#lovhyeons

LISTEN TO... hyeon and yn's playlist here :)

JANUARY 10 — 11:47 PM KST

You [Sat, Jan 10, 8:47 AM EST] hey sorry i missed ur call was sleeping

hyeonpie 😙 [Sat, Jan 10, 11:49 PM KST] oh it's ok did u sleep good?

You [Sat, Jan 10, 8:50 AM EST] yeah kinda tired tho

hyeonpie 😙 [Sat, Jan 10, 11:51 PM KST] u ok? u sound off

You [Sat, Jan 10, 8:52 AM EST] yeah im fine just busy w stuff

hyeonpie 😙 [Sat, Jan 10, 11:54 PM KST] oh ok lmk if u need anything i miss u loooots

You [Sat, Jan 10, 8:55 AM EST] miss u too talk later?

hyeonpie 😙 [Sat, Jan 10, 11:56 PM KST] yeah ofc ❤️

Seonghyeon stared at his phone for a solid thirty seconds after you stopped responding. The screen's blue light washed over his face in the dark room, making his eyes ache. He should've turned on a lamp or something, but he couldn't bring himself to move. The brightness slider sat at maybe 20%, dim enough that it wouldn't wake Keonho but bright enough that he could see every word you'd sent.

Every single short, rushed, distant word. Something was off.

He couldn't pinpoint what exactly—couldn't put his finger on the specific thing that made his stomach twist—but the texts felt… distant. Hollow, almost. Like you were forcing yourself to respond, typing out the bare minimum just to get him off your back.

You'd been like this for the past three days. Short answers that didn't invite conversation. Missed calls that you apologized for hours later. Always "busy" or "tired" or some other excuse that technically made sense but also didn't.

He really tried not to overthink it. You had your own life, your own schedule, your own world that didn't revolve around him. School, work, family, friends. He got that. He respected that, always had. He never wanted to be that boyfriend—the clingy one, the one who needed constant attention, the one who made everything about himself.

But also… his birthday was in three days. January 13th. Tuesday. And you hadn't mentioned it once. Not a single "can't wait" or "wish I could be there" or even a stupid joke about getting him something embarrassing. Nothing. Complete radio silence on the one thing he'd been quietly hoping you'd bring up.

Last year, you weren't together yet. You weren't even talking yet. He didn't know a girl like you existed. He'd spent his sixteenth birthday at the dorm with the members, eating too much cake and playing video games until 3 AM. It was fun as fuck. It was good; everything he'd ever imagined at the time.

But this year was supposed to be different. This year he had you. And he'd been looking forward to it—not in some crazy "I'll fly to you ASAP," but in that little way where you think about something and smile without meaning to. He'd imagined you sending him a voice message at midnight. Or a stupid video of you singing happy birthday off-key. Or maybe even… shit, he didn't even know. Something that felt like you.

Instead, he got three-word responses and reactions to his messages that weren't even funny.

He locked his phone and tossed it onto his bed, watching it bounce once on the mattress before settling. Then he ran both hands through his hair, gripping slightly at the roots, tugging just enough to feel something other than the hollow ache in his chest. A heavy exhale left his lungs.

The dark brown his stylist had touched up last week caught the dim light from his desk lamp—the small one with the adjustable arm that he kept angled toward the wall. He caught his own reflection in the black screen of his monitor. The computer was off, had been for hours, but the screen acted like a mirror in the darkness. Dark hair, tired eyes, that tight set to his jaw he always got when he was spiraling.

He'd recently gone back to his brown hair after having those blonde highlights for months. The highlights he had when he visited you in New York for Christmas. The ones you'd touched that first morning, still half-asleep, fingers brushing through the strands as you whispered something about how good they looked.

He missed them suddenly. Missed the way you'd play with his hair while you watched movies on your couch. Missed the way you'd tug on the blonde pieces specifically, like they were your favorite.

Maybe you'd text him back if he got them redone. Maybe they were his lucky charm or something equally stupid and superstitious.

He snorted at himself. Pathetic.

From the other side of the room, Keonho glanced up from his phone. One earbud dangled from his ear, the white cord catching the faint blue glow from his screen. His bed was identical to Seonghyeon's—standard dorm issue, black metal frame, mattress that was just soft enough to be comfortable but firm enough that their backs didn't hurt. The beds were pushed against opposite walls, creating a narrow walkway down the middle cluttered with shoes, backpacks, random hoodies neither of them had bothered to hang up.

Their room wasn't big. Barely fit three beds, three desks, three small dressers. Posters covered most of the wall space—some from their debut era, some from other groups they liked, one massive Kanye West poster that Keonho had insisted on hanging even though it clashed with literally everything else.

Their new award from the Golden Disc Awards sat on the shelf between their desks. It was still shiny and new, surrounded by random clutter. Empty water bottles. A half-finished bag of chips. Some skincare products Seonghyeon kept forgetting to use.

"You good?" Keonho asked. His voice was quiet, careful—the voice he used when he knew Seonghyeon was in his head about something.

Seonghyeon shrugged, leaning back against his headboard. The wooden frame creaked slightly under his weight. He reached for the mini cat plush sitting on his pillow—the one you'd made fun of relentlessly during your last FaceTime after he brought it to New York, the one you said looked "concerningly realistic" and "kind of creepy actually." He tossed it up once, caught it, tossed it again.

"Yeah. Fine." The lie tasted stale in his mouth.

Keonho squinted at him through the darkness, then grabbed the pillow wedged between his back and the wall and chucked it across the room. It hit Seonghyeon square in the face with a soft thump.

"Ow—what the hell?"

"You don't look fine."

"I'm fine."

"You've been staring at your phone like you lost a soccer pick for like ten minutes."

Seonghyeon groaned and tilted his head back against the wall, eyes closing. "It's nothing. Just… she's been weird lately."

His eyes flicked open, landing on the corner of the room. The shelf. The ROTY award sitting there all shiny and important-looking, reflecting the dim light from his desk lamp. James had let them keep it in their room for god knows what reason. A trophy they'd worked for, trained for, sacrificed for. The thing that was supposed to feel like winning.

It did feel like winning. He was grateful. He was happy. The whole group had cried when they announced it, had held each other and laughed through the tears and called their families right after.

But right now, looking at it just reminded him that everyone else was celebrating while he sat here overthinking text messages in the dark like some kind of lovesick idiot.

"Weird how?" Keonho sat up properly now, pulling out his other earbud. The room went quieter without the faint tinny sound of whatever he'd been listening to.

"Like… distant. I don't know." Seonghyeon picked up his phone again, thumb hovering over your contact. He scrolled back through your last few conversations, reading them for maybe the fifth time tonight. Like he thought he'd find some hidden meaning he'd missed. Some secret message buried between the lines. "She's barely texting me back. Keeps saying she's busy. We haven't FaceTimed in almost a week."

A week. Seven days. The last time he'd seen your face—actually seen it, moving and alive and real—was last Friday. You'd called him after your shift at the café, hair up in that messy bun you always did, wearing his hoodie even though you insisted you "didn't even like it that much."

You'd talked for maybe twenty minutes before you said you had to go, had homework or something. He'd watched you smile at him through the screen, watched you blow him a kiss before hanging up.

And since then? Nothing but these hollow text exchanges that felt more like obligation than conversation.

Keonho sat up fully, frowning now. His hair stuck up at odd angles, pressed flat on one side from lying down. "That is weird. For her."

"Right?" Seonghyeon's voice cracked slightly, and he hated how obvious it was. How pathetic he sounded. "Like, I know she's got her own stuff going on, but… I don't know, man. It feels like she's avoiding me."

"Hm. Did you do something?" Keonho asked it carefully, without judgment. It was just genuine curiosity.

"I don't think so?" Seonghyeon scrolled further back in your messages, trying to remember the last real conversation you'd had. Not these short exchanges, but an actual conversation where you both said more than five words.

It was after New Year's. January 4th. You'd stayed up late talking even though you had to be up early for school and him work the next day. You'd talked about resolutions—his was to learn to be a better producer, yours was to "stop procrastinating literally everything." You'd talked about visiting him, about how he'd take you to all his favorite spots in Korea, show you the real Seoul, not just the tourist stuff.

You'd laughed so hard you started crying when he tried to teach you how to say "I love you" in Korean and you somehow mispronounced it so badly it came out sounding like "I love fish."

"Saranghae," he'd said, trying nnot to laugh.

"Sara... sara-ng..." You'd squinted at your phone screen like the syllables were written there. "Saranghe?"

"Close. Saranghae. The 'hae' part. Lock in, bruh. It's not that hard."

"Saranghae," you'd repeated, slower.

"Better!"

"Okay cool. So that means I love you?"

"Yeah."

"Saranghae, Seonghyeon." You'd said it so earnestly, so sweetly, even though your pronunciation was still a little off.

His chest had done that stupid flip thing it always did when you said stuff like that. "Nado saranghae," he'd whispered back. I love you too.

"Okay wait, what does 'nado' mean?"

"Me too."

"Oh! So 'nado saranghae' is 'I love you too'?"

"Yeah."

You'd beamed at him through the screen, that smile that made his whole body flood with serotonin. "Okay. I'm gonna practice. By the time I visit, I'm gonna be fluent."

"In Korean?"

"No, in Mandarin." You gave him this deadpan look before bursting into laughter. "Yes, in Korean, dummy."

He'd laughed, and you'd laughed, and everything had felt right.

That was eleven days ago.

Now, sitting in his dark room with his phone growing warm in his hand, that conversation felt like it had happened in a different lifetime. To different people. People who actually talked to each other.

"Maybe she's just stressed," Keonho offered carefully. "You know how she gets when she's overwhelmed."

"Maybe," Seonghyeon muttered, but he didn't sound convinced. He didn't feel convinced.

Because here's the thing—when you were stressed, you usually told him. You'd text him long rants about your shift at the café, or about some group project where nobody was pulling their weight, or about how your sister was being annoying. You didn't go quiet. You didn't pull away.

This was different. This felt like you were building distance on purpose. Like you were trying to create space between you, and he didn't understand why.

His phone buzzed in his hand. His heart jumped, stupid and hopeful, before his brain caught up.

1 new message from 엄성현

Wait. No. That was him. His own contact. He blinked, realizing he'd opened the wrong chat. Your name was right above his in his recents, and for a split second—one brutal, hope-filled second—his heart had jumped thinking you'd texted him first.

God, he was pathetic.

He locked his phone again and shoved it under his pillow, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw spots.

"I'm overthinking," he said aloud. It was more to convince himself than Keonho. If he said it out loud, maybe it would become true. Maybe his brain would listen and shut up.

"Probably," Keonho agreed, but his tone was gentle. This weird way it only got when he was genuinely worried. Which was never. "But like... maybe just talk to her? Ask her straight up if something's wrong? 'Cause you're stressing me out too, and I'm just an innocent bystander here."

Seonghyeon nodded, but he didn't move to grab his phone again. Didn't reach under his pillow where it was hidden, screen-down, probably still warm from being clutched in his hand.

Because part of him was scared of what you'd say.

Part of him was terrified that if he asked "is something wrong?" you'd finally tell him the truth. That the distance wasn't an accident. That you'd been thinking about it—about him, about this, about whether long distance was worth it—and you'd decided it wasn't.

That he wasn't.

The room fell quiet except for the hum of the heater clicking on, warm air starting to blow through the vent above Keonho's desk. And the distant sound of someone's music playing down the hall—probably Martin, who always stayed up too late listening to the same three albums on repeat.

Keonho eventually put his earbud back in, but Seonghyeon could tell he was still paying attention. The way his eyes kept flicking over. The way he hadn't actually scrolled on his phone in minutes, the screen staying static on some video he wasn't watching.

Seonghyeon pulled his knees up, wrapping his arms around them, resting his chin on his kneecaps. Staring at the wall across from his bed. The poster of some album cover he'd hung up months ago—Blonde by Frank Ocean, the minimalist orange and white one that you'd said was "very on brand" for him. The polaroids taped around his desk in a haphazard collage—some from performances, some from random days with the members, some from recording sessions at 3 AM when they were all half-delirious.

And there, tucked in the corner of his mirror, reflecting the dim light from his desk lamp, was the photo from Christmas.

You and him in your family's living room. You in that ridiculous holiday sweater with the reindeer on it, the one that was two sizes too big and kept sliding off your shoulder. His arm around you, pulling you close. Both of you mid-laugh because Mateo had photobombed at the last second, making some dumb face behind you.

Your cheeks had been pink from the cold—you'd just come in from outside, had been helping your mom carry groceries from the car. Your hair was a little messy. No makeup because it was a lazy day, just family, nothing fancy. And you'd looked so pretty it had actually hurt to look at you.

He'd looked at that photo every single day since he got back to Korea. Multiple times a day, actually. It was his lockscreen. His home screen. The thing he stared at when he couldn't sleep and missed you so much it physically hurt, an actual ache in his chest like something was missing.

And now he was sitting here wondering if he'd somehow screwed it all up without even realizing it. If he'd said something wrong or done something stupid or just... not been enough.

"Seonghyeon-ah."

Seonghyeon looked over to Keonho's side of the room. His roommate had taken both earbuds out now, sitting cross-legged on his bed. His usual smiley, goofy expression—the one that made literally everyone love him—was replaced with something more serious. The face he only made when shit was actually serious.

"Yeah?"

"You know she wouldn't just… leave. Right?" Keonho's voice was quiet but firm. "Like, without saying anything. That's not her."

Seonghyeon swallowed hard. His throat felt tight, like there was something stuck there. "I know."

"So whatever this is… it's probably not what you're thinking."

"Then what is it?"

Keonho shrugged, pulling his blanket up around his shoulders. "I don't know, maneee. But going crazy about it at midnight isn't gonna help. You're just gonna spiral and then you won't sleep and then tomorrow you'll be a zombie and I'll have to deal with zombie-you."

He was right. Seonghyeon knew he was right. Logically, rationally, he understood that lying awake catastrophizing about your relationship wasn't productive.

But knowing something logically and feeling it emotionally were two entirely different things.

His phone buzzed again under his pillow. He grabbed it so fast he almost dropped it, fingers slipping on the smooth case.

엄마 [eomma] 🫡 [Sun, Jan 11, 12:03 AM] Are you coming home this weekend? I want to make your favorite dinner for your birthday!

His chest tightened.

You [Sun, Jan 11, 12:04 AM] yeah ill come home thanks mom

Mom 🫡 [Sun, Jan 11, 12:05 AM] Good!! Invite your girlfriend too if she wants to visit 😊 I'd love to meet her properly

He stared at the message. Read it twice. Three times.

The thing was… he'd wanted to ask you. He'd been planning to for weeks. You guys had talked about it back in December, made jokes about it. You'd even told him you'd "definitely try" to visit for his birthday, said it with that smile that made him believe anything was possible.

He'd been looking forward to it—not obsessed or anything, but in this small genuine thing where you think about something and it makes you smile without meaning to. He'd imagined picking you up from the airport. Taking you to his favorite places. Watching you meet his mom, who he knew would love you immediately. Showing you his childhood bedroom with all the embarrassing posters still on the walls.

But this was before you started being distant and weird and making him feel like he was losing his mind. Before the short texts and missed calls and week-long FaceTime drought.

Now the thought of asking you felt terrifying. Like he'd be bothering you. Like you'd make up some excuse about being busy, and he'd have to pretend it didn't completely destroy him.

He missed you so much. Why couldn't it be easy?

He typed out a response three times and deleted it every time before finally just sending:

You [Sun, Jan 11, 12:08 AM] maybe ill ask her

Mom 🫡 [Sun, Jan 11, 12:09 AM] Okay! Let me know 아들 💕

He locked his phone and set it face-down on his chest. He closed his eyes, trying to take deep breaths like the mandatory group therapist had taught him. In for four, hold for four, out for four.

It didn't help.

Seonghyeon tried not to picture your face again. Your pretty eyes—the way they crinkled when you laughed really hard, the way they softened when you looked at him. His favorite smile in the world, not the ones you gave customers. The one that showed your teeth and made your whole face light up. Your dumb eye roll that he found insanely adorable, the one you did whenever he teased you too hard, accompanied by that little huff of breath that meant you were trying not to laugh.

Stop. Stop thinking about her. Focus on something else.

Birthday live. He needed to get ready for the birthday live on Weverse. And write a birthday message for fans. That's what he should be focusing on right now. Not spiraling about his kind of-girlfriend who may or may not be ghosting him.

"You good?" Keonho asked quietly from across the room.

"Yeah," Seonghyeon lied, eyes still closed. "I'm fine."

But he wasn't. He was the farthest thing from it.

And he wouldn't be—couldn't be—until he heard your voice again. Like really heard it, not through forced texts or missed calls or voice messages that felt obligatory. Actually you. Laughing. Teasing him. Saying his name in that way that made everything feel right, with the slight American accent on the syllables that he'd never told you he found cute.

He just hoped he'd get the chance.

JANUARY 11 — 6:32 PM EST

You were in your room, door locked, suitcase open on your bed like a gaping mouth waiting to swallow all your anxiety whole.

Some random playlist was shuffling through your speakers—the kind you put on when you needed background noise to drown out your own spiraling thoughts. It was playing some random Bryson Tiller that Seonghyeon had put you on that you couldn't get enough of.

Your flight was in less than twenty-four hours.

Less than a full day. Sixteen hours and forty-three minutes, to be exact, not that you were counting obsessively or anything.

Your phone sat face-down on your desk, screen pressed against the wood like if you couldn't see it, it couldn't hurt you. Because if you looked at it one more time and saw another text from Seonghyeon—another worried message, another "are you okay?", another crack in his voice that came through even in text form—you were going to break. You were going to call him and ruin everything and tell him the whole plan through ugly crying.

You'd already checked it seventeen times in the last hour. You knew this because your screen time widget told you so, displaying your shame in a neat little bar graph.

3 new messages from

hyeonpie 😙 [Sun, Jan 11, 6:34 AM] hi baby i know ur probably asleep but i miss u

You'd read them this morning—6:47 AM, to be exact, because you'd woken up early and immediately grabbed your phone like a masochist—and nearly cried into your chai latte. As in like actually had to set your mug down on the kitchen counter and press your palms into your eyes to keep the tears from spilling over while your mom asked if you were okay and you lied and said you were just tired.

The plan was simple. In theory.

Step one: Finish packing without having a breakdown.  Step two: Survive the fifteen-hour flight without losing your mind.  Step three: Show up at his door after the members surprise him on the morning of his birthday, like some kind of rom-com protagonist . Step four: Don't cry when he opens the door.

(Okay, you were definitely going to cry. Like, absolutely going to bawl. But you could probably make it pretty crying? With like one elegant tear rolling down your cheek instead of the snotty, hyperventilating kind?)

You'd been planning this for weeks. Ever since Christmas, actually. Since he'd flown all the way to New York just to spend the holidays with you and your chaotic family.

When he'd sat in your kitchen and helped your mom make cookies, flour on his nose, that concentrated look on his face like cookie dough was a serious scientific endeavor. When he'd worn that stupid quarter-zip that made him look like a divorced dad at a yacht club, and somehow still looked so soft and boyfriend-shaped it made you yearn for him even more than you already were.

When he'd met Mateo on FaceTime and they'd bonded over video games immediately, your little brother looking at Seonghyeon like he'd hung the moon. When he'd charmed your dad without even trying, just by being polite and genuine and interested in your dad's boring stories about his job. When he'd made your mom laugh so hard she had to sit down, and then helped her clean up even though she insisted he didn't have to.

When he'd given you that necklace—the little gold star that you hadn't taken off since, that you were wearing right now, that you touched whenever you missed him—and looked at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

You wanted to do the same for him. You wanted to meet his family properly, not just through a phone screen during brief FaceTime calls. You wanted to see his world, the places he grew up, the streets he walked, the home he came from. You wanted to be there for his birthday, physically there, not just sending texts from 6,800 miles away.

But keeping it a secret? Actively lying to him, even if it was a good lie, a surprise lie?

Probably the hardest fucking thing you'd ever done.

You'd been dodging his calls for days. You were letting them ring out, then texting back hours later with some excuse about being in class or at work or busy with family stuff. Keeping your texts short and vague, just enough to not ghost him completely but not enough to have a real conversation. Pretending you were "busy" or "tired" when really you were just trying not to slip up and ruin everything.

And judging by his messages—the worried ones, the "are you okay?" ones, the increasingly desperate "i miss u" ones—he was not handling it well whatsoever.

You could picture him right now, in his dorm room in Seoul where it was already Monday morning, probably staring at his phone just like you were avoiding yours. Probably wondering what he did wrong. He was probably thinking you were pulling away even though you had both discussed the fact that you would stay committed even if it was hard.

God, you wanted to tell him so badly. Wanted to call him right now and hear his voice and explain that you weren't distant, you were just terrible at keeping secrets. That you missed him so much it physically hurt. That you were coming to see him.

But you couldn't. Not yet. Not when you were this close.

Your sister knocked on your door—three sharp raps that she made sound judgmental. "You alive in there?"

"Barely," you called back, voice muffled because you were face-down on your bed next to your suitcase, having a little bit of a crisis.

She cracked the door open, peeking her head in. Her hair was up in a messy bun, wearing her old college sweatshirt—the Columbia one she never shut up about. "You done packing?"

You lifted your head, gesturing vaguely at the disaster zone that was your bed. There were clothes everywhere. Toiletries scattered across your comforter. Your straightener still plugged in on your desk because you'd used it this morning and forgotten to put it away. "Almost."

"You've been 'almost done' for three hours."

"It's a process."

"It's anxiety." She pushed the door open wider, stepping inside and surveying the damage. "Jesus, how long are you going for? Two weeks?"

"Five days."

"You're bringing enough clothes for a month."

"I need options!" you defended, sitting up and grabbing a hoodie from the pile. One of his hoodies, actually—the grey one he'd "accidentally" left at your place in December and you'd been wearing non-stop since. It still smelled like him, or maybe you were imagining it at this point, but either way you couldn't stop wearing it. "Should I bring this? Or is that weird?"

Your sister gave you a look—this dumb specific older-sibling look that said you're being an idiot. "You're flying across the world to surprise your long-distance boyfriend on his birthday and you're worried about a hoodie being weird?"

You opened your mouth and closed it. "...Fair point."

"Exactly." She walked over and took the hoodie from your hands, folding it properly—because apparently you'd forgotten how to fold things in your panic—and tucked it into your suitcase. "Bring the hoodie. Bring all his hoodies. Bring your entire closet if it makes you feel better."

You watched her fold another shirt. It made you laugh how she made it look effortless when your hands had been shaking too much to do it neatly. "Do you think I'm crazy? Like, genuinely unhinged for doing this?"

She paused, looking up at you with something softer in her expression. Then she came and sat on the edge of your bed, careful not to sit on any of your clothes. The mattress dipped under her weight. "No. I think you're in love."

Your face heated instantly. "What the fuck? I didn't say—"

"You didn't have to." She smiled. She had on that annoying all-knowing smile that older siblings somehow perfected. "He's gonna lose his mind when he sees you."

"Good," you said, grabbing your suitcase zipper and pulling it closed with more force than necessary. It caught on a shirt sleeve and you had to yank it. "That's the plan."

"He thinks you ghosted him, doesn't he?"

You winced. Fuck, the guilt hit sharper than you wanted. "...Maybe."

She laughed—actually laughed, head tipping back. "You're so evil."

"I know." You flopped down beside her, staring at the ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars you'd stuck up there in middle school were still there, faded and peeling at the edges, some of them already fallen off leaving little sticky residue marks. You'd been meaning to take them down for years. Never did. "But it's gonna be worth it. Right?"

"Duh." She nudged your shoulder with hers. "He flew to New York for you. In the middle of his insane schedule. For Christmas. You really think he's not gonna cry when you show up in Korea?"

You smiled despite the nerves twisting in your stomach, wringing your insides like a wet towel. "Ugh, I hope so."

"He's gonna sob," she said with complete confidence, like she could see the future. "Like, full-on ugly cry. It's gonna be peak cinema. I'm talking snot, tears, the whole thing."

You laughed, covering your face with your hands. Your palms were cold against your hot cheeks. "Stop, you're making me nervous."

"Good nervous or bad nervous?"

"Both?" You peeked through your fingers at her. "What if he's mad? What if he thinks I was actually ignoring him and he's like… done with me?"

Your sister rolled her eyes so hard you actually heard it, the sound of her exasperation. "First of all, that man is obsessed with you. I have never seen someone look at another person the way he looked at you at Christmas. Like, it was actually disgusting how cute it was."

"Stop—"

"Second," she continued, holding up two fingers, "you literally have like a 24Karat jewelry from him. He gave you that necklace and you haven't taken it off once. That's not casual."

You touched the star pendant automatically, the metal warm from being against your skin. "It's not 24K, bruh. Shut up."

"Third—and I cannot stress this enough—" She held up a third finger. "He fully stole his Unc member's phone just to text you they won an award. Are you deadass? He could've been watching LE SSERAFIM perform, but he chose to text you. Meaning he freaking memorized your phone number, dude. He's not 'done with you.'"

You dropped your hands and exhaled slowly. The breath left your lungs and took some of the anxiety with it. "Okay. You're right."

"I'm always right."

"Don't push it."

Your phone buzzed on the desk. Both of you froze.

The sound was loud in the quiet room. It vibrated against the wood, and your whole body tensed like someone had stuck a live wire to your spine.

"Don't," your sister warned immediately, her voice sharp.

"I'm not—"

"You're thinking about it. I can see you thinking about it."

"I'm not—"

hyeonpie 😙 [Sun, Jan 11, 6:38 PM EST (8:38 PM KST)] can we talk later? i feel like somethings wrong

Your heart clenched so hard you actually pressed a hand to your chest. Like you could hold it together through your ribcage.

Your sister noticed immediately—because of course she did, she'd been watching you like a hawk. She grabbed your wrist before you could reach for your phone, her grip firm. "Nope. Absolutely not. You've come this far. Don't fold now."

"But he—" Your voice cracked. "He thinks something's wrong."

"He's fine," she insisted, squeezing your wrist once before letting go. "He's just worried because you've been MIA. Which is intentional. Which means the plan is working exactly how it's supposed to."

You groaned and grabbed the nearest pillow and covering your face with it. Your voice came out muffled: "This is the worst."

"It's romantic," she corrected, yanking the pillow away from you. You blinked at the sudden light. "In like a 'you're-gonna-make-him-cry-in-the-best-way' sense. This is literally the plot of every good romance movie."

You stared at the ceiling again, chewing on your bottom lip hard enough that you'd probably have an indent there later. "You think he's actually worried? Like, really really worried?"

"Oh, 100%." Your sister stood up, walking over to your desk and picking up your phone. She held it hostage, keeping it away from you. "That boy is stressed. He's probably pacing his room right now. Probably drove his roommate insane. But—" She pointed at you dramatically with your own phone, like she was making a closing argument in court. "—that just means the surprise is gonna hit even harder."

You sat up slowly, exhaling through your nose. Trying to calm down. "Okay. Okay. I can do this."

"You can absolutely do this." She walked back over and handed your phone to you carefully. She was acting like it was a bomb. "But you're gonna answer him. You have to, or he'll actually lose his mind. Just… keep it vague. Don't give anything away."

"Vague. Right. I can be vague." You unlocked your phone, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Your hands were shaking slightly. You typed out a couple different responses and deleted all of them before finally settling on:

You  [Sun, Jan 11, 6:42 PM EST] yeah we can talk sorry ive just been rlly overwhelmed lately nothing to do w u i promise

You hit send before you could overthink it further, before you could add more, before you could ruin everything.

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly. Those three little dots that somehow felt ominous.

hyeonpie 😙 [Sun, Jan 11, 8:44 PM KST] u sure? bc if i did something wrong u can tell me

Your chest squeezed so tight you thought you might actually break in half. Like genuinely right down the middle. Because he sounded so worried, so convinced he'd fucked up somehow, when really you were the one lying to him.

You  [Sun, Jan 11, 6:45 PM EST] you didn't do anything wrong i swear im just tired ill be better soon ok?

hyeonpie 😙 [Sun, Jan 11, 8:47 PM KST] ok i just miss u a lot

You bit your lip so hard you tasted metal. Like copper. That specific taste that meant you'd broken skin.

You  [Sun, Jan 11, 6:48 PM EST] i miss u too more than u know

And that was the truth. God, that was the most honest thing you'd said to him in days.

hyeonpie 😙  [Sun, Jan 11, 8:50 PM KST] can we ft tomorrow? i wanna see ur face

Oh god. Oh fuck. Oh shit.

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

You couldn't FaceTime him. You couldn't. Because you were a terrible liar in person (or on video, which was basically the same thing), and he'd take one look at your face and know something was up. He always knew. He could read you better than anyone at this point.

Your sister was reading over your shoulder now, breathing down your neck. "Say you're busy."

"But—"

"Say. You're. Busy." Her voice was firm and left no room for argument.

You  [Sun, Jan 11, 6:51 PM EST] tmr's kinda packed maybe the day after?

You hit send and immediately wanted to throw your phone across the room.

The typing bubble appeared immediately. Then disappeared. Then appeared again. Then disappeared again.

Each time it vanished, your anxiety spiked higher. That was worse than just waiting—the stopping and starting, the visible evidence of him typing and deleting and retyping, trying to figure out what to say.

hyeonpie 😙 [Sat, Jan 11, 8:53 PM KST] yeah ok no worries

Your heart shattered into approximately seven million pieces. Exploded like glass. Because "yeah ok" and "no worries" was Seonghyeon-speak for I'm hurt but I'm trying to be chill about it.

"I hate this," you whispered, voice breaking. "I hate lying to him. I hate making him worried. I hate all of it."

"I know." Your sister squeezed your shoulder, her hand warm and grounding. "But tomorrow? When you show up? When you're actually there and he sees you? It's gonna be worth it. I promise. This is temporary. The surprise is forever."

You locked your phone and dropped it onto the bed like it had burned you, staring at your suitcase. It sat there, zipped and ready, mocking you with how prepared you were to leave while Seonghyeon had no idea.

Twenty-four hours.

You just had to make it twenty-four more hours without cracking.

Your mom knocked softly before pushing the door open—that specific mom-knock that was more of a warning than a request for permission. She was carrying two mugs of hot chocolate, the fancy kind with whipped cream and mini marshmallows on top. She handed you one and sat down in your desk chair, spinning it to face you.

"How're you feeling?" she asked. She was using that mom-voice she used when she knew you were struggling but didn't want to push too hard.

"Terrified," you admitted immediately, wrapping both hands around the warm mug. The heat seeped into your palms. "Excited. Nauseous. All of the above. Like I might throw up but in a good way? Is there a good way to feel like you might throw up?"

She smiled. "That's normal. You're doing something big. Something brave."

"Yeah." You took a sip, the chocolate warming you from the inside out, sweet and rich on your tongue. "What if I get there and he's actually mad? What if he's so upset about me being distant that when I show up he's just... done?"

"He won't be," your mom said firmly, with no hesitation. Complete certainty popping through in her accent. "That boy is head over heels for you. I saw it at Christmas. The way he looked at you? Like you were the only person in the room. Like everyone else was just background noise."

Your cheeks warmed, heat creeping up your neck. "Mom..."

"I'm serious." She leaned forward, setting her mug on your desk and resting her elbows on her knees. Her expression was earnest, open. "I've seen a lot of young relationships, sweetheart. Your sister's boyfriends, your cousins, your friends. And what you two have? It's different. That's real."

Your throat tightened. The pressure started behind your eyes. Fuck, why were you such a crybaby? She was trying to make you feel better.

"And the fact that you're doing this—" She gestured around your room, at your packed suitcase, at the disarray of planning. "—flying all the way to Korea, meeting his family, surprising him on his birthday. That's love. Real love. The kind that shows up. The kind that makes sacrifices. The kind that matters."

A single tear escaped, rolling down your cheek before you could stop it. You wiped it away quickly, not wanting to seem weak in front of her. Like if she did, she'd take away her permission of letting you go. Like you were just a baby.

"I just want him to know I care. Like, really really care. The same way he showed up for us. For Christmas. For me."

"He will," she promised, reaching over to squeeze your hand. Her hand was soft and familiar."The second he sees you standing there, he'll know. You won't even have to say anything. He'll just know."

You nodded, blinking back the tears that were threatening to overflow. You took a shaky breath.

Your mom stood, kissing the top of your head. Her lips were warm against your hair. "Finish packing. Get some sleep—or at least try to. And text me when you land, okay? I don't care what time it is, I want to know you got there safely."

"I will."

She paused at the door, hand on the frame. "And honey?"

"Yeah?"

"Take lots of pictures. Your sister and I want to see everything. His family, his house, the two of you together. Everything. I've always wanted to see Korea!"

You laughed, wiping your eyes with your sleeve. "I will. Promise."

After she left, your sister following behind her with a final encouraging nod, you turned back to your suitcase. You unzipped the front pocket, pulling out the small wrapped box you'd hidden at the bottom, tucked carefully between your extra shoes so it wouldn't get crushed.

His birthday present.

You'd agonized over it for weeks. Literally weeks. You'd made yourself insane trying to figure out what to get someone who already had everything. Someone whose life was so different from yours—stages and studios and schedules you couldn't even begin to understand. Someone who could probably buy whatever he wanted.

What do you get an idol for his birthday?

In the end, you'd gone with something simple. Something personal. Something that was so completely you that he'd know it came from your heart.

A leather journal—the nice kind, the expensive kind you'd saved up for. Thick cream pages that were smooth under your fingers. A wrap-tie closure in dark brown leather. The kind of journal that felt important, like whatever you wrote in it would matter.

Inside the front cover, you'd written in your neatest handwriting (which still wasn't that neat, but you'd tried):

4 all the songs you haven't written yet & all the thoughts you don't say out loud  i'll always want to hear them :) — ur NYC girl

Tucked between the first few pages were little things you'd collected over the past months. Tiny pieces of your relationship, physical proof that it existed:

A pressed flower from your walk in Central Park—the blue one he'd picked for you, saying it matched your denim outfit. A photo booth strip from the arcade you'd dragged him to, both of you making dumb faces, his arm around your shoulders. A ticket stub from the subway, from the day you'd shown him how to navigate the MTA and he'd gotten you guys lost anyway. A poorly drawn doodle of him you'd made during a FaceTime call, all messy lines and exaggerated features because you couldn't draw to save your life. A wrapper from some Korean candy he let you try. A receipt from the first coffee you'd ever made him, the order written in your handwriting.

Stupid, sentimental stuff that probably meant nothing to anyone else. But it was yours. Your story. Your little proof that he'd been here, in New York, in your life at all.

And you hoped—god, you really hoped—he'd love it. His ass was just as sentimental as you, anyway.

You wrapped it back up carefully, making sure the tape was smooth, the corners neat. You tucked it into the side pocket of your carry-on where it wouldn't get crushed during the flight, nestled between your hoodie and your phone charger.

Your sister poked her head back in, making you jump. "You're not crying again, are you?"

"Shut up," you muttered, but you were smiling, wiping at your eyes.

"Good. Because if you're this emotional now, you're gonna be a complete mess tomorrow." She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, grinning. "Like, I'm talking full sobbing in the airport. Crying on the plane. The flight attendants are literally gonna be concerned."

"I know," you groaned, flopping backward onto your bed dramatically, careful not to crush your suitcase. Your hair splayed out around you.

She grinned wider. "Can't wait to hear all about it. Let me know if you see TXT at Hybe. Please."

Just when you thought she was done—"And you better call me the second it happens. I need a full play-by-play. What he said, what you said, if he cried, all of it."

"I will," you promised.

"Good." She pushed off the doorframe. "Now get some sleep. You have a long day tomorrow."

"Yeah." You stared at the ceiling, at those faded glow-in-the-dark stars. "I really do."

After she left, you lay there for a long moment, phone next to you, suitcase packed, carry-on ready. Your room was quiet except for the playlist still playing softly from your speaker.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow you'd be on a plane. And the day after that, you'd be in Seoul. And a few hours after that, you'd be standing at his door.

You touched the star necklace at your throat, the metal warm from your skin. Twenty-four hours. You could do this.

You bit your lip so hard you tasted that coppery taste of metal again.

JANUARY 13 — 6:12 AM KST

Seonghyeon woke up to seventeen notifications.

His phone was still on his chest where he'd left it, the weight of it having shifted slightly as he slept. He blinked against the grey morning light filtering through the curtains, eyes crusty and unfocused. His whole body felt heavy and weighed down, like he'd barely slept at all.

Which, to be fair, he hadn't. Maybe three hours, broken up into restless chunks.

His heart jumped—stupid, hopeful and desperate—before his brain could catch up. Maybe it was you. Maybe you'd texted him at midnight your time to wish him happy birthday. Maybe everything was fine and he'd been overthinking and—

It wasn't you.

His chest deflated so fast it physically hurt. It was the group chat. His family. A few other friends from school.

Mom 🫡 [Tue, Jan 13, 12:01 AM KST] HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY SON!!! 🎉🎂 I love you so much! Come home soon so I can feed you properly

Dad 🏌️‍♂️  [Tue, Jan 13, 12:03 AM KST] Happy birthday Seonghyeon Proud of you my 아들

dear sister jiji  [Tue, Jan 13, 12:15 AM KST] happy bday loser dont forget i'm still cooler than u love u i guess

The members' group chat was absolute chaos—Martin had sent a voice message of him and James singing happy birthday completely off-key, their voices cracking on the high notes. Juhoon had sent a photo of a cake with Seonghyeon's face poorly photoshopped onto it, the proportions all wrong so his head looked huge and distorted. Keonho had already changed the group chat name to "seonghyeon is UNC as hell now" with like seven crying laughing emojis.

He smiled despite himself. Despite the hollow ache in his chest that hadn't gone away. He typed out some thank-yous, some laughing emojis, sent a middle finger emoji back to Keonho specifically.

But his thumb still hovered over your name in his messages.

Nothing. Still nothing.

He opened your chat anyway, staring at the last text you'd sent. Yesterday afternoon. A response to something he'd said about practice running late.

her  [Mon, Jan 12, 6:23 PM KST] aw that sucks hope it goes better today

Generic. Definitely sounds like a girlfriend.

Not "happy early birthday." Not "can't wait to celebrate you." Not even a stupid meme or a heart emoji.

Nothing.

He typed out a message three different times and deleted it each time.

hey are we okay? did i do something wrong?

None of them felt right. They all felt too desperate and too needy, too much like he was begging for scraps of attention.

Finally, he just sent:

You  [Tue, Jan 13, 6:18 AM KST] hey

And locked his phone before he could spiral further.

He sat up slowly, joints cracking, and padded to the bathroom. The tile floor was cold under his bare feet, making him wince. Their bathroom was tiny—barely fit a toilet, sink, and shower stall. The mirror above the sink was slightly foggy around the edges.

His reflection looked exactly how he felt—tired. Dark circles under his eyes that hadn't been there a week ago. They shouldn't be there. Hair sticking up at weird angles, the brown catching the fluorescent light in a way that made it look almost black. That tight set to his jaw he always got when he was stressed and the muscle jumping slightly.

Seventeen. He was seventeen now.

"Happy birthday to me," he muttered, turning on the faucet.

The water ran cold for a solid thirty seconds before warming up. He splashed his face, brushed his teeth with the minty toothpaste that made his mouth feel too clean, too awake. Tried not to look at himself too much in the mirror because he didn't like what he saw there.

Over a fucking girl. Who had he become?

When he came back to the room, Keonho was awake, propped up on one elbow, scrolling through his phone. His hair was a disaster, pressed flat on one side, sticking straight up on the other.

"Morning, birthday boy," he said without looking up.

"Morning."

"You okay?"

Seonghyeon shrugged, sitting on the edge of his bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. He picked up his phone from where he'd left it, checking it even though he knew there wouldn't be anything new.

There wasn't. Ooof course.

"Define okay," he muttered. He was kind of—no, really getting sick of this.

Keonho's expression softened, and he finally put his phone down. "Shit bro. Still nothing?"

"Nope."

"Hyung…"

"I know." Seonghyeon exhaled, the breath leaving his lungs in one long deflation. He dropped his phone onto the mattress like it had personally offended him. "I know I'm being dramatic. I just… I don't get it, you know? Like, did I miss something? Did I say something wrong? Is she just… done?"

"She's not done."

"You don't know that."

"I do know that," Keonho insisted, sitting up fully now, blanket pooling around his waist. It was kind of funny seeing this half-asleep chud giving advice. "Because I've seen the way she looks at you. And I've heard the way she talks about you on fucking FaceTime at 2 in the morning. And I saw the pictures when she gave you that Build-A-Bear and looked at you like you hung the fucking moon."

Seonghyeon's chest ached at the memory. You'd been so nervous giving it to him, hands fidgeting with the box, explaining that it was "stupid" and "probably dumb" but you wanted him to have something that reminded him of you. The bear was dressed exactly like him—backwards cap, sagged jeans, black tee, tiny over-ear headphones. You'd even recorded a message inside it, your voice mocking his deep one. "I'm Seonghyeon and I like to sag my pants."

He'd almost cried. Literally had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop the tears because he didn't want to be that guy, the one who cried over stuffed animals.

But god, it had meant everything.

"Then why won't she talk to me?" His voice came out smaller than he intended. Fuck, he almost sounded childish.

"I don't know," Keonho admitted. "But I don't think it's what you think it is."

Seonghyeon wanted to believe him. He did.

But it was hard to believe anything when your phone stayed dark and silent on what was supposed to be a special day.

JANUARY 13 — 9:32 KST

Keonho walked in from the bathroom, already dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, hair still damp from the shower. A much more put together look than he had on previously. Water dripped onto his shoulders, leaving dark spots on the grey fabric.

"You heading to your mom's?" he asked, grabbing his phone charger from his desk.

"Yeah. In a bit." Seonghyeon was still in bed, sitting up now but not moving. Just staring at his phone in his lap like it might suddenly come to life.

"You gonna be okay?"

Seonghyeon shrugged, the movement barely there. "I don't really have a choice, do I?"

Keonho paused, then walked over and sat on the edge of Seonghyeon's bed. The mattress dipped, tilting Seonghyeon slightly toward him. "She'll text you, broski. I know she will."

