amber

It still feels a little unreal sometimes, the way you say it in the same sentence as “the dorm,” like it’s normal to live in a place where eight pairs of shoes pile up by the door and someone is always warming something up in the microwave at 2 a.m.

It’s even more unreal that it’s yours, too. Not officially, not on paper, not in any way that wouldn’t make managers turn pale. But it’s yours in the ways that matter. Your mug is in the cabinet now. Your shampoo is in the shower. Your hoodie is on the back of Han’s chair because he always steals it, then pretends he didn’t.

The dorm has its own heartbeat.

A door closing softly down the hall. Laughter in the living room. A burst of music from someone’s phone. The hiss of ramen being drained in the kitchen, then a chorus of “Is anyone eating this?” like the question hasn’t been asked a million times.

And then there’s Han.

He’s always been the warmest part of the room when he walks in, even when he tries to act like he isn’t. He’s the kind of boyfriend who remembers small things, like the fact you like your tangerines peeled the “lazy way,” and he’ll do it for you while he’s half-asleep on the couch. The kind who presses a kiss to your temple without thinking when he passes by you, like a habit, like breathing.

For a long time, your relationship is easy.

Soft. Safe.

Han comes home tired, collapses into your arms, and you’re the place he lands. You bring him water, you rub his shoulders, you listen while he complains about choreography with the dramatic intensity of someone describing a war. He makes you laugh until your stomach hurts. He makes you feel chosen in a way that doesn’t feel fragile.

On nights the others are out, or asleep, or gaming with headphones on, Han and you steal the living room like it belongs to you.

You sit cross-legged on the floor while he strums random chords, humming to himself. Sometimes he looks up like he’s checking if you’re still there, and the moment he meets your eyes, his whole face changes.

Like he’s relieved.

Like he still can’t believe he gets to have you.

“Come here,” he says one night, voice sleepy.

You crawl onto the couch and fold into him. He wraps you up instantly, arms around your waist, chin resting on top of your head.

“I love you,” he murmurs, like he’s talking to himself more than to you.

You smile against his hoodie.

“I love you too.”

He squeezes tighter, like he’s afraid to let go.

It’s perfect enough that you don’t see the fracture coming.

Not until the warmth starts to thin out at the edges, so slowly you can almost convince yourself it’s your imagination.

—

You’re in the kitchen, opening the fridge, scanning for something easy. Han is sitting at the table with his phone in his hand, thumb scrolling, shoulders slightly hunched like he’s cold even though the heat is on.

“What do you want for dinner?” you ask. “I can make something quick.”

“Whatever,” he says without looking up.

It shouldn’t sting. It’s not even rude, not really. He’s tired. He’s always tired.

But Han usually looks at you. Han usually says, “Whatever you want, baby,” or “Let’s order something, my treat,” or he’ll get up and hang on you from behind and insist he can cook even though he absolutely cannot.

Tonight he just stays where he is. Still. Focused on the glow of his screen.

You watch him for a second longer than you mean to.

He realizes. His thumb pauses.

He looks up fast, like he’s been caught.

“You okay?” he asks, too casual.

You nod, forcing a smile.

“Yeah. You just seem… out of it.”

“I’m fine,” he says immediately. Too immediate. “Just tired.”

You accept it because you love him. Because you live with him, and the dorm has a thousand reasons for someone to be tired.

But it happens again.

And again.

Little things. A hand that doesn’t reach for yours first anymore. A kiss that lands on your cheek instead of your mouth. The way he shifts away when you try to tuck yourself into his side on the couch, not aggressively, just… subtly. Like he’s making room for air.

One night, you bring it up carefully.

You’re in your room, the one you share quietly with him, tucked behind a closed door that holds your secret like a promise. Han is changing out of practice clothes, shirt tossed onto a chair, hair damp from a shower.

You sit on the edge of the bed and watch him.

“Are you mad at me?” you ask.

He freezes for half a second, then laughs like you told a joke.

“What? No.”

“Okay,” you say slowly. “You’ve just been kinda distant.”

He exhales, rubs a hand through his hair.

“Babe, I’ve got a lot going on.”

“I know,” you say. “I’m not trying to add to it. I just… miss you.”

His face softens for a moment, like the real Han flickers back in.

He crosses the room, cups your cheek with his hand.

“I’m right here,” he says. “See? I’m here.”

You nod, leaning into his palm. You want to believe it.

But his hand drops too soon, like he remembered something.

He turns away, rummages for his charger.

And the warmth flickers back out.

You start asking the others, cautiously.

Not accusing. Not dramatic. Just small, careful questions slipped into normal conversation, like you’re checking the weather.

“Has Han been okay lately?” you ask Chan one afternoon when Han is in the studio.

Chan blinks at you, genuinely confused.

“Yeah. Why?”

“I don’t know,” you say, trying to sound casual. “He just seems stressed.”

Chan shrugs.

“We’re all stressed. He’s fine.”

You ask Minho later, when he’s pouring himself coffee.

“Han’s been weird, right?”

Minho squints like you’re speaking another language.

“Weird how.”

“Just quieter,” you say. “Not as… him.”

Minho hums, then shrugs.

“He’s always moody. He’ll bounce back.”

It makes you feel a little crazy. Like you’re trying to explain a color no one else can see.

And because no one else sees it, you start doubting yourself.

Maybe you’re too sensitive. Maybe you’re reading into nothing. Maybe he really is just tired.

But at night, when you’re curled beside him and he scrolls on his phone with his back turned slightly away from you, you start staring at the ceiling and listening to the sound of distance growing in the dark.

—

You and Han are on the couch, controllers in your hands, a stupid competitive co-op game on the TV. The dorm is loud in the background. Someone is laughing down the hall. Someone is yelling at a screen. It’s comfortable chaos.

Han is sitting close enough that your thigh touches his. You can smell his shampoo. You want to relax into it, want to pretend the last few weeks haven’t felt like walking on thin ice.

“Okay,” you say, leaning forward. “If you don’t heal me right now, I’m literally going to die.”

“I’m trying,” Han says, voice tense. “Stop running into them like you’re invincible.”

“I’m not invincible. I’m just brave.”

He huffs, half laughing.

“Move, Samantha,” he says, eyes glued to the screen. “No, not there, move!”

Your hands stop moving.

Your character gets taken out instantly.

The sound of the game fills the silence where your voice should be.

Han blinks, still focused. Then he realizes your controller is still.

He turns toward you.

“What?” he says. “Why’d you stop?”

You stare at him.

“Who the hell is Samantha?”

His face drains of color so fast it’s like watching a light switch flip.

“What?” he laughs, too high. “No, I didn’t… I didn’t say that.”

“You did,” you say quietly. Your voice is calm, which scares you more than if you were yelling. “You called me Samantha.”

He shakes his head, quick and frantic.

