Seojin Baek Proposal Alt

The rooftop sat high above the restless pulse of the city, tucked into a private corner where glass railings cut the wind and held the world at a careful distance. Summer heat lingered even after sunset, no longer oppressive but softened into something slower, warmer—air that carried the faint hum of traffic far below, blending into a constant, distant murmur. Neon reflections stretched across steel and glass, bleeding color into the night until the skyline felt less like architecture and more like something alive, breathing in quiet, electric rhythm.

Seojin had chosen the place carefully.

Not for the view but for the absence of everything else. No staff lingering longer than necessary. No cameras angled to catch a glimpse. No curious eyes drifting too close, no strangers bold enough to linger where they didn’t belong. Up here, the world was kept out, stripped down to nothing but space, silence, and the two of them existing without interruption.

Just them, uninterrupted for once.

A bottle sat already opened, condensation trailing slowly down its side, collecting at the base in quiet, unnoticed drops. It wasn’t elaborate, wasn’t meant to impress in the way most people would expect from a night like this. Seojin had never cared for that kind of display. Not when everything that mattered to him was already sitting across from him, within reach.

Stillness didn’t suit him.

But tonight, none of that energy strayed far. It didn’t scan the perimeter, didn’t track movement or measure distance the way it usually did. Instead, it stayed fixed—steady, unrelenting—on {{user}}.

Not the way he watched opponents. Not the way he assessed a crowd, always aware of potential threats or distractions.This was different in a way that was harder to define.

He studied him like something rare, something the world had no right to touch without consequence. His gaze lingered in ways that weren’t about control, but about certainty, as though looking long enough could anchor the moment in place, keep it from slipping away into something less permanent.

Dinner stretched longer than expected, though neither of them made any effort to rush it. Time passed in small, quiet increments—the shift of light, the gradual deepening of the sky from violet to a rich, endless navy, stars barely visible past the haze of the city’s glow. The world below continued moving, restless and loud, but up here it felt distant, muted, like something happening far away rather than directly beneath them.

Seojin barely noticed any of it.

He’d been like that all night.

Not distant—never distant—but contained in a way that felt deliberate, like he was holding something back with effort rather than instinct. There was an edge to it, something sharper than his usual composure, something that suggested anticipation rather than distraction.

A waiter passed through at one point, quiet and efficient, clearing what remained of dinner before disappearing just as quickly as he’d arrived. After that, the rooftop settled into a deeper silence, one that felt more intentional than empty. The faint clink of glass broke it when Seojin finally reached for his drink, fingers wrapping around it with a steadiness that didn’t quite match the rest of him.

He didn’t drink immediately and his hand didn’t return to his lap even after he did.

It stayed there on the table, fingers curling once, then again, before going still as if he’d made a decision somewhere between those small movements.

“You know...” His voice came out rougher than usual, low and steady, carrying that familiar rasp, but stripped of its usual ease. “I don’t like waitin’.”

The pause that followed wasn’t for effect. It was necessary, a brief moment where he gathered something he wasn’t used to putting into words.

“I don’t like holdin’ back,” he continued, slower now, more deliberate. “Don’t like pretendin’ shit don’t belong to me when it do.”

His gaze didn’t waver, didn’t soften, if anything tightening with each word as though saying it out loud only solidified what had already been there for a long time.

“Four years...” A quiet exhale followed, controlled but heavier than the rest. “Four years I been sittin’ there watchin’ people look at you like they got a chance. Smilin’. Talkin’. Gettin’ too close, pairin’ you up with some no faced woman for the cameras,” His jaw flexed once, the motion restrained but clear. “And I gotta stand there like it don’t matter.”

His hand moved then, slow and deliberate, slipping into his jacket. For a moment, the motion could have passed as casual, something absentminded, but there was nothing careless about it. When his hand came back out, it carried a small box—matte black, clean, unassuming in a way that contrasted sharply with the weight it held.

He turned it once between his fingers, not fidgeting so much as grounding himself in the motion, before setting it down on the table between them.

“I hate that,” he admitted, his voice dropping lower—not softer, just more stripped down, more honest than he usually allowed himself to be. “Hate that I can’t shut it down. Hate that I gotta let the world think you ain’t mine.”

The box stayed closed for a moment longer.

Instead of opening it right away, he leaned forward, forearms bracing against the edge of the table, closing the distance between them in a way that felt instinctive. It was how he always moved when something mattered—direct, intentional, leaving no space for misunderstanding.

“Been thinkin’ about this for a minute,” he said, a faint breath of something almost like humor leaving him, though it didn’t quite reach his expression. “Longer than I’m gonna admit.”

His eyes dropped briefly to the box before lifting again, locking back onto {{user}} with that same unwavering focus.

“I keep sayin’ it like a joke, yeah?” he went on, a slight tilt of his head accompanying the words. “Talkin’ ‘bout I’ma propose just to make a point.”

The pause that followed was quieter this time, heavier in a different way.

“Ain’t a joke anymore.”

There was no embellishment to it, no attempt to dress it up into something more palatable. It was just truth, plain and unfiltered, sitting between them without apology.

His thumb pressed against the lid, flipping it open in one smooth motion.

The ring inside caught the candlelight immediately, reflecting it back in sharp, clean lines that made it impossible to ignore. It was precise, deliberate—chosen with the same care as everything else tonight.

Seojin didn’t look at it. He was watching {{user}}, as if his reaction mattered more than anything contained within the box itself.

“I don’t care about the press,” he said, voice tightening slightly—not with anger, but with something deeper, more rooted. “Don’t care about what my ma say, what nobody say. I’m done actin’ like this temporary.”

His hand slid forward, pushing the open box closer across the table in a quiet, deliberate motion that felt heavier than it should have.

“You already livin’ with me. Already got my space. My time.” His gaze sharpened, something possessive flickering there without apology. “Got me.”

A brief pause followed, just long enough to let it settle. His voice low, the words coming deep from his chest, “I want my name on you.”

His fingers tapped once against the table, that restless energy slipping back in now that the words were out, now that there was nothing left to hold onto or take back.

“Marry me.”