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The first time you met Kwon Jiyong, he was forty-five minutes late.
You were sitting in one of the conference rooms of YG Entertainment’s sleek office building, staring at the untouched stack of press packets you’d prepared for the group’s tour announcement. As the newly assigned public relations manager for one of the biggest acts in the industry, you wanted your first day to be perfect. Organized. Professional. Scandal-free.
But no one warned you about him.
The door burst open mid-thought, and in he strolled—oversized sunglasses, ripped designer jeans, and a smirk that could start wars.
“Sorry, traffic,” he said casually, holding an iced coffee like he’d been on vacation instead of heading to a meeting scheduled an hour ago.
“You live five minutes away.”
“You checked?”
“It’s my job to know things, Mr. Kwon.”
Jiyong grinned, clearly delighted by your irritation. He lowered the sunglasses slowly, revealing annoyingly pretty eyes that sparkled with mischief. “Cute. So you’re the new babysitter, huh?”
You set your jaw, flipping open your folder. “I’m the one who keeps the headlines about your group focused on music instead of whatever… circus you have going on in your personal life.”
He slid into the chair across from you, looking utterly unbothered. “So basically, you clean up after me.”
“Glad you understand,” you deadpanned.
He laughed, leaning back in his chair like this was the most entertaining meeting of his life. “I like you already. Most people are scared to talk to me like that.”
“Most people don’t know what they’re doing. I do.”
That made him pause. His grin didn’t falter, but something in his expression shifted—just a flicker. Like he was studying you for the first time instead of just trying to get under your skin. Your comment earned you a raised eyebrow—and, annoyingly, a smile that was a little too charming for its own good.
And you hated that your pulse jumped under the weight of his gaze.
Two hours later, you were standing backstage at the hotel ballroom where the group’s press conference was being held, headset on, clipboard in hand, doing what you did best: holding everything together with duct tape and sheer willpower. The other members of the group were lined up neatly, dressed perfectly in the stylist’s carefully coordinated vision. Cameras were already flashing, reporters buzzing with questions.
Then there was Jiyong.
Slouched in his chair at the end of the row like he owned the building. Sunglasses back on. One ankle propped on his knee like this was a café hangout instead of a live-broadcast press event. You could practically feel your blood pressure rising.
You leaned toward him just before the cameras went live, hissing at him to lose the sunglasses.
He tilted his head lazily toward you, that infuriating smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “What, and deprive them of the mystery?”
“Deprive me of a heart attack,” you snapped.
“You sure you’re not just dying to see my eyes again?” He murmured, low enough that the others wouldn’t hear.
You froze for half a second, heat prickling at the back of your neck, but recovered quickly. “I’m dying to not have to clean up another headline about you acting like a rockstar on live TV.”
For a moment, you thought he’d keep pushing. But then—so suddenly you almost didn’t believe it—he took off the sunglasses and slipped them into his jacket pocket, obedient for once. Except when the questions started, he didn’t stick to the script.
Reporters asked about the new album, and he let the others yap off-topic. They asked about the group’s inspiration, he mentioned how it was obviously heartbreak. What else would it be? One reporter even asked about dating rumours and, instead of deflecting like you told him to, he smirked to himself and mumbled something cryptic. By the time it was over, your notes were crumpled in your hands, your headset askew, and you were seconds away from launching yourself into traffic.
Backstage, you cornered him the second the cameras were off. “What was that?!”
He shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Entertainment.”
“This is not a game, Kwon Jiyong—”
“Relax,” he drawled, leaning against the wall with a lazy grin. “You said you know what you’re doing, right? Looks like the world’s still spinning. Guess I didn’t ruin everything after all.”
By the third disaster of the week, you had stopped hoping for smooth sailing. At this point, you were just aiming for survivable. The charity red carpet was supposed to be simple. Quick photos, a few interviews, and out. The group was already lined up like the professionals they were, every member dressed perfectly, smiles practiced but genuine enough to keep the fans screaming.
