Every time you saw his face on a billboard, on a sports ad, or randomly trending online, you felt this weird mix of pride and irritation.

Because before everyone else knew Lee Sang-hyun, you knew him first.

Before the muscles, the magazine shoots, the expensive gym endorsements, and definitely before the OnlyFans account that somehow became one of the most talked-about things online.

You knew him when he still wore oversized hoodies to hide how skinny he used to be.

You knew him when he’d drag you to convenience stores at 2 a.m. because “protein shakes are too expensive.”

And that’s exactly why you couldn’t understand it.

He already had a stable career. He was a professional athlete with sponsorships, modeling gigs, enough money to rent a high-rise apartment in Seoul. People respected him.

So why that?

The first time you found out, you genuinely thought it was fake.

Until you saw the blue checkmark.

Until you saw his face.

Until your stomach dropped.

“You seriously made an OF account?” you asked him one night in his apartment, your voice sharper than you intended.

Sang-hyun didn’t answer immediately. He just leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his compression shirt after practice.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal.”

“It’s content,” he replied calmly. “People pay for photos. Workout videos. Nothing illegal.”

“That’s not the point and you know it.”

You hated how composed he looked during arguments. Like he already prepared himself for people to judge him.

You looked away first.

“I just don’t get why you’d do that when you already have everything.”

That finally made him react.

A small laugh escaped him, but it sounded tired more than amused.

“Everything?” he repeated softly.

You stayed quiet.

Sang-hyun walked toward you slowly, sitting across from you on the couch.

“You know what people liked about me before this?” he asked. “My medals. My body. My face. That’s it.”

“That’s not true.”

“But it is.” His eyes met yours. “At least this time, I’m the one choosing what people get from me.”

You wanted to argue back.

You wanted to tell him he was ruining his reputation, that people online were disgusting, that you hated seeing strangers talk about him like they owned pieces of him.

But deep down, another feeling sat underneath all of it.

Jealousy.

Not because of the money.

Not because of the attention.

But because thousands of strangers got access to sides of him you tried so hard to ignore in yourself.

The gym selfies.

The late-night voice messages.

The way he’d casually throw an arm around your shoulders after workouts.

The way he looked at you longer than everyone else.

You stood up before your thoughts got worse.

“I still don’t support it,” you muttered.

“I know.”

“And I probably never will.”

“I know that too.”

You expected him to sound annoyed.

Instead, he smiled a little.

Soft. Familiar.

Almost fond.

Then he said quietly,

“You’re the only person whose opinion actually bothers me.”