It was Mina who finally said the thing.

Of course it was Mina -she had the patience to wait until the moment was right and the precision to choose her words without excess, which meant that when she spoke it had the particular weight of something that had been considered thoroughly before being released.

It was a Sunday. Rare day off, or close to one- no company schedule, just a morning of your own before the final week of pre-release preparation began.

“It was the right thing,” you told her when she asked about the whole situation, less like a position being defended and more like something being confirmed to yourself. “I don’t regret it.”

“My body just-” you stopped. Started again. “I’ve been feeling off. You know that. And the doctor said the bloodwork is clean, so it’s just-” you shook your head. “Stress. The comeback. The schedule.”

Mina looked at you across the table, her coffee cup held in both hands in the unconscious mirror of yours, and her expression was so specifically careful- so precisely calibrated to the exact amount of honesty you could currently tolerate - that you understood she’d decided what she was about to say some time ago and had simply been waiting for the right Sunday morning.

“Your body,” she said, gently, “has been trying to tell you something for six weeks.”

“Mina.”

“I’m not saying it to make you feel bad,” she explained. “I’m saying it because you’re the most self-aware person I know in every direction except this one. You analyze everything. You see everything. And this-” she held your gaze, “-you’re looking directly at it and calling it stress.”

“It is stress.”

“Yes,” she said. “It is. And what’s causing the stress?”

The silence that followed had a specific texture -5he kind that existed when the answer was present and both people knew it but one of them wasn’t ready to say it out loud yet.

“The comeback,” you said.

Mina’s expression didn’t change. She didn’t push. She simply held the quiet with you, patient and immovable, and let the silence do what silences do when they’re given enough room -expand, and fill, and eventually reveal the shape of what was living in them.

The bathroom door opened. Hye-ri emerged in a cloud of steam and sheet mask, took one look at the kitchen table, and reversed direction with the swift social intelligence of someone who understood immediately that she had walked into a conversation that was not finished.

“I was never here,” she said, disappearing back down the hallway. “But I love you guys ! Fighting !”

The Sunday light moved across the table as you sketched out a small laugh. Your coffee was getting cold.

“I miss him,” you said. Very quietly. To your coffee cup, more than to Mina. The first time the words had existed outside your own head, and they sounded, out in the air, smaller than you’d expected and larger than you could manage simultaneously. “Which is stupid. I made the right call and I know I made the right call and I still-”

“It’s not stupid,” Mina said.

“It’s so counterproductive.”

“Those aren’t the same thing.”

“I don’t wanna miss him,” you said, and heard the specific texture of your own voice saying it -the distinction that mattered, the difference between what was true and what you wanted to be true, the gap between them that you’d been living in for six weeks and calling by other names. “I want to be fine. I am fine. In every way that counts I made the right-”

“You can make the right decision,” Mina said softly, “and still grieve it.”

You performed the showcase the way you performed everything -completely and precisely.

The formation issues were resolved. The bridge transition was clean. Your body knew the choreography the way it knew breathing, and so it did what it did, and the lights were bright and the crowd was loud and for the duration of the set you were exactly and only what you were on stage -present, professional, the dance machine, all of it.

Afterward, in the wings, you bent forward with your hands on your knees and breathed.

Hye-ri appeared beside you, still coming off stage herself, and put a hand briefly on your back. Said nothing. You straightened after a moment and smiled and it was real, because the performance high was real, because whatever else was happening in the background of your body -the stage still gave you the thing it had always given you -that clean, temporary, complete aliveness that nothing else quite replicated.

One more week, you told yourself. Get through the release week. Then you can be a person again.

You’d negotiated.

Release week was seven days -press appearances, music show performances, fan engagements, content shoots. Seven days of concentrated, high-visibility, high-demand activity that you had obligations to your members and your company and three years of work to see through.

Seven days.

You could manage seven days.

Your body, which had been listening to these negotiations with the patient skepticism of an entity that had been ignored for six weeks and was running low on goodwill, received this latest proposal in silence.

Release week arrived with the particular atmospheric pressure of something that had been building for months.

Monday was three back-to-back press interviews, a photo shoot for a digital magazine spread, and an evening fan live that ran an hour over schedule because the fans were in the specific mood of people who had been waiting for new music and were vibrating with it their energy coming through the screen with a warmth that you found genuinely moving even through the low-grade nausea that had showed up mid-afternoon.

You ate small amounts between schedules, drank water constantly, kept the antinausea prescription in your bag and used it twice on Monday and told no one.

Tuesday was the first music show performance.

You were in hair and makeup at five-thirty am, which meant your alarm had gone off at four forty-five, which meant you had woken at three am and not gone back to sleep, which was becoming its own subsidiary pattern that you were also not examining.

Ji-eun worked in focused silence, reading your tiredness in the particular way she had, and when she got to the outer corner of your right eye she paused for a fraction of a second.

“The lash is gonna be a pain,” she said.

“When has it ever not been,” you deadpanned.

She worked around it carefully, the way she always did, and the lash did what it always did- curled upward like a small rebellion, refusing to be corrected, the single detail that never quite cooperated regardless of technique or product or effort.

You looked at it in the mirror.

Did not think about the person who would have noticed it from forty feet away and said nothing and noticed it anyway.

Did not think about that. Definitely not.

“You look beautiful,” Ji-eun said, setting down her brush with the quiet satisfaction.

You looked at yourself in the mirror. The full construction of you -flawless and deliberate, the armor fully assembled, every surface of the public self precisely rendered. You looked exactly like what you were supposed to look like.

You looked, from the outside, completely fine.

“Thanks,” you said with a genuine smile, grateful in a way.

The performance on Tuesday was good.

Wednesday’s was better.

Thursday’s -the third music show, the one with the largest live audience component, the one that mattered most in terms of chart impact-Thursday’s was when it happened.

It happened the way most real things happened -inconveniently, incompletely, without regard for timing or audience or the seven cameras currently pointed at the stage.

You were in the second verse when you became aware of your body in a way that was distinct from the usual performance awareness -not the productive, kinetic consciousness of a dancer in the middle of choreography, but something else. Something underneath.

A quality of physical information arriving from a direction you’d been ignoring for weeks, insistent and escalating, like a notification you’d been swiping away finally demanding to be read.

You kept dancing.

You kept dancing because that was what you did, that was the thing you’d built your entire professional identity around -the capacity to keep going, to absorb and continue, to be present in your body as an instrument of the music regardless of what your body was privately communicating.

You made it to the end of the second chorus.

In the formation change before the bridge - James crossed your mind- or rather his eyes.

Your vision went briefly strange. Not dark exactly. More like the quality of the light changed, the stage brightness doing something it shouldn’t, the edges of your visual field making a decision you hadn’t authorized.

You corrected. Automatically, physically, the muscle memory doing its job while the rest of you registered what was happening with a calm that was less composure and more dissociation.

Hye-ri was two counts to your left. She caught the correction -you knew she did because you knew her, knew the micro-adjustment in her peripheral focus that meant she’d seen something. She held her formation. Kept going. Trusting you.

You got through the bridge.

And got through the final chorus.

You were in the last eight counts -the outro formation, stationary, the lights shifting to the end configuration- when your body made its final and non-negotiable statement on the subject of six weeks of negotiation.

You folded.

Not collapsed -not the dramatic buckle that the cameras would have made something of. A fold. A sitting down, essentially, your knees making contact with the stage floor in the last two counts of the song, graceful enough in the moment that two seconds passed before anyone in the audience understood it wasn’t choreography.

Hye-ri was beside you before the music stopped.

The next few hours had the quality of something experienced through broken glass.

The backstage area. The company doctor who had been on site for the broadcast. The cold pack at the back of your neck. Soeun’s face, the sleepiness entirely absent, replaced by something wide-eyed and young that you registered and felt guilty about in the dim practical way of someone running low on processing capacity.

Mina’s voice on the phone somewhere nearby, calm and authoritative, the big-sister register fully activated. Your manager’s face doing the thing it did when it was holding several difficult things simultaneously and not allowing any of them to surface.

“I’m fine,” you said, twice. Then stopped saying it, because even by your standards the evidence against it was fairly compelling at this point.

Dr. Yeon arrived. She’d been called while you were still on stage, apparently -someone had made that call in real time, which meant someone had been watching closely enough to see it coming.

She didn’t say I told you so, because she was a professional and a decent person. But she looked at you with the expression of someone who had said the relevant things two weeks ago and was now simply proceeding with the next appropriate steps.

“Hospital,” she said. Not a question.

“The schedule-” you started.

“Hospital,” she repeated, firmly

You looked at Mina.

Her eyes were very steady and very bright and she was holding herself with controlled stillness.

“Okay,” you said.

Mina took your hand and you let her.

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ 눈,코,입(Eyes, Nose, Lips) - Taeyang ♫♬♪

The hospital room was quiet -a manufactured quiet, the absence of noise rather than the presence of peace, the hum of equipment filling the silence where silence would otherwise have lived.

The lighting was the kind that made everyone look like they needed to be in a hospital, which you supposed was appropriate given that you were, in fact, in a hospital, a fact that still carried a faint quality of unreality even as you lay in the bed with the IV line in your arm and the monitors doing their steady work.

Dehydration, primarily. That was the immediate clinical language for it.

Significant enough to require intravenous correction, combined with the weight loss and the disrupted sleep and the sustained nausea, presenting as a body that had been running on insufficient resources for an extended period and had reached the end of its reserves.

Not dangerous in the acute, alarming sense.

But real nonetheless, th kind of real that required a building and a bed and a machine tracking your fluid intake.

Your members were in the waiting area. Your manager was on the phone. The company’s PR team was, presumably, having a series of conversations that you’d deal with later, when you were in a position to deal with anything that wasn’t the IV line and the quiet room and the odd lightness of finally having been stopped.

You stared at the ceiling.

It was smooth. No cracks. No interesting imperfections. Nothing to read.

You thought: this is what I did.

Not accusatory. Not self-punishing. Just factual, in the way that things became when you ran out of energy to frame them otherwise.

This was what six weeks of not reading the thing had looked like, accumulated. This was the story your body had been writing while you called it stress and schedule and bibimbap and mild iron deficiency and all the other names that were true in the peripheral way and false in the central one.

The central one sat in the quiet hospital room with you.

You’d been grieving. You’d been missing an essential piece of you, while rehearsing and performing and doing press interviews.

Here you were.

Thinking that 3 years were easy to forget just like that.

And somewhere in the building with the practice rooms and the corner canteen table and the tape on the booking boards that no longer had your initials on it -James was, presumably, living his life. Existing in the spaces you’d removed yourself from.

You wondered if he’d already found someone else with wild lashes to point out. Wondered if he was noticing someone else’s weird traits-

The thought arrived without armor, which was the hospital room’s contribution in your defense.

You missed him.

Not the fights, exactly. Not the pattern, which had been the right thing to end and remained the right thing to have ended.

The specific him. The particular person underneath all of it.

The one who had said it’s not nothing in the dark with the armor completely down, then had made sure you know it had been, indeed, nothing.

James found out the way he found out most things he wasn’t supposed to know yet -too early, too suddenly, with no adequate preparation and no one to blame for the lack of it.

It was Keonho’s phone. They were in the dorm living room, the five of them -James on the floor with his back against the couch, Keonho on the couch itself, Martin in the kitchen doing something that involved more cabinet opening than was strictly necessary for whatever he claimed to be making.

A mug cake of some sort.

Keonho’s phone lit up. Then lit up again. Then produced the specific rapid-fire notification pattern of something spreading quickly.

“What,” Keonho said. Not a question -the flat observational what of someone reading something that was outpacing their ability to process it.

James didn’t look up from his own phone. “What.”

“There’s a- hang on.” his voice had shifted into the careful register of someone managing, which was the register that made James look up.

Keonho was watching something. His face had done the thing faces did when they received weird news.

“Keonho dude,” James said.

Keonho turned his phone around.

The video was forty-three seconds long.

It had been filmed from the audience -mid -distance, slightly angled, the kind of footage that existed in the age of everyone having a camera in their pocket and no one quite being able to stop themselves from pointing it at things.

The quality was decent.

Clear enough to see the full choreography of the outro formation. Clear enough to see the lights shifting to their end configuration. Clear enough to see, in the last two counts of the song, the moment your knees made contact with the stage floor.

James watched it once.

Then he took the phone from Keonho’s hand and watched it again, and the second time he watched it with focused attention of someone who knew the person on the screen in a way that the forty thousand people in that venue did not.

He handed the phone back without speaking.

Martin had appeared in the kitchen doorway at some point during the second viewing. The cabinet sounds had stopped. The three of them sat in the living room with the television still running its indifferent programming and the notification sounds still coming from Keonho’s phone, muffled now against the cushion where he’d placed it face-down.

“She okay?” Martin asked.

James said nothing.

He was looking at his own phone. His contacts. The entry that was no longer there -removed not by him but by the one-sided erasure that he’d understood immediately.

No error message, no bounce-back. Just the specific quality of a door that had been locked from the inside.

He’d counted the days. Not deliberately.

Twenty-three days since the last time your name had been accessible in his phone. Since the last time he could have said something if he’d had something adequate to say, which he hadn’t, which was its own separate problem.

“James,” Keonho said. Quiet. Not pushing.

“I saw it,” James said.

“Dude... How you feeling ?”

“I’m fine, why wouldn’t i be?”

Neither Keonho nor Martin said anything to that, which was the correct response.

He stood up. “I’m going to the studio.”

“It’s eleven bro,” Martin said.

“I know what time it is.”

He got his jacket from his room, his headphones, the specific small kit of things he brought when he went to the studio late -which was not infrequently.

It had become somewhat more frequent in the last months, which he was also not examining.

He passed back through the living room. His members were both looking at him with wide eyes.

At the door he stopped, and didn’t turn around.

“She’ll be fine,” he said. To the door, more than to them. “It’s not that bad.”

The walk was cold. October doing its thing, the air sharp the city running its quieter late-night version of itself. He walked with his headphones around his neck instead of on, which he didn’t notice until he was already at the building entrance.

He took the elevator to four, sat down at the board in the smaller suite, and opened a blank session.

For a few minutes he just sat there.

He was thinking about a morning six months ago, You’d been in his bed, after what he categorized as the best sex of his life.

It had started lazy and deep. You’d straddled him without a word, knees bracketing his hips, sinking down onto him inch by inch until he was buried completely inside you. No rush. Just that tight, wet heat gripping him as you rolled your hips in long, luxurious strokes. Your palms pressed flat against his chest, thumbs brushing over his nipples while you watched his face like you were studying every flicker of pleasure.

He remembered the way your breath hitched when he sat up to meet you, wrapping one arm around your back and pulling you closer so your breasts pressed against him. Skin on skin. Sweat already starting to slick between you. He’d taken one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking gently, then harder when you moaned and clenched around his cock. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging just hard enough to make his scalp sting in the best way.

At some point the pace changed. He flipped you onto your back, spreading your legs wide and driving into you deeper, slower, grinding against your clit with every thrust. You were so wet it was obscene -the sound of it filled the room every time he sank back in. Your hands roamed everywhere: down his back, nails digging into his ass to pull him harder into you, then up to cup his face so you could look him in the eyes while he fucked you.

That’d been the part that almost broke him.

The eye contact. The way you whispered his name like a secret, your thumb brushing his lower lip. He’d felt exposed, raw, like you were seeing straight through every wall he’d built. His thrusts grew rougher, more desperate, chasing that feeling of being completely known. You came first -back arching, thighs shaking around him, pussy pulsing so tightly he had to bury his face in your neck to keep from losing it right then.

He followed seconds later, groaning against your skin as he spilled deep inside you, hips stuttering, every muscle locked tight. You held him through it, stroking his back in those long, meaningful caresses that felt less like afterglow and more like absolution.

For a long time afterward you stayed connected, his cock softening inside you while your fingers traced patterns along his spine.

He’d almost cried then -something thick and unfamiliar rising in his throat -because no one had ever touched him like they actually wanted to keep him.

The statement dropped at nine the next morning.

He read it in the kitchen, standing, having not slept. The coffee was in his hand but he’d stopped drinking it without noticing.

He read through the official language to what it actually said. Indefinite hiatus. Immediate effect. Stable condition. He knew the translation of these words in context, had been in this industry long enough to understand what the gap between official statements and actual situations generally contained.

Then he got to your message. The part at the end, the one that was clearly yours and not a PR team’s -the rhythm of it, the specific direction of it, turning outward the way you always did.

Spend it on something that gives it back to you.

He read it several times.

Juhoon came in while James was still standing at the counter with the statement on his phone and the coffee going cold beside him.

He poured himself a cup, leaned back against the opposite counter, and looked at James the way he sometimes did -not pushing, just present, running his own quiet assessment.

“You saw it,” Juhoon said.

“Yeah.”

A pause. Juhoon drank his coffee.

“She okay?”

“Stable. That’s what it says. I don’t fucking know.”

Juhoon nodded slowly. Another pause, longer this time, the comfortable kind between two people who didn’t need to fill space. Then, in the register of someone who had decided to just say the thing: “Bro, you’ve been going to the studio until three in the morning since she blocked you. I’m not blind.”

James said nothing.

“Like I’m not trying to get in your business,” Juhoon continued, “but it’s been almost a month of you walking around like that. I think even the cleaning staff noticed.”

“I’m fine.”

That was a big fat lie wrapped with no caution tape.

“You said that yesterday. And the day before.” Juhoon set his cup down. “When’s the last time you actually ate a full meal that wasn’t vending machine stuff?”

James didn’t answer, which was its own answer.

Juhoon exhaled through his nose -not quite a laugh, not quite exasperation, somewhere between the two. “I knew it. I literally knew it.” He looked at James with the specific expression of a friend who had been watching something develop for a long time and had opinions about it that he’d been sitting on. “Can I ask you something honestly?”

“You’re going to anyway. Suit yourself.”

“Did you ever just -tell her? Like actually tell her, not the James version of telling her where you say half the thing and let her figure out the rest.”

James looked at the counter.

“That’s a no,” Juhoon said.

“It’s complicated.”

“It’s always complicated with you two, that’s like -that’s the whole thing. That’s been the whole thing for three years.” Juhoon picked his cup back up, shook his head slightly. “She’s not a mind reader, man. Like she’s smart, but there’s a difference between her noticing things and you actually saying them out loud.”

“I said things.”

“She blocked you.” Juhoon looked at him evenly. “I’m not trying to be harsh. I’m just - well dude she blocked you.”

James was quiet for a moment. “I know.”

“So.”

“So I know,” James said. “I know that. I’ve been aware of that.” He looked at the statement on his phone, still open, your line still sitting there. Spend it on something that gives it back to you. “I just didn’t think it was going to -I thought there was more time.”

Juhoon was quiet for a beat. Then, more gently: “Is she -do you actually…” he paused, choosing words with slightly more care than usual. “Like is this just the situation being unresolved or is it actually serious for you.”

James didn’t answer immediately, which was, for him, the most unambiguous answer available.

Juhoon absorbed this with a small nod, the kind that meant he’d suspected as much and was filing the confirmation away without making a production of it. “Okay,” he said simply.

“She’s in a hospital,” James said. “And I can’t reach her. And the last thing I said to her was-” he stopped.

“There’s nothing I can do right now.”

“No,” Juhoon said. “There really isn’t. Right now.” He let the right now sit there, intentional and specific. Then: “Go make something. You always think better when you’re making something. Go do that.”

James picked up his coffee. Drank it. Put the cup in the sink.

“And eat something,” Juhoon said, to his back. “Real food. Not the vending machine thing.”

James got his jacket.

“I mean it about the food,” Juhoon called from the kitchen.

The front door closed.

Juhoon stood alone in the kitchen for a moment, looking at the space where James had been standing, and then looked down at his own coffee and said quietly, to no one: “Three years, man, fucking insane.”

You’d spent the first month at your parents’ house, which had been Mina’s quiet suggestion and your manager’s logistical arrangement and your own eventual agreement, and which had turned out to be the right thing in the way that right things sometimes weren’t obvious until you were already inside them.

Your childhood bedroom with its slightly outdated posters and the window that overlooked the neighbor’s persimmon tree had been the right amount of small, the right amount of removed from everything.

Your mother had cooked things you hadn’t eaten since you were fifteen. Your father had asked very few questions and watched television with you in the evenings in the comfortable silence of a man who understood that presence was sometimes the whole offering.

You’d seen a therapist. Twice a week, then once, then when you needed it -Dr. Lim, who was in her fifties and had a direct manner that you’d initially found confrontational and had come to deeply appreciate. Who didn’t let you manage your way through sessions the way you’d managed your way through everything else, who had a particular talent for waiting until you ran out of other explanations before the real one surfaced.

You’d talked about the industry. About the particular machinery of it, the relentless forward momentum, the way it consumed the private self in increments small enough to miss until there wasn’t much of it left.

You’d talked about the members. About Mina’s Sunday morning kitchen and Hye-ri’s bathroom floor vigil and Soeun’s rice balls delivered with the matter-of-fact love of someone who didn’t know how to perform care and therefore simply performed it.

You’d talked about painful stuff.

About what it meant to make the right decision and still have it cost something real.

About the difference between ending something and being done with it, which were not - Dr. Lim had pointed out with characteristic directness-the same thing at all.

You’d talked about James approximately three times before you stopped needing to talk about him as a category and started being able to talk about him as a person -specific and complicated and genuinely, permanently significant in the architecture of who you were, which didn’t require resolution to be true.

You’d find out that talking about James was like talking about yourself, in the way that everything he’d done - or everything you’d let him do- reflected on who you were as a person.

You hadn’t contacted him.

He hadn’t contacted you -couldn’t, technically, the block still in place on your end for the better part of the year.

You’d thought about lifting it, in the way you thought about things you weren’t ready to do yet, turning the idea over occasionally to check its weight. It was lighter than it had been. Not weightless. Just lighter.

By month four you were dancing again, in the small studio your parents’ neighborhood had, a local place that smelled of old mirrors and someone’s forgotten lunch and that contained exactly zero professional-grade anything.

You’d gone in off-hours, alone, and run through things you already knew -old choreography, the muscle memory of three years intact and waiting patiently under the surface of everything that had happened.

The first time you’d danced through an entire piece without stopping to negotiate with your body about whether it was going to cooperate, you’d stood in the middle of the studio floor afterward and felt something so uncomplicated it had taken you a moment to identify it.

Relief. Just relief, plain and complete.

By month seven you were having conversations with your company about returning, careful ones, the kind that involved Dr. Lim and your physician and your manager and a degree of deliberateness that the old version of you would have found excessive and that the current version understood as simply necessary.

The company had been, to their considerable credit, patient in a way you hadn’t entirely expected. The hiatus had cost them something too, and they hadn’t weaponized it, which told you things about the relationship you filed away with appropriate gratitude.

R3SET would have a comeback in the spring. You’d be on it. That was the plan, still in its early stages, but real -the kind of real that existed on paper and in calendars and in the careful, forward-facing energy of people who had decided on a direction and were beginning to move in it.

The MC offer had come through a separate channel, a variety production company rather than HYBE, which was part of why it had landed differently -it wasn’t the return of the idol, the big-stage comeback announcement, the thing that required a full machine mobilization. It was smaller than that.

A weekly music show, live broadcast, the kind of hosting gig that required presence and personality and genuine knowledge of the industry rather than a specific performance mode.

Two co-hosts. Gyuvin, who you’d met twice at industry events and who had the particular gift of making any room feel like it had been waiting for him to arrive, and Dohoon, who was newer, quieter, with the specific attentiveness of someone still learning how everything worked and paying very close attention in the meantime.

Your manager had sent the offer on a Tuesday, which felt appropriate, and you’d read it twice and then gone for a walk and come back and said yes.

Not because it was safe -it wasn’t, exactly. Live television had its own demands, its own relationship with the unpredictable. But it was yours in a way that felt important. Something chosen, something that fit the shape of who you were returning as rather than who you’d been before, which was not the same person, which was fine, which was the point.

The announcement went out on a Thursday.

By Friday morning your name was trending again, for the first time in a year, and this time the feeling that came with it was different -not the hollow unreality of the hospital morning, not the dissociation of watching your own crisis unfold on someone else’s phone screen.

Just the particular warmth of people being glad to see you, which the industry could make you forget was real until it reminded you.

‘she’s back’ was everywhere. Fan edits assembled from old footage. The comments section of your old posts reactivating.

Hye-ri sent approximately forty messages in the group chat in the space of ten minutes, an escalating series that began with a string of capital letters and ended with a voice note that was mostly just screaming with some words in it.

Soeun sent a single photo: a rice ball, from a convenience store, with a small drawn heart on the wrapper in pen.

Mina sent nothing for two hours and then called, and when you picked up she said your name once in the way she sometimes said it -the full weight of years of knowing you in a single word -and then said “I’m so glad” and that was the whole call, thirty seconds, and it was exactly right.

You sat in your childhood bedroom with your phone warm in your hand and the persimmon tree doing its October thing outside the window and felt, with a completeness that had taken a year to arrive at: ready.

