Fresh out of university with my journalism major, I was so excited to get to work for a newspaper.  But unfortunately, none of my dream jobs were available, so I thought, hey, Sparks is fine.  In fact, Sparks is great.  Not a lot of people get called back after applying, but I did, and after all, I’d still be writing, yeah?  Not about relevant news, about other people’s more interesting lives, but it’s a start, isn’t it?  So I jumped at the opportunity.  But the only entry-level position they had for me was for the personal assistant to the editor-in-chief.

You’d think that PA to the editor’s like a fast pass to the editorial board, but it’s not.  I may see him every day, I may bring him his tea, I may run off to the corner store to get him a hot bowl of ramyun whenever he craves it – but I’m no closer to being a writer than the janitorial staff is.  In fact, I’m probably more likely to get promoted to personal chef before I even get anywhere near the magazine.  It’s one of those ‘so near yet so far’ things, and it’s pretty tragic.  I have tried, of course, to get him to read my work.  In fact, it’s in a folder on his desk.  Week after week I tell him, “Sajangnim, there’s something I wrote that I’d like you to look over.”  And week after week he’d tell me, “Thanks, Hana.  I’ll read it once my schedule clears up.  You know where to put it.”

And I’d file it away, and with each passing week that folder just gets thicker.  I doubt he’s ever even opened it.  A month or so ago, I stopped trying. 

I found another outlet.

“Damn right it’s a shame,” he says, frustration oozing from every syllable.  He stands up and shrugs his jacket on, to get ready to leave.  I hadn’t realized it was already six in the evening.  “If I found out who this KYS person is, I’d strangle her on the spot.”

Well, it’s a good thing I’ve mastered the poker face, then.

“Take care, Hana.  Don’t go home too late,” he tells me in that gruff, almost fatherly way of his.  I nod and assure him I’ll be leaving in a bit. 

The moment the office door clicks closed behind him, I run a hand through my thick black hair and get my things together.  Each day I’ve been both dreading and anticipating being found out, but it hasn’t happened yet, thank God.  As successful as the website’s been, I haven’t even come close to reaching my goals just yet.  I poke around my bag for my phone, and I finally grasp it and flip it open.  Quickly, almost instinctively, I punch in a number.  From the other line I hear a voice go, “Yoboseyo?”

“Yunho, it’s Hana.  Do you want to go out for drinks?”

Yunho's my best friend – has been since we met back in school – and my partner-in-crime.  I’d trust him with my life, if it ever comes to that. 

A sigh, but he’s used to my invitations.  He knows "drinks" is my codeword for "stalking".  “Yeah.  I’ll pick you up downstairs.”

I call this my M.O., but mostly because I like making things more dramatic.  Really, all that happens is that Yunho and I go out to those high-class bars and clubs that idols like to frequent and hope we get lucky.  Well, I hope I get lucky.  Many times I feel like he just hangs around to make sure I don’t get into too much trouble, which is more difficult than it sounds given what I do for a living nowadays.

Tonight’s destination is the Tower, a spire of a nightclub about seven floors up.  Someone had tipped me off via the website’s messaging app that JYJ's album wrap party was going to take place there, and that I might get something good.  Sure, a lot of the tips that they send me don’t actually pan out, but there’s really no harm in trying.  Besides, I’ve got a really good feeling about this one, and let’s just say I have very good instincts.  I pull the tie off of my hair and let it fall just past my shoulders just before we head into the elevator – just so I don’t look like an office lady.  After a beat, I undo the top two buttons on my shirt.  Yunho rolls his eyes. 

The Tower’s an assault on the senses the moment we reach the top floor: all flashing strobe lights and dance tunes on full volume.  The music sounds unfamiliar, but after my ears adjust to it I think I can make out familiar vocals.  Yep, that one was definitely Kim Jaejoong.  It’s them.  JYJ is here!  I let out a short squeak despite myself, but Yunho doesn’t miss a beat.  He suppresses a laugh as he calls me out on it.  “Fangirl.”

I stick my tongue out at him resentfully, but I don’t suppose there’s anything I could say to disprove that.  After all, I am a huge fan of the band, have been since they debuted years ago while Yunho and I were still in school together.  (Admittedly, they’re partly why I thought that working for an idol magazine would have its perks… although of course I’d never had the chance to meet them.)  I’d fallen in love with their first single and hadn’t stopped since.  Although of course nobody in this room needs to know that but me.

I nod to Yunho, who nods back and heads over to the bar to get a better view of the whole place.  I pull out my phone, yawn, and start to take photographs while feigning disinterest.  For good measure I put both thumbs on the keypad to pretend I’m texting, but either way, I’m getting pretty good shots.  I could make out familiar faces in the crowd, some of them the band’s friends, some the crew, and oh, there’s Yoochun, one of the members, looking pretty interested in the girl he was talking to.  Better take a snap of that for the webpage.

