#dohoon fic

Shinyuㅤ ❛❛    ──── ㅤShin Junghwan !

Days off were rare.

More rare than Shinyu would like to admit.

There was always something: practices, meetings, recordings, schedules full of things to do.

But not today.

Today, by some perfect alignment of the stars, the group had the day off, and they were making the best possible use of it: doing absolutely nothing.

Just the seven of you, spread out in the living room, enjoying a quiet moment while deciding what to have for breakfast.

He was leaning back on one end of the couch, his phone in hand, flipping through the menu with the others. He was barely paying attention to the discussion of what to order. It was a din of mingled voices and banter thrown into the air. You were at the other end, lounging against the armrest, with a sleepy expression that made him smile without realizing it. The dim light of the room highlighted the contours of your face, and Shinyu found his gaze straying to you more times than necessary.

It wasn't unusual. It happened to him all the time.

The conversation flowed smoothly, until Jihoon asked you to help Shinyu confirm the final order.

Shinyu barely registered the request.

His attention was on you, on the way you gently sat up to reach over and take his phone. It was a simple, everyday movement even, but for him it was enough. As if his body acted before his mind, in a single, fluid motion he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you to him effortlessly, sinking you against his chest naturally.

The contact was warm. Your body fit over his as if you had always belonged there. There was no resistance on your part, only a small initial startle before you gradually settled against him. Shinyu felt an almost instinctive satisfaction run through his body as you rested your head on his chest, letting yourself fall completely on top of him.

Yes. That was better.

He loved this. He loved you.

-Mmm… it's good like this, isn't it? -you murmured, still checking the phone.

-Mhmm… -Shinyu barely answered, his voice distracted, too focused on you to pay attention to anything else.

You confirmed the order, and the others, satisfied, scattered around the room, each minding their own business while waiting for the food. But Shinyu had not the slightest intention of moving. Not when he had you like this, perfectly wedged against him.

He could feel the rhythm of your breathing becoming slower, more relaxed. The heat of your body against his was addictive.

With a relaxed motion, he reached out to take control when Dohoon challenged him to a game of Mario Kart. Perfect. He could play without thinking too much. He moved just enough to grab the controller, but not enough to alter the position you were in. If anything, his grip on your waist became tighter, making sure you didn't move too much. Kyungmin and Jihoon joined in right away, but even as the competition began and laughter filled the room, his mind wasn't quite on the game.

Sure, his reflexes were still good, his fingers pressed the buttons as nimbly as ever, but a large part of him was distracted.

How could he not be?

He had you lying completely on top of him, breathing softly against his chest, not complaining about his grip or the way he was holding you close. Without realizing it, his hand moved, his fingers tracing small circles on the fabric of your shirt. He wasn't sure if he was doing it to reassure you or himself. Maybe both.

And then you did.

Without warning, you moved just a little, seeking more comfort, fitting better against him. It was a small gesture, almost imperceptible, but Shinyu felt it as a direct blow to the heart. A shiver ran down his back as you made yourself even smaller in his embrace, as if you were exactly where you wanted to be.

Oh.

Oh.

Shinyu barely blinked, barely reacted. His character on the screen crashed into a wall and Dohoon let out a victorious laugh, but he didn't even flinch. He just looked down, watching you with a tenderness he had no right to display so openly. His attention was on the way his own heart began to beat a little faster.

It couldn't have been more obvious. He was completely lost for you.

He let out a slow sigh, one that was lost amidst the sound of the game and the voices in the room, but which inside him echoed like a silent surrender. Because deep down, there was no point in fooling himself anymore.

It was ridiculous how much he liked this. How much he liked you.

The game went on, the others laughed and complained about unfair plays, but to him, it was all background noise. He didn't need to say it out loud, but if it were up to Shinyu, the whole world could stop in that instant, and he wouldn't mind at all.

He just needed this moment. Just the simple fact of feeling you so close was enough.

Dohoonㅤ ❛❛    ──── ㅤKim Dohoon !

Mornings always had a different rhythm for Dohoon.

They were slow, sleepy, with the warmth of the sheets still clinging to his skin and the feeling of drowsiness weighing down his eyelids. Not because he was tired-though sometimes he was-but because in the mornings he wanted you close. Closer than was reasonable, closer than others would surely consider normal. And today, with a whole day off until evening, there was no reason to hold back.

He opened his eyes heavily and, before he even thought of getting out of bed, he noticed your absence. You were gone. He frowned, still drowsy, and without even thinking too much about it, he stood up. He didn't need to ask anyone where you were; his instinct led him straight to the kitchen.

And there you were.

Standing in front of the counter, opening the bags with the coffees and drinks the manager had ordered for everyone. The morning light filtered through the window, illuminating you in an almost unreal way. To Dohoon, who was not yet fully awake, the image was too pretty, too perfect.

Without much thought, he approached you silently, shuffling his feet with the laziness of someone not yet fully awake. And then, as soon as he was close enough, he wrapped his arms around your waist and dropped down against you, hiding his face in the crook of your neck.

God, it felt so good.

Your warmth, your smell, the way you fit perfectly against him as if you were a magnet he always ended up sticking to… Everything about you was addictive to him. He closed his eyes, gently inhaling the scent of your skin mixed with that of coffee, and smiled against your neck when he felt you wouldn't pull away. You didn't make the slightest effort to break free from his grip, you just went about your business, as if you were used to him clinging to you like a koala bear every morning.

And you were.

Gently, without opening his eyes, he rubbed his nose against your skin, taking deep breaths.

There was no way he could start the day without this.

He opened his eyes when he saw your hand move, bringing your latte to your lips. He watched intently, not moving an inch from his place on your neck, as you calmly took a sip. And then, without a word, you brought the straw close to his mouth in a gesture so natural that it made his heart beat faster.

Without hesitation, he caught the straw between his lips and took a sip straight from your drink, his eyes narrowing in pleasure at the sweet, warm taste of the latte. But more than the coffee itself, what he really enjoyed was the gesture itself.

The fact that you shared with him without thinking about it.

There was something intimate in the way you shared these little things. In how they didn't need words, in how you just knew what he wanted, in how he could be glued to you without seeming to make you uncomfortable.

God. How lucky he was.

He drank some more before releasing the straw and sinking back against you, this time squeezing you a little tighter, enveloping you with his body as if he wanted to become part of you.

Your soft laughter vibrated against his chest and, without warning, you caressed his face, your fingers sliding gently down his cheek, along his jaw, a light but loving touch. Dohoon closed his eyes at the sensation, letting himself be pampered, letting you do whatever you wanted with him, because he was already completely yours.

If it were up to him, he could stay like this all day.

But then, his stomach decided to betray him.

Dohoon pouted a little, stirring against you before muttering in a low, sleepy voice:

-I'm hungry…

You just smiled, amused, and barely moved to go get your phone, surely to order food for everyone. But Dohoon had no intention of letting go.

Like a koala clinging to his favorite tree, he stayed glued to you, following you wherever you went, his arms still around your waist, his body still against yours as you tried to open the ordering app.

It was ridiculous how easy it was for him to stay that way, entangled with you even when you were on the move.

-What do you want to eat? -You asked, looking at the screen of your phone.

Dohoon rested his chin on your shoulder, watching the screen lazily. But actually, he wasn't looking at the menu.

He was just looking at you.

Stunned, completely absorbed in the way your brow furrowed just barely as you chose the food, in the way your mouth curved subtly as you read the choices. You knew him well enough to know exactly what to ask him without him having to say anything, but you still asked, because you cared about his opinion.

And that, that was what finished disarming him completely.

He snuggled closer against you, closing his eyes for a moment and letting his weight rest against your body without fear that you would push him away. Because he knew you wouldn't. Because, like him, you enjoyed this too.

If the rest of the day was going to be like this, glued to you, feeling your warmth, sharing every little moment of the morning, then for Dohoon, this was already the best day off of all.

Youngjaeㅤ ❛❛    ──── ㅤChoi Youngjae !

The day had ended earlier than expected, but Youngjae was in no hurry to leave.

Not when he could seize a moment like this.

Not when you were there, so close, so… perfect for him.

The practice room was still illuminated in the soft afternoon light, and Jihoon, as always, had energy to spare to keep dancing, moving with enviable ease as he improvised steps in front of the mirror, and Youngjae… well, Youngjae was just tired. He watched out of the corner of his eye, amused by his dongsaeng's witticisms, but his mind was elsewhere.

Or, rather, on someone else.

You were there, leaning against the mirror, relaxed, not paying much attention to anything but Jihoon. Youngjae watched you silently for a few seconds, noticing the way your expression softened when you were deep in thought, how your lips curved into a smile when Jihoon did something silly. It was nothing serious, just fun. But Youngjae wasn't particularly interested in that right now.

The only thing he was interested in was you.

He didn't know how or why, but whenever you were around, he needed to find an excuse to be attached to you somehow.

And Youngjae, he wanted you close.

He didn't have a clear reason; he simply wanted you close.

Without a word, he came over and lay down on top of you, resting his head carefully on your lap.

The relief was immediate.

And, as if you were perfectly in sync with him, you lifted your arms a little to give him space, allowing him to settle in better. Youngjae wrapped his arms around your waist leisurely, breathing deeply against the fabric of your clothes, letting your warmth envelop him. He closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the contact, the feeling of being close to you without needing to say anything.

Youngjae sighed softly, as he listened to Jihoon's laughter, so lively and full of energy. He could hear the jokes and the silly things he was doing; And he couldn't help but smile at the scene.

But even as he did so, his mind was still on you.

It wasn't more than a few seconds before he felt your hands move, instinctively moving down to his hair. And there it was, that gesture he so adored. The brush of your fingers through her locks, the light pressure of your nails against her scalp, the slow, steady rhythm that made every muscle in her body relax little by little.

Yes. Just like that.

It was almost ridiculous how much he enjoyed this. The way your fingers ran through his hair as naturally as you breathed, in how your nails gently grazed his scalp, sending little shivers of pleasure down his back. Each caress was like a silent confirmation that he had every right in the world to be here, glued to you, claiming your attention without needing to ask for it.

He opened his eyes just a little, just enough to see you laughing at some nonsense of Jihoon's; moving in an exaggerated way just to make you smile, and Youngjae felt a pang of tenderness in his chest to see you like that.

God, he adored your laugh.

He couldn't see you completely from his position, but he could feel your laughter in the subtle vibration of your body against him. But he didn't have the energy to join in the antics at that moment. Not when he was so comfortable, not when your fingers kept sliding through his hair with a gentleness that made him sink deeper and deeper into the sensation of being with you.

He didn't need you to do anything else.

He wasn't thinking about anything else, just that.

About how it felt when he held you close, when he felt your body so close to his. All he could think about was the warmth of your body under his head, the softness of your fingers sliding through his hair, how each caress felt like a gesture of affection that he didn't ask for, but needed.

It was that feeling, that simple, genuine attention, that had him completely spellbound.

And, for an instant, he thought that maybe, if he could, he would stay that way forever.

He didn't want to move.

He didn't want that moment to end.

And best of all, you weren't even making him uncomfortable about it. You liked it. It was like a kind of silent language that only the two of you shared: you taking care of him without thinking about it, him soaking up the comfort of your company.

And he enjoyed every second of it.

But, of course, something told him that eventually he would have to get up, that Jihoon would stop his madness and the rest of the group would return to the dormitories. For now, though, as you gently caressed him, as his mind completely melted away in that warmth that only you provided, everything seemed perfect just the way it was.

It is perfect.

Hanjinㅤ ❛❛    ──── ㅤHan Zhen !

The dorm was quiet, an unusual tranquility after days filled with practices and tight schedules. Everyone was scattered around the apartment, each doing their own thing, taking advantage of the rare free time. Hanjin, however, only had his attention on one thing - or, rather, one person.

You.

You were sitting on his bed, leaning against the wall, with his Korean book open between you.

Technically, he was studying.

Technically, you were helping him.

But in reality, Hanjin was just enjoying the perfect excuse to have you around.

At first, everything had been normal. You were correcting his pronunciation, patiently explaining grammatical structures, and he was nodding, making the effort to repeat them correctly. But honestly, he was having a hard time. Not because he didn't want to learn, but because his attention was elsewhere.

On you.

In the way you spoke patiently, explaining every detail with that sweetness that disarmed him. In how your voice sounded so natural when you explained to him in Mandarin so that he would understand better the meaning of the words, so comfortable, so you. In the closeness between you, in the warmth of your body next to his, in how easy it was to be with you like that.

As the lesson progressed, Hanjin felt more and more… comfortable.

Almost too comfortable.

Everything about you had him completely caught up.

At some point in the lesson - without even thinking too much about it - he reached out and pulled you to his side, drawing you in as easily as he breathed.

You said nothing. You just let yourself go, settling against him without complaint or question. As if this kind of contact was something as natural as the air between you.

Hanjin liked that.

He felt comfortable with you.

He liked how easy it was to touch you, how easy it was to envelop you with his presence without you pushing him away. He rested his head against your shoulder at one point, feeling the warmth of your skin, the rhythm of your breathing, the simple fact of having you there.

Your warmth, your familiar scent… It was so easy. It was so easy that he almost forgot they were still studying.

And then, he felt your hand move.

Your fingers gently ran through his hair, a brief touch but enough to make him feel that you were there, acknowledging his presence, responding to his need for contact without him having to ask for it.

Such a simple gesture.

But as your hand ran through his hair, Hanjin seemed to have no intention of letting go. On the contrary, he pulled you to him more tightly, pressing you even tighter against his side. A shiver ran down his back, he liked it too much when you did that.

But then, you broke the balance of the moment with a few words.

-我去拿点吃的，我们休息一下吧 - (I'm going to go get a snack, let's get some rest).

No.

Before you could even move, his body reacted on its own. His arms around your waist tightened subtly, drawing you back effortlessly. He needed no words, only the weight of his grip, refusing to let go, as if letting you go was simply an unacceptable option.

You looked down at him with amusement. Hanjin noticed it. He noticed it in the way your lips curved just barely, in the mischievous light in your eyes, as if you were waiting for him to say something else.

And he did.

-不要，待在这儿 - (No, stay here.)

His voice was low, almost a whisper against your skin. The way he said those words, his tone soft but firm, made your heart beat a little faster.

And you… you couldn't resist.

He smiled without another word, enjoying the way you settled back in next to him.

He wasn't one to ask for things with grandiose words. He wasn't usually pushy about what he wanted. But with you, everything was different. With you, he had the luxury of being a little more selfish, of wanting more than he normally allowed himself.

And Hanjin knew what he wanted, and it was simple: he wanted to stay that way, glued to you.

-好吧 - (It's okay.)

You whispered with a smile, surrendering easily to his grip.

He didn't have to say much for you to understand.

Because, in the end, you wanted to stay that way too.

Jihoonㅤ ❛❛    ──── ㅤHan Jihoon !

After weeks of work without a break, the arrival of this rare day off had given Jihoon a much-needed respite.

He emerged from the bathroom with his hair still damp, feeling the warmth of the shower still clinging to his skin. The hot water had relaxed his muscles, but it had also left him with a drowsiness he could barely conceal. His eyelids drooped slightly as he toweled his hair dry, but as soon as he looked up and saw you in his bed, all the heaviness seemed to fade for a moment.

You were lying there, laughing at something Dohoon had said from the other bed. Your voice, your laughter, the mere sight of you there made Jihoon feel a tug in his chest.

The scene was so domestic, so quiet… That his mind had only one clear thought….

He wanted to be there with you.

He didn't think about it too much. In fact, he didn't think at all.

With lazy steps, he crossed the room and, without warning, dropped his full weight on you. Not gently, not with any warning, just with the full weight of his body, as if you were a pillow made exclusively for him.

The air left your lungs in a surprised gasp, followed by a burst of laughter as you tried, unsuccessfully, to protest between guffaws, but that only made him smile against the fabric of your clothes.

It didn't bother you at all, and he knew it.

-Jihoon -you said, your voice cracking -You're too heavy, get off! -you finished with a chuckle, patting him gently on the back. But he didn't move.

Not immediately, at least.

He just got more comfortable.

-No -he murmured in a sleepy voice, letting his arm wrap lazily around your waist, making sure you weren't going to slip away.

Dohoon, from his bed, chuckled as well, surely enjoying the scene, but Jihoon was already too comfortable to pay attention to you. His attention was completely on you, on how your breathing was still agitated by the laughter, on how your body was slowly relaxing under his. He could feel the steady beat of your heart under his cheek, a rhythmic, comforting sound that made his own eyelids feel heavier, plus the way that, despite your playful complaints, you made no real effort to push him away.

Jihoon sighed against your skin, completely content with the position he was in.

And just as you knew would happen, you ended up surrendering with a sigh and, without thinking too much about it, started playing with his damp hair.

If he wasn't so tired, he probably would have smiled self-satisfiedly. But instead, he just closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh, completely surrendered to the gesture.

God.

It was his weakness.

He didn't need words, he didn't need anything else. Just your hand in his hair, the gentle rhythm of your caresses and the sound of your voice returning to the conversation with Dohoon as if you didn't have a whole human being lying on top of you.

He enjoyed this very much.

But he couldn't fall asleep.

He forced himself to open his eyes, though his sight was a blur of shadows and warm lights in the room. He didn't want to surrender to sleep so quickly. Not when he could stretch this moment out a little longer.

He heard your voice conversing with Dohoon, though the words became a distant echo, a soft melody that cradled him unwillingly. He felt your laughter vibrate against his chest, your breathing slow as you continued to play with his hair.

He blinked slowly, clinging to the feel of your touch, the sound of your voice, the way your body molded to his.

But it was useless.

As exhaustion overtook him more, his breathing grew heavier, slower. Every caress on his hair dragged him deeper into drowsiness, every brush of your fingers made his body feel heavier, more relaxed. He wanted to protest, to tell you to stop, that if you kept this up he was going to fall asleep on you, but all that came out of his mouth was an incoherent mumble.

And then, without being able to help it, his eyelids gave way.

His breathing slowed, his body completely surrendered against yours. In the last moment before he fell asleep, he felt the brush of your lips on his forehead - soft, fleeting, like a whisper that carried away any attempt at struggle.

He lost.

But if falling asleep meant being like this, glued to you, with your warmth enveloping him and your fingers in his hair… then maybe losing wasn't so bad after all.

Kyungminㅤ ❛❛    ──── ㅤLee Kyungmin !

Kyungmin couldn't sleep.

The rented house was completely silent. Well, not complete silence-the sound of his hyungs' leisurely breathing, mixed with the occasional murmur of Jihoon moving in his sleep, reminded him that he was trapped in a confined space with three other people.

And that was the problem.

Dohoon, Hanjin, and Jihoon, in their infinite trust, had decided that it didn't matter that the bed was clearly for one or two people at most -they would sleep there anyway.

And they had done so without any respect for the concept of “personal space.”

There was no space. Not a shred of it.

He stirred for the umpteenth time between the bodies of Jihoon, Dohoon, and Hanjin, trapped in a ridiculously small space in the bed they shared. It had been fun at first, pushing and shoving, teasing and laughing until they were all completely exhausted. But now, with Dohoon glued to the other end of the bed, Jihoon completely unconscious, one arm draped over his stomach and Hanjin wedged next to him, Kyungmin could only think of how uncomfortable the situation was.

Four people on a single mattress had never been a good idea.

And he definitely wasn't going to survive the night like this.

With slow, careful movements, he managed to slip out of the tangle of bodies without waking them. His feet touched the cold floor, and he felt a shiver run down his back as he finally stretched.

He needed air.

Space.

Something.

He ran a hand through his hair, tousling it even more than it already was, and without much thought, he left the room, dodging the creaking of the wood beneath his feet.

His steps were silent as he walked down the dimly lit hallway, his eyes still half closed from sleep as he made his way to the one room he knew he could get a good night's rest in.

Your room. Your room was the biggest room in the house, the prize for winning the chaotic game of deciding rooms.

And besides, it had become a habit. Every night, after everyone had retired, he used to come into your room, cuddle with you for a while, and then go to his. It was his little ritual. One that had started unintentionally and eventually became a sort of silent habit between you.

