The night was Yoona’s secret.

By day, Kim Beom was the nation’s favorite brooding anti-hero—the man with the frozen stare, the razor-sharp cheekbones, and the exhausting habit of making every female viewer fall in love with a villain. He wore black like a second skin and silence like a weapon.

But at midnight, hidden under a plain hoodie and a face mask, he was just a tired guy walking through the quiet Seoul streets. No scripts. No cameras. No fake darkness. He kicked a pebble, watched it roll, and felt like a six-year-old who’d snuck out of his own life.

Finally. Some peace.

That’s when a small, whirlwind force slammed into his chest.

---

Ten seconds earlier:

You had been crouched down, tying the shoelace of a little girl who’d tripped near a convenience store. “There you go, sweetheart. All better?” You’d patted her head, she’d giggled, and you’d stood up—taking one step backward directly into a wall of black cotton and lean muscle.

Bump.

The world tilted. Your foot caught on nothing. Your bag slipped off your shoulder.

A hand clamped around your wrist. Another caught your waist. You stopped falling six inches from the ground, staring up at a pair of eyes that crinkled with annoyance above a black mask.

“You always attack strangers after midnight?” His voice was low, teasing. “Or am I just lucky?”

You blinked. Blinked again. Then glared. “Leave me.”

He let go immediately.

Your ankle—which had twisted funny in the stumble—gave a sharp twang of pain, and you pitched sideways again with a little yelp.

He caught you again. Pulled you flush against him. Now his face was inches from yours, and those dark eyes weren’t annoyed anymore. They were delighted.

“You said leave,” he pointed out, not letting go.

“I didn’t mean like that!” you hissed, face burning.

His laugh was a low, rusty sound—like he hadn’t used it in days. “So you want me to hold you, but you also want me to let go. Pick a struggle, little storm cloud.”

“I am not a—” You straightened up, pushing at his chest. His hoodie was soft. Annoyingly soft. “You’re the one who was standing in the middle of the footpath like a—a pole.”

“A pole.” He tilted his head. “Charming. I was standing still. You tackled me.”

“I did not tackle you.”

“My ribs disagree.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. He was so smug behind that mask—you could see it in his eyebrows. And somewhere in the back of your furious, flustered brain, a tiny voice whispered: His eyes look familiar. Really familiar.

But right now, he was being insufferable. “You’re the worst.”

“You don’t even know my name.” His eyes sparkled. “But you’re about to ask for my help.”

“I will never—”

You took one step. Your ankle screamed. You inhaled sharply, teeth gritted, and he caught the wince immediately.

“Walk away,” you dared him, chin up.

He turned. Took two steps. Stopped.

Then he looked over his shoulder, mask pulled down just enough to reveal a smirk that had launched a thousand fan edits. “So… we doing this the hard way, or are you going to admit you need me?”

“I don’t need you.”

“Your ankle says otherwise.”

You tried another step. Failed. Made a small, betrayed sound.

He turned fully, arms crossed. “Say it.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.” 😏

You glared daggers. He raised one eyebrow. You raised both of yours. It was a face-off in the middle of an empty street at midnight, and you were losing because your ankle was throbbing and he looked infuriatingly handsome even in a hoodie.

Finally, you groaned, dropped your head, and mumbled: “Help.”

“Didn’t catch that.”

“Help, you overgrown housefly.”

He walked back so fast you almost missed it—one moment he was smirking, the next he was sliding an arm under your knees and scooping you up like you weighed nothing.

“You’re light,” he said, almost to himself. “Like a bag of feathers.”

“Put me down.”

“You just asked for help.” He started walking. “Poor decision-making. First you attack me, then you insult me, then you demand my assistance. Very chaotic.”

“I am not chaotic.”

He looked down at you. His mask was still off now, and the streetlight caught his face—sharp jaw, soft mouth, and those eyes that played villains on screen but looked almost gentle in the dark.

You went very still.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

That was Kim Beom. Your favorite actor. The one whose dark, intense roles you’d rewatched a dozen times. The one whose posters you’d smiled at like an idiot.

And you had just called him an overgrown housefly.

He noticed your frozen expression immediately. His smirk softened into something curious. “What? Finally realized I’m hotter than a pole?”

You swallowed. “You’re—I mean. You’re not—”

“Cat got your tongue, little storm cloud?” He tilted his head, and his voice dropped into that velvet-dark register he used in dramas. “Twenty seconds ago you were ready to fight me.”

“I can still fight you.”

“With that ankle?” He nodded toward your foot. “You’d lose.”

“I’d bite you.”

