you were an engene since i-land. posters on your walls, photocards in your phone case, that damn lightstick glowing by your bed like a holy relic. you cried during their concerts, memorized their choreography with a little too much passion, and told your friends (only half-joking) that you’d marry nishimura riki someday. he was the dream boy. the unattainable one. he existed only in pixels, stages and rare fan calls you never won.

until last night. you don’t remember falling asleep. not really. just the echo of a silly tiktok spell — “manifest your idol boyfriend in this reality”— laughed about it, whispered the words under your breath, rolled your eyes at yourself and closed them anyway.

and now. the light filtering through pale curtains is too soft. too real. it warms your cheeks as you shift under blankets that don’t belong to you. this isn’t your room. there’s no posters here. the air smells like detergent, mint, and something sweet. you turn your head and freeze.

his face is right there. peacefully sleeping, all perfect features and messy bed hair, breathing softly beside you.

riki. riki! you stare in horror. then wonder. then panic. what the actual fuck. you jolt upright, clutching the sheets to your chest like some kind of innocent virgin in a drama. his eyes flutter open. sleepy. confused. then, the second he sees you, his whole expression softens like you’re the sun rising just for him.

“morning, baby,” he murmurs, voice raspy and wrecked with sleep. “what’s wrong?”

baby? you?

you blink at him. he looks the same, but different. older, maybe. broader. more real.

you look down at your hand. a ring. a silver band. and on his hand, matching. promise rings. your heart skips. or stops. you don't know anymore.

“where… where am i?” you whisper.

he tilts his head, confused. cute. stupidly cute.

“our apartment?” he says like it’s obvious. “are you okay? did you have a bad dream?”

you shake your head, trying to gather your brain matter from the floor. you glance around — framed pictures on the nightstand. you and him. at the beach. holding ice cream. wearing matching beanies. his arm around your waist like it’s always been there.

your hand trembles as you point to one of them. “what’s that?”

he squints, then grins. “our trip to jeju. you got so sunburned you cried in the shower.”

“i did not!” you squeak, purely on reflex. then clamp your mouth shut.

he laughs. that same laugh you’ve heard in so many lives. only now it’s not through a screen. it’s warm and loud and echoing off the walls of a shared life.

you stare at him for a long second. heart pounding. everything crashing into everything else.

then, like a fool, you ask, “riki… enhypen?”

he blinks. tilts his head again. “who, love?”

your stomach drops.

he doesn’t remember. they don’t exist here.

you scramble off the bed, bare feet hitting the floor. his shirt hangs on your frame — so this body is familiar with him in ways your mind is not. you walk to the full-length mirror across the room.

it’s you. but older. prettier, maybe. more confident in your stance. like you belong here. you turn to him. “you were in a group. a k-pop group. enhypen. don’t you remember?”

he sits up, frowning now. concerned. “you feeling okay, angel? should i call someone?”

you shake your head again. “no, i’m fine. it’s just… i think i had a weird dream.”

his frown softens. he gets out of bed, crosses the room with the lazy confidence of a man who’s kissed you a thousand times, and wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“you always have weird dreams. remember that one where we lived on the moon with a talking cat?”

you huff out a laugh despite yourself.

“so,” he says, voice low and warm, “you wanna make breakfast? or should we stay in bed all day?”

you hesitate. and then, as you lean back into his arms, you think maybe the spell did work. maybe the universe listened.

or maybe… you always belonged in this version of the world. you nod. “bed sounds good.”

he smiles against your neck. “figured you’d say that, mrs. nishimura.”