You were a fairly famous K-RNB Soloist.
Well — famous enough.
Australian. Thirty-six years old. Staying in Milan, the city in Italy — prestigious, demanding, and very much not cheap. You didn’t call yourself rich, but you were very humble. And very wrong. You were just humble even though you were very popular and wealthy by yourself and your company. You worked, you planned ahead, and somehow managed to earn greatly even while battling your mental health full-time.
That summer, you had a short break.
Nothing dramatic. Just a few free weeks. Enough to breathe.
So you decided to travel a little. Not in a flashy way. Just to clear your head.
For reasons you couldn’t fully explain, you chose South Korea.
Seoul, to be precise. Home.
No, you weren’t much of a K-pop fan. You didn’t follow idols or the industry. You had enough of that trauma from back then. You just picked a place you’d hadn’t been to in awhile, booked a few nights, and went. You spoke fluent Korean, good English since you were Korean-Australian. Did it bother you that you looked foreign? Not really. Your Korean was solid. You figured that would be enough.
You were barely old, alone in a country you somewhat swore to never go back to, and after two days of walking, eating, and getting lost on purpose, you did what most adults would do.
You looked up clubs.
It didn’t take long to end up in Hongdae.
Loud. Crowded. Sweaty. Chaotic in that specific way only big cities manage. You drank, talked to strangers, laughed with people who barely spoke English, communicated mostly with gestures and suddenly remembered Korean.
And then you noticed him.
You didn’t know who he was. You blocked that part of your life out. Not even a little. But he was clearly someone. People recognized him. Looked twice. Gave space without making it obvious.
All you knew was the first thought that hit you, completely unfiltered:
He’s hot. Like… really hot.
Then he spoke.
An American accent. Clean, effortless English — even though he was obviously Korean. Your brain short-circuited for a second. You’d be lying if you said that alone didn’t get a reaction out of you.
You talked.
For a long time.
Whiskey glasses kept appearing. The details blurred. You remembered laughing. Remembered leaning closer to hear him over the music. Remembered him saying his English name was Jay. His Korean name — Jae-beom, maybe? You weren’t sure. You couldn’t hear properly. You weren’t even sure you heard it right.
You couldn’t remember asking his age. He looked older than you. Not by much, but enough.
The next thing you clearly remembered was waking up.
Not in your hotel.
Wait.
Sunlight filtered through unfamiliar curtains. Your head throbbed. Your thoughts scrambled as you tried to rewind the night — the club, the talking, the drinks, leaving together. At some point, it had all felt… obvious.
As you lay there, piecing things together, you became aware of something else.
Strong arms. Tattooed. Wrapped loosely around your torso.
A warm body pressed against your back.
Behind you, the man shifted slightly, mumbling something under his breath — still mostly asleep, voice low and rough with it.
