ChanniesChaosCorner

────୨ৎ────

Chan’s room is spotless.

It always is.

The bed is made properly, corners tucked in tight, desk clear except for his laptop and a neatly stacked notebook. Shoes lined up. A t-shirt folded over the chair like he actually plans to wear it again instead of grabbing a new one.

You stand there for a second, taking it in, lips twitching.

“You know,” you say lightly, nudging one of his perfectly aligned shoes with your toe, “I’m convinced you’d have a breakdown if you stepped foot in my room right now.”

He snorts, already halfway across the room to put it back. “Breakdown? No. I’d just start cleaning. For my own sanity.”

You laugh, soft and fond. “You’d last maybe five minutes before judging me.”

“Five is generous,” he shoots back, easy and familiar. “There’s probably clothes on your floor that predate our debut.”

“Those are vintage,” you say defensively. “Very important. Very intentional.”

He just shakes his head, amused, that fond little smile tugging at his mouth as he reaches for his hoodie and peels it off. It lands beside you, folded by habit even as it slips from his hands.

You pick it up without thinking.

It smells like him. Clean laundry, warmth, something familiar enough to make your chest ache.

He notices, of course. He always does.

Instead of saying anything else, he reaches out and tugs you gently back against him, guiding you down onto the bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And it is.

The mattress dips as he lies beside you. You turn automatically, curling into him, fitting against his chest like you’ve done this a hundred times before. His arm comes around your waist without hesitation, hand resting warm and steady against your back.

No words.

Just him.

His chin settles on the top of your head. Your fingers curl into his shirt. Somewhere between habit and need.

You feel him relax — that subtle shift only you ever notice, like the weight of the day finally slipping off his shoulders now that you’re here. Like this is where he’s meant to be.

His hand moves in slow, absent strokes along your spine. Not searching. Not asking. Just grounding. Familiar.

You tuck your face into the space beneath his jaw, nose brushing his collarbone. He smells like home in a way nothing else ever has.

It’s quiet.

Safe.

Your legs tangle with his easily. He shifts just enough to make room, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you at all. The kind of closeness that would normally feel dangerous but right now?

Effortless.

You can feel his heartbeat — steady, reassuring — under your ear. Your breathing slowly matches his. The world narrows down to warmth and weight and the quiet knowledge that you’re being held.

There’s a moment, it’s brief, fragile but you almost look up.

Almost speak.

But you don’t.

Neither of you does.

Because breaking this silence? Too much, too loaded. It would disturb the small moment of quiet you’re allowed. No as long as it stays like this, it’s safe.

His hand slips up, thumb brushing lazily over your shoulder, tucking you closer. Protective without trying to be. Possessive without meaning to be.

You feel yourself drifting off like that — wrapped around him, held together by muscle memory and years of unspoken understanding.

────୨ৎ────

You wake up like you’ve been dropped.

Your eyes snap open, breath tearing painfully into your lungs like you’ve surfaced too fast. The warmth is gone — ripped away so suddenly it makes your chest ache.

Your room is dark.

Too dark.

The air feels wrong against your skin, cold where his body should be. Your arm tightens instinctively, reaching for weight that isn’t there.

Nothing.

Your fingers close around empty sheets.

The bed is too big. The silence is too loud.

Your heart hammers, disoriented, still half-convinced you’ll hear him breathe if you just stay still long enough. That his arm will tighten around you again, maybe pull you back down. That this is what isn’t real.

But it is.

Your room stares back at you, unfamiliar in the worst way. Clothes are scattered across the floor, a chair buried under jackets, makeup left open on your desk. Your mess — loud and unmistakably yours.

Not his clean, careful space.

Not his arms.

Your phone lights up beside you, harsh and blinding in the dark.

4:03AM.

The number feels like a punishment.

Your throat tightens, emotion crashing in all at once — grief, longing, humiliation at how badly you’d believed it. At how safe you’d felt.

Your body still remembers him.

Your room doesn’t.

Cold settles deep into your bones as you curl inward, arms wrapping around yourself like you can replace what’s missing.

You can’t.

The dream leaves behind a hollow ache, like something has been taken from you and you don’t know how to get it back.

And no matter how hard you try to lie still, sleep doesn’t come again.

────୨ৎ────

You know the kitchen lights are too bright but you flick them on anyway, wincing as the overhead glow cuts through the dark. Everything feels louder in here. The hum of the fridge, the click of the kettle, the thud of your footsteps against the floor.

You move on autopilot.

Water. Mug. Kettle on.

Your hands shake just enough to notice.

You lean against the counter, staring at nothing while the kettle heats, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re still trying to hold onto something that slipped away.

Footsteps shuffle down the hall.

“Why are the lights on?”

Seungmin appears first, hair sticking up in every direction, hoodie hanging off one shoulder. He squints at you like his brain hasn’t fully booted up yet.

Then he really looks at you.

“…You okay?”

You nod immediately. Too quickly. “Yeah.”

The kettle clicks off. The sound is sharp in the quiet.

Seungmin doesn’t say anything else, just grabs a glass of water and lingers by the counter instead of going back to bed. He’s always been good at noticing when something doesn’t add up.

Another door creaks open.

Changbin stumbles out next, yawning so hard his whole face scrunches up. “Why does it smell like sadness and instant coffee in here?”

“Go back to bed,” Seungmin mutters.

Changbin squints at you. “Is it one of those mornings already?”

You manage a weak huff of a laugh as you pour the water, hands steady now only because you’re concentrating too hard. “Go back to sleep, Bin.”

He does but not before giving you a long look, the kind that says we’ll talk later.

Bare feet pad across the floor again.

Felix appears in the doorway, blanket draped over his shoulders like a cape. He takes one look at your face and immediately walks over, stopping just close enough to be present without crowding you.

He doesn’t ask.

He just rests his shoulder lightly against yours.

It’s the gentlest thing in the world and it makes your chest ache.

You stare into your mug like it might swallow you whole.

Felix’s voice is quiet. “Bad dream?”

You swallow. Nod.

Not a lie. Not the truth either.

Seungmin glances between the two of you, then looks away on purpose. “You want toast?”

You shake your head. “I’m fine.”

No one believes you.

But no one pushes.

The kitchen fills with small, normal sounds — Seungmin opening a cupboard, Felix shifting his weight, Changbin’s door slamming as he goes back to his room. Life continuing like nothing cracked open inside you an hour ago.

Felix finally nudges you with his elbow. “You don’t have to be up yet, you know.”

You take a sip of your drink. It tastes like nothing. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He hums softly, understanding in his bones. “Yeah. That tracks.”

You stand there together for a few quiet minutes, the world holding its breath around you.

Somewhere down the hall, a door opens again — heavier footsteps this time.

Minho pauses at the end of the kitchen, eyes sharp even through exhaustion. He takes in the scene in half a second: you up at an ungodly hour, Felix glued to your side, Seungmin pretending not to hover.

His jaw tightens.

“…What happened?”

You meet his eyes.

For a split second, you consider telling the truth.

Instead, you lift your mug and shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Minho doesn’t look convinced.

But he nods once. “Try not to burn yourself out before the day even starts.”

Then, softer — only for you. “We need you.”

The words settle heavy on your shoulders.

You nod again.

Felix stays until your mug is empty. Seungmin leaves the toast out anyway, just in case. Minho disappears back down the hall, already carrying the weight of what today will bring.

And when the kitchen finally empties, you’re left alone again staring at the clock on the microwave as it ticks forward.

The day is coming whether you’re ready or not.

And you already feel like you’re running on borrowed pieces of yourself.

────୨ৎ────

Chan wakes up like he’s been shoved.

No sound. No nightmare he can remember. Just a sharp inhale and the sudden awareness that something is wrong.

The room is dark, curtains barely letting in the dull glow of streetlights. His clock reads 5:19 AM.

He stares at it for a moment, chest rising too fast, hand pressed flat against his sternum like he’s checking to see if his heart is still behaving.

It is.

Barely.

He exhales slowly and rubs a hand down his face, already tired in that bone-deep way that sleep doesn’t touch anymore.

Something had been warm.

That’s the first thing that hits him.

The ghost of weight beside him. Heat at his side. The faintest sense of being held — not dramatic, not urgent, just there. Safe.

And then nothing.

His bed is empty.

He turns onto his side without thinking, hand reaching out like muscle memory — and it lands on cold sheets.

Chan swallows.

“Yeah,” he mutters to the ceiling. “Okay.”

He sits up, scrubbing at his eyes. The room is exactly how he left it — spotless, shoes lined up perfectly by the door, hoodie folded over the back of the chair. Nothing out of place.

And yet he feels like he’s missing something.

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and just sits there for a moment, elbows on his knees, head bowed.

His chest feels tight. Not panic. Not pain.

Longing.

Which is worse.

He presses his thumb into the heel of his palm, grounding himself, then stands and pads quietly out into the hall. The dorm is still, the kind of silence that only exists when everyone is asleep — or pretending to be.

He pauses outside your door.

Doesn’t knock.

Doesn’t reach for the handle.

Just stands there, forehead resting briefly against the frame, eyes closed.

For half a second, he considers waking you. Saying something stupid. Something safe. Something like you good?

He doesn’t.

He knows better.

He backs away like he’s retreating from a line he can’t afford to cross.

Instead, he heads to the kitchen.

The light is on.

It’s bright and harsh and it makes his chest tighten.

His eyes track automatically.

A mug in the sink.

Your mug.

There’s still a ring of coffee at the bottom, cold now.

A plate on the counter.

Two slices of toast.

Barely touched.

One bite taken out of the corner like you’d tried — really tried — and then given up.

The smell of it still lingers faintly in the air, warm and lonely.

Chan doesn’t move for a long second.

Then he steps closer, fingers brushing the edge of the plate like it might tell him something if he touches it long enough.

You’d been here.

Wide awake.

Unsettled enough to eat — or try to.

He exhales slowly, eyes closing for half a beat.

I should’ve checked.

The thought lands heavy and immediate.

He pictures you standing here alone, coffee going cold in your hands, the quiet pressing in on you the same way it has been on him — and his stomach twists.

He’d been right outside your door.

He could’ve knocked.

Could’ve said something stupid. Something safe.

Instead, he’d walked away.

Now all that’s left is evidence.

He rinses the mug without really thinking, sets it carefully on the drying rack like that might make up for something. He slides the plate closer to the sink, hesitates, then wraps the toast in a napkin instead of throwing it out.

A stupid, instinctive hope that you might come back and finish it later.

He leans his hip against the counter, hands braced on the edge, head tipping forward.

“Idiot,” he mutters quietly — not sure if he means himself or the situation.

Because he knows now.

He hadn’t imagined it.

You hadn’t been sleeping either.

You’d both been awake at the same hour, restless in parallel rooms, orbiting the same hurt — and missing each other by one hallway, one knock, one second of courage.

The dorm remains silent.

Too silent.

Chan straightens, shoulders squaring like he’s bracing himself for the day ahead.

He turns off the kitchen light before he leaves — but not before glancing back once more at the counter, at the empty space where you’d stood.

A missed opportunity.

One of many.

And somehow, the worst part isn’t the ache in his chest.

It’s the certainty that if he doesn’t stop letting moments like this slip through his fingers…

Eventually, there won’t be any left to miss.

Back in his room, he sits at his desk and opens his laptop — not to work, just to do something.

The screen lights up.

His phone buzzes on the desk beside it.

An email from management. Another schedule tweak. Another reminder that today is going to be long.

He exhales through his nose and sets the phone face down.

He lets his eyes drift to the case.

The Polaroid.

He hasn’t moved it. Hasn’t looked at it properly in days. But he doesn’t need to — he knows exactly what it shows. The way you’d been mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, guard completely down.

He reaches for it before he can stop himself, taking it free from the back of his phone.

Holds it between his fingers, thumb brushing the edge like it might disappear if he doesn’t anchor it.

“Get it together,” he murmurs to himself.

────୨ৎ────

The meeting room was too bright for how tired you felt.

Rows of documents, laptops, and screen projections cluttered the table. The boys were scattered in their seats, hair still damp from rushed showers, coffees half-drunk, dressed in hoodies and track pants — that perfect blend of idol and exhaustion. You sat upright with your notes in front of you, a pen held tightly in your hand, and your expression carefully neutral.

Chan sat across from you, his arms folded, eyes sharp. He hadn’t said much.

You hadn’t looked at him.

The meeting was already running long when the slide shifted — a bold header across the top: Y/N Solo & Duet: Visual Content Timelines.

“We’ve seen an excellent response to the teaser footage,” a marketing team member said, eyes scanning the room. “Especially from the solo content. The comments are strong, engagement is up. Fans are speculating about the concept already.”

Hyunjin let out a low whistle. “Y/N trending again. What’s new.”

You forced a smile you didn’t feel.

The staff member kept going, glancing your way. “So we’re proposing to push up the filming for your full solo dance practice video. Also, we want to bring forward the shoot dates for your solo music video and the duet music video with Chan.”

The room stilled.

You barely blinked. “How much earlier?”

“Three days for the dance practice shoot, about a week for the MV. We’ve spoken with the studio about set availability. If we finalise costumes and lighting this week, it’s possible.”

Minho turned to you. “Is that doable?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

Even though you hadn’t run it full out since the last choreography update. Even though the backup dancers weren’t ready. Even though your schedule was already stacked and every late-night practice was eating away at your sleep.

Chan’s eyes hadn’t left you.

You could feel it. Like static.

“And the duet video?” someone asked, you weren’t sure who.

The room was starting to spin.

“We want to lock it before the album drops. If the choreography is strong enough to shoot soon, it’ll help support the rollout.”

You nodded once, even as something inside you twisted painfully.

“I’ll finalise it,” you said. “I’ll run the backup rehearsals this week.”

The meeting moved on.

The boys’ timelines came next. Solo shoots, live rehearsals, content blocks. Every one of them confirmed and locked — because you’d made sure of it. Because you’d been putting their needs above your own for weeks.

And now that everything was sliding forward, you didn’t dare ask for more time.

Because they all counted on you.

You felt Chan shift. Heard the scrape of his chair as he leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. But he didn’t say anything. Not yet. He didn’t have to.

You knew he saw it.

The exhaustion under your eyes.

The way your fingers tapped too tightly against your notepad when no one was looking.

The way you agreed to everything too quickly but still smiled and nodded and filled in the notes on your copy of the schedule like it didn’t hurt.

Because you were professional.

Because you could handle it.

Because you wouldn’t be the one to slow them down — not now.

────୨ৎ────

The bass shook through the floorboards as the speakers blared your track on loop.

You stood at the front of the mirrored wall, hair tied back, sleeves rolled to your elbows, sweat already sticking to the nape of your neck. The backup dancers flanked you on both sides, trying to keep up with the intricate choreography you’d finished finalising just hours ago.

You hadn’t stopped moving since the meeting. Hadn’t stopped thinking since the schedule was confirmed.

Now it was all catching up.

"From the bridge again," you said, voice sharp — not cruel, just clipped. Tired. “And watch your transitions. The pause after count four needs to land like an impact, not like your waiting for your next move.”

They nodded. Moved into position.

You replayed the music. Again.

And again.

And again.

Your body moved like it was on autopilot — precise, sharp, intentional — but your chest ached with each breath. Not from exertion. From everything else.

The meaning behind the song.

The fact that Chan would have to watch this soon.

That the choreography wasn’t abstract anymore — not when every step felt like it came from the ache you'd refused to speak aloud.

The practice room had once been a safe haven now it felt more like a battleground.

You glanced to the side.

The boys had filtered in at some point, seated along the back wall, sipping water and scrolling half-heartedly through their phones. But they weren’t really distracted.

