Love, Off the Record: A Behind the Aura Novel

“Again.”

A collective groan filled the practice room.

I bent forward, planted my hands on my knees and tried to remember what it felt like to breathe without every muscle in my body objecting to it.

Across from me, Tay-O looked offensively unaffected by the fact we had been rehearsing for nearly four hours. His black T-shirt was dark with sweat and his hair was stuck to his forehead, but he was still standing upright, which felt unnecessarily smug.

“We’ve done it fourteen times,” I said.

“And fourteen times, you’ve been late.”

“I was late once.”

“Fourteen times.”

“It was barely noticeable.”

“It was noticeable to me.”

“That’s because you have nothing else in your life.”

Tay-O grinned. “And whose fault is that? Again from the chorus.”

Sun collapsed dramatically onto the floor beside me.

“I can’t feel my legs.”

“You don’t need to feel them,” Tay-O told him. “You just need to move them.”

“That doesn’t sound medically accurate.”

“Fortunately, we have a doctor in Jae’s family. He can confirm.”

The mention of my brother was casual. Meaningless. Tay-O had no reason to notice the way my shoulders tightened.

I straightened before anyone could.

“My brother charges by the hour,” I said. “You can’t afford him.”

Sun rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. “You can.”

“Everyone can afford everything when it’s my money.”

D.O.Y laughed from where he was sitting against the mirrored wall, one knee raised and a bottle of water resting against it.

“That sounded personal.”

“It was a joke.”

“Was it?”

“Yes.”

I held his gaze until he raised both hands in surrender.

D.O.Y noticed things. It was one of his more irritating qualities. He could spend an entire interview saying no more than six words, then look at one of us backstage and accurately identify an emotional crisis we hadn’t yet admitted to having.

Fortunately, MJ chose that moment to clap his hands.

“Come on. One more clean run, then we can take ten.”

“Ten minutes?” Sun asked.

“Ten seconds if you keep complaining.”

Sun sat up immediately.

The opening beat sounded through the speakers.

Everything else disappeared.

The exhaustion. The ache beneath my ribs. The message I still hadn’t opened from my mother. The cameras positioned at the edge of the room to capture footage for our comeback documentary.

The red light switched on, and so did I.

My spine straightened. My shoulders dropped. A smile pulled at one corner of my mouth as I found my position at the centre.

This part was easy.

The music began, and I became JAE.

I knew where every camera was without looking for them. I knew exactly when to turn my head, when to let my expression sharpen and when to allow the smallest hint of a smile. I knew how long to hold eye contact with a lens before looking away.

Eight years of practice had made every movement instinctive.

At seventeen, I had been terrified of cameras.

At twenty-five, I could make several million people believe I was looking directly at them.

We reached the chorus. I hit the turn on time, moved into formation and caught Tay-O’s reflection in the mirror. He gave the slightest nod.

Better.

By the final beat, all five of us were breathing heavily.

For three seconds, nobody moved.

Then the music stopped.

“Finally,” Tay-O said.

I dragged the bottom of my T-shirt across my face. “I told you I could do it.”

“It only took fifteen attempts.”

“One attempt. Fourteen rehearsals.”

“They’re the same thing.”

“They’re really not.”

A member of the filming crew laughed behind one of the cameras. I looked towards her and smiled.

She immediately ducked her head.

That was easy too.

It wasn’t arrogance. At least, I hoped it wasn’t. I had simply learned what people expected from me. A smile. A wink. A compliment delivered with enough sincerity that they could carry it home with them and wonder whether I had meant it.

Most of the time, I did mean it.

I liked people. I liked making them happy. I liked that something as simple as remembering a fan’s name or telling someone I liked their hair could become important to them.

I just wasn’t always sure where JAE ended and I began anymore.

“All right,” MJ said. “Ten-minute break.”

Sun dropped back to the floor.

Tay-O stepped over him without looking down. “Someone move the child before he becomes a health and safety issue.”

“I’m twenty-two.”

“You’re blocking the walkway.”

“I’m resting.”

“You’re sweating on the floor.”

“That’s how hard I work for this group.”

D.O.Y nudged Sun’s trainer with his own. “You missed half the last chorus.”

“That’s how selectively I work for this group.”

I laughed as I crossed the room to my bag.

My phone had been vibrating intermittently for the past hour. When I picked it up, the screen was crowded with notifications.

Our new single had reached number one in another twelve countries.

The teaser photographs released that morning had broken the company’s engagement record.

A video of me adjusting MJ’s jacket during an interview had been viewed eleven million times. There were apparently three leading theories about what the gesture meant. None of them seemed to account for the fact his collar had been folded beneath itself and it had been annoying me.

There were messages from our manager, the group chat, several members of staff and two brands requesting approval for posts.

Beneath them all was one from my mother.

I opened it first.

Mum: Your brother’s hospital has offered him a permanent position.

A second message followed.

Mum: Your father wants to take him somewhere special for dinner on Sunday. You should come if you’re free.