He hesitated a moment before knocking, but the sound was soft, almost shy. In the silence of the early morning, it felt louder than expected.

A small silence and then your sleepy voice from within:

-Come in…

Kyungmin opened the door cautiously and peeked out, finding you sitting up in bed, rubbing your eyes with one hand. Despite how sleepy you were, a smile appeared on your face as soon as you saw him. He felt your chest tighten warmly.

Without a word, he looked at you with deer eyes, silently hoping you would understand his motive.

And, as always, you did.

He didn't even have to explain.

Without saying anything, you made a small gesture with your hand, inviting him to come closer, and he didn't think twice about it.

He closed the door behind him and crossed the room with silent steps before slipping under the sheets beside you. The mattress was big, roomy, but as soon as he got into bed, he glued himself to you without thinking. His face hid in the hollow of your neck, his arms relaxed around you, and as soon as he felt the warmth of your skin and the leisurely rhythm of your breathing, his body loosened completely.

This.

This was what he had been looking for.

One arm of his fell lazily around your waist, and when he felt your chin rest gently on his head, he knew there was no turning back.

It was too comfortable.

Your hand slid down to his hair, stroking it in slow, gentle movements, and he instantly closed his eyes, enjoying every second of that gesture. He bit his lip to keep from smiling too much. There was no way his hyungs wouldn't tease him in the morning when they found him here, but honestly… he didn't care.

They would surely provoke him and make him blush with their teasing, but he didn't mind at all.

If the price of sleeping comfy and warm with you was putting up with their teasing… then so be it.

even in moments like this, where his knees brushed against yours with no bother at all and his head laid in front of you, with his pretty bottom lip sticking out in a pout, you knew.

even in moments like this where the two of you shared earbuds, your guys’ favorite song, pink by wave to earth, playing, you knew.

he was too casual about the things that to you, weren’t casual at all. these were things that kept you up late at night, overanalyzing every little detail about it.

“ynn,” he whines in despair. “can we take a break from studying? pretty please?”

you shake your head in refusal. “hoon, the test is tomorrow. what’s our motto, again?” the nickname you use for him slips out a little too easily.

he exhales deeply, answering as if the words had been plastered into his brain time after time (and honestly, they have). “the grind never stops.”

you give him a small smile. “exactly.”

a moment of silence between you two passes as dohoon stares mindlessly through the cafe window and you productively go through your notes in an effort to study.

then, it breaks.

“yn,” dohoon starts.

you hum in question.

“i think i like someone.”

your world stops.

the grip on your pen tightens and the steady rhythm of your breath hitches.

you blink, trying to muster up a response.

“really?” you blurt out.

dohoon nods and continues people-watching as he speaks. “yeah. there’s this girl in my public speaking class.”

he continues, a smile growing on his face. “she’s really pretty. and, i don’t know, she’s a good public speaker too.”

now, your world is spinning rapidly.

you laugh nervously. “that’s cool.”

you don’t think it’s cool. nothing about this situation is cool to you. if anything, it makes you feel as if you’re suffocating.

dohoon grins, “it is.”

———

the walk back home is silent.

dohoon walks you to your dorm, stopping when he gets as close as he can to the entrance.

you two wave goodbye. this time, your hand doesn’t hold as much enthusiasm as it normally would, but dohoon doesn’t notice.

it’s when you enter your room that it hits you.

you slump against the door, knees folding into your chest.

one tear falls down your face, and then a second, and soon enough, the flood comes.

you knew that dohoon didn’t like you back. you knew, but hearing it come out of his mouth—hell, hearing he wholly liked someone else—made it clear. too clear.

it made reality not as far out of reach as before.

your phone dings.

you reach for it and slide it open. glowing notifications from the said boy you utterly love.

💬 hoon :/

‘seeya in class tmrw!! ur gonna ace it but idk abt me lol…’

‘oh also!!! dont tell anyone abt my crush.’

‘actually ik u wont that’s why i trusted this with u’

‘my bsf, huh?’

‘anyways. gn yn!’

your stomach twists even harder as you read the texts word by word.

———

around a week later, you see dohoon with her.

your class had ended early so you decided to wait for him outside of his class. his public speaking one.

that’s when you see them.

walking side by side, hands brushing against each other. dohoon had a bright, wide smile on his face.

they pass with no acknowledgment to you.

they just didn’t see me. dohoon was just immersed in the conversation. he always is, is what you attempt to convince yourself.

but it doesn’t work, and a sense of paranoia lingers in your mind.

———

since that day, you’ve distanced yourself from him.

you haven’t reached out first, you haven’t waited for him, you haven’t done any of that.

but maybe you don’t need to.

dohoon hasn’t either, and you know it’s because he’s with her.

the stories with her, the posts, the matching notes, they are everywhere.

you’ve always known dohoon liked to share his relationships with others, whether it was friendship or something deeper. usually, you would enjoy it.

the way he’d insist you to put the other half of a quote in your note or how he’d post you to one of your favorite songs. you loved it.

but now, that glowing circle around his profile almost feels like a trap of doom to you.

once you press it, you spiral.

the girl is pretty like dohoon said. she has a bright smile like him and hair like a goddess.

and each time you click and see the stories, the more it builds up in you.

and to a certain extent, that build-up is bound to break.

on a monday evening as you sit in the same cafe that you and dohoon would frequent is when you take a deep breath before clicking on the circle.

it’s a picture of the two of them. her head resting on his shoulder, obviously deep in sleep, and dohoon, pinching her cheek with a grin.

it hurts, of course, but what makes you finally break isn’t the sight of it.

over the story plays pink by wave to earth.

your song. your guys’ song.

there’s no hesitation to it, even though you’re in public, as tears shamelessly pour down your cheeks.

you let out soft wails as the story continues playing and the song fills your ears.

that’s when reality sinks in fully and now, you’re drowning in it. your always of that song, the meaning it holds, is only to you.

to dohoon, it’s just another jam he enjoys listening to. maybe now, it’s even a song he connects to her.

but to you, it has always been for you two. a song you can’t listen to without being reminded of him. a melody that makes you picture him—his voice, the crinkle of his eyes, the warmth of his touch.

it was all gone, and now, theirs.

you turn off your phone. you are going to get over dohoon. you have to.

please do not copy, repost, or translate. divs by @/chilumitos

Shinyuㅤ ❛❛    ──── ㅤShin Junghwan !

He guides you with his hand on the small of your back when you enter a room.

The hallway leading to the set was filled with voices, cameras adjusting their lenses and lights flashing like artificial stars. The atmosphere was noisy, almost chaotic, but in the midst of that whirlwind, Shinyu moved with the calm of someone who always knows where he's going.

And not just for him.

For you.

As soon as you crossed the front door, his hand descended with almost calculated precision towards your back. It wasn't a casual brush, it was a silent, firm guide, perfectly placed right at the base of your back, there where the skin is most sensitive, where the touch may seem innocent… but it's not.

He did it with such natural fluidity that any camera capturing the scene would only see a leader making sure her teammate didn't get lost in the crowd. But you felt differently. You knew him too well not to notice.

His warmth.

His precise pressure.

The way his fingers molded to you as if molding you to their own rhythm.

—Come on —he whispered softly, like a gentle command disguised as politeness.

And you followed him, of course.

Because that's how it was with him. Always one step ahead, but never far away.

Always protecting you without encroaching, guiding you without demanding.

Sometimes his fingers would barely flex when someone passed too close to you. Not out of jealousy -he trusted his members completely- but because of that natural instinct he had to make sure you always knew who was by your side. That you felt his presence like an invisible shield, even with cameras watching.

Because yes, you were in public.

Yes, you had eyes everywhere.

But still, Shinyu would always find a way to touch you in a way that only you would understand the true meaning. That hand on your back wasn't just companionship.

It was a silent promise: "I am here. I take care of you."

He makes decisions without asking you, but he always gets it right (he knows you so well that you don't even need to give him an opinion).

The spotlights were pointed directly at the couch where the seven were seated. Friendly voices, soft laughter and prepared answers filled the air as the interview progressed smoothly. You spoke naturally, a smile on your face, but between words you let out a small, almost imperceptible sigh.

Maybe it was just tiredness.

Maybe thirst.

But he noticed.

From his place, Shinyu looked at you from the corner of his eye. Not out of curiosity. Out of habit. Because you were always at the center of his attention, even if it didn't seem so. He got up with quiet movements, as if to stretch a bit or to get something for himself.

No one was alarmed.

No one was suspicious.

You did.

Without even looking at you, he went to the small table where assorted drinks rested. His fingers moved with eerie precision: he grabbed your favorite, added just the amount of ice you preferred when you were tired, adjusted the sugar because he knew you by heart.

He wasn't doing it like it was some great feat. He was doing it like someone who has your taste tattooed on his skin.

He returned to the sofa, sat down as if it were nothing and held out the glass without looking at you, with that strategic neutrality he mastered so well.

—Here —he murmured, without raising his voice.

The gesture seemed nondescript.

To others, perhaps even tender, but without suspicion.

But you felt his fingers brush yours with that premeditated softness, the warmth that lingered on your skin even after the contact was gone.

His half-smile peeked out, briefly, and disappeared before anyone noticed it. But you saw it. And you knew.

Because to you, Shinyu wasn't just a fellow who knew you. He was that kind of man who never asked because he always knew. And not for controlling... but for knowing.

For observing you so much, so intensely, that he could anticipate you in every detail. And even in the midst of the noise, the cameras and the fans, he still cared for you like a precious secret that no one could fully understand.

He hugs you from behind with his chin on your shoulder, transmitting silent protection.

It was all over.

The music, the lights, the screams of the audience. All that remained was the echo and the sigh of the adrenaline going down. You walked away in silence, looking for air, a bit of shade among so much euphoria. The backstage corridors were a world apart: less bright, quieter, but no less guarded. Staff still walking, technicians disconnecting cables, cameras capturing extra footage.

You were there, your back to the world, when you felt it.

Shinyu.

He arrived unannounced, with calculated steps and silent presence. There were no words. Only the weight of his arms that slid around your body from behind, enveloping you slowly, with that mixture of firmness and tenderness that was so his. His chest pressed against your back with brutal security. His chin found your shoulder as if it were a natural fit.

No one seemed to notice the gesture. At first glance, it could pass for a show of companionship, a discreet “good job” between members sharing stage and effort.

But it wasn't that. You knew it. And so did he.

His hands rested calmly on your abdomen, his quiet breathing synchronized with yours. For an eternal moment, no one else existed.

Just the two of you.

Shared silence.

Bodies intertwined in a way invisible to the rest, but so clear to you.

—You did amazing —he whispered in a voice so low you barely heard it. And yet, I knew it cut you to the bone.

He did not stay long. Shinyu was careful.

But before releasing you, he left one more brush on your arm, like an invisible trace marking his presence. As if to say, "Even when I can't hold you in front of everyone... I'm still here. I'm still yours."

And as he walked away, he didn't look back. He didn't need to. He knew you felt it. And you knew, without a doubt, that he would be behind you always.

No matter who was around.

Dohoonㅤ ❛❛    ──── ㅤKim Dohoon !

He covers your ears with his hands when there is noise, as if you were his priority.

The stage was shaking with the excitement of the moment.

The screams from the audience echoed like a constant sea, and the cameras kept moving. Everyone was tense, waiting for the announcement of the winner, nerves running under their skin. Next to him, you were still, serene on the outside, but Dohoon didn't need to see you tremble to know that the burst of confetti and streamers would make you startle.

He had already watched you on other stages.

He knew how you closed your eyes a second before the bang, how you subtly pressed your hands against your thighs so you wouldn't cover your ears like a child. You knew how to hide it well.

But he didn't like you getting used to enduring things alone.

So when the presenter began to lift the envelope and your limbs tensed, Dohoon took a step toward you without a word. He took advantage of the commotion, the fact that everyone was looking away, and raised both hands carefully. He covered your ears with his large, warm palms, like a shield tailor-made just for you.

You gave a little gasp, looking up at him in surprise, but he said nothing. He just held you steady, his eyes locked on yours, calm, as if his whole world was reduced to a single goal: to protect you from the din that was about to fall.

Streamer cannons exploded. The lights intensified, the music blasted and the audience roared like a wave breaking on rock. But you, between his hands, heard only your breath. And his.

Dohoon stayed like that for a moment longer than necessary.

As if refusing to return you to the noise.

He left you a silent caress as he passed over your cheeks. An invisible trail that told you without words that you were protected.

Always.

Even if no one knew it.

Gently tug on your belt or sleeve to pull you closer to him as you walk away.

The night had been long.

Between the spotlights, the cameras and the audience's applause still pounding in their ears, the band walked off the stage with automatic steps. The backstage corridor smelled of hot lights, makeup and sweat. Staffs ran across, voices shouted instructions and water bottles passed from hand to hand.

In the midst of that flow, you took just a few steps away.

You just went to grab a drink, maybe catch up with someone. But to Dohoon, those two steps away were a silent alert. An invisible line that he simply wasn't willing to leave crossed for long.

From where he stood, he watched you. With his head barely bowed.

With a muted intensity that no one else noticed.

You did. Always you.

He didn't call you. Didn't ask you to come back.

He didn't need to.

He just reached up, and with natural precision, caught the side loop of your belt. He held it with two fingers, slow, sure, as if that little strip of cloth were an anchor point to his own peace of mind.

And then he pulled. Not hard. Just just enough. Just enough for you to feel the exact pull.

The call that didn't sound, but weighed.

The gesture was clean, imperceptible to any nearby camera. A tug that anyone could mistake for a rubbing between partners. But you knew what it was. A silent way of saying, "Here. With me. Not so far away."

When you turned to look at him, he was calm again. His face serene, his eyes lowered. But his finger still entangled in your belt, as if he didn't want to let go yet. As if the physical contact was a reminder of something deeper.

And when you weren't wearing a belt, he wore your sleeve. Your jacket. Your purse. Anything you had on you became his way of pulling you back. Because he wasn't possessive, but protective.

Because his need to have you close wasn't insecurity... it was devotion.

He gives you soft commands disguised as questions, but you know he wants you to obey.

The training had been over for a few minutes. The high beams were still on, and several members were chatting with the choreographer. Others were lying on the floor, exhausted, laughing. You had gone to sit in a corner, on a sound box, cell phone in hand. Just for a while.

But Dohoon had already noticed you.

From the other end of the room, leaning with one arm against the wall, Dohoon was watching you. Calm. Quiet. The others thought he was resting, slowing down. But you knew he had you in his sights from the moment you stepped out of his range.

He walked toward you unhurriedly, sneakers making a dull thud on the floor. And when he was close enough, he stopped, barely bowing his face, letting his shadow cover you.

He leaned in just barely, just enough for only you to hear his voice, and in that soft, confident, slightly low tone, he threw one of his “questions” at you:

—Are you coming now… or do I have to come get you?

A question. In appearance. Almost playful. But you knew him. You knew that when he talked like that, there was no room for negotiation. It was his way of asking you something without asking.

Of giving you the choice, knowing that the answer was already written in his gaze.

You stood up. Not out of obligation. Because your body was already trained to react to that exact tone. Because with him, even commands sounded like caresses, like camouflaged promises. His hand reached out. Open. Waiting for you. And you didn't hesitate.

You took it, feeling his fingers close immediately with quiet strength. He pulled you gently, and you walked beside him without asking where.

He walked beside you, unhurriedly, without boasting. But his thumb caressed the back of your hand in slow movements.

Because Dohoon didn't need to assert himself.

He just needed to look at you. And you already knew what to do.

And the most dangerous thing of all... was how much you liked to obey him.

Youngjaeㅤ ❛❛    ──── ㅤChoi Youngjae !

He always stands between you and any unknown person without you even noticing.

Youngjae never needed to be taught how to read spaces.

He had a quiet, fine, almost invisible instinct that allowed him to anticipate the movements of others… especially when it came to you.

As soon as they crossed the entrance of any event, whether it was a recording, an open rehearsal or a gala with press, he did so without haste. But every step he took was millimetrically calculated to be close to you without drawing attention to himself, and more importantly, to step naturally between you and any unfamiliar figure who came too close.

It wasn't something you noticed right away.

It wasn't obvious.

He would slip past you like a well-trained shadow, a reflection that would appear just as someone -a cameraman, a technician, a random guest- moved in your direction without realizing how close they were passing. It always seemed accidental.

As if it simply coincided with Youngjae turning on his heels, or taking a side step just at the same time as someone else.

But it wasn't coincidence.

It was choice. Decision. Instinct.

Youngjae read the environment like a map in real time, and you were the red dot he had to protect at all costs. If the staff called him from one end, he would look toward you first, and if you were safe, then he would respond. If someone extended a hand too animatedly to say hello, Youngjae would appear in the middle, pretending to reach out or exchange a professional look, but leaving you just out of direct contact.

And you, without quite noticing, would begin to relax.

Because even without knowing he was doing that for you, your body felt it. You felt the air between you and the others become calmer, cleaner... more yours.

Because he made it seem natural, like it was just good placement. But in his mind, that move was an act of protection. Not because he distrusted the world, but because he couldn't tolerate the idea of anyone, however unwittingly, invading the place where you breathed.

The place he considered exclusively yours... and therefore, also his.

He helps you put on your coat without asking, and then carefully adjusts your collar.

It was one of those shooting days where temperatures dropped as soon as the sun began to set. The staff was moving fast, looking for coats, handing out hot drinks, wiping the sweat from their temples as the wind began to seep through the lights.

You stood, distracted with your phone, your jacket folded over one arm, and cheeks a little cold, not complaining.

But Youngjae saw you.

He saw you as if you were the only sharp shot in a blurry scene. As if among all that bustle, you were the only constant that required real attention.

He approached wordlessly, so close that his presence became warm before he touched you. His hands slid to your coat with a slow, firm gesture, and he took it from your arm without asking permission. As if he knew you needed it even before you did. As if your comfort was part of his personal work.

Patiently, he lifted the garment, waited for you to raise your arms slightly, and placed it on your shoulders with almost reverent precision. Her fingers were warm, her touch direct but delicate.

And it didn't end there.

Once the jacket was in place, his hands lingered a moment longer. One on your shoulder, light, sure. The other went up to the collar, where the fabric was a little twisted, and began smoothing it with thumb and forefinger, with slow, meticulous movements. As if the coat was an extension of you, and he refused to leave it untended.

And then he lowered his head.

Not quite, just a nod.

The gesture was so intimate that your breathing changed unintentionally. His face remained close to yours, close to your ear, but he said nothing. He just stood there, as if that space of air between you was sacred, as if protecting you from the cold also meant enveloping your world in his.

For the cameras, it was a simple gesture.

Kind.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

But you knew it wasn't that. You knew that every time he wrapped you up, he was covering you from more than just the weather. It was his way of enveloping your body with his without crossing the public line. It was his secret language of belonging.

And you let him do it. Because you felt that every time he arranged your coat, what he was really saying was:

"I've got you. Always. Even when you don't notice."

He holds your hand under the table, squeezing it when he needs you to calm down or be present.

The press room was white, too white.

The intermittent flashes set the rhythm of anxiety in your chest, and the reporters' questions came one after another, sometimes soft, sometimes disguised as traps disguised as interest. All the members responded with their rehearsed smiles, some joking to lighten the mood.

And you nodded, correct, elegant, but stiff.

Youngjae sensed you, even without looking at you. Sitting next to you, his attention was on the environment like radar… but his energy was focused solely on you.

He knew when your breathing became shallower.

When your fingers began to brush the hem of your skirt.

When the pressure built up in your silence.

So without interrupting anything, without anyone noticing, he slid his hand under the table, slowly, and reached for yours. Fingers first. Then with the open palm. And when he found it, he didn't catch it… he held it.

As if holding your hand was a ceremony.

He squeezed once. Gently, but firmly. A single squeeze.

It was his signal.

His, "I'm here. Breathe." His: “You don't need to carry alone.” His: “With one word, I'll get you out of here if I have to.”

He wasn't looking in your direction. He kept his eyes straight ahead, his face neutral, professional. But with his hand intertwined with yours, you knew he was attentive to every emotion that moved under your skin.

And he didn't let go.