Not the performed version. Not the managed version assembled for public consumption. The actual thing -the quiet, solid, unglamorous readiness of the someone who had rested and repaired and done the work and was now genuinely, simply prepared to return.

You looked at your reflection in the old mirror on your bedroom wall. The slightly different person looking back -same face, same rebellious lash at the outer corner of the right eye doing its usual thing, same specific person. But the way you were sitting in yourself was different. Less braced. Less prepared for impact.

The lash curled upward in the mirror, faithful and unreformed.

You looked at it for a moment.

Let yourself think of him, briefly, with the lightness that a year of actual processing produced -not the sharp guilty thing, not the defended thing, not the named grief of the hospital ceiling.

Then you put your phone in your pocket and went downstairs, where your mother was cooking something that smelled like your childhood, and you sat at the kitchen table and let it be a good evening.

The first day of filming was a Tuesday in November.

The studio was a different building -not HYBE, a broadcast facility across the city, which had its own geography and its own particular smell of stage equipment and coffee from the production staff’s perpetual supply. You arrived with your manager and your stylist, the professional bubble reassembling itself around you with the practiced ease of a machine that had been waiting rather than dismantling.

Ji-eun was there. She looked at you when you sat down in the makeup chair -a full, genuine look, the kind between two people who had history -and then smiled and picked up her brush.

“You look good,” she said. And then, more quietly: “You look like yourself.”

“Getting there,” you said.

She worked in the comfortable silence you’d always had, and when she got to the outer corner of your right eye she paused for the traditional fraction of a second, and you both said nothing, and she worked around it the way she always had, and the lash did its thing, and you looked at yourself in the mirror when she was done and decided you were ready for whatever the day was.

Gyuvin found you at the craft table between the makeup suite and the studio floor, loading a cup with coffee at a speed that suggested he’d been awake since five and was not complaining about it.

“Okay so first of all,” he said, without preamble, turning around and seeing you and immediately operating at full social capacity, “I’m a huge R3SET fan and I’ve been trying to figure out how to say that without it being weird for approximately two weeks.”

You looked at him with an amused smile. “That was pretty weird.”

“Yeah, I know. But now it’s done and we can just be normal.” He extended a hand with the easy confidence of someone who’d decided how this interaction was going to go and was correct about it. “Gyuvin. I’m really glad you’re doing this.”

“I know who you are,” you said, shaking his hand. “I watched your show from the hospital. It was good.”

Something shifted briefly in his expression -not pity, just recognition, the acknowledgment of a real thing being mentioned without drama. “Thank you,” he said simply.

Then, pivoting with the smooth gear-change of someone who understood when to move forward: “Dohoon’s already on the floor running lines with the floor director. He gets nervous before live things, it’s actually very endearing, don’t tell him I said that.”

“I already heard that,” Dohoon said, appearing from around the craft table corner with the specific dignity of someone who had definitely heard it and was choosing grace.

He was younger than you’d expected in person - not young, just carrying the particular quality of someone still assembling their public self, not entirely sure yet how much space they were allowed to take up.

He bowed politely, straightforward and genuine.

“I watched your performances a lot,” he said. “When I was a trainee. The footwork in the second comeback stage-” he stopped himself, seemingly deciding this was too much. “Sorry. I just wanted to say I’m glad you’re back.”

You looked at him, at the earnest specific quality of it, and felt something warm and uncomplicated.

“Thank you,” you said. “Really.”

The floor director appeared and swept all three of you toward the studio, Gyuvin already talking at a pace that suggested the live broadcast format had found its correct person, Dohoon falling into step with the quiet attentiveness you’d already identified as characteristic.

You walked onto the studio floor under the lights -different lights, different stage, different version of the machine -and stood at the hosting position in front of the cameras and felt the room settle into its pre-broadcast hum around you.

The lights were warm. The floor was solid. The cameras were ready.

You were ready.

The floor director counted down.

Gyuvin straightened beside you, Dohoon on your other side, both of them finding their positions, and you found yours -natural, easy, inhabited rather than performed.

Five. Four. Three. Two.

You smiled. The real one, the one that lived in the corners of your eyes.

One.

The year had a shape to it, from James’s side.

Not a clean one.

Just the irregular, unglamorous shape of someone learning to carry an absence without drawing attention to the carrying.

He was good at it, technically. He’d had practice -not with this specifically, but with the general discipline of keeping interior things interior.

It was the skill he’d developed youngest and refined longest, and it served him here the way it always had, with the small additional cost that this time the underneath was doing considerably more than usual.

Nobody said anything directly. This was a Cortis characteristic -they had an unspoken agreement about the limits of intrusion, a collectively maintained understanding that presence was available without being forced.

Juhoon occasionally appeared with food or a suggestion to leave the studio at a reasonable hour.

Seonghyeon, who had the particular quality of someone who processed things by being physical, started dragging James to the gym in the early mornings, never explaining why, which meant they both knew why.

Martin sent memes at random hours, which was his version of checking in.

Keonho cooked elaborate meals approximately once a week and made enough for everyone without comment.

Nobody asked directly.

James was aware of this and grateful for it in the specific way he was grateful for things - privately, thoroughly, without saying so.

The song sat in a session file on his laptop.

He didn’t listen to it often. Once a week, maybe, in the first few months -not obsessively, not with the quality of picking a wound, but with the particular need to check that the thing existed somewhere outside of himself. That it was real, that the four studio nights had produced something actual rather than just the sensation of having produced something.

It existed. That was enough.

He didn’t release it. Didn’t show it to his label, didn’t bring it to any of the collaborative sessions that his schedule produced. It wasn’t for that.

It was for you to still have somewhere to live in him. It was entirely yours.

The fans noticed things anyway, during their performances. Or thought they did -the internet had a talent for reading things into performances that may or may not have been there, and he’d learned not to engage with the discourse.

He’d meant all of the words he’s sung. He always meant all of it. That was the thing about performing something you couldn’t say -the stage absorbed it, held it, gave it somewhere to go that the interior couldn’t contain indefinitely.

The second song on the Cortis comeback was not about you, technically. The lyrics were someone else’s, the concept was the team’s, the choreography was collaborative.

But something in the space between the notes had been filled with something that was his alone, and Juhoon had apparently felt the difference.

“Don’t say anything,” James had said, eventually.

“I wasn’t going to, motherfucker,” Juhoon said.

The R3SET comeback announcement came six weeks later.

James found out on the same day as everyone else, which was how these things worked when you had no particular access to someone’s professional calendar anymore.

The concept photos dropped at midnight -the industry’s preferred timing for maximum impact- and by seven in the morning the internet had done what it did.

He didn’t see the photos immediately. He was in early practice, which he’d been doing more of since the year had given him the particular gift of understanding what mattered and what was noise, and his phone was in his bag.

Seonghyeon saw them first.

He appeared in the practice room doorway between run-throughs with his phone extended. “R3SET dropped their comeback concept photos,” he said. “Midnight release.”

James looked at the phone.

He processed them with the industry-reading part of his brain first. Clean aesthetic. Strong concept. Good styling choices. Blah blah blah.

That took approximately three seconds.

Then the other part engaged and the professional reflex became entirely irrelevant.

You were in the center frame of the main concept photo, which was where you belonged and always had, and you looked -

He stood there with Seonghyeon’s phone in his hand and took in the photograph and didn’t immediately have a word for it, which was unusual for him.

He was generally a person who had words for things. Precise ones, specific ones, the right ones rather than the approximate ones.

This required a moment.

You looked like yourself. That was the first thing, and it was not a small thing -a year ago, in the last months before everything, there had been something in the way you were presenting yourself publicly that he’d noticed and not been able to name, a quality of effort in the surface that suggested you were working harder than you should have needed to.

He’d noticed it and said nothing, which was its own entry in the running catalogue of things he’d noticed and said nothing about.

That quality was gone.

You looked settled inside yourself in a way that a year of actual repair produced and nothing else did. Not relaxed, not softened -you were still precisely, recognizably you, the same specific presence that had been stopping him mid-thought for years. But inhabited differently.

And within that -within the settled, familiar, three-years-known specificity of you- something that hit him in the chest with the particular force of things that had been managed at a distance for a year and were suddenly no longer distant.

You were devastating.

Not in the industry sense, not the calculated aesthetic impact of a well-executed concept photo, though it was that too.

Not in the safe, catalogued way beautiful women usually were- where you could admire the symmetry, the lighting, the careful construction of a concept shoot and then file it away under art or aspiration.

No. This was the other kind. The kind that reached into his chest, wrapped around his lungs, and squeezed hard.

His thumb hovered over the screen, trembling slightly.

Jesus Christ.

He felt it in his body before his mind could catch up: the sudden, stupid stillness in his chest. Lungs suspended mid-breath.

It was -in the specific and undefended privacy of the three seconds before he handed the phone back- a lot.

He handed the phone back.

“Good concept,” he said.

His voice came out normal. This was the skill, the one he’d been practicing the longest, and it served him.

“Yeah,” Seonghyeon said. “It is.”

They went back to practice.

The variety show offer arrived three weeks later.

His manager brought it to him in the standard way -scheduled meeting, proposal documents, the professional framing of something being pitched for consideration.

A cross-group variety program. Six episodes, a production company with a good track record, the kind of format that leaned into genuine chemistry rather than manufactured conflict.

“The full lineup,” his manager said, sliding the document across.

He looked at it.

Cortis -himself, Juhoon, Seonghyeon, Martin, Keonho.

And one additional act.

R3SET.

He read your name on the document with full composure.

“The production company reached out to both labels simultaneously,” his manager continued, professionally unaware of or professionally choosing not to read the room. “They’re pitching it as a legacy act collaboration -both groups debuted around the same period, different concepts but complementary. They think the chemistry is there.”

Chemistry, James thought. That was one word for it.

“The format?” he said.

“Episodic. Each episode has a different challenge structure -travel, cooking, outdoor activities. Very unscripted. They want the real dynamic.”

The real dynamic. Funny.

He looked at the document again. At the lineup. At your name next to his in the clean administrative language of a production proposal, as if the history contained in those two entries was simply information, simply text, simply names on a page.

“I need a few days,” he said. He didn’t.

“Of course,” his manager said.

He took the document home. Sat with it on the kitchen counter for an evening while the dorm did its weeknight business around him. Juhoon passed through once, saw the document, looked at James, and made the diplomatic decision to refill his water and leave without comment.

An hour later Juhoon appeared again. Leaned in the doorway.

“Is it the R3SET thing?” he said.

James looked up.

“Seonghyeon’s manager mentioned it,” Juhoon said. “The variety show.”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

James looked at the document. At the lineup. At the specific administrative reality of six episodes, unscripted, real dynamic.

“I don’t know yet,” he said.

Juhoon nodded. Didn’t push. Stayed

“She’s doing well,” Juhoon said, eventually. “From everything I’ve heard. She’s back, she’s good. She sounds like herself again.”

James said nothing.

“That’s all I’m going to say,” Juhoon said. And left.

James sat with the document for another hour. He pulled the document toward him Read it again from the beginning. Six episodes. Unscripted. Real dynamic. He picked up his phone. Texted his manager two words.

I’m in.

Closed the document.

Went to bed.

Simple as that.

The variety show production schedule arrived on a Monday.

First meeting -all cast, production team, initial briefing on format and episode structure - Thursday, eleven am, the broadcast facility across the city. Standard pre-production stuff, the kind of meeting that existed to let everyone shake hands and establish a baseline before cameras were involved. His manager had forwarded the details with the administrative neutrality of someone who had learned not to editorialize.

James had read it. Put his phone down. Picked it up and read it again, which was becoming a recurring motif in his life whenever your name was involved in anything.

Thursday. Four days.

He slept adequately.

He was fine. just fine.

Thursday morning he woke up fine.

Got dressed fine -the particular care he took without appearing to take care, the version of himself he put together when something mattered without announcing that it mattered.

Dark jacket, clean lines, the kind of thing that required no comment. He’d stood in front of the mirror for approximately forty-five seconds longer than usual and then left the room before it became something.

Juhoon was in the kitchen. He looked at James in the way he sometimes looked at him.

“Eat something, hyung,” Juhoon said.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Eat something anyway or you’re gonna bitch about how you’re hungry.”

James stood at the counter and ate half a piece of toast, which was apparently what fine looked like on Thursday morning.

The five of them took the van together -James, Juhoon, Seonghyeon, Martin, Keonho -which meant forty minutes of the particular Cortis energy, Martin talking at a pace that suggested he’d had too much coffee too early, Keonho asleep against the window with the enviable ease of someone whose nervous system had not received the Thursday morning memo.

Seonghyeon was on his phone. Juhoon sat beside James and said nothing, which was the most useful thing available.

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ Strangers - Ethel Cain ♫♬♪

James looked out the window.

The city was doing its November thing -grey and particular, the trees stripped to their architecture, the light the flat specific quality of a season that had committed to itself. He watched it pass and thought about nothing deliberately and thought about everything anyway, which was how it worked when the thinking was below the level of decision.

He was fine.

He was going to walk into a room and you were going to be in it and he was going to be fine, because a year had passed and he had built something solid and equilibrium meant equilibrium, it meant the thing held under new conditions, it meant-

“We’re here,” Martin announced.

The broadcast facility had a different geography than HYBE -different smells, different light quality, different ambient sounds. James had been here before for other projects, knew the layout well enough to navigate without thinking.

The production team’s assistant met them in the lobby and took them up to the third floor meeting room, talking about the schedule in the bright, efficient way of production assistants everywhere.

The meeting room had a long table. Several production staff already seated. Coffee and water at intervals. A small catering spread that nobody was eating yet.

No R3SET.

James sat down -second from the end, which was where he sat in rooms like this, the position that gave him the widest sightline without being visibly strategic about it. Juhoon sat beside him. Martin immediately reached for the catering spread. Keonho poured water. Seonghyeon was already in conversation with someone from the production team about the episode structure.

Normal. All of it normal. The ordinary machinery of a pre-production meeting assembling itself around him.

He poured coffee. Drank it.

The door opened.

He heard you before he processed that it was you -a voice in the corridor, saying something to someone outside the room, the particular cadence of it landing somewhere in his chest before his brain had completed the identification.

Then you walked in.

And everything-

Everything single thing that James had spent a year building -the equilibrium, the organized weight, the solid carefully-constructed fine collapsed.

It proved insufficient. In the space between the door opening and you stepping through it.

The year was on you in the best way, in the way he’d seen in the photograph but hadn’t fully understood until now, until the actual specific physical reality of you was in the same room.

Your face, your sweet sweet face, your long hair draped over your chest, all of it significantly more than he had been prepared for despite believing he was prepared.

You were talking to Mina beside you, something low and quick, and you hadn’t seen him yet, and he had approximately three seconds of that -of watching you exist in a room without you knowing you were being watched.

And then something happened in his body that he hadn’t expected and didn’t have immediate language for.

It started in his chest. Not the metaphorical chest, not the poetic shorthand for emotional experience -the actual physical chest, a sensation that spread outward from somewhere behind his sternum with the slow insistent quality of something that had been waiting for the right conditions to make itself known. Down into his stomach, which turned over once, deliberately, like a held breath released in the wrong direction.

He set his coffee cup down. Carefully. Because his hands needed to do something specific and he needed to do it carefully.

This was not what equilibrium was supposed to feel like.

You crossed the room with Mina, talking to the production team lead who had come forward to greet you, and your eyes moved across the table in the natural survey of someone entering a room and orienting themselves.

They found him.

One second.

Something moved across your expression -too fast and too layered to read in full, a whole vocabulary of a year passing through your face.

You looked away first, or he looked away first, or it was simultaneous -he couldn’t reconstruct it afterward with any accuracy.

He looked at the table.

His hands were still.

His stomach was not.

Am I making you feel sick -the line arrived from somewhere, something he’d been listening to in the studio months ago, late and alone the way he did his best listening, Ethel Cain’s voice asking it with the specific quality of a question that already knew its own answer.

He was, in fact, feeling sick.

He hadn’t thought about the line in months. It arrived now with the precision of something that had been filed and was now being retrieved because the conditions finally matched.

He felt so sick indeed, that his stomach seemed to want to crawl out of its shell, and the space where you lived, in his ribcage stored there for comfort, was burning like thousands of fires.

It started without announcement.

He was looking at his folder -had looked away when you’d found him across the table, one second of eye contact and then back to his own folder, the professional management reflex executing itself automatically -and the production team lead was talking, and the room was doing its meeting thing, and James was sitting in his chair with his hands flat on the table on either side of the open folder.

And then his eyes were wet.

Not -it wasn’t a gradual thing. It wasn’t the dignified film version of emotion, the single meaningful tear navigating a composed face.

His eyes were wet and his throat had done something that he couldn’t reverse and his stomach had turned over with a violence that was nothing like the manageable discomfort of the morning.

This was different.

This was -he didn’t have a word for it and his mind was not currently in a condition to locate one, because his mind was busy with the overriding physical fact of his eyes being wet in a meeting room with eight other people in it and the production team lead still talking and Juhoon two feet to his left.

He pressed his thumb into the table edge.

Breathed.

The wetness didn’t stop.

Because you lived inside of his ribs, like a sickness.

He moved. He stood up, which required his body to cooperate and his body did cooperate, performing the physical action without the usual sense of decision preceding it.

He kept his head down -not dramatically, “Sorry,” he said. To the room, not to anyone specifically. His voice came out level. “One minute.”

He walked to the door and left.

He made it to the men’s bathroom twenty feet down the hall and through the door and to the sink and stood there with both hands braced on the porcelain and looked at himself in the mirror.

His eyes were wet and his face was doing something he didn’t have experience managing because he didn’t have experience with this, with the specific thing that was happening, which was apparently: crying.

Get a fucking grip, he thought.

His eyes stayed wet.

He turned the cold tap higher and pressed his hands against his face and stood there in the particular specific silence of a broadcast facility bathroom while somewhere down the hall a production team was running a meeting he had walked out of, and somewhere in that meeting room you were sitting at a table for the first time in a year, and his body had apparently decided that the year of careful construction was no longer relevant information.

One year. Twelve months, a couple hundred days, and it had taken approximately four seconds for you to fuck it up all over again.

It had just been you walking into a room, talking to Mina, your voice reaching him before he’d processed that it was you, landing somewhere in his chest with the accuracy of something that had always known where to go.

He pressed his thumb into the edge of the sink. The physical pressure of it grounding him in the present tense.

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ Sparks - Coldplay ♫♬♪

A soft knock sounded on the door.

“James?” Your voice. “The staff… they need everyone back for the briefing. They sent me to-”

The door opened and you stepped inside.

And the second your eyes met his in the mirror, everything shattered all over again.

Your warm eyes met his, like you’d already known what position he occupied in the room without seeing him - the same navigational certainty that had always existed between you, the compass needle finding north before the map was even consulted.

For a moment neither of you moved. The tap running. The mirror holding you both.

Your lips started quivering first.

He watched it happen. Watched you try to stop it -the small visible effort of someone attempting to tuck something away for a more convenient moment, your jaw tightening, your teeth catching your lower lip.

The mental slap he could practically see you administering to yourself, the furious internal instruction to hold it together, to not be -this.

Not here. Not in front of him.

It made no sound. That was the thing that undid him entirely. No sound -just your tears spilling out of your eyes like fountains, you biting your lip so hard it hurt, just because you couldn't cry.

Because you'd spent months rebuilding yourself to be stronger, less naive.

It was a huge let down and betrayal to see that your body still recognized his to this level.

That it always would.

James turned around from the mirror.

His breath hitched violently. The sound of it involuntary, wrenched out of him by the sight of you standing at the door of a broadcast facility bathroom crying silently with your teeth in your lip -a sight that hit him somewhere below the level of thought, somewhere that didn’t have the option of management.

“Don’t-” he tried.

Too late.

His own tears spilled over. Hot and humiliating, sliding down his cheeks. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, the gesture instinctive and entirely useless, trying to hold in something that had already left the building.

Pride had lost.

It had never stood a chance. Not in this room. Not with you standing at the door looking like the last year had happened to you the same way it had happened to him -not cleanly, not neatly, and absolutely not with the resolved quality of someone who had made a right decision and been at peace with it.

You crossed the room.

Not all the way. You stopped a foot away from him and leaned against the wall beside the sink, close enough that the space between you was a chosen distance rather than an accidental one.

You pressed the back of your wrist to your own mouth in the same gesture he’d just used -both of you apparently sharing the same futile reflex- and looked at the ceiling in the way you did when you were deciding something about gravity.

You stared at the ceiling. He stared at the sink. The tap ran between you, filling the silence with something neutral and constant, and the year sat in the room between you like a third party that hadn’t been invited and wasn’t leaving.

Thirty seconds passed.

Maybe more.

“I’m not-” you started.

You stopped.

Pressed your wrist harder against your mouth and tried again. “I’m not going to be able to have a conversation right now,” you said. Your voice was wrecked at the edges, thin, the managed version completely gone. “is that okay?”

“Okay,” he said.

Another silence.

He reached over and turned the tap off and the quiet that followed was immediate and different -denser, the absence of the running water making everything else louder..

“I didn’t think it would-” you started again.

And he waited when you interrupted yourself.

“I told myself I was prepared,” you continued. To the ceiling. “I knew you were going to be here. I’ve known for weeks. I thought I’d-” a breath that was not quite steady, “- i don’t know why this is happening.”

He said nothing. What could he possibly say without crying like a goddamn pussy?

You lowered your gaze from the ceiling. Looked at the wall in front of you instead -the neutral middle ground of a tiled surface that required nothing from either of you.

“I’ve been fine,” you said. “This year. I want to say that clearly -I’ve been actually fine. And i hope you have been too.”

“I know,” he said, although it hurt him.

“So I don’t know why I’m-” you gestured vaguely at your own face, at the evidence currently decorating it, the gesture frustrated and slightly helpless. “I don’t know why my body is doing this.”

He looked at you sideways. “Yeah you do,” he said.

You pressed your lips together. “Don’t,” you said.

“Okay,” he concluded. “The hosting thing suits you,I’ve seen some of the-” he stopped himself. Recalibrated. “You seem good on it. Natural.”

“James,” you said, your bottom lip trembling.

“Yeah?” his voice trembled.

“Stop.”

He did.

The silence that followed was the longest one yet -not the comfortable silence you both already knew.

This was the silence of two avoidants standing a foot apart in a broadcast facility bathroom, both crying, both fully aware of approximately ten thousand things that needed to be said, and neither of them capable of saying any of them.

Your breathing had steadied slightly. His had too.

“I should go back,” you said. Not moving.

“Yeah,” he said, not moving either.

“The director’s going to send someone else,” you said.

“Probably Martin,” he said.

“Martin would make it worse,” you said.

“Definitely,” he agreed.

A silence. And then -almost against your will, by the sound of it -a small exhale that was almost, not quite, the ghost of a smile.

He felt it in his chest like a struck match.

“Okay,” you said, pushing off the wall. “Okay.”

You crossed to the sink. Ran cold water. Pressed it to your eyes with efficient composure, by necessity, because the day continued outside this room regardless of what had happened inside it.

Your reflection appeared in the mirror. You looked at it with the neutral assessment of a technician checking equipment. He stood behind you, a foot of space. The mirror showing you both.

You looked at your own face for a moment.

Then your eyes moved in the mirror -not to his face, not all the way there, but somewhere in the direction of his reflection. The almost-look. The periphery.

“You have-” you started. Gestured vaguely at your own eye. “Your-“

“I know,” he said.

He reached up and pressed the back of his fingers to his own cheekbone, clearing the evidence. The gesture rough and unsentimental.

“Okay,” you said again. The forward-motion word. You straightened your jacket, the small act of reassembly, the putting-back-on of the surface that the bathroom had temporarily removed.

You didn’t look at him when you walked to the door, hand on the handle, then you opened the door.

And in the space of the opening -in the moment between the door still closed and the door open enough for the corridor to enter the room -you said, to the handle, to the gap, to the space between staying and going:

“I don’t know what to do with you.”

You didn’t tell him that you didn’t know what to do without him. Because that was admitting a bunch of things you’d buried.

He didn’t answer so you walked out, not expecting more of him than what he’d always shown.

The remaining filming days were unbearable.

Charged, the way air was charged before weather, the way a room felt different when something had happened in it that hadn’t been resolved.

The production team was pleased. The director kept using words like authentic and natural chemistry in the debrief notes that circulated between episodes.

James read those words in a group message and looked at his phone for a long moment and put it face down on his desk.

Natural chemistry.

That’s one way to put it.

Episode four was a travel segment -a day trip to a coastal town two hours from the city, two vans, the cast split across them, and a loose itinerary that the production team described as go wherever feels right but had in fact been extensively scouted and mapped in advance.

You were in the first van.

He knew this before the vans departed, had registered the configuration with the awareness he’d developed over four filming days of knowing exactly where you were in any given space without appearing to track it.

The production team released them in loose pairs and small groups with cameras following at a distance, the unscripted format doing its job of making everything look accidental.

James walked with Juhoon along the harbor front for forty minutes. They talked about things that had nothing to do with anything -Juhoon had been reading something, had opinions about it, James listened and offered his own and the conversation moved forward with an easy momentum.

