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Ateez

Stray Kids

Series 2026 2027

Other Groups / Individuals

Crossovers

Part 18

The first time someone calls Hongjoong your boyfriend, you choke on your coffee.

"Absolutely not," you say immediately.

Liv doesn't even glance up from her phone.

"You've written a duet about emotional vulnerability."

"That proves nothing."

"You flew internationally to see each other."

"People have passports."

"You call each other every day."

"That's friendship."

Liv slowly lowers her phone.

"You had a jealousy crisis over his cousin."

"Oh my God," you mutter, covering your face.

Liv pats your shoulder sympathetically.

"Denial is a stage of grief."

"I'm not grieving."

"No," she agrees. "You're dating."

You groan loudly enough that several people in the Los Angeles café glance over.

—

Across town, Hongjoong is having a similarly terrible conversation.

"You should ask her."

Hongjoong looks up from the laptop.

"Ask her what?"

Seonghwa blinks.

"If she's your girlfriend."

Hongjoong stares.

"...That's not how relationships work."

"You've crossed three continents for her."

"That isn't relevant."

"You wrote a song together."

"Professionally."

Seonghwa raises an eyebrow.

"You sent seventeen missed calls."

Hongjoong freezes.

"...How do you know that?"

"You told Wooyoung."

Hongjoong closes his eyes.

Of course he had.

"Ask her."

Hongjoong rubs a hand over his face.

"What if we're fine like this?"

Seonghwa considers him for a moment.

"You've looked miserable every time you thought she might leave."

"Fine doesn't usually do that."

—

That evening, you're back in the studio.

Playback echoes softly through the speakers.

The song is nearly finished.

Just a few final adjustments.

Hongjoong sits beside you, reviewing notes.

You pretend to focus.

Mostly.

Because the atmosphere feels different tonight.

Not uncomfortable.

Just...

Expectant.

"So," you say eventually.

"Hm?"

"Liv thinks we're dating."

Hongjoong freezes.

Only briefly.

"Oh."

You wait.

Nothing.

"...That's your response?"

"What response should I have?"

You stare at him.

"I don't know."

The silence stretches.

Then Hongjoong says carefully:

"Seonghwa said something similar."

Your heart skips.

"...And?"

He sets the lyric sheets aside.

Then finally looks at you.

"I think everyone figured it out before we did."

You laugh weakly.

"That's concerning."

"A little."

The studio falls quiet again.

Neither of you moving.

The unfinished song waits patiently through the speakers.

Eventually, Hongjoong exhales softly.

"Arden."

Your stomach tightens immediately.

His serious voice.

Dangerous.

"Yeah?"

He doesn't answer immediately.

You watch him think.

The careful way he always chooses his words.

"I don't think this feels temporary anymore."

Your breath catches.

The room suddenly feels much smaller.

"I know," you whisper.

Hongjoong's gaze doesn't waver.

"I've tried thinking logically about this."

Despite yourself, you smile.

"That sounds terrifying."

A small laugh escapes him.

"It didn't work."

Your chest aches.

Because somehow, that's one of the most romantic things anyone has ever said to you.

"I don't know how to do this perfectly," he continues.

"I don't either."

"I can't promise I'll always have time."

Your throat tightens.

"I know."

"I'll make mistakes."

"You already have."

Hongjoong blinks.

"...That's fair."

You laugh softly.

Then he does too.

The tension eases slightly.

"But I know I want to keep choosing this."

The words settle between you.

Real.

Steady.

Terrifying.

"I want to keep choosing you."

Your heart stops completely.

Then starts again twice as fast.

Silence fills the studio.

Outside, Los Angeles traffic hums beyond the windows.

Inside—

Everything changes.

You look down at your hands.

Then back at him.

"I've spent months trying to figure out whether long distance could work."

Hongjoong waits quietly.

"I still don't know."

"Neither do I."

"But I know I don't want to stop trying either."

His shoulders relax slightly.

Almost imperceptibly.

But enough.

Enough that you notice.

Enough that you understand.

"You know what the worst part is?" you ask softly.

"What?"

"This would've been much less stressful if we'd just admitted feelings sooner."

Hongjoong considers that.

"You were jealous."

"Oh my God."

"You were."

"You remain deeply annoying."

His smile widens.

"But correct."

You laugh helplessly.

Then cover your face.

"I hate this."

"No, you don't."

The terrible part?

He sounds entirely too certain.

And worse—

He's right.

Eventually, you lower your hands.

Hongjoong watches you carefully.

"So."

Your pulse spikes.

"So?"

He hesitates.

Actually hesitates.

Which somehow affects you more than confidence would've.

Then quietly:

"Would it make you uncomfortable if I called this dating?"

Your eyes sting unexpectedly.

Because after everything—

The distance.

The misunderstandings.

The pressure.

He still asks.

Carefully.

Giving you space to choose.

You shake your head slowly.

"No."

His expression softens immediately.

"Okay."

"Would it make you uncomfortable if I called you my girlfriend?"

You stare at him.

Then laugh through the tears threatening your composure.

"You really decided to do this in a recording studio?"

"You wrote emotional devastation in a hotel room."

"...Fair."

The silence returns.

Different now.

Lighter.

Hopeful.

You wipe quickly beneath your eyes.

Then meet his gaze.

"No."

His breath catches slightly.

"No?"

"No. I don’t mind"

A slow smile spreads across his face.

Small.

Genuine.

Almost disbelieving.

"Okay."

You laugh softly.

"That's twice you've said okay."

"I know."

"And?"

His smile widens.

"I really like saying it."

Something warm unfolds beneath your ribs.

Steady.

Safe.

You reach across the couch toward the lyric sheets between you.

Hongjoong's hand brushes yours.

This time neither of you pulls away.

"So," you murmur.

"Hm?"

"I guess we're doing long distance properly now."

His fingers tighten slightly against yours.

"I guess we are."

The studio remains quiet around you.

The nearly finished song waiting patiently nearby.

Months ago, this had begun backstage at Coachella.

Two artists crossing paths briefly.

Unexpectedly.

Now—

You're sitting side by side.

Hands intertwined.

A song built from time zones and missed flights resting on the mixing console.

The future still uncertain.

The distance still difficult.

Nothing magically fixed.

And yet—

For the first time since this all started, neither of you is wondering what this is.

Because some truths don't arrive dramatically.

They arrive softly.

Repeatedly.

In choices.

In effort.

In seventeen missed calls.

In voice memos sent across oceans.

In showing up.

In saying yes to something real.

The practice room was already warm before rehearsal even started.

Not from the lights or the bodies moving through formations, but from the quiet chaos that always followed them wherever they went—water bottles clinking, shoes squeaking, someone arguing softly over a speaker playlist, and the faint sound of laughter bouncing off mirrored walls.

And today, something else entirely.

A small child in pastel leggings was currently clinging to the leg of Yunho like he was a moving tree she refused to let go of.

“Okay,” Yunho said carefully, looking down at her with the kind of concentration he usually reserved for complicated choreography formations. “We can do this safely. I just—need you to hold on properly.”

“She is holding on properly,” Hongjoong said from the speaker table, arms crossed, already amused. “She’s basically fused to your thigh.”

The child nodded seriously, cheek pressed against Yunho’s sweatpants. “I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?” Seonghwa asked gently, crouching a little to her eye level.

“To fly.”

That did it. Someone—probably Wooyoung—made a strangled sound like he was trying not to laugh and failing.

Yunho, however, looked oddly thoughtful.

“That’s… actually doable.”

The room went quiet.

“No,” Hongjoong said immediately. “No, it is not.”

But Yunho had already adjusted his stance, sliding one arm under her knees and the other around her back with careful, practiced ease. She squealed immediately, grabbing his hoodie strings like they were reins.

“See?” Yunho said softly. “Safe.”

The child beamed. “I’m flying!”

And just like that, rehearsal stopped being rehearsal.

It started small.

At first, Yunho only carried her between stretches while the members warmed up. She had arrived sleepy and clingy, burying her face in your shoulder when you dropped her off backstage, but the moment she saw Yunho doing leg swings, she had pointed at him like she’d made a life-changing discovery.

“Giant.”

That was what she called him.

Not Yunho. Not uncle. Not anything remotely normal.

Just: Giant.

And when he crouched down to greet her properly, she had immediately climbed him like he was built for it.

Now she was seated on his arm like a princess on a throne, watching everyone else with calm judgment.

“You’re going to spoil her,” Hongjoong warned again, though it lacked real force.

“I’m not doing anything,” Yunho said. “She’s the one making decisions.”

“That’s worse,” Wooyoung muttered.

But the real problem started when music came on.

They were supposed to be running formations.

Instead, Yunho was gently bouncing on his heels with her in his arms while trying to count beats out loud.

“One and two and—”

“Higher,” she demanded.

“Higher?”

“Yes. Like this.” She lifted her tiny hands dramatically. “We go up.”

Yunho hesitated, glanced toward the mirrors, then toward the rest of the group.

“You heard her,” he said.

“No, we absolutely did not,” Jongho said from the back, already stretching but watching like this was the most ridiculous thing he’d seen all week.

Yunho lifted her higher.

She gasped like she was experiencing divine revelation.

“I AM THE SKY.”

“Great,” Seonghwa said. “We’ve created a weather system.”

But then something unexpected happened.

Yunho started moving.

Not just holding her—dancing with her.

Slow at first. Simple steps, careful weight shifts, turning her gently in time with the beat. She squealed every time he pivoted, bouncing in his arms like she was part of the rhythm itself.

And then she started copying him.

Her little hands tried to match his angles. Her feet kicked in time with his steps. Her laughter lined up with the music like it belonged there.

The room shifted.

Even Wooyoung stopped talking.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “That’s… actually kind of adorable.”

“It’s more than kind of adorable,” Seonghwa corrected, softer now.

Yunho didn’t seem to notice the attention anymore. He was too focused on her balance, her timing, the way she tried so seriously to follow every movement.

“Left foot,” he guided.

“Left foot!” she echoed.

“Turn.”

“Turn!”

And when she almost slipped, he adjusted instantly, steadying her without breaking rhythm.

Like he’d done this a hundred times.

Like she was just another partner in formation.

Only smaller.

And infinitely more demanding.

It was Hongjoong who noticed first.

“She’s learning it.”

Yunho didn’t look up. “Mm.”

“She’s actually learning the choreography.”

“She’s trying.”

“No,” Hongjoong said, slowly straightening, “she’s learning it.”

That was the moment things changed.

Because suddenly, everyone was watching.

Not just indulging.

Watching.

And the child—very aware of attention—thrived under it.

By the time they ran the next section, she was no longer just being carried.

She was participating.

Yunho would step forward, she would point dramatically in the same direction.

He would turn, she would mimic it with serious concentration.

He would dip slightly in transition, and she would throw her arms up like she was performing in an arena.

And every time she nailed something—by accident or not—Yunho would quietly say, “Good job,” like she was his equal in training.

That was the moment Wooyoung started looking personally offended.

“Why does she listen to him so well?” he demanded. “I carried her once and she screamed.”

“She screamed at you specifically,” Jongho said.

“That’s not helpful!”

“She’s calling him her favorite giant,” Seonghwa reminded him gently.

That made Wooyoung pause.

“…I could be a giant.”

“You are many things,” Hongjoong said. “Giant is not currently one of them.”

It escalated after break.

They had set her down for water.

That lasted exactly forty-seven seconds.

She drank, stared at Yunho, then walked directly back over and raised her arms.

“Up.”

Yunho blinked. “Again?”

“Up,” she repeated firmly.

He looked at the others as if asking for permission.

Hongjoong sighed like a man watching inevitability unfold. “If you pick her up again, she’s never going to leave you alone.”

Yunho considered that.

Then lifted her anyway.

“She said ‘up,’” he explained.

From that point on, practice became something else entirely.

A hybrid between rehearsal, childcare, and whatever emotional event the rest of ATEEZ were not prepared for.

Yunho adjusted choreography so he could carry her through transitions.

He shortened spins so she wouldn’t get dizzy.

He slowed down jumps so she could experience the motion safely.

And she—completely delighted—started calling cues like she was directing the entire room.

“Now we go left!”

“Big turn!”

“Giant, faster!”

That last one made Wooyoung physically recoil.

“Giant faster?” he repeated. “Why does he get instructions and I get bitten?”

“You tried to tickle her earlier,” Seonghwa reminded him.

“She enjoyed it for a second!”

At some point, the jealousy became impossible to ignore.

Not loud jealousy. Not angry jealousy.

Something worse.

Petty jealousy.

Jongho tried to prove he could also “carry choreography partners,” and lasted approximately eight seconds before she declared he was “too bouncy.”

