You met Heeseung because of the cat. The black-and-white stray that lived behind your building and only liked three people: the old florist, the child who always had crumbs on his fingers, and Lee Heeseung.

He wasn’t from your block — not exactly. He walked through your street every other day like it was just a shortcut, like he didn’t belong to it, but left pieces of himself behind anyway. Sometimes he’d crouch in the alley, speaking softly to the cat while it ignored him, and you’d catch his laugh when it finally let him scratch behind its ears. He always had headphones around his neck. You assumed he was just another guy with too many playlists.

Until one night, when the windows of the tiny indie cafe on the corner steamed up with a crowd inside, and you paused just to see why. That’s when you saw him again — on the low stage, under flickering fairy lights, head tilted back as he sang into the mic like he wasn’t afraid of anything.

He wasn’t just some guy with headphones. He was the main vocalist of “Chamber 5,” a small band named after the apartment they practiced in. His voice was different live. Bigger. It pulled your chest open and filled it all at once.

You didn’t tell him you saw. Just came back again the next time. And the next.

He noticed eventually — of course he did.

“I swear you’re not just here for the coffee anymore,” he said one evening after a gig, grinning in the doorway while your cup trembled in your hand. You rolled your eyes. “Maybe I’m here for the cat,” you said, and he laughed.

That was the beginning.

He was different from how he looked on stage. You thought maybe the boy with the silver chain and desperate vocals would be cocky or dramatic. But off-stage Heeseung was shy in small ways — eyes darting when your fingers brushed, a hand lifting to his mouth when he laughed too loud, the way he paused before speaking like he was double-checking his words.

He told you he studied something entirely unrelated — digital marketing, of all things. Had a stable job. Office, meetings, morning coffee with two sugars. Music was just… his other life. The one he lived after dark.

You liked that. That he had a heartbeat that ran deeper than what he showed at first glance.

You fell first — you knew that. Somewhere between the fourth show and the night you walked home together and he offered you his jacket without asking. Somewhere in the soft parts, the quiet between songs.

He fell later. But he fell harder.

He started looking for you before every performance. Saved you a seat at the back. Texted you sneak peeks of songs they hadn’t played live yet, asking what you thought. He never said it, but the way he smiled when he saw you made it obvious: you weren’t just someone in the crowd anymore.

It built slowly — over late-night walks and hands brushing too long, over cups of tea on rainy days and shared umbrella rides, and the time you leaned on his shoulder on the bus home and he stayed completely still, afraid to breathe too hard.

But tonight? Tonight is different.

You’re sitting on the rooftop after another show, legs swinging over the ledge, and he’s beside you. Closer than usual. You can still feel the beat of the last song in your bones.

“I saw you mouthing the lyrics,” he says softly, nudging you with his shoulder. “That’s how I know you’ve been coming too long.”

You smile. “You make it easy.”

Heeseung turns to you then, fully. Eyes reflecting the city lights below. You can hear the hesitation in the air between you — the kind that tastes like confession.

“I’ve been thinking,” he murmurs. “If you’re going to keep coming to my shows like this…”

You glance at him. “Yeah?”

He looks down at your hand beside his, then back up with a slow, playful grin — the kind that cracks right through his shyness, just enough to let something honest slip out.

“…you might as well be the reason I sing.”