He laughed—a real laugh, surprised and warm. “Noted. I’ll add ‘bites strangers’ to your list of crimes.”

You buried your face in your hands. Your ears were burning. This was not how meeting your favorite actor was supposed to go. You were supposed to be cute and charming, not a feral ankle-sprained gremlin.

“I hate you,” you mumbled through your fingers.

“No, you don’t.” He shifted you slightly, adjusting his hold like you were precious cargo. “You think I’m annoying and unfairly handsome. That’s different.”

“Your ego needs its own apartment.”

“It has one. Rooftop view.”

You peeked through your fingers. He was grinning now—not the polished actor smile, but something crooked and real. And for a moment, the exhaustion he’d been carrying all night flickered across his face, replaced by something lighter.

When was the last time someone argued with him like a normal person?

“Where to, chaos queen?” he asked, walking toward a bench. “I’d say hospital, but you’d probably try to fight the doctor too.”

“Just put me on that bench and leave.”

“You’ll fall again.”

“I won’t.”

He stopped. Looked at you. You looked at him.

“You will,” he said.

“I won’t.”

“Fifty thousand won says you will.”

“You don’t even have cash.”

He pulled out his wallet. Showed you a crisp fifty-thousand-won bill.

You stared. “Why do you carry cash in 2026?”

“For moments exactly like this.” He set you down gently on the bench. Your ankle screamed, but you bit your lip and didn’t make a sound. “Now. Walk.”

You stood. Took one step.

Collapsed.

He caught you again—honestly, was he just hovering at all times?—and your face landed somewhere around his collarbone. He smelled like cedar and something clean. You wanted to evaporate.

“Pay up,” he murmured into your hair.

“I don’t have fifty thousand won.”

“Then you owe me.” He pulled back, eyes dancing. “Guess you’ll have to let me help you.”

You groaned, dropping your forehead against his chest. “You’re the most annoying person I’ve ever met.”

“You’re the most violent kitten I’ve ever met.” He patted your head once. “We match.”

And somewhere in the back of your mind, past the embarrassment and the throbbing ankle and the sheer unfairness of him being even prettier in person, you thought:

Oh no. I like him.

He helped you sit back down, then crouched in front of you, gently lifting your ankle to check the swelling. His touch was careful—nothing like the teasing chaos of five minutes ago.

“This might be my fault,” he admitted quietly.

“Might?”

“Okay. It is.” He looked up at you, and for a second the mask of the charming, self-obsessed actor slipped. “I’m sorry.”

You blinked. “Did Kim Beom just apologize?”

“Don’t get used to it.” The smirk returned instantly. “I’m only doing this because you’re cute when you’re angry.”

Your face went nuclear. “I am not—!”

He laughed again, and the sound echoed down the empty street like a secret.

That was the first night.

Neither of you knew it yet, but the chaos had only just begun.

He was still crouched in front of you, one hand hovering near your swollen ankle, the other resting lazily on his knee. The streetlight painted him in shades of gold and shadow, and you were acutely aware of every single person who could walk by at any moment.

"Go away," you whispered, pulling your foot back. "What if someone sees?"

He tilted his head, utterly unbothered. "Sees what? A guy helping a girl who attacked him first?"

"I did not attack—" You cut yourself off, looking around nervously. The street was empty now, but Seoul had eyes everywhere. "You're Kim Beom. If anyone sees you with me at midnight, holding my ankle like some—some—"

"Devastatingly handsome guardian angel?" he offered.

"I was going to say 'annoying stray cat,' but sure."

He grinned. Actually grinned, like you'd just given him a compliment. "Stray cat. I like that. Feral. Independent. Probably carries diseases."

"You're impossible."

"And you're still here." He stood up slowly, stretching his arms above his head like he had all the time in the world. His hoodie rode up just enough to show a sliver of stomach, and you looked away so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash. "If I were you, I'd be more worried about you being seen with me."

You snorted before you could stop yourself. "Oh, please. You're not that famous."

His eyebrows shot up. "Not that famous?"

"You're like… moderately recognizable." You waved a hand vaguely. "At best."

"Moderately." He pressed a hand to his chest, mock-offended. "I have fourteen million followers."

"Bots."

"Three drama awards."

"Rigged."

"A billboard in Times Square."

"I've never been to New York."

He stared at you for a long moment, and then something shifted in his expression—like he was seeing you for the first time. Not the girl who bumped into him, not the angry kitten, but you. The one who didn't care about his fame. The one who called him an overgrown housefly.

"You're weird," he said finally.

"You're a show-off," you shot back.

