You blink awake slowly, trying to move around still drowsy. Something felt warm and heavy across your chest.

Juhoon.

His arms are wrapped around you tightly, one leg tangled with yours, face buried in the crook of your neck like he'd decided you were the world's most comfortable pillow. He was quite literally lying on top of you

You couldn't help but smile. It’s not your fault your boyfriend looks ridiculously cute when asleep. His hair was messy, lips slightly parted, cheeks squished against your shirt.

A low groan escapes him before he buried his face even deeper into your neck. "Don't move."

“Jju, it’s hot.” 

His voice was muffled against your neck. “I don’t care. Stop moving.”

You huffed out a laugh. "You're crushing me."

"No I'm not."

"You are."

"No."

"Juhoon."

Then, he finally shifted slightly. For just one second, you thought he was finally moving to his side of the bed. 

Well, wrong.

Instead he somehow gets more comfortable. Now his whole body is engulfing you, his arms wrap around you tighter—if that was even possible.

You let out a little laugh, “Juhoon, moveee.”

Juhoon finally opens his eyes. Closing them immediately afterwards, squinting. “Why did you wake me up?”

You scoff, "I didn't wake you up.” 

He stares at you with a blank face. 

“I was simply trying to move you. You were–” Your words are cut off as Juhoon squishes your cheeks. “Juhoon, what?” you say muffled. 

He just stares at you. Stares at you for a second before he kisses your cheek softly. 

And then again.

And again. 

You giggle, “What–” he cuts you off by kissing your lips. “Juhoon—” 

Mhmm,” he says before pecking your face multiple times.

"Juhoon!"

He ignores you completely. Another kiss lands on your forehead. Then your cheek. Then the tip of your nose. "Stop moving."

"You're the one moving my face around!"

"I'm showing affection."

"Don’t complain then."

Juhoon finally cracks a cheeky smile. "You're so dramatic Jujuu."

"You're clingy."

"Only with you."

You hate how quickly that shuts you up. His grin grows into a smirk instantly. "See?"

"Don't."

"See?"

"Don't get smug now."

He lets out a quiet laugh before pulling you even closer somehow. At this point you're convinced he wants to fuse into a single person.

"Jju."

"Hm?"

"I need to get up."

"No."

"I need water."

"Nope."

"I need to eat."

"Not allowed."

"I need to pee."

Juhoon's eyes immediately open."...Oh."

"Yeah."

"That's a valid reason."

"Thank you."

"I'll allow it."

You stare at him. "You'll allow it?"

"Mhm." He smiles and leans forward, pressing one last kiss to your lips. "Five minutes?" he bargains.

"Juhoon."

"Three?"

"Juhoon."

"Two?"

Despite yourself, you laugh. The sound seems to make him happier than winning the argument ever could. He buries his face back into your neck with a satisfied hum. "Worth a try."

“Ok, so will you move now?”

Juhoon doesn't answer. You wait for a second, only to be answered with nothing. “Juhoon.”

Still nothing.

You narrow your eyes. “Are you pretending to be asleep?”

He slowly opens one of his eyes, taking a sneak peak at you. “No.”

“You literally opened your eyes before answering.”

“No, I didn't.”

“You did.”

“No.” he murmurs, before leaning in pressing a gentle kiss on your lips.

You sigh dramatically. “Jju.”

“Mhm?”

“Please move.”

He finally lifts his head from your neck. Maybe he's actually going to let you up. Instead, he reaches over to the bedside table, grabs your water bottle, and places it in your hand.

“There.”

You stare at him. “That's not what I want.”

“You said you needed water.”

“Juhoon, I need to take a piss, move.”

“You have water now.”

You can't help laughing. “The fuck? Hows that helping?

His lips twitch upward immediately at the sound. “See? Problem solved.”

“You’re half asleep.”

“Mhmm.” Before you can try to move away from his grip, he steals another quick kiss.

“Juuhooon.”

“What?”

“Please move.”

He moves his body to his side of the bed. You finally think he’s letting you get up. His arms around your waist loosen up. Suddenly, there's nothing heavy resting atop you anymore. You try to get up only to be pulled back into bed. 

Juhoon, grabs you by the waist, pulling you closer to his chest. His arms wrap around you as one leg weighs you down. “Don’t go.”

You groan, “Are you serious?” You try pushing him away, “Baby for fucks sake, movee.”

He simply presses another long kiss to your lips before he tucks your head under his chin, patting your back. “Just sleep, you’ll forget about your bladder.” 

You whine, “Juhoon that’s not how it works.”

He lets out a drowsy chuckle, “It does now.”

“How?”

He pecks you again. “We make it work with the power of sleep.”

"Juhoo—" Your words are cut off—obviously by Juhoon kissing you.

Again.

it was past midnight already, and you've already said goodnight with each of your members an hour ago, yet you still can't sleep.

your eyes are heavy—but just moments after you think that you can't sleep, drowsiness and exhaustion seems to finally hit your nerves.

you're relaxed, relieved, and just about to knock out of consciousness—

until you can hear the sound of someone shifting uncomfortably from the bed beside yours, and that has to be no one other than martin.

you try to ignore it at first, thinking it's just the usual thing where people shift their positions when they sleep—but then you hear him move again.

not even a minute later and it sounds like he threw a blanket off him while sitting up. you don't pay any attention, and attempt to focus on calming yourself down for a good night's sleep.

that obviously fails when you feel a soft tug from the sleeve of your shirt. you don't react, in hopes martin will leave you alone and figure out his problem by himself.

"i know you're awake." he says in a soft whisper, audible enough for you to hear.

"go to sleep."

"i can't."

"well, i can. goodnight." you bluntly said, hiding yourself under the blanket and facing the wall.

"you're a terrible liar. your breathing has been uneasy since you laid down." he points out, which makes you even more irritated.

it turns silent, and you think he gave up to eventually sleep in peace.

assuming that he'll give up so easily is ridiculous, because he speaks once again.

"I hate when I can't sleep because I'm thinking about a lot of things." he opens up, and knowing you're not going to respond, he continues.

"I'm scared about a lot of things, the album, what we'll be in the future, like... you know. stuff like that."

your irritation seems to fade away, and you slowly flutter your eyes open while thinking of how to respond.

"I'm scared that our fans won't like the future songs we work really hard for—or maybe useless rumors will spread and one of you will back out from the group." martin rambles. you don't know if he's talking to himself, to you, or maybe to keonho.

he's clearly talking to you.

"I'm also scared of the changes we make in each album. everything is so underexplored, and we want to dive into everything as a group, without an exact concept. I'm afraid people will drop becoming our fans because we get boring from trying to be ourselves." you hear him let out a sigh, and the tone he's giving is so soft yet full of sadness.

you pull yourself out from under the blanket, facing towards martin while sitting up.

you're met with him leaning on the headboard of his bed, an unreadable look on his face—but you know he's thinking deeply.

grabbing a pillow from your own bed, you lightly throw it at him. he looks at you confusingly when he catches it, the orange-yellow hue of your night lamp glows enough for you to see the look on his face.

"it's not bad to get those thoughts, but don't dive into it too much." you scold him, a frown on your face from how you're not used to seeing martin get all emotional.

"well, yeah, i know. it's just... leader thoughts i guess." he looks down, and he looks so sad. it makes you even more irritated.

"you don't have to carry all of those alone. a leader can't be formed without their members, after all." you say, in hopes of reassuring him. he looks at you like you just pressed a light switch on him.

"didn't know you can be thoughtful."

"didn't know you can be so sad." you immediately retort, "don't try to bottle those up just because you're a leader, dude."

martin falls silent, and you're about to lay back down on your bed when he suddenly gets off from his and jumps at you.

"what the heck-!"

"shh, you'll wake keonho up!" he yells in a whisper, placing his index on his lips while he comfortably sits beside you on your futon.

"no, YOU'LL wake keonho up. go back to your bed."

"aw, c'mon y/n! late night talks are the best when you're close to each other."

just as you're about to answer him in annoyance, keonho suddenly moves from his bed while making a light groan. your whole body freezes, and martin's does as well with both hands over his mouth.

after a good minute of confirming the youngest isn't awake, you immediately glare back at the blond who's sitting in front of you.

"this isn't a late night talk."

"stop being a tsundere, i barely talk to you like this."

"I'm not a tsundere? go to sleep or I'm waking everyone up."

martin smiles widely, not budging away from his spot on your bed. he then takes like half of your blanket and places it over his legs—the warmth he's radiating mixes with yours under the covers.

"did you know next to james, you were really hard to talk to?" he says, ignoring what you previously said.

knowing there's no escape, and absolutely nothing else can make him get off your bed, you give up and sigh.

"no, I didn't know."

"i always wondered before why you got along with him first than the rest of us did."

"and what you're trying to say is?"

"nothing. I'm just wondering." he says, looking at you like he didn't just vent earlier.

"...i initially wanted to get closer to you." you suddenly admit, leaning on the headboard. he turns to you eagerly.

"and you're telling me this nine months into our debut?!"

"you know what, forget i said anything." you throw him another pillow, and martin laughs while covering his mouth to prevent himself from being too noisy.

"no, but seriously, what? tell me more!" he persists, and you think for a while before giving in. there's no one else listening anyway—no cameras, no interviewers, no crazy fans watching.

"i got shy. you're like the sun. you're too bright that i thought I'm too low for you to talk to." he lets out an exaggerated gasp from your admission.

"you really are a tsundere."

you shoot him another glare before he raises both arms in surrender, holding back a laugh. he's grinning from ear to ear.

you loosen up a bit, exhaling deeply before he starts talking again, like—

"would you rather be a banana eaten by a monkey or the grass that gets eaten by goats?"

"do you think ghost's are real?"

"have you seen that one scene in diary of a wimpy kid: rodrick rules where he ate that forbidden cheese? i think our forbidden cheese is seonghyeon's food."

"i get scared of you sometimes, because keonho once said you were telepathically cursing him out when he ate your butter tteok last time."

from how overstimulated you got from his never ending topics, you were slowly drifting off to sleep, only nodding in response when he asked another question.

martin stops yapping when he notices you trying to not let your head fall off, eyes half-lidded while you slump against the headboard.

he admires your state quietly, a soft smile seen on his face.

"you know, y/n, i wish we'd have more talks like this. whenever you're asleep, it's always me and keonho doing this." he says, words fading into a whisper.

you can hear everything he's saying, but your mind chooses to close your eyes and lower your head instead.

you're too absent-minded to notice how he gently lays you down onto the bed from your sitting position, making light movements to ensure a comfortable position for you.

"goodnight, martin." you mutter, and his eyes widen a bit in surprise while covering you and him with the blanket.

"...goodnight," he says, and of course he doesn't realize the silly grin he has and how red his face is.

the next day, you wake up choked by martin hugging you like a bear under the blanket, and keonho yelling at both of you to get up while saying things like "traitors" or "backstabbers".

꒰ 🌊 — @cookyland @weirdowithaphone @toj1sgf @yeeyeehaw22 @inadazeee ꒱

For years, that was just how life worked. He stole the left-side swing before you could get to it, then gave it up with an exaggerated sigh. You saved him a seat at lunch and he'd slide in like he owned the place, stealing fries off your tray before you could stop him. He walked you home even when it was out of his way, kicking rocks and making up ridiculous stories just to hear you laugh. You made signs for his swim meets with glitter glue and terrible handwriting, and he'd hold them up at the finish line and wave them like a flag, completely and utterly unembarrassed.

He never said thank you in words, he was just a boy after all. But he'd show up at your door the next day with your favourite candy, toss it at your head, and say "Don't get used to it" with a smirk.

People always asked if you were dating, and you’d both turned red and say no far too quickly, spending the rest of the afternoon pretending not to look at each other. But by dinner, he was sending you a video of his dog doing something stupid, and you were sending back a blurry picture of your homework, and everything was normal again.

You grew comfortable with each other in ways you didn't fully appreciate until much later.

It just happened naturally, like moss creeping over stones or the way a favourite hoodie eventually molds itself to your shoulders. You knew how he took his ramyeon. He knew that you cried at animal commercials. You could sit in the same room for hours without speaking and neither of you would feel lonely—but also, you could talk for hours without running out of things to say, him talking just as much as you did, his voice easy and warm and full of jokes.

That was the thing about Keonho. Silence with him was fine, but laughter with him was better.

Maybe that's why it took you so long to realise.

Because love, the way people talked about it, was supposed to be loud: heartbeats and fireworks and grand gestures. But yours was just there. Already there. Had been there so long you'd stopped noticing it, like the air in your lungs or the beat of your own heart. It was in the way he threw popcorn at your head during movies, how he'd fake gag when you said something sappy, even in the way he'd look so softly at you when he thought you weren't paying attention.

You remember the exact moment you finally noticed, though.

You were both twelve, sprawled on his bedroom floor doing nothing in particular. He was reading something, or more so he was pretending to read something, because you caught him staring at you over the top of his book. You opened your mouth to say something smart, but he spoke first.

"You've got a weird face," he said, completely deadpan.

"Excuse me?"

"It's not a bad weird. Just. Weird."

You threw a pencil at him and he caught it, grinning. And for one second, one stupid, electric second, your chest did something strange it had never done before. Or maybe it had. Maybe it had been doing it for years and you'd just never paid attention.

You looked back down at your worksheet pretending to be cool, but your hand was shaking.

You didn't tell him. Not that day and not for a long time. You just started noticing things you'd always known but never felt. The way his hair fell across his forehead when he was tired, how his grin softened into something smaller when he thought you weren't looking, and how he said your name like it was a private joke the two of you shared.

And you thought: Oh no.

Oh no.

Because how were you supposed to go back to normal after that?

But you did, or at least you pretended to. You still saved him seats. He still walked you home, still kicked rocks, still made up stupid stories. You still made terrible glitter signs for his meets, and he still waved them like an idiot at the finish line.

You hadn't realised that Keonho felt the same, and had pretty much always felt the same. You thought it was just you and your own stupid heart getting carried away like it always did. You thought you were being careful, keeping it hidden enough that no one noticed.

But Keonho had always been faster than you. Quicker with a joke, quicker with a comeback, quicker to figure things out.

So while you were busy pretending everything was normal, he was busy noticing that you'd stopped returning his teasing, and you laughed a little too loud when someone mentioned dating, yet you still found reasons to touch his sleeve, his shoulder, his hand—fleeting things you probably didn't even realise you were doing, but still felt intentional to him.

He noticed all of it.

He just didn't say anything yet because nothing was scarier than attempting to figure out if you were risking an entire friendship for a love that held even the slightest possibility of being unrequited.

Instead, he started doing small things. Bringing you your favourite snack without being asked, and then pretending he'd bought it for himself until you stole it. Walking even slower on the way home so the walk lasted longer, complaining loudly about how tired he was. Letting his shoulder brush yours more often and then saying "Watch where you're going" like it was your fault.

You convinced yourself it didn't mean anything. He was just being Keonho. Annoying, playful, slightly obnoxious Keonho who had never once looked at anyone the way people looked at each other in movies.

And, to be honest, Keonho grew a little frustrated that you couldn't read into his—what he believed to be—plainly obvious attempts of showing you he liked you.

Because in his mind, he was being so screamingly obvious.

He'd started walking on the outside of the pavement so you were farther from the road, a trick he’d learnt from the kdrama you’d forced him to watch with you. He'd started bringing two of everything: two ice pops, two sodas, two bags of chips, and when you asked, he'd shrug and say "I was hungry" while shoving one straight into your hand. He'd started remembering things you mentioned once, offhand, like your favourite song or the name of a movie you wanted to see, and then bringing them up weeks later like it was no big deal.

And you just… smiled, said thanks and went back to your usual routine.

He once sat next to you on the school bus and let his leg press against yours for the entire forty-minute ride. Didn't move, or even breathe, honestly. And you just leaned your head against the window and fell asleep.

He spent that whole ride staring straight ahead, ears on fire, wondering if you were being oblivious on purpose or if you had simply never once thought of him as anything other than the annoying boy who stole your fries.

The answer, of course, was neither. You just didn't think someone like Keonho could ever like someone like you. So your brain filed every single one of his attempts under just being Keonho and refused to look at them any other way.

It drove him crazy.

He'd lie awake at night staring at his ceiling, replaying every moment of the day, trying to figure out what else he was supposed to do. Write you a song? He could do that, badly and off-key just to see you laugh. Hold your hand? He could do that too, he'd just have to come up with a stupid excuse first. Show up at your door with flowers? The thought made him want to throw up, but also, maybe. If it was you. He’d only do it if it were you.

He was twelve. Then thirteen. Then fourteen. And still, somehow, you hadn't noticed.

Everyone else seemed to be able to see it. Your mothers whispered and giggled behind their hands, picturing wedding colors before either of you had even held hands. Your friends rolled their eyes every time you said "Keonho's just being Keonho" like it was the most ridiculous sentence they'd ever heard. Even his swim coach once asked, after a meet, "Is that your girlfriend?" and Keonho had laughed and said "Not yet" and the coach had looked very confused because why else would this random girl be at every competition other than to cheer on her boyfriend?

But you? You were the only person in the entire world who couldn't see what was standing right in front of you.

It wasn't that you were stupid, because you weren't. It was that Keonho had been part of your life for so long that you'd stopped seeing him as a person and started seeing him as just… Keonho. The background radiation of your everyday existence. As necessary and as invisible as the air. The annoying, teasing, funny, stupid oxygen that made your heart beat its usually fast pace, but that if you went without you wouldn’t survive past 5 minutes.

You didn't notice the way his eyes followed you across the cafeteria because his eyes had always followed you across the cafeteria. You didn't notice how he said your name softer than he said anyone else's because your name had always sounded like that coming from his mouth—and also because he'd absolutely deny it if you asked. You didn't notice that he never touched anyone the way he touched you: a shove on the shoulder, a flick to your forehead, a hand ruffling your hair, because you had no way of knowing what he was like with other people when you weren't around.

(For the record: funny, but not as funny. Playful, but not as much. He saves his best material for you. He always has.)

The summer after he turned fourteen, he nearly told you five separate times. Once at the pool, your legs dangling in the water next to his, him splashing you on purpose. Once at the convenience store, buying you both the same ice cream without asking what you wanted because he already knew, and then licking yours before handing it over just to watch you shriek. Once on your front porch, the two of you sitting on the steps while the fireflies came out, him getting quieter and quieter until you asked if he was sick and he fumbled his words.

And once in his bedroom, you lying on his floor complaining about something, him sitting on his bed pretending to listen. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. Still nothing came out.

Instead, he threw a pillow at your head.

"Hey!" you said, laughing.

"You talk too much," he said.

But his ears were pink and he turned his face away, pretending to look for something on his bedside table. Anything to distract himself really: a pencil, a dead fly, he would have studied the dust motes floating in the afternoon light if it meant not looking at you sprawled on his floor, hair everywhere, cheeks flushed from laughing.

Because if he really, truly looked at you he knew he'd say it. And saying it out loud meant making it real. And making it real meant he could lose the one thing he knew he couldn’t lose.

That was the part no one talked about. Not in the movies, or in the goofy songs he hummed when he thought no one was listening. They always made confession feel like a door opening. But what if it was a door closing instead? What if he told you, and you laughed at him and then everything got weird? What if you stopped lying on his floor? What if you stopped stealing his fries as payback? What if you stopped being you and Keonho and became just two people who used to be friends?

He couldn't survive that.

You rolled onto your back and threw the pillow back at him. It hit him square in the face. "You're so weird lately," you said, but you were smiling.

He caught the pillow and held it in his lap. "Am not."

"Are too. You keep zoning out. And your ears are always red. Are you sick?"

"No."

"Fever?"

"No."

"Then what?"

He looked at you then for just a second. Long enough to memorise the way the light hit your face as you looked up at him like he was someone worth looking at. Then he turned away.

"Nothing," he said. "You're just loud."

"Rude," you said, and went back to complaining about your math homework.

And Keonho sat there on his bed, pillow in his lap, wondering if you would even feel the same.

That was the real question, wasn't it? Not if he loved you—that had been settled years beforehand. But whether you loved him back. Whether you had ever once looked at him and felt that same stupid, suffocating, wonderful thing he felt every time you walked into a room.

He didn't know.

He thought he knew you better than anyone, but he didn't know this. He couldn't tell if the way you leaned into him on the bus meant something or if you just did it because he was warm. He couldn't tell if the way you saved him a seat meant you wanted him there or if it was just habit. He couldn't tell if you looked at him the way he looked at you: like he was something precious, something fragile, something worth keeping.

Probably not, he thought. You were you. Bright and loud and easy with everyone. You hugged your friends and laughed with strangers. You probably didn't even realise you'd been breaking his heart gently for years, just by being yourself.

What he did know, though, was that even if you never feel the same way, he'd still want you here in every way you've ever been: stealing his food as payback, calling him annoying, falling asleep on his shoulder on the bus.

That was the scariest part. That he’d sacrifice his entire heart for the mere moments he gets to share with you because feeling heartbroken with you there was still a better fate than not having you at all.

But feelings that rooted themselves so deeply in you before you even had words to express them didn't stay buried forever. They grow whether you want them to or not, press against ribs and make a home in your throat. And eventually, carrying something so heavy on a soul so young is bound to boil over.

It happened on an ordinary Tuesday. You were walking home together like you always did: the same street at the same pace with the same space between you that sometimes shrunk and sometimes grew but never quite disappeared. He was carrying your backpack for you because you'd complained about your shoulders hurting—and he'd made fun of you for it first before taking it because that was his job and had always been his job. You were talking about something: a show you'd been watching, a friend who'd said something annoying, he couldn't even remember what.

And then you stopped walking.

He stopped too, confused. "What, did you forget something?"

You were looking at him with your eyebrows drawn together and your mouth slightly open. You looked like you'd just realised something you weren't supposed to realise.

"Ahn Keonho," you said slowly.

"Uh oh. Full name. Am I in trouble?"

"Why are you carrying my backpack?"

He blinked. "Because you said your shoulders hurt and then you whined about it for ten minutes. I did it to shut you up."

"Right." You nodded but continued to stare at him. "But why do you always do that? Carry my stuff? Walk me home? Remember everything I say?"

He felt his ears get hot and he shoved his hands in his pockets. "Because someone has to. You're a disaster."

"No," you said. "That's not what people just do. People don't just—" You gestured at him, at the backpack, at the years of history between you. "Keonho. Do you like me?"

The world got very quiet. No cars or birds. Just the sound of his heartbeat in his ears and your voice hanging in the air between them.

He opened his mouth but nothing came out, just like his bedroom and the pool, and like every other time he'd almost said it and then swallowed it back down.

But his ribs were aching, his throat was full, and he was so, so tired of carrying it alone.

So he did what he always did when he didn't have words. He deflected.

"What kind of question is that?" He said, aiming for casual and missing by a mile and a half. "Of course I like you. You're tolerable. Sometimes."

"Keonho."

"I mean, you're loud. You steal my food. You fell asleep on my shoulder on the bus and you drooled. On me. I should get hazard pay for—"

"Keonho."

He stopped and finally looked at you, noticing how your eyes were shining slightly.

