#babying

the scrape across his knuckles is shallow but angry, skin split and red. you click your tongue softly and stand without letting go of him.

“stay,” you say, already reaching for the first aid kit.

he does.

you sit close when you clean the cut, closer than necessary, your thumb steadying his hand while the other works. you scold him under your breath, not sharp, more like worried. minho watches your face instead of his injury.

“you don’t have to do this,” he says.

“i know,” you reply. “i want to.”

his fingers curl slowly around yours.

the door opens.

hyunjin freezes halfway inside the room.

you’re kneeling between minho’s knees, holding his hand like it belongs there. minho doesn’t move. doesn’t pull away. just looks at hyunjin and says, calm as anything, “close the door.”

hyunjin’s mouth opens. closes. he leaves.

you finish bandaging him carefully. when you’re done, minho doesn’t let go right away.

“thanks,” he says, quiet.

later, he sits closer to you than usual at dinner. no one comments.

Changbin

changbin pretends he doesn’t need reassurance.

he jokes, laughs, fills the room so no one looks too close. but you see it after practice when he lingers, rolling his shoulders like they still ache, expression tight.

you hand him a towel. then a bottle of water.

“drink,” you say.

he does. immediately.

you pack his post workout snacks into his bag while he talks, not really watching what you’re doing. when you tug his hoodie strings even and pull the hood up around his neck, he pauses.

“you baby me too much,” he says, fond.

“you like it,” you reply.

felix walks in right on cue.

he stops short at the sight of you adjusting changbin’s hoodie, pressing a protein bar into his palm, telling him to stretch later.

changbin flushes red instantly. “okay wait. don’t look at me like that.”

felix grins. “hyung. you’re being babied.”

changbin groans, embarrassed, but he doesn’t move away. doesn’t give anything back.

when felix leaves, changbin leans closer to you.

“you can keep doing that,” he says, softer. “just not when everyone’s watching.”

you smile. “sure.”

he finishes his snack anyway.

Hyunjin

he’s limping slightly when you find him backstage, one ankle wrapped in tape, sitting on the edge of the practice floor. his hands run absently over his hair, over the loose strands sticking out from the clip, but he’s tense—like he’s trying to hide it.

“you’re limping,” you say softly, kneeling down without asking. your hand hovers over his ankle first, careful, and then moves to brush a stray lock behind his ear.

hyunjin freezes. his head tilts toward you, eyes sharp but vulnerable. “i’m fine,” he mutters, but the corner of his lip twitches, betraying him.

you smile gently. “not fine enough to ignore.”

he lets you help him lie back on the mats. your fingers find the knot in his ankle wrap and work slowly, softly, loosening it just enough for him to relax. your other hand brushes against his hair again, smoothing it, and you murmur encouragements like it’s second nature.

“you… you don’t have to fuss over me,” he says quietly, almost ashamed.

“i’m not fussing,” you say, voice warm. “i’m taking care of you. you’ve taken care of everyone else long enough.”

he swallows. his chest rises and falls unevenly. you brush your thumb across the side of his face without thinking, brushing away a speck of sweat, a tiny instinct of comfort.

jisung walks in just as you lean your forehead against his shoulder to steady him.

he freezes. hyunjin freezes. you don’t move.

“i… uh…” jisung stammers.

hyunjin hides his face in your neck, voice muffled. “don’t look.”

jisung backs out, shutting the door softly, muttering, “didn’t see anything.”

when it’s just the two of you, hyunjin’s hands find yours, gripping lightly, holding on. “you’re too close,” he whispers.

“never,” you reply.

later, he leans against you completely on the couch, head on your shoulder, letting you braid the loose strands of hair. he’s quiet but his fingers braid yours into his, squeezing now and then, a silent thank you that doesn’t need words.

the first time he kisses your hand softly, brushing his lips across your knuckles, you realize neither of you wants to let go.

Jisung

he’s tense before practice, pacing the small studio like he’s trying to outrun the nerves building in his chest. you find him leaning against the wall, shoulders tight.

“hey,” you say, stepping closer. “look at me.”

he does. just barely. “i’m fine,” he mutters, but you can see the truth in the way his eyes flinch.

you reach for him, gently tugging him toward you. “no. look at me.”

he hesitates, then finally leans into your touch. you guide him to sit on the floor, back against your legs, and your hands find his shoulders, massaging slow circles.

