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For three years, San was the industry’s most elusive bachelor.
Three years of headlines speculating about San's love life. Three years of award show red carpets, international film festivals and a darling of film and fashion who’s critically acclaimed and internationally adored. Viral interviews and not a single word about anyone he might be dating completely, infuriatingly private.
He was the industry’s golden boy, serious, elegant, mysterious, he wore heartbreak like a tailored coat. Romantic roles, brooding magazine covers, a face so expressive it made the silence feel intentional. Strategic but teasing, not once in all those years had he commented on his love life, no paparazzi shot, no anonymous tip, not even a drunken slip-up from an extra on set.
He was untouchable and the world was obsessed with touching him.
Yet the truth ?
He just didn’t want to lie anymore.
It became a game in certain circles, get San to marry your kid. Directors, producers, fashion house CEOs, everyone had a daughter or son who would be ‘perfect for San’. Beautiful, ambitious, well-bred, and also very charming. Sometimes, they didn’t even hide it. Proposals came tucked inside scripts, behind product placements, whispered across red carpet events.
But San never answered, not once.
Because San had someone, had loved someone for every day of those two years and a little before that too but the world never saw it, because the one he loved didn’t want to be seen.
Mingi.
Every single one of those proposals, business or personal, was met with the same flat, polite rejection :
“San is not interested in dating at this time.”
- Song Mingi.
The name became infamous. Mingi, San’s publicist. To the outside world, Mingi was an enigma, a man whose job was supposedly limited to media briefings, brand partnerships and controlling the press, and yet, somehow, he was everywhere. At premieres. At photoshoots. At events San’s own manager didn’t attend even during private family gatherings, Mingi appeared in the background of leaked paparazzi shots, always a few steps behind San, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Mingi handled far more than press and brand deals, he managed everything that mattered, San’s schedule, travel, image, reputation. But more than that, he handled San.
He was San’s center of gravity, disguised in bleached blond hair, a sleepy smile and outfits that made people mistake him for a backup dancer or a cousin tagging along.
Mingi didn’t wear three-piece suits, he was blunt, straightforward and unapologetically himself, he was effortless.
Oversized clothes hanging off a lean frame, sweatpants in designer offices and lips too plush for someone who hated the spotlight. He was always phone in hand, expression unreadable, didn’t care how people saw him but to San, Mingi was everything. Mingi was both the mastermind behind his carefully curated public image and the person who held his life together in private.
They called him unprofessional. They called him sloppy. They called him ‘the strange blonde with pouty lips and no business being near San’ but he cared a lot about how they saw San and that’s why their love stayed in the dark.
In private, Mingi was warm, funny, and far more relaxed than anyone might expect from someone in his position, still direct but soft-spoken unless provoked. He lived off convenience store Sanacks, fell asleep during movies and had a very specific way of organizing San’s kitchen by vibe rather than utility.
He was also the one who told San to end his last relationship.
It had been a long night of paperwork and endless meetings. San was exhausted and irritable as he poured over the article that had just dropped about his ex latest public misstep, another scandalous night out, where he’d been caught behaving recklessly, with no apology or correction from his management team. San’s face darkened as he skimmed through the details. His boyfriend was always getting into trouble and his team never stepped in to stop it.
San was a romantic at heart, despite his career-focused persona. He had sent flowers, planned grand gestures and even organized trips halfway across the world, all in the hope of making a relationship work. Yet, when it came to love, his heart had always been out of sync with the people he’d surrounded himself with, especially his ex.
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. This couldn’t go on, he needed a change. Enter Wy, San’s best friend since childhood and the one person San trusted unconditionally. Wy had been the one to recommend Mingi, a rising publicist with an unorthodox style and Mingi waSan’t like the other stuffy, knock heads professionals San had encountered. Wy described him as 'refreshing' and 'non-conformist', with a sharp mind for media management and a way of getting results that San had never seen before.
When San had first met Mingi, he had been struck by the stark contrast between the young man’s appearance and his professional demeanor. He didn’t try to impress San with flashy credentials or corporate jargon. Instead, Mingi was straight to the point, calm in his demeanor and refreshingly blunt. It wasn’t long before San hired him.
“He’s not trained for the kind of life you have,” Mingi had said, matter-of-fact, sipping strawberry milk from the carton. “You love like it’s a sacred thing and he parties like he’s on a countdown. Y’all not gonna last.”
He hadn’t said it to be cruel, he said it because he knew San right after meeting, knew the way San craved stability, gentle affection and someone to hold in the quiet moments. And San had known, somewhere between his ex’s third scandal and fourth missed anniversary, that Mingi was right.
It waSan’t long after the breakup that San found himself noticing Mingi more than usual but at the time, their relationship was purely professional or at least, it was supposed to be. As the months went by, San found himself drawn to Mingi in a way he hadn’t anticipated. Mingi’s bluntness was a relief in a world full of sycophants and his casual attitude toward San’s fame made him stand out. He didn’t want anything from San except to help him and that made him unique.