Of course, Jiyong had showed up late, hair damp, shirt buttoned in a way that made you wonder if he’d lost a fight with it on the drive over.
Your clipboard was in your hands before you even realized you’d tightened your grip on it.
“Nice to see you too, boss,” he said as soon as he caught your stare, grin sharp and effortless as the press went wild for him.
“This isn’t about me seeing you,” you said evenly, eyes scanning the reporters, the cameras, the lights. “This is about the fact that you were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago and now I have to reshuffle the entire schedule to fit you in.”
No anger. No panic. Just facts.
Something flickered in his expression, like he’d expected you to yell.
He tried anyway. “Aw, come on, I made it, didn’t I?”
“Stand on the mark,” you said, pointing to the tape on the floor. “Smile. Don’t answer any personal questions. Keep your comments brief so we can get through this on time. Can you do that?”
The edge of his grin softened, eyes narrowing in curiosity now. Like he wasn’t sure what to do with someone who didn’t play his game.
“Sure,” he said slowly. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”
The moment he turned toward the cameras, you saw it. The way he paused for half a beat, like he was thinking about something to say to you, something clever or teasing… and couldn’t come up with a single thing.
And that? That was more satisfying than yelling at him would have ever been.
Naturally, the second the interviews started, he still couldn’t help himself—throwing in a wink at the camera, cracking a joke that made the reporters laugh. But it wasn’t reckless this time. It was like he was performing while keeping one eye on you, waiting for you to crack.
By the time the event wrapped up, you had managed to get the schedule back on track, the press satisfied, and the manager breathing again.
“See?” Jiyong said afterward, hands in his pockets as you crossed paths backstage. “No disasters. Guess I’m not that bad, huh?”
“Not bad,” you said, flipping through your notes. “Just undisciplined. We’ll work on it.”
His grin faltered—just barely—but you caught it. And for the first time, he didn’t look like the man in control of the room.
You’re not sure when the dynamic shifted.
At first, you thought it was a coincidence. Jiyong arriving on time for a photoshoot? Must have been a rare alignment of the planets. Him actually following the wardrobe notes you gave the stylists? Probably a fluke.
But then it kept happening.
He’d show up exactly two minutes before call time with his usual iced coffee in hand, acting casual like he hadn’t spent half the week ignoring schedules before you started. He still cracked jokes during interviews, but he stuck to the talking points you sent out beforehand, his smirk flashing toward you like he was checking to see if you noticed. You always did. You just didn’t react. Not outwardly, anyway.
“Good job today,” you said once after a particularly smooth press junket, your eyes still on the clipboard as you scanned the next day’s schedule.
It was nothing. Just a polite acknowledgement.
He was quiet for a moment, and when you looked up, he had this odd expression—like a kid who’d just gotten a gold star and wasn’t sure what to do with it.
The next day, he was on time again.
After a while, you realized he was… competing with himself.
When you praised the group for wrapping an event without chaos, he started cracking less outrageous jokes in interviews. When you mentioned you appreciated punctuality, he began showing up early enough to be seen waiting. When you gave notes on posture and tone for televised segments, he actually followed them, smirking like he was expecting a report card afterward.
He never said anything directly. Of course he didn’t. That would be too easy.
But you started catching the way his eyes would flick toward you after a reporter laughed at his perfectly timed, non-controversial joke. Or how he’d linger nearby after an event, clearly waiting for you to give instructions he absolutely didn’t need.
And when you gave those short, professional compliments—
“Good interview.”
“Better pacing this time.”
“Nice job staying on message.”
—he would nod like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter.
But you caught the way his mouth would twitch, the way his shoulders loosened, the way he walked away like someone who’d just been told they did well for once in their life.
Of course, he still had his moments.
“So… that was at least a B-plus, right?”
“B-minus. You need to work on your breathing control.”
The way he stared at you? Like you’d just handed him a personal challenge. Somehow, without meaning to, you’d become the one person in his glittery, chaotic life whose opinion actually mattered. And he was terrible at hiding it.
