Lou’s POV

It’s comfortable and easy with you. It’s always been. It’s why Minghao is fine with seeking you out at the company, with sliding into the seat next to you even though you’re working on something on your laptop. Checking subtitles for a SEVENTEEN video, it seems.

He waits until you’ve noticed him before he holds out the book he had been reading. It's a Korean novel. Almond by Sohn Wonpyung. He points to a particular phrase— 눈치가 빠르다— before speaking, but the words aren’t in Korean.

“Is there a Mandarin word for this?” he asks in Mandarin, his voice taking on the lower pitch of the dialect. His eyebrows knit together in a look of utter concentration. “Or is this one of those untranslatables?”

You pull out your earphones, a mild look of amusement on your face at Minghao’s sudden appearance. When you realize what he’s asking of you, a small huff of laughter escapes, but you concede to looking at the book in his hands. You say the phrase under your breath, as if testing it out. 

“It’s not untranslatable,” you say, sliding right into Mandarin to match Minghao. “The literal translation is observant or perceptive. But in Korean contexts, it’s meant to describe— I suppose, comprehension that something is going on with a friend, or a family member. Like, ah—”

You pause. And then you code switch, again, this time, to English. “A gut feeling?”

“Ah.”

Minghao’s expression clears as comprehension filters across his face, his mouth forming that little ‘o’ shape as he repeats the phrase as well. “A gut feeling... okay, like intuition.”

He pulls his legs up on to the chair, resting his chin on his knee. “Do you think it's something that is universal? A gut feeling. Is there a word for that in Mandarin?”

You’re far too used to Minghao getting philosophical, to him pressing for more than the first answer. “Gut feeling in Mandarin... zhíjué?” you offer. 

“Zhíjué,” Minghao repeats quietly, mulling the word over. There’s something satisfying and soothing about rolling the syllables on his tongue, the way he does it. The way they come from the back of his throat— a language that's as intimate as his mother's lullabies when he was a child.

He lets the word rest in his mouth for a while— zhíjué, gut feeling— before he looks back at you, his chin tilting forward in a nod. He gives you a little smile, appreciative.

"Mhm," he says. "That’s close enough."

You chuckle before slipping right back into Korean. It’s a dizzying back-and-forth between at most three languages, at any given time. The two of you have been called out for it, but Minghao secretly enjoys the challenge. 

"I’ve been meaning to check that out from my neighborhood's library," you note as you tap at the spine of Minghao's copy of Almond. He privately marvels at how your voice sounds more mellifluous in your first language, almost missing the question you pose. “How are you liking it so far?”

He looks down at the book in his lap, thumbing through the pages idly. “It’s good,” he answers simply. There’s a pause, but it's not quite awkward. It's something else... an afterthought. The next words are quieter than the last. “A bit sad.”

“That’s what most reviewers have said about it,” you muse, leaning back against your chair to stretch your legs underneath you. “Maybe I’ll finally pick it up this weekend.”

Minghao doesn’t look at you directly when you start to stretch out, when your shoulders roll forward. Instead the focus of his eyes is on the book on his lap, but his mind is most definitely not on the words on the pages.

When you mention picking it up that weekend, he nods in silent agreement, the movement a bit stiff. And then, in that same beat: “Have you gone to the doctor about your back pain?”

The question is quiet but pointed, with just a hint of concern to his voice. He spots all the tells of you preparing to lie to him— the tick in your jaw, your tongue peeking out between your clenched teeth. “Of course I have,” you lie smoothly. “It’s just your regular back pains that come with sitting in a chair a lot.”

“Hm.”

Even this late in the game, you still thought you could lie to Minghao. And maybe you could, and he would let it slide, in favor of being considerate and polite.

But only for a bit, because he knows you haven't seen a doctor about the back pain that started recently. Knows that you’re being a hypocrite, always asking him to take care of himself when you aren’t even doing the same for yourself.

He’s not entirely surprised, admittedly. You’ve always been so focused on your work and on taking care of others that it was sometimes hard to think that you focused on yourself. Not that Minghao is one to talk, when it comes to taking time for his own health. But this was you.

He sighs, just barely, before he reaches over to nudge you on the shoulder, like he would do with Jun or Soonyoung or any of the other members. “Liar.”

A sound between a huff and a laugh escapes you, but then you raise your palms in a show of surrender. 

“I haven't really had the time to go to the doctor,” you admit sheepishly. “There’s been a lot of content to translate. And I’ve been preparing for the group's Japan showcase next week.”

Minghao knows you well enough to know that you'd probably work yourself till you dropped, if you had the chance. The thought makes him want to roll his eyes.

“Mm,” he responds, his eyes narrowing as he crosses his arms across his chest. “You can stop working for ten minutes to go to a clinic. You have enough money. And even if you don’t, I could—”

He cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. The words nearly slipped.

— take you to one, he had meant to say. 

The offer is on the tip of his tongue; the thought of you walking around with such bad back pain that you could barely walk without hobbling having pissed him off. Some part of him, some tiny selfish part, is holding him back from saying anything.

Maybe he just wants to see what you do. If you’ll finally do something about it, if only because he’s asked you to care for yourself for once.

There’s a flicker of surprise on your expression, though it's quickly smoothed out by something more akin to affection. Minghao had always been the thoughtful kind. It had taken some time for him to warm up to you, but around three or so years into your friendship, you’d started becoming a recipient to his quiet care and compassion.

“I’ll get a proper checkup once the Japan showcase is over,” you finally concede, if only to put his mind at ease. “The whole thing. A CT scan and all that.”

Minghao let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding out in silent relief, his shoulders dropping. When you promise that you'll go for a checkup when the Japan showcase is over, part of him wants to say I don’t believe you or I’m coming with you or even I’ll take you there myself.

But he decides to keep his mouth shut. There's no point in arguing, unless he wants to give you even more of a headache. He huffs with faux annoyance. "I’ll hold you to that," he tells you.

Minghao’s little show of annoyance does little to unnerve you, especially when you know it’s just that. A show. You shake your head with amusement before glancing at the table in front of you, where your laptop rests, forgotten. 

“I still have to finish this, though,” you say almost ruefully to Minghao, tilting your head slightly as you look back at him. “Do you have any other schedules for the rest of the day?”

“I don’t,” he says. “We have a free day today. My only plans were to bother you.”

Minghao’s definition of bothering was a lot different from, say, what Mingyu or Jeonghan would call being a bother. No, for Minghao, bothering you entailed simply being in your space— mostly in silence.

“Knock yourself out, then,” you say with a slight wave of your hand, essentially giving Minghao the carte blanche to stick around, maybe read, as you finish off your work. “I'll probably be done in half an hour. Let's grab something to eat after?”

“Thirty minutes,” he agrees. “And I get to pick the place.”

For the next half hour, Minghao makes an effort to not bother you in the way most of the other members would. No unnecessary comments, no sudden pokes with a pen or a random finger tapping at your shoulder.

He simply sits there, legs crossed out in front of him, one hand flicking through the pages of the book he was reading earlier, the other hand on his knee. Every so often, he glances up, just a brief glance to check if you’re still swamped with work.

It’s hard for anybody, even the most unobservant of people, to miss the sight of the two of you  sharing the couch in the company lounge. Two such different people— you, with your cool temperament and soft features, and Minghao, with his sharp eyes and his sharper tongue.

And yet, the sight of the two of you is more familiar than anything else. Anyone who’s been around the company long enough has seen the two of you sitting almost shoulder to shoulder. Quiet. Serene. At utter peace with each other's company.

There are others who want to interrupt, but the intensity of Minghao’s gaze as he glances up briefly is enough to discourage them. It’s a silent challenge and a promise that they better not disturb the two of you.

By the end of the thirty minutes, you’re nearly done with the video subtitles, and Minghao is about five or so pages from finishing his book. The book has been set aside on the table by then, his gaze now focusing on your work, rather than the story in his hands.

You hammer out the last of your subtitles with a mumble of “I’m done, I’m done.” 

You shut your laptop with a slight snap, groaning slightly as you sink back against the back of the couch. “That was rough,” you huff as you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “My French is getting rusty.”

“You say that about every language,” he points out. He watches you for a moment more before he reaches over, fingers wrapping around one of your wrists to tug at your arm. “Come here.”

This wasn’t the first time he’d used touch to get your attention. Minghao wasn’t the most outwardly tactile, but he had his moments. Touch was an easy, unspoken thing; it required no language, it spoke volumes.

This was one of those rare, intimate, moments of his. The moments where he let his guard down, the walls around him falling away. He tugs again, pulling you a little closer to him.

“Come here,” he says again. The word comes out in Mandarin, his fingers gently squeezing around your wrist, his other hand going to your hip to encourage you to lean in.

“So demanding,” you huff in the same language. 

You’re complaining, but there isn’t any bite or any real annoyance in your tone. If you were really bothered, you’d pull your arm away and snap at him in Korean. Instead, you go along with what he’s doing, allowing him to pull you closer, even as you continue to grumble under your breath in Mandarin.

You give too much, he thinks silently, as his hand moves up from your hip to gently press your head into his shoulder, his arm wrapping around your waist instead. You let me have too much.

It’s a compromising position, especially in the company lounge. No other idol would be caught dead cozying up to a staff member like this, but Minghao was just a little bit above it all and HR had long since given up on lecturing you both about propriety.

Your hand absentmindedly rests over his knee, the platonic touch hidden underneath the table. You stick to Mandarin as you hum “This is nice.”

Minghao can’t help but agree with your words, his eyes fluttering close as he rests his cheek on the top of your head. Even with a company full of people around you and a door that anyone could walk through at any second, the two of you are tucked away in your own little world. He hums in response to your words, his own hand moving slightly to lace his fingers through yours.

Despite the fatigue weighing down on you both, the two of you stay like that, tangled together on the couch in a way that's more akin to a couple than just friends.

Eventually, the silence and stillness between you two is broken by a gentle knock on the wood.

Minghao’s eyes flutter open; he lifts his head up slightly to glance towards the door. “It’s open,” he says, his voice not betraying that you’re tucked into his side or that his hand is tangled with yours.

The door creaks open a crack, and Jeonghan peeks in. His eyebrows shoot up slightly. His mouth opens and closes, as if to say something, but you can see a knowing look pass across his face.

“Ah,” he says, and it almost sounds like he’s laughing.

You code switch to Korean, unsurprisingly. “Jeonghan,” you greet, raising your free hand to wave at the older boy. You make no real effort to disentangle from Minghao. If anything, the fact that it's just one of his members makes it easier for you to just relax a bit more. "Hao kept me company while I was working."

"I can see that," Jeonghan says with no shortage of amusement. He steps into the room, decisively closing the lounge door behind him. "I figured he'd be here."

Jeonghan takes a few steps closer to the couch before he halts, just a few steps away, his legs slightly apart and his arms folded over his chest. He looks between the two of you, his gaze drifting meaningfully from the arm wrapped around your waist, to the fingers still entwined with Minghao's.

“He's good at keeping company,” Jeonghan agrees, his head slightly tilted.

“Shut it,” Minghao grumbles in response, irritation obvious in his voice.

He doesn’t move his head or his arm wrapped around your waist. Instead, he raises his other hand— the one that’s still holding your hand— to give Jeonghan a gesture that clearly means for him to go away.

Jeonghan just laughs in response to the gesture, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “What, are you two lovebirds too busy for me?” he says, his tone deliberately saccharine. “I just wanted to tell you that the boys scheduled a game night later.”

Minghao glances down at the watch on his wrist, before looking back at the two of you. “What time?” he grumbles to Jeonghan, visibly displeased at the thought of having to disentangle from you. 

“In about an hour,” Jeonghan sing-songs. 

“Don’t be late,” he adds cheerfully, before promptly turning around and leaving the room.

“There goes our dinner plans,” you deadpan to Minghao once Jeonghan has left, although you don’t really sound upset about it. It’s more of a statement of a fact.

“Guess so,” he responds, his chin still resting on top of your head. Your hair is soft, and his fingers absently brush against the strands.

There’s a beat of stillness between the two of you, before he speaks again. “Sorry,” he murmurs, the word quiet and soft. He knows you’d probably been hoping to eat before going back to subtitles.

“No apologies necessary,” you say easily, because this was just sometimes the reality of our friendship. You always had a dozen other things pulling at you in different directions, and so a couple of stolen hours was always a welcome reprieve.

You give Minghao's hand a gentle squeeze. “Let's stay like this for— five more minutes,” you bargain, a slight smile tugging at your lips as you stare ahead. “And then we can pack up.”

“Five more minutes?” Minghao repeats, his voice low. He thinks over your words for a moment, before he lets out a soft sigh, his hand tightening around yours. “Okay.” 

There aren’t many moments when he isn't in control, or when he lets his guard down. But this— with you, with your soft hair and comfortable warmth, is something he can’t resist. He lets his chin rest on top of your head, the weight of his head resting against you. He closes his eyes, and simply lets himself breathe.

The minutes pass by in comfortable silence, the two of you still tangled together on the couch. For those few moments, Minghao has nothing to worry about and nothing to think about. He has no choreography to practice, no schedule to keep. 

Five minutes spin into seven, then ten. Neither of you are keen to pull away. At the fifteen-minute mark, you finally do try. “We’ve had more than five minutes,” you say against Minghao’s shoulder.

Minghao’s arm tightens around your waist, his fingers curling around your hip in a silent bid to keep you in place. He can feel the reluctance in your tone, the hesitation, and that’s what spurs him to be a little selfish.

He lets out a soft breath, his words a low, reluctant mumble. “Just... one more minute.”

“We have to go, xīngān,” you mutter absentmindedly.

It’s unfair, the way a single word in Mandarin sounds perfect in your voice. He doesn’t know if you’re even aware that you just called him darling— maybe it was a lapse in the switch to Mandarin, maybe it was intentional.

Either way, it doesn’t take more than a single moment for his heart to skip a beat, the sound of the word making something flutter and stir in his chest. His fingers involuntarily tighten around your hip.

“Okay,” he responds, his own voice coming out quieter than usual.

He does let go of you afterwards, the loss of your body heat making his hand feel a little cold. The couch feels noticeably larger and cooler without your side pressed against his, and he already misses the weight of your head against his shoulder.

Minghao tries very hard to look collected as he stands up from the couch, his face almost carefully neutral. His lips quirk up into the ghost of a smile before he offers you a hand to help you up as well.

He holds your hand a little longer than is necessary before letting go slowly. Silence drifts over the two of you as you make your way to the door, and for once, Minghao isn’t quite sure what to say. All he can think about is the single word you’d used— xīngān, in that warm tone of yours.

It’s an endearment he’s heard from friends, family, and fans. It’s a simple, innocent term. The only thing that makes it strange is that he’d never heard you use it for him until now.

He clears his throat, trying— and failing— to keep the quiet waver out of his voice. “Hey,” he says, the word falling from his lips a little more softly than he'd intended.

He pauses for a beat, as you turn to look at him questioningly. He doesn't know how to voice what he wants to say, so he opts to keep things as simple as possible.

“You called me xīngān,” he says point blank. 

For a moment, the silence drags on as you keep walking. "Xīngān," you repeat a little dumbly, your eyebrows furrowed as you try to remember how the word translates in. When it seems to dawn on you, you stop dead in your tracks. 

You’re speaking in Korean when you frantically wave your hands in front of you, your eyes slightly wider than before. “I’m sorry,” you say, panicked. “I think I was aiming for yīngjùn de. You know, ‘handsome.’ I don’t know why I called you—”

Minghao's shoulders nearly slump in disappointment. It’s a stupid, pointless feeling. It’s just a word, and a common endearment, at that— and yet he’s disappointed to learn that you were trying to say something else.

He gives a little scoff, not bothering to keep the petulance out of his voice. “Oh,” he responds, his hand lifting to rub absently at the back of his neck. “Damn.”

“Did you— like being called xīngān?” you ask, and then you try for the term in your smooth, easy Korean. “Yeobo?”

Minghao hesitates, the slightest hitch in his breath as you repeat the word in Korean.

The truth is a stupid, pointless one. The truth is that his heart almost jumped into his throat the moment he heard that single word, those two syllables. The truth is that he did like being called that. He liked being called darling. He liked it a lot, to be quite honest.

He gives an aborted nod, his gaze falling away from your face. “Maybe. A little.”

“In Korean or in Mandarin?” you prod. 

“Do you prefer yeobo,” you start, the Korean term rolling easily off your tongue. “Or xīngān?”

Your Mandarin version is a little more hesitant, more reserved, but just a touch more sweeter.

Both, Minghao nearly blurts out, before he stops himself. He doesn't know which one it is he likes more— the sweet, gentle lilt of the Mandarin, or the smooth, almost-familiar Korean. All he knows is that the sound of being called ‘darling’ in your voice, in any language, makes something in his chest flutter and tighten.

He hesitates, but again— there's no point in being coy about it, is there? 

“Both,” he answers softly, his eyes lifting up to meet yours.

“Darling,” you test out— this time not in Mandarin or Korean, but in English. It's heavily accented and clumsy, but the sentiment is still the same. Minghao sucks in a breath, his heart skipping another beat. It's stupid, he’s stupid, but—

He likes how you sound, speaking English. He likes the way your words soften and drag, the way your tongue wraps around the syllables, the gentle flow of your sentences. It’s all so stupid, and yet his heart can't help but skip another beat as he listens to you speak.

The corners of his mouth lift slightly. “I like that one too,” he responds.

“In any language, huh?” you tease lightly, a light pink dusting your cheeks. The two of you begin to walk, again, because you do have places to be.

In an absentminded way, you begin to mumble the ways you know ‘darling’ is translated in other languages.

Spanish. Cariño. Portuguese. Querido. Italian. Tesoro. French. Chérie. German. Liebling.

If nothing else, Minghao has to admit that watching your cheeks flush— and hearing you speak all these other languages— is very distracting.

He’s still busy mentally storing away this new, intriguing tidbit of information that he's learned about himself, but he still can't help his mind from wandering at the sound of other languages falling from your lips. A few of them are familiar, having seen or heard them before, but some of them are entirely new.

Minghao can’t help his mind from dwelling on how good they sound when you say them.

"Wait— what about Arabic?" he asks, cutting into your little list.

It’s the only one he can think of. He just wanted to hear you say this one, too.

“I haven’t touched Arabic in ages,” you mutter distractedly. Minghao can’t help but silently laugh as he watches your facial expressions flicker in a series of micro-emotions, each one slightly different from the other. Frustration, confusion, a pinch of annoyance— and all of it over this little thing.

“I think it's maḥbūb,” you answer after a full moment's pause. Your nose scrunches up in mild frustration; the endearment accented in the language you don’t use often.

His laugh turns into a little scoff, before he finally just lets the laugh roll right out of his lungs. “You’re cute when you’re frustrated,” he tells you fondly, the words falling from his mouth before he can help himself.

Shit.

He'd planned on saying that, but not so— casually. So off-handedly, without a thought to the meaning behind the sentiment. It’s a little much, and yet he can't take the words back now that they’re out there. Thankfully, you take it in stride. 

“And you’re cute for liking to be called darling,” you tease right back.

The words hit Minghao square in the chest like one of your punches. He’s glad you’re a few paces ahead of him so you can’t see the way his mouth parts slightly, the way he nearly stumbles. He’s thankful for the few beats of silence before you pipe up once more.

“I think I’ll stick to xīngān,” you commit.

And just like that, he’s breathless again.

He’s a sucker for that term, the way it rolls off your tongue. The way you choose it, like it's the easiest, most obvious choice in the world. “Xīngān,” he finds himself echoing, his voice softer, breathier than he’d meant it to be.

The sound of it leaves a warm, pleasant feeling in his chest. He likes the safety of the word, the way it makes something in his chest flutter. He can’t help the slight smile from tugging at his lip.

“I like the way you say it,” he admits, no longer bothering to keep up the charade of nonchalance.

“I’ll say it more, then,” you muse.

Minghao isn’t even fully convinced that you realize that this is flirting. He’d always gotten that feeling, that you don't always notice when something turns into that sort of casual teasing. He knows you can flirt; he’s witnessed some of your flirtations personally and he’s heard plenty of stories from the others.

But this sort of thing— this banter, the way you tease him with a casual sweetness in your voice— it’s new flirting territory. It’s something he's never experienced in your presence.

He follows you silently to the doors of the company, his heart pounding in his chest. The two of you walk side-by-side, your hips and shoulders nearly brushing with every two steps.

Neither of you bother to slow down as you near your inevitable separation. There isn’t a point, after all. Why draw out the goodbyes?

Before he loses the confidence, Minghao reaches out to snag your wrist. He can only hope that you’re less oblivious than he’s afraid you are. 

“Hey,” he calls you back, his voice just a touch breathless. “You free this weekend?”

You tilt your head to one side, only momentarily thrown off. It wasn’t unnatural for you to meet with the boys when they didn’t have a schedule. Sometimes, it was a language lesson; other times, it was a spontaneous hangout. It was always discreet, never anything to really read in to.

You and Minghao have had your fair share of escapades. Chinese takeout on the floor of your apartment, trips to a local library. They’re few and far between, but always welcome.

“I’m free Saturday evening. I have to work in the morning, and I have a family thing on Sunday,” you answer. “What’s up?”

Minghao feels the slight tension in his shoulders loosen at your answer. It’s not a no, not when it comes with a little extra clarification, as though you had been expecting something of a meetup anyway.

He drops the grip on your wrist, his fingers loosening just enough that you can pull away if you want. “Do you want to—” he starts, the words catching in his throat. Is it just him, or is the hallway warm? “Do you want to go to the movies?”

“The movies? Sure. What did you want to watch?" you inquire, your head tilting further as your curiosity is piqued.

The overhead lights catch the soft, sharp lines of your face, illuminating the features that Minghao knows like the back of his hand. The gentle tilt of your chin, the way you’re slightly shorter than he was, the way your hair frames your face in a messy but unfussy way— as though you didn’t try, but the effect was pleasing nonetheless.

It’s an effect that isn't lost on Minghao, that leaves something warm and fond twisting in his chest. He struggles to get a hold of himself.

“There's a film festival,” he says. “An international film festival, over in Gwangjin.”

If Minghao were a weaker man, he would have beamed at your reaction— the excitement in your voice, the way you reached out to squeeze his wrist in turn.

“That sounds fun,” you say happily. “I’d love to go.”

He knew you were passionate about languages, about cultures— one of the reasons you two have gotten on so well, as you’re the only person he’s ever met who shares that sort of enthusiasm. The only person who understands it in a way that doesn’t feel too much.

He gives you a little flicker of a smile before he answers. “Good.” 

There's a beat of silence as he contemplates his next few words— and what exactly he was about to propose. “You know…” he finally says, his tone just a little hesitant. “There's a… there's a film that I really wanted to see. In the festival, I mean.” 

“It’s in Mandarin,” he quickly clarifies, the words tumbling from his mouth in a way that feels a little too much like panic. “Um— will your Mandarin be up to it? No subtitles.”

“I’ll be up for it,” you assure Minghao laughingly. “If I miss anything, I guess I’ll just have to ask you.”

Ask him? The idea— the mere implication that you’d be leaning in, closer, to ask him. That you’d be needing something, some sort of clarification, a better context.

The way you'd need him.

And perhaps it was obvious, the way you and he were constantly switching back and forth— him with his Mandarin and your Korean and English, to fill in the blanks. But the words still set something loose in his chest, to know that he would be there to help you if you needed it.

“Yeah,” he says, once he finally manages to remember how to speak. “Yeah, you can ask me.”

As you begin to step away, you speak up. “It’s a date, then,” you say casually, still painfully unheeding to the implications of everything. “Will you pick me up or should I meet you there, xīngān?”

Minghao has never felt more simultaneously grateful and betrayed by your lack of awareness.

Because how could you be so casual, how could you just drop that right in front of him— calling it a date, calling him ‘darling’— as though it was nothing more than just another hangout? It leaves him reeling in a way that makes it impossible to respond.

He can only offer a nod, his throat dry, as one hand lifts in a half-wave. “I’ll pick you up,” he says, his brain lagging behind with the rest of his body.

You give a small wave back, your smile just as bright and friendly as the rest of you. This was going to be a thorn in Minghao's side, it seemed. Your brain wasn’t good at half measures. You needed clarity, needed straightforwardness to confront abstract feelings.

You disappear through the revolving front doors of the company, leaving Minghao in the company lobby that suddenly feels all-too warm. His phone pings in his pocket; a text from Jun.

You're late to game night, his member teases. Get away from the love of your life and get your ass over here. ㅋㅋㅋ

Because of course Jeonghan had tattled to all the other boys where Minghao had been. He rolls his eyes as he glances down at the screen, tapping out a quick response.

I'm coming. Don't cheat.

He glances up and back at the glass revolving doors, knowing full-well that you're already on the street at this point.

Minghao, for all his bluntness, has suddenly found himself in a situation where all he can do is beat around the bush.

Minghao arrives outside your apartment building on time, his hands shoved deep in his pockets against the early evening chill. His heart is pounding in his chest, the nervous energy buzzing in his veins.

He had dressed up. He had put on cologne. He was taking you to a film festival. What could possibly happen that would go wrong?

It's a thought that is interrupted when a horn beeping snaps Minghao's attention away from his inner thoughts, as he straightens and glances down the street. There's no one parked on your street, no one walking down the sidewalk. He takes a step forward, peering across to the other side of the street— and there you are, stepping out of the building.

It takes everything he's got to keep a straight face. It feels like something out of a drama, and he's still not entirely sure he's not dreaming.

The fact that you're dressed up too is not lost on him. Damn it, of course you'd look good to him, no matter what you'd chosen to wear.

Minghao straightens as you draw closer, suddenly not quite knowing what to do with his hands. Does he pull you in for a hug? Offer up a casual, friendly greeting?

He settles for a nod, shoving his hands further into the pockets of his jeans, doing his best not to stare. "Hey."

"Hey," you greet right back, flashing Minghao a dimpled smile. You give Minghao a once-over.

"You look nice," you say like it's the most casual observation in the world. 

The praise sets something aflutter in Minghao's stomach, his hands gripping his car keys a little tighter to try and keep them from shaking. "Thanks," he responds, somehow finding it in himself to step closer and unlock the car door for you. "You look good, too." 

Good doesn't even begin to cover it, he thinks as he goes to slide into the driver’s seat. 

"You got me nervous," you say as you pull the seat belt over yourself, suddenly slipping into Mandarin. "About the film having no subtitles, I mean. So I ended up brushing up on my Mandarin."

He lets out a small huff of a laugh that's bordering on a scoff. "Since when have you had to brush up on anything?" he responds in Mandarin as well, flicking on the turn signal and pulling the car out into the street. "Your Mandarin is perfect."

"I'm always studying. You know me," you chirp, leaning forward slightly to fiddle with the knobs of Minghao's car radio. You’ve been in his passenger seat enough time to feel comfortable doing this; you settle on a station playing mostly Western indie songs.

"And my Mandarin always has room for improvement," you go on. "I'm still working on that C2-level proficiency."

Of course you weren't satisfied with just good. You had to go and be an overachiever. Minghao finds himself shaking his head at the thought of how your drive for excellence in everything was— for lack of any better word— admirable and adorable all at the same time.

"You're insane," he says under his breath, still so awed by self-imposed standards. "You really don't need to do that, you know. You're great the way you are."

"How is it that you're both goading and complimenting me at the same time?" you tease.

The way you speak sounds effortless and yet Minghao can pick up on the little moments where your tongue would just ever so slightly stumble. He could correct you, but God, he's never quite heard that same sound before.

In fact, he's suddenly very aware of just how different you two sound when you speak his mother tongue.

"It's called being a good friend," he responds, fighting the rising urge to say something else.

"You're a pain in the ass, but I love you, anyway," he continues, his hand settling on a knob on the center console to change the radio station to something with a bit more of a modern beat. You always had to listen to indie music.

As the sounds of some Top Fifties pop song filters through the car, you let out a snort of laughter and respond noncommittally to Minghao's jab. "Love you, too," you say with no shortage of sarcasm. The words, in Mandarin— wǒ yě ài nǐ— still sound soft and sweet and lilting, despite your best effort to sound mocking.

Minghao suddenly has to swallow against his very dry throat. He hadn't expected that response from you, not when the last time he had said those words to you was months and months ago during an argument between the two of you. A particularly stressful work week, a squabble that neither of you talk about anymore.

"You better," he manages to respond, his voice cracking ever so slightly on the second syllable of 'better'. He hopes it goes unnoticed.

