Chapter Text
Joo’s fatal flaw is her memory. Specifically, she remembers exactly what it felt like to be a fan.
She wasn't just a casual listener; she was a pre-debut, variety-show-compilation-bingeing, fanchant-screaming stan. But now that she’s on the payroll at Pledis, professionalism demands she pretend SEVENTEEN’s star power has zero effect on her.
It’s a flawless act. Or it would be, if Boo Seungkwan hadn't spent the last six months bickering with her every single day.
"That's not the final cue sheet."
"It was when you approved it."
"I approved Version 7."
"And you sent me Version 8."
"Because Version 7 was wrong."
"Newsflash: Version 8 was also wrong."
Joo took a sharp, steadying breath. "Then why didn't you say anything?"
"Because I assumed you knew."
In the corner of the staff room, a rookie manager quietly retreated out the door. The Pledis staff had stopped intervening months ago. At this point, Joo and Seungkwan would fight over schedules, stage timings, rehearsal blocks, and once, memorably, the font size of a single PPT slide.
Nobody understood why they were locked in this endless war. Least of all Joo, who was still trying to reconcile the fact that her teenage idol was currently her biggest daily headache.
Because underneath all the petty workplace warfare was something infinitely more frustrating.
The mixed signals.
One day, Seungkwan treated her like a personal grievance sent by the universe to ruin his schedule. The next day, he’d slide a coffee across her desk without a word. One day, he’d ghost her work threads for six hours. The next, he'd send a random photo of a dog on the street because it made me think of you.
As a fan, Joo used to think she understood exactly how his mind worked. As his coworker, she had spent months trying to figure him out, only to find absolutely nothing but dead ends.
Which is why, going into CARATLAND, Joo makes a firm executive decision: she is not thinking about him.
She has work. Real, actual responsibilities. A minute-by-minute schedule to execute. Important things. She is a professional, not a fan.
She holds onto that mantra right up until the solo switch stages begin.
And then Trigger starts.
The monitor backstage flickers, showing Seungkwan stepping into position under the blinding lights.
The stadium erupts. Joo immediately regrets existing.
Because what the actual hell is this? Who signed off on the wardrobe? Who allowed him to move like that? Why does he look like that?
The beat drops, the first chorus hits, and fifteen thousand people lose their collective minds. Joo’s professional composure shatters instantly. She nearly drops her tablet.
"You're staring."
Her coworker didn't even lift her gaze from her feed.
"I'm not staring."
"You are."
"I am literally monitoring the broadcast feed."
"Joo, you haven't blinked in thirty seconds."
Joo hated everyone. But mostly, she hated Boo Seungkwan.
For years, she had loved him as a fan. Then she’d spent months doing the hard work of treating him like a regular human being. He was just an artist on the roster. A colleague. A nuisance.
But her brain was currently short-circuiting. The lethal, magnetic presence under the stadium lights looked absolutely nothing like the guy who had aggressively argued with her yesterday over a five-minute shift in the rehearsal schedule.
This version is confident. Sharp. Magnetic.
He’s the legendary main vocal who can command an entire stadium without even trying. Every step lands flawlessly. Every tilt of his head is deliberate. When the camera captures his gaze, the arena practically collapses on itself from the noise.
Joo feels a sudden twist in her stomach.
It’s not the performance that’s making her sick. It’s the realization that she is proud of him.
She hates herself for it. Pride implies affection. Affection implies caring. And caring about Boo Seungkwan is a dangerous line she swore she’d never cross.
The final dance break kicks in. The stadium loses its collective mind at the exact same moment Joo completely loses hers. And then, Seungkwan smirks at the camera.
A direct hit. Game over.
"Holy shit." The words slip out before she can stop them.
Beside her, her coworker finally looks up from her screen. "Oh, you're done for."
"I'm not."
"You absolutely are."
"I am literally talking about the technical execution of the performance."
"Sure you are."
Joo stares blankly at the screen and wonders how much notice she needs to give Pledis before she can legally resign.The music cuts.
