Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Do you ever have the sort of dream that keeps you up at night, the kind that curls under your skin and refuses to let go? The kind that’s just realistic enough that, with enough blood, sweat, and tears, you’ve convinced yourself it could actually happen? Against all odds, no matter the cost—you’ll wake up one morning and find that you did it. You made that impossible dream come true.

I moved to Hollywood over five years ago for that kind of dream.

I’d been dreaming of becoming a famous actress since I was six. I remember the exact moment it began. I was home sick, and my mom had stayed with me. I’d just come down to the kitchen to tell her I threw up again, but she was watching Kim Hye-soo on a talk show. Kim was radiant—poised, magnetic, like she wasn’t just sitting there but owning the whole damn room. I stood there in my strawberry printed pajamas and thought, I want to be just like her .

Years later, my dream didn’t fade—it just evolved. I discovered I could sing, really sing. Not just hit the notes, but feel them . I could make people laugh or cry with a single phrase. I didn’t just want to act. I wanted to perform . To write something and star in it. To tell my own stories.

I didn’t have a record deal or a talent agent. Just a messy notebook full of lyrics, some scratchy demos on my phone, and a modest but loyal following on Tumblr.

But what I’ve learned in my five years in L.A.? Dreams are hard. Really, really hard.

Auditions? Oh, I went to them. Hundreds. I’d walk in and see fifteen girls who looked just like me—only better. Brighter smiles. Straighter posture. That effortless confidence that felt like it had been passed down genetically. In Hollywood, I was a dime a dozen.

I got a side job waiting tables at a trendy West Hollywood restaurant to keep the lights on. Just for now, I told myself. Just for some money. Just until I made it big.

Four months became four years. I climbed the ranks—better restaurants, better tips, better chances to get noticed. Not that I had been discovered yet. But it was always a possibility.

Some mornings, I wake up and forget I haven’t made it yet.

It’s usually in that tiny sliver of consciousness right before the alarm goes off, where I’m still dreaming—where I am onstage, lights on me, singing something I wrote, winning an award, laughing on a talk show couch next to G-Dragon. I always look amazing in those dreams. And people are listening. To me. 

Then my alarm blares and I’m back in my twin bed, in a tiny West Hollywood apartment with peeling paint and the distinct smell of last night’s ramyeon still lingering in the air.

“Rumi!” Mira yelled from the bathroom. “You have five minutes before we’re officially late and I leave you behind and tell management you got hit by a Lime scooter.”

“I’m up, I’m up!” I yanked myself out of bed, tugged my purple braid tighter with one hand while slipping on my black restaurant shirt with the other.

Zoey was already at the kitchen table, her laptop open, a half-drunk mug of tea sitting beside a freshly printed stack of pages. She wore oversized heart-shaped glasses and a light blue “Trust the Timing of Your Life” sweatshirt like she was the human version of a Pinterest board.

“You’re glowing with chaos today,” she said cheerfully.

“Gee, thanks,” I muttered, dragging on my sneakers and frantically searching for my apron.

Zoey held up a Tupperware container. “I made cookies! Take one for the road. You skipped dinner last night—again.”

“You’re an angel,” I said, snatching one and immediately biting into it. Chocolate chip. Still warm. Perfect.

“Tell me I’m your muse when you win your first Grammy,” she said, grinning.

“You’ll be the dedication in my liner notes,” I promised through a mouthful of cookie.

Mira appeared in the doorway in full uniform, arms crossed, her expression pure judgment. “You two are adorable. I, however, would like to not get fired. Shoes. Now. ”

“I’m literally walking out the door.”

Mira raised an eyebrow. “You said that seven minutes ago.”

Zoey didn’t look up from her laptop. “Everything happens for a reason. Maybe being late today is fate.”

Mira rolled her eyes so hard I could practically hear them. “If I believed that, I’d be living in a mansion with my backup dancers and an ex-NFL boyfriend by now.”

“You will be,” Zoey said, unfazed. “You’re too pretty not to end up rich.”

“You’re both insane,” Mira said, grabbing her keys. “Let’s go, Rumi. Fate—and a decent paycheck—is calling.”

I grabbed another cookie for the road and followed her out, still chewing, trying to shake the feeling that maybe Zoey was right.

Maybe today would be different.

~

The bus smelled like sour coffee, sunscreen, and someone’s regrettable cologne. We were crammed in the back, Mira scrolling through her phone with her headphones slung around her neck, one leg bouncing like she’d had four too many shots of espresso.

“My video’s at twenty-seven thousand views,” she said casually, like she wasn’t vibrating with excitement. “I swear if I get one more comment asking if I’m a backup dancer for Dua Lipa, I might just pretend I am.”

“That’s amazing,” I said, genuinely happy for her—if also a little envious. “What’d you title it?”

“When your ex says you’ve ‘lost your spark.’ With a fire emoji. I looked hot as hell.”

“You always do,” I said, and I meant it. Mira could make a trash bag look like couture. She had this intense, kinetic energy that made people want to look at her—and keep looking.

She shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal, but I saw the small smile she was trying to hide. “I just want one casting director to notice it. That’s all it takes, right? One person in the right mood at the right time.”

One person. One role. One moment. That was the math we all clung to.

My phone buzzed with a notification, and I automatically glanced down. An email. My stomach dropped.

Thank you for auditioning. Unfortunately, we’ve decided to go in a different direction...

My chest tightened.

I’d tried not to care too much about this one. It was just a supporting role in an indie pilot—eight lines total—but I liked the script. The part felt right. And I’d thought maybe… just maybe…

Mira must’ve seen the change in my expression, because she leaned in, eyes narrowing. “What happened?”

I tilted my screen toward her, even though I didn’t want to talk about it. The rejection felt like an old bruise someone kept pressing on.

“Ugh,” she muttered. “Seriously? You practiced all night for that, it sounded amazing.”

“I guess not good enough,” I said, the words slipping out too bitter. I looked out the window, but all I could see was my own reflection staring back.

Mira nudged me gently with her shoulder. “Don’t do that. You are good enough. It’s just—people suck. This industry sucks.”

I forced a smile. “I just feel like everyone’s moving forward but me. You’ve got a whole audience now. Zoey’s almost done with her script. And I’m… what? Getting ghosted by casting interns.”

“That’s not true,” Mira said firmly. “You’re the most talented person I know. You just haven’t had your shot yet.”

I knew she meant it. I just didn’t know if I believed it anymore.

“Maybe I’m delusional,” I murmured, mostly to myself. “Maybe I’m wasting my time.”

“You’re not,” Mira said instantly. “You just need one break. That’s it.”

I nodded, but a part of me couldn’t help wondering if maybe I’d missed my window. Maybe the universe had been speaking, and I’d just been too stubborn to hear it.

Outside the window, Hollywood passed by like it always did—dreamy, glossy, indifferent.

And I sat there quietly, wondering how much longer I could keep doing this.

~

By the time we got to the restaurant, I’d shaken off most of the rejection—or at least shoved it into the mental folder labeled 'feelings to spiral about later'.

The restaurant was already humming. Fate was always packed on Saturday mornings, filled with too-loud first dates, Hollywood hopefuls at brunch, and producers who made everything about them. The lighting was low, the music vibey, and the whole place had this curated "you're probably sitting next to someone important" energy.

I tied my apron on and was halfway to the bar when Mira intercepted me.

“Mega hot guy. Table twelve. Yours,” she said, with no context or apology. “If you blow this, I’m taking over and pretending to be you. I've got a bottle of purple dye in the back.”

“Okay, dramatic.” I turned slightly to peek—but before I could even spot him, Mira tugged me back.

“Nope. You don’t get to pre-game it. Go in cold. You're better under pressure. Let the universe do its thing.”

I rolled my eyes but my heart picked up speed. I hated when Mira said cryptic crap like that. It usually meant she was right.

I grabbed a bottle of sparkling water and a cloth napkin, trying to play it cool as I made my way across the restaurant. When I got close enough to see him clearly, I froze.

Oh.

Okay. So. Here’s the thing.

He was… devastatingly handsome. All sharp cheekbones and lazy confidence, the kind of guy you didn’t look directly at unless you were ready to feel it in your chest. He wore a black fitted tee, a few rings on his right hand, and a smug expression that said he knew he was the hottest person in the room—and didn’t need to prove it.

He was scanning the menu lazily when he suddenly looked up—right at me.

And then he smiled.

Oh no.

It wasn’t even a full smile—just this small, knowing curve of his mouth. But it was enough to completely short-circuit my brain. I walked right past his table. Like, fully missed it.

I had to circle back, pretending I’d meant to check on another table. When I reached him again, my throat went dry.

“Hi,” I managed, setting down the bottle with a thud that was definitely louder than intended. “I’m Rumi, and I’ll be your server tonight. Welcome to Fate.”

I didn’t meet his eyes at first—too dangerous. I focused on his empty water glass, the menu, the table. Anything but the way his gaze felt like it was pinning me in place.

“Hi, Rumi,” he said slowly, like he was testing how my name sounded in his mouth. “Nice to meet you.”

I glanced up. Big mistake.

His eyes were a warm, bright gold—actually gold, like he had light behind them. His face was somehow familiar, but not in a way I could place. I didn’t recognize him. I felt him.

“Can I get you something to drink besides water?” I asked, and cursed how breathy I sounded. Just to distract myself, I cracked upon the sparkling water and poured. 

“Bourbon on the rocks. With a slice of peach, if you have it.” He tilted his head slightly, watching me. “Please.”

“Coming right up,” I said, but my voice cracked slightly on the “up.” I cleared my throat, then turned way too fast to go to the bar.

I didn’t even wait until I was out of sight before exhaling hard, like I’d just survived something dangerous.

Mira was behind the bar, loading ice into glasses, and she raised an eyebrow the second she saw my face.

“You good?” she asked, smirking.

“No. I am not good.” I leaned in. “He smiled at me, Mira. Before I even said anything. I panicked. I walked past the table like an idiot.”

“I mean… did you black out, or are we calling that flirting now?”

“Shut up,” I hissed, but I couldn’t stop the ridiculous smile creeping across my face as I typed in his order. “He’s… different. I can’t explain it.”

“You don’t have to. I saw him. I felt it in my knees.”

As Mira turned back to bartending, I ducked into the back hallway near the bar, bracing my hands on the wall like I’d just run a marathon.

What was that?

I was usually much more composed than this. My heart was thudding like I’d sprinted out of there, and maybe I had, emotionally. Who was that guy—and why did one smile from him knock all the air out of my lungs?

I shook my head, trying to physically reset. This was just a guy. A guy with really nice eyes and the kind of calm energy you only get after seven hours of yoga.

“You’re fine,” I muttered. “You’re totally fine. You’re a professional.”

My apron strings were crooked. I tugged them loose and retied the knot, tighter this time. Smoothed my braid. Stared at myself in the dusty hallway mirror and tried not to look like I was spiraling.

When I finally stepped back onto the floor, I held my head high and tried to channel someone effortlessly cool. Someone like Mira. Or Zendaya. Or literally any woman who’d ever managed to flirt without sweating.

I crossed the dining room back toward Table Twelve, repeating my lines in my head.

“Here’s your bourbon. Are you ready to order?”

“Here’s your bourbon. Are you ready to—"

"Here’s your—”

He looked up as I approached, and my brain blue-screened again.

He was leaning back in the booth, arms stretched lazily along the top of the seat, that same unreadable half-smile tugging at his lips like he knew a secret about me I hadn’t figured out yet.

“Hi,” he said, low and warm. “Thought you got lost.”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

Abort mission. Reboot.

“Sorry—I, um—your bourbon.” I slid the glass onto the table too quickly, and the liquid splashed around just a bit. I winced. “Sorry. Again. It’s just—”

He tilted his head, still watching me like I was the most interesting thing in the restaurant. “Just?”

I blinked. “Just bourbon,” I said. Then immediately regretted it. What? What does that even mean? "With a slice of peach." 

His smile deepened. “I’m glad you came back.”

I think I forgot how to stand.

His gaze dropped to the tray still balanced on my hip. “You look like you're having one of those days.”

I huffed out a tired laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only a little.” He leaned forward on his elbows, eyes warm. “Want to talk about it?”

I blinked. “You’re asking a waitress to trauma dump on you?”

“I’m asking a person,” he said softly. “And you seem like you’ve had a rough one.”

I hesitated. Something about the way he said it, quiet and unassuming, made my throat tighten. I hadn’t realized how badly I needed someone—anyone—to notice.

“I just…” I exhaled, glancing down at my shoes. “Sometimes it feels like I’m sprinting in mud. You know? Everyone around me is booking jobs and making things happen and I’m just stuck. I woke up late, got a rejection email on the bus... and I feel like my life is so static and everyone else is having breakthrough after breakthrough and I'm just... chasing something that'll never happen.”

He nodded like he knew exactly what that felt like. “What are you chasing?”

“Acting. And singing.” I gave a sheepish shrug. “Classic Hollywood cliché.”

He smiled, but didn’t make fun of me for it. “You’ll get there.”

“Tell that to my inbox.”

“You’ve got this… spark,” he said, almost like he was thinking out loud. “Like you’re supposed to be seen.”

I swallowed hard, thrown. I didn’t even know this man’s name, and somehow he’d said the exact thing I didn’t know I needed to hear.

“Okay,” I said, needing to break the moment before I cried in my apron. “Your turn. What do you do?”

He tilted his head. “Take a guess.”

I squinted at him. “Businessman. Or, like… trust fund baby who opened a record label that doesn’t actually sign anyone.”

That got a laugh. “Not even close.”

“Fine. You’re a model. That shirt looks expensive. Or do you just have a really good tailor? Wait... maybe you do something in fashion?”

He chuckled again, shaking his head. “I like the way you think.”

I opened my mouth to press further, but suddenly two girls—maybe sixteen—appeared beside the booth, eyes wide and glowing.

“Excuse me—sorry—but can we get a picture with you?” the taller one asked, already holding out her phone.

He glanced at me, almost apologetic, then gave them a charming smile. “Sure, I think I can manage that.”

They practically melted on the spot, gushing thanks as he stood to pose with them.

I stepped back, not thinking much of it. Probably some influencer. Or a commercial actor they recognized from a cereal box. This was Hollywood—even nobody's had fans.

