Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Glee
The cabin lights bloomed all at once - soft, artificial dawn - and two hundred strangers blinked awake together. A second later came the ritual: heads tipped down, eyes flicked to little fingers.
Everyone did this on planes. You looked too. You always did. Even when you promised yourself it didn’t matter, your eyes flicked down all the same.
The faint red strings tied to little fingers were private, visible only to the two they connected. Most days the thread was background noise - tugging at the edge of awareness while you went about the life you had chosen: the things you studied, the cities you visited, the friends who’d stayed. But on long-haul flights, when continents slid by in hours, people couldn’t help themselves. Everyone checked to see if the line would jump.
Yours tilted forward and down: a neat, insistent line vanishing past the seat in front of you, through cloud and soil into the country you were descending toward. The angle meant close. You tucked your book into the seat pocket and flexed your hand against the armrest; the line quivered but held steady.
Once, that tilt would have made your stomach somersault. It meant the possibility of stepping off the plane and finding them just a doorway or a station away.
When you had been little, the string had meant perfection. You daydreamed about it on buses, on bad dates, in the quiet after arguments - a vague figure, sometimes tall, sometimes smiling like a film star. A shapeless being you’d meet because the world insisted you would. The same way you thought you’d marry Prince Charming and live in a house with sweeping staircases.
Growing up taught you how messy the margins were. Adulthood didn’t erase the magic; it scribbled footnotes beneath it.
The string promised a personality fit, not fairness. You’d seen enough to know better: some people found theirs decades older; others, decades too young. A relative’s thread had appeared in her thirties the week her soulmate was born across the world. Crueler still, a girl at your school woke one morning with her string snapped - proof of what could have been, with no way to reach it. You still remembered how hollow she looked the next day, carrying a bond that had nowhere to go.
And life, of course, didn’t pause to make room. The thread didn’t care about circumstance; it answered only to core compatibility. Sometimes the person was already married. Sometimes the age gap tilted too wide, or the cultures didn’t align, or the world you’d built couldn’t hold theirs. Chemistry was real, but logistics shouted louder. You’d watched people choose differently, and wisely; a non-soulmate could be the kinder match.
Distance played its own tricks. Close by, the line acted like a compass - stories of people following it into cafés or corner shops felt almost normal. But when it pointed across oceans, it might as well have been silence. That’s when people booked expeditions - continental flights and cross-country trains chasing the angle, recalculating mid-journey like they were chasing weather.
You glanced across the aisle at a man who looked like one of them. On his screen the flight map glowed - zoomed close enough to show every dotted mile. A pale band circled his finger where a ring once sat, the tanline stubborn even now. Expedition, you thought. Divorce maybe. Or just later than he meant to. He caught your glance; the half-smile of strangers rose and fell between you before he looked back at his thread.
Breakfast trays arrived. Plastic forks clicked. A flight attendant asked “A or B?” - neither resembling good food. You thought of how the story had been pitched to you as a child - glittering, inevitable - and the quieter truth of adulthood: strangers measuring their lives by the tilt of a thread. The difference wasn’t disappointment; it was complexity. Complexity, at least, had room for gentleness.
And yet - the promise lingered. One thread. One person. Somewhere.
You pressed your thumb to the base of your finger. The line answered faintly. An option.
Maybe it was only because you were landing on the same soil that the thought pressed harder that day, and you caught yourself circling the rule you had been raised on: if you were close enough to try, you did. Acting didn’t have to be reckless. Most people began with the minimum - a number, a remembered birthday, a breadcrumb trail of polite check-ins until the time was right. The door got opened, even if you weren’t ready to walk through it. Because most people never got the chance. Threads wandered oceans and decades; expeditions cost too much and failed too often.
But you hadn’t travelled to chase a thread across a country - you had come for yourself. A short break before your friend’s wedding outside Milan. A chance to eat well, wander slowly, remember who you were. Even if you’d wanted to try, what then? Italy wasn’t small, and you’d always suspected waiting in tourist terminals at commercial airports would be pointless - hours wasted when you came to savour them.
Since your mid-teens, your string had been mercurial - months steady, then lurching across the map without warning. Often up, into the clouds, before settling far away again. Some years more transient than others. You built a theory from the pattern: not a desk job, not one city. Something that uprooted you again and again. Military, maybe. Air force. Based on when the thread started moving, you guessed they were at least a decade older - already working while you were still sitting exams.
By now, with all those flights, they must have had a fairly good sense of your corner of the world. Which was why you’d always thought it would be their choice to come find you - on their terms, in their time. They were the ones who knew the shape of distance. They were the ones who had the tools.
Because they hadn’t, you’d taken that as its own kind of answer. Maybe the timing wasn’t right. Some professions heavily encouraged waiting. Maybe they didn’t feel ready to settle down yet. Or maybe there was someone else in the picture. You’d made peace with the possibilities.
So you ignored it. Let the thread run through stone and ocean and someone else’s morning while the trolley rattled past with coffee, and you held fast to the shape of your own world.
For days now you’d let yourself move slowly. Breakfasts stretched into late mornings; afternoons dissolved into galleries, courtyards, side streets, until your feet ached and your head was full. Milan felt generous that way. Still, a couple of times each day your thoughts strayed to the string - you’d glance down, check. The direction shifted often enough to suggest they were somewhere in the same city. What you knew for certain was that you hadn’t crossed paths.
When soulmates meet, the string changes: a lean under the skin, gravity disguised as suggestion. And you’d never felt that pull - the one that makes staying apart feel unnatural. Half magic, half conditioning. Still the possibility sparked just enough to make you wonder and make you put in an extra bit of effort in the mornings.
That afternoon you rested in the courtyard café of a small museum after wandering its hushed galleries. Midweek had left the place almost deserted - quiet, blissful, the kind of peace that feels borrowed from another era. Cool stone walls rose around you, vines climbing lazily, a fountain dripping into its basin. Somewhere deeper a private fashion event hummed behind cordons - flashes of shutters and heels on marble - but out here the noise barely reached.
