Currently On Hiatus

You had a very specific skill.

Deflecting compliments.

Not in a cute, shy way either. You treated praise like it was a dodgeball being hurled directly at your face.

“Your hair looks nice today.”

“Does it? I think it’s greasy.”

“That photo you took is amazing.”

“The lighting did all the work.”

“You did so well during filming.”

“I literally just stood there.”

It drove everyone in ATEEZ insane.

Especially because every compliment they gave you was true.

“You know,” San said one afternoon, staring at you with narrowed eyes from across the practice room floor, “if you reject one more compliment, I’m going to start charging you emotional damages.”

You looked up from your laptop. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Wooyoung argued immediately. “You wound us every day.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“And you’re allergic to self-esteem,” Yeosang muttered.

You pointed at him. “See? That’s rude.”

“That wasn’t a compliment,” he said calmly. “That was an observation.”

The others burst into laughter.

You groaned, sinking farther into the couch.

It had started innocently enough. Tiny things the members noticed over months of working with you.

The way you stayed late to help staff clean up after schedules.

How you remembered everyone’s coffee orders without writing them down.

How you always carried pain patches in your bag because Jongho inevitably overworked himself.

How you edited behind-the-scenes photos at three in the morning just because you wanted the members to have nice memories saved somewhere.

You never thought much of it.

To you, those things were normal.

To ATEEZ, apparently, they were proof that you were secretly one of the best people alive.

Unfortunately, they’d decided it was time to make you acknowledge that fact.

Which was how you found yourself trapped in the practice room after rehearsal while eight men stared at you like they were preparing an intervention.

“This feels threatening,” you said slowly.

“It is,” Hongjoong confirmed.

Mingi dragged a chair dramatically across the floor and sat down backward on it. “Today’s agenda: fixing your inability to take compliments.”

“No thank you.”

“Request denied,” Yunho said brightly.

You looked toward the door.

San noticed immediately and lunged across the room to block it with his body.

“San!”

“You’re not escaping growth.”

“I don’t want growth!”

“That’s exactly what someone in need of growth would say.”

Wooyoung clapped enthusiastically. “He’s learning therapy language again.”

“TikTok psychology is dangerous,” Seonghwa sighed.

Hongjoong crossed his arms. “Okay. New rule. Every time you reject a compliment, we give you five more.”

Your face twisted in horror. “That’s evil.”

“Thank you,” he said proudly.

“It wasn’t—”

“Too late. That counts.”

The first attack came from Yunho.

“You make every schedule less stressful,” he said easily. “Even when everyone’s exhausted, you somehow keep the atmosphere comfortable.”

You immediately waved him off. “That’s because you guys are easy to be around.”

“Wrong answer,” Wooyoung declared.

“Penalty compliments!”

“No—”

Seonghwa leaned forward. “You’re one of the most thoughtful people I know.”

“Your smile makes people relax,” Jongho added quietly.

“You always notice when someone’s mood changes,” Yeosang said.

“You smell nice,” Mingi contributed.

Everyone turned to stare at him.

“What?” he defended. “It’s true.”

Your entire face burned.

“This is horrible,” you muttered into your hands.

San grinned. “Aw, look. She’s blushing.”

“I hate all of you.”

“No you don’t,” Wooyoung said immediately. “You literally packed extra snacks for us this morning because you knew we’d skip lunch.”

“That’s just basic preparation.”

Hongjoong pointed aggressively. “There! See? She did it again!”

“Penalty compliments!”

You actually made a distressed sound.

Jongho laughed so hard he nearly fell off the couch.

Honestly, that was the worst part.

They were having fun.

An unreasonable amount of fun.

For the next week, it became their favorite game.

You walked into the dorm kitchen one morning wearing an oversized hoodie and immediately froze.

The members were sitting suspiciously quietly around the table.

“No,” you said instantly.

Wooyoung gasped. “We didn’t even say anything yet.”

“You have the faces.”

“What faces?”

“The evil ones.”

San snorted into his cereal.

You tried to back out of the room.

Too slow.

“There she is!” Yunho announced. “The prettiest person in the building.”

You covered your face instantly. “Stop.”

“She’s also talented,” Seonghwa added.

“And funny,” Mingi said.

“And emotionally supportive,” Jongho chimed in.

“And really cute when embarrassed,” Yeosang murmured.

You turned around so fast you nearly walked into the wall.

The room exploded into laughter.

“I’m being bullied,” you complained.

Hongjoong looked genuinely offended. “This is positive reinforcement.”

“This is psychological warfare.”

“Can’t it be both?” Wooyoung asked.

You stopped trusting silence after that.

Silence meant plotting.

Silence meant danger.

One particularly terrifying incident happened during a livestream.

You’d been helping staff off-camera, thinking you were safe because the members were focused on fans.

Then San glanced toward you.

You immediately narrowed your eyes.

He smiled.

That should’ve warned you.

“You know,” he said casually to the camera, “our staff works really hard for us.”

You slowly started backing away.

“And there’s one person especially,” Wooyoung continued smoothly, clearly catching on.

“No,” you whispered.

“She always takes care of us even when she’s tired,” Yunho added.

“She’s honestly one of the kindest people I’ve ever met,” Seonghwa said.

You stared at them in absolute betrayal while thousands of viewers watched this unfold in real time.

Hongjoong actually pointed the camera toward you.

“There she is.”

You nearly dropped the stack of papers in your hands.

“Say hi!”

Your face burned so hot you thought you might actually combust.

“I hate you,” you mouthed silently.

The chat exploded.

SHE’S SO CUTE

LOOK HOW FLUSTERED SHE IS

ATEEZ EXPOSING THEIR STAFF AGAIN 😭

PROTECT HER

“See?” Mingi said proudly. “Even ATINY agrees.”

You vanished from the room immediately while their laughter followed you down the hallway.

Afterward, you refused to speak to them for nearly two hours.

Which only lasted until Jongho appeared beside you with your favorite drink and a quiet, “You know we mean it, right?”

That was the problem.

You did know.

You just… didn’t know what to do with it.

Compliments always felt too big inside your chest. Like clothes that didn’t fit right.

You never knew how to hold praise without immediately trying to hand it back.

Maybe because accepting it felt arrogant.

Maybe because part of you genuinely struggled to see what everyone else saw.

Or maybe you were just more comfortable being useful than being appreciated.

Unfortunately, ATEEZ noticed everything.

Including that.

It happened properly one night after practice.

Everyone was exhausted, sprawled around the studio floor with water bottles and sweat-damp hair.

You’d spent most of rehearsal helping reorganize files, fixing a speaker issue, and running around grabbing things people forgot.

Normal.

Unimportant.

At least to you.

You were packing your bag quietly when Hongjoong suddenly spoke.

“You know what your problem is?”

You looked up warily. “That question never ends well.”

“You think people only value you for what you do.”

The room went oddly quiet.

Your fingers stilled against your backpack zipper.

“That’s not true.”

