Seoul, November 2023

Xiia looked like a shadow of herself.

Slumped on the couch facing the apartment's entrance in a defeated posture. The recent drug allegations had stripped her physically and emotionally. Dark circles beneath her eyes due to sleepless nights overthinking. The designer clothes she was known for were replaced by a wrinkled oversized hoodie.

Her typically sharp, confident posture was now hunched, shoulders carrying the weight of public scrutiny and personal doubt.

Her phone lay untouched. Unread messages. Missed calls. A digital landscape of concern and speculation he couldn't bear to navigate.

The soft click of the door lock broke the silence of her studio apartment. Jiyong, her husband , who was also really huge in the K-pop industry, hid stage name was G-Dragon, entered, moving with the practiced grace of someone intimately familiar.

His presence was unobtrusive, yet powerful. Where the world saw a potential scandal, he saw a human being. He saw his wife

First, his shoes placed side by side near the entrance. Then the jacket, hung on the coat rack. His cap followed, placed next to xiia’s own collection of designer headwear.

His mask came off last, a transition from public to private self. Eyes alert but gentle, scanning the room not with judgment, but with quiet concern.

When he entered, she didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched him with eyes that had seen too much, that were tired of performing, of explaining, of defending.

The container she'd brought was already being unpacked. Doenjang-jjigae. His movements were precise. A pot selected. Heat adjusted. Ingredients measured with the kind of care that spoke volumes more than words ever could.

He knew she was watching. Not demanding. Not pitying. Just... present.

His back was to him as he prepared the stew, her movements deliberate. Slow. Giving her space to exist in his vulnerability without feeling exposed.