How I Feel When I Dont Have A White Boy To Obsess Over

🚨 We Need Your Kindness to Survive 🚨

Hello, My name is Mosab Elderawi, and I live in Gaza with my family. Life here has become harder than I ever imagined, and I’m writing this with hope in my heart that you might hear our story.

The ongoing war has devastated my family. We’ve lost 25 family members—each one a beloved part of our lives, taken too soon. I miss them deeply—their laughter, their presence, their love. Every day is a reminder of this unimaginable loss.

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We are now facing daily challenges to survive—things that most people take for granted, like food, clean water, and a safe place to sleep. The harsh realities of life here have replaced our dreams with the constant fight for survival.

Our Current Situation:

💔 Lost Stability: The war has left us without work or a stable source of income. 🍞 Basic Needs: Food and water are becoming harder to afford with rising prices and scarce resources. 📚 Dreams on Hold: Like so many here, my family’s dreams have been replaced by the need to simply survive. 😢 Unimaginable Loss: Losing 25 loved ones has left a void that can never be filled.

How You Can Help:

I’m sharing our story with the hope that someone out there might care. Even $5 can make a big difference for us, and if you’re unable to donate, just reblogging this post can help spread the word.

Your kindness, no matter how small, is something we’ll never forget.

What This Means to Us:

Your support is not about changing our entire situation—it’s about giving us a little relief, a little hope, and a way to keep going. We are not asking for much, and we understand if you can’t donate. Sharing our story is just as valuable to us as a donation.

Thank you for reading this far. It means the world to us to know that someone is listening. Your kindness gives us strength and helps us believe in a better tomorrow.

With all our gratitude, Mosab Elderawi and Family ❤️

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@gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #309 )✅️

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Hello Everyone, I am Mosab Suleiman Al Derawi, 28 years old, my wife Nadine Adel A… Mosab Derawi needs your support for Help me saving who's

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MASTERPIECE OK?

"Baby, play me like a game.."

Chan x Rockstar! Male! Reader

Summary: Reader, named Riot, is a cousin of HAN. Han invited everyone to his cousin's show.. and Riot has his eyes on a certain someone.

Warnings: Spicy undertones but no actual action, idk, maybe Chan having an internal meltdown about Riot?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺       ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺  . ✦

The arena pulsed with energy, the crowd’s screams vibrating through the floor as the lights dimmed. Stray Kids sat in the front row, their VIP passes dangling around their necks, courtesy of Han Jisung.

"You sure this guy’s worth the hype?" Lee Know muttered, arms crossed as he leaned back in his seat.

Felix grinned, bouncing in anticipation. "Han’s been talking about him nonstop. Said he’s insane live."

"Insane how?" Hyunjin raised an eyebrow. "Like… ‘good’ insane or ‘should-we-call-security’ insane?"

Before Han could answer, the speakers roared to life with a distorted guitar riff, the stage exploding in a burst of pyrotechnics. The crowd lost it.

Then—silence.

A single spotlight cut through the dark.

And he dropped from the ceiling.

A collective gasp ripped through the audience as Riot—your stage name, your identity at this moment—free-fell from the rafters, landing dead center on the stage with a roll, popping up effortlessly like it was nothing. The music kicked back in, a hard-hitting rock beat, and you were already singing, your voice smooth, powerful, unwavering despite the stunt.

Stray Kids’ jaws hit the floor.

"WHAT THE F—" Changbin choked.

Han was already gone.

"Where’d he—?" Chan whipped his head around, but Jisung had vanished into the shadows, slipping backstage like he had a backstage pass to your soul.

Then—you moved.

The stage was yours—a kingdom of fire and sound—and you ruled it like a predator. Every step was deliberate, your boots hitting the floor in time with the pounding bass as you stalked the edge of the stage. The crowd was a sea of screaming devotion, but your gaze cut through them like a blade, locking onto the eight men in the front row.

Especially him.

Bang Chan sat frozen, his fingers gripping the armrests as you dragged your eyes over him, a slow, wicked smirk curling your lips. The music pulsed, the beat dropping into something darker, heavier—and then, with one sharp tug, you ripped your sleeveless shirt down the middle, exposing your sweat-slicked abs, the fabric hanging uselessly at your sides.

The arena erupted.

But you weren’t done.

In one fluid motion, you dropped to your knees, sliding across the stage until you were inches from Chan’s face. Your chest heaved, your breath hot as you leaned in, close enough for him to see the wild, unhinged fire in your eyes.

Then you sang—voice rough, dripping with something between a promise and a threat—

"You wanna play with fire, baby?

Better pray you don’t get burned."

Chan’s throat went dry. His pulse was a hammer against his ribs, his fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out, to push you away, to pull you closer—but he couldn’t move. Your gaze held him captive, dark and wanting, your lips curled in a smirk that said you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

For a heartbeat, the world stopped.

Then—

You winked.

And just like that, you were gone, spinning back onto the stage like you hadn’t just set Chan’s nerves on fire. Behind you, the other members of Stray Kids were losing their minds—Hyunjin gripping Seungmin’s arm in shock, Felix’s mouth hanging open, Changbin yelling something unintelligible.

But Chan?

Chan was still frozen, your scent lingering in the air, your voice echoing in his skull.

And the worst part?

You weren’t even done yet.

Behind him, the others erupted.

"WHAT WAS THAT?!"

"HAN BETTER EXPLAIN RIGHT NOW—"

But Han was already backstage, grinning like he’d just pulled off the greatest prank of all time.

And the show had only just begun.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺       ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺  . ✦

The arena plunges into darkness, the roar of the crowd fading into a collective, anticipatory hush. A slow, sultry bassline slithers through the speakers, its vibrations curling around the silence like smoke. Backstage, Han leans against the edge of the curtain, his grin feral as he watches his cousin step into the single spotlight illuminating the stage.

“Oh, they’re so not ready for this,” Han mutters to himself, pulling out his phone with a gleam of mischief in his eyes. His thumb hovers over the record button, ready to immortalize the chaos about to unfold.

Onstage, RIOT stands alone, your presence commanding yet strangely vulnerable. Gone is the usual fiery bravado that defines you; in its place is something raw and devastatingly magnetic. 

You tilt your head slightly, letting your shadowed gaze sweep across the audience like a predator sizing up its prey. The leather jacket draped over your shoulders slides down in one fluid motion, hitting the stage with a deliberate thud that seems to echo louder than it should. The sound sends a ripple of tension through the crowd.

A murmur runs through the audience, a mix of awe and anticipation. Stray Kids, seated in the front row, remain oblivious to what’s coming. Chan leans forward slightly in curiosity, his brow furrowed as he watches RIOT with cautious interest.

Then—You sing.

"I don’t need pride, don’t need my name,

Just tell me what you want, I’ll be your fucking game."

Your voice is broken and breathy, each word dripping with shameless desperation. Your hand tightens around the mic stand as though it’s the only thing grounding you. Slowly—achingly slowly—you drag it across the stage with a deliberate sway of your hips that feels more like a taunt than a dance move. The spotlight follows you as you prowl forward, your movements languid and feline.

And then comes the moment.

You slide the mic stand between your legs with a sinful grind of your hips before dropping to your knees at the very edge of the stage. The crowd gasps audibly as you lean forward on all fours, closing what little distance remains between yourself and Bang Chan. Your eyes—wide, glassy, and brimming with something almost too raw to look at—lock onto Chan’s like you're staring straight through him. It’s not just eye contact; it’s an unspoken confession wrapped in a challenge.