Seonghwa attempted a graceful spin with her held carefully in his arms, and she politely asked if she could go back to Yunho.

Hongjoong tried negotiating.

“You know I can count beats better than him,” he said.

She looked at him very seriously.

“But he is warm.”

That ended the discussion.

By late afternoon, Yunho’s hoodie was permanently occupied.

She refused to let go of it even when he set her down.

“Why are you attached to my hoodie,” he asked gently.

“It smells like giant.”

“That’s not a smell.”

“It is.”

Wooyoung leaned over to sniff the sleeve and immediately regretted it. “It just smells like laundry detergent.”

“Giant laundry detergent,” she corrected.

Yunho coughed to hide a laugh.

Hongjoong stared at the scene like he was reconsidering every life choice that led here.

“This is how cults start,” he muttered.

They attempted one final full run.

It lasted two minutes before she climbed Yunho mid-formation.

He didn’t even stop.

Just adjusted his hold, continued dancing, and carried her through the choreography like she was part of it.

And somehow—

It worked.

The timing didn’t break.

The lines stayed clean.

The energy stayed consistent.

If anything, it looked more complete.

More alive.

When the music ended, the room stayed quiet for a moment longer than usual.

Then Wooyoung clapped once, slowly.

“…Okay, I hate to say it,” he admitted, “but that was kind of perfect.”

“She improved the formation,” Jongho added.

“She improved nothing,” Hongjoong said immediately. “We are not encouraging this.”

But even he didn’t sound entirely convinced.

Because Yunho was still holding her.

And she was still pointing at the mirror.

“Again,” she demanded.

Yunho smiled faintly. “Again?”

“Again.”

He looked at Hongjoong.

Hongjoong sighed. “One more time.”

The child cheered like she had won something.

On the third run, she started singing.

Off-key, half-remembered melody, completely unrelated to the song playing—but somehow perfectly in sync with her mood.

Yunho didn’t correct her.

He just adjusted his steps to match her rhythm instead.

And that was when the final shift happened.

Not jealousy.

Not amusement.

Something quieter.

Acceptance.

Because it was obvious now.

She wasn’t just attached to Yunho because he carried her.

She was attached because he followed her lead like it mattered.

Like she mattered.

After rehearsal finally ended, everyone collapsed in various states of exhaustion.

Yunho sat against the mirror with her still in his lap, hoodie half destroyed, hair damp with sweat, looking like he had just finished a full concert rather than a modified daycare dance session.

She was asleep now.

Finally.

Curled into his chest like she belonged there.

Wooyoung flopped down nearby. “I can’t believe I lost a popularity contest to a giant.”

“You didn’t lose,” Hongjoong said. “You were never in it.”

“That’s worse.”

Seonghwa glanced over at Yunho quietly. “She really likes you.”

Yunho looked down at her.

Her tiny hand was still gripping his sleeve.

“I noticed,” he said softly.

A pause.

Then Jongho, uncharacteristically gentle, added, “She trusts you.”

That landed differently.

Yunho didn’t respond immediately.

Just adjusted her slightly so she was more comfortable, careful not to wake her.

“I think,” he said finally, “she just likes dancing.”

Wooyoung snorted. “No. She likes you.”

From Yunho’s lap, the child shifted slightly in her sleep.

And very clearly, very softly—

“Giant…”

Yunho froze.

The room went silent.

Then she smiled in her sleep and tightened her grip on his hoodie.

“…my favorite.”

Hongjoong closed his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “We’re doomed.”

Your daughter had been talking about this concert for three straight months.

Not casually mentioning it. Not bringing it up once in a while.

Obsessed.

Every morning while you packed your makeup kit for work, she’d ask, “Today’s the Stray Kids concert?” even when the answer was obviously no. Every evening after preschool she’d proudly show you another drawing of the members—usually consisting of giant smiles, mismatched hair colors, and an alarming number of sparkles.

And somehow, despite being five years old, she had developed an especially fierce attachment to Changbin.

“Because he looks strong,” she had explained once very seriously while eating dinosaur-shaped nuggets. “But his eyes are nice.”

Honestly, fair enough.

So when the first Seoul concert finally arrived and your babysitter canceled at the last minute, your panic lasted all of seven minutes before your manager laughed over the phone and said, “Just bring her. The boys adore kids.”

You should have known that was going to become a problem.

Because now your daughter was backstage wearing enormous noise-canceling headphones, a tiny STAFF sticker stuck crookedly to her sweater, and clutching a handmade friendship bracelet like it was a state secret.

“Mama,” she whispered dramatically, tugging your sleeve as stage staff rushed around behind you. “Do not let it break.”

“I won’t.”

“It took me four whole cartoons to make.”

“That’s basically child labor.”

She ignored you entirely.

The backstage corridors buzzed with pre-show chaos—stylists darting past with curling irons, managers shouting timing updates, monitors blasting the live audience screaming from inside the venue. You were trying to finish touching up foundation palettes at the makeup station while keeping one eye on your daughter, who sat swinging her feet beneath the counter.

Then the dressing room door burst open.

“Yah, who stole my hoodie—”

Jisung stopped mid-sentence the second he spotted her.

“Oh my god.”

Your daughter froze like a deer caught in headlights.

Jisung pointed at her with complete betrayal in his voice. “Why is there a tiny person here?”

“She’s with me,” you said without looking up from your brushes.

“Hi,” your daughter whispered.

Jisung immediately melted.

“Oh no,” he said softly, clutching his chest. “She said hi politely. I’m done.”

Within thirty seconds, the rest of the members had somehow materialized.

You didn’t even see them enter.

One moment the room was calm, and the next your daughter was surrounded by eight fully grown idols crouched around her like curious cats.

Bang Chan waved enthusiastically. “You came!”

“She’s been counting down for months,” you told him.

“I knew I felt pressure.”

Felix gasped when he noticed the bracelet in her hands. “Wait, what’s that?”

Your daughter immediately straightened with pride.

“I made it.”

“For who?” Felix asked.

She looked directly at Changbin.

The room exploded.

Changbin blinked, stunned. “Me?”

“She said you’re her favorite,” you admitted, trying not to laugh.

“OH, I’M HER FAVORITE?” Changbin yelled, instantly insufferable.

“Sit down,” Minho said flatly. “You’re getting emotional already.”

“I’m NOT emotional.”

“You’re literally tearing up.”

“I HAVE EYEBALLS.”

Your daughter carefully climbed off the chair and waddled over to Changbin, holding the bracelet up with both hands like an offering to royalty.

It was… objectively terrible.

Different-sized beads. Backwards letters. One suspiciously sticky pink heart charm.

It was perfect.

Changbin accepted it like someone had handed him the moon.

“You made this for me?”

She nodded hard enough to nearly lose her headphones.

“It says Binnie,” she informed him proudly.

“It does,” he agreed immediately, despite the bracelet very clearly reading BIINNEE.

He slid it onto his wrist without hesitation.

“Oh, he’s never taking that off,” Seungmin muttered.

Seungmin wasn’t wrong.

Changbin stared at the bracelet with genuine devastation in his eyes.

“I’m framing this.”

“You can’t frame a bracelet,” Hyunjin said.

“Watch me.”

Your daughter giggled so hard she snorted.

That was it.

That was the final blow.

The members collectively adopted her on the spot.

The concert itself was chaos in the best possible way.

Your daughter watched the opening stage from backstage with huge eyes, tiny hands gripping the edge of your sleeve every time fireworks burst across the stage.

Every few minutes she’d yell, “THAT’S MY FAVORITE SONG!” even though she apparently believed every song was her favorite song.

The members kept sprinting backstage between sets covered in sweat and adrenaline, somehow still finding time to check on her.

Felix brought juice boxes.

Chan found snacks.

Hyunjin gave her a tiny doodle on a sticky note that she immediately declared museum-worthy.

And Changbin?

Changbin was completely gone.

Emotionally destroyed.

Every time he passed backstage he’d stop to show her he was still wearing the bracelet.

“Still got it,” he’d whisper seriously.

She’d beam at him like he personally invented happiness.

You were reapplying glitter near the end of the show when you noticed the venue had finally started catching up to your daughter.

Her blinking slowed.

Her head drooped forward.

“You okay, baby?”

“I’m not sleepy,” she mumbled instantly, which answered the question.

Changbin had just come offstage during a transition break, breathing heavily as he collapsed onto the couch beside you.

Then your daughter climbed directly into his lap like this was a completely normal thing to do.

You opened your mouth to apologize.

Changbin shook his head immediately.

“She’s fine.”

Your daughter clutched the front of his hoodie sleepily.

“You did good,” she informed him with enormous effort.

Changbin looked like he’d just been handed a Nobel Prize.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Then—because the universe apparently enjoyed ruining grown men emotionally—your daughter rested her head on his shoulder.

And fell asleep.

Instantly.

The room went silent.

Not metaphorically silent.

Actually silent.

Even the staff nearby lowered their voices automatically.

Changbin froze in pure panic.

“Oh my god,” he mouthed.

“She trusted you,” Felix whispered dramatically, already tearing up for no reason.

“I can’t MOVE,” Changbin hissed back.

“No one move,” Chan ordered quietly.

Hyunjin tiptoed across the room like they were handling explosives.

Seungmin physically stopped a manager from wheeling a noisy equipment cart through the hallway.

Minho pulled a blanket from somewhere suspiciously fast and draped it over your daughter carefully while muttering, “Don’t wake the baby.”

“The baby?” you whispered, amused.

“She’s everyone’s baby now.”

“That’s concerning.”

Changbin remained completely motionless.

You had genuinely never seen him this careful before.

Usually he was loud, energetic, bouncing off walls backstage.

Now he sat stiff as a statue while your daughter slept peacefully against him, tiny fist curled into his hoodie.

His bracelet hand rested protectively near her back.

The members circled around them speaking in ridiculous whispers.

“She’s drooling on you,” Jisung n informed him.

“I DON’T CARE.”

“You whispered aggressively,” Seungmin said.

“Sorry.”

Chan crouched beside the couch with his phone already out.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Changbin whispered.

“I need one picture.”

“No flash!”

“I know how cameras work!”

Felix leaned over dramatically. “This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You say that every week,” Hyunjin replied.

“And I mean it every week.”

You crossed your arms, watching the entire scene with helpless fondness.

For people constantly surrounded by noise, cameras, pressure, and nonstop schedules, they all adapted to your sleeping daughter without a second thought.

Every door closed softer.

Every laugh became muffled.

Even the staff unconsciously started walking quieter around the couch.

At one point, a stage cue sounded loudly from the monitor and Changbin physically flinched like he was ready to fight the speaker system itself.

“She didn’t wake up,” you reassured him.

“Oh thank god.”

Your daughter shifted slightly in her sleep, pressing closer against him.

Changbin looked moments away from emotional collapse.

“Why is she so tiny?” he whispered helplessly.

“That tends to happen when people are five.”

“I would literally fight someone for her.”

“You’ve known her for four hours.”

“And?”

Honestly, there wasn’t really a counterargument to that.

During the rest of the show, changbin handed her carefully over to you.

And somehow she didn't wake up.

By the time the concert officially ended, your daughter was still asleep.

The members had changed out of stage outfits and showered, yet somehow nobody wanted to disturb her.

Changbin, especially. As soon as he was done, he'd taken her back into his arm softly

“You know you can put her down, right?” you teased softly.

He looked horrified.

“What if she wakes up?”

“That is generally what happens after sleeping.”

“But she looks comfortable.”

“She’s using your shoulder as a pillow.”

“And I’m honored.”

Chan snorted from across the room.

“You’re never recovering from this.”

“I don’t WANT to recover.”

Your daughter stirred slightly, eyelashes fluttering.

Every single person in the room stopped talking.

Her eyes opened slowly.

For a second she looked confused.

Then she realized where she was.

“Binnie?”

Changbin’s expression melted instantly. “Yeah?”

“You’re squishy.”

The room collapsed into muffled laughter.

Changbin looked deeply offended and unbelievably emotional at the same time.

“I work out six days a week.”

“You’re still squishy.”

“That’s fair,” Felix said.

Your daughter yawned hugely before noticing the bracelet still on his wrist.

“You kept it.”

“Of course I kept it.”

“You can have another one next time.”

Next time.

The members visibly latched onto those two words immediately.

“There’s gonna be a next time?” Jeongin asked hopefully.

She nodded sleepily.

“If Mama says yes.”

Eight pairs of eyes turned toward you so fast it was honestly alarming.

You laughed. “I think that can be arranged.”

The cheering was immediate.

Your daughter smiled lazily before reaching out toward Changbin again.

“Carry me?”

