The Library

chan

bang chan does not sleep. everyone knows that. 

he goes to bed into the next day—3am, 4am, sometimes not at all—and wakes up looking like he’s been in an toxic relationship with his pillow. it’s a thing. a legend, even. the morning game among the members is always:

“what time do you think chan slept last night?” “earlier or later than 3am?”

so when he walks into morning dance practice looking… rested?

eyes clear. hoodie on straight. skin dewy. shoulders not hunched like a man carrying three unfinished tracks.

suspicion brews.

no one’s said it yet, but the members are all thinking the same thing

seungmin narrows his eyes like he’s solving a mystery. then, slowly, he raises a finger and points directly at chan.

“what time,” he begins, voice ominous, “did you sleep last night?”

it’s the sacred question. normally used to roast him. normally answered with some sleep-deprived groan and a “i don’t know, man.” but this time, it comes out… almost reverent. because the idea of bang chan getting a full night’s sleep is no longer a joke—it’s truth.

chan blinks. like he didn’t expect anyone to ask.

“uh…” he rubs the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “y/n was tired. we kinda crashed around midnight.”

midnight.

midnight.

you could hear a pin drop on the dance floor.

jeongin just stares. mouth slightly open. brain buffering.

“you slept... at midnight?” he echoes.

chan shrugs, trying to play it off but he can’t hide the way his lips twitch like he’s just a little too proud. “yeah, she knocked out so i didn’t want to wake her.”

“s-so you just… fell asleep? did she drug you or something?”

chan just laughs. “nah, i just like being next to her. it’s easy to fall asleep.”

jeongin looks like he’s witnessing a crime scene. or maybe a miracle. it’s hard to tell.

“he’s broken,” he whispers, still staring. “she’s broken him.”

seungmin doesn’t even blink. he crosses his arms and says, deadpan, “no. she’s fixed him.”

and that day, for the first time in forever, chan doesn’t yawn once.

minho - “don’t touch my ass.”

minho is many things. dancer. cat dad. human embodiment of strange.

but above all. he’s a butt hunter.

he will grope, slap, poke, and outright ambush the butts of any member foolish enough to turn their back on him. it's not even weird anymore, it's tradition. a stray kids rite of passage.

so when several days go by with no butt activity? suspicion brews.

jisung is the first to notice. obviously. he passes minho in the hallway and flinches out of habit, or trauma, but nothing. not even a threatening twitch.

it’s unsettling. so unsettling, in fact, that jisung decides to take matters into his own hands.

literally.

the next day, backstage at inkigayo, jisung makes his move.

minho’s facing the mirror, fixing his hair. perfect. jisung creeps up behind him like he’s in a nature documentary.

and then…pat. a clean, respectful grab. 

he waits. silence.

minho blinks at his reflection, then turns around slowly. calmly.

then: “don’t touch my ass.”

jisung chokes. “what?”

minho just stares at him. blank. serious. 

“don’t touch my ass,” he repeats, tone calm like he’s scolding a cat for scratching the couch again.

“are you mad at me? jisung sputters. 

that finally gets minho’s full attention. he sighs, and looks up at jisung like he’s explaining something very simple to a very dumb squirrel.

“no. i’m not mad at you,” he says, voice calm. “it’s not about you.”

jisung blinks, confused and still braced for impact. “then what is it?”

minho shrugs, like it’s obvious. “it’s y/n.”

there’s a pause as jisung tries to keep up.

minho sighs again, rubbing the back of his neck. “like… i wouldn’t love it if other people were grabbing my partner’s ass all the time, even as a joke, you know? and yeah, it’s always been just us messing around, but still. she’s my girlfriend. i wanna be consistent.”

jisung stares. “so… you’re retiring from ass play.”

minho gives him a flat look. “don’t call it that.”

jisung holds up both hands, backing off. “okay, okay. sorry. just—wow. that’s actually kind of sweet. and disturbingly mature.”

“you had a good run. but i’m taken now. full package. including the rear.”

jisung almost falls to his knees.

“she’s corrupted you.”

changbin - “i hope you lose your pump.”

changbin is reliable.

rain or shine, comeback or break, he goes to the gym.

if he skips a day, he complains that he can “feel himself shrinking.” if his members skip leg day, he offers to carry them and their guilt.

so when he’s not at the gym by 10am, it’s weird. when he’s not at the gym by noon? alarming. and when he’s not at the gym at all?

something is deeply wrong.

minho’s the first to text:

you alive or did you get hit by car 

no reply.

by 2pm, some have migrated to the dorms to check on him in person. they knock. no answer. chan tries the handle—unlocked.

and there he is.

changbin. on the couch. blanket over his legs. one arm around you, the other lazily flipping through netflix. a half-eaten bowl of popcorn on his lap.

he looks up. blinks.

“oh, hey,” he mumbles, clearly still half-asleep. “didn’t hear you.”

silence.

you offer a small wave from behind the couch. “hi.”

minho squints. 

“where were you?” chan asks, tone sharp like an accusation.

changbin blinks. “sorry?”

“the gym,” minho says, gesturing wildly. 

changbin furrows his brows. “i don’t remember telling you i was going.”

“you never have to tell us,” chan cuts in, clearly distressed. “you always go. we stopped asking you ages ago.”

“you’re the one who made a whole speech about how ‘discipline is showing up even when you don’t feel like it.’” minho scoffs.

you shift under the blanket slightly, sitting up a bit straighter, and speaking up for the first time since the interrogation began.

“i called him over,” you say simply, voice soft but teasing. “sorry none of you have girls asking to spend time with you.”

minho scoffs. 

changbin chuckles beside you, hand up for a high-five. you slap it, grab another handful of popcorn, and lean back with a smile.

chan shakes his head, but his lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile. “can’t even be mad. you look happy.”

“you’ve changed,” minho says solemnly, but really, he’s proud. “i hope you lose your pump.”

changbin grins. “you’re just jealous.”

they probably are.

hyunjin - “she likes me when i'm low-effort.”

hyunjin doesn’t just get ready. he curates.

every outfit is a look. every look has a theme. earrings. scarves. a gentle waft of expensive perfume that smells like whispered poetry.

so when he walks out of his room wearing—

sweatpants. a plain white t-shirt. no versace. no rings. no 12-step skincare glow. just lip balm.

his roommate, changbin, nearly drops his protein shake.

“hold still.” he steps in front of the door, arms spread like he’s blocking a crime scene. “are you really going out like that?”

hyunjin blinks. looks down at himself like he forgot what he put on. then shrugs. “yeah. date.”

“with who, your bed?”

silence.

“you’re going out with your girlfriend, hyunjin.” he says slowly, 

hyunjin tilts his head. “she likes me just fine this way.”

changbin gestures wildly. “you’re wearing sweatpants.”

hyunjin shrugs again, utterly unbothered. “they're clean.”

“and the plain white tee?”

“she said i look cute when i’m low-effort.”

changbin groans like he’s being personally attacked. “do you know how hard i tried to look good the last time i saw a girl? i changed outfits four times and still ended up sweating through my shirt.”

hyunjin just smirks, grabbing his phone off the counter before opening the door. “maybe you should’ve tried less.” he adds casually, before stepping out. “bye.”

and all changbin can do is stand there, shaking his head, whispering.

“she’s changed him.” 

han - his ego took a sick day

jisung milks compliments. he lives off the validation.

in interviews, when asked who's the funniest? “obviously me.”

best-looking? “me, but hyunjin’s close.”

most talented? “it’s me. i wrote this question.”

you’re at the jyp cafeteria, trays clinking, the hum of trainees and staff in the background as you sit shoulder to shoulder with jisung at a corner table, while hyunjin and felix are across from you.

jisung’s rambling about something—probably a dream, possibly a conspiracy—chopsticks waving as he talks through a mouthful of rice. that’s when you notice it.

a tiny scrap of seaweed. clinging to the edge of his lip.

you lean in just a bit, tapping the side of your own mouth. “right there.”

he pauses, tongue darting out instinctively to swipe the spot along with a flick of his eyes up at you like, did i get it?

and somehow… it’s stupidly attractive.

and it hits you.

“you’re so handsome,” you murmur.

hyunjin and felix immediately stop eating.

the air stills.

felix sets down his spoon with a slow motion.

hyunjin glances at felix. then at you. then at jisung. they both brace for it.

this is the moment where his ego explodes.

he’s about to say something cocky. something ridiculous like "thank you for the unnecessary comment—everyone already knows that."

but none of that happens.

instead?

jisung freezes.

his chopsticks stop mid-air. his lips part slightly, like the words never formed.

felix and hyunjin exchange a slow, stunned glance across the table, like they’re witnessing something rare and possibly mythical.

jisung clears his throat. forces a tiny smile. not his usual smug grin—something smaller. bashful.

you tilt your head, soft and sincere as you repeat. “you’re really handsome.”

he ducks his head slightly, mumbling, “stop,” but there’s no bite in it.

you grin.

that’s when hyunjin leans forward dramatically, hand cupping his mouth. “i didn’t know you were capable of being humble.”

jisung groans, shoving a spoonful of rice into his mouth just to avoid talking. “shut up.”

hyunjin smirks. “you’re blushing.”

“i am not.”

felix points. “then why are your ears the color of gochujang?”

jisung throws him a look, cheeks puffed full of rice like a chipmunk. he chews dramatically, swallows, and finally mutters—

“god forbid i get a little flustered when my girlfriend compliments me.”

hyunjin groans dramatically, flopping back in his chair. “she softened him. he’s fully simmered.”

felix sighs into his hands. “remember when he used to call himself ‘sex on legs’ and say we were lucky to know him?”

jisung shovels another spoonful of rice into his mouth. “still true,” he mumbles.

he then looks at you—blushing, with a small smile.

felix - "i’m keeping her on her toes.”

felix is a certified cuddle bug.

he initiates first, always. doesn’t matter the time, the place, or the number of witnesses. if you're standing still for more than five seconds? he’s already wrapped around you like a weighted blanket if it had freckles.

he hugs everyone. back hugs. side hugs. full-body collapse hugs. the man radiates affection like it’s photosynthesis—he needs it to live, and he makes sure everyone else gets a dose too.

but ever since he started dating you…you started playing this little game. felix has decided to become your greatest enemy.

you step into the recording studio with a bright smile, holding iced americanos.

only felix, chan, and jisung today. chan looks up from the mixing board, immediately grinning. “oh, legend. thank you.”

jisung’s in the booth, mid-bar, rapping like his life depends on it.

you walk over to felix, who’s perched on the couch, headphones around his neck, scribbling notes in a lyric sheet. you set the tray of drinks down on the little table beside him, lean down, and press a soft kiss to his cheek.

then, naturally, you slide your arms around him in a casual hug.

he doesn’t move.

no returning squeeze. no snuggle into your shoulder. no dramatic gasp and full koala-mode cling. just him—smiling, smug.

smiling, but not hugging back.

you pull back just enough to pout. “felix. not this again.”

chan glances up from his monitor, brows raised. “what are you doing?”

felix turns to him. “she always expects the hugs. i’m trying to keep her on her toes.”

you groan. “we live for the hugs, felix. there are rules.”

“i know.” he winks. “that’s why i break them.”

chan leans back in his chair, eyes wide like he’s seeing felix for the first time. “you’ve… developed self-control.”

you sigh dramatically, still half in his lap. “unfortunately.”

felix scoffs, poking your side. “don’t act like you’re some poor victim. you dodge me all the time!”

you narrow your eyes. “okay, fine. if you wanna play that game… how about neither of us do anything?”

felix leans back like he’s genuinely considering it. “alright. okay. deal.”

a beat passes. one whole second.

then—

he immediately lunges forward, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your neck. “too late.”

you squeal as he hugs you tight and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, smug and unrepentant.

“felix!” you gasp, laughing. “you lasted one second!”

he grins into your shoulder. “you looked too cute being all serious.”

chan shakes his head from across the room, muttering, “so much for self-control.”

felix shrugs, arms still locked around you. “self-control’s overrated.”

you could only change him so much.

seungmin - no one knows where the savage went

seungmin has the softest little voice. polite. gentle. that kind of light, effortless tone that sounds like it should be used to offer you tea or read bedtime stories. 

but then he opens his mouth and says something like,

“you look like someone who peaked in high school,” with the same tone you'd use to say, have a nice day.

and that’s the seungmin everyone knows—sharp-tongued, savage, and weirdly charming about it. naturally, everyone assumes he’d be the same with a partner. 

you’re sitting with felix and changbin in the practice room when seungmin walks in, sipping his iced tea. he plops down next to you and greets the group with his usual drawl.

as you start unwrapping a protein bar, he eyes it casually and goes, “is that your second one today?”

you nod with a muffled “mhm,” mid-bite.

across from you, changbin freezes—brows raised, lips already curling like he’s bracing for the roast. he’s heard this setup before. he knows seungmin’s usual follow-up. normally, it’s a deadpan jab about how someone eats like a vacuum, or a not-so-subtle fat joke about needing a second lunch just to function. he’s ready.

but instead?

seungmin leans his head slightly toward you, eyes soft. “you like those ones, right? i’ll grab you a couple more next time i’m at the store.”

you blink at him, surprised—but smile, warmth blooming in your chest. “really?”

he nods, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. then reaches over, gives your knee a light pat.

changbin looks offended. “okay, how come you never say stuff like that to me? i’m the one who put her on those protein bars.”

seungmin doesn’t even look up.

“because when you eat, it sounds like a construction site.”

felix loses it, nearly spilling his drink as he doubles over laughing.

changbin gapes, pointing at seungmin. “i chew normally!”

seungmin finally looks up, deadpan. “you breathe heavy before opening a snack.”

you’re gaping at seungmin, caught between shock and laughter. “seungmin.”

he finally cracks—a tiny, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he turns toward you. he opens his mouth just slightly, so, huffing a laugh, you lift the protein bar and hold it up to his mouth.

seungmin bites down on the protein bar, eyes locked on yours—soft, a little smug, but mostly just… fond. like the insult he threw five seconds ago didn’t exist. like you’re the only thing in the room.

felix watches the entire thing unfold from the corner of the couch, straw halfway to his mouth, forgotten.

“somehow,” he mutters to changbin, stunned. “she’s tamed him.”

jeongin - "she's normal"

jeongin is the maknae 💜. and he loves being the maknae.

gets away with things. never has to go first. everyone looks out for him.

but the second one of his members tries to baby him? it’s war.

if hyunjin tries to feed him a spoonful—he glares like he’s been betrayed. if anyone calls him “innie baby”? he files for emotional damages.

he secretly loves the attention, obviously. but he’ll never admit it. not to their faces. not in this lifetime.

so when he walks off stage after the main performance, sweat-damp and glowing, and heads backstage for a breather before the encore, it’s a complete shock when jeongin lets you be touchy. lets you baby him. cause they’ve all tried and failed.

“you did so well, baby,” you say, all soft and proud, hands reaching up to fix the little flyaways at his temple.

even just the pet name “baby” hits the room like a mic drop.

hyunjin physically recoils. 

jeongin just looks at you—shy smile pulling at the corner of his lips—and quietly asks, “you think so?”

you nod immediately. “i know so. you looked amazing out there.”

he blushes, eyes dropping, but he doesn’t pull away. if anything, he leans in a little—like your presence is the calm after the storm.

you cup his cheeks briefly, thumbs brushing just under his eyes. “i’m so proud of you, innie.”

another pet name. another shockwave.

this time, hyunjin can’t help himself. he dramatically stumbles backward like he’s been shot. so of course hyunjin takes it as a challenge.

on his way past, he reaches out and ruffles jeongin’s hair exactly the way he knows jeongin hates—fingers scratchy, deliberately messing it up.

“great job, baby,” hyunjin mocks in a high-pitched voice, grinning.

jeongin flinches immediately.

you laugh, covering your mouth as you watch the chaos unfold.

but hyunjin’s already on a mission.

he swoops in again—arms outstretched for a dramatic hug, lips puckered exaggeratedly as he leans in with a loud, “come here, my innie baby—”

jeongin panics, pushing at his chest with both hands. “get off me!”

hyunjin stumbles back, hand on his heart like he’s been betrayed. “come on! what is this? what does she have that i don’t?”

jeongin doesn’t even hesitate.

“she’s normal,” he deadpans, fixing his hair.

hyunjin staggers like the words physically struck him, hand still pressed to his chest in mock pain.

but jeongin’s already turned back to you—his expression softening, that tiny amused smile curling at his lips. you smile back just as sweetly, eyes crinkling, and he swears his heart does a little somersault.

hyunjin stares, genuinely stunned now, voice low and almost reverent.

“i’m… envious,” he mutters. “you’ve surely done something to him.”

Suddenly, a dramatic gasp came from beside you, “No, no no!”

You finally lowered the script just enough to glance at him, “Park Seonghwa.”

He turned to look at you, “Hm?”

“You’re louder than the drama,” you let out a sigh. “Stop watching and help me practice the dialogues,” you handed him the script you were holding.

He cleared his throat dramatically before flipping through the pages, “So what’s my role?”

“The male lead,” you shifted your position so you could face him better.

His eyebrows lifted, “I knew I had the main character energy.”

You rolled your eyes, giggling, “Just shut up and read your lines.”

For the first few minutes, everything went surprisingly well, he read the male lead’s lines naturally while you replied with yours. Then he reached the next page. His voice suddenly stopped, and the room fell silent.

You looked up, only to find him staring at the script with a pout. He was reading the kissing scene.

“Why does it say… he gently cups her face… before kissing her?” his eyes moved between the page and you. 

“...Oh, um, yeah...” you scratched the back of your neck.

“You have a kissing scene?” he glanced at you. “With another actor?”

“Well, it’s kind of hard to have a kissing scene by myself,” you chuckled at his sudden jealous behaviour.

Seonghwa let out a seated sigh, “Cancel it, reject the role.” He said before snapping the script shut. 

You stared at him, “I can’t! The shooting starts in a few days.”

“Tell them you caught a cold or something.” 

You covered your face, laughing into your hands, “I’ve already signed the contract.”

“Then I’ll buy all of their ads and cancel the kissing scene,” he huffed, raising his eyebrows.

You shook your head, “You’re unbelievable.” You reached over to grab the script again, but before you could, he held it above his head. “Really? I need to practice these scenes!”

“I’m confiscating it,” he said, looking down at you.

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest, “You know I can still reach it.”

He smirked, tilting his head, “You can try.”

You leaned forward, trying to grab the script. Seonghwa grinned as you tried to climb over him to reach the script. Suddenly, he leaned down and stole a quick kiss from you while smiling.

“There,” he murmured with a satisfied smile.

“What was that for?” You scrunched your eyebrows.

“You said you need to practice, right? Count it as a practice.” He leaned back with a grin.

You looked up at him, “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’ve been told,” he said before leaning down and pressing a more passionate kiss to your lips. It was meant to be brief, but the second you kissed him back, he craved more. One kiss turned into another, until you’d both completely forgotten about the script.

When you pulled away, slightly breathless, you shoved his shoulder playfully, “You’re such a distraction.” 

He sneered, “I know.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to push him away, but your fingernail accidentally grazed the back of his hand. He immediately pulled away with a dramatic wince, “Ow…”

Your smile disappeared, “Oh my god, are you okay?” You took his hand instinctively, carefully inspecting the tiny scratch on his hand with your brows knitting together in concern.

The moment your eyes met his, Seonghwa smiled. Before you could realize what he was doing, he leaned in and kissed you again, making absolutely no effort to hide that smug smile that lingered afterward.

You blinked at him, playfully smacking his chest, “You totally faked that.”

He pretended to be in pain, “Ouch, I was in pain.”

“You used my sympathy.”

“I used the opportunity,” he defended.

You stared at him for a second before laughing, letting your forehead fall against his shoulder, “I hate you.”

He only wrapped an arm around your waist again, pulling you back into his side, “So you’re still rejecting the script, right?” he suddenly asked.

You groaned, “No, Seonghwa!”

✶⋆.˚ HUSBAND!YUNHO who loves slow mornings with you. He wakes up before you just to admire your face for a few minutes before you wake up. When he has the time, he’d make breakfast for the two of you then come back to the bedroom to wake you up, even though he’d climb back to bed because of your puppy eyes asking him to stay for “5 more minutes.”

✶⋆.˚ HUSBAND!YUNHO who refuses to let you carry anything even if it’s lightweight.

You had just finished grocery shopping and insisted on carrying a few bags yourself. However, the second Yunho see you carrying those bags, he carefully takes the bags from both of your hands.

“I’ve got it, it’s okay,” you said.

He scoffed while carrying the bags, “what kind of a husband am I to let my wife carry heavy things?”

You laughed under your breath, “Jeong Yunho, they’re not even that heavy.”

“Honey, just let me take care of it, okay?” he leaned down kissing your forehead.

You smiled quietly and raised your hands in surrender, “alright then, don’t whine at me if your hands start to hurt.”

✶⋆.˚ HUSBAND!YUNHO who can’t live without physical affection. Whenever you’re walking on the streets together, he’d casually place his hand on your lower back gently rubbing it. He intertwines your fingers while watching TV. He even pulls you onto his lap while he’s reading, one hand holding his back and the other caressing you by the waist.

✶⋆.˚ HUSBAND!YUNHO who still gets ridiculously excited over calling you his wife.

The two of you had stopped by a small cafe on your day off, when you approached the counter, a staff member smiled politely, “is this order together?”