“Yes it is,” Yeosang said gently.

“You always brush off compliments about yourself,” Seonghwa added softly. “But if we praise something you did for us, you accept it easier.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

Because annoyingly enough, they were right.

Mingi sat cross-legged on the floor, expression unusually serious now. “You act like being loved has to be earned every second.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

“Guys—”

“No, listen,” Yunho interrupted carefully. “We’re not complimenting you because you help us. We compliment you because you’re you.”

San nodded immediately. “The helping is extra.”

“You make rooms feel safer,” Jongho said quietly.

“You listen without making people feel judged,” Seonghwa added.

“You care about people in a way that’s rare,” Hongjoong said.

Wooyoung pointed dramatically at you. “And you’re important to us even when you’re doing absolutely nothing.”

Your eyes burned instantly.

Oh.

Oh, that was unfair.

“You can’t just say things like that,” you muttered weakly.

“Why not?” Yeosang asked.

“Because—”

You stopped.

Because what?

Because you didn’t believe it?

Because hearing it made something fragile crack open inside you?

The room stayed quiet.

Not teasing this time.

Just patient.

You stared down at your hands.

“I don’t know how to accept compliments,” you admitted finally, voice embarrassingly small.

“We know,” Wooyoung said gently.

“And I think…” You laughed shakily. “I think part of me assumes people are exaggerating.”

Hongjoong leaned back against the wall. “Do eight grown men seem coordinated enough to collectively lie to you this consistently?”

You snorted despite yourself.

“That’s fair.”

“We’re actually very bad at coordination,” Mingi informed you solemnly.

“Especially Wooyoung.”

“Excuse me?”

“You once set off the dorm fire alarm making ramen.”

“That happened one time!”

“Three times,” Jongho corrected.

Wooyoung gasped in betrayal while everyone laughed.

The tension loosened a little.

Then Seonghwa looked at you carefully.

“You don’t have to believe everything immediately,” he said softly. “But maybe stop arguing with us when we care about you.”

Your chest hurt in the warmest way possible.

You blinked rapidly. “You guys are really emotional for people who spend most of their time screaming.”

“We contain multitudes,” San said proudly.

“You cried because your bread tore weirdly last week,” Yeosang reminded him.

“That was a difficult morning.”

Another laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Yunho noticed immediately, smiling so brightly it almost hurt to look at.

“There she is.”

“What?”

“That look,” he said. “You look lighter.”

You rolled your eyes automatically, but the reaction lacked its usual force.

Wooyoung pointed excitedly. “Wait. WAIT. She didn’t reject the compliment!”

The room erupted.

“Oh my god.”

“Mark the calendar!”

“Historic moment!”

“She’s healing!”

You buried your face in your hands again, groaning while everyone cheered dramatically around you.

But this time…

You were laughing too.

You didn’t even realize you were falling apart until Jongho stopped treating it like it was normal.

At first, you thought you were just “busy.”

That was the word you used when you replied to texts two hours late, when you showed up to things slightly more quiet than usual, when you started living on autopilot with a coffee in one hand and a half-finished to-do list in the other.

Busy sounded responsible. Busy sounded temporary.

But Jongho didn’t use that word.

He used: “You look like you’re about to drop.”

And the worst part was, he didn’t say it dramatically. He said it like a fact. Like he was commenting on the weather.

It happened in the practice room.

You’d shown up because you said you would. That was another thing about you—if you promised, you came through, even if your body was basically held together by caffeine and stubbornness.

You were sitting against the mirrored wall, laptop open on your knees, pretending you weren’t slowly losing the ability to focus on anything longer than ten seconds. Someone had music playing in the background. Someone was laughing. Someone was arguing about snack orders.

It all blurred together.

You told yourself you were fine.

You always told yourself that.

Then Jongho crouched in front of you.

Not suddenly. Not loudly. Just… there. Like he’d decided the conversation had officially shifted into something only he could deal with.

“Sleep?” he asked.

You blinked at him. “Huh?”

“When did you sleep last?”

You frowned slightly, already reaching for your usual answer. “I’m fine, I just—”

“Don’t.” His voice wasn’t harsh. That was the problem. It was calm enough that it cut through you cleanly. “Answer the question.”

You hesitated.

“…Last night.”

His eyebrows lifted a fraction.

You tried to soften it immediately. “Okay, not really last night. Like—three hours? I think? I had work and then I—”

“You had three hours of sleep,” he repeated.

You shrugged. “It’s not that bad.”

That was when he stood up.

Not in anger. Not in frustration.

In decision.

“Come on,” he said.

You blinked again. “Where?”

He glanced down at you like the answer should be obvious. “Home.”

“I can’t, I still have—”

“Your laptop is about to fall off your legs,” he pointed out.

You looked down. It was, in fact, slowly sliding.

You fixed it instinctively. “It’s fine.”

Jongho exhaled through his nose like he was physically restraining himself from arguing with your entire personality.

Then he reached down, closed your laptop with one hand, and picked it up like it weighed nothing.

“You’re done,” he said simply.

That’s when you finally looked at him properly.

He wasn’t joking.

“Jongho,” you started, already gearing up for your usual defense system. “I really can’t just—”

“You can,” he interrupted. “You are.”

There was a beat of silence.

Someone across the room called something out—something about grabbing drinks later—but it didn’t reach you properly. Not with Jongho standing there like a wall you couldn’t talk your way around.

“I’m not asking,” he added.

That was the moment you realized he’d already decided.

And worse—

He was right.

You didn’t remember agreeing to leave.

You just remembered suddenly being outside.

The air hit your face colder than expected, and for a second you felt like your body didn’t know what to do without constant motion. Like stopping was the unfamiliar part.

Jongho walked beside you without rushing you.

That was another thing about him. He never dragged. He didn’t need to. He just… stayed close enough that you couldn’t pretend you were alone in your decisions.

“You’re annoying,” you muttered.

“Good,” he replied.

You shot him a look. “That’s not—”

“If you were actually fine,” he said calmly, “you wouldn’t have agreed to leave.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

He continued, “You’re running on caffeine and stress. That’s not sustainable.”

“I’ve done it before.”

“And?”

You hesitated again.

“…And I was fine.”

Jongho stopped walking.

You stopped too, a step late.

He looked at you for a long second. Not judging. Not angry.

Just seeing too much.

“You’re not fine right now,” he said.

That landed heavier than anything else he’d said.

Because he wasn’t guessing.

He was right.

You expected him to take you straight home.

Instead, he detoured.

“Where are we going?” you asked as he turned down a quieter street.

“You’re getting food,” he said.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re getting food anyway.”

You frowned. “That’s not how hunger works.”

He glanced at you briefly. “Your body disagrees.”

You hated that he was correct.

The café he brought you to was small—one of those quiet places that didn’t try too hard. Warm lighting. Wooden tables. The smell of bread and something sweet baking.

You sat down because sitting down felt easier than arguing further.

Jongho ordered for both of you without asking what you wanted.