“No. I mean, I didn’t mean… it was just, like, a random name. Like when people say ‘dude’ or… I don’t know. It’s nothing.”

“A random name,” you repeat.

His eyes dart away. Back to the TV. To anything but you.

“Avery,” he says too fast, like he’s trying to patch a hole with tape. “I meant Avery.”

“My name is nowhere near Samantha,” you say. “Not even remotely.”

Han swallows.

“You’re making it a big deal.”

Your stomach drops.

You hate that line. It’s a line people use when they want you to shrink.

“Then tell me,” you say. “Who is she?”

He stares at you, and for a second you swear you see panic crack through his expression.

“Nobody,” he says, voice sharp. “There is no Samantha. You’re doing that thing where you overthink.”

You go very still.

“That thing,” you echo softly.

He exhales hard, stands up like he needs air. He paces once in front of the couch, hair a mess, hands flexing at his sides.

“I’m tired,” he says. “I’m stressed. It was a mistake. Can we not do this right now?”

Your throat tightens.

A mistake.

He said it like he dropped a plate. Like it was nothing but clumsiness.

But your heart is hearing something else.

Your heart is hearing a name that doesn’t belong in your apartment.

In your mouth, your voice feels small.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Fine.”

Han pauses like he expects more. Like he expects you to fight, to demand, to cry. When you don’t, his shoulders loosen slightly, relief slipping in.

He sits back down, picks up his controller.

“Come on,” he says, forcing normal. “Again.”

You pick up your controller with numb fingers.

But your hands feel far away. The screen feels far away.

And the name keeps echoing in your head, sharp as a bell.

Samantha.

—

After that, you start watching him differently.

It’s not a choice. It’s survival.

You watch the way his phone is always face-down now. You watch the way he angles the screen away from you when he scrolls. You watch the way he goes still when his notifications buzz, then checks them quickly, like ripping off a bandage.

You start noticing the way he isn’t as hungry anymore. How he picks at food. How his smile looks practiced. How his laughter doesn’t fully reach his eyes.

You try to kiss him and he kisses you back, but it’s like he’s completing a task. You try to climb into his lap and he lets you, but his hands don’t hold you like they used to.

The first time you try to initiate, you do it carefully. Softly. Like you’re offering something fragile.

Han kisses you, then pulls away.

“Not tonight,” he murmurs. “I’m exhausted.”

You nod immediately. You tell yourself it’s fine. It’s normal. People get tired.

The second time, it’s the same.

Then again.

Then one night, you’re pressed close to him in bed, fingers tracing along his arm, and you feel him tense.

Not in desire.

In discomfort.

He shifts away. Just slightly. Like he needs distance.

Your chest tightens.

“Did I do something?” you ask quietly.

Han exhales like he’s been waiting for that question.

“No,” he says, too fast. “God, no. You didn’t do anything.”

“Then why won’t you touch me,” you whisper.

The words come out before you can stop them.

Han goes silent. His jaw clenches.

“I do touch you,” he says.

You shake your head slowly.

“You’re here, but you’re not. It feels like you’re… somewhere else.”

His eyes flash with something. Shame, maybe. Anger, maybe. Fear.

He sits up, rubs his face with both hands.

“Can you stop?” he says, voice strained. “Please. I can’t handle this right now.”

You sit up too, heart hammering.

“Handle what? Me missing my boyfriend?”

Han’s breath catches.

He looks at you like your words hurt. Like you stabbed him.

“Please,” he repeats. “Avery. Just… stop.”

The way he says your name feels like a warning. Like a boundary. Like you’re pushing where you aren’t allowed to push.

You fall silent.

Han lies back down, turning away from you.

And you lie there next to him, staring at the back of his neck, feeling the distance between your bodies like an entire ocean.

After a while, you stop trying.

Not because you stop wanting him.

Because you start feeling ashamed of wanting him.

Because every time you reach and he pulls away, it carves something out of you, quiet and deep.

So you become careful.

You become polite.

You become the kind of girlfriend who doesn’t ask for too much, because you’re afraid the answer will finally be the truth.

—

Han steps inside, shoes kicked off, jacket half unzipped. He looks tired, hair mussed, cheeks flushed from the cold.

The smell hits you the second the front door opens.

It isn’t subtle.

It’s a perfume. Sweet, sharp, undeniably feminine. It clings to the air like it arrived before he did.

He freezes when he sees you in the living room.

You’re sitting on the couch, pretending you’re watching TV, but you’re not watching anything.

Your eyes land on him.

Then the scent reaches you fully, and your stomach twists.

Han clears his throat.

“Hey,” he says carefully. “You’re still up.”

You swallow.

“Yeah.”

He walks in farther, and the scent follows him like a shadow.

Your voice comes out quiet and too controlled.

“You smell different.”

Han’s steps falter.

He looks down at himself like he’s checking for evidence.

“What?”

“Perfume,” you say. “You smell like perfume.”

His eyes flicker.

He laughs once, short and forced.

“Oh. That. Someone was really close at practice,” he says. “Probably got on my jacket. You know how it is.”

You stare at him.

Because you do know how practice is. You know they’re close. You know they’re sweating and moving and packed into tight spaces.

But you also know what perfume smells like. You know the difference between “someone brushed by” and “someone pressed into you.”

Han rubs the back of his neck.

“Don’t do that,” he says.

“Do what?”

He gestures vaguely at your face.

“Look at me like that.”

Your chest aches. It feels like your ribs are too tight for your lungs.

“I didn’t say anything,” you whisper.

“You don’t have to,” he snaps, then immediately looks like he regrets it.

Silence spreads.

Han exhales, shoulders dropping.

“I’m tired,” he says again, like it’s the only explanation he has for everything. “I’m going to shower.”

“Okay,” you say.

He walks past you toward the hallway, and the perfume trails behind him like a confession.

You don’t follow. You don’t demand. You don’t cry loudly.

You sit there, fists clenched in your lap, listening to the water turn on.

And you do the thing you hate most.

You swallow it.

Because if you name it, you might break.

And part of you still believes that if you don’t break, if you just stay good, stay quiet, stay patient, he’ll come back to you.

So you let the night pass without a fight.

But something in you changes anyway.

Because now there’s a smell in your memory that doesn’t belong to your life.

—

When Han asks you to sit down, your first thought is that he’s going to end it.

The fear has lived in your chest for weeks now, a quiet animal with sharp teeth.

You follow him into your room like you’re walking into a courtroom.

Han’s guitar is already out. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, fingers resting on the strings without playing.

He looks nervous.

Which is almost worse, because Han is never nervous with you.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey.”

He swallows, eyes flicking up to meet yours, then away.

“I wrote something,” he says.

You blink.

“A song.”

Your heart stutters. For a second, hope flares so bright it hurts.

“You did?”

He nods quickly, like he’s trying to convince himself to do it.

“It’s… for you.”

Your throat tightens.

“For me,” you repeat.

He gives a small, shaky smile.