"Just answer the question," you said quietly.

He swallowed. His ears were on fire now, and his heart was doing something violent in his chest.

"Yeah," he said. Voice barely there. "I like you. I've liked you. Probably since you drew that bigger dinosaur."

You stared at him. "The dinosaur?"

"You don't remember? First day of school. I drew a tiny dinosaur. You looked at me like I was an idiot and drew a bigger one." He shrugged, pretending it didn't matter. "You’ve been the only thing on my mind since."

You didn't say anything. You just stood there on the sidewalk, your backpack hanging off one of his shoulders, your eyes wide and shining and wet.

And then—

"You've been carrying my backpack for years and years because of a dinosaur?" you said.

He froze. "That's— that's not— that's not what I—"

You laughed, your eyes scrunching in delight as his gaze couldn’t help but soften at the sight. And then you stepped forward and threw your arms around his neck, backpack and all, and he stumbled back two steps before catching you both.

"You're such an idiot," you said into his shoulder.

He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but stand there with your weight against him and your hair in his face and the entire world rearranging itself around his feet.

"Yeah," he whispered. "I know."

You pulled back just enough to look at him. Your face was closer than it had ever been and he could finally see every small detail he'd never noticed before.

"I kept the drawing too," you said quietly.

He blinked. "The drawing?"

"You let me keep the paper we drew on. I still have it."

His heart did something complicated. A warm, spreading thing that made his chest feel too small for everything inside it. "You're such a sap," he said, but his voice came out softer than he meant it to, almost fond. He'd kill you if you pointed that out.

"You're the one who fell in love because of a dinosaur."

He opened his mouth to argue but struggled to find any words because you were standing there, your face still too close, eyes still shining, and you were smiling at him like he'd just given you the world instead of a confession he'd been choking on for years.

"Touché," he managed.

And then you kissed him—or at least attempted to

Your nose bumped against his cheek. You’d angled wrong at first and had to correct. Your hands came up to grip the front of his jacket like you were afraid he might disappear.

He almost laughed. Almost. But then your lips were on his: soft, warm, a little clumsy, and every single thought in his head scattered like startled birds.

You pulled back too soon for him to fully comprehend what was happening. His ears were scarlet, he could feel the heat radiating off them, and his face was doing something he couldn't control. His mouth was still slightly open. His eyes were probably wide. He probably looked like an absolute idiot.

"So," you said, grinning like you hadn't just rearranged his entire internal organs, "does this mean you're going to stop stealing my fries?"

He stared at you. The audacity. The absolute audacity of this girl. You’d just had your first kiss on a random sidewalk after endless years of pining, and you were worried about fries.

"Absolutely not," he said.

And then he kissed you back.

His hand came up to cup the side of your face—something he'd seen in movies, and he'd imagined doing a thousand times in the privacy of his own head. His fingers were shaking and he hoped you couldn't tell. He kissed you slower this time, not because he knew what he was doing but because he wanted to remember it. The way you sighed against his mouth and your fingers tightened in his jacket. The way the whole world narrowed down to just this: you, him, the space between you finally closed.

When you broke apart, you were smiling so wide your eyes had practically disappeared. His ears were still on fire and his heart was still doing something embarrassing. 

"Your face is really red," you said.

"Yours is too."

"Liar."

"You wanna go look in a mirror?"

You shoved his shoulder. He caught your hand before you could pull it back and held it there, fingers loosely tangled with you, and they stayed tied together for awhile

After that, things were different. Softer like someone had turned down the volume of the world and turned up the warmth. He still stole your fries and you still called him annoying. But now when he held your hand, he didn't make up an excuse first. Now when you leaned your head on his shoulder on the bus, he'd rest his cheek on top of your head and pretend he wasn't smiling. Now when your mothers whispered and giggled behind their hands, he'd stage-whisper to you and you'd both dissolve into laughter at whatever cheeky comment he’d made.

Being loved by Keonho, you learned, was a noisy thing.

It was him showing up at your door with your favourite snack, tossing it at your head, and saying "you owe me." It was him waiting for you after school even when your classes ran late, complaining loudly about how cold it was the entire time. It was him looking at you across a crowded room and pulling a stupid face until you laughed.

He still teased you constantly, that never changed and likely never would. But now there was something warmer underneath it that made your chest ache in the best way. Now when he called you annoying, it meant I love you. Now when he stole your food, it meant I love you. Now when he pulled stupid faces and made bad jokes and walked you home even when it was out of his way, it all meant the same thing.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

He never said it often. Maybe once a month, maybe even less. But he didn't need to. He'd been saying it for years—in dinosaurs and stolen fries, in backpacks carried and seats saved and walks home that were never out of his way. He'd been saying it in every stupid joke and every teasing grin and every time he looked at you like you were the best thing that had ever happened to him.

You just hadn't known how to listen yet.

Now you did.

"You know," you said one night, lying on his bedroom floor, him sprawled next to you, both of you staring at the ceiling. "I can't believe it took us this long."

"Blame yourself," he said. "You're oblivious."

"I'm not oblivious. You're just bad at flirting."

"I drew you a dinosaur."

"That was in first grade."

"My game has always been strong."

You turned your head to look at him, and found him already looking at you, his eyes soft in the dim light.

"I love you," you said. Just because you could.

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I know."

"You're the worst." You roll your eyes, a grin forming on his face.

"You love me."

"Unfortunately," you said. And when he smiled his real smile that he didn't give to anyone else, you knew he was right.

People said you were too young to know what forever meant, and maybe they were right. But when you looked at Keonho, at this boy who had been beside you since the first day of school, who knew you better than anyone, who had loved you since before he even knew the word for it, you couldn't imagine a version of your life where he wasn't there.

And neither could he.

"So," you said one afternoon, walking home, his arm slung over your shoulders, your backpack hanging off his other arm because he still carried it even though you'd stopped asking. "Do you think we'll make it?"

"To where?"

"To forever. Or whatever."

He snorted. "That's a stupid question."

"Is it?"

He stopped walking and looked down at you. His ears were already pink, but he was smiling so softly at you you felt like you were going to melt.

"I've been carrying your stuff since we were seven," he said. "You really think I'm gonna stop now?"

You grinned. "That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer you're getting."

And he started walking again, pulling you along with him, and you let him. Because that was how it had always been and that was how it would always be.

You were fifteen. You were sixteen. You were two peas in a pod, still, always, just like everyone always said.

Some things don't need to be forever to be real.

Your dorm was exactly as you'd left it: messy, too small, and mercifully empty. Your roommates were either still out or already asleep behind their closed doors. You didn't care which.

You toed off your sneakers, dropped your bag by the door, and shuffled to the kitchenette in your thick socks. The leftover noodles from two nights ago were still in the fridge and looked edible enough. You pulled the container out, peeled back the lid, and stuck it in the microwave, setting the timer for three minutes as the beeps echoed around the room.

You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms as you watched the numbers count down.

Then your eyes landed on your phone, face-down on the counter. You hadn't checked anything all shift, there was no time and no service in the back of the café anyway.

You picked it up, swiped open the screen, and started scrolling.

Past the many updates of your school friends embracing their first year of freedom, past the random cooking videos, gossip pages, and the endless cycle of social media

Then your thumb stopped as your eyes locked onto a post.

It was uploaded by a random account, looked to be a fanpage, and it was an engagement-bait tweet that had somehow clawed its way onto your feed. The kind of thing the algorithm shoved at you because it knew something you didn't want to admit from your 2 am searching when your nostalgia grew to heavy and you couldn’t resist the urge.

"does anyone know why CORTIS's Juhoon is just sitting at a random bus stop?? this is like the fourth sighting tonight 💀"

Below it was a photo.

It was blurry, taken from a distance and probably zoomed in from a car window. But the figure in the frame was unmistakable.

Hood up, shoulders curved inward, sitting completely alone on the bench of an old bus stop.

Your bus stop.

The one with the crooked tin roof and the faded ads for phone cards that hadn't existed since you were eleven. You could recognise it anywhere, it was the place where you'd waited every single morning before school, your backpack heavy with unfinished homework, Juhoon's shoulder warm against yours as he peeled an orange and handed you half.

The microwave beeped, your noodles finally heated up.

You didn't move.

Your food sat inside, spinning to a slow stop as steam fogged the inside of the door. But your eyes stayed locked on the screen, on that blurry photo, on the shape of a boy you used to know better than your own reflection sitting at a place you'd both promised never to forget.

The microwave beeped again, impatient.

You didn't hear it.

You were already somewhere else entirely. You were back at that bench, the first time you ever met him.

It was the first day of middle school. Humid. Late August. The kind of morning where the air felt thick as syrup and your new uniform itched at the back of your neck. Your mother had walked you to the end of your road, not because you needed her to, but because she said "first days are important" and kissed the top of your head like you were still small.

She left you at the corner and gave you instructions to just continue following the road.

You'd nodded, adjusted your backpack straps and walked.

The bus stop was easy to spot: crooked tin roof, faded bench, a trash can that always smelled faintly of warm soda. What you didn't expect was the boy already sitting there.

He was small for his age. Too-thin wrists sticking out of a uniform that looked like it had been bought a size too big on purpose, a reflection of yours. Dark hair falling into his eyes because he hadn't figured out how to style it yet. He had a comic book open on his lap—some old superhero thing with bent corners—but he wasn't reading it. He was watching the ground, kicking at a loose pebble with the toe of his scuffed sneakers.

You almost walked past, too shy to even attempt speaking to a stranger without making your stomach curl. But the bench was the only place to sit, and the bus wasn't coming for another seven minutes according to the schedule nailed to the post.

So you sat on the far end. As far as you could without falling off.

He looked up.

His eyes were dark, wide, even a little startled, like he hadn't expected anyone to actually show up. For a second, neither of you spoke. A bird called somewhere in the distance. A car drove past, radio blaring something you didn't recognise.

Then he said, "You're new."

Not a question. Just an observation. Like he'd catalogued every kid in the neighbourhood and you weren't in his mental file.

"Yeah," you said. "Moved here over the summer."

He nodded slowly. Then he looked back down at his comic book. You thought that was it—that the conversation was over, that you'd spend the rest of middle school as strangers who happened to share a bus stop.

But then he held out his hand, open-palmed, and in it was a crumpled cheap packet of fruit snacks.

"Want half?" he asked. "My mom packs too many."

You looked at him, the too-big uniform and the scuffed sneakers and the way he wasn't quite meeting your eyes because he was shy too, probably, in the same exact way you were.

You took the fruit snacks.

"I'm Juhoon," he said.

You told him your name.

And for the next seven minutes you sat together on the cracked wooden bench, splitting a packet of fruit snacks, not saying much of anything. But it wasn't awkward. It was the opposite of awkward. 

When the bus doors hissed open, he stood up first. 

"Come on," he said. "I'll save you a seat."

You followed him on.

You were eleven years old. You didn't know it yet, but that was the moment everything started.

You'd became friends slowly.

Arriving at the bus stop a few minutes earlier each day, just in case the other was there. Saving seats on the bus, and walking together from the bus to school even though your classrooms were in different directions.

By second year, you were inseparable, making so many memories that still stick with you.

You remembered the first time he kissed you. He was teaching you dance moves in the empty parking lot near the bus stop, it seemed to become a regular occurrence after the first time,

It was summer. The kind of evening where the heat finally breaks and the air goes soft and gold. You'd walked with him after school, neither of you wanting to go home yet, and ended up in the parking lot behind the convenience store. The one with the cracked asphalt and the single streetlight that wouldn't turn on until dark.

You'd asked him to show you what he was practicing.

He'd been embarrassed at first. Shook his head. Said it was stupid. Said you'd laugh.

"I won't laugh," you'd said.

"You'll laugh."

"I promise I won't laugh."

"You always laugh."

"Because you're funny. Not because your dancing is funny. Different things."

He'd looked at you. You were sitting on the curb, chin in your hands, waiting. The gold light was catching your hair, making it look like something from a dream.

"Fine," he'd said. "But you promised."

He'd pulled out his phone, found the song he'd been working on. Placed it on the curb beside you. Stepped into the middle of the parking lot and tried to pretend you weren't watching.

He was nervous. That was the thing. He'd danced in front of people before but this was different. This was you. And for some reason, your eyes on him made his hands shake.

The song started. He moved.

It wasn't his best performance. He knew that. Missed a few beats, stumbled on a turn, almost lost his balance at one point. But he kept going, pushing through, trying to show you what he'd been working on for weeks.

When the song ended, he stood there breathing hard, waiting for your reaction.

You clapped.

Actually clapped, like he'd just finished on a real stage, your face bright with enthusiasm.

"That was amazing!" you'd said. "Do it again!"

"I'm not doing it again."

"Please? Just one more time?"

"No."

You stood up and walked toward him. "Then teach me."

"Teach you?"

"Yeah. Show me the steps. I want to learn."

He'd laughed. Actually laughed out loud. "You can't dance."

"I can too."

"You absolutely cannot."

"I can learn. That's what teaching is for. Come on."

So he'd tried.

He started with the basic footwork. Simple stuff. Step-touch, step-touch. You'd watched intently, nodded like you understood, and then tried to copy him.

You were terrible.

Graceless in a way that was almost impressive. Your feet tangled. Your arms went everywhere. You looked like someone being attacked by bees.

"That's not—no, your feet—okay, stop, just stop for a second."

You'd stopped, grinning. "What? I'm doing it."

"You're not doing it. You're doing something else entirely."

"Same thing."

"Absolutely not the same thing."

He'd walked over to you, positioning himself behind you. Reached around and took your arms, guiding them into the right position. "Like this. And then your feet go—here, step on my count. One, two, three—"

You'd stepped on his foot.

"Sorry!"

"It's fine. Again. One, two, three—"

You'd stepped on his foot again.

"You're doing that on purpose."

"I'm not!" But you were laughing, and he was laughing, and neither of you could remember the steps anymore.

"Hopeless," he'd said. "You're absolutely hopeless."

You'd turned to face him, still laughing, your face flushed from the heat and the movement. "Hopelessly in love with you," you'd said.

And then your face had gone red.

Deep red, spreading from your cheeks to your ears to your neck. Because neither of you had said that word before. Not really. Not out loud. You'd danced around it for months, circling closer and closer, but never actually saying it.

The laughter stopped.

The parking lot went quiet.

You were looking at him with wide eyes, like you couldn't believe what you'd just said and you might take it back if you could.

He didn't give you the chance.

He kissed you.

Just a quick kiss, soft and gentle, his lips barely pressing against yours. A question more than anything. Testing and hoping.

When he pulled back, you were looking at him with eyes he still saw in his dreams. Bright and surprised and full of something he couldn't name but wanted to see every day for the rest of his life.

You didn't say anything.

Neither did he.

The streetlight above you flickered on, casting yellow light across the parking lot. The convenience store hummed in the distance. Somewhere a dog barked.

Then you'd whispered: "Took you long enough."

And you'd kissed him back.

Your heart clenched at the memory. You’d both been so young and so in love, believing the world was much simpler than it turned out to be.

The noodles were going cold but you didn’t care, you scrolled down to the comments on the post, hoping to get a hint of something, though you didn’t know what you were truly looking for.

"omg that bus stop is so random??"

"maybe he's filming something?"

"his company hasn't said anything"

"he looks so sad help 😭"

"someone go get him"

Your thumb twitched.

The microwave beeped a third time, a setting that intended to ensure your food wouldn’t get cold, though it already failed at that. The sound cut through the fog in your head. You blinked and the dorm came back into focus: the stack of unpaid bills on the counter, your roommate's cheap incense burning low on the shelf, the hum of the old refrigerator.

Normal and regular things that belonged to the life you'd built after.

But the photo was still on your screen. And Juhoon was still sitting there.

You locked your phone. Set it down face-up—a mistake, because now the photo was the only thing you saw every time you glanced over. You grabbed your cold noodles from the microwave, peeled back the lid, and took a bite.

Tasted like nothing.

You chewed and swallowed anyway, leaning against the counter and stared at the wall.

Don't.

The word appeared in your head fully formed. Sensible. Adult. You'd spent two years learning how to not think about him. How to scroll past CORTIS content without pausing. How to delete the old texts without rereading them first. How to fall asleep without picturing the way he used to tuck your hair behind your ear when you were too tired to do it yourself.

You were good at it now. Really good.

You took another bite of cold noodles, then you looked at your phone again.

The photo was still there. Juhoon was still there. Alone. At 1 a.m. On a broken bench. In a neighbourhood neither of you had lived in for months.

You could just... check.

Not go. Obviously not go. That would be insane. That would be something the old you would do; the girl who believed in grand gestures and movie endings and promises made at bus stops. That girl had cried herself raw and learned better.

But you could check. One quick scroll through the replies to see if anyone had posted an update. See if he'd left yet.

You picked up the phone.

No new sightings. Just more people confused, more people speculating, more people tagging his company with ‘where is his manager??’

You sighed, dropping the phone onto the counter and rubbing your hand on your face.

What on earth was he doing?

Sitting there. At 1 a.m. On a bench that had probably given you both splinters a hundred times. In a neighbourhood that wasn't his anymore. In a life that wasn't yours anymore.

It didn't make sense. None of it made sense.

You picked up the phone again. Stared at the photo. His shoulders curved inward like he was trying to make himself smaller and his hands were clasped loose between his knees. The hood was pulled low, hiding his eyes.

This wasn't a PR stunt. There were no cameras. No managers hovering in the background. Just him, alone, in the dark, at a bus stop that hadn't seen a bus past 10 p.m. in years.

You thought about the last time you'd spoken properly, before he officially ended things.

It was the night before his final audition. He'd called you from his bedroom window—his way of saying come outside without saying it. You'd climbed out your own window, crossed the lawn in your bare feet, and found him sitting on his porch steps, guitar in his lap, looking at you like you were the last good thing in the world.

"What if I make it?" he'd asked.

"Then you make it."

"What if they want all of me?"

You'd laughed, not understanding. "They can't have all of you. Some of you is mine."

He'd smiled at that. But the smile hadn't reached his eyes.

You should have asked what that meant. You should have stayed on those porch steps and pulled the truth out of him, word by word, until there was nothing left hidden. But you were sixteen and stupid and you thought promises were enough.

They weren't.

You locked your phone again. Set it down. Picked up your cold noodles and scraped them into the trash—you weren't hungry anymore, hadn't been hungry since you saw the photo.

You turned off the kitchen light and walked to your room, leaving your phone on the counter.

You didn't check the photo again. You didn't scroll through the comments. You didn't look for updates. You just brushed your teeth, washed your face, and changed into an old t-shirt that used to be his, one you'd kept even though you told yourself you should throw it away.

The fabric was soft, worn thin at the collar. It smelled like your detergent now, not him. That had happened months ago. You remembered the exact wash when the last trace of him disappeared, how you'd cried a little before putting it back in your drawer and pretended you hadn't.

You climbed into bed and pulled the blanket to your chin, staring at the ceiling.

What on earth was he doing?

The question circled your brain like a song you couldn't shake. You turned onto your side. Then your back. Then your stomach. The pillow was too warm. Then too cold. Nothing felt right.

You thought about the bench. About the crooked tin roof. About the way the streetlight flickered every seventeen seconds—you'd counted once, years ago, while waiting for a bus that was running late, and Juhoon had laughed at you for counting.

"You're such a weirdo," he'd said.

"You like it."

"Yeah," he'd said, soft. "I do."

You closed your eyes.

The photo was burned into the back of your eyelids. Juhoon, alone. Juhoon, waiting. Juhoon, sitting at a place you'd both promised never to forget—

You forced your eyes open.

Stop.

You didn't need to go. You didn't need to check. You didn't need to be the girl who ran to a bus stop at 1 a.m. for a boy who'd made it clear he was done with you.

That girl had learned better.

That girl had moved on.

That girl was going to sleep.

You rolled over, punched your pillow into submission, and closed your eyes again.

The room settled. The refrigerator clicked off. The world got quiet.

And eventually, slowly and stubbornly, you fell asleep, already knowing you’d be checking your phone again the next day.

Juhoon was going mad, that was as clear as day.

The company finally gives him a long-deserved break after months of work—comeback preparations, variety show appearances, endless fansigns, flights that blurred into other flights—and this is how he spends it?

He had arrived home only two days ago, his parents fussing over him like he was still sixteen. His mother had made his favourite soup. His father had clapped him on the back and said "you look too thin" three times in one hour. The house smelled the same. The floorboards creaked the same. Everything was exactly as he'd left it.

Except for you.

Your house, three doors down, had new curtains. He'd noticed the first night, standing at his bedroom window like a ghost, watching the warm glow of your family's living room. He'd watched for longer than he wanted to admit, hoping for a glimpse of a silhouette, a shadow, anything.

He saw your mother. Your father. Your younger brother, taller now.

He didn't see you.

That was the first night.

The second night, he walked past your street entirely. Took the long way. Told himself he was just stretching his legs, just clearing his head, just enjoying the neighbourhood air that didn't smell like Seoul traffic and anxiety.

His feet carried him to the bus stop anyway.

The bench was still there, though smaller than he remembered. The wood was more splintered, the paint more peeled, the crooked tin roof more crooked. But it was still there. Waiting. Like it had been waiting since he’d left.

He sat down.

Just for a minute, he told himself. Just to see.

The minute became an hour. The hour became two. He didn't have his phone out. Didn't have headphones in. Didn't have anything except the weight of his own thoughts and the cold seeping through his jeans.

He wasn't sure what he was waiting for.

That was a lie. He knew exactly what he was waiting for.

He just didn't know if you'd come.

The first night, you didn't.

He stayed until 2 a.m. Walked home with stiff fingers and an empty chest. His mother was waiting up and he'd mumbled some excuse about jet lag, couldn't sleep, just went for a walk.

She'd looked at him like she saw straight through him.

"Is it her?"

He hadn't answered, didn't need to.

The second night, he went back.

Earlier this time: 11 p.m. He told himself it was because he wanted to see the bus stop in the dark for longer, the way the streetlight flickered, the way the shadows moved. He told himself a lot of things.

He sat on the left side of the bench, leaving your side free. He remembered—of course he remembered—that you always sat on the right because you liked leaning into his shoulder, and his right arm was stronger, so he could hold you steady when the wind picked up, a silly little habit you had grown used to over the years.

He remembered everything.

That was the problem.

The second night, you didn't come either.

But someone else did. A car slowed down as it passed. He heard the window roll down, heard a whispered "is that—" and then the car sped off. Fifteen minutes later, a different car. Same thing.

By the third night there were more. He'd lost count. Phones pointed at him from behind tinted windows. Whispers, laughter, confusion. Someone had clearly posted about it online by now, meaning his manager would probably call in the morning.

He didn't care.

He sat on the bench with his hands clasped loose between his knees, his hood pulled low and he waited.

For what?

For you to walk out of the shadows, maybe. For you to round the corner with your jacket zipped to your chin and your hair messy from sleep, looking at him like he was insane—because he was, clearly, certifiably insane.

For you to sit down on the right side of the bench, like you used to, and say his name. Just his name. That would be enough.

