remember you were happy and loved by me

The radiator in your office has been broken for weeks.

It pumps heat into the small space. You've stopped opening the window because the contrast, the cold air meeting the warmth, makes your skin feel like it's trying to escape your body.

You sit in the heat. You let it press against you. You've gotten good at sitting in things that feel wrong.

"You're doing great," your boss says, and you smile.

The smile is automatic now. Muscle memory. You've worn it so long it's started to feel like part of your face, like something that would leave a mark if you tried to remove it.

Your boss doesn't notice the way your hand trembles slightly as you accept the compliment, doesn't see how you've perfected the art of looking put-together while everything inside you runs in different directions, screaming.

"The client loved your presentation," he continues. "You've really found your stride here."

Stride.

As if you're moving forward. As if this isn't just an elaborate performance of forward motion while you stand completely still, while something inside you calculates the distance between who you're pretending to be and who you actually are, and the number gets bigger every day.

"Thank you," you say. The words taste like nothing.

He leaves. You turn back to your computer. The heat presses against your back, your neck, the space behind your knees.

There's a kind of disease in being good at things that don't matter. In performing competence while your hands shake.

Your phone buzzes. A text from your friend.

maelyn : drinks tn? you need to get out more

You stare at the message. Get out more. As if leaving your apartment will fix the thing inside you that feels like it's devouring itself.

But you say yes anyway, because that's what you do. You say yes. You show up.

You perform the motions of someone who is fine, who is normal, who is not quietly coming apart in the heat of a broken radiator while pretending to care about client presentations.

The bar Maelyn chooses is loud, crowded. The place where people go to feel less alone by surrounding themselves with strangers.

You order whiskey because wine feels too soft, for whatever this is. The burn of it down your throat feels right.

"You seem different," Maelyn says, studying you over her drink. "Different how?" "I don't know. Lighter? You're smiling more."

The smile. Always the smile. You touch your face reflexively, as if you could feel the mask there, as if your fingers could find the seam where the performance ends and you begin.

Like a puppet, and I don’t have control of the strings anymore.

"I'm good," you say. "Work is good."

She seems satisfied with this. People usually are. They want to believe you're fine because your not-fine-ness would require something from them. Attention. Energy.

The uncomfortable work of witnessing someone's downfall. So you give them the pearly whites, and they take it, and everyone gets to pretend.

Whoopty-fucking-doo. You're on your second whiskey when you see him.

He’s leaning on the bar like he owns the building. Shoulder-length dark hair, a jaw that could cut, and a silver lip ring he keeps messing with his teeth every time he smirks.

The face that doesn’t even know what an apology sounds like.

He's arguing with the bartender about something, with his hands, and even from here you can see the way he takes up space, like the world should adjust to him, not the other way around.

There's something in the way he moves. Something that makes you think of things that burn.

"Oh no," Maelyn says, following your gaze. "I know that look." "What look?" "The look that means you're about to do something stupid."

She's not wrong. There's a pull in your chest, something magnetic. You've gotten good at ignoring your instincts for self-preservation. They feel like suggestions now.

He turns, and his eyes meet yours across the bar. Something passes between you, recognition, maybe, though you've never seen him before.

The recognition of something broken seeing something equally broken. A mirror you didn't ask for.

Mirror, mirror on the wall who’s the dumbest of them all?

He smiles. It's not a nice smile. It's the smile of someone who knows exactly what kind of damage they can do and has decided they don't care.

You smile back.

Maelyn sighs. "I'm going to the bathroom. Please don't do anything I'll have to talk you through later."

But you're already standing, already moving toward him through the crowd. The heat of bodies presses against you.

The music is too loud. Everything feels a little unreal, like you're watching yourself from outside your body, like you're a character in a story about someone who makes bad decisions and calls them destiny.

"You're staring," he says when you reach him. His voice is lower than you expected, rough around the edges.

"You were staring first."

"Was I?" He tilts his head. "Maybe I was just trying to figure out what someone like you is doing in a place like this."

"Someone like me?"

"You look like you wandered in from a corporate retreat. Like you're about to ask if they have a wine list and crab cakes."

The immediate antagonism. The way he's already decided who you are and found it wanting.

You should walk away. You should go back to Maelyn and finish your drink and go home and forget this.

You lean against the bar next to him. "And you look like you're about to get kicked out for arguing about the whiskey."

His smile widens. "It's shit whiskey."

"It's a dive bar. What did you expect?" "Standards," he says. "Even dive bars can have standards."

"Or maybe you're just pretentious."

"Or maybe you have no taste."

The bartender sets a drink in front of him, probably the shit whiskey he was just complaining about.

He takes a sip, doesn't break eye contact. There's a challenge in it. In everything about him.

"I'm Wooyoung," he says.

You tell him your name. It feels strange in your mouth, like you're handing him something you shouldn't. Like names have power and you've just given him yours.

They do have power, in a sense. "So what are you running from?" he asks. Who asks shit like this off rip?

The question catches you off-guard. "What makes you think I'm running from something?"

"Everyone in this bar is running from something. You just look like you're better at it than most."

There's a feeling of violence in being seen. In having someone look at you and recognize the thing you've been trying to hide.

All of the ugly.

You want to leave. You want to stay. You want him to keep looking at you like that, like he can see through the smile to the thing festering underneath.

"What are you running from?" you counter. "Who says I'm running? Maybe I'm chasing."

"Chasing what?"

"Haven't decided yet." He takes another sip of his drink. "Maybe I'll know it when I see it."

The conversation shouldn't work. It's all antagonism. Like you're speaking the same language, even if the words are different.

Your phone buzzes. You ignore it.

"Your friend is texting you," Wooyoung says, nodding toward your phone on the bar. "Probably telling you to run."

"Probably." "Are you gonna?"

Every instinct that hasn't been completely destroyed by the heat and the whiskey and the performance of being fine is telling you to run.

But there's something about the way he's looking at you, feels like a dare. "No," you say. His smile is sharp. Dangerous. "Good."

You don't remember deciding to leave with him. One moment you're at the bar and the next you're outside in the cold air, and he's hailing a cab, and you're texting Maelyn some excuse that you both know is a lie.

Terrible at little white lies, but can fake a personality all day. Yeah that checks out.

The cab ride is silent. He sits too close, his thigh pressed against yours, and you can feel the heat of him through your jeans.

It should be uncomfortable. It is uncomfortable. But you don't move away.

His apartment is in a building that's trying to be nice, but lowkey isn't. The lobby has fake plants and a mirror that makes everything look slightly off and yellow.

The elevator is small, cramped. You stand on opposite sides, and the tension between you feels physical.

"Having second thoughts?" he asks as the elevator climbs. "Are you?" "I don't have second thoughts. Only first ones, and I commit."

The elevator doors open. His apartment is on the fourth floor, at the end of a hallway. He unlocks the door, and you follow him inside.

The apartment is too warm. Like he's turned the heat up too high and forgotten about it. You start to take off your jacket, and he's already there, helping you, his hands brushing your shoulders.

"Drink?" he asks. "Sure."

He pours two glasses that are definitely better than the bar whiskey. You take it, grateful for something to do with your hands.

The apartment is small, a studio, basically, with a bed that dominates the space, and a small couch. There's a window that looks out onto the street, and through it you can see the lights of other buildings, other lives happening in parallel to this one.

"So," he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Are we going to keep pretending we came here to talk?"

There's something almost refreshing about his bluntness. No pretense. No performance. Just the acknowledgment of what this is.

Just bodies, no emotion. You set down your drink. "No."

He pulls you toward him. His hands are on your hips, your waist, pulling you between his legs. He looks up at you, and there's a glint in his eyes that you recognize.

It matches the thing inside you that's been eating itself for months. "You're trouble," he says. So cliché, probably says it to every girl to walk through that damn door. "So are you."

He kisses you, it's all teeth, like he's trying to consume you. You kiss him back with intensity, your hands in his hair, pulling.

He makes a sound low in his throat, and it sends heat through you, different from the apartment heat, different from the whiskey heat. This is the heat of something catching fire.

His hands are under your shirt, fingers digging into your ribs, and you're pulling him closer even though there's no space left between you.

"You're overthinking," he says against your mouth. "I'm not—"

"You are." His hands slide to your ass, squeeze hard enough to make you gasp. "I can literally feel you calculating. Stop doing math and take off your fucking pants."

You pull back. "Romantic."

"You want romance, wrong apartment." But he's already unbuttoning your jeans himself, impatient. "You want me to lie to you? Tell you you're special?"

"I want you to shut up."

You kiss him to prove a point, and he laughs into your mouth. Your jeans hit the floor. His follow.

"Bed," you say.

"Uh uh couch." He pushes you toward the couch, and you stumble back into it. He follows you down, settling between your legs, and you can feel how hard he is through his boxers.

"Eager," you observe.

"You're one to talk." His hand slides between your thighs, over your underwear, and you're already wet enough that he can feel it. "Fuck. You've been like this the whole time?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late." He hooks his fingers in your underwear and pulls them down. Stops. Stares. "Christ."

"What?"

"Nothing. Just—" He slides two fingers through your folds, and you twitch. "You're really fucking wet. Like dripping."

"Congratulations on your observational skills—oh—" He pushes two fingers inside without warning, and your brain short-circuits.

"What were you saying?" He's grinning now, the asshole. "I hate you."

"Slander." He starts moving his fingers, finds a rhythm that makes your thighs shake. "You like that I'm calling you out on your bullshit."

"And who are you supposed to be…?"

"Am I wrong?" He curls his fingers and you actually whimper. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

"You're so— fuck —arrogant—"

"And you're so tight." He adds a third finger and you arch off the couch. "How long's it been?"

"None of your business—"

"Months, probably. You don't seem like the casual sex type." He leans down, bites your neck hard enough to leave a mark. "Until tonight."

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know you came to a stranger's apartment at midnight. I know you're about to come on my fingers in about thirty seconds." His thumb finds your clit and you actually cry out. "And I know you're going to let me fuck you after."

"Confident—"

"Correct," he says, and then he starts a scissor motion with his fingers that makes you forget how to speak.

You come hard, clenching around his fingers, and he watches your face the entire time.

"Good?" he asks when you can breathe again. "Adequate."

He laughs, pulls his fingers out. "Liar." He brings them to his mouth, sucks them clean while maintaining eye contact. "You taste like you've been eating your fruits and thinking about this all night."

"You're disgusting."

"No doubt about that." He strips off his shirt, then his boxers, and—oh. Okay. You weren't expecting that.

Well endowed.

"Stop staring at my dick." It’s literally saying hi to me. "I'm not—"

"You are." He's already rolling on a condom from the nightstand. "It's fine. You can appreciate it later. Right now I need you to tell me if you actually want this or if you're just being competitive."

"Competitive?" "Yeah. Like you need to win the argument by fucking me." He's not entirely wrong, which is annoying. I hate agreeing with men. "I want this," you say.

"Say it again without the attitude." "I want this," you repeat, softer.

He lines himself up, and then he's pushing inside, slow, and the stretch of it makes you forget why you were trying to be difficult.

"Fuck," you breathe. He bottoms out and stops, giving you time to adjust. "You good?" "Move."

"Bossy." But he moves, pulling almost all the way out and then slamming back in hard.

"Fuck —"

"That's better." He sets a brutal pace, one hand braced on the arm of the couch, the other on your hip. "You feel so fucking good. Why do you feel this good?"

"Chemistry—" "Fuck chemistry. This is—" He cuts himself off with a groan, angle shifting. "There—right there—don't stop—"

His hand slides between you, finds your clit. "Come on. I can feel you clenching. You're close."

"Stop narrating—"

"Make me come first and I'll shut up."

It's a challenge. You wrap your legs around his waist, nails digging into his shoulders, and meet him thrust for thrust. His rhythm falters.

"Oh, you're mean," he says, half-laughing, half-breathless. "I take it back. You're definitely the casual sex type."

"Fuck you."

"You are. Literally." His hand moves faster, heat building so fast you don't have time to prepare for it.

You come with his name on your lips, loud enough that he covers your mouth with his free hand.

"Thin walls," he reminds you, and then he's following you over, hips stuttering, a string of curses against your neck.

You lie there trying to remember how to be a person. Wooyoung pulls out, ties off the condom, tosses it in the direction of the trash can.

"You missed," you observe.

"I'll get it later." He collapses next to you on the couch, which is too small for two people. His leg is pressed against yours. He's still breathing hard.

"That was—"

"If you say 'adequate' I'm kicking you out." You laugh. You can't help it. "It was good."

"Just good?"

"Very good."

You lie in the too-warm apartment, staring at the ceiling. The silence should be comfortable. It's not. It feels wrong, something is missing, like you’re supposed be saying something or doing something but you don't know what.

It’s like your body is trying to tell you that this didn't fix anything, that the thing inside you that feels broken is still broken, that you've just added another layer to the performance.

"You're thinking too loud," Wooyoung says. "How do you know I'm thinking?" "You got quiet. People who get quiet after sex are always thinking."

You turn your head to look at him. He's staring at the ceiling too, his profile sharp in dim light from the window. "What do you think about after sex?"

You turn your head to look at him. He's already looking at you.

"I think about whether I want the person to leave or stay," he says. "Whether I'm going to regret this in an hour or a week. Whether they're going to expect something from me I can't give."

"That's bleak."

"You asked." He traces a pattern on your shoulder with one finger. "What about you?"

"I think about why I keep doing things that don't make sense." "Does this make sense?" "Not one bit." "Things that make sense are boring."

You laugh, surprising yourself. There's something dangerous about how easy this feels. How you can lie here with a stranger and tell the truth about yourself without feeling like you're handing him ruins.

But maybe that's the point. He's not someone who matters. You'll probably never see him again. You can be honest because there's no future to protect.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You ignore it. "Your friend again?" he asks. "Maybe." "You should answer. Let her know you're alive."

You lie there in the heat, in the silence that feels wrong, and you think about how you got here.

About the radiator in your office. About the smile you wear like armor. About the way you said yes to drinks, yes to leaving with him, yes to this, because saying no would require admitting that you're not fine, that you haven't been fine, that the facade is killing you slowly, and you don't know how to stop.

"I should go," you say eventually. "Okay." This is a mistake. I'm going to do it again anyway.

You don't expect to see him again. One-night stands are supposed to be singular, contained. A moment of bad judgment that you can file away and forget about.

But three days later, you're at a coffee shop near your office, and he's there. Just there, like the universe is playing a joke.

He's in line ahead of you, ordering a complicated drink that makes the barista sigh.

He turns, sees you, and his face is complicated. Not quite a smile. Not quite a frown. Something in between.

"Stalkin' me?" he asks. "This is my coffee shop. I come here every day." "Funny. It's my coffee shop too." "I've never seen you here before." "Maybe you weren't looking."

The barista calls his name, and he grabs his drink. He doesn't leave. He stands there, waiting, and you realize he's waiting for you.

You order your usual. When you turn around, he's still there. "Walk with me," he says.

It's not a question. It would make the most sense to establish boundaries, create distance, treat this like what it was, a one-time thing, a mistake, a moment of weakness.

When have I ever made sense? Why start now?

You walk. The morning is cold, the cold that makes your breath visible. It should feel good after the heat of his apartment, after the heat of your office.

"So," he says. "That was weird."

"What was?"

"The other night. Us." "Weird how?"

He's quiet for a moment, and you can see him trying to figure out how to say something. "I don't usually... I don't know. It felt different."

"Different bad or different good?"

"Haven't decided yet."

There's that phrase again. Haven't decided yet. Like he's constantly in the process of making up his mind about things, like commitment is something he approaches cautiously, like he's always ready to change his answer.

"I have to get to work," you say, even though you have twenty minutes. "Right. Work." He says it like it's a foreign concept. "What do you do?" "Marketing." "Sounds boring." "A little."

"Then why do you do it?"

Because it's easy, it pays the bills, it's one more thing you can perform competently while everything inside you falls apart.

Because having a job that's boring is better than having a job that requires you to care, because caring about things has started to feel…feel, yeah, that’s the problem.

Feelings. "Why does anyone do anything?" you say instead. He laughs. It's not a nice laugh. "Ok, miss philosopher."

"You asked."

You've reached your office building. You stop, and he stops with you. There's a moment where neither of you says anything, where you both just stand there in the cold, and you think about how easy it would be to just walk away.

To treat this like the ending it should be. "Give me your number," he says. "Why?" "So I can text you." "Why would you text me?"

"I don't know yet. But I want the option."

Every part of you that still has any sense of self-preservation is screaming at you to walk away, to let this be what it was.

You pull out your phone. "What's your number?"

He puts it in. You save it. You don't text him immediately, don't give him yours just yet. You just stand there with his number in your phone, feeling like you've just done something irreversible.

"I really have to go," you say. "Mhm."

You turn to leave, and he catches your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to stop you.

"Hey," he says. "That thing you said. About why anyone does anything. You don't really believe that, do you?"

You look at him. At his dark eyes, the way he's looking at you like he actually wants to know the answer. Like it matters.

"I don't know," you say. "Haven't decided yet." His smile is small, almost real. "Fair enough." He lets go of your wrist. You walk into your building. You don't look back.

The radiator is still broken. You sit at your desk and try to focus on work, but your mind keeps drifting back to the coffee shop, to the way Wooyoung looked at you, to the feeling of his hand on your wrist.

Your phone buzzes. Unknown Number : so when are you going to text me back?

You stare at the message. You haven't texted him. He doesn't have your number. Except apparently he does now, because he's texting you.

you : how did you get my number? wooyoung: you saved mine. i called it. now i have yours. ur welcome

You are annoyed. But also relieved.

Like you wanted him to have your number but didn't want to be the one to give it to him. Like you wanted the decision taken out of your hands.

you: that's creepy wooyoung: you gave me your number you: i gave you the option to have my number. there's a difference

wooyoung: semantics, what are you doing tonight? you: why?

wooyoung: because i want to see you

There it is. The bluntness again. No games, no pretense. Just the direct statement of want.

You stare at your phone. Your boss walks by, says something about a meeting later. You smile, nod, perform the motions of someone who is present, who is focused, who is not having a text conversation with a near-stranger who feels like a mistake you're going to keep making.

you : i don't think that's a good idea wooyoung : but you're going to say yes anyway

You hate that he can see through you this easily, that he's already figured out that you're the type of person who makes bad decisions and calls them inevitable.

you: you're very sure of yourself

wooyoung: i'm sure of you. you're the kind of person who can't leave things alone

wooyoung: you're going to keep picking at this until it bleeds

The accuracy of it makes your chest tight. You set down your phone. You try to focus on work. You try to ignore the way your hands are shaking slightly, the way the heat feels like it's inside you now, not just pressing against you from the outside.

Your phone buzzes again. wooyoung: 8pm. i'll send you the address

You know you shouldn't go. But at 7:30, you're leaving the office. At 7:45, you're in a cab heading to the address he sent.

At 8, you're standing outside a building in a part of town you don't usually go to, and he's there, waiting.

"You came," he says. "You knew I would." "Yeah. But it's still nice to be right."

He leads you inside. It's some kind of art studio, empty except for canvases and paint and the smell of turpentine.

Fucking love the smell of turpentine. There's music playing from somewhere, something with a heavy beat. "What is this?" you ask. "A friend's studio. He lets me use it sometimes." "For what?"

"For this." He hands you a canvas, a brush. "Paint something." "I don't paint." "Neither do I. That's the point."

You stare at the canvas. At the blank white surface. At the way it seems to demand something from you that you don't know how to give.

"I don't understand," you say. "You don't have to understand. Just do it."

There's something almost freeing about the permission to not understand. To just do. You dip the brush in paint, red, because it's the first color you see, and you drag it across the canvas. It looks terrible.

"Good," Wooyoung says. He's at his own canvas, making broad strokes of black. "Keep going."

You paint without thinking, without trying to make it look like anything. Just color and motion and the feeling of doing something with your hands that isn't typing.

Wooyoung is watching you. You can feel his eyes on you even when you're not looking at him.

"You're angry," he says. "Huh?" "Your painting. You're angry."

You look at the canvas. It's all harsh lines and violent color, it looks like anger feels.

"I'm not angry," you say. You set down the brush. "You don't know me."

"I know you're angry. I know you're pretending not to be. I know you smile at your boss and say thank you and go home and feel nothing."

The accuracy of it is like a slap. "Fuck you." "There it is." He's smiling now, "That's what I wanted to see." "What?" "The real thing."

You think about throwing the brush at him and walk out and block his number and never think about this again. You pick up the brush and throw paint at his canvas. It splatters across the black, red on black, and he laughs.

"Better," he says. "You're an asshole." "Yeah. So are you."

He's close now. The studio is cold, but he's warm, always warm, like he runs at a higher temperature than normal people.

"Why did you bring me here?" you ask.

"Because I wanted to see what you'd do. If you'd actually show up. If you'd actually let yourself do something without thinking about it first."

"And?" "And you did. Which means you're more interesting than I thought." "I'm not interesting. I'm a mess." "Same thing."

He kisses you. You kiss him back with paint on your hands, and it gets on his shirt, his skin. The music is still playing, and you can feel it in your bones, in your blood, in the space between you.

When you pull back, you're both breathing hard. "This is a bad idea," you say.

You stand there in the cold studio with paint on your hands and the taste of him in your mouth, and you think about how easy it would be to just leave.

How easy it would be to choose safety over this, whatever this is. You kiss him again. I'm so fucked.

It becomes a pattern. He texts. You respond. You meet. Sometimes it's his apartment, sometimes it's other places, the studio, a bar, once a park at midnight when neither of you could sleep.

You fight. You fuck. You say things you don't mean and things you mean too much.

You're unraveling. The way you check your phone constantly, waiting for his texts. The way you can't focus on work because you're thinking about the last thing he said, the last fight you had.

The way you've started lying to Maelyn about where you're going, what you're doing, who you're seeing.

There's something weird in wanting someone to fight you. In needing the conflict because it's the only thing that makes you feel real.

Wooyoung knows this about you. He knows it because he's the same way.

"We're toxic," he says one night, lying in his apartment after another fight about nothing, about everything.

"We should probably stop seeing each other." But you don't stop.

You stay caught in each other’s pull, not enough to fall apart, not enough to walk away, just enough to keep circling.

Your phone buzzes. It's 2am. You're in your own apartment for once, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

wooyoung: you awake?

you: yeah

wooyoung: can't sleep

you: me neither

wooyoung: what are you thinking about?

You stare at the message. What are you thinking about? You're thinking about how tired you are. How the performance is exhausting.

How you can't remember the last time you felt like yourself, if you ever felt like yourself, if there even is a self underneath all the layers of pretending.

you: nothing. what are YOU thinking about?

wooyoung : you and us. how this is probably going to end badly

you: and yet you're still here

wooyoung: so are you

You set down your phone. You try to sleep.Your phone buzzes again.

wooyoung: there's this app. it's supposed to tell you how compatible you are with someone

you: that sounds stupid wooyoung: wanna try it?

He needs to go to sleep, to stop texting me at 2am, to stop pulling me into his world.

You download the app.

It's called synCink. The interface is sleek. It asks for your name, your age, some basic information, your firstborn child.

Then it asks you to answer questions. Lots of questions. About your personality, your preferences, your fears, your desires.

The questions feel invasive. Like they're reaching inside you and pulling out things you didn't want to examine. Things you've been carefully not thinking about.

do you prefer stability or excitement? do you avoid conflict or seek it? do you feel more alive when you're happy or when you're in pain?

You answer honestly. You don't know why. Maybe because it's 2am and you're tired of lying. Maybe because the app doesn't know you, doesn't have expectations.

Can't disappoint or make it happy.

When you're done, it asks for Wooyoung's username. You enter it. The app thinks for a moment, processing, hums.

Then it shows you a number: 67% wooyoung:  67%. not bad

you: not good either wooyoung: better than i expected honestly, i thought we'd be like 20% you : why?

wooyoung : because we fight all the time

you : maybe that's why it's 67%

You stare at the number. 67%. The app has somehow quantified whatever this is between you. Has looked at all your answers, all your secrets, and decided that you're 67% compatible.

More than half. Less than whole. It feels like a thing you shouldn't trust but can't help believing.

You set down your phone. The screen is warm against your palm, like it's absorbed the heat of your hand, and battery in overdrive.

You think about Wooyoung, and the way he texts you at 2am, the way he fights with you like it's a form of intimacy, the way he makes you feel more real than anything else in your constructed life.

You think about the number, 67%. What are you, a sad, vague poet now?

You fall asleep thinking about what it would take to make it higher. Or lower. Or if it even matters.

The first time you notice the pattern, it's 11pm on a Thursday. wooyoung: you up? The second time, it's 11pm on a Saturday. Same message, different night.

By the third time, you're expecting it. 11pm. Your phone lights up before you even check it.

That specific hour, late enough that you should be asleep, early enough that you're not. The in-between time when your defenses are down and easy.

You go to his apartment. You always go.

The fourth time you show up, you reach for your phone to text that you're outside. But the door clicks open before you can.

"How did you—"

"You always press the call button twice," Wooyoung says from somewhere up the stairs. "Fast, like you're impatient. I can hear it from here."

You climb the stairs slowly, processing this. He's been listening for you. Waiting.

When you reach his apartment, he's already back on the couch, controller in hand, game paused on the screen. Like he didn't just admit to paying attention to the specific rhythm of how you knock.

"Weirdo," you say. "I could've been anyone."

"You weren't." He doesn't look at you, eyes on the screen. "You coming in or what?"

You step inside. Close the door behind you. "You walked?" "It's three blocks." "It's 11pm." "I'm an adult."

"Didn't say you weren't." He sets down the controller, stands. "Just saying I would've come to get you."

"That's not—" You stop. Don't know how to finish that sentence.

That's not necessary. That's not what this is. That's not something you need to do for someone you're just sleeping with.

"What?" he asks, and there's a challenge in his voice. "Nothing."

He's close now, hands sliding under your shirt, and you let the conversation die because this is easier.

This part you understand.

--

The app becomes a thing. A habit. A compulsion.

You check it in the morning when you wake up. During your lunch break. Late at night when you can't sleep. The number fluctuates, 68%, 65%, 70%, and you find yourself trying to figure out the pattern. What makes it go up. What makes it go down.

Wooyoung is doing the same thing. You know because he texts you updates. wooyoung: 72%. we're getting better at this

The number goes up when you fight. You notice this first. After an argument about something stupid, he was late, you were annoyed, it escalated, you check the app and it's jumped to 75%.

"That's fucked up," you say, showing him your phone. He checks his. Same number. "Maybe the app knows something we don't." "Maybe it's broken." "Or maybe we're broken and it's just honest about it."

You're in his apartment. It's too warm, as always. You've stopped trying to fight the heat. You've started to think of it as part of him, part of this, part of whatever you're doing.

You dont know what the hell you’re doing. "Ya know, I should just go ahead and go," you say. "You always say that." "And somehow, someway, I always end up here."

"Yeah." He's looking at you with that expression, the one that makes you feel like he's seeing too much, like he puts on x-ray goggles just for you.

"Why is that?"

“No earthly idea, really."

"Honey, you’re such a fuckin’ liar."

‘Honey,’ like we’re an old married couple who vacations in the Bahamas when it gets too cold.

You're so tired of lying. But the truth feels dangerous. The truth is that you stay because leaving would mean going back to your own apartment, your own life, the performance of being fine.

The truth is that you're addicted to the way he makes you feel, alive and raw and like you're finally allowed to be the mess you actually are.

mau’s narrator voice: but, ‘honey,’ messes are beautiful.

"Why do you want me to stay?" you ask.

"Because I'm fucked up and you're fucked up and at least when we're together we're fucked up in the same direction."

It's the most honest thing he's ever said to you. It should scare you. It does scare you. But it also feels like relief.

You stay. -- The number keeps climbing. 78%. 81%. 85%.

"This is getting weird," Maelyn says when you finally tell her about the app. You're at brunch, and she's looking at you with concern, pity.

The things you hate most because you don’t like the idea of burdening anyone. "You know these things aren't real, right? It's just an algorithm." "I’m aware." "Do you? Because you're checking it like every five minutes."

You put your phone down. She's right. You've been checking it constantly. It's become a reflex, like breathing. Like the smile you wear at work.

Your dental hygiene is a 10/10 because of how much you show your smile, although it’s fake, like the one you give your dental hygienist.

"It's just for fun," you say. "You don't look like you're having fun. You look stressed."

"I'm fine."

"You keep saying that. But you're not eating. You're not sleeping. You're seeing this guy who you fight with constantly, and somehow that's making your compatibility score go up, and you think that's normal—"

"I didn't say it was normal."

"Then what is it? Please, for the love of all things good, enlighten me!"

You don't have an answer. Or you do, but it's not one you want to say out loud. Maelyn never raises her voice, but in this moment, it’s clear that worry is all across her face.

"He gets me," you say finally. "Gets you how?" "He just... he sees me. The real me. Not the version I show everyone else." Maelyn is quiet for a moment. "And what does the real you look like?"

You think about this. About the anger in your painting, how the paintbrush splintered off because you were just so angry.

About the way you fight with Wooyoung like it's the only honest thing you do. About the way the smile at work feels like a twin you hate and can’t quite shake.

"Angry," you say. “I’m just tired. Like I’m pretending all the time, and it’s catching up to me.”

"Then stop." If it were that easy, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. "It's not that simple." "Why not?"

Because if you stop, you have to admit you’re not fine, and everything you’ve built is just you trying to look competent enough that no one asks questions.

Stopping would mean facing the thing inside you that feels broken, and you don't know if you're ready for that.

Maelyn reaches across the table, takes your hand. "I'm worried about you." "Don't be. I'm fine."

The smile, and she doesn't look convinced, not one bit.

--

87%

The number appears after the worst fight yet. You don't even remember what started it. Him not texting back? I think, it’s not that hard to pick up the damn phone.

You being too demanding. It escalated quickly, the way your fights always do, until you were both yelling, saying things designed to hurt.

"You're so damn exhausting," he said. "Then why are you still here?" "I really dunno. Maybe I like being exhausted."

You left. Actually left this time, grabbed your coat and walked out. You made it halfway down the block before your phone buzzed.

wooyoung : 87% Bastard. You stopped walking. Pulled out your phone. Checked the app.

He was right. 87%.

You stared at the number. The highest it's ever been. After the worst fight. After saying things you can't take back.

The app has a new notification badge. You tap it.

new feature unlocked: behavioral predictions based on your compatibility profile, synCink can now predict:

> when you're most likely to contact each other (87% accuracy) > topics that will increase connection (92% accuracy) > conflict patterns and resolution methods (81% accuracy)

There's something deeply unsettling about this. The app is learning you. Learning him. Learning you together in a way that feels like you’re constantly under scrutiny.

You turn the corner toward your apartment, and he's there. Leaning against your building's door, hood up, hands in pockets.

"How did you know I'd be here?"

He holds up his phone. "App said you were about to text me. Figured I'd save you the trouble."

"That's—"

"Creepy. Yeah. You've mentioned." He pushes off the wall. "You gonna let me up or make me wait in the cold?"

You don't remember giving him your address. You unlock the door anyway. Inside your apartment, the cold feels like relief after weeks of his heat. Maybe it’s his breath, who knows!

You've kept your windows cracked even though it's November, just to feel like you can breathe.

"Jesus, it's freezing in here," Wooyoung says, rubbing his arms. "I like it cold."

"You like being uncomfortable. That's different." He's already walking through your space taking in the details. "Nice place. Very... beige."

"It came furnished."

"That tracks." He stops in front of your bookshelf, tilts his head. "You alphabetized these."

"Your point?"

"So you're more fucked up than I thought." He turns back to you, grinning. "I like it."

"I didn't let you in here to critique my organizational systems—" "Why did you let me in?"

You kiss him first, but it’s not romantic; it’s because you’re annoyed and horny and refuse to give him the satisfaction of saying either out loud.

His mouth opens under yours, surprised for half a second before he grabs your hips. “God, you’re needy,” he mutters against your jaw.

“Shut up. I’m bored.” He laughs. Genuinely amused by you.“You’re bored? You dragged me in here.” “You followed.” “You wanted me to.” “Delusion isn’t a personality trait, Woo.”

He slips a hand under your waistband and pats you through your underwear. “Then why are you this wet, sweetheart?”

You slap his hand away, or try to. He catches your wrist midair and kisses it. “Try that again,” he says, “and I’ll put you over my knee.”

“You wish—you demented fucker.”

He drags you backwards by the waist, not to the bed, to the dresser. Your hips bump the wood. He grins like he planned it. “Perfect height. Turn around.”

“No.” He actually laughs. “You think you get to say no?” “After n comes o in the alphabet.”

He steps in close, lips brushing your ear. “You only say no because you want to hear what I do with it.”

Your whole body shivers, smug bastard. “Hands on the dresser,” he says. You do not put your hands on the dresser, you fold your arms instead.

He stares at you for a long second, then he lifts you by the thighs and sets you on top of the dresser.

“So now you’re tall and annoying,” you say, breathless.

“And now you’re exactly where I want you,” he shoots back, sliding your underwear down without asking. When you try to close your legs, he taps your inner thigh. “Keep ‘em open.”

“Bossy.” “You’re one tantrum away from begging. Don’t start.”

“That’s rich coming from the man who called himself from my phone like a fucking raccoon digging through trash.”

He looks up through his hair, breath uneven. “Keep pushing me. You’re two seconds from getting flipped and fucked stupid.”

“You can try.”

He doesn’t bother with fingers this time. He leans in and drags his tongue up you, messy and slow. Your hand shoots into his hair..

He smirks against you. “Oh look. Someone’s not bored anymore.” “You’re still talking,” you gasp.

He sucks your clit hard enough to make your eyes slam shut, then pulls back to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. “Say please.”

“Absolutely not.” He stands up straight and steps away. Your stomach drops. “Wait—”

“Oh? What happened to ‘absolutely not’?” He crosses his arms, leaning against the wall like he could watch you squirm for an hour. “Go on. I’ll wait.”

You glare at him. “You’re such a little bitch.” He gives a low laugh. “That’s the version of you I fuck.”

He grabs your ankles and yanks you to the edge of the dresser so fast you gasp, then slides into you with one smooth thrust before you can process it. No warning. No easing in. Just thick, deep, full.

“Fuck—Wooyoung—”

“Yeah?” he says roughly, pushing deeper, holding your hips down when you try to twist away from the intensity. “Where’d all that attitude go?”

You dig your nails into his shoulders. “Still here. You’re just—fuck—distracting.”

“Oh, I’ll distract you.” He pulls almost all the way out and slams back in hard enough that the dresser knocks against the wall. “Try that shit one more time.”

You try to hook your legs around his waist, but he shakes his head. “No. Keep them wide.” He slaps your thigh. “If they close, I stop.”

“You’re literally obsessed with hearing yourself talk.”

“And you’re literally clenching every time I open my mouth.” You grab his face, thumb digging into his cheek.

“Shut up and fuck me already.”

He laughs under his breath. “Say you want it.” You yank his hair, pulling him closer. “I do. Don’t make me say it pretty.” His voice drops. “That’s what I wanted.”

He grabs under your knees, folds you almost in half, and fucks into you at an angle that is made to ruin your night and your legs and possibly your soul. Every thrust knocks a broken little sound out of you.

“You’re so goddamn tight like this,” he grits out. “You don’t deserve to act like a brat if you’re gonna squeeze me like you’re in love with me.”

You jerk at the angle, the sound that escapes you not a moan, not a gasp, but something far, far worse.

pfft. You freeze, he freezes. “…did you just queef?”

“NO—” Your voice cracks in mortification. He grins like he just got handed front-row tickets to your humiliation.

“Oh my god. That was elite. Peak suction. I’m honored, really.”

“Shut the fuck up and finish what you’re doing.”

“Oh I will,” he laughs, thrusting hard, “but I’m NEVER forgetting that.”

He presses his thumb to your clit. You jerk again,“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he says, voice shaking. “You talk big but you break so fucking pretty.”

You want to argue, want to insult him. Instead, what leaves your mouth is a noise that isn’t even a word.

“Oh, that’s my other favorite sound,” he says. “Do it again.”

