Ji-an

  The crowd is still screaming.

  Even from backstage, I can hear them—tens of thousands of fans chanting our names, the energy in the arena still electric even though the show ended twenty minutes ago.

  I should be buzzing too. Should be running on that post-performance high, giddy with adrenaline.

  Instead, I’m scrolling through my phone, half-listening as the rest of the girls take turns collapsing into the dressing room chairs.

  “You killed it out there, Ji-an.”

  Hye-won and Jisoo flop down next to me, still breathless from the encore.

  I hum in agreement, not really paying attention.

  The show had been good. Great, even. But my brain isn’t on the performance.

  It’s the picture glowing softly on my screen of a man that wasn’t my boyfriend.

  He sat alone at the bar, one arm resting casually on the counter, the other cradling a glass of whiskey like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the moment. His frame was powerful, not oversized, but compact—all clean lines and coiled strength, like someone carved out of tension and discipline.

  One might think he was a cop with the automatic sitting in a holster on the bar. But he wasn’t.

  His jaw was set, his expression unreadable—the kind of face that made strangers think twice about starting a conversation. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearms marked with the subtle definition of someone who didn’t need a gym to be dangerous.

  Logan Carter.

  He didn’t smile in the photo. Of course he didn’t.

  He never smiled for cameras.

  And yet, something about the image…

  Made it feel like he was looking straight through the lens—right at me.

  I don’t know why I looked him up. I told myself it was curiosity at first. A harmless, fleeting thought that had turned into a quick search. But now, three months later, I still find myself doing it more often than I’d like to admit.

  It’s not weird. I am just a girl who was curious about a boy. Simple.

  I doubt even remembers me. Its a bit of a secret, because sometimes, when things slow down—between rehearsals, on flights, in quiet hotel rooms—I think about the way he looked at me before he knew who I was.

  Like I was just a normal person. Like I wasn’t Ji-an of NOVA—K-pop’s golden girl, the face on every billboard from Seoul to LA—but just some random woman in an airport who sat next to him and let him ramble himself into a hole.

  That night had stuck with me in a way I hadn’t expected.

  And now here I am, three months later, lying in bed, staring at pictures of him like an idiot.

  It’s not even his account. His is private. Of course it is.

  This one’s his sister’s—Emily.

  Yes, I figured out he has a sister named Emily.

  Yes, she’s a model.

  Yes, she’s super pretty.

  No, I’m not insecure.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Okay, maybe a little.

  But that’s not the point.

  The point is: he’s in the background of one of her stories.

  Logan.

  Leaning against the edge of a shooting bay at some tactical range in Arizona, wearing a ball cap, black tee, and that same "don’t talk to me unless you’re bleeding or on fire" expression.

  And in his hands? A custom Nighthawk TRS Comp—one of the sexiest pieces of American engineering I’d ever seen.

  Yes, I looked it up.

  Yes, I know exactly what that is now.

  Don’t judge me.

  The gun was matte black with a built-in compensator and optic-ready slide—basically something that looked like it could punch holes in goddamn reality.

  And he held it like it was just another part of his body.

  Comfortable. Efficient. Dangerous.

  Just like him.

  I zoomed in, paused the screen.

  And for half a second, he glanced toward the camera.

  Not quite smiling.

  But not not-smiling either.

  Like he knew.

  Like he always knew.

  I sigh, rubbing my temples. I should be worrying about the actual scandal circling my name right now, not reminiscing about some random Marine I met once and lusting after his sidearm. .

  (if you’re wondering about what scandal, I had been recently connected, somehow, to some up and coming Chinese actor who apparently has a crush on me. It was all the talk right now. He has been trying to set coffee with my Agency)

  "You look way too serious for someone who just finished an amazing show."

  Min-ji’s voice breaks through my thoughts.

  I blink and glance up.

  She’s standing a few feet away, still holding a water bottle, eyes flicking between me and my phone screen.

  She is suspicious.

  Shit.

  I casually tilt my phone away from her line of sight. "I’m just tired."

  Her eyes narrow.

  Double shit.

  Min-ji doesn't move.

  Neither do her eyebrows, which are definitely raised in a ‘yeah, sure’ kind of way.

  In case you were wondering, Min-ji is the smartest among us. She is close to a freaking genius. Or so she says.

  "Uh-huh." She takes a slow sip of water. "And does being tired usually involve staring at pictures of extremely attractive men?"

  Triple shit, shit, shit, shit.

  I do not react.

  At least, I try not to.

  Unfortunately, Hye-won’s ears perk up at the word "attractive men."

  “Wait, what? Who?”

  Before I can stop her, Min-ji lunges.

  I yank my phone away, but it’s too late.

  Hye-won, Min-ji, and now Jisoo are all gathered around me, peering over my shoulder.

  There is no escape.

  And then it happens.

  The collective gasp.

  The moment where they see what I’ve been looking at.

  Min-ji narrows her eyes. “Wait a second. He looks familiar.”

  Jisoo tilts her head. “Oh my Lordy. Is that—”

  "No one." I lock my phone and shove it into my pocket before they can start forming actual theories. “It’s literally no one. Don’t be weird.”

  Hye-won isn’t buying it. She’s looking at me with a look.

  The kind of look that says, I know exactly what this is, and I’m about to be unbearable about it.

  I shoot her a warning glance. "Don’t."

  She grins. "I mean, I just think it’s interesting. You, looking up pictures of a—”

  “Don’t.”

  “A certain handsome American Marine you met in an airport—”

  I groan. “Hye-won.”

  “—who, by the way, I remember you flirting with.”

  “I did not flirt.”

  Min-ji laughs. “You let him talk himself into a meltdown while you sat there and smirked. That’s your version of flirting.”

  I glare. “Why do I even talk to you people?”

  Jisoo walks over to the couch, plops down, and stretches her arms. “I don’t know, but I’m fascinated. I thought you weren’t interested in dating for a while?”

  “I’m not.”

  Min-ji raises a brow. "Then why are you stalking a random guy from three months ago?"

  I throw my hands in the air. "I’m not stalking him! I was just—he came up in my feed, and I clicked on it. That’s it."

  Hye-won clutches her chest. “You follow him?”

  "No, of course not. Can you imagine what would happen if I did?"

  "But you searched for him," Jisoo points out, eyes twinkling with amusement.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. "You’re all the worst."

  Min-ji shrugs. “We’re not saying you like him.”

  "Good."

  "But if you did," she continues, ignoring me, "it would be kind of adorable."

  I groan dramatically, slumping back into the chair. “You bitches sure are bold today.”

  They’re never going to let this go.

  Not now.

  Not when I’ve been in the headlines all week over the breakup that wasn’t even a real breakup.

  They don’t say it, but I know what they’re thinking. That this is convenient timing.

  I’m looking up Logan Carter because I need a distraction.

  And maybe I am.

  But that doesn’t mean anything.

  Right?