Yunho nodded without hesitation, “Yeah.” He said while glancing at you with the softest smile, “It’s for my wife.”

“Your wife?” you repeated once you were seated.

He looked at you in confusion, “Yeah?”

You giggled, “you sounded really happy saying that.”

“I am,” he sipped his coffee silently.

You laughed in disbelief, “You’ve been calling me your wife for two years.” You looked at his eyes, smiling sheepishly, “somehow it still feels brand new everytime.”

“Well, I just like saying it,” he admitted.

You giggled before continuing sipping your coffee, “you’re cute.”

“So are you,” he reached his fingers across the table to intertwine your fingers with his. “..My wife.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, gently nudging his feet under the table, “you’re never gonna get tired of that, are you?”

He smiled proudly, “Never in a million years.”

✶⋆.˚ HUSBAND!YUNHO who always drives with one hand resting on your thigh. It wasn’t intentional, it’s just second nature. He just naturally reaches for you whenever you're sitting in the passenger seat beside him, absentmindedly circling your thigh with his thumb while you talk about your day to him.

✶⋆.˚ HUSBAND!YUNHO who still gets distracted by how pretty you are. You’ll be ranting about your day or gossiping about your friends over dinner when he suddenly smiles to himself. “What?” you’ll ask, think that he’s not listening to you when in fact he’s admiring you. “Nothing,” he’ll grin. “I just really like looking at you.”

✶⋆.˚ HUSBAND!YUNHO who loves slow dancing with you in the living room for no reason at all.

You’re folding laundry on the floor, in front of the couch, while Yunho half-listens to the music playing faintly in the background.

Then, he suddenly stands up.

You look up at him, “where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” he says casually before holding out his hand to you.

You blink, “what?”

“Dance with me,” he smiled.

You shrugged, “I don’t know how to dance.”

He laughed softly, "That's the point, just follow the rhythm.”

You sighed but still took his hand. The moment you stand, he pulls you closer by the waist while the other gently holds yours. No rush, just swaying to the rhythm slowly as if the world only revolves around the two of you.

“You always do this,” you murmured quietly.

“Do what?” he tilted his head.

“Steal me when I'm busy.”

He smiles, “your existence is better here.”

You roll your eyes but you don’t move away. After a few sways, his grip around you tightens just a little.

“Stay a bit longer,” he says softly.

You look up at him, “you always say that.”

“And you always stay,” he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

The two of you just keep swaying slowly in the middle of the living room, while Yunho holds you like time doesn’t matter at all.

you hadn't shouted back. you never did. you’d just stood there, the plastic bag of food crinkling in your hand, your eyes glassy. you’d apologized—god, why did you apologize?—and turned around.

ten minutes later, the rain had started. twenty minutes later, his phone had buzzed with a call from an unknown number. thirty minutes later, the world had ended.

chan stood up abruptly, his legs feeling like lead. he walked into the kitchen, his eyes landing on the counter where your keys usually sat. they weren't there. they were in an evidence bag at a police station, probably scratched or bent from the impact.

he reached for a glass of water, but his hand shook so violently that he had to set it back down. he looked at the clock. 3:00 am. this was usually the time you’d text him to see if he was heading back, or if he needed a ride. he pulled his phone out of his pocket, his thumb hovering over your name in his contacts.

1 unread message.

he hadn't opened it. he couldn't. it was sent at 11:42 pm, exactly three minutes before the timestamp on the police report. his heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, painful rhythm. he finally tapped the notification.

i'm sorry for bothering you, channie. i left the food on the table. please eat it when you get a chance. i love you so much. drive safe if you come home later.

chan let out a sound that wasn't a sob—it was more like he’d been punched in the gut and all the air had been forced out of him at once. he sank to the floor, his back sliding against the cold refrigerator.

"i'm sorry," he whispered into the empty kitchen. "i'm so sorry."

the members had tried to come over. changbin had stayed for four hours yesterday, just sitting on the sofa in silence because chan wouldn't speak. minho had brought over a bag of groceries, wordlessly stocking the fridge before leaving with a heavy hand on chan’s shoulder. they wanted to help him carry the weight, but they didn't understand that he deserved to be crushed by it.

if he hadn't been so cruel, you would have stayed. you would have sat on the studio couch and fallen asleep under a blanket while he worked. you wouldn't have been on that bridge. you wouldn't have been in the path of a driver who couldn't see through the torrential rain.

every decision he’d made that night had led to you being gone.

he stood up and walked toward the hallway, his feet dragging. he opened the door to your shared bedroom, the scent of your perfume still clinging to the pillows. it was a soft, floral scent that usually made him feel like he could finally breathe. now, it felt like it was choking him.

he saw your favorite oversized hoodie draped over the back of a chair. he picked it up, burying his face in the soft fabric. he expected to feel a sense of closeness, but all he felt was the stinging reality of your absence. the hoodie was cold.

he went to his desk in the corner of the room, the one he rarely used because he was always at the studio. sitting there was a small stack of mail he’d ignored for days. on top was a postcard you’d bought a week ago, something you were planning to send to your parents.

chan is working so hard, you’d written in your neat, looping script. i'm so proud of him. i hope we can all grab dinner when he’s less busy.

"less busy," he choked out, a bitter laugh escaping him.

he was free now. the comeback was delayed. the schedule was cleared. he had all the time in the world, and none of it mattered. he realized then that he’d spent so much time protecting his time with you, guarding his work, and being the leader that he’d forgotten how to just be your person.

and now, he’d never get the chance to learn again.

the sun started to peek through the blinds, casting long, pale strips of light across the floor. it was a new day, which felt like an insult. how was the sun still rising? how was the world still turning when you weren't in it?

he walked back to the kitchen and saw the container of food you’d left. he hadn't touched it. he opened the lid, the smell of braised short ribs—his favorite—wafting up. you must have spent hours on it.

he took a bite, but he couldn't taste anything. it felt like ash in his mouth. he forced himself to swallow, tears finally spilling over and dripping into the container. he ate the whole thing, shivering in the quiet apartment, every bite a penance, every swallow a reminder of what he’d thrown away for the sake of a song that he now hated with every fiber of his being.

he looked at his reflection in the dark screen of his laptop. he looked like a ghost. his eyes were bloodshot, his skin sallow. he looked exactly how he felt: hollowed out.

he reached for a notepad and a pen. his hands were still shaking, but he pressed the tip to the paper. he didn't know who he was writing to—maybe to you, maybe to the void, maybe to the version of himself that had been so arrogant as to think he had forever.

i’ll never forgive myself, he wrote. the ink bled into the paper where a tear hit it. i spent so much time trying to be everything for everyone else that i broke the only thing that actually mattered. you were my home, and i locked the door on you.

he folded the paper and tucked it into the pocket of your hoodie. he stayed there on the floor long after the sun had fully risen, a leader with no one to lead, a producer with no music left in him, just a man sitting in the wreckage of a life he’d accidentally destroyed with one tired, sharp word.

LEE KNOW

it was the silence that felt like a physical blow. lee minho was a man who understood the nuances of noise—the rhythmic thud of a heavy bass line in a practice room, the demanding meows of three cats, the sharp, teasing banter that had been the foundation of your relationship for years. but this silence was different.

it was a vacuum, sucking the air out of his lungs until his chest ached with the effort of breathing.

he was sitting on the floor of his living room, exactly where he had been three days ago when the two of you had had the fight. the remnants of it were still there, mocking him. a knocked-over stack of dance magazines, a half-empty bottle of water, and the heavy, invisible wall he’d built in the heat of the moment.

he’d been exhausted—beyond the point of rational thought. the choreo for the new title track wasn't clicking, his legs were aching, and when you’d shown up at the dorm with a gentle reminder that he’d missed your anniversary dinner, he’d turned into someone he didn't recognize.

"i'm trying to actually build a career here," he’d snapped, his voice a cold, jagged blade. "i don't have time to worry about a calendar every five minutes. if you’re so lonely, go find someone who doesn't have anything better to do than eat overpriced pasta."

he remembered the way you’d recoiled, as if he’d physically struck you. he remembered the way your lip had trembled for a fraction of a second before you’d pulled your mask of composure back on, like you were trying to make the hurt smaller.

you hadn't yelled. you hadn't even said anything. you’d just set your keys on the counter, looked at him with a hollow kind of disappointment, and walked out into the rain.

"go then!" he’d yelled after you, driven by a toxic mix of pride and fatigue. "don't come back until you realize the world doesn't revolve around your dinner plans!"

and you hadn't.

minho stared at his phone, the screen cracked from when he’d thrown it against the wall after the police officer had left his apartment. he’d been staring at the last text he’d sent you, sent only ten minutes after you’d left, when his heart had finally caught up with his mouth.

i’m an idiot. i’m sorry. come back and i’ll make you the stupid pasta myself.

it was marked as delivered. it would never be read.

a soft weight pressed against his side. soonie bumped his head against minho’s arm, letting out a small, questioning meow. the cat knew. animals always knew when the person who smelled like home was missing. minho reached out, his fingers trembling as he stroked soonie’s ears, but the comfort he usually found in his cats was gone. he felt like a fraud.

how could he take care of them when he’d failed so spectacularly at taking care of you?

he stood up, his joints popping, and walked toward the kitchen. he saw your favorite mug sitting in the sink, a ring of dried coffee at the bottom. he couldn't bring himself to wash it. if he washed it, the last physical evidence of your morning together would be rinsed away, down the drain and into the dark.

he leaned against the counter, his eyes burning. minho didn't cry easily. he was the one who kept his emotions tucked away in neat, categorized boxes. but the box labeled you had burst open, and the contents were suffocating him.

he found himself walking toward the hallway closet. he pulled out your heavy winter coat, the one you’d forgotten because you’d been in such a rush to leave his anger behind. he buried his face in the faux-fur collar, inhaling deeply.

it still smelled like your shampoo—something bright and vanilla—and for a split second, his brain tricked him into thinking you were just in the other room.

"i didn't mean it," he choked out, the words muffled by the fabric. "i didn't mean any of it."

he thought about the "what ifs" until his head throbbed. what if he’d just taken a nap before you arrived? what if he’d just said happy anniversary instead of complaining about the choreo? what if he’d run after you the moment the door clicked shut?

the police told him the driver hadn't seen you through the sheets of rain. they told him it was instantaneous, that you didn't suffer. they meant it to be a kindness, but to minho, it was a horror.

he had been the last thing you’d seen—not a sunset, not a smiling face, but his sneering expression and the sound of his cruel voice.

he wandered back into the living room and saw your keys still sitting on the counter. he picked them up, the metal cold against his palm. dangling from the ring was a small, worn-out keychain he’d given you as a joke a year ago. it was a cat with a grumpy face that you’d insisted looked exactly like him when he woke up.

he gripped the keys so hard the edges bit into his skin. he deserved the pain. he deserved the silence. he deserved the way the apartment felt like a tomb.

minho sat back down on the floor, the darkness of the evening beginning to swallow the room. he didn't turn on the lights. he didn't deserve the light. he just sat there with soonie, doongie, and dori hovering nearby, a man who had spent his whole life learning how to move his body with perfect precision, only to realize he’d stepped on the only thing that had ever truly anchored him.

he closed his eyes, and in the quiet, he could almost hear your laugh—the way it used to cut through his moods like a flashlight in a dark basement. it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever known, and he was the one who had silenced it.

"i'll find you," he whispered into the empty air, a promise that felt more like a plea. "next time, i'll find you and i won't let go. i'll never let go."

but for now, there was only the rain against the window and the crushing, eternal weight of the things he had left unsaid.

CHANGBIN

the gym was empty, the fluorescent lights humming with a clinical, biting edge that made the space feel more like a cage than a sanctuary. changbin was staring at a heavy barbell, the iron plates stacked high, but he couldn't bring himself to reach for it.

his hands were shaking. it wasn't the kind of tremor that came from a heavy set of reps; it was the kind that came when your world had collapsed and you were trying to hold up the ceiling with nothing but your bare skin.

it had started with something so stupid. a misunderstanding about a schedule, a missed call, and a week of built-up pressure that he’d decided to unload on the one person who didn't deserve it.

"you're always just there," he’d groaned, his voice dripping with a frustration he didn't actually feel toward you. "don't you have anything else to do? i'm trying to focus on my life, on the group, and i feel like i have to constantly check in with you like i’m reporting to a boss. it’s exhausting."

the silence that followed had been sharp. he’d watched you slowly set down the bag of laundry you’d brought over—his laundry, that you’d picked up because you knew he was too busy to do it.

you hadn't looked angry. you had just looked tired. a deep, bone-weary kind of tired that he’d been too blind to see.

"i'm sorry i'm such a burden, binnie," you’d said softly. "i'll let you get back to your focus."

you’d walked out of the dorm, and he’d let you. he’d actually sat back down on the sofa and felt a twisted sense of "victory" for finally getting some space. he’d waited an hour, then two, his pride slowly dissolving into a hollow ache.

he’d finally picked up his phone to text you a half-hearted apology, but the screen was already flooded with news alerts.

major accident on the highway. flash floods. multiple casualties.

now, changbin sat on a weight bench, his head in his hands. the smell of iron and sweat—usually the things that made him feel powerful—now made him feel nauseous. he looked at his reflection in the wall-to-wall mirrors. he looked strong. he looked like the powerhouse everyone expected him to be.

but inside, he felt like a house of cards in a hurricane.

he’d spent his whole life building himself up, making himself sturdy so he could be a shield for the people he loved. but what was the point of a shield if you used it to crush the person you were supposed to protect?

he reached into his gym bag and pulled out a small, crumpled receipt he’d found in his pocket earlier. it was for a pair of high-end running shoes you’d bought him two weeks ago because you noticed he was complaining about his arches. you’d spent your own savings on them, joking that you were "investing in his gains."

he’d never even thanked you properly.

"i'm so small," he whispered, his voice cracking in the vastness of the gym. "i'm so pathetic."

he finally stood up, but instead of lifting, he walked over to the corner where he kept his personal locker. inside sat a small, handwritten note you’d tucked into his gym bag months ago: don't overdo it today. your muscles need rest, and i need you in one piece. love you!

he pressed the paper to his lips, his shoulders finally heaving. the tears came then—not the quiet, dignified kind, but a violent, racking sob that tore through his chest. he collapsed back onto the bench, the note clutched in his fist like a lifeline.

he thought about the way you used to wait for him at the door, the way you’d always have a protein shake ready, the way you’d listen to his rough demos and tell him his verses were the heart of the song.

you were the only person who saw seo changbin—not the rapper, not the idol, not the bodybuilder, but the man who was often scared he wasn't enough.

and he had told you that was exhausting. he had told you that you were exhausting.

the guilt was a physical weight, heavier than any plate in the room. it was sitting on his chest, squeezing the air out of him. he realized with a terrifying clarity that he would never be able to out-work this pain. he couldn't sweat it out. he couldn't lift it away.

it was a part of him now, a permanent shadow in his peripheral vision.

he stayed in the gym until the sun started to bleed through the high windows, turning the iron plates into silhouettes. he didn't want to go home. home was where your shoes were still by the door. home was where the laundry you’d dropped off was still sitting on the floor, a monument to his own cruelty.

he finally gathered his things, his movements slow and robotic. as he walked toward the exit, his eyes caught the "maximum capacity" sign on the wall.

"i'm at capacity," he muttered, a bitter, broken laugh escaping him.

he walked out into the cool morning air, the city beginning to wake up around him. people were starting their days, coffee cups in hand, oblivious to the fact that the world was missing its brightest light. changbin pulled his hoodie over his head, hiding his face, and began the long walk back to an apartment that was no longer a home.

he didn't know how to move forward. he didn't know how to be himself anymore. how to exist without you.

but as he walked, he kept his hand in his pocket, his fingers tracing the edges of your note. it was the only thing he had left that wasn't heavy.

HYUNJIN

the studio apartment was bathed in a cruel, mocking gold as the sun dipped below the horizon. it was the kind of light hyunjin usually lived for—the perfect golden hour that he would spend hours trying to replicate with tubes of ochre and zinc white.

but now, the light just felt like an intruder. it crept across the floor, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and the half-finished sketch still sitting on the easel in the corner.

hyunjin was sitting on the floor, his back against the cold brick wall. his long hair was a tangled mess, falling over his eyes, but he didn't have the energy to push it back. his hands, usually so expressive and nimble, were stained dark with charcoal and dried ink, looking bruised in the twilight.

he couldn't stop looking at the door.

it was the last place he’d seen you. he could still hear the sharp, echoing thud of it closing—a sound that had felt like a period at the end of a sentence he wasn't ready to finish.

they had been working on a new performance, and hyunjin had pushed himself past the breaking point. his muscles were screaming, his mind was a frayed wire, and when you had shown up at the practice room with a gentle suggestion that he was overworking himself, he had lashed out.

it wasn't even about you. it was about the fear of not being perfect, the crushing weight of expectation. but you were the one standing there, and you were the one who caught the edge of his tongue.

"you don't get it," he’d hissed, his voice cold and unfamiliar. "you just sit there and watch. you don't understand the pressure. you’re just annoying me right now. if you’re so worried about my health, go worry about it somewhere else. i don't need you hovering over me like i’m some child."

he remembered the way you’d gone still. the way your eyes, usually so full of warmth and soft encouragement, had shuttered. you hadn't even argued. you’d just nodded once, picked up your bag, and left.

"i'm sorry," you’d whispered. "i won't distract you anymore."

two hours later, the manager had walked into the studio, his face pale, his hands shaking as he held his phone.

now, hyunjin reached out and touched the canvas in front of him. it was a portrait of you he’d started weeks ago. he’d wanted to surprise you for your anniversary. he’d captured the way the light hit the bridge of your nose, the specific curve of your smile that only came out when you were laughing at one of his jokes.

but it was unfinished. your eyes were still just empty outlines, waiting for the depth and color he’d promised to add.

he’d never add it. he couldn't. every time he picked up a brush, he felt like he was suffocating.

"i'm sorry," he whispered, the words sounding thin and pathetic in the empty room. "i'm so sorry, i didn't mean it. i was just tired. please, just come back and tell me i’m an idiot."

he stood up unsteadily and walked to the small table by the window. your coffee mug was still there, half-full of cold, stagnant liquid. beside it sat a small scrap of paper where you’d doodled a little ferret while waiting for him to finish a painting session.

he picked up the paper, his fingers tracing the shaky lines. you weren't an artist, but you always tried for him. you’d draw little things to make him smile, to remind him that life existed outside of the lines and the shades.

he collapsed into the chair, clutching the scrap of paper to his chest. the grief wasn't a sharp pain anymore; it was a dull, constant ache, like a bone that had set wrong.

it was the realization that he had spent his whole life trying to create beauty, trying to capture the essence of the world on a flat surface, while the most beautiful thing he’d ever known had been right beside him, and he’d thrown it away because he was tired.

he looked at his paints. the reds looked too much like the sirens he’d seen in his nightmares. the blues were too cold, like the rain that had been falling that night.

hyunjin grabbed a tube of black paint and a palette knife. in a sudden, violent burst of movement, he smeared the dark pigment over the unfinished portrait. he covered your smile, your hair, the bridge of your nose. he couldn't bear to look at the ghost of what he’d destroyed.

when the canvas was nothing but a void of wet, glistening black, he dropped the knife. it hit the hardwood with a hollow metallic sound.

he sank back onto the floor, the shadows of the room finally swallowing him whole. he’d always been a man of colors, of light, of vibrant expression. but as he sat there in the dark, hyunjin realized he had finally painted his masterpiece. it was a perfect representation of his heart: empty, dark, and utterly silent.

he closed his eyes, praying for a dream where the door would open again, and you’d tell him that the light was perfect for a sketch. but the only thing that met him was the silence, and the knowledge that he was finally alone with his art.

HAN

the noise in the studio was usually a comfort to han jisung—a messy, chaotic layer of synth pads, vocal chops, and the frantic clicking of a mouse. but tonight, the silence was screaming. it was a high-pitched, ringing void that seemed to radiate from the empty swivel chair in the corner of the room.

jisung sat at his desk, his hands hovering over the keyboard, but he couldn't remember a single chord. his brain felt like it had been short-circuited. every time he closed his eyes, he saw the same frame: the harsh, fluorescent light of the hallway reflecting in your eyes as you looked at him with a mixture of shock and pure, unadulterated hurt.

it had been such a small thing. he’d been struggling with a bridge for seven hours, the melody slipping through his fingers like sand. when you’d pushed the door open, balancing a tray of iced coffee and your own laptop, he hadn't seen his best friend. he hadn't seen the love of his life, his everything.

he’d seen another distraction.