That little stutter, that tiny stumble around the last syllable of 'better', was the only indicator that betrayed the way Minghao's heart was hammering out the wildest beat in his chest.

He knows it's a sign of his own impending nerves when he turns the radio volume all the way up, drowning out any chance of conversation between the two of you for the rest of the ride to the venue.

Far too used to Minghao's pockets of peace, you pay no heed to the fact that the rest of the car ride is spent in companionable silence. You only break it once Minghao is pulling up into the parking lot of the theater house.

"You should go ahead. I'll get us snacks," you offer delicately, this time in Korean. The reminder of how the two of you had to hide any sort of public interaction settles like a stone at the very bottom of Minghao's stomach, and yet he nods anyway, silently agreeing with the logic of your suggestion.

You ask, "Is there anything you want to eat?"

He lets out a soft sigh as he pulls the keys out of the ignition. "Popcorn," he responds, his eyes skimming over your form as you unclick the seatbelt to leave. "With M&Ms."

The familiar request makes a small smile tug at your lips. It was the same thing, still, that Minghao asked for after all these years of movie-watching. "Got it," you say, sliding out of his car. "I'll find you in a bit."

Even through the closed car door and over the sound of the car radio turned up to its highest, he can still clearly hear the smile in your voice. It sets that now familiar thump in his chest into overdrive.

"Hurry up," he responds in all of his usual nonchalance, despite the fact that his eyes are still following your figure, taking in the way you carry yourself as you walk away.

Shit, he's so gone for you.

Minghao's choice of seats are typical as always. In the very back of the theater, to keep him away from possible prying eyes.

You settle into the seat at his right, carefully balancing the food you’d gotten the two of you. "I couldn't carry two popcorn buckets, so we'll have to share this big one," you whisper to him as you pass him his pack of M&Ms and a bottle of soda.

"Thanks,” he murmurs over the sound of advertisements playing over the big screen.

"I've heard a lot of good things about this film," you mumble. "No making fun of me if I cry."

"I would never," he replies, voice as light as yours.

Sure enough, the opening of the film has Minghao leaning forward on the edge of his seat, engrossed in the drama unraveling between the characters on-screen. It's like he was that sixteen year-old boy in the movie, struggling to find his place in the world.

He's all but quiet in his consumption of popcorn, a hand sneaking into the bucket at times to munch on a few pieces idly. A few times, when the food almost runs out— he accidentally brushes his fingers against yours. The touch is brief, accidental, but each time, his skin feels like it's singing, and he fights the impulse to grasp your hand altogether every time he reaches for popcorn.

He does notice, however, when you seem to encounter unfamiliar words. His gaze flicks over to you as your lips wordlessly form the nickname they call the main character. Xiǎoshì.

It's a term, sure, but it's far more than that to him.

For him, it's a moment. A time in his life that was so brief, but one he remembers like it happened yesterday. A small part of him wants to tell you all about it, but he can't now. 

And so he settles on another form of communication. With your attention still on the screen, Minghao reaches over— and finally grasps your hand. Interlocking your fingers together.

As your fingers grasp with his, a part of him hopes that you don't pull away. He almost wants to look sideways at you, just so he can see your reaction— read your face as you focus on the movie in front of you, as your heart beats fast, loud, against your ribcage.

He doesn't dare to hope, though. He keeps his hand in yours, holding on tightly, as the movie continues to play out, the scenes getting more familiar to him.

The main character gets into a particularly nasty row with his mother about following his dreams, about leaving home, about wanting a better life than the one they had in their province. His gaze flinches slightly at the familiar scene before him and the memories, the emotions, that it all brings up in him.

It's a tense scene, spoken in the scathing language he'd grown up in, and you can tell the way it's affecting him. Instinctively, you reach your free hand over to gently press at the side of Minghao's head; a quiet invitation for him to rest his head on your shoulder.

Minghao takes you up on your invitation, the touch of your hand almost a command to him. He lets his head rest on your shoulder, not unlike a weary puppy. He can practically hear his mother's voice in some parts of the argument playing out in the movie. He can hear his own words echoing in his ears— almost as if he himself was the one speaking on-screen.

He wants to stay in the moment, with you, in the darkened theater as the movie continues to play. He doesn't think he can tear his eyes away from the screen, just like how he feels like he can't let go of your hand.

But it's a movie— a coming-of-age one, at that— and so all ends well. The boy and his mother reconcile. The main character is not any older by the last part of the film, but he's wiser, and the whole thing ends with him looking out at the Beijing skyline, humming an old lullaby for comfort.

The credits roll. The lights stay off as they do, and you finally, finally, bring yourself to pull away from Minghao's shoulder.  

You keep your hand in his, though, as you let out a quiet, watery laugh. "Xu Minghao," you reprimand in Mandarin. "You took me to the saddest movie ever."

"I told you," he responds back lightly, in Mandarin, his own voice a little rough from trying to hold himself back just a bit. "My friend said it was a sad one, when he recommended it. And you said you were fine."

He squeezes your hand again, shifting in his seat so that he was facing you, a hint of teasing in his tired eyes.

Absent-mindedly, you rub your thumb on the back of his palm. "How did you like it?" you ask, pitching your voice lower, still, despite no one being within your vicinity.  

Minghao's eyes soften a little at the tender gesture on your part. He feels the light, comforting motion of your thumb brushing against the back of his palm and he lets out a small, shaky sigh of his own. "It was... a little difficult to watch," he admits, his voice quiet, his eyes focused on your interlocked hands between you.  

"Do you want to talk about it over dinner?" you offer, your smile just a touch rueful. "Or we could just... have dinner and not talk about it at all. Whichever works best for you."  

At your offer, a small, almost self-deprecating smile quirks at the corner of Minghao's lips. He squeezes your hand one more time. "Dinner, yes. Talking, no."

The walk back to the car is a quiet one. Once you’re in your seats, Minghao puts the burden of deciding on you. 

"There's this barbeque place I've really been wanting to try out over in Myeongdeong," you rave, but then your fingers freeze over the GPS screen. You glance at Minghao over your shoulder, suddenly a bit sheepish. "It's a bit out of the way from your dorm and my apartment, though. Is that alright?"  

He lets out a small, soft laugh, shifting in his seat a little before reaching over to lightly flick your ear. "When has distance ever stopped me?" he retorts, his usual dry tease in his voice. "Let's go, I'm starving."  

"Alright, alright," you huff as you plug in the address. The directions to the restaurant— somewhere twenty minutes away, barring traffic— appear on screen as you move back into your seat, still pouting slightly at your ear being flicked. "I just thought you'd be sick of me after the movie."  

"Sick of you?" He scoffs at your words as he begins to peel out of the parking lot. "I think I would die of boredom without you, actually."  

“Ah. Because no one else will keep up with you like this, hm?"  

"They're not quick enough. You're one of the rare ones who don't make me want to tear my hair out."  

"You're laying it on thick tonight. Is this a ploy to get me to pick up the dinner bill?” you tease. "Because really, Hao, there's a rather big difference between the salaries of idols and translators."  

He chuckles a little at your comment, his grip around the steering wheel tightening slightly. "No, this is not a ploy to make you pay for dinner. I'm treating tonight. I'm rich, remember?"  

"Yah, you're not treating!” you shoot back. “We’ll pay for our own shares. You should only spend your money on things that are important.”  

"And treating you isn't important? You're always important to me. Don't deny it."  

When you suddenly go silent as a flush starts to creep up your face, Minghao can't help but look away from the road for a few moments to glance at you from the corner of his eye. He can only see the side of your face, the blush that colors your cheeks glowing against your skin.  

"You can't just say stuff like that so casually," you snap, though your tone is soft around the edges. "You should save that for birthdays or holidays."  

"And why only birthdays and holidays?" he muses. "I'd rather tell you all the time."  

In a bid to regain a bit of an upper hand, you keep your eyes out the window as you mumble in Mandarin, "Just keep driving, xīngān."  

Seeing your flustered face flush an even deeper color of red gives Minghao a sort of satisfaction, his lips tugging up at the corners. He can't help but chuckle a little more when he hears the words that leave your mouth in Mandarin, his mind taking a few moments to register the nickname he's grown to like.  

"Yah, don't just call me that without warning," he says, voice slightly muffled as he continues to focus on the road. "My heart can only handle so much."  

You finally glance over at him. The blush still lingers, but there's a bit of a mischievous glint in your eyes now. "Should I warn you, then, if I'm about to use it?" you say sweetly, sticking to his mother tongue for the sake of seeing how far you can go with it. "Should I only save it for special occasions?"

"Yes," he manages to hiss out after a beat, a small scowl on his face when he realizes that you're taking advantage of his weakness. "I'd much prefer you to warn me in advance. And only use it on occasions that actually count."

"I'm about to use it," you warn instantly, leaning slightly forward to turn down the radio. There had been some other group's song playing, filling the car with the sweet, lilting sounds of a ballad.  

"This occasion counts, xīngān," you sing-song. "Every moment with you counts."  

At your obvious mockery, Minghao's scowl only deepens, not that he really minds. Your sweet words have his heart thudding loudly in his chest in spite of his protests.  

"Stop being so cheesy. You're only saying this because you know that I like it, aren't you?"  

"I'm saying it because I like it," you answer. "It suits you. I'm about to use it again."  

You pause for a beat. "Darling," you say, this time cycling between English, Korean, and Mandarin. "Yeobo. Xīngān."  

This time, Minghao can't help but chuckle. He's definitely going to be having a good time tonight.  

"Are you going to spend the rest of the night calling me that?" he questions, finally having to pause at a red light. He turns to look at you for a few moments. "Just so I know what to expect."  

"Do you want me to?" you ask right back, your eyebrows raised slightly.  

"If you did," he starts, the words coming out before he even fully registers them, "I wouldn't stop you."  

The light turns green. The cars in front of you move forward a bit, and that means that you have to as well. The moment passes ever so slightly as Minghao is forced to lurch forward, to turn the corner that will finally have you at the barbecue place you'd recommended.  

You look ahead, away, the smile on your face widening just a bit. And because he said he wouldn't mind, because he'd given you something akin to a go-ahead—  

"Alright, xīngān," you say softly.  

The term of affection in your voice has Minghao's heartbeat rising, the nickname ringing in his ears, filling his chest with a sort of sweetness at the sound of it. It was like music to his ears, he thinks, the way you say it, the way it sounds.  

Once again, he can't help the smile that finds a place on his face, though he hides it by turning away to concentrate on the road ahead, trying to focus on it instead of the way his heart just won't stop racing in his chest.

The meal is comfortable. You talk about everything and nothing; you take turns cooking the meat. If sometimes you fall silent, neither of you feel the need to fill that quiet. You're so assured in each other's presence that we're fine to just be.

It's easy, with you— easy to relax in a way that he sometimes can't with others. He feels comfortable with you, safe around you, and he doesn't really have to think about what words he uses or the right thing to say.

You make it easy for him. And he's grateful for it.

As the night continues, though, the light conversation seems to eventually die down. Not that it bothers him; no, as Minghao has said before, the two of you do well with silence.

In the quiet that now surrounds the two of you, though, his mind begins to wander. A thought that has been in the back of his mind since earlier that night resurfaces again.

"Xīngān," he begins tentatively, his eyes still on the grill in front of him as if staring at it is supposed to give him some strength. Once again, he finds himself turning to Mandarin for the question, the words feeling like home on his tongue.

It feels, somehow, more fitting to ask you this question in the language that's his, one that he's comfortable and practiced in. "Do you believe in fate?"

Mìngyùn. Fate. Your mouth soundlessly tries out the word, the two syllables lolling on your tongue.  

"Like— the red thread of fate," you say, just a little dumbly, as you contemplate Minghao's question. You don't even notice the way you've switched over to Mandarin to match his pace. "Like that kind of fate? Or something else?"  

He takes a beat before he answers, trying to figure out how to word his question, how to express what he means in a way that makes sense, even to himself. "I mean that kind of fate," he clarifies. "Like, soulmates."  

"Do you?" you ask suddenly, throwing the query back to him.  

"I do."  

"What version of the red string of fate do you believe in?"  

He hesitates when you ask him the question, not quite sure how to explain the kind of fate he believes in. "I believe in things that are inevitable."  

"I mean— I believe in things that are destined," he continues, trying to elaborate. "I believe the people— the ones who are supposed to be together— will always find each other, in a way, no matter what happens. No matter how much time passes, or what obstacles there are between them."  

The way the corner of your mouth twitches when he says the word inevitable sets something ablaze inside him. 

He knows the look you're giving him is just one of interest, not a look of affection, but to him, it feels like a look of affection.  

Your lips twist into a slightly rueful smile as you take a moment to flip the meat on the grill, trying to keep it from burning. It's your turn to keep your gaze evasive as you answer. 

"I'm not sure if I believe in fate," you say, your Mandarin deliberately careful and slow. "Or soulmates. Not in the way that you do, at least."  

The words strike a painful sort of ache in his chest and Minghao finds himself having to bite down on the inside of his lip, trying to quell the way his heart seems to clench at the confession.  

This time, you slide into Korean, desperate to get your point across in the language that you know, in the tongue where you won’t be misconstrued. "I want to. I want to believe that soulmates exist— that there's someone out there for all of us," you say with a little more firmness, the change in speech giving you some more conviction.

"But I think that if soulmates do exist, they're not found; they're made." You pause to bring your gaze back up to Minghao. "People meet, they get a good feeling, and they get to work building a relationship. And that will lead to the inevitable."  

He's not quite sure why it feels like a loss, somehow, to no longer be speaking in Mandarin, and it makes his fingers itch for something to do. There's a moment where Minghao has to process the words you say, the way you express yourself so firmly and deliberately, as if you've given this some thought. Slowly, he gives a nod. "Like working in a relationship. Like making it work."  

"Like making it work," you concede.  

You gently place the last pieces of meat on Minghao's plate. "The concept of the red string of fate has always scared me," you admit, your mouth twitching upward in a slightly wistful smile. "What if the person on the other end follows the string only to realize they don't like what they find?"  

Minghao's gaze drifts down to the plate of food you've assembled for him, a gesture that feels oddly domestic, somehow, to have someone prepare a plate for him, and his heart gives a warm, affectionate little squeeze. 

He looks back up when you speak, his face a carefully stoic mask in spite of the way his heart is giving a painful thud, thud, thud inside his chest.  

"I think..." he begins slowly, his eyes still on you, the words leaving his lips careful and deliberate, as if he's trying to pick them out slowly from a tangled mess in his mind.

There's an intensity to his gaze, a gravity that's hard to miss. "I think even if the person on the other end of the string doesn't like what they find, it's what they're supposed to have. It's what they're destined for."  

"Ah. Destiny."  

Minghao had stuck with Mandarin; you say it in Korean. The two words— mìngyùn, unmyeong— are the two faces of the same coin.  

"And who do you think I'm destined for, xīngān?" you ask with just the right amount of teasing, making it a point to still refer to Minghao with the Mandarin term of ‘darling’ despite speaking the rest of the question in Korean.  

It's supposed to be nothing more than a good-natured joke, but Minghao feels the sudden urge to be honest.

He knows it's a joke, he knows it's meant to be a lighthearted question, but something in the back of his head, something sharp and cruel, his traitorous, selfish heart keeps repeating the question back to him: Who do you think I'm destined for? 

The thought that you'd be destined for anyone but him makes him feel like there's something lodged in his throat, something painful and sharp, and he wants to reach out and grab you, hold you, pull you tight against him and just never let go.

But instead he just looks at you and he forces the corners of his lips to tug up into a smile. "You're destined for someone wonderful," he says in his soft Mandarin, his trademark sincerity.

It's a non-answer; a cop-out, a way to avoid confessing things he shouldn't, but it's the best he can manage at this moment, when I wish it was me is screaming so loud in his head, it's all he can hear.

You smile softly.

Minghao had told the truth. You are destined for someone wonderful. 

He just wishes he could have been more specific. 

The next time he sees you is ahead of the boys’ Japanese showcase. Minghao had been lagging behind in the airport; he'd managed to get a few moments of shut eye on the plane, but it did little to stave off the exhaustion he still felt.

He walks a few steps behind Seungcheol, his eyes flitting idly through the crowd, until they land on you, walking slightly ahead.

You were already moving efficiently, keeping your gaze straight as you walked next to Seungcheol, your eyes focused and unflinching even as the press and fans yelled out at you.

Minghao's eyes don't leave your figure, following you and Seungcheol as you navigate the throngs of airport patrons with practiced ease. He's almost unsettled by how effortless you seemed— walking through the crowd as if it were nothing more than a casual stroll through the park, your expression set and unwavering as you translate for Seungcheol in a low, firm tone.

Once you finally get past the front doors of the airport, there's a lull as the boys all pile into a twelve-seater van. You stay by the door, finally stealing seconds to see each of them as they pass by you.  

Vernon dips his head in a nod. Mingyu throws you an exaggerated wink. Jun mouths 'hello' to you in Japanese. 

And then it's Minghao's turn to get in the van, to pass by you. There's not much either of you can do or say yet, considering the fact that there are still fans and press scrutinizing your every move, but he still has this. A moment of acknowledgment, however he deems fit.  

Minghao's mouth tugs up at one corner as he sees you smile at him, the sight immediately making something warm bloom in his chest.  

He can't help the subtle, almost instinctual reaction as he stops ever so slightly in passing you. He wants to say something, but words elude him.  

Instead, his hand just grazes against your wrist— the merest press of his fingers against the bare skin of your arm. It's a tiny gesture, but one that speaks volumes.

For the rest of the car ride to the hotel, Minghao struggles.

He's stuck in a car full of members, all exhausted from the flight, all loud and noisy and rowdy, and the van feels suddenly stifling. He spends most of the time looking out the window, trying to focus on whatever he sees.

Anything to distract himself from thoughts of you and the ghost of your soft, warm skin under his fingers.

The next time you're slated to see the group is in the dressing room before their showcase. It's hours later. Hours you spend translating, liaising, transcribing. The dressing room is as lively as ever, most of the members having already changed into their stage outfits. Several of them are sitting around, idly eating snacks or watching videos.  

You carefully push open the door. "Hey," you greet, and you're met with the instant chorus of thirteen boys welcoming you.  

Seungkwan excitedly calls out, "Hey, hey, hey!"  

Joshua gives you a warm smile. Chan waves exaggeratedly.  

You let out a huff of laughter, already acutely familiar with the boys' habits. "Just wanted to check in on everyone before the showcase," you say as you lean against the doorframe.

Minghao is sitting on a couch in the corner of the room, his eyes on you as you say your reason for coming to see them. 

"We're all good here," Jeonghan answers, one hand propping his chin up. "You look like you could use a sit, though."

Your laugh is just a little strained, your smile a touch forced. But your façade stays intact, even as you shake your head. "I've still got some preparations to do," you say lightly, and then you shift gears before anyone can press. "How was the flight?"

"It was fine," Seokmin pipes up. "You know, nothing out of the usual. We were well-behaved."

"Well-behaved," Wonwoo echoes from the couch. "If by well-behaved, you mean Soonyoung and Vernon got extremely handsy in the plane."

"Hey," Vernon protests, whipping his head around to look at Wonwoo, "don't say it like that!"

On the couch, Jihoon lets out an amused snort, shaking his head in fond, exasperated disbelief. "No, no, please," he encourages, his voice laced with sarcasm, "tell everyone how you two almost got us yelled at by the stewards because you were roughhousing over some food."

Soonyoung pouts, his expression instantly adopting a look of exaggerated innocence. "I don't know what you're talking about," he insists. "I was a perfect angel."

While the other boys are all busy ribbing on Vernon and Soonyoung, Minghao makes his way over to where you're standing against the doorframe.

He stops when he's standing next to you, and the corner of his mouth tugs up into an amused smile as he takes in your distant, almost out of it expression. When he speaks, his voice is soft enough for you to hear but low enough that the others can't, barely more than a whisper. 

"You look tired."

You give him a sheepish smile as you pat out invisible wrinkles on your linen blazer. "Hao," you greet quietly, still a bit hesitant to use xīngān in front of his members.

Your gaze flickers briefly to the rest of the room before you switch to Mandarin, a clear indication that you want your next words to be for Minghao and Minghao alone.  

"I am tired," you admit in his native tongue. "But it's nothing crazy. Just the usual exhaustion."  

"You always work too hard," he responds, matching your switch to Mandarin. His gaze sweeps over your form, taking in the weary lines of your frame, the subtle stiffness in your stance. "You look like you'll fall over any second."  

You roll your shoulders a bit, unconsciously leaning closer toward him. "It's my back, still," you confess. "Making things a little harder than usual. I really will get it checked when we're back in Korea."  

A concerned frown tugs at the corners of Minghao's mouth when he hears you say it's your back, his eyes sweeping over your frame once again. "How long has it been bothering you?" he asks, his gaze sweeping over you.  

He tries not to seem too obvious about it, but he steps a little bit closer, shifting a fraction of an inch closer in case you do fall over. His arm brushes up against yours, the contact between the two of you almost imperceptible.  

"This morning," you say with a rueful smile, your hand reaching behind to massage the small of your back from over your layers of clothing. "The plane was a bit cramped."  

Minghao's eyes narrow a fraction of an inch when he hears the reason, one of his eyebrows lifting slightly in a mixture of surprise and annoyance. "I told you to get it checked before the flight," he says.  

You give Minghao a look that's mildly exasperated and wholly exhausted. "I'm already booked to see a physician once this trip is over," you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest as you look up at Minghao.  

"You always say that," Minghao responds, the hint of annoyance in his voice a clear indication of just how frustrated he is. "It's clearly bothering you every day. If you just took some time off, maybe even just a week, maybe you'd—"  

"Minghao."

The quiet, stern way you say his name— just his name; not Hao, not xīngān— cuts right through his frustrated tirade. A flicker of surprise passes across Minghao's features, the almost snap in your tone shutting him up.

"I'm going to go," you inform him stiffly, slipping back into Korean and away from the language you reserved for each other. "We need to prepare for the showcase."

His jaw clenches, a muscle in his cheek twitching as he tries to keep his mouth shut for once, biting back the words he wants to say, the protests that are so close to leaving his lips. He lets out another huff of air, forcing his expression to stay neutral. 

"Yeah," he replies in the same language, the one word filled with annoyance. "See you."

When the showcase rolls around, you maintain a backstage presence. Your role, as always, entails that you pay complete attention to the boys as they speak. Whenever they address the crowd as a whole, you translate their Korean into Japanese.

For some reason, hearing the familiar sound of your voice coming out of the speakers, the smoothness of your Japanese, still feels somewhat calming to Minghao. In the chaos of lights and loud music, hearing the rhythm of your words through the speakers makes it feel like, at least for the moment, you're still right there beside him.

When the songs pass and the showcase ends, the members are all still riding the high of the excitement of their performance, the energy of their fans still buzzing in the atmosphere.

They all make their way backstage, the hum of their conversations filling the air, a sense of excitement and satisfaction, each and every one of them energized. Minghao, once again, makes his way over to where you're standing, his eyes on you, his expression almost intense.

You don't immediately notice Minghao approaching because a staff member is talking to you in rapid Japanese about some interviews you need to coordinate, need to play the role of interpreter for. You're trying to bargain for a moment's break, but it's a losing battle.

The staff then suddenly folds into a bow, and only then do you realize that Minghao had come up to you. You dip your head in an equally respectful bow of acknowledgement.

In Japanese, you tiredly assure the staff member you'll be there for the press circus; she leaves Minghao and you alone at your reassurance. You flash Minghao a weary smile, slipping, this time, into Korean. "Good job with the showcase," you say benevolently. "You did well."

He can't help the subtle frown that forms on his face, the way his eyebrows furrow in concern. The fact that you're once again hiding behind that professional exterior of yours, the friendly, polite smile you're shooting him, does nothing to soothe his frustration.

"Thanks," he mutters, his tone somewhat clipped.

He hesitates for a moment, his gaze sweeping over you. "Hey," he eventually says. "Come with me for a second."

You cast a glance around backstage. The boys are all off doing their own things— chugging water, ribbing each other, taking photos. In a gaggle of thirteen, it's easy to fly under the radar at any given time.

"You have a magazine interview in fifteen minutes," you tell Minghao, clueing him in on the conversation you had with staff just moments prior. "We can't really go anywhere—"

"I know," Minghao responds, his tone perhaps a little sharper than he'd meant it to be, frustration getting the better of him.

He takes a quick glance around the backstage area, confirming that the others are all occupied enough that they won't notice, before his gaze lands back on you. "We won't be long," he assures you, already grabbing your wrist.

His grasp on your wrist is firm, his hand strong and his fingers wrapping around the limb easily, pulling you along with him, with no room for any protest. He doesn't break his pace until he's found a small, secluded bathroom, pulling you inside and shutting the door behind the two of you before anyone could notice.

"Minghao," you hiss under your breath, still obviously pissed in the way you forgo both his nickname and pet name. "You can't just drag me off when we have work."  

Even in his already frustrated state, Minghao finds himself momentarily distracted by your pissed off tone, and the use of his name without a nickname or pet name. He likes you calling him by some form of a cute or affectionate moniker far more than just plain, unadorned Minghao.  

"We still have a couple more minutes," he retorts, mirroring your tone even as his hand slides down to lace your fingers together.  

His eyes are heavy on you, his expression intense even as he takes an unabashed, close-up look at your face, studying the weariness in your expression, and the strain that's clearly weighing down on you.  

He makes a move to reach down, his gaze on your cheek, to brush away a strand of stray, loose hair. His heart lurches when he sees the way your expression softens subtly, even when you're still trying to be mad at him. The way you immediately intertwine your fingers in his— God.  

"We look very suspicious right now," you say dryly, your free hand gesturing vaguely to the fact that Minghao practically has you pinned against the bathroom wall. "Is this what you pulled me away for?"  

"We'll make it quick," he manages to reply, sounding slightly hoarse, before closing the already-minimal distance between the two of you, one arm snaking around your waist.  

"We shouldn't—" you protest weakly, because there's just some things you can't explain away. Like how Minghao and you might be caught hugging in this bathroom when you were colleagues at worst, good friends at best. "We're going to get in trouble."  

"We won't," he responds, his tone firm, stubborn.  

His other hand comes up to rest at the back of your head, pulling you in even closer, burying your face in his chest, the other arm still looped firmly around your waist. He lets out a sharp exhale of air, the frustration and tension of the moment melting into something akin to relief. 

"Just—" he mumbles, his breath hot in your ear. "Let me hold you. Just a little— for a second."  

A small flicker of relief fills his chest when he feels the tension ease as a result of his embrace, the way you lean against him, almost as if you're allowing yourself just to relax. To melt against his body the way you almost never did in public.  

When you mumble Mandarin against his chest, your words are slightly muffled. "I'm sorry about earlier," you whisper. "I was really stressed."  

"I know," he responds, just as quietly. "I'm sorry too."  

This was how it was with the two of you— the quick-tempered arguments, the stubborn disagreements, and then the inevitable apologies that always followed. Minghao knew he was stubborn, maybe even a little irritable, and he would admit that he could've handled his response better.

But, for some reason— in the moment, at least— all of that tension that had been between the two of you in that moment just evaporated in the embrace. "You're working yourself to the bone," he mutters quietly, into your collarbone.

He knows how hard you work, in general, but it's become increasingly worse as of late. The endless translation, the interviews, the subtitles and scripts. It all seemed to be getting too much, even for you.

"I know it's not my place to tell you this but—" he continues, his voice becoming even more hoarse and heavy in worry. "You need to take better care of yourself. You can't just keep pushing yourself like this. Not like you've been doing. You're going to burn out at this rate."

It's just the way the two of you were— you, the overworked, over-stressed, and over-tired, and him, almost constantly worried about your general well-being, worried about you working yourself to actual exhaustion.

The moment you gently run your fingers through his hair, he instantly melts against you even more, practically nuzzling against your shoulder.

"You do have some right to tell me this. We're friends," you sigh, tilting your head to press your lips to the side of Minghao's temple. "And you're right— I'll look into taking a medical leave for a bit, once we get back home."  

"Good," he responds, his voice quiet but firm. "You need a break. And I—" he pauses, hesitating.  

He doesn't like seeing you like that, he wants to say. He doesn't like seeing you so tired and so stressed every day. He doesn't like how you barely have any time together anymore. He doesn't like seeing you overexert yourself so much.  

He stops himself from saying it out loud, instead letting out a soft huff before continuing. "I really worry about you, you know?" he mutters against your shoulder.  