Before I could say anything else, I felt the unmistakable heat of my manager’s stare burning through the kitchen window.

I turned to sneak away as he laughed with the girls. But as I left, my heart was pounding like I’d just touched something electric.

~

I slipped behind the bar where Mira was restocking the fruit tray, her eyes already narrowed like she’d been waiting for me.

“Well?” she asked, tossing a lemon wedge into a bowl. “What’s the deal with the guy at 12?”

I grabbed a glass of wine for the woman at Table 10 and tried to sound casual. “Nothing. He’s just… nice.”

Mira raised a brow. “Nice? That’s what we’re going with?”

I shrugged, sipping to buy time. “He asked how my day was going. I had a mini breakdown. The usual.”

She leaned her elbows on the bar, smirking. “And?”

“And nothing,” I insisted. “He’s just… I don’t know. He said some nice things. Gave off, like, mild therapist energy. It’s not like he’s going to ask me out or anything.”

Mira didn’t look convinced. “Uh-huh. Because all random hot guys who look like they stepped off a magazine cover ask deep questions and make emotional eye contact just for fun.”

I rolled my eyes. “Stop.”

“I’m just saying.” She flicked a lime slice at me. “You blushed so hard I thought you were having a heatstroke.”

“I did not blush.”

“You did. Like aggressively. Like ‘main character in a K-drama’ blush.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but the bell above the kitchen window dinged sharply, followed by my manager’s impatient stare.

“Gotta go,” I muttered, backing away. “But it’s nothing, okay? He’s just some random guy. I’ll never see him again.”

“Famous last words,” Mira called after me, way too smug.

I turned, tray in hand, and made my way back to my other tables—pretending my heart hadn’t just flipped at the thought of Table 12 waiting there with that soft, unreadable smile.

Chapter Text

Most Friday and Saturday nights, after work, Mira, Zoey, and I go out clubbing. In Los Angeles, clubs were the place to see and be seen. Zoey had an ever-flowing social calendar and knew just about every bouncer in town—occasionally intimately—so we never had to wait in line.

“Hey, Brandon,” Zoey cooed as we approached the front of Xcaliber, one of the newest, trendiest nightclubs. She always kept us in the know. Mira and I were just along for the ride. 

“Zoey, baby,” he grinned when he spotted her, stepping aside with a dramatic bow. “Step right in. Save me a dance later, yeah?”

Throwing her head back like he was the funniest man on Earth, Zoey replied, “You know I will. Don’t keep me waiting.”

Mira shot me her usual look—half amused, half exasperated—and I just shrugged. This was the price of VIP treatment.

Inside, the club pulsed with low fog and sharp lights. The dance floor was already packed—which was strange, because in L.A., no one showed up before midnight—and we made a beeline for the bar, shoulder to shoulder like a tiny girl gang.

Usually, this was where Zoey scanned the crowd, roped in a few guys to buy us overpriced cocktails, and made some poor sucker think he was getting lucky tonight. Then Mira and I would disappear to the dance floor and leave her to clean up the aftermath with a few well-timed flirts and some loose promise to definitely 100% text them tomorrow.

Tonight felt different.

“No one worthwhile,” Zoey announced over the music, her lips barely moving. “Guess we’ll have to pay for our own drinks.”

“The horror,” Mira said with mock solemnity.

I laughed despite myself, just as Zoey pushed her way to the front of the bar. She returned triumphantly with three vodka sodas, handing them out like holy offerings.

“Cheers, bitches!” she declared, knocking her cup into ours and downing half her drink in one go.

Mine tasted like battery acid and regret. I winced after one sip. Mira snorted.

“You always make that face like you’re new here,” she said.

“I like to believe one day it’ll magically taste good,” I replied.

“I’m not sure that’s how vodka works,” Zoey said, sipping hers far more gracefully.

Before I could respond, Mira leaned toward me, her mouth moving, but the music drowned her out. I leaned closer just as a pair of hands slid around my waist.

So that’s what she was trying to say.

I turned around to find a guy—tall, pale, angular—looking at me like I was edible. He smiled, a little too hungry.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said. “Want to dance?”

“Oh,” I said, taking a quick step back. “I’m actually here to hang out with my friends tonight.” I gestured to Mira. “She’s going through a divorce, so… you understand.”

His face crumpled in concern. “That is terrible. Yes, yes, be good to her. Have fun!” He disappeared into the crowd as quickly as he’d come.

I turned back to my friends. Mira’s jaw was dropped.

“You’re seriously still using the ‘recently divorced friend’ excuse?”

“She’s got it down to a science,” Zoey added, impressed.

“What was wrong with that one?” Mira asked, mock-offended. “He had big ‘wall street vampire’ energy but like… in a good way.”

“I think he was probably Patrick Dempsey’s brother,” Zoey quipped.

“He has a brother?” I asked.

“No idea,” Mira said. “But if he does, I bet he looks like that.”

They both giggled, but then Mira’s face turned thoughtful as she smiled at me like a shark.

“Don’t tell me you’re seriously still thinking about that guy from the restaurant.”

“What guy from the restaurant?” Zoey blinked, her face confused. “Why am I always the last to know things?”

I took a sip of my drink to dodge the question.

“Rumi had this super hot guy sit in her section today,” Mira said, her eyes wide. “Like, unfairly hot. You know that fantasy of locking eyes with a stranger and suddenly your life changes? That level of hot.”

“I thought he was just nice,” I muttered. “We talked for a few minutes. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“She’s lying,” Mira said to Zoey. “They were vibing. Our manager asked me to tell her to stop chatting and check on her other tables. Did I? No. Because I believe in true love.”

“It wasn’t true love,” I laughed. “And I don’t think he was into it. I think he’s semi-famous or something. A couple teenage girls came up and asked for his autograph, but I didn’t recognize him. And of course I told him all about my dreams to be famous before I realized. It probably came off so cringe.”

Zoey twisted her straw, frowning. “Okay, but like… that’s kind of his fault? If he didn’t introduce himself, how were you supposed to know?”

“Exactly,” Mira said. “Plus, he probably gets fake people around him all the time. You’re not fake, Rumi. That’s what would’ve stood out.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It doesn’t matter. It's not like I'm ever going to see him again.”

They both went quiet, exchanging a look.

I forced a smile. “Let’s just have fun, okay?”

“Let’s dance,” Mira decided, slipping an arm around mine. “I’m a divorced woman, after all. I need my girls.”

Zoey laughed, linking the other side. “Tragic. I’ll go find us a rebound.”

We moved toward the dance floor, the three of us pushing through bodies and light, the bass thumping in our chests. For a moment, I forgot everything else. The noise, the chaos, the endless string of almosts and never-agains.

Just me, Mira, and Zoey. Our strange, glittery sisterhood in the city of dreams.

~

The music thumped so hard I could feel it in my ribs, and Mira was already tossing her hair around like she was in a music video. Zoey grabbed both our hands and pulled us into a triangle in the middle of the crowd. We danced like no one was watching—because no one was. Everyone was too busy chasing their own moment, their own buzz, their own night to remember.

Zoey’s glittery eyeshadow caught the lights in flashes of gold as she spun, screaming along to the chorus of a remix we’d heard a thousand times. Mira laughed, looping an arm around my shoulders, and I leaned into her, grateful. This was our version of religion—our place to shake off the week, exorcise our doubts, and remember who we were before the auditions and rejection emails and Hollywood's weird, quiet cruelty started to chip at us.

Mira leaned in. “Okay. I’m not trying to make it a thing. But you keep looking at the door.”

“I do not,” I protested, even as I caught myself glancing over her shoulder.

“Mhmm,” Zoey chimed in, her voice playful. “It’s okay. I’d be obsessed too if a hot, mysterious, possibly famous guy had a soulful moment with me in a restaurant and then disappeared like Batman.”

I laughed, heat rising to my cheeks. “I’m not obsessed. I’m... curious. And anyway, even if I were—so what? I’m allowed to be curious about a guy who was kind and actually listened to me.”

“Exactly,” Mira agreed. “Especially when he didn’t once look at your chest while you talked. Which is more than I can say for any guy I’ve met in the past year.”

We all laughed at that, and for a second, I let myself relax. The song changed—something with a nostalgic beat we loved—and we instinctively wrapped arms around each other’s shoulders, bouncing in time, shouting the lyrics into each other’s faces like we meant every word.

I thought, briefly, about him. About the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, how he listened without trying to interrupt or impress me. About how he never once told me what he did for a living, which somehow felt more personal than if he had. A soft curiosity lingered in my chest like static. It wasn’t love, or fate, or obsession. But it was something.

“You good?” Zoey shouted over the music, grabbing my hand.

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Better than good.”

She beamed, squeezing my hand tight, and Mira pulled us into another spin just as the beat dropped.

We were three girls dancing under strobe lights, laughing too loudly and probably off-beat, but for once, it didn’t matter. It felt like freedom.

It felt like home.

~

The apartment smelled like cheap perfume, club smoke, and now—instant ramyeon. Mira was hunched over the stove boiling water in her little sparkly top and pajama shorts, dramatically fanning steam away from her lashes while Zoey sat cross-legged on the kitchen counter, swinging her bare feet like a kid.

"I swear to God," Mira slurred, pointing a wooden spoon like a weapon, "if I don’t eat carbs in the next thirty seconds, my body is going to shut down."

“You said that five minutes ago,” Zoey giggled, nudging her knee with a bottle of water. “Here. Hydrate before you shrivel into a TikTok cautionary tale.”

I stood in the doorway, more amused than anything. My feet were bare now, makeup rubbed off unevenly, and the tight crop top had been replaced with an oversized t-shirt I stole from Mira last month.

“I’m just saying,” Zoey continued, eyes wide and wild, “if your hot mystery man does show up one day and sees you eating spicy noodles on the floor in last night’s glitter… that’s real love.”

Mira groaned. “I’m going to die alone.”

“No you’re not,” I said, pulling three bowls from the cabinet. “You’re going to die dramatic, surrounded by six Pomeranians and a dance studio empire.”

Zoey grinned, flopping dramatically onto the counter like a fainting goat. “You guys… I had the best night.”

“You fell down the stairs,” I reminded her, pouring the boiling water into the bowls.

“I danced down the stairs,” she corrected, then slurred, “with flair.”

Mira pointed at me. “You didn’t dance with anyone.”

“I was dancing with you two,” I replied, sliding a bowl to each of them. “That’s way better.”

“But did you think about him?” Zoey asked, eyes twinkling as she stirred her noodles with chopsticks she clearly didn’t know how to use anymore.

I hesitated for half a second too long.

“Ohhh,” Mira groaned. “She totally did.”

I tried to keep my voice casual. “It’s not like that. I don't even know his name, guys. He was just… I don’t know. Nice. It was nice.”

“He was hot,” Mira said. “Like, cryptic-sexy-hot.”

“Maybe,” I muttered, poking at my noodles. “But like I said... it’s not like I’m ever going to see him again.”

The words hung in the air for a second too long, and we all knew it.

Zoey broke the silence by slurping a mouthful of ramyeon so aggressively it made Mira gag-laugh.

“I’m gonna marry a screenwriter,” Zoey announced, mouth still half full. “One who writes me monologues about my boobs.”

Mira rolled her eyes. “I’m gonna marry a dancer with better technique than me so we can be competitive and hot and eventually host a reality show.”

They both turned to me.

“What about you?” Mira asked, drunk-soft now.

I blinked. “I just wanna… get there. Wherever there is. I want someone to hear me sing and not say ‘you’re gonna make it one,’ you know? I want someone to hear me sing and and just be like... 'you did it'.”

They nodded, their teasing melting into warmth.

“You’ll get there,” Zoey said, reaching out to squeeze my wrist. “You’re too good not to.”

"And when I do... I want my own flavor ramyeon." 

Zoey cooed, as Mira lifted her bowl like a toast. “To getting there.”

I clinked mine against hers.

And even though the ramyeon was way too spicy and my mascara was halfway down my face, I felt… okay.

More than okay. I felt good. 

Safe. Full. Home.

~

The next morning, I woke up with the remnants of a hangover and a big, stupid smile on my face.

That’s the thing about living with your best friends: even the most nothing nights become everything. Last night should’ve been a bust, but somehow it ended with us screaming the lyrics to some 2000s throwback in the backseat of our Uber, begging the driver to take the long way home just so we could finish the song.

A few months ago, Zoey’s horrible breakup had all three of us crying on the bathroom floor—until it devolved into drunken laughter and a spontaneous group decision to get matching hunter tattoos on our ankles. (Mine still looked the best, not that it was a competition.) Even the quiet nights, the forgettable ones, had their magic. If I ever made it big someday, I’d take them with me. I’d have to.

I didn’t even know them before I moved to LA, but now I couldn’t imagine my life without them. And if fame never came? Honestly... I think I’d still feel lucky. Just being here, chasing the dream, messing around with my girls—that was something worth everything.

I puttered around the apartment that morning, a little foggy but content. Mira and Zoey were still asleep, obviously—they could sleep through a zombie apocalypse—but I was always the early riser. So I made myself breakfast, went for a run, took a long shower, and tried to shake off the dreamy feeling that still lingered.

By the time my shift rolled around, I was mostly grounded again.

Mira was working today, but we weren’t on the same shift. Sometimes she filled in behind the bar when our regular was out, which meant later hours. I didn’t mind. I liked the solitude of the bus ride alone sometimes. It gave me space to think.

And I was definitely thinking. About him.

It was silly, really. I didn’t even know his name. But there he was, floating around in the back of my mind like a song I couldn’t stop humming. Maybe it was because I was a hopeless romantic—I’d read entire romance novels in a single night, rewatched the kiss scenes in my favorite shows until I knew the lines by heart. It made sense I’d believe in love at first sight. I always had.

Still, I could practically hear Mira’s voice in my head, rolling her eyes: “Love at first sight is unrealistic.”

“He could be a serial killer,” she’d add.

“Or a serial cheater,” Zoey would chime in. “More than 20% of men cheat. And 40% of those who cheat do it again.”

I’d say, “He’s different,” and Mira would cackle while Zoey rolled her eyes.

“If I had a quarter for every time I heard that,” Mira would say, “I wouldn’t be living in this shitty apartment.”

And just like that, he was gone from my thoughts.

