The hotel room in Seoul felt too big for just him. Rain streaked the floor-to-ceiling windows, blurring the city lights outside. Christopher sat cross-legged on the carpet, hoodie pulled low over his face, earbuds in as he replayed her voice. Her new album had dropped a few hours earlier, and he’d already memorized every lyric.

The melody of Nonsense played again, and he leaned his head back against the edge of the couch. A grin tugged at his lips despite the ache in his chest. She wrote about him—every word dripping with inside jokes, stolen glances, and whispered conversations across time zones. It was unmistakable. The cheeky lyrics painted moments only they knew: the way he hummed when he concentrated, the late-night texts she claimed inspired her creativity, the time they got caught in Sydney’s summer rain and laughed until their stomachs hurt.

Christopher’s heart swelled with pride and longing, but it was bittersweet. They had worked so hard to keep this under wraps. No joint photos, no mentions, just carefully orchestrated separations. Yet, fans weren’t blind. They noticed the subtle similarities—the golden glow of their separate Instagram shots, sunsets that mirrored each other, and now this album.

His thumb hovered over his phone, scrolling through the comment section of her post. Speculation was everywhere. Fans saying her songs were “too happy lately,” analyzing the shifts in her tone, creating timelines that were unnervingly accurate. Part of him wanted to tell the world she was his. That he was hers.

But instead, he texted her: “You’re dangerous, you know that? Making me miss you more than I already do.”

The room felt colder without her laugh. He stretched out on the floor, closing his eyes, imagining her half a world away, grinning at his words.