Backstage, Han has to bite down on his sleeve to keep from bursting into laughter. His phone trembles slightly in his hand as he zooms in on Chan’s face—frozen and flushed scarlet under the harsh spotlight.

“Oh my god,” Han whispers hoarsely to himself between muffled snickers. “He’s actually going to kill Chan.”

Chan doesn’t move. He can’t move. His brain is short-circuiting under RIOT’s relentless gaze. He feels pinned in place by those eyes—trapped in some kind of spell he doesn’t know how to break.

Meanwhile, Stray Kids are unraveling in real-time:

Changbin has buried his face in both hands like he can’t bear to witness another second of this madness. 

Felix is fanning himself so vigorously it looks like he might take flight at any moment. Hyunjin teeters between fainting and launching himself onto the stage—his clenched fists trembling with unresolved tension. 

Lee Know crosses his arms tightly over his chest, glaring daggers at RIOT but unable to hide the faint glimmer of reluctant admiration flickering behind his eyes.

But RIOT isn’t done with them yet—not even close.

Still on your knees, you lean further forward until half your torso dangles off the edge of the stage. your body arches back dramatically as you flip onto your back with an effortless grace that feels almost indecent in its intimacy. One arm dangles loosely over the stage’s edge while the other clutches at the mic like it’s an extension of yourself. Your head tilts back so far that strands of sweat-dampened hair cling to your face as you gaze upside-down at Chan through heavy-lidded eyes.

"SO BEG FOR ME LIKE I BEG FOR YOU—TEAR ME APART, I DON’T CARE IF IT RUINS ME TOO."

The final chorus rips out of you like a plea torn straight from your chest. Your voice cracks beautifully on the last note—a sound so raw it leaves everyone breathless.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. The crowd seems collectively stunned into stillness.

And then—the arena explodes.

Screams erupt from every corner of the venue as fans lose their minds entirely. The energy is electric, chaotic—a storm breaking loose after unbearable tension.

But RIOT doesn’t bask in it for long. Instead, you turn your head slightly toward Chan one last time and wink—a slow, deliberate motion that feels more intimate than any touch could ever be.

Before anyone can react further, the lights flicker violently—once, twice—and when they stabilize again… RIOT is gone.

The name RIOT flashes across every screen in jagged dark red letters that seem to drip like fresh blood against a stark black background. The music cuts out entirely as if signaling not just an end—but the end. The show is over.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺       ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺  . ✦

Chan remains frozen in place long after RIOT vanishes from sight. His mind races frantically: 

What just happened? Was that real? Did anyone else notice how he looked right at me? Oh god—it was aimed at me.

 Heat crawls up his neck and settles across his cheeks like wildfire as he tries—and fails—to compose himself.

Backstage, Han is doubled over laughing so hard that tears stream down his face. “Dude,” he gasps between wheezing breaths as RIOT strolls past him looking utterly unbothered by what just transpired. “You just murdered Bang Chan.”

You smirk lazily while wiping sweat off his brow with a towel slung over one shoulder. “Good,” he says nonchalantly before tossing Han a wink for good measure. “Now let’s go watch them try to recover from that.”

The arena is still buzzing with the aftermath of RIOT’s performance, the crowd’s screams echoing like a storm that refuses to settle. The screens are black now, save for the blood-red name that lingers ominously: RIOT. The lights remain dimmed, casting the venue in an eerie half-darkness as if the air itself is trying to catch its breath.

But Chan can’t breathe.

He’s still sitting in the front row, frozen like a statue, his elbows propped on his knees and his hands clasped tightly together to keep them from trembling. His face is flushed—burning—and no matter how much he wills himself to calm down, his heart won’t stop pounding in his chest. It’s deafening. He feels like everyone can hear it, like it’s betraying him in real-time.

What just happened? His mind replays the performance in fragments: RIOT’s voice cracking with raw desperation, the way he’d dropped to his knees, the way he’d looked at him. That wink—that wink. Chan swallows hard, but it doesn’t help. His throat feels dry as sandpaper.

“Hyung?” Felix’s soft voice breaks through the haze, but it only makes Chan flinch. He turns his head slightly, catching Felix’s worried expression through his peripheral vision. 

The younger boy leans closer, fanning himself with one hand while clutching Chan’s arm with the other. “Are you okay? You look… uh…”

“Red,” Hyunjin finishes for him from Chan’s other side, his voice laced with disbelief and something sharp-edged that might be jealousy. 

Hyunjin is slouched back in his seat, one hand gripping the armrest so tightly that his knuckles are white. His jaw is clenched as he glares daggers at the now-empty stage. “Like a tomato,” he adds flatly, though there’s a faint tremor in his voice that betrays him.

Chan doesn’t respond. He can’t even look at them. He stares straight ahead at nothing in particular, trying to piece together some kind of coherent thought amidst the chaos in his brain.

Lee Know, seated next to Hyunjin, lets out a low whistle and crosses his arms over his chest. “Well,” he says dryly, tilting his head toward Chan with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Looks like someone has a new admirer.”

At that, Chan finally snaps out of his daze—just barely—and turns to glare at Lee Know with wide eyes. “What? No! That’s not—he wasn’t—” His words trip over themselves as panic sets in again. “It wasn’t aimed at me,” he insists weakly, though even as he says it, he knows it’s a lie.

“Oh, come on,” Changbin groans from two seats down, finally lifting his head from where it had been buried in his hands for most of the performance. His face is still redder than usual, and he looks thoroughly exasperated as he gestures vaguely toward Chan. “Hyung, everyone saw it. He was basically crawling into your lap.”

“Stop!” Chan hisses, waving both hands frantically as if trying to physically push away Changbin’s words. His ears are burning now too; he can feel it.

“Honestly,” Lee Know muses aloud, tapping a finger against his chin like he’s deep in thought. “I’m impressed by how bold he was. That takes guts.”

“Or insanity,” Hyunjin mutters darkly under his breath.

Felix giggles nervously and pats Chan on the shoulder in what he probably thinks is a comforting gesture but only makes Chan sink further into mortification. “It’s okay, hyung,” Felix says cheerfully despite looking like he might faint at any moment. “It just means you’re really… uh… magnetic?”

“Magnetic?” Hyunjin echoes incredulously before scoffing and crossing one leg over the other with an exaggerated huff. “More like cursed.”

“Guys!” Chan snaps suddenly, louder than intended. The others fall silent for a moment as they all turn to look at him with varying degrees of amusement and concern. He takes a deep breath and runs both hands through his hair in frustration before slumping back against his seat with a groan. “Can we not talk about this right now?”

“But hyung,” Felix starts again hesitantly before trailing off when Changbin nudges him with an elbow and shakes his head as if to say let it go.

Meanwhile, Seungmin has been sitting quietly on the far end of their row this entire time, watching everything unfold with an unreadable expression on his face. Finally, he speaks up in that calm yet cutting tone of his that always seems to hit its mark: “You do realize Han filmed the whole thing, right?”

Chan freezes again.

“What?” he whispers hoarsely after a long pause.

Seungmin shrugs nonchalantly and adjusts his glasses as if this isn’t groundbreaking news that threatens to ruin Chan’s life forever. “I saw him backstage,” Seungmin explains matter-of-factly. “He was laughing so hard I thought he might pass out.”

Chan groans again and buries his face in both hands this time. “I’m never going to hear the end of this,” he mumbles miserably into his palms.

“You’re really not,” Seungmin agrees without missing a beat.