Minho watched you with sharp eyes. Jisung’s knee bounced with quiet nervous energy.Jeongin had stopped filming behind-the-scenes content twenty minutes ago, holding the camera in his lap.

You pushed through, from the top again.

You weren’t happy with the turn out.

You weren’t happy with yourself.

You could feel it slipping — the perfection you always demanded. Every small mistake hit like a bruise. A count too early. A breath too shallow. A line too soft so you called for another take.

────୨ৎ────

You were still catching your breath, one hand braced against the mirror, when Minho approached. The backup dancers had filtered out. The boys lingered near the speakers, trying to look distracted — but their eyes never strayed too far from you.

Your shirt clung to your spine. Your hair was sticking to your temple. You didn’t want to sit. You didn’t want to stop moving.

Because stopping would mean feeling everything else.

Minho didn’t speak right away. He just offered you a towel and a bottle of water, expression unreadable but familiar. Grounding. You took the water, unscrewed the cap, held it for a second before even taking a sip.

“You need to stop doing that,” he said, voice low. “Running yourself like you’re not a human being.”

You didn’t meet his eyes. “I have to finish it. They moved the schedule.”

“You already finished it. Three rehearsals ago.”

You scoffed. “Didn’t feel like it.”

Minho exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’re allowed to breathe, Y/N.”

“I am breathing.”

“Not survival breathing. Not autopilot. Real breathing. The kind that doesn’t cost you everything.”

Your fingers tightened on the water bottle, but you didn’t argue this time.

Minho stepped closer. “You can’t keep carrying everyone. It’s not sustainable.”

“I’m not carrying everyone.”

“You are,” he said simply. “We all know it. Even if you don’t admit it.”

You didn’t respond.

But the crack in your silence said enough.

“Chan knows,” he added. “He watches you like he’s waiting for you to fall apart.”

That hit too close to home.

Before either of you could say anything else, the door flung open with too much energy for the room it entered.

“Y/N!” chirped one of the content managers, too bright, too loud. “Sorry to interrupt! Wait, no I’m not — I’ve got great news!”

She strutted into the room, tablet in hand, hair perfectly blown out, a grin far too enthusiastic for the exhausted silence around her.

You blinked, slowly straightening.

“Your rehearsal clips from today? We uploaded one and guess what? Performing like crazy. Comments are flooding in. Sooo... we’ve decided to fast-track the official dance practice recording — we’re gonna shoot it tomorrow!”

The room stayed silent.

Minho’s jaw tensed. Changbin and Hyunjin exchanged a look. Jeongin winced behind his water bottle.

Chan didn’t move. He didn’t speak. But you could feel him shift — like a storm cloud rolling in with no place to go.

Too stunned to even blink. “Tomorrow?” You choked..

“Yes!” she said, chipper as ever. “You’re already rehearsed, the footage will edit quickly, and we want to ride the buzz from the teaser. Quick turnaround. Great exposure!”

You nodded once. “Fine.”

“Perfect! Expect an email about the call time tonight.”

She waved and left — just like that. Like she hadn’t just bulldozed through your last inch of control.

As soon as the door clicked shut, the silence thickened. Chan still hadn’t looked at you, he stared at the door instead like he might go through it.

“They’re using your perfection against you,” he muttered, loud enough for the boys to hear.

You let out a breath. Sharp. Frustrated. Numb.

Jisung kicked the wall lightly. “I swear she has a random word generator of buzzwords.”

Felix muttered, “Tomorrow?”

“I’m gonna lose my mind,” Jeongin whispered.

You finally took a sip of the water. Cold. Useless.

Minho leaned closer, dropping his voice, dry as ever. “Expect an email.”

You side-eyed him.

“She can expect my foot in her ass if she changes my schedule one more time.”

He snorted. “Gonna cc me on that reply?”

You cracked half a smile. “I’ll bcc you. I’m not dragging you down with me.”

Minho grinned. “Appreciate your loyalty.”

Before the moment could settle, Chan stepped forward. He hadn’t said a word the whole time. But now, his voice was low, careful. He didn’t look at the others — just you.

“Do you want me to go above her?” he asked. “I can push back on the schedule. We’ll say it’s too soon. That you need more time.”

You paused.

You could feel the weight in the offer — not just the gesture, but how hard it must’ve been for him to say it. To try and shield you when he knew how fiercely you fought to stand on your own.

But you shook your head. “No,” you said quietly. “It’s fine. Might as well just get it over with.”

His jaw twitched. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

“I’m not.”

You didn’t say what you were doing instead.

And he didn’t push it.

He just nodded, lips pressed together, eyes still on you like he didn’t believe a word of it.

But he respected your choice.

Even if it hurt to watch you make it.

────୨ৎ────

The dorms were quiet.

Not peacefully so — just quiet in the way that tension muted everything. A pause between storms.

You hadn’t slept.

Not really.

Your alarm went off at 5:00AM, but you’d been awake long before it — staring at the ceiling, heartbeat skipping unevenly, your chest tight with something you couldn’t name.

It wasn’t exhaustion.

It was anticipation.

Fear.

Hope.

All twisted into one.

You stood in the bathroom, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, eyes fixed on your reflection. There were faint lines under your eyes. Your skin looked pale under the yellow light. You hadn’t eaten much the day before. Hadn’t done much except run choreography until your legs shook and pretend you were fine.

You blinked hard in the mirror.

Pulled yourself back.

The reality of the day was heavy in your gut. You were about to dance to a song you wrote about him. You were about to bare yourself on camera, in choreography that cut too deep. In front of the staff. The dancers. The boys. And Chan.

You moved through the dorm like a ghost.

Everyone was already up.

The kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the occasional clink of spoons in cereal bowls. Minho watched you closely from across the room as you poured coffee. Jisung tried to fill the silence with small talk. It didn’t work.

Even Jeongin — usually the last one to wake and the loudest to complain about it — was subdued.

Felix greeted you softly, Seungmin silently offered a piece of toast like the day before. You shook your head.

“I’ll eat later,” you mumbled.

Chan hadn’t said a word yet.

He was leaned against the counter near the sink, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over his hands, hair still damp from the shower. His eyes flickered to you, once. Held a moment too long.

Then dropped again.

No one said what they were thinking.

But the air was thick with it.

Something was coming.

And you were all bracing for the impact.

────୨ৎ────

The practice room was already too bright.

It always was on filming days.

The overhead lights buzzed like they were trying to fill the silence — a silence heavy with tension, with nerves, with too much left unsaid.

You walked in with the boys trailing behind you, Chan just a step behind — always close, always silent now.

You barely got two feet inside before a stylist gently tapped your shoulder and gestured toward the partition screen in the corner.

“Can’t film in that hoodie,” she said, tone casual but firm. “We’ve got wardrobe prepped for you.”

You hesitated for a half-second.

It was his hoodie.

You’d worn it so many days now that it didn’t feel like just his anymore. It felt like protection. Familiar. Safe.

But you nodded as always.

You peeled it off slowly and handed it to him without looking and he took it without a word, fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment.

It made your skin prickle. Like a warning. Or a goodbye.

You stepped behind the divider, changed into the simple black crop top and sweatpants they’d prepared. They felt wrong. Not yours, some brand deal you should probably care about more than you did right now. Goosebumps ran up the bare skin and you immediately longed for the safety of the sleeves again.

You stepped out and sat on the small stool at the side of the room as the team started tugging your hair back. It was messy, far from perfect but easy to redo if need be. It was all quick, sharp movements. No time for questions. No care for gentleness.

One of them dabbed lightly under your eyes, then paused. “You didn’t sleep, did you?”

You didn’t answer.

“They can fix it more in post if they have to.” she added, brushing on concealer.

“Don’t stress,” another one said as she adjusted the hair tie. “You’ll still be perfect. You always are.”

The words made your stomach turn.

You could feel it — the way perfection had stopped being a compliment a long time ago. The way it had started to feel like a prison.

From across the room, you could see Chan’s expression harden.

He was sitting near the wall, shoulders tense, arms crossed too tightly. His leg bounced. His eyes never left you. Not once.

The others didn’t know where to look.

Jisung hovered near the snack table, uncharacteristically quiet.

Jeongin had his earbuds in but no music playing.

Minho paced once, then stopped, arms folded, jaw set.

Changbin stood nearest to you, watching the stylists with a wary expression like he wanted to step in — but knew he couldn’t.

“Can you hold still?” one of them asked as they smoothed down your ponytail.

You blinked. Nodded once.

Chan’s jaw flexed.

When they stepped back and declared you camera-ready, you stood slowly, adjusting your top and tugging it down like it could protect you. Your hands shook, just slightly.

“Ready in five.” someone from the production team called out.

The stylists dispersed.

The others gave you space, not because you asked for it.

Just because it was obvious — in the way you were barely blinking, standing a little too still in the center of the room, arms folded like they were holding you together. Everyone scattered to opposite corners. Even the staff gave you a wide berth, double-checking lights and angles instead of giving directions.

Chan was the only one who stepped closer.

You didn’t turn when you felt him behind you. But he didn’t expect you to. His presence was steady. Familiar. Quiet enough that it didn’t startle.

“Y/N,” he said softly.

You blinked. The sound of your name in his voice almost hurt.

“I can still stop this,” he added, just above a whisper. “Tell them you’re not ready. Tell them we’ll shoot it next week. I’ll handle it.”

You exhaled slowly.

“No.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

He wasn’t accusing you — just observing. Quiet. Careful.

You didn’t answer.

You looked ahead, into the mirror, at your reflection. The makeup. The clothes. The lighting. You didn’t look like yourself. You looked like the version of yourself they expected. The one that couldn’t falter. The one who was always just… enough.

You swallowed hard.

“I just want it over with.” you said finally.

Chan shifted a step closer. You could feel the warmth of him at your back now — not touching, just there.

“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone,” he said. “Especially not like this.”

“I’m not proving anything,” you whispered.

“What are you doing then?”

You finally looked at him.

And for a second, the mask you’d been holding cracked. Just a little.

His eyes flickered across your face like he was trying to memorize it. You could tell he wanted to reach for you. His hands twitched at his sides but he didn’t.

Because the camera crew was watching. Because the boys were still in the room. Because if he touched you now, neither of you might survive it.

So instead, he stepped back.

And as the production manager called “Positions!” across the room, you turned back to the mirror, forced a smile. Took one last breath.

And stepped in front of the lens.

────୨ৎ────

“Rolling,” the director called out. “Take one.”

The music started.

Your body moved before your mind did — instinct, repetition, discipline.

You didn’t let yourself feel it.

Not yet.

Not when you were surrounded by cameras. By expectations. By the pressure that wrapped around your lungs tighter than your crop top ever could.

The choreography was sharp. Exact. Every beat drilled into you from long nights and silent rehearsals.

And yet—

“Stop,” you called after the second chorus, breath already shallow. “Reset.”

The staff exchanged glances.

“We’re still rolling,” someone called. “What happened?”

“I was ahead of the beat on the last drop.” Your voice was flat, clipped.

To them, it had been barely a fraction of a second.

You walked back to your mark. Lifted your hand again.

Chan’s jaw tensed where he sat by the wall with the others. Minho’s arms were folded, one finger tapping against his bicep. Jisung looked at the floor.

“Take two,” the director said, more hesitantly this time.

You moved again.

Faster. Cleaner.

Until — the final spin, your heel caught just slightly.

To anyone else, it was smooth. To you, it was wrong.

“Stop. Again.”

“Y/N,” someone on the crew said gently, “it’s barely noticeable—”

“It is noticeable.”

You didn’t even glance back.

You just reset.

Felix shifted on the floor, glancing at Chan. Jeongin whispered something to Seungmin, who only shook his head once

On the third take, you made it through the full song. You even held the ending pose for two full seconds before lowering your arms. Then you walked to the monitor, watched the playback silently, and shook your head.

“Again.”

No explanation this time.

Chan stood slowly. Almost instinctively.

The fourth take.

“This transition was weak,” you muttered as you reset. “My arm didn’t extend far enough.”

The fifth.

“I blinked too much. My head angle was off.”

The sixth.

“My knee didn’t lock on the drop. It looked unstable.”

The seventh.

“I lost energy on the jump.”

The backup dancers started exchanging glances. No one argued, but their fatigue was obvious in their posture, in their breathing. They were professionals — they kept going. But they didn’t know why anymore. Because it wasn’t them.

It was you.

Take eight.

“My foot was too close to center. It throws my position off.”

Chan couldn’t stay still anymore. He hovered at the back of the room, arms crossed too tightly over his chest, watching like it hurt to breathe. His hoodie still sat on the bench — untouched — the last thing you’d held before they made you change.

Hyunjin had stopped watching. His head was down, brows drawn together in quiet frustration.

The staff whispered now between takes, voices low, confused. No one could see what you saw. No one could feel what you felt.

Except maybe Chan.

Maybe Minho.

Because they both knew what this was. It wasn’t about the footwork. It wasn’t about the jump.

It was about holding yourself together with impossible standards — so no one could say you were falling apart.

And it was starting to break you anyway.

Still you danced.

“Take nine,” the assistant called.

Your arms shook as you took your mark.

But you nodded.

And the music played again.

Because perfection was expected.

Because you were the one who expected it most.

Even if it left you wrecked.

────୨ৎ────

He couldn’t breathe.

Not properly.

Not while watching you tear yourself apart in front of a full room of people who couldn’t even see it happening.

Take after take.

Mistake after invisible mistake.

He stopped counting at eleven.

Stopped watching the choreography and started watching you — how your hands began to tremble more with each cut, how your feet stumbled on transitions you’d done flawlessly a thousand times.

How your chest was rising too fast even when you weren’t dancing. Like you couldn’t fill your lungs enough to keep going — and yet you kept going anyway.

“Again.” you called, sweat soaking through your shirt, skin flushed, eyes blank.

“No.” Chan whispered, too low for anyone else to hear.

He didn’t know who he was saying it to. You? The staff? Himself?

You went again.

Twelfth take.

“Her ankles going to go,” Minho muttered from beside him. “She’s not even breathing properly.”

“Why isn’t anyone stopping her?” Seungmin asked, voice tight.

“Because no one’s stupid enough to argue with her when she’s like this,” Changbin muttered.

“But she’s—” Jeongin started, then stopped. His hands were balled into fists in his lap.

Chan’s hands were clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms.

He watched as you finished the run, barely able to hold your own weight. You stumbled once on the final beat. Not enough for anyone to comment — but enough that he knew you would.

And sure enough, you turned to the team and said, “One more.”

That was it.

Something inside him cracked.

“No.”

It was loud enough this time to stop everything.

The music. The staff. The boys. You.

Your head turned so fast he saw the flicker of disbelief in your eyes. The anger. The betrayal.

“Chan—”

“She’s done,” he said, striding across the floor.

The director lifted a hand nervously. “We can just give her a break—”

“No,” Chan snapped. “Not a break. Enough.”

Even the backup dancers froze.

But he didn’t stop.

He stopped in front of you.

You were panting, flushed, angry.

You looked like you wanted to throw something at him. But all he wanted to do was hold you up before you collapsed.

“I’m fine.” you bit out.

“You’re not.”

“I just need one more—”

“No, you don’t.”

“I can do this—”

“I know you can,” he said, stepping even closer, voice low and sharp. “That’s the problem. You always do. You don’t stop, no matter what it costs you. And I’m done watching you bleed yourself dry just to prove something no one’s asking you to.”

Your mouth opened, but the words never came.

He took advantage of the moment — grabbed you by the waist, lifted you over his shoulder.