“Yeah. I just… I want you to hear it.”

You sit on the bed, hands folded in your lap so you don’t reach for him too fast.

Han adjusts the guitar. His fingers find chords like muscle memory.

And then he plays.

It’s beautiful.

Of course it is. He’s Han. He pours emotions into music like it’s the only safe place for them.

The song feels like warmth returning to a room that’s been cold too long. It’s soft, aching, full of little details that stab you in the heart. Your laugh. Your hands. The way you say his name when you’re half asleep. The way you always wait up, even when he tells you not to.

The chorus hits and your eyes start burning.

By the time he finishes, you’re crying so hard you can’t breathe properly.

Han’s voice breaks on the last note.

He stops playing and looks at you with wide, scared eyes, like he didn’t expect tears.

“Avery,” he whispers.

You wipe at your face quickly, embarrassed, but the tears won’t stop. They’re the kind that have been waiting for permission.

“That was…” your voice cracks. “That was so beautiful.”

Han shifts closer, hesitates, then reaches out carefully, like he’s afraid of touching you wrong.

He brushes his thumb under your eye.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

The words hit you like a slap.

You freeze.

“What?”

His hand drops.

He laughs weakly like he misspoke.

“I didn’t mean… I mean… I’m not, like… sorry you cried. I’m just… it’s a lot.”

You stare at him.

Because the song felt like love, but his eyes look like guilt.

And suddenly, you can’t do this halfway anymore.

You can’t keep swallowing it. You can’t keep living with questions that grow teeth in the dark.

Your voice comes out very quiet.

“Are you cheating on me?”

Han goes completely still.

The air in the room changes. The dorm sounds outside your door suddenly feel far away, like you’re underwater.

Han’s lips part. No sound comes out.

You keep your gaze on him because if you look away, you’ll fall apart.

“I need you to answer me,” you whisper. “I can feel something is wrong. You’ve been pulling away for weeks. You called me Samantha. You won’t touch me. You came home smelling like perfume. And now you write me a love song like… like you’re trying to make up for something.”

Han’s face crumples.

It happens so fast you almost don’t recognize him.

He drops the guitar gently to the side like it suddenly weighs too much, and then he covers his face with both hands.

And he starts to cry.

He folds forward like his body can’t hold itself upright, shoulders shaking, breath catching in jagged pieces.

Your heart stops.

Because you asked for truth, but you didn’t realize how much the truth would look like grief.

“Han,” you whisper, voice breaking. “Jisung.”

He shakes his head hard, still crying into his hands.

“I didn’t want to,” he chokes out. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want to be that person.”

Your skin goes cold.

Your fingers curl into the blanket under you.

“Who,” you whisper. “Who is Samantha?”

Han tries to inhale. It comes out shaky.

“It’s… it’s a trainee,” he says, voice wrecked. “Not here, not… not in our dorm, but… she’s around. She’s been around.”

You stare at him.

Your chest feels hollow, like someone scooped you out.

“How long?” you ask.

Han sobs harder, like the question physically hurts.

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “It started as nothing. I swear it did. It was just talking. Just… being around someone who didn’t know me like everyone else does. Someone who didn’t look at me like I’m always supposed to be okay.”

Your vision blurs.

“But you had me,” you whisper. “I’m right here.”

“I know,” he says, voice breaking. “I know. And that’s why I hate myself. Because you were right here and I still… I still let it happen.”

You swallow, trying not to throw up.

“Did you sleep with her?”

Han’s sobs stutter.

He nods once, tiny and devastated.

The world tilts.

Your body goes numb first. Like your brain is trying to protect you by shutting everything down.

“Once?” you whisper, barely audible.

Han shakes his head, crying harder.

“No,” he admits. “Not once.”

You make a sound that doesn’t feel human.

Han flinches like it’s a gunshot.

“I tried to stop,” he pleads. “I tried. I kept telling myself I’d end it, I’d fix it, I’d come back to you fully, I’d be the boyfriend you deserve. I kept thinking I could do it before you noticed. I kept thinking I could carry it and you’d never have to know.”

He looks up finally, eyes red, face wet.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry. I hate myself. I hate myself so much.”

You stare at him.

And the worst part is that you believe him.

You believe he’s sorry.

You believe he hates himself.

But it doesn’t change what happened.

It doesn’t undo the way he let you slowly bleed out emotionally while he had someone else’s name on his tongue.

Your voice comes out dangerously calm.

“So the distance,” you say. “The nights you wouldn’t touch me. The way you looked at your phone like you were guarding it. The perfume. All of it was her.”

Han squeezes his eyes shut, nodding.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” he whispers.

You laugh once, sharp and broken.

“How did you want me to find out?”

Han reaches for you without thinking, hand stretching toward your knee.

You flinch away.

He freezes, hand hovering in the air like he’s been burned.

That tiny movement wrecks him more than anything else. You see it on his face.

He whispers your name like it’s a prayer.

“Avery…”

You stand up slowly, legs shaking.

Han looks up at you like you’re his whole world and he’s watching it collapse.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper, voice finally cracking. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

Han’s face twists.

“I’ll do anything,” he says desperately. “Anything you want. I’ll tell the company, I’ll cut contact, I’ll… I’ll leave, I’ll move out, I’ll do whatever. Please. Please don’t leave me.”

You press a hand to your mouth, trying to keep yourself from making another sound.

Because the tragedy isn’t that you don’t love him.

It’s that you do.

And now love feels like something sharp.

You step backward, away from the bed, away from him.

Han scrambles up, panicked.

“Please,” he repeats, voice breaking apart. “Please, Avery. Please.”

Your tears finally spill.

You shake your head.

“I can’t,” you whisper. “I can’t fix this. I can’t be the one who fixes everything. I can’t.”

Han sobs again, collapsing back onto the bed like his bones gave up.

You turn toward the door, hand on the knob.

And right before you leave, your voice comes out small and ruined.

“Was I not enough?”

Han’s answer is immediate, strangled.

“You were everything,” he cries. “That’s why I’m destroying myself. Because you were everything and I still…”

His voice breaks completely.

You close your eyes.

Because “you were everything” doesn’t stop the ache.

It just proves that even being everything doesn’t guarantee being chosen.

You open the door.

The dorm hallway light spills in.

And you step out, leaving Han behind you with a love song still hanging in the air like a ghost.

You don’t go far.

You end up in the bathroom down the hall, sitting on the closed toilet lid with your knees pulled to your chest, shaking so hard your teeth click.

You stare at your phone like it might give you instructions.

What do normal people do when their life cracks open like this?

You want to call someone. You want to scream. You want to vanish.

Instead, you sit there in the sterile bathroom light, listening to the dorm’s distant noise, and you realize something awful.

The others don’t know.

They’re laughing. Gaming. Eating. Living.

And you’re in here with a secret that is suddenly too big for your lungs.