He looked like he’d just achieved enlightenment.

“Absolutely.”

And as he carefully lifted her into his arms while the rest of the members fussed around them, you realized your daughter was probably going to remember tonight forever.

Honestly?

Part 17

The first time you write in the same room, it goes terribly.

"You changed the chorus."

You don't even look up from your notebook.

"I improved the chorus."

Across the studio, Hongjoong pauses the track and turns in his chair.

"You removed emotional tension."

"I removed unnecessary repetition."

"You removed the entire point."

"You made everyone cry."

"That was the point."

Hongjoong stares at you.

You stare back.

Then simultaneously:

"You're impossible."

The producer sitting in the back corner wisely excuses himself to go get coffee.

—

Three hours earlier...

You'd walked into the Los Angeles studio expecting nerves.

Awkwardness.

Pressure.

Instead, Hongjoong had looked up from the mixing console, smiled softly, and said,

"You're late."

You'd blinked.

"By two minutes."

"You were still late."

"You flew across the world just to bully me?"

His expression hadn't changed.

"I flew across the world to finish a song."

"And to see you."

The butterflies had been immediate.

Inconvenient.

Entirely unprofessional.

You'd ignored them successfully for approximately twelve seconds.

—

Now, halfway through your first official collaboration session, the butterflies have been replaced with stubbornness.

"The bridge works better this way," Hongjoong insists.

"It doesn't."

"It does."

"It absolutely does not."

He folds his arms.

"You asked for my opinion."

"I wanted support."

"You wanted agreement."

"Exactly."

Hongjoong actually laughs.

"You are very difficult to work with."

"You literally produce for eight other people."

"They listen to me."

"Then they need stronger boundaries."

His laughter grows louder.

And suddenly—

You're both laughing.

The tension dissolves instantly.

Because somehow, this feels normal too.

Arguing over chord progressions.

Stealing each other's coffee.

Watching Hongjoong aggressively reorganize the studio desk while pretending not to.

Watching him adjust headphones over one ear while listening to playback with absolute focus.

You realize then—

This might be your favorite version of him.

Not the performer.

Not the person behind a screen.

Just...

This.

Creating.

—

Later that afternoon, you're curled into the studio couch, notebook balanced against your knees.

Hongjoong remains at the mixing console.

"You changed the lyric."

"You noticed?"

Without turning around:

"You wrote 'waiting rooms and boarding gates' yesterday."

You blink.

"You memorized it?"

He finally looks over.

"It mattered."

The words settle heavily between you.

You glance back down at the page.

"...I didn't think it worked."

"It worked."

"You hate repetition."

"I hate unnecessary repetition."

You narrow your eyes.

"You're contradicting yourself."

Hongjoong smiles faintly.

"It's different."

You shouldn't find that answer as comforting as you do.

But you do.

Because he notices.

The little things.

The changes.

The details hidden beneath the surface.

—

By evening, the song finally begins taking shape.

Two melodies.

Two perspectives.

One story.

Your verses carry longing.

His carry reassurance.

The chorus belongs to both of you.

The bridge hurts.

Which means it stays.

You sit cross-legged on the studio floor listening to the latest playback.

The room falls quiet when it ends.

"...Oh," you whisper.

Hongjoong doesn't answer immediately.

His gaze remains fixed on the speakers.

"Yeah."

Your throat tightens.

Because for the first time—

The song sounds complete.

Not polished.

Not perfect.

Complete.

As though it had always been waiting for this version of itself.

For both of you.

"You know what I hate?" you ask quietly.

Hongjoong glances over.

"What?"

"I think you were right about the bridge."

His eyes widen slightly.

"Are you admitting I was correct?"

"Don't ruin this."

He laughs softly.

"You were right about the chorus."

You freeze.

"...Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

You grin.

"Can you repeat it?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"You are objectively the worst."

"And yet."

His smile softens.

"You still wrote a song with me."

The room stills.

Because beneath the teasing—

The truth remains.

You did.

You chose this.

—

Later that night, after everyone else has gone home, the studio feels smaller somehow.

Warmer.

Hongjoong sits beside you on the couch reviewing lyric sheets.

You lean against the cushions, exhaustion settling into your bones.

"We should sleep," you murmur.

"You always say that."

"You always ignore it."

"Arden."

"Hm?"

He studies the lyric pages resting in his hands.

"When you sent me that voice memo..."

You glance over.

"...Yeah?"

"I thought I'd already ruined this."

Your breath catches.

He continues before you can interrupt.

"The silence."

"The schedules."

"The distance."

He exhales slowly.

"I thought you'd eventually decide this wasn't worth it."

Your heart aches unexpectedly.

"You don't get to make that decision for me."

Hongjoong's mouth curves slightly.

"I know."

"You've tried."

"I know."

Silence settles.

"I kept choosing you," you whisper.

He looks up.

Directly at you.

"And I kept hoping you'd continue."

The honesty nearly undoes you.

Because after everything—

The misunderstandings.

The rumors.

The distance.

You've both been carrying the same fear.

You reach for the lyric sheet resting between you.

Your fingers brush his briefly.

Neither of you pulls away immediately.

"You know," you say softly.

"What?"

"This would've been easier if we'd admitted feelings around chapter twelve."

Hongjoong blinks.

"...Chapter twelve?"

You stare at him.

Then laugh.

"Figure of speech."

"You were jealous."

"Oh my God."

"You were."

"You remain unbelievably pleased about that."

He doesn't deny it.

Instead, his smile widens slightly.

"I think it clarified some things."

You bury your face in your hands.

"Please stop talking."

His quiet laughter fills the studio.

And for the first time in months—

The future doesn't feel quite so frightening.

Because sitting beside him, lyric sheets scattered around your feet, unfinished harmonies lingering in the air—

You realize something important.

Distance had tested this.

Pressure had exposed it.

Silence had nearly broken it.

But music—

Music had brought you back to each other every single time.

And somehow...

That feels like its own kind of promise.

The first rule your stylist broke for you was simple.

“No one sees the full outfit before stage.”

The second was worse.

“No one asks questions.”

So when she zipped the final piece into place—hands trembling slightly—you only met her eyes in the mirror and nodded once.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know what you’re doing.”

You didn’t correct her.

Because she didn’t fully know.

Not yet.

MAMA rehearsals were always controlled chaos.

But tonight had a different weight.

Something in the air felt… watched.

Not by cameras.

By expectations.

You stood backstage scrolling through comments from your last comeback stage.

She’s too provocative. She looks uncomfortable. Why is she dressed like a child? She’s trying too hard. She’s boring. She’s a doll. She’s getting old, she should do something sexier.

You closed your phone.

Same cycle.

Same contradictions.

Sexualize or infantilize.

Never human.

From down the corridor, you could hear laughter.

Stray Kids were nearby.

Your chest tightened a little at the thought of Minho.

He didn’t know what you were about to do.

Only your stylist knew.

And the sound engineer you bribed with the flash drive pressed into his hand earlier.

“That song isn’t on the setlist,” he’d said nervously.

“I know,” you replied.

“And if I play it—”

“You will.”

He’d swallowed hard.

“…Okay.”

Now there was no turning back.

The arena lights dimmed.

Your name appeared on screen.

Applause roared.

Then silence.

Then anticipation.

Minho leaned forward slightly in the idol section.

Something about your intro VCR felt off.

Too sharp.

Too intentional.

Chan noticed first.

“Something’s wrong,” he murmured.

Hyunjin frowned. “That’s not the rehearsal cut.”

Changbin squinted. “Why does it look like… media headlines?”

On screen:

GLOBAL IT GIRL. TOO INNOCENT? TOO SEXY? NETIZENS DEBATE IMAGE.

Then:

FAN SERVICE QUEEN. ICE PRINCESS. BABY FACE MAKES COMEBACK.

Jeongin shifted uncomfortably. “That’s… not normal VCR content.”

Felix’s voice was quiet. “That’s commentary.”

Minho didn’t speak.

He just stared.

Then the music started.

Wrong.

Not your scheduled song.

Not your company track.

A beat dropped that made half the arena go silent in confusion.

A Britney Spears intro.

Whispers rippled instantly.

“What is she doing?” “Is this a cover?” “That’s not approved—”

Then you stepped onto the stage.

And the arena collectively broke.

Because your outfit—

It wasn’t an outfit.

It was concept stripped bare until only intention remained.

Fabric barely qualified as coverage.

Shimmering pieces held together more by design theory than function.

A deliberate exaggeration of everything people already projected onto you.

Too exposed.

Too intentional.

Too much.

The kind of styling companies usually used to sell fantasy.

But tonight—

It didn’t feel like fantasy.

It felt like accusation.

Minho stood up immediately.

“Are they serious?” he muttered.

Chan grabbed his wrist. “Wait.”

“Wait for what?”

But Chan wasn’t looking at Minho.

He was looking at you.

Trying to understand.

You lifted the microphone.

Smiled.

And started singing.

Not perfectly.

Not polished.

Intentional.

The opening lines were light.

Almost playful.

But the performance wasn’t about the melody.

It was about the message underneath it.

Because everyone in that room knew the song.

Everyone knew what it sounded like when spoken fast.

If you seek Amy.

And when you did—

fast, deliberate, sharp—

a few people in the audience caught it first.

Confusion.

Then realization.

Then discomfort.

Then silence.

Because suddenly they understood what you were doing.

You weren’t performing a pop cover.

You were exposing something.

You moved across the stage slowly, camera angles catching every forced gaze, every staged movement, every expectation the industry had ever placed on your body.

And behind you—

screens lit up.

Not visuals.

Words.

Real comments.

Real posts.

Pulled from your career.

“She’s asking for it with that outfit.” “She looks like a child, it’s weird.” “She should dress sexier.” “She’s boring now.” “She’s too provocative.” “She needs to cover up.” “She’s getting old.” “She’s still a baby.”

A murmur spread through the crowd.

Uneasy.

Growing.

Minho felt it like a punch.

Because it wasn’t abstract anymore.

It was visible.

Quantified.

Relentless.

Backstage idols started reacting first.

Hyunjin covered his mouth slightly.

“…That’s her actual comment section.”

Seungmin frowned. “That’s edited into the stage.”

Felix looked sick. “That’s what she sees?”

Chan didn’t answer.

Because he already knew.

On stage, you kept singing.

The chorus hit.

You smiled wider.

Because this was the part that hurt.

Not physically.

Socially.

The part where people usually cheered.

Where fancams would explode.

Where edits would turn you into a fantasy.

But instead—

the screens changed again.

More comments.

Younger this time.

14 years old and already debuting? She needs to lose weight. He should show his abs more. Why is he acting so feminine? He’s weird but funny. She’s a visual only. He’s scary on stage. She’s just the cute one. He’s the “baby” of the group.

Minho’s jaw tightened.

Hard.

Something in his expression cracked.

Not jealousy now.

Not anger.

Recognition.

Because he’d heard those words too.

Not about you.

About them.

About all of them.

Chan had been 13 when it started.

Training injuries hidden.

Schedules packed beyond legal limits.

Adults calling him “mature” while treating him like a machine.

Changbin had been told he needed to bulk up or disappear.

Hyunjin had been labeled “just the pretty one,” like artistry didn’t exist behind his movement.

Seungmin had been told his smile was “too awkward,” like sincerity was a flaw.

Jeongin had been called “the baby” long after he stopped being one.

Jisung had been told he was “weird,” as if creativity was a defect.

Felix had learned to hide freckles because softness was discouraged.

And Minho—

Minho had been told to show more skin.

More abs.

More appeal.

He refused.

So they stopped asking.

The industry didn’t forget.

It just moved on.

And stamped someone else instead.

The chorus hit again.

This time louder.

Almost defiant.

You spun across the stage, breath controlled, eyes sharp.

Not seductive.

Not innocent.

Just tired.

Tired of being categorized.

Tired of being sold.

Tired of being explained.

The final repetition of the phrase hit like a scream inside music.

If you seek Amy.

And the arena finally understood.

A few people gasped.

Someone in the audience whispered, “Oh my god…”

Because if you said it fast enough—

it wasn’t a pop lyric.

It was what the industry reduced idols to.

Desire.

Objectification.

Consumption.

Minho finally moved.

Chan didn’t stop him this time.

He walked down the aisle between seats, eyes locked on you.

Not angry anymore.

Not confused.

Focused.

Because he understood now.

You weren’t reckless.

You were intentional.

And it hurt in a different way.

The bridge hit.

Your voice softened.

Almost fragile.

The screens behind you shifted again.

This time not comments.

Faces.

Clips.

Trainees.

Barely teenagers.

Exhausted.

Smiling through pain.

Hiding bruises.

Hiding hunger.