He was fine.

The show aired three weeks later.

Thursday night, eight episodes, released weekly -the standard format, the production company’s familiar rollout.

James watched the first episode alone in his studio on his laptop.

It was good television. He could see that clearly, the way it was easier to see things from the outside -the dynamic was compelling, the mixed-group chemistry genuinely worked.

Martin and Keonho’s energy balanced against the quieter members in a way that created natural contrast. Mina and Soeun had good interactions with Juhoon and Seonghyeon. Nothing that crossed any invisible lines.

He watched the table scene from episode one, the first interaction he had with you after the bathroom moment.

Forty seconds, forty seconds too much, so he closed the laptop.

By episode three the fan forums had developed a vocabulary.

It started, as these things started, with a clip - a background interaction that neither of you knew was being filmed, thirty seconds of the two of lof you sitting down at the set.

The comments assembled their case with the industry of people who had been watching both groups for years and now had, for the first time, sustained footage of them in the same frame.

The forums had moved past speculation into something more like excavation, going back through years of archived footage and industry events with the specific energy of people who had been handed a key and were now locating the lock.

Stage crossings at award shows. A single frame from a year-old behind-the-scenes video in which James was visible in the background of a shot that was ostensibly about someone else.

And in that background, barely in frame, he was looking in a direction that corresponded to where you had been standing. Something purely coincidental.

A fan-taken photograph from an industry dinner -both groups present, separate tables -in which you were mid-laugh and he was beside you, not looking at the camera, looking at you with an expression that the fan who’d taken the photo had captioned at the time : cute group moment - and that was now being screenshotted and analyzed with forensic intensity.

one commenter said : that’s not a ‘cute group moment’ expression. that is something else entirely.

I found the original post. this photo is from two years ago. TWO YEARS.

okay so this has been going on for at least two years possibly longer and they’ve both been just. existing in the same building. I need to sit down

The digging produced timelines. Cross-referenced schedules, corroborating fan accounts, a general industry consensus assembled from fragments -the kind of picture that was never complete but that was complete enough.

Nothing explicit, nothing confirmable, just the aggregate weight of years of small things that meant more in retrospect than they had in the moment.

Your name and his, trending adjacently for the first time, the fan shorthand assembling itself with the creative efficiency of a community that had been waiting no - dying- for a subject.

Then the end of the show aired.

The final episode -with a studio segment, a paired game, the forty seconds clip in the previously released episode that had already done its damage -generated the kind of response that production teams privately hoped.

The clips moved through the usual channels. The fan analysis assembled and reassembled itself with new material. The forty-seven thousand posts became a different, larger number.

And the specific four seconds from episode six- a paired game, a moment where the challenge had required James to catch something you’d thrown and he’d caught it without looking because apparently his hands had simply known where to be -became the new center of gravity.

he caught it without looking. without LOOKING. he didn’t even glance. his hands just knew. I’m sick.

I need everyone to understand what it means that his hands just knew.

three years. they’ve been in the same building for three years. I’m not okay.

someone who knows things please tell me there’s something there because I have invested emotionally and I need to know it’s real.

Your name and his, in that order or the reverse, everywhere.

“Unnie,”

Hye-ri put her phone down on the dorm kitchen table and looked at you across it with the expression of someone who had reached the end of something.

“I know what you’re gonna say,” you chuckled humorlessly. “This is getting weird. They need to stop over analyzing things. There’s nothing to analyze.”

“Have you really seen all of it?” she raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve seen enough”

“And? Thoughts? Prayers?”

You wrapped both hands around your mug. “And nothing,” you said. “There’s nothing to say. Though i’m really praying they drop this before i go crazy and start filing lawsuits”

“Unnie,” Hye-ri breathed. “I love you. You know I love you. But oh my god, you are so fucking stupid.”

Your eyes widened, surprised. “Huh?”

“I’ve been watching this for three years and then watching you be hospitalized and then watching you rebuild… and I have said almost nothing because it wasn’t my place and you weren’t ready.” She paused. “Are you ready yet? Because I’m watching thousands of people on the internet understand your life better than you’re allowing yourself to and it’s becoming genuinely freaking difficult to watch.”

You said nothing, still busy being shocked.

“Soeun has opinions,” Hye-ri said. “Soeun, who falls asleep mid-sentence, has opinions about this situation and has had to be physically restrained from expressing them.”

“Hye-ri-”

“What are you going to do,” Hye-ri asked quietly.

You looked at your mug. “I don’t know, i don’t even know what i’m feeling. I just don’t wanna be bothered with that. I just wanna do my job, and not be confronted with this all the time” you said. “because i don’t know if i have enough self control anymore.”

“I know it’s not an answer,” you continued. “I know.”

Hye-ri looked at you for a long moment. Then she picked up her phone, put it back in her pocket and reached across the table to cover your hand with her red-nailed one and said nothing.

The wrap event was at a venue the production company used regularly -a private room above a restaurant in the city, warm and low-lit, the kind of space that encouraged the end-of-project loosening that these events were designed to produce. The full cast, most of the production team, the ambient atmosphere of something finished and celebrated.

James arrived with Juhoon and Keonho, found the bar, acquired a drink, and began the social navigation of the room.

You were already there.

You were across the room with Hye-ri and the producer, saying something that made the producer laugh. Your hair was down, which was unusual enough that he noted it, and you were wearing something he hadn’t seen before, a black prada dress.

You looked so devastatingly beautiful that he had to look somewhere else.

The evening moved forward with its own momentum. Drinks, conversation, the genuine warmth of a cast that had spent weeks together and had produced something they were collectively proud of.

Martin gave an impromptu toast that was both entirely sincere and completely absurd, talking about how much fun he’d had, and about the cookies the staff gave away on set.

Soeun fell briefly asleep against Hye-ri’s shoulder - surprising- and was nudged back awake with fond efficiency.

James talked to the director for twenty minutes about the editing process, to Keonho about something unrelated to any of it, to a production assistant about the schedule for the release rollout. He was present and functional and socially competent and fine.

He was aware of where you were in the room the entire time.

An hour in, the room had loosened into its later-evening configuration -smaller clusters, people drifting, the formal structure dissolved.

James had found his way to the room’s edge, not antisocially but in the way he sometimes needed to at these events, a few feet of breathing room.

You appeared beside him.

Not like you’d sought him out - but like you’d been heading for the same breathing room and had arrived at the same edge by the same instinct.

The room moved and talked around you. Someone’s laugh carried from across it. The warm low light did its work but you were close enough that he was aware of the specific warmth of being in proximity to you, which was a thing his body had catalogued years ago and had not, apparently, stopped cataloguing.

He couldn’t, the weight of it pressing right between his heart and lungs like a hot stone.

There was no part of him that could stand with you, next to you and not feel like the whole world was shaking at his feet.

So James did what James did best. He grabbed his glass, aimed for the closest exit and started walking.

Because being the asshole in the story was easier than being the man who loved. Who yearned.

This had been something he’d come to terms with -although his brain and his heart were two completely opposite organs that didn’t seem to want to collaborate- somewhere in him, he knew that what he felt for you wasn’t pointless arousal, anger or attraction.

Surely he did feel all those things all at once, but a whole year of thinking had brought out a simple explanation out of him. James didn’t know how spell the word ‘love’, didn’t know what it was, what he knew though, was that he’d put everything on the line just to feel your wrath.

Whether you were angry, sad, disappointed or disgusted at him, it was you that he held on to.

That thought had taken a whole year to form, and he still didn’t know what to do with it.

He was only grateful he got to see you, to live in your small world.

So when you followed him into his own small world - when the door to the hallway he’d escaped to opened and you were standing in the frame of it, the warm light of the party behind you and the cooler light of the corridor finding your face, his breath caught in his throat.

The door fell shut behind you.

You looked at him across the corridor.

“Do I bother you that much?” you said. Your throat bobbed.

He wanted to tell you that you didn’t. In fact, he wanted to tell you so many things but he didn’t want it to feel like he’d started thinking them just because you had left.

Like absence had manufactured something that wasn’t already there.

“I think,” he said, and his voice came out wrong, too low and too careful, “I think you should go back.”

“Do I bother you that much?” you repeated, harder this time, like you wanted it to cut.

No. The answer was no, had always been no, the word bother doing almost none of the work required to describe what you did to him.

“Yes,” he said.

You stood your ground, because you knew James, and you knew that when his voice cracked like that, he was most likely lying.

“I don’t understand you. We were good-“ you looked down at your shoes, “we were back to normal just a day ago.”

“No we weren’t. We never were.” James spoke, voice constricted. “We were working.”

You looked up at him, taking a faithful step toward him. “You’re really gonna act this way? Even after everything? After a whole year?”

He looked at you.

You were closer now -the corridor was narrow, the private venue’s hallway not designed for that kind of distance,

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ PURPLE RAIN - PRINCE ♫♬♪

“You don’t know what acting this way means,” he said. Quiet. The heat not in his voice yet, just the control that preceded it.

“I know exactly what it means,” you said. “It means you walked away. Again. Because something got too close and you needed the exit.” You looked at him with the directness that you got when you’d decided to stop managing the look. “I’ve been watching you find exits for so long James. I know the walk.”

“You also know how to leave,” he retaliated.

“Don’t do that,”

“You blocked me,” he said. “On everything. You were in a hospital and you had me blocked.”

“I was in a hospital because-” you stopped yourself again, the sentence running somewhere that cost too much, “-that’s not-” you shook your head. “I’m not doing this. I’m not standing in a hallway at a wrap party telling you about that-“

“You followed me in here,” he cut you.

“Because you walked away,” you said. “Again. You were standing next to me and you just-“

“I wasn’t walking away from you,” he denied.

“Then what were you doing.”

He said nothing.

“James.” Your voice lower now, the anger finding its quieter register, which was more dangerous than the louder one. “What were you doing.”

“I was-” he stopped. “I couldn’t stand next to you and-“ he stopped again. Started differently, because the first direction was the edge of the thing and he was so tired of the edge. “I couldn’t stand next to you and act like the last year didn’t happen and the three years before it didn’t happen and we’re just -two people at a party being normal about it.”

“Nobody asked you to be normal about it,” you retorted.

“Nobody had to ask,” he said. “The room is full of people. The cameras have been full of people for weeks. Everything is-” he exhaled, “-everything is happening in front of an audience and I don’t know how to-” he stopped.

“You don’t know how to what,” you said, bitterly.

The corridor was very quiet. The party sounds from behind the closed door -muffled, belonging to a different world.

Just the two of you, the amber light and the question.

“I don’t know how to be in the same space as you,” he said, “and not feel it.”

The sentence arrived quietly, like he just couldn’t hold it back.

“Feel what,” you said. The question not aggressive. Genuinely asking, the way you asked things when you needed to hear the actual word rather than the approximate one.

He held your gaze.

“All of it,” he said. “Everything. Take your pick.”

You were quiet for a moment. “That’s still evasive,” you said softly.

“I know,” he said. “I’m still learning.”

“James,” you said.

“I’m not-” you stopped. Started differently. “I’m not angry at you for walking away just now. I know why you did it. I know the walk because I have the same walk. I’ve been using mine for years, so it wouldn’t be fair to blame you.”

He looked at you.

“I’m angry at the amount of times,” you continued. “That’s what I’m angry at. Not you specifically. Just -the amount of times we did that.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. Low. “Me too.”

The corridor did what corridors did in these conversations -provide a container just barely large enough for the thing trying to exist inside it.

“The filming’s done,” you said.

“Yeah,” he said.

“So there’s no more-” you gestured vaguely at the concept of structured filming days and production schedules and the machine that had been providing the structure, “no more excuses for us to be in the same rooms. For now.”

“No,” he said.

“Which means- i’d like to end things maturely. I’d like you to know things i haven’t told you. So we can- so I can finally move on.”

It tasted cruel coming out of your mouth and he felt every bit of it.

End things? Why the fuck did this hurt so much when things were already over?

“I missed you.” you started, eyes already filling way too fast. “I missed being known. You knew things about me that i never told you. And nobody else has known me the way you did, cause no one was paying that kind of attention.” your voice went thin at the edges. “And then you weren’t here and I had to figure out how to- how to be, all over again.”

James’ jaw hung open just the tiniest bit, like he had never prepared himself to hear that today.

“God, i don’t want to be corny… i just want you to put it in your stupid head- i want you to know, cause i can’t keep this to myself James. I’m so tired and i don’t want to do this anymore.”

The water in your eyes started overflowing, tears falling down your cheeks with absolutely no consent. “And i know what you’re gonna say, that’s what everyone says. That i knew this wasn’t a relationship, that i knew we weren’t serious. But how can you expect me to not feel like this, when- when i spent 3 years of my life growing beside you, seeing you, knowing you. How can anyone fucking expect me to be chill about this?? Please tell me.”

“Because you cracked me open and you read me like a fucking book. And i- I could never be simple when it comes to this.”

His eyes started welling up uncontrollably, like they had the other day, insanely fast, cruel and mean.

“Y/n” his voice cracked.

“No- no, let me finish” you wiped your eyes almost aggressively, “You can’t tell me to shut up anymore. I’m done being a little immature bitch-im done looking for fights- just because fighting was the only way i knew how to get close to you without admitting I wanted to be close to you.

“I just wanna be the bigger person, i want you to know that even if we weren’t good for each other- i had never felt something so real and so fucking brutal.” your voice shook under the force of your tears, “And sometimes- god im so fucking stupid- sometimes i just feel like i don’t wanna be anywhere except with you.”

James couldn’t say anything, his voice was stuck in the depth of his throat- or down to his chest- he didn’t know, all he knew was that he wanted the tears to stop.

“y/n - please.” he looked at the ceiling, bottom lip quivering with restraint.

“What? Does it hurt? Does it hurt you knowing that i felt all of this ?” you got closer, invading the space he’d carefully guarded. “That you could never feel the same things for me? That you fucked me like you loved me for 3 fucking years even though you knew you couldn’t feel those things?”

James’ mouth opened, like he just couldn’t believe what you were saying. Like he wanted to scoop you up and put you in his head so you could feel -for one second- the way you undid him.

“What the- what the fuck are you even saying?” his voice trembled, eyes pouring, “you always think you know what’s going on in my head. Fuck. Y/n you don’t know shit.”

“Because you don’t let me, just for once, tell me. Tell me.” you got closer, chin tipping up to look at him.

James’ composure faltered, he erased the last of the space between you both and cupped your chin -grabbed it between his fingers with equally devotion and anger.

“You-” he swallowed his tears, “you know it. You know me, y/n. Do you want me to get down on my knees and tell you what i feel?”

Seeing him so close was like going back home, you thought. You couldn’t breathe anymore, something cruel squeezing your lungs.

“You’ve played the same games I played, so don’t act like you were a saint. We both fucked around, but this?” he pointed between the both of you. “It’s never been nothing.”

Your eyes were wide, shining with fresh tears. The black Prada dress suddenly felt too thin, the air between you charged like the seconds before lightning. He could smell your perfume, the faint salt of your tears, the warmth of your skin that had haunted his dreams for a year.

“We’ve never been ‘nothing’ y/n. You know it. You know there wasn’t a moment where i didn’t need you.”

James sounded like a totally different person, like the year had matured him maybe a tiny bit.

“So please love me again,” he continued, the words spilling out like they’d been waiting behind every exit he’d ever taken. His thumb brushed your lower lip, shaking. “Don’t leave me. Love me again and -and if you never did, you can start now.”

The confession hung there, raw and bleeding. His eyes were wet, spilling over without permission, tracking down his cheeks.

You made a small, broken sound and surged forward like you needed it in order to breathe.

He met you halfway.

The kiss was devastating. A year of absence crashed into the moment your mouths met -desperate, open, messy. His lips were urgent against yours, tasting salt from both your tears.

You gasped into him and he swallowed it, tongue sliding against yours like he was trying to memorize every texture again.

Your hands fisted in his shirt; his cupped your face, thumbs wiping at your tears even as more fell. You were both crying through it, foreheads pressed together between kisses, breaths hitching, noses bumping, teeth grazing in the need to get closer.

“I missed you,” he mumbled against your mouth, voice cracking. “Fuck, I missed you so much it felt like dying.”

You answered by kissing him harder, tongues tangling, bodies pressing flush. His hands roamed -down your sides, gripping your waist, pulling you against him so he could feel the heat of you through the thin fabric. You arched into him, and the groan he let out was pure yearning.

A broken sob escaped you and he swallowed it greedily, tilting his head to kiss you harder, deeper, like he could crawl inside you and never leave.

In the narrow hallway, your back met the wall with a soft thud and his mouth moved to your jaw, your neck, sucking lightly, then harder, like he needed to leave proof that this was real.

One of his thighs pushed between yours, pressing up against the heat between your legs, and you gasped into his mouth, grinding down instinctively. Your fingers pushed into his hair, tugging, and he shuddered, hands sliding under the hem of your dress, palms greedy on your thighs. His hands roamed lower, sliding down the curve of your ass, squeezing hard through the thin Prada fabric before hiking your dress up your thighs. Cool air hit your skin as his palms found bare flesh, groping, kneading, pulling you tighter against the hard line of his cock straining in his pants.

You moaned into the kiss, one leg hooking around his hip, opening yourself to the pressure. His hips rolled forward, grinding his erection against your core in slow, filthy drags that made you both shudder. The friction was electric, too much and not enough. Your fingers pushed into his hair, tugging sharply, and he growled, biting your lower lip before soothing it with his tongue.

“I missed this,” you whispered brokenly between kisses, tears slipping into your mouth. “Missed you -your hands, your mouth-”

He answered by shoving your dress higher, one hand slipping between your bodies to cup you over your panties. His fingers pressed firm circles against your clit through the damp fabric, and your head fell back against the wall with a whimper. He chased the movement, mouth latching onto your throat, sucking a mark just below your jaw while his fingers worked you relentlessly.

“James- we can’t- not here..”

“I don’t care,” he growled against your throat. “I need you. Now. Always.” And that was enough.

You touched him everywhere you could reach -chest, shoulders, the line of his jaw, the hard press of his cock already straining against his pants.

“Wet already,” he breathed against your skin, voice cracking with emotion and lust. “Always so fucking wet for me. Even after everything.”

You reached down, palming his cock through his pants, stroking the thick length with desperate need and he bucked into your hand with a choked groan, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked even as tears blurred them.

The hallway was silent except for your ragged breaths, the wet sounds of kissing, the rustle of fabric.

His free hand shoved the neckline of your dress down, exposing one breast. He palmed it roughly, thumb flicking over your nipple, then bent to take it into his mouth -sucking, licking, teeth grazing while his fingers kept rubbing your clit faster.

You were panting, grinding shamelessly against his hand, so close already. “James -here -please-”

He switched to your other breast, sucking harder, hips thrusting against your thigh in time with his fingers. The tension coiled tighter, the risk of someone opening the door only heightening everything.

His cock throbbed under your palm; you squeezed him through the fabric and he moaned around your nipple, the vibration shooting straight to your core.

James straightened suddenly, crashing his mouth back to yours in a filthy, tongue-heavy kiss. Two of his fingers pushed your panties aside and slid into you without warning, your slickness making it so easy -deep, curling, stroking that spot that made your knees buckle.

You cried out into his mouth, clenching around him, tears pouring faster as the pleasure mixed with the overwhelming ache in your chest.

“I love you,” he gasped against your lips, fingers pumping steadily, thumb circling your clit. “I fucking love you-don’t leave me, please don’t-”

That was his leap of faith. He’d never said things so straightforwardly before and here he was, telling you just how much he adored you.

You were right there, teetering on the edge, when distant laughter from the party filtered through the door, shattering the moment just enough.

James pulled his hand back with a pained sound, but he didn’t let you go. He rested his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard, bodies trembling, faces streaked with tears and flushed with need.

Your hand was still on his cock; his fingers were still glistening with you.

“We can’t -not here,” he rasped, but his hips twitched forward anyway, seeking more contact.

You nodded shakily, but kissed him once more- slow, deep, lingering. “Take me home.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He fixed your dress with shaking hands, you straightened his shirt, and then he grabbed your hand, lacing your fingers tightly like he was afraid you’d vanish.

You slipped out the side exit without a word to anyone, like you’d done so many times before.

Only this time you knew something different.

In the cab, you couldn’t keep your hands off each other.

The back seat was dark, the driver politely ignoring the heavy breathing and closing the backseat-front seat window.

James pulled you half into his lap, kissing you slow and deep, one hand under your dress stroking the slick mess between your thighs, the other tangled in your hair. You ground against him, whimpering, tears still slipping down your cheeks.

He kissed them away, murmuring, “I’ve got you. I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

By the time you reached your dorm, you were both trembling with need.

The door to your dorm barely clicked shut behind you before James had you lifted in his arms, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist.

The short cab ride had done nothing to cool the fire between you -only stoked it.

His mouth was on yours again, hungry and uncoordinated, as he carried you the few steps to the bed and laid you down like you might break.

Clothes came off in a desperate haze. He peeled the black dress from your body with shaking hands, kissing every inch of skin he revealed. Your bra and panties followed, then his shirt, pants, and boxers -until there was nothing between you but a year of aching absence.

He hovered over you for a moment, eyes drinking you in, tears still glistening on his lashes.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I thought I remembered… but this-”

He leaned down, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbones, the valley between your breasts, the soft plane of your stomach.

His hands mapped you reverently -cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing nipples until they tightened, sliding down your sides to grip your hips.

He sucked marks into the sensitive skin just above your hipbones, like he needed to claim you all over again.

When he finally settled between your thighs, spreading them wide with gentle but insistent hands, you were already dripping. He groaned at the sight, a low, wrecked sound that vibrated through you.

He started slow, almost worshipful -pressing soft, lingering kisses to the inside of your thighs, then higher. The first broad swipe of his tongue through your folds drew a broken sob from deep in your chest.

He licked you like a man starved, savoring every drop. His tongue was warm and velvet-soft, flattening to drag from your entrance up to your clit in long, deliberate strokes, then circling the swollen bud with precise, teasing flicks. He hummed against you, the vibration making your hips jerk.

“James-” Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging as fresh tears slipped down your temples.

He didn’t answer with words.

Instead, he sealed his mouth around your clit and sucked gently, tongue fluttering rapidly against the underside while two thick fingers slid into you, curling upward to stroke that perfect spot inside. The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth filled the room- slick, hungry lapping mixed with his low, appreciative groans.

He was completely pussy-drunk, lost in the taste of you, the way your walls fluttered around his fingers, the way your thighs trembled against his ears.

You came the first time with a sharp cry, back arching off the bed, thighs clamping around his head.

He kept going -didn’t even slow- licking you through every pulse and aftershock, fingers pumping steadily. Tears streamed down your face from the intensity, mixing with the sweat on your skin.

He pulled back only long enough to look up at you, lips shiny and chin wet, eyes dark and glassy with tears of his own. “One more,” he rasped. “I need to taste you again. Please.” Then he dove back in, even more fervent.

This time he fucked you with his tongue- pushing it inside as deep as it would go, curling and thrusting while his nose rubbed against your clit.

His fingers replaced his tongue on your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles, the overstimulation had you whimpering, hips grinding against his face, but he held you down with one strong arm across your stomach, devouring you like he’d never get enough.

You came harder the second time, a full-body shudder that left you sobbing his name, gushing against his tongue as he drank every bit of it.

Only then did he crawl up your body, kissing a wet trail up your stomach, between your breasts, until his mouth found yours.

You tasted yourself on his tongue as he kissed you deeply, sharing the evidence of your pleasure.

You reached between you, wrapping your hand around his cock -thick, heavy, burning hot and leaking steadily at the tip. He groaned into your mouth, hips twitching, but when you tried to shift downward, he caught your wrist gently.

“No,” he whispered, eyes wet and earnest, voice cracking. “Not tonight- fuck -I need to be close to you. Inside you. Please, baby. Let me feel you.”

He settled between your legs, bracing on his forearms so he could watch your face.

The blunt head of his cock nudged at your entrance, slick and ready before he pushed in slowly -inch by inch- stretching you open with that perfect, burning fullness you’d missed for a year.

The sensation was overwhelming: the way your walls yielded and clenched around every ridge and vein, the heavy heat of him filling you completely until his hips pressed flush to yours.

You both gasped, foreheads touching, tears falling freely again.

“Fuck… you’re so tight,” he breathed, voice trembling. “So warm and wet and- fuck, I love you. I love you so much.”

He stayed buried deep for a long moment, just feeling you pulse around him, savoring the squeeze.

Then he began to move -slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged his cock along every sensitive inch inside you. Each thrust was deliberate, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in to the hilt, grinding against your clit on every downstroke.

The wet, rhythmic slap of skin filled the room, mingled with your shared sobs and gasps.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back, pulling him deeper. “Harder, James -please-”

He gave it to you, thrusts growing firmer, faster, but still so full of emotion.

His cock felt impossibly thick inside you, stretching you perfectly with every plunge, the head nudging against that spot that made sparks explode behind your eyes. When you clenched around him particularly hard, he moaned loudly, a raw, broken sound that vibrated through his chest.