He hits your clit faster, fucking you deeper, pushing you higher until your vision goes spotty.“Say you need it.”

“Eat shit—” you hiss, then break off into a moan because he hits that spot again. He slows. Torturously.

“Say it,” he whispers against your mouth. “Be my good girl for once.” “Fuck you—”

He stills entirely. You whine, grabbing at him like you can drag him back into motion.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “That’s what I wanted.” You hate him, but still you need him.

“I need it,” you spit out through your teeth. “Happy?”

He smiles like you just handed him the key to the city. “Ecstatic.”

He fucks you so hard the dresser starts scraping across the floor. You come shaking, swearing, grabbing at anything you can reach, and he follows with a curse into your shoulder, hips stuttering as he finishes deep inside you.

When you both stop shaking, he kisses your cheek, mocking, affectionate, infuriating.

“Muahhh. You still bored?” “I still hate you.” He grins. “You say that every time you come.”

You shove him off you, but he takes you with him, both of you hitting the bed in a tangle of limbs. He’s laughing, breathless, hair sticking to his forehead.

“Get off,” you huff. He rolls his eyes, “Uh, anyway. Check the app.” You stare at him like he’s insane. “Right now?” He nods, grin obnoxious. “I need to confirm I just boosted your stats.” You grope for your phone with trembling hands.

89% new insight available. You tap it before you can stop yourself.

intensity correlation: your compatibility increases by 0.3% for every instance of physical dominance/submission dynamics.

additional note: both partners show increased dopamine markers during power exchange scenarios.

You stare at the words. "What's it say?" Wooyoung asks. You turn the phone so he can see. He reads it. His expression doesn't change. "Huh." "'Huh'? That's all you have to say?"

"What do you want me to say?" "The the app is literally tracking our kinks."

He takes your phone and sets it face-down on your nightstand. "But you already knew you liked that shit. App's just confirming it."

"That's not the point—" "Then what is the point?"

You don't know. You don't know why it bothers you that something you felt is now quantified. Measured. Turned into data.

"I should shower," you say. "Want company?" You shake your head no, kinda not in the mood for a round two.

"Okay." He gets up, starts getting dressed. You watch him from the bed, and there's something wrong about how comfortable he looks in your space. Like he belongs here.

No, no, stop it. Your phone buzzes. You glance at it. The synCink screen is flickering. J.WY → (??) K.YS → ERROR → J.WY

You frown. "What the—"

"What?" Wooyoung looks over your shoulder. "The app just... glitched. Showed someone else's initials for a second."

"It does that sometimes." He's pulling his hoodie on, unconcerned. "Jumps to random people I know even when they're nowhere near me. Some bug with the proximity tracking."

"K.YS" you read aloud. "Who's that?"

"Yeosang. Friend of mine. We carpool sometimes, so we're probably still logged in the system or whatever." He kisses your forehead. "Don't worry about it."

The screen stabilizes back to J.WY "You leaving?" you ask. "Figured you wanted space." "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." He pulls his shirt on. "Text me when you figure out what you actually want."

He leaves before you can respond, you don’t know how much more of this either one of you can take.

You lie there in your unmade bed, alone, and check the app four more times before you shower.

The next morning, you have three texts from Maelyn. One from your boss. Two from a number you don't recognize.

You open the unknown number first.

Unknown: Hi! This is the synCink team. We noticed you've reached 89% compatibility with your match. Congratulations! We wanted to let you know about some features available at higher compatibility levels.

>At 90%, you'll unlock Enhanced Insights - deeper analysis of your relationship patterns and compatibility factors.

>At 95%, you'll unlock Predictive Modeling - our AI will predict potential relationship outcomes based on your interaction patterns.

>At 100%, you'll unlock Ultimate Compatibility Status - reserved for our most compatible matches.

--

92%

You're at work when it happens. Sitting in a meeting, nodding along to your boss talking about projections, and your phone buzzes in your pocket. You ignore it. It buzzes again. And again.

When the meeting ends, you check your phone. wooyoung: 92% wooyoung: we haven't even seen each other in three days

wooyoung: how the fuck is it still going up

You check the app. He's right. 92%. It was 89% after he left your apartment. You haven't fought. Haven't fucked. Haven't even texted that much.

And it went up three percentage points. you: this doesn't make sense wooyoung: it makes perfect sense

wooyoung: we're thinking about each other wooyoung: the app knows

you: that's not how algorithms work

wooyoung: then explain it

You can't. You stare at the screen, at the 92% glowing rose gold, and something in your chest feels too tight.

you: i have to work wooyoung: you're scared wooyoung: aren't you?

You don't respond. You put your phone away. You try to focus on work. But he's right. You are scared. Because if the number can go up when you're not even together, what does that mean?

That thinking about him counts? That wanting him from across the city registers as compatibility?

I wish I could unscrew my head and take my brain out for the day. That you're already in too deep to pretend this is casual? Your coworker leans over your monitor. “You good?”

“Yep.”

“You don’t look ‘yep.’ You look… different.”

“How different?”

She squints at you. “Distracted-different. Also kind of… glowy? You’re smiling a lot.”

Great. Wonderful. Exactly what you want, glowy.

You’re breaking down in the smallest, quietest pieces, and people call it happiness because you’ve trained your face to lie for you.

"Just busy," you say. "You know how it is." She doesn't look swayed but lets it drop. You check the app. 92.3% It went up while you were talking to her.

You lock your phone and try not to think about what that means. --

That night, Wooyoung shows up at your apartment without asking. You hear him at the door, two short buzzes on your intercom, the pattern you've come to recognize as his.

You let him up without asking why. A recurring experience for you at this point.

He crosses and stands in the door way, shoes still on the mat. He just looks at you, too long, intense, like he’s trying to decide what version of you he’s seeing tonight.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you," he says. "That's not—"

"The app knows. It fucking knows." He holds up his phone. 92.8%. "I was sitting at home doing nothing and it kept climbing. Every time I thought about texting you. Every time I almost called."

"That's not possible." You don’t know that for sure. "Then why is it happening?" You don't have an answer.

He crosses the space between you. His hands frame your face, and they're warm now, no longer cold from outside.

"We need to stop," you say. "Okay." "I'm serious."

"So stop." His voice is soft, but his mouth is already a breath from yours. And you’re leaning in anyway, betraying your own words.

--

The days blur together. Work. Wooyoung. Fighting. Fucking. Checking the app. The number hovers at 90% for a while, then jumps to 92%, then 94%.

I should print it on a shirt.

You're not eating enough. You're not sleeping enough. You're performing at work, smiling at your coworkers, saying you're fine, and then going to Wooyoung's apartment and falling apart.

Maelyn stops texting. Or maybe you stop responding. You can't remember. Your boss comments on your work. "You seem distracted lately." "I'm alright." Just take what I’m giving, please. "Are you sure? Because your last few presentations have been..."

"Have been what?" "Not up to your usual standard."

The words hit harder than they should. Because your usual standard is the performance. The careful construction of competence. And if that's slipping, if people are starting to notice, then what do you have left?

Is my true default being less than? "I'll do better," you say. "I hope so. We're counting on you." You go to the bathroom and lock yourself in a stall. You check the app. 94%

You text Wooyoung. you: i think i'm falling apart wooyoung: i know

wooyoung: me too

You sit in the bathroom stall and cry. Quietly, so no one can hear. Crying, something breaking inside you. The performance is finally cracking, and you don't know what's underneath.

Your phone buzzes. wooyoung: come over tn

--

95%

The app has been climbing steadily, 92%, 93%, 94%, and each percentage point feels like sinking deeper into quicksand. But you go anyway, because that's what you do now.

He says come, and you come. Like a damn dog.

He opens the door before you can knock. His hair is a mess. He looks tired, like he hasn't slept well lately.

"I can't do this anymore." The words hit like ice water. "Do what?"

"This. Pretending this is casual. Pretending I don't—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair again. "The app hit 94% this morning. I hadn't even seen you in days. I was just thinking about you and it went up."

"So?"

"So that's not normal." He's pacing now, restless energy filling his small apartment. "We're not normal. This whole thing is fucked up and we both know it."

"Then what do you want to do about it?"

"I don't know. Stop seeing each other? Delete the app? Admit that we're—" He stops again. Won't finish the sentence.

"That we're what?" "Nothing. Forget it." "No. Say it."

"So you can run? So you can do that thing where you shut down and disappear for three days?"

"I don't do that—" I do.

"You absolutely do that." He's close now, too close. "Every time this gets real, you bail. Every time I try to—"

"Try to what?" He tries to see me. The actual me. "Be honest with you."

"You want honesty?" Your voice is rising. "Fine. You're a hypocrite. You say you want to stop but you keep texting me. You say this is fucked up but you can't stay away either. You're just as addicted to this shit as I am."

His throat works. “I know that.” “Then what are we doing here?” “I don’t know.”

His hands are suddenly on your face, warm, shaking just slightly, tilting your head up so you can’t look anywhere but at him. “I don’t fucking know. I just know I can’t stop thinking about you. I know I check the app a hundred times a day to see if the number changed. I know I’m losing my mind and I don’t care because at least it feels like something.”

You kiss him. Or he pulls you into it. Or you fall into each other. It doesn’t matter. It’s two people using their mouths to say everything they shouldn’t.

His lips taste like something you should’ve gotten over by now. And it’s so clear I haven’t.

“This is a bad idea,” you breathe against him, already pulling him closer.

“We should stop.” But his hands are already under your shirt, already dragging it over your head like he’s been waiting months to touch you again. “Stop me.”

You don’t budge.

He walks you backward with the kind of urgency that isn’t lust, it’s panic cosplaying as lust. Your clothes come off in frantic handfuls. His shirt. Your bra. The sound of jeans hitting the floor.

“Say you want this,” he demands, like he needs the words to stay standing. “I want this.”

“Say you need me.”

“Wooyoung—” “Say it.”

His hand cups you through your underwear, not rubbing, just holding. Testing. Feeling. You’re already embarrassingly wet and he feels it, exhales shakily because it hits him too hard.

“Say you need me or I stop.” “You won’t—” He always does this, oh my fucking gosh. He pulls away so fast, the loss is instant, physical, humiliating. “Fuck you,” you breathe, voice thin.

“Not until you say it.”

“I need you.” It comes out wrong, broken and raw, the truth you swore you’d never give him again.

“I need you, okay? Is that what you want?”

“Yeah.”

He grabs your hips, drags your underwear down, and the sound he makes when he looks at you is something amazing.

“That’s exactly what I want.”

He pushes you onto the bed, follows immediately, knees on either side of your thighs, chest pressed to yours, breath hot against your cheek.

“Say you’re mine.” Whaaaaaaaat. “What?”

He slips his fingers inside you without warning, not rough, not gentle, just honest. Like his body remembers the exact way yours takes him.

“Say it,” he murmurs, adding another finger, the curl perfect. “Say you’re mine.” “We’re not—we’re not together like that—” “I don’t care.”

His thumb finds your clit and you choke on a sound that would embarrass you if you had any pride left.

“Say you’re mine or I stop.”

“That’s not fair—” He pulls out again.

“Wooyoung, I swear to god—”

“Just let me hear that pretty mouth say it, dammit.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, hating the honesty in your own voice. “I’m yours, okay? Now fucking touch me.”

“Where?” “Everywhere. Anywhere. I don’t care—just—”

His fingers return, deeper, more insistent, but the hand on your throat is the part that undoes you. He doesn’t squeeze. Just holds.

“You feel that?” he asks, voice tight. “How much you need me?” “Yes.” “This isn’t normal.” “I really, really don’t care.” “We’re bad for each other.”

“I know— but please—”

He pulls out, breath shaking. Then he’s pushing inside you in one slow thrust that knocks every thought out of your head.

“Fuck—”

“Too much?” he asks, forehead against yours, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “No—more—”

He fucks you like he’s trying to bury something in you alongside his cock, shame, fear, longing, guilt, you don’t know.

But you feel every piece of it, every granular piece of him. His hand tightens on your throat. “Look at me.”

And for a moment, not long, not soft,he looks terrified. Like loving ruined him once, and he’s stupid enough to let it happen again.

“Say it again.” “I’m yours—” “Again.” “I’m yours—I’m yours—Wooyoung—” “Come for me,” he orders, but it isn’t a command, it’s almost a plea.

His fingers find your clit again, quick, and your orgasm slams into you so hard. You come with a sound he hasn’t heard from you in awhile.

He remembers it instantly and you feel him break.

He fucks you through it, chasing his own release, each thrust deeper, sharper. “Mine,” he breathes against your neck.

“Mine, mine, mine—”

He comes saying your name, the room feels too quiet after. Your limbs heavy, your breathing uneven.

You lie there staring at the ceiling, realizing how long it’s been since you ate something real. Your body catches up all at once, shaking, weak, spent.

“You okay?” he asks softly. “Mhm.”

You pull your hand away when he reaches for it, cuticles raw, torn, bleeding at the edges.

He sees anyway, his voice drops. “You’re not eating.” And the worst part is, he says it like he’s been noticing for weeks. "When?"

You think about it. Yesterday? The day before? Time has become strange, measured only in app checks and the hours between seeing him.

"I'm fine," you say. "You're not."

"Neither are you." You turn your head to look at him. He's got dark circles under his eyes that match yours. His hands have a slight tremor that wasn't there before. "When did you last sleep through the night?"

"Don't remember."

You both lie there, two people who are supposed to be perfectly compatible, slowly destroying each other in measurable increments.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You already know what it is before you check. 96% new insight available. You tap it with shaking hands.

possession dynamics detected: both partners exhibit increased compatibility during expressions of emotional/physical ownership.

warning: this dynamic may indicate enmeshment patterns rather than healthy attachment.

You show it to Wooyoung. He reads it, and he scrunches up his face a bit. "96%," he says quietly. "Four away from 100." Neither of you says what you're both thinking, What happens at 100?

That's when you hear it. Three measured knocks on the door. Wooyoung goes very still. "Fuck." "What?" "I know that knock." Oh no, is it the repo man?!

He gets up slowly, and there's something in his posture that looks like guilt. You stay where you are, watching as he opens the door.

She's beautiful. That's the first thing you notice. Tall, put-together. Her hair is perfect. Her expression is neutral.

"Nilou," Wooyoung says, and there's something in how he says her name that makes your stomach drop.

"Hi." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. Then she looks past him, sees you. The smile doesn't change, but something behind it does. "Oh. Sorry, I didn't realize you had company."

"It's fine," he says too quickly. "We were just—"

"You don't need to explain." She steps inside without being invited, and you feel the temperature in the room shift. She's not here to cause a scene. Somehow that's worse.

"I just wanted to drop off the last of your things. I keep finding them in weird places. Your watch was in my bathroom drawer."

She holds out a small box. Wooyoung takes it like it might explode in his hands.

"Thanks," he manages.

"Sure." She looks at you again, really looks at your face this time. You feel exposed in a way you didn't even feel during sex. "I'm Nilou. Woo's ex."

Ex. The word should be reassuring. It's not. She still uses his nickname . "Hi," you say, because what else is there?

"How long have you two been...?" She trails off, gestures vaguely between you. "A few weeks," Wooyoung says.

"Two months," you correct, and you see something flicker in Nilou's expression. Realization, maybe. That he's been lying to one of you. Or both of you.

"Two months," she repeats. "So this started—" "After," Wooyoung interrupts. "After we broke up. We weren't—"

"I'm not asking." Her voice is still calm, still measured."We broke up. You can do whatever you want. I just—" She looks at you again. "I only came because Yeosang said something felt off with him."

"Yeosang?" you echo.

"He's weirdly intuitive. When Woo spirals, he's the first to notice." She says it like this is common knowledge. Like Wooyoung spiraling is a known pattern that people in his life have learned to track.

"I'm not spiraling," Wooyoung says tightly.

"Okayyyyyy." She doesn't believe him. You can see it in the way she's looking at him. "If you say so."

The silence that follows is excruciating. You want to leave and give them space, but your legs feel locked.

I run any other time, make it make sense. Nilou turns back to you. "Can I ask you something?" "Sure." "Do you know about synCink?" Your stomach drops. "What?"

"The compatibility app. Did he tell you about it?" You glance at Wooyoung. He's staring at the floor. "We both use it," you say carefully.

"Right." Nilou's laugh is soft, sad. "We used it too. Got to 96%. He was obsessed with getting higher. I told him it was just an algorithm, that it didn't mean anything, but—" She stops. Shakes her head. "Sorry. That's not fair. You're not me, and this is different."

But the way she says different sounds like the same.

"We were together for a few months," she continues, and you wish she would stop talking. "And they were good, mostly. He's... he's great when things are stable. Thoughtful. Attentive. Funny. But when things get hard, he—" She looks at Wooyoung again. "You know what you do."

"Nilou—"

"I'm not trying to sabotage anything," she says, softer now. "I'm just—I saw what chasing that number did to us. How it made everything feel like a test we were failing. And I don't want—" She stops. Looks at you. "You seem nice. You seem... normal. Do you feel normal with him?".

Do you feel normal?

No. You feel like you're on fire. You feel like you're disappearing. You feel like the version of yourself that existed before him is a story someone else told you once.

"We're just having fun," you say, and it sounds hollow even to you. A party is fun, ignoring your well-being, not so fun. Nilou's expression does something complicated. Pity, maybe. Recognition.

"Okay," she says quietly. "Just—be careful. The app isn't measuring what you think it's measuring."

She leaves before either of you can respond.

The door clicks shut. Wooyoung stands there, still holding the box she gave him.

"96%." "It wasn't—" He turns to face you. "It was different with her."

"Different how?" Your voice is too sharp, too loud. "Different because she was good for you? Different because she was stable and healthy and everything I'm clearly not?"

"Different because I didn't—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "I didn't want the percentage with her. I wanted her. The number was just... there. With you, it's—"

"What?" "The opposite." Damn. The words sit between you.

"So with her, you wanted her and the number just existed," you say slowly. "But with me, you want the number and I just... exist?"

"That's not what I—"

"That's exactly what you said." You stand up. "The opposite. You want the percentage. I'm just the person it happens to climb with."

"You're twisting—" Calm down. It’s falling.

"Am I?" Your voice is too loud now, echoing in his apartment. "You lied about how high you got with her. You've been chasing this number since we started. Every time we fight, every time we fuck, you check the app. Don't pretend this is about me."

"It is about you—"

"It's about what I make the number do!" You're shaking now, anger or something worse flooding through you. "I'm just the algorithm's favorite test subject. The girl who makes your score go up."

He takes a step toward you. "Stop." "Why? Because it's true? Because you don't like hearing—" He kisses you. Hard. Desperate. Here we go. Again. You kiss him back.

"I hate you," you say against his mouth.

He fucks you angry. Fucks you like he's got something to prove, like he can make you understand through his body what he can't say with words.

"Mine," he's saying, and you don't know if he means you or the percentage or the feeling of watching something break in real time. "Say it. Say you're mine."

Those damn words again.

"I'm yours," you sob, because in this moment it's true. You are his. You're also the app's. You're also the number's. You don't know where you end and the algorithm begins anymore.

He comes with your name on his lips, and it sounds like the truth slipping out sideways.

You both lie there breathing hard. Neither of you moves to check the app.

Can't move. His arm is around you and the apartment is too warm and you've adapted to the wrong temperature so completely you can't remember what comfortable felt like.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You both look at it. "Don't," Wooyoung says. You reach for it anyway.

98.3%: new insight available. 

You tap it with shaking hands.

conflict resolution pattern detected: your compatibility increases during emotional confrontation followed by physical intimacy.

warning: this pattern may indicate trauma bonding rather than genuine compatibility.

users are advised to seek professional guidance if this becomes a recurring dynamic.

He reads it. Doesn't say anything for a long moment. "Trauma bonding," you repeat. "The app thinks we're trauma bonding." "Maybe we are." "And that doesn't bother you?"

"Does it bother you?" He turns to look at you, and there's rawness in his expression. "Because you keep coming back. You keep letting this happen. The app is just measuring what we already know."

"Which is?"

"That we're fucked up. That this is fucked up. That neither of us knows how to stop."

You get up. Start gathering your clothes. This time you mean it. This time you're actually leaving.

"Where are you going?" he asks. "Home." "Why?"

"Because if I stay, we'll do this again. And the number will go higher. And eventually we'll hit 100% and—" You stop. The thought terrifies you more than you want to admit. "I need to think."

"Don't think. Just—"

"Just what? Just keep letting the app tell us we're perfect for each other while it also tells us we're destroying each other?" You pull your shirt on. "I can't do both, Wooyoung. I can't be your perfect match and your worst decision at the same time."

"Why not?" His voice is quiet. "I'm yours."

You leave before you can change your mind, you don't hear from him for three days.

Three days of checking your phone constantly. Three days of the app staying frozen at 98.3%. Three days of feeling like you're waiting for something that shouldn't want to happen.

On the fourth day, he texts you. wooyoung: i can't stop thinking about you wooyoung: checked the app like 30 times today

wooyoung: it hasn't moved wooyoung: i think it's broken You stare at the messages. Type and delete five different responses.

you: maybe we broke it wooyoung: or maybe we need to be in the same room wooyoung: the app tracks proximity

wooyoung: i think it's waiting you: for what? wooyoung: for us to finish this

You know this is the moment where you could stop. Delete the app. Block his number. Choose differently.

But that would make too much sense, can’t have that. Uh uh.

you : your place or mine?

wooyoung: mine. come now.

You're already putting on your shoes.

The walk to his apartment takes about ten minutes. You know because you count every minute, trying to talk yourself into turning around.

You don't turn around.

The building door is unlocked. You climb the stairs slowly, each step feeling like a decision you're making and remaking.

When you reach his door, you stand there for a full minute before knocking. He opens it before your knuckles hit the wood. Like he was waiting right there. "You came," he says.

You don't answer. Just look at him. He looks terrible, hair a mess, still in the same clothes from days ago, dark circles still under his eyes.

"Check the app," you say. He pulls out his phone. You pull out yours. You both open it at the same time. 98.3% Still frozen. "It hasn't moved since you left," he confirms.

"So what now?" "Now we see if proximity fixes it." He steps aside. "Come in."

You step inside and the door closes behind you.You both stand there, phones in hand, watching the app.

98.3% 98.4% 98.7% It's climbing. Slowly. Just from being in the same room. "It's working," you whisper.

"Yeah." "Touch me," you say. It's not a request. An experiment, you need to know what makes it climb faster.

He pulls you closer, hands on your waist, and you watch over his shoulder as the number ticks up.

98.9% "It's working," he says against your neck. "Keep going."

He kisses you, and it's different from before. Not angry. Intentional. Like he's studying your reactions, noting what makes the number move.

99.1% You pull back. "Take off your shirt." "Now mine." He pulls it over your head, and the number jumps. 99.3%

"Fuck," you breathe.

"We're close," he says, and you don't know if he means to 100% or to something else entirely.

He walks you backward to the bed. Lays you down. Pulls off your jeans, your underwear. His hands are shaking.

"You okay?" you ask.

"No." He positions himself between your legs, fingers trailing up your thigh. "Are you?"

"Not really."

He pushes two fingers inside you, watches your face. You're already wet, have been since you walked through the door, since you decided to come here, since you admitted to yourself that you need this more than you need to be okay.

"Check it," he says. You reach for your phone with shaking hands. 99.4% "Higher," you gasp as he curls his fingers. "The number or—"

"Both."

He adds a third finger, and you arch into it. "You're so fucking perfect like this," he murmurs. "Taking everything I give you. Letting me see you fall apart."

"Check it again." 99.6% "Oh my god," you whisper.

"We're almost there." He pulls his fingers out, and you make a sound of protest. "Condom."

"Fuck the condom—"

"No." He's already reaching for the nightstand. "If we're doing this, we're doing it right."

He rolls it on with shaking hands, lines himself up. Pushes inside so slowly you want to scream.

"Move," you demand. "Not yet." He's fully inside you now, not moving, just feeling. "Check it." You can barely think, but you reach for your phone anyway. 99.7% "What happens when we hit 100?"

"I don't know." "Are you scared?"

"Terrified." He starts moving then, slow deep thrusts that make your eyes roll back. "But I can't stop."

He fucks you with purpose, with intensity, with focus that makes you feel like you're the only thing in the world that matters. His hand finds your throat, expected, and you tilt your head back to give him better access.

The number is climbing. You can feel it somehow, like the air in the room is changing.

99.8% "So close," he's chanting. "So fucking close—" "Harder," you gasp.

Fucks you harder, deeper, his hips slamming into yours with bruising force. Your phone is next to you on the bed, screen bright, and you can see it without even looking.

99.9% "Almost—" he groans. "Come for me. I need you to—"

You come so hard clenching around him, and he follows immediately after, burying himself as deep as he can go.

Your phone buzzes. And buzzes. And buzzes. You pick it up with shaking hands. synCink: Congratulations! You've reached 100% compatibility with your match!

The screen is different now. The entire app interface has inverted—white text on black background instead of the usual color scheme. It looks ominous. Ceremonial.

!ultimate compatibility status achieved!

you and your match have reached the highest level of compatibility in our system. this is extremely rare—less than 0.1% of users ever reach this level.

however, we must inform you of an important caveat: relationships that reach 100% compatibility often exhibit extreme intensity that can be unsustainable. our data shows that matches at this level have a higher rate of relationship dissolution within 6 months.

the same factors that create perfect compatibility can also create perfect destruction.

we recommend proceeding with caution . . "Perfect destruction," he says. "That sounds about right."

You lie on the floor, and you think about the number. 100%. Perfect compatibility. Perfect destruction.

"The app says we're going to destroy each other." "The app has been right about everything else." You turn your head to look at him. "Are you scared?" "Who wouldn’t be?" You both sit up slowly.

"We did it," you finally say. "100%." "Perfect compatibility." His voice is flat. "Perfect destruction."

You look at the warning again. the same factors that create perfect compatibility can also create perfect destruction.

"Do you think it's right?" you ask. "The app. Do you think it actually measures what it says it measures?"

"Maybe–yeah. I don’t know." He runs a hand through his hair. "But it knew we'd get here. It knew we couldn't stop."

Your phone buzzes again. Another notification. new feature unlocked: bonded pair protocol You tap it.

at 100% compatibility, you and your match are now registered as a Bonded Pair. this means:

> your profiles are permanently linked

> the app will track separation anxiety if you're apart for extended periods

> you'll receive notifications about each other's emotional states

> deletion of the app requires mutual consent from both parties "It's trapped us," you say.

"We trapped ourselves." He takes your hand. His palm is warm, almost hot. "The app just measured it."

You lie back down, and he follows, the ceiling fan rotates slowly above you, not quite cooling the room.

"I love you," he says. Quiet. Like it wasn’t meant to be announced.

The words should feel good. They don't. They feel like a diagnosis. Like a confirmation of something you already knew but didn't want to admit.

"I love you too," you say.

It's the first time either of you has said it. It should feel like a beginning. It feels like an ending.

The app glows between you, black screen with white text, like a void that's finally been filled.

100% Perfect. Perfectly wrong -- The app breaks three days later.

You're at work, sitting in a meeting, performing the motions of someone who is present and focused and fine.

You’re none of the above.

Your boss is talking about a new client. You're not really listening. You're thinking about Wooyoung, about the way he said "I love you," about the way it felt like the opposite of a joyous occasion.

When the meeting ends, you check your phone. 55 notifications from the app. All of them the same message:

ERROR: COMPATIBILITY CALCULATION FAILED

ERROR: COMPATIBILITY CALCULATION FAILED

ERROR: COMPATIBILITY CALCULATION FAILED

You open the app. The screen is glitching, the percentage flickering between numbers: 100%, 0%, 100%, 0%, ERROR, ERROR, ERROR.

You text Wooyoung. you : is your app broken? wooyoung: yeah, it's been doing this for an hour i think we broke it

you: how do you break a compatibility app?

wooyoung: by being too compatible, or not compatible at all. i can't tell anymore

You try to close the app, but it won't close. You try to delete it, but your phone won't let you. It just keeps glitching, keeps showing you ERROR messages, keeps flickering between 100% and 0% like it can't decide which one is true.

The app that was supposed to tell you how compatible you are with Wooyoung has broken, and you don't know if that means something or if it's just a glitch, just a technical error, just a reminder that you've been basing your entire relationship on an algorithm that was never real to begin with.

You leave work early. You don't tell anyone. You just grab your coat and walk out, and if anyone notices, they don't say anything.

Because at the end of the day, they’re still gonna need me.

You go to Wooyoung's apartment. You don't text first. You just show up, and when he opens the door, he looks as wrecked as you feel.

"The app is still broken," he says. "I can't fix it." You walk inside. "What do we do?" you ask. "The app was the only thing telling us this made sense."

"Was it? Or were we just using it as an excuse?"

You don't have an answer. You sit on his bed, and he sits next to you, and you both stare at your phones, at the glitching app, at the ERROR messages that keep appearing.

"Maybe this is a sign," you say. "A sign of what?"

"That we should stop. That this was never real. That we were just two broken people who found each other and mistook chaos and dysfunction for compatibility."

"Is that what you think?" "I don't know what I think anymore." He takes your phone, sets it on the nightstand next to his. "Forget the app." "What?"

"Forget the app. Forget the percentage. Forget all of it. Just... tell me. Do you want to be here?"

"I don't know," you say honestly. IDK IDK IDK IDK IDK. "That's not an answer." He's quiet for a long moment. "I think we're destroying each other." "I think the app was right. ‘Perfect compatibility, perfect destruction.’"

"But I don't want to stop."

You kiss him, but it’s sad; your heart aches. Like you're both acknowledging that this is ending even as you're trying to hold on.

You lie in his bed, and you think about the app. About the questions it asked. About the way it seemed to know things about you that you didn't want to admit. About the way it took notes of your dysfunction and called it compatibility.

"Do you think it was ever real?" you ask. "The app?" "Us."

He's quiet for so long."I think we made it real. I think we took an algorithm and used it as permission to be our worst selves with each other. I think we're addicted to the intensity, and we called it love."

The honesty of it hurts. But it also feels like relief.

synCink: SYSTEM ERROR: your compatibility score has exceeded normal parameters. this relationship exhibits patterns that our algorithm cannot accurately measure. we recommend discontinuing use of this app and seeking professional guidance.

synCink: this app will be permanently disabled for your account in 24 hours. "Well…" Wooyoung says. "I guess that's that." "I guess so."

You think about what happens next. About whether you can have a relationship without the app telling you it makes sense. About whether you want to.

You get up. Wooyoung watches you from the bed, and there's something in his eyes that you can't read. Something that might be sadness.

A look he rarely shows the world, and damn, it fucks with your brain. "So this is it?" he asks. "Dunno, who knows." You walk to the door. Your hand is on the handle when he speaks. "Hey."

You turn. "For what it's worth," he says, "I meant it. When I said I love you." "I believe you." "Did you? Mean it?"

You think about how loving him feels like going under water on purpose. How fighting with him is the only time you don’t edit yourself for someone elses pleasure. How pretending has become so second nature you forget you’re doing it.

"I–I’m not sure…," you say. "I think I loved the idea of someone seeing me. The real me. Even if the real me is a mess."

"Especially because the real you is a mess." “She is.” I truly am.

"You open the door. The cold air from the hallway rushes in, meeting the heat of the apartment. The contrast makes your skin prickle.

"Goodbye, Woo ."

"Goodbye." You walk out. This time, you don't look back.

--

The next day, the app deletes itself exactly 24 hours later. You're at work when it happens, it seems to be its favorite place to update.

One moment it's on your phone, glitching and showing ERROR messages. The next moment it's gone. Like it never existed. You feel empty. Wooyoung doesn't text. You don't text him.

Days pass, then weeks. You go to work. You smile at your coworkers. You say you're fine. The performance continues, but now it feels different.

Like you're aware of it in a way you weren't before. Like Wooyoung pulled back the curtain, and now you can see how the audience sees you, all the ways you've been pretending.

Maelyn texts. You respond this time.

maelyn: how are you?

you: idk

maelyn: that's honest at least maelyn: do you want to talk about it?

you: not yet

You think about therapy. About actually dealing with the thing inside you that feels broken instead of just finding someone equally broken and calling it compatibility.

You don't make an appointment yet. But you think about it.

The radiator in your office gets fixed. The heat stops pressing against you. The office feels normal now. Too normal. You almost miss the wrongness of it.

One night, you're lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and you think about Wooyoung. About the way he looked at you like he already knew the version you were pretending to be. About how fighting with him felt like the only time you weren’t performing.

About how the app hit 100% and immediately broke, like it couldn’t keep up with the two of you either.

jung wooyoung: i miss you You stare at the message.

Your hands are shaking. i miss you too. You delete it before sending.

You type: we're bad for each other You delete that too. I don't know what to say. Yeah that sounds best. You send it.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. wooyoung: i just wanted you to know that it was real. even if it was fucked up

You read the message three times. Four times. You think about perfect compatibility and perfect destruction and how they might be the same thing.

you: it was real for me too

wooyoung: do you think we could try again? without the app telling us it makes sense?

Your apartment is cold. You've gotten back used to the cold again, the way you got used to the heat of his apartment.

You adapt. That's what you do. You adapt to wrong temperatures, wrong situations, wrong people, and you call it survival.

you: i don't know if we know how to be together without something telling us we should be

wooyoung : maybe that's the point, we figure it out you: or maybe we destroy each other again

wooyoung: but at least it would be honest

You look at the empty space where the app used to be. Except it's not completely gone, when you swipe through your apps, there's a ghost of it.

A gray icon that won't delete, won't open, just sits there. A reminder of the thing you built and broke.

you : i don't think i'm ready wooyoung : okay but when you are

wooyoung : if you are wooyoung : i'll be here

You don't respond. You set your phone down on your nightstand, screen up, and you watch the messages sit there, unanswered.

You think about compatibility. Thinking about how synCink broke trying to measure what you were. About how some things are too intense to quantify, too destructive to contain.

You think about Wooyoung. Your phone screen goes dark. You don't pick it up. But you don't delete his number either.

You think about how you'll probably text him back. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Maybe in a month when the cold becomes unbearable and you need the heat again, need the fight, need someone to see you unraveling and not look away.

The ghost app icon glows faintly when you wake your phone to check the time. 3am. You're not sleeping. Neither is he, probably.

You both know how this ends. The app told you. Perfect compatibility. Perfect destruction. The same thing, just different words.

You close your eyes and wait for morning, for work. You wait for the moment when the cold becomes too much and you reach for the heat again, knowing it will burn you, knowing you'll let it.

Because you’re a mess. And I’m fine with that, for now.

The app is broken. But you keep it anyway, gray and glitching and useless, some things you can't delete. Some things leave reminders even after they're gone.

Some things you carry with you, like heat in your bones, like a smile that won't come off, like the memory of someone who saw you unraveling and called it beautiful, called it love, called it 100% compatible right before everything broke.

You fall asleep with your phone in your hand, the ghost app glowing softly in the dark, and you dream of the heat.

Because girls' night is not girls' night without doing some regrettable shit.

Especially when it's 3 in the morning and you're being surrounded by your two closest friends who live for the chaos in your life.

Your apartment is warm, fairy lights that twinkle, music playing in the background, and laughter between the three of you. You're not sure how many bottles of wine you've gone through, but it is taking up the surface area of your only coffee table in the living room.

Six weeks since you last checked his Instagram. Two months since you stopped wearing his hoodie to bed. You're doing fine, really. Maybe even better than fine.

Nilou is currently sitting criss-cross on your island, scrolling through her phone. You can tell she's drunk by how red her ears are, but she has that smile on her face that never equals good.

"Lou what is it?" Hana, who is sitting on the couch nursing a fresh headache, glances over towards the kitchen as you're nose deep in the fridge looking for something besides alcohol.

Whenever you ask Nilou "what is it," nine times out of ten it's never good, so the search in the fridge ends abruptly as you furrow your brows and turn around to face her.

"Hm?"

"Oh my gosh, guys, it's nothing. Just that new app. I got a match—no clue who he is though."

She has your attention fully at this point because in your group in three, you're all single and sworn off men for the time being. But that doesn't seem to be the damn case.

"What app?" You and Hana say at the same time, in utter confusion.