It had simply happened one night when they were working late in San’s office, surrounded by a pile of papers and the dull hum of the city outside. It was after a long discussion about his public image and somewhere between the strategy, the deadlines and the exhaustion, San found himself noticing the little things about Mingi that he had never paid attention to before.
San loved the way Mingi dozed with a hand loosely curled on San’s knee during long flights, the way he fussed with San’s collar before red carpets, the way he never flinched from touch, even when San’s hand lingered too long on the small of his back.
The way Mingi’s lips would curl up slightly when San said something sarcastic, the way his eyes seemed to soften when he let his guard down, the warmth in his voice when he said San’s name, like it held more meaning than it should. It was in those moments that San realized he wanted something more than just a professional relationship. He wanted Mingi.
At first, it was a quiet understanding between them. They were both careful, unsure of how to proceed. They didn’t talk about it right away, it just became a thing, an unspoken agreement that they would be something more but only when they were both ready.
And then, after an entire year of working together, the inevitable happened, they had crossed the line into something deeper.
One night, San had just said it, “I think I’m in love with you.”
Mingi had blinked once, sighed then said, “I don’t do messy relationships.” He raised one eyebrow, “If you’re gonna fall for me, it better be quiet and real but don’t be dramatic about it.”
San had kissed him for the first time the next morning. It was messy, half-asleep, Mingi still in a hoodie that smelled like San’s laundry soap. Mingi had kissed back and that was that.
No declarations. No theatrics. Just love, steady, unspoken and real.
When the producers, CEOs and agents started pushing their children at San, it was almost funny at first.
‘They’d be a perfect match,’ they’d say, parading young actors and heirs like polished accessories.
San never answered. He’d glance at Mingi and Mingi would tap out a quick reply on his phone. Every single rejection carried his signature.
The rumor mill caught on quickly.
‘Who’s Mingi ?’
‘Why does this random publicist have so much control over San’s life ?’
‘Is San being manipulated ?’
Tabloids painted Mingi as a gatekeeper. A nobody with too much power. They mocked his outfits, called him a ‘himbo with a clipboard’ and a ‘PR leech’. Comment sections were even worse.
‘Fire him already.’
‘He’s embarrassing.’
‘He’s holding San back.’
Mingi never flinched.
“Let them talk,” he’d tell San, flipping through contracts on the couch. “They don’t know what they’re talking about.”
But San knew better, Mingi heard every word. He just didn’t show it.
It came to a head after an interview clip went viral, San being asked if he had ‘anyone special’.
He paused, just for a second but it was enough for the world latched onto it. Analysts broke down the micro-expression on his face, fans screamed, industry insiders speculated and the hate toward Mingi intensified.
‘Look, he’s definitely hiding something.’
‘San is so miserable.’
‘Mingi rides San’s fame.’
‘Why hasn’t San moved on from that huy.’
San snapped, he was backstage after a panel, still in makeup, shaking with frustration as he slammed his phone on the dressing table.
“I can’t keep pretending you’re just some guy I hired,” he said, voice low. “They don’t see you the way I do. They don’t know you and they’re not going to unless I say something.”
Mingi didn’t answer, worse, Mingi didn’t react. Not once. Not even a comment and that, more than the headlines, drove San to the edge.
It was late, almost 1 a.m, the living room was dark except for the bluish glow of San’s phone screen. He’d been doom-scrolling again, jaw tight, stomach twisted into something awful.
Mingi came in quietly, hoodie falling off one shoulder, hair messy from sleep.
“I told you not to read the comments,” he mumbled, voice thick from bed.
San didn’t answer, Mingi frowned and sat on the armrest of the couch. “Seriously, babe. Why torture yourself ?”
“They’re talking about you like you’re nothing,” San snapped. “Like you’re some idiot clinging to my career.”
Mingi blinked unimpressed. “Okay. And ?”
“And you’re just going to let them ?” San’s voice rose.
Mingi raised a brow. “I don’t owe your little people my dignity.”
“That’s not what this is about and you know it.” San stood up now, frustration bubbling over. “You act like it doesn’t matter but it does. You let them walk all over you. You never fight back. You hide behind that calm, wannabe wall and you think I can’t see through it but I can.”
Mingi’s face shifted, a flicker of something hurt, buried under practiced indifference then his posture straightened, shoulders squared. The shift San knew too well : work mode.
“San,” Mingi said, voice cool. “I’ve been dealing with this industry longer than most of those people have been alive. I know how this game works. If I respond, I validate it. If I fight back, it becomes a story. I stay quiet, I stay in control.”
“No, you stay alone,” San said sharply. “And I’m not watching you isolate yourself because you think love is a liability.”
For the first time in a long while, Mingi didn’t have a comeback. The silence was heavy and Mingi looked down at his lap, his jaw clenched just slightly and eyes getting wet, that’s when San’s anger cracked.
He stepped forward, quietly now, his voice softening, apologetic.
“Baby, I’m sorry.”
“I’ve seen what happens when people like me date people like you,” Mingi said quietly. “They tear them apart. They pick at how they look, how they speak, how they dress even worse than now. You’re art to them. I’m just…”
“You’re everything to me.”