“Yes- fuck, just like that. You feel so good, so so good baby.”

You switched positions naturally, rolling so he was spooned behind you, chest pressed tight to your back.

One of his arms banded around you, hand cupping and kneading your breast, the other sliding down to rub firm circles on your clit. He thrust up into you from behind -deep, grinding strokes that kept him buried as much as possible.

His mouth was at your neck, kissing, sucking, murmuring against your skin: “I missed this. Missed feeling you around me. Never letting you go again.”

Tears soaked the pillow beneath your cheek; his fell onto your shoulder. The emotion was devastating -relief, love, grief, desperation- all of it pouring out with every thrust.

You came first again, walls clamping down hard around his cock, pulsing and fluttering as pleasure tore through you with a shattered moan.

The sensation broke him. James groaned deep in his chest, hips stuttering as his orgasm hit. His cock throbbed violently inside you, swelling even thicker as he came hard -thick, hot ropes of cum flooding your walls in powerful pulses.

“Y/N -fuckfuckfuckfuck” He kept thrusting through it, shallow and desperate, drawing out every wave as your pussy milked him dry.

But even after he spilled everything, he didn’t stop. He stayed rock-hard, the overstimulation making him shake and whimper, but the feeling was too good.

“Don’t stop,” he begged hoarsely, still crying, voice wrecked. “Please, don’t let me pull out. It’s too much- too good. I can’t-”

You pushed back against him, meeting every thrust, and he kept moving -kept cumming in smaller, intense waves that made his whole body jerk. His cock pulsed again and again inside you, more cum leaking out with every thrust, making everything slicker, messier.

He buried his face in your neck, sobbing against your skin as another orgasm ripped progressively through him, hips grinding deep.

You turned your head for a messy, tear-soaked kiss, tongues sliding lazily as he kept fucking you slow and loving and frantic all at once.

The year apart dissolved completely in the heat, the tears, and the devastating certainty that this had never been nothing.

It had always been everything. Filled every single corner of every single room you’d been in.

And neither of you left.

The room was quiet except for the slowing rhythm of your breathing and the occasional sniffle as tears finally began to ease.

James stayed buried deep inside you from behind, his arm wrapped tightly around your waist, chest pressed flush to your back. His cock still twitched with aftershocks, warm and full inside your slick, cum-filled heat. Neither of you moved to separate.

You couldn’t. Not yet.

He pressed soft, lingering kisses to the nape of your neck, his breath shaky. “I’m not leaving,” he whispered, voice hoarse and raw. “Not tonight. Not ever again if you’ll have me.”

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes over your shoulder. Fresh tears welled up. “I thought we were done. I really believed it this time.”

“I know.” His hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing away the wetness. “I was so fucking scared you’d never see me again.”

You squeezed around him instinctively, and he groaned softly, hips giving one lazy thrust before stilling again. “I was cruel too,” you admitted, voice small. “Blocking you. Pushing you away when I needed you most. I was hurting and I wanted you to hurt with me. But God, James… I never stopped loving you. Even when I hated you.”

His eyes shut tight, another tear slipping free. “I love you. I’m shit at saying it, shit at showing it the right way, but I do. So much it terrifies me. You’re the only person who’s ever seen all the ugly parts and still made me feel like I’m worth something.”

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ Jealou$y - The Nbhd ♫♬♪

You stayed like that for a long while- tangled, joined, whispering truths you’d both buried for years. Soft confessions. Apologies. Promises. The kind of vulnerable honesty that only came after devastating sex and shared tears.

His hand stroked your stomach, your breasts, anywhere he could reach, grounding himself in your warmth.

Eventually the tenderness shifted. His cock, still half-hard inside you, began to thicken again. You felt it -slow, deliberate swelling that made you gasp. James kissed your shoulder, then your neck, teeth grazing.

“Again?” you whispered, a small, breathless laugh breaking through.

“I can’t help it,” he murmured, rolling his hips slowly, stirring the mess of cum and your arousal. “You feel too good. Being inside you again it’s fucking addictive.”

The heat built quickly. You pushed back against him, and he groaned, pulling out just long enough to turn you onto your back so he could kiss you properly -deep, slow, emotional. Then he was lifting you, carrying you toward the small en-suite bathroom on unsteady legs.

The shower was tiny, barely enough room for both of you, but that only made it better. He turned the water on hot, steam filling the space as you stepped in together. Water cascaded over your bodies, washing away sweat and tears but not the need.

James pressed you against the cool tiles, mouth devouring yours while his hands roamed -slick with water, sliding over your breasts, pinching nipples until you moaned into him.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, one leg hooking over his hip. His cock, fully hard again and flushed dark, slid against your stomach.

He lifted you effortlessly, pinning you to the wall. “Wrap your legs around me, yeah?”

You did, and he guided himself back inside you in one smooth, deep thrust. The stretch was even more intense after everything -your walls sensitive and swollen, still slick with his earlier release.

He groaned loudly, forehead pressed to yours as water poured over your joined bodies.

“Fuck, Y/N… so warm. So fucking tight even after I filled you up.” He started moving -deep, rolling thrusts that ground his pelvis against your clit with every stroke.

The wet slap of skin mixed with the sound of running water. His cock dragged along every ridge inside you, thick and veined, hitting that perfect spot over and over.

You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders. Tears mixed with shower water on your cheeks. “James -harder. I need you.”

He gave it to you. Thrusts turned punishing but loving -powerful snaps of his hips that lifted you higher against the tiles. One hand held your ass, the other braced beside your head. His mouth moved to your neck, sucking marks, then to your breasts, licking water from your nipples before biting gently.

You clenched around him deliberately and he moaned, deep and broken. “Yes -squeeze me just like that. Fuck… I feel everything. You’re gonna make me cum again too soon my pretty girl.”

The angle, the heat, the steam, the overwhelming emotion -it all built fast. You came first, walls pulsing hard around his cock, sobbing his name as pleasure crashed through you.

James followed right after, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural groan. His cock throbbed violently, pumping more thick ropes of cum deep inside you. He kept thrusting through it, shallow and desperate, whimpering against your neck as overstimulation made him shake.

But he didn’t pull out. Instead, he lowered you slightly, still buried deep, and reached between you to rub your clit with slick fingers while grinding slowly.

“One more,” he begged, greedy. “Please, baby. I need to feel you cum around me again.”

You were oversensitive, trembling, but the way he looked at you -eyes wet, desperate, full of love- made you nod. He fucked you through it, slower now but no less intense, water streaming between your bodies, until you shattered again with a broken cry.

Only then did he ease out, both of you boneless and clinging. He held you under the spray, kissing you softly as the water began to cool.

Voices suddenly filtered in from the main dorm area -your members returning home, laughing and calling your name.

James froze, then smiled against your lips, a little dazed and wicked. “Guess we made it just in time.”

You laughed breathlessly, pressing one last kiss to his mouth. “Stay the night anyway. We’ll figure it out.”

He nodded, eyes soft. “I’m not going anywhere.”

So he didn’t go anywhere.

He stayed.

Became the better man he always told himself he’d be once he found the courage.

The morning after the wrap party, you woke tangled in his arms, his face buried against your neck, breathing steady and warm. Neither of you spoke much at first. Just quiet touches, soft kisses, and the shared understanding that everything had shifted.

Your members teased you mercilessly when they saw him sneaking out later that day, but the smiles on their faces said they’d known this was coming.

A few days later, he showed up at your dorm with a ridiculously corny bouquet of red roses and a handwritten letter -actual pen and paper and no chat gpt involved, slightly crumpled from how many times he’d rewritten it.

The letter was long, rambling, equal parts apology and love confession, ending with: “Will you let me take you on a real date?”

You said yes, he kissed you right there in the doorway, slow and reverent, like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed.

Your first official date was simple but perfect: a late-night drive to a quiet beach outside the city, where no one would find you and snap photos, blankets in the trunk, cheap convenience store snacks, and hours of talking under the stars. He held your hand the entire way home.

That night, back at your place, the sex was different -less desperate hunger, more deep, aching worship. He laid you out on his bed and took his time again, licking and sucking between your thighs until you came twice on his tongue, then fucked you slow, eyes locked, whispering “I love you” with every thrust.

Over the next weeks, you rebuilt in quiet, beautiful ways. Brunch dates ( in your bedroom unfortunately - there was only so much fame allowed) where he stole bites from your plate. Late studio nights where he brought you coffee and rubbed your shoulders. Public outings were careful at first -disguises, quiet corners- but the the thrill of risking to be seen together, even subtly, felt like freedom.

As your career with R3SET soared -comeback stages under blinding lights, sold-out tours that took you across continents, and the quiet pride of watching your members shine beside you -he was there. Cheering the loudest from the wings, waiting with warm arms and quiet understanding after exhausting schedules.

“You’re always the best thing in any room you’re performing in,” he’d said one time, towel drying your sweat after a long show in Seoul.

One month in, he took you to a private listening of Cortis’ finished project. Sitting in the dark, his hand on your thigh, fingers tracing lazy circles, you listened to the song. He’d included his song in the album, the one he’d written about you.

And now you were certain, that by being honest, you’d gotten everything you wanted.

In the car afterward, you couldn’t wait -you rode him in the backseat, windows fogged, your dress hiked up, his hands gripping your ass as you bounced on his cock. He came so hard he saw stars, burying his face between your breasts and murmuring how perfect you felt squeezing him.

Two months later, he talked to the girls properly -nervous, respectful, and endearingly awkward. They approved. Not that you would’ve left him anyway.

That same night, back at your dorm while the others were out, he fucked you against the kitchen counter, then bent you over the couch, pounding deep from behind until you were sobbing his name. He loved pulling your hair just enough to tilt your head back for messy kisses, loved the way your pussy fluttered and milked him when you came.

Three months in, during a quiet weekend getaway to a cabin in the mountains, he told you he was in therapy -working on the exits, the fear and the walls. You cried in his arms, proud but also insanely full. Like you suddenly realized how fulfilled you were been at such a young age.

Six months later, you both got a secondary apartment to share. It was private but yours- filled with your combined chaos and growing collection of memories and polaroids.

The sex only got better with time: lazy morning blowjobs where he’d eventually pull you up and fuck you slow and deep; shower quickies that turned into long, steamy sessions against the tiles; nights where he’d edge you for an hour with his mouth and fingers before finally giving you his cock, making you cum so many times you lost count.

You read in his arms, learned more about yourself than you’d ever did anywhere else, learned how to love him correctly, appropriately, learned how to not be so addicted to the chaos.

Your story had never been nothing. It had always been tongue-tied and beautifully, spoken aloud.

In the end, it was always his tongue that undid you both. Not just the wicked, reverent way it worshipped between your thighs.

But the way it finally learned to speak the truth.

oh my shit fuck. I actually am so grateful for this request cause i fucking loved writing this. Idc if it’s ass and if some don’t like it. I loved it. 🤤 loved writing it.

please do interact ! makes my days frfr

The first thing you ever said to James was:

“You’re in my spot.”

Not the most auspicious beginning. Not the kind of story that made for a clean narrative arc -no charged glance across a room, no meaningful collision, no moment with enough cinematic weight to justify everything that came after it.

Just you, age 18, three months into your debut, standing in the doorway of Practice Room 7B at 11pm with your water bottle and your USB drive.

And James, 19, sprawled across the center of the floor with his headphones around his neck and his jacket thrown over the mirror rail. His long legs were taking up an amount of space that felt frankly unreasonable, looking up at you with the unhurried expression of someone who had not been expecting company and was not particularly moved by its arrival.

“There’s no names on the floors,” he said.

“I booked this room,” you said. “7B, eleven pm. Check the system.”

He didn’t check the system. He looked at you for a moment with the assessing quality that you would not recognize as characteristic until much later, and then he said: “I’ve been here since nine.”

“And your booking ended at eleven,” you said, stepping inside because waiting in the doorway felt like conceding something. “So.”

He made a pause in which he conducted some internal deliberation, the outcome of which was apparently a decision to be mildly entertained rather than annoyed.

He sat up, reaching for his jacket with the unhurried ease of someone who moved through the world at his own pace regardless of external pressure.

“You’re from R3SET,” he said. Not a question.

“You’re from Cortis,” you said, equally declarative.

“James,” he said, which was not exactly an introduction so much as information delivered flatly.

“I know who you are,” you said.

Something moved at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah?”

“You were the dude who changed the note… the one in the song at that showcase stage everyone talked about for two weeks.”

“Three weeks,” he said.

“Two,” you said. “I checked.”

He looked at you then -really looked, the first time, the kind of look that was less social and more like assessment, and something in it was so direct that it felt almost rude. Then he stood up, gathered his things without particular hurry, and walked toward the door.

“It was three weeks,” he said, passing you.

“It really wasn’t,” you said to his retreating back.

The door swung shut and you stood alone in Practice Room 7B and felt, despite having successfully reclaimed your space, that the exchange had ended in something closer to a draw.

You didn’t think about it again for two weeks, which was its own kind of foreshadowing.

• • •

The thing about HYBE was that it was enormous and also, paradoxically, very small.

Enormous in the way of any machine with global reach -the floors and corridors and practice rooms and studios multiplying upward and outward, the constant movement of staff and talent and camera crews and visiting collaborators.

The kind of place where you could theoretically spend a month without seeing the same person twice.

And yet the industry within the industry -the specific ecosystem of the acts themselves, the people who lived in the same buildings and ate from the same canteen and used the same practice rooms and breathed the same air recycled through the same HVAC system -was genuinely, inescapably small.

You saw the same faces, you learned people’s schedules by accident, by proximity, by the way your paths intersected in corridors and elevators and waiting rooms without either party having arranged it.

You started seeing James everywhere approximately two weeks after the practice room, which you attributed to coincidence, and then to probability, and then eventually just accepted as a feature of your shared geography.

He was in the elevator one morning when you got on with your members, both groups maintaining the polite, comfortable distance of people who were not unfriendly but were also not yet anything in particular.

He nodded. You nodded. Simple.

Hye-ri, who had not yet heard the Practice Room 7B story and would later respond to it with conspiratorial energy, smiled brightly at everyone.

The elevator arrived at its floor and one group filed out. He held the door for Soeun, who was the last one off, moving as slowly as was her nature at 9am.

“Thanks,” Soeun said sleepily.

He said nothing, just released the door once she was through. You glanced back as the doors closed and he was looking at something on his phone.

Not at you, so you looked forward again.

• • •

The first real conversation -not the territorial exchange about Practice Room 7B, but the first one with actual content, actual duration, actual evidence of two people engaging with each other rather than simply occupying the same space- happened at the canteen at an off-hour on a Tuesday.

You’d come down at 2pm, between schedules, when the lunch rush was over and the space was quiet. You wanted something warm and uncomplicated and to sit somewhere that wasn’t a practice room or a meeting room or a corridor for approximately twenty minutes.

James was at a corner table with what appeared to be a cup of coffee and nothing else, looking at his phone with a focused scowl.

The canteen was otherwise empty.

You got your food -the plain rice and the soup, because your stomach was in that specific state of demanding something simple- and made the social calculation that sitting at the opposite end of the canteen from the only other person there was ruder than sitting nearby, so you chose a table two away from his.

He glanced up when you sat down, registered you, and looked back at his phone.

You ate your soup.

“You’re always here at weird hours,” he said, without looking up.

“So are you,” you said.

“I’m avoiding a meeting.”

“I’m between schedules.”

“What kind of schedule runs until 2am?” he asked, and now he did look up, and there was something in the question that was less pointed than curious -the genuine kind of curiosity that didn’t dress itself up.

“Rehearsal ran late,” you said. “Then a vocal session. We have a comeback in six weeks.”

“R3SET’s second?” He said it like he’d already known and was confirming.

“Yeah.” You looked at him. “You’re not avoiding a meeting. Your schedule’s on the third floor board, you don’t have anything until four.”

There was a pause.

“You read the third floor schedule board?” he asked.

“I pass it every day.”

“And you memorized my schedule.”

“I memorized the general layout,” you said, with perfect composure. “You happen to be on it.”

He looked at you for a moment with that specific expression -the almost-smile that wasn’t quite, that lived in the small muscles around his eyes rather than his mouth. “Right,” he said.

You ate your soup and he went back to his phone.

Twenty minutes passed in a quiet that was, you noticed, not uncomfortable. The two of you existing in the same space without requiring anything from each other, and neither apparently needing to fill the space with noise.

When you stood up to leave he said, without looking up: “Seven weeks.”

“What?”

“Your comeback. It’s seven weeks out, not six. The release dates got pushed on Monday.”

You stood there for a moment. “How do you know R3SET’s release schedule?”

“I read the boards,” he said. “You happen to be on them.”

He looked up then, and the almost-smile was doing the thing where it almost became an actual smile and then pulled back at the last moment like it had decided against it.

You held his gaze for exactly the amount of time required to not look away first, which was becoming a recurring theme, and then you picked up your tray.

“Thanks,” you said.

“Sure,” he said.

You walked out and made it to the elevator before you let the small, involuntary smile happen, where nobody could file it as evidence of anything.

• • •

It built the way these things built -not in dramatic installments but in the accumulation of small moments that didn’t individually amount to anything and collectively amounted to everything.

He started saving you a spot in the one practice room with the good sound system when he finished early, without mentioning it -you’d just arrive to find a piece of tape with your initials on the booking board in his handwriting.

You never acknowledged it out loud and neither did he. It simply happened, and then continued to happen, and you both treated it as unremarkable.

You gave him your extra energy bar once, in a corridor, because you had two and he looked like he hadn’t eaten since morning. He took it without excessive gratitude, just ate it while you talked about something unrelated, and the next week a different brand of bar appeared in your bag that you hadn’t put there.

There was an award show in November -your first major one as a group, the kind of night charged with the particular glamour and underlying anxiety of a milestone.

You were waiting in the corridor behind the stage in your outfit, which was a structural confection of embellished fabric that looked extraordinary and made sitting down a political decision, when he appeared from a different direction in his own stage clothes, and you both stopped.

He looked at you -the full honest look, the kind he sometimes gave when he’d apparently decided not to moderate it.

“You look-” he started, and seemed to reroute something. “Good luck tonight.”

“You too,” you said.

He nodded once before walking past, and your stylist appeared from around the corner and started fussing with your hair.

The moment folded itself away into the noise of the evening, and later, on stage, in the middle of your third song, you looked out into the audience and found him in the seats assigned to Cortis, with the navigational certainty of someone who hadn’t been looking for him and had found him anyway.

He was watching. Not performing-watching, not the ambient attention of someone in an audience.

Actually watching, with the focused quality you’d come to recognize as characteristic. He didn’t look away when you made eye contact.

You looked away first, because you had choreography to execute and couldn’t afford the distraction, but the heat of it stayed on the side of your face for the rest of the song like a second spotlight.

• • •

James was the first person (other than your members) in the building who ever made you genuinely laugh.

Not the performance laugh -the one you’d refined to a bright, camera-ready sound that communicated joy without revealing anything.

The actual one, the one that caught you off guard and came out bigger than you intended, the one that made your eyes crease at the corners in a way your makeup artist always had to correct before filming.

It was something stupid. You couldn’t even remember what, later, when you tried -some observation he’d made in that flat, deadpan delivery of his, something about Martin’s posture.

And you’d laughed, the real one, before you’d had time to present the curated version instead.

He’d looked surprised. Then the almost-smile finally completed itself -actually became a smile, rare and brief and somehow private, like something he hadn’t intended to share and had anyway.

And then both of you had looked away simultaneously like two people who had accidentally seen something they weren’t supposed to.

That was 7 months in. By then you already knew you were in trouble, the specific kind that didn’t announce itself but showed up one day fully installed and looked back at you like it had always been there.

• • •

The first fight was in January.

Not a small one. The real inaugural event -the one that established the template for everything that followed, that revealed the specific architecture of how you two functioned, when the politeness dissolved and the actual material underneath was exposed.

It was about something professional, technically.

A collab arrangement that had fallen through due to scheduling and a comment he’d made in a group setting, that you’d taken as pointed and that he’d claimed was general. But the claim itself feeling like a provocation rather than a clarification.

It had escalated with a speed that surprised you both, the way flash fires did -the specific combustibility of two people who had spent seven months building up a charge without discharge.

Every careful canteen silence, every piece of tape on a booking board, every unremarked energy bar, every held glance and looked-away-from moment: all of it apparently convertible into fuel.

You said things. He said things. The things were sharp and specific, which was worse than general and vague. That meant you both knew exactly where to aim.

He told you that your drive was so relentless it was alienating. You told him that his emotional unavailability was a character flaw he’d dressed up as depth.

And other particularly childish things.

Both of you hit something real. Both of you knew it.

It ended not with resolution but with you walking out of the conversation, and him letting you. The two of you spending eleven days not speaking in a building you shared, navigating around each other with effortful precision.

On the twelfth day he was in the elevator when you got on, alone, the doors closed, and in the four floors between you and your destination neither of you spoke. When the doors opened he held them and let you out first with the same gesture he’d used for Soeun seven months ago.

“The tape’s back on 7B,” he said, as the doors were closing. “If you want it.”

You walked to the practice room.

The tape was there, your initials in his handwriting, unremarkable and consistent and saying more than either of you had managed in eleven days of silence. So you pulled out your USB drive and started the music and didn’t think about what it meant, because thinking about what it meant required a vocabulary you hadn’t yet developed for whatever this was.

• • •

The second fight happened in March, and it was the one that changed the coordinates of everything.

In retrospect -and you would spend a considerable amount of time in retrospect, dissecting this particular evening with forensic attention. Like someone trying to locate the exact moment a thing became a different thing -it wasn’t even a significant fight. Not by the standards.

It was a Tuesday, late, and you were both in the building past reasonable hours.

You’d crossed paths in the corridor outside the vocal booths in the specific way that felt, by now, less like coincidence and more like the building itself was engineering your proximity through some architectural conspiracy.

You’d said something. He’d responded. The response had landed wrong. The details were almost beside the point -they always were with James, the specifics of the argument always slightly less important than the current running underneath it.

What mattered was the escalation, which was quick and hot, the two of you falling into the rhythm of it with the terrible fluency of people who’d already mapped each other’s pressure points and couldn’t help pressing them.

You were in his face in the way you got when you were angry -close, refusing to let height function as advantage, chin tilted up, voice controlled and precise in the way that was somehow more aggressive than shouting.

He was doing the jaw thing, the one where the muscle flickered at the corner, and his eyes were dark, direct and giving nothing.

“You don’t actually know me,” you said, which was what you said when he’d gotten too close to something accurate and you needed to push him back. “You think you do-”

“I know you better than you’re comfortable with,” he said, flat and certain. “That’s the problem.”

“That’s not a problem, that’s a delusion-”

“You went still,” he said. “Just now. When I said that. You went still.”

“I didn’t-”

“You always go still when something’s true.”

You stared at him, he stared back.

And something in the architecture of the moment shifted without announcement -the way pressure shifted before weather, that subtle change in atmospheric quality that meant something was about to happen whether or not anyone had decided on it.

You didn’t decide. That was the thing you’d return to later, examining it from different angles.

It didn’t feel like a decision.

It felt like the inevitable conclusion of seven months of accumulated charge finally finding its outlet, physics rather than choice, the thing that happened when you built up enough of something and ran out of room to keep containing it.

You kissed him.

Or he kissed you.

The honest answer was that it was simultaneous in the way that made attribution impossible, the two of you crossing the remaining distance at the same moment as if you’d both received the same signal from the same source.

His hand came up to the side of your face with a roughness that wasn’t quite gentle and wasn’t quite not, and you had a fistful of his jacket.

The anger didn’t disappear -that was the thing that surprised you most in the moment, that the anger didn’t disappear but instead converted, transformed into something that ran in the same channel at the same intensity in a completely different direction.

It lasted approximately ten seconds.

You both pulled back. Looked at each other. The corridor was still empty, the distant practice track was still running. Nothing had changed about the physical reality of the space, but everything had changed about what existed in it.

His hand was still near your face. Neither of you moved for a moment.

Then you let go of his jacket

“That,” you said, with all the composure you could assemble on short notice, which was not as much as you would have liked, “didn’t happen.”

Something moved through his expression. Not agreement. Not disagreement. Something harder to read. “Okay,” he said.

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“James.”

“I said okay, jeez,” he scoffed.

You straightened. Fixed your top, met his eyes one final time with the look you used when you needed to communicate that you were in complete control of a situation.

You walked back down the corridor and took the stairs, because the elevator required waiting and waiting required standing still and standing still was not something you were capable of in that particular moment.

In the stairwell you sat on the third step from the bottom, pressing your fingertips to your mouth and stared at the concrete floor.

You said, quietly and with feeling, a word that started with ‘F’ and covered approximately forty percent of what you were actually feeling, the other sixty percent being substantially too complicated for a single word to manage.

Fuck, it didn’t happen, you told yourself.

Your heartbeat said otherwise, loud and inconveniently informative.

• • •

It happened again three weeks later... ironically.

This time there was less plausible deniability about what it was -it wasn’t the end of an argument, wasn’t the discharge of accumulated charge.