"I know, xīngān," you respond, slipping into Mandarin in a bid to comfort Minghao a little more. A beat. And then, ever so quietly: "I worry about you, too."  

You slide your hand up and down his back. "We're both fools," you whisper with a slight huff of laughter.  

"Yeah," he agrees with an exhale of a laugh at your last words. "We are both fools."  

But we're fools for each other, his mind unhelpfully reminds him as he dares to hold you for just a moment more.

He just has to go and mess it all up by insisting, "I wish you’d let people take care of you."

People, meaning him. He had meant to say I wish you’d let me take care of you, but instead something entirely else came out. He knows he ought to back down the moment he feels you tense under his grasp, but Minghao was nothing if not adamant.

"I don’t need to be taken care of," you persist. 

Minghao huffs into your hair. "That’s bullshit and you know it."

"Hao—"

"It’s not a sign of weakness—"

"You keep treating me like—"

"I’m not—"

"Minghao!"

You’ve all but pulled away now, your earlier softness replaced with a new kind of tension. It’s not the same tiredness from being overworked; no, it’s the frustration of the two of you trying to speak over each other. The push and pull of your words. Your mutual inability to communicate just what you mean. 

Minghao’s fingers ball into fists at his sides to hide his almost trembling hands. It’s all he can do to keep himself from reaching back out for you.     

"I'll go ahead," you whisper decisively, your gaze fixed on the door. "I'll see you at the magazine interview."

An almost visceral, physical pain shoots through Minghao's chest at the mention of you leaving. His mind screams no, don't leave, don't go. But he swallows down his own irrational, impulsive desires, his own selfish longing for you.

"I— yeah," Minghao responds slowly. "I'll meet you there."

He watches silently, almost helplessly, as you make a beeline for the door.

The interview is with NYLON JAPAN. You interpret and translate for both the interviewer and the boys, once again acting as an off-camera presence— an intent, constant figure quietly relaying questions and answers.  

There's some benefit in SEVENTEEN being thirteen members strong. That way, Minghao is in the second row, some distance away from you. If you avoid his gaze, it almost feels negligible.

For the duration of the interview, Minghao can hardly concentrate on the questions and answers being traded between the members and the interviewer. His focus is firmly drawn towards you.  

He can't help but glance in your direction every so often. Every time your gaze accidentally meets his, it's like a jolt of electricity straight to his chest, his stomach clenching at the painful realization of how close you are and how far away you feel.

When the interviewer begins to ask member-specific questions, you do your job as well as you always do. The first two are for Seungcheol, then Chan. And then, of course, there it is.

You nod a bit as the interviewer poses his question. "Jun and Minghao," you translate, your voice wavering imperceptibly on the second name. "You two are the members that have given up a life in your home country in exchange for being an idol. How are you able to cope with that?"

As you translate Jun’s answer to the interviewer, Minghao can hardly focus on the actual words he's saying. He’s only half-listening as he watches the subtle flutter of your eyelashes, the slight parting of your lips, the crinkle in your forehead as you concentrate hard on getting the Japanese translation perfect.

His chest feels tight, like there's a band wrapped around his entire body, constricting his airflow.

When your gaze finally moves back to him, locking eyes with his own, a rush of breath leaves his lungs, his heart jumping in his throat. The look in your eyes, the distance between the two of you— it’s nothing short of exaggerated.

For a brief moment, he's not answering a question for a Japanese magazine interview. He's answering a question for you. 

"It's hard," Minghao answers, his voice quiet and low, somewhat hoarse. "It’s really hard and lonely sometimes."

Every word that leaves his lips feels like a struggle to get out, like they're getting stuck in his throat, choking him.

"But I have the members, and we have the fans," he continues, a quiet yearning in his eyes. "And so it’s bearable," he says, despite the pit still present in his stomach, despite the ache of needing more.

He keeps his gaze focused on you, letting every word he says hold a meaning beyond the answer to the interviewer’s question— as if he’s answering for you and not the interviewer. But he has to keep his words vague, just in case those damned cameras picked up on his words and the way he looks at you.

"It's bearable," he repeats, swallowing hard, letting his eyes convey what he really means, even if his words can’t. You make it bearable.

There are some things that don't need to be translated. The pinched look on Minghao's face. The way he's openly staring at you. The subtle shift among the members— all of whom seem to pick up on something Minghao isn’t saying.

"Is that all?" you ask Minghao in Korean, your voice steady as ever despite the flicker of emotion in your gaze.

That aching, yearning expression is still present on his face as he responds. 

"Yeah," he says. "That’s all."

Minghao's phone is tucked under his pillow, the device set to vibrate.

He jolts awake the moment it begins to buzz, a habit he had grown after years of being under the spotlight and on the road. His hand flies out to grab the phone.

His eyes bleary, he blinks a few times to clear his vision. A slight smile involuntarily tugs at his lip when he sees your message, his eyes skimming over the contents of it several times.

i'm sorry about today. (yesterday, technically?) i hope you're resting right now. ily.

"Idiot," he murmurs quietly to himself.

You don't have anything to apologize for, he replies quickly. It's not your fault. I'm the one who should be sorry. I should've been more patient with you.

How are you? Are you okay?

i'm ok. fell asleep on the couch and woke up suddenly. but did i wake you? it's so late. you should be asleep.

A quiet sigh leaves Minghao's lips as he reads your response, a part of him feeling a pang of guilt, as if knowing he was the reason you were awake right now.

You did wake me. But don't worry. I'm glad you texted me. Can you call me?

A beat. 

let me just step out onto my balcony so i don't wake my roommates.

The image of you carefully sneaking out onto the balcony to talk, just so you wouldn't wake your roommates, briefly flashes through Minghao's mind. It reminds him of his own sleeping roommates a mere few feet away from him.

He sighs softly, quietly pulling himself out of bed, careful to not disturb Mingyu and Jun as he quietly makes his way out into the balcony from the door to his left.

The air is cold and the night sky is clear. Those are the two of the three things Minghao registers when he steps out on the balcony of his hotel room. The third thing comes after you call him and there’s a slightly amused edge to your tone as you say, "Look to your right, xīngān."

He turns to look to his right just as you asked, his eyes searching the balcony area in the distance. He can't quite make out any details on your figure in the low lighting, but when his eyes finally land on you, his heart skips a beat all the same.

"Found you," he murmurs.

"I didn’t mean to wake you," you say softly. "We could have talked in the morning, you know."

"I know," Minghao responds. He leans against the railing of his own balcony, the metal cold to the touch, his eyes fixed on you. He's sure you can't see him clearly, but it doesn’t matter at this moment.  

He was looking at you, and that was enough.

"I wanted to talk to you," he says simply, the words said without a trace of shame, just quiet honesty.

"What did you want to talk about?" you ask, giving him the liberty to set the pace for tonight, to pick and choose his battles.

There are a lot of things Minghao could say right now, a lot of things he wants to say. But instead, he settles for, "How are you?"

"Better now," you say simply, your gaze still fixed on Minghao in the distance. And it's the truth, even if the second half of your answer goes unspoken. Better now, that you're talking to him.

He stands there silently, still watching you from a distance. Despite his earlier confidence in talking to you, he's suddenly feeling uncharacteristically timid. Tongue-tied, almost, with his words caught in his throat. He can’t bring himself to speak for a moment, a part of him still feeling guilty about earlier.

He swallows the tightness in his throat, taking a deep breath, before finally forcing the words out. "I'm sorry," he mumbles. "For what happened in the bathroom."

Perhaps it's the years you’ve known each other, the herculean task you’ve both faced. But Minghao and you know better than anyone that things were so easily lost in translation, that there’s only so many emotions that can be grasped in all the languages of the world.

"We just have to get better at using our words, I guess," you sigh. 

Something in his chest settles at your response— at the understanding in it, at the fact that you don't hate him. The knowledge washes over him like a sudden warmth, the guilt he'd felt earlier slowly evaporating with each passing moment.

"We do," he replies quietly.

There's a comfort, still, in being just a couple of balconies away. How you can make out each other's vague silhouettes in the late evening of this foreign country.

It feels like you're standing on the precipice of something, of possibility.  

But instead of confronting it, you opt to dance the line a little longer. Your eyes are still trained on the sky as you slip into Mandarin.  

"The stars out here are so clear, xīngān," you muse thoughtfully. "It's beautiful, don't you think?"

The change in language registers quietly in Minghao's mind, his brain taking a second to get used to it after speaking in Korean and stilted Japanese most of the day.  

He looks up at the night sky for a moment in quiet contemplation, taking in the beauty of the stars as you'd described them, before turning his gaze back to the shadowed outline of your figure in the distance.  

Something about the sight, about you, makes his heart ache a little bit. Beautiful, you had said about the stars, but he’s not looking at them. 

He responds softly, longingly, in Mandarin, his voice almost a whisper in the night air. "It really is."

The next day, you both get on separate flights back to Seoul. As Minghao had poked and prodded you to do, you finally take the medical leave from work— a one-week block, which was the longest you’d ever gone away from PLEDIS since you first started nine years ago.

Roughly three days into your break, Minghao is in dance practice when he feels his phone buzzing in his pocket. He frowns when he glances at the screen and sees your name. 

can i call? 

The sight of the message, so unlike your usual lighthearted air, makes his heart drop instantly in his chest. There's no text-speak, no cutesy words, no emoji— just a simple question. He drops whatever he's doing, ignoring the questioning stares from the members as he steps out into the hallway and quickly dials your number without a second thought.

"Xīngān," he greets you, a little breathless from the rush he'd felt upon seeing your message. There's a hint of concern in his voice as his heart races in his chest, his mind whirling with thoughts. 

He doesn't even bother with pleasantries or small talk, diving straight into the issue at hand. "Is everything alright? What's wrong?"

Much to Minghao's chagrin, you bother with pleasantries. "Hey," you say back in Mandarin when he greets you. For a moment, you hesitate; like you're not quite sure which language you want to speak to Minghao in.  

"I'm sorry," you say in Korean. "Did I bother you?"  

Minghao shakes his head even if you can't see him. He's silent for a moment, mulling over his words before replying, "No. Never. You didn't bother me, xīngān."  

The words are uttered quietly, his voice soft and gentle, as if he's afraid that the volume of his own voice might somehow scare you away.  

"I finally visited a doctor for my back," you say, finally. "It's a herniated disc, and I'm being slotted in for a surgery in two days."  

His heart drops into his chest at your admission, the words feeling like a sudden weight upon him. Herniated disc.  

The words feel like a sudden strike to his heart, his mind racing with questions and concerns. "A herniated... disc," he repeats, his voice a little breathless, a little shocked, as he quickly tries to process what he'd just heard.  

He doesn't realize he's switched to Mandarin, his own words spoken in a rush. "How bad is it? What are the doctors saying?"  

You stubbornly stick to Korean, likely because it's easier to accurately relay your medical results in the same language you'd received them in. "It's not bad," you say firmly. "The operation is an open discectomy on my lower back. It will take at most an hour, and I'll only need to stay in the hospital for up to three days."  

There's a flicker of irritation in Minghao's eyes at your insistence to continue speaking in your language, frustrated at the lack of comprehension and understanding it brought. He wants to protest, to argue, to tell you to just use Mandarin— but it disappears when he hears your firm voice, when he realizes what it is you're telling him.  

An hour-long operation. Three days in the hospital. It didn't sound bad, per se, and logically, he knew that you would probably be fine. It still didn't make him worry any less.  

"What are the risks?" Minghao asks after a moment.  

Normally, he would have just looked up whatever answers he wanted, searching it up in medical databases and online articles. But, for some reason, he's suddenly terrified to hear anything other than the sound of your voice— your words, reassuring him that everything will be okay.  

"No change to the back pains," you rattle off. "A five to fifteen percent chance of a revision discectomy if the herniated disc returns. A lower chance of an unstable spine. It's— they're truly not bad risks, Hao."  

"Five to fifteen perc— no, that's not a 'truly not bad risk'," Minghao counters immediately, his voice sharp and frustrated, as if scolding a child that was being too nonchalant.  

"You— it's surgery, xīngān—" he continues in Mandarin, his tone almost pleading. "Five to fifteen percent chance— it— what if something goes wrong?"  

He feels a little bit frustrated at his sudden loss for words in both languages, as if his own limited vocabulary couldn’t express the rush of emotions that had suddenly overwhelmed him.  

"Hey," you say softly into the receiver, this time switching over to Mandarin. Because it had always been more soothing to him, more familiar in the sense that mattered. "Take a moment and breathe for me, xīngān."

There's a sense of calm that washes over him as he finally hears the change in language. He takes a deep, shuddering inhale, followed by a slow exhale, his eyes squeezed shut as he mentally counts down seconds.

Slowly, the panic, the fear he'd felt gradually starts to subside, leaving his heart and breath steadier— but not completely unbothered.

After a moment, you go on in Mandarin, calm and measured. "It's a surgery with a high success rate of sixty to ninety percent," you maintain. "I need it to address the persistent back pains, xīngān. If I don't do it now, the pain will only get worse and more of my spine could be affected."  

You pause, letting the words sink in. "These doctors are good," you go on. "They do their job well."  

Minghao takes several more slow, steady breaths as he listens, the sound of your voice alone calming him down, helping him keep his mind clear and focused. He knows you're speaking to him in Mandarin because it's easier to communicate with him this way, but he can't help but notice the subtle firmness, the reassurance in your tone.  

The statistics, the numbers, the facts— they're hard to deny, and as he takes another shaky inhale and exhale, he realizes that you're right. "Sixty to ninety percent success rate," he repeats to himself, his voice a soft murmur.  

"Sixty to ninety percent," you reaffirm. Then, in a more shy tone, you add, "I'm sorry for springing this on you. I— I just didn't know who else to call."  

He notices it then, the meekness in your words, the small hint of vulnerability in your voice. Any remaining anxiety he felt from the situation suddenly dissolves with the realization that you needed this.  

You had called him because you’d needed to hear a familiar, comforting voice, a sense of reassurance after what you'd just confessed. He swallows back his fears, his worries, any thoughts about the risk and that lingering, unpleasant feeling in his chest, because you needed him to be calm, to be steadfast.  

"Don't... Don't apologize, xīngān," he says almost immediately after. He swallows again before continuing, mentally berating himself for letting his anxiety and irrational fears take over his brain. "No, don't— I'm glad you called. I'll always pick up the phone."  

"Are you free tomorrow?" you ask tentatively. "We could grab a meal before I have to check into the hospital."  

As he hears the question, his mind immediately begins to run through his schedule for the next day.  

He knows what he should do. He knows what the logical part of his brain, the part that's in control of his rationality, is supposed to do. But when he thinks of you— of you, in the hospital, waiting to undergo a surgery (it's safe, it's a safe surgery, he chants in his brain) alone, without him—  

"I'll clear my schedule," he tells you.  

"No, you don't have to," you say quickly, falling back on Korean in an attempt to express your haste. "It's okay. We can just meet once the operation is over—"  

"I'm clearing my schedule,” he repeats, his voice firm, final. “I’m going to be there. We’re eating before the surgery, and I’m going to be at the hospital with you afterwards. I’m not letting you go to the hospital alone."  

A beat. While there are things that Minghao and you have yet to clear about the nature of your friendship, one thing stands true regardless of label.

"You're too good to me, Xu Minghao," you say softly, shifting to his mother tongue for the sake of sentiment. 

He lets the sound of your voice, the familiar language, wash over him. As it does, it soothes the anxiety that still gnaws at the corners of his mind.

"It’s…” he begins quietly, a small, almost sheepish smile forming on his lips, “not really…”

There’s a moment of silence before he sighs softly, his expression growing more earnest as he continues. “Being good to you is the easy part.”

"And it’s xīngān, not Xu Minghao," he adds quickly, and he’s sure you can hear the pout in his voice. 

It draws a laugh out of you— one that's still quiet, but a lot more genuine. A moment of levity. A brightness that only Minghao could truly give you. The sound of your laughter, even over the phone, is enough to lift his spirits, his heart swelling in his chest in relief.

"Xīngān," you amend, and your voice is just a little too fond to be friendly. 

For a moment, Minghao can convince himself that all will be alright in the world again. 

The discectomy is relatively uneventful, which can only mean that it was good. There's no way of Minghao knowing this, of course, not as he spends the entire morning in a group meeting he can't really skip.

Regardless, all the members can tell that Minghao's heart isn't really in it. That he's physically at the PLEDIS building, sure, but his mind is on you— somewhere in an operating room, under anesthesia.

Seungcheol broaches the topic carefully. "Ah, it’s their surgery today, isn’t it?" the leader asks almost too casually, to no one in particular. There's a murmur of agreement across the table of thirteen boys. Some shifty, knowing glances at Minghao.

Minghao nods in response to Seungcheol's question, his expression still entirely too… anxious. "Yeah," he replies, keeping his voice as controlled as he possibly can, even as he feels his dread build up inside of him. "I'll be going to see them, after this."

It doesn't go amiss to anyone that Minghao doesn't even bother to extend the invite to anyone else. Jun is the only one who looks vaguely miffed about it, but they're all mostly understanding of how different Minghao felt with you compared to their own concern, their own affection.

Joshua offers the next best thing. 

"I was thinking we could chip in to send flowers," he says, and there's easy assent across the group. Minghao feels a small flicker of warmth in his chest at the thought of how you'd receive these messages of their care and concern.

As Vernon and Jeonghan debate what arrangement to send, Jun throws a glance at Minghao and almost smiles. Almost.

"What flowers did you get them?" Jun says in Mandarin, so no one else in the room can pick up how quickly the other Chinese man had clocked that Minghao was already three steps ahead.

Minghao glances over to his friend, his expression unreadable, as he answers in the same language. "Sunflowers," he replies, not missing a beat.

Jun can only smile faintly at Minghao's answers. "Sunflowers for your sunshine," Jun teases good-naturedly, still in the tongue that none of the other members will understand.

There's something about the way the Mandarin word for 'sunshine'— yángguāng— that sounds just so right. The Chinese term falls from the older man's lips like a blessing, a wish for good luck and health and goodness for all those involved. 

Minghao isn't sure if he'd imagined it, not exactly, but he sees the way Jun looks at him right after he says the word. For a split second, Minghao's chest tightens, his throat clenching up, because maybe Jun thinks his feelings for you are obvious.

Maybe Jun thinks he's been obvious all this time. In his head, Minghao had already been thinking it— yángguāng, sunshine, mine— And it's only now that he realizes that he was never the only one who saw it that way. That saw you and Minghao as something inevitable. 

He glances at Jun, eyes softening, filled with almost a wave of gratitude.

"Sunflowers for my sunshine," he repeats, hoping it will somehow manifest like a prophecy. 

You wake up after your operation with one less disc in your spine and one too many floral arrangements in your hospital room. As you blink against the vestiges of your anesthesia, you register the absurd, almost comical amount of flowers piled on the couch, and it doesn't take you more than a couple of seconds to realize it came from the boys.  

One of whom is dozing off in a chair next to you. You watch with mild amusement as Minghao's head dips in his restless slumber, his fingers still surprisingly firm around the bouquet of sunflowers in his lap. The affection you feel for him then threatens to overwhelm you.  

You manage to tamp it down in favor of gently prompting, "Minghao."  

Your voice is still hoarse, still a little rough around the edges. Not quite enough to rouse him from his sleep. After two or so more attempts, you go for what you know will wake him up.  

"Xīngān," you call out with no shortage of fondness.  

The sound of your voice jolts Minghao awake, and he opens his eyes in an instant. For a moment, his vision is still blurry, the world around him seeming almost vague, fuzzy with sleep, but then it snaps into focus when he sees you.

When he sees you awake, alive, and looking at him. His heart does somersaults in his chest.

"Yángguāng," he answers, his voice low, soft and affectionate, barely above a whisper.

"That's a new one," you say in Mandarin; your voice is still scratchy, but your amusement is not any less evident.    

He thinks he'll never get tired of watching that. Of watching your lips move that way. "You like it?" Minghao asks.  

He doesn't need an answer to his question, because he already knows that you do— but he can't help himself, needing the confirmation, needing to hear your answer. The thought of calling you 'sunshine' isn't a new one, but saying it out loud to you for the first time, when you're awake? It feels like a miracle.  

"I could live with it," you answer with a soft smile— even though both Minghao and you knew that you would now never be able to live without it.  

Minghao wants to laugh at the way you shrug his question off, at the way you seem so nonchalant, even as you give him that sweet, sweet smile that is so bright that it could rival the very sun itself.  

Because he knows the truth. He knows you're happy about it. He knows you love it. He can tell it in the way you're looking at him, in the way your eyes glitter with affection.  

"I'm glad," he answers, playing right into your charade because he knows every little trick in your book.  

And then, in a fit of bravery— one that he almost feels like applauding himself for— he leans in to press a kiss to your temple.  

When he pulls away, the bouquet of sunflowers still clutched in his hands, he's sure he can see it. The happiness in your eyes. The sheer, blinding affection in your smile.  

"Thank you," you whisper earnestly. Partly because your voice is still shot; partly because you don't trust yourself to speak any louder. "For coming to see me."  

He has to swallow hard to regain control of his emotions, because he is so terribly, terribly in love. He laughs under his breath because he's not sure what to do about his feelings anymore. Maybe it's best to just throw himself off the cliff and see what happens, right?  

"I'll always come see you," he answers, instead, making a promise for the future.  

He leans in again with that thought on his mind, and he presses another kiss to your temple, softer, longer, his lips lingering against your skin for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.  

He pulls away to meet your gaze, and he almost feels like laughing at the way he can see his feelings reflecting in your eyes, shining in the pools of your irises. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you. How is he going to live with that?  

Minghao leans in again, but this time, he kisses the corner of your lips, right where your smile is.  

And it's astounding, really, just how terrible Minghao and you still are at this whole thing. Despite all the years between you, you still falter and stumble in getting your feelings across.  

There was always something. A job to do. A reputation to uphold. And now, a hospital bed, a recovery period.  

But, for once, you can only laugh breathlessly as Minghao gives you two more kisses, as you feel the upward curve of his lips against your face. Your heart stutters at the peck on the corner of your mouth; it's not quite what you both want, what you both need, but you'll take it. God, you'd take it.  

"Stop that," you try to chide in between your giggles. "Get off me, Hao—"

The sound of you laughing is like a revelation in Minghao's chest. As if a chord of tension that had been strung taut within him for so long had been cut.

He pulls back with a look of satisfaction on his face, that teasing grin playing on his lips as he does. "But why?" he asks in an absolutely, unbearably sweet tone, a tone that is laced with faux innocence, even though he knows why. You were recovering. You had to be careful.

A part of him is almost glad he hadn't kissed you properly. Because if he so much as feels the softness of your lips against his, he's not sure he'll be able to stop.

But God, does that make him want it even more— the fact that he can't, the fact that you're so close and still beyond his grasp. He forces himself to look elsewhere then and his gaze falls to the bouquet on his lap, to the flowers he'd brought you.

Sunflowers, because he doesn't think they make flowers that even compare to the brightness of your smile, or the way your eyes glitter when you laugh— at least, not flowers that make him think of you and you alone.

He holds the bouquet out to you. "Do you like them?" he can't help but laugh. He had chosen them and bought them for you, and yet, in true Minghao fashion, he finds himself still asking for your approval.

"I love them," you say easily, readily, already reaching out to take the arrangement from Minghao. 

Three sunflowers in full bloom, flanked by chamomile and irises and baby's-gypsophila. Your smile is bright and wide as you look down at it, as you hold it delicately. 

When you look back up at Minghao, there's that touch of amusement again. That tinge of disbelief that seems to wordlessly communicate, I can't believe you.  

"You didn't have to," you point out with a low chuckle, shifting slightly in your hospital bed as your fingers go imperceptibly tighter around his flowers. "But thank you."  

The sight of the smile on your face is enough to almost make him want to kiss you all over again.  

It's not the first time he'd given you an arrangement of flowers, but it's the first time it's made Minghao feel like he's just given you his heart, too.  

"No, I didn't," he agrees lightly, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the very tips of his fingers brushing against your soft skin. But I wanted to.

The boys all come to visit, one after the other. In small groups, in age order, until they have to be kicked out for being too noisy and potentially drawing too much attention to themselves. There are doctors, too, and nurses. All of whom are a little shell shocked at the idols just milling about in your hospital room, making themselves at home.  

Throughout it all, Minghao stays. His usual quiet, steadfast presence. He absorbs all the diagnoses; he tells off his members when they get overwhelming. And, when no one's looking, he'll squeeze your hand or press his fingers into your shoulder.  

As always, there are some things neither of you have to say out loud.  

He's more than happy to play the role of your protector, even as he continues to worry, even as he's filled with dread over the possibility of you not recovering fully and what that might mean.  

See, Minghao would never describe himself as a man of prayer. He doesn't go to temples nearly as often as he should, though he does go often, and he doesn't consider himself not spiritual.  

He finds himself praying anyway. To the universe and whatever is out there, begging for the chance that all of this would work out for you.  

But for now, at this moment, all Minghao can do is wait, and focus on the way your hand feels in his— a source of comfort in and of itself.  

That's how your mother finds you, actually, on the evening that she deigns to visit.  

Minghao is at your bedside, playing with your fingers, and the two of you are debating over something trivial— the merits of adapting dramas into other languages— with your heads bent together. It would've been negligibly friendly if it weren't for the obvious affection in your petty argument, the way you practically lean into each other's touch.  

That's why it takes a moment for either of you to register that a third person had entered your hospital room. You look up at the sound of a throat clearing, and you're just about to apologize when you register who the silver-haired woman by the entryway is.  

Your spine goes rigid; your eyes, imperceptibly wide. "Eomma," you choke out in a slightly strangled whisper.  

Minghao goes still the moment the word leaves your lips, and his mouth goes dry when he registers the figure at the door. He doesn't exactly know what kind of a relationship the two of you had, but Minghao can only hope, for the sake of politeness and respect, that she doesn't despise him.  

"Hello," he says weakly, his hand tightening almost protectively around yours in a silent gesture of support before he finally rises to greet her. He bows respectfully, clearing his throat to greet your mother appropriately.  

Your mother's scrutinizing gaze flickers over Minghao— everything from his polite bow to the way he had just been holding your hand, moments prior. When she speaks, it's in garbled Korean; there's a hint of a French accent, one that doesn't quite match her Seoul dialect.  

"There's no need for that," your mother tells Minghao, referring to his bow. She's aiming for kindness but comes off, still, as cold. It must come with the nature of her profession; you had once mentioned that your parents were diplomats.   

Minghao forces himself to stay calm and composed, even as the fear of how your mother may react to him sets in the pit of his stomach. He nods his head, but he doesn't quite dare to look her in the eye  

"I'm Xu Minghao, ma'am. I'm here to offer some company," Minghao tries to explain, though he's not sure he's doing the best job of it.  

There's a flicker of recognition on your mother's composed expression. The look of recognition in your mother's eyes puts Minghao slightly at ease, but that doesn't quite erase the nervous tension, the anxiety that thrums against the underside of his very skin.  

"Xu Minghao," she repeats, and you let out a groan when she sounds just a little amused despite her stoic demeanor.  

He waits, just about holding his breath as your mother comes further into the room, stopping in front of the two of you. Minghao shifts awkwardly in his spot, glancing over to you just about nervously, as if waiting for you to take charge of the situation.  

"Eomma," you repeat. This time your voice is a lot more level. You try to ignore the way Minghao seems absolutely scared shitless at your side. "When did you fly in?"  

There's a detached casualness to your mother's response, almost more like you're colleagues than family. "Just this morning," she says. "I'm staying at your grandparents’ for now."  

You dip your head into a nod. There's a pause.  

"Minghao is a member of SEVENTEEN," you say, sounding just slightly resigned at having to remind your mother.  

The older woman turns her gaze back to Minghao, her eyebrows raised slightly. "I'm aware," she says coolly, an edge of amusement in her tone. When she refers to you, she sticks to your full name instead of your nickname. "How is it working with my child, Minghao?"  

"They’re wonderful," Minghao answers without hesitation, his answer almost coming out a little too fast.  

He doesn't bother to temper it back, because that's how he feels— and because he believes that your mother needs to know how he feels about working with you, about being around you.  

"Kind," he adds after a moment of pause, looking back over to you, just about begging to be given permission to continue, to gush about you.  

You look straight back at Minghao, barely resisting the urge to vehemently shake your head. You know him. You know how he wants to say more, would probably talk hours and hours about your role as an interpreter if you gave him the green light.  

