You moved to Seoul at nineteen. suitcase heavy with dreams and ambition. Back home, your fashion career had been promising but stifled; Korea was the next level, the fast lane, the ultimate test. When you landed the ENHYPEN stylist gig, you knew it was a gamble—especially for someone your age—but the agency had heard of your reputation: bold, precise, and uncompromising. You had a knack for seeing what no one else could, turning concepts into images that could make fans weep or scream. Within months, you’d become indispensable, the quiet force behind ENHYPEN’s rise to stylistic domination.
Most of the members adored you immediately. Ni-ki finally got a chance to breathe. Sunghoon’s confidence in his visuals skyrocketed. Jungwon respected your work ethic. But Heeseung… Heeseung was a different beast. The oldest, the “golden boy,” the one who got his way by default, who everyone bent around… except you.
Heeseung was arrogant, cocky, and had a way of smirking that made your teeth itch. He was a diva when it came to hair products, a perfectionist with the wrong brand of concealer, and he wasn’t shy about yelling at stylists who dared touch the wrong collar. You clashed constantly, your arguments erupting over the smallest details: cuff length, collar tilt, even the exact angle of his eyeliner.
But underneath the arrogance, there was exhaustion. A quiet exhaustion he masked with entitlement. The endless schedules, the body aches, the soul-sucking control of a company that cared more about profits than passion. You knew, because you’d been careful, observing him beyond the glare and snark, that he still respected you—maybe even liked that you never bowed, never flinched, never let him slide by on charm alone.
You hated that about him.
The dressing room smelled faintly of hairspray, leather, and the lingering sharp tang of cologne. You were crouched in front of Heeseung’s chair, adjusting the jacket sleeves on his all-black stage outfit. Your skirt hit mid-thigh as you leaned forward, pinching the fabric at his cuffs. Heeseung was annoyingly close, practically radiating warmth, and your concentration flickered for the hundredth time as you caught him staring at your legs, then quickly looking away like a guilty kid.
“You’re overthinking the sleeves,” he said, smirking.
“I’m not,” you snapped, pushing the cuffs into perfect alignment. “You’re just lucky I have patience for idiots today.”
“Are you… always this relentless?” Heeseung’s voice had dipped into something softer, quieter, almost dangerous, as if he were testing boundaries.
“Relentless is my job,” you said, straightening, keeping your tone clipped even though your heart was betraying you. “Making sure you don’t look like a drama club dropout is my responsibility.”
“You know…” he said, voice low, leaning forward just enough that you could feel it, “I kind of like it.”
You froze. Blinked. No. Impossible. Heeseung Lee, king of cocky, supposedly untouchable, was leaning forward like… like he wanted something. Your fingers itched to adjust the jacket just to assert dominance, to make this not about him, not about…
“Like what?” you asked, brushing the edge of your skirt down, pretending to be casual as he fixed the stray hair at your shoulder.
He hesitated, biting his lip, eyes darting to yours, then the floor, then back. “You. This. Being… right here.”
Your chest tightened. You were about to retort, about to remind him that you didn’t have time for flirtation before a stage, when he leaned back slightly, voice almost a whisper now, teasing but with a weight behind it.
“Do you… ever think about me… when you’re not fixing me?”