#ksm

for seungmin, he created art when his fingertips touched the strings of the guitar or closed around the microphone. he understood sound better than silence, and while paintings on walls would catch his eyes— colourful compositions, bold strokes and quiet stories— he’d never been the type to stop for a painting.

he never understood people who just… stared. 

he never understood the people who chose to mount a painting on their wall not because of how it looked, but because of how it made them feel. for how it spoke to them. and unfortunately for him, he had never learned how to listen to that voice that lived in the silence. 

he respected visual artists, of course, but understanding them was another matter entirely. people like hyunjin, for example. 

especially when said person was currently pestering him.

“please, please, please, minnie,” hyunjin whined, his voice loud enough that seungmin had to pull the phone away from his ear. “i swear i’ll do whatever you ask me to for a week. no, a month!”

seungmin groaned into his pillow.

he had been woken up by hyunjin’s call— rudely, might he add— right in the middle of what was supposed to be a sacred day of sleeping in. it was the week before the release of their upcoming ep, and luckily they had gotten a few days off  before they were to be swept up in promotions and music shows and probably a tour.

so like any sane person, seungmin had fully planned on doing absolutely nothing for the whole day.

hwang hyunjin, however, had other plans. 

“why are you asking me to tag along anyway?” seungmin muttered, rolling onto his back. “i thought you liked going to art galleries alone.”

“i do. but i like going with you more,” on hearing seungmin’s unimpressed sigh, hyunjin quickly folded. “and well, its just a coincidence that its my friend's first showcase, and she was nervous about people not showing up, so i told her i would bring my friends with me,” he laughed, and seungmin could clearly imagine hyunjin's awkward expression on the other side of the phone. “so it’d be kinda sad if i showed up alone. and you don’t want to see your hyung get embarrassed, right?”

seungmin sighed. “what about yongbok? i thought he went out to meet you.”

“yeah, no, he’s meeting up with a childhood friend. and before you ask—” it was like hyunjin could see him mentally running through every name, looking for an escape. “channie hyung, binnie and ji are all working today.”

“of course they are,” he sighed, shaking his head disapprovingly. “what about minho?”

“you know better than to whisk him away from his sons on his day off.”

“okay fair… jeongin?”

“he said he’s busy today.”

seungmin was quiet for a moment. “so, you can accept that innie’s busy but not me?”

“well,” hyunjin said, sounding far too cheerful, “you’re the last one i’m asking, and—”

“way to make a guy feel special,” seungmin rolled his eyes. 

“i mean— i’m counting on you to be my lifesaver, minnie!” he whined.  “and lix said you were planning to sleep all day, anyway, so i thought, why not! it’ll be fun for you too! i’m basically asking you out on a date, seungminnie,”

“...you’re lucky i like you, hwang hyunjin,” seungmin clicked his tongue, begrudgingly peeling himself out from the warmth of the blankets. “fine, i’ll go. just this once. don’t you dare make a habit out of it, hwang.” 

hyunjin let out a small squeal, followed by a loud crash on the other end of the call. seungmin smiled despite himself as hyunjin muttered a string of swears under his breath.

“great!” hyunjin continued, and seungmin could imagine the grin on his friend’s face. “i was kinda hoping you’d agree, cause, um, i may or may not be in front of your apartment right now…”

“what?” seungmin pulled his phone away to look at the screen, glaring at it as if hyunjin could somehow feel it through the call.

“surprise?” hyunjin, obviously, was oblivious. “we leave in ten! love you!” 

after a quick shower and barely escaping hyunjin’s barrage of “gratitude kisses", seungmin got into the car, fingers immediately reaching for the console after declaring he got the aux rights. 

the car ride there was loud, with hyunjin talking over the music, crumbs of their quick breakfast dusting the console, the city roaring in on all sides, and they finally arrived at a humble art gallery, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city.

the space opened up slowly, creme-coloured walls stretching wider than seungmin expected. the gallery was already crowded— clusters of people standing too close to one another, voices overlapping in low, constant hums. champagne glasses clinked softly as hands gestured mid-conversation. everything felt carefully curated, even the noise.

