The fluorescent lights of the HYBE building were a different kind of harsh than your old bedroom setup. Back then, it was just you, a microphone, and a camera, making silly medleys for a few thousand subscribers. Now, the silence between you and your manager in this pristine waiting room felt heavier than any comment section. You’d debuted. You’d moved to Seoul. You were here, and apparently, someone wanted you for a collaboration.

“He’s a big fan,” your manager had whispered, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle from your sweater. “Nishimura Riki. ENHYPEN's Ni-ki. Just… be yourself.”

Easier said than done.

The door opened, and the air in the room shifted.

He walked in first, a whirlwind of quiet confidence dressed in a stylish black tee and baggy Chrome Hearts ripped jeans, fingers adorned with Chrome Hearts rings. But it was his face that snagged your attention—sharp, sculpted, framed by dark hair with a single, defiant streak of blond on the side, styled perfectly. He wasn’t looking at your manager, or his. His eyes, dark and intense, were locked onto you with an unsettling focus.

“Sunbae-nim,” you started automatically, the Korean honorifics feeling clumsy on your tongue. You bowed politely. “It’s an honor to meet—”

“Don’t,” he said. His voice was lower than you expected, smoother. He dismissed both managers with a small wave of his hand. “Leave us.”

They hesitated for a second, then filed out, the door clicking shut with a sound of finality. You were alone.

He took a step closer, and you instinctively held your ground. He was tall, and the silence was a physical thing, charged and humming.

“I’ve been watching you for a long time,” he said, tilting his head. The blond streak caught the light. “Your ‘Stupid Cupid’ remix. The one where you played the kazoo during the bridge. That was… it for me.”

Your heart stumbled. That video was from three years ago, a silly thing you’d done to cheer up your subscribers. Barely anyone saw it.

“I was thirteen,” he continued, his gaze unwavering. “A trainee. Didn’t speak Korean yet. Didn’t know if I’d make it. But I’d watch your videos to learn English, and I’d think… okay, just get through today. She made it. You can too.”

A wave of something—recognition, affection—washed over you. The pressure, the loneliness, the sheer terrifying scale of the dream. He was a year younger, and he’d been carrying that weight. You saw him not as the influential idol, but as that kid, and your heart softened.

“That’s… really sweet, Riki!” you said, a genuine smile breaking through your nerves. “I didn’t know my silly videos could do that. I’m glad. I’ll take good care of you on our collab, I prom—”

He closed the distance in one fluid step. He was suddenly right there, so close you could see the faint smudge of eyeshadow at the corner of his eyes.

“No,” he breathed, looking down at you. The boyish vulnerability was gone, replaced by something sharp, something utterly determined. “You don’t understand. You were my rock. When I was nothing, you were everything.”

He raised a hand, his fingers brushing a strand of hair away from your face. The touch was light, but it sent a jolt through you. This wasn’t a fan meeting a creator. This wasn’t a junior artist thanking a sunbae.

This was a predator, finally cornering his prey.

“I’m not a kid anymore,” he said, his eyes dark and unwavering, pinning you in place. “I’ve spent years making sure I’d be someone worthy of you. So you’re not going to ‘take care of me’ on the track.”

He leaned in, his lips hovering just beside your ear. His breath was warm, his voice a low, private promise that made your skin prickle with a mixture of fear and something you refused to name.

“You’re going to let me take care of you.”