It was the kind of trip you’d wanted - light, unhurried, quiet, nothing pulling at you but your own curiosity.
The thread tugged faintly at the edge of your awareness, as it had a few times since you landed. Clearly, being on the same soil stirred it more than you’d expected. You’d learned to push that sensation aside, let it fade - but today it didn’t. Instead it sharpened, insistent, until it pulled your gaze across the quiet courtyard.
And then you saw him.
Half obscured by a pillar, a young man stood. From what you could see he was dressed immaculately, clearly having slipped out of the fashion event inside. He shouldn’t have noticed you. And yet - he lifted a hand, a simple gesture, beckoning you into the shade where he stood.
The hum at your finger sang luminous and undeniable. The courtyard stilled around you, the fountain drip and muffled cameras suddenly distant, like the world itself was holding its breath. Your chest tightened with a dizzy mix of joy and disbelief. Who was he, really? And what made him step out of his world to come find you?
And then the string was tugging not just your finger but your whole body across the stones toward him, like there was never really a choice.
Up close, you knew that face - sharp, fox-like eyes, softer now than on screens. A name pressed at the edge of your tongue, but it clashed with the figure you’d always imagined the thread would lead you to: someone older, broader, built out of military discipline. This boy - this man - was none of that. Reflex had you scan the courtyard for another answer. But the string thrummed certain, insistent. There was no mistake.
Your soulmate was Yang Jeongin.
He stepped forward without hesitation, movements smooth with the ease of someone who’d steadied strangers countless times. Yet when his hands closed around yours - warm, grounding, thumbs pressing gently into your palms - there was a flicker of wonder in his eyes that didn’t belong to stages or cameras. He eased your fingers down between you, as if tucking the invisible thread into place.
“English?” he asked, the word soft, accented, offered like a lifeline.
You nodded, dazed.
His smile deepened, bright and certain, as though the whole world had just rearranged itself to make this moment right. “Hello. Hi. My name is Jeongin. Nice to meet you.”
Something in your chest answered, an ache and a bloom at once, like the thread had tugged not just your hand but your whole heart into place. You drew a breath, and found your voice. “I - sorry. I wasn’t… I didn’t expect to meet my soulmate today.”
His hands tightened fractionally. Warmth pressed into your palms. Confidence still held him upright, but you saw the same stunned disbelief mirrored there. “Me too.”
The courtyard seemed to hush further, like even the air was making space. And you realised - neither of you had planned this. He hadn’t followed the string across the city, and you hadn’t gone chasing it either. You’d simply stumbled into the same pocket of time, two paths overlapping for reasons outside of either of you.
Still holding you steady, he asked gently,
“What’s your name? Where are you from? What job?” The questions came smooth, almost practiced, but his gaze stayed fixed on you, as if the answers mattered more than anything.
You told him - slow at first, then clearer. He nodded each time, storing the details like small treasures.
“I’m from Korea,” he said at last, charm threading his voice. “I’m a singer. Today, model.” He tipped his head toward the cordoned wing where camera flashes still echoed faintly off marble.
Of course - he was here for work. Suddenly the pattern of your string made sudden, startling sense - since his teens he’d been travelling for world tours, fashion events, fanmeets. This was a small pocket of time spent in Milan, and then he’d be gone again.
“Just today? How long before you leave?” you asked.
“Two days.” He shrugged, easy. “You? Why are you here?”
“A wedding,” you said. His eyes flicked to your hand, quick and searching.
“Yours?” he asked, mock-serious. When you shook your head he let out a relieved little breath. “Good. No other husbands.”
You laughed, startled and bright. His laugh followed instantly, quick and infectious, and for a few seconds the whole courtyard felt like a cocoon.
He tilted his head, cheeky, eyes glinting. “Very pretty,” he said, drawing it out in a way that made you flush. His grin crooked, shameless. “Too pretty. Dangerous for me.”
The moment cracked when a man in black appeared at the doorway, eyes finding Jeongin. A subtle summons.
“One moment,” Jeongin murmured, releasing your hands reluctantly. He crossed to the man, voice dropping into rapid Korean. You caught only rhythm and tone, a faint edge of negotiation.
When he returned, his smile was intact, though something tighter moved beneath it. He slipped a phone from his pocket, thumbs moving fast across the screen. Words appeared, then vanished as he backspaced, typed again, deleted. For someone who had seemed so effortless a moment ago, there was a trace of urgency now - shoulders taut, jaw working slightly, as if he wanted this to be perfect. Finally he turned the screen toward you.
The translator app glowed, his message waiting: Can you tell me your number? I will give mine too. I want to talk with you again. But because of my work, my manager also has to talk a little. Sorry.
You smiled and opened contacts, tapping your number in. His relief warmed the space between you before he let it show. He typed his number into your phone and, when he handed it back, you noticed the small flourish: two fox emojis tucked after his name.
A reflex glance at his device showed the same - your name saved with two foxes beside it. Not just him claiming the symbol everyone gave him, but quietly, wordlessly making you its pair. The realisation melted through you.
When he slipped back toward the event your palm buzzed where his had been.
A few minutes later a shadow cut across the courtyard. A man in a dark suit, tablet under one arm, scanned the space until his gaze settled on the two of you.
“Hello,” he said, his English careful, measured. “I’m Yang Jeongin’s manager. May we sit?”
He diverted briefly to the counter, ordered a coffee with quick efficiency, then steered the two of you back to the tables. Once seated, he balanced the tablet on his knee and began swiping through folders - the motion quick, a little restless, as if he hadn’t expected to need this file today. For all his polish, that small scramble made him feel more human, less like an obstacle and more like someone trying to make a flustered moment tidy.
