you were just his stylist. at least, that’s what everyone thought.

every morning started the same — steaming his stage outfits, prepping his makeup table, brushing through his hair with fingers that shouldn’t linger as long as they do. but they did. and heeseung never pulled away.

to the cameras, you were a shadow. always out of frame, always professional. but behind closed doors, the air between you burned electric.

heeseung would wait until the rest of the team was gone. until the staffroom door clicked shut. then he’d trap you between the counter and his body, whispering your name like a prayer, like a secret too hot to keep buried.

“you looked at me too long today,” he’d murmur against your neck, lips brushing skin that shouldn’t feel this exposed in such a sterile place.

“don’t flatter yourself,” you’d breathe, hands already tangled in the fabric of his oversized hoodie, the one he always wore on rehearsal days. the one you knew he wore just so you could tug it up, fingers crawling under to feel heat and muscle and every sharp breath he took when you touched him like that.

heeseung wasn't just your favorite canvas — he was the whole damn gallery. tall and dangerous, soft eyes that turned wicked when the doors locked, when he pushed you into the vanity chair and kissed you like the world was ending.

“five minutes,” you’d hiss against his lips.

“give me ten,” he’d counter, already palming at your thighs like the schedule didn’t exist. like he wasn’t due on stage in twenty.

there were risks. hell, the whole thing was one giant red flag. dating an idol? his staff stylist? it was begging for disaster. careers ruined, scandals born from a single blurry photo. but none of that mattered when he had you pressed against the mirror, tongue in your mouth and his voice wrecked from whispering things no idol should be saying.

“you make me insane,” he’d groan, teeth grazing your jaw, and your body would arch, traitorous and willing, like you didn’t know better. like you didn’t care.

sometimes he’d sneak you into hotel rooms on tour nights. always the last room on the floor, curtains drawn, music low. he’d kiss you slow there, less rushed, hands exploring every inch like he was trying to memorize you.

“you should quit,” he’d say one night, your head on his chest. “i’ll take care of you.”

“don’t be stupid,” you’d snort, half-asleep. “you can’t even take care of yourself.”

but secretly? you thought about it. about mornings where you didn’t have to dodge stares, where he didn’t have to flinch every time you brushed his hair too gently in public.

but this? this secret, this messy, fucked-up, perfect thing — it was yours. and heeseung? he was worth every risk. every hidden kiss. every whispered “see you later” that tasted like goodbye but never really was.