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If truth had a face, it probably wouldn't be wearing Armani and clutching a clipboard like its life depended on it.

But here we are. Tuesday morning, 10.50 AM, somewhere in Seoul, and the nation’s most notorious rumor mill — Dispatch, of course — has summoned the devil himself for questioning.

Park Chanyeol arrives ten minutes early. With sunglasses, a tailored jacket, and an air of “I would rather be anywhere else but here.” Very on brand of him.

“Let the press conference begin!” A chipper voice rings out, far too enthusiastic for a scandal this stupid. The moderator stands dead center, beaming like she’s just been cast on Running Man instead of mediating Korea’s messiest dating debate.

“We’re here today to address The Park Chanyeol Situation,” she says, with a smile so sharp it could cut glass. Behind her, a screen flares to life with a compilation of blurry photos, red circles, and those godforsaken question marks Dispatch loves to throw around like confetti.

“For those living under a rock—or maybe just not refreshing your Naver tabs every four hours—here’s a recap.”

The screen flashes:

— Park Chanyeol spotted in Michelin-starred restaurant with mystery woman. Are they dating?

— Bouquets on Valentine’s Day?! Fans speculate about blossoming love between orphanage volunteer and LOEY.

— Regular visits to tiny diner in Itaewon. Is love on the menu for Chanyeol?

— Who is the young woman next to Park Chanyeol at his concert? Fans investigate.

— Actress fangirls over LOEY live performance—romance blooming backstage?

Five rumors. Five women. One very tired man sitting behind a mic like he’s about to get grilled on national TV. (Spoiler: He will be.)

“Mr. Park,” the moderator says sweetly. “Can you confirm or deny any of these dating allegations? Our readers—and more than half the nation—are dying to know which of these lovely ladies is the one.”

Chanyeol breathes in. Deeply. Like he’s about to dive in deep waters to never resurface again.

He does not answer right away.

Somewhere off-camera, a photographer adjusts his lens. A pen scratches against a notepad.

Chanyeol finally leans forward, mouth barely brushing the mic. He’s not smiling.

“You want names?” he says, voice low, calm. “Fine. Let’s talk about them.”

Girlfriend #1: Reina Nakamura

“The Michelin-starred chef in Tokyo,” the moderator prompts. “You’ve been seen exiting her cafe multiple times across your tour stops in Japan. A possible romantic liaison, perhaps?”

Chanyeol exhales like she’s asked him to solve world hunger.

“Yoora told me about her place,” he says flatly, “and she makes really good mochi.”

A beat of silence. One reporter clears their throat like they expected more juice. Anticipating, eagerly waiting. Chanyeol does not like to keep people waiting.

“Next slide, please,” Chanyeol mutters.

—

It started in Osaka.

Kyungsoo had that look again—the one that hovered dangerously between “I will murder you in your sleep” and “Please let me close my eyes for five uninterrupted minutes.”

Heavy-lidded stare. Shoulders dipped just enough to read as tired, but his spine never slouched. Barely speaking. But, as always, every silence felt intentional.

He was prepping for Love Letter—an indie romance flick that promised lingering glances, repressed emotions, and more emotional eye contact than actual dialogue. The kind of film that required him to feel everything without ever saying a word.

Filming won’t take place for another three weeks, so Kyungsoo had all the time in the world to trail after his husband in his annual Japan tour—provided he attended his online meetings with the director on time.

“You okay?” he asked, watching Kyungsoo uncap a water bottle like it had wronged him.

“Craving something sweet,” Kyungsoo muttered. “Something real.” Then, he walked away—off to join his third Zoom meeting for the day or melt into the floor, whichever came first.

Something real.

That’s how Chanyeol ended up racing through Namba with a hoodie over his head and Google Maps open, five minutes after ending a phone call with his sister, chasing a rumor about a Tokyo-trained chef with fingers like knives and a dessert that “melts guilt.” If that wasn’t enough to scream “Kyungsoo bait,” he didn’t know what was.

One back alley, two dead ends, and three near-collisions with paparazzi later—he found her. Reina Nakamura. The infamous mochi artisan.

The place was minimalist. Sleek counters, quiet lighting, and shelves lined with hand-brushed calligraphy. It screamed “you can’t afford me.” But Chanyeol marched in with all the confidence of a man who would sell his soul for strawberry daifuku if it meant Kyungsoo would smile at him.