"synCink—heard of it?"

"What the hell is that?"

"Just download it to find out for yourself—seriously too much to explain at 3am. You guys know my attention span is that of a goldfish."

"Ya, we know–but it's the compatibility app thingy right?" Hana adds on.

"Hey! And yes, I went down the rabbit hole and took the quiz."

"A quiz?" Your interest is piqued, not sure if that's a good or bad thing, as you see who the information is coming from.

"OH–I heard about that. Creepy, though, would never touch that app. Those 100% couples? Odd as fuck." Hana has always been the logical one; you and Nilou…not so much.

"Hana, stop walking with a stick up your ass— Like what if you found you got matched to the love of your life?"

"Or what if you end up being matched with someone you know and have like really good compatibility?" Although Hana has a headache and is half drunk, she is going to question everything.

Little do they know, you're downloading the app onto your phone as they have the back and forth, nothing new, completely normal. You lean against the counter as the bickering continues and the app pops up, immediately having you agree to all kinds of terms.

But it's 3 in the morning, who has time to read all of that? You go through it like rapid fire until you get to the quiz screen.

c'mon take the quiz, lovely

You hit the blush pink button. Is this how they reel you in? The user interface is so pretty and sleek, it's inviting in a way that you disregard the million terms and conditions buttons.

your attachment style? how do you handle conflict?

"Ok kinda basic questions…" You continue to answer the questions, kinda flying through them as they're kindergarten level in your opinion. Not sure what Hana was all worked up about.

You take a moment to butt into the ongoing conversation, they've gotten onto the subject of mindless things, drunk talk if you will.

"Hana, it really isn't that bad–you should take it too."

"HUH, you're doing it?!?"

"HELL YEAH! Let us know whatcha get."

You smile and nod your head, turning your attention back to your device. Then, there's a shift the further you go. The questions become slightly more invasive, specific.

do you revisit places that hold emotional significance?

You pause, your thumb hovers.

how long does it take you to feel safe with someone?

You answer and watch the loading bar jump without letting you answer the other questions that came up afterward. One question stays on the screen for like 0.2 seconds before vanishing: how many times have you thought about someone you're not supposed to think about?

"What the fuck.'"

Nilou props up from lying on the rug. "What is it?"

"The questions keep vanishing—I legit can't answer them fast enough, I guess?"

"Yeah, it does that, no clue why–you'll still get results, so don't worry!"

"Right…"

You answer some more, then finally reach the final question of the quiz. who are you hoping to see? You linger on this; it begins to blink and advances without you answering once again.

Then you're met with the damn loading screen that almost makes you want to end it all just by how long it takes. But then it starts with a hum, like it's loading some confidential private shit, and maybe it is. You don't know; you have the word of a half-drunk girl to go off of.

accessing location history… cross-referencing proximity events… detecting mutual gaze patterns… calculating compatibility…

"Lou, why is it humming and WHAT is it doing?"

"I told you, don't worry about it, just wait a bit." You roll your eyes; the nonchalance is not a facade with her at all. Then the hum gets even louder.

MATCH FOUND.

Your breath catches, and the screen goes white. Just complete silence.

98% compatible.

"98%..." A laugh tries to escape, but never makes it out. Who in the hell could be matched that closely with you? There's someone out there who might get you, understand all of you. The pretty, the ugly, the vulnerable, and you're scared. Scared to open yourself up to the potential hurt again.

It's 3 and you're tipsy and you're probably overthinking, but how could you not? 98% is so close to 100%, the 100% who is known to go kookoo according to Hana.

PRIOR MATCH DETECTED – RECONNECTION ADVISED

The humming stops. Hana and Nilou have now put their eyes on you, awaiting an answer, anything. But you're glued to your screen with all the information flooding you.

You scroll, and the graph that graces your eyes should have you on the floor; you're trying to maintain composure. Key word: trying. It's a line chart; your screen has now turned to a rose gold color. It's become more clinical-looking than inviting, like it did at the start.

But the interface isn't what catches your attention the most; it's the graph line being high at the start, then dipping sharply in February, then suddenly starting to climb again.

You begin to focus on the dates, not sure of the full meaning, but you're going to read through it all regardless. Because it's a pain you never forgot, something you will always remember.

> july 18 (96%) – told him i loved him

You remember the shirt he was wearing, the way he smiled before he said it back, the way those almond eyes softened at your courage.

> feb 10 (68%) – conflict detection: moving-in argument

You'd thrown a mug then, it didn't break. He left for two hours, and neither of you had apologized.

> march 2, 11pm – final interaction: 8 mins

You begin clicking the timestamps like the lost files of Alexandria. This app really has the fucking time he walked out…" You didn't really cry until minute nine. The color starts to drain from your face, it's as if the universe is aware of your situation, and it begins to rain.

"Damn, you really know how to bring on the doom and gloom. What does the damn thing say?"

"Nilou! Hush!"

You turn the phone face down on the kitchen counter. You can't speak; just knowing anything else would be word vomit. Nilou gets up from the floor, tries to reach for your phone, you snatch it. You share everything with them, so you're not surprised by the attempt.

Hana notices, she makes a face, Nilou reads the room and gives you some more space, goes to sit on the island across from you again. They're trying, giving you space. Not pushing.

You pick your phone back up, begin to scroll some more, going against everything in your right mind.

> heatmap – her apartment 850 events, his 610

Now you're looking at a map view of red dot clusters at two different locations. A span of 22 months, almost 2 years' worth of clusters. You recognize both addresses, of course, one is yours.

The other is his. One of your favorite places to be. Well, used–past tense, not anymore. It was worth visiting the 610 times, though, you think.

It starts to really fester in your brain that this app has been tracking, watching both of you for ages. The incessant hum returns, but now you recognize it has more of a rhythm, almost like a heartbeat.

A heartbeat that actually feels real, something you can feel in your chest. You begin to question if it's the app or your own pulse.

The rain begins to hit your windows harder, a storm maybe, your lights start to flicker a bit. Or is it your vision blurring? Your apartment starts to feel like a too cramped elevator; it no longer feels fun to be in the space, no longer safe.

You look back at the graph, specifically where the score went up. Eight months ago. You haven't seen each other in a year. What the fuck does this all mean?

You sit there frozen, you hear your friends, but it sounds like background noise, nothing registers. "Babe, who is it?"

You can't answer, but your phone buzzes once. A new notification,

SEONGHWA wants to reconnect.

And you don't dare look.

You don't answer Nilou for a solid ten minutes; she has since moved to sit on the couch with Hana, who is knocked out, glasses sliding off her face. The apartment has gotten too quiet, an uncomfortable quiet.

"Our ride is outside. I know you. I know you want to be alone right now. Woo is downstairs, don't worry. We love you, and always–always here for you."

Nilou nudges Hana, puts the glasses back on her face. Hana cries and complains, gives you a kiss on the cheek on her way out. "It'll be okay."

You give them a soft smile until you hear them outside your door. "WHY AM I PICKING YALL UP AT 4 IN THE DAMN MORN–"

The door shuts, back to silence, with the rain still pattering on your windows. You haven't moved, not even an inch. Frozen while time keeps on going around you, and the phone light becomes the source of light in your kitchen.

You finally pick up your phone, the notification in bold letters still there: SEONGHWA wants to reconnect. You could swipe away, pretend you never saw the thing, delete the app, and go to bed. But instead, you decide to open it.

You scroll through the data again, unsure of what you're looking for. Proof. You're looking for proof that this is real, this is not something your brain is conjuring up to torment you. The obsessive scrolling is like a calling to you; there's endless loads of information and details you didn't even gather yourself.

You then click on the climbing line on the graph, ya know, the point where it just all of a sudden went up 8 months ago. A dropdown appears when you click on the date:

proximity event detected → coffee shop, shared location, 11 minutes. user 2 behavioral note → avoid direct interaction. left 3 min after user 1 arrival.

He saw you, and he left. The app tracked it all. The thought alone sends you into a spiral, picking at your lip as you open your spotify, connect it to your speaker.

Scroll to the playlist you haven't touched in a year, the one he made you. You press play on the second song, Sienna. The one he used to hum while cleaning.

"​​And I'll watch the sunset, wearin' all your clothes…"

It's too much, but it's not enough. You let it play anyway. The song you haven't been able to listen to since him. You let the tears roll.

Tears blur your vision as you pick up your phone once more, you go to your messages and scroll to his name. You couldn't bring yourself to delete it completely. So he just sits there in your logbook as Park Seonghwa. Not Hwa. Not Baby. Not Honey. Not My love.

The last message: March 2nd.

Park Seonghwa: I'm sorry.

you: [Read 11:55pm]

You'd never responded; the cursor blinks in that empty text message box, all while your hands are shaking. Before you can even take a step to send anything, message bubbles appear. He's typing. And the message comes through. Your heart stops.

Park Seonghwa: did you take that quiz?

Three more dots, he's still going.

Park Seonghwa: because i just got a notif.

You stare at the screen, the rain is still pouring, while the song is still playing. You don't know what to say. You should say something. Anything, but the words won't come. And the phone buzzes again while the song plays on. "See her face in the forest, then it disappears."

You set the phone face down on the counter for a bit, because you know picking it back up was about to lead to a whole other world. Sitting there alone was supposed to do you some good, but all you're doing is reprocessing everything the app revealed. The timestamps, the graphs, his texts.

The proof of it all sitting right in your lap. Like you asked for this. Like you signed up to have your heartbreak timestamped and graphed, and quantified.

The apartment is too quiet now since the music stopped. Just the rain and your breathing and the occasional ting of your phone against your countertop. You should eat something. Drink water? Do literally anything besides sit here taking note of every way the app has dissected your relationship.

Your stomach feels hollow, but the thought of food makes you nauseous. But you still can't move. Your eyes keep drifting back to the phone, face down.

Ting.

You flip it over before you can stop yourself.

Park Seonghwa: im sorry

Park Seonghwa: ik that doesn't fix anything but i need u to know Park Seonghwa: i saw u that day. @ the coffee shop & i ran

Park Seonghwa: i didnt know what to say so i left…like i always do

The last text in this barrage pisses you off. "Like I always do." He knows, he's always known what his problem is. Literally, what is his issue? Another ting. Then another.

You're doing that thing where you pick at your bottom lip until it bleeds, another nervous habit he used to notice. He would kiss your hands to try to get you to stop. OK, brain, shut up, please.

Park Seonghwa: please can we just talk

You stare at the messages until they blur together. He's breaking, and you can feel it through the screen. His desperation is so evident to you, and you hate it, hate that part of you wants to respond immediately, wants to say 'yes, come over, let's fix this.'

But the other part, ya know, the part that waited three hours for him to come back that night in March, the part that cried on the bathroom floor, the part that had to relearn how to be a person without him.

That part is fucking screaming to leave it on read.

You go back to the app with shaking hands, scroll to the graph, screenshot it. The whole timeline of July's 96% high to February's 68% gap to the slow agonizing climb back up, without even seeing each other. You send it without a message, and the typing indicator appears.

Park Seonghwa: jesus, it really does know everything, even the shit we didn't say out loud

There was so much shit you never said out loud. You would wait for him in all things, like to ask you to move in instead of you bringing it up.

Never spoke about how he was terrified of how permanent it felt. Neither of you said "I'm scared," and instead just fought about furniture and lease terms until he walked out.

you: so it knows everything

Park Seonghwa: so what do we do?

You don't have an answer, don't know if there is one. You don't answer. You set the phone down, face up this time, because what's the point of hiding at this point?

You slide down to the kitchen floor, cold tile against your thighs, raindrops still racing down your window. The playlist started shuffling after Sienna, just adding to the ache, songs that you haven't been able to delete. You pull your knees to your chest and let it play.

Your phone tings again, you don't look again. Then again. Again. You should turn it off, put it in another room. Give yourself even more space to think without his desperation bleeding through the screen. But you don't.

You sit there, sitting in your mess. Wine bottles, texts lighting up your phone, the app's 22-month autopsy report of your relationship in another tab. Like that's healthy.

Like sitting on your kitchen floor at 4 am staring at proof that the love of your life has been just as broken as you is somehow going to make this easier. It doesn't.

You're exhausted, overwhelmed. Wading in feelings you haven't let yourself feel in so long, you forgot how much they weighed. Except the potential remedy is sitting somewhere doing the same thing.

Staring at the numbers, the data, the same proof that whatever you had isn't as dead as you both pretended. The app seems to think you can fix it. You close your eyes, the songs keep flowing, and the rain doesn't stop. You don't text him back until 11 am.

You really have been awake since 6 am, staring at his unanswered question, take your first shower of the day after giving up on sleep. Eyes burning, head pounding from that specific exhaustion that comes from crying and not sleeping and thinking way too much.

8 am comes around, and you're still doing the same thing of staring and contemplating. Take your second shower, thinking a cool rinse off will do you some good. Long story short, it doesn't, babe.

You get out, fix some hot tea, give yourself some warmth while you go back to opening and closing text threads a thousand times.

we shouldn't [delete] i dont think this is a good idea [delete] the app doesn't mean anything [delete] (now you know that's a damn lie) okay [delete]

It's like Nilou senses your bad decisions a mile away, as her name drops down on your screen.

lou: babe. r u like alive? who was it????? u can't just leave us hangin lou: im coming over if u dont answer in 10 min

You ignore them; you really don't know how to explain this situation yet to any of your friends. You can't even say his name out loud. Your throat closes up just thinking about it, like your body physically won't let you form the words.

While ignoring, you go back to doom scrolling, but there's really no joy in it, and only a trigger for all the flashbacks of what once was.

july 18th at the 96%, mmm, the night i said i love you first in his apartment, 2am, tangled in sheets. He had smiled before he said it back. "I've been waiting to hear you say that." i had never felt safer.

You reminisce heavily, a warm feeling forming, kinda forgetting about the ugly parts in your relationship. There were pretty times, thoughtful times, memorable times.

But the ugly times are so important to acknowledge to create the beauty. feb 10th at 68%, can't believe we fought about moving in, i'd thrown a mug over a disagreement, and he left for two hours, and when he came back, neither of us even said sorry. just went to bed that night.

You finally type.

you: yeah. we should probably talk about this.

His response doesn't take long.

Park Seonghwa: when?

He doesn't even ask if you're sure or if you really want to—just when? When, like he's been waiting by his phone for hours. In reality, he has.

you: tn at 7, parking garage on 8th

You spend the rest of your day changing clothes at least three times, not sure why you've become so hyper-focused on it. He shouldn't care, no, you shouldn't care. But you end up with good ole jeans and a sweater that reminds you of his. Wow, progress.

You go back to checking the app, obsessing over the percentage staying at 98% and going to google and falling down reddit rabbit holes of synCink.

r/synCinkstories: my 97% ghosted me after we hooked up r/relationships: the app says we're 96% but he's my ex, do i reach out?

Looking at all the reddit posts makes you think about Nilou. You should text her back, maybe call her, and Hana even? You decide no call, just text for right now.

you: i'm fine. i'll explain later, love u

lou: if ur meeting him wear the good bra, i also liked those lacy panties u showed me

You don't even entertain her last message; it makes you rethink if maybe you should've texted Hana instead. Nilou knows how to feed into your delusion too well. A friend group of balance is what you tell yourself daily.

6:45 comes around, and the anxiety kicks in, you grab your keys and hop in your car, trying to remember how to drive, how to breathe. What's my name again? The night is clear as you drive, but your mind isn't. You can't even appreciate the space around you. Just focused on him, and the thought of him consumes you.

You pull into the garage, it's empty considering the time. You just sit, stare at the entrance, wait for that navy Volvo to pull in. Then the app buzzes. user 2 proximity detected

You look up, and his car pulls into the garage. He knows what your car looks like; it's yellow, bright as fucking day. He still parks two spaces away.

He reverses into the spot, and that's when your eyes meet through the windows. Neither of you moves for at least a minute. He steps out first, then you follow suit, and the space between your cars feels like miles.

You meet in the middle of the gap, you take all of him in. His hair is longer, dyed platinum, has it up in a ponytail. And he has on those godforsaken gray baggy sweats, he still looks effortlessly beautiful, no matter what phase of life he's in.

"You're staring." It's not smug, more of an observation, a sign he's also observing you. Taking you in. You finally meet his eyes, and awkwardness starts to set in. The lights in the garage highlight every look on your face.

"Hi."

"Hi."

You're not sure what to do with your hands, your body. Do you shake hands? Hug? Act like strangers? You don't know, and it's just making your anxiety about the situation worse. He gestures to his car; you can tell he's also feeling a bit out of place.

"You wanna…? You nod.

He speed walks to the passenger door and opens it for you. Still, the gentleman you see.

Then it hits you once he closes the door. His car still smells the same, the coconut and baby powder, his leather seat cleaner, the faint smell of cigarettes he swore he quit.

He gets in, the shutting of his door really making reality set in for you. His phone sits in the cupholder; you put yours next to it. The screens stay dark. Seonghwa rubs his hands up and down his sweats, rings catching on the cotton. He goes into the visor for a cigarette pack that's not there. A tell-tale sign he's stressed.

Good. Let 'em wiggle a little bit. Let him feel even a fraction of what I felt for the last year.

"So, how have you been?"

Ahhh. This is where the small talk begins, huh.

"Fine. You?" "Yeah, yeah, I'm good."

Complete silence. You decide to break it. "The 98%."

He exhales, "Yeah." "When did you take it?" "Last night. Around 1 am. Couldn't sleep." "Oh, same. Well, 3 am. Girls' night." "Nilou's idea?"

You almost smile, "How'd you know?"

"Because Hana would never, and you wouldn't unless someone egged you on."

You don't know if it hurts worse to admit he still knows you, your friends, your patterns, or if that's a sign of hope. How'd a man who didn't stick around still care to remember so much?

"Did you read all the data?" "Most of it." "The coffee shop."

He goes completely still, kind of loses eye contact with you. "Mhm."

"You saw me." It's not a question; he knows, and you know. "I did." "And you left." "Yes."

The silence gets heavy, really heavy.

"Why?"

He looks out the window, really lost for words. "I don't know what to say."

"You could've said hi or something."

"I could've." He turns his attention back towards you. "But if I said hi, I would've said everything else too. And I didn't think you wanted to hear it."

Your lungs forget how to work. "You don't know what I wanted."

"You're right. I didn't ask." "You're good at that." "At what?" "Not asking. Just deciding for both of us."

He clenches his jaw, licks his lips, must've forgotten his chapstick. He's slightly irritated. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" You try to stay steady, but your voice begins to crack. "You decided we needed space. You decided to leave. You decided—"

He cuts you off. "You decided we should move in together without asking if I was ready!"

You laugh bitterly. This was the problem. You guys always felt the need to go tit-for-tat with each other. The pattern you could never break.

"That's what this is about? "That's what it was always about." "Then why didn't you just say that?"

"Because I didn't know how to say 'I love you, but I'm fucking terrified of how much I need you' without sounding insane."

The air shifts, becomes suffocating, because finally, some truth. You stare at him. He's breathing hard, hands moved to the steering wheel.

"You were scared," you say slowly. Like you're trying to grasp the idea yourself.

"Of course, I was scared. You were—are—everything. And I didn't know how to be that for someone without losing myself."

Both of your phones vibrate in the cupholder at the same time, interrupting the tension. You both look down to read the notifications.

*proximity event logged – compatibility: 98.3%*

You look up at each other.

"It went up." You whisper in disbelief. "Because we're actually talking." "We should've done this a year ago."

He nods, he's looking at your whole face, not just your eyes anymore. That's when you realize he was always in your world.

Stars do tend to orbit their galaxy after all.

"I can't do this again if you're just going to—"

He cuts you off again, but this time with a kiss that's all desperate. His hand moves to the back of your neck. You gasp into his mouth and kiss him back. It's hard, angry, aching. So many emotions are transferred between these lips. Your hand moves to his hair, taking out the scrunchie holding it all together, as his hand moves to your thigh. Both competing for breath.

"Backseat." He mutters against your mouth.

You climb over the console first, limbs tangled as he follows behind you. And you're in the backseat before either of you can overthink and make a better decision about it.

The backseat is cramped, and it still feels like you can't get close enough fast enough. Your knee hits the door handle, his elbow smacks the window; neither of you cares enough to slow down.

His mouth is on yours again, and you're pulling at his hoodie, shoving it up and over his head. He breaks the kiss just long enough for the fabric to go over, then he's back biting at your bottom lip until you gasp.

"Fuck, I missed you," he breathes against your mouth, hands already working at the button of your jeans.

"Shut up," because if he keeps talking like that, you're going to fall apart before he even touches properly. "Just—"

He gets your jeans open, starts shoving them down your hips. You have to lift, awkward in the tight space, kicking them off one leg while he yanks your sweater up.

His hands are back to being all over you, your waist, your ribs, sliding up to cup your breasts through your bra. The good bra. Say thank you to Nilou. You'll never hear the end of this from her.

"Did you fuck anyone else?" The question comes out of left field, but it's possessive, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulls you onto his lap.

You straddle him, hands braced on his shoulders, and the look on his face is complex. He always wore his emotions there, so clearly when he wouldn't speak them. Half desperate, half terrified of your answer.

"Does it matter?" you respond, breathless.

His jaw tightens. "Yes, it does."

You hold his gaze, half naked, let him see the truth. "No. No one."

Something breaks in his expression, relief turning into something darker. "Good."

"You?" Your nails dig into his shoulders through his shirt.

"No." He pulls you down into another kiss. "No. Just you. Always fucking you."

The words shouldn't hit as hard as they do, but they crack something open in your chest. You kiss him even harder than before, because now you really know he left and he's been yours the whole time, and that makes it so much worse.

His hands slide down to your ass, gripping hard as he grinds up against you. You can feel him through his sweats, hard and thick. You roll your hips down, trying to find that friction.

"Shit," he hisses, head falling back against the seat. "Think you might kill me."

"Great," you gasp, doing it again, watching his face change at the feeling. "You deserve it."

He laughs, breathless, then sits up and flips you. You're on your back across the seat, his body looming over yours, those pretty eyes dark and pupils blown.

"Yeah," he murmurs, hands sliding up your thighs, spreading them. "I do."

He hooks his fingers in your underwear, the lacy ones, and he pauses. Looks at you. There's a question in his eyes, even now, even while he's so desperate.

"Don't stop," you tell him.

He pulls them down, tosses them somewhere on the floorboard, moves his hand between your legs, and you're already so wet it's almost embarrassing.

"Jesus," he breathes, fingers sliding through your folds, the coldness of his rings hitting every now and again. "You're—"

"Your fault," your hips jerking when he circles your clit.

He grins, he's pleased with himself, then pulls his hand back. You're about to complain when he spits on his fingers and reaches down again —

"Did you just fucking try to spit start me?"

He freezes, hand halfway to your pussy, and for a second, you both just stare at each other. Then he laughs, a real one, surprised and genuine. You can't help it; you laugh too, and it really helps break some of the tension.

God, you missed this, missed him, the way he can make you laugh even when you're supposed to be mad, even when it feels like your life is falling apart.

"Shut the fuck up," he says, grinning, and slides two fingers inside you.

The laugh cuts off into a moan, your back arching off the seat. He knows exactly how to touch you, the angle, the pressure, curling his fingers just right. It's insane how easily your body remembers him. Like it's been waiting this whole time, like it knew he'd come back eventually.

"Mmmm. There she is," he murmurs, watching your face as he fucks you with his fingers. "Missed this, missed you like this."

You're already close, wound up from a year of nothing and three minutes of everything. "Hwa—"

"Not yet," he says, slowing down, and you could hurt him for it. "Need you to wait for me." "I can't."

"Yes, you can." He pulls his fingers out, and you whimper at the loss. "Patience for me, baby."

He sits back, shoves his sweats down just enough to free his cock, and the sight of it makes your mouth water. He's thick and flushed, leaking at the tip. He catches you staring once again. "See something you like?"

"Ughhh. Fuck you."

"That's the plan, sweetheart." He reaches over into the console for his wallet and pulls out a condom.

You bat his hand away. "I'm still on the pill. Haven't been with anyone."

"Then I wanna feel you."

His face shifts. He drops the condom, grabs your hips, and pulls you back onto his lap in one smooth motion. You're straddling him again, his cock trapped between you. He's looking at you like you hold his world.

"You sure?" He checks in still.

You lift up, reach between you, and line him up. Sink down slow, watching his face as you take him inch by inch. His mouth falls open, hands tightening on your waist. "Fuck. Fuck, baby—"

You don't stop until he's fully inside, buried deep, and you have to pause because it's so so much, perfect.

"Been craving this," your forehead dropping to his. "Craving you."

"I'm here," his hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck. "I'm here, not leaving."

You start to move, slow at first, rolling your hips, finding the rhythm. He meets you thrust for thrust, hands guiding you, pulling you down harder. The car begins to rock and windows fog, you should be thankful as it blocks out the horrible garage lighting. Let's hope security isn't doing their rounds.

"You're so damn beautiful," he pants, watching where you're joined. "Look at you taking me so well. Fits like a glove, made for me."

"Hwa–" Your thighs are burning, the angle is perfect, and you're so close.

Then he does it, that thing. The move that used to make you see god. His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and while you're riding him. While his cock is buried inside you, he slides two fingers in alongside it, stretching you impossibly fuller.

"Oh fuck—" You choke on the words, hands scrambling to his shoulders. "Hwa, I can't, it's too much."

"You can take it. You always do," he grits out, working his fingers in and out while his thumb circles your clit in tight circles. The stretch is so big. You're so full you're counting colors, can feel every thrust of his hips and fingers working together, and the pressure on your clit is relentless.

"Come on, baby," he coos, voice wrecked. "Let me feel it. You feel so warm when you do it."

You're shaking, and his thumb presses down hard, and you shatter. Coming so hard and clenching around his cock and fingers, crying out his name.

"That's it, that's my pretty girl—fuck—"

He pulls his fingers out, grabs your hips with both hands, and fucks up into you through your orgasm, trying to get his own. You're still shaking when he follows soon after, spilling into you with his head thrown back as he puts his fingers, the ones that were just inside you, in his mouth. One hand still gripping your hip with bruising force.

You watch him, all dazed and fucked out as he sucks his fingers clean, tasting you. His eyes flutter close, throat working as he swallows, it's the filthiest thing he does, and you love it.

He pulls his fingers from his mouth slowly, a string of spit connecting his lips to his fingertips, eyes locked on you when they open again. Then he leans forward, cups the back of your head and kisses you.

His tongue ties with yours, and you taste yourself on him. You kiss him back, exhausted, and for a moment it's almost tender. Then he shifts, and you both wince. He's still inside you, softening, the angle uncomfortable. Reality crashes back.

You're in a parking garage. You just fucked your ex in his backseat. You can feel him leaking out of you. He seems to realize it at the same time. He carefully helps you off his lap.

You find your underwear, your jeans, start putting yourself back together in silence. He tucks himself back into his sweats, runs a hand through his disheveled hair. The silence is a different kind of heavy.

Then he reaches for his phone in the cupholder. You reach for yours at the same time, a habit even now. You check the app together, screens side by side in the dim glow.

98.9%

You stare, show him your screen even though his says the same thing. "Up again."

He's looking at the number like it's a puzzle. "I see." "Why?"

Neither of you has an answer. You just had desperate, filthy car sex, and somehow the app thinks you're more compatible. Maybe it's measuring honesty. Or need. Or the fact that your bodies still speak the same language even when your mouths don't know what to say.

The silence stretches. You finish fixing your clothes, run your hands through your own messed up hair, knowing you look thoroughly fucked.

"I should go," you say, not looking at him.

His voice has gone flat, neutral. "Okay."

He gets out first, comes around to open your door again. Helps you out of the backseat like he's back to being a distinguished gentleman who didn't just finger fuck you alongside his cock five minutes ago. You stand there between the cars again, that same distance, and everything seems the same, but also very, very different.

"So…" he starts.

"I'll text you," you finish, even though you don't know if you will.

He nods. Doesn't argue. You get in your car, hands twitching as you start the engine. You tell yourself you won't look back. But that's a lie. You look in the rearview mirror as you pull away. He's still standing there, platinum hair catching the lights, watching you leave. Again.

You don't remember the drive back home. It's like your body went on autopilot mode… just driving. Making turns you don't consciously make, muscle memory kicks in. You park in your spot and sit in the car for ten minutes, no thoughts, no noise. Then you finally turn the engine off, don't bother checking your surroundings, and go inside your apartment.

You kick off your shoes, can't get them off fast enough. Your clothes feel too tight, uncomfortable, can feel him all over you. You strip immediately, don't even make it to your room as a pile of your clothes lies in the hallway, and turn your shower to the hottest setting it has to offer.

Burning your skin in scorching water did not wash off your feelings. You stand under the shower head until your hot water runs out. That's definitely gonna show on my water bill.

You stand there dripping on the bath mat for god knows how long, just staring at nothing. You get out and look in your mirror, the led lights that surround it putting your swollen lips and the mark on your collarbone so clear.

You grab your phone off the bathroom counter, with the towel wrapped around you as you sit on the floor. Don't even bother to put on clothes. You go to synCink right away.

And you see that you and he are still at 98.9% and you can't help but check the activity logs.

> 7:35pm – proximity event: 42 mins

> intimacy detected: physical

> emotional resolution: incomplete

> heart rate correlation: 94%

> compatibility increased due to: physical reconnection, partial vulnerability,

unresolved tension remains

'Unresolved tension remains.' You almost chuckle, such an understatement. But you also almost text him. You open the thread, and the cursor is just in your face, blinking, like it's urging you to say something. You don't have a first clue on what to say.

that was a mistake, but was it? we should talk, but you just did. i still love you, no no too much.

You don't say anything, just close the thread and put on your favorite pjs to get in bed, all just to stare at the ceiling. Your brain won't shut off; everything is on replay. His hands, those rings, his voice, the 98.9%, that damn incomplete 'resolution.'

You check the app again: still at 98.9%. Staring a hole into your screen won't change the number; you don't know if you really want it to change to begin with.

You set the phone back down on your nightstand, don't remember exactly what time you fell asleep, but you do know that the phone was still in reach. Just in case, in case of what, you don't know, but it stays within arm's reach anyway.

The notification wakes you at 6:50 am. compatibility decreased to 98.1%

You sit up so fast the room tilts. Black spots dance across your vision, your mouth tastes like pennies and regret. Fuck. Iron pills. Need to— But that's not important right now. What's important is the number. 98.1%. Down from 98.9%.

You fucked last night. It was good, necessary, the kind of sex that feels like kneeling in front of something sacred and then ruining it with your hands.

So why did it go down? Your hands shake as you scroll through the data logs, looking for the exact moment it dropped, looking for proof this isn't your fault.

****compatibility decreased. cause: intimacy without emotional resolution. vulnerability deficit detected.***

You read it three times. The words blur. Intimacy without emotional resolution. The app is saying you fucked but didn't finish the conversation, the app is saying bodies aren't enough. The app is saying you're still broken.

You feel it then, the emotional hangover. Not from alcohol, from him. From letting him back in before you'd finished processing him leaving.

Your throat closes up. When did you become this person? The anxious data-obsessed mess who takes note of every percentage point like it's a life or death?

March 2nd. That's when.

You open your notes app. The folder labeled march '23 that you've never deleted. Inside are timestamps of when he stopped texting as much. Screenshots of conversations that felt wrong. A voice memo from the night he left that you've never been able to listen to.

You've been archiving for a year, organizing your pain like you're building a case file. Like if you document it thoroughly enough, it'll make sense. It never does.

You click on the app's explanation again.

vulnerability deficit detected. physical intimacy occurred, but emotional barriers remain.

user 1 deflected post-intimacy conversation. user 2 avoided direct emotional acknowledgement. recommendation: complete unresolved discussion from feb 10 & march 2 within 24-48 hours to prevent further degradation.

A countdown, synCink is giving you a fucking deadline to fix your relationship. You can't breathe right.

I need to call him. It's 6 am. I can't call him at 6 am. Can I? "Hey we fucked and the app is mad we didn't immediately process our collective trauma?"

Your phone is still in your hand, screen lighting up your dark bedroom. You open his contact. Close it. Open it again.

you: are you awake. You delete it before sending.

Your phone buzzes.

Park Seonghwa: you up?

Your heart stops. You don't think and just call him. He answers on the first ring.

"Hey." His voice is rough with sleep.

"It went down." Your voice cracks immediately. So much for playing it cool.

Silence for a beat. "I know. I saw."

"Why? We—we were together, it should've—"

You hear him exhale. Can picture him running a hand through his hair, biting at his bottom lip. "Because we didn't finish talking."

You close your eyes. You knew. But hearing him say it makes it real.

"We had sex in your car, and the app wants us to have a feelings conversation."

He laughs, but it sounds hollow. "Sounds about right."

Silence. Just breathing on both ends. The rain has started again outside your window. Or maybe it never stopped.

"Can I come over?" he asks quietly.

You should say no. Should protect yourself. Should establish boundaries.

"Yeah." "Now?" "Yes."

"Okay. I'm—" He pauses. "I'm leaving now."

You hang up. Seonghwa lives twenty minutes away. He knocks on your door fifteen minutes later. He was already on his way before I said yes.

He looks exhausted. You probably look worse. Sweatpants, hoodie, hair a mess. He just rolled out of bed and drove straight here.

"Hey." "Hello."

When did we get so formal? We had each other's come dripping out of us six hours ago and now we're saying "hi" like strangers.

Your apartment feels smaller with him in it. You remember what it used to be like, him here, making coffee, existing in your space like he belonged. You move to the kitchen without thinking. "Coffee?"

"Thanks."

You make tea for yourself, coffee for him. Black, no sugar. Such a simple thing to remember. He sits at the island, hands fidgeting. Neither of you drinks. You move to the couch. Safe distance between you, both phones on the coffee table, synCink already open.

98.1%

"Um," you start. But neither of you continues. The silence is harder than fighting. Harder than fucking. This is the thing you've been avoiding for a year. You stare at the number. "It says we need to talk about February 10th and March 2nd."

"I know."

"Okay, so if you know—we actually have to talk. Not just... surface shit."

He nods. Jaw tight. "Okay."

But nobody starts. You can't do the tiptoeing anymore, can't be the one who has to guide every hard conversation.

"Why did you really leave?"

Same question as last night, but you need a better answer. Because what he said in the car wasn't enough, wasn't the whole truth.

He looks at you. "Which time?" "March 2nd. The last night."

He's quiet for so long, you think he won't answer.

"Because I woke up that morning and realized I couldn't imagine my life without you in it. And it fucking terrified me."

What? That was the last thing you expected. "What?"

"The moving-in fight wasn't about the lease. Or logistics. Or furniture." He stops, bites his lip. "It was about the fact that I woke up next to you and thought 'this is it, this is my person' and I—I panicked."

"So you left." "Mhm."

"That doesn't make any fucking sense, Hwa. If you loved me—"

"I loved you too much." His voice cracks. "That was the problem. I loved you so much I didn't know where I ended and you began anymore. Every decision I made, I thought about you first. Every plan included you. I couldn't remember the last time I did something just for me without considering how it would affect us."

You're staring at him. Throat so tight.

"And it scared the shit out of me," he continues, words coming faster now, like he's been holding them in for a year. "Because the last time I loved someone like that, I lost myself completely. I became whatever they needed me to be until I didn't recognize myself anymore. And when it ended, I didn't know how to exist without them."

"You were scared of losing yourself again," you say slowly.

"I was terrified. And instead of talking to you about it, I just—I ran. Because running felt safer than staying and watching myself disappear."

The anger you've carried for a year starts to crack. Not gone. Just... shifting.

"You should've told me."

"You should've fucking told me, Seonghwa." Your voice is sharp. "Instead of just—instead of making me feel like I was asking for too much. Like wanting a future with you was unreasonable."

"You weren't—"

"Let me finish." Tears are coming. Angry ones. "Do you know what that year was like for me? Do you have any idea what it's like to have someone you love just leave without a real explanation? To spend months replaying every conversation, every fight, trying to figure out what you did wrong?"