“I know.” Mingi smiled, tiredly. “But I don’t want to be everything to you on page six.” San catch that one tear escaping from Mingi’s eyes, “If I let it touch me, I won’t make it through the next month.”
San stepped even closer, kissing Mingi’s on his forehead. “You don’t have to carry that alone, baby. You never did.”
Mingi didn’t respond, not with words, just kissed him deeply and pressed his forehead into San’s chest. It was the kind of silence that said, thank you for seeing me.
Still, the media didn’t let up. Rumors swirled the more Mingi appeared in San’s shadow, the more they dissected him.
‘Unprofessional publicist ruins star’s brand.’
‘Mingi : The hoodie-wearing nobody with too much power over Hollywood’s golden boy.’
‘Fans petition San to fire publicist over career concerns.’
One article called Mingi ‘a glorified assistant with a trust fund wardrobe.’
That night, San turned off his phone and held Mingi’s face in his hands.
“Please let me tell them.”
Mingi just closed his eyes and leaned into the touch and shook his head lightly.
“You don’t have to protect me from them,” San whispered but anger took over him, seeing the one he loved being butchered by his own ‘fans’ was destroying and he knew Mingi too, “This is ridiculous. I want the world to know we’re together.” San said, his voice low but sharp, his frustration palpable as he got up and start to pace around the bedroom. “I’m sick of the press always speculating. It’s exhausting.”
Mingi leaned against the bedframe, arms crossed, his expression calm but unreadable.
“If you put this out there now, it’ll be a media circus. They’ll use us to sell their stories. You’ll lose your sense of privacy.”
San stopped pacing, getting on his knees next to Mingi. “I want us to be private but I refuse for you to be a secret Mingi. You deserve to be seen for who you are not just as my publicist, but as... someone special. My someone special.”
There was a long silence between them, heavy with the weight of their emotions. Mingi’s gaze softened further and he put his hands on San’s cheeks stroking them, finally breaking his usual stern façade.
“I’m not used to being in the spotlight like you, San. You know that. I’ve been living in the shadows for a reason.”
San’s heart ached as he sat next to Mingi, his voice quieter now.
“I know but you don’t have to be in the shadows anymore. I want to share this with you. I need to share this with you. So, please, let me show you off.”
Mingi looked at him for a long moment, his eyes thoughtful before he finally exhaled and nodded, just barely.
“Fine.” San’s face broke into a big smile, his dimples showing but Mingi stopped him, putting one finger on lips to shut him up. “But on one condition. It has to be on my terms, publicist terms.”
San’s smile was ripping his face with how happy he was. “Deal. Thank you.”
One evening, San had posted a picture on his social media, an innocent, seemingly casual image of Mingi lounging on his couch, dressed in a large and oversized T-shirt, glasses perched on his nose and his bleached blond hair a little wild. He was frowning, face focused on his computer. It was simple, effortless but to San, it was everything.
Simple caption : ‘My home.’
The soft launch was subtle but the implications were clear. It wasn’t just about the media anymore, it was about San and Mingi, the quiet love they had built over the past year. And while it wouldn’t stop the press from digging, San didn’t care, he had made his choice a long time ago. Mingi, despite his stubbornness, had finally agreed to be a part of San’s world, not for the headlines but for the quiet, unspoken connection they shared.
Still Twitter exploded, Instagram too and the fans lost their minds.
Some were surprised. Some had seen it coming.
But others… Oh… others dragged Mingi harder than ever.
‘He doesn’t deserve him.’
‘He looks like a fanboy who snuck in.’
‘How could San fall for that ?’
Mingi saw all of it, he didn’t say a word.
But that night, when San came home, he found Mn sitting quietly in the kitchen, hands curled around that same chipped mug.
“I’m not what they want for you,” Mingi whispered. “I know that.”
San stepped behind him and wrapped his arms around Mingi’s shoulders.
“You’re what I want.”
Mingi’s voice cracked when he answered.
“I know. That’s what scares me.”
Things didn’t magically get easier. Mingi still got criticized, still got underestimated, still wore oversized hoodies and stayed out of interviews, out of the lights and the mouths. But now, he didn’t hide.
He still not too far apart from San at premieres, hand brushing his back secretly. He was caught in more photos, always close. The public started to notice, not just his presence but the way San looked at him.
Like he was a treasure.
Like he was home.
Some fans changed their tune. The hashtag #LetMingiBeLoved trended for three days after San posted a clip of Mingi singing while folding laundry in the background of an Instagram story.
Critics still whispered and comment sections still judged but San didn’t, couldn’t care less about them because every morning, he woke up to Mingi curled against his chest and every night, he kissed Mingi’s temple and said, “Thank you for letting them see you.”
Mingi always mumbled the same reply. “Only ‘cause you asked nicely.”
For the first time in a long time, San felt like his life was truly his own and in that moment, with Mingi by his side, he realized that love, real love, had always been worth fighting for. Even more now when that little velvet box, sitting secretly inside San’s pocket, was eyeing him now.