Until he wasn’t.

It was just after six, about five hours into my shift, when I saw him again. Same booth. Same posture. Same air of quiet confidence.

For a moment, I thought I was imagining it. A daydream, maybe. Wishful thinking. But as I approached, the golden color of his eyes caught the light—and no part of my imagination could've made up something that precise.

I swallowed. Okay. He’s really here.

I tried to play it cool.

“Hi, I’m Rumi, and welcome to Fate. I’ll be your server tonight. Can I get you started with something to drink?”

He looked up at me, the faintest smirk playing on his lips. “Do you say that every time?”

I shrugged, smiling despite myself. “Of course. But usually I don’t get the same guy twice, so no one notices.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

I did not let myself melt. “About that drink... let me guess.” I tilted my head, pretending to think, even though I’d been repeating it in my head all afternoon. “Bourbon on the rocks. Slice of peach, if we have it.”

His smirk deepened. “I’m impressed. You’re quite good at your job, aren’t you?”

“You flatter me.” I turned, heart racing. “Coming right up.”

I turned away quickly, before he could catch the stupid grin spreading across my face. I couldn’t help the way my cheeks felt warm, though, or the flutter in my chest. He came back. On purpose. To my section.

For what?

It could mean nothing. He might just like the drink. Or the vibe. Maybe I’d imagined the spark between us, and this was some weird coincidence, like he was staying at the hotel down the block. I placed the drink order with the bartender, fingers drumming lightly on the counter as I waited.

But then I remembered something—the way he looked at me yesterday. Not through me. Not past me. At me. Like he was interested, like he was seeing something he wanted to keep seeing.

When I brought the drink back, he sat with one arm draped along the back of the booth, impossibly relaxed, like he had all the time in the world. I set it down with practiced ease. “One overpriced bourbon with an impractically sliced peach.”

He took a sip, eyes never leaving mine. “Still perfect.”

My heart stuttered. “I’ll tell the bartender. He needs the ego boost.”

There was a short beat of silence, not awkward, just… full. Like he was letting it stretch on purpose.

“So,” he said finally, “Rumi. You remembered my drink order.”

I leaned a hand against the booth’s edge. “I’ve got a scary-good memory. Can’t waste it on auditions that go nowhere, so I use it for drink orders.”

He laughed softly and swirled the bourbon in the glass. “You make it sound like you’re stuck.”

“Isn’t everyone?” I asked before I could stop myself. I shook my head, backpedaling. “Sorry. That was a trauma dump. Ignore me.”

“No, don’t do that,” he said, and his tone made me freeze. “Don’t shrink it down. I liked the version of you from yesterday.”

The one who told you too much and didn’t even know your name?

“I was tired and oversharing.”

He smiled into his drink. “Still. I liked her.”

“Are you always like this?” I asked, crossing my arms loosely, only half-joking.

“Like what?”

“Mysterious. Vaguely flirty. Sitting in dark booths with expensive shirts and soulful eyes.”

His eyes crinkled as he grinned. “I think that’s the nicest way anyone’s ever accused me of being weird.”

I laughed, despite myself. He made me feel oddly… safe. Even though I knew literally nothing about him. Still didn’t know his name.

“You’re not back by coincidence, are you?” I asked.

“Maybe not,” he said, casually sipping his drink. “Or maybe the food’s just that good.”

“You didn’t even eat anything last time,” I pointed out.

He tapped his glass. “True. But the service was excellent.”

I couldn’t help it—I smiled again. One of those involuntary, cheek-aching ones that made my eyes squint.

He looked at me for a moment, something curious dancing behind his eyes. “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”

I stared back at him, then tilted my head, faking a hard think. “Mmm… tax lawyer? No—wait, let me guess again. Underground magician. Part-time peach farmer, here to scope out the competition?”

He laughed again, head tipping back slightly. “I’m an actor.”

“Oh,” I said, pretending to be surprised. “Right. Because no one in L.A. is an actor.”

“Touché.”

I tucked my pen into my apron. “Should I know what you were in? Am I committing some kind of Hollywood sin?”

He shrugged. “Only if you’re under the age of twenty-five and on TikTok.”

“That is literally my exact demographic.”

“What can I say, Rumi? You're special.”

I blinked at him, trying to picture him in anything I’d seen. But I couldn’t. He looked like he could play a villain or a heartthrob or a tragic romantic lead—but he didn’t feel famous. He felt… real . Which was probably the most dangerous thing about him.

“I should check on my other tables,” I said, already backing away. 

“I’ll be here,” he replied, low and easy, like he already knew I’d be back.

I walked away, trying not to float. My heart was racing, and I hated how much I liked it.

The rest of the restaurant faded a little in the background, like it was all painted in softer focus. I moved through my tables on autopilot, dropping off dishes and refilling waters, but my thoughts kept drifting back to Table 12.

He came back.

He chose to come back.

And whether it meant anything or not, I wasn’t ready to stop hoping that it did.

~

I did my best to give him less attention than the day before, if only to keep my hopes in check. There was nothing I could offer him that a hundred other girls in Hollywood couldn’t do better. There was no reason to think he was here for anything but light flirtation and the charbroiled rib-eye.

Still, I kept sneaking glances—at first when I thought he wouldn’t notice, then even when he might. Sometimes I’d catch him watching me, too. Other times, he was lost in his phone, his expression unreadable. Serious. Like he was in a different world.

When it was finally time to bring him the check—after he suspiciously ordered two desserts, one after the other—I approached his table, rehearsing my usual “Take your time.” But before I could say anything, he said,

“I have a proposition for you.”

I blinked. “What?”

He leaned forward, casual but deliberate. “A proposition.”

Immediately, my brain started racing: Was he going to ask something inappropriate? Was I misreading everything? Was he really just a good-looking lunatic and I was the idiot who romanticized him into a character from a K-drama?

“I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday,” he continued. “About wanting a fair shot at auditions. I want to help you.”

“What?” I repeated, stunned. “Why? How?”

“Fake date me.”

I stared at him. “I’m sorry—did you just say fake date?”

He laughed. “I know how it sounds. But I mean it. A few dates, out in public, you get photographed with me, your name gets out there. Suddenly people care who you are. You’ll be Googled, followed, speculated about. I can get your name into rooms. The rest is up to you.”

I shook my head, stunned. “I… appreciate it, I do. But I want people to know me for my talent—not because I clung to some famous guy’s arm long enough to trend on Twitter.”

“Talent will land you the role,” he said, looking straight into my eyes. “But fame is what gets you the audition.”

I couldn’t argue with that. Not really. Still, my guard was up. “What’s in it for you?”

“The satisfaction of seeing a friend succeed.”

I raised an eyebrow. “We’re not friends.”

He laughed again, a warm, genuine sound that somehow made this entire interaction feel even more surreal.

“Okay, fine,” he admitted. “There’s an ex. She went off the rails a little when we broke up, and the press won’t stop asking me about it. Being seen with someone new… might speed that whole mess along.”

“So I’m supposed to be your PR Band-Aid?” I asked, crossing my arms.

He held up a hand. “One date. That’s all I’m asking. See how it feels. If you hate it, you can ghost me forever. Worst case, it’s a terrible blind date story you can laugh about later.”

He pulled out a business card from his pocket, grabbed my pen from the table, and scribbled something on the back.

“Ignore the front,” he said as he handed it to me. “That’s not really me.”

I flipped it over. His handwriting was neat, careful, written in cheap blue ink.

I exhaled, slowly. “Don’t hold your breath.” 

Chapter Text

“I never thought I’d say this, but you’re being incredibly selfish,” Mira said, leveling a look at me across the table as she slurped the last of her strawberry smoothie.

Zoey glanced up from her laptop, blinking. “Wow. I actually agree with Mira. That never happens.”

“Great. A double attack,” I muttered, clutching my mug of lukewarm coffee like it might protect me.

Zoey shut her laptop with dramatic flair. “Rumi. This is a win for everyone. For you, for us, for the dream. You know I love you, but I don’t get the hesitation.”

“I don’t know,” I said, shifting in my seat. “Maybe because I’ve seen too many Netflix documentaries? What if he’s secretly a serial killer? Or a scammer. Or, I don’t know, just really really weird?”

Mira rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. “Wow. Look who’s suddenly cautious. The same girl who once gave her number to a guy dressed as a giant taco.”

“That was a performance art student, and he was sweet!” I defended.

“He was also possibly homeless,” Zoey added helpfully. “But I digress.”

I groaned, laying my head dramatically on the table. “It’s just… I want to make it on my own. I don’t want people thinking I only got cast in something because I was arm candy.”

Zoey reached across the table and gently poked my cheek. “First of all, no one’s casting you as ‘arm candy.’ You’re way too opinionated. Second, you don’t have to sell your soul. It's not like this guy's a demon or something. One date, some photos, a few vague interview quotes, and suddenly casting agents know your name before you walk in.”

“I still think it’s weird,” I muttered.

Mira threw her hands up. “Everything is weird in Hollywood. That’s the entire premise of this city. You said you wanted to be taken seriously. This is just… leveling the playing field a little.”

“What do we even know about him?” I argued. “For all I know, he’s a C-list TikTok actor who’s bored and thinks I look like a safe bet.”

“If he were a C-list TikTok actor, I’d already have tried to sleep with him,” Mira said flatly.

Zoey raised her eyebrows. “Mira. Focus.”

I waved my hands. “Okay, but what if—hypothetically—I meet someone I actually like while I’m pretending to date this guy? What then? Do I just… put my real love life on pause for a PR stunt?”

“If the man of your dreams is scared off by you having dated someone before, then he’s probably a real loser,” Zoey said, matter-of-fact. “And definitely not your dream guy. Dream guys handle exes just fine.”

Mira squinted at me like I was a particularly stubborn puzzle. “You are seriously overthinking this.”

“Of course I am,” I snapped. “Overthinking is literally my core skill set.”

Zoey leaned back in her chair. “Okay, fine. Go on one date. If it sucks, we bail. I’ll help you ghost him, change your name, move to Vermont. I’ve always wanted to run a bookstore-slash-café.”

“I still think you should keep doing it even if he is a weirdo,” Mira decided, shrugging a little. “We’ve dealt with worse. I mean, what about Zoey’s obsession with the pirate?”

Zoey shrieked, “He was not a pirate! He just wore an eyepatch!” 

“Mira, please!” I groaned, scrunching my eyes shut. “My brain is already melting.”

She shrugged. “I’m just saying. We’re survived worse disasters than you getting a free coffee and a fake boyfriend.”

“One date,” Zoey repeated firmly, pointing a finger at me. “Just one. It’s not like he is proposing.”

I stared at both of them, feeling that familiar tug of anxiety pulling at my spine.

“You two are the worst ,” I sighed.

“And yet,” Mira said smugly, “you love us.”

Unfortunately, I did, so I pulled out the business card and sent a text. 

One date. I’m in. 

~

“Is it weird I don’t even know his name?” I asked, fiddling with the drawstring on my sweatpants. “I should’ve gotten his name so we could at least google him. What if he's a murderer?”

“Wait, he still didn’t give you his name?” Mira snorted, eyes widening like she’d just discovered the juiciest plot twist on reality TV. “Oh, he’s definitely a famous porn star. Has to be. Mysteriously sitting alone in a restaurant? Lean muscles peaking through a well-fitted shirt? Classic behavior of a guy who fucks for a living.”

“She’s joking,” Zoey said, shooting Mira a look—but I caught the subtle elbow nudge she gave her, which did not help my rising anxiety.

“Maybe he’s mega famous,” Zoey added, suddenly a bit too casual. “So he wants to make sure you like him for him, not, like...his red carpet appearances.”

“Or maybe he’s just weird,” I muttered, my voice small.

“He’s not weird !” Zoey blurted, startling us both into silence. Her eyes went wide at her own volume. “Sorry. But he’s not. I mean, you said he was polite, right? Kind? Didn’t sexually harass you?”

I nodded.

“I know that's literally just the bare minimum, but also very rare in this godforsaken city.”

Mira nodded solemnly, then perked back up. “Anyway, whether he’s a porn star, a pop star, or just some rich weirdo, you still have to look hot.”

“Why?” I asked, already bracing for the onslaught. “It’s not even a date. He just asked me to meet for coffee.”

Zoey raised an eyebrow. “You’re meeting a man you barely know, who refused to give you his name, at a trendy café in West Hollywood. It’s a date.”

“It’s not a date,” I said, weakly. “It’s a... discussion . Logistics and all that.”

“Why do you talk like a nineteenth-century governess?” Mira sighed, already pawing through my closet. “You’re giving ‘meeting my mom at the post office’ and I’m telling you—this city doesn’t do casual. If your outfit isn’t better than everyone else’s, you don’t exist.”

“I have clothes...”

“You have sadness in cotton form,” she said, pulling out a wrinkled graphic tee. “This shirt still has glitter glue from a Halloween party in 2021.”

“That’s vintage.”

“It’s really not.”

Zoey was already laying out options on my bed, face serious like she was styling for the Met Gala instead of a mysterious coffee date. “You’ll wear the cropped sweater. The black jeans. Hair in loose waves. Minimal jewelry—mysterious, effortless. Lip tint, cheek highlight. I want you to look like a cool girl who could be spotted by a casting director but would also definitely ghost someone for not tipping their barista.”

Mira gave a slow clap. “You’ve done this before.”

“Style Rumi? Only every time I close my eyes,” Zoey said. “Now sit down and let me make you into the version of yourself that gets scouted for a perfume campaign.”

I groaned, dropping into my desk chair while Mira lined up shoes like it was a runway fitting.

“This is too much,” I muttered. “He’s probably just some assistant with a rich uncle and a fake Rolex.”

“Or,” Mira said, holding up a pair of boots like she was presenting a sacred artifact, “he’s Jinu.”

I frowned. “Who?”

They both stared at me like I’d just said, ‘What’s Beyoncé?’

“You’re so lucky you have us,” Zoey replied instead.

~

When I arrived at the café, I half-expected him to bail. Or to be late. Or to not exist. Or to send someone in his place, like a manager or a weird guy with a clipboard.

But there he was, already sitting on the patio, in a shadow-dappled spot under the awning. No sunglasses. No entourage. Just a black baseball cap pulled low and a coffee cup in each hand like he wasn’t sure which one I’d prefer.