Your hands tremble as you press your palms to your face.

The tears come in waves. Not dramatic, not pretty, just steady devastation.

After a while, there’s a knock.

Soft.

“Avery?” a voice calls quietly from the other side.

It’s Chan.

Your heart jumps.

You scrub your face, inhale shakily, and open the door a crack.

Chan’s eyes scan you in one second and his expression changes.

“Hey,” he says gently. “What happened?”

Your throat tightens.

You shake your head, unable to speak.

Chan’s gaze flicks past you down the hall, toward your room.

Toward Han.

He doesn’t press, not right away. He just lowers his voice.

“Do you need me to sit with you?”

You stare at him, and your eyes burn again, because the kindness feels like salt.

You swallow.

“I… I don’t know,” you whisper.

Chan nods like that makes sense.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Then I’ll just be here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your shoulders sag.

You open the door wider, and he steps in just enough to give you space while still standing close.

“What’s going on?” he asks again, quieter.

Your voice comes out tiny.

“He… he cheated.”

Chan goes still.

You watch his face register the words like they physically hit him.

“Han?” he whispers.

You nod, tears spilling again.

Chan’s jaw tightens. His eyes soften with something that looks like anger and heartbreak at the same time.

“Oh,” he says, voice rough. “Avery.”

You press your hand over your mouth, shaking.

Chan doesn’t touch you immediately, like he’s waiting for permission. When you finally nod, barely, he pulls you into a careful hug, not tight, not suffocating, just steady.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs.

The words break you again, because Chan didn’t hurt you, but he’s apologizing anyway. Like he’s holding some of the weight just because you can’t carry it alone.

You cling to his hoodie for a second, like a life raft.

Then you pull back, wiping your face again.

“I can’t be here,” you whisper. “I can’t… I can’t breathe in this dorm right now.”

Chan nods immediately.

“Okay,” he says. “Do you want to go somewhere else tonight? I’ll help.”

You stare at him, stunned.

“You’ll help me leave?”

Chan’s eyes hold yours, steady.

“I’ll help you do whatever you need,” he says softly. “You don’t have to decide the rest of your life tonight. But you shouldn’t be trapped in a hallway bathroom with your heart in your hands, okay?”

You nod shakily.

Chan glances toward the door, then back to you.

“Do you want me to talk to him?” he asks. “Or do you want to?”

Your chest tightens. You picture Han’s face, wet with tears, the guitar on the bed like a weapon, the love song that now feels like a funeral.

“I can’t,” you whisper again. “Not right now.”

Chan nods.

“Okay,” he repeats, gentle but firm. “Then you pack a bag. I’ll make sure nobody bothers you.”

You swallow.

“What about the others?”

“I’ll handle it,” Chan says. “I’ll keep it vague. You don’t owe anyone explanations tonight.”

Your eyes fill again.

“Thank you,” you whisper, and your voice breaks on the words.

Chan’s expression softens even more.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Of course.”

He steps out first, like a shield, giving you a clear path down the hall.

Your legs feel like they don’t belong to you as you walk back toward your room.

The closer you get, the more your chest tightens.

Because behind that door is Han.

The person you loved like home.

The person who just tore the floor out from under you.

You pause with your hand on the knob.

Your whole body trembles.

Chan waits a few feet away, giving you space.

You open the door.

Han is still on the bed.

His eyes snap to you instantly, red-rimmed and desperate. His face crumples like he’s been holding his breath waiting for you to come back.

“Avery,” he whispers.

You stand in the doorway, not stepping inside fully.

Your voice is hoarse.

“I’m packing a bag.”

Han jolts like the sentence is a knife.

“No,” he chokes. “Please. Please don’t go.”

You swallow hard.

“I can’t stay,” you whisper. “Not tonight.”

Han slides off the bed, taking a step toward you.

You step back instantly.

He freezes mid-step, eyes wide with pain.

“I won’t touch you,” he says quickly. “I swear. I won’t. I’ll stay over there. I’ll do anything. Just… don’t leave.”

Your throat tightens.

You hate that he looks like this. You hate that your heart still reacts to his tears.

But you also hate that he didn’t cry like this when he was making choices that could destroy you.

You walk past him toward the closet, hands shaking as you yank open a drawer. You grab clothes without looking at what they are.

Han stays still, like he promised. Like a dog trying not to spook someone who’s afraid.

He talks anyway, voice breaking apart.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

You don’t answer.

Not because you don’t hear him.

Because if you answer, you’ll collapse.

You shove toiletries into a bag. You grab your phone charger. You grab the hoodie he always wears, then hesitate, then drop it back like it burned you.

Han watches all of it like it’s a slow-motion catastrophe.

When you zip the bag, his chest heaves.

He whispers, barely audible.

“Do you hate me?”

You pause.

Your eyes sting again.

“No,” you whisper honestly. “And that’s what makes it worse.”

Han makes a sound that is almost a sob, almost a broken laugh. He presses his fist to his mouth like he’s trying to swallow the noise.

You lift the bag strap over your shoulder.

Han’s voice turns frantic.

“Please,” he says. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix it.”

You look at him then, really look at him.

“I don’t know,” you say quietly. “You were the one who broke it.”

His face collapses.

You turn away before you can change your mind.

Chan is still in the hall, waiting. He sees the bag and nods, steady.

You walk past him.

Behind you, the room is silent except for Han’s uneven breathing.

You don’t look back, because you know if you do, you might stay.

And you can’t stay in a place where your name stopped being enough to keep him faithful.

—

At first, he just stands there.

The room feels wrong. Too bright. Too quiet. The guitar is still lying on the bed where he left it, one string buzzing faintly from where his hand bumped it.

He stares at the empty doorway like he expects you to walk back in and tell him it was a test, a joke, anything but real.

You don’t.

Something in his chest gives out.

Han sinks to the floor.

It isn’t graceful. His legs just… stop holding him and he drops, knees hitting the wood hard enough to hurt. The pain barely registers over everything else.

He presses his palms to his eyes. He’s already cried so much that his head aches, but more tears force their way out anyway. His breathing comes in shallow bursts that don’t feel like air.

He can still hear your voice.

“Was I not enough?”

He hears it over and over, like a broken record, like a curse.

“You were everything.”

He said it like the truth it is, but the words feel useless now. They hang in the air like smoke, disappearing while the damage stays.

He thinks about the first time he saw you in this room, nervously folding clothes into his drawers. The way you tested the bed springs and laughed. The way you kissed him goodnight like you believed there would be thousands more.

He thinks about this same floor under his knees that night you fell asleep half on top of him, mid-conversation, mouth parted, soft little breaths. He had looked down at you and thought, with terrifying clarity, I could do this forever.

And then he thinks about Samantha.

He wants to claw his own brain out.

It didn’t start with some dramatic kiss in a stairwell. It started stupid.

