Off The Record

The First Layer

The fluorescent lights of the Mnet backstage corridors flickered with a rhythmic hum that felt like it was drilling into my skull. It was 10AM. My lungs felt tight, compressed by the frantic energy of a hundred staff members sprinting in every direction. In my grip, the handle of my professional makeup kit was slick with sweat.

I was the "Emergency Hire." The girl they called when the lead artist for the biggest group in the world had a breakdown and walked off set. I hadn't even had time to process the NDA I'd signed, a document so thick it felt like I was selling my soul to HYBE.

"Room 4. Now!" a floor manager shouted, pointing a frantic finger toward a door draped in black velvet. "He's behind schedule. If his base isn't perfect in ten minutes, it's your neck, not mine."

I didn't have time to be offended. I pushed through the heavy door, and the silence inside hit me like a physical wall.

The dressing room was huge, filled with rolling racks of silk, leather, and glitter. The air smelled of expensive sandalwood and the ozone of a high-end steamer. And there, sitting in the center of the room like a king on a temporary throne, was Park Jimin.

He was slumped in the vanity chair, his head tilted back against the headrest, eyes closed. He looked... human. That was the first thing that struck me. Not the "Global Icon" or the "Mochi" fans adored. He looked exhausted. His skin was pale, a faint sheen of sweat from the morning rehearsal clinging to his forehead, and his silver-blonde hair was a chaotic mess of soft waves.

I stood frozen for a heartbeat. I'd seen him on screens a thousand times, but the sheer presence of him in a quiet room was suffocating.

"Are you going to stare, or are you going to work?"

His voice was a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated through the floorboards. He didn't open his eyes.

"I-I'm sorry," I stammered, my voice sounding thin and amateur. I scrambled to the vanity, my hands shaking as I clicked open my kit. The clatter of my brushes sounded like gunfire in the quiet room. "I'm the new lead for today. They told me—"

"I don't care what they told you," he interrupted softly. He finally opened his eyes, and my breath hitched.

He didn't look at me directly. He looked at my reflection in the mirror. His gaze was heavy, hooded, and intensely focused. He tracked the way my fingers trembled as I reached for a bottle of primer. A small, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his plush lips.

"You're nervous," he noted. It wasn't a question.

"It's my first day with a... with someone like you," I admitted, trying to find my professional mask. I poured a drop of silk primer onto my palette.

"Someone like me?" He tilted his head, his eyes never leaving mine in the glass. "You mean someone who hasn't slept in forty-eight hours and has to pretend to be a god in front of ten thousand people in two hours?"

He suddenly sat up straight, turning the chair so he was facing me directly. The distance between us vanished. I could smell him now, the sharp scent of coffee and the soft, clean smell of expensive fabric softener.

"Fix me," he whispered. It was a command, but there was a flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes. "Make me look like I'm not breaking apart."

I stepped into his space, my heart hammering so hard I was sure he could hear it. I reached out, my fingers hovering just an inch from his jawline. I hesitated.

"Touch me," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "I won't break."

I finally let my fingertips make contact. His skin was burning hot against my cold hands. As I began to blend the primer into his cheekbone, his eyes drifted shut again, a small sigh escaping his lips. He leaned (just a fraction of an inch) into my touch.

It was a professional interaction. It was my job. But in that moment, with the muffled sound of fans screaming outside the building, the "Off the Record" truth started to settle in my bones.

I wasn't just fixing his makeup. I was touching the one thing I was never supposed to want.

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The silence in the dressing room was thick, broken only by the rhythmic tap-tap of my beauty blender against his skin. Every time I leaned in, my hair brushed against his shoulder, and I could feel the heat radiating off him. He was so still he could have been a statue, but the way his pulse jumped in the hollow of his throat told a different story.

"Your hands are cold," he murmured, his eyes still closed.

"Sorry," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "I... I'm usually not this nervous."

"Liars make bad artists, Y/N," he said, and my heart nearly stopped. I hadn't told him my name. He must have read it off the laminated badge clipped to my waist. The way he said it, slow, tasting each syllable, made it sound like a secret.

He opened his eyes then, looking up at me from under his dark lashes. Up close, he was devastating. The golden flecks in his pupils, the tiny mole on his neck, the slight puffiness from lack of sleep, it was all so painfully real.

"Finish the eyes," he commanded softly. "I want them sharp. Dangerous."

I reached for the charcoal liner, my fingers steadying against his jaw. I had to lean in closer now, my face inches from his. I could feel his breath, warm and smelling of peppermint, fanning over my lips. For a split second, his gaze dropped from my eyes to my mouth, and the air in the room seemed to vanish.

I felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to trace the curve of his bottom lip with my thumb. To see if it was as soft as it looked.

Get it together, Y/N, I screamed at myself internally. He's a global idol. You're a temp. Do your job.

I finished the liner with a flick, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Done," I breathed, stepping back to give him space.

Jimin leaned into the mirror, inspecting my work. He turned his head left, then right, the harsh vanity lights catching the shimmer I'd added to his lids. A slow, satisfied smirk spread across his face.

"Not bad," he said, standing up. He was shorter than some of the other members, but his presence filled every inch of the room. He walked toward me, stopping just a hair's breadth away. "Actually... it's perfect. You have a good eye for detail."

He reached out, his hand hovering near my ear. I froze, my breath hitching in my throat. But he didn't touch me. He just reached past me to grab his silver cross earring from the tray.

"Don't go anywhere," he said, his voice dropping into that Busan-inflected rasp. "I have a feeling I'm going to need a lot of... touch-ups tonight."

Before I could respond, the door burst open.

"Jimin-ssi! Two minutes to stage! Let's go, let's go!" the head manager barked, clapping his hands.

Jimin gave me one last, lingering look through the mirror, a look that felt like a promise, before he vanished into the chaotic hallway, surrounded by security.

I stood there alone in the quiet room, the scent of his cologne still hanging in the air. My hands were shaking again, but this time, it wasn't from fear.

I looked down at the vanity. Resting right where he had been sitting was a small, crumpled piece of paper. I picked it up and smoothed it out.

Section B. Stage Left. Don't look away.

My stomach did a somersault. This wasn't just a job anymore. This was a trap. And as the roar of the crowd erupted from the stadium speakers outside, I realized I was already falling straight into it.

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End of Chapter 1. I hope you liked it guys, if you have any questions just comment them. I love you guysss 💜