He spotted me before I could duck behind the planter and pretend to be just a passing pedestrian. His smile tugged the corners of his mouth upward, not dramatic, just warm. Familiar. Like I wasn’t someone he’d only just while carrying a tray of drinks.

“I wasn’t sure if you were a matcha latte or cold brew kind of person,” he said, holding up the drinks. “So I got both.”

I reached out and took the cold brew. “Hey, you guessed right.”

“Of course I did,” he said simply, like it was obvious.

We sat. The table was small enough that our knees brushed accidentally—or maybe not accidentally—and I didn’t know what to do with my hands.

I waited for him to start talking business. Or for some sort of NDA to appear. Instead, he just sipped his drink and nodded toward the street like we were old friends people-watching.

“You’re surprisingly chill,” I said before I could stop myself.

He laughed. “You expected me to be...what? Creepy? Intense? Covered in scarves?”

“Honestly, I expected sunglasses indoors.”

“I forgot them,” he deadpanned, then smiled, his eyes studying me. “You look nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’re stirring your straw like it owes you money.”

I forced my hand to stop.

“You want to know why I asked you to date me,” he said, studying me with an interested expression.

I gave a half-shrug. “I mean, kind of. I… know nothing about you. I still don’t even know your name.”

He winced like he’d forgotten. “Right. It’s Jinu.”

Jinu. The same name Mira said earlier. Was that supposed to mean something to me? I blinked at him. “Is that a first name? A last name?”

He grinned. “It's just Jinu.”

I waited for more, but that was all he gave.

“So why me?” I finally asked, trying not to sound too suspicious. “I’m not exactly the person people pick out of a crowd.”

He leaned back in his chair, the easy kind of confidence that made me think he got asked that question a lot. “You know, you’re the first person I’ve met in a while who didn’t immediately lie to me. You’re also probably the only person I’ve met in a while who didn’t know who I was. It was refreshing.”

I made a face. “So this is like… a social experiment of sorts?”

“No,” he said, voice softer. “It’s curiosity. Just someone who gets to know the real me, with no predispositions of the famous actor.”

A group of teenage girls passed the patio. One of them froze, gasped like she’d seen a ghost, and whispered, “Oh my god.” Jinu gave them a subtle smile and a nod, but when they pulled out their phones, he shifted his chair slightly, casually, so that I was blocked from the view.

I wasn’t sure if I appreciated it or felt like I was being erased. Maybe a little bit of both.

“You okay?” he asked, sipping his matcha again like nothing had happened.

“Yeah,” I said, watching the girls dissolve into a squealing huddle across the street. “You… just don’t really seem famous to me.”

He shrugged, making a face. “I hate that word. Besides, being normal comes in handy when I want to have an actual conversation.”

And he did seem normal. He knew the barista by name. Said hi to a silver-haired man walking by, who apparently was a producer from some movie I’d actually heard of. Then another person, an older actor who looked vaguely familiar, stopped by just to say hello. 

Every time, Jinu was gracious. Not performative. Not trying to show off. But still... it was clear he belonged to a world I didn’t.

And yet, somehow, he still felt present with me. Like none of that mattered.

At one point, I caught myself laughing—like, real, full laugh—and it startled me. My guard had dropped when I wasn’t paying attention. He'd said something dumb about oat milk conspiracy theories and I’d just... cracked up.

He noticed. Of course he did.

“See?” he said, smug. “Told you I wasn’t weird.”

I blushed. “You’re a little weird.”

“I’ll take it.”

And maybe it wasn’t a date, technically. But when he walked me to my Uber afterward, hands in his pockets, not reaching to hold my hand, not leaning in too close, I kind of wished it had been.

Because for a minute there, I forgot to overthink.

And maybe, honestly, that was the weirdest part.

~

“He paid,” I said, finally kicking off my shoes. “For both of my drinks. And my ube croissant. And he got my coffee order right. Right splash of milk, right amount of sugar... so either he’s a stalker or a psychic.”

Zoey looked up from the couch with wide eyes, hair in a ballerina bun and her laptop perched on her knees. “Wait. Wait. You’re telling me you went on a date with Jinu and didn’t know it was Jinu?”

“I didn’t say it was a date,” I muttered, heading to the kitchen.

“You didn’t not say it was a date,” Mira called, her voice echoing from the bathroom where she was aggressively removing makeup.

Zoey followed me like an overexcited golden retriever. “How did you not know who he was? He’s literally the face of Lucifer!”

“I haven’t seen Lucifer!”

Zoey gasped like I’d confessed to murder. “Rumi, it’s the biggest fantasy movie since Twilight! TikTok is obsessed with him. There are thousands of thirst accounts.”

“Well,” I said, opening the fridge, “I guess I met him before the thirst kicked in.”

Zoey flopped dramatically onto a bar stool. “Do you know how many girls would kill to casually get coffee with Jinu? That’s like… PR gold. You’re unattainable.”

“Great. I’ve peaked,” I deadpanned, grabbing a leftover can of sparkling water. “Before I ever recorded a song.” 

“I can't believe I didn't realize he was Jinu. I really should wear my contacts to work." Mira finally emerged, holding cotton rounds like weapons. "Was he even hotter than he was in the restaurant? Be honest.”

“Yes,” I admitted. “Annoyingly hot. But also like... human? In a weirdly disarming way?”

Zoey clapped. “He’s disarming because he knows he’s hot! And famous! And effortlessly charming! That’s his whole brand! Like everyone on TikTok says he's a down-to-earth baddie.”

“He’s actually kind of awkward,” I said, curling onto the couch. “Like, he made this weird oat milk conspiracy joke and tripped a little when he got up.”

Mira blinked. “Was it cute?”

I wanted to lie, but couldn't bring myself to. “Unfortunately.”

Zoey narrowed her eyes. “Okay but, like, what about the logistics? What does he want?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “He said I was the only person in LA who didn’t know who he was, and that it was refreshing.”

“That’s either the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard,” Mira said, “or the beginning of a Netflix true crime doc.”

“He didn’t even try to kiss me.” 

Both of them gasped at the same time.

Zoey pointed dramatically. “He’s playing the long game. That is so hot.”

“Or maybe,” I said, “he really did just want to talk.”

The room went quiet for a beat.

Then Mira smirked. “You’re so into him.”

“I’m not,” I lied, feeling my face turn red.

Zoey grabbed her laptop. “It’s fine. You don’t have to be into him. I am. I’m asking ChatGPT everything. I'll tell you what it all means!”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m just saying,” she added as she typed furiously, “if this turns into a whirlwind romance and you end up on a red carpet, you better take me as your plus one.”

“Noted.”

“And,” Mira said, popping a grape into her mouth, “if you end up being famous adjacent, I want free merch and skincare PR.”

I groaned and buried my face in a pillow.

But I couldn’t help it, my cheeks were still warm.

I kind of hoped he’d text.

~

Later that night, long after Mira had passed out face-first on the couch and Zoey was snoring softly under a weighted blanket, I lay in bed with the lights off, phone glowing against my face like a secret.

I wasn’t expecting anything.

Okay, maybe I was expecting something. Just a little. A text. A meme. A “nice meeting you.” Something to prove I hadn’t imagined it, that the warmth I felt across that table wasn’t just me falling for a fantasy.

I refreshed my texts.

Nothing.

I sighed and started to plug in my phone when a notification popped up at the top of the screen.

@jinu followed you.

I blinked.

Wait.

I clicked it.

It wasn’t a fan account.

It was him.

A blue check. Hundreds of millions of followers. The same easy smile from earlier, only now surrounded by red carpet photos, magazine covers, and film stills where he was covered in blood and eyeliner.

I stared at the screen, frozen. Then I followed back. 

It was only another moment or two before the DM.

You were right about the oat milk conspiracy btw. Deep dive pending. I'll send notes. 

Also, next time, let’s try Alchemist. I’ve been wanting to go. 

Unless you hate oat milk now.

I slapped a hand over my mouth to keep from making any sound that might wake up the entire apartment.

Then I typed back.

As long as you don’t bring a diagram, I think I can survive one more latte.

He hearted the message within seconds.

And that was it.

Just enough to keep me wondering what the hell I’d just stumbled into.

And why it suddenly felt like the beginning of something.

~

The lunch shift at Fate was slammed. I was halfway through making a lavender matcha when I felt it, that prickly sensation of being watched. Not the usual kind, like someone checking out your outfit or trying to figure out your order. This was the lingering kind. Whispery. Curious.

I glanced up.

Two girls, maybe mid-twenties, were tucked into the corner at my coworker’s table. One was flat-out staring at me, wide-eyed, the other holding her phone at a not-so-subtle angle.

I smiled politely, assuming at the very best, they wanted their check, and at the very worst, I had matcha powder on my nose again. “Need anything?”

They immediately snapped their eyes away and started whispering in frantic Korean.

My stomach dropped.

I turned away and focused on the latte again, trying to shake it off, until I heard one of them come up behind me, timidly clearing her throat.

“Um. Sorry to bother you,” she said, clutching her phone, “but… are you the girl from the photo?”

I blinked. “What photo?”

She flipped her phone around.

There, on a screen full of sparkly fonts and pastel graphics, was me, laughing behind a cold brew with Jinu leaning toward me across the table, half-shielding me with his shoulder.

The headline, in bold Hangul and half-translated English, read:

“Jinu spotted with mystery pretty woman in Silver Lake café. Fans dying to know who she is!”

I stared.

She stared.

“Uh,” I said, my brain short-circuiting, “That’s… yeah. I mean. That’s me.”

The girl squealed, clutched her friend’s arm, and they both scampered back to their table grinning like they’d just gotten a free car. I turned away quickly, heart thudding, and ducked behind the espresso machine to pretend-clean the milk steamer for five solid minutes.

When I finally got a break, I snuck into the walk-in cooler under the pretense of organizing the dressing.

I pulled out my phone.

The Page Six headline was even worse. Or better?

“Hollywood’s hottest star goes low-key with girl-next-door. The real question: who is she?”

I texted the link to Zoey and Mira. Then, I took a deep breath, then fired off a text to Jinu. 

Okay. I’m in for the long-haul. Let’s discuss ground rules.

He responded almost immediately.

You mean like how many oat milk conspiracy theories we’re allowed per date?

I smiled, teeth chattering slightly from the cold.

Exactly like that.

Chapter Text

I picked the restaurant. Somewhere public, but not too public. Quiet enough that we could talk. Trendy enough that people might see us. If I was going to be someone’s fake girlfriend, I figured I should start getting used to being looked at.

He was already there when I arrived. Again. Leaning back in a corner booth, long legs stretched out, black baseball cap pulled low. He looked up when I walked in and grinned.

“You set this one up, and you’re late? I was starting to think you’d bail.”

“I still might,” I said, sliding into the booth. “Depends how this contract meeting goes.”

He held up a hand and flagged down a server. “I already ordered you a Chilsung cider. You said you liked it.”

I blinked. “I did?”

“You said it when you were wiping down the table. I remember things,” he said casually, like it wasn’t the most flattering thing anyone had ever said to me.

“Okay, stalker. Let’s get started.” I pulled out the notes app on my phone and he mirrored me, suddenly mock-serious.

“Business meeting,” he said with a sharp nod. “Totally professional.”

“First rule: no real dates. This is strictly appearances. Award shows, red carpets, very classy pap walks.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So I can’t take you to a secret ramen spot in Koreatown?”

I hesitated. “No. Because that sounds like an actual date.”

“Noted,” he said, pretending to type it out dramatically. “No cozy late-night ramen, no matter how hungry you are.”

“Rule two: no gifts. Not even a flower. We don’t want it to get complicated.”

“That’s harsh,” he said, mock-wounded. “Not even like… a cactus? Cactuses are emotionally distant.”

“No cactus.”

He leaned back and smirked. “You’re cold, Rumi.”

“Rule three: if either of us catches feelings—real ones—or someone else enters the picture, we stop. No drama.”

He stopped smiling. “No drama.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Rule four,” I continued quickly, “no sleepovers. Not in the same bed. That blurs the lines, Besides, I like my personal space.”

He tilted his head. “Can I still carry you out of parties like a fairy tale prince if you’re tired?”

“Only if I’ve had at least three drinks and you’re wearing a tux.”

He grinned at me. “That can be arranged.”

“Rule five: no telling anyone it’s fake.”

He tilted his head again. “Obviously.”

I winced. “Except… I may have told Mira and Zoey.”

He stared at me for a second, then burst out laughing. “Okay, then I get to tell my best friends. Mystery, Abby, Romance, and Baby.”

“Those are… nicknames, right?” I narrowed my eyes. “Are you in a girl group I don’t know about?”

He grinned. “You’ll see.”

I shook my head. “Rule six: you cannot get me parts. Not secretly, not through your agent, not with a hint or a wink. I want roles because I earned them.”

He put a hand over his heart. “I solemnly swear to let you suffer through auditions like every other aspiring actress in LA.”

“I appreciate that. Rule seven,” I said, trying not to smile, “kissing only in public, to sell our couplehood, as to not blur the lines. And no making out anywhere. It’s just not classy.”

Raising an eyebrow at me, Jinu looked almost amused. “What's with all the rules? Are you making this harder for us on purpose?”

“I mean,” I shrugged, “if the tabloids are going to call me ‘mystery pretty woman,’ I want to live up to it by being classy and sophisticated.”

He gave me a long, slow look. “You already live up to it.”

My stomach flipped. I looked down at my phone.

“Rule eight,” I said, voice a little tighter, “no seeing other people. Not even secretly. If it gets out, we both look stupid.”

“Monogamous fake relationship,” he said. “Starting to sound pretty romantic to me.”

I choked on my soda. “No, it’s PR.”

“Same thing in this town.”

I pointed at him. “What do you think?”

“That you’re really sucking the fun out of this.” 

“ Jinu .” 

He was quiet for a beat, then another, before he nodded. “Deal.”

There was a strange little pause after that, both of us holding our phones like we weren’t sure what to do next.

And then he said, “So… do we shake on it? Or like… kiss on it?”

I gave him a look. “We’re in a restaurant.”

“There’s a couple watching us from that booth. Left side, middle-aged, definitely curious. I think your rule applies.”

