My National Boyfriend

Author POV

Friday Morning – Rabin's Apartment

The door clicked open softly as Y/N stepped inside.

She scanned the apartment—

Lights off. No music. No movement. No scent of coffee or someone rushing around.

"Hmm? Where is he?" she wondered.

There was no sign of anyone living there, except for the neatly folded blanket on the couch and a script half-hidden beneath it.

Without calling out, she moved casually into the kitchen.

She placed down the breakfast she brought:

Soy milk, sandwiches wrapped in paper, and a chilled bottle of juice.

Then she turned around and opened the kitchen cabinet, searching for a plate.

"Plastic wrap isn't good for storing food in the fridge…" she thought, pulling the sandwich out carefully.

Suddenly—

A shift in the air behind her.

That inexplicable feeling that someone was watching.

She stiffened.

Then turned around quickly—

Dang!

She bumped straight into a chest—firm and warm.

Her eyes blinked up—

And there he was.

Rabin.

Still in his loose tee and joggers, hair slightly messy, eyes blinking like he just woke up.

Too close.

Way too close.

Her heart thundered in her chest—

duk duk dukkk!!!

Y/N (startled): "W-What are you doing??"

Rabin (nonchalantly): "I thought you couldn't reach the plate… so I tried to help."

He said it with the most casual tone—like it was just another morning.

But his eyes lingered on her face a little longer than necessary.

She stepped back slightly, cheeks warming.

Y/N: "I can reach it just fine… thanks."

Rabin (teasing): "Didn't look like it."

She rolled her eyes, turned her back again to the counter, trying to calm her heartbeat.

He stood there for a second more, watching her quietly—

Not saying what he really wanted to say.

"You're back."

"I missed this."

"You look tired."

Instead, he reached for a plate beside her hand and said—

Rabin: "So… what's on the interview prep menu, boss?"

"Oh, it's in my bag—wait!" Y/N said quickly, trying to spin toward the living room where her tote sat.

But before she could take a step, Rabin gently caught her wrist.

"Let's eat breakfast first."

His voice was calm, but firm. Not demanding—just… there.

She froze, glanced up, but said nothing.

And he didn't let go until she nodded slightly.

He released her hand and casually started unwrapping the sandwich, arranging them neatly onto a plate.

Y/N blinked, watching him.

"What's with this guy??"

"He's not annoying anymore?"

"He even matched the corners of the bread… who is this?"

They eventually sat down—facing each other across the table, the morning light slanting in through the window, making the air feel softer somehow.

She handed him the soy milk without a word.

Rabin glanced at it, then up at her.

"You remembered."

His voice held a quiet smile.

Y/N (matter-of-factly): "You always whine about juice with sugar. You said it could ruin your 'actor's face' and your 'godly metabolism.'"

He chuckled, taking a sip.

Rabin: "I was right. This face is national treasure level, after all."

Y/N (rolling eyes): "Here we go again…"

Y/N sipped her juice slowly, the chill washing down her throat, the citrus waking up her insides.

She leaned back slightly, savoring it.

"Damn… this is the feeling of a freshly fresh morning," she thought, a tiny smile creeping onto her lips.

Just as she placed the glass down—

Rabin spoke, eyes on the drink.

Rabin: "But… today I want to try."

Y/N (brows furrowing): "Try what—?"

Before she could finish, he reached forward, grabbing the same glass—

The one she had just drunk from.

Her eyes widened slightly.

Right now? That exact glass? The one with her lip mark still on the rim?!

He lifted it casually, like it was nothing, and took a sip.

Y/N (shocked): "Yah—!! That's mine!"

Rabin (calmly, licking the drop from his lip): "You're right. A little too sweet."

He smirked. "But… not bad. I'll manage."

She stared at him, utterly short-circuited, heart jumping for absolutely no reason she could explain.

What's with this guy lately? Is he flirting? Or is this just Rabin being… Rabin?!

Y/N (mumbling, turning away): "Whatever. Germ sharer."

