Chapter eight:The Warmth Between

Their meetings grew into quiet rituals.

Sometimes it was the café. Other times, the rooftop of Hana's apartment, where the city lights looked like stars scattered far below. They didn't talk about their different worlds. They just were together. Honest. Soft. Real.

Hana had started calling him Joon Min, his real name. Not Minji the idol. Just the boy with tired eyes and a heart full of songs no one else got to hear.

And he loved that.

One evening, they sat on a park bench with warm drinks between their palms. A street guitarist strummed in the distance, and the wind carried the scent of roasted sweet potatoes.

Minji leaned back and sighed. "This… right now… I wish I could freeze it."

"You can't," Hana said softly. "But you can carry it."

He glanced at her. "That's poetic."

She smiled. "You're rubbing off on me."

Then, quietly, he reached for her hand. No big gesture. Just a quiet thread of warmth woven between their fingers.

It was the first time they touched.

Neither said a word about it.

But somewhere nearby, behind tinted glass, a phone camera clicked again. Zoomed. Captured.

Hana didn't know yet.

But later that night, when she walked out of her painting class, she saw someone across the street, a man pretending to check his phone. He was there yesterday, too.

And the day before.

Her chest tightened.

Back in her apartment, she locked the windows, pulled the blinds. Then opened her phone.

No new messages from Minji.

She typed: Were you followed today?

He didn't reply immediately.

Her hands were shaking.

Minji POV

Minji stared at Hana's message, his thumb hovering above the screen.

Were you followed today?

He was alone in the dorm, the room dim, a single lamp casting soft light against his posters and a mirror he hadn't looked into in hours. His manager had left a pile of schedules on the table. Endorsements, rehearsals, talk shows,no space at all to breathe.

But all he could see was that message.

His jaw clenched. He stood, paced, sat down again.

Was she scared? Was she hurt? The thought of Hana looking over her shoulder because of him made his stomach twist.

He typed back:

I'm sorry. I didn't think it would happen this fast.

Seconds later:

They were supposed to back off. I told my team I was just going for coffee.

The message hung there, like a confession.

Then another text:

I'll fix this. I promise. Just don't pull away yet.

He pressed send. But even before it delivered, doubt crept in.

Could he really protect her from all this?

From the flashing cameras, obsessive fans, reporters digging through her life?

He remembered the way her hand felt in his just days ago warm, trusting, and gentle.

And now, because of who he was, that gentleness was cracking.

His phone buzzed again but this time, a group message from his manager.

Manager: Tomorrow, 9AM. URGENT. Dispatch leak rumors. Crisis control meeting.

Minji dropped the phone onto the couch and buried his face in his hands.

"This peace isn't yours," his manager had once told him. "You borrowed it."

And now it was being reclaimed.