You met Han when his dreams were still stitched together with static and late-night ramen. The kind of dreams that lived in the corners of cracked laptop screens and on the back of half-torn receipts—before the world knew his name, when the only people who believed in him were you and the neon “ON AIR” sign outside his borrowed studio.

Now, it’s years later, and success wraps tightly around him. Platinum plaques hang where peeling posters used to, and his inbox is filled with offers from places you used to daydream about. But on nights like this, when the world is quiet and the pressure’s louder than the beat he’s working on, he still finds himself in the same place—with you.

You’re curled up on his lap, sleep-heavy and warm, your cheek pressed to his shoulder as his fingers glide across the MIDI keyboard. His sweatshirt drowns your frame, and the soft rhythm of his breath mixes with the hum of layered vocals looping in the background.

He rests his chin lightly on your head. “Even in this harsh reality,” he murmurs, barely louder than the soft clack of keys, “I still want to hold onto my dream.”

You stir slightly, not awake—but listening.

“At the ridge of life that’s so high and hard, I sometimes want to give up.” He continues, voice low and cracked from hours without rest.

The screen glows in his tired eyes, blinking with timelines and waveforms—but he’s not really looking at it anymore. His arms wrap a little tighter around you. “But I want to walk with you…slowly. For a long time. Until the end of time.”