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You’ve never been the type to make promises you can’t keep—mostly because you don’t make promises at all.
Not the romantic kind, anyway.
Daesung learned that early.
He learned it when you showed up at his door at midnight with a bottle of wine and that smile that meant trouble, sliding past him before he could even invite you in. He learned it when you told him you didn’t want labels and he said he didn’t mind. He learned it every time you pulled on your coat before the sun came up, tossing a casual goodbye over your shoulder like it was a joke.
The thing is, it wasn’t a joke.
It was the rule.
You thrived on the game—the slow burn, the push and pull, the way his eyes darkened whenever you leaned too close in public but never crossed the line. You’d text him out of nowhere at 2 a.m. asking if he was still up and, every time without fail, he always was.
Tonight is no different.
You’re curled on his couch, wearing one of his hoodies that hangs off your frame like it’s meant to, sipping a drink while he flips through music channels. You don’t even remember what the conversation was about when you say it; the smirk is there before the words leave your mouth.
“You know you’d miss me if I stopped coming around.”
Daesung glances over, a small laugh slipping out. “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” You tilt your head, eyes locking on his. “You like me exactly like this. No strings. No drama. Just… fun.”
You watch him breathe in like he’s about to argue—but then he shakes his head, smiling like you’ve just beaten him at a game you both know you’re playing. And you have but he turns back to the TV, pretending to look for a channel, but his hand is still resting along the back of the couch—close enough that you could lean into it if you wanted. You don’t. Not yet.
Instead, you stretch your legs out, nudging his thigh with your toes.
“You’re ignoring me.”
He huffs out a laugh, glancing down at where your foot is pressing into him. “I’m trying to watch something, but someone won’t let me.”
“Then maybe you should pay more attention to the someone.”
You say it like it’s casual, but there’s a glint in your eyes that makes him pause. It’s always like this: you say something that could be innocent, but the way you look at him turns it into something else entirely. He sets the remote down, shifting so he’s facing you.
“And what exactly would you like me to pay attention to?”
You smile, slow and smug, and pluck at the drawstring of the hoodie you’re wearing letting the fabric slide just far enough off your shoulder to expose bare skin.
“You’ll figure it out.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
He doesn’t answer that. He just studies you for a moment, that soft, almost disbelieving smile on his face like he can’t decide whether to kiss you or call you trouble. You lean in, close enough that your breath stirs the hair at his temple, and whisper.
“Admit it, Dae. You’re addicted.”
His eyes flick to yours, and for a second, you swear he’s going to say it — the thing you’ve always dodged, the thing you don’t want to hear. But then he leans back, shakes his head, and mutters something about you being unbelievable. You grin like you’ve won.
Because you always do.
It’s been a couple weeks since that night on his couch, but nothing’s changed. At least, you don’t think so. You still text him when you’re bored, you still show up without warning, and he still answers the door every single time. Tonight’s no different—except you’ve decided to really lean into it.
He’s in the kitchen when you arrive, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair messy like he’s been running his hands through it. You don’t even say hello before slipping onto the counter, letting your legs swing.
“Miss me?”
Daesung looks up from the pan on the stove, the tiniest smile tugging at his mouth. “You were here like last week.”
“So that’s a yes.”
He shakes his head, chuckling under his breath, but he doesn’t argue, and just like always, you feel that little jolt of victory.
You watch him work for a moment, then reach over and steal a piece of whatever he’s cooking, popping it in your mouth before he can stop you. He gives you a look , but it’s half-hearted at best.
“Careful, Dae,” you tease, licking sauce from your finger, “keep spoiling me like this and I might start to think you actually like me.”
Usually, that’s the moment he’d throw something back—a sarcastic comment, a smirk, something. But this time, he just glances at his phone on the counter. It buzzes, screen lighting up with a name you don’t recognize. He picks it up quickly, reads the message, and smiles: not the crooked, boyish one he gives you when you’ve gotten under his skin, but something softer.