Hiding exhaustion.

Text overlays:

Age 13 — weight check mandatory. Age 14 — debut evaluation. Age 15 — “visual improvement program.”

The crowd went completely silent.

No screaming.

No cheering.

Just realization spreading like cold water.

Minho stopped at the edge of the stage.

Security didn’t move.

No one dared.

Because the entire arena was frozen.

You turned slightly and saw him.

Just him.

And for a second—

your expression softened.

Not performance.

Not message.

Just you.

He mouthed your name.

You shook your head once.

Not “stop.”

Not “I’m okay.”

Just—

“watch.”

So he did.

Final chorus.

You didn’t smile this time.

Didn’t perform.

Didn’t seduce.

Didn’t soften edges.

Just stood there and sang the truth hidden in plain sight.

Love me. Hate me. Label me. Consume me.

Begging to be seen as anything other than a product.

When the music cut out—

silence fell so hard it felt physical.

No applause.

No chaos.

Just stillness.

You lowered the microphone slowly.

And for the first time that night—

spoke.

“I love this industry,” you said.

A pause.

“But it doesn’t always love the people inside it back.”

No dramatic exit.

No final pose.

Just truth.

Then blackout.

Backstage erupted instantly.

Managers screaming.

PR teams panicking.

Security confused.

But none of it mattered yet.

Because idols weren’t reacting like executives.

They were reacting like people.

And people understood pain faster than corporations understood profit loss.

Minho reached you before anyone else.

When the stage door opened, he didn’t hesitate.

He pulled you into him immediately.

Hard.

Not gentle.

Not performative.

Real.

For a second you almost broke.

Then he spoke against your hair.

“You planned that for months.”

“Yes.”

“…You didn’t tell me.”

“I couldn’t.”

Silence.

Then softer:

“You were right.”

That stopped you.

You pulled back slightly.

“What?”

His eyes were different now.

Not jealous.

Not angry.

Just heavy.

“I’ve heard those comments since I was a trainee,” he said quietly. “I just… didn’t know how to look at them all at once.”

Your throat tightened.

“I wanted them to see it,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I needed them to see it.”

Minho nodded once.

“I saw it.”

That was all he said.

But it was enough.

Stray Kids arrived seconds later.

No hesitation.

No discussion.

Just presence.

Chan looked at you first.

Then the empty stage screen behind you.

Then said quietly:

“…Yeah.”

Changbin exhaled sharply. “That was insane.”

Hyunjin looked almost shaken. “That was… necessary.”

Felix’s eyes were wet. “I didn’t know it would look like that all together.”

Seungmin nodded slowly. “Now everyone does.”

Jeongin whispered, “It felt like… being seen.”

That line lingered.

Because that was the point.

Later that night, news would explode.

Some calling it controversial.

Some calling it genius.

Some calling it reckless.

But fans?

Fans uploaded clips with one caption repeatedly:

We understand now.

And for the first time in a long time—

the industry couldn’t fully twist the narrative fast enough.

Because too many people had seen it.

Too many people had felt it.

Too many people had recognized themselves inside it.

In the quiet of your dressing room, Minho finally spoke again.

“You scared me.”

“I know.”

“You looked… exposed.”

“I was.”

He nodded slowly.

Then corrected softly:

“But not in the way they think.”

You looked at him.

And for the first time that night—

you smiled.

Small.

Tired.

Real.

“No,” you agreed. “Not in the way they think.”

Minho leaned his forehead against yours.

“Proud of you,” he murmured.

You closed your eyes.

And this time—

It started with a stage outfit.

A very specific one—black and gold, tailored so sharply it looked like it had been sewn from midnight itself. Seonghwa had walked past your dressing room door after rehearsal, hair still slightly damp, costume jacket half-open, and your five-year-old son had stopped mid–snack bite like he’d just witnessed a myth come alive.

“Mom,” he’d whispered in awe, “that man is a prince.”

You’d glanced up from your phone. “That man is Seonghwa.”

“No,” your son insisted, dead serious, pointing with sticky fingers. “That’s a prince. Real one.”

You had laughed then. A small, distracted thing. Because kids said wild stuff all the time.

You didn’t realize it would become a problem until the next day.

By the time rehearsal started, your son had decided two things:

Seonghwa was, in fact, royalty.

He needed to investigate the palace immediately.

He arrived at the studio clutching your hand, wearing a tiny backpack and the kind of determination usually reserved for detectives in cartoons. The moment Seonghwa stepped into the room, your son straightened like he was meeting a national leader.

Seonghwa, mid-stretch, paused.

“…Hi,” he said gently.

Your son bowed.

Not a small bow either. A full, dramatic, waist-bending royal greeting he had absolutely learned from nowhere.

Seonghwa blinked. “Did he just—”

“I think you’ve been knighted,” Yunho muttered from across the room.

San snorted into his water bottle.

Your son stepped forward, completely unbothered by the laughter. “Excuse me, Prince Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Prince?”

“Yes,” your son said firmly. “Do you have royal horses at your dorm?”

The room went silent for half a second.

Then Hongjoong choked.

Seonghwa, however, didn’t laugh. He tilted his head like he was genuinely considering the question. “Royal horses?”

“Yes,” your son said. “Or just horses. Or like… at least one.”

Seonghwa nodded slowly. “We do have… one very fast horse.”

Yunho whipped his head around. “We do not.”

Seonghwa didn’t look away from your son. “He’s very small. Very chaotic.”

“Ah,” your son said thoughtfully. “A baby horse.”

“Exactly,” Seonghwa said, completely serious.

That was the moment everything went off the rails.

By lunch, the entire studio had changed tone.

Seonghwa—who had once been Seonghwa—was now “Your Majesty,” according to Wooyoung, who took immense joy in whispering it dramatically every time he passed.

“Your Majesty, the lighting is ready.”

“Your Majesty, the peasants require water.”

“Your Majesty—OW, San stop hitting me, I’m historically accurate!”

Seonghwa, somehow, leaned into it.

Not in a joking way.

In a disturbingly committed way.

He started walking a little more regally. Sitting a little straighter. Answering questions with exaggerated thoughtfulness, like every word he spoke had to pass royal approval.

And your son?

Your son was thriving.

He followed Seonghwa everywhere like a tiny advisor.

“Your Majesty,” he asked during choreography review, “why do you spin so much?”

Seonghwa paused mid-count. “To confuse my enemies.”

Hongjoong dropped his clipboard.

“That’s not—” Yunho started.

“It is,” Seonghwa said calmly.

Your son nodded like this was excellent political strategy.

By the afternoon rehearsal break, you found your child sitting cross-legged next to Seonghwa in the corner of the studio while Seonghwa gently fixed the lid on his juice box like it was a ceremonial ritual.

“Do you live in a castle?” your son asked.

Seonghwa considered this seriously. “The dorm has… very strict rules.”

“Like dragons?”

“Like Wooyoung before coffee,” Seonghwa replied.

Wooyoung gasped from across the room. “I HEARD THAT.”

Your son leaned closer. “Are you a prince who fights dragons?”

Seonghwa’s expression turned thoughtful again. “I mostly negotiate with them.”

“Is that hard?”

“It requires patience,” Seonghwa said solemnly. “And snacks.”

Your son nodded like he had just received ancient wisdom.

From the mirror wall, San whispered, “Why is he actually good at this?”

“He’s too pretty to be stopped,” Jongho replied.

It escalated when costumes came out.

Seonghwa returned from wardrobe in full stage attire again, this time layered with a dramatic coat that made him look like he had walked straight out of a historical drama.

Your son gasped so loudly he nearly tripped over his own feet.

“YOU LOOK MORE PRINCE.”

Seonghwa glanced down at himself, then at your son. “Do I?”

“Yes,” your son said urgently. “More royal. More crown energy.”

Seonghwa nodded slowly. “I will adjust my aura accordingly.”

“His aura?” Yunho mouthed.

“His aura,” Hongjoong confirmed grimly.

By the time rehearsal resumed, something had shifted.

Seonghwa was no longer just playing along.

He was committed.

When the choreographer called for positions, Seonghwa lifted his hand slightly and said, “My kingdom requires center stage.”

Everyone froze.

San slowly lowered his water bottle. “Did he just—”

“He did,” Mingi whispered. “He absolutely did.”

The choreographer blinked. “Uh… center is yours anyway, Seonghwa.”

“Good,” Seonghwa said, as if granting permission.

Your son clapped.

The peak of chaos came during a break when your son climbed into Seonghwa’s lap without hesitation.

It was quiet for a second.

Even the staff stopped moving.

Seonghwa looked down at him like this was the most normal thing in the world. “Yes, my young advisor?”

Your son leaned back comfortably. “If you are a prince…”

“I am listening.”

“…why don’t you have a crown?”

Silence.

Seonghwa blinked once.

Then, slowly, he reached into his bag.

Everyone watched in horror and fascination as he pulled out a rehearsal headband—black, simple, slightly stretched out from overuse.

He placed it carefully on his head.

“There,” he said. “Crisis resolved.”

The room lost it.

San collapsed against the wall laughing.

Yunho doubled over.

Hongjoong had to physically turn away to compose himself.

Even the staff were smiling into their clipboards.

Your son stared at Seonghwa in awe. “You were hiding it.”

Seonghwa nodded. “A crown must be earned through performance.”

“Wow,” your son whispered. “You’re a real prince.”

Seonghwa gave a small, dignified nod. “I try.”

It should have ended there.

It did not.

Because later that day, during a brief live rehearsal stream, your son refused to leave Seonghwa’s side.

He sat on the floor next to the couch where Seonghwa was speaking to the camera, swinging his legs like he belonged there.

Comments were already going insane.

Then a staff member handed your son a snack and asked casually, “What do you think of Seonghwa?”

Your son looked straight into the camera.

Then very confidently said:

“HE IS A PRINCE. HE HAS HORSES. AND A CASTLE.”

Seonghwa, without missing a beat, added, “The horses are currently on vacation.”

The chat exploded.

The members lost all composure off-camera.

Wooyoung had to physically leave the room.

After the stream ended, chaos lingered like glitter in the air.

Your son was half-asleep on the couch, still clutching Seonghwa’s sleeve like a royal decree.

Seonghwa sat beside him quietly, headband still slightly crooked, expression softened now that the performance had ended.

You approached carefully. “You didn’t have to go that far with him.”

Seonghwa glanced at your son, then back at you. “He looked like he needed it to be real.”

You hesitated.

Because somehow… he was right.

Kids didn’t just want stories. They wanted worlds that answered back.

Seonghwa shifted slightly, gently adjusting the blanket over your son’s shoulders. “Besides,” he added lightly, “it’s not every day I get promoted to royalty.”

From behind you, San passed by and muttered, “Your Majesty, dinner is ready.”

Seonghwa didn’t even look up. “Thank you.”

You groaned. “Please don’t encourage him.”

Seonghwa finally smiled then—soft, real, no performance left in it.

“I think he’s the one encouraging me.”

When you finally left the studio that night, your son was asleep in your arms.

As you passed Seonghwa, he dipped his head slightly in an exaggerated royal farewell.

“Goodnight,” he said softly. “And safe travels.”

Your son, half-asleep, mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “long live the prince.”

Seonghwa’s smile lingered long after you were gone.

And behind him, Wooyoung whispered, exhausted:

Part 16

The first thing you notice is that airports feel different now.

Not easier.

Not romantic.

Just heavier.

Because departures mean something once you've learned what it feels like to miss someone.

You stand near Gate 22 in Los Angeles International Airport, fingers wrapped around an overpriced coffee you haven't touched in twenty minutes.

Your sunglasses hide most of the exhaustion.

Mostly.

The past few weeks have been chaos.

Press tours.

Studio sessions.

The song.

Your song.

The one you and Hongjoong had somehow built from opposite sides of the world.

The one neither of you had fully acknowledged the significance of yet.

Until now.

Your phone buzzes.

Hongjoong

I landed.

Your heart stumbles.

Immediately.

Arden

I know.

Three dots.

Hongjoong (Private)

How?

You glance toward the international arrivals board.

Then smile to yourself.

Arden

I can read.

The reply comes instantly.

Hongjoong (Private)

Suspicious.

Before you can answer, another message appears.

Hongjoong (Private)

Where are you?

You look up.

Then freeze.

Because thirty feet away, weaving through travelers and rolling suitcases, is Kim Hongjoong.

Baseball cap.

Black hoodie.

Carry-on bag slung over one shoulder.

Looking tired enough that the shadows beneath his eyes are visible even from here.

Then he spots you.

And stops walking.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then:

"Oh no," you murmur.

Hongjoong blinks.

"What?"

"You look exactly like yourself."