hwang hyunjin fit into it immediately, as if he were returning home. seungmin couldn’t help the sharp pang of envy that struck him, watching hyunjin slip so seamlessly into any space, especially one that felt so foreign to him.

but the feeling didn’t last long. when he caught the quiet longing in hyunjin’s eyes, he realised that for him, this wasn’t home. it was the kind of life he wanted to reach for, could almost grasp for, but still couldn’t quite hold.

someone called his name before they’d even taken five steps in, and just like that, he was gone; pulled into a conversation with a bright smile and easy familiarity, hands moving as he spoke, laughter spilling out naturally. seungmin lingered a step behind, offering polite nods when eyes flicked his way, returning brief smiles when they were given to him.

he didn’t know anyone. no one seemed to know him.

his gaze drifted instead— across canvases lining the walls, across colours and shapes and titles printed neatly beside them. people stopped in front of some, leaning in close, brows furrowed as if they were listening for something only they could hear. others passed by without slowing, conversations uninterrupted.

seungmin did the same.

he looked without really seeing, registering colour before their meaning. the art didn’t ask anything of him, and he didn’t offer anything in return. it was fine. pleasant, even. exactly what he’d expected.

he slipped away from the centre of the room quietly, moving along the edges where the crowd thinned and the conversations softened. his steps slowed as he wandered, not looking for anything in particular. the further he moved, the quieter it became.

the paintings changed, too. fewer people lingered here. the walls felt less crowded, the lighting softer somehow. seungmin let his hands fall into his pockets, posture easing as the weight of attention lifted from his shoulders. 

he passed one painting after another without stopping.

almost passed one more.

he’d already taken a step forward when something tugged— not a thought, not a realization, just… something. a pause where there shouldn’t have been one.

his body hesitated before his mind caught up, feet slowing, then stopping entirely.

seungmin frowned slightly, a faint crease settling between his brows as he turned back.

the painting didn’t announce itself. it didn’t demand attention or glow brighter than the rest. it simply existed; pressed against the far wall, slightly off-centre, a little crooked amidst the perfectly lined canvasses.

what unsettled him more was the absence of a name. while every other piece wore its artist proudly beside it, this one had nothing.

it felt wrong somehow. sad. unfinished in a way that had nothing to do with brushstrokes. tucked into the corner on its own narrow stretch of wall as if its creator had abandoned it. and for the first time, kim seungmin didn’t notice the different colours or faces or the shapes drawn. 

he only noticed how lonely it seemed. 

and for reasons he couldn’t explain, he stayed.

the air tasted faintly of champagne and something chalky, and the scent of varnish and expensive perfume drifted lazily under the warm gallery lights, wrapping around you as soft jazz hummed from unseen speakers. heels clicked against polished floors, low murmurs folding into one another like brushstrokes on canvas.

you ran your fingers lightly along the cool edge of the exhibition booklet, paper smooth and crisp beneath your touch, and smiled at the sight before you. colours bloomed across towering canvases, bold and aching and alive, while strangers stood close enough to almost breathe the same thoughts, their eyes tracing every careful stroke as if trying to feel what the artist once felt.

you didn’t want to sound dramatic, but this was home. 

you kept your gaze lowered, pretending to study the fine print on the placard, though every word drifted toward you anyway, warm and dizzying. you weren’t sure what felt louder, their praise or the fear that they might turn, notice you, and realize the trembling hands behind the brush were standing right there among them.

which was stupid to think, because nobody here knew your name.

and yet that was the beauty of it. they didn’t know you, but they still felt you. they stood before your canvases and heard the things you never said out loud, touched the emotions you had pressed into paint, carried pieces of you away without ever knowing who you were.

your eyes drifted toward the tall windows when a sudden burst of camera flashes lit up the glass. apparently, an idol had arrived unannounced. reporters crowded near the entrance, trying to catch a glimpse or confirm who it was, but so far, no one had managed to see them clearly.

before you could get more curious, you saw a figure in a gorgeous white dress walking towards you, and your face immediately lit up. “yeongjoo!” your friend rushed towards you, engulfing you in a quick embrace. 

“you look so pretty,” you tell her, giving her hands a gentle squeeze. “everything looks amazing, you did such a great job, ms. curator.” your wiggle your eyebrows at her, making her laugh.

