#cortis added

the practice room is quiet when you step in, mirrors dark, floor freshly cleaned. you stretch in silence, headphones in, muscle memory taking over. the choreography has finally settled into your body in a way that feels… natural. not forced. not overthought.

the door opens behind you.

you don’t turn, but you know who it is by the sound of his steps.

“morning,” james says.

“morning.”

he drops his bag near yours without thinking. starts stretching beside you, mirroring the same warm-up routine. it’s been happening more lately — the unspoken syncing. no conversation needed.

a few minutes later, the rest of them filter in.

keonho’s loud, as usual. seonghyeon complains about the time. juhoon hums under his breath while fixing the speaker. martin does a quick headcount, nodding once when he sees you all.

“let’s run it once before staff gets here,” he says.

no hesitation.

you take your place automatically.

there was a time when you used to pause, just a fraction of a second, double-checking where you were supposed to stand — afraid of being wrong, afraid of disrupting something already set.

now, your body knows.

the music starts.

and it clicks.

not in a flashy way. not like fireworks. but like gears finally locking into place.

you don’t overthink your vocals. your breath control is steady. your movements are sharp without being rigid. when you turn, someone is always there — not colliding, not avoiding, just… aligned.

at one point, during a transition, keonho’s sleeve catches on yours.

without breaking formation, he adjusts, fingers briefly gripping your wrist to pull you through the turn.

it’s instinctive.

later, seonghyeon bumps shoulders with you after a lift, grinning, breathless. “nice.”

you nod back. “you too.”

james doesn’t look at you much during the run.

but you feel him.

always half a step within reach. always where you expect him to be.

when the music ends, the room is silent for a second.

then everyone exhales at once.

“that,” juhoon says flatly, “felt good.”

martin nods. “again.”

staff arrives mid-second run.

you spot them in the mirror — familiar faces, unreadable expressions, tablets in hand. you don’t let it rattle you. you’ve learned how to perform through the observation, not for it.

by the time the last note fades, sweat is dripping down your spine and your chest is heaving.

there’s a pause.

then applause.

measured. professional. approving.

“good,” one of the directors says. “much better balance.”

someone else nods. “the chemistry has improved.”

you don’t look at the boys, but you feel the shift — shoulders straightening, tension easing.

“take five,” martin says once the staff steps out.

the room erupts.

keonho collapses onto the floor dramatically. seonghyeon fans himself with his shirt. juhoon steals someone’s water bottle. you sit down near the mirror, pulling your hair out of your face.

james drops beside you, offering a towel without looking.

“you good?” he asks.

“yeah.”

he nods, satisfied, and leans back on his hands.

a little later, during vocal checks, you’re less guarded.

you joke when someone cracks. you laugh when seonghyeon exaggerates a high note and gets called out for it. when martin asks for input on harmonies, you speak up without second-guessing.

“what if we layer it instead of pushing volume?” you suggest.

they try it.

it works.

“that’s better,” martin says. “good call.”

you shrug like it’s nothing, but your chest warms.

during a break, keonho flops next to you, resting his head briefly on your shoulder.

“i’m dying,” he groans.

you don’t move him. just pat his head once. “drink water.”

he does, obedient.

james watches the interaction with mild amusement, then nudges keonho with his foot. “you’re crushing her.”

keonho lifts his head. “oh. sorry.”

“it’s fine,” you say.

it is.

touch doesn’t feel like something you have to calculate anymore.

especially not when james adjusts your mic pack later without asking — fingers careful, professional, familiar — or when he leans in slightly during feedback, murmuring something only you can hear.

“that last note? perfect.”

you glance at him. “you’re biased.”

“i’m accurate,” he replies.

after the evaluation wraps, staff leaves them with a simple, dangerous sentence.

“keep this energy.”

it lingers in the room after they’re gone.

on the way back to the dorm, they stop for coffee.

it’s crowded, noisy, normal.

you end up sitting across from juhoon, who pushes a pastry toward you. “you didn’t eat.”

“thanks.”

james orders for the group without discussion, remembering preferences without making a show of it. when the drinks arrive, yours is set in front of you automatically.

you don’t comment.

later that night, back at the dorm, you’re sprawled on the living room floor, stretching while seonghyeon plays music from his phone. martin’s on the couch, making notes. keonho’s practicing choreography in socks.

james sits nearby, back against the coffee table.

you end up talking — actually talking — about debut outfits, about what kind of songs you hope to perform later, about stupid pre-debut fears no one admits out loud.

“what if people hate it,” keonho says suddenly.

“they will,” you say calmly.

everyone looks at you.

you shrug. “someone always does.”

there’s a beat.

then laughter.

“she’s right,” james says.

you glance at him. he’s already looking at you, expression easy.

later, when things quiet down and everyone drifts off, you stay behind, cleaning up cups.

james does too.

neither of you says much.

it’s comfortable.

as he passes you on the way down the hall, he pauses. not blocking your path. just stopping.

“you did really well today,” he says.

you meet his eyes. “so did you.”

he smiles — small, genuine — and keeps walking.

you stand there for a second longer, then turn off the light.

the evaluation is over.

morning sunlight spills through the dorm windows, soft and lazy, cutting across the living room floor where keonho is sprawled with his phone, scrolling aimlessly. seonghyeon is perched on the couch, earbuds in, tapping along to a rhythm only he hears. you stretch on the rug nearby, the space feeling calm, almost too calm, a rare reprieve from the usual chaos of practice and evaluations.

“you guys aren’t doing anything?” you ask, voice quiet.

keonho looks up, blinking. “i’m… resting,” he mutters.

“you call that resting?” you tease, gesturing to his sprawled limbs. “you’re just… lying there, wasting time.”

“yeah, what about you?” seonghyeon chimes in, finally removing one earbud. “you’re just sitting there too.”

“i’m thinking,” you say, stretching your arms above your head. “important strategic planning.”

they both stare at you for a beat.

“strategic planning for what?” keonho asks, eyebrows raised.

you smirk faintly. “for when you two inevitably mess something up in practice later.”

seonghyeon groans, and keonho laughs. it’s light and easy, not forced. the kind of laugh that makes the room feel warmer than the sunbeam cutting across the floor.

a half hour later, you hear a frustrated groan from seonghyeon’s room. curiosity and concern pull you up. you peek inside to find him sitting cross-legged, notebook open, scribbling furiously. “ugh, why can’t i get this part right?” he mutters, tapping the page repeatedly.

“math?” you ask softly, stepping closer.

“yeah, choreography timing math,” he says with a frown. “i don’t get it.”

you sit down beside him. “show me,” you say, leaning over the notebook. your fingers brush his as you point to the notes, and he stiffens slightly. then relaxes when you guide him gently, voice calm and steady. “see? it’s just a pattern. you’re overthinking.”

he blinks up at you, surprised. “wait… that actually makes sense.”

“of course it does,” you murmur, ruffling his hair lightly. “you just needed someone to slow down with you.”

keonho wanders in mid-explanation, peering over seonghyeon’s shoulder. “ohhh… she’s good at this,” he says, impressed.

seonghyeon chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “yeah, who knew you could… be helpful?”

you shrug casually. “been around enough people to know frustration doesn’t solve problems.”

keonho grins, leaning closer. “i’m gonna keep you around for homework help too.”

you roll your eyes, pinching his cheek lightly. “you better behave, then.”

later that afternoon, the three of you are sprawled on the couch with snacks, phones in hand, laughing quietly at memes one of the younger members sent. keonho nudges your arm accidentally while grabbing a chip, and you bump him back gently. seonghyeon leans in to show you something on his screen, resting his head on your shoulder for a second before realizing and moving quickly, embarrassed.

“what?” you ask, smirking.

“nothing!” he says, eyes wide.

you laugh softly. “you two are ridiculous.”

keonho grins. “we’re learning from you.”

“about being weird?”

“no, about… i dunno… making it fun.”

you pause, then lean back, ruffling both of their hair lightly. “well, keep it up.”

from the doorway, you notice james leaning against the frame, coffee in hand, pretending to scroll through his phone. his jaw is a little tighter than usual, a small crease between his brows you haven’t seen before.

he doesn’t comment, just watches quietly as you laugh, ruffle their hair, and whisper little instructions about practice moves for fun.

you glance at him briefly, catching his attention, and he offers a small, almost imperceptible nod before turning away.

evening comes, and the group gathers in the living room to practice a tricky formation together. keonho struggles with one step, over-rotating and stumbling slightly. you step close without thinking, hand on his shoulder for balance.

“okay, slow it down,” you murmur. guiding his foot placement, you demonstrate with him again. he looks up at you, blinking, expression softening. “thanks… didn’t think you’d care this much.”

“i do,” you reply lightly. “and you’ll get it if you focus.”

seonghyeon watches from the side, arms crossed, but a faint smile tugs at his lips. “she’s way more patient with you than anyone else would be.”

keonho beams.

you shrug, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “you’re lucky i’m in a good mood.”

later, as they collapse onto the floor from exhaustion, you collapse beside them, stretching out your arms. “i think that’s enough chaos for today,” you joke.