“What the fuck—” you gasped, flailing as he started toward the door. “Put me down! I swear to God—Chan!”

“Holy shit,” Jisung breathed.

“Did he just—” Felix gaped. “Oh my god.”

“She’s gonna kill him.” Hyunjin said, but he didn’t sound amused — just worried.

One of the stylists gasped. Someone dropped a clipboard.

“Hyung—” Changbin said behind him, uncertain.

“I’ll deal with it,” Chan called without slowing.

Minho didn’t move. “He’s doing what we all should’ve done an hour ago.”

You pounded on Chan’s back with a weak fist. “I’m fine! I’m not a child!”

“Then stop acting like one.”

“I hate you right now.”

“Good,” he grunted. “Maybe that’ll keep you from doing this again.”

He marched you down the hall, ignoring the stares, the quiet whispers from staff you passed. You squirmed and kicked and cursed until he reached the studio door.

Only then did he let you down — not roughly, but not gently either.

You landed on the studio couch with a thud, hair wild, eyes furious, chest still heaving.

Before you could speak, he crouched in front of you and said, voice low but trembling, “Enough is enough.”

You blinked.

And blinked again.

Because you heard it now.

Not anger.

Not frustration.

Desperation.

“I’ve watched you do this for weeks,” he said. “And I let it happen because I thought maybe… maybe it was how you coped. How you got through. But this—”

His hand hovered in the air between you, like he wanted to reach out but couldn’t.

“This is you setting yourself on fire to keep everyone else warm. And I can’t let you keep doing it.”

You stared at him — and suddenly, your face broke.

Not into tears. Not yet.

But into something close.

Something cracked and tired and scared.

“I’m not asking you to stop being strong,” he said. “I’m asking you to give yourself permission to rest.”

And this time, you didn’t argue.

You just sat back into the cushions, shaking.

He stayed there with you in the silence. Grounded, steady, and most importantly, not leaving.

────୨ৎ────

Taglist: @rtyuy1346 @yxna-bliss @m-325 @imeverycliche @hynjnnie @mbioooo0000 @maddy24207 @brokendols-world @alisonyus @psychobitchsthings @thedanishprince @decaffeinatomi @geni-627 @linosgrape @river121798 @chaosandcandies @xxeiraxx @ateez-atiny380 @uhnanix @elzz123 @velvetstarss @miraculous-disaster @lveegsoi @lilkittenjenjen @joie-mills @lies-loki-and-mischief @justhansol @firstdivisiongirl @mdanon027 @mocharacha @sellomaybe @dearestdarlling

────୨ৎ────

The dorm the next morning was alive — loud voices bouncing off every surface, the smell of burnt toast coming from the kitchen (courtesy of Hyunjin), and Jeongin half-dressed, yelling down the hall that someone stole his sneakers.

Minho was trying to corral everyone into motion with threats about being late and something vague involving choreographing the comeback while blindfolded if people didn’t get moving.

You sat at the table, hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands, sipping your coffee with the kind of calm only exhaustion and chaos-induced apathy could produce.

Chan dropped into the seat beside you a moment later, breathless but smiling, hair still damp from his shower. You slid your untouched toast toward him. He took it wordlessly.

It was easy.

Natural.

Almost like before.

You bumped shoulders on the way out the door.

He stole one of your earphones in the van.

When you reached the JYP building, you fell back into your usual rhythms — warmups, stretches, some teasing and light sparring with Jisung and Felix as everyone filtered into the practice room.

It was good.

Stable.

Until management walked in.

Three staff members, clipboards in hand, smiles too wide, eyes just a little too sharp.

“Hey — quick heads up,” one of them said, glancing between you and Chan. “Marketing wants to film a teaser of the duet choreography. Something to capitalize on the photoshoot buzz from yesterday.”

You froze mid-stretch.

Chan straightened beside you, still seated on the floor, back stiffening.

“What?” you said at the same time as him.

The lead staff member nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, it doesn’t have to be a full performance. Just a teaser clip. Fans are really responding to the energy, so we figured—”

“No,” Chan said, voice tight. “We’re not ready.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

The change in his tone was enough to shift the entire atmosphere.

The room went quiet.

The boys looked up from their places, eyes darting between you.

“Come on,” one of the staff coaxed, clearly trying to keep things light. “You two looked great yesterday. You’ve run the routine already, right? This is just a small shoot.”

Chan stood slowly, jaw clenched. “It’s not about the routine.”

The tension crackled.

You could see it — the panic rising in him, the push and pull in his chest, the pressure of pretending again. Of performing a version of your relationship that neither of you had figured out yet.

You touched his wrist gently. Just a whisper of your fingers, but he flinched like it was a blow.

And that hurt more than anything.

You swallowed hard and turned to the staff.

“I’ll do it.”

They paused. “Sorry?”

You steadied your voice. “I’ll do the teaser on my own. It’s just a clip, right? The choreography works solo for the first half.”

Chan turned to you, stricken. “No—Y/N, you don’t have to—”

“I do,” you said, not meeting his eyes. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” he insisted, voice quiet but urgent. “We were supposed to—”

“You said it yourself,” you cut in gently. “We’re not ready.”

There was a long pause.

The staff took your cue, nodding and stepping away to prep the shoot. The boys didn’t say anything — just watched with wide eyes, something unreadable passing between them.

Chan stood frozen for a second longer.

Then he stepped back.

You didn’t look at him again as the music was queued.

Didn’t look at the boys.

You just took your mark on the floor — alone this time — and pulled your hoodie off slowly, handing it to Chan without a word.

He caught it without thinking.

You didn’t see the way his fingers curled around it.

Didn’t hear the breath he let out, broken and low.

You just stood there, spine straight, expression calm.

And danced.

For him.

Because he couldn’t.

Because you could.

Because someone had to.

────୨ৎ────

Chan stood there, your hoodie clutched in one hand, the other shoved inside his pocket, thumb stroking the fabric of your scrunchie like it was the back of your hand. His own chest rising and falling like he’d just finished a sprint.

But he hadn’t moved.

Hadn’t spoken.

He couldn’t.

The track started, low and haunting.

You didn’t flinch.

You lifted your chin, stepped forward, and danced like it didn’t hurt.

But it did.

He could see it in every movement — the sharpness in your turns, the flicker of hesitation in your eyes before each pass, the way your fingers trembled ever so slightly when they reached toward the empty space where he was supposed to be.

He was supposed to be there.

With you.

Beside you.

Instead, you were dancing alone.

For him.

Because of him.

Each beat of the track echoed through the studio like a countdown. Chan couldn’t breathe properly. He couldn’t do anything except watch you fall apart behind every perfect step — watch you prove that you could carry this, even when you shouldn’t have to.

Every take was another weight on your shoulders, he could see it in your eyes. Feel it in every step you took. The way your fingers trembled with each call to reset.

On the final take when the music faded and you held your final position, there was a long beat of silence.

No one spoke.

You straightened slowly, gave a polite bow to the staff — and walked out without a word.

The second you disappeared into the hallway, Chan followed.

Minho tried to stop him gently, a hand brushing his shoulder.

Chan shook his head once.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t stop.

He found you seconds later, halfway down the corridor, pushing open the door to the women’s bathroom. He caught up just before you stepped in.

“Y/N—”

“Don’t.” You didn’t even turn around. Your voice was too calm. Too flat. “Don’t follow me in.”

His breath hitched.

He let the door swing shut between you and took one step back.

But he didn’t leave.

He rested his back against the wall next to the door, hoodie still in one hand, the scrunchie he’d kept tucked in the sleeve now pushed up around his wrist.

“I’m not leaving,” he said softly, just loud enough for you to hear through the wall.

“I know,” came your voice from inside — smaller now. Tired.

He swallowed hard.

And waited.

Chan stayed still, back against the cool wall, fingers tightening and loosening in the fabric of your hoodie.

He could hear nothing inside.

Not crying.

Not movement.

Just silence.

And that somehow felt worse.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor.

“You really let her go through with it.”

Chan didn’t look up. He didn’t need to.

Minho came to a stop beside him, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the bathroom door like it personally offended him.

“You let her dance it alone.”

Chan swallowed. “I didn’t want to.”

“But you let her.”

“She made the call,” Chan murmured. “I didn’t have the right to stop her.”

Minho scoffed — low, sharp. “You had the right to stand beside her.”

“I tried.” Chan’s voice cracked. “I tried to tell them we weren’t ready.”

“You didn’t fight hard enough,” Minho said. “She fought for you. Again. Because she always does.”

That landed like a punch.

Chan closed his eyes.

“She hasn’t been eating properly,” Minho continued, voice lower now. “Barely sleeping. You’ve seen it. Don’t pretend you haven’t.”

“I know,” Chan whispered.

“You know,” Minho echoed, with something tired and dangerous beneath it. “And yet she’s the one dancing until her legs give out and smiling through it so we don’t worry.”

“I didn’t ask her to do that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Minho snapped. “That’s the problem.”

Silence again.

Minho exhaled, rubbed a hand down his face, the edge in his posture dimming — not gone, but dulled by concern.

Chan finally looked at him.

Minho met his gaze, unflinching. “Whatever’s going on between you two — fix it. Fast. Before she burns herself out completely trying to protect something she thinks she has to survive alone.”

Chan was saved from having to answer as your voice cut through the tension from behind the door.

“Chan? Can you come in here please?”

Chan straightened immediately.

Minho stepped back.

Chan didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think.

He slipped inside quickly, quiet as the door clicked shut behind him.

You stood near the sink, back to the mirror, head in your hands, your eyes down. You looked small. Worn thin. He hated how familiar it was starting to feel — this version of you holding everything together with tired shoulders and bitten-back silence.

He didn’t speak at first. Just moved slowly until he was close enough to offer you something.

Your hoodie.

He held it out gently.

You took it with a sigh and pulled it on, fingers disappearing into the sleeves.

Then — without looking at him — you reached for your hair and grumbled, “Of course I forgot a tie.”

He pulled the scrunchie from his wrist.

The one he took years ago.

The one he never gave back.

“I’ve got it,” he said softly, holding it out.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

A long beat passed before you took it, tying your hair back without a word.

“I can’t believe you kept this thing” you asked, voice small.

He shrugged. “You always said I stole your things.”

You smiled, faint but real.

“Only let you in to save you from Minho, by the way,” you said after a moment, turning to the mirror to fix your hair.

Chan huffed a quiet laugh. “I assumed.”

You studied your reflection for a beat. “How bad do I look?”

“I’m not answering that.”

“Coward.”

“Correct.”

You snorted, but your shoulders dropped just slightly — like the air between you let you breathe again.

Chan leaned back against the counter next to you, watching the way your eyes dropped to the floor again, your fingers fiddling with the sleeves of your hoodie.

His hoodie.

You were exhausted.

He could see it in the curve of your spine, the weight behind your silence. Your face was still blotchy, eyes a little red, voice worn thin.

But you were here.

Still upright.

Still breathing.

“God,” you muttered, voice wry, breaking the silence. “I have to go out there and teach choreography now.”

Chan turned toward you slightly, brow raised. “Seriously?”

“Backup dancers. Group work. Need to fix the counts for Ji’s solo. I scheduled it for today because I thought I could handle it.”

He huffed a breath that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “You are the most emotionally repressed overachiever I’ve ever met.”

You cracked the faintest smile. “Thank you?”

Chan shook his head fondly. “You’re not going out there.”

“Chan—”

“I’ll cancel your whole day.”

“You can’t—”

“I can. I’m the leader,” he said, straightening his spine dramatically. “Power has to be abused somehow.”

You actually laughed — low and tired, but real.

He looked sideways at you, pleased. “We could just hide. I’ll keep you in the recording studio with me all day.”

“You absolutely cannot do that.”

”I can.”

”You shouldn’t.”

“I know,” he said. “But I’m allowed to. You’re my choreographer-slash-emotional-disaster best friend and you’re in need of a safe space.”

You stared at him, flat.

He grinned.

You rolled your eyes. “Flattering.”

“You’re lucky I like you.”

“Alarming choice really.”

He smiled — really smiled this time — and your gaze lingered a little longer on him.

The air was softer now. Warmer. Like a moment of real oxygen had been let in after too many days of holding your breath.

You were still tired.

But you weren’t alone.

Not anymore.

As the two of you stepped into the hallway again, your hand brushed his — a casual touch, a familiar one — but it still hit like a pulse under his skin.

You were calmer now. Still exhausted. Still hollow around the edges.

But focused.

And that scared him.

Because he knew what that version of you looked like. The one who buried everything under professionalism. Under checklists. Under control.

You didn’t say anything as you neared the practice room door, just gave a tired sigh and pressed your palms against your eyes like you were bracing for impact.

Chan hesitated beside you.

“You sure you don’t want to disappear into the studio with me?” he asked quietly. “No cameras. No staff. Just me pretending I know how to mix without melting the speakers.”

You cracked the ghost of a smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“I need to work.”

“I know,” he said. “But if you needed an excuse to not… I’d make one.”

You looked up at him.

And that was enough.

He didn’t push.

You walked in together.

Everything moved fast after that.

You crossed the room with purpose, pulling open your bag, sorting your notes out like nothing had happened. Like your body wasn’t still aching from holding the duet alone. Like you hadn’t fallen apart behind a locked bathroom door twenty minutes ago.

“Hyunjin, Seungmin — you’re out. Schedules,” you said, glancing at your phone. “Jisung, Felix, Jeongin — backup dancer run-through in twenty. Grab water and meet me back here. Changbin, warm up. You’re first.”

The boys scattered — mostly out of instinct. Your tone didn’t leave room for argument.

Chan stayed still near the door.

Minho came to stand beside him, arms folded, watching you work like he didn’t quite trust the structure holding you upright.

“She shouldn’t have had to do that alone,” Minho muttered.

“I know.”

Minho looked at him, hard. “Are you staying?”

Chan nodded once. “She didn’t ask. But I’m staying.”

Minho’s jaw tightened. Then, with a small sigh, “Good. Because if she breaks again, and you’re not there—”

“I will be.”

“You better be.”

Chan gave him a faint smile — small, tired, but real.

And then he crossed the room, dropped his bag at the far end, and settled himself against the mirrored wall near the sound system.

Not in your way.

Not close enough to interrupt.

But close enough that you could see him if you needed to.

He pulled out his laptop and headphones, opened a file, and let it play low while he adjusted levels — just enough ambient sound to blend into the background.

But his eyes never left you.

Not really.

He watched the way you called out counts. The way your tone changed for each member — gentler with Jeongin, teasing with Changbin, sharp but supportive with Jisung when he wasn’t listening, and Felix? Felix could’ve told you he hated the entire routine and you’d still smile at him like he was the sun reincarnated.

He watched the way your hands moved — pointed, expressive — and how even in your tiredness, your body knew how to lead.

He didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t step in.

Didn’t even say a word when you passed him mid-count, sweat on your brow, hair escaping the scrunchie he gave back to you just an hour ago.

But he was there.

Quiet.

Anchored.

Because he knew you’d carry everything if you had to.

So today, he’d stay close.

Even if it was just at the edge of the room, behind his laptop, pretending to work — because it was the only way he knew how to protect you without pushing you away.

You didn’t look over at him often.

But the few times you did — your eyes found him.

And it was enough.

────୨ৎ────

The room shifted with every passing hour.

One by one, the boys filtered in and out — some for individual schedules, others for filming, a few slipping back in to check choreography or snag a rehearsal window before someone else claimed it.

And still, you never stopped.

Chan sat quietly at the back — laptop open, headphones around his neck now, but the screen idle. A song draft sat untouched for two hours.