Before anyone can say anything else—or before Chan can spontaneously combust from sheer embarrassment—the lights in the arena flicker back on fully, signaling that the show is officially over. The crowd begins to disperse slowly amidst lingering chatter about RIOT’s performance.

But Stray Kids don’t move right away.

Chan finally sits up straight again after what feels like an eternity and exhales shakily as if trying to regain some semblance of composure. He glances around at the others—at Felix’s worried smile, Changbin’s exasperation, Lee Know’s smirk, Hyunjin’s simmering irritation—and feels equal parts grateful and overwhelmed by their presence.

“Let’s just go backstage,” he mutters eventually while standing up and brushing off invisible dust from his pants as if that will somehow help him regain control of the situation.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺       ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺  . ✦

As they make their way out of their seats and toward backstage access, Chan can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t over—not by a long shot.

And somewhere behind those curtains… Han is waiting for them with a video file and far too much glee for anyone’s comfort.

You step off the stage, the rush of adrenaline still coursing through your veins like a wild animal refusing to be tamed. The sweat-drenched shirt clings to your back, and you rip it off without hesitation, letting out a sigh of relief as the cool air hits your skin. Your eyeliner is smudged, and you can feel the makeup starting to run, but you don’t care. You’re too busy gulping down water from the bottle in your hand, trying to quench the thirst that seems to have taken over your entire being.

As you glance up, you catch sight of Stray Kids making their way backstage, their presence unmistakable even amidst the bustle of staff and performers. Your eyes immediately land on Bang Chan, and the sight nearly makes you laugh out loud. He looks like he’s seen a ghost—his face flushed a deep red, his wide eyes fixed on you with a mix of shock and something else you can’t quite place. His expression is so unguarded, so raw, that it’s almost endearing. Almost.

You feel a flicker of amusement curl at the edges of your lips. It’s clear he’s still reeling from your performance, and honestly, you can’t blame him. You’d gone all in tonight—left everything on that stage—and judging by his reaction, it had landed exactly where you wanted it to.

Han’s laughter cuts through the air before anyone else can speak. He’s leaning against a nearby table, holding up his phone triumphantly like a trophy. “Did you see their faces?” he cackles, pointing the screen toward you as he replays the footage he captured. “Oh my god, Chan looked like he was about to pass out! This is gold.”

You roll your eyes at him but can’t help smiling as you shake your head. “Put that away before you get us both in trouble,” you say lightly, though there’s no real heat behind your words. Han’s always been like this—chaotic, relentless, and utterly impossible to stay mad at.

“Trouble?” Han grins wider, clearly unbothered. “This is art, cousin. Pure art.”

The word hangs in the air for a moment before Stray Kids finally reach earshot. You straighten up slightly as they approach, wiping the sweat from your brow with the towel slung over your shoulder. Despite the exhaustion still weighing on your limbs, you force yourself to focus.

“Hey, guys,” you greet them with an easy smile, extending a hand in welcome. Your voice is calm—steady—a stark contrast to the whirlwind of energy you’d unleashed on stage just minutes ago. “I’m RIOT. Nice to meet you all properly.”

There’s a beat of silence as they process your words. Felix is the first to step forward, his signature sunshine smile breaking through the tension as he shakes your hand eagerly. “Nice to meet you too! That performance was insane,” he says with genuine enthusiasm, his Australian accent adding an extra layer of warmth to his words.

“Insane is one way to describe it,” Changbin mutters under his breath, though there’s no malice in his tone—just lingering disbelief as he glances between you and Han.

Hyunjin crosses his arms tightly over his chest, his sharp features set in an expression that hovers somewhere between intrigue and irritation. He doesn’t say anything yet but keeps his gaze locked on you like he’s trying to figure out what makes you tick.

Lee Know tilts his head slightly, studying you with that unreadable look of his that always seems just a little too knowing. “You’re… calmer than I expected,” he remarks dryly, one eyebrow quirking upward.

You chuckle softly at that and shrug. “The stage brings out a different side of me,” you reply simply.

And then there’s Chan—still standing slightly behind the others as if trying to blend into the background despite being their leader. His hands are stuffed into his pockets now, but it does nothing to hide how tense he is. When your eyes meet again, he quickly looks away, his cheeks flushing even deeper than before.

Before anyone can comment further on Chan’s obvious discomfort—or lack thereof—Han decides it’s time to drop his bombshell.

“Oh!” Han exclaims brightly, clapping a hand on your shoulder with exaggerated flair. “Did I forget to mention? We’re cousins.”

The reaction is immediate and priceless.

“Cousins?” Changbin blurts out incredulously, his jaw practically hitting the floor as he stares at Han like he’s just announced aliens are real.

Felix blinks rapidly in surprise before breaking into another grin. “Wait—you’re related? Like actual cousins?”

Hyunjin uncrosses his arms abruptly and narrows his eyes at Han suspiciously. “Why didn’t you tell us this sooner?”

Lee Know just gives an amused snort and shakes his head as if this revelation somehow explains everything.

Chan looks like someone just pulled the rug out from under him entirely. His mouth opens slightly as if to say something but then closes again when no words come out. He glances between you and Han with wide eyes as though trying—and failing—to reconcile this new information with what he knows about either of you.

“Surprise,” Han says cheerfully, clearly reveling in their reactions.

You chuckle again and raise both hands in mock surrender. “Guilty as charged,” you say lightly before glancing back at Chan specifically. “Sorry for not mentioning it earlier.”

Chan blinks rapidly at being addressed directly and stammers something unintelligible before finally managing a faint nod. “It’s… fine,” he mumbles awkwardly, though the redness in his face suggests otherwise.

The conversation drifts into small talk after that—Felix asking about your training routine while Changbin peppers Han with questions about why he kept this secret for so long—but your attention keeps drifting back to Chan despite yourself.

He stays quiet for most of it, only chiming in occasionally with polite nods or murmured agreements when prompted by the others. But every now and then, you catch him sneaking glances at you when he thinks no one is looking.

It makes something stir inside you—a spark of curiosity mixed with mischief that refuses to be ignored.

As the group begins to relax around each other again, you find yourself wondering just how far this little game could go… 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺       ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺  . ✦

As the others continue to pepper Han with questions, you seize the opportunity to pull Bang Chan aside, away from the chaos. Your eyes lock onto his, and with a gentle tug on his arm, you guide him a few steps away from the group. The sudden movement catches him off guard, and for a moment, he looks like he's not sure what to do with himself.

You lean in closer, your voice dropping to a whisper that sends a shiver down his spine. "Hey, can I talk to you for a second?" The words are laced with a flirtatious undertone that you can't help but inject into every syllable.

Chan looks up at you, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and curiosity. The flush on his cheeks deepens, and he nods slightly, his throat working to swallow. You can't help but notice the way his eyes dart around before finally settling on yours, like he's searching for an escape route that doesn't exist.

As you stand there, the air between you feels charged with tension. You let your gaze linger on his face, taking in the way his hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck, the way his lips part ever so slightly as he breathes. It's almost too much to resist.

"Hey, I wanted to check in with you," you say, your tone turning more serious, though the flirtation still simmers just beneath the surface. "Was it okay, putting you in the spotlight like that during the show?" Your eyes hold his, searching for any sign of discomfort or distress.

Chan looks puzzled, his brow furrowing slightly as he processes your question. "What do you mean? It was just a performance," he replies, his voice softer than usual, tinged with a hint of confusion.

You smile, feeling a flutter in your chest. It's hard to keep the sincerity out of your voice as you say, "I kind of admire you, Bang Chan." The words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning.

