Milan was loud, but you’d learned to tune it out.
Being a model at your level meant you were used to chaos, flashbulbs, whispers, compliments laced with envy, smiles hiding competition. It was nothing new. You’d been on enough covers to recognize the cost of attention, and enough runways to know silence didn’t always mean peace.
But Milan was different. Different in the way the air felt warmer even in winter. Different in the way people stared, not because they recognized you, but because you looked like someone worth noticing.
The Prada store had been quiet when you slipped inside. Too quiet, maybe, for someone in your position to walk around unbothered. But you were alone. For once. No manager. No assistant. No cameras, no schedules. Just yourself and the newest winter collection.
The sales assistant had politely guided you to fitting room No. 7, not even blinking at your presence. Maybe she didn’t recognize you or pretended not to. Either way, it felt good. Normal.
You had just slipped out of the heavy wool coat, standing in a simple black bra and tailored pants, reaching for the cream-toned knit top on the hook, when the curtain behind you was yanked open and someone stormed in.
Fast. Panicked.
He turned and pulled the curtain shut just as quickly, his back to you.
You froze.
He hadn’t turned around yet. Breathing hard. Hoodie half-falling off his head. Black mask pushed under his chin. The kind of face you’d recognize even in a blurry reflection. A fucking Kpop Idol.
When he finally turned, his eyes dropped lower, registered the bare skin, the curve of your ribs, the subtle breath that escaped your mouth. But he didn’t stare. He just looked and then turned back to the curtain like he’d seen a ghost behind it.
Outside the curtain it was quiet. But you knew someone had been chasing him. You saw the shadows. The flash of a phone light. The kind of obsession only sasaengs carried.
He looked at you again, this time properly.
You were still half-undressed, still not moving. But he didn’t apologize. Just took a step back, as if about to leave.
And yet… he paused.
You tilted your head slightly, waiting for him to say something. To explain. To lie. To flirt. To do something.
He didn’t.
He just looked at you again and then, in a voice too low for what had just happened.
“…Sorry.”