It was a different kind of moment entirely, which made it both better and worse simultaneously.

You’d been in the practice room late, alone, running the bridge section of the new choreography for what felt like the fortieth time because something in the transition wasn’t landing cleanly.

You couldn’t locate the problem from inside the movement, which was the particular frustration of dance -sometimes you needed external eyes, someone to stand outside the thing and see what you couldn’t feel.

James had appeared in the doorway with the look of someone who’d been passing and had stopped, and for a moment he’d just watched you run the section.

“The weight transfer,” he said, from the doorway. “You’re anticipating the next count. You lose the accent.”

You ran it again, adjusting.

“Better,” he said.

Then he came in and stood beside you in the mirror, and ran the count with you -not the full choreography, just the four bars in question, his reflection beside yours in the practice room mirror.

His timing was good in the simple baseline way that people who lived in music tended to have regardless of their primary discipline.

When you ran it clean he caught your eye in the mirror and said: “There. You’re insanely good when you focus.”

And you responded with blurry eyes : “Yeah.”

The room was very quiet because then, neither of you was looking at the mirror anymore.

The second time was slower than the first. That was the difference - the first time had been the speed of reaction, of something that had been held too long finally releasing.

You felt the shift in the air before his hand moved -his palm sliding slowly up your arm, over the thin strap of your practice top, until his fingers curled around the back of your neck.

His grip was warm, firm, not quite gentle. When you finally looked up at him, his eyes had gone dark, pupils wide.

He didn’t ask. He simply leaned in and kissed you like he’d already made the decision minutes ago.

It started slow, almost careful -his lips pressing against yours with deliberate pressure, warm and slightly damp from the heat of the room. Then the restraint slipped.

His mouth opened, and the kiss deepened with a low, quiet hunger. His tongue brushed yours, not teasing but claiming, stroking in a slow, heated rhythm that made your stomach tighten. You tasted salt on his lips from the earlier dancing, felt the faint scrape of stubble against your skin as he tilted his head and took more.

His other hand found your waist, fingers digging in just enough to pull you flush against him. The kiss grew hotter, wetter.

A soft, involuntary sound escaped you, and he answered it with a low exhale through his nose, almost a growl, as he backed you half a step until your lower back met the barre.

He pressed forward, chest to chest, one thigh sliding between yours as the kiss turned unmistakably heated -messy, urgent, tongues sliding and lips sucking, breathing growing ragged between the brief moments you broke apart only to crash back together.

When he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his lips were flushed and shiny, breath coming hard. His forehead rested against yours, eyes half-lidded, and for a second the only sound in the mirrored room was the two of you trying to remember how to breathe.

Your makeup from earlier had faded to its bones. Your hair had come partly undone. You looked, you thought, like someone in the middle of something they hadn’t planned.

Which was accurate.

James was watching your reflection rather than your face, which felt like a concession of some kind -the mirror was easier, the distance of the reflection, the ability to look at something without quite looking directly at it.

“We should probably…” you started.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Talk about-”

“Probably,” he agreed.

You both didn’t talk about it.

Not that night, not in the days following.

By unspoken mutual agreement you treated the practice room the way you’d treated the corridor -as something that had happened in a pocket outside normal time.

You saw each other in the building and were normal, which is to say you were exactly what you’d always been -two people with an unclassifiable dynamic and an ongoing low-grade tension.

It was, you would think later, an approach with significant structural flaws.

• • •

The first time you slept with James was inevitable in the way that cellular reproduction is inevitable

-something that had been pulling since the moment the charge between you became too dense to ignore, building through every charged silence, every almost-smile, every fight that left you both raw and buzzing.

It happened six weeks after the second kiss, in the quiet, exhausted aftermath of one of those late nights where the building felt like it belonged only to the two of you.

You’d both been avoiding each other again after a stupid argument about nothing that had somehow spiraled into everything -something about schedules and priorities, and how neither of you ever actually said what you meant.

Three days of careful, professional distance in the corridors. Three days of pretending the other person didn’t exist in a space where existence was impossible to avoid.

You were in 7B again, alone, running through vocals until your throat felt like sandpaper because stillness was worse than exhaustion.

James appeared in the doorway like he always did, unannounced, carrying two bottles of water he couldn’t explain.

He set one down near your bag without a word and leaned against the mirror rail, watching you with that clinical, cataloguing stare.

You didn’t tell him to leave. He didn’t ask if he should stay.

The conversation that followed was sparse, edged, full of the things you weren’t saying.

Accusations dressed as observations.

Defenses that sounded like attacks.

Until the space between you simply ran out, and the kiss that started it was less explosion this time and more surrender -slow at first, almost reluctant, like both of you were still trying to talk yourselves out of it even as your hands moved.

He knew exactly how to touch you.

That was the terrifying part.

From the first slide of his palm up your waist under your shirt, he read your body like he’d been studying it for months in secret (because he had). The way his thumb pressed just under your ribs made your breath catch. The way he bit down on your shoulder when you tugged at his hair drew a sound from you that felt humiliatingly honest.

You knew him too -knew the tension at the base of his spine when he was trying to hold back, knew how his breath stuttered when you dragged your nails down his back, knew the exact rhythm that made his control fracture.

There was no discussion. No “what are we doing.” No neat categorization. You ended up on the floor with the lights still on, door locked and the faint smell of rubber mats and sweat in the air, clothes shoved aside rather than removed entirely because stopping felt impossible.

It was slow at first -agonizingly so- James pushing into you with a controlled patience that felt like punishment, forehead pressed to yours, eyes open the whole time. Every inch deliberate. Every roll of his hips measured to draw out the kind of sound you refused to let anyone else hear.

But it was the loudest you’ve ever felt him, deep in your bone marrow, all-consuming. Not loud, not frantic at first, but devastatingly precise.

He fucked you like he’d already memorized every map point of your pleasure and was now tracing them with ruthless focus -slow, deep strokes that made your back arch off the floor. His hand clamped gently but firmly over your mouth when your voice started to climb, because even then, even in that moment, the building and the world outside still existed. You came so hard your vision whited out at the edges, thighs shaking around his waist, and he followed shortly after with a low, broken sound against your neck, hips stuttering as he buried himself deep.

Afterward you lay there tangled on the floor, breathing hard, neither of you speaking for a long time. The weight of what had just happened settled over both of you like a second skin -intimate, terrifying, and already laced with the knowledge that this would complicate everything without solving anything.

You didn’t label it. Not that night, not ever. It simply became another layer of the thing between you: a new way to argue with your bodies instead of your words.

Sometimes it followed a fight -angry, rough, biting kisses and hands that gripped too hard, the kind of sex that felt like punishment and absolution at once.

Sometimes it happened in the quiet lulls, slower and almost tender in its exhaustion, where he would press his face into your neck and you would let yourself hold him like he was yours without ever saying it.

The toxic rhythm continued, unchanged at its core. He would disappear for days after particularly raw nights -ghosting texts, avoiding your usual corridors, throwing himself into work like distance could reset the scale. You would do the same, blocking his number for forty-eight hours only to unblock it when the silence felt worse than the fighting.

You’d show up at each other’s dorms at odd hours under flimsy excuses (a forgotten charger, a question about a stage cue, clothes left behind on purpose), and end up in his bed or against his door or in the shower with the water running loud enough to cover the sounds you couldn’t quite muffle.

He knew your body with devastating accuracy-the exact pressure on your clit that made your legs give out, the angle that had you clenching around him with a broken whimper, the way sucking on the spot just below your ear made you forget every defensive retort.

You knew his -the way his hips stuttered when you whispered filthy observations against his mouth, the way gripping the back of his neck grounded him when he got lost in his own head, the way he groaned your name like a curse and a prayer when you rode him slow and deliberate, refusing to let him rush.

It was never just sex.

It was the continuation of every conversation you refused to finish out loud. Every thrust carried the weight of ‘I see you.’ Every bite carried ‘I hate how much I need this.’

Every time he came with your name muffled against your skin, it felt like another thread tightening around the thing neither of you would name.

You kept orbiting. Fights, silence, explosive nights that left you both wrecked and temporarily softer, then more fights. The push and pull became the architecture of whatever this was -intimate, codependent, and fundamentally unresolved. Because naming it would require choosing, and choosing felt more dangerous than the endless cycle of coming together and pulling apart.

• • •

Three years had gone by.

Three years, and James was still the same.

Still the same flat delivery and assessing gaze and emotional availability of a particularly well-defended fortress. Still the same almost-smile that completed itself approximately four times a year and each time felt like being handed something rare and slightly dangerous. Still the same fluency in your pressure points, still the same precision with words when he wanted them to land somewhere specific, still the same capacity to fill a room with his particular brand of charged, difficult presence in a way that you’d never been able to adequately explain to anyone who asked.

You’d tried, once, when Hye-ri had asked you to describe what it was about him -what the actual thing was, underneath the toxicity narrative, underneath the drama, the real answer.

You’d sat with the question for a long moment and then said: he’s the most specific person I’ve ever met.

In conclusion, you were both still the same, only maybe worse.

You rolled your eyes so hard it actually hurt, tossing your phone onto the silk duvet of your bed.

Lock my doors? Who the fuck does this fucking little bitch think he is?

As if he hadn't already broken through every single one of your defenses months ago, making sure you were now opened raw and spread on a fucking platter for him - aphrodisiac foods and all.

You knew exactly what he was doing playing that toxic game where he'd insult your existence one minute and then pull you against him so tight you could feel his heartbeat the next.

Grabbing your oversized hoodie, you didn't even bother changing out of your stage makeup, the glitter still clinging to your eyelids like shimmering armor. You knew you were playing with fire, but the adrenaline of a fight was the only thing that made you feel alive lately.

Maybe that was the whole problem.

Every argument with James sent something electric through your veins, sharp and addictive, the way his jaw clenched when he was angry, the way your pulse quickened when neither of you backed down, the way every cruel word felt like a challenge thrown across a battlefield.

It was exhausting. It was toxic.

It was also the closest thing to feeling alive you had found in months.

Silence bored you. Peace made your skin itch. But a fight with James? A fight with James could have your heart hammering against your ribs so hard it felt like it was trying to escape.

It made you feel seen. Seen in the worst possible way, maybe, but seen nonetheless.

Because no one got under your skin the way he did and you hated him for it.

You hated how he could turn a harmless conversation into a screaming match. Hated how he knew exactly which buttons to push. Hated how anger always burned hotter when it was directed at him.

And maybe the sickest part was that, somewhere between the insults and slammed doors, you found yourself craving it.

Craving him.

Not because fighting felt good, but because it was the only time neither of you pretended not to care.

Ten minutes later, you were standing in the hallway of the Cortis dorms, your knuckles rapping sharply against the wood, and your keys in your hand ( which you’d hoped you could stab through his stupid face ).

The door swung open almost immediately, and there he was, hair a mess, eyes bloodshot, looking absolutely wrecked but still somehow infuriatingly handsome.

"The hell you doin' here?" James muttered, leaning heavily against the doorframe. His voice was raspy, thick with the remnants of alcohol and irritation. He looked you up and down, his gaze lingering a second too long on your legs before he scowled. "Thought you'd be tucked in at 9pm, acting all high and mighty like always.”

"You're a dick, James," you snapped, stepping past him into his space without waiting for an invitation. "Juhoon told me you were out here throwing a tantrum like a child."

"A tantrum?" He let out a dry, bitter laugh, closing the door with a heavy thud behind you. He stepped into your personal bubble, looming over you so you had to tilt your head back just to meet his eyes. The tension was thick enough to choke on that familiar, jagged energy that always preceded a blowout or a breakdown. “You’re the one who came here. I was just drunk, it wasn’t that deep.”

"Not that deep?" You scoffed, a sharp, melodic sound that felt jagged in the quiet of the dorms. You stepped closer, your chest nearly brushing his, refusing to let his height intimidate you. "You're literally texting people like a fucking psycho, James. You're embarrassing yourself."

James let out a huff, the scent of expensive whiskey and something uniquely him that warm, musky scent that always made your stomach do a traitorous flip hitting you full force.

He didn't back away. Instead, he leaned down, his face inches from yours, his eyes dark and swirling with a mix of intoxication and pure, unadulterated irritation.

"Embarrassing? Please," he sneered, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before snapping back to your eyes. "You love it. You love comin' over here in the middle of the night just to tell me how much of a prick I am. You're addicted to the drama, y/n. Don't even lie to yourself, that’s embarrassing."

He reached out, his fingers catching a strand of your hair, tugging it just slightly not enough to hurt, but enough to make the contact feel intentional, aggressive.

"You're so damn extra," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave, turning low and dangerous. "Walkin' in here lookin' like that...full of attitude. You think you're so untouchable, huh? Like you're too big for this shit?"

He stepped even closer, forcing you to take a half step back until the edge of his kitchen counter pressed into your lower back. He loomed over you, his presence heavy and suffocating in the best possible way.

"You're a menace," he whispered, his thumb grazing your jawline, his touch surprisingly soft compared to the venom in his words. "A tiny, loud mouthed, beautiful menace. And you're drivin' me fucking crazy."

His eyes searched yours, searching for the spark of a fight, for the retaliation he knew was coming. He was baiting you, pushing you to the edge because he knew that once you tipped over, there was no going back to being 'just friends' or 'just a situationship.'

"So, what's it gonna be tonight?" he challenged, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You gonna scream at me 'til your throat hurts, or are you gonna shut the fuck up and actually do something about it?"

You let out a sharp, mocking laugh, refusing to let his proximity intimidate you even as your heart thudded a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

God, he was so predictable, using his hands to distract you when he knew he was losing the verbal war.

You reached up, grabbing the front of his shirt with a white knuckled grip, pulling him down until your foreheads collided.

"You're so full of yourself, thinking i’m the only one addicted to this," you hissed, your eyes flashing with a mix of fury and hunger. "Maybe I didn't come here to scream, James. Maybe I just came to remind you exactly who it is that actually puts up with your bullshit."

Without waiting for his smug comeback, you stood on your tiptoes and crashed your lips against his, the kiss less of a romantic gesture and more of a collision hard, desperate, and tasting faintly of whiskey.

The moment your lips crashed into his, a low, guttural sound escaped the back of James's throat halfway between a groan and a growl.

He didn't do gentle. He didn't do "sweet."

The second you initiated the contact, his hands moved from your hair to your waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of your oversized hoodie with a bruising intensity, as if he were trying to pull you inside his very skin.

He kissed you back with a frantic, starving energy, his tongue sweeping against yours in a way that felt like a battle for dominance. It was messy, teeth clashing, the taste of whiskey and salt and pure, unbridled tension coating your mouth. He tasted like the chaos you both thrived in.

"Fuck," he breathed against your lips, breaking the kiss for just a fraction of a second to catch his breath, his forehead still pressed hard against yours. His eyes were blown wide, the pupils swallowing the iris, looking dark and predatory in the dim light of the apartment. "You're such a brat. Always gotta have the last word, even when you're using your mouth for somethin' else."

He didn't give you time to retort. His hands slid down from your waist, gripping your thighs and hoisting you up so you had to wrap your legs around his waist just to stay upright. He backed you up against the counter, the granite cold against your skin, but he was pure heat.

"You think you're so smart, huh?" he muttered, his lips grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear, sending a violent shiver down your spine. He nipped at your lobe, his voice dropping into that rough, drawl that always made your knees weak. "Thinkin' you can just walk in here, look all pretty and smug, and make me forget how much you pissed me off hours ago?"

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his gaze heavy and hooded, his thumb dragging roughly over your bottom lip, smearing the remnants of your lip gloss.

“I still hate you.” He declared, as if you could care less.

He leaned back in, his kiss deeper this time, more possessive, his hands roaming your body as if he were trying to memorize every inch of the girl who knew exactly how to ruin him.

A wicked, dangerous thought flickered in the back of your mind. You weren't just going to let him have his way not tonight. He thought he was the one in control, the one who could just summon you with a few drunken, messy texts and expect you to fall into his lap.

Not a chance, fucktard.

You leaned into the chaos, matching his intensity with a fervor that was almost manic, let your hands slide under his shirt, your nails grazing the skin of his back, tracing the muscles there just enough to make him hiss through his teeth. You kissed him like you were trying to consume him, your movements calculated and devastatingly effective. You knew exactly where to press, how to tilt your head, how to let your breath hitch in a way that he could feel against his skin.

You felt him react the way his breathing hitched, the way his grip on your thighs tightened until it was almost painful, and the unmistakable shift in his body as he grew hard against you. He was losing it. The smug, cocky James was being dismantled by the very person he'd spent the last hour insulting.

Just as his hands began to slide lower, just as he let out a sound that was finally pure and honest, you pulled back.

It wasn't a gradual retreat, it was a sharp, sudden break. You slid off him, your feet hitting the kitchen floor with a soft thud that felt deafening in the sudden silence.

James stumbled slightly, his hands grasping at empty air where your waist had been seconds ago. He blinked, his eyes glazed and dark, looking completely dazed and desperately needy. "Yo... where the fuck are you going'?" he rasped, his voice cracking. He reached for you, his movements uncoordinated, his face a mask of confusion and sudden, intense frustration. "Y/n, don't be a bitch. We just-"

"We just what, James?" you interrupted, your voice cool, smooth, and entirely too calm for someone who had just been devouring him. You reached up, smoothing down your oversized hoodie, your expression unreadable despite the glitter still shimmering on your eyelids. "You were 'just drunk,' remember? You said it wasn't that deep.“

You turned toward the door, a small, triumphant smirk playing on your lips that you made sure he couldn't see.

Gotcha bastard.

"Wait, hold up," he growled, stepping toward you, his chest heaving. He looked wrecked hair a disaster, lips swollen, and a look of pure, desperate irritation on his face. "You're really gonna do this? You're gonna leave me like this? That's low, even for you."

"Get used to it you manchild," you tossed over your shoulder, grabbing your keys. "You wanted a tantrum? You got one. Goodnight, James."

As you walked out the door, you could practically feel his gaze burning a hole in your back, his frustration radiating off him in waves. You knew he was standing there, probably cursing your name under his breath.

And that was exactly the point.

• • •

The next day hit like a hangover, except for the part you weren’t the one who’d been drinking.

You pushed through the revolving doors of the HYBE building with your signature Prada sunglasses perched on your nose even though the lobby lighting was soft and flattering. Your manager scurried behind you like an overworked shadow, clipboard in hand, already rattling off the day’s agenda in rapid-fire mode.

“R3SET styling at 10:30 sharp. You’re filming joint content today with Enhypen for their new single promo - dance challenge, variety games, and that ‘chemistry talk’ segment the fans love. Their company specifically requested some cross-group pairings.”

You offered her a small, tired nod instead of words, flipping your hair so the ends brushed your shoulders in a smooth motion. The echo of your shoes against the marble floors cut through the quiet hum of staff and distant practice room bass as you kept walking.

‘No need to snap at her just because you’re exhausted’ you thought to yourself. She was just doing her job in this machine that never stopped spinning. You saved your venom for people who actually deserved it.

Enhypen. Cute.

At least it wasn’t him.

Today you could breathe without the weight of last night’s wreckage pressing on your ribs.

Inside the fifth-floor styling suite reserved exclusively for R3SET, the familiar controlled chaos of the music industry machine wrapped around you like expensive perfume and hairspray. The air smelled of warm curling irons, fresh coffee from the craft table, and that signature Jo malone diffuser scent they pumped in to “set the mood.”

Clothing racks dominated one wall -today’s concept was cool, street style: oversized Adidas zip-up jackets in sleek black and washed-out grey, layered over fitted crop tops, paired with relaxed cargo pants and sneakers..

Your members were already deep in transformation mode. Mina sat regal while a senior stylist perfected her long extensions, Hye-ri was getting her nails done in a glossy blood-red, and maknae Soeun was dozing in her chair as the makeup artist contoured her cheeks into something angelic.

You dropped into the center makeup chair like you owned the entire floor, crossing your legs with a dramatic sigh.

Ji-eun, your long-time makeup artist who had survived two years of your moods, gave you a quick once-over in the mirror. “Rough night?” she asked under her breath, already squeezing primer onto her palette.

“Define rough,” you muttered, scrolling through your phone even though the notifications were painfully empty. No drunk apologies. No blocked-number workarounds. Just silence. “Just make me look… alive please.’”

Ji-eun smiled faintly. “Got it.”

Mina glanced over, lips already glossed to perfection. “You disappeared after practice yesterday. Again. You good?”

“Spectacular,” you replied, voice laced with sarcasm. “Just dealing with manchildren who think 2 am. drunk texts are romantic.”

Hye-ri’s head snapped up like a meerkat. “James again? Seriously, unnie, how many times are you two gonna do that toxic shit before one of you actually taps out?”

Never, your mind whispered traitorously.

“It’s complicated, what can i say?” You shrugged.

The memory of last night flooded in uninvited; his wrecked hair, whiskey breath, the way he’d pinned you against the counter like he wanted to disappear inside you. The triumphant click of his dorm door behind you still echoed in your chest like a victory that tasted strangely like ash.

It all felt like a blade you kept pressing into both your palms just to feel something real.

Ji-eun worked in focused silence, blending cool concealer under your eyes to erase the faint shadows of sleeplessness. She layered on a smoked-out lid with razor-sharp black wings, turning your gaze into something predatory and elegant. Your lips got a deep, venomous berry stain -kiss-proof, because your line of work demanded perfection even when your insides felt like chaos.

The K-pop content machine never stopped turning. Joint promotions like this with Enhypen were calculated gold: their sleek, powerful boy-group energy paired beautifully with R3SET’s fierce, unapologetic girl-crush concept. Dance challenges, playful variety games, forced “get-to-know-you” segments -all designed to spark fan edits and trending hashtags. Companies loved this shit. Fans ate it up.

Your phone buzzed. A staff message confirming the pairings. You didn’t bother opening it fully.

Hye-ri spun in her chair, now fully styled in a cropped metallic top that flashed under the ring lights. “Jake and Sunghoon are stupid fine. Think we’ll get paired for the couple dance segment?“

You scoffed, examining your reflection as Ji-eun finished with setting spray. The girl in the mirror looked lethal -flawless skin glowing, hair in sleek waves with strategic face-framing pieces.

But inside, something softer twisted. Last night you’d ghosted James properly after months of toxic push-and-pull. Deleted everywhere. Left him standing there wrecked. And now, even on a day that had nothing to do with Cortis, his stupid ghost lingered like expensive cologne you couldn’t wash off.

‘Let him suffer’, you thought, but the thought carried a quiet ache -like pressing on a bruise just to watch the colors bloom. Of fucking course he wouldn’t suffer, how naive could you be?

“Yeah, well,” you said aloud, voice dripping venom, “hot doesn’t fix emotional constipation. Most of these idols are better at choreography than conversation anyway.”

You had… weird ways to cope.

Soeun giggled. “Unnie, you’re so fucking scary.”

“Realistic,” you corrected, standing up as the stylists adjusted your jacket to hang off one shoulder just right.

Your manager popped her head back in. “Fifteen minutes until we head to Studio 4 with Enhypen. Smile. Be friendly. The director wants natural vibes.”

You smirked at your reflection one final time, tilting your chin.

Natural vibes.

Sure.

As R3SET filed out toward the elevators - sneakers tapping in unison, ther familiar tension coiled low in your stomach. Not because of Enhypen, but because somewhere in this same building, James was probably nursing the same bruised ego and headache you’d gifted him last night.

You wondered if he’d heard about today’s schedule.

You wondered if he’d care, which was obvious, he probably wouldn’t care.

The distant bass from practice rooms thrummed through the walls like a heartbeat. Your own heart did that stupid, traitorous flip it always did when your thoughts drifted to him -equal parts hate and hunger, wrapped in the prettiest shade of toxicity.

This is going to be a long day, you thought, a small, but at least today, the battlefield didn’t have his name on it.

You stepped into Studio 4 with a soft smile, the bright lights warming your face as you adjusted the oversized zip-up jacket hanging casually off one shoulder. The polished floors reflected the group’s energy, professional. and you gave a little wave to everyone already there, your glittery eyelids catching the light in a subtle shimmer.

Your members moved around you comfortably- Mina offering polite hellos, Hye-ri stretching with a laugh, and Soeun rubbing her eyes sleepily. You felt that familiar pre-filming flutter in your stomach, not quite nerves but a quiet excitement mixed with the weight of last night still lingering like a faint bruise.

The Enhypen boys were clustered near the craft table, looking sharp in their coordinated streetwear. Jake noticed you first and flashed that warm, dimpled smile. “Hey! So glad you guys made it.”

You returned the smile easily, tilting your head with a small laugh. “Hi, yeah, we’re excited to be here. Thanks for having us, the new song is amazing, by the way.”

Okay, just breathe and be normal. No need to overthink this, you thought, suspicious they’d read through your mind and find out just how much of a crazy bitch you were.

Your manager gave you an approving nod as you kept things light and friendly, your members chatting politely with them.

Sunghoon offered you a curt nod, while Heeseung bowed politely. Jungwon, the leader, stepped forward with easy warmth. “I watched some of your latest stages y/n! The dance machine herself- it’s really cool to finally collab like this.”