"I prefer theatrically confident."

You snorted again, louder this time. "Show-off."

"Charming virtuoso."

"Show-off."

"Devastatingly talented icon."

"You're just listing things now."

He leaned down, hands braced on the back of the bench on either side of your head, caging you in. His face was close again—too close—and that annoying little smirk was back. "Say it one more time. I dare you."

"Show-off." You didn't even hesitate. 😏

His laugh was soft, right against your ear. "You're enjoying this."

"I'm enduring this."

"Same thing, little storm cloud." He pulled back and extended a hand. "Come on. Let's get that ankle looked at before you blame me for permanent damage and sue me."

"I don't sue people. I'm nice."

"You called me a housefly."

"A complimentary housefly."

He laughed again—that real, rusty sound—and something in his eyes looked less empty than before. Less like an actor playing a role and more like a person.

Just for a second.

Then the smirk was back, full force. "Fine. I'm a show-off. But I'm a show-off who's about to carry you four blocks to my car, so maybe be nice to me."

"You're enjoying that too."

"Immensely." He scooped you up again, and this time you didn't fight it. Your hands landed on his shoulders, and he hummed approvingly. "See? You're learning."

"I'm tolerating."

"Evolution." He started walking, and you could feel his heartbeat under your palm—steady, real. "By next week, you might even admit you like me."

"In your dreams, show-off."

"In my dreams," he agreed, voice dropping lower, "you're much nicer."

Your face burned. You buried it in his hoodie again just to hide.

You were in his arms again. His ridiculous, surprisingly strong arms. The night air was cool against your burning cheeks, and the rhythmic sound of his footsteps echoed off the quiet buildings.

Then the realization hit.

"Wait." You lifted your head. "Where are you taking me?"

"My car," he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Your eyes widened. "Your car?!"

"It's parked four blocks away. I mentioned this thirty seconds ago. Keep up, little storm cloud." 😏

"I'm not going to your car!" You squirmed in his hold, which did absolutely nothing except make him tighten his grip. "I can go to my house. It's not that far."

"Oh really?" His tone was dripping with fake curiosity. "And which direction is your house?"

You pointed vaguely behind you. "That way."

"That way is a convenience store and a very confused old man walking his dog."

"Then that way." You pointed forward.

"That way is my car."

"You're impossible!"

"You're repetitive." He kept walking, completely unbothered. "Anything else?"

You glared at the side of his face. His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass. It was deeply unfair. "Put me down."

"No."

"I said put me down."

"You said 'leave me' earlier and then almost broke your other ankle. I don't trust your judgment."

"My judgment is fine—"

"You attacked a stranger in the street."

"I bumped into you!"

"Same energy."

You let out a frustrated sound—something between a growl and a whine—and he actually chuckled. The nerve. The absolute audacity.

"I weigh something, you know," you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. "You can't just carry me around like I'm—like I'm a—"

"A bag of feathers?" He cut you off smoothly. "Already established that. You're light. Suspiciously light. Do you eat? Have you ever eaten? Should I be concerned?"

"That's not the point!"

"It's a little bit the point."

"The point is—" You scrambled for words, flustered and furious and very aware of how warm he was. "You don't just carry people to your car! That's called kidnapping!"

"It's called helping."

"It's called I didn't ask!"

"You literally said 'help' thirty seconds before that." He looked down at you, one dark eyebrow raised. "I have witnesses. The street. That pebble. The ghost of Confucius."

You stared at him. "Did you just… invoke Confucius?"

"He's on my side."

"You're insane."

"And you're still in my arms." His smirk softened into something almost gentle. Almost. "So who's really losing here?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Nothing came out.

Because he was right. You were still there. Still letting him carry you. Still not actually fighting hard enough to get free.

And he knew it.

"The silence," he murmured, looking ahead again, "is very telling."

"I'm plotting your downfall."

"I'm sure you are." He adjusted his hold, pulling you slightly higher against his chest. "Plot quietly. I'm enjoying the walk."

You dropped your head back with a groan, staring up at the cold night sky.

What even is my life right now.

Somewhere above you, hidden behind a cloud, the moon was laughing.

He walked the four blocks like it was nothing. You, on the other hand, were quietly dying—half from embarrassment, half from the fact that his hoodie smelled really good and you couldn't figure out why that was annoying you so much.

"Here we are," he announced, stopping beside a sleek black car that probably cost more than your entire future. "My humble chariot."

"Humble," you repeated flatly.

"Very humble. It only has heated seats. No massagers."

"Only heated seats. You're unbearable."