As you attempt to wordlessly communicate with him through your pointed glare, your mother watches the exchange with growing amusement. Then, just as you always have whenever you wanted to get Minghao talking more—  

"I would hope they were kind," your mother says, though she says the words in Mandarin.  

When your mother speaks in Mandarin, Minghao can't help the rush of gratitude that floods through him, because that only means one thing— that it was okay, that he was encouraged to say more. And so, he does, a small smile on his lips.  

"Kind, thoughtful, patient," he says softly, almost like a litany. "Always on top of things. Brilliant."  

There was something about talking about you in his own language that made everything come so much easier to Minghao. "They make us all look bad," he adds with a soft laugh, though there's a hint of truth behind the words. He means it.  

You made him want to be better to you, more worthy of you, and not just as a person, either. As a man, too.  

You stare up at Minghao, exasperated at how a simple change in language had suddenly gotten him so honest. "You shouldn't say all that—" you hiss at him.  

As you go on to tell off Minghao under your breath and he only looks down at you with that completely smitten expression, your mother puts two and two together. One doesn't have to be in the same room as the two of you for too long to recognize it.  

Ah, the older woman thinks to herself. They're in love with each other, and they don't even know it.  

The expression on Minghao's face as you scold him would be better described as that of a puppy who doesn't quite understand what he'd done wrong. His eyebrows furrow, and as you continue to hiss under your breath, he looks like he simply wants to reach out and pull you into a hug because he can't stand it when you fuss over him.  

But he settles for squeezing your fingers once more, his grip tightening, just enough to ground himself when you don't seem to relent in your quiet berating.  

After a moment, your mother clears her throat again. It's a habit of hers that immediately gets you to shut up.  

"I just wanted to drop by," she says vaguely, switching back to Korean. "But I really must get going. Duty calls."  

"Duty calls," you echo quietly, and your mother's gaze softens imperceptibly.  

"I'll be back later tonight," she reassures you. Her gaze flickers to Minghao for a moment before returning to you. "I trust that you'll be in good hands until then."  

"Eomma," you huff, and your mother looks like she almost might laugh.  

Minghao stays still as he watches you interact with your mother, as he watches her gaze flicker back and forth between the both of you. He can't help the slight smile on his face at the look in your mother's eyes, however, because it's almost like approval.  

She turns to Minghao, this time. Gives him a once-over. He's jolted when your mother suddenly speaks French. It's not anything Minghao will understand— just a brief sentence that is meant for you and you alone. It's almost impertinent; the words are anything but.

Your smile widens and you respond in the same language.  

Your mother gives Minghao a nod. "Goodbye, Minghao," she says in Korean as she takes her leave. "It was a pleasure to meet you."  

Minghao is left looking at you, still holding on to your hand. His eyes flicker down to your smile, a grin of his own blossoming on his lips. "What did you say to each other?" he asks, almost immediately pouting.  

He won't admit it, but he feels almost jealous. The feeling tides over when you absentmindedly note, "It was nothing."    

The smile on Minghao's face turns soft and he squeezes your hand for good measure, still watching your face even as you slump back against your bed.  

"You're a terrible liar, y'know." He raises your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles. "You know I can read you, right?"  

"She asked me if I agreed with the meaning of your name," you say point blank. "And I said yes. Of course."  

Minghao pauses, his lips still at your knuckles as he absorbs your words.  

He knows what his name means. He's heard it enough in his lifetime. As far as names were concerned, he always considered himself lucky for the fact that he's got a pretty decent one.  

Ming, 明, which meant bright and brilliant. Hao, 浩, which meant grand and vast. Minghao— someone bright, brilliant, vast like the sky.  

But to hear you say it back to him like this? It feels like a revelation. Like you're giving him a gift, something that he can hold on to.  

"Of course," he repeats reverently, his heart a steady thump, thump, thump in his chest.

The subsequent recovery period is a slow crawl. Minghao fusses more often than not. He ensures you're on top of things— physical therapy, check-ups— and is extra careful about anything that might involve your back.  

Even as you're given the go-ahead to return to work, he frets, having read through one too many articles about the risks of having a discectomy. How strenuous labor and contact sports are still off the table for the foreseeable future. How, now, four weeks after the surgery, you still ought to be careful with routine activities.  

It's as endearing as it is vaguely irksome, especially on instances such as these. The rest of the staff avert their gazes and try not to laugh. The boys look like they're most definitely going to give you grief later on.  

Because Minghao is still adamantly carrying your things as you all head to a shooting location for the newest Going Seventeen episode.  

"Hao," you say through gritted teeth, right at Minghao's heels as he lugs around your duffel bag. "I told you, I can carry that!"  

Despite the slight exasperation in your voice, Minghao can't hide the way the corners of his lips tug into a smile.  

He knows exactly what he's doing and he knows how it makes you feel. But he can't help himself; it's too easy to wind you up. "It's heavy," Minghao insists, despite the fact that it's not that heavy, or that he doesn't actually believe that it is.  

He’s just being a slight nuisance on purpose, something he does often to get your attention.  

"It's not heavy," you seethe, taking extra steps to keep up with Minghao's lithe strides. He’s leading you to one of the company buses that would take all the members and the staff to today's shooting location— some beachside AirBnB along Sokcho.  

"I packed it, for Christ's sake. I know it's not heavy," you insist helplessly, reaching out one hand to tug at the back of Minghao's shirt.  

He's always like this, pushing and prodding and annoying you to get reactions out of you because he finds it amusing. It's been such a long time since you last properly scolded him, and oh, how he wants you to do it again.  

He stops in his tracks, forcing you to either halt in yours or bump into him. When he pauses, your feet keep moving on their own accord. Your face smashes right into Minghao's back.  

Immediately, your hand that had been grasping his shirt flies to your face. You clutch the bridge of your nose— feeling a slight sting there, following the impact— as you mumble a low chorus of "ow, ow, ow, what the hell..."  

The moment your face smashes into his back, Minghao finds himself doubling over in laughter, his frame shaking as he braces against his knees. The look of pure disbelief on your face is probably one of the funniest things he's seen all week, and the laughter that bubbles up out of his chest is unrestrained and free.  

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" he apologizes, his voice wavering in between laughter as he slowly tries to regain his composure. "Are you... are you alright? Does it hurt? Is it broken?"  

"You're insufferable," you huff before stomping ahead of him, making it a point to bump your shoulders against his as you make a beeline for the bus.  

Minghao only continues to chuckle, shaking his head as he follows after you, his laughter never once dissipating. By the time he reaches the bus, he's still smiling, completely unable to hide the way he keeps grinning.  

Much to Minghao's chagrin, however, you exact your revenge in the smallest way possible: By settling into a seat next to Mingyu, who's always more than a little willing to jump on Minghao's nerves when given the chance.  

"Sorry, Hao," Mingyu sing-songs, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "But I'm calling dibs for the next two hours. There's an empty seat next to Jun, though!"

Minghao only rolls his eyes, clearly slightly miffed at the way you'd just abandoned him for Mingyu in a heartbeat.

He finds his way to Jun's side, plopping down on the seat next to the other boy with an overdramatic, exaggerated sigh. "He snatched her away from me, ge," he whines, glancing back over to you with that same pout still on his face.

"You made her bump into you, Haohao," Jun points out with another roll of his eyes, shaking his head, though there was still a slight curl on the corners of his lip.

"I'm just having fun! You could at least sympathize with me.” There's no seriousness behind Minghao's complaint. It's a tone of complete and utter playfulness, and that only deepens Minghao's smile as he leans back in his chair.

The bus ride drags on, slow and careful, with Mingyu and you chatting about menial things. At one point, he slumps against your side to fall asleep on your shoulder, and you doze off with your cheek pressed to the top of his head. Seokmin takes a photo for posterity purposes.

Jun and Minghao watch from a couple of seats behind, and for a moment, Jun is contemplative.

It's a conscious choice for Jun to slide into Mandarin. The only other person in the bus who might understand it would be you, and you’re knocked out cold. That means the words are for Minghao alone.

"How much do you like them, Haohao?"

The switch in language catches Minghao's attention, especially when he hears the seriousness in Jun's voice. It's enough for him to pause, lifting his head up from where he'd had his chin resting against his knees.

"Too much, I think," he finally answers, with just a slight hint of hesitation.

It's not because he's ashamed, but because he's never been the kind of person to be so open about these type of feelings before. He's not even sure he knows how, sometimes.

"There's no going back now," Jun says, reaching out to lightly nudge Minghao's hip with his own. There's a slight look of concern in his eyes, but he speaks carefully, keeping his voice low as he continues.

"You might be in too deep," Jun continues, his voice a low murmur as he adds. "But I think... if the way they look at you is any indication, they’re right there with you."

The smile that spreads across Minghao's face is blinding, despite the way he turns his gaze down to his shoes. He can't help it— not when his heart is beating fast against his chest, at the idea of you feeling the same way that he does.

He wants it to be true, more than he's ever wanted something to be true in his entire life.

"I should hope so," he says, in an attempt at being flippant, but the way his voice sounds? It would give him away instantly.

When the company bus eventually rolls up onto a gravelly parking lot, the sight beyond the vehicle is one to behold. Sprawling, white sand beaches with glittering waters. The boys are still supposed to film some content, do some challenges, but the prospect of being in somewhere so pretty has significantly boosted everyone's spirits.

Wonwoo rouses Mingyu and you from your sleep. Mingyu chatters aimlessly at your side, only pausing when Minghao comes up to you; of course, the older boy can't resist one last jab.

In full view of Minghao, Mingyu does an infuriating shaka sign in front of his face and mouths 'call me, jagiya', completely unwarranted. It draws a proper snort of laughter out of you. 

"Stop it," Minghao whines as he reaches out to pinch Mingyu, though there's no real heat behind his voice. He doesn't even try to hide that smile on his face, not when he catches the way you laugh.

He can't look away from you once he sets his eyes on you. He's never been able to.

He just hopes that you can't tell exactly how in love he is. Because how is he supposed to tell you he's fallen hard?

The day at the shore flies by faster than any of them expect it to, but in the end, the filming is finally over.

By the time the staff tells them they're finished, the sky is painted in beautiful shades of orange, pink, and purple. It only adds to Minghao's already good mood, especially when he gets the chance to steal you back from Mingyu and get you all to himself.

When filming wraps up and the cameramen all begin to pack their material, the boys take it as a go-ahead to treat the rest of the late afternoon as a beach day.

You smile, mostly to yourself, as they break off— to take photos, to go for a swim, to explore the private beach. All the while, you try to maintain your focus on your laptop, your practiced fingers moving across your keyboard.  

It's why you're initially oblivious to Minghao's stealthy approach.  

Minghao lingers behind for a moment, watching you work. He's already gotten changed, his clothes swapped with swim trunks and a simple black tank top.  

He knows better than to bother you while you're working, and so— to your oblivious self— he's content to stand by and simply watch until you're done. After another moment, his expression softness as he sees how your brow furrows in concentration. Minghao steps in a little closer, one hand coming up to gently ruffle your hair.  

He almost doesn't want you to get back to work and instead considers pulling you up so you can go for a swim with him. He does no such thing, though, settling for patting your cheek once before pulling his hand away.  

You briefly glance up from your laptop so you can flash him a ghost of a smile. There's something to be said about the ways you often communicate without words, how easy it is to just understand.  

You dip your head, give a wave of your hand, turn your gaze back to your laptop. A silent, speechless Go ahead, I'll follow.  

It's like there's nothing he's not feeling right then— just happiness at seeing a smile, and the way that it feels like there's no secrets between the two of you.  

He reaches out to gently pat your cheek once more, his hand lingering for a moment before he pulls away again, turning to make his way out of the tent, the grin on his face still ever-present.  

By the time you're done with your work and changed into some proper swimwear, most of the boys and the staff are already in the water. It's in moments like these when you're reminded why you've stayed with PLEDIS for so long— the ways you're allowed to interact, to just be, when there's no cameras on, no job to do.  

You linger by the shoreline for a beat too long. Before you know it, you're being swept off your feet. Your shriek of surprise pierces across the beach as Jun easily throws you over one shoulder, his hand respectfully bracing the part of your back where there's still marks from your surgery.  

"Sorry, tàiyáng," Jun cheekily says in Mandarin as he rushes the two of you into the water, eliciting laughs from everyone else. He sends you hurtling into the ocean as you scream bloody murder, but you're laughing, still, as you go down.  

Minghao is laughing from where he's standing near the shore, still waist-deep in the water. He'd heard you scream, but the second he hears the sound of your laugh he knows you're fine. Instead of rushing to his feet and out of the ocean, he just stays where he is, the smile on his face never faltering.

The sound of your laughter is only made better by the way the sunlight dances off the water, reflecting off its shimmering surface like diamonds.

He watches as you resurface, your wet hair in your face as you gasp for breath, your face bright with a smile, and he can't help the way he feels himself falling, falling, falling.

He wants to swim over and make sure you're alright, but he knows that Jun won't let anything happen to you. All Minghao does is watch, his grin wide and bright, his eyes never leaving you. He's completely smitten, and right now, the others are just going to have to deal with him being even more of an insufferable, lovestruck fool.

The next couple of moments drag on with light-hearted rough housing, with idle splashing and lazy swimming, until Jun has somehow maneuvered you and him towards where Minghao is in the water.

Jun, behind your back, throws his best friend a conspiratorial wink.

Minghao knows that he can be obvious to an almost comical degree when he's in over his head in his feelings for you, but Jun winking is an entirely different story, and he's already a little wary as Jun brings the two of you over in his direction. 

Even still, nothing could prepare him for the sight of you soaked from head to toe, the water shimmering on your skin in the sunlight as you near him.

Oh, he's screwed, and he's pretty sure Jun and the others know that.

So he does the only thing he can think of.

Minghao dips under the surface of the water and disappears, ducking under the water for a few seconds before he comes back up just behind you, and reaches out to tickle your sides. If he's going to be an idiot and fall all over you, he might as well try and cover it up with a little bit of playfulness.

"Yah, don't do that!" you cry, already rounding in a futile attempt to stop Minghao. You weren't particularly ticklish, but something about the cool water and the warm breeze has you feeling more sensitive than necessary. Breathless laughter escapes you as you try to capture Minghao's wrists, to stop him from his actions.  

Jun quietly pads away with the pleased air of someone having done his job well. Some of the other boys share knowing glances— like they know they ought to intervene— but it's Seungcheol who shakes his head, who wordlessly calls everyone off.  

The leader, telling his members in the most subtle way, Let Minghao have this.  

There are words Minghao wants to say when you reach for his wrists to stop his actions, to ask if you want to join him in diving under the water with him, but words have never been his strong suit.  

No, it's actions that are his strength. And so, instead of asking if you'd like to join him, Minghao does just that, wrapping his arms around your waist and ducking the both of you under the water, the salt in the water stinging his eyes a bit as he opens them briefly beneath the surface.  

And then he brings you back up for air, the look on his face almost triumphant as he laughs, shaking his head to rid himself of the water that's plastered all over his hair and face.  

When you emerge, you laugh in between gasps for air, and instinctively reach up to push aside the wet strands of hair sticking to Minghao's face. "Look at you," you say disapprovingly, but you're betrayed by the pure, unadulterated adoration in your tone.  

"You love this look on me, xīngān," he insists, with that same wide grin on his face.  

And, well, he's not wrong. He can see the way your gaze lingers on his face, even as you scold him and ruffle his wet hair teasingly.  

It makes him wonder what it'd be like if all the what-ifs were real, if this was a relationship rather than an almost. He's almost afraid to wish for it. As if wanting it too much might break it.  

Minghao likes the way that you press close to him, and he keeps his arm wrapped snugly around your waist as you talk and laugh and joke with the others.  

It almost feels right, the way you're there next to him. Even though this isn't a relationship, the way that you slot right next to him is comforting because it almost makes what isn't feel more like what it could be.  

He wants the taste of you to be something more than just a taste. He wants more than a simple bite.

And so, that's how he finds himself suggesting that the two of you go on a walk together once the sun starts to set. There's a slight flush to his cheeks as he asks the question, a shy little smile on his face as he murmurs it.

He wants a chance to be alone with you. He thinks he deserves that much, especially now, after spending the rest of the day having been teased and prodded and jabbed at by the others about his feelings for you.

"Sure," you say coolly, somehow managing to keep your voice level. "Let me just grab my stuff."  

That's how you and Minghao end up breaking off from everyone else, kicking up the sand underneath your feet as you go. There's a couple of jeers here and there; Seungcheol warns you both to be back before dark.  

You take it in stride as you go on ahead, your shoulders just barely brushing. Like you're absolutely helpless to the pull of gravity that tries to keep you together.  

Once the other boys are out of sight, out of earshot, Minghao finds himself growing slightly less shy as you walk side by side, the two of you headed for a small cliffside pathway.  

His gaze is drawn to you rather quickly— to the way the ocean breeze makes your hair blow about, the way you almost shine when the sunlight hits you. The way your hand is so tantalizingly close. His own almost aches to reach out and take yours.  

"You know," he says instead, his lips quirking up into a little cheeky grin that makes his dimple show when he sees the path lined with flowers. Some of them blooming, some small clusters of white blooms scattered around the cliffside.  

Minghao plucks one of the blooms from its plant and tucks it into your hair so it's just behind your ear. He has to focus to not notice the way his fingers skim your cheek, and God, you're so close.  

"I think you look pretty like this," he says, and the words are whispered out like a confession. He picks another of the blooms, and offers it to you, his smile bright, genuine. "Take it. For good luck, maybe."  

When he extends to you one of the white blooms with that gorgeous, dimpled grin, you chuckle quietly. You take the flower. You hold it in your fingers for just a beat.  

And then you stand on your tiptoes to mimic Minghao's action— tucking the bloom right above his ear.  

"You're all the good luck that I need, xīngān," you say laughingly, in Minghao's mother tongue.  

Minghao melts, his lips parting in the slightest as he stares at you like you're a vision, like you're something to worship. He's already far too gone on. The moment he feels your fingertips against his skin, he decides he'll never be able to get over you, not if it takes him years to try to do it.  

There, the two of you stand, looking at each other with an unspoken, shared admiration, standing in front of a cliffside that overlooks the ocean with the sun setting against it, the horizon all burning shades of amber and orange and red.  

This is a moment that Minghao won't forget, and he takes your hand in his, slowly interlacing your fingers together to see if you'll let him.  

Just to know that there's a little bit of a chance that his dreams could come true, someday.  

Your fingers find purchase in the spaces between Minghao's, slotting there as if it was something meant to be. As if the two of you might have the right.  

For a beat, neither of you really say anything as you look out to the glittering expanse of ocean, the sun setting right beneath the horizon. It's a little too picture perfect.  

Exactly the reason why neither Minghao nor you dare to verbalize whatever this is, whatever you've been dancing around for years and years. Minghao wants to tell you everything, tell you that he loves you, maybe get down on his knees and kiss your hands, ask you to be his and to let him be yours.  

But he stays there. Silent. Holding your hand by your side.

When you head back to everyone— where food is being served for the members and the staff— there's a bit of an exaggerated welcome from all sides. The boys all jeer, and the staff give you side-eyes, but you only shake your head slightly as you peel away from Minghao's side.  

The words stay unspoken. The red thread of fate, the one that Minghao so firmly believes in, draws out for another moment more.  

As you go to shoot back some drinks with your team, Mingyu sidles up to Minghao's side. The older man presses a sweating bottle of beer into Minghao's hand.  

"Still not tonight, huh?" Mingyu asks with no shortage of amusement.  

The beer in his hand is cold enough that it would be a little uncomfortable to hold onto if Minghao weren't so used to it, but he simply wraps his fingers around the bottle and takes a half-hearted sip from it.  

His lips purse as he hears Mingyu's question, a frown crossing his face.  

"No. We didn't talk about anything," he says, somewhat regretfully, because tonight just felt like it could have been the right night to say something. To finally admit how he feels, to finally ask what he wants to ask.  

And maybe you would deny him, tell him that you just wanted to be his friend, but he'd take it. He'd take anything if it meant he could stay in your life—  

Or maybe you'd even say yes, and he could finally have a chance to prove himself to you.  

"Are you going to try again tomorrow?" Mingyu asks, taking a sip of his own beer, his eyebrows raising a little.  

Another sigh falls from Minghao's lips and he nods, his gaze softening as he looks in your direction, watching you smile in spite of the way he aches to be by your side.  

"Of course I'm going to try again tomorrow," he whispers, and he'll do that for the rest of his life if he has to.  

The night drags on with everyone getting progressively more drunk. Soonyoung is reduced to tears at one point, while Seungkwan puts on an enthusiastic, one-man performance of Aju Nice. 

And maybe Minghao drinks a little more than he usually does, partly because Mingyu and Jun take advantage of the fact that it's a rare thing for them to be drinking with you within the vicinity.  

Minghao's best friends are menaces who want to see what type of drunk he is, who want to see how it will affect the way he approaches you. He's always been quiet when he's drunk— the type of drunk with a slight permanent blush to his cheeks, with a lazy grin on his face, with thoughts too slurred or in Mandarin for most of the boys to understand.  

And tonight was no different, with his face flushed from alcohol and his words so slurred that all Mingyu and Jun can pick up is the word pretty over and over, along with a couple of other words in Mandarin. But he's always been honest when he's drunk— almost too much so.  

Jun is a bit stressed having to play interpreter for Minghao's drunken ramblings, but it's all worth it when Mingyu tosses his head back with raucous laughter at every word spilling from Minghao's lips, interpreted by Jun.  

"This is too much," Jun whines once the three of them have worked through a significant amount of soju. A glassy-eyed Mingyu nods in agreement, though neither of them are as bad as the notoriously lightweight Minghao.  

"Haohao, are you going to go up to her or what?" Mingyu teases.  

Another slurred word in Mandarin falls from Minghao's lips upon hearing that, his eyebrows knitting together for a moment as he pouts at Mingyu.

It's almost comical to see, to hear Minghao's usually soft and lilting voice falter, all while his cheeks stay a soft pink and his hair is a mess from how he's been running his hand through it.

The thought of approaching you makes his stomach churn, but he knows that he will. After this next shot. Just one more drink.

"Ge, you said you'd only drink one," Jun murmurs, a bit of concern seeping in his tone as he sees Minghao grab shakily yet another shot glass of soju.

Of course, he ignores their warnings for the moment as he downs the shot, his face growing pinker as he shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet.

It takes him a moment to gain his footing, his legs a little wobbly from alcohol, but he gets it. Mingyu laughs so hard that tears come out of his eyes. Jun, distressed, shoots back some more alcohol.

Minghao's vision is a little blurry, but you're just within his sight. And so, with Jun and Mingyu watching from behind, he makes his way towards you.

He's got a lopsided grin on his face, his cheeks a little pink, and he thinks he must be in love in a moment like this.

"Xīngān," he slurs, a slight hiccup following the word as he stops in front of you, his vision still a little fuzzy. He raises his hand to gently rub the back of his neck, his tone a little softer— and a bit more earnest— as he murmurs his invitation. “Can we talk for a minute?”

"Hey, you," you greet, readjusting the flower that he'd placed behind your ear. "Having fun?"  

Minghao shakes his head, his lips parting to say no only to dissolve back into soft little hiccupping giggles instead. Of course he's having fun— how could he not, when his love is right there, and he gets to see you smiling and laughing and tipsy yourself?  

He stumbles forward, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you in, his free hand coming up to your face as he squishes your cheeks and gives you a bright, gummy smile. "Are you having fun, xīngān?" he asks.  

"I'm having fun, Hao," you concede laughingly, resting your other hand at his waist to keep yourself steady. It's— once again— a position that implicates you a little more than it should, but everyone's varying levels of drunk anyway.  

This isn't the drunk Minghao, exactly, that everyone has seen. This is the one he so rarely allows anyone to witness, the one who gets clingy and a little emotional. He's usually much more capable of keeping his composure, even with alcohol loosening his tongue and his inhibitions, but he just can't manage to focus on anything but you tonight.

"Come run away with me," he murmurs. He tugs you against his side again, a little less carefully this time. He wants the closeness, tonight, as he leads the two of you over to the chairs loosely surrounding a warm bonfire.  

It's mostly the other boys here— Joshua and Vernon practicing an acoustic guitar, Jihoon chatting with the co-producer everyone knew he had a bit of a thing for. They all watch with mild amusement as Minghao drunkenly stumbles over to one of the chairs, single-minded in his ambition of sharing a single seat.  

He plops down onto the chair, tugging you right into his lap. He's so close to you then, his lips next to your ear as he wraps his arms snug around your waist, his legs on either side of you, pressing you close against him.  

"I missed you," he murmurs, and the words are slurred, warm on the shell of your ear as he presses his face into the crook of your neck and exhales softly for a moment.  

He's drunk. And in love. And that's a dangerous combination.  

You press your fingers into Minghao's knee, your shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. "How could you miss me?" you whisper back. "I was right there the whole night, xīngān."  

He shakes his head, burying his face into the crook of your neck, mumbling softly. "You were far," he pouts, his words a little more garbled than before. He has no sense of personal space right now, with you pressed so close against him, and he's more prone to whine to get his way. 

He wants this. He wants you close. He wants you. 

"Is that so?" you say sympathetically, the words coming out almost like a coo. "You have me now, though." 

"I'm never letting you go," he responds.  

There's still an almost childish part of him that thinks if he says it, like this, with you wrapped up in his arms, with your face flushed from alcohol, that maybe you'll stay by his side.  

He just has one question that he wants an answer for.  

"Will you hold my hand," his words are slurred, his fingers tracing along the small of your back, up, down, back up again, "and look at the moon with me?"

Wordlessly, you reach for his hand at the small of your back and you thread your fingers together. You keep your intertwined hands over your thigh as you lean just a little further into Minghao until he's pressed against the back of the chair and you're practically lying on top of him.  

It's easier, this way, for you to tilt your head back and do exactly as he asked. "Moon," you point out with your free hand, the word coming out in Mandarin. Yuèliàng. "It's a crescent moon tonight, see?"  

With his arm securely around your waist, he presses closer still to look at the moon together, his words still a stammer as he murmurs, "Yeah. Just like us."  

The words have no logic, not when he's drunk and soft and clingy like this. But he's still happy with it.  

"Just like us?" you echo, and you briefly wonder if you're just a little too tipsy; if you'd missed a chapter or two about how you could be compared to the waxing crescent. Your eyebrows furrow in mild confusion, though you quickly realize there's no point in worrying your head when you could just ask.  

"I'm the moon, and you're the flower," he declares, with all the confidence of his own drunken logic, his eyes falling to look at the flower still tucked behind your ear. He reaches up a hand to brush his fingers against the side of your face. 

If not for the alcohol, he might be too shy to admit how pretty you are to him. 

"We're a matched set, xīngān," he says.   

The smile that breaks out on your face, then, is bright and wide and warm, rivaled only by the bonfire raging a couple of feet away. Your friends are still chattering amongst themselves, completely oblivious to Minghao's bold declaration.

A matched set. And you're just a little out of it, just a little drunk yourself, as you mindlessly link Minghao and your pinkies together. It's a quiet promise on its own. An assurance that this was something that could happen, would happen, at the right time.  

"My moon," you concede, calling Minghao with a breathless sort of giggle. "My moon, my xīngān, my Hao."  

"I love it when you speak Mandarin," he admits, his words warm against your temple as he presses closer still, his lips a few centimeters from your skin.  

He has too much alcohol in his system, too little a filter for his thoughts, and right now, Minghao's world consists only of you and how you look in the moonlight— like some kind of vision, like something he'd write about in a song.  

"Say it again," he instructs, his tone gentle. A request. Never a command.  

"Which part do you want me to say again?" you ask in Mandarin, because Minghao had said he loved it when you spoke in it and you'd be damned not to give in.  

It's all the same to him. The gentle words that come tumbling from your lips— he doesn't need to understand the meaning, he just wants to hear you speak. 

Because how you sound when you speak Mandarin is lovely, and Minghao can't help but lean in just a little to drink in the sound of it, his fingers tracing along the exposed skin of your upper back.  

He's never cared or loved the way he does when he's speaking Mandarin. But you, when you speak to him, it sounds like poetry.  

"Anything," he murmurs. "Just say anything."  

You tilt your head back up to the sky, where none of the usual Seoul light pollution is barring you from seeing the stars. When you see the expanse of the Big Dipper, you stick to what you know.  

