Clothes Off

The clock on your laptop read 1:17 AM. Seoul's skyline glittered beyond your floor-to-ceiling windows, a constellation of city lights against the night.

Your penthouse had morphed into a songwriter's dream den—cushions and blankets scattered across the floor, empty Sprite cans and convenience store wrappers evidence of the hours spent creating.

The oversized sectional had been pushed back, ambient lighting casting everything in that perfect 1 AM glow. The kind that makes bad ideas seem brilliant and good ideas seem inevitable.

Belle sat cross-legged on a cushion beside you, notebook balanced on one knee. Her blonde hair fell in waves past her shoulders, catching the light in a way that looked accidental but probably wasn't. Nothing about Belle was ever truly accidental.

"I still think the bridge needs work," she said, tapping her pen against the page. "But we can fix it tomorrow."

Three years of writing together had created a rhythm between you—a creative shorthand that had produced hits for LESSERAFIM, Chungha, and now, hopefully, KISS OF LIFE. Though industry insiders whispered about the anonymous genius behind their favorite lyrics, you preferred staying in the shadows, letting the artists shine while you collected quiet accolades and royalty checks.

Belle was different. She'd sought you out after hearing about your work, determined to write with you. That first session had ended with her hand lingering on yours after a celebratory toast, a moment stretched thin until her manager called.

Then came the marathon session for Chungha's EP—falling asleep on the studio couch and waking up with Belle curled against you, both pretending nothing happened by morning. Her late-night voice notes from European tour stops, voice dropping to that whisper that lived rent-free in your head for weeks after.

Three years of almosts. Three years of moments dripping with possibility, interrupted or carefully sidestepped when reality intruded.

"I think we're done for tonight," you said, saving the file. "Twenty-five demos is enough, even for us."

"Twenty-six if you count that rap throwaway," Belle corrected, stretching her arms overhead. Her white tank rode up, revealing a sliver of skin that pulled your focus like a magnet. "Though we both know only three or four will make the final cut. The way these company execs gatekeep tracks is toxic, but whatever."

She reached for her water bottle, the movement practiced and graceful. The makeup she'd worn to her earlier schedule remained perfect—winged liner accentuating her dark eyes, lips tinted pink that matched the slight flush creeping up her neck.

You turned back to your laptop, ready to shut down when Belle shifted closer, her shoulder pressing against yours. The scent of her perfume—something expensive and subtle that you'd caught yourself looking for in crowds—filled your senses as she pointed to a filename.

"What's this one?" she asked, voice close to your ear. "clothes_off_030125?"

Her proximity sent that familiar jolt through you—the same electricity that had been building since that night six months ago when she'd called you after her company dinner, voice wine-soft, confessing she'd turned down a setup because "there was someone else" before hanging up abruptly.

"Oh, that's..." you hesitated, mouse hovering. "It's for Kehlani."

Belle's eyes widened. "Kehlani? As in THE Kehlani?"

You nodded, unable to hold back a smile at her reaction. "Yeah, she's doing a collab with kwn—that upcoming R&B artist from Oakland. Sent me the beat last week."

"Holy shit." Belle straightened up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Play it. Right now."

"It's not finished—"

"I don't care. Play. It."

You clicked open the file. The beat filled the room—a deep bass line that seemed to sink into your bones, followed by subtle percussion that built with deliberate patience. The kind of track that didn't just ask for attention; it demanded it.

Belle closed her eyes, body swaying slightly. You watched her reaction, the way her lips parted, how her fingers drummed against her thigh in perfect time. You'd seen this look before—when you'd played her the instrumental for MIYEON's track, the one that earned her that songwriting credit she'd been chasing.

"Fuck, that's good," she whispered, eyes still closed.

"Yeah, Kehlani wants something raw. Authentic." You ran a hand through your hair. "Lyrics that feel real."

Belle opened her eyes, meeting yours. "Well? What do you have so far?"

You pulled up the lyric document, cleared your throat. "Girl, the way you're pushin' up on my body..."

"That's it?" One perfect eyebrow arched, the judgment softened by the playful curve of her mouth.

"I told you it wasn't finished."

She moved closer, eyes scanning the screen. "It's good. But something's missing." Without asking permission, she pulled your laptop toward her and began typing.

You leaned back, watching her work. Belle wasn't just an idol; she was a genuine songwriter. One of the few who could translate feeling into syllables that stuck in your head for days.

"Don't be scared, I ain't scared, no..." she murmured as she typed, her voice dropping to a register you'd only heard once before—in that hotel room in Japan when she'd thought you were asleep and was singing quietly to herself in the shower. You'd lain awake afterward, staring at the ceiling, trying to erase the sound from your memory and failing spectacularly.

Her fingers paused over the keyboard. "Can I dare to leave your bed a mess and wet?" she read, letting the words hang in the air between you.

Holy shit. The room suddenly felt ten degrees warmer. You swallowed hard, memories flooding back of the night you'd had too much soju after finishing the Chungha project—how Belle had leaned in, lips parted, before her phone rang with a call from her manager. The frustration in her eyes as she'd answered it, the moment slipping away.

Belle shifted her position, moving from cross-legged to kneeling beside you, the blankets bunching beneath her knees. The movement was fluid, catlike. She leaned forward to look at the screen, her body angled toward yours, the loose neckline of her tank dipping slightly.

Is she doing this on purpose? Your brain was fighting a losing battle against your body's immediate response. We've been dancing around this for too long. Maybe it was the late hour, maybe it was the lyrics, or maybe three years of tension had finally reached its breaking point.

She looked up through her lashes, pupils dilated in the dim light. "Oh, you better take my clothes off..."

This isn't about the lyrics anymore. The realization hit you with absolute certainty. After three years of missed chances and interrupted moments, this felt deliberate—Belle was done waiting.

Her lips parted slightly, the tip of her tongue wetting her bottom lip—the same gesture you'd caught yourself staring at during late-night takeout and early morning coffee runs.

Fuck, she's unreal right now. You'd always known Belle was stunning—that was just objective reality—but in this moment, with her blonde hair falling around her face and that look in her eyes, she was devastating. And for once, there were no managers calling, no schedules to rush to, no interruptions looming.

Her fingers trailed along her collarbone as she waited for your reaction, her head tilted just enough to expose the curve where her neck met her shoulder—the same spot you'd found yourself staring at during that summer session when the air conditioning broke and she'd pinned her hair up, fanning herself with sheet music.

"Focus, oppa." Her tone was pure temptation, the honorific carrying a weight it never had before.

She's been thinking about this too. Every lingering touch, every late-night call, every inside joke that brought her just a little too close—they hadn't been coincidences.

"I am," you lied, voice rough even to your own ears.

No the fuck you are not, your brain helpfully supplied. You haven't been focused since the first day you met her.

The beat continued to loop, becoming hypnotic in its repetition—bass, snare, hi-hat, silence, repeat . Three years of professional boundaries, carefully maintained through interruptions and bad timing, were finally crumbling.

The music surrounded you, but all you could hear was the thundering of your own heart and the magnetic pull between you.

You'd set your phone on the cushion between you, voice memo recording to capture any sudden inspiration. Standard procedure for your sessions, though tonight it felt like documenting evidence of something dangerous.

Seconds stretched into minutes. Neither of you moved. The line between writing lyrics and something else had blurred beyond recognition, leaving you in this strange limbo where every word felt like both work and confession.

You broke first, clearing your throat and turning back to the laptop. Work. Focus on the work.