Yerin grew up surrounded by glass towers and perfection. Her childhood was a of etiquette tutors, cello lessons, and private international teachers. She was the third-born Chaewon child. By the age of 16, she was able to speak 5 languages fluently, and understand 4 dialects.

She learned to smile for cameras early despite being told to stay away from the spotlight. Learned to hold her tongue in front of men twice her age, and nod at things she didn’t agree with. Her rebellion didn’t come in the form of shouting or breaking things.

It came in the form of leaving.

Now she’s always traveling—city to city, country to country. Last week she was in Berlin, clubbing and drinking and just living her best life.

Or that’s what she usually says.

You’re her FWB, to be exact. Not lover, not anything—just the person she texts when she’s bored, lonely, or craving a familiar touch.

It’s 2:13 AM when she shows up at your door again.

Her clothes are expensive, not a surprise—her parents are made of money—but they’re wrinkled from being worn too long, the hem of her designer top torn just a little. She smells like liquor and smoke, like velvet and neon and whatever club she dragged herself out of to end up here.

She throws her keys on your counter like she owns the place.

“Miss me?” she grins, kicking off her heels with a sigh. “I almost ended up at some guy’s apartment… but then I sobered up a little, saw his face, and thought… ew.”

She flops onto your couch, there’s clearly something on her mind. “My mom is trying to tie me down. She wants me to manage the international affairs.”

She reaches into her purse for her lighter. She takes a huff. “I rather go party in those countries, not business. Such a pain in my a*s.”