A chaos of life

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.

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