But instead of catching the underlying tone, he takes it as admiration for his work as a producer. "Oh, thanks," he says with a slight smile, his eyes lighting up with pride. "I appreciate it."

You shake your head gently, a chuckle escaping your lips. It's almost too cute how he misinterprets your intentions. You take a step closer, your voice dropping to a whisper again. "No, Channie," you say softly, using the nickname to make it more intimate. Your hands find their way to his hips, pulling him closer so he can see the sincerity in your eyes.

"I meant every word I sang," you whisper, your breath brushing against his ear. The words are laced with a raw emotion that you can't hide anymore.

You wink at him, the gesture playful yet serious. For a moment, you just hold his gaze, letting him absorb the weight of your words. The air between you crackles with tension, and you can feel his heart racing against your fingertips.

Then, with a final glance that leaves him looking more bewildered than ever, you turn and head towards the changing room.

You knew Han and the rest of the members couldn't stay longer, they had events to go to tomorrow and it was late already. You waved them goodbye and sent a little wink towards Chan's way.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺       ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺  . ✦

Months later, same venue. You performed again, your favourite song to perform since last time..

You’re standing on stage, bathed in crimson light, the bassline thrumming through your chest like a second heartbeat. The crowd is a sea of hands and screams, their energy feeding yours as you move with deliberate precision—every sway of your hips, every flick of your wrist calculated to captivate. You’ve always loved this part—the way the stage transforms you, amplifies you into something larger than life. Tonight, though, there’s something different. Someone different.

Your eyes scan the crowd as you sing, and there he is. Bang Chan. Front and center in the platinum section, his face illuminated by the stage lights. He’s watching you with an intensity that sends a jolt straight down your spine. You hadn’t seen him in months—not since that night backstage when you’d left him flustered and red-faced after your little confession. You didn’t have his number, didn’t dare ask Han for it either. But here he is, and god, he looks good—better than you remembered.

You smirk mid-verse, letting your gaze linger on him before turning away with a teasing sway of your hips. The crowd roars louder at the movement, but you’re barely paying attention to them anymore. Your focus keeps drifting back to him. You point in his direction during the chorus, a subtle acknowledgment that’s anything but subtle to him. His eyes widen slightly, his lips parting as if he’s trying to breathe through the moment.

The performance builds to its climax—a whirlwind of sound and movement—and when it ends, you’re drenched in sweat but exhilarated beyond belief. The applause is deafening as you step offstage, grabbing a towel and gulping down water like it’s a lifeline. Your crew buzzes around you, but all you can think about is him.

And then you see him.

Chan stands at the edge of the backstage area, looking hesitant but determined as he waits for you to notice him. You don’t make him wait long. Setting down your water bottle, you stride over with the same confidence you had on stage.

“Platinum ticket?” you tease lightly as you approach, letting your voice drop just enough to make it feel intimate. “Didn’t know I had such dedicated fans.”

Chan’s cheeks flush immediately, just like they did last time. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly and laughs softly. “I… uh… thought I’d come see how much better you’ve gotten.”

You raise an eyebrow at that, leaning in closer so he can hear you over the noise of backstage chatter. “Better? You mean I wasn’t already perfect?”

His laugh comes out more nervous this time, and it makes something warm bloom in your chest. You let yourself take him in for a moment—the way his shirt clings to his frame just right, the way his hair falls messily across his forehead—and then decide to push things further.

“You know,” you say casually, leaning against the wall beside him so your shoulder brushes his lightly, “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”

Chan shifts under your gaze but doesn’t move away. “I—well—I thought…” He trails off as if searching for words that won’t betray him.

You smile softly at his hesitation and decide to put him out of his misery—just a little. 

“It’s been months,” you say quietly, letting some of your own vulnerability seep into your tone. “I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again.”

His eyes snap back to yours at that, and for a moment he looks almost guilty. “I wanted to,” he admits after a pause. “But… I didn’t know how.”

You nod slowly, understanding more than he probably realizes. Being an idol means living in chaos—constant schedules and expectations that leave little room for personal connections.

“Well,” you say after a beat, letting your voice turn playful again as you step closer to him—close enough that there’s barely any space between you now. “You could’ve asked Han for my number.”

Chan lets out a startled laugh at that and shakes his head quickly. “Yeah… no way.”

You chuckle along with him before letting the moment settle into something quieter again.

“I meant what I said last time,” you say softly, watching his expression shift from amusement to something more serious as he processes your words.

“What do you mean?” he asks cautiously.

You smile at him—slowly this time—and reach out to gently rest your hands on his hips before he can pull away or overthink it. The touch is light but deliberate enough to make him freeze under your fingertips.

“Channie,” you murmur, letting the nickname roll off your tongue like honey as your thumbs brush against his sides ever so slightly. “I meant every word I sang.”

His breath catches audibly at that—his eyes wide and searching yours like he’s trying to figure out if this is real or some elaborate joke.

You wink at him then—slowly, deliberately—and step back before he can respond or recover from the moment entirely.

“I’ll be in the changing room,” you say lightly over your shoulder as you walk away, leaving him standing there stunned and speechless amidst the chaos of backstage life.

And god—you can’t help but wonder how long it’ll take before he follows.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺       ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺  . ✦

That's it for now! Maybe I'll upload the next part tomorrow.. it'll be my first time writing something spicy, so don't judge me too hard! 

The last touch.

10 children a day lose their limbs in Gaza. All hospitals in Gaza are basically barely functioning and the amputations are done in unsanitary conditions and without anesthesia

some recent gallagher honkai star rail sketches/wips bc i got back into playing the game and the brainrot hit me hard 🫶

HAPPY VALENTINES YALL ❤️

This illustration kinda exploded on all my socials, I did it a couple of months ago as a simple screencap study from the film; I LOVE HIM SM

CHAPTER 3

Genre: Slow-burn, Arranged Marriage au!, angst, fluff, Workplace Romance, Dramedy & power dynamic.

Warnings: visa stress, mild panic response, mentions of deportation, workplace tension, mentions of legal pressure, cursing, light crude language, mentions of death and somewhat proofread.

Please note that the visa processes and mentions are not accurate and should be ignored for the purpose of the story.

WC: 6.2K

a/n: I have realized that chapters are not as long as i want them to be, for the pace of the story. So the chapters from now onwards would be somewhat this length. Hope you enjoy!

Feedback, Reblogs and likes are all greatly appreciated!

MASTERLIST

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Synopsis: When a cold, career-driven art gallery director in Sydney faces sudden visa trouble, she proposes a fake two-year marriage to her charming but reluctant assistant, Hwang Hyunjin. What starts as a professional arrangement quickly spirals into chaos, complete with immigration scrutiny, staged couple moments, and Hyunjin’s dramatic, high-society family. Trapped in close quarters and tangled in lies, can they keep up the act… or will real feelings get in the way?

The deal was made on a Wednesday.

By Monday, it felt like it had never happened.

The chaos of the gallery had swallowed the last few days whole—back-to-back meetings, frantic approvals, half-eaten lunches, and more meetings again. Your inbox was a battlefield. Your head was pounding. By the time the office emptied out, the sky outside had long faded into navy, and the halls were quiet—eerily so.

Everyone had gone home. Everyone except you.

“One last email and then sleep,” you muttered under your breath as you walked back from the conference room toward your office, fingers wrapped around a too-hot paper coffee cup. The bitterness was comforting. Grounding. You focused on that instead of the way your legs ached or how your to-do list still glared at you from your phone screen.

Lost in thought, you shook your head and reached out to flick on the lights—

And nearly dropped your coffee.