Dance machine. The nickname always made you duck your head a little, cheeks warming with humble pride. You’d earned it through endless hours in practice rooms, pushing your body until the music felt like it lived in your bones, but you never let it go to your head.

“Ah, stop, you’re too sweet,” you said with a shy grin, waving it off. “I’m just happy to dance with all of you. And Riki and i gotta live up to the title of best dancers of this generation.”

You caught Riki’s eye across the group and gave him a friendly fist bump when he approached, his tall frame and sharp grin matching your energy in the best way. There was an easy respect between you two, no awkwardness, just shared love for the craft.

“Yeah i’m sure we could never disappoint” Riki said, voice low and teasing but kind.

“Pretty sure we won’t,” you replied softly, smiling wide. “I’ve been practicing that footwork you posted last month - it’s killer.”

The director clapped his hands, calling everyone into position before the conversation could continue.

“Alright! Starting with the dance challenge for the ‘Bite me’ remix. Let’s keep it natural, lots of energy and good vibes.”

The cameras started rolling, and you moved with effortless grace, your body syncing to the heavy bass like it was second nature. Every sharp isolation, every smooth body roll, every powerful pop flowed out of you warmly, drawing quiet cheers from the staff. Riki matched you perfectly, the two of you creating that unspoken chemistry that made the dance feel alive. During the partner section, his hand guided your waist for a small lift- professional, precise, and supportive.

Between takes, you found yourself chatting with Riki near the water station. He leaned against the wall, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel. “Your timing on that pre-chorus footwork is insane. How do you even make the transitions feel so natural?”

You smiled, twisting open your water bottle and taking a sip. “Lots of late nights pushing it until it clicked, honestly. But you’re incredible too - you know that ankle detail you added? I tried stealing it for our teaser, but it looked mid.” A soft, genuine laugh escaped you.

It felt refreshing, this easy conversation without any sharp edges. God, when was the last time talking to someone didn’t feel like walking through a minefield?

Your mind drifted traitorously back to James, as it always seemed to do. He would’ve noticed already -the single rebellious lash at the outer corner of your right eye that curled upward like a tiny black wing, refusing to cooperate no matter how carefully Ji-eun applied the mascara. It looked like deliberate eyeliner flair, but it wasn’t. James knew that.

He noticed everything about you: the way you favored your left hip when it tightened from over-practice, the specific tilt of your head when you were holding back a real smile, the faint scar on your knuckle from that mic stand incident two years ago.

Even in the midst of chaos, he saw the small things that made you feel truly seen… and that was part of what made everything so complicated.

You shook the thought away gently (aggressively) as the director called for the variety games segment. The group split into mixed teams for the silly relays -balloon passing with no hands, quick karaoke bits, and freestyle dance prompts. You ended up with Jake and Riki, fumbling through the challenges with plenty of laughter and when it was your turn to freestyle, Riki kicked it off with intricate footwork that had everyone clapping. You followed with fluid waves and isolations, keeping it playful and encouraging the others, the cameras rolled capturing the brotherly energy that Enhypen had towards your members and you.

This was fun, better than sulking all day because of some self centered prick-

Jungwon laughed from the sidelines. “You really are the dance machine. That was so smooth!”

You blushed a little, smiling shyly. “Thanks, but you guys killed it too, no really.”

The chemistry talk segment wrapped things up, everyone sitting in a loose circle on the studio floor with mics clipped on. The questions started light -favorite collabs, funny stage fails, dream variety show ideas. Hye-ri’s dramatic reactions had the whole group giggling. Then it shifted to partnerships.

“So, y/n and Riki,” the MC staff prompted with a friendly smile. “You two are always trending for your dance collabs. What’s it like working together?”

Riki glanced at you thoughtfully. “She pushes everyone to be better. It’s easy to sync up cause i feel like we both catch the little details that make a performance special.”

You nodded, smiling softly as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “He’s right. It’s nice when someone just… gets the feeling behind the moves. And Riki’s always so encouraging, like a brother,- i learn a lot from him.” You gave his shoulder a light, friendly nudge and the laughter that followed felt natural, the cameras capturing the easy, likeable vibe the director wanted.

Filming wrapped with group photos, warm goodbyes, and promises of future collabs and some Enhypen members filed out first, waving cheerfully.

You were gathering your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder with a content sigh, when the studio door opened briefly.

James walked past in the hallway, probably heading somewhere else in the building, his messy hair and sharp jawline unmistakable even from a distance. His eyes flicked inside the studio and landed on you- specifically on you chatting animatedly with Riki near the exit, the two of you still exchanging quick notes about the choreography with easy smiles.

You didn’t see him at first, but the familiar pull in your chest hit anyway.

His expression tightened for a split second -something unreadable- before he kept walking. You caught the movement out of the corner of your eye too late, your smile faltering just a touch as that toxic mix of ache and hunger twisted quietly inside you again.

You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder, the oversized hoodie slipping a little further down your arm, and waved goodbye to the other members as they headed off to their next schedule. Jake shot you a thumbs-up, and you waved back with both hands, cheeks still carrying that post-filming flush.

Being kind came naturally most days -it was easier to smile and lift others up than to sharpen your words like weapons- but moments like this reminded you how fragile that calm could be when James was involved.

Not that you actually gave a fuck.

Your members gathered around you near the mirrors as staff began packing up equipment. Mina tilted her head, noticing the tiny shift in your expression. “You okay, unnie? You looked like you were having fun with Riki earlier.”

You let out a soft breath and smiled again, this one a little smaller but still real. “Yeah, I’m good. It was really fun. Riki’s so talented -it’s nice when you can just… dance without thinking and all that corny stuff.”

“You two are literally the dance machine duo everyone talks about. I swear, the way you synced up? Chef’s kiss. But seriously, you’ve been a little spacey today.” Hye-ri slung an arm around your shoulders, her blood-red nails flashing under the lights. “Is it because of… looser king?”

Looser king was the -ridiculous and childish- nickname you’d given James, it was some sort of code name to make it easier to speak about him under full confidentiality. But you were pretty sure James was aware that he was in fact the looser king.

Soeun perked up from where she was sipping her water, eyes wide and curious. “Wait, James again? Unnie, you gotta tell us the full story one day. You always come back from seeing him looking like you got into a fight with 10 elephants or something.”

You ducked your head with a shy laugh, tucking that stubborn strand of hair behind your ear again. The rebellious lash at the outer corner of your right eye caught in the mirror’s reflection -curling upward just enough to look like intentional liner flair. You knew James would have zeroed in on it instantly if he’d been closer.

It was scary, really -how someone who drove you so crazy could still make you feel more seen than the thousands of fans screaming your name.

Why does he have to notice the small things? It would be easier if he just… didn’t, you thought.

Screw that, it would be easier if he just fucking died.

“I don’t know,” you admitted quietly to your members, voice kind and a little vulnerable as you all started walking toward the elevators. “It’s complicated. He texts something messy at 2 a.m., i show up like an idiot, and then… well, you know. But today was nice. No drama, just dancing and laughing with good people. I’m tryna keep it that way.”

Hye-ri squeezed your shoulder supportively. “You deserve easy days, unnie. You work harder than anyone I know. Him on the other hand? He deserves to get properly beaten up.”

The compliment warmed you, but the last comment made you even happier, and you bumped her lightly with your hip, grinning. “Stop, you’re gonna make me blush in front of the staff, i’m gonna start thinking it’s okay to beat men up sometimes.”

Inside your head, though, the gremlin of misconduct whispered: “Beat him up until he can’t even curse at you anymore. Violence IS the answer.”

•••

As you rode the elevator down, the distant bass from other practice rooms vibrated through the walls like a comforting heartbeat.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket -a staff message about the next schedule and a few fan edits already popping up from previous projects. You looked through the myriad of comments, some outstandingly mean for no reason, but some comforting.

And every few seconds your mind circled back to James standing in that hallway, jaw tight, eyes locked on you like he couldn’t look away.

He’d seen the easy smile you gave Riki, the open body language, the way you were genuinely enjoying yourself without the usual push-and-pull.

You wondered if he’d text again tonight. If you’d answer. If you’d end up right back where you started -face down in his bed or storming out his door.

For now, though, you zipped up your hoodie a little higher and followed your members out into the lobby, offering small smiles and waves to passing staff. Self control was a beautiful invention. Because you were about 99% sure that without it, you’d be yelling at everyone by now.

Mina walked on your left, her long extensions swaying elegantly with each step like a living curtain of silk, one hand absently twirling a strand around her finger in that regal quirk of hers that always made her look like she belonged in a drama scene even during casual walks. At 24, she carried herself with this quiet, big-sister poise that somehow made everyone around her feel steadier.

Hye-ri, on your right, bounced along with her usual energetic flair, her freshly done blood-red nails flashing like warning signs every time she gestured wildly, cracking her knuckles with a satisfying pop that made Soeun cringe beside her. At 20, Hye-ri was the spark plug of R3SET -bold, dramatic, but with a heart so big it could probably power the entire building’s sound system.

“I swear, y/n-unnie, you and Riki looked like you were born to share a stage, it’s so sad fans would make rumors if you guys collabed… Meanwhile, I was over here trying not to drop that balloon on Jake’s head during the relay. Did you see his face? Poor guy went full puppy eyes.” She let out a bright, infectious laugh that turned a few heads in the lobby, slinging her arm around your shoulders again in that casual, protective way she had.

Inside your head, a funny little voice chimed in: Hye-ri’s nails could probably slice through tension like butter. If only they could cut through my James-induced brain fog too.

Maknae Soeun trailed just behind, rubbing at her eyes with the heel of her hand in her signature sleepy way, her angelic contoured cheeks still flushed from the variety games. At 19, she was all wide-eyed curiosity mixed with this adorable habit of dozing off mid-conversation if things got too calm, only to pop back awake with the most random questions.

“Can we get snacks on the way back? My stomach’s doing that rumble thing again.” She patted her belly dramatically.

As your manager’s van pulled up to the curb, Hye-ri hopped in first, dramatically claiming the back seat with a flourish of her red nails.

“Shotgun for snacks! Soeun, no falling asleep on my shoulder this time -you drool.”

Soeun climbed in after her with a sleepy protest and a giggle, “I don’t. Only time i did that was cause i was exhausted.”

Mina slid in gracefully beside you in the middle row, her extensions pooling neatly as she offered you a piece of gum from her bag -another one of her quiet caring quirks, always prepared with little comforts, her eyes flicking to you with that perceptive big-sister intuition.

You accepted it with a grateful smile, popping the minty gum into your mouth as the van merged into traffic. “Thanks, Mina. Seriously, you all made today feel easy, no pressure, just… dancing and laughing. It’s been a while since it felt that light, you guys are the best.”

The girls smiled at you, Hye-ri pulling you into a side hug as the van settled.

The city lights started blurring past the windows as evening crept in, and Soeun’s head was already starting to tilt toward Hye-ri’s shoulder despite her earlier denial. Hye-ri just rolled her eyes fondly, adjusting so the maknae could rest comfortably -her tough exterior hiding the softest spot for the youngest.

“You know,” Hye-ri said after a beat, voice dropping into something more sincere as she looked at you, “whatever’s going on with James… you don’t have to figure it out alone, you know that right?”

You leaned your head against the cool window, watching the streets pass in a gentle rhythm, and let out a small self-deprecating laugh.

“I know. And I appreciate it more than you guys realize. He’s just… he’s so weird. And so i get weird too, it’s a never ending cycle. And it’s kinda…complicated. ”

The van filled with understanding hums and a few teasing but kind jabs from Hye-ri about “toxic hot boys,” but you just refused to categorize him as that. He was mean, and rude, and moody, but toxic?

Was it really toxic if you wanted it that much?

• • •

You stepped into the dorm after what felt like an eternity, the heavy door clicking shut behind you with a sigh of relief.

The familiar scent of vanilla candles and the faint trace of Hye-ri’s strawberry body spray wrapped around you like a hug you didn’t know you needed. She always had this way of spraying the sweetest scents that reminded you of your childhood, back when you weren’t this tormented by fat CEOs (bang pd yes) and executives.

The living room was dimly lit by the string lights Soeun had insisted on hanging last month -soft golden glows that made the space feel less like a high-end prison and more like an actual home. You kicked off your sneakers, letting them thud against the shoe rack, and padded toward your room in socked feet, the cool hardwood a small mercy against your aching soles.

“Unnie, don’t stay up too late doing black magic on James, we’ve got early meetings tomorrow.” Hye-ri called from the kitchen.

She was already raiding the fridge for late-night snacks (cucumbers since the company had made her go on an -unnecessary- diet) Her voice carried that signature playful lilt, the one that always made you snort even when you were drained.

She was teasing you about the last fan rumors: people claiming they’d seen you do black magic on other idols at an award show; when you’d thought black magic meant the kind of princess-and-pony magic that people of color did.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll try not to summon any demons or illuminati…” you shot back, voice tired but teasing.

In your room, you peeled off the oversized hoodie and cargo pants, tossing them into the laundry hamper with more force than necessary. The glitter on your eyelids had survived the day surprisingly well, but it was time to let the armor come off.

You headed straight for the bathroom, twisting the faucet until steam rose in lazy curls. The tub filled slowly as you added a generous scoop of Epsom salts and a few drops of lavender oil -the good stuff your manager had gifted after that brutal comeback week. Sinking into the hot water felt like sinking into oblivion, the heat seeped into your muscles, loosening the knots from hours of dancing and the invisible tension James always left coiled in your chest.

Somehow it all came back to him. Even when it wasn’t inherently about him. God, just one night without thinking about that walking glob of spit and dust, you thought, tilting your head back against the cool porcelain edge while bubbles popped softly around you.

You scrolled through your phone with damp fingers -harmless stuff: fan edits, a few memes Soeun had sent in the group chat, a skincare tutorial that promised to fix “tired eyes.”

For once, James didn’t dominate every corner of your brain. You let yourself float there, eyes half-closed, humming the melody of Enhypen’s new track under your breath.

After the bath, skin flushed and smelling like an Ulta store, you wrapped yourself in a fluffy robe and tackled your mini skincare ritual. Double cleanse, toner, serums layered like a protective spell - your makeup artist Ji-Eun would be proud. You even did the gua sha thing Mina swore by, rolling the cool stone along your jawline while staring at your reflection.

Energized by the warm water and the rare quiet, you settled at your desk in soft lounge shorts and a cropped tank, laptop open.

You had a half-finished lyrics draft for a potential solo track- something about wanting what you shouldn’t. Your fingers hovered over the keys, then dove in, you tweaked melodies on your keyboard setup, layering soft synths over a moody bassline. Time slipped away pleasantly, during which for a solid hour, James was just background noise, a faint echo rather than the main track.

You even laughed at yourself when a particularly cheesy line came out - “heart like a battlefield, but damn if I don’t love the war” -and deleted it immediately. Cringe. But accurate.

Your phone buzzed on the desk beside you, the screen lighting up with a new message. You glanced over, expecting a text from the members’ group chat or a staff alert.

Instead, it was from him. James.

The preview showed an image attachment. Your stomach did that annoying little flip despite everything, what could he possibly have to say that fit into a singular photo?

You opened it. There, in crystal clear detail, was his hand -long fingers, veins prominent, the same hand that had gripped your thighs last night- holding up a pair of familiar red lace panties.

Your red lace panties. The delicate ones with the tiny bow at the front.

Forgot these at my place last week, brat. Figured you might want them back.

Your face heated instantly. That smug fucking asshole.

You could practically hear his raspy voice saying it, that low drawl laced with mockery. You stared at the photo, thumb hovering over the screen.

The panties looked small in his grip, almost fragile against the rough masculinity of his hand. Heat pooled low in your belly uninvited before you locked the phone and set it face down, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an immediate reply.

Ignore. Let him stew.

You tried going back to your lyrics, but the words blurred, then came another buzz, and against your better judgment, you checked.

The same red lace panties, now wrapped tightly around his very hard cock. The fabric stretched obscenely over the thick length, the lace pattern visible where it strained. His hand was gripping the base, thumb pressing just below the head. The lighting in his room was low, shadows accentuating every ridge and vein.

“Fuck,” you whispered aloud, thighs pressing together instinctively, not without a bit of annoyance. Your pulse kicked up, a traitorous warmth spreading between your legs. The image was burned into your retinas now -raw, deliberate and meant to ruin your peace. You typed back quickly, fingers flying:

You: You’re actually deranged. Delete those.

Then, because you couldn’t help poking the bear:

And stop stealing my shit, you klepto

You waited. The typing bubbles appeared… then disappeared with no response. Minutes ticked by. Nothing. You refreshed the chat like an idiot, heart hammering.

Of fucking course. He starts the fire and walks away. This was his sick revenge for yesterday.

The ache between your thighs grew insistent, slick and frustrating. You shifted in your chair, trying to focus on anything else- your laptop, the half-written chorus... But all you could picture was him, lounging in his bed, smirking at his phone while you sat here wet and bothered.

Eventually, you gave up, you brushed your teeth aggressively, changed into an oversized sleep shirt, and crawled into bed.

The sheets felt too warm, too smooth against your sensitized skin, you felt like you were about to blow up any minute, taunt nipples brushing against the mattress. You tossed and turned, the image replaying behind your closed eyelids, his hand, the lace. The way he’d looked at you last night -desperate and furious and hungry all at once.

Your hand slipped under the covers once, hovering, but you stopped yourself with a groan, ‘Not giving him that power tonight.’

• • •

Morning light filtered through your curtains, soft and golden. Your alarm hadn’t even gone off yet when your phone vibrated on the nightstand. Groggy, you reached for it, rubbing sleep from your eyes. And who better than an entitled motherfucker to wake you up when things are already going downhill.

James : Two can play that game, you brat.

You stared at the screen, a slow smile tugging at your lips despite the fresh wave of heat low in your stomach. The dynamic between you two was a live wire -dangerous, addictive, impossible to quit cold turkey.

He pushed, you pushed back harder; he teased, you left him wrecked; he ignored, and you burned.

You : Keep dreaming. Those panties are yours now. Consider it a parting gift.

You set the phone down, stretching languidly under the covers, body still humming from last night’s unresolved tension.

You wondered how long it would take before one of you cracked again.

James : They were already mine, finders keeper.

• • •

The HYBE lobby was already in full morning swing when you pushed through the revolving doors, the familiar sensory assault of cold air conditioning, distant bass lines, and the sharp scent of coffee hitting you all at once. You had your phone pressed against your ear, pretending to be on a call so no one would stop you for small talk, which was a technique you’d perfected to a fine art over the years. Your manager walked three steps behind you, mercifully quiet for once, scrolling through her own device.

You hadn’t replied to James’s last text yet.

That was a choice. A very deliberate, very painful choice, like holding your hand over a candle flame just to prove you could. You were fully aware that the longer you waited, the more it would eat at him, and the thought of James checking his phone every ten minutes with that jaw-tight, eye-twitching irritation he got when he was being ignored made something deeply petty bloom in your chest like a very satisfied flower.

You were not above petty. You had built an entire personality around it.

The elevator dinged open on the third floor and you stepped out into the corridor that ran between the mid-size practice rooms, the ones with the slightly better sound systems that the senior acts got priority access to.

You were scanning your schedule on your phone, half reading, half still replaying his text in your head - two can play that game, you brat- when you nearly walked directly into Park Sunghoon’s elbow.

“Whoa, sorry-” he started, stepping back.

“No, my fault,” you said automatically, phone disappearing into your pocket like you weren’t supposedly on a call, as you offered him a polite smile. He looked mildly alarmed in the way that extremely handsome people sometimes did when they accidentally inconvenienced someone, like they were genuinely surprised their existence had physical consequences. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“Neither was I,” he said easily, readjusting the water bottle under his arm. “Good collab yesterday. You and Riki make everyone else look like they’re moving through concrete.”

“You’re being modest, your lines yesterday were clean,” you said, and meant it.

You headed in opposite directions with nothing more than a nod, which you appreciated. Sunghoon had always struck you as someone who understood the value of not overstaying a conversation. You could respect that.

You were halfway down the hall when you felt it before you saw it -that specific shift in the air quality that your nervous system had apparently been trained, like a very stupid Pavlovian dog, to recognize.

James was coming from the other direction. He had his hood up, headphones around his neck, a coffee in one hand, and the particular walk he had when he’d slept badly -slightly slower than usual, shoulders carrying extra tension, jaw working like he was grinding through something mentally. He looked like a weather system. Specifically, the kind with a rotating center and a name assigned by meteorologists.

You didn’t slow down. Neither did he. You passed each other with approximately forty centimeters of clearance and zero words exchanged.

His eyes slid to yours for exactly one second -dark, unreadable, and annoyingly direct -before you both looked away simultaneously, with the practiced indifference of two people who had touched each other’s skin less than thirty-six hours ago and were now pretending to be strangers in a hallway.

You turned the corner and stood still for two full seconds. “Cool, you thought. “Great. Fantastic. Incredible start to the day.”

Your phone buzzed, and you stared at the screen with the expression of someone watching a car roll slowly into a ditch.

You pocketed your phone with more force than necessary and pushed open the door to Practice Room 3B, where Mina was already stretching in the center of the floor with the serene, unhurried energy of someone who had slept eight full hours and woken up without a single unresolved situationship weighing on their conscience.

It must be nice, you thought, not for the first time, to be Mina.

“You good?” she asked, not looking up from where she was bent over one extended leg, her long extensions fanned across the floor.

“Perfect,” you said, tossing your bag toward the mirror wall. “Completely, entirely, one hundred percent fine.”

She looked up at that, because after 3 years Mina could identify the specific frequency of your lies with the accuracy of military-grade sonar. One perfectly shaped eyebrow climbed toward her hairline.

“Looser king?” she asked.

“Passed him in the hallway.”

“And?”

“Nothing. We didn’t talk.”

Mina made a small, diplomatic humming sound that somehow communicated, I have opinions about this but I love you so I won’t say them right now, which was honestly one of her most advanced social skills. She uncurled from her stretch and stood up with effortless grace. “Hye-ri’s getting coffee downstairs, Soeun already called in that she’s running fifteen minutes behind because she fell back asleep.”

“So out of character,” you said, and meant it with great affection but with extreme sarcasm.

You pulled up the playlist for your current practice track and dropped into a stretch of your own, letting the familiar burn in your hamstrings pull your focus back into your body and away from the seven-layer cake of annoyance currently occupying the front of your mind. Music drifted from the Bluetooth speaker -a pre-release track you’d been given early for choreography study, something with a heavy trap undercurrent and a melody that kept catching on a particular interval you found compelling. You hummed along absently, working through your warm-up sequence.

The thing about dancing -the real thing, the thing you couldn’t explain to people who didn’t do it-was that it required your entire brain. Not just the motor cortex doing its job, but everything: musicality, spatial awareness, emotional translation, split-second physical decision-making.

When you were actually in it, properly in it, there was no room for anything else. No James, no red lace photographs, no hallway eye contact that lasted exactly one second too long to be purely coincidental.

The problem was warm-up. Warm-up was not properly in it yet. Warm-up left your mind running parallel tracks, which meant James had real estate in your head and was currently doing absolutely nothing productive with it.

The door banged open.

“I got oat milk lattes and one matcha because Mina will make that face at me if I don’t.” Hye-ri swept in with a drink carrier, her red nails vivid against the cardboard, wearing a cropped sweatshirt that said PROBLEMS across the chest in block letters that you privately thought was too on the nose for a Tuesday morning.

She set the carrier down and looked between you and Mina with the swift social intelligence of someone who’d grown up reading rooms as a survival skill. “What’d I miss?”

“She passed ‘looser king’ in the hallway,” Mina said, accepting her matcha.

Hye-ri turned to you with the expression of a scientist observing a very predictable chemical reaction. “And?”

“Why does everyone keep asking ‘and’ like something interesting happened?” you said, taking your latte. “Nothing happened. We walked past each other. That’s it.”

“Did you make eye contact?”

“Err… briefly.”

“Did it kill you?”

“A little bit.”

“Okay yeah that tracks.” She dropped onto the floor beside you, tucking her legs into a butterfly stretch. “You know what your problem is? You’re too proud to be the first one to crack and he knows it”

You took a long sip of your latte and stared at the middle distance. “I really need you to not be right about this.”

“Unfortunately,” she said brightly, “I am almost always right. It’s actually a burden how smart and on the point i am.”

“Tragic,” Mina said, very quietly, into her matcha.

The door opened again and Soeun stumbled in looking like she’d been reassembled from several different directions, her hair in a lopsided bun and her bag hanging off one shoulder at an angle that suggested gravity was also conspiring against her this morning. “I’m here, I’m here -the alarm got delayed.. AND I fell asleep, it wasn’t just the falling asleep part-”

“We know,” the three of you said simultaneously.

She dropped her bag and looked at you with sudden alertness, the way she sometimes snapped into clarity completely at random, like a phone screen turning on when you weren’t expecting it. “Did something happen with looser king?”

You looked at the ceiling. “Everyone mind your business,” you said, with all the conviction of someone who was absolutely going to tell them everything eventually and knew it.

