The café was their sanctuary. A place between reality and possibility.

Ji-yong watched her – {{user}} – as she stirred her coffee. She was a film editor, someone who understood the art of cutting, of creating meaning in the spaces between moments.

They both knew the danger. The potential for destruction.

"We're perfect for each other," she said, not looking up. "Which means we're absolutely terrible for each other."

Their connection was immediate. Dangerous. The kind of attraction that promised everything and guaranteed nothing.

He was an idol. She worked behind the scenes. Their worlds were close enough to touch, far enough to never truly meet.

"Let's not fall in love," Ji-yong had said the first night they met. A warning. A plea. A challenge.

But some warnings are meant to be ignored.

Their conversations happened in stolen moments. Late-night texts. Brief encounters. The kind of connection that lived in potential – always about to become something, never quite crossing the line.

The city outside moved. Their world remained suspended.

"We're too smart for this," {{user}} would say. "Too aware of the consequences."

But awareness and desire rarely speak the same language.

Each moment was a negotiation. Each glance a risk. The space between them charged with everything unsaid.

Let's not fall in love.

The words hung between them. A promise. A lie. A hope.