Hyunjin was already inside.

Not just inside, seated comfortably in your chair, feet tucked under him, spinning in slow, lazy circles like a kid waiting for his ride home. He looked completely at ease, like he owned the place. Or like he’d been here long enough to forget he didn’t.

You froze in the doorway.

“Why are you still here?” you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral, but it came out more startled than you’d meant.

Without missing a beat, he held up a bright pink Post-it, waving it in the air like a prize on a game show. It was smudged and crinkled, your name scrawled across it in thick capital letters next to a crude stick-figure drawing of you in what might’ve been a wedding dress… tumbling dramatically off a cliff.

“We’re getting married on Saturday,” he announced, grinning like he’d just solved world peace.

Your brain short-circuited. For a full second, you just blinked at him.

“Excuse me?”

“Saturday,” he repeated, rising from the chair and stretching like this was all perfectly routine. “That gives us five days. Marriage license today. Suits tomorrow. Rings Wednesday. Couple photo Thursday. Interview prep Friday. Wedding on Saturday. Boom.”

He clapped his hands once for effect. Like a director calling a cut on a scene he’d just nailed.

And the worst part?

He was completely serious. Deadpan. Calm. Irritatingly collected, like this wasn’t your entire career and life imploding beneath a Post-it and a five-day plan.

You, on the other hand, were unraveling. Quickly.

“I never said Saturday.”

“You didn’t say not Saturday,” he replied with a maddening shrug, as if that loophole sealed the deal. “And time’s ticking, boss. You want to stay in the country, right? Keep the job? Want me to fake-love you in public for two years?”

He pointed to himself, eyebrows raised. “Well, here I am. Let’s move.”

And then, just like that, he walked past you, out the door. Like he ran this operation now. Like you'd somehow become the assistant in your own crisis.

You stood there, stunned. Coffee cooling in your hand. Heart pounding behind your ribs.

This is happening too quickly, you thought, breath catching in your throat.

No... you need it to be quick.

Before you have time to think. Before it starts to feel like something it’s not. Before either of you mess this up worse than it already is.

When the early sunshine came the next day, both of you had already made your way to the marriage license office building.

The marriage license office was a beige wasteland.

The walls were a dull, lifeless color, interrupted only by peeling posters that had probably been there since the 90s, advertising marriage benefits with awkward stock photos of smiling couples. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering every few seconds, casting a sterile, almost oppressive glow across the cramped, windowless room. A sad, half-dead plant in the corner struggled to stay alive, its brown leaves limp and curling.

Hyunjin sat next to you in the uncomfortable plastic chairs, whistling the Jeopardy theme under his breath, a tune that seemed at odds with the suffocating blandness of the place. He tapped his foot rhythmically, clearly doing his best to maintain some semblance of normalcy in the middle of this absurd situation.

You focused on the forms in front of you, the sound of your pen scratching across paper filling the silence. The clicking of the clock on the wall was the only other noise in the room, ticking away seconds that felt like hours. You could feel the weight of everything pressing on you—the speed of it, the absurdity of it—and yet, you kept filling out the forms. No room for second thoughts now.

The clerk behind the counter, a middle-aged woman with an air of resignation about her, didn’t even look up from her computer when she asked, “So, are you excited?”

You glanced at Hyunjin.

He didn’t hesitate. “We can’t wait,” he said, his voice smooth, warm enough to fool a polygraph. His tone was perfect—too perfect, like he'd rehearsed this exact moment in his head. His eyes were locked on the clerk, his smile a mask, too easy and practiced.

But you noticed the shift—the subtle tightness around his eyes, the way his shoulders were a little too straight, the small, almost imperceptible clench of his jaw. The smile was still there, but it didn’t quite reach him, not all the way. You'd seen that look before—at work, when something went wrong, when things started to spiral and he was too proud to let you see how it affected him.

And then, as if on cue, his hand brushed yours under the counter. It was a casual gesture, the kind that could’ve meant nothing, but you knew it wasn’t. It was too quick, too deliberate, too smooth. Reflex. A small part of the performance, the play they were both trapped in now.

Still, it made your fingers twitch. Like the brush of a phantom pain, sharp and unexpected.

You signed the papers with a flourish, the pen moving automatically, your thoughts distracted by the tension that hung between the two of you.

Hyunjin signed next, the quickness of his movement a little too sharp, too efficient. No hesitation. Done.

The deed was done.

Tuesday was suits.

The boutique smelled of cedarwood and old money, the kind of fragrance that clung to the air like a memory of aristocracy. Hyunjin groaned from the fitting room, his voice muffled but still carrying that familiar mix of irritation and drama.

“I look like a funeral,” he grumbled, stepping out in a charcoal three-piece suit that clung to his frame like it had been tailored just for him. Every seam, every stitch, was perfect, but he wore it with an unmistakable air of discomfort.

“It’s a wedding. You’re supposed to look expensive,” you replied dryly, trying to mask the fact that the suit actually looked unfairly good on him.

“I am expensive,” he muttered, tugging at the collar with a scowl that was far too cute to be taken seriously. “You just don’t appreciate the natural splendor of me in hoodies.”

You didn’t respond immediately. Mostly because you had no retort that could be as sharp as the suit’s fit on him. His hair was neatly tied back, a few stray wisps framing his face, and his posture was effortless, almost regal. His cheekbones, sharp enough to cut glass, could have been considered a weapon in their own right. It made your thoughts catch and linger, whether you wanted them to or not.

He caught you staring and raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a mischievous smirk.

“What?” he asked, his voice dripping with curiosity.

You quickly looked away, a hint of heat creeping up your neck. “Nothing. You’ll do.”

He tilted his head slightly, his smirk widening into something more playful. “Careful. That sounded dangerously like a compliment.”

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of responding. Instead, you turned on your heel and left before he could push any further, feeling the weight of his gaze still lingering on your back as you walked out the door.

Wednesday was rings.

The moment you stepped into the jeweler’s, the air was thick with the scent of polished silver and diamonds, their brilliance almost blinding under the soft, ambient lighting. The sales clerk launched into her rehearsed spiel about clarity, cut, and the importance of the perfect setting, her voice rising in enthusiasm with every word, as if she were presenting the very secrets of the universe.

But Hyunjin wasn’t having it.

He interrupted her after only five minutes, his expression a perfect mix of boredom and amusement. “Do you have anything that says ‘I barely tolerate her, but the IRS is watching’?” he asked, his voice too casual for the ridiculousness of the question, a hint of playful defiance in his tone.

The clerk blinked, visibly thrown off. For a brief second, you thought she might lose her composure, but she recovered quickly, her professionalism returning. You weren’t surprised by Hyunjin’s usual brand of sarcasm. You shot him a look—half exasperated, half resigned—and then turned back to the clerk, ready to end this charade. “Two plain gold bands. Size seven and nine.”

Hyunjin let out a low whistle, eyebrows rising in mock surprise. “Wow, boss. You know my ring size. I’m touched.”

“I Googled,” you said flatly, your voice laced with just enough amusement to mask the flicker of warmth that touched your cheeks.

Hyunjin tilted his head, his expression turning smug as his eyes locked onto yours. “My ring size is on Google? That’s a bad lie, boss,” he teased, the glint in his eyes daring you to keep the story straight.

You glanced away, pretending not to care as you fought the urge to smile. “You left your ring once on your table. That’s how I know.”

