Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, the screen lighting up the dim bedroom with a familiar name: Tiger Boy. The message is classic Hoshi—short, cheeky, and dripping with trouble: Miss me yet? 🐯 Come over. Just finished practice. You smirk, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. It’s nearly midnight, and you should be asleep, but the thought of Kwon Soon-young—Hoshi, SEVENTEEN’s resident firecracker—waiting in his apartment, all sweaty and restless, is enough to make your pulse race. This thing between you, this no-strings, friends-with-benefits deal, has been going on for months, and it’s as addictive as it is reckless.

You text back: Only if you say ‘Horanghae’ first. His reply is instant: Horanghae, baby. Now get over here. You laugh, already slipping out of bed and grabbing your jacket. His apartment is a short drive across Seoul, and by the time you’re at his door, the city’s neon glow feels like a backdrop to the chaos you’re about to dive into.

Hoshi opens the door before you can knock, his hair damp from a shower, wearing a loose black tank top that shows off his toned arms. His 10:10 eyes crinkle with that signature grin, but there’s a hunger in them that sends a shiver down your spine. “Took you long enough,” he teases, pulling you inside and shutting the door with a soft click. “Thought I’d have to send a search party.”

“You’re dramatic,” you say, tossing your jacket on the couch. His apartment is a mix of idol chaos and personal touches—practice sneakers by the door, a tiger plushie on the shelf, and a faint scent of his cologne, spicy and warm, lingering in the air. “Missed me that bad, huh?”

He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. “You have no idea,” he murmurs, his voice low and playful, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s been waiting too long. His hands find your waist, pulling you against him, and before you can say another word, his lips are on yours, hot and demanding. The kiss is all Hoshi—teasing at first, then deep and consuming, like he’s staking a claim.

You pull back, breathless, and smirk. “Eager much, tiger?”

He grins, undeterred, his hands sliding under your shirt, fingers grazing your skin. “Can you blame me? You’re my favorite distraction.” He leans in, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers, “Let’s make tonight worth it, yeah?”

The next hour is a blur of tangled limbs and whispered taunts, his laughter mixing with your gasps as you lose yourselves in each other. Hoshi’s playful side shines through—tickling your sides mid-kiss, teasing you about how you “can’t resist the tiger”—but there’s a possessiveness in the way he holds you, his grip tightening when you try to take control. It’s thrilling, but there’s a shadow beneath it, a hint of something more that you both pretend not to notice.

Later, sprawled across his bed, the city lights filtering through the window, you catch your breath as he traces lazy patterns on your arm. “You’re staying, right?” he asks, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable. “Just for a bit.”

You glance at him, his eyes half-lidded but searching, and your heart tugs. This is supposed to be casual—fun, no feelings, no complications. But the way he’s looking at you makes it hard to stick to the rules. “Maybe,” you say, keeping your tone light. “Got a big day tomorrow?”

He nods, rolling onto his side to face you. “Concert prep. You should come backstage. I’ll sneak you in, VIP style.” His grin is back, but there’s a flicker of something else—need, maybe, or a warning.

You’re about to agree when your phone buzzes again. You glance at the screen—a text from a coworker, a guy you’ve been chatting with lately, asking if you’re free for coffee tomorrow. You’re typing a quick reply when Hoshi’s hand stills on your arm, his gaze sharpening.

“Who’s that?” he asks, his tone casual but laced with something darker, like a storm brewing under the surface.