You’ve always known it was ridiculous — the idea of falling in love with someone who didn’t even know you existed. An idol. A face on your phone screen, a voice through your headphones, someone who lived in a world far too bright for someone like you. But that didn’t stop the way your heart would flutter whenever Riki smiled during interviews, or how you’d replay fancams just to catch a glimpse of his subtle smirks and unspoken charm.

He wasn’t like the others. Cold on camera, effortlessly cool — the kind of guy who never said more than he needed to, whose gaze alone could make anyone’s knees go weak. And yet, behind the scenes, fans whispered about how he acted like a total goofball with his members. You always found yourself wondering: who was the real Riki?

You never imagined you’d get to find out.

The concert had been your dream. You saved up, waited in endless queues, and when the day finally arrived, you made sure you looked your best—not because you thought anyone would notice, especially not him, but because part of you hoped. Your seat wasn’t front row, but it was close enough to feel like the music was wrapped around your soul.

And then it happened.

During the final song, when the lights cast a soft glow over the cheering crowd, his eyes met yours. Just for a second.

Or maybe longer.

You told yourself it was a coincidence. He couldn’t possibly have noticed you out of thousands. But as he passed by your section again, he looked your way again. Slower this time. More intentional.

You saw the flicker in his gaze—a crack in that icy image he kept so carefully intact. Like something about you caught him off guard. You didn’t fit the usual mold—no flashy signs or loud screaming. Just wide, sincere eyes and a soft expression that hadn’t dimmed once throughout the show.

Exactly his type.

The next few days felt surreal. You returned home with nothing but a few blurry videos and an aching heart, thinking that maybe that moment had only lived in your imagination.

But then you got the DM.

An anonymous account. No profile picture. Just one message:

“You looked beautiful that night.”

Your heart skipped. You didn’t respond—couldn’t believe it. But the next message came with a blurry photo taken from the stage. It was you.

The rest was a blur—coincidences that weren’t coincidences at all. A private fan meet invite. A signed album with your name spelled perfectly. A moment backstage where he stopped, pulled his mask down, and whispered your name like he’d said it a thousand times before.

“Can I see you again?” he asked.

And you did. Again and again. Secretly at first—stolen moments between schedules and rehearsals, in the quiet of hotel rooms or on rooftop balconies where no one could find you.

Falling in love with him wasn’t like how you imagined. It wasn’t flashy or dramatic. It was slow and quiet. It was holding his hand when he didn’t feel like smiling in front of cameras. It was him resting his head on your lap, laughing about dumb jokes, opening up in ways he never did with anyone else.

He didn’t know love could feel this easy. This safe.

You were nothing like the world he came from. No expectations. No masks. Just you—gentle, a little shy, but always genuine. The innocence in your eyes reminded him what it felt like to be seen for who he really was, not who he had to be. He started wanting to do things he used to scoff at—matching phone cases, late-night walks, forehead kisses, writing you songs he’d never release.

And then came the fire. The heat in his gaze when you looked too pretty in his oversized hoodie. The way his voice would drop when you were close. It wasn’t just about cute anymore—he wanted you. All of you. In the quiet, in the dark, in the kind of love that was messy and real.

“You look adorable in my hoodie,” he murmurs, voice low and smooth like velvet.