I hustle to the door, waiting by the peephole, startled when I see him come into my line of vision, right there, on the other side of the door.

Jaeyong’s dressed in all black (surprise, surprise), black ball cap pulled low on his face, a black dust mask on the lower half of his face, making him unrecognizable if I wasn’t a fangirl—I mean, I can tell just by looking at his overall build and the earrings dangling from his ears that it’s Min Jaeyong standing out there, based on hours and hours of careful study through music videos and livestreams, interviews and everything in between.

I pull my door open before he can knock again, and Jaeyong steps into my space, my wet bun perched on the top of my head wobbling and falling out of its not-so-careful construction, unraveling and landing all wet and cold on my shoulders, making me shiver.

I’ve got my sweats on, a bra underneath my giant t-shirt with a hole on the collar, the seams barely hanging on, and fuzzy socks on my feet in bright, Canadian red.

“You’re dressed like a mafioso wannabe or something,” I mumble, stepping back to let him toe off his shoes, kicking my own house slippers towards him even though there’s no hope in hell his feet will fit in them.

I turn around and glance at my apartment, trying to see it how a stranger might, glancing over the gray couches with the blush pink throw and assortment of fuzzy blankets piled in a corner and my need for a stupid amount of pillows (some of them with my favourite book or movie quotes on them, and even some Trickshot merch, too). I try to see the posters hanging on the walls that feature a number of Dragon Ball characters that’s a throwback to a better time as a stranger might, but it’s not a stranger that’s going to be looking around my apartment.

This is Min Jaeyong we’re talking about, Min Jaeyong.

There are the appliances in the kitchen (minus the dishwasher, which is a crime), my fridge giving off those comforting humming sounds that always remind me of home, my TV pressed up against the wall, minuscule side tables I tried to fit in the space holding up the towers of books I brought over, the gaps in the bookshelf I set up annoying me right now.

“And you’re dressed all comfy and cute,” Jaeyong says, making me turn back to him, eyebrow raised in question.

I glance down at his pants, some sort of cargo pants type thing, loose-fitting, comfy in that way but maybe not in the material. I bet those pants cost more than my monthly rent for sure, for sure.

“Don’t be jealous. Come on in. There isn’t much of a tour.” I sweep my arm around the living room and kitchen, pointing out where the bathroom is in case he wants to use it.

“I like it here,” he says, standing awkwardly next to me, and it hits me that we’re alone for the first time—not surrounded by fans, not in the presence of his mom and dad—alone, completely alone, as adults.

And there’s a lot there to unpack, too, ’cause I’m not sure how to act.

Yeah, there’s some familiarity there, but people in general change so much throughout high school and university, pruning and trimming their personality in ways that serve them and those they are closest to—will I even like this version of Jaeyong when he’s not in front of the cameras, outside of being the famous K-pop idol he is?

I mean, he does come off as genuine, but you never know. You just never ever know.

“Thanks. Not as big as your place, but it’s starting to feel like home. Sit, relax. What are we eating?” I grin at him, patting my stomach as I lead the way to the couches, flop down, and hug a pillow, the one with the print of the seventh dragon ball on it, seven bright red stars winking back at Jaeyong.

He takes a seat more carefully and I watch him pull his phone out of his pocket, dropping the dust mask he must’ve stowed in there on the ground, bending down with the groan of an old man to pick it up before sitting back upright, running straight through my options.

“Hold on a sec, are you hurt right now?” I ask, reaching out my hand, as if to touch him without his express permission.

What the fuck, Raleigh? Since when do you do that? You don’t really know him, remember?

He doesn’t nod but looks caught nonetheless. “Come on, Jaeyong, what the hell? I don’t even have anything here except for some extra strength acetaminophen!”

“It’s just muscle strain, but I’ll take some of those if you wanna share.” He pops a grin, dimples on display, somehow enchanting me into smiling right back, like an idiot. “Extra strength, huh?”

I shrug, getting up from the couch to hit the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, coming back with the super, mega bottle with the good stuff. “I still get really bad period cramps, what do you want from me?”

“Shit, really? Must be bad.”

I shake my head. “It’s not fun. Here, pop out two and I’ll grab you a glass of water.” He follows my instructions without complaint, reminding me of the kid I knew, the one who would sometimes let me order him around when I was feeling particularly out of control.

I come back to him with a glass of water, settle the bottle on the side table after making sure it’s closed ’cause I don’t wanna play that kind of game if it all falls over and gets everywhere.

I take back my seat across from him, watch him scroll through his phone, grinning when he catches me staring.

“What? Admiring my good looks?” Jaeyong lifts his head, angling it to show off his sharp jawline, his eyebrows and forehead after swivelling his hat on backwards, an effortless boyfriend kind of look, ready for the camera, ready to make fangirls across the world weep.

And it’s apparently all for me right now.

Wow.

“Your face changed a lot,” I say, pointing to my own cheekbones and jaw. He lost all the baby fat he was carrying around, and now he’s packed on muscle—which is out of the norm for a lot of male K-pop idols, but it sort of just fits his build just right. Honestly, I think if he wanted, he could overhead press me without breaking a sweat.