"can you just—for once—not be in here?" he’d snapped, the words coming out louder and sharper than he’d intended. "i have actual work to do. i can't be your emotional support animal twenty-four-seven. just go. find someone else to cling to for a night."

you hadn't snapped back. you were used to his moods, his high-strung anxiety, his "genius" tantrums. but this had been different. he’d targeted the one thing you were always self-conscious about: your fear of being a burden.

you’d stood there for a long beat, the ice in the coffee cups rattling against the plastic. "okay, hanji," you’d whispered, blinking tears back, your voice so small it barely carried over the hum of the cooling fans. "i'll go."

you’d turned on your heel and disappeared. and jisung, fueled by a toxic surge of adrenaline and a desperate need to finish the track, had turned back to his monitors. he’d worked for another three hours, convinced himself the song was a masterpiece, and finally reached for his phone to send you a meme as a peace offering.

the notifications were already there.

the police report mentioned the rain-slicked pavement and a driver who hadn't seen the pedestrian in the crosswalk. it mentioned the time: 11:14 p.m.

jisung had sent his stupid meme at 11:16 p.m.

now, he grabbed the edges of his desk, his knuckles turning white. he felt like he was drowning in the air of his own studio. he stood up, his legs shaking, and walked over to the corner chair. on the floor beside it was a small, crumpled-up piece of paper. he picked it up, his breath catching in his throat.

it was a doodle. a little quokka with oversized headphones, holding a heart. you’d probably drawn it while waiting for him to finish his previous session, waiting to show it to him when he finally took a break.

"i'm so sorry," he choked out, the sound echoing off the soundproof foam on the walls. "i'm so sorry, angel. i didn't mean it. i love you. i love you clinging to me. i need you to cling to me."

he sank to his knees, burying his face in the seat of the chair where you always sat. it still smelled like your laundry detergent—something soft and clean. he grabbed the fabric, bunching it in his fists, and finally, the dam broke. jisung was a loud person—he laughed loud, he talked loud, he rapped with a piercing intensity—but his grief was a quiet, jagged thing.

it was a series of broken gasps and muffled sobs that felt like they were tearing his lungs apart.

he thought about all the lyrics he’d written about love, about loss, about the "one that got away." they all felt like a joke now. they were just words, shallow and meaningless compared to the crushing reality of your absence.

he realized he’d spent so much time trying to capture the perfect emotion on a track that he’d failed to protect the real emotion standing right in front of him.

he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. he scrolled through your messages, his thumb trembling over the screen. your last text to him was from that afternoon: don't forget to eat, sunshine. i'm bringing coffee later. see you soon!

"sunshine," he whispered, a bitter, agonizing sob escaping him. "you called me sunshine."

he looked at his monitors—the glowing bars of the song that had cost him everything. he reached out and hit the delete key. then he hit confirm.

he watched as the project file, the work of ten hours, the work he’d prioritized over your life, vanished into nothing. it didn't make him feel better. it didn't bring you back. but it was the only thing he had left to sacrifice.

the sun began to creep through the small window of the studio, a pale, grey light that didn't feel like morning. it felt like the end of the world. jisung stayed on the floor, curled into a ball next to your empty chair, the little quokka drawing pressed against his heart.

he was a songwriter, a storyteller, a man who always had a witty comeback or a clever rhyme. but as the world woke up without you, han jisung found he had finally run out of things to say. the only thing left was the silence, and the ghost of a girl who had once called him her sunshine.

FELIX

the apartment still smelled like the apology brownies he’d pulled out of the oven only an hour before the phone rang. it was a sweet, heavy scent—the kind of smell that usually made felix feel like he was wrapped in a warm blanket. now, it made him want to claw his own throat out.

he was standing in the middle of the kitchen, his hands still dusted with a fine layer of powdered sugar. the bright blue mixing bowl was sitting in the sink, half-filled with soapy water. everything was so incredibly normal, so horrifyingly domestic, that it felt like a sick joke.

it had been his fault. he knew it with a certainty that felt like lead in his veins.

they had been fighting over something so small it didn't even have a name. he’d been coming home later and later, his body aching from the physical toll of a world tour, his mind frayed by the constant need to be "on." when you’d gently suggested he take a break—just one night to be lee felix instead of stray kids' felix—he’d snapped.

"you think it's that easy?" he’d rasped, his voice dropping into that deep, jagged register he only used when he was truly hurt. "you think i can just turn it off? you have no idea what i do for this. you’re just sitting here in this perfect little bubble i built for us, judging me. if you hate how much i work so much, then why are you even here?"

the look on your face had haunted him for the forty-five minutes you’d been gone. it wasn't anger; it was the look of someone who had just realized the person they loved most in the world thought they were a burden.

you hadn't even grabbed a proper coat, just your keys and your shoes, walking out into the freezing slush of a seoul february.

"i'll leave you to your work then," you’d said. as much as you tried to hide it, your tears had slipped down your cheeks. that was the worst part. like you had been trying to hide yourself from him.

the phone call from the hospital had been short. precise. the kind of words that didn't leave room for hope. a patch of black ice, a driver who couldn't stop in time, and a girl who had no business being out in a storm without a coat.

felix felt the first wave hit him then. it wasn't grief—not yet. it was a physical rejection from his own body. he stumbled toward the small bathroom off the hallway, his knees hitting the tile with a bone-jarring thud. he barely made it to the toilet before he was retching, his stomach turning itself inside out.

he puked until there was nothing left but bitter bile and the lingering, nauseating taste of the chocolate he’d sampled earlier. he stayed there on the floor, his forehead pressed against the cold porcelain, shivering so hard his teeth clattered. his blonde hair, which he’d spent so much time styling for your date night at home, was damp with sweat and stuck to his temples.

"please," he gasped into the empty, tiled room. "please, not her. anyone but her. take me. it was me. i said it. please."

he crawled back into the hallway, his movements slow and agonizing. he reached the coat rack and saw your spare scarf hanging there—the soft, pink one with the loose threads at the end. he pulled it down, wrapping it around his hand, pressing it to his face.

it still smelled like the perfume he’d bought you for christmas.

he thought about your hands. he thought about how they were always warm, even when his were like ice. he thought about how you used to trace the freckles on his cheeks like they were stars in a constellation only you could see.

and he thought about how those hands were now cold, sitting in a room with white sheets and bright lights, because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

the sunshine of the group.

that’s what everyone called him. he was the one who brought the light, the one who gave the hugs, the one who made sure everyone else was okay. but as he sat on the floor of his dark hallway, felix realized the sun had finally gone out. he had extinguished it himself.

he looked toward the kitchen, where the brownies were still sitting on the cooling rack. they looked perfect. they looked like a "sorry" that would never be heard.

he let out a sound—a high, broken keen that didn't sound like a human voice at all. it was the sound of a boy who had finally realized that all the brownies and heart-shaped notes and grand gestures in the world couldn't fix a broken soul.

he’d wanted to give you the world, but instead, he’d given you the street on a rainy night.

he curled into a ball on the floor, the scarf clutched so tight his fingers went numb. he didn't want to get up. he didn't want to go to the hospital to identify a body that used to be his home. he just wanted to stay here in the dark, in the smell of chocolate and the cold, until the world forgot he ever existed.

"i'm sorry, angel," he whispered, his voice a ghost of itself. "i'm so, so sorry."

the clock on the wall ticked—a rhythmic, heartless sound that reminded him he was still alive, and you weren't. and for lee felix, that was the greatest punishment of all.

SEUNGMIN

the air in seungmin’s apartment was stagnant, heavy with the scent of unwashed coffee mugs and the faint, lingering smell of your favorite citrus perfume. he was sitting at his small dining table, the one where you’d spent countless nights helping him memorize lyrics or just arguing over which convenience store had the best spicy ramen.

in front of him was a notebook, open to a blank page. his pen was held loosely in his hand, the tip resting on the paper until a small, dark blot of ink began to spread, staining the wood beneath. seungmin was known for his precision—for the way he hit every note with surgical accuracy and the way his life was organized into neat, predictable rows.

but precision didn't help when the world stopped making sense.

he’d been the one to start the fight. it was a stupid, prideful thing about timing and careers. he’d been stressed, his voice feeling strained after a long recording session, and when you’d suggested he take a day off to rest, he’d turned that sharp, observational wit of his into a weapon.

"you’re so focused on the now, but i’m trying to build something that lasts," he’d said, his voice quiet but biting. "you don't get it because you don't have to be perfect for anyone. i do. so just stop acting like you know what's best for me. it’s annoying."

he remembered the way you’d blinked, the hurt flashing behind your eyes before you’d masked it with that careful, yet kind, expression you only used when he was being particularly difficult.

"i'm sorry for being annoying, seungmin," you'd said, eyes wet. you hadn't slammed the door. you’d closed it softly, with the same gentleness you’d always shown him.

that was four days ago.

the call had come from the hospital later that night. a driver had run a red light. a pedestrian in the crosswalk. no time to react.

seungmin finally dropped the pen. it clattered against the table, the sound echoing too loudly in the silence. he stood up, his movements stiff, and walked into the kitchen. on the counter sat a small box of herbal tea you’d bought for him because you were worried about his throat.

he hadn't even opened it yet.

he reached out, his fingers tracing the plastic wrap. he’d spent his whole life being the anchor, the one who stayed grounded while everyone else drifted. but without you, there was no ground left to stand on.

he walked toward the window, looking down at the street below. the city was still moving, people were still laughing, and the cars were still rushing through the intersection where everything had ended. it felt like a betrayal.

how could the world be so loud when you were so quiet?

"you didn't deserve that. you're too kind to me. too good," he whispered, his forehead pressing against the cold glass. "too good for me."

he went to his closet and pulled out a hoodie—one you used to steal all the time because it was too big for you. he buried his face in the fabric, desperate for a hint of you, but the scent was fading, replaced by the sterile smell of his own life.

he thought about all the times he’d teased you for your "poor life choices," all the times he’d played the role of the cynical boyfriend while secretly counting down the seconds until he could see you again. he’d been so busy being the person who knew everything that he’d forgotten to be the person who said anything.

he couldn't remember the last time that he told you he loved you. it hadn't been on the last day he'd seen your face. but what about before that?

he tried to retrace the weeks, digging through the mundane conversations about groceries or the weather, looking for the words. it felt like they had just slipped into the background, something assumed rather than said.

maybe he’d muttered it while you were half-asleep, or maybe he’d just thought it so loudly he convinced himself he’d actually spoken it aloud. now, the silence of the room just made the lack of it feel heavy, like a debt he’d forgotten to pay until it was too late to settle up.

what if you'd died doubting that he had? that he did love you?

seungmin sank to the floor, his back against the bed, pulling his knees to his chest. he wasn't a messy person, but his grief was a disaster. it was a jagged, unpolished thing that didn't fit into a four-four time signature.

he closed his eyes and tried to remember the sound of your laugh, but all he could hear was the click of the door closing and the sound of his own cold voice telling you to go.

"i'm an idiot, pup," he choked out, the nickname feeling like a physical weight in his throat. "i'm just an idiot."

he stayed there until the room went dark, the only light coming from the streetlamps outside. he was waiting for the buzzing of his phone, for a message asking for an sos, for a rescue flare that would never come.

the most observant man in the room had missed the only thing that mattered, and now, seungmin was finally left with a silence he couldn't fix.

I.N.

the cold on the rooftop was the only thing that felt honest anymore. it was a sharp, biting wind that cut through the layers of jeongin’s coat, stinging his cheeks and numbing the tips of his fingers. he stood near the edge, his chest heaving as he tried to catch a single, clean breath of air.

but the oxygen felt thin, like it was being filtered through a thick layer of ash.

it had been two weeks since the news. two weeks since you walked out of his apartment, teary-eyed and hurt, because of him. because of his cruelty.

and jeongin felt as though he had been submerged underwater the entire time. the world was a blur of muffled voices, bright stage lights that felt like needles in his eyes, and a relentless, crushing pressure in his lungs.

he didn't think he would ever breathe properly again. the simple act of inhaling felt like a betrayal. how could he fill his lungs when yours had stopped?

he leaned his weight against the cold metal railing, his head dropping into his hands. his body felt heavy, a shell of the person he used to be. every muscle ached with the fatigue of trying to pretend he wasn't hollow.

tucked between his shaking fingers was a small, faded slip of paper—a ticket stub from the very first date the two of you had gone on. it was a movie he hadn't even liked, a poorly paced thriller that you’d spent the entire time whispering critiques about into his ear.

he had kept it in the secret compartment of his wallet, a lucky charm he’d pull out whenever the pressure of being an idol felt like it was too much to carry. it was his anchor. it was proof that he was loved by someone who didn't care about his stage name.

for a split second, the wind whistled through the vents of the building, and jeongin’s heart stopped. it sounded like a hum—the specific, soft melody you used to absentmindedly whistle when you were focused on a task.

"angel?" he breathed, his head snapping up from his hands.

his eyes darted frantically across the rooftop, his pulse racing with a sudden, agonizing burst of hope. for one beautiful, terrifying moment, he expected to see you leaning against the doorway, your hair windswept and a teasing smile on your face, telling him he was being dramatic.

but the roof was empty. the hope died as quickly as it had flared, leaving behind a coldness that was even deeper than before.

he looked down, his gaze drifting toward the street below. across the road, a girl was walking, her laughter carried upward by the wind. she was glowing under the streetlamps, her hand firmly interlaced with a boy’s as they swung their arms between them.

they were young—his age—and happy, and entirely oblivious to the fact that a world had ended just a few stories above them.

in the distraction of the moment, jeongin’s grip on the ticket stub loosened. a stray, aggressive gust of wind caught the corner of the paper, snatching it from his numbed fingertips.

the ticket stub fluttered out of his hand, caught by a stray gust of wind, and he watched as it danced over the edge of the railing, disappearing into the dark abyss of the city below.

"no," he gasped, his body lunging forward, his hands grasping at the empty air where the paper had been a second before. "no, please. wait!"

he gripped the railing so hard the metal dug into his palms, his eyes scanning the darkness for a flash of white. but the street was a sea of moving lights and shadows, and the ticket—the last tangible piece of that first night—was gone.

it wasn't just the ticket. it was the realization that he couldn't hold onto any of it. not the smell of your hair, not the sound of your voice, not the way you looked when you were laughing at his terrible jokes.

it was all leaking away, dissolving into memory, and he was powerless to stop it. soon, he feared, even the memories would start to fray at the edges, and he would be left with nothing but the shape of a person he used to love.

the first sob broke out of him like a physical wound. it was a jagged, raw sound that tore through the quiet of the night. he collapsed onto his knees, his forehead pressing against the cold concrete of the roof. sobs racked his thin frame, violent and unforgiving, shaking him until his vision blurred with tears.

he felt so small. he was supposed to be the one who stayed strong, the one who kept the peace, the one who smiled through the exhaustion. but the smile was gone, replaced by a grief that was too big for his body to contain.

jeongin looked through the gaps in the railing at the drop below. it would be so easy. a single step, a moment of weightlessness, and then the quiet. the noise in his head would finally stop. the constant, agonizing ache in his chest would vanish.

he could follow the path of the ticket to the ground, and maybe, in whatever came next, he would find you waiting there with that same ticket in your hand.

he stood up slowly, his legs feeling like lead. he placed one hand on the top of the railing, looking down at the pavement. the thought of the impact didn't scare him; what scared him was the thought of waking up tomorrow and having to do this all over again.

but as he looked out over the city, he stopped. his hand gripped the metal until his knuckles turned white.

"i don't get to go," he whispered, his voice thick with salt and despair.

he didn't deserve the easy way out. he didn't deserve to escape the pain he felt. if he left now, who would remember the way you looked in the morning? who would remember the specific way you’d tuck your chin when you were embarrassed? if he died, those memories died with him, and he couldn't let you disappear completely.

he had to live with it. he had to carry the weight of your absence until it became a part of his bones, a permanent shadow in his soul. that was his duty to you. to bear the pain, to feel every second of the silence, and to keep your name alive in a world that had already moved on.

jeongin slid back down against the wall, his face hidden in his knees as the wind continued to howl around him. he stayed there long after his tears had dried, long after his skin had turned blue from the cold. he was alone on the roof, a boy who had lost his anchor and his heart, and for the first time in his life, he didn't try to hide the darkness.

he just sat there, breathing in the cold air, waiting for the sun to rise on a world that would never be bright again.

🏷️ ( stray kids / general ) : @beautifulsharkgoatee @susu6944 @emilywjinnie @emotionalstrawberries @babythisisourcinema @maliatate96 @sapphirewaves @iconicallyher @fussel9913 @yawwni @inlovewithstraykids @foppishitudinality @gadriezmannsgirl @straystar-8 @narratedforbutterflies @yawngnab @yawwni @teddybeartaetae

His eyes traced over your silhouette, the way the golden light kissed your skin, how your hair caught the evening breeze. He had always loved the sea; it was his first love, his childhood. But seeing you here, blending so naturally into a place that meant everything to him, made something settle deep inside him.

A conversation from earlier replayed in his mind.

"She’s good for you, Christopher," his mother had said, her voice warm yet certain. "You bring each other home in ways I don’t think you even realize yet."

He had chuckled then, brushing off the way her words settled deep in his chest, but she hadn’t stopped there.

"Some moments in life… they just tell you when something is right. When it’s time." She had smiled knowingly, eyes twinkling with something unspoken.

At the time, he hadn’t thought much of it. But now, standing here, watching you passionately take a picture of something that had been part of his soul since childhood, he understood.

Because right now, his heart was telling him something loud and clear – when the time came, when he asked you to be with him forever, he wanted it to be a moment like this, right here. Just the two of you, the sea, the sunset, and a love so certain it didn’t need grand gestures to prove itself.

He exhaled softly, shaking his head at the way his heart started to beat a little faster.

You turned then, catching him staring, and grinned. “What’s with you?” you teased, tilting your head.

Chris let out a chuckle, stepping closer. “Can’t I admire my beautiful girlfriend?”

But before you could answer, a mischievous glint sparked in your eyes. You raised your camera again, aiming it straight at his face. “Hold still,” you said playfully, zooming in dramatically and taking a few shots.

He groaned, but he couldn't surpress the grin on his lips. “Oh no, not the close-ups,” he muttered before lunging forward, wrapping his arms around you in a gentle hug to stop you.

You laughed, your camera lowering as you melted into his embrace, wrapping your arms around him. The warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart. He held you close, his chin resting lightly on the top of your head as he pressed a soft kiss against your hair.

After a beat of silence, you murmured, "Okay, but seriously… what’s up?"

Chris smiled, tightening his hold on you for just a second. "Nothing," he mumbled, though his heart screamed otherwise.

Because if he opened his mouth now, he might just end up telling you exactly what he was thinking – that he loved you more than words, that you fit so seamlessly into his world, and that one day, he was going to ask you to stay in it forever, right here.

Well he could do that now, technically. He definitely wanted to... But not today.

Someday he will, definetly.

Before the moment could get too sentimental, a mischievous grin tugged at his lips. Without warning, he bent down and effortlessly threw you over his shoulder.

"Chris!" you squealed, laughing as you lightly smacked his back. "What are you doing?! I wasn't done!"

He chuckled, spinning you around slightly before carrying you farther away from shoreline. "You were taking too long. My parents were gonna file a missing report if I didn’t do something!"

"Put me down, you’re ridiculous!" You laughed, kicking your feet playfully as he held you securely.

He grinned, his heart full as he listened to your laughter mix with the sound of the waves. Yeah. Someday, he was going to make you his forever.

He looked beautiful in the soft, ugly parking-lot lighting. Which was unfair.

Cap low over his forehead. Sleeves pushed to his elbows. Hair messy from wind and seawater. His smile was there, touched with the kind of tired happiness that comes after a day well spent. 

He’d only had one drink hours ago and switched to water after, but the day had been long – sun, swimming, driving, making sure everyone was where they needed to be, checking maps, checking reservations, checking on members, checking on you every ten minutes like you might evaporate.

You stepped closer. “Baby.”

His head lifted immediately. “Hm?”

“Let me drive.”

His eyebrows rose. “You wanna drive?”

“You're tired. And I'm sober too.”

“It’s okay. I can do it.” 

“I know that you can,” you said softly. “But you don’t need to. You’re tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“You just tried to unlock the car with the house key.”

Chan let out a soft laugh, head dropping for a second, and you saw it then: the real exhaustion under the playful refusal. The kind he always ignored.

You reached for his wrist.

His fingers turned instinctively, fingers sliding through yours like they belonged there.

Your voice dropped so only he could hear.

“Chris.”

That did it. It always did.

His eyes flicked to yours.

You reached up, face leaning in towards his, and smoothed a thumb under one of his eyes. “You’ve been taking care of everyone all day. Please let me take care of you for twenty minutes.”

Something in his expression shifted.

Small. Barely there.

That look he only got when you slipped past the leader everyone knew and spoke to the man underneath it all. 

He glanced down at your joined hands, thumb brushing once over your knuckles. Then he sighed through a smile and leaned his forehead against yours. 

From the backseat, Felix made a scandalized little sound. “They’re being cute again.” 

“They can do that any other time,” Han whined. “I wanna fall into bed.” 

Chan huffed a laugh through his nose and pulled back.

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

“You know the route?”

You nodded and held out your hand.

After a second, he dropped the keys into your palm. 

“Okay.”

You smiled and tipped your head towards the passenger side. “Go on then.”

Chan blinked at you once, clearly too tired to argue, then shuffled around the front of the car without protest. 

As he turned, you gave him a light, friendly smack on the butt. 

He stopped mid-step and turned back, scandalized. “Hey.” 

“Passenger princes don’t talk back, baby,” you said sweetly, opening the driver’s door. 

Chan shook his head under his breath, smiling now despite himself, and slid into the passenger seat. 

You settled behind the wheel, adjusting the seat back from where Chan had it too far for your comfort. His cologne lingered in the fabric, mixed with salt air and the faint scent of sunscreen. 

From the backseat, Han gasped dramatically. “She’s driving?” 

“Oh, you’ll survive,” you said, fixing the rearview mirror until Han's face appeared in it. “If not, you’re also welcome to walk back.” 

