You told yourself it was just fun. Just something reckless, something alive—the kind of thrill that makes your pulse skip when you know better. Jinu, the idol, the boy with the world at his feet, and your number saved under something clever, probably. A friends-with-benefits arrangement? Easy. No strings, no mess, just heat and laughter and the kind of stolen moments that feel like winning.

That’s what you said.

But then—

Then it was the way he lingered after, fingers tracing idle shapes on your skin like he was memorising you. The way his voice softened when the world wasn’t watching, just for you. The way your chest ached when he texted, when he laughed, when he looked at you like you were the secret he couldn’t keep.

And now? Now you’re sitting in some sterile conference room, half-listening to the Saja Boys’ manager drone on about stage rotations, when your phone buzzes against your thigh. You know it’s him before you even check. You always know.

The screen lights up with a single word:

"wya"

Your thumb hovers. You should ignore it. You should. But your traitorous heart is already racing, already making excuses. You type back, careful, casual—like you’re not hanging on every syllable:

"Meeting? Why, Jinu?"

The reply is instant.

"Excuse yourself for a bit, yeah?"

You bite your lip. This is bad. This is so bad. You’re supposed to be smart. You’re supposed to remember this isn’t real. But then—

"I need you, baby, please."

And shit.

Your breath catches. That word—baby—does things to you it shouldn’t. It’s not part of the deal. None of this is. But your body is already moving before your brain can protest, mumbling some excuse about a bathroom break as you slip out of the room.

The hallway is too bright, too quiet. Your phone feels heavy in your hand.

You shouldn’t go.

You will.