“ah, whatever,” she waves her hands dismissively, but her eyes light up. “but why are you so late, yah? and oh god, what are you even wearing?” she goes off, eyebrows furrowed as she assesses your worn out slacks and shirt. “i can’t have my artist presenting herself like this, look at the others!” 

“i came directly from school, sorry, so i didn’t get time to change,” you smile when you see her brush off chalk from your cardigan. “oh, and i forgot to tell you, i actually won’t be able to stay till the press-con… i have extra classes today. and chill—!” you held her shoulders, trying to level with her once you saw her frown. “i only have three paintings up anyway, your other artists deserve the spotlight tonight.”

“first you come late, dressed like that,” your friend takes a deep breath, glaring at you as you shoot her a sheepish smile. “and now you’re telling me you’re already gonna go? c’mon, girl. this showcase is just as much yours as it is the other artists’!” 

“ah, i—” you don’t know how to tell her that while this was a big deal for you, you probably won’t be able to pay rent if you miss the extra classes. 

being an artist was what kept you alive, but it wasn’t what fed you. 

“—forget about that”  you say instead, forcing a small smile. “i just wanted to thank you. really. i’m so grateful you thought of me.”

na yeongjoo was your classmate from college, but more than that, she was a reminder of what you could’ve achieved. the life you could’ve been living. 

you both studied the same course, shared the same dorm room, the same dreams of evenings in a paris museum and art showcases like these. and while yeongjoo became the owner of an art studio and curated a showcase for artists under her, you… settled. 

you chose steady paychecks over unstable dreams, lesson plans instead of late-night art sessions, red pens over charcoal-stained fingertips. 

you told yourself it was maturity, not fear. 

practicality.

and most days, you believed it.

there was something grounding about the classroom; the way students looked at you when they finally understood something. you liked being necessary. it was a different kind of creation.

but standing here tonight, tucked into the corner of a gallery that smelled like varnish and ambition, watching strangers linger in front of your work, you felt it again.

the pause in their steps. the tilt of their heads. the quiet way their expressions softened, as if your brushstrokes had reached into them and pressed somewhere tender.

and that feeling, that recognition without introduction, stirred something restless in your chest. something that had been carefully folded away and labelled sensible.

it wasn’t regret. not exactly.

it was the dangerous, shimmering awareness of another version of yourself, one who had taken the risk. one who might have stood in the centre of this room instead of hiding at its edges.

and for a fleeting, terrifying second, you wanted her back.

someone calls out yeongjoo’s name from across the room, bright and urgent, and the spell breaks. the gallery noise rushes back in. she looks at you immediately, apology flickering across her face. you squeeze her hand gently. “go,” you tell her. “i’ll be fine. really.”

she hesitates, but then she smiles, soft and grateful, and steps away.

she only makes it a few paces before she turns back.

“there’s still time, you know,” she says, lowering her voice. “we can put up your wall label beside the painting. at least your name—”

“i told you, yeongjoo, it’s fine.” you smile again, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “go on now. i want to look around for a bit before i have to leave.”

she lingers for half a second longer, then nods and disappears into the crowd.

you let your smile fall the moment she turns.

what was the point of putting your name up there if you weren’t ready to claim the space it took?

you left your name off because you didn’t want to mistake one night of applause for a promise. you didn’t want to give yourself something fragile and shining, only to watch it slip through your fingers when monday came and the classroom lights flickered back on.

hope, you’d learned, was harder to survive than disappointment.

you slowly wandered between the paintings, taking your time with each one, walking aimlessly.

and yet, without realizing it, you found yourself drawn toward a specific corner of the gallery.

you still remember when she had showed up at your small studio apartment two days ago. her hair had been slightly out of place, her coat half-buttoned as if she’d thrown it on in a hurry, looking nothing like the calm, composed yeongjoo you were used to.

“i need your help.” she hadn’t even waited to sit down before speaking. you were still holding the door open when she continued, words tumbling over each other. “you’re going to be one of the artists i showcase at the gallery. for the exhibition. okay?”

