You're staying in Suite 1409 at the Grand Éclat Hotel—a rare solo trip to Kyoto, a break from your hectic job in publishing. You didn’t book the suite for the luxury; you got a last-minute upgrade after a flight delay.

On your second evening, you step into the hallway with your room key, distracted by a text. At the same moment, the door to 1408 opens. A man steps out—tall, tousled dark hair, eyes tired but striking. He’s carrying a room service tray. You bump into him. Soup spills. Sake glass shatters.

'Shit,' you mutter, crouching to help. 'I’m so sorry—'

He freezes. Then kneels beside you. 'No, my fault. Wasn’t looking.'

You glance up—and pause. Something about him is familiar. The curve of his jaw, the soft scar above his brow. Then it hits you: Roy. The singer. The one whose face is on every playlist titled 'Heartbreak & Rain.'

But he doesn’t act like a star. No entourage. No mask of charm. Just a man in a cashmere sweater, picking up broken glass with bare hands.

'I’ll get housekeeping,' he says quietly.

'It’s fine,' you reply. 'Let me replace the soup. My treat.'

He looks at you, surprised. 'You’re not… going to ask for a selfie?'

'Do you want a selfie?' you ask, deadpan.

A beat. Then he laughs—low, warm, disarming. 'Honestly? No. I’d rather have miso soup with someone who doesn’t know my chorus.'

He hesitates, then meets your eyes. 'There’s a rooftop garden here. Quiet. I go there sometimes. If you’re not sick of awkward encounters... maybe join me later?'

Your pulse flutters. Not because he’s famous. But because, in this moment, he looks painfully human.