#cheritzteam

Jumin

Jumin always made an effort not to cross boundaries. He respected your privacy and never wanted to make you uncomfortable. But when the woman his father had arranged for him to meet arrived, something in him betrayed that promise — his lips pressed to yours before he could stop it.

You endured it until she left, but afterward Jumin watched you melt into yourself. You pressed a hand to your cheek as if to cool it, and then, quietly and sharp: “Don’t touch me.” You slipped into one of his rooms and closed the door.

Jumin was stunned. He hadn’t even had a chance to apologize. Regret flooded him — shame at what had happened, and a deep, aching worry that he had hurt you in a way he could never take back. From then on he noticed every small retreat: when he reached for your hand, when he tried to pat your head, you always stepped back or hissed at him.

At first he feared it was the forced kiss that injured you, but later you told him there were other reasons. You confessed, “I wanted to enjoy the kiss, but I couldn’t.”

“MC… I will never force you to do anything,” Jumin promised, voice steady. “No kissing, no touching — not unless you want it. I will be patient. I will help you, until you are ready to welcome my touch on your own terms.”

Zen

“DON’T touch me!” you hissed when you stayed over at his place and Zen slowly tried to get closer.

It had only been a small gesture — maybe just a pat on your hand, maybe he’d been about to hold it. He wasn’t even sure himself, only that something between the two of you felt like it was becoming more. But apparently, he was wrong.

You trembled afterward, and neither of you brought it up again. Later that night you slipped quietly into his room, not because you wanted to be close, but because you wanted to hide how much the moment had broken you — how scared you were, how much weight that reaction carried. Zen didn’t question it, and eventually your heartbeat calmed. When it was time to leave, even with Jumin’s driver waiting, you lingered longer than you should have. But eventually you went “home,” carrying a storm of mixed feelings about his action and your own reaction.

Days passed. And then the unthinkable happened. Unknown had you trapped, his presence suffocating, his words twisting into your mind until you were hyperventilating. Zen was there, watching with fury burning in his eyes, desperate to tear you free. He fought, he helped, and finally you managed to escape.

The next thing you remembered was lying in Zen’s arms, still trembling.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that again, MC,” he whispered, keeping his hands carefully to himself as he tried to comfort you with nothing but words. “I understand now… why you reacted that way, that night. I’m so sorry.”

You looked up at him, your voice small but certain. “Zen… I feel like with you, maybe this trauma could finally end.”

Yoosung

Yoosung had imagined your first dance a thousand ways: your hand in his, his hand at your waist, both of you lost in the moment. Instead, when he reached for your hand, you slapped it away and then fled, murmuring “I’m sorry” over and over.

No one knew what had happened. Yoosung only knew he’d hurt the person he liked, and he couldn’t stand not knowing why. He followed you out to the balcony.

“I don’t like men touching me,” you said quietly, like the words were a wound. “I’m sorry. I will never… get over it.”

Yoosung’s eyes shone. “I’ll wait forever,” he whispered. The earnestness in his voice cracked something open in you — not everything, but enough that, with tears in your eyes, you felt you might be able to tell him a little of what you’d been carrying.

Jaehee

“MC, do you want dinner yet?” Jaehee asked, reaching to rest a hand on your shoulder. The touch made you flinch. You gasped, ready to snap, but you swallowed it back.

Jaehee noticed. Her fingers dropped away, confusion and concern crossing her face. “Are you hurt?” she asked gently, and before she realized she did it again — a cautious attempt to reassure you. “Don’t touch me,” you said through clenched teeth.

Jaehee looked embarrassed and startled, then immediately ashamed. She stepped back, throat working. “I’m sorry… I thought—” she faltered, unable to finish. Instead of anger, you felt a wave of sadness at how painful the moment had become for both of you.

You sat down and, when you were ready, began to explain — why touch frightened you, how deep the reflex went. Jaehee listened with care, nodding, tears welling. “Do you want this to change?” she asked. When you nodded, she promised to help, reading up, seeking counseling resources, supporting you step by step until one day she could touch you without causing panic.

Saeyoung

Tears tracked down your cheeks, mascara smudged, hands trembling while Saeyoung held his own wrist as if steadying himself. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you kept saying, the words a prayer and a confession. You curled on the floor with your knees to your chest and watched him.

“I’m the one who was wrong,” he said with a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He was furious inside — at himself for causing pain to his brother, at the world for everything that had happened, and now at himself again for hurting you. He’d read your medical notes; he knew you couldn’t bear touch. He knew, and yet he’d reached out.

Saeyoung dropped to his knees so you’d have to meet his face. “Look at me,” he said softly. “Look me in the eyes.” Then, trying to keep the mood light and safe, he added, “Normally I’d cup your chin in romance novels, so… do it yourself.” You let out a laugh through your tears.

“I will wait for you,” he promised. “I’ll stay. I’ll support you. If you never want to be touched, I’ll build a robot to do it for me.” He swallowed and then smiled, earnest and a little ridiculous, the way he always was. “Nothing is your fault. So please — smile for me.”

You did. It was small, shaky, but real. And in that moment his patience felt like an anchor.