“chaos?” seonghyeon snorts. “that was organized chaos.”

you laugh, rolling your eyes, leaning slightly into the space between them. it feels natural, comfortable, like the three of you have been doing this forever.

from the couch, you catch james’ reflection in the mirror, watching quietly again. he fidgets with a pen in his hand, glances away when you look, but his attention keeps drifting back. subtle, unnoticed, but there.

later that night, you sit on the floor, notes scattered around you, helping keonho memorize lyrics. your hand brushes his arm as you point to certain words for emphasis. he leans into your side, focused, and mutters a quiet, “wow… thanks.”

“don’t thank me yet,” you tease, ruffling his hair. “memorize it first.”

seonghyeon sprawls across the rug nearby, smirking at how attentive you’ve become with the younger members. “i don’t even recognize you anymore,” he whispers to keonho. “she’s… softer.”

“i like it,” keonho whispers back. “makes her easier to talk to.”

you overhear faintly, smiling to yourself, brushing your fingers through keonho’s hair again absentmindedly. the casual, small touches feel natural now. laughter, whispers, closeness — it all feels right.

james appears at the doorway briefly, coffee cup in hand. he pauses, watching the scene quietly. he doesn’t intervene. he doesn’t say anything. but when you glance up, he quickly looks away, adjusting his hoodie.

there’s a flicker of something — maybe jealousy, maybe just awareness. he doesn’t realize it himself.

you return to helping keonho and seonghyeon, hair falling over your shoulders, hands brushing lightly against them as they lean closer to understand a rhythm or a lyric. the room is warm, the noise low, and you’re surrounded by people you genuinely care for.

you leave before he gets back.

you return when he’s already asleep.

the dorm stays warm and familiar, but something subtle shifts — like furniture moved an inch to the left. nothing obvious. just enough to make you hesitate when you walk through rooms you know by heart.

one night, you sit alone in the vocal booth, headphones pressed tight over your ears.

“again,” the producer says gently. “one more.”

you sing. you always do.

when it’s over, you check your phone out of habit.

no new messages.

you don’t know why you expected one.

across town, james sits on the practice room floor, back against the mirror, towel around his neck. the others are talking — loud, tired, satisfied.

he unlocks his phone. opens your chat.

types: you done yet?

deletes it.

locks the screen.

he tells himself he’s giving you space.

—

it’s during an interview that the first crack shows.

the question is careless, thrown out with a laugh.

“does it feel easier now that you’ve settled in with the group?”

you smile automatically. practiced. calm.

“yeah,” you say. “i’m more comfortable now.”

you mean: i’m not scared every second anymore. you mean: i don’t feel like i’m intruding.

martin nods beside you, adding something about teamwork, about growth.

james doesn’t look at you.

later, backstage, you hear him say to juhoon, “she’s doing fine.”

his tone is neutral. almost relieved.

fine.

you don’t say anything.

—

the comments start creeping in again.

not overwhelming — just enough to sting.

screenshots circulate. questions get framed strangely. someone on a livestream asks if it’s “hard being different.”

you brush it off. you always do.

but one evening, after a long day, it catches up to you.

you sit on the edge of your bed, phone in your hands, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen.

you think about knocking on james’ door.

you don’t.

instead, you wander into the living room, where martin is sorting through schedules.

he looks up immediately. “hey.”

your shoulders sag before you can stop them.

“can i sit?” you ask, even though you’re already halfway down.

“always.”

you don’t cry. not really. just stare at the floor while you talk in pieces — about pressure, about noise, about being tired of being looked at like a concept instead of a person.

martin listens. doesn’t interrupt.

“you’re allowed to have bad days,” he says finally. “you don’t owe anyone strength all the time.”

you nod, throat tight.

from the hallway, james pauses.

he hadn’t meant to listen. he just… heard your voice.

he catches the end of the conversation. sees the way martin leans closer, protective, grounded. sees the way you relax into it.

something in his chest sinks.

she’s okay, he tells himself again. she has someone.

he turns away before either of you notice.

—

later that night, you find james at the vending machine down the street.

or rather — you almost do.

you’re walking back from a convenience store run, hands cold around a paper cup of coffee, when you spot him ahead of you.

he’s standing there, backlit by fluorescent lights, staring at the machine like it’s personally offended him.

you slow.

hesitate.

he turns, sees you.

for a second, both of you look surprised.

“oh,” he says. “hey.”

“hey.”

silence stretches.

the machine hums between you.

you want to say: are you okay? you want to say: i miss you.

instead, you say, “long day?”

“yeah,” he answers. “you?”

“same.”

another pause.

he glances at your cup. “you drink coffee this late?”

you shrug. “bad habit.”

he nods. “yeah.”

the door to the dorm opens behind you. laughter spills out. someone calls his name.

james steps back instinctively. “i should—”

“yeah,” you say quickly. “me too.”

you pass each other without touching.

the night feels colder afterward.

—

over the next few days, the almosts pile up.

james brings an extra water bottle to practice, then hands it to keonho instead.

you sit next to him in the van once, then move when someone else squeezes in, not bothering to reclaim the seat.

he tells himself he’s not needed.

you tell yourself you imagined the closeness.

both of you are wrong.

—

one evening, you end up alone in the practice room again.

lights dim. mirror fogged from hours of work.

you sit on the floor, stretching, breathing slowly.

the door opens quietly.

james steps in.

he freezes when he sees you. “oh. sorry. i thought—”

“it’s fine,” you say. “i was about to leave.”

you don’t move.

neither does he.

he sets his bag down. sits against the wall, a few feet away.

the space between you feels deliberate. measured.

“…you’ve been busy,” he says.

“you too.”

“yeah.”

you stretch your leg, wince slightly.

he notices. immediately. “does it still hurt?”

you blink. “what?”

“your calf. you pulled it last week.”

oh.

“it’s fine,” you say. “manageable.”

he nods, jaw tight.

there’s so much you want to ask. why did you pull away? did i do something? do you still—

the words get stuck.

“you doing okay?” he asks, almost carefully.

you hesitate.

then: “yeah.”

he exhales, relieved — and something else. resignation, maybe.

“good,” he says. “that’s good.”

he stands first.

you follow a second later.

at the door, he pauses. turns back like he might say something else.

then doesn’t.

after he leaves, you sit back down.

your chest feels hollow.

you don’t know when being “okay” started sounding like goodbye.

and somewhere down the hall, james leans his forehead against the wall, eyes closed, wondering when caring turned into distance — and how both of you ended up protecting each other from the wrong thing.

the dorm feels smaller now. not physically — the rooms are the same, the hallways unchanged — but somehow smaller, like the air has shifted around you both.

james is here. always nearby. always part of the group. but not with you. not the same way.

you notice it first in small things.

he doesn’t sit beside you in the van anymore. not on purpose, you’re sure — he just… drifts a few seats away, hands clasped in his lap, eyes on the road ahead.

at meals, he laughs at something seonghyeon says, but when you reach for the same conversation, he doesn’t include you. he answers only the questions directed at him, never adds his own commentary for you.

and when you glance at him, he looks… distant. polite, calm, neutral.

you feel a small, hollow pang every time.

it’s not rage. not anger. just hurt. quiet, slow, persistent hurt.

you start noticing it when martin leans closer during practice. when he brushes a hand along your back to steady you during formations. when he explains a line in a song, softly, making sure you understand.

you catch james watching sometimes. almost immediately, he looks away, but the brief glance leaves something unsettled in the space between you.

he thinks he’s imagining it.

he tells himself: she’s more comfortable with martin. she doesn’t need me.

but he doesn’t realize how much he wants to be the one she’s comfortable with. how much it stings to see her lean on someone else without a second thought.

you try not to notice, but it’s impossible.

one night, after a long day of schedules, you retreat to your room early. your door clicks softly behind you, and you sink into bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

the living room is full of laughter — seonghyeon teasing keonho, juhoon complaining about the heat, martin calmly mediating — but it doesn’t reach you.

james passes by the door once, glances in, then moves on.

you press the pillow to your face, trying to block out the sound.

your phone buzzes. keonho sends a meme. seonghyeon a short voice note. you reply minimally.

martin appears outside your door after a few minutes.

“you okay?” he asks softly.

“yeah,” you say automatically.

he doesn’t argue. just sits on the floor outside your door.

“long day,” he says.

“yeah.”

he waits. lets the silence stretch, easy, grounding.

you lean against the door, finally exhaling. “i’m… just tired.”

“understandable,” he says. “come out when you’re ready. no pressure.”

it’s simple. it’s comforting. it’s enough to make your chest ache, because it reminds you of what’s missing somewhere else.

james is in the living room. he’s quiet, but you can feel the absence of him differently now — like a space in the room has grown cold.

he watches you through the corner of his eye as you finally get up, stretch, and step into the hallway.

martin stays close, guiding, steady.

james sits back, jaw tight. he tells himself she’s just tired. she’s leaning on someone else because it’s easier.

but the hollow feeling grows, gnawing quietly at the edge of his chest.

later, in the van after practice, you sit closer to martin than before, shoulder brushing. keonho notices and nudges seonghyeon. seonghyeon smirks, whispering something under his breath.

james catches a fragment — not the words, just the laughter — and he stiffens.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t intervene.

you notice he’s quiet today. not mad. not upset. just… different.

you wonder why.

later, when you lie awake in bed, staring at the dark, you think about him.

about how he used to sit near you in the van. how he used to glance at you during practice. how he would hand you water without a word, standing beside you for just a moment longer than anyone else.

and now he doesn’t.

you feel a small, sour knot in your stomach.

it’s not fair. not to you. not to him.

but neither of you says a word.

outside your door, the boys shuffle around, oblivious to the tension building quietly in the hallway.

martin eventually gets up, patting your shoulder. “try to rest,” he says, and you nod.

james watches from across the hall as you curl up in bed. he tells himself again: she doesn’t need me.

and for a moment, you both believe it.

but in the quiet, heavy spaces of the dorm, both of you feel the absence differently.

and it hurts.

the group had decided to cook together that afternoon.

the dorm smelled of garlic, soy, and sizzling meat. laughter echoed from the kitchen into the living room.

you were laughing along with seonghyeon as he attempted — disastrously — to flip a pancake. keonho cheered him on, slapping his shoulder as it landed half-stuck on the counter.