“Apologies,” he said at last, looking up with a smile that softened the edges of the situation. “This is… unexpected for all of us. There’s a standard confidentiality form I’ll need you to sign - one page, nothing complicated. Our legal team will adjust it later, to suit everyone involved.”
What followed was brisk, improvised - phrases about privacy and protection smoothed over with courtesy and professionalism. He never named the company. Never explained what Jeongin did. But the careful vagueness carried its own weight - the suggestion that whatever Jeongin risked by standing here with you was larger than either of you could afford to test. That made it easier than you’d imagined to nod along, to give your name and contact details, to sign the waiting line at the bottom of the page. Still, when asked for your social media, you offered only the public ones and kept the more private corners of your life back.
After he left the courtyard felt quieter than before, the drip of the fountain steady against the unrealness of what had just unfolded. The pen still felt strange in your hand, like the contract had pressed against the thread itself. Sweetness one moment, signatures the next - the shift sat in your chest, a reminder that even fate had paperwork to answer to.
Only then did you realise how thin his phrasing had been. No names. No industry. Nothing that explained who Jeongin was or why any of this really mattered. If you hadn’t recognised Jeongin yourself, you would have walked away with nothing but a signature on a form and the uneasy sense that you’d just agreed to silence about something you didn’t understand.
You shook yourself free, gathered your bag, and stepped back into the Milan afternoon. One more stop on your list. Something ordinary to steady you.
You pulled out your phone, thumb hovering over maps to navigate your next turn. But a new notification caught your eye first.
Hi, it’s Jeongin. Thank you for today. I feel very happy.
For a beat you just stared.
Then it hit all at once: you had a soulmate now. A living, smiling one. Not a theory tethered to your finger, not a possibility to be saved for some distant expedition - someone real. And with it came a rush of relief. Everything you’d seen in the space of an afternoon - the warmth, the care in how he’d tried to get it right - pointed to someone good, not just an idol persona. Someone you could trust.
Your chest lifted, laughter spilling out before you could stop it, bright and incredulous. Butterflies battered your ribs, and before you knew it your steps were light, almost skipping down the street. People glanced, amused or curious, but you didn’t notice. The thread was no longer only a promise. It had a face - a fox-bright face - and it was smiling back at you.
Back at your hotel, the evening divided itself cleanly in two. From the speakerphone came your friend’s steady spiral: what if the flights were delayed, what if the luggage went missing, what if the roses wilted, what if the hairdresser cancelled, what if the groom forgot his shoes.
“You do realise,” you said, untangling your charger with deliberate calm, “it will still be a wedding even if the roses don’t make it. And if it comes to it, we’ll pick wildflowers from the roadside and call it bespoke.”
She groaned, horrified. “Don’t joke. My aunt would die.”
“Honestly, that might solve half your problems.”
The guilty little laugh that slipped out of her cracked, then doubled over into real laughter. You smiled, mission accomplished, sinking back against the headboard as your phone lit with its other conversation.
Jeongin’s name sat at the top of the slowly growing thread, steady and impossible. Short messages had stacked up through the afternoon - sometimes just minutes apart, sometimes hours. They were sweet, curious, full of emojis, little flickers of curiosity, light jokes, and the occasional blurry photo: a pizza crust half-eaten, the fountain he’d passed on his walk back, the hotel slippers he insisted were “heaven.” From them, you’d learned small things: that his favourite indulgence in Italy was as unpretentious as it came - pizza and beer ㅋㅋㅋ; that his hotel was barely a ten-minute walk from yours; that he’d never been to a Western-style wedding before and wanted to know what it was like. Scattered between those details were softer notes too: Today wasn’t too strange, right? You okay? And later: Unbelievable… but good.
Each new message sent butterflies through you, your chest tight and fizzing until you caught yourself grinning at the screen like a teenager. It felt like those rare, electric first conversations - meeting someone new and realising you just… click.
He had kept to English, which you were grateful for. You tried to let him take the lead on the questions, not deviate too much from what he’d asked and send short, simple replies, putting any longer ones through a translation app. You had the feeling it wasn’t always totally accurate, not with how often he laughed and called you cute.
Your thumb hovered over the newest text, reading it again, warmth curling through your chest. Before you could stop yourself, you asked into the air, “Hey, what do you think it means when someone says they like your laugh? Like - is that genuine, or just, you know… a line?”
There was a weighted silence before your friend groaned. “Oh god. Don’t tell me you’re talking to your ex again. They’re not right for you, and you know it. I was delighted to take them off the guest list - and you know how much of a pain any change has been.”
You sat up straighter, heat prickling. “No - no, gosh, it’s not them.” Too quick. The NDA flickered across your thoughts, all vague clauses and unspoken rules. You weren’t sure what counted as safe to say, so you pulled yourself into caution. Your voice softened. “It’s… someone else. Really new. I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”
That earned a pause, the faint rustle of her shifting in bed. “Huh,” she said at last, curiosity sparking. “New as in exciting new, or new as in danger-zone rebound?”
Your phone vibrated again, screen glowing with Jeongin’s next line - simple, luminous: Can we see each other tomorrow morning? Want to have coffee? Before I work. The edges of your nerves softened instantly.
“Exciting,” you said at last “Definitely exciting.”
The brass doors of Jeongin’s hotel opened onto a hush, the kind that made you slow your step. The lobby was small but polished - marble floors inlaid with terrazzo, velvet chairs in jewel tones set beneath sculptural brass lamps, a single piece of abstract art glowing against the wall like it had been chosen for this space alone. Everything about it felt carefully composed.
You followed the string to the edge of the lobby, where he was rising from one of the velvet chairs. His posture stayed straight, though his hands shifted once against his knees - as if he’d been waiting longer than he meant to. The second his eyes found yours, something unknotted - his expression tipping warm, almost relieved, and you felt your own breath mirror it. He crossed the space toward you, steps unhurried, every line of him softened by the morning light. The marble floor seemed to quiet underfoot, the air itself holding steady as he reached you.