Chanyeol bought every flavor they offered. Not for him. He didn’t even like mochi. But the thought of Kyungsoo, post-rehearsal, curling into the hotel sofa and letting his guard down enough to smile over something handmade—that image alone fueled him.

Dispatch captured his fourth visit. They captioned it: “Park Chanyeol’s Late-Night Rendezvous with Top Chef — Exclusive Romance?”

Chanyeol saved the article. Showed it to Kyungsoo over breakfast one morning, just to see his reaction. Not the dramatic gasp people might expect—Kyungsoo doesn’t do dramatic.

He did something better.

He read the headline. Paused. Raised one brow a quarter-inch. Then looked up, unimpressed.

“You cheated on me with dessert?” he said, deadpan.

“Guilty,” Chanyeol grinned. “But I brought you back the pink one.”

Kyungsoo’s face softened—not a smile, just the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. A blink longer than usual. A tell.

“I’m supposed to do a test shoot for a crying scene later,” he muttered. “Might help.”

He took the mochi between two fingers, turned it over thoughtfully like it’s a prop he’s memorizing. Then, without fanfare, he bit into it—clean, precise, no hesitation.

“Perfect,” he said absently.

Chanyeol’s not sure if he meant the mochi or the moment. Maybe both.

He watched Kyungsoo eat in silence, caught between reverence and ruin. Because this is the curse of loving an actor—he doesn’t even have to try. He exists, and people believe in him. Even when he’s just... being.

Especially then.

—

“So… no romantic ties to the chef?”

“No,” Chanyeol says, and if he’s hiding a smile, nobody catches it. “Just mochi and emotional damage.”

A ripple of chuckles stirs the press floor, and this time, Chanyeol joins them.

Girlfriend #2: Miss Sua

“Moving on,” the moderator says, already cueing the next scandal.

A new photo flashes on the screen. Chanyeol, dressed in black from head to toe, stepping out of his AMG G65 in front of a quiet building marked St Claire’s Home for Children. His hand clutches a bouquet so large it looks absurd against the overcast morning.

“This one’s from Valentine’s Day. Big bouquets. Suspicious timing. Are you a fan of grand gestures, Mr. Park?”

Chanyeol sighs. “Only when I get scolded for them.”

Then, like déjà vu, he glances to the camera, half-lidded, bored. “Alright. Let’s talk about the flowers.”

—

It started two days before Valentine’s.

Chanyeol hadn’t seen Kyungsoo for a week; he had a deadline to chase and an entire album to make. He had just finished a recording session around 2 a.m. and found himself restless—wired with adrenaline and the kind of loneliness that creeps in when the music fades and the world goes quiet. So naturally, he went shopping. For flowers.

Not the sad little kind you pick up at a gas station, either. He called in favors. Found a florist he’d used for album launches. Requested “something absolutely ridiculous.” It arrived in the studio foyer the next day: a full arrangement of red roses, black dahlias, and gold-painted baby’s breath. It looked like a stage prop. The florist left a printed card that said “To the one who keeps my songs warm.”

Chanyeol didn’t sign it. He didn’t need to.

He placed the bouquet carefully on the kitchen counter and waited. Practically vibrated with anticipation until the front door clicked and in walked the only person who had ever made him nervous for no reason at all.

Kyungsoo took one look at the flowers.

And blinked.

“You know these die, right?” he said calmly, placing his script down like this was just another Tuesday.

Chanyeol stared blankly. “They’re… for you?”

“I figured,” Kyungsoo said, tugging off his coat. “They’re gorgeous. But maybe give them to someone who’d like them more. Some kids, maybe. You already gave me something better anyway.”

“I did?” Chanyeol asked, dumb. Perhaps he really had lost his mind back in the studio.

Kyungsoo turned to face him fully, a small smile graced upon his lips. “You came home.”

Chanyeol, suddenly stripped of his metaphorical guitar and bravado, said nothing. Just nodded. He had something to do.

So the next day, he slid into the G-Wagon, bouquet in tow, and did what Kyungsoo asked.

The orphanage door was opened by a staff member—a woman with a bright smile and dark curls. She looked a bit surprised to see a rockstar standing at her doorstep like he was delivering pizza.

“Hello, I’m Sua–”

“These are for the kids,” Chanyeol said as he thrusted the bouquet into the woman’s arms. “No photos, please,” he gruffed, and promptly turned around, heading back towards the direction of his car.

“Wait!”

