My National Boyfriend

They walked through the stalls. Rabin wore a basic hoodie, cap, and black mask—still somehow drawing glances even under disguise.

They picked up:

• A basic t-shirt, loose pants, and a small travel bag for Rabin.

• Toothbrush, shaving kit, some snacks he sneakily tossed in the basket.

• And—of all things—local flip-flops Rabin insisted on buying, calling them "the real celebrity treatment."

Y/n: "You're seriously gonna wear that?"

Rabin (deadpan): "I wore a crown made of plastic lemons for a shoot. This is better."

As they walked out of one store, a small kid pointed at Rabin and whispered something to his mother.

Y/n quickly grabbed Rabin's arm and pulled him into the next shop.

Y/n: "You're too tall. That cap isn't hiding anything."

Rabin: "Don't blame the genetics."

They walked home carrying two bags each. Rabin was still munching on a local peanut candy he bought from a roadside stall.

Rabin: "You know… I kinda like this. Feels like a movie."

Y/n: "If it's a movie, I'm the girl who warns the hero not to be stupid. And the hero never listens."

Rabin: "That's true. But sometimes the hero ends up falling for the girl anyway."

She stopped…He kept walking ahead like he didn't say anything heavy.

She blinked.

Shook her head.

And followed him.

They stepped into the living room, the afternoon sunlight casting soft rays across the wooden floor.

Y/n plopped the bags onto the sofa and turned toward him, arms crossed.

Y/n: "If you forgot to take your stuff when you leave, I'm not bringing it again. I'm not your delivery girl."

Rabin (shrugging calmly): "Huh? I'm not leaving anywhere though."

Y/n blinked. Then again. And again.

Y/n: "............…. WHAT?!"

He was already removing his hoodie, casually looking around the living room like he was planning where to place a shoe rack.

Y/n: "Excuse me—this is not a hotel, nor your agency dorm."

Rabin: "Exactly. That's why it feels comfortable."

Y/n: "No, no. You have a hotel. A very expensive one with clean beds and a functioning toilet. Go. Back."

Rabin: "I brought my new flip-flops here. Too late."

Y/n: "You didn't even ask."

Rabin: "You wouldn't have said yes."

Y/n: "THAT'S THE POINT, RABIN!"

He finally looked at her. Calm. Mischievous. A little too smug.

Rabin: "You really want me to go?"

Y/n opened her mouth. Then paused. Closed it.

Y/n: "…I want you to eat soap, but I know you won't."

Rabin: "So, I'll take that as permission."

He headed to the corner of the couch, kicked off his sandals, and leaned back like a sloth finding its favorite branch.

Rabin: "You're a great host, by the way."

Y/n: "You're lucky you're famous, or I'd sell your kidney on the black market."

He smiled lazily, grabbing the remote.

Rabin: "Too late. Agency already owns that."

Author POV

The morning passed quietly — not awkward, just… occupied.

Y/n sat on the couch of the living room table, surrounded by sticky notes, files, and her laptop open like a warzone map. Her brows were furrowed, eyes sharp, fingers typing rapidly. Every few seconds, she glanced at her phone, checking emails and coordinating with his manager, stylists, and production teams.

Y/n: (muttering)

"Okay, today is monday .. so lets push the shoot from Thursday to Saturday… reschedule the interview… no, cancel the podcast… Rabin can't fly to Seoul next week—"

She sighs, rubs her temples, then keeps going.

Across from her, Rabin lay flat on the floor with a printed script raised above his face, mumbling lines quietly to himself. Occasionally, he spoke out loud, trying different tones. A pen rested between his teeth. He was in his own world.

Rabin:

"'If I walk away now, I'll never forgive myself…'"

"…No, no— more broken. Less polished."

He sat up suddenly and glanced at her.

Rabin: "Hey, how do I say 'I love you' like I'm lying but still want them to believe me?"

Y/n didn't look up.

Y/n:

"Like how you say 'I'll be back in five minutes' to your stylist."

Rabin: "Oof— that specific? Got it."

They both chuckled softly, then returned to their tasks.

The fan spun above them. Birds chirped outside. 

It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't noisy.

But it was peaceful.

And for both of them — maybe a little too peaceful.

Rabin strolled casually from his spot on the floor and slumped onto the couch beside Y/n. Without saying anything, he leaned his back and rested, placing the folded script on his face to block out the light — or maybe the world.

Y/n continued typing for a moment, but her water bottle was just out of reach. She stretched her arm across the gap toward the side table, fingers brushing the bottle's surface.

Just as she managed to nudge it closer—

FLOP

Rabin's script slipped off his face, landing on his chest with a soft rustle.

And what he saw in that exact moment—

Y/n, leaning right above him, her face only inches away.

Their eyes locked. Her hair slightly falling forward, breath soft.

And then—

THUD!

She lost her balance and fell onto him.

Rabin: "Ugh—!"

Y/n: "AH—!"

Her hands landed on his chest to support herself, but the position made it worse—her body pressed against him, his hands instinctively catching her by the waist.

For a second, everything froze.

Their breathing. Their words.

Even the ceiling fan seemed to slow.

Y/n's eyes widened. Rabin blinked, as if trying to process what just happened.

And then—he smirked.