Jokes. Complaints. Shared exhaustion in a practice room when everyone else left early. Words thrown into the air, bouncing around with the echo of music.

Samantha had smiled at him like she saw something in him besides the idol or the loud one or the one who cracks jokes when things get too dark. She listened when he talked. She laughed at things he was not actually sure were funny.

He had told himself it was nothing.

He had told himself it was safe.

He had told himself you would never have to know.

And then “nothing” turned into walks to the subway and long messages and accidental lingering touches, and his own stupid, selfish brain kept accepting comfort he had no right to take.

He remembers the first time he kissed her with a kind of nausea that makes his stomach twist. It had felt wrong even as it happened, like his body had split off from his conscience and was moving on its own.

Afterward, he had gone back to the dorm and you were on the couch, half asleep, a drama paused on the screen. You turned when you heard the door.

“Hey,” you had murmured, eyes soft. “You’re home.”

You had stood up and walked toward him like you always did, arms opening automatically, like he was the place you always meant to end up.

He remembers hugging you and wanting to peel his own skin off.

He remembers how you nestled your face into his neck and breathed him in, the way you always do when you’re tired, like his scent is the thing that calms you.

He remembers the guilt feeling like poison in his veins.

He remembers still choosing to stay quiet.

Now, on the floor, he lets out a sound that would scare you if you heard it. A choked noise that does not sound like him.

He digs his fingers into his hair, pulling hard.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, like there’s anyone here to hear it.

The words bounce off the walls and fall flat.

The dorm feels different without you in it. Colder. Even the clutter on his desk looks wrong, like your presence rearranged the air and now that you’re gone, everything is in the wrong place.

There’s a soft knock on the door.

Han doesn’t answer. He can’t. His throat feels shredded.

The knock comes again, a little firmer.

“It’s me.”

Chan’s voice.

Han squeezes his eyes shut.

Maybe if he stays silent, Chan will go away. Maybe he can stay here on the floor and dissolve.

The door opens anyway.

Han hears it creak, hears footsteps hesitate just inside the room.

There’s a long pause.

“Jesus, Jisung,” Chan says quietly.

Han doesn’t look up.

He can’t stand to see that look on Chan’s face. Disappointment. Anger. Disgust. He’s imagined it in his head since the first time he crossed the line with Samantha.

He always knew if anyone found out, this would be the look.

He’d just never imagined how it would feel to actually face it.

“Get up,” Chan says after a moment.

Han shakes his head, shoulders shaking with each broken inhale.

“I can’t,” he manages. It comes out muffled behind his hands.

Chan sighs, long and heavy. The bed creaks as he sits down on the edge, not touching Han yet, but there.

“I walked Avery to the door,” he says. “She’s gone.”

Han lets out a low, raw sound that might be “okay” or might just be pain.

He did that.

He put motion in your steps in the wrong direction.

“What the fuck happened?” Chan asks finally.

His voice is not shouting. It’s not even loud. Somehow that makes it worse.

Han presses his forehead to his knees.

“I cheated,” he whispers, ashamed.

“I know that,” Chan snaps, control fraying at the edges. “She told me. I asked what happened, not what I already know. Why did you do it?”

Why did you do that to her sits in the space between them, unsaid but heavy.

Han’s chest tightens.

He’s asked himself the same question every day since the first time he crossed that line.

Why.

Why when he had someone who loved him like you did. Someone who lived with him, who learned his moods, who waited up for him, who made him feel more human than anything else.

Why wasn’t it enough.

His voice is small when he answers.

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He expects Chan to scoff, to tell him that’s a cop-out.

Instead, Chan takes a slow breath.

“That’s not good enough,” he says, calm but sharp. “You don’t get to blow up her life and then shrug and say you don’t know why.”

Han’s shoulders curl in tighter.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” he says, tears spilling again. “I swear I didn’t. It just… it just happened.”

Chan’s voice goes hard.

“No,” he says. “It didn’t ‘just happen’. You made a choice. Probably a lot of choices. Again and again.”

Han flinches. He deserves every word.

“I know,” he says. “I know. I know. I was stupid. I was selfish. I…”

He trails off, searching for something that makes sense.

“I felt like I was drowning,” he says finally, voice cracking. “There was so much pressure. The schedules, the expectations, being funny all the time, being okay all the time. With Avery, I… I love her so much it scared me. I didn’t want her to see… how ugly it gets in my head. I didn’t want to drag her down with me.”

He laughs once, bitter and wet.

“And then there was someone who didn’t know me like that,” he says. “Who didn’t know my worst days, who wasn’t there when I was having panic attacks in the bathroom, who just… saw me as this cool, confident guy. It felt easy. It felt like I could… turn my brain off and just exist without all the history. I kept telling myself it was harmless. Just a break. Just something separate.”

Chan is quiet for a moment.

“And then,” he prompts.

Han swallows.

“And then I crossed the line,” he whispers. “And once I did, it was like… something broke. I kept thinking I’d stop. I’d stop tomorrow. Next week. After comeback. After this one schedule. I kept thinking I could climb back over the line and pretend it never happened.”

He shakes his head, disgusted with himself.

“I’d come home and see Avery,” he says softly, “and she’d look at me like I hung the moon, like I was someone worth waiting up for, and I’d feel like I was made of garbage. So I started pulling away because I hated myself so much I couldn’t stand how much she loved me.”

He wipes his face on his sleeve, words tumbling out now that the damn has cracked.

“I thought if I distanced myself, I’d protect her somehow,” he says. “Like if she loved me a little less, it would hurt less when she found out. Or when I eventually told her. Or when I screwed up so badly I couldn’t hide it.”

He chokes on a sob.

“But the whole time I was telling myself that, I kept going back,” he whispers. “I kept choosing the thing that made me hate myself more. Just because it was easier in the moment, because it made the noise in my head shut up for a while.”

He drags in a ragged breath.

“It wasn’t worth it,” he adds, voice broken. “Nothing about it was worth what I just did to her. To us.”

Chan is quiet.

Han finally risks a glance up.

Chan’s expression is a mix of emotions so strong Han almost has to look away again. Anger. Hurt. A bleak kind of disappointment that cuts deeper than shouting ever could.

He looks tired.

“You know what Avery said to me in the hallway?” Chan asks softly.

Han’s stomach twists.

“What?” he whispers.

“She asked me if there was something wrong with her,” Chan says. “If she wasn’t enough. If she did something to make you look somewhere else.”

Han feels physically ill.

“I told her no,” Chan goes on. “Because I know that girl. I see how she’s been here for you. I see how she fits into this dorm like she was meant to be part of it. She asked me why you’d do this if she wasn’t the problem, and I didn’t know what to tell her.”

Han covers his face again, sobbing.

“I’m the problem,” he gasps. “It’s me. It’s all me.”

Chan sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

There’s no cruelty in it. Just honesty.

“But that doesn’t help her much right now,” he adds. “All she knows is that the person she trusted most in this building made her feel disposable.”