I stared at the screen.

Three days ago, AURA had become the first group to win Artist of the Year at the Global Music Awards twice. My parents hadn’t attended. My father had said the flight was too long, although I had offered to arrange a private one. My mother had promised they would watch the broadcast.

Neither of them had mentioned it since.

Another message appeared.

Mum: We thought a new watch would make a nice present. Something suitable for a doctor. Could you arrange it?

I almost laughed.

Something suitable for a doctor.

My brother saved lives. I wore expensive clothes and danced beneath flashing lights. That was how my parents saw it, regardless of how many stadiums we filled or records we broke.

His work had value.

Mine had a value attached to it.

I typed a reply.

Me: Of course. Send me the one you want.

Her answer came less than a minute later.

Mum: Thank you. Your brother will be so pleased.

I waited.

No question about how rehearsals were going. No mention of the award. Not even a reminder to eat, which would have irritated me but at least suggested she occasionally remembered I was a person who required food.

Just the watch.

I locked my phone.

“You look cheerful.”

D.O.Y stood beside me, holding out a bottle of water.

“I’m always cheerful.”

“That’s how I know you’re lying.”

I accepted the bottle. “My brother got a new job.”

“The doctor?”

“I only have one brother.”

“I know. I was confirming it wasn’t a secret, less successful one.”

Despite myself, I laughed. “Yes. The doctor.”

“Congratulations to him.”

“My parents want me to buy him a watch.”

D.O.Y looked at my phone and then back at me. “Didn’t you just win an award?”

“We all won it.”

“Did they congratulate you?”

I twisted the cap from the bottle.

He nodded slowly. “Right.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course not.”

“I mean it.”

“Sure.”

“You’re incredibly irritating.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Before I could answer, the practice-room door opened.

Our manager entered with two members of the publicity team behind him. That was rarely a promising combination.

MJ glanced at the clock on the wall. “Our ten minutes aren’t over.”

“This won’t take long,” Manager Kim said.

“That means it’s going to take long,” Sun muttered from the floor.

Manager Kim pretended not to hear him. He had perfected the skill years ago.

“We’ve confirmed the promotional schedule for the collaboration single,” he said. “The company wants Jae and Nari to begin filming together next week.”

D.O.Y leaned towards me.

“Congratulations,” he murmured. “You’ve been assigned another girlfriend.”

I elbowed him without taking my eyes off Manager Kim.

Han Nari was a member of VELVET, one of the country’s biggest girl groups. We had met countless times at award shows, music programmes and company events. She was talented, professional and perfectly pleasant.

The internet had decided we were secretly in love because she had once laughed at something I said during an interview.

To be fair, I had been looking at her when I said it.

That was apparently enough evidence for marriage.

“The response to your last interaction was extremely positive,” one of the publicity executives explained. “There’s already considerable interest in the two of you. We want to make use of that during the promotion.”

“Make use of it how?” I asked.

“Joint interviews. Behind-the-scenes content. A dance challenge. Nothing excessive.”

Excessive was subjective.

“People already think they’re dating,” Sun said.

The executive smiled. “Exactly.”

Nari and I weren’t dating. We had never dated. We had never kissed, held hands or spent time alone together.

But for the next six weeks, we would look at one another for half a second too long. Our stylists would coordinate our clothes without making it obvious. The editing team would include clips of us laughing together while cutting away the fifteen other people standing in the room.

Neither of us would confirm anything.

Neither of us would deny it.

Our companies would profit from the question.

“How long does my latest relationship last?” I asked.

Manager Kim sighed. “Jae.”

“I need to know when to schedule the breakup.”

Sun covered his laugh with a cough.

The executive didn’t appear amused. “It’s good publicity for both groups.”

“I know.” I took a drink of water. “I’ll do it.”

I always did.

That was the arrangement. The company sold music, performances and the careful suggestion that I might fall in love with anybody who looked at me long enough.

I received everything I had ever wanted in return.

Mostly.

“We’ll send the complete schedule tonight,” Manager Kim said. “And Jae, try not to make it look too rehearsed.”

“I’m wounded by the suggestion.”

“You flirt with furniture when there’s a camera nearby.”

“That chair knows what it did.”

Tay-O barked out a laugh.

Manager Kim shook his head, but I caught the reluctant smile before he turned away.

The door closed behind them.

Sun looked at me. “Do you think Nari knows you’re together?”

“She’ll receive a calendar.”

“You should buy her flowers.”

“Why?”

“To celebrate your anniversary.”

“We haven’t started dating yet.”

“You should make a good first impression.”

I threw my towel at him.

By the time practice ended, it was nearly eleven.

My driver was waiting downstairs, but the thought of climbing into the car and returning to my apartment made something in my chest tighten.

It was a beautiful apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Security at every entrance. Furniture selected by a designer whose name I had forgotten immediately after meeting him.

It never felt less empty when I walked into it.

“I’m going out,” I told Manager Kim.

He looked up from his phone. “Where?”

“For a walk.”