Rabin (grinning): "Pretty sure we've shared worse situations."

Y/N: "Tss…"

She rolled her eyes and reached for her sandwich again, trying hard to ignore the warmth in her cheeks.

Rabin, still grinning like he won some unspoken game, picked up the soy milk and gently pushed it toward her.

Rabin: "Here. Have the milk."

His tone was casual, but his eyes were watching her like a silent dare.

Y/N: "No, thank you."

Her reply was cool. Polite. Almost mechanical.

But inside?

Absolute chaos.

He leaned in a bit, lowering his chin, still pushing the carton closer.

Rabin: "What, afraid of my germs now?"

Y/N: "I just don't like milk in the morning."

Rabin: "Liar."

Suddenly, the room fell into a quiet beat. Not awkward—but thick. Heavy.

Like the kind of silence that knew too much.

Y/N glanced away, busying herself with wrapping up the extra sandwich.

Y/N (quietly): "Let's finish breakfast. We have work to do."

Rabin (smiling faintly): "Yes, boss."

But the air had changed.

And both of them felt it.

Rabin flopped onto the couch, script in hand, his body slouching in a way that screamed "I'd rather be anywhere else than prepping for an interview."

Y/N, on the other hand, settled herself comfortably on the floor, in her favorite little nook between the couch and the coffee table.

She pulled her bag toward her, unzipped it, and carefully took out a neatly organized folder—not the shooting script, but a list of talking points and possible interview questions.

Pages filled with scribbles, highlighter marks, and bullet points. It was clearly made with intentional effort.

She skimmed the page with her pen before looking up.

Y/N:

"They will surely ask about your relationship with your co-actor, Maria…"

She raised an eyebrow, tone casual but pointed.

"…So, what are you going to answer?"

Rabin leaned his elbow on the couch arm, resting his cheek on his hand, staring at her.

Rabin:

"Why? Are you jealous?"

Y/N didn't even blink. She flipped to the next page.

Y/N (dryly):

"If I were, would that change your answer?"

Rabin (grinning):

"Probably make it worse."

She gave him a flat look.

Y/N:

"Focus."

She pointed at the bullet point.

"People are still talking about that photo of you and Maria coming out of together. It's feeding the dating rumor. You can't dodge the question with a joke."

Rabin (sighing):

"Alright, alright…"

He straightened a bit, tapping the edge of the paper.

"How about: 'We're just co-stars. Maria and I get along well on set, and that's what people saw—two colleagues walking out of work.'"

Y/N paused, considering.

Y/N:

"Hmm. That's clean. Simple. Truthful?"

Y/N glanced up from the page, eyes narrowing as she tossed out the next sharp line.

Y/N:

"By the way, Maria's agency didn't deny the rumor. What the hell is happening? Are you two secretly dating?"

Her tone was a mix of calm professionalism… and a suspiciously personal edge.

Rabin blinked, caught off guard for just a second—

Then his lips curved into that familiar, annoying half-smile.

Rabin:

"Ehhh… are you jealous again?"

He tilted his head, eyes teasing.

"You keep circling back to this like a girlfriend who's pretending to be my manager."

Y/N raised an eyebrow and clapped the folder shut—once.

Y/N:

"Fact check. It's called fact check, Rabin."

She jabbed her pen toward him.

"When something can ruin your career or image, I don't flirt with it. I fix it."

That shut him up for a second.

Her tone was sharp—but beneath it was something else. A quiet tremble in her voice.

Not just irritation. Not just manager-mode.

Worry.

She looked away, organizing her papers again with more force than necessary.

Rabin (softer this time):

"…I'm not dating Maria."

She didn't say anything.

Rabin (a little more serious):

"I never was. I just didn't bother correcting it because… I didn't think anyone close to me cared enough to ask."

Her hand froze mid-page.

For the first time that morning, he sounded honest.

No jokes. No flirt. No shields.

She slowly looked up.

Their eyes met for a long, still second.

So much passed between them—too much, maybe.

Y/N broke the moment first, blinking herself back into the present.