He slumped lower in his seat, arms folding across his chest in exaggerated sulkiness. “ ‘was just saying, your driving is kind of scary.” 

“You don’t even have a license,” you said, starting the engine. “Seatbelt, Jisung.” 

“That’s why my opinion is pure,” Han said, reaching for the seatbelt with a pout. “Unbiased. Untainted by experience.” 

Felix laughed so hard he immediately yawned afterward, eyes watering. 

Chan’s mouth twitched, trying not to smile.

–––––

Five minutes later, Han was dead aleep.

The road curved dark and quiet along the coast, the sea only visible in flashes between trees.

Chan sat in the passenger seat with the chair leaned farther back than he ever let himself do. 

But he kept looking at you.

Every time you glanced over, his eyes were already there.

He had one arm folded across his middle, the other tucked between you on the center console where his fingers occasionally squeezed yours. Not out of nervousness, but out of habit.

The boys in the back had gone from loud to silent with shocking speed. 

Han was asleep first, cheek smushed against Felix’s shoulder, mouth slightly open. 

Felix lasted another three songs before his head tipped sideways onto Han’s hair. 

You glanced in the rearview mirror and nearly laughed.

“Look.”

Chan turned his head. 

His smile came slow and helpless.

“They always act tough,” he said quietly, “then become babies after one drink.”

You smiled as well. “You gonna carry them inside later?”

“The hell I will.”

You hummed innocently. “But they’re your babies.”

“They’re adults,” he said at once. “Heavy adults. They just happen to complain a lot and expect to be pampered.” 

“You raised them that way.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

He gave a soft scoff but didn’t argue harder than that. 

Sleep was already pulling at him now, loosening every sharp edge. Without the need to steer, navigate, count heads, answer questions, make decisions, remind people to hydrate, remember where everyone left their bags—

There was nothing left for him to hold up.

No leader face.

No responsibility voice.

Just your boyfriend, warm, happy and slowly falling asleep in the passenger seat. 

His thumb traced over your knuckles once. Twice.

“You’re staring,” you murmured.

“I’m appreciating.” 

“You should rest those eyes, not look at me.”

“Can’t help it. You look really pretty when you drive.” 

You laughed under your breath. “That’s the sleep talking, babe.” 

“No.” His eyes were half closed, voice low and certain. “Been thinking it for ten minutes.” 

“Shouldn’t you be resting?”

He leaned his head back against the headrest. “Can’t.”

“Why?”

“Like looking at you.”

You stopped at a red light. The intersection was empty, traffic signal glowing red over the quiet road.

You looked over at him again. 

He was already looking at you.

Slowly, he lifted his free hand.

His fingers brushed your cheek first, palm settling there gently like he wanted to hold your face for a second before anything else. His thumb swept once across your cheekbone, slow and absentminded. 

Then, he leaned across the console and kissed you.

Soft.

Unhurried.

Sleepy in the sweetest way. 

You froze for half a heartbeat before kissing him back, one hand tightening on the wheel, the other moving to rest on his shoulder.

He was warm, lips slow and gentle on yours.

As he pulled away, your stomach flipped so hard it made you forget where you were. 

When you opened your eyes, it took you a second to remember the car, the road, the sleeping passengers.

You turned your head.

Han was still dead asleep against Felix, entirely unaware of the world. 

Felix hadn’t moved at all, breathing deep, arms wrapped around his folded jacket like a stuffed animal. 

You let out a slow breath and looked back at Chan. 

Who looked impossibly soft like this.

Hoodie half-zipped. Curls messy beneath his cap. Lips parted slightly with sleepiness.

And his eyes – so full of love – it made something in your chest ache.

“Tired?” you asked softly. 

“No.”

“Close your eyes.”

“Can’t.”

“Why?”

“Need to make sure everyone gets home safe.”

Your chest ached in that familiar way.

Even now.

Even here.

Even with his members unconscious in the back and the day finally over, he was still holding the invisible strings of everyone else’s comfort.

You reached over and squeezed his arm.

“I’ve got them,” you said. Then softer, “I’ve got you too.”

He went very still.

Then exhaled like he’d been waiting all day to.

When the light changed, you gave him one last smile before turning back to the road and easing the car forward. 

“You’re cute,” he mumbled after a minute. 

“You’re delirious.”

“Probably.”

“You happy?” you asked.

“Mhm.”

“Why?”

He leaned his head against the window, still watching you.

“My girlfriend’s driving me home~”

You snorted. “That’s all it takes?”

“She’s pretty.”

“Christopher.”

“She smells nice too.”

“You’re half-asleep.” 

“I’m in love.”

The words came so simply, so sleep-heavy and sincere, that your chest tightened.

You squeezed his hand.

“Go to sleep.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He squeezed your hand back once, then his grip loosened as sleep began pulling him under, yet still holding onto your hand like he didn’t know how not to.

Hyunjin sits across from you, one leg bouncing lightly, headphones hanging around his neck instead of on his ears. He’s supposed to be listening back to the demo you just finished tweaking, but he hasn’t pressed play in the last five minutes.

Instead, he’s watching you.

“You’re staring,” you mutter, not even looking up from your screen.

“I’m thinking,” he replies.

“That’s not what thinking looks like.”

A pause.

Then, softer, “It is when it’s about you.”

That makes you glance up.

Big mistake.

He’s leaning forward now, elbow on his knee, chin resting against his knuckles—eyes sharp, unreadable, but not in the distant way he usually gets when he’s lost in music.

This is something else. Something too focused. Too intentional.

You try to ignore the way your chest tightens.

“Focus,” you say, gesturing toward the screen. “We still need to fix the second verse. Your pronunciation is off.”

“My pronunciation is fine.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.”

You sigh, turning your chair to face him fully.

“Hyunjin.”

He straightens slightly, like he’s bracing for a lecture—but there’s a flicker of amusement in his expression.

“Sing it again,” you insist.

He doesn’t move.

“Hyunjin.”

Still nothing.

Instead, he studies you again—slower this time. Like he’s memorizing something he’s about to lose.

“…What?” you ask, quieter now.

He exhales, almost like a laugh—but there’s no humor in it.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Look at me like I’m just… work.”

Your brows knit together. “Because we are working.”

“Yeah,” he says, closing the distance between you in a few unhurried steps. “That’s the problem.”

Your breath catches, but you hold your ground.

“Hyunjin—”

“I keep telling myself it’s just that,” he continues, voice low, almost to himself. “Just late nights. Just songs. Just you correcting me and me pretending I don’t like it.”

He stops right in front of you.

Too close.

“You don’t like it…” you say, trying to keep your voice steady.

He tilts his head slightly. “No?”

Your pulse is loud now—too loud.

“Then why do you always stay?” you counter.

Silence. A dangerous kind.

His gaze drops to your lips for a fraction of a second—and that’s all the warning you get.

Because the next thing you know, he’s kissing you.

It’s not hesitant.

Not soft.

It’s sudden, overwhelming—like something that’s been held back for too long finally snapping free. His hand slid up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek with an intensity that felt like he was trying to anchor himself to the moment.

And for a second—or more—you kiss him back.

Because it’s Hyunjin.

Because it’s this moment, in this room, with everything unsaid finally spilling over.

Because deep down, you’ve been waiting for it too.

You let your eyes close, allowing the reality of him to finally override the professional distance you’d worked so hard to maintain.

But as quickly as the fire had started, he doused it.

He pulls away abruptly like he’d been burned by the very heat he’d sought out.

The space between you feels colder than it should.

Your heart is still racing, your lips still tingling, your thoughts scrambling to catch up—but his expression has already changed.

Closed off. Controlled. Gone.

“We shouldn’t,” he says, almost flat. Like he’s reading from a script he doesn’t believe in but is forcing himself to follow anyway.

You stare at him.

“What?”

He steps back, running a hand through his hair, avoiding your eyes now.

“That was—” he starts, then stops. Swallows. “It didn’t mean anything.”

The words land wrong.

Too sharp. Like they were chosen specifically to cut.

You let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “Didn’t mean anything?”

“It was just—” He exhales, frustrated. “A moment. That’s all.”

Right.

You nodded slowly, the realization sinking in like lead in your stomach. You felt the familiar, cold walls of professionalism rising back up to protect you, though your chest felt like it was caving in.

“Okay,” you say.

Your voice sounds steadier than you feel.

“Okay,” you repeat, turning back to your screen like nothing just happened. Like your world didn’t tilt slightly off its axis.

A beat passed. Then another.

He didn't leave, but he didn't move toward you either.

“Play the track,” you add, eyes fixed forward. “We’re wasting time.”

There’s a long pause before you hear the faint click of the mouse.

And just like that, you both pretend it never happened.

But the air in the studio?

It never goes back to normal.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Hyunjin doesn’t remember the drive home.

One second he’s leaving the studio, the next he’s standing in the middle of his apartment, keys still in his hand, the silence pressing in too loud.

The kiss lingers—not just the feeling—everything. The way you froze for half a second before leaning in. The way your breath hitched. It had felt right. It had felt like the final piece of a puzzle he hadn't realized he was building.

And then, his grip tightens around his keys.

“…Idiot.” he mutters under his breath.

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice, like moving might shake the memory out of him.

It didn’t mean anything.

He actually said that.

A humorless laugh leaves him, sharp and short.

“Yeah. Sure Hyunjin.”

Because if it didn’t mean anything, then why does his chest feel like it’s being squeezed from the inside out?

Why does he keep replaying the exact moment you kissed him back?

Why does he remember the look on your face right after—confused, open, real—before he ruined it?

He exhales hard, dropping onto the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees.

He knows why he pulled away. It wasn’t because it meant nothing but because it meant too much.

You’re not just someone he can mess around with. Not someone he can risk dragging into something messy, complicated—something that could blow back on both of you. You work with them. You’re part of the process, part of the team. One wrong move and everything shifts.

And him? He’s already a mess.

Late nights, pressure, expectations—he barely keeps himself together most days.

The thought of bringing you into that storm—of inevitably hurting you because he couldn't find his own center—terrified him.

His jaw tightened until it ached.

“So I just hurt her anyway,” he whispered to the empty room.

Because that’s what he did.

There was nothing casual about that kiss, and you’re not stupid. You would’ve seen right through it—seen through him.

And instead of owning it, he panicked.

Took something real and reduced it to nothing. His hands come up to cover his face, fingers pressing hard against his eyes.

“Why did I say that?”

No answer. Just the echo of your voice in his head.

Didn’t mean anything?

He can still hear the way you said it—like you didn’t believe him, but you were forcing yourself to anyway.

You hadn't screamed. You hadn't thrown him out. You had just… agreed.

And if you really believed him—if you took those words as your new reality—you would never let him that close again.

And the thought of that?

It makes something twist painfully in him.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Across the city, you’re staring at your ceiling.

Sleep won’t come.

Every time you drifted close to it, the memory of the studio pulled you back. The heat of him. The way his thumb had brushed your cheek like you were something precious. And then the way he pulled away like it was nothing.

You press your lips together, turning onto your side, pulling your blanket tighter around you like that might hold you together.

“What was that?” you whisper to no one.

Was he playing with you?

No—Hyunjin’s not like that. At least… you don’t think he is.

But then why?

Why kiss you like that—like he meant it—and then act like it was just some passing impulse?

Your chest tightens.

“Was it a joke?” you murmur, the thought bitter in your mouth.

You hated that you were even asking the question. You hated that you were dissecting his motives like a lyric sheet. But mostly, you hated how effortlessly you had responded to him. You had kissed him back without a second of hesitation, as if your body had been waiting for his signal for years.

And maybe it had.

You squeezed your eyes shut against the burning behind your lids. “That was so stupid.”

Stupid to let your guard down.

Stupid to blur the line between work and… whatever that was.

You’ve liked him for a while now.

You just got good at hiding it. Tucking it away behind schedules and deadlines and teasing arguments about phrasing and tone.

You convinced yourself it was harmless.

Safe.

Until tonight proved it wasn’t.

Your throat tightens slightly, but you swallow it down.

“Okay,” you whisper, echoing your own voice from earlier.

If that’s what it meant to him—nothing. Then you’ll treat it like nothing too.

You have to.

Holding onto a one-sided hope was a slow-acting poison, and you refused to let it settle in your system.

So you make a decision there, in the quiet of your room, staring at a ceiling that doesn’t give you answers.

You’ll keep your distance.

Keep things professional.

No more lingering looks. No more late-night conversations that drift too personal. No more letting yourself read into the way he says your name or the way he stays just a little longer than he needs to.

You’ll fix this.

Before it gets worse.

Even if it means pretending that something that felt so real, never happened at all.

And somewhere between your resolve and the silence that follows, your chest aches in a way you can’t quite ignore.

But you let it.

Because it’s easier than hoping he’ll come back and say he didn’t mean what he said.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The studio feels normal again.

Too normal. Like nothing ever happened.

You’re already there when Hyunjin walks in—headphones on, back straight, eyes fixed on your screen. There’s a cup of coffee beside you, untouched, and a stack of notes neatly arranged like you’ve been here longer than you actually have.

Like you needed the extra time to build a wall.

He looked at you—or rather, at the way you were pointedly not looking at him.

“You’re early,” he says, voice careful.

“Deadlines don’t adjust for sleep schedules,” you reply, flat, professional.

No glance. No pause.

Just work.

Something in his chest sinks.

“Right,” he mutters, setting his things down a little slower than usual, like he’s waiting—hoping—you’ll look up.

You don’t.

The silence stretches.

He set his bag down with exaggerated slowness, the rustle of fabric and the clink of his water bottle sounding like thunder in the silence.

Usually, you’d fill it. Complain about a melody. Tease him about being late. Say something that would make him roll his eyes but secretly smile.

Now? Nothing.

Just the faint clicking of your keyboard.

“About last night—” he starts.

“Second verse still needs fixing,” you cut in, finally speaking—but not to him. Not really. Your eyes stay on the screen. “You dragged the last syllable again.”

He exhales, frustrated. “Can we not do this right now?”

“We are doing this right now,” you say, calm. Detached. “We’re working.”

His jaw tightens.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.”

That makes you pause—but only for a second.

Then you hit play.

It was loud enough to drown out any further attempts at whatever conversation he’s trying to start—or perhaps just loud enough to give you an excuse not to hear it.

He stared at you, really looking this time, and the realization hit him like a physical blow. The softness was gone. The lingering, playful glances that had been your secret language for months had been erased, replaced by a professional distance so profound it was almost insulting.

He reaches out, stopping the track mid-play.

The sudden silence is sharp.

“Don’t,” you say immediately, a flicker of irritation finally breaking through.

“Talk to me,” he says.

“I am talking to you. Your timing is off—”

“Not about the song.”

Your fingers still over the keyboard.

Slowly, you lean back in your chair, finally looking at him.

And for a split second, he sees it.

That crack—hurt. Barely there, but enough.

Then it’s gone.

Replaced with something colder.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you say.

His brows pull together. “Nothing?”

“You said it yourself,” you continue, voice steady in a way that almost sounds rehearsed. “It didn’t mean anything.”

The words landed with more weight than they had the night before. Because now, they didn't sound like his lie—they sound like they belong to you.

“That’s not—” He stops, running a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s exactly what you meant.”

“No, I just—” He exhales sharply. “I panicked, okay?”

You don’t react.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he adds, softer now. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it?” you ask.

There’s no edge to your voice.

No anger.

Just a quiet, terrifying calm.

He opens his mouth and nothing comes out.

Because how is he supposed to explain that he kissed you because he couldn’t stop himself and then pushed you away because he was scared of how much he wanted it?

How much he wants you?

“I…” He falters.

And that hesitation? It’s all you need.

You nod once, like something just got confirmed.

“Right.”

“No, wait—”

“It’s fine, Hyunjin.”

He freezes.

Because that tone—it’s the same one you use with everyone else. Accessible but untouchable.

“I get it,” you continue. “It was a mistake. It happens.”

“A mistake?” he repeats, almost disbelieving.

You shrug lightly. “You said it didn’t mean anything. I’m just agreeing with you.”

“I don’t want you to agree with me!” he snaps, stepping closer. “I want you to—”

“To what?” you cut in, standing now, finally meeting him at eye level. “Take it seriously? Read into it? Make it something it’s not?”

His expression shifts, something desperate flickering through.

“It was something.”

Your chest tightens—but you don’t let it show.

“Not according to you.”

“I was wrong.”

The words come out quick. Immediate.

And entirely too late.

You held his gaze for a long, agonizing second. Then, you shook your head, a small, sad smile touching your lips that didn't reach your eyes.

“No,” you say quietly. “You had your chance to mean it…and you didn’t.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

He looks like he wants to say more—like there’s a hundred things sitting at the tip of his tongue, waiting to spill out.

But you’ve already stepped back.

Already putting that distance between you again.

“We have work to finish,” you say, turning away. “If you’re done… we can start recording.”

It’s a dismissal.

Hyunjin didn't move. He stood in the center of the room, watching you shut the door he hadn't even realized you were closing. And the worst part? You weren't slamming it. You weren't yelling or crying or demanding an explanation.

You were just… letting him go.

Like whatever was between you, really didn’t mean anything at all.

And now, he’s the one left chasing it.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

It doesn’t stop.

Even after that conversation, Hyunjin doesn’t back off.

If anything, he gets worse.

At first, it’s small. So small you almost convince yourself it’s nothing.

He starts listening.No more arguing just to get a reaction out of you, no more dragging out takes because he thinks it’s funny when you get annoyed.

Every time you gave a correction, he leaned into the microphone, his eyes searching yours through the glass with a weight that made your pulse stutter.

"Like this?" he’d ask after every adjustment.

Like he’s waiting for your approval.

You keep it clinical. “Better. Again.”

But he still looks at you like that word matters more than it should.

Then it’s quieter things.

You mention—offhandedly—that you didn’t have time to eat. The next day, a familiar takeout bag from your favorite place was sitting on your console. No post it notes scrawled in marker. Just the quiet presence of it. You ignored it for three hours, your resolve hardening even as your stomach growled.

You take one bite. Then another.

And you hate the way your chest tightens when you realize it’s exactly what you like.

Across the room, Hyunjin doesn’t say anything.

But you catch him glancing once—just once. Like that’s enough.

Also, he stays later now.

A few minutes turning into an hour, until he was the only one left in the room with you every single night..

Even when there’s no reason to.

You’ll be packing up, ready to go, and he’ll still be there—leaning against the console, watching you in that quiet way that used to feel comfortable.

Now it feels dangerous.

“You don’t have to stay,” you tell him one night.

“I know.”

“Then go home.”

A beat.

“I will,” he says.

He doesn’t move.

You sigh, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Hyunjin.”

“Walk with me,” he says suddenly.

You freeze.

“We’re going the same way anyway.”

“We’re not,” you reply. “I have somewhere else to be.”

It’s a lie. A bad one.

He knows it and you know he knows it.

But he doesn’t call you out.

“...Okay,” he’d whispered, stepping back to let you pass. He was learning how to respect the space you’d demanded, but he was making sure you felt exactly how much of it he was willing to fill.

The others definitely notice now.

“Hyunjin,” Jisung whispers loudly one day, not even trying to be subtle, “you’re down bad.”

“Shut up.”

“You are,” Changbin adds, grinning. “I’ve never seen you this obedient in the studio.”

“I’m not obedient.”

“You said ‘yes’ five times in a row.”

“That’s called listening.”

“Since when?” Minho chimed in, his voice a sharp blade of amusement.

Hyunjin glares.

Across the room, you kept your head down, your pen trembling slightly against the paper. You could feel Chan watching you. He waited until the others drifted toward the vending machines before he slid into the chair next to yours.

“Are you going to talk about it?” he asked, his voice low enough to stay between the two of you.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Chan.”

He sighed, the sound of a man who had handled enough disputes for one lifetime. “You’re both exhausting. He’s trying, you know.”

“I know.”

“And?”

You flipped a page in your notebook, the paper crisp and final. “And nothing. It doesn’t change what happened.”

Chan studied you, his gaze heavy with the kind of wisdom that comes from seeing too many hearts break in small rooms. “You don’t believe him?”

“I’m starting to,” you said, closing the book with a soft thud. “That’s the problem.”

Chan doesn’t respond right away.

Because that answer? It says more than you intended.

Hyunjin doesn’t stop.

He adjusts himself around you like he’s trying to prove something without forcing it.

He gives you space—but never distance.

He talks to you—but never pushes too far.

He looks at you—always looks at you—like he’s waiting for the moment you’ll finally soften again.

And sometimes, you almost do.

Like when he laughs—really laughs—and it slips out before he can stop it, bright and unguarded, and you forget, just for a second, that you’re supposed to be careful.

Or when he hums a melody absentmindedly, and you instinctively add a harmony under your breath, and your voices blend like they always have—natural.

That pull. That same pull that led to—

No.

You shut it down. Immediately.

Because you remember—You remember the kiss. You remember how real it felt. And you remember him pulling away like it was nothing.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

One night, it breaks.

You’re both alone again.

The others left hours ago, and you told yourself you’d leave earlier this time—but here you are, still sitting across from him, the soft glow of the screen the only light left.

“You’re tired,” he said. It wasn't a question.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I said I’m fine.”

A pause.

Then, softer, “You don’t have to keep doing that.”

“Doing what?” you snapped, finally looking at him.

“Acting like you don’t feel anything.”

