Page 8 of When Worlds Collide (Between Worlds #2)

I’d considered this from my side before, having to deal with the idea that my boyfriend was openly called the group’s ‘visual’.

It meant that out of all the members of GVibes, he was considered to best fit conventional beauty standards.

I knew it wasn't a title he enjoyed. For all his talents, it was his appearance that people commented on first. And while he was grateful for the support of the public, I knew it chipped away at him.

It was a role he was assigned by his company, and it was how the public knew him.

There was a certain, unspoken assumption that a performer belonged to the public.

It wasn't quite so overt as that, but it was there.

It was ever-present in the online comments about being 'heartbroken' whenever dating rumours emerged.

It was there in the often-ugly way anonymous, online commenters spoke about female backup dancers.

It was the reason the faces of the staff members were blurred out in backstage footage – to protect them.

It was the reason that we couldn’t go public – because of the likely fallout. Fallout that honestly frightened me.

Which is why I’d never really brought it up. Even before we’d made it official – between ourselves – I’d known I’d have to be a secret. It’s just the way it was.

But perhaps I’d never really given enough consideration to how that must weigh on him.

“I’m just saying,” I continued, softer now, sensing I might have accidentally trodden onto sensitive ground.

“I get it.” He said, but his tone was distant.

I hesitated. “Is that even something you want? A family,” I clarified. “Someday?”

Jihoon’s head jerked round to look at me, the expression on his face a mix between confusion and fear all wrapped up in a startled bow.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t thought about it much.” He turned his head away, and I watched a tic flutter in his jaw. “I didn’t think that was something I’d be allowed. At least, not for a long time.”

The word ‘allowed’ hit me like a punch in the gut, and it occurred to me that it probably wasn’t something many K-Pop trainees considered, since most of them were recruited from such a young age. It begged the question, how many would change their paths, given the hindsight?

“I can’t stand the idea that what I do, my career, might be the reason we don’t work out.” He swallowed.

I froze. That was what he thought?

Although, I guess, why wouldn’t he think that? There were plenty of examples where a dating scandal had ruined more than the artist’s career.

I didn’t know what to say. I could so easily say that I would never leave him because of this, but would that be the truth?

I didn't want to say something I couldn't commit to. I couldn’t erase his fears, so instead, I pressed a kiss to his chest and lay my head back down, listening to his heartbeat as it gradually evened out.

It was a couple of minutes before the silence between us seemed to stretch too thin, until I couldn’t stand it any longer.

“I didn’t mean to make this so weird,” I tried for a jokey tone to lighten the mood, but given the silence was practically a solid wall, I feared it hit pretty weakly.

Jihoon shifted underneath me, and for a second, I thought he was moving away, but he was just twisting to lie on his side facing me.

The room was dark, but the ambient light from the wall of windows we’d not bothered to pull the blinds across was enough to make out his face.

His eyes met mine and in the semi-darkness, we stared at each other.

Eventually, he spoke.

“It’s not that it’s weird,” he said carefully, and I could tell he was choosing his words. “I’ve never needed to think about it before. You’re my first real girlfriend.”

For a beat, the words hung between us, and I watched his face as a stream of emotions seemed to play out across it.

It was a moment before I could swallow past the lump in my throat.

“You’re my first everything, Baek Jihoon.”

He opened his eyes, shining in the dark with the light they borrowed from the Seoul skyline.

“You’ve had boyfriends before me.”

“And you had lovers before me.”

“Those didn’t count.”

“Neither did mine.”

He reached out a hand and gently ran his thumb across my cheekbone. “I can’t believe you’re here. You really came all this way, just for me?”

“I also really wanted to try hotteok.”

Jihoon blinked at me and for a moment, I thought I’d said it wrong, but then he burst into surprised laughter. “Am I not better than a pancake?”

I pretended to give it some thought. “I don’t know. I’ve had you. I’ve never had hotteok.”

Jihoon choked on a laugh before reaching out and pulling me to him, locking his arms around me so tight it just about held in all the feelings that were so close to spilling out of me.

I blinked, momentarily confused by the view in front of me, trying to remember when or where I was as my brain tried to translate the image of a weak, grey sunlight bouncing off tall buildings in the distance.

Just as my brain supplied the word ‘Seoul’ to me, a rustling behind me caught my attention.

I rolled over, expecting to find Jihoon beside me, warm and half-asleep, like I was.

But the bed was empty. He was already half-dressed.

“Well, that’s a nice sight to wake up to,” I said, making no effort to disguise the fact I was ogling the half-naked body in front of me as he pulled on a pair of jeans.

When he was fully dressed, it was easy to think he was slender, but underneath the baggy clothes he often favoured, Jihoon was solidly built, ridges of defined muscles under smooth skin.

On top of the relentless dance practices he dedicated hours to every day, he also weight-trained several times a week.