“breathe with me,” you murmur. “in, out. in, out.”

he swallows, shoulders loosening just enough for his head to fall against your chest. you adjust so you can rub the tense knots along his spine, murmuring encouragements in between soft kisses on the top of his head.

seungmin walks in, eyes widening. “oh—uh…” he freezes, not moving.

han glances up at you, expression a mix of embarrassment and amusement. “did you see that?”

you shake your head, smiling. “he didn’t. it’s okay.”

han laughs quietly, breathless, before leaning back against you again. his arms curl around yours, holding on, not letting go.

later, when practice is over, he threads his fingers through yours. “you… you make me feel like i don’t have to do everything alone,” he says softly.

“because you don’t,” you reply, tilting your head so your lips brush his hairline.

he tilts his head back, eyes closing, and kisses your shoulder gently, a soft promise that he’ll never pull away when you’re like this with him.

he stays in your arms until the room empties completely, and even then, he doesn’t move. he just whispers your name like it’s a secret meant only for you.

Felix

he sits between your knees on the couch, eyes half-lidded, exhausted after practice, and you brush balm over his lips carefully. his lower lip trembles slightly under your fingers, and he lets out a quiet breath, leaning forward without realizing it.

“don’t,” you murmur softly, tracing the line of his jaw with the pad of your thumb. “let it sit.”

his fingers curl around yours, holding on just a little too tightly. “you don’t have to,” he whispers.

“i do,” you reply, tilting his chin up slightly to check his lips. your thumb lingers against the corner of his mouth, brushing lightly, and his head tilts into your palm without thinking.

changbin walks in.

he stops mid-step. his mouth opens, then closes. he doesn’t say anything. he sees the way you lean into felix, the way felix’s eyes close as you brush a stray strand of hair from his face, the way his hand presses lightly against yours.

felix’s eyes flutter open, cheeks flushed. “she… she cares,” he says softly, and you catch the hushed gratitude in his voice.

changbin groans and leaves, muttering about “gross baby stuff,” but felix doesn’t move away from you. he tilts his forehead to rest against yours, breath warm, fingers tightening slightly around your hand.

later, he leans into you on the couch, head on your shoulder, thumb brushing the back of your hand as if memorizing it. every small touch becomes a wordless conversation, an unspoken promise that he’s yours when you take care of him.

he closes his eyes, and you feel his lips press lightly to your shoulder, soft and steady. he murmurs your name almost reverently, and you press a kiss to his temple in return. he doesn’t pull back.

Seungmin

he’s sitting at the table, script in hand, jaw tight, fingers drumming absently. the weight of schedules and expectations sits on his shoulders like armor he can’t take off.

you come up behind him, hands brushing over his tense shoulders, down his back in slow circles. your fingers linger at the base of his neck, tracing tiny patterns as you murmur, “you don’t have to carry all of this alone.”

he exhales sharply, tilting his head back into your chest almost instinctively. your cheek rests lightly against his hairline, lips brushing the crown of his head in a small, reassuring press.

“i… i don’t know how to stop thinking about messing up,” he says quietly, voice muffled against your shirt.

“then stop worrying and let me help,” you reply, thumb brushing along his jawline. “you’re safe with me.”

his hands find yours on the table, fingers entwining. he leans forward slowly, pressing his forehead into your chest. you adjust your arms around him, one hand cradling his head, the other tracing his back. every movement is gentle, deliberate.

jisung walks in quietly and freezes in the doorway. seungmin stiffens for a moment, cheeks flushed, before he leans further into you, forehead pressing against your chest like he belongs there.

“don’t leave,” he whispers, and you press a small kiss to his temple, murmuring, “i’m right here.”

after practice, he sits close on the couch, head against your shoulder, hands holding yours, thumb brushing in small circles. your fingers cradle his jaw, brushing his hair back, and he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your collarbone, murmuring your name as he closes his eyes, trusting you completely.

even when the world is around him, when schedules and expectations return, he carries this closeness with him, a reminder that he doesn’t have to face anything alone.

Jeongin

he’s restless in the corner of the practice room, flipping through the script, voice low and distracted. you crouch down beside him, hand brushing along his forearm, fingers lingering where tension gathers.