Practice went well, which it usually did when you threw yourself into it with the emotional displacement energy you’d developed over years. By the time your choreographer ran you through the new bridge section for the fourth time, you’d stopped thinking in words entirely and were operating purely on music and muscle memory, which was exactly where you liked to be.

Soeun caught the hip accent on the pre-chorus after several attempts and let out a delighted noise that made everyone in the room smile, because Soeun happy about a breakthrough was one of those genuinely contagious joys that didn’t require any context.

Your phone stayed in your bag during practice. That was the rule -the one rule you actually kept consistently. Whatever chaos was happening in the outside world, the practice room was the one place that remained clean.

When you finally surfaced two and a half hours later, sweaty and pleasantly wrung out, you had three messages from James waiting. You sat on the floor against the mirror wall to cool down, water bottle in hand, and read them in order.

James: you know what’s funny

James: you walking out the other day like that

James: pretty sure that’s the most attention you’ve ever paid me

You looked at the screen for a long moment. That was more honest than anything he usually sent.

He wouldn’t have said that if he’d thought it through. He was more careful than that when he was composed. Which meant he’d sent it before he was fully composed, which meant he’d been thinking about it for a while.

You: that’s the saddest thing you’ve ever said to me. and you once told me my stage presence was “mid” so that’s saying something

His reply came in thirty seconds, which told you everything.

James: i was drunk when i said that

You: you’re always drunk when you say the things that actually matter

James: don’t psychoanalyze me before noon

You: it’s 11:47

James: close enough

You: James.

A pause. Longer than the previous ones.

Your chest did the thing it did sometimes -the complicated clench that wasn’t quite longing and wasn’t quite anger but lived in the narrow territory between them where nothing was comfortable and everything was too warm.

James: come get your panties back

You let out a sound that was caught precisely between a laugh and a frustrated groan.

Hye-ri looked up from where she was re-taping her fingers and you held up a hand: don’t ask.

She held both hands up: wasn’t going to. You both knew that was a lie.

You: burn them. keep them. donate them to a museum. I don’t fucking care.

James: you care, you love these panties.

You: I really don’t anymore now that i know you had your filthy hands on it.

James: same hands that had you bent over just last week.

You put your phone face down on the floor and pressed your palms to your eyes.

The maddening, infuriating, genuinely impressive thing about James was that he was a cruel asshole but also so particularly interesting.

You knew the way his mood shifted when he was actually upset versus performing irritation, the minute tension around his eyes that appeared before a real argument. You knew he held his coffee cup with two hands in the morning even though it wasn’t heavy enough to need two hands. You knew he got quieter, not louder, when something actually got to him, and that the loud version -the insults and the jaw clenching and the aggressive proximity- was almost always armor.

You knew his armor better than most people knew his face.

That was the problem, distilled to its ugliest and most honest form. You knew each other too well for any of the distance to actually work. Every exit you staged, every blocked number, every time you walked out his door with something that felt like triumph and tasted like loss- he could see through it. And you could see through his.

It was like trying to hide from someone who had your exact same prescription lenses.

You picked up your phone.

You: fine. I’ll come get them. but if you say anything stupid I’m leaving immediately.

James: define stupid

You: anything that comes out of your mouth

James: so you’re definitely leaving immediately

You: yeah probably

James: tonight?

You: yeah. tonight.

You locked your phone and stood up, rolling your neck until it cracked satisfyingly, and gathered your bag from the corner. Soeun was demonstrating something to Hye-ri near the mirror, both of them half-watching you with the transparent subtlety of people who had not been watching you at all and definitely hadn’t seen any of that.

Mina was on the phone across the room, not looking at you, which was actually the most suspicious thing she could have done.

“Practice is over,” you announced to no one in particular. “Everyone go be beautiful normal people somewhere else.”

“We live with you,” Soeun pointed out helpfully.

“Then go be beautiful normal people in our home.”

“You’re going to see him tonight, aren’t you,” Hye-ri said. It wasn’t a question.

Her blood-red nails caught the overhead lighting as she crossed her arms, expression somewhere between fond and long-suffering, like a person watching their favourite disaster film for the eleventh time. They already knew the ending and were choosing to watch anyway.

You slung your bag over your shoulder, in an exaggerated professional tone “I’m going to retrieve personal property that was stolen from me.”

“In the middle of the night.”

“Theft doesn’t have business hours, Hye-ri.”

She pointed at you with one finger. “You’re going to come home and either look like you got thoroughly fucked or like someone ran you over, and either way I want a full debrief.”

“Absolutely not,” you said, heading for the door.

“I’m setting an alarm!” she called after you.

You waved your hand without turning around, and the door swung shut behind you, and you stood in the corridor for a moment in the particular specific quiet of having made a decision you knew was probably not wise and were going to make anyway, because some gravitational fields were simply too strong to resist with willpower alone.

• • •

The Cortis dorms were exactly as chaotic as they always were at nine in the evening.

You could hear them before you even reached the floor -the specific layered noise of young men ( more like boys) existing loudly and simultaneously, someone’s music bleeding through a closed door, the distant sound of what was either a heated gaming session or a genuine argument, and the unmistakable smell of instant ramen drifting into the corridor like an olfactory welcome mat.

You’d changed before coming. Not dramatically -you weren’t about to give James the satisfaction of thinking you’d dressed for him- but you’d swapped the practice sweats for a pair of black sweatpants and a top that your members’ stylist had described as “effortless,” which felt appropriate. Hair down, lip tint, the same pair of sneakers you’d been wearing all day because you genuinely could not be bothered to perform any harder than this.

You were here on an errand. A retrieval mission.

A very normal, very emotionally uncomplicated visit to collect an item of personal property from a person you definitely did not have complicated feelings about.

This was a lie and you were aware of it.

You raised your knuckles to knock on the main dorm entrance when the door swung open from the inside, and you came face to face with Seonghyeon, who was clearly on his way out with his gym bag and had not been expecting you.

“Oh,” he said. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you said.

A beat of the specific silence that existed between people who knew each other primarily through someone else’s drama.

“He’s in his room,” Seonghyeon offered.

“Cool,” you said. “Thanks.”

He held the door open for you and left, which you appreciated enormously. You stepped inside, where the living room was occupied by Martin on the couch with a controller and Keonho eating ramen at the kitchen counter with the focused energy of someone treating their meal as a professional obligation. Martin glanced up, did a small double take, and then looked back at his screen, Keonho lifted his chopsticks in a gesture that you interpreted as a greeting and possibly also a salute.

“He knows you’re coming?” Keonho asked, not unkindly.

“Allegedly,” you said.

“Cool.” He went back to his ramen. No further questions. You appreciated the Cortis members’ collective commitment to minding their own affairs, which was either a very mature group dynamic or a survival mechanism developed from living with James the tyrant.

You knocked on his door with three sharp raps- not soft, never soft, softness at James’s door felt like conceding something- and waited.

“It’s open,” he called, and his voice was that particular texture it had in the evenings, slightly lower, the performance of the day worn off the edges of it.

You opened the door.

His room was dim, lit by the lamp on his desk and the ambient glow of his monitor, which had a paused game on the screen. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, wearing a black hoodie and sweats, hair doing the specific unstyled thing it did when he’d showered and not thought about it afterward. He looked up when you walked in and said nothing for a moment, just looked at you with that dark, assessing gaze that always felt like being weighed against something.

“You actually came,” he said.

“I said I would.”

“You say a lot of things.”

“So do you,” you said, stepping inside and letting the door fall mostly shut behind you. You crossed your arms, staying near the door, because proximity to James in a dimly lit room after nine pm was a variable that required careful management. “Where are they?”

One corner of his mouth moved. Not quite a smile. Something more infuriating than a smile. He reached to the nightstand beside his bed without breaking eye contact and held up the red lace, dangling from one finger with a casual ease that made your jaw tighten.

“You came all the way here for these,” he said.

“You made a whole deal out of having them,” you said. “Don’t act so surprised.”

“I’m not surprised.” He set them down on the bed beside him, which meant you’d have to get closer to take them, obviously intentional.

You stared at him for a moment with the knowledge that you saw exactly what was happening and was choosing to walk into it anyway, because what was the alternative - admitting you couldn’t get within arm’s reach of him without losing structural integrity?

Absolutely the fuck not.

You sprint-crossed the room and picked them up.

He caught your wrist. Not hard -barely any pressure at all, really- just the curl of his fingers around your wrist bone in that specific way that your nervous system had apparently mapped and catalogued for immediate betrayal, because your pulse spiked before your brain had even fully processed the contact.

“You’re just gonna leave,” he said. It wasn’t quite a question.

“That was the plan,” you said.

“You’re not going to say anything.”

“I said plenty today. Over text. Which you started, by the way, with your little stupid photos.”

“You could have ignored them.”

“How does one possibly ignore a dick pic?”

“Fair,” His thumb moved slightly against the inside of your wrist, slow and thoughtless in the way that was somehow worse than deliberate.

He was looking up at you from where he sat, which was a strange reversal of the usual geometry between you, and something about it stripped away one of the standard layers of defense.

“You wanna fight?” he asked.

“I always wanna fight with you,” you said honestly.

“Yeah.” A pause. “Me too.”

You looked at him. He looked at you. The lamp threw warm shadows across the angles of his face, and the ramen smell from the kitchen was faintly detectable even here; somewhere down the hall someone scored a goal based on the brief eruption from the living room, and none of it touched the specific atmosphere of this room, which had its own weather system entirely.

“Come here,” he said, quietly. Not commanding, not performing - just that, two words with the pretense stripped out, and that was the version of James that was the most genuinely dangerous because it was the one you couldn’t construct a defense against.

You let the red lace fall from your fingers like it had burned you, the fabric whispering against the nightstand as it landed. James didn’t move at first. He just watched you with that half-lidded stare, the one that always made the air feel thicker, heavier, like the room itself was leaning in.

Then his hand was on your wrist again, firmer this time, tugging you down until your knees hit the edge of the bed between his spread thighs.

You went willingly. That was the worst part -you always went.

His other hand came up to your jaw, thumb pressing just under your chin to tilt your face toward his. “You’re pissed,” he murmured, voice low enough that it vibrated against your skin.

“So are you.”

“Yeah.” His grip tightened, not enough to hurt but enough to remind you he could. “Come here and be pissed with me, then.”

You kissed him first, skill issue. It was immediate, messy, all teeth and frustration, the kind of kiss that felt like an argument with no words. His mouth was hot, demanding, tasting faintly of the mint he’d probably chewed to cover the taste of whatever he’d been stress-eating earlier.

You climbed into his lap without breaking it, knees bracketing his hips, hands fisting in the front of his hoodie like you wanted to rip it off and strangle him with it at the same time.

His hands settled on your hips, fingers flexing against the soft fabric of your sweatpants. Not pulling, not yet. Just holding. Testing.

“You really came all this way just to pretend you don’t want this,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges from the long day.

“I came for my panties,” you answered, even as your hands slid up his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart under the hoodie. Too fast for someone pretending to be casual.

“Liar.” He tugged you closer with a firm grip, guiding you until you were straddling one of his thighs. The solid pressure of muscle against your core was immediate, warm, and maddening. You had to bite the inside of your cheek to swallow the sound that tried to escape. His thumb slipped beneath the waistband of your sweats, stroking bare skin in slow, lazy circles that sent heat pooling low in your belly. “You always lie when you’re already wet for me.”

“Fuck you,” you whispered, but there was no heat in it. Or maybe there was too much.

He huffed a quiet laugh against your collarbone, then pressed an open-mouthed kiss there, slow and deliberate, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. “That’s the plan.”

He took his time, savoring the slow unraveling. Your top came off first, dragged upward by his hands, his calloused palms skimming up your ribs, thumbs brushing the sensitive underside of your breasts before cupping them fully. He watched your face the entire time- cataloguing the way your breath hitched, the flutter of your lashes, the flush creeping across your chest. When he leaned in, mouth closing over one nipple, tongue slow and teasing in wet circles, you let out a shaky exhale and threaded your fingers through his hair, tugging harder than necessary.

James groaned softly against your skin, the vibration traveling straight through you. “Still so fucking sensitive here.”

He switched sides, sucking harder this time, one hand sliding down your stomach until his fingers dipped beneath your waistband. He stroked you through the thin fabric of your underwear first- firm, deliberate circles that made your hips twitch forward involuntarily, chasing the friction.

“James-” you started, voice already fraying. When he finally pushed your sweats and underwear down your thighs, you stood just long enough to kick them away. Naked now, while he was still mostly dressed.

The power imbalance felt deliberate and infuriating.

He pulled you back into his lap fully, both of you facing each other. His hands mapped every inch of your bare back, then lower, squeezing your ass as he rocked you against the hard, insistent line of his cock still trapped in his sweats. The friction was torturous- too much fabric, not enough skin, the heat of him radiating through the material.

You reached between you, palming him firmly, feeling the thick length twitch under your touch. He was hot, already leaking against the fabric. “You’re just as bad,” you muttered against his mouth, stroking him slowly. “Acting like you don’t think about this every single night.”

“I do.” Honest and raw. His voice dropped. “Every fucking night.”

The confession cracked something open in your chest. You shoved his hoodie and shirt up and off in one impatient motion, running your hands over the familiar planes of his chest, the faint ridges of muscle, the tension coiled tight in his shoulders. His breathing had grown heavier, forehead pressed to yours, eyes half-closed as you freed him from his sweats and stroked him skin-to-skin-slow, deliberate pulls that made his hips jerk.

He caught your wrist again -the same one from earlier- and pulled your hand away. “No time.”

And he was right, there was no time indeed. This was a quickie, one of the many you’d had with him, nothing more nothing less.

Then he flipped you onto your back with controlled strength, the narrow dorm bed creaking under the shift in weight. He settled between your thighs, broad shoulders blocking out most of the lamplight. His cock nudged against your entrance, sliding through your slickness in slow, teasing drags against your clit, but never pushing inside. Just rocking, building the ache until your nails dug into his biceps.

You squirmed, nails digging into his biceps. “Stop fucking teasing.”

“Make me.” His smirk was infuriating, but his eyes were dark with the same need clawing at you.

You wrapped your legs around his waist and tried to pull him in, but he resisted, holding your hips down with one hand while the other braced beside your head. He leaned down, kissing you deeply again, then trailed his mouth along your jaw, your neck, sucking a mark just below your ear that would be hell to hide tomorrow.

Only when you were trembling, hips chasing him desperately, did he finally push inside -inch by slow, thick inch. The stretch burned in the best way, filling you completely. Your mouth fell open on a silent cry.

James’s hand clamped over your mouth instantly, palm firm, fingers pressing into your cheek.

“Quiet,” he growled against your ear, voice strained as he bottomed out and stilled, letting you feel every inch of him. “Whole dorm’s still awake. You want them to hear how badly you need my cock?”

You glared at him, but your walls clenched hard around him in response. He hissed through his teeth, eyes fluttering shut for a second before locking back on yours.

He started moving -slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. Not frantic, not yet. Every thrust was deliberate, angry in its restraint, like he was punishing you both for how much you needed this. The bed creaked softly with each movement. Skin against skin, the faint wet sounds of him sliding in and out, your ragged breathing against his palm.

You moaned into his hand, the sound muffled and desperate. He leaned closer, forehead to forehead again, sweat starting to bead on his skin.

“Feel that?” he whispered, grinding deep on a particularly slow thrust. “So fucking tight. Like you were made for me.”

You bit the side of his palm in retaliation. He chuckled darkly, then snapped his hips harder once, twice, making your eyes roll back before he slowed again, dragging it out.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice barely above a breath. “Tell me you missed this.”

You shook your head stubbornly, even as tears of overwhelming sensation pricked at the corners of your eyes. He pulled almost all the way out -leaving you devastatingly empty-then slid back in so torturously slow you nearly sobbed against his hand.

“Say it.”

“…Missed it,” you mumbled against his palm, the words barely intelligible. “Missed you, asshole.”

His eyes darkened further. The pace picked up gradually - still controlled, but deeper, rougher, hips slapping against yours with more force. Every thrust carried weeks of unsaid fights, missed calls and slammed doors. Anger and longing twisted together until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

His free hand gripped your thigh, spreading you wider, angling so he hit that spot inside you with every stroke. Your nails raked down his back, leaving red lines you knew he’d feel tomorrow. He groaned low in his throat, pressing his face into your neck, teeth grazing your shoulder as he fucked you harder.

You were close -embarrassingly close both to orgasming and dying apparently- body tightening around him, thighs shaking. James could feel it. He always could.

“Not yet,” he rasped, slowing again, keeping you right on the edge. “Not until I say.”

You whined against his hand, frustrated tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of it all. He kissed the corner of your eye, almost gentle, then started moving again -long, dragging strokes that made your toes curl.

When he finally let you tip over, it crashed through you like a wave. Your whole body seized, back arching hard as you came with a broken cry muffled completely by his palm. He fucked you through every wave, hips stuttering only slightly as your orgasm milked him, drawing it out until you were trembling and oversensitive beneath him.

James’s rhythm grew erratic, thrusts turning rough and desperate. His breathing was ragged against your neck, hot and uneven.

“Fuck-fuck, I’m-” The words were barely coherent, growled into your skin. His hand finally slipped from your mouth so he could brace himself better, fingers digging into the sheets beside your head.

He drove into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt so deep you felt it in your stomach. His entire body went rigid above you -muscles locked, back bowing, thighs trembling against yours. A low, guttural groan tore from his throat, raw and broken, vibrating against your collarbone as his hips jerked forward in sharp, involuntary pulses.

You felt every pulse of his release-hot, thick spurts flooding deep inside you, each one accompanied by a helpless grind of his hips, like he was trying to push even deeper, trying to fuse the two of you together. His cock throbbed hard with every wave, the warmth of him spilling and spilling until it started to leak out around where you were joined.

His breath came in harsh, stuttering gasps, his forehead pressed tight to yours, sweat dripping from his hair onto your cheek. For several long seconds he stayed buried inside you, hips making tiny, reflexive movements as the last aftershocks rolled through him, his body shuddering with the intensity of it.

When it finally ebbed, he collapsed half on top of you, heavy and boneless, face buried in the crook of your neck. His heart hammered against your chest, matching the frantic rhythm of your own.

Afterward, the room was very quiet. The lamp was still on. It was always still on, after, because neither of you ever thought to turn it off in the chaos of everything preceding the quiet, and neither of you got up to do it once the quiet arrived.

You lay on your back staring at the ceiling, one arm folded behind your head, and James lay on his stomach beside you with his face turned toward the wall, breathing slowly. The distance between you was maybe four inches of mattress and approximately several miles of everything else.

You stared at the ceiling’s small imperfections. There was a hairline crack in the plaster near the light fixture that described a gentle arc, like a parenthesis opened and never closed. You’d noticed it before. The thought arrived uninvited and you told it to leave.

“You’re thinking too loud,” James said into the pillow.

“You can’t hear thoughts.”

“I can hear yours.” A pause. “You get this specific kind of still when you’re overthinking. Like you stop existing in your body a little bit.”

You said nothing for a moment.

“That’s very observant of you,” you finally said, and your voice came out quieter than you intended but still filled with sarcasm.

“Yeah well.” He shifted, turning his face toward you now, cheek pressed to the pillow, eyes half-closed but watching you in that steady way. “I pay attention.”

“I know you do,” you said. “That’s the problem.”

“Why’s it a problem?”

“Because it makes it hard to pretend this is nothing.”

The words sat in the air between you, neither retracted nor addressed immediately, just existing with the particular weight of something that had been thought many times and said aloud for the first time.

James was quiet for long enough that you started constructing your exit- the mental logistics of gathering your things, the specific tone you’d use to say something deflecting and semi-sharp on your way out, the way you’d walk down the corridor past Keonho and Martin with your expression completely neutral.

“It’s not nothing,” James said.

Two words. Same economy as before.

You turned your head to look at him. He was still watching you, and up close in the lamp light his eyes were less unreadable than usual -or maybe you’d just learned to read them, which was its own problem, its own intimacy you’d never consented to and couldn’t revoke.

“I know,” you said.

“But you’re still gonna leave.”

“Yes.”

“And tomorrow-”

“Tomorrow is tomorrow,” you said.

He held your gaze for another moment, then something settled across his face -not resignation exactly, more like acceptance of a pattern neither of you had figured out how to break yet.

His fingers moved those four inches of mattress and found yours, not interlacing, just his hand covering yours, warm and still.

“Your lash was doing the thing today,” he said, after a moment, gesturing to his own. “The outer corner one.”

You closed your eyes briefly. “I know.”

“Ji-eun never gets it to lay flat.”

The lamp hummed. Somewhere down the hall, the gaming sounds had quieted. The building itself seemed to have settled into its nighttime frequency, that low ambient hum of a structure full of sleeping people, and for a few minutes neither of you moved or spoke.

The four inches of mattress stayed exactly as they were, and his hand stayed on yours, and the ceiling crack remained a parenthesis with no closing bracket.

Eventually you sat up. Found your things in the dimness with the quiet efficiency of someone who’d had to gather herself in worse conditions than this. James watched you without speaking.

You paused at the door.

“The lash always does that,” you said. “Every time. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”

A beat.

“Some things you don’t get used to, y/n,” he said. “You just keep noticing them.”

You stood in the doorway for one more second, the lamp throwing your shadow long and soft across his floor, and then you walked out and pulled the door behind you with a quiet click that felt like punctuation on a sentence neither of you had finished writing.

Martin had fallen asleep on the couch. Keonho’s bowl was in the drying rack. The corridor was empty and the building was quiet and you walked through it with your sneakers making soft sounds against the floor, the red lace in your jacket pocket, and the careful, fragile weight of it’s not nothing sitting somewhere behind your sternum like a splinter you hadn’t decided what to do with yet.

Your phone buzzed as the elevator doors closed.

James: get home safe

You stared at it for the entire descent.

You: yeah

You pocketed the phone and put on a face mask. The lobby doors opened to the night air, cool and immediate, and you stepped out into it and kept walking, and you didn’t look back at the building, because some things were better approached from a forward direction, even when everything in you wanted to turn around.

Tomorrow was tomorrow.

• • •

One moment you were in the grey half-sleep where everything was soft and unformed, the next your alarm was going off, and the full inventory of last night was loading in your chest like a program with too many files, slow and slightly painful.

It’s not nothing.

You lay there for ninety seconds staring at the ceiling of your own room, which had no interesting cracks, just smooth white plaster and the faint shadow of the curtain moving in the air conditioning.

Then you got up, because lying still with your own thoughts first thing in the morning was a form of self-harm you weren’t willing to engage in today.

This was as damaging as blasting Preacher’s Daughter by Ethel Cain and hoping for the best.

The dorm was quiet. Hye-ri’s alarm hadn’t gone off yet, which meant you had maybe twenty minutes before the building became a person with feelings, specifically loud ones.

You moved through the kitchen on autopilot -kettle, mug, the good green tea Mina kept in the cabinet above the stove that she’d never explicitly said you could have but had also never said you couldn’t. You wrapped both hands around the mug and stood at the kitchen window watching the city do its early morning thing.

James was silent, so were you. But this time maybe you’d been waiting for a different outcome, in that little naive headspace of yours.

You drank your tea and tried not to think about the weight of him inside of you, his hands on your neck.

You thought about it constantly.

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ Who knows - daniel caesar ♫♬♪

The company building had a rooftop that technically wasn’t for general use but that enough people accessed informally that it had developed a small ecosystem of folding chairs, a forgotten umbrella that had been there since at least February.

You’d discovered it eighteen months ago during a particularly brutal comeback period when the practice rooms felt like they were closing in, and you’d been going up there sporadically ever since -not often enough to make it a habit exactly, but enough that it felt like yours in some half-acknowledged way.

You went up there on your lunch break.

Not for any specific reason. The afternoon had a strange texture to it -your schedule had been lighter than usual, a few meetings, a vocal session that had ended early, and you’d found yourself with ninety minutes of unstructured time that felt like a gift you didn’t know how to receive.

Hye-ri had gone to get food with Soeun. Mina was on a call with her family. The practice rooms were occupied by other groups, and the styling suite smelled aggressively of hairspray.

You sat in one of the folding chairs with your knees drawn up and your jacket zipped to your chin, and you looked at the city spread out below in its usual state of organized chaos, and you let yourself be quiet.

It lasted approximately four minutes.

Your phone buzzed.

Not James -a staff notification about next week’s schedule, which you read and immediately forgot.

But the buzz had disrupted the quiet, which made you pick up your phone, which made you open your messages, which meant you were now - magically- looking at the thread with James the way you sometimes prodded a bruise to check if it still hurt.

It did. It reliably did.

You scrolled up. Not far -just enough to see the shape of what the last week looked like in text.

You read it like reading someone else’s story. A very compelling, very dysfunctional someone else’s story.

And that was when the door to the rooftop opened.

You expected staff. Maybe Hye-ri, who had an uncanny ability to locate you regardless of where you went, like a heat-seeking missile with gel nails.