Nor when they changed the subject. Nor when you responded in a slightly more confident voice. Nor when the other members started joking again. He was still there, his thumb barely caressing the base of your thumb, creating a little anchor in the middle of all the noise.

No more was needed.

Because when Youngjae held your hand, the world became a little easier to bear. Not because of what he said, but because of what he conveyed: a deep, subtle restraint, as firm as it was invisible.

And even if no one knew... you knew.

And that was enough.

Hanjinㅤ ❛❛    ──── ㅤHan Zhen !

He always walks slightly in front of you, as if he wants to cover you from the world.

Hanjin did not do it consciously.

It was not a cold calculation, nor a premeditated plan.

It was simply that his body was positioned that way. Always one step ahead of you. Always first. As if his duty -no, his desire- was to lead the way, to clear the air before you breathed it, to receive any glance before it touched yours.

And though it might seem like a simple walk to others, he felt it as an invisible responsibility, as natural as breathing. In every aisle, in every backstage, on every carpet where the spotlight chased him, he walked with a silent purpose: to cover you from the world without you having to think about it.

It wasn't mistrust.

It wasn't jealousy or possession.

It was something more intimate, more raw: it was instinct.

Because in his mind, the world was too noisy, too fast, too unpredictable for someone like you. And if he could put you a little further back, if only for a few steps, if only for a few seconds… then you would be a little safer.

And he made it look so natural.

The cameras caught him opening doors, making space between members, leaving just the right gap where you could follow him without difficulty.

No one suspected a thing.

To everyone else, he was a silent leader.

To you, he was a mobile shelter.

Sometimes he would turn his face, just a little, to make sure you were behind him. And when you were, when his eyes met yours -if only for a split second- something inside him would settle.

He would calm down.

And you, even if you never said anything, knew it.

You knew that this step of distance was not out of indifference, but out of love. Out of that silent love that Hanjin spoke not with words, but with direction.

With steps.

With presence.

He whispers your name in a deep voice when he wants you to hear it, and that's enough.

There was something in his voice that didn't need volume to make itself heard.

A weight.

A gravity that pierced you without violence, but with intensity.

In the midst of any chaos -a celebration, a waiting room full of screams, a rehearsal between laughter and jokes- it was enough for him to pronounce your name, just a whisper, just a brush between his lips, for you to turn around immediately.

As if an invisible current pulled you firmly.

“Noona...”

That word came from him with a tone that no one else used with you. It wasn't just a term of respect.

It was a private statement.

A way to envelop your attention with just one syllable.

Hanjin knew what it caused when he said it.

He knew you tensed just a little, as if his voice touched your skin, even without coming close.

And yet, he didn't abuse it.

He only used it when he really wanted you to hear it. When he needed your focus back on him. When the rest of the world was pulling you in a thousand directions and he wanted to remind you that he was there.

—Noona... —he would say, in that deep, dense voice, so soft it seemed to caress. And you, no matter who you were talking to, no matter what was going on around you, you would turn. You looked at him. Always.

And when your eyes met his, Hanjin didn't immediately smile. He would hold your gaze. Steadily. Completely. As if he had just tightened an invisible bond between the two of you.

For others, it was nothing. For you, it was everything.

Because he didn't shout.

He didn't ask.

He was just calling your name.

And in that moment, you belonged to him again.

He takes you by the chin towards him if you are sad, forcing you to hold his gaze.

I didn't need to see you cry to know something wasn't right.

I could sense it in the longer-than-normal silence.

In the way your shoulders didn't rise as high when you laughed.

In that slight emptiness that crept into your gaze.

Hanjin didn't pressure you.

He didn't fill you with questions or carelessly intrude into your space. He waited. He watched you. He gave you that leeway he knew you needed…until he decided it was enough.

And when he decided to act, he did so with a commanding calm that left no room for evasion.

He approached without words. Just him and that dense magnetism that seemed to envelop the air around him. And you could feel it. You felt it on your skin, even if you weren't looking at him.

And then, his hand would come up. Firmly. His thumb brushing your chin, his fingers resting just barely on the line of your jaw. He would lift your face with unrelenting gentleness.

Not to force you. But to guide you. To make you look at him. So you wouldn't run away.

—Noona… Look at me.

His voice was low, but it left you no choice. It made you hold his gaze as if that connection was the only thing keeping you grounded.

And maybe it was.

Because in those eyes there was something that painlessly disarmed you. A kind of serene strength that held you from the inside.

And it didn't say much.

It just looked at you.

With that quiet intensity, with that absolute devotion that said, “You may be bad, you may fall…but you're not going down alone.”

And you knew that.

You knew because although his fingers didn't tremble, his thumb caressed your skin as if you were fragile, as if at that moment nothing else mattered.

And he stood there, holding you with his gaze. Like an anchor. Like a shield. Like a refuge where you didn't have to hide, because he had already seen it all... and still, he looked at you as if you were his universe.

Jihoonㅤ ❛❛    ──── ㅤHan Jihoon !

He watches you silently and acts before you say anything, which makes you feel completely seen.

Jihoon was observant.

Extremely so.

Jihoon didn't need you to speak to know what you were feeling.

The slightest gesture was enough, a subtle change in the way you sat, in how you held your glass, in the pause you left before answering any question.

From his place -whether on a group couch, backstage, or behind you during an interview- Jihoon would watch you with that quiet intensity that seemed to brush you without touching you.

He didn't invade, he didn't interrupt, he didn't demand.

He just… was.

Present.

Aware of your every micro-expression as if they were tattooed on his soul.

And then he did it.

He would act before you could even formulate the thought.

If your drink was no longer cold, he would silently change it, and set it down next to you. If the microphone slipped, he had it in his hand before you could grab it again. If there were too many people talking at the same time and your gaze began to wander, he would place his hand just barely brushing your arm, as if to say, “Here, look at me.”

And you did.

You always ended up looking at him.

Because he was the only one who didn't need to listen to you to understand you. As if he had you figured out. As if he existed in the same internal rhythm as you, synchronized on a level that even you didn't fully understand.

Jihoon never presumed that.

He never used it to impress you.

On the contrary: he was so discreet that often only you noticed what he had just done. But that was the point.

For you to notice.

That you would feel that there was someone who really saw you.

And he did.

All the time.

Even when you thought he didn't.

Because to Jihoon, your comfort wasn't an option.

It was a priority.

He takes you by the wrist gently, but with no option to let go, as if he knows exactly where you are going.

It wasn't always easy to move through the hustle and bustle: cameras, fans, staff running around with schedules and lists, calls and lights on. And you, in the middle, sometimes so focused, so full of things in your head, that you didn't notice when someone called your name or asked you to move somewhere.

But Jihoon did.

He always noticed.

He always had you measured.

He always knew exactly where you were going… and where you shouldn't go.

So he kept it simple.

Straightforward.

Without asking permission, without giving explanations that weren't necessary.

He took you by the wrist. With a measured firmness. Precise. As if his hand was made to encircle right there. And you felt it. The warmth, the pressure, the delicate but immovable control. And without a word, he would begin to guide you.

Through corridors.

Through people.

Through everything.

It was a small movement, but loaded with message: "With me. Now."

And you followed it.

Not because you couldn't resist, but because you didn't want to. Because there was something about the way he pulled -with that quiet, absolute authority- that made you trust. That made you give in.

And he didn't even look back.

He didn't need to check to see if you were coming with him.

He knew you would.

And in those seconds, as you walked behind him, following the rhythm of his sure step, of his straight back, of his hand that did not let go of yours… you felt calm.

Protected.

Chosen.

And when he finally stopped, his fingertips would linger a few seconds longer on your skin, as if he didn't want to leave you completely.

As if your pulse was his anchor.

He silently corners you against the wall just to make you laugh and lower your tension.

It was one of those days when everything weighed on you.

Stress hung in the air like an invisible veil: too many repetitions, too many instructions, too many expectations.

And you, even if you were smiling, were tense.

Jihoon could feel it.

He noticed the stiffness in your shoulders, the lack of real sparkle in your eyes, the way you sighed when no one was looking.

And as always, he decided you weren't going to take it alone.

So he waited for the perfect moment. A pause between recordings.

A side hallway with no cameras. Just a few seconds alone, between boxes and lights off.

And without warning, he stepped in front of you, and took another step. And then another. Until you, without realizing it, were against the wall. Between his body and the cold concrete.

But there was no threat in his eyes.

Just spark.

Just playfulness.

Just that intention laden with tenderness disguised as provocation.

He said nothing.

He just looked at you from above, with a barely raised eyebrow and a restrained smile curving his lips. His hands remained on the sides of your head, but they didn't touch. He didn't need to. Because his presence was enough to invade your entire chest.

And then he spoke to you.

Low.

Mischievous.

—Are you going to keep that face, Noona… or are you going to tell me what's wrong?

And you laughed.

You couldn't help it.

Because his voice, his closeness, the way he cornered you with fierce care, broke down any wall you had erected.

And he knew it.

It was his way of taking care of you without you seeing it coming.

To force you to let go, to breathe, to come back to him when everything else was too much.

Jihoon wasn't one to hug you in public, he wasn't one for overt gestures. But when he held you like this, so close, so much his... he protected you with that intensity of someone who knows every corner of you and is not afraid of any of them.

And when you laughed -finally, for real- his smile also appeared.

Real.

Calm.

Because then he knew you were well again.

And nothing mattered more to him than that.

Kyungminㅤ ❛❛    ──── ㅤLee Kyungmin !

It always finds a way to touch you (shoulder, waist, neck), as if it needs to remind you that it is there.

Kyungmin didn't need to think about it.

His body just did it. It was as if his nervous system was already trained to look for you.

To find you.

To touch you.

Always.

Every time you were near -even if there were people, cameras, noise, laughter or interviews- his fingers would find their way. It was a passing brush, as if it didn't matter. A gentle touch on the small of your back as you moved forward. A distracted caress on your shoulder as they waited in a circle. Or his warm hand resting just at the curve of your waist, just for a second… just long enough for you to feel it.

He didn't say anything.

He never announced it.

But his touches had weight.

They had presence.

They had the language of someone who loved you so much that he needed to confirm you with his fingertips.

Sometimes it went unnoticed.

Sometimes not.

Sometimes a member would joke, throw a sidelong glance, and Kyungmin would just smile, cocking his head. Because he knew what he was doing.

And he loved that no one could say anything.

Touching you was like breathing to him.

It was his way of anchoring himself to the moment, of knowing you were there, that you weren't a dream. Because he held you close, because you let him do it, because you wouldn't move away either.

And that… it killed him with tenderness.

It destroyed him with love.

As if everything in him was only alive when you were within reach of his touch.

And if ever, for seconds, you were too far away to catch up, his eyes followed you. And the body, restless, searched for you until it found an excuse to come closer again.

Because yes.

Because you were his anchor, his silent obsession, and his way of loving was measured in millimeters of shared skin.

He murmurs soft commands to you amidst a smile, tenderly disarming you.

With Kyungmin, control was not imposed.

It was whispered.

It slipped between slow smiles and sweet words. His way of dominating was so gentle, so charming, that it left no room for resistance.

Only surrender.

“Stay close to me, okay?” “Drink this, it will do you good.” “Come here a second…”

Simple phrases.

Innocent.

But you knew.

You always knew.

Because his voice lowered a little, his tone became more intimate, and his smile seemed sweet… but it had an edge.

A warm edge.

Tender edge.

Inevitable edge.

Kyungmin didn't ask for things.

He declared them in disguise.

And you obeyed without argument. Not because he demanded it. But because it came naturally to you. Because deep down, you wanted to do it. You wanted to respond to his tone that left no room for doubt.

And he was fascinated by that.

Seeing you nod slowly, seeing how your body responded before your lips, how you moved towards him naturally… it melted him inside. It made him addicted. It was a devotion that didn't scream, but existed in each of those seconds where you simply followed his lead without thinking.

It wasn't that he needed to control you. It wasn't possession.

It was certainty. It was the relief of knowing that he could guide you because you trusted him. Because you let him hold you in his hands as gently as you would hold something sacred.

And even if no one else noticed, even if it seemed like just a normal conversation, he knew what was going on between you.

And he smiled.

He always smiled afterwards.

Because having you like this -obedient without fear, surrendered without pressure- was the most beautiful thing he knew.

He makes you sit between his legs and wraps his arms around you, as if you were his.

The scene was innocent.

Casual.

No one suspected anything.

It was one of those moments when the cameras were not pointing directly. One of those spaces between scenes where the staff was resting, where the members were relaxing, and you -with your tupper open on your legs- had decided to record a little clip for the group's vlog.

You were on the floor, right in front of the dressing room sofa, your legs crossed and your cell phone resting on a small improvised tripod while you were talking to the camera. You were in vlog mode, talking to your fans with that sweet, natural voice, as if the camera was your friend.

But you were not alone.

Kyungmin was behind you. Sitting on the couch, legs apart, and you… between them.

Perfectly wedged between his body and the soft backrest.

From there, he had effortless access to you. His left arm draped over your shoulder, hand resting gently on your chest, not invasively, but like an anchor. As if he needed to remind himself that you were there.

That you were real.

That you were his.

And sometimes, just sometimes, he would lean in a little, lower his head and murmur little things next to your ear. Things that didn't stick.

Things just for you.

"Don't talk so fast, noona. You're choking." “Drink some water, come on.” “Look at me for a second.”

And you did it.

You obeyed without thinking, without needing an explanation.

From the outside, it looked like a normal scene.

A teammate recording a vlog while Kyungmin was resting behind.

But if anyone looked closely... if anyone watched closely... they would know that he wasn't “resting”.

He was watching over you. Claiming you without words.

His body surrounded you.

He was protecting you.

No one else could sit like this.

No one else could hold you so still between his legs, while he rested on the crown of your head for seconds, and then lay back down as if nothing had happened.

He didn't need to kiss to mark territory.

He did it with his arms.

With the way he hugged you from above without suffocating you. With the way his hands would always find you, adjust your hair, or just hold your food container for a second to catch your breath.

They didn't need words.

And even if you didn't say anything, even if you didn't even look directly at him, your body spoke for you.

The way you just stood there, the way you didn't want to move... it drove him crazy.

In the best sense.

You knew it too. You knew what he was saying without saying it.

And he... he was completely satisfied with that.

Shinyuㅤ ❛❛    ──── ㅤShin Junghwan !

The time no longer makes sense. It could be three or five in the morning. It doesn't matter. Time lost its structure hours ago, just as the music stopped having a rhythm for you. The only thing that illuminates the practice room is the bluish screen of the sound system, vibrating with outdated decibels, and the dull reflections that the mirror spits back. The track plays on loop, for the umpteenth time. A fragment of new choreography. A particularly demanding step. A tricky transition. A part you've already done well, more than once, but that your mind insists isn't good enough. It never is.

One more time. And again. And again. Another one.

Your feet fall with the weight of a will that has nothing to do with passion, and everything to do with something darker. The skin on your knees, despite the clothes, burns. Sweat soaks your shirt and slides down your neck, icy and sticky, mingling with the trembling that you no longer even try to conceal. It's been a while since you stopped dancing. You're not perfecting anything. You are surviving. Repeating the movements with an empty mechanics, as if you could punish with each step the insufficiency you feel in your chest. As if your body could sweat out that insecurity. As if you could turn it into strength. Into something tangible that you can mold with your fingers.

But it doesn't go away.

In fact, it intensifies. And the worst part is that you don't admit it. Not fully. Not in front of them. Not even in front of you.

Then, without you hearing him enter, you know. No footsteps. No voice. But there is something. An energy. A specific presence that always manages to sneak through your senses even when you're on the verge of collapse.

Shinyu.

It doesn't need to speak. He doesn't need to touch you. He stops in the doorframe, silent, his brow barely furrowed, his arms crossed, his weight on one leg as if he only stopped there by chance. But there is nothing accidental about him. The reflection in the mirror gives him away: he looks calm, but the tension in his jaw and the way his eyes don't leave you speak louder than any words.

—Again… —he murmurs, barely audible, as if he's thinking it more than saying it. As if he's said it too many times before.

You don't respond.

You just look down. You press the play button harder than necessary. The song starts from the beginning. Again. It's not even pride. There's no anger in your fingers. It's fear. Fear of not measuring up. That they, all of them, will one day wake up and realize that you shouldn't be there. That your place is on loan. Temporary. That you're going to be left behind, inevitably, and that only you are seeing it coming.

Shinyu doesn't move. He waits.

Their silence is not passivity. It is intention. He knows that intervening too soon would make you close the doors, armor you again. So he waits. He watches you as you repeat the choreography as if your body were a machine programmed with pain. The steps no longer flow; they drag. Your muscles protest, your knees falter at every turn, and when you fall into the last pose, awkward, misaligned, undone, there is no more music to sustain you.

Sweat pours down your back like hot frost. The soaked T-shirt sticks to your skin, catching your every movement. Your lungs shrink. Each breath is a struggle that you lose little by little. Your ribs burn. Your neck creaks with every slightest twist.

And then you turn to the table to reach for your water bottle. But he is no longer where he was.

Shinyu is closer. He carries a towel in one hand. In the other, nothing, but his gaze weighs more than any object. That way he looks at you, direct, without harshness, without judgment, but with an uncomfortable truth, leaves you with no room to run away.

—What do you think you're getting at with this? —he asks, without anger.

His tone is calm. Too calm. And that's what's most frightening. Because you know that in that calm there is restraint. That his every word is carefully measured so as not to break you, even if he himself is about to do so.

You try to respond. You look for something to justify your actions. Something that sounds logical. Professional. Dignified.

But you can't find it.

You just wipe your forehead with a rough gesture, as if that act could cover the tremor you can no longer hide in your fingers. Or on your lips.

—I'm practicing —you say at last, your voice so thin it breaks as it comes out.

Shinyu nods. But it's not a gesture of agreement. It's more like he's giving you space. As if he needs you to say it so that you yourself will hear the absurdity.

Then he takes a step closer.

Not abruptly. He does it with that calculated serenity that disarms you. With that certainty that seems to invade the air around him. He shortens the distance without asking permission. And without a word, he lifts the towel and wraps it around you, as if you were a little girl soaking wet in the rain, shivering with cold.

You freeze.

The fabric is rough, warm even from the heat of his hands. It wraps around your shoulders, down your back, falls to your hips. It warms you. But what warms you most is not the fabric.

It's the way it does it. As if you were broken. As if, in that gesture, he's picking up all the pieces of you that you refused to look at yourself.

—You're not practicing —he says, his voice soft, barely more than a whisper—. You're punishing yourself.

The phrase hits like a dagger. Not because it's aggressive, but because it's accurate. Because you can't refute it. Because you can't hide it. Because you've spent so many days ignoring that truth that now it hurts more than any sprain, any wound, any fall on the living room floor.

Your lower lip trembles. You feel it. You hate it.

You swallow saliva. You want to say something. Scream at him that he doesn't understand. That you need more. That you can't be left behind. That you can't be the weak one. That you can't lose what you've worked so hard to keep. That you have to prove that you are worth every second at their side, at their level.

But none of that comes out. The only thing that comes out is silence. And that tremor in your jaw that you can't hide.

Shinyu doesn't let you back down.

When you take a step back, his hands instinctively reach up and grab your arms. Not with force. Not to impose himself. He does it firmly. With that mix of gentleness and authority that makes you feel as if, at that moment, he is the only anchor point in a storm that has already swept you too far.

Your breath hitches. You feel his thumb, barely, brush against the exposed skin of your shoulder, marking a contrast between his constant warmth and your soaked, cold, vulnerable skin. You want to say something, anything that will give you back the distance, the control, that barrier you've worked so hard to maintain…but you can't. Your throat closes in a thick, impenetrable knot.

And then you say it.

—You're not less because you're tired. You don't need to prove anything for us to love you. And you know that.

The silence is broken only by his voice, and what he says is not an opinion. It is a truth. A sentence that allows no argument. He doesn't shout, he doesn't raise his tone. He says it so surely, so clearly, that it is impossible not to hear him.

And yet… Your body gives way. Just a little. As if the sentence had loosened an invisible string that you were carrying too tight in your chest. But your mind still fights. It still can't let go.

