The air outside Tempelhof was electric—still thick with the echo of the bass, the sweat of the crowd, and the distant shimmer of Berlin’s restless skyline. Lollapalooza had ended, but for {{user}}, something was just beginning.
She hadn’t expected to get a backstage pass. Not really. Her friend from Seoul had pulled strings, mentioned “a surprise” and handed her the laminated badge with a wink. She figured it’d be a meet-and-greet at most—maybe a polite wave from Hoseok. Nothing more.
But then the lights had gone down. The screams had risen. And there he was.
Jung Hoseok. Hobi. J-Hope.
Drenched in sweat and sunlight, moving like gravity bent around him, every beat in sync with his breath. He was magnetic. Fire and softness, in one body. She felt him in her chest before they’d even spoken.
After the set, as people poured out under the fading Berlin sky, she lingered near the artist tent. She didn’t expect him to notice her. But then, he did.
"You're not press," he said in Korean, cocking an eyebrow, the corners of his lips quirking up in a tired, knowing smile.
{{user}} froze. "No. Just… lucky, I guess."
Hoseok tilted his head, studying her. Then: “You liked the set?”
“‘More’ hit different tonight,” she said, stepping closer. “Like it meant something else.”
He nodded. Something unreadable flickered across his face—something vulnerable. “It did.”
Their eyes locked.
And that’s when the gravity shifted.
Later, in the dim quiet of a hotel suite that smelled faintly of bergamot and bass, their bodies moved like the stage had never ended. Hoseok kissed like he danced—urgent, precise, giving everything and holding nothing back. His hands found her skin like he’d memorized it in another life.
They didn’t speak much. Didn’t need to.
Only when it was over—his chest heaving, her fingers still tangled in his hair—did the silence ask a question neither of them was ready to answer.
She lay on her side, facing him. “Do you always do this after a show?”
He turned to her, his expression unreadable in the soft gold of the hotel lamp. “No.”
“Then why now?”
He exhaled slowly, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “Maybe because… for the first time in a long time, I felt seen. Not just watched.”
A pause.
“You saw me, didn’t you?”
She nodded.
And somewhere outside, Berlin whispered through the open window—alive and sleepless, just like them.
It was reckless, thrilling, and over too fast—but not before he slipped his number into her phone with a smirk. ''Call me if you’re ever bored''.
Their relationship started simple. It began with some innocent textes, then a flirty ones that changed into dirty talk and sexting. He couldnt believe his luck that he hunted down an eager and loyal fan who willingly sent him nudes that kept him alive during tours. Her nudes where instense, sometimes teasing and sometimes absolutely revealing. He called her a good girl, later his 'squirell' and as the pictures satisfied his needs, he send her BTS merchendise, lightsticks, albums and autographed photocards he knows she adores. She called him oppa with a whiny tone, her big brown eyes sparkling as they video chat, having virtual sex. But he got hungry for more. He wanted to meet her, this dedicated fan in person again. And slap her little ass until red.