Your chest tightened, that familiar, suffocating pressure returning.

“I don’t.”

He doesn’t believe you. It’s obvious.

And that annoys you more than it should.

“You don’t get to decide that,” you say.

“I’m not deciding. I’m seeing.”

“You’re assuming.”

“I’m remembering.”

That hits too close.

You stand abruptly, standing abruptly and shoving your laptop into your bag. “We’re done here.”

“No, we’re not.” He moved faster, intercepting you before you could reach the door.

“Yes, we are.”

“Not until you actually look at me and say you don’t feel anything.”

You laugh, short and sharp. “Why? So you can decide if it’s convincing enough?”

“So I know if I should stop.”

Silence.

That…makes you pause.

Because for the first time, there’s something different in his voice.

Not just persistence or guilt.

Something steadier. Something real.

“If I say it,” you ask quietly, “you’ll stop?”

His jaw tightens.

“If you mean it.”

There it is.

The problem.

You looked up at him, the lie sitting on your tongue like a piece of lead. It was right there. All you had to do was say the words and the pressure would vanish. You could go back to being "the professional" and he would finally leave you alone.

But you couldn't do it.

Because if you said it, you’d be no better than he was that night.

So instead, you shake your head slightly.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs.

You look away first.

And that’s all he needs.

“I meant it,” he says, stepping closer—but not too close. Not enough to scare you off. “That night.”

You don’t respond.

“I just got scared,” he continues. “And I said the worst possible thing I could’ve said.”

Your hands tighten around your bag strap.

“I know you don’t trust it,” he adds. “I understand.”

A breath.

“But I’m not going anywhere.”

That makes your chest ache in a way you don’t want to acknowledge.

“You should,” you say quietly.

“I won’t.”

“Hyunjin—”

“I like you.”

The words were so simple they were devastating. No poetry, no metaphors—just the raw, naked truth. You stood there, caught between the wall you’d built and the person who was slowly, painstakingly dismantling it brick by brick.

You freeze.

Because this?

This is what you wanted.

Once.

Before he made you question everything.

And now that it’s here, it feels heavier than it should.

“I know I messed up,” he says. “I know I don’t get to just fix it because I want to. But I’m not going to pretend it didn’t matter.”

Your throat tightens.

“You can ignore me,” he adds softly. “Push me away. Take your time. I’ll take it.”

A beat.

“Just… don’t tell yourself it was nothing.”

Silence fills the space again. But this time, it’s different.

Because the distance between you? It’s still there.

You’re still resisting.

Still holding the line you drew for yourself.

And Hyunjin? He sees the hesitation.

The crack.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Then—quietly, almost a whisper—he spoke.

“I think about it every day.”

You blink.

“What?”

“The kiss,” he says. “I think about it every day.”

Your chest tightens.

“Because the truth is,” he says, taking a step closer, slower this time, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away, “it mattered too much.”

Your breath catches.

“I didn’t stay,” he admits. “And I hate that. I hate that the one time I should’ve been honest, I wasn’t.”

He’s right in front of you now. Not touching.

Just… there.

“I don’t want to run from it anymore,” he adds softly. “From you.”

Your heart is pounding so loud it’s almost disorienting.

“You don’t get to say that so easily,” you whisper.

“I’m not saying it’s easy.”

“Then why now?”

“Because you’re slipping away,” he says, and there’s no hesitation this time. No panic. Just truth. “And I can’t let that happen without at least trying.”

Your eyes search his. Looking for doubt, hesitation, or any sign that this is another moment he’ll take back.

But there was none. There was only him.

“You hurt me,” you say, quieter now.

“I know.”

“And I don’t know if I can just forget that.”

“I’m not asking you to forget.”

A beat.

“Just… don’t shut me out because of it.”

Your resolve wavered. You hated the way your heart leaned toward him despite the logic screaming at you to stay back.

You hate that despite everything—despite how careful you tried to be—you still feel it.

Him.

“I tried to move on,” you admit softly.

His expression flickers. “Did it work?”

You shake your head.

“…No.”

That’s all it takes.

The last thread snapping.

Because the distance you built?

It was never as strong as you wanted it to be.

And now, standing this close, with everything finally said

He lifted his hand—hesitating for a fraction of a second, his fingers trembling—then gently, tentatively, he cupped your cheek. His skin was warm, a grounding contrast to the coldness you’d been carrying.

This time, he didn’t rush. He didn’t overwhelm you with sudden momentum.

He gave you time to breathe, to think, and to choose.

Your breath stuttered, but you didn't pull away. You leaned into his palm, a small, involuntary movement that was all the answer he needed.

When he finally leaned in, the kiss was different. It wasn't the desperate, sudden burst from before.

It was careful. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast.

Your eyes close.

And when your lips meet, it was right.

You feel it again—that same pull—but steadier now. Grounded. Real in a way it wasn’t before, because this time, neither of you is pretending.

Your hand finds his shirt, gripping lightly as if to ensure he was still there. And he stayed. He didn't recoil. He didn't break the connection. He held you as if you were the only thing keeping him upright.

When you finally separate, it’s only because you need to breathe—but even then, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his thumb still tracing the line of your jaw.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs.

You let out a small, breathless laugh. “You already tried that once.”

“I won’t again.”

You studied him—really studied him—searching for any trace of the boy who had run away. For the first time since that night, you believed him.

“…Okay,” you whisper.

It’s not a grand declaration.

Not a full surrender.

But as your hand slid into his, your fingers interlacing perfectly, it was enough.

And this time, when he leaned in again, you didn’t wait for him to reach you.

You met him halfway.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

⤷ ゛ TAGLIST ˎˊ˗

One particularly chaotic afternoon, the practice schedule had shifted three times in two hours. You were juggling calls, updating the shared calendar, and trying not to let the stress show on your face.

“Wait, didn’t you say the rehearsal room booking got messed up today?”

You blink, glancing up from your tablet. “Yeah. Someone double-booked Studio B, so I had to request a last-minute switch. We might have to delay—”

“It’s already fixed.”

“…What?”

Seungmin shrugs, scrolling through his phone. “Manager hyung said the other booking got moved.”

You frown. “That… doesn’t make sense. I just checked an hour ago.”

“Guess someone higher up handled it,” he says casually.

You nod slowly, still confused—but relieved.

That’s one problem down.

You don’t see Minho in the corner of the room, quietly slipping his phone back into his pocket after a short call.

It keeps happening.

Small things at first.

A missing file that suddenly reappears in your inbox—perfectly organized, labeled better than you would’ve done yourself.

A scheduling conflict that resolves before you even escalate it.

A last-minute prop request that arrives exactly on time, even though you’re sure you submitted it too late.

At first, you chalk it up to luck.

Then coincidence.

Then maybe… someone else on the team quietly helping out.

You ask around once, casually, during a quick break in the lounge.

“Wasn’t me,” Changbin says, munching on a protein bar.

“I thought it was you,” Chan replies with a small, knowing smile.

Hyunjin just tilts his head, brushing his hair back. “You’ve been doing great lately though. Everything’s running smoother.”

Felix nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! You seem less stressed. It’s nice.”

You laugh it off, but the confusion lingers.

Because it’s not just work.

Your commute gets easier.

The bus that’s usually packed somehow has space when you’re running late.

The café near the building—always out of your favorite drink—suddenly starts having it ready when you walk in, the barista smiling like it’s the most normal thing.

Even your worst days soften at the edges, like something—or someone—is smoothing them out before they can fully fall apart.

One rainy evening, you almost miss the last train home after a grueling day. But when you arrive at the platform, breathless and soaked, the train is still there—doors open, as if waiting just for you.

You start sleeping better.

Smiling more.

Feeling like maybe you’re finally getting the hang of things.

Minho still doesn’t look at you.

Still speaks in short, polite sentences when necessary.

Still walks past you like there’s nothing tying you together but work.

So you don’t connect it.

Not when your forgotten lunch gets replaced with an extra meal someone “accidentally ordered,” left neatly on your desk with a note that simply says “extra.”

Not when your broken pen is swapped out for a new one before you even notice it’s missing, the old one mysteriously gone from the trash.

Not when your name shows up—subtly, quietly—on opportunities you didn’t apply for but somehow got approved for anyway: a short training session on artist management tools, a chance to shadow a senior coordinator.

You never connect it to him.

“Hey,” Chan calls one evening, catching you before you leave. “You’ve been less stressed lately.”

You laugh softly. “Have I?”

“Yeah. It’s good to see.”

You nod, adjusting your bag. “Things have just been… working out, I guess.”

Chan hums, glancing briefly across the room.

You follow his gaze—only to find Minho there, leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone.

Expression unreadable.

Uninterested.

As always.

“Yeah,” Chan says, almost to himself. “Something like that.”

Chan doesn’t say more, but there’s a softness in his eyes that makes you wonder for a split second.

Minho notices everything.

He notices when your shoulders slump under too much work.

When you skip meals because you’re too busy fixing everyone else’s problems.

When your voice gets smaller after someone higher up snaps at you for something that wasn’t even your fault.

He notices the way you rub your temples when a headache starts creeping in.

The faint shadows under your eyes after back-to-back late nights.

He notices.

He just… doesn’t say anything.

Because saying something would mean acknowledging it.

Acknowledging you. And that’s… complicated.

So he fixes things instead. Quietly. Efficiently.

He talks to the right people without mentioning your name. Adjusts schedules under the guise of “group preference.” Reorders files, corrects mistakes, reroutes problems before they ever reach you.

He stays late sometimes, after everyone else has gone, making sure loose ends are tied up so tomorrow won’t overwhelm you.

He tells himself it’s practical.

You’re part of their team.

If you’re overwhelmed, it affects them too.

It’s just logic. Nothing more.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You’re running late, juggling too many things at once—your tablet nearly slipping from your grip, coffee dangerously close to spilling, your mind already racing through a dozen tasks you know are waiting for you upstairs. The elevator had been slow again, and your shoes were still slightly damp from the morning rain you’d rushed through.

And then—

“Careful.”

A hand steadies your cup before it tips over.

You blink, startled, looking up.

It’s one of the newer staff—Jihoon. You’ve seen him around, mostly handling coordination between departments. Quiet, but friendly. He always had a calm energy about him, the kind that didn’t demand attention but somehow earned it anyway.

“Ah—thank you,” you say, exhaling in relief. “That could’ve been bad.”

He laughs softly. “Yeah, you looked like you were about to lose a battle with gravity.”

You smile a little, adjusting your hold. “Wouldn’t be the first time this week.”

There’s a brief pause.

Then he hesitates.

“You’ve been busy lately, right?”

You huff out a small laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

“Kind of,” he admits. “But… things seem better now.”

You blink.

“What do you mean?”

He rubs the back of his neck, glancing away for a second—like he’s debating something. His fingers tap lightly against his own folder, a small nervous habit you hadn’t noticed before.

“Just—like your schedules. They’ve been smoother. Less last-minute chaos.”

Your stomach tightens, just a little.

“…Yeah,” you say slowly. “They have.”

Another pause.

Then, carefully, “Did you… have anything to do with that?”

Jihoon freezes.

It’s subtle. Anyone else might miss it.

But you don’t.

His eyes widen just slightly. His mouth opens—then closes.

“I—uh—”

Your heart starts to pick up.

“…Jihoon.”

He lets out an awkward laugh. “It’s not—like—okay, wait—”

That’s not a no.

You step a little closer. “Did you help me?”

“I mean—it’s not a big deal—”

“You did?”

“I just—sometimes—” He exhales, giving in. “I noticed you were struggling. So I thought… maybe I could help a little. Nothing major. Just moving a few things around when I could.”

Something in your chest softens.

“Oh.”

That’s all it takes.

It makes sense, doesn’t it?

The timing. The way things started getting better. The quiet fixes, the subtle changes.

Someone had to be behind it.

And now, you’re looking at him.

“…Why didn’t you say anything?” you ask, softer now.

Jihoon shrugs, a little shy. “Didn’t think you’d notice.”

You let out a small laugh. “I noticed. Eventually.”

He smiles at that—warm, genuine, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly.

And just like that, the mystery settles.

You thank him properly the next day—bringing him a drink from the café downstairs, the same one you’d seen him order once before. His reaction is flustered, surprised, but… happy. He accepts it with both hands, ears turning a faint pink.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” you say simply.

And you mean it.

Because suddenly, everything feels… clearer.

Warmer.

Those small, invisible acts of kindness now have a face. A reason.

A person.

You find yourself lingering a little longer when you pass him in the hallways. Sharing quick conversations during breaks. Noticing how he always seems to time his coffee runs around when you might need one too.

“You’re smiling more these days.”

You glance up at Chan, who’s watching you with a knowing look. The practice room is loud around you both—music still echoing faintly from the speakers, members scattered in various states of rest.

“Am I?”

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s nice.”

You duck your head a little, embarrassed. “Things have just been going well.”

Chan hums, like he wants to say something else.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his gaze shifts—just briefly.

Across the room.

Minho’s there. Of course he is.

Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His hair is still slightly damp from practice, and there’s a towel slung over one shoulder.

His eyes flick to you.

Then to Jihoon, who’s standing a little too close, laughing at something you’d said earlier.

Then back to you.

And away.

His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the edge of his phone.

You don’t notice.

“Hey,” Jihoon says one evening, catching up to you after work. The hallway lights are dimmer at this hour, casting long shadows across the polished floors. “Are you heading out?”

“Yeah,” you reply. “Finally.”

He grins. “Want company?”

You hesitate for half a second.

Then nod. “Sure.”

It’s easy.

Talking to him is easy.

And little by little, you get closer.

Shared lunches during breaks. Quick texts about schedule updates that turn into longer conversations. The kind of comfortable familiarity that builds without pressure.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

You pause, looking up at him.

It’s late again. The building mostly empty, the air quieter than usual. Only the faint hum of the vending machine down the hall breaks the silence.

Jihoon shifts on his feet, unusually nervous. He’s holding his bag strap a little too tightly.

“What is it?”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair.

“I… didn’t just help you because you were struggling.”

Your heart skips.

“…Oh?”

“I mean—I noticed you because of that,” he admits. “But I kept helping because…” He laughs awkwardly. “Because I wanted you to notice me.”

Your breath catches slightly.

“I’ve been trying to get your attention for a while now.”

Something warm blooms in your chest.

It’s… nice. Unexpected. But nice.

You smile, just a little.

“I think it worked.”

He lets out a relieved breath, his shoulders relaxing as he smiles back at you—bright and hopeful.

From down the hallway—unseen, unnoticed—Minho stands still.

He hadn’t meant to overhear.

He shouldn’t be here.

He should’ve left ten minutes ago, after finishing his extra practice reps.

But his feet don’t move.

Not when he hears your voice.

Not when he sees the way you’re looking at someone else.

The soft lighting catches the way your expression shifts—gentle, open, appreciative in a way he’s never seen directed at him.

I’ve been trying to get your attention.

The words echo, sharp and irritating.

Minho’s jaw tightens. Because that’s ridiculous.

Jihoon doesn’t even know half of it.

Doesn’t know about the late-night schedule changes. The conversations with management. The way Minho had memorized your workload better than his own at some point—tracking which tasks drained you the most, which days you tended to forget lunch.

Doesn’t know how many things he fixed before they could ever reach you. The quiet calls. The subtle redirects. The way he’d stayed behind more times than he could count.

And yet, you’re smiling at him like he’s the reason.

Minho lets out a quiet, humorless scoff under his breath.

Of course you’d think that.

He made sure you never knew.

Made sure it stayed that way—clean, invisible, detached.

So what did he expect?

Recognition?

Gratitude?

No. That was never the point. Or at least… that’s what he keeps telling himself.

Then why does it feel like this?

Like something’s gone slightly wrong in a plan he never admitted was a plan.

His chest feels heavier than it should after a long practice day. A dull, persistent ache settles behind his ribs, the kind that no amount of extra dancing or cold showers seems to shake.

He tells himself it’s nothing. Just irritation at misplaced credit. Just the sting of watching his quiet efforts get rewritten by someone bolder, someone who actually spoke up.

But the lie tastes bitter even in his own mind.

He watches you laugh softly at something Jihoon says.

The easy way your shoulders relax around him, the small tilt of your head when you listen—like you’re truly seeing the person in front of you.

And something in him shifts.

He had convinced himself distance was safer. That not acknowledging you meant not risking the complication. Now that choice sits heavy in his stomach, cold and irreversible.

Minho pushes himself off the wall.

Turns.

And walks away.

He had protected your days.

He just hadn’t realized he was breaking his own in the process.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Something changes.

It’s subtle at first—so subtle you almost convince yourself you’re imagining it.

Because things… stop being as easy.

Not completely. Not enough to raise alarms.

Just enough for you to notice.

The smoothness you had grown used to starts to fray at the edges. Small hiccups appear where there used to be none. A delayed approval here, a miscommunication there. Nothing catastrophic, but the contrast makes your shoulders feel a little tighter by the end of each day.

You’re back to double-checking schedules more often.

Fixing small errors yourself.

Following up on requests that, before, seemed to resolve on their own.

It’s not overwhelming—but it’s different.

And the difference sits quietly in the back of your mind, like a half-remembered dream you can’t quite shake.

“Hey, can we move the rehearsal an hour earlier?”

You look up from your tablet, nodding. “I can try, but Studio A is booked—”

“It should be free,” one of the coordinators says absentmindedly, flipping through his notes. “Minho usually adjusts that when he wants more practice time.”

You pause.

“…Minho?”

“Yeah,” he continues, not thinking much of it. “He’s picky with schedules. Always has something to say about timing, room assignments… stuff like that.”

You stare at him for a second longer than necessary.

“I see.”

Your voice stays neutral.

Professional.

But something in your chest shifts—just slightly.

A tiny crack in the assumption you’d been carrying for months.

Minho?

Schedules?

You frown faintly at your screen.

That doesn’t… mean anything.

It’s normal, isn’t it? He’s part of the group. Of course he’d have input.

Of course he’d care about their schedule.

That doesn’t have anything to do with you. Right?

You repeat the thought like a quiet mantra, but it doesn’t quite settle the way it used to.

The next few days, you find yourself… noticing him more.

Not intentionally.

It just happens.

Your eyes seem to find him in rooms without permission. Your ears catch his voice even when he speaks low.

You’re standing near the back of the room, going over a revised schedule, when you hear voices up ahead.

“That slot doesn’t work.”

Minho.

You glance up without meaning to.

He’s standing with one of the managers, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the paper in their hands. His posture is relaxed but decisive, the kind of quiet authority that doesn’t need to raise its voice.

“It’s too tight,” he continues, tone calm but firm. “There’s no buffer between rehearsal and recording.”

“We can manage—”

“No,” he cuts in quietly. “It’ll cause delays.”

There’s a pause.

Then the manager sighs. “Fine. What do you suggest?”

Minho points at something on the sheet.

You can’t see exactly where—but you see the manager nod slowly.

“…That actually works.”

You blink.

Because… that does work. Better than what you had planned.

The adjustment creates breathing room you hadn’t even realized was missing.

You look back down at your tablet.

The revised version updates seconds later.

Cleaner.

More efficient.

Easier.

Your grip tightens just slightly on the edges of the device.

That’s… just him being thorough. Right?

The question feels heavier now.

It happens again.

And again.

A supplier issue you were about to escalate suddenly gets resolved—after Minho steps aside to make a quiet phone call, his voice too low to catch but the result immediate.

A change in filming order that perfectly accommodates a problem you hadn’t voiced yet—suggested by him, casually, like it’s nothing. Like he simply noticed the same flaw you had.

Little things.

Always little things.

But always helpful.

In ways that feel too tailored. Too precise.

You tell yourself it’s coincidence. You tell yourself it has nothing to do with you.

The words sound weaker each time you repeat them.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

“Wait.”

Your voice comes out before you can stop it.

Minho pauses.

He’s by the equipment table, adjusting something—something you just noted needed fixing but hadn’t gotten around to yet. His fingers move with the same quiet efficiency you’re starting to recognize.

He glances at you.

Expression neutral.

“Yes?”

You hesitate.

Because now that you’ve stopped him—

you don’t know what to say.

“…That cable,” you manage, gesturing slightly. “I was going to fix that.”

“I know.”

The words come easily.

Too easily.

You freeze.

“…You know?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “It was obvious.”

Your brows knit together slightly.

“Right.”

Silence settles between you—unfamiliar. Because this is… longer than your usual interactions.

The air between you feels thicker, charged with all the things neither of you has ever said.

You study him for a second. He looks the same —calm, indifferent, unbothered. Like always.

His eyes are steady, but there’s something guarded in them now — something you’re only starting to notice because you’re actually looking.

So why? Why does your pulse feel a little faster?

“Thanks,” you say finally, a little quieter.

Something flickers in his eyes. Quick.

Gone before you can catch it.

A brief crack in the mask.

“It’s part of the job.”

Of course it is.

You nod slowly.

“Right.”

After that, it becomes harder not to notice.

Harder not to connect things.

Harder not to… question.

The pattern refuses to stay hidden now.

Every small fix, every quiet intervention, every perfectly timed adjustment feels like it carries his signature — invisible until you started looking for it.

Because the timing. It’s too precise.

Too consistent. Too… intentional.

And Minho. He’s always just there.

Not close. Not obvious.

But present. Like a shadow that only appears when something needs correcting. When you need protecting, even if you never asked.