“Give me a sec,” he says, tapping out a reply before sliding the phone into his pocket.
You tilt your head. “New friend?”
He doesn’t answer right away, just stirs the pan and says lightly, “something like that.”
It’s nothing, you tell yourself.
But for the first time since this started, you feel that dangerous flicker in your chest—the one you’ve spent months pretending doesn’t exist.
It doesn’t happen all at once. At first, it’s just little things — a text that takes a couple hours instead of a couple minutes, a night where he says he’s busy instead of letting you come over. You don’t ask questions, because that’s not what you do. You’re not the clingy type. You’ve built this whole thing on being untouchable, and you’re not about to let a few unanswered messages make you slip.
So you play it cool.
You still send him flirty texts when the mood strikes, still drop by unannounced like nothing’s changed. And when he hesitates—even for a split second—you just smile wider, lean in closer, act like you don’t notice the space he’s starting to put between you. If he’s pulling away, fine.
You’re not chasing him.
At least… not where he can see it.
You’re not looking for him when you see it happen. It’s an industry event—one of those big, glittering things where everyone pretends they don’t notice the photographers in the corner. You’re mid-conversation with someone when you catch a glimpse of him across the room.
Daesung.
He’s laughing at something, head tipped back just the way you’ve seen a hundred times before. But it’s not the laugh that makes your stomach drop—it’s her. You know her. Everyone does. She’s the one he dated a couple years back, the one the fans loved because she was “so good for him.” Sweet. Steady. The kind of girl who probably remembers his coffee order and asks about his mom.
She’s standing close, her hand brushing his arm like it belongs there, and you can tell by the way he’s looking at her that he doesn’t mind.
That he likes it.
It’s just a conversation. You know that. But the air shifts in your chest all the same.
You don’t move toward them—you’re too proud for that. Instead, you turn back to whoever was talking to you, smile like nothing’s wrong, and take a long sip of your drink. You don’t stare. You don’t even glance. But the sound of his laugh carries across the room, curling under your skin until you can’t tell if it’s pulling you back to him… or pushing you away.
Later that week, you’re sprawled across your couch, phone in hand, half-distracted scrolling when the photo stops you cold. It’s all over social media, originating from that same girl’s account.
Your thumb hovers over the screen, like maybe if you don’t move, it won’t be real.
It’s a selfie. She’s curled into his side on what looks like his couch, the same one you’ve spent too many nights on. He’s not looking at the camera, he’s looking at her, both of their smiles are soft and easy like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The caption is simple. Just two words.
“We’re back.”
The comments are already flooding in. Fans crashing out, mutual friends scolding them
Your chest tightens, but you force yourself to breathe slow. You don’t double-tap. You don’t even open his profile, even though every muscle in your hand is itching to. You toss the phone onto the other end of the couch and lean back, letting your head fall against the cushions.
It’s fine.
You told him from the start you weren’t his girlfriend. You set the rules. You played the game.
You just never expected him to win.
And you certainly weren’t expecting to run into her.
The café smells like fresh espresso and cinnamon, a small refuge from the chaos of the industry. You step inside, casually scanning the menu, trying to ignore the dull ache you’ve been pushing down for weeks. Then you hear the voice — light, effortless, the kind of voice that belongs somewhere safe and warm.
You turn, and there she is.
The girl. His girl.
Her eyes catch yours before she even realizes who you are. There’s a flicker of something unreadable before she forces a bright smile. Polite. Controlled.
“Hey,” she says softly, like this meeting is a coincidence that could be nothing but civil. “Aren’t you friends with Daesung?”
You tilt your head, letting that slow, confident smile spread across your lips—half amused, half dangerous. “Something like that. You can have him if you like…”
She laughs nervously before you cut her off, not wanting to hear anything more from her, refusing to let your mask slip.
“Just know… you’ll taste me when he’s kissing you.”