The arrival hall roared like a stadium. Fans held glowing boards, cameras blinked like lightning, and a chant rolled through the glass building—

“Sangwoo! Sangwoo!”

Tara pressed her passport to her chest. Seoul already felt too big, too loud. She was just an intern chasing a small dream in a foreign country, yet suddenly she stood in the center of a storm she didn’t understand.

Someone shoved from behind; her suitcase tilted. Papers scattered. When she bent to grab them, a shoulder hit hers hard enough to spin her around. She stumbled—until a hand caught her wrist.

The world stilled.

He wore black from head to toe: cap, mask, and eyes sharp as winter rain. Even hidden, his face looked unreal—angles carved by fame, skin pale under the fluorescent lights.

“Watch where you’re going,” he said, voice low and smooth, tinged with irritation.

“I’m— I’m sorry.” Tara’s words tangled with her breath.

He didn’t move away. The grip on her wrist eased, but his gaze stayed locked on her. Cameras flashed behind him; bodyguards shouted something she couldn’t hear. For a heartbeat, it felt like there was no crowd at all—only that quiet stare pressing against her skin.

A guard touched his shoulder. “We have to go, sir.”

Sangwoo released her slowly, as if the motion itself cost effort. He turned, walking toward the gates while fans screamed louder. Tara watched his back disappear into the blur of security lights.

When silence finally returned, she realized her pulse was still racing. She had met a stranger for five seconds, and somehow those seconds refused to end.

Outside, the city was drenched in twilight. Taxi lights swept across wet pavement, and Tara sat inside one, replaying the scene over and over.

That name—Sangwoo—echoed from every billboard. The driver’s radio murmured, “The nation’s idol has returned from tour…”

She frowned, glancing at the photo on a passing bus. Same eyes. Same black coat. So that’s who he was.

A celebrity. A world she would never belong to.

Still, when she closed her eyes, she could feel the heat of his hand around her wrist. It had been cold—yet strangely alive, like an electric warning.

Across town, in a hotel suite veiled by tinted glass, Sangwoo stood before a mirror. Cameras had chased him for hours, yet the only image replaying in his mind wasn’t from a lens—it was the girl’s face.

Dark eyes, startled yet soft.

Skin touched by sunlight, a contrast he couldn’t forget.

He poured water, set it down untouched. The noise of his team outside the door faded.

“Who was she?” he muttered to his reflection. He didn’t know, and that ignorance irritated him more than it should.

For years he’d learned to keep emotions locked behind choreography and camera flashes. But that one touch had cracked the mirror he lived in.

He ran a thumb over the faint mark her bracelet had left on his skin.

Somewhere in the city, she was probably unpacking, forgetting him already.

He smiled—cold, determined. “We’ll see.”

That night, Tara stood by her apartment window, watching neon spill through the rain. A chill passed through her, like the whisper of eyes she couldn’t see.

She told herself it was imagination. Just jet lag. Just nerves.

But the moment she turned away, a black car slowed beneath her building. Inside, a man looked up once, expression unreadable, before the car slipped back into traffic.

Their story had already begun—quietly, inevitably, like a song neither could stop.

The next morning, Seoul woke to chaos online.

Trending on every feed were two blurry airport photos:

> “Idol Sangwoo caught holding a woman’s hand?”

“Mystery girl sparks dating rumors!”

Tara didn’t even know she was famous—for the wrong reason—until her new colleague at the fashion company gasped, showing her a phone screen.

“Isn’t this… you?”

The photo was grainy but unmistakable. Her pale pink shirt, her messy bun, Sangwoo’s hand catching her wrist—frozen in the middle of that crowded airport.

“I— I don’t even know him,” Tara stammered, mortified.

Her coworker gave a low whistle. “Lucky girl or doomed one. His fans are wild. You should hide.”

Tara laughed nervously, but her heart thudded hard enough to hurt. By lunch, her social media was flooded with messages—some curious, some cruel. She shut her phone off, wishing she could disappear.

Meanwhile, on the top floor of a tall glass building, Sangwoo sat with his manager.

“Who leaked this?” his voice was quiet but carried weight.

“Probably a fan camera. It’s spreading too fast. We can deny it, say she’s just a staff member.”

Sangwoo’s jaw tightened. “No.”

His manager blinked. “No?”

“She’s not staff. Don’t lie.”

“Then what is she, Sangwoo?”

He didn’t answer. His eyes had gone distant, dark. The manager sighed, running a hand through his hair. “We’ll handle it. Just keep your distance for a while, okay? We don’t need another scandal.”

But Sangwoo wasn’t listening. Keep your distance?