“At eleven at night?”

“It’s still walking after dark.”

“You have an early schedule tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“You need sleep.”

“I’ll sleep.”

He studied me, clearly unconvinced.

I pulled a black cap lower over my hair and hooked a mask around my ears. “I just need an hour.”

Manager Kim glanced towards the corridor where the others had disappeared. “Do you want someone to go with you?”

“No.”

That was the point.

After a pause, he nodded. “Keep your phone on.”

“I will.”

“And don’t go anywhere crowded.”

“Where would you suggest?”

“Your apartment.”

I smiled. “Goodnight.”

The air outside was cool enough to feel good against my overheated skin.

Seoul was never truly quiet. That was what I loved about it. Even at night, there was always movement somewhere—cars sliding through intersections, shop signs flickering above narrow streets, people spilling out of restaurants after late dinners.

I knew this city.

I knew which streets became deserted after the offices closed and which restaurants had private rooms without advertising them. I knew the riverside paths where couples walked without looking at anybody else and the convenience stores whose owners had known me since I was a trainee.

There were places where I could still be ordinary.

Not many, but enough.

I walked without deciding where I was going, keeping my head lowered whenever somebody passed. Most people were too busy with their own lives to look closely. That was another thing I loved about the city. Fame made me conspicuous, but Seoul offered anonymity if I knew where to find it.

After fifteen minutes, I noticed a café across the road.

Soft golden light glowed through its windows. Most of the tables were empty, and there were no people lingering outside with phones in their hands. It wasn’t part of one of the large chains I usually visited. Its sign was simple, the lettering small enough that I couldn’t read it from the opposite pavement.

I checked the time.

Twenty minutes before eleven.

Late, but not closed.

I crossed the road.

A bell sounded above the door when I stepped inside.

The café was warmer than I expected. Quiet music played from speakers hidden somewhere behind the counter. A couple sat beside the window, speaking softly over two half-finished drinks, while someone wearing headphones typed on a laptop at the table furthest from them.

Behind the counter, a woman was wiping down the coffee machine.

She looked up.

For a second, neither of us spoke.

She was beautiful.

Not in the polished, deliberate way I was accustomed to. There was no team of stylists behind the loose waves of dark hair falling over one shoulder. No makeup artist responsible for the soft colour in her cheeks.

She simply was.

Her eyes moved over my cap, my mask and the oversized hoodie that did very little to disguise me.

Recognition flickered across her face.

I knew that moment. I had seen it thousands of times—the brief widening of someone’s eyes when they realised who was standing in front of them. Usually, it was followed by a gasp, a hand flying to their mouth or a hurried search for a phone.

She did none of those things.

Instead, she smiled.

“Hi,” she said pleasantly. Her Korean was fluent, but there was something slightly different about the shape of certain words. “Just so you know, we close in twenty minutes, so we’re only taking drink orders now. Is that okay?”

I glanced behind me as though she might have been talking to someone else.

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s fine.”

I approached the counter.

She waited.

I looked at the menu above her head, even though I already knew what I wanted.

“Can I get an espresso?”

“Of course.”

She entered it into the till.

“That’s four thousand won.”

I paid. She glanced at the screen before looking back at me.

“Is that all?”

There was nothing impolite about the question. She wasn’t rushing me. She was simply waiting to know whether I wanted anything else.

For some reason, I felt as though I should.

“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks.”

She nodded. “You can take a seat. I’ll bring it over when it’s ready.”

Then she turned towards the coffee machine.

That was it.

No request for a photograph. No whispered confirmation of my name. No sudden change in her voice now that she had almost certainly recognised me.

I remained in front of the counter for a second too long.

She glanced over her shoulder.

“Sorry—did you need something else?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

I walked away before I could make the interaction any stranger and chose a table near the back, partially hidden by a tall plant.

From there, I watched her make the espresso.

She moved with the efficiency of someone who had done it hundreds of times, one hand adjusting a dial while the other reached for a small white cup. She didn’t look over at me. She didn’t pick up her phone.

Nothing.

I pulled mine from my pocket and opened the first notification I saw.

A fan edit filled the screen.

It was a collection of clips from our latest performance, most of them slowed down and sharpened until I looked almost unreal. The caption called me the most wanted man in K-pop.

It had two million likes.

I looked from the screen to the woman behind the counter.

She placed the espresso on a small tray and carried it towards me.

“Here you go.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She smiled again before returning to the counter.

I stared down at the tiny cup in front of me.

Millions of people watched me through screens every day. They argued over the colour of my hair, the meaning behind my expressions and the kind of person I might one day fall in love with.

The woman behind the counter had looked directly at me and decided I was simply another customer ordering too close to closing time.

It was strange.

Not insulting. Not even disappointing.

Just strange.

Behind the counter, she returned to wiping down the coffee machine, apparently giving our interaction no further thought.

I lifted the espresso and took a sip.

For once, nobody in the room seemed to need anything from me.

I hadn’t realised how much I needed that.