A Korean myth from your yesteryears, one that he hadn’t heard of in his own childhood.  

"Once upon a time, deep in the mountains, lived a mother and her seven sons," you start softly, in Mandarin, as per Minghao's request. You tell the story almost in a whisper— the cold winter, the seven brothers, the Jade Emperor of Heaven.  

A part of you, in the language that was a part of Minghao.

As you tell the fable, the alcohol settles comfortably in Minghao’s system. He feels sobered by the fact that you’re so close, that you’re indulging him in the way that you always do. So much, he thinks again. You give me so much. 

And yet it’s not enough, still. He thinks back to the Korean phrase he once sought you out for. Intuition. Zhíjué. 

Your story is winding to a close when he decides to trust his gut, this time. His arms tighten around your waist and he buries his face into the back of your shoulder.

"I love you," he says. Wǒ ài nǐ.

You pause. He can hear the smile in your tone as you respond, "I love you, too." Wǒ yě ài nǐ. 

But, no. Minghao is done.

He won’t let this pass, won’t let miscommunication take this away from him. He has spent the better half of his twenties grasping at straws, bridging gaps in languages; this will not be another one of those things that he can’t say. He takes a fortifying breath. 

He doesn’t care if you don’t believe in soulmates. If he’s the only one who thinks there’s a red string tied between you two. He’ll subscribe to your credo of destiny. He’ll do all the work. 

"I’m in love with you," he amends. Wǒ ài shàngle nǐ.

He says it in his language, because it feels right, but then he repeats it in yours so there’s no room for you to misunderstand. It doesn’t change, anyway. Korean, Mandarin. English, Japanese. 

Minghao is helplessly, hopelessly in love with you. 

It feels like forever before you respond. 

When you do, it’s in Mandarin. "Me, too," you admit, and he peeks at you enough just to see the way you’re gazing up at the night sky. He catches the hint of the smile on your face; the sincerity of which threatens to bowl him over. 

You repeat his words— I’m in love with you— in Mandarin, then Korean, then English, then Japanese. Then all the other languages you know. 

Minghao resists the urge to tell you to stop, to tell you it’s okay. He holds you tight, laughing quietly, as he basks in what feels a lot like the beginning of something. 

It’s okay, he wants to say as you confess to him in Spanish, in Portuguese, in Italian. 

I hear you. 

For a long, agonizing second, neither of you moved. The distance hadn’t just been geographical; it had been a thief of time, a massive, invisible wall built out of standard-issue letters, brief scheduled phone calls, and the agonizing ache of a countdown calendar that felt like it was moving in reverse. Two years. Seven hundred and thirty days of waking up alone.

It didn’t feel real. He looked like a projection, a trick of the dim hallway lighting.

Then, he smiled. It was that slow, slightly lopsided, incredibly fond smile that always crinkled the corners of his eyes the one he saved specifically for you.

"Aren't you going to say hello?" his voice was lower than you remembered, a little rough from traveling, but so intensely him that the last fragile thread of your composure snapped.

The sweater dropped to the floor. You crossed the distance between you in three blurred strides, throwing yourself into him so hard it forced a soft, breathy laugh from his chest. His arms wrapped around you instantly, locking behind your back, pulling you upward until your toes were barely brushing the hardwood.

The dam broke. The sheer, exhausting weight of the waiting the quiet nights spent staring at the ceiling, the ache in your chest whenever you saw couples walking in the park, the terrifying, irrational fear that things would be different when he returned everything hit you in a single, crushing wave. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, sobbing so hard your shoulders shook.

Jeonghan didn’t try to tell you to stop. He just held you, his hands burying into your hair, pressing fervent, grounding kisses against your temple, your cheek, whatever piece of skin he could reach. He rocked you gently in the cramped hallway, his own breaths coming in ragged, uneven hitches.

"I'm here," he whispered, over and over, a mantra against your skin. "I'm right here. I'm not leaving again. I've got you."

The comfort of him was instantaneous, a physical sensation that flooded your system like warmth returning to frozen fingers. He smelled like the cold night air, a hint of laundry detergent, and that familiar, clean scent that was uniquely his. The reality of him the solid breadth of his shoulders, the heat radiating through his hoodie, the calloused texture of his fingertips tracing your spine anchored you back to earth.

Hours dissolved. Time, which had dragged its feet for two years, suddenly became fluid and impossible to track.

By midnight, the heavy emotional storm had settled into a sort of dizzy, chaotic euphoria. The apartment, usually pristine, was a disaster zone. Jeonghan’s duffel bag had been half-unpacked in a frantic search for a specific souvenir he’d bought you, leaving random items of clothing scattered on the floor. The takeout boxes from the late-night comfort food you’d ordered sat half-eaten on the coffee table.

You were sitting on the living room floor, your back pressed against the base of the sofa, wrapped in a giant duvet. Jeonghan was sitting between your legs, leaning back against your chest, letting you mindlessly run your fingers through his hair.

"Your hair is getting long again," you murmured, your voice exhausted but lighter than it had been in years. "I like it."

"Good," he hummed, tilting his head back to look up at you upside down. His eyes were bright, sparkling with that familiar, mischievous glint that the military hadn't managed to dull. "Because keeping it short was a tragedy. I looked like a tennis ball."

You let out a wet, startled laugh, swatting his shoulder. "You did not. You looked handsome."

"I looked strict," he corrected, turning around completely so he was kneeling in front of you, wrapping his arms around your waist over the duvet. "And I don't want to be strict anymore. I just want to be lazy. With you. For the next three weeks, minimum."

He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours. The kiss started soft and sweet, a lingering reassurance, but it quickly deepened, fueled by the underlying electricity of two years of unspent devotion. It was clumsy, intense, and filled with a desperate sort of hunger that left you both breathless. Jeonghan pulled you closer, pulling the duvet down, his hands sliding up to cup your face, his thumbs wiping away the faint, dried tracks of your earlier tears.

When he pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. His breathing was shallow, his eyes dark and incredibly soft.

"You have no idea how many times I replayed this exact moment in my head," he whispered, his voice dropping to a vulnerable register that made your heart ache. "In the barracks, when it was freezing, or when we were out on marches... I just kept thinking about coming back to this room. To you."

"I'm here," you mirrored his earlier words, reaching out to trace the sharp line of his jaw. "We made it."

Jeonghan stared at you for a long moment, a strange, sudden shift happening in his expression. The playful, affectionate look melted into something incredibly intense, almost determined. He blinked, cleared his throat, and suddenly looked... panicked?

"Right," he said abruptly, sitting up straight. "Wait. Hold on."

"What's wrong?" you asked, blinking in confusion as he suddenly scrambled backward on the floor, his knees knocking against the coffee table and sending a plastic cup of soda rattling precariously.

"Nothing! Nothing is wrong. Just stay there. Don't look. Actually, look, but give me a second."

Jeonghan scrambled over to his half-unpacked duffel bag, his hands diving into the mess of clothes. He was muttering under his breath, tossing aside a pair of rolled-up socks and a sweater.

You watched him, completely bewildered, the emotional weight of the night suddenly taking a sharp turn into comedy. "Jeonghan, what are you doing? Are you looking for the souvenir? I told you, you don't have to give it to me right-"

"It's not a souvenir," he grunted, his hand finally diving deep into the zippered inner pocket of the bag. "Well, it is, technically, but-aha!"

He pulled his hand out, clutching a small, slightly crumpled velvet box.

Your breath caught in your throat. The entire world seemed to stop spinning.

Jeonghan turned around on his knees, his face flushed, his hair a chaotic mess from your fingers, wearing a oversized black hoodie and sweatpants, sitting amidst scattered laundry and half-eaten tteokbokki. He looked entirely unpolished, incredibly stressed, and absolutely beautiful.

He shuffled back over to you on his knees, stopping right in front of your spot on the floor. He held the box tightly in both hands, his knuckles white.

"I had a whole plan," he started, his voice a mix of a laugh and a sigh. "I was going to take you out next week. A nice restaurant. I was going to dress up, look like a proper gentleman, not like... a goblin who just crawled out of a duffel bag. But I can't."

You couldn't speak. You could only stare at him, your hands gripping the edges of the duvet.

"I spent two years away from you," Jeonghan said, his eyes locking onto yours with a sincerity so fierce it made your eyes sting all over again. "And every single day, I realized that the only thing that makes sense in my life is you. I don't want to wait until next week. I don't care about a fancy restaurant or a perfect speech. I'm home, and I want this to be our home. Officially."

He flipped the box open. Inside sat a simple, elegant ring, catching the warm light of the living room lamp.

"Marry me," he said. It wasn't a rehearsed question; it was a plea, soft and breathless and completely raw. "Let me take care of you for the rest of our lives. Please?"

A watery, breathless laugh escaped your lips. It was so perfectly Jeonghan. No grand, manufactured gestures just absolute honesty, delivered in the middle of a chaotic living room floor at one in the morning, completely unable to contain his own heart.

"You're an idiot," you choked out, the tears spilling over your lashes again.

Jeonghan let out a soft, nervous chuckle, his shoulders dropping a fraction. "Is that a yes, or are you just insulting my timing?"

"Yes," you said, reaching out and grabbing the lapels of his hoodie to pull him toward you. "Yes, of course, yes."

He didn't even put the ring on your finger first. He dropped the box onto the duvet and tackled you back against the sofa, burying his face in your neck, laughing with a sound of pure, unadulterated relief. You wrapped your arms around his back, holding him tightly, the last lingering ghost of the past two years completely evaporating into the warm air of the room.

When he finally pulled back to slip the ring onto your trembling finger, his hands were still shaking slightly. It fit perfectly.

The members didn't ignore her. In fact, that was what made the guilt so suffocating. They loved her fiercely. They treated her like the younger sister they were all collectively responsible for protecting.

But because she was the "ace," she had learned to build a flawless, terrifyingly durable mask. Whenever they asked, she smiled. She swallowed the pain, the nausea, the bone-deep lethargy, and she performed.

"Y/N-ah," a voice called out quietly, accompanied by the soft slide of the studio door.

She quickly dropped her hand from her throat, forcing her shoulders to relax as she turned around. Seungcheol was standing in the doorway, wearing a soft gray hoodie, holding two containers of warm ginseng soup.

"Cheol," she said, her voice dropping into a raspy, cheerful tone that cost her an immense amount of energy to fake. "What are you doing up? You have a corporate meeting at nine."

Seungcheol walked in, gently kicking Jihoon’s foot to wake him up before setting the soup down on the desk. He reached out, his large hand instantly coming up to cup the side of her neck, his thumb naturally checking the tension in her jaw. He frowned slightly.

"Your muscles are like rocks, Y/N-ah," Seungcheol murmured, his eyes full of that protective, heavy elder-brother worry. "Did you finish the guide vocals? Management keeps pushing the timeline, but you need to sleep. I told the performance directors to cut your rehearsal time tomorrow by an hour."

"No!" The response flew out of her mouth a little too fast, a little too defensive. She caught herself, quickly softening her features. "I mean... don't do that, Cheol. If I miss that hour, Chan and Hoshi have to re-adjust the entire left-wing formation. I'm completely fine. Just a little dry."

Seungcheol stared at her for a long moment, searching her face. He didn't see the legal drafts or the isolation of her past he just saw his younger sister running herself into the ground out of a stubborn sense of duty.

"You don't have to carry the whole group on your shoulders, kiddo," he said softly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the top of her head. "We're here to split the weight. Drink the soup, then go to the van. I'm taking you back to the dorm myself."

"Okay," she lied smoothly. "Just five more minutes."

The breakdown didn't happen in a dramatic explosion. It happened silently, during the fourth hour of their music show camera rehearsal three weeks later.

The stage was hot. The title track, “Equilibrium,” required Y/N to hit a high-speed spin, drop into a low split-lunge, and then immediately stand up to deliver the main vocal climax into Camera 1.

During the third run-through, her body simply ran out of fuel.

As she spun, a black spot bloomed in the center of her vision. Her right knee buckled, the joint giving out with a sickening, internal pop. She didn't hit her mark. Instead, she collapsed sideways, her shoulder slamming into Mingyu's hip before she hit the hard plastic stage floor.

The track cut out instantly.

"Y/N!"

The stage erupted into absolute chaos. Thirteen boys, who had been moving in perfect, automated sync a second ago, fractured instantly.

Mingyu dropped to his knees beside her, his large hands hovering over her trembling frame, terrified of hurting her further. "Y/N-ah? Can you hear me? Where does it hurt?"

Within three seconds, a wall of brothers surrounded her. Hoshi was screaming for ice; Seungkwan was dropping to his knees, his face pale with immediate panic; and Jeonghan was already sliding his arms under her head to lift her face away from the floor.

"Don't move her!" Seungcheol bellowed, his voice echoing off the empty stadium seats as he pushed past the stage managers. He dropped right beside her, his hands wrapping securely around her freezing, sweaty fingers. "Y/N, look at me. Look at me."

Y/N tried to open her eyes, but the black spots were swallowing the stage lights. She could feel the hot, sticky tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes, mixed with the bitter taste of total failure. She had dropped the track. She had ruined the recording.

"I'm sorry," she choked out, her voice breaking into a pathetic, breathless sob. "The... the formation. I missed Camera 1. I can do it again. Just give me five minutes-"

"Are you insane?" Jihoon’s voice cut through the noise, uncharacteristically loud and shaking with a rare, terrifying emotion. He was kneeling near her feet, staring at the black kinesiology tape that had peeled away from her swollen ankle under her stage socks. "Look at your leg! How long have you been dancing on this?"

"I had to finish the guide," she wept, her fingers clutching Seungcheol’s jacket as the entire facade she had built over the last year completely dissolved into raw, agonizing vulnerability. "If I stopped, the album... the choreography... everyone is working so hard. I didn't want to be the one who broke the circle."

They didn't let her back on the stage. In fact, Seungcheol had nearly gotten into a physical altercation with the head of the production team when they suggested using a medical spray to let her finish the final take.

By 6:00 PM, the living room of the main dorm was a makeshift recovery ward.

Y/N was buried under four different heavy duvets on the long sofa, her right leg elevated and packed in a heavy brace. The room was quiet, but it wasn't the suffocating, cold silence of alienation. It was the warm, protective hum of a family that had collectively moved into a defensive grid around their youngest.

Wonwoo sat on the floor right beside her head, his laptop open, playing a soft, ambient simulation game just so she had something calming to look at. Every few minutes, he would silently reach up and adjust the cold compress on her forehead.

From the kitchen, the heavy scent of herbal chicken broth drifted through the air. Seonkgwan and Dokyeom were arguing in hushed whispers over who was allowed to feed her the soup first, while Minghao quietly chopped ginger on the counter.

"Here," a soft voice murmured.

Jeonghan sat down on the edge of the sofa near her waist, gently pulling her cold hands into his lap. He began to slowly massage her fingers, his touch incredibly light. His sharp eyes were soft, completely devoid of their usual playful mischief.

"You're an idiot, Y/N-ah," Jeonghan said, his voice a low, soothing purr. "A brilliant, beautiful idiot. Did you really think we wouldn't notice if you broke? Did you think Seventeen is so weak that we can't handle a delayed comeback if our center needs to heal?"

"I just... I didn't want to let anyone down," she whispered, her eyes still puffy from crying. "You all work so hard."

"And you don't?"

Jihoon walked out of the hallway, carrying his personal studio tablet. He didn't look angry anymore; he just looked incredibly small and deeply regretful. He sat down on the floor next to Wonwoo, leaning his head against the edge of the couch near her arm.

"I watched the audio logs from the last three weeks," Jihoon said, staring at the floor. "You ran that bridge belt forty-two times in one night, Y/N. I was sleeping right behind you, and I didn't open my eyes to stop you. I’m the producer. I’m your brother. I should have known your limit before you reached it."

"no, it wasn't your fault-"

"It's all of our faults," Seungcheol’s voice boomed softly as he walked into the living room, carrying a tray of small bowls filled with food. He set it down on the coffee table and knelt right in front of her face. His expression was firm, but his eyes were shining with a profound, sibling devotion.

"We built this group so that fourteen people would never have to feel alone," the leader said, reaching out to gently pinch her chin, forcing her to look him in the eyes. "If one of the Main Vocalists is tired, the Vocal Unit sings louder. If one of the Main Dancers is hurt, the Performance Unit covers the blocking. That’s how the machine works, Y/N-ah. We don't use you as a pillar. We hold you up."

Hoshi crawled over from the corner, his eyes small and red. He reached under the duvet to gently pat her uninjured shin. "I already rewrote the choreography for the music shows, Y/N-ah. You’re going to sit on a beautiful center throne like a queen, and the thirteen of us are going to dance around you. It looks even cooler, I promise."

Y/N looked around the room. She saw Mingyu peeking out from the kitchen with a wooden spoon in his hand; she saw Chan nodding from the doorway; she felt Wonwoo’s thumb stroking her temple and Jeonghan’s warmth on her hands.

The weight on her chest the heavy, suffocating pressure of having to be the perfect, unbreakable hybrid finally evaporated. It didn't leave her feeling hollow. It left her feeling completely, safely crowded by thirteen brothers who refused to let her carry the light alone.

"Okay," she whispered, a genuine, watery smile finally breaking across her face as she leaned her head back into Wonwoo’s hand. "I’ll sit on the throne."

Every album cycle was a slow erosion. She had trained until her toes bled, stayed up writing verses that Jihoon would glance at for three seconds before saying, "It's good, but it doesn't really fit the Seventeen vibe," and practiced facial expressions in the dark.

The fans noticed, of course. The "Y/N Mistreatment" compilations on YouTube had millions of views. But the fans didn't see the worst part. The worst part was the casual, unintentional neglect from the thirteen boys she loved like family and the painful friction with the few she held closest.

The turning point had happened earlier that evening, during the final monitoring session for their upcoming comeback title track. They were all crowded around the small monitor. Hoshi was vibrating with excitement, pointing out a complex formation change in the bridge.

"Look at that transition!" Soonyoung beamed, slapping Wonwoo’s shoulder. "The diamond shape is perfect there."

Y/N had squinted at the screen. In that specific frame, she was completely eclipsed by Mingyu’s broad shoulders. If you didn't know she was in the group, you would think Seventeen was a thirteen-member act.

"Oppa," Y/N had spoken up, her voice small but clear. "During the second verse... I’m completely hidden. If I step out just half a foot to the right, the angle balances out, and I can actually be seen singing my line."

The room went quiet. Jihoon sighed softly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Y/N, we already locked the formation with the performance directors. If you shift right, you disrupt Chan’s pathing right after. It’s just three seconds."

"It’s always three seconds," she wanted to scream.

She looked desperately toward Seungcheol. As the leader, and as someone she had always leaned on when the pressure became too much, she hoped he would see her frustration. Seungcheol offered a gentle, tired smile, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Y/N-ah, Jihoon's right about the spacing," Seungcheol said, his tone dripping with that patronizing warmth he used when he was trying to manage a problem rather than solve it. "Don't get too sensitive about a quick transition. We'll look at it for the concert version, okay? Good job today, guys. Let's wrap it up."

The words stung. Sensitive. He didn't mean to be harsh, but he wasn't taking her seriously. To him, she was just the younger member making a fuss over a minor detail, completely blind to the fact that those "minor details" were erasing her entirely.

When the room finally cleared, only one person remained by the door.

Wonwoo hadn't joined the loud conversations about what to eat for dinner. He stayed back, leaning against the doorframe, his sharp eyes tracking Y/N as she sat frozen on the floor. Once the hallway quieted down, he walked back inside, his footsteps soft against the linoleum.

He sat down on the floor next to her, pulling his knees up to match her posture. He didn't offer a cliché platitude or tell her Seungcheol didn't mean it. He just slipped one of his oversized gaming hoodies out of his bag and draped it over her trembling shoulders.

"You were right about the formation," Wonwoo said quietly, his deep voice a grounding anchor in the empty room. "I watched the playback. You were hidden."

A choked sob escaped Y/N’s throat, the first crack in her armor. "Then why doesn't anyone care, Woo? Why am I always the one who has to compromise?"

Wonwoo looked at his hands, a heavy, helpless expression crossing his face. Out of everyone, Wonwoo understood the suffocating weight of wanting to disappear, but he also knew the delicate balance of the group. He hated seeing her like this, trapped in a limbo where she was technically part of a team but entirely alone.

"They care," Wonwoo murmured, stretching out a hand to gently ruffle her hair, pulling her closer so she could lean against his shoulder. "They're just blind to what they haven't experienced. Coups-hyung is stressed about the comeback, he isn't looking at the small picture. But I see you, Y/N. I always see you."

Y/N leaned heavily into his side, gripping the fabric of his sleeve. His presence was the only thing keeping her grounded, the only thread holding her to Seventeen.

But as she stared at their blurred reflection in the mirror, the terrifying truth remained. Wonwoo’s kindness was a bandage, but the wound beneath it was deep, infected by six months of silent alienation. She loved him, and she loved the small moments of comfort he gave her but she didn't know if love was enough to keep a ghost alive.

The ride back to the dorms was exactly what Y/N expected: a masterclass in unintentional exclusion.

She sat in the middle row of the second van, sandwiched between Seokmin and Seungkwan, who were aggressively debating a trendy restaurant they wanted to visit on their next day off. Their voices bounced over her head, a chaotic ping-pong match of laughter and exaggerated hand gestures.

Y/N kept her face pressed against the cool glass of the window, staring out at the passing Seoul streetlights. She had shrunk herself as much as possible, her shoulders curled inward to give the boys more room. Neither of them noticed. To them, she was just a quiet fixture of the car, a silent companion they assumed was simply tired.

When they finally arrived at the dorm, the apartment was a flurry of discarded jackets, the rustle of takeout bags, and the loud hum of the shower running.

Y/N slipped her shoes off at the entryway, carefully placing them in the corner. She began walking toward her shared bedroom, wanting nothing more than to crawl under her covers and pretend the world didn't exist, when a voice stopped her from the living room.

"Y/N-ah, wait a second."

She turned. Seungcheol was sitting on the couch, a tablet in his lap and a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. He looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes prominent under the harsh living room light. He gestered for her to come over.

For a split second, a flutter of hope sparked in her chest. Maybe he realized. Maybe he wanted to apologize for brushing her off in the practice room.

She walked over and sat on the opposite end of the couch. "Yes?"

"Management just sent over the finalized tracklist and the credit sheet for the digital booklet," Seungcheol said, keeping his eyes on the screen. "I noticed you submitted a few lyric drafts for the b-side track, 'Shadow.' I wanted to talk to you before the final print goes out."

Y/N’s heart did a nervous flip. She had spent three consecutive nights staying up until dawn writing those lyrics. They were raw, deeply personal lines about feeling caught between the light and the dark a desperate attempt to channel her loneliness into art.

"Did Jihoon look at them?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Seungcheol finally looked up, his expression gentle but holding that familiar, heavy layer of professional detachment. "He did. And I read them too. Look, Y/N... your writing has gotten really mature, and the metaphors are beautiful. But the theme is a bit too heavy for this album. Seventeen’s image has always been about hope and overcoming things together. These lyrics... they feel a bit too isolated. Too dark."

The spark in her chest died instantly, replaced by a cold, familiar numbness.

"Isolated," she repeated, the word tasting like ash.

"Yeah," Seungcheol said, completely missing the cracked tone in her voice as he tapped on the screen. "We decided to go with Vernon and Mingyu's verses instead. They keep the energy moving forward. I just didn't want you to be blindsided when the tracklist drops tomorrow. Don't take it personally, okay? You're still young, you have plenty of time to get your tracks on the albums later."

Don't take it personally.

You have plenty of time.

He said it so easily, like she hadn't already been in the group for years. He treated her like a trainee who was still learning the ropes, rather than a member who had poured her soul into a company that continually threw her efforts into the trash bin. He wasn't trying to hurt her he truly believed he was being a good, encouraging leader and that was what made it unbearable. He didn't see her as a peer. He saw her as a liability that needed gentle handling.

"Right," Y/N whispered, standing up from the couch before her face could betray her. "I understand. Thank you for telling me, oppa."

"Get some sleep, Y/N-ah. Big day tomorrow," Seungcheol called out, already looking back down at his tablet, effectively closing the curtain on her.

She didn't go to her room. She knew if she went inside, she would wake up her roommates with her crying. Instead, she slipped out onto the small, cramped balcony at the end of the hallway, closing the glass door behind her to shut out the noise of the apartment.

The night air was biting, cutting right through her thin clothes, but she welcomed the chill. It was better than the suffocating warmth of a home she didn't belong in.

She leaned her forearms against the railing, staring down at the empty courtyard below. Six months, she thought again. Six months of convincing herself that things would change, that the next comeback would be different, that she would finally feel like the fourteenth member instead of an asterisk at the end of a sentence.

The glass door behind her slid open with a soft click.

Y/N didn't turn around. She knew the footsteps. They were slow, deliberate, and entirely devoid of the frantic energy that characterized the rest of the house.

Wonwoo stepped out onto the balcony, closing the door behind him. He didn't say anything at first. He just stepped up to the railing next to her, handing her a warm, steaming mug of barley tea. He had changed into comfortable sweatpants, and his glasses were pushed up into his hair.

"I heard Coups talking to you," Wonwoo said softly, the steam from his mug rising between them.

Y/N took the mug, using it to warm her freezing hands, but she didn't drink. "He thinks I'm too dark for the group."

Wonwoo closed his eyes for a brief moment, a muscle in his jaw twitching. He had read her lyrics. He had been there in the studio when she was writing them, sitting quietly in the corner playing a game on his phone just so she wouldn't have to be alone in the dark. He knew those lyrics weren't just a creative exercise; they were a cry for help.

"He's looking at it from a producer's standpoint, Y/N. He's wrong, but... that's how his brain works right now. He's hyper-focused on the group's commercial identity."

"And what about my identity?" Y/N’s voice finally broke, a hot tear spilling over her cheek and freezing in the wind. "When do I get to be a person, Woo? When do I get to be a member of Seventeen? I’ve been here since the beginning, but if I disappeared tomorrow, the only thing the company would have to do is re-print the posters. The choreography wouldn't even change. The lines would just go to Seunkgwan or Dokyeom. Nobody would actually miss me."

Wonwoo turned completely, his back against the railing as he looked down at her. The usual calm, unbothered facade he wore for the world was completely gone, replaced by a profound, aching sorrow. He reached out, his long fingers gently catching her wrist.

"Don't say that," he said, his voice dropping an octave, thick with an emotion he rarely let anyone see. "Do you think I wouldn't notice if half my heart left this dorm? I don't care about the formations, Y/N. I don't care about the line distributions. I care about you. If you go... if you disappear into the background completely, I'm lose the only person in this house who truly understands what it feels like to want to hide."

Y/N looked up at him, her vision blurred by tears. Wonwoo was holding onto her wrist tightly, as if he could physically anchor her to the group, as if he could feel the phantom thread of her presence slipping away.

She wanted so badly to tell him the truth. She wanted to tell him that she had been drafting a letter to management. She wanted to tell him that every time she looked at the Pledis building, she felt a profound sense of dread.

But looking into Wonwoo's worried eyes, she couldn't do it. He was already carrying so much. If she told him she wanted to leave, it would break the only safe haven he had in the group, too.

"I'm just tired" she lied, her voice trembling as she leaned her head against his chest.

Wonwoo wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her hair, holding her so tightly it almost hurt. "I know," he whispered into the dark. "I know you are. Just hold on a little longer. Please."

Y/N closed her eyes, burying her face in his sweater. She held onto him like a drowning person, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart. She loved him. She loved him enough to stay for one more day. But as the cold wind swept across the balcony, she knew that a single thread couldn't hold up a collapsing bridge forever.

The next morning arrived with the brutal, unyielding momentum of a typical comeback schedule.

By 7:00 AM, the dorm was a battleground of slamming doors and rushing feet. The managers were already waiting downstairs, their walkie-talkies buzzing with schedule updates for the day’s pre-recording. Y/N had barely slept. She had spent the remaining hours of the night staring at the ceiling, Wonwoo’s plea of "just hold on a little longer" looping in her head like a broken record.

When she walked into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, she ran straight into Seungcheol.

He was in full leader-mode, nursing a massive iced americano while scrolling through a tightly packed itinerary on his phone. When he saw her, his expression instantly shifted from stressed to that practiced, older-brother warmth. He reached out, gently squeezing her shoulder.