Yesterday at the museum he’d been all sharp angles - suit pressed to precision, makeup cut heavy under the lights, every line honed for the cameras. Before that, you’d only known him the way everyone did: through screens and spreads, boyish but airbrushed, a concept polished until it gleamed.
But here - today - he was neither of those things. The suit was gone, traded for a light knit and clean lines, hair brushed into an easy sweep. His skin caught the morning sun like anyone else’s, soft where it touched, textured, human. Less an untouchable figure, and more like someone you could actually reach.
“Hi,” he said, the word carrying a smile that almost wavered, as though he wasn’t sure if it was enough.
You caught your breath, answering with your own. “Hi.”
For a moment, neither of you moved. The red thread between your hands glinted faintly in the polished light, humming like it had been waiting centuries for this exact instant.
Then, with a small tilt of his head, he gestured for you to follow. You did, pulse racing, as he led you through a corridor of trailing greenery. His hand brushed lightly against your elbow as you fell into step, not quite guiding, not quite steadying - just enough that you felt the warmth of it linger after he pulled back. The air grew warmer with each step until at last the passage opened out.
The garden revealed itself in a slow bloom: wrought-iron chairs scattered across flagstones, terracotta pots spilling ivy, a fountain threading its voice into the stillness. Sunlight dappled the tables, a handful already occupied by murmuring guests. But it was the farthest corner he brought you to - half-shaded, veiled by climbing vines, quiet enough to feel apart from the rest.
There, a table had been laid. Fruit sliced bright against white porcelain, bread still steaming, pastries dusted with sugar. Two glasses beading cold with condensation, coffee curling its rich scent into the air.
It struck you all at once - that was why he’d asked last night about food, about drinks you didn’t like. He’d thought about this.
Laughter slipped free before you could stop it. “You realise if you’d warned me, I wouldn’t have eaten in my hotel earlier. You’re trying to make me the only guest who can’t move in her dress.”
His eyes widened a fraction, like the thought had never occurred to him, then softened into a sheepish grin - caught between proud of his effort and worried he’d overdone it. The moment stretched - then he saw your smile linger.
Something shifted. His shoulders eased, the air between you unspooled. He tipped his head, eyes glinting now that he’d caught on. “What do you mean?” he said, feigning innocence. “Mine.”
As you sat, his hand moved to draw your chair in, knuckles grazing yours for an instant on the worn iron armrest. Small, accidental, but it set your pulse racing all the same. The terrace seemed to fold around you as the words began to find their own rhythm. Not all at once, but in small, careful steps - questions about family and friends, places you wanted to see, the things you liked to do when no one was watching. He laughed at your stories, head tipped back, like even the smallest scraps of your life were worth keeping.
In turn, he offered his own - halting sometimes for English, sometimes slipping into Korean and circling back with gestures until you caught the meaning. You mirrored him too, trading clumsy synonyms until both of you were laughing. And somehow, that stumbling back-and-forth made it better. Each missed word turned into its own joke, each gesture into proof that the thread worked harder than language ever could.
Almost all of it was new to you. His favourite food when he missed home. The way his voice softened when he mentioned his parents. And then - Busan. That was where he’d grown up, he told you, describing the salt in the air, the city leaning into the sea. You smiled, though the word rang familiar - you’d known it already, the way everyone who’d followed his career did. But hearing it from him, here, now, felt different. More intimate. Less a fact on a screen, more a piece of himself he was setting carefully in your hands.
The realisation struck - he didn’t know you knew of him before you knew him. The hush between you was so gentle, so complete, that you didn’t want to break it. Especially when he leaned back with a small, almost shy smile and said how nice it felt to talk like this.
So you swallowed the urge to confess, letting the moment slip by. That small imbalance tugged faintly, like the thread had slipped slightly off-centre, and for a moment guilt flared sharp: how could a bond built on inevitability start with you hiding something? You weren’t telling a lie, not exactly, but it lived close to one. You swore you’d tell him properly. Later. He’d bring it up eventually - the NDA, the group, something that opened the door. Ideally over text, where you had the help of a translator, and the space to choose the right words.
The conversation wandered, unhurried, like time itself had slowed. Pieces of ordinary life laid gently on the table between you, proof that the thread meant more than magic - it meant two people choosing to know each other. The terrace beyond blurred into a quiet hum, but inside the small circle you’d drawn together, nothing else seemed to reach.
His phone chimed, and for a moment he only stared at it, reluctant. His mouth pressed thin, the faintest shadow of disappointment flickering over his face before he forced it away. When he looked back at you his gaze was steady, almost urgent, like he needed to hold this moment in place. “I want… Later, want see you.” he said carefully. The plea beneath the words was clear. He needed you to promise.
The afternoon had slipped away in green and sunlight. You’d wandered the botanical gardens until your feet ached, pausing to read on shaded benches, letting the world soften around you. Leaves whispered overhead, and for a few hours it was just you and the quiet, your thread tugging faintly but untroubling.
By the time Jeongin’s message lit your phone - simple, steady: Come to the hotel? 7? - the light had begun to tilt gold.
Back at his hotel, the brass doors gave way to that same hush you remembered from the morning. The receptionist’s smile was discreet, efficient; she didn’t so much as blink when you gave Jeongin’s name. A polite nod, and she directed you to the terrace with a sweep of her hand to the staircase.
The terrace opened above the garden, the air touched with the faintest drift of citrus from somewhere unseen. Your gaze followed the string straight to the far corner, half veiled by climbing vines.
Jeongin was already waiting, gaze softening the instant he saw you. A smile tugged at his mouth, relieved and shy all at once. He rose as you crossed to him, pulling out the chair with quiet care. But instead of sitting right away, his gaze lingered on your face, narrowing slightly.