Chanyeol paused in his steps, then turned around to see the woman following after him. She fished her pockets for some trinket to give to him as a token of gratitude, slipping it into the palm of his hand. Appreciating the gesture, Chanyeol nodded once and gave his signature smile, before heading back home with his heart a little lighter.

Of course, Dispatch got their shot. Not of the moment that mattered—but the part that fit their narrative. A photo taken from a moving bus. Blurry, voyeuristic, cruelly incomplete.

The woman. The flowers. A guilty-looking man in designer boots. People tend to talk.

—

“So you weren’t romantically involved with the caretaker?”

“She thanked me,” Chanyeol replies, monotone. “Then gave me a keychain the kids made. It says ‘Love is loud.’ That’s the one I hung on my guitar case.”

“Why didn’t you clarify earlier?”

“I didn’t think kindness needed clarification.”

—

He came home that night exhausted. Hands cold. Shoulders stiff. The living room smelled like dried petals and wood polish, and he was halfway to collapsing on the couch when he heard the faint shuffle of socked feet behind him.

Kyungsoo appeared in the hallway, wrapped in the hoodie Chanyeol thought he lost on tour.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped into Chanyeol’s orbit like gravity had been waiting for him to get there.

Then he slipped his arms around his waist—gently at first, then tighter, and tighter. As if something sacred had just been returned to him.

“You really gave them away,” Kyungsoo murmured.

Chanyeol nodded against his shoulder. “Yeah. You asked me to.”

“Romantic,” Kyungsoo whispered, the word like a secret.

He pulled back just far enough to look at him, hand resting against Chanyeol’s chest.

“And generous.”

And God, Chanyeol would have handed over a hundred more stems if he could bottle this moment. If he could keep this look—the soft pride, the warmth in Kyungsoo’s eyes, like he was being seen and claimed all at once.

No camera caught this. No tabloid printed it.

Just a memory, sealed like a song lyric between two people who knew how to love in silence.

—

“And that’s the truth,” Chanyeol finishes, voice quieter now. “No affair. No secret tryst. Just me… giving something away. Because someone asked me to.”

The room is still.

For a moment, it feels like the floor might cave in from the weight of what isn’t being said. He takes a deep breath and lets it out all at once. “Anything else?”

Girlfriend #3: Waitress Miyeon

“Well..” the moderator stretches, already clicking through the scandal reel like it’s a PowerPoint on a school day.

“You’ve been seen frequenting a small Japanese diner in Hannam-dong. Same time almost every day. Often greeted by the same waitress. Witnesses say she blushes. There’s speculation this could be a quiet courtship…”

Chanyeol rubs his temples with both hands this time.

“Do I look like a man who courts people with gyudon?” he mutters.

—

It started innocently enough. A voice note.

“They don’t feed us here. I’m starving. You know the gyudon place?”

Chanyeol had just wrapped album promos and had all the time in the world, which was a dangerous thing when you’re a rockstar with impulse issues and a very specific craving that isn’t even yours.

He drove there the same day. Ordered two beef bowls. One with no ginger and the other with.

It became routine.

The restaurant was unremarkable—narrow, a little stuffy, family-run, always smelling like sizzling meat and steamed rice. But it had the one thing Kyungsoo wanted after sixteen hours on set: something hot, familiar, and unpretentious.

So every evening, just before sunset, Chanyeol would roll up in a cap and sunglasses, nod to the same waitress (Miyeon, maybe? He never asked, he only glanced at her nametag once), and placed the same exact order.

“Takeout?” she always confirmed. “Yeah,” he always said. “For someone.”

The press, naturally, saw the pattern. Park Chanyeol—currently unemployed rockstar and tabloid magnet—visiting the same diner daily. Same hour. Same woman greeting him. He didn’t even dine in. Always leaves with a bag.

To them, that’s not loyalty. That’s flirting.

They missed the truth entirely.

They didn’t see the way Chanyeol timed his arrival so he’d leave exactly when the Love Letter cast is having their break in the building next door. How he’d swing by set with the plastic bag slung over his wrist like a delivery boy who also happened to sell out domes.

They didn’t see the way Kyungsoo lit up when he saw it.

Not because of the food—but because of who brought it.

Sometimes Kyungsoo would greet him with nothing more than a tired nod and a soft hum. Other times, he’d groan dramatically and say, “You again?”

“Me always,” Chanyeol would grin.

They never lingered. Chanyeol would pass the bag, maybe squeeze his shoulder if no one was looking, and vanish. Like a ghost trained in the art of knowing exactly when to disappear, and knowing that they’ll always see each other back home.