I glanced over. Sure enough, two people were side-eyeing us like they were building a fan theory in real time.

I sighed. “Fine. One kiss.”

He grinned, leaned in, and paused, just a breath away. “You sure this doesn’t count as making out?”

“Just kiss me.”

He did.

Soft, brief, and somehow both professional and distracting. 

It was barely more than a peck, and it shouldn’t have taken my breath away like it did, but something about kissing him made me want to jump in his lap and demand more. 

When we pulled back, I took a long sip of my drink to hide how warm my face felt.

He sat back with a smug little smile. “That was… convincingly non-romantic.”

“Let’s not make a habit of it.”

He tilted his head, thoughtful. “We might have to. For the sake of realism.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Rumi!” He opened his eyes wide, his tone all mocking. “So you do think I’m cute. With all the professionalism, I was getting concerned.”

“Shut up, Jinu.”

~

“I swear if avocados are still $2.99 each I’m rioting,” Mira muttered, flinging open the fridge door with dramatic flair and grabbing a carton of eggs. "I need avocado toast."

“You can’t riot in a Vons, Mira,” Zoey said, pushing our squeaky cart down the aisle. “It’s too sad here.”

“Sad is me eating another week of bean quesadillas,” I said, scanning the shelf for generic brand almond milk. “Where’s the Signature Select knockoff stuff?”

We looked like what we were: three broke girls in oversized hoodies, flip-flops, and one shared messy bun between us. If anybody recognized me, I was so done.

Obviously, that was when it happened.

“Oh my god,” a voice said. “Is that... guys! Look! It’s the girl from Jinu’s story?”

They all froze.

I slowly turned to find a college-aged girl in a pink baby tee holding her phone out like it might explode.

“Um,” I said, awkwardly waving. “Hi?”

“You are!” the girl shrieked. “You’re the mystery girl! Can I take a picture with you?”

I blinked. “...Here? In the dairy aisle?”

“I just think you’re, like, iconic . You like… came out of nowhere, but now everyone wants to be you.”

Zoey snorted, Mira elbowed me, and I did my best impression of someone who wasn’t internally spiraling.

“Uhh... sure,” I managed, forcing a smile. “Why not?”

They took the picture. The girl whispered something to her friend as she left, and I swore I heard the words ‘they’re totally dating.’

When I turned back, Mira had her arms crossed, and Zoey looked like she was about to combust.

“Wow, Rumi. You’re a celebrity now,” Zoey announced.

Mira looked at the soy yogurt in my hand. “Are you still allowed to buy Vons-brand Greek yogurt if you have 40,000 followers?”

Rolling my eyes, I chuckled. “Sure. When I have 40,000 followers, I’ll stop buying store-brand yogurt.”

Zoey snatched my phone. “Open your Instagram. Right now.”

I unlocked it, opened the app, and choked.

There it was. Jinu’s story.

A boomerang of her laughing from across the restaurant table, with the caption: “Contract negotiations: she drives a hard bargain.”

Tagged: @GoldenRumi

My name. My face. To his six hundred million followers.

And just like that…

Followers: 40.2k

DMs: 189 requests

Comments on all my most recent posts: “HOW DID YOU MEET JINU?” “WAIT BUT YOU’RE SO PRETTY” “ARE YOU DATING JINU?”

“I’m gonna throw up,” I said, staring at my phone screen in utter disbelief.

Zoey let out a delighted squeal. “You’re literally famous!”

“Do I need an agent now?” I asked faintly.

“No,” Mira said, already adding a second pack of discounted ramen to the cart, “but you do need better snacks if you’re gonna have famous people over.”

I stared at the cart. “Wait, why is there brie?”

“Brand building,” Zoey said wisely. “Cheese is aspirational.”

They both cracked up, but I couldn’t stop glancing down at my phone.

Forty thousand people.

I was still wearing socks with holes in them. I still didn’t have health insurance. But now, people were watching.

All because Jinu had posted me.

~

When Jinu invited me to join him and his friends at a bar, I had expected a chill guys' night where I might sit quietly in the corner, sipping plum soju and observing. What I hadn’t expected was this.

“RUMI-YAH!” Jinu shouted as I walked in with Mira and Zoey. “You made it!”

He waved from across the booth, already a few shots deep but looking disarmingly happy to see me. His eyes lit up when he saw Mira and Zoey too. “You brought backup. Good. You’ll need it.”

I slid into the booth next to him, Mira and Zoey flanking me. Across the table sat his infamous best friends, looking exactly like an idol variety show panel.

“Okay,” Jinu said, “introductions.”

He pointed down the line like a teacher taking roll.

“This is Abby.” Abby gave a lazy wave, all teeth and dimples, his white t-shirt clinging to his very obviously sculpted chest.

Mira made a noise that might have been a suppressed gasp.

“This is Romance.” Romance reached for Mira’s hand, kissed the back of it, and said, “It’s truly an honor to meet the goddess who made that sound.”

Mira turned bright red. 

“Mystery,” Jinu continued, motioning to the brooding figure with messy blue hair falling in his eyes, who barely looked up but gave a slow, deliberate nod.

Zoey turned to me and whispered, “That hair? Rumi, I think he’s my Roman Empire.”

“And finally, Baby.” Baby gave them a low, rumbling “Hey,” that sounded like it came from the depths of the earth, despite his boyish face.

“Is he…twelve?” Zoey whispered.

“Twenty-two,” Jinu corrected. “He just sounds like a haunted cello.”

They ordered more soju—apple, yogurt, and classic—and grilled kimchi pancakes and fried chicken. As everyone chattered amongst themselves, Jinu leaned over to ask if I was okay. I nodded, honestly kind of delighted, if not a bit overstimulated.

Everyone meshed quickly. Mira was sandwiched between Abby and Romance, visibly trying to keep her eyes on their faces, while Zoey had stopped pretending not to stare at Mystery.

“He reminds me of a crow who writes poetry, but in a hot way,” she whispered to me, and I choked back a laugh. Zoey was the most dramatic person I had ever met, and I loved it so much for her. 

After a bit of eating, we moved to the karaoke room, where chaos truly began.

Romance did a passionate rendition of “My Heart Will Go On,” grabbing Mira’s hand and declaring her his muse.

Abby performed a perfectly choreographed boy band song, lifting his shirt once mid-spin. Mira’s jaw fell to the ground.

Mystery shocked everyone by singing a devastating, whispery indie ballad in such perfect pitch that Zoey looked seconds away from proposing.

Baby chose a trot song but sang it in a voice deeper than the Mariana Trench.

Then Jinu grabbed the mic and said, “This one’s for my beautiful girlfriend,” winking at me as the first chords of “Shallow” came on.

The whole room screamed.

For a second, as Jinu belted the songs and wiggled the second mic at me, I hid my face. But when it came time for my verse, I had no choice. I grabbed the mic and belted out. 

By the end of the night, Mira was fanning herself, Zoey was googling “how to flirt with emotionally unavailable men,” and I was drunk on soju, friendship, and something dangerously close to happiness.

As they left, Jinu hung back a little beside me.

“Thanks for coming,” he said quietly.

“Thanks for inviting me.”

“I wanted them to meet you.”

My chest did a weird little squeeze. “Why?”

He looked over, smile soft, voice playful.

“You’re important to me now, Rumi. Besides, you’re the only girl I’ve ever dated that they all immediately liked.”

~

The night air was warm with that L.A. summer haze, the kind that wrapped around you like steam from a shower. We were walking back toward our place, Mira and Zoey a few steps ahead, still laughing with the guys. Mira kept leaning into Romance like she was tipsy on both soju and attention. Zoey was trailing behind Mystery, who hadn’t said a word since karaoke but somehow still held her full devotion.

And then there was me. Walking beside Jinu. Buzzed, not drunk. Just that perfect in-between where everything felt slightly unreal and painfully real at the same time.

“I had fun tonight,” I said, hugging my arms loosely across my chest. “Your friends are… a lot. But they’re a blast..”

Jinu laughed, low and rough. “They liked you. They only gang up on people they like.”

“Great. Then I must really be beloved,” I said dryly, thinking of how Baby kept calling me ‘Noona’ in his horror-movie-deep voice like he was trying to summon a ghost.

Jinu smiled. “I think you guys were a good influence on them. They’re usually way more feral.”

I glanced up at him. His face was backlit by one of the flickering street lamps, softening the sharp lines of his jaw, the cheekbones that could cut through an idol’s contract.

“They seemed really close to you,” I said, quieter now.

“They are,” he said, hands in his pockets. “I’ve known Abby since we were kids. Romance was my roommate when I first started filming. Mystery and I did this weird psychological thriller together and trauma-bonded. Baby’s like our kid. We’ve all kind of...grown up together.”

I liked hearing him talk like this. Not polished. Not rehearsed. Just real.

“I haven’t really had that,” I admitted. “Besides Mira and Zoey. But even that, we only got close after moving here. There’s just something about this city. It pushes people together or pulls them apart.”

He nodded slowly, like he knew exactly what I meant.

“Do you miss home?” he asked.

“Sometimes. But I think I mostly miss the version of me who didn’t know how hard all this would be.”

We were quiet for a moment. Not awkward. Just...settled.

And then his hand brushed mine. Barely. Like a question he wasn’t brave enough to ask out loud.

I didn’t move at first. And neither did he. It was just that light warmth, skin on skin, in the middle of a Hollywood sidewalk with traffic humming in the distance and the echo of Mira’s laughter bouncing off the buildings.

Then I felt it. The start of his fingers curling toward mine.

I pulled away.

Not dramatically. Just enough. Just before it became something.

He noticed.

He didn’t say anything, but I saw it in the shift of his expression, something tender folding into something more careful.

“I just...” I said, fumbling. “We said no blurring the lines.”

“Right,” he said, too quickly. “Of course. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” I said, forcing a smile. “I just… need to be sure of what’s real. I’ve spent too much time being the girl who imagines more than there is.”

He looked at me then. Really looked. A nd instead of teasing or brushing it off, he just nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “Then I’ll make sure you know. When it’s real.”

My heart did something stupid and fluttery, but I swallowed it down and looked ahead.

Mira was now dragging Zoey into a piggyback competition with Baby and Romance. Abby was filming it. Mystery was… watching.

I took a breath and kept walking, just a little more aware of the space between my fingers.

~

By the time I got home, Mira had already face-planted into her bed and Zoey was halfway through removing her eyeliner with a cotton round and a full dramatic sigh.

I peeled off my jeans and swapped them for an oversized t-shirt, collapsed into the messy cocoon of my own bed, and stared up at the ceiling like it might give me answers.

Why did almost-holding hands feel more dangerous than kissing him in the restaurant?

I could still feel the warmth of his fingers hovering near mine. Could still hear the way he’d said, “Then I’ll make sure you know. When it’s real.”

When it’s real? 

What was I supposed to do with that?

This was all fake. That was the deal. Award shows, photo ops, no feelings, no sleepovers, and no real dates. We wrote the rules ourselves, for god’s sake. I was supposed to be in control here. Focused. Composed. Completely immune to Jinu and his annoyingly soft voice when he says my name.

I grabbed my phone out of instinct, planning to scroll through something brainless just to reset my head—but instead, I saw a new notification.

Jinu: Let me know when you're free again. I want to take you to my favorite bookstore. No photographers, no friends. Just a fake couple on a very real errand.

I stared at the message for a beat too long. My heart did this thing, this tiny pitter-patter skip that was so stupid and unnecessary and absolutely not part of the plan.

I didn’t even let myself smile.

Instead, I tossed the phone face down on my nightstand, like that would help.

This wasn’t a romance. This was a script.

And I was a very good actress.

Or, at least, that’s what I told myself as I rolled over and turned off the lamp.

Chapter Text

The bell above the bookstore door chimed when I stepped in, brushing the chill off my arms. It smelled like paper and cedarwood and some faintly floral thing I couldn’t place, comforting in a way that made me feel off-balance. This was supposed to be a fake relationship. PR. Optics. Not cozy dates in sun-dappled bookstores.

Jinu was already there, leaning against one of the front tables, flipping through a photography book. He looked unfairly handsome in a plain black crewneck and jeans. Sunglasses hung from the collar of his shirt, like he’d considered going full incognito but gave up halfway.

“You’re early,” I said, trying to sound casual. Not excited. Not melting a little.

“I didn’t want you to get mobbed without consent,” he said, closing the book and giving me a slow smile. “Also, I was hoping to claim the good reading chair.”

I followed his eyes to the armchair in the corner. It was old and cracked in the right way, like it had been broken in by generations of introverts.

“You planning to read 'War and Peace' or something?”

“I’m planning to look like a thoughtful, bookish boyfriend while we get spotted by whoever we’re supposed to get spotted by. I'll read whatever your perfect man would read.”

I snorted. “How very noble of you.”

He grinned and offered me a coffee cup. “Cold brew with oat milk, one sugar. That’s still right, right?”

My stomach flipped as I accepted. “How do you even remember that?”

He shrugged. “I told you. I pay attention.”

We wandered through the aisles together, occasionally pointing things out, sometimes just walking quietly. I kept waiting for the awkwardness to settle in — for it to feel performative, forced — but it didn’t. If anything, it felt… easy. Too easy.

At one point, I found him flipping through a hardcover of 'The Little Prince' and reading aloud in a stupidly charming French accent. I nearly walked into a stack of cookbooks.

We ended up in the poetry section, sitting cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a Pablo Neruda collection like we were in some indie romcom. Jinu read a line out loud, low and slow.

"I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees."

My heart practically self-combusted.

I made a noise that was halfway between a laugh and a squeak. “You know that’s basically the poetic version of ‘I want to see you naked,’ right?”

He raised an eyebrow. “And yet… you didn’t stop me.”

“Because I thought we were doing business,” I said, crossing my arms.

“We are,” he replied, annoyingly calm. “I’m building a brand. Brooding boyfriend with excellent taste in poetry, and an immensely satisfied girlfriend.”

“Of course,” I murmured, but my voice came out too soft, too breathless. I cleared my throat. “This is dangerous.”

He glanced sideways at me, smile fading just a little. “Why?”

“Because I could start to like you,” I said, then immediately wanted to smack myself. I tried to pass it off with a grin. “Or more likely, you could start to like me . And that would totally break contract.”