“You’re red,” he said, fingertips hovering just short of your cheek, like he wanted to test the heat but didn’t quite dare.
“Am I?”
“Here.” He gestured lightly, brow furrowed, then shook his head with a sigh that was more fond than scolding. “Too long outside. But… still pretty. ”
You tugged your phone from your bag and flicked open the camera, angling it toward the light. Sure enough, a faint pink dusting showed across your cheeks and nose - nothing more than a whisper of sun, the kind that would fade by morning.
You laughed, brushing it off. “Oh this is nothing. I didn’t even notice.”
His mouth pulled into the kind of frown that belonged more to a perfectionist than a worrier. “Soulmates match,” he muttered, almost to himself. Then, with a sigh that tilted toward exasperated affection: “You burn. I…” He gestured helplessly at his own flawless skin. “…wear cream.”
The protest slipped out of you, still laughing. “Guess I’m dragging you down.”
That broke the frown; his grin came quick, sharp, but fond. “Yes,” he said solemnly, though his eyes were glinting. “But… I keep you safe.”
Before you could answer, he glanced past you, catching the eye of his manager hovering discreetly on the far side of the terrace. There was a brief exchange in Korean - low, quick - Jeongin offering his keycard with a small nod that felt like a request. The man’s brows lifted almost imperceptibly, but he accepted it without hesitation, inclining his head in quiet agreement before slipping back inside.
You teased, “What, are you going to gift me some?”
He grinned, sharp and boyish. “For soulmate, yes.”
The word made your pulse stutter. Food started to arrive - thin pizza cut small, a plate of olives, glasses of iced tea beading in the warm air - and you ducked your head, grateful for the excuse to sit. His knuckles brushed yours on the armrest again, deliberate this time, lingering a beat before he let go.
He nudged the plate toward you, eager for you to try, watching too closely as you did.
“You like?” he asked, eyes wide.
You took a bite, warmth curling through you at the simplicity of it all. “Of course,” you said, and your smile tipped brighter when his own broke free in relief - unguarded, almost boyish.
For a moment you ate in companionable quiet, the thread humming faint and steady between you. Then, softly, you asked, “How was your day?”
His mouth quirked as he listed them: interviews, a fitting, another round of photos. The words came careful in English, but the wry tilt of his smile said enough - that it had been work, endless and tiring, until now. In return, you told him about the afternoon you’d spent wandering the botanical gardens, the book you were halfway through.
He leaned in a little at that, eyes shining with sudden glee. “You like flowers? Show me picture?” he asked, and you found yourself pulling your phone out before you could think.
Before he could answer, footsteps crossed the terrace. His manager reappeared, carrying both a tube of suncream and a bouquet so extravagant it looked like it belonged in a campaign photo - an armful of lilies, roses, green fronds spilling in every direction. Setting them carefully beside your table, and Jeongin a look that was equal parts indulgent and resigned before retreating once more.
Jeongin ducked his head, sheepish but clearly pleased, as though the timing had been his plan all along. “From… fashion brand,” he explained, tapping the bouquet as though it needed context. “They give me. But… cannot take on plane.” His eyes lifted, tentative, soft. “So… you keep?”
The flowers leaned bright and impossible against your chair, and his grin broke open when he saw your smile answer.
On instinct, you reached for your backpack, tugging it onto your lap. He tilted his head, curious, watching as you rummaged past guidebooks and receipts. At last you pulled free a tiny teddy - barely the size of your palm, stitched in the colours of your home country.
You’d carried a handful of them on trips abroad ever since being gifted a similar one. You’d carried a handful of them on trips ever since - small, pocket-sized thank-yous for kindness when you needed it.
“Here,” you said softly, setting the little bear gently in his hand.
He looked down at the bear in his palm as if it were something impossibly rare, then back at you, expression caught between wonder and disbelief.
“It’s not much compared to…” you glanced at the extravagant bouquet, “all this. But - ”
He shook his head before you could finish, fingers curling protectively around the toy like it was priceless. “No,” he said quickly. “This… very special. My first gift.”
The way he said it made you feel as though the tiny bear weighed more than the bouquet. As though you’d just given him something he’d keep long after the flowers were gone.
Dinner stretched slow and unhurried. Sometimes your hands moved at the same time - reaching for the olives, shifting plates - and your knuckles brushed, each touch sparking heat that lingered longer than the contact itself. Sometime around when the garden lights came on, the conversation morphed into ever more ridiculous rounds of would you rather. That small piece of misrecognition still sat between you. But the thought dissolved as quickly as it came. You found yourself leaning in to the warmth between you, silly and soft as you debated whether it was worse to sneeze glitter or hiccup confetti and strongly agreed that a hundred duck-sized horses were less terrifying than one horse-sized duck. The laughter eased eventually, leaving a quiet that felt gentler.
“I have flight tomorrow,” he said at last, voice low, like it cost him to break the spell of the terrace.
The words landed heavy. You set your glass down, fingers tracing the condensation. “So this is it? Tonight?”
His head shook almost instantly. “Not finish,” he said, deliberate. His gaze held yours, steady, almost urgent. “Just… wait. We text, call. Promise.”
You wanted to believe him but the NDA and what it meant pressed sharp against your thoughts. You knew what fandoms whispered whenever the word soulmate brushed against idols. It was an earthquake, a shift that could split careers in half. Everyone knew companies expected idols to hold off until the spotlight dimmed. Enough to soothe curiosity, never enough to disrupt the machine. Plus busy schedules and constant scrutiny made it hard to build something real, particularly as soulmates could be inconvenient fits - different countries, different languages, different stages of life.
The fear slipped out before you could stop it. “Is that… allowed?”
Something in his jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. “Company… close eyes,” he said slowly, searching for the words. “Numbers, small talk… okay. As long as quiet. But…” His hand lifted slightly, hovering between you as though the string itself were visible there, binding him. “Not more. Not… real.”
