Chapter 6 – Tomi's POV
I didn't sleep that night. Not even a little. Every time I shut my eyes, I saw it again — that split second when Min-Jae Seo looked straight at me, his lips curving into a smile that felt… personal. Like we'd been in on the same joke all along. Which was ridiculous, because the only thing we had in common was existing on the same street twice and sharing air in a casting hall once.
But try telling that to my brain at two a.m.
I lay in bed, earphones in, pretending to listen to a lo-fi playlist while my phone's brightness lit up my face like I was interrogating myself. I'd promised I wouldn't look, but curiosity is a stubborn thing — and Seoul's student social media network is basically the devil's playground.
Sure enough, the festival hashtag was already flooded.
Video clips of the panel. Pictures of the stage. Zoomed-in shots of the guests. But the worst was the short clip of me asking my question — my voice, my face, immortalized in pixels I didn't authorize.
The comments were a mixed bag.
Some harmless.
Some weird.
One person just typed, "The girl in the green hoodie… who is she??"
Another replied, "Min-Jae was looking at her differently tho 👀".
I dropped my phone face-down on my chest, staring at the ceiling. It wasn't like I hadn't been noticed before — in Nigeria, I'd had my fair share of moments where I caught someone's attention. But this… this felt like someone had taken my life, boxed it up, and put it on display without asking if I was okay with it
By morning, my body felt like I'd pulled an all-nighter for an exam I didn't sign up for.
Yuri was already clattering around the kitchen, humming to herself like her blood was made of caffeine. Sasha was still asleep, her arm dangling off the side of the bed like gravity was her enemy. Nia had left a sticky note on the fridge saying she'd be at the library all day — with a heart drawn at the end, because apparently she thought we were in some sitcom.
I sat at the table with my cereal, scrolling through my phone like I wasn't still silently panicking over the whole "viral brown sweater girl" situation. The clip had more views this morning. More comments. And while half of them were just random strangers over-analyzing, the other half… well, they made my stomach knot.
"Girl, why do you look like you're going to your own funeral?" Yuri slid into the seat across from me with her mug of tea, her hair up in a bun that somehow looked like it belonged on a Pinterest board.
I hesitated. "Have you seen the festival posts?"
Her eyes narrowed. "What did you do?"
"Nothing," I said quickly. "I… just asked a question."
Yuri set her mug down slowly, like she was about to cross-examine me. "And?"
"And apparently, that makes me the main character in some random strangers' conspiracy theory about me and Min-Jae Seo." I stabbed my cereal with the spoon.
Yuri's expression shifted — from confusion to recognition to a slow, knowing grin. "Ohhh. You mean when he was looking at you?"
I froze. "You saw it?"
"Sweetheart, everyone saw it."
I groaned, pushing my bowl away. The last thing I needed was someone turning this into a thing. I had school. I had work. I had a perfectly manageable, ordinary life that didn't involve being linked to one of the most famous men in Korea.
But no matter how much I told myself that, it didn't stop the tiny flicker of something warm in my chest whenever I remembered his eyes meeting mine.
By the time I stepped onto campus, I'd already told myself this was just another day.
No festivals. No run-ins. No cameras. Just lectures, overpriced coffee, and maybe a stop at the library before heading home.
Except… I hadn't even made it past the student union when I caught the stares.
Not the usual who's the new girl? Stares from when I first arrived in Seoul. These were… sharper. Whisper-filled. I could hear my name — or at least, a mangled attempt at it — in between bursts of hushed Korean.
I adjusted the strap of my bag and kept walking, pretending I didn't hear anything. But when I passed a table of students, one of them giggled into her phone, and another tilted the screen just enough for me to see—
A freeze-frame from the panel. My green hoodie. My raised hand. His face turned toward me like I was the only one in the room.
My throat went dry.
I ducked into the nearest campus café and ordered an iced latte just to have something to do with my hands. The barista didn't seem to care — or maybe he just hadn't seen the clip. I was halfway through sipping when the bell above the door rang.