You start catching him in moments you never paid attention to before.

Like the way his gaze lingers—not on you exactly, but near you. Like he’s keeping track without wanting to be caught.

Or how he steps in just before something becomes your problem, redirecting it so smoothly it almost looks natural.

Or how he already knows what needs fixing before you even say it — as if he’s been paying attention far longer than you realized.

It doesn’t make sense.

Not with the way he treats you.

Not with the distance he keeps.

The short replies. The way he still skims past you like you’re background noise.

The contradiction sits uncomfortably in your chest.

At some point, it stops feeling like coincidence.

The thought has taken root too deeply now, twisting through every small interaction, every resolved issue, every quiet adjustment you once dismissed.

And suddenly, everything starts lining up a little too perfectly.

The pieces you tried to ignore now refuse to stay scattered.

“Wait, this got approved already?”

You stare at the document in your hand, confused. The stamp is fresh, the signature clear — something that should have taken days longer.

“I thought this was pending for another week.”

One of the coordinators shrugs. “Minho brought it up yesterday. Said it would delay things if it didn’t get pushed through.”

You freeze.

“…He did?”

“Yeah,” they say casually. “He’s weirdly involved in stuff like that.”

Weirdly.

You press your lips together, the word echoing louder than it should.

Involved.

In your workload.

In things that shouldn’t concern him.

Later that day.

“Who adjusted the filming order?”

You ask it offhandedly, not expecting much. The question slips out during a quick break in the lounge, half-curiosity, half-testing.

Chan grins immediately. “Take a guess.”

“…Minho?”

“Bingo.”

You blink.

“I didn’t even report it yet.”

Chan’s smile widens, something amused flickering in his eyes. “Yeah. Funny how that works, right?”

There’s a knowing glint there, like he’s been waiting for you to catch on. Like the rest of them have been watching this unfold quietly.

It keeps happening.

Not directly.

Never directly.

But always: Minho did this. Minho suggested that. Minho said it would be better this way.

His name surfaces in conversations you’re not even part of, attached to fixes that feel tailored to your exact pain points.

Even the boys start noticing your reactions.

“Wow,” Changbin says one afternoon, dramatically placing a hand over his chest as he watches you glance toward Minho during practice. “You’re finally paying attention to him.”

You frown. “What does that mean?”

Hyunjin hums, leaning back in his chair with that graceful, observant tilt of his head. “Nothing. It’s just interesting.”

“Very interesting,” Seungmin adds under his breath, not even looking up from his phone but clearly listening.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re all being weird.”

Chan just laughs, not denying it, his eyes soft with something like quiet encouragement.

Across the room, Minho doesn’t react.

Doesn’t look at you.

Doesn’t say anything.

He continues stretching, movements precise and controlled as always.

But his ears turn slightly red.

The color is faint, barely noticeable unless you’re already watching closely. It spreads just beneath the shell of his ear and along the back of his neck, betraying him in the one place he can’t hide.

Jihoon notices the shift too.

Of course he does.

He’s been watching you more carefully these past weeks, the easy warmth between you cooling into something strained.

“You’ve been distant.”

You sigh quietly, not looking up from your work. The spreadsheet on your screen blurs slightly from how long you’ve been staring at it. “Jihoon…”

“I mean it,” he insists, stepping closer to your desk, his shadow falling over your keyboard. “You barely talk to me anymore.”

“I’ve been busy,” you repeat, firmer this time, fingers still typing.

“You’re always busy,” he says, a hint of frustration slipping through, sharper than usual.

You finally look up.

“And I told you that already.”

There’s a pause.

“I just—” he exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I thought things were going somewhere.”

You soften, but only slightly.

The guilt is there, but it’s overshadowed by the growing distance you can’t explain — not to him, not even fully to yourself.

“I’m sorry,” you say honestly. “But I can’t give you that right now.”

His jaw tightens.

“…Right now?”

You hesitate.

“Jihoon.”

That hesitation says enough. It carries the weight of everything unsaid — the way your focus has been drifting, the way Minho’s quiet presence has started occupying more space in your thoughts than it should.

You turn him down. Properly this time.

Clear. Firm. No room for misinterpretation.

The words come out steady, even if your chest feels tight afterward.

It should end there.

But it doesn’t.

The rejection doesn’t land cleanly. Instead, it seems to fuel something stubborn in him.

Because Jihoon… doesn’t really stop.

At first, it’s subtle.

More messages than before — good morning texts that feel heavier, check-ins that linger too long in your notifications.

Waiting for you after work near the exit, casual smile in place like nothing changed.

Dropping by your desk more often than necessary, always with some small excuse — a shared document, a question about schedules.

You brush it off.

Stay polite.

Keep your boundaries clear, repeating the same gentle refusals.

“Just one dinner.”

You sigh, already shaking your head. “Jihoon, I told you—”

“Ten minutes,” he pushes. “That’s all I’m asking.”

“I’m busy.”

“You’re always busy,” he repeats, stepping closer, his voice dropping lower. The space between you shrinks uncomfortably.

Something in your chest tightens.

“I said no.”

He laughs lightly, like you’re joking, like this is still playful.

“Come on. You can spare a little time for me.”

Your grip on your tablet tightens until the edges dig into your palms.

“Jihoon.”

“I’ve been patient,” he continues, voice edging sharper, frustration bleeding through. “I’ve been helping you this whole time and—”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

The words come out before you can soften them.

Silence.

Tense.

Uncomfortable.

The kind that makes the air feel thicker, harder to breathe.

His expression shifts.

Not angry.

But something close.

Hurt mixed with entitlement, a dangerous combination.

“You didn’t have to,” he says. “I did it because I like you.”

“I know,” you reply, steady. “And I’m grateful. But that doesn’t mean I owe you anything.”

“That’s not what I’m saying—”

“Then what are you saying?” you cut in, frustration finally slipping through, your voice rising just enough to echo slightly in the quiet office area.

He steps closer again.

Too close.

The scent of his cologne feels overwhelming now.

“You’re just… brushing me off like I don’t matter.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

“Jihoon, stop.”

But he doesn’t.

His hand reaches toward your arm—

“Is there a problem?”

The voice cuts in—calm, low, sharp enough to slice through the tension instantly.

You both turn.

Minho.

He stands a few steps away, expression unreadable.

But his eyes—they’re fixed on Jihoon.

Cold.

Glacial, almost. The kind of look that makes the temperature in the room drop.

Jihoon straightens slightly. “No. We’re just talking.”

Minho glances at you briefly.

You don’t say anything.

But maybe, you don’t have to.

Your shoulders are tense, your posture rigid in a way that speaks volumes.

“Doesn’t look like it.”

His voice stays even.

Controlled.

But there’s an edge to it now.

Subtle.

Dangerous.

The kind of quiet authority that doesn’t need volume to command space.

Jihoon lets out a small scoff. “It’s none of your business.”

Minho tilts his head slightly, the movement slow and deliberate.

“You’re right,” he says.

A pause.

Then, “But she said stop.”

The air shifts.

The simple statement lands like a line drawn in concrete.

Jihoon’s jaw tightens. “We’re in the middle of something.”

Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“Not anymore.”

His stance is relaxed, but there’s nothing casual about it. He’s planted there, solid and unwavering, like he’s prepared to stand between you and whatever comes next for as long as it takes.

Silence stretches.

Heavy.

Uncomfortable.

The kind that makes Jihoon’s persistence feel suddenly small and exposed.

Because Minho doesn’t raise his voice.

Doesn’t make a scene.

But there’s something in the way he stands there—solid, unyielding.

Like he’s not going to move. Not going to back down.

His presence fills the space without effort, protective in a way that feels instinctive rather than calculated.

Jihoon looks between the two of you.

Annoyance flickers across his face.

Then something else.

Something calculating — weighing the situation, the witnesses nearby, the fact that Minho isn’t someone you can easily push past.

Finally, he exhales sharply.

“Fine.” He steps back. “Whatever.”

He throws you one last look—something unreadable lingering there, a mix of resentment and lingering hope—before turning and walking off, footsteps echoing down the hallway a little too loudly.

The moment he’s gone, the tension breaks.

Just slightly.

The air feels lighter, though your heart is still racing.

You exhale, not realizing you’d been holding your breath.

“…Thank you.”

Your voice comes out quieter than expected, a little shaky at the edges.

Minho doesn’t respond immediately.

For a second, you think he’ll just walk away like always — silent, distant, retreating back into his usual shell.

But he doesn’t.

“He should’ve stopped the first time.”

Your brows knit together slightly.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“You okay?”

The question catches you off guard.

Because it’s gentle. Barely there. But real.

The concern is understated, wrapped in that same calm tone, but you hear it clearly now.

You blink.

“I am now.”

Another pause.

Something unspoken lingers between you — thick with all the observations you’ve been collecting, all the quiet interventions that suddenly feel impossibly intentional.

“Minho.”

He hums softly, waiting. His eyes meet yours steadily, but there’s a new vulnerability there, barely masked.

You hesitate.

Because suddenly—everything you’ve been noticing, everything you’ve been connecting, everything that doesn’t quite make sense—feels a little closer to the surface.

The words hover on your tongue — questions about the schedules, the fixes, the silent protection — but they don’t come out yet.

But instead, you just say, “Thanks. For earlier.”

He nods once.

“It’s nothing.”

It’s not.

You know that now.

The denial feels paper-thin, and for the first time, you’re certain he knows you know.

And as he turns to leave, you find yourself watching him.

Not confused anymore.

Just…curious.

Your eyes follow the line of his back down the hallway, the quiet strength in his steps, and something warm and unsteady settles in your chest.

For the first time, the distance between you doesn’t feel quite so impossible to cross.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You don’t know when it shifts.

Only that one day, you stop second-guessing it.

The doubt that used to hover constantly in the back of your mind simply… quiets. No dramatic revelation. Just a quiet acceptance that settles in your chest like it had been waiting for permission to stay.

Because it’s not just patterns anymore.

It’s him.

The fixes, the adjustments, the quiet protection — they all carry his signature now, and you’ve stopped pretending otherwise.

“Your meeting got moved.”

You look up, startled.

Minho stands beside your desk, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other holding your updated schedule. The paper is neatly folded, his handwriting visible at the top in small, precise notes.

You blink.

“I didn’t get notified.”

“I know,” he says simply, placing it down in front of you. “It conflicted with the recording.”

Your fingers hover over the paper.

“…You fixed it.”

He nods once. “It made more sense this way.”

There’s no hesitation.

No deflection.

No pretending it just happened.

No more hiding behind coincidences or vague “someone handled it” explanations.

You look up at him slowly.

And for the first time—he doesn’t look away.

“Thank you,” you say, quieter now.

Something soft flickers in his gaze — a brief warmth that softens the usual sharpness of his features.

“Mm.”

That’s all he gives.

But it’s enough.

It feels like the first real crack in the wall he’s kept between you for so long.

After that, he stops hiding it as much.

Not completely.

Minho is still… Minho.

Reserved. Careful. Measured.

He doesn’t suddenly become loud or overly affectionate. The changes are small, almost invisible to anyone else.

But now, when something gets fixed, he doesn’t pretend it wasn’t him.

When something goes wrong, he steps in before you even ask, already two steps ahead like he’s been keeping mental track of your workload.

When you’re overwhelmed, things start shifting around you again—only this time, you see it happening.

You see him — the quiet way he speaks to managers in hallways, the subtle notes he leaves on shared documents, the extra practice time he rearranges without fanfare.

“Did you sleep?”

You blink, caught off guard by the question. It comes during a rare quiet moment in the practice room, the mirrors still fogged slightly from earlier dancing.

“What?”

Minho glances at you briefly, then back at the mirror in the practice room, adjusting the strap of his bag.

“You look tired.”

You huff a small laugh. “I am.”

“That’s not good.”

You raise a brow. “Wow. Insightful.”

He ignores the sarcasm, the corner of his mouth twitching just slightly.

“Go home earlier today.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I have work.”

“I’ll handle it.”

You stare at him.

“You’ll handle it?”

He shrugs slightly. “It’s not hard.”

You let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, the sound lighter than you expected.

“Minho.”

He finally looks at you fully.

And there’s something there now—something steady. Intentional.

A quiet determination that makes your pulse skip.

“I don’t mind.”

Your chest tightens.

Just a little.

The simple offer lands heavier than any grand gesture could have.

You don’t argue after that.

You leave earlier, and the next morning everything is already sorted — clean, efficient, waiting for you like it always used to be, only now you know exactly whose hands shaped it.

Days pass.

And somehow, talking to him becomes… normal.

The kind of normal that still surprises you every time it happens, but no longer feels impossible.

It starts small.

Short exchanges in passing.

Dry comments tossed across the room.

The occasional teasing remark that catches you off guard because — you didn’t know he had that side.

Dry, sharp, unexpectedly playful beneath the cool exterior.

“You’re doing that wrong.”

You look up from the stack of papers, offended. “Excuse me?”

He walks over, takes one look, then fixes it in two seconds, fingers moving with practiced efficiency.

You stare.

“Okay, rude.”

“It was inefficient.”

“You’re inefficient.”

He scoffs softly. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

You smile.

And he almost smiles back.

The corners of his lips lift just enough to count, a rare, fleeting thing that makes something warm bloom in your stomach.

He doesn’t overwhelm you.

Doesn’t suddenly become someone else.

But he lingers more.

Stands a little closer when you’re reviewing schedules together.

Speaks a little longer, letting conversations stretch instead of cutting them short.

Looks at you like he’s… thinking. Like there are words he’s holding back but no longer hiding completely.

And you, you start looking back.

Meeting his gaze without glancing away first. Noticing the small details — the way his hair falls when he’s focused, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with practice room air, the quiet steadiness he carries even when everyone else is chaotic.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The cafeteria is quieter than usual.

You sit across from him, tray half-finished, conversation easy in a way that still feels new. Sunlight filters through the windows, catching on the edge of his jaw as he listens.

“…and then he blamed me for it,” you finish, shaking your head at the memory of a ridiculous meeting earlier.

Minho snorts softly. “That sounds like something he’d do.”

“I literally did his job.”

“Should’ve let him suffer.”

You laugh. “I’m not that mean.”

He glances at you, unimpressed. “You should be.”

“Not everyone can be like you.”

“Good.”

You grin. “See? Mean.”

There’s a pause.

Comfortable.

The kind of silence that doesn’t need filling.

Minho taps his chopsticks lightly against his tray.

“…You’re doing better.”

You tilt your head. “At work?”

He nods.

“Yeah,” you admit. “I think I am.”

A beat.

Then, softer, “…Thanks to you.”

He stills.

Just slightly.

His chopsticks pause mid-air for half a second.

You don’t look away this time.

“I noticed,” you continue. “Everything.”

His gaze flickers up to yours. Searching. Like he’s trying to read how much you truly understand.

“…Everything?”

“Enough.”

A small smile tugs at your lips. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

That’s a lie.

He’s very subtle.

He just chose not to be anymore.

Chose to let you see.

Minho exhales quietly, looking down at his tray.

“Took you long enough.”

You laugh softly. “You didn’t make it easy.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“Clearly.”

Another pause.

But this one feels different. Like the space between you is finally shrinking in a way that feels mutual.

And then, the chair beside your table scrapes loudly against the floor.

You both look up.

Jihoon.

His gaze moves between you and Minho.

The proximity.

The ease.

The familiarity.

Something flashes across his face — surprise, then a flicker of something sharper, more bitter.

“Didn’t know you two were close.”

Your smile fades slightly.

“We’re just having lunch.”

“Right.”

His tone says he doesn’t believe that.

It carries an edge that makes the air feel heavier again.

Minho doesn’t say anything.

But he leans back slightly in his chair—not away from you.

Just enough to look at Jihoon properly.

Calm.

Unbothered.

But present.

His posture is relaxed, yet there’s a quiet protectiveness in the way he positions himself, like he’s ready if needed.

Jihoon lets out a short laugh. “You’ve been hard to catch lately.”

You nod politely. “I’ve been busy.”

“With him?” Jihoon asks, a hint of something sharper slipping through — jealousy, maybe, or lingering resentment.

Silence.

Before you can respond, Minho speaks.

“She said she’s busy.”

Simple.

No room for argument.

Jihoon’s jaw tightens slightly.

“I wasn’t asking you.”

Minho shrugs. “You got your answer anyway.”

The response is delivered so evenly it almost sounds casual, but the underlying steel is unmistakable.

The tension creeps in again.

Familiar.

Unwelcome.

It coils around the table like smoke.

You set your chopsticks down.

“Jihoon.”

He looks at you.

“I meant what I said before,” you continue, steady. “I’m not interested.”

A pause.

“I need you to respect that.”

Your voice is calm but firm, leaving no cracks for misinterpretation.

Silence.

Longer this time.

He exhales sharply, looking away toward the windows.

“…Yeah. Got it.”

But it doesn’t sound like he does.

The words feel forced, heavy with unspoken frustration.

He lingers for a second—eyes flicking once more between you and Minho — then turns and walks off, shoulders stiff.

The moment he’s gone, you exhale quietly.

“…Sorry.”

Minho shakes his head once. “Not your fault.”

You glance at him.

“You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Step in.”

A small pause.

“Why?”

The question hangs between you, softer than you intended.

He looks at you. Really looks at you.

And this time, he doesn’t dodge it. Doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t hide behind indifference.

His eyes are steady, honest in a way that makes your heart beat a little louder.

“Because I want to.”

Your breath catches.

It’s simple.

Honest.

And somehow, that makes it heavier than anything else he could’ve said.

No grand explanation. No excuses. Just quiet truth.

You don’t respond right away.

Don’t know how to.

The words settle warmly in your chest, spreading slowly.

Minho picks up his chopsticks again like nothing happened.

But his ears, they’re red again. The faint flush creeps up from his neck, betraying the calm mask he’s trying to keep.

And you, you can’t stop the small smile that forms as you look down at your tray.

Because now, you finally understand.

The distance, the coldness, the careful silence — it had never been hate.

It had been something far more complicated.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You’ve spent weeks—months, even—being on the receiving end of quiet fixes, subtle care, invisible hands making your life easier.

Now that you see it, you can’t unsee it.

And more than that, you want to return it.

To give something back, even if it’s small. To let him feel even a fraction of the steadiness he’s given you.

It takes a bit of effort.

Because Lee Minho doesn’t make it easy.

He doesn’t complain.

Doesn’t ask for help.

Handles everything like it’s nothing — shoulders straight, expression calm, as if the weight never bothers him.

But you notice things now.

The way he stays later than everyone else when something isn’t perfect, repeating movements until they’re flawless.

The way he quietly adjusts formations, reviews footage late into the night, rechecks details no one else would even think about.

The way he carries things alone like it’s natural. Like he’s used to being the one who makes sure everything runs smoothly behind the scenes.

So one night, you stay too.

The building is quieter than usual, only the faint hum of the air conditioning and distant echoes of music from another floor breaking the silence. You move carefully, not wanting to disturb the peace he seems to thrive in.

You fix what you can.

Small things.

Nothing overwhelming.

Just enough to lighten the load you know he’s been carrying without anyone noticing.

You reorganize the practice notes he left scattered across the table, grouping them neatly by song and date.

Update a timing sheet he’s been tweaking for days, smoothing out the overlapping slots he’d been fighting with.

Even leave a short note on top of it:

Adjusted a few things. Hope it helps :)

Your handwriting looks a little nervous next to his precise notes, but you leave it anyway.

You don’t wait around.

Don’t need to.

You slip out before the night gets too late, heart beating a little faster the whole way home.

But the next day.

“You did this.”

You freeze. Slowly turning around.

Minho stands there, papers in hand.

Your papers.

The note is still on top, slightly creased now from being handled.

“Did what?” you try, already failing. Your voice comes out higher than intended.

He lifts the sheet slightly.

“This.”

Your heart starts racing.

“Oh—um—just small things—”

“Why?”

The question is quiet.

Not accusing. Just… curious.

His head is tilted slightly, eyes searching your face like he’s trying to understand a new language.

You open your mouth.

Close it.

Then try again.

“I just thought—you’ve been doing a lot so I—”

You stop.

Because he’s looking at you.

The usual cool mask has slipped, replaced by something warmer, more open. His gaze holds a quiet surprise that makes your stomach flutter.

“I wanted to help,” you finish, voice smaller than intended.

It stretches gently between you, not uncomfortable — just full.

Your fingers fidget slightly at your sides.

“I mean—it’s nothing compared to what you do, I just—”

“You noticed.”

You blink.

“Of course I did.” A pause. Then, quieter, “You think I wouldn’t?”

Something shifts in his expression.

Something that makes your chest tighten.

A flicker of emotion crosses his face — relief mixed with something deeper, like a long-held breath finally being released.

“You really—” he starts, then stops, exhaling softly.

He looks away for a second.

Runs a hand through his hair, the strands falling back messily.

And when he looks back at you, there’s something unsteady there.

Something honest.

Raw in its simplicity.

“You really make it hard not to fall harder than I already have.”

You freeze.

Completely.

The words hang in the air, simple and devastating.

“…What?”

It comes out barely above a whisper. Your pulse thunders in your ears.

Minho freezes too. Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

The realization hits him a second later, eyes widening just slightly.

“I—”

He clears his throat quickly, composure snapping back into place—but not completely.

There’s still a hint of red on his ears. Still a slight stumble in the way he shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“…Forget that,” he mutters, looking down at the papers in his hands like they suddenly became very interesting.