Your chest dipped but that was what you’d expected.
But then his voice steadied, firmer than before. “But… soulmate.” The syllables landed with quiet finality. “I want. Not later. Too long. So… we find way. Me…” He hesitated, then pressed on. “People think I…serious.” A faint, almost wry smile tugged at his mouth. “So… maybe I I can do more.”
His conviction surprised you. The approach itself hadn’t been a surprise - not really. Everyone knew the tug of a soulmate was too strong to ignore. Idols were trained into it as much as anyone else, conditioned to step forward even if managers swooped in after. That part had felt inevitable. What unsettled you now was the way he wasn’t pulling back.
You’d expected him to reassure lightly, promise nothing, enough to keep the thread alive without ever tugging too hard. That would have been normal - acceptable - even if it hurt. Most idols banked it for later; everyone understood why. And Jeongin wasn’t known as reckless or a helpless romantic, at least not publicly.
But instead here it was: unshaken intent, plain as the line tying you together. Against the grain. Out of step with the script.
You exhaled shakily, shoulders loosening under the weight of it. “Okay,” you said at last, the word almost a whisper. “Then I’ll promise too.”
Beneath the table, his hand shifted, brushing yours once - hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he should. When you didn’t pull back, relief swept across his face, unguarded and bright, and his fingers curled lightly around yours, hidden by the white cloth. The contact was small, secret, but it wrapped the two of you in a hush that felt like its own little cocoon - quiet, sealed, a space where nothing else intruded.
He leaned in just a fraction closer. “But… no other husbands remember.”
You laughed, helpless, the ache easing for a moment. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Serious,” he countered, mock stern, then softened again. “Only me.”
And as the sun slid low over Milan, the terrace around you seemed to blur, the hush of the garden wrapping tight as if to keep the moment untouched. Half teasing, half silent, all fragile possibility - you had a promise now. And promises, you realised, could be enough to begin with.
He kept his word.
The first message came before the plane doors had even closed, his name lighting your screen in the dim of your hotel room: Boarding now. I text in Korea. Promise. Two fox emojis trailed the words, bright and ridiculous, and you caught yourself smiling like you hadn’t in years, the tug returning every time you thought of it.
By the time he landed in Seoul, another line was waiting: Long flight. Miss already. A sleepy selfie followed - messy hair, mask pulled down, eyes creased like he was too tired to pose properly. It made you laugh, then ache, because it felt so unpolished and so real.
That was how it started - simple, steady, like he wanted to prove he meant what he’d said. From there a rhythm built itself almost without effort. Your lazy vacation mornings opened as his workdays wound down, a little overlap carved out of time zones and schedules. At first it was only texts: you told him about the book half-finished on your nightstand, the museums and side streets you kept losing yourself in. In return he sent tiny glimpses of his days too - blurry photos of meals, or snippets of Korean words and culture he insisted you’d understand someday.
Then one morning, while you stirred milk into coffee, your phone rang instead. His voice came warm but edged with the drowsiness of someone winding down after a long day. You started picking up a few words online just for the calls - it felt right to at least greet him and thank him in his own language. Sometimes it meant he fell asleep mid-call, phone slipping sideways, his breathing steady in your ear while you made breakfast.
Slowly, inevitably, the calls turned into video. The first time, he’d laughed sheepishly, hair damp and hoodie crooked, saying, “Better, right? I see your smile.” You tried to play it casual, but your heart jumped at the way he leaned close to the camera, eyes soft as though closing the distance mattered to him as much as it did to you. The calls weren’t anywhere near constant, but contact of some form was always steady. Enough that the thread between you felt less like fate and more like a choice, something you both kept making across distance.
Still, you noticed the shape of his stories. He never offered more than surface details about his day - tired, busy, long, he never named his co-workers or what they did, he never sent any photos of locations or mirrors. You took your cue from that, skirting away from anything that edged too close to work. The morning he’d flown, an email had arrived from JYP’s legal team: a polite acknowledgment of your signed NDA, with a note that a fuller document would follow within a week or two. You assumed that was why - for now, he was careful.
But old habits tugged at you. You’d been a Stay for years, even if you mostly kept it tucked away in private corners of your social media. On a rainy evening, with nothing pulling you outside, it felt almost harmless to drift back. So you logged into one of the accounts where your feed still included Stray Kids updates.
It took less than ten minutes to come across some airport videos of Jeongin returning from Italy, hood up, mask on, waving politely at the cameras as he hurried past. Your breath caught when you spotted it: the tiny teddy you’d given him, clipped proudly to his bag, bright against the black fabric. The joy of it hit hard, sharp and luminous. He’d kept it. He was carrying it. He’d chosen to make it visible. For a moment you just sat there, smiling like an idiot at your screen.
Another ten minutes, and the shine dulled. You scrolled past captions dissecting his mood, speculating on his schedule, the usual swarm of comments. None of it was cruel, but none of it was his either. These weren’t things he’d chosen to share with you. Whatever you and Jeongin were building, it deserved to grow on your own terms, not through a feed of strangers trying to piece him together. So you logged out. Unfollowed. Deleted the old profiles. Your thumb hovered over the delete button, a pang of loss for this side of you but once you pressed the button it felt strangely clean, like sweeping dust from a table you meant to set properly. Whatever came next, it would come from him, not from the noise around him.
The wedding came around quickly, and Jeongin was just as invested as he’d sounded - or at least he seemed to be. Maybe it was the traditions that fascinated him, or maybe he just liked the excuse to see you dressed up and glowing among the people who mattered to you. Either way, his replies never failed to arrive with emojis, exclamation marks, little bursts of delight that made it clear he was paying attention.