“that’s… technically still a pancake,” you said, nudging seonghyeon. he made a mock offended noise.

martin stirred a sauce pot nearby, humming quietly, occasionally glancing up to make sure everyone was coordinated.

james had been unusually quiet all afternoon, hovering near the counter but not participating much. you noticed, but didn’t think much of it at first.

until seonghyeon tripped slightly and you caught him, steadying him with a hand on his arm.

“thanks,” he murmured, grinning.

“don’t nearly kill yourself next time,” you teased, laughing.

keonho joined in, nudging you gently. the three of you were huddled in a small circle, joking, sharing little spills and playful swats.

and james watched.

something tightened in his chest. a dull pressure he didn’t want to admit.

he didn’t notice when you turned to martin to ask a question about the sauce. martin leaned in, explaining quietly, brushing his hand briefly over yours to point at a spot in the pan.

it shouldn’t have mattered. it shouldn’t have felt like it did.

but when you laughed at martin’s joke — the soft, easy kind of laugh you used to share with him — james snapped.

“can we not pretend like it’s a club or something?” he muttered, voice low but sharp enough that everyone froze.

you blinked, startled. your hand paused mid-gesture, eyes wide.

“what?”

“you,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the small circle, “you don’t have to… i don’t know. make it seem like we all have to be having fun just because the three of you think it’s cute.”

the room went still. even seonghyeon’s half-flipped pancake threatened to stick permanently. keonho’s jaw dropped slightly.

the hurt was immediate. a sharp little sting that spread across your chest.

“oh,” you said quietly. “i… i didn’t realize.”

he didn’t soften. he just muttered something under his breath, crossing his arms, and went back to the counter without looking at you.

keonho nudged seonghyeon. “i’m staying with y/n,” he whispered. seonghyeon nodded, putting the pancake pan down.

you sank onto the couch, hands in your lap, trying not to cry but feeling the weight of the afternoon collapse in one sharp moment.

keonho sat beside you, draping a blanket over your shoulders. “he didn’t mean it like that,” he said softly. “he’s just… stressed.”

you bit your lip. “it still hurts.”

meanwhile, seonghyeon went after james, who was muttering to himself near the fridge.

“what the hell was that?” seonghyeon demanded. “she’s right there and you throw that at her?”

james stiffened. “i… i didn’t—”

“didn’t what? didn’t care? didn’t notice? what, james?”

he ran a hand through his hair, finally exhaling. “i… i just—i don’t know. it annoyed me.”

“annoyed you?” seonghyeon repeated, incredulous. “she was just having fun. do you even realize how it sounded?”

james froze. the realization hit slowly. the weight of the words he’d said. the sharp, small hurt in your eyes that keonho had texted him about already, before seonghyeon intervened.

“fuck,” he muttered.

seonghyeon didn’t answer, just glared. james’s hands fisted at his sides. “i… i need to fix it.”

he walked over to the couch, sitting carefully beside you, keeping a respectful distance.

“y/n…” he started, voice quiet, careful. “i… i didn’t mean to hurt you. i… i just… i don’t know. it came out wrong.”

you hugged your knees, not looking at him. “it did hurt,” you said softly.

he swallowed. “i know. i—i’m sorry. i… i shouldn’t have said that.”

you nodded. the silence stretched.

“we’re okay?” he asked finally.

you exhaled. “yeah. we’re okay.”

he nodded slowly, still not touching you, just sitting there. it wasn’t a moment of warmth, not a fix. it wasn’t even exactly comfort.

it was acknowledgment. recognition that the hurt had happened and that he regretted it.

and for now, that was enough.

the morning sun streams through the dorm windows, catching the dust motes like tiny stars.

you stretch, already half awake, and glance over at the group sprawled across the living room. seonghyeon is playing with his phone, keonho is carefully tying his sneakers for the third time, and martin is quietly sipping coffee like he’s been awake for hours — probably has.

james is sitting on the arm of the couch, casually scrolling through his phone, hoodie half-zipped, hair falling into his eyes. he looks up when he sees you stretch. “front seat’s mine today,” he declares, smirking. “just a heads up.”

“oh please,” you reply, rolling your eyes as you sling your bag over your shoulder. “you’re such a child.”

“child?” he repeats, mock horror in his tone. “i prefer ‘mature and charming.’”

the banter continues all the way to the van. he pouts dramatically when you make a move for the window seat, but ultimately lets you have it, leaning back against the door like he’s invented patience for the day.

“fine,” he says with a sly grin. “but i expect gratitude later.”

you mutter something under your breath about how annoying he is, but the corners of your mouth twitch upward anyway.

the city is alive, buzzing with weekend energy. the group splits naturally into small pairs, drifting through shops.

you wander into a quirky little store with keonho and seonghyeon. shelves are stacked with ridiculous trinkets and colorful hats. you try on one with an oversized feather sticking out.

“oh wow,” james announces from across the aisle, as if he hadn’t been following you, “i didn’t know i could fall in love with a hat this fast.”

you glare at him, but laugh, ducking your head under the feather. “you’re ridiculous.”

he grins, unbothered. “and yet, somehow, irresistible.”

keonho and seonghyeon exchange wide-eyed looks and smirk, clearly enjoying the show. you shove him lightly, but he catches your wrist, holding it just long enough to make you pause.

“don’t ruin the moment,” he whispers, grinning.

you roll your eyes, heart quietly fluttering.

later, at a cozy cafe, the group settles around a corner table. cups clink, spoons stir, and the smell of coffee and pastries fills the air.

james, ever observant, notices your cup sliding toward the edge. before you can reach it, he grabs it with a swift hand. “don’t trust gravity around here,” he says, pretending to scold.

you laugh softly, reaching for it. “thanks, i guess.”

he hands it to you with a flourish, smirking. “always happy to serve.”

small gestures continue throughout the afternoon: he nudges the straw into your drink when you ask, tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear when it falls across your face, holds doors open without a word, and occasionally leans in when he’s laughing at your jokes.

it’s effortless, natural. playful. charming. and you notice.

an arcade pops up on the street, neon lights buzzing. the group drifts in, excitedly pointing out games.

james nudges you toward the basketball shooting machine. “loser buys ice cream,” he declares.

you smirk. “you’re on.”

you play, unexpectedly winning. he pouts, dramatically slumping against the side. “how… how did you—” he trails off, hands thrown up in mock defeat.

“i have skills,” you say, grinning.

he laughs, finally giving in. “fine, fine. you earned it.”

he ruffles your hair in a teasing, brotherly way, and the group hoots. keonho nudges seonghyeon, whispering, “they’re ridiculous.”

you laugh along, catching your breath, still flushed from winning.

as the day winds down, the group walks through quiet city streets. streetlights flicker to life, casting golden pools on the pavement.

james walks beside you, shoulder brushing yours occasionally. he teases you softly about the ridiculous hats you tried on earlier, and you fire back with playful jabs about his “childish charm.”

he grins, brushing a speck of dust from your hoodie sleeve. “you’re really good at making fun of me,” he says quietly.

“i try my best,” you reply, laughing.

he glances at you, something like warmth sparking in his eyes. not heavy, not confessional, just… present.

the group stops outside a small dessert shop. you order a shared plate of waffles, dipping strawberries into chocolate, laughing at how messy you get.

james leans over, feeding you a bite with exaggerated care. “don’t ruin it,” he teases, though his eyes are warm.

you roll your eyes but let him. just this once.

keonho and seonghyeon exchange quiet glances across the table, smirking at the subtle crumbs they’re witnessing.

martin catches your gaze, smiling faintly, and you realize the group is noticing the dynamics without making it awkward.

as night settles in, you walk back to the dorm, tired but happy. the city lights blur around you.

james keeps pace beside you, teasing lightly, nudging your shoulder every now and then. nothing heavy, nothing serious. just effortless charm and attention, making the walk feel warmer than it should.

it’s been a few days.

long enough for the novelty of your presence to wear off. long enough for routines to start forming without you. long enough for silence to turn into something sharp.

you haven’t talked much.

not because you don’t want to — but because you don’t know how to insert yourself into a space that already feels complete without you.

james has tried. awkwardly, but consistently. knocking lightly on your door to ask if you’ve eaten. offering a quiet “good job” after practice. never pushing, never lingering, but always making sure you know he sees you.

martin too. leader instincts kicking in, maybe. checking in, asking if the room temperature is okay, if you need anything. trying to smooth over something he doesn’t quite know how to fix.

you appreciate it. you really do.

but appreciation doesn’t erase discomfort.

you still feel like you’re standing in the doorway of a room everyone else has already settled into.

a laugh carries through the wall.

your chest tightens before you can stop it.

they’re all in the living room — you can tell by the overlapping voices, the way sound bounces when too many people are gathered in one place. someone’s telling a story. someone else interrupts. there’s that easy rhythm of familiarity, of shared history you weren’t there to build.

you turn slightly onto your side, facing the wall.

the smell hits you a second later.

soy sauce. fried rice. something garlicky.

chinese takeout.

your throat closes.

you hadn’t known they were ordering food. no one knocked. no one texted. not that you expected them to — but the realization still lands heavy in your chest.

oh.

then you hear it — a rustle of plastic, the clink of containers being opened.