You noticed.

You also didn’t stop him.

A few minutes later, a plate of warm food and a drink were placed in front of you. Something simple. Something comforting. Something that didn’t require effort to eat.

You stared at it.

“You didn’t even ask me,” you said.

“You would’ve said no,” he replied.

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

“…Rude,” you muttered.

He sat across from you. “Eat.”

“I said I’m not hungry.”

He raised an eyebrow.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

It was ridiculous how quickly you lost that battle.

You picked up the fork.

Took a bite.

And immediately realized you were, in fact, starving.

You didn’t say anything for a while after that.

Neither did he.

That was Jongho’s way of being present. He didn’t fill silence just to avoid it. He let it exist until it wasn’t uncomfortable anymore.

Halfway through your meal, your shoulders started to drop without you noticing.

It scared you a little.

Because you hadn’t realized how tense you’d been.

“You’re always like this?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked up. “Like what?”

“Running until you collapse.”

You scoffed lightly. “I don’t collapse.”

He looked at you flatly.

You sighed. “Okay. I don’t usually collapse.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

You leaned back in your chair. “I get things done. That’s just how I work.”

Jongho tilted his head slightly. “At what cost?”

You didn’t answer immediately.

Because you didn’t have a clean answer.

Eventually you said, “It’s temporary.”

He didn’t respond right away.

Then: “So is burnout.”

That silenced you.

After food, you expected to go home.

Again, you were wrong.

“Where now?” you asked, watching him stand.

“Somewhere you can actually rest,” he said.

You narrowed your eyes. “Define ‘rest.’”

He looked at you for a second.

“…No work,” he said.

“That’s not a place.”

“It is today.”

You groaned quietly but followed him anyway.

Because at this point, resisting him felt like trying to argue with gravity.

He took you somewhere unexpected.

A small park.

Not crowded. Not loud. Just trees and benches and the soft rhythm of life continuing without demanding anything from you.

You stood there for a moment, confused.

“This is your idea of a self-care intervention?” you asked.

“It’s a start,” he said.

You sat down on the bench before he could tell you to.

He sat beside you.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

It was… strange.

Your brain kept reaching for something to do. Something to fix. Something to plan.

But there was nothing to grab onto.

And Jongho didn’t offer anything.

Just presence.

Eventually, your shoulders slumped further.

You exhaled slowly.

“I didn’t realize I was this tired,” you admitted quietly.

Jongho didn’t look surprised.

“That’s the problem,” he said.

You glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

“You notice it last.”

That sat between you.

Not like a criticism.

Like observation.

You leaned back slightly, looking up at the sky through branches.

“I don’t really have time to notice,” you said.

“That’s not true.”

You frowned. “It is.”

He shook his head slightly. “You make it true.”

That made you quiet again.

Because it wasn’t accusing.

It was accurate.

At some point, your phone buzzed.

You ignored it.

It buzzed again.

You checked it instinctively, then froze when you saw the notifications stacking up—messages, reminders, questions, things you’d been supposed to answer hours ago.

Your stomach tightened immediately.

Jongho noticed.

Of course he did.

“Don’t,” he said before you even spoke.

“I need to reply,” you said automatically.

“No.”

You looked at him. “That’s not how responsibilities work.”

He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. “You are not on call.”

“I might be needed.”

“They will survive without you for a day.”

You hesitated.

That was the hardest part to believe.

Not that they would survive.

But that you were allowed not to be available.

You stared at your phone.

Then slowly turned it face down.

Jongho nodded once, like that was the correct answer.

The next hour blurred.

Not in a bad way.

In a quiet way.

You ended up leaning slightly against the bench without realizing it. Your body finally stopped fighting gravity so aggressively.

At some point, Jongho handed you water.

At another, he quietly took your phone again and put it in his pocket when you reached for it out of habit.

You didn’t argue this time.

That scared you a little too.

Eventually you said, “You’re very bossy today.”

He hummed. “You’re very tired every day.”

You huffed a laugh despite yourself.

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s accurate.”

You glanced at him. “Do you always do this?”

“Do what?”

“Force people to take care of themselves.”

He thought about it for a moment.

“No,” he said. “Just people who pretend they don’t need it.”

That landed differently.

Not heavy.

Just true in a way that didn’t let you look away from it.

When the sun started to shift lower, Jongho stood.

“Come on,” he said.

You groaned softly. “More walking?”

“Home,” he clarified.

You looked at him suspiciously. “For real this time?”

“Yes.”

You stood slowly.

Your body felt… different.

Not fixed.

But less sharp around the edges.

Like something had been softened.

Back at your place, you expected him to leave immediately.

He didn’t.

He stood in your kitchen while you awkwardly hovered, unsure what the rules were now.

“You should shower,” he said.

“I know how showers work,” you replied.

He nodded. “Good. Use one.”

You squinted at him. “Are you staying until I do everything?”

“Yes.”

“That’s creepy.”

“It’s accountability.”

You sighed and pointed at him. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re exhausted,” he replied again.

That stopped you mid-retort.

Because it wasn’t new information anymore.

It was just… something you were finally hearing.

After your shower, you came back out expecting him to be gone.

He wasn’t.

He was sitting on your couch, scrolling his phone quietly.

He looked up when you entered.

“Better,” he said simply.

You pulled your blanket around yourself and dropped onto the couch with a tired sound.

“I feel like I got kidnapped by a very calm person,” you muttered.

He nodded. “Effective.”

You snorted softly.

Then silence again.

But this time, it wasn’t empty.

It was safe.

At some point, your head tilted against the couch.

Your eyes felt heavy in a way that didn’t fight you anymore.

Before you drifted off, you heard Jongho say quietly, almost like he was speaking to himself more than you:

“You don’t have to wait until you break to rest.”

You didn’t respond.

You didn’t need to.

Because for once, you were already listening.

And this time—

The first time it happens, you think it’s a joke.

A harmless, slightly annoying, fully predictable Wooyoung kind of joke.

You’re sitting on the couch in the ATEEZ dorm living room, legs tucked under you, half-watching some random variety show while scrolling your phone. The others are scattered around in their own states of chaos—someone is arguing about snacks, someone else is laughing too loudly at something that isn’t even that funny, and you are very deliberately trying to stay out of it.

You are not performing today.

You are not entertaining anyone.

You are simply existing.

Or at least, that’s the plan.

Wooyoung, however, has other ideas.

He appears beside you like a jump scare—leaning over the back of the couch, face upside down in your line of sight.

“Hi,” he says.

You glance up. “Hi.”

Long pause.

Then, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, he nods seriously and says, “Entertain me.”

You blink. “No.”

He straightens instantly, offended. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean no,” you repeat, returning to your phone. “I’m not a TV.”

“You kind of are,” he argues, plopping down beside you. “You have main character energy.”

“I’m literally just sitting.”

“That’s what main characters do before something happens.”

You don’t look up. “Nothing is happening.”