Seonghyeon wanted to believe him. He really, really did.

But the proof was right there.

Keonho squeezed his shoulder once, firm and grounding, then stood up. "Go get ready. Your mom's probably been cooking since like 5 AM."

That got a small smile out of him. "Yeah. Probably."

JANUARY 12 — 9:15 AM EST | MONDAY

You were at JFK airport, sitting in the departures terminal with your carry-on at your feet and your suitcase standing next to you like a loyal soldier.

Your dad had driven you. He'd barely said two words the entire ride—just the radio playing some oldies station he loved, his hands at ten and two on the wheel. He occasionally glanced over at you like he wanted to say something but didn't know how.

When he pulled up to departures, the curb crowded with cars and people hauling luggage and families saying goodbye, he put the car in park and turned to you with that look. This funny Dad look that said he was proud but also trying not to be emotional about it. The one that made your lips pout.

"You sure you have everything?" he asked.

"Yes, Dad."

"Passport?"

"Yes."

"Phone charger?"

"Yes."

"Snacks for the flight?"

You held up the gallon Ziploc bag your mom had packed, stuffed full of little snacks from the Asian supermarket, your favorite chips, some cookies she'd made yesterday. "Covered."

He nodded, staring out the windshield at the terminal entrance. The digital sign above the doors flashed flight times and gate numbers in bright orange letters. People rushed past with rolling suitcases, some running because they were late, some walking slowly, savoring goodbyes.

"He's a good kid," your dad said finally. But... still not looking at you. "I like him."

Your chest warmed. Those two sentences meant so much to you. More than your Dad probably knew. "Yeah. Me too."

"Just…" He cleared his throat, jaw working like he was chewing on the words before letting them out. "Be safe. And call your mother. You know how she gets."

You laughed. "I will."

He pulled you into a quick hug. It was a hug that was over before you could really sink into it, his hand patting your back twice, but it still meant everything. He smelled like coffee and that cologne he'd been wearing since you were a kid. It just smelled like "dad" to you.

"Love you, kiddo."

"Love you too, Dad."

You grabbed your suitcase—your big navy blue one that was definitely overpacked but you couldn't help it—and your carry-on, waving as he drove off. His hand lifted in a wave through the window, and then he was gone. His Range Rover Discovery blended back into the discord of airport traffic.

You turned toward the terminal, heart suddenly pounding.

This was really happening. You were really doing this.

Holy shit.

The automatic doors slid open with a soft whoosh, and you were hit immediately with that airport smell. That weird combination of Cinnabon and cleaning products and recycled air that somehow existed in every airport everywhere.

JFK was massive. Ceilings that went up forever, huge windows letting in grey winter light, people everywhere—businessmen in suits speed-walking with roller bags, families with kids who were way too excited or way too tired, couples holding hands. It felt like the whole nation was here.

You've gone out of the country a couple times, but never alone. It felt different. Freeing, honestly.

You checked your phone.

9:17 AM.

Your flight didn't board until 11:15 AM. You ha loads of time.

But also, you'd gotten here early on purpose because your mom had drilled it into your head that "you never know with airport security" and "better safe than sorry" and about fifteen other asian mom-isms that basically meant: get there way too early and then sit around anxious for two hours.

You'd also had to beg—actually beg—your parents to let you miss school for this. It was the middle of the semester, the week before finals started, possibly the worst time to disappear to Korea for four days.

But you'd sat them down at the kitchen table three weeks ago and made your case. Proudly showcased them your grades (all A's and B's, thank you very much). Promised you'd make up all the work. Clearly emphasized that Seonghyeon had flown to New York for you, for Christmas, in the middle of his insane schedule, and you wanted to do the same for him.

Your mom had cried, obviously. She said something about "young love" and "when did you grow up?" while dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

Your dad had been harder to convince. He asked about the money (you'd been saving from your café job for months). Asked about school (you'd already talked to all your teachers). Asked about safety (you'd sent him Seonghyeon's address, his parents' and manager's contact info, a full itinerary).

Finally, he'd sighed—that dad sigh that meant he was giving in but wanted you to know he wasn't happy about it—and said: "He better be worth all this."

"He is," you'd promised.

And now here you were, standing in JFK airport with a suitcase full of presents and nerves and definitely too many hoodies for a five-day trip.

The security line was long. Like, wrapped-around-the-corner, barely-moving, why-are-there-so-many-fucking-people-on-a-Monday-morning long. You joined the back of it, shuffling forward inch by inch. You watched TSA agents wave people through metal detectors, occasionally pulling someone aside for additional screening. It was all quite overstimulating.

You pulled out your phone to distract yourself.

3 new messages from 

hyeonpie 😙  [Mon, Jan 12, 6:34 AM EST ] (8:34 PM KST) idk if ur okay or stressed or whatever but u know that i'm here and i miss u

Your heart clenched so hard you actually pressed a hand to your chest. You'd read them when you first woke up this morning, lying in bed in the dark, and nearly cried into your pillow. Because he sounded sad. He sounded so worried. And you were the one making him feel that way.

You'd had to resist the urge to text him back immediately, to tell him everything, to ruin the surprise because you couldn't stand the thought of him thinking something was wrong.

But ugh. You were literally on the last hurdle. Only a few more hours and you would be back in his arms.

The security line crept forward. You took off your shoes, your jacket, pulled your laptop out of your bag. Went through the metal detector without beeping, thank god—you probably would have offed yourself right there. You collected your stuff on the other side, shoving your laptop back in, pulling your shoes on while hopping on one foot.

Your gate was B32. You followed the signs, weaving through crowds, dodging a businessman who wasn't watching where he was going, nearly tripping over a kid's rolling backpack.

When you finally found your gate, you collapsed into one of those uncomfortable airport chairs—the ones with armrests specifically designed to prevent anyone from lying down.

You opened your photos, scrolling back to Christmas. There were so many of him. Seonghyeon helping your mom in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, flour all over his face. Seonghyeon playing video games with Mateo, controller in hand, face scrunched in concentration. Seonghyeon laughing at something your sister said, head thrown back, that real smile that showed all his teeth.

And then there was the one your mom had taken when neither of you were paying attention.

You were on the couch, legs tucked under you, and he was next to you, arm slung over your shoulders. You were both looking at something on your phone—probably a meme, knowing you—and you were mid-laugh, head tilted toward him.

And he was looking at you.

Not the phone. You.

With this sweet, fond expression that made your heart twist every single time you saw it. Like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

You'd set it as your lockscreen the second your mom sent it to you.

And now, staring at it in the middle of JFK airport, gate B32, with your suitcase at your feet and your flight boarding in less than two hours, you felt the tears prick at your eyes. What a freaking crybaby.

"God, pull it together," you muttered to yourself, locking your phone and shoving it in your pocket.

"Rough day?"

You looked up. An older woman was sitting across from you, knitting something that might've been a scarf. Maybe a blanket. It was hard to tell. She had white hair pulled back in a neat bun, glasses perched on her nose, wearing a cardigan that looked handmade.

You laughed, the sound wet and a little broken. "Something like that."

She smiled knowingly, needles clicking together in a steady rhythm. "Boyfriend?"

"How'd you guess?"

"You've got that look." She gestured vaguely with one of her needles, yarn dangling.

"What look?"

"The one that says you're either about to see him or you just left him. And since you're at the airport…" She gestured around, as if to say: context clues.

You smiled despite yourself. "I'm surprising him. For his birthday."

Her whole face lit up, the wrinkles around her eyes crinkling. "Oh, how sweet! Is it a long flight?"

"Fifteen hours."

She winced sympathetically. Her needles paused mid-stitch. "Well, he's a lucky guy."

"I hope so," you said softly, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself.

"He will be," she said with absolute certainty, like she could see the future in her knitting. "Anyone who inspires that look? He already knows."

They called your boarding group forty-five minutes later.

"Group 3, now boarding at gate B32. Group 3."

You stood, grabbing your stuff, heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat. You took one last look at your phone.

Still nothing from him.

Which was good. That was the plan. Keep him in the dark.

You typed out a message, hesitated, finger hovering over the send button.

You  [Mon, Jan 12, 9:47 AM EST] thinking about u hope ur having a good day

Then you switched your phone to airplane mode and got in line.

The jetway was cold. Your carry-on bumped against your leg with every step. The flight attendant at the door scanned your boarding pass, smiled that professional smile, said "welcome aboard."

You found your seat—14F, window—and shoved your carry-on in the overhead bin. You sat down, buckled in, and stared out the window at the grey tarmac.

Fifteen hours. You could do this. You had to do this.

Because in fifteen hours, you'd be in Seoul. And a few hours after that, you'd be in front of him. And you'd get to see his face when he realized you were actually there, that you hadn't forgotten, that you'd never forget him.

The plane started to taxi and the engines rumbled to life beneath you.

And you closed your eyes, picturing his smile.

JANUARY 13 — 10:47 AM KST

"Seonghyeon, you ready?"

Seonghyeon looked up from where he was sitting on his bed, staring at his phone after watching some random basketball highlights video.

Minjae, one of their regular drivers, stood in the doorway with his keys in hand, that familiar kind smile on his face. He was in his mid-forties, had been driving for the company for years, and had this dad type energy that always made Seonghyeon feel a little less anxious.

"Yeah," Seonghyeon said quietly, grabbing his sling bag. "Thanks for driving me."

"Of course. Happy birthday, by the way." Minjae's smile widened. "Your mom called the company directly to make sure someone could take you. She was very insistent."

Seonghyeon managed a small laugh. "That sounds like her."

"She also told me to make sure you eat before you leave, but..." Minjae glanced at the untouched cereal bowl still sitting on the desk. "I'm guessing that didn't happen?"

"Wasn't hungry."

Minjae's expression softened with understanding—the same look everyone had been giving him lately, like they could all see how much he was struggling and didn't know how to help. "Come on. Let's get you home."

The company car was parked out front, a sleek black sedan that Seonghyeon had been in countless times. Minjae held the back door open for him, and Seonghyeon slid in, immediately pulling out his phone to check it again.

Nothing. Still fucking nothing.

He locked it and shoved it in his pocket, leaning his head back against the seat as Minjae got in the driver's side.

"You can play your music if you want," Minjae said, handing back the aux cord as he started the car. "I know you always have that playlist."

"You sure? I don't want to—"

"Seonghyeon-ah, it's your birthday. Play whatever you want, son."

Something about the casual kindness in his voice made Seonghyeon's stressed heartbeat slow. "Thanks, hyung."

He plugged in his phone and opened Spotify, scrolling to the playlist you'd made him. "4 when ur missing me :)" with about fifteen heart emojis after it.

He pressed shuffle. ghostin by Ariana Grande started playing through the speakers, and Seonghyeon immediately regretted every decision that led to this moment.

Usually, it made him smile. He'd listen to it on the way to schedules, during late-night practices when he needed to feel close to you, in the morning when he woke up and you were still asleep an ocean away.

Today, it just made his chest hurt.

Minjae glanced in the rearview mirror, catching Seonghyeon's expression. "Want to skip it?"

"No, it's... it's fine." But his voice cracked on the word 'fine,' which made it decidedly not fine.

The song filled the car—Ariana's voice aching, singing about missing someone so much it feels like haunting, like being present but not really there because your heart is somewhere else entirely.

You'd told him once, during a late-night FaceTime when you couldn't sleep and he was getting ready for practice, that this song made you think of him. Not because of the ex-boyfriend context, but because of the distance. Because you'd be at work or school or with friends, going through the motions, but always thinking about him. Always wishing he was there.

"I know that it breaks your heart when I cry again, over him"

Except it wasn't him in the song. It was the distance. The missing. The ache of loving someone you couldn't touch whenever you needed them.

He had to skip it after the first chorus because the lyrics hit too close. Because that's exactly how he felt right now—like he was going through the motions of his birthday while his heart was an ocean away with you, wondering why you hadn't texted, wondering if you were thinking about him at all.

Seonghyeon stared out the window, watching Seoul blur past. The grey buildings, the busy streets, people bundled in coats hurrying to wherever they needed to be. Normal people living normal lives, not checking their phones every thirty seconds hoping for a text that never came.

"So," Minjae said gently after a moment, turning down the volume slightly. "How are you feeling? Birthdays can be tough sometimes. I know I cried on my last one."

Seonghyeon shrugged, still looking out the window. "I'm okay."

"You don't look okay."

"I just..." He exhaled, breath fogging slightly against the cold glass. "I thought today would feel different, you know? Special. But it just feels like any other day. Except worse."

Minjae was quiet for a moment, navigating through traffic with practiced ease. "Girl troubles?"

Seonghyeon let out a bitter laugh. "Is it that obvious?"

"I've been driving you kids around for three years. I've learned to read the signs." Minjae smiled kindly at him in the mirror. "Long distance?"

"Yeah. She's in New York." Seonghyeon pulled out his phone again, unlocking it, staring at your last conversation. "She hasn't texted me. Not once. And it's my birthday."

"Have you tried calling her?"

"It goes straight to voicemail. Her phone's off or... I don't know. Maybe she blocked me." The words tasted awful coming out of his mouth. He didn't;t even really believe it, though.

"Or," Minjae offered carefully, "maybe there's another explanation. Did you guys fight?"

"No. That's the thing—everything was fine. Great, even. And then a few days ago she just... went quiet. Started being distant. And I don't know what I did wrong."

The song changed to something by The Marias—Back To Me—and god, this playlist was really just a masterclass in emotional devastation today.

"Can I give you some advice?" Minjae asked.

"Please."

"When my wife and I were dating, we did long distance for two years. I was in Seoul, she was in Busan. And there were times when she'd go quiet on me, and I'd go insane thinking the worst."

Seonghyeon sat up slightly. He was paying attention now that this sounded a lot like his situation. "Then what happened?"

"Usually, she was just busy. Or stressed. Or planning something." Minjae smiled. "The point is, I wasted a lot of time worrying about things that weren't actually happening. Sometimes the story we tell ourselves is scarier than the truth."

"But what if the truth is that she doesn't want to do this anymore? The distance, the time zones, all of it?"

"Then she'll tell you," Minjae said simply. "But from what I've seen—and I've driven you to the airport enough times to know—that girl adores you. The way you talk about her, the way your whole face lights up when she calls... that's not nothing."

Seonghyeon wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe that there was some explanation, some reason that made sense.

But his phone stayed completely silent in his hand, and it was getting harder to have faith.

They drove in comfortable silence for a while, The Marias giving way to Justin Bieber, then Radiohead, then back to some indie song Seonghyeon couldn't remember adding but knew you must have snuck in there.

The city passed by—a couple walking hand in hand, bundled up against the cold. An old man feeding pigeons in a small park.

Life going on like normal, like it was any other Monday in January, like Seonghyeon's world wasn't quietly falling apart in the backseat of a company car.

"We're almost there," Minjae said softly, turning onto the familiar street.

Seonghyeon sat up, shoving his phone back in his pocket. He could see his house now, the small garden covered in snow, smoke rising from the chimney meaning his dad had probably started a fire in the living room.

His mom was at the door already, waving, wearing that strawberry apron.

"She's been excited about this all week," Minjae said, pulling up to the curb. "Called the office like four times to confirm what time I'd have you there."

Despite everything, Seonghyeon smiled. "Yeah, that's definitely her."

Minjae put the car in park and turned around to look at him properly. "Hey. I know today feels heavy. But try to be present, okay? Your family loves you. Let them celebrate you, even if it's hard right now."

Seonghyeon nodded. "Thanks, hyung. For... everything. The drive. The advice. All of it."

"Anytime, kid. Happy birthday." Minjae reached back and squeezed his shoulder. "And hey—I have a feeling things are going to turn out better than you think."

Seonghyeon wanted to believe him.

He grabbed his bag, thanked Minjae again, and stepped out into the cold.

His mom was already rushing down the path before he'd even closed the car door, arms outstretched, that huge smile on her face.

"There's my birthday boy!" she said, pulling him into a tight hug before he could even set his bag down.

Her hair was pulled back in a clip, a few strands falling loose around her face. She looked older than he remembered, but maybe that was just because he didn't see her as often anymore. The lines around her eyes were deeper. Her hair had more grey in it.

He wondered, briefly, if she thought the same thing about him. If she looked at him and saw how tired he was, how much the industry had changed him in ways he didn't always notice himself.

He let himself sink into the hug. She was shorter than him now—had been since he was fourteen—so he had to bend down slightly, but it didn't matter. She smelled like sesame oil and laundry detergent and that lotion she always used, the one that came in the pink bottle. She smelled like home.

"Hi, Mom."

She pulled back, holding his face in both hands, studying him with that look that said she could see right through him. Her hands were warm against his cold cheeks. "You look tired."

"I'm fine."

"Seonghyeon." Her voice was gentle but firm, the same tone she'd used when he was a kid and tried to hide that he was sick so he wouldn't miss school.

"I'm fine," he insisted, but his voice wavered slightly, betraying him.

Her expression changed, and something in her eyes shifted—concern mixed with something else he couldn't quite identify. Like she knew something he didn't. "Come inside. It's freezing out here."

She waved at Minjae, who waved back before driving off, and then ushered Seonghyeon up the path. He walked slowly, boots crunching on the thin layer of snow that covered the stone walkway. The garden his mom obsessively maintained was buried under white—the little stone lanterns she loved barely visible, the flower beds she spent hours tending completely hidden. In the spring, this garden exploded with color. Roses, hydrangeas, those little purple flowers he could never remember the name of. Now it was just white and grey and sleeping.

She took his coat and hung it on the rack by the door—the same wooden rack that had been there his entire life, slightly wobbly because one of the legs was shorter than the others. His dad kept saying he'd fix it. He never did.

The house was warm. Like concerningly warm, the way his mom always kept it in winter. The heating was on full blast, and he could feel his frozen fingers start to tingle as they thawed. It smelled incredible. Like home cooking and birthday cake and all the things he'd missed while living in the dorm. Soy sauce, garlic, sesame oil, something sweet baking in the oven.

"Where's Dad?" Seonghyeon asked, toeing off his shoes.

"In the living room, watching the news. You know how he is." His mom smiled, leading him toward the kitchen. "And your sister's out with her friends right now but she'll be here around two. She said she has a 'very important gift' for you."

Seonghyeon smiled despite himself. "That's concerning."

"That's what I said."

He followed her into the kitchen, and his chest squeezed at the sight.

She really had made everything.

The counter was covered in dishes—some still cooking, steam rising from pots on the stove, some already prepared and covered with plastic wrap or aluminum foil. A huge pot of kimchi jjigae bubbled away, filling the kitchen with that spicy-sour smell he'd grown up with. The japchae was in a large glass bowl, already mixed with vegetables and meat, glistening with sesame oil. Bulgogi marinated in a container, waiting to be cooked.

Banchan covered the table. There was pickled radish, seasoned spinach, bean sprouts, kimchi, at least six or seven different small dishes, the way his mom always did for special occasions.

And in the center of the table, taking up way too much space, was a chocolate cake. Perfectly frosted, not a single crack or imperfection, with "Happy Birthday Seonghyeon!" written in careful blue icing—his favorite color. Little frosting flowers decorated the edges. It was the same cake she made him every year, the same recipe, the same decoration. He could probably draw it from memory.

"Mom..." His voice cracked slightly.

She turned from the stove, wiping her hands on her apron. Flour dusted her sleeve. "What?"

"This is... this is a lot."

"You're my son," she said simply, walking over to cup his face again. Her hands smelled like garlic and ginger. "And it's your birthday. Of course it's a lot."

He swallowed hard. He had to blink against the sudden sting in his eyes. "Come on. I don't deserve you."

"Don't be dramatic." But she was smiling, patting his cheek. "Now go say hi to your dad, then come back and sit. You look like you're about to fall over."

He nodded, setting his bag down by the table and walking toward the living room.

His dad was exactly where his mom said he'd be—in his usual armchair. It was this old leather chair that was permanently molded to his shape, watching the news on the TV that was definitely older than Seonghyeon.

"Hey, Dad."

His dad looked up, face breaking into a warm smile. "There he is. Happy birthday, son." He stood, pulling Seonghyeon into a quick hug.

"Thanks."

"Seventeen," his dad said, shaking his head in that way parents do when they can't believe how much time has passed. "I remember when you were born like it was yesterday. Now look at you—an idol, living in Seoul, all grown up."

"I don't feel that grown up," Seonghyeon admitted.

His dad laughed, patting his shoulder. "None of us do, son. That's the secret. We're all just pretending."

They stood there for a moment, the TV playing softly in the background—some news story about traffic or weather or something equally mundane. The living room was exactly how Seonghyeon remembered it. Family photos covering the walls—him and his sister as kids, gap-toothed and sunburned from some beach trip. School pictures with terrible haircuts. A few from his trainee days, when he still looked so young and unsure. His debut photo, professionally done, where he was trying so hard to look confident.

The couch he'd spent countless hours on, playing video games with friends or napping after school or studying for exams he'd barely passed. The TV his dad always watched the news on. The coffee table with a permanent water ring on one corner from where Seonghyeon had set down a glass and forgotten to use a coaster.

Everything familiar. Everything exactly as he'd left it.

"Your mom's been cooking since six this morning," his dad said, sitting back down. "She's very excited."

"I can tell."

"She also keeps checking her phone for some reason. Keeps stepping out to make calls." His dad raised an eyebrow. "You know anything about that?"

Seonghyeon's stomach flipped slightly. "No?"

"Hmm." His dad didn't look convinced, but he didn't push. "Well, whatever it is, she's being very secretive about it."

Before Seonghyeon could respond, his mom called from the kitchen. "Seonghyeon-ah! Come sit! Food's almost ready!"

He glanced at his dad, who just smiled and waved him off. "Go. Don't keep her waiting."

Seonghyeon walked back to the kitchen, pulling out his usual chair at the table. It was slightly more worn than the others because it was his chair—and watched his mom move around the kitchen with practiced ease.

She'd done this a million times. Cooked in this kitchen, in this house, for him and his sister and his dad.

She stirred pots, checked temperatures, tasted things and adjusted seasonings. Humming softly under her breath—some old trot song from when she was younger, one he'd heard a thousand times but never knew the name of.

It was so normal. So routine and so mom.

And it made his chest ache because he'd missed this. He'd missed being here, in this kitchen, watching her cook. He'd missed the smell and the warmth and the feeling of being taken care of. James hyung did take care of them well, but a lot of the time, it was a split effort between the two of them. Now, it was his time to be babied the way he learned it from the people he learned it from.

"So," she said casually, not looking at him, stirring the jjigae. "How are you feeling? Really."

Seonghyeon picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. His hoodie was old, starting to fray at the cuffs. "I'm okay."

"Seonghyeon."

He exhaled, long and slow. "I don't know, Mom. I just... I thought today would feel different, you know?"

She turned to look at him, wooden spoon in hand, steam still rising from the pot behind her. "Different how?"

He shrugged, suddenly feeling stupid. Like a kid complaining about something that didn't matter. "I don't know. Special, maybe? But it just feels... normal. Like any other day."

That wasn't entirely true.

It felt worse than any other day because you hadn't texted him and he was trying really hard not to spiral about it in his childhood kitchen while his mom made him birthday food.

It felt like you were just a really good dream he happened to wake up from.

His mom set down the spoon carefully, turning off the burner. She came to sit across from him, pulling out the chair that used to be his sister's. "Birthdays can be weird sometimes. Especially when you're far from the people you want to be with."

His throat tightened. "Yeah."

She reached across the table, covering his hand with hers. Her hands were small, wrinkled slightly, warm from cooking. "She loves you, you know. Your girlfriend."

He looked up, surprised. "How do you—I never told you—"

"Seonghyeon, you talk about her constantly," his mom said with a small smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. "And I saw the pictures from Christmas. And when you talked about the trip." She squeezed his hand. "That's not nothing."

His face heated. "I don't talk about her constantly—"

"You do. Every time we talk on the phone. 'She said this,' 'she did that,' 'you should see what she sent me.'" His mom's smile widened. "It's sweet. I'm happy you found someone who makes you that happy."

"She hasn't texted me," he admitted quietly, staring at their joined hands. "Not once. And it's my birthday."

His mom's expression shifted. There was something flickered across her face that he couldn't quite read. Her eyes darted away for just a second before coming back to his. Was that... guilt? Nervousness? She bit her lip slightly, like she was holding something back. "Maybe she's planning something."

"That's what everyone keeps saying."

"Because it's probably true." Her voice was oddly firm, like she was trying to convince him of something she knew for certain.

He pulled his hand back, rubbing his face with both palms. His skin felt hot despite the cold outside. "Or maybe she just... forgot. Or doesn't care. Or she's realized that long distance is too hard and she doesn't want to deal with it anymore—"

"Or maybe," his mom interrupted, standing quickly and returning to the stove with an energy that felt almost nervous, "you need to have a little faith in her. Trust me on this one, okay?"

There was something in her voice—something he couldn't quite place. Like she knew more than she was letting on.

But before he could ask, his phone buzzed.

He practically lunged for it.

dear sister jiji 🐷 [Tue, Jan 13, 11:47 AM] running late be there in 30 also i got u a present but its dumb so dont get excited

He smiled despite himself, the tightness in his chest loosening just slightly.

You [Tue, Jan 13, 11:48 AM] cant wait to see what dumb thing u got me

dear sister jiji 🐷 [Tue, Jan 13, 11:48 AM] its a t shirt that says "i peaked in 2009" bc u were born that year get it

You [Tue, Jan 13, 11:49 AM] i hate u

dear sister jiji 🐷 [Tue, Jan 13, 11:49 AM] love u too loser see u soon oppa

He put his phone down on the table, shaking his head but smiling.

His mom noticed and glanced over her shoulder. "Eunji?"

"Yeah. She got me a stupid shirt."

His mom laughed—that bright, warm sound that filled the kitchen. "Of course she did. That sounds exactly like her."

JANUARY 13 — 12:15 PM KST

Seonghyeon's mom's phone rang just as she was plating the bulgogi.

She glanced at the screen, and something flickered across her face—something quick, almost imperceptible, but Seonghyeon caught it anyway. Her eyes widened just slightly before she schooled her expression back to normal.

"Oh," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "I need to take this."

She stepped out of the kitchen, phone pressed to her ear, voice dropping to a murmur he couldn't quite make out. Seonghyeon watched her go, that strange feeling in his gut intensifying. The same one he'd had all morning, like something was off but he couldn't figure out what.

His dad was still in the living room, the distant sound of the news anchor's voice drifting through. Seonghyeon sat alone at the kitchen table, staring at the birthday cake, at all the food his mom had made, feeling like he should be happier than he was.

His phone sat face-up on the table. Still nothing.

He picked it up anyway, unlocking it for the hundredth time today, thumb hovering over your contact. Maybe he should just call. Maybe he should—

"Seonghyeon-ah!"

His mom rushed back into the kitchen, phone still in her hand, that same weird energy from earlier back in full force. She was moving quickly, untying her apron, glancing at the clock on the microwave.

"What's wrong?" Seonghyeon sat up straighter, alarm prickling at the back of his neck.

"Nothing's wrong! I just—" She paused, biting her lip. "I need to go pick something up. For your birthday. I completely forgot and the store closes early today and—"

"Mom, it's fine," Seonghyeon said immediately. "You don't have to—"

"No, no, I want to. It's important." She was already grabbing her purse from the counter, her coat from the rack. "Your dad's here, and lunch is ready, so just eat without me, okay? I'll be back soon."

"Are you sure? I can come with—"

"No!" She said it too quickly, too forcefully, and then seemed to catch herself. Her voice softened. "No, honey. You stay here and relax. It's your birthday. I'll be quick, I promise."

There was something in her voice, in the way she wouldn't quite meet his eyes, that made his stomach twist. But before he could question it further, she was already heading toward the door.

"Mom—"

"I'll be back before you know it!" she called over her shoulder. "Eat! Don't wait for me!"

And then she was gone. The door clicked shut behind her, and Seonghyeon was left sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the space where she'd been, that uneasy feeling settling deeper into his chest.

Something was definitely going on.

He just had no idea what.

MEANWHILE — 12:20 PM KST

You were sitting in the passenger seat of Mrs. Eom's car, hands twisted together in your lap, heart beating so hard you could feel it in your freaking throat.

This was happening. This was actually happening.

Mrs. Eom glanced over at you as she pulled out of the driveway, a warm smile on her face. She looked exactly like the pictures Seonghyeon had shown you—kind eyes, the same dimples, that same soft energy that made you feel instantly comfortable even though you'd only met her two hours ago.

"You okay, sweetheart?" she asked gently.

"I think I'm gonna throw up," you admitted, then immediately felt embarrassed. "Sorry, that's—I'm kidding. I'm fine. I'm good. I'm just—"

"Nervous," she finished. She laughed softly. "I know. But trust me, he's going to be so happy."

You nodded, pressing a hand to your stomach. You were wearing the outfit you'd agonized over for days—a soft cream-colored sweater that hung perfectly off one shoulder, your favorite jeans that actually made your butt look good while wearing a puffer, and the little star necklace he'd given you at Christmas resting right at your collarbone. You'd done your makeup on the plane (which was insane and probably looked terrible under the bathroom lighting, but you'd touched it up at the airport).

You wanted to impress his members, his family, him. You'd changed three times at his house before his sister told you to "stop being insane and just wear the first outfit."

His sister. God, his sister was hilarious. She'd been at the airport with his mom when you landed, holding a sign that said "NEW YORK GIRL" in big letters, and you'd nearly cried right there in the arrivals terminal. She was fourteen. She was loud, and had immediately started teasing you about how "down bad" her brother was, which made you want to die but also laugh at the same time.

"He's been talking about you nonstop," his sister had said in the car ride from the airport to their house, twisting around in the front seat to look at you. "Like, it's actually annoying. 'She said this,' 'she did that.' I'm pretty sure he dreams about you."

"Eunjin," Mrs. Eom had warned. She was smiling pretty big though.

"What? I'm just saying! He's obsessed. It's embarrassing."

And now you were in the car, driving to some dance studio where apparently the members were waiting, where apparently they'd all planned this elaborate surprise, where apparently you were about to see Seonghyeon for the first time in weeks and you were absolutely going to pass out.

"They're all really excited to meet you," Mrs. Eom said, turning onto a main road. Seoul blurred past the windows—tall buildings, busy streets, signs in Hangul you were slowly learning to read. Everything felt surreal. Like you were in a dream. "The boys, I mean. They've heard a lot about you too."

"Oh god," you muttered and covered your face with your hands. "That's terrifying."

She laughed, reaching over to pat your knee. "Don't be scared. They're sweet. And they love Seonghyeon, which means they're going to love you."

You dropped your hands, staring out the window. Your phone was still on airplane mode—had been since you landed. You hadn't texted him. Hadn't called. The plan was to keep him completely in the dark until the very last second.

But holy, it was killing you.

"Does he... does he seem okay?" you asked quietly. "Like, has he been—"

"Worried," Mrs. Eom responded gently. "He's been worried. He thinks something's wrong."

Guilt punched through your chest. "I know. I hate that I made him feel that way."

"But you're here," she reminded you and glanced over with a soft smile. "You flew across the world for him. That's going to mean everything."

You nodded, swallowing hard.

The dance studio was in the most K-Pop looking building you would've walked right past if Mrs. Eom hadn't pointed it out—unassuming, tucked between a convenience store and a café. It had the words "HYBE" in big letters and it hit you that this is where so many famous people honed their skills and that was just so cool.. She pulled into a parking spot in the garage, and your hands started shaking.

"Okay," you breathed out. "Okay. I can do this."

"You can absolutely do this." Mrs. Eom squeezed your hand once before unbuckling her seatbelt. "Come on. They're waiting."

You grabbed your bag—the one with Seonghyeon's birthday present carefully wrapped inside—and followed her to a back entrance. She punched in a code on the keypad, and the door clicked open.

The hallway inside was narrow, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, walls covered in posters for dance classes and auditions. It smelled like cleaning products and sweat and that specific studio smell of wood floors and rubber mats. Your boots squeaked slightly on the linoleum as you followed Mrs. Eom down the hall.

Music thumped behind one of the doors—something bass-heavy, muffled. She led you past it to another door at the very end, this one slightly ajar, warm light spilling out into the hallway.

She pushed it open.

And you immediately had to press your hand to your mouth to keep from bursting out laughing. Because there, in the middle of the dance studio, were four fully grown dudes dressed as acai bowls.

They were not... cute, stylized acai bowls. These shits were like full-body costumes. Purple fabric bodies with foam pieces attached to look like blueberries and strawberries and granola. They had literal bowls on their heads. Actual bowls. With foam fruit glued to them.

The studio itself was bigger than you expected, meaning the boys made it look smaller in their dance videos and vlogs. There were wall-to-wall mirrors on one side, a few chairs and bags scattered along the edges, fluorescent lights bright overhead. And in the corner, you noticed a small camera crew. Maybe three or four staff members setting up equipment, adjusting tripods, checking lighting. One of them noticed you staring and gave you a friendly nod.

One of the members—fucking tall, broad shoulders, had to be Martin based on Seonghyeon's descriptions and what you'd seen—was adjusting his strawberry piece, which kept sliding down over his eyes.

Another one—James, you recognized him from FaceTime—was doing some kind of ridiculous dance move, his banana slice flopping with each movement. He had this loud, energetic presence that filled the whole room even in a foam fruit costume.

Juhoon was taking a selfie in the mirror, tongue out, peace signs up, fully committed to the bit.

And Keonho—baby-faced, the maknae, Seonghyeon's roommate and best friend—was lying on the floor in his costume like he'd given up on life, the biggest smile on his face despite his defeated pose.

They all froze when they saw you.

"Oh shit," Martin said, straightening up. His strawberry fell off completely. "Is that—"

"NEW YORK GIRL!" Keonho shot up from the floor so fast his granola pieces went flying.

You couldn't help it. You laughed—actually laughed, the sound bursting out of you before you could stop it, some of the nervous energy finally breaking. "Oh my god. Oh my god, what are you guys wearing?"

"We're acai bowls!" James announced proudly, striking a pose. His costume was even more ridiculous up close—he had a spoon attached to his hand. His voice was loud. It carried across the studio with this infectious energy. "For Seonghyeon! It's his favorite!"

"I can see that," you managed, still laughing. Your hand was pressed to your stomach because it was starting to hurt. "This is—wow. This is so sick."

"See?" Juhoon turned to Martin, and you were struck by how perfect his English was—clear, almost unaccented. "I told you she'd think it was funny."

"I never said she wouldn't—my concern was that we look absolutely insane—" Martin was trying to pick up his fallen strawberry, but it kept slipping out of his hands because he was wearing foam gloves shaped like spoons.

Mrs. Eom was already moving across the studio, setting her purse down on one of the chairs lined against the mirror. "Boys, this is—"

"Yes, yes. We know who she is," Keonho interrupted, and before you could process what was happening, he was right in front of you, acai bowl costume and all. He was grinning so wide his eyes disappeared into little crescents. God, he was smiley. Like, aggressively cheerful. "Seonghyeon literally never shuts up about you. I'm Keonho."

"I know," you said, smiling back. He reminded you so much of Mateo—pure sunshine and loudness. "He talks about you too. A lot."

"Good things?"

"Debatable."

He gasped and pressed a foam hand to his chest. "Slander! I'm a delight!"

"He said you snore," you added.

"WHAT—okay that's—that's personal information—"

The others had gathered around now, and it hit you suddenly that these were Seonghyeon's people. His members. His brothers. The guys he lived with, performed with, trusted with everything. And they were standing here in acai bowl costumes, looking at you with this mix of curiosity and warmth that made your chest feel tight.

Also—they were tall. Like, taller than they looked in pictures. You'd seen them in videos, in photos Seonghyeon sent, but standing in front of them was different. Martin especially—broad-shouldered and solid in a way that photographs didn't quite capture.

"I'm Martin," he said, finally giving up on his strawberry and just holding it. He had a nice smile, almost as cute as Seonghyeon's. His voice had the slightest Canadian accent underneath the Korean. "It's really nice to finally meet you. Seriously."

"You too," you said, meaning it. "Seonghyeon's told me so much about you guys."

"All good things, I hope," James chimed in. He adjusted his bowl-hat. He moved with this dancer's grace even in the ridiculous costume. It was almost like he couldn't help but make everything look fluid and intentional.

"Mostly."

They all laughed at that, and something in the room settled. The initial awkwardness, the nervousness—it dissolved into something easier.

"Okay but real talk," Juhoon said, stepping closer. He was shorter than the others, with this sharp, fox-like face that reminded you of a K-drama second lead. "How the hell did you pull this off? Like—he has no idea you're here?"

"No idea," you confirmed, biting your lip. "I've been dodging his calls for days. He probably thinks I hate him."

"Oh, he definitely thinks that," Keonho said matter-of-factly. "He's been spiraling. Like, bad. This morning he couldn't even eat breakfast."

Your stomach dropped. "Really?"

"Really," Martin confirmed and nodded solemnly. "But that just means this is gonna hit even harder. In a good way."

"He's gonna cry," James said confidently and threw his arms up dramatically. "Like, ugly cry. I'm talking full breakdown. Worse than at our debut party."

"Please don't make me nervous," you groaned, pressing your hands to your face. "I've seen the vlog and he cried pretty badly. That's gonna kill me, bruh."

"No, no—it's a good thing!" Keonho grabbed your shoulders, his foam hands making it awkward. "He needs this. He's been miserable. And you're here. You flew across the world for him. That's—" He paused, something genuine breaking through his teasing. "That's really cool. Like, genuinely."

You felt your throat tighten. "I just... I wanted to be here. For his birthday."

"And you are," Mrs. Eom said from behind you. Her was voice so sweet it comforted your nerves somewhat. "He's going to be so happy, sweetheart."

One of the staff members—a guy with a camera, maybe mid-thirties—approached with a friendly smile. "Don't worry about us, by the way," he said in English, gesturing to the equipment. "We won't start filming until after you guys... you know. Reunite. This part is private."

"Oh—thank you," you managed, relief flooding through you. The last thing you needed was cameras in your face while you were trying not to cry.

"When's he getting here?" you asked, glancing at the clock on the wall. 12:47 PM.

"Should be soon," Martin said, pulling out his phone. "Minjae-hyung texted like ten minutes ago. They're on their way."

Your heart kicked into overdrive. "Oh god. Okay. Okay."

"You good?" Juhoon asked, eyebrows raised. His English was so smooth it almost startled you.

"No," you admitted. "I think I'm gonna pass out."

"Don't pass out in the studio," Keonho said seriously, that smile never leaving his face. "The floors are really hard. Pass out on the mats at least."

You laughed despite yourself, some of the panic easing. These guys were exactly how Seonghyeon had described them—loud, funny, but genuine. Cozy in a way that made you feel like maybe you belonged here, in this weird little moment, waiting to surprise your boyfriend in a room full of boys dressed as acai bowls.

"Here." James handed you a water bottle from his bag. His were movements sharp and precise even when he was just being helpful. "Hydrate. You look like you're about to vibrate out of your skin."

"I feel like I'm about to vibrate out of your skin," you muttered, taking it gratefully. Your hands were shaking so badly the bottle almost slipped right through your fingers. You took a sip, the cold water doing absolutely nothing to calm your racing heart.

"That's normal," Martin assured you, adjusting one of his foam strawberry pieces that kept sliding. "Just breathe. It's gonna be fine."

"Wait—" You turned suddenly to the mirror, panic spiking. "Wait, how do I look? Do I look okay? Oh god—"

You stared at your reflection, frantically smoothing down your sweater, adjusting how it sat on your shoulder. The cream fabric looked good, right? It wasn't wrinkled from the flight? Your hair—you reached up, tucking a strand behind your ear, then pulling it back out because maybe it looked better down.

You touched the star necklace he'd given you at Christmas, making sure it was centered, the little gold star catching the fluorescent light. Checked your makeup—still intact, somehow, despite the fifteen-hour flight and the crying you'd done in the airport bathroom earlier. Your cheeks were flushed, eyes wide and anxious. You looked terrified. You looked like someone about to confess a crime.

"You look great," Juhoon said immediately, his English so natural. This guy was so cool, you had to admit. You were planning on telling him you thought his blond hair looked really good on him but you were too busy freaking out. "Seriously. He's gonna lose his mind."

"You think?"

"I know," Martin confirmed, and there was something so genuine in his voice that it made you believe him. "Trust us. You look perfect."

Mrs. Eom's phone buzzed. She glanced at it. And then looked up at you with a smile that was both excited and a little emotional, eyes glistening slightly. "They're five minutes away."

Five minutes.

You were going to see him in five minutes.

The reality of it hit you like a physical force. After weeks of missing him, of falling asleep holding your phone hoping he'd call, of wearing his hoodies to feel close to him, of counting down the days on your calendar—he was going to be here. In this room. In five minutes.

"Oh god." You set the water bottle down on the floor before you dropped it. Your hands trembled so badly now that you had to press them together. "Oh god, okay. What do I—where do I—"

Your breathing was getting faster. Shallow. You could feel the panic rising in your chest like a wave.

"Hey, hey—" Martin stepped closer. Despite his figure, his voice was sweet. "You're okay. Just breathe."

"I can't—I'm gonna—what if he's actually mad? What if he doesn't want to see me? What if I ruined his birthday by making him worry—"

"He's not mad," Keonho interrupted firmly, crouching down slightly to meet your eyes. "I promise you, he's not mad. He's just been worried. But the second he sees you, all of that is gonna go poof. For real."

You nodded and tried so hard to believe him. Trying to calm your racing heart.

"Okay, okay—new plan," Keonho said suddenly, eyes lighting up with an idea that you could tell was either genius or completely off the rails. "We're turning off the lights."

"What?" you and Martin said at the same time.

"The cake—" Keonho was already moving, gesturing wildly with his foam hands, the granola pieces bouncing. "We light the candles on the cake, turn off all the lights. When he walks in, he won't see her until she's right next to him. You know, until his eyes adjust or whatever."

"Oh my god, that's actually genius," James said, immediately on board, already scanning the room for the light switches.

"What... that's terrifying," you added, voice small.