—

“So,” the moderator presses, “Was there something going on with the waitress?”

“Not unless she secretly hates me,” Chanyeol replies. “I never even learned her name. I just walked in, ordered beef bowls, and left. Every day. For weeks.”

“That sounds a little excessive,” someone mutters from the back.

“Tell that to the guy who was eating them,” Chanyeol says under his breath, uncaring if the mic picks up on it.

—

What the press caught: the waitress smiling when she handed over the bag. What they missed: Chanyeol double-checking the receipt every time to make sure it said no ginger.

What they reported: sparks between celebrity and server. What really happened: Chanyeol sending a text two minutes after pickup—“It’s still hot. I told them not to skimp on the onions.”

And Kyungsoo replying fifteen minutes later: “You forgot the chopsticks again. But I forgive you.”

Girlfriend #4: Doh Jangmi

“Okay, next,” the moderator says, with that gleam in her eye like she’s holding a royal flush. “You were seen attending an EXO-CBX concert two weeks ago, seated beside a woman who appeared to be in her early twenties. Fans noticed your arm around her shoulders. There’s speculation you were—”

“I wasn’t,” Chanyeol cuts in, already exhaling through his nose like he’s about to drop a lawsuit.

“But you were close. Intimate, even. Smiling. Some suspect she was introduced to you by your good friend, Doh Kyungsoo himself—”

“He did introduce us,” Chanyeol admits, then adds under his breath, “Just not the way you think.”

—

Her name was Doh Jangmi. Kyungsoo’s favourite cousin. Twenty years old, still in university, and an unapologetic Xiumin fangirl.

Her parents wouldn’t let her attend the concert alone. “Too crowded,” they said. “Too chaotic.” So Kyungsoo promised to take her.

Then came the call.

“Chanyeollie, I’m sorry. I have to reshoot a scene. Director just told me. I wouldn’t ask, but—”

“Just send me the ticket,” Chanyeol said without even waiting for the end of the sentence.

He’d already met Jangmi once before—briefly, at a family barbecue where she spilled Coke on his shoes and called him “ahjussi” by mistake. Kyungsoo thought it was hilarious. Chanyeol has not forgiven either of them.

But family is family, and if Kyungsoo trusted him with Jangmi, that was enough.

So he picked her up at 5 p.m. sharp, took her out for dinner, and got her a lightstick the size of her forearm. She shrieked when he handed it over. He told her to keep the decibel levels under 125 decibels or he was leaving her on the street.

She just laughed and linked her arm with his.

“You’re nicer than you look,” she teased.

“You’re bolder than you should be,” he shot back, but not unkindly.

At the concert, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders when the crowd surged forward. Kept her steady when she screamed Xiumin’s name like a war cry. Took blurry photos of her mid-sob during Paper Cuts. Got her water. Waited with her in the lobby until the traffic thinned out.

Not once did he think of it as romantic.

But of course, Dispatch didn’t see the part where she called him “Ahjussi” like she was daring him to flinch. Didn’t hear her say, “Thank you for coming in his place.” Didn’t know the man she was talking about was Kyungsoo.

All they got was a wide shot. Him. Her. Shoulder contact. A shared bag of popcorn. The caption: “New Girl? Park Chanyeol Spotted With Mystery Companion at CBX Concert!”

—

“So she was just a friend?” the moderator presses.

“She’s Kyungsoo’s cousin,” Chanyeol says. “She calls me ahjussi and makes fun of my height. That’s not romance. That’s bullying.”

Laughter rings throughout the room. One reporter jots something down, clearly disappointed.

“And the arm around her shoulders?”

“It was either that or let her get trampled by teenagers. I made a judgment call.”

“So there’s no relationship?”

Chanyeol quirks a brow. “Only the kind where her mom texts me thank-you stickers on KakaoTalk after I get her home safe.”

A pause. A twitch at the corner of his mouth, almost a smile.

“Not very scandalous, is it?”

—

That night, after dropping Jangmi off and enduring her three-minute recap of every Xiumin outfit, Chanyeol came home to find Kyungsoo curled up on the couch with a heat pack on his shoulder and a blanket over his legs.

He barely looked up. Just murmured, “She texted me. Said you held her bag during Hey Mama so she could dance.”

“She cried,” Chanyeol muttered, toeing off his boots. “Like, fully.”

Kyungsoo chuckled. “You’re good with her. Thanks for going.”

