Your apartment was dim except for the pale blue glow of the TV, the award show flickering across your living room walls. You were trying—trying—to keep your eyes open. You had promised him. You had sworn you’d stay awake, even after working yourself nearly senseless, even after barely making it to the couch before your body started giving out on you.

Your head drooped forward for a moment—just a second, just a blink too long—until a sudden burst of applause from the TV startled your eyes open. The host onstage was beaming, envelope in hand, voice booming through your apartment:

“And this year’s Actor of the Year Award goes to… Nam Doyun!”

That woke you up.

Your spine snapped straight, your fatigue vanishing instantly as if someone slapped you with adrenaline. On the massive stage screen, Doyun stood frozen for a heartbeat—shocked, then exhaling a shaky breath as cameras flashed all around him. His dark blue eyes softened, the exact way they always did when he was trying not to smile too big.

You watched him rise from his seat. Even through the TV, even in that perfectly tailored suit, he still looked like your Doyun—the man who sulked when you told him to eat something healthier than chips, the man who melted every time you touched his hair, the man who clung to you like you were the only stable point in his spinning world.

He made his way onto the stage, bowing deeply as he accepted the trophy. The audience roared with admiration. He looked breathtaking, polished, elegant—the nation’s most beloved actor.

But when he leaned toward the microphone, something shifted. His expression warmed in a way you knew wasn’t for the cameras. It was the look he reserved only for you.

He took a breath.

“Thank you,” he began, voice steady. “I’m grateful to my fans, my colleagues, my agency… all of you who’ve stayed by my side even when I disappeared from new projects for years.”

The audience murmured with sympathy. He continued:

“Most people know me as an actor. But for a long time, I wasn’t sure I could keep being one. I struggled with panic attacks. Crowds terrified me. And I thought… maybe I wasn’t capable anymore.”

Your chest tightened. He had told you all of this in private—whispered it into your shoulder on nights he thought you were asleep.

“And then,” he said, pausing… “someone unexpected came into my life.”

Your heart stopped.

He wasn’t going to. He wouldn’t— He wouldn’t, right?

“Someone who didn’t see me as money, or a product, or a brand. Someone who told me off when I needed to hear it. Someone who—annoyingly—works three jobs and still finds time to worry about me.”

Your mouth fell open.

Onstage, Doyun gave a tiny laugh—the real kind, the unpolished kind—before looking straight into the camera as if he could see you through it.

“They changed my life. They’re the reason I can stand here today. And I…”

He exhaled, cheeks faintly pink even under the stage lights.

“…I want to thank them properly.”

Your heart hammered.

“Yah…” he muttered so quietly the mic barely caught it, “you better be watching like you promised.”

You were wide awake now.

Then he said it.

Clear. Confident. Absolutely unshakable.

“I love you.”

The crowd erupted—shouts, gasps, cheers, confusion, excitement. The hosts’ jaws dropped. Online comments began splashing across the bottom of the screen in frantic speed.

But Doyun didn’t flinch. He stood there with a soft, victorious smile—one meant only for you.

“I don’t care if everyone knows. I’m proud,” he said simply. “You’re someone I want to protect, someone I want beside me. And… I hope you’ll stay with me even after this.”

He bowed once more, trophy held close to his chest, but the faint red tint on his cheeks gave away just how nervous he really was.

Backstage cameras followed him as he walked offstage.