"I'm sorry—"

"I'm not done." You're crying now, fuck. "I blamed myself. I thought I pushed too hard, wanted too much, loved too intensely. I made myself smaller in every relationship after—" You stop. Laugh bitterly.

"Who am I kidding. There were no relationships after you. I tried. Went on dates. But no one was you. And I hated you for that. I hated that you got to leave and I had to stay behind, haunted by you."

He's crying too now. Silent tears.

"I made spreadsheets." Your voice breaks on the word. "Actual fucking spreadsheets. Dates, conversations, what I said, what you said. Trying to find the pattern. Trying to figure out the exact moment I became too much."

It's insane. You know it's insane. But what else were you supposed to do with all that pain?

"I didn't want to leave," he says finally.

"But you did!" You're yelling now. "You did leave! You don't get to say you didn't want to when you're the one who walked out! You don't get to rewrite it now because an app brought us back together!"

Both of you are crying, trying to breathe. Your face is hot and blotchy, you hate crying. Always have, can't stop.

"You're right," he says, voice wrecked. "You're absolutely right. I left. I made that choice. And it was the worst fucking mistake of my life."

"Then why—" You can't stop asking. Can't stop trying to understand. "Why did you do it?"

"Because I thought it would hurt less if I left first. I thought if I was the one to end it, I could control the pain. I could leave before you realized I wasn't enough and left me instead."

You stare. "Are you serious?"

"I know it's fucked up—"

"You're damn right it's fucked up. Seonghwa, I was in love with you. I wanted to build a life with you. And you threw it away because you were scared I might leave you eventually? So you left me first?"

"I know it doesn't make sense—"

"No, it doesn't! You keep making decisions for both of us! You ended something good because of a fear of something that never even happened!"

"I KNOW!" He's yelling too now. Standing. "I know, okay? I know it was selfish and stupid and I've regretted it every single day for a year. Do you think I don't know I fucked up the best thing in my life? Do you think I haven't been miserable?"

"Good! You should be miserable! I was miserable!"

"I SAW YOU AT THAT COFFEE SHOP AND I COULDN'T FUNCTION!"

His voice echoes in your apartment. You've never heard him sound like this, even when he left. He's breathing hard, more tears streaming. "I saw you and you looked... fine. Better, even. And I realized I threw away everything we had and you were just—existing without me. Like I was easy to get over."

"I wasn't fine." Your voice is quieter now. "I was falling apart. I just got really good at pretending."

"Me too."

Two people performing normal for the world while drowning separately. You both sit back down. Exhausted. synCink buzzes.

emotional vulnerability: increasing → proceed.

"It wants more," you say. "What else is there?"

You know. The thing you haven't said. The thing you've avoided.

"I need to know if you're going to run again."

He looks at you. "What?"

"If things get scary. If it feels like too much. Are you going to leave?"

"No—"

"How do I know that? How do I trust you when you've already proven you'll run when things get hard?"

He doesn't have an answer.

"I can't do this again, Hwa." You're crying again. "I can't let you back in just to watch you leave when you get scared. I can't survive that twice."

"I'm not going to—"

"You don't know that! You can't promise that! People promise forever all the time and then they leave. You did leave!"

"I can't prove the future," he says quietly. "I can't promise I'll never be scared again, because I probably will be. Loving someone this much is fucking scary." You're still crying. You wipe your face with your sleeve, sitting up slightly. The tea has gone cold, everything feels cold.

"Okay," you whisper. "Say the rest."

"But I can promise I won't run without telling you why. I can promise that if I get scared, I'll say it out loud instead of disappearing. I can promise to stay and fight because fighting is better than losing you again."

"That's not enough."

But looking at his face, you realize it might be all either of you has. "It's all I have."

Ting. emotional resolution: in progress. compatibility: 98.6%

You both stare. You take a shaky breath. "My turn."

"Your turn?"

"To say the shit I've been avoiding." You look at him. "I pushed you away too."

He starts to protest. You hold up a hand.

"I did. The moving-in thing—I brought it up during a fight on purpose. I wanted you to say no so I could be mad at you instead of being scared you'd say yes and it would be real."

He's staring.

"I have this thing where I test people. I push and push until they leave, because at least then I was right about them leaving eventually. At least then I control when it happens." You're shaking.

"And I did it to you. I picked that fight knowing you weren't ready. I backed you into a corner and then got mad when you felt trapped."

Saying it out loud makes it worse somehow.

"You wanted me to leave?"

"No. I wanted you to stay anyway. I wanted you to fight for us. But I also made it impossible for you to stay."

"We're both fucked up," he says. "We sure are." "The app can't fix that." "No. It can't."

Silence. But it's lighter.

"What do we do?" you ask.

"Try again? Fuck it up differently this time?"

You almost laugh.

"I can't promise I won't test you again," you admit. "When things get good, I start waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"And I can't promise I won't get scared. But I can promise I'll tell you when I am."

You look at each other. And for the first time in this conversation, you both smile.

"I'm sorry," he says. "For leaving. For running instead of fighting."

"I'm sorry too. For pushing. For not telling you I was scared."

Ting. emotional resolution: achieved. compatibility: 98.6%. intimacy architecture: rebuilding.

"Intimacy architecture," you read. "What does that even mean?"

"I think it means we just did the work."

Morning light is coming through the windows now.

"Can I stay?" he asks. "Today. Just today. We don't have to do anything. I just—I don't want to leave yet."

You nod. "That's fine."

He exhales like the question took everything out of him.

"But Hwa?" "Yeah?" "If you run again, I won't chase you." "I won't run."

You don't know if you believe him. But you want to. Maybe that's enough for now.

He kisses you slow this time, like he's memorizing the taste of your mint chapstick. Not reclaiming, rebuilding. It starts on the couch, after the crying, after the confessions. After the kind of honesty that leaves you raw. You're both exhausted. Emotions wrung dry, and somehow that makes this feel inevitable.

His hands cups your face, thumb brushing away the salt tracks from your tears. Cherishing your face no matter what it looks like. Cherishing you.

"C'mere," you whisper against his mouth, and he understands you right away.

You stand, taking his hand, leading him to your bedroom. Sunlight peaks through your room. It's barely 9 in the morning, so everything is visible. No darkness to disappear away in, no cramped backseat. Just your bed and the two of you deciding to try again.

Your room looks different; you can feel the change of having him in it again. He hasn't been here in over a year. You rearranged everything after he left, trying to erase every trace of him. Every fingerprint on the headboard, every stray hair, his colognes he left on your dresser.

"Is this okay?" he asks, and you realize you've both just been standing there. Like those two emojis holding hands. Awkward when it shouldn't be.

"I want this."

He nods, steps closer, his hands find your waist, slipping under your shirt. It's one of his old ones, actually, one you never gave back.

"This mine?" He tugs the hem. "Maybeeee."

"Liar." But he's smiling ear to ear when he pulls it over your head. You're not wearing a bra, couldn't bother, and his breath catches. It's his thing; he always becomes short of breath while being in your presence.

"Lie down," he says softly. "Let me take care of you."

You climb onto the bed, settle against your mountain of pillows and plushies. He strips slowly until he's completely bare. Seeing his happy trail when he undid his sweats has you foaming at the mouth. You're gonna combust, genuinely, if he doesn't hurry up. Then he crawls up, settling between your legs.

"I wanted to do this yesterday," he says, kissing your inner thigh. "Didn't have time in the car. But now—" He looks up at you. "Now I'm about to do this body of yours sooo right."

His mouth finds you, and you gasp, hands flying to his hair, no scrunchie to hold you back this time. He really takes his time, slow thorough licks. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider and holding you open.

"Look at me," he hums against you. When you meet his eyes, the intensity makes you shake. He doesn't break eye contact. Watches your face while he works you with his tongue. When he slides two fingers inside, curling them, you arch off the bed.

"Stay still. Wanna make you feel good."

The softness in his tone, the attention, the way he's looking at you like you're a lost painting. It builds slower than yesterday, but much deeper. You're shaking, his name falling from your lips.

Seonghwa never sounded any prettier.

Seonghwa, Hwa, baby, honey, my love; all the names you called him, all yours again.

"Yes, yes. That's it. Let go, baby."

You come on his mouth, trembling. He works you through it until you push at his head. He crawls back up, mouth glistening. Your juices on his face suit him much better. You reach and grab his face to kiss him, tasting yourself on his tongue.

You look at him with those bedroom eyes, he knows what you're up to, and he always tries to protest out of feeling bad.

"You don't have to—" he starts.

"I want to." You push at his shoulders. He settles against the pillows.

You position yourself between his legs. He's hard to where it looks painful, and leaking at the tip. You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly while maintaining eye contact.

"Missed this," you admit. "Missed seeing you twitch and moan for me."

His breath hitches. "Sweetheart—"

You lean down and take him in your mouth. The sound he makes is music to your ears. You want to bottle that sound, replay it, live in it for all time. His hands find your hair, doesn't push. Just holds.

You work him slowly, trying not to gag. The spit gets thick and foamy, gathering around your hand on what doesn't fit. He's trying not to thrust; he's failing terribly. But you revel in the loss of control.

"Keep your eyes on me," you say, pulling off briefly.

You maintain eye contact as you take him back. Watching him struggle to keep his eyes open. You can feel his thighs tense up.

"Fuck—stop, I'm gonna—"

You pull off, licking your lips of the mess you've made. "Uh-uh. I want that inside. How do you want me?"

He pulls you up, kisses you hard. "Turn on your side for me."

He shifts, and you turn so your back is to his chest. He pulls your leg up, opening you up.

"This okay?" His voice is rough against your ear. "Perfect."

He lines himself up, slides in slow. The angle is deeper, every inch devastating.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You feel—" "Fucking amazing? I know."

He chuckles, "cocky, are we?"

"Just stating the obvious, baby, now c'mon."

He starts doing deep rolls of his hips. One arm wraps around your waist, holding you close. The other hand comes up to your throat. Not squeezing yet, just resting there. He's asking for permission.

"Yes," you gasp.

His fingers tighten, just enough to make you lightheaded.

"You're so pretty," he says against your ear. "I don't even believe in a god, but being in you like this is my biggest blessing."

The praise makes you clench, and he groans.

"Turn your head. I wanna look at you."

You crane your neck back, and he gets your mouth in a messy kiss. His hands tighten up even more on your throat as his hips speed up.

"Need you to come first," he pants.

His free hand slides down to your clit, circling at the same pace as his thrusts. It's all becoming overwhelming.

"Oh shit—fuck Hwa." "You got it, baby, you can take it all."

You come hard, vision going in and out from the pressure on your throat and the intensity of the orgasm. He releases your throat. Lets you breathe. His hand laces with yours, pinning your joined hands against your stomach.

"I love you," he says, voice breaking. "I never stopped."

His words, with the feeling of him still moving inside you, makes you sob. "You can't just—"

"I know. But I need you to know. I loved you then, and I love you now, and I'll love you tomorrow—" His thrusts are getting sloppy, close.

Crying during sex wasn't on your bingo card today, but here you are.

He comes, spilling everything into you. Forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, his hands tighten around yours, like it's the only thing keeping him on earth. You stay connected. Both crying. Both shaking.

"I love you too," you finally whisper. "I'm so mad at you and I love you and I don't know how to do both."

"We'll figure it out." He kisses your shoulder. "Together."

He pulls out carefully, both of you wincing. He gets up and comes back with a warm washcloth, cleans you gently, then himself. After tossing the washcloth and navigating your bathroom with ease, he climbs back into bed and pulls you against his chest.

You notice the marks on your thighs. A bite on your shoulder you don't remember. You press down on the mark on your collarbone, and it hurts, and some fucked up part of you likes that it does.

"Damn. I marked you up," he says, tracing one with his finger.

"I like it." You're surprised by your own response (hell, i am too). "Wanna remember this."

He kisses you. "Me too."

You both reach for your phones.

99.1%

You stare at it together.

"We did it," you say, exhausted.

He's quiet while staring at the number; something changes in his expression that you can't read.

"What?"

He shows his screen, same number. "We're almost there." "Almost where?" "100%."

Something in his tone makes your stomach drop. "You don't sound happy about it."

"I don't know if I want to hit 100%."

You prop up on your elbow, turning to look at him. "What do you mean?"

But he just pulls you back down, kisses your forehead, avoids your eyes. "Nothing. Forget it. Let's just…stay here for a bit."

You don't push, not yet. The unease of it settles in your chest, a seed of doubt being planted that you can't quite uproot.

He still stays. You don't ask him to, he just does, and you don't question it because questioning it feels like you might jinx the whole damn thing. Not just that day, but the next. And the one after.

His toothbrush appears on day three, the fancy charcoal one. By day five, there's a drawer that's just his:

Hoodies, sweatpants, that one shirt you always loved on him. Coffee and tea in the morning become routine again. He knows you still take your tea with some honey, and you still know he will keep asking if he made it to your liking. The small things that feel enormous.

You exist in this bubble. Your apartment, his presence, synCink always nearby like a third person in the relationship. You check it constantly: post-tea, post-sex, random afternoon when that anxiety creeps in.

99.1%

It doesn't move, hasn't budged in five days. Then a week. Then two.

"It's stuck," you say one morning. "That's good though, right? Stable." "Right. Stable."

The word makes you queasy.

The days blur together, but in the best way. Inside jokes have returned, the ones you thought you'd forgotten. Shared silences that used to feel uncomfortable are comfortable again. He makes you laugh during dinner. You make him watch your favorite reality show that he pretends to hate but is actually invested in.

It feels good. Really fucking good. But also fragile, like a vase sitting on the edge of a countertop. If the wind blows wrong, it'll all shatter. So both of you move carefully around it, holding your breath, waiting for the wind to blow wrong.

Three weeks in, you finally tell Nilou and Hana everything. You've been avoiding this conversation because you know they're gonna have opinions, and you're not sure you're ready to hear them. You spill it all.

"Soooo you're back together?" Nilou asks, leaning forward.

"I…think so? We haven't really said it out loud."

"And the percentage?" Hana's doing that thing where she's trying not to do her judgy thing, but she definitely is.

"99.1%. Three weeks straight."

Nilou grins. "Honey, that's so good!!"

Hana doesn't smile. "Be careful. Don't let the app become the relationship."

Ooopsy, too late.

"Also," Nilou adds, stirring her matcha, "I tried the app again. Got matched with Woo AGAIN. 96%."

You blink. "Wait, again?"

"We dated briefly, like six months ago. Total chaos. Fun chaos but still." She shrugs. "The app say we're compatible during conflict. Which…tracks."

"Are you getting back with him?"

"God no. I love mess but I also love my sanity."

Hana snorts into her drink. You file that information away for later. Wooyoung, 96%, conflict-driven compatibility, when your brain isn't completely swimming in Seonghwa.

You've always noticed things, especially the small things. Like how he checks the app less than you do. How sometimes when he does check it, there's something in his expression you can't read. Not unhappy. Just thoughtful, a bit distant.

One night, you're both in bed. Post orgasm, his arm around you. You're scrolling through synCink, reading old data logs like they're bedtime stories.

"Do you think we could hit 100%?"

The question comes out casually, you know what water you're treading when you ask it. He goes completely still, his body tenses and breathing changes.

"Hwa?"

Long pause that goes on for way too long. "I don't know."

You prop up to look at him, but his eyes are on the ceiling, not on you.

"You don't know, or you don't want to?" "Does it matter?" "Yeah, it does."

He still won't look at you. Then he finally does, and what you see on his face makes your stomach drop.

"I don't want to."

"What do you mean, no?"

You sit up so fast the sheets pool around your waist. He's still lying there, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling like he didn't just say the most insane thing.

"I mean no. I don't want to try for 100%."

Your brain short-circuits. "I—what? Why not?"

"Just don't think it's a good idea."

"That's not—" You're stammering. "That's not an answer."

He looks at the ceiling. Won't meet your eyes.

"Hwa, what aren't you telling me?"

Silence stretches. Finally, "There's a section in the app. About 100%. I found it last week."

Your stomach drops. "What section?"

"Just—" He runs a hand through his hair. "Look at it yourself. I don't want to explain it wrong."

He gets up, goes to the bathroom. The door closes. You grab your phone.

100% COMPATIBILITY REQUIREMENTS

> complete algorithmic synchronization

> behavioral patterns must align permanently

> routine disruption tolerance: 0%

> individual decision-making: minimized

> WARNING: enmeshment risk detected > WARNING: identity dissolution possible > WARNING: individuality erosion – high probability

You read it twice. Three times. What the hell. There's more. Case studies. A whole fucking section you didn't know existed because you were too busy obsessing over your own percentage to read the fine print.

> the parker pair (99.6% → 100%): last seen separately 8mo ago. social media dormant since May. friends report: "They finish each other's sentences mid-word. It's not cute anymore. It's wrong."

> case #839 (100%): hospitalized after 48hr separation attempt. both users: heart palpitations, severe dissociation, inability to recall individual memories vs. shared memories.

> case #1200 (100%): deleted app after 3 weeks at 100%. user testimony: "We weren't two people anymore. We were something else. Something that couldn't exist as individuals."

You read until your eyes burn. The Parker Pair's Instagram is public. You shouldn't look. You look anyway. Matching tattoos. Matching captions posted at the exact same timestamp. Photos where you can't tell whose hand is whose. Comments from concerned friends getting ignored.

The last post: six months ago. 99.6% forever <33. 4,000 likes. 200+ comments, all variations of: "guys are you okay" "please just text me back" "this is getting concerning"

You click their tagged photos. Someone posted them at a grocery store three weeks ago—shaky video, caption: "saw the Parker Pair IRL and I'm genuinely unsettled. they moved in PERFECT sync. same facial expressions. same head tilt. it wasn't cute."

You lock your phone. The bathroom door opens. He's been in there fifteen minutes.

"You looked," he says quietly. Not a question. "When did you find this?"

"Week and a half ago. Right after we hit 99.1%."

"And you've just been sitting on it." He sits on the edge of the bed, won't look at you.

"How about 'hey babe, fun fact, if we try for 100% we might lose our entire sense of self'—that would've been a great start!"

"Would you have believed me?" His voice goes sharp. "Or would you have thought I was making excuses because I was getting scared again?"

You open your mouth. Close it. Damn. He's right. You would've thought he was running.

"I've been checking that forum every day," he continues, voice getting quieter. "Reading every post about 100% couples. And they're all the same. They all say the same thing—'we're so happy, we're perfect, we don't need anyone else'—and their friends are in the comments, terrified."

Your stomach twists.

"The last 0.9%…" Your voice sounds far away. "That's where we stop being us." "Yes."

You stare at your phone. His phone. Both showing 99.1%. Three weeks stable. Three weeks of good. Three weeks of still having girls' nights and gym sessions alone and separate coffee orders. Three weeks of being together, but still being you and him. Not us in the way that erases the individuals.

"So this is it? 99.1% is the ceiling?"

"I think so. If we want to still be ourselves."

The disappointment hits weird. You didn't even know you wanted 100% until someone said you couldn't have it. Classic.

"But what if—" You're spiraling, you can feel it starting. "What if 99.1% isn't enough? What if we need that last 0.9% to actually make it work long-term?"

"Then we were never gonna work."

You stare at him. He's looking at his hands, picking at his cuticles. "If we need an app to engineer the last 0.9% of compatibility—if we need to erase ourselves to be perfect—then we weren't right to begin with."

"That's…" "Harsh?" "I was gonna say terrifying." "That too."

Silence. Just the sound of your breathing, the hum of your humidifier in the kitchen. The distant sound of dogs barking. You look at the Parker Pair post again. The matching tattoos. The identical captions. "99.6% forever"

Who decided to get the tattoo? Or did they just both want it at the same time? Did they even have individual thoughts anymore?

"I don't want that," you whisper.

He exhales like he's been holding his breath since he handed you the phone. "Me neither."

"I don't want to lose myself loving you."

"I don't want you to lose yourself either. I fucking love you. Not some algorithm-optimized version that's been sanded down to fit perfectly."

He's scared. You can see it in how his jaw is clenched, how he won't hold eye contact for more than three seconds. He's scared you're gonna choose the number over him. God, when did everything get so wrong?

"Last time," he says, voice cracking slightly, "before I left—I didn't know where I ended and we began. That's what scared me so much. I couldn't make a decision without thinking about us first. Couldn't remember what I wanted outside of what we wanted."

"And you think 100% would do that again."

"I know it would. The app literally says 'individual decision-making: minimized.' That's not—I can't do that again. I won't survive it."

Three weeks ago, you would've said yes to 100% without thinking. Would've chased it like it was the only thing that mattered. But three weeks ago, you didn't know the cost.

"What if I spiral without a goal?" The question comes out small. "What if not having 100% to chase makes me go back to—to testing you and pushing until you leave?"

"Then we'll deal with it."

"That's not a plan."

"No. It's not." He finally looks at you fully. "But it's real. And I'd rather have real and messy than perfect and hollow."

You sit with that. The app is still open on your phone.

"Do you think we can do it? Stay at 99.1% and not—not implode?"

"I don't know." "Super comforting, thanks." "You want me to lie?" "...No."

He reaches over, takes your hand. His palm is sweaty. He's more nervous than he's letting on.

"I think we have a better shot at 99.1% than we do at 100%. And I think—I think I'd rather fail as myself than succeed as someone I don't recognize."

When did he get so good with words? You look at the case studies again. The warnings. The forum posts. Then you look at him. Platinum hair a mess, anxiety written all over his face, picking at his cuticles until the skin goes red. Still him. Entirely, completely him.

"Okay."

He blinks. "Okay?" "Okay. We stop at 99.1%." "You're sure?"

"No. But I don't want 100% if it means I lose this."

"This?"

You gesture vaguely between you. "You being you. Me being me. Us being—whatever the hell we are. Messy and scared and probably gonna fuck it up sometimes."

He's staring at you like you just said something in another language.

"Did you think I'd choose the number?" you ask.

"...Little bit, yeah."

"Asshole." "Sorry."

You shove him lightly. He catches your wrist, pulls you closer.

"We just—what? Stay at 99.1% forever? Never try for perfect?"

"Fuck perfect." He kisses your knuckles. "Let's just try for real."

You want to cry. Get it together.

"The app is still here though," you say. "Still tracking. Still measuring every time we fuck up."

He goes still. "What?"

"We could delete it."

Your stomach drops. "Delete it?"

"We know the number. We did the work. We don't need it watching us anymore."

"But—" But it's proof. But it's validation. But it's the thing that brought us back together. But but but.

"I don't know if I can," you admit.

He nods, just holds your hand. You look at the app. 99.1%. Three weeks stable. 22 months of history, proximity events. Every fight, every reunion, every choice that led here. It's all documented and timestamped. Proof the pain was real and you survived it.

"Can I think about it?" you ask. "Of course."

You lock your phone. Set it face down. He does the same. "Come here," he says quietly.

You curl into him. Let him hold you without checking if it increased your percentage. It feels wrong. It also feels right. What are we doing?

You don't sleep. Neither does he, you can tell by his breathing. He's doing that thing where he tries to stay perfectly still, like if he doesn't move you won't know he's awake. Idiot. I can literally hear you thinking. 4 am comes. Then 5. Then 6.

You reach for your phone at 6:50 am. Open synCink. 99.1% stares back at you. The case studies are still there. The warnings. The Parker Pair with their matching everything and their friends' worried comments. You scroll to your own data.

"Are you checking?" His voice is rough with sleep-deprivation.

"Yup..." "What's it say?" "Same. 99.1%."

Then, "Do you want to delete it?"

"I don't know."

You scroll through the data again. There's a proximity event from July 18th, the night you said I love you first. The app logged it. Noted the elevated heart rates, the prolonged eye contact. It watched us fall in love.

There's the fight from February 10th. Proximity event: 42 minutes. Compatibility dropped 28% in a single conversation. It watched us fall apart.

March 2nd. The last night. Proximity event: 8 minutes. Then nothing for eleven months. It watched him leave. Then the climb back. Every month, the percentage creeping up even though you never saw each other. Like your data was still in conversation.

It watched us find our way back.

"It's proof," you say quietly. "That all of it was real. The good parts and the awful parts. It's all right here."

"If we delete it, what do we have?" "Each other."

You almost laugh. "That's so fucking corny."

"Doesn't make it less true."

You sit up. He does too. You're both awake now, might as well commit. "I need tea for this conversation."

"I'll make it." He gets up, pulls on sweats. You watch him shuffle to the kitchen, still half-asleep, hair sticking up. He looks so normal. How is he so normal about this?

You follow him after a minute. Sit at the island while he makes your tea, his coffee.

"Well," you say. "Devil's advocate." "Okay."

"What if we delete it and everything goes to shit? What if not having the number makes us sloppy? What if we stop trying because there's no percentage to maintain?"

He slides your tea across the counter. "Counter-point: what if keeping it makes us perform? What if we start making choices based on what will increase the percentage instead of what we actually want?"

Shit. Valid.

"Counter-counter-point: the app told us we needed to have that conversation. The ugly one. We wouldn't have done that without it."

"Would we though?" He leans against the counter. "Or were we gonna have that fight eventually, and the app just gave us permission?"

You don't have an answer.

"I think—" He stops. Starts again. "I think the app was training wheels. It got us here. But now we know how to ride."

"That's a terrible metaphor." "I'm tired, give me a break."

You almost smile, sip your tea instead. Would he still remember without an app tracking it? The thought makes you anxious.

"What if I forget things?" you ask. "Like—what if I forget what you like, how you are, all the stuff the app was logging? What if deleting it means I lose all that data?"

"You won't." "How do you know?"

"Because you knew all of it before the app existed. You knew how I like the smell of clean laundry, fresh veggies, my coffee black when we were at 96%. The app didn't teach you that. You just paid attention."

Oh.

"I'm scared," you admit. "Me too." "This is a terrible idea." "Probably." "We're gonna mess up." "Oh, definitely."

You look at him. He's smiling a little, that soft almost-smile that he does when he's trying not to be too sincere. "Why are you smiling?"

"Because you said we. You're scared we'll mess it up. Not that I'll leave or you'll push. We."

Oh lord, don't cry. Don't cry over grammar. Too late. Your eyes are stinging. "I hate you."

"No you don't." "I really, really do."

He comes around the island, stands in front of you, tilts your chin up. "We don't need the app to know we're good."

"But what if we're not good? What if 99.1% is a lie and we just convinced ourselves—"

He kisses you. You make a sound against his mouth, he pulls back just enough to talk.

"Did that feel like a lie?"

"That's not—you can't just kiss me every time I spiral—"

He kisses you again. Asshole. Effective asshole, but still.

"Okay fine," you mutter against his lips. "Point made."

You pull back. Look at your phone on the counter. His next to it. 99.1% on both screens. Three weeks stable. Proof you can do this. Or proof you've just been performing for an algorithm.

"If we do this—if we delete it—I need to keep one thing."

"What?"

"The graph. The full timeline. I need—" Your voice cracks. "I need proof it happened. That the pain was real and we survived it."

He nods immediately. "Okay."

"You're not gonna argue?" "Why would I argue?"

"I don't know, you're very anti-app right now—"

"I'm anti-letting-the-app-control-us. I'm not anti-proof." He squeezes your hand. "Keep the screenshot. Keep all of them if you need to."

Don't cry don't cry don't cry. You grab your phone before you can second-guess it. Screenshot the graph, July to February to March to now.

The whole story in one image. Save it to a hidden album. Right next to the folder with your spreadsheets and timestamps from March. Evidence. Always evidence.

"Okay." You can feel your pulse in your fingertips. "Okay. Let's do it."

"You're sure?" "No. But I want to be."

He picks up his phone. You pick up yours. Both of you just stare at the delete button. "On three?" he offers.

"Okay. Three." "Wait—on three or after three?" "Does it matter?" "I need to know!"

"Oh my god—on three. We do it on three."

"Okay. Okay." He's nervous. You can hear it. At least I'm not the only one losing my mind. You hesitate. He hesitates. "...Three." Neither of you moves.

"You didn't do it," he says. "Neither did you!" "I was waiting for you!" "That's not how counting works!"

You're both almost laughing now, that frantic edge-of-panic laughter. "Okay. For real this time. On three."

You press delete, he presses delete, the screens go blank.

"synCink has been deleted."

Just like that. No ceremony. No final notification, Just gone. Your home screen loads. No rose gold interface, no percentage, no proof. Only your regular wallpaper, that photo of you and the girls from last summer at the fruit market.

The absence is louder than you expected. You keep staring at the empty space of where the app used to be, waiting for something. A confirmation, a warning, a final notification telling you what you just did. Nothing comes.

"Oh fuck," you whisper.

"What do we do now?"

He laughs, slightly unhinged. "I have no fucking idea."

You both just sit there, holding your phones like they might explode.

"Do you feel different?" you ask. "No. Do you?" "No. Should we?" "I don't know!"

Then you start laughing. Can't help it, it bubbles up from somewhere frantic and terrified and a little bit free. He starts laughing too. You're both just standing in your kitchen at 7 am, laughing like idiots because you just deleted an app and now you have no idea how to be in a relationship.

The laughter fades eventually. You're left standing there, breathing hard, phones in hand. No percentage to check. No data to analyze. Just you and him and the choice you just made.

"C'mere," he says quietly.

You step into him. He wraps his arms around you, solid and real. No app confirms you're compatible, no algorithm validates the hug. It still feels right. Maybe that's enough. Maybe that's better.

The first day without the app is fucking weird. You reach for it 15 times before noon. Muscle memory, phantom limb syndrome but make it digital. Every time you pick up your phone, your thumb hovers over where synCink used to be. Finds nothing.

"Did you check?" he asks over lunch.

"There's nothing to check." "That's not what I asked." "...Eight times. You?" "Twelve."

Day two is worse. You have a fight. Stupid shit, he left dishes in the sink again, you snapped, he snapped back, and the first thing you do after is reach for the app.

Need to see the damage. Need to know how much that cost us. There's nothing there, just your weather widget and unread texts from Nilou and Hana.

"Fuck," you mutter. He's in the doorway, watching. "You tried to check."

"I did try…." "Me too."

You look at each other.

"Are we okay?" you ask. "I don't know. Are we?" "That's why I'm asking."

He almost smiles. "I think we're okay. The fight was stupid. I'm sorry about the dishes."

"I'm sorry I snapped." "Then we're good?" "I think so?"

Neither of you sounds certain. But you hug anyway, and it feels okay, and maybe that's all you get now. Just the gut feeling and the choice to believe it. This is gonna take some getting used to.

Day five: Nilou finds out.

"YOU DELETED IT?"

"Can you not yell—"

"YOU DELETED IT! WHY WOULD YOU DELETE IT! YOU WERE AT 99.1%!"

You're at the coffee shop, this was supposed to be a calm girls' date, but Nilou is losing her entire mind. Hana sips her americano, serene. "Good for you."

"IT'S NOT GOOD!" Nilou gestures wildly, nearly knocking over her matcha. "What if you break up now and you never know what percentage you were at when it happened?"

"Then… we just break up? Like normal people?"

"There's nothing normal about any of this!" She's not wrong.

"Why'd you do it?" Hana asks, actually curious.

You explain the 100% thing. The warnings. The Parker Pair. All of it. Nilou goes quiet. "Oh," she says finally. "That's… okay that's actually horrifying."

"You stopped at 99.1% to avoid becoming a single entity?" "Basically."

"Huh." She stirs her matcha aggressively. "That's kinda romantic actually. In a fucked up way."

"Everything about this is fucked up," you mutter.

Hana reaches across the table, squeezes your hand. "How do you feel? Without the number?"

"Terrified. Relieved. Both. I don't know."

"That sounds about right." You appreciate Hana so much in this moment. No judgment, no 'I told you so.' Just presence.

"For what it's worth," she says, "you seem more like yourself the last few days."

"What do you mean?"

"You're less… twitchy. Less checking your phone every thirty seconds. More here."

You didn't even notice. Your phone tings, Hana glances at it, then at you. "You gonna check that?"

You look at the screen, just a spam email. "No."

Hana smiles small, proud. "I'm glad."

Week two without the app: You stop reaching for it as much. Only six times today, progress. Seonghwa's lease ends and he doesn't renew it.

Most of his stuff has been at your place for weeks anyway. It happens so gradually you almost don't notice. His shoes by the door, his toothbrush in the holder, his hoodies mixed with yours in the closet.

"I'm just… moving in?" he asks one night, standing in your now-shared bedroom.

You look around. His cologne on the dresser, his books on the nightstand, his presence in every corner. "I guess you are."

"Is that okay?"

You think about February. The fight that started everything. The moving-in conversation that broke you both. That was about the fear, not the logistics. And the fear is still here. But so is he.

"Yeah," you say. "It's okay."

He exhales. "Okay. Good."

"You thought I'd say no?" "Little bit."

"After everything we just went through, you thought a lease would be the thing that scared me off?"

"Trauma makes you irrational!"

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, grinning, and something in your chest loosens. We're gonna be okay. Maybe. Probably. Hopefully.

— six months later

November hits like a fucking freight train. Cold, dark at 5 pm, the kind of weather that makes you want to hibernate. You're in the kitchen, attempting to make pasta from scratch because you saw one video and thought "how hard could it be?"

Mau's Narrator voice: Very hard.

Seonghwa is on the couch, yelling at a youtube video about stars and shit, you don't really know.

"THAT'S NOT HOW NEUTRON STARS WORK—" "Babe, I promise you the people know more than you—" "THEY'RE EXPLAINING IT WRONG."

You smile, turn back to the pasta dough that's somehow sticky and dry at the same time. How is that possible.

"Okay what the fuck," you mutter, trying to knead it.

He appears behind you instantly, arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Failing." "Need help?" "Need a miracle."

He laughs against your neck, takes the dough from your hands. Starts kneading it properly, adding flour when it sticks, water when it's dry. "How do you know how to do this?"

"My mom taught me." "Of course she did."

You watch his hands work. Competent, sure. Hands you know intimately now, every scar, every callus, the way they feel in yours. No app required.

The pasta turns out fine. Good, even. You eat on the couch, videos still playing. He explains stars between bites. You understand maybe 30% but you love watching him talk about it.

"You're not even listening," he accuses.

"I'm listening to your voice. That counts."

"That's not—"

You kiss him, tasting pasta and that chapstick he's finally using consistently. "I love you," you say against his mouth.

"Love you too."

Simple, easy. Later, you're in bed scrolling Twitter. He's reading next to you, some thriller Hana recommended. You accidentally open your photos app, the hidden album. The screenshot is still there. The graph from that first night. July to February to March to May. 99.1% at the end. You stare at it for longer than you should.

I wonder what we'd be now. 99.5%? 98.3%? Does it matter?

You think about the last six months. The fights over stupid shit, the good days, the bad days. The days where you just existed next to each other. Just—life. Messy and real and yours.

"What're you looking at?" he asks, not looking up from his book.

"Nothing."

You close the album. Roll over. Kiss his shoulder for no reason.

"Random," he comments, but he's smiling.

"I contain multitudes." "You're so weird." "You love it." "Unfortunately."

You settle against his side. He shifts automatically, making room. His arm comes around you without thought.

"Hey," you say quietly. "Hm?" "We're doing okay. Right?"

He sets down his book. Looks at you. "We're doing okay."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're here. I'm here. We're choosing it." Just the feeling. Just the choice. Turns out that's enough. Who knew.

You close your eyes. His heartbeat steady under your ear. Somewhere in the world, the Parker Pair probably still exists. Still at 100%. Still wrong in that uncanny way. You're at—what? 99.1%? 97.8%? 103%? You'll never know.

And for the first time since that girls' night in March, you're okay with that. The app gave you proof, but it couldn't give you this. This quiet, this choice. This relentlessly normal weekday in November. This is enough, you think as sleep pulls you under. This is better.

His hand finds yours under the covers. Squeezes once. No notification confirms your compatibility.

You squeeze back anyway.

The way you’d always turn down anything where you might have to spend money. Your entire wardrobe consisting of clothes and accessories you'd been given after shoots and promotions, keeping things until they were literally falling apart at the seams no matter how much shit you got for it. He seems to remember telling you once or twice that you were an idol and to act like one when the state of your dress had been brought up one time too many.

