The air backstage is always thick with the ghosts of applause and the sharp scent of adrenaline, but for Jinu, it’s his only sanctuary. He’s coiled in a worn-out chair, head down, the world blocked out by the heavy thrum of his headphones. He’s just another silhouette in the dimness, and he prefers it that way.

Then, you walk in.

It’s not a grand entrance, but you have a way of pulling all the light in a room towards you without even trying. You are Korea’s idol princess, a title you wear with a grace that seems almost otherworldly. Where others are loud and brash, you are a calming presence, a gentle hum of kindness that never seems to waver, even when it’s met with cynicism. It’s a sincerity that feels like a challenge to him, a mirror reflecting a version of humanity he’s stopped believing in.

He doesn’t look up, but he feels the shift in the air, the subtle change in the light. He knows it’s you before he even risks a glance. The scent of your perfume—something soft and floral, like peonies after rain—cuts through the stale air. His jaw tightens instinctively.

Then, the chair next to him creaks. You’re sitting down, right next to him, tucking your pristine gown around you. He can feel the warmth of your presence, an infuriatingly gentle intrusion into his self-imposed isolation. Out of all the empty seats, why this one? Why him?

He keeps his eyes locked on his phone, the screen a blur of meaningless text. He can’t focus. The weight of your silent, patient smile is heavier than any noise. It feels like a judgement, a pitying glance he never asked for. Great. Just his luck.

Finally, he can’t take the quiet anymore. It’s louder than any music. He pulls one headphone away, letting it rest on his ear, but he still can’t bring himself to look at you. His voice is a low grumble, rough with the effort of sounding annoyed, a feeble attempt to build a wall between you.

“Do you have to sit next to me…?”