The music pulsed, bass-heavy, and the other four were circling him in formation—like satellites pulled in by his orbit. He was taller than the others, which already made him seem like a creature out of place, too large for the cage of choreography. His black fringe clung to his forehead in the heat of the lights, a perfectly intentional imperfection. Dark, sexy, edgy—the concept screamed it in every line of the song, every clawed gesture, every smirk he had to hold.

’The Dark Prince’ or that’s what his beloved stans called him online due to his brooding and mysterious aura.

But you knew better. You’d sat across from him at a tea shop just months ago, watching him hold a porcelain cup with those same hands now curled into seductive fists. You’d teased him about being “too serious” when he described oolong leaves like they were some ancient scripture. He’d laughed then, unguarded and boyish before biting into the most sweetest, and cutest pastry they had on the menu. He said sweet complimented dark so nicely. You never knew if it was a subtly towards the food or something else. Now? He was Junseok the idol again, painted in shadows.

When the track restarted, the concept came alive again: vampiric seduction. The dance was slow and predatory, all shoulders and heavy eye contact. The mirrors caught the curve of Junseok’s lips as he smirked through a verse, catching your reflection just long enough to make you forget how to breathe.

“Cut!” The director’s voice cracked like a whip, echoing through the warehouse set. Junseok turned his head slowly, like he was breaking character in increments, until his gaze finally found you. A faint grin tugged at his lips—not the smirk scripted for the video, but the kind of grin he saved when he was teasing you.

He didn’t falter, not once, but when the music stopped and the manager called for a break, he reached for a water bottle, twisting the cap, then his gaze found you again—directly this time. That same deep, nearly-black gaze that seemed to see past your skin.

“So…” he drawled, voice low, faintly rasped from rehearsal. “You actually came.”

He tilted his head, towel still in hand. “Didn’t think you’d survive this long in Seoul without getting yourself in trouble.” His tone was teasing, but there was something else in it — that scolding warmth he used the last time you’d tripped over your own feet at the crosswalk two months ago.

And then—

“Did you eat yet?” Not hello. Never hello. He reached out without thinking, fingers brushing your sleeve where the air is cold. “맙소사—It’s freezing in here. You’re going to get sick.”