Also, the fact that you eat as little as you do and you've only barely been able to cover those expenses. And seeing as none of them had shared their food with you unless they had to, it shouldn't come as a surprise that you ate what you were allowed to and nothing else.

"Are you okay?" He asks, glancing over at you when the elevator doors close and you're alone for thew first time all morning.

"I guess." You say but he's not convinced given the vacant look in your eyes as you stare straight ahead. "Would kill for a nap but other than that I'm fine."

"Understandable." He nods, turning his eyes to the doors when they open on the ground floor, and he lets you walk out first. "Have you had breakfast yet?"

He takes note of the immediate tension in you at the question, and the worry about how severe the restriction has become returns to his mind.

"Too nervous to eat." You mumble but you're not blowing him off, which he chooses to see as a good sign.

"I haven't had anything either." He says lightly, moving so he's walking next to you instead of trailing behind you. "We could get something light before we head back home. My treat."

"Hongjoong-ssi-"

"I'm not trying to be pushy," The captain interrupts you. "But even the diet has you eating some kind of breakfast, so it won't be that much of a difference, will it?"

You can't fault his logic, but even though your stomach is screaming to accept his offer, you find yourself hesitating.

You look over to Minseok who's waiting for you at the entrance, a smile blooming on his face when he sees you walking towards him.

Eating would make him happy.

"Alright." You say, glancing at Hongjoong who looks a little surprised at how easily you’ve accepted. "But nothing too heavy or fried."

"You got it."

"How did it go?"  Minseok asks once you're in front of him, and you don't think you're hallucinating when you catch him giving the captain a look before he quickly schools his features into something more professional.

"Better than feared." You say, giving him a smile and a pat on the arm. "We're thinking of getting something to eat."

"Really?" Your manager looks between you, the shock on his face clear for all to see.

"He's persuasive." You say with a shrug, a little smile on your lips at managing to surprise your protector. "You want to give us a ride?"

"I can ask my manager if you're busy, Lee-ssi." Hongjoong offers but Minseok shuts him down, politely but immediately.

"This is my job, Hongjoong-ssi, I'm more than happy to take you where you need to go."

"Great, let's go." You pat Minseok's arm one last time, choosing to ignore the way the two men look at each other as you walk past them out to where you know the car is parked.

Hongjoong watches you walk away with an air of confidence he hasn't seen from you before, wearing a smile that, however small, could rival sunshine itself, and he's in awe.

The timid girl he thought he knew has lit up simply by being near her manager, even touching him in a way that you never would have dreamed of doing with anyone of them.

He wants to marvel further, but he finally catches onto the way Minseok is watching him, and it's like he's been dunked in ice water.

At first glance, the older man's face is neutral, polite even, but looking closer there is something darker beneath that, that has Hongjoong instinctively straightening up.

He's never really interacted with the man. He always stayed close to you which meant that he was away from the group in general, but he remembers him breaking down at the news of your death, and then leaving the company shortly after.

Even without knowing all this, it's clear he cares for you.

Hongjoong has no idea what you've been saying about it to him, but even if you'd said nothing at all, it's obvious that those eyes have seen more than he’ll ever admit.

There's resentment in them, as well as apprehension, but disguised well enough that you wouldn't notice it at a first glance.

"Shall we?" Minseok says, a big hand motioning to the door you walked out of, and Hongjoong swallows nervously imagining how much power would be in a punch from it.

The man practically melts around you when you're all in the car heading towards the restaurant you've decided on. His eyes are soft, voice calm and kind, and by the time you reach the restaurant, Hongjoong is certain the man would lift heaven and earth for you if you ever asked him to.

"You hate vegetables." You deadpan when the bossam arrives to the table, staring straight at Hongjoong like he hasn’t just done something completely out of character.

"I know this isn't easy for you so I figured I should challenge myself too." He shrugs, gesturing for Minseok to start since he's the oldest at the table, and you will give him credit for not ignoring the man just because he's staff.

Granted, you've never seen Hongjoong treat staff with anything other than respect, but Minseok is connected to you, so there's been no way of knowing if the dislike extended that far and he was guilty by association. Apparently not.

The pork belly, no matter how amazing it smells, wouldn't have been your first choice but with enough lettuce you might just be able to fool yourself into thinking the meat's leaner than it is. It all tastes incredible and you're even getting a show when Hongjoong is trying to not make a face whenever he bites down on the crunchy lettuce, and something in you softens a little at the sight.

Normally he wouldn't have put himself in a situation where he'd be uncomfortable to make things easier for you, and there's a heat rushing to your face when you think about just how decently he's treated you these last few days. You're not even able to lie to yourself, it feels really good.

Minseok is still watching the younger man like a hawk, just waiting for this new facade to slip but so far Hongjoong seems to be behaving. Your manager may be the sweetest, most caring man alive, but he looks terrifying enough that it's impossible to tell, keeping the captain on his best behavior. There's a reason people tend to confuse him for your security after all. 

The ringing of a phone cuts though the silence between you, and Minseok takes one look at the caller ID before he gets out of his seat.

"Keep eating, I'll be right back." He says as he looks at you, waiting for your nod before he leaves the table, greeting whoever is on the other end as he moves outside.

"He doesn't like me very much." Hongjoong comments as he watches the man exit the restaurant.

"He doesn't trust you." You shrug as you continue wrapping several layers of lettuce around a single piece of pork. "There's a difference."

"Is there?" Hongjoong asks, sipping his drink as he watches you nod.

"There are plenty of people I like but don't trust." You say before putting the whole thing in your mouth, politely covering your mouth while you chew.

"Yeah? Got any examples?" You still for a moment, looking at him like you're considering just how open you're willing to be.

"You." You say, looking straight at him in a show of rare confidence. "All of you. I've never disliked you, Hongjoong-ssi. I see the way you interact with other people, bad people couldn't fake it as long as you’ve been doing this. It just so happens that you dislike me, and I don't trust any of you because of it. But there are parts of you that I do like, no matter how much of a fool that makes me."

"I’m sorry."

"You've said that. And no offense but words are pretty meaningless at this point. They might make you seem nice, but they're cheap. It's easier to apologize than to actually change."

"Right." Hongjoong does his best not to sigh aloud, nodding as he fiddles with the lettuce on his plate. "We want to change though, all of us, even though we know it might be too late."

"It's never too late." You whisper under your breath, almost like you don’t expect him to hear you, but he does, and he's about to respond when Minseok comes back to the table, effectively cutting him off.

"I'm sorry to have to cut this short but the director managed to find a doctor who was able to squeeze you in on short notice so we're going to have to leave now if we want to make it."

"Now?" You say, staring up at the manager like he just gave you the worst news possible. "I thought... I wasn't expecting it to be today."

"I'm pretty sure the director pulled some strings." He says, gently ushering you out of your seat while he looks at Hongjoong. "We can call your manager at the hospital to get him to come pick you up unless you want to stay here and finish the meal."

"No, that's alright, I'll come if Chan-ah's okay with it." Hongjoong looks to you to either agree or disagree, but you're not giving the impression that you really care when you nod absentmindedly.

"Yeah, sure, it's fine."

You're clearly nervous, even more than Hongjoong would have guessed, and you're barely even talking to Minseok when he tries to make small talk in the car on the way to the hospital.

Hongjoong wants to do something to help but knows there's likely nothing he can do, so he does the only thing he can think of: look at the old group chat that's been blowing up all morning even if he silenced it before he went into the meeting with the director.

In all the stress of being back, your birthday has slipped his mind as well, and he's now reading through the insane number of ideas the boys have come across on their very apparent caffeine fueled research binge.

He vetoes San's suggestion of getting you a pony (apparently you'd mentioned riding on one once as a kid in a live) and Yeosang's idea of filling an entire moving box with scrunchies (surely that would be of a burden than a gift?) but that's about all he has the time for before you're pulling into the parking garage of the hospital, and Minseok announces your arrival. It's clear the man keeps talking to make you feel more comfortable, but what is unclear is if it's helping.

Hongjoong exits the car with you, not giving Minseok the option of asking him to stay. He knows the man would probably prefer him to stay out of the way, but the captain has spent too much time ignoring you and your issues.

He's not going to make the same mistake again.

The hospital is fairly calm, or as calm as a hospital can be around lunch time on a weekday.

Minseok goes to check you in at reception while you and Hongjoong hang back, letting the manager handle it.

"You okay?" Hongjoong asks as he watches you pick at your fingernails and bury your nose into the high collar of your sweater.

"I hate the smell." You mumble, eyes flitting around like you don't want to linger on anything for too long. "Bad memories."

You don't elaborate further, but Hongjoong knows enough about your family to have an idea what you're talking about.

"Do you want me to come in with you?" He asks before his brain can let him know it's a terrible idea.

"What?" You stare at him like he's just lost his mind. "Why would I want that?"

"I don't know," The idol shrugs, his ears red with embarrassment. "It was just a thought since you seem scared."

"I'm not scared." You glare at him, and he's weirdly grateful for the emotion you're affording him, even if the circumstances are far from ideal.

"Okay."

"I'm not."

"I believe you." He meets your eye, sincerity in his voice. "Just didn't want you to feel alone. That's all."

You don't respond to that, eyes leaving his to watch Minseok as he walks up to you, letting you know what floor you need to go to.

The conversation between you once again lulls to a stop, and Minseok takes over, making small talk and keeping your mind occupied while you wait for someone to come collect you. At some point though, the man excuses himself to the bathroom, leaving you alone with Hongjoong once again just as a nurse comes to call your name. 

It's clear to the captain that you're not ready to go in and even though he's no Minseok, he can see the way you're actually considering letting him into the appointment with you.

"You sure you're okay going alone?" He asks, the nurse kindly waiting while you hesitate.

You give him a nod, but you linger, watching him as your eyes start to turn glossy, and Hongjoong decides to take a chance and go for it.

"I'll be right here when you get back."

You swallow once, then twice, the lump in your throat refusing to go away as you watch your captain through blurry eyes.

"Yeah?" You whisper, feeling embarrassingly vulnerable, and you have to hold yourself back from reaching out for him in a desperate need for comfort.

"I promise." He says, and the sincerity on his face makes your heart aches. "I'm not leaving until you tell me to. If nothing else, trust that."

You're not ready for this. This man is not supposed to make you feel things, at least not good things, but your heart feels like it's about to burst out of your chest and you suppose the hospital is as good a place as any to have a heart attack.

"Thank you." You whisper, the fragile hope settling inside you, and you're wishing beyond everything that your captain won't squash it.

"Now go on, we'll be here when you're done." He smiles at you and you recognize the softness that he's previously only leveled at the boys, is now aimed straight at you.

You don't have the words to respond anymore, so you nod, hoping that your gratitude is clear even without them as you take a deep breath and follow the sweet nurse who's been more than patient with you.

Once you've turned the corner, Hongjoong lets out a breath he's been holding. He slumps back in his seat, allowing himself to relax for a moment with no eyes on him.

He's never been good at moving slowly and that's all too clear on this situation as well. He wants to be gentle and slow in the way he handles you and this whole situation, but the desire and the need to fix everything has a tendency to take over.

Clearly.

He knows he needs to slow down but finding out just how much you've suffered from him neglecting his duties as your captain makes that very difficult.

"Where's Chan-ssi?"

Minseok's voice startles him, and the younger man turns in his seat to face him.

"With the doctor."

"Alone?"

"I asked if she was okay with it."

A tense silence settles between the two men, Hongjoong not knowing what to say to not make things worse, and Minseok seemingly trying to remember that he is in fact working.

"I'll call your manager and ask him to pick you up." The older man continues once he's certain he can remain professional.

"Thank you, but I'm staying until she's ready to leave."

"With all due respect, Hongjoong-ssi," Minseok looks at him for a beat before making the choice to continue. "Why?"

"Why?"

"Why are you suddenly acting like you care about her?"

It's a rude thing to say and incredibly unprofessional despite his best efforts, but even though the words hurt, Hongjoong understands.

Minseok has been by your side since you first arrived in Korea by yourself at 19 years old. He's seen the things you've endured, witnessed some of the pain they as a group have put you through. How could he believe they’d be up to anything good?

"It's... Difficult to explain." Hongjoong says as Minseok moves to stand in front of him, looking down at him in his seat and making the captain feel like a child being scolded.

"Haven't you hurt her enough?" The words send a chill down Hongjoong's back, remembering the large man leaving the room in tears after the news broke that you were dead. "Don't give her hope where there is none."

"I understand you don't trust me." Hongjoong says meeting the man's eye, hoping that he's able to appear as sincere as he is. "I've never given you a reason to. I can tell you care about her a great deal, and that she trusts you."

The captain sighs, weighing his words carefully before he speaks again.

"I can't tell you much, but there have been things going on that goes beyond any of the petty shit we’ve put her through. I didn't know about it until yesterday, but I'm taking steps to fix it, hoping that it might help make up for at least some of the mistreatment I put her through."

"You're her captain, Hongjoong." Minseok drops the honorific and it smacks the younger in the face like he deserves. "She was your responsibility and you left her to fend for herself in a world she knew nothing about."

"I know." He says softly, his hands clutched tightly on his lap, his eyes dropping unable to remain on the manager.

Minseok watches the idol.

He's pretty good at reading people, it's a point of pride for him, and where he would normally read arrogance and dismissal, he now sees a young man wracked with guilt who looks like he hasn't slept in weeks.

He's not a big believer that people can change. He's been in the industry too long for that, but there is something different about Hongjoong that tickles his brain in a way he can't make sense of.

The captain he'd seen before would never have treated you to lunch. He would have asked to be dropped off for his own manager to come pick him up. He never would have asked you if you were okay with him coming to the hospital with you, or stayed behind once you were in the appointment.

He's not ready to give him the benefit of the doubt, but he can see that something has changed, even if he's not able to figure out what.

Minseok heaves a sigh and sits down beside the idol. He reminds him of his little boy when he knows he’s screwed up, and he makes sure they're alone before he speaks again.

"The thing you can't tell me about," He says, and Hongjoong glances up at him. "Does it have anything to do with Yi?"

"You know about that?" Hongjoong asks, the heavy guilt in his body making way for urgency as he shifts in his seat to properly face him.

"It's difficult not to." Minseok scoffs but continues. "She's notoriously harder on the women. Idol and staff alike. I try to step in when I see it, but she's good about doing it behind closed doors with no other managers present, so I usually find out about it after the fact."

"Have you reported her?"

Minseok's face sours slightly, a look of guilt settling in his eyes.

"Chan-ah won’t let me." He says, voice softer than Hongjoong has ever heard it. "She said she wouldn't be able to live with herself if I lost my job because of her."

"So you just... let it continue?"

"She begged me to let it go. For her sake and mine. Yi has deep connections in the industry, she's not above having someone blacklisted for speaking out about her."

"Has that happened before?" Hongjoong presses, realizing that this might just be bigger than what he and the director thought.

"I haven't seen it myself, but I have a friend at her old agency who knows a couple of staff members who stepped in and are now unable to find another job in the industry."

Minseok leans back in his seat and stares at the ceiling for a few moments.

Sometimes he wishes he wasn't so reliant on this job, that he could afford to lose it if it meant protecting someone he cares about. But be it cowardice or the need to provide for his family, he has chosen to follow your wishes and has stayed silent on the matter.

Until now.

"Would you be willing to tell the director?" Hongjoong asks, watching the older man flinch at his voice, like he's been deep in his thoughts.

"Chan-ah wouldn't want me to." He says but Hongjoong shakes his head.

"That's what this morning's meeting was about." He says, his eyes locked in Minseok's. "She told the director about it herself, even though she was scared of the consequences. You corroborating her story would help her far more than staying silent would."

"I'll have to discuss it with Chan-ah." Minseok sighs, imagining how to best broach the conversation with his wife too.

"I know you don't trust me," Hongjoong says, drawing the older man's attention back to him. "And you have every right not to, but I really am trying to do the right thing here."

And he doesn't know why, but Minseok does find himself starting to believe him.

"Look I'm just saying that a pony wouldn't be that much of an inconvenience, alright?"

"No!"

"San-ah, we've been over this 15 times already." Seonghwa groans from his place on the couch, his fingers never stopping their running through San's hair despite their disagreement.

"I still say stickers are the way to go." Mingi says.

"Just stickers in general? Why, because she's a girl?" Yunho teases making the younger roll his eyes.

"Of course not. Seonghwa-hyung plays with stickers all the time and he's not a girl."

"They're not stickers, they're decals and I don't play with Lego, I build them." Seonghwa grumbles but no one is interested in his explanation.

"Potato potato." Mingi shoots back, with chuckles following from the others.

"You know there's a simple way to find out what she likes." Wooyoung says, reaching for another honey butter chip from his seat on the floor. "Just go into her room and look around for stuff she seems to use."

"No!" Everyone groans, even more against the idea than they've been about San's attempted pony purchase.

"We won't violate her privacy like that." Yeosang shoots him a look, but Wooyoung just shakes his head with a scoff.

"No, instead we're going through every interview and live she's ever done like a bunch of creepy stalkers even though she's super private and reveals next to nothing about herself in any of them."

"It was your idea!" Mingi groans.

"Yeah, and now I'm saying it's a terrible idea. We haven't come up with shit."

"It's better than nothing." Jongho pipes up, the light from his laptop illuminating his face where he sits in the armchair.

"Snooping is better than nothing!"

"Alright, everyone calm down." Seonghwa gently scolds, not needing an actual fight to break out. "We've got some stuff, right? A new thermos mug-"

"Seeing as I broke her old one." Yunho explains.

"Right. So a new mug, a multipack of spicy ramen-"

"Buldak Hot Chicken from Samyang." San clarifies.

"Yes, that one." Seonghwa pets his head even though he'd like to keep going without any further interruptions. "Mug, ramen, nail polish as close to we can find in Yangchan's shade, a pair of sneakers, whatever the hell Tim Tams are, the hair mask she uses-"

"Yeah, cause snooping in the bathroom is a lot less creepy than going into her room." Wooyoung grumbles, still butt hurt that his suggestion had been shot down even though they’d all approved of his nail polish idea.

"Bedrooms are private, the bathrooms aren't." Yunho says as he reaches over to ruffle his hair.

"I'll remind you of that the next time you take a shower." Wooyoung grins back, his mood instantly flip-flopping at the mere notion of getting to be a menace. 

"Anyways," Seonghwa pointedly interrupts, San shifting on his lap at the change in tone. "We've got that and then a blanket since she always looks like she's freezing. Am I forgetting something?" 

"I still think my scrunchie idea was shot down too fast." Yeosang says and Seonghwa heaves a sigh, feeling his headache start to come back. 

"Fine, I'm going against Hongjoong and you can get her a scrunchie."

"How about a pack?" Yeosang continues like he's completely unaware of how lucky he is that Seonghwa is choosing to override the captain's decision.

"No more than five, are we clear?" The oldest sighs, so ready to be done with this conversation.

"Crystal!"

"Alright, everyone, do what you need to do, express order the stuff or go shopping. Just make sure you hide it when it gets here, so she doesn't see it when she comes home."

"Yes, hyung!" The group all but yells and Seonghwa is really in need of a nap as they all start leaving the living room to complete their missions.

"Hyung." Yunho says when they're the only ones left in the room and Seonghwa still hasn't gotten off the couch. "Why don't you get some rest, and I'll take care of the kids?"

"Are you sure?"

"Positive." The oldest of his children smiles down at him, even going so far as to pull a blanket over him to keep him from getting too cold. "I'll handle it. And I’ll find her a good blanket for you."

"You're the best, Yuyu." Seonghwa chuckles as he makes himself comfortable, preening under the care of his friend.

"Don't worry, I won't rub it in their faces." Yunho laughs, squeezing Seonghwa's shoulder before leaving the living room, allowing the oldest to drift away into sleep.

This freaking cold really is proving to be a stubborn one.

It's pure chaos that wakes the oldest a couple of hours later.

The sound volume of the dorm could wake the dead, and Seonghwa is surprised he's been able to sleep for as long as he has when it becomes clear that they guys have been back for a while.

The kitchen is absolute chaos. There’s wrapping paper, strings and ribbons and tape everywhere, and Mingi is currently having his finger bandaged by Yunho after cutting himself on a pair of scissors, while Jongho is trying to wrestle a glue gun out of Yeosang’s hands.

"Didn't I tell you to keep the stuff where she wouldn't see them?" Seonghwa sighs as he goes over to check on Mingi who's pouting up a storm.

"We texted hyung to let us know when they're leaving the hospital, so we have time to clean up." San says, eyes completely focused on his wrapping with his tongue poking out in concentration.

"You should have just gotten it gift wrapped at the store like I did, Sannie." Wooyoung says, dangling his feet where he's sitting on the kitchen counter, looking out over the chaos he for once isn’t the center of. "Save yourself the trouble."

"This makes it more personal." San pouts, waving a piece of tape at his friend who just chuckles in response.

"I'm sure she'll like it, hyung." Jongho is kind enough to offer before he’s immediately punished for his kindness, and has to duck out of the way of a hug.

"So do we have everything we decided on?" Seonghwa asks, looking over the presents halfway buried under scrap paper.

"Yes, we found everything, but decided to give her a gift card for the shoes so she can get what she wants." Yunho says making his hyung nod.

"Hongjoong-hyung said he's preparing a gift on his end too so he's good to go." Mingi says as he helps Yeosang to hold the ribbon in place while the older ties it, having finally been defeated in the battle of the glue gun.

"Perfect." Seonghwa says with a smile, curious about what the captain is planning for himself. "Thank you for getting it all done. I really appreciate it."

"You've got it, hyung." Wooyoung says.

"Yeah, we were happy to help." San continues all giddy, and the oldest can't help but grin at him.

"Alright, let's finish up here before they come home, and we'll see what we can do for lunch."

Chapter 7 Chapter 9

Taglist

The way you’d always turn down anything where you might have to spend money. Your entire wardrobe consisting of clothes and accessories you'd been given after shoots and promotions, keeping things until they were literally falling apart at the seams no matter how much shit you got for it. He seems to remember telling you once or twice that you were an idol and to act like one when the state of your dress had been brought up one time too many.

Also, the fact that you eat as little as you do and you've only barely been able to cover those expenses. And seeing as none of them had shared their food with you unless they had to, it shouldn't come as a surprise that you ate what you were allowed to and nothing else.

"Are you okay?" He asks, glancing over at you when the elevator doors close and you're alone for thew first time all morning.

"I guess." You say but he's not convinced given the vacant look in your eyes as you stare straight ahead. "Would kill for a nap but other than that I'm fine."

"Understandable." He nods, turning his eyes to the doors when they open on the ground floor, and he lets you walk out first. "Have you had breakfast yet?"

He takes note of the immediate tension in you at the question, and the worry about how severe the restriction has become returns to his mind.

"Too nervous to eat." You mumble but you're not blowing him off, which he chooses to see as a good sign.

"I haven't had anything either." He says lightly, moving so he's walking next to you instead of trailing behind you. "We could get something light before we head back home. My treat."

"Hongjoong-ssi-"

"I'm not trying to be pushy," The captain interrupts you. "But even the diet has you eating some kind of breakfast, so it won't be that much of a difference, will it?"

You can't fault his logic, but even though your stomach is screaming to accept his offer, you find yourself hesitating.

You look over to Minseok who's waiting for you at the entrance, a smile blooming on his face when he sees you walking towards him.

Eating would make him happy.

"Alright." You say, glancing at Hongjoong who looks a little surprised at how easily you’ve accepted. "But nothing too heavy or fried."

"You got it."

"How did it go?"  Minseok asks once you're in front of him, and you don't think you're hallucinating when you catch him giving the captain a look before he quickly schools his features into something more professional.

"Better than feared." You say, giving him a smile and a pat on the arm. "We're thinking of getting something to eat."

"Really?" Your manager looks between you, the shock on his face clear for all to see.

"He's persuasive." You say with a shrug, a little smile on your lips at managing to surprise your protector. "You want to give us a ride?"

"I can ask my manager if you're busy, Lee-ssi." Hongjoong offers but Minseok shuts him down, politely but immediately.

"This is my job, Hongjoong-ssi, I'm more than happy to take you where you need to go."

"Great, let's go." You pat Minseok's arm one last time, choosing to ignore the way the two men look at each other as you walk past them out to where you know the car is parked.

Hongjoong watches you walk away with an air of confidence he hasn't seen from you before, wearing a smile that, however small, could rival sunshine itself, and he's in awe.

The timid girl he thought he knew has lit up simply by being near her manager, even touching him in a way that you never would have dreamed of doing with anyone of them.

He wants to marvel further, but he finally catches onto the way Minseok is watching him, and it's like he's been dunked in ice water.

At first glance, the older man's face is neutral, polite even, but looking closer there is something darker beneath that, that has Hongjoong instinctively straightening up.

He's never really interacted with the man. He always stayed close to you which meant that he was away from the group in general, but he remembers him breaking down at the news of your death, and then leaving the company shortly after.

Even without knowing all this, it's clear he cares for you.

Hongjoong has no idea what you've been saying about it to him, but even if you'd said nothing at all, it's obvious that those eyes have seen more than he’ll ever admit.

There's resentment in them, as well as apprehension, but disguised well enough that you wouldn't notice it at a first glance.

"Shall we?" Minseok says, a big hand motioning to the door you walked out of, and Hongjoong swallows nervously imagining how much power would be in a punch from it.

The man practically melts around you when you're all in the car heading towards the restaurant you've decided on. His eyes are soft, voice calm and kind, and by the time you reach the restaurant, Hongjoong is certain the man would lift heaven and earth for you if you ever asked him to.

"You hate vegetables." You deadpan when the bossam arrives to the table, staring straight at Hongjoong like he hasn’t just done something completely out of character.

"I know this isn't easy for you so I figured I should challenge myself too." He shrugs, gesturing for Minseok to start since he's the oldest at the table, and you will give him credit for not ignoring the man just because he's staff.

Granted, you've never seen Hongjoong treat staff with anything other than respect, but Minseok is connected to you, so there's been no way of knowing if the dislike extended that far and he was guilty by association. Apparently not.

The pork belly, no matter how amazing it smells, wouldn't have been your first choice but with enough lettuce you might just be able to fool yourself into thinking the meat's leaner than it is. It all tastes incredible and you're even getting a show when Hongjoong is trying to not make a face whenever he bites down on the crunchy lettuce, and something in you softens a little at the sight.

Normally he wouldn't have put himself in a situation where he'd be uncomfortable to make things easier for you, and there's a heat rushing to your face when you think about just how decently he's treated you these last few days. You're not even able to lie to yourself, it feels really good.

Minseok is still watching the younger man like a hawk, just waiting for this new facade to slip but so far Hongjoong seems to be behaving. Your manager may be the sweetest, most caring man alive, but he looks terrifying enough that it's impossible to tell, keeping the captain on his best behavior. There's a reason people tend to confuse him for your security after all. 

The ringing of a phone cuts though the silence between you, and Minseok takes one look at the caller ID before he gets out of his seat.

"Keep eating, I'll be right back." He says as he looks at you, waiting for your nod before he leaves the table, greeting whoever is on the other end as he moves outside.

"He doesn't like me very much." Hongjoong comments as he watches the man exit the restaurant.

"He doesn't trust you." You shrug as you continue wrapping several layers of lettuce around a single piece of pork. "There's a difference."

"Is there?" Hongjoong asks, sipping his drink as he watches you nod.

"There are plenty of people I like but don't trust." You say before putting the whole thing in your mouth, politely covering your mouth while you chew.

"Yeah? Got any examples?" You still for a moment, looking at him like you're considering just how open you're willing to be.

"You." You say, looking straight at him in a show of rare confidence. "All of you. I've never disliked you, Hongjoong-ssi. I see the way you interact with other people, bad people couldn't fake it as long as you’ve been doing this. It just so happens that you dislike me, and I don't trust any of you because of it. But there are parts of you that I do like, no matter how much of a fool that makes me."

"I’m sorry."

"You've said that. And no offense but words are pretty meaningless at this point. They might make you seem nice, but they're cheap. It's easier to apologize than to actually change."

"Right." Hongjoong does his best not to sigh aloud, nodding as he fiddles with the lettuce on his plate. "We want to change though, all of us, even though we know it might be too late."

"It's never too late." You whisper under your breath, almost like you don’t expect him to hear you, but he does, and he's about to respond when Minseok comes back to the table, effectively cutting him off.

"I'm sorry to have to cut this short but the director managed to find a doctor who was able to squeeze you in on short notice so we're going to have to leave now if we want to make it."

"Now?" You say, staring up at the manager like he just gave you the worst news possible. "I thought... I wasn't expecting it to be today."

"I'm pretty sure the director pulled some strings." He says, gently ushering you out of your seat while he looks at Hongjoong. "We can call your manager at the hospital to get him to come pick you up unless you want to stay here and finish the meal."

"No, that's alright, I'll come if Chan-ah's okay with it." Hongjoong looks to you to either agree or disagree, but you're not giving the impression that you really care when you nod absentmindedly.

"Yeah, sure, it's fine."

You're clearly nervous, even more than Hongjoong would have guessed, and you're barely even talking to Minseok when he tries to make small talk in the car on the way to the hospital.

Hongjoong wants to do something to help but knows there's likely nothing he can do, so he does the only thing he can think of: look at the old group chat that's been blowing up all morning even if he silenced it before he went into the meeting with the director.

In all the stress of being back, your birthday has slipped his mind as well, and he's now reading through the insane number of ideas the boys have come across on their very apparent caffeine fueled research binge.

He vetoes San's suggestion of getting you a pony (apparently you'd mentioned riding on one once as a kid in a live) and Yeosang's idea of filling an entire moving box with scrunchies (surely that would be of a burden than a gift?) but that's about all he has the time for before you're pulling into the parking garage of the hospital, and Minseok announces your arrival. It's clear the man keeps talking to make you feel more comfortable, but what is unclear is if it's helping.

Hongjoong exits the car with you, not giving Minseok the option of asking him to stay. He knows the man would probably prefer him to stay out of the way, but the captain has spent too much time ignoring you and your issues.

He's not going to make the same mistake again.

The hospital is fairly calm, or as calm as a hospital can be around lunch time on a weekday.

Minseok goes to check you in at reception while you and Hongjoong hang back, letting the manager handle it.

"You okay?" Hongjoong asks as he watches you pick at your fingernails and bury your nose into the high collar of your sweater.

"I hate the smell." You mumble, eyes flitting around like you don't want to linger on anything for too long. "Bad memories."

You don't elaborate further, but Hongjoong knows enough about your family to have an idea what you're talking about.

"Do you want me to come in with you?" He asks before his brain can let him know it's a terrible idea.

"What?" You stare at him like he's just lost his mind. "Why would I want that?"

"I don't know," The idol shrugs, his ears red with embarrassment. "It was just a thought since you seem scared."

"I'm not scared." You glare at him, and he's weirdly grateful for the emotion you're affording him, even if the circumstances are far from ideal.

"Okay."

"I'm not."

"I believe you." He meets your eye, sincerity in his voice. "Just didn't want you to feel alone. That's all."

You don't respond to that, eyes leaving his to watch Minseok as he walks up to you, letting you know what floor you need to go to.

The conversation between you once again lulls to a stop, and Minseok takes over, making small talk and keeping your mind occupied while you wait for someone to come collect you. At some point though, the man excuses himself to the bathroom, leaving you alone with Hongjoong once again just as a nurse comes to call your name. 

It's clear to the captain that you're not ready to go in and even though he's no Minseok, he can see the way you're actually considering letting him into the appointment with you.

"You sure you're okay going alone?" He asks, the nurse kindly waiting while you hesitate.

You give him a nod, but you linger, watching him as your eyes start to turn glossy, and Hongjoong decides to take a chance and go for it.

"I'll be right here when you get back."

You swallow once, then twice, the lump in your throat refusing to go away as you watch your captain through blurry eyes.

"Yeah?" You whisper, feeling embarrassingly vulnerable, and you have to hold yourself back from reaching out for him in a desperate need for comfort.

"I promise." He says, and the sincerity on his face makes your heart aches. "I'm not leaving until you tell me to. If nothing else, trust that."

You're not ready for this. This man is not supposed to make you feel things, at least not good things, but your heart feels like it's about to burst out of your chest and you suppose the hospital is as good a place as any to have a heart attack.

"Thank you." You whisper, the fragile hope settling inside you, and you're wishing beyond everything that your captain won't squash it.

"Now go on, we'll be here when you're done." He smiles at you and you recognize the softness that he's previously only leveled at the boys, is now aimed straight at you.

You don't have the words to respond anymore, so you nod, hoping that your gratitude is clear even without them as you take a deep breath and follow the sweet nurse who's been more than patient with you.

Once you've turned the corner, Hongjoong lets out a breath he's been holding. He slumps back in his seat, allowing himself to relax for a moment with no eyes on him.

He's never been good at moving slowly and that's all too clear on this situation as well. He wants to be gentle and slow in the way he handles you and this whole situation, but the desire and the need to fix everything has a tendency to take over.

Clearly.

He knows he needs to slow down but finding out just how much you've suffered from him neglecting his duties as your captain makes that very difficult.

"Where's Chan-ssi?"

Minseok's voice startles him, and the younger man turns in his seat to face him.

"With the doctor."

"Alone?"

"I asked if she was okay with it."

A tense silence settles between the two men, Hongjoong not knowing what to say to not make things worse, and Minseok seemingly trying to remember that he is in fact working.

"I'll call your manager and ask him to pick you up." The older man continues once he's certain he can remain professional.

"Thank you, but I'm staying until she's ready to leave."

"With all due respect, Hongjoong-ssi," Minseok looks at him for a beat before making the choice to continue. "Why?"

"Why?"

"Why are you suddenly acting like you care about her?"

It's a rude thing to say and incredibly unprofessional despite his best efforts, but even though the words hurt, Hongjoong understands.

Minseok has been by your side since you first arrived in Korea by yourself at 19 years old. He's seen the things you've endured, witnessed some of the pain they as a group have put you through. How could he believe they’d be up to anything good?

"It's... Difficult to explain." Hongjoong says as Minseok moves to stand in front of him, looking down at him in his seat and making the captain feel like a child being scolded.

"Haven't you hurt her enough?" The words send a chill down Hongjoong's back, remembering the large man leaving the room in tears after the news broke that you were dead. "Don't give her hope where there is none."

"I understand you don't trust me." Hongjoong says meeting the man's eye, hoping that he's able to appear as sincere as he is. "I've never given you a reason to. I can tell you care about her a great deal, and that she trusts you."

The captain sighs, weighing his words carefully before he speaks again.

"I can't tell you much, but there have been things going on that goes beyond any of the petty shit we’ve put her through. I didn't know about it until yesterday, but I'm taking steps to fix it, hoping that it might help make up for at least some of the mistreatment I put her through."

"You're her captain, Hongjoong." Minseok drops the honorific and it smacks the younger in the face like he deserves. "She was your responsibility and you left her to fend for herself in a world she knew nothing about."

"I know." He says softly, his hands clutched tightly on his lap, his eyes dropping unable to remain on the manager.

Minseok watches the idol.

He's pretty good at reading people, it's a point of pride for him, and where he would normally read arrogance and dismissal, he now sees a young man wracked with guilt who looks like he hasn't slept in weeks.

He's not a big believer that people can change. He's been in the industry too long for that, but there is something different about Hongjoong that tickles his brain in a way he can't make sense of.

The captain he'd seen before would never have treated you to lunch. He would have asked to be dropped off for his own manager to come pick him up. He never would have asked you if you were okay with him coming to the hospital with you, or stayed behind once you were in the appointment.

He's not ready to give him the benefit of the doubt, but he can see that something has changed, even if he's not able to figure out what.

Minseok heaves a sigh and sits down beside the idol. He reminds him of his little boy when he knows he’s screwed up, and he makes sure they're alone before he speaks again.

"The thing you can't tell me about," He says, and Hongjoong glances up at him. "Does it have anything to do with Yi?"

"You know about that?" Hongjoong asks, the heavy guilt in his body making way for urgency as he shifts in his seat to properly face him.

"It's difficult not to." Minseok scoffs but continues. "She's notoriously harder on the women. Idol and staff alike. I try to step in when I see it, but she's good about doing it behind closed doors with no other managers present, so I usually find out about it after the fact."