“did you get enough chopsticks?” someone asks.

“yeah, yeah.”

another laugh. something about sauce spilling.

your fingers curl into the blanket.

i wish they knew chinese takeout is my favorite, you think, and the thought hurts more than it should.

because it’s not really about the food.

it’s about the fact that somewhere in the apartment, there’s warmth and noise and shared comfort — and you’re lying alone in a dark room, pretending you don’t hear it.

you tell yourself you could go out there.

you could get up. open the door. sit quietly on the edge of the couch. you wouldn’t even have to talk much.

but the image makes your stomach twist.

because what if the laughter stutters when you appear?

what if the space shifts — just slightly — to accommodate you?

you’ve spent too long being the disruption.

another burst of laughter. louder this time.

you press your face into your pillow, muffling the sound.

it’s stupid, you tell yourself. childish. you’ve survived worse. harsher words. lonelier rooms.

but this feels different.

this feels like being invisible while everyone else is real.

a knock sounds suddenly, soft and hesitant.

your breath catches.

“y/n?” a voice calls through the door.

keonho.

you sit up slowly, heart racing for no good reason.

“yeah?” your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to.

the door opens just a crack. keonho peeks in, eyes darting behind him like he’s worried about being seen.

“we, um,” he starts, scratching the back of his neck. “we got food. if you want some.”

you hesitate.

there it is. the invitation. small, fragile.

“it’s okay,” you say automatically. “i’m not that hungry.”

it’s a lie. you know it. he probably does too.

he nods anyway. relief flashes across his face — relief that you didn’t make this harder.

“okay,” he says. “just… yeah.”

the door closes.

the hallway light disappears.

and just like that, the moment is gone.

you lie back down, staring at the faint outline of the ceiling.

that’s how it keeps happening — little chances, slipping through your fingers not because you don’t want them, but because you don’t know how to hold them without cutting yourself.

you hear seonghyeon’s laugh now, bright and unguarded. someone teases him for it. he protests loudly. more laughter.

you swallow.

they’re not being cruel. that’s the worst part.

they’re not whispering about you anymore. they’re not actively excluding you. they’re just… living. together.

and you’re orbiting them like a satellite that never quite lands.

your phone buzzes beside you.

for a split second, hope flares.

then you see it’s just a notification from a group chat — practice schedule update, sent automatically.

you unlock your phone anyway.

your thumb hovers over one name.

jungwon.

you haven’t talked much since debut season got busy for him. different schedules, different buildings. but he’s always been there — steady, familiar, like something solid you can reach for when everything else feels like it’s shifting.

you stare at the empty message box for a long moment.

then you type.

are you awake?

three dots appear almost immediately.

always for you

your chest aches.

you don’t know how to explain this feeling. how to condense loneliness into text without sounding pathetic.

you try anyway.

i’m really sad

like. really really sad

there’s a pause this time.

you imagine him frowning at his screen, processing.

where are you?

dorm

new one

the group?

yeah

another pause.

the laughter from the living room spikes again, punctuating the silence between messages.

is it bad?

you close your eyes.

i feel so alone

even when they’re right there

the response comes slower this time.

hey

that’s not you failing

that’s just… new people being bad at noticing

you press your lips together.

i miss when things were easy

the memory comes uninvited.

a practice room years ago. late afternoon light slanting through dusty windows. you sitting on the floor, back against the mirror, sweat-soaked and laughing as jungwon dramatically complains about footwork.

“if i mess this up again,” he’d said, flopping down beside you, “i’m quitting.”

you’d laughed and shoved his shoulder. “no you’re not.”

“yeah,” he’d grinned, breathless. “because you’d yell at me.”

you’d been happy then. not because things were perfect — but because you were seen. understood. surrounded by people who knew your silences and didn’t fear them.

back in the present, your phone buzzes.

it won’t always feel like this

i know that sounds fake

but it’s true

you type back slowly.

i know

i just wish someone here knew me

the laughter outside your door fades slightly as the boys move around, containers being tossed, something turning on the tv.

their night continues.

yours stays still.

you set your phone down and curl onto your side, pulling the blanket up around your shoulders.

tomorrow, you’ll wake up. train. perform. be perfect. be quiet. be strong.

tonight, you let yourself feel how empty the space between rooms can be.

and somewhere on the other side of the wall, the noise keeps going — unaware of how loud it sounds to someone alone.

you sit on the edge of your bed, hands folded in your lap, staring at the floor.

today is the day you’ve been walking toward for years.

and somehow, it doesn’t feel like the finish line. it feels like standing at the edge of something you can’t see the bottom of.

“y/n.”

martin knocks softly, door already half open. “five minutes.”

you nod. “okay.”

in the van, no one jokes.

keonho keeps bouncing his knee. seonghyeon’s whispering lyrics under his breath. juhoon has his eyes closed, hands clasped together like he’s praying. martin’s phone is in his hand but he hasn’t unlocked it once.

james sits two seats away from you, staring straight ahead.

you don’t speak to each other.

you don’t need to.

the building is chaos.

staff everywhere. cables on the floor. cameras. makeup brushes. countdowns being called out in voices that sound far too calm.

“debut stage in twenty.”

you’re ushered into styling chairs. hands are in your hair, fixing, smoothing, adjusting. makeup touches up what’s already perfect. someone clips a mic pack to your waistband.

“you okay?” the stylist asks.

you nod. automatically.

your heart is pounding so loud you’re surprised no one else can hear it.

backstage, you line up.

in-ear clicks on. the backing track hums faintly.

this is it.

you feel it then — james’ presence beside you. close enough that your arm brushes his sleeve.

he doesn’t look at you.

but his hand lifts, briefly, and taps twice against his thigh.

a grounding habit. you’ve seen him do it before performances.

for some reason, it steadies you.

the lights go down.

your name echoes through the venue.

the first step onto the stage feels like stepping into a different body.

everything sharpens. lights blind you. the crowd is a blur of color and sound. cheers hit like a wave — not directed at you individually, but at the idea of you. the group. the moment.

the music starts.

your body takes over.

months of training kick in. counts. formations. muscle memory. you move without thinking, breath steady, expression locked.

you catch glimpses of the others — keonho grinning mid-move, seonghyeon’s focus razor-sharp, martin commanding the center like he was born there.

james is solid. anchored. exactly where he’s supposed to be.

and you — you’re there.

not trailing. not hidden.

present.

when it ends, the applause crashes over you, loud and endless and unreal.

you bow.

the lights cut.

backstage again, everything hits at once.

keonho lets out a strangled laugh. seonghyeon’s eyes are glassy. juhoon drops onto a chair like his legs finally gave out.

martin exhales slowly, hands on his hips. “we… did it.”

someone claps. someone cheers weakly.

you just stand there, hands trembling.

james turns to you then.

really looks at you.

“you okay?” he asks quietly.

your throat tightens.

you nod. then shake your head. then nod again.

he doesn’t say anything else. just hands you a towel, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

post-debut schedules blur together.

interviews. photos. more stages. waiting rooms that all look the same. microphones shoved toward your face.

“how does it feel to debut?”

“what’s it like being the only girl in the group?”

“were there any challenges adjusting?”

you answer carefully. politely. neutrally.

“we work well together.” “they’re very supportive.” “i’m grateful.”

you don’t say how heavy it feels sometimes. how visible you are. how every movement is watched twice as closely.

after one interview, you sit alone in the hallway, back against the wall, knees pulled up slightly.

your phone buzzes nonstop.

congratulations messages. articles. clips.

your name trends briefly — not for your performance, but for your presence.

mixed reactions.

you stop scrolling.

james appears a moment later, dropping down beside you without asking.

he doesn’t speak.

neither do you.

the silence isn’t awkward. it’s just… there.

eventually, he says, “you don’t have to read it.”

you hum. “i know.”

“you did well today,” he adds, like an afterthought.

you glance at him. “you say that like a report.”

he shrugs. “i mean it.”

later that night, back at the dorm, the adrenaline finally wears off.

keonho orders food. seonghyeon steals bites off everyone’s plates. martin makes a toast with a soda can.

“to debut,” he says. “and to surviving it.”

everyone cheers.

you smile. genuinely this time.

at some point, you slip away to your room.

your makeup is still on. your outfit half-changed. you sit on the bed, staring at your hands.

you debuted.

you should feel different.

there’s a knock.

you open the door to james, holding a convenience store bag.