And that's when I heard the low murmur ripple through the café.
I didn't need to look. Somehow, I already knew.
Min-Jae Seo had just walked in.
Not in a suit, not with cameras flashing — just a black cap pulled low, a hoodie, and the kind of casual energy that made it seem like he belonged anywhere. But the moment his eyes scanned the room and landed on me, it felt like everything else faded out.
No security. No Assistant. Just him.
And me.
He didn't come straight to me.
Of course he didn't — that would have been too obvious.
Instead, he ordered something from the counter, voice low enough that I couldn't hear it over the hiss of the espresso machine. But I saw the barista's sudden posture shift, the slight widen of her eyes when she looked up at him. Recognition. The kind that no cap or hoodie could hide.
I kept my gaze on the condensation sliding down my cup, willing myself not to track his every move. I'd already embarrassed myself twice — once in a hallway, once at the festival — and the universe didn't need a third viral moment.
Except… there was a quiet shift in the room. A stillness.
When I looked up, he was standing at the edge of my table.
"Is this seat taken?" His Korean was clear, smooth, but he asked in English — the kind of English that didn't stumble, didn't strain.
I blinked. "Uh… no."
He sat, sliding into the chair opposite me like this was the most natural thing in the world. His coffee was black, no sugar, no milk. He didn't take a sip right away. Just rested his forearms on the table, watching me in a way that made the rest of the café blur.
"You're… Tohmee, right?"
Hearing my name in his voice did something strange to my chest. It was too precise, too practiced to be a guess. The way he called it was really 'not it' but it sounded sweet at the same time
I swallowed. I was surprised as to how he knew my name. I guess he caught the look on my face.
He smiled — not the practiced, camera-ready one I'd seen online, but something smaller. Warmer.
And just like that, the air between us shifted again — quieter, heavier, like we'd both stepped into something we didn't know how to get out of. For a moment, I didn't know what to do with my hands. They were just… there, wrapped loosely around my paper cup, fingers warming against the heat that had already started to fade. Across from me, he looked almost too composed, like sitting here with a stranger in a quiet café was something he'd done a hundred times before. But his eyes didn't wander. They didn't flick toward the counter, or the window, or his phone. They stayed on me — not in that way that made you feel cornered, but in a way that made you feel… noticed.
"My name is Tomi, not Tohmee," I said finally, like it was some kind of defense.
His mouth tipped into the faintest smile. "Tomi," he repeated, letting it roll off his tongue, softer than I'd expected. "It suits you."
I didn't know how to answer that.
Outside, the wind pressed against the glass, carrying the faint scent of roasted chestnuts from the street vendor nearby. Inside, the café felt cocooned in its own little pocket of stillness — no rush, no one paying us any mind except the barista who kept sneaking glances our way.
"You're not from here," he said after a beat, his tone almost like a question, but not quite. I gave a small shake of my head. "Nigeria." There was a pause — not awkward, but careful, like he was measuring the shape of the word in his head. "Long way from home."
"Yeah," I said. "You could say the same for… I mean—" "I live here," he said quickly, a flicker of amusement in his voice, "but I know what you mean." He took a sip of his coffee then, and I used the moment to glance at him properly — not the stolen flashes from before, but the kind where you actually see someone. And it was strange, because even though I'd seen his face a hundred times online, this close, it didn't feel the same. It wasn't the Min-Jae Seo that belonged to cameras, magazine covers, and flashing lights. This was quieter. Rougher around the edges. I didn't know what that meant yet. But I felt it.
Min-Jae's POV
I didn't walk into the campus café looking for her. At least, that's what I told myself.
I'd had a meeting nearby, nothing unusual. A quick drop-off with my manager for some contracts, a quiet escape before the next wave of obligations. Tae-ho would've hated this — no security, no car waiting outside, no buffer between me and the public. But I'd been craving space lately. Silence. A place where no one was shoving a camera in my face.