"Have you reported her?"

Minseok's face sours slightly, a look of guilt settling in his eyes.

"Chan-ah won’t let me." He says, voice softer than Hongjoong has ever heard it. "She said she wouldn't be able to live with herself if I lost my job because of her."

"So you just... let it continue?"

"She begged me to let it go. For her sake and mine. Yi has deep connections in the industry, she's not above having someone blacklisted for speaking out about her."

"Has that happened before?" Hongjoong presses, realizing that this might just be bigger than what he and the director thought.

"I haven't seen it myself, but I have a friend at her old agency who knows a couple of staff members who stepped in and are now unable to find another job in the industry."

Minseok leans back in his seat and stares at the ceiling for a few moments.

Sometimes he wishes he wasn't so reliant on this job, that he could afford to lose it if it meant protecting someone he cares about. But be it cowardice or the need to provide for his family, he has chosen to follow your wishes and has stayed silent on the matter.

Until now.

"Would you be willing to tell the director?" Hongjoong asks, watching the older man flinch at his voice, like he's been deep in his thoughts.

"Chan-ah wouldn't want me to." He says but Hongjoong shakes his head.

"That's what this morning's meeting was about." He says, his eyes locked in Minseok's. "She told the director about it herself, even though she was scared of the consequences. You corroborating her story would help her far more than staying silent would."

"I'll have to discuss it with Chan-ah." Minseok sighs, imagining how to best broach the conversation with his wife too.

"I know you don't trust me," Hongjoong says, drawing the older man's attention back to him. "And you have every right not to, but I really am trying to do the right thing here."

And he doesn't know why, but Minseok does find himself starting to believe him.

"Look I'm just saying that a pony wouldn't be that much of an inconvenience, alright?"

"No!"

"San-ah, we've been over this 15 times already." Seonghwa groans from his place on the couch, his fingers never stopping their running through San's hair despite their disagreement.

"I still say stickers are the way to go." Mingi says.

"Just stickers in general? Why, because she's a girl?" Yunho teases making the younger roll his eyes.

"Of course not. Seonghwa-hyung plays with stickers all the time and he's not a girl."

"They're not stickers, they're decals and I don't play with Lego, I build them." Seonghwa grumbles but no one is interested in his explanation.

"Potato potato." Mingi shoots back, with chuckles following from the others.

"You know there's a simple way to find out what she likes." Wooyoung says, reaching for another honey butter chip from his seat on the floor. "Just go into her room and look around for stuff she seems to use."

"No!" Everyone groans, even more against the idea than they've been about San's attempted pony purchase.

"We won't violate her privacy like that." Yeosang shoots him a look, but Wooyoung just shakes his head with a scoff.

"No, instead we're going through every interview and live she's ever done like a bunch of creepy stalkers even though she's super private and reveals next to nothing about herself in any of them."

"It was your idea!" Mingi groans.

"Yeah, and now I'm saying it's a terrible idea. We haven't come up with shit."

"It's better than nothing." Jongho pipes up, the light from his laptop illuminating his face where he sits in the armchair.

"Snooping is better than nothing!"

"Alright, everyone calm down." Seonghwa gently scolds, not needing an actual fight to break out. "We've got some stuff, right? A new thermos mug-"

"Seeing as I broke her old one." Yunho explains.

"Right. So a new mug, a multipack of spicy ramen-"

"Buldak Hot Chicken from Samyang." San clarifies.

"Yes, that one." Seonghwa pets his head even though he'd like to keep going without any further interruptions. "Mug, ramen, nail polish as close to we can find in Yangchan's shade, a pair of sneakers, whatever the hell Tim Tams are, the hair mask she uses-"

"Yeah, cause snooping in the bathroom is a lot less creepy than going into her room." Wooyoung grumbles, still butt hurt that his suggestion had been shot down even though they’d all approved of his nail polish idea.

"Bedrooms are private, the bathrooms aren't." Yunho says as he reaches over to ruffle his hair.

"I'll remind you of that the next time you take a shower." Wooyoung grins back, his mood instantly flip-flopping at the mere notion of getting to be a menace. 

"Anyways," Seonghwa pointedly interrupts, San shifting on his lap at the change in tone. "We've got that and then a blanket since she always looks like she's freezing. Am I forgetting something?" 

"I still think my scrunchie idea was shot down too fast." Yeosang says and Seonghwa heaves a sigh, feeling his headache start to come back. 

"Fine, I'm going against Hongjoong and you can get her a scrunchie."

"How about a pack?" Yeosang continues like he's completely unaware of how lucky he is that Seonghwa is choosing to override the captain's decision.

"No more than five, are we clear?" The oldest sighs, so ready to be done with this conversation.

"Crystal!"

"Alright, everyone, do what you need to do, express order the stuff or go shopping. Just make sure you hide it when it gets here, so she doesn't see it when she comes home."

"Yes, hyung!" The group all but yells and Seonghwa is really in need of a nap as they all start leaving the living room to complete their missions.

"Hyung." Yunho says when they're the only ones left in the room and Seonghwa still hasn't gotten off the couch. "Why don't you get some rest, and I'll take care of the kids?"

"Are you sure?"

"Positive." The oldest of his children smiles down at him, even going so far as to pull a blanket over him to keep him from getting too cold. "I'll handle it. And I’ll find her a good blanket for you."

"You're the best, Yuyu." Seonghwa chuckles as he makes himself comfortable, preening under the care of his friend.

"Don't worry, I won't rub it in their faces." Yunho laughs, squeezing Seonghwa's shoulder before leaving the living room, allowing the oldest to drift away into sleep.

This freaking cold really is proving to be a stubborn one.

It's pure chaos that wakes the oldest a couple of hours later.

The sound volume of the dorm could wake the dead, and Seonghwa is surprised he's been able to sleep for as long as he has when it becomes clear that they guys have been back for a while.

The kitchen is absolute chaos. There’s wrapping paper, strings and ribbons and tape everywhere, and Mingi is currently having his finger bandaged by Yunho after cutting himself on a pair of scissors, while Jongho is trying to wrestle a glue gun out of Yeosang’s hands.

"Didn't I tell you to keep the stuff where she wouldn't see them?" Seonghwa sighs as he goes over to check on Mingi who's pouting up a storm.

"We texted hyung to let us know when they're leaving the hospital, so we have time to clean up." San says, eyes completely focused on his wrapping with his tongue poking out in concentration.

"You should have just gotten it gift wrapped at the store like I did, Sannie." Wooyoung says, dangling his feet where he's sitting on the kitchen counter, looking out over the chaos he for once isn’t the center of. "Save yourself the trouble."

"This makes it more personal." San pouts, waving a piece of tape at his friend who just chuckles in response.

"I'm sure she'll like it, hyung." Jongho is kind enough to offer before he’s immediately punished for his kindness, and has to duck out of the way of a hug.

"So do we have everything we decided on?" Seonghwa asks, looking over the presents halfway buried under scrap paper.

"Yes, we found everything, but decided to give her a gift card for the shoes so she can get what she wants." Yunho says making his hyung nod.

"Hongjoong-hyung said he's preparing a gift on his end too so he's good to go." Mingi says as he helps Yeosang to hold the ribbon in place while the older ties it, having finally been defeated in the battle of the glue gun.

"Perfect." Seonghwa says with a smile, curious about what the captain is planning for himself. "Thank you for getting it all done. I really appreciate it."

"You've got it, hyung." Wooyoung says.

"Yeah, we were happy to help." San continues all giddy, and the oldest can't help but grin at him.

"Alright, let's finish up here before they come home, and we'll see what we can do for lunch."

Chapter 7 Chapter 9

Taglist

He looks like he hasn't slept well, dark circles under his eyes that match your own, moving like a zombie, but you don't ask him any questions.

He hasn't been mean to you since he came back from Tokyo and you've quite enjoyed it so in an attempt to stay on whatever good side it's possible for you to stay on, you keep quiet and out of his way as much as possible.

He's not making it easy, though. He's used to taking up space in the kitchen and even half-asleep that habit persists, so you do your best to stick to filling up the kettle and preparing your tea.

You sigh when you realize you're about to run out of tea bags. Doing the calculations in your head you’re trying to see if you can afford to buy another box today or if you're going to have to wait until your quarterly payments come in, when San comes stumbling into the kitchen.

He looks about as well-rested as Wooyoung, and you're a little surprised that he’s able to keep himself upright and walking around, even if he does resemble a baby deer.

"Why did you leave, Young-ah?" He pouts, finding his way over to his soulmate to attach himself to his back, and as always, you feel like you're intruding just from being around them.

"Couldn't sleep." Wooyoung says, gently touching his head to San's before he goes back to breakfast. "Didn't want to wake you."

"Such a meanie." San huffs, looking over at you when he seems to realize you're in the room with them. "Right, Chan-ah? Isn't he a meanie?"

You stare at him like he's lost his mind. You know he doesn't really care about you, but why would he throw you to the wolf just like that?

"You don't have to answer that, Chan-ah." Yunho's voice carries from the hallway as he joins you, sporting a bedhead that any bird would be excited to call their nest. "There is no good answer."

"I can be nice." Wooyoung huffs, but he doesn't look at you when he says this, and you get it.

He can be nice. To people he cares about.

You're just not one of them.

"You got a new mug?" Yunho asks, staring at the green and white thermos mug sitting on the counter, waiting to be filled. "I said I was going to buy you a new one."

"It's part of my birthday merch drop," You mumble, afraid of making too much noise as you fidget with the tea bag. "They gave me the tester, so I replaced the old one."

"Birthday drop?" San's eyes find you before they drop to the mug where Yangchan is doing a variety of cute yoga poses in athletic wear and a headband in lieu of her usual bow.

"Yeah, they drop tomorrow." You shrug as if announcing that your birthday is tomorrow is no big deal. "Should be fun."

"Right." San says, looking between you and the guys as he's trying to figure out what to say. "Your birthday. Fun."

"I think what San's trying to ask is if you have any plans for your birthday." Yunho helpfully supplies to which San nods, and even Wooyoung is looking at you like he's waiting to hear your answer.

"Call my brother mostly." You say, feeling your phone vibrate in your pocket and it’s with an apology that you get it out to read the message from your manager.

"No other plans?" Yunho continues, sharing a look with Wooyoung.

"Not really." You mumble, the color draining from your face as you read the message a second time.

"Everything okay?" San asks, head lifting from where it's been resting against Wooyoung's shoulder.

"I have a meeting." You mumble as you check the time to see how long you have before your manager picks you up.

"Well, don’t sound too excited about it." Wooyoung tries for a joke, his words definitely not the best chosen ones as they all notice you stiffen and watch you school your features into the usual mask of empty pleasantness.

"My bad. Enjoy your breakfast."

And like that you leave the kitchen, heading to get yourself ready for what might just be the scariest meeting of your career.

"Nice going, dude." San sighs, detaching himself from Wooyoung to go grab himself a glass of water.

"It's not my fault she misinterprets everything I say."

"Wooyoung." Yunho's voice is cold and it makes both men shiver. "It very much is your fault, don't blame that on her."

Wooyoung has the decency to look ashamed, and his ears are turning red from the way both his friends are staring at him.

"I know, alright? I should have just kept my mouth shut."

"Why didn't you?" San continues and for the first time in a long time Yunho can feel tension between the two of them.

"Old habits." Wooyoung shrugs, refusing to meet anyone's eye as he keeps working on breakfast. "Nightmares putting me in a mood."

"You can't take it out on her though." Yunho sighs, seeing the frustration in his friend.

"I know. I wasn't even trying to. Just wanted to be part of the conversation and the wrong thing came out. Honest."

"Think it's the meeting with the boss that hyung talked about?" San asks, wrapping an arm around Wooyoung's waist again in a silent sign of comfort.

"I assume so. It sounded like he wanted to speak with her as soon as possible, so it makes sense." Yunho says, watching as the physical touch relaxes the youngest again.

"So, about her birthday," San says in a lowered voice, looking down the hallway to make sure you're not within earshot. "We're definitely doing something, right?"

"You think she'd want that?" Wooyoung asks, not unkindly but rather skeptical. "She only tolerates like three of us."

"And this is our chance to get into her good graces." San argues with his usual pout. "As long as we don't make it too overwhelming, I think it would work."

"There's a problem though." Yunho says, also looking over his shoulder to make sure you're still in your room getting ready. "We don't know what she likes."

"It can't be that hard to find out." Wooyoung scoffs, looking over at him like it wouldn't even be a challenge. "We've done tons of interviews. She must have mentioned stuff in some of them."

"Are you suggesting we go through social media coverage to find out her likes and dislikes?" Yunho stares at him but the younger just shrugs.

"There are hundreds of fan guides and wikis on us, I'm sure the Yangies have made posts with her favorite things."

It's actually a pretty good point, and Yunho can feel the cogs in his head turning.

"That might actually work. Provided she's told the truth and not just what people want to hear or what the company wants her to say."

"Come on, dude, it was just a suggestion. I can't do all the thinking here." Wooyoung whines which has San laughing.

"Yeah, Yunho-yah, he'll hurt himself."

"I'm guessing you don't want breakfast after all." Wooyoung says, dramatically pushing San off who instantly attaches himself to Yunho instead.

"So mean." He pouts, snuggling into Yunho who's not above hugging him close. "So, we're going on a research binge today?"

"Looks like it." Yunho chuckles, as he brings a hand up to pet San's hair. "Think we'll be able to rope the others into it?"

"Rope who into what?" Jongho asks, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he walks into the kitchen, his hair all askew.

"We're going to try to figure out what Chan-ah-" San looks over his shoulder again to make sure you're still in your room before he continues in a hushed tone. "What Chan-ah likes so we can surprise her for her birthday tomorrow."

"You want to join?" Yunho asks and even Wooyoung looks over at the former maknae in spite of his own bad mood.

"Sure. Shouldn't be too difficult." Jongho says with a nod. "What's for breakfast?"

If you had eaten breakfast, you would have thrown up in the backseat of the car as it rolls out of the parking lot.

Your manager, Mr Lee Minseok, had greeted you like he always did with a sweet smile before taking your gym bag so you didn't have to carry it yourself, before he'd led you out to the car.

He's making small talk with you as he drives, doing his best to put you at ease even though he most likely has no idea what the meeting you're about to walk into is about.

He knows you're nervous though, and that's all he cares about, even putting on your favorite playlist to help you breathe a little easier.

He's such a good man that you sometimes feel bad for the shit he has to go through because of you, and you usually do your best to make things easier for him if you're able. But today you're not in the right headspace to be accommodating.

You know Hongjoong said he'd be at the meeting, but for all you know, it might just end with you having to leave the company all together with his blessing.

In a way it might be for the best, but you would prefer to leave on your own terms and not kicked out for causing too many problems.

Not to mention the debt.

"There's still time to pick up something to eat." Minseok says, looking back at you through the rear-view mirror. "Would you like to make a stop?"

"No."

You know you're being rude and taking your nerves out on the poor man, but everyone needs to seriously stop telling you to eat.

You can see his face fall in the mirror and the guilt makes you even more nauseous.

"I'm sorry, Minseok." You sigh, using the name he asked you to call him when he met you at Incheon International for the first time. "I know you're just looking out for me."

"It's alright," Your protector and the closest thing you have to a friend says, giving you a far too understanding smile back. "I shouldn't have pushed."

You want to tell him it's okay, that you're just overreacting and being a bitch for no reason, but the fear of what's waiting for you at the company makes you unable to focus on anything else.

For all you know, this could be the last time you're allowed to enter KQ, and it's scaring the fuck out of you.

"Director Kim is expecting you, go right on in." The secretary smiles at you from behind her desk and it's taking everything in you not to run straight out the door.

You've only met the man a couple of times, but he's been nothing but kind to you when you have, and you know the guys all love him.

And yet, despite this, you always feel like you're going to be sick whenever you see him. You don't know if it's because he's the CEO of the company, you worry that the others will think you're sucking up to him, or because you're terrified of accidentally being disrespectful towards him and offending the man.

You may have grown up with the language, but the heavy emphasis on hierarchy and customs surrounding respect was something you'd had to learn when you arrived in the country.

You make sure your phone is on do not disturb and take a deep breath before you knock on the door, only entering once you hear the order to come in.

Hongjoong is already inside waiting, and Mr Kim stands up to greet you, giving you a polite yet gentle smile that you feel wholly undeserving of when he gestures for you to take a seat after you've given him a proper bow.

You’re at one end of the table with Hongjoong is seated to your left, the director right across from you at the other end, but the way your captain has pushed his chair back a bit makes it clear that he's not the focus of the meeting.

He gives you a nod that you suppose could be seen as encouraging, and you're so desperate for support that you choose to take it as such.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice, Chan-ssi." The director says, his hands folded in front of him on the table as he speaks. "Hongjoong has brought some things to my attention that I felt couldn’t wait, I believe you're aware of what these things are?"

"Yes, sir." You say, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady and your eyes on him. "We talked about it yesterday."

"That's good, but you don't have to call me sir. We're a bit more informal here usually."

"I understand," You say, clenching your hands so hard underneath the table you're afraid you're going to break something. "It just makes me feel comfortable, but I can stop if you'd prefer."

"No, no, that won't be necessary." Mr Kim laughs, easing the mood of the office a little. "As long as you're comfortable that's all that matters."

What a novel opinion.

"Thank you, sir." You say, trying not to mumble but only partially succeeding.

"Right. So, from what I understand there has been some concern about you being put on a diet, is that correct?"

You can't help but glance Hongjoong's way, feeling the need to make sure you're not saying something he doesn't approve of, but he doesn't give you anything, so you're forced to answer on your own.

"Yes, sir."

"Can you tell me little bit about it? Who first approached you about it?"

You had known the question was going to come, but you don't know what Hongjoong has already said and it’s stressing you out.

"I…" You can almost feel her presence in the room, and you look towards the door, as if she's waiting on the other side of it, ready to barge in as soon as you mention her name.

"It's alright." Mr Kim says, his calm steady eyes watching you as you turn back to face him. "Miss Choi has strict orders to not let anyone past her desk as long as this meeting is in session."

You look to your captain again and this time he does look back. He softly nods for you to go on, and as frightened as you are to get the ball rolling, you find yourself opening your mouth.

"Head manager Yi. Sir."

The words are quiet but they're there and you can't take them back.

"Do you remember when she first approached you about it?" The director asks as if the name doesn't surprise him but if it's because Hongjoong has already told him, or he just has a very good poker face is impossible for you to know.

"About a week after I got here." You mumble, the memory bitter as it plays in your mind. "She said she had some advice for me if I wanted to succeed and then told me that if I wanted to become a proper idol I needed to 'lose the flab'. She gave me some tips and a box of tea she said would help me. I thought it was a bit weird and rude, but I knew it was a tough industry, and I wasn't exactly model thin, so I listened to her. And it's just gotten more extreme since then."

It’s hard for you to remember those days, back when you were so excited to get to live your dream only to be immediately thrown into the deep end and told to learn to swim or drown.

"I see." Mr Kim says, and you can't tell what he feels about the situation. "Do you feel comfortable telling me what you normally eat in a day right now?"

Your heart is hammering away in your chest, the shame so ingrained in you by now that you just want to run away but that's no longer an option.

The die has been cast, and all you can do now is see it through to the end, no matter the cost.

"A protein shake and a cup of the tea for breakfast, an apple for lunch, and a sweet potato for dinner."

"That's it?" Hongjoong asks and you watch the director's eyes flit to him before they settle back on you.

"Sometimes an iced coffee if someone's making a run. But other than that, yes." You say as your face burns and your hands hurt from how tight you're clutching them.

"Is the food the only thing you've been told to change?" The director continues, and you know what he's referring to without needing to ask for clarification.

"Two workouts every day in addition to dance practice. She always seemed to know if I skip a day, so I've tried to be good about it."

You know the wording isn't the best, but it is the way you think so why not just say it?

"How long has it been that extreme? Both the food and exercise, do you know?"

"A couple of weeks maybe." You shrug, your memory has been pretty hazy for a while which you suppose isn't really surprising considering everything. "She was really upset when we came back from tour, and I hadn't lost enough weight, so she doubled down. I tried telling her that I hadn't been able to stick to the diet because it affected my performance too much, but she wouldn't hear it."

"I see." Mr Kim says with a sigh and your eyes burn, unable to stop feeling like you've been unable to live up to what he hired you for. "Has it been only head manager Yi doing this or have there been others?"

Again, you hesitate.

You have no love for the people who have made your time at the company hell, but you assume they've just been doing what they're told, and you don't want to be the one to get them in trouble. On the other hand…

"Some members of staff have been enforcing it." You mumble, unclutching your hands to pick at your nails as the anxiety settles fully in your chest. "Some of them scolded me personally, others just relayed the information to her. There were team dinners that I was told to not attend, and if I did, I was watched the entire time to make sure I didn't overindulge."

"Has it always been this extreme?" Mr Kim asks, watching you closely in a way that has you sweating bullets.

"No. Like I said, it got worse after the last tour, but the pressure has always been there."

"What would happen if you didn’t stick to the diet and exercise plan?"

You don't want to answer this one, and you're so close to walking out of the room, but you know there’s no point now. You might as well just get it all out once you’ve started.

You find your eyes drifting back to Hongjoong who's already looking at you, and as much as you've hated how he's treated you, you don't want him to have to hear this.

"Hongjoong could leave the room if it would make you feel more comfortable." Mr Kim offers, and Hongjoong seems like he's ready to walk out at your answer but the idea of him leaving is far more terrifying than having him with you.

"He can stay." You say, turning your eyes back to the director. "It was… Mostly verbal punishments. Yelling and belittling, that type of thing. Sometimes I'd get assigned first makeup chair for weeks, less food or more workouts for a period until I guess she thought the lesson had stuck."

"I understand that this might be hard to recount," Mr Kim says and you can see Hongjoong bracing himself in your peripheral. "But has it ever been physical?"

"Not as often." You whisper as you're unable to meet the man's eyes any longer, the memory of fingers digging into your hair and long nails scratching your scalp still fresh in your memory. "And it was mostly just smacks or hair pulling. I know other idols have it worse, so I guess I lucked out with just that."

The energy in the room has shifted when you finish speaking, and at first, you think it's coming from the director but when you look at him it doesn't make sense.

Then you turn your eyes to your captain.

The look of him is something you’ve never seen before, and you know you would remember if you had. His face is still in an almost unnatural way with an intensity in his eyes that rivals the demon he lets out on stage to play.

He looks more than angry. He's furious and there's a big part of you that can't make sense of it.

He hates you, has made no secret of it since the beginning, and yes, while someone putting their hands on you isn't ideal, you can't make sense of why he'd react this way over it.

Maybe he just draws the line at physical torment and prefers his punishments to be verbal.

"Chan-ssi." Mr Kim's voice pulls your attention away from Hongjoong and back to him, and you watch stunned as he stands up from his seat to bow to you. "On behalf of the company, I am so sorry that this has been happening. Everything that you've described is completely unacceptable and I'm horrified that no one was able to recognize or come forward about these issues until now."

You don't know what to say. All that's left is to just stare at the director that has his head lowered to you as if you’re even remotely deserving of it.

"Sir, I'm - It's fine, please stop."

You throw a panicked glance at Hongjoong but he doesn't look like he's about to call a stop to the humiliation any time soon. If anything, he looks ready to get up and bow down himself.

"We are going to take immediate steps to correct this, I give you my word." The director says, finally straightening up to lock eyes with you. "And should there be any sort of pushback or reprisals towards you, I would like you to come straight to me, or Hongjoong if that makes you feel more comfortable. This is not how I run my company."

You're fighting tooth and nail to stop yourself from giving a lame thumbs up, having no idea what to say.

Sure, he's the boss but he can't know everything that goes on at the company, right? If you'd only tried a little bit harder, and if the guys hadn't started paying attention all of sudden, none of this would be happening.

"Yes, sir." You manage to say even though his words feel less real than they actually appear to be.

Why does he care?

"Hongjoong also mentioned something about requesting proper footwear during practice and performances." Mr Kim says, finally sitting back down which helps you breathe a bit easier. "So, we're going to look into that as well."

"Right. Thank you." You mumble, the ache in your feet one of the things you're excited about getting rid of, and you wonder if maybe you could be so bold… "Is it- Would it be alright if I have a request about that? Or something similar, at least?"

"Of course." The director says, the gentle smile back on his face like he's glad to hear you speaking up for yourself, and you see Hongjoong perk up in your peripheral.

"Would it be possible to maybe… Lose the miniskirts for performances? It's just that a lot of the dancing requires big movements and the skirts aren't very," You search for a word that won't make you seem like a brat throwing a tantrum. "Easy to make work with the choreography."

"Of course, we will let the stylists know to change the concepts going forward."

"I mean, I don't want to make anyone's job harder, but when I have to focus on not showing-" Everything. "It makes it harder to keep up with everyone."

"I understand." The director nods, taking it more seriously than you'd thought he would. "We'll be sure to relay that and make sure that's take into account going forward."

"Thank you." You breathe, some of the tension leaving you when your body realizes you didn't have to fight to be more covered up. "I really appreciate that."

"Of course." Mr Kim says almost fatherly, and you're really starting to see why the boys like him so much. "Now, to look at a plan going forward."

Of course, things aren't as easily solved as just saying pretty words and it's all done.

"First thing I'd like to see is a thorough doctor's visit to determine where we're at in terms of your health." He directs at you before he turns to Hongjoong. "And I'm thinking a break is in order until we can get everything sorted out, don’t you agree?"

"Yes, I think that would be for the best." Your captain nods and his words have your blood freezing in your veins.

"I'm thinking at least for a month and then we'll evaluate after that-"

"Hang on a minute, I didn't agree to a break." You interrupt quite rudely, staring at the two men like they've lost their minds. "We have a comeback coming up, a music video to shoot, promos to get done, I'm not stepping away from that."

"Those can be pushed back if needs be." Mr Kim says, the way he looks at you far too similar to pity to sit well with you. "Your health needs to take priority."

"I will agree to the doctor's visit, hell I'll even go to therapy if you need me too, but I will not be the reason this comeback gets delayed. I'm already hated enough as it is."

"Your health is important, Chan-ah." Hongjoong tries, his dark eyes nearly pleading with you to be reasonable.

"Work is important." You stare back at him, feeling like you're the only sane one in the room. "I can rest after the comeback."

"Chan-ssi." Mr Kim sighs, looking at you like you remember your dad used to do when you disagreed with him about something that wasn't up for discussion. "I understand that halting work would be distressing, but you're about to run straight into a brick wall if you keep going like this."

"What if I promise to take it easy? I'll do everything the doctor says to do, but please don't make me responsible for ruining everyone's hard work. Please." You're close to tears when you finish, not above begging on your knees if this plea doesn't work. But the way the director slumps back in his seat, watching you carefully, has you staying in your chair for now.

"What if the doctor tells you that you need to go on hiatus? Would you still listen then?"

"No hiatus." You say firmly, as if you have any negotiation power here and the two men aren't just indulging your tantrum. "I'll limit the exercising, eat better, sleep longer and go to therapy. But I need to work to function. Please don't take that away from me."

Mr Kim looks to Hongjoong, like he's silently asking his opinion, and you look between them with your heart lodged in your throat, praying with everything you have that they'll listen.

"We could keep it to just the most important schedules." Hongjoong says carefully, not fully saying he agrees with you but doing his best to find a middle ground. "Get through the comeback and after that we plan for a calmer period or more solo schedules for those who want them to give you the time to recover properly?"

"Workaholics the lot of you." Mr Kim sighs but there's a hint of a smile on his lips that has the hope spark in your chest. "If that's what you think is best and the doctor signs off on it, I'm going to trust your judgment."

Your head spins as the weight is lifted off your chest, and you hurriedly wipe the tears from your face before you can make a bigger fool of yourself.

"Thank you, sir." You bow in your seat, nose nearly touching the table. "Thank you so much."

"Again, only with the doctor's approval." The director cautions but you're confident you can convince them too if needs be.

"Yes, sir. Truly, thank you."

"We'll book an appointment for you as soon as possible, and you'll stop all additional workouts immediately until you're medically cleared." The director continues, his voice serious in a way you haven't heard yet and you instantly find yourself hanging onto every word. "You'll take it easy on the food and the dancing until the doctor tells you otherwise. No more extreme restriction, and I trust you boys to keep an eye on it as well. Understand?"

He looks at Hongjoong who immediately nods, and while you normally would be annoyed about being monitored, you realize it's no different from what they're basically already doing, so you say nothing about it.

"Are there any other concerns I need to be aware of?" Mr Kim asks, looking between the two of you, and you figure you might as well since he’s asking.

"Um, it's not anything time sensitive but I would like to maybe have a meeting with you to discuss the debt and if it would be possible to lower the amount I pay off for a while."

You don't think you've said anything strange, but both the director and Hongjoong freeze in their seats, their eyes coming to focus solely on you.

"What debt would that be?" Mr Kim asks and suddenly his focus feels overwhelming.

"… My debt? I know I have to pay it off and I fully intend to do so, but some unexpected expenses have popped up and I just need-"

"Chan-ah, Chan-ah," Hongjoong interrupts you, looking both confused and worried. "What debt are you talking about?"

"The debt. The one from covering all the expenses when I started at the company." You stress, unable to believe you have to spell it out for them. "All idols have it, right?"

"All trainees have it." Hongjoong clarifies, staring at you like he can't believe what he's hearing. "You weren't a trainee when you started."

It's like the air has been sucked out of the room, dread settling heavily in your stomach as your mind works overtime trying to put everything together.

"How much have you been getting paid since you came to us, Chan-ssi?" Mr Kim asks, something dark in his voice that has the hairs at the back of your neck standing up.

"Um- Enough to cover most of my food expenses." You say, hands clenched in your lap again. "It's been a little tight lately though which was why I wanted to speak to you about it."

"You haven't actually been paid?" Mr Kim continues, eyes darkening when you more or less nod. "Who informed you about this debt of yours?"

"Head manager Yi." You mumble, eyes flitting between the director and Hongjoong as the anxiety keeps bubbling up inside you. "And then when I talked to one of your lawyers, he informed me just how big the debt was."

"Why did you speak to a lawyer?" Hongjoong asks, drawing the director's eyes to him but the older man doesn't say anything, so you guess he wants to know too.

"I um…" You swallow the tears and the panic, clutching your hands so hard your nails break the skin, the sting oddly soothing. "I was- I wanted to know if it was possible to break my contract and what the repercussions would be if I did."

Your captain's stare could bore through stone, and you're too afraid to look at him now that he knows you had wanted to abandon the group.

"And what were you told?" The director asks.

"That leaving before the contract was up would put my family in generational debt and we'd be buried in litigation." You whisper, unable to meet anyone's eye as you let the pain in your hands ground you.

"Do you remember which lawyer told you this?" He sounds angry now and it's taking everything you have left in you not to cry at the sound.

"Head manager Yi said that his name was Mr Shin."

"Was she the one who told you to speak to him?"

"Yes, sir. I didn't want anyone else to know I was thinking of leaving, so I never talked to anyone else about it."

"I understand." Mr Kim says gravely and you can't help but feel like you shouldn't have said anything at all. "This is something we need to look into further, but this is a serious issue and I'm glad you brought it to my attention. You should absolutely be getting paid for the work that you do, and anything else is not only unethical but criminal."

He glances at Hongjoong before he turns his eyes back to you.

"I'm so sorry that this has happened to you and rest assured I will be getting to the bottom of this. You have my word. Until then, however, I need the two of you to not discuss this with anyone, not even the rest of the group. It might seem harsh, but it needs to be done, do we understand each other?"

"Yes." Both you and Hongjoong say, glancing at each other knowing that this little crisis meeting has just gotten a whole lot bigger than either of you could have imagined.

"Good." Mr Kim says as he stands up, about the end the meeting, and both you and Hongjoong follow his lead. "We'll make sure to get you that doctor's appointment as soon as possible, any activity that clashes with it will not be considered a priority."

"Yes, sir." You say before you and your captain say goodbye and head out of the meeting with even more thoughts than you'd had going into it.

Chapter 6 Chapter 8

Taglist

He already knows the songs he's destined to write so what's the harm in mapping them out? The team will of course be involved so he doesn't screw things up too bad but the foundations will be the same regardless, right? 

Seonghwa texts him a little after 7 am asking him if he's gotten any sleep at all and Hongjoong has to begrudgingly let the mother of the group know that he, in fact, has not. 

Seonghwa had really stepped up when they lost you, far too much responsibility falling on his shoulders when Hongjoong retreated into himself and more or less left the kids to fend for themselves, and the habit is still going strong for the oldest. 

Hongjoong is ashamed for checking out, for putting so much on him when Seonghwa himself was falling apart at the seams, and once things calm down a bit and every settles a bit, he's going to find a way to make it up to him. 

For now, he promises to find something to eat before practice starts and even though he knows it'll only go so far in calming Seonghwa, it's going to have to do until he can get a sit down with you. 

He knows what he needs to say, what beats to hit, but it's the execution that has his insides rioting and his mind in shambles. 

You're afraid of him, that's clear for anyone off camera to see even if you manage to fool everyone once they're rolling, and there's no way him calling you into a solo meeting won't terrify you. 

He's never done it before this, and never after, at most pulling you aside to berate you but never actually calling you to a meeting. He now knows he should have, should have had you come to his room like he had all the others and had it out in private. But he hadn't even given you that courtesy. 

He leaves the studio in search of something to eat, knowing he'll need all the energy he can get to get through today and also because he doesn't doubt that Seonghwa will hit him if he skips out on both sleep and sustenance. 

The man is feeling much better already after all.  

There's a difference in you during dance practice, small but definitely noticeable. 

You're more in time with them today, the sound of your sneakers fill the studio instead of the click clack of heels, and you don't look deathly afraid whenever Yunho's eyes find you in the mirror. 

He'd filled Hongjoong in on his plans to get rid of your heels for performances and practice, not asking permission but telling him this was happening whether anyone had anything to say about it or not.

Not that the captain had any objections. They'd all seen the state of your feet last night when you were too exhausted to think to hide them, and there was no way he'd let it continue after that. 

They'd all seen the videos of the blood crawling up the back of your legs during performances, and Hongjoong wonders if there was ever a discussion about you wearing them to begin with or if it just happened because you were a girl, and female idols wear heels. 

Personally Hongjoong would have felt better if you'd sat this one out and let your feet rest, but apparently Yunho had already had that conversation with you and you weren't open to it, so he'd let it slide. He doesn't want to put you on the defense before his conversation with you even starts.

He's pretty sure you can tell that Yunho is taking it easy on all of you, but no one is complaining. 

The guys are all still reeling from everything that's happened, and then add to that Seonghwa still kicking whatever weird cold he'd gotten, San and Wooyoung aren't in the best shape, Mingi is still doing his impression of a shadow, and Hongjoong himself is working off of no sleep. 

One thing is very clear though: you're frustrated.

They'd thought this part would be easy, since they've already been through the songs and the choreographies and they could just skip straight to the fixing things-part with you, but they hadn't considered how that would look to you. 

To you, they're picking up the complicated choreo insanely fast while you're left struggling. In their timeline you'd all struggled together, but here, you're the one left behind and there's no way for them to explain without sounding utterly insane. 

"Alright, let's break for lunch!" Yunho finally announces with a clap of his hands, and like their strings have been cut, most of the group drops to the floor, panting and sweating and doing their best not to die. 

"I vote for meat!" Wooyoung pants where he lays on his back, trying to catch his breath, as the other vegetable haters chime in in agreement. 

"Chan-ah, what do you think?" Yunho asks and they'd all be blind to not notice the deer in the headlights look on your face at being asked your preference. 

You'd packed an apple this morning before practice, only having tea for breakfast since you had such a big dinner last night again, and you'd planned to just eat that but the way everyone's looking at you lets you know that's not a good enough answer. 

"You guys decide," You settle on, not wanting anyone to have to go out of their way to accommodate your diet. "I'm good with anything." 

You really aren't but you're just going to have to head to the gym before you get home tonight to work it off. 

"Can you guys go pick up the food?" Hongjoong asks, handing Seonghwa his card. "I need to talk to the maknae about something." 