"Hey. You look exhausted," Seungcheol said, his voice lowering so the passing members wouldn't overhear. "Look, about last night... I hope you aren't still down about the lyrics. I talked to Jihoon again this morning before he left for the salon. We both agree your writing is getting sharper. We definitely want to utilize you for the Japanese release later this year, okay? The market there appreciates that deeper, more melancholic vibe."

Y/N stared at his hand on her shoulder. To anyone else, this was Seungcheol being an incredible leader reassuring a younger member, offering a compromise, planning for the future. But to Y/N, it felt like a tactical pacification. He was throwing her a bone to keep her quiet, pushing her contributions months down the line and onto a foreign release where her voice could be easily compartmentalized.

"Thanks," she said, forcing a small, compliant smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I’ll look into it."

Seungcheol patted her shoulder, seemingly satisfied that the issue was resolved. "Good girl. Go get ready, the first van leaves in ten minutes."

He turned away to bark an order at Mingyu about shoes, completely missing the way Y/N’s hand shook as she twisted the cap off her water bottle. Good girl. It felt so deeply patronizing. She wasn't a pet to be patted on the head for staying in her corner. She was an adult, a professional, but in his eyes, she would always be the fourteen-member variable that needed to be managed so the real machine could run smoothly.

The broadcasting station was a chaotic maze of idols, staff, and flashing cameras. Seventeen occupied the largest waiting room, a space crammed with clothes racks, makeup stations, and a massive catering table.

As the hours dragged on between the dry rehearsal and the actual pre-recording, the group naturally fractured into their usual comfortable pockets.

The BooSeokSoon trio was in the center of the room, loudly filming a challenge video with a junior group, their laughter booming off the walls.

The Performance Unit was crowded around a single phone, analyzing a minor timing error from the morning rehearsal.

The Vocal Unit was humming lines in harmony near the back, Jihoon directing them with sharp, precise nods.

And then there was Y/N.

She sat in the far corner of the sofa, squeezed into the tight space between a rack of stage outfits and a stack of plastic storage bins. She had her noise-canceling headphones pressed tightly over her ears, though no music was playing. It was her only defense mechanism a universal sign language that meant please leave me alone, though, in reality, nobody was trying to approach her anyway.

Except for Wonwoo.

He had taken the seat right next to her. He didn't try to force her into a conversation, nor did he make a scene of comforting her. He just sat there, his thigh pressed firmly against hers in the cramped space, a silent, unyielding boundary between her and the rest of the room. He was playing a game on his phone, but every few minutes, his thumb would absentmindedly brush against the side of her knee, a rhythmic reassurance that said, I’m still here. You’re still here.

Suddenly, one of the main managers clapped his hands, cutting through the noise of the room. "Alright, Seventeen! Wardrobe check in five minutes. Fans are already entering the studio, let's get moving!"

The room erupted into movement. Members began shedding their padded coats, revealing the intricate, heavy velvet stage outfits. Y/N stood up, smoothing down her skirt, trying to shake off the heavy lethargy pulling at her limbs.

As they lined up in the hallway to walk down to the stage, Seungcheol stepped to the front of the line, his hand raised.

"Listen up," he called out, his voice commanding the absolute attention of the hallway. "This is our first music show stage for this comeback. The fans have been waiting in the cold for hours. Let’s show them exactly why we're Seventeen. Energy high, smiles bright. On three. Say the name!"

"Seventeen!" the thirteen boys shouted in unison, their voices echoing off the concrete walls, full of a fierce, collective pride.

Y/N’s voice joined them, but it felt hollow, a ghost of a sound swallowed up by their collective strength. As the line began to move forward toward the bright, blinding lights of the studio stage, she felt a sudden, terrifying wave of vertigo.

She looked ahead at the backs of their heads. She saw the perfect symmetry of their steps, the effortless way they fell into formation even while just walking down a corridor. They were a masterpiece. A flawless, thirteen-piece puzzle.

And as she stepped out onto the stage, greeted by the deafening screams of thousands of fans chanting names that barely ever included hers, the realization hit her with the force of a physical blow:

She wasn't a part of the puzzle. She was just a piece from a completely different set, desperately trying to force herself into a picture where she didn't belong.

The stage lights were blinding. They were the kind of hot, unforgiving lights that baked the sweat into your skin before you even started moving.

As the familiar, booming intro of their new title track blasted through the studio speakers, Y/N’s body reacted on pure instinct. Years of grueling, repetitive training took over. She smiled where she was supposed to smile, her eyes locking onto the flashing red light of Camera 3, her arms striking the sharp angles of the choreography with mathematical precision.

To the untrained eye, she was flawless.

But internally, she was entirely detached from her own body. During the first chorus, she was executed as part of the back-line machinery, a shadow anchoring the explosive center moves of the Performance Unit. She moved into a deep lunge behind Jun, disappearing completely from the main broadcast view.

Then came the bridge the three seconds she had pleaded with Jihoon and Seungcheol to change.

As the formation shifted, Mingyu stepped directly into his mark. His towering frame completely blocked the center line. Y/N hit her position half a beat later, standing exactly where she was ordered to stand. She sang her line a single, fleeting vocal run that was supposed to bridge the gap between Seokmin’s high note and the final dance break.

She could feel the breath leaving her lungs, could hear her own voice echoing in her in-ear monitors. But when she looked straight ahead, all she saw was the dark fabric of Mingyu’s stage jacket. The camera tracking the center completely missed her face.

A heavy, suffocating wave of humiliation washed over her, right there on live television. She was singing her heart out to the back of a teammate’s head.

"Cut! Great job, Seventeen! That’s a wrap for the pre-recording!" The stage director’s voice boomed through the PA system.

The studio erupted into cheers. The fans in the seating area went wild, screaming the members' names, waving their lightsticks in a sea of rose quartz and serenity. The boys immediately bowed, waving back, sweating and breathless but radiant with adrenaline.

"Thank you guys for waiting in the cold!" Hoshi shouted into his mic, doing a little dance that made the crowd scream louder.

"Eat a good lunch, Caratdeul!" Seungkwan added, throwing finger hearts.

Y/N stood near the edge of the stage. She bowed politely to the staff and the audience, her lips curved into a stiff, generic celebrity smile. She felt like an imposter. They were cheering for Seventeen. They were cheering for the thirteen boys who embodied the spirit of the group. Her presence was just an asterisk a footnote the fandom had learned to tolerate over the years.

As they walked off the stage and into the dim, frantic chaos of the backstage corridors, the adrenaline began to fade, leaving behind a bone-deep, crushing exhaustion.

"Y/N-ah."

She felt a gentle tug on her sleeve. She turned to see Wonwoo walking beside her, wiping his forehead with a small towel. His eyes were scanning her face, filled with a quiet, intense scrutiny that made her want to hide. He had witnessed the bridge blocking from his own position on the left wing.

"You did well," Wonwoo murmured, his voice low enough to be buried under the loud chatter of the passing staff. "Your vocals were the cleanest they've been all week."

"Thanks," she whispered, keeping her eyes glued to the floor. "It doesn't really matter if no one can see who's singing it, though."

Wonwoo opened his mouth to reply, a deep line forming between his brows, but he was cut off before the words could leave his throat.

"Hey, Y/N! Wonwoo! Hurry up, we’re doing a quick group photo for the official Twitter!" a manager yelled from the end of the hallway, waving them toward a designated Pledis backdrop.

The group was already assembling. The shorter members were in the front, kneeling or crouching, while the taller members formed a protective wall behind them. It was a well-practiced routine.

"Y/N, go over to the right side next to Dino," Seungcheol directed quickly, his eyes darting between the staff member holding the camera and the time on his watch. He was already thinking about their next interview schedule. "Hurry, we only have two minutes before the next group needs the hallway."

Y/N stepped into the spot. Because of the tight space and the hurried nature of the shoot, she was pushed to the absolute edge of the frame. She felt Chan’s arm press against hers as he struck a playful pose, entirely immersed in the energy of the moment.

"Three, two, one Say the name!" the photographer called out.

The camera flashed.

Y/N smiled. It was the same smile she had practiced thousands of times in the mirror. It was perfect. It was empty.

Twenty minutes later, the waiting room was a blur of packing. The members were changing back into their comfortable clothes, eager to get into the vans and head to the next broadcasting station for a radio interview.

Y/N stepped out of the makeshift dressing room, now wearing her own oversized sweatpants and a worn-out t-shirt. She needed a moment of absolute silence. Her head was pounding, the bass of their own song still vibrating in her ears.

She walked down the quiet, institutional hallway of the broadcasting station, heading toward the vending machines at the far end where she knew the staff rarely traveled.

As she rounded the corner, she saw Seungcheol standing by the window, speaking quietly into his phone. His voice carried in the empty corridor.

"Yeah, I saw the rough cut of the stage monitoring," Seungcheol was saying, his tone serious, his leader voice fully active. "I know. I know her blocking in the bridge is an issue. But look, we can't change it now. The choreography is locked for the entire promotion cycle. Shifting the camera angles manually during the live broadcast is too risky."

Y/N froze, her hand hovering over the brick wall. Her heart stopped.

"I tried talking to her about it," Seungcheol continued, sighing heavily as he leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window. "She’s just... she's taking it too personally lately. She's getting sensitive about her screen time and her lyrics. I get it, she's young, but she needs to understand the bigger picture. Seventeen functions because the machine works as a whole. If we start changing entire formations just to make sure one person gets three seconds of face-time, the whole balance throws off. I just need her to hold out until the repackage album."

He paused, listening to the person on the other end of the line likely a performance director or a high-ranking manager.

"No, she won't cause trouble," Seungcheol said, his voice dropping into a confident, dismissive tone that shattered the final, lingering fragment of Y/N’s heart. "Y/N is a good kid. She complains a bit, but she always does what she's told in the end. I’ll handle her."

He hung up a moment later, pocketing his phone and walking back toward the waiting room, entirely unaware that the "good kid" was standing less than ten feet away, hidden in the shadow of the vending machines.

Y/N slid down the wall, her knees hitting the cold linoleum floor.

I'll handle her.

She always does what she's told in the end.

To Seungcheol, her pain wasn't a crisis. It wasn't a cry for help from a sister who was drowning. It was a scheduling conflict. It was a minor logistical inconvenience that could be managed with a few sweet words and a promise of future opportunities that would never actually come.

She didn't cry this time. The tears had finally run dry, replaced by a terrifying, hollow clarity. The six months of agonizing hesitation, the lists of pros and cons, the desperate midnight prayers for things to get better they all evaporated into nothingness.

She wasn't a member of Seventeen. She was a liability they kept in the corner because it was too expensive to break the contract early.

Slowly, Y/N stood up. Her legs were shaking, but her hands were entirely steady. She reached into her pocket, pulling out her personal phone. She didn't open the notes app this time. She opened her contacts, scrolling past the names of the thirteen boys she had spent her teenage years with, until she found the direct number for Pledis's legal department a number she had saved months ago but never had the courage to call.

She looked back down the hallway, toward the loud, vibrant waiting room where Seventeen was currently laughing, completely whole without her.

Y/N’s finger hovered over the dial button, her chest heaving as she stared at the stark, clinical contact name: Pledis Legal Team 2. Every instinct in her body was screaming at her to just press it, to spark the fire that would finally burn down this beautiful, suffocating cage.

"Y/N-ah?"

The voice was soft, slicing through the ringing in her ears like a quiet blade.

Y/N flinched, her thumb jerking away from the screen as she quickly locked her phone and shoved it behind her back. She turned around to see Jeonghan standing at the mouth of the corridor.

He had already changed out of his stage attire, wearing a loose knit sweater that swallowed his frame, his hair a little messy from the frantic wardrobe changes. He was holding a half-empty bottle of vitamin water. To anyone else, Jeonghan looked like his usual relaxed, slightly mischievous self but his eyes were entirely focused on her.

Jeonghan was the observer of Seventeen. While Seungcheol managed the logistics and the pressure from management, Jeonghan was the one who quietly mapped the emotional currents of the room. He noticed when someone’s smile didn't reach their eyes. He noticed when a voice was a fraction of a octave too quiet.

And right now, looking at Y/N huddled against the vending machines, he saw right through the wall she had spent months building.

"What are you doing all the way back here?" Jeonghan asked, stepping into the dim corridor. His footsteps were light, making no sound against the linoleum. "The managers are already counting heads for the second van. Mingyu’s looking for his lost wallet again, so we have about a three-minute grace period."

He joked, but his voice lacked its usual teasing edge. He stopped a few feet away from her, his sharp eyes dropping to her hands, which were still trembling behind her back, clutching her phone like a lifeline.

"I just needed some air," Y/N said, her voice sounding desperately small even to her own ears. She tried to offer him one of her standard, compliant smiles. "The waiting room was getting a little loud. My head hurts."

Jeonghan didn't buy it for a second. He tilted his head, his gaze softening into something deeply paternal, yet terrifyingly perceptive. He stepped closer, closing the distance between them until he could reach out and gently touch her arm.

"Y/N-ah," he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, comforting register he used when someone was genuinely breaking down. "Look at me."

She didn't want to. She knew that if she looked into Jeonghan’s eyes, the dam would break. Wonwoo’s quiet solidarity was comforting, but Jeonghan’s empathy was dangerous it had a way of pulling the truth out of you before you could stop it.

"I'm fine, oppa, really-"

"You're not fine," Jeonghan interrupted softly, his thumb gently rubbing a soothing circle against the fabric of her sleeve. "You've been hovering at the edge of the room all day. During the stage, during the monitoring, even when we were taking the group photo... you looked like you were already a million miles away. What's wrong? Is it your lines again? Did Jihoon say something?"

The mention of the music of the very thing that was systematically erasing her made something inside Y/N snap. The exhaustion of the past six months, topped by the crushing weight of Seungcheol's phone call just moments prior, suddenly felt too heavy to carry in silence.

"It's not just the lines, Jeonghan-oppa," she whispered, her lower lip trembling as she finally looked up at him. Her eyes were bright with unshed, angry tears. "It’s everything. It’s the fact that I’m standing right here, and none of you can see me."

Jeonghan blinked, a shadow of genuine confusion and hurt crossing his features. "What do you mean we don't see you? Y/N, we're always together. We're a family."

"Are we?" Y/N asked, a bitter, breathless laugh escaping her lips. She finally pulled her phone out from behind her back, holding it tightly against her chest. "Family members don't get hidden behind the tallest person in the group during their only three seconds of a song. Family members don't get told their feelings are just 'sensitivity' because they want to be seen. Coups doesn't think of a family member as a kid he just needs to 'handle' so the machine keeps running smoothly."

Jeonghan froze. The color drained slightly from his face as the pieces connected in his brilliant, calculating mind. He looked down the empty hallway, toward the direction Seungcheol had walked just minutes ago, and then back at Y/N’s tear-stained face.

"You heard him," Jeonghan realized, his voice dropping into a horrified whisper.

"I hear everything," Y/N whispered back, the first tear finally spilling over her lashes, hot and angry. "Because nobody thinks to lock the door or speak quietly when they're talking about the fourteenth member. To everyone else, I'm just a mistake Pledis made years ago that you all have to carry around like extra baggage. I’ve spent six months trying to convince myself that if I just worked harder, if I just wrote better lyrics, if I just kept my mouth shut, you would finally look at me like a real member. But I’m tired. I’m so, so tired of being a ghost."

Jeonghan stood completely paralyzed. For all his cleverness, for all his ability to smooth over conflicts within the group, he was entirely unequipped for the sheer depth of the despair staring back at him. He looked at Y/N the girl who had joined them when she was practically a child, who had quietly swallowed every piece of online hate, every unfair line cut, every back-row choreography assignment with a polite bow and a silent nod.

He had known she was unhappy. He had known she felt left out from time to time. But he had never realized that while they were busy celebrating their massive success, climbing higher and higher up the mountain, they had left her at the base, entirely alone in the dark.

"Y/N-ah..." Jeonghan reached out, his hands trembling slightly as he grabbed both of her shoulders, pulling her forward until her forehead rested against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, burying his hand in the back of her hair, desperately trying to shield her from the cold corridor. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Coups didn't mean it like that... he's just stressed, he's stupid when he's under pressure, you know how he gets. But that's no excuse. We failed you. I failed you."

Y/N didn't hug him back this time. Her arms stayed limp at her sides, her forehead resting heavily against his sweater. The comfort felt nice, but it felt too late. It felt like a band-aid on an amputation.

"Don't leave us," Jeonghan murmured into her hair, his voice cracking with a rare, raw vulnerability. He had felt the distance growing between her and the group for months, but he had assumed it was just a phase, a side effect of growing up. Now, feeling the absolute stillness of her body in his arms, a cold dread began to pool in his stomach. "Please, Y/N. Talk to us. Talk to me. We can fix this. I'll talk to Jihoon myself. I'll make them change the formations for the next music show, I swear. Just don't shut us out."

Y/N slowly pulled back, gently but firmly breaking his grip on her shoulders. She looked up at him, her eyes completely devoid of the fire that used to define her. There was only a vast, empty ocean of exhaustion.

"You can't fix a puzzle piece that doesn't belong in the box, oppa," she said softly, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand.

Before Jeonghan could reply, the loud, booming sound of Mingyu’s voice echoed from around the corner. "Hey! I found my wallet! It was in Coups-hyung's bag the whole time!"

"Everyone into the vans! Moving out now!" a manager's voice bellowed through the hallway.

Y/N took a step backward, away from Jeonghan, away from the warmth of his embrace. She gave him one final, tiny nod a gesture of profound respect for the brother who had actually bothered to look for her before turning around and walking toward the loud, chaotic energy of the lobby.

Jeonghan stayed rooted to the spot, the empty bottle of vitamin water slipping from his fingers and hitting the floor with a dull clatter. As he watched her small figure disappear around the corner, a terrifying truth settled deep in his bones:

Seventeen wasn't thirteen plus one. They were thirteen, and they were about to lose the only girl who had ever tried to love them through the silence.

The second van was loud, a stark contrast to the heavy silence left behind in the corridor. Y/N sat by the window again, staring at the blurred neon signs of Seoul. Jeonghan had tried to catch her eye before boarding, but she had purposely slipped into the back row behind the vocal team. She couldn't face his pity, and she certainly couldn't face his promises.

By the time they reached the next broadcasting station for a late-night radio appearance, the atmosphere had shifted into a dull, post-schedule haze. There was a three-hour gap before their live broadcast slot, leaving the members scattered around a secondary, dimly lit dressing room.

In the corner of the room, a ring light flickered to life.

"Is it connected?" Dino asked, squinting at an iPhone mounted on a tripod.

"Yeah, the notifications are going out now," Minghao replied, adjusting the collar of his denim jacket. He sat cross-legged on a low couch, looking effortlessly chic. "Look, the viewer count is already jumping."

Jun slid into the frame next to Minghao, waving enthusiastically at the lens with both hands. "Hi, Carats! We’re backstage waiting for the radio show!"

Wonwoo sat on the arm of the couch just behind Minghao. He had his glasses back on, his expression relaxed but quiet. His eyes wandered around the room for a split second, tracking the corner where Y/N had tucked herself away with her manager's padded coat over her legs. He caught her eye, giving her a small, questioning tilt of his head. Are you okay?

Y/N just offered a tiny, weak nod and looked down at her lap. She didn't want to ruin his mood.

"We decided to turn on a live because it’s been a while since the four of us did one together," Dino explained to the camera, reading the fast-scrolling comments. "Everyone is asking if we ate dinner. Yes, we had rice bowls in the dressing room earlier."

The Instagram Live was a massive hit. Within five minutes, over three hundred thousand fans were watching. The four boys fell into a comfortable, easy rhythm the kind of effortless chemistry that made fans fall in love with them.

Jun was reading funny comments and doing dramatic poses. Minghao was giving philosophical advice to a fan stressed about exams. Dino was passionately explaining a specific detail in the new choreography. Wonwoo chuckled softly at their antics, occasionally leaning in to deliver a dry, witty one-liner that made the comment section erupt in keysmashes.

They were a cohesive unit. A brotherhood.

Y/N watched them from the dark corner of the room. The glow from the phone screen illuminated their faces, making them look like a self-contained universe. She felt a familiar, hollow ache in her chest. She was in the exact same room, sitting less than ten feet away, but she might as well have been on Mars.

"Oh, someone asked what the other members are doing," Jun said, scanning the screen. "Coups-hyung and Jeonghan-hyung are talking to the managers in the hallway. The vocal unit is sleeping on the other couch."

He completely skipped over her.

It wasn't intentional. Jun’s eyes had just skimmed the room, seeing the sleeping vocal team and omitting the quiet girl sitting perfectly still in the shadows. But the omission hit Y/N like a physical blow. Even when they were actively listing the group, her name didn't naturally surface. She was a ghost in their peripheral vision.

Wonwoo’s smile faded slightly. He glanced over his shoulder toward Y/N’s corner, then looked directly at the camera. "Y/N is here too," he said, his deep voice cutting through Dino and Jun's overlapping chatter. "She's sitting right over there. She worked really hard during the pre-recording today."

The comment section immediately flooded with messages.

“Y/N-ah!!! Show your face!” “We miss our 14th member!” “Is Y/N okay? She looked hidden during the stage today.”

"Y/N-ah, come say hi!" Dino called out warmly, gesturing toward the empty space next to him on the floor.

Minghao turned his head, his sharp eyes searching the dim corner. Unlike the others, Minghao was incredibly sensitive to energy. He had noticed her heavy, suffocating aura all day. "Come here, Y/N. Sit with us for a bit," he encouraged gently.

Y/N felt a cold sweat break out on the back of her neck. Every fiber of her being wanted to refuse, to stay hidden in the dark where it was safe. But the phone was live. Thousands of eyes were watching. If she refused, the fans would instantly sense the tension, creating a massive wave of rumors and speculation that Seungcheol would have to "handle" later.

Slowly, she stood up, letting the padded coat slide off her lap. She walked over to the ring light, her feet feeling like lead.

She forced a bright, idol-grade smile onto her face and crouched down next to Dino, squeezing into the edge of the phone's vertical frame. "Hi, Carats," she said, waving small at the camera. "I'm here."

"Look, Y/N is matching with Wonwoo-hyung today, both wearing black hoodies," Jun pointed out, trying to create a fun talking point for the fans.

The comments were moving at lightning speed. Y/N’s eyes accidentally locked onto a string of rapidly appearing messages.

user7739: Why is she forcing herself into the frame? The four boys had such good chemistry before she walked over. svt_carat_17: Honestly, the formation looks so crowded now. She doesn't really fit the vibe of this unit live. solofun: Did you guys see the music show today? She was completely blocked lol. Even the directors know she's extra.

The words blurred together, burning into her retinas. It was nothing she hadn't read a thousand times before over the last six years, but tonight, her armor was completely gone. The comments felt like physical needles piercing through her skin.

"Y/N-ah," Wonwoo's voice sounded right above her ear. He had shifted closer, his hand coming down to rest firmly on her shoulder, a subtle shield against the invisible eyes of the internet. "Are you cold? Your hands are shaking."

"I'm fine, oppa," she whispered into the microphone, her voice tight.

Minghao was watching her face closely. He saw the subtle twitch in her jaw, the way her eyes darted away from the screen, and the absolute lack of life in her smile. He recognized that look. It was the look of someone who was completely drowning while standing in a room full of people.

Minghao quietly reached past Dino and gently tapped the screen, purposely shifting the focus of the live. "Ah, someone is asking about the choreography for the b-side. Dino, show them the hand movement you were working on."

Dino eagerly took the cue, leaning into the camera to demonstrate the intricate finger-tutting. Jun joined in, laughing as he tried to mimic the younger boy's speed.

Under the cover of their loud laughter, Minghao leaned forward, his voice a quiet murmur meant only for her. "Y/N-ah. If you're tired, go rest. You don't have to stay here."

Y/N looked at Minghao. His expression was fierce, protective, and deeply sad. He knew. He didn't know the specifics, he didn't know about her drafted resignation or Seungcheol's phone call, but he knew her soul was breaking.

"Thank you, Hao," she whispered.

Slowly, carefully, Y/N slipped out of the camera's view. She moved so quietly that the scrolling comments barely registered her departure, the fans quickly returning to their adoration of the four boys.

As she walked back to her dark corner, she felt Wonwoo’s eyes heavy on her back. She sat down, pulling the heavy manager’s coat back over her head, completely shutting out the light of the room.

The broadcast continued behind her. Laughter, jokes, and the bright, happy sounds of a successful idol group filled the air. They were radiant. They were perfect. And as Y/N pulled her phone out one last time in the dark, her thumb didn't hesitate.

She pressed the dial button on the contact for Pledis Legal Team 2.

The phone began to ring, a low, steady hum against her ear. She closed her eyes, listening to the laughter of her members in the background, knowing that this was the beginning of the end.

The phone against her ear let out a third heavy, mechanical ring. Y/N’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"Hello, this is the Pledis Legal Department Entertainment Team 2-"

Before the voice on the other end could finish the greeting, a slender, ring-adorned hand reached into the darkness of her corner and firmly pressed the red end-call button on her screen.

Y/N gasped, her head snapping up. Minghao was standing over her.

He had slipped away from the Instagram Live while Dino and Jun were distracted doing a comedic dance battle for the viewers. The bright ring light was still casting long, sharp shadows across the room, but here in the corner, Minghao’s face was obscured by the dim lighting. His breathing was shallow, his shoulders tense beneath his denim jacket.

Without a word, he grabbed her wrist gently, but with an unyielding grip and pulled her up from the chair. He guided her past the sleeping vocal unit, opened the heavy soundproof door of the empty back storage room, and ushered her inside, letting the door click shut behind them.

The storage room smelled of cardboard, unused stage props, and stale air.

"What were you doing?" Minghao demanded, his voice a sharp, whispered hiss. His usual calm, meditative demeanor was completely gone, replaced by a raw, burning frustration. "Y/N. Answer me. Who were you calling just now?"

Y/N pulled her wrist out of his grip, stepping back until her spine hit a stack of plastic equipment crates. The sheer exhaustion of the last six months suddenly curdled into a defensive, bitter anger.

"It’s none of your business," she said, her voice trembling but cold. "Go back to the live. Carats are probably wondering where their cool, philosophical performance member went."

"Don't do that. Don't use that tone with me," Minghao said, stepping closer. His eyes snapped with an intensity that made her chest tighten. "I’ve been watching you for months, Y/N. You think you're being subtle? You think nobody notices the way you look at the company building? The way you look at us? You were calling legal. I saw the screen."

"So what if I was?" Y/N yelled back, though she kept her voice low enough not to pierce through the soundproof door. Tears of pure frustration finally blurred her vision. "What does it matter to you anyway?"

"What does it matter?" Minghao’s voice cracked, a rare slip in his pristine composure. He took a deep breath, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "We are a team. We are supposed to be fourteen. If you have an issue with the management, if you're upset about the stage blocking which was incredibly unfair, I know you come to us! You talk to Coups-hyung. You talk to the performance team. You don't secretly call the legal department in the dark like an outsider!"

"Because I am an outsider!"

The words ripped from her throat, raw and bleeding. The confession hung in the cramped space of the storage room, heavy and suffocating.

Minghao flinched as if he’d been physically struck.

"I am an outsider, Minghao," she repeated, the tears finally cascading down her cheeks, hot and uncontainable. "You tell me to talk to the team? I tried! I spoke up today during monitoring. I begged them to let me shift just half a foot so the camera could see me sing my three seconds. And what did Coups do? He brushed me off. He told me I was being too sensitive. And then I heard him on the phone in the hallway telling a manager that I’m a 'good kid' who will 'do what she's told in the end. "

Minghao opened his mouth to defend the leader, but the words died in his throat. A deep, troubled frown marred his forehead.

"He doesn't see me as a member," Y/N whispered, her voice breaking completely. "None of you do. When Jun listed the members on the live just now, he forgot I was even in the room. It’s not his fault it’s because I’m invisible. I’ve spent six months waking up every single morning feeling like a ghost in my own life. I write lyrics, and they’re 'too dark.' I practice until my knees swell, and I get put behind Mingyu’s back. If I stay here, there will be nothing left of me."

Minghao stared at her, the anger slowly draining out of him, leaving behind a profound, devastating sorrow. He had moved across an entire ocean from China to Korea to pursue his dream; he knew what isolation felt like. He knew the crushing weight of feeling misunderstood. But he had always had his brothers to lean on. He hadn't realized that for Y/N, the brothers were the source of the isolation.