He couldn’t focus.

Not on the synth line. Not on the mix. Not when every time he looked up, you were still moving.

Correcting angles. Giving notes. Running counts.

Twisting your hair up again with the scrunchie.

Tugging your sleeves over your hands like you didn’t realize you were doing it.

Wincing — just barely — when your ankle rolled too hard during a spin.

He kept waiting for you to stop. To take a break. Sit down. Drink water. Breathe.

You didn’t

Chan felt it in his chest — the same weight. The same fear.

You were giving everything.

Again.

And no one was stopping you.

He watched as you moved through the final formation of the day, backup dancers mirroring you, Jisung lagging by half a beat but catching up on the next eight-count. You didn’t correct him like you normally would. Just adjusted the step and moved on.

He could see the moment your balance faltered. You played it off. No one else noticed.

But he did.

And it made him ache.

When the music faded and you gave the dancers a short break, you walked to the side of the room, pulling the hem of your hoodie away from your neck, sweat clinging to your collarbone.

Chan stood.

You looked up, startled, as he came toward you.

“Water,” he said simply, holding out a bottle.

You took it without argument.

Drank half of it in one go.

“Thanks.”

“Five hours,” he murmured.

“What?”

“You’ve been at this five hours straight.”

You blinked. “It hasn’t been—”

“Jisung left twice. Minho came and went. Jeongin’s back from filming. It’s been five.”

You were quiet.

He reached out — not touching, not quite — but just close enough that you could feel it if you wanted to.

“Just take a break,” he said, voice gentle. “Even ten minutes.”

You glanced at the clock, then back at him. “I still have Changbin’s floorwork section to revise.”

“I’ll revise it for you,” he offered, only half-joking.

You rolled your eyes, but your expression softened.

“You can’t choreograph floorwork.”

“I’ll make it interpretive. Freestyle angst.”

A breath of laughter slipped out of you — tired, but real.

He stepped back.

But not far.

Just enough to give you space.

Because he wasn’t going anywhere.

────୨ৎ────

The room had thinned out long ago.

Only one set of lights still glowed overhead, casting long shadows across the floor — and across you, still moving, still working, long past the point of reason.

At first, he thought you were just cleaning up.

But then he saw the change.

You opened up your notebook again but this time, you flipped through pages to that back. The pages that Chan knew contained the parts of you that you kept hidden from everyone else.

Then you stood in front of the mirror again.

Not to revise.

Not to correct.

But to begin.

Chan sat straighter, gaze sharpening as you took position near the center.

Your solo.

He’d heard the track — he’d been in the studio when you recorded it.

He remembered how your voice broke on that second verse and how you refused to let it show on your face. How you’d stepped out of the booth afterward and said nothing for an hour.

He hadn’t realized until now that you hadn’t spent anytime on it today.

Not because there’d been no time, no, because you’d been too busy holding everyone else together.

And now — now — you were using what little strength you had left to make sure you didn’t fall behind your own schedule. Teaching your choreo to backup dancers started tomorrow. Of course you were doing this now. Alone.

He should’ve known.

Chan slid his headphones off and placed them beside him, the audio from his laptop cutting into silence.

You didn’t notice him.

Your arms lifted, slow and intentional.

And then you moved.

The first few seconds were instinct — that muscle memory all dancers had. Precise, clean, just a skeleton of an idea.

But then he saw it shift.

The way your movements dipped into the music — really dipped into it. The way your shoulders curled in on themselves, the way your head turned just too slowly, like something was pulling at the center of you and you were trying to escape it and surrender to it at the same time.

You weren’t choreographing anymore.

You were feeling it.

You were pouring everything in — the pressure, the silence, the weight of smiling through it all — letting it cut through your limbs with every measure.

And you thought no one was watching.

He wasn’t sure what hurt him more.

The way you moved.

Or the way you looked so alone doing it.

He didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t speak.

Just watched — heart pounding, hands curled into the sleeves of his hoodie like he needed to hold onto something, anything.

And when you stopped — finally, finally stopped — bent over with your hands on your knees, sweat soaking into your hairline and your shoulders trembling with exhaustion, Chan didn’t move right away.

Because he knew you wouldn’t ask him to.

And because you’d given everything you had today to make sure everyone else was okay.

Now he needed to decide if he was brave enough to ask:

Who was going to make sure you were?

────୨ৎ────

You didn’t notice him at first.

You hadn’t looked back once since starting the choreo for the backup dancers for your solo — not even during the part where your foot caught slightly and you stumbled, barely recovering. You didn’t check your notebook. You didn’t speak.

You just kept dancing.

Like something in you had cracked open and was pouring out onto the studio floor one move at a time.

Chan didn’t dare breathe too loudly. His laptop sat idle again, closed now, untouched. His back ached from leaning against the mirror all day, but he didn’t shift position. Didn’t risk it.

Because you were still moving.

And for the first time all day, you were doing something for yourself.

That was enough to keep him still.

But then—you stopped.

A full stop this time.

Bent over slightly, your hands on your knees, breath coming out in soft, shaky pulls.

Your head dropped forward. Shoulders slumped.

And he could see it, even from across the room — the moment it hit you.

That there was nothing left in your tank.

That you’d given everything.

You straightened slowly, one hand wiping at your cheek.

Then you turned — just slightly — reaching for your water bottle without really looking.

Your fingers wrapped around it, but your eyes shifted past your hand, toward the far wall.

And landed on him.

Chan didn’t flinch.

Didn’t wave. Didn’t smile.

Just sat there — hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, arms resting over his knees, gaze steady and soft and unmoving.

You blinked.

He could see your throat bob as you swallowed.

Then — carefully, like the movement itself took more effort than you wanted to admit — you made your way over.

You didn’t sit right away.

Just stood there in front of him, bottle dangling from your fingers.

“You haven’t been home yet?” you asked, voice hoarse.

He shook his head.

“You really sat in here all day?”

“All day.”

You looked at him like you couldn’t believe it.

Like part of you could.

“You didn’t have to.”

He tilted his head. “I know.”

You looked down again, staring at your shoes, your lashes damp, breath still coming in soft little waves like your body hadn’t caught up to the stillness yet.

He waited.

Always.

After a moment, you sank down beside him.

Not close enough to touch.

But close enough that your knee brushed his when you exhaled and let your weight finally settle into the floor.

The silence stretched.

It didn’t feel heavy.

It felt like exhaling.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t offer reassurances or observations or tired clichés.

He just let you be.

The silence lingered.

But it didn’t feel awkward. Not strained.

It was just… quiet.

After the day you’d had — after the week you’d been carrying — quiet felt like a gift.

Chan sat beside you, legs outstretched, head tipped back against the mirror. He kept his hands in his lap, still, just in case you needed space. But you hadn’t moved away either.

And that meant something.

You were sipping from your water bottle in slow pulls now, the tremble in your fingers nearly gone.

He didn’t look at you directly when he spoke. Just let his voice fill the space between you like something gentle.

“You choreograph for everyone else. All day. Every day.”

A beat.

Then your voice, quiet. “It’s my job.”

“I know,” he said. “Doesn’t mean it’s easy.”

You were quiet for a long time after that.

Then — so softly he almost missed it:

“I have to teach the backup dancers tomorrow.”

He glanced over.

You weren’t looking at him. Just fidgeting with the label on your water bottle, your fingers worrying at the edges like they could unravel time.

“I don’t even know what I’m teaching them yet,” you admitted. “It’s not finished. Not really. I didn’t even get the second chorus tonight.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

You gave him a look — not defensive, just… tired. “You can’t know that.”

He shrugged lightly, still watching you. “Yeah, I can.”

A pause.

Your lips pressed together.

“You always do,” he added, a little softer. “Every single time.”

Then, without a word, you leaned over slightly — just enough to rest your shoulder against his.

Your temple brushed his collarbone.

Chan didn’t move.

He didn’t react.

He just exhaled — long and slow — and let the weight of you against him hold its place.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to do all this.”

The words came out flat. Not dramatic. Not self-pitying.

Just honest.

Like admitting it out loud cost you something you didn’t have to give.

Chan looked down at you slowly.

You weren’t crying. But you weren’t far off. Your hands were fidgeting again, tugging at your sleeves, fingertips twitching against the hem like you were trying to grip something solid.

“I’ve got rehearsal with the boys in the morning,” you said, “then the first backup run, and we still don’t have final staging for the group piece. The company’s breathing down my neck about the duet. I need to check formations and submit the adjusted counts for Jisung’s solo. And then this.” You gestured vaguely toward the mirror. “The one that’s supposed to be mine. The one I can’t even finish.”

Chan didn’t say anything right away.

Just watched you — the lines in your brow, the way your eyes flickered with frustration and fatigue and something heavier underneath it all. Something you hadn’t said yet.

“I don’t think I’ve got it in me,” you said, voice cracking.

“You do.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know you.”

He meant it. Every word.

And you must’ve felt it — something in your face shifted.

But you still didn’t look at him. You didn’t want him to see what was left behind the words.

He saw anyway.

“You always figure it out,” he said gently.

You exhaled a dry, broken laugh. “Yeah, doesn’t feel like that lately.”

He stilled.

It wasn’t just about the dance.

You weren’t talking about formations anymore. Or scheduling. Or the pressure from management.

You were talking about you and him.

About everything sitting in the silence between you. The things you hadn’t said. The almosts. The back-and-forth and breaking points. The fact that neither of you had any idea what this was anymore — what you were doing, what you were becoming, what you wanted and were too scared to ask for.

You were always good at keeping it buried.

Even when you were breaking.

That’s what wrecked him the most.

How you could feel so much and still hold yourself together like this.

Like glue that never dried.

He swallowed hard.

Turned toward you just enough that his voice could fall softer when it reached your ear.

“It doesn’t always look like you’re figuring it out,” he said.

You glanced up.

“But you are.”

A pause.

“You always do.”

You opened your mouth like you wanted to say something — anything — but no sound came out.

Just a soft, shuddered breath.

And in that moment, Chan wished more than anything that he could give you a version of this life where you didn’t have to carry so much alone. Where he could reach out and hold you without consequence. Where you didn’t have to hide behind your strength just to survive the day.

But you hadn’t asked him to fix it.

You’d just needed someone to stay.

So he stayed.

And when your head found his shoulder again, a little heavier this time, a little more real, he leaned his cheek gently against your hair.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe too loud.

Just stayed.

And hoped you knew that was a kind of promise too.

────୨ৎ────

Your weight against his shoulder had started to settle — not like you were falling asleep, but like you were finally letting go of everything you’d been gripping so tightly all day.

Chan could’ve stayed like that for hours.

He probably would have.

But then he heard your stomach growl.

It was quiet — barely there.

But he caught it.

Of course he did.

You shifted slightly, clearing your throat, already pretending it hadn’t happened. But you didn’t move away from him.

That said everything.

Chan waited a beat before speaking.

Then, gently, “Come on. Let’s go get something to eat.”

You didn’t move. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I’ll eat when I get home.”

“Will you?”

You were quiet again.

He looked down, nudging your knee with his.

“I know you haven’t eaten today.”

You opened your mouth — to deny it, probably.

But he cut you off gently. “You’ve been running schedules since before sunrise. You didn’t sit down until ten minutes ago. I had to make you drink water.”

Still, you didn’t argue.

That was new.

He leaned forward slightly, tilting his head to meet your eyes.

“Let me take you to get something. Doesn’t have to be far. Doesn’t have to be fancy. Just… something.”

You exhaled, long and tired. “I’m not dressed.”

He smiled faintly. “Neither am I.”

You looked down at yourself — oversized hoodie, leggings, scuffed shoes. Then at him — hoodie, sweats, equally disheveled.

“…So we’re going as two gremlins, then,” you muttered.

His grin widened. “Matching ones.”

You rolled your eyes, but you stood up anyway — slow, stiff, but moving.

And that was enough.

He rose with you, grabbing his laptop, tucking it under one arm. He held the studio door open without a word, letting you slip past first.

You didn’t look at him as you passed.

But your hand brushed his, just for a second.

He didn’t reach for it.

Didn’t grab.

Just let the moment be what it was — soft and fleeting and enough.

Outside, the city lights were buzzing low, streets quieter now, the heat of the day finally gone.

He didn’t say where he was taking you.

You didn’t ask.

You both just walked — two shadows side by side, hearts a little bruised, bodies a little sore, but together in the kind of silence that didn’t ache anymore.

────୨ৎ────

You ended up at a little place three blocks from the JYPE building — a tucked-away corner diner with steamed-up windows and handwritten specials on a blackboard by the door.

Chan had taken you there before — the first time as trainees. The last time being months ago, after a late-night choreography meeting ran over and the vending machine ate your money. You’d both ordered too much food and laughed until your stomachs hurt, crammed into a booth still in your practice clothes.

It looked the same tonight.

Flickering neon sign. The smell of broth and soy sauce. Warm lighting that didn’t ask anything of you.

You slid into the booth without saying a word.

Chan dropped into the seat across from you, cracking his knuckles once under the table before glancing up. You were already flipping through the laminated menu, hair still messy from rehearsal, sleeves pulled over your hands again.

He smiled to himself.

The waitress came over without fuss — just recognized you, offered a tired smile, and asked if you wanted the usual.

Chan let you answer.

You didn’t hesitate.

She left with the order before either of you could pretend to look again.

And then — finally — it was just the two of you.

No cameras.

No mirrors.

No pressure to be anything except two people sitting in the quiet hum of fluorescent lights and rain-slicked pavement.

“You sure you’re okay with this?” you asked, chin propped on your palm, eyes soft across the table.

Chan tilted his head. “You mean eating? In a restaurant? With you?”

You gave him a look. “Don’t make me regret coming.”

He chuckled, nudging your foot lightly under the table. “No regrets.”

You looked away — but he caught the corner of your mouth twitching. The almost-smile. The tiny crack in the wall you’d been holding up for weeks.

It was enough.

The food came fast — bowls of hot noodles, little side dishes, too much rice for two people.

You picked up your chopsticks, broke them apart, and said nothing when he pushed the plate of dumplings closer to you.

You ate slow at first — cautious, almost like your body didn’t quite trust that it was allowed to stop moving.

But he saw it. The way your shoulders eased. The way your foot kicked his under the table after he stole a dumpling off your plate without asking.

“You’re annoying,” you muttered, cheeks full of food.

“Accurate,” he said around a mouthful of rice. “But charming.”

“You just ate my last dumpling.”

“I’ll buy you another set.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And what if I wanted that one?”

He met your gaze with a lopsided grin. “Then you shouldn’t have left it unguarded.”

You rolled your eyes again — but you were smiling now. A real one. It broke over your face slowly, like light after a storm. Tired, yes — but real.

He felt it like a breath of fresh air.

Like forgiveness.

Like coming home.

For a while, you both just ate. Occasionally trading bites, sipping broth, falling into the kind of silence that didn’t ask to be filled.

When you leaned back at last, rubbing your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie, Chan reached over without thinking and gently slid your untouched cup of tea closer to you.

You didn’t thank him.

You didn’t need to.

Your fingers closed around the cup, and your leg bumped his under the table again, and for the first time in weeks — maybe longer — he didn’t feel like he was holding his breath.

This wasn’t resolution.

This wasn’t confession.

This was just you.

Tired and warm and finally full, with your hair still a mess and your hoodie a size too big.

And he knew — in his chest, in his bones — that this right here was something he’d been starving for.

Not drama.

Not fire.

Just you, looking at him like maybe you were still holding on too.

────୨ৎ────

The last of the broth had gone cold.