I pushed open the door to the café and caught the shift immediately — the hush, the sideways glances, the sudden interest in coffee cups. I was used to it. But then my eyes swept the room, and there she was. . Fingers curled around a cup like it was a shield. Tomi. I almost didn't approach. We'd crossed paths twice now — three if you counted that fleeting hallway moment. I didn't want to turn whatever strange, accidental thread existed between us into something forced. But she was there, and I was there, and the space between us felt too small to ignore.
So I ordered my coffee, kept my head down, pretended I wasn't acutely aware of her sitting just a few feet away. The barista's recognition was quick, her hands faltering for just a second as she passed me the cup. I thanked her quietly and turned toward the table where she sat.
She looked up just as I reached her.
"Is this seat taken?" I asked in English, because I wanted her to hear me in a language she wouldn't have to strain for.
Her "Uh… no" came with a flicker of something in her eyes — surprise, maybe.
Up close, she didn't look like someone who'd been waiting for me. But she also didn't look like she wanted me to leave. Her posture was guarded, but her gaze… it stayed. "You're… Tohmee, right?" I knew her name already — I'd heard it when she stood in the panel crowd, voice steady despite the way my attention had pinned her in place. I'd asked Tae-ho later, just in passing, the same way I might ask about a location or an event. He'd raised a brow but didn't press.
The way she reacted now — a subtle pause, that tiny crease between her brows — told me she was wondering how I knew. I smiled, not the camera kind, but the kind you give when you want someone to know you're paying attention.
She corrected me gently. "My name is Tomi, not Tohmee." I said it again, slower. "Tomi." And it fit. We talked in small pieces — where she was from, how far from home she was. Nigeria. I'd been to places far from my own home before, but never for study, never with the quiet bravery she seemed to carry without even noticing it. When she looked at me, it wasn't the same look most people gave. There was no calculation, no subtle plea for proximity to fame. It was… curiosity. Like she was trying to match the person in front of her with the one she'd seen from a distance. And for reasons I couldn't name yet, I let her.
The thing about attention is—it's a dangerous habit. You notice something once, and it's just curiosity. Twice, and maybe it's coincidence. Three times… and it's no longer an accident. That's where I was with Tomi. She laughed at one point — short, almost self-conscious — when I asked if she'd gotten used to Korea yet. It wasn't a sound for show. Not the rehearsed kind you hear at networking events or in waiting rooms full of industry people. Hers was quick, a little awkward, like she didn't want it to slip out but couldn't help it. "You get lost a lot?" I asked, trying to keep the edge of a smile from tugging at my mouth. "Sometimes," she admitted, wrapping both hands tighter around her cup. "But I've learned the subway is… easier than it looks." I nodded, remembering the day on the street — the blur of her crossing against the crowd, the way she'd glanced up for half a second before disappearing again. She hadn't recognized me then. Or maybe she had, but decided it wasn't worth stopping. That thought lingered. Most people who crossed paths with me either froze or overcompensated. Tomi just existed in the same space without turning it into an event. It was disarming. Our conversation was light — surface-level questions and answers — but there was an undercurrent I couldn't quite name. A part of me kept assessing, testing, like I was trying to decide if I wanted to step into that current or keep my distance. It would've been easier to just drink my coffee, nod politely, and leave. That's what I told myself when I glanced at the time. My phone had been vibrating on and off in my jacket pocket — no doubt Tae-ho, wondering where the hell I'd disappeared to. But I stayed a little longer. She had a way of looking directly at me when she spoke, even when her words were careful. It wasn't bold, but it wasn't timid either. Just… steady. And I realized then that I didn't just remember her from the casting hall or the street. I remembered the way she'd looked at me both times — not like an actor, not like a headline, but like a person she was still trying to figure out. That was the problem. I wanted to see what she'd figure out if I let her keep looking. So when I finally stood and left the café, it wasn't because I was done talking to her. It was because I needed to make sure I wasn't walking into something I couldn't walk back from. And for the first time in a while, I wasn't sure I wanted to walk back at all.