“okay?” you blinked at her. “wait, uh, what?”

she nodded quickly, like if she slowed down even a little, you might refuse. “one of my artists dropped out last minute. the wall is empty. i thought of you immediately.”

at first, you didn’t know what to say.

did you still create art, between the twilight period of checking papers and making lesson plans, in the quiet hours when the world went still and it was just you and your canvas? yes.

but did that make you an artist? 

the word felt too large in your mouth. like something meant for people who chose it fully, who lived inside it without an apology. calling yourself one felt almost presumptuous. it felt embarrassing almost, like the word was too big for you to carry. 

before you could untangle your thoughts into something coherent, yeongjoo was already moving.

she crossed your small studio apartment in quick strides and opened the cupboard where you kept your canvases stacked neatly, hidden away like secrets.

“i won’t be hearing no for an answer, okay?” she said, already sliding one out, then another. her eyes sharpened, assessing, selecting, curator mode turned on.

“relax, it’s just a one day exhibition. it’s better than letting these collect dust in here. and if you want, you don’t have to participate in the press-con, although i suggest you definitely should.”

you hovered beside her, anxious, watching her handle pieces you never had the courage to share with the world.

“uh… okay then,” you murmured, nodding slowly. “then…there’s uh, there's this one painting i want you to put up.”

she paused, eyebrow lifting expectantly. you reached toward the topmost shelf, the one she hadn’t touched yet. carefully, you pulled down a canvas you hadn’t shown anyone before.

you watch her eyes scan the painting, the gears methodically turning in her head. you hold your breath, hopeful that— 

“no.” 

“yeah, its actually— what?” your face burned a bit, but you didn’t see any spite or malice on yeongjoo’s face. 

“i’m telling you now, i need three more paintings, and you have way better pieces than this one.” she said, matter-of-factly. “this one’s good, but it doesn’t show your technique as well. i suggest you go for—”

“yeongjoo,” your voice was low, pleading with her to listen to you not as an art curator, but as a friend. “i always imagined that if, when, i held an art showcase, this would be the painting i’d put up. i know this may not be my best work, but it means something to me.” you swallowed. “and isn’t that what your show’s about?” 

yeongjoo didn’t answer for a beat, her eyes going over the canvas again as if she was looking at a completely different painting. 

“fine, fine, but only because you asked nicely,” she sighed, and you squealed, giving her a hug. “but i can’t promise its gonna be front and centre, okay? i like your recent works more,” 

“works for me!” you laugh.

with that same giddy feeling in your chest, you walked toward the very corner of the museum, the crowd thinning the deeper you went. your painting had been placed on the very last wall, tucked away and alone, but you didn’t mind if people overlooked it. 

what mattered that it was there, a physical manifestation of even if you were still far from your dream, it wasn’t so out of reach.

it was a relatively simpler piece, with muted colours and simple composition, and you had painted it during a time when everything felt overwhelming, when the world seemed to move too fast and expect too much. 

you made it when you weren’t even sure you would make it. not just as an artist, but as someone who could keep choosing this path again and again without breaking under it. each stroke had felt less like ambition and more like survival. 

not a masterpiece in the making, just proof that you were still here, still trying, still capable of putting colour onto something when everything inside you felt grey.

and maybe that was why it mattered. not because it was your strongest work, but because it carried the version of you who almost gave up, but didn’t.

so seeing it hung up on the wall, the museum lights illuminating the soft acrylic peaks, your name nestled in the corner meant everything to you. 

rounding up to the corner with a small smile on your face, you stopped in your tracks when you heard a soft sound. you hadn’t expected anyone to be there. you’d barely passed anyone on your way over; this part of the museum had felt almost abandoned.

but someone was standing in front of your painting. close enough to study it. 

still enough that it meant something.

and the sight of him there, alone with something you had once made in your loneliest moment, rooted you to the spot.

he was wearing a mask, and the cap pulled low over his head cast a shadow across his face, making it impossible to see his features or expression. 

but you heard him. the sharp intake of breath was enough. the slight rise and fall of his shoulders, uneven and restrained, gave him away. he stood very still, like he didn’t want anyone to notice.

in the quiet corner of the museum, in front of your painting, he was crying.