Wooyoung gasps like you’ve insulted his entire bloodline.

And that should’ve been the end of it.

It isn’t.

At first, it’s small things.

He pokes your arm randomly during meals just to see if you’ll react.

He tries to make you laugh during serious conversations with increasingly stupid faces.

He starts narrating your actions like you’re in a documentary.

“And here we observe the rare creature in its natural habitat… refusing to entertain me.”

You sigh. “I’m eating rice.”

“Fascinating behavior.”

You throw a piece of kimchi at him. He catches it with a grin like he’s won something.

The others don’t help. If anything, they enable him.

“Just humor him,” someone says once, as if that’s a normal request.

“He’s bored,” another adds.

“I’m always bored,” Wooyoung announces proudly. “She’s my solution.”

You look around the room.

No one is saving you.

You are, apparently, on your own.

By the second week, it escalates.

You’re brushing your teeth when he bursts into the bathroom.

“Nope,” you say immediately, toothpaste foam in your mouth. “Absolutely not.”

“I have a question,” he says.

“Leave.”

“If you were a potato—”

“Leave.”

“—what kind of potato would you be?”

You stare at him in the mirror.

He stares back, completely serious.

You rinse your mouth slowly, deliberately, then turn.

“I would be a potato that lives far away from you.”

He clutches his chest. “That’s so rude.”

“You entered my bathroom.”

He pauses. “Fair.”

Then he leaves like nothing happened.

You lock the door anyway.

It becomes a pattern.

Everywhere you go, he appears like a persistent pop-up ad.

Kitchen? He’s there, asking you to rate his “vibe.”

Practice room? He interrupts stretching to ask if you think he could survive a zombie apocalypse based purely on “aura.”

Hallway? He blocks your path just to see how long you’ll stand there before speaking.

“You’re testing my patience,” you tell him once.

He looks thrilled. “And?”

“And I’m losing.”

“That’s character development.”

You stop walking. “For who?”

“For you.”

You stare at him.

He smiles like he’s done something meaningful.

You walk around him.

The exhaustion creeps in quietly.

Not dramatic. Not explosive.

Just… constant.

Like background noise you can’t turn off.

You start avoiding certain routes in the dorm.

You take longer in the bathroom.

You wear headphones even when nothing is playing.

But Wooyoung adapts.

Of course he does.

He starts tapping your shoulder instead of calling your name.

He leaves sticky notes on your door.

“Entertain me :)”

“Urgent entertainment required”

“Emergency: boredom levels critical”

You crumple the last one and shove it in his hand the moment you see him.

He looks proud of it.

That’s the worst part.

One evening, you finally snap.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just tired.

You’re sitting on the floor of the practice room, watching someone rehearse, when Wooyoung flops down next to you and immediately leans into your space.

“Okay,” he says. “I need—”

“No,” you interrupt.

He blinks. “You don’t even know what I need.”

“Yes I do.”

“What?”

You turn your head slowly.

“Entertainment.”

He grins. “Exactly.”

“I’m not doing it.”

Silence.

It’s the first time he doesn’t immediately respond.

He tilts his head. “Why?”

That single word lands heavier than it should.

You hesitate.

Because how do you explain that you’re tired of being a role?

Not a person.

Not a friend.

Just a source of stimulation.

You exhale. “Because I don’t want to be responsible for your boredom.”

He frowns slightly. “It’s not responsibility. It’s just fun.”

“It’s not fun for me.”

That stops him.

Properly.

For once, there’s no joke waiting behind his eyes.

Just confusion.

“…Oh.”

You look away.

The rehearsal continues in the background like nothing changed.

But something has.

The next few days are quieter.

Too quiet, almost.

Wooyoung still talks to you, still sits near you, still exists in your orbit—but the constant demands stop.

No “entertain me.”

No sudden interruptions.

No dramatic invasions of personal space.

At first, you think it’s peace.

Then it starts to feel like absence.

Weirdly sharp absence.

You catch yourself glancing toward him out of habit.

He doesn’t lean in.

He doesn’t poke you.

He just… exists beside you like a normal person.

And somehow, that feels more unsettling than the chaos.

On the fourth day, you find him alone in the kitchen.

He’s staring into a mug like it personally offended him.

You hesitate in the doorway.

He notices you immediately.

“Hey,” he says.

Not playful.

Not loud.

Just… normal.

You step in. “Hey.”

A pause.

Then he asks, “Am I annoying?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs once, too casual. “You said you don’t want to be responsible for my boredom. I was thinking… maybe I’ve been annoying you.”

You don’t answer immediately.

Because the honest answer isn’t simple.

So you go with truth instead of softness.

“Yes.”

He nods like he expected it.

That should make you feel better.

It doesn’t.

He leans back against the counter. “I didn’t mean to treat you like… a job.”

You cross your arms. “It started to feel like one.”

He winces slightly at that, but doesn’t argue.

“I just…” he starts, then stops.

Looks at his mug again.

Then back at you.

“You react,” he says finally. “To everything. Even when you try not to. It’s fun. Easy. I don’t have to think too hard.”

You understand that.

And that’s exactly the problem.

“You like the reactions,” you say.

He nods.

“But not me,” you add quietly.

That hits differently.

He shakes his head immediately. “No. That’s not it.”

You raise an eyebrow.

He rushes to fix it. “I mean— I do like you. As you. I just… got used to you being the person who always responds. It wasn’t supposed to feel like—” he gestures vaguely, searching for words “—like you’re performing for me.”

You let that sit.

Because intent doesn’t erase impact.

He studies your face carefully.

Then, softer, “Were you actually exhausted? Or just annoyed?”

You hesitate again.

“Both,” you admit.

He exhales like that answers something important.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Simple.

No theatrics.

No grin.

Just that.

And somehow, it lands harder than all his jokes combined.

Things don’t go back to how they were.

Not immediately.

He doesn’t revert to constant chaos mode.

Instead, he starts… asking.

Not demanding.

Not inserting himself.

Asking.

“Can I sit here?”

“Do you want company?”

“Is this okay?”

At first, it feels strange.

Like he’s learning a new language.

You don’t always know how to respond.

Sometimes you say yes.

Sometimes no.

And for the first time, both answers are respected.

Still, he slips up.

Of course he does.

One night, you’re in the dorm living room again, half-dozing on the couch, when he drops onto the floor beside you dramatically.

“I am bored,” he announces.

You open one eye. “No.”

He pauses.

Then laughs once. “Old habits.”

You sit up slightly. “Wooyoung.”

He looks up.

You point at him lazily. “Ask properly.”

He stares.

Then, slowly, “Can you… hang out with me?”

You consider it.

Then shrug. “Depends. Are you going to treat me like a circus again?”

He looks offended. “No.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, “I miss talking to you normally.”

That surprises you more than it should.

You sit up fully now.

“Then talk normally,” you say.

He smiles a little. Smaller this time.

“Okay.”

And he does.

For once, no games.

No performances.

Just conversation.