"That's perfect," Juhoon corrected, grinning wide, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

They were already moving—Martin grabbed the cake from where it sat on one of the chairs against the mirror (a chocolate cake, not with "Happy Birthday Seonghyeon!" written in careful blue icing, but a printed image of him on top with little frosting flowers decorating the edges), Keonho was rummaging through someone's bag and emerging victorious with a pack of birthday candles, James was at the light switch doing a test run—flicking them off and on, off and on.

"Here—" Juhoon guided you gently by the shoulders to a spot near where they'd set the cake down on a small table they'd pulled to the center of the room. His hands were warm even through the ridiculous costume. "You stand here. We'll be around you but slightly back. When he walks in and his eyes adjust, you'll be the first thing he sees. Well—after the candles."

Your hands were shaking as you watched them work with surprising efficiency despite the foam fruit attached to their bodies. Martin carefully pushed seventeen candles into the frosting—one for each year, he explained, plus one for good luck. Keonho produced a lighter from his pocket (why did he have a lighter? you didn't ask), and they lit each candle slowly, the small flames flickering to life one by one in the bright studio.

The camera crew had moved to the far corner, equipment ready but respectfully distant. One of them gave you a thumbs up.

Someone turned off the main lights, and suddenly the room was bathed in soft, warm candlelight. Everything looked different now—softer, dreamier. Way more intimate. The members' faces glowed orange in the flickering light, their ridiculous costumes somehow looking more surreal, almost magical in the dim glow. The mirrors reflected the candles back at you.

"Okay," Martin whispered, even though Seonghyeon wasn't here yet. His voice was barely audible. "Positions."

They spread out slightly behind you, creating a semi-circle, their foam fruit catching the candlelight and casting strange shadows on the walls. You could hear their breathing. Could feel their excitement mixing with yours.

You stood there, hands clasped in front of you to keep them from shaking, staring at the cake, at the seventeen tiny flames dancing in the darkness. Your heart was beating so hard you could feel it in your throat, in your fingertips, in your ears.

This was it.

This was actually it.

"Two minutes," Mrs. Eom whispered from somewhere behind you, her voice barely more than a breath.

You could hear your heartbeat in your ears now, loud and insistent. You could feel each breath entering and leaving your lungs—too fast, too shallow. You tried to slow it down. Tried to breathe like Martin had told you. In through your nose, out through your mouth. But it wasn't working. Nothing was working. Your entire body was vibrating with nervous energy.

One minute. Oh god. Oh god, this was real.

You were really here. In Seoul. In a dance studio. About to surprise your boyfriend who thought you'd been ignoring him for days.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway made everyone freeze.

Voices. Multiple voices. Getting closer. His voice.

Oh god. That was him. That was actually, truly, really him.

Your entire body went rigid, every muscle tensing. You stopped breathing. Your hands gripped each other so tightly your knuckles went white.

The door handle turned. Everything felt like it was happening in slow motion and too fast all at once.

"—I still don't understand why we're at the studio," Seonghyeon's voice carried through, muffled by the door but so achingly familiar it made your chest physically hurt. "Mom said she was picking something up for my birthday but—"

The door opened. And there he was.

He stepped inside, and even though it was dark, even though you could barely see him, you knew every line of his silhouette. The familiar shape of him, the height, the way he stood with his weight slightly on his left leg. The way his head tilted when he was confused.

He stopped, clearly confused by the darkness, hand still on the door handle.

"Why are the lights—"

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" the members shouted in unison, and you saw him jump slightly, actually startled, his whole body jerking back.

His mouth did that smile twitch thing and he had the most adorable confused and happy look on his face that you were absolutely in love with.

His eyes were adjusting to the darkness, scanning the room. They landed on the cake first, on the seventeen flickering candles, then moved to scan the figures surrounding it, the ridiculous acai bowl costumes gradually becoming visible in the dim light.

"What the—are you guys—" He started laughing. And the sound went straight through you like electricity. That surprised, genuine laugh that you'd missed so much it physically hurt. "Are you dressed as acai bowls?"

"Obviously," Keonho said. He was trying to sound serious but you could hear the smile in his voice.

Seonghyeon stepped closer, still laughing, shaking his head in disbelief. "This is insane. You guys are—"

And that's when you moved.

You stepped forward, right next to the cake, the candlelight illuminating your face. You could feel the warmth of the flames on your cheeks. Could see him more clearly now that he was closer—could make out his features in the flickering light.

You looked directly at him, met his eyes in the dim light, and said softly:

"Hi. Make a wish."

Everything stopped.

His laughter cut off mid-sound like someone had physically pressed pause. His whole body went completely, utterly still. You watched his face in the flickering candlelight—watched his expression shift from confusion to recognition to complete and total disbelief. Like his brain was physically being fried, like every thought had just evacuated his head simultaneously.

He stared at you, like just stared. His mouth was slightly open, frozen mid-laugh. Eyes wide, unblinking, reflecting the candlelight. His hand was still raised from where he'd been gesturing while talking.

You smiled, nervous and hopeful and terrified. You were so full of love you thought you might actually burst. "Hi."

He didn't move. Didn't speak. Fuck, he didn't even seem to breathe. Just kept staring like you were a ghost, like you were something his brain couldn't possibly process as real.

At this point, you were sort of stressing out. Like did he really hate you so much now? Did he even care?

"Hyung," Keonho whispered from behind you, voice amused and gentle. "You gotta blow out the candles."

But as you stared longer, you realized the look in his eyes wasn't negative. It was this look of pure adoration that the members had only ever seen him give you. On FaceTime, looking at your pictures—even now.

Seonghyeon's eyes didn't leave yours. Like he was afraid if he looked away for even a second you'd disappear. As if you'd shimmer and fade and prove you were just a hallucination his desperate brain had created.

Slowly—so slowly it felt like watching someone move through water—he leaned forward. He was still staring at you and still not blinking. And blew out the candles.

Darkness. Complete darkness for three long seconds.

And then—

"세상에—뭐야—잠깐—" Holy shit—what—wait— the Korean tumbled out of him in this rushed, panicked string. His voice was high and breathless and breaking. You could hear him moving in the darkness, could hear the members trying not to laugh. "Ige mwoya?!"

"Someone turn the lights on please what the hell—" His voice cracked completely. "Turn the lights on—I can't—I need to—"

James hit the switch.

Fluorescent lights flooded the studio, bright and sudden and almost harsh after the gentle candlelight. You blinked against the sudden brightness, and when your eyes adjusted—

There he was. Really, truly, actually there.

And god, he looked so good it made your chest ache.

He was wearing this heather grey hoodie paired with a dark leather jacket that on anyone else would've looked like a weird combination but on him it just worked. It was so perfectly him—effortlessly swag in that way he never seemed to try for but always achieved.

His hair was fluffy and soft-looking, brown hair catching the fluorescent light, pushed back slightly like he'd run his hands through it too many times.

Pure.

That's the word that came to mind. He looked pure and soft and beautiful and so heartbreakingly familiar.

And his face—

His hands had come up to cover his mouth, fingers pressed against his lips like he was trying to hold something in. His eyes were already filling with tears. They were glassy and wide and disbelieving. You could see his chest rising and falling rapidly, could see him trying to process what he was seeing, trying to make sense of it.

Your heart was physically aching at the sight.

"Oh my god," he whispered through his fingers, voice muffled and broken. "Oh my god, you're—you're actually—"

His voice broke completely.

And then he was moving.

Crossing the space between you in three long strides, and you barely had time to breathe before he was grabbing you, pulling you into him with this desperate urgency that knocked the air from your lungs. His arms wrapped around you so tightly you couldn't breathe, couldn't move, could barely think. One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. The other wrapped around your waist, holding you against him like he was afraid you'd slip away.

His face buried in your neck immediately, and you felt him inhale—deep and shaky, like he was trying to convince himself you were real through scent alone.

"You're here," he whispered against your skin. His voice was barely audible, cracking on the second word. "You're actually here, you're real, you're—"

"I'm here," you whispered back, your own voice breaking. Your arms wrapped around him just as tightly, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, fingers sliding into his soft hair. "I'm here, I'm so sorry, I'm here—"

He didn't say anything else. Seonghyeon ust held you. His breathing was uneven against your neck, stuttering slightly, and you realized he was trying not to fall apart completely.

After a moment that felt like both seconds and hours, he pulled back. Just enough to look at your face, hands coming up to cup your cheeks.

And that's when you saw it.

His face was wet. Silent tears streaming down his cheeks, catching the fluorescent light. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, filled with so much emotion it made your chest physically hurt. But it was his expression that broke you—his eyebrows drawn together, mouth pressed into a tight line like he was trying so hard to hold it together and failing. His face was twisted with something that looked like relief and sadness and disbelief all at once.

He looked devastated and wrecked. Like seeing you had cracked something open inside him that he'd been holding closed for days.

"Oh, babe—" Your own eyes immediately filled with tears at the sight of him. "Oh my god, don't—"

But you were crying too now, unable to stop it.

Your hands came up slowly, covering his where they held your face, and then you moved them gently, bringing your own hands to his cheeks instead. His skin was warm and wet under your palms. You brushed your thumbs across his cheekbones slowly, carefully, catching the tears that kept falling.

He closed his eyes at your touch, face crumpling further, and more tears slipped out from under his lashes.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, voice thick. "I'm so sorry I made you worry—"

"I thought—" His voice came out strangled. He opened his eyes, and they were so full of hurt and relief it made you ache. "I thought you were done. I thought I did something and you didn't want—" He couldn't finish, jaw clenching as he tried to keep his composure.

"No," you said firmly, thumbs still moving gently across his cheeks, wiping away tears that kept coming. "Never. I was planning this. I wanted to surprise you. I'm so sorry, I should've—"

"You're here," he interrupted, voice barely above a whisper. Like he still couldn't believe it. Like he had to keep saying it to make it real. His hands found your waist again, gripping like you might disappear. "You're in Korea. You're actually in Korea. For my birthday."

"Happy birthday, baby," you whispered, trying to smile through your tears.

He let out a breath that was half laugh and half sob, and pulled you back into him. This time gentler, but no less desperate. His face found your neck again, and you felt him just breathe you in, his shoulders finally relaxing slightly under your hands.

"I love you," he mumbled against your skin, voice raw and honest and so quiet you almost didn't hear it. "I love you a lot."

"I love you too," you said immediately, fingers tightening in his hair. "I love you too."

You did. You loved him so much it hurt. You just wanted to smoosh him until he was just a little ball of Seonghyeon.

You stood there, holding each other. You were both crying quietly. You could feel his heartbeat against your chest, racing just as fast as yours. You could feel the warmth of him. With you. You could feel the slight tremor in his hands where they gripped your sweater.

Someone sniffled loudly behind you.

"Oh my god," Martin's voice, thick with emotion. "I can't handle this."

"I told you he'd cry," James said, but his voice was wobbly too.

Seonghyeon finally pulled back again, and this time he smiled—small and watery and so beautiful it made your heart stutter. His hands came back to your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones the same way yours had brushed his.

"You flew here," he said, voice full of wonder. But it was still a little broken. "You actually flew across the world. For me."

"Of course I did," you said, like it was obvious. Like there was never any other option. Your hands moved to his wrists, holding them gently. "It's your birthday."

"But you—the texts, the calls—you let me think—" His voice cracked again, and more tears threatened to spill.

"I know," you said quickly and urgently. "I know, and I'm so sorry. I was trying not to ruin the surprise, but I made you think something was wrong and I—"

"I don't care," he interrupted, shaking his head. A few tears escaped, sliding down his cheeks. "I don't care, you're here, that's all that matters." His voice dropped to a whisper, just for you. "You're actually here."

"I'm actually here," you confirmed, smiling through your own tears.

He looked at you for another long moment, eyes scanning your face like he was still trying to convince himself this was real. Then his gaze dropped to your neck, landing on the star necklace.

"You're wearing it," he said softly, reaching up to touch the little gold star with gentle fingers. His voice sounded almost awed.

"I haven't taken it off since Christmas," you admitted.

His face did that thing again—that slight crumpling, eyebrows drawing together. He bit his lip, looking down for a second like he needed to collect himself.

"Hey," you said softly, bringing one hand back to his face, cupping his jaw. "It's okay. I'm really here."

He nodded, leaning into your touch, and when he looked back up his eyes were clearer. Still wet, still emotional... but clearer. "I can't believe you're here," he said. His voice was somewhat steadier now. "Like you actually came to me."

"Better believe it," you whispered.

And then he kissed you.

It was so loving and desperate and a little salty from both your tears. His hands slid from your face to your waist, pulling you closer, and you melted into him. It was different from seeing him over FaceTime, different from the memories you'd been replaying for weeks. This was real life. Where he lived, not NYC.

His lips moved against yours slowly, carefully, like he was savoring it.

He breathed you in and pulled you even closer suddently. You jumped a little and you could feel his lips starting to smile and his thumb rubbing circles on your waist.

Behind you, someone—definitely Keonho—wolf-whistled.

Seonghyeon pulled back, face flushed. A real smile finally broke through. He still looked wrecked. His eyes were red, cheeks tear-stained—but he was smiling. That dimpled, genuine smile you'd missed so much.

He turned slightly, keeping one arm around your waist like he still needed to touch you to believe you were real, and finally seemed to remember that you weren't alone.

The members were all crying.

Not like—a little misty-eyed. Full-on crying. Martin had his hands over his face. James was wiping his eyes with his foam banana. Juhoon was filming on his phone smiling. Keonho wasn't even trying to hide it, just standing there in his acai bowl costume with tears streaming down his face, grinning like an idiot.

Mrs. Eom was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, smiling so wide she looked identical to Seonghyeon.

"You guys are so weird," Seonghyeon said, but his voice was fond, and thick with emotion.

"Shut up, this is beautiful," Keonho defended, voice cracking. "Let us be emotional."

"I can't believe you're wearing acai bowl costumes?" you asked, finally processing it fully now that your brain was functioning again.

"For you!" James announced, gesturing at his outfit. "Well, for him. But he likes them because of you!"

Seonghyeon groaned, hiding his face in your shoulder. "I'm gonna kill them."

"Don't," you laughed, running your fingers through his hair gently. "This is the genuinely the funniest shit I've ever seen."

He lifted his head, looking at you with eyes that were still wet but so full of love it made your breath catch. "You planned this? All of it?"

"With help," you admitted, glancing at Mrs. Eom, who waved. "Your mom picked me up from the airport. Your sister was there too. They've been helping me all morning."

"My mom knew?" He turned to look at her. There was mock betrayal on his face even though he was smiling. "You knew?"

"Of course I knew!" she said, laughing, dabbing at her eyes again. "Who do you think helped coordinate this whole thing?"

"That's why you—the phone call earlier—" Understanding dawned on his face. "You were talking to her."

"I had to make sure we had the timing right," his mom confirmed.

Seonghyeon turned back to you, shaking his head in disbelief. One hand came up to your face again, thumb tracing your cheekbone gently. "I can't believe this. I can't believe you did this."

"Worth it?" you asked quietly.

"Worth it?" he repeated, voice incredulous. He let out a breath that was so in disbelief. "This is the best birthday I've ever had. You—" His voice caught slightly. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

Your heart cracked open and you pouted unintentionally.

"Don't make me cry again," you warned, but it was too late. Fresh tears were already gathering.

He wiped them away gently with his thumb, still looking at you like you'd hung every star in the sky. "I love you, man," he said again, softer this time. "I'm gonna say it like a million times today because I haven't been able to say it to your face in weeks."

"I love you too," you whispered back.

"Okay," Martin announced loudly, clearly trying to pull himself together. "As much as I love this—and I do, this is peak cinema—we should probably let them have a minute."

"Yes," Mrs. Eom agreed, ushering the members toward the door. "Come on, boys. Give them some space."

"But—" Keonho protested.

"Space," she repeated firmly, but she was smiling.

They filed out reluctantly, still in their costumes, Keonho looking back over his shoulder until the door closed behind him.

And then it was just you and Seonghyeon. In a dance studio in Seoul. On his birthday. Fucking finally.

He looked at you so deeply in your eyes and you swear he did that eye triangle thing. And he smiled—ugh, that dimpled, genuine smile you'd missed so desperately. "Hi."

"Hiii," you echoed, smiling back.

"This is insane," he said and pulled you back into his arms gently like he couldn't let you stray too far away. "You're insane. I can't believe you flew here."

"Well, you know what they say," you started. "I'd fly to a sneaky link." You referenced a meme that you guys joked was applicable to your situation.

"Bro." Seonghyeon closed his eyes and leaned on your shoulder. "I'm gonna pretend you didn't say that shit."

He rested his forehead against yours, eyes closing, and just breathed. "Best birthday ever."

"It's only 1 PM."

"Don't care," he hummed. "Nothing's topping this."

You stood there, wrapped up in each other, and for the first time in weeks, everything felt right. You felt complete.

"I have a present for you," you said after a while. "It's in my bag."

"You being here is enough," he said immediately.

"Yeah, well, you're getting both. Beggars can't be chooser."

He laughed—that sound you'd missed so much—and kissed your forehead softly. "Okay. But later. Right now I just want to stare at you."

So you let him. Stood there in the middle of the dance studio, his arms around you, his eyes on your face, both of you smiling.

He tucked a few stray hairs behind your ear and pouted jokingly.

"My girl."

And suddenly all the pain of ghosting him for that second was worth it.

Seonghyeon didn’t let you go for a long time. The dance studio stopped feeling like a place people sweated in and started feeling like a tiny world you had fallen into by accident. The mirrors and scuffed floor and harsh lights all faded into background noise.

His jacket was soft against your cheek and the collar of his hoodie was still a little damp from tears. Every time you shifted, his grip adjusted. His hand slid up your back or curled in your sweater like his body did not trust you not to vanish.

Eventually his breathing evened out. The little shuddery exhales turned into slow, steady ones. Your heartbeat calmed from full panic to something you could manage. His fingers never really stopped. They traced slow circles at the small of your back, like he needed the motion to keep his brain grounded.

“How long are you staying?” he asked near your ear. His voice sounded quieter now.

You smiled into his shoulder. “Why? Trying to get rid of me already?”

He leaned back just enough to see your face. His hands stayed where they were, warm at your waist. “Shut up and answer the question.”

You hooked your arms around his neck and your thumbs caught on the neckline of his hoodie. His hair brushed over the backs of your fingers. “Five days,” you said. “I go back on Sunday.”

His face fell. His mouth opened a little. “Sunday?” he repeated, like you had told him you were leaving in an hour. “That’s so short.”

“I know.” You let your forehead rest against his. Your noses bumped softly. Up close, you could see faint lines at the corners of his eyes from crying so hard. “But it’s five days more than zero.”

He let out a breath. His fingers pressed a little harder into your sides. “I hate math. It’s not enough.”

“Then make them count,” you said. Your fingers slid up along his jaw. His skin felt warm, soft under your fingertips. “Mr. K‑pop idol.”

He scoffed at that. “Don’t call me that. I’m begging you.”

“Fine. Mr. Eomclown.”

He frowned. “Wow. Calling me a clown, now.”

“You started it.”

He stared at you for a second, then his mouth twitched. A small laugh slipped out through his nose. “Okay. Five days,” he said more to himself. His eyes dropped to your mouth for a moment, then met yours again. “You’re mine for five days.”

You felt that line everywhere in your body. “You say that like I wasn’t already,” you tried to joke.

Seonghyeon's gaze softened. “You weren’t here,” he said quietly. “Now you are. It’s different.”

He made you feel way, way, way too much. You hadnt even been here for a day and you already never wanted to leave. You looked away, your eyes skipping over the mirror and the pile of costumes in the corner.

“So what’s the plan, birthday boy?” you hummed. “Besides staring at me like a creep.”

He tilted his head, pretending to think. “First, we eat. You definitely didn’t much eat on the plane. Or in the car. Or here.”

You opened your mouth to argue. Right on cue, your stomach growled, loud in the quiet studio.

He laughed. But nothing was funny, because it was this low chuckle you fangirled at inside.

"Come here, I wanna show you something."

maddy speaks! —i did in fact reach tumblr's dumb 1000 block limit so click down below for continuation, sorry :) this is NOT a part two btw

⋮ ⌗ ┆EDWARDS MARTIN

Martin Edwards Park as your boyfriend is literally golden retriever plus music producer and it's incredibly messy but in the best way possible.

He loves to spam you with voice memos at 3AM like "BABE BABE listen to this beat I just made" and it's either the hardest thing you've ever heard or just him beatboxing for 45 seconds. And it makes you giggle every time. Either way he's sitting there in the dark waiting for your response like his life depends on it. If you say anything even remotely positive, he's screenshotting it and probably crying a little.

Height difference goes crazy with him. Dude is 6'3" so he's always leaning down to hear you, resting his chin on top of your head, using you as an armrest (even though you threaten to fade him every time). His ass thinks it's hilarious. You'll be trying to have a serious conversation and he's just there towering over you with that stupid fond smile that makes you forget why you were even mad.

Martin is tactile. In other words, clingy, touchy etc. Like cannot keep his hands to himself tactile. Always holding your hand, playing with your fingers, pulling you into random hugs from behind. In the studio he'll have you sit on his lap while he works, one arm around your waist, the other on the mouse, and he's fully multitasking like it's normal. If you try to move he's like "no, what are you doing?" without even looking away from the screen.

His love language is making you playlists. You'll wake up to a new Spotify playlist titled some random shit like "songs that remind me of ur face" or "for when i'm feining for u (i miss u x3000)" and it's 3 hours long. He's put thought into the order too, like it tells a story. And if you tell him you listened to it, he gets so hype—Martin will quiz you on your favorite songs and get fake offended if you skipped any.

Date nights are lowkey spontaneous and always involve music somehow. He'll be like "get dressed we're going out" and suddenly you're at this tiny underground show or some record store that's open till midnight. Or you'll just drive around aimlessly with the windows down, his hand on your thigh, aux cord privileges fully yours because he's obsessed with your music taste. Because, of course he loves everything his girlfriend does.

When he's producing for other artists or sunbae-nims he gets really in his head about it. Like he'll work himself to exhaustion and forget to eat. It's at a point where you've learned to just show up with food and sit with him quietly until he takes a break. He always pretends he's annoyed but pulls you into the biggest hug after and mumbles "thank you" into your hair.

Martin is so proud of you, it's almost embarrassing. He will hype you up for literally anything. You could send him a fit pic and he's posting it on his close friends like "LOOK AT MY GIRLFRIEND??? HELLO???" with 50 heart emojis. The members clown him for it constantly but he genuinely doesn't care because he looooves you into the next dimension.

He's also very thoughtful in ways that catch you off guard. He remembers every little thing you mention in passing. For example, you said you liked a specific snack once three months ago? He's buying it every time he sees it. You mentioned wanting to learn guitar? He's already ordered you one and cleared space in his schedule to teach you.

Arguments tend to be rare because he HATES conflict with you specifically. If something's wrong he wants to talk it out immediately, gets all serious and holds both your hands like "what's going on, baby, talk to me." He'll listen to everything you have to say without interrupting, and even if he disagrees he's so respectful about it. He also apologizes when he's wrong without making excuses because he's doesn't like bullshit.

Sometimes, his negative side does shine through. Martin can be overwhelming sometimes. Like his energy is a lot and there are days where you just need quiet and he's bouncing off the walls talking a mile a minute about seven different things. He doesn't always read the room well, especially when he's excited about something. You've had to tell him straight up "I need you to chill for a sec" and he gets it, but in the moment he just doesn't notice he's being too much.

He also has a tendency to overwork himself, especially with production. He'll stay up for 48 hours straight working on a track, forget to eat, ignore his health completely. You've found him passed out at his desk multiple times. When you try to get him to take breaks he gets frustrated, says he's "almost done" (he's never almost done). It's scary sometimes because you worry about him burning out but he's so driven he doesn't know how to stop.

When it's late and you're both tired, he gets extra sweet with you. He traces patterns on your skin absentmindedly, plays with your hair, asks you random deep questions like "do you think we knew each other in past lives?" He'll fight sleep just to stay up talking to you, even though he has practice early. When he finally does fall asleep he's got you locked in his arms like he's scared you'll disappear.

Also he's definitely the type to send you songs he's working on like "doesn't this remind you of us? it's goated, right" and it's the most beautiful thing you've ever heard and now you're crying at 2PM on a Wednesday. He acts all shy about it after like he didn't just create the soundtrack to your entire relationship.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ ZHAO YUFAN / JAMES

James is quiet in a way that makes you hyper-aware of everything he does. He's not awkward-quiet at all, just... incredibly selective. When he talks, it's because he actually has something to say, which makes people listen harder than they normally would.

He's like incredibly versatile in the sense that he can be the goofiest goober ever and also be so freaking intimidating (reference to him in the airport footage hello).

He's NOT a big texter but when he does text you it's either a full essay about something he's been thinking about OR just "i need to talk" at four in the morning with no context. You've learned both require immediate attention. The essays are him being vulnerable in the only way he knows how, and the random texts are him missing you badly but being too shy to say it outright.

James is big on quality time but in the most lowkey way. He doesn't need to be doing anything specific, he just wants you there, you know? You'll be sitting in the same room in complete silence, him working on music, you doing whatever, and he's fully content. Every so often he'll look over at you and smile to himself before going back to what he was doing. If you catch him, he gets so flustered and tries to play it off.

His pet names for you are either in Chinese or Thai and he REFUSES to tell you what they mean at first. You had to literally beg him for translations and even then he got all embarrassed about it even tho he was the one who made them. Now you use them back and he malfunctions every single time, tries to hide his face because he's blushing too hard.

James shows love through acts of service in the most thoughtful ways. Your phone's always charged because he plugs it in without asking. There's always your favorite snacks stocked at his place. He notices when you're cold before you say anything and he's already handing you his hoodie. He'll tie your shoes if they come undone, fix your necklace clasp if it's twisted, move hair out of your face when you're eating. He never makes a big deal out of any of it, but he does baby you occasionally.

When he's comfortable, he's so funny in this really dry, sarcastic way that has you dying. He'll troll you with the straightest face and then crack up at your reaction. The members say you're the only person who can make him laugh that hard, and that's not something he takes lightly. Your laugh is literally his favorite sound.

Studio sessions with him are intimate in a way that's hard to explain. He'll let you sit in while he works, which the members say he NEVER does with anyone. He'll ask for your opinion on stuff and actually take it seriously, incorporate your ideas. Sometimes he'll just look over lyrics with you sitting in his lap, your head on his shoulder, and those are his most productive sessions because you ground him.

He's terrible at expressing feelings verbally but somehow always knows exactly what you need to hear. Like he'll say the most simple thing but it hits so hard because of the way he says it, the way he looks at you when the words leave his mouth. "I'm glad you're here" shouldn't make you wanna cry but when James says it you feel it.

Date nights are super chill. Cooking together at home, watching movies in languages you don't understand while he translates, late night drives where you just talk about everything and nothing. He's not about grand gestures, he's about making sure you feel loved in the small everyday moments.

With arguments, he's patient, listens to understand not just to respond, and takes accountability when he's wrong. He never raises his voice, never says things he doesn't mean. He is always honest if he has an issue which is good. If you need space he gives it, but always checks in to make sure you're okay.

But on a real note, James can be brutally honest to the point where it hurts sometimes. He doesn't sugarcoat anything, even when maybe he should. If you ask his opinion he's giving it to you straight, with zero filter whatsoever.

Sometimes you're not ready for that level of honesty and it stings. He's not trying to be mean, he genuinely thinks he's helping, but there are moments where you wish he'd be a little gentler with his words. When you tell him he hurt your feelings he gets quiet, processes it, then feels terrible about it. He's working on the delivery but old habits die hard.

He also has this habit of shutting down when he's going through something. You have to practically drag it out of him and even then he's reluctant. Says he doesn't want to burden you with his problems (even though you've told him a million times that's literally what you're there for). It's frustrating because you want to support him but he won't let you in during those times.

He's stupidly talented and acts like it's nothing. You'll mention wanting to learn something and he'll casually go, "I can show you," then proceed to be the most patient teacher alive. He never makes you feel dumb for not getting it right away, just keeps explaining different ways until it clicks.

James at night is your favorite version of him though. His guard is completely down, he's extra affectionate, says things he'd never say during the day. His texts get longer and more thoughtful. He'll send voice messages in Chinese or Thai, forgetting to translate until you remind him, then he laughs at himself—the most genuine sound you've learned to appreciate.

He tells you in detail how much you mean to him, how scared he was to let someone in because of things he's gone through but how grateful he is that it was you. He holds your face in his hands and kisses your forehead like you're the most precious thing in the world. Those moments feel like he's letting you see the version of himself he doesn't show the world, and it's genuinely everything.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ KIM JUHOON

Juhoon is the definition of "acts nonchalant but is actually such a cinnamon roll." He'll try to play it cool, but then you'll say something nice and he gets flustered so easily it's almost funny. His ears turn red before his face does, and he always tries to hide it by looking away or suddenly becoming very interested in his phone. it's so incredibly endearing you get emotional sometimes.

Height complex is real with him. He's 5'9" which is perfectly fine but Martin's existence haunts him daily. LOL. You've caught him standing up straighter around his leader multiple times. You think it's adorable and tell him so, which makes him whine and pout. But then you'll say you like his height because it's perfect for hugs and kissing and suddenly he's smug about it.

He has this competitive streak that comes out at random times. You'll be doing something completely mundane and he'll go, "Bet I can do it better," with a straight face. And then if he loses? He pouts.

Basketball Juhoon is something else entirely though. He gets all cocky and competitive, shows off his skills, flexes when he makes a good shot. If you're watching, he plays 10x better because he's trying to impress you (it works every time). After practice, he's sweaty and tired but still makes time to see you, still asks about your day even though he's exhausted.

He's SO good at making you feel heard. Like you'll be ranting about something that happened and he's giving you his full attention, nodding along, asking follow-up questions. Remembers details you don't even remember telling him. And he remembers details—talks about them days later in conversation, proving he wasn't just humoring you. Brings stuff up weeks later like "didn't you say you had that thing today? how'd it go?"

Juhoon asks about your day in this specific way that makes it clear he actually cares about the answer. He'll listen to you ramble about the most boring stuff and nod along like it's the most interesting thing he's heard all week. And he remembers details—brings them up days later in conversation, proving he wasn't just humoring you.

He's kind of protective without being overbearing. If you're walking together, he positions himself on the street side. If it's crowded, his hand hovers near your back to make sure you don't get separated. He never calls attention to it, just does it naturally like it's not even a conscious decision.

Date nights with Juhoon are thoughtful and planned. He's not spontaneous really, likes to have things figured out ahead of time. Takes you to places he thinks you'll like, always has a backup plan if something falls through. He literally gets nervous before dates still which is so cute because you're literally already together???

He's the worst at hiding his feelings, which is crazy because you'd think he'd be the best. If something's bothering him you can tell immediately. His energy shifts, he gets even quieter, zones out. When you ask him about it, he tries to act like it's nothing but breaks after like 30 seconds and tells you everything. He ends up feeling so much better after, always says "I don't know what I'd do without you" in this soft voice that makes you wanna cry.

Juhoon can be really insecure sometimes and it manifests in not-great ways. He compares himself to the other members a lot, especially Martin (the height thing is deeper than just jokes). Sometimes he'll get in his head about not being good enough—not tall enough, not talented enough, not enough period. When he's in those moods he gets distant, starts overthinking everything you say to him, convinces himself you deserve better. You have to actively reassure him and even then it takes a while for him to believe it. It's exhausting sometimes, loving someone who can't see how amazing they are.

He can also be kinda of passive aggressive when he's upset instead of just saying what's wrong. He'll say "I'm fine" when he's clearly not fine, then get annoyed that you can't read his mind. You've had to tell him multiple times that you're not a mind reader, he needs to use his words. He's working on it but sometimes old patterns come back.

Juhoon is possessive but in this sweet way. He doesn't like when people flirt with you (even though you're clearly not interested) and gets all pouty about it after. You have to reassure him with kisses and he STILL sulks a little before finally cracking a smile. It's territorial but adorable.

When he's sleepy he becomes a whole different person. He gets extra cuddly, nuzzles into your neck, mumbles nonsense about how much he loves you. He falls asleep holding you and if you try to move even a little he tightens his grip and whines in his sleep. You've stopped trying to escape, it's impossible.

His camera roll is 70% you and he's not embarrassed about it. Candids of you doing literally nothing, screenshots of your texts when you say something cute, pictures of you sleeping (which is creepy but also kind of sweet??). The members have seen his gallery by accident and clown him endlessly but he just shrugs like "yeah and what about it? At least I have a girlfriend."

He hates fighting with you. He gets genuinely upset, not angry just hurt. Constantly wants to fix things immediately, will apologize first even if he's not fully in the wrong just because he can't stand the distance. And Juhoon makes sure you both talk it through completely before moving on, never goes to bed angry.

He stress-eats ramyeon at concerning hours. You'll get a text at 2 in the morning like "you awake?" and you know he's sitting in his kitchen with a pot of ramyeon, probably overthinking something. If you offer to keep him company, he perks up immediately, and suddenly it's a whole thing—you talking him through whatever's on his mind while he eats and periodically insists he's fine even though he's clearly not.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ EOM SEONGHYEON

Dating Seonghyeon is like being with your best friend who also happens to be the most attractive person you've ever seen. Genuinely.

The banter between you two is your favorite. It's constant roasting, teasing, and playful arguing about literally everything. You've almost built up immunity, but then he'll say something unexpectedly sweet and completely throw you off. The members can't tell if you're fighting or flirting half the time (it's always flirting). He'll say something sarcastic and you'll fire back and he gets this look in his eyes that makes it known that he's kidding before coming back with another comment. It's your love language.

Seonghyeon acts all nonchalant about the relationship but he's literally so down bad, it's embarrassing. He tries to play it cool then does something like drive 40 minutes just to bring you food you mentioned wanting once. When you call him out he's like "it was on my way" (it absolutely was not on his way and you both know it).

His lock screen is a picture of you and when people point it out he just shrugs like yeah, that's my girl. Meanwhile he spent 45 minutes choosing the his favorite photo out of his 15 choices. His home screen is you too. His wallet has a photo card of you. Man is WHIPPED but will literally never admit it out loud.

He's nerdy in a way he tries to hide but absolutely fails at. He'll reference some obscure movie or start explaining how something works in way too much detail, then catch himself and go, "Anyway, that's not important," even though he clearly wants to keep talking about it. If you encourage him, he lights up and suddenly you're getting a full lecture on film theory or production techniques.

Seonghyeon in the studio. Oh my god. It's so attractive it's actually unfair. Watching him produce is an experience because he's so focused and talented and in his element. He'll have you listen to rough drafts of his lyrics and value your opinion so much, incorporate your feedback. He says you inspire him because you're part of his real life, that some of his best work comes from just thinking about you.

He has like a hundred tracks from his trainee days and sometimes he'll play them for you late at night, and tell you the stories behind them. Those moments feel sacred because you know he doesn't share that side of himself with many people. He's vulnerable in a way he usually isn't and you make sure he knows how talented he is, how proud you are of him.

Seonghyeon has the worst poker face when he's embarrassed. You'll catch him doing something he thinks is embarrassing—singing along to a song, getting excited about something "uncool"—and he'll immediately try to play it off, but his whole face is red and he's avoiding eye contact. It's became a game at this point, trying to catch him in these moments because his reactions are priceless.

He's surprisingly good at giving advice. Not in the typical "everything will be okay" way, but in a practical, logical way that actually helps. He'll break down your problems, offer solutions you hadn't considered, and somehow make you feel better without ever being sappy about it.

Movie nights are a thing with you two. He's a film nerd, so he always has recommendations, explains techniques and symbolism while you watch. You've learned so much accidentally just from dating him. Sometimes you'll reference something he taught you and he gets this proud smile with those big dimples that makes your heart literally explode from cuteness aggression.

Seonghyeon is not a morning person whatsoever but he wakes up for you anyway. If you have an early day after sleeping over, he's up with you, making sure you eat something before you leave, kissing you goodbye even though he's half asleep. Then immediately goes back to bed for four more hours but still, the effort is noted and appreciated.

When he's annoyed with you he attempts to give you the silent treatment but it never lasts because he can't stand not talking to you. You'll let him sulk for like 20 minutes max before poking him until he cracks. He tries so hard to stay mad but ends up laughing and then he's annoyed that you made him laugh. It's a whole cycle.

He's weirdly sentimental about specific stuff. He kept ticket stubs from movies you've seen together, polaroids from random days, your hair tie on his wrist. And of course, a whole folder on his phone of just you two. Sometimes you'll catch him scrolling through it with this soft ass face and when he notices you watching he gets all flustered and defensive. My fingers just did it themselves, what?

Seonghyeon also does this thing where he fixes things without asking. Your phone brightness is too low? He's already adjusted it. You haven't ordered your food? He's already ordered for you. You're cold? He's passing you his jacket before you can protest. And if you thank him, he waves it off like it's annoying that you even noticed.

In addition to that, he's actually cracked at reading your moods. He knows when you need space vs when you need him there, when you need him to be silly vs when you need serious support. He adjusts his energy to match what you need without you having to ask. It's like he has a sixth sense for your emotions.

Physical affection is constant but casual. Hand on your thigh when you're sitting down, fingers playing with yours absentmindedly, random forehead kisses as he walks past. It's never performative, just natural, like touching you is as normal as breathing to him.

He loooves when you wear his clothes. His hoodies, his shirts, especially his jewelry. He thinks you look better in them than he does (his words, not yours). Takes pictures of you in his clothes that you're not allowed to see because he gets shy about how many there are.

Pet names are so necessary from him. Calls you "idiot" affectionately, "dummy" when you do something cute-stupid—which you used to think was so cringe in relationships. But then in soft moments it's "baby" said so gently it gives you bad cuteness aggression. The duality is insane and he knows exactly what he's doing.

When you're sick or tired he goes into nanny mode hard. Makes sure you're eating, staying hydrated, getting enough rest. He gets genuinely worried but tries to hide it behind jokes. Will stay up with you if you can't sleep, play with your hair until you drift off. Makes you promise to tell him if you need anything, even if it's like 3 in the morning.

Arguments get resolved pretty quickly because neither of you can stay mad long. He's good at communicating, talking through issues logically while still validating your feelings. Takes accountability, apologizes sincerely, makes sure you both understand each other before moving forward. Never brings up past arguments, believes in actually resolving things not just moving past them.

But here's the thing—Seonghyeon bottles up his stress like it's an Olympic sport. When he's overwhelmed with his performance or schedules or production deadlines, he doesn't tell you. He just keeps pushing through, acting like everything's fine until he eventually explodes over something small and random. You've learned to read the signs now (he gets quieter, more sarcastic than usual, pulls away slightly) but it's still frustrating because you want to help but he won't let you until he's at his breaking point. He's getting better at it but it's a process.

He can also be really stubborn during arguments. Like once he's decided he's right about something, good luck changing his mind. It's the logic brain thing—he thinks he's being rational when really he's just being hardheaded. Sometimes you have to literally walk away and come back later when he's had time to actually think about your perspective. He always apologizes after though, admits when he was being difficult.

Seonghyeon overall is just like perfect boyfriend though.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ AHN KEONHO

Keonho as your boyfriend is like dating a literal puppy who also happens to be the funniest person alive.

He genuinely has energy for miiiles. He's constantly moving, constantly talking, constantly doing something. The only time he's still is when he's sleeping or when you're playing with his hair (which knocks him out in approximately 30 seconds). Being with him is never boring because he simply does not know how to be calm.

Keonho is so openly affectionate it's almost overwhelming (in the best way). He holds your hand everywhere, kisses your cheek randomly, hugs you from behind while you're doing literally anything. He's like a koala, always attached to you somehow. The members tease him about it constantly but he genuinely does not care even a little bit.

His contact name for you in his phone is something like "my sweet angel ❤️" with like fifteen emojis and he's not embarrassed about it at all. Answers your calls with "hi baby!!!" in front of everyone. Posts you on his Instagram story constantly with captions like "prettiest person alive" and heart emojis. The members have staged interventions about how down bad he is. He ignores them every time.

But only after you guys start dating. Because before? Oh, he got anxious every time he even saw your name view his story or send him a text. It was bad. He would nonchalantly answer the phone like, "Yeah, what's up?"

Cookie is basically your child now. Keonho gets so happy when you come over and Cookie gets excited, takes approximately 900 pictures of you playing with his dog. Has a whole album on his phone called "my two favorites" and it's just you and Cookie. Sometimes Cookie sits between you during movie night and Keonho pouts about it until you give him extra attention.

He's the baby of the group so he's used to being babied in a small way but with you he wants to be the boyfriend, wants to take care of you. He opens doors, carries your stuff, tries to reach things on high shelves even though sometimes he can't quite get them (you don't tell him that, and let him have his moment). Keonho gets so proud when he does boyfriend things successfully.

Food is a big thing with him. He usually hates sharing food buuuut with you? He always wants to share everything he's eating with you, feeds you bites of his food, orders extra so you can try things. His love language might actually be feeding you at this point. Also he still loves French fries (his words) so there's always fries involved somehow. You've accepted this as part of the relationship.

He's so competitive about everything, oh my god. Video games? Fighting for his LIFE to win. Board games? Taking it personally. Random challenges? Absolutely cannot lose. If he loses, he pouts so hard, full bottom lip out, dramatic sighs, the works. You have to kiss him back to happiness and he's shameless about it, knows exactly what he's doing because he gives you that smirk and pulls you in.

Keonho gets jealous easy but tries to play it off. Someone looks at you too long and he's immediately at your side, arm around your waist, making it very clear you're together. You think it's funny and kinda cute so you don't call him out on it. He appreciates that.

His texts are insane. Sends you 47 messages in a row about seventeen different topics, voice memos that are just him screaming about something that happened, random pictures throughout the day. Your phone is constantly going off and you've learned to love it because it means he's thinking about you.

His date ideas are always fun and sometimes unpredictable. One day you're at an amusement park, next time you're having a picnic, then suddenly you're at a rage room breaking stuff together. He plans dates based on what he thinks will make you smile, puts genuine thought into it even if he acts like he just threw something together.