the realization somehow hit you like a ton of bricks, making you physically clutch your heart at the sight in front of you.  for a second, you could only stare.

someone had stopped. someone had felt something.

a warmth spread through you, soft and overwhelming, blooming beneath your ribs until it almost hurt, tears prickling at the edges of your eyes. 

not pride. not exactly. something quieter. 

relief, maybe. 

proof that the version of you who had painted that piece, who doubted and endured and still kept going anyway, had reached someone.

you didn’t step closer.

you didn’t say a word.

this wasn’t your moment to interrupt. it belonged to him and whatever he was finding in it.

so you let your hand fall from your chest, a small, trembling smile forming on your lips, and quietly turned away, leaving him alone with the painting.

kim seungmin had never thought of himself as someone who enjoyed art. which was quite ironic, considering the fact that he was an artist himself. 

but paintings were quiet in a way he had never learned how to listen to.

but standing in the middle of a dimly lit room, he realised he didn’t need to listen. he just needed to open his eyes and see. 

for him, a painting was just that, a painting. 

but for reasons he couldn’t explain, he felt something wash over him as he stared at the piece in front of him, the colours muted and bland. the painting didn’t really look that special; if he was being honest, he could easily name three paintings he had seen that evening alone that were more impressive, more striking.

this one looked simple.

but there was something in the restraint of it. in the way the colours didn’t fight for attention. in how the space between each stroke felt intentional, like the painter had paused often, hesitated, but continued anyway.

it reminded him of long nights under studio lights, of unfinished meals gone cold beside open laptops, of nodding along when people said, you’ll be fine. you always are; as if being capable meant being unbreakable.

the painting did not scream.

it endured.

and that was what undid him.

his throat tightened first. then his jaw. he blinked once, hard, as if he could push the feeling back into whatever corner it had crawled out of. this was ridiculous. 

it was just a painting.

but his chest felt heavier with every second he stood there.

the expectations. the constant forward motion. the quiet fear of not being enough even when everyone insisted he was more than enough. it was all there, laid out in soft colours and careful restraint.

his breath hitched before he could stop it.

he inhaled sharply through his mask, the sound small but uneven in the stillness of the room. his shoulders trembled despite himself. he turned his face slightly away, as if that would make it less real, less visible.

a tear slipped free anyway.

then another.

kim seungmin, who did not cry at paintings, who did not cry easily at all, stood in the far corner of a museum with his cap pulled low and his mask dampening against his skin, crying in front of something that finally felt like someone had seen him.

he does not remember how long he stood there for, maybe a minute, maybe just a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity. 

“yah, kim seungmin! did you leave or what?” hyunjin’s voice cut through the quiet, yanking him back to the present.

heat rushed to his face, and he scrambled to wipe at it before hyunjin could notice. he cleared his throat, letting out a small cough, praying his voice didn’t betray him.

after a moment, he stepped out from behind the wall, regaining some composure. hyunjin was walking toward him, a woman at his side, and the moment hyunjin saw him, his face lit up.

“there you are!” hyunjin said, his grin wide, oblivious to whatever had happened seconds ago. the woman beside him came forward and seungmin greeted her, removing his mask with a polite smile. “i want you to meet my friend, na yeongjoo. yeongjoo, this is seungmin. seungmin, yeongjoo.”

“ah,” seungmin nodded in understanding. “so, you made this painting, yeongjoo-ssi?” he refers to the one that had taken permanent residence in his brain. 

“first of all, let’s talk casually, yeah? any friend of jinnie is a friend of mine,” yeongjoo’s laugh was warm, and it immediately made seungmin feel comfortable around her. no wonder she and hyunjin were such good friends. “and no, i’m just the art manager and the curator for this showcase, seungmin. these paintings are all done by different artists,”

“she owns a studio space near our company building,” hyunjin excitedly interjects, and seungmin faintly remembers him talking about it before. “its where i usually go to. too bad you’ve never offered to promote my work, yeongjoo-ssi,” he fake pouts, making her playfully smack his arm. 

“sorry, i only work with top-artists,” she jokes, dismissively waving her hands at him. “people will not even recognise who you are, man.”

