The two words hung in the air between them, a promise and a threat woven together.
Then let's begin.
He didn't move to touch her. Instead, he turned and walked toward the sprawling open-plan kitchen, a monolith of marble and dark wood. "Come," he said, the command soft but absolute.
She followed, her shoes making no sound on the polished floor. He opened a refrigerator that was nearly empty and pulled out a bottle of water, offering it to her. The mundane action was surreal. Kim Taemin was getting her a water. In his kitchen.
She took it, her fingers brushing his. A jolt, sharp and electric, shot up her arm. His eyes flickered down to where their skin had connected, then back to her face. He didn't react, but she saw the dark awareness in his gaze. He'd felt it too.
"Ten years," he mused, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms. He studied her with an unnerving intensity. "What did you love? The music? The performance? The idea of me?"
It was an interrogation. One she had spent a lifetime preparing for.
"The truth," she answered, her voice gaining a sliver of strength. She was on sacred ground now, speaking her gospel to her god. "In your eyes. Even on a screen, even through a camera lens… it never felt like performance. It felt like a secret you were letting slip."
He was very still. No one ever spoke to him like this. They praised him, they adored him, they screamed for him. They didn't dissect the core of him with such terrifying accuracy.
"A secret," he repeated, the word a low caress.
"You show the world the artist," she continued, emboldened by his silence. "But you hide the man. I… I always wanted to know the man. The one who collects the secrets."
His expression changed. The casual mask slipped, revealing something sharper, hungrier beneath. "You know about that?"
She nodded. "There are rumors. That you're a collector. Not of things, but of moments. Of people."
He pushed off from the counter and walked toward a door she hadn't noticed, hidden in the wall paneling. "Come," he said again.
This time, he led her down a softly lit staircase into a basement level. The air grew cooler. The modern aesthetic gave way to something older, more tactile. The walls were exposed brick, the floor reclaimed wood.
He stopped before a heavy, dark wood door and unlocked it with a key from his pocket.
The room inside was not a bedroom. It was a library, but unlike any library she had ever seen. There were books, yes, rare first editions she recognized. But there were also artifacts. A vintage camera on a stand. A faded, framed map of a stars. A glass case holding a single, exquisite butterfly specimen. It was a room of beautiful, isolated things.
And on one long wall, there were photographs.
Not of him. Not of his band. These were his photographs. Artistic, haunting, profoundly intimate. A rain-soaked window in a neon-lit alley. An old man's hands, gnarled and covered in paint. The sorrowful eyes of a stray dog. They were glimpses of truth, of beauty found in the shadows.
He was a collector. Of moments. Of truths.
And then she saw it.
Tucked almost out of sight on a small shelf beside the desk was a simple, clear acrylic frame. Inside it wasn't a photo he had taken.
It was a picture of her.
Not a recent picture. It was from years ago. She was maybe eighteen, her hair longer, her face softer, filled with a youthful hope she barely remembered. She was wearing a SRS concert t-shirt, holding a light stick, her face turned up toward a stage, tears of joy streaming down her cheeks. The photo was taken from a distance, from the side. She had never known it existed.
Her breath left her in a rush. The world tilted. How long? How long had he had this?
He was watching her reaction, his dark eyes missing nothing. "I told you," he said, his voice low and intimate in the quiet room. "I collect interesting things. Interesting people."
He stepped closer, until he was standing right behind her, not touching, but she could feel the heat of his body. He reached around her, his arm brushing her side, and picked up the frame. He held it in front of her, his chin nearly resting on her shoulder.
"I saw you," he whispered, his breath ghosting over her ear. "Years ago. In Seoul. In a crowd of thousands, I saw this… fervor. This pure, undiluted devotion. It was the most real thing I'd seen all night."
Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the image of her younger self. All this time. She thought their story began on a rooftop in Mumbai. It didn't. He had seen her first. He had chosen her first. He had been watching, collecting, long before she ever knew.
"You were a ghost in my glass," he murmured, his voice hypnotic. "A beautiful, fleeting moment I captured. And then, by fate or by my own design, you walked into my world. Solid. Real."
He put the frame down and turned her slowly to face him. His hands came up to cradle her face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that had spilled onto her cheeks. His touch was electric, possessive.
"I don't want your screams, Emaira," he said, his gaze burning into hers. "I have enough of those. I don't want your adoration. I have a world of it."
He leaned closer, his lips inches from hers.
"I want your obsession," he breathed. "I want to own it. I want to be the only thing you see when you close your eyes. The way you have been for me."
And then his mouth was on hers.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a claiming. A searing, desperate fusion of a decade of longing on her part and a years-long fascination on his. It was dark and sweet and tasted like tears and possession. It was the end of her old life and the brutal, beautiful beginning of something new.
When he finally pulled away, they were both breathless. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed.
"You're not a fan anymore," he whispered, his voice raw. "You're my收藏品 (Shōucáng pín ). My most prized collection."
The word hung in the air. She didn't know what it meant, but she understood it perfectly. She was no longer just a girl. She was his.
To be continued....