Chanyeol flopped down beside him, letting his head fall on Kyungsoo’s thigh. “You owe me one. I held her lightstick.”

“Wow, chivalry isn’t dead yet after all,” Kyungsoo joked.

Chanyeol didn’t reply. Just buried his face in Kyungsoo’s hoodie and hummed, soft and stupid with affection.

Maybe the press didn’t need to see this part. Maybe it was better that they didn’t know what real intimacy looked like.

Girlfriend #5: Seung Mirae

“Let’s move to the final name on the list,” the moderator says, practically licking her lips like this is the one that’ll break him.

“Actress Seung Mirae. Stunning. Award-winning. Seen sitting in the front row at your Seoul concert last month. You performed ‘Some Kind of Heaven’—a song widely speculated to be about a distant crush—and before you started, you gave a little… speech.”

The screen flashes: a still of Mirae in the crowd, hands clasped, eyes glassy. The caption reads: “‘For someone special tonight’ — LOEY’s onstage confession?”

“So tell us,” the moderator leans in. “Was the song for her?”

Chanyeol blinks. Once. Twice.

He sighs and adjusts his mic. “This is the last one, right?”

“It depends,” she smiles. “Will you be honest?”

“I’ve been honest,” he says, tired now. “Let’s just get this over with.”

—

The song wasn’t for her. It never was.

She was just the one who begged to hear it.

“Come on, Kyungsoo-ssi,” Mirae had groaned after wrapping up their final scene. “I need to hear it live. You know how it’s been stuck in my head for three weeks straight?”

“I didn’t write it,” Kyungsoo had replied, deadpan, sipping his coffee.

“Yeah, but you’re friends with the guy who did,” she shot back. “So I’m calling in a favor. Take me to the concert!”

It was supposed to be a celebration—a two week break from filming. Two weeks of sleeping on time and eating good food. Mirae wanted a night off, and Kyungsoo? Well. He had no reason to say no. (It was his husband they were seeing, after all.)

Chanyeol didn’t know they were coming.

Which is why, when he stepped onto the stage and scanned the crowd—faces melting into lights, lights melting into noise—he nearly stumbled mid-strum when his gaze landed on them.

Mirae, glam as ever. Kyungsoo, in a hoodie, arms crossed, half-hidden by the lightstick glow.

The audience saw a pretty actress. All Chanyeol saw was his husband.

He didn’t let it throw him. Not entirely.

But when the intro chords of ‘Some Kind of Heaven’ started to roll out, he stepped toward the mic and said, voice low and a little too sincere:

“There’s someone special here tonight. Someone who reminds me why I write songs like this. This one’s for you.”

He looked in their direction. Not at Mirae. Just… that general area.

And because Mirae was seated beside Kyungsoo, and because she clutched her chest like she’d been hit by Cupid himself, the crowd assumed. Dispatch assumed.

Cameras clicked. Fans screamed. Mirae smiled like she didn’t know she’d just accidentally become the face of the wrong love story.

Kyungsoo didn’t move the entire song. But his foot tapped in rhythm. And when Chanyeol reached the bridge—the part where the chords stretched and cracked like longing itself—Kyungsoo’s eyes lifted.

Just for a moment.

Chanyeol didn’t need more than that.

—

“Well, what was it then?” The moderator questioned. “Was it a confession?”

Chanyeol leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. He’s not angry. Just tired. Like a man who’s been telling the truth so quietly, the world decided it wasn’t true at all.

“It was a song,” he says.

“Dedicated to a woman?”

“Dedicated to someone who knows what it means,” he replies.

And for the first time, he smiles—just a flicker, just enough.

“But if all it takes is eye contact for you to spin a love story, then damn. I must be in love with half the stadium.”

—

The crowd had screamed for minutes after Some Kind of Heaven ended.

Chanyeol bowed, waved, smiled like a star should. And then he slipped offstage the second he could—back into the underlit hallway, through the maze of soundproofed corridors and sweaty crew members high-fiving each other.

He didn’t stop walking until the green room swallowed him whole.

It was quiet. Just a dressing table, a couch that sank in the middle, and his jacket from earlier draped over the back of a chair. His chest still burned from the final note. His hands still trembled a little.

But the only thing on his mind?

Did he stay until the end?

The door swung open a moment later and in came Seung Mirae, all lip gloss and glow, giddy like a fan meeting her bias for the first time.

“Chanyeol-ssi!” she gasped, practically skipping toward him. “You didn’t tell me you were going to kill me with that setlist!”

