Real Dates

They were still Jackson Wang and Kole Adisa, but for one night, they were nobody. Not a K-pop idol. Not a viral street interviewer. Just two men in baseball caps and oversized hoodies, hidden behind dusk and Seoul's blinking lights.

They took a back alley to the old night market. Jackson's hood was pulled low, Kole wore a black mask, and their fingers brushed occasionally when the crowd got too tight. Neither said anything, but the tension between them was softer now-warm, not burning.

Kole pointed to a grilled skewer cart. "You trust me?"

"Trust you with what?"

He grinned. "Spicy food. Come on."

They stopped at the vendor, Kole ordering confidently in Korean. Jackson leaned back, watching him, mesmerized by how comfortable Kole had become in his world. Or maybe, Jackson thought, he had started to belong in Kole's.

The ahjumma handed over two sticks of fire-red chicken, glistening with gochujang. Jackson took a cautious bite-and immediately coughed.

Kole laughed so hard he choked on his own.

"You're evil," Jackson said hoarsely, guzzling from a water bottle.

Kole bumped his shoulder. "You survived arena stages. You can't handle a little heat?"

Jackson narrowed his eyes. "I can handle anything."

"Prove it. Karaoke next."

They ducked into a noraebang down the street-cheap, neon-lit, and half-hidden behind a chicken joint. The room was tiny. The mic was sticky. It was perfect.

Kole picked a cheesy 90s ballad. Jackson rolled his eyes but sang harmony. When Kole got up and performed a dramatic solo to a girl group breakup song, Jackson filmed it with a crooked smile.

The laughter was real. The joy, unmanufactured.

They sat, out of breath, clutching their stomachs.

"This is dangerous," Jackson said finally.

Kole tilted his head. "What? Singing with me?"

"No. Being this happy."

The air shifted.

Kole looked down at his drink. "You think it won't last?"

Jackson exhaled. "I think I don't know how to hold onto it."

A pause. Then Kole leaned forward, his voice low. "So let's just hold it tonight. Not think about tomorrow."

Outside, the city moved on without them. The streets glowed with signboards and scooter lights. They wandered again-Jackson letting Kole tug him toward a claw machine, a dumpling cart, a fountain where teenagers dared each other to dance.

Kole stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Wait."

Jackson turned. "What?"

Kole reached into his pocket. Pulled out a cheap disposable camera.

"Smile."

The flash caught Jackson mid-protest. He blinked, dazed.

Kole laughed. "That one's mine. Not the fans'. Not the press. Mine."

Jackson stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Then you better take care of it."

Their hands brushed again. And this time, Jackson didn't pull away.

Later, tucked into the booth of a 24-hour diner, they shared one plate of hotteok and leaned close across the sticky table.

"You scared?" Kole asked.

Jackson nodded. "Always."

Kole reached under the table. Took his hand.

"Me too," he said.

But neither let go.

They walked home at 2 a.m. Feet aching, hearts full. No paparazzi. No chaos. Just quiet breathing, side by side.

When they got to the suite, Kole hesitated at the door.

"I should-"

"Stay," Jackson said.

A long pause.

And Kole stayed.