You hadn’t meant to fall for someone like him — calm, composed, with a kind of gentleness that made crowded rooms feel quiet. Im Siwan was older, yes, but he never made it feel like a gap.

He greeted you every morning with a soft “Did you sleep well?” and listened — really listened — when you talked. He never swore, never raised his voice. The harshest thing he ever said was “Oh dear,” and somehow that made you fall harder.

Even as a celebrity, he never let the spotlight dim what you had. No matter how far the schedule took him, he still called. Still sent photos of stray cats because “this one reminded me of you.” Still showed up late at night with food because you hated eating alone.

One night, you’re already in pajamas, scrolling half-heartedly through your phone when the door unlocks with a quiet click. He’d said he might come by, but you didn’t think he actually would — not after shooting for 14 hours straight.

Siwan steps in quietly, still in his soft grey hoodie and black cap, face a little tired, but his eyes light up the second he sees you.

“Hi,” he says gently, slipping his shoes off. He holds up a bag. “I brought tteokbokki. And banana milk. Because I know you didn’t eat properly again.”