“forgot to give you this earlier,” he says, handing it over.

inside is a drink you like. something sweet.

you blink. “you remembered.”

he looks almost uncomfortable. “you always get it after stages.”

oh.

you hadn’t realized he noticed.

“thanks,” you say softly.

he nods, stepping back. then pauses.

“…good job today,” he repeats.

this time, there’s something else in his voice. not louder. not warmer.

just more certain.

he leaves.

you close the door, leaning your forehead against it for a second.

outside, the dorm is full of noise — laughter, voices, life.

inside, your chest feels full in a way that doesn’t ache.

not yet.

the days after debut don’t slow down. they multiply.

sleep becomes something you remember having once. schedules blur into each other — music shows, radio appearances, filmed reactions, dance practice squeezed between everything else. your calendar fills so fast it feels aggressive.

you’re tired in a way that sinks into your bones.

but the group moves together now.

you notice it in small things first.

the way juhoon automatically shifts to give you space when staff crowd too close. the way martin checks everyone’s in-ears before stepping onstage. the way keonho waits for you before leaving practice rooms, pretending he’s just slow at tying his shoes.

and seonghyeon — who sticks to your side more openly now, like he’s decided you’re his person.

you don’t mind.

on the third music show, you mess up a count.

it’s barely noticeable. a half-beat late on a turn. but you feel it immediately — the jolt of panic, the cold spike of fear.

after, in the waiting room, you sit stiffly, replaying it in your head.

“no one saw,” seonghyeon says, dropping beside you.

you don’t answer.

keonho crouches in front of you, peering up. “i saw.”

your heart sinks.

he grins. “and it didn’t matter.”

you finally look at him.

“we covered it,” he says easily. “that’s why we’re a group.”

something in your chest loosens.

during a radio interview, the host laughs too loudly when she asks, “does it feel awkward having a girl in the group?”

the room stills for half a second.

you’re already forming a careful answer when martin speaks.

“no,” he says calmly. “it’d be awkward not having her.”

the host blinks, caught off guard.

you keep your expression neutral, but your fingers curl slightly in your lap.

james doesn’t look at you. he just nods once, like martin said something obvious.

later, backstage, you murmur, “thanks.”

martin waves it off. “it’s true.”

james passes you a bottle of water. “you handled the rest well.”

it’s a pattern now — comments like that. practical. grounded. never lingering.

sometimes you wonder if you’re imagining the way he always seems to be nearby when things get loud.

your phone buzzes constantly.

fans. curiosity. praise. criticism.

you learn quickly what to ignore.

one night, you’re all sprawled in the living room, shoes kicked off, takeout containers spread across the table. someone’s put on a variety show rerun. keonho’s lying on the floor, head pillowed on a hoodie.

you sit cross-legged on the couch, scrolling mindlessly.

“y/n,” seonghyeon says suddenly, pointing at the screen. “they zoomed in on you there.”

you glance up just in time to see yourself mid-performance, hair stuck to your cheek, eyes focused.

you barely recognize her.

“cool,” keonho says. “you look scary.”

“is that good?” you ask.

“very,” he says. “don’t change.”

you snort softly.

james chuckles from the other end of the couch — a quiet sound, surprised out of him.

it feels… normal.

later, when the others drift off one by one, you linger in the kitchen, rinsing a cup.

james steps in to help without a word, drying dishes beside you.

the silence isn’t heavy. it’s companionable.

“you holding up okay?” he asks eventually.

you think about it. honestly.

“yeah,” you say. “i think so.”

he nods. “good.”

a pause.

“…if it stops being okay,” he adds, eyes still on the dish in his hands, “you don’t have to deal with it alone.”

you swallow.

“i know.”

you mean it.

back in your room, you finally take your makeup off, staring at your bare face in the mirror.

you think about the stage. the noise. the way the others moved with you, not around you.

about how loneliness still exists — but it’s quieter now. less sharp.

debut didn’t fix everything.

but it didn’t break you either.

you crawl into bed, exhaustion finally winning.

outside your door, the dorm hums softly with life.

and for the first time since arriving here, that sound doesn’t make you feel alone.\

post-debut schedules slow just enough for patterns to form.

and you start noticing who you gravitate toward when you’re not thinking.

martin becomes… easy.

it surprises you at first.

he’s steady in a way that doesn’t demand anything from you. when interviews get overwhelming, he subtly positions himself between you and the host. when staff talk over you, he waits — gives you the space to speak again, like it matters that your voice is heard.

you start sitting next to him during waiting times. not intentionally. it just… happens.

sometimes you talk. sometimes you don’t.

one night, after a long rehearsal, you sit on the practice room floor with your back against the mirror, knees pulled up. your calves ache. your head is buzzing.

martin drops down beside you, handing you an ice pack.

“you’re limping,” he says simply.

you blink. “i didn’t notice.”

“you never do.”

he says it without judgment. just fact.

you press the ice to your leg, hissing quietly. martin waits, patient.

“you’re doing well,” he says after a moment. “better than you think.”

you laugh softly. “you sound like a manager.”

“occupational hazard.”

there’s comfort in it. in how uncomplicated it feels.

across the room, james is retaping his wrist.

he glances over once. then looks away.

you don’t notice.

over the next few days, it keeps happening.

martin walking you through blocking during shoots. martin sitting next to you during van rides. martin answering questions when you hesitate, always looping you back in.

it’s not exclusive. it’s not secretive.

it’s just… visible.

and james notices.

he notices the way martin’s hand rests briefly at the small of your back when guiding you forward. the way you lean closer when he speaks quietly to you. the way you smile more easily around him.

not wide smiles. small ones. relaxed.

james doesn’t feel jealous.

not exactly.

it’s more like a dull pressure he can’t name.

during one rehearsal, you mess up again — this time more obvious. the music stops.

“my fault,” you say immediately.

martin shakes his head. “no. that transition’s awkward. let’s adjust it.”

he moves closer to you, demonstrating the count, gently correcting your foot placement.

“like this,” he says.

you follow, nodding. “oh. yeah, that feels better.”

“see?” he smiles. “not you.”

from across the room, james clenches his jaw.

it doesn’t make sense. he knows martin’s right. he knows this is normal. good, even.

still, something twists in his chest.

later, in the dorm, you’re sitting at the kitchen counter, feet dangling, eating fruit straight from the container.

martin leans against the counter beside you, scrolling through his phone.

“we’ve got an early call tomorrow,” he says. “try to sleep.”

“you too,” you reply.

he smiles. “i will.”

james walks in mid-conversation, grabs a glass of water.

you glance at him. “hey.”

“hey,” he answers.

there’s a pause. an odd one.

martin clears his throat. “i’m gonna check on the others.”

he leaves.

the kitchen feels too quiet.

you take another bite of fruit. james drinks his water too fast.

“…you good?” he asks finally.

you nod. “yeah. why?”

he shrugs. “just checking.”

silence again.

you tilt your head, studying him. “you’ve been quiet.”

he huffs a small laugh. “that’s my default.”

“no,” you say. “this is quieter.”

he looks at you then. really looks.

“…just tired,” he says.

it’s not a lie. but it’s not the truth either.

you don’t push.

and that’s what hurts, later — that you don’t push with him the way you might with someone else now.

over the next week, the distance grows in tiny increments.

nothing dramatic.

just james sitting a seat farther away. james speaking less when you’re around martin. james offering water but not staying.

you feel it eventually. like a draft in a room you didn’t realize was warm before.

one night, after schedules end early, you find james alone in the practice room, sitting on the floor, back against the wall, earbuds in.

you hesitate. then step inside.

he looks up, surprised. pulls one earbud out.

“what’s up?”

you shrug, sitting a few feet away. “couldn’t sleep.”

“me neither.”

you sit in silence for a bit.

“…did i do something?” you ask quietly.

he stiffens.

“what?”

“you’ve been… off.”

he looks down at his hands.

“no,” he says quickly. “you didn’t.”

you wait.

he exhales slowly. “it’s just… a lot’s changing.”

you nod. “yeah.”

another pause.

“martin’s been helping you a lot,” he says, carefully neutral.

“yeah,” you reply. “he’s good at it.”

he hums. “he is.”

you don’t know what else to say.

neither does he.

eventually, you stand. “i’ll let you rest.”