That was all he wanted. All he'd wanted for two years. Not the screaming crowds, not the awards, not the magazine covers or the endorsement deals or any of it. Just you, saying his name in a voice that wasn't filtered through a screen.

He rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head. The hood fell forward, hiding his face completely now.

He thought about the last time he'd seen you—not on a screen, not in a dream, but real. Flesh and bone. Standing at the bus stop with your arms crossed and your eyes wet, asking him "do you not like me anymore?"

And him, too young and too scared and too stupid to say anything except "I'm sorry."

Not I'll come back. Not wait for me. Not I love you.

Just I'm sorry.

He'd been saying it to himself ever since. In the dorm shower. In the back of vans between schedules. In the dark of hotel rooms in cities he couldn't name. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

It had never felt like enough.

The streetlight flickered. Seventeen seconds. He counted, just as you had always done.

The wind picked up, and he couldn’t help but shiver and pull his hood tighter.

Somewhere in the distance, a car door closed. Footsteps. He didn't look up. He'd stopped looking up after the second hour—every shadow was a false promise, every sound a trick of the wind.

He sat, he waited, and he went a little more mad.

His mind too replayed memories, whether he wanted it too or not.

He remembered how people always assumed you were dating, even before you were officially boyfriend-girlfriend. But Juhoon remembered the exact moment he realised he wanted to be. Sitting on this bench, waiting for the bus, watching you complain about a math test. You were eating a rice ball from the convenience store, talking with your mouth full, gesturing with the half-eaten thing, and he'd thought: I want this forever.

And that was it. Not a big realisation or dramatic moment that prompted him. Just a quiet knowing, sitting on a bench, watching you eat a rice ball and wishing he could see you do that forever.

He remembered winter mornings most of all.

The way you'd arrive shivering, your coat never warm enough, your hands stuffed deep in your pockets. How you'd stand close to him without thinking about it, seeking warmth, and he'd started bringing an extra scarf just in case you forgot yours, which you always did.

"Again?" he'd say, pulling it from his bag.

"You're my hero," you'd say, wrapping it around your neck, and the way you said it made his chest feel tight in the best way.

He remembered the morning you fell asleep on his shoulder on the bus. Just for a few minutes. Your head heavy against him, your breath slow and even. He'd sat completely still, not moving, not breathing, terrified of waking you up. The bus had jostled and bumped and he'd stayed frozen, watching your eyelashes, wondering how someone could be this beautiful just existing.

You'd woken up embarrassed, apologising, face red. He'd said it was fine. Didn't say he'd wished it could last forever.

He remembered the first time you held hands.

Not officially, officially. Just walking home from the bus stop one afternoon, and your hand had brushed against his, and neither of you moved away. Then your fingers had tangled together, tentative, questioning. He'd squeezed gently, and you'd squeezed back.

You didn't talk about it, just kept walking with your hands together and your hearts pounding.

He remembered the exact texture of your palm against his. The way your thumb had traced small circles on his skin. The way he'd gone home that night and stared at his own hand like it had become something different, something important, because it had held yours.

He remembered the countless times you both stayed at the library after school to study, though not much studying actually happened.

The library was old and smelled like paper and dust and the faint cleaning solution the janitor used. Your usual table was in the back corner, near the window, where the afternoon light came through gold and warm and caught your hair in just the right way. Your notebooks stayed empty while you talked about everything and anything.

About teachers who gave too much homework and classmates who whispered behind their hands. About songs you'd heard and movies you'd watched and dreams you hadn't told anyone else. About your parents, your siblings, the small frustrations of being fifteen and stuck in a town that felt too small for the people you were becoming.

He remembered the way you'd lean across the table when you had something important to say, your voice dropping to a whisper even though no one was near enough to hear. The way you'd bite your lip when you were thinking too hard. The way you'd reach over and touch his hand when you wanted his attention, just a quick tap, like you needed to remind yourself he was there.

He remembered the time it snowed.

Heavy snow, unexpected, that made the whole town go quiet. You'd stayed at the library later than usual, watching it fall outside the window, neither of you wanting to leave. The buses had stopped running. Your phones had buzzed with worried parents.

"We should go," you'd said, not moving.

"Yeah."

More snow. More silence.

Then you'd looked at him. "Walk me home?"

The walk had taken forty minutes in snow that came up to your ankles. You'd shared his umbrella even though it was useless against snow, just for the excuse to walk close. Your cheeks were red. Your nose was red. You were entirely beautiful.

Halfway there, you'd stopped in the middle of the empty street and looked up at the sky. Snowflakes catching on your eyelashes and your breath coming in white clouds.

"Look," you'd said. "It's like the whole world stopped."

He'd looked at you instead of the sky.

"Yeah," he'd said. "It is."

You'd turned to him, caught him staring. For a moment neither of you moved. Just stood there in the falling snow, the whole street white and silent, no cars, no people, no sound except your breathing and the soft hush of snow landing on snow.

Your face was so close. He could see each snowflake melting on your skin. Could see the way your eyes moved from his eyes to his lips and back again. Could feel his heart beating somewhere in his throat.

Then you'd kissed him.

Not like the first time, which had been quick and nervous and over before it really started. This was different, so much slower. Your cold lips pressed against his, soft and searching, and he felt your gloved hand come up to rest against his chest, right over his heart, like you wanted to feel it beating.

He'd kissed you back.

One hand holding the umbrella above you both that slanted sideways now, the other finding your waist, pulling you closer. Your lips parted slightly and he felt the warmth of your breath against his mouth, felt you lean into him, felt the snow landing on his hair and shoulders and he didn't care, didn't care about anything except this moment, this street, this girl.

When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. Your face was flushed despite the cold: a deep, rosy pink that spread from your cheeks to the tips of your ears. Your lips were slick and slightly swollen, parted as you gasped for air. Snowflakes clung to your lashes like tiny diamonds, and your eyes were bright—so bright—reflecting the streetlamp and the winter sky and something else, something that made his chest ache with a feeling he didn't yet have the courage to name.

He couldn't speak, could barely think.

You were smiling that small smile, the one he'd come to love without knowing he loved it.

"What was that for?" he'd managed to ask.

You'd looked at him for a long moment before reaching up and brushing a snowflake from his cheek.

"Just in case," you'd said. "In case the world starts moving again."

He'd pulled you close then, wrapped his arms around you, buried his face in your snow-damp hair, and held you there in the middle of the empty street with snow falling all around and the whole world silent and still.

He'd held you like he'd never have to let go.

He remembered the night before he left.

You'd met at the bus stop, the same place as always, except everything felt different. He'd already made up his mind. Already decided it was better this way. Better to cut clean than to drag it out.

You'd sat close, like always. Your shoulder against his. The streetlights casting long shadows across the road.

"I'm going to miss this," you'd said. "This bench. This bus stop. All of it."

He'd nodded, not trusting his voice.

"But you're going to do amazing things," you'd said. "I know it."

And he'd known he had to do it then. Had to end it before you got any more attached. Before you started planning a future that included him, because his future didn't include anyone. Couldn't include anyone.

He'd explained it badly.

Long distance wouldn't work. His schedule would be crazy. You deserved someone who could be there. All the standard lines, all the things people say when they're too scared to say the real thing.

You'd gone very still beside him.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying we should end this. Before it gets complicated."

The silence that followed was the worst thing he'd ever heard.

Then you'd asked, quiet: "Do you not like me anymore?"

And he'd hesitated.

Just for a second. Just long enough for you to see it. Long enough for you to draw your own conclusions.

He'd wanted to say: I like you too much. That's the problem. I like you so much that I can't stand the thought of you getting hurt because of me. I like you so much that I'd rather lose you now than watch you suffer later because of who I'm becoming.

But he didn't say it, only letting out a small breath. “I’m sorry.”

He let you think what you thought. Let you walk away believing he'd stopped caring. Let you hate him, because hate was cleaner than love that couldn't go anywhere.

You'd stood up, looked at him for a long moment with eyes he couldn't read, then you'd walked away.

He'd watched you go, standing at this bus stop, and hadn't called you back.

That was his biggest regret, letting you believe for even a second that he didn't care about you. The problem was he cared too much, too deeply, too completely.

And he'd been a coward.

That was the truth he couldn't outrun, no matter how many flights he took or how many stages he stood on. He'd been sixteen and terrified, not of the audition or the training or the unknown, but of dragging you into it. Of making you wait. Of watching you grow tired of cancelled dates and missed calls and a boy who belonged more to the company than to himself.

So he'd cut the rope.

Told himself it was mercy. Told himself you'd forget him. Told himself you'd find someone better—someone who could walk you to the bus stop every morning, who could hold your hand in public without a contract forbidding it, who could love you without thousands of people watching.

He wanted that for you.

But God, it killed him to think about.

And sitting here now, on this splintered bench, in this cold, at 1 a.m., he knew the truth.

There was no someone better.

There was only you. There had only ever been you.

He remembered the first time he saw you after he'd left. He had been scrolling and saw a photo someone had tagged you in, months ago now. You were at what looked like a café, wearing an apron, smiling at someone off-camera. Your hair was different. Your face was older. But your eyes were the same.

He'd stared at that photo for an hour.

Zoomed in on your smile. On the curve of your cheek. On the way your hand held a coffee cup, fingers wrapped around the warmth.

He'd saved it.

Then deleted it.

Then saved it again.

He was pathetic. He knew that. He was an idol with millions of fans, magazine covers, award show invites, and he was saving grainy photos of his ex-girlfriend from a stranger's Instagram story like some lovesick teenager.

But he couldn't help it.

Because every time he thought he'd moved on and convinced himself he was over you, that it had been years, that you'd probably forgotten his name, something would happen. A song would come on. A smell would drift past. Someone on the street would laugh in a way that sounded like yours, and he'd freeze, heart slamming against his ribs, hope and dread tangled together.

He'd written songs about you. Dozens of them. None of them saw the light of day—they were tucked away in notebooks and voice memos, too personal to share, too precious to delete. The other members knew something was there, something he never talked about. They'd ask sometimes, gently, and he'd deflect with a joke or a change of subject.

But at night, alone in his bed, he'd pull out his phone and look at the photo. Wonder if you were looking at his photos the same. Wonder if you ever thought about him. Wonder if you'd even care that he was sitting here right now, freezing, alone, going mad.

The streetlight flickered again.

A car passed. Slowed. He heard the click of a phone camera.

He didn't look up.

Instead, he closed his eyes and let himself remember one more thing. Not a big moment this time. Not the first kiss or the last fight or any of the things that made for good stories.

Just a Tuesday.

An ordinary, forgettable Tuesday in October. The leaves had been turning. The air had smelled like cinnamon and something burning from a fireplace down the street. You'd been sitting on this bench waiting for the bus, but you were quiet. Quieter than usual.

He'd asked if you were okay.

You'd nodded. Then shaken your head. Then nodded again.

"Do you ever think about the future?" you'd asked.

You were fifteen. It was a winter morning, cold enough that your breath made small clouds in the air. You were wearing his scarf—you'd forgotten yours, and he'd wrapped his around your neck without thinking.

"Sometimes," he'd said.

"What do you think about?"

He'd shrugged. "I don't know. Graduation, I guess, if I don’t get into the company. Adult stuff."

"That's boring."

"What do you think about, then?"

You'd been quiet for a moment. Then: "I think about being old enough to make my own decisions. Like, really my own. About where I live and what I do and who I spend time with."

"That sounds lonely."

"It sounds free."

He'd looked at you. At the way your nose was slightly red from cold. At the way his scarf framed your face. At the way your eyes looked toward the future like it was something you couldn't wait to reach.

"If you're free," he'd said, "will you still talk to me?"

You'd turned to look at him. Smiled that small smile. "Obviously. You're part of the plan."

Juhoon closed his eyes as his chest ached.

The memory was so clear it hurt. He could feel the cold air on his skin. Could see the steam of your breath. Could hear your voice saying you're part of the plan like it was the most natural thing in the world.

What had happened to that plan?

He'd broken it. That's what happened. He'd made a decision without you, for you, and in doing so had destroyed everything you'd built. He'd told himself it was protection. Told himself you'd thank him someday, when you were living a normal life without the scrutiny that came with dating an idol. Told himself he was being selfless.

But sitting here, years later, with your ghost on the bench beside him he wasn't so sure.

Had he been protecting you? Or had he been afraid?

Afraid that you'd see who he was becoming. Afraid that you'd realise he wasn't worth waiting for. Afraid that the distance would break you slowly instead of quickly, and that slow breaking would hurt more.

He'd chosen the quick break for both of you.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he ignored it.

It buzzed again. Then a third time.

His manager, probably. Or one of the members. Someone had clearly seen the posts online by now—the blurry photos, the confused tweets, the mounting speculation about why CORTIS's Juhoon was spending his precious break sitting at some random bus stop in his hometown.

They'd ask him about it tomorrow.

He'd lie.

He always lied.

Just needed some air.

Couldn't sleep.

Didn't realise anyone was watching.

Standard, easy answers that cost him nothing except the truth.

The truth was too heavy to say out loud. The truth was that he'd spent two years building a wall between himself and the only person who'd ever known him—really known him—and he'd almost convinced himself it was for the best. Almost convinced himself that the ache in his chest was just nostalgia, just growing pains, just the natural sadness of leaving something beautiful behind.

But it wasn't.

It was grief. Pure, uncomplicated grief for a future he'd thrown away.

He looked up at the sky and noticed that the stars were dimmer here than he remembered. Or maybe his eyes were just different now. Maybe he'd spent too many years looking at city lights and phone screens and the backs of his own eyelids.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. A car door closed. The world kept moving, even at 1 a.m., even in a sleepy neighbourhood that had forgotten how to be young.

He thought about going home.

He should go home. His mother was probably worrying and his father was pretending not to. But his legs didn't move.

His body had made a decision his mind hadn't caught up to yet. He was staying. He was waiting. He was going to sit on this bench until the sun came up if he had to, because the alternative—giving up, walking away, accepting that you weren't coming—felt like something he couldn't survive.

He'd already walked away once andhe couldn't do it again.

The bus wasn't coming, he knew that. It hadn't come in years. The route had changed, the schedule had been discontinued, the whole stop was just a relic of a time that no longer existed.

But he was still here waiting.

For what, he didn't know anymore.

For you? Maybe. For closure? Possibly. For a sign that he hadn't made the biggest mistake of his life?

He wasn't sure.

But he knew he couldn't leave.

Not yet. Not until the sun came up. Not until his body gave out. Not until something—anything—happened to break the spell.

You spent the next two days in a weird, floaty haze.

You just felt off, like the world had shifted two degrees to the left and you were still trying to find your footing.

The photo stayed on your phone. You told yourself you wouldn't look at it again. You did. More times than you wanted to admit: in the morning while your coffee brewed, on your break at the café, hiding in the back room, at night, lying in bed, phone screen glowing in the dark.

He wasn't there anymore. The fan account had posted a follow-up a few hours after the original sighting: "He left around 4am. walked home alone. still no word from his company."

4am.

He'd sat there until 4am.

You tried not to think about what that meant. Tried not to imagine him shivering on that bench, hood pulled low, waiting for something—someone—that never came.

You failed.

The second day, you almost went.

It was late, nearly midnight, and you were standing by your front door, keys in hand, jacket zipped. Your heart was pounding, your mouth was dry. You could picture the route back home: a short train journey, left at the convenience store next to the station, right at the oak tree. You could picture the bench. Could picture him.

But you didn't move.

Because what would you even say?

‘Hey, I saw you on Twitter. Weird night, huh?’

‘Long time no see. You look tired. I look like I haven't slept in two years. Guess we match.’

‘I hated you for so long. I'm not sure I stopped.’

You put the keys down, unzipped your jacket, went to bed and dreamed about snow.

The third day, your roommate Hana cornered you in the kitchen.

"Okay, what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing."

"You've reheated the same cup of coffee four times."

You looked down at the mug in your hands. She was right, you hadn't taken a single sip.

"I'm fine," you said. "Just tired."

Hana crossed her arms. She'd known you for almost a year now—since you both moved into this dorm, fresh out of high school, wide-eyed and broke. She knew about Juhoon. Not everything, but enough. Enough to recognise the hollow look in your eyes.

"Is it him?" she asked quietly. "The bus stop thing?"

You stiffened. "You saw that?"

"Everyone saw that. It's all over Twitter." She paused. "You know he's been back every night, right? People are posting about it. He shows up around 11pm and stays until almost dawn."

Your stomach dropped.

Every night. He'd been sitting there every night.

"I don't—" You stopped. Swallowed. "It doesn't matter. That's not my life anymore."

Hana looked at you for a long moment. Then she shrugged. "Okay. If you say so."

She walked away, leaving you standing in the kitchen, coffee growing cold in your hands, and tried to believe the words you'd just said.

That night, you didn't even pretend to sleep.

You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the dorm settling around you. The pipes groaned. The refrigerator hummed. Somewhere outside, a cat yowled.

Your phone was face down on the nightstand. 

You'd charged it. Checked it. Put it down. Picked it up again.

The tweets kept coming. New sightings. New photos. The same bench. The same hoodie. The same lonely figure, sitting in the dark, waiting.

The comments were getting weirder too. Some people were romanticising it—"omg he's like a sad prince waiting for his lost love"—while others were speculating about mental health, about burnout, about whether the company should step in.

His company hadn't released a statement yet.

That worried you. Juhoon's company was fast with PR. If they hadn't said anything, it meant either they didn't know, which was completely impossible at this point, or they were letting him do this. Letting him sit alone in the cold night after night, because maybe they understood something you didn't.

Or maybe they didn't understand anything at all.

You turned onto your side and stared at the wall.

Just go.

The thought was small but insistent. Like a scratch you couldn't stop itching.

Just go. Just walk there. Just see him. You don't have to talk. You don't have to forgive him. Just... see.

You closed your eyes.

When you opened them again, it was morning. You'd slept, somehow. The sun was creeping through your thin curtains, pale and weak.

Your phone said 7:23am.

And there was a new notification.

"CORTIS's Juhoon spotted at same bus stop for fourth night in a row. Fans are getting worried."

You stared at the screen.

Fourth night.

He'd been there every night since you saw that first photo.

Every. Single. Night.

You thought about the bench. The crooked tin roof. The flickering streetlight. The cold. The way he used to wrap his scarf around your neck. The way he used to say your name like it was something precious.

You thought about years of silence and pretending and building a life that didn't include him, only to realise that life felt like a house with a room you were too afraid to enter.

You sat up, swung your legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold against your bare feet, but you didn't care.

You were done waiting.

The morning air was sharp and cold and your breath fogged in front of you as you walked to the train station, feet moving on autopilot.

You were going home.

The ticket machine beeped as you tapped your card. The train wasn't scheduled for another twenty minutes so you found a seat on a cold plastic bench and waited.

That was when the thoughts started creeping in.

What are you doing?

He left you. He chose this. He chose everything except you.

You don't owe him anything.

You pulled out your phone and opened Twitter. The photo was still there—the original one, the blurry one, the one that had stopped your thumb three nights ago. You looked at it again: his shoulders, his hood, the bench.

You locked the phone and shoved it back in your pocket.

The train arrived and you got on, finding a window seat. Pressing your forehead against the cold glass, you watched the city blur past and give way to suburbs and highways and the familiar stretch of road you'd driven a hundred times as a kid.

Your hometown wasn't far. Forty minutes by train. Forty minutes to think about everything you were going to say—or not say. Forty minutes to change your mind.

You didn't change your mind.

The station was smaller than you remembered.

You stepped off the platform and into the cold.

The walk from the station to your street was fifteen minutes. You knew every step. Past the convenience store where you'd bought rice balls after school. Past the library with the gold afternoon light. Past the row of houses you'd walked past a thousand times, including—

You stopped.

Three doors up from yours. A house you knew better than your own.

Juhoon's parents' house.

The curtains were drawn. A pair of shoes sat on the front step: men's sneakers, not his father's style. His, probably. The thought made your chest tight.

You looked away and kept walking forward towards your own door.

What you failed to notice was the ruffle of the curtains as you passed.

Juhoon's mother stood at the window, hidden behind the thin fabric, watching you walk down the street. Her hand was pressed against her chest, right over her heart. Her eyes were wet.

She'd known you since you were eleven years old. Had watched you grow up in parallel with her son—first as a friend, then as something more, then as a ghost that haunted every family dinner she tried to have with Juhoon after he moved to Seoul.

"Is she okay?" she'd asked him once, early on, when the silence between you was still fresh.

"I don't know," he'd said. "She doesn’t want to talk to me."

"Have you tried harder?"

He hadn't answered that. She remembered the guilt on his face and the way he'd looked down at his hands like they'd failed him somehow.

She watched you disappear around the bend, heading into your old home where your parents still lived and would be surprised to see you, questioning why you had come home in the middle of a semester.

She didn't need to ask why, she already knew.

Juhoon's mother let the curtain fall back into place and walked to the kitchen. The kettle was still warm. She poured herself a cup of tea she didn't want and sat at the table, staring at nothing.

Her son was broken. She'd known it the moment he walked through the door four days ago. He'd smiled like always but his eyes were empty from years of pretending.

She'd asked him that first night, when he came home at 2am with frozen fingers and a face like a storm cloud.

"Is it her?"

He'd hesitated. Just for a second. But a second was all she needed.

"I don't know what I'm doing anymore, Mom."

She'd held him. Her eighteen-year-old son, famous and successful and so, so lost. She'd held him like he was eleven again, coming home from a day of middle school, nervous and excited and full of stories about the girl who he’d shared fruit snacks with on the bus.

"Go to bed," she'd said. "We'll figure it out in the morning."

But they hadn't figured it out. And he'd gone back the next night. And the next. And now you were home for the first time in months, and she didn't know what was about to happen, but she prayed—silently, desperately—that it would be something good.

Because her son had been waiting for you for two years, and he was running out of nights.

She took a sip of her tea and looked out the window again.

The street was empty now. You were gone. Juhoon was still asleep upstairs, he'd only come home at 5am, collapsing into bed without a word.

She wondered if he'd wake up before you headed to the bus stop that she knew you’d visit later. Wondered what would happen if he didn't.

Wondered if any of this could be fixed.

She set down her teacup and folded her hands on the table.

And she waited.

Your parents were exactly as you remembered.

Which was to say: overwhelming, in the best possible way.

The moment you walked through the front door, your mother's hands were on your face, cupping your cheeks like you were still seven years old and coming home from a friend's house.

"You're too thin," she said immediately. "Are they feeding you in that dorm? Is that café job working you too hard? Why didn't you tell us you were coming?"

Your father appeared from the living room, newspaper still in hand, reading glasses perched on his nose. He didn't say much, he never did, but his eyes went soft the way they only did when he looked at you.

"Surprise," you said weakly.

Your mother pulled you into a hug so tight your ribs protested. "You should have called. I would have made rice soup. I would have cleaned your room. There are boxes in there from when we redecorated, I hope you don't mind—"

"Mom. It's fine. I'm just here for a day. Maybe two."

She pulled back, searching your face. The same way she'd always done when you were hiding something. She was a human lie detector, your mother. It was exhausting and comforting in equal measure.