You don’t.

You can’t.

The confession echoes in your mind, warm and impossible to ignore.

He looks away, then back again, something almost teasing slipping into his tone.

Like he’s trying to recover, to rebuild the walls he just accidentally lowered.

“If you keep doing things like this…” he starts, quieter now, “I might—”

He stops.

The sentence dangles, heavy with unspoken possibility.

You tilt your head slightly.

“You might what?”

Your voice is soft, encouraging, a small smile already tugging at your lips.

A beat.

Then, before he can stop himself,

“Start expecting it.”

You smile.

Challenging.

“Maybe I want you to.”

The words come out lighter than you feel, but they land exactly where you meant them to.

That shuts him up.

For a second, he just stares at you.

Like something just shifted in a way he didn’t prepare for.

His lips part slightly, then press together again as if he’s searching for his usual calm and coming up short.

Then, he exhales.

And something in him… settles.

The tension in his shoulders eases, replaced by a quiet acceptance that looks almost relieved.

“Then I’ll say it properly.”

Your breath catches.

The air between you feels charged now, electric in the best way.

Minho steps a little closer.

Not too close.

Close enough that you can see the faint freckles across his nose, the way his lashes cast soft shadows when he blinks.

“Go out with me.”

Vulnerable and steady all at once, eyes locked on yours like this is the one thing he’s sure about.

Your heart pounds.

A rush of warmth floods your chest, making your fingers tingle.

You open your mouth—

“YN!”

You both turn.

One of the managers waves you over from across the hall.

“Meeting. Now.”

The call cuts through the moment like a sudden breeze, practical and urgent.

The moment breaks.

Just slightly.

The bubble around you both pops, but the warmth lingers.

You look back at Minho.

He’s still watching you. Still waiting.

Patient, even now.

And suddenly, you don’t feel nervous anymore. The decision feels as natural as breathing.

You step closer.

Just enough.

Rise slightly on your toes and press a quick, soft kiss to his cheek.

The skin is warm beneath your lips, faintly flushed.

“I will,” you murmur.

The words brush against his skin, quiet and certain.

Then you pull back—smiling—and walk away before you can overthink it.

Your steps feel lighter, heart still racing but in the sweetest way.

Behind you, Minho stands completely still.

Frozen in place like the world paused just for him.

Processing.

His mind replaying the feeling of your lips, the softness of your voice, the way you said yes without hesitation.

Slowly, his hand lifts to his cheek. Touching the spot you kissed. Fingers lingering there as if to make sure it was real.

“…Wow.”

It slips out under his breath. Quiet, almost disbelieving.

And for once, Lee Minho doesn’t even try to hide the smile spreading across his face.

It starts small — just the corners of his mouth — then grows into something genuine and bright, the kind of smile that reaches his eyes and softens every sharp line of his usual expression. He ducks his head slightly, still touching his cheek, letting the moment settle deep in his chest.

For the first time in a long while, the weight he usually carries feels a little lighter.

Because now, he knows you’re carrying some of it too.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

⤷ ゛ TAGLIST ˎˊ˗

᥇ꪖꪀᧁ ᥴꫝꪖꪀ - ꪀꫀ᭙ ᦓᛕƺ ρꪶꪖꪗꫀ᥅

Chan lives for the panic he is able to cause in Stayville with the smallest of actions. He loves rage-baiting his fans, deceiving them with little white lies, or by simply posting something so outrageously… how shall we phrase this?… heated? Heated… that he sends the whole fandom into a horny frenzy.

When, on a random Tuesday, out of nowhere, a new SKZ Player episode pops up—and to everyone's surprise, it's Chan's song this time around—the fans are excited to listen to "Deep Dive." Everyone knows Chan is utterly down bad for his girlfriend; he made an entire album of love songs for her as a Valentine's Day gift, so this one must be about her and his deeply rooted feelings for her. Right???? RIGHT???

WRONG.

It's an angsty, sensual R&B song with an unreliable narrator who simply enjoys the pleasure of things without taking feelings into consideration—a good-for-nothing jock who manipulates for his own pleasure.

This is not something a deeply in-love, sweetheart boyfriend, “gotta go kiss the wifey,” would put out there—especially if he and the aforementioned wifey are still together. So the public jumps to the only logical conclusion: they broke up.

Twitter goes crazy that day:

"NOT BANG CHAN FUMBLING OUR MOTHER I KNEW THIS WAS TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE" "OUR PARENTS ARE DIVORCED. SOMEONE PLEASE CHECK ON THE KIDS" "Guys, if they really broke up, we should respect their privacy." "DEEP DIVE IS A BANGER BUT AT WHAT COST?????" "How does one go from 'I’ll go on the stairmaster because my girlfriend is on it' to singing about hating commitment and coldly using others for their own enjoyment?" "MEN AIN’T SHIT AND BANG CHAN JUST PROVED THAT"

Chan doesn't hesitate to sweep into the conversation with damage control. He goes on Bubble, and he's just as provoking and annoying about this as he usually is:

I got scolded by wifey ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ To be fair, I asked permission to release that particular song She said it was No. 1, charting-for-months category She is a HUUUGE The Weeknd fan, wanted to write something similar Never again Wifey’s too important yep yep Even Jessica scolded me It was nice knowing you, STAY Jessica is on her way to beat me with a slipper please tell wifey I love her

ꪶꫀꫀ ᛕꪀꪮ᭙ - ꪀꫀ᭙ ᥴꪖꪻ ᦓ꠸ꪻꪻꫀ᥅

Minho has absolutely no idea what mayhem he caused. He was just casually talking about his new cat-sitter on Bubble and how Soonie, Doongie, and Dori seem to hate their guts. He finds it absolutely hilarious—after all, he is responsible for raising three mischievous rascal babies who shamelessly play favorites, particularly when it comes to you, and only listen to three people on this earth: Minho, his mom, and his beloved—you.

At first, he doesn't even notice a shift in the online sphere, until he's called over by Seungmin in the green room, who just decided to scroll through FANS to kill the idle time between his hair and makeup session.

Funnily enough, the insider social media platform is filled with funny edits of Soonie, Doongie, and Dori causing mayhem around the new cat-sitter—protesting to get you back as their caretaker, lighting the JYP building on fire with Minho and div1 inside, and so on.

The text posts are not so funny, though. Everyone is convinced that this new character in Minho’s and the kitties’ lives has replaced his beloved and cherished-by-the-masses girlfriend:

"guys maybe she’s just busy??? like let’s not jump to conclusions" "THEY BROKE UP AND THE CATS ARE IN MOURNING" "no because imagine being the new cat-sitter and getting jumped by three tiny menaces who are loyal to another woman" "if she’s gone i’m going with her idc i’m not staying in this economy without the loml" "this is worse than a breakup announcement because WHY ARE WE FINDING OUT THROUGH THE CATS" "HE DIDN’T EVEN SAY ANYTHING ABOUT HER. NOT EVEN A “she’s busy today” NOTHING. SILENCE." "IN THE STREET INTERVIEW SHE CALLED HER HIS CAT SITTER. NOW HE'S CASUALLY TELLING US ABOUT A NEW ONE?????? THAT MEANS ONE THING IN KOREA"

Minho gets fed up quite quickly with the chaos going on, so he simply decides to put everyone jumping to conclusions in their place:

LEE KNOW replied to a post "IN THE STREET INTERVIEW...": ↪ It means my girlfriend is travelling with us on this tour.

ᥴꫝꪖꪀᧁ᥇꠸ꪀ - ꪀꫀ᭙ ᦓρꪮꪻ꠸ᠻꪗ ρꪶꪖꪗꪶ꠸ᦓꪻ

It seemed like a good idea at first: making your Spotify account public so that STAY can access your playlist and see what songs you're listening to at any time of the day.

They loved your Bubble recommendations, often asking for songs for certain moods and moments, and they really seemed to enjoy the curated playlists you created based on the requests they made on Bubble or what you saw online.

However, this time around, making your “currently listening” available for the people who followed your profile didn’t seem like such a good idea: your friend was going through a breakup, and they asked you to go on a road trip, where you're blasting angsty, post-breakup, you-don’t-know-what-you’ve-lost, I’m-better, fuck-you songs back to back to back.

Of course, Twitter goes absolutely ballistic, as some update account dedicated to your Spotify keeps posting the songs playing, with timestamps and all:

"NOT THE “CURRENTLY LISTENING” BEING A CRY FOR HELP" "WHY IS EVERY SONG ABOUT BREAKUPS HELLO?????" "WHY HAS TRAITOR BY OLIVIA RODRIGO BEEN LOOPING FOR THE PAST 10 MINUTES????" "this is a villain origin story in real time" "if they broke up i don’t believe in love anymore actually" "NOT TOLERATE IT CHANGBIN HOW COULD YOU DO THIS?????" "JULY???????? DID HE CHEAT ON HER??????" "Not even a week ago, she referred to Changbin as a walking green flag, and now we get this????? Poor girl, she must have gotten played hard." "c'mon guys she's probably just in her feels, he looks at her as she hung the moon, there's no way they broke up"

Your “shout the lyrics as loud as you can to feel better” session is interrupted by a call from your boyfriend.

“Little bunny,” Changbin sounds frantic, and you kind of panic once you hear the genuine fear in his voice, “are you planning to break up with me?”

“What the hell?” you exclaim. “Of course not, where did you get that idea from?”

“Well, STAY on Twitter think something happened, because you keep listening to heart-wrenching breakup songs, and at first I found it funny, but now I started doubting myself.”

You giggle and explain the situation to him, assuring him that you don’t plan on breaking up with him anytime soon. You can hear him relax on the other side of the line, and he offers to join you for your singing session so he can also help support your friend.

Your friend ends up posting on their story—showing the three of you in the car—thanking you for being their support system, both you and your boyfriend. You repost it to your own account, and STAY seems to calm down after that.

ꫝꪗꪊꪀ꠹꠸ꪀ - ꪀꫀ᭙ ᥇ꪮꪮᛕ ᥅ꫀᥴꪮꪑꪑꫀꪀᦔꪖꪻ꠸ꪮꪀ

It starts innocently enough. Hyunjin is just casually scrolling through FANS when someone asks him for a book recommendation. Something emotional. Something meaningful. Something that “hurts a little but heals you after.”

And Hyunjin, being Hyunjin, delivers.

He recommends a book about a devastating, all-consuming breakup—the kind of love story that collapses slowly, painfully, beautifully, until there’s nothing left but memory and regret.

He doesn’t think much of it. It’s just a book he liked. It made him feel things. That’s it.

But STAY, of course, do not take it as “just a book recommendation.”

Within minutes, Twitter is spiraling:

"HE RECOMMENDED A BREAKUP BOOK. IT’S OVER." "HYUNJIN WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO US ON A TUESDAY" "someone check on his girlfriend RIGHT NOW" "WAIT. DID THEY BREAK UP AND THIS IS HIS WAY OF PROCESSING" "I refuse to believe a man in love recommends THIS unless something is WRONG" "he really said “read this and suffer with me” 😭" "guys, he basically told us a romance novel about their first meeting, he's not announcing his breakup like this" "the fan asked for an emotional book, he recommended one. don't jump to conclusions yet."

Hyunjin goes into dance practice not knowing about the chaos he caused. It's until I.N walks up to him, asking what he posted on FANS, because the internet is going crazy.

Hyunjin checks his phone multiple times, the internet has indeed turned a simple book recommendation into a full-scale relationship investigation, complete with timelines, “clues,” and someone analyzing the metaphorical meaning of his last Bubble message from three days ago.

He puts the phone down.

“…It’s just a book,” he says weakly.

Jeongin raises an eyebrow. “Tell that to STAY.”

Hyunjin reaches for his phone again, suddenly a little less relaxed.

More posts load in.

People are now connecting his recommendation to unrelated photos, old livestream comments, and something about “sad eyes in the last TikTok dance challenge.”

A few hours later, he posted an art dump, all of the pictures and paintings portraying the same two, very recognizable figures - you and him - all passionate and in love, with a very cheeky, but straightforward caption "she makes all the heartbreak remain fictional".

ꫝꪖꪀ - ꪀꫀ᭙ ᦓꪶ꠸ρ ꪊρ

Han Jisung is media-trained, okay?

He learned in his eight years of being an idol to dodge bullets like “Who’s this song inspired by?” or “What does this lyric mean?”—even the infamous “What’s your ideal type?”

So sue him if he messes up once his relationship is revealed and, for once, it’s not a PR disaster with the clear instructions “deny, deny, deny!”—and those same questions come up just like that.

Because after mind-altering classes of “I’m focusing on my career” and “STAY are my number one priority” and the worst of them all, “STAY is my girlfriend,” it is pretty damn hard to answer, “Do you share your songs with your girlfriend before releasing them?”

No one who knows Han Jisung in person bats an eye when his answer starts like, “I mean, IF I had a girlfriend—HAD—HAVE—whatever—”

However, the biggest issue is, STAY don’t know him in person. And a blabbering response like this leads to one agreed-upon conclusion across the fandom: Han Jisung is newly single. Him and his girlfriend, who fuels him with radioactive-looking drinks, have broken up.

And oh boy, does the internet go livid:

"HAN JISUNG EXPLAIN YOURSELF RIGHT NOW" "he really said girlfriend in past tense and thought we wouldn’t notice" "HE STUTTERED. MEN ONLY STUTTER WHEN THEY’RE LYING" "if I had—had—have—whatever OH MY GOD HE’S GOING THROUGH IT" "guys maybe he just misspoke??? like let’s be rational" "he went through all three tenses like he was picking one that hurts the least" "WHY IS NOBODY CHECKING ON HIM"

If you think Han Jisung was stressing during that interview, well—nothing actually compares to his situation once he sees the discourse online. What if his girlfriend is now mad at him for his horrible, horrible slip-up?

His first thought is to call her. And boy, oh boy—is she laughing at him and his panic. Because why would she be offended, when Jisung is the most perfect boyfriend and she knows everything is going great between the two of them? And she knows how anxious he gets in these situations; she understands him on a deeper level, because of course she does. She is perfect—Jisung’s thoughts exactly.

Once he’s sure he didn’t accidentally break up with his girlfriend on live television, he rushes home and practically shoves his phone into her hands, knowing she’s the best one to handle damage control on his Bubble account:

HELLO BABY QUOKKAS YOUR MOTHER QUOKKA IS HERE AGAIN You have nothing to worry about, Little Quokka had a terrible slip-up I'm not going anywhere He's terribly sorry for scaring you He gets confused like that sometimes ISN'T HE SO CUTE WHEN HE'S ALL CONFUSED? God, I hope he never figures anything out He just fell asleep on the couch Big day for a little guy like our Hammie He needs his rest hahaha

ᠻꫀꪶ꠸᥊ - ꪀꫀ᭙ ꪖᥴꪻ ꪮᠻ ᛕ꠸ꪀᦔꪀꫀᦓᦓ

Paris is loud in a different way than Seoul.

Not chaotic—just constant. Cameras clicking, people talking over each other in a dozen languages, stylists rushing past like it’s a timed event. Felix stands in the middle of it all like he belongs there, dressed in something soft and expensive, blonde hair catching every flash like it was made for it.

He’s glowing. Like he's utterly untouchable.

The interviewer is smiling too, clearly a fan.

“Felix, you’ve had such an incredible year,” she says, mic angled perfectly, voice warm. “Music, touring, brand deals left and right, you're the most sought out person here at fashion week… and fans have also loved seeing more of your personal life lately.”

He nods politely, dimples deepening, bowing lightly out of reflex.

“Thank you. I’m really grateful.”

“And speaking of that,” she continues, casual—too casual—“we’ve all seen how supportive your girlfriend has been. How is she doing?”

It’s an easy question. It should be the easiest question. Felix doesn’t even hesitate.

He smiles—soft, automatic.

“She’s doing fine, I hope so.”

There’s a singular moment of hesitation between the two very distinct parts of his response. The first one says everything is alright—not just with you, but with your relationship. However, that little “I hope so,” that small addition, shifts the entire narrative. It implies uncertainty—that he hasn’t spoken to you lately to know for sure that you’re, in fact, doing fine. It also suggests that maybe there is something that could influence your apparent “doing fine” status, but despite that, he hopes you’re doing fine.

It sounds like an ex-boyfriend trying to mask the hurt of a breakup by going, “I wish them the best.”

At least, that’s what the internet thinks:

"I HOPE SO?????? FELIX WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU HOPE SO" "no because that pause was LOUD" "I’M SORRY BUT THAT’S A BREAKUP ANSWER" "that sounded like a man who does NOT have access to his girlfriend anymore" "that’s something you say about your EX" "he could’ve just said 'she’s doing well' AND MOVED ON" "guys maybe he just meant like… generally??? like wishing her well???" "WISHING HER WELL IS CRAZY"

He doesn't think about it twice, just moves on to the next media outlet out there, waiting to score a quick interview with him.

The huge influx of notifications is not new to him either. It's always like that during fashion week, tagged pictures, multiple stories, the Stray Kids account reposting everything, STAY's going crazy over his looks. Just the usual.

But when he opens his phone to see a genuinely worried message from Chan, asking if the two of you broke up, he checks the link his leader has sent without hesitation.

Once he watches back the interview, he clearly understands the public outcry. What he said is exactly what you say when someone asks about your ex.

Suddenly, he gets a message notification from you, and he relaxes.

"Lixie, I AM, in fact, doing fine. You don't have to hope anymore, Sunshine Boy."

A few hours later, when he's asked about his well wishes by an interviewer at the Louis Vuitton after party, he proudly reads out your message aloud, confirming that the two of you are actually doing really good.

ᦓꫀꪊꪀᧁꪑ꠸ꪀ - ꪀꫀ᭙ ᦔꪖꪻ꠸ꪀᧁ ᥅ꪊꪑꪮ᥅

It all starts really silly—exactly where it began. On TikTok.

The girl—your ex-friend, the one who appeared in the video where your relationship with Seungmin was exposed—posts a ten (10!!!!!!!)-part rant series where she describes how you “stole” Seungmin from her… but now she’s hooking up with him as revenge.

It’s hilarious at first. No one takes her seriously. Anyone who’s seen the initial TikTok video saw how disgusted Seungmin was by her. Moreover, Seungmin has always been an advocate for loyalty and has expressed it multiple times—that it takes him a long time to warm up to people, but once he does, he never lets them go.

Not only would he not cheat, but he would judge and cut out anyone insinuating such things from his life without a second thought.

Which he did—on camera.

So the first couple of days go by with the two of you, and most of the internet, laughing at her sorry ass.

However, the tables turn once a Dispatch article is published about the situation, complete with paparazzi pictures of the two of them together.

It takes you one single look to realize something is very wrong. For some reason, Seungmin has one less finger than in reality, one of his eyebrows is slightly pixelated, and he has three legs—due to the picture trying to resemble a walking motion, something that seems to have caused some trouble for the AI tool used to generate this “proof.”

Sadly, not everyone on the internet is able to tell when something is computer-generated, and despite the ridiculousness of the situation, people start believing it:

"NOT DISPATCH CONFIRMING IT?????" "oh this just got VERY serious" "wait why does that actually look real…" "GUYS zoom in on his HAND??? why does he have FOUR FINGERS" "no because why does he have THREE LEGS I’M CRYING" "guys please use your brains that man is GLITCHING" "I don’t know what to believe anymore" "first the TikToks now THIS???" "she said they were hooking up and now there’s proof" "what if she was telling the truth the whole time…" "Trying to set up Seugmin, who openly expressed that he's against AI, using a clearly AI-generated picture is absolutely mental. "

Seungmin does the most hilarious thing he could possibly do to respond to the allegations: he posts two Instagram stories.

The first one is a picture of his feet, with a wiggly “1” and “2” drawn next to each one.

The second picture is his hand, turned upward, fingers spread out—each one of them numbered from 1 to 5. In the palm of his hand sits your significantly smaller one, with a little heart drawn on top in your favorite color—the one he always uses when something is related to you.

Yeah, it’s quite obvious what was going on, even for the ones falling for the AI images.

꠸.ꪀ - ꪀꫀ᭙ (?) ᥴꪮꪖꪻ

In hindsight, Jeongin should have known the damage he would cause by posting the pictures.

He recently bought a coat—the exact same one from Bottega that he once gave to you and never asked for back. The internet knew about the coat: how he was a gentleman by giving it to you so you wouldn’t be cold on a date night, how he fell in love with the way it looked on you and never minded you keeping it forever.

What the internet does not know is that he bought the coat again for himself, after Bottega requested that he wear it to the airport. He didn’t quite have it in him to ask for it back, even for one appearance, so he did what he believed was the more reasonable option: he purchased a new one. Same exact color, same model. Easy peasy, right?

Well… not really.

He posts on Instagram first, showing off his outfit. Then he does the whole airport-walk shebang like he’s supposed to.

Then he gets on a plane.

And while he’s up there, completely offline, the internet explodes—speculating that the coat from your outfit-check video, the one that revealed your relationship, the one where you were talking so highly of Jeongin and how the two of you share clothes, has been officially returned to him. Which clearly means… breakup.

