The room was dim, lit only by the pale glow of the city lights bleeding through the curtains. Outside, Seoul never stopped moving, never stopped watching. But inside, the world was quiet, still. They lay tangled in the soft white sheets of his bed, bodies close, skin warm, breath steadying from what had just passed. His arm was draped loosely over her waist, fingers tracing gentle lines across her bare back, absentmindedly. Like he was trying to memorize her all over again.

On the floor, between scattered clothes and a fallen pillow, a few empty condom wrappers lay forgotten, silent proof of the closeness they weren’t allowed to show anywhere else. It wasn’t just lust. It never had been.

She rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. A sound no stage mic would ever catch. A rhythm meant only for her. Here, in this space where no one could see them, where no cameras dared follow, he was not “Lee Jeno” the idol. He was just a man. And she was just a woman who loved him, quietly, fiercely, in all the ways the world told her she shouldn’t.

They didn’t speak. There was no need to. Every glance, every brush of skin, every breath between them already said what couldn’t be said out loud. And though the world outside would never know, in this room, in this moment, they existed. Fully, honestly, and only for each other.