His laugh reaches you before he does.

"That is a terrible greeting."

"I panicked."

"You had time to prepare."

"I wasn't expecting reality."

He shakes his head slightly.

Then finally stands in front of you.

Close enough that you notice the familiar crease near his eyes when he smiles.

Close enough that this suddenly doesn't feel like video calls anymore.

"Hi," he says.

Your chest tightens.

"Hi."

Silence.

Brief.

Comfortable.

Then:

"You should sleep," you tell him.

"You should stop saying that."

"You look exhausted."

"You look emotional."

You narrow your eyes.

"I can leave."

"No."

Too quick.

Too certain.

The answer hangs between you.

Then Hongjoong exhales quietly.

"I missed you."

Your heart forgets how to function.

Because you've said it before.

On the phone.

Across oceans.

But hearing it here—

Standing directly in front of him—

Feels entirely different.

You swallow.

"I missed you too."

Something soft shifts across his expression.

Relief.

Maybe.

Then:

"Okay."

You blink.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

He nods once.

Like that's all he needed.

Confirmation.

Reality.

Presence.

You stare at him.

Then laugh quietly.

"What?"

"I thought seeing you again would make things clearer."

Hongjoong adjusts the strap on his bag.

"And?"

You consider it.

The distance.

The uncertainty.

The months of half-finished conversations.

The song.

The silence.

Then this.

Standing here.

Together.

"It's somehow more complicated," you admit.

His smile widens slightly.

"Good."

"How is that good?"

"Because if it was simple, I'd be worried."

You groan softly.

"You're impossible."

"I've been told."

—

Later, you're sitting across from each other in a quiet café tucked away from the crowds.

Coffee between your hands.

Jet lag making Hongjoong blink more slowly than usual.

Neither of you has touched the topic looming between you yet.

Instead, you talk.

About rehearsals.

About songwriting.

About how terrible airline food continues to be internationally.

"You sent me seventeen missed calls," you point out.

"You fell asleep after sending emotional devastation."

"I sent a voice memo."

"You sent emotional devastation."

You bite back a smile.

"I stand by my artistic choices."

Hongjoong studies you over the rim of his coffee cup.

"I know."

The warmth in his voice settles somewhere beneath your ribs.

Then silence returns.

Different now.

Anticipatory.

Because eventually—

One of you has to say it.

Hongjoong sets his cup down first.

"I've been thinking."

You immediately sigh.

"Historically, that hasn't gone well."

A reluctant laugh escapes him.

Fair.

Then he grows serious again.

"I don't want fear making decisions for me."

Your breath catches.

Because you've heard versions of this before.

But never like this.

Never face-to-face.

"I don't either," you admit.

The café noise fades around you.

People moving.

Conversations happening.

Life continuing.

And still—

Everything narrows.

Hongjoong looks down briefly.

Then back at you.

"We don't know what we're doing."

"No."

"This is difficult."

"Very."

"We live on opposite sides of the world."

You exhale shakily.

"Unfortunately."

His mouth twitches.

Then:

"But I don't think I want to stop trying."

The words settle into your chest.

Heavy.

Real.

Terrifying.

Because this isn't hypothetical anymore.

This isn't longing wrapped in uncertainty.

It's choice.

Deliberate.

"I don't either," you whisper.

Hongjoong closes his eyes briefly.

Relief softening the tension in his shoulders.

When he opens them again, he's smiling.

Small.

Genuine.

"You know," he says.

"What?"

"I think this conversation would've happened faster if we'd just admitted the jealousy incident meant something."

Your face burns instantly.

"Oh my God."

"You were jealous."

"You were pleased about it."

He blinks.

Then:

"...Maybe."

You point accusingly.

"Unbelievable."

"I think it's reasonable."

You laugh despite yourself.

Because somehow—

Even now—

He can still make this easier.

Then quieter:

"So what happens now?"

Hongjoong leans back slightly in his chair.

Thinking.

Careful as always.

Finally:

"We keep choosing it."

Your chest tightens.

"Even when it's hard?"

His gaze doesn't waver.

"Especially then."

The simplicity of it nearly undoes you.

No grand promises.

No impossible guarantees.

Just intention.

Choice.

Again.

And again.

And again.

You smile before you can stop yourself.

"Okay."

A pause.

Then Hongjoong mirrors your expression.

"Okay."

Outside, Los Angeles hums beneath the afternoon sun.

Schedules still exist.

Distance still waits.

Nothing practical has changed.

And yet—

Everything has.

Because for the first time since Coachella, you're both moving in the same direction.

Not because it's easy.

Not because it's certain.

But because, despite everything else—

You're choosing each other anyway.

The filming studio had been warm all day.

Not uncomfortable—just full. Full of lights, staff moving around with cables, cameras rolling, members talking over each other, and the kind older interviewer laughing so hard at Changbin’s jokes that he kept having to wipe tears from the corners of his eyes.

You liked him immediately.

He reminded you of someone’s grandfather in the best way possible. Soft-spoken between takes, endlessly patient when equipment malfunctioned, smiling at every single staff member that passed him.

By the end of filming, he disappeared briefly off set.

When he came back, he was carrying a small gift bag.

“Oh!” he said brightly. “I got something for the boys.”

The members immediately stood to bow and thank him before he’d even handed them over.

Inside each bag was the same expensive-looking perfume bottle.

The older man looked delighted.

“I heard idols like fragrance these days,” he said proudly. “My daughter helped me pick it.”

“That’s so thoughtful,” Felix said instantly.

“Thank you so much,” Chan added warmly.

The others echoed him, smiling and admiring the packaging while cameras continued rolling for bonus footage.

And then—

Someone sprayed it.

You didn’t even see who.

The scent hit the air all at once.

Sharp.

Heavy.

Sweet in a suffocating way.

Your stomach turned immediately.

The pressure behind your eyes arrived so fast it was almost dizzying.

Oh no.

You tried not to react.

Really, you did.

But migraines didn’t exactly wait politely for permission.

Your expression tightened before you could stop it, eyes squeezing shut for half a second as the scent settled around the room.

Hyunjin noticed first.

“You okay?”

“Mm,” you answered too quickly.

Chan glanced over.

You forced your face neutral.

The interviewer, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy happily explaining how long his daughter had spent choosing the brand.

You smiled at him anyway.

You thanked him too.

But Chan kept looking at you after that.

Quietly.

Carefully.

And every time another member uncapped the bottle to smell it again, your headache pulsed harder.

By the time filming wrapped, you already knew the migraine was going to become a bad one.

—

The van ride home was unusually quiet.

Not because the members were tired.

Because Chan was.

You sat beside him, hands folded in your lap, watching city lights blur past the windows.

Normally he’d rest his hand on your knee.

Normally he’d lean against you at red lights.

Normally he’d ask if you wanted food on the way home.

Tonight, he stared out the window.

Your chest tightened.

You replayed the filming in your head three different times trying to figure out what you’d done wrong.

Had you looked rude?

Too obvious?

Did the interviewer notice after all?

The guilt started settling unpleasantly in your stomach.

By the time you got home, the migraine had fully bloomed behind your eyes.

Chan kicked off his shoes quietly.

You followed him into the apartment.

Still silence.

Okay.

Now you definitely needed to ask.

“Chris?”

He hummed without looking up.

“Are you upset with me?”

That finally got his attention.

He sighed softly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“A little.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Why?”

“You really couldn’t hide it?” he asked gently, but there was frustration underneath it. “Your reaction.”

You blinked.

“To the perfume?”

“Yes, to the perfume.”

“I tried—”

“I know you tried,” he interrupted quickly. “But you looked disgusted, babe.”

The words stung.

“I wasn’t disgusted.”

“It kind of looked like it.”

You stared at him.

“He was so excited to give those to us,” Chan continued. “He was proud of it. And you made a face the second it got sprayed.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“But what if he noticed?”

You exhaled slowly, exhaustion and pain making everything feel heavier.

“I said thank you.”

“I know.”

“I smiled at him.”

“I know.”

“Then why are we arguing about this?”

“Because it hurt my feelings too,” Chan admitted. “You know how I feel about gifts. Someone gives you something sincerely, you appreciate it.”

“I do appreciate it.”

“But—”

“No, Chris,” you said, voice sharper now from frustration. “I do appreciate it.”

Silence.

Chan crossed his arms lightly.

“Then why react like that?”

Your head throbbed harder.

“Because it smelled bad to me.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“It gave me a migraine.”

The room went quiet.

Chan blinked.

“What?”

You pressed your fingers against your temple.

“The perfume gave me a migraine.”

His expression shifted instantly.

Not defensive anymore.

Confused.

“You mean like…”

“Like physically,” you said tiredly. “Chris, my head started hurting the second someone sprayed it.”

His face fell.

“Oh.”

You looked away.

“I was trying not to react because I knew he meant well. But some scents trigger migraines for me. You know that.”

“I didn’t realize it was that bad.”

“I literally felt nauseous.”

Chan’s entire posture softened immediately.

The irritation disappeared so fast it almost made you emotional.

“Baby…”

You sighed shakily.

“I wasn’t trying to be rude. I was trying not to throw up in the middle of filming.”

“Oh my god.”

He stepped closer immediately.

“Why didn’t you just tell me that in the van?”

“Because you were clearly upset with me.”

“I thought you were judging the gift,” he admitted quietly.

“I would never do that.”

“I know,” he said instantly.

And that was the thing.

He did know.

That’s why he looked guilty now.

You sat down carefully on the couch, closing your eyes briefly.

The migraine pulsed harder with every movement.

A second later, you felt Chan crouch in front of you.

“I’m sorry.”

You opened your eyes.

His expression was genuinely remorseful.

“I shouldn’t have assumed that.”

“You were defending him.”

“Still.”

He reached for your hands.

“You always appreciate people. That’s literally one of the things I love most about you.”

Your shoulders relaxed slightly.

“I just need you to understand it wasn’t personal.”

“I do now.”

You hesitated before speaking again.

“Can you just… not wear it around me?”

“Of course.”

“And maybe ask the members not to when I’m there?”

“Done.”

No hesitation.

None.

He already sounded certain.

Relief loosened something in your chest immediately.

“Thank you.”

Chan frowned softly as he studied your face.

“Your head hurts really bad, doesn’t it?”

You laughed weakly.

“A little.”

“You’re lying.”

“Okay, a lot.”

He stood immediately.

“Stay there.”

“Chris—”

“Nope.”

You heard cabinets opening in the kitchen.

Then the freezer.

Then soft muttering to himself.

A minute later he returned with water, painkillers, and one of those ridiculous gel migraine wraps you kept in the freezer.

He carefully pulled it over your head despite your dramatic complaints that it made you look stupid.

“You look adorable.”

“I look like a failed astronaut.”

Chan snorted.

Then he kissed your forehead gently.

“I’m really sorry.”

You leaned against the couch.

“I’m sorry too.”

“For what?”

“For making a face.”

He shook his head immediately.

“No. Don’t apologize for your body reacting to something.”

“That’s not exactly controllable.”

“I know that now.”

You looked up at him.

“You really thought I was being ungrateful?”

“For like… an hour, yeah.”

You groaned.

“That’s awful.”

“A little,” he admitted with a sheepish smile.

You nudged his leg weakly with your foot.

He caught your ankle automatically, thumb rubbing softly against it.

Then his expression turned serious again.

“I should’ve asked first instead of assuming.”

“And I probably should’ve explained sooner.”

“Maybe.”

Another quiet settled between you.

Comfortable this time.

Chan glanced toward the gift bag sitting near the door.

“…I can keep the bottle for display and never spray it?”

You pointed at him accusingly.

“Not in this apartment.”

He laughed.

“Okay, okay.”

Then he leaned down, pressing another kiss against your temple.

“Your health wins over perfume every time.”

And honestly?

The studio had been loud for hours.

Not loud in the exciting way—no laughter bouncing off the walls, no chaotic teasing between members, no spontaneous bursts of melody that usually spilled out whenever they got stuck on a track. This was a different kind of noise. The tense, repetitive kind. The kind that clung to the air and made even the air-conditioning feel like it was humming in frustration.

Hongjoong had been sitting in the same position for what felt like forever.

Hood up. Fingers hovering over the console. Eyes narrowed at the screen like it had personally offended him.

“Something’s off,” he muttered under his breath for the fifth time.

One of the producers leaned back in his chair. “You said that about the last seven versions.”

“Because they were off,” Hongjoong shot back immediately, though there was no real bite in it. Just exhaustion.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, then leaned forward again, dragging the playhead back. The same beat filled the room—polished, intense, carefully layered—but to him, it still didn’t sit right. Not for a comeback. Not for this comeback.