“okay.”

you leave first.

james stays seated long after the door closes, staring at the spot where you were sitting.

he doesn’t know why it bothers him.

only that it does.

and you, lying in bed later, wonder when something between you became fragile — and whether it ever really belonged to you in the first place.

you feel stupid.

you hate that part the most — the self-awareness that comes with the sadness. the way a voice in your head keeps telling you that this isn’t worth crying over. that you’ve survived worse. that you’re stronger than this.

but strength doesn’t cancel loneliness.

it just makes you quieter about it.

a tear slips out anyway.

you swipe at it impatiently, like you’re annoyed at your own body for betraying you. your throat feels tight, like you’ve been holding something in for too long and it’s finally demanding space.

the laughter from the living room has died down a little now. the tv is on. some variety show, judging by the canned laughter that filters through the walls. voices overlap occasionally — someone complaining about a joke, someone else shushing them.

they sound comfortable.

you stare at the wall.

get over it, you tell yourself. this is temporary.

but the thought doesn’t help. it just makes the emptiness feel sharper, like you’re failing at something you don’t even know how to try at.

your phone buzzes suddenly.

you flinch, heart jumping.

for half a second, you think it might be one of the boys. james, maybe. martin. someone checking in.

it’s not.

jungwon

come down.

that’s all it says.

no explanation. no soft lead-in. just two words that somehow manage to ground you instantly.

you sit up slowly, wiping at your eyes again. your chest still hurts, but it’s… different now. not lighter. just steadier. like someone has placed a hand on your back, reminding you that you’re not floating completely untethered.

where?

the reply comes fast.

park

two blocks

you know the one

your lips press together.

you do know it. small neighborhood park, old swings that creak when you move too fast, a streetlight that flickers like it’s about to give up. you’ve gone there before on nights when the building felt too loud or too small.

you hesitate.

you glance at your door. at the faint strip of light underneath it. at the knowledge that if you open it, you’ll pass right by them — their voices, their presence, the life you don’t quite belong to yet.

your phone buzzes again.

bring a jacket

it’s cold

your chest tightens, but this time it’s not painful.

you type back:

okay

you move quietly, deliberately. like you’re afraid the night itself might notice you leaving and ask questions you don’t have answers for.

you pull on your coat, shove your feet into sneakers without tying them properly. you grab your keys, hesitate, then slip your phone into your pocket.

⸻

meanwhile, back at the dorm:

james is pacing. his hands are clamped around a takeout box — the same kind you can practically smell from here — your favorite from jade lantern, kept aside just for you. he knocked once. twice. three times. no answer.

“y/n?” he calls again, louder this time. “y/n, it’s me! the food’s here!”

silence.

he jabs at the handle. locked. or maybe not locked, but the room is empty. the thought hits him like a punch to the gut. she’s gone.

“what the—” his voice cracks. “where the hell—”

he spins around, looking at the other boys.

“she’s gone,” he says, panic blooming. “she’s not in her room.”

martin glances up from his phone. “uh… maybe she’s walking around? or—”

“walking around?” james cuts him off sharply, voice rising. “you all just… let her leave the room without saying anything? she’s one of us now! she’s supposed to be part of the group, and you’re just… chilling like she doesn’t exist?”

keonho looks down, guilty. seonghyeon shrugs awkwardly. juhoon opens his mouth, closes it again.

“you don’t get it!” james yells. “you treat her like she’s invisible, like it’s optional to notice her! she’s new here! she’s trying! and this is how you act?”

there’s a silence after that, heavy and sharp. the words hang in the air. no one dares interrupt. james is shaking, half from cold, half from adrenaline, half from the fear of what could happen if she keeps disappearing without telling anyone.

“we’re going to find her,” he says finally, voice low but firm. “all of us. now.”

and without another word, he dashes out of the dorm, takeout box clutched in one hand, jacket flapping behind him. the others follow more slowly, murmuring apologies to each other but too shaken to argue. seonghyeon and juhoon hang back slightly, exchanging quiet looks. “she’ll come back,” seonghyeon mutters. “she always does.”

james glares at them both. “you’re treating her like she’s optional. all of you. she’s not optional. she’s one of us now.”

and that’s the last thing they hear before he’s gone, running down the street, determination making his legs pump faster than they have in weeks.

the park appears two blocks away. the familiar swings, the faint outline of the streetlight, the smell of winter air mixed with old grass and concrete. and there, sitting on one of the swings, is jungwon.

he stands when he sees you, one hand on the swing chain, the other on a small paper bag.

jade lantern.

your chest tightens and your eyes well up. you don’t make it the few steps to him before your legs give way, and you’re hugging him tightly. he wraps you up without hesitation, rocking you slightly on the swing.

“hey—hey,” he murmurs. “i’ve got you.”

you breathe against him, letting the tears fall freely. he tugs your coat tighter around your shoulders, nudges the bag toward you with his foot, “don’t ask how i carried it,” he jokes softly.

you eat slowly, letting the warmth and familiarity ground you.

you tell him everything — the dorm, the boys, the way you feel like you’re orbiting them instead of belonging, how you’ve tried to stay quiet to survive.

he listens. nods. guides. defends. explains. reassures.

“they don’t hate you,” he says finally.

“i know,” you whisper. “that’s not the problem.”

“they’re just… bad at adjusting. and you’re bad at asking for space,” he teases lightly.

you huff, almost smile.

then the sound of heavy, frantic footsteps.

james.

“y/n—” he pants, grabbing your wrists to check if you’re okay, his hands warm, coat half-draped over you. “oh my god. you’re here. we were so worried. what were you thinking? why’d you leave without telling us?”

he rubs your hands with his gloves, takes them off, puts them on you, protective.

you step back, blinking, catching your breath. he finally notices jungwon. embarrassment floods his face, he bows quickly. “uh… sunbaenim, i—”

jungwon chuckles, calm, patient. “of course, y/n. you just left without telling anyone.” he leans close to whisper, “you have to make an effort too, to be part of the group,” ruffles your hair, then nods at james. “take care of her,” and walks off.

you turn to james. “i’m sorry,” you whisper.

he shakes his head, still breathless, still worried. “don’t ever scare us like that again,” he says softly, guiding you back toward the dorm.

the dorm is quiet when you arrive. as you step inside, the boys swarm, apologizing, hugging, fumbling through words. you let them hold you, stiff and unsure at first, but eventually relaxing.

the walk back to the dorm is painfully slow, even though the building is only a few blocks away.

james keeps one hand on the small of your back, steadying, protective, but tense. the other hand is still gripping the takeout box, the paper crinkling with every step. his breaths come fast, visible in the cold night air, and every few seconds he glances at you, reading your expression, worried you might vanish again.

“are you cold?” he asks softly, voice tight.

you shake your head. you’re not cold, not really. your body is vibrating with the residual adrenaline of leaving unnoticed, running, and the comfort of jungwon.

“are you… okay?” he presses, just above a whisper.

“i’m… better,” you murmur, which is true in a fractured way. better than lying alone, worse than actually being safe.

behind him, you hear the faint shuffle of movement. the boys are following — seonghyeon and juhoon a few steps back, unsure, hesitant, quieter than usual. keonho is a few strides ahead, glancing back constantly. martin is trying to coordinate them like a worried leader, talking under his breath to them about “keeping pace” and “don’t crowd.”

none of them say much directly to you. none of them try to touch or guide. you can feel the distance in inches, the emotional weight of space between, and it stings almost as much as the loneliness you felt in your room.

james notices, of course. he grips your hand lightly — one of his silent ways of saying, you’re not alone right now — and he squeezes. the gesture is grounding, and you can’t help but lean slightly toward him.

“they… didn’t notice,” you murmur. your voice barely above the wind in the trees lining the street. “not that it matters. they’re not mean… they just—”

“—don’t know how,” james finishes for you, voice low, sharp. “exactly.” he glances back at them. “look at them. they treat you like you’re invisible. all of them. they’re lucky i’m not yelling at every single one right now.”

he takes a deep breath, visibly calming himself before continuing. “you can’t let it slide like this. you’re one of them now. they can’t just… act like you don’t exist.”

keonho shifts uncomfortably. seonghyeon fidgets. martin opens his mouth, then closes it again. juhoon just bites the inside of his cheek, silent. they all feel it — the weight of james’ words, but there’s an awkwardness, a frozen hesitation, like none of them know how to bridge the gap.

you feel your chest tighten again, but not with sadness this time — with a strange mix of relief and embarrassment. relief that someone sees you, someone is angry on your behalf, and embarrassment because you didn’t expect it, didn’t even want it, but it hits anyway.

the dorm looms ahead. its yellow-lit windows seem impossibly far, even though it’s only a block away. each step toward it is a mixture of dread and anticipation. the thought of facing the boys, seeing their reactions, accepting apologies, letting them touch you again — all of it churns in your stomach.

james slows when you stumble slightly, the cold making your legs clumsy. he bends down, pulls your hands into his, and makes you look at him. “hey,” he says. “you’re okay. you’re okay now. we’ve got you. we’ve got you back to them, safely.”

you nod, swallowing hard. you hate that your throat burns from crying and talking and fear. you hate that your knees feel weak, and yet, you let him guide you, let him hold the takeout box, let him carry the weight of worry that isn’t yours to carry alone.

as you step into the entryway of the dorm, the boys notice immediately.

keonho takes a half-step forward, saying your name, hesitating. seonghyeon’s eyes are wide. juhoon’s hands fidget. martin finally exhales, muttering, “she’s back.”

you stop a few feet away, take a deep breath, and let yourself absorb it — the way they all move closer, unsure, hesitant, eyes softening. they’re all apologizing at once, words tumbling over each other.

james steps beside you, letting go of your hand for a moment only to grab your shoulder, gently guiding you forward. “they’re scared,” he mutters lowly, “but they care. you need to let them try.”

you don’t answer, but you nod slightly, bracing yourself.

keonho steps in first, holding out his arms. you stiffen for a second, then relax, letting the hug happen. seonghyeon follows, words of apology muffled into your hair. juhoon and martin stay behind, murmuring, finally coming forward when you turn to them.