He blinked, standing upright a little too quickly. “Seung Mirae-ssi. You came backstage?”

“I begged the staff. Used all my actress privileges. Worth it.” She grinned, clutching her chest like she was still catching her breath. “Some Kind of Heaven live? That was unreal. You looked right at us. At me, I think?”

He smiled politely. “Glad you liked it.”

“Liked it?” she scoffed. “I’m going to be insufferable about it for weeks. The way you said—‘this one’s for someone special’—oh my God, who was that for? Was it a fan? A muse? A… girlfriend?”

He laughed lightly. That empty, practiced kind of laugh that people mistake for charm.

“Trade secret,” he said. “Where’s Kyungsoo?”

Mirae blinked, surprised. “Oh—he left right after the encore. Didn’t want to deal with the crowd, I think. I offered to wait for him but he told me to come say hi on my own.”

Of course he did, Chanyeol thought. Always slipping out before the flashbulbs start.

“Did he say anything?” Chanyeol asked, trying to sound casual.

She tilted her head. “Just that you’re dramatic.” Then she giggled. “But really, Chanyeol-ssi. Tonight? You were magic.”

He thanked her, bowed a little, let her soak in the afterglow while his mind spun somewhere else entirely.

She left a minute later, waving and promising to send a selfie from the crowd once she found better signal. The door shut behind her.

Chanyeol exhaled.

Pulled out his phone. Three notifications.

From Kyungsoo-ya.

You’re such a show-off.
But you’re my show-off.
I’ll wait for you at home.

He smiled. The real kind this time.

Slipped the phone back into his pocket, and finally sat down.

—

“So that’s all five,” the moderator says, a bit deflated. “But the media frenzy’s still unresolved. The fans want answers. Who’s the real one?”

Chanyeol leans back in his seat. Rolls his ring finger like it’s starting to itch.

The final question comes from someone in the back. Sharp voice. Sharper tone.

“With everything that’s come out—all these women, all these rumors—doesn’t it bother you, Mr. Park? That no one’s talking about LOEY’s music? That you’ve been reduced to a headline?”

Chanyeol doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smile either.

Instead, he sits back, folds his hands, and looks straight ahead.

And in a voice that’s calm, almost tired, he says:

“No. It doesn’t bother me.”
“Because I know who I am. And the people who matter do too.”
“Those stories—they’re just noise. A distraction from the truth.”

A flick of his thumb, and suddenly his left hand is visible. A gold ring catching light.

No announcement. No speech.

Just the truth, sitting quietly on his finger.

“And the truth is… I don’t have five girlfriends. I have just one husband.”

“And if people really cared to look past the rumors, they’d see—” His voice breaks a bit, before strengthening to say his final statement. “They’d see I’ve only ever been in love once.”

He doesn’t say his name. He doesn’t have to.

Because sometimes the loudest kind of love is the one that doesn’t beg to be understood.

It just is.

+1. Bonus

Later that night, long after the last headline is written and the last camera flash burns out, someone is filming B-roll for the Love Letter behind-the-scenes documentary.

The footage is unsteady—someone forgot to stabilize the frame.

A boom mic dips in, vanishes. Off-camera laughter.

Kyungsoo sits on a folding chair near the edge of the set, still half in costume: white shirt, top button undone, stage makeup fading into skin. Around him, the crew is winding down. Lights are being dismantled. Someone calls for a coffee run. The night is settling into silence.

A voice off-screen asks casually:

“Kyungsoo-ssi, what are you watching?”

The camera operator zooms in just enough to catch it: his phone, tilted slightly in his hand.

It’s a replay. The press conference from earlier that day. Chanyeol, in sunglasses and defiance, sitting in front of a sea of microphones like he doesn’t owe them a single thing. Him bowing and then sauntering off, exiting the room, in typical Chanyeol fashion.

Kyungsoo doesn’t answer right away.

He just laughs—soft and low, a little caught off guard. Covers his mouth with his hand like he’s trying not to let the smile win, but it’s already crinkling at the corners of his eyes.

Then, he shifts slightly.

Just enough for the camera to catch the faint glint of gold on his left ring finger.

He doesn’t adjust it. Doesn’t hide it. But he doesn’t show it off either. It's just... there.

“Must be a good part,” the cameraman jokes.

Kyungsoo finally looks up. Still smiling, eyes gentle, calm.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “The best one.”

The clip ends there. It doesn’t air until months later. And when it does, the internet combusts. Again.