You can't help the way your eyes snap to him at the title. He never calls you that unless you're on stage or there's a camera pointed at his face, and by the time you're getting over the shock enough to start panicking, the others have all left, leaving you alone with the captain. 

"First of all, you're not in trouble." Hongjoong assures as he hands you your water bottle before he sits down across from you on the floor. "I just wanted to talk to you about something and I felt it was better to do it without the others present." 

If you weren't so scared of messing up, you would have rolled your eyes. The group's presence has never stopped him from chewing you out before. 

He waits a beat for an answer but quickly realizes he's not going to get one, so he continues. 

"I spoke to Yunho and Yeosang," He starts and you can't help but tense up, knowing there's no way in hell you're ready to have this conversation, and with him of all people. "And they told me that apparently you're on some kind of diet, is that right?" 

You don't know what to say, sure that whatever words leave you will be the wrong ones, so you just nod as you start picking at your fingernails. 

"Can you tell me about it?" Hongjoong asks, his voice soft and understanding, like he hasn't always been anything but that to you. 

"You eat less and lose weight." You say as you glance up at him with a surprising amount of animosity. "It's not rocket science." 

"No, I guess it's not" Your captain says awkwardly, scratching his neck as he considers his next words. "It's just that I haven't been told you're on one and those things always go through me first, so I guess I'm just a bit confused." 

"They said everyone had signed off on it." You say with a shrug but there's a tone of uncertainty in your voice that gives him hope. "That it was necessary for me to keep up with everyone." 

That makes no sense given that you were already so much smaller than them when you'd joined the group and if anything you needed more energy to keep up with the explosive style of dancing they preferred. 

"Do you remember who told you that?" Hongjoong asks, not missing the shudder that goes through you at the question. 

"Head manager Yi." You mumble, glancing towards the door as if you're worried the woman might be standing on the other side of it, listening to every word. "She… She said you'd requested it." 

Hongjoong feels like he's about to throw up.

"I swear on my parents I didn't, Chan-ah." Hongjoong says as he reaches out to take your hand, feeling it shake in his as his insides burn. "Okay? You don't need to diet or exercise until you collapse, and you certainly don't need to do any of it in order to 'keep up' with us. If anything, having no energy and overworking yourself would make it harder to keep up." 

You glance up at him, glossy eyes watching for a sign or even a hint of insincerity, but all you find is care and what you could maybe interpret as shame. 

"I… I don't want to keep going like this." You admit in a whisper so quiet and shaky that he has trouble hearing you. "I'm tired, captain." 

It's only now that Hongjoong allows himself realize just how young and lonely you've been throughout all of this, forced to take someone's word as gospel without an opportunity to ask anyone questions or talk about your fears with. 

"I'm sorry," He says, the words sounding so inadequate that he finds himself tearing up as well. "You should have never been alone in this to begin with, and that's on me. I should have stepped up sooner and I'm so incredibly sorry that I didn't." 

You don't shoot down his apology but you don't accept it either, which you have every right not to.

You just sit there on the floor of the dance studio holding Hongjoong's steady hand for what feels like an eternity and yet not long enough before you pull back from him.  

"I want to talk to the director about this, what's been going on." He says when he forces his hand to settle on his knee so he doesn't reach out to you again and crowd you. "Because regardless of the group dynamic, I as your captain should have been informed about this, and the fact that I wasn't needs to be addressed so there's no more… Confusion." 

He looks at you, watches you pick at your nails as you struggle to meet his eye with your tear filled ones. 

"But I would like to ask your permission to talk about the subject with him, since it's a very personal one." 

"Would she find out I said anything?" You ask, and Hongjoong can't remember a time where he's heard you sound this scared which has his stomach turning again.  

"I wouldn't tell those specifics if you don't want me to, but I suspect he might want to sit down with the two of us to go over it to get the full story eventually if this wasn't okayed by him." 

"You think it wasn't?" 

"It doesn't feel like something he'd be okay with, which makes the whole thing feel fishy."

He can see the wheels turning in your head and he sees the exact moment it gets too overwhelming for you, watching you hide your face in your hands with a shaky sigh. 

"My head hurts." You mumble behind your shield. 

"You don't have to decide anything now." Hongjoong says, his voice soft and soothing in a way you've never heard it aimed at you before. "All I'm asking is that you think it over and let me know what you want to do. And know whatever you choose, I'll back you up this time." 

"I just don't understand why." You whisper, fingers spreading so you can watch him from behind your hands.  

"Because this never should have happened. And because you deserve more than what we've been giving you."  

"What if the director says the diet stays?" You ask once the silence has settled between you again, and the hopelessness in your voice breaks Hongjoong's heart. He so desperately wants to take your hand again as they return to your lap, but he feels he's pushed you far enough today so he refrains from reaching out.  

"Then we riot." He says resolutely. "It's no longer an esthetic thing if it ever was, it's negatively impacting your health and your work, and that's not how we're supposed to do things." 

You take a moment to really look at Hongjoong while his words settle in your mind. You've never seen him so sincere in regards to anything to do with you, and there's almost a hint of desperation in his eyes that you can't quite make sense of. It's unfamiliar and terrifying, and you find yourself slipping back into your shell where nothing can overwhelm you, eyes dropping from his face to your lap where it's safe.  

"I just don't want to make trouble for anyone." You mumble, knowing you've already said too much and it's going to come back to haunt you. 

"The only people this could make trouble for are the ones who deserve it." His gentle voice says and you have to blink the tears out of your eyes before they can make their way down your face where he can see them. "I know I'm probably the last person you want to talk to about anything like this, but from now on I will be here to listen." 

"I'll think about it." You say, clearing your throat when his words hit a little too close to home, briefly glancing up at him before your eyes seek safety once more. "You talking to the director. But I can't promise anything."

"No promises needed." He responds, and it sounds so easy when he says it like that, like a conversation like that won't risk brutal reprisals against you. "All I ask is that you think about it." 

His phone buzzes on the floor next to him and a lopsided smile graces his face when he glances at it, before turning his eyes back to you. 

"The boys wonder if it's safe to enter with the food." He explains with a chuckle, watching you shrug in response. 

"You're the captain." 

"I know, but I'm asking you." He says gently as he catches your eye once more. "If you need a minute, they can wait." 

You know he's just saying it to be nice, but the gesture warms your heart more than it probably should. 

Hongjoong is the captain of Ateez. It's his job to keep the ship running smoothly so to speak, and one member of the crew not pulling their weight is a problem that he's ultimately responsible for. 

You suppose the interpersonal stuff hasn't affected the group enough for it to be a concern but the risk of your diet influencing the others to go on their own is most likely one he's not willing to take. 

You're going to do your best to not expose any of them to it if you can help it, it's not their problem to fix, regardless of your complicated feelings about them. 

You nod and watch Hongjoong send them a text back, their voices instantly kicking up outside the door. 

"I'll be right back." You say as you stand up, Hongjoong following suit almost like he thinks you're making a break for it. 

"You okay?" He asks and for a moment you selfishly let yourself think that he cares. 

"Got to wash my hands." You say just as the door opens and the others walk in, carrying the delicious smell of food with them. 

"Where are you headed?" Seonghwa asks as you walk past them with a nod in greeting. "We brought food." 

"Wash my hands." You explain again, walking out of the studio before anyone can ask anything else.  

"So how did it go?" San asks as he starts to help unpack the food. 

"She said she's going to think about it." Hongjoong sighs, the pressure of the conversation finally off his shoulders and he feels like he can finally breathe without the risk of making everything ten times worse. "Apparently head manager Yi was the one to approach her about the diet but I don't know to what the degree the director knows about it." 

"She is really strict," Jongho says, shuddering to remember his own run-ins with her. "Like more than necessary, I think."  

"She's from SM right?" Wooyoung asks, a deep frown settling on his face when Hongjoong nods. "Did she say anything about any other stuff?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"I'm just saying, SM instructors don't exactly have the best reputation. If we're running with the idea that she'd be pushing diets on idols without higher up approval, who's to say she hasn't done other shit that we don't know about?" 

Silence settles over the group as their minds veer off into different directions. 

"She seems scared of her." Hongjoong says, the look on your face fresh in his mind. 

"I get it," Jongho says as he cracks open his soda. "She came to me before the last tour about needing to lose weight. She's hella scary."

"Why didn't you say anything, Jjongie?" Seonghwa gasps, reaching over to pet his hair, and Jongho lets him without a word of protest. 

"Everyone was busy with tour prep and I had no plans to do it so I didn't see the point." He shrugs, taking a sip of his drink. 

"Hey, wait, was she the one who told you to stop working out?" Wooyoung asks Yeosang who's trying to open a container of fried chicken, and who just nods at his friend before he keeps going. 

"Anyone else had a run-in with her?" Hongjoong asks, doing his best to keep himself calm and not go running straight to the director to bring the woman down. 

He's glad the rest of his boys shake their heads, but three out of nine members harassed by the same head manager is bad enough. 

"Did they happen before right now?" He asks and is glad that they all get what he means, watching them shake their heads. "So right now, all we have is her targeting Chan." 

"That's enough." Mingi says with a glare, and Hongjoong forces himself not to take the bait. 

"Of course it is, Mingi-ah." Seonghwa soothes the way only he can, and the Captain sends him a grateful look. "I think what Hongjoong means is that that's the only incident we can point to, not that it's less important than the others, right?" 

"Yes." Hongjoong nods, meeting Mingi's eye. "That's exactly it." 

"Shouldn't she be back by now?" San asks, pausing his portioning of food to look towards the door. 

"You don't think she's…" 

Everyone's eyes turn to Wooyoung, some of them understanding without him explaining but the others go pale when he mimes gagging on two of his fingers. 

"She never mentioned that when I talked to her." Yeosang says, looking to Yunho who shakes his head.  

"Should we go check on her?" Seonghwa asks worriedly, and it takes Hoongjoong so much strength to not let them all run after you.  

"Let's give her a few more minutes. She might just need to clear her head a bit."

You kind of wish you could take a shower but splashing your face and wrists with cold water is going to have to do. 

It's less to do with calming your anxiety, and more with centering yourself again.  

Every time one the guys talk to you, you start questioning everything you know. If you didn't know better, you'd think they'd all been replaced by the Black Pirates, except you know they would probably be acting even worse than you're used to.

In a way you're enjoying being treated more like a person and less of a thorn in their side, but it's also confusing as fuck. 

You don't know what brought this on but you do know it's not going to last long. You don't just wake up one morning and all the animosity and history of the past two years is just gone. That's not real, and you refuse to entertain the thought that it is. 

What you will do however, is try to take in the positivity as much as you can in hopes that when they all inevitably go back to treating you like trash, you'll be able to hang onto the moments when things weren’t so bad. 

It's bleak but it's all you have. 

Hongjoong wanting to speak with the director is a plot twist you didn't see coming but if he wants to create even more chaos at the company, then who are you to stop him?

He's going to do whatever he wants anyway, why would your refusal stop him? 

You wash your hands, pointedly ignoring the eyes of the shadow of a girl staring back at you in the mirror, and head back out to the studio. 

Your stomach is in knots at the thought of eating but you'll do your best to not make a big deal out of it in front of the others. If the problem "solves" itself and Hongjoong is happy then there will be no need for head manager Yi to get involved again.  

You really don't think you can take another meeting with her so soon after the last one.  

Everyone acknowledges you when you return but it's not in the way you're used to. There are no sideways glances, muttered comments or tense silence. Instead all of them look up when you enter the studio, some of them telling you to come eat while the others nod at you in greeting. 

You can feel their eyes on you as you sit down but they're less judging and more along the lines of cautiously curious, like they're looking for something you're not privy to. 

"Do I have something on my face?" You whisper to Yeosang when a couple of them keep glancing back at you even as they're digging into the food. 

"No, they're just making sure you're okay." 

You have no idea what that's supposed to mean, or even why they would care if you weren't, but you pointedly decide to ignore it and find something you can eat. 

Again, the amount of fried food is ridiculous, but there's a spark of something in your chest when you notice a container of steamed vegetables and a couple of dipping sauces that have remained untouched by everyone. 

Almost as if they got it just for you. 

You reach for it, watching everyone to see if someone is going to stop you, but they all keep talking amongst themselves and eating so you quietly help yourself. 

It's only after you've served yourself that you notice Mingi silently reach for the vegetables to put some on his plate, almost as if he was waiting for you to have first pick. 

You kind of want to ask him about it, but he's as closed off to you as ever and you're not trying to start a fight with anyone so you keep quiet and start eating.

Sure, Yunho has been on his best behavior but there's no telling how he'll react if he sees you bothering Mingi.

At one point, a single piece of chicken is put on your plate and when you look to your right you see Seonghwa giving you an encouraging smile like he's saying "go on". 

There has never been a time when he's done that for you. Only for the others. For his boys, his kids. As kind as he's been to you occasionally, he's never once made a statement as bold as this in front of the others, and you can't help but look around, expecting to see Wooyoung glaring at you. 

But there's nothing. He doesn't even acknowledge it, talking to San about something that has the other man nearly choking on his chicken. 

Hongjoong and Yunho are watching you though, and they both nod encouragingly at you to eat. 

It's difficult to swallow past the lump in your throat but you somehow manage, the warmth in your chest hot enough to burn, and you selfishly allow yourself to relax as you soak it up. 

The sounds, the laughter, the sharing of food like you're all equals. It's too good to be true and yet you drink it in, committing every second of it to memory. 

Two years, and this is the first time you've ever felt accepted by them, and it's over a meal on the floor of a dance studio like nothing bad has ever happened between you. 

You let your eyes find Hongjoong, watching the way his fond smile at Wooyoung's antics stays on his face when his own eyes settle on you, and give him a nod. 

"Okay," You say in your head, hoping that he somehow hears you. "I'll trust you on this."

Chapter 5 Chapter 7

Taglist

According to Jongho's message in the nine member group chat (they've all decided to use that one almost exclusively from now on) he's gone to meet up with a couple of friends and won't be back until tonight, and Seonghwa is honestly hoping both Mingi and Hongjoong are still sleeping, for their own sakes.

San and Wooyoung appear to have taken off from Narita International about an hour ago, and the oldest sends them a "fly safe" before he goes to take a shower.

He doesn't know if he'd originally been sick or if the time travel had hit him harder than the others, but regardless, the fever had been real and left him sticky with sweat, and feeling overall disgusting.

He glances at himself in the mirror as he undresses and the person looking back at him startles him into a coughing fit.

He still looks like himself but the hair is wrong alongside something he can't quite name and it's honestly freaking him out a little bit.

He still can't believe that this is real, but there's nothing he can do or show to prove otherwise so he has no other choice than to accept it.

He does feel more centered when he gets out of the shower, and he's hungry which he chooses to see as a good sign. He really doesn't want to cook but he hopes he's lucky enough that someone has ordered food and put the leftovers in the fridge for him to steal.

Well, it turns out he's even luckier than that, with several homemade dishes boxed up and ready to eat, even finding a note from Yunho telling him and the others to eat well and rest.

Seonghwa decides to do just that, saving enough for the others, but helping himself to things that won't make his throat feel worse.

He’s at the kitchen counter, eating and going through his socials and the news to try and get acclimated to the time shift when he hears the front door unlock, and two pairs of feet make their way inside.

Logic dictates that it’s you and Yunho, but Seonghwa is still surprised to see the two of you together, and Yunho not looking like he wants to punch something.

“Good morning.” Seonghwa greets you both mid-chew, his brother greeting him back, and you giving the usual little bow.

“I'm going to take a shower.” Yunho says, but Seonghwa gets the distinct feeling that he isn't speaking to him, and when he sees you actually meet Yunho's eyes and nod, there's a warmth spreading through him that has nothing to do with whatever fever is still lingering in his system.

Yunho leaves you alone with him in the kitchen, the silence settling between you not comfortable but not necessarily awkward either.

“Have you eaten?” Seonghwa asks, his voice scratchy but a lot better than yesterday.

“Yes.” You say politely as you move to the sink to wash the containers still in the bag. “Yunho-ssi was kind enough to bring me some early lunch.”

“That was very kind.” He doesn't mean to sound surprised but he supposes it sells the act to you because you don't question it.

“It was.” You say, letting the silence settle between you again before you glance back at him over your shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

“A lot better than yesterday.” He shoots you an embarrassed smile. “Thank you for that by the way.”

“I didn't do much.” You shrug as your eyes return to the container in your hands. “But I'm glad you're feeling better. Being sick isn't very fun.”

“No, it isn't.” Seonghwa agrees, his heart aching as he remembers the times you did what you could to hide that you were sick so you didn't cause delays, with only Yeosang and Jongho calling you out on it and trying to make your life at least a little bit easier.

He knows they all saw you pushing yourself but none of the remaining six wanted to be the ones to speak up so they just mostly left you to your manager who did his best to keep you comfortable.

You're done doing the dishes, and for a moment Seonghwa thinks you're just going to leave the kitchen without another word, but you stop in front of him and place a box of ibuprofen in front of him.

“You were almost out.” You say as if it's no big deal for you to buy him medicine when he's sick. “I know Wooyoung-ssi usually keeps everything stocked but I figured since he isn't here.”

You end with a shrug, eyes flicking up to meet his for a moment before you gesture back to the soup in front of him.

“Make sure you take the medicine after you're done with the food, and try to get some more rest. I'll be in my room if you need me.”

And with that you leave the kitchen, no doubt going to take a shower of your own before you… Actually he's not sure exactly what you do in your limited spare time, and this fact irks him more than he'd like it to.

He kind of expects Yunho to come back after his shower to give him a summary of what had been happening between you two while he was resting, but he doesn't.

He supposes that might be more of a conversation to have with Hongjoong or really all the guys, but that doesn't mean Seonghwa isn't insanely curious.

Part of him wants to go knock on the younger's door and ask, but he figures Yunho will tell him when he feels ready. Or maybe he wants to keep it to himself.

Everyone had been a wreck after your passing, but Yunho was one of the ones who took it the hardest, so him wanting to keep his interactions with you private wouldn't be a surprise.

If you were to find out he'd been talking about you behind your back again, it might destroy the little progress he's made.

It's a little after 2 pm when Seonghwa hears the front door unlock again and two exhausted men make their way across the threshold.

Seonghwa had moved to the couch after he'd finished eating, catching a brief sighting of Hongjoong grabbing a snack before he went back to bed again. His captain truly had been running on fumes for far too long.

He greets San and Wooyoung from his place on the couch, pausing his movie as the two come over to give him a combined hug that actually makes him tear up.

He hadn't realized just how much it had stressed him out to wake up in the past, feverish and confused only to find out two of his kids weren't there. And in another country no less.

He squeezes them both as much as he can muster before they both settle next to him on the couch, clinging to him like two baby ducks to their mother.

"Welcome home." He says, not embarrassed to press gentle kisses to their heads.

They've all been through a lot, and they all need the comfort right now.

"This is so fucked up." Wooyoung mumbles, snuggling close enough for Seonghwa to smell the airport on him and his clothes.

"I know, baby." He says, giving the younger an extra squeeze. "It's going to take some getting used to for sure."

"I was so scared, hyung." San whines and even though it sounds like he's doing it for dramatic effect, Seonghwa can hear the tears in his voice.

"I know, but you figured it out, and you're back home safe and sound." He says, pressing another kiss to San's hair as his brain finally realizes that the body he's holding is smaller than he remembers. "Have you had anything to eat?"

"A sandwich at the airport." Wooyoung answers with a yawn, sounding half-asleep. "Was all we managed to keep down."

The need to protect them surges in Seonghwa but all he can do right now is hold onto them as they're both starting to drift off to sleep.

He knows he probably should send them off to an actual bed but he needs their presence as much as they seem to need his, so he stays quiet.

He lowers the volume on the TV and hits play, the movie starting up again without him risking to startle them awake.

He doubts they've had any proper kind of sleep since they woke up yesterday morning, and if his presence is able to give it to them then he'll happily stay on the couch for the next couple of hours.

Your feet still hurt but your yoga mat provides enough cushioning that you're able to get through the workout without too much tearing up.

Logically you know you should rest, Yunho may have gone easy on you after lunch because you were clearly exhausted, but the numbers of everything you've eaten are buzzing around in your head and you won't be able to do anything else until you get rid of them.

It's not that you don't want to rest, you're absolutely exhausted and would love nothing more than to sleep for all eternity, but the anxiety is firmly lodged in your chest and the only way you know to make it go away is to work out.

Before you moved to Korea, your go-to method was bugging Chris with hugs and cuddles, or watching terribly sad movies that made you cry all the feelings out. But you still have a headache from last night's crying, and there's no physical affection anywhere to be found, so you're stuck with pushing your body even closer to its breaking point in hopes that you'll at least be able to sleep tonight.

The moment your workout is done, you collapse on the mat and stay there until the room stops spinning and you can kind of breathe normally again.

It doesn't scare you as much as it used to, but you can't necessarily say you enjoy the feeling of going in and out of consciousness while your brain and body tries to deal with the exhaustion.

When it first started happening, you were terrified of someone walking in on you, seeing you passed out on the floor and freaking out or causing a scene about it. But the longer it's gone on, the less that specific fear occupies your mind. No one ever comes into your room anyway, apart from Mingi acting super weird yesterday, and even if they did, you doubt they'd even react.

Sure both Yeosang and Yunho had expressed some concern about your eating, but you know not to read into it too much.

They're just worried you'll collapse on stage or at practice and cause trouble for the rest of them, but they don't need to worry. You tend to take it fairly easy physically during the day when you're following the diet, at least by your standards, and then push yourself at night once you know no one else will be affected by it.

Once the room is no longer spinning and you're able to grip your water bottle again, you roll over and push yourself into a seated position, careful not to overdo it.

You really don't want to leave your room but you need a shower and as much as you would have loved it, your room doesn't have an ensuit, so you're going to have to.

You force yourself to stand up, hands locked around the bed frame in a death grip when your vision whites out again and the ringing in your ears returns.

You want so desperately to just let yourself fall onto the bed and stay there until tomorrow morning, but you hate the feeling of sweat drying on your skin so you shoot that idea out of your head.

You gingerly gather a change of clothes, your towel and shower stuff, before you venture out into the rest of the dorm.

You can hear sounds coming from the living room and you do what you've learned to best, pretend to be invincible.

There's still somehow enough energy in you to blend into the background and slip past the people on the couch without them noticing, and head straight for the shower.

The sneaking unfortunately zapped the last bit of strength you had left in your body, and you've never felt more grateful for the built in shower bench than right now.

You just sit there for a bit, letting the water warm you up before you eventually start cleaning yourself. It's so nice and toasty that you're just about falling asleep but you force yourself to remain awake, at least until you've returned back to the safety of your bedroom.

You can't remember a time when you've fallen asleep without a bedroom door between you and the guys. It's not even that you think they'd do anything to you, most of them may be assholes but they're not monsters.

No, it's more to do with the fact that you can't afford to relax around them. Even when you've been on the bus home from a shoot or a performance, and everyone but the manager is sleeping, you still can't bring yourself to relax.

You just know, with your luck, the one time you do fall asleep will be the time no one wakes you and you'll be late and make everyone look bad.

You can't afford that, so you don't.

Sleep is for behind locked bedroom doors and nowhere else.

You swear you're the closest thing to a living dead the world has ever seen when you finally manage to drag yourself out of the shower.

You hadn't even looked at the clothes you'd grabbed, but sweatpants and an oversized hoodie will never be a bad thing in your book, so you pull them on, hang up the towel to dry somewhere it won't inconvenience anyone, and decide to say fuck it, and leave your shower stuff in the cabinet under the sink, and your clothes in the hamper.

You're too exhausted to care in this moment.

You head out of the bathroom and do your best to walk down the hall without letting the people in the living room know, but your aching feet are clumsy and the rest of you has adopted the grace of a bull in a china shop so it's no surprise when Seonghwa looks right at you as you pass.

"Chan-ah." He says and you freeze on instinct even though you want to continue on your way. "Can you come here for a minute?"

His voice is soft enough not to wake the two snuggled up against him but it's still loud enough to give you no excuse not to hear him. He's already stopped you, you can't just keep moving like nothing happened.

You keep your sigh to yourself as you approach the couch, eyes taking in San and Wooyoung fast asleep on his hyung, no doubt exhausted from the last few days.

"Are you okay?" Seonghwa asks once you're in front of him and he can see how pale and shaky you look. "Are you getting sick too?"

In all honesty, it wouldn't surprise you at this point of your body decided to betray you at the worst time possible.

"I'm just tired." You say, trying for a smile that most definitely ends up as a grimace instead. "Thank you for asking though."

"Come on, sit down, you look like you're about faint." Seonghwa sounds worried and as much as you hate to admit it, he's right, and knowing you won't make it to the other end of the couch or an armchair, you end up next to San out of pure necessity.

"I'm fine, oppa." You mumble, the title slipping out before you can think better of it, too busy trying to make the room stop spinning again. "Really."

"You don't look fine, Chan-ah." Seonghwa continues and the add on to your name is starting to warm your insides in a way you really wish it wouldn't. "Have you eaten enough today?"

You can feel San stir beside you on the couch but if it's at the question or his hyung being worried, you don't know.

"Yes." You say and you have to fight hard not to roll your eyes. Yunho has made you eat more than you normally do during an entire day already.

You're about to stand back up, or at least try to in order to escape the topic, but San shifts in his sleep and wraps his arms around yours, clinging to you like a koala, leaving you to remain seated.

"Um… Seonghwa-ssi, what do I…"

Seonghwa only chuckles softly, too familiar with the power behind San's cuddles, as he watches your face for any panic.

"They've had a rough day." He says. "I can try to get him to let go if you want."

You know you should say yes, to please get the octopus-like man off of you so you can make your escape.

But you're cold. And San is so warm. And soft, even with how his muscly frame clings to you. It's reminding you of Chris for some reason and you catch yourself tearing up as you wonder when you last had proper physical contact with someone who cared.

You had that weird hug with Yunho yesterday but that was more of you being attacked so you don't count that.

"Chan-ah?" Seonghwa gently asks when you don't answer him and remain stiff as a board next to San. "Do you want him to let go?"

No.

Your arm is tingly and so so warm and all you want to do is burrow further into the soft heat and never let go.

"Wooyoung-ssi will yell at me if he sees." You whisper, eyes fighting to stay open as the warmth keeps trying to drag you under.

"No, he won't." Seonghwa says after feeling Wooyoung's hold on him tighten minutely at your words. "I won't let him."

You don't know why you should trust him this time, but you're already half-asleep and San's soft breathing is only pulling you under faster, so you find yourself nodding.

It doesn't take you long to fall asleep, and only once he's sure you're no longer awake does Wooyoung lift his head from Seonghwa's shoulder.

The sight that greets him, of his soulmate and his nemesis snuggled up together asleep, is one that a couple of months back would have made his blood boil. But now all he feels is relief and sadness and guilt.

Relief that you're actually here, that you're real enough to touch and that you would let anyone of them even touch you after what they've put you through.

Sadness over the fact that you seem so much smaller than he remembers, and just how exhausted you look.

And guilt over them depriving you of this comfort for years when you literally had no one else to turn to. You were alone in this country for so long, no family or friends to help or support you, while the rest of them never even considered how hard that must have been for you.

Seeing you next to San suddenly seems so right, like you were a puzzle piece he didn't even know was missing.

He hugs Seonghwa closer and lets himself fall back asleep.

He has a lot to make up for when he wakes up, but in this moment he's going to enjoy just being surrounded by his family.

It's the smell of food that eventually wakes you up.

It's dark outside and the rain is back, gently tapping against the windows as you do your best to stretch, hindered by the man still stuck to your side.

You'd honestly thought that whole thing was a dream because there's no way anyone would have let San cling to you in any situation. But no, he's sticking to you and looks far too comfortable in your presence, that there's a spark of panic in you.

"Had a good nap?" Seonghwa asks with a soft chuckle, and when you tear your eyes off San, you realize there's six pairs of eyes looking at you.

Everyone but Jongho is gathered around the coffee table, setting up what looks to be several boxes of takeout that honestly smell divine and have your stomach grumbling.

"We weren't sure what you liked so we got a bit of everything." Yunho says as he puts two plates in front of you, one for you and one for San who's somehow still sleeping even with the guys getting louder now that you've woken up.

You're not feeling as weak as you were before you sat down but one look at Wooyoung has you lightheaded again.

He's not glaring or yelling at you, but just having his attention is terrifying, and you instinctively start to separate yourself from San to get yourself out of trouble.

His resulting whine catches everyone's attention again and you freeze, chills going down your spine at his distress, and you do your best to keep your breathing steady as Wooyoung just keeps staring at you.

"Let him sleep." He suddenly says, averting his eyes as he goes back to portioning out the food as if nothing abnormal is happening. "He was awake most of the night."

"Chan-ah," Seonghwa says, holding out a glass for you to take before he helps to free your arm, San's head somehow ending up on your lap with absolutely no one having anything to say about it. "What would you like to eat?"

You swear the world is ending. It just has to be. Or maybe you've finally lost your mind.

"Do you like chicken?" Yeosang asks, having just loaded up his own plate.

Breading.

Fried in oil.

Spices.

Just the thought turns your stomach and you glance around the table to see if you can find anything you won't have to kill yourself over tomorrow.

The lack of greens is noticeable but you manage to find the one thing that wouldn't be considered a cheat meal, and a bit of rice, just because you can feel both Yunho and Yeosang staring at you.

"That's all you're having?" Wooyoung of all people speaks up and it's as if all movement in the dorm stops.

All eyes are back on you and there's a tingling in your cheeks that has you ready to run to the bathroom to throw up everything you've had today.

"I already ate."

The lie slips out practically perfect even though you're not used to justifying it to anyone other than yourself or maybe Chris.

No one has ever cared enough to ask.

"When?" Seonghwa asks, not cruelly but curiously as he watches you fiddle with your chopsticks.

"Before my shower." You continue, barely even aware of the words leaving you as you busy yourself with eating.

You think you can see the guys looking between themselves in your peripheral but you keep your eyes on your food and your attention on not passing out.

Yunho and Yeosang have already caught on, and you know no one in this group is actually an idiot. All it takes is one meal with you to figure it out, it just so happens that this is the first meal together where they seem to be paying attention.

No one says anything else about it, but the nauseous feeling remains in the pit of your stomach throughout the whole meal and most of the movie they put on about midway through.

You lay in your bed later, exhausted but unable to fall asleep as you replay the interactions over the last couple of days, fingers still tingling from the feeling of San's hair against it.

He'd woken up about halfway through the movie, blinking up at you and stretching like a cat just waking from their nap, a strange smile on his lips as he'd grabbed your hand and put it to his head.

You'd looked around the room, waiting for someone to intervene but the only one paying attention was Wooyoung who just nodded at you to do what he asked, so you just did what you were told.

You didn't have the nerve to tell him to get off, knowing it would be rude, but you also can't exactly say that you'd hated it.

Chris used to do that back home, throw himself on you and demand affection whenever he was bored or emotional, so in a way it felt familiar even though you've never touched San without it being purely for work.

You've seen the man with the others before, how cute and cuddly he is with them, but you would have never imagined him to be so… soft.

He'd looked so innocent on your lap, gazing up at you while you played with his hair as if this was something you'd always done, just smiling at you.

Part of you had wanted to ask if he was drunk but that would be a sure fire way to get Wooyoung angry at you, so you'd shut your mouth and pretended that you weren't terrified of doing something wrong.

If you looked objectively on it, everything had been relaxed. No one was actually glaring at you or making snide remarks or picking at you about your eating. But in your head? You were surrounded by wolves just waiting for you to put a toe out of line so they could eat you alive.

It's even more terrifying than what you're used to.

You know the old rules on how to act to not get attacked, but these new ones scare the shit out of you.

You definitely prefer when they're not pretending to be nice to you just waiting for you to fail and prove them right.

They all listen while Yeosang and Yunho talks. Jongho had come home just as you went to bed, and he's now sitting in the armchair, focusing on the conversation as he's brought up to speed.

They explain your reactions to them asking about your eating, what seems to have been the company punishing you for eating for a long time, and your working out that from what they've seen borders on excessive.

Most of them are quiet, letting Hongjoong and Seonghwa carry most of the discussion, as they finally pick up on the warning signs that's surrounded them for so long.

Why you almost never went to team dinners, and how when you did, you almost never actually participated. How you were always out of the dorm by the time the others were up and about ready for breakfast. Your exhaustion during practices and inability to focus as much as you should have been able to.

The guilt just keeps on growing, even when they think it can't possibly get heavier, it just keeps coming at them in waves.

So many signs that they've dismissed as you having an attitude or trying to sabotage them. So many times staff and instructors scolded and belittled you for things you couldn't help.

It's all too much and they fester in their silence as Hongjoong does his best to keep himself together.

"I'll talk to the director tomorrow." He says, looking at the worried faces of his brothers. "Let him know this is unacceptable and that it has to stop immediately. We can't have one member starving and working herself to exhaustion before we even hit a stage."

"Do we think he knows?" San asks, cuddled up to Yeosang like he has been since you decided to call it a night.

"She didn't say anything about it when I talked to her at least." Yunho says. "Sangie?"

"I got the feeling that the only people who've said things about it have been staff, she never mentioned a higher up."

"I just can't believe he'd be okay with something like this going on." Wooyoung mumbles, looking at his captain while rubbing San's leg. "He's always so supportive of us whenever something isn't working."

"Yeah," Hongjoong sighs, rubbing his temples to try to ease the headache blooming under there. "It seems out of character for him, but I want to talk to Chan and him separately before we do dig any further. Last thing she needs is to get ambushed at a meeting with the boss."

"She'd probably think she was getting fired." Wooyoung snorts with a shake of his head, before his eyes slip over to Mingi who's sitting next to Yunho and Jongho looking worse for wear.

He hasn't said anything all night, but they've all noticed him staring at you, and they know you've noticed.

It's not that he doesn't want to talk to you, it's that he can't bring himself to do it.

He doesn't know what he'd say if he managed to get actual words out of his mouth, and he's terrified of fucking everything up again.

Where would he even start? The two of you have never talked about anything with a hint of substance, he hadn't even introduced himself when he came back from his hiatus, just walking right past you on his first day back like you were nothing.

How does one recover from that? Sure he'd basically done the same thing with Yeosang when they'd first met, but that was him protecting himself from getting hurt. With you, it was pure hatred and insecurity.

No matter what anyone said back then, you'd been brought in to replace him, and he had never forgotten that. Always seeing you as an outsider and a threat to his career.

He so desperately wants to walk up to you, shake your hand properly and finally introduce himself like he should have years ago. Start fresh.

But would you even go for that? They may have gone back a year in time but will it be enough to stop everything from happening again?

If he puts in the effort, truly gets to know you and care for you like he does the others, will he actually survive if you were to jump again?

He drank himself into oblivion every night when he didn't even know you. How could he possibly cope if he knows what your pure unguarded laugh sounds like?

No one says anything to him, not wrongly assuming it's mostly to do with his brain trying to function without the fog of alcohol, but Yunho and Jongho stay close to him, offering the silent support he doesn't feel deserving of.

He's going to have to talk to them, and you, eventually, he knows this, but the road to that point seems so long and winding that he feels like giving up before he's even started.

Chapter 4 Chapter 6

Taglist

You get out of bed and start getting ready for the day, washing your face and getting dressed, before you dare to venture out into the rest of the dorm. 

Your habit of getting up before everyone else once again serves you as the place is quiet and calm, letting you stay relaxed for just a little bit longer. 

Thanks to Yeosang treating you to an actual dinner last night, you’re for once not starving first thing in the morning but it’s such an unfamiliar feeling that you’re not sure how to proceed.

You could do your normal protein shake and mug of tea to keep you full until lunch, but the routine has shifted and it’s stumping you more than you’d like to admit. 

In the end you put the shaker and powder into your bag to prepare later when you start feeling hungry, before you start filling up the kettle. 

You know coffee would be preferred to tea because of the caffeine, but you hate the taste of it and you’ve been chewed out enough times over the sugar free Monsters you prefer, that tea is the least painful option these days.