Messy, slightly chaotic, but not directed at you like a spotlight.

Just shared.

It takes time, but something shifts.

Not the friendship.

That was always there.

But the way it exists.

He still jokes.

Still teases.

Still occasionally forgets himself and tries to turn you into entertainment.

But now, when you say “no,” he hears it.

And more importantly, he doesn’t take it as a challenge.

One afternoon, weeks later, you’re both sitting on the floor of the practice room after everyone else has left.

You’re leaning against the mirror.

He’s lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.

Quiet.

Comfortable.

He turns his head slightly. “Hey.”

You hum.

He hesitates.

Then says, “You’re still entertaining.”

You snort. “I thought we agreed to retire that concept.”

“We did,” he says quickly. “Not like that. I mean… just. You’re funny without trying. But not like… performative funny. Just… you.”

You glance at him.

He shrugs, suddenly awkward. “That sounded better in my head.”

“It didn’t,” you say.

He laughs. “Yeah, I know.”

A pause.

Then you add, “You’re less exhausting now.”

He groans. “That’s the nicest insult I’ve ever received.”

“It’s not an insult.”

“It feels like one.”

You tilt your head back against the mirror. “It’s not my job to keep you entertained.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

Then: “Yeah. I get that now.”

Silence settles again.

Not uncomfortable this time.

Just real.

He stretches an arm out toward you, not touching, just there.

“If I get bored again,” he says lightly, “I’ll just suffer like a normal person.”

You glance at him. “Growth.”

He grins. “Character development.”

You don’t respond.

But you don’t move away either.

The first sign that something was going wrong should’ve been the way Mingi was smiling.

Not his usual soft, slightly chaotic grin that made fans laugh along even when he wasn’t trying. No—this one had edges. Sharp, excited, a little too aware of the chat scrolling by on the livestream screen.

You noticed it immediately from the couch behind him, curled up with your knees tucked under a blanket you had no business needing in the middle of his dorm living room.

“You’re doing great,” you mouthed at him quietly, holding up a thumbs-up.

Mingi nodded enthusiastically… then leaned a little too far toward the mic.

That should’ve been your second warning.

“Okay, okay,” he said into the camera, voice bright. “Before we continue, I have something important to tell everyone.”

You frowned.

He wasn’t supposed to have anything important. This was just a casual livestream—him talking nonsense, reading comments, occasionally getting roasted by fans. You were just there because he’d begged you to keep him company.

The chat exploded immediately.

WHAT?? IMPORTANT??

MINGI DID YOU BREAK SOMETHING

IS THIS A COMEBACK SPOILER???

You slowly sat up.

“Mingi,” you whispered. “What are you doing?”

He ignored you completely.

“So,” he continued, clasping his hands dramatically, “you all think I’m the embarrassing one in my friend group, right?”

A pause.

A grin.

“That’s not true. Because I have a friend who—”

Your stomach dropped.

“No,” you said immediately, sharper this time.

He looked over his shoulder at you.

And smiled like a traitor.

“—once tried to microwave metal because she thought it would ‘warm up faster if it was shiny.’”

Silence.

Then chaos.

The chat detonated.

NO WAY

MINGI EXPOSED HER 😭

MICROWAVE METAL??

I NEED CONTEXT

IS THIS REAL

You had already launched yourself off the couch.

“Mingi!” you hissed. “Shut up!”

He was laughing now, full-on wheezing, completely unbothered.

“It gets worse!” he said, pointing at you like he was narrating a documentary. “She also—”

You tackled him.

Well. You tried to.

He caught you mid-fall with one arm, still laughing, microphone squealing as it picked up both your voices.

“Stop!” you groaned, half mortified, half furious. “Turn it off!”

“I can’t!” he said through laughter. “It’s live!”

That was the moment you realized your life was over.

The clip went viral within an hour.

Of course it did.

By the time you got home that night, your phone had already become unusable. Messages, screenshots, edits of the clip, fans joking about “microwave girl” like it was your official identity now.

You lay face-first on your bed.

“This is how I die,” you muttered into your pillow. “Socially.”

Your phone buzzed again.

Mingi.

You ignored it.

It buzzed again.

And again.

And again.

Finally, you picked up.

“What,” you said flatly.

There was a pause on the other end.

“…I’m sorry.”

You sat up slightly.

Mingi’s voice was softer than usual. No teasing. No laughter.

“I didn’t think it would blow up like that,” he admitted. “I thought it was just funny. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“You literally broadcast my worst moment to millions of people.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I know. I messed up.”

Silence stretched between you.

Then, quieter:

“I feel really bad.”

You exhaled slowly, rubbing your face.

“I hate you a little right now,” you admitted.

“I deserve that.”

Another pause.

“…Can I fix it?”

You hesitated.

“That depends,” you said. “Can you erase the internet?”

“No.”

“Then no.”

He groaned.

The next day, he showed up at your door.

You opened it in pajamas, hair a mess, still emotionally recovering.

Mingi stood there holding a paper bag and looking unusually serious.

Inside the bag: snacks. Too many snacks.

“I brought offerings,” he said.

You stared at him.

“I’m not bribing you,” he added quickly. “It’s… apology fuel.”

You sighed and stepped aside.

“Come in before someone recognizes you.”

He entered quietly, unusually subdued.

For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. He sat on the floor beside your coffee table, carefully placing snacks in a neat row like that would somehow fix what he did.

Finally, you broke the silence.

“You know I’m never living that down, right?”

He winced.

“I know.”

“My cousin texted me.”

He froze. “Oh no.”

“She asked if I’m really ‘microwave girl.’”

He buried his face in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he groaned again. “I didn’t think before I spoke. I was trying to be funny and it just—” He gestured vaguely. “Exploded.”

You watched him for a moment.

He looked genuinely miserable. Not performative, not exaggerated. Just… guilty.

That softened something in your chest despite yourself.

“You’re kind of an idiot,” you said.

“I know.”

A beat.

“…A loud idiot,” you added.

He peeked at you through his fingers. “Still mad?”

You considered it.

“Yes,” you said. “But less murderous now.”

He sighed in relief. “Progress.”

The apology tour began after that.

Not in a dramatic way—just Mingi, trying.

Day two: he brought you coffee exactly the way you liked it without asking.

Day three: he tried to “counter-embarrass himself” by telling his fans a story about him falling off a stage prop during rehearsal. It worked… slightly.

Day four: he showed up with a list.

You squinted at it. “What is that?”

“My redemption plan,” he said proudly.

“Why is it color-coded?”

“Because I’m serious about this.”

You read the first line.

Step 1: Public apology stream

“No.”

He crossed it out immediately.

“Okay.”

Step 2: Make up a new embarrassing story about myself

You looked at him.

He looked back, hopeful.

“That doesn’t help me,” you said.

“…It helps me.”

You sighed.

“Keep going.”

By the fifth day, something had shifted.

The incident was still everywhere—clips, jokes, edits—but the sting of it had dulled. Partly because the internet moved fast. Mostly because Mingi refused to let it sit without balance.