—Shinyu… let me finish. —It comes out more like a plea than a command. A tired echo of that need to push beyond the limit, even though you're already far beyond it.

But he doesn't grant you that wish. —No.

Just a word. Spoken with a softness that disarms more than any scream.

And in that “no” there is a world. A limit that is not punishment, but care. It is a barrier erected not to shut you in, but to protect you from yourself.

You stand still. Breathing as if your lungs were full of stones. Your fingers twitch on the towel cloth, squeezing for no reason. But you can't speak. You don't know how to contradict him without lying to yourself.

And then he takes a step. Just one. Just enough for the distance to disappear completely.

His chest brushes against yours, warm. His scent, clean, faint, with that faint trace of shampoo and skin, envelops you. And when his arms come up to encircle you, they don't do it with possession. They do it with an almost reverential care. As if embracing you in that state is a sacred act.

—If you fall, you're going to drag me down with you. His voice is a whisper, soft, broken—. And I'm not going to let you get lost like this.

Then he wraps his arms around you. His arms firm behind your back, one hand on the back of your neck, the other running down your quivering ribs to rest on your waist. And in that embrace there is something that crumbles you.

Because there's no more room to fight. The relief that shakes you is so great it hurts.

You feel a dull pang in your stomach. The kind of pain that comes when you've been holding back tears for too long. As if every part of you that was stiff with necessity is finally allowing itself to surrender. To let go.

Your forehead falls against his chest, and the sound it makes is muffled, almost inaudible. But you feel it. His heart. It beats strong. Regular. Sure. As if, by touching it, it's telling you, "I'm here. Still here."

And then he lowers his head a little. His lips barely graze your hair.

—You make me strong. And he says it as if it were a fact, a universal law—. But don't ask me to stand still while you break. Not more.

That last sentence breaks you. Like a dam that breaks in silence. The tears don't burst. They fall. Heavy. Slowly. Without drama. Like rain at dawn.

You lean your forehead against his collarbone, seeking his warmth as if you were a lost child. And he doesn't move. He doesn't say anything else. He just holds you. Strong. Immovable. As if nothing else really matters.

And to him, nothing else matters.

A minute goes by. Or two. Or maybe ten. Time loses shape amidst the trembling of your body, the echo of your contained cry and his hand, which slowly moves up and down your back, in a back and forth that is in no hurry. That only seeks to hold.

Shinyu tilts his face, brushes his nose against your temple. And with an ease that could only come from habit, from the bond, he slides his hands to your waist.

—Up —he murmurs softly, as if asking permission and giving it at the same time.

You don't resist. You don't have the strength. But beyond that, you don't want to resist.

Your arms reach up, cross behind his neck, and your fingers clutch at his shirt. Carefully, as if the moment might break if you make a sudden move, Shinyu reaches down slightly and grabs your thighs.

With an ease that should scare you, it lifts you off the ground. As if you weighed nothing. As if carrying you were the most natural thing in the world. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. And he effortlessly settles you in his arms.

He rocks you.

Not with rhythm. Not with intention. Just a gentle rocking, like someone trying to calm a heart that has been beating too hard for too long.

Your cheek rests against his shoulder. You breathe against his neck, your lips barely open from the effort, from crying, from the trembling that has not yet dissipated.

He keeps the embrace. He does not speak. He doesn't try to reason with you. He just is. As he has been before. As he will be later. As if it were part of the very air you're missing.

And when, at last, the trembling in your ribs begins to subside, when your breathing becomes less spasmodic and your body gives way, you raise your face just barely.

Your lips are dry. Your throat, it burns. But you manage to form words:

—Thank you… —It's a thread of a voice. A whisper that barely crosses the space between you.

And before he can respond, before the moment becomes heavy again, you lean in slightly and, with the same delicacy with which he carried you, you place a small, trembling, but deeply sincere kiss on his neck.

Your lips touch his skin for just a second. Just enough to leave there everything you don't know how to say in words.

Shinyu does not move. He doesn't speak. But his arm tightens a little tighter around your back, and his breathing hitches just for an instant.

And in that gesture, you know:

He understands everything. Even what you can't, or don't yet dare, to put out loud.

And for now, that's enough. For now... you're safe. In his arms. Where the world stops hurting a little.

Dohoonㅤ ❛❛    ──── ㅤKim Dohoon !

The clock in the studio reads 2:43 AM. But you don't see it. Your eyes are fixed on the screen, where the melody line still doesn't fit the way you want it to. The cursor blinks with mocking insistence. The lyrics you wrote just half an hour ago now seem insipid. Cold. Flat. Everything seems mediocre to you. Everything. Even your voice in the demo sounds muffled, as if you had no soul. As if you have completely emptied yourself and the echo of your own delivery no longer serves to create.

And that… that tears you apart. Because you shouldn't be the one failing. Not now. Not when they look at you as if you are invincible. As if it's enough that you're there for everything to work. Not when you silently carry that image you think they need you to be.

You play the track again. You stop. You go back three seconds. You go back. You cut a sentence. You take a breath. You tap your knuckles against your forehead.

The pressure isn't coming from anyone on the outside. No one has told you that you're not doing enough. What's more: everyone has told you a thousand times that you don't need to prove anything. That you already are. That you're already good enough. But you can't help it. There is a small, persistent voice in the bottom of your chest that whispers to you that if you slow down, if you slacken just a little, if you allow your delivery to be less than perfect… they will stop seeing you with those eyes that scare you so much and that you love so much.

You can't let that happen. You can't.

You are so deep in that spiral, so deep in that well, that you don't hear the door open. You don't see the tall, slender figure that enters silently. Nor the shadow creeping from the hallway with soft, almost soundless footsteps. You only feel it when a warm paper bag is placed just above your keyboard, slightly shifting the mouse. The aroma of rice, broth, sweet onion and freshly cooked ginger hits you like a gentle, warm, almost ghostly wave.

—You last ate nine hours ago —Dohoon says.

His voice is no louder than a whisper, but it is wrapped in a gravity that cuts like a thin blade.

You startle. You turn your head, barely. And you frown in annoyance.

You are exhausted. Irritable. Empty. Deep down, hurt. But even you can't put a name to that.

—I'm fine —you lie, without looking at him.

Dohoon doesn't answer right away. He doesn't move. He just watches you.

His dark eyes roam over you as if they could take you apart by layers, one by one, until they reach the most hidden part. And the truth is, he can. He always has been able to.

It has that uncanny way of seeing you even when you don't want to be seen. To know when you're really bad and when you only think you are. To hear your silences more clearly than your words. Of loving you, without being too noticeable, but leaving no room for doubt.

—No. You're not —he finally says, and then turns off the screen with a firm click.

Everything goes black.

The blue glow suddenly disappears and leaves you naked in front of the opaque reflection of the monitor. As if the room is darker now. As if you are now more exposed.

—Dohoon! —you protest, turning to face him, indignant.

But he's already too close. Inches away. And he doesn't back down.

His presence overwhelms you. Not because of what he does, but because of who he is. The way he is. Because of how it envelops you, soft and firm at the same time. Like a heavy blanket on a night when you no longer know if you're hot or cold. You just know something hurts.

Dohoon doesn't blink. He doesn't frown, doesn't harden his gesture. But still, in that tense silence, he becomes a wall.

Not one that rejects you. But one you can't run away from.

—Are you going to tell me it's inspiration? —he asks, in a low voice, so controlled that it gives you the shivers—. Or are you going to lie to me with something new?

The way he says it doesn't seek to expose you. It doesn't hurt you. But it leaves you with no room to hide.

You tremble. Not physically, you still don't, but inside. In that exact place where the knot you've been swallowing all day forms. The one that neither the hot coffee, nor the music, nor the loneliness managed to untie.

Because you know you can't handle it. You never have been able to. Not when he talks to you like that. Not when he looks at you like that. With that absolute, immense, unmoving affection. So still that it weighs.

He doesn't press you, but he doesn't move. And that's exactly what disarms you. That love that doesn't need to raise its voice, or demand. Just stay. Just be.

—I just want it to sound good —you whisper at last, as if those words could sustain you. As if clinging to the technical excuse is enough to keep you breathing.

Part of you knows it's not true. That that's not the only thing you want. But you say it anyway, because it's easier to talk about notes and harmonies than about that knot you've had in your chest for days. Weeks.

He tilts his head, without taking his eyes off you. —What if it sounds good tomorrow? —he asks— What if it sounds good when you're not dying inside?

The question hangs in the air, like a drop about to fall from a branch. Simple. Straightforward. So immensely painful.

You bite your lip, hard. So hard it almost hurts. But you prefer that physical pain. It's easier. More controllable. The others, the ones you can't name, are much more dangerous.

You feel your eyes water. Do not cry. You don't want to. You can't. Not yet.

The air you breathe is heavy now. It's hard to get it into your lungs. As if each puff has to make its way through all the thoughts piling up in your head. The music. The pressure. The expectations. Your reflection. The times you feel like you don't measure up.

Dohoon kneels in front of you, without hesitation, with that calm movement that only he has. The one that doesn't ask permission, but doesn't impose either. And in that gesture, there is a kind of love that scares you.

Because you have not learned to receive it. Because you don't think you deserve it.

He takes your hands. Yours are cold. More than you imagined. More than he imagined. And as soon as he wraps his own around them, his face changes.

A shadow of concern creeps between his eyebrows. As if touching them confirmed something he already suspected, but didn't want to accept. And he squeezes them. Not abruptly, but firmly. As if she wants to give you back something you forgot how to hold.

—You're being cruel to yourself —he says, in a low, restrained voice—. Why?

The question is not a reproach. It's a caress disguised as truth.

You shake your head. You can't say it. You don't want to.

Because if you say it, it's real. Because if you say it, then you won't be able to sustain the image. That image you've built over the years, by dint of discipline, by dint of surrender, by dint of not showing yourself broken even though inside you're falling apart.

Because if you say it, you're going to have to admit it: That maybe you don't feel good enough. That every song you do is a desperate way to convince yourself, yourself, not others, that you deserve to be there. That it wasn't luck. That it wasn't a mistake. That you do have talent. That you are worthy. That you won't let them down.

But you don't say it. Your throat is closed, as if those words had thorns in them. As if when they come out they're going to tear something essential out of you.

And then, as if he can read it, not just understand it, but feel it, he whispers something that leaves you breathless: —I don't need you to be perfect.

Your heart is turned upside down. —I don't love you for your accomplishments —he continues—. I love you because you are you. Even when you hide from yourself.

And there. That's when your shield breaks. That invisible armor you've been wearing all night. The one that builds a foundation of self-control, of well-placed smiles when everything inside you was crying out for help.

Your throat closes completely. Your eyes no longer obey you. The wetness turns into silent tears that begin to fall, one after another, without making a sound.

He raises a hand. Slowly. With a measured, almost reverent gentleness. As if by coming closer he knows you are about to break. As if he understands that a sudden gesture, a sound louder than it should be, could make you explode into a thousand tiny fragments that no one, not even you, would know how to put back together again.

With his thumb, he strokes your cheek. It is a slow, circular brush. As if trying to erase the trace of the pain that has dried there, on your hot, vulnerable skin. You can no longer hide the wetness. Nor the look that trembles. Nor that slight tremor that starts on your lips and spreads, little by little, inward, like a wave that seeks to sweep everything away.

He does not flinch at your tears. He does not turn away. He does not frown. He doesn't run away.

He just looks at you, with that quiet, loving intensity he has only when there are no cameras, no lights, no outside voices. Just you. Just him.

And then he says it. In a low, slow voice. With a tenderness that penetrates to the bone.

—Come here.

There is no judgment in his tone. There is no rush. Nor is it a request.

He pulls you gently, but without hesitation. As if he knows you can't decide for yourself right now. As if he senses that, if you think too hard, you're going to find an excuse to walk away, to lock yourself away again.

So it doesn't leave you. It takes you with it.

In a single movement, careful, slow, unavoidable, he settles you in his lap. And suddenly you are there: Wrapped in his arms. Your body fitting into his as if it had been made for that. Your face hidden against his neck. Your nose filled with his scent. That mix of soft cologne, warm skin and something else….

Home. That. It smells like home.

He doesn't talk anymore. He doesn't try to explain anything. He just surrounds you. All around you.

His chest against yours. His arms around your back. His chin resting gently on your head. One of his hands moving slowly up and down your back. The other holding you tight against him, as if he knew that, if he didn't anchor you like this, you might fade away altogether.

And you… you give yourself away.

There is no strength in your hands. No tension in your neck. No resistance. For the first time in many nights, you stop struggling.

You don't pretend. You don't act. You don't calculate what you look like from the outside.

You just sink into it.

And there, in the middle of that dense and tender silence, you start to cry. Quietly. No fuss. No contortions. No screaming.

But with a shattering truth.

You don't cry because of the song. Not for the harmonies that don't close, not for the lyrics you hate, not for the hours that slip through your fingers.

You cry for what you can't admit out loud.

For the brutal way you talk to yourself. For the times you pushed yourself beyond the limit, believing that was the right thing to do. For the times you gave yourself no respite, no compassion, not even a fucking breath. For all the versions of you that you sacrificed in the name of perfection. For every automatic smile you used to hide the panic. For nights like this, where the only way to go on was to force yourself.

To force you. To ignore you. To hurt you. Dohoon says nothing. And that, oddly enough, is the most healing thing.

Because his silence is not empty. It's not awkward. It is not absent.

His silence envelops you, like a warm blanket placed over shivering skin.

It contains you. It embraces you. It respects you.

He continues to caress your hair. His fingers glide with a slowness that does not seek to calm you, but to tell you without words: "I'm here. I'm not going to leave. No matter how much you cry. No matter what you've believed about yourself. No matter what you can't yet see. For me, you are enough."

And you… you just cry. You cry as one who finally finds permission to be fragile.

And in the midst of that vulnerability, he leans into you. Leaves a long kiss on your forehead. Gentle. Calm. Deep.

As if he wanted to mark your skin with the only certainty that you still don't know how to accept: That he loves you like this. Just like this. Broken. Fragile. Real.

The kiss is not in a hurry. It's not to shut you up. It is not to stop the tears.

It is to accompany them.

And when he breaks away, just a few millimeters, you feel him take a deep breath. As if holding you like this would break him a little too. But he doesn't complain. He doesn't move. He doesn't seek relief.

He just holds you.

And for the first time… that's enough. That's enough.

Because now you understand, somewhere deep down, where words don't reach: You don't have to be strong all the time. You don't have to prove anything. You don't have to finish that song tonight. You don't have to earn affection by dint of performance.

You've already got him. You already have him. And he's not leaving.

There, in that silent studio at 3:07 AM, between cold cups of forgotten coffee, open documents and loops of melodies that don't quite fit, you find the one chord that was missing.

This one. The one of surrendering without guilt. The one of being held. The one to cry without hiding. The one of loving, also, from the broken.

And when your breathing begins to calm down, still without moving, still with your face hidden in her neck, you feel something inside you —something very deep, very dormant, very forgotten— begin to blossom.

A root. A seed. A low voice that says:

"Maybe… just maybe… I deserve this too."

And for now, that's all you need.

Youngjaeㅤ ❛❛    ──── ㅤChoi Youngjae !

There is no noise. Just the metallic click of your keyboard buttons, dry and sharp in the thick studio air. The cursor blinks on the screen like a small mockery. You're correcting, again, the lyrics of a song that was already approved by the team, the producer, even the guys. They all said it was fine. That it was perfect. That it conveyed just what it was supposed to.

But that's not good enough for you. Nothing. lately.

Your eyes slide across the screen, and all you see are cracks. Sentences that could be better, emotions that could hurt more or sound more real. In your eyes, it all seems insufficient. Mediocre. What you do. What you are.

You lean forward, chasing perfection through gritted teeth, and your back creaks with a high-pitched whine, as if protesting as well. As if your body no longer wants to follow your orders. You ignore yourself. Once again. It's not new.

Your head pulses with a nagging pain, as if filled with murky, thick, silent water. Each throb seems to remind you that you've been here for hours. Maybe more than you should. Maybe more than you're capable of admitting.

Deep down, you know it.

You know you're doing it again. That you're pushing yourself past the point of exhaustion, past the point of reasonableness, past the point of self-love.

You know you're punishing yourself. But you won't admit it. You can't.

Because to admit it would be to open the door to a well you'd rather not look into. Because if you acknowledge it, then you would have to stop. And stopping is scary. As if stopping is the same as failing. As if showing yourself vulnerable is the same as not deserving what you have. As if everything you've achieved is slipping through your fingers.

The light from the hallway sneaks under the door. Yellow. Warm. It shakes for a moment, flickers, when a shadow steps in. Silence. One second. Two. Three. No knocking. No announcement.

Just the sound of the doorknob turning slowly. So slowly that it seems as if the air itself is still. The door opens with a faint, restrained creak, and you don't need to look.

You know it's him.

No one walks like Youngjae. No one breathes like that. That way of his of moving as if he doesn't want to disturb the world, but with an unavoidable gravity, as if even in silence, he always leaves a mark. As if his very presence weighs in the air.

You say nothing. You wait for him to tire. To close the door. To go back to the others. That he leaves you alone in your spiral. That he won't look at you the way you know he's going to look at you.

But he doesn't.

He sits in front of you. Silent. Still. Not a whisper. Just you, him and the faint hum of the monitor, the echo of the cursor, the clumsy clicks of your fingers that no longer hit the keys.

Discomfort creeps up your throat. Not because you resent their presence. It's the other way around. Because he knows you. Because you know Youngjae only stays quiet when he's already understood. When he has already read between the lines what you are not yet ready to say.

You sink a little deeper into the chair. As if you can hide. As if that stiffness could disguise your exhaustion. You write again. One line. Another one. And another.

You get them all wrong. Split words. Too many letters. An "I love you" where it shouldn't go. A "I'm sorry" where no one asked for it.

Your hands are barely shaking. Not from cold. From frustration.

You hate yourself a little. For not being enough. For not knowing how to stop. For needing these kinds of interventions that, though you secretly crave, leave you even more exposed. Because there's nothing more terrifying than being seen just when you most want to disappear.

—How long are you going to keep running away from me? —he asks, his voice so quiet, so low… but always right in the middle.

Your fingers stop immediately. As if he had pulled an invisible thread that controlled your every decision. The phrase bounces inside you, not just because of what it says, but because of what it implies.

Running away. From him. Is that what you're doing? Again?

You move the cursor mechanically, trying to pick up the thread. But everything inside you has stopped.

—I'm not running away. I'm working.

The excuse comes out automatically, almost dry. A line of defense repeated so many times that it almost sounds real. But it isn't. Not with you. Not with him.

Youngjae nods. Once. Briefly. He doesn't contradict you. He doesn't need to.

—Then look at me.

Your jaw instantly tenses. You knew it. You knew it was coming. You knew the look would be the hardest part. Because it's not about looking at him the way you look at anyone. Looking at him is about letting him read you. Let him look right through you. To let him see, without you telling him, every crack, every shadow, every word you haven't said in days.

And that… that scares you more than any failure.

But you do it. Not because you're ready. But because his voice asks for it in a way you can't ignore. You look at him.

And it hurts. It hurts in places you had learned to anesthetize.

Youngjae has the most beautiful eyes when he's hurt. Not because they break but because they shine. They shine with that soft intensity that doesn't judge, that doesn't demand, but sees everything. That sees all of you.

And it hurts you because, even so, he stays.

Because he loves you even when you can't with you. Because he's there… even when you're not there for you.

—You're the most talented person I know —he says, unhesitatingly, with that assurance of his that never wavers—. But that doesn't protect you from yourself.

Your throat closes. As if a knot suddenly forms between your ribs and slowly rises, crushing your every attempt at a response.

You don't know what to say. You don't know how to contradict him without lying. Because it's true.

All that stuff you try to perfect, that lyric, that melody, that choreography that you repeated five times more than everyone else… you don't do it out of passion. At least not just that. You do it because you think that if you do enough, if you try twice as hard, three times as hard, then maybe no one will notice how insecure you feel.

Because there's a part of you that still believes you have to deserve to be here. And that you still haven't made it yet.

