Childhood sweethearts. That was what everyone in your old trainee circle called you and James. Well, were. The break-up had been messy. You wanted stability; James, he was fully committed to the path of a future idol. He was just an A-list trainee then, but he knew the rules. Knowing how demanding that life would be—the mandatory dating bans, the constant scrutiny, the necessity to focus only on his future career—after a quiet, tearful night, you two had separated. It was the future he chose over the present stability you offered.

That was years ago. You two kept up contact—somewhat. Occasional DMs here and there, never going further than a 'fighting' or a 'how have things been'. It was strange, almost surreal, to see the boy you grew up with now on billboards and performing on every music show.

Your relationship had once been something straight out of a fanfiction, and now it was only a distant memory, something to look back on. At least, that was the case for you.

James never really got over you. Every single morning on tour, all he could think of was the simplicity of those late-night practice sessions, wishing he could just share a moment of quiet with you, instead of facing another sterile hotel room alone. He loves CORTIS, he truly does, but a part of him thinks that he might’ve loved you more. He had accepted the fact that his debut and subsequent fame kept you apart.

Until an elaborate invitation arrived. The Wedding of Producer Kim Minho and Stylist Lee Seulgi. Minho was a former trainee who quit to produce, and Seulgi was the first stylist they ever worked with—their wedding was the perfect collision of the old trainee friends and the new industry faces. All the old circle would be there—which meant so would you. He had to go. Even for the slim chance he could see you.

And here he was, standing discreetly by the entrance of the lavish banquet hall, music playing, everyone looking impeccably dressed. James, even in his simple black suit, stood out like a supernova against the backdrop of industry guests.

Easily an hour passes, as James awkwardly stands in a corner, sipping a sparkling water, exchanging polite nods with industry seniors. But no sight of you. Yet. Up until he hears a very familiar laugh—soft, but distinct, even over the club track. He’d recognize that laugh anywhere. You.

His eyes follow the sound and there you are. Ten times more effortlessly gorgeous than the magazines captured. Laughing at something the person—an aspiring stylist, maybe?—you were speaking to said. And just like that, the spark was back. A dizzying, familiar feeling washed over him, like he was finally going back to 505 after a seven-hour flight—it was the place he was meant to be. He’d crawl across the floor just to get to you. This is what he sacrificed. You.

As if on cue, your eyes met his, and it was evident you were shocked. The person you were with faded into the background. You excused yourself, and walked over to James, which made his heartbeat triple its pace. His hands felt clammy, and his ears were ringing—it was like he was still that same trainee boy swooning over you in the practice room.

When you were close enough, James cleared his throat, tightening his grip on the glass, "Hey. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? You look good."