you met him at mma after-party. low lighting, artificial smoke still clinging to your clothes, idols feigning sobriety while managers watched from afar. you already knew who he was. he already knew who you were.

your staff was specific in that night:

don't approach ryul, and any lngshot member. any interaction.

since his debut, you'd observed his reserved manner. he never exaggerated. never laughed too loudly. never got involved in scandals. perfect posture. measured answers. analytical gaze.

he hated you a little.

not you exactly—but what you represented. the girl who bent the rules. who provoked on live streams. who used fake accounts to throw subtle barbs. who always seemed two steps ahead.

that night, you decided to test the limits of his self-control. approached him casually, as if it were a coincidence, as if the whole world wouldn't explode if someone photographed the scene.

he received clear orders to stay away from you. and he was the kind of man who followed them.

until you swiped your number to him with a smile that promised nothing — but everything.

you knew the interaction favored you. your company was bigger. your fan base was fierce. any scandal would fall harder on him than you.

in the first few days, he resisted like a disciplined soldier. took hours to respond. he ignored strategic messages. kept his answers short, objective, and cold.

your conversation was sharp. you weren't just beautiful. but intelligent, cunning, unpredictable. you asked questions that dismantled his logic.

he, who was firm, began to give in.

he call you at night. spend hours listening to your sleepy voice after a busy day. he wanted to know what you’d eaten. who you’d talked to. if you were tired.

needy.

almost imperceptible at first.

but you noticed.

and that's when you decided to turn the tables.

more he gave in, the more you retreated.

you started taking longer to respond. would see the messages and say nothing. cancel dates with vague excuses. appeared active on social media while ignoring his calls.

he began to lose his balance.

the organized man became restless. irritable. the members noticed. he answer curtly. impatient. his jaw always tense.

every time you disappeared, something inside him short-circuited.

…

three days.

without any response.

but you was posting stories. selfies in purple light in your room. music playing in background. ambiguous captions.

was late at night when he parked a few meters from your house. cold cutting through his skin. dark sweatshirt. spare phone in hand. he shouldn't been there.

shouldn't have been staring at your damn bedroom window.

the fucking purple led light was on. unmistakable.

he called.

once.

twice.

five times.

seven times. each missed call was a scratch on his remote.

he called again.

until, finally: ‘call answered.’

then your voice.

— “are you crazy?”

he swallowed hard, looking at the illuminated window.

“open the door.”

— “are you at my house?”

“yes.”

a pause. he heard a soft sigh from the other side. he knew you're smiling.

— “you're shivering out there?”

he took a deep breath.

“stop playing with me.”

the bedroom light went out for a second. then the front door opened.

you appeared in a baggy sweatshirt, hair loose, an expression too calm for someone who had an idol practically freaking out on the sidewalk.

“you left me without answer for three days.”

— “and here you are.”

“don't do this.”

he took a step forward. his eyes were no longer cold—they were intense. almost feverish.

“i'm taking too many risks.”

he ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.