When he's tired he becomes so clingy it's actually insane. He needs to be in your arms immediately, face buried in your neck, whining if you try to move. Calls you "baby" in this pouty voice that makes you fold every time. He falls asleep on you constantly and honestly? You don't mind, it's when he looks so peaceful and not a menace.

Keonho is secretly really thoughtful under all the madness. He, of course, remembers important dates, knows your comfort orders from every restaurant, notices when something's bothering you before you say anything. He pays attention in ways people don't expect from someone so energetic.

He gets verrrry hype about your accomplishments like they're his own. You could tell him you finished a big project and he's literally celebrating, telling everyone, so proud he might explode. Your biggest cheerleader always, no matter how small the win. Makes you feel so supported and loved.

Pet names are adorable and plentiful. "Baby" is the default but you also get "babe," "jagiya," "yeobo" when he's being extra, and sometimes just your name said in the softest way that hits harder than any pet name. You call him "Keonho-ya" and he loves it, always lights up when you say it.

Arguments don't happen often because he HATES fighting with you. Gets genuinely sad, wants to resolve things immediately. Sometimes he needs a minute to process but he always comes back ready to talk. He tries to pologizes quickly if he's wrong, never lets things fester. He cannot sleep if you're upset with him.

Here's the hard part though—Keonho can be really immature when handling serious situations. Like you'll try to have a serious conversation about something important and he'll make a joke or try to lighten the mood when that's not what you need. He struggles with heavy emotional stuff, doesn't always know how to sit with uncomfortable feelings. Sometimes it feels like he's not taking things seriously enough and it's frustrating because you need him to be present and grown up but he retreats into humor instead.

He also gets really needy when he's anxious or stressed. Like clingy to an almost suffocating degree. He needs constant reassurance, constant attention, constant validation. There are days where you just need space and he's texting you every five minutes like "are you mad at me?" "did I do something wrong?" "do you still love me?" and it's like babe I've been gone for two hours RELAX. You know it comes from a place of insecurity but it's a lot to handle sometimes.

Plus he has a tendency to make everything about himself without realizing it. You'll be venting about your bad day and somehow it circles back to something that happened to him. He's not doing it maliciously, he just gets excited and starts talking, but it makes you feel unheard sometimes. You've had to point it out a few times and he always feels terrible when he realizes he did it.

He leaves his stuff at your place on purpose (hoodies, chargers, snacks) so he has an excuse to come back. You've called him out on it and he just grins like "oops guess I have to come over again." Not slick at all but you let him get away with it.

He is just so freaking cute.

It started small. A sparkly hair clip left on his desk next to his MIDI keyboard. A tube of pink sugar Summer Fridays lip gloss that somehow migrated to his nightstand. A pastel pink scrunchie tangled in his collection of black caps. His side of the room he shared with Juhoon had always been deliberately minimalist—black, white, gray, the occasional pop of red. Clean lines and no clutter. Everything exactly where it should be. Maybe a little bit of a mess, but it was natural for a guy.

Then you happened.

James noticed it gradually, the way your presence seeped into his space similar to watercolor bleeding into black ink.

Juhoon thought it was hilarious. "Hyung, is that a Hello Kitty phone charm?" he'd asked last week, watching James plug in his phone with the tiny pink charm dangling from the case.

"It's my girlfriends'," James had replied, face completely neutral.

"Then why is it on your phone?"

James had just shrugged, but the tips of his ears went red. You'd put it there during a studio session, said his phone looked "too sad and lonely" without any personality. He'd rolled his eyes at the time, but he hadn't made any move to take it off.

Your stuff multiplied like it had a life of its own. There was a little ceramic cat figurine (pink, obviously) sitting on their windowsill now. A fuzzy blanket in some shade between lavender and baby pink draped over his desk chair. Glossy magazines with skincare routines and fashion spreads stacked on the corner of his desk, acting as a makeshift coaster for the iced americanos he never finished.

The members noticed immediately.

"James-hyung has been infected," Keonho had declared dramatically during dinner one night, pointing at the pink hair tie around James's wrist.

"It's not mine," James had said, which was technically true. It was yours. You'd left it after tying your hair up during a movie night, and he'd picked it up, intending to give it back. Somehow it ended up on his wrist instead. He fidgeted with it when he was thinking now.

"Sure, hyung," Seonghyeon had grinned and clicked his tongue. "Just like that lip balm in your pocket isn't yours either?"

James had pulled out the tube of peach-flavored lip balm—the one you'd insisted he try because "your lips get so dry in the winter, Yufan"—and set it on the table without a word. The conversation moved on, but the lip balm went right back in his pocket.

He didn't mind it, really. If anything, he kind of... liked it? Seeing your things mixed with his made his chest feel warm in a way he didn't have words for. It meant you were comfortable here. It meant you existed in his space even when you weren't physically present. It meant you weren't going anywhere.

Juhoon had been cool about the gradual pinkification of their shared room. "As long as she doesn't touch my side, we're good," he'd said with raised hands. But even he smiled in secret when he caught James carefully moving one of your scrunchies so it wouldn't fall behind the desk.

What James did mind, apparently, was the hoodies.

It was a Saturday afternoon when he finally noticed. He was standing in front of his closet—well, his section of the closet he shared with Juhoon—staring at the hangers with growing confusion.

"Juhoon-ah," he called out, still staring. "Did you borrow my black hoodie? The oversized one?"

"Which black hoodie?" Juhoon replied from his bed, not looking up from his phone. "You have like eight."

"The really soft COLDCULTURE one. With the embroidered logo."

"Nope. Check the laundry?"

James did in fact check. It wasn't there. He frowned, scratching his head and going back to his closet. His favorite gray hoodie was also missing. And the black zip-up he'd just bought last month. And—wait, where was the hoodie he wore to the airport two weeks ago?

He did a mental inventory. Out of his extensive hoodie collection (because if there was one thing James loved besides music and anime and his hat collection, it was a good hoodie), at least four were missing.

His phone buzzed. A text from you: 

my baby 😻 [Sat, Sep 5, 12:04PM] practicing for my presentation!! wish me luck 🤞🤞🩷🩷🩷

Attached was a selfie of you at your apartment, sitting cross-legged on your bed surrounded by notes and textbooks, your hair in a messy bun, glasses sliding down your nose. You were wearing his gray hoodie. The one that had been missing for a week.

He stared at the photo. The hoodie completely swallowed you—the sleeves were rolled up multiple times and it fell to your mid-thigh. You looked adorable and comfortable and you were in his clothes, in your space, and something about that made his heart do a weird flip.

He texted back: 

You [Sat, Sep 5, 12:04PM] Good luck. Is that my hoodie?"

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

my baby 😻 [Sat, Sep 5, 12:05PM] ...maybe ok yes :3 but it smells like you and it's really comfy and i have a long study session ok DON'T JUDGE ME ☹️☹️🥺

James read the texts three times. First order of business, he screenshotted the selfie (he'd die before admitting this to anyone). Then he went to check on his hoodie situation again with growing suspicion.

"I need to go to my girlfriend's," James announced, grabbing his keys.

Juhoon finally looked up. "Why? You guys have plans?"

"She has my hoodies."

"...okay?"

"Multiple hoodies, Juhoon-ah. Like, four of them."

Juhoon blinked in that slow way of his. "And this is a problem because...?"

"It's not a problem, I just—" James stopped. Why was he going over there? Mmm... because you looked happy in his hoodie. You said it smelled like him. You were keeping pieces of him close while you studied. That was... actually really cute.

But also, he was running out of hoodies.

"I'm going," he finished.

"You're so whipped, hyung," Juhoon said, shaking his head with a grin. "Say hi to her for me."

Twenty minutes later, James was standing outside your apartment with a fresh bouquet of flowers in hand—soft pink peonies and white roses, because he'd noticed last time that the ones on your kitchen counter were starting to wilt. He knocked, and when you opened the door, you were still wearing his gray hoodie.

"Babe!" Your face lit up, and you immediately noticed the flowers clutched in his hands. "Are those—wait, are those for me?"

"The other ones were dying," he answered simply, handing them to you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your heart melted. "You noticed that?"

His ears went slightly pink. "You kept looking at them last time. Seemed like you liked having them."

And he just shrugged. And it made you swoon to another level, like genuinely. You loved that you were the only person to make the oh -so-viral, handsome, intimidating Zhao Yufan look so small and darling.

You clutched the bouquet to your chest, suddenly feeling very soft. "You're too sweet, you know that?"

"Come on," he pushed, avoiding your gaze as you pulled him inside. "You have studying to do."

But you caught the small smile on his face as you went to find a vase, already gushing about how pretty the flowers were. He'd been here enough times that it didn't faze him anymore—the aggressively pink and white color scheme, the string lights, the stuffed animals taking up half your bed, the vanity covered in more skincare and makeup than he knew existed.

What did make him stop was his closet situation apparently recreated in your room.

His black embroidered hoodie was hanging on the back of your desk chair. The black zip-up was draped over your vanity chair. He spotted his airport hoodie peeking out from your laundry hamper.

James paused his analyzing and called out your name.

"Hm?" You were already back on your bed, reorganizing your notes, completely oblivious.

"Why do you have all my hoodies?"

You froze. Literally like a deer in headlights. Slowly, you looked up at him, then at the various hoodies scattered around your room, then back at him.

You squeaked and bit the inside of your cheek.

"I can explain."

James crossed his arms, leaning against your doorframe. His face was completely neutral, but there was the tiniest hint of amusement in his eyes. "I'm listening."

"Okay, so." You fidgeted with the hoodie sleeves—his hoodie sleeves. "You know how you left the gray one here after movie night last week?"

He nodded.

"And I was cold, so I put it on, and it was really comfortable and warm and it smelled like your cologne and I may have... forgotten to give it back?"

"And the other three?"

You had the decency to look embarrassed. "I didn't mean to take them! You just... you leave them at my place sometimes, or you give them to me when I'm cold, and then I forget I'm wearing them and I take them home and—" You gestured helplessly at the collection. "It happened multiple times."

James was quiet for a moment, just looking at you. You were drowning in his hoodie, your hair messy from studying, glasses askew, and you looked so flustered trying to explain yourself. You'd surrounded yourself with pieces of him without even realizing it.

"You could've just asked," he admitted finally, one of his eyes squinting at you.

"Asked what?"

"If you wanted my hoodies." He pushed off the doorframe, walking over to your bed. "You didn't have to steal them."

"I didn't steal them! I borrowed them. Indefinitely. Without asking. Which is—okay, yeah, I stole them." You covered your face with your hands. "I'm sorry, my love. Do you want them back? I can wash them and—"

"No."

You peeked at him through your fingers. "No?"

James sat on the edge of your bed, and there was something soft in his expression that made your heart skip. "Baby, you can keep them."

"Really?"

"Really." He reached out, gently pulling your hands away from your face. "You look..."

"Like a hoodie thief?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I was going to say cute. But sure, that too."

You felt your face heat up. "You're not mad?"

"Why would I be mad?" He was still holding your hands, thumbs brushing over your knuckles in that absent-minded way he did. "You said they smell like me."

"Oh my god, forget I said that—"

"You keep them because they remind you of me when I'm not here." It wasn't a question. He was looking at you with that intense focus he usually reserved for his chores, like he was trying to figure out a beat and step.

"...yeah," you admitted quietly. "Is that weird?"

James didn't answer right away. Instead, he glanced around your room again—at his hoodies scattered among your pink and white aesthetic, at the photo of you two on your nightstand, at the black cap (his) hanging on your door handle next to your collection of cute bags.

His stuff in your space. Your stuff in his space. It was the same for both of you. His black ink was seeping into your rainbow. The way you naturally existed in each other's lives, taking up room, leaving marks, and making space.

"No," he assured finally. "It's not weird."

Then, in Chinese, he added something soft that you didn't catch.

"What does that mean?"

He shook his head, ears going pink. "Nothing."

"Yufan—"

"It means..." He looked away, clearly flustered. "It means I like knowing you want me around. Even when I'm not there."

Your chest felt tight in the best way. "Of course I do. You know that, right?"

He nodded, but his grip on your hands tightened slightly. "I know. I just... I like seeing my stuff here. In your room."

"Because it's extremely out of place with my aesthetic?"

"Because it means you're thinking about me." He finally met your eyes again, and god, the way he was looking at you was so unfair, it made you wanna jump his bones. "And I think about you all the time, so it's... fair."

You were pretty sure you'd stopped breathing. James didn't say things like this often—he showed it through actions, through the little things he did without being asked. But when he did say it, it hit different.

"You think about me all the time?" you whispered, in disbelief of how transparent and vulnerable he was being. Because you knew all too well how stiff and macho macho he was usually.

"Yeah." He said it so simply, like it was obvious. "When I'm working on music. When I'm at practice. When I'm trying to sleep. You're just... always there. Up here." He tapped at his forehead.

"Funny, I thought there was nothing up there." You teased him because of how much you wanted to smother him.

"Ha-ha. You're up there. Always."

You launched yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He caught you easily, one arm around your waist, and you felt him smile against your shoulder.

"You can't just say things like that," you mumbled into his neck.

"Why not? It's true."

"Because it makes me all sappy and making me melt and I'm supposed to be studying."

"Then study." But he didn't let go, and neither did you.

You stayed like that for a moment, just holding each other. His hand came up to cup the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.

"Keep the hoodies," he told you quietly. "All of them."

"You're gonna run out."

"I'll buy more."

"James—"

"I like the idea of you wearing my stuff." He pulled back just enough to look at you, and his cheeks were definitely red now. "It's... I don't know. I like it."

You were smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. "Okay. But if you need one back, just tell me."

"Deal." He glanced at your desk, at your notes spread everywhere. "How's the studying going?"

You groaned, dropping your forehead to his shoulder. "It's going. I've been at it for three hours and I still have two more chapters."

"You want help?"

"You don't have to—"

"I know." He was already moving, settling back against your headboard and pulling you with him. You ended up tucked against his side, his arm around your shoulders, your head on his chest. He reached for your textbook with his free hand. "What chapter are you on?"

And you spent the rest of the afternoon just like that—curled up against James while he read your textbook aloud in that low, calm voice of his, occasionally stopping to explain things when you asked questions. He played with your hair absently while he read. You fidgeted with the strings of his hoodie (the one you were wearing, the one that was technically his).

At some point, Juhoon texted him: 

choco's daddy 🐢🐢 [Sat, Sep 5, 5:47PM] hyung are you coming back for dinner or are you staying there

James looked down at you, nearly asleep against his chest despite trying to study, still wearing his hoodie, surrounded by your impossibly pink room.

He texted back one-handed: 

You [Sat, Sep 5, 5:48PM] Staying here. Don't wait up

Juhoon's response was immediate: 

choco's daddy 🐢🐢 [Sat, Sep 5, 5:48PM] CALLED IT. you're so cooked bro

James didn't even deny it. He just locked his phone, pressed a kiss to the top of your head—you were 100% asleep now, and went back to reading your textbook.

Yeah. You were all his. Hoodies and glitter and eccentrics and pink shit and all.

Two weeks later, you showed up at the CORTIS dorm for movie night wearing a new black hoodie from Aritzia. You'd been wanting it for literal ages and finally got it. James spotted it immediately.

"Is that a new one?"

"Yeah I did! I felt bad about taking all yours, so I bought my own." You did a little spin, showing it off. "It's even oversized like how you wear them!"

It was objectively a nice hoodie. Plain black, good quality, oversized fit. It looked great on you.

James hated it. "Take it off," he said.

You blinked. "What?"

"The hoodie. Take it off."

"But I just—"

He was already pulling one of his hoodies over his head—the soft black one with subtle embroidery that was his current favorite. He handed it to you, still warm. "Wear this one instead."

"James, that defeats the whole purpose of me buying my own—"

"I don't like you in other hoodies."

The possessiveness in his tone made your stomach flip. "You... what?"

His ears were red again, but he didn't take it back. "Your other hoodies don't smell like me. They should smell like me."

From the living room, Martin called out: "HYUNG, THAT'S THE FREAKIEST THING I'VE EVER HEARD YOU SAY."

"Shut up, Martin," James yelled back, still looking at you. "So?"

You were trying really hard not to smile and failing miserably. "So I should only wear your hoodies?"

"Yes."

"What if I run out?" you contradicted.

"I'll give you more."

"What if you run out?"

"Then I'll buy more. For you to take." He stepped closer, voice dropping lower. "Okay?"

You were already pulling off your new hoodie and slipping into his. It was warm and smelled like his cologne and you were pretty sure you were never taking it off.

"Okay," you breathed.

James kissed your forehead, satisfied finally. "Good."

"You two are just so precious," Seonghyeon mocked from the kitchen.

"Should we leave?" Keonho added, peeking out from the corner. "This feels like a moment."

"Movie's starting!" Juhoon called out, completely oblivious to the hoodie drama.

James just took your hand, pulling you toward the couch. You were wearing his hoodie, he was wearing a t-shirt in the cold dorm, and he could not care less.

Later, when you were curled up against him during the movie, he leaned down and whispered in Chinese: "看到你穿我的衣服,我很开心。" 

You didn't know what it meant, but the way he said it, the way he held you a little tighter—you felt it anyway.

And when you fell asleep before the movie ended, James carefully worked his arms out of his zip-up hoodie and draped it over you like a blanket, layering it over the one you were already wearing.

Juhoon took a picture for blackmail purposes. But James didn't even care.

You could have all his hoodies. You could turn his entire side of the room pink if you wanted. You could leave your stuff everywhere until there was no part of his space that didn't have a trace of you.

He was keeping you, and apparently, you were keeping his entire hoodie collection.

Fair trade.

“Bro, what did you eat today? Your breath stinks.”

Juhoon’s voice cut through the room like a paper airplane aimed at someone’s head. Keonho groaned and shoved him with his knee.

“You’re disgusting,” Keonho quipped. “I literally brushed. Like twice.”

“Nah. AI, bro—I'm telling you, you stink."”

Their conversation was loud and ridiculous. The conference room in the Hybe building was spacious, but you could hear every little thing that came out of the boys' mouths. Vaguely horrifying coming from the people you were supposedly working with for the next few weeks. You scrunched your nose at the thought and hid a grimace behind your hand. They were so... teenager. Way too comfortable for a room with glass walls and a director who was already ten minutes late.

Granted, Martin and Juhoon were the same age as you, same debut timeline, relatively the same training amount as Martin, yet the difference was palpable. All things considered, you were forced to grow up faster, and the rest of them still reveled in the obnoxious parts of youth.

Not that you hated them—far from it, honestly. They were nice. You knew that. They were funny, sometimes. Endearingly so. In the kind of way that made you shake your head and smile anyway. But still. You silently flinched at the crude comments they made at each other.

You'd met them before. Briefly. Incredibly vaguely. In hallways during training, back when you were still convinced your group would debut. Back when you still had a group. They'd been younger then. Quieter, maybe. Or maybe you just hadn't paid enough attention.

Because now?

Now they were everywhere. CORTIS. The name alone gave you the urge to roll your eyes. Not because they weren't talented—oh, they were, annoyingly so—but because everywhere you went, someone was talking about them. Comparing you to them... comparing you to him.

Martin didn't react to whatever Keonho and Juhoon were arguing about. Of freaking course he didn't.

He sat a little apart from the rest. One ankle hooked over the other, arms folded. As much as it might've looked like it, he wasn't relaxed at all. His foot bounced. Stopped. Bounced again. Like his body was leaking nerves he refused to acknowledge out loud.

Though it wasn't on purpose, you told yourself. You noticed without meaning to. The detail-oriented part of you that never slept, that absorbed everything whether you wanted it to or not. It was the same part that had gotten you this far—the part that watched, analyzed and adjusted. That part that made you good at what you did but also exhausted you in every possible way.

He needed to be told that he was gonna be fine or something because he embraced the emo grunge look incredibly well. His black sneakers scuffed at the edges, the laces loose. Dark jeans. A hoodie that probably cost more than it looked like it did. He looked effortlessly put-together in that way that people pretended didn't take any effort.

You wanted to scoff.

It annoyed you to another level. The way he was flipping through the long ass packet you and your manager got in the mail. The thick one. The collaboration brief. He was actually reading it, eyes moving steadily down the page, fingers holding the corner like it mattered.

Who reads those? Like, really reads them? That's what you had lawyers for, wasn't it?

Everyone knew what was in there. Sanitized language, approved interpretations, words made to sound important without meaning anything but binding you. You'd skimmed it once and shoved it into your bag.

Martin, meanwhile, was underlining something. You hated how it always seemed like he went the extra mile. Like he was determined to prove something. To who, you had no fucking clue. The company? Himself? The universe?

Maybe that's what annoyed you most. Not that he cared. But that he cared so visibly. So earnestly. Like he hadn't learned yet that trying too hard just made you a target in this industry. You learned this from your parents the minute you learned how to walk.

Or maybe he had learned, and he just... didn't care.

Your manager kept talking on the phone, her voice low and clipped, trapping you in the room. You shifted in your chair and watched him flip a page, expression focused in a way that felt incredibly unnecessary. It was like he was bracing for a test no one else had signed up for.

Of course he was. He was always doing some extra shit to get brownie points. So unnecessary.

You recalled the moment in the elevator. Five floors up, the hum of the metal walls amplified everything. You were trapped with him and some random staff member while he laughed—FULLY laughed—like it was the jolliest fucking thing in the universe. That stupid, loud laugh that sounded like it belonged on a laugh track, not in a 6 by 6 foot elevator.

And somehow, in that confined space, it was infuriating. You'd wanted to smack him, tell him to control himself, but also… the sound triggered something in you. You'd heard it through years of training in proximity to him, in videos on the internet. That first moment, before you even knew him, had already planted the seed of irritation.

You didn't even remember what was funny. Just that he'd laughed. And you'd stood there, stiff and silent, wondering why—how some people got to be that loud, that free... that unbothered.

You caught yourself staring and looked away.

This was stupid. You were being stupid. Sitting here cataloging his mannerisms like you were writing a character study. He was just another idol. Another prodigy. Another person the industry had decided was special.

Just like you.

Except not like you at all.

Because Martin had a group. He had four other people to share the weight with, to laugh with in elevators, to deflect attention when it got too much. He got to be the leader, sure, but he also got to be part of something.

You were alone.

Your group hadn't debuted, so you had to pivot on your own. You had coined the alias YVES. Smiled big for the cameras. You took the acting roles, released the solo tracks. You made it look easy because that's what you were supposed to do. And now people loved you for it. Called you versatile. A triple threat. The industry's golden girl.

But you were still alone.

Your phone buzzed in your lap. You glanced down.

Mother [10:47 AM] How's the meeting? Call me after.

You didn't respond because you'd call her after. You always did.

The door finally swung open.

Director Choi walked in as if he had all the time in the world. Fifty-something, wire-rimmed glasses, a canvas tote bag slung over one shoulder so incredibly performative. The kind of guy who wore Comme des Garçons to a corporate meeting and flexed it to everybody on the planet.

You'd worked with directors like him before. Those ones who talked about "vision" and "artistry" but ultimately bent to whatever the company wanted because—you guessed it! The money. It always boiled down to the money. The ones who made you feel seen until the moment it mattered, and then suddenly you were just another cog in the grand scheme of things.

Nevertheless, you straightened in your seat. Professional and polite like the perfect girl you were supposed to be.

"Sorry, sorry," he said, though he didn't sound sorry at all. He dropped the tote onto the table with a soft thud. "Traffic was insane. You know how it is."

You didn't. You'd been here for forty minutes.

"No worries," your manager said smoothly, pocketing her phone. She was good at her job, hence why your parents hired her—sounding sweet when she wasn't.

Choi smiled and pulled out a chair. His face screamed laid-back and easy. He didn't sit in it. No, he leaned against the table instead, arms crossed, looking around the room like he was taking attendance.

"Alright," he said and clapped. "Let's get started."

Juhoon and Keonho shut up immediately. Martin closed the packet. You straightened in your seat without meaning to, clasping your hands together on the table.

It was like being back in school, you figured. That Pavlovian response to authority. Sit up. Pay attention. Perform.

Choi's eyes landed on you first. Then Martin. Then back to you.

You felt it immediately. The weight of the gaze. That unspoken—thing hanging in the air between you.

Here we go.

"So," he said, grinning like this was all very fun for him. Some game for him to puppeteer. "You two know why you're here, right?"

Silence.

You almost scoffed in his botox-filled face.

You knew. Of course you knew. You—out of all people—would know when you were being used. You'd known the second your manager forwarded you the email with the subject line: COLLABORATION OPPORTUNITY – CORTIS "NO SIGNAL" COMEBACK MV.

You'd stared at that email for a full minute before opening it.

"This is gonna be huge," Choi continued. He pulled out his phone, swiped a few times, then turned it around to show a mock-up of the MV thumbnail. Your face from some Dior photoshoot. Martin's smug face. Side by side. Mirrored, as if you two were even remotely alike.

Pfft.

"The numbers we're projecting? Insane. The engagement? Off the charts. You two are—" He gestured vaguely between you and Martin. "it right now. The industry's golden children. And people are obsessed with this... dynamic."

Dynamic. That's what they were calling it now.

You looked around at the table discreetly. At Martin's group members and their faces. It was embarrassing, that the company was singling out you and their leader. It felt like the spotlight shone on you and in the most negative way possible.

You bit the inside of your cheek.

And it wasn't a dynamic, no—it was a narrative. One you had never asked for. One that had been forced on you the second you both debuted within months of each other. Two prodigies in the same industry with the same roots. It didn't help that you were the same age, either.

Of course the industry couldn't let that exist without turning it into a competition.

The articles had started almost immediately. 

"The Next Generation: CORTIS's Martin vs. Solo Sensation YVES"  "Who Wore It Better?"  "Fans Debate: Who's the Real Prodigy between the Two HYBE Rookies?"

It didn't matter that you'd never even spoken to him beyond awkward hallway nods during training. It didn't matter that you had different lanes, different sounds, different everything.

The narrative was set. And you had to stick with it.

"Obviously, CORTIS already shot their little version," Choi went on, nodding toward Martin and the boys. "And it's incredible. Really, really strong visually. So," He clapped his hands together. "The company wants to expand it. We're adding her-" He gestured at you. "—as the narrative thread. The throughline. Each of you—" He looked at the boys. "—will have a moment with her. A scene, a spark. You know... a connection. Or... almost a connection. And then at the end—" He made a gesture like something disappearing into smoke. "—poof. She's gone. Like she was never really there."

You squinted. That was... actually kind of interesting.

But you didn't like that it was interesting. You wanted it to be bad. You wanted to have a reason to say no, to walk out, to tell your manager this was beneath you. That this was just nonsense.

But it wasn't. It was good. Conceptually, at least.

"It ties into the song," Choi continued. "Misconceptions. Noise. The way outside voices distort what's real and what's in our heads. She represents the what if—what if you'd actually connected? What if the noise hadn't gotten in the way? But by the end, the noise wins. She disappears. And you're left with... nothing. Just the misconception."

The irony wasn't lost on you.

The what if. The connection that never happened because everyone was too busy telling you it could never.

Keonho tilted his head and clicked his tongue. "That's kinda sad."

"It's supposed to be sad," Choi said. "That's the point." He gestured wildly with his hands. He was so eccentric, you wanted to roll your eyes.

Martin hadn't said anything. His arms were still crossed. His expression was unreadable. It made you want to throw something at him just to see him react.

What was he thinking? Was he as annoyed as you were? Did he care at all?

You couldn't tell. And you wanted to know.

"So," Choi said, pulling out his tablet. "Let's go through the scenes. We've already got the footage of you guys, so we know what we're working with. Now we just need to figure out how to weave her in."

He swiped to the first storyboard.

"Juhoon, your beautiful rrooftop scene. In the version you shot, you're standing alone. Looking out at the city, very isolated. So introspective." He looked at you. "We want to add her sitting on the ledge a few feet away. Same frame. Same isolation. Two people in the same space, but not connecting. She's on her phone—scrolling, drowning in comments, whatever. You're just... standing there. Aware of her but not reaching out."

You could see it. The shot and he framing he described. The way the light would hit.

It was good.

Juhoon nodded slowly. "Okay. Yeah, I can see that."

"Good," Choi said. He swiped to the next board. "Keonho. Convenience store scene. You're buying ramen at 3 a.m., right? We want her in the background. Just... there. Maybe she glances at you. Maybe you glance at her. You guys play a little eye tag… but neither of you actually says anything. You're both alone but surrounded by fluorescent lights and strangers."

Keonho shrugged and hummed. "Sure."

And with the affirmations of the members surrounding you, it hit you. This was happening. This was actually happening whether you liked it or not. There was no big flaws to nitpick, no excuse to be made, no unpleasant cast members.

You were going to be in their MV. You were going to spend the next few weeks working with them. With him.

The thought of being near his gargantuan self for so long made your stomach ache. You suddenly craved a sweet treat.

Choi swiped again and a concept photo of the group's fan-claimed center visual popped up. "Seonghyeon. You're the dream on the subway platform. You're waiting for a train that's not coming. She's on the opposite platform. Same situation. The train pulls in, separates you. Very visual metaphor for disconnection."

Seonghyeon gave a small nod and smiled that million dollar smile of his.

"And Martin." Choi looked up. "Backseat of a car. Nighttime. City moving past the windows. You're on one side, she's on the other. Classic 'two people in the same place but in different worlds' shot. We're thinking you both look at each other once—just once—but then you look away. And that's it. The moment's gone."

He paused to swipe to the slid where Martin is alone and is the star of the climax where the girl disappears from all the storylines.

Of course they'd put you with him. Of course the one scene that required the most emotional weight, the most vulnerability, would be with him.

A groan almost slipped out of your mouth. Why couldn't it be James? He was the most polite out of them all. Or Seonghyeon? Literally their center visual? He, at least, would treat her like a human being. And he was really cute.

When you looked back up, Martin finally spoke. "We didn't write it with a narrative thread."

His voice was calm. Level-headed. But there was something underneath it. Something strained.

You recognized that tone. You'd used it yourself a hundred times. The I'm trying to be professional but I'm actually pissed tone.

Choi paused. "I know. Buuut we're adding one."

"By... inserting her into scenes we already shot," Martin said slowly. "Scenes that were designed to stand on their own."

"Right," Choi said. "But now they'll stand together. As a cohesive story."

"It's a completely different story," Martin protests.

"It's an expanded story," Choi corrected. "Come on, Mr. Edwardsshi. You have an open mind, don't you?"

You could feel the tension creeping in. Granted, it was subtle. But there.

And you understood it. They'd worked hard on this. They had a vision. And now the company was telling them it wasn't enough. That it needed you to make it work.

That had to sting.

But also—fuck that. You didn't ask for this either.

Your eyes flicked involuntarily to the other boys. Juhoon was still on his phone, but his posture had changed. He seemed stiffer. Keonho was looking at the table. Seonghyeon's expression was carefully neutral—staying engaged in whoever was speaking, but you caught the way his fingers drummed once against his knee before going still.

They were right there in the same room. Part of the same group. The same comeback.

And Choi was talking like they didn't exist.

Like it was just you and Martin. The two "golden children." The two prodigies. Everyone else was just… set dressing.

Your stomach twisted.

You hadn't asked for this. You didn't want this. But here you were anyway, and now four other people were being shoved to the side because the company wanted to capitalize on a narrative you'd never agreed to.

It felt wrong. So uncomfortable in a way that made you want to sink into your chair. But what were you supposed to do? Speak up? Say "actually, can we not make this about me and Mr. BFG"? That would just make it worse. It would make you look difficult. Make them think you couldn't handle the pressure.

So you said nothing.

You just sat there, feeling the weight of their presence, wondering if they hated you for this. You felt Martin's eyes on you. Just for a second. Then they were gone—back to pretending he couldn't see your existence.

"I'm not saying it's a bad idea," Martin continued, his was voice still calm but strained. "I'm saying it changes the tone. We built the MV around abstraction. Around letting people interpret it. If we add a literal narrative thread—a girl who shows up in every scene and then disappears—it becomes more... obvious."

"Accessible, you mean," Choi amended. "It becomes more accessible."

"Or it becomes more marketable," Martin blurts.

The room went quiet.

You felt everyone's attention shift. It was like the air had thinned.

Choi's smile didn't falter, but it tightened. "Martin-sshi. We're not trying to dumb anything down. We're trying to make sure the concept gets through. Not everyone's going to watch this five times and analyze every frame. We need emotional concepts that hit immediately."

"That's what the song is for," Martin laments. "That's what the performance is for. Even the title 'No Signal' is already about disconnection. About missing each other because of all the outside noise. The MV we shot reflects that. It's abstract because the feeling isabstract. You don't always know why you can't connect with someone. You just... can't."

You blinked. You got it.

You actually understood the concept he'd created in a way that made sense. In a way that wasn't just surface-level "oh this looks cool" but actual thought.

That was... annoying.

It would've been easier if he was just being difficult for the sake of it. If he was being precious about his "artistic vision" in that pretentious way some people were.

But he wasn't. He was right.

And that made you want to argue with him even more.

"And that's what she's for," Choi urges, gesturing at you. "She's an actress. She can sell those scenes without dialogue. She can make people feel it."

The compliment landed like a stone in your gut. You had no clue if you were supposed to thank him or stay quiet.

You hated being used as a prop in someone else's argument. Like you weren't even there. It was like your presence was just a tool to shut Martin down.

Martin's gaze flicked to you for the first time since Choi started talking. Just a glance. Fast and sharp.

"I'm sure she can," he grumbled.

You furrowed your eyebrows. He was saying this shit in front of the adults? And, ha... it didn't sound like a compliment. It sounded like a dismissal.

Your tongue rolled over to the inside of your cheek. M'kay. So that's how this was going to be.

"Okay," you start, tone measured but with an edge you didn't bother hiding. "So what's the actual issue here? You don't think I can pull it off? Or you just don't want me in it at all?"

Martin's eyes snapped back to you in an instant. All of a sudden, you existed. Hoo-rah. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

His expression hardened. "I'm not saying you can't do it. I'm saying we shouldn't have to change the entire concept just to make it more consumable."

"Right," you shot back. "Because God forbid we make something people actually want to watch."

"That's not—" He stopped himself. Exhaled through his nose. "You don't get it."

You did get it. You even admired the complexity of it. You just wanted an out.

"Then explain it to me," you chided, keeping your voice level even though you wanted to snap. "Because from where I'm sitting, it sounds like you have a problem with the concept. Or with me being part of it—I can't tell which."

Martin's jaw tightened. "I don't have a problem with you. I have a problem with changing something that already works just to make it more... palatable."

"Palatable," you repeated. "So you think adding a narrative makes it less artistic?"

"I think it makes it glaringly obvious," Martin said carefully. "The original concept was about subtlety. About what's not said. Between the linnes. Adding a literal person who disappears at the end—that's quite literally... spelling it out."

You leaned forward slightly, heels clacking with the movement. "Or it's giving people an emotional anchor. Not everyone wants to decode symbolism for ten minutes. Some people just want to feel something."

"They can feel something from what we already made," Martin countered.

"Can they?" you challenged. "Or will they just scroll past it because they don't understand what they're looking at?"

His foot bounced faster. "If they don't understand it, maybe they're not the audience."

You almost laughed. "That's a luxury you have when you're in a group with an established fanbase. Some of us have to make sure people actually watch what we put out."

Martin's eyes flicked to you and his head craned backward. Baffled, almost. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," you started evenly, "that not all of us have the safety net of four other members and the favoritism of BIGHIT backing us. Some of us have to make sure every project is audience friendly. Every single time."

The room had gone quiet again. You could feel everyone listening even though they were pretending not to pay attention too hard.

Martin stared at you. "So this is about numbers for you."

Your mouth went slack in exasperation.

"This is about survival," you shot back, trying to stay controlled. "And if that means making the concept more accessible, then yeah. I'm fine with that."

"Even if it compromises the vision," Martin said flatly.

"Even if it makes sure people actually see it," you corrected.

Silence.

Choi cleared his throat. Loudly. Awkwardly.

"Okay," he said, voice strained. "Let's... let's maybe take a quick break. Regroup. Cool off."

No one moved.

The tension in the room was suffocating now. Literally thick enough to choke on. You needed water badly.

You reached for your pen—the one you'd been fidgeting with earlier—and it slipped from your fingers. Clattered against the table. Rolled. Dropped to the floor with a small, pathetic tap.

The sound broke something.

Choi let out a nervous laugh. "Right. Okay. Yeah. Let's, uh... let's call it here for now."

You bent down to grab the pen, grateful for the excuse to look away. To not have to see Martin's face. To not have to see the other members pretending they hadn't just witnessed that entire disaster.

"Sounds good," she assesses smoothly. "We'll be in touch."

You stood without looking at Martin. Grabbed your things. Focused on the table, the floor, anywhere but him.

Director Choi practically bolted out, spouting something about catching the espresso machine sale across the street. The other managers started talking logistics. Schedules, blocking rehearsals.

You started toward the door with deep breathes, your manager's hand light on your shoulder, guiding. Thankfully giving little massages.

And then—against your better judgment—you glanced back.

Martin was still sitting there. Dumb long arms still crossed. But now he was staring at the packet again, highlighting something with sharp, angry strokes.

Your eyes met for half a second. In that half a second, you noticed his foot tapping, his hair that seemed so brushed through, it looked like he had it styled.

He looked away first.

You pushed through the door and into the hallway, the cool air hitting your face like a relief. Your manager was already on her phone, typing rapidly.

"That was..." she started, then trailed off.

"Yeah," you muttered, kissing your teeth.

"Just—stay professional. We need this."

You nodded. You knew. Of course you knew.

"The car will be here in 10."

She squeezed your shoulder once, then headed toward the elevators, still typing.

You stayed where you were for a second, just breathing. Trying to let the anger drain out before you had to plaster on a smile for whatever came next.

The conference room door opened behind you.

You didn't turn around. Didn't need to. You could feel who it was before you heard the footsteps.

CORTIS' ever so sweet leader.

Of course. He walked past you without a word, heading in the opposite direction.

And in retrospect, you probably should've made a better decision. You probably should've looked for ice cream spots, sweet treats near you to ease the irritation in you. You should've let him go. Should've just walked away. Gone to the elevator. Left.

But your mouth opened before your brain could stop it.

"You know what your problem is?"

Fucking hell.

Martin stopped. That head of his turned around slowly.

"I don't... have a problem," he deadpans.

"You do," you said, turning to face him fully now. "Your problem is that you think caring about whether people actually see your work makes it less meaningful. Like it's selling out or something."

His expression hardened similarly to how it did earlier. "That's not what I said."

"It's what you implied."

"No," Martin demands, taking a step closer. "What I implied is that we already made something good. Something we're proud of. And now we're being told it's not enough? That we need you to make it work. And yeah—" He stopped himself, jaw clenching. "Yeah, that pisses me off to an insane extent."

There it was.

"So you do have a problem with me," you jabbed.

"I have a problem with being told our work isn't good enough on its own," Martin shot back. "I have a problem with the company using this stupid rivalry narrative with you to sell music videos. I have a problem with—" He stopped again. Exhaled sharply. "I have a problem with all of it. Not you specifically. Just... all of it."

"But I'm part of 'all of it,'" you kept going. "So it kind of is about me."

What are you doing?! Walk. Away. What the hell was so hard about that?

"It's not—" Martin started, then stopped. Ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Look. You didn't ask for this. I know that. But neither did I. And now we're both stuck in this thing that neither of us wants, pretending like it's some great collaboration when really it's just... corporate bullshit."

You stared at him.

He stared back.

And for a second, you almost agreed with him. Almost said, Yeah. You're right. This is bullshit.

But then you remembered the way he'd dismissed you in that room. The way he'd made it sound like you were just some actress being shoved into his genius fucking vision.

"You want to know what I think?" you said, low and controlled. "I think you're mad because you can't control the narrative anymore. You made your perfect little artistic MV, and now someone's telling you it needs to change. And you can't handle it."

Martin's eyes flashed and he scoffed, shaking his head. "That's not—"

"Isn't it?" you cut in, pursing your lips and squinting up at him. "Because from where I'm standing, you're acting like I'm ruining something sacred when really, I'm just doing my job. Same as you."

"It's not the same," Martin responded, voice tight.

"Why? Because you wrote the song? Because it's your group? Because you get to decide what's art and what's just 'consumable content'?"

"Because I actually care about what we're making!" Martin snapped, louder now. "I care about whether it means something or if it's just another thing people scroll past in two seconds!"

"And you think I don't?" you shot back, matching his volume. "You think I'm just here for the paycheck? For the brand deals?"

"Aren't you?" Martin retorted.

The words hit like a slap. You stared at him. He stared back.

And for a second, you saw it. Not regret, exactly. But something close. Like he'd said it before he could stop himself. Seemingly like knew it was too far but couldn't take it back now.

Good. Let it sink into his inconsiderate little pea brain.

"Wow," you huffed quietly. Your voice was ice. "Okay."

"That's not—" Martin started, but you cut him off.

"No, it's fine," you said, taking a step back. "At least now I know what you actually think."

"I didn't mean it like that—"

"Then how did you mean it?" you challenged. "Because it sounded pretty fucking clear to me."

Martin's jaw clenched. "I meant that the company is using both of us. They're using this rivalry thing to sell the MV to the Internet."

He stepped closer to you, taking a deep breath after realizing—maybe—how intense he was being. And then he continued.

"You're not stupid, I know you know it exists. And yeah, maybe that includes putting you in our video even though it doesn't need you. But that's not your fault. It's theirs."

"Oh, so now you're defending me?" you said, incredulous. "After you just implied I'm a marketing ploy?"

"I'm not defending you," Martin shot back. "I'm stating a fact. We both know this is bullshit. We both know the only reason we're here is because people love comparing us. And now they want to put us in the same MV so they can monetize it."

He wasn't wrong.

You hated that he wasn't wrong.

But you also hated that he was saying it out loud. That he was making you complicit in acknowledging it.

"So what?" you interrupted. "We just refuse? We say no and let them find someone else to pit against each other?"

"Maybe," Martin mused, almost hopeful. You almost slapped a hand on your forehead.

"That's so... naive."

"It's honest."