"Y/N-ah..." he started, his voice dropping into a soft, aching murmur as he stepped closer. "We love you. Hoshi hyung loves you, Joshua Hyung loves you, Wonwoo Hyung loves you. I-"

"Love isn't enough to make me exist, oppa," Y/N interrupted, looking down at her hands. "I don't want to fight with you. I love you guys so much it hurts. That’s why I have to leave. Because if I stay, I’m going to end up hating you, and I don't want to hate my family."

Minghao stood in the center of the cramped storage room, the harsh fluorescent light casting a shadow over his face. He wanted to argue, to bar the door, to promise her that he would change the world for her tomorrow. But looking at the hollow, absolute defeat in her eyes, he realized the most terrifying thing of all:

He didn't have a single argument left to save her.

The heavy silence of the room pressed in on them, thick with the weight of things left unsaid. Outside the door, the faint, muffled sound of Dino’s laughter from the Instagram Live served as a cruel reminder of the world they were temporarily detached from.

Minghao closed his eyes, a single, sharp breath escaping his lips. When he opened them, the defensive anger was entirely gone, replaced by a hollow defeat that looked completely wrong on his usually sharp, composed face.

"Six months," he whispered, the number sounding foreign and heavy on his tongue. "You’ve been carrying this alone for six months."

"I wasn't trying to hurt anyone," Y/N said, her voice dropping to a whisper as she leaned her head back against the cold equipment crate. "I just... I kept waiting for a sign. A reason to believe that if I just held out a little longer, the gap would close. But every time we take a step forward as a group, I feel like I'm being pushed two steps back into the dark."

Minghao stepped forward, the distance between them shrinking until he was standing right in front of her. He didn't reach out to grab her wrist this time. Instead, he slowly raised his hands, hesitating for a fraction of a second before gently placing them on her shoulders. His touch was grounding, a stark contrast to the volatile argument they had just survived.

"If you press that button," Minghao said, his voice dropping into a register so serious it made her skin prickle, "if you let that legal team answer... there is no going back, Y/N. The company won't protect you anymore. The articles will come out. The solo stans, the antis... they will tear you apart online, and we won't be allowed to speak up for you. Do you understand what kind of hell you're walking into alone?"

"I'm already in hell, Hao," she replied, looking straight into his eyes, her gaze unflinching despite the tears still wet on her cheeks. "At least that hell has an exit sign."

A muscle in Minghao’s jaw twitched. He wanted to tell her she was wrong. He wanted to claim that the thirteen of them would form a wall around her and protect her from the company, from the cameras, from the erasure. But he knew how the industry worked. He knew that even Choi Seungcheol, with all his fierce protective instincts as a leader, was ultimately bound by contracts and boardrooms.

"Does Wonwoo-hyung know?" Minghao asked quietly.

Y/N’s eyes dipped, her composure cracking slightly at the mention of the one person who had consistently tried to pull her out of the shadows. "He knows I'm tired. He doesn't know about the phone call."

"You need to tell him," Minghao insisted, his grip on her shoulders tightening just a fraction. "You can't do this to him, Y/N. Out of all of us, he... he watches you. He stays up in the studios just to make sure you aren't leaving the building alone at night. If you just disappear into a legal battle without warning him, it will break him."

Y/N swallowed down the lump in her throat, the guilt finally creeping in, cold and sharp. "I know. I'm scared, oppa. If I tell him, he’ll try to stop me. And I don't know if I'm strong enough to say no to him."

Before Minghao could answer, the door to the storage room clicked open.

The bright light from the hallway flooded into the cramped space, throwing their silhouettes against the back wall. Wonwoo stood in the doorway, holding his phone in one hand. His eyes darted between Minghao’s hands on her shoulders and the tear tracks on Y/N’s face. The live had clearly ended, and the calm, unbothered expression he usually wore was entirely missing.

"The manager is calling for us," Wonwoo said, his deep voice carrying a strange, tight undertone. He didn't ask what they were doing. He didn't ask why Y/N had been crying. He just stood there, his sharp eyes locking onto Y/N’s phone, which she was still clutching tightly in her hand. "The radio staff needs us in the studio for the mic check in two minutes."

Minghao slowly let his hands drop from Y/N’s shoulders. He didn't look at Wonwoo as he stepped past him, but as he reached the threshold of the door, he paused, keeping his back turned to both of them.

"Don't make your decision in the dark, Y/N-ah," Minghao said quietly, his voice echoing slightly in the concrete hallway before he walked away, leaving the two of them alone.

The storage room returned to a heavy, suffocating silence.

Wonwoo didn't enter the room. He just held the door open, his tall frame blocking the exit, his eyes fixed on her. He looked older under the harsh hallway lights, the shadows under his cheekbones prominent.

"You left the live," Wonwoo said softly. It wasn't an accusation; it was a statement of fact.

"The comments were... I just needed a second to breathe," Y/N lied, her voice lacking any real conviction. She tried to step past him, but Wonwoo didn't move. He remained an unyielding barrier in the doorway.

"Minghao doesn't yell unless something is seriously wrong," Wonwoo murmured, his eyes dropping to her phone again. "And you don't look at me like that unless you're keeping a secret."

Y/N froze, her heart stopping. "Like what?"

"Like you're already gone," Wonwoo whispered, a devastating crack breaking through his calm facade. He reached out, his long fingers gently capturing her hand the one holding the phoneand pulled it up between them. "Tell me the truth, Y/N. Please.

The raw vulnerability in Wonwoo’s voice was a physical weight, dropping between them in the cramped storage room. His hand was a warm, firm band around her wrist, but it was trembling just a tiny, microscopic fracture in his usual stoic armor that told her he was absolutely terrified of what she was about to say.

Y/N stared down at their joined hands. The screen of her phone was still dark, but beneath her palm, she could feel the faint warmth of the battery. It felt like a ticking time bomb.

"Woo..." Her voice was barely a breath, a fragile thing that threatened to shatter if she put any weight behind it.

"Don't lie to me," Wonwoo interrupted softly, his thumb shifting to press against the pulse point on her wrist. Her heart was racing, and they both knew it. "You promised me on the balcony that you were just tired. But Minghao looked like he’d seen a ghost, and you... you look like you’re trying to say something bad."

He gently pried her fingers away from the phone casing, turning the screen toward himself. Y/N didn't have the strength to hide it anymore. She let her hand go limp, allowing him to lift the device.

The screen woke up automatically, displaying the recent call log. At the very top, marked with a red arrow indicating an uncompleted, cut-off call, was the direct extension for Pledis Legal Team 2.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Wonwoo’s eyes locked onto the text. For a long, agonizing moment, he didn't move. He didn't blink. The breath seemed to leave his body completely, his broad shoulders dropping as the brutal reality of that single contact name crashed into him. He knew exactly what Team 2 handled. They weren't the team that managed copyright or social media compliance. They were the team that handled contract liquidations and member exits.

When he finally looked back up at her, the expression in his eyes broke what was left of Y/N’s heart. There was no anger, no confusion—just a profound, bleeding grief, as if he were watching something precious slip through his fingers into a bottomless canyon.

"Six months," he murmured, his voice dropping into a hollow, gravelly register. "When you said on the balcony that nobody would miss you... you weren't just venting. You were preparing."

"I can't survive here, Wonwoo," Y/N whispered, the tears finally breaking through again, tracking hot down her cold face. She didn't call him oppa this time; she spoke to him as a peer, as the only person who had ever truly tried to share her burden. "I’ve tried. You know I’ve tried. Every single day I wake up and I tell myself to just be grateful, to just push through it because I’m part of a top-tier group. But I’m not part of it. I’m just... I’m an extra on your stage."

Wonwoo let go of her wrist, but he didn't step back. Instead, he took the phone from her hand, turning it off completely, and slid it into his own pocket.

"Oppa, give it back," she pleaded, reaching out half-heartedly, but he gently caught her hands in his, holding them securely against his chest.

"No," Wonwoo said, his voice thick with an emotion he rarely let anyone see. "Not like this. You don't get to slide out the back door in the middle of a radio schedule because Coups said something stupid and the internet is cruel. If you're going to leave, Y/N... if you're really going to break my heart and walk away from us, you don't do it in a dark storage room while the rest of the members are waiting down the hall."

"What do you want me to do?" she cried out, a small, choked sound escaping her lips. "Stay until the repackage? Let them erase me for another three months? Listen to Coups-hyung tell managers how easy I am to handle? I can't do it. Every time I hear our music now, I feel like I'm suffocating."

Wonwoo closed his eyes, leaning his forehead down until it gently rested against hers. The proximity was overwhelming, filled with the scent of his familiar, comforting fabric softener and the shared, desperate warmth of their breath.

"I don't want you to suffer," he whispered against her skin, his voice trembling violently now. "God, Y/N, if I could give you my lines, if I could give you my position on the stage just so you could feel the light, I would do it in a heartbeat. You know I would. But don't do this alone. Don't let them handle this through a clinical legal meeting where they turn you into a statistic."

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes, his hands sliding up to cup her face, his thumbs gently wiping away the fresh tears.

"We have the radio show now," Wonwoo said, his gaze intense, grounding, and completely unyielding. "We have to go out there and we have to do our jobs. But the moment we get back to the dorm tonight... we are calling a meeting. All fourteen of us. You are going to look Coups in the eye, and you are going to tell him exactly what he did. You are going to make them see you, Y/N. Even if it’s the last thing you do as a member of this group, you are going to make them look at the hole they're leaving in Seventeen."

Y/N stared at him, her chest heaving as she swallowed the bitter flavor of his words. He wasn't asking her to stay anymore. He loved her enough to realize that staying was killing her. But he was refusing to let her vanish quietly into the night like she didn't matter. He wanted her to fight, to force the group to acknowledge the consequence of their casual negligence.

Before she could answer, the door behind Wonwoo knocked loudly, and the voice of a senior manager cut through the heavy air.

"Wonwoo! Y/N! What is taking so long? The PD is screaming for the mic check! Get out here now!"

Wonwoo didn't break eye contact. He kept his hands on her cheeks for one more second, a silent, binding contract between the two of them.

"Tonight," he whispered. "We do this together tonight. Okay?"

Y/N let out a long, trembling breath, her head nodding almost imperceptibly against his hands. "Okay."

He let her go, stepping back into the hallway and pulling his mask up over his face, instantly sliding back into the quiet, professional idol persona the world demanded of him. Y/N smoothed down her oversized sweater, wiped her eyes one last time in the dim light of the storage room, and followed him out into the corridor stepping toward the final, crushing climax of a six-month storm.

The two-hour live radio broadcast was a blur of plastic headphones, artificial cheer, and the distinct, bitter taste of adrenaline.

Y/N sat at the very edge of the long, curved table. The radio PD had assigned the seating quickly: the vocal unit took the center mics because they were doing a live acoustic performance of a ballad, and the leader line sat near the host to drive the conversation. Y/N was handed a microphone that shared a channel split with Dino.

Every time the host asked a sweeping question "How does it feel to achieve a perfect all-kill on the charts within twenty-four hours?"Y/N watched Seungcheol’s face light up as he spoke passionately about their shared vision, about the "thirteen brothers" who poured their souls into the tracks.

He didn't mean to say thirteen. It was a muscle-memory slip, a generic phrase he used in foreign interviews where explaining a fourteenth, non-traditional member took too much time. But tonight, with Wonwoo’s heavy, dark gaze fixed on the table and Minghao’s absolute silence from the back row, the word thirteen sounded like a gunshot in the small studio.

Y/N kept her hand on her lap, her fingers digging into the fabric of her sweatpants to keep from shaking. Beside her, Wonwoo’s foot was hooked firmly around the leg of her stool. A quiet, physical anchor.

The ride back to the dorms was different this time.

Usually, the ride after a late-night schedule was filled with the low hum of phones playing TikToks or the soft snoring of the performance unit. But tonight, a suffocating tension had leaked into the vehicle.

Wonwoo had explicitly demanded to ride in the first van with Y/N, swapping spots with a confused Seokmin. Minghao had quietly taken the front passenger seat, his eyes fixed firmly on the dark highway ahead, refusing to engage in any of the manager's casual small talk.

When the heavy doors of the two vans finally slid open in the basement parking lot of their apartment complex, nobody scrambled for the elevator.

"Coups-hyung," Wonwoo called out, his deep voice slicing through the quiet rumble of the parking garage.

Seungcheol paused, his hand on the elevator button. He looked back, his brow furrowed in exhaustion. "Yeah, Wonwoo? Let’s get upstairs quickly, the third van’s managers need to lock the garage."

"We need a full group meeting. Right now. In the main living room," Wonwoo said. It wasn't a request. The tone was completely flat, devoid of the respectful deference he usually gave the leader.

The remaining members stopped mid-stride. Jun, who had been laughing at something on his phone, slowly lowered his device. Jeonghan, standing just behind Seungcheol, met Wonwoo’s eyes and instantly went rigid. He looked at Y/N, who was standing a half-step behind Wonwoo, her eyes red-rimmed and staring at the concrete floor.

"Wonwoo-ah, it’s past 2:00 AM," Seungcheol said, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. "We have a pre-recording at 8:00 AM tomorrow. Whatever it is, can it wait until the morning corporate briefing?"

"No," Minghao spoke up from the front, turning around to face the leader. His sharp eyes were cold. "It can't wait. Every single member needs to be in that room. Change out of your coats, but don't go to sleep."

Seungcheol looked between Wonwoo, Minghao, and the silent, shrinking figure of Y/N. The sheer weight of the atmosphere finally registered. His irritation morphed into a heavy, defensive caution.

"Fine," Seungcheol muttered, turning back to the elevator. "Upstairs. Main dorm."

Twenty minutes later, the main living room of Seventeen’s primary dorm felt like a courtroom.

The space was usually cluttered and lively, but tonight, the thirteen boys had distributed themselves along the sofas and the floor in a tense, fragmented semi-circle.

The Vocal Unit sat together on the long couch, their expressions a mix of confusion and building anxiety.

Hoshi and Chan were on the floor, their backs against the wall, sensing the absolute gravity of the performance team’s silence.

Jeonghan stood near the kitchen counter, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed entirely on Seungcheol.

Y/N sat on a single wooden chair that Mingyu had quietly moved from the dining table for her. Wonwoo stood directly behind her, his hand resting firmly on the backrest of her chair, an invisible shield. Minghao stood to her left, his arms crossed, his face an unreadable mask of stone.

Seungcheol sat on the edge of the coffee table, directly facing her. He had taken off his makeup, and without the stage styling, he looked incredibly tired, his shoulders slightly slumped.

"Alright," Seungcheol started, rubbing his palms together. "We're all here. Wonwoo, Hao... you brought everyone down here. What's going on that’s so urgent it couldn't wait six hours?"

Jihoon sighed softly, leaning back. "If this is about the line distribution or the stage blocking adjustments again, we really should have the performance directors present-"

"Jihoon," Wonwoo cut him off, his voice dropping into a dangerous, warning growl that instantly silenced the room. "Shut up and listen."

Jihoon blinked, stunned by the rare aggression from the normally passive rapper.

Wonwoo reached into his pocket and pulled out Y/N’s phone. He didn't unlock it. He just placed it gently on the glass coffee table between Seungcheol and Y/N, the black screen reflecting the harsh ceiling lights.

"Y/N was trying to make a phone call backstage at the radio show," Wonwoo said, his voice echoing in the dead quiet of the room. "She was calling Legal Team 2 to initiate the termination of her contract."

The words dropped like an explosive charge.

Seungkwan let out a sharp, audible gasp, his hand instantly flying to his mouth. Seokmin’s eyes widened in sheer horror, his head snapping toward Y/N as if expecting her to laugh and say it was a joke. Chan stood up slightly from his position on the floor, his face completely pale.

"What?" Seungcheol’s voice was a ragged whisper. He looked at the phone on the table, then up at Y/N, his leader instincts instantly clashing with a sudden, violent wave of panic. "Y/N-ah... what is he talking about? Contract termination? Why would you... we just started the comeback. Why would you do that behind our backs?"

"Because she didn't think she had a front to face you with," Minghao countered sharply, his voice dripping with an uncharacteristic venom. "Tell him, Y/N. Tell him what you heard in the hallway today."

Y/N looked up. Every single eye in the room was fixed on her some filled with horror, some with confusion, some with a deep, dawning guilt. For six months, she had lived in fear of this exact moment. She had thought that showing her wounds would make her look weak, that complaining would make her a burden.

But looking at Wonwoo's steady hand on her chair, she found the final, desperate scrap of her courage.

"I was standing by the vending machines after the pre-recording today, Coups-hyung," Y/N said, her voice trembling but clear. "You were on the phone with management. I heard you tell them that I was getting too 'sensitive' about my lines and my screen time. You told them I was a 'good kid' who would 'do what she's told in the end' and that you would 'handle' me."

Seungcheol froze. The color completely drained from his face, his mouth opening slightly as the memory of his casual, logistical phone call came roaring back to hit him in the chest.

"Y/N-ah..." Seungcheol stammered, his confident leader persona completely evaporating. "That... I was talking to the performance coordinators. I was trying to explain to them that we couldn't change the broadcast angles on short notice without risking Chan's center transition. I didn't mean-"

"I know what you meant," Y/N interrupted, a single, cold tear escaping her eye. "You meant that my three seconds aren't worth the trouble of re-arranging the machine. And you're right. Economically, logistically, you're entirely right. The thirteen of you are a masterpiece. But what you don't understand is that I’ve been hiding behind Mingyu’s shoulders for three comebacks in a row. I spent three nights writing lyrics for Shadow, and you told me I was 'too dark' for Seventeen's hopeful image. You told me I have 'plenty of time' because I'm young."

She looked around the room, her gaze lingering on each of them.

"I don't have time," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I’ve been thinking about leaving for six months. Every morning I wake up in this dorm, I have to check the mirror to make sure I still exist. Jun oppa forgot I was even in the room during the live tonight. And it’s not his fault. It’s because I have become a ghost in this group. You don't see me when the music stops. You just handle me when I become a problem."

The room devolved into a devastating, heavy silence.

Seungkwan was openly crying now, his head buried in his knees. Hoshi looked like he had been physically beaten, his eyes staring at the floor in profound shock. Jihoon sat frozen, his hands clutched tightly together, the realization that his professional rejections had been slow-acting poison to his younger sister visibly shattering him.

Seungcheol looked completely broken. He reached out a hand toward her across the table, his fingers trembling. "Y/N... I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. I didn't... I didn't see it. I thought I was protecting the group, I thought I was keeping things stable for everyone. I never wanted you to feel like baggage."

"But I do," Y/N said softly, standing up from the chair. Wonwoo's hand dropped from the backrest, but he stayed right beside her, his presence a silent wall of support. "I love you guys. I love Seventeen. But I can't stay in a family where I have to beg to be seen."

She looked down at her phone on the table. She didn't pick it up.

"I promised Wonwoo I would look you all in the eye and tell you the truth before I made my choice," she said, looking at the thirteen boys who had been her entire life. "I’ve told you. Now, please... let me breathe."

Turning on her heel, Y/N walked down the narrow hallway toward her bedroom, leaving the thirteen members of Seventeen sitting in the wreckage of their own silence, finally forced to look at the massive, aching void they had built around her.

The heavy wooden door of her shared bedroom clicked shut, instantly dampening the collective, suffocating grief echoing from the living room.

Y/N didn't turn on the lights. She didn't want to see the posters on the wall, the stacked albums on the shelves, or the neat row of matching group merchandise that served as a constant reminder of the life she was tearing herself away from. She walked straight to her bed and collapsed onto the mattress, burying her face in a plush pillow to muffle the violent, heavy sobs that finally ripped from her chest.

The confrontation had drained the last bit of adrenaline from her system, leaving her entirely hollow. She had done it. She had forced them to see her wounds. But the relief she expected didn't come there was only a deep, aching soreness.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open, throwing a narrow sliver of light across the linoleum floor.

The footsteps were soft, familiar, and entirely unhurried. The mattress dipped significantly under a familiar weight as Wonwoo sat down beside her. He didn't try to pull her into his arms right away, nor did he offer words of comfort. He just sat there in the dark, a quiet, protective sentinel, letting the steady sound of his breathing anchor her in the middle of her storm.

Slowly, Y/N shifted, rolling over onto her back to stare at the dark ceiling. Her face was sticky with tears, her throat burning.

"They're still out there, aren't they?" she whispered, her voice incredibly raw.

"Yeah," Wonwoo murmured, his eyes adjusting to the shadows. He was leaning back against her headboard, his long legs stretched out over the blankets. "Coups is sitting on the floor. I think it’s the first time in six years I’ve seen him completely speechless. Seungkwan and Dokyeom are a mess. Jihoon... Jihoon went straight to his room and locked the door. I think he’s rewriting the booklet credits."

A bitter, exhausted sigh escaped her lips. "It doesn't matter anymore. A rewritten credit sheet won't fix the last six years."

"I know," Wonwoo said softly. He turned his head to look down at her, his expression filled with a tenderness that cut through the darkness. He reached out, his cool, long fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from her damp forehead. "I didn't bring you out there to make them change the album, Y/N. I brought you out there because you deserved to leave that room carrying your dignity, not slipping away like a thief in the night."

Y/N looked up at him. Without his glasses now, his sharp eyes looked vulnerable, brimming with an unshed, heavy sorrow. "Are you mad at me? For actually going through with it?"

Wonwoo’s hand paused on the side of her face, his thumb gently resting against her cheekbone. A long, painful pause stretched between them.

"I am selfish," Wonwoo confessed, his voice dropping into a ragged, quiet whisper that vibrated with absolute honesty. "When I saw that legal contact on your phone... my first instinct was to delete it. To hide your phone. To lock you in this room and beg you to give us one more comeback, one more year. Because the thought of walking into that practice room tomorrow and not seeing you sitting in the corner... it feels like losing a piece of my own lungs, Y/N."

A fresh tear slipped from the corner of her eye, catching the dim light. "Oppa..."

"But then I looked at you," he continued, his thumb tracing the path of her tear, his voice cracking slightly. "I looked at how small you've been making yourself just so the thirteen of us could take up space. I remembered the balcony. I remembered how cold your hands were. And I realized that if I force you to stay here just so I don't have to miss you, I'm no better than the company. I'm no better than the people who hid you in the back row."

He slowly shifted, sliding down the headboard until he was lying on his side next to her, pulling her small frame tightly against his chest. Y/N didn't resist. She buried her face into the crook of his neck, her fingers clutching the thick fabric of his black hoodie as if she were hanging off the edge of a cliff.

Wonwoo wrapped his broad arms around her, holding her with a fierce, desperate tightness, burying his face in her hair. He was shaking now the stoic, unbothered rapper completely falling apart in the quiet dark of her room.

"I’m going to miss you so much," he whispered against her hair, his chest heaving as a quiet sob finally escaped him. "God, Y/N. Who am I going to sit with during the lives? Who is going to understand when I just want the room to be quiet? You’re the only one who never expected me to be 'Seventeen's Wonwoo' all the time. You just let me be me."

"You'll have Vernon," Y/N cried softly, her tears soaking into his collarbone. "You'll have the boys. They love you, Woo. They just... they forgot how to look down."

"It won't be the same," he murmured, tightening his grip, burying her even deeper into his warmth. "A fourteen-piece puzzle with a missing center is just a broken picture."

They lay there for hours as the clock ticked toward 4:00 AM. They didn't talk about the legal meetings that would inevitably start the next day. They didn't talk about the statements Pledis would release, or the chaos that would erupt when the fandom realized the fourteenth member was gone.

For tonight, in the quiet sanctuary of the dark bedroom, they were just two tired people holding onto each other before the universe pulled them down different paths. Y/N closed her eyes, listening to the steady, heavy beat of Wonwoo’s heart. It was the only rhythm she had ever truly belonged to.

He's trying. He's really trying to resist the smile that creeps up on his face, but right now, you need coddling because you just lost a pizza night again.

At the crosswalk, Vernon notices the distance between you guys. He notices the stubbornness in your stance, the way your arms are crossed, and your pursed lips. For a second, he actually thinks you're upset, but he knows you well enough that you'd speak up if you had concerns.

"Why do you propose a game of rock-paper-scissors when you never win?" He asks. "You know, we could just get pizza--"

"That'd be cheating!" You exclaim. "And since you won fair and square, we should make… pasta."

Vernon only smirks, nodding to your words. "Right. It would be unfair since I won--even if I was offering to have your choice tonight."

"Exactly." You murmur, watching the crosswalk's signal.

He rolls his eyes, adjusting his leather jacket. Your eyes remain set on the light, avoiding his gaze.

When the signal changes, you’re just about to step forward before Vernon gently tugs at your waist, fingers hooking into your belt loop, making you catch your breath. He casually pulls you closer, then unhooks his fingers and throws his arm over your shoulders.

“You’re a sore loser,” he mutters closely, just loud enough for you to hear.

Your pace falters and becomes one with his, and despite his playful insult, you let one arm wrap behind his back. You exhale through your nose--half laugh and sigh. “Is that offer for my choice still available?”

Vernon clicks his tongue in disbelief, shaking his head. “Oh, I’m not too sure about that. You already turned it down and made a very good point on how that would be cheating.”

You glance up to be met with his dorky grin. “Yeah, you’re right. Pasta it is then…”

He tugs you closer, quickly pressing a kiss on the side of your head. “We’ll save pizza for next time, definitely. No games, alright?”

"Fine, no games." You giggle.

WHEN IT'S CROWDED, it's a mutual agreement that losing each other is the last thing you need happening. Whether it's a concert, downtown, or heck, even a rave, you both agree that you must stick together.

In the sea of bodies, Vernon navigates you to the nearest wall at some house party Mingyu invited you both to. The bass is not favourable. The songs pounding through the speakers are so loud that you don't even hear what reassuring comment Vernon makes every time he looks back at you.

You lip-read, I dislocated my shoulder, and you know that's not what he's really saying--it's the music's fault, you think to yourself. All you can do is nod awkwardly as he leads you in further.

It feels endless, the shoulder bumping and the occasional running into. Until it actually hits you, well, a body that is. You're inadvertently shoved back by a stranger who profusely apologizes once you catch your balance.

"No, no, it's okay, really!" You assure them. Except, it really wasn't okay. You've lost Vernon.

You don't remember feeling this nervous in a place like this. The bodies around you move like waves, not giving you a chance to look over them. And sure, you have been to parties like this before, but maybe you forgot what those are like without Vernon.

Let's find the nearest wall, was what he said before you entered the house. It plays over and over in your head until you feel something pull at your waist.

When you look to your side, Vernon's fingers hook into your belt loop, pulling you flush to his side. He slips his fingers out and places a hand on your lower back, ushering you to a more secluded area.

He lowers his head right by your ear, quietly whispering, "Are you okay?"

"Y-yeah, I'm okay," you whisper back. "Thanks, though. I was actually a bit freaked out when I couldn't see you anymore. It's crazy in there, I don't know where Mingyu would even enjoy himself."

"Beats me," he chuckles. "There's for sure way too many people in this house. No way that's allowed, right?"

You hum, the weight on you feeling a lot less now.

Vernon takes your hand into his, raising it up to his lips to lightly peck. "Let's just hold hands for the night so we don't lose each other again, okay?"

Gosh, if your heart could not feel even warmer than it already was, Vernon was there to prove you wrong.

WHEN HE NEEDS YOU, he'll never outwardly say it. It's not that he can't verbally express himself; it's just that this is a different feeling. Instead, he'll show you, or there will be signs that your boyfriend is craving your touch.

Whatever mundane chore you're doing right now, he's watching. Not watching how you handle the mugs--he's watching you.

As he shyly approaches the counter, he places his phone on the marble with a light thud to make his presence known, just so he doesn't startle you.

"Hey, Nonie," you chirp, placing the mug back down. Your attention averts to him, who is stalking closer until he stands on the opposite side of you.

"Hey," he quietly says, resting his lower back against the counter, "need help?"

You sigh, turning your back to continue sorting the cups. "No, I'm just about done now. Sleep well?"

"Mhm… yeah," Vernon mumbles, voice low. He shifts his body lazily against the counter, his hands acting as anchors on its edges. "Was kind of cold, though, y’know, since you woke up early ‘n left me." he adds, hoping you'd pick up on what he really means.

And here you are grinning to yourself because you know exactly what he wants--no, needs.

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that…" You say, giving him faux sympathy.

Vernon doesn't immediately respond, only letting out a scoff jokingly. He notices that you're not out of arm's reach, so with his hand raised, he sneaks his fingers into your belt loop, tugging you back lightly.