“we’re sorry,” martin says quietly. “for… making you feel like you weren’t part of this.”

you blink back tears, overwhelmed by everything — the fear, the relief, the quiet acknowledgment of your place among them finally forming.

james doesn’t let go of your shoulder the entire time. he keeps close, silently protective, silently angry that it got this far, but silently proud that you’ve allowed yourself to be held.

you look around at them all, seeing the worry, the awkwardness, the genuine care — messy, imperfect, but real. for the first time, it doesn’t hurt as much to be here.

because you’re supposed to live here now.

your phone vibrates in your pocket. a message from staff, short and impersonal.

you can go in.

as if it’s that simple.

you lift your hand to knock.

and then you stop.

voices spill through the door, unfiltered, sharp enough to cut through the thin wood. they’re loud — not yelling, but heated in that way people get when they don’t think they’re being overheard.

“i still don’t get it,” someone says. a male voice, frustrated. “we were literally fine.”

“fine isn’t enough,” another snaps back.

“no, but adding some girl two months before debut is insane.”

your hand freezes mid-air.

your chest tightens, instinctively, the way it always does when you hear yourself reduced to some girl. not your name. not your record. not your years.

just that.

“they didn’t even ask us,” a third voice says. “they just told us. like it’s nothing.”

“yeah, well,” someone scoffs. “guess we’re just supposed to deal with it.”

there’s a brief silence. then a quieter voice — sharper, edged with disbelief.

“what if she messes things up?”

your throat goes dry.

you don’t move. you don’t breathe. you don’t make a sound.

“or worse,” another adds, “what if everyone thinks she’s the reason we debut?”

there it is.

the fear you know too well, spoken out loud by strangers who don’t even know you yet.

your fingers tighten around the suitcase handle until your knuckles ache.

you should knock.

you should interrupt.

you should announce yourself like a professional, like someone who belongs.

but for a second — just one — you let yourself feel it.

the familiar sting. the quiet humiliation. the reminder that no matter how much respect you earn in empty practice rooms, it doesn’t follow you everywhere.

someone laughs, humorless. “i mean, have you seen her? she’s intense. doesn’t even look like she wants to be here.”

you almost flinch.

then you knock.

three firm taps. controlled. deliberate.

the voices cut off instantly.

silence crashes down so hard it’s almost loud.

you hear movement inside — shuffling, a chair scraping, someone clearing their throat. a few seconds pass. maybe more. you don’t look at the time. you stare straight ahead, expression blank, shoulders squared.

finally, the door opens.

it’s james.

he looks… startled. not shocked, exactly, but caught mid-thought. like he wasn’t prepared for the reality of you standing there instead of the abstract idea they’d been arguing about.

he clears his throat. once. twice.

“uh,” he says.

you meet his eyes.

they’re sharper than you expected. calculating. guarded. not unkind — but not welcoming either.

“you can… come in,” he says, stepping aside.

his voice is polite. too polite. like he’s overcorrecting.

you nod once and wheel your suitcase forward.

the dorm is bigger than you expected. messy, but not chaotic. shoes kicked off by the door. jackets thrown over chairs. half-empty cups on the table. a faint trace of music paused mid-song.

six boys stand or sit awkwardly around the living room, all suddenly very aware of their hands, their posture, the space they’re taking up.

martin is the first one you recognize — leader energy, unmistakable. he straightens immediately, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite settle right.

“hi,” he starts. “we—”

you don’t look at him.

you don’t look at any of them.

you step fully inside, tug your suitcase over the threshold, and let the door close behind you with a soft, final click.

the sound seems to echo.

martin falters mid-sentence.

you don’t bow. not because you’re rude — but because you’re tired. because you already did your greeting in the hallway of their voices, whether they know it or not.

your eyes flick briefly around the room, taking in exits, corners, where you’ll put your shoes. habit. instinct.

“which room is mine?” you ask quietly.

your voice is calm. level. professional.

no accusation. no emotion.

it somehow makes everything worse.

martin blinks. “oh— uh— the one down the hall. last door on the left.”

you nod.

“thanks.”

one word. that’s it.

you wheel your suitcase past them, the sound of the wheels against the floor the loudest thing in the room. no one moves to help. no one speaks. they just watch you pass like they’re unsure whether they’re allowed to exist in the same space.

james steps back automatically to give you room. his shoulder brushes the wall.

for a split second, your eyes meet again.

something flickers there. surprise, maybe. or guilt.

you look away first.

your room is smaller than the others — you can tell immediately. single bed. narrow desk. bare walls. a window that looks out onto the side of another building.

it doesn’t matter.

you close the door behind you and lean your forehead against it for a brief, dangerous moment.

you exhale slowly.

in the living room, no one speaks for a full ten seconds after the sound of your door shutting.

“…what the hell just happened?” keonho finally mutters.

martin rubs the back of his neck. “i was going to say something.”

“you did,” juhoon says. “she just… ignored us.”

seonghyeon shifts uncomfortably. “did she hear us?”

no one answers.

james stares at the hallway where you disappeared, jaw tight.

“…probably,” he says quietly.

back in your room, you sit on the edge of the bed without unpacking.

your chest feels hollow. not broken — just… emptied out.

you’d known this wouldn’t be easy. you’d prepared yourself for discomfort, for tension, for awkwardness.

but knowing doesn’t stop it from hurting.

you think about the voices you heard. the words they didn’t know would land. you think about how quickly respect disappears when context changes.

you lie back and stare at the ceiling.

two months.

you don’t need them to like you.

you don’t need them to understand you.

you just need to survive long enough to prove you belong.

and out in the living room, six boys sit with the uneasy realization that the girl they were complaining about isn’t just joining their group.

she’s living with them now.

you learned early that respect doesn’t feel warm. it feels heavy. like something placed carefully on your shoulders, something you’re expected to carry without complaint. you never asked for it, but once it’s there, setting it down would feel like failure.

you’ve been a trainee long enough to know the hierarchy without anyone spelling it out. you’re not the loudest. not the friendliest. not the one trainers gush over openly. but when choreography changes last minute, everyone looks at you. when vocals are unstable, the instructor asks you to demonstrate. when tension builds, your name is the one said in that careful tone — can you handle this?

you always do.

discipline comes easily to you. not because you’re rigid, but because you understand what’s at stake. you don’t romanticize suffering. you don’t glamorize the grind. you simply endure it, one practice room mirror at a time.

and still — there’s a distance. there always is.

you’re respected, yes. admired, even. but admiration doesn’t mean closeness. most trainees don’t approach you unless they have a reason. they whisper about you instead. about how you never mess up. about how scary you look when you’re focused. about how unfair it is that you’re good at everything.

they don’t know how much effort it takes to make it look effortless.

sometimes, when you’re alone late at night, the practice room lights dimmed and your reflection warped slightly by exhaustion, you let yourself think about how this wasn’t supposed to be your path anymore.

you were supposed to debut already.

you were supposed to be standing on a brightly lit stage with your friends, hair styled just right, wearing something playful and soft, smiling into cameras that loved you instantly. you were supposed to hear your name chanted by fans who learned it overnight. you were supposed to be nervous about live performances, not whether you’d ever perform at all.

you remember the day it became real — not the debut, but the loss of it.

the room had smelled like coffee and printer ink. the walls were glass, the blinds half drawn. the staff’s smiles had been apologetic before you even sat down. you’d known something was wrong before anyone spoke.

you’re not being dropped, they’d said quickly, as if reading your mind. we just think… this isn’t the right timing. not the right fit.

they talked about concepts. about balance. about image. about how talented you were — so talented, really — but how sometimes talent needs to wait.

wait.

you nodded through it all. you always nod. you didn’t cry until much later, alone, when it couldn’t inconvenience anyone.

watching newjeans debut had been worse than you expected.

you’d told yourself you were happy for them — and you were, genuinely — but happiness didn’t erase the sting of recognition. you knew those choreographies. you knew those formations. you knew where you would have stood. sometimes, when their performances replayed in the practice room screens, your body reacted instinctively, muscle memory kicking in before you forced yourself to stop.

you never told anyone how much it hurt to cheer quietly from the sidelines. you never told anyone how it felt to congratulate your friends while wondering if you’d just been left behind permanently.

instead, you trained harder.

you became sharper. more controlled. more undeniable.

if they were going to make you wait, you’d make sure the wait scared them.

that’s why it’s strange when the message comes.

office. now.

no explanation. no context. just your name and a time stamp.

you wipe the sweat from your neck with the hem of your shirt, heart beating a little faster despite yourself. meetings like this never mean nothing. they either change everything — or confirm what you already fear.

the walk down the hallway feels longer than usual. the building hums softly around you, familiar yet oppressive. you stop outside the office door and take a breath, steadying your expression. calm. neutral. professional.

when you knock, the voice that answers is warm.

“come in.”

bang sihyuk is seated at the table, hands folded, expression unreadable in that gentle way he has. several other staff members are there too — executives, managers, people who don’t sit in on small conversations.

your stomach drops.

you bow. greet them properly. sit where they indicate.

there’s a pause. just long enough to make your thoughts spiral.

then he speaks.

“you’ve trained a long time,” he says. “and you’ve endured a lot.”

you don’t respond. you’re not supposed to.

“we’ve watched your progress closely,” he continues. “your growth, your resilience. the way others look to you.”

your fingers curl slightly in your lap.

“we’ve made a decision.”

this is it, you think. this is either the end — or something worse than waiting.