He didn’t laugh. Just looked at me for a long, unreadable second.

“Good thing we have all those rules,” he finally said, softly, his face wearing a small smile. 

By the time we left, I’d completely forgotten that this was supposed to be strategic. I only remembered when someone across the street pointed a phone in our direction and screamed his name.

Jinu stepped a little closer. Not touching me, but enough that it felt like a question.

I didn’t answer it.

Not with words.

But I smiled and leaned into him, just enough, and didn’t move away. 

~

We were halfway through microwaving leftover jjajangmyeon in the kitchen when Zoey let out a gasp so dramatic I thought someone had died.

“Holy shit,” she said, eyes wide, thumb frozen on her phone screen.

Mira leaned over the counter with a mouthful of rice cake. “What? Don't tell me they casted a d-list tiktok star in a Marvel movie?”

Zoey didn’t answer right away. She just spun the screen around so we could see.

It was an Instagram story. A fan account. No — multiple fan accounts. And in the middle of the collage was a photo of me and Jinu, sitting on the floor of the bookstore, laughing. Another one had me leaning my head back, mid-laugh, while he looked at me like he was... God. I don’t even know. Like he was enchanted.

Mira swiped to the next story. “’Jinu and his mystery girl at a local bookstore. Are they just photogenic or is this actually love?’ Oh my god. Rumi. They tagged you this time. You’re trending . Rujinu is trending.”

“No I’m not,” I said, even though my voice cracked and I immediately pulled my phone out of my pocket. “Am I?”

Zoey opened Twitter and typed my name. “Girl. You’re trending . Your follower count’s going up like the stock market in a K-drama montage.”

My heart did the worst thing it could possibly do: it fluttered.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I said to Mira, who was grinning at me like I’d just won a lottery I didn’t even enter.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re going to start planning our wedding.”

She gasped. “Wedding? Rumi! You’re down bad.”

“I’m not down bad,” I said, tugging a sleeve over my hands. “We were just being convincing. That was the whole point. He’s an actor . We’re acting.”

Zoey cackled. “Oh, Rumi. You weren’t just convincing. You were cinematic. People are already making edits. There’s a slow-motion video with piano music. Someone compared you to the couple from Eternal Sunshine.”

I groaned and flopped onto the couch. “I don’t think that’s a compliment.”

Mira joined me, curling up on the other end. “This is good, though. This is what you wanted.”

Zoey collapsed next to me on the floor. “You like him.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I can’t.”

They both fell silent for a second. Then Zoey said, gently, “You can. You just don’t want to.”

I stared at the phone screen. One of the fan accounts had reposted the same photo, zoomed in. Jinu was looking at me like I was the only person in the world. And the worst part?

I was looking back.

I set the phone down, face-down. “This is fake, guys.”

Mira smirked. “Then why are you smiling like that?”

I wasn’t smiling. Except… I kind of was.

~

I was brushing my teeth in the dark because I’d already turned off the light and was too lazy to go back when my phone buzzed against the nightstand.

I spat out the toothpaste and leaned over the bed, blinking down at the screen.

[1 new message – Jinu]

My heart did that annoying thing again, like it was trying to remind me that I was a stupid girl with a crush and not a grounded adult pretending to be in a fake relationship.

I unlocked it.

Jinu: Did you see the bookstore pics?

Jinu: We look good. I mean. I look tired. But you look like a k drama protagonist.

Jinu: Your followers are rising fast. Welcome to the chaos. Are you ready? 

I stared at his messages for a second, toothbrush hanging from the side of my mouth. Then I wiped my mouth, sat on the edge of the bed, and typed:

Me: Everyone I know has texted me screenshots. 

Me: You’re an excellent fake boyfriend.

He replied instantly.

Jinu: Only the best. I take fake dating very seriously. Should I send you flowers to celebrate our Instagram debut?

I rolled my eyes. But I was smiling.

Me: Against the rules. No gifts, remember?

Jinu: Right. I keep forgetting your rules. 

Jinu: Has anyone ever told you how much fun you are? No? Shocking. 

Me: I’m plenty fun. I just don’t want to be indebted to an A-lister over a bouquet.

There was a pause.

Jinu: For the record… I don’t think I’ve ever had this much fun pretending something.

That one made me stop. Stare.

God, why did my face feel warm? We were texting. This wasn’t real. It was just the kind of banter you have with your fake boyfriend who looked at you like you were moonlight in human form.

Me: You’re playing a dangerous game.

Jinu: You’re the one who brought up ground rules.

Jinu: I’m just wondering which one we break first.

I didn’t respond.

Because the real answer? 

I knew I already had.

~

I was sitting at the kitchen counter in my pajamas, nursing a coffee that was more sugar than caffeine, when my phone buzzed again.

I didn’t even bother hiding the smile. It just kind of… happened. Like a reflex.

"You're grinning again," Mira said, emerging from the fridge with a carton of oat milk. “That’s the third time in ten minutes.”

“No, I’m not.”

Zoey snorted from the couch, where she was scrolling through TikTok. “You are. It’s gross. You’re literally blushing. Your ears are pink.”

“I’m not blushing,” I said, trying to sip my coffee calmly even though my phone lit up again. Jinu had sent a voice note. I didn’t even need to listen to it to know it’d be him joking or singing or saying something absolutely unserious and charming.

Mira plopped next to me and peered at my phone screen. “It’s the fake boyfriend again, huh?”

“It’s just texting,” I said, swiping to open the message. “We’re… coordinating .”

“Coordinating?” Zoey laughed, coming up behind me to peer over my shoulder. “Is that what the kids are calling heart eyes and three-minute voice memos now?”

“I don’t have heart eyes.”

“You do,” they both said in unison.

I sighed and spun around on the stool to face them fully. “It’s just part of the whole thing. We have to keep up appearances.”

“Rumi,” Mira said gently. “You do realize we live with you, right? We see you every day. You’re not ‘keeping up appearances’ for us.”

“She’s got it bad,” Zoey said, flopping dramatically onto a throw pillow. “Main character syndrome. Our girl’s falling for the evil prince.”

“He played a demon, not an evil prince,” I muttered.

“Same difference,” Zoey shook her head at me, like she was all-knowing. “He’s hot, brooding, famous, and emotionally complex. It’s textbook rom-com bait.”

I groaned and dropped my head to the counter.

Mira reached out and rubbed my back. “Look. I get it. He’s objectively charming. But just… be careful, okay?”

I lifted my head, confused. “Careful?”

“Yeah,” Mira said. “Because you might be starting to feel something real, but that doesn’t mean he is. He’s an actor. He knows how to turn it on. And if he turns it off one day and you’re not ready…”

“I’ll be fine,” I said too quickly.

Zoey raised an eyebrow. “Will you?”

I didn’t answer.

Because honestly?

I wasn’t so sure.

~

Mira, Zoey, and I were splayed across the living room like three overcooked noodles, surrounded by Thai takeout containers and the comforting noise of 'Our Beloved Summer' playing in the background. I was halfway through stealing Mira’s mango sticky rice when my phone buzzed in my lap.

Jinu: You eaten yet? Let me take you to dinner. I’m five minutes away.

I stared at the message, the words glowing against my thigh like a live wire.

Zoey looked up from her drink. “That better not be him again.”

I tried to play it cool. “It might be. I don’t know. I get a lot of texts.”

Mira narrowed her eyes at me. “Liar.”

“What?” I blinked innocently, already slipping off the couch.

“Don’t you dare drop girls' night because your fake boyfriend summoned you.”

“He didn’t summon me,” I said, grabbing my bag. “He just invited me to dinner. It’s for the narrative.”

Mira crossed her arms. “You’re at his beck and call. That’s not a narrative, that’s a setup. Rumi, I’m serious. You’re gonna get hurt.”

“I’m not!” I insisted, trying to ignore the skip in my pulse. “It’s just business. Publicity, remember? The more appearances, the more headlines, the more opportunities. You weren’t complaining when I posted you on Instagram and now you’ve got that audition with Tate McRae’s team.”

Mira sputtered. “That’s… okay, that’s true… but that doesn’t mean you should be giving him your entire schedule.”

Zoey, still sprawled on the floor, raised her drink in salute. “Let her go, Mira. It’s young love. You’d get it too if a hot demon prince wanted to use you to regain his soul or whatever.”

“It’s not love,” I said, trying to sound definitive. "And he's not a prince!" 

But my voice cracked just enough that both of them looked at me.

I grabbed my keys, cheeks hot. “I’ll be back later. Don’t eat the rest of the mango sticky rice.”

Mira huffed. “There’s literally only three bites left.”

“Then guard it with your life,” I grinned, already halfway out the door, stomach flipping like I’d swallowed fireflies.

Because yeah, it wasn’t love. Obviously.

It was just dinner. Just Jinu.

Just a little giddy feeling I was definitely ignoring.

Totally fine.

Absolutely manageable.

Yup. 

~

The restaurant wasn’t fancy — dim lighting, mismatched wooden chairs, a faint smell of garlic and grilled something wafting from the open kitchen — but it was tucked in a quiet part of Silver Lake, hidden enough that it felt like a secret. Which, somehow, my brain was not recognizing as a bad thing. 

I spotted him instantly.

Jinu was already at a table by the window, wearing a white button-down shirt with the sleeves pushed up, casually perfect in that “I didn’t try but somehow I still look like a perfume ad” kind of way. His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d been running his hands through it all day, and when he saw me… 

God .

His whole face changed.

He lit up, like I’d flipped a switch inside him. His mouth curved into the kind of grin that made my knees feel unreliable, his eyes soft and a little surprised, like he hadn’t fully expected me to actually show.

He stood up.

“I was starting to think you’d stand me up,” he said, sliding my chair out for me like we were in some old movie.

“You gave me five minutes’ notice.”

He smirked. “And yet… here you are.”

“Only because I was bribed by the promise of carbs,” I smirked, sitting down. “And because this whole thing is for the brand.”

“Of course,” he said, nodding seriously. “Only ever for the brand.”

But his gaze lingered on me a beat too long, drifting from my eyes to my mouth like he was trying to memorize something. It made me feel warm all over, like a glass of red wine had already hit my bloodstream.

I looked away immediately.

He leaned his elbows on the table, watching me with a kind of quiet curiosity that made me fidget with my water glass. “You always this jumpy around your fake boyfriend?”

“Only when he looks at me like that.”

“Like what?”

I arched a brow. “Like I’m not fake.”

Jinu smiled, slow, infuriatingly pretty. “Maybe I forgot for a second.”

I looked down, smiling despite myself. “You’re a menace.”

“And yet you showed up,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “So what does that make you?”

“Hungry,” I said. “So you better have ordered already.”

“Already did,” he said, holding up the menu like a trophy. “I took a wild guess and ordered everything you pretended not to want the last time we ate.”

I stared at him. “You remember that?”

He shrugged, bashful and smug all at once. “Of course I do.”

I blinked.

Okay. Maybe Mira had a point. Maybe Zoey did, too.

Maybe I was in a little bit of trouble.

But I recited to myself that it was just for the cameras, over and over again. If I said it enough, surely I’d start to believe. 

Even if they weren’t around.

Even if no one in this tiny restaurant seemed to have any care for who we were. 

Even if it felt like we were the only two people in the world.

“Why are you an actor?” I asked, arms crossed over the table, still feeling Mira’s voice in the back of my head. “Besides the obvious fact that you love to lie.”

Jinu tilted his head, amused. “Why do you say that?”

“I mean, actors are professional liars. And you… you seem to enjoy lying. Or at least hiding things. Twisting the truth.”

He rested his chin on his hand. “What makes you think that?”

I raised an eyebrow. “You asked me to fake date you. That’s basically the acting gig of a lifetime.”

He examined my face like he was trying to figure out if I was joking. “What?”

“I’m just saying, you don’t exactly scream ‘honest and emotionally available.’”

Jinu broke into a grin. “You know, Rumi, I love how you don’t hold back with me. You really let me have it.”

“So?” I asked, poking my fork toward him, not letting him back out of this one so easily. “Why’d you become an actor?”

He leaned back in his chair, looking briefly toward the window like he was choosing his words. “It wasn’t because I love to lie. Though I guess I’m decent at it.” He paused. “When I was a kid, it was just my mom, my sister, and me. We didn’t have much. No toys, no games, certainly not a TV. So I made stuff up. I acted out little scenes for them. Characters, voices, whole stories. It was the only time I saw my mom relax. She’d laugh, or just... breathe, you know? The tension gone from her shoulders for a minute.”

Something about the way he said that made my chest ache a little.

“But I thought you said your dad’s famous?” I asked, frowning.

“He is. A director. But I didn’t know him growing up. I reached out around nineteen, against my mom’s wishes. We just… we needed help, and she was too proud…” His voice trailed off. 

I hesitated. “But I am sure she’s happy now, right?”

He looked down, his expression dimming. “Not really. I don’t really talk to her or to my sister. I reach out a lot, I send them money, but I don’t even know if they use it. They just… feel betrayed, I guess.”

The shift in him was jarring. Up until now, everything between us had been joking, flirtation, the occasional snide retort. Seeing him like this—unguarded and a little sad—made me feel like I’d wandered into a room I wasn’t meant to see, poking at trauma he intentionally hide from the light.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” I offered quietly.

“No, it’s okay.” He took a breath, then looked at me again with a gentler expression. “It’s sort of nice to talk about it. Especially with someone who doesn’t know every headline about me already.”

I nodded, unsure what to say.

“So,” he said after a moment, “Tell me about you. You’re not really into pop culture, but you want to be part of it?”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “Because I don’t care about the drama or fame. I care about the feeling . I want to tell stories that matter. I want to make people feel something.”

Jinu studied me like he was memorizing my words.

“What kind of movies do you like?” he asked.

“Romantic comedies. Or romantic dramas. Something that you can relate to, you know? Because we all have that one true love, that one devastating breakup that changes your core brain function.”

“Do we?” He laughed. “What about action?”

I wrinkled my nose. “Gross. Action movies are so fake. One guy dodges ten thousand bullets and saves the world and the girl? Come on.”

“Romantic comedies are realistic but action movies are fake?” he asked, smirking.