Somehow, he even managed to squeeze in regular Pilates sessions; though he claimed that was more to do with keeping limber than anything else.

Looking at the expanse of skin and muscles in front of me, it was so clear he was in peak physical condition. Honestly, it made me feel a little lazy, and I resolved, right there and then, to take up running. Or weight lifting. Or frankly anything that might help me to keep up with him.

Jihoon caught me staring and smirked, turning his body full-on to me, so that I now had the benefit of watching the way he buttoned those jeans up, with his deft fingers that had so recently done naughty, naughty things to me.

“You don’t need to get up; you can stay in bed.”

I frowned. “Where are you going?”

The smile slipped off his face. “I have to go back to the company. There’s another meeting.” He looked away from me, his hair falling into his face and partially obscuring it.

I was suddenly wide awake and I shimmied up the bed, leaning up on my elbows. “Again?” I raised my wrist to look at my watch. 07:32 am. “Now? Why?”

He dug around in a bag I hadn’t noticed until just now. He must have brought it up while I slept.

“To have a conference with LA. Our lawyers need to talk to their lawyers.”

His words were unexpectedly sharp, and suddenly, and without knowing why, I felt like I’d done something wrong.

“Lawyers?” I asked, trying to maintain composure.

Dozens of scenarios ran through my head, each of them as unlikely as the next. I was not awake enough for this. “Why?”

Jihoon yanked a t-shirt on over his head, barely sparing me a glance as he replied, “Same shit, different day.” The phrase sounded strange coming from him, especially with the venom in his voice that had me recoiling in surprise.

“Are you okay?” I sat up fully, pulling my knees to my chest, and adjusting the sheets so that I was covered. I was only wearing a thin t-shirt, and I felt a sudden chill dapple my skin.

Jihoon pushed his hands through his hair, artfully mussing it in a way that would have made my own hair look like I’d been dragged through a bush backwards. He dropped his hands heavily to his sides and looked over at me.

“I just don’t want to go. I’m sick of going over it, again and again.”

I’d never seen him so frustrated. His jaw was clenched so tight, I wondered if it hurt.

He could only mean what had happened in the conference room back at Pisces.

It had only been a couple days ago, but already it seemed like weeks.

So much had happened since Trevor Kyle and Celine opened that door and caught us kissing.

Such a simple action, with such wide-reaching consequences; apparently reaching all the way to Korea.

“Is there anything I can do?” My throat felt tight, but I forced the words to sound as steady as possible.

Jihoon looked away. “No, Ky, I have to do this myself.”

“Right. Okay.” I nodded slowly, feeling like a millstone was tied around my neck. Or perhaps that I was one tied around his.

“I’ll be back soon.” He moved towards me and, cupping my cheek, pressed a chaste kiss to my cold lips before turning around and walking through the door.

I heard him cross the living room and then, a beat later, the soft snick of the suite door.

The air felt like it echoed in the still silence that followed.

I could still feel the warmth of his body in the sheets, but it was the only warmth I could feel.

I thought about going back to bed, but after how much I’d already slept, I knew I’d give myself a wicked case of delayed jet lag if I stayed horizontal any longer.

My laptop was plugged in next to the bed, and I pulled it up to rest on my lap, having a vague intention to check my emails, but then I saw that I had several notifications from the web host where I published my blog.

I was surprised to see that I’d gained new followers.

I hadn’t bothered writing anything for a couple weeks.

Maybe someone had shared one of my posts on their social media again.

I shrugged it off, but I was quietly pleased. Feeling suddenly inspired, I opened a new page and began to type.

My fingers flew over the keys, detailing my move to Korea, the culture shock I’d barely begun to experience, and the ways I’d observed that music was treated so differently here than it was in the States.

Not all that long ago, people often accused boy bands of being a special kind of ‘manufactured’ - which was a polite way of accusing a group of being created for the sole purpose of appealing to the masses, and this was somehow a bad thing.

As if having all the ingredients for success made that success less real.

But in Korea, the music industry doesn’t shy away from being a machine. It is a machine: a multi-billion-dollar machine, whose sole purpose is to create artists that have all the right ingredients to appeal to the most amount of people. Design is the blueprint.

While Western audiences might accuse a group of ‘selling out’, if a group dares to put their face next to any product, in Korea, brand endorsements are a major – and respectable – milestone. It’s common to see idols appear on anything, from skin care to luxury cars.

Is it really selling out if it’s also a sign you’ve made it?

Not long later, I pressed ‘publish’, feeling that small rush of satisfaction blooming in my chest like it always did when I put a new post up.

It was just a little side hobby, something I took time to squeeze in around the chaos of my day-to-day, but sometimes I wondered what it would be like to do it for real. To write about the thing I was most passionate about. To make it a career.

I mean, obviously a blog was not a viable source of income, but it was fun to dream about.