A pause, then his lips curled up at the corners, a small, knowing smile. He looked down at the floor, almost like he didn’t want you to catch the pleased glint in his eyes, the one that betrayed how much the moment meant to him. It wasn’t often you saw him like this, vulnerable, even in his smugness. But when you did, it made the world feel easier, the connection between you two oddly natural. It was a moment that could’ve stretched on forever, something too comfortable, too effortless as though you’d done this a thousand times before, even if you hadn’t.

The clerk eventually brought the rings over. Their simplicity stood in stark contrast to the store’s otherwise glittering display, a quiet testament to the unspoken commitment they symbolized. You inspected them briefly, feeling the weight of their promise in your hands, then paid without hesitation. The motion was swift, practicing a routine you’d long since perfected. You handed over your card with the kind of precision only someone who’d done this a thousand times could muster.

And then, without another word, you walked out.

As the door chimed softly behind you, there was a strange silence between you. Not uncomfortable, but thick with unspoken thoughts. The weight of the rings, the deal, everything that was yet to come, it all seemed to settle between you like a shared secret. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you needed to

Thursday was Felix.

The gallery was quiet, the kind of silence that settled into your bones when the lights were dimmed and the world outside carried on, oblivious to the small dramas unfolding inside. Felix, the in-house photographer, showed up after hours, a DSLR swinging from his neck like a necklace and a mischievous twinkle in his eye. His energy was contagious, but you didn’t need him to know the truth. You didn’t need anyone to. He was too excited, too thrilled to question anything.

“You’re in love,” he squealed, bouncing toward you both, his hands moving toward Hyunjin’s hair as though he were fluffing it for the shot. “Ugh, enemies-to-lovers is real!”

Hyunjin took it all in stride. His expression was blank, but there was something about him, some subtle shift in his posture, that made it seem like he might be getting better at pretending. His smile didn’t reach his eyes, but it was there, a faint curve of his lips, like he could almost fake his way through a wedding photo.

You stayed by the brick hallway, the one corner of the gallery that had a faint trace of romance. The soft warmth of the stone, the low hum of the air conditioning, and the way the light caught the edges of everything, it was the closest thing to a quiet moment you could find in this chaos.

Hyunjin walked toward you and came to stand beside you. Without saying a word, he reached for your hand, his fingers brushing against yours.

You hesitated for only a moment.

Then you let him.

“Closer,” Felix called out from behind the camera, his voice too excited for someone who wasn’t the one being photographed.

Hyunjin leaned in. The warmth of his body pressing against yours was subtle, but undeniable. His shoulder brushed yours, and his fingers tightened slightly around yours, the pressure faint but there, like they were slowly learning the shape of a lie.

The flash went off with a soft, almost imperceptible pop.

Your post had no caption, just the image: a moment frozen in time, his head tilted toward yours, a look that felt too natural to fake. His read:

 Guess i’m a husband now 🤷‍♂️ #prayforme

You didn’t laugh.

Instead, you stared at the photo, watched the way his expression held that strange, half-amused warmth, the way your hand fit in his like it belonged there. And as you studied it, something twisted deep inside of you. We don’t look fake.

And that thought terrified you more than anything.

Friday was rehearsal.

The ceremony was set to take place in a small, ivy-draped church in Paddington. A quiet favor, called in from someone who owed you more than one. Simple. Minimal. Legal. No grand gestures. No friends or family. Just the two of you, and a reverend who’d once thanked you for helping his daughter land her first gallery internship.

You spent the entire day at your desk, rehearsing lines like an actor preparing for their last audition. Where did you meet? When did you fall in love? What’s something he does that annoys you? The usual questions. The ones that would help make the story feel real.

You asked the last one out loud, mostly to break the silence. “What’s something he does that annoys you?”

Hyunjin didn’t hesitate. “He leaves paintbrushes in the sink.”

“I do not.”

You looked up from your notebook to find him standing in the doorway, sipping his third iced long black of the week. He raised an eyebrow at you, his gaze playful but steady.

“You do,” you insisted.

“Name three times.”

You didn’t hesitate. “You want them chronologically or alphabetically?”

He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head as he sauntered into the room, sinking into the chair across from you.

“Are you nervous?” he asked, his voice softer now, less teasing, more genuine.

You stared at your notebook, the words on the page blurring into the background. “I don’t know what I am.”

There was a long pause, and then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he spoke again. “This isn’t forever.”

You looked up at him, your chest tightening in a way you hadn’t anticipated. The words hit harder than you expected.

“We’re not doomed to this,” he said, his tone softer now, almost like he was trying to convince himself.

“I know,” you said quietly, your heart beating a little faster.

“We’re not... us,” he added, his gaze searching yours for something that wasn’t there.

You nodded, your throat tightening.

“I know.”

But something in the air shifted. There was a sharp, aching sting in the quiet between you, something that made it feel more real than you were ready for. Because maybe, just maybe, part of you wanted it to be real. Wanted it to be something uncalculated, something unearned, something that wasn’t just your job, your duty, your obligation.

And that thought, no matter how much you tried to dismiss it, stayed with you, lingering like an unsolved puzzle.

Later that night, it rained.

You stood outside the gallery, the sky falling sideways. You’d forgotten your umbrella.

Hyunjin appeared beside you, silent, and handed you his.

“You’ll get soaked,” you said.

He shrugged. “Been through worse.”

You didn’t thank him. Just tightened your grip and stared ahead.

He lingered for a beat too long.

Then stepped into the storm.

His silhouette blurred and vanished down the street.

And you stood there, holding the umbrella he’d left behind, watching the sky come undone.

For the first time since this all began, you wondered if you'd made a mistake—not because of the risk. Not even because of the lie.

But because somewhere along the way, the rules were already starting to blur.

And Saturday was almost here.

_______________________________

The chapel was small, quiet, with ivy trailing down its stone walls like the delicate strokes of old poetry. The air was thick with the scent of eucalyptus and something warm, something sunlit, like wood drying after a storm.

“Look happier, you’re getting married,” Felix said, snapping him out of his thoughts. His voice was light, teasing, but with that ever-present note of concern.

“I’m happy,” he replied, offering a small smile. It was enough to satisfy Felix, who turned back to snapping photos of the chapel with a soft hum of approval.

This was it. He repeated the words in his head, though they felt heavy…too heavy. He was getting married. No, he was getting into a fake marriage with his boss. For two years. The more he thought about it, the more it made his legs feel like they were losing feeling, as though the ground had turned to liquid beneath him.

His eyes scanned the room. Where was she? She was late.

She was never late.

Maybe the nerves had gotten to her too, he thought, trying to ease the discomfort creeping in. No. She was the infamous, cold-hearted director of the gallery, Ms. Y/N. If anyone had control over their nerves, it was her. Or so he’d thought. The thought of her waiting outside made him feel more unsettled.

With a sigh, he pulled out his phone, beginning to scroll through his contacts, but just as he was about to tap a name, a sudden flash of white caught his eye. He turned quickly, watching her run in through the church door. She was barefoot, her heels in one hand, her dress, a mid-sized, satin white gown, flowing behind her in the way only a dress meant for a wedding could. She was breathless, her cheeks flushed with a mix of exhaustion and embarrassment.

She doubled over, trying to catch her breath, and he couldn't move. His eyes stayed fixed on her.

This woman. His boss. The woman who, in every moment of their professional life together, had always held an air of unshakable control. But now? Now she was human. Beautiful. The kind of beautiful he hadn’t expected to see, not like this. Sure, he had seen her in elegant gowns at gallery openings and charity events, but this? This was different. This was their wedding. Her wedding, to him.