"Honest?" You laughed, but it came out bitter. "You think honesty matters here? You think the company cares if we're uncomfortable? They'll do this with or without us. At least this way we have some control."

"Control," Martin echoed. He shook his head. "You really believe that?"

"I believe it's better than nothing."

"It's still nothing," Martin contradicted . "Just nothing with better budget."

You wanted to throw something at him.

God, you wanted to scream.

But most of all, you wanted him to stop being right.

"You know what?" you said, voice shaking slightly. Not even from emotion. From anger. Pure, concentrated frustration at the person in front of you. "Maybe you're right. Maybe this is bullshit. But I didn't come here to debate philosophy with you. I came here to do my job. So if you're done with your TED Talk, can we please just—"

You stopped yourself and took a breath.

"Whatever," you muttered. "I don't even care anymore."

You turned to walk away. For real this time.

"You do care," Martin said behind you, a little quieter now. "That's the problem. We both do."

You stopped. Didn't turn around.

"We both care," he continued, "and we both know this is fucked up. But we're doing it anyway because neither of us have a choice. So I'm done fighting it."

For a second, you almost turned around. Almost said something.

But you didn't. You just walked away.

Down the hall and toward the elevator. Your current savior. Away from him.

And as the elevator doors closed, you caught one last glimpse of him standing there in the hallway, hands shoved in his pockets, staring at the floor and shaking his head.

The turn signal in the Bentley echoed from around you while your voice from your own single from an OST in a drama you starred in played on a radio station.

Your manager finally looked up from her phone next to the driver in the front.

"That was a disaster," she stated flatly while glancing at you in the rearview mirror.

You didn't respond. Just stared out the window while the car drove past a billboard of CORTIS just outside the HYBE building.

"But we're doing it anyway," she continued. "Blocking starts next week. Try to play nice, please."

"Sure," you said.

But you didn't mean it. You knew that nothing had changed. That everything you'd thought about him—everything you'd assumed, everything you'd resented—was still standing.

He was still the amazing little golden boy. The prodigy. The one everyone compared you to.

All you knew was that everything you had known about Martin was still correct and... you hated Martin Edwards Park.

Still.

Abhorrently.

Your mother always said that clothes should be worn properly.

She'd said it exactly once, to your father, in that kitchen voice she kept for things that weren't requests—the voice that meant fix this before I do. You were nine. Your father had nodded and adjusted his collar and that was the end of it. The principle had lodged somewhere in your brain and stayed, quiet and specific, the way things do when you absorb them before you're old enough to argue back.

You thought about it now, which was its own kind of problem, because you hadn't thought about your mother's kitchen voice in years.

You thought about it because Ahn Keonho was walking into chemistry with his uniform trousers halfway down his hips and his blazer hanging off one shoulder like gravity was optional, pen already behind his ear, notebook already open to a page he'd apparently already written on—which meant he'd thought about this before class, which meant the whole effortless thing was at least partially a performance, and somehow that made it worse instead of better.

He moved through the rows with that loose and relaxed thing he did, like he had nowhere more important to be and had decided to be here anyway as a personal favor to the classroom. He dropped into the seat directly in front of yours and tipped his chair back on two legs like the floor owed him something and started reading what he'd already written like class hadn't technically started yet.

You looked at him for three seconds. The back of his neck. The pen behind his ear. The particular way his shoulders sat under the blazer that was barely on him.

Then you looked back at your notes—color-coded, dated, organized in a way that would be deeply useful later—and thought: I do not care. I do not care. I absolutely do not care.

This is what you knew about Ahn Keonho, assembled entirely without his cooperation:

He was the second-highest mark in the year. You were the first. This had been true since the beginning of first year with the kind of consistency that stopped feeling like coincidence around the fourth exam cycle. Two points, usually. Once three. Once—and this one had genuinely kept you up—one.

He had never, to your knowledge, appeared bothered by this.

Which was the part you couldn't locate a comfortable feeling about. Because it wasn't that he didn't care—you'd seen him re-read his own notes, seen him stay after class to ask something, seen him go very quiet mid-discussion in that specific way that meant he was actually turning something over.

He cared. Just not in any way that looked like yours. His caring was quiet and arrived at answers by some route you couldn't map, and it kept producing results that sat just below yours on every ranking sheet, and the fact that he seemed completely unbothered by that gap meant either he didn't notice it or just didn't think it needed fixing.

You had a very specific feeling about people who treated things you took seriously as things not requiring seriousness.

It was not a nice feeling.

The other thing: he ragebaited you. Had done it since September with the cheerful consistency of someone who already knew how the experiment ended. He'd say something slightly wrong during discussion, let it sit, and wait—not looking at you directly, just waiting in that sideways way of his, like he could feel the exact second you decided you couldn't let it go. You never let it go. You'd tried, twice, and both times he'd nudged the wrongness a little further until you broke. He never looked surprised when you corrected him. Just looked like he was confirming something he'd already written down.

Iroha had told you in October that he did it on purpose.

You'd said you knew. She'd said and you still—

You'd said you knew again, with the tone of someone ending a conversation.

She'd made a face and dropped it, and you'd spent four extra days finding him more irritating than usual and then it faded and things went back to what they were: you sat behind him, you got the higher mark, he acted like marks were a minor administrative fact about the universe, and occasionally you noticed things about him that you hadn't asked to notice.

The jaw thing, for example. The way it moved when he was actually thinking—like the thinking had a texture to it, something that lived in his face before it reached his mouth. You kept that extremely private. As in, it lived in a locked room inside your brain that you did not visit.

You were visiting it less and less successfully as the semester went on.

The argument started on a Wednesday.

Reaction kinetics. Activation energy. Teacher at the board with chalk that kept squeaking on the diagram, the class going soft around the forty-minute mark the way classes did—people tilting over their notebooks, not really writing, just waiting for the bell with their pens in their hands. You were not doing that. You had the energy diagram sketched out in orange highlighter, the activation energy labelled with a small arrow, two follow-up questions in the margin because you'd read ahead and found two things the textbook hadn't been precise enough about.

Keonho's notebook, you could see over his shoulder without trying, had three words written on the current page and some kind of small drawing in the corner that might have been a dog. He was still going to get within two points of you on the exam. This was the part that made the locked room harder to keep locked.

"The catalyst doesn't change the enthalpy," he said.

No hand raised. Just dropped into the room, aimed at something Chaewon had said during the paired discussion portion. Chaewon blinked. A few heads turned.

"Right," you said, before you'd fully decided to. "It lowers the activation energy. The enthalpy difference between reactants and products stays the same."

"That's what I said," Keonho replied. Still facing forward. Not even turning around.

"You said it doesn't change enthalpy. That's not the same as explaining why it doesn't."

He turned his head just enough to look at you over his shoulder—that expression he had, the one that wasn't quite a smile and wasn't nothing, somewhere in between that you'd never been able to place cleanly. "Does it need to be?"

"If you're trying to actually understand it, yes."

"Understanding it and being able to use it aren't the same thing," he said, even, like this was an obvious point and not a deliberate provocation.

"They are the same thing." You put your pen down. "That's literally the whole argument against rote learning. If you only know that a catalyst lowers activation energy without understanding why the enthalpy stays constant, you can't apply it to anything you haven't seen before. Standard question, fine. Any application question you've never seen, you're lost."

"Or I get both," he said, "because the application question still follows from the same rule."

"It follows from the mechanism. The rule is just a summary of the mechanism. Skip to the summary and you're memorizing without any scaffolding underneath it."

HIs expression morphed into—not irritation, more like attention sharpening at the edges, the way it did when something had genuinely snagged. "You think everyone who gets the application question right understands the mechanism."

"I think everyone who gets it right consistently does."

"Consistently," he repeated, slow. Like he was tasting the word to see what it meant coming from you specifically.

"Is that a problem?"

"No," he said, and turned back to the board. "Just an interesting thing to care about."

You picked your pen back up. It didn't move for three full minutes. Just an interesting thing to care about was doing something behind your sternum that you couldn't name and weren't going to try to.

Thursday was PE and it started fine.

You were good at PE, for the reasons of wanting to pass and very little patience for being bad at things—clean footwork, good timing, the kind of spatial awareness that came from always knowing exactly where your body was in a lane. You liked individual drills. You liked having a defined task and no variables. Group drills were less clean because group drills required trusting other people to also know where they were, and people were not always reliable about this.

The gym smelled like floor wax and rubber. Sunlight came through the high windows in flat rectangles that shifted as the clouds moved. Everyone was in PE uniforms and Keonho, you noted, had managed to make even that look like a deliberate choice—sleeves pushed up to the elbows, hair slightly messed from whatever they'd done in the warmup. You noted this the way you noted a lot of things about him, which was automatically and without your permission.

He was one lane over. You knew this before you looked.

The drill was simple. Paired feeds, one person launching, one returning. You were with Minju, who was sweet and had the spatial awareness of someone who'd learned about physics mostly from reading about it. You'd made peace with this. You were focused. Everything was fine.

What happened next took about three seconds.

Minju fumbled the feed. The ball skidded wide. You stepped left to correct—and Keonho, who had turned to say something to the person behind him and was therefore facing entirely the wrong direction, walked directly into your path at the exact moment his own partner launched a return at full speed.

The ball caught you square on the side of the head. The gym tilted sideways, the noise going briefly cottony and strange, and then you were sitting on the lacquered floor with your palms flat against the wood, checking it was still there, which you hadn't decided to do.

Several people made sounds. Keonho was crouching in front of you before you'd processed that he'd moved.

"Hey." All the ease had left his voice. Just direct, just here. "Look at me."

You looked at him. He had both hands raised near your shoulders, hovering, not touching, and his face was doing something you hadn't seen on it before. It took you a second to identify it correctly.

Worry. Actual, unmanaged worry, with nothing underneath it to soften it.

Keonho registered that you were pale and that you were doing the thing where you tried very hard to seem fine, jaw set, eyes a little too focused, and something in his chest did something specific that he immediately decided not to examine. You were annoying. You were academically annoying specifically. That was the relevant fact here.

(It did not feel like the relevant fact. He was aware of this and chose to ignore it.)

"I'm fine," you said.

"You fell down on the floor."

"I chose—"

"Can you stand up," he said, flat, in the tone of someone who had decided to skip the part of this conversation where you argued about whether you'd chosen the floor.

You could stand up. You demonstrated this. The room tilted slightly as you came up and your hand shot out automatically, landing on his forearm—he'd moved closer while you were rising, close enough that it was just there—and then you were upright with your hand on his arm and neither of you said anything for a moment.

You took your hand back.

He lowered his arm a beat after he needed to. He filed that away under things he was not going to think about and told the teacher he was taking you to the nurse.

"I don't need—" you started.

"Probably a mild concussion," he said, still not looking at you, still talking to the teacher. "She should get checked."

The teacher agreed. Of course the teacher agreed. You gathered your things with the dignity of someone who had absolutely not just gone down in front of thirty people, and you walked out beside him, and he held the door, and neither of you said anything.

In the corridor you noticed he'd buttoned his blazer properly. All the way up, collar straight, like he'd done it on purpose.

You kept that to yourself.

The nurse's office was split in two: a front area with a desk and chairs, and behind a thin partition, a couple of narrow cot-style beds. The nurse herself was out—a note on the desk said back shortly, a clipboard sitting next to it.

"Sit," Keonho said.

"I'm not a dog."

"Sit down before you fall down again," he repeated, patient in the way of someone who had recently watched you gravitate to the floor. He pulled a chair out from the desk and positioned it, and you sat in it because your head was still doing something imprecise and the floor genuinely wasn't an option you wanted to revisit.

He pulled the other chair close—close, like actually close, not across-the-room close, which was the natural distance between you in every other context—and sat with his elbows on his knees and looked at you. That cataloguing look. Like he was going through a list in his head, checking things off one by one.

Keonho was aware, distantly, that you looked a little dazed and that this was the closest he'd sat to you in two years of knowing you and that you had very nice eyes when they weren't narrowed at him specifically. He was also aware that this was not the moment for that particular observation and chose to move past it immediately.

"I'm fine," you said.

"You keep saying that."

"Because it stands true."

"You have a headache right now."

You said nothing. You did have a headache but telling him that felt like giving him something.

Keonho almost smiled. "How many fingers?"

"If you hold up fingers I'm leaving."

"Three," he said anyway, held three up in your eyeline, watched your face.

"Three," you said flatly.

"Good." He dropped his hand. The small satisfaction in his expression was genuinely irritating. "Wait for the nurse."

"You can go back," you told him. "You don't have to stay."

"I know I don't have to."

Simple as that. Like staying was just a decision he'd made and there was no further information. You looked at him. He looked back at you. The room was very quiet for a moment.

And then, from behind the partition, came a sound. Slow. Even. Almost like breathing.

The deep, rhythmic breathing of someone who had really gone under.

You both went still at the same time.

You glanced at the partition and back at him, and your voice dropped without you deciding it to. "Is someone back there?"

Keonho looked at it too. "Probably," he said, matching your volume automatically, without thinking. "Nurse's office."

You nodded. It made sense. Most likely someone sick, sleeping it off. The breathing continued—steady, a little too even maybe, but people slept deeply when they weren't well. You both let it go. Neither of you said anything for a moment. The room was small. The chairs were close. This was the nearest you'd been to each other all year, physically—close enough that you could see the individual lashes when he looked down, close enough that when he shifted in the chair you felt it somehow. You noted this distantly and filed it very far away.

"Sorry," he said, quiet. "About the ball."

"It wasn't your ball."

"It was my fault you moved."

"I could've not moved," you said.

"You moved to make a better return." A beat, small and deliberate on his part. "Your footwork was good, by the way."

Something warm arrived in your chest uninvited. You looked at your hands—your knuckles, specifically, the small scar on your left index finger from a swim meet in first year, anything that wasn't his face. "Don't compliment my footwork right after giving me a head injury."

"Those are unrelated," he said.

You glanced up at him without meaning to. He was already watching you, and there was that expression—the one that lived underneath the easy surface of his face, the second layer that you'd been catching glimpses of all semester and that you weren't supposed to be paying attention to. Something quieter than anything he said out loud. You looked away first. You always looked away first and you had fully stopped pretending you didn't know that.

He'd been noticing that too, for what it was worth. The looking-away-first thing. He'd been noticing it since October and he had opinions about it that he was keeping entirely to himself.

He picked up the clipboard from the desk to fill out the attendance form, and without looking up he said, "What you said yesterday was right, by the way."

Some emotion floated into your chest that you didn't authorize.

"About the mechanism," he continued, still writing, voice low out of automatic consideration for whoever was sleeping behind the partition. "Memorizing the summary without understanding the structure underneath it. You were right."

You were quiet for a second. This was not what you'd expected him to say. "You were playing devil's advocate."

"I was seeing what you'd do with it." He set the clipboard down and looked at you now, and his eyes in the light from the small window were—anyway. Anyway.

"That's the same thing."

"It's not," he said. "Devil's advocate is arguing for argument's sake. I actually wanted to know how you'd answer."

That landed somewhere inconvenient. "You could've just asked."

"Would you have answered the same way?"

You opened your mouth and closed it again, because—honestly, probably not. The friction had been part of it. The answer had needed resistance to take its full shape, and some part of you knew that, and it was genuinely annoying to have to sit here and be privately correct about that.

"You do that in class too," you said instead, keeping your voice down. "Say something slightly off and wait for me to say something back."

"You correct me," he pointed out.

"Because you're wrong."

"Because you can't help it," he said—not unkind, just flat, like he was reciting a fact about weather—and it landed like a challenge regardless.

"There's a difference between can't help it and not letting something wrong sit in the room."

"Is there."

"Yes." You turned toward him, close enough now that your voice didn't need to go anywhere to reach him. "One's a compulsion, one's a choice. I've thought about it. It matters that things are right. When something wrong gets left uncorrected it gets absorbed, it gets repeated, and suddenly you have a whole room of people with a broken model of how something works."

"In a class discussion," he said.

"Especially in a class discussion. Where else are you supposed to actually test whether you understand something?"

He thought about it—actually thought, went quiet in the real way that you'd started being able to tell apart from the dismissive way. The real quiet had a different texture. A little more interior.

"That's kind of idealistic," he said finally.

"It's a standard. Those aren't the same thing."

"You hold yourself to it."

"Obviously."

"Does it not get—" he leaned forward slightly, elbows further onto his knees, and the gap between you got smaller in a way that neither of you commented on. His voice was barely above a whisper now because of the person sleeping nearby, which meant it was right there, which meant this whole conversation had a closeness to it that it would not have had in any other room. "Like does everything not feel really loud all the time?"

From behind the partition came the slow exhale of the sleeper, steady as a clock. Neither of you looked at it.

"Caring about accuracy isn't the same as everything being loud," you mumbled.

"No," he agreed. "But pretending that you care about it might be."

The room went sharp.

You felt it land—clean and direct, the way his best ones always did—and something in you went very still. "I'm not pretending to care about anything," you said, and your voice dropped further without you deciding to, into something realer than you'd intended, the register you used when something had actually touched something. "I've cared about this since before it got me anything. It's just how I think."

He was watching you. Something had moved in his face, closer to the surface now, and he looked—he looked like himself, actually, the version underneath the easy thing, and it was harder to be annoyed at that version than the other one. "I know," he said.

"Then why say it?"

"Because I don't know if I'm pretending," he said, quiet and a little abrupt, like he'd let it out before he could rethink it. "You've always been like this. Like you actually care and everyone can see that you care and you've never seemed embarrassed by it. I care about it too, I do, but I don't know if I show it right or if I've just gotten good at looking like I don't show it. And sometimes I can't tell which one is actually me."

The silence that followed was different from the ones before. Heavier and all the more real.

You looked at him. He was looking at the floor, jaw doing that thing—the texture thing—and you understood that he hadn't planned to say that, or he had, but hadn't known it until the words were already out. That specific momentum. You knew it from the inside.

"The questions you ask in class," you said, careful. Still quiet. "The ones the teacher actually has to think about."

Keonho looked up.

"Those aren't pretending." Your voice was low and steady. "I can tell the difference between a question someone asks to seem smart and one they actually need answered. They have different shapes. Yours are the second kind."

He didn't say anything. Something in his face did.

"You asked one in October," you went on, and you were aware, somewhere in the background, of what the specificity of this was giving away, and you said it anyway. "About Le Chatelier's principle. Whether the system is actually moving toward equilibrium or just behaving as if it is, and whether that distinction matters. The teacher didn't have a clean answer and you didn't seem to need one. You just needed to know the question was real."

A pause.

"It was," he cleared his throat. Low.

"I know it was."

The partition exhaled slowly. Down the corridor came the faint sound of a class changing rooms, footsteps that belonged to someone else's afternoon entirely.

"February," Keonho said.

You went still because you knew exactly what he was referencing.

"The unit exam. The day I got the higher mark."

"I know which one," you said.

"Did it bother you."

The whole honest answer was right there, complete and specific: not the way you're probably thinking. It bothered me in the way that meant I hadn't done my best, not in the way that meant you'd done better—those are different. I went home and found exactly where my model was wrong and fixed it and that was actually useful. But I also spent forty minutes being irrationally annoyed at you personally before I got to the useful part, and I am absolutely never telling you that.

"It showed me where my model was wrong," you said.

"Very clean answer."

"It's true."

"Is it the whole truth?"

Keonho asked it quietly and yet still so annoyingly and it had a different weight from the rest—not a challenge, more like a window left open. You looked at him and he was looking back with that expression fully on the surface now, and your heart was doing something inconvenient and unasked-for behind your ribs.

"You're really annoying at this," you murmured.

"At what."

"At—" you gestured between you, small. "Making conversations go somewhere."

Something almost like a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. "I think you let it."

"I—"

"You could stop," he pointed out, still quiet, still leaning slightly forward. Close enough that you could see the small detail of his face—the way his eyelashes were longer than they had any right to be, the line where his jaw met his neck, the slight imperfection in his lower lip where he'd apparently bitten it at some point. "I've seen you stop. You do it on purpose when you want to. You're choosing not to right now."

Keonho was aware that you were pretty. He'd been aware of this the whole time, actually—since the first week of first year when you'd corrected the teacher in a way that was so precise and so unbothered that half the class had gone quiet and he'd turned around to see who it was. You were pretty and you were genuinely smarter than almost everyone he'd ever met and you found him irritating. The last part, for some reason, had never made the first two parts less true. If anything. But that was a problem for a different room, not this one, not with the chairs this close and the lights this soft and someone apparently sleeping three feet away.

He was doing an excellent job of focusing on the argument. Completely fine.

"The Le Chatelier thing," he clarified. "You remembered it."

"I remember a lot of things."

"That was six months ago."

"I take good notes."

He looked at you with the kind of patience that was also a form of pressure—I'll wait, the room isn't going anywhere—and you looked back at him and the room really was very small and the chairs really were very close and your head ached in a way that had long since stopped being about the ball.

"I pay attention in class," you hummed finally, voice barely there. "I notice when a question is real. Yours was. That's why I remembered it. That's all it is."

"That's not all it is," Keonho said, and his voice had shifted into something lower and more deliberate, the level of deliberate that meant he knew exactly what he was saying.

You looked at the partition. "We're gonna wake them up."

"We're whispering."

"We're barely whispering." Which was true and you both knew it—at some point, without either of you acknowledging it, the chairs had angled toward each other and the distance had done something, and you were speaking at the register of people trying not to disturb someone close by, which meant everything was right there. His voice. The small movements of his face. The way he was looking at you like you were a question he was deciding whether to ask out loud.

"Why does it bother you," he said, "when I don't seem bothered by the gap?"

The full honest answer came all at once: because if it doesn't matter to you then I'm the only one who made it into a thing. Which means I've been competing with someone who wasn't competing back. Which means the re-reads and the margin notes and the forty minutes of being irrationally annoyed at you in February were just me, alone, in a race you weren't running, which is so much worse than losing.

You said none of it.

"It doesn't bother me," you said.

He tilted his head. One degree and completely patient.

"Not the way you mean," you amended.

"How do I mean?"

"Like a pride thing."

"And it's... not?"

"It's a curiosity thing." You found the honest version before the careful one, which you blamed entirely on the head injury. "I care about having a model that actually works. And when someone keeps arriving at the same place from a direction I can't map—" you stopped and started again. "It makes me want to know what they're seeing. What route gets there."

The room held still.

Keonho was looking at you like you'd just said the thing he'd been waiting to hear and hadn't known he was waiting for. He thought about September. October. Every time he'd said something slightly wrong in class and felt the exact moment you decided you couldn't let it go. He'd told himself he was testing you, seeing how you'd argue it, keeping himself sharp. He understood now, sitting here, that that was only true in the same way a summary was true—technically accurate, missing everything underneath.

He'd been doing it because you were the only person in that room he actually wanted to talk to. That was the whole thing. That was what it had been the entire time.

"That's not rivalry, then," he said.

"I know."

"That's—"

"I know," you cut him off, quieter.

Some weird emotion moved across his face. You weren't going to name it right now, not with the partition breathing three feet away and everything this close and your head still imprecise.

"Your notes," he said, after a moment that had a specific weight to it.

"What about them?"

"Orange is key terms."

You stared at him. "How do you know that."

"First year. Someone asked how you organized and you explained the whole system." A pause. "You didn't notice I was listening."

The back of your neck went warm. He watched it happen and immediately looked at the floor, at his own hands, at anything else.

"You remembered that," you said.

He looked back at you—just for a moment, the exact length of time required for it to count—and said simply, "I pay attention in class too."

The nurse came back. She checked your pupils, declared you probably fine, handed you an icepack and said to come back if the headache got worse. Keonho filled out the attendance form while you held the ice to your head and stared at the ceiling. His handwriting, you noticed, was messy in a very specific way—like the letters had a private agreement with each other that excluded the reader entirely.

"Drink water," he said, passing the form over.

"You're very bossy for someone who isn't a doctor."

"You're very argumentative for someone with a concussion."

"Mild," you said.

His voice didn't feel as taunting as usual. "That's how I know it's mild."

You almost laughed. You didn't quite. He'd taken his blazer off at some point without you noticing—somewhere between the mechanism thing and the Le Chatelier thing, somewhere in the middle of everything—and when he stood to retrieve it from the back of the chair the afternoon light from the small window fell across the line of his jaw and caught the angle of it, and you thought with the flat exhaustion of someone who had been avoiding a thought for months: he is so unreasonably good-looking and I am so tired of knowing that.

He turned around. You looked at the icepack. He'd seen. He said nothing about it, and you were both aware of that without saying so.

"I'll walk you back," he grinned.

"I know the way to class."

"I know you know the way to class." Patient. "I'm walking you back anyway."

You stood. Gathered your things. He was buttoning his blazer—all the way, properly, collar straight, which was so unlike the person with sagged pants who had walked into chemistry that morning—and he turned for the door.

And then the nurse, crossing back behind the partition to reset the cot area, knocked something off the shelf beside it, caught it, and in catching it accidentally hit the small switch on the boxy device sitting next to the shelf.

The breathing stopped. Mid-exhale. Clean and mechanical. The specific flatness of a recording that had ended.

You and Keonho both turned to look at the partition at exactly the same time.

The nurse glanced back over her shoulder. "Oh—sorry about that, students always forget it's on." She turned back to what she was doing, completely unbothered. "Resuscitation dummy. Runs on a cycle timer. Good for getting students used to background noise in the office."

Silence.

A very particular, very long silence.

You looked at Keonho. Keonho looked at you.

Behind the partition: nothing. No breathing. No sleeping student. A mannequin on a cot with a timer, which had been running quietly and continuously for the entire length of everything that had just happened in this room. The whole argument. The whole thing. I don't know if I'm performing and that's not rivalry and I pay attention in class too—all of it said carefully, said quietly, said in that close hushed register because there was a person sleeping three feet away.

A plastic person. On a freaking timer.

"So," you said.

"Yes," he confirmed.

"The whole time."

"The whole time," he agreed, looking you straight in the eyes. His hair fell into them and you yearned to move it away if not just to see those sweet, crinkled eyes of his.

You thought about the automatic way you'd both dropped your voices the moment you heard it. The way the chairs had drifted closer without either of you saying anything because obviously, someone was resting nearby. The way the whole conversation had lived in that register—too close, too quiet, like a secret the room had held without asking you if you wanted it to.

All because of a dummy.

"That's not funny," you said.

"No," he said, in a tone that communicated the exact opposite. He wanted to giggle, you could tell.

You pressed your lips together. He pressed his. And then you were both laughing—quickly and quietly and a little helplessly, the kind that comes from trying not to and making it worse—and it dissolved as fast as it came and left you both looking at the floor with the feeling of two people who had said very honest things in a room they thought had a witness, and the witness had been hollow.

The laughing had faded. The room had gone quiet again—a different kind of quiet from before, the kind that had a question sitting in it somewhere. You were looking at the floor. He was looking at you.

"Can I ask you something?" Keonho said.

"You've been asking me things for the last forty minutes."

"Mmm, it's a different kind of thing."

You looked up at him. He was watching you with that expression—the fully-surfaced one, nothing managed about it anymore, just him—and something about the quality of his attention made the back of your throat go a little dry. "What?"

"Can I kiss you?"

The room spun or something. You weren't entirely sure if it was the room or you.

"What?" you said again, louder. You were baffled. Were you sure that he wasn't the one that got hit?

"Can I—"

"I heard you the first time," you said. "What do you mean can I kiss you?I have a head injury."

"Mild," he pointed out.

"That's not—" you stopped. Looked at him while he looked back. He was completely serious, which was somehow the most alarming part of it. "No," you said. "Absolutely not. Why would I—no."

"For research purposes," he said.

You stared at him. "I'm sorry."

"I have a hypothesis."

"Oh my god."

"Hear me out," he said, and he leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and the chair was still close and the room was still small and your head was still doing that imprecise thing. "My hypothesis is that you find me annoying specifically because you don't actually dislike me. And I think one kiss would settle it."

"That is the most insane thing anyone has ever said to me."

"Is it wrong?"

"Yes," you snapped exasperatedly. "Obviously yes."

"Which part?"

You opened your mouth. The problem was that the honest answer to which part was not a comfortable one, and you were very aware of that, and he was very aware that you were aware, which was the specific expression currently on his face.

"You're so—" you started.

"I know," he agreed pleasantly.

"I wasn't complimenting you."

"I know that too."

The clock on the wall ticked. You looked at him and he looked back at you and the room was very small and the chairs were very close and you'd just spent forty minutes saying honest things to a dummy and maybe that had loosened something, maybe that was the problem, maybe the head injury was genuinely worse than advertised.

"One," you said.

Something in his face went very still as if he was shocked you truly agreed. "One."

"One. And if you say anything remotely stupid afterward I'm leaving."

"I won't say anything stupid."

"You always say something stupid."

"I'll make an exception," he said, and he was already leaning in—slow, slow enough that you could have stopped it, which you didn't—and then his mouth was on yours and the room did the thing again, that specific tilt, different from the ball to the head, warmer and more deliberate and entirely his fault.

He kissed you the way he did everything else, with that relaxed quality, like he had nowhere else to be, like this specifically was where he'd decided to be, and it lasted long enough that when he pulled back you'd forgotten what you were supposed to say next.

You remembered how to be a person.

"That was—" you started.

"Yeah," he cleared his throat and adjusted his tie.

"I didn't like it," you huffed and looked at anything but him.

He looked at you. At your face specifically, which was doing things you were not fully in control of right now. "Okay," he chuckled.

"I didn't."

"Okay."

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what."

"Like—" you gestured at his whole face. "That."

The corner of his mouth moved. "Not bad," he said, almost to himself, like he was making a note in his head.

The heat that climbed your neck happened so fast it was almost impressive. "Not bad?"

"I said what I said."

"You—that's—" you were sputtering, which was mortifying, which was entirely his fault. "You asked. You literally asked me. And now you're sitting there going not bad like you're rating a—"

"You said you didn't like it," he pointed out, very reasonable, very infuriating.

"That's completely different from not bad, you absolute—"

"So you did like it."

"I didn't say that!"

"You implied it," he said, and he was smiling now, properly, the real one, the one that took over his whole face and did things to the line of his jaw, and it was so unfair that you had to be looking at that right now while you were also this flustered, it was genuinely cosmically unfair, and you grabbed the icepack from where you'd left it forgotten on the desk and pressed it directly to your own face.

"I have a head injury," you said, muffled, from behind the icepack.

"Mild," he corrected in the dumbest grin you'd ever seen and wanted to smack it and replay the last five minutes at the same time.

"I hate you."

"Hmm," he said, in the tone of someone who had formed a very specific opinion about that and was choosing not to share it yet.

You held the icepack to your face for several more seconds. The clock ticked. Keonho waited, patient in the exact way he was patient when he knew he'd already won something and was just giving you time to catch up to it.

You lowered the icepack.

He was still smiling.

"Don't," you said.

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're smiling."

"I'm allowed to smile," he shrugged. "It's a free country."

And then the door opened and the nurse came back in, and you both looked up, and she looked between you with the mild curiosity of someone who had seen a lot of things in this office and had long since stopped being surprised by any of them, and she set her bag down and said she'd just check your pupils again quickly.

The nurse hummed on the other side of the partition, already on to something else.

You walked out into the corridor.

At the classroom door he stopped and looked at you, and you had about half a second before it came.

"Uh, by the way," he said, and his voice had settled into that relaxed tone yet again—"the way you argued the mechanism point. It was the best-constructed position I've heard in that class."

Your brain did something graceless. "You disagreed with it."

"I know." He held the door open. "Being good and being right aren't the same thing."

You looked at him—in depthly looked, the way you'd been carefully not doing all year—and he looked back with that expression you'd stopped trying to name, and the corridor behind you was bright and ordinary and everything was exactly as it had always been except for this thing in your chest that had shifted into a shape you recognized and were not going to name out loud yet.

You went inside and he followed shortly.

Neither of you said anything else, which meant everything was exactly as unresolved as it had been that morning, except the unresolved had edges now—something you could press your fingers against and feel the outline of. That was enough for today. That was maybe even a lot.

Outside the window Seoul was doing what it did in October. Going golden before it went dark, the light at that slant that made ordinary things look like something you'd remember later when you weren't expecting to.

You sat down at your desk. He sat down at his.

The teacher picked up where they'd left off and the class came back to life around both of you, and on the desk in front of yours Keonho opened his notebook to a page he'd apparently already written on. Like he'd been thinking about this before he arrived.

You picked up your orange highlighter.

Key terms.

And what neither of you would say out loud, walking back down that corridor:

That the argument had not been about chemistry. that it had maybe never been about chemistry. That paying attention and remembering and correcting and caring—even when it looked like fighting—was its own kind of language. And that you'd both been speaking it to each other since September. And that you'd kept your voices down the whole time for no one. And that even that had been honest.

𝑰. gold

The last thing you heard before the music swelled was the crowd going quiet.

It was not silence—never silent at nationals. Could never be with the arena packed to the upper sections and the overhead lights running so hot you could feel them on the back of your neck and cameras mounted at every angle like the whole world was watching through a lens. But there was a specific quality of quiet that happened right before a skater's final element. This collective inhale. Seventeen hundred people deciding, in the same half-second, that breathing could wait.

You'd been chasing that sound your whole life.

The Rachmaninoff built toward its peak and you felt it in your sternum before you heard it—that specific swell that had been the architecture of your free skate for eleven months, so embedded in your body now that you could reconstruct it from memory at 3 AM in a pitch-dark room. Your left foot hit the ice on the exact beat. Your body pulled into the combination spin before your brain consciously told it to.

Three rotations and then four. Your arms drew in tighter, speed climbing, and for a fraction of a second the rink and the crowd and the weight of what this score meant dissolved completely. There was just the ice and your body and the music and the precise geometric certainty of the one thing you'd been doing since you were four years old.

You came out clean. And the crowd broke open.

You moved into your final pose—arms extended, chin lifted, one leg drawn out behind you in the line your coach had spent three weeks perfecting—and held it through the last note. Held it until the music died. Held it until your own heartbeat was the loudest thing in the arena.

Then you let yourself breathe.

The sound hit you a half-second later, the way it always did after a program. Like your brain delayed the input until it knew you were done. Applause rolling through the venue in waves, people on their feet in the lower bowl, your name somewhere in there if you listened hard enough past the roar.

You lowered your arms. You smiled. Genuinely and not for the cameras, this smile that only showed up when you'd done exactly what you came to do. You pressed a hand to your chest, bowed once to the judges' panel, once to the far end, once toward the section where you knew your coach was standing even though you couldn't find her through the glare.

And then, because you couldn't help it—your eyes swept the upper sections.

You told yourself it was habit every time. You know, just the automatic scan you did after every program, grounding yourself in space before the adrenaline crashed. Normal. Completely normal. It had nothing to do with anything.

Your eyes found him before you were consciously looking.

Section C, four rows from the back, left side. He was standing against the railing with his arms crossed over his chest and his hood pulled up despite the heat of the arena. A little too tall to miss. Too still in a crowd of moving people, like he'd decided that the noise around him simply didn't affect him.

James. Zhao Yufan. Newly number four on the New Jersey Devils hockey program.

He was not cheering nor clapping. He was just watching you with that particular quality of attention he had. The one that evoked this feeling that felt like being studied, like you were a problem he was turning over slowly in his hands. His expression was unreadable from this distance. It always was, and you'd stopped pretending that didn't drive you insane.

You held eye contact for exactly one second. Maybe a few more milliseconds.

Then you looked away and skated toward the boards where your coach was already waiting, arms open, and you let the noise of the arena swallow the fact that your chest was doing something complicated that had absolutely nothing to do with the program you'd just landed.

He came.

You hadn't told him you wanted him to. You hadn't asked, wouldn't have asked—that wasn't what you and James were. You were absolutely not the kind of attachment where you asked for things and expected them to materialize.

You'd established that early. You'd both been very clear about it, or at least you'd both said the words that were supposed to make it clear, and then proceeded to behave in ways that made a complete mess of everything you'd said.

But he came anyway.

He was there with your coach's arms around your shoulders and the crowd still roaring and your score about to flash on the board, you found yourself thinking about the four months that had led to this exact moment.

About Mattamy at 11 PM and the vending machine on the B-level and an argument about ice time that was never really about ice time. About all the ways two people could sink so deep into something they couldn't name that they lost track of when they started sinking.

You thought about James Zhao, who'd come to your nationals and stood in section C and watched you like he had every right to be there.

And you thought about how badly you wished that didn't mean as much as it did.

𝑰𝑰. four months ago — first blood

The thing about Mattamy Athletic Centre was that it never really closed. Almost like the city that never slept, if you wanted to compare it to something.

This was what they told you when your federation arranged the Toronto residency—that the rink ran on staggered schedules, that programs overlapped, that at any hour between 5 AM and midnight there was someone on that ice doing something. Figure skaters claimed the early mornings when the surface was fresh and the light through the upper windows was still gray and thin. Development programs ran afternoons. The later slots, the ones that bled past 9 PM and into hours that felt less like training and more like a personal problem, those belonged to whoever wanted them badly enough to show up.

You'd been showing up for three months before the hockey boys arrived.

The news filtered through the rink the way all rink news did—through the manager's assistant, who told the Zamboni operator, who told two of the junior skaters, who told Lia, who appeared in the doorway of the locker room one morning in October with her skate bag over one shoulder and her eyes lit up like she'd just heard something excellent.

"Five players," she announced, dropping onto the bench beside you. "Hockey. They're doing a joint training residency, something about the developmental league deferring for the season. Here through spring. All drafted, apparently. One of them top five picks in the last two years."

You looked up from retaping your blade. "What team?"

"That's the thing—they're not really a team. More like a training collective. All from different programs, all doing the same deferral for different reasons. They specifically requested a rink with high-level multi-sport programming because their coach thinks cross-training with elite athletes from other disciplines is good for them." She raised an eyebrow. "So... us."

"Great," you said, and went back to watching the tape.

Lia watched you for a second. "You're not even a little curious?"

"About hockey players?"

"About five elite athletes who are apparently very—"

"Lia."

"I'm just saying."

"I know what you're saying," you told her. "And I'm saying I have a short program that's thirty-seven points off where it needs to be before December and I don't have bandwidth for whatever you're implying."

She pressed her lips together in a way that wasn't quite a smile. "Okay. Sure."

You met these boys four days later, and not under circumstances that left any room for the kind of first impression you might have wanted.

It was 10:40 PM. You had the ice until 11 and you were using every minute of it—running your step sequence over and over, the section that kept falling apart in the back half, the transition your coach had flagged three sessions in a row. The rink was empty except for you and the overhead lights humming and the music playing through your earbuds, cut off from everything else.

You didn't hear them come in.

What you heard was the door to the ice slamming open instead of the soft hydraulic close it was supposed to make. It was a full crash, the sound of something hitting the boards on the far end. You pulled an earbud out. Voices... laughter? The distinctive sound of skate blades on rubber matting.

Five of them, spilling through the far entrance in various states of gear. One of them said something in another language, Korean maybe, that made two others lose it completely. Another one—tall, quiet, already scanning the rink with a calm, assessing look—noticed you almost immediately and nudged the one next to him.

You skated to center ice and waited.

The one who'd been laughing hardest stopped first when he saw you. Broad-shouldered with an easy smile. This boy had the kind of face that probably made things go smoothly for him in most situations. "Oh—hey. Sorry, we didn't realize—"

"You're not on until eleven," you said.

"Yeah, we know, we just—"

"It's ten forty-two."

A moment of silence. The easy smile flickered but it held. "We figured we'd come early and—"

"The ice schedule exists for a reason." You kept your voice flat, not hostile, just factual. "If everyone showed up whenever they felt like it, the surface would be garbage by the time the later sessions started. So the schedule exists. You're on at eleven."

From somewhere in the group, a voice cut through. "We'll wait."

You looked over.

He was standing slightly apart from the others, stick resting against his shoulder, helmet in his hand. He was not as immediately readable as the one with the easy smile—where that one had warmth built into his whole demeanor, this one had something more contained. He watched the exchange with dark eyes that gave away very little. He looked like someone who'd been running calculations since the moment he walked in.

"Okay," you hummed, though you wanted to say more.

"Okay," he echoed, and something in his tone made it very clear he wasn't agreeing with you so much as acknowledging that the conversation was over.

You put your earbud back in and returned to your step sequence.

For the next eighteen minutes you were aware of them the way you were aware of weather. Like something happening at the edges of your attention that you'd decided not to engage with directly. They settled in the first row of the lower bowl, some of them leaning over the boards to watch, some on their phones, one of them already half-asleep against the shoulder of the one next to him.

The one who'd said we'll wait with that gruffy yet smooth voice didn't sit down. He stood at the boards and watched you skate.

You knew because you could feel it. It was that particular weight of someone's attention when they were actually paying attention. It wasn't just the casual glancing of someone killing time but focused and specific. You'd performed under enough high-stakes scrutiny to know the difference.

At 11:01, you stepped off the ice without looking at any of them.

"Good session," the easy-smile one offered as you passed.

"Thanks," you said, not breaking your stride.

You heard the ice door open behind you as they filed out, the sound of blades, someone doing a warm-up lap with long, aggressive strokes that vibrated through the boards. And then, just before you pushed through to the corridor, that same quiet voice from earlier.

"You're dropping your left shoulder on the back end of the sequence."

You stopped and turned around slowly. Seriously?

He was already on the ice, ten feet from the boards, like he'd said it in passing and had no particular investment in whether you heard it. Was not at all looking at you now. Running a slow circle with his stick trailing behind him.

Every instinct told you to let it go.

"You skate hockey," you scoffed.

"Yeah."

"What would you know about my shoulder?"

He stopped the circle. He stared at you across the ice with an expression that was frustratingly calm. "I know that you ran that sequence nine times and it fell apart in the same place every time, and right before it fell apart your left shoulder dropped about two inches. Might be nothing. Might be why you keep losing the flow at the back end." A pause where those shoulders of his shrugged. "Like I said. Might be nothing."

You stared at him for a long moment. He held your gaze without any apparent discomfort, which annoyed you more than it should have.

"Thanks for the input," you said, and walked out.

In the locker room alone, you pulled up the video your coach had sent from that afternoon's session. Scrolled to the step sequence. You watched the back end three times.

