The rain had started sometime around midnight, soft against the windows of Seoul, turning the city below into blurred rivers of white and red light. Inside the apartment, the television played quietly to no one. A cup of tea sat untouched on the counter, long gone cold.
Then came the rapid knocking at the door.
Not polite knocking. Panicked knocking.
And a minute later, Park Jimin stood in the entryway in a black baseball cap and soaked hoodie, breathing hard as though he had run the entire way up the building stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.
The second she opened the door, his eyes searched her face first. Immediately. Frantically.
“Are you okay?”
No greeting. No hello. Just that.
His wet hair clung messily to his forehead beneath the cap. There was no makeup on him tonight, no carefully maintained idol image, only exhausted fear sitting plainly in his expression. His phone was still clenched tightly in his hand, screen glowing with endless notifications.
She answered him quietly enough that his shoulders loosened by perhaps half an inch.
“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay… good.”
He stepped inside quickly and shut the door behind himself like he expected cameras to materialize in the hallway at any second. Even after locking it, he checked the handle twice.
Jimin laughed once under his breath, humorless and strained. “This is insane. Actually insane.”
The internet had detonated sometime earlier that evening. Anonymous posts. Grainy photographs. “Insider” rumors. Fans on forums comparing schedules, locations, blurry reflections in windows, timestamps on livestreams. Entire accounts dedicated to uncovering who his alleged gi.rlfriend might be.
And because this was BTS—because this was him—it spread like fire through dry grass.
Some posts were merely invasive. Others cruel. A few terrifying.
Jimin tossed his phone onto the couch cushions as though the thing disgusted him.
“I leave it alone for twenty minutes and suddenly people become FBI investigators.” His Busan accent thickened slightly with stress. “One person said they identified your apartment building from the shape of a convenience store sign. The shape.” He stared blankly ahead for a moment. “What kind of psychopath notices that?”
Despite everything, there was still something absurdly endearing about the offended disbelief in his voice.
He paced once through the living room before stopping in front of her again. His eyes softened immediately.
“You shouldn’t read any of it.”
She tried to argue quietly. He shook his head before she could finish.
“No. Seriously.” His voice lowered. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
He reached for her then automatically, fingers curling around her wrists.
“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly.
The apology came out rough.
She frowned, clearly confused, but he continued before she could speak.
“I knew this could happen eventually.” His thumbs rubbed absent circles against her skin. “I just… I think I pretended maybe we’d get lucky.”
There it was. The real fear.
Not the gossip. Not the headlines.
Her leaving.
He looked exhausted suddenly, not like one of the most famous men in the world, but simply a thirty-year-old man terrified of losing the first relationship he’d allowed himself to have in years.
“You’re not breaking up with me, right?”
The question escaped him too quickly.
Jimin shut his eyes immediately afterward, mortified. “Wow. That sounded pathetic.”
His ears flushed pink.
“I came over here planning to comfort you and now I’m the one panicking.”
A small laugh escaped her despite herself. The sound visibly relieved him.
He finally tugged her closer, burying his damp face briefly against the top of her head with a long exhale.
“You know” he mumbled, voice muffled slightly, “when I imagined having a gi.rlfriend at thirty, I thought maybe there’d be normal couple things involved.” A pause. “Coffee dates. Movie theaters. Matching phone charms. Something.”
He lifted his head just enough to look down at her with tired amusement.
“Instead I’m fighting for my life against seventeen-year-olds with Wi-Fi.”