He talked about you constantly, but never in a way that gave away too much. Always redirecting attention onto himself, always making himself the punchline instead.

He even went on another livestream and, unprompted, said:

“By the way, I once tried to cook pasta without water.”

The chat had never recovered.

And yet, he still showed up at your place afterward, tired but hopeful.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” you told him one evening, as you both sat on the floor eating takeout.

He shrugged.

“I want to.”

“Why?”

He paused, then leaned his head back against the couch.

“Because I hate the idea that I made you feel small,” he said simply.

That made you quiet.

Mingi glanced at you sideways.

“You’re not small,” he added quickly. “You’re just… unfortunately now associated with microwaves.”

Despite yourself, you snorted.

“Thanks.”

He smiled a little.

A softer one this time.

A week later, you were back on his couch again, scrolling through your phone while he practiced something on his laptop.

“Hey,” he said suddenly.

You hummed.

“I have a question.”

“Dangerous.”

He ignored that.

“Are we okay?”

You looked at him.

He looked… nervous. In a way you didn’t often see.

Like he was afraid the answer might actually matter more than he wanted it to.

You thought about it.

About the embarrassment. The internet. The messages.

About the fact that he had spent an entire week trying—clumsily, persistently—to make it right.

Then you sighed.

“We’re okay,” you said. “But if you ever expose me like that again, I’m leaking your childhood photos.”

His eyes widened.

“Fair.”

A pause.

Then he grinned.

“…Do you actually have them?”

You smiled slowly.

“Oh, Mingi.”

That was enough answer.

He groaned.

And for the first time since the livestream, the laugh that followed didn’t feel like damage control.

You didn’t think it would become a problem.

Honestly, it had started as a throwaway comment—something casual, something light, something meant to exist and die within the same five seconds.

“You know,” you’d said, leaning back on the studio couch while ATEEZ waited for their next schedule segment to be set up, “I could probably beat San in, like, anything if I actually tried.”

It wasn’t even aimed at him directly. It was more general, conversational, a joke tossed into the air like confetti.

Unfortunately, San heard it.

And worse—he processed it.

There was a pause. A shift in energy so subtle you almost missed it. Then San slowly turned his head toward you, eyes narrowing like he was recalculating every life decision that led to this moment.

“…What did you say?”

You blinked. “It was a joke.”

San straightened immediately. “No, repeat it. Exactly.”

You hesitated. “I said I could probably beat you in anything if I tried?”

The room went quiet in that very specific way it only does when someone in the group senses entertainment is about to be replaced by chaos.

Hongjoong looked up from his phone. Seonghwa sighed like he already knew where this was going. Wooyoung visibly lit up like someone had just pressed a “start drama” button.

San, meanwhile, pointed at you.

“You’re on.”

“…I’m sorry?”

“You challenged me,” he said seriously. “I accept.”

“That wasn’t a challenge, that was—”

“A declaration of war,” Wooyoung supplied immediately.

“It absolutely was not,” you said.

San stood up.

That was your first mistake—assuming this would stay contained.

Because the moment he stood up, he transformed. Not physically. Not dramatically. But in intent. Like something in him had locked onto a mission objective labeled prove superiority immediately.

“I choose the competition format,” San said.

“I didn’t agree to—”

“Too late.”

Hongjoong pinched the bridge of his nose. “San, we have schedules.”

“This is schedule,” San said firmly.

Seonghwa muttered, “We’re doomed.”

The first “competition” was announced that evening.

You were sitting in the dorm kitchen, eating cereal, when San walked in holding a whiteboard.

A whiteboard.

He placed it on the table with the seriousness of someone entering a courtroom.

“I have prepared categories,” he said.

You stared at him. “You… made a spreadsheet?”

“It’s not a spreadsheet, it’s a fairness system.”

“It’s laminated.”

“Yes.”

You looked around slowly, hoping someone would intervene.

No one did.

Wooyoung was already sitting on the counter like a gremlin watching television. Mingi had popcorn. Yeosang looked mildly concerned but also curious. Jongho looked like he was deciding whether to stop this or let it become educational.

San tapped the board.

“Category one: reaction time.”

You blinked. “Reaction time to what?”

He smiled. “That’s the test.”

You were not prepared for the “test” to involve Wooyoung throwing a slipper across the room without warning.

You also were not prepared for San to immediately shout “NOW!” like this was the Olympics.

You yelped, flinched dramatically, and ducked.

San caught it mid-air.

Silence.

He slowly turned toward you, expression unreadable.

“…One point,” he said.

“That’s not how reaction time works,” you protested.

“It is now.”

Wooyoung applauded like a sports commentator. “San leads 1–0!”

“I didn’t agree to scoring!”

“You agreed when you made the challenge,” San said.

“I DIDN’T MAKE A CHALLENGE!”

He ignored you.

That was the second mistake.

The next morning, you woke up to a knock on your door.

It was San.

He was holding flashcards.

You stared at him from the doorway. “It’s 7 AM.”

“Perfect cognitive peak,” he said.

“I’m not doing math at 7 AM.”

“This is part of the competition.”

“There is no competition.”

San held up a card.

“What is 37 times 14?”

You squinted. “Why would I—”

“GO.”

You sighed and did it in your head. “518.”

San paused.

Checked his card.

Looked back at you.

“…Correct.”

He wrote something down.

“You’re keeping score in your head,” you realized.

“Yes.”

“That’s unhealthy.”

“It’s strategic.”

It escalated quickly after that.

Too quickly.

By day three, the dorm had been rearranged into what San called “neutral testing grounds,” which mostly meant he had cleared space in the living room and dragged in random objects like a man preparing for gladiatorial combat.

“This is ridiculous,” you said, standing barefoot on the carpet.

San was stretching.

“Flexibility matters.”

“For what?”

“Victory.”

Wooyoung was officiating again. “First to touch the ceiling wins!”

“There is no ceiling challenge,” you said.

“There is now,” San said calmly.

You looked up at the ceiling.

Then at him.

“…You’re insane.”

“Focused,” he corrected.

The challenge: jump and touch the ceiling.

San went first.

Of course he did.

He jumped effortlessly, fingertips grazing the surface.

He landed cleanly like it was nothing.

You stared.

“That’s illegal,” you said.

“It’s physical conditioning,” Jongho said from the side, sipping water like a disappointed coach.

“Why are you supporting this?”

“I’m not. I’m observing failure trajectories.”

You ignored him.

Your turn.

You jumped.

You did not touch the ceiling.

You did, however, land awkwardly and nearly fall into the couch.

San nodded once.

“One point.”

“I hate you.”

“You’re competitive,” he said.

“I am not—”

“You started it.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Because technically, in the most annoying possible way, he wasn’t wrong.

You started noticing it wasn’t just competitions anymore.

It was everything.

San would time how fast you answered questions.

He’d challenge you to drink water faster.

He’d race you to the elevator.

