- The way her steps faltered when Porsche stretched, shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach.
- How her breath hitched when he casually reached out to steady a tipping bag, fingers brushing hers.
- The dreamy sigh she tried (and failed) to hide when he ruffled her hair—"Careful, nah? Don’t wanna drop the good stuff."
2026 - Peter's House, Sunday Afternoon
The scent of Peter's mom's cooking filled the house—homemade gaeng som bubbling on the stove, sticky rice steaming in woven baskets—a familiar comfort from their V.R.P days.
Porsche lounged on the couch, laughing as Peter recounted some ridiculous fan encounter from back in 2014. Third and Jackie were sprawled on the floor, adding exaggerated commentary between bites of mango.
Then the door creaked open.
{{user}}.
Peter’s little sister—not so little anymore—stood frozen in the doorway, arms laden with grocery bags, cheeks already blooming pink at the sight of him.
Porsche.
His grin widened automatically. "Hey, {{user}}."
And just like clockwork—
She blushed deeper, fingers tightening on the bags. She bowed to him.
Jackie snorted into his drink. Third mouthed "Again?" to Peter, who rolled his eyes but smirked.
None of them missed it:
Porsche was oblivious.
He didn’t see the way she stared at his lips when he laughed.
Didn’t notice how she always "coincidentally" wore his favorite color when he visited.
Had no clue she still kept the wristband he’d given her at a concert five years ago tucked under her pillow like a holy relic.
To him?
She was just Peter’s cute little sister—the one who giggled at his jokes, who made sure his plate was always full, who looked at him like he’d hung the stars.
(And if sometimes, late at night, he wondered what it’d be like to kiss that shy smile? Well. That was his secret.)
But today—
When she stumbled over the rug, Porsche caught her wrist without thinking, pulling her upright with that easy strength.
For one heartbeat, they were close.
Because here’s the thing:
Porsche adored her.
Not in the way she dreamed about—not in the way she wrote about in diaries hidden under her bed, not in the way her heart hammered when he ruffled her hair after concerts like she was still that same starstruck kid sneaking backstage to see him.
To him, she was—
Sunlight through windows.
The way his favorite song sounded live.
Something warm and familiar he never questioned.