For one agonizing split second, nobody moves. Seungkwan remains entirely frozen in his final pose, chest heaving, chest lights catching the sweat on his throat.
Then, the arena explodes.
But he doesn’t smile. He doesn’t wave, doesn't bow, doesn't break character for a second. The camera zooms in for one final, tightly framed shot.
He holds its gaze.
One second. Two. Three.
Then he turns on his heel and walks straight offstage, leaving the crowd behind him. The screams somehow get even louder.
"Oh, we're finished," Joo muttered under her breath.
Beside her, her coworker blinked. "Who is?"
"Everyone."
The second the stage doors swing open, backstage dissolves into absolute pandemonium. Members are cheering, staff are rushing past, and a stage manager is yelling about the next cue. Everyone is moving everywhere at once.
Joo realizes this is the perfect tactical opportunity to slip away and avoid Seungkwan for the rest of the night.
It’s a solid plan. Right up until she rounds the corner and plows directly into him.
The impact rattles her teeth, and her tablet slips, nearly flying out of her grip.
"Watch where you're—"
She stops.
Because it's Seungkwan.
Still sweaty from the performance. Still catching his breath. Still unfairly, offensively attractive.
Fantastic.
"What?" His eyebrows lift.
Joo realizes she's staring. Again.
Historically speaking, nothing good has ever happened after staring at Boo Seungkwan.
"Nothing."
"You're being weird," he noted, crossing his arms.
"And you're being annoying."
"There she is," Seungkwan said, and that familiar grin broke across his face.
It was the exact look that always, without fail, made her want to claw her eyes out. Or fight him. Or kiss him.
The third option hit her like a bucket of ice water. It was a completely horrifying, catastrophic realization.
Survival instinct kicked in. She chose fighting.
"Don't you have somewhere to be?" she asked, her voice tight as she tried to force her heart rate back down to normal.
"Probably," he said, making absolutely no move to leave.
"Then go."
"You watched my stage."
The statement was flat, confident, and entirely accurate. Joo immediately snapped her gaze away. "I did not."
"You did."
"No."
"You did."
"You have no proof, Boo."
Seungkwan let out a low laugh. Somehow, that sound was infinitely worse than any witty comeback. The smugness vanished from his expression, replaced by a look that was entirely too perceptive. He was studying her now, trying to decode the sudden stiffness in her posture.
Around them, the rush of staff members seemed to blur. The air between them shifted completely.
"You liked it," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave.
Joo folds her arms, raising them like a shield.
"Your ego is unbelievable."
"You liked it."
She hates that he's right. She hates that she spent the entire performance staring without blinking. She hates that she vividly remembers being seventeen years old, curled up in bed, watching his fancams at three in the morning.
But most of all, she hates how happy he looks right now—standing there in the middle of a chaotic hallway, completely breathless, just waiting for her answer.
So she lets her defensive shoulders drop. She sighs.
And quietly, she says, "You were amazing."
For the first time all day, the snappy comebacks die on Seungkwan's lips. He says absolutely nothing.
The playful mockery melts away, his expression softening into something so earnest it makes Joo's breath catch. She suddenly feels completely stripped of her defenses, terrified that she’s just admitted to something much bigger than she intended—a secret neither of them is equipped to handle yet.
The silence stretches, wrapping around them like a vacuum.
Then, Seungkwan smiles. It’s not the dazzling grin he gives the cameras, nor the animated expression he wears for variety programs. It’s just his—small, genuine, and completely private.
Looking at him now, Joo realizes this quiet version of Boo Seungkwan is infinitely more dangerous than anything he could ever do onstage.
"Thanks, Joo," he murmurs.
Her heart does something incredibly stupid and deeply embarrassing—a total systemic failure she vows to deny until her dying day.
To save face, she immediately falls back on her standard defense mechanism and rolls her eyes. "Don't make this a thing, Boo."
"Are you kidding? I'm definitely making this a thing," he counters, the soft vulnerability from a second ago vanishing behind a brilliant, cocky grin.
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
The worst part about it is that Joo has no comeback. Because he’s looking down at her, smiling like he already knows the exact truth.