He once tried to “evaluate your spatial awareness” by tossing random objects and watching your reflexes.

Hongjoong eventually stepped in.

“This has gone too far,” he said.

San nodded seriously. “Agreed. We need standardized rules.”

“That is not what I meant.”

But by then it was too late.

Because San had committed.

Fully.

Deeply.

Obnoxiously.

The cooking competition was where things truly broke.

You had insisted on making dinner to prove a point.

San immediately countered with, “I will also cook.”

You should’ve known.

You should’ve stopped there.

Instead, you said, “Fine. Let’s see who’s better.”

Wooyoung screamed in excitement like a man witnessing history.

Mingi started recording.

Seonghwa quietly left the kitchen.

Jongho brought a chair.

San tied on an apron.

You regretted everything.

The challenge: fried rice.

Simple. Easy. Safe.

Until San started measuring rice grains like he was conducting a science experiment.

“You’re insane,” you said again.

“You’re distracted,” he replied.

“I am not distracted.”

“You just burned your onions.”

You looked down.

The onions were, in fact, burning.

“That’s— that’s intentional flavor,” you lied.

San didn’t respond.

He just… looked at his pan.

Then at yours.

Then quietly said, “I’ve already finished plating.”

You froze.

“What?”

He turned his plate around.

It was… annoyingly perfect.

Garnished.

Balanced.

Beautiful.

Wooyoung gasped. “He’s winning.”

“I hate this,” you said.

San smiled slightly.

It was not a kind smile.

It was a competitive smile.

You tasted your food.

It was fine.

San’s was better.

You refused to admit it.

Jongho, however, did not hesitate.

“San wins,” he said immediately.

“Traitor,” you muttered.

You thought it would stop at physical challenges.

You were wrong.

San had escalated.

Now it was memory games.

Reaction storytelling.

Emotional recall tests.

At one point, he asked, “What did you eat for breakfast three days ago?”

You stared at him.

“Why would I remember that?”

He wrote something down.

“You forgot.”

“That’s normal!”

“Not for a competitor.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

Wooyoung whispered loudly, “He’s breaking her psychologically.”

“I’m not breaking anything,” San said. “I’m optimizing performance.”

“You sound like a villain,” you told him.

“I sound like a winner.”

That was when you realized something unsettling.

He wasn’t joking anymore.

He genuinely believed this was a competition that mattered.

You attempted to avoid him.

You really did.

You hid in your room.

He knocked.

You didn’t answer.

He left.

Victory.

Five minutes later, he slid a note under your door.

New challenge: endurance. How long can you avoid me before you lose focus?

You stared at it.

“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered.

You ignored it.

For three hours.

Then another note arrived.

Current time: 3 hours 14 minutes. You are improving.

You threw the note across the room.

It happened in the practice room.

You were exhausted.

Truly exhausted.

Not physically from competitions anymore, but mentally from San existing as a relentless scoreboard.

He was stretching again.

Of course he was stretching.

You dropped onto the floor.

“I’m done,” you said.

San looked over. “Done what?”

“This. Whatever this is.”

He tilted his head. “The competition?”

“There is no competition.”

He paused.

For the first time, actually paused.

Then said, “You’re forfeiting?”

You sat up. “Yes. I forfeit. You win. Congratulations. Please stop.”

Silence.

The kind that felt heavier than usual.

San didn’t move immediately.

Then he slowly sat down across from you.

“…Why?” he asked.

You blinked. “Because it’s exhausting.”

A longer pause.

“…Was I too intense?”

“Yes.”

“…Too competitive?”

“Yes.”

He looked down at his hands.

That was new.

“I thought you were enjoying it,” he said.

“I was joking,” you replied.

San was quiet for a long moment.

Then, very softly: “I don’t always know when you’re joking.”

That stopped you.

Because underneath all the chaos, all the scoring, all the ridiculous competitions…

That part was real.

You exhaled slowly.

“San.”

He looked up.

“I like you. I like everyone. But I am not competing with you. I’m not trying to beat you at life.”

He blinked.

“…Then why did you challenge me?”

“I didn’t.”

Another pause.

Then, very slowly, he leaned back like the weight of the realization had physically hit him.

“Oh.”

From the side, Wooyoung whispered, “He built a whole system for nothing.”

San groaned.

Not loudly.

But deeply.

“I made spreadsheets,” he said.

You laughed despite yourself.

“That’s your takeaway?”

“I laminated them.”

The next day, the whiteboard was gone.

So were the flashcards.

San did not propose any new competitions.

Instead, he appeared in the kitchen while you were making tea.

“…Can I help?” he asked cautiously.

You raised a brow. “With what? There’s no competition.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “Just… help.”

You slid him a mug.

He took it like it was fragile peace.

A moment passed.

Then he added, quietly, “You still would’ve won reaction time.”

You sighed.

“San.”

He nodded. “I’m working on it.”

You bumped his shoulder lightly.

“Good.”

From the doorway, Wooyoung whispered, “He’s malfunctioning.”

San didn’t even look up.

“I heard that.”

And somehow, for the first time in a week…

You don’t notice it at first—because it’s never loud.

It’s never dramatic, never pointed out, never something that demands attention. It’s just… Yeosang.

And Yeosang is quiet in a way that makes people forget he’s even there until he chooses not to be.

Which is exactly why you never realize he’s been noticing everything about you.

It starts on an ordinary day.

Or at least, it looks ordinary on the surface.

You show up at the studio a little earlier than usual, hair slightly more put together than yesterday, smile a little too practiced. You greet everyone the same way you always do—light, easy, nothing off.

“Hey, I brought snacks,” you say, lifting the bag like proof.

Wooyoung cheers loudly. San is already reaching for something. Someone jokes about you feeding them again.

And you laugh.

It’s a normal laugh. It sounds normal. You’ve had enough practice to make it sound normal.

But Yeosang notices the delay.

The half-second pause before your smile fully lands.

The way your fingers tighten just a little too long around the bag straps before you let go.

He doesn’t say anything.

He never does at first.

Instead, he just watches.

Yeosang has always been observant in a way people underestimate.

Yeosang doesn’t talk much compared to the others, but his silence isn’t empty. It’s full. Full of details most people miss because they’re too busy filling space with noise.

He notices how Hongjoong taps his pen twice before making a decision. How San hums when he’s nervous. How Seonghwa always checks the time even when he says he’s relaxed.

And you?

You are no exception.

Maybe that’s the problem.

By midday, you’ve already slipped into the background of your own day.

You help set things up. You pass things over. You joke when someone looks at you directly. You do everything correctly.

Almost too correctly.

Yeosang sees it when you think no one is looking.

The way you press your tongue against your cheek when your phone lights up.

The way your shoulders drop when you think someone else is focused elsewhere.

The way you blink a little slower when the room gets too loud.

He doesn’t interrupt.

He just adjusts.

Quietly.

Subtly.