“so, uh,” seungmin speaks up, unable to understand why he felt so nervous. “who made this painting? i don’t see their name here?” 

“ah, this one! it’s done by my friend,” yeongjoo says your name, and seungmin repeats it once, twice, in his head, as if committing it to memory. 

“she’s not a full-time artist. she literally saved my ass, actually. remember when i told you i was having a crisis because one of my artists bailed last minute?” hyunjin nods.

“she stepped in at the very last minute and… basically saved the whole show,” yeongjoo laughed, relief softening her features as she remembered the chaos. “she’s honestly one of my favourite artists. i don’t understand why she doesn’t put herself out there more.”

seungmin was listening intently, nodding at the right moments, but his mind was somewhere else. 

why didn’t she want to show herself to the world? he couldn’t understand it.

why, the one and only time he had ever felt truly seen by a painting, did the artist stay hidden? 

and then, for the first time, he noticed himself wondering about her. not the work. her. 

who was she, really? the way she had captured something he hadn’t even admitted existed inside him, the way she had painted it so plainly, so quietly… did she understand herself in that way too? did she feel all this when she made it, or had she just put a piece of herself out into the world, unseen, hoping someone might notice?

it wasn’t just admiration he felt, or appreciation. it was recognition, like the painting had looked straight at him, past the masks, past the schedules, past the constant pressure and expectation he carried, and understood.

“minnie,” hyunjin’s eyes softened as he noticed seungmin’s expression, one he’d never seen before: awe, wonder, something fragile, almost painfully tender.

“do you… want to buy the painting?” hyunjin asked gently.

seungmin blinked, unsure. then, he nodded. slowly. 

yes. he wanted it. not just because the painting had moved him, but because it was the closest connection he’d ever felt to the person behind it. the person who had somehow seen him first.

he felt light and heavy all at once, the impossible weight of seeing himself reflected in someone else’s work, and the quiet, sharp ache of curiosity.

who was she? what else did she hold back? how had she seen so much of him without even knowing him?

“uh, yeah, can we do that?” he asked, voice soft. unsure, yet firm.

"yes. yes, of course!" yeongjoo said, her eyes shining with excitement "i’ll get the paperwork ready."

seungmin nodded, his eyes lingering on the canvas. the muted colours, the subtle strokes, her initials in the corner— they felt heavier now, like a message meant only for him.

“thank you,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

“she’d be pleased it found the right person,” yeongjoo said quietly, meeting his gaze for a brief moment, as if she knew something he didn’t, before excusing herself. 

left alone with the painting and hyunjin, seungmin let out a breath that he didn’t realise he was holding. 

“glad you agreed to this date, huh?” hyunjin teased, wiggling his eyebrows. seungmin only rolled his eyes, pushing past him to walk towards the front. he glanced at the canvas one last time.

at the initials in the corner.

he repeated her name silently. 

for kim seungmin, paintings were quiet in a way he had never learned how to listen to.

but that day, he found himself wanting to learn.

PART II

peach notes: who woulda thought, beneath all the horny thoughts, i'm just a sappy romantic (⸝⸝๑﹏๑⸝⸝) please lmk what you think, i love reading your comments and tags !! also i'm afraid i ATE with the banner hahah #graphicdesignismypassion 😝 THERES ROMANCE IN PT2 I SWEAR this is more like the build up (ᵕ´╥﹏╥`)ㅅ ⓘ the art work for seungmin's song still here has been done by the talented artist, park hye.

The thing about Seungmin is he isn’t much of a fighter. He’ll bicker, or lose his temper — but there’s this gentleness to him, a quiet generosity, a softness that pulls him apart. Everyone in their pack always says Felix is the sweetheart, but Felix has an edge to him; he always has. And he’s lived with Seungmin long enough to watch him bite his tongue, and hide his fangs, and bend and bend.

Tonight, though, there’s a challenge in his eyes, a harsh undercurrent in his scent. And where his hand grips the counter behind him — his knuckles are white.

Felix doesn’t want to fight. He doesn’t. But—

His mind flashes to the three of you in the backseat earlier: Seungmin’s eyes, narrowed and flashing. The uncertain twinge to your scent, sitting between them. He takes every opportunity to get his hands on you.