Han’s chest clenches so hard it hurts.

“She’s not,” he insists desperately. “She’s not disposable. She’s the only person I…”

His voice breaks.

He can’t say it. Not because it isn’t true, but because the weight of it feels like a joke now.

Chan watches him.

“So what are you going to do?” he asks.

Han stares at him, confused.

“I already lost her,” he whispers. “She left.”

Chan nods slowly.

“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe for good. Maybe not. That’s up to her, and you don’t get to pressure her either way. But whether you get her back or not… you can’t stay like this. You can’t keep being the person who did this.”

Han’s breath stutters.

“I don’t know how to be anything else,” he says quietly.

Chan gives him a long, searching look.

“You start by being honest,” he says. “With yourself, with us, with the company if you have to. You cut it off with that girl. Completely. No messages, no ‘closure’, no nothing. You tell her it was wrong and it’s over.”

Han nods, tears still leaking down his cheeks.

“Okay,” he whispers. “I can do that.”

“You get help,” Chan continues. “Real help. You talk to someone about why you thought you needed this. About why you couldn’t just come to Avery and say you were drowning. Because whether she’s in your life or not, you’re still going to be in that head of yours. And if you don’t deal with it, you’ll hurt someone else. Maybe yourself.”

Han’s throat tightens.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he says.

“I know,” Chan says. “But wanting isn’t enough. You have to choose differently. Every day. Or else wanting is just a pretty word.”

Han nods miserably.

Chan leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.

“And as for Avery,” he says, voice softening, “you give her space. You don’t text her apologies at three in the morning. You don’t show up at whatever friend’s place she’s at. You don’t make this harder by making your guilt her responsibility.”

Han swallows.

“What if she never talks to me again?” he whispers.

Chan’s face tightens.

“Then that’s what you live with,” he says gently. “That’s part of the consequence. You loved her and you betrayed her. You don’t get to decide how she heals.”

A fresh wave of tears hits Han.

He nods, shaking.

“Okay,” he says hoarsely. “Okay.”

Chan watches him for a long moment.

“I’m pissed at you,” he says frankly. “I’m really, really fucking disappointed. And I’m going to be angry for a while.”

Han nods, accepting the blow.

“But I’m not going to abandon you,” Chan adds. “That would just add more damage to the pile. I’m going to hold you accountable. I’m going to make you think about what you did. I’m going to be annoying as hell about you going to therapy. But I’m not leaving you alone in this dorm to rot. That won’t fix what you did to her.”

Something in Han’s chest loosens and aches at the same time.

He doesn’t deserve that kind of loyalty.

But he knows Chan enough to know arguing about it won’t change anything.

Chan stands up.

“Get off the floor,” he says quietly. “Take a shower. Drink some water. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Han hesitates.

“Where is she?” he asks. The words slip out before he can stop them.

Chan’s jaw flexes.

“Safe,” he says. “That’s all you need to know.”

Han flinches but nods.

“Can you…” he swallows. “Can you tell her I’m sorry?”

Chan meets his eyes, and for the first time since he walked in, there’s something almost kind in his expression.

He shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “You already told her you’re sorry. She believed you. That doesn’t change what happened. I’m not going to be your messenger boy so you feel better.”

Han nods, shame flooding him again.

Chan softens just a fraction.

“If she asks how you are, I’ll tell her you’re a mess,” he says. “Because you are. And because she deserves to know you’re not just moving on like nothing happened.”

Han swallows past the lump in his throat.

“Okay,” he whispers.

Chan moves toward the door.

He pauses with his hand on the knob.

“You know,” he says slowly, without turning around, “you didn’t cheat because she wasn’t enough. You cheated because you weren’t brave enough to sit in your own pain and let someone love you through it.”

The words land like a blow.

Chan opens the door.

“Figure out how to be braver than that,” he finishes, and steps out.

The door closes softly behind him.

Han is alone again.

He stays on the floor for a long time, staring at the space you used to fill.

Eventually, he forces himself to get up. His legs shake. His head spins. He stumbles toward the bathroom like he’s learning to walk for the first time.

In the mirror, his eyes are swollen, hair a wreck, face blotchy.

He looks like someone he wouldn’t trust.

He turns on the water.

Steam begins to fog the glass.

He steps under the spray and leans his head against the tile, letting the water hit his shoulders hard enough to sting.

He closes his eyes and sees you standing in the doorway with a bag over your shoulder.

“Do you hate me?”

“No. And that’s what makes it worse.”

He presses his fist against his mouth and lets himself break again.

Because the truth is, you were enough.

You were always enough.

He just wasn’t.

And now, in a dorm that suddenly feels too big without you, he finally understands that there are some mistakes you don’t get to come back from, no matter how many songs you write.

You’re out there somewhere, heart cracked, trying to breathe.

He’s in here, finally drowning in the consequences he tried so hard not to face.

And for once, he can’t run.

—

He’s in the bathroom still, water pounding against his back, eyes raw.

And suddenly Chan’s words pin him right where he stands.

You cut it off with that girl. Completely. No messages, no “closure”, no nothing.

He turns the water off with a shaky hand.

The mirror is fogged over. He doesn’t wipe it clear. He doesn’t want to see himself again yet.

He stumbles back into your, his, room in a towel, heart hammering.

His phone is on the bed where he dropped it earlier.

For one wild second, he thinks about throwing it into the wall until it shatters.

Instead, he picks it up.

His hands are still damp. The screen blurs from the moisture as he unlocks it.

The chat thread is right there, second from the top.

Samantha 💫

He stares at the name.

His thumb hovers.

He opens it.

The messages sit there in ugly, normal rows. Little jokes. Little complaints. Pictures. Voice notes.

Proof.

Proof of every decision he made to step a little further away from you and a little closer to something he should’ve never touched.

His stomach flips.

She texted a few hours ago, before everything exploded.

Sam: how’s rehearsal baby?

Sam: you coming over later or nah?

He squeezes his eyes shut.

He takes a breath that feels like broken glass.

His thumbs start moving.

Jisung: we’re done.

Jisung: I’m serious, Sam. I cheated on someone I love and I’ve hurt her enough. I’m not doing this anymore. It was wrong from the beginning. I’m ending it now.

He stares at the words.

There’s a part of him that wants to soften it, explain, apologize to her too. To make himself look less like the villain in at least one version of this story.

He doesn’t edit it.

He hits send.

The “delivered” check mark appears.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

The typing bubble shows up almost instantly.

Sam: wtf?

Sam: are you serious right now

Sam: after EVERYTHING?

Sam: you’re just dumping me over text?

His chest tightens.

He types again.

Jisung: I should never have started this. I’m sorry. It’s over.

Another bubble.

Sam: because your little dorm girlfriend found out?

He flinches like she reached through the phone and slapped him.

He types.

Jisung: don’t talk about her. This is my fault, not hers.