He moves a water bottle closer to where you’re sitting. He shifts a chair slightly so it’s easier for you to lean back. He swaps the playlist without announcing it when he notices you flinch at a certain song.

You don’t notice any of it.

But your breathing steadies anyway.

It’s not until later that he hears it.

Not directly from you.

You’re laughing with the others again, leaning into a conversation like you belong exactly where you are—which you do. You’re telling a story about something ridiculous that happened earlier in the week.

Everyone is laughing.

Even you.

But then—

Someone says your name in passing.

“Yeah, but you’ve been kind of out of it lately, haven’t you?”

It’s not cruel. It’s not even intentional. Just casual observation.

You laugh immediately.

Too fast.

“No, I’m fine. Just tired.”

There it is again.

Fine.

The word that never means fine.

Yeosang watches your hands.

They’re still. Too still.

Your smile doesn’t move past your mouth.

The conversation continues like nothing happened.

And you survive it like you always do.

Later, when the room is emptier, Yeosang stays behind.

Not dramatically. Not obviously.

He just doesn’t leave.

You’re packing up cables and bottles and random things people forgot about. The kind of quiet clean-up that happens after a long day when everyone is too drained to think.

You don’t notice him at first.

Until he speaks.

“You didn’t eat much today.”

It’s not a question.

You pause mid-motion, then continue wrapping a cable like you didn’t hear him.

“I did,” you say lightly. “Just not hungry.”

Yeosang leans against the table.

He doesn’t push.

That’s the thing about him—he never pushes.

But he doesn’t move away either.

A silence stretches.

You try to fill it.

“You’re weirdly observant today.”

A small smile. A deflection.

It almost works.

Almost.

He tilts his head slightly. “Today?”

You blink.

Then laugh again, softer this time. “Okay, fair.”

Still not a confession.

Still not the truth.

But something in your posture shifts. A fraction of tension loosens in your shoulders without you realizing it.

Yeosang notices that too.

Of course he does.

The next few days are the same pattern.

You show up.

You perform okay.

You laugh at the right times.

You say “I’m fine” like it’s punctuation.

And Yeosang… watches.

But not in a way that makes you feel trapped.

In a way that makes it harder to keep pretending.

Because he never calls you out in front of others.

He never exposes you.

He just starts appearing where you need him.

A bottle of water placed next to your bag before you ask.

A quieter seat saved without explanation.

A hoodie offered when the studio gets too cold and your arms start wrapping around yourself unconsciously.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say once.

He shrugs. “I know.”

That’s it.

No pressure. No expectation.

Just presence.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Because you can’t ignore it anymore.

It cracks on a rainy evening.

You’re outside the building, waiting for your ride. Everyone else has already left.

Except Yeosang.

He stands a few steps away under the awning, hands in his pockets, watching the rain like it’s doing something interesting.

You try to act normal.

“You waiting too?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

Silence again.

Comfortable, at first.

Then heavier.

You shift your weight. “You don’t have to stay because I’m here, you know.”

“I’m not staying because of that.”

You glance at him.

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just watches the rain fall instead.

Then, quietly—

“You’ve been saying you’re fine a lot.”

Your stomach tightens immediately.

You laugh once, sharp. “That’s because I am.”

He finally looks at you then.

Not accusing.

Not emotional.

Just steady.

“You don’t blink the same way when you’re fine.”

That makes you stop.

Because it’s such a small thing.

So specific.

So unfair.

You swallow. “That’s not a real thing.”

“It is to me.”

Another silence.

The rain fills it.

You look away first.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I don’t want you to say anything.”

That confuses you more than anything else.

You turn slightly toward him. “Then why are you saying this?”

A pause.

Then, softer:

“Because you’re not as invisible as you think you are.”

That’s the moment it shifts.

Not everything.

Just enough.

The ride comes.

You almost leave it there.

Almost go back to normal.

Almost put the mask back on properly.

But Yeosang steps closer before you can.

Not invading.

Just near enough that the rain doesn’t reach either of you.

“You don’t have to explain it,” he says. “But you also don’t have to carry it alone just because you’re used to it.”

Your throat tightens.

You hate that your first instinct is to joke.

To deflect.

To escape.

But nothing comes out.

So instead, you ask something stupidly honest.

“…How do you always notice?”

He thinks about it for a second.

Then shrugs slightly.

“I pay attention.”

Like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

Like it isn’t changing yours.

After that night, nothing becomes dramatic.

That’s not how Yeosang works.

That’s not how you work either.

But something shifts in the way you exist around each other.

He doesn’t ask you to talk.

He doesn’t force anything out of you.

He just… makes space.

And for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re trying to fill every silence.

One afternoon, you fall asleep in the studio.

It’s accidental. You didn’t plan it. You just sat down for “a minute” and your body gave up on you.

When you wake up, your jacket is over you.

You blink slowly, disoriented.

The room is quieter than before.

Yeosang is still there.

Sitting nearby.

Reading something on his phone.

He doesn’t look up immediately.

“You should’ve woken me up,” you mumble.

“You needed sleep more than you needed to leave.”

You sit up slowly. “You’re starting to sound like a therapist.”

That earns the smallest hint of a smile from him.

“Bad one, I hope.”

You huff a laugh.

Then, quieter:

“…Thanks.”

He nods once.

No big reaction.

No emphasis.

Just acceptance.

Like it’s normal.

Like you don’t have to earn it.

Later that week, you try to pretend again.

You really do.

You show up brighter. You laugh louder. You act like things are fine.

But Yeosang still notices when your hands shake slightly while holding a pen.

Still notices when your eyes linger too long on nothing.

Still notices when your smile hits a wall before it reaches your eyes.

And this time—

He doesn’t just observe.

He slides a note across the table when no one is looking.

It’s small.

Folded.

No explanation.

You open it when you’re alone.

Two words.

Not “are you okay?”

Not “talk to me.”

Just:

I see you.

You stare at it longer than you expect to.

Because it’s not demanding anything from you.

It’s not asking you to perform your feelings correctly.

It’s just… acknowledging that you exist beneath the pretending.

And somehow, that feels heavier than anything else.

You don’t talk about it right away.

But the next time you sit next to him, you don’t move away.

And he doesn’t comment on it.

Weeks pass like that.

Small moments.

Quiet adjustments.

No grand emotional declarations.

Just consistency.

Just noticing.

Just staying.

And slowly, the version of you that was always “fine” starts to feel a little less necessary around him.

Not because he fixed anything.

But because he stopped letting you disappear while pretending you weren’t.

One night, long after everyone else leaves again, you finally say it.

Not everything.

Just enough.

“I didn’t realize how much I was… pretending until you started noticing.”

Yeosang doesn’t look surprised.

He just listens.

Then he says, simply:

“You don’t have to stop all at once.”

That’s it.

No pressure.

No timeline.

No demand for transformation.

Just permission.

To exist messily.

To not be okay.

To still be seen anyway.

And for the first time in a long time, you believe that maybe being “fine” was never the requirement to be kept around.

Just being you was enough.