Your legs were curled up beneath you in the booth now, chopsticks abandoned, your fingers wrapped around the warm teacup like it was grounding you. Your hair was messier than it had been even during practice — one loose strand clinging to your cheek, eyes glassy but no longer tired in the same way.

Comfortable now.

Safe.

Chan had been watching the steam from your tea spiral slowly toward the ceiling.

And then you said it.

“Do you remember the first time we ate like this?”

He blinked. “Like what?”

You gestured between the two of you. “Late night. Exhausted. Matching hoodies. Too tired to pretend we’re functioning.”

He laughed softly. “You’ll need to be more specific. That’s been half our meals since we were trainees.”

You huffed a laugh too — and then your eyes flickered. Warm. Distant. Nostalgic.

“I meant that night after the monthly evaluations when we were getting over the flu. The one where you bombed your vocal set, and I scraped through the choreography with a raging temperature?”

Chan’s smile curved without him meaning to. “You mean the night you snuck into the practice room at 1AM with a convenience store sandwich and told me I wasn’t allowed to wallow?”

You grinned. “I told you, if you were gonna cry about it, you had to share the floor.”

“I let you choreograph over my sulking body.”

“Generous,” you teased. “You were basically a human crash mat.”

He laughed again — softer this time. The kind of sound that stirred something deeper.

“I didn’t know if we’d make it back then,” you said, thumb brushing the edge of your teacup. “Everything felt so big. So fast.”

“It still does sometimes,” he murmured.

Your gaze lifted. “But back then… I just kept thinking — at least you were there. If I failed, at least it was next to you.”

The words hit him like a stone in still water.

Not loud.

But deep. Wide-reaching. Rippled through his chest and settled somewhere he hadn’t touched in weeks.

“I think,” he said slowly, “I started needing you before I even realized it.”

You tilted your head, your expression unreadable.

“I mean it,” he added. “You’ve been with me through every single thing that mattered. Through every version of myself I didn’t know how to handle.”

You swallowed. “So have you.”

There was a beat of silence.

A breath between them.

Chan watched you trace a circle through the condensation on your cup, then back again.

His eyes dropped to the table.

The memories were sneaking up on him now. Years worth. Quiet, half-formed things he hadn’t pulled out in ages.

Like the first time he watched you freestyle with the mirrors off — how free you looked. How he knew, right then, you were meant to be more than someone else’s backup.

Or the way you grabbed his wrist right before the final round of evaluations, just once, and said, “We’ve got this.”

Or how, on debut day, you waited until everyone else was done celebrating to pull him into a hallway and whisper, “I’m proud of you. We did it.”

Or the time he’d gone three straight days in the studio and found you asleep outside the door with food in your lap because you didn’t want him to forget to eat.

How had he missed it back then?

All those little things?

All of this?

You hadn’t changed much.

Not really.

Still the same person who kept everyone together when they couldn’t hold themselves. Still the one who could take a bruised knee, a broken lyric, a day full of disappointment and still show up the next morning to do it again.

He didn’t know how he didn’t see it sooner — how long you’d been the person he relied on most.

He looked up again.

You were watching him.

Something unreadable in your gaze.

“What?” you asked gently.

He cleared his throat, voice rough. “Just… remembering.”

You tilted your head. “Anything good?”

He nodded. “All of it.”

That made you pause.

And your smile faded — not in a bad way, just… softened.

Like maybe you were remembering, too.

“I used to think we just worked well together,” you said, looking down at your tea. “Like we were always on the same page because of the job. Because we had to be.”

“And now?”

Your eyes lifted to his again.

The corner of your mouth twitched. “Now I’m not so sure it was just the job.”

That hit him like a quiet wave.

Not devastating.

But deep.

He reached across the table before he could stop himself.

Just enough to tap his fingers once, gently, against yours.

You didn’t pull away.

And he didn’t let go.

The waitress came by to drop off the bill.

Neither of you moved to grab it.

Not yet.

Because something was shifting again.

Not suddenly.

Not loudly.

Just the way everything important between the two of you always had — quiet, warm, known.

────୨ৎ────

────୨ৎ────

Someone was shouting about socks.

Someone else had tripped over a charger cable and was now loudly blaming everyone but himself.

There was steam rising from the bathroom. Two bowls of cereal abandoned on the floor. Felix’s hoodie in the fridge for some reason.

Minho was swearing under his breath in three different languages.

Typical morning.

You stood in the middle of it all, half dressed, half focused, hands wrapped tight around a mug of coffee you didn’t even want. The bitter taste clung to your tongue. You’d already ignored the toast that Seungmin offered, then passed on Felix’s leftovers with a shake of your head. You were running on caffeine and adrenaline now. Nothing else.

“You should eat,” Minho said as he passed, not even looking up from his phone.

It sounded casual. Offhand. Like a throwaway comment tossed into the storm of noise.

But it wasn’t.

Because his eyes flicked up a second later, and they didn’t look away. Sharp. Quiet. Observing you the way only Minho could.

You tried to take another sip like it didn’t matter. Like you hadn’t skipped dinner the night before, too. Like you hadn’t skipped a lot of meals recently. Your stomach twisted. You didn’t know if it was hunger or something else. You felt his gaze still on you.

He was clocking it now. Not just noticing. Tracking.

“Didn’t you say you were going to make that soup today?” you asked, voice light, redirecting.

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond.

You didn’t need him to.

Jeongin’s voice broke through the tension. “Hyung, your bag!”

Chan caught it one-handed without looking, still bent over the coffee table gathering his notes. His phone sat beside them, face-down.

You weren’t watching him. You weren’t paying attention.

Except you were.

Your eyes flicked to his phone without meaning to. Without wanting to.

And there it was.

Just the edge of it—tucked neatly inside his clear case, barely visible through the blur of stickers and scuff marks. A Polaroid border. Curled slightly at the edge.

Your fingers went cold around the coffee mug.

Because you knew what that was.

You’d searched your notebook for it last night, pages flipped frantically, hoping you’d misplaced it. But it hadn’t been there. Your only other hope being he’d taken it with him. Quietly. Without a word.

You barely hesitated.

When his back turned, you moved like instinct—smooth, quiet, practiced. You slid the phone toward you and popped the edge of the case open just far enough to see.

Your stomach flipped.

It was the Polaroid.

You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

But the relief didn’t come like you thought it would.

Because it wasn’t clean.

It wasn’t comforting.

It made your chest ache.

Your hands shook as you looked at it — you, caught in a moment that still lived under your skin, your face turned toward him, his shoulder brushing yours, both of you mid-laugh like it hadn’t hurt to be that close.

He’d kept it.

He’d chosen to keep it.

And it was right here, pressed against the only thing he always carried with him. Hidden behind plastic, behind all the noise, but still with him.

You didn’t know if you should feel relieved…

Or terrified.

Because if he felt even half of what you did, then why hadn’t he said anything?

Even when neither of you could speak. Even when you could barely look at each other for longer than a second without flinching. He still kept that moment. That version of you. Of both of you.

You pressed the case shut gently.

Put it back exactly where it had been.

When you looked up, he was already turning back toward you.

His eyes met yours.

Just for a second.

And in that second, you swore he knew.

But he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t ask.

Didn’t explain.

“Let’s go,” he said, adjusting his bag.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

You didn’t look at Minho, but you knew he was still watching you.

You could feel it in the silence.

In the weight of his unspoken questions.

The kind you didn’t have the strength to answer right now.

So you drained the last of your coffee like it could fix the hollow ache in your chest.

And you walked out the door with the rest of them.

Pretending everything was fine.

Even though it wasn’t.

You mentally thanked the company for sending the van this morning so you weren’t forced to walk and be forced into a conversation you weren’t ready for. What you weren’t prepared for was when you took the very back seat that Minho piled in beside you. You took a deep breath and kept your eyes locked at the window.

“It’s only a short drive.” You told yourself, the hood of your hoodie—Chan’s hoodie— up over your head.

The van was full of sound.

Jisung was singing off-key. Hyunjin was yelling at him to shut up. Seungmin was smacking someone with a rolled-up hoodie, and Jeongin was narrating the entire scene like he was livestreaming it to a nonexistent audience.

Loud. Familiar. Safe.

Except none of it touched you.

You sat in the back row, pressed against the window, fingers curled too tightly around your phone. Your stomach was hollow. Your mouth was dry. The caffeine this morning had burned against the absence of food, but it was all you could stomach.

Minho was beside you.

Chan just beyond him, slouched into his seat, headphones on. Eyes forward.

But you knew he was listening.

You’d felt his gaze on you since you stepped out of the dorm.

Minho leaned in, subtle. “You didn’t eat again this morning.”

You didn’t answer.

He blinked at you, eyes unwavering.

“I wasn’t hungry,” you said finally, voice clipped.

“Right. Just like yesterday.”

You took a deep breath.

Minho shifted slightly, angling toward you. Calm. Measured. Focused.

“You know this pattern,” he said. Quiet. Just for you. “Don’t make me name it.”

Your jaw clenched. “I said I’m fine.”

“You always say that.”

Your chest twisted.

You kept your eyes on the window, refusing to let him see the flicker behind them.

“I can handle my life,” you muttered. “You don’t have to babysit me.”

“I’m not babysitting,” Minho said. “I’m noticing.”

His voice wasn’t sharp. It didn’t need to be.

It was steady. Certain. Inarguable.

“I’ve seen you do this before,” he added. “When things get hard. When you’re hurting and pretending not to be.”

Your hands tightened.

“You stop eating. You get quieter. You smile too much. You push us back just far enough that we start to wonder if you’re even still in the room.”

Your throat burned.

”Stop.”

You didn’t want this. You didn’t want to be the one anyone had to worry about. You didn’t want Chan—especially Chan—hearing this.

Minho dropped his voice even lower. “You know I won’t back off just because you snap.”

You swallowed hard.

He wasn’t flinching from your tone.

He never did.

Because he knew it wasn’t anger. It was defense.

It was fear.

“I just…” you said, barely audible, “I don’t want anyone thinking I can’t handle my life.”

“You’re not weak because you’re struggling,” Minho said. “You’re human. And none of us are buying the act.”

You said nothing.

Minho leaned back a little, not moving away so much as giving you space to breathe. “You don’t have to talk about it yet,” he said. “But don’t lie to me. I’m not going anywhere.”

You looked down into your lap, hands still shaking. You didn’t even try to answer.

Then, without turning your head, you glanced sideways—past Minho.

Chan was still wearing his headphones.

But his jaw was tight. His grip on his own phone stiff.

His eyes never left the back of the seat in front of him.

And you knew.

He’d heard every word.

────୨ৎ────

The van doors slid open and the cool morning air hit your face like a warning. You barely heard the others behind you — their laughter, the shuffle of bags and jackets, the familiar chaos of arriving at the company. It all blurred.

You needed to move.

Because if you slowed down now, if you paused for even a second, you might break open right here in the parking lot.

Chan followed close behind.

You felt him before you saw him — that low heat, that weight of his presence just over your shoulder. He didn’t speak at first, but you knew. The tension radiated from him in waves.

You reached the door to the building and he finally caught up.

“Y/N,” he said.

One word.

Too heavy.

You didn’t look at him. “Don’t.”

His hand hovered near your elbow but didn’t touch. “Can we just—can you just talk to me for a second?”

“We don’t have a second.”

The words came colder than you meant, but you didn’t take them back. You couldn’t.

You pushed through the door before he could try again.

He followed anyway.

“I’m worried,” he said, quieter now, trying to match your pace. “You’re not eating. You’re not sleeping. I can see it.”

“I said don’t, Chan.”

You didn’t raise your voice. But your hands curled into fists at your sides.

Not now. Not when you were walking into a room full of people. Not when there were cameras. Not when you had to get on that dance floor and run choreography — with him.

You barely made it down the hallway before he caught your wrist.

Not hard. Not rough. Just enough to make you stop.

“Wait.” His voice was low, breath tight. Not angry. Worried. Which somehow made it worse.

The boys carried on past you, not registering that you’d stopped. They filed into the room letting the door click behind them.

You turned, already bracing.

“Chan, don’t—”

“I need to.”

His fingers let go as soon as you faced him, but the space between you was still too small. The corridor was too quiet. Voices echoing from the practice room. You had maybe thirty seconds before someone came looking.

“Please,” he said, eyes searching yours like he could see how close to cracking you were. “You’re not okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

His voice cracked on the word, and that did it — something sharp and helpless unfurled under your skin.

“Then what do you want me to say, Chan?” you snapped. “That I’m stressed? That I’m so busy I don’t have time to eat most days? That I hate that I’m doing this, but I can’t stop? What do you want from me?”

He flinched like the words physically hit him. “I want you to stop pretending I don’t see it.”

”I know you can see it, and I hate that you can.”

“I don’t want to watch this happen to you from the outside again,” he said, voice thick.

“You think I want you to?”

His jaw clenched. “No. But you keep pushing me back.”

“I have to!” you said, louder now. “Because I can’t deal with this right now. If I talk to you about this right now—I won’t be able to hold myself together long enough to walk through that door.”

“You can talk to me,” he said, eyes burning. “I’m here for you. You’re my best friend. You’re not pushing me away—“

Your hands curled into fists.

“I can’t have this conversation with you,” you said. “Not when I’m like this. Not when we have to go in there and pretend like we’re fine.”

“But we’re not fine.”

“I know we’re not!”

The silence hit sharp.

You could hear the boys laughing distantly behind the studio door.

It made your throat ache.

Chan stepped closer, softer now. “I don’t know what to do when you start disappearing like this. I’ve seen it before. And I didn’t stop it then. I should’ve—”

“Stop.”

“You’re hurting.”

“So are you.”

He didn’t deny it.

He didn’t have to.

The air between you was heavy with everything unsaid. The care that neither of you could speak out loud. The weight of what you felt but couldn’t name.

You looked away first.

He exhaled shakily. “Just let me in, even a little.”

“I can’t. Not now.”

“Then when?”

You shook your head.

The door creaked open down the hall.

“Hyung?” Jeongin’s voice. “We’re waiting.”

You turned before Chan could say anything else. “We don’t have time for this.”

He reached out but didn’t touch you. “I’m trying.”

“I know.”

And you left him standing there.

Frustrated.

Scared.

Still hoping.

────୨ৎ────

It had been a week since that morning.

Seven days of silence stitched into rehearsals, content shoots, cramped vans, and makeup chairs. A full week of half-sentences and sidelong glances. Of too much space where there used to be none.

You hadn’t touched him.

Not even by accident.

He hadn’t asked if you were okay.

You hadn’t asked why he hadn’t.

The space between you used to be safe — a kind of stillness, a breath. Now it crackled. Now it hurt.

And the group was feeling it.

They didn’t know what happened. But they knew something had.

You’d lost weight — not enough for the cameras to catch it, but enough for the boys to notice. Enough for Felix to quietly place a croissant on your keyboard during recording. Enough for Seungmin to slide a lunchbox into your bag “by mistake” and pretend not to notice when you didn’t return it. Enough for Jeongin to offer you the last bite of his sandwich without smiling, like it wasn’t a joke anymore.

You turned them all down.

Too sweetly. Too quickly.

Smiled like you always did. Talked when you needed to. Laughed when someone else gave you the cue.

But Minho was watching. Really watching.

And so was Chan.

He didn’t say anything. He barely looked at you when the others were around. But when he thought no one was paying attention — when you were across the room, back turned, quiet — you felt his eyes on you like gravity.

He looked worse.

Thinner. Exhausted. Like sleep hadn’t been an option in days.

You saw it in the way his hands shook just a little when he adjusted his mic. In the way he snapped too fast during rehearsals, only to go silent after. In the way he let the others tease him without pushing back — like he didn’t have the energy to fight for anything.