The day itself was lovely. The ceremony was held outdoors, a late-summer garden spilling green around rows of white chairs. It was deeply personal - woven through with stories, music, and vows that felt like they belonged only to them. As you watched through your tears, it gave you space to remember their story - the nights she’d whispered to you about him before they were official, the bumps and the joy and the years that had carried them to this moment. Only an hour earlier your phone had buzzed with a panicked selfie from the bride - her veil pinned crooked, captioned simply: pray for me. Now, though, she was radiant. Both of them were. Utterly smitten even after years together, the kind of love that made vows feel less like performance and more like truth.
Seeing you were alone people made a special effort to fold you in, pulling out chairs, keeping conversation light, making sure you were included. As a result you found yourself drawn into conversations with the families more than usual, older couples eager to share how they’d met and the stories of their early years. Some spoke of soulmates, others of ordinary matches that had grown extraordinary over time.
Each story left you warm, a little drunk on love even before the wine could take full effect. Watching them, it was easy to picture what love might look like years in - but harder to reconcile it with where you stood now, at the fragile beginning. With Jeongin, you had only fragments: texts, calls, the brief cocoon of Milan. Still, the thread hummed steady at your wrist, and in the glow of a wedding it was impossible not to imagine that distance collapsing into something lasting.
It was way too soon - but celebrations of love had a way of pulling those dreams forward even when you weren’t ready. Still the fact that you could imagine it at all - that you wanted to - told you this wasn’t casual for you. Which was exactly why, later that night, when you confessed those wedding-induced fever dreams while spinning clumsily with your friend on the dance floor, she dragged you off, laughing. Rummaging through your clutch, she pulled out your phone and slapped a post-it from her emergency stash of wedding stationary across the screen: no drunk texts.
You groaned, burying your face in your hands as she underlined it twice in bold pen. “Consider this my wedding favour,” she declared, grinning wickedly. “Future you will thank me.”
You laughed helplessly, cheeks hot, because she was right. Temptation, idiocy, wine-induced too-soon confessions - all of it was easier to resist with her reminder glaring back at you, bright and ridiculous.
Still, even with the warning stuck fast, your fingers itched for his name.
You spent most of the flight home with the agreement from JYP Entertainment open on your screen, scrolling back and forth like the words might rearrange themselves into something friendlier if you stared long enough. The first hour you’d tried to make sense of it alone; the second you gave up and started searching for lawyers who specialised in entertainment contracts, grateful for the patchy plane Wi-Fi. By the third you were drafting enquiries.
At some point you snapped a photo of the document, half-blurred by the turbulence, and sent it to Jeongin with a mock-warning: You better be worth this.
The reply came quicker than you expected, simple but earnest: Don’t search group. Please. I want show myself.
That surprised you. Your instinct was to laugh, to soften the moment with teasing and finally admit you knew who the group was, had known all along. You flicked back into the plane’s in-flight entertainment and found the familiar logo you were looking for. You snapped a teasing picture, this one of the album title glowing on the little seatback screen.
You mean this?
His answer was immediate, a stream of horrified emojis followed by: Noooo don’t listen. Wait. Promise.
You laughed aloud, drawing a look from the passenger beside you, but the repeated request made you pause. Warmth hummed through your chest at the thought that across an ocean and time zone, he was still finding ways to make the thread between you feel like yours alone. He wanted you to discover him in his own way, piece by piece, like the quiet confessions he’d already shared - his favourite food, his parents. Even things you’d technically known before had felt new when they came from him.
Okay. Promise.
It might have been a mistake, but it didn’t feel like deceit. Just a small choice, one that came easily. Letting him lead here, in this corner, when so much else in their lives was already out of your hands. Of course you wanted to gift him the space to show off his world - his music, his group. Everyone you knew had sat through hours of their partner’s passions, learning them piece by piece; and in this case, the songs and videos would leave you hyped up and brimming with questions without you ever needing to pretend. Shifting a few details - the year you’d first started listening, the story of how you’d found them - was a simple, harmless white lie. One unlikely ever to be tested, now that your socials were gone and your current closest friends, who weren’t into K-pop, had no reason to ask.
You leaned back into your seat, phone warm in her palm, and let the thought settle comfortably: whatever the world already knew about him, what mattered now was the version he wanted to hand to you.
Ordinary life restarted quickly. Milan shrank to a bubble you’d half-convinced yourself you’d imagined - delicate, something you might wake from at any moment. But the weeks stretched on - work, errands, family dinners, the churn of small routines - and threaded through all of it was him.
The calls grew less frequent with two schedules to balance, but they deepened. Every conversation felt like building a room only the two of you could enter. Time zones became their own rhythm: waking to little stacks of his messages - dogs he’d seen, food he’d burned, good night (good morning?) - and sending your own across the day for him to find later.
Once, a package arrived: snacks you couldn’t read, a sticky note taped to the lid. In blocky handwriting: Careful with spicy. The green one lies. You stuck it to your fridge, and the first time he spotted it during a call his whole face softened.
Your private jokes started pilling up and the green one lies became shorthand for anything deceptive - traffic updates, broken umbrellas, half-baked promises.
It was enough to make the world beyond your calls feel quieter, like you were carrying a secret no one else got to touch. You told your family almost nothing - soulmate abroad, NDA in place, still getting to know each other. Your friends heard the same, only with more laughter in your voice and a few sprinkled details about Jeongin’s humour and quirks. It felt good, having something you could both protect and enjoy.
People seemed to have clocked the shape of what was happening on Jeongin’s side. Sometimes you’d catch a muffled laugh in the background, a few words that sounded like teasing, then Jeongin’s palm suddenly covering the camera. Once, mid-call, someone lingered too close to the door and Jeongin let slip a sharp word without meaning to. He froze for half a second, colour rising - then tipped into a grin, all mischief. “No, nothing. No bad words.” he insisted, switching to English with mock innocence. “You need more Korean practice.” You narrowed your eyes, but he held the poker face until you both cracked into laughter.