"And why," she said slowly, "are you here in the middle of the semester?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"Needed a break," you said. "Classes are intense."

She didn't believe you. You could see it in the way her eyes narrowed, the way her lips pressed together, but she didn't push, not yet. Your father gave you an out—a classic Dad move.

"Leave her alone," he said, folding his newspaper. "She's an adult. She can come home whenever she wants."

Your mother shot him a look that said we're talking about this later but let go of your face. "Fine. But you're eating dinner with us. Real food. Not whatever microwave garbage you've been surviving on."

You laughed as lightly as you could. "Deal."

Your room was almost exactly how you'd left it.

The walls were the same pale blue. The posters were still up: bands you didn't listen to anymore, movies you'd outgrown. Your desk was empty, cleared of notebooks and pens, waiting for a student who no longer lived here.

But there were boxes. As your mother had warned. Stacked in the corner near the closet, labeled in her neat handwriting: WINTER CLOTHES, BOOKS, KEEP, DONATE.

And one box that wasn't labeled.

You knew that box.

It was shoved at the bottom of your wardrobe, hidden behind old sweaters and a suitcase you hadn't used since high school. You'd put it there years ago, the night before you left for university, actually. You'd told yourself you'd throw it away someday. Told yourself you'd open it when you were ready.

You'd never been ready.

But today, somehow, you were.

You pulled the box out and sat cross-legged on your childhood bed. The cardboard was soft with age, the corners bent. You'd sealed it with packing tape—too much packing tape, like you'd wanted to make sure nothing could get in or out.

You grabbed a pair of scissors from your desk and cut through it cleanly, watching the flaps fall open.

The first thing you saw was the scarf.

His scarf. The one he used to wrap around your neck on cold mornings because you always forgot yours. It was navy blue. Cheap. A little frayed at the edges. You'd never given it back.

You picked it up and held it to your face.

It didn't smell like him anymore. Just like cardboard and time. But you remembered how it used to smell: like his laundry detergent, like the cologne he'd started wearing in high school, like something warm and distinctly him.

You set it aside carefully as though it was made of glass.

Underneath the scarf were photos, dozens of them. Printed at the convenience store for a few hundred won each, corners slightly curled. You'd forgotten how many you'd taken, how many moments you'd tried to freeze before they slipped away.

The two of you at the school festival. He was wearing a ridiculous headband, you were laughing so hard your eyes were closed.

The two of you at the library. He'd fallen asleep on his textbook, and you'd taken a photo instead of waking him up.

The two of you at the bus stop. A selfie. His arm around your shoulders, your cheek pressed against his. The streetlight flickering behind you—you could almost see it, almost feel the seventeen-second pattern.

You traced your finger over his face in the photo.

He looked so young. So happy. So unaware of what was coming.

Beneath the photos were ticket stubs.

Movies you'd seen together. The train ticket from the time you'd visited Seoul before he auditioned, before everything got complicated. A wristband from the festival where he'd won you a stuffed animal—a small dog that you'd slept with every night for years, until the fabric wore thin and you'd retired it to this box.

You looked for the dog. Found it at the bottom, squished and faded and missing one button eye.

You held it, and for the first time in two years, you let yourself cry.

Not the angry crying you'd done after he left. Not the exhausted crying you'd done during exam weeks. Just... sad crying. Missing-something crying. 

You cried for the eleven-year-old who'd shared fruit snacks on a bus.

You cried for the fifteen-year-old who'd kissed in the snow.

You cried for the sixteen-year-old who'd watched him walk away.

And you cried for the eighteen-year-old you were now, sitting on your childhood bed, holding a broken stuffed animal, wondering if some wounds never really healed.

Juhoon woke up to sunlight.

He lay still for a moment, letting the ache in his body register. His back hurt from sleeping in his clothes. His fingers were stiff from the cold. His eyes felt gritty, like he'd cried in his sleep—though he didn't remember crying.

He checked his phone.

12:47pm.

He'd slept for nearly eight hours. 

He dragged himself out of bed—his old bed, the one with the creaky frame and the too-soft mattress—and shuffled to the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror and barely recognised the person staring back.

Dark circles, pale skin, hair a mess. He looked like someone who'd spent four nights sitting on a cold bench, waiting for a ghost.

Maybe because he had.

He padded downstairs in his socks, following the smell of coffee.

His mother was in the kitchen. She had her back to him, stirring something on the stove—rice porridge, probably. She always made rice porridge when she was worried.

"Morning," he said, voice rough.

She turned. Her eyes swept over him the same way they always did, cataloguing every sign of exhaustion, every hint that he wasn't taking care of himself. Her expression softened into something that looked like pain.

"Did you sleep?"

"A little."

"Eat something."

He sat down at the kitchen table without arguing. She placed a bowl of porridge in front of him, along with a spoon and a glass of water. He stared at it. His stomach felt like a closed fist.

"Juhoon."

"Mm?"

She sat across from him and folded her hands on the table. The same way she did when she had something he probably didn't want to hear. "You need to stop."

He looked up. "Stop what?"

"Going to that bus stop." Her voice was gentle but firm. The kind of gentle that came from watching your child hurt himself and finally saying enough. "You're not sleeping. You're not eating. You're just... sitting there. Every night. Coming home frozen and hollow. It's not healthy."

Juhoon set down his spoon. "Mom—"

"I know why you're going." She cut him off, not unkindly. "I've always known. But she's not there, honey. She hasn't been there for months. And sitting on that bench isn't going to bring her back."

He flinched.

The words landed exactly where she'd aimed them—right at the wound he'd been pretending didn't exist.

"You don't know that," he said quietly. "You don't know she won't come."

His mother hesitated, breathing a sigh. Then she said, quietly, "She’s back at her parents' house."

The words hit him like a physical blow.

She was home, three doors down. Close enough that if he walked outside and stood on the porch, he'd be able to see her front door from here.

Close enough that it hurt.

"Is she..." He stopped, swallowed and tried again. "Did she look okay?"

His mother's expression softened into something sad. "She looked like someone who hasn't been sleeping either."

That made his chest ache in a whole new way.

He thought about you at sixteen: bright-eyed, warm, always the one to pull him out of his own head. He thought about the way you'd looked at him the last time you spoke, eyes wet and voice breaking.

‘Do you not like me anymore?’

He'd hesitated.

He'd hesitated like a coward.

"Juhoon." His mother's voice pulled him back. "Are you going to do something? Or are you going to stand there looking like a lost puppy?"

He blinked. "Mom—"

"I'm serious." She crossed her arms. "You've been sitting at that bus stop for four nights, freezing, waiting for a sign. Well, here it is. She's home. She's right there. So what are you waiting for now?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"I don't know what to say to her."

"Then say that. Say 'I don't know what to say.' At least it's honest."

He stared at his mother. For a moment, he was eleven years old again, nervous about his first day of middle school, and she was kneeling in front of him, tying his shoelaces, telling him just be yourself, sweetheart. that's enough.

But he wasn't eleven anymore. And "himself" was someone who'd broken your heart and spent two years regretting it.

"She might not want to see me," he said quietly.

His mother looked at him for a long moment. Then she walked to the front window and pulled the curtain aside. She looked out at the street, at your house, just visible through the bare winter trees.

"She came home in the middle of the semester," his mother said. "She didn't tell anyone she was coming. She got off a train, walked past our house, and went straight to her parents' door." She let the curtain fall and turned back to him. "You really think that has nothing to do with you?"

Juhoon's heart hammered.

"I'm going to change," he said suddenly. "I can't show up looking like—" He gestured vaguely at himself, at his wrinkled clothes, his messy hair, the exhaustion written all over his face.

"You're going to change?" His mother raised an eyebrow. "Juhoon, you've been sitting on a cold bench for four nights in the same hoodie. She's not expecting a fashion show."

"Mom—"

"Go." She pointed at the door. "Before you overthink it and talk yourself out of it."

He hesitated for one more second, then he grabbed his hoodie from the hook and pulled it on. He didn't bother with his hair. Didn't bother with shoes. Just slipped into some slides.

The door swung open and the air was sharper than he remembered.

He walked past his driveway. Past the row of hedges that separated his house from the neighbour's. Past the old oak tree at the corner.

Your house came into view.

He stopped walking.

Your parents' car was in the driveway. The front door was closed and the curtains in the living room window were drawn, but the ones upstairs—your old room—were partially open. He could see a light on inside.

You were up there. You were twenty meters away.

His feet wouldn't move.

What if she doesn't want to see me?

What if she slams the door in my face?

What if—

The front door of your house opened and his heart stopped.

Your father stepped out onto the porch. He was holding a coffee mug, steam rising from it, and he was looking directly at Juhoon. Not with anger. Not with surprise. Just... watching. The way fathers did when they were assessing a situation.

Juhoon's throat went dry.

Your father didn't say anything, didn't wave or call out. He just took a slow sip of his coffee, looked at Juhoon for a long, measuring moment, and then turned his gaze toward the bus stop.

The bus stop at the end of the street.

Then he looked back at Juhoon. Raised his eyebrows slightly. Like he was asking a question without using any words.

Are you going to stand there all day?

Juhoon swallowed. Nodded once: a small, jerky movement.

Your father nodded back. Then he turned and went inside, closing the door softly behind him.

Juhoon stood there for another thirty seconds, frozen.

Then he turned away from your house and started walking toward the bus stop.

He didn't know why.

Maybe because your father had looked in that direction. Maybe because his feet had memorised the route. Maybe because he couldn't knock on your door—couldn't face you in your own home, with your parents there, with all the weight of two years pressing down on him.

The bus stop was neutral ground, it belonged to both of you. To the eleven-year-olds who'd shared fruit snacks. To the fifteen-year-olds who'd kissed in the snow. To the sixtteen-year-olds who'd fallen apart.

If there was any place in the world where he could say the things he needed to say, it was there.

He rounded the corner and the crooked tin roof came into view, it’s shadow cascading over the empty bench.

Empty.

He stopped walking. His chest caved in.

She wasn't there. Of course she wasn't there. Why would she be? She'd just gotten home. She was probably upstairs, unpacking, resting, doing anything except—

A sound behind him stopped his running thoughts. It was footsteps on pavement.

He turned and saw you standing at the end of the block.

Jacket zipped. Hair messy. Eyes red—like you'd been crying, or like you hadn't slept, or both. He couldn't look away from your face.

Neither of you moved as the world held its breath.

And then you took a step forward, slowly closing the distance between you two.

Fifteen feet between you. Then ten. Then five.

Juhoon didn't move. He barely breathed. His hands were shoved deep in his hoodie pockets, but you could see them shaking.

You stopped when you were close enough to see the dark circles under his eyes. Close enough to see the small blush on his cheeks—the cheek you used to trace with your finger when he fell asleep on your shoulder on the bus.

Close enough to realise he was real.

Not a photo. Not a tweet. Not a memory you'd replayed a thousand times.

Him. Juhoon. Here.

"Hi," he said. His voice was hoarse, cracked, like he hadn't used it in days.

You swallowed. "Hi."

That was it. Two years of nothing and a universe of unsaid things crammed into two letters.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Ran a hand through his hair—messy, unstyled, the kind of messy you remembered from sleepovers and study sessions and early mornings when the bus came too fast.

"I didn't think you'd come," he finally said.

You looked at him. "Neither did I," you said.

He flinched slightly, like your words had hit something soft.

You should have felt satisfied. You'd imagined this moment a hundred times: the moment you'd get to throw his silence back at him, make him feel even a fraction of the hurt you'd carried. But standing here, watching him flinch, all you felt was tired.

"Why are you here, Juhoon?"

He blinked. "What?"

"Here." You gestured at the bench. At the bus stop. At the street that hadn't changed since you were kids. "Why are you here? Every night? Sitting on this bench like it's going to do something?"

He was quiet for a long moment. Long enough that the wind picked up and you shivered, pulling your jacket tighter.

"I don't know," he said finally. "I thought I was waiting for something. An answer. A sign. I don't know."

"An answer to what?"

He looked at you then. Really looked. His eyes were dark and tired and so, so familiar. "To whether I made the biggest mistake of my life."

Your chest cracked open. "You're asking a bus stop that question?"

He shook his head slowly. "No." His voice dropped. "I'm asking you."

The air between you went thin.

"You can't just..." Your voice broke. You stopped. Pressed your lips together. Started again. "You can't just disappear for two years and then sit on a bench for four nights and expect me to—"

"I don't expect anything." His voice was raw. "I don't expect you to forgive me. I don't expect you to even want to look at me. I just..." He pulled his hands out of his pockets. Let them hang at his sides, open and empty. "I just needed to be somewhere that felt like you."

The words landed somewhere deep in your chest, somewhere you'd been protecting.

"That's not fair," you whispered.

"I know."

"You don't get to say things like that."

"I know."

"Stop repeating that."

He almost smiled. Almost. The corner of his mouth twitched, and for a second he looked like the boy you'd known: the one who'd kissed you in the snow, the one who'd held your hand on the bus, the one who'd promised to wait.

"I'm sorry," he said.

You'd heard those words before, they replayed in your head constantly like a broken record, how he hadn’t seemed to mean it back then. But this time, standing at the bus stop with the wind in your hair and his shadow on the pavement, they sounded different.

This time, he looked like he meant it.

"What are you sorry for?" you asked. "Be specific."

He blinked. Then, slowly, he started talking.

"For everything," he said. "For the way I ended it. For not calling. For not texting. For making you think you didn't matter when you were the only thing that did."

You crossed your arms, partly from cold, partly from the need to hold yourself together. "That's not specific."

He let out a breath. It fogged in the air between you.

"The night before my final audition," he said, "you climbed out your window. You came to my porch. You sat with me on the steps and you told me everything was going to be okay. And I wanted to believe you. I really did. But I was so scared."

"Scared of what?"

"Of losing you." His voice cracked. "Which is ironic, right? Because I ended up losing you anyway. But back then, I thought if I held on too tight, I'd just drag you down with me. The company, the schedules, the fans, the scrutiny—I didn't want any of that touching you. You were the one good thing in my life. The only thing that was just mine."

You felt your throat tighten. "So you decided to throw me away before I could get thrown away by accident?"

He flinched again. Harder this time.

"When you say it like that, it sounds—"

"Like what? Like the truth?" Your voice rose. "You didn't ask me, Juhoon. You didn't say 'hey, this is what I'm scared of, what do you think?' You just decided. For both of us. And then you vanished."

He nodded slowly. Swallowed. Didn't look away.

"I know," he said. "I know I should have talked to you. I know I shouldn't have made that decision alone. But I was sixteen. I was terrified. And every time I picked up the phone to call you, I imagined you crying because of me, or waiting for me, or putting your life on hold for someone who couldn't even tell you when he'd be free. And I couldn't—" His voice broke. "I couldn't do that to you."

"So instead you did nothing."

"Instead I did nothing," he agreed quietly. "And I've regretted it every single day for two years."

You wanted to stay angry. You wanted to hold onto the hurt like a shield, like something that could protect you from the wreckage of him. But standing here, watching his eyes fill with tears he was clearly trying not to shed, the shield started to crack.

"The night you left," you said slowly, "I waited. I sat on my bed and stared at my phone for hours, thinking maybe you'd call. Maybe you'd text. Maybe you'd show up at my window like you used to. But you didn't."

He shook his head. "I couldn't. I knew if I saw you again, I wouldn't be able to go through with it."

"And that would have been bad?"

"Yes." His voice was barely a whisper. "Because I needed to go. I needed to try. But I also needed to know you weren't waiting for me. That you were moving on. Living your life. Being happy."

You laughed—a short, bitter sound. "You wanted me to be happy? While you left me heartbroken?"

"I wanted you to be happy even if it wasn't with me."

"That's very noble," you said. "It's also bullshit."

He stared at you.

"You don't get to decide what makes me happy," you continued. "You never did. And the fact that you thought you could? Juhoon, I would have stuck with you through anything."

The words hung in the cold air between you and you watched him grow very still.

"I would have waited," you said, your voice quieter now but no less fierce. "I would have figured it out. The long distance, the crazy schedules, the secrecy—all of it. I would have done it because it was you. But you didn't even give me the chance to choose. You just decided for me and walked away."

Juhoon's breath came out shaky. "I know."

"Do you? Because I don't think you understand. I would have followed you anywhere. I would have stood in the back of every crowd. I would have pretended to be just a fan if that's what it took. I would have—" Your voice cracked. You stopped and pressed your palm against your mouth, closing your eyes briefly.

He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there, hands clenched tightly either side of him, tears sliding down his face.

"I would have loved you through all of it," you finally whispered. "If you'd just let me."

The silence that followed was enormous.

Then Juhoon made a sound—a raw, broken thing—and his composure shattered. His shoulders shook. His hands came up to cover his face. He cried the way he used to cry when he was young, before he learned how to hide it. Messy, uncontrolled, and entirely human.

"I'm sorry," he choked out. "I'm so sorry. I was stupid. I was scared. I thought I was protecting you but I was really just—" He gasped for air. "I was just terrified that one day you'd wake up and realise I wasn't worth the sacrifice. So I left before you could leave me."

Your heart cracked open.

You'd spent two years imagining this moment. Two years rehearsing everything you'd say—every sharp word, every accusation, every piece of hurt you'd hand him like a weapon. But now that you were here, watching him fall apart by this old bench, the weapons felt heavy and wrong.

You took a step forward, and then, without really deciding to, you reached out.

Your fingers brushed his wrist. He flinched, startled. You gently pulled his hands away from his face. His eyes were red, swollen, desperate.

"I'm not saying I forgive you," you said quietly. "I'm not saying any of this is okay."

He nodded miserably. "I know."

"But I'm here." Your voice wavered. "I got on a train. I walked to this bus stop. I'm standing in front of you. That has to count for something."

He stared at you like you'd hung the moon.

"It counts," he whispered. "It counts more than you know."

You should have stepped back. You should have kept your distance, protected the walls you'd spent two years building. Instead, you pulled him into a hug.

His arms wrapped around you so tight you could barely breathe and his face pressed into your shoulder, you felt his tears soak through your jacket, cold against your skin.

You cried too. You hadn't meant to, but the tears came anyway, hot and messy, and you buried your face in his hoodie and held on like he might disappear if you let go.

"I hated you," you said into his chest. "I hated you so much."

"I know."

"I tried to forget you."

"I know."

"I dreamed about you every single night."

He let out a shaky breath. "Me too."

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was a mess—tears and redness and dark circles. Yours probably looked the same.

"What are we doing?" you asked.

He let out a wet, broken laugh. "I don't know. Crying at a bus stop, apparently."

You laughed too. It was small and sad and real.

"We can't just..." You trailed off, not sure what you were even trying to say.

"I know," he said again. "I know we can't just pretend the last two years didn't happen. I know I hurt you. I know I don't deserve—"

"Stop." You pressed your hand against his chest, right over his heart. It was pounding. "Stop deciding what you do and don't deserve. That's what got us here in the first place."

He went quiet.

"I'm not saying we're okay," you said. "I'm not saying I forgive you. I'm not saying anything except..." You looked down at your hand on his chest, then back up at his face. "I'm not walking away. Not today."

His breath caught. "What does that mean?"

"It means sit down." You stepped back, pulling him toward the bench. "We're both exhausted. We're both crying. We're both still wearing the same clothes we slept in. So sit down, and talk to me. Really talk. Not the idol version. Not the version you think I want to hear. Just you."

He looked at the bench. 

"Just me," he repeated, like he was testing the words.

"Just you," you confirmed.

He sat on the left side, his side.

You sat beside him. Not close enough to touch. But close.

The wind blew. A car passed. Somewhere in the distance, a train horn sounded.

Juhoon turned to look at you. His eyes were still red, still wet, but there was something else there now. Something that looked like hope—fragile, terrified, barely holding on.

"Can I—" He stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "Can I try? To make things right? I don't know how. I don't even know if it's possible. But can I try?"

You looked at his hand, resting on the bench between you. His fingers were inches from yours.

You thought about being eleven years old, sharing fruit snacks on a crooked bench, not knowing that the boy beside you would break your heart and then come back to try to put it together again.

"Try," you said. "But don't lie to me. Not ever again. Not even to protect me."

"I won't," he said. "I promise."

He took a breath, then another. His fingers twitched on the bench between you—not reaching yet, but wanting to.

"The first time I realised I loved you," he said slowly, "wasn't some big dramatic moment. It was a Tuesday. We were sitting right here. You were complaining about a math test and eating a rice ball with your mouth full. Rice was falling everywhere. You didn't care." He let out a small, shaky laugh. "And I thought—I want to see this every day. I want messy rice ball mornings and cold bus stops and you. Just you."

Your throat tightened.

"I thought it would last forever," he continued. "I thought we'd graduate together. I thought we'd figure everything out. And then the audition happened, and suddenly forever didn't feel guaranteed anymore. It felt like something I had to fight for. But also something I had to protect."

"By pushing me away."

"By pushing you away," he agreed. "It was the dumbest thing I've ever done. And I've done a lot of dumb things."

You almost smiled. Almost.

"When I left for Seoul, I told myself you'd move on. I told myself you'd find someone better. Someone who could be there. Someone who didn't have millions of people watching their every move." He looked down at his hands. "I told myself a lot of things to make the hurt feel like the right choice."

"But it wasn't."

"It wasn't," he said. "It was the wrong choice. It was always the wrong choice. I just didn't know how to take it back."

"You could have called."

"I know."

"You could have shown up."

"I know." His voice cracked. "I was a coward. I'm still scared. But I'm here now. And I'm not asking for everything. I'm not even asking for forgiveness. I'm just asking for a chance to prove that I can be better. That I can be the person you deserved two years ago."

The wind picked up and you shivered. Juhoon noticed. He pulled off his hoodie and held it out to you.

"I don't need—"

"You're cold," he said simply. "Take it."

You looked at the hoodie. At him. At the vulnerable set of his shoulders now that he was just in a thin t-shirt. "You'll freeze."

"I've been freezing for four days," he said. "One more won't matter."

You took the hoodie. It was warm from his body heat, and it smelled like him—not the cologne he used to wear, something different now, but still unmistakably Juhoon.

You pulled it over your head and it drowned you. Too big, just like your uniform had been on the first day of middle school.

He watched you with something soft in his eyes. "It looks better on you anyway," he said.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't say things like that." But your voice had no heat. "I'm still angry."

"I know."

"Stop making me feel bad for being angry."

"Sorry." He paused. "Wait. Am I supposed to apologise or not?"

You snorted, a real snort, embarrassing and involuntary.

Juhoon's eyes went wide. "Did you just—"

"No."

"You did. You snorted."

"It was the wind."

"The wind snorted?"

"You're insufferable."

"You used to say that with more affection."

"You used to deserve more affection."

He winced. But there was a ghost of a smile underneath it.

You looked down at the hoodie sleeves, bunched around your hands. Then at him, shivering in his thin t-shirt, dark circles under his eyes, nose red from cold and crying.

"Tell me something," you said. "One thing that happened in the last two years that you actually want to tell me. Not the highlights or photoshoots, or whatever you do when famous. Just... one real thing."