—Every time you're left alone like this —he continues, his voice not rising, but piercing you like a surgical needle—. Every time you destroy yourself for no reason… I feel like you're shutting me out.

You close your eyes, just for a second. But the weight of his words lingers.

—As if you no longer trust me enough to show me what really hurts you.

It sounds like a demand, but it's not. It's a plea cloaked in respect. A wound offered with open palms.

—It's not that —you murmur, and your voice trembles, broken, more truth than sound—. It's not that I don't trust you….

You can't finish the sentence.

The next part is there, stuck between your sternum and your throat. Squeezing, like you're holding back an entire stream of water that's been pressing too long against a dam made of excuses and silences.

And then he moves. Youngjae comes closer. Slowly.

Every step is a mute statement, his every breath mingling with yours before it is even touched by the air between you. He is imposing in his silence, yes, but not in the way other people are. There is no judgment. There is no rush. No coldness.

Just a tenderness so dense it almost seems physical.

He places his hands on either side of your chair. One on the left, one on the right. And he leans toward you.

He corners you without aggression, without weight, without contact… and yet you feel completely trapped. Surrounded by its presence, by its warmth, by the way it watches you without blinking.

And you can't move. Not because you don't want to. But because you feel that if you do, something will break. Something very much yours. Something very old. Something you've hidden even from yourself.

—Then what is it? —she whispers.

And for the first time, his voice trembles. Barely. But you feel it. Because you know it as if you created him. Because that tremor is a crack. An echo of the wound you're leaving him.

—Why won't you let me in when you need it most?

And that question. That simple question, said so softly, with so much restrained love… it breaks you. Not like a rope that's stretched too tight breaks. It breaks you like an iceberg breaks when the thaw begins.

Slowly. From the inside.

And the tears escape you before you can stop them. You don't even make a sound at first.

Just water. Hot, painful water, overflowing down your face without permission. And then, you say it. —Because I'm afraid.

You spit it out as if it were poison. As if you were surrendering to the most primitive, simplest truth. —Because if I stop… I feel like I'm going to disappear.

There is a silence afterwards. A brief one, cut by a single second of pure restraint.

Youngjae closes his eyes. Not to avoid you. Not to block anything.

But as if he has to contain something inside himself. As if your confession is so powerful that he has to gather it in his chest with both hands before he lets himself feel it at all.

Take a deep breath. And then, as calmly as an ocean decides to sink or save you, he lifts you out of the chair. He doesn't ask. It doesn't warn. It just envelops you. He embraces you tightly.

With that intensity of his that is never violent, but that sweeps you away. Like a warm hurricane. Like a shelter that slams shut to protect you from the world.

He holds you against his chest as if he were afraid you were going to disintegrate in the air. As if his arms were the only thing keeping you from falling apart altogether.

And you… You don't resist.

For the first time in who knows how long, you don't tense up, you don't make the automatic gesture of pulling away or apologizing or justifying your tears.

You just stand there. Sinking into it.

—You're not going to disappear. Not while I'm here —he says in your ear.

And his voice… His voice is low, harsh, urgent. Almost as if he had to repeat it not only to convince you, but to reaffirm it within himself.

As if it also hurts him to have hesitated even for a second.

He holds you by the nape of your neck with one trembling hand and with the other he presses you against his back, as if in that gesture he were trying to give you back the weight you lack to keep you on your feet.

And then… he kisses you. He kisses your temple. Your hair. Your jaw.

In silence. In despair. In consolation.

Each kiss is an anchor. A piece of life. A reminder that you're here, that you're not gone, that he hasn't lost you yet.

You hold on.

Hands behind his back, forehead pressed against his neck, trembling fingers clutching at his shirt like it's a life preserver.

Because it is. Because he is.

—That's enough —he murmurs, and this time, his voice breaks a little. Just a little—. I love you too much to keep watching you break without doing anything.

And those words… They pierce you.

Not because of the confession itself-because you already knew it, because you've known it for so long, because the love between you never needed to be declared out loud to be true-but because that's his way of promising.

To commit. Of staying.

And for the first time all night... you let someone else carry you. You let yourself be cared for. You let yourself break. You let yourself be weak, finally.

And in that shipwreck you've been in for weeks, floating barely between the waves of your self-demand, Youngjae is the only piece of solid ground.

As he rocks you without another word. As he keeps kissing your hair every now and then, as if that gesture is the only way to rebuild you without breaking you further. As his chest rises and falls, calm, steady, like a heartbeat that envelops you.

Because Youngjae is always there.

Even when you no longer know how to be with you. Even when you yourself have stopped looking for you.

He stays. And you, this time… you don't stop him.

Shinyuㅤ ❛❛    ──── ㅤShin Junghwan !

The third floor hallway vibrated with that chaotic intensity so typical of high school just before break. The air was permeated with laughter, hurried footsteps, cross talk, and the metallic sound of doors opening and closing in uneven rhythm. Sunlight streamed through the wide windows on the right side, tinting the floor a soft gold that cast long, elongated shadows of students in motion, as if the entire building were breathing.

Shinyu was speeding down the stairs, body half-turned backwards as he laughed, driven by the joke Jihoon had just shouted at him from above. The laughter still vibrated in his chest, light and carefree. There was something about those moments that disarmed him. Moments when the weight of expectations, of exams, was diluted in that unreasoning running between classes, in the voice of his friends, in the orderless bustle that surrounded him.

Dohoon would shout something from the steps above, half feigning annoyance, half in jest, claiming him for “cheating again” as if they would ever stop competing, even in the most absurd of ways. The echo of his voice bounced off the walls, but Shinyu didn't pay attention at all. He was walking down without looking, body slightly cocked to one side, and backpack hanging loosely over a single shoulder.

It was a second.

A broken instant in the midst of all that energy. As if someone had pressed pause in a world that didn't know that button.

He didn't see you coming.

First it was a shadow, a moving figure entering his field of vision from the left side. Then, the slightest brush, barely perceptible, like a feather escaping from the wind… and the imbalance. He didn't know if it was you who spun, if it was him who crossed, or if the universe conspired with an exact choreography for that instant.

The next thing was pure instinct.

The body responded to him before the mind: Shinyu spun toward the source of the impact, seeking to compensate for the weight, feeling his center of gravity shift completely. His arm automatically reached out, firm, sure, meeting you before his eyes. He felt your waist under his hand, the soft fabric of your uniform's fabric, and the warmth. The warmth of a body he hadn't expected to touch.

And then, the stillness.

The pause wasn't just mental. The world really seemed to stop around you. The voices of his friends were silenced. The noise in the hallway, which seconds before was a storm of sound, became a distant murmur. He didn't even hear the soft thump of the backpack slipping off his shoulder and falling to the floor with a discreet thump. The only real thing at that moment was the contact.

Shinyu looked down. And he saw you. It was you. You.

The contact was immediate. Almost electric. Not like a shock, not like a violent discharge, but like that silent spark that ignites between two opposite poles touching for the first time. The warmth of your body, palpable under his palm, ran up his arm like an invisible current. It wasn't just warmth. It was an absolute awareness of the exact place where his hand touched you, at your waist, slim, firm, perfectly fitted between his fingers. A place he didn't know, but that his skin was no longer going to forget.

How close he was —a breath away, literally— didn't prepare him for the intensity of what he saw in your gaze. Because then, his eyes collided with yours.

And time, if it hadn't stopped before, it did now.

The noise in the hallway was completely gone, or so he thought. Maybe it was still there, maybe Jihoon was still yelling some nonsense from the stairs, and Dohoon was still coming down, clamoring for his backpack, but for Shinyu, it was all gone. There was nothing left. There was just you and him.

And your eyes.

Shinyu recognized them before he could think about it. He had seen you before. Many times. In the courtyard, under the shade of the building during breaks, half laughing with your friends, sitting in the third row of the auditoriums, or walking with that slowness that seemed to float above the ground. Always with that way of yours of filling the space without saying anything. Without looking for it.

It was impossible not to notice you.

Everyone talked about you. With admiration, with awe, with that half-contained voice used by those who name something sacred.

But he didn't.

He didn't say your name. He didn't comment on anything. He didn't follow the conversations that mentioned you. It was not out of disinterest. On the contrary. It was because, for him, talking about you —so publicly, so superficially— felt like a fault. As if naming you was trying to reduce something that clearly couldn't fit into words. So he didn't.

He watched you in silence.

From a distance. From where you couldn't see him. Like someone looking at something they dare not touch.

Until now. And now you were there. So close. So absurdly real.

And yet you seemed to be enveloped in that same soft light as always. He didn't know if it was the reflection of the midday sun streaming through the windows, or if it was you. But there was a warm clarity about your face that took his breath away. Your lips were barely parted, as if you had forgotten how to breathe. Your eyes wouldn't leave his, and for a second —just one— Shinyu felt like he could fall into them.

Your cheeks were flushed.

A rosy, delicate color, spreading like a brushstroke from your cheekbones to your ears. You didn't know if it was from the shock of the near collision, or from the way the distance between you had blurred as if space didn't exist.

Maybe because of both.

Shinyu didn't know how he was breathing either. His chest barely moved, as if any puff of air might break something invisible between you. He forced himself to blink, slow, as if he feared that, if he did it too fast, you would disappear.

Then, without thinking, without planning it, without even being fully aware that he had opened his mouth, his lips moved:

—Are you okay? —He asked.

His voice came out lower than he thought it would. Almost a whisper. He wasn't even sure if you heard him. It was an absurd question in theory —you clearly hadn't fallen, you were clearly in one piece— but it didn't matter. Because the phrase wasn't a formality. It wasn't to fill the silence. It was genuine. Almost urgent. As if he needed to know, as if he cared more than he knew himself.

You nodded. Slowly. And you didn't say anything. But you kept looking at him.

That look of yours, fixed, clear, without artifice, without masks. There was no inordinate surprise, no awkward embarrassment, no that subtle haughtiness that sometimes floated down the corridors. You were just there, wide-eyed, calm, looking at him as if the world had stopped for you too. As if you really saw him. Not his name. Not his reputation. Not to the one who walked surrounded by voices and compliments. Him.

And for a second, Shinyu felt like you understood him.

He couldn't explain what that meant, but he felt it as a soft, deep certainty. As if something in that shared gaze —in that wordless silence— had said much more than any sentence could have uttered.

A mute conversation, carved in the space between their breaths. An impossible coincidence.

The sensation was so powerful it scared him. As if he was about to learn something about himself that he didn't want to admit. As if you had seen something even he dared not look at in the mirror.

And then, the spell cracked.

—Shinyu Hyung! —the voice cut through the air, from somewhere in the hallway.

Youngjae. His voice always carried a kind of impatient cheerfulness, and now it sounded even louder because of the contrast with the silence that surrounded him inside. Shinyu did not turn immediately. Not because he didn't want to, but because his body didn't respond with the same speed.

The noise returned. The murmur of footsteps. The echo of voices crossing each other. A bell announcing recess. Time, again.

Shinyu realized then that he was still holding you. That his hand was still resting on your waist with a gentleness that bordered on intimacy. The contact that had once been impulse now felt conscious.

Alive.

He withdrew it carefully, as if letting you go all at once might break something more than the moment. As if letting you go was like closing a page he didn't want to leave behind. He did it slowly, without abruptness, as if his palm still wanted to keep your shape, the warmth of your body. It was not a physical gesture. It was something deeper. Almost reverential.

You took a step back.

Neither clumsy nor quick. Measured. As if you too knew that this had been something out of the ordinary, something that could not be undone with a simple movement.

And then your friends appeared. As if they had been waiting on the outskirts of a scene they knew it wasn't their place to invade prematurely. Surrounding you, questioning you in hushed tones, some with eyes alight with intrigue. One of them —the one with the shortest hair— had a smile that she didn't try to hide. Another whispered something in your ear. You just shook your head. Shinyu saw it.

He didn't look at yours. He didn't even try to locate Jihoon or Dohoon or Youngjae. He didn't listen to the voices that were probably calling him. He only looked at you.

One more time. As if that last look could help him remember everything, every line of your face, every shadow, every slightest gesture. As if he could keep you inside his chest. As if you would let him.

And then, just as you turned around to leave with your girls… you did it. You smiled.

It wasn't big. Nor provocative. Nor exaggerated. It was a small curve, barely drawn on the lips, but genuine. Almost shy. As if it had escaped on its own, without you noticing.

A smile for him. And that…that destroyed him. Shinyu stood still.

Literally. As if his muscles had been replaced by hot cement that had not yet finished setting. His lungs forgot how to breathe for a second. Or two. Or five. He felt his heart beating not in his chest, but in his ears, in his fingers, in his throat. A slight, constant pressure that told him: This is not everyday. This is not something you will forget.

That smile, so small… it was too much.

Not because you were unreachable. Not because you were “you”. Not because everyone looked at you or wished you or named you as if you were a legend walking the halls. But because, for that instant, that smile was just for him.

And Shinyu felt that nothing —nothing— after that was going to feel the same.

To go back to his group. To hear the laughter. To laugh with them as always. Sitting in class, looking out the window, joking with Jihoon, arguing with Dohoon, moving through the crowd as if nothing had happened.

All of that was going to feel different. Because there was something new inside him. Small. Fired up.

And even if he didn't know its name yet, he knew where it came from.

It came from you.

From that look. From that touch. From that shared sigh between two worlds that didn't touch.

And from that smile that had just broken him, without anyone else noticing.

Shinyu looked down, once again. The backpack was still on the floor.

He picked it up silently, as if by bending down he was coming down from a dream. As if that movement marked a return to reality.

But something inside him resisted. Because he didn't want to go back.

He wanted to stay there.

In that second that shouldn't have existed. Where you and he… at last, had touched.

Dohoonㅤ ❛❛    ──── ㅤKim Dohoon !

The sun was beating down on the court, slipping through the branches of the old oak tree that marked the boundary of the main courtyard. The light, golden and hot, bounced off the cracked asphalt and made the air seem almost liquid, as if the world were wrapped in a summer movie that never ended. The laughter of the students, mixed with the shouts between players, created a vivid echo that filled every corner of the place. Recess was not just a break; it was a vibrant scene, a choreography in which each group had a role, a space, a universe.

In the midst of it all, Dohoon was in the middle of his. The impromptu soccer game was his perfect excuse to escape the tedium of class, but more than that, it was his zone of control. His rhythm. His steps were agile, measured; his decisions, quick. He played with a mixture of restrained strength and precision, like someone who had nothing to prove, but did it anyway.

His white T-shirt was plastered to his back by sweat, revealing the defined muscles that constant training had sculpted him. His hair, dark and somewhat long, fell messily over his forehead, sticking up at times when he turned his head or ran too fast. The eyes, normally serene, were focused, with that sharp glint that only appeared when he really immersed himself in something. Like now.

He had just intercepted a pass from Hanjin, with a clean, quick ankle movement. A short turn, a step forward. He was preparing to return the ball when he heard his name among the voices:

—Hyung! —Youngjae shouted, further in the background.

He responded with a lopsided half-smile, the one that seemed to emerge effortlessly, almost distractedly, and turned his body naturally to return the ball with a touch of his instep. But just in that second of minimal unfocusedness, he knew: he had hit it too hard.

The ball soared higher than he intended, taking an unexpected, crooked trajectory. It gave a little bounce on the ground, then rose into the air, as if deciding to get out of the game. His eyes followed it with a microsecond's delay, as if time itself gave him a chance to correct it. But it was late. Too late.

Because he saw where it was going. Or rather… towards who.

You were there. A few meters away, near the edge of the court, right where the white line was blurred by wear and tear. With your back turned. Oblivious. Your hands were in the air, drawing something as you talked to your friends, laughing with one of those open laughter, the kind you can't hear clearly but feel. Your hair, loose and full of movement, seemed to capture the light itself as it danced in the wind. Even from afar, your presence had that strange effect: as if everything else —the voices, the shouts, the goals— were lowered in volume. As if you were the static part of a fast-paced scene.

Dohoon felt a flip, a sharp tug inside his chest. The ball was headed straight for you. And you didn't know it. He didn't think about it. He didn't measure, didn't evaluate. He just moved.

Your body responded before your mind did. It was a visceral, automatic start. He ran. And he did it with a speed he rarely put out. The air hit his face hard, sweat trickled down his neck, his sneakers scraped with a squeal against the asphalt as he turned his direction slightly. His muscles tensed, his senses sharpened. Each step was calculated, brutally fast, as if time itself was against him.

The ball was descending. But you remained there, right in the trajectory.

And just before the white sphere reached your head, his arm intervened. A sharp, dull thud vibrated from his forearm to his shoulder. He felt the impact run through his bones, leaving a warm pressure on his skin. The ball ricocheted and bounced off to the side.

But the sudden movement had startled you. You turned at the last second, just as he was arriving, and seeing you so close, your eyes still not understanding what had happened, you took a step back. Just one.

Enough to lose your balance a little. And he acted again without thinking.

His arm moved with the precision of one who responds to an instinct, not a decision. He circled your waist without hesitation. Firm. Sure. As if in that exact instant his whole body had become a natural barrier between you and the world. He did it with a serene confidence, without violence, without awkwardness. As if he knew your center of gravity better than you knew yourself.

And suddenly, you were close. Too close.

Closer than anyone could have anticipated. Closer than was allowed in the unspoken logic of the hallways, in the silent rules of the school. Closer than two worlds that don't touch usually are. It was as if the distance that had been maintained until then —perfect, intangible, respectful— had evaporated in a second, and now only that narrow, intimate, new space remained.

The contact was immediate, direct, strong.

Your body stopped abruptly as it collided with his. It was like bumping into something solid and warm at the same time. The center of his chest brushed your shoulder, his arm still wrapped around you, adjusting to the curve of your waist, not roughly, but with an inescapable firmness. There was no escape. There was no need.

And you felt it all.

Every inch of his closeness. The warmth of his skin under the thin fabric of the barely sweating T-shirt. The heartbeat that, for an instant, you thought was not yours, but his. The soft scent of something barely sweet —shampoo?, his lotion?, the sun on him?— that floated around, nameless, but that you already knew you wouldn't forget. Your breathing stopped. Not by choice, but by reflex. As if your body needed a second to process what was happening.

Dohoon felt it too. All of it.

He felt your body tense slightly under his hand, not out of fear, but out of surprise. He felt your figure adjust, as if it fit effortlessly into that exact spot where he held you. His open hand sensed the line of your back, the subtle way your waist descended. The warmth you radiated was uncommon; it felt human, alive, impossible to ignore. As if the whole world had centered on the point of contact between the two of you. His mind, normally quick and sharp, clouded for an instant.

And then, your eyes met his. It was intense.

Like a silent lightning between two different skies crossing for the first time. Your pupils were still dilated from fright, but also from something else: amazement, perhaps. Recognition. He didn't know for sure. But what he did understand was that in that look of yours there was a clarity that disarmed him. It was not the look of someone who sees a stranger. It was the look of someone who has seen, many times, from afar. Who has imagined. Who, perhaps, has waited.

And for him, it was impossible not to remember. All the times he had seen you. Not by chance. It was never by chance.

From the first time he saw you at the back of the hallway, bent over your notebook, the way you smiled without realizing it as you wrote. Since that time in the library, when you thought no one saw you and you arranged the books by color, as if order was more than just a habit. Since Friday afternoons, when you sat on the patio wall and laughed with your friends, with that laughter that you couldn't quite hear, but you felt it. Like a song that you can't hum, but that stays with you just the same.

You were that.

A constant, gentle presence, impossible to ignore. You didn't need to speak loudly or take up space. You did it differently. With the way you walked, with the way you looked at others. With your calm aura, almost oblivious to the general euphoria of the school. You had seen it. You knew it. That everyone was looking at you. That everyone, at some point, considered you the ideal that could not be touched. A serene, luminous, reserved beauty. As if you were part of a plane that the rest could not reach.

And yet, now you were there. Right in his arms. Dohoon didn't know if it was you or the sun that was burning him from the inside.

Because he held you so close, so real, so human, so tangible… that it hurt. It hurt him in a warm, unfamiliar, deep way. As if he had been waiting for you all this time without knowing it. As if this instant was the inevitable result of all the times you had looked at each other without saying a word. As if that space in his chest —the one he had never known was empty— had just been filled.

