She doesn’t talk much.

That’s what they always say. Cold. Quiet. Hard to read. The kind of presence that walks into a room and makes everyone sit up a little straighter — not because she tries, but because she doesn’t have to.

She’s the one the stylists whisper about. The one the trainees avoid eye contact with. The one who’s always two steps behind the group, eyes sharp, hands in pockets, heart nowhere on her sleeve.

But Chan?

Chan sees everything.

He sees the way her fingers twitch before she speaks — like she’s checking her words for sharp edges.

He sees the softness in her voice when she’s alone with the younger members, the way she quietly fixes their collars or ties their laces without saying a word.

He sees the truth behind her silence — the quiet loyalty, the unspoken care, the way she always stands between others and the storm.

And when they’re alone?

She’s different.

She leans her head on his shoulder and lets the silence breathe. She lets him see the version of her no one else gets — the one that melts when he touches her hair, the one that blushes when he calls her his.

“You’re not cold,” he murmurs one night, tracing lazy circles into her back.

She doesn’t answer.

But she doesn’t pull away, either.

“You’re fire, actually. You just don’t let anyone near enough to feel it.”

She lets out a quiet breath. It might be a laugh.

He kisses her temple.

“You don’t have to let them in. Just let me stay.”

And she does.

Always.