“hey,” you whisper, tilting his face gently toward you. “look at me.”

he swallows, eyes softening, leaning into your touch. “i’m fine,” he murmurs, but his shoulder relaxes under your hand before he can stop himself.

you guide him onto the floor, sitting behind him so your chest presses lightly to his back. your arms wrap around his shoulders, tracing slow, soothing circles as you murmur encouragements. his head tilts back, brushing your chest lightly, and he sighs, letting himself melt against your warmth.

hyunjin walks in and freezes. jeongin stiffens but doesn’t move away. instead, he tilts his forehead to the side, brushing it against your shoulder almost shyly.

“don’t move,” you whisper, pressing your cheek to the crown of his head. your hands stroke down his arms, over his back, anchoring him without words. he hums softly, the sound vibrating through his chest, and leans further into your embrace.

later, he shifts slightly, tilting to press a gentle kiss along your collarbone, fingers squeezing your arms lightly, and you respond with soft presses of your lips to his hair and temple. every movement is quiet, intimate, patient, a conversation of trust without needing to speak.

even after the room empties, he rests there, head against your shoulder, hands holding yours, not wanting to let go. the closeness lingers long after, a reminder that it’s safe to lean on someone, and he chooses to lean on you.

Masterlist Taglist

Tag list: @labyrinthinely @coerphia @1luvvcats @goonicorns-world @letd8wn

You had already been worried from the message James sent you. He never, ever texted you like this. "We need to talk. Can I come over?" Not that James was particularly fond of texting in the first place, but there was always something that made it sound like him. Extra letters dragged out for no reason, a nickname only he ever called you, maybe even an emoji if he was feeling especially annoying. Especially when it came to you. But this time there was none of that. Just a plain message that felt strangely distant, and somehow that worried you more than the words themselves.

You didn't want to let your nervousness take control of you, so you did your best to stay calm—or at least convince yourself you were. Which, apparently, meant pacing around your room in circles, checking his location every three counted seconds, and biting at the loose skin on your lip until it stung enough that it was probably bleeding by now. You didn't bother checking. You didn't really have the time, or maybe you just didn't care. So yes, you were calm. Partially. Because that's who you are. You don't panic, especially not over a man. And yes, you love James, more than you'd probably ever admit out loud, but what could possibly be so concerning after two years of a relationship that had always felt so solid? Or at least, that's what you kept repeating to yourself every time your stomach tightened for no reason you could explain.

When his location finally starts getting closer, you decide to make tea for the both of you, mostly because you need something to do with your hands. Maybe the routine would distract you. Maybe if you focused hard enough on boiling water and finding the mugs, the feeling sitting in the pit of your stomach would finally leave. It doesn't. Instead, your mind wanders right back to the last few weeks—how James had been moving your dates over and over again, how every excuse sounded believable enough that you never questioned it, and how somewhere along the way he'd stopped calling you all the little names that used to make you roll your eyes. He barely complimented you anymore either, which shouldn't have mattered, except it did. James used to find something nice to say about almost everything you did, no matter how small. You hadn't realized how much you'd miss it until it quietly disappeared.

The bubbling of the kettle finally pulls you back to the present, loud enough to interrupt the endless loop your thoughts had trapped themselves in. Before you can even pour the water, you hear a gentle knock at the door. You'd know that knock anywhere. James never knocked loudly, never rushed it, almost as if he expected you to recognize it before you even reached the door.

You take a slow breath, more out of habit than anything else, and turn off the stove before wrapping your fingers around the handle of the pot. You wet your lips, trying to ignore how dry they've become, and make your way toward the front door, telling yourself—one last time—that everything is probably fine. The thought barely makes it halfway through your head before you realize you don't believe it anymore.

As you open the door, the first thing that hits you is his face. James' face. To everyone else, it was always the same—calm, unreadable, almost mean if you didn't know him. But you did know him. You knew that the second he saw you, he'd usually smile just enough for those little whisker dimples to appear, the ones he pretended not to have whenever you pointed them out. They never failed to show up. Not this time, though. This time, you were greeted with the same expression everyone else got.

He looked exhausted.

Not the kind of tired a nap could fix, either. It looked like he'd been carrying something around for days, maybe weeks. Like he'd been thinking too much and sleeping too little. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes, his shoulders sat lower than usual, and when he quietly stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click, the sigh that left him was enough to confirm what you already feared.

"I made some tea," you said, more because the silence was becoming unbearable than because he needed to know. He slipped his shoes off by the door before making his way into the kitchen without saying much. It was normal. It was what he always did whenever he came over. Somehow, though, even the familiar routine felt unfamiliar. "I didn't have time to make chai, so... I just made hibiscus tea." You hesitated, your voice shrinking towards the end. "...If that's okay."

