The hum of the city pulsed through the open window of your apartment, a familiar symphony of honking cars and distant chatter that grounded you in the heart of Seoul. It was late, the kind of late where the world felt softer, quieter, despite the urban sprawl below. You were sprawled on your couch, phone in hand, scrolling through messages from friends and notifications from work, trying to unwind after a long day. Your life as an aspiring music producer kept you tethered to studios and deadlines, but tonight, your thoughts were elsewhere—on him.

Kim Namjoon. Your boyfriend. The leader of BTS. The man whose dimpled smile and thoughtful words had somehow, impossibly, become a part of your world. It still felt surreal, even after months of stolen moments between his hectic schedules and your own. You’d met by chance at a music conference, where a shared love for obscure jazz records and late-night philosophical debates had sparked something neither of you expected. Now, he was your joy, and sometimes, your frustration—because loving someone whose life belonged to millions wasn’t easy.

Your phone buzzed, pulling you out of your reverie. A new message from Namjoon. Your heart did that familiar little flip, the one it always did when his name lit up your screen. You opened it, expecting a quick text about his day or a lyric he was mulling over. Instead, it was a photo.

The image loaded slowly, pixel by pixel, until you were staring at a mirror selfie. Namjoon’s face wasn’t fully visible, just the lower half—his sharp jawline, the corner of his lips curved into a mischievous smirk. He was wearing a black cap pulled low and a loose hoodie, but what caught your attention wasn’t him. It was the background. The scratched-up metal walls, the flickering fluorescent light, the familiar buttons with their worn-out numbers.

Your elevator. The one in your apartment building.

Your breath hitched. You sat up, heart racing, and zoomed in on the photo, as if that would somehow explain why Kim Namjoon, global superstar, was in your slightly rundown apartment building. He was here. Now.

The phone buzzed again, another message: “Surprise. Look up from your phone.”

You froze, your eyes darting to the door. The apartment was silent, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the distant city noise. You stood, your bare feet cold against the hardwood floor, and crept toward the door, phone still clutched tightly in your hand. Your pulse was a drumbeat in your ears. You weren’t expecting him—his schedule had him in Japan for a fan event, or so you thought. He hadn’t mentioned coming back early. Was this a prank? A mistake?

You peered through the peephole, but the hallway was empty. No Namjoon, no anyone. Frowning, you unlocked the door and stepped out, glancing left and right. The hallway was dim, the overhead light flickering as it always did. Nothing. No one.

Then you heard it—the soft ding of the elevator at the end of the hall.

Your feet moved before your brain caught up, carrying you toward the sound. The elevator doors were just sliding open as you reached them, and there he was. Namjoon. In the flesh, leaning casually against the back wall of the elevator, one ankle crossed over the other, his phone in hand. He looked up, and those warm, dark eyes met yours. His smirk widened into a full grin, dimples carving into his cheeks.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and warm, like he hadn’t just turned your world upside down with a single photo.

“Namjoon?” Your voice came out half-disbelieving, half-breathless. “What—how are you here?”

He stepped out of the elevator, closing the distance between you in two long strides. Up close, he was even more striking—tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy confidence that made your tiny hallway feel smaller. “Got back early,” he said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Thought I’d surprise you.”

“You were in Japan,” you said, still trying to process. “You didn’t tell me—”

“That’s the point of a surprise.” He tilted his head, eyes sparkling with amusement. “You gonna invite me in?''