—You're okay? —He asked, in a low voice. Too low.

As if even the air had betrayed him, suffocated by the weight of all that was left unsaid. Because something inside him —something visceral, inexplicable, powerful— told him that this moment was suspended on a thin, fragile rope, like a bubble of silence that, at the slightest touch, could burst.

And he didn't want it to burst. Not yet.

Then he saw you nod. Slow. Silent.

An almost imperceptible movement, as if even that gesture cost you to break the spell that enveloped both. And yet, you did it. Firmly, but without harshness. A yes that was not verbal, but that outweighed any words. Because you looked at him as you did it. You didn't look down. You didn't look at your friends, or at the ball, or at the ground. You looked at him.

And there, in that tiny nod, there was something. An echo. A correspondence. A response.

There was something in that gesture of yours, in that tense calm, in that silence woven between the two of you, that told him he was not alone in what he had just felt. That what still had no name —that electricity under your skin, that unexpected giddiness in the center of your chest, that absurd sensation that the world had shrunk to a point between his hand and your waist— had not been his alone.

You had felt it too.

Dohoon knew it. As if the seconds shared in that minimal space had contained something that could not be erased.

And then, the world came back. All at once.

The sound of distant footsteps. A voice calling out his name —Jihoon, no doubt, in that familiar tone he used when something went off script. Then others: laughter, footsteps, murmurs. The outside world, which had been on pause, was returning with all its noise, with all its haste, with its brutal disinterest in the delicacy of what had just happened.

And Dohoon knew the moment was going to break. He knew it as one knows a dream is about to fade as one opens one's eyes. And yet, not yet. Not yet. So he didn't let go of you right away.

Not because he wanted to hold you —though maybe he did— but because letting go of that touch felt almost like a betrayal. As if letting go of your waist meant leaving behind something he was just beginning to understand. His hand, still resting on you, was slow to slide away. It did so carefully, with measured slowness, as if afraid that a sudden movement might erase everything that had just happened.

That's when your friends arrived. Like a flurry of voices, perfumes and concern.

—You all right? —they asked, all at once.

Dohoon took half a step back. Not out of discomfort, but because he knew it was the right thing to do. That space that had closed between you had to open again, out of obligation. As if the universe was reclaiming its balance.

But he didn't look.

He did not look at how they surrounded you. He did not observe their gestures, nor the barely concealed curiosity with which they scanned him from head to toe. He looked away. He took a deep breath. Not to calm down, but so as not to drown. Because inside there was something in him that was beating too loudly. As if his heart had decided to shout everything that his mouth did not dare to say.

And when he finally looked at you again…. You were already looking at him. Again. But this time it was different.

Your eyes were still fixed on him. No doubt about it. But now there was something else. Something slight, but precious, unrepeatable. A small curve of your lips. Just a hint of a smile. Small. Almost imperceptible. But so real that Dohoon's chest tightened.

It was enough.

There were no words. No need. That gesture of yours, as subtle as it was powerful, was a secret code between the two of you. As if in that second, amidst the chaos of the courtyard, the voices of your friends, and your breath still heaving from the shock, you took a moment just for him. To see him. To recognize it. To thank him. Or something else.

Dohoon didn't smile back. He couldn't.

Not because he didn't want to, but because he was too busy trying to stand. Because that smile of yours —so small, so quiet— had moved something in him that he didn't know could move. It had disarmed him. It had left him defenseless.

And he knew it.

He knew he was vulnerable at that moment. That if anyone looked at him closely, they would notice the way he was breathing slower. The way his jaw tensed from holding back any visible emotion. That if Jihoon approached him, or Youngjae said anything else, he wouldn't be able to respond with his usual tone. Because something had cracked.

And not in a bad way. It wasn't pain. It was vertigo.

It was a feeling of having touched something sacred, by accident. As if I had set foot on unknown and beautiful ground, and now I couldn't turn back. As if that instant, that exchange of glances, that tiny smile… had changed something that he could no longer ignore.

He didn't know what it was. Not yet. But he knew he wouldn't forget it.

He knew that smile of yours would replay in his head many times, when he went back to class, when he showered that night, when he tried to sleep. He knew he would return to that instant again and again, seeking to understand it, to chew on it, to decipher it. He knew it was the beginning of something.

And for the first time in a long time, he wasn't afraid of not understanding it.

He just wanted to see you smile like that again. He just wanted… to come back.

Youngjaeㅤ ❛❛    ──── ㅤChoi Youngjae !

The library had that kind of silence that not only filled the space, but seemed to spill out, seeping through the cracks between the doors, dampening the aisles and muffling the noises coming from beyond. Youngjae wasn't usually there. It was not his territory. Too still, too stopped. Too real, perhaps.

He had entered just a few minutes earlier, following Hanjin and Jihoon, who had insisted on going “just for a moment,” chuckling between inside jokes as they pretended to look for books they clearly didn't plan to read. Youngjae had allowed himself to be dragged along, as so often before, not for lack of an opinion, but out of habit. Because the routine of his days had a precise choreography, and he knew every step by heart. There was something comfortable about that.

He had a book under his arm —one he had pulled out of inertia from one of the shelves, without really looking at the title— and his uniform sweater was rolled up to his elbows, more for warmth than style. Although, of course, even that seemed calculated when someone saw it from the outside. As if everything about him was thought out, when in reality he was just existing within the formula that had been imposed on him, that everyone celebrated. He knew they called him “perfect.” Not because it was —and he knew better than anyone else— but because it seemed so. Because he was expected to be.

And that's when he saw you.

It's not that you were a stranger. You never were. In fact, you were a constant presence, a kind of visual buzz that inhabited the school with the same intensity as the sun's rays through the second-floor windows. Always there, but never within reach. He knew you without ever having met you. And that somehow made you sharper than many faces that were part of their days.

You were the kind of figure that was remembered without knowing exactly why. The kind that makes your head spin before your brain has finished processing what it's seeing. It wasn't just your looks —although yes, the beauty was undeniable, almost irritatingly perfect— but the way you moved through the world. As if you didn't need to prove anything, as if you knew everything but preferred to keep quiet about it. A gentle assurance, without arrogance. There was something hypnotic about it.

That day, you were sitting at one of the tables in the north wing, where the afternoon light fell sideways and turned everything golden, slower. Your hair was loose, falling like a silk curtain over one shoulder, leaning toward your friends as they turned leaves, whispered, laughed in a restrained way. Your smile was faint, like a piano note between the pages. Youngjae looked at you for just a second. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel something in his chest tighten. He didn't recognize it as nerves. Not yet.

He averted his gaze at once, as one who fears being caught observing the forbidden.

He followed the boys into the history section, paying no real attention to what they were saying. Hanjin and Jihoon's voices melted into a low hum, while he thought only of the fleeting image that had stuck in the back of his eyes. It wasn't the first time I'd seen you. Of course it wasn't. But there was something different that day. Maybe because you were closer. Maybe because it was the first time the idea of approaching you didn't seem completely absurd. Although, of course, it wouldn't. Why would it?

The minutes slipped by like water through your fingers. At some point, his friends decided to leave, and Youngjae followed them out of pure reflex. They crossed the hallway in the direction of the exit. Jihoon was still joking about something he had trouble following, but he pretended to laugh anyway. The habit of being “present” even when his mind was going somewhere else.

And then, it all happened. In a simple way. Almost without drama. But with an intensity that would mark him without him knowing it yet.

You were walking out right in front of him. He hadn't noticed you at first, busy adjusting his sweater and tucking his book under his arm. But then, that soft fragrance —light, barely a sweet whisper— reached him before your image. And he knew it was you. You were walking at a leisurely pace, with your friends a few steps behind, wrapped in complicit murmurs. You were smiling. That soft smile that needed no exaggeration. There was something about it that made everything become more… quiet.

The door leading out of the library was heavy, solid wood, with an old spring that always seemed to close with more force than necessary. That day was no exception.

Your friends had stayed behind, one looking for something in her purse, another probably commenting on something that made you smile. You kept walking, your head slightly turned towards them, that slight smile still alive on your lips. You didn't see the door. You didn't hear that particular high-pitched squeak that always preceded the violent closing. You didn't notice it.

But Youngjae did. Youngjae acted without thinking.

It was a reflex, a wordless impulse. He reached out with a jerk, catching the door just before the edge could close on you. The sound was a sharp thud, muffled against your outstretched palm. A firm, abrupt, final sound.

But what he did not expect was what came next. His body, propelled by the inertia of the movement, took a step forward. It was automatic, necessary to stop the force of the door. And right at that very second —as if the universe had aligned for that perfect mistake— you took a step backward.

Your back collided against his chest.

It was an instantaneous, gentle, yet devastating contact. He barely had time to process it before his free arm, out of pure instinct, out of that strange impulse that is born when the body protects before the mind commands it, slipped around your waist.

It was not a hug. It was not invasive. It was a restrained, but intimate gesture. His hand rested barely on your side, fingers splayed with a gentleness that betrayed the racing pulse he felt coursing through his arm. He did it to support you. To keep you from stumbling. To take care of you. But also for something else. Something he didn't fully understand, something that seeped into his pores without asking permission. A quiet, confused, trembling desire.

And then it stopped. You both did.

He remained motionless, as if any movement could break the magical stillness of that instant. You stayed like that too, wedged against him, your breath suspended. The contact was subtle, but absolute. There was no real space between you. Your body fit perfectly against his, with a naturalness that almost frightened him.

He could smell your perfume with an absurd sharpness. It was not a strong one. On the contrary. It was something warm, light, like flowers. He didn't know what it was, but in that instant he knew he could never smell it again without thinking of you.

His fingers, barely closed on your waist, trembled barely. Not from nervousness exactly. Or yes, but not the kind you get before an exam. It was something else. Something that was born in the center of his chest, between his ribs, and spilled outward. As if his body knew before his head did what was going on.

You turned.

Very slowly. As if you also felt that any sudden movement might break the moment. You turned on yourself, still inside his arm, and your gaze met his.

And there was the second impact.

The closeness was ridiculous. Absurd. Undeniable. Your eyelashes were so close that he could see the barely perceptible tremor when you blinked. Your eyes, wide as if trying to make sense of the scene, reflected more surprise than fear, more bewilderment than discomfort.

Your lips parted. You did not speak. But the gesture spoke for itself. And he… simply lost himself.

There were no concrete thoughts. Just sensations. The texture of your hair brushing against his forearm. The shared warmth. The subtle trembling of your breath. The softness of your voice that didn't quite come through. The intensity of your eyes, so close he didn't know if you were looking at him…or into him.

Youngjae wasn't the type to run out of words. He knew what to say, when to say it, and in what tone. It was part of his world, part of his role. But there, in front of you, with your body inches from his, he felt stripped of all that. Vulnerable. Raw. Real.

He had never had you so close.

Not even in his imagination, which sometimes —on long nights or too noisy recesses— had placed you in blurred scenes, amidst the murmur of nonexistent conversations and gestures that never happened. Sometimes, in those lapses of silent weakness, I imagined you turning to him by accident, brushing his arm as you passed, sharing a comment between classes. Simple, almost insignificant things, but things that had the power to wrench a visceral reaction from him when he was alone.

But this…

This was something else. This was you. Real. Physically present. Looking at him from such a close distance that he could feel the heat you radiated as if his body had been designed to recognize it. The air between you was different, thicker, denser, as if something invisible was enveloping just the two of you. As if the rest of the world had vanished for an instant - without drama - simply erased. Non-existent.

And his heart.

His heart was pounding with an urgency that scared him a little. Not just because it was beating fast, but because it was beating loud. As if it had a voice of its own. As if with every beat it was telling him: look at this, feel this, don't ignore it. I didn't know if it was because of the surprise or because of you. Or because of everything. But there it was, throbbing like he had never felt it throbbing before.

He didn't know how much time passed. It could have been seconds. Or a whole year. Or an early memory he didn't want to leave.

—I'm sorry —he murmured.

And his voice… it didn't come out the way he had rehearsed it so many times in his head.

It wasn't steady. It wasn't sure. It was low. Lower than he'd expected. A whisper that brushed the air between you as if afraid to break it. A sincere apology, but also unarmed. Vulnerable. As if, by saying it, you were acknowledging that that instant held a weight you didn't know how to handle.

But you didn't walk away right away. You didn't turn away in discomfort. You didn't turn sharply or make a gesture of discomfort or embarrassment. You stayed. There. Just inches away. Staring at him.

As if you didn't even know what to do with that second that had just been born between the two of you. As if something inside you —just as in him— was still processing the fact that that touch had not only been physical, but almost… electric. As if a part of your soul had been anchored to his for a fraction of time that neither of you knew how to handle.

Until one of your friends called out to you.

It was soft, from behind you. A voice that didn't sound impatient, but it broke the moment like a stone dropping into water: with concentric circles spreading out to undo the stillness. And then he reacted.

He released you immediately. Not clumsily, but with a hint of haste that betrayed his self-control.

He stepped back just barely. Just a step. But to him it was as if he had forced himself away from a place where he wanted to stay a while longer. His fingers trembled slightly, though he disguised it well. Enough so that no one —except perhaps you— noticed.

And you… You arranged your hair with that naturalness of yours, but which stuck in his mind like an image he would never forget.

Your fingers ran along the strand behind your ear, that small, everyday gesture, but which in that context suddenly became intimate. You didn't look at him immediately. Your eyes lowered. Your eyelashes swept the hallway light like wings. But your cheeks…

Your cheeks were pinker. And he saw it. He noticed.

As if the color in your skin was a silent response to what had just happened. Not exaggerated. Not theatrical. Just… real.

And then, when you finally looked up again, you found him there. Watching you.

But not like everyone else was. Not with the superficial look of someone who wants to see you without really knowing you.

You looked at him and saw that Youngjae… hadn't stopped looking at you. Not even for a second. As if he had been recording every detail of your face with his eyes. As if he couldn't, even if he wanted to, look away.

And then, you smiled at him.

It wasn't a big smile. It wasn't wide, or bright, or perfect. It was small.

Almost imperceptible.

Barely a movement at the corner of your lips, like a door ajar, like a wordless secret.

But for him… it was devastating. Enough.

Because that smile —yours, so simple, so unarmed— stuck with him. Like a light turned on in the midst of darkness. Like a song barely hummed in the background of a memory. He knew, without needing words, that it would not go away.

That that image was going to repeat itself over and over again, in the most absurd places: when he looked out the classroom window, when he heard his name in the hallways, when he opened the book he wasn't planning to read, when he leaned his head on the desk in the middle of class.

And he knew, with that quiet certainty that sometimes comes before understanding, that he was screwed.

Not in the superficial sense of a high school story. Not like boys who fall in love just because, because it's nice, because they like someone.

But for real. From the inside. From that place where emotions don't ask for permission, they just settle in and grow like roots under the skin.

Because now he knew. He knew how you smelled.

How your eyelashes barely trembled. How your body felt against his. How your voice sounded in the closeness of silence.

And worse: what your smile looked like when it came out unintentionally. And that…

That was going to haunt him for a long, long time.

Hanjinㅤ ❛❛    ──── ㅤHan Zhen !

The school supply store smelled of old wood, cardboard dampened by time and an almost invisible patina of dust that covered everything with a kind of silent veil. It was a place away from the usual noise of the school, those spaces where time did not seem to move forward as it did in the corridors full of echoes and laughter. Here, every creak of the aged linoleum floor, every click of the rusted metal of the shelves, felt deeper, as if the silence were a living being, breathing among boxes and shelves, attentive to everything.

Hanjin had come in with Jihoon and Kyungmin with a simple mission: to find the shooting racks for the archery equipment. Nothing particularly exciting, but important enough that they trusted him to do it. They always did. They trusted his calm judgment, the precision with which he did things, that almost stealthy way of moving as if each step was thought out before it was taken. He didn't talk much, but when he did, it was with a weight that made others listen. That was his nature: steady, contained, effective. Almost invisible if he so chose, yet impossible to ignore when he wished.

His fingers slowly slid the laminated inventory list he had taken off one wall, while Jihoon mumbled something about how everything there looked like something out of an eighties movie. Kyungmin chuckled under his breath, checking a few more boxes up front. But Hanjin wasn't listening anymore.

Because then, he saw you.

Not head-on, not in a direct way, but through one of the openings between the metal shelves, right in the far aisle, where the light from the skylight fell in soft lines on the mottled floor. It was like watching a scene through a crack —intimate, accidental, momentary.

Your friends were leaning against a low bookshelf, their voices a muffled murmur between restrained laughter, as if they knew that place deserved respect. But you… you were standing a few steps ahead, on your tiptoes, arms outstretched toward one of the higher shelves. You were reaching for a large box, probably light, but located just beyond your reach. You didn't jump or make noise; you didn't ask for help. There was an almost solemn concentration in the way you stretched, as if in your world there was only this small goal: to brush the cardboard with your fingertips.

Hanjin paused. The inventory forgotten in his hands.

It was as if the whole atmosphere was folding back into that image: you, lit by the indirect sun, your hair sliding down your back like a cascade of dark silk, your white T-shirt stretched barely above your waist as you reached out, gently outlining the curve of your silhouette. The scene had an almost dreamlike quality. Not artificial, not exaggerated, but honest. Natural. Real. Almost painfully real.

They had never spoken. Never a cross word, never a feigned conversation in shared hallways. But he had seen you. Of course he had. How not to. How to avoid it. Always surrounded by a serene, magnetic energy, the kind that needed no effort to attract attention. You were not like the others. You made no effort to be visible, and yet you were impossible to ignore. There was something about you, in the way you walked, in your slight but constant smile, in that look that seemed to see beyond the daily noise, that disarmed him in ways he couldn't explain even to himself.

And now you were there. In front of him, without knowing it. And then, his gaze lowered, involuntarily, toward the box.

The corner. It was barely protruding from the edge of the shelf, hanging like a small imbalance that no one had paid attention to. A barely perceptible shadow of instability. Almost a whisper. But he saw it. It wasn't a heavy box, but it was heavy enough to pose a danger. If you touched it inadvertently, if you pushed it just barely wrong… it would fall. On you. Perhaps not with devastating force, but with the kind of absurd violence that chance has. A foolish blow that could have been avoided.

And you didn't know it.

He reacted without thinking. His legs kicked in before his mind could register a conscious decision. A pure, precise impulse. There was something in the way his muscles moved, in the accuracy of the speed with which he closed the distance, that spoke of something deeper than habit or reflex.

His steps were silent, certain. Like a hunter, he slipped through the shadows of the warehouse without breaking the air around him. The floor barely creaked under his weight. His eyes did not blink. Every second seemed to multiply. He knew exactly what was about to happen.

The box tilted. It came off the shelf like a dead leaf in autumn, slow at first, barely a change of angle, and then, suddenly, vertigo. The carton fell.

But his hand —that hand that was so seldom raised without purpose — intercepted it halfway. It did not catch it tenderly. There was no delicacy in that gesture. It was a sharp, direct blow, almost aggressive in its precision, deflecting the box just before its corner could graze you. It fell to the floor with a hollow, muffled sound, bouncing on the linoleum with a slight crunch of cardboard and trapped dust.

It didn't touch you. It didn't hit you. It didn't even hit you.

In that same second, with no margin of distance, no measure, his other arm came up and leaned firmly against the shelf, right next to your head, as if it were a shield. It was not a threat. It was not intentional. It was instinct. Precise. Immediate. And that's why it was so real.

His body stopped in front of yours, close enough that the space between you both felt suspended, fragile, unreal. As if a sheet of paper could pass between you… or maybe not. Maybe not even that.

And you were there, right in that little corner of shadow and light, between him and the crowded shelf, between his arm and his chest. Between his presence and your surprise. Surrounded. Caged. Inches away.

Hanjin blinked.

His heart, normally steady, measured, restrained… was now pounding with a mute violence inside his chest. As if it had jumped straight into his throat, without permission. As if it were trying to break the calm that defined him. He had never been so close to you. Never, in all his life, had he held you like this, so close that he could count the tiny beats of tension in the line of your neck. So close that he could see your eyelashes tremble with surprise. So close that your held breath brushed against him, soft and brief, like a brush that even air couldn't avoid.