“You got super tall, too. I don’t know, I can see the kid I knew in the dimples and all, but your face structure, it matured somehow, got sharper.”

Jaeyong tilts his head at me, smiling softly so only a hint of his dimples peek out, reminding me of a time where I sometimes wondered what it would be like to kiss those dimples, fill them up with affection.

I halt that line of thinking, because it’s not important to what we should be talking about—food.

Food first.

Obviously.

“What are we eating? I’m starving.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m getting to it. You can speak to me casually if you want. We’re close enough.”

I raise an eyebrow, struggling with lowering my speech politeness level to that of close friends, out of practice, never having been given permission to start.

I mean I spoke with tutors before, and I always wanted to keep a politeness there, as is fitting when speaking with a teacher. And Jaeyong inviting me to speak casually in Korean? It’s like speaking in English, a familiarity there that isn’t blocked off by the politeness level of his speech in Korean.

Still, though, I didn’t want to assume. “Uh, sure, sure. I can do that, if you want.” I cringe at the way I sound.

Jaeyong laughs, teeth and all, and it’s a one-two punch to the gut, stealing my breath, hitting me hard. All this time away from him and having a screen between him and me gave me permission to look at him as the attractive guy he is, who looks amazing in makeup and basically anything and everything he wears.

Now that we’re sharing the same space? It’s asking a lot for me to act like a functional human being. A lot.

“You’ll get used to it. So we can do fried chicken and beer—”

“Yes. Yes!”

“You didn’t even let me finish.”

I plop my hand down on my thigh, making a sharp sound. “I want fried chicken and beer. Gimme.”

Jaeyong nods, thumb flying across the screen, ordering food for us, which prompts me to go find my gym bag where I fish out my wallet and the fifty thousand won I have stashed in there, handing him the green and maroon bills.

He looks at me like I’m crazy when I start flapping them at him, going so far as stuffing it in the chest pocket of the complicated jacket he’s wearing, while Jaeyong keeps blinking at me for a good while before moving. “What the hell is this for?”

“You just ordered food, yeah? It’s on me. You’re welcome.”

He frowns hard enough that I’m afraid he’s going to get immediate wrinkles and the stylists and makeup artists are somehow going to find out it’s my fault and are going to find a way to kick me out of country when I just got here.

Jaeyong shakes his head, biting at his bottom lip, looking unsure. “But I came to see you.” He takes the bills out and pushes them across the space between us, halting when he meets the flat of my palm just as I start pushing the money back towards him.

“And I said you could come over, and I should feed you. You’re hurt. And we’re both hungry. Are you seriously gonna question free food? Who are you really?”

“I’m not questioning free food,” he grumbles, glancing down at the bills. “No one’s bought me a meal since Trickshot charted in the top 10 of the Billboard Hot 100.”

I frown, looking up at the ceiling as if the answer’s gonna be there. “Yeah? Wasn’t that like a year and a half ago or something?”

Jaeyong shrugs, still looking down at the money like he’s not sure what to do with it. He puts it back in his jacket, and glances back at me, a small, unsure smile on his face.

“You didn’t change all that much, you know,” he says, making me laugh.

I mean, my boobs and ass came in, but overall, sure, I’m kinda the same, I guess. Maybe.

“Liar.”

Jaeyong swats the air between us, like he caught himself wanting to reach out. I plant my arm on the back of the couch, leaning my head in my hand. “No, really. My mom said so, too. My dad said you got even prettier.”

“Well, if Mr. Min said so, then I gotta believe him.” I can see Jaeyong getting shy now, shoulders hiking up to his ears, reminding me so much of the boy I used to know, except I used to be the one he was the most comfortable around.

“How was it, coming back here after being away for so long?” I ask, keeping my voice soft, wanting him to feel safe. I want to remind him that there are no cameras here filming his every move, but I keep quiet and wait for him to feel comfortable to start talking to me.

I grab my remote anyway, putting on something from Netflix (Deadpool, because why not?) for the background noise. I don’t push him to talk, sensing that he just wants to be. I fix my attention on the movie, the hilarious opening credits along with Juice Newton’s “Angel of the Morning” wrapping up just as the story really gets started.

Except I somehow forgot about the whole Vanessa and Wade sex scenes in the first fifteen or so minutes of the freaking movie as we’re talking.

And while I shouldn’t feel weird, I absolutely do.

I keep my eyes riveted on the screen and try to convince myself that Jaeyong is not here. I do a good job of it, too, until he decides to make a strangled wheeze of a laugh that has me looking at him and wondering if he’s having some sort of allergic reaction.

One of Jaeyong’s hands covers his mouth, but I can still see the flush of his cheeks, the blush moving down to the skin of his throat, and probably down to his collarbones—if I could see them.

Tingles erupt over my scalp, the realization hitting me like a sledgehammer to the temple: oh, no. OH NO.

I like Min Jaeyong.

I like Min Jaeyong!

Yeah? You and the whole fandom, buddy.

Shit, shit, shit!