Jisung: I’m not going to argue. It’s over.

The three dots flash, disappear, flash again.

Sam: wow. 🙄

Sam: so I was just what? some stress relief?

Sam: you said you were unhappy

Sam: you said she didn’t get it

Sam: you said we had something real

His vision blurs again.

He doesn’t deny it.

Because that would be another lie, and he’s finally choking on the ones he’s already told.

He types with shaking fingers.

Jisung: I was wrong. I was selfish. I lied.

Jisung: I’m not making excuses anymore.

Jisung: I am ending it now. Please don’t contact me again.

He hits send before he can rethink it.

The typing bubble pops up instantly.

Then his phone starts to ring.

Her name lights the screen.

He stares at it, throat closing.

He declines the call.

It rings again. Immediately.

He hits decline again, faster.

Again.

His heart is beating too fast. His hands are slick.

She’s not going to let this go easily. He knows that. He knew it the second he felt the tone of her messages change from flirty to furious.

He does the only thing he can think of.

He opens the contact.

His thumb hesitates over “Block Caller.”

The flash of guilt is quick and strange. He did this. He made this mess. Blocking her feels like cutting off responsibility.

You didn’t get to block the damage. You didn’t get to block the pain.

He presses the button anyway.

The ringing stops.

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

The quiet in the room feels weirdly loud now. His ears ring with it.

Then his phone buzzes again.

He frowns.

Notification banner.

Instagram: 1 new DM request

His stomach drops.

He opens the app with a sense of dread.

There it is, at the top of the “Requests” section.

samantha_sky wants to send you a message.

He taps it.

The message appears, angry words in a neat little box.

Sam: oh. so you BLOCKED me?

Sam: you really think you can just walk away from this like that??

Sam: must be nice being Han Jisung, huh? everything for your image 🙃

Another line pops up.

Sam: if you won’t answer me, maybe your FANS will. or your company. bet they’d love to know how you’ve been spending your nights

His vision tunnels.

The room spins a little.

Another message.

Sam: I have pictures. screenshots. you think they’ll still eat up your little love songs when they see how you really are?

His pulse pounds in his ears.

He can see it. Headlines. Articles. Threads. Your face dragged into it, even if she doesn’t know your name. People speculating. People blaming you. People blaming her. People tearing apart every moment of your relationship looking for clues.

And the group.

The members.

Years of work.

All hanging over a cliff because he couldn’t keep his fucking boundaries.

His hands start to shake so hard he almost drops the phone.

He types, fingers clumsy.

Jisung: Sam, please don’t. This isn’t just about me.

Jisung: I’m not talking to you because it’s WRONG. Not because I don’t care that you’re hurt. I do.

Jisung: But going public will just hurt more people who didn’t do anything.

He hits send.

The “seen” mark appears.

The reply comes fast.

Sam: you should’ve thought about “who you’d hurt” BEFORE you crawled into my bed.

Sam: do not tell me what’s wrong after all that.

His breath stutters.

She’s right.

He doesn’t have the moral high ground here. He never will again.

He types again anyway, desperation bleeding into every word.

Jisung: I know. You’re right.

Jisung: But I am ending this now. I’m taking responsibility.

Jisung: Please don’t drag other people into it.

Jisung: I’ll do whatever you need me to do to make this right, but going public will only make everything worse for everyone, including you.

Typing bubble.

Sam: maybe I want everything to be worse.

Sam: maybe I don’t mind if people know what you did.

His throat closes.

He sees your face again, asking if you weren’t enough.

He sees Chan’s face, exhausted and disappointed.

He feels the ground tilt under his feet.

He doesn’t know what to say that won’t sound like another manipulation. Another attempt to control someone else’s pain.

He stares at the screen until the messages blur.

Then his body moves on its own.

He gets up.

He walks out of the room, gripping the phone so tight his knuckles hurt.

The dorm feels like it’s listing sideways.

He finds Chan in the living room, sitting on the couch with his laptop open, replying to emails, trying to pretend the world is functioning.

“Hyung,” Han croaks.

Chan looks up.

His expression shifts immediately when he sees Han’s face.

“What happened?” he asks, standing halfway before he even finishes the sentence.

Han walks over like someone pulled all his strings out.

He holds the phone out with a trembling hand.

“She’s threatening to out it,” he says, voice cracking. “To expose everything. She says she has proof, screenshots, pictures. She… she might go public. I blocked her number and she went to my Instagram..”

The words tangle up and collapse.

He presses his free hand to his mouth to stop the sob that’s threatening to rip out of his chest.

Chan takes the phone from him gently.

“Sit,” he says quietly. “Sit down, Jisung.”

Han shakes his head, tears already spilling again.

“I fucked everything up,” he chokes. “It’s not just Avery now, it’s.. it’s the group, it’s you, it’s the fans, it’s..”

“Sit,” Chan repeats, more firmly, guiding him down onto the couch.

Han collapses into the cushions, hands shaking.

Chan lowers himself beside him, thumb already moving over the screen, scrolling through the messages.

Han watches his leader’s face tighten, eyes flickering quickly as he absorbs the situation.

He feels like a kid who broke something priceless and is handing the shattered pieces to the only adult in the room.

A sob escapes his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again. “I’m sorry, hyung. I’m so sorry.”

Chan doesn’t respond right away.

He finishes reading, then locks the phone and sets it on the coffee table like he’s putting down a loaded weapon.

He turns back to Han.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Look at me.”

Han drags his gaze up, vision swimming.

Chan’s expression is serious, but not panicked.

That alone keeps Han from completely losing it.

“First,” Chan says, “breathe.”

“I can’t,” Han gasps. “She’s going to tell everyone, she’s going to..”

“Jisung,” Chan cuts in, voice calm but firm. “If you pass out on me, I’m going to have even more problems, okay? Breathe. In. Right now.”

He inhales shakily, then exhales, chest hitching.

“Again,” Chan says.

Han obeys.

In. Out. In. Out.

The tears don’t stop, but his lungs start cooperating again, at least enough to keep him conscious.

Chan waits until his breathing is less ragged.

“Okay,” he says. “Now we figure this out. One step at a time.”

Han blinks at him.

“How,” he whispers. “How do you fix something like this?”

Chan’s mouth presses into a tight line.

“You don’t fix it,” he says honestly. “You manage the damage. And you take responsibility. And you protect the people who didn’t ask to be in the blast radius.”

Han’s throat tightens.

“Avery,” he whispers.

Chan’s gaze softens.

“Yeah,” he says. “Avery. The members. The staff. Even this girl, to an extent. She’s hurt too, even if she’s making bad choices with that hurt.”

Han drops his eyes, shame choking him.

Chan speaks more gently.

“Threatening to expose someone is wrong,” he says. “But you put her in a position where she feels like you tossed her aside to salvage your image. That’s on you. We’re not going to call her crazy. We’re not going to make her the whole villain. Not when we know why she’s angry.”

