My National Boyfriend

Y/N POV

As I sat on the backseat of the cab, watching the buildings blur past the window, my thoughts tangled into a knot I couldn't untie.

"He's… different."

I didn't want to admit it out loud. Not even to myself.

But that guy—Rabin—was not the same person I met before.

The one I used to call "Devil Boss."

The one who threw tantrums over mismatched socks, barked orders without looking up, and acted like the world owed him his fame.

Now?

He speaks softer.

He listens—actually listens.

And worst of all?

He's started inserting… not professional things in our conversations.

Not inappropriate. Not exactly flirty.

But… personal.

Too personal.

He talks like he knows me.

Like he wants to know more.

And my guard—damn it—it's slipping.

"I have to be careful," I whispered to myself, leaning my head back.

Because if I stay close, I'll start to forget.

Forget that this is work.

That he's just a job.

That four years ago, he was part of a nightmare I barely survived.

"If I stay too close to him…"

My fingers gripped my tote bag tighter.

"…he'll influence me."

And that's dangerous.

Y/N POV

I opened the back door like I always do—half expecting him to be sprawled on the couch complaining about food or his script or life in general.

But today, the apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

The bundle of scripts weighed heavy in my arms as I called out,

"Rabin… Rabin Angeles??"

No answer.

I sighed, walked toward his room—intent on just dropping the scripts and getting out before he said anything stupid again.

I gently pushed the door open—empty.

"Hmph. Must've gone for a walk or something."

I stepped in quietly, walked to the bedside to keep the scripts there neatly. I was trying to place them down when suddenly—

"YAAHH!!"

A LOUD shout. Right behind me.

I SCREAMED.

My hands flew up, the scripts scattered in the air like confetti, my body twisted, and in a wild reflex I grabbed the nearest thing—

His shirt.

Which pulled him forward.

Which pulled me backward.

Which—

BOOM.

Straight on the bed.

HIM. OVER. ME.

HIS LIPS. ON. MINE.

My brain malfunctioned.

System: crashed.

There was no pain. No "ouch."

Just… soft.

A pillow behind my back, a warm weight over me, a scent I hated how much I recognized.

My eyes wide.

His lips hovering too long—way too long to call it an accident.

My heart? Losing its damn rhythm.

"D-DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT!!"

I screamed in my head.

Why is this happening again?!

Why did I grab his shirt?

Why is he not pulling away?

Why the hell am I not… hating this?

OH LORD—THE BED!!

I squeezed my eyes shut, fists gripping the sheets beside me.

And then—

Silence.

Not a single word.

Just the dangerous beat of hearts betraying professionalism.

I pushed him off instinctively, my hands slamming against his chest.

He scrambled up, face flushed, hair messy, completely stunned.

"I… I'm sorry," he said quickly, breath catching.

I sat up slowly, heart pounding loud enough I was sure the neighbors could hear it.

"Ahh… it's okay. It's my fault, actually… I—I grabbed you…"

The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them.

Damn it.

Damn it!

LORD, WHY did I EXPLAIN?!

I wanted to slap my own mouth shut.

Why did I have to clarify?

Why didn't I just glare at him like I always do??

He looked at me—still stunned—but his lips curled slightly, like he was trying hard not to smirk.

I quickly scrambled to gather the five scripts scattered across the bed like fallen leaves of my dignity.

I didn't look at him. Couldn't.

Focus, Y/N. Work. Work. Not lips. Not warmth. Work.

I shoved the scripts toward him like they were some kind of force field.

"Read these and choose two," I said, as firmly as I could, despite the fire in my cheeks.

"We need to reject three. Your schedule is full already."

He took them from my hands, finally snapping out of his daze.

But that stupid, unreadable expression was still on his face.

Was it a smirk?

A twitch of amusement?

A trace of "I-felt-that-too"?

Ughhh.

He cleared his throat and nodded.

"Got it. I'll go through them tonight."

"Good."

I tried to sound like the ever-efficient assistant.

Like I hadn't just accidentally kissed my boss.

On a bed.

And I was out of that room in two seconds flat, heart still pounding like it had just run a marathon inside my chest.

Professionalism: hanging by a thread.

Dignity: in recovery mode.

Me: absolutely doomed.

Damn… it was soft.

Heheheh.

I flopped onto the bed, hand brushing over the sheets like an idiot, smiling like a lunatic inside my own room.

"Why didn't I realize girls' lips were this soft before…?" I muttered to myself, half-laughing.

I mean, I've kissed girls—plenty of times.

Web series. Dramas. Fan service.

The nation's boyfriend isn't just a title—I've acted out kisses from every angle, every emotion, every director's "Again, more passion this time!"

But this one?

This one was different.

Because it wasn't acting.

There were no cameras.

No scripts.

No lights.

No cue.

Just her.

And me.

And a freaking pile of scripts

I touched my lips, shaking my head at myself.

"Rabin, you're seriously doomed."

"…falling in trouble. Hard."

Author POV

From that day ,something shifted.

No thunder. No explosions.

Just… awkward silence.

They still talked—but only what was needed.

Scripts. Schedules. Calls.

No teasing.

No banter.

No arguments about protein bars or ugly outfits.

Just bullet points.

She moved like a ghost around the apartment.

Polite. Efficient. Distant.

Like the kiss never happened.

Like the past hadn't resurfaced.

Like she hadn't looked into his eyes with tears and said—"I hate you."

Rabin tried.

He stayed up at night pretending to read scripts, glancing toward the hallway.

He stood by the door longer after she left, hoping she might turn back and say something.

But she didn't.

Every time he tried to talk—ask about her day, tell her a dumb joke, just breathe near her—

She vanished.

With a fake yawn.

Or a "manager's call."

Or suddenly remembering an "urgent task."

And he was left behind.

In a room full of scripts and silence.

He never thought he'd miss their fights.

But now…

He missed her scolding.

Her eye rolls.

Even her sarcastic "Bro??" echoing through the halls.

What scared him the most wasn't the silence.

It was that she was slowly building a wall again.

And this time, she wasn't letting him near.

The interview wrapped. Clean. No scandals. No slips.

"Maria and I are good colleagues," he said with a soft laugh.

"That dinner was with the whole crew. The camera just chose to focus on us."

He glanced at the monitor, catching Y/N's silhouette behind the glass.

She didn't move.

Didn't even blink.

The media would eat it up—"Nation's Boyfriend Still Humble and Honest!"

The agency would be pleased.

The public would swoon again.

The morning sun was sharp against the skyline, casting long shadows on the pavement.

Rabin stood by the sidewalk, suitcase in one hand, hoodie over his cap, sunglasses on—standard airport disguise.

The agency van pulled up exactly on time.

He tossed his bag in, slid into the back seat, and glanced at the front.

Empty.

Too empty.

"Where's my assistant?" he asked the driver, brows furrowing.

The driver looked at him through the rearview mirror.

"The company told me to drop you at the airport. No other message was delivered, sir."

His jaw clenched.

But he didn't say anything.

He pulled out his phone. Checked his messages nothing…He leaned back against the seat, arms folded, eyes staring blankly at the road ahead.

Dings.

The sound snapped Rabin out of his spiraling thoughts.

He glanced down at his phone. A single notification.

Y/N:

You go first .. I will be in the evening flight.. there are some works to be finish..

Here is the hotel location .. someone will pick you up from the airport..

That was it.

He stared at the message for a few seconds, jaw tightening.

Then he pressed the screen—

Read.

And closed it.

He turned his head and looked out the window of the van as the city rolled by.

The glass showed his reflection back to him—calm, composed, every bit the celebrity he was trained to be.