And for some reason, it made his heart ache, a familiar ache that had been building over the last week, each passing day making it harder to ignore.

He snapped out of his thoughts, shaking his head for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

She straightened up, looking at him with a sheepish smile. “Sorry I’m late. My car broke down, I had to take the subway as I couldn't find a taxi on time” she rambled. 

“It’s alright” he said, forcing his voice to steady. “The official is here, and Felix is here. We’re just waiting for the ceremony to begin.”

She nodded and moved to sit next to him, quickly slipping her heels back on with an effort that seemed to take her mind off her racing heart.

A beat passed.

“You ready?” she asked, her voice a little softer now, more genuine.

He wasn’t. Not even close. But he couldn’t tell her that.

“Sure” he lied.

She studied him quietly, her eyes dropping to his hands.

“You’re trembling.”

He quickly pulled his hands behind his back, trying to mask it. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re spiraling,” she said, stepping closer. Her gaze didn’t waver, and he could see that she wasn’t concerned in the way a friend might be. This was her usual, calm, detached way of handling things, but there was something steady about it now. Something grounding.

“Don’t pass out. That’s a lot of paperwork,” she added with a small smile, her words light but full of the practical concern that only she could offer.

He let out a breath, almost a laugh, and met her eyes again. Something in her expression softened. She wasn’t as unreadable as usual. Calm, yes. But not distant. Like if he fell, she’d be there to catch him. Sure, she’d probably roll her eyes while doing it, but she'd catch him.

She was close now, and the warmth between them felt almost like a secret, like something neither of them was ready to acknowledge.

“It’s not too late,” she said, her voice quieter now. “We can run. Stage a mugging. Pretend we were abducted by aliens.”

He blinked, caught off guard by her words. “You think aliens would take us both?”

Her lips curved into a smirk. “You, definitely. Me? Maybe if they’re into tortured artists.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you weren’t tortured.”

She paused for a second, eyes narrowing slightly. “I said I wasn’t dramatic. Different thing.”

His lips twitched at the familiar banter. She always knew how to make him laugh, even when the circumstances didn’t call for it.

She offered him her arm.

Without thinking, he took it.

She didn’t walk down the aisle in the way most brides did. It wasn’t necessary. There were only flashes of people and cameras, this wasn’t a traditional wedding, after all. The reverend gave them both a small, understanding smile, as if he knew this wasn’t a romantic union, but he was still part of the charade.

The vows were brief. Legal. No passion. She recited her words like she was reading from a script, and he did the same.

His hand shook when he took hers, and he saw that hers trembled too.

The kiss wasn’t planned. It wasn’t part of the contract, but neither was the sudden wedding to his twenty-five-year-old assistant, a woman who once called a $400,000 sculpture “the rock with depression.” No, the kiss was just another checkbox. A formality, like the rings, the signatures, or this entire absurd arrangement.

He leaned in, watching her.

She didn’t pull away.

Neither of them did.

It was supposed to be brief. A quick peck to seal the deal.

But it wasn’t.

The moment stretched, lingering longer than either of them had expected. His hand settled lightly at her waist, not possessive, but steady. Anchoring. He could feel her tremble too, just like he had.

They didn’t pull away immediately. Something shifted between them in that brief, unspoken space.

And for just a second, everything else blurred.

The click of the camera. The reverend’s final words. All of it faded.

Because for a moment, neither of them was pretending.

And in that moment, he couldn’t decide if it terrified him more than it thrilled him.

_______________________________

After the ceremony ended, after the legalities, the signature, and that kiss they hadn’t rehearsed, they both stood outside the chapel, saying goodbye to an overly emotional Felix. He’d hugged them both a little too tight, dabbed at his eyes like this was the ending of a romance drama, and promised to send over the photos “once they were filtered and flawless.”

Then he was gone, the sound of his cheerful humming disappearing down the block. And just like that, the two of them were alone again. No crowd. No champagne. No reception or rice thrown in the air. Just silence, a cool Sydney evening, and the faint sound of distant traffic.

They walked side by side down the quiet street, their footsteps echoing slightly off the old stone sidewalk. It wasn’t what newlyweds usually did after a wedding. There was no shared car, no honeymoon suite. No whispered plans or shy laughter. Just two people headed toward separate cabs and separate homes like colleagues ending a long workday.

But they weren’t just colleagues anymore. Not legally.

“Good job today,” they both said at the exact same time, the words overlapping.

He let out a breath of a laugh, shaking his head. “This is it.”

“This is the start,” she replied, but her voice was softer, almost unsure.

He glanced sideways. There it was, that furrow between her brows, the tightness around her mouth. She was worried. Probably about the immigration interview tomorrow. She’d been calm at the chapel, composed in front of the reverend, but now that it was just the two of them, that armor had slipped. Slightly.

He should say something. Be the steady one for once.

“The interview will go well tomorrow,” he said after a beat, his voice low and certain. “If you’re worried.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared ahead at the empty road, lips pressing into a thin line. Then, finally, a nod. “Let’s hope so” she said, offering a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Another silence stretched between them, comfortable and heavy at the same time.

Her cab arrived first. A silver sedan pulling up with a soft rumble of the engine. She turned to him, her expression unreadable again, something caught between fatigue and something else he couldn’t quite place.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, voice quiet.

“Yeah. See you tomorrow, wifey,” he replied, trying for levity. It came out a little more tender than teasing.

“Thanks, hubby,” she said, too tired to roll her eyes but playing along anyway. Her smile lingered for a second longer this time.

He watched her gather the hem of her gown, lifting it carefully off the sidewalk to avoid the edges of the street grime. She slid into the cab with a soft thud, her body folding in like she’d been running on adrenaline all day and it had finally worn off. Through the glass, she looked at him again. No words, just a wave. Small. Hesitant.

He waved back, hand raised halfway. She closed the door.

The cab pulled away slowly, tail lights disappearing down the road, and suddenly the street felt much emptier than before.

He stood there for a while longer than he meant to, staring after her even when she was gone. Then he reached into his pocket for his phone, checked the time, and let out a sigh.

Married. He was married.

And tomorrow, they’d have to convince a government officer that this was real. He just hoped it wouldn’t be harder to fake now that something inside him didn’t feel fake at all.

With one last glance down the street, he turned and walked toward his own cab, the eucalyptus-scented air still clinging to his clothes like memory.

_______________________________

The waiting room was beige. Aggressively beige.

You sat side by side on cracked leather chairs while a digital clock ticked far too loud and a fluorescent light flickered overhead like it was interrogating you before the interview even began.

A tall officer with a clipboard appeared at the doorway.

“Y/N L/N and Hyunjin Hwang?”

You both stood.

He led you down a corridor into a small, windowless room.

Inside were two officers: one older woman with sharp eyes and a presence that filled the room, and a younger man who looked a little lost in her shadow. No smiles from either. It was clear who was in charge.

Just clipped greetings and the sound of a tape recorder clicking on.

“This interview is being recorded,” the woman said. “You’ve applied for a Partner Visa Subclass 820, with Hyunjin Hwang as your sponsor.”

You nodded.

A door opened again.

“Mrs. L/N & Mr. Hwang.”

Another officer, different suit, same fog-colored tone, led you down a second hallway into a sterile room with a table, two chairs, and a camera mounted to the ceiling.

No ceremony. No comfort.

Just two pens. Two files. And one giant lie.

_______________________________

The lead officer had the kind of face that gave away nothing.

Not cruelty. Not curiosity. Just… silence.

