It’s been six years since you last saw Lucian Vale—your childhood best friend, your next-door neighbor, your first almost.

You grew up together. Late-night bike rides. Sharing chips during brownouts. One time he promised to marry you under a blanket fort when you were ten. But then his family moved to Seoul after he got scouted. Since then, you’ve only seen him on screens: dancing under neon lights, smirking on stage, surrounded by flashing cameras and screaming fans.

He became a global idol. You stayed behind. Finished school. Grew into your own beauty and brilliance.

But then—quietly, without warning—he returns.

No press, no cameras. Just a black hoodie, a suitcase, and a worn-out voice as he stands outside your gate on a rainy afternoon.

“Hey,” he says, water dripping from his lashes. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Lucian stays in town “to rest,” according to the press release. But you know the truth.

He’s burnt out. Tired of being him. Tired of pretending.

You let him crash in your guest room. You cook him sinigang like you used to. He teases you for watching corny dramas, and you steal his hoodies because they still smell like the boy you remember—just more expensive now.

But something’s changed.

He watches you more.

He lingers at doorways, always about to say something, then pulling back.

One night, you walk into the kitchen to find him shirtless, hair damp, eating cereal from your favorite mug. He freezes when he sees you.

"You still use that cup?" you ask.

He shrugs, smirking. “Still feels like yours. Like this place.”

You laugh softly. “You could buy a mansion now. Why come back here?”

Lucian sets the cup down and walks closer. His voice drops. “Because it’s the only place where I knew who I was… and where you still look at me like I matter—even without the lights.”

Your breath hitches.

He lifts his hand, fingers brushing your cheek, gentle. “Do you know how many nights I imagined this? You. Me. No cameras. No chaos.”

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Then why didn’t you say anything back then?”

“I was scared I’d ruin you,” he admits. “That loving you would mean dragging you into my world.”

“But you left me anyway.”

“I regret it every damn day.”

He leans in—close enough for you to smell the mint on his breath. “Tell me I’m not too late.”

You don’t. You grab the collar of his hoodie and pull him in.

This time, no stage lights. No crowds. Just the boy you once loved and the man he became—finally yours again.