"That's fine, yeah," he answered quietly as he pulled a chair away from the dining table.

The soft amber light above him—the one he'd always called your comfort lighting—fell across his face. Usually, he'd look up at it, grin, and launch into the same speech he'd given you at least twenty times.

"Don't ever change this orange light bulb."

You used to laugh because he sounded so serious every single time.

Tonight, he didn't even glance at it.

You couldn't stop noticing how awkward everything suddenly felt. It made no sense. This was James. The same James who had a drawer at your apartment because he kept forgetting hoodies there. The same James who knew where you kept the mugs better than your own parents did. The same James you'd spent two years loving so naturally that being around him had started feeling like breathing.

So why did it suddenly feel like two high schoolers sitting across from each other on an awkward first date, both waiting for the other person to say something first?

You carried the two cups over, setting one down in front of him before taking your usual seat across the table. You hadn't even thought about it anymore—it had simply become routine. A long time ago, you'd asked why he always insisted on sitting across from you instead of beside you, and without missing a beat he'd answered, "Because I like looking at your face more than your shoulder." Ever since then, neither of you had questioned it.

Tonight, though, for the first time, he barely looked at you at all.

James takes a small sip of the tea before mumbling something that sounds close enough to a thank you. His hands stay wrapped around the mug, eyes fixed on the steam rising from it instead of you. He isn't drinking it because he wants tea—you can tell. He's just giving himself something to do. Something to look at. As much as you don't want to think about where this is going, you can't stop yourself from knowing.

"What's wrong?" you ask.

The words come out quieter than you intended, almost like they're asking him not to say whatever he's about to say. You clear your throat, hoping to sound steadier the second time. He finally looks up at you.

"What was it that you wanted to talk about?"

"Listen, Y/N..." he starts, one hand rubbing the side of his face before dragging down to his jaw. He lets out a breath through his nose. "I know you've noticed... the way I've been treating you these past few weeks. I know it's been unfair. And... weird."

You don't let him finish.

"If it's about that, don't worry." The words come out too fast, almost tripping over each other. "I get it. You've been caught up with work, and we agreed not to depend on each other so much, remember?" A small smile finds its way onto your face, gentle enough to look convincing from the outside. You aren't smiling for him, though. You're smiling because if you stop, you think you might fall apart before he even gets the chance to explain.

His expression softens.

"I know," he says quietly. "I know, baby."

The nickname lands in your chest harder than it usually does.

He sighs, looking down into the tea before his eyes drift toward the warm lamp above the table—the same one he always insisted made your apartment feel like home. They linger there for a second before returning to you.

"It's just..." He pauses, swallowing. "It feels unfair, y'know?"

You don't answer.

The knot in your stomach has grown so heavy it feels like it's climbing into your chest now, squeezing around your ribs until taking a full breath almost hurts. Your hands stay folded in your lap, hidden beneath the table, your thumbnail absentmindedly dragging across the back of your other hand over and over until the skin turns pink.

James watches you for a moment before speaking again, quieter this time.

"...You see where I'm going?"

You nod.

It's small. Barely noticeable.

You keep your eyes on the angry little lines forming across the back of your hand because looking at him would make this real, and saying yes would mean admitting you already knew. Every bit of strength you have is being spent keeping your breathing steady, swallowing around the lump in your throat, convincing yourself that if you blink enough, the tears gathering in your eyes will somehow change their mind.

"I'm sorry."

James says it so gently that it almost hurts more than if he'd shouted. In the two years you'd been together, he had never once raised his voice at you. Not during disagreements, not when he was frustrated, not even when either of you were having the worst day imaginable. This was the voice you knew him for—the calm one, the careful one, the one that always seemed to know exactly how to comfort you. Somehow, hearing it now made your chest ache in a way it never had before.

"I really do love you. You know that, right?" He pauses, his eyes dropping for just a second before finding yours again. "I just... I don't know how to balance everything anymore. Work, all these responsibilities... and us. It feels like I'm constantly falling short somewhere."

"It's fine."

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. They're quieter than you meant them to be, weaker too, almost disappearing the second they're spoken. Your vision begins to blur as tears gather in your eyes, and you blink quickly, hoping they'll stay where they are.