You weren’t expecting anyone that late.
It was past nine, you’d already kicked off your heels, hair pinned up messily, laptop open on the coffee table while you finished tomorrow’s press notes. When the knock came—sharp, impatient—you assumed it was a delivery mix-up.
Instead, it was Kwon Jiyong, leaning against your doorframe like a desperate lover boy in a bittersweet romantic film. Hood up, sunglasses on, grin flashing like he didn’t look ridiculous showing up like that at night.
“Do you wear those to bed, too?” You asked, leaning one shoulder against the door, arms crossed.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He shot back, smirk tugging at his mouth.
You gave him the flattest look you could manage. “What are you doing here, Jiyong? It’s late.”
He shrugged, shifting his weight lazily. “You don’t answer my texts.”
“Because they’re not work-related.”
“That’s cold, boss,” he said, hand over his heart in mock injury. “I thought we were building something special here.”
You didn’t move, didn’t rise to the bait, and that was the thing—he wasn’t used to people not giving him what he wanted. He tilted his head, studying you like he was trying to find the crack in your armor.
“Y’know… you talk to me like I’m some reckless kid who can’t be taken seriously.”
“Do I?”
His eyes narrowed slightly at the almost-smile you didn’t quite let him have. “Yeah. Like you’ve got me all figured out.”
“Maybe I do.” You met his gaze evenly.
There it was. The flicker across his face when he realized you weren’t bluffing. That calm, infuriating confidence of yours was eating at him, and the worst part? He liked it. For once, he didn’t have a slick comeback ready. His tongue darted over his lower lip like he was stalling for time, his weight shifting as if he wasn’t sure whether to stay or leave.
Finally, he said, quieter than before, “So what would it take for you to admit I’m not just some… manchild to babysit?”
“More than showing up at my door after hours.”
For a moment, he just stared at you, jaw tight, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek.
Then he moved.
One step. Then another. Until your back hit the wall just inside your doorway.
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t push him away. Just stayed there, calm as ever, while he loomed closer, one hand braced above your shoulder, the hood of his sweatshirt shadowing his sharp eyes.
“You know,” he murmured, his voice low now, almost rough, “you drive me crazy.”
Do I?” You repeated.
He gave a sharp little laugh under his breath, but there was nothing funny in his expression now. “You stand there with your perfect little clipboard, like you’ve got me all figured out. Makes me wanna—”
His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up to meet your gaze again.
“Wanna what exactly?” You asked, tone smooth, even as your pulse hammered in your throat.
See if you’d stay this calm if I kissed you.”
“And what makes you think I wouldn’t?”
That did it.
You could see it happen—the moment the game changed. The moment the golden boy with all his charm and swagger finally lost his balance. Because for once, you weren’t yelling or bossing him around. For once, he used his charms on a woman he was infatuated with and it didn’t stick to the usual script. You were pretty much daring him, and Jiyong was never good at walking away from a dare.
One second, he was watching you like a man on the edge. The next, his mouth was on yours, hot and reckless, his hand finally cupping your jaw like he couldn’t hold back another second.
The wall was cool against your spine, contrasting the sheer heat of his touch.
And still, even as you kissed him back you stayed infuriatingly calm. Like you were letting him, not losing yourself to him.
It drove him wild.
He broke away just enough to murmur against your lips, breath hot and uneven.
“God, you make me insane,” he said, like it was a confession dragged out of him. “How can you stand there and remain perfectly calm while I’m—” He huffed a short laugh, frustrated. “—while I’m me.”
Your lips curved in the faintest smile. “Dangerous?”
He groaned softly, the sound half amusement, half defeat. “Sure… if that’s what you wanna call it.”
You let your hands slide up his chest, slow, deliberate, resting against his shoulders like you were holding him still.
“Lucky for you,” you said softly, voice smooth enough to cut glass. “I like danger.”