“We’ll be recording this conversation,” she said. “Answer honestly. Any deliberate omissions or contradictions will impact the results of your application.”

Hyunjin nodded beside you. His leg was still bouncing. You wanted to reach for it. Steady him. Steady yourself. You didn’t.

“Let’s begin.”

She opened a folder. “Where did you meet?”

“At work,” you said.

“Solstice Arts Gallery,” Hyunjin added. “She was my boss.”

“She still is,” you muttered.

“Cute,” the officer deadpanned. “And when did the romantic relationship begin?”

You hesitated. “Around… September?”

“August,” Hyunjin said at the same time.

You flinched.

She made a mark on her form.

You forced a laugh. “He’s better with dates.”

“She’s better with moods,” Hyunjin shot back.

The officer didn’t react.

_______________________________

The questions came faster than expected.

Your first trip together. What side of the bed you sleep on. Who does the dishes. The name of Hyunjin’s shampoo. Your favorite type of flower.

“Lilies,” he said. “She hates roses. Thinks they’re cliché.”

You looked at him. “...That’s actually correct.”

“Of course it is,” he muttered.

“Her middle name?” the officer asked.

“Elise” Hyunjin answered without missing a beat.

You blinked. “You remembered that?”

“I forget things. Not you.”

It sounded too soft. Too close. Like it came from the wrong place in his chest.

You turned back to the officer.

Then her tone changed.

“Miss L/N, your visa renewal request was filed three days before the marriage application.”

You froze.

“Yes,” you said. “My work visa was expiring. I needed a new path to stay.”

“And this marriage,” she said slowly, “appeared, very suddenly…just in time.”

Your mouth went dry.

“It wasn’t planned that way.”

She gave you a long, unreadable look. “You’ve lived in Sydney for nearly five years, yet have no local emergency contacts, no immediate family, and minimal social records outside of your workplace.”

You swallowed.

“My parents passed away a long time ago. I moved here after uni.”

“No roommates? No personal references outside the gallery?”

You didn’t answer fast enough.

“And the wedding, organized in five days, without family or friends present. Minimal guest list. No reception.”

“It was… private.”

She clicked her pen. “Convenient.”

They split you up halfway through.

Hyunjin was taken to another room. You stayed behind.

Your chair felt smaller without him beside you.

“How long has he lived with you?” she asked.

You scrambled. “Two weeks. No…ten days.”

“What color are his bedsheets?”

You blinked. “Dark green?”

“Wrong,” she said. “He said navy.”

You swallowed.

“What’s the name of his mother?”

You paused. “He… doesn’t talk about her much.”

She stared at you. “He gave us her name. And number.”

You closed your eyes.

_______________________________

Meanwhile, in the next room, Hyunjin was unraveling.

He looked calm, back straight, voice steady, but his mind kept replaying every time he almost reached for your hand. Every time he almost kissed you like it meant something.

He hated how close the truth felt. Like a lit match near dry paper.

“What does she do when she’s stressed?” the officer asked.

“She makes tea,” he said. “But never drinks it.”

“What’s her worst habit?”

“She stays too late at work. Tries to fix everything herself. Thinks that if she lets go for even a second, the world will fall apart.”

The officer scribbled something.

“How many siblings does she have?”

He looked up.

“She doesn’t.”

_______________________________

They brought you back into the same room after an hour that felt like a week.

You sat. Didn't speak.

The officer closed her folder with a sharp clap.

“Your answers were inconsistent.”

Your spine stiffened.

“You contradicted yourselves on multiple domestic details. Anniversary dates. Sleeping arrangements. Family.”

You felt Hyunjin shift beside you.

“There are red flags in your timeline. The speed of the marriage. The lack of documented history. The proximity to your visa expiration.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

“It doesn’t feel natural.”

“It was complicated,” you said quietly. “But it’s real.”

“Is it?”

You couldn’t answer that.

“At this time,” she said, “we are not convinced this is a legitimate relationship.”

The words landed like ice water.

“But,” she added, “this isn’t a final decision.”

You looked up, hopeful. Too hopeful.

“You’ll be placed under a six-month observation period. Home checks. Surprise visits. Digital audits. We’ll also be contacting your employers, coworkers, and known family members.”

Hyunjin went still.

You barely heard her say, “You may go.”

You walked out on autopilot.

_______________________________

The café was too quiet.

Not in a peaceful way, just empty enough for the air to feel tense. Artificial. Like the silence was watching them too. Like it had taken a seat at their table.

Hyunjin sat across from her, elbows resting on the cool laminate, tie loosened, collar tugged open like he couldn’t breathe right. His blazer was somewhere behind him, probably slipping off the back of the chair, but he didn’t bother turning around to check.

He kept folding a sugar packet between his fingers. Crease, flip, crease. Again and again.

The paper had softened from the heat of his hands. It was pointless, a stupid nervous habit. But it gave him something to focus on. Something that wasn’t the hollow look in her eyes or the buzz of dread still crawling under his skin.

She hadn’t said a word since they walked in.

Not about the way the immigration officer’s stare had lingered too long.

Not about the failed answers. Not about the holes in the story.

Not about the final words delivered like a verdict: “You’ll be monitored for six months.”

He didn’t need to look up to know she was still gripping her coffee cup like it might save her.

Like if she let it go, the whole thing would collapse. Her hands were probably burning, but she held it tighter anyway.

Hyunjin broke first. His voice was low, almost apologetic. “It could’ve gone a lot worse.”

She let out a sound—somewhere between a breath and a laugh. Bitter. Detached. It didn’t reach her eyes.

“Yeah. Well. I tanked it anyway.”

He looked up at her then.

Her head was tilted slightly downward, lashes casting soft shadows beneath her eyes. She wouldn’t meet his gaze. Her fingers were trembling.

He hated that. Hated that she was the one shaking, that she was the one shouldering all the blame. Like she hadn’t saved his job. Like he hadn’t looked her in the eye and agreed to this mess.

He was the one who’d said yes. He could’ve walked away. He should’ve.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She blinked like she wasn’t expecting it. “For what?”

“For dragging you into this.”

Her eyes finally found his. Still tired. Still defensive. But softer, for just a second.

“Hyunjin,” she said, voice thin. “I dragged you into this.”

He gave a small shrug, voice quieter this time. “Yeah. But I let you.”

The words hung there, suspended between them like the rest of the conversation they weren’t having.

She turned her head, gaze drifting to the window beside them. Outside, a woman in a blazer was laughing into her phone. A couple crossed the street, fingers intertwined, sipping iced drinks like they had all the time in the world.

She looked tired. Not physically, though the dark smudges under her eyes said otherwise. No, this was something deeper. That bone-deep weariness people carry when they’ve been surviving too long.

“We’re gonna have to live together now,” she murmured.

He nodded slowly, still watching the empty chair next to her instead of her face. “That’s one side of it.”

The other sides whispered at the edge of his thoughts—the rules, the check-ins, the pretending. Smiling in front of strangers. Memorizing a script. Lying to his family. Acting like he was in love with her, when sometimes—quietly, secretly—he wondered if maybe it wasn’t all an act anymore.

She shifted again, one foot curling under the chair like she wanted to disappear into it.

He hated that she looked like she wanted to vanish.

And even more, he hated that he didn’t know how to make this easier for her.

The silence came back, pulled a chair up to their table again.

Outside, the world kept spinning. People walked by with their coffees, their to-do lists, their simple lives.

But for them, something had shifted. No reset. No do-over.

They were in it now.

Too deep.

Six months.

And it already felt like forever.

──────────────

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