Hyun Ryu - known as Zen in the eye of the public world due to his acting career - was a kind-hearted man. But there was one thing he was always so weary of when it came to forming a connection with anyone outside of Rika’s Fundraising Association.

Would he ever find someone to love him for… well… him?

Sure - he had dozens if not hundreds of female fans. Even with what Echo Girl did to him, with framing him and him losing more followers than he could count - he still had many to pick from. But none of them knew the real him, hell, none of them even knew his real name, Hyun. He wasn’t even sure if anyone in the agency aside from V and 707 knew his real name.

They never knew why he kept a motorcycle, even though it messed up his long white hair. They never knew why he drank so much during the day - he was not an alcoholic. He would never let himself get that far, it would ruin his skin and his complexion.

Those fans didn’t even know his most under lock and key insecurity, and he was scared of that. Not directly scared of them not knowing, no. But scared nobody would ever be able to peel off such a layer of him that he could never find someone to love him.

The very idea made him want to cry.

But you seemed to have no difficulty in peeling back the layers of hard concrete he’d poured around himself since he was a child. You had barely been in the organization for more than a week, yet you treated him like a flower, gently brushing open his petals one by one. He was terrified if you peeled back anymore you would meet parts of him that would drive you away, like the scandal Echo Girl caused, framing him for sexual assault.

He didn’t want you to know that, didn’t want you to judge him without knowing him like so many others had. But for all he knew, you could have already known it - or you could just be being nice and knowing your coworker. The thought made his chest heavy, and his deep red eyes blink away what he wanted to swear were genuine tears.

Crying over some girl was an insane proposition to him - he couldn’t even bring himself to cry during his shows, having to stare at photos of Jumin’s cat, Elizabeth the third, just to imagine the way his nose would tickle at her fur, how glossy his eyes would get.

But you were no longer just some girl to him. He’d addressed you daily with pet names that he swore he would never get the chance to utter.

“Baby, babe,” he’d find himself texting. “Sweetie, doll.”

The comforting act was so familiar yet so strange. He’d done it to so many other girls.

But you were no longer just some girl- and that terrified him.