They don't.

"Y/N... please don't cry."

His voice comes out a little more urgent this time as he pushes his chair back and kneels beside you. Instinctively, he reaches for you, but hesitates for the briefest moment, almost as if he isn't sure whether he still has the right to.

"You can't say that," you whisper, your voice breaking halfway through the sentence.

The first tear slips down before you can wipe it away. Then another.

"I'm sorry," you mumble, staring somewhere over his shoulder because you can't bear to look at him anymore. "I'm making this harder than it needs to be."

His face twists with something that looks painfully close to guilt.

Without another word, James gently pulls you to your feet and wraps his arms around you. You don't resist. You fold into him almost automatically, pressing your face into the side of his neck as if your body still hasn't realized what's happening. His scent is so painfully familiar that it almost makes you cry harder—laundry detergent, cedarwood, and whatever shampoo he'd been using for years. It smelled like every late-night drive, every movie you'd watched half asleep, every hoodie of his you'd accidentally stolen and never really gave back.

One of his hands settles against the back of your head, his fingers disappearing into your hair the way they always did whenever you were upset. The other rests between your shoulder blades, his thumb absentmindedly tracing slow circles through your shirt, muscle memory taking over even now.

Your hands, however, never move.

They stay curled against your own sides, fists tightening around the fabric of your pants until your knuckles ache. You don't hold onto him. You hold onto yourself instead, as if gripping the denim hard enough might stop the feeling that everything you've known for the last two years is quietly slipping through your fingers.

You stay there for longer than you'd like to admit. Your face stays buried in his neck, warm tears slowly soaking through the fabric of his shirt while James doesn't say a word. He simply lets you cry. One of his hands remains tangled in your hair, gently scratching your scalp every now and then, while the other continues tracing absentminded circles against your back, the same circles that had calmed you down after every stressful shift, every argument with your parents, every day where the world simply felt a little too heavy. They had always worked before. You almost laugh at the thought that your body still leans into his touch out of habit, even now. They don't work this time.

Eventually your crying quiets down, not because you've stopped, but because you've run out of breath. Your chest still trembles every few seconds, your nose burns from trying so hard not to make a sound, and before you can hide your face again James gently pulls away. Not enough to let you go, just enough to see you. His hands leave your back only to find your face instead, cupping your cheeks with a familiarity that makes something inside of you break all over again. His thumbs brush beneath your eyes, catching the tears that keep replacing themselves almost as fast as he wipes them away.

"There you are..." he mumbles, almost without thinking.

You let out a weak laugh that dies before it has the chance to sound like one.

"You can't do that."

James looks at you, confused for only a second before his eyebrows pull together. "Do what?"

"You can't comfort me." Your words come out quiet, your throat already sore from crying. "You can't be the reason I'm crying..." You swallow, forcing yourself to finish the sentence you'd much rather leave unfinished. "...and then wipe my tears like it wasn't you."

His expression falls immediately.

His hands don't leave your face.

If anything, they hold you a little more carefully now, as though you're something fragile he's terrified of dropping. His thumbs stop moving for a second before gently brushing your cheeks again, almost instinctively, like his hands haven't yet caught up with the fact that this is supposed to be the last time he'll ever get to do this.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"James..."

"No... I really am."

"I know."

And you do.

That's the part that hurts the most.

If he had stopped loving you, maybe you could've hated him. Maybe you could've gone to your friends and called him every name you could think of until eventually one of them stuck. Maybe you'd tell yourself he never deserved you anyway. But he was standing right in front of you, looking at you with the same gentle eyes he'd always had, holding your face like it was still the most precious thing in his life (other than puddings) apologizing over and over because he meant every single word.

He still loved you.

You knew he did.

So what were you supposed to do with all the love you still had for him in your heart?

Because it didn't leave. It didn't shrink the second he decided this was the right thing to do. It was still there, filling every corner of your chest, still reaching for him without asking your permission. You still wanted to tell him about the movie you watched yesterday, still wanted to remind him to bring a jacket tomorrow because he'd definitely complain about being cold, still wanted to ask if he'd eaten lunch, still wanted to save the last bite of whatever you were eating because he always stole it anyway, still wanted to see his nearly seven minute videos trying new convenience store snacks, you still wanted to be the one making fun of his rashed red nose from how much he blowed it when he got sick (like always) but none of those feelings had disappeared.

They had simply lost somewhere to go.