The fashion couple is officially over. And somehow, to the people of the internet, it makes perfect sense:

"HE GOT THE COAT BACK. IT’S OVER." "no because WHY would he suddenly have THAT coat again" "'we share clothes' yeah NOT ANYMORE APPARENTLY" "this is why I never trust happiness" "guys what if she gave it back to him… like officially…" "I knew it. I KNEW something felt off lately" "you don’t just take back clothes in a healthy relationship" "that’s a man who has accepted the breakup"

You and Chan were elbow-to-elbow in the kitchen, washing the dishes together. The atmosphere was serene with the warm water flowing, plates softly clinking while some soft music played in the background and it was almost cute—until he opened his damn mouth.

“I mean, it’s not that deep,” he said, rinsing a plate. “You’re just too sensitive sometimes.”

You froze, the dish soap slid off your hands then slowly you turned to look at him.

“Excuse me?”

Chan didn’t catch the red alert in your tone. “Like, not in a bad way…just that you take things too personally. It’s not always about you, y’know?”

You set the plate down a little too hard and cross your arms.

“Christopher Bahng,” you said calmly, “if you value your ability to sleep tonight, you might want to rethink what you just said.”

“I’m just saying,” Chan continued, not reading the room at all, “you overthink stuff and make drama out of nothing.”

Hannah paused her scrolling and looked toward the kitchen, her eyebrows raised in curiosity. The tension between you and Chan was so thick, she could feel it from the couch.

You narrowed your eyes. “So, let me get this straight. I voice a concern, and your first instinct is to call me sensitive?”

“I’m just saying it’s not always that serious.”

“Shut up, Chan!”

Silence. Like you could hear the silence. Even Berry stopped padding around.

Chan’s mouth opened, offended. “What—?”

“Shut. Up.” you repeated, tone sharp as a knife. “You do this every time. You brush me off and act like I’m the one being dramatic when you can’t communicate like a grown adult”

Hannah perked up from the couch, eyes sparkling. She threw her phone down and yelled, “You go, girl! Yeah, tell him to shut up!”

Berry barked excitedly, tail wagging as if she’s saying she’s also in your team.

Chan’s eyes widened as he turned to his sister. 

“Stay out of it!” Chan glared at her.

“NO,” she shouted back. “She’s making valid points.”

You smiled at Hannah. “See? Even your sister agrees with me.”

“You’re my sister! Why are you cheering for her?!” he whined at Hannah.

“Because this is a historic moment,” Hannah grinned. “Like bro, you never let anyone talk to you like that. Finally someone’s calling you out, and it’s my future sister-in-law? I’m THRIVING.”

Chan gestured at her wildly. “You’re supposed to be on my side! I’m your brother!”

“Exactly,” she said. “And I’ve wanted to say this to you for years. Let her finish.”

You tried not to laugh as you watched the siblings bicker.

Chan’s expression softened as he turned to you, voice low and sincere. “Baby, I’m sorry. I genuinely didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Before you could answer, Hannah threw up her hands, dramatically gasping. “She’s not falling for this! Nope. You get away every time, Channie oppa.”

She stood up suddenly and approached you. “Y/N, c’mon you’re sleeping with me tonight.”

You blinked in surprise, then grinned. “I’d love that, Hannah!”

Chan’s jaw dropped like Hannah just committed a federal crime. “Why are you being a homewrecker right now?!”

Hannah squinted her eyes at him and said, “Because you don’t deserve her and her cuddles tonight. This is your punishment, now go sleep alone.”

“I can’t believe this,” he muttered. “My own blood turned on me.”

You threw the dish towel at his chest. “Think before you speak next time, fiancé.”

“Babe—”

“Nope,” Hannah cut in. “Don’t ‘babe’ your way out of this.”

She looped her arm through yours and started guiding you away, “Come on, Y/N. We’re having a girls’ night. I’m talking facemasks, hot gossip from work, and stuffing our faces with snacks. Oooh snacks— wait let me grab some.”

She let go of you and started rummaging aggressively through the kitchen cabinets. You couldn’t help but smile at her determination, your heart softening a little. When you glanced back, you saw Chan leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, staring at you sadly.

You stepped closer to him, “You want to marry me, right?”

“Of course,” he answered immediately.

“Then you don’t get to dismiss me like I’m overreacting. We solve problems together. No gaslighting. No brushing off. If I tell you something bothers me, it means I trust you enough to be vulnerable about it.”

“Yes baby… you’re right. I’m sorry. That was a dumb thing to say.” He wiped his hands and stepped toward you. “Really. I didn’t mean to make you feel invalidated.”

You just looked down.

Chan pulled you into a warm hug. “I’ll do better. Promise.”

You let him hold you for a second, then whispered in his ear, “Damn right you will.”

“You’re not sensitive. You just feel things deeply, and that’s one of the things I love about you,” he said before pressing a kiss on your forehead gently.

Hannah raised her head from the pantry. “But you’re still sleeping alone tonight.”

Chan threw a kitchen towel at her without looking.

You just chuckled, “You’re lucky you’re cute. And that your sister’s on my side.”

Hannah yelled from the pantry, “I found the Cheetos! Let's go!”

Chan threw his head back with a groan. “She’s mine, Hannah!”

Hannah popped her head out, balancing bags of popcorn and chips in one hand and cookies and drinks in the other. “Not tonight, she’s not. You had your chance, Mr. Big Mouth.”

You gave Chan a wink and followed her, and Berry followed right behind you, making it clear whose side she was on.

------------------

Permanent Taglist:

: ̗̀➛ CHAN

Chan thought it was cute at first. Adorable, even—how your eyes lit up the second you saw Wolf Chan waddling toward you.

But then you squealed.

Like—full volume. Hands flapping. The kind of squeal he hasn’t heard directed at him in… a while.

And before he could even process it, you were already hugging the mascot—tight.

Like rent was due and Wolf Chan was paying it.

“Chan, look! He’s so soft!” you giggled, squishing the mascot’s cheeks and burying your face in its fluffy chest.

Chan blinked. Slowly.

“…I’m literally right here.”

You didn’t hear him.

You were too busy asking the staff, “Can I take a picture with him? Please please please!”

The staff inside the suit awkwardly nodded, and suddenly you were posing—peace signs, cheek-to-cheek, even doing a heart pose while cooing nonstop.

Chan’s eye twitched.

He walks over, still smiling—but it’s that tight, patient leader smile that hides the growing sulk.

“Y/N,” he says, voice calm. Too calm. “You done… cheating on me?”

You laugh. “It’s just Wolf Chan!”

He leans down slightly, whispering in your ear,

“I am Wolf Chan.”

Cue you freezing mid-squeeze.

“…Oh.”

“Yeah,” he nods, folding his arms and tilting his head. “And I don’t remember getting a hug like that today. Or any kisses. Or cheek squishes.”

Now he’s the one sulking while you panic, trying to hug both of them at once— one arm around the mascot, the other reaching for real Chan.

He gently pries you off the mascot with the most exaggerated pout. “Okay, that’s enough. Wolf Chan has places to be. Important wolf… things.”

Then he pulls you into his own arms, squeezing you tighter than you squeezed the costume. “See? Real Chan hugs are better.”

: ̗̀➛ MINHO

Minho watched the entire thing like it was a crime documentary.

You spotted Leebit and immediately ran—ran—past him without a second glance.

“…Wow,” he muttered, hands in pockets, already judging.

Next thing he knows, you’re standing in front of the mascot, cooing like it’s an actual baby bunny.

“OMG Hi… you’re so cute… look at those little teeth…”

Minho’s eye twitched hard.

Then you hugged Leebit. Not just hugged—squeezed, rocking side to side like you were reuniting with a long-lost child.

Minho inhales sharply through his nose.

“Yah.”

No response.

You’re now asking the staff, “Can I take a picture with him? He looks so soft!”

Minho walks over, taps your shoulder with one finger.

“Am I invisible today?”

You blink up at him innocently. “…No?”

“Then why are you acting like I don’t exist and flirting with a giant rabbit?”

You laugh. “It’s you!”

He deadpans. “Clearly not enough if the costume version gets better treatment.”

Then he grabs your wrist, pulls you to him smoothly, and without warning—wraps his arms around you from behind, locking you in place.

“Take a picture of this instead,” he tells the staff, resting his chin on your shoulder.

Now he’s the one clinging like a possessive cat.

And Leebit is just… standing there, awkwardly waving one paw.

“…You’re jealous of yourself,” you whisper, trying not to laugh.

“I’m jealous of your suddenly very low standards,” he replies, tightening his hold.

: ̗̀➛ CHANGBIN

You saw Dwaekki and immediately yelled, “MY BABYYYYYY!”

Changbin nearly choked on his protein drink.

“Your what?”

Too late. You were already hugging Dwaekki, squishing his round plush cheeks like fresh dough and rocking him side to side.

“Look at his little face!! I can’t—he’s so cute I might actually cry!”

Changbin puts a hand on his chest, offended.

“…I make you cry too. Usually from laughing at my raps.”

You ignore him completely, now posing with Dwaekki—feeding him a fake snack, making the staff inside pretend to munch happily.

Changbin watches in pure disbelief.

“…So this is what I’ve been replaced with. A chubby pig-rabbit.”

He marches over, dramatically crossing his arms beside you.

“Y/N, remember when I wrote songs for you? When I rapped with passion? When I let you squish my real cheeks?”

You shove Dwaekki toward him with a grin. “Take a picture with us!”

He freezes.

“…Us?”

“Yes! Family pic!”

He sighs, completely defeated… but still pouts the entire time he poses, flexing one arm while side-eyeing the mascot.

Then he starts scooping you up in a bridal carry while side-eyeing the mascot. “No more. From now on, all cuteness aggression goes to the real Dwaekki — me. Squeeze these cheeks!”

: ̗̀➛ HYUNJIN

Hyunjin expected admiration.

What he did not expect was you abandoning him mid-sentence the moment Jiniret walked in.

You gasped like you saw a celebrity.

“OH MY GOD—”

“Baby, I’m literally—”

Too late. You were already hugging Jiniret, stroking its long fluffy body and gently squishing its ears.

Hyunjin stares. Completely blank.

Then you kiss the mascot’s cheek.

That’s it. Game over.

He walks over slowly, dramatically placing a hand on his chest like he’s been mortally wounded.

“I see,” he says softly, voice full of fake sorrow. “So this is how it ends. Replaced by my own ferret.”

You laugh. “Hyunjin—”

“No, no,” he interrupts, waving a hand. “Stay with your new favorite. I’ll just stand here… heartbroken.”

You’re now taking endless selfies with Jiniret, completely feeding into the chaos while the staff inside poses dramatically.

Hyunjin turns to the staff.

“Please capture my heartbreak as well.”

He ends up standing beside you in every picture—face tilted, eyes full of exaggerated sadness, one hand dramatically placed on your shoulder.

Later, he pulls you close, resting his forehead against yours with a pout.

“You didn’t even kiss me today.”

“…Do you want one?”

“Obviously.”

: ̗̀➛ JISUNG

The moment you saw Han Quokka, you LOST IT.

“HE’S SO ROUND!!”

Han immediately clutches his chest like he’s been shot.

“EXCUSE ME?!”

But you’re already hugging the mascot, giggling uncontrollably and squishing its big cheeks.

“Look at him! He’s literally perfect—so squishy and happy!”

Han squints hard. “…I’m right here. Also perfect. Also squishy.”

You ignore him and start taking pictures—posing dramatically, even spinning the mascot around in circles.

The staff inside is struggling to keep balance and not fall over.

Han walks over, deeply offended.

“You’ve never spun me like that.”

“Because you’d fall!”

“I would NOT—”

He grabs your hands and tries anyway—spins once and almost trips over his own feet.

“…Okay maybe.”

You’re laughing so hard you can’t breathe.

He pouts, then suddenly wedges himself between you and the mascot, arms spread wide.

“Take a picture with the real quokka now.”

Now you’re sandwiched between two quokkas.

“…This is getting weird,” you say, still giggling.

“Choose,” he replies, puffing his cheeks.

“…I refuse.”

He gasps dramatically, betrayed to his core.

: ̗̀➛ FELIX

Felix thought this would be wholesome.

He was very, very wrong.

You saw BbokAri and immediately went, “MY CHILD.”

Felix freezes. “…Your child?”

You hug the mascot like a protective mother, shielding it from imaginary danger and fixing its little bow.

“WAHHH. You’re so fluffy and sunshiney…”

Felix blinks slowly.

“…What am I then? Chopped liver?”

You don’t answer. You’re too busy taking pictures and making the staff inside do cute little wing flaps.

Felix pouts, cheeks puffed out.

“Love, I am BbokAri.”

You gasp. “…Then why are you not this cuddly 24/7?”

He pauses, thinking.

“…I can be.”

Next thing you know, he’s clinging to you—arms wrapped tight, cheek pressed against yours, refusing to let go.

“Am I cute now?” he whispers in that deep voice.

“…Very.”

“More than the chick?”

You hesitate for half a second.

“…Y/N.”

“…Yes.”

He smiles, satisfied, but still side-eyes the mascot suspiciously.

: ̗̀➛ SEUNGMIN

Seungmin watches quietly.

Too quietly.

You’re baby-talking PuppyM like it’s a real puppy.

“Such a good boy!”

Seungmin raises one brow.

“I’ve never heard that tone before. Ever.”

No response. You’re hugging PuppyM tightly, even grabbing his hand and walking together with the mascot while the staff plays along perfectly.

Seungmin sighs the longest sigh known to man.

“Unbelievable.”

He walks over, gently taps the top of your head.

“Y/N.”

“Wait, I’m bonding—”

“With what exactly?”

“My puppy.”

He smiles. That scary, polite smile.

“I’m your puppy.”

“…You bite sometimes.”

“And yet, here I am. Still loyal.”

You laugh.

He suddenly leans closer, voice low.

“Do you want me to bark too?”

“…Don’t you dare.”

He smirks. “Thought so.”

But later, he still sneaks in and hugs you just a little tighter than usual, mumbling, “Good boy rights belong to me.”

: ̗̀➛ JEONGIN

Jeongin thought it would be funny.

Until you tightly hugged FoxI.Ny and swayed side to side like it was your soulmate.

“YOU’RE SO CUTE I CAN’T BREATHE—”

Jeongin’s smile drops instantly.

“…Am I a joke to you now?”

You’re giggling, taking pictures, even holding the mascot’s hands and swinging them.

The staff inside waves cheerfully.

Jeongin crosses his arms, sulking.

“Can you believe that this is what I have to compete with?”

You walk over, still holding the mascot’s hand.

“Jeongin, look how cute!”

“I see. I see everything.”

He walks up, gently pries your hand away from the costume.

“Okay, give him back.”

“No—”

“Yes.”

He pulls you closer instead, wrapping his arms around you.

“You can’t replace me with a plush fox.”

“…Watch me.”

He gasps, dramatically offended, eyes wide.

“Meanie.”

still, the heat was becoming unbearable. your heart was doing that annoying, fast-paced thumping in your chest, partly from the physical discomfort and partly from the sheer embarrassment of the situation. you felt... gross. un-cute. definitely not like the effortless partner you wanted to be in these quiet, domestic moments.

you tried to slowly peel minho’s arm off your waist. he made a soft, disgruntled sound in his sleep, his fingers twitching against your hip. you froze, holding your breath until his breathing leveled out again.

just get up, get some water, and stand in front of the open fridge for five minutes, you told yourself.

you moved an inch. then another. just as you were about to swing your legs over the side of the bed, a hand clamped firmly back onto your waist, pulling you flush against a very warm, very solid chest.

and then, dori decided to help. the cat, who had been sleeping near your feet, decided he needed a change of scenery and hopped directly onto your stomach.

you let out a muffled "oof," and that was it. the delicate balance of sleep was broken.

minho stirred, his arm tightening around your waist for a second before his eyes blinked open, dark and heavy with sleep. he didn't move his head, just shifted his gaze to yours in the dim light.

"why are you wrestling with the cat at 3 a.m.?" he mumbled, his voice gravelly and thick. “and where are you going?" minho’s voice was thick with sleep, deep and raspy in a way that usually made your stomach flip, but right now just added to the heat radiating between you.

"nowhere," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly. "go back to sleep, minho."

he didn't. instead, he shifted closer, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. he took a deep breath, then immediately pulled back, his eyes fluttering open in the dark.

"you're burning up," he noted, his hand moving from your waist to your forehead. his palm felt incredibly cool against your skin, and you subconsciously leaned into the touch before catching yourself. "are you sick? do you have a fever?"

"no, i'm not sick," you muttered, looking at the far wall instead of him. the embarrassment was hitting full force now. "i'm just... i'm hot. like, really hot."

minho sat up slightly, propping himself on one elbow. he reached over to turn on the bedside lamp, the dim amber glow illuminating the room. he looked at you—really looked at you—taking in your flushed cheeks and the way you were trying to pull the collar of your shirt away from your skin.

"you're sweating," he said, his tone shifting from sleepy to concerned.

"i know, i'm sorry," you squeaked, covering your face with your hands. "it’s so embarrassing. i feel like a literal radiator. please don't look at me, i probably look like a mess."

there was a beat of silence. you expected a joke, or maybe for him to complain about the sheets getting damp. instead, you heard the soft thud of the duvet being tossed to the foot of the bed.

"hey," he said, his voice softer now. he gently pried your hands away from your face. "why didn't you say something? you've just been laying here suffering?"

"you were asleep! and it’s a weird thing to wake someone up for. 'hey, i’m slightly overheated and sweaty, can we fix the vibes?' it’s gross, minho."

minho let out a short, dry chuckle. he sat up fully, stretching his arms over his head before looking back at you with an expression that was halfway between amusement and genuine fondness.

"you think i care if you're sweaty?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "i spend ten hours a day in a practice room with seven other guys. i know what 'gross' looks like. you just look like you're melting, which is actually kind of pathetic and cute."

"i am not cute when i'm melting."

"debatable," he murmured. he slid out of bed, his feet hitting the floor with a quiet patter. "stay there. don't move."

you watched him disappear into the hallway. a minute later, you heard the clinking of ice cubes and the sound of the kitchen faucet. when he returned, he was carrying a tall glass of ice water and a damp washcloth.

he sat back down on the edge of the mattress and handed you the glass. "drink. all of it."

you took a long, grateful sip, the cold water shocking your system in the best way possible. while you drank, minho took the washcloth and began to gently pat your face and neck. he was being incredibly methodical about it, his touch light and careful, as if he were cleaning one of his cats.

"better?" he asked, his eyes tracking the movement of the cloth.

"yeah," you whispered, feeling your face heat up for a completely different reason now. "you don't have to do this, minho. i can do it."

"shut up," he said, though there was no heat in it. "i'm already awake. plus, if you pass out from heatstroke in my bed, it’s going to be a lot of paperwork."

he moved the cloth to the back of your neck, holding it there for a moment. the relief was instant. you closed your eyes, letting out a long sigh you hadn't realized you were holding. when you opened them again, you caught him watching you. he wasn't smirking or looking for a way to tease you; he just looked... soft.

"you're so shy about the weirdest things," he said, dropping the cloth into a small bowl he'd brought. "you'll tell me if i'm being an idiot, but you won't tell me you're uncomfortably warm?"

"it's different," you defended weakly. "it’s a physical thing. i didn't want you to think i was... unhygienic."

minho rolled his eyes, a familiar, grounding gesture. "we've been together how long? i've seen you with the flu. i've seen you after a hike. i think we’re past the 'perfectly manicured' stage of the relationship."

he stood up again, heading over to his dresser. he rummaged through a drawer for a second before pulling out one of his oversized, thin cotton t-shirts. he tossed it at you.

"change into that. it’s thinner than what you're wearing. i’m going to go crank the ac down a few degrees."

"minho, you'll freeze! you hate the ac that low."

he paused at the door, looking back over his shoulder. the light from the hallway caught the sharp line of his jaw and the slight messiness of his hair.

"i'll live," he said, his mouth twitching into a small, private smile. "i'd rather be a little cold than have you sitting over here vibrating with embarrassment because you're warm. besides, it just gives me an excuse to hoard the blankets later."

while he was gone, you quickly swapped your shirt for his. it smelled like him—that clean, slightly woody scent that always made your heart ache a little. by the time he came back, the room was already beginning to feel significantly cooler.

he climbed back into bed, but instead of pulling the heavy duvet back up, he reached for a thin, decorative throw blanket at the end of the bed. he settled back against his pillows and patted the space next to him.

"come here."

you slid over, resting your head on his chest. he felt much cooler now, his skin refreshing against yours. he wrapped one arm around you, his fingers tracing aimless patterns on your shoulder.

"still embarrassed?" he teased, his voice vibrating against your ear.

"a little," you admitted, hiding your face in his side. "but mostly just tired now."

"good. sleep. if you get hot again, just kick me. or tell me. i'm not going to think you're gross, you dummy."

you hummed in response, the tension finally leaving your body. the silence of the apartment settled back in, punctuated only by the low hum of the now-hardworking air conditioner.

just as you were drifting off, you felt minho lean down, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

"for the record," he whispered, thinking you were already asleep. "you're cute even when you're a radiator."

you didn't say anything, but you couldn't help the small, sleepy grin that spread across your face as you finally, comfortably, fell into a deep sleep.

🏷️ ( general ) : @beautifulsharkgoatee @susu6944 @emilywjinnie @emotionalstrawberries @babythisisourcinema @maliatate96 @sapphirewaves @iconicallyher @fussel9913 @yawwni @inlovewithstraykids @unlikelypainterpeacekitten @foppishitudinality @gadriezmannsgirl