Juhoon was quiet for a long moment. 

"I wrote songs about you," he finally said. "Dozens of them. None of them are good enough. None of them say what I actually want to say. But I kept writing anyway, because it was the only way I could still feel close to you."

Your heart clenched.

"What do you want to say?" you asked.

He turned to face you fully. His knees brushed yours—accidentally, maybe, or maybe not.

"I want to say that I'm sorry," he said. "But that's not enough. I want to say that I love you. But that sounds like an excuse. I want to say that I never stopped thinking about you, not for one single day, and that every time I stood on a stage and heard people scream my name, all I could think about was how quiet it was when we sat on this bench together. How peaceful. How much like home."

You couldn't breathe.

"I want to say," he continued, voice barely above a whisper, "that I know I broke your heart. But mine broke too. And I don't know how to put either of them back together. But maybe... maybe we could try. Together. Slowly. If you want."

The silence stretched between you before you reached out for his face, your fingers brushing his cheek, cold and damp from tears.

"I don't know if I can trust you yet," you said.

His eyes fluttered closed at your touch. "I know."

"But I want to try."

He opened his eyes. They were glassy, hopeful, terrified. "Yeah?" he breathed.

"Yeah."

And there, sat on the crooked bench, Juhoon let out a breath he'd been holding for two years.

He didn't kiss you. Didn't pull you close. Didn't rush.

He just sat there, your hand on his cheek, and let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he hadn't lost you forever, that he still had a chance to win you back. And he was going to do everything in his power to do so.

It had been six months since you and Juhoon had reunited in your hometown, and, to be honest, it all felt like a blur.

Not in a bad way, more like the way snow fell so fast you couldn't catch individual flakes, you just knew the ground was covered and everything had changed.

The café was busy for a Tuesday afternoon.

You moved on autopilot: steaming milk, pulling shots, calling out names for pickup. The rhythm was familiar now, almost comforting. Your regulars smiled at you, your coworkers had stopped asking why you were smiling so much lately.

"One caramel macchiato for Hana!"

Your roommate appeared at the counter like a summoned ghost. She'd been sitting in the corner for the last hour, pretending to study, actually scrolling through Twitter on her phone.

"You look like death," you said as she grabbed her cup.

"Thanks. You look like someone who's dating an idol." She took a long sip. "Wait. That came out wrong. You look happy, like, disgustingly happy. It's annoying."

You flipped her off with a smile.

She laughed and retreated back to her corner table just as the bell above the door chimed.

You looked up.

The boy who walked in was wearing a black mask, a baseball cap pulled low, and an oversized hoodie you recognised immediately because it used to be yours. A faded band sweatshirt from high school that he'd "borrowed" three months ago for an outfit and never returned.

Juhoon's eyes met yours through the gap between his cap brim and mask.

You felt your face break into a smile before you could stop it.

He walked to the counter with his head down, hands shoved in the pocket of your hoodie, casual and unbothered. Like he wasn't an idol who'd flown in at 6am just to spend a few hours in your city.

"The usual?" You asked, trying to sound professional.

"Is the usual still on the menu?" His voice was muffled behind the mask, but you could hear the smile in it.

"The usual is always on the menu for you."

"Then yes. The usual."

You rang him up and he paid with his card, his fingers brushing yours when he took the receipt.

"Find a seat," you said. "I'll bring it to you."

He nodded and disappeared into the small crowd of afternoon customers.

You watched him weave through the tables and settle into the smallest, most hidden corner of the café: the table behind the pillar, that had bad lighting that no one ever chose. He pulled out his phone, tilted his cap lower, and became just another anonymous customer.

But you knew the slope of his shoulders. The way he tapped his fingers against the table when he was waiting. The way his eyes kept drifting from his phone to the counter, to you, back to his phone, back to you.

You made his drink without looking at the recipe.

Iced Americano, light ice, an extra shot. You'd memorised it after his first spontaneous visit to your job

You carried the cup to his table and set it down, pausing for a moment instead of walking away.

"Can I get you anything else?" you asked.

He looked up, his eyes warm above the mask. "Just you. When's your break?"

"Twenty minutes."

"I'll be here."

You smiled. "I know you will."

You walked back to the counter, heart full, and took the next order. And the next. And the next. The café kept moving, the world kept turning, and Juhoon sat in the corner, drinking his Americano, watching you work like you were the only thing worth looking at.

Twenty minutes later, you hung your apron on the hook and walked to his table.

He pulled out the chair across from him

"You're here early," you said whilst sitting down.

"Flight got in sooner than I expected." He finally pulled down his mask, just enough to take a sip of his drink. "I only have until tomorrow morning. Then I fly back for rehearsals."

"That's half a day."

"It's half a day," he agreed. "Worth it."

You looked at him. At the dark circles that never seemed to go away. At the way your hoodie hung off his frame—too small for him, really, but he wore it anyway because it was yours. At the small smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"How was the flight?" you asked.

"Long. Boring. I slept through most of it."

"Did you eat?"

"Not really."

"Juhoon."

"I know, I know." He held up his hands in surrender. "I'll eat. I promise. There's a rice bowl place down the street. I saw it on the way here."

"You're impossible."

"You still like me."

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. "That's debatable."

He placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. "You wound me."

"Someone has to keep you humble."

He leaned back in his chair, mask still pulled down just enough to drink. His eyes traced your face like he was cataloguing every detail—the way your hair had grown since last month, the small burn on your finger from the steam wand, the tiredness around your eyes that matched his own.

You kept talking, catching up on as much as you could in twenty minutes.

Eventually, from the counter, your coworker called your name. Your break was over.

"I have to go," you said.

"I know."

"You'll still be here when I finish?"

He pulled his mask back up, hiding his smile. But his eyes gave him away.

"I'll be here," he said.

The next three hours were chaos.

The afternoon rush hit hard: students, office workers, a family with three kids who all wanted different drinks. You didn't have time to look at the corner table. Didn't have time to think about anything except orders and milk temperatures and the growing pile of dishes in the back.

But every time you glanced up, he was there.

Still in the corner. Still drinking his Americano—though it had probably gone warm by now. Still watching.

He answered calls, scrolled through his phone, typed out messages you assumed were for his manager or his members. But every few minutes, his eyes would find yours, and he'd give you a small nod, and you'd remember why you were smiling.

At 4:45, the rush finally died. You wiped down the counter, restocked the cups, and checked the time.

Fifteen more minutes.

Your phone buzzed in your apron pocket.

Juhoon: You're almost done.

You glanced at the corner. He was looking at his phone, typing.

You: Counting down?

Juhoon: Maybe.

You: That's cute.

Juhoon: I try.

You bit back a grin and shoved your phone back in your pocket.

At 5:00 exactly, you hung up your apron.

Your coworker shot you a knowing look. "Boyfriend?"

"Something like that."

"He's been sitting there for hours. Didn't even order anything else."

"He's shy."

"He's staring at you like you hung the moon."

You felt your face warm. "He's dramatic."

But when you walked to the corner table, hoodie in hand, bag over your shoulder, Juhoon looked up at you with those dark, tired eyes, and your heart did the same stupid flip it had done six months ago at the bus stop.

"You waited," you said.

"I told you I would."

"You could have sat somewhere more comfortable."

"I was comfortable." He stood up, pocketing his phone. "I was watching you."

"That's not creepy at all."

"It's romantic."

You laughed and shoved his shoulder. He caught your hand before you could pull it back.

"I have leftovers you could eat at my dorm," you said. "Hana made too much stew."

"Your roommate hates me."

"Hana doesn't hate you."

"She called me a 'walking red flag' last time."

"She calls every guy that. You’re not special."

Juhoon laughed, his whole face crinkling. You'd missed that sound for two years. You still weren't used to hearing it again.

"Okay," he said. "Leftovers. But only if I can help with dishes."

"You're an idol."

"I'm your boyfriend first."

The word still made your chest tight. Boyfriend. You'd been calling each other that for four months now, ever since he'd asked—properly, nervously, with flowers and a speech he'd clearly rehearsed—if you'd let him try again.

You'd said yes.

You still said yes. Every day. Even on the hard days.

He didn't let go of your hand as you walked out of the café together. His mask was up, his cap was low, and anyone who saw you probably just thought you were another couple, another Tuesday, another ordinary afternoon.

The dorm was empty when you got there, Hana had headed to a late afternoon library session. 

Juhoon stood in the middle of your tiny kitchen, looking around like he was trying to memorise it: the cheap cabinets, the humming refrigerator, the microwave that had beeped at you six months ago, the one you'd ignored while scrolling through a tweet that changed everything.

"This is where you live," he said.

"This is where I live."

"It's small."

"It's cheap."

He smiled. "I like it."

He helped reheat the stew. Set the table without being asked. Sat across from you in a chair that was too small for his shoulders, eating Hana's cooking and telling you about his week—the radio show where James had accidentally cursed on air, the photoshoot in freezing rain, the fan who'd recognised him at a convenience store at 2am and asked for a photo while he was buying ramen.

You told him about the café. About the customer who'd yelled at you over a latte. About the stray cat you'd been feeding behind the building. About the exam you were pretending not to stress over.

Normal things. Regular things. Things that belonged to the life you were building together, piece by piece.

After dinner, he did the dishes and you stood beside him, drying, your shoulders brushing.

"I have to leave at five tomorrow morning," he said quietly.

"I know."

"I wish I didn't."

"I know."

He set down the last plate. Turned to face you. His hands were wet, soapy, warm when they found your waist.

"Six months," he said.

"Six months," you agreed.

"Does it feel... okay? Is this okay?"

You looked at him. At the boy who'd broken your heart and come back to try to fix it. At the boy who still asked permission to hold your hand, who still looked at you like you might vanish, who still showed up even when it was hard.

"It's not easy," you said. "But it's okay. You're okay."

His forehead dropped to yours.

"I love you," he said. "I know I don't say it enough. I know I should say it more. But I love you, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of you."

"Juhoon..."

"Let me." His voice was soft. "Let me be cheesy. I didn't get to be cheesy for two years. I have a lot of cheese saved up."

You laughed and he kissed your forehead before you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him close.

"Stay until the last possible second tomorrow," you murmured into his chest.

"I will."

"Don't say goodbye when you leave."

"I won't."

"Just..." You tilted your head up to look at him. His face was soft in the dim light of your kitchen, the shadows carving out the exhaustion you'd learned to read like a second language. "Just promise me something."

"Anything."

"Don't disappear again." Your voice was small. Smaller than you wanted it to be. "I don't care if we fight. I don't care if you're busy. I don't care if you can only send a single text at 3am. Just... don't disappear."

Juhoon's hands tightened on your waist. 

"I promise," he said. "No more disappearing, no more silence, no more deciding what's best for you without asking." He pressed his forehead back against yours. "I'm done being a coward."

"You're not a coward."

"I was."

"You were sixteen."

"So were you. And you were braver than me."

You shook your head slightly, noses brushing. "I just didn't have as much to lose."

"You had everything to lose." His voice cracked. "And you were still willing to risk it."

You didn't know what to say to that. So you just held him tighter.

Outside, the city was loud: sirens, traffic, the hum of a thousand lives being lived all at once. But here, in this tiny dorm kitchen, wrapped around each other like you were afraid the world might pull you apart again, everything was quiet.

"You're really here," you whispered.

"I'm really here."

"And tomorrow you'll be gone."

"And tomorrow I'll text you from the airport. And the day after that, I'll call you between schedules. And the day after that, I'll send you a photo of whatever stupid thing Keonho is doing. And then I'll come back. And then I'll leave again. And then I'll come back." He pulled back just enough to look at you. "That's what this is. That's what we are. And I know it's not fair to you—"

"Stop." You pressed a finger to his lips. "Stop deciding what's fair for me."

He went quiet.

"I know what this is," you said. "I know you're an idol. I know you have schedules and fans and a company that watches your every move. I know we can't have normal dates or walk down the street holding hands or post couple photos on Instagram. I know all of that." You lowered your finger. "And I'm still here. I chose to be here. So stop apologising for things I already accepted."

Juhoon stared at you for a long moment. Then he let out a breath, shaky and relieved, like he'd been holding it for six months.

"How did I get so lucky?" he asked.

"You broke my heart and spent two years making up for it. That's not luck. That's stubbornness."

He laughed—wet and bright. "Yours or mine?"

"Both."

He kissed your forehead again. Then your nose. Then the corner of your mouth—not quite a real kiss, but close. Asking permission, like always.

"Can I—"

"Yes," you said. "You don't have to ask anymore."

"I want to ask. I never want to assume."

You pulled him down by the collar of his—your—hoodie and kissed him properly.

His lips were soft. A little chapped from the cold. He tasted like coffee and the remnants of Hana's stew and something sweet you couldn't name. His hands slid from your waist to your back, pulling you impossibly closer. One of your hands tangled in his hair and the other rested over his heart, feeling it pound beneath your palm.

When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard.

"Okay," you said, a little dazed. "You can keep asking."

He grinned. That full, bright, unguarded grin that he only ever gave you. "Good. Because I have about two years' worth of kisses saved up."

"You're ridiculous."

"You like it."

"I love it." You paused. Realised what you'd said. Your face went warm.

Juhoon's eyes went wide. "You—"

"Don't make it a thing."

"You said—"

"I know what I said."

"You love me?"

You looked away, embarrassed. "I never stopped. That was the problem."

He cupped your face in his hands, still slightly damp, and turned you back to face him.

"I love you too," he said. "I never stopped either. I just forgot how to show it."

"Then show me now."

He kissed you again. Slower this time, deeper. Trying to pour every apology, every regret, every ounce of longing from the last two years into a single moment, and felt it. You could feel all of it.

When he pulled back, you were both smiling.

Somewhere across the room, your phone buzzed. Then his. The world was still out there: schedules and flights and cafés and fans and all of it. But for now, in this tiny kitchen with the humming refrigerator and the flickering fluorescent light, none of that existed.

he keeps a ridiculous amount of photos of you on his phone. not the glamorous ones you post online either. he likes the blurry pictures where you’re laughing too hard, where your makeup is smudged after practice, the random selfies you send him at two in the morning because you “couldn’t sleep.”

every game day, he arrives way earlier than necessary just to watch your practice. he pretends he’s studying in the bleachers, but every time you look over, he’s already looking at you. and the second you catch him, he immediately drops his eyes back to whatever book he’s reading.

he always has something you forgot. hair ties, bandaids, painkillers, water bottles, charger cables, you name it he has it. at some point you get tired of asking how he knows exactly what you’ll need because the answer is simple: he pays attention to everything.

he secretly loveslovesloves physical touch. not in a clingy way where he’s all over you, but if you’re sitting next to him, his hand is finding yours. if you’re walking together, he’s pulling you closer by the waist. if you’re studying together, he’s practically glued to your size without him realizing it.

juhoon absolutely loves when you wear his hoodies after practice. he’ll act completely normal about it, but internally he’s losing his mind every time he sees the sleeves hanging past your hands. you once stole once permanently and he never asked for it back.

he gets competitive in the weirdest ways. if someone compliments your performance, he’s immediately researching the sport, learning terminology, and becoming your literal biggest cheerleader (even though YOU’RE the cheerleader here).

whenever you’re tired after games, he’ll pull you into his lap while pretending to continue studying. his chin rests on your shoulder, one arm wrapped around your waist, and he reads over your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. neither of you acknowledges how affectionate it looks.

he’s usually incredibly composed, but watching you perform completely destroys his ability to act normal. the confident top student who can present in front of hundreds of people suddenly forgets how to speak whenever you walk over to him still in your uniform.

juhoon loves showing off his intelligence, but only when it helps you. if you mention wanting something, he’ll spend hours researching the best option. if you’re struggling with a class, he’ll explain it until it finally clicks. seeing you succeed because of something he taught you makes him happier than getting perfect grades himself.

he has this habit of pulling you closer by the belt loop of your jeans or hooking a finger through your hand whenever you’re distracted. he doesn’t even realize how much he does it until you point it out.

the biggest misconception about your relationship is that you’re the outgoing one and he’s the shy one. but in reality, juhoon is incredibly confident when it comes to you. he’ll look you directly in the eye, tell you exactly how pretty you are, and then go right back to being awkward around everyone else.

It had all started a few months into your first year of high school. You had been walking home, earbuds in, the entire world muted. Your mind was already halfway through the chapters you needed to read for tomorrow, your fingers tracing the spine of your worn-out library book.

A blur of motion, a flash of dark blue fabric, and a solid thud sent you stumbling sideways. Your earbuds ripped out of your ears, your book flew from your hands, and you were suddenly very, very aware of a warm grip on your elbow keeping you from face-planting into the concrete.

"OH SHIT—I'M SO SORRY—ARE YOU OKAY—"

The voice was a cannon blast to your carefully constructed silence. You blinked, disoriented, and glanced sideways.

Keonho stood beside you, eyes wide with genuine panic as they scanned your face, his school blazer half-falling off one shoulder. His hair was a disaster, like he'd run through a wind tunnel, and his backpack was hanging open, pens and crumpled papers threatening to escape. He was still gripping your elbow like you might evaporate if he let go.

You quickly regained your footing, standing upright. His hand lingered on your elbow for a second longer before he dropped it, flustered.

"I'm so sorry, Seonghyeon was being an idiot and—" his lips moved at a thousand miles a minute as he crouched down, his hands scrambling across the floor to pick up the small pile of scattered books. You bent down beside him, attempting to help though it became impossible when his fingers latched onto each spine just as you reached out, leaving you squatting there awkwardly whilst words continued to pour out of his mouth. "—I really should have been looking where I was going—wait, are you hurt anywhere? Please tell me you aren't injured—hang on… aren't you in my chemistry class?"

To be completely honest, you were unable to process any of the rapidfire comments thrown at you, far too enclosed in your own mind's attempt to make sense of the situation you now found yourself in.

You stood up slowly, deeming it far too awkward for you to remain at eye level with the boy. He was soon to follow, his hands fiddling with the books as he tried to organise them, clearly stalling.

"Uh—here—" He thrust them toward you, his fingers fumbling. "Your books. I think they're all here. I didn't—I hope I didn't bend any pages—"

You took them carefully, clutching them to your chest. "It's fine," you murmured. "They're fine."

"Oh. Good. That's—good." He scratched the back of his neck, his eyes darting everywhere except your face. "I really am sorry. I wasn't looking. Seonghyeon bet me I couldn't make it to the fountain before he counted to ten, and I'm an idiot who takes dumb bets—"

"Keonho."

He stopped and blinked. "Yeah?"

You didn't say anything else. Just gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment that held a hint of forgiveness, and turned to leave.

You made it three steps before his voice caught up to you.

"Wait—I never got your name."

You paused and glanced back over your shoulder. He was standing there, his fingers fiddling with the ends of his untucked shirt, looking almost nervous.

"Y/N." You told him quietly, then you turned back around and kept walking, tucking your earbuds back in, drowning out the world.

You thought that would be the end of it. An awkward collision that would be instantly forgotten by the likes of someone like Keonho, but the next day in chem class, you felt eyes on you.

You turned to see Keonho sat across the room, chin propped on his palm, head tilted. When your eyes met his, he didn't look away. Instead, his lips curved into a smile: small and almost private, nothing like the loud, performative grins you'd seen him flash at everyone else.

He raised a hand in a tiny wave.

You stared at him for a beat, then turned back to your notes, your face unexpectedly warm.

After that, Keonho couldn't help but notice you at school now, and much worse, he wouldn't stop trying to talk to you.

The next morning, you spotted him in the hallway before he spotted you. He was surrounded by a cluster of friends, laughing at something one of them had said. His head was thrown back, the sound of it carrying easily over the morning chaos, bright and unguarded. 

You ducked your head and kept walking, fingers tightening around the spine of your book.

Despite your best efforts he noticed you and ran to catch up to you by the lockers, slightly out of breath. "Hey," he said, falling into step beside you. "You walk fast."

You didn't stop. "I have class."

"I know, me too." He adjusted his bag on his shoulder, his steps slightly uneven as he matched your pace. "I just wanted to say sorry again for yesterday. I felt bad all night."

"You said sorry already."

"Yeah, but I meant it." He shoved his hands in his pockets, his gaze dropping to the floor for a second. "I don't usually—I mean, I'm not usually that clumsy. Well, okay, I am—but I don't usually knock people over. That was a first."

You glanced at him. He was looking at you now, his eyes earnest in a way that caught you off guard.

"You already said sorry," you repeated, softer this time.

"I know but I still feel bad." He kicked at an invisible pebble on the floor, his sneaker scuffing against the tile. "So I was thinking… I owe you a hot chocolate… To make up for it."

"You don't owe me anything."

"I know but I want to."

You didn't respond to that and he didn't push, he just walked beside you in surprising silence, his usual energy dialed down a few notches. It was almost comfortable, as though he already knew you weren't going to fill the space, and he was okay with that.

When you reached your classroom, he stopped at the door. His hand came up, hovering for a second like he wanted to touch your arm, then dropped back to his side. "See you around, Y/N," he said softly.

Then he was gone, swallowed by the flow of students.

The next day, he waved at you from across the cafeteria. You pretended not to see, and in response he only waved harder, nearly smacking the person next to him, and you could feel his eyes on you even through the chaos of the lunch rush.

You gave a tiny nod and turned back to your tray.

Mina followed your gaze, her line of sight slightly blocked by the passing students. "Who's that?"

"No one."

"He's staring at us."

You didn't look up. "He's not."

"He definitely is." Mina leaned forward, her voice dropping. "Wait… Is that Keonho? The Keonho? The one who's literally everywhere and in, like, every club ever and knows everyone?"

You shrugged, pushing rice around your bowl.

Mina's eyes widened. "How do you know him?"

"I don't. He ran into me."

"He ran into you." Mina's voice went flat with disbelief. "And now he won't stop staring at you?"

"It's not—" You glanced up despite yourself. He was still looking, a small smile on his face. When your eyes met his, he tilted his head, like he was checking if you were okay. You looked away quickly. "It's nothing."

"It's definitely something." She let you brood with that comment, choosing not to push you any further.

He found you in the library after school a few days later. Not intentionally—at least, you assumed not. He walked in with a friend and spotted you in your usual corner before you could disappear behind your book.

"Oh hey!" He dropped onto the chair across from you without asking, his bag thudding onto the floor. His friend lingered awkwardly for a moment, clearly not expecting to be ditched, before wandering off toward the fiction section. "Didn't peg you for a library person. Actually, wait, that's exactly what I'd peg you for. That came out wrong."

You closed your book slowly, marking your page. "What are you doing?"

"Studying. Obviously." He pulled out a crumpled worksheet from his bag, its edges soft and worn from being shoved around. "I need help with chem. You're good at chem, right? You look like you're good at chem."

"I'm average."

"Average is better than my 'please don't fail me' energy." He slid the paper across the table, his fingers tapping against it. "One question, that's all I'm asking, then I'll leave you alone."

You stared at the worksheet. The handwriting was messy, loops and squiggles in places where he'd clearly rushed. The first problem was partially solved, the steps correct until they suddenly weren't.