You hadn’t paired up with him since the hallway.

Not for TikToks. Not for partner dances. Not for games on variety shows.

Fans noticed.

They always did.

The first few comments were soft.

> “Is anyone else worried? They haven’t danced together in a while.”

>“Y/N usually sits next to Chan in these shoots…”

>“Their energy is different lately. I hope they’re okay.”

Then came the edits. The side-by-sides. The comparison clips. Screenshots of you sitting with Jisung instead. Chan turning just slightly away in a behind-the-scenes vlog. Minho acting as a buffer between the two of you. Still you both kept smiling, still performing — but never quite at the same time.

No one said it outright.

Not you.

Not him.

Not the boys.

Not the fans.

But it was there — in the stillness between seconds, in the ache behind your performance smiles, in the way everyone seemed to be holding their breath at once.

Something was wrong.

And whatever it was, neither of you could pretend much longer.

────୨ৎ────

It was just past 4am.

The dorm lights were low, nothing but the hum of the fridge and the faint scuff of your shoes as you slipped down the hallway toward the front door. Hoodie zipped. Bag slung. Music cued up but not playing yet.

You were trying to be quiet.

Trying not to wake anyone.

Trying not to think.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. Maybe an hour here or there. Restless, shallow, useless sleep that left you feeling heavier instead of lighter.

You just needed to move. Get to the studio. Get inside the music before your own thoughts could catch up.

But as you turned the corner, shoulders still heavy with sleep deprivation, you nearly collided with someone coming the other way.

You both froze.

Chan.

He looked wrecked.

Hair damp from the drizzle outside. Hoodie clinging to his shoulders. Eyes bloodshot, jaw tight, steps slow and bone-deep tired. He wasn’t even surprised to see you — just… hollow.

You stared at each other.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you spoke.

For a moment, it was just breath.

His eyes dropped to your hands — still holding your water bottle, keys clenched too tight. You couldn’t meet his gaze, not really. You tried, once, then looked down. Tried again. Failed again.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

You did the same.

The silence stretched. Thicker now. Warmer. Familiar in the way grief is familiar when it’s shared.

There were a dozen things you wanted to say.

None of them were enough.

Eventually, he just nodded — barely — and turned down the hallway toward his room.

You watched him go.

Watched the slow way his hand pressed to the doorframe before he slipped inside and let it shut behind him like an apology.

You stood there another moment, blinking hard at the wall.

Then you turned and walked out the door.

And headed for the practice room.

────୨ৎ────

The studio was too bright.

Too loud.

You were already running on fumes, muscles aching from sleep you didn’t get and meals that weren’t eaten.

The others didn’t notice.

Jisung was arguing with Jeongin about snack rights. Felix was trying to stretch while being pulled into Hyunjin’s absurd dance routine. Seungmin muttered half-hearted threats from the corner as he fixed the speaker settings.

And Chan.

Chan was going to drive you insane.

Practice had started off with a stiff energy neither of you could shake. You and Chan kept missing cues, the choreography feeling off and forced rather than fluid. Small frustrations bubbled up — a sharp glance here, a clipped comment there. You’d catch him spacing out just when you needed him most, and he’d snap back about your constant tweaks to the routine. The boys exchanged uneasy looks, sensing the quiet tension growing between you two. Every attempt to correct the moves was met with a little more edge in your voices, the frustration bleeding through your words even though neither of you wanted to admit what was really underneath. By the time the warmup ended, the atmosphere felt heavier, like you were both walking on thin ice, barely holding back what you truly wanted to say.

The more you tried to keep things professional, the more the irritation showed. Chan’s sighs grew louder, his patience thinning, and your responses sharpened in kind. The usual playful teasing had been replaced with snappy remarks, and you could feel the walls closing in. Neither of you could ignore it anymore — something was breaking, and it was only a matter of time before the tension exploded into a real argument.

Chan was pacing behind the mirrored wall, jaw tight, brows drawn low, fiddling with his phone in that way he always did when he was thinking too hard. Like if he just tapped the screen enough times, the answers would appear.

You were stretching in the corner furthest from him as if the small amount of space could help with the growing distance between the two of you. No matter how much you tried, you couldn’t shake off the irritation surrounding you.

And now, instead of being able to throw yourself into a group choreography or working with the backup dancers, you had to run that stupid duet with him.

To make it even better, you had an audience for this one.

Hyunjin lay sprawled across a mat by the mirror, giving up his antics now in favour of watching you, lazily kicking his legs in the air like a bored child. Changbin was halfway through a banana and humming the beat under his breath. Felix sat cross-legged with a soft grin, clapping once as the track started to play.

“This is gonna be cute,” he said, nudging Seungmin, who just rolled his eyes as he sat down signalling the speaker was fine now.

“Depends on how many times they mess up.”

Minho leaned back against the mirror, arms crossed, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “Twenty says Chan forgets the turn in the second verse.”

“No I won’t.” Chan muttered without looking at him, already adjusting his laces.

You didn’t say anything.

You couldn’t, just rolled your eyes and took your place in the middle of the room.

The music started.

You moved.

And it was a mess.

The rhythm was fine. The steps were there. But nothing clicked.

You turned late. He stepped too close. You brushed past him instead of meeting in the middle. Your hands—meant to graze during the second chorus—missed entirely.

Jisung tilted his head. “Huh.”

Hyunjin sat up. “That looked… stiff.”

“Are they okay?” Felix asked, brows furrowing slightly.

Minho didn’t say anything, but you saw the shift in his eyes.

The music ended.

You let out a breath.

“Again,” Chan said.

The track restarted.

And it didn’t get better.

If anything, it got worse.

You tripped on the same step. He turned late. Your arms didn’t sync. You both moved like magnets that refused to face the right direction—drawn to each other, but never quite touching.

“Start it again.” You sighed

Each correction was like another piece of weight on a trip wire. Your shoulders were tense and your neck ached. Chan’s jaw was tensing more by the second, fingers flexing like he could fling the anger out of his body. The added commentary from the boys wasn’t help and you were just about keeping your anger in not wanting to lose it in front of them but when you accidentally turned the wrong way during the lift—

Chan’s frustration exploded.

“Can you just focus?!” he snapped, louder this time, voice cutting through the room like a slap.

Seungmin’s hand froze before hitting pause.

Your eyes were burning a hole in the floor as your chest heaved. You inhaled deeply before turning to face Chan.

“Do you need a minute?” Your voice was steady, even, cold.

“I…no I just—” He shook his head eventually. “Let’s just go again.”

He moved to the side again and reset, it took you a second to follow him. You nodded to Seungmin who started the song once again, you’d lost count at this point. The music lulled you into a false sense of security as you moved, until you felt Chan’s hands take yours. Your first instinct in the past would’ve been to lean into him, now though you wanted to pull away and curl into yourself.

You swallowed and pushed through it. You counted steps in your head, braced yourself for when his hands would find you, steeled your own when you reached for him. You could feel the tension radiating off him when your fingers brushed. Then as the song quitened, the final beats echoing, when you were supposed to finish and stay in that beat together as it cut to silence, you couldn’t manage it. The song had barely finished before you pushed out of his arms, not that he cared, the speed his arms had let you told everyone his feelings on the matter.

You returned to your opposite sides of the room, that was the first time you’d been able to run the choreography the full way through. To everyone else it could’ve passed, anyone who didn’t know you would assume you were finding your feet but you knew better. You didn’t do ‘passable’.

You hadn’t landed your mark. Chan’s hands had hesitated—too high, too loose. Your foot missed the count.

Minho sighed. “Do you want to reset?”

You didn’t move, contemplating if you wanted to subject yourself to that again.

“We’re off.” Chan muttered.

“No shit.” you said.

He looked up, sharply. “You want to fix it or throw blame?”

“I want to stop wasting time,” you shot back. “That’d be a good start.”

Felix coughed gently. “Maybe you should take a break—”

“We’re fine,” you said.

“Are we?” Chan snapped.

The tension tightened around the room like pulled wire.

Hyunjin exchanged a glance with Jisung. Seungmin leaned against the wall, arms crossed, silent.

You stepped forward, ignoring the tightness in your chest and shook your head. “We’ll run it again later, we’re wasting too much time right now. I want to confirm solo rehearsals for next week. We’ve got the vibes pretty much down so I want to really start solidifying everything now. I’ve already worked with everyone except you, Chan. I need to know what you want for it.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you felt the shift.

He froze.

You turned toward him, brows drawing together. “We haven’t met at all actually about yours, when are you free? We need to get started.”

Chan hesitated—too long.

“We won’t need to actually.” he said finally.

“What? Why?”

“I’ve asked someone else.”

The words hit like a slap.

Even the boys stilled.

Hyunjin blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

The silence crashed down like a wave.

You blinked, trying to process it.

“You… what?”

“I asked someone from the in-house team.”

“You didn’t even tell me?” you asked, voice quiet and sharp. “You didn’t think I deserved to know?”

“I wasn’t trying to hide it,” he said quickly. “I just… didn’t want to make this harder.”

You let out a breathless laugh, but it wasn’t amused. “So you made the choice for me.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“But you did.”

You stepped toward him, each word rising with the heat in your chest.

“You think I can’t separate my feelings from my work? That I’d let whatever this is get in the way of doing my job?”

“No,” he said, a little too fast.

“Then what is it, Chan?” you snapped. “Because I’ve choreographed every single one of your solos since debut. Every group comeback. Every performance. That’s our process. You produce. I choreograph. That’s what this group is built on. You fought for me to be here. You’re the reason I’m even in this group.”

He swallowed hard. “It wasn’t about that—”

“Then what was it about?” your voice cracked. “Because to me, it looks like you don’t trust me anymore.”

“I do,” he said, voice strained.

You shook your head. “No. You don’t. You decided I couldn’t handle it. That I couldn’t be professional. You didn’t even give me a chance to prove otherwise.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” he said again, lower now.

You stared at him — and your hands were trembling.

“Well, you did.”

Silence pressed in.

“Get out.”

Changbin took a small step forward. “Y/N—”

You turned toward him, eyes shining but hard. “If he doesn’t trust me to do my job, he shouldn’t be in the room.”

Chan’s mouth opened, but no words came.

“This is my practice room Chan, it has been since we debuted and it was mine even before then, you know that. I won’t say it again. Get out.”

“You’re being unfair,” he rasped.

“No,” you said, sharp again. “I’m being honest.”

And then you said it again, softer.

“If you can’t trust me to do what I’ve always done for you… then you don’t belong here right now.”

You turned your back to him.

The silence rang.

And the worst part — the part that made your chest ache — was that he didn’t say anything else.

He just left.

No argument. No defense.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence he left in his wake was loud. No movement. No breath.

Just stillness.

You stood there, shoulders tight, staring at the floor like if you moved, it would all fall apart. Behind you, the others didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Minho stayed near the mirrors, arms crossed but eyes sharp, watching you like he was waiting for a fracture.

Jisung sat on the floor with his knees pulled up, eyes darting between you and the door. Hyunjin rubbed a hand over his jaw, frowning. Jeongin looked like he wasn’t sure whether he should shrink into the corner or try to hug you.

Seungmin lowered himself into a chair in the corner, his arms still crossed but his brows knit tight.

And Felix didn’t leave your side.

He hovered just behind you, close enough that you could feel him there. His fingers brushed the hem of your sleeve once — like a kid unsure if reaching out would help or make it worse.

He didn’t say anything.

He just stayed, like a little brother refusing to walk away from his older sister when she was too proud to cry in front of everyone.

“Y/N…” Minho started, voice low.

You held up a hand, not looking at him.

“I’m fine.”

You weren’t.

“I just…” You cleared your throat. “We have a schedule.”

You turned slowly, blinking away the burn in your eyes. “Whose solo’s up next?”

No one answered right away.

They all just looked at you — hesitant, fragile, a little lost.

“I need one of you to run your piece,” you said, too controlled. “I need to work.”

Felix shifted behind you, but still didn’t speak.

Jisung stood, slowly, raising a hand halfway. “I can go.”

You nodded. “Okay. Let’s run it. From the top.”

You walked over to the speaker, tapping at your phone with a precision that was all muscle memory — all the parts of you that hadn’t given out yet.

But your hands were shaking.

You hit play.

Jisung stepped into place, posture tense, eyes flickering to you more than the mirror. But when the music started, he danced anyway.

And he made it through the whole thing.

Every beat.

Every move.

Every breath.

When it ended, you let the music fade out slowly before speaking.

“Good,” you said, though your voice caught. “That was good. Well done.”

Jisung didn’t answer, just nodded once, letting the silence hold.

And you couldn’t stay still anymore.

You turned to the boys, voice thin. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

They didn’t ask.

Felix didn’t try to stop you — but he didn’t sit down, either. He stayed standing, eyes wide and worried, watching you go like he wasn’t sure if you were coming back whole.

You walked out of the room, fury in your chest and your heart breaking louder with every step.

Because no matter how much you’d told him to leave…

You knew he hadn’t gone far.

You knew he hadn’t left the hallway.

You knew he was still standing there, behind the door, just outside the frame, caught in the same loop you were.

────୨ৎ────

You opened the door with too much force.

There he was.

Sitting on the floor against the wall, just outside the studio — arms resting on his knees, hoodie still half-zipped, head tipped back like he was trying not to feel anything at all.

You froze in the doorway, your heart thudding like it was trying to break out of your chest.

He didn’t look at you right away.

Just spoke, voice low. “Thought you were gonna hit me.”

You stepped out and let the door close behind you.

“I told you to leave,” you said.

Chan’s head snapped toward you. “And I did.”

You scoffed. “You moved three feet.”

“You didn’t say how far I had to go.”

Your hands clenched at your sides. “So you just waited? What—were you hoping I’d come out and what? Apologise?”

“No,” he said, standing now, jaw tight. “I was hoping you’d calm down before you said something else you didn’t mean.”

You laughed, sharp and humorless. “Oh, I meant it. Every word.”

“Great,” he said, throwing his arms out. “So what now? You want me to grovel for making a call I thought would protect you?”

“No,” you said, stepping closer, voice shaking. “I want you to admit that it wasn’t about protecting me. It was about protecting yourself.”

His mouth opened. Shut. “That’s not—”

“Yes, it is,” you snapped. “You didn’t want to look me in the eye while I choreographed a dance about how much pain you’re in. You didn’t want to feel it. You didn’t want to face me in it.”

“That’s not fair.”

“And you know what’s not fair?” you said, voice rising. “That you brought me into this group. That you fought for me, told the company I was the only one you trusted to help build this — and now suddenly I’m too much of a risk to handle your solo?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like, Chan?” you demanded. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like I’m not the person you trust anymore.”

“I do!” he shouted.

You blinked.

He took a breath, trying to steady himself — but his hands were fists and his voice was cracking.

“I trust you more than anyone,” he said. “And that’s exactly why I couldn’t ask you.”

The words hit like a slap.

You stared at him, blinking hard, trying to swallow down the lump in your throat.

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It does to me.”

“Oh, well, great,” you snapped. “As long as it makes sense to you. Because God forbid we actually talk about anything like adults.”

He scoffed. “That’s rich coming from you.”

You stepped closer, nose almost brushing his. “You’ve always done this — you decide how I feel, what I need, and then act like it’s a favour.”

“You told me to leave.”

“And you didn’t.”

“I did!”

You both stood there, toe to toe, breathing like you’d run a mile.

And for a moment — just a split second — you looked at each other, really looked, and it was like you were both seventeen again. Arguing backstage. Deflecting because neither of you knew how to say what you really meant.

You weren’t angry.