Han nods miserably.

“I know,” he whispers.

Chan picks up his phone again, turning it over in his hands.

“You ended it, right?” he asks.

Han nods.

“I told her it was over,” he says. “I blocked her number. She started messaging on Instagram and saying she wants to tell everyone.”

Chan hums, thinking.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “So, first: you’re not replying to her anymore. At all.”

Han’s head snaps up.

“But..”

“No,” Chan cuts in gently but firmly. “Every message you send now becomes another screenshot. Another weapon. You’ve said what you needed to say. You ended it. Anything else you say will either look like you’re trying to manipulate her or cover your ass.”

Han swallows.

“But what if ignoring her makes her angrier?”

“It might,” Chan says. “But engaging her when everyone’s emotions are this high will almost definitely make things worse. Right now, you protect yourself legally and professionally by pulling back, and you let people who are trained for this decide the next moves.”

“Trained,” Han repeats, stomach dropping.

Chan nods grimly.

“We’re telling management,” he says. “Soon. Like, tomorrow morning soon. Maybe tonight, if this escalates. They need to know there’s a potential problem before it blindsides them. They need to see the messages.”

Han’s entire body tenses.

“You’re going to show them,” he whispers.

“Yes,” Chan says. “Because it’s not just you and her anymore. It’s the company’s reputation, the group, fans, Avery. Hiding it now would make everything worse when, and if, it comes out.”

Han nods slowly, tears still slipping down his face.

It feels like walking into a fire on purpose.

But he knows he deserves the burn.

Chan shifts closer.

“And I’m going to be the one who goes with you,” he adds. “I’m not asking you to do it alone.”

That cracks something in Han again.

His shoulders shake.

“I don’t deserve you,” he chokes.

Chan sighs.

“I know,” he says softly. “You don’t deserve Avery either. But this isn’t about what you deserve right now. It’s about what needs to be done.”

Han lets out a broken laugh that isn’t really a laugh.

Chan’s expression softens further. He reaches out and pulls Han into a hug, one arm around his shoulders, hand cradling the back of his head like he’s trying to anchor him.

Han falls into it like he’s been starving for it.

This is how he should’ve leaned on people when he was drowning. Here. With family. With someone who loves him enough to tell him no.

“I’m scared,” he whispers into Chan’s shoulder.

“I know,” Chan murmurs. “Me too.”

The admission makes Han’s chest ache in a different way.

He’s not the only one this hurts.

Chan’s whole body is tense. He’s already calculating in his head, trying to protect everyone he can with limited options.

“Whatever happens,” Chan says quietly, “we’ll face it. Okay? We’ll talk to the company. We’ll get legal to monitor her account and messages. If she leaks something, we’ll handle the fallout as best we can. We’ll tell the others enough so they’re prepared, but not every detail. And we’ll keep Avery out of the spotlight as much as possible.”

Han squeezes his eyes shut.

“They’re going to hate me,” he says.

Chan doesn’t lie.

“Some people will,” he says softly. “Some might forgive you eventually. Some won’t. That’s part of what you signed up for.”

Han’s throat burns.

“And Avery,” he whispers. “What if this blows back on her? What if people find out who she is?”

“Then our priority is protecting her identity,” Chan says. “If the company has any decency, they’ll keep her name out of their mouths. And if anything does leak, we push back hard on victim-blaming. You hear me?”

Han nods, jaw clenched.

Chan pulls back enough to look him in the eyes.

“And you don’t reach out to her,” he repeats. “Not about this. Not to warn her, not to apologize again, not to check if she’s seen anything. If something happens that affects her directly, I’ll make sure she knows through someone she trusts. But you are not that person right now.”

The words land like a stone in his gut.

Not that person.

He used to be the person you trusted most.

Now he’s the one who has to stay away for your sake.

He wipes his face on his sleeve again, nodding.

“Okay,” he whispers. “I won’t.”

Chan watches him for a long moment, then nods back.

“Good,” he says quietly. “That’s the first smart choice you’ve made in a while.”

It’s half-tease, half-truth.

Usually, Han would snort. Pretend to be offended. Playfully shove him.

Now he just nods again, stunned and hollow.

Chan releases his shoulder, but stays close, a solid presence pressed against his side.

He reaches for the phone again.

“Screenshots,” he says. “We’ll back them up. I’ll email them to myself too, so there’s a trail. If she threatens more or actually posts anything, we’ll have timestamps and context.”

Han watches as Chan does what he should have done from the start, treat this like a problem to be handled honestly instead of damage to be hidden.

It feels like sitting in front of a wreck you caused while someone else tries to keep the fire from spreading.

“Hyung,” Han says suddenly.

“Yeah.”

“If she does it,” he whispers. “If she leaks it. If everyone finds out. Do you think Avery will hate me then?”

Chan exhales slowly.

“I think,” he says carefully, “that if Avery sees you being honest, taking responsibility, actually doing the work to become a better person… she’ll still hurt. She’ll still be angry. She might still leave you forever.”

He pauses.

“But I don’t think she’ll hate you,” he finishes. “You hurt her too deeply for this to ever be simple. Hate doesn’t grow where there used to be love like that. Not cleanly. It usually just turns into something complicated that she’ll carry for a long time.”

Han’s eyes burn again.

“I don’t want her to carry anything,” he whispers.

Chan gives a sad half-smile.

“It’s too late for that,” he says. “You already handed it to her. The only thing you can do now is not add more weight.”

Han nods, fingers twisting in the hem of his hoodie.

Chan sets the phone down with one last decisive tap.

“Okay,” he says. “Screenshots done. Messages preserved. You’re not responding anymore.”

He looks back at Han.

“Now go put some clothes on,” he adds, a little softer. “Then we’re going to sit down with a notebook and make a plan. Tomorrow we talk to management.”

Han’s stomach flips.

“Right,” he says weakly.

“Hey,” Chan says gently. “One thing at a time. Clothes. Water. Plan. Then the rest.”

Han pushes himself up from the couch like he’s moving through thick mud.

He takes a step, then hesitates.

“Hyung.”

Chan looks up.

“Thank you,” Han says, voice rough. “For… staying. Even when you want to kill me.”

Chan huffs out a humorless laugh.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he mutters. “You’re still on my shit list.”

But then he softens, just a bit.

“I’m staying because that’s what leaders do,” he says. “And because Avery loved you. The least we can do, you can do, is become someone worthy of that, even if she never sees it.”

Han nods, throat tightening again.

He turns and walks back to the room that still smells like your shampoo and his mistakes.

Behind him, Chan picks up the phone again, jaw tight, eyes sharp.

Outside, the city goes on. People laugh, sleep, scroll, live. No one knows yet that somewhere in one dorm, a boy is trying, and failing, not to fall apart, and that somewhere else, a girl is trying to remember how to breathe without him.

stream hop 合