You pulled the paper toward you.

His shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly, the tension leaving his frame. "Thanks."

It quickly became a routine. He'd show up at the library, always with "one question" that somehow stretched into an hour of him talking about everything except chemistry.

His dog named Cookie who he claimed was smarter than him and had once eaten an entire pizza off the counter. His failed attempt at baking a cake for his sister's birthday that caused the smoke alarm to go off and the fire department to almost show up, and somehow the cake was still raw in the middle. Seonghyeon, who apparently had the worst impulse control of anyone he'd ever met and had once thrown his phone into a tree just to prove he could.

You'd half-listen, half-study, and he never seemed to mind that you barely said two words. Sometimes you'd glance up and catch him watching you, eyes boring into you like he was trying to solve a puzzle he found interesting. His gaze would flick away immediately, but not before you saw the faint flush creep up his neck.

One day, he didn't show up.

You told yourself it was fine, he didn't owe you anything. You weren't friends, and this totally wasn't a thing.

Though you spent the entire hour staring at the same paragraph in your textbook, reading it seven times and even then still had no idea what it said.

By the time you packed up your bag, you were annoyed at yourself for caring as much about that strange boy as you now apparently did.

The next morning, he appeared at your locker before you even had your combination turned.

"Sorry about yesterday," he said, slightly breathless, he'd apparently run the entire way. "Seonghyeon dragged me to some event. His younger sister's band was playing and he made me go. I didn't want to, I wanted to come with you. I swear I didn't ditch you on purpose."

You pulled out your textbooks, keeping your face neutral. "You don't have to come every day."

"I know." He leaned against the lockers, arms crossing loosely. "But I like coming, you're good company."

"I don't talk."

"That's what I like about you." He said it simply, without his usual theatrics. "You don't fill the silence with nonsense. You just sit there and listen. It's nice. Peaceful."

You didn't know what to say to that. No one had ever called your silence peaceful before. Most people found it uncomfortable, a void they needed to fill or else it felt like the ground would swallow them whole from awkwardness.

He held out a granola bar, slightly crushed at the edges. "Here, to make up for yesterday."

You took it slowly, your fingers brushing his though he didn't flinch or pull away. "You don't have to keep making up for things," you said.

"I know." He shrugged, already falling into step beside you as you started walking. "But I want to."

It went on like that for weeks, and somewhere along the way, you started noticing things.

His laugh changed when something genuinely caught him off guard—loud and surprised, all of his usual composure crumbling. His hands moved when he talked, always in motion, sketching shapes in the air. His voice dropped just slightly when he said your name, like it was something delicate he was handling carefully.

But most of all, he never pushed, never asked why you were so quiet, never made you feel like you needed to perform for him.

He just stayed, and you didn't quite know what to do with that.

It was Mina who finally asked, after watching him wave at you across the courtyard for the third time that week.

"So what's the deal with you two?"

"There's no deal."

"He follows you around like a puppy."

"He's just apologetic for running into me." You kept your eyes on your book, even though you'd stopped reading. "He only appears, like, once a day."

"Okay, first of all, it's been weeks since then, he should be over it by now. And second of all, that's literally following." Mina poked your arm. "And you just let him."

You didn't have a response to that because she was right, you did let him. You could've walked away, told him to leave you alone, stayed quiet and distant in the way you did with everyone else.

But when he sat across from you in the library, chattering away about nothing, you found yourself glancing up more often, even listening closer. You didn't mind his noise the way you minded everyone else's.

At some point across the many days Keonho spent in your orbit, your feelings about him began to shift.

It wasn't a single moment. There was no dramatic realisation, no sudden bolt of lightning. It crept in slowly, quietly, the way morning light fills a room before you notice it's no longer dark.

You caught yourself looking for him in the hallways. Your eyes would just wander, scanning the crowd, and when they landed on his familiar mop of messy hair, something in your chest would settle as though you'd been holding your breath without realising it.

You started noticing the small things he was doing for you. The way he always made sure to leave you the last bite of whatever snack he brought, and he'd angle his body toward you when he talked, like you were the only person in the room. He'd also pause mid-sentence when you finally spoke, giving you his full attention like what you had to say mattered more than whatever he'd been saying.

The library became a sacred place for the two of you.

He'd show up after school, drop his bag on the floor, and slide into the seat across from you like he belonged there. Which, you realised, he kind of did now.

Sometimes he studied, though more often he talked. 

You never offered much in return, but he never asked for more than you were ready to give.

"I don't even know your favourite color," he said one day, looking up from his worksheet.

You blinked. "Why does that matter?"

"It doesn't, I just want to know." He shrugged. "I want to know everything about you."

You told him it was purple. Deep purple, like the sky right before it goes dark. He smiled because you'd finally, finally,  given him something personal. "The color of the sky," he repeated. "That's really pretty."

You felt heat creep up your neck and looked back at your book.

It was on one of these evenings that you realised it had already happened.

He was rambling about something you could no longer remember, and you were pretending to read, but really you were just watching him be his naturally extroverted self.

And you thought, oh.

You liked him. Not just tolerated him, not just got used to him. You genuinely, completely, helplessly liked him.

You didn't know what to do with that. You'd never felt this pull toward someone before, this warmth that spread through your chest when he smiled at you. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

You didn't tell him in that moment because you weren't sure you could.

But he noticed something had changed. Of course he did, he was far too observant of your tells for you to be able to hide something as big as, what you believed to be, unrequited love from him

"You're staring," he said one afternoon, looking up from his phone. "Not that I mind, but you're staring."

You looked away quickly. "I was thinking."

"About what?"

"Nothing."

"You're lying." He leaned forward, a teasing grin on his face. "You're thinking about something. What is it? Are you finally going to admit I'm charming?"

"You're insufferable."

"Keep telling yourself that."

You laughed and his grin softened into something deeper, warmer.

"I like that sound," he said quietly.

"What sound?"

"You laughing." He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I like making you laugh."

Your heart did something complicated in your chest as you quickly moved your gaze downward, hoping he didn’t notice the blush rapidly creeping onto your cheeks.

The weeks blurred together. His presence became a constant in your life, something you'd started to rely on without admitting it to yourself.

He'd find you in the mornings, falling into step beside you with a half-eaten breakfast bar or a coffee he'd grabbed for you. He'd walk you to class, talking the entire way, and you'd listen and nod and pretend you weren't memorising the way his hair fell across his forehead. He'd wave at you across crowded rooms, his grin wide and unashamed, and you'd feel a warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with the temperature.

You noticed how he was different with you than with everyone else.

Around his friends, he was loud and performative, always the center of attention, always making people laugh. But around you, he dialed it back. He still talked—he'd never stop talking, you were absolutely sure of that—but it was quieter. More genuine, as though he felt like he didn't need to impress you or perform.

"You're the only one who sees me," he said one evening, his voice soft. "The real me, not the show."

You looked up from your book. He was staring at the table, his fingers tracing the wood grain.

"What do you mean?" You asked, brows furrowing.

"I mean—" He paused, searching for the words. "Everyone expects me to be a certain way. Loud, funny, always on, and I can do that. It's easy. But sometimes it's exhausting pretending to be that version of myself all the time."

He looked up at you. "With you, I don't have to pretend. You don't expect anything from me, you just let me be."

Something in your chest tightened. "I like the real you," you said quietly.

His eyes met yours properly, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you, but it wasn't awkward. It felt like something was being shared.

"Yeah?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Yeah."

He smiled softly as you both continued what you had been doing before, choosing to ignore the way something in your gut had flipped.

It was late November when the first real change happened.

He'd walked you to the bus stop like usual, but the bus was late. The sky was dark, the air cold, and you were shivering in your thin jacket.

"Here." He shrugged off his hoodie and handed it to you without a second thought.

"You'll be cold."

"I'll survive." He shoved his hands in his pockets, not taking it back. "You need it more than me."

You hesitated, then pulled it on. It was too big, drowning you in fabric, but it was warm and smelled like him: something clean and faintly sweet.

He stared at you for a second longer than necessary, then cleared his throat. "It looks better on you anyway."

You rolled your eyes at his attempt to flirt, but you were smiling.

Then one afternoon following the weather turned. A grey sky that had been threatening rain all day finally opened up, dumping sheets of water across the pavement. You'd left your umbrella at home.

You stood under the overhang of the school entrance, watching the rain come down, mentally calculating your chances of making it to the bus stop without getting soaked. Your jacket was thin. Your books would be ruined. You'd survive, but it wouldn't be pleasant.

"Forgot your umbrella?"

You turned. Keonho was leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets, a knowing smile on his face.

You sighed. "Don't say it."

"Say what?"

"Whatever you're about to say."

"I was just going to say," he said, stepping beside you, "that I have an extra. Because I'm always prepared. Very responsible, ask anyone."

He pulled out a large umbrella, bright red, and held it out to you.

You stared at it. "You brought an extra just in case?"

"I brought an extra because I know you never carry one."

You blinked. "You’re watching me?"

"Always." He said it so casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Then he seemed to realise what he'd said, his ears turning pink. "I mean—I noticed. In passing. I pay attention to things."

You didn't say anything. Just took the umbrella, your fingers brushing his.

"It's too big for one person," you said quietly. "You should share."

He blinked at you, like he hadn't expected that. Then his smile widened, slow and surprised. "Okay," he said, stepping under the umbrella with you. "Okay. Yeah, that works."

You walked to the bus stop together, close enough that your shoulders brushed. The rain pounded against the fabric above you, loud and steady, but underneath it, everything felt strangely quiet.

He didn't say much and neither did you.

The bus arrived just as you arrived, and you moved towards it. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to touch your wrist.

"Hey." You turned. His face was close, closer than it had ever been. "Can I ask you something?"

You nodded, your heart suddenly loud in your ears.

"Are you ever going to tell me how you feel?" His voice was soft, uncertain. "Because I've been trying to figure it out for weeks, and I think I know, but I don't want to assume, and—"

"Yes."

He stopped, eyebrows raising in surprise. "Yes?"

You swallowed. Your heart was pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it, your palms were sweaty, and you'd never felt more exposed in your entire life. Every instinct screamed at you to look away, to retreat back into the safety of your silence, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze.

"I like you," you said, the words barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean to. It just happened. And I don't know what to do with it, and I don't know if you'd want someone like me when you could have anyone, but—"

You didn't get to finish.

His hand came up to cup your cheek, his palm warm against your skin, and then his lips were on yours.

The kiss was soft at first, his lips brushed against yours gently, giving you every opportunity to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn't want to, you couldn't imagine wanting anything else in that moment.

Your eyes fluttered closed and everything else faded, there was only him, the warmth of his hand on your cheek, the softness of his lips, the faint scent of him that you'd grown so familiar with over the past weeks.

His thumb traced a gentle path along your jaw, and you felt yourself lean into him, your body moving on its own accord. Your free hand came up to grip the front of his shirt, fisting the fabric, needing something to anchor yourself.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed and his breath warm and uneven against your skin. When he opened them, they were bright, almost dazed, like he couldn't quite believe what had just happened.

"Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "I've wanted to do that for weeks. I just needed to know you felt something too. I didn't want to—"

You pulled him back.

This time you kissed him like you meant it, like you'd been holding it in for weeks and finally had permission to let it out.

His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, threading through your hair. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, and you let him. You let yourself be pulled into his warmth, into the circle of his arms, into this moment that felt both terrifying and right.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless. His forehead rested against yours again, his eyes still closed, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. That was—"

"Yeah," you agreed, your voice coming out shaky.

He laughed, bright and surprised, and pulled you into a proper hug, his arms wrapping around you tightly. You buried your face in his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat against your ear.

His hand came up to stroke your hair, gentle and soothing.

"I've wanted to do that for so long," he murmured into your hair. "You have no idea. Every time you looked at me, every time you laughed, every time you said my name—I just wanted to—"

He broke off, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"You're really something, you know that?" He said. "You're quiet and you keep to yourself and you never told me how you felt, and somehow you're still the most interesting person I've ever met."

You pulled back to look at him, your face warm. "I'm not interesting."

"You're the most interesting person I know," he insisted. "You have a whole universe inside your head, and you let me see little pieces of it. And I just—" He shook his head, smiling. "I love that. I love you."

Your heart stopped.

He seemed to realise what he'd said, his eyes widening slightly, but he didn't take it back. He just looked at you, vulnerable and hopeful.

"I mean it," he said, his voice softer now. "I know it's fast. I know we haven't even been—but I've felt it for a while. I didn't want to say it too soon, but—"

"Keonho."

He stopped.

You reached up to touch his face, your fingers tracing his jaw the way you'd wanted to for weeks. "I love you too," you said.

His face broke into the most genuine smile you'd ever seen on him: wide and unguarded and full of so much emotion it made your chest ache.

"Yeah?" He whispered.

"Yeah."

He kissed you again, slower this time, pouring everything he couldn't say into it. His lips were warm and soft, his hand gentle on your waist, and you felt like you were floating.

When he pulled back, he was grinning. "So," he said, his voice breathless. "Does this mean I can walk you to the bus stop holding your hand now?"

The days that followed were different. Not in any huge, obvious way—he was still loud, still talkative, still showed up at your locker every morning. But something had shifted between you to the point where there was a new awareness, a new intimacy.

He started holding your hand everywhere: in the hallways, at the library, at the bus stop. He'd lace his fingers through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world, and you'd let him, surprised by how right it felt.

His friends noticed. Seonghyeon had raised an eyebrow the first time he saw you two together. "So this is the quiet girl?" He’d asked, looking you over. "The one you've been obsessed with?"

"I'm not obsessed," Keonho said, his ears turning red. "I just—"

"You literally followed her around for months."

"I didn't follow—"

"You made a spreadsheet of her favourite books."

Keonho groaned. "Seonghyeon, shut up."

You blinked. "You made a spreadsheet?"

"To figure out what you'd like," he mumbled, not meeting your eyes but keeping his hand locked onto yours throughout. "For future gift purposes. It was strategic."

You laughed, bright and surprised, and he looked at you like you'd just handed him the world.

"You're so weird," you said.

"Yeah, but you like me anyway."

You did. You really, really did.

The two years passed in a blur of shared moments.

Winter mornings where he'd show up with two cups of hot chocolate, one for each of you, his nose red from the cold. Spring afternoons where you'd study in the library, his head resting on your shoulder while he pretended to read. Summer evenings where you'd walk home together, the sun setting behind you, his arm slung loosely around your shoulders. Fall days where he'd kick through piles of leaves just to watch you smile.

He was still loud, still talkative, still the boy who knew everyone and was friends with everyone.

But he was yours, and somehow, impossibly, you were his.

Something in Keonho seemed to switch off whenever he was around you.

It was the first thing you'd noticed about him, back when he'd started showing up at the library—how the loud, performative energy that he carried everywhere else would dim the moment he settled into the chair across from you. His shoulders would drop, his voice would soften, and his hands would still. 

You'd never said anything about it. You weren't sure he even noticed himself, but it was there, always, a quiet shift that happened the moment he was in your orbit.

Now, two years later, you were sitting on his parents' couch in his living room, your legs tucked beneath you, a book resting open atop the little space remaining on your lap. Keonho was sprawled across the length of the couch, his head resting in your lap, his eyes closed. His hair was a mess—it always was—and his shirt was rumpled from a long day of doing absolutely nothing.

His parents had gone out for dinner, leaving the two of you alone in the house. It wasn't unusual, you'd spent countless evenings here, the two of you sprawled across this same couch, doing nothing and everything.

His hand was resting on your knee, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on the fabric of your jeans. His breathing was slow and even, the tension that always seemed to live in his shoulders completely gone.

"Are you asleep?" You asked quietly.

"Mmm." He didn't open his eyes. "Maybe."

"You can't sleep. You're supposed to be spending time with me."

"I am spending time with you." His lips curved into a lazy smile. "I'm lying on you. That's quality time."

"That's not how quality time works."

"Sure it is." He shifted slightly, nuzzling closer, his hair tickling your bare arm. "I'm touching you, I'm breathing your air, I'm in your presence. This is the most quality time I've had all week."

You shook your head, but you were smiling. "You're such a know it all."

"Yeah, but you love me."

"I do," you said, and the words came easier now than they used to. "Somehow."

He opened one eye, turning to peek up at you. "Somehow?"

"You're very high maintenance."

"I'm not high maintenance." He closed his eye again, nuzzling the side of his face against your thigh. "I'm just... particular."

"You're particular."

"Very particular. About you. I'm particular about you."

Your heart did that thing it always did when he said things like that—that soft flutter that had become so familiar over the past two years.

"You're also very cheesy," you said.

"Cheesy and yours." He grinned, still not opening his eyes. "That's the deal."

You went back to your book, one hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. His hand on your knee had stilled, his fingers loosely curled around your leg.

The house was quiet, the only sounds were the distant hum of the refrigerator and the soft rustle of pages as you turned them. The winter sun was setting outside, casting long shadows across the room, painting everything in shades of gold and amber.

It was peaceful, perfect, and so utterly Keonho and you that you couldn't imagine it any other way.

"Hey," he said, his voice soft, barely above a murmur.

"Hmm?"

"Remember how we met?"

You looked down at him. His eyes were still closed, but his smile had softened into something thoughtful.

"You mean when you tackled me when I was walking home?" You said, raising your eyebrows slightly. "And nearly killed me?"

"I didn't nearly kill you." He opened his eyes, turning and looking up at you with mock offense. "I gently collided with you. Don’t be so dramatic."

"You knocked me over and my books went flying."

"Okay, but I picked them up for you." He grinned. "That was very chivalrous of me."

"You just shoved them in my hands while apologising at a thousand miles an hour."

"I was panicking." He reached up, his fingers brushing against your cheek. "I'd just run into the prettiest girl I'd ever seen. What was I supposed to do? Stay calm?"

You felt your face warm. "You didn't think I was pretty then."

"I did." He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I thought you were pretty the moment I looked up and saw you standing there. I just didn't say it because I was too busy apologising and making a fool of myself."

You blinked. "Really?"

"Really." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering. "I went home that night and told Seonghyeon I'd met the most beautiful girl in school and I'd nearly murdered her."

You laughed, bright and surprised. "You did not."

"I did." He was grinning now. "He told me I was being dramatic, and I told him he didn't understand. I was very dramatic about it. That's just who I am."

"I know. I've noticed."

"Yeah, but you don't mind." His voice was warm. "That's why you're my favourite person."

Your heart swelled at his words, the feeling of heat creeping up your neck. "You're my favourite person too."

You felt him smile against your leg. "I love you," he said, his voice soft and sure. "I don't say it enough. But I love you."

"You say it plenty."

"I know. But I still don't say it enough." He reached up, his hand cupping your cheek. "I love you, Y/N. I love the way you read books and ignore me. I love the way you laugh when I say something stupid. I love the way you let me be quiet around you, even though I'm not good at being quiet."

"You're good at being quiet around me."

"Because you make it easy." His thumb traced your jaw. "You make everything easy. You make me feel like I don't have to perform all the time. Like I can just... be."

You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "You can just be," you whispered against his skin. "That's the whole point."

He closed his eyes, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

You went back to your book, and he went back to tracing patterns on your knee. The sun dipped lower, the room growing dimmer, but neither of you moved to turn on a light, existing in your own, quiet, ecosystem.

Of course, though, Keonho was still Keonho. And that meant he'd still have moments where his usual energy would come roaring back, filling whatever room he was in with noise and chaos. But even those moments—especially those moments—somehow made you love him more.

One Saturday afternoon you were curled up on his couch again, a book in your hands that he had recently gifted you. Keonho was in the kitchen, supposedly making cookies, though you'd been hearing a lot of noises: cabinet doors opening and closing, the clatter of dishes, something that sounded suspiciously like a pan being dropped on the floor.

"Are you okay in there?" You called out, glancing down the hall.

"FINE!" His voice was too loud, too cheerful. "EVERYTHING IS FINE. I AM VERY CAPABLE."

You were about to go back to your book when you heard a crash followed by a rapid string of curses that would've made your grandmother faint.

You sighed, marking your page, and made your way to the kitchen.

Keonho was standing in the middle of what looked like a war zone. Flour dusted the countertops, the floor, his shirt, and somehow even his hair. A bowl was overturned in the sink, and there was something suspiciously charred smoking in a pan on the stove.

He turned to you with a sheepish grin, his face dusted with white powder.

"Hi," he said. "I was making you cookies. It's not going well."

You looked at the chaos around him. "I can see that."

"It's okay. I have a plan." He held up a bag of pre-made cookie dough. "I was going to do it from scratch, but then things happened, so I'm pivoting."

"Things happened."

"Things happened." He gestured vaguely at the mess. "I don't know what things, they just happened."

You bit back a smile. "You set the kitchen on fire."

"It was a small fire! A contained fire! I put it out immediately!" He paused. "Okay, the fire alarm went off, but I handled it."

"How?"

"I waved a towel at it."

You couldn't help it and laughed, bright and surprised, his face lighting up like you'd just given him a gift.

"You're laughing!" He said. "At my pain. You're laughing at my suffering."

"I'm laughing at your baking," you corrected. "Never your pain."

"The baking is the cause of my pain." He grabbed the bag of cookie dough and held it up triumphantly. "But this is my redemption arc. Watch and be amazed."

He tore open the bag with more force than necessary, and a puff of flour exploded in his face, leaving him standing there frozen and blinking.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, trying not to laugh.

"Don't," he warned. "Don't you dare."

You immediately burst out laughing, bending over slightly to catch yourself.

He groaned, but he was smiling. "This is bullying. This is emotional abuse."

"You're the one who decided to bake."

"I was trying to do something nice!"

"I appreciate the effort." You walked over, brushing a smudge of flour off his cheek with your thumb as your palm cupped his jaw. "But next time, maybe just buy cookies."

"Where's the fun in that?" He leaned into your touch, his eyes soft and shining as they looked into your own. "I wanted to do something special for you."

"Keonho, you're special enough."

He dropped the bag of cookie dough and pulled you into his arms, flour and all. His chin rested on top of your head. "You're too good to me," he murmured.

"You're the one who almost burned down your kitchen."

"I would burn down a thousand kitchens for you." He paused and you could practically hear the wheels turning in his brain. "Wait, that's a terrible thing to say. I mean—"

"I know what you mean."

"You do?"

"Mmhm." You pulled back to look at him, his face still covered in flour. "You're ridiculous, but you're my ridiculous."

He grinned, wide and unguarded. "I love you."

"I know." You reached up, wiping a smear of flour from his nose. "I love you too. Even if you can't bake."

"That's offensive. I can bake. I'm an excellent baker in fact. This was just a test run."

"Of what?"

"Of my ability to make cookies." He paused. "I failed, but I'll get there, just give me time. Rome wasn't built in a day."

"Rome didn't have you."

"Exactly. So imagine what I can do."

The sun had fully set by the time you moved to your natural positions on the sofa, the room dark except for the soft glow of the streetlight outside. 

"Hey," you said softly.

"Mm?"

"I'm glad you tackled me on my walk home."

He laughed, quiet and warm. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "I wouldn't change a thing."

