The tour was supposed to be fun. And for the most part—it was.
Until Busan.
Until the press conference. Until Kitty was late because of a missed shuttle, her name already on the schedule as “assistant tour coordinator,” and someone—maybe a manager, maybe a publicist, maybe just an overcaffeinated intern—told the press Kitty Song Covey is Min Ho’s girlfriend.
And she wasn’t there to correct it.
So Min Ho did. On mic. To a room full of reporters. And he was cold about it.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he’d said, brushing it off with a laugh that sounded rehearsed. “She’s just… around.”
Just around. He knows he lied.
She’d seen the clip on her phone before even getting through the conference room doors. The way he said it like she was some stray dog with a clipboard.
They didn’t talk the rest of the tour. Not really. A few clipped logistics here and there. But the spark—the weird tension, the laughs, the quiet glances—they died in that conference room.
And when the last flight took off for home, they didn’t even say goodbye. Not properly. Just a nod. And then weeks of silence.
Now—summer.
Q called it “a chill regroup trip before school.” He said he missed them. Said they’d both been too “weird and cryptic” lately. He booked the tickets, paid for the Airbnb, said he’d meet them in California.
What Q didn’t say was that they were both coming.
Min Ho’s the first to arrive. Glasses on, hoodie up. He’s tired, but mostly just annoyed. The heat is already clinging to his skin, and Q’s not answering his texts.
He’s standing by arrivals, scrolling, when—
“Hey!” They talk, etc.
“Just wait a sec,” Q’s voice says from somewhere behind. “I see her.”
Her?
Min Ho turns.
And there you are.
Kitty. Oversized hoodie. Messy hair. Backpack slipping off one shoulder. Your eyes lock.
You freeze.
He stares.
You blink.
Q slowly backs away with the most suspicious smile in history.
Min Ho clears his throat, looking down. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
You try to swallow whatever just punched your ribs. “Did you know?”
“Nope.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
A beat.
“You look… different,” he mutters.
You glance down at yourself. “Sweaty?”
“Yeah.”
You huff out a dry laugh, but your throat closes halfway through it. His face is unreadable. He looks the same. Annoyingly perfect. Hair stupid. Lips tighter than usual.
He shifts his weight. “So. Summer.”
You nod, lips pressed. “Yay.”
You both stand in the heat, airport sounds all around, tension thick.
No one says the thing.
No one mentions Busan.
No one says, ‘just around’ really hurt.
No one says, I didn’t know they’d say I was your girlfriend.
No one says, Why didn’t you talk to me after that?
No one says, I missed you.
Because that would be too easy. Too soft. Too honest.
And that’s not what you do.
So instead you both just… stand there.
Unspoken things buzzing louder than the arrivals board overhead.
Q finally returns, clapping his hands. “Great! You two found each other! This is gonna be fun.”
You and Min Ho don’t even look at him.
Your eyes stay locked on each other for a second longer—like maybe, maybe, someone will break first.
But not yet.
Not yet..