And you were looking at it.

Not as someone who had been waiting for this. Not as someone who understood what was happening. But as someone who was living a moment you never imagined like this, in this way, with this intensity. Your eyes, huge, with that unexpected gleam that mixed fright with something deeper, something harder to name, pierced it without looking for it. They did not challenge it. They did not flee. They didn't pretend anything. They simply… held him.

And he, who had learned to remain calm even when the world seemed to tilt beneath his feet, felt himself being lost.

Not by the gesture. Not by the impulse. But by you.

For that expression that did not quite correspond to a frightened person. Because the fright was there, yes, in the way you had held your breath, in the slight trembling of your lips, but it was also subsiding. It was slowly receding, giving way to another emotion that was quieter, harder to ignore. An unexpected sweetness. Curiosity, perhaps. Intrigue. Or something that neither he —nor you— would have been able to put into words at that moment.

Silence covered everything like a thick blanket. It was no longer the same silence of the warehouse that I had felt upon entering. It was no longer neutral or impersonal. Now it was intimate. As if everything else had disappeared. As if the world had stopped at the door to leave you alone, encapsulated, protected by dust, cardboard and that golden light that fell on your shoulder as if it had been waiting for it all day only to illuminate you now.

Your mouth half-opened, barely. Not even to speak. As if your body was trying to say something before your mind knew how. A reflex. A hesitation. But you said nothing. Your eyes were still on his. And yours couldn't move away.

And then he noticed. Your scent.

It was so light that he had not noticed it at first. Sweet without being cloying. Warm, enveloping. A mix of something floral and something deeper, something he didn't know how to identify but it seemed made for you. It was not strong. It didn't compete with the dust of the place or the old wood. But it was there, as if it had crept stealthily around you, slowly encircling you, entangling itself in your breath. It was like a gentle anchor. And now that he had felt it, he couldn't let it go.

And that unbalanced him even more than the fright. Because for an instant, for a single brutally honest second, he wished he hadn't moved.

He wished he could stay there. Still. Between that scent, that look, that tremor barely contained in your eyelashes. He wished he could capture that scene and frame it within himself, keep it intact before reality came to undo it.

But then… A voice.

Distant, but close. Feminine. One of your friends. She had said your name. Not with urgency. Not with alarm. Just… strangely. As if they'd just remembered they were there. As if they hadn't seen you for a few seconds. As if that moment, that moment so close and perfect, had been invisible to the rest of the world.

And with that voice, the spell was broken. Hanjin barely stepped back.

Just one step. Measured. As if your body was still trying to unknot what had just happened, carefully spinning the separation between what was impulse and what was reality. He lowered the arm that, until just a second ago, had been resting next to your head. His fingers brushed the empty air, as if the exact form of the gesture still remained there, the slight temperature of your presence among the wood, the cardboard, the golden light. The movement was restrained, almost reverent, as if any abruptness could explode the memory of what had just happened.

But his eyes did not move.

They were still there, in yours. Trapped. As if there was an invisible rope stretched between the two of you that not even physical distance could break. As if releasing that eye contact was somehow more difficult than physically moving away. Looking at you was… the only thing he could do. The only thing he wanted to do. Even in the suspended echo of shock. Even when the box was gone. Even when his body had already reacted and the danger was gone. It was as if his soul had been anchored to that moment, to those eyes, to that little piece of time that seemed more real than anything he had experienced lately.

You blinked.

It was a simple gesture. Human. Fragile. But within the silence that had formed between you, that flicker felt like a seismic event. Like a small jolt that broke the stillness and, at the same time, made it more intense. It was after that-only after-that it happened.

You smiled. Very softly.

Not a big smile. Not a bright, open gesture, the kind you throw when you're among friends or under the spotlight in the auditorium or in the middle of an aisle where everyone expects to see you shine. No. It was something much smaller, more subtle, more intimate. Just a slight curve at the corner of your lips. A gesture so minimal that, had he not been so close, had he not been watching you with that almost sacred concentration, Hanjin might not even have noticed it. But he did. And the instant he saw it, the instant he understood that that little smile was for him —just for him— something in his chest contracted.

A strange contraction. Internal. Silent. Not painful, but so intense that it almost seemed physical.

He'd seen it before, of course. Your smile. Many times. In the hallways, when your friends were talking, when you laughed without holding back, when you greeted teachers or new students who seemed to feel less intimidated just because you were around with that slight gentleness. Hanjin had seen it in all its forms: open, bright, playful, carefree.

But never like this. Never directed at him.

Never up close. Never in that tiny space where the world didn't seem to dare enter.

—Thank you —you murmured.

Your voice was barely a whisper, like a thought that had escaped without permission. It was not meant to be heard by anyone else. It was not meant to fill the space. It was a word woven between silences, almost like a secret, like something that existed only for him. Not out of obligation, not out of politeness. But for something else. Something soft. Something sincere.

And then, for a full second…. Hanjin forgot how to breathe.

It wasn't a metaphor. It was real. His chest tightened in a way he hadn't expected. His lungs didn't know what to do with the air. His mind, so clear, so rational, so used to analyzing things coldly and precisely, disconnected from his body. He stood there, looking, feeling, completely absorbed by the fact that that word, that thank you, had come from your lips and had been for him.

He, who had never had more than crossed glances with you. He, who had watched you so many times from afar without telling anyone. He, who had learned to respect that silent distance like someone who takes care of a delicate crystal. And now… now you were talking to him. You smiled at him. You were there, in front of him, as if everything else was just noise.

Hanjin nodded his head. Barely. It was a small movement, awkward by his standards, lacking the millimetric composure that normally accompanied it. Not because he was uncomfortable, but because he could afford no more. The words would not come out. His tongue seemed to have forgotten how to form sounds. To say anything aloud would have broken the exact fragility of that moment. So he just nodded. And that was enough.

And then, as naturally as it had come, you walked away.

Not in a hurry. Not with discomfort. But with that ethereal air that seemed to envelop everything you did. You turned gently, and your friends, still leaning against the nearest shelves, looked at you with wide eyes, with chuckles they didn't even try to disguise. Their murmurs were curious, anxious, floating like sharp echoes among the rows of old and forgotten objects. But you said nothing. You didn't look back.

And he…

Hanjin stood there. Still. Absolutely still. As if his body was still processing the scene. As if he could still feel the echo of your perfume floating in the air. As if his fingers —the ones that had brushed yours just as he returned the box to you— still carried the exact temperature of your skin.

He didn't know how much time passed. Seconds, maybe. Minutes. It didn't matter. The warehouse was no longer just a warehouse. The air was no longer the same. Everything had changed.

Because for the first time, that space of fantasy that had always existed between you and him —that unreachable space made of assumptions, of stolen glances, of unformulated hypotheses— had become real.

Tangibly real. And with it, came certainty.

He could no longer continue to admire you only from afar.

Not after this. Not after seeing you like this, so… close. Not after that smile, that whisper, that moment when the world stopped just for you.

That moment had stayed with him.

And Hanjin knew, with every part of his body, with every heartbeat that was still trying to return to its normal rhythm, that the thread that had been stretched between you in that warehouse… would not break easily.

He didn't want it to break. And though he didn't yet understand what it all meant, he knew something with a certainty that shook him to the bone:

He had just crossed a line. And there was no turning back.

Jihoonㅤ ❛❛    ──── ㅤHan Jihoon !

The high school cafeteria, at that midday hour, was a living organism. Every table a noisy cell, every voice an electrical impulse traveling unchecked through the rush hour chaos. The air was thick with fried food, teenage laughter, brand-name perfume mixed with cheap sports deodorant, and a constant murmur like that of a swarm that never slept. Jihoon was in his usual space, at a table toward the back where students dared not get too close, not because of anything explicit, but out of sheer inertia. His group always occupied that corner, as if the air itself knew it was his.

Kyungmin was talking —something about an inside joke at the athletic club— and Dohoon was chuckling, chopsticks pointed at a piece of kimbap that had turned out perfect. Jihoon smiled too, half out of politeness, half because it was easier to keep up than to interrupt him with thoughts he didn't share.

He had his team jacket over his shoulders, his backpack thrown as usual on the corner of the bench, and the posture everyone seemed to envy him: relaxed, confident, as if the world couldn't touch him. But inside, deep inside, he was not so still.

And then, as if an invisible line stretched taut in the air, he saw her. Again. You.

It wasn't that you did anything special. You didn't stumble gracefully, you didn't laugh louder than the rest, you didn't wear a brightly colored dress that stole attention by force. You just walked in. Just like you always do. Like every day. Walking through the sea of tables with that pace of yours —neither slow nor hurried, but with the precision of someone who knows where she's going, who she is and what she's leaving behind.

Dohoon's laughter became more distant. Kyungmin's fork hovered in the air in its periphery. But Jihoon was no longer listening. Because there you were.

You were talking to your friends —that squeaky-voiced girl with braids, the other one who always wore impeccable nails— but that wasn't what was stopping him. It was the way you tilted your head slightly as you listened, your expression so open, so genuinely present. It was the way you tucked a lock of hair behind your ear without looking aware that thousands of eyes were probably following your movement. And, more than anything, it was that thing you couldn't name: something between light and magnetism. It wasn't something you did. It was something you were.

Jihoon had never said it out loud. Not even to himself. It wasn't like he was “in love,” that absurd, adolescent word. No. It was something else. Something colder and more painful, more constant. A constant awareness of your existence, like a song that has been playing in the background for years and you can never get it out of your head. Because you weren't just “pretty” or “dear”. No. You were the kind of girl that made even the perfect ones feel… not enough.

And that's why he'd never tried anything.

Because while he could handle it all —the team pressure, the high grades, the girls who sought him out, the teachers who smiled at him— you were another league. A league where it wasn't enough to look good or say something witty. You had to be something more.

So she had settled for watching you from a distance. From time to time, a glance across the table. Sometimes in the hallways. Other times in the common room, when you were laughing quietly while reading something on your cell phone. They were moments that passed by like comets: bright, fleeting, impossible to catch.

Until now. It all happened in seconds. Fractions, even.

He was just returning his gaze to his tray, when he noticed something out of rhythm in the flow of the cafeteria: a silhouette running, tray in hand, one of those who do not know how to sustain the balance between haste and clumsiness. And he saw the bottle cap, half-loose. The trembling movement of a liquid that was not supposed to move like that. He calculated the angle without thinking: the turn of the student, the swaying of the bottle, the blow that would send it flying.

And you. With your back turned.

Just a few steps ahead. Unaware of the approaching disaster. It was as if something inside Jihoon ignited. A spring. An electrical impulse that fired without permission, born from a place as primal as it was inevitable. Neither logic nor reason had time to intervene. His body simply responded.

He stepped forward.

A single step. Precise. As if the distance between you was not an obstacle but a call. As if that space had always been destined to close in that instant. And in a second, he was right in front of you. The air seemed to split at the exact moment he turned quickly, his jacket brushing against your arm as it passed like a warm gust through the bustle of the cafeteria. The impact of the water hit, but not you. He received it.

The liquid hit his back, cold, an unexpected shock against the lightweight fabric of the team jacket. It slid swiftly down the sporty fiber, soaking the contour of his shoulder and the side of his side. But that wasn't what registered. It was his hand. His hand that, out of pure reflex, went to rest on your waist.

Not too hard, not too soft. Instinctive. Natural.

A single contact to stop you, to hold you steady, to keep you from continuing to walk toward the invisible danger beneath your feet. The puddle was already spreading on the ground, clear, harmless to the eye, but enough to have caused a fall. Or an uncomfortable scene. And Jihoon didn't let it happen.

And then you turned around. Not slowly. Not with a start.

It was almost at the same time. Almost as if his movements were your own. Almost colliding with him.

And then everything froze.

The sound of the cafeteria seemed to fade the instant your eyes met his. Jihoon literally felt time stand still. A pure, sharp pause. Not because of drama, but because his mind didn't know how to process so much at once. Your eyes —bigger up close, clearer, more vivid than he'd ever remembered them— looked at him with surprise, yes, but not fear. Not discomfort. A mixture of awe, recognition, and something else…something undefined. Brilliant.

Jihoon stopped breathing. Not by choice, but because his body forgot to.

His hand still rested on your waist. Just a touch. Just enough to know you were there. Just enough for the heat of your body to seep through the thin fabric of your blouse and burn his fingers. And yet, you didn't dare remove it right away. As if to remove it would be to break something fragile, something suspended in that delicate balance between what was real and what seemed like a dream.

They were close. Too close.

Close enough for him to see the slight blush that began to creep up your cheeks, warm, subtle, so human it left him speechless. Enough to see how your breath moved: short, ragged, as if you'd forgotten how air worked, too. Your lips —so close he could make out the exact curve of the lower one— were slightly ajar, not in preparation to speak, but as if the world had left you breathless too.

You did not speak. Neither did he.

But in that silence —in that perfect parenthesis from the usual noise— there were more than words.

Jihoon, his heart pounding so hard it almost hurt, noticed that there was no way to hide it. That if someone looked at him from outside, maybe even from across the cafeteria, they could see that something was happening. That something had broken between that distance he had always maintained. That you had always respected. Until now.

Because you were there. Real. Present. Really seeing him. And he… wasn't able to look anywhere else.

The dampness of his jacket clung to his back like an icy second skin. The cold was beginning to seep through his T-shirt, to soak his shoulder and waist. But he didn't care. He didn't feel it clearly. Because you were close. Because your eyes were still on his, as if you were searching for something. As if he could give you some answer to a question neither of you had asked.

And then, you broke it. Gently. Delicately. In a barely audible voice.

—I'm sorry —you murmured.

An apology for breaking into his world. Or for letting him into yours. And Jihoon felt something tighten in his chest.

He was the one who had broken in. The one who had crossed that invisible distance that had separated you forever. The one who had touched you, with the boldness of one who does not think, who simply acts. There was no time for judgment, no time for consequences. There was only the reflex. The impulse to protect yourself. To arrive before gravity. To come between you and the slightest accident.

And yet you apologized.

As if you felt it. As if you carried the weight of that instant. As if some of what had happened had been your responsibility, even though it was not.

—No, no… —Jihoon answered at last. The words barely came out. A barely audible exhalation. It wasn't that he chose to speak softly. It was that he didn't know how to make it louder. His voice sounded different even to himself: deeper, more intimate, as if each syllable had to work its way carefully through the dizziness he felt in his chest. —You're fine, aren't you?

You were silent for half a second. But then you nodded. And you smiled.

It wasn't a bright smile, the kind that lights up a whole room. It wasn't rehearsed, or nervous. It was small. Sincere. Slight, but so warm that Jihoon felt it more than saw it. As if that smile had slipped through the spaces of the world to touch him directly, to affirm something he couldn't even name.

And then, he felt it. Something in his world changed.

Not with a bang. Not like an earthquake. It was a silent, but irreversible change. Like when a leaf falls from a tree and you know, without a doubt, that summer is over. It was like that. As if an entire season inside him had changed color with that gesture of yours. And he knew it. Even if he couldn't explain it. Even if he had no words yet. His fingers —still resting, still hanging on the edge of your waist— began to separate.

Not abruptly.

Not like someone who walks away out of obligation, but like someone who says goodbye to something without wanting to break it. His touch faded little by little, each centimeter witnessing a silent resistance, as if his fingertips wanted to retain something beyond the skin. You were not just a physical presence. You were warmth. Light. Rhythm. And when he stopped touching you, something of him stayed with you.

Your friends were already calling you. Their voices cut through the moment like a thin rope being pulled taut until it broke. One of them called your name, slurring the vowels as if bringing you back to reality. Another looked at you with a mixture of surprise and disbelief, as if she didn't know whether to approach or stand there watching. The puddle on the floor was already evaporating in the general attention. An anecdote. A small incident. Nothing more. And yet, Jihoon knew —he knew with absolute certainty— that for him, that instant was never going to be just an accident.

Because in the silence that followed, between you and him, there was no awkwardness.

There was something else. A different pause.

A kind of promise suspended in the air, without words, without commitments, without expectations. Something latent, fragile, like those moments when two people look at each other and know they are on the edge of something. Of a beginning that still has no shape. Of a path that no one has named, but that begins in the way one holds the gaze of the other. And you did.

You walked away. Brief steps. Unsure, at first, as if you too were returning to the body, to the time, to the place.

You returned to your group. The laughter around you tried to normalize the situation. Someone offered you a napkin. Another pointed to your blouse with a quick gesture, checking for a drop of water. Everything kept spinning. Everything was moving.

But then… you turned around. Just once. Just for a second. But for Jihoon, it was everything.

Your eyes searched for him. They met his again, this time at some distance. Between people, trays, voices. But the line was clear. It wasn't a mistake. It wasn't a stray glance. You looked at him.

You knew that that look was unlike any of the others.

That you were no longer just that unattainable figure, that girl who seemed to always walk two centimeters above the world. The one everyone watched from afar. The one who was spoken of in hushed tones, as if she were unreal. You were no longer an image. A projection. An impossibility.

You were you. Close. Human. Real. And now, you had seen him too.

Not like the perfect athlete, the one who is always with his friends, the one who laughs with ease and walks as if everything comes easy to him. Not like the popular name that gets written on slips of paper, mentioned in casual conversation or tagged in group photos.

You saw him as him. Just him. And that was enough.

Jihoon stood still, watching you get back into the rhythm of the day. How you settled in among your friends, how you shook your head gently, trying to downplay what had happened. But your gaze still burned in his chest. Your smile. Your voice. The way your eyelashes barely trembled when you held him so close.

And he knew something had broken. Not a destructive break. A necessary one.

The distance between you and him, that invisible line that had separated you forever, was no longer intact. It had cracked with a step, a hand, a glance. And there was no going back. He couldn't see you the same. Not after having you so close.

And maybe… maybe, he thought as he slowly sat back down, still with his jacket soaked through and his heartbeat erratic… he no longer wanted to admire you alone from afar.

Because now he knew what it was like to have you inches away.

And the world, after that, simply could never be the same again.

Kyungminㅤ ❛❛    ──── ㅤLee Kyungmin !

The high school gymnasium was noisier than usual.

The lights were not yet fully on, but the large halogen lamps flickered to life as technicians adjusted the sound levels and spotlights on the makeshift stage. Voices mingled in a chaotic echo: students running back and forth, teachers giving directions, a couple of chuckles exploding from some corner, and the eternal hum of the sound system as someone tested a microphone with the classic “one, two, one, two.” It all sounded like a prelude to something important, as if the whole atmosphere was holding its breath before the big show.

Kyungmin watched it all with the calm of someone who, though present, seemed to float slightly above the chaos. He was standing with some of his own —familiar, unmistakable faces, always surrounded by a certain atmosphere of perfection forged by rumor, popularity, and an almost untouchable halo. They were also there for something. To rehearse, probably. To go over the entrance, the positions, some number prepared to close the event. But none of that seemed really important in that instant.

Because she was there. You.

He didn't need to look for you. He didn't need to ask. From the moment he had stepped through the double doors of the gym, his gaze found you with such immediate precision that he wasn't even aware that he was looking for you. There you were. With your back turned. Simply with your back turned, but even that sight had something that made him pause.

A high ponytail swaying with your steady gait, headphones dangling from your neck, arm raised to give directions, a tablet propped against the palm of one hand as your other hand rose to point at something with natural precision. A group of students surrounded you, keeping an eye on you. You were at the center of it all, without even needing to raise your voice. You were… clarity within the chaos. Control without effort. Authority without harshness. You had that kind of energy that didn't shout, but carried.

Kyungmin felt something tighten in his chest. It was not new. That feeling he already knew. He had seen you before. Many times. In the hallways, in the dining hall, during assemblies, on breaks. He knew perfectly well who you were, although he had never said it out loud. There was no need to. Everyone knew. You were one of those figures who existed almost like myths in the school environment, mentioned in whispers, in laughter, in veiled sighs. But what he remembered most about every time he saw you… was how you did nothing to draw attention to yourself, and yet you were impossible to ignore.

But that day, something changed.