Not really.

You were hurt.

So was he.

You shoved your hands through your hair, voice quieter now but still shaking. “This isn’t about choreography, Chan.”

“I know.”

“But we keep pretending it is.”

“I know.”

You looked at him — red-eyed, flushed, pacing a few steps like he couldn’t sit still in his own skin.

“You should’ve left,” you whispered as you turned around, ready to leave him in the hallway alone again.

“I couldn’t.”

The silence wrapped tight around you again.

His voice dropped into something rough. “You think it was easy for me? Sitting behind that glass and listening to you record your solo?”

You froze.

“I listened to you pour your entire heart into something and pretend it wasn’t about me,” he said, finally meeting your eyes. “And I had to sit there. Like it was just another track. Like it didn’t feel like someone was cutting my chest open with every lyric.”

You blinked hard, but the lump in your throat stayed.

Chan kept going. “You didn’t see it, but every time your voice cracked, every time it shook, I wanted to stop you. I wanted to— I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t even look at you when you came out of the booth.”

You stared at him. “So what? You decided I shouldn’t have to feel the same?”

“I didn’t want you to go through that for me.”

“You didn’t want me to feel what you felt,” you said, quieter now — but angrier. “But that wasn’t your choice.”

His face twisted. “I was trying to protect you.”

“And I didn’t ask you to.”

You stepped toward him again, voice sharp. “You don’t get to make that decision for me. You don’t get to decide what I can or can’t handle. I’m not fragile, Chan. You’re not the only one who breaks.”

He laughed under his breath — bitter and breathless. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You blinked.

“Because you’re so good at this,” he said, he stood up, arms crossed, eyes glassy with frustration. “You walk out of a fight and go straight back to choreography like nothing happened. You put on that perfect face, and I’m the one sitting here falling apart!”

“I have to be good at this,” you shouted back. “Because if I stop, if I let myself fall apart, no one is going to catch me! And you—”

You shoved a finger into his chest.

“—you don’t get to treat me like I’m fragile and then punish me for being strong.”

Chan’s breath hitched, eyes narrowing. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Isn’t it?” you said, taking another step forward. “You’re so convinced you’re protecting me — but you’re just protecting yourself from having to admit how much I matter to you!”

He flinched.

And you hated that you saw it.

“You think I don’t see it?” you kept going, voice rising. “You think I don’t notice the way you look at me and then look away? You think I don’t feel it when you step back instead of stepping in?”

He snapped, “Well, maybe I’m tired of having to hide it all the time!”

“Then don’t!” you yelled.

The air split between you.

Your chest heaved.

His fists clenched.

And then—

The tension snapped.

You lunged for each other at the same time — not reaching, not kissing — colliding.

His hands gripped your waist like he needed something to anchor him, bruising in the way they clutched you. Your fingers went straight into his hair, tugging hard enough to make him gasp.

Your mouths met in a crash, all teeth and fury and heat.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was devastation.

He kissed you like you were the fire and he needed to burn to feel anything at all. Your teeth caught his bottom lip, bit just enough to make him hiss, and he responded with a hand fisting in the back of your shirt, yanking you flush to him.

You gasped into his mouth — not from shock, but from how badly you needed this.

How much it hurt.

His grip tightened, fingertips digging into your ribs like he didn’t trust himself to let go. Your hand slid down to his shoulder, nails scraping, dragging.

You wanted it to hurt.

He needed it to.

Because at least if it hurt, it was real.

Because the feelings — the years of tension, the longing, the fear — were too big to name. Too dangerous to say out loud.

So you said it with this instead.

With the bruising press of lips.

With the way he shoved you back against the wall, mouth still moving hungrily against yours.

With the way he groaned when your nails raked down his neck.

With the way you kissed him like you hated him except you didn’t. You could never

Your breath hitched when he pulled back, only to kiss you again harder — like he had to.

Your hands shook in his hair, tugging him closer, anchoring your mouths together because space was the enemy now. There was no logic. No caution. Just this shared ache that had nowhere else to go but teeth and breath and fire.

It wasn’t about resolution.

It wasn’t about forgiveness.

It was the only language you had left.

Pain. Touch. Proof.

And the unspoken truth beneath it all, burning behind your clenched eyes: If I can feel it — if it hurts — then it has to be real.

────୨ৎ────

You didn’t hear anything at first — not over the blood pounding in your ears, the crash of his mouth on yours, the bruising grip of his hands like he was trying to memorize you before he lost the chance.

But then—

“Should we check on them?” Jisung’s voice, muffled behind the practice room door.

“They’re probably yelling again,” came Hyunjin, far too close.

You both froze.

His forehead rested against yours. Your hands fisted in his hair. His breath shook against your cheek.

Neither of you moved.

His fingers flexed at your waist like he meant to step back.

You didn’t let him.

“We have to stop,” you whispered, though even you didn’t believe it.

“No,” he breathed, almost a plea. “Not yet.”

Your eyes met.

Footsteps.

Panic flared.

You grabbed his hand. “This way.”

Down the hall, past the stairwell, around the corner. You shoved open a dark, empty practice room, dragged him inside.

Everything collapsed again.

His hands were on your waist, then your thighs, dragging you into him like he couldn’t stand an inch of space. Your back hit the wall hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs, but it didn’t matter.

You were already gasping for him.

Your nails scraped his spine, yanking his hoodie off. His t-shirt followed, your hands greedy, desperate, clumsy with need. You needed to feel him. To burn out whatever this ache was.

He moaned when your mouth found his collarbone, when your fingers dragged across his ribs. “Fuck—”

“Don’t stop,” he whispered.

You didn’t reply, you didn’t need to.

“I can’t,” he said, voice cracked and trembling. “I can’t think when you touch me like this.”

“Then stop trying.”

You kissed him harder, your hips rolling instinctively into his. He cursed and bit down on a sound that might’ve undone him completely.

It was frantic.

Messy.

His hands beneath your shirt, rough and reverent. Yours in his hair, tugging. His thigh between your legs, holding you steady while everything else spun apart.

You kissed him like you were starving.

He kissed you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your skin. “I didn’t mean to shut you out.”

“Chan—” You shook your head. “Don’t.”

“I should’ve trusted you.”

“Don’t say it now. Not here.”

He understood.

Because this wasn’t a fix.

This was fallout.

You kissed him again, slower, and that hurt worse. Like goodbye already lived in it.

Still, your hands stayed in his hair. Still, his touch dragged fire down your spine. One hand cradled the back of your head, threading through your hair. The other tugging your shirt up and raking across your bare skin like he could memorise you from touch alone.

He groaned. “Please. Just one more second.”

You gave it to him.

Again.

And again.

Until you were breathless. Until your knees nearly gave out.

He steadied you against the wall, forehead to yours, chest heaving. You kissed once more, slower, like maybe the world would pause for you just a moment longer.

But it didn’t.

“…probably came this way—” Hyunjin’s voice, much closer now.

“I swear, if they murdered each other, I am not doing this comeback alone.” Seungmin added.

“At least all the songs are already recorded?” Hyunjin offered.

“You know that means Minho would be the one choreographing for us then.” Seungmin sighed.

You could hear the gears turning in Hyunjin’s brain through the wall. “I should just put in the air fryer now then before he has the chance to.”

You barely held in the laugh that caught in your throat.

Chan’s head dropped to your shoulder, breath shaky but quieter now. He chuckled under his breath — not his usual loud laugh, but something smaller, fond.

“Shut up,” you whispered against his lips. “They’ll hear.”

But you didn’t stop touching him.

“Your fault,” he whispered.

“You kissed me first.” You shot back, your nose brushing his temple.

“You yelled at me first,” he murmured, voice still rough. “I was emotionally vulnerable.”

You smiled against his skin, eyes still closed.

He shifted, just slightly — pressing a kiss to the corner of your jaw this time. No heat. Just… affection. Unspoken. Earnest.

When he pulled back to look at you, something in his expression had changed. Less urgency. More reverence.

“Are you okay?” he asked, soft enough that you barely caught it.

You nodded.

“I don’t want to leave,” you admitted.

“I don’t either,” he said. “But we’ll come back. When we’re ready.”

That promise lived between your hands, still loosely curled in the hem of his t-shirt.

He brushed your hair gently behind your ear, eyes tracing your face like he wanted to remember every detail exactly as it was.

Chan’s eyes were on yours, softer than they’d been in days. Weeks. His thumb brushed your cheek like he was still grounding himself in your presence.

The words didn’t come.

But they didn’t need to.

He leaned in—one last time—and kissed you gently. Nothing desperate, nothing bruising.

Just… real.

You sank into it, exhausted.

Not from him.

From everything else.

His lips lingered, then pulled back slowly. He looked at you like he wanted to remember this version of you—hair messy, cheeks warm, wearing the echo of his kiss.

He stepped back and pulled his hoodie back on, opened the door quietly and held it for you.

You stepped out with him, still silent, your arm brushing his just once.

Not on purpose.

Not entirely by accident either.

The hallway was empty now. Whatever chaos Hyunjin and Seungmin had stirred was gone, footsteps fading in the distance.

Chan walked beside you, not touching, but closer than he had in weeks.

When the practice room door came into view, you shared one last look — nothing dramatic, nothing said. Just a small nod. A quiet we’re okay.

You pushed the door open together.

Immediately—

“There they are!” Changbin threw his arms up like he’d just seen two ghosts. “Finally. We were about to file a missing persons report.”

Felix flopped dramatically to the floor. “Do you even realize the emotional damage you’ve caused?”

“Children of divorce,” Jisung muttered, crossing his arms. “We really thought this was the day.”

Jeongin nodded solemnly. “I was about to ask Minho hyung who we’d live with.”

“Definitely not me,” Minho said flatly. “I’d sell you all before taking custody.”

Laughter rippled through the room.

You shook your head, biting back a smile. “Okay, enough. That’s enough chaos for now.”

Jisung grinned. “You’re just saying that because you know we’re right.”

“Practice,” you said, already walking toward the center of the room. “Now.”

“Yes, yes, back to it.” Seungmin teased, bowing so low it was clearly sarcastic.

Chan moved back into position next to you, quiet but grounded. He didn’t speak, didn’t joke.

But he met your eyes for a second.

And smiled.

It wasn’t big.

It wasn’t loud.

But it was real.

And this time, when the music started, it felt a little easier to breathe.

────୨ৎ────

The rehearsal picked up smoother than you expected.

You slipped back into your role—counting beats, correcting posture, running segments over and over. The boys fell into place, still teasing between takes, still loud, still them.

It helped.

The normalcy.

Even if your limbs ached and your mind still hadn’t caught up with your heart.

Chan stayed focused, quieter than usual, but his presence never strayed far. He followed your cues without question, stepped in to help correct footwork when you gestured. When you locked eyes mid-run through, he didn’t look away this time.

Just gave you the smallest nod.

That was enough.

Schedules split by mid-afternoon — some filming, some vocal training. You stayed in the practice room with Jeongin and Jisung to polish their solos, Minho popped in to fine-tune transitions. Felix and Hyunjin returned late in the day after content shoots, chaotic as ever but visibly keeping an eye on you, subtly checking in without saying anything at all.

Even Seungmin brought you water and didn’t make a joke about it.

The tension from earlier didn’t disappear completely but the boys moved through it the way they always did — loyal, loud, and learning to read the undercurrents.

By the time the sun dipped and the company lights buzzed overhead, your body was aching and your voice had dropped into something hoarse from hours of instructions.

You sent the last of them out with orders to eat, rest, hydrate, and reminded them to be on time tomorrow.

They groaned in unison.

But they left.

Eventually.

The studio was quiet, lights dimmed low and only one speaker still softly humming in the background.

You were mid-run of your solo choreography, hair pulled back, body warm with effort — focused, but fraying around the edges. You’d lost count of how many takes you’d done.

When the door clicked open behind you, you didn’t stop.

Not at first.

But the second you heard it close again, slow and careful, your body stilled.

You turned to find Chan standing near the doorway, a plastic bag in one hand, a familiar hoodie tugged over his head, curls still damp from a quick shower.

He didn’t speak immediately.

Just looked at you — quietly taking in the sweat on your collarbone, the slight tremble in your arms, the way your chest rose and fell with effort.

“I went back to the dorm,” he said finally. “You weren’t there.”

You tilted your head, curious.

He held up the bag slightly. “So I brought you something.”

You raised a brow. “Let me guess. Convenience store triangle kimbap?”

His grin was crooked. “Offended. It’s Minho’s soup, thank you very much.”

You blinked.

“Oh,” you said, quieter now. “He made that for dinner tonight.”

Chan nodded and stepped into the room. “Told me to make sure you got some. Said, and I quote, ‘Don’t let her use choreography as an excuse not to eat again.’”

You couldn’t help it — your mouth twitched at that.

“Classic Minho.”

“Classic you,” he teased softly, already unpacking the container. “You lose your appetite when you’re stressed and get too busy to remember it even exists.”

You rolled your eyes gently but didn’t argue.

He knelt by the mirror, settled in, and opened the lid. Steam rose in slow curls.

You didn’t move.

Until he raised the spoon and offered it, his expression serious but the edge of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Say ah.”

You snorted. “Really?”

“I’m committed to the bit,” he said solemnly.

You walked toward him, arms crossed, eyes narrowing playfully.

He didn’t drop the spoon.

You sighed — dramatically — then leaned down, just enough to take a sip.

It was warm and perfectly seasoned, and suddenly you realized how long it had been since you’d actually tasted something that felt like comfort.

“Mmh,” you mumbled through the mouthful, blinking. “Okay, that’s not bad.”

“Thank Minho,” Chan said, smug.

You took the spoon from him with a small shake of your head, finally sinking to the floor beside him.

He didn’t press.

He just sat there, shoulder resting against yours, warm and familiar.

And for the first time all day — you let yourself slow down.

No pressure.

No fixing.

Just the two of you, sharing soup on a studio floor, the hum of your solo still faint in the background, and the quiet peace of being with someone who knew you well enough to show up, but not push.

────୨ৎ────

You finished the last bite of soup in silence, legs stretched out in front of you, spine finally relaxing into the wall behind you.

Chan stayed close — not quite touching, but never far.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

Then—

“Tomorrow’s packed,” you murmured, glancing at the wall clock.

He nodded. “Photoshoot all day, they’ll be filming everything for content too.”

You leaned your head back with a groan. “And the comeback teaser shoot’s in a week.”

“Yeah.”

A beat passed.

Then, quietly, he added, “You ready?”

You paused.

Looked at him.

He was watching you carefully — not anxiously, not pushing. Just open.

You considered it.

Then shrugged, small and honest. “I’m getting there.”

His smile was faint, but warm. “Me too.”

Another moment.

Then, he shifted slightly. “You wanna run the duet?”

You arched a brow. “Right now?”

“No staff. No cameras. No pressure,” he said. “Just… us.”

You looked at him for a long second, heart kicking a little faster — not from nerves, but from the way he said it.

Us.

Still us.

You stood first, stretching your arms over your head.

“All right,” you said, voice light. “But if you mess up your timing again, I’m docking your coffee privileges.”

His laugh echoed off the walls — low and real. “Brutal.”

You hit play on the track, moved to your opening mark, and nodded at him.

Chan took his position.

The beat dropped.

And something clicked.

There was no misstep this time. No tension. No flinching. Just flow.

You moved through the choreography like you were breathing it — your bodies in sync in a way that only came from years of knowing each other.

When his hands found your waist, when yours slid up his arms — it wasn’t a mask. Wasn’t a performance.

It was truth.

And when the last beat echoed and the silence returned, you were both still close. Chest to chest. Breathing hard.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did you.