Your left shoulder dropped two inches right before the transition fell apart. Fuck. You put your phone face-down on the bench and sat there for a minute.

Then you picked it up and added a note to your session log: left shoulder—check before back-end transition. You did not think about the hockey player who'd told you.

You were very deliberate about that.

𝑰𝑰𝑰.

You learned their names by accident, the way you learned most things at the rink—through Lia, who had apparently absorbed every available fact about all five of them within the first week and distributed this information whether you asked for it or not.

Keonho was the easy smile, the one who'd spoken to you first—loud by default, the kind of person who treated every corridor like a stage and every interaction like a bit he was already in the middle of. Seonghyeon was the one beside him, who had this way of smiling at you that was slightly delayed, like he'd processed whatever you said, found it good, and only then let his face catch up. A little awkward in the specific way of someone who genuinely meant everything and occasionally didn't know what to do with that. Juhoon was the one who'd been quiet since the beginning—not cold, just watchful. You got the sense he filed everything and said very little of what he actually thought, which made the things he occasionally said feel worth paying attention to. Martin had strong opinions about almost everything and delivered them all with the same measured certainty regardless of whether the topic warranted it, which was either a gift or a liability depending on the day.

And James—

James was the one who'd told you about your shoulder.

Zhao Yufan, Lia told you, like you'd asked. Top-five pick, NJ Devils, deferred entry for the development year. Originally from Hong Kong, grew up in Taiwan. Spoke four languages, according to his player profile, which Lia had clearly read in its entirety. She delivered all of this with the specific tone she used when she wanted to communicate that something was interesting without admitting she found it interesting.

"You looked him up," you said.

"I looked all of them up."

"Right."

"He's good," she added. "Like, really good. I watched some of his development league footage and the way he reads the ice is—"

"Lia."

"What?"

"I don't care."

She gave you a look across the stretch mat that said she didn't entirely believe you. You ignored it and went back to your hip flexor stretch, and you were very careful over the next two weeks to maintain exactly the level of professional indifference you'd established at the beginning.

It worked, mostly. You had different ice times. Your paths crossed in the corridors occasionally—a nod, a passing acknowledgment, nothing that required you to think about afterward. The rink was big enough that you could exist in it without orbiting each other.

And then the scheduling conflict happened.

It was a Tuesday in late October. Your regular 8 PM slot had been bumped by a junior invitational that ran long, which pushed you to the auxiliary rink on the B-level—smaller, older ice, the kind of surface that felt slightly different under the blade. Coaches called it character building. Skaters called it a pain in the ass. You'd been told you had it from 9 to 11.

What you hadn't been told was that James had been given the same slot.

You found out when you stepped onto the ice at 9:03 and he was already there.

He saw you at the same moment you saw him. A beat of mutual stillness.

"They gave you this slot?" you asked.

"Nine to eleven," he confirmed.

"They gave me nine to eleven."

He looked at you and you looked at him. Neither of you looked particularly thrilled.

"I'll call the rink manager," you said, reaching for your phone.

"I tried. She's not picking up."

You stared at your phone. Then at the ice. Then at him. "There's enough room to run separate sessions."

"Barely."

"Can you stay in the far end?"

Something shifted in his expression—not quite offense, but adjacent to it. "Can you?"

"I was here first."

"By three minutes."

"Three minutes is three minutes."

He was quiet for a moment, that contained quality from the boards working itself through the calculation. Then: "We split it. You take the near end for the first forty minutes, I take the far end. We switch at ten."

It wasn't a question. A proposed solution delivered in the tone of someone who'd already run the numbers and decided this was the most efficient answer.

You thought about arguing. You genuinely considered it, because something about the way he operated—like every situation had a logical answer and he'd already found it before you'd finished forming an objection—made you want to disagree on principle.

"Fine," you said instead, because you had a program to run and no time to waste on principle.

For forty minutes you ran your short program on the near end and he ran drills on the far end and you were professionally, deliberately indifferent to each other. The auxiliary rink was smaller than the main surface, the ceiling lower, the acoustics different—sounds carried in a way they didn't in the main arena. You could hear his blades. The sharp stops, the acceleration on straightaways, the way the sound changed when he was running something technical versus something full-speed. You didn't listen. You were very focused on not listening.

At 9:44 he called a water break and you both ended up at the boards at the same time. You grabbed your bottle. He grabbed his. You both stared at the far wall.

"Your short program," he said after a moment.

You glanced at him.

"The entry on the flip. You're telegraphing it." He took a drink. "Your free leg swings out about half a second early. Judges at this level are going to clock it."

Your jaw tightened. "Do you make a habit of this?"

"Of what?"

"Analyzing skaters."

He looked at you then, something unreadable in his expression. "I watch how people move on ice. I've been doing it since I was twelve. It's not a habit, it's—" He paused. "I notice things."

"I have a coach."

"I know."

"She's the one who gives me notes."

"I know that too."

"Then why—"

"Because you've run that entry six times and it's been the same every time," he said evenly. "You can tell me to mind my business. That's fair. But it's there."

You stared at him. Your first instinct was to do exactly that—tell him to mind his business, put your earbud back in, go back to the far end when the clock hit ten. You were very good at shutting things down when they started to feel like more than you'd signed up for.

But the shoulder note was still in your session log. And your coach had said the same thing about the flip entry last Thursday without you managing to fix it.

"Where exactly," you said slowly, "is my free leg."

He set down his water bottle and turned to face the ice. "I'll show you the timing."

"You're a hockey player."

"I know what telegraphing looks like regardless of the sport." He stepped back onto the ice, skated a slow half-circle without the stick, and then approximated the approach—not the jump itself, obviously, but the body position in the three seconds before. He paused at the moment. "Here. Your free leg wants to go here."

He was right. You could see it even in the approximation, the way the hip opened too early and gave the whole thing away.

You hated that he was right.

"Half a second earlier than it should be," you said.

"Yeah."

You stepped back onto the ice and ran the entry twice. On the second attempt you felt the difference—the discipline of keeping the free leg contained until the last possible moment, the way it changed the energy of the approach entirely.

"Better," he said, from somewhere behind you.

You turned around.

He was leaning against the boards with his arms crossed, watching with that same quality of attention you'd felt from the stands during your first session. Up close it was worse. More specific. Like being under a microscope held by someone who'd decided you were the most interesting thing in the room without making it feel like a compliment.

"Why do you do that," you said.

"Do what."

"Watch people like that. Like you're filing it."

Something moved across his face. Not quite discomfort, but a shift—like you'd pushed on something that had more give than he'd expected. He looked back at the ice. "When I was coming up I was always the outsider. New team, new country, new language half the time. Watching people was how I figured out where I fit."

You didn't say anything.

"It's not—" He stopped. "I'm not trying to be weird about it."

"I didn't say you were being weird."

"You looked like you were thinking it."

"I was thinking you're observant."

"That's diplomatic."

"I'm very diplomatic," you told him, and something in your tone made the corner of his mouth move—barely enough to count as a reaction, but enough that you clocked it.

At 10:01 you switched ends. At 11:00 the ice time ended and you both stepped off at the same time and walked toward the B-level corridor in silence that was different from the silence at the beginning of the night. Smaller, somehow.

At the fork where the corridor split toward the separate locker rooms, you stopped.

"Thanks," you said. "For the flip thing."

He looked at you. "You would've figured it out."

"Probably," you agreed. "But faster this way."

He nodded once. You turned toward your corridor.

"Same time Thursday?" he asked.

You looked back. "We have the same conflict Thursday?"

"Scheduling's backed up all week apparently."

You considered this. Thought about the ways it could complicate things, the ways it was already complicated, the fact that you'd been running a two-week policy of professional indifference that had just developed a significant crack.

"Same time Thursday," you said.

You walked to your locker room and told yourself it was just ice time. A practical solution to a scheduling problem. Nothing that needed to be thought about any further.

You thought about it for the entire drive back to your apartment.

𝑰𝑽. the vending machine

The B-level vending machine was a relic. An old unit shoved into a utility alcove across from the auxiliary rink entrance, stocked irregularly and with no apparent logic—sometimes it had three flavors of sports drink, sometimes just two, sometimes the left column sat completely empty for days. The light inside flickered when the compressor kicked on, casting everything in a color that was technically white but felt more like 11 PM on a Tuesday specifically.

You discovered it the second week of the scheduling conflict, when you'd finished a session, were too wired to go home, and needed something that wasn't water. What you wanted were the chips in slot B6—honey butter, the kind Lia kept in her skate bag and that you'd been eating off her since October. You put your money in. You pressed B6.

The machine made a sound like it was considering it.

Nothing came out.

You pressed B6 again. The spiral turned a quarter rotation and stopped. The bag was right there—sitting on the edge of the coil, tipped forward, not dropping. You could see it. You pressed B6 a third time with significantly more force than the situation technically warranted, which accomplished nothing except making the machine rattle once and go quiet.

"B7," said a voice behind you.

You turned around.

James was standing at the entrance to the alcove with his bag over one shoulder, jacket half-unzipped, hair still slightly damp from the shower in the way that meant he'd stayed late too. He was looking at the machine with the same analytical quality he applied to everything—like it was a problem that had already been solved and he was simply reporting the solution.

"What?" you said.

"Press B7." He nodded toward the panel. "Then B6. The mechanism resets. It'll drop both."

You looked at him. Then at the machine. Then back at him with the specific expression you reserved for people who felt the need to explain things to you unprompted. "Do you always feel the need to troubleshoot things you weren't asked about?"

"When I know the answer," he said, without particular defensiveness.

You turned back to the machine. You considered, for a moment, the principle of the thing. Then you pressed B7. The spiral turned, dispensed a bag of plain chips you didn't want. You pressed B6. The honey butter dropped into the tray along with it.

You reached in and retrieved both.

When you stood back up, James had moved into the alcove and was reading the options with the unhurried focus of someone who made decisions the same way in every context—deliberately, and without apparent self-consciousness about the time it took. You used these seconds to do what you'd been doing since the auxiliary rink without really admitting it: you watched him.

He was taller than your brain kept accounting for. Something about the way he moved in smaller spaces—the hallway outside Mira's office, the boards during water breaks, here—made the scale land differently than it did on the ice, where everyone just looked like their sport. He had the build of someone who'd been athletic so long it had simply become how he was shaped: the set of his shoulders, the way he stood with most of his weight on his back foot without seeming to think about it, the particular stillness of his hands while the rest of him evaluated something.

His jaw had a very slight tension in it when he was concentrating. You'd noticed that in the rink too. It wasn't the tension of stress—more like the specific engagement of someone filtering a lot of information at once and choosing which pieces mattered. Right now he was choosing between a protein bar and a sports drink with that same quality of attention, which was objectively not a decision that required it, and somehow you found that more interesting than it had any right to be.

He pressed a button. Retrieved a water. Turned around and found you looking directly at him with a bag of plain chips in each hand.

Neither of you said anything for a moment.

"You have two bags," he observed.

"I'm aware."

"You wanted the honey butter."

"And now I also have these." You held up the plain ones. "Consider it a bonus."

The corner of his mouth moved—that almost-thing, the one you'd started to suspect was the closest he got to openly finding something funny. He leaned against the wall beside the machine, unscrewed the cap on his water, and drank without breaking eye contact, which should not have been as unsettling as it was.

You leaned against the opposite wall. The alcove was narrow enough that you were maybe four feet apart. The compressor kicked on and the light did its flicker thing and in the brief weird quality of it you could see him clearly—the line of his throat when he swallowed, the way his lashes were longer than you'd clocked from any distance, the particular expression he had when he was looking at you and not bothering to perform anything about it.

"How's the flip entry?" he asked.

"Better."

"Your coach notice?"

You pulled open the honey butter bag. "She asked what I changed."

"What'd you tell her?"

"That I figured it out."

A pause—long enough that you knew he'd caught exactly what you hadn't said. He took another drink of water. Put the cap back on.

"The Devils' season opener is in three weeks," you said, not entirely sure why you said it. It had been sitting somewhere in the back of your mind since Lia mentioned it—the awareness that there was a clock on this, on all of it. The residency had an end date. This whole arrangement had an expiration built in from the beginning.

"Yeah," he responded.

"Is that weird? Watching it from here?"

He was quiet for a moment. His eyes dropped to the water bottle in his hands, turned it once, set it against his thigh. "When the footage is good it's harder." He looked back up. "But I wanted the year. I made the decision and I wanted it."

"For what specifically?"

He glanced at you, that considering quality again—deciding how much of the sentence to give you. His thumb was tracing the edge of the bottle cap without him seeming to notice. You noticed.

"To be ready in the ways that actually matter," he said. "When it stops being development and starts being permanent."

You understood that with more precision than you intended to show. The specific gap between being good at something and being prepared for what being good at it actually cost—the pressure that arrived when the stakes went from significant to real, the way it changed the inside of a program or a game entirely.

"How much longer?" you asked.

"Seven months."

Seven. And then the residency ended and he went to New Jersey and whatever this corridor-and-alcove-and-auxiliary-rink arrangement was, it ended with it. That was known information. You'd known it from the first week.

Knowing it in the abstract and standing in a utility alcove at 11:30 PM with the flickering light and the honey butter chips and James Zhao four feet away looking at you like you were something worth looking at—those were different things, it turned out.

"I should go," you said.

"Yeah."

Neither of you moved.

You watched him watching you. You were aware, in a way you'd been trying not to be for two weeks, of the specific quality of his attention—that thing he'd told you at the boards, I notice things, and the way it felt to be one of the things he noticed. It wasn't comfortable. It also wasn't uncomfortable. It was something for which you did not currently have the correct word and that was, in itself, a problem.

You pushed off the wall. Picked up your bag. He didn't move, just watched you collect yourself with that same unhurried patience.

"Thanks," you said, at the door of the alcove. "For the B7 thing."

"You would've figured it out."

"Probably," you agreed. "But faster this way."

He tilted his head slightly at that—something shifting in his expression that you couldn't quite categorize before it settled back into neutral. "Same time Thursday?"

"We have the conflict Thursday too?"

"We have it all week."

You stood in the doorway and thought about the ways this was already more complicated than you'd intended. About the shoulder note in your session log and the flip entry and the way he'd stood at the boards and watched you for eighteen minutes the first night without once making it feel like anything other than simple attention.

"Same time Thursday," you said.

You walked to the stairwell and took the stairs slowly and told yourself, with complete conviction, that this was still nothing. Two athletes at the same rink. Overlapping schedules. A vending machine that required a workaround.

Completely containable. You were in control of this.

You thought about the way his thumb had moved on the bottle cap all the way home.

𝑽. november

The thing was—and you would spend a significant amount of time later being annoyed at yourself for not catching it sooner—it happened gradually and then all at once in the specific way that only happened when you weren't paying attention.

November arrived and the scheduling conflict resolved itself. The junior invitational series ended, the regular schedule was restored, and there was no practical reason for you and James to keep occupying the same ice at 9 PM on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

You did it anyway.

Neither of you discussed this. One Tuesday it just happened—you showed up to the auxiliary rink and he was there and the rink manager, who had figured out months earlier that monitoring B-level after 9 PM was above her pay grade, said nothing. It became a thing the way things became things when two people with no business establishing a routine went ahead and established one—through accumulated small decisions that were each individually defensible and collectively impossible to defend.

What it looked like from the outside, if anyone was paying attention to B-level at 9 PM on Tuesdays and Thursdays: a figure skater running programs and a hockey player running drills on opposite ends of a rink, occasionally stopping to rehydrate, occasionally ending up in the alcove afterward with the flickering vending machine light doing them no favors.

What it was: harder to categorize.

You talked. That was the part that surprised you most, looking back—not that it happened, but how easily. James wasn't a talker in any conventional sense. He wasn't Keonho, who you'd had enough corridor encounters with to understand that his default mode was volume and enthusiasm. James was economical with words in a way that could read as cold until you'd been around him long enough to understand that it wasn't coldness, it was selectivity. He said things he meant. He didn't say things he didn't mean. It made the things he actually said land differently—heavier, like they'd been considered before they arrived.

He talked about hockey the way you talked about skating: not as a job, but as the primary language his body thought in. He talked about reading ice in a game context, how the geometry of a play developed three seconds before it materialized, how the best players weren't the fastest but the ones who understood space. He talked about his development coach, a retired NHLer who communicated exclusively through corrections and had never in four years told James he'd done something well, and the way he said it made clear he respected this rather than resented it.

He asked about your programs the way someone asked about something they were genuinely curious about. Not the performed interest of someone being polite—actual questions, specific ones, the kind that required you to think before you answered. What a GOE deduction felt like from the inside. How you decided which music to skate to. Whether there was a difference between performing when you wanted to win and performing when you needed to.

That last one you sat with for a long time before you answered.

"When you want to win," you told him, one night in the alcove with your back against the wall and the vending machine humming beside you, "you're in it. You're present. Everything is information. When you need to win—" You stopped. "It gets smaller. Everything contracts. You stop skating the whole program and you start skating each element separately, trying not to make a mistake, which is the worst way to skate a program."

He was quiet for a moment. "That's what I do in games. When the need takes over from the want."

"What does it feel like?"

"Like the ice gets smaller." He looked down at the water bottle in his hands. "Like I can feel everyone else's expectations as a physical weight."

You understood that with a clarity that sat somewhere south of your sternum—so specifically that for a moment you didn't say anything, because it felt too close to something you usually didn't let people near.

"What does your team think about the deferral?" you asked instead.

Something changed in his expression. Not quite closed, but carefully rearranged. "They're supportive."

The way he said it made obvious that wasn't the whole answer.

"James."

"It's complicated," he said.

"I didn't ask if it was simple."

He looked at you. Then back at the floor. "My last team wasn't—the dynamics were bad. Two years ago, development league. I made some decisions that weren't popular and the fallout changed some things." He was choosing words with even more deliberation than usual, which for James was saying something. "About how I approach people. About how much I let in."

You didn't ask him to elaborate. You just sat with it.

"Is that why you watched people instead of—" You paused, finding the right word. "Instead of being with them."

He was quiet for a long time. "Probably."

You didn't say anything else. Neither did he. The vending machine hummed. Somewhere above you, the main rink was still running, the sound of blades carrying faintly through the ceiling.

"I don't really do this," you said eventually.

"Do what."

"Talk. Like this. To people I'm not—" You stopped. "I'm not good at it."

"You're doing fine."

"I'm being very honest and I don't usually do that either."

He turned his head to look at you and you were suddenly aware of how small the alcove was, how close you were sitting, how the light made everything softer and more incriminating than it had any right to be.

"Why are you telling me?" he asked. Not challenging—genuine.

"Because you're leaving in seven months," you said. "So it feels lower stakes."

He held your gaze for a moment. Something moved in his expression that you couldn't fully read.

"Yeah," he said slowly. "Sure."

The way he said it made you think he didn't entirely believe you. The worst part was that you didn't entirely believe yourself.

𝑽𝑰. the first time

It started with a fight.

In retrospect, this was fitting—the two of you had an argument before you had anything else, and whatever came after was partly built on the fact that you'd learned something about each other in the middle of it that you couldn't unlearn.

It was a Thursday in late November, 9:20 PM. The auxiliary rink light had been flickering for two weeks and your third maintenance request had gone unanswered, and James had looked at the ceiling during warmup with the particular expression he had when he'd already decided something and was only waiting for the right moment to act on it.

"I'm going to find the rink manager's office," he said.

"I've emailed her twice."

"In person is different."

You looked at him. He looked at you. You could tell by the set of his jaw that the decision had already been made and this was the courtesy notification—which was exactly the thing you'd called out two weeks ago and which he'd acknowledged and which he was now doing again with the minor adjustment of telling you first.

"Fine," you said. "I'm coming."

He looked mildly surprised by that. Good.

The rink manager's office was somewhere on the administrative level—you'd been told this during orientation and had never needed to know it specifically until now. There was a directory near the main lobby that neither of you had ever looked at. You found it, read it, took the elevator to the third floor, and walked down a hallway that felt immediately wrong. This hallway was too quiet. Too dark at the far end, the overhead fluorescents switching to motion-sensor mode and clicking on in sections ahead of you as you moved.

"This is the wrong floor," you said.

"The directory said three."

"The directory said the admin office is on three. That doesn't mean the rink manager's office is the admin office."

James stopped walking. He’d consulted the photo he'd taken of the directory with the expression of someone reconciling conflicting data. "The admin suite is at the end."

"Those are supply closets, James."

He looked at the doors. Of course, they were—unmistakably—supply closets.

You turned around. He fell into step beside you and you were suddenly, unavoidably aware of how much space he took up in a narrow hallway—the width of his shoulders, the particular way he moved, elegant even when he was wrong, which was its own specific category of aggravating.

"We can find her tomorrow," you said.

"The light has been broken for two weeks."

"I'm aware. I've been the one submitting the requests."

"Right, and submitting requests hasn't—"

"Don't." You stopped walking and turned to face him. The motion sensor clicked on overhead, flooding the section of hallway between you in flat white light. "Do not finish that sentence."

He stopped. You were three feet apart, the hallway narrow enough that three feet felt like considerably less. He was looking at you with that contained expression—the one that gave nothing away on the surface—but you'd been watching his face for two months now and you could see what sat underneath it. The slight tension working through his jaw. The quality of his attention sharpening around the edges and that squint in his eyes.

"What's that going to accomplish that I didn't already accomplish," you seethed.

"Sometimes things get done faster when—"

"When what?" You crossed your arms. "When a man asks?"

He paused. To his credit, he didn't immediately backtrack—he seemed to actually consider whether that was what he'd been about to say. "When someone follows up," he amended with a little head tilt. "The maintenance request was two weeks ago."

"I know how long ago it was. I submitted it."

"Then I'll follow up on it."

"I'm capable of following up on my own maintenance request."

"I know you are," he said, and somehow that landed more aggravating than if he'd disagreed—because it made clear he wasn't questioning your capability, he was just planning to do the thing anyway, which was worse.

"You know what your problem is," you huffed and crossed your arms.

He looked at you with an expression containing raised eyebrows and said he suspected he was about to find out.

"You decide the most efficient solution to a problem and then you implement it without checking whether the other person wanted you to implement anything." The words had more heat than you'd planned for, bouncing off the low ceiling of the hallway and sitting there between you. "You observe, you calculate, you intervene. And it doesn't occur to you that the other person might not want to be intervened on."

"The shoulder note bothered you," he said.

"No—"

"And the flip entry."

"I'm talking about a pattern—"

"You're talking about the shoulder note."

"I'm talking about the fact that you make decisions about what I need without asking me what I need."

Silence.

Somewhere at the far end of the corridor a door seal was bad and cold air was getting in—you could feel it at your ankles, this thin current of November working its way through the building. The light above you hummed. James was very still in the way he went still when he was processing something he hadn't anticipated, and you'd said too much or exactly enough, you couldn't tell which.

Then something rearranged itself in his expression. The contained quality was still there but underneath it something had shifted—like you'd pushed against a door he'd thought was locked and found it had more give than either of you expected.

"You're… right," he said eventually. Surprisingly.

That was not what you were expecting.

"I do that," he continued, more slowly, like he was being careful with the words. "It's not—I'm not trying to undermine you. It's a reflex. When I see a problem I want to fix it and I don't always stop to check if the fixing is wanted." He held your gaze steadily. "That's fair to call out."

You opened your mouth and closed it. The argument had built enough momentum that you'd expected to still be in it, and finding the ground suddenly absent under you was disorienting in a way you hadn't prepared for. You were good at arguments. You were significantly less good at people who met them cleanly and said you're right without making it feel like a concession.

"Okay," you conceded finally.

"Okay," he repeated and kept staring at you.

The tension didn't dissolve—it changed composition. It transformed into cooler and more specific replacing the heat of the previous two minutes, and you were aware, in a way that was getting harder to be casually aware of, of the precise distance between you. The hallway was narrow. The light was doing you no favors. And James Zhao was standing three feet away looking at you like he was filing something important away.

"The shoulder note," you said, not entirely sure why. "The first night. Why did you actually say it? You didn’t even know me."

He looked at you and squinted. Again, with his tongue poking his inner cheek, like he was struggling to think of a response to you.

"The real reason," you said. "Not because you notice things."

A pause. He pulled one hand out of his hoodie pocket—the tell, the one you'd catalogued six weeks ago, this thing he did right before he said something he hadn't planned to say. He rubbed the back of his neck once.

"Because you were running the same sequence over and over," he said, "and every time it fell apart in the same place and you skated back to the start without stopping to figure out why. Just—kept going. Like if you ran it enough times it would fix itself." He looked at the floor for a half-second, then back up at you. "I do that. In games. Like, i keep running the same play, same approach, except nothing changes because the problem isn't in the execution." A pause that had weight to it. "I said it because I recognized it."

The hallway was very quiet.

You looked at him—at the flat light catching the angle of his jaw, the particular stillness of his hands when he'd said everything he was going to say and was waiting to see what you did with it. Two months of Tuesday and Thursday nights. Notes in your session log. The alcove at 11:30 PM. All the things that had accumulated in the sealed compartment you'd been so deliberate about maintaining, pressing against the walls of it now.

"Okay," you breathed.

"Okay," he said.

Neither of you moved save for your eyes. Two pairs drinking each other in like you couldn’t tell whether you would strangle or jump each other’s bones.

Then you did—closed the distance in two steps without making a decision about it, and he met you halfway. That was the thing you'd argue about later, with the stubborn insistence on accuracy that defined most of your interactions: that neither of you could honestly claim to have stood still while the other moved. There was no clean answer. It was simultaneous. Both of you arriving at the same point at the same time, the way you'd been arriving at the same points all along without either of you naming it.

His hand came to your jaw first. Not grabbing but framing, his thumb settling at the hinge of it with a deliberateness that was entirely him, tilting your face up slightly. Like he'd considered the exact angle. Like even now he was being precise about it. You got one second of looking at him up close—the unhurried quality of his attention with nowhere left to redirect it, what you'd been on the receiving end of for two months finally with nowhere to hide behind—and then his mouth found yours and the argument and the wrong corridor and the flickering light dissolved completely.

It was not smooth. You'd known somehow that it wouldn't be—there was too much pressure behind it for smooth, two months of managed distance arriving all at once in a motion-sensor hallway in the wrong part of the building.

He kissed you the way he did everything: with complete intention. No hesitation, no tentativeness, nothing that suggested he hadn't already decided exactly what he was doing. His other hand found the back of your neck, fingers pressing into your hair, and you got a fistful of his hoodie and pulled without thinking about it.

He made a low sound against your mouth that did something significant to your ability to think at all.

You kissed him back with the specific accumulated weight of every session note and every vending machine night and every almost-said thing you'd managed not to say. The contained quality he carried everywhere— fuck, that particular reserve, the way he watched from a distance until he was sure—you could feel it come apart degree by degree. Not gone, never entirely gone, but loosening. It felt like watching ice at the edges in early spring: the structure still there but the rigidity leaving it. His thumb traced the line of your jaw and you felt it with a precision that was almost embarrassing, the specific warmth of it, the way his hand held you like he'd made a decision and intended to follow through on it completely.

You pressed closer. He shifted his weight, walking you one step back until your shoulders found the wall—it was deliberate with the same quality he brought to everything—and the wall was cold through your practice jacket and he was not and you catalogued that contrast with the part of your brain that was apparently still running observations even now.

When you finally pulled back you were both breathing unevenly. His forehead dropped to yours. His hand stayed curved at the back of your neck, your fist still loose in the front of his hoodie, neither of you moving away. Up close like this, eyes closed for one unguarded second, he looked different. Endlessly less contained. Like something had been set down that he'd been carrying for a long time without realizing how heavy it was.

He opened his eyes and you looked at each other.

"This is a bad idea," you said, which was true and came out significantly less convincing than intended given that you hadn't let go of his hoodie.

"I know," he said.

"I mean it."

"So do I." His thumb moved once more along your jaw—absent, almost, like he wasn't fully tracking it. You were tracking it precisely. "We're not pretending it didn't happen."

"I wasn't going to."

"Good. Because I don't do that."

"Neither do I."

He exhaled slowly through his nose. His hand dropped from your hair but he didn't step back—stayed close enough that you could still feel the warmth of him, the cold from the door seal at your ankles making the contrast sharper than it needed to be. 

You released his hoodie and smoothed the fabric flat with your palm once, deliberately, a gesture you didn't look at too closely while you were doing it.

He watched your hand. The tension returned to his jaw. It was different from before, quieter.

"The rink manager is probably on two," you said.

His face flickered. Not a grin, but he wasn’t frowning anymore. "Probably."

"We should go back down."

"Yeah."

Neither of you moved. He licked his lips and stuck his hands in his jean pockets.

"James."

"Giving it a second," he said, mild as anything.

You looked at him. He looked back with that patience of his—the same patience that had let him stand at the boards for eighteen minutes on the first night without once making it feel like pressure, like he could wait as long as the situation required and had no particular feelings about how long that was.

"Same time Thursday," you said finally.

He exhaled. "Yeah."

You turned toward the elevator. He fell into step beside you. The motion sensor lights clicked off behind you in sections as you moved, the hallway going dark again in your wake, and you walked back toward the elevator in a silence that was built differently from the one you'd arrived in. It was smaller, and more loaded, and something you were going to have to figure out what to do with.

At the elevator, you both looked at the panel.

"Two," you said.

"Two," he agreed.

You pressed the button. The doors opened. You stepped in together and stood on opposite sides of the elevator with the distance between you that was the arrangement, and you watched the numbers change and said nothing.

You were in control of this.

You kept saying it. You were going to keep saying it for a while yet. Though you were less and less sure it was true.

𝑽𝑰𝑰. four months in

Here was what you and James were.

You were ice time on Tuesdays and Thursdays, the auxiliary rink, the arrangement that had technically resolved itself months ago but that you'd both continued anyway. You were the B-level vending machine at 11:30 PM—the bad sports drink and the water, sitting in the alcove with your backs to the wall while the light flickered. You were text messages sent after midnight about session notes and program adjustments and links to footage that were ostensibly about skating and hockey and were also, on some level, not about that at all.

You were: his jacket left in your car after he'd asked for a ride back when the van was unavailable and which was still there three weeks later, which you had not mentioned and he had not asked about. You were the one time you'd run your short program three times back to back and he'd stood at the boards without saying anything until you'd finally stopped and he'd simply said that was the one about the third attempt, and the feeling that produced in your chest that you were still working through weeks later.

You were also: the fight about the Zamboni schedule in mid-November, three days of clipped texts and loaded silences in the corridor, resolved eventually not through discussion but through both of you showing up to the auxiliary rink on a Thursday like nothing had happened and the tension dissolving somewhere over the first hour. You were the fight about the overhead lights which had started everything else. You were the ongoing argument about whose session notes were more useful—yours, which were technical and precise, or his, which were brief and oddly accurate in ways that annoyed you more than they should.

You were: driving each other home. This had started practically—the team van had a recurring availability problem and you lived close enough to the rink that you'd offered once without thinking too hard about it, and once became a pattern the way everything between you became a pattern.

Tuesdays were usually him dropping you, pulling up outside your building with the heat on low and the city quiet at that hour. Thursdays were usually you—parking outside his building on a street that went calm after midnight, and sitting there in the specific silence of two people who'd just spent four hours in each other's orbit and weren't quite ready to stop.

Sometimes that silence lasted ten minutes. Once it lasted forty-five, the two of you parked and talking about nothing in particular until you'd both noticed the time and laughed at the same moment. The kind of laugh that happened when something was absurd and also undeniable.

You were: the cold of his car in December, the heat clicking on slowly, the city moving past the windows. The way he drove—one hand on the wheel, that same unhurried patience he carried everywhere. The specific thing it did to you, being in a small space with him when neither of you had anywhere to be.

You were not: a relationship. This was established. You'd both said the words—I'm not looking for anything serious, I don't have the bandwidth, this is the year I have and I need to focus on the work. You'd said yours first. He'd nodded like he'd expected it. Then he'd said his version, and you'd nodded. It was very mature. Very straightforward. You were both adults who understood exactly what this was.

And it was the most complicated simple thing you'd ever been involved in.

Because here was the part that didn't fit cleanly into the arrangement you'd agreed on. The part you kept running up against and then backing away from, because examining it directly felt like standing too close to something hot.

James didn't let people in. You knew this now—not from what he'd told you, which had been economical, but from what you'd observed across four months of closer proximity than either of you had planned. He was warm with the other four in the specific way of people who'd built something real together and weathered some things and come out the other side. With people outside that circle he was polite and contained and gave very little away. You'd watched him navigate hundreds of small interactions with coaches, staff, journalists who occasionally showed up to document the residency—consistently cordial, consistently unreachable.

With you, he was different. You couldn't fully articulate how, because it wasn't obvious at all. He wasn't suddenly open, wasn't a different person. But there was an access to him that you understood, by observation, wasn't available to most people. The way he'd told you about the development team and what that year had changed in him. The way he sometimes looked at you in the alcove when he thought you were looking at something else—this brief unguarded thing that disappeared the moment you moved.

The physical familiarity had arrived gradually and then all at once, the way most things between you arrived.

It started small. The way you'd learned the particular tension that lived in his left shoulder when he'd been drilling for too long—a tightness that changed the line of his neck slightly, visible from across the ice if you knew what you were looking at. The way he'd learned that when your landings started going heavy on the back edge it meant your hip flexor was complaining, not your technique. You'd both absorbed these things without discussing it, and then they started showing up in how you moved around each other.

There was the Tuesday in late November when he'd come off the ice after a particularly brutal session and you'd been at the boards stretching, and he'd stopped beside you and without either of you saying anything you'd pressed your thumb into the muscle above his shoulder blade, the specific spot, and he'd gone still under your hand and let out a slow breath. Like he'd been waiting for it. Like his body had already learned what yours knew to do.

He'd looked at you afterward, and you'd looked at him, and neither of you said anything about it.

There was the Thursday two weeks later when you'd been running the step sequence and something had caught wrong in your hip—not painful, just a tightness, the specific kind that presaged a bad session if you didn't address it. You'd paused on the ice, barely, a half-second break in your rhythm. Across the rink, James had stopped what he was doing and looked over. Not asking, just: present, watching to see if you needed something. You'd shaken your head once, so small a movement it barely registered. He'd gone back to his drills.

The knowing without asking. That was the part that had snuck up on you.

There was the night you'd come in from the cold with your hands white at the knuckles and he'd been in the corridor outside the auxiliary rink and he'd just taken your hands without preamble, both of them, and wrapped them inside his for thirty seconds while you both stared at the middle distance like this was a completely normal thing to do in a hallway. Then he'd let go and you'd both walked into the rink and said nothing about it.

And none of these things were supposed to count. That was the arrangement. But they had accumulated anyway, all of these moments of being known by someone in ways that didn't fit inside the box you'd drawn, and the box had been getting less useful by the week.

You weren't supposed to notice these things. You were also completely incapable of not noticing them, because whatever else you were, you were observant, and four months of Tuesday and Thursday nights had made you fluent in the specific language of James Zhao in ways you hadn't entirely consented to.

The not-touching-in-public rule had emerged naturally rather than explicitly. The rink was a small world. People talked. You both had profiles to maintain—you as a nationally competitive skater, him as a high-profile prospect with a team watching his every move. Whatever was happening between you on B-level was genuinely separate from everything else, a sealed compartment, and you'd both agreed to keep it that way without ever having the conversation about it.

For instance: the Friday afternoon three weeks ago when Lia had come out of the auxiliary rink at the same time as you and James, all three of you carrying bags, the situation unmistakably legible. The expression on her face had been a very specific kind of carefully neutral that you recognized as her processing something she'd suspected and just had confirmed.

She hadn't said anything in the moment. But she'd said plenty later.

"So," she'd opened, in the locker room, with the tone of someone who had been waiting to have this conversation and was determined to have it calmly.

"Don't," you'd said.

"I'm just—"

"I said don't."

She'd looked at you for a moment. Then: "Does he know about our sessions together?"

She meant the Tuesday mornings. The early ice, when Lia trained alongside you sometimes, when you ran programs and she ran her own and you occasionally exchanged notes. The sessions that had been happening since August, three months before any of the hockey boys arrived. The sessions that meant Lia had a closer view of your life at this rink than almost anyone.

"No," you'd said.

"Is that intentional?"

You'd thought about it. "Probably."

Lia had been quiet, turning this over.

"He's leaving in seven months," you'd said, not because she'd asked but because it still felt necessary to say aloud regularly. "It's contained. I'm not—it's not what you're thinking."

"What am I thinking?"

"That it's more than it is."

She'd looked at you for a long moment with the expression she had when she was deciding how honest to be.

"Okay," she'd said finally. "If you say so."

The conversation had ended there. You'd pushed it to the back of your mind and gone back to the short program.

The short program was, objectively, going very well.

𝑽𝑰𝑰𝑰.

The Thursday nights had their own gravity separate from everything else. After the rink, after the alcove, after the drive—sometimes you went up. This was how you thought about it, in the specific language of understatement you'd both adopted for anything that didn't need to be named directly. Sometimes you went up. He had an apartment two floors above a dry cleaner on a quiet street, tidy in the way of someone who'd moved often and learned not to accumulate—minimal, functional, everything where it belonged—except for the shelf.

The shelf ran floor to ceiling on the wall beside his desk, and it was entirely Lego.

Not the starter sets. The architectural series, the complex builds, the kind that came with three-digit piece counts and required several evenings and a specific category of patience. The Eiffel Tower, completed. The Colosseum, completed. A Formula 1 car mid-build that had been sitting half-finished on the second shelf since before you'd started coming over, which you'd watched in various states of progress every Thursday since.

"You don't finish them," you'd observed once, trailing your finger along the edge of the car.

"I finish them eventually."

"That one's been half-done for six weeks."

"It's not going anywhere." He'd said it from the kitchen, not looking at you, doing something with the coffee maker that required both hands. Mild. Certain. The tone he had for things he'd already thought about.

You'd looked at the half-built car on its shelf. Then at him across the apartment.

You'd thought: that's the same thing you'd say about everything.

You hadn't said it out loud.

The Lego was the official reason, when a reason was needed. You were looking at the new set. He was walking you through the build sequence. This was a normal thing, looking at someone's things, it meant nothing specific. You'd repeated this to yourself enough times that you'd mostly stopped needing to.

What it actually was: the only space where the sealed compartment existed outside the rink as a container. His coffee, his lamp on the desk casting the room gold at midnight, the window that looked out over a street that had gone quiet, and the particular quality of a Thursday that had run long and was still running. The rest of the city somewhere else entirely.

It meant more than you were calling it. You both knew that. That was still the arrangement—to know it and not say it and keep showing up on Thursdays anyway.

It was the second Thursday of December, past midnight, and the lamp on his desk was the only light left in the apartment.

You were tucked against his side with your cheek pressed to his chest, his arm around you, the room quiet in the specific way of somewhere that had been loud recently and had settled. His heartbeat was steady under your ear. Slower than it had been. You'd been listening to it long enough that you'd stopped consciously tracking it and it had just become the sound of the room. It felt like the radiator in the corner, like the city outside the window, like something your body had decided to organize itself around without asking you first.

His hand was resting at your waist. Still, not absent—the particular quality of his stillness that you'd learned meant he was awake and thinking rather than drifting. You knew the difference now. Four months of proximity had made you fluent in things you hadn't signed up to be fluent in, and the specific weight of his hand when his mind was somewhere versus when it wasn't was one of them.

The ceiling had a hairline crack running from the light fixture to the wall. You'd memorized that too. 

Neither of you had spoken in a while. That silence was its own kind of information. It was different from every other silence between you, less constructed, like whatever version of yourselves you maintained for the rest of the world had been set down somewhere and neither of you had bothered to pick it back up yet. You were aware of how much skin was touching skin. Of how naturally you'd ended up here, which was the part that should've unsettled you more than it did.

"Okay," you said eventually, to nothing in particular. Just: the sound of being awake at midnight in someone's room and not wanting to be anywhere else, which was its own problem you were choosing not to examine tonight.

James's chest moved under your cheek—it wasn't quite a laugh but more the physical equivalent of acknowledging that okay covered a lot of ground right now.

"Yeah," he sniffed.

His heartbeat kept its pace under your ear. Steady, like him. You closed your eyes for a moment and let it just be what it was—the lamp, the radiator, the city, his hand at your waist—without running the calculation on what it meant or how to file it or what happened in six months when the clock ran out.

Just this. Just for a minute.

Then he spoke. "The qualifier," and the minute ended, and you were back.

"Four weeks," you hummed and traced the pattern of his grey comforter.

"How's the free skate?"

You thought about it honestly. "The second half is where I want it. The first half has one element that keeps—" You moved your hand in the air above you, a gesture for something not quite landing. "It's close."

"The lutz."

You looked at him sidelong. "How do you know it's the lutz?"

"Because it's always the lutz. You give it a half-second more setup time than everything else. Barely. But it's there."

You went back to looking at the ceiling. The radiator kicked on in the corner of the room, the sound it made, this a low metallic settling. It wa sfamiliar enough now that you didn't register it as noise anymore, just as the room shifting into a warmer register.

"My old coach used to say the jumps you're most confident in are the ones that take the most out of you," you explained to him. "Because you stop thinking about them and start assuming them."

"That's true for shots too." A pause. "The ones I've been making since I was fourteen are the ones that go wide when the game matters."

"Because your body thinks it already knows."

"Yeah."

Silence. It was comfortable in the way that still occasionally surprised you—the fact that you'd arrived here, at a version of this where the quiet between you wasn't loaded with things unsaid but just quiet. Mostly. There were still things unsaid. You were both very practiced at leaving them there.

You turned your head up to look at him. He was still looking at the ceiling, the lamp throwing soft light across the angle of his jaw, the line of his throat. You'd spent four months cataloguing his face in motion—on the ice, in the alcove, in the narrow corridor where it had finally happened—and it was different in stillness. The deliberateness still there but the surface of it gone, like whatever he showed the rest of the world had been set down somewhere near the door and melted away when you kissed him.

You looked back at the ceiling before he caught you.

"Can I ask you something?" you said.

He chuckled and turned into your hair. "You're going to regardless."