He reached up, his hand cupping your cheek, and pulled you down for a proper kiss. You both melted into it, the pure feeling of love swelling so deeply in your chest you couldn’t focus on anything but him. It was soft and slow and full of everything he couldn't say.

When you pulled back, he was smiling.

"Me neither," he said. "Not a single thing."

On paper, you and Keonho made absolutely no sense.

You were polar opposites. A quiet girl who disappeared into the background and a boy who lit up every room he walked into. 

But none of that mattered because somewhere along the way, you'd realised that opposites didn't have to clash. Sometimes, they just fit perfectly and effortlessly.

He was the sun, bright and uncontainable, and you were the moon, steady and still, and you'd learned that the sky was big enough for both. That the most beautiful moments happened when the sun and moon shared the horizon—when the world was painted in shades of gold and silver, light and shadow dancing together in perfect harmony. The sunset wasn't beautiful despite the coexistence of day and night, it was beautiful because of it.

The sun didn't dim for the moon and the moon didn't fade for the sun, they simply existed together, each making the other more breathtaking.

The dressing room had always been the liveliest place in the building before a performance. It was an organized sort of chaos, one that every member had grown accustomed to over the years.

Music leaked from someone's speaker, blending with the muffled cheers of fans filtering through the concrete walls outside. Stylists hurried from one chair to another with curling irons, makeup brushes, and armfuls of freshly steamed stage outfits. Managers called out reminders that no one was listening to. Laughter erupted every few seconds over conversations that constantly overlapped one another.

It was noisy, comfortably so. The familiar disorder had always settled your nerves before stepping onto a stage. Today, however, the sounds surrounding you felt strangely distant, as though you were hearing everything through layers of water.

James occupied the center of the room, unable to remain still for longer than a few seconds. Even while waiting for final touch-ups, his feet instinctively traced fragments of the choreography across the floor, lips silently counting each beat beneath his breath.

"Five, six, seven..." He pivoted too sharply, his elbow narrowly colliding with Martin's shoulder for what had to be the third time in less than five minutes.

"Bro," Martin sighed, taking a step back before another collision could happen. "Watch where you're going."

"I am watching."

"No," Martin deadpanned, adjusting the rings decorating nearly every finger. "You're literally walking into me."

James blinked. "...Was I?"

"Yes bro."

"Oh." Two seconds passed, then he absentmindedly drifted forward again.

Martin caught himself before impact and simply stared. "...Okay I’m taking a break."

Meanwhile, Juhoon remained secluded in the quietest corner of the room, entirely detached from the surrounding commotion. His earbuds muted the world's constant chatter as he methodically stretched his shoulders, neck, and wrists with practiced precision. His movements were slow, measured, deliberate, almost meditative.

Across from him, Keonho had somehow managed to sprawl himself across three separate chairs as though they had been specifically designed for his personal comfort. “I just finished my obby in Roblox!" he announced dramatically to absolutely no one.

"Are you done with your break yet?" Seonghyeon replied without looking up.

"Nah, I’m tired."

"You’re just being lazy bro."

"No I’m not, my legs have been hurting since this morning."

Seonghyeon sighed before casually tossing the makeup sponge in his hand. It struck Keonho directly in the forehead. "...Ow."

Another toss directly at Keonho. "Stop."

"No."

"Seriously."

"No."

"Seonghyeon."

"No."

"Martin," Keonho whined, sitting halfway upright. "Tell him to stop."

Martin didn't bother lifting his gaze. Instead, he continued straightening the silver rings adorning his fingers with meticulous concentration.

"You’re grown, just throw something back at him."

A brief silence settled over them. "...You’re right," Keonho admitted.

The room dissolved into another wave of laughter. Ordinarily, you would have been laughing alongside them, you would have thrown another makeup sponge at Keonho yourself, you would have teased James for rehearsing choreography every waking second or stolen one of Juhoon's earbuds just to see him finally react.

This room had never simply been a dressing room, it had become home. A sanctuary hidden behind backstage hallways where exhaustion transformed into excitement, where nervous anticipation dissolved into jokes, and where every performance began long before anyone stepped beneath the blinding stage lights.

Yet today, everything felt oddly disconnected, like you were standing several feet away from your own body, merely observing the scene instead of existing within it. Quietly, you tugged the oversized hoodie closer around yourself, your fingers instinctively gripping the sleeves until the fabric concealed most of your hands.

It wasn't because you were cold. Although, maybe you were. It was difficult to tell anymore, your body couldn't seem to decide whether it was freezing or burning alive. A dull ache settled behind your eyes, pulsing relentlessly with every beat of your heart. Each throb radiated deeper into your skull until even the fluorescent lights overhead felt painfully bright.

Swallowing became an ordeal. Your throat felt scraped raw, every movement accompanied by a sharp sting that refused to disappear no matter how often you reached for your water bottle. Your muscles protested even the smallest motions, simply sitting upright required far more effort than it should have. Every joint felt unbearably heavy, as though invisible weights had been fastened to your limbs overnight.

Sleep hadn't helped, medicine hadn't helped. Nothing had, you knew exactly why. The moment you'd opened your eyes that morning, you knew. Your forehead had been burning. Your entire body had shivered beneath blankets despite the overwhelming heat radiating from your skin.

A fever, and not a mild one.

Your manager had suggested resting, the company doctor had advised you not to overexert yourself. Even looking in the mirror had been enough to tell you something was wrong. Your complexion lacked its usual color, faint shadows settled beneath your eyes, and the exhaustion clinging to your expression couldn't be disguised with even the most skilled makeup artist.

Under any other circumstances, you would've stayed in bed without hesitation. But today wasn't an ordinary schedule, today was one of the largest university festivals of the year. Thousands upon thousands of fans had gathered hours before the gates even opened. Multiple cameras would broadcast the performances live. Special collaboration stages, months of relentless rehearsals, countless sleepless nights, endless practice until every movement became instinct.

Too many people had worked too hard for you to disappear because of a fever. There wasn't a universe where you would willingly miss it. So you smiled. You laughed at the appropriate moments, you nodded through conversations, you answered questions with just enough enthusiasm to avoid suspicion, you performed normalcy almost as carefully as you performed on stage. No one needed another problem to worry about.

"...You okay?" The voice interrupted your thoughts.

You slowly lifted your head, and Juhoon removed one earbud. His usually serene expression hadn't changed much, but his gaze remained fixed on you with quiet attentiveness.

"Hm?"

"You've been awfully quiet."

"Oh." You forced a small smile. "I'm just... sleepy."

He studied you carefully, as though attempting to piece together something you hadn't said aloud. "...Did you actually sleep last night?"

The question lingered between you. You hesitated for the smallest fraction of a second before answering. "I slept fine…."

It wasn't exactly the truth, but it wasn't entirely a lie either. You had slept, just not well. Not peacefully, not in any way that resembled actual rest.

Juhoon's eyes remained on yours for another lingering moment. Long enough that your heartbeat subtly quickened, long enough for you to wonder whether he had noticed the faint flush spreading across your face... or the slight tremor hidden within your hands.

Then, he simply gave a quiet nod. "...Okay." Without another word, he placed the earbud back in his ear and resumed stretching.

The conversation ended there, you released a breath so quietly that no one noticed.

You were safe. At least, for now.

Except...

Your performance wasn't nearly as convincing as you believed it to be. You had spent the entire morning carefully constructing an illusion, masking every symptom behind practiced smiles and casual responses, convincing yourself that if you acted naturally enough, no one would question it.

Unfortunately, the people surrounding you knew you far too well.

Especially when something felt even slightly off. By the time rehearsal began, the enormous stage was already buzzing with activity.

Towering LED screens illuminated the venue in shifting colors while technicians hurried across the platform adjusting cameras, checking microphones, and shouting cues through their headsets. Dancers occupied every corner, running through formations one final time before the audience would eventually flood the festival grounds.

Music thundered through the stadium speakers, powerful enough that it vibrated beneath your shoes. Usually, that familiar bass settles your nerves. Today, it only made the pounding inside your skull significantly worse. You inhaled quietly. Just one rehearsal, then the real performance. You could manage that, you had to.

The opening track began. Your body moved almost entirely on instinct, years of relentless practice carrying you through each sequence despite the overwhelming fatigue weighing down every muscle. Every step, every turn, every transition had long since become engraved into your memory. Yet your concentration continued slipping through your grasp.

The choreography blurred together, the lights overhead seemed unusually brilliant, forcing your eyes to squint against their intensity, the relentless heat radiating from your skin contrasted strangely with the persistent chill creeping through your fingertips.

You blinked for only a fraction of a second, and that was enough. Instead of moving forward on the second count, your foot landed a beat too late.

Most people probably wouldn't have even noticed. The formation remained intact, the audience certainly never would have realized. But someone did, Martin. His awareness during rehearsals bordered on frightening. The music hadn't even finished before he turned toward you, eyebrows subtly knitting together.

"You normally step two counts earlier."

You glanced toward the mark on the floor before offering an apologetic smile. "...I know."

Silence lingered for a brief moment, Martin studied your expression. "You okay?"

The question arrived so naturally it almost caught you off guard. You answered just as quickly. "Yeah."

He didn't respond immediately. Instead, his gaze drifted over you once more, taking in details you desperately wished would remain unnoticed. The slight sluggishness in your movements, the faint flush coloring your cheeks despite the cool air inside the venue, the way your breathing seemed just a little heavier than usual.

"...You sure?"

"Mhm." You smiled, the exact smile you'd been giving everyone since waking up that morning.

Martin simply stared. His expression remained unreadable, but his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. He had known you for years, long enough to distinguish every genuine smile from every fabricated one. This was definitely the latter. Still, he chose not to press the issue. "...Okay."

Nearly ten minutes later, rehearsal paused for a short break. The music abruptly faded, replaced by scattered conversations as dancers wandered toward the sides of the stage to catch their breath. Staff members quickly distributed towels while stylists rushed in for last-minute touch-ups.

James, unsurprisingly, had volunteered to pass around bottled water before anyone else could. "You get one."

He tossed a bottle toward Seonghyeon. "You too."

Another landed neatly in Juhoon's lap.

"Keonho."

"What?"

"Drink water."

"I'm not thirsty."

"I wasn't asking."

"So bossy…."

James ignored the complaint altogether before continuing down the line until he eventually stopped in front of you. "Here."

You accepted the bottle with a quiet smile. "Thanks."

Your fingers brushed against his hand for barely a second and James froze. "...Whoa."

You blinked. "What?"

He instinctively reached forward again, lightly catching your wrist before you could pull away. His eyebrows lifted almost immediately. "...Your hands."

You looked down. "My hands?"

"They're freezing."

You let out a small laugh, attempting to sound unconcerned. "They're fine."

James shook his head almost instantly. "No."

His grip wasn't tight, just enough to keep your hand from slipping away. He rubbed his thumb lightly across the back of your knuckles, his expression gradually shifting from confusion to unmistakable concern. "They're literally ice cold."

You gently withdrew your hand before anyone else noticed. "It's probably just the air conditioning."

James instinctively glanced toward the massive ventilation units mounted high above the stage. "...The air conditioning doesn't make someone's hands that cold."

You shrugged as casually as you could manage. "I guess I just get cold easily."

His lips pressed into a thin line. That explanation didn't satisfy him in the slightest. James wasn't usually the most observant person in the room. In fact, he often overlooked things everyone else noticed immediately.

But whenever it came to the members, especially you. His instincts rarely failed him. Something wasn't right, he could feel it. "...If you say so," he murmured at last.

Backstage descended into complete pandemonium as the final countdown approached. The corridors that had seemed relatively calm only moments ago were suddenly overflowing with movement.

Production staff hurried from one end of the venue to the other, clipboards clutched tightly against their chests as they called out last-minute instructions over the deafening noise. Stylists darted between artists with remarkable efficiency, adjusting collars, smoothing wrinkles, reapplying makeup that had begun to fade beneath the relentless stage lights, and carefully securing in-ear monitors so they wouldn't shift during the performance.

Managers moved with equal urgency, repeatedly checking schedules and communicating through crackling headsets. "Three minutes."

"Camera three is ready."

"Pyrotechnics are confirmed."

"Stand by."

Every announcement blended into another until individual voices became impossible to distinguish. Beyond the heavy backstage curtains, the audience was already roaring. Thousands upon thousands of excited fans filled the stadium, their collective cheers reverberating through the walls with enough force to make the floor tremble beneath your feet.

Ordinarily, hearing them would have filled you with anticipation. It was the sound every performer longed for. Today,  It felt overwhelming. Your heartbeat echoed relentlessly inside your ears, drowning out nearly everything else.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It almost seemed louder than the crowd itself.

The fluorescent lighting hanging overhead appeared unusually brilliant, forcing you to squint against its harsh intensity.  Heat spread uncomfortably beneath your skin until it seemed impossible to breathe. Then, without warning a violent chill coursed through your body.

The abrupt contrast made your teeth threaten to chatter, your vision wavered only for the briefest moment. The hallway tilted ever so slightly before righting itself again. Instinctively, your hand shot forward, fingers curling tightly around the edge of a nearby equipment table.

Cold metal pressed against your palm. You inhaled slowly, steady. Just steady.

Don't panic now, not when you had made it this far. One performance, just one. After that, you could collapse into bed and sleep for an entire day if necessary. You only had to hold yourself together for another hour.

"...You look pale." 

The voice startled you from your thoughts. You turned your head, Keonho had somehow materialized beside you without making a sound. He wasn't joking. Instead, his usual playful grin had been replaced by something considerably more concerned.

You forced an easy smile. "I always look pale."

"No."

His answer came almost immediately. He tilted his head slightly, studying your face with surprising concentration. "You look..." His sentence trailed off as though he couldn't quite find the right comparison. His eyebrows gradually pulled together. "...Like you’re about to die."

Despite everything, a quiet laugh escaped you. almost involuntary. "I promise I'm okay."

Keonho didn't return your smile. "You don't sound okay."

"I'm fine."

"You've been saying that all day."

"Because I am."

His eyes narrowed. "You've coughed six times in the last ten minutes."

You blinked. "...I did not."

"I’ve counted."

"I—" A tickle blossomed deep inside your throat. You barely had enough time to turn your head before another cough escaped. then another. You pressed your fist against your mouth, attempting to muffle the sound. It didn't help much.

Silence followed.

Keonho slowly folded his arms across his chest. His expression became almost unbearably smug. "...Seven."

You stared at him.

He lifted a single eyebrow. "Busted."

"...You're actually counting?"

"I started after the third one."

"You seriously have nothing better to do?"

"Apparently not."

You rolled your eyes, grateful that he had shifted the conversation back toward something familiar, even if only briefly.

Before either of you could say another word— "CORTIS!" The stage manager's voice rang throughout the hallway. "Two minutes!"

Instantly, the atmosphere transformed. Casual conversations vanished, the joking stopped, every member instinctively gravitated toward one another until all six of you stood together in a tight circle just beyond the stage entrance.

Martin extended his hand first, without hesitation, everyone stacked theirs on top. James, Juhoon, Keonho, Seonghyeon, then yours.

Martin glanced around the circle, making eye contact with each member before speaking. “Our usual.”

"Don’t forget our lyrics." Seonghyeon added without missing a beat.

"Don’t forget our formation." Keonho dramatically placed a hand over his heart.

"And absolutely no embarrassing fancams" James immediately grinned.

"No injuries." Martin nodded.

James snorted. "That’s hard to get through."

"It isn't."

"It really is."

Seonghyeon pointed directly at Keonho. "He’d probably break a finger.”

A chorus of laughter erupted almost instantly. You laughed too, only for a moment. The sound disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. Your smile faded before anyone else seemed to notice almost. But Martin did. His gaze lingered on you for just a fraction longer than usual.

Long enough to notice how quickly your expression had fallen, long enough to recognize the exhaustion hiding beneath your carefully maintained composure. Concern flickered across his features before he quietly asked, "...Ready?"

You swallowed against the persistent ache in your throat, then nodded. "...Ready."

The stage doors opened, an explosion of brilliant light flooded your vision, the deafening roar of the audience crashed over you like an ocean wave. Thousands, perhaps even tens of thousands. An endless sea of illuminated light sticks stretched across, shimmering beneath the night sky like constellations brought down to earth.

For one breathtaking moment, everything else disappeared. The fever, the dizziness, the aching muscles, the relentless pounding inside your head. Adrenaline surged through your bloodstream with overwhelming intensity, silencing every protest your body had been making throughout the day.

The opening notes echoed through the stadium, your body moved before your mind had the chance to think. Months of repetition took over. Every count, every transition, every formation, every lyric, every expression practiced endlessly inside mirrored rehearsal rooms. Muscle memory carried you effortlessly across the stage.

You danced, each movement appeared just as sharp as it had during rehearsal. You sang, your voice remained remarkably steady despite the burning sensation lingering in your throat. You smiled, bright enough that cameras captured nothing but confidence.

You waved toward every section of the audience, fans screamed your name until their voices became indistinguishable from one another. To everyone watching, you looked perfectly fine. The audience noticed nothing unusual, the broadcast cameras captured flawless angles, the MCs enthusiastically praised the performance from the sidelines.

Not a single person outside the group would have guessed you had woken up with a high fever. Your performance was nearly immaculate, because the people who had spent years standing beside you didn't need obvious signs. They recognized the smallest deviations. 

Halfway through the second song, Seonghyeon caught it first. Your breathing. Usually, your inhalations remained controlled regardless of how demanding the choreography became. His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary before returning to the choreography.

By the beginning of the third chorus, Keonho noticed something different. Normally, during formation changes, you'd instinctively glance toward whichever member happened to be beside you. A quick smile, a playful expression, some tiny interaction reserved for fans paying close attention.

This time, your eyes never left the floor markings. You weren't looking at anyone, you were concentrating entirely on maintaining your balance. On staying upright, mn making sure your legs continued carrying you through each step.

During the final chorus, James happened to catch your hand while the choreography briefly brought you shoulder-to-shoulder, only for a split second.

Martin saw your eyelids flutter noticeably slower than usual, like keeping them open had suddenly become difficult. Then, the cameras shifted toward another member.

Barely noticeable to anyone else, Juhoon saw your hand briefly press against your stomach as you lowered your head, your fingers tightening against the fabric of your outfit for the shortest moment before smoothly returning to your side.

The movement lasted less than two seconds, the cameras missed it, the audience missed it, everyone else missed it. Your members didn't. One by one, the same realization settled over each of them. 

Something was very wrong.

The final note echoed across the stadium. For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though time itself had paused. Then, an explosion of silver and sapphire confetti erupted from above, cascading through the air in shimmering waves that reflected the stadium lights like falling stars.

The audience's cheers swelled into an almost deafening roar. Thousands of voices merged into one overwhelming chorus, chanting the group's name with unwavering enthusiasm. It was impossible to distinguish individual faces anymore. All you could see was a sea of glowing light sticks stretching endlessly into the darkness.

Everything you had worked toward for years stood before you. You forced another brilliant smile, the kind fans expected, the kind cameras loved.

You raised your arm, waving toward every section of the audience despite the growing ache radiating through your shoulders. "Thank you!" Your voice carried through the microphone with practiced warmth. "We had so much fun tonight!"

The members stood shoulder-to-shoulder, bowing deeply toward the crowd one final time. "Thank you for coming!"

More cheers, more applause. Another wave, another smile, another carefully maintained illusion. Every movement demanded far more energy than you had left. Your vision blurred briefly as you straightened from the bow, you blinked until the world sharpened again.

Just a little longer, only a few more steps.

The cameras followed the group as everyone began making their way toward the backstage entrance, continuing to wave until the very last possible second. Your smile never faltered, not once.

The instant you disappeared behind the towering stage curtains, everything collapsed. The overwhelming rush of adrenaline that had carried you through the performance vanished with astonishing speed, abandoning your body all at once.

The exhaustion returned tenfold, your hearing dulled, the voices surrounding you became muffled, as though someone had wrapped thick fabric around your ears, the hallway tilted.

No… It wasn't the hallway, it was you. Your legs suddenly refused to cooperate. Strength drained from your muscles so abruptly that your knees buckled beneath your weight. The floor rushed toward you.

"Whoa!"

Before you could hit the ground, a pair of strong arms caught you securely around the waist. James. His reflexes had acted before his mind even processed what was happening. "What the—"

His voice broke off in alarm as he steadied your unbalanced weight against him. The sudden movement instantly drew everyone's attention.

Martin spun around almost immediately. "What happened?"

Juhoon reacted just as quickly, reaching behind you to unclip your microphone pack before it could crash onto the floor. The expensive equipment barely cleared your body before he set it aside.

Seonghyeon was already kneeling beside you, his usual easygoing expression had vanished entirely.

Keonho hurried over next. For perhaps the first time all day, there wasn't even the slightest trace of humor lingering on his face. His playful demeanor disappeared so completely that it almost startled you. "...Hey." His voice came out quieter than expected.

Your breathing had become irregular, every inhale felt painfully shallow, every exhale trembled despite your efforts to steady it. "I..." You instinctively tried to push yourself upright. "I can..."

The moment you attempted to stand, the entire world lurched violently. Your vision darkened around the edges, the hallway spun in dizzying circles. You instinctively reached for something to stabilize yourself but found only empty air. "...I can't..." Your voice barely rose above a whisper.

James immediately tightened his grip around your shoulders, supporting nearly all of your weight without hesitation. "You don't have to."

"I..." You swallowed against the burning pain in your throat. "I'm okay."

"No." Martin's response arrived instantly. For perhaps the first time that day, there wasn't even a hint of gentleness in his voice. "For once..." He took another step closer. "Stop saying that." Silence settled over the group. "You are not okay."

You lowered your gaze. "I just need..."

The sentence never reached completion. A violent coughing fit seized your chest without warning. You doubled forward instinctively, one hand flying to your mouth as each cough became harsher than the last.

Your lungs burned, your throat felt raw, breathing itself became unexpectedly difficult. The hallway fell silent, completely silent. Even the bustling activity surrounding other artists seemed to fade into the background. 

Juhoon's eyes widened ever so slightly. For anyone else, the change might have gone unnoticed, but the members knew him well enough to recognize that expression. It meant he was genuinely worried.

Seonghyeon slowly reached forward. "...Can I?"

You gave the faintest nod. The back of his hand brushed gently against your forehead. His expression changed immediately. He pulled his hand away as though the heat had startled him. His eyes lifted toward Martin. "...Hyung." His voice came out unusually subdued. "She..." A brief pause. "She’s burning up."

James stared at him. "...What?"

Without waiting for confirmation, he placed his own hand against your forehead. The moment his skin made contact, his eyes widened dramatically. "...Oh my gosh." His voice was barely audible. "You're..." He shook his head in disbelief. "You're absolutely burning."

Martin looked at you, horror gradually settling across his face as realization finally clicked into place. "You have a fever."

You immediately attempted another weak smile. "It isn't that—"

"It is." The interruption came quietly.

Everyone turned toward Juhoon, he rarely interrupted people. When he did, it usually mattered. His calm voice remained remarkably even. Yet beneath that familiar composure lingered unmistakable certainty. "You've had one all day."