You're glad you aren't holding any glass cups because you barely manage to ground it on the counter before your back meets with his chest.

His head dips to your neck, lips brushing your skin, and he finally mutters, "You can make it up to me."

When he removes his fingers from your belt loop, you feel his hands grip each side of your waist, gently spinning you around so that you're facing him.

"That bad, huh?" You laugh, throwing your arms over his shoulders. "Since you're so cute, I might as well…"

Vernon flashes you his wide smile, hugging you closer. His head leans towards yours, capturing your lips with his. As his kiss deepens, it's a bit lazy but with intent, the kind that expresses himself without needing to say it out loud. Boy, is he glad to have you.

For BE THE SUN tour (2022), she performed “Back it Up” with HHU and was also included in “Moonwalker” (Performance Team);

Skye - BE THE SUN tour

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For FOLLOW tour (2023-2024), Skye performed “I Don't Understand But I Luv U” (Performance Team) and “Back It Up” (Hip-Hop Team).

Skye - Follow Tour

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For FOLLOW Again, Skye performed “I Don't Understand But I Luv U” (Performance Team), Yawn (Vocal Twam) and “Back It Up” (Hip-Hop Team);

Skye - FOLLOW Again tour

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For RIGHT HERE tour (2024-2025), Skye performed Candy (Vocal team) and Monster (Hip-hop Team);

Skye - RIGHT HERE tour

CARAT-LAND:

2020> “What’s Good?” with Perfomance Team

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

2021>“Lilli Yabbay” with Hip-Hop unit

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

2022> “AH! LOVE” (with Maknae line)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

2023> “Imperfect Love” with Hip-Hop Unit

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

2024> “LALALI” with Vocal Unit

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

2025> didn’t participate in Unit Stages since she performed two tracks from her solo album.

DISCLAIMER:

REBLOGGING IS ALWAYS APPRECIATED, BUT REPOSTING MY TEXT OR CLAIMING IT AS YOUR OWN IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN;

DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE, OR REPOST MY WORK ON ANY PLATFORM WITHOUT MY EXPLICIT PERMISSION.

YOU CAN SEND ASKS ABOUT MY WORKS ANYTIMEAND ALSO REQUEST IF YOU WANT ME TO WRITE ON A SPECIFIC TOPIC BUT MAKE SURE THAY DO NOT CONTAIN ANY VULGARITY, OBSCENITY, OR EXPLICIT CONTENT.

Jennie has been mostly used as a face-claim so that its easier to picture the OC. However, you are free to imagine her anyhow.

Thank you for reading.

This is a work of purely speculative fiction. The events, alternate universes, and character actions within this story are not based on reality. The views, speech, and actions of the fictional characters do not reflect the opinions of the author.

Skye is also the loudest supporter of Jun’s 1+1 idea…she has visited Junhui’s hometown more than once when she had to shoot in China and understands why Jun wants to bring all the members there. Jun took her to the famous festival of lights that his home town is famous for and Skye was almost convinced to move to Shenzen by that alone. Junhui’s younger brother also adores Skye and has designated her the position of his favorite Jiějiě.

Kwon Soonyoung/ Hoshi

Early days:

Hoshi could feel the frown in between his brows deepen with time as the video of the ‘new member’ dancing to Adore You played on his phone for the Nth number of time. He had been in a bright mood after a really funny Going Seventeen episode shoot with the members until the leaders were summoned by their CEO who dropped the bomb on them, without any warning whatsoever. The company had not discussed anything with the group and today they just informed the leaders of the future developments. Moreover, the leaders weren’t even allowed to discuss all these with the other members who were to be informed by the company itself 2 weeks later.

Hoshi was dying inside. He had tried to steal glances at Coups when the CEO was ranting on about how a new female member could benefit the group. Coups’ expression clearly indicated that their general leader was lost in his mind. One glance at Woozi showed the latter was equally agitated as Hoshi himself but kept quiet. Hoshi knew that this was going to be final anyways. Coups wouldn’t be able to do anything cause the group had barely stepped in their 4th year and they were bound to follow the Company’s decisions as per their contract.

As he glanced at his phone again, Hoshi realized that he had only one option. He would have to step in personally in training and polishing the girl’s dance moves. If she was going to step into the world of Seventeen, she better fasten her seatbelts and be prepared for the intense ride Hoshi was preparing for her.

Present day:

Skye can’t deny that Hoshi gave her the hardest time in her pre-debut and early post-debut days. But She also can’t deny that Hoshi lauds the loudest after every solo performance. Hoshi shows up at all of her solo MV shoots. Ever since Skye actually started enjoying dancing, Hoshi always compliments her unique style. Despite having a short stature compared to the other members, Skye dominates the stage with her stomping dancing style. When Spider was released, these two did a TikTok challenge together while hanging from those bars that were use in the choreography and it blew up so hard in social media that Hoshi now makes sure to shoot at least one challenge with her every time, he releases something.

Hoshi also keeps on finding dog cafes so that Latte can have playdates with the puppies of Skye. CARATs have spotted these two taking their dogs for walks along the Han River.

#971717">Minghao/ THE8

Early days:

Minghao didn’t know which side was having it worse with regard to the addition of a new member – the group or the girl who was getting added. So, he just introduced himself to the girl and decided to observe her from afar. She seemed quiet and he understood and respected her quietness. He understood it was natural for someone, especially a girl to try to keep to herself when she was tossed into a group of 13 idols who had around 4 years of experience. The boys had bonded cover shared experiences over a span of almost half a decade; meanwhile, she was a brand-new person who had to figure out her place amongst all of them. So, he gave her space. The language barrier also contributed. But he also tried to be there for her through small actions like extending a water bottle or a towel when she was huffing after an intense practice session with Hoshi, making sure the jellies that she always reached for were present in the cupboard of their practice room and so on. Skye did notice his small actions and was grateful although she was too shy to give voice to that.

Present day:

Although Minghao tried to be considerate to Skye from the beginning instead of unleashing the frustration the entire group felt on their Company’s decision, these two ended up having a huge fight over the issue of Skye’s joining the group soon after she officially debuted with them. During one of the stages of HIT, when the disagreement was still on, Minghao got distracted and ended up crashing into Skye causing an accident. He felt so guilty at that that he promised to never take any issue on to the stage.

Minghao and Skye were signed as the ambassadors of a Chinese-Canadian travel agency and therefore they have frequently been to each other’s birth places. The first time he visited Canada, Skye took him to see the Niagara Falls and Hao made her promise that they would visit there again. Also, every time Skye has any schedule in China his parents make sure she visits their house at least once. They even send him New Year’s money.

Minghao is Skye’s go to fashion advisor. Their styles aren’t similar but the man surely knows how to make her look badass or cute as she demands depending on the situation.

Chan/ Dino

Early days:

Chan became a trainee himself when he was around 13 and since then he had grown up surrounded by 12 big brothers. He had grown up in with a younger brother and ever since his debut or even before them he always abided by the company’s warnings of steering away from girls to avoid controversies. SO, when a girl was introduced into their group in their 4th year, he was bamboozled around her. The boy was excited that he wasn’t the youngest if the group anymore cause even though he knew that his older brothers adored him, sometimes he found that adoration too much to handle. On the other hand, however, Chan didn’t know how to approach the new maknae or how to carry himself around her. Either he was too polite to say something and if he tried to something good for her, he ended up saying the wrong things at the wrong time and that always ended up with both Chan and Skye getting flustered. But these two also fought a lot. When Skye joined to train with Seventeen, she was still an angsty teenager who lashed out at almost everything. So, although Dono’s advises were intended for her benefit, she ended up retaliating badly, leading to a heated environment between the two youngest members.

Present day:

Dino and Skye were initially awkward around each other. But once they grew comfortable, Dino didn’t hesitate to baby her and tease her as he finally had someone to treat the same way he had been treated by his 12 older members. Dino had always wandered how it would feel to have a younger member in the group He pranked her but also adored her so much that she ended up fleeing to escape his antiques. However, the youngest two also teamed up often to pull pranks on the older ones or to sneak away for snacks when no one is watching. Skye was highly inspired by Dino who always made it sure to give it his all as he spent hours in the practice room. Skye also participated in Dino’s Danceology more than once and even choreographed one of them.

DISCLAIMER:

REBLOGGING IS ALWAYS APPRECIATED, BUT REPOSTING MY TEXT OR CLAIMING IT AS YOUR OWN IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN;

DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE, OR REPOST MY WORK ON ANY PLATFORM WITHOUT MY EXPLICIT PERMISSION.

YOU CAN SEND ASKS ABOUT MY WORKS ANYTIMEAND ALSO REQUEST IF YOU WANT ME TO WRITE ON A SPECIFIC TOPIC BUT MAKE SURE THAY DO NOT CONTAIN ANY VULGARITY, OBSCENITY, OR EXPLICIT CONTENT.

Thank you for reading.

For the last 1 hour the leader of Seventeen was slightly annoyed at the new person who was suddenly being inserted into their group …the success they had till date was a result of all 13’s hard work for years. “Who was this person to get an easy access to their hard-earned success out of nowhere?”, he tried to reason in his mind that was trying to cast her into the molds of the villain. However, he hadn’t really thought how this decision must have been difficult from her viewpoint as well. As far as he knew, she was supposed to debut with a girl group and instead she was suddenly informed about a drastic change before her journey even started…so who was at fault? The confusion and anger gnawing inside him augmented as now he couldn’t blame the other side either.

In her trainee days with Seventeen and first few months of her debut, Skye maintained her distance from S.Coups since she was scared to approach her directly but she respected her a lot and looked up to his leadership.

Present day:

S.Coups and Skye are almost 2 peas in a pod and honestly, both of them being Leo, it makes sense. Their birthdays being only about a week apart, they usually celebrate it together ever since the pandemic. It didn’t take Skye too long to get close to the leader. They got closer in the period S.Coups’ hiatus in 2019 and besides Mingyu, Skye played a major role in helping their leader out of the slump.

As for Skye, she doesn't go to Coups often becuase she feels that he already bears too much as the leader but she seeeks him out a times when she feels she is failing as a member or as a person and needs assurance from her leader.

For the fun part, Skye, like Coups, sulks when her members forget to wish her at 12am on her birthday; Skye also hates when someone calls her by her full name. Skye also is Coups’ only supporter when he is teased by the other two 95liners. However, she never spares a chance to tease the leader when the two of them are by themselves.

Jeon Wonwoo

Early days:

Wonwoo, despite having a caring nature, was known amongst his members for not showing his emotions too easily, especially to newer persons. So, when the new girl came in, no one actually expected to see any noticeable change in Wonwoo’s stance. The only change that his members came across was how he put up his guards a little higher whenever she was practicing with them. Wonwoo had introduced himself politely to her on the 1st day and since then the only times he was seen near her was if and when their choreography formations demanded so. During breaks both Wonwoo and Skye recoiled into their own spaces with Wonwoo getting engrossed in his phone or laptop while Skye monitored the choreography or went up to their teacher to brush over the moves. So, it’s safe to say that during Skye’s early days, neither of these two introverts stepped into each other’s sphere unless they were forced to do so.

Present day:

Skye an Wonwoo both are dependent on their glasses and actually looks really good in those. They got so hyped by the CARATS as ‘the glasses duo’ of Seventeen that a major spectacles company ended up signing both of them as its brand ambassadors. They bask in each other’s quiet company. Soon after she joined them Wonwoo had discovered her love for reading fictions and since she isn’t particularly fond of reading in Korean, he started looking for English translations of popular Korean fictions.  Skye also enjoys photography but isn’t particularly good at it. So Wonwoo has voluntarily taken up the task of training her how to be good behind the lens. But to Wonwoo’s disappointment, Skye sucks at online games and hates playing them since the sounds often end up triggering her migraines.

Wonwoo also provides comfort to Skye without asking any questions but is of great help when she goes up to him when she feels lost.  

Kim Mingyu

Early days:

Like Jeonghan, Mingyu, who also has a younger sister and is quite close to her, readily decided in his head that he was going to be kind to the little lady who had just showed up and looked almost terrified. In the practice room filled to the brim with sweat and testosterone. Always known to be the bearer of optimism in the group, Mingyu found the best possible sides of a new person that too a girl joining their team.

When the members were discussing the pros and cons of their company’s decision amongst themselves, Mingyu gladly pointed out the ways they could actually benefit from this situation, how they could target a younger audience and so on. Skye also found comfort in the giant puppy energy that he radiated ever since he welcomed her with his broken English on the very 1st day. Mingyu’s caring nature also showed through every time he made sure to make a non-spicy version of any food he made for the group once they got to know about her lack of spice tolerance.

Present day:

Mingyu is the sun to Sky’s moon. The girl has a bad habit of always imagining the worst in every situation and God knows what would have happened if Mingyu wasn’t there whispering assurances to her every time she felt dubious about herself. Mingyu always says that Skye’s face has subtitles and even when she tries to avoid saying mean things to anyone out of politeness, her annoyance clearly shows up in her expressions. So, it is Mingyu who nudges her every time to make sure that her real feelings stay hidden as per the situation. Mingyu also knows how to make the comfort food she craves whenever she is sick -a dish that his mother used to prepare for him, but he adjusted it as per her taste. Skye’s manager tried to learn making it but it didn’t meet the girl’s taste. SO it is Mingyu who always comes to the rescue unless he is out of the country.

Chwe Hansol/ Vernon:

Early days:

As another member with a younger sister almost as old as Skye, the latter piqued Vernon’s curiosity the very 1st day she entered the practice room with their CEO. So, when Joshua glanced at him from across the room after her brief introduction, he nodded to the older male. He accompanied Joshua as the older male introduced himself to the girl in English during their 1st break from practice. Vernon, clueless at how to approach her, offered her the yogurt drink that he and his sister loved and asked her where she was from. The younger girl looked visibly calmer as he tried to communicate in English instead of the Korean that she is used to hear around her in this nation and accepted the drink. Hesitation flicked at her expression but she didn’t voice any, Vernon didn’t know if that was out of politeness or just her 1st day jitters.

Unlike Seungkwan who was slightly displeased at Skye’s bashful nature at first, Vernon tried to communicate with her from that very day and gradually Skye felt at ease being herself around him. Being around Vernon was effortless as he allowed her to exist in her own sphere yet he was approachable enough for the newbie.

Present day:

Skye firmly believes that Vernon is one of the most genuine persons on earth. The older man usually lives in his own bubble and Skye is amazed by his artistic spirit. She has always noted how Vernon seems to quietly care for his member without ever making a big deal out of it. Despite his nonchalant behavior, he cares a lot about the people around him and the silly side that he only shows to when he is around his closest people is adorable to Skye. Vernon had introduced his siter Sofia to Skye and the two girls have developed one of the closest bonds since then. Skye often makes an appearance in Sofia’s vlogs and Vernon is frequently seen hanging out with his 2 sisters.

Although he doesn’t show much of it to people, Vernon is as protective of Skye as Jeonghan is. He is her greatest cheer-leader both in the unfamiliar steps she decides to take in her career and every whimsical crafts she randomly decides to make in her daily life.

DISCLAIMER:

REBLOGGING IS ALWAYS APPRECIATED, BUT REPOSTING MY TEXT OR CLAIMING IT AS YOUR OWN IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN;

DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE, OR REPOST MY WORK ON ANY PLATFORM WITHOUT MY EXPLICIT PERMISSION.

YOU CAN SEND ASKS ABOUT MY WORKS ANYTIMEAND ALSO REQUEST IF YOU WANT ME TO WRITE ON A SPECIFIC TOPIC BUT MAKE SURE THAY DO NOT CONTAIN ANY VULGARITY, OBSCENITY, OR EXPLICIT CONTENT.

Thank you for reading.

But fun and games aside, Jeonghan is almost fiercely protective of Skye. Among all of Seventeen, Jeonghan has probably taken up the big brother role with the greatest sincerity.  Skye had injured her arm during the Follow tour when Jeonghan was on temporary hiatus after his ankle surgery and that man had threatened to take a plane to Japan despite his injury just to ensure his sister was alright (He could be stopped only after Skye agreed to take some time off the tour and other schedules to heal herself).

Hong Jisoo/Joshua:

Early days:

When Joshua first saw Skye, the 15-year-old looked unusually timid to her as she introduced herself to the group. He could guess from her looks and her slightly awkward Korean that she was definitely not a native to the country. He nudged Vernon as they shared a look and decided to approach her when they got a break from practice. They had been informed about this decision about 2 weeks ago. A majority of the members were still coming in terms with this change and Skye also seemed equally scared, if not more. The least Joshua thought they could do was make sure the practice room alone wouldn’t scare her away on the very first day. As he re-introduced himself to her, this time in English, and saw how relief washed on her young face, he smiled at Vernon.

Present day:

Skye and Joshua bicker back and forth just like she does with Jeonghan except Joshua is our girl’s best friend in the group, alongside Vernon. He made sure to make her comfortable since day 1 and she can talk to him about everything freely without any judgement. Yes, sometimes he does act brotherly and gets all concerned due to her lack of self-preservation but he tries his best to be the safe space for her. Although the families of all the members treat her like their own daughter, Skye is probably the closest to Joshua’s mum.  Joshua being an only child loves to see her mum bicker with the daughter she never had before Skye. Joshua is also often found teaching her how to play songs on the guitar. Skye hears a song and likes the tune one day…the next day Joshua is found trying to learn playing that tune on his guitar because Skye asked him to teach her.

Lee Jihoon/ Woozi:

Early days:

As the main producer and one of the 3 leaders of Seventeen, Woozi was rightfully concerned about the Company’s sudden decision to include a new member, and that too a girl in the boys’ group.  He already had the pressure of composing all the songs for the group but he had molded himself in that role with the help of their producer Bumzu as their company continued to highlight the fact that they were a self-producing group; but throwing a girl in the mix meant sending a jolt to what the group had built since 2015; it meant now he would have to compose songs keeping in mind how to highlight her voice without making it stand out alone like a mismatched puzzle piece. Would her vocals even match the usual tone of the group? Woozi, for one was all for experimenting with new genres to make sure his group’s music could keep pace with the trends and also met what their fans’ expectations; but a new member might throw everything into a jeopardy and he wouldn’t allow his slowly built family and all their efforts to go to waste over a random decision of their company.

Present day:

Woozi didn’t realize if there was any particular moment when his initial annoyance at having a girl in the group vanished and was gradually replaced by a warmth in his chest every time, he looked at her. Or probably he does. He had started training Skye for her vocal lessons and was surprised to discover how well her voice blended with the rest of the members. Despite his initial worries about how to include her in the group, he actually felt her voice was somehow the missing piece that completed Seventeen’s songs. Woozi had realized this fact the first time he tried to use her voice records in some of their older songs but he didn’t know that Skye herself was insecure about her voice

Woozi was the one who helped her discover how her voice was unique and how she could use it to benefit herself rather than fighting it.

Woozi knows how she actually wants to produce songs herself because she’s always there in his studio whenever she’s free but she is not confident in her creations nor in her Korean writing skills. So, he encouraged her to write verses in English. HE started giving her topics and asked her o try writing some verses on that topic without any pressure. This exercise hugely helped raising Skye’s confidence and ultimately led her to compose lines in several Seventeen songs like Rock wit you, Darling, Love Monay Fame. In fact, she co-composed Woozi’s mixtape- Ruby with alongside the man himself.

Lee Seokmin/ Dokyeom/ DK:

Early days:

At first Dokyeom didn’t believe when their CEO and Ms. Hyelim came into their practice room and informed them of this new development. “A 15-year-old girl? Really?”, was what he thought. When the said girl was brought in 2 weeks later, the nervousness on the naive girl’s face threw him back to his own first day. Dokyeom remembered how he had messed up in greeting his senior trainees on the day he joined and how he was almost terrorized when someone had pointed it out. So, he was determined to make sure that this girl was not pushed into a similar situation. He trusted his members won’t be that socially inept to someone new but still he would personally be there to ensure that even the indifferent comments would not reach her. But he would have to ask for help from either Joshua or Vernon cause if her introduction revealed anything, she wasn’t definitely the best at communicating in his native language.

Present day:

We all have seen how Dokyeom ends up crying in the recording studio whenever the process is not going as he wanted and he gets frustrated because he wants to do his best; but Skye is probably the only one who can compete with him in that field. The first time she cried was while recording DoReMi for their Semicolon album. She was exasperated because even after n number of tries her voice was simply not cooperating. It sounded out of tune every time she tried. When her voice finally broke and teras streamed down freely along her cheeks, Woozi and Seungkwan could only ask one person for help: Dokyeom. The said man was indeed able to calm her down and since then Woozi has unofficially made it sure that these two have their recording sessions scheduled one after another so they can be there for each other if things go the wrong way. DK and Skye are also the first ones to cry during concert encores and the members and CARATs have officially termed them ‘the sensitive duo’.

Boo Seungkwan:

Early days:

Seungkwan, the variety show boy, was there when the announcement of Skye’s addition was made but he we could not be there on the day she was introduced to the group. Seungkwan was honestly not against adding a girl to the group…he thought it would add to Seventeen’s natural flair as the boy group who was already drew attention for having so many members. He had expected someone witty enough foe the company to have chosen her for a group as boisterous as Seventeen. So, imagine the harsh reality check he got when he came to the practice room the next day and saw the shy girl keeping to herself throughout the practice. When Vernon introduced him to the girl, she gave him a tiny bow and mumbled a small introduction before running away with the excuse to fill up her water bottle. When his friend laughed silently st her reaction, he turned to him with an exasperated expression. Despite his repeated insistence, Seungkwan was strict senior in his early days, his value system having been shaped by his own seniors who had a similar boomer mentality. He was clearly not impressed with the timid response he received instead of the enthusiastic one that he expected.

Present day:

More about SKYE •♬•♫•...

Skye was born in Canada; both her parents are teachers in Canada.

Skye moved to Korea at the age of 13 with her aunt as her parents thought Korean education system was better suited for their daughter.

Skye has ADHD and hence faces trouble in focusing on anything for a long time.

Skye also has migranes which often gets triggered by harsh lighting or too loud beats on stage, often leading to a hard time for her.

Skye attracted the attention of a talent hunter from Pledis when she performed a song solo at the annual function of her school at the age of 14.

Skye mainly started singing as a hobby and then her aunt registered her into vocal lessons seeing to her growing interest in the hobby.

Skye vocal range, unlike other female kop trainees has a slightly basal tone, meaning she cannot sing as high as most female singers but can sing much lower notes. This makes sure her voice doesn’t stand out too much in a song with 13 males.

Skye wasn’t particularly good at dance. It was after rigorous training at Pledis for 2 years that her hands and feet started coordinating.

Rap is not her strongest suit but once she gets the hang of the beats, she kills it in the performances.

As for song-writing, Skye highly admires Woozi because she believes she is incapable of writing a single verse but she has participated in writing some of the English versions of different songs of Seventeen after a lot of encouragement from Woozi and Vernon.

Skye loves looking at the moon and the stars. Whenever she is upset or overwhelmed, she disappears and is often discovered by other members on the terrace.

She trained for 1 year originally to debut in a 5 member-girl-group but the line up got cancelled at the last moment and the company decided to place her in Seventeen under the belief “any attention is good attention”.

Skye was used to talking in her mother tongue and English with her parents. Her aunt made sure to sign her up in a Korean language class once she came to Korea and she did manage to learn the Hanguk alphabets fast but it took her time to get a hold on the language as a whole.

When she joined Pledis as a trainee, she was given Korean lessons there as well but in the midst of all other skill training her language skills didn’t improve much during that time;

Skye is fluent in her mother tongue, English, Spanish and Korean. As for Japanese, she started learning it alongside Jeonghan and both have similar skills in that language. However, she still gets confused if a Korean or Japanese conversation picks up too much pace or when too many uncommon Korean words are used.; she has also learnt to use basic Chinese and Mandarin, thanks to Junhui and Minghao.

Like Wonwoo, Skye is highly dependent on her glasses. She did wear lenses the first 2-3 years after her debut. But lens often irritates her eyes so she stopped using them post-pandemic; She can’t see shit clearly without her specs and has grown to consider them an integral part of her body.

Skye's mother taught her how to play an acoustic guiter at a very young age. She has not been in touch with this skill in a very long time and hence they are quite rusty now. However, she is able to learn playing any song on guiter fast if she tries.

Skye has extremely (like literally negligible/ zero) spice tolerance and prefers vegetarian diet compared to meat. The most non-veg she eats is chicken and eggs.

Like the other quieter members of Seventeen, Skye values her personal time when she can recharge her energy but also misses the boys if she is away from them for too long.

Skye has 2 furry babies - one Toy Poodle (Caramel)- since 2021 and one Bichon Frisé (Sugar)-since 2023. BOth are rescued pppies and they usually stay in her manager's house whenever she is away for touring.

Hobbies: Reading fictional books and sometime she can be seen picking up self help books, going for long walks by herself while blasting music in her headphones, swimming, going for long drives (though she doesn't have a license herself).

Dislikes: People who behave as if they know-it-all, disrespecting anyone based on their looks/ body-shaming, anyone throwing shade to her members.

P.S.

Skye loves tangerines and you can always find a bag of tangerines peeking out of her bag if she isn' already eating one!

Skye hates working out and her members literally have to drag her to he gym because if sh edoesn't work out, she will not be able to keep up on stage.

"Cheol, I swear to god get the fuck out of my shirt"

"Your shirt? This is my shirt"

The audacity of this man to argue back, you thought. Who knew a big buff man like Choi Seungcheol would be like a clingy koala, the answer would be you and only you. You're the only one who gets him like this.

Your fiancé knew exactly which buttons to push and when to push them. Like right now, you told him you were catching up on some work you missed while the two of you went on a quick weekend trip but ofcourse he would find a way to be involved somehow.

So here he is, half of his body inside your(his) shirt while you sit on his lap.

You're close to getting your work done but Cheol's being difficult, littering kisses and a few playful bites here and there on your chest.

"Cheolie, please give me five minutes to finish this then I'm all yours. If you don't stop, I'm sleeping in the guest bedroom"

You feel him move out of your shirt, now he's fully facing you. One brow raised and a sulky pout already placed on his lips "You're mean"

"5 minutes or no cuddles tonight"

He scowls before helping you off his lap so he can get off the seat. "I'm setting a timer, done or not I'm coming in here" And you believe him. He's petty like you, maybe because you're both Leos.

He kisses you on the cheek before walking away, closing the door behind him.

You finish the last three emails you had to send before doing a final run through. You look at the clock to see you're cutting it close. Testing to see if Cheol will really come in the room, you wait instead of going out to the living room.

When the clock turns, you hear the door swing open. Everything happening all too fast, Seungcheol already throwing you over his shoulder before you can protest. He walks to the other room where he throws you (gently) on the bed, hands on his hips as he watch you laugh

"You're so petty" you laugh

"And you're so pretty, you know just how to drive me mad huh" he tells you, climbing over the bed until he's on top of you. He slots himself between your legs, tangling them around his hips as he rests his body on you but not fully putting all of body weight on you

"You better not have left hickies on my neck again" you poke him on the cheek

"And if I did? It's not like somebody will come and check" he retorts, then leans down to start kissing your neck again as if to prove a point.

"Cheol, seriously. I can never wear low cut now" your words differ from your actions, tilting your head to the side to give him more room. He smirks against your skin, kissing the same spot over and over again.

He pauses to look at you, eyes looking back at him with so much love and lust it goes straight through him. "You know you have a few moles like from your neck down here" he trails his finger from your neck down the valley of your chest, leaving goosebumps on it's trail.

"Do I?"

"Mhm, and you know what they say about moles? They say that's where you were kissed the most in your past life"

You smile, already seeing where this conversation is going. "Jealous?" you tease him

"Pshhh me? Yes. Actually sometimes it pisses me off thinking someone loved you this much, someone who isn't me"

"But what if it was you?"

"Then good. It should be me. I can't even fathom any other guy loving you more than I do" he tells you, ever so sure and confident of his commitment to you.

"You're cute when you're jealous"

"I'm gonna kiss you here too, over and over again so when we're reborn you get all these moles again I'll be sure it would be because of me"

You stare up at your man, imagining a universe where you're not with him is simply impossible. Pulling him down to crash his lips against yours, he reciprocates the kiss with just as much passion. Like you're the air he's breathing.

When you pull away he speaks again, "I really hope it's me in every universe"

You smile at his words, giving him a more gentle kiss this time. The two of you share a smile and few more kisses before you tell him,