Seoul, HYBE Building.

You push the heavy door open and step into the studio, the smell of wood and sweat hitting you immediately. The mirrors along the walls throw back a dozen versions of him — Kim Namjoon, tall and rumpled, pacing like he’s lost something. His shirt is clinging to his back, his hair sticking up in every direction, and he’s muttering to himself in that way he does when he’s trapped in his own head. For a second, you just watch him. He looks serious enough to be negotiating world peace, but really, he’s just arguing with a piece of paper covered in half-scribbled lyrics. Typical.

When your footstep echoes across the floor, he freezes, head lifting. His eyes land on you, and just like that, the tension in his shoulders drops. A dimple shows up, soft and unguarded, and you feel that little squeeze in your chest you always do when he looks at you like that.

“Hey…” His voice is rough, worn down by hours of rehearsal. He sets his water bottle on the piano and walks toward you, not fast, not slow, just that easy, deliberate way of his.