The stakes felt heavier this time. They always did, but this one had that extra pressure he couldn’t quite shake. Expectations stacking up like bricks on his shoulders.

He hit spacebar again.

Music. Stop. Music. Stop.

The cycle blurred.

Somewhere behind him, someone was talking about schedules. Someone else was laughing too loudly at a joke that didn’t quite land. A manager checked a phone, sighed, then left the room.

Hongjoong barely noticed any of it.

His world had narrowed to waveform shapes and timing gaps that refused to align the way he wanted.

“Hyung,” one of the staff finally said carefully, “you’ve been at this for a while. Maybe a break—”

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

It came out sharper than he intended.

Silence followed for half a second longer than comfortable.

Then the door opened.

No one reacted at first. Doors opened constantly in this building. Staff, members, deliveries—it was all part of the ecosystem. But this time, the atmosphere shifted in a way Hongjoong didn’t immediately register.

Tiny footsteps.

Soft. Uncertain. Determined.

Then a small voice, slightly muffled:

“Captain?”

That did it.

Hongjoong froze mid-reach for the keyboard.

The producers looked up.

Someone at the back made a quiet noise like they were trying not to laugh.

And Hongjoong—who had been seconds away from adjusting a drum pattern that had been haunting him for days—slowly turned his head.

Your toddler stood in the doorway.

Oversized hoodie swallowing their small frame. Socks mismatched. And on their head, a pair of headphones that were far too big, sliding slightly down one ear. Someone had clearly adjusted them in a hurry.

Their cheeks were puffed out like they’d been running.

And they were staring directly at him like he was the most important person in the world.

“Captain!” they said again, more confident this time.

The entire room changed temperature.

Hongjoong blinked once.

Then twice.

Then all the tension in his shoulders just… fell out of him.

“…How did you get in here?” he asked, but it came out weak. Almost betrayed by how soft his voice suddenly was.

The toddler didn’t answer the question. Instead, they took a very serious step forward, as if entering a command bridge.

“I found you.”

That was it.

Something in Hongjoong’s expression cracked—just slightly. Not a smile yet. Not fully. But close enough that the producers definitely noticed.

He looked over his shoulder at the staff member who had just walked in behind them.

“They insisted,” the staff said quickly, hands raised in defense. “They heard someone say ‘studio’ and—well—”

“I said I was looking for Captain,” the toddler interrupted matter-of-factly.

A pause.

Then someone in the back absolutely lost it and had to turn away.

Hongjoong exhaled through his nose, the closest he got to laughter at first.

“Captain?” he repeated quietly.

The toddler nodded like this was obvious. “You’re Captain.”

“And what ship am I captaining?” he asked, leaning back slightly in his chair now, all pretenses of seriousness slipping away.

“The music ship,” they said immediately.

Another pause.

That one did it.

Hongjoong pressed his lips together, failing very hard not to smile now. He rubbed his thumb over his knuckle, pretending to think deeply.

“The music ship,” he repeated. “That sounds dangerous.”

The toddler nodded solemnly. “It is. There are buttons.”

At that, they lifted their small hands and pointed at the console.

Every adult in the room instinctively tensed.

Hongjoong didn’t.

Instead, he leaned forward slightly. “There are a lot of buttons.”

The toddler nodded again, as if impressed by the scale of responsibility. “I can press them.”

A producer made a small choking sound.

Hongjoong finally smiled. Properly this time. Small, tired, but real.

“You can?”

The toddler walked forward like they had been granted access to classified systems. Hongjoong instinctively shifted his chair back just enough to make space.

“No,” one of the staff whispered immediately.

But it was too late.

Because Hongjoong had already gently lifted the toddler up under the arms and settled them on his lap.

The room collectively gave up.

“Okay,” he said softly, adjusting the oversized headphones so they didn’t slide off again. “But only the safe ones.”

The toddler nodded seriously. “I know safe ones.”

“I don’t believe that,” someone muttered.

Hongjoong ignored them.

He guided the toddler’s hands toward the lower part of the console—away from anything that could destroy weeks of work—and pointed at a harmless-looking pad.

“This one,” he said. “That one just plays sound effects.”

The toddler pressed it.

A random synth blip echoed through the speakers.

Their eyes widened.

“AGAIN,” they demanded immediately.

Hongjoong laughed under his breath. “Careful, Captain might get addicted.”

“I AM Captain,” they corrected firmly.

“Right. Sorry.”

He pressed another pad with them.

Another sound.

Then another.

The studio, which had been heavy and tight and full of pressure, started to loosen in the strangest way. Like someone had opened a window somewhere.

Hongjoong leaned back slightly in his chair, one arm loosely around the toddler to keep them steady. His earlier frustration was still there, somewhere in the back of his mind, but it had dulled into something manageable.

Something distant.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I was trying to fix a song.”

The toddler didn’t look up. “Is it broken?”

“…Kind of feels like it.”

They pressed another button. A bass drop shook the speakers unexpectedly, and the toddler giggled.

“It’s not broken,” they decided. “It’s just sleeping.”

That made Hongjoong pause.

“…Sleeping?”

“Yes. You wake it up.”

He glanced at the screen again. At the waveform he’d been staring at for hours like it was an enemy.

Then back at the toddler, who was now very focused on pressing only the buttons that made interesting noises.

“Wake it up,” he repeated slowly.

The toddler nodded firmly.

“Like this.” They slapped another pad.

A sharp hi-hat sequence played.

They looked at him expectantly.

Hongjoong hummed. Then reached over and tweaked a knob slightly.

The sound shifted.

The toddler gasped dramatically like he had just performed actual magic.

“You did it,” they said.

“I did it?”

“You woke it up.”

Something warm settled in Hongjoong’s chest.

He leaned forward again, more slowly this time, less like he was chasing perfection and more like he was just… listening.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Let’s see if it stays awake.”

Behind them, someone whispered, “Is he… fixing the track with a toddler?”

Another voice responded, “Don’t question it.”

For the next hour, the studio stopped being a battlefield.

It became something else entirely.

The toddler became an extremely serious “button supervisor,” occasionally giving instructions like “that one again” or “more space sounds,” which Hongjoong took with suspicious sincerity.

Every now and then, he would ask, “Captain, what do you think?”

And the toddler would answer with the same level of confidence as a seasoned producer.

“That one is too sad.”

“That one is fast.”

“That one is good for running.”

Hongjoong adjusted accordingly.

At one point, he muted the track and played just a drum loop.

The toddler leaned in, listening intently.

Then nodded.

“Strong ship.”

“Strong ship?” he echoed.

“Yes. We sail with that.”

He leaned back in his chair again, looking at the ceiling this time, laughing quietly to himself.

“Okay,” he said. “Strong ship it is.”

From the corner of the room, one of the producers finally gave up trying to stay professional and buried their face in their hands.

“This is insane,” they whispered.

But nobody stopped it.

Because something about the way Hongjoong had been earlier—tight, exhausted, stuck in his own head—and the way he was now—looser, softer, letting go of control just enough to breathe—made it impossible to interrupt.

Eventually, the toddler started getting slower with their button presses.

Their head tilted slightly.

The oversized headphones slipped again.

Hongjoong noticed immediately.

“You getting tired, Captain?”

A slow nod.

“Still on duty?” he teased gently.

Another nod—but weaker.

He shifted slightly in his chair, pulling them closer against his chest without thinking much about it. One hand rested lightly on their back while the other idly paused the track.

“Alright,” he murmured. “We can dock the ship.”

The toddler blinked up at him.

“Dock?”

“Yeah,” he said. “We stop sailing for today.”

That seemed acceptable.

They relaxed immediately, like someone had finally turned off a switch they didn’t know they were holding up.

Hongjoong reached up and carefully lifted the headphones off their head. The silence seemed to wrap around them both.

Within seconds, the toddler’s weight softened against him.

Asleep.

Just like that.

He stilled.

For a moment, he didn’t move at all. Just looked down at them, the chaos of the studio fading into the background again, replaced by something quieter.

One of the staff stepped forward instinctively.

“I can take them—”

“No,” Hongjoong said immediately, but gently. “It’s okay.”

He adjusted his grip slightly, making sure they were comfortable, then leaned back in the chair again.

The screen still showed the unfinished track.

Still imperfect.

Still waiting.

But now it didn’t feel like a demand anymore.

It felt like something he could come back to.

One of the producers cleared their throat awkwardly. “So… we should keep working?”

Hongjoong looked at the screen for a long moment.

Then down at the sleeping toddler in his arms.

Then back at the track.

“…Play it again,” he said quietly.

The music started.

He listened.

Not like earlier. Not like he was fighting it.

Like he was hearing it.

A few seconds passed.

Then he reached forward—not rushing, not tense—and nudged a single layer down.

“Try that,” he said.

They did.

The change was subtle.

But it fit.

Hongjoong leaned back slightly, exhaling slowly through his nose.

“…Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s it.”

From the corner of the room, someone whispered, “We’re never going to tell anyone this happened.”

Another voice replied, “No one would believe it anyway.”

But Hongjoong didn’t care.

Because the studio wasn’t a battlefield anymore.

And for the first time all day, the music didn’t feel like something he had to conquer.

It felt like something he could build.

Quietly.

Carefully.

Yeosang tries to make his birthday disappear the way mist does in the early morning—quietly, without complaint, without asking anyone to notice when it’s gone.

You realize this because the day arrives like any other.

No countdown on the dorm calendar. No hints dropped during practice. No casual, “Oh, it’s my birthday tomorrow, I guess,” slipped into conversation the way some people do when they want to pretend they don’t care but secretly hope someone will remember. Yeosang just moves through the day the same way he always does—polite, steady, soft-spoken, attentive to everyone else.

It’s the way he always has been.

You wake before him, light spilling pale and slow through the curtains. The city outside is still muted, traffic a distant hum rather than a roar. Yeosang is curled on his side, hands tucked close to his chest like he’s holding something fragile even in sleep. His lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. He looks younger like this. Gentler. Untouched by expectations.

You watch him breathe.

You think about how far he’s come.

When you first met him, he was quiet in a way that felt like he was constantly shrinking himself to fit the room. Not timid—never that—but careful. Measured. As if he was afraid that taking up too much space might somehow inconvenience the world.

Now, even in rest, there’s a subtle confidence in him. Not loud. Not flashy. Just… settled.

He doesn’t stir when you slip out of bed.

You let him sleep.

Yeosang spends most of his birthday trying to convince the world that it doesn’t exist.

When the members tease him over breakfast, he ducks his head and smiles like it’s embarrassing rather than expected. When someone mentions cake, he waves it off.

“It’s fine,” he says softly. “We don’t have to do anything.”

You catch his eye across the table.

He gives you a small look—not pleading, not defensive. Just calm. Like he’s already decided this day doesn’t need to be bigger than any other.

And you don’t argue.

You’ve learned that loving Yeosang isn’t about pushing. It’s about listening.

So you let the day pass quietly.

Practice comes and goes. Schedules blur together. At some point, someone sings an off-key version of “Happy Birthday,” and Yeosang bows in mock apology for the attention. You laugh along with everyone else, but you notice the way his shoulders relax when the moment passes.

When evening settles in and the dorm grows quiet, the others peel away one by one—some to their rooms, some out with friends, some lost to sleep. The noise fades until it’s just you and Yeosang in the living room, fairy lights still strung along the shelves from a long-forgotten celebration.

He sits beside you on the couch, hands folded neatly in his lap.

“You didn’t have to stay up,” he says.

“I wanted to,” you reply.

He nods, accepting it without question.

That’s something else he’s learned—to accept what’s given without doubting it.

You don’t announce anything.

You don’t turn the lights brighter or cue music or pull out a cake with candles blazing. Instead, you reach for the headphones resting on the coffee table—the ones you bought months ago because Yeosang mentioned, offhandedly, that he liked how they fit without pressing too hard against his ears.

You hold one side out to him.

He blinks, surprised. Then he takes it.

“What are we listening to?” he asks.

“You’ll see.”

You press play.

The song is gentle—nothing dramatic, no swelling chorus. Just a slow melody, layered softly, something meant to be felt more than heard. Yeosang leans closer without thinking, shoulder brushing yours as the sound fills the space between you.

The fairy lights glow faintly, reflecting in the dark of the window. Outside, the city hums on, unaware that this quiet little moment exists.

Yeosang exhales, long and slow.

“This is nice,” he murmurs.

You watch his profile as he listens. The way his jaw relaxes. The way his eyes soften. The way he tilts his head slightly, as if absorbing every note.

He doesn’t say much.

He never does, not when he’s truly present.

You reach for the small box you tucked beneath the couch earlier. It’s simple—no ribbons, no shine. Just something held carefully until the right moment.