He grinned and carefully lowered you onto the passenger seat. Your ankle bumped against the doorframe and you sucked in a sharp breath—wince—teeth gritted, eyes squeezed shut for just a second.

"Hey." His voice lost some of the tease. "You okay?"

"Fine," you hissed through your teeth. "Just—give me a second."

He stepped back, giving you space, and that's when you looked down at your feet.

The heels.

The beautiful, evil, foot-torturing heels your best friend had convinced you to wear. "You'll look so cute, YN!" "Just for one night, YN!" "What's the worst that could happen, YN?"

This. This was the worst that could happen.

With a growl of pure frustration, you unbuckled the strap on one heel and yanked it off. Then the other. The relief was so immediate and so intense you almost cried.

And then—without thinking, without planning, just pure unfiltered exhaustion and annoyance—you threw them.

Right out the car door.

One heel landed near a lamppost. The other skidded under a bush.

Kim Beom stood frozen. His eyes were wide. His mouth was slightly open. For the first time all night, he looked genuinely shocked.

"Did you just..." He turned to look at the scattered heels, then back at you. Back at the heels. Back at you. "...throw your shoes?"

"They were attacking me," you muttered, rubbing your swollen ankle.

"They're shoes."

"Evil shoes."

He stared at you for another three seconds. Then he walked over to the lamppost, picked up the first heel, walked to the bush, retrieved the second heel, and held them up like evidence in a crime scene.

"These are Louboutins," he said slowly.

"So?"

"So these cost like... a thousand dollars."

"Not anymore. They live outside now. With the worms."

He blinked. Then he blinked again. And then—very slowly—a grin spread across his face. Not the teasing smirk from before. Not the actor smile. Something genuine and a little bit wonderstruck.

"You're insane," he said.

"You're repetitive."

He laughed—loud and sudden, like you'd startled it out of him. "You threw Louboutins out of a stranger's car."

"They're not yours. Why do you care?"

"I don't. I'm just..." He shook his head, still holding the heels like priceless artifacts. "I've met a lot of people. Rich people. Model people. People who would kill for these shoes. And you just—yeeted them into the night."

"They hurt my feet." You crossed your arms. "My friend made me wear them. She said they were 'necessary for the aesthetic.' I hate aesthetics. I hate heels. I hate her for making me wear them. And I hate you for watching me suffer."

"That's a lot of hate for someone who just threw away a security deposit."

"I'm a passionate person."

He looked at the shoes. Looked at you. Looked at the shoes again.

Then he shrugged, tossed them into the backseat, and got into the driver's side like nothing had happened.

"What are you doing?!" You twisted in your seat, wincing as your ankle protested. "Why are they in your car?!"

"I'm keeping them."

"Why?!"

"Evidence." He started the engine, and the car hummed to life. "For when you wake up tomorrow and regret throwing away expensive shoes. You'll call me, all emotional, begging for them back, and I'll say—" He deepened his voice dramatically, "'Sorry, little storm cloud. Should've thought about that before you committed shoe violence.'"

"I'm never calling you."

"You don't have my number."

"Exactly!"

He pulled out his phone, still driving with one hand because apparently he was that confident, and handed it to you. "Put your number in."

"Absolutely not."

"You owe me fifty thousand won, remember? How will I collect?"

"I'll mail it."

"With what address? You don't know mine." He glanced at you, eyes glittering in the dashboard lights. "Put. Your. Number."

You glared at him. He raised one eyebrow.

The car was warm. Your ankle was throbbing. And somewhere in the backseat, your thousand-dollar heels were rolling around like forgotten trash.

"This doesn't mean I like you," you muttered, snatching the phone.

"Of course not." He smiled, soft and insufferable. "You're just tolerating me."

"Exactly."

"Put a heart emoji next to your name."

"I will put a skull."

"Even better."

You typed your number in with aggressive thumbs, added a skull emoji, and threw the phone back at his chest. He caught it without looking.

"The skull," he said, glancing at the screen, "is a nice touch. Very threatening."

"Good. Be scared."

"Oh, I'm terrified." He pulled out of the parking spot, and the city lights blurred past the windows. "Absolutely shaking."

You leaned your head against the cool glass, watching him from the corner of your eye. His profile was sharp in the darkness. His fingers tapped the steering wheel to a rhythm only he could hear.

And despite everything—the ankle, the heels, the whole ridiculous night—you weren't really angry.

You were just… curious.

Who is this man when no one's watching?

You didn't know it yet, but you were about to find out.

And somewhere above you, Kim Beom smiled—really smiled—for the first time in months.