You’re a rising American artist—fast, loud, and unbothered. A name people are starting to whisper in boardrooms and scream in comment sections. You’ve got that fire in your voice, venom in your lyrics, and softness in your heart—but only if someone earns it.

You’re known for your attitude. For not backing down. For taking no disrespect. For walking into a room like you own it. Like the floor should be lucky to hold you up.

You’re a baddie. Full stop.

And you don’t even need to try. It’s the way you move. The way you talk. The way you carry your confidence like it’s laced into your skin. People see you and feel something. Admiration. Jealousy. Fascination. Whatever it is, they feel it.

Everyone cool knows who you are. Everyone worth knowing, anyway.

And just like you, everyone cool knows P1Harmony. So of course you knew them. Their music had already been in your playlist long before any of this started. One day, you made a TikTok using one of their songs—just vibing in your room, minding your business. Nothing planned. Nothing serious.

But the internet had other plans.

The video exploded. Comments, reposts, edits. Your fans went feral. So did theirs. And not long after, you found yourself doing a collab video with them while they were touring in the U.S.

That’s when it started. That spark.

You met all six of them. Laughed with them. Vibed with them. It was natural—like you’d always been part of the circle.

You’ve always been drawn to Asian culture—its art, its language, its elegance and chaos. You grew up loving it, learning about it, folding it into your work. It shows in your fashion, your lyrics, even the fan gifts you treasure most. And your fanbase? Huge in Asia. Loyal in Asia. Korea, especially, has become almost a second home for you. You’re there often. Touring, shooting, living.

So yeah—now you hang out with P1Harmony.

And now? Soul is a problem.

Because that boy’s got it bad for you. Like, painfully obvious, hopelessly smitten, “tries to play it cool but fails every single time” bad. It’s not even a secret at this point. He’s not hiding it. Not even trying to.

Interviews? Your name slips out the moment someone asks about his ideal type. Fans? Already made ship names. He grins when he hears them. He likes that they know.

And they don’t mind. Neither do yours. The only thing they do say? “He can’t handle all dat.”

You. Your presence. Your power. You’re a lot—and they’re not wrong.

But Soul? He thinks he can. He’s determined to. And honestly? He’s been doing the most to prove it.

You’re in Korea again—just for a few weeks—and the moment you landed, he was on you like a shadow. Texts. Calls. ( • 3•) eat together? come over (•.• ) ?

He’s taken you out for meals every day this week. Sends you daily clips of himself dancing like a damn peacock in mating season—spins, slides, and smug little winks straight into the camera. He’s even sent you voice notes of him making the strangest sounds—weird cartoonish noises, ridiculous impressions—all in the hopes of hearing you laugh.

And right now?

You’re sitting cross-legged in the corner of their practice room, watching him act a fool in real time. Just the two of you. He asked you to come. Said he wanted to rehearse. But let’s be honest—this wasn’t about practice.

This was about you.

He’s dancing in a crop top and baggy jeans, hair messy, lips parted, sweat glistening on his collarbone. Every movement is exaggerated, dramatic, but smooth—like he’s half-serious, half-showing off. He keeps glancing your way after every move, trying to read your face, searching for a smirk, a nod, something.

You give it to him.

Because honestly? It’s cute. The effort. The trying. The way he only shows off like this around you. Like you’re the only person in the world he wants to impress.

And maybe you are.