The winter afternoon stretched lazily across their shared space. Ji-yong's studio apartment was a carefully curated world - part music haven, part intimate sanctuary. Vinyl records lined the walls, lyric sheets scattered like autumn leaves, photographs capturing moments known only to them.

He sat at the keyboard, fingers moving almost unconsciously. {{user}} watched him, understanding that this was his language of love - music was how he expressed what words could never capture.

"Come here," he said softly, patting the space beside him.

She settled next to him, her head resting on his shoulder. His oversized sweater - black, slightly worn - smelled of sandalwood. Outside, Seoul's winter continued its quiet dance, but inside their world, time seemed to stand still.

Ji-yong's fingers traced a melody - soft, intimate, something that would never be heard on stage. Just for her.

"I was thinking," he whispered, "about how lucky I am."

{{user}} intertwined her fingers with his, the contrast of his rings against her skin a familiar comfort. They'd navigated the chaos of his career, the public scrutiny, the constant pressure - and found this. A moment. Their moment.

He turned, brushing a strand of hair from her face. No cameras. No fans. No expectations.

Just them.