It wasn't just seeing you. It was seeing you move. Seeing you coordinate. Seeing you take control without the world seeming forced to obey you. Seeing you smile with that almost luminous air while everything around you was in chaos. To see you even tired - the slight crease in your forehead, that almost imperceptible sigh when someone didn't understand your directions the first time. And yet, you were still you. And then… it was that moment.

He was close to the stage, a little away from the group but close enough to hear their jokes, to nod when they spoke to him even if he wasn't fully focused. His gaze kept alternating between the spotlights, the technicians, the cables, the rows of chairs… and you. Always you.

And then, he saw it. It was an instant. A flicker. A visceral anticipation that coursed through his body like electricity.

You were pacing hurriedly, eyes fixed on the tablet. You had finished talking to someone, probably giving some last order before checking another part of the setup. Your steps were quick, sure. But you didn't see the cable.

Black. Thin. Crossing the floor like a silent snake, lying just where no one was supposed to leave it. One of those traps that the accidental chaos of events used to plant.

He saw it all in sequence, as if time slowed down just for him. The movement of your leg, the sure and fast stride —too fast—, the slight gesture of concentration on your face, the tablet barely slipping through your fingers while your attention was still on something else. It was barely a second, maybe less, but for Kyungmin it was an eternity condensed into the certainty that something was wrong.

And then he shouted. —Watch out! —was the only thing that came out of his mouth as he instinctively stepped forward.

His voice didn't sound loud, or heroic. It was urgent. Sincere. Broken by the immediacy of fear.

You had already stubbed your toe. The gesture was so subtle that it didn't even seem like a fall at first. Just a loss of stability, of rhythm. Your body projected forward, unintentionally reaching for the ground, and he felt it as if you were fading in front of his eyes. The tablet spun in your fingers, about to come loose. Your friends, barely a couple of steps away, didn't notice. The noise from the gym covered everything like a thick blanket. No one saw it in time.

But Kyungmin did.

His body activated itself. The muscles tensing, the stride long, sure, as if he had been training for it all his life. In three moves, he was at your side. His arm darted, precise, straight to your waist, and in a single gesture, he caught you before your knees touched the ground.

He pulled you hard towards him. The impact was immediate, enveloping. Your body fit against his as if it was made for it. A perfect fit. Not awkward. Not abrupt. He held it all-your weight, your surprise, your held breath. He felt the slight tremor of your tense muscles, the soft thump of your forehead against his chest, the slight choked sound of your breath escaping as the whole world stopped.

And there you stayed. Glued together. Almost airless.

The gym, the sound, the voices, the flashing lights… all gone. It wasn't poetic, it was chemical. Physical. As if his senses were completely reconfigured to focus solely on you. On your body trembling slightly against his. On the heat you gave off, real, tangible. On the beating of his own heart, which suddenly became painfully evident in his chest, as if it wanted to break through the fabric of his shirt and brush against your skin.

Kyungmin's first thought was that you were incredibly light. As if air inhabited you. As if you were made of something different from everyone else.

The second thought was that your perfume had a sweet touch, with something floral, but not cloying. A soft, restrained scent, like a secret garden after the rain. It seemed so you to him, even without knowing you, that he almost laughed at how perfect that tiny detail was. And yet, that scent disarmed him inside. It left him stunned, still, as if breathing had become too intimate a function to do in front of you.

The third… was that you were looking at him.

Your eyes, still round with shock, were looking at him. Big, alive, with that watery gleam that appears when something really surprises you. And Kyungmin felt, without being able to help it, that something inside him was sinking, as if an invisible anchor was pulling at his chest.

Your pupils were not looking for a way out. There was no fear in them. Only surprise… and something else. A connection he didn't know if it was real or a figment of his imagination.

But he felt it.

Your lips were so close he could have counted the little lines that formed on them as he pressed them together. They were half-open, as if you were going to say something, but the words didn't come. They didn't even try to come. We were just there. Suspended.

His arm was still around your waist. And you couldn't force yourself to let go right away. A stupid, ridiculous fear… that if he let go too quickly, it would all disappear like a mirage.

And then, finally, his brain tried to function. What do I do? Do I say something? Do I let go now? Why can't I move?

But his body betrayed him. He was aware of the warmth of your back under his hand. Of the way your shoulder blades gently contracted each time you breathed. He felt the texture of your blouse against his fingers, the subtle way the fabric wrinkled from the tension of the moment. His palm trembled barely, not from insecurity, but from the intensity with which his every sense clung to the tangible, immediate, almost unreal presence… of you.

Your breath mingled with his in that minimal space between the two of you, that invisible bubble that had formed like a capsule out of time. Kyungmin was struck by how natural it was. As if the whole world had been pushing the two of them toward that collision point forever. And now both were there. Suspended. Connected.

He watched the slight movement of your eyelashes. You blinked slowly, as if checking to see if this was a dream or a joke of the universe. It wasn't. You were there. And you were still looking at him. Your pupils still anchored to his, doubtful but firm. As if you were looking for a wordless answer.

You were sure someone was looking at you.

Maybe many. Maybe all of them.

That kind of scene didn't go unnoticed in a packed gym, at an event where glances flew back and forth, always looking for something new to observe, comment on, or ruminate about.

But he didn't care. Not now.

—You okay…? —he asked. His voice did not sound as he expected. It was low, barely a whisper, almost unrecognizable.

Your eyes twinkled. A quick breath. A nod. You nodded.

You didn't speak, not yet. You just shook your head slightly, with that gesture that seemed a mixture of automatic affirmation and genuine vulnerability. Your breath was still unsteady. And it was then that Kyungmin noticed it: the blush that was slowly starting to creep up your cheeks. The pinkish hue that blossomed from the base of your neck to invade your face with a shyness that seemed to scream more than any words.

And in that blush there was something.

A mixture of pure, unfiltered emotions: embarrassment, of course, for the fall that almost happened. Adrenaline, for the suddenness of the moment, for how close you had come to hitting the ground and instead found yourself wrapped up in it. But there was something else.

Something Kyungmin couldn't quite identify.

Not logically. Not with certainty. But he felt it.

He felt it in his chest like an electric current, a clean, direct shock. As if something inside him, something old, something hidden —a need he had never wanted to name— was activated for the first time. Something that forced him to breathe slower, deeper, so as not to lose control. So as not to let his emotions boil over in front of you.

So he let you go. Slowly. Carefully. As if releasing you was an act that required a ceremony in itself.

First he loosened the pressure of his arm around your waist. Then he let the physical distance begin to grow, centimeter by centimeter. As if the air seeping between your bodies was cold, annoying, as if reality was trying to impose itself on the involuntary magic of the moment.

Your body took a slight step back. Your feet touched ground safely again. But Kyungmin felt something in his chest refuse to accept that you were no longer so close. As if his memory, just seconds old, clung to the warmth that still remained on his skin.

You tucked your hair behind your ear with an almost automatic, nervous gesture. He noticed how your fingers trembled barely. Not from weakness. Not from fright. Out of intensity. From the brief uncontrol of emotions that were still running beneath the surface.

You avoided his gaze for an instant. That instant.

That moment where your eyes lowered and he could see you in your most human, most unprotected form. And then, with the strength that only people who are truly in control of their emotions have, you looked up again.

Your eyes met his again. And you smiled.

It wasn't a big smile. It wasn't confident. It wasn't the kind of smile you give at an event, in front of people, with false confidence. It was something else. Small. Nervous. Real. A smile that contained gratitude, surprise, and something Kyungmin didn't want to name because he was afraid to break it with words.

And that was enough. Enough for the world around him to disappear again.

Kyungmin didn't know how long he held it in his mind. Whether it was three seconds or thirty. He just felt that smile imprint itself, with slow fire, somewhere inside him. A place where the images were not easily erased.

The noise came back. The gymnasium regained its sound. Voices, laughter, footsteps, music. It all hit again like a wave breaking the spell.

Your friends rushed over, alarmed, asking if you were okay. They touched your arm, picked up the tablet, laughed with that mixture of relief and confusion. They surrounded you without noticing, forming a warm barrier, a familiar shield.

And he… he returned to his own.

His friends were already looking at him. Dohoon whistled low. Jihoon nudged him, and Shinyu raised an eyebrow with a half-smile that said more than he dared say aloud.

They said nothing. But they all saw it.

He didn't react. He didn't answer them. He just sat on one of the side benches, where the sun streamed in through one of the gym's windows and illuminated the dust suspended in the air. The others went about their business, between jokes, comments, instructions for the event.

But Kyungmin was no longer really there.

He was in that instant.

In how you had looked at him. In how close you had been. In your blush. In your smile.

And how impossible, how absolutely impossible it was going to be to forget.

Because now, every time I thought of you —and I knew I was going to, countless times— it wouldn't be from far away.

It wouldn't be from across the hall. It wouldn't be with stolen glances between classes, or with extraneous conversations filled with your name without naming you.

Now he had felt you.

You had been real in his arms. Fragile and strong. Close. Possible.

And that… that changed everything.

Eight months had passed since the last time he said he wouldn't come back.

Eight months since the last time he crossed that white door of your apartment in the old building, the one where the elevator sometimes got stuck between floors, where the thin walls let in the sighs of the neighbors, and where you lived as if your world didn't need anything more than the essentials. There, among withered plants and cups of lukewarm tea forgotten on open books, you lived as if you didn't know that outside there was a universe where he was everything… and at the same time, nothing.

He, Youngjae, the star. The man that the world listened to, that the crowds chanted, that the flashbulbs chased. The face on a thousand covers, the voice on a thousand stages. But with you… with you it was just him. Just a man with tired eyes and a soul too full of things he couldn't share with anyone but you.

And yet he said he wouldn't come back.

But there he was again. In front of your door.

The cap of his black hoodie covered his face, and the sunglasses at that sunless hour were more of an emotional shield than physical protection. He walked the five floors without taking the elevator, not because it didn't work, but because each step up seemed like a necessary punishment. One for every word he said to push you away. One for every night he slept in cold beds, trying to forget the warmth of yours.

He called once. Then twice.

I knew you were awake. You always were. Sometimes I thought your heart had a secret frequency, a muffled symphony that beat in sync with yours, no matter the distance.

And then, you opened the door.

The dim light from the hallway illuminated your silhouette. Your hair loose, slightly tangled, and that white T-shirt he knew so well. He had seen it fall from your shoulders many times. And, on more than one occasion, he took it off himself, his hands shaking, his chest heaving with need and guilt. Because you were everything he shouldn't have… and everything he always ended up wanting again.

You didn't say anything.

You just looked at him. With those eyes of yours. Innocent, yes, but not naive. There was sweetness in your gaze, yes, but also a wise sadness, as if you knew that every time he came back… it was because he couldn't stand the absence any longer. And that every time he left, he left you with a little less faith.

You stepped aside. He came in. Just like always. Like the first time.

That night, the first time, it didn't start with a kiss.

It started with a silent plea.

With the way he looked at you from the doorway, in the rain, his hoodie soaked and his lips parted. No one knew he was there. No one but you. He had turned off his phone, slipped out of the hotel where lights, interviews, cameras and a luxurious bed with cold sheets awaited him.

He had come to you with his heart in ruins.

And you, who had no intention of becoming his refuge, did it anyway. Because you saw him. Not the idol. Not the singer. You saw him. Vulnerable. Human. Terrified of himself. With red eyes and a broken voice. He begged you not to ask him why. Just open the door for him.

And you did.

He staggered in. Not from alcohol, not from exhaustion. Because of pain. The same pain he had been dragging for months. He stood in your living room, looking at you as if you were a vision that could vanish at any moment. You looked at him in silence, with bated breath, with your heart racing.

And then he said to you:

—Just… let me stay here tonight. I don't want anything to happen. I just… I need to be with you.

He was lying. And so did you, when you nodded.

Because it all happened that night.

It was not fast. It was slow. Slow like the fire that grows without one realizing it. It started when you sat next to him on the couch, when your leg touched his, when your hand rested on his without thinking. When he turned his head, looked at you closely… and couldn't take it anymore.

The first kiss was shaky. Unsure. A question rather than an answer.

But you answered it. With your mouth. With your body. With the way you took off his wet hoodie and showed him he didn't have to hide anymore.

That night, you had him between your sheets.

But more than that: you had him inside you in a way that even desire couldn't explain. It was a raw, visceral connection. It was looking at each other as your bodies came together, your breathing ragged, your words broken. It was getting lost in the sighs that turned into gasps, in the moans held back so as not to alert the neighbors. It was saying “I love you” with every touch, with every caress. With every “don't stop” said between teeth while he searched for your lips as if there he would find salvation.

And from that night on, he never stopped.

They never could.

Now, eight months later, he lay down next to you without needing words.

He looked at you. He caressed your face with his fingertips. He felt your skin bristle under his touch, even though he already knew it so well. He knew every mole, every sigh you made as he ran his mouth down your neck, every shudder of yours as his fingers slowly traced the edge of your waist.

He didn't touch you right away. He just looked at you.

As if he needed to confirm you in his world again.

Because after so many attempts to forget you, after so many women who kissed him without him feeling anything, after so many nights in luxury hotels with foreign sheets and soulless bodies… he understood that no one was you.

That no one could be you.

— I've tried —he whispered against your collarbone, brushing your bones with his lips —But it has always been you.

That night, it wasn't just desire. It was surrender.

It was touching you with hunger, yes, but also with softness. It was losing himself in your body, slow, deep, while you wrapped your legs around his waist, without saying a word, just looking at him as if you already knew that this would be another night that could not be erased. It was the way he melted into you, and you into him, as if that union was the only real thing in a world that crumbled every time he walked out your door.

Later, when you fell asleep on his chest, he couldn't close his eyes.

He stayed caressing your bare back under the sheet, feeling your rhythmic breathing, measuring every second he could stay by your side before reality claimed him. He knew he had to leave. That his team would be looking for him. That at dawn, he would have to lie again. That he would have to say in interviews that he was “focused on his career” that he had no time for love.

Necessary lies.

Lies that hurt more when he had your warm body next to his.

— You deserve better than this —he murmured, though you weren't listening.

But he didn't leave.

Not that night.

Because among everything he couldn't offer you, he could give you that: an early morning where you were just his, no spotlights, no fans, no flashes. Where the world didn't exist. Where you could look at him as if he wasn't famous. As if he was just Youngjae. The man who came back to you again and again… because in the end, he didn't know how to be without you.

Because he tried.

God knows he had.

He had kissed other mouths. He'd tried to love other laughs. But none trembled on his lips like yours. No skin tasted like home like yours. No “I miss you” hurt as much as yours.

And though it broke you a little every time he left… he broke too.

Because you were his only truth.

And as much as he tried to deny it….

It always been you.

It was a palace, not a house.

Perched high in the hills of Namyangju, surrounded by trees that whispered secrets with every gust of wind, the Hwang mansion stood like a fortress of opulence. White columns escorted the main entrance, and at night, the stained glass windows filtered the moonlight as solemnly as a priest raises a chalice.

There lived the Hwangs, one of the oldest and most powerful families in the country. Everything was perfection: the Japanese gardens, the ponds with koi fish imported from Kyoto, the marble stairs that did not creak, even in winter. An environment where nothing was out of place. Where everything was predestined, calculated, sealed with gold rings and contract signatures. And in the midst of that order, of that impeccable tradition, he arrived.

Dohoon.

Only son of the Kim conglomerate, raised among European castles and shareholders' meetings. Brought up to lead, molded by the expectations of two family empires, he had never failed in anything. Perfect to the point of exasperation. Tall, elegant, with the eyes of a domesticated wolf. And engaged —for a year and a half— to your older sister.

A marriage of power. Of convenience. Of strategy.

A contract sealed with a gala dinner and a handshake between patriarchs, as has been done for generations. An agreement that should never have faltered.

And yet, it took just one night for everything to go up in flames.

It all began in silence. Like the first crack of a crack in the ice.

A random midnight. You didn't even remember why you had come down to the kitchen. Maybe thirst, maybe insomnia. You were in your pajamas —a white satin one with lace trim, your mother's favorite because it was “neat and elegant”— and you were walking barefoot across the cold marble floors. The house slept. Even the paintings seemed to close their eyes.

But he was there.

Dohoon. Sitting at the table, a glass of wine in one hand, his shirt open to his chest, as if he had given up. His face was tilted to the floor, his hair slightly disheveled. And when he looked up to see you, there was something new in his gaze. Something not programmed. Not calculated.

You stood still, unmoving. He didn't move either. And for a few seconds, the whole universe held its breath.

— Can't sleep? — he asked in a low, almost hoarse voice. — No — you answered — You can't either?

He smiled, mirthlessly. — I'm beginning to think sleep is a waste of time. — And what do you think about when you don't sleep?

Dohoon set the cup down on the table slowly. He stood up. The warm light from the kitchen outlined every inch of his body. The half-uncovered chest. The shadow of his collarbones. Fingers still damp from the wine.

— In you.

It came out of his mouth like a secret too heavy to keep.

Time stopped running.

You don't know how you got to the other side of the kitchen island. Nor how his hands found your waist, nor when his lips came down to your ear. But you do remember the exact moment when the world shattered:

— I don't want to marry your sister. — Don't say that… — I'm saying it. Because it's true. Because I only care about one thing right now. One. And she's standing in front of me in the most goddamn short pajamas I've ever seen, looking at me like she doesn't know I want her to hell.

That was the point of no return.

His lips found yours with brutal desperation. It wasn't a sweet kiss. It was an implosion. Hands exploring, bodies yielding, breath hitching. At some point, without even knowing how, you ended up in his room. The guest room. The farthest one in the house.

The satin fell like water from your shoulders. He took you as if you were his salvation and his undoing. There was no time to think. There was only skin, sighs that could not be contained, and a mixture of guilt and pleasure that made everything even more intense.

That night, he knew you. Every corner, every reaction, every shudder. And you… you knew you had crossed a boundary. Because he wasn't soft. He was real. Raw. Grateful. Like he'd been waiting for you since before he met you.

And from that night on, it didn't stop.

The days went on as if nothing had happened. The meetings between families. The wedding plans. The official photos. And you… you smiled from across the room, while he looked at you with a need so pure it hurt.

The meetings became routine. Forbidden. Obsessive. A signal, a brush of fingers, a glance held for half a second too long… and you knew you'd see each other that night.

In the library. In his car. In a dark hallway in the east wing.

Once, even, in the wine cellar while the parents toasted in the next room. He lifted you against the oak shelves as if you were his, his hands under your dress, his voice murmuring your name between choked gasps.

— I don't care about the cost — he said to you one night, his face sinking into the curve of your neck —I don't care if this all ends badly. Only you.

You trembled. You didn't know if from pleasure, or from fear of the magnitude of what they were igniting.

The wedding is now three weeks away.

The invitations are printed. Your sister has already chosen the dress. The whole country is looking forward to the union of two empires. But you… you can't sleep. Because every night, he comes to you. He looks for you. He finds you.

And you let him.

He slips between your sheets like a broken promise. He kisses you hungrily. He takes you like the world is going to end. As if you were his last chance to feel anything real.

— Do you realize? — He whispers to you as his lips trail across your belly —There's nothing more. This is everything. You are everything.

And you don't stop him.

You can't.

Even though you know you're on the brink of something you can no longer control.

One night you find him on the terrace. Alone. The city lights flicker in the distance like helpless witnesses. He looks devastated. Beautiful. Dangerous.

— What are you doing here? — You ask, without getting too close. — I'm waiting for you — he answers without looking at you.

And when he turns around, you realize that he has cried.

— Tell me... — he says, his voice trembling — Tell me that you love me. Just once. And I swear I'll burn it all.

— What would you burn, Dohoon?

He smiles, but it's a sad smile. Broken.

— The contract. The wedding. Your last name. My name. This house. The companies. The Kim name. Everything. If you ask me, I'll let the world burn. For you.

Then he takes you in his arms with animalistic desperation. He kisses you as if you were air and he were suffocating. He makes you his once more, right there, against the railing, under the stars that dare not look.

And you… You let him.

Because, deep down, you already understood the same thing he did:

The fire has already started. And both of you are the spark. Now all that's left is… let the world burn.