Rabin (low voice): "If you wanted to hug me, you could've just asked."

Y/n (blushing furiously): "I—WATER! I WAS REACHING FOR WATER!"

Y/n's face was already burning, but as she tried to get up, she miscalculated her balance—her hand slipped on the edge of the couch.

"Ah—!" she gasped, tumbling down onto the floor with a soft thud.

In a desperate attempt to hold onto something, her hand clutched the front of Rabin's shirt.

Bad idea.

She accidentally yanked him down with her.

Rabin: "Wait—Y/n!"

Thump!

Now he was on top of her.

The world stilled again.

His arms propped on either side of her, faces barely inches apart, hearts pounding.

Her breath hitched.

Their eyes locked, but her gaze wasn't in the present anymore.

A sharp image flashed in her mind—

That alley.

The darkness.

The same closeness.

That feeling of being helpless.

Her forehead broke into sweat, lips trembling, breathing fast—

No. Not again.

Without a second thought, she pushed at his chest with both hands.

Y/n (trembling): "Get off!"

Rabin immediately backed away, his expression changing from surprised to worried.

He stood up quickly, offering his hand, but she didn't take it. She sat there, hugging her knees tightly, her head tilted away.

Rabin (softly): "Y/n… I didn't mean to— I'm sorry."

No reply. Just silence.

Just her shaky breathing.

He knelt down beside her, voice lower this time.

Y/n sat there on the floor, hugging her knees tightly, as the silence in the room grew heavier.

Her tears began to fall—slow, quiet, uninvited.

She didn't even realize it at first.

Rabin noticed immediately.

His heart dropped.

He gently moved closer, voice soft, almost afraid to break her.

Rabin:

"Hey… what happened? Talk to me… please."

But she didn't answer.

Not right away.

She kept her eyes down, her breaths shallow, her lips trembling slightly as she blinked through the blurring tears.

The seconds stretched.

Rabin didn't push. He waited, sitting there with her on the floor, the tension in his chest unbearable.

His fists clenched, helpless. He had never seen her cry like that.

She walks towards her room ..and shut her door 

The soft thud of the door closing echoed louder in Rabin's chest than it did in the room.

He stood there, still frozen on the floor—eyes fixed on the hallway where she disappeared, hands clenched, throat dry.

So, for the first time, Rabin Angeles—the nation's boyfriend, the beloved star—felt completely useless.

He leaned back, resting his head on the couch, eyes blinking back a sting.

The script from earlier was still on the floor, untouched.

As the day faded into night and the moon rose high, the quiet house filled with shadows.

Beads of sweat began to form again on his back. His body stirred uneasily—the nightmare returned.

"Sorry… sorry…" he whispered faintly in his sleep, voice broken and lost in a dream.

Y/n finally stepped out of her room, her heart still heavy from what happened earlier.

She spotted him sleeping on the couch—restless, trembling, drenched in sweat.

She froze.

It was the same sight from two days ago.

She took a slow step closer, her breath caught in her throat.

A whisper of guilt brushed her chest.

Her trauma had clouded everything… but seeing him like this—trapped in his own fear, whispering apologies to no one—

It made her wonder if perhaps… they were both carrying pieces of the same shattered past.

She gently shook his shoulder.

"Hey… hey! Are you alright?" her voice was soft, concerned, but urgent.

Rabin jolted upright, his breathing ragged, eyes wide in the dim light.

His gaze met hers—and the first thing that escaped his lips was—

"I'm sorry."

Y/n blinked. "What happened? Another nightmare?"

Rabin nodded slowly, running a hand through his damp hair, his voice low and trembling.

"I don't know why… I've been having this same dream for the past four years. No matter what I do, it won't let go of me."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the floor.

"It keeps coming back… the same blurred face, the same fear. And now… the face is getting clearer."

Y/n sat beside him quietly, not saying a word, just listening.

Rabin whispered, "It's like a punishment… something I don't even fully remember, but it haunts me."

He looked at her—not as a celebrity, not as a problem, but as someone desperate for understanding.

Y/n spoke softly, her tone gentle yet curious.

"What kind of dream…? Can you share it with me?"

Rabin stayed silent. His lips parted, as if trying to speak—but the words got caught somewhere between fear and shame.

Seeing that, Y/n added quietly,

"If it's personal… then it's okay. You don't have to."

Her voice was calm, like a soft blanket placed over a shivering body.

He finally exhaled—slow, hesitant.

"I… I see someone crying. Trembling. Surrounded by people. I try to move, to go to her, but my body's too heavy. I can't scream, can't run, can't do anything… and it drives me crazy."

Y/n's breath hitched, her heart skipping slightly.

He looked at her, eyes tired but searching.

"And lately… the girl in the dream is starting to look more and more like you."

A moment of silence stretched between them—heavy and unspoken.

His words rang in my head like a broken record:

"The girl in the dream is starting to look more and more like you."

My thoughts spun wildly.

"What ?? he doesn't know… is that it is me in that dream."

That alley. That night.

The helpless trembling.

The blurred laughter of those men.

The same heaviness he described—it was mine too.

Only I had lived it. He had dreamed it.

I tried to steady my breathing.

"Me?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded. Just once. Quietly.