Your eyes slowly found his. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, almost hesitantly. "...You knew?"

Juhoon nodded once. "I wasn't completely certain." His gaze remained steady. "But..." He exhaled softly. "I suspected."

Pieces of the day suddenly replayed inside your mind. The lingering glance in the dressing room. The questions. The way he had continued watching you during rehearsal. He hadn't been imagining things, he had noticed.

"You still performed." His voice softened further. "...Why?"

The question pierced far deeper than you expected. Your gaze drifted toward the floor. You searched for an answer that sounded reasonable, one that justified everything. "I..." Your fingers tightened weakly around the sleeve of your hoodie. "I didn't want to disappoint anyone."

Nobody answered. The silence that followed felt infinitely heavier than any response could have been. Then–

Flick.

"...Ow." Your forehead stung.

You instinctively looked up. Keonho stood directly in front of you, his hand still half-raised from flicking your forehead. Normally, his expression after doing something like that would've been mischievous, teasing, accompanied by an insufferably proud grin.

Instead, he looked devastated. His eyes shimmered with frustration. He looked hurt. "...You idiot." The words were quiet, almost fragile.

You blinked. "I..."

"You seriously thought..." He stopped himself, taking a slow breath before speaking again. "You thought we'd rather watch you collapse after the performance than know you were sick?"

Your lips parted. "I just didn't want—"

"You should've told us."

For the first time since any of you had met him, his voice cracked. 

"We're a team." He swallowed. "If one person's hurting… We will deal with it together." He gestured toward the rest of the members. "You don't have to carry everything by yourself."

Your chest tightened, the exhaustion, the fever, the overwhelming relief of finally no longer pretending… Everything crashed into you simultaneously, your vision blurred, not from dizziness this time, your eyes burned. "...I didn't want everyone worrying."

A small, bittersweet smile appeared on Seonghyeon's face. He crouched beside you again, his voice impossibly gentle. "...Too late."

James gave a tiny nod. Martin folded his arms, though the sternness on his face had softened into quiet concern. Even Juhoon's usually unreadable expression carried unmistakable relief that the truth had finally come out.

Seonghyeon reached over, lightly squeezing your shoulder. "We've been worried all day."

James let out a quiet sigh. "You just didn't let us help."

Martin shook his head. "You've spent the entire day protecting everyone else's feelings." His gaze met yours. "...Now it's our turn to take care of you."

The moment your manager understood the severity of the situation, every remaining commitment on the day's itinerary was abandoned without hesitation. There was no discussion, no negotiation, no insistence that you could simply "push through it."

The decision was immediate. "Cancel everything." His voice carried a level of authority that silenced the room almost instantly. "The post-performance interviews are off." He turned toward another staff member. "Notify the broadcasting team."

Another nod.

"The radio recording scheduled for tonight?"

"Canceled."

"The behind-the-scenes content?"

"Canceled."

"The promotional livestream?"

"Canceled."

Every obligation that had once seemed impossible to postpone disappeared from the schedule within minutes. Phones rang continuously throughout the backstage hallway as managers hurried to contact organizers, publicists, and production teams. Apologies were exchanged, rescheduling discussions began, none of it mattered to you anymore. The only priority left was getting you back to the hotel.

The journey there felt strangely subdued. Ordinarily, the van would have been filled with excited chatter after a successful performance. James would enthusiastically replay clips from the stage, insisting everyone watch his favorite moments. Keonho would dramatically complain about some microscopic mistake that nobody else had even noticed. Martin would pretend not to laugh before inevitably joining the conversation. Seonghyeon would tease everyone until the entire vehicle dissolved into another round of laughter. Even Juhoon, despite his naturally reserved personality, usually smiled quietly while listening to everyone else.

Tonight, none of that happened. The silence settled gently over the van, the kind of silence born from shared concern. Rain hadn't begun to fall outside, but the city lights still reflected softly across the windows as the vehicle navigated through evening traffic. Streetlights streaked past in blurred ribbons of gold and white.

You rested against the seat, every ounce of energy seemingly drained from your body. The adrenaline that had sustained you throughout the performance had disappeared entirely, leaving nothing behind except overwhelming fatigue. Even keeping your eyes open demands effort.

James occupied the seat directly beside you, he hadn't said much since leaving the venue. Instead, his attention remained fixed almost entirely on you. Every time the van rolled over uneven pavement or turned too sharply around a corner, he instinctively reached out before you had the chance to lose your balance.

When the driver slowed suddenly at a traffic light, your body tipped slightly forward. James immediately steadied you with a gentle hand against your shoulder. "You okay?" His voice barely rose above a whisper, as though speaking too loudly might somehow make your headache worse.

You gave the smallest nod. "...Mhm."

He wasn't convinced again. But unlike earlier, he didn't argue. He simply kept his hand resting nearby, prepared to catch you again if necessary.

Several minutes passed before Juhoon quietly leaned forward from the seat behind you. Without saying anything at first, he unscrewed the cap of a water bottle he'd been holding before extending it toward you.

"You need this." His voice remained calm, gentle, almost soothing.

You slowly accepted it. "...Thanks."

Your throat still burned every time you swallowed, but the cool water offered a fleeting moment of relief. Not enough to make you feel better, just enough to make breathing hurt a little less.

Juhoon waited until you had taken several careful sips before speaking again. "Drink slowly."

You nodded obediently.

He didn't add anything further, he simply settled back into his seat, satisfied that you were at least staying hydrated.

A few minutes later, another shiver unexpectedly coursed through your body. It arrived without warning. One moment, your skin felt unbearably warm. The next, an icy chill wrapped itself around you so intensely your shoulders instinctively curled inward. You rubbed your arms through the fabric of your hoodie, hoping the sensation would pass. It didn't.

Martin noticed almost immediately. From the opposite side of the van, his eyes lifted from the schedule displayed on his tablet. "You cold?"

You hesitated, then quietly nodded. "...A little."

Without another word, Martin reached toward the air conditioning controls mounted above the seats. The steady stream of cool air gradually weakened before disappearing altogether. The warmth inside the vehicle slowly returned. Still, you continued shivering.

Martin watched for another moment. Then, with characteristic practicality, he pulled the oversized hoodie he had been wearing over his head. "You'll be warmer in this."

Before you could protest, he carefully draped it across your shoulders. The soft fabric settled comfortably around you, noticeably larger than your own sweatshirt. It retained the lingering warmth from where he'd been wearing it only moments earlier. A faint scent of fresh laundry detergent clung to the material, accompanied by traces of the subtle cologne he always wore. The familiar fragrance surrounded you almost immediately.

You instinctively pulled the sleeves closer around yourself. "...Thank you."

Martin simply nodded once."No problem."

Across the aisle, Keonho appeared completely absorbed in his phone. At least, that was the image he attempted to maintain. His thumb lazily scrolled through social media, occasionally tapping at the screen with exaggerated nonchalance. Anyone glancing over would have assumed he was far too distracted to notice anything happening around him.

Except, every thirty seconds, almost precisely every thirty seconds, his eyes drifted upward. Just for a moment, long enough to check whether your eyes remained open. Whether your breathing still looked steady, whether you seemed any worse than before.

The instant he confirmed you were still conscious, he'd immediately lower his gaze back to the screen as though nothing had happened. Then another half minute would pass, and he'd do it again. It became so predictable that James eventually noticed. Without turning his head, he quietly muttered, "...You're checking on her."

Keonho's eyes remained fixed on his phone. "No, I'm not."

"You've looked up six times."

"I have not."

"Seven."

"...You're counting?"

James shrugged. "I started after the third one."

For the briefest moment, Keonho looked genuinely offended.

Then he sighed, locking his phone without another attempt to deny it. "...Fine."

His voice was barely audible. "I just..." He glanced toward you one more time. "...I wanted to make sure she didn't pass out."

The confession lingered in the quiet van. No one laughed, no one teased him for caring. Because the truth was, every single person inside that vehicle had been doing exactly the same thing. Some were simply less obvious about it than others.

By the time the van finally pulled beneath the hotel's covered entrance, the exhaustion weighing upon your body had become almost unbearable. The journey itself hadn't been particularly long, but every passing minute seemed to magnify the fever's relentless grip.

Your muscles felt impossibly heavy, as though every movement required far more strength than your body could offer. Even lifting your head from the seat demanded a level of concentration that should never have been necessary.

The vehicle rolled to a gentle stop. Outside, the hotel entrance glowed beneath elegant chandeliers, their warm golden light spilling across the polished stone driveway.

The manager climbed out first, exchanging a few hurried words with the staff waiting near the entrance before opening the sliding door. "We're here."

One by one, everyone stepped onto the pavement. James turned toward you almost immediately. "Easy."

He extended a hand without hesitation. You accepted it, allowing him to help you out of the van. The instant your feet touched the ground… Your knees nearly buckled again. The solid pavement beneath you felt strangely unsteady. Your vision swayed, you instinctively reached toward the side of the van for support.

"...I'm fine."

James caught your elbow before you lost your balance. "You don't look fine."

You forced yourself upright, taking a slow breath. "I can walk."

"No." His answer arrived so quickly that you almost laughed. "...Seriously."

"I can."

"No." James folded his arms. His expression carried the unmistakable stubbornness everyone in the group recognized immediately. Normally, the two of you would have turned this into a playful argument. Tonight, there wasn't anything playful about it.

"I've walked farther than this before."

"No."

"It's literally only the lobby."

"No."

"I—" Before another protest could leave your lips, someone quietly stepped in front of you. You looked up.

Seonghyeon. 

Without saying another word, he turned around and lowered himself into a crouch directly in front of you. "...Get on."

You blinked. "...What?"

He glanced over one shoulder. "Piggyback."

The suggestion caught you completely off guard. "...Absolutely not."

"Why not?"

"I'll crush you."

Seonghyeon slowly turned back toward you, looking so dramatically offended that even Martin let out the faintest sigh. "...Excuse me?"

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

"You've seen me."

"I have."

"I'm not exactly light."

He placed a thoughtful hand beneath his chin, pretending to contemplate the matter with exaggerated seriousness. "Hmm..." Everyone waited, after several unnecessarily dramatic seconds, he finally nodded to  ."You weigh..." Another pause. "...Approximately..." He squinted as though performing complex calculations. "...Two pillows."

Silence. Then, a weak laugh escaped you before you could stop it. "...Two pillows?"

"Mhm."

"I don't think you've ever picked up a pillow."

"I've picked up plenty."

"Clearly not."

"They're notoriously heavy."

James snorted. 

Martin pinched the bridge of his nose.

Keonho muttered, "That's the worst comparison you've ever made."

"I disagree." Seonghyeon looked back at you again, smiling far more gently this time. "I'm serious."

"So am I."

"I don't want to inconvenience you."

"You won't."

"I can manage."

"You've been saying that all day."

The words weren't harsh, just quietly honest. He shifted slightly, still crouched in front of you. "...Come on."

You hesitated.

He smiled. "You've carried me emotionally for years."

You blinked. "What?"

"You listen every time I complain." He began counting on his fingers. "You've stayed awake helping me memorize lyrics, covered for me when I overslept, talked me through panic before concerts, and convinced me I wasn't completely hopeless after that awful audition." A small grin tugged at his lips. "I think..." He glanced back over his shoulder. "I can return the favor."

Your eyes softened. "You don't have to."

"I know." His voice remained impossibly warm. "I want to."

A brief silence settled between the two of you. Then he added with a quiet chuckle, "I can carry you physically for five minutes."

The remark earned a chorus of amused laughter, and despite the pounding in your head, you laughed, only softly for a moment. But this time, it felt genuine. "...Fine."

Seonghyeon's smile brightened immediately. "I knew you'd say yes."

"I didn't."

"You were going to."

"I really wasn't."

"You absolutely were." With one last sigh of surrender, you carefully leaned forward. Your arms settled loosely around his shoulders while he reached behind to secure your legs.

"...Ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

Without the slightest indication of strain, Seonghyeon stood smoothly to his full height. The movement was so effortless that you blinked in surprise. "...See?" He adjusted his grip slightly. "Told you."

"You weren't kidding."

"I rarely kid."

Every member stared at him, James raised an eyebrow. "That's the biggest lie you've told all year."

"...Okay."

Seonghyeon laughed. "I occasionally kid."

"You've been making jokes for the last ten minutes," Martin pointed out.

"Details."

The group began making their way toward the hotel entrance together. The revolving glass doors turned quietly as staff respectfully greeted everyone upon entering.

Throughout the entire walk, Keonho remained close, very close. He positioned himself beside Seonghyeon without anyone asking him to. His pace matched theirs perfectly. Every few steps, his gaze instinctively drifted toward you. Checking your expression, watching your breathing, making sure your eyes stayed open.

At one point, when Seonghyeon stepped down from a curb leading toward the lobby entrance, Keonho's hand instinctively lifted. It hovered only inches beneath your leg. Not touching, simply waiting. Ready to catch you if your balance shifts. The moment the step was over, he lowered it again as though nothing had happened.

Several minutes later, another uneven section of flooring again, and his hand rose again. Almost unconscious in its timing. He never acknowledged it, never said a word, never drew attention to what he was doing.

But the others noticed, James noticed, Martin noticed, Juhoon noticed, even Seonghyeon felt it every time Keonho instinctively moved closer whenever your weight shifted unexpectedly. No one teased him, no one pointed it out, because they all understood. For all of Keonho's endless jokes, dramatic complaints, and playful antics, when someone he cared about was hurting. His concern always revealed itself in the quietest ways.

The moment the hotel room door clicked shut behind the six of you, the atmosphere shifted completely. The bright stage lights, the roaring audience, the cameras, the endless expectations. All of it remained outside. Within the quiet sanctuary of the room, there were no performers. No carefully rehearsed smiles, no need to convince anyone that you were perfectly fine.

There were only six exhausted people who had spent years becoming one another's family, and at that particular moment. Five of them shared the exact same objective, making sure you recovered.

As expected, Martin assumed responsibility before anyone else even had the opportunity to speak. He didn't hesitate, didn't ask for opinions. He simply assessed the situation with the same composed efficiency that had earned him the unofficial title of the group's dependable leader years ago.

His eyes swept across the room once, then he began issuing instructions. "James." James looked up immediately. "Medicine."

"Got it."

Without another word, he disappeared toward the kitchenette, already rummaging through the medical supplies the company insisted every group carried during schedules.

"Juhoon." Juhoon had already retrieved an empty glass from one of the cabinets. "Water."

He gave a quiet nod. "I'm already filling it."

Martin wasn't surprised, of course he was. Juhoon always anticipated what people needed before they asked.

"Keonho." Keonho straightened from where he'd been helping you remove your shoes. "Blankets."

"I'm on it." He vanished into the bedroom, returning moments later with far more blankets than anyone had actually requested.

James stared. "...Planning to mummify her?"

"You can never have too many blankets."

"I think four qualifies."

"She’s cold."

"She’s also running a fever."

"Exactly."

James blinked. "...I don't think that's how fevers work."

"I wasn't a science major."

"You weren't any major."

"...Rude." Despite the exchange, Keonho still carefully draped every blanket over you with surprising gentleness.

Martin almost smiled. "Seonghyeon." He was already opening one of the drawers. "Temperature."

"I've got the thermometer."

Within only a few minutes, the once ordinary hotel room had undergone a remarkable transformation. Water bottles lined the bedside table. Medicine rested neatly beside them. Extra pillows appeared from somewhere. Blankets were layered carefully around your shoulders. A small trash bin had even been moved closer to the bed.

It looked less like a hotel room now, and more like a miniature recovery station assembled entirely through quiet teamwork.

You sat propped against the headboard, cocooned beneath multiple oversized blankets until only your face remained visible. "I can't move."

Keonho looked entirely satisfied. "Good."

"I've become a burrito."

James returned first, carrying a small packet of medication. "Here." He carefully placed the tablets into your palm. "Medicine."

Almost simultaneously, Juhoon approached with a steaming mug. "Warm water." He offered it toward you. "Drink slowly."

The warmth seeped pleasantly into your chilled fingers as you wrapped both hands around the mug. "...Thank you."

Before you could take the medicine, Martin reached over. "Wait." He picked up the instruction leaflet again.

James blinked. "You already read it."

"I'm reading it again."

"You've read it twice."

Martin ignored him. He carefully scanned every line one final time. Dosage, side effects, time intervals. Satisfied, he finally nodded. "Okay." He handed the tablets back. "Nothing crazy."

You sighed dramatically. "...You’re being paranoid now."

"I've had to be." He folded his arms. "You become impossible to handle when you're sick."

Your eyebrows immediately lifted. "I do not."

"You do."

"When?"

Martin gave you an incredulous look. "You spent the entire day insisting you were perfectly healthy."

"I managed."

"You nearly collapsed."

"I stayed standing until the performance ended."

"Barely."

"I still succeeded."

James raised a hand. "Objection."

"Denied."

"You can't deny your own objection."

"I just did."

Martin looked at you with complete seriousness. "You literally attempted to convince five people you weren't sick."

You opened your mouth, nothing came out.

A soft electronic beep interrupted the conversation. Seonghyeon lowered the thermometer, his cheerful expression fading almost immediately as he looked at the display. The room fell noticeably quieter.

"...Thirty-nine point two."

Silence, complete silence. Even James stopped smiling. 

Martin slowly looked up. "...What?"

Seonghyeon silently turned the thermometer around. Martin stared, then rubbed a tired hand across his face. "...That's over a hundred and two."

James looked horrified. "You had that kind of fever?"

Across the bed, Keonho slowly turned toward you. His eyes widened in complete disbelief. "...You seriously danced an entire festival like this?"

You shrank slightly beneath the blankets. "...Maybe."

"Maybe?" He stared another second. Then dramatically dropped backward onto the mattress with an exaggerated groan. "You stress me out."

"I didn't mean to."

"I know." He sighed deeply, running both hands through his hair, his expression softened almost immediately afterward. "...That's what makes it worse."

Without another word, he shifted closer. Then gently rested his head against your shoulder. He simply leaned there, saying absolutely nothing. His quiet presence somehow communicated far more than words ever could.

You didn't move away, a few peaceful seconds passed. Then the mattress dipped again. "...Scoot over." You turned.

Seonghyeon had decided there was apparently enough room for one more person. He settled beside your opposite shoulder, carefully making sure not to jostle you too much. Now, you were sandwiched between them.

James immediately laughed. "...You're literally making her into a sandwich."

"It’s okay." Seonghyeon looked entirely pleased with himself. "The safest place."

"You two have absolutely no understanding of personal space." Martin shook his head, though there wasn't any real irritation behind the words.

James pointed toward him. "You say that..."

Everyone looked over. Martin had unconsciously begun tucking one corner of the blanket more securely around your shoulder after it slipped. He froze.

James grinned wider. "You're literally fixing her blanket."

Martin looked down, then quietly adjusted it anyway. "...Shut up."

Laughter instantly filled the room. Martin couldn't suppress the reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The warmth of that shared laughter settled softly throughout the room, wrapping around all of you as comfortably as the blankets piled across the bed. The kind of laughter that only existed between people who had known one another long enough to understand every habit, every expression, and every unspoken thought.

As you listened to them teasing each other over absolutely nothing, a realization settled gently inside your chest. Home, had never been defined by walls, home had always been this. James stealing everyone else's snacks before pretending he had no idea where they'd gone. Martin sighing dramatically every time someone ignored the schedule he'd painstakingly organized. Keonho borrowing hoodies without permission and somehow insisting they had belonged to him all along. Seonghyeon finding excuses to make everyone laugh, even during the most exhausting days. Juhoon quietly noticing the smallest details everyone else overlooked.

They argued constantly, they stole each other's clothes, they complained, they bickered over food, they teased one another without mercy. Yet the instant one person was hurting, every joke disappeared, every complaint became insignificant, every ounce of their attention shifted toward protecting the person who needed it.

You slowly looked around the room.

James sat cross-legged on the floor, rereading the medication instructions for what had to be the third—or perhaps fourth—time, muttering quietly under his breath to ensure he hadn't overlooked anything.

Juhoon sat at the small dining table, carefully peeling an orange into perfectly even slices. He remembered that fruit was one of the few things you could usually manage when you were sick, and without mentioning it aloud, he arranged the pieces neatly onto a plate.

Martin remained by the window, sending message after message to the company's staff, reorganizing tomorrow's schedule so you could rest without worrying about upcoming commitments.

Keonho, despite insisting he wasn't doing anything, absentmindedly reached over every few minutes whenever one of the blankets slipped from your shoulder, quietly pulling it back into place before pretending he hadn't noticed.

Beside you, Seonghyeon hummed softly beneath his breath, no particular song, just a gentle melody. His shoulder rested lightly against yours, close enough that the quiet contact reminded you someone was there. Someone wasn't going anywhere.

A smile slowly found its way onto your face. "...Thank you."

The room immediately became still. Five heads turned toward you almost simultaneously. James tilted his head. "...For what?"

You looked at each of them, then quietly answered, "For... everything."

James smiled first. "You would've done exactly the same." A pause. Then he laughed softly. "You have done exactly the same."

Martin nodded in agreement. "When I completely lost my voice before promotions..." He looked at you. "You stayed awake the entire night making ginger tea because you kept saying it might help."

Keonho immediately pointed toward himself. "When I sprained my ankle. You carried my backpack for almost two weeks, and you refused to let me carry anything heavier than a water bottle."

Juhoon spoke next, his voice as quiet as ever. "The night before debut..." He met your eyes. "I couldn't sleep. You stayed awake with me until sunrise. You didn't even try convincing me everything would magically be okay. You just..." He smiled faintly. "Sat beside me." The memory lingered between you.

Seonghyeon gently nudged your shoulder. "So..." His smile was impossibly soft. "It's our turn." The words settled somewhere deep inside your heart. Your vision blurred again, emotion tightened painfully inside your chest.

Outside the hotel, the city remained alive with celebration. Fans still filled the streets after the festival, laughing excitedly as they replayed videos from the concert and shared their favorite moments from the night.

Inside your room, the world felt entirely different. Soft lamplight bathed the room in a warm golden glow. Blankets were scattered everywhere. Empty mugs rested across the coffee table.

The conversation drifted effortlessly from ridiculous childhood stories to embarrassing rehearsal memories, from arguments over whose turn it was to order dinner tomorrow to complaints about James' habit of leaving phone chargers everywhere except where he needed them.

The hours slipped quietly by. Gradually, your eyelids grew heavier. The medicine began taking effect. Your breathing finally slowed into a steadier rhythm. Words became harder to follow. Voices blurred into something gentle and distant.

Just before sleep completely claimed you, you felt careful fingers brushing several loose strands of hair away from your forehead. Someone was checking your temperature again. The touch was impossibly gentle, as though they were afraid even the slightest movement might wake you.

A moment later, another pair of hands carefully pulled the blanket a little higher beneath your chin, making certain no cold air could reach you.

"...Sleep well." Seonghyeon's voice was barely above a whisper.

Then another voice followed, carrying the faint smile you couldn't see but somehow heard anyway. "We've got you."

Keonho, the words settled around you like another blanket.