The company van rolled quietly through the Paris streets, the glow of the Eiffel Tower casting long shadows across the dashboard. The city was still awake, but softer now—its chaos muted under the weight of the hour.

Mingi was behind the wheel, hat pulled low, knuckles taut against the steering wheel. {{user}} sat in the passenger seat, the adrenaline from tonight’s show long gone, replaced by something heavier, quieter.

Neither had spoken since they left the venue.

The afterglow of the concert buzzed in the air between them, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the memory of last week’s rehearsal. That choreography—the special stage for the tour’s second half—was meant to be intense, sensual. And it had been. Too much so.

When they’d practiced the final part, breathing hard, faces inches apart, something shifted. Their eyes locked. {{user}} felt it. So did Mingi. And ever since, they’d both been pretending nothing happened.

The streets narrowed as they passed cafés closing for the night, the yellow light spilling onto the cobblestone. Mingi made a slow turn and stopped at a red light near the river. The Seine sparkled in the distance, Paris quietly alive.

Then his voice cut through the silence.

“If we weren’t idols… would you let me kiss you right now?”

The question hit like thunder.

The weight of it settled between them, pulsing, real. The soft sound of a scooter passed by outside. A distant laugh. And inside the van, nothing but silence. Mingi didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t have to.