“Yes,” I said firmly. “At least rom-coms deal with emotions and relationships. Action movies always have the same formula—hot guy, explosion, slow-motion walk, and some poor girl who can’t tie her own shoes unless he helps her. Like… let the girl save the day for once. Let him get kidnapped.”

Jinu was staring at me with a stunned expression.

I froze. “Oh no. You are… I forgot.” 

“Yup. I’m an action star,” he said slowly. 

My jaw dropped. “I am so sorry.”

He gave me a sheepish smile. “Yeah. I mean, I am most known for playing Lucifer.”

I tried to recover, sitting up straighter. “Well. I’m sure your plot is... incredibly believable.”

Jinu grinned. “Rumi, you don’t have to lie. It’s not.”

Trying to fix what I had inevitably broke, I tried, “At least tell me your costume is cute.”

“It’s not a costume. It’s a… okay, you know what, never mind.”

“What’s your super power? Super arrogance?”

“I breathe fire and destroy the world.”

“Oh. So... no character arc, then?”

He laughed, full and unbothered, the sound filling the little restaurant.

Then he leaned forward, a flicker of something more serious in his eyes. “You know what? Just come watch it and judge for yourself.”

“You know, just for you, when it comes out, I’ll drag Zoey and Mira and we can see it in theaters. I’ll sit front row so I’m truly immersed in the very believable plot and very cute uniform.” 

“No,” he coaxed, his golden eyes shining. “Come with me. To the premiere.”

I blinked. “The premiere? Like... red carpet, paparazzi, fans screaming your name?”

“That’s the one,” he said, smiling.

I opened my mouth. Then closed it. “I don’t know. That’s a lot of attention for someone who once tripped over her own purse on the bus.”

“I’ll catch you if you fall,” he said easily, and I ignored the way it made my chest flutter. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

I looked at him for a long second. I should’ve said no. I didn’t belong in that world. I couldn;t afford a gown or designer shoes or even a good waterproof mascara.

But the truth was... I just liked spending time with him. Wherever it was. 

And somehow, when he looked at me, it didn’t feel like I had to pretend to be someone else.

“Okay,” I said finally. “I’ll come.”

He lit up like I’d just agreed to star in his next movie.

“Only if I get popcorn,” I added.

“Done,” he said. “But you’ll have to share.”

Pretending to think it over, I tapped my chin before laughing, “We’ll see about that.”

Chapter Text

Mira’s closet looked like the backstage of a fashion show—heels kicked into corners, glittering dresses tossed across the bed, a pile of accessories growing on the desk chair. She was elbow-deep in hangers, Zoey balancing on a step stool to grab something from the top shelf.

“Rumi, I’m telling you,” Zoey called down, holding up a silky champagne-colored dress, “this with your hair slicked back and a bold lip? Red carpet ready.”

“You’ll look like a golden statue,” Mira agreed, tugging a beaded black number from the rack. “Or… wait, this one is designer, I think. I wore it to Natalie’s birthday.”

“I can’t wear your ex’s birthday dress to Jinu’s premiere,” I pointed out, laughing as I flopped backward onto the bed. “That’s bad luck.”

“No one’s gonna know!” Mira protested. 

“Bad luck for what? I thought this was all fake,” Zoey smirked.

Before I could respond, a knock echoed from the front door.

We all froze.

Mira squinted at me. “Did you order something?”

“No?”

Zoey sprinted to the door like it was Christmas morning. “If it’s your stalker from Trader Joe’s again, I swear to God…”

But it wasn’t. It was five people—three women, two men—rolling in garment bags, makeup cases, and blow dryers like they were prepping for the Met Gala.

“Uh,” I blinked as they entered with practiced ease. “I think there’s been a mistake?”

One of the women, with bubblegum-pink hair and a headset clipped to her ear, smiled at me. “You’re Rumi, right? We’re your glam team for the Lucifer Rising premiere. We’ve got looks pulled from Chanel, Schiaparelli, and Valentino, plus options for makeup and hair. We’re on a tight schedule, though, so if you don’t mind…”

“What’s going on?” I whispered to Mira.

She just stared, mouth hanging open. “Babe. I think you’re famous now.”

Zoey squealed and pulled me toward the garment racks as the team started zipping open bags and laying out heels that cost more than our rent. “This one looks like you belong on the arm of a movie star.”

I was still processing when my phone buzzed. It was from Jinu.

Jinu: Not a gift, don’t worry. You have to return everything.

I smiled despite myself, about to type back ‘Thank you but it’s too much’ when another text followed.

Jinu: Don’t say it’s too much. Nothing’s too much for my favorite girl.

I had to sit down.

Zoey grabbed the phone out of my hand. “Favorite girl?! Rumi!”

Mira snatched it back from her. “Okay, but like, reality check, guys. This is what he does. He’s charming. Rumi is not special.”

Zoey gasped. “Rude!”

Mira rolled her eyes. “I’m just saying… enjoy it, but don’t fall for the movie star. Remember? The movie ends. The credits roll. You’re special to us, but like, he’s a professional. He moves on. I don’t want you to be broken.”

I tried to smile like her warning didn’t send a chill through my excitement. “It’s not like that. This is all for the premiere. For publicity. I’m not falling.”

Zoey raised a brow. “Then why are you blushing?”

I ignored them both and turned to the stylist, who was holding up two gowns.

“One of them is Dior,” she said matter-of-factly. 

I stood up, trying to sound like someone who belonged here. “Let’s see what Dior looks like.”

But in my chest, my heart was racing, and not because of the dress.

It was because of him.

~

The black SUV pulled up to the curb like we were royalty. Or prey. Was there such a thing as royal prey? 

Cameras flashed the second the door cracked open. Even from inside the car, I could hear the frenzy—shouted names, the high-pitched screams of fans pressed up against barricades, the mechanical click-click-click of nonstop photos being taken.

My palms were sweating.

“You okay?” one of the glam team asked from the seat beside me. “You look amazing. You’ve got this.”

I nodded, swallowing hard. My dress, a midnight-blue velvet gown with a daring slit, felt too expensive for my skin. My hair was swept back in soft waves, my makeup was red carpet perfect. I felt like I’d stepped into someone else’s life.

The door opened, and someone reached in for me.

Jinu.

He was in a perfectly tailored black suit, no tie, just a silk shirt slightly undone at the collar. His dark hair curled in gentle waves over his forehead. When his eyes landed on me, something in his expression shifted.

He looked… stunned.

“Wow,” he said under his breath, and for a moment, the flashes, the shouting, the whole chaotic circus faded. 

“Hi,” I whispered.

“You look…” He cleared his throat, trying and failing not to stare. “You look like you belong in every single magazine out here.”

I rolled my eyes, mostly to keep from passing out. “Shut up.”

He grinned and offered his hand. “Come on, superstar.”

As I stepped out, the roar of the crowd intensified. The lights were blinding, the voices dizzying. I could barely hear myself think.

But then Jinu’s hand closed around mine. Warm, solid, grounding.

“Just look at me,” he murmured through a smile, waving casually to the cameras with his free hand. “I’ll get you through it.”

I nodded, clutching his hand like it was a lifeline. When he tried to gently pull it back, probably to pose solo, I tightened my grip.

He looked down, eyebrows raised.

“I can’t,” I whispered, through my teeth. “I’m gonna faint.”

He bit back a laugh. “Okay. You’re adorable. I’ve got you, I promise.”

We walked the carpet side by side, stopping at designated spots for photos. He shifted to subtly keep me close, never letting go, his hand always either in mine or at the small of my back.

Then came the interviews.

A red mic was thrust toward him. “Jinu! How are you feeling tonight?”

“Feeling great,” he said smoothly. “I’m excited for everyone to see the film. The cast and crew killed it.”

The reporter smiled. “And who’s this stunning woman beside you?”

“Ah,” Jinu said, his voice softening as he looked at me. “This is Rumi. My date. She’s incredibly talented, an amazing singer, actually.”

I froze. “I… what… no, no, I’m just…”

“She’s being modest,” Jinu went on, like this was all normal. “She posts her vocals on TikTok. You should check her out. I am mesmerized. You will be too.”

The reporter turned to me. “Really? What’s your handle? We’d love to hear you!”

My heart was doing somersaults in my chest. I glanced at Jinu like I wanted to kick him, but he winked.

“She’s the real star,” he replied, his eyes on me.

Somehow, I remembered my username. Somehow, I smiled for the camera. But the second the mic was gone, I leaned into him, whispering, “You’re evil.”

“I’m giving the people what they want,” he whispered back, smirking.

“And what’s that?”

His hand tightened around mine.

“You.”

~

The theater was packed, buzzing with energy even in the dark.

I sat beside Jinu, but I might as well have been in my own bubble. The screen lit up, the logo of the production company shimmering before fading to black, and the opening scene began.

And just like that, he appeared.

Jinu.

Not my Jinu. Not the one who smirked at me over bubble tea or texted me dumb jokes late at night. The one on-screen was magnetic, dangerous, a swirling vortex of villainy wrapped in silk words and deadly stares. The crowd reacted immediately, tense, hushed, captivated.

So was I.

He was good. Not just handsome or charming or famous, he was good. The kind of actor that made you forget you knew him. The kind who made you lean forward in your seat, breath caught, eyes wide.

And he was sitting right beside me.

I shifted slightly in my seat, feeling the weight of him even without looking. The movie played on, scene after scene unfolding, but I couldn’t stop the twist in my chest. Pride? Awe? A touch of panic? Maybe all three.

Then I felt it, his fingers brushing against mine.

Slow.

Careful.

Like he was asking permission.

I didn’t move. Not at first.

He took that as a yes.

His hand slipped into me under the armrest, fingers long and warm. He traced a pattern against my palm, soft circles, slow spirals. My heartbeat stuttered, a fragile rhythm trying to keep up with the emotions knocking against her ribs.

Don’t look at him, I told myself, trying to focus on the movie. No touching when not in public. You’re going to make things complicated if you do. 

I could feel his gaze on me, a blistering heat just beneath my skin.

I kept my eyes glued to the screen.

He was watching me. I knew he was. I could practically hear his smirk, even in the silence. It wasn’t fair, how easy he made all of this look, how unbothered he seemed by the chaos he stirred up in her.

I curled my fingers slightly, not quite letting go, but not giving in either.

He kept tracing.

And I kept watching the version of him on screen who could never trace circles into my palm.

I  leaned forward a little, letting my hair fall like a curtain to hide my face.

Because if I looked at him now… if I let myself really look…

I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to look away.

~

The afterparty was already in full swing when I stepped out of the car.

Camera flashes caught on the glitter of my second outfit, a midnight-blue mini dress Mira picked out from the cart of options with a structured shoulder and a neckline so low that made me consider turning around at least twice. My hair was tucked into soft waves, my heels were too high, and my heart was absolutely out of control.

But that was before I saw Jinu.

He stood just inside the entrance, changed into a perfectly tailored black suit with a loose shirt undone at the collar. He wasn’t smiling, not at anyone, until his eyes found me.

Then everything about him softened.

He crossed the distance in seconds, his hand brushing the small of my back as he leaned in. “You look like trouble,” he murmured, voice low enough for only me. “The very best kind.”

I rolled my eyes, but my face was on fire. I was in a place full of movie stars and models, yet here he was, complimenting me. It was almost too much. “You’re such a liar.”

“I’m not,” he said, and his gaze lingered just a little too long. “Let’s go. I want to show you off.”

And he did. Everywhere we turned, people clapped him on the shoulder, offered drinks, complimented his performance. But every time someone addressed him, he somehow steered the conversation back to me.

“This is Rumi. She’s a singer, an amazing one,” he said more than once, his arm casually slipping around my waist. “You have to hear her.”

I tried to deflect. “I mostly just post TikToks,” I’d mumble, and Jinu would cut in with, “Yeah, and they’re really good.”

It was dizzying. The music, the heat, the glittering lights, and him. Always him.

We ended up at a table near the back where a short man in an oversized suit jacket and an even more oversized laugh was holding court. He jumped up when Jinu approached.

“This must be the girl!” he exclaimed. “I’m Bobby. You’re even prettier than Jinu made you sound.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand.

“I’m not going to pretend to think about it,” Bobby said, already pulling out a card. “You’ve got something. I can tell. I don’t even need to hear you sing yet, I just know. Call me. Unless you hate success, in which case, totally your choice.”

I laughed. I liked him immediately. 

I looked at Jinu, who just smiled and said, “Bobby’s a good guy. He’ll take care of you.”

And that was that. I accepted Bobby’s card and slid it into my purse.

The rest of the night blurred a little, glasses of champagne I sipped but didn’t finish, more introductions I tried to remember, a hundred conversations I barely tracked. But Jinu never left my side.

Even when people crowded around him, gushing about the movie, the press, the buzz… his hand found mine. His eyes found mine. His presence stayed locked on me like I was the only thing in the room that mattered.

I kept telling myself it was part of the act.

But when he looked at me like that?

It didn’t feel fake at all.

~

The music swelled around us, and I was just about to ask Jinu if he wanted to dance when I saw his entire body tense.

A woman was walking toward us.

She was gorgeous. Like, high-fashion, catwalk-in-Paris kind of gorgeous. Long legs in strappy heels, an effortless champagne-blonde bob, a silk dress clinging to her frame like it was made for her. And she was smiling, but not at me. At Jinu.

I gulped. 

“Wow,” she said, stopping in front of us. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“At my premiere?” Jinu’s hand on my waist stiffened. “I don’t believe that for one second. The real question is why are you here?”

She raised a brow. “I was invited, Jinu. What, I’m not allowed to go to parties you might be at?”

“That’d be nice,” he muttered.

Her eyes flicked to me, amused. “Besides, then I’d never get to meet Roonie.”

“It’s Rumi,” Jinu said quickly, jaw clenched.

I offered a smile, a little thrown. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she said brightly. “You’re stunning, by the way. Love the dress. Doesn’t she look incredible, Jinu?”

Jinu didn’t respond.

She kept going. “God, he hated it when I wore blue,” she said with a wink. “Guess you changed him.”

I blinked. I couldn’t tell if she wasn’t being nice enough or if she was being too nice, but either way, Jinu’s silence was screaming.

“Well,” she said, tossing her hair, which of course smelled good.  Expensive too. “I won’t keep you two. It was so lovely meeting you, Rumi.”

“Nice meeting you too,” I said, not sure if it really was.