Then came the email: your lawyer confirming the NDA had been finalised at last. Relief settled like a stone you hadn’t known you carried. Less than an hour later, Jeongin texted: You need Korean practice ㅋㅋㅋ. I give you free plan. The Duolingo family invite blinked at you, ridiculous and endearing.
Another ping - a YouTube link. Homework. Only this. Don’t look others.
It opened to Hallucination - soft blur, a rush of colour, him huge and uncanny on stage. You laughed into your hand, cheeks hot. Of course he’d picked it. You watched the whole thing, dutiful and delighted, and answered with a flurry of fire emojis: still have the outfits? you demanded. Private show on the next call, no excuses.
Later you’d laugh at the memory - how, after weeks of careful holding back, this was how he first began to show you his world. No context. No caution. Just trying to impress you. Once the joke settled, though, the tone of your conversations shifted: quieter, more measured. He started sending fragments - not headlines but small, human things: a shoot that ran till dawn, the stylist who never forgot a safety pin, a camera assistant who smuggled snacks. Tiny behind-the-scenes clips, shaky and unstyled, that let in the mess and laughter behind the lights.
He started to introduce occasional conversations about his work, one thread among lists of books he thought you’d like, pictures of cafés he’d heard about and arguments over the best midnight snack. “This is my job,” he said once, softer than usual. “But not all me.” He meant it. The stories toe that line - pride folded into a small, weary warning about the industry’s polished face and whatever lived behind it. You understood the weight of it: he was wary of performance, careful not to give you the polished version. And yet, in your own way, you were performing too - pretending not to know what you already did, letting him believe he was leading you into new discoveries
You felt how thin the line was. Ninety-five percent of your bond was built in real time on personhood: the jokes, the gestures, the little rituals that were yours alone. But the other five percent - the idol mask - was radioactive. Every story tied to it felt like walking a knife’s edge so one night you pushed to take the knife away, and asked, half-hesitant, if you could “look them up.” You hoped to get to a point where you could excuse a bit of accidental fan knowledge - not just the basics you could have scraped together from what he shared with you but the B-sides, the variety show clips, the past scandals. You needed a safe cover for the kind of knowledge that ran deep.
The next morning your messages pinged with a curated list: music videos, performances, a variety show he loved. Below that, another list, shorter but emphatic: Do not watch. The reasons made you snort - early trainee clips he dismissed as “So bad” and a handful of performances he labelled “embarrassing.” It took you all of five seconds to realise that see that many videos on the do not watch list he wasn’t in at all, and they were the “sexier” videos of the other members. You teased him mercilessly, promising to stay loyal to his curated list while making sure he knew exactly how funny you found his attempt to gatekeep you from his groupmates’ abs. “Not me,” he insisted, deadpan, like that settled it.
The result felt right: he showed you the work and you gave it your time and attention on his terms - while holding the 95% safe, unpreformed and yours.
Mostly, though, your calls were filled with things that had nothing to do with careers. The legal agreement might have given you both more room, but he was pragmatic: boundaries mattered. Calls stayed private, never on public Wi-Fi and always around his schedules. Many days your messages stacked unanswered while he worked or visa versa. You cooked alone and laughed alone at shows. You never followed him on socials and every time you itched to post something, you had to remind yourself the silence was part of choosing him.
With this the exchanges you could fit in were cherished. You were both sweet, soft, silly and embarrassingly fond in a way you’d never admit aloud. The translator app became your most-used icon. You mispronounced half the Korean words you tried, but he steadied you with his ever improving English, amused laughter following your fumbles. It was, by any sensible measure, disgustingly cute. You both knew it and fed it with gleeful cruelty - sending each other the silliest selfies, inventing daft dares, and keeping the small domestic comforts you could manage across continents.
You’d almost forgotten your initial cheeky demand until, one video call, when he leaned in closer than usual, voice small. “I… want to ask you something.” he said. “Will you… be my girlfriend?”
Glee and relief answered, but you kept your face playful. “Only if I get my performance.”
For a beat he looked scandalised. Then, with a groan that cracked into laughter, he pushed back from his desk. The camera wobbled, revealing fluffy pyjamas and mismatched socks as he gave the shortest, silliest rendition of Hallucination anyone had ever seen.
You laughed until tears pricked, hiding your face. He ended with a bow, cheeks flushed but eyes bright. “Now… answer,” he demanded, still breathless with laughter.
And of course you did.
It was about two months after Milan when Jeongin called, face bright in the glow of his phone. He didn’t bother with a hello - just beamed, eyes crinkled with the kind of news that wouldn’t sit still.
“One stop, next year,” he said, breathless like he’d run to tell you, “Closer to you. I want days before or after. My situation, you know. They say maybe, but I push.” He grinned, sheepish. “Good at pushing.”
You blinked at him, surprise flooding into something steadier, warmer. “Really? You mean - time for us?”
He nodded proudly, like a child who’d tied his own shoes. “Mm. We are good. You and me. No problem. No noise. They are happy.” He hesitated, as though saying it aloud made it more real, then added, “I am happy too.”
You laughed, helpless at the way your chest pulled tight. “Me too.” Then, quieter, testing the thought aloud: “Maybe by then I could…introduce you. A few people. If you like.”
His gaze didn’t falter. “I like it.” Then, after a beat, he leaned closer, voice gentler: “But come to Korea first, if you can. I will make time. Just us.”
You didn’t even pretend to hesitate. “Yes.”
The plan fell into place quickly - Seoul, not Busan, not yet. Friends and colleagues first. Family later, when they’d been dating longer and the language gap was smaller, when you could do them justice. For now the time together was enough.
“Yes,” you said again, firmer this time, the word catching on a smile you couldn’t stop.
And on his screen, Jeongin smiled back like the whole world had agreed with you.