“You shouldn’t say that kind of thing in front of her,” Felix says, as even-keeled as he can manage. “It’s not cool.”

“She’s a big girl,” Seungmin drawls, every line in his body tense. “She can take it.”

There’s a sound down the hall — the sound of something falling. A muffled curse. Felix would have smiled and joked to Seungmin about it, under different circumstances.

Instead, he watches Seungmin’s eyes soften, pointed in the direction of the bathroom door, and says, impulsively, “You’re jealous.”

Just like that, Seungmin stiffens. His voice is low. “Lix.”

“Seungmin,” Felix says, almost entreating, “it’s just a massage.”

This time, Seungmin rolls his eyes. “It was never just a massage.”

Felix’s temper, carefully kept, sparks just barely, tingling at the base of his neck. “She can choose whoever she wants.”

Seungmin rolls his jaw, fingers tapping. His voice is so low. “I know that.”

“So…?”

“So,” Seungmin says, following Felix into Korean, eyes pointed down, “I invited her first.”

It’s what Felix assumed, but he still just blinks at Seungmin for a second, stunned. “This is just like League,” he says incredulously. “You’re mad that I sniped you.”

“I’m not mad.”

Felix comes closer, leaning against the counter next to his packmate, some humor in his voice. “You’re a little mad.”

Seungmin doesn’t say anything, not even when Felix ducks his head to see his expression better. Seungmin is already taller but he’s good at hiding. Less good at concealing, though, with that furrow to his brow and that pull to his mouth.

“I’m not mad,” Seungmin echoes, and there’s something quietly defeated to him this time, even if the temper lingers. “What good would that do?”

Nothing, probably. You’ve never liked their infighting; Felix learned that early on, first-hand. His own words flash through his head, said in an impulsive, pre-rut moment: It’s good he isn’t taken then, right?

Sometimes it feels like you and him never went back to the way it was before. Every time Felix manages to get closer, you push him away.

That’s why he can’t let this chance go, though — even if Seungmin doesn’t like it.

“It’s not my fault if she chooses me,” Felix says quietly, as footsteps come down the hall.

Seungmin’s eyes flick up to his, narrowed and burning.

The steps come to a stop. Felix and Seungmin both look up so quickly their heads almost knock.

The first thing Felix notices is the nightgown: not overly racy, in cutesy floral-printed cotton, but short and lower cut than what you usually wear. Your bare legs, and the slope of your shoulder where your sweater is falling down, and your fingers twisting in the hem of your skirt—

He catches himself, and flicks his eyes up to you. Your expression carries that same faint, concerned uncertainty your scent had in the car, eyes flicking between the two of them, lip bitten.

In spite of that, Felix’s grin is completely genuine. “Hi there. Ready for your rub down?”

It’s salt in the wound, and Seungmin reacts as such — shoulders tightening, scent withdrawing inwards. You laugh, but you’re not so easily distracted — eyes straying to Seungmin, even as he ignores you to glare down the hall.

“What are your plans for the night, Minnie?” you ask, sweet and hopeful. “Did you want to hang out?”

Felix almost objects— You’d agreed to hang out with him. He knows it’s hypocritical, and bites his tongue. He watches Seungmin reject you, then invite you into his studio in the same breath, his hand on the top of your head. Giving you one last way to choose him, if you wanted. The way you watch him walk away, Felix almost thinks you’re considering it.

Before you get the chance, though, he wraps you in his arms until you’re laughing and smacking him away. “Cut it out, you goof.”

Maybe it’s the alpha in him: openly competitive, abrasive to other alphas, and all too happy to win. Maybe it’s the way that, when you look at him like this, eyes curved up in a smile and hands laying against his chest, he feels like he can finally breathe again, like that missing piece in his lungs has finally fallen back into place. Maybe he just wants you so bad he doesn’t care about anything else. Maybe that should bother him.

But he hums, and kisses your cheek, and you giggle under your breath — and Felix can’t even see anything else. Can’t see the rest of the world, or the rest of his pack, or even Seungmin, sulking in his studio just down the hall, always too afraid to reach for what he wants.