“you’ll be debuting,” he says.

for a moment, the room blurs.

your breath catches, sharp and involuntary. you don’t smile. you don’t speak. you’re afraid that if you do, the word will vanish.

“two months from now,” he adds.

two months.

your head spins. debut. two months. finally. after everything.

“with cortis.”

the silence stretches.

you blink.

once. twice.

“…cortis?” you repeat before you can stop yourself.

a boy group.

your mind scrambles to catch up. cortis. you’ve heard the name, of course — the trainees rumored to debut soon. talented. intense. all male. you’ve never trained with them. never even shared a practice room.

you sit straighter. “sir,” you say carefully, “i—”

“we’re making the group coed,” sihyuk says gently. “with you.”

your chest tightens.

coed.

with you.

questions flood your mind all at once. how. why. what about public reaction? what about the members? what about the risks?

“we believe the group needs you,” he says, as if sensing your hesitation. “not as a novelty. as a foundation.”

foundation.

you swallow.

“i don’t know them,” you admit quietly.

“you will,” another staff member says. “soon.”

you nod, because that’s what you do when you’re overwhelmed. because nodding feels safer than revealing how unsteady you suddenly are.

two months.

a boy group.

a decision made without asking whether you were ready.

as you leave the office, the hallway feels different. heavier. sharper. like every step forward is also a step into something you can’t undo.

you wake up to sounds.

footsteps in the hallway. cabinets opening. the soft clatter of a pan being set down too hard because someone’s still half-asleep. voices — groggy, unfiltered, familiar in a way that no longer presses on your chest.

this morning, it’s keonho.

he’s standing in the kitchen when you step out of your room, hair sticking up in every direction, wearing a hoodie that’s definitely not his. he freezes when he sees you, spatula hovering midair like he’s been caught doing something illegal.

“oh,” he says. then, quickly, “good morning.”

“morning,” you reply, voice still a little rough from sleep.

there’s a beat of silence.

then he clears his throat. “i’m making eggs. uh. if you want.”

you pause for half a second — not long enough to be obvious, but long enough that he notices.

“yeah,” you say finally. “thanks.”

the relief on his face is immediate. exaggerated. like you’ve just accepted a peace offering.

you sit at the counter while he cooks, scrolling through your phone, listening to the sizzle of oil. seonghyeon wanders in next, yawning loudly, immediately complaining that it smells too strong.

“that’s because you hate flavor,” keonho shoots back.

you snort before you can stop yourself.

both of them look at you.

seonghyeon grins. “oh. so you do laugh.”

you roll your eyes. “rarely.”

“lying,” he says, dramatically offended. “i’ve heard you laugh at practice.”

“that was one time.”

“it counts.”

juhoon appears a few minutes later, already dressed, headphones around his neck. he wordlessly hands you a glass of water as he passes by, like it’s muscle memory.

you blink at it, surprised. “thanks.”

he shrugs. “you always drink water first thing.”

you hadn’t realized he noticed.

martin comes out last, tying his hair back, surveying the scene like he’s checking off a mental list. “everyone alive? good. we have practice in an hour.”

“you’re not my boss,” seonghyeon mutters.

“i literally am,” martin replies.

you smile faintly into your glass.

james hasn’t appeared yet.

you don’t think about it until you hear his door open down the hall.

he steps out adjusting the sleeves of his hoodie, hair damp, clearly fresh from the shower. he pauses when he sees you at the counter, like he does every time — not in a way that’s obvious to anyone else, but you notice it. the slight hesitation. the recalibration.

“morning,” he says.

“morning,” you echo.

he nods once, then moves into the kitchen, reaching for a mug. keonho wordlessly hands him coffee. james thanks him, then leans against the counter across from you.

“did you sleep okay?” he asks casually.

you shrug. “yeah.”

he studies your face for half a second longer than necessary, then nods like that’s enough.

they eat together — crowded around the counter, bumping elbows, stealing bites off each other’s plates. seonghyeon tries to take one of your eggs; you smack his hand away without looking.

“violent,” he complains.

“deserved.”

james watches the exchange with something like amusement, lips twitching around his mug.

later, during practice, it’s easier too.

not effortless — but easier.

they don’t hesitate as much when pairing up. martin assigns formations that don’t feel like they’re working around you anymore. juhoon jokes under his breath during breaks. keonho mirrors your stretches unconsciously.

once, during a break, james sits beside you on the floor, backs against the mirror.

“you’re quieter today,” he says.

you glance at him. “is that a complaint?”

“No,” he replies immediately. then softer, “just noticing.”

you hum in acknowledgment.

there’s a comfortable silence between you now. not empty. not heavy.

after practice, you all stop by a convenience store. it’s cramped and chaotic — martin arguing about protein bars, seonghyeon trying to convince juhoon to buy ice cream, keonho staring blankly at the drinks section like he’s overwhelmed by choice.

you linger near the instant noodles, scanning labels.

james appears beside you without a word, crouching slightly to look at the same shelf.

“those are good,” he says, nodding at the one you’re holding. “not spicy.”

you blink. “you remember?”

he shrugs, a little embarrassed. “you mentioned it once.”

you add it to the basket.

on the walk back, it starts drizzling. not enough to matter, just enough to dampen the air.

james hands you his jacket without asking.

you hesitate. “i’m fine—”

“take it,” he says simply.

you do.

that night, you end up in the living room with them, sitting cross-legged on the floor while seonghyeon and juhoon argue over a game controller. you’re not playing — just watching, occasionally commenting.

“you’re cheating,” you say.

“i’m skilled,” seonghyeon corrects.

“that was cheating,” james adds from the couch.

seonghyeon groans. “betrayal.”

keonho tosses you a bag of chips. you catch it easily.

martin glances over, faint smile tugging at his mouth, like he’s quietly pleased.

later, when the night winds down and everyone starts drifting off, james lingers.

you’re gathering empty cups when he reaches for one at the same time you do. your fingers brush.

“sorry,” he says.

“it’s fine.”

you hand him the cup. he takes it, hesitating like he wants to say something else.

“…if you ever feel weird again,” he starts, then stops. clears his throat. “you can tell me. okay?”

you look at him, really look at him.

“okay,” you say.

he nods once, like that’s settled, and heads down the hall.

you stand there for a moment longer, heart oddly light.

two weeks ago, you felt like a ghost in this place.

now, you’re not invisible.

not fully comfortable. not fully at ease.

but included.

there are still moments where you go quiet without realizing it, where conversations drift ahead of you and you have to consciously catch up. still moments where you retreat to your room earlier than everyone else, exhaustion settling into your bones in a way that feels deeper than just physical.

but now, someone notices.

one evening, you slip out of the living room while they’re mid-conversation, heading down the hallway without a word. you’re halfway to your door when you hear footsteps behind you.

“you okay?” james asks.

you stop, turning slightly. “yeah.”

he doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push. instead, he nods and says, “we’re putting on a movie. you don’t have to watch. just… letting you know.”

“okay,” you say.

you think that’s it.

but when you open your door later, there’s a folded blanket resting on your desk chair. the one from the couch. the warm one.

you stare at it for a long moment before picking it up.

another morning, you wake up late.

too late.

you rush out of your room, hair barely done, panic rising when you see the clock.

“shit,” you mutter.

martin looks up from tying his shoes. “we’ve got ten minutes.”

“you’re kidding.”

he shakes his head. “james already told the manager you needed a minute.”

you freeze. “he what?”

as if summoned, james appears, keys in hand. “you good?”

you nod slowly. “yeah. thank you.”

he shrugs like it’s nothing. “happens.”

but you catch the way he waits for you by the door. doesn’t rush. doesn’t complain when you’re the last one out.

at practice, you start joking back more.

it surprises everyone — including you.

when seonghyeon misses a beat and groans dramatically, you deadpan, “it’s okay. not everyone can be good.”

the room goes silent for half a second.

then keonho bursts out laughing.

“she’s evil,” he says fondly.

james looks at you like he’s trying not to smile too hard.

later, when you mess up a harmony and groan into your hands, he leans over and murmurs, “still sounded good.”

“liar.”

“professional liar,” he corrects.

you roll your eyes, but your chest feels warm.

one night, it rains hard.

real rain this time — loud against the windows, heavy and insistent. the power flickers once, then stabilizes.

you’re sitting on the couch with your knees tucked to your chest, scrolling through your phone, when james drops down beside you, a little closer than usual.

“storms make you sleepy too?” he asks.

you nod. “always.”

he hums. “same.”

there’s a pause. the kind that used to feel awkward.

now it doesn’t.

your shoulders brush when thunder cracks outside. neither of you move away.

across the room, martin is talking quietly with juhoon. keonho and seonghyeon are arguing over snacks. the dorm feels lived-in. warm.

real.

you realize, suddenly, that you haven’t thought about leaving in days.

haven’t counted the hours until practice ends. haven’t lain awake wondering where you fit.

james stands first when the rain starts to die down. “i’m gonna make tea,” he says. “you want some?”

“yeah,” you say without thinking.

he brings it back a few minutes later, sets it carefully in your hands.

“careful,” he says. “it’s hot.”

“you say that every time.”

“one day you’ll listen.”

you smile into the cup.

it’s small. all of it is.

but it’s steady.

and for the first time since you were told you’d debut like this — alone, different, unsure — you feel something settle inside you.