But you both knew.

Something was mending.

Slowly. Quietly. But surely.

────୨ৎ────

You tossed your water bottle into your bag and pulled Chan’s hoodie back over your head — oversized and warm, comfort stitched into every inch.

Chan flicked the studio lights off as you locked the door behind you. The hallway was quiet, lit in that soft blue of too-late-to-be-here.

You fell into step beside each other like it was second nature again.

“I still can’t believe I let you guilt me into dancing after soup,” you muttered.

“I didn’t guilt you,” he said, smug. “I inspired you.”

You gave him a sideways glance. “You tricked me with carbs and emotional safety.”

He grinned. “Worked, didn’t it?”

You nudged him with your shoulder — not hard, not serious. Just… playful.

As you reached the elevator, you yawned, stretching slightly. Chan hit the button.

“You sure you’re good for tomorrow?” he asked, voice quieter now.

”I’ll be fine.” You promised.

He watched you carefully.

”Ok I don’t love the idea of the photoshoot and the concept right now but I’ll be fine.”

“I get it.” He nodded.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and pulled Chan’s hoodie tighter around yourself, the warmth settling into your skin like muscle memory.

He fell into step beside you without a word as you stepped out into the night air, the JYPE building humming behind you like it was finally exhaling too.

The streets were quiet, lamplight casting long shadows over the pavement. It wasn’t cold, but his shoulder brushed yours every few steps anyway — like neither of you wanted too much space again.

“I can’t believe they want us on set at 6am.” you muttered eventually, breaking the silence.

“Hm?”

“They want us on set at six. Hair and makeup first.”

Chan winced. “I’m not in until eight.”

“You’re joking?” You shot him a look. “So while I’m getting hair sprayed into oblivion, you’ll be sleeping?”

“I mean…” he shrugged, innocent and infuriating. “Probably.”

“I hate you.”

He grinned. “No, you don’t.”

You bumped his arm again. “I do. You’re going to show up late and well-rested and smug while I’ve been sitting under fluorescent lights for two hours.”

“I’ll bring you coffee?” he offered, as if that made up for everything.

“You always bring me coffee.”

”I’ll bring you good coffee.”

“You’d better. And not just any coffee — mine needs three shots of espresso, caramel syrup, and topped with an apology."

He laughed, the sound low and warm. “An apology?”

“For making me suffer alone while you’re sleeping.”

You turned the corner together, the dorm building in sight now. Neither of you rushed it.

The quiet between you wasn’t awkward anymore.

It was soft.

Like you were learning each other again, slowly.

When you reached the hallway between your rooms, you slowed to a stop.

Chan didn’t say anything at first — just looked at you with a gentle tilt of his head.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, then hesitated. “It was a good day.”

He smiled — small, but real. “Yeah. It was.”

A pause.

Then, “You were right earlier, by the way.”

You narrowed your eyes. “About what?”

“Using carbs and emotional safety to get you to run the duet.”

You scoffed. “Unforgivable.”

“Effective,” he countered.

You laughed. That soft, tired kind of laugh that only happened at the end of a long day.

He watched you for a moment, then looked towards his door.

“You’ll be okay tomorrow before I get there?”

“I’ll survive. Just don’t forget the coffee.”

“Wouldn’t dare.”

You nodded once, turning toward your own room, but his voice stopped you again.

“I’ll bring the hoodie too,” he said, tapping your sleeve gently. “Assuming you’ll be forced to give this one up to wardrobe.”

You tugged it tighter around yourself. “I might fight them for it.”

“I’ll back you up.”

You smiled — small, soft, tired.

Then walked inside.

And for the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel like everything was falling apart.

────୨ৎ────

You’d been in the chair for nearly forty minutes.

The studio was still waking up — lighting rigs buzzing, cords being taped down, stylists quietly calling out for palettes and pins. Your makeup artist was focused on your eyes, gently blending shimmer along your lid, while the hair team worked on soft waves in your reflection behind her.

It was too early to talk.

Too early to think.

Your head was fogged, body stiff, and all you’d had so far was one sip of lukewarm coffee from the catering table before they’d whisked you into the chair.

6am had hit like a truck.

You were half wondering if you’d survive the day when a voice broke through the quiet, casual and just loud enough to be smug.

“You look like you’ve been here for hours.”

You blinked into the mirror — and there he was.

Chan.

Hair tousled, hoodie hanging loose around his frame, coffee carrier in one hand, and the ghost of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You turned your head slightly, careful not to mess the makeup artist’s work, and gave him a flat look.

“It feels like it.”

He held up the tray like a peace offering. “With espresso, syrup and an apology that you suffered by yourself for 40 minutes.”

You reached for it immediately.

“Fine,” you murmured. “You’re forgiven.”

He smiled.

Not wide. Not smug anymore.

Just soft.

”I thought you weren’t supposed to be here until 8am.”

“Didn’t want you to start the day alone,” he said, quieter now. “Figured this was the least I could do.”

You didn’t answer.

You just kept sipping the coffee, letting the heat sink into your hands as he leaned against the counter next to you.

The air between you didn’t feel heavy anymore.

Just warm.

And as the studio bustled to life around you, lights flickering on, music testing through the speakers, stylists rushing past — you and Chan stayed in your little bubble of quiet.

────୨ৎ────

The morning passed in a blur of hands and voices, brushes and fabrics, the occasional sharp pull of pins and zippers. You’d been through countless photoshoots before, but something about this one sat heavier. Maybe it was the dress — long, light, and feeling far too bare. Maybe it was the silence. Or maybe it was the anticipation you didn’t want to name.

Chan had been whisked away at 8am on the dot for hair and wardrobe. You hadn’t seen him since.

The set was styled like a dream: hazy backlights, soft smoke curling at the edges, shadows and spotlights balanced to create something almost cinematic.

You were waiting near the edge of the backdrop, arms crossed and pretending the pins in your dress weren’t digging into your ribs.

“Too loose through the waist,” the stylist muttered behind you, adjusting the back. “You’ve dropped weight again.”

You opened your mouth to deflect it, but a familiar voice cut in from the other side of the set.

“She looks great.”

You turned.

And nearly forgot how to breathe.

Chan stood at the edge of the lights, dressed in layers of white, silver accessories catching the glow. His hair was styled perfectly — swept back but still soft around the edges, jaw sharp beneath the warm filters of the lighting.

You blinked once. Twice.

“You’re kidding,” you muttered. “You look like you stepped off the set of a K-drama.”

He gave you that small, knowing grin — the one that had once meant trouble and now felt like gravity.

“You’re not exactly subtle either,” he said, eyes lingering in a way that sent heat straight to your neck. “Beautiful doesn’t even cover it.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Flattery won’t make me forget you’re call time was two hours later than mine”

“Yes but don’t forget I got here earlier with coffee for you?” He offered.

You hummed in response.

“Coffee and compliments were my plan,” he said, stepping closer. “How am I doing so far?”

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t move either.

The photographer clapped once, drawing your attention.

“Okay, everyone! Let’s bring them in.”

You both stepped into position beneath the lights.

Camera lenses clicked. Lighting shifted.

“Concept is tension and yearning,” the photographer said cheerfully. “Think unresolved. Think desperate. Like the thing you want most in the world is right in front of you, but you can’t have it. Got it?”

You and Chan both went still.

You turned toward him at the same moment he looked at you.

He raised an eyebrow, something dry and ironic sparking in his eyes.

You exhaled sharply, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Have they heard the song?”

”They know the general concept of it.”

The camera flashed.

“Subtle,” you whispered.

He leaned in slightly, his voice just as low. “It’s like they read your diary.”

You stifled a laugh, trying not to break the mood as the camera focused in. “I don’t have a diary, maybe they got hold of your laptop? Tell me, have you managed to forget it again and leave our entire discography behind somewhere?”

He snorted. “Maybe they installed cameras into the practice rooms?”

You dug your elbow into him.

And yet — the moment the shutter clicked again, and his hand brushed yours — it all came rushing back.

The practice room.

The hallway.

The way you’d kissed like you were drowning.

The way you’d pulled away like it nearly broke you.

And now — standing here, told to look at each other like you couldn’t have what you wanted most — it wasn’t acting.

It was memory.

It was truth.

And it took everything you had to keep it composed.

To hold his gaze without falling into it.

To not say I want this too much.

To not whisper we’re not done.

Because the camera was watching.

But so was he.

And your body remembered every moment you’d almost let go.

And now you were becoming surer than ever that you didn’t want to let him go again.

────୨ৎ────

The lights flashed again.

Shutter clicks echoed like heartbeats, the tempo only broken by the photographer’s exuberant voice slicing through the haze.

“Beautiful! That’s it! Yes — that’s what I want! Give me more of that unresolved ache!”

You blinked hard, willing your face not to react.

Chan shifted behind you, his hand ghosting along your waist, fingers grazing just enough to hold the pose — just enough to make your breath catch.

“Turn your head toward him,” the photographer called. “No, not too much. Just enough to suggest you’re afraid if you really look at him, you’ll break.”

You did.

You looked.

And immediately regretted it.

Because Chan was already looking at you.

And not just in character.

His jaw was tight. His eyes too soft. There was something in the way he watched you — restrained, careful, like every inch of him was fighting not to move.

Your breath wavered, just barely.

The camera clicked.

“Perfect!” the photographer crowed. “Now, back-to-back. Don’t touch yet — just let the energy simmer. That moment before you give in.”

You stepped into place.

Chan followed.

His arm brushed yours, but barely.

And still — you felt it everywhere.

You both exhaled at the same time.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, barely audible.

You didn’t answer right away.

Just let your pinky tap his, a soft press.

I’m still here.

The camera shutter snapped again.

“God, the tension,” the photographer moaned. “You two are ruining me. It’s like watching the finale of a drama where no one confesses until the last five minutes.”

Chan’s shoulder twitched with a laugh.

Your lips parted — a smile threatening — but you swallowed it.

Barely.

“Eyes closed,” came the next instruction. “You’re imagining what it would feel like to finally let go.”

You both obeyed.

And for a breath, a beat, a blink—

It didn’t feel like acting.

It felt like remembering.

It felt like wanting.

It felt like yesterday — your back against a practice room wall, his breath stuttering against your mouth, the two of you holding onto each other like the world was ending.

When the flash went off again, it startled you.

You blinked.

Stepped back too fast.

“Reset!” the photographer called. “You okay?”

“Fine,” you said, clearing your throat. “Just forgot to breathe.”

You glanced at Chan.

His gaze was steady.

But the corners of his mouth were twitching — not with a smile. With restraint.

And when the makeup artist stepped in to fix a strand of your hair, his hand hovered near your back without touching.

Close.

Protective.

Unspoken.

“Back into position, please,” the photographer called. “Same energy. You’re both so close to breaking — I can feel it!”

You rolled your eyes as you walked back to mark. “He’s very invested.”

“Little too much if you ask me.” Chan muttered as he joined you.

You looked at him, brows raised.

He looked right back.

No smile.

No tease.

Just held your gaze with a knowing look that made a shiver run down your back.

────୨ৎ────

You were back in the makeup chair again — touch-ups for the afternoon shoot, a second look that required more eyeshadow, more shine, more everything.

The stylist was pinning something new to your hair while the makeup artist delicately re-glossed your lips. You sat still, shoulders relaxed, but your stomach rumbled loud enough that the entire table of products vibrated slightly.

Someone snorted behind you.

“Should’ve known you’d skip lunch.”

You blinked into the mirror.

Chan stood behind the chair, holding a takeout bag with one hand and two chopsticks in the other. His shirt swapped for a hoodie, the sleeves were pushed up to the elbows, exposing forearms that looked far too good for how casual he was pretending to be.

“How long have you been there?” you asked.

“Long enough to know you haven’t moved in over half an hour.” He nodded toward the food. “Eat.”

You made a helpless gesture toward the makeup brush at your cheek.

He just stepped closer.

“I’ve got it.”

The stylist glanced at you with an amused smile but didn’t object. Chan cracked open the container and pulled out a pair of chopsticks with practiced ease.

The camera crew filming behind-the-scenes content caught the whole thing.

The way he blew softly on each bite before lifting it to your lips.

The way you rolled your eyes — but still leaned forward to eat it.

The way he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear while the stylist was focused on the pins on the other side.

The way he murmured, “Slow down,” when you chewed too fast.

And the way you didn’t even flinch when he wiped the corner of your mouth with a thumb and a napkin like he’d done it a hundred times before.

“What are they filming us for again?” you mumbled between bites.

“BTS of the shoot,” he said. “Mysterious chemistry, apparently.”

You snorted. “They’ll get more of you trying to spoon-feed me rice.”

“They’ll eat it up.”

“And then we’ll be trending again.”

He grinned. “Good. Maybe it’ll get rid of the rumours that we suddenly hate each other.”

You glanced at him sideways, watching the way he watched you.

Not like a secret.

Not anymore.

Just like someone who knew you — down to the way you’d lose your appetite when anxious, down to the moments you needed help but wouldn’t ask for it.

One of the staff called for Chan to get his wardrobe reset for the next series of shots. He started to move, then hesitated.

“You good?” he asked softly.

You nodded. “Thanks for lunch.”

His hand brushed your shoulder — quick, light.

And then he was gone.

The behind-the-scenes camera stayed on you a moment longer.

Long enough to catch the way your smile lingered.

Long enough to capture something that wasn’t acting.

Not even close.

────୨ৎ────

The final shot clicked.

The lighting dimmed.

And just like that — it was over.

The staff began packing up lights, stylists shuffled wardrobe racks back toward the van, and the hum of the studio shifted from intense focus to end-of-day chatter. You stepped off the backdrop and slipped behind a screen to peel out of the final look, now pinned and stitched to fit you better than it had this morning.

When you stepped out in your own clothes — hair still styled, makeup softened — Chan was already waiting by the door.

He held up a hoodie.

Yours. Well — his, originally.

You took it without a word and slipped your arms into it.

His eyes followed the movement, something soft passing behind them.

“Come on,” he said, voice low. “There’s a quiet corner in the back.”

You followed him down the hallway behind the set, past the dressing room mirrors and makeup stations. He opened a supply room door that had long since been cleared for extra seating and shut it quietly behind you both.

It was dim inside — just a small window letting in the end-of-day light, casting long shadows across the sofa and storage shelves.

You sat on the floor beside him, backs to the wall, both too tired to pretend anymore.

Chan tilted his head toward you.

“You okay?”

You nodded. “Tired.”

“You looked—” he paused. “You looked incredible today.”

You smiled faintly, curling your hands into the sleeves of the hoodie. “You didn’t look bad either. Very… brooding male lead.”

“Did my best.”

A quiet laugh settled between you.

And then silence.

But it was good silence.

Comfortable.

You leaned your head gently against his shoulder. He didn’t move, didn’t stiffen. Just let it happen.

After a long moment, you murmured, “It wasn’t acting.”

He was quiet.

Then — “I know.”

You let your eyes drift closed. “Do you think anyone noticed?”

“They noticed,” he said softly. “But I don’t think they understood.”

Your lips curved slightly. “Good.”

You stayed like that — shoulder to shoulder, the weight of the day pressing in, but for once it didn’t feel like too much.

“I didn’t think today would feel easy,” you said eventually. “Not after everything.”

“It wasn’t easy,” he said. “It was just… us.”

You turned to look at him.

And he was already watching you.

He leaned forward, his hand settling on the side of your face and softly pressed his lips to your forehead.

You say anything, just closed your eyes and leaned into the warmth of his hand.

You didn’t need to.

The quiet between you said enough for the rest of the evening

────୨ৎ────