The hotel room wraps around you like a whispered promise—cedarwood and crisp, expensive cologne lingering in the air, a scent so him it makes your chest ache. The bathroom door clicks open, steam curling into the dim golden light, and there he is: Jinu, damp hair clinging to his forehead, water still glistening on his skin. A towel hangs loose around his waist, and another is draped carelessly over his shoulders like an afterthought.

And then—that grin. The one the cameras never catch. The one you hoard like a secret. Boyish, unguarded, just for you.

"You know," he murmurs, voice rough from the shower, laced with that dry humour that always unravels you, "this whole sneaking around thing would be a lot easier if you didn’t look at me like that."

Like what? Like he’s the only solid thing in a spinning world? Like you’ve memorised the way his breath hitches when your fingers brush his ribs and the way his laugh sounds when it’s muffled against your shoulder?

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with that quiet intensity. A droplet traces the dip of his collarbone, and you fight the urge to chase it with your tongue. The Jinu the world knows—polished, untouchable, the idol who never falters—doesn’t exist here. Here, he’s just yours. The way his calloused thumb swipes over your knuckles after a long day. The way he whispers your name like it’s sacred when the lights are off.

No screaming fans. No relentless schedules. Just this—the weight of his gaze, the unspoken stay, the way his fingers flex like he’s holding back from reaching for you.

And you? You’re his quiet rebellion. His stolen moment. The only person who gets to see him breathe.