How could he, when that accidental moment had branded itself under his skin?

Three nights later, he found himself in disguise—hoodie, mask, cap—walking through a quiet street near the Han River. He told himself he wasn’t following anyone, yet somehow his steps stopped near the building he had already memorized.

Through the window of a small studio, Tara sat alone, sketching designs on her tablet. The soft glow from the screen brushed against her face, calm and focused.

She didn’t look like someone who wanted fame. She looked like peace—something he hadn’t felt in years.

But he didn’t go in. He just watched from the shadows, breath slow, eyes tracing the shape of her world.

When his phone buzzed, he ignored it. Only when she stood, turning off the light, did he finally move.

This is madness, he thought. She’s just a girl.

Yet every instinct screamed otherwise—like some part of him already belonged to her.

The next morning, Tara received a delivery: a small box tied with a silk ribbon, no sender name.

Inside was a white rose, fresh and cold, with a note that read in delicate handwriting:

> You dropped this at the airport.

Her breath hitched. She hadn’t dropped any flower—but she knew who might have sent it.

She looked out the window again, half expecting a car parked below. There was nothing. Only the wind moving through autumn leaves.

Still, something deep inside whispered she was being watched—not in fear, but in strange, forbidden awareness.

Across town, Sangwoo sat on the edge of his hotel bed, scrolling through her photo once more—the one he shouldn’t have saved. The scandal had made his company furious, but he couldn’t bring himself to delete it.

He whispered her name like a confession.

“Tara…”

It sounded dangerous. Addictive.

The idol the world adored was slowly unraveling—and only one girl didn’t know she held the thread.

Rain came suddenly that evening—sharp, silver needles falling from a heavy sky. Tara rushed out of her office with her sketch folder over her head, shoes splashing through puddles. Her phone buzzed with another notification from the gossip blogs. She ignored it, heart sinking lower with each new headline.

> “The unknown girl still silent.”

“Sangwoo’s team refuses to comment.”

She hadn’t asked for any of this. She wasn’t a celebrity. She was just an Indian girl in Seoul, working quietly, trying to build her dream.

She turned into a narrow lane, the rain soaking through her clothes. Then, headlights flashed—too bright, too close. She froze. The car stopped inches away, water spraying around her.

The driver door opened. A man stepped out, black umbrella shielding him.

And for a moment, the world blurred around her.

Sangwoo.

Even drenched and hidden under a hoodie, she knew those eyes—storm-dark, sharp as glass.

“Are you trying to die in the rain?” His voice cut through the downpour.

Tara stepped back. “You—what are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer. He simply reached forward, holding the umbrella over her. His fingers brushed her wrist, cold and steady. “You’ll get sick.”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, pulling her hand away. “You shouldn’t be here. People—people already think—”

“I don’t care what they think,” he interrupted. His jaw flexed, raindrops sliding down his cheek. “You shouldn’t have to hide like this.”

“Because of you!” she snapped, frustration finally spilling out. “My inbox is full of hate messages. My boss almost fired me! You should care!”

For a second, she thought she saw guilt flicker across his face. But then, it was gone—replaced by that same unreadable calm.

“Get in the car,” he said quietly.

“No.”

“Tara.” His tone deepened—stern, controlled. “It’s dangerous here. Cameras follow me. They could follow you. Get in.”

She hesitated. Something about the way he said her name made her chest tighten. Against her better sense, she slipped into the passenger seat.

The car smelled faintly of cedar and rain. The silence stretched, heavy.

After a few minutes, she said softly, “You shouldn’t have sent the flower.”

He looked at her, eyes narrowing slightly. “You knew it was from me?”

“Who else?”

He turned away, smirking faintly, one hand on the wheel. “Then maybe I wanted you to remember me.”

She exhaled sharply. “You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t have to,” he murmured. “I already do.”

Something in the way he said it—low, certain—made her pulse stumble. She turned to look out the window, pretending not to notice the heat rising in her face.

---

When the rain eased, he stopped near her apartment. “You live here?”

“Yes. Don’t come again,” she said quickly, fumbling for the door handle.

He leaned closer, his voice a whisper near her ear. “You shouldn’t tell me that. It only makes me want to.”

She froze. His tone wasn’t cruel—but it wasn’t gentle either. It was dangerous, like a spark too close to flame.

Her heart pounded as she stepped out, clutching her folder like a shield.

---

Inside her small apartment, she stood by the window, watching as the car’s taillights disappeared into the rain.

She told herself she wouldn’t see him again.

She told herself this was just a coincidence.

But somewhere, deep inside, she knew—

this wasn’t the end.

It was only the beginning of something she couldn’t escape.