“Let me guess,” someone says from behind me, so abruptly that I’m about to jump out of my skin, “You’re a disgruntled ex.  Or just a terrible Yoochun fangirl.”

I’d know that voice anywhere.  It only scares me that I’d have to turn around and form coherent sentences to the only person in this room, probably the only person in South Korea, who could turn me into a puddle of emotions with a song.  So I take my time turning to come face-to-face with Kim Jaejoong, vocalist, actor, and handsome bastard.

.

He’s even taller in real life than I’d imagined him, but then again, on paper 183 cm just seems like a number.  Up close, though, he’s probably a whole head taller than I am, and that’s honestly not the most intimidating thing.  His lips are drawn into a short, displeased frown, and the look in his brown eyes… they’re cold at best, but although I’m used to getting glared at, something about being on the receiving end of his anger absolutely terrifies me.

It takes me a moment to compose myself, but I manage to stutter out a “haha” and “The latter… I guess?  I'm pretty hung up on him,” rather lamely.  Well, damn.  I’d imagined meeting Kim Jaejoong countless times in the past, but never like this.  My dream theatre’s come up with all sorts of scenarios, usually involving me being at least six inches taller than I actually am, but the point of the matter is I never really thought it would end up like this.  Not while he was catching me in the act!  It doesn’t help at all that his perfect eyebrow goes up at my half-assed attempt.  I beat down the urge to take a photo and instead force myself to slip my phone back into my pocket.

Unfortunately, he’s not about to let me off that easy.  “Oh no, you don’t,” he says while clicking his tongue, deftly reaching into my pocket and fishing my phone out.  Whoa, I didn’t even flinch.  The guy would make a brilliant pickpocket, if ever JYJ decided to kick him out.  He flips open the phone and pokes around the gallery.  Hard as I try to reach for my phone, his arms keep it well out of my way.  “Just cleaning up for you.  You don’t really need these pictures of Yoochun, do you?” he asks with a glint in his eyes. 

“I –“ Yes, I do.  But I can’t say that, can I?  “Give me my phone back!”

The smug smirk on his face is almost cruel, and had it been Yunho or anybody else making the same expression I’d have punched it clean off.  But the fact that it’s Kim Jaejoong makes me feel so helpless I could cry from frustration.  Thankfully enough, I don’t.  “Here you go,” he says finally, slipping the phone into the palm of my hand.  “Listen.  I don’t know what you have against Yoochun, but whatever it is, drop it.  You don’t have to approve of his personal life, but it’s his.  And it’s none of your business.”

I scowl at him, unable to keep the childish anger from bubbling up in me.  Why does he have to be so mean?  I know from the JYJ videos that Jaejoong's got a bit of a cold streak, but it doesn’t seem all that funny or charming now that it’s directed at me.  And then, before I even know what I’m doing, I hit a button on my phone and the telltale sound of a picture taken can only just barely be heard above the music.  “Haha!  Gotcha,” I say triumphantly as I run off towards the exit.  I catch Yunho's eye for just a moment and he stands up and makes to follow me.  Before he could catch up, though, and before I can run out of The Tower scot-free with my consolation prize, I feel someone grab me by the scruff of the neck.

I’m not surprised to see Jaejoong staring daggers into me.  He sighs exasperatedly.  “Man, you are one annoying chick.  If you wanted a photograph of me, you could’ve just asked.”

But what’s the fun in that?  I grin as I reply, “Don’t get so full of yourself.  You’re not even all that good-looking.”  Which, to be honest, is a complete and total lie. 

“Says the girl who just stole a surprise photo from me.  Is that really how you feel?” he asks deviously.  To prove his point, probably, he leans in close – so close that his face is barely an inch away from my glasses, which, by now, have fallen halfway past my nose in sheer shock.  Well, this, I can say, I’ve imagined.  A lot of times.  Before going to bed.  And considering the rather explicit content of those imaginings, I can’t really blame myself for turning beet red in that situation.

Or for losing my phone to him, for that matter.

“Gotcha,” he says with a wide grin as he dangles my phone in front of me.

Jesus Christ.

“Jaejoong-nim, is this girl bothering you?  Shall we her out of the building?” a rather burly bouncer says as he appears behind me.

“Don’t bother,” I cut him off as I wrench myself free from Jaejoong's grip.  Enough humiliation for the night, I think to myself as I brush myself off.  “I’ll let myself out.”

And it’s only when I’m fuming halfway down the building in the elevator that I realize that Kim Jaejoong still has my phone.