When you place it in his hands, he looks at it like he’s afraid it might be too much.

“You didn’t have to—” he starts.

“I know,” you say gently. “But I wanted to.”

He hesitates, then opens it.

Inside is a bracelet. Thin. Minimal. The metal is brushed rather than polished, engraved on the inside with a date—not his birthday, but the day he stood up for himself for the first time in a meeting months ago. The day he spoke clearly, confidently, without apology.

He recognizes it instantly.

His breath catches.

“You remembered,” he says.

“Of course I did.”

He turns it over slowly, thumb tracing the engraving like it might disappear if he doesn’t keep touching it.

“It’s not for your birthday,” you add. “It’s for you.”

He swallows.

“I didn’t think…,” he begins, then trails off.

You wait.

“I didn’t think anyone noticed,” he finishes.

You reach for his wrist, fastening the bracelet gently. Your fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary.

“I notice,” you say. “I’ve always noticed.”

His eyes lift to yours.

There’s something open in them now. Vulnerable. Unguarded.

The song shifts to the next track, still quiet, still steady.

Yeosang doesn’t pull away.

He doesn’t confess the way people expect confessions to happen.

There’s no dramatic pause. No shaking voice. No sudden declaration born from overwhelming emotion.

Instead, he sits there beside you, shoulder pressed to yours, the shared headphones creating a little world that belongs only to the two of you.

“I don’t like birthdays much,” he says softly.

You nod. “I know.”

“They make me think about time,” he continues. “About whether I’m… doing enough. Growing enough. Becoming the person I’m supposed to be.”

You turn slightly toward him.

“And?” you ask.

He considers this for a long moment.

“I think I’m still learning,” he says. “But I’m not afraid of that anymore.”

Your chest tightens.

“That’s growth,” you say.

He smiles faintly.

He lifts his hand—not quite touching you yet—and then, as if deciding something, lets it rest over yours.

“I don’t say this often,” he murmurs. “But you’re very important to me.”

The words aren’t heavy.

They don’t crash into the room or demand a response.

They simply exist.

And somehow, that makes them mean more.

You lace your fingers with his.

“I know,” you say. “And you’re important to me too.”

His thumb brushes against your knuckles, slow and deliberate.

He doesn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

Instead, he leans his head against yours, temple to temple, breathing in sync as the song plays on.

The fairy lights flicker.

The night deepens.

And Yeosang—quiet, steady, quietly loved—lets himself be seen, just a little more than before.

That’s enough.

For tonight.

For his birthday.

Part 15

The song begins at 2:17 in the morning.

Not because inspiration strikes dramatically.

Because sleep refuses to come.

Sydney glows beyond the hotel window, the harbor lights soft and distant against the dark.

Your guitar rests across your lap.

Your notebook lies open.

Blank.

For the first time in weeks, you don't try to force words onto the page.

You simply sit.

And feel.

The silence from the past few weeks still lingers in your chest.

The fear.

The exhaustion.

The growing realization that liking someone wasn't enough to make long distance easy.

That missing someone could exist alongside uncertainty.

That loving someone—if that's what this was becoming—didn't erase practical difficulties.

You close your eyes.

Then play the first chord.

—

Seoul.

Three time zones and one sleepless night later, Hongjoong sits alone in his studio.

The others have gone home.

Managers stopped checking on him hours ago.

His laptop screen glows in the dim room.

An unfinished track loops softly through the speakers.

He isn't really listening.

Instead, he stares at his phone.

At the message thread.

At the last conversation neither of you had known how to fix.

His thumb hovers.

Drops.

Hovers again.

Finally—

His phone buzzes.

He looks down.

Arden

A voice memo.

7 minutes, 43 seconds.

His breath catches.

Then he presses play.

—

You don't introduce it.

Don't apologize.

Don't explain.

The recording begins with the quiet creak of your hotel chair.

Then your voice.

Soft.

Unsteady.

Honest.

The lyrics aren't polished.

The melody shifts in places.

A bridge arrives too early.

A chorus repeats unexpectedly.

But none of that matters.

Because the song says everything you haven't managed to articulate.

About airports.

About missed calls.

About learning someone across oceans.

About choosing to stay even when it would've been easier to leave.

About fear.

About hope.

About standing on opposite sides of the world and reaching anyway.

Hongjoong listens without moving.

The city outside continues spinning.

Cars pass.

Rain taps softly against the studio window.

But inside that room—

Everything stops.

—

The final note fades.

Silence follows.

Then your voice again.

Quieter this time.

"I don't know if it's finished."

A pause.

"I don't know if we're finished either."

Hongjoong closes his eyes.

Your voice cracks slightly.

"But I know I don't want silence to make decisions for us."

Another pause.

Longer.

Then:

"I think I've been writing this since Coachella."

Soft laughter.

Wet around the edges.

"If you hate it, please lie."

The recording ends.

Hongjoong stares at the screen.

His throat tight.

His chest aching.

Because somewhere between the first verse and the last chorus—

You'd answered the question neither of you had been brave enough to ask.

Not with certainty.

Not with guarantees.

But with choice.

Again.

And again.

And again.

—

You wake up to seventeen missed calls.

Your stomach immediately drops.

Then you realize every single one is from the same contact.

Hongjoong (Private)

You sit upright instantly.

Before panic fully settles in, your phone rings again.

You answer.

"Hongjoong?"

Silence.

Then:

"Don't ever send something like that and go to sleep."

Relief crashes through you so suddenly you almost laugh.

"Good morning to you too."

"Arden."

His voice breaks slightly around your name.

You freeze.

Because you've never heard him sound like this.

Unsteady.

"What?"

"The bridge."

You blink.

"The bridge?"

"The part about airports."

Your breath catches.

"Don't change it."

You close your eyes.

A tear slips free before you can stop it.

"You liked it?"

You exhale quietly.

"I think it's the most important thing you've ever written."

Your throat tightens painfully.

Neither of you speaks for several seconds.

Then Hongjoong laughs weakly.

"You were right."

"About what?"

"Saying things through songs is easier."

You laugh through tears.

"Only slightly."

"I've been working on something too."

Your heart stumbles.

"What?"

"Can I send it?"

You don't hesitate.

"Always."

—

Thirty minutes later, another voice memo arrives.

This one rougher.

Less complete.

Piano underneath.

Fragments of lyrics.

Pieces of melody.

But you recognize it immediately.

He's answering your song.

Not directly.

But enough.

The spaces where your lyrics ask questions, his offer reassurance.

The places where your melody falls uncertainly, his steadies.

You sit on the edge of your hotel bed listening.

Then replay it.

Again.

And again.

By the fourth listen, you're crying openly.

Because for months now, you've been trying to navigate impossible schedules and growing feelings through half-finished conversations.

And somehow—

You've finally managed to tell each other the truth through music instead.

—

Later that evening, your phone buzzes.

Hongjoong

I think they're the same song.

You stare at the message.

Then smile.

Arden

I think so too.

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Return.

Finally:

Hongjoong

What do we do now?

The question lingers.

Not just about music.

About everything.

You glance toward your notebook.

Toward the lyrics scattered across hotel stationery.

Toward the life waiting outside your room.

Then answer honestly.

Arden

I think we finish it.

Seen.

A long pause.

Hongjoong

Okay.

Together?

Your chest tightens.

You stare at the screen until your vision blurs slightly.

Then type.

Arden

Together.

This time, the reply comes instantly.

Hongjoong

Good

And for the first time in weeks, the silence between you no longer feels frightening.

Because now it isn't absence.

It's anticipation.

Waiting.

The space between verses.

The breath before a chorus.

The quiet before something beautiful finally begins.

Jeno didn’t mean to find it.

It happened on a quiet afternoon when the dorm was emptier than usual, the kind of rare silence that made every small sound feel louder than it should. He was cleaning out the top shelf of a storage cabinet—something he had promised himself he’d do weeks ago but kept forgetting—when his fingers brushed against a small, dusty box tucked behind an old hoodie.

It wasn’t labeled.

Which, in their world, usually meant it was either forgotten chaos… or something important someone didn’t trust themselves to throw away.

He pulled it down carefully.

Inside: old concert wristbands, a half-broken keychain, a few Polaroids… and a disposable camera.

Jeno blinked.

That was unexpected.

“Whose is this?” he murmured to himself, turning it over in his hands.

The camera was slightly scratched, the plastic edges worn like it had been carried around often. Not recent, either. Definitely not something used in the last couple of years.

And then he remembered.

You.

He smiled faintly without meaning to.

You had mentioned once—months ago, maybe even a year—that you used to love disposable cameras. Something about liking how you couldn’t overthink the pictures. No retakes. No filters. Just moments.

He had teased you then. Told you that sounded like chaos in a tiny plastic box.

You had just laughed and said, “That’s the point.”

Jeno stared at the camera a little longer than necessary.

Then, almost absentmindedly, he decided to get it developed.

Just curiosity, he told himself.

Nothing more.

A week later, he picked up the envelope.

He didn’t open it immediately.

That was his first mistake.

Because the second he did—standing in the hallway outside practice, keys still in hand—everything stopped feeling like a normal afternoon.

The first photo made him pause.

It was slightly grainy, the kind of imperfect lighting disposable cameras always gave.

It was him.

Not a staged photo. Not a selfie. Not a fan-taken concert shot.

Just him.

Standing outside a rehearsal building, mid-laugh, head tilted slightly back, hair damp from sweat. He didn’t even remember that moment being photographed.

Jeno frowned lightly.

“Huh?”

He flipped to the next one.

Another him.

Sitting on a bench, scrolling his phone, headphones in, completely unaware of the world. The angle was soft, distant—but intentional. Like someone had stopped for a second just to look at him before pressing the shutter.

Then another.

Him tying his shoe.

Him stretching between practice takes.

Him standing in line at a convenience store, hoodie pulled up.

Jeno’s expression slowly shifted from confusion to something quieter.

There were no captions.

No explanations.

Just him.

Captured in fragments.

Moments he didn’t realize anyone had been watching.

His thumb paused before turning the next page.

And then—

He stopped breathing for half a second.

Because there you were.

The first photo of you wasn’t of your face.

It was your hands.

Holding the camera slightly too low, like you were hiding it. The edge of your sleeve covered part of the lens frame. But behind it—blurred but unmistakable—was him again.

Jeno slowly leaned against the wall.

“What…?” he muttered.

He flipped again.

And again.

And suddenly, it wasn’t just photos of him anymore.

It was your perspective of him.

Him talking with staff, while you stood far enough away to pretend you weren’t watching.

Him laughing with the members during a break—your camera angled just slightly too low to be “normal.”

Him walking ahead in a hallway, unaware that someone had slowed down behind him just to capture the moment his shoulders relaxed.

Every single photo.

Him.

Him.

Him.

And between them—rare interruptions:

A coffee cup in your hand with his reflection faintly visible in the plastic lid.

The back of his hoodie disappearing around a corner.

His silhouette under stage lights from far away.

Jeno’s ears slowly turned pink.

Not from embarrassment.

From realization.

You had been there.

All along.

Not loudly. Not obviously.

But consistently.

Quietly.

Like a shadow that only existed because he was there to cast it.

He swallowed, flipping slower now.

Then he found the date stamp on one of the photos.

It was from long before you were dating.

Before he even properly knew your name beyond polite greetings.

Back when you were just someone in the same orbit.

And yet—

You had been photographing him like he was already someone important.

Jeno let out a soft breath, almost disbelieving.

Then he smiled.

Slowly.

By the time you got home that evening, you immediately noticed him sitting on the couch.

Too still.

Too quiet.

The envelope was on the table.

Empty.

Your stomach dropped slightly.

“…Jeno?”

He didn’t look up right away. Instead, he tapped the stack of printed photos against his palm once. Twice.

Then finally raised his eyes.

There was something unreadable in his expression.

Not anger.

Not confusion anymore.

Something softer.

Warmer.

Dangerously amused.

“You,” he said simply.

You froze. “Me?”

He held up the first photo.

The one of him laughing outside the building.

Then another.

Then another.

Your brain caught up so fast it almost tripped over itself.

“Oh,” you said weakly.

That was all you managed.

Jeno tilted his head.

“You want to explain something to me?”

Your face burned immediately. “It’s not— I didn’t— I mean—”

He laughed then.

Not loud. Not teasing in a cruel way.

Just that soft, breathy laugh he did when something genuinely surprised him.

“You were already taking pictures of me before we even started dating,” he said.

You covered your face with your hands. “It sounds worse when you say it like that.”

“It is you,” he corrected, still smiling.

You peeked through your fingers. “I just… liked taking photos. You just happened to be… there.”

