenly, for the first time since the kiss, you’re the one feeling thrown off balance.
You blink at him, unsure if you even heard him correctly. “You—”
“Forget it,” he mutters quickly, already shaking his head, a muscle ticking in his jaw like he regrets every syllable. “Just—”
“No.” You sit up straighter, your voice firm. “You can’t just say that and expect me to forget it.”
He exhales sharply, his gaze darting away from you. “I know. I just…” He groans under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair in clear frustration. “This is a mess.”
You study him carefully, taking in every detail—the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers clench at his sides, the unmistakable war waging behind his eyes. He looks so genuinely conflicted, like he’s fighting against himself, and maybe he is.
And then, because you can’t help yourself, because some part of you needs to hear him say it again, you murmur, “You liking me is a mess?”
His head snaps back toward you, and for a brief moment, he looks utterly, completely exasperated. “Yes. Obviously. You’re a fan—”
“Was a fan,” you interject smoothly, crossing your arms over your chest.
He glares. “That doesn’t make this any better.”
You smirk. “I think it does.”
He exhales sharply, shaking his head in frustration. “You’re impossible.”
You simply grin at him, but inside, your heart is pounding. Because it doesn’t matter how much he denies it, how much he tries to fight it—the truth is out now. He likes you. He wasn’t supposed to, he doesn’t want to, but he does. And now, neither of you knows what to do with it.
Outside, the storm continues to rage, wind and rain slamming against the windows, but inside, you’re both just standing there, frozen in this moment, waiting for something—anything—to break the silence.
You shift slightly on the bed, tilting your head at him. “So, let me get this straight.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, already looking pained. “Oh my God.”
“You kissed me.”
“Yes, I know.” His tone is flat, resigned.
“And you like me.”
He groans, running a hand down his face. “I literally just said that.”
You smirk. “And somehow that’s the problem?”
His hands drop to his sides, and he just stares at you, completely unamused. “Yes.”
You swallow, forcing yourself to keep your voice casual. “Okay.”
He blinks, his brows furrowing. “Okay?”
You nod, leaning back on your hands, your expression unreadable. “Okay. So don’t like me, then.”
His jaw tightens, his entire body going rigid. “I should go,” he says suddenly, voice stiff.
He says he should go. But he doesn’t move. Instead, he just stands there, staring at you like you’re the most frustrating puzzle he’s ever had to solve. And maybe you are.
You tilt your head slightly, a teasing edge to your voice. “Still here.”
His jaw clenches harder. “I know.”
Your smirk widens. “So much for I should go.”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face before muttering, “You are the most annoying person I’ve ever met.”
You shrug, entirely unfazed. “Not the first time you’ve said that.”
“I meant it every time.”
The air between you shifts again, the tension mounting, thick and almost suffocating. You don’t know how you got here, how things escalated to this point, how you went from being someone he wanted nothing to do with—to whatever this is.
He sighs, finally breaking eye contact, his shoulders tense. “This is a bad idea.”
You hum in agreement. “Probably.”
He turns back to you, eyes searching yours, his voice low. “Then why aren’t you stopping me?”
You swallow, suddenly hyperaware of how close he’s gotten. You should stop him. You should say something to break the tension, to shift the mood before it spirals into something neither of you can take back.
“Because you don’t want me to.” You whisper
His breath catches. And just like that, whatever restraint he had left—snaps.
Because the second his gaze drops to your lips again—
You pull him back in. This time, it’s different. This time, it’s desperate.
You barely have time to react before his hands are on you again—one curling into the back of your hair, the other gripping your waist, tugging you forward until there’s no space left between you. His lips crash against yours, and you can feel the restraint he’s been holding onto for so long break completely.
You match his intensity, your fingers twisting into his shirt, pulling him closer, like you need to feel all of him. His hands tighten on you in response, and then suddenly, he’s moving, guiding you back until your legs hit the mattress.
You fall back slightly, breath hitching as he follows, hovering over you, his weight pressing down in the most intoxicating way. His lips leave yours just long enough to trail down, grazing your jaw, your neck—hot, open-mouthed kisses that send shivers down your spine.
“Shit,” you breathe, gripping his shoulders.
He exhales sharply, like your voice alone is enough to make him lose whatever control he has left. His teeth graze your skin, and you shudder, your fingers tangling into his hair.
You exhale a little laugh, breaking the silence. “I so have to sign an NDA now, don’t I?”
He opens one eye, glancing at you, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips. “You gonna keep showing up to my events?”
You tilt your head, raising an eyebrow. “Are you implying I’ve been stalking you this whole time?”
He lets out a soft laugh, turning to face you fully. “No. But you did seem pretty persistent.”
You grin, leaning back on your hands. “Guess I can’t argue with that.”
He sighs, rolling onto his side to face you. “Then yeah. You’ll need an NDA.”
You bite your lip, pretending to think about it, then nod slowly. “Fine, I’ll sign. But only if you promise to stop acting like I’m some crazy fan who’s not actually pretty cool.”
He chuckles, his eyes twinkling with something you can’t quite place. “You’re definitely crazy, but I’ll admit, you’re kind of cool.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s warmth in your chest. “Oh, thanks.”
He shrugs, but the smile never leaves his face. “You’re welcome.”
The storm outside has finally quieted, leaving only the occasional distant rumble as a reminder of how chaotic things once were. The space between you and him is still charged with everything you’ve just shared, but there’s a peaceful calm settling in. The kind that comes with knowing that, no matter how strange or messed up this situation is, there’s something real here. Something that sticks.
You look over at him. He’s lying back on the pillow, his eyes closed, a faint smile on his lips, but there’s something different about the way he’s looking at you now—something softer.