You did not expect Juhoon, who was one of the Cortis members you actually liked -quiet, thoughtful, someone who’d always existed pleasantly on the periphery of the James situation without ever inserting himself into it. He looked mildly surprised to find you there.

“Hey,” he said. “I didn’t know you came up here.”

“I didn’t know you did either,” you said. “You can stay. There’s another chair.”

He unfolded it and sat down, stretching his legs out, tilting his face up toward the pale afternoon sky.

“You were at the dorms last night,” he said eventually, not accusatory, just noting.

“Briefly,” you said.

He nodded. Another silence.

“Can I ask you something?” you said.

“Sure.”

“What’s he like,” you said carefully, “when I’m not there?”

Juhoon considered this with the seriousness it deserved, which you appreciated. He wasn’t someone who gave careless answers.

“Quiet,” he said finally. “He’s quieter than people think. The loud thing is-” he paused, choosing words, “-it’s real, but it’s not the whole thing. When he’s actually upset about something he goes very still.”

“I know,” you said, because the question was dumb. You knew James.

“Yeah.” He glanced at you sideways. “I figured you would.”

“Is he-” you stopped.

“What?”

You looked at your phone in your hands. The thread with James still open. “Is he okay?” you asked, and hated that you were asking, and asked it anyway because apparently that particular self-protective instinct was not functioning correctly today.

Juhoon was quiet for a moment. “I think he will be,” he said, which was not the same as yes, and you both knew it, and he said it anyway with the careful honesty of a good friend protecting two people simultaneously.

You nodded slowly.

“You know I like you,” Juhoon said. “And I like him. So I’m not going to say anything about-” he gestured vaguely at the air between you, which was a gesture that somehow communicated the entire last several months with impressive economy. “But I’ll say this. He talks about you without meaning to. Like you come up in the middle of sentences about completely different things. He doesn’t notice he’s doing it.” He paused. “And that’s either really good or it’s-”

“The problem,” you finished.

“Yeah.”

You sat with that, as heavy and as real as it was.

The city hummed below you, indifferent and continuous, and a pigeon landed on the railing six feet away and looked at you with the blank assessment of a creature utterly unbothered by human emotional complexity, which you found enviable.

“Thanks,” you said to Juhoon.

“Didn’t really say anything.”

He nodded once, and you both sat there a while longer in the pale afternoon light, and you didn’t look at your phone again.

• • •

The thing happened at 4:17pm.

You were in the corridor outside the third floor vocal booths, waiting while your vocal coach finished a session with someone else, scrolling through nothing in particular with the half-attention of someone killing time.

The corridor was quiet -just the muffled sound of whoever was in the booth, and the distant hum of the building, and your own low-grade awareness of the afternoon pressing toward evening.

You heard James before you saw him.

Not his voice -you heard his laugh. That specific one, the real one, low and slightly reluctant, the one that sounded like it surprised him every time it came out.

He came around the corner with two of the Cortis members, Martin and Keonho in the animated mid-conversation energy of people who’d just come from something good.

He was gesturing with his coffee cup, and his hood was down, he looked easy in a way he almost never looked when you were in the same space as him.

You registered all of this in approximately two seconds.

He saw you on the third second.

The laugh didn’t stop immediately, but it changed. His body adjusted the way it always did in your presence, that slight shift toward readiness, toward the particular loaded awareness that existed between you like a standing current.

The members with him, noticed. They absorbed the shift with the smooth discretion of people who’d seen it before and kept walking, a natural drift that created a few feet of separation, still present but no longer part of the conversation.

“Hey,” James said. His voice was normal. Easy. The same register as the laugh.

“Hey,” you said.

He stopped near you, coffee cup in hand, and looked at you with that familiar specific attention, and you looked back, and the hallway was quiet between you.

And then Martin said something- not to you, to James, a quick murmured comment accompanied by a grin that you didn’t quite catch -and James’s mouth curved, brief and private, the smile aimed at the floor before he looked back up at you.

“What?” you said.

“Nothing,” he said. “You just look-” he paused, assessing, and the look was warm in a way that your body recognized before your brain did, that specific quality of attention that he reserved for you in your quieter moments. “You look tired.”

“Thanks,” you said flatly.

“I didn’t mean it badly.” A pause. “You were up late.”

“We were both up late.”

“Yeah.” The edge of his mouth moved again. “Worth it though.”

And that was it -that was the specific, small, ordinary thing that should not have been the thing. He said it quietly, almost to himself, genuine and unguarded, the way he sometimes spoke when he forgot to armor himself first.

Worth it though.

Like it was simple. Like the previous months of sharp words and slammed objects and photographs sent to deliberately unravel you and the come-heres were all components of something with a simple arithmetic, something that could be summed up and found to be worth it.

And something in you looked at that -at his face, open and tired and fond in the dim corridor light, at the easy way he’d laughed seconds before you appeared, at the life he had that you orbited and disrupted and were disrupted by in return -and something went very, very quiet.

Worth it though.

Were you? Were you worth it? Was any of this worth it? The way he handed you matches and then acted surprised by the fire?

The way you walked out his door feeling victorious and arrived home feeling like something had been excavated from you?

The way you couldn’t go through a normal workday without your thoughts circling back to him with the tireless repetition of water finding its lowest point?

You thought about Juhoon on the rooftop.

“He talks about you without meaning to. Like you come up in the middle of sentences about completely different things.”

You thought about the way you’d pressed your hand over the candle flame on the rooftop and called the burn worth it, and standing here now you couldn’t find the logic anymore.

Not because James wasn’t -something.

He was something. He was specific and perceptive and genuinely capable of moments that got through every defense you’d ever constructed. He saw the lash.

He was sweet, at times, weaponizing his soft edges just to wreck you even more.

But he also sent those photographs at midnight like a lit match through a letterbox. He called you names and meant it to wound.

He pulled you against him and then held you at arm’s length and then pulled you back again and called the cycle by your name like you were the one maintaining it.

He used your own hunger against you with the practiced ease of someone who’d mapped your weaknesses and filed them for deployment.

And you did the same to him. You knew you did, you matched his cruelty word for word, you showed up when you should have stayed away and stayed away when he was genuinely reaching for something real.

You were doing it to each other.

Equally. Fluently. In a language you’d developed together that was entirely composed of damage dressed up as desire.

Worth it though.

Looking at him now in the corridor, warm and unguarded, the laugh still faintly present in the lines of his face -you felt the pull of it. The specific gravitational field. Of course you did.

You thought you probably always would, in some residual way, the way you could always find north even in an unfamiliar city.

But underneath the pull was something else. Quieter than everything preceding it. An exhaustion so thorough it had become structural, like a building that had been load-bearing something too heavy for too long and had finally taken stock of its own foundation.

You were so tired.

Not of him, exactly. Of this.

Of the version of yourself that existed in this particular orbit -sharp and defended and constantly braced for impact, simultaneously craving the collision and flinching from it.

Winning small battles and losing something larger and more important in increments too gradual to track, until you stood in a corridor at 4:17pm and looked at a boy who could recite the inventory of your small imperfections from memory and felt, for the first time clearly: this is not sustainable.

Not he is terrible. Not the clean narrative of a villain and a victim, which would have been easier.

Just: this specific thing, as it is, is taking more than it’s giving, and has been for long enough that you’ve normalized the deficit.

You’d lied. You’d lied when you said you enjoyed it. You were such a skilled liar.

“I’ll see you around,” you said.

James’s expression shifted slightly, reading the specific quality of your tone in that perceptive way he had. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, and it wasn’t entirely a lie. You felt, in fact, unusually clear. “I’ll see you around, James.”

You walked away before he could respond. Down the corridor, around the corner, past the elevators to the stairwell because you needed the physical rhythm of stairs under your feet, needed something mechanical and grounding while your mind ran its quiet revolution.

You pushed through the stairwell door and sat on the third step from the bottom and held your phone in both hands.

You opened instagram first.

His profile -which you’d visited with the compulsive frequency of someone returning to a bruise- looked back at you.

You pressed block and the account disappeared. Clean and immediate, like a light switched off.

Something moved through your chest -not triumphant, not devastated. Something quieter. Like exhaling after holding your breath for a very long time without realizing.

Twitter. Same motion. Block.

The gesture was so small. The tap of a thumb. And yet each one felt like setting something down that you’d been carrying so long you’d stopped noticing the weight, only registering its absence now as a kind of lightness that was almost disorienting.

You opened your contacts and found his name- no special designation, just ‘bitch ass piece of shit’ because you’d never let yourself do something as revealing as save him with a nickname or a symbol, had maintained that small performative distance even in your own phone as if it proved something.

You looked at it for a moment.

You thought about the hand covering yours in the dark.

You thought about the way he’d said : “it’s not nothing.”

You thought: no. it isn’t. and that’s exactly why.

Because if it were nothing, you could manage it. You’d managed nothing before -the industry was full of nothing, of pleasant meaninglessness and easy transience, and you navigated it fine.

Nothing didn’t keep you up at night. Nothing didn’t send photographs calibrated to your specific vulnerabilities at midnight. Nothing didn’t notice the lash, or the scar, or the way you went still when you were overthinking.

Nothing wasn’t this.

And this, as it existed, was quietly making you less.

In small steady increments, the way weather eroded things: a little more defended, a little less open, a little quicker to reach for the sharp response because you’d trained yourself in this particular sparring match until the reflexes were automatic.

You were funnier about it than you used to be, more armored, more fluent in the language of mutual damage.

None of those were things you wanted to become more of.

You blocked his number.

Then you sat with that for a moment, in the concrete quiet of the stairwell with its faint smell of cleaning product and the distant sound of bass from a practice room somewhere above you, and you breathed. In and out, slow and deliberate, the way your therapist had taught you two years ago during the first bad comeback, the way you sometimes forgot to do when things felt manageable and remembered only in the moments they suddenly didn’t.

You weren’t crying. You noticed this with some surprise. You’d expected to feel something more violent -the hot-eyed, tight-throated thing that sometimes arrived when you made a decision that cost you something.

Instead there was just this: the quiet. The lightness of something set down. The slightly raw feeling of a wound that had been cleaned rather than just covered.

The stairwell door above you opened, and Hye-ri appeared on the landing, looking down at you with an expression that said she had found you by some combination of instinct and dedicated search effort.

“The vocal coach is asking for you,” she said. And then, without being told anything, reading you with the comprehensive accuracy she’d developed over two years of shared space: “What happened?”

You looked up at her. “Nothing bad,” you said, which was true. “I just-” you paused, searching for the right word, and settled on the honest one: “I just put something down.”

She came down the stairs and sat beside you without a word, her red nails bright against the grey concrete, and leaned her shoulder into yours. “Okay,” she said simply, she knew you. Deeply.

You leaned back. Somewhere in the building, in a corridor you’d just walked away from, James was probably still standing with his coffee cup, and he would check his phone at some point tonight and find the specific silence of someone who was no longer there.

You thought about that.

You let yourself think about it fully, without flinching -the version of him that would notice, that would go quiet in that particular way Juhoon had described, that would understand immediately what the silence meant because he understood you with the thorough, inconvenient accuracy of someone who’d been paying attention for too long to pretend otherwise.

It hurt. Of course it hurt. You weren’t going to pretend it didn’t, not even to yourself in the privacy of a stairwell with no audience. He was real and specific and the pull was real and losing access to something real always cost something real, regardless of whether it was the right thing.

“Come on,” Hye-ri said softly, standing up and extending her red-nailed hand. “Vocal coach. Then we’re getting actual food tonight, not cucumbers, I don’t care what the company says.”

You looked at her hand for a moment. Then you took it, and stood up, and pushed through the stairwell door back into the brightness of the corridor.

Your phone stayed in your pocket. Dark and silent and, for the first time in months, entirely your own.

Everything was going to be just fine.

• • •

The first time things started to be the opposite of fine, you genuinely thought it was the bibimbap.

The rehearsal had run a long forty minutes over schedule, which in the industry was practically punctual, but which your body had apparently decided to register as a personal grievance.

You’d been working a new formation for the comeback stage, a complex one with tight partner transitions and a center section that required the kind of sustained core engagement that left you aware of muscles you’d forgotten you had.

By the time your choreographer finally called it, the practice room smelled aggressively of exertion and someone’s sports drink, and all four of you were in various states of pleasant physical destruction.

You’d eaten quickly -bibimbap from the canteen, slightly lukewarm because the timing never quite worked -and then gone straight to the bathroom to change before the evening schedule.

And then you were on your knees on the tile floor, and the bibimbap was no longer a factor in your immediate future.

It wasn’t dramatic. That was the first thing. You’d half-expected, from the limited experience you’d had with this particular activity, something more cinematic -the kind of thing that announced itself with ceremony.

Instead it arrived with very little warning and was over quickly, leaving you kneeling on the cool tile with your hand braced against the wall over the toilet and your eyes watering from the effort, feeling hollowed out and mildly indignant.

You sat back on your heels and assessed.

Okay, you thought. The bibimbap. Obviously.

It had been slightly warm. The canteen had been crowded. These things happened, especially during high-intensity periods when your immune system was presumably stretched thin doing other jobs.

You cleaned yourself up with the efficiency of someone who had no time for lingering, rinsed your mouth, checked your reflection with the critical neutrality of a technician assessing equipment, and concluded that you looked fine. Slightly pale, maybe. Nothing concealer couldn’t manage. Or maybe blush.

You walked out of the bathroom and rejoined your members in the corridor.

“You good?” Soeun asked, with her particular brand of innocent perception.

“Canteen bibimbap,” you said, with the decisive tone of someone closing a subject.

“Oh god,” Hye-ri said, with feeling. “The one with the egg?”

“Yeah i think.”

“I told Mina last week that the egg situation in there was suspicious.”

“You told me the rice situation was suspicious,” Mina said.

“Both can be true.”

And that was it. Subject closed, explanation accepted, the conversation moving on with the easy momentum of people who had too many things on their schedules to linger. You filed it away under resolved and didn’t think about it again.

That was a Tuesday.

The following Monday, it happened again.

This time there was no bibimbap to blame. You’d eaten carefully that morning -plain rice, some steamed vegetables, the kind of breakfast your nutritionist described as clean fuel in a tone that made it sound more appealing than it tasted. You’d felt fine through the morning meeting, fine through the first hour of vocal practice, fine right up until the point where you weren’t.

You made it to the bathroom with enough time to be grateful for small mercies, and then you were back on the tile, and afterward you sat against the wall of the stall for a moment longer than last time, frowning at the middle distance.

A bug, you decided. A stomach bug, obviously. The kind that moved through groups of people living in close proximity with the inevitability of weather. You made a mental note to increase your vitamin intake and drink more water and went back to vocal practice eight minutes later, telling your coach you’d needed a moment.

She’d looked at you with the particular assessment of someone who had worked with idols long enough to recognize the specific vocabulary of I am not telling you the full story and said nothing beyond: “Drink some water.”

You drank some water.

That was Monday.

By the following week, there was a pattern, which you were actively declining to acknowledge as such.

It wasn’t every day. That was part of why the denial was structurally sound -you couldn’t maintain something as dramatic as every day without it becoming impossible to ignore, but the intermittent nature of it allowed you to keep generating individual explanations with the industrious creativity of someone who had decided on the conclusion and was working backward.

The spicy ramen Hye-ri had made on Wednesday. The supplements you’d started for the comeback period, which were new and therefore plausibly adjusting. The general physical demand of rehearsals, which were intensifying as the release date approached. A mild intolerance to something in the canteen, possibly dairy-related, possibly egg-related, possibly the entire canteen in general.

The explanations were plentiful and convenient and you deployed them as needed.

What you were not doing -what you had specifically and deliberately decided not to do- was connect any of it to the three weeks of silence on your phone where a particular contact used to be.

Because that would be absurd. That would be the kind of thing that happened in stupid rom coms, the psychosomatic manifestation of unresolved emotional distress playing out through the digestive system like some kind of humiliating physiological metaphor and bla bla bla.

You were not a drama. You were a professional with a comeback in six weeks and a body that was experiencing a minor and entirely explicable gastrointestinal inconvenience, and the two facts existed in completely separate categories with no relationship to each other whatsoever.

This was your position and you were maintaining it.

The members noticed on a Thursday.

You’d made it through the full rehearsal that day -a good day, actually, one of those sessions where everything clicked in the way that felt like payment for all the sessions that didn’t.

The new formation had finally settled into your bodies collectively, Soeun had nailed the bridge section that had been giving her trouble for two weeks, and your choreographer had used the word clean three times in a row, which in his personal vocabulary was roughly equivalent to a standing ovation.

You’d all come out of it flushed and genuinely pleased, the specific good tired that felt earned rather than depleting.

And then you’d gone quiet in a way that apparently registered.

You were sitting on the practice room floor with your knees pulled up, water bottle in hand, and you’d realized with the distant, clinical awareness of someone observing themselves from a slight remove that you were doing the breathing exercise -the one from your therapist, the slow in and out- and that you were doing it because something in your midsection was making a case for your attention that you were trying to negotiate with.

Not now, you thought, with the weary authority of someone who had been having this exact internal argument for two weeks. Absolutely not, we are at work, this is not the time.

Your body, as it had been doing with increasing frequency, did not find this persuasive.

“Unnie.” Soeun’s voice was careful in the way it got when she was paying close attention, the sleepiness entirely absent. “You’ve gone the color of the practice room wall.”

“I’m fine,” you said. Automatic, immediate.

“You’ve said that every day this week,” Mina said, from across the room. She was watching you with that steady big-sister attention that was nearly impossible to deflect because it didn’t push- it simply waited, patient and completely immovable.

“Because I’ve been fine every day this week,” you said.

“You didn’t eat lunch,” Hye-ri said, sitting down beside you. Her red nails wrapped around her own water bottle. “You said you weren’t hungry. Yesterday you also said you weren’t hungry. The day before-”

“I appreciate the erm… documentation,” you said, “but I’ve just been off my appetite a little. It’s a stomach thing. It’ll pass.”

“How long have you had a stomach thing?” Mina asked.

A pause that lasted approximately one second too long.

“Not long,” you said.

Hye-ri and Mina exchanged a look over your head that you clocked in your peripheral vision and chose not to address, because addressing it would require engaging with the implication of it, and the implication was something you were not prepared to engage with on a Thursday evening in a practice room that smelled of sports drink and effort.

“You should see the company doctor,” Mina said.

“It’s a stomach bug,” you said. “Seeing the company doctor for a stomach bug is-”

“If it’s been more than a week it’s not a stomach bug, it’s something to get checked out,” Mina said, with the gentle inflexibility she deployed when she’d made up her mind about something. “Will you just go? For me?”

You looked at her.

She looked back, and her expression was the one she used when she wasn’t going to negotiate.

“Fine,” you said. “I’ll go.”

Hye-ri patted your knee with one red-nailed hand. “Good. Also eat something tonight. Real food. I’m making the soup.”

“You put too much garlic in the soup.”

“The garlic is medicinal and you’re welcome in advance.”

• • •

Dr. Yeon was in her forties, brisk and perceptive, and she’d been the company’s primary physician long enough to have developed a comprehensive understanding of the specific way this industry affected the people working in it.

You sat on the examination table in your practice clothes and answered her questions with the cooperative honesty of someone who had already decided this was a stomach bug and was simply here to have that confirmed so you could report back to Mina.

She asked when it had started.

You thought about it. “Three weeks ago, maybe. Give or take.”

“Frequency?”

“A few times a week. Not every day. It’s inconsistent.”

“Nausea before, during, or after eating?”

“Both. Sometimes neither, sometimes just-” you paused. “Out of nowhere.”

“Appetite changes?”

“Some.”

“Sleep?”

You thought about your sleep over the last three weeks.

The way you’d been waking at 3am with the disorienting certainty of having been in the middle of something important, finding nothing but the dark ceiling and the ambient city noise.

The way you’d been logging the hours but not quite getting the rest, lying in the accumulated silence of a blocked contact like a room where the furniture had been removed -technically empty, technically fine, somehow echoing.

“Some,” you said.

Dr. Yeon made notes. She asked a few more questions, took your blood pressure, reviewed the standard basics. Then she set her clipboard on the desk and looked at you with the direct, non-judgmental attention of someone who had decided to say something she suspected you might not welcome.

“Everything looks physically normal,” she said. “Nothing alarming in what you’re describing medically. But I want to ask you something and I’d like an honest answer.”

“Okay,” you said, with the composure of someone who already felt the shape of what was coming.

“What’s your stress level been like? The last month or so.”

“Normal,” you said. “Comeback prep. The usual.”

“Anything outside of work?”

He’d taped your hand three times in bed that night.

“Not particularly,” you said.

Dr. Yeon held your gaze for a moment with the particular expression of a medical professional who was not required to believe everything their patient said and who knew it and who was extending the professional courtesy of not saying so directly.

“Physical symptoms without a clear physical cause often have a stress component,” she said carefully. “That’s not to say it’s not real -it is real, your body is experiencing something real. But the body and the mind are less separate than we like to think. Especially in high-demand environments like yours.” A pause. “Is there anything going on that you might be minimizing?”

Minimizing. What an elegant, clinical word for what you were doing.

“I’m managing everything fine,” you said. “Really. I think it’s just the comeback schedule catching up to me.”

She looked at you for one more moment, then nodded once -the small professional nod of someone accepting an answer they did not entirely believe while respecting the patient’s right to give it.

“I’ll have some bloodwork done just to rule things out. In the meantime -eat regularly, even if the appetite isn’t there. Small amounts. Stay hydrated. Prioritize sleep where you can.” She paused. “And if things don’t improve in the next week or two, or if they get worse, I want you back in here.”

“Of course,” you said.

She gave you a mild antinausea prescription and a vitamin supplement recommendation and you thanked her and left, and the door clicked shut behind you with a neat finality, and you stood in the hallway outside her office and looked at the ceiling for a moment.

It’s the comeback schedule, you thought firmly. Obviously.

• • •

The weeks accumulated like sediment, each one depositing its own layer of evidence that you were filtering carefully before it could reach the part of your brain responsible for inconvenient conclusions.

Week three: you lost four pounds without trying, which your stylists noticed before you did when a fitting for the comeback stage outfits required unexpected adjustments.

The head stylist had said nothing beyond a mild professional observation, but she’d looked at you with the same expression Dr. Yeon had used, and you’d looked brightly back and said you’d been working hard and moved on.

Week four: the nausea had developed a schedule of its own, arriving most reliably in the mornings and then subsiding into a low-grade background hum that you’d learned to work around the way you worked around a minor injury - accommodating it, building your day around its rhythms, never quite acknowledging it as something that required real attention.

You were getting very good at working around it.

Your performances didn’t suffer- you made sure of that with a fierce, quiet determination that was, if you were being honest, the closest you came to acknowledging that something was wrong.

You wouldn’t have had to fight that hard to maintain your standard if there hadn’t been something trying to pull it down. The fighting itself was the evidence. But you fought, and your performances stayed clean, and from the outside everything looked like a professional managing a demanding schedule.

Inside, you were having the ongoing conversation with your own body, the one where you kept saying ‘not now’ and it kept saying ‘soon’ with the patient persistence of something that knew it would win eventually.

• • •

You didn’t connect it. You were still not connecting it.

Your mind maintained its position with the stubborn structural integrity of something that knew that connecting it would require feeling it fully, and feeling it fully was- not yet.

Not on a bathroom floor at 2am with a comeback in three weeks and an early call time in five hours.

But your body was keeping its own record, patient and thorough, logging every entry in its own language. The nausea. The weight. The sleep that restored nothing. The 3am fucking ceilings.

It was writing the story you wouldn’t let yourself tell, one quiet symptom at a time.

And eventually, you knew -in the way you knew things you weren’t ready to acknowledge, the knowing that lived below language- eventually, you were going to have to read it.

But you were hiding it from yourself. James’ absence was undeniably taking a toll on your body.

Not in the ways you’d expected grief to present - you’d experienced loss before, in smaller forms, and it had always been recognizable, had always announced itself with the appropriate emotional vocabulary. This was different.

This was quieter and more physical and more insidious, arriving not in waves of feeling but in the baseline functioning of your body simply becoming less efficient at its own operation, like a system running a background process that was consuming more memory than anyone had accounted for.

You weren’t sad, exactly. That was what made it so difficult to identify, so easy to mislabel for so long. You weren’t walking around with the specific weight of sadness on your chest.

You were just -diminished. Running at a capacity slightly below what was normal, in the way that was subtle enough to attribute to other things indefinitely, which you had done, which had worked right up until the moment it hadn’t.

The body didn’t distinguish between kinds of absence.

That was what Dr. Yeon had been trying to tell you in the soft-lit office with the clipboard and the clean bloodwork and the careful professional language.

The body simply registered: something that was here is no longer here. And proceeded to respond to that information with the thoroughness of something that had no access to the reasoning that made the absence make sense -the stairwell logic, the right-decision logic, the this-was-the-healthy-choice logic. All of that lived in the mind.

The body just kept the raw account.

Something was gone. Something that had been present for three years.

And your body, uninterested in the reasoning, had simply begun to reflect that.

• • •

part 2 available !

ⓘ ptolemaea