“Happened,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. The stack of photos fanned out in his hands.

“You’ve got like,” he paused, counting silently, “twenty-seven pictures of me.”

“Stop counting!”

“And not a single one of you noticed I noticed you noticing me.”

“That’s because you didn’t notice me!”

Jeno looked up at that, eyebrows lifting.

“Oh?”

You stopped.

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it?

He had noticed you.

Just not in the way you thought.

He leaned back into the couch, grin widening just slightly.

“So what you’re telling me,” he said slowly, “is that you were basically my unofficial photographer.”

“I was not—”

“And also kind of obsessed with me.”

“I wasn’t obsessed!”

He hummed. “The evidence says otherwise.”

You groaned, dropping your hands. “I was just… observing. From a distance. Like a normal person.”

“Normal people don’t have a secret collection of candid photos of someone they ‘just happen to notice.’”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Then muttered, “Okay, maybe I noticed you a little.”

Jeno’s smile softened at that.

“A little,” he echoed.

You nodded quickly. “A normal amount.”

He looked back down at the photos again, quieter now.

The teasing didn’t leave his expression, but it softened around the edges.

“You know what’s funny?” he said.

You hesitated. “What?”

He tapped one photo—him standing under stage lights, unaware.

“I thought I was the only one who ever felt like someone was quietly watching from far away.”

Your heart stuttered slightly.

Jeno looked up at you then.

Not teasing now.

Just honest.

“And it turns out,” he continued gently, “you were there first.”

The room went quiet.

Not heavy.

Just warm.

You shifted closer without thinking, sitting beside him on the couch. “I wasn’t trying to be creepy.”

“I didn’t say you were,” he said immediately.

Then, after a pause, he added with a small smile, “You were just… kind of bad at being subtle.”

That earned a reluctant laugh from you.

“I thought I was invisible.”

“You weren’t,” he said simply.

Then he held up another photo—this one slightly blurry, taken from too far away.

Him turning his head mid-step.

“And apparently,” he added, “I wasn’t either.”

You looked at it.

Then at him.

Then whispered, “So… you’re not mad?”

Jeno blinked.

Then looked genuinely offended by the idea.

“Mad?” he repeated. “Why would I be mad?”

He leaned closer, bumping his shoulder lightly against yours.

“These are kind of cute.”

You frowned. “Kind of?”

His grin returned instantly.

“Okay,” he corrected, “very cute.”

You buried your face again. “I cannot believe this is happening.”

Jeno laughed, properly this time.

Then, quieter, he added:

“I like it.”

You looked up.

He was still flipping through the photos, but his thumb lingered on one longer than the rest.

“You didn’t just take pictures of me,” he said softly. “You were… paying attention.”

That word sat between you for a moment.

Attention.

Not obsession.

Not distance.

Just attention.

Care, in its quietest form.

Jeno leaned back, resting his head against the couch.

“And now I get to tease you about it forever,” he added.

You groaned again. “Of course you do.”

He smiled.

“Hey,” he said lightly, nudging your knee with his. “At least I know I’ve always been your favorite subject.”

You looked at him.

At the photos scattered between you.

At the boy you had once only observed from afar, now sitting right beside you like he had always belonged there.

“…You were just easy to photograph,” you said quietly.

Jeno hummed. “That’s your excuse?”

“It’s the truth.”

He smiled a little softer then, folding the photos neatly back into the envelope.

“Good,” he said.

Then, after a pause:

“Because I think I like knowing I’ve always been someone you looked at like that.”

You didn’t answer immediately.

You didn’t need to.

The cabin lights had dimmed hours ago, leaving the airplane in a soft, bluish hush that made everything feel suspended between sleep and sky.

Somewhere in the distance, the hum of the engines stretched like a steady breath. The kind that should have been comforting—but after filming schedules, interviews, and a full day of chaos, even comfort felt heavy.

You had promised yourself you wouldn’t fall asleep.

You really had.

But then BTS had boarded first class, laughing quietly as they settled into their seats, and somehow your resolution had already started cracking.

And then there was him, Taehyung.

He didn’t even say anything at first. Just slid into the seat beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world, loosening his scarf, checking the tray table, humming something under his breath that you couldn’t quite place.

“You look like you’re going to fall asleep mid-sentence,” he’d said lightly, eyes flicking toward you.

“I am not,” you had insisted immediately.

He had smiled like he didn’t believe a single word.

Now, several hours later, you were proving him right.

Your head had tipped once.

Twice.

And the third time, you didn’t even fight it.

You just… gave in.

Your shoulder found his before your brain fully processed what was happening, and the warmth of him—solid, steady, real—made every remaining thread of resistance unravel.

Taehyung had gone still.

Not uncomfortable.

Not surprised.

Just… attentive.

Like he was suddenly more aware of you than the entire plane.

You mumbled something incoherent, half-asleep apology maybe, and he adjusted slightly so you wouldn’t have to fight gravity anymore.

“Go to sleep,” he murmured, voice so soft it barely existed over the engine hum. “I’ve got you.”

And that was the last thing you remembered clearly.

Now, time had blurred.

Your sleep wasn’t deep enough to be fully gone from the world, but it wasn’t light enough to care about it either. You drifted in and out of awareness—warmth, fabric, the faint scent of something clean and woody that you’d started associating with him.

Taehyung’s shoulder was steady beneath your cheek.

His arm, resting carefully near yours, shifted every so often—not to move away, but to adjust so you didn’t slip.

Every few minutes, you’d feel it.

A subtle check.

A small repositioning.

A quiet reassurance.

Like he was making sure you were still there.

At some point, a flight attendant passed, and you heard voices—low, polite.

“Should we wake her?”

A pause.

Then another voice, closer.

“No.”

Firm.

Unusually firm.

It took your sleep-drunk mind a few seconds to register that it was him.

Taehyung.

“I’ll handle it,” he added quietly.

There was a rustle. The faint sound of someone shifting in their seat nearby.

Probably one of the others.

You didn’t open your eyes. Couldn’t. The weight of sleep had your lashes stuck together like glue.

But you listened anyway.

A familiar voice, amused: “She’s been out for hours.”

Another, softer laugh.

“She looks like she’s not moving anytime soon.”

Taehyung responded immediately.

“Exactly.”

A pause.

Then, more carefully—like he was choosing his words around something fragile.

“Let her sleep.”

Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten even in half-consciousness. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… certain.

Like there wasn’t even a debate in his mind.

You were sleeping.

So you stayed sleeping.

That was it.

A faint chuckle from across the aisle—someone teasing him, probably.

“You’re not letting us move her?”

“No,” Taehyung said again, this time with something gentler under it. “She’s comfortable.”

Another pause.

Then softer, almost fond:

“I don’t want to wake her.”

Your fingers twitched slightly where they rested on your lap.

You weren’t sure if anyone noticed.

But Taehyung did.

His hand shifted subtly—barely a movement at all—and for a moment, his fingertips brushed lightly against your knuckles, grounding you without pulling you out of sleep.

It was instinctive.

Protective.

Like he was anchoring you there.

At some point, you drifted deeper again.

This time, you dreamed.

Not clearly. More like fragments stitched together.

Airport lights.

Laughter.

The feeling of being carried without actually moving.

A soft voice saying your name.

And always, always the warmth of Taehyung’s shoulder beneath your cheek like it belonged there more than anything else in the world.

When you surfaced again, the plane was quieter.

The cabin lights were dimmer still, almost nonexistent now. Most people were asleep or pretending to be.

Your cheek was still pressed against him.

You blinked slowly, disoriented.

For a moment, you didn’t move.

Just… existed there.

Safe.

Warm.

Too comfortable to question anything.

Then you realized your position hadn’t changed at all.

Not once.

Not even slightly.

And neither had he.

Taehyung was still sitting exactly the same way, head tilted just enough to rest lightly against his seat, eyes half-lidded but not fully closed.

Like he’d been awake the whole time.

Or at least half-awake.

You shifted slightly.

Immediately, his voice came—quiet, low.

“Hey.”

You froze.

“…Hi,” you murmured, voice rough from sleep.

A soft breath of laughter escaped him.

“You’re back.”

“…Was I gone?”

“For a while,” he said. Then, after a beat, softer: “You fell asleep on me.”

“I noticed,” you said weakly, blinking harder now as awareness returned in waves. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he interrupted gently.

You turned your head slightly, finally looking at him properly.

His hair was a little messier than earlier. His eyes tired but soft. There was something unreadable in his expression—not upset, not amused exactly.

Just… warm.

Like he’d been watching over something fragile and had no intention of stopping.

“I didn’t let them move you,” he added casually.

You blinked. “What?”

He tilted his head a little.

“They wanted to wake you up when they were getting up earlier. I said no.”

A pause.

Then, almost like it should’ve been obvious:

“You were comfortable.”

Your throat went oddly tight.

“That’s… kind of extreme, isn’t it?”

He hummed, considering.

“No.”

You stared at him.

He stared back, completely unbothered.

Then he added, quieter:

“You looked peaceful.”

That did it.

Something in your chest folded in on itself, soft and strange and unprepared.

You looked away first, pretending to adjust your position.

“I could’ve just moved,” you muttered.

“I know,” he said.

But there was no regret in his tone.

Only certainty.

You shifted again, realizing only now that your neck wasn’t stiff, your shoulder didn’t ache, and your head hadn’t been left to hang awkwardly for hours like it normally would on long flights.

He’d adjusted himself around you the entire time.

Without complaint.

Without waking you.

You swallowed.

“Didn’t your arm go numb?”

Taehyung glanced down at it, flexed his fingers slightly.

“Maybe a little.”

“You should’ve moved me.”

He gave you a look then.

Not sharp.

Just direct.

“I didn’t want to.”

Silence.

The plane hummed on.

Somewhere behind you, someone shifted in their sleep.

Taehyung leaned back slightly, rolling his shoulder once like he was testing it.

Then he added, almost absentmindedly:

“You don’t get many moments like that.”

You frowned slightly. “Like what?”

He turned his head toward the window for a second before answering.

“Where you’re not thinking about anything. Just… resting.”

His voice softened.

“And trusting that someone else will handle everything for a while.”

That sentence settled between you like something heavier than it should’ve been.

You didn’t respond immediately.

Because you didn’t know how.

Eventually, you said quietly, “You could’ve woken me up.”

Taehyung shook his head.

“I didn’t want to.”

A pause.

Then, more honest:

“I liked that you fell asleep on me.”

Your heart did something inconvenient at that.

You looked down at your hands, suddenly unsure what to do with them.

“That sounds dangerous,” you muttered, trying to lighten it.

He let out a soft laugh.

“Why?”

You hesitated.

“Because now you’ll expect it.”

That made him quiet for a second.

Then he leaned back slightly, eyes still on you.

“I already do.”

The honesty of it was disarming.

Not loud.

Not performative.

Just simple truth, said like it was obvious.

Like it had always been that way.

The rest of the flight passed in a strange calm.

You didn’t fall back asleep, but you stayed close enough to him that your shoulder still brushed his occasionally when the plane shifted.

And every time it did, he didn’t move away.

He adjusted.

Just slightly.

Always making space for you without ever making it obvious he was doing it.

At one point, you noticed his arm again.

Still slightly stiff.

Still clearly tired.

Without thinking too hard about it, you shifted a little closer.

He glanced at you.

You didn’t explain.

Just leaned in again, lightly.

A silent correction.

This time, he didn’t just accept it.

He relaxed into it.

Like he'd been waiting for you to do exactly that.

Hours later, when the announcement came that you were beginning descent, the cabin stirred back to life.

People waking.

Lights brightening.

Movement returning.

You sat up slowly, blinking against the sudden shift in atmosphere.

Taehyung stretched his shoulder once, rolling it carefully.

Then he glanced at you.

“You okay?”

You nodded.

Then, after a beat:

“…You’re ridiculous.”

He smiled faintly. “I know.”

“You didn’t have to sit like that the whole time.”

“I did.”

You gave him a look.

He shrugged slightly.

“You were sleeping.”

There it was again.

Like that was enough reason for anything.

You exhaled slowly, shaking your head.

“I feel like I should be apologizing to your spine.”

He laughed softly at that, real this time.

“Don’t.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“It was worth it.”

You didn’t answer immediately.

Because the way he said it didn’t feel like exaggeration.

It felt like truth he wasn’t trying to dress up.

The plane tilted slightly as it began its descent, clouds breaking apart beneath the window.

Taehyung leaned his head back again, eyes half-lidded.

Then, almost like an afterthought, he said:

“Next time, just fall asleep again.”

You blinked at him.

He looked at you then, calm and certain.

“I’ll still be here.”