You must have spent too much time glaring at the box of weight loss tea, wishing you never have to taste the thing ever again, because like yesterday, a voice coming from behind you startles you out of your thoughts.

“Morning.” 

You jump, and the thermos mug tumbles out of your hands, hitting the floor hard as the kettle comes to a boil, giving a beep before it turns off. 

“Sorry,” Yunho’s voice comes closer but you’re too busy getting the mug to turn around and look at him. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.” You mumble, inspecting the dent in the metal making the top of it all wonky with a sigh. “This one’s fucked though.” 

Normally you’d never curse in front of any of them, but you’re tired, you have a headache, you’re still feeling off from everyone’s acting yesterday, and now your favorite mug is out of commission. Yunho’s lucky you haven’t broken down crying yet and that one curse is all he’s getting. 

“I’m sorry, I’ll replace it.” 

“It’s fine.” You sigh, trying in vain to bend the metal back enough to make the lid go on properly but it just ends up wonkier. “It’s just a mug.”

“Still.” 

The awkward silence stretches between you as you keep fiddling with the lid even though you know it’s hopeless. Part of you wants to make small talk to fill the silence, but you’ve never gotten anything to show for it with Yunho before, so you just decide to keep your mouth shut to avoid starting off the day on the wrong foot. 

“Where are you headed?” The giant asks when he notices your gym bag on the floor. 

“Practice,” You say, setting the mug down on the counter as you figure you can still fill it half-way and use it without the lid for now. “Getting a head-start before the group comes in.” 

“Right, we didn’t tell you last night.” Yunho says, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck as he watches you prepare the tea. “Dance practice is cancelled today.” 

“Really?” You ask as you glance over at him and hope your eyes don’t tell him that you would have appreciated this information last night. 

“Yeah. Seonghwa-hyung is out of commission with the fever, San and Wooyoung won’t get back until midday, and Mingi’s not doing too hot. So we figured we could all use a break.” 

“Oh.” 

“The formations wouldn’t work with just the five of us.” Yunho explains, watching you take in the information for a moment before you keep moving. “Where are you going?” 

“Practice.” You answer like he hasn’t just told you that practice is canceled. “Need to get the choreo down.” 

“You also need rest.” 

“I need to get caught up more.” You deadpan as you grab your bag, snatching up an apple for your lunch as you pass him. “Enjoy your rest.”

He wants to go after you when you head out the door leaving behind a dorm that doesn’t feel as off as it did yesterday, but still unfamiliar enough to put him on edge. 

He wants to tell you that he sees how hard you’re working and that if anyone needs rest, it’s you. But he has a sinking feeling that even if you didn’t stare at him like he was crazy, you most certainly wouldn’t accept it. 

He doesn’t know how to reach you, how to correct his mistakes and horrible decisions but he knows he won’t achieve anything by standing in the kitchen like an idiot. 

He gets to work getting breakfast ready for everyone, figuring he can at least make sure everyone’s bellies are full for the day ahead. 

Aside from maybe Yeosang, Yunho has a feeling he won’t see most of them up and about in a while. 

Jongho sleeps like a hibernating bear at the best of times. 

Mingi was still tossing and turning and throwing up when he'd checked on him earlier, and Yunho's grateful that they all decided to get rid of the alcohol in the dorm last night to help ease the man into sobriety. 

Seonghwa’s doing his best to kick the fever, and Hongjoong will be dead to the world for most of the day. The man hasn’t had more than three consecutive hours of sleep in weeks, and Yunho refuses to be what wakes him up now that he’s finally getting some actual rest. 

He’ll just make the food and put most of it in the fridge for everyone to eat once they’re ready to leave their rooms. 

While he cooks, he can’t stop thinking about you though. You were more direct with him this morning than you’ve been in a long time, but he knows that’s not necessarily a good thing. 

He’s aware that you’re a hard worker, you don’t get to this level if you’re not, but he’s starting to wonder just how hard you push yourself. 

Yeosang said he’d met you at the gym last night, and before that you’d spent at least three hours dancing, and now you’re denying yourself rest in order to get more dancing in. 

The only one in the group with a tendency to work that hard at their dancing is San, and even he had calmed down a bit once he started getting recognized for it, finally having proved himself. 

But you’re overworking yourself for praise you think will never come, and the idea of it tears at Yunho's insides.

Another sad thought crosses his mind, and it makes him feel like crying. 

Maybe you went to the studio because you can’t stand the thought of spending a day around them at home with no cameras around to keep them on their best behavior. 

He hears footsteps approaching, and like he’d guessed, Yeosang is the first one out of his room. 

“You’re up early.” Yunho says over his shoulder as he stirs the soup. 

“So are you.” Yeosang answers, taking stock of the food being prepared before he sits down at the table to watch Yunho work. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Not really. You?” 

“Barely.” Yeosang leans back in his chair, eyes a million miles away as he continues. “Is Chan-ah still sleeping?”

“No. She was already up and on her way out the door when I came in.” 

“Did you tell her practice was canceled?” 

There’s something in Yeosang’s voice that Yunho doesn’t like, and when he turns to look at him, his brother has his sharp eyes trained on him, staring him down. 

“Of course I did. I’m not that cruel.” 

The slight twitch of Yeo’s eyebrows has an indignant flush creeping up Yunho’s neck.

“You think I would have, even before all this shit happened?” 

Yeosang holds his gaze for a moment longer, making the dread settle in Yunho’s stomach before he decides to speak again. 

“No.” Yeosang says with a shake of his head. “You weren’t nice but you wouldn’t play tricks on her.” 

“Thank you.” Yunho scoffs, turning around to keep stirring the soup. “I told her to get some rest but she insisted on going to the studio, and I didn’t know if I should stop her or not.” 

“Did you happen to see if she’d had anything to eat before she left?” 

Yeosang’s voice is quiet but Yunho catches every word, and a fear he hadn’t even considered settles at the pit of his stomach. 

“There were no dishes.” He says, turning back to Yeosang to watch his face turn grim. 

“Fuck.” He sighs, slumping in his seat. “I was hoping she’d trust me to handle it.” 

“Handle what, Yeosangie?” Yunho says, almost afraid to ask but needing to know. 

“They have her on a diet. And not the good kind.” 

He’d always noticed you were on the skinny side but Yunho had figured with how much you danced and kept up with them, that was no surprise. But he supposes they really hadn’t been paying enough attention. 

“How bad do you think?” 

“She was practically shaking after the gym, and when we were at the restaurant, she ate like she’d never seen food before.” Yeosang says, looking at him with a defeated expression he’s never seen on the man before. “I told her she didn’t need to lose weight, that we’d handle it but… I guess I shouldn’t be surprised she doesn’t trust me.” 

“We’re going to change that.” Yunho says with as much confidence as he can muster, but he’s not sure if he’s trying to convince Yeosang or himself. 

“How though?” Yeosang sighs. “Even if it’s all the company putting it on her, we don’t know how long it’s been going on and what damage it’s done to her.” 

The physically and mentally is unspoken yet still loud between them. 

They all know the downsides of the industry even if they’ve been mostly spared at KQ, and how much harder it is on female idols, but they would have thought the company would at least protect you the same way it does them. 

Apparently they were wrong. 

“First I think we talk to the hyungs about how to go about it.” Yunho says, finally pulling the soup from the stove as Yeosang gets up to help set the table. “This is really something we don’t want to get wrong.” 

“Agreed.” The younger says as he gets bowls out of the cabinet. “She has enough problems as it is without starving herself.” 

“Agreed.” Yunho echoes, eyes far away as he dives deep into his thoughts. “She was crying after she talked to her brother last night.” 

“Really?” Yeosang stares at him. “How do you know?” 

“I heard her when I went to the bathroom, I wasn’t snooping or anything.”

The look Yeosang sends him practically spells out the really? that he doesn't say out loud, and Yunho would be blind if he didn't catch it.  

“I'm not a creep, Sangie.” He rolls his eyes. “I just didn't know what to do so I was just kind of stuck.” 

“You could've knocked.” 

“Do you honestly think she would have wanted me there if I had? After the way I've treated her?” 

“No, you're right. She probably would have slammed the door in your face.” 

“If I was lucky.” Yunho sighs.

“So we start small, like hyung said last night. Start showing her she can trust us and maybe she'll start letting us in a bit more?” 

“How do you suggest we do that? She practically runs at the sight of me.” 

“So catch her somewhere she can't run.” 

Yunho shoots him a deadpan stare and Yeosang looks a bit panicked when he realizes.

“Okay that sounded wrong. I meant, approach her where she wants to be more than she wants to run from you.” 

“The only possible in I have with her is the dancing.” 

“So start there. You said she want to the studio even though it's a rest day, so she's either struggling with the choreography or she's a perfectionist and won't quit until someone tells her it's good enough.” 

“You really think she'd listen to me?” Yunho asks, doubtful that anything he has to say could ever be taken as anything other than bad in your world. 

“You're the dance leader for a reason.” 

“Not officially.” 

“Who cares about officially? She was always looking for your approval in the studio, everyone could see it. So give it to her.” 

“Think that'll be enough?” 

“Not even close.” Yeosang says a soft smile. “But it's a start.” 

That was all fine and good, but standing outside the studio, Yunho is starting to have second thoughts about the plan.  

He can hear the music, he can hear the clicking of heels hitting the floor as you move, and for the first time since his childhood, he feels awkward entering a dance studio. 

But he only has a year, and Rome wasn't built in a day or whatever they say, so he takes a deep breath and opens the door.  

The familiar notes of Halazia practically smack him in the face when he enters, and he watches you lost in a world of movement and frustration as you dance.

You're constantly behind on the beat, tired feet not moving at the speed they need to be, and even as you move, Yunho can see your legs shake.

You stop in the middle of the song with a groan of frustration, bending over as you struggle to catch your breath, the sweat pouring down your face as you try to will your legs to not give out.

“Time for a break?” Yunho asks over the music, once again making you jump and feeling just as guilty as the last time he did it.  

You look up at him, the exhaustion unable to hide the confusion on your face as you watch him walk up to the computer to turn the music off.

“What are you doing here?” You ask as you stumble over to your water bottle, cursing under your breath when you find it already empty.

“Figured I'd come see how you're doing seeing as you refuse to take the day off.” 

You visibly bristle at his words and he realizes what they must sound like, but he also can't completely change up or you'll get even more suspicious of all of them.

“I'm fine.” You say, your eyes leaving his when your rude way of speaking becomes clear to your exhausted brain. “Nothing you need to worry about.” 

As if he'd ever worry about you.

“Well, when a member refuses rest and overwork themselves it can become an issue so it's better to get ahead of it before they collapse.” 

“I'm not going to collapse.” You bite out with forced politeness even though you literally look like you're seconds away from crumbling onto the floor.

“Still. Better to be safe than sorry.” Yunho says as he approaches, reaching you a plastic bag. “We had breakfast left over. For a snack. You need the energy if you're going to keep dancing this hard.”

Your eyes lock onto the bag and Yunho can finally see for himself what Yeosang was talking about. You're tensed like you're using every muscle and will inside of yourself to keep from leaping at the food.  

“I have snacks.” You mumble even though Yunho can practically see you salivating at the thought of actual food.

“That apple you put in your bag before you left? That's not enough and I'm sure you know that. You spend that many calories just by breathing.”

“Yeah well, not much I can do about that.” You sigh, turning away from him and the food as if not seeing it will make you want it less.  

“No staff here to see you eat.”

It's a gamble, a risky one, especially since he hasn't talked to Hongjoong or Seonghwa about it yet, but Yeosang had seen it and Yunho trusts his brother implicitly.

You're frozen in your tracks, a hand halfway into your bag, as if his words triggered a literal freeze response.  

“You don't know shit.” You hiss, head turning ever so slightly to where you're not meeting his eye but enough to show him your profile.

You really do look skinny.  

“I know you can't starve yourself if you keep moving like this. You'll break from the inside out.”

“It's not my choice.” You mutter and for a moment you look smaller than he remembers. “Get yelled at if I don't do it.” 

“Not anymore.” Yunho says and he's sure Hongjoong is going to yell at him for having this conversation without talking it through with him first, but he'll live with that. “What Yeosang told you yesterday still stands. This is something we've always been firm on, regardless which member is concerned.”

“Why do you give a shit? I thought you'd be happy at the thought of me having to leave the group.” 

The shame burns inside of him and it takes a considerable amount of restraint to not break down and beg you for forgiveness.  

“That may have been true at one point, but I don't think it is anymore.” 

You finally look at him and he'd be blind not to see the way your eyes turn glossy as his words replay in your head.  

“If this is a joke-” 

“It's not.” 

“If it is, it's the cruelest fucking thing any of you have ever done to me.” 

“I'm not joking.” Yunho says, forcing himself to meet your eyes even when the barely concealed pain in them shoots daggers through him. “I want the tension to stop. I want you to be able to breathe around us.” 

“Why?” You whisper, tears running down your face and it hits him like a punch in the gut how beautiful you look when you finally allow your mask to drop. 

“Because you don't deserve to walk around on egg shells in your own home, or feel like we'll bite your head off if you put a toe out of line.” 

“You have before.” 

Yunho knows you mean most of them have, but all he can think about is the way he used to snap at you to keep up with them, to practice more, to stay behind when they were done until you got it right.

“I'm sorry.” He says and the shame is so clear in his voice it physically startles you. “You didn't deserve it. Any of it. I was upset about Mingi's situation. I took it out on you and that wasn't fair.” 

“It wasn't.” You say, voice a tad softer than before and Yunho chooses to see that as a victory. “I'm not forgiving you.” 

“You shouldn't.” 

“But I appreciate the apology even if I can't accept it. I know shit was hard for all of you when I joined and Mingi was gone but that didn't give you the right to treat me like I'd just fucking killed him.” 

“I know.” 

“So what did you bring?” You ask after several moments of tense silence and the most eye contact Yunho has ever had with you, nodding to the bag still in his hand.  

“Kimchi pancakes, rice, and bean sprout soup.” He's unable to hold back his smile as he once again reaches you the bag, watching you take it this time. “Yeosang has already eaten it if you're worried about me poisoning you.” 

“You cooked this?” You gawk at him.

“Don't look so surprised, I know how to cook.” Yunho scoffs but he's doing his best to make it obvious he's not scolding you.

“Sorry, I just didn't-” Your eyes drop to the ground as you fidget with the handles of the bag. “I didn't expect it.”  

“It's okay,” He shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess we don't really know a lot about each other, do we?” 

“No. We don't.” You say and even though you're not as hostile as before, your tone is sharp enough to let him know that he's the whole reason for it.

“How about you take a break and eat something, and then we can go over the choreography if you'd like.” 

It's an obvious olive branch and he's terrified you'll dismiss it or scream at him to leave you alone, but the tiny smile pulling at the corner of your mouth has him breathing a little easier.  

“You're actually serious about this whole forgiveness thing, huh?”

“I am.” Yunho says, hoping with everything he has that he comes across as sincere as he is. “But it's not just about that. You deserve people being decent to you, regardless of if you ever forgive us or not. Now eat something.” 

After that he sits down beside you, doing his best to not let the awkward silence return with a bit of small talk. He sneaks a discreet look at your heeled feet, and the way you try to stop the hiss of pain when you finally get the shoes off, has him making up his mind.  

He's getting you proper shoes for practice and he'll make sure Hongjoong talks to whoever he needs to in order to get you out of the heels permanently for performances.

He wonders how good a dancer you will be when your feet are no longer killing you.   

Chapter 3 Chapter 5

Taglist

Yeosang wants to say that it’s fine, but another message comes through, and considering everything that’s been happening, he supposes he should look to at least see what’s going on. 

He would have expected Wooyoung again but is surprised to see Yunho’s name on the screen, and he sounds off even over text, not that Yeosang blames him given the day they’ve all seemed to have. 

“Hey, when do you think you’ll be back at the dorm?” 

“We have something we all need to talk to you about and we can’t do it over the phone.”

“Seriously, when will you be here? Just text back so we know.” 

“You haven’t noticed anything weird today have you?” 

“Actually, ignore that. Just get home safe, alright?” 

Yeosang supposes none of the others know if he’s aware of what’s going on. He should feel annoyed by how little they think he pays attention to his surroundings, but as he gets into the car with you to head back to the dorm, he smiles to himself. 

This is going to be fun. 

He opens the apartment door and lets you walk in first, the voices coming from the living room immediately quieting when they hear the door open. 

Yeosang can’t help but smile when he walks into the living room behind you, watching all of them take you in with varying degrees of emotions, each one of them more distressed than the last, only to gawk at him when they see you together. 

“Sorry I didn’t respond right away.” He says, not feeling very sorry at all and he knows it shows. “We went to dinner after the gym.” 

He can tell his demeanor confuses them, that they’re not sure if he knows what’s going on or not, if he’s also back alongside them, but he's enjoying watching them squirm. 

What brings him out of his giddiness however is looking at you. 

You take all of them in, Wooyoung and San on a laptop in a video call, and the other five sitting around it, clearly discussing something that isn’t for your ears, and just staring at you like you don’t belong among them. 

“Chan-ah,” Yunho says, the only one still capable of speech apparently, and they all see the way the unfamiliar informal way of saying your name throws you off, making the guilt burn hotly in all of them. “Do you, um, mind if we talk to Yeosang alone?” 

Before all of this happened, they wouldn’t have seen the brief flash of hurt that passes over your face, lord knows they wouldn’t have cared enough to pay attention, but now it’s like they have a big flashing neon sign pointing it out. 

“Of course not. I was just heading to bed anyway.” 

Yeosang knows you weren’t, but you leave the living room before he can even think to say anything, and all he’s left with is the silent stares of his brothers. 

“What did you want to talk about?” He asks as he walks up to them and sits down on the couch, not as giddy this time when most of them shoot each other uncertain looks like they’re not sure how to do this without breaking his brain. 

“You’ve um,” Hongjoong looks at Seonghwa like he’d wish for nothing but to let the older man take over but seeing as said man looks about ready to keel over, he’s the one stuck being the adult in the room. “You’ve been hanging out with Chan today?” 

“Yeah, we met up at the gym and then I treated her to dinner. Why? Am I not allowed to do that?” 

Is he being unfair? Probably. 

Is he enjoying the hell out of it? Absolutely. 

The guys squirm at his words, well deserved if you ask him, and it takes them a moment to gather themselves enough to respond. 

“No.” Hongjoong says, looking appropriately guilty under Yeosang’s deadpan gaze. “No, it’s not that.” 

“Have you noticed anything off today?” Yunho asks. 

It’s vague as hell but Yeosang can’t say he blames him. He wouldn’t know how to get this conversation started either. 

“Like what?” 

Sue him for wanting them to suffer a longer. 

Not surprisingly, Wooyoung is the one to ruin it. 

“Have you traveled back in time too?” 

Well, it was fun while it lasted. 

“Yes.” He says, the ruse being over not stopping the enjoyment he can still wring out of this whole thing. “Noticed as soon as I woke up.” 

“Seriously?” Wooyoung stares at him through the screen, San holding onto the man like he’s the only thing keeping him settled. 

“I pay attention.” Yeosang stares back at him, daring him to say anything else. 

“This is insane.” Seonghwa croaks, and Yunho pats his back when coughs wrack through his body. 

“Do we know if she’s back too?” Mingi whispers, his voice soft like he still can’t believe that this is actually real as he looks around the room. “Does she remember what we- What we did?” 

A shudder runs through them all and they can hear a choked cry come from the laptop, San’s face hidden in Wooyoung’s sweater when they look. 

“It doesn’t seem like it.” Yeosang sighs, unable to keep up the attitude at the sight of San struggling. “She said everyone’s been acting weird but that she couldn’t figure why other than the shoot running late last night and Seonghwa-hyung being sick.” 

“Maybe she’s acting?” Hongjoong says but he doesn’t sound accusatory like he normally would have. 

He sounds scared. 

“Would you have been able to?” Jongho asks, glancing the captain’s way. “Killing yourself, waking up in the past and seeing all the people who made you do it, and then act like everything is normal?” 

The words are chillingly sober, and Yunho looks towards the hallway where your room is located as if to check that you’re not listening in. 

Joke’s on him, you know where you’re not wanted. 

“Okay, so if she doesn’t know, what do we do?” Wooyoung asks, his voice sounding off like he has the same lump in his throat as most of them. 

“What do you mean?” Seonghwa mumbles, mind too heavy and sick to fully keep up. 

“Like, how do we play this? Do we tell her? Do we not?” 

“I don’t think she’d react very favorably to us telling her the truth, do you?” Jongho scoffs, and once again he speaks the truth. “Best case scenario she tells someone and we all go to a mental hospital.” 

“What’s the worst case?” San asks softly, peeking up from Wooyoung’s shoulder. 

“She thinks we’re fucking with her, and we push her closer to the edge.” Mingi says, exhausted eyes looking out over all of them. “I’m not okay with that.” 

“None of us are, Mingi.” Hongjoong speaks up, his voice firm and the most leader-like they’ve heard him in a while. “We won’t let it happen again.” 

“If we start treating her well out of the blue, she’ll think we’ve lost our minds.” Seonghwa says, slumping against Jongho as what little energy he has is starting to run out. 

“We have.” Mingi responds bleakly. 

“So we take it easy.” Yunho says, ignoring his best friend’s words but squeezing his hand to show he’s heard him. “Do our best to not overwhelm her, and take it one day at a time.” 

“And no one tells her.” Hongjoong adds, looking each and everyone in the eye. “None of this is going to be easy on any of us, but we’re not messing it up this time. Agreed?” 

All of them nod in silent agreement, and Seonghwa is finally allowed to conk out, tucked into Jongho’s side, as they continue to talk about how soon they can get Wooyoung and San back home. 

When you finally slip into bed after doing your final set of stretches for the night, you’re somehow more mentally exhausted than physically. 

The live and the nasty looks you got for daring to eat a mouthful of your own birthday cake had nearly broken you, but it’s the scene you walked in on when you returned to the dorm that has your heart screaming. 

You’re more than used to the guys disregarding you when they hang out at night, gaming or watching movies together, but tonight it just hit too close to home. 

The sound of a very drunk Felix trying to imitate a kookaburra fills your room and you reach for your phone, not needing to check who’s calling.

“Hey kiddo!” 

Your brother’s voice usually soothes you but tonight it’s bringing tears to your eyes, and you have to fight tooth and nail to not Chris hear it. 

“Hi.” 

“I’m sorry it’s late but I just got back from work.” He says and you can hear him unlocking the front door to let himself in. “How’s my favorite ankle biter?” 

“I better be your only ankle biter, you cunt.” You scoff, before you amend. “At least until you have kids.” 

“And even then you’ll be the top ankle biter.” Chris chuckles softly and you can see the gentle smile on his face in your mind clear as day. 

“You really think your future wife would be okay with that?” You ask as you get comfortable in bed. 

“I wouldn’t marry someone who wasn’t.” 

The certainty in his voice has the tears springing into your eyes unbidden and you have to cough to clear the lump in your throat. 

“You know that basically only leaves Felix right?” 

“I mean, the kids would be adorable.” Chris laughs and as cute as the images of little freckled rugrats with protruding ears running around is, you want to gag. 

“So gross.” 

“Homophobic much?” 

“Shut the fuck up. More like I’m against incest.” 

“We’re not siblings.” 

“In all but blood, you cunt.” 

“Fiiiine. I won’t seduce him then.” Chris very obviously says with a roll of his eyes, accent thickening just to make you smile. “Happy?” 

“Ecstatic.” Your voice is deadpan but you know your brother still hears the smile in it. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“I know.” He laughs, sounding so pleased with himself. “So how are you doing? I meant to catch your live earlier but something came up at lunch and then it’s just been headless chicken mode since.” 

“I’m alright.” You lie, squeezing Wolfie to your chest and wishing it was Chris instead. “Nothing much happened since everyone’s busy preparing for the comeback, so you didn’t miss much.” 

You want so desperately to tell him not to watch the live, knowing he’ll see straight through your performance, but you know him well enough to know that would backfire. 

“Still. It’s your almost birthday.” Chris says. “I want to be there with you, even if it’s through a recording.” 

“Too tired for that one, Chris.” You mumble and this time you know he can hear the tears in your voice. 

“Sorry. It’s just been so long so I saw you.” He says, his voice gentle like he doesn’t want to push you. “I miss you.” 

“I miss you too.” You whisper, hugging Wolfie tighter as the tears slip down your face. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to come home a lot.” 

“You don’t have to be sorry, kiddo. We knew this wasn’t going to be a walk in the park when we talked about you going to Seoul to do this. For either of us. I’d never blame you for any of it.” 

“I know,” You sniffle. “That doesn’t make me feel less guilty though.” 

“I know.” Chris says, staying quiet for a moment before he speaks up again. “Maybe I could come out there for a bit? You know, catch you between schedules for lunch or coffee or just sitting with you during breaks?” 

You want it so bad you feel like throwing up but the stress of everything you’ve kept hidden from him stops you from saying yes. 

You’d like nothing more than for him to just show up one day, wrap you up in one of those Chris-hugs that you love so much and not let you go for 24 hours. 

But it can’t happen. Because he can’t find out. 

“I don’t think I could swing that, Chris. I’m sorry. There’s just too much going on and I don’t know how the company would feel about me dragging you out here.” 

“You wouldn’t be dragging me, kid, you know that.” 

“I know.” You sigh, the guilt eating you alive. “I know.” 

“I won’t come if you don’t think it’ll go over well.” Chris says and he sounds so understanding, it’s making you want to tell him about the lie, get all of the darkness out of you so you can finally breathe again. 

But you know your brother, he’d riot and burn the world and everyone who ever hurt you to the ground, and then he’d spend the rest of his life feeling guilty over not being there for you, for not seeing what you’d been hiding for years. 

It’s better for everyone that he just never finds out. 

Maybe not for you, but that part isn’t important.

“I’m sorry, Chris.” You sigh, wiping your tears and silently apologizing to Wolfie for getting his fur all wet. “I’m sorry this sucks so much.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, kiddo. We’ll figure it out like we always have, yeah?” 

“Yeah.” You give a wet chuckle, knowing from experience that your brother will stop at nothing to protect you. “You and me against the world, right?” 

“You, me and the Lee´s.” Chris amends cheekily making you give a proper chuckle this time. “They said hi by the way.” 

“Tell them hi back.” 

“I always do whether you tell me to or not.” He laughs only for it to be interrupted by a yawn, and you glance at your alarm clock, realizing it’s almost 2 am for him. 

“Get some actual sleep, would you? I can’t take Felix nagging me about keeping you up too late again.” 

“I fell asleep one time!”

“In class.”

“I'm the teacher, it's fine if I do it.”

“I think it's actually the literal opposite.”

“Fine, you win. But only because I'm tired and I can't think thoughts anymore.” He yawns again, still with what sounds like a smile on his face. “I love you, kiddo.” 

“Love you too.” 

You hang up the phone and put it away, pop a melatonin, and snuggle up under the covers as the deeper emotions you’ve been able to hide during the call, finally break the surface. 

You miss Chris so fucking much and no amount of talking on the phone is ever going to fix that. 

You cry yourself to sleep, and the last thought that enters your mind before you slip off into a less that restful sleep, is that maybe you should go back to Mr Shin and revisit the discussion of terminating your contract early. Maybe there is something that can be done about repaying the debt you owe that he hadn't thought of before.

Yunho stays outside your door until he can’t hear your sobs anymore. His plan of going to the bathroom after the discussion amongst the group had cooled off, completely forgotten as soon as he heard the sound of you crying. 

Part of him wanted to knock on your door as soon as he heard it and check in on you. Let you know he's here if you ever want to talk. But he just stands there, frozen in place and helpless as he listens to you cry yourself to sleep all alone in your room.

He's never heard you cry before, and he doubts you'd appreciate him letting you know he finally has, much less talk to him about your feelings when he has done absolutely nothing to earn that privilege.

As the sound of your distress fades, he finds himself finally able to breathe a little easier, even though he knows your pain remains the same.

The sound of it is something he doubts he will ever forget, and he makes himself a promise there outside your door, that he will do everything he can to make sure you never cry because of them again.

He forces himself to keep moving towards the bathroom, telling himself that tomorrow is a new day, and he will make damn sure they all make the best of it. 

Chapter 2 Chapter 4

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Why isn’t it there? No one would have dared to touch it, let alone move it, so where is it? 

Did he move it last night without realizing? No, he wouldn’t have. He hasn’t been able to touch it since the company returned it to him still in the plastic bag the police had put it in. 

Seonghwa is the one who hung it up for him.

He gets out of bed and looks around his room for a long moment. There’s something off but he just can’t put his finger on what that could be other than the fact that his jacket is missing. The room feels emptier somehow, like something that used to fill the space is no longer there but he can’t for the life of him figure out what that is. 

His stomach growls loudly, pulling him away from his thoughts. He hadn’t eaten properly the day before, He'd been too nervous about being back on a stage that was missing one of its members, that he’d barely been able to keep anything down except for the few snacks Seonghwa had managed to get him to eat by telling him that it was going to be alright. His hyung has been telling that lie for a while now. 

Even with this apparent hangover, Yunho supposes he should try to eat something today, so he slips into his slippers and makes his way out of his room, down the hallway, and out to the kitchen. 

Everyone else’s doors are closed so he must be the first one up, and he pointedly ignores looking at the door to your bedroom. He wonders if they could speed up the process of finding another place to live, so at least their living space won’t be a reminder of the things they did to you.

Every other aspect of their lives are reminders enough. 

He can hear the soft sounds of someone in the kitchen and he wonders which one of the guys ever closes their bedroom door when they leave, when he rounds the corner and freezes at the sight in front of him. 

You. 

You’re standing in the kitchen. Dressed in the I heart Sydney hoodie that your brother gave you before you moved to Korea (they’d all heard him crying in your room when he’d packed it up). You’re quietly making yourself a thermos mug of tea, like you’re just about ready to head out the door to go to the studio. 

“Chan?” Yunho’s voice cracks, half-expecting you to fade away when he breaks the silence, but instead you startle and turn around to face him. 

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” You ask softly, looking like you’re terrified he's about to start yelling at you. 

He doesn’t think.

It doesn’t matter if this is a dream. 

He runs to you, wrapping his arms around you in what he’s gutted to realize is your first real hug, tears running down his face as he squeezes you tighter. You even smell like yourself, a subtle scent of vanilla from whatever products you used to use, and he’s surprised his dream self can remember even your scent. 

He never wants to wake up. 

“Y-Yunho-ssi?” You stammer, pushing against him like a cat being restrained. A very gentle cat. “Are you alright? Should I get someone?” 

You sound worried about him. He has done nothing to deserve it but you’re in his arms offering to get someone who can make him feel better. 

“I’m- I’m fine, Chan-ah.” He sniffles, and you stiffen further, the unfamiliar way of saying your name making you push against him harder. 

“I’m getting Seonghwa-ssi.” You say as you manage to slip out of his arms, heading out of the kitchen but Yunho grabs a hold of your wrist to keep you from leaving. 

You’re so small in his grip. How could they ever have thought they wouldn’t break you the way they were going? 

“P-please let go, Yunho-ssi.” You whisper, actually sounding scared of him and Yunho drops your wrist like it’s burned him. 

“I’m sorry.” He says, the words sticking in his throat as he stares at you in a way that must make him look crazy, the salt of his tears sticky on his face. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“Maybe you should, um, go back to bed.” You mumble, avoiding his eyes like he remembers you usually did, bowing your head as you grab your thermos of tea. “Get some sleep, feel better, yeah?” 

He doesn’t want you to leave. He tries to control the dream to keep you in the kitchen but you just throw him one last apprehensive look and one final proper bow before you head out, leaving him standing there. Alone and confused. 

What the fuck is going on? 

He does what the dream-version of you told him to do; he goes back to bed. He doesn’t get much sleep but he does manage to drift off for a bit, enough for what he assumes will allow him to wake back up properly to the awful reality where you no longer exist. 

When he does wake up, he can’t tell whether he’s still asleep. His room still feels just off enough for it to annoy him, his jacket is still missing from its place, and the headache is still pounding behind his eyes. 

He glances at your door when he passes it on his way to grab something to eat. Still closed, just like it had been in his dream. Like it has been since your brother had shut it after getting all of your belongings, leaving nothing to remember you by but the jacket that up until this morning permanently hung on Yunho’s door. 

Everyone else is still asleep but Yunho isn’t surprised. He’s always the first one up on dance practice days, it’s kind of his job as main dancer and unofficial dance leader to get to the company early and get the work done. 

He makes himself a smoothie and grabs a snack before he gets dressed for the day, and heads out the door. 

Normally he’d call a manager to pick him up but even with the rain still coming down, he has a feeling the walk will help his headache. 

The same odd feeling from his bedroom is present at the company, but here he can pinpoint at least one thing that’s off. 

None of the material from your last tour is up, no promotions or posters or framed pictures, and the memorial for you at the entrance is gone which makes him irrationally angry. The director should've at least told them they were taking it down. 

The mood of the staff seems lighter than it has been since your passing, but Yunho can’t think of anything that could have possibly caused it. Everyone has been in a depressive state since that morning meeting where their whole world crumbled, to the point where it almost seems pointless for anyone to keep coming into work. 

He greets the people he meets but otherwise keeps his head down until he gets to the floor of the dance studio where music is already playing. He’s usually the first one in and it doesn't makes sense for the music to be on when no one’s scheduled for practice.

He opens the door and freezes in the doorway. 

You’re here. 

Dressed in the same clothes you wore in his dream, drenched in sweat as you walk over to the phone propped up in front of the mirror to watch yourself back. 

You glance up at the mirror and as soon as you see him, an apology leaves your mouth as you immediately run over to the computer to shut the music off. 

“Sorry,” You apologize once the studio is lapsed into silence and Yunho hasn't stopped staring at you. “I didn’t think you’d be here yet.” 

“What are you doing here?” He asks, his brain fried enough that he doesn’t notice the way you flinch at the question. 

“I’m- I’m sorry, I was just… Trying to get a piece of the choreo right so I didn’t bother anyone else with it.” 

You can’t even look at him, eyes flitting around like you’re trying to be respectful while still terrified of actually meeting his gaze. 

“How are you back?” He asks softly, stepping towards you, the need to reach out to you strong enough for you to sense as you take a barely noticeable step back from him. 

“What do you mean? I came back with Seonghwa-ssi last night, we finished the shoot at the same time.” You look so confused when you answer him, and maybe even a little worried. “You were still up playing video games when we came hom- um, back.” 

“What?” 

“Okay, I know I asked you before, but are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” You do indeed look worried now, even taking a tentative step toward him like you’re not sure how to help but wanting to do something. 

“What choreo are you working on?” He asks, a frightening thought settling in his mind and sending chills down his spine. 

“Halazia?” You blink up at him like he’s lost his mind. “I was having trouble with it the day before yesterday and you told me to practice, so I figured I’d get a head start. You don’t remember?” 

Later, once Yunho has thoroughly freaked out about the reality of this whole thing, he’ll realize that this is the most you’ve ever spoken to him in the absence of a camera, but for now he just keeps staring at you. 

“The last practice we had was for Not Okay.” He says, the irony of the song title not lost on him, but you just tilt your head as you continue to blink up at him. 

“Um, Yunho-ssi, I- I don’t know what song that is. Is it a cover because no one told me about-” 

“No, it’s our song.” He presses, feeling the panic gripping him. “We’re about to release it.” 

His headache is growing, his skull feels like it’s about to explode, and yet you’re still standing here in front of him like you’re actually here, staring at him like he’s lost his mind. 

Maybe he has. 

“I’m going to call… somebody.” You mumble as you rush to your phone, hands shaking as you try to enter your passcode and failing. “Can you, um, smile for me?” 

“What?” The strange question shakes him out of it a bit. 

“Right, that doesn’t seem like an appropriate question. Um, can you lift both your arms above your head?” 

“I’m… I’m not having a stroke.” Yunho blinks even though logically it would make a lot of sense. 

“Are you sure? Cause I’m probably rude for saying it but you don’t look okay right now.” 

He’s sure he doesn’t. 

You’re standing in front of him, alive, speaking to him, worried about him.