#black reader coded

Wonwoo always waits until the room clears before he speaks.

You’re both tucked into the corner couch at Pledis, laptops open, music low, notebooks messy.

He doesn’t say much. But he watches. Every gesture, every bar, every half-line you scribble out and replace.

“You write like you’re trying to prove something,” he says, tapping your notebook. “Even when no one’s watching.”

You don’t know how to respond to that. Not because it’s wrong. Because it’s too right.

“I’ve always had to,” you murmur, more to yourself.

He nods slowly, like he understands the weight without needing the details.

“I used to write like that too,” he offers. “Now I write like I’m protecting something.”

“Like what?”

He looks at you. Just for a second too long.

“You, maybe.”

The silence afterward is heavier than the beat still playing.

Mingyu is loud when he shouldn’t be.

He swings into the practice room with a smoothie and way too much energy for 10 a.m.

“You still look like last night’s draft,” he grins, sitting next to you on the floor.

You roll your eyes. “Your morning voice is an act of violence.”

He laughs and throws a hoodie at your head. “You’re welcome.”

There’s nothing serious between you two. Just teasing. Playful energy. But lately, he’s been staying after everyone else leaves.

Today, he catches you glancing at the mirror too long—at your posture, at your hair, at how out of place you sometimes feel in a space that doesn’t always reflect you.

“You look like you,” he says, like that’s enough.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He shrugs. “It should.”

He doesn’t elaborate. Just bumps your knee with his and changes the subject like he didn’t just steady you in one sentence.

Vernon catches you in the hallway with a beat playing through his phone speaker.

“You busy?” he asks, as if that’s ever stopped you before.

You follow him into one of the smaller recording rooms, walls scuffed from too many late nights.

He plays you a loop. Soulful, weird, unexpected. “You’d sound good on this.”

You hesitate. “It’s not my style.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s why I want you on it.”

He always pushes you out of your comfort zone. The weird metaphors, the experimental flows. You balance him—grounded, sharp—and he likes the tension.

“Why do you always want to work with me?”

He doesn’t look up from the mixing board. “Because when you rap, you mean it.”

You stare at the speaker for a long moment, pretending not to care how much that lands.

You write something raw that night. Not for the track. Just for yourself.

That weekend, all four of them end up at your place for a “working dinner” that turns into takeout and chaos.

Seungcheol is in the kitchen, arguing about spice levels. Mingyu’s trying to freestyle with chopsticks in his mouth. Wonwoo’s half-listening with that soft smile he gets when he’s at peace. Vernon’s already playing new instrumentals through your Bluetooth speaker.

None of them say it, but they’re proud of you. They always are.

You’ve worked hard for this—carved your space in a world that didn’t always make room. You used to feel like you had to perform yourself into being seen.

But with them, you’re just… here.

And that’s enough.

Later that night, when everyone’s gone, you look at the whiteboard by your desk. It’s filled with lyrics, half-finished hooks, post-it notes with their names scribbled next to beats.

You don’t know what any of this means yet.

But you know it’s real.

And maybe, for now, that’s what matters.

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That weekend, all four of them end up at your place for a “working dinner” that turns into takeout and chaos.

Seungcheol is in the kitchen, arguing about spice levels. Mingyu’s trying to freestyle with chopsticks in his mouth. Wonwoo’s half-listening with that soft smile he gets when he’s at peace. Vernon’s already playing new instrumentals through your Bluetooth speaker.

None of them say it, but they’re proud of you. They always are.

You’ve worked hard for this—carved your space in a world that didn’t always make room. You used to feel like you had to perform yourself into being seen.

But with them, you’re just… here.

And that’s enough.

Later that night, when everyone’s gone, you look at the whiteboard by your desk. It’s filled with lyrics, half-finished hooks, post-it notes with their names scribbled next to beats.