"The development team." You felt rather than saw him go slightly more still. "You said the dynamics were bad. You don't have to—I'm not asking you to tell me the whole thing. I just wonder sometimes if—" You stopped and reorganized your thoughts. "Whether it changed how you skate. Or play. Whether it's still in there."

A long pause. The radiator settled again.

"It changed how I enter a room," he said finally. "I walk in expecting to have to prove something. I don't always know I'm doing it until someone points it out." He was quiet for a moment. "Martin pointed it out. In the first week here. He said I looked like I was waiting for something to go wrong."

"Were you?"

"Yeah." Simply, without self-pity. "I'm better at it now. But it doesn't go away completely. The calibration just—shifts." He turned his head toward you, and you were looking at each other now, the lamp between you and the low ceiling and his knee still pressed against yours. "I think that's why the year away mattered. Being somewhere where the room didn't already have a version of me in it."

You looked at him. At the specific quality of his expression in the dark—open in the way he only got when it was late and the rink was behind you and there was no particular reason to maintain the distance.

"I do that too," you said and then clarified. "Enter rooms ready to prove something."

"I know."

"I'm not—I don't know if it's the same reason."

"It doesn't have to be the same reason to be the same thing." His eyes stayed on yours. "You walk into a rink like you already know everyone's doubting you and you've decided it's fine. Like you did the math on being underestimated and found it workable."

Your chest did something complicated. "That's very specific."

"I told you. I notice things."

"You do notice things," you echoed, and your voice came out soft. You watched him hear it—the slight shift in his expression, the thing that moved across his face when you accidentally showed him something you hadn't planned to.

The room was warm now. It meant the radiator had done its job.

You looked away first, which was unusual—normally he was the one who redirected, who filed the moment and moved past it with his characteristic efficiency. But tonight the ceiling felt safer, and you took it.

Your eyes landed on his bedside table. The half-finished Lego car in its place on the shelf. And beside it, sitting on the corner of the desk itself, a pair of headphones.

They weren’t the cheap ones. They were the kind that came in a specific case, the newer Apple ones, the over-ear model that had been everywhere lately. You'd seen them on the subway, in cafés, on athletes at the rink who had sponsorships to maintain or just enough disposable income to justify it.

You reached over without thinking about it, the way you'd gotten comfortable reaching for things in his space over the past few weeks. Your hands picked them up and turned them over in your hands.

"Are these the new ones?" you asked. "The over-ear ones. I keep seeing them everywhere—I've been thinking about getting something for the gym, my old ones finally died."

He looked over at what you were holding and his face morphed into…well, not alarm, just a specific attention. He reached out and took them back from you, not roughly, just took them. Set them back on the desk with a deliberateness that was characteristic of him with things he cared about.

"Don't touch those," he scolded like you were some child and not the girl he’s been secretly fooling around with for a comical amount of time. The audacity.

You raised an eyebrow.

"I don't let anyone use them." This was said the way he said things he'd already decided—not a rule he was making up on the spot, a position he'd had for a while. "They're calibrated to how I listen. Someone else uses them and it changes the ear cushions, the settings. It throws everything off."

"Calibrated to how you listen," you repeated, almost ready to giggle.

"The EQ. The fit." He glanced at them on the desk, then back at you. "Music is specific. I don't share it."

You looked at the headphones on the desk. Then at him. "That might be the most James thing you've ever said."

The corner of his mouth moved—the almost-smile, more genuine than the full version ever looked on other people. "I'll take that."

"Are they good?"

"Yeah." He settled back onto the pillow and motioned for you to pull back into him. "They're good. Get your own."

You lay back down beside him, and the conversation moved on, and you filed the headphones away in the catalogue of things you knew about James Zhao: the way he drove, the shelf of unfinished builds, the shoulder tension, the development team, the patience that looked like coldness until you'd been on the inside of it long enough to know the difference.

The lamp stayed on for another hour.

When you finally left—clothes on, keys found, the familiar ritual of the end of a Thursday—he walked you to the door the way he always did, leaning in the frame while you did up your coat in the corridor. Not saying much. Just: present, the way he was present, with that quality of attention that had nowhere else to be.

"Thursday," you hummed, at the elevator.

"Thursday," he confirmed.

You rode down alone and stepped out into the cold December street and told yourself, as you had been telling yourself for four months, that this was contained. That you had it. That the box was still intact.

The box had long since become theoretical.

You were starting to think you'd known that for a while.

The other four—you'd learned them too, by proximity and by simple accumulation of time.

Juhoon had been the first to actually talk to you properly, in a way that established something beyond nodding in corridors. It had happened in the main rink lobby one morning when you'd both arrived early and the building wasn't open yet, the two of you on the sidewalk in the pre-dawn cold, and he'd offered you half his convenience store purchase—a triangle kimbap he'd clearly been eating on the walk over—with an easy familiarity that assumed you were already friends. You'd taken it. That decision had somehow settled your status with the group in a way you hadn't been planning on.

After that you were simply someone they knew. Not faking warmth in their direction, not hockey fame-adjacent in the way most people at the rink seemed to want to be—just present, occasionally, in the ways that happened naturally when five people and one other person occupied the same building at the same hours over several months. Keonho included you in conversations as if you'd been part of them from the beginning, which was either a genuine personality trait or a very refined social skill and you'd stopped trying to determine which.

Seonghyeon had once spent twenty minutes asking you specific questions about competition prep and the mental side of high-stakes performance, with the seriousness of someone doing genuine research. Martin had strong opinions about almost everything and deployed them at regular intervals, and occasionally your opinions were the opposite of his, and you argued about it, which he seemed to regard as a perfectly reasonable way to spend a Tuesday afternoon.

None of them, as far as you could tell, had any particular knowledge of what was happening between you and James on B-level. This was partly your compartmentalization working correctly and partly—you suspected—because James was very good at keeping things in sealed units, and whatever you were to him fit in a unit he kept separate from everything else.

You tried not to think too hard about what exactly that unit was labeled.

What you noticed, because you couldn't stop noticing: the way James was with them was different from how he was with anyone else. He wasn’t open in the way you'd come to understand as specific to the alcove and the late nights—but there was an ease to it, something built over a long time and weathered and come out the other side.

When Keonho said something catastrophically stupid, which happened on a regular schedule, James's expression shifted in a way that was almost imperceptible but clearly fond. When Seonghyeon got into his head during training, James had a specific approach—it wasn’t fixing it directly, not saying much, just positioning himself where he'd be visible, being a steady presence until whatever was happening internally resolved.

The development team, two years ago. The difficult environment. The decisions that weren't popular.

You thought about it sometimes. About what had happened that had turned him into someone who watched from a distance for a year at a new rink before deciding it was safe. Who built walls with such structural integrity that most people probably didn't even realize the walls were there.

You thought about it and then thought about the alcove, and the fact that he'd told you about the development team at all, and you very carefully did not draw any conclusions from that.

𝑰𝑿. december —macklin

He arrived on a Thursday, mid-December, which you knew because Lia texted you before you'd gotten to the rink.

lia bear !! [7:20 PM]  macklin celebrini is doing supplemental training here for two weeks. post-olympics decompression thing. just fyi since you're there tonight.

You read it, put your phone in your pocket, and didn't think much about it. Post-Olympics training guests weren't unusual at high-profile facilities. You had a qualifier in four weeks and the mental bandwidth for exactly one thing.

You ran into him at the main rink during your afternoon session—or more accurately, he nearly knocked over your water bottle coming off the ice, caught it with the reflexes of someone whose entire career was built on being faster than the situation required, and handed it back with an apology that was genuinely sheepish. Like, actually embarrassed, which was not what you'd expected from someone who'd just come off an Olympic podium.

"Sorry—I'm still—" He laughed slightly, a laugh that was directed at himself. "The orientation period after the Olympics is real. My spatial awareness is completely off."

You took the bottle back. "How long were you in the village?"

"Three weeks. Plus two weeks of comp." He ran a hand through his hair, still damp from the session. Up close he looked younger than the broadcast footage suggested—not young, exactly, but unguarded in the specific way of someone who'd just been through something enormous and hadn't yet reassembled all the usual armor. "You lose all track of everything. It's a very specific kind of disorientation."

"I'd imagine."

He stuck out his hand. "Uh, I’m Macklin."

"I know who you are." You shook it. "I'm—"

"I know who you are too," he said, and smiled—and that was the thing about Macklin Celebrini that you discovered immediately and filed under dangerous, the smile. It was not a performance of warmth but the actual feeling, this one that arrived in his eyes first and his mouth second, the kind that made you feel like you'd said something worth smiling at even when you'd said almost nothing. "Nationals qualifier. Your short program score from the regional was—"

"Don't quote my scores at me."

He laughed again, fuller this time. "Fair. Sorry." 

He picked up his bag from the boards, relaxed and with the ease of someone who'd been navigating high-performance environments since he was sixteen and had long ago made peace with being watched in them. "I looked up the skaters training here before I arrived. Research habit. I like knowing who's in the building."

"Why?"

He considered the question like it was worth considering. "Because the best athletes in any sport are doing something I can learn from. Doesn't matter the discipline." He glanced at the ice, then back at you. "The way figure skaters approach edge work is something hockey players should study more than they do. The precision of it." A pause. "The way you were running that step sequence earlier—the back half especially—there's a flow management thing happening that I've been trying to figure out how to apply to—" He stopped himself and smiled. It was slightly rueful. "Sorry. I do that. Go too far into it."

You looked at him. You'd had exactly this experience before—someone watching you on the ice and seeing something specific in it, something technical, something that meant they'd actually been paying attention rather than just observing. It had happened before from exactly one other person in this building and you were careful not to follow that thought any further.

"The back half is a work in progress," you chuckled and cracked your neck.

"It didn't look like it."

"It always looks better than it is from the outside."

He tilted his head slightly, studying you with an open curiosity that didn't have any performance in it. "Is that specific to skating or a general philosophy."

The question caught you off guard in a way you didn't particularly like—not because it was intrusive but because it was accurate. It was a question that got underneath something without trying to. You felt the corner of your mouth move before you could decide whether to let it.

"Probably both," you said.

He grinned. "Yeah. Same."

You picked up your water bottle. The session was supposed to resume in four minutes and you had a step sequence to fix and no good reason to still be standing at the boards talking to someone you'd met six minutes ago.

"Are you in the evening sessions?" he asked. "I've got the eight o'clock."

"Nine."

"Maybe I'll see you around."

He said it the way people said things they meant without needing to make a production of it—easy and direct with no particular agenda in it—and moved toward the exit with that relaxed confidence of his, the specific gait of someone who'd spent their whole life being the best person in most rooms and had somehow not let it make them smaller.

You watched him go for exactly one second longer than necessary.

Then you stepped back onto the ice and went back to the step sequence and told yourself it was nothing. New person in the building. Polite exchange and completely unremarkable.

You thought about the question—is that specific to skating or a general philosophy—for the rest of the session without meaning to. The way it had landed. The way you'd answered honestly without deciding to.

He'd gotten through, was the thing. Barely, and you'd realized it the moment it happened, but he had. And you were practiced enough at maintaining distance that the fact of it registered like a small alarm—not loud nor urgent, just… noted. Filed. Something to be aware of.

You finished the session and went to find the vending machine and didn't mention it to James that night in the alcove.

That felt like its own kind of information.

𝑿. the vending machine —december

It was 11:45 PM, two days after Macklin had arrived, when you found out that James had registered his presence in a way that went beyond neutral.

You were already in the alcove when you heard his footsteps coming down the B-level corridor. You knew his walk by now—the particular rhythm of it, the sound of someone who moved through spaces like he'd freaking owned them. You'd been in this building long enough to identify half the staff by footfall alone. That you could pick his out from the stairwell was a fact you kept in the same drawer as several other facts you'd stopped examining directly.

You didn't turn around until he was there.

He came into the alcove and looked at the machine the way he always did—reading it first, like it might have changed since last time, like the options were worth reassessing. Got his water. Cracked the cap. Drank half of it standing up, his back half-turned to you, and you watched the line of his throat when he swallowed and looked away before he turned around.

"Macklin Celebrini," he acknowledged.

It wasn’t loud.  It was almost offhand, the name dropped into the quiet of the alcove like he was reading it off a list. You looked at him. He was looking at the machine, not at you, his expression doing that thing where it gave nothing away on the surface and you'd long since learned to read what was underneath.

"What about him?" you asked, though you wanted to laugh at the outwardness of it.

"He talked to you after the afternoon session."

It wasn't a question. James had a way of presenting verified information in the shape of a question—stating the thing he already knew as though he was asking about it, which was a quality you'd identified early and never stopped finding aggravating, partly because it was so effective.

"He nearly knocked over my water bottle and apologized," you said. "That's a conversation in the loosest possible definition."

"He's here for two weeks."

"I'm aware. So are you basically."

James looked at the wall across from the machine. The compressor kicked on and the light did its flicker and in the brief shift of it you could see his jaw clearly—the tension that lived there when he was working through something he didn't particularly want to be working through. Almost invisible if you didn't know what you were looking at. 

You knew what you were looking at.

You leaned your shoulder against the wall and watched him. This was something you'd gotten less careful about over the past month—the watching. Early on you'd been deliberate about redirecting it, making sure your attention had somewhere else to be when he was close, a mechanism to try and act like you didn’t care as much as you did, surely. Somewhere around week six you'd stopped bothering, and he'd never said anything about it, which meant either he hadn't noticed or he had and had filed it the same way you'd both been filing everything else.

"Okay," you said slowly. "What is actually happening right now?"

"Nothing."

"James."

He looked at you then. Full on, which he didn't always do when the conversation was about something he was managing—usually he looked adjacent to you, at the machine or the wall or the middle distance, and let you infer. When he looked at you directly it meant he'd decided to be in it rather than around it, which was either a good sign or a warning depending on the night.

"You’re doing the thing," you told him with a wave of your hand.

"What thing?"

"The thing where you have a feeling, you know you're having a feeling, you've decided it's inconvenient, and you're attempting to compress it into a shape where it doesn't take up any space, and meanwhile it is taking up a tremendous amount of space, especially around me."

The alcove was quiet.

"I don't have a thing about Macklin Celebrini," he said finally.

"Then why did you open this conversation with his full name? No how was your session? No did you take my advice this time?"

He didn't answer that. James looked back at the wall. His thumb was moving on the water bottle cap—that tell, the one you'd first catalogued in the alcove two months ago, this habit that occurred when he was processing something he hadn't decided what to do with yet. You watched it without pointing it out.

"I'm just noting," he scoffed, "that he's personable. And that you responded to him."

You stared at him. "I received an apology for an almost-spilled water bottle. That's not a response, that's basic social functioning."

"You were friendly."

"I'm friendly sometimes. To some people."

He looked at you with an expression that communicated, without a single word, that he had four months of data on your baseline demeanor and had formed opinions about the word friendly in that sentence. You were forced, in the privacy of your own head, to concede the point.

"Okay," you huffed. "I was—whatever. Normally human."

"Right."

"Which is not a crime."

"I didn't say it was."

"But you're standing here… bringing it up."

He was quiet. His gaze was at the wall again, jaw tight, water bottle in his hands. You pushed off the wall and moved to stand beside him—not in front of him, beside, close enough that your arm almost touched his, looking at the same wall he was looking at. You felt him register the proximity without moving. That was its own thing, the way his stillness changed quality when you were close to him. Like the air pressure shifted slightly.

"James," you approached, more carefully. "You don't get to do that."

He turned his head toward you. And that gaze of his immediately dropped to your lips.

"You don't get to be weird about someone being normally nice to me." You kept your voice even, not unkind. "We said what this was. And I meant it and so did you, and it works because we both meant it. But this—" You didn't gesture this time, just let the word sit between you, let the alcove and the proximity and the 11:45 PM do the work of defining what this referred to. "This doesn't fit inside what we said."

"I know," he grumbled.

You looked up at him. He was close enough that you could see the tension working through his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows that meant he was being honest with himself about something he'd rather not be honest about. His eyes were on yours and not moving away, which was the thing about James when he was actually in a conversation rather than managing one—he didn't look away. He held it. Almost like looking away would be a concession he wasn't willing to make.

"So…" you plagued.

"I know," he hushed again. Quieter.

"Do you?"

He exhaled. A long, controlled breath that he'd clearly been holding for longer than this conversation. He looked at the ceiling for a moment—the tell that meant he was doing the calculation, running the numbers on how much to give you—and then back down.

"Yeah," he digressed. "I know. I'm not making it your problem. I just—" He stopped. His thumb stilled on the bottle cap. "I noticed it. That's all."

You held his gaze for a moment. You were very aware of how small the alcove was. Of the fact that you'd moved to stand beside him and hadn't moved back. Of the specific quality of his attention right now, which was the unguarded version, the one that showed up when it was late and he'd run out of energy to keep it managed.

"Okay," you said finally.

"Okay," he conceded.

Neither of you moved for a moment. The light flickered once—the compressor cycling—and in the half-second of it his face was closer and more visible than the steady light made it, and you looked at him the way you looked at him when you were pretty sure he wasn't tracking it, and then the light steadied and you both looked back at the wall.

You finished your chips. He finished his water. You left the alcove two minutes later without touching, which was the arrangement, which had never felt more like a technicality than it did tonight.

On the drive home, you thought about the noticing. Not about the possessiveness—you had every intention of not encouraging that, of not letting it mean what it wanted to mean. But the specific feeling underneath it. The way something caught in your chest when the world reminded you that this arrangement was, by design, limited. That there was a clock you'd both agreed to and that agreeing to it hadn't made it feel any smaller.

You thought about Macklin's question—is that specific to skating or a general philosophy—and the fact that you'd answered honestly, and the fact that you hadn't told James about it.

And you thought about James saying I noticed it. That's all, with his thumb still on the bottle cap and his eyes on yours, and the specific feeling that had produced somewhere behind your sternum that you were very deliberately not giving a name.

You were fine about it. You were almost certain you were fine about it.

The almost was doing a lot of work.

𝑿𝑰. lia

Who was Lia?

Aside from being someone your current fling was beginning to warm up to—which was a sentence you were not examining—Lia… was one of the most technically precise skaters you'd ever shared ice with and also had the social awareness of someone who should have gone into a different profession entirely. She noticed things the way you noticed things, which was part of why you'd gotten along from the beginning and also occasionally made her exhausting to be around.

It was a Sunday morning in mid-December. You were both doing off-ice conditioning in the training room, a practice you'd started together in September when you'd both realized your respective coaches had identical opinions about cross-training. The room was mostly empty at this hour—one of the junior skaters doing resistance work in the corner, the assistant coach for the development program passing through with a coffee—and you'd claimed the cable machines along the far wall the way you always did, by arriving first and saying nothing about it.

"You know I actually know about Tuesday and Thursday nights," Lia said.

You kept your eyes on the cable machine. "Lia."

"I'm not about to give you a speech." She moved to the mat beside you and started on her stretches with the methodical focus she applied to everything—deliberate, thorough, like she'd decided at some point that half-measures were a waste of time and had never revisited the position. "I just think you should know that I know, and that it's obvious, and that some of the other people in this building have eyes."

"Noted."

You reset the weight and pulled. The cable machine offered its familiar resistance and you focused on the mechanics of it—the specific engagement of the muscle, the controlled return—because focusing on the mechanics of something was a technique you'd been using your whole life to not focus on other things.

"Also," she said, in the lighter tone that meant she was changing direction, "I've been spending time with him. With James. Since a couple weeks ago." A pause in her stretching, brief, like she was choosing the next part. "He helped me with some edge work, we ended up talking after, it's been—" Another pause. "It's been nice. He's thoughtful. Different from what I expected."

You kept your face completely neutral.

This took more effort than it should have. The thing that moved through you in the half-second after she said it was fast and specific and not something you had a clean name for—not quite jealousy, because you had no right to jealousy and you knew it, but something adjacent, something that lived in the same neighborhood. The specific sensation of hearing someone describe access to a person you'd assumed was yours to have access to, in a tone that suggested it had been going on for a couple weeks, which meant it had been going on while you'd been in his apartment on Thursday nights and his arm had been around you and you'd been listening to his heartbeat.

You pulled the cable. Released. Kept your eyes forward.

"That's good," you said.

Lia looked at you for a moment—you could feel it without turning your head, that particular quality of her attention when she was deciding how much she believed you.

"He talks about you sometimes," she added. "Not a lot. Just in passing. Your programs come up."

You didn't say anything.

"I thought you should know that too," she said quietly. "Since you both seem committed to maintaining the fiction that this is casual."

You finished your set. Reset the weight. Took a breath that you made sure was the same as every other breath.

"What makes you think it's fiction?" you said.

"The fact that he showed up to watch morning practice last week—the session you don't know about because you were in off-ice training." She glanced at you, not unkindly. "The fact that the rink manager told me someone requested the auxiliary rink lighting be fixed as a priority maintenance item and gave the requester's name as James Zhao." A moment. "Casual people don't do that."

You stared at the cable machine for a moment.

The lighting request. You'd known about it—he'd told you he was going to follow up, had told you in the specific way he'd arrived at after the argument, informing rather than asking, and you'd said fine, thank you, and that had been the end of it. You hadn't thought about what it looked like from the outside. You hadn't thought about the fact that his name was attached to it in a building full of people who paid attention to exactly this kind of thing.

"It has an expiration date," you shrugged and stretched your back.

"Most things do," Lia replied, with the serenity of someone who'd made peace with impermanence in a way you hadn't. "That doesn't mean they don't mean anything while they're happening."

You wanted to argue with her. You had a whole architecture of reasons why what she was describing was fine and contained and manageable—why the expiration date was a feature rather than a flaw, why the not-naming-it was protection rather than avoidance, why two people could be this far inside each other's lives and still keep it from being the thing it was starting to look like from the outside.

You were getting less convinced by your own architecture by the day.

"You like him," she commented. It wasn't a question. She said it the way she said things she'd already verified. It was gently, without pressure and just putting the fact in the room.

"I have a nationals qualifier in four weeks."

"Sure."

"And a program that's still thirty points short of where I need it."

"Absolutely."

"I don't have space for—"

"You don't have to convince me," she said mildly. "I didn't ask."

You looked at her. She was doing hip stretches with the serene expression of someone who'd said exactly what she intended to say and was now completely at peace with the outcome, which was one of the most aggravating qualities a person could have and also, you were aware, something you'd thought about James in roughly the same terms approximately forty times.

You went back to the cable machine.

You did not think about James Zhao requesting the auxiliary rink lighting as a priority maintenance item. You were very disciplined about that.

You were also, without meaning to, thinking about the way Lia had said it's been nice. He's thoughtful. The specific warmth in her voice, which was Lia's default register, which you'd never had cause to find threatening before. 

You thought about the Thursday nights. The shelf. His hand at your waist in the dark. The heartbeat.

You thought about the fact that he'd been talking to Lia about your programs.

It took approximately four minutes for the discipline to fail. Then you reset the weight again, pulled harder than necessary, and spent the remainder of the session being extremely focused on your form.

𝑿𝑰𝑰.

You were aware, in the abstract, that James had been spending time with Lia.

You'd registered it without making it mean anything—Lia was easy to spend time with, shared the early morning schedule, was approachable in all the ways you tended not to be, and she was a good enough skater to offer the kind of cross-discipline perspective he'd found useful from you in the beginning. It was practical. It made sense.

Then you came down to B-level at 11 PM on a Tuesday and found the auxiliary rink dark and empty, and followed the sound of voices to the corridor, and found James and Lia at the vending machine.

Not the alcove—just in the corridor in front of the machine, Lia holding a sports drink and James holding his water. The two of them were mid-conversation, the easy rhythm of something that had been going on for a while. Lia was laughing at something. James's expression had that fractional softness it got when he was comfortable—the thing you'd catalogued over four months, the thing you'd only ever seen directed at the four boys and at you.

You stopped at the end of the corridor.

Neither of them had seen you.

The feeling that moved through you in that moment was something you recognized immediately and didn't like recognizing at all. It was precise and uncomfortable and it had no business being there given the architecture you'd constructed. You'd specifically built the architecture to prevent this. You'd said the words, you'd meant the words.

You turned around and took the stairwell up to the main level and told yourself you were fine.

You texted James at 11:45 PM: not coming tonight. program stuff.

He responded in eleven minutes.

james yufine [11:55 PM]  okay

One word. The kind of response that could mean anything or nothing or everything depending on what he'd been doing when he received it and what his face had done when he read it, none of which you would ever know.

You put your phone face-down on your kitchen counter and went back to your program notes and did not think about the specific way Lia had been laughing. You did not think about the fact that she was warm in all the ways you struggled to be, approachable in all the ways you deliberately weren't. You did not think about the fact that James had spent years getting burned by people he'd let in and had spent four months slowly, carefully letting you in anyway, and that some part of you had started to rely on the symmetry of that—two people with the same damage, the same sealed-compartment approach, the same stubborn insistence on containment.

You were in control of this.

You kept saying it. You kept saying it.

𝑿𝑰𝑰𝑰. nationals

The night before nationals you didn't sleep.

This wasn't unusual. You rarely slept before competitions, your body running on that specific anxious current that came from months of work arriving at its singular moment. You'd made peace with it years ago—with the lying awake and running the program in your head in the dark, every element in sequence, every transition, every place something could go wrong and the correction you'd execute if it did.

What was unusual was that somewhere in the dark at 2 AM, your phone lit up.

james [2:04 AM]  good luck tomorrow ur ready

James. No preamble, no context, just that.

You stared at it for a long time.

Then: how do u know

His response came three minutes later.

james yufine [2:08 AM]  cuz ive watched u run that program like 80 times and the last 10 were perfect not to glaze or anything and ur the kinda person who forces herself to be ready deadass it's not luck it's basically architecture atp

You read it twice.

Then: architecture?? wtf is that supposed to mean

james yufine [2:08 AM]  the way u build things always with this like structure already in place before anyone can see it idrk how to explain

You put the phone down and stared at the ceiling. The program ran through your head—every element, every transition, the Rachmaninoff building to that final spin. Eighty times. He'd been counting.

You picked the phone back up.

are you going to be there, you typed. Deleted it. Typed it again. Stared at it.

Sent it.

The response came in two minutes:

james yufine [2:14 AM]  maybe

One word. The architecture of something you still didn't have a name for.

You put the phone on the nightstand and lay in the dark and thought about the alcove and the vending machine and the argument that started everything and the seven months you'd been so careful about, all the ways you'd kept this contained and controlled and still somehow ended up here—lying awake the night before nationals because a hockey player had texted you you're ready and it had landed somewhere much deeper than it had any right to reach.

You thought about Lia laughing in the corridor. About the look on his face in the alcove when he'd brought up Macklin, that jaw-tension, the carefully compressed feeling. About four months of Tuesday and Thursday nights and I'll follow up on it and that was the one.

About section C, four rows from the back, left side.

You didn't sleep until past 3AM. When you finally did, the last thing in your head was the specific quality of his attention from across a crowded arena. He was not cheering but just watching, like he'd needed to see it for himself.

In the morning, you went out and skated the best program of your life.

𝑿𝑰𝑽. gold, reprise

Your score flashed on the board and the arena broke open and your coach was saying something in your ear that you couldn't fully process because your brain was still catching up to the fact that the number was real.

First place. Nationals. The goal you'd been building toward for eleven months.

You pressed your hand to your chest. You let yourself feel it—just for a second, before the obligations started.

The kiss-and-cry. The interview. The photograph with the medal heavy around your neck, the weight of it more literal than you'd expected, like the thing you'd been chasing had actual mass. Your coach squeezing your shoulder and saying something about the second half that you'd replay later when your nervous system had returned to a normal register. The federation rep with the itinerary for the evening, the group dinner, the schedule for tomorrow's remaining events.

You moved through all of it on the specific adrenaline plateau that followed a clean program—not high exactly, more like everything had sharpened, every detail more present than usual. The lights in the corridor outside the kiss-and-cry were very bright. The carpet was very red. Someone handed you water and you drank it without tasting it.

It wasn't until you were back in the changing area, the noise of the arena muffled through two sets of doors, that you let yourself stop moving for a moment.

You sat on the bench with your skates still on and your hands in your lap and breathed.

The door opened.

You looked up.

James filled the doorway the way he filled most spaces—like he'd calculated exactly how much room he needed and taken precisely that. He was in a dark hoodie, hood up, hands in the front pockets. He looked at you across the changing area with that particular quality of attention, the one you'd been on the receiving end of for four months, and for once you didn't try to catalogue it or file it or look away before he caught you looking back.

"You're not supposed to be back here," you warned though it had zero bite to it. In fact, your tone sounded inviting if anything.

"I know." He came in anyway. Let the door close behind him.

You looked at each other.

"Section C," you said.

"Row four from the back."

"You could've sat closer."

"I know where I can see clearly." He crossed the room and stopped in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your head back slightly to look at him, which you did. "Row four from the back works."

You held his gaze. The changing area was very quiet—the noise of the competition a distant thing, someone else's moment now. Just the two of you and the overhead light and the medal still around your neck.

He reached out and picked it up with two fingers, turning it once, the metal catching the light. He didn't say anything. Just looked at it for a moment, then let it rest back against your chest, his fingers brushing your collarbone on the way back.

The touch was light yet tt landed like something much heavier.

"I want to say something," he said.

"Okay."

He was quiet for a moment, choosing words with that precision of his, the deliberateness that meant whatever came next had been considered from multiple angles. "I've been careful. With people. For a long time." His eyes stayed on yours. "And I know you've noticed that, because you notice everything, which is—" The corner of his mouth moved. "That's a problem for me, that you see that clearly."

You didn't say anything.

"I just want you to know," he said, "that careful stopped applying. Somewhere. I don't know when exactly. But it did."

The corridor outside was quiet. Somewhere further in the building a skater was finishing a program—you could hear the muffled swell of the crowd through the walls, the particular rise of it that meant something had gone well.

"That's not low stakes," you said.

"No," he agreed. "It's not."

"I don't know what to do with that."

"Neither do I." He held your gaze. "I'm not asking you to do anything with it. I just—you deserved to know."

You looked at him for a long moment. At the face that had been the most consistently unreadable thing in your immediate world for four months and was right now, in this particular moment, not unreadable at all. Showing you something it kept for very few people, maybe no people, maybe just you.

"I noticed the thing about Lia," you said quietly.

He went very still.

"The vending machine. A couple weeks ago." You held his gaze. "I saw the two of you and I had a feeling about it that I have no right to have given what we said, and I've been managing it."

A silence. Then, "It's not—Lia and I are—"

"I know," you shook your head. And you did know, or you were choosing to know, which sometimes amounted to the same thing. "But I'm telling you because you were honest and I'm trying to be honest back, and I don't—" You stopped and started again. "I'm very bad at this part."

"I know," he smiled but it wasn’t mockingly. And then quieter: "You're doing fine."

The echo of it—early November, the alcove, you would've figured it out—landed somewhere below your sternum and stayed there.

He reached up and tucked a loose piece of hair back from your face. Slowly, like he had all the time in the world, like the competition wasn't still running somewhere above you. His hand stayed at your jaw after, the way it had in the corridor on the wrong floor, that same deliberate framing. His thumb moved once.

"The seven months," you blurted, sounding like a squeaky little teenager. You hated it.

"What about them?"

"I don't know what happens at the end of them."

"Neither do I."

"That should probably bother me more than it does."

"Yeah," he agreed softly. "Me too."

You looked at each other for one more second.

Then you reached up and closed your hand around his wrist—not pulling  and not pushing away, just holding. And he looked down at your hand on his wrist and something moved across his face that you felt in your chest like a key turning.

"The hotel's ten minutes from here," you notified him.

He met your eyes.

"I know," he hummed.

𝑿𝑽. after

The hotel room had that specific quality of somewhere temporary—neutral walls, blackout curtains, the silence of a building full of people who'd arrived from somewhere else and would leave again. You'd stayed in enough of them that they'd stopped feeling strange.

This one felt different. That wasn't about the room.

The lamp on the nightstand was the only light. You'd set the medal down somewhere without looking at where. Your competition jacket was on the floor and you weren't thinking about it.

James was standing by the window with his back half-turned, looking out at the city through the gap in the curtains. He did this sometimes—went quiet in a way that wasn't absence, just processing, turning something over. You'd learned not to fill it. You sat on the edge of the bed and watched him and said nothing and the room held both of you without requiring anything yet.

He wore this vintage hoodie and sweats. One day, you peeked into his closet and saw his his regular clothes which you rarely saw, obviously being that he was in athleticwear at the building at all times. He owned a lot of henleys

"You were different today," he said. Still looking out the window. "On the ice."

"Good different or bad different."

"Just different." A pause. "Like you had a different kind of purpose in winning."

You didn't answer that. You weren't sure you could without saying something you'd have to stand behind.

He turned around. Looked at you across the room with that expression you still didn't have a clean name for after four months—not warm exactly, not cold, something that lived in the space between wanting and not letting himself want. You recognized it because you'd been making the same face at him since October without realizing it.

He crossed the room and stopped in front of you. Close. You looked up at him and he looked down at you and neither of you said anything and the not-saying was its own conversation by now, the one you were both fluent in whether you'd agreed to be or not.

His hand came up to your face. It was slower than usual. His thumb moved along your jaw—the same path it always took, like it had learned the route—and you felt your eyes close for half a second before you caught yourself.

"James," you said.

"Mm."

"What are you doing."

He was quiet for a moment. His thumb traced the same path again, unhurried, not going anywhere.

"I don't know," he said, and kissed you.

It was different from the corridor, different from the Thursday nights. Those had urgency underneath them—the pressure of things unsaid finding a physical exit. This was quieter and slower. His hand still at your jaw, the other finding your waist, and you felt in the way he touched you what he wasn't saying, which was the problem, which had always been the problem. You could read it too clearly. The wanting underneath the control, the way his hands told the truth his mouth didn't.

You pulled back and looked at him. He looked back at you.

There were things that could have been said. Neither of you said them.

He let you look. That was the thing—he let you, which was not nothing, from someone who spent most of his life being very deliberate about what he showed people.

He reached over slowly and found your hand where it rested on the bed between you. He turned it over. Ran his thumb across your palm once, studying it like it was interesting. Then he leaned in and kissed the corner of your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck, with that same elegant quality—methodical, thorough, like he had a specific idea of what he wanted and intended to get there without being rushed about it.

His hand slid from your waist to your knee. It stayed there. His thumb moved in a slow arc and you were very aware of the weight of it, the deliberateness, the fact that he was watching your face while he did it.

"We're supposed to go watch the other programs," you protested with a hint of a smile while weakly pushing him away. 

"Right," he said into your neck, which meant nothing and everything.

His hand moved a fraction further and stopped. You could feel him almost smiling against your skin. "We have time."

"James—"

"We have time," he said again, quieter, and you stopped arguing about it.

His hand moved, tracing slowly up the inside of your thigh, and stopped. It was waiting. His eyes on yours the whole time, not asking out loud, letting the question exist in the air between you.

You should have said something. Something honest—about the 2 AM texts and the eighty times and careful stopped applying and all the weight that had been accumulating in the sealed compartment for months. Something that acknowledged what tonight was, what this room was.

But you'd just won nationals and his thumb was on your jaw and you didn't want to come down from something that felt this good with a conversation that had no clean ending.

You pulled him back down instead.

Some things could wait.

𝑿𝑽𝑰.

An hour later you came down in the elevator side by side, not touching, which was still the arrangement, though it felt even more like a technicality than usual tonight.

The hotel lobby was bright after the dim of upstairs—all that neutral lighting doing its best to approximate cheerful, the low hum of a building in the middle of a competition weekend, skaters and coaches and federation people moving through in various states of post-event wind-down. You'd been to enough of these that you knew the rhythms of it: the ones still in competition gear heading to late sessions, the ones already changed heading to the group dinner, the ones in the corners on their phones getting scores from other venues.

James had his hands in his hoodie pocket. You had yours crossed over your chest. You were navigating toward the corridor that led to the main event venue, where the ice dance pairs were midway through their program, because that was the plan and you were both people who kept plans.

You were also, underneath the plan, in a version of the past hour that hadn't quite settled yet. The lamp. His hand. The way he'd kissed the corner of your jaw like he had a specific idea and no intention of being rushed about it. All of it sitting in your chest alongside the medal and the score and the text at 2AM, adding up to something you still didn't have a clean name for but that was getting harder to keep unnamed.

You were thinking about telling him something. You'd been composing it in the elevator, the shape of it—not a declaration, nothing that blew up the architecture of what you'd agreed on, just: an honest thing. The depth of honesty you'd been managing not to say for four months and that felt, tonight of all nights, like it might actually be sayable.

You opened your mouth.

"Hey—"

"Oh my god, you were incredible today."

You turned.

Lia was crossing the lobby toward you, already mid-sentence, bright-eyed in the way of someone who'd watched a good competition and hadn't come down from it yet. She was in street clothes, hair down, moving with the easy warmth that was just how she existed in the world. She came straight to you and hugged you, and you let her, and over her shoulder you could see the lobby going about its business.

"That second half," she said, pulling back to look at you with genuine delight. "The spin at the end—I was losing my mind, I was sitting next to two of the junior coaches and I think I grabbed one of their arms—"

You laughed, and it was real, because it was Lia and she meant it. "Thank you. It finally came together."

"It didn't just come together, you built it—" She stopped. Her head looked past you to James, and her face shifted into something warm and uncomplicated, the smile she had for people she genuinely liked. "Hey."

"Hey," James greeted with a wave of his hand.

"I didn't know you were coming." She said it easily, not an accusation, just a fact she was noting. Then she reached into the bag on her shoulder. "Actually—I was going to text you about these. I've been meaning to give them back since Tuesday." She produced the headphones—his headphones, the ones from the corner of his desk, the case he'd taken back from your hands and set down with that deliberateness, the ones he didn't let anyone use—and held them out to him. "Thank you for letting me try them, by the way. You were right about the volume thing, I actually noticed the difference—"

"No problem," James said, and took them. Tuesday.

The exchange was just like that. Natural. The same hands that had been in your hair an hour ago taking the headphones back from Lia like it was nothing, like the case didn't represent the exact thing he'd said to you: I don't let anyone use them. Music is specific. I don't share it.

You kept your face very still.

You were good at keeping your face still. You'd been doing it your whole career—the landing face, the performance face, the face you showed the judges that had nothing to do with what was happening in your body. You used it now, in a hotel lobby in the middle of a competition weekend, while Lia said something else you didn't fully process and James responded and the two of them had a thirty-second exchange that was perfectly normal and completely unremarkable to everyone in the lobby except you.

The honest thing you'd been composing in the elevator was gone.

You smiled at something Lia said. You weren't sure what.

James glanced at you once. It was a brief thing, a look that on another night you'd have catalogued and analyzed and filed. Tonight you didn't hold it. You looked back at Lia and said something about the ice dance pairs starting soon and it came out normal, fine, like a person who was fine.

"I'll walk over with you," Lia said and fell into step with you.

The three of you crossed the lobby together and you kept your eyes forward and your face arranged into something easy and you told yourself what you always told yourself.

You were in control of this.

The difference was that tonight, for the first time, you didn't even almost believe it.

lovhyeon © 2026

Hairspray. It was everywhere.

In your nostrils, in your sister's hair, shit—all over her bed.

Your sister was glued to the mirror, curling another section of hair while humming off-key. You sat cross-legged on her bed, scrolling aimlessly and trying to ignore the faint smell of hairspray choking the air.

"Wanna stop judging me and work on finding yourself a ride to this thing?" she snarled at your reflection in the mirror, gaining an attitude after you announced yourself suddenly attending the event that you had been trolling her over for weeks. Oops.

"Okay bruh, I'm sorry. I just wanna check out one of your interests! Is that so wrong?" You locked your phone and rolled over to watch her more intensely. You also gave her sweet, delicate and incredibly convincing doe eyes. "And I'm not judging. Just, like, wondering how you plan to survive outside with that much hairspray.”

She turned around to look you up and down with the most disgusted look she could muster.

"At least I'm putting an effort in. For someone who wants to go to this, you look like you just rolled out of bed." With a roll of her eyes, she went back to work and set her mind on ignoring your whining.

"Hey! I never said this was my outfit, I just came to check on you," you shot up defensively and gathered yourself to stroll back to your room. "Matter of fact, I'm gonna go change into my real outfit. Go to hell."

And you really were going. Until a thought popped into your head.

"Actually... I wanted to ask you—what kinds of people are performing tonight?" AKA code for what kind of music does Seonghyeon listen to? What if he was a bot that listened to classical Korean music or heavy metal? Not that there's anything wrong with that, in fact you respect it. Just not up your sleeve.

“Uh, a bunch of smaller artists,” she answered, typing something on her phone. “And this one group is headlining—Cortis.”

You made a face. “Cortis? That sounds like a prescription drug.”

She whipped around. “Oh my god, shut up. They’re Korean. A boy group. Literally everyone loves them right now.”

“Ohhh, a boy band,” you said dramatically and snorted. “Right, right, I forgot we were living in 2013 again.”

She glared at you standing in the entry of her room in the mirror. “You just don’t get it. They’re talented. They write their own songs, dance, perform—”

“Yeah, yeah,” you interrupted, waving your hand in dramatics. “All while wearing glitter and eyeliner. Revolutionary.”

Your sister turned back to her mirror with a groan. “You’re so fucking annoying.”

You grinned, stretching out your arms. “And yet, I’m still going. So who’s really winning?”

Her reflection smirked and you didn't like that she knew something was up. “You’re only going because you think some cute guy’s gonna be there.”

You didn’t answer. You just picked at a loose thread on her comforter, pretending to be unbothered. “Maybe I just want to support the arts.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, wiping the excess lip liner off and clearly not buying your act. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Your phone buzzed beside you. The screen lit up.

4 new messages from seonghyeon (Sean?) hope to see u there lol.

You flipped your phone face-down before your sister could see and exhaled slowly. “Yeah,” you muttered. “Something like that.”

10 minutes before you guys had to leave, you got stuck in your head again. So weird.

You told yourself it wasn’t that deep. It really shouldn’t be. Just a random guy who you had good conversation with and happened to come back the next morning. People flirt all the time in this city—half the time it doesn’t even mean anything. That’s what you kept repeating to yourself, like if you said it enough you’d start believing it.

