The BookStore (Chan’s Pov)

Three Months Ago

The bookstore smelled of fresh ink and old pages—a mix that used to calm Chan. Not today. Not when there were hundreds—maybe thousands—of fans screaming his name from the ground floor, shaking banners and lightsticks like it was a national emergency.

He sat stiffly behind the long table with his members—Nicky, Bruce, Lee, and Lix, all equally exhausted but smiling like professionals.

RIZ wasn’t just a group anymore. They were the group. The fastest-rising K-pop phenomenon in the past year. Concerts sold out in minutes. Fan meetings packed like sardines. Global charts? Conquered. And with it came this—four-hour-long signing sessions where everyone knew your blood type, but you didn’t know theirs.

Chan had signed what felt like every possible object a person could hold—books, albums, phone cases, one even slid him a croissant with a Sharpie. He shook hands, smiled, tilted his head at 30-degree angles (for “cute points”), and moved on. The idol protocol.

At last, a coffee break.

Chan escaped upstairs to the first-floor balcony, overlooking the storm of fans below. He leaned against the metal railing, shoulders heavy, and gazed down at the chaos. Screams erupted the moment they spotted him.

“CHAN! WE LOVE YOU!!”

“SARANGHAE OPPA!!”

Chan barely raised his hand and formed a lazy heart above his head—the bare minimum saranghae. His fans would still lose their minds over it. They always did.

Then, out of nowhere… a shift.

A small moment of stillness.

His eyes wandered down the long, towering bookshelf to the far end. And that’s when he saw her.

A girl—head down, trying to reach a thick book from the top shelf. She was jumping, hopping, fingers just barely grazing the spine. Her friend, a red-haired firecracker, was standing behind her with crossed arms, chewing invisible gum like a bodyguard.

With one final hop, the girl caught the book. Victory.

Until—

WHACK.

The book slipped and fell straight onto her head. She dropped like a cartoon, mumbling something as she crumbled to the floor. Chan actually flinched.

Her friend rushed in, worried, checking her forehead. But the girl just waved her off, brushing dust from her hoodie like this kind of thing happened to her weekly.

That was it. That single second. That awkward tumble.

Chan couldn’t stop staring.

It wasn’t the fall. It wasn’t the book.

It was the fact that she didn’t care he was up here.

Not even a glance.

Meanwhile, her red-haired friend suddenly noticed him and went feral.

“OH MY GOD. IT’S CHAN!!”

Chan instinctively looked away—but his eyes found their way back to her. The girl—the one who fell—didn’t even turn around.

The friend poked her urgently, whispering something like, “Go, go!” But the girl just shook her head and muttered something with a frown that screamed “I’m busy.”

Chan felt like someone just dropped another book on his head.

She wasn’t ignoring him to be cool. She was just…genuinely not impressed. Not curious. Not interested.

And yet, she was the most interesting thing he’d seen in months.

Before he could process more, his manager called out: “Break’s over!”

Duty calls.

⸻

Back at the table, he resumed signing—pen gliding, eyes foggy.

Until—

“Hi! OH MY GOD! HI!!!”

A loud voice snapped him back. The red-haired friend. Chan blinked. She was right in front of him, practically vibrating.

“I’m Hayat!” she said, breathless. “I’m SUCH a huge fan! I came here with my best friend, Annie—but she disappeared! Ugh! She’s always running away at the worst times.”

Chan’s pen stopped.

Annie.

So that was her name.

He kept his face neutral, the way idols are trained, but internally, his stomach did a flip.

Hayat pulled a copy of the Twisted series from her bag—clearly worn, a couple sticky tabs poking out of the pages—and said, a bit too loudly, “Can you sign this for me? Also, like, for my friend! She LOVES this book too! She’s obsessed.”

Chan raised an eyebrow, just slightly. Something about the way she said it—too fast, too cheerful. He knew the signs. This wasn’t for Annie. This was Hayat being a best friend and trying to cover for someone who clearly didn’t care much about this fan meeting.

He glanced sideways, casually scanning the crowd, hoping to catch another glimpse of Annie. But she was nowhere in sight. Probably already gone.

He uncapped his pen, and without saying much, wrote:

To Hayat (and her “book-obsessed” best friend).

Here’s to stories that knock us out—literally.

—Chan

Hayat squealed, completely ignoring the obvious shade he threw in the message.

“Yes! OH MY GOD YES! She’s gonna freak! I can’t wait to tell her—wait, where is she again?!” She spun around like she expected Annie to magically reappear behind her.

Chan just smiled politely, but inside… curiosity buzzed like caffeine in his bloodstream.

Who was that girl?

⸻

Later, after the event ended and the crowd was escorted out, Chan slipped away to use the restroom. He splashed cold water on his face, took a breath, and stepped out into the hallway toward the exit.

Then—it happened.

The bathroom door across the hall opened, and Annie walked out.

Her black, wavy hair framed her face softly. She was wearing an oversized hoodie—maybe two sizes too big—and slouchy cargo pants. It wasn’t a look you’d wear to a fan meet. It was the kind of outfit you wear at home, sprawled on a couch, curled up with a book.

She hadn’t come to see idols. She’d come for her best friend.

She froze mid-step when she saw him, just as he stopped in his tracks.

Their eyes locked. And for the first time in hours, the world around Chan felt… quiet.

He took in the details without meaning to—the way her hoodie sleeves swallowed her hands, the slight wrinkle between her brows, the way her gaze didn’t sparkle with awe or nerves or any of the usual “oppa oh-my-god” energy. She looked at him like he was just a guy standing in the hallway. Nothing more. Nothing less.

She stepped closer, and Chan almost expected her to stammer or blush or say something about how much she loved him. Like most girls.

Instead, she deadpanned:

“My friend told me to get your number.”

Chan blinked.

“She knows you won’t give it to me,” she added, calm as ever. “So just pretend like you’re rejecting me. Gracefully. And I’ll pretend like I’m sad and crushed.”

Chan opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it:

“Don’t worry—I’m not actually interested. I get it. K-pop idol rules. Busy schedules. No dating. Emotional trauma. Intense fans. Trust me, I’m not here for that. I just promised her.”

She held up her hand flat like she was presenting an invisible phone.

“Just… act like I begged and you shut me down. I’ll walk away in defeat, she’ll laugh, and we can all move on with our lives.”

Chan stared.

And then…

He laughed.

Not the kind he did on camera, all smile and no soul. A real one. From his gut. A breathless, surprised kind of laugh that caught even him off guard.

He shook his head slowly and said, “You’re something else.”

Annie shrugged. “I get that a lot.”

She turned to walk away, not waiting for some dramatic moment. No sparkly exit. No fluttery eyelashes.

Just a girl in a hoodie and cargo pants, disappearing down a hallway, leaving an idol who was used to being adored… totally disarmed.

And for the first time in a long time, Chan couldn’t stop smiling.

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