She left in a whirl of perfume and confidence. I turned to Jinu, who was glaring after her like she’d just kicked a puppy.

“Who was that?” I asked softly.

He didn’t answer.

I tilted my head. “Your ex?”

Still nothing.

“Are you okay?” I prompted.

He blinked, then snapped out of it just enough to grab my hand. “Come on.”

He dragged me away from the main floor and toward a quieter corner near the hallway to the bathrooms. When we stopped, I turned to face him.

“Okay,” I said. “I have to ask… what was that?”

“You were right. That’s my ex.” He rubbed a hand down his face. “She’s a liar. Don’t trust her. Anything she says, it’s fake.”

“She was nice to me.”

“That’s her thing,” he muttered. “She’ll smile at you and compliment your hair and then go home and stab a voodoo doll with your face on it.”

I laughed despite myself. “Sounds like you dated a Disney villain.”

“I wish she had the decency to be that obvious.”

He looked so wound up, shoulders rigid and eyes narrowed.

So I did the only thing that came naturally.

I kissed him.

He was startled at first, but then his hands found my waist and pulled me in tighter, his mouth deepening against mine, soft and hot and possessive in a way that made my knees feel unreliable. One of his hands slid to the back of my neck. I melted into him, into the way he moved like he’d been waiting for this since the second I arrived.

His teeth grazed my bottom lip, and I let out a tiny breathy sound before pulling back, heart in my throat.

“Careful,” I whispered. “You’re dangerously close to breaking the no making out rule.”

He looked at me like he wanted to argue.

But I stepped back, smoothing down my dress. “I’m getting a drink.”

Then I turned and walked away before I did something even dumber, like kiss him again.

~

The champagne was sharp and cold, and I downed it faster than I meant to.

The bartender raised a brow but said nothing as I slid the empty glass back and asked for another. My heart was still tripping over itself from that kiss, and the chill of the drink did nothing to cool the flush in my cheeks.

I didn’t see her until she was beside me.

“Trouble in paradise?” came that syrupy voice.

I turned, and there she was again, the dreaded ex. Perfect teeth. Smirking lips. Designer clutch tucked effortlessly under one arm.

“Not at all,” I said, smiling politely as I accepted my second glass.

She sipped from her own. “Jinu always did get intense when he felt cornered. Or when he thought he was being outshined.” She gave me a once-over. “Which is funny, because you definitely shine.”

I gave a polite little laugh, but it didn’t quite reach my eyes. “That’s sweet of you.”

“It’s true,” she said, leaning in. “You look good on his arm. Much better than the last girl they paired him with. She looked like she was being held hostage. The hard part with Jinu is knowing what’s real and… what’s fake.” She studied me intently, as I swallowed a mouthful of champagne. “But I don’t have to tell you that, do I, Rumi? I think you’re perfectly familiar.” 

I forced another laugh. “Excuse me,” I said quickly, setting my glass down half-full. “I should get back.”

“Of course,” she said, raising her glass. “Enjoy it. You know, while it lasts.”

I didn’t look back.

I found Jinu standing by a high-top table, talking to a group of people I vaguely recognized from the movie. But as soon as he saw me, his expression shifted, softened, and he excused himself instantly, walking straight toward me.

“Hey,” he said. “I was just about to look for you.”

“You okay?” I asked, touching his elbow.

“I should be asking you that.”

I hesitated, then blurted, “She cornered me again. At the bar.”

He closed his eyes for a second. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize for your ex-girlfriend.”

“No,” he said, stepping a little closer. “I do. I should’ve warned you. I should’ve kept her away from you.”

“Why do you hate her so much?” I asked gently.

He exhaled, eyes dropping to the floor before meeting mine again. “Because she used me.”

I tilted my head. “For what?”

“For fame. For status. For press. She acted like she cared, but it was all about getting seen with me, photographed with me, connected to me. And when I wasn’t convenient anymore, she ditched me and spun the narrative to make it look like I broke her heart.”

I was quiet for a moment. “Aren’t I… kind of doing the same thing?”

His mouth twitched, almost like he wanted to smile. “Yes,” he said simply. “But this time I know about it.”

My stomach flipped.

He kept going, voice softer. “You’re honest about it. You didn’t pretend to be in love with me to get the attention. You didn’t lie about who you were. And you’re not asking me to be anyone other than myself.”

My heart did a weird little lurch.

“I still feel bad,” I said.

“Don’t.” His hand brushed mine. “You’re not using me. We’re using each other. And honestly?” He leaned in, voice like a secret. “I like being used by you.”

I looked up at him, wide-eyed.

And then I laughed.

“God, you’re such a flirt.”

He grinned. “Only with you.”

And just like that, the tightness in my chest loosened. I wasn’t sure what we were. But in that moment, I didn’t care.

I was his. And he was mine. Even if it was just for tonight.

~

Chapter Text

I kicked off my heels the second I got through the door and collapsed onto the couch with a groan.

My phone was still buzzing—DMs, texts, mentions, tags—but I tossed it face-down on the coffee table. The living room was dark except for the glow of Zoey’s lava lamp and the flickering TV, muted on some old rerun. Mira was asleep on the couch across from me, one leg flopped off the edge. Zoey’s door was closed. It felt like the afterparty after the afterparty. Just me, my makeup half-smudged, and a million thoughts I couldn’t shut off.

I leaned my head back and stared at the ceiling.

What was tonight?

Because it felt like a dream. A bright, glittery, dizzying dream where I kissed a movie star and walked a red carpet and was offered a management deal and complimented by a woman who could’ve been on the cover of Vogue. But now the glitter had settled and all I could feel was the weight in my chest.

Why was his ex so nice to me?

Was she warning me? Mocking me?

And why did Jinu look at me like I hung the moon, and then walk away like none of it meant anything?

I’d kissed him to calm him down. That’s what I told myself. But if I was being honest—and I was, at least in the dark—I kissed him because I wanted to. Because I’d been thinking about it since the first time he stepped into the restaurant. Because being near him made me feel like I was part of something bigger than myself, like I was living inside a movie I’d never get cast in.

And he kissed me back. Really kissed me back.

But what if that was just part of the game for him? What if I was just another publicity puzzle piece to slot into his life until the next premiere, the next album, the next girl?

What if his ex was right?

What if I was going to burn out fast?

I curled into myself on the couch, pulling a throw blanket over my legs.

I didn’t want to fall for him.

I wasn’t supposed to fall for him.

But the way he touched my hand in the theater, the way he introduced me like I mattered, the way he asserd me I wasn't using him, that we’re using each other... it felt too real, too honest to be fake.

And that’s what scared me most of all.

Because what if it wasn’t real for him?

But it was already starting to feel real for me.

~

The sun was barely up when I cracked open one eye to the sound of birds chirping and my own heart still pounding from last night.

I hadn't slept. Not really. Just laid there in a blurry haze of what-if's and half-remembered glances, overanalyzing every second on the red carpet, every word his ex said, every time his hand brushed mine.

By 7:42am, I gave up pretending I wasn’t spiraling and reached for my phone.

Rumi: Hey Bobby... it's Rumi. We met last night. Does that management offer still stand?

The three dots didn’t even flicker before his name popped up on my screen. Incoming call.

“RUMI, MY DARLING,” Bobby beamed through the phone like he was standing in my kitchen in a feathered robe and sunglasses. “I was hoping you'd call before I had to resort to bribery. Or worse, Instagram DMs.”

I sat up, clutching the blanket around me. “So… this is me saying yes.”

“I’m honored. Elated. Overcaffeinated. And ready to work,” he said. “How do you feel about auditions?”

My heart lurched. “Auditions… plural?”

“I got you one. Today. Noon. Some buzzy indie film looking for an unknown to play a musically gifted runaway. You’ve got the vibe. Scratch that. You are the vibe.”

I blinked. “You got me an audition… that fast?”

“You think I don’t move mountains for my people? Baby girl, welcome to Hollywood. You're one of Bobby's now. I take care of my family.”

~

“Wait, WHAT?” Zoey shrieked, still in her pajamas as she clutched her mug of coffee like it was a life preserver. “You have an actual audition?”

“Today?” Mira’s mascara wand paused mid-swipe. “As in, like, now now?”

I nodded, clutching the side of the kitchen counter, still in my oversized pajama tee “Noon. Bobby already sent me the script sides. I’m reading them now.”

Zoey squealed and launched into a happy dance. Mira just stared at me, arms folded.

“Okay, but… like, are you okay?”

I hesitated. “I mean, yeah. Kinda? Maybe?”

Mira raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of answers for one question.”

I sighed and sank into the barstool. “I just keep thinking about last night. It was amazing. But also weird. And Jinu's ex was there and she was… weirdly nice, which somehow made it worse. And I kissed him, and I don’t know why, and then he kissed me back, and now I feel like I’m spiraling because what if I’m falling for him and he’s just acting?”

Zoey gently set her mug down, smiling softly. “I knew it. You like him.”

“I didn’t mean to,” I whispered.

Mira gave me a long look. “You need to be careful. Jinu is charming, yes. Gorgeous, obviously. But you’re a real person, Ru. Not a prop on his press tour.”

I nodded, throat tight.

“I’m just saying,” Mira continued, “don’t let someone build your world only to pull the floor out from under you.”

Zoey threw an arm around my shoulder. “But also… don’t run away from something just because it’s scary. You’re allowed to feel things. You’re allowed to fall, even if it’s messy.”

I looked between them. Mira with her cautious frown, Zoey with her soft smile.

Then I stood up. “Well, messy or not, no time to worry about that. I’ve got an audition.”

Zoey clapped. “Yes you do! Want help picking an outfit?”

“Please,” I breathed, motioning to my current outfit. “Because I cannot show up in a ‘Books are better than movies’ tee.”

Mira rolled her eyes but reached for her closet keys. “Let’s get you cast, superstar.”

~

The waiting room smelled like nerves and spilled iced coffee. Around me, girls were humming scales, tapping their feet, flipping through script pages. They were all beautiful. All talented. All terrifying.

I clenched my sides and tried to breathe.

“You good?” the girl next to me asked, glancing up from her cell phone. "You look... kinda pale." 

I nodded, even though I absolutely wasn’t.

Then the door opened. “Rumi?”

I stood. My legs somehow moved me into the room even though my brain was still three steps behind, screaming what if you choke? what if you blow it? what if you’re just Jinu’s little plus-one and nothing more?

But once I was inside, on that little tape-marked X in front of the panel, everything clicked.

The casting director smiled politely. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I took one breath.

And became someone else.

The scene was heavy, an abandoned girl hitchhiking to nowhere, guitar strapped to her back, daring herself not to cry. I let the words fall out like they weren’t memorized lines but pieces of me. And when they asked if I’d sing, I didn't hesitate. I sang barefoot, raw, like I was alone in my shower at 2 in the afternoon.

By the time I finished, the room was still. Someone whispered, “She’s the one,” but not quietly enough.

The casting director blinked, leaned forward. “Where did you come from?”

“Uh… Koreatown?” I said, my voice suddenly squeaky.

Everyone laughed.

The director smiled. “You’ve got a callback. Tomorrow. We’ll send the details to your team.”

“Oh... I don’t have... ” I started.

“Your people as in Bobby,” the assistant said, already scribbling down a note. “He told us he’s representing you now.”

"Yeah, he is. Um... thank you." 

I stepped out of the building in a daze. Sunlight hit my face like a spotlight. My heart was still beating from the scene, from the singing, from the way their eyes locked onto me like I mattered.

I fumbled for my phone.

Rumi: i got a callback.

Rumi: they told me in the room. it felt unreal.

Rumi: Also I want you to manage Zoey and Mira too. They're insanely talented and I want us to rise together.

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

Bobby: Done. 

Bobby: You three are gonna be the new holy trinity of L.A.

Bobby: Callback day is ours, baby! Let’s make history!!! 

~

“I KNEW you’d crush it!” Zoey shrieked, jumping on the couch and throwing a pillow across the living room like it was confetti.

Mira grabbed my shoulders and shook me like a maraca. “Callback?! On the spot?! We need champagne. We need tacos. We need…  we need Jinu.”

At his name, I froze mid-laugh. “What?”

Zoey wiggled her eyebrows. “Don’t act like you don’t want him here.”

“Yeah,” Mira added, “invite your fake boyfriend-slash-wish-fulfillment fantasy.”

I threw a throw pillow at Mira. “Absolutely not.”

But they were already on either side of me, holding my phone like it was a Ouija board.

Zoey typed, I got a callback! You should come out and celebrate with us.

Seconds later:

Jinu: What time? 

Rumi: Right now. My amazing beautiful smart kind friends Mira and Zoey are taking me to karaoke! 

Jinu: Should I bring the gang?

Rumi: obviously

Jinu: Baby said he is picking the music.

Rumi: god help us all

The bar was tucked away in Culver City, all moody lighting and vinyl booths. We grabbed a table, and then Jinu appeared like a movie entrance, wearing a soft flannel, grinning like the night was already good just because he was in it. Romance trailed behind him in red leather pants and a fur-lined coat. Abby, in the opposite vain, was wearing jean shorts and a Hawaiian shirt fully open. Mystery had brought a sketchpad. And Baby, bless him, had made a playlist and somehow forced the bartender to play it.

“You brought your entire army,” Mira teased as Jinu slid in next to me.

He shrugged. “You said celebration. I brought joy.”

I laughed, even though I wasn’t sure what to do with how good he looked sitting next to me, elbow brushing mine, cologne making my brain short-circuit. He ordered me a drink without asking, remembering my favorite. He toasted with the girls like he’d known them forever. And when people came up to say hi or ask for selfies, he always circled the conversation back to me.

“This is Rumi,” he told a stylist from a Netflix show. “She’s gonna be famous. Start dressing her now before she blows up and forgets us all.”

It should’ve felt fake.

But it didn’t.

And maybe that’s why I kept my distance—not physically, since we were side by side, knees bumping, shoulders pressed—but emotionally. I kept fighting my laughter. Kept redirecting the conversation to Zoey. Kept letting my smile get wide but not soft.

Because how do you look your fake boyfriend in the eye and say, ‘I’m starting to have real feelings’?

You don’t.

You just keep sipping your drink and pretending you’re not waiting for this whole thing to blow up in your face.