Y/N (clearing throat):

"Okay then," she said, her voice steady again.

"You can say after the shoot, the crew went out for dinner. Which is true. And yes, the photo was real—Maria and you were both there."

She tapped her pen against the table lightly, letting the facts line up in her mind like a chessboard.

Y/N (without looking at him):

"But here's the issue—why didn't they capture the rest of the crew? Why just the two of you? And when exactly did you guys walk out of the restaurant together?"

She finally glanced back up.

Y/N (flatly):

"Because it looks like you were trying to sneak away with her."

Rabin exhaled and ran a hand through his hair, suddenly serious again.

Rabin:

"It wasn't sneaky. Not intentionally. She left first, I was on a call outside. She stopped to ask something, and that's when the photo was taken. A second later, two more staff joined us. But the paparazzi had already clicked and dipped."

Y/N (quietly):

"And you didn't say anything because…?"

Rabin:

"Because I didn't care."

Then he paused.

"But now I do."

Her eyes softened just slightly, but she quickly flipped to the next page.

Y/N:

"We'll stick with the truth. You were with the crew, you didn't sneak out. Keep it short and confident."

She scribbled it down, but Rabin was still watching her.

Rabin (teasing, but quieter this time):

"What would you have done if it was true?"

Y/N (not looking up):

"Cancel you professionally. Maybe poison your soy milk."

Rabin laughed.

Rabin POV

The apartment door clicked shut softly behind her.

Silence followed.

The kind that settles in when someone important leaves—and the walls go back to being walls, not memories.

Rabin flopped back on the couch, script lying loosely in his lap. The words blurred together, his mind somewhere else.

Rabin (muttering):

"Hmmm… I'm alone again."

He glanced toward the kitchen, where her soy milk still sat on the counter, half-finished.

Her faint scent still lingered in the air—lavender with something warm.

The kind of scent that made a place feel less like a penthouse and more like a home.

He sighed, throwing the script gently on the coffee table.

Rabin (to himself):

"Should I adopt a pet or something?"

He scratched the back of his head.

"Maybe a dog… or a cat.."

His lips twitched slightly.

"At least then, it'll be lively "

Rabin slumped onto the couch, holding his phone above his face as he typed.

Message to Y/N:

"Hey.. what should I wear tomorrow?"

The reply came quick and cold.

Y/N:

"Ask your stylist."

He smirked and typed again without hesitation.

Rabin:

"Last time your styling was great lol."

There was a short pause before her next reply dropped.

Y/N:

"Tch… poor taste."

"Don't disturb me now. I'm coming back after I'm done with work. I have some new scripts to give you."

Rabin:

"Script again???? 😩"

Y/N:

"Actors are bound to be with scripts."

Rabin stared at her last message, lips curled into a smile that was part-annoyed, part-infatuated.

Lying flat on the couch, his phone resting on his chest, Rabin stared at the ceiling like it had answers. The quiet tick of the clock felt louder than it should've.

"Why don't assistants live together with their actors…"

He muttered the thought aloud, not even caring how ridiculous it sounded.

"They're basically on-call 24/7 anyway."

He exhaled, turning his head to the side where Y/N had sat earlier, her folder still peeking out of her bag.

He could still hear her voice in his head:

"Actors are bound to be with scripts."

He rolled his eyes.

"Tch… and assistants are bound to their chaos."

He thought again.

"They run after us, fix our schedules, manage our messes, cover our lies, lie for us if needed… and we…"

He paused.

"We just wait for them to come back like needy dogs."

He scoffed and sat up, rubbing his hand through his already messy hair.

*"If there's ever a rulebook, I'd vote for 'Live-in Assistant Policy.'"

He smirked to himself.

"Preferably one with sarcasm issues, oversized tote bags, and the habit of sipping juice like it's therapy."

Then, softer—

"One who knows where I keep my protein bars without even asking…"

His eyes flicked back to the door again.

Still no sound. Still empty.

"Come back soon."

Because the silence was starting to get louder again.