Still, your brain wouldn’t shut up. Numerous times you’d caught yourself scrolling through his texts, rereading the stupidest lines like they were poetry. Hope to see u there lol. What was that even supposed to mean? You weren’t the type to overthink guys, but there was something about the way he said things, like every word came with its own rhythm. Even when his English slipped, it sounded good. Too good.

God, what was wrong with you? He was probably just being nice. Polite. Maybe he flirted with every barista from here to Korea. You didn’t know him. You didn’t even know if Seonghyeon was his real name. Sean, Seonghyeon, whoever he was—he wasn’t supposed to make your stomach flip over like this.

You tossed your phone onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. You were being dramatic. It wasn’t like he’d asked for your number in some romantic way; you literally wrote it on a coffee cup. But then your mind went straight back to how his voice dropped a little when he said your name. The way he looked at you like he was trying to figure your every detail out.

"Let's go! What's taking so long?"

The venue was smaller than you’d pictured—half-club, half-garage—but the energy was ridiculous. It was the kind that filled every corner of the room, vibrating through the floorboards and making your bones hum. Neon lights bled from the stage, pink and blue washing over the crowd as people swayed shoulder to shoulder, holding drinks that kept sloshing over their wrists.

You weren’t really the concert type. Usually you’d rather be home in sweatpants, or even a small gathering with your friends, not dodging elbows and glitter at a rave. But tonight was different. It wasn’t as unbearable as you’d expected.

Sure, you kept having to readjust your tube top and skirt and you were a little uncomfortable due to lack of space, but they were small inconveniences for the amount of fun you were having.

Your sister had somehow dragged you toward the front, and somewhere between her shrieking along to songs you’d never heard of and the bass that rattled your chest, you’d started to loosen up.

You found yourself laughing. Like, actually laughing. The kind of laugh you only had around her when you weren’t trying to win an argument.

Your sister threw her arm around your shoulder during one chorus, her perfume mixing with the sharp tang of beer and hairspray, and yelled, “See? You’re having fun! I told you.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t bother denying it or shying away from her. Maybe she was right. Maybe this wasn’t the worst way to spend a Thursday night.

Still, every now and then, your eyes flicked toward the back of the room. Maybe out of habit, maybe because your brain had a mind of its own. Your entire field of vision scanned every inch possible of the darkened room and no sight of a guy who sticks out like a sore thumb because of his presence. You weren’t even sure what you were expecting—just some tall guy in a hoodie with that same easy smile and mellow voice that had been stuck in your head all week.

You shook the thought off. It was stupid. He wasn’t coming. “Hope to see u there lol” didn’t exactly sound like a binding promise. It sounded like something you’d say to keep things light. Noncommittal. And yet here you were, half-listening to a band you didn’t know, half-searching for someone who probably forgot your name five minutes after you gave it to him.

You checked your phone again. No notifications. Not even a “hey.”

You typed out a message anyway:

You [Thurs, Oct 15, 8:36 PM] you here yet or am i just blind

Then locked your phone before you could spiral about how desperate that sounded.

Delivered. No reply.

The next group started setting up—the same new breakout group your sister claimed was “underrated.” You didn’t catch the name; you were too focused on not caring. You forced yourself to look around at the crowd instead. Everyone else seemed at ease, chatting, laughing, swaying to the lo-fi track playing over the speakers. You wanted to be one of them, carefree and detached, not standing there dissecting one line of a text like it held a secret meaning.

Your sister nudged you. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just—hot,” you said quickly, tugging at your top.

The air in the venue was heavy, thick with the smell of sweat and beer. You could feel the bass from the last act still buzzing through the floor. People shuffled closer to the stage, craning their necks for a better view. You checked your phone again—nothing. The screen stared back, empty, except for your own message from ten minutes ago.

You [Thurs, Oct 15, 8:36 PM] you here yet or am i just blind

The text glared at you like it wanted you to leave it alone and so you locked your phone without the intention of checking it again. Hopefully.

You frowned. Maybe he got busy. Maybe it wasn’t that kind of invite. Maybe he’d just sent the tickets because he felt bad for taking your number and never using it. Whatever it was, you refused to be that person—the one waiting around for some guy who barely knew your name.

Still, your eyes drifted toward the entrance. Just in case.

You attempted to focus on the commotion on the stage, the claustrophobia lowkey getting to you.

“Who are these guys again?” you asked, mostly to distract yourself.

“Cortis,” your sister said, half-shouting over the crowd. “They’re kinda new but everyone’s obsessed. You’ve definitely seen them online. I tried making you do the dance the other day, remember!?”

“Cortis?” you repeated, making a face. “Oh, that Cortis.”

She laughed, brushing glitter onto her cheekbone. “You’ll see. They’re actually really fucking good.”

You rolled your eyes for the umpteenth but smiled anyway. The lights flickered once, dimmed, then rose again. Some tech adjusted a stage prop. A few people in the front screamed, like they already knew who was coming next.

You looked down at your phone again, thumb hovering over his contact. You typed nvm ignore me lol then deleted it. Typed it again. Deleted. The screen glowed against your face while the crowd began to close in, tighter and louder.

The room felt smaller now. You could barely hear yourself think over the hum of the speakers, but your thoughts wouldn’t shut up anyway. You kept scanning faces near the side of the stage—guitarists tuning, crew members moving equipment—each time expecting to see him and each time telling yourself not to.

You shoved your phone into your pocket and tried to focus on anything else. A girl with neon blue hair next to you screamed something about how hot one of the members was. You smiled faintly, pretending you were in on the hype.

The lights dipped again. The chatter died down. A low thrum filled the room, vibrating through your chest.

You swallowed hard.

Your sister bounced beside you, grinning. “Oh my god, they’re coming out!”

“Cool,” you shouted back, voice flat, but your heart was already racing for reasons you didn’t want to unpack.

The smoke machine hissed, spilling fog over the edge of the stage. The crowd started chanting something you couldn’t make out. For a second, all you could see were shapes moving behind the big screens to the side—shadows crossing, cables being pulled, a flash of someone’s arm under the bright stage lights.

You genuinely just wanted to hurry the process up because you didn't care for this dramatic buildup. Really, you didn’t. But when one of those shadows adjusted the mic on their shirt, tall frame, a too familiar stance, a flicker of something hit the back of your throat.

No way.

You blinked, forcing yourself to focus, to breathe. It couldn’t be. You were imagining it.

Then the lights cut through the haze.

“Hi, this is Cortis.”

The voice—sweet, familiar, a little deeper than you remembered—hit before your brain could make sense of it.

The sound hit like a heartbeat. No pause, no warning. Just the opening synth and the drum kick straight into GO!—loud, fast, messy in a way that made people scream before the verse even started. The lights strobed white and blue and for a second all you could see was faint movement.

And then you saw his smile through the darkness before you even saw his whole face.

Seonghyeon.

Beanie pulled low, a white I <3 D2 hoodie similar to the black one you’d watched him wear behind the counter like it meant nothing, and jeans incredibly vintage. He looked so good. Unreal. Like he’d been born to stand there under that light.

The group ran out and immediately the crowd went berserk. He hit the first lyric with a grin that made the whole front row lose it. You just stood frozen.

Your brain tried to keep up. That’s him. That’s the guy who stuttered in every other sentence he spoke in English. That’s the guy who texted “hope to see u there lol.” That’s the guy who apparently was a K-pop idol.

He moved like he didn’t know anyone was watching—shoulders loose, voice steady even when the crowd screamed over him. The kind of confidence you couldn't fake even if you tried. Every beat made it worse. You wanted to laugh, to turn to your sister and say you’re kidding me, but your mouth wouldn’t work.

The chorus hit, the lights flared, and you swear he looked like he was searching for someone—just for a second—but it was enough to make your pulse stumble when you caught his eye. He didn’t smile or wave or anything obvious, but something in his face shifted, like recognition flickered and passed.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. It was probably the stage lights. It was the smoke. It was nothing.

But your chest still ached in this weird, quiet way.

The song crashed into its final chorus, the crowd chanting go go go like they’d been waiting for this moment all night. He threw his head back when he sang, hair sticking out from under the beanie, and you suddenly thought—absurdly—that he looked exactly like the kind of person who should be famous.

The way he moved was completely the opposite of how he was when you initially met him. Was this like... an alter ego? Maybe an identical twin? That had to be the only explanation for this phenomenon.

When it ended, the applause was deafening. People screamed names, someone tossed a phone case on stage, the drummer stood up to bow. Your sister was clapping next to you, yelling about how good they were.

You just stood there.

Your phone buzzed once in your pocket. You didn’t check it right away. You couldn’t.

Because for the first time all night, you couldn’t tell if you’d been waiting for the text—or for him.

You didn’t check your phone right away. The crowd was already moving, loud and restless, shoving toward the exits or the merch tables. The lights came up too fast and bright. Your sister was still talking—yelling, actually—about how good they were, how the last song sounded like a Travis Scott song or something. You barely heard her.

Your head was ringing. Maybe from the bass. Maybe from everything else.

You finally looked down at your phone. One new message.

1 new message from seonghyeon (sean?) saw you.

Just two words, nothing special. But your stomach flipped anyway.

You read it again. Then again.

Your sister grabbed your arm and dragged you to a concession booth before you could even think of replying. “Come on, let’s get water. I’m fucking dehydrated as hell.”

You let her pull you through the thinning crowd, past people still chanting the group's name, past a merch table that was already swarmed. You caught flashes of white hoodies and posters—CORTIS in bold black font, his face right there next to the others.

You stopped. For a moment, it was like your brain lagged behind your eyes. That was him. Same hair, same jawline, same cheeky smile. He wasn’t just in the group—he was the group.

You took a second to take in your surroundings and there the evidence was. At every corner and empty wall space were posters of them. Him. Advertising their arrival and performance.

Girls holding photo cards and literal picket fans of his face. How the fuck was this possible?

Genuinely, were you just blind this whole time?

Your sister was still talking beside you, oblivious, fanning herself with a pamphlet. She noticed your obvious eyeing of the propaganda around you, thinking you finally thought a K-Pop idol was cute. “Oh Seonghyeon? He’s so good-looking in person. Like godly. Did you see him? He came out first.”

You swallowed hard, pretending to laugh. “Yeah. Totally insane.”

You tucked your phone into your pocket, trying to play it off, but your pulse wouldn’t slow down. Every step toward the exit made it worse. Then, right as you passed the side of the stage—through a narrow hallway where security was blocking off the area—you saw him.

No hoodie this time, just a plain black tee clinging to his shoulders, beanie gone, but hair pushed back and still damp from sweat. He was laughing at something one of the crew said, the sound of it barely audible over the noise.

Then he turned.

The moment stretched, longer than it should’ve been. His gaze found yours across the space, steady, calm—like he already knew you’d be there. You froze, breath caught in your throat. Someone yelled his name from behind, snapping him out of it. He smiled directly at you, a tiny thing that hit harder than it should’ve, and started walking with his team toward the exit—the security trailing behind them making it difficult to see anymore.

You blinked, trying to make sense of it, but by the time you did, he was gone.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

1 new message from seonghyeon (Sean?) tell me ur still there?

And you swear for a second, the air around you shifted. Everything felt slower, quieter. Like the room was holding its breath just for you.

You didn’t answer right away. Or more like you couldn’t. Your hands were shaking just enough to make typing feel impossible.

Your sister was still gushing, saying something about how she’d kill to get backstage, but all you could hear was the blood in your ears. You mumbled something about needing a minute and ducked to the side, near a vending machine and a half-empty hallway.

Finally, you opened your phone.

tell me ur still there? stared back at you, casual as ever. You typed yeah then deleted it. Typed you were insane up there and deleted that too. You locked your screen, then unlocked it again.

Okay, fine. Maybe you needed context. Maybe you just needed to know how the fuck he’d managed to not mention being in a whole-ass band.

You searched Cortis first.

It was instant—pages and pages of clips, fancams, interviews, fan edits. His name was everywhere: Seonghyeon, top visual. You clicked one video and almost dropped your phone. It was him from tonight—different angle, same hoodie, same smile. The comments were full of hearts, screaming emojis, and variations of “sean is so talented ugh.”

You scrolled until your thumb hurt.

TikToks of him doing interviews. Instagram posts from a couple months ago. Photos of the boys in Seoul and LA. One thumbnail showed him holding a coffee cup in a dance studio mirror—your stomach did this weird flip when you realized it was the cup. The same sharp handwriting.

You zoomed in like that would help. It didn’t.

Your sister called your name somewhere in the distance, but you barely heard her. Every post, every tagged photo, every blurry stage shot just made it sink in deeper. He was everywhere.

“Holy shit,” you muttered, half to yourself.

Some fan account had posted a slow-motion clip of him laughing during a rehearsal. The caption read: he doesn’t even have to try. And you hated how right they were.

You finally found the official Cortis page—millions of followers, verified check, the whole thing. The most recent post was a few pictures from earlier tonight. You scanned the caption and froze at the last line:

NYC 🤍 see you soon. —CORTIS

You glanced at your Notification Center again. still there?

Your reflection in the black screen looked almost ridiculous—wide-eyed, flushed, completely gone.

Yeah. You were still there. Way too there.

The noise had finally died down. Most of the crew had cleared out, leaving stray cables and half-empty water bottles across the hotel room floor.

Seonghyeon was alone in his and Keonho's room because the latter had disappeared to the next room, his laugh faint through the wall—doing a Weverse live with the others, talking to fans like nothing had happened, like the adrenaline hadn’t wrecked them all from the inside out.

He leaned on the edge of the bathroom counter, staring down at his phone. The messages were still open.

He had taken a shot in the dark and proposed a little rendezvous after making sure you didn't think he was some attention seeker for revealing the real reason he was there in such a dramatic manner.

You [Thurs, Oct 15, 11:22 PM]

yeah ig i’ll come.

but if you're secretly famous again i’m leaving

He huffed out a laugh, quiet enough that no one heard. Secretly famous. It didn’t even feel real anymore.

The mirror in front of him was fogged from the steam preparing for his shower. His hair was a mess from the lights, flattened in places from the beanie he’d thrown somewhere backstage. He tugged a hand through his locks and chewed on his lip, staring at himself with nothing but a towel on for a second. He didn’t look like someone you'd want to talk to again. Not after finding out who he really was.

Still, he couldn’t stop checking the time.

He quickly bathed himself and dried most of his hair in record time.

Seonghyeon grabbed a fresh new hoodie and sweats from his bed and shot a text to the groupchat letting them know he was going for a "walk." Real slick.

Which was kind of for naught, since he had to grab his wallet from the other room, but he was in and out—ignoring Martin yelling for him to “not get mobbed.” He didn’t care. He wasn’t even sure what he’d say when he saw you, just that he wanted to.

He’d texted you an hour ago. You'd said yes. Meet at a place in the middle. That had to be a good sign, right?

He’d meant to be cool about it. Just one drink, small talk, pretend he wasn’t overanalyzing everything. But now, walking to the elevators with the segments still half-written on his arm, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way you'd looked in the crowd—how he’d almost missed a line because of it.

It had thrown him off completely.

At first he thought he imagined it—the light catching the side of your face, the way you tilted your head when you were trying to listen, but the girls adjacent to you were screaming their brains out. He’d spent the rest of the first verse convincing himself he was wrong, that there was no way you’d actually shown up.

But then you looked up again, and for half a second, your eyes met his. It was enough to knock something loose inside him. His throat went tight, voice faltering for just a beat before muscle memory kicked in.

He’d sung the rest of the song on autopilot, heart hammering so hard he swore the mic could’ve picked it up. The guys had noticed, too—Juhoon shot him a look between songs, eyebrows raised like, fuck was that? He just shook his head and kept going, but he’d been buzzing ever since.

And now, standing there in the half-lit hallway, hoodie pulled low over his forehead, that same rush came flooding back. It wasn’t stage adrenaline anymore—it was something more exciting.

It was funny; throughout performing, the fan sign, the Q&A's and everything else all night, he was barely phased—honestly he loved every second of it. But now? He felt so nervous, he could feel it in his gut.

You spotted him first—leaning against the wall, hood down, a hand shoved into his pockets with his phone out like he wasn’t sure if he should wait inside or not.

He looked different without the lights and noise. Smaller somehow. The casual black comfortable outfit like you previously saw of him. He seemed less performer, more person. When he saw you, his mouth twitched up in this almost-smile, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to.

And you hated that because even then, his dimpled gleamed like no other and immediately it broke down any wall you attempted to have up.

“Hey,” you said, trying to sound casual and definitely failing.

“Hi,” Seonghyeon echoed, voice high and a little unsure.

You stood there for a second, awkwardly caught in the space between greeting and conversation, until you blurted, “So… boba?”

He laughed softly, relief breaking through the tension. “Yeah. I, uh—thought it was a good mix of coffee and like... evening time, you know?”

You immediately clocked the boba shop he was in front of, recognizing it as one of the most popular ones in the city.

“Good thing I’m a regular,” you said, pushing open the door. The bell above it chimed, the air inside smelling like sugar and fruit syrup. He followed you in, scanning the menu like it was a test.

He found that he liked being on the same side of the counter as you.

You ordered something simple for yourself and asked what he wanted. He hesitated for a second, then said, “Just whatever you’re getting.”

“Bold,” you teased. “You’re trusting me with that?”

“Yes, I only have boba ball knowledge in Korea. And I already did once,” he said, and you didn’t need him to clarify—he meant the coffee.

He's gotten boba numerous times since being in LA. But you didn't need to know that.

You tried not to smile too hard, but it was useless. He noticed anyway and inched that much closer to you without even realizing.

The two of you stood off to the side waiting for your drinks, a strange kind of quiet stretching between you. Not awkward exactly, just… heavy with everything unspoken. Every small movement felt amplified.

He fidgeted with his straw wrapper, rolling it into a thin coil, unrolling it again. You tried to act normal, pulling out your phone like you were checking something important, but your thumb froze the second a video of him performing popped up on your feed. A fancam, shaky and loud. You scrolled past it so fast it probably looked suspicious.

You could feel him glance at you, just for a second, like he caught the shift in your body language. His hand brushed against yours lightly when he leaned forward to check the pickup counter, and it sent a tiny spark through your chest that you immediately tried to ignore.

“Long wait,” he said, voice low, trying to fill the silence.

“Guess everyone in Brooklyn wanted boba tonight,” you replied. You weren’t even looking at him when you said it, but you could hear the small smile in his voice when he answered and it gave you the urge to put your phone away to give your all into his presence.

“Yeah. Or maybe they just wanted to see you try not to look nervous.”

That made you laugh, short and weak. “I’m not nervous.”

He nodded slowly, clearly unconvinced. “Sure.”

The song playing overhead shifted—something mellow, soft percussion and a few chords that felt too intimate for a strip-mall boba shop. You perked up when you realized you knew the song. Skin by Dijon. Neither of you spoke for a minute.

"I love this song." You blurted out. You really did—it was in your top 10 on Spotify Wrapped in 2024.

His eyes flitted up to yours and he tried to fight a smile. "Oh yeah?"

You hesitated for a second, your throat a little tight. “Yeah. It’s just—comforting, I guess.”

Seonghyeon nodded slowly, gaze dropping to the counter, and you caught the smallest flicker of something in his expression—a sort of recognition, or the quiet surprise of hearing his own thoughts said out loud.

The music drifted around you, the kind of song that made silence feel like its own language. The line I come alive when you tease me played, and neither of you moved. The air between you seemed to thicken just slightly, not tense but alive, like both of you were too aware of the other standing too close.

You caught yourself watching him out of the corner of your eye—the slope of his nose, the way his hoodie hung loose around his shoulders. He truly was so sculpted.

His fingers tapped absently against the counter in time with the beat, seeming like he tried harder to listen to the song now that he knew you liked it.

And when he glanced back at you, just briefly, you both looked away at the same time.

You just stood there, shoulder to shoulder, the warmth of him cutting through the hum of the AC. He smelled faintly like sandalwood and surprisingly a hint of jasmine and vanilla, clean like aftershave that hadn’t fully faded.

When your order was called, you handed him his cup, tapping the lid. “Moment of truth.”

He took a sip, winced, then licked his lips and nodded. “Okay, yeah. That is actually super good.”

“Told you,” you said, smug, and he rolled his eyes in this easy, familiar way that made it feel like maybe it wasn’t that weird to be standing there together again, like it really was last night and not weeks ago. It was clear your perception of the situation was blown a bit out of proportion.

You stepped outside, the night cooler now, the city hum a little quieter. You walked side by side without saying much until you said, “You have time? I know a spot.”

Seonghyeon glanced over, one brow raised humoring you. “You know a spot?”

You nudged his shoulder with yours. “Don’t make it weird. I actually do.”

You held your chin up and walked a pace faster than him, willing him to catch up.

“Sure you do,” he said, smiling into his drink, but he followed you anyway.

“You’ve never been in a helicopter?!” He looked bewildered. Like how dare you not have such a privileged experience.

“No—bro, genuinely how is that a surprise? I doubt even a quarter of the country has. It’s not really a common activity for us normal people.” You were in the middle of kicking a rock, and when you looked up, he was stopped abruptly two paces behind you.

The look on his face was ridiculous—eyebrows raised, mouth slightly open, his voice was astonished, like you’d just confessed to never having seen the ocean or like he’d just discovered you’d never seen the sky. "Are you serious?"

You squinted at him. “Why do you sound personally attacked?”

“I’m not,” he said, but his voice cracked on the denial, and you laughed, pulling him along by the sleeve to keep walking and he sped up.

“Yes, you are, listen to yourself."

He turned toward you fully, walking backward now, black hoodie pulled tight around his shoulders. “I just—come on. You’ve seriously never gone? Not even once?”

“No,” you said flatly. “What, do you think people just go on helicopters for fun?”

"Well, no. But its like—"He laughed under his breath, a little sheepish but still smug. “I dunno, I just thought everyone’s been in one at least once.”

You stared at him. “Oh my god. That’s such a crazy sentence to say out loud.”

He chuckled, the sound low and breathy, and you felt it more than heard it. “Okay, maybe not everyone, but—”

“—but you,” you interrupted, pointing at him accusingly with a big shit-eating grin on your face. “You’re everyone.”

“I didn’t say that,” he said, but his smile gave him away. He looked impossibly pleased with himself, even as he stuffed his hands in his pockets to hide it.

“Wow,” you said, shaking your head. “Imagine living your life thinking helicopter rides are, like, part of a loyalty rewards program.”

He laughed again, genuine and bright, those dimples you missed peeking out to say hi. “You are so dramatic.”

“You’re out of touch.”

He smiled sideways. “Guess I’m just more adventurous than you.” He bumped your shoulder in mock assault.

You gasped in mock offense. “Adventurous? That’s not adventurous, that’s reckless.”

He didn’t answer—just smiled to himself, that quiet, unreadable one he did when he was trying not to give something away. The streetlights flickered past as you walked, glowing against his hoodie, and you caught the outline of his jaw when he turned his head. For a second, it felt like the rest of the world had gone soft and blurry around him.

Then he looked down at his empty cup. “Ah, man.”

“What?” you asked, snapping out of it. Holy hypnotized.

He held it up like it was disastrous evidence. “I’m out.”

“Tragic,” you said flatly, taking an exaggerated sip of your own just to rub it in.

He glanced at your drink, then at you. “You gonna finish that?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t even think—”

But he was already reaching for it. His fingers held your wrist—light, quick, unthinking—and then he just dragged the straw to his mouth. No hesitation.

You stood there, too startled to react, while he sipped straight from your straw like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“Seonghyeon!” you hissed, half whisper, half laugh.

He took a long sip like he’d done nothing wrong and blinked, feigning innocence. “What?”

“You just— you can’t—”

“Can’t what?” the bastard asked, fighting a grin. “Drink boba?”

You gaped at him. “You didn’t even ask!”

He blinked, like the thought had only just occurred to him. “Should I have?” He looked genuinely amused.

“Mm… sorry,” he said, but didn’t sound sorry at all. “It just looked better than mine.”

He gave another laugh when he caught your expression—eyes wide, lips parted in disbelief—and it was so easy for him, that careless, teasing kind of laughter that felt like it was directed through you rather than at you.

“How does that make sense? You literally got the same thing as me,” you said, pulling it back, though he didn’t let go right away.

For a second, there was resistance—a small tug, his fingers still looped loosely around the cup—and then his thumb brushed against the inside of your wrist. It wasn’t intentional, probably. It couldn’t have been. But your breath still caught like your body didn’t get the memo. The contact was warm and quick and left behind this faint, traitorous awareness that made your pulse stumble.

You tried to act like it was nothing, taking a defensive sip just to give your hands something to do. He watched you do it, grinning like he was in on a joke you didn’t know yet, his eyes flicking from your mouth to your cup and back again.

“You’re too dramatic,” he said again.

“You’re insufferable.” You meant for it to sound sharp, but the words came out too light, almost smiling. You could feel the corners of your mouth betraying you, pulling up until your cheeks ached.

“Woah, don’t know that word,” Seonghyeon said lightly. “Too American for me.” He bumped his shoulder into yours, casual, familiar—like it was something he’d done a thousand times.

You snorted, shaking your head, trying to brush it off. But you could still feel where his shoulder had nudged yours, where his thumb had grazed your wrist, where his laugh had caught in the space between you.

Who even was this guy?

And why did it feel so natural, so stupidly easy, to just be near him—like you’d known him for longer than you actually had?

You stared straight ahead, pretending to focus on the street, but your chest was a mess of tiny contradictions: warmth, confusion, excitement, a little bit of disbelief. He shouldn’t have felt this familiar already. You didn’t even know what to do with it.

Your steps fell into rhythm without meaning to, shoes scuffing the cracked sidewalk. The night air was cool enough that the fog from your breath rose in thin ribbons, catching under the streetlights.

Every few steps, your arms brushed. Once, he adjusted his sleeve and it brushed your hand. Neither of you moved away.

“So,” he said, after a while, “how much longer ‘til we reach this mysterious spot of yours?”

You smirked, hiding your smile behind your straw. “You’ll see.”

He hummed, unconvinced. “Sounds suspicious.”

You rolled your eyes, pretending to be unbothered even though you could feel his gaze lingering, curious, playful. “You’re the one who agreed to follow a stranger down an empty street at night,” you said.

He tilted his head, pretending to think. “You—" he paused to laugh and covered it up by clearing his throat, "...don’t seem that dangerous.”

“That’s exactly what a dangerous person would want you to think,” you shot back, glancing over your shoulder at him.

That earned you a grin—wide, lazy, the kind that made you look away too fast. He jogged a step to catch up, walking closer now, the edge of his hoodie brushing your sleeve with each stride.

For a while, the only sounds were your footsteps and the distant hum of traffic. A neon sign flickered ahead, painting him in flashes of pink and blue light. It hit you then how surreal this felt—how the same person you’d seen through your sister's screen unintentionally, through pixels and noise, was now right here, kicking at a loose bit of gravel beside you like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He glanced over suddenly. “So, do you drag all your friends to secret spots, or did I just get lucky?”

You scoffed. “Psssh. You’re not even close to special or getting lucky.”

“Harsh,” he said, clutching his chest in mock offense, but he was laughing.

The sound rolled through the quiet street, and you couldn’t help but smile back. You didn’t realize until then that you’d slowed down, both of you walking at the same pace, perfectly in sync.

“Almost there,” you said, pointing up ahead, even though you both knew you were in no rush to actually get there.

You stepped off the curb without thinking, still half-smiling at something he’d said. The night felt light—like maybe—finally, the weird weight between you had lifted.

Then the roar hit.

It came from your left, a blur of motion and metal and light—too fast, too close. A motorcycle shot past, wind slapping your hair into your face. You didn’t even have time to flinch before a hand caught your arm, hard, yanking you backward.

You stumbled into him.

The impact knocked the air out of your chest. Your drink nearly slipped from your fingers, the plastic lid ripping slightly from how tight you gripped it. His hand stayed around your elbow, steady and firm, his other braced at your back to stop you from falling. For a second—maybe two—you couldn’t move.

"Oh shit," you heard him say.

You could feel everything: the heat of his palm through your sleeve, the rise and fall of his chest against your shoulder, the faint smell of his cologne—clean and sharp, edged with sweat and something warm, like cedar.

The street noise dulled around you, replaced by the soft static rush in your ears.

He leaned closer, his voice a low murmur. “Hi—you good?”

You nodded before you could think, but you didn’t pull away. Your pulse was still racing, thudding against the place where his fingers rested. When you finally looked up, his face was closer than it should’ve been. Streetlight caught on the curve of his jaw, the shadow under his lashes, the tiny drop of water still clinging to his hairline presumably from his shower. His thumb flexed—just slightly, unconsciously—against your arm, and you forgot how to breathe.

For a moment, it didn’t feel like it mattered that you barely knew him. The city, the noise, everything felt far away—like you were suspended in this strange, fragile pause where something might happen if either of you dared to move.

But then your brain caught up.

Reality hit like cold air. You barely knew him. You didn’t even know what version of him you were standing next to right now—the one who texted you like any other guy, or the one with a million strangers screaming his name from the crowd. The one who hadn’t told you.

You stepped back, gently freeing your arm from his grip. “I—uh. Yeah. I’m fine.”

He blinked, like it took him a second to register that you’d moved. His hands fell back to his sides. The faint crease between his brows stayed, though he smiled anyway, soft and a little uncertain. “Good. Just—look both ways next time, right?”

He cleared his throat.

You huffed out a small laugh, trying to make it light. “Yeah. Guess I got distracted or something.”

He smiled at that, but this time, it didn’t quite reach his eyes. You started walking again when the light changed, and this time, you left a few inches between you.

The space felt heavier than before.

He shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket, kicked at a stray pebble, said something about how American crosswalks never make sense. You nodded and smiled where you were supposed to, but your mind had already drifted elsewhere—back to the crowd, the lights, the moment you’d realized who he really was.

You weren’t sure if this was still the same person who’d pulled you out of the street—or if you’d just imagined that he was.

And it had to be talked about because you didn’t know what to do with this newfound feeling you had when it came to him.

The door to the rooftop was heavier than you expected, and it groaned when you pushed it open. The rush of night air hit you first—cool and sharp, carrying that mix of car exhaust, fried food, and late-night rain you only ever got in the city. You stepped out, the gravel crunching beneath your shoes, and for a second, neither of you said anything.

It was… nice. Nicer than you remembered. A low ledge framed the rooftop, and beyond it, the city sprawled in light — streetlamps threading through the streets like constellations flipped upside down. You could see people down below, dots moving in rhythm with traffic, the hum of it all rising up like white noise. Somewhere, a siren wailed and faded.

“Woah,” Seonghyeon murmured, walking toward the edge. “This is your spot?”

You nodded, watching him take it in. He leaned on the ledge, the wind tugging at his hoodie, hair still a little damp. The sight made something twist in your chest—he looked so normal again. Not the persona from the stage, not the guy plastered on TikTok edits or posters—just him.

You stayed back for a moment, tracing the outline of his silhouette against the skyline. His breath clouded faintly in the air, vanishing as fast as it came. The city light softened the sharpness in his features, turning him into something quieter, more human.

“I also…” he started, voice low enough that you almost missed it under the wind. He glanced over his shoulder, like he wasn’t sure if he should keep talking. “I had a spot like this. Back in Korea.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the shift in tone.

“When it all got to be too much,” he added, fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the concrete. “You know, when things got… loud.” His hands waved around to signal the feeling of his words.

He didn’t look at you when he said it. His gaze was somewhere far away—past the buildings, past the noise, maybe back home. The way he said it wasn’t dramatic, but there was weight behind it, the kind that came from repetition. Like it wasn’t just a place to him, it was a habit. A refuge.

The air between you seemed to still, filled with everything he wasn’t saying. It seemed like a sensitive topic.

You wanted to ask what he meant—what “loud” meant for someone like him—but the question sat heavy on your tongue. You didn’t want to make it weird. Not yet.

So you just nodded a little, letting the silence stretch. The hum of the city filled it, that constant static of engines, laughter, and someone’s music playing faintly from a car below. The wind carried bits of it up to you, making it all feel closer and farther at the same time.

He glanced at you, maybe to check if you were going to say something, but you only met his eyes for a second before looking away.

God, he made it easy to regret not saying anything.

After another beat, you sighed. “Okay,” you said, arms crossing. “We should probably talk about the elephant in the room.”

“The what?” Seonghyeon's whole body turned to you, eyebrows pulling together.

“The elephant in the room.” You gestured vaguely between you. “You know… the big obvious thing we’re both pretending isn’t there.”

He blinked, thinking it over and looking around. “There’s… an elephant here?”

You couldn’t help but laugh a little despite yourself. “No, it’s—never mind. It’s an expression. It means we’re ignoring a situation or something.”

“Ah.” He nodded slowly, mouth open in understanding, like he was storing the phrase for later. “And what are we ignoring?”

You gave him a look. “Really?”

He smiled faintly, almost like he wanted to see if you’d actually say it.

You tilted your head at him, waiting. When he didn’t bite, you exhaled through your nose, shifting your weight against the ledge.

“Come on,” you said. “Don’t do that thing where you act clueless. You know what I mean.”

He looked down, rubbing the back of his neck, the smallest smirk ghosting over his mouth. “Maybe,” he said quietly.

“Maybe?” you echoed, half incredulous, half amused.

His gaze flicked up to meet yours then, and there was something careful in it—like he was weighing how honest to be. Which should be entirely. “You mean the whole… idol thing.”

You didn’t say anything, just raised your brows.

Seonghyeon laughed once under his breath, but it wasn’t the easy kind you’d gotten used to. “Yeah. That.” He let out a sigh, low and steady. “It’s not like I wanted to hide it. I just—” His hand made this restless motion in the air. “—it’s complicated. You say that now, but people always act different when they know. They get weird. Or they start pretending not to be impressed when they actually are.”

The words hung between you. He spoke heavy yet gentle at the same time. The way he said it—it wasn’t defensive, just tired.

You studied him for a moment, the edge of his jaw catching the city light, his hoodie tugged slightly by the wind. “That’s… kind of sad,” you said finally.

He shrugged, not meeting your eyes. “I mean it’s what I wanted. It’s just…”

You could tell he was at a loss of words, maybe searching for a word that wasn’t in his vocabulary. “Overwhelming?”

“What does that—um… mean?” He squinted and it was obvious that he was trying to dissect the word in his head.

“It’s like when everything you’re dealing with or just everything around you gets to be too much that you have this like feeling, you know?”

“Kinda—no, actually—that is exactly it.” He tilted his head sideways and studied your face, looking like he didn’t know how you could phrase his feelings so well. Like you had a magnifying glass up to his soul.

There was another silence—this one quieter, not awkward, just full. You could hear someone’s laughter echoing from the street, a car horn, a dog barking somewhere in the distance.

You wanted to tell him you weren’t like that. That you didn’t care about the fame thing, not really. But saying that out loud felt too close, too revealing. So instead you said, lightly, “Well, I didn’t get weird. So.”

He glanced at you again, a small real smile breaking through this time. “Yeah. You didn’t.”

His eyes lingered a moment too long before he looked away again, fingers drumming against the ledge.

You shifted a little closer, pretending to be bothered by a bug on the other side of you or something. Not enough to cross his space. The gap between you felt charged. The wind tugged at your hair. The smell of rain and asphalt hung in the air.

“Do you ever regret it?” you asked. Careful. Letting your voice simmer. “All of it. The way things changed?”

He stayed quiet.

In the short silence, all you could do was observe him a little more. His fingers tapped lightly on the cold concrete, eyes reflecting the lights from far below. The city hummed. Horns and laughter floated up from the streets. Up here it felt quieter. Suspended. Your chest tightened. Not from fear. From the anticipation of honesty.

Finally, he exhaled, slow and deliberate. “Sometimes,” he said. His voice was low and reluctant. His gaze stayed on the skyline. His shoulders were tense. The way he spoke made it feel real. “I wanted it, you know? The big dream. And I’m—shit, I am so grateful for it all and I’m as happy as I can be. But it changed everything. People, your life—even yourself.”

He paused to search for the perfect words and you could see it in the way his eyebrows furrowed and the way he clicked his tongue in thought.

“It’s like… you're still you. But not quite the same. It’s strange.”

You watched him. The edge of his jaw. The curve of his neck. His brown hair caught in the wind. There was quiet intensity about him. Not performing, just him. It made your stomach twist. Equal parts admiration and something you didn’t want to name.

“And do you miss it?” you asked. Soft. Words floating between you. “Not the fame. Not the cameras. Just… you.”

His eyes flicked to yours. A brief, careful second. Hesitant and testing the waters. “Yes,” he admitted. His voice was rougher now. It was almost unguarded. “I miss the freedom, the part that was mine before it all got loud. I don’t miss everything. Not all of it.”

You swallowed and heat rose in your chest at the way he was staring at you. The wind tugged at his hoodie. You could not stop looking, and it was getting to a point. The fabric clung slightly to him. His broad shoulders shifted. He tried to stay calm. He was not calm. The closeness was intimate and neither of you acknowledged it.

The city below blurred into a distant hum—cars, music, someone laughing blocks away. You shifted just a little, and your knee brushed against his. It was small, accidental, but neither of you pulled back.

“You say all this,” you murmured. Leaning slightly. Almost brushing his shoulder. “But you don’t let anyone see it? Not even your members?”

He inhaled deeply, like it was from his soul. And he shook his head no.

“Why?”

He shrugged, lips twitching with a small smile. Eyes serious. “People react differently when they see cracks,” he said. “They get weird. Pretend not to notice. I just don’t need that.”

You nodded slowly and you could hear you heart thudding in the background. You wanted to tell him you weren’t like that. That you didn’t need him to put up a front. But words felt heavy and like they mattered more in this moment. You let it linger. Soft. Real.

But he deserved to know that he wasn’t just telling someone who didn’t care either.

“I’m not like that,” you said, but it felt like you were trying to convince yourself, too. “I just want to know you. For you."

You gulped, feeling like you overstepped, but that it needed to be said. "Seonghyeon... not Sean from Cortis. The guy I met in a hoodie and sweats at 9pm in the evening.”

For a long moment, he looked at you. Really looked. The ambiance, the lights, the movement—it all sort of blurred into the background. Just you, framed by the glow of passing headlights and the faint hum of the streets below. The wind tugged at your jacket, brushed your hair into your face. You didn’t move to fix it, and he didn’t look away.

He leaned on his palm, close enough to you that you could see the faint line of exhaustion under his eyes, the kind that doesn’t come from lack of sleep but from too much living. There was something so human about it that your chest tightened.

“Do you ever,” he started, voice low and a little rough, “get that feeling when you meet someone and it’s like—” He paused, searching for the right word. “Like you already know them somehow?”

You blinked, caught off guard and a little called out. “Maybe.”

He smiled at that, a small, tired curve of his mouth that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. That.”

A beat of silence. Your shoes brushed again, that unintentional rhythm that kept happening, keeping you tethered. He bumped his shoe against yours and kept it there. You knew what he was doing.

The air between you felt warmer than it should have. You could smell the faint sweetness of the boba he’d finished earlier, still clinging to his breath, and the scent of his hoodie—something like that same cologne from yesterday and rain.

“You look different tonight,” he said quietly.

Did he even know how much his words affected you? From the easy way he told you things yesterday, you think not. And it was unfair because you were currently experiencing that comment you saw from earlier—he doesn't even have to try—firsthand.

The way Seonghyeon said it made your stomach flip. It wasn’t teasing. It was honest. Too honest. Except you didn’t know what he meant by it.

You laughed, trying to make it light. “Is that your smooth way of saying I look tired?”

He shook his head, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “No. It’s my not-smooth way of saying you look good.”

The words hung there, suspended in the air between you. You didn’t know what to do with them. He seemed to realize what he’d said a second too late, clearing his throat, looking away with a weak laugh. “And, uh… what about you?”

You tilted your head. “What about me?”

He looked back at you, slower this time. “You ever think about that? About how weird this is? Us. Here. After just meeting like—just the other day.”

You wanted to say yes, that you thought about it more than you should. That something about him felt impossible and inevitable all at once. But all you could manage was a quiet, “Yeah. Kind of.”

The wind swept past again, lifting the hair near your cheek. He reached up instinctively, fingers brushing it away before he caught himself—and instead of pulling back, his hand hovered there for a heartbeat too long.

He said your name, but it got caught somewhere between the wind and his teeth, soft, trembling, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to say it at all. And somehow, just the way he said it made the world shrink, like everything else—the city noise, the cold air, the faint smell of rain—faded into nothing, leaving only him and the way he looked at you.

“I—I don’t even know how I’m saying this,” he started, voice low, ragged in a way that made your chest tighten. He leaned just slightly closer, shoulder brushing yours by accident—or maybe not—and your stomach flipped at the contact. “When we, like, just met… it is stupid, and I know it’s a million times too soon, but…” He swallowed hard, and there was this tiny hitch in his breath, this almost-painful pause. “But you’re… the most real person I’ve met in weeks. In all of this… chaos, I guess.”

You blinked, startled. Real. The word hit you harder than you expected. There was something raw in the way he said it, like he wasn’t putting on a mask for anyone—not for the noise that swallowed him, not for the eyes always watching, not for the rest of the people trying to act a certain way. And the truth was, it was magnetic.

“You’re… raw,” he said again, voice lower, quieter this time, almost trembling. “And I don’t know how to handle it. And I don’t know why I feel like I need to.” His fingers twitched near yours on the cold concrete, hovering just a hair away, like he wanted to reach but was terrified of what would happen if he did. “You’re… honest. Unfiltered. Sort of risky, maybe. Because you’re just… you.”

You swallowed, breath catching. Risky wasn’t exactly the word you’d use for yourself, but coming from him it felt like a spark hitting bare skin. “I—” you started, but your voice faltered. You didn’t know what to say to someone who was seeing you like this, who wasn’t playing games or pretending.

The way he spoke in pauses, difficulty of not being completely fluent in English shining through, but desperate to get his emotions across to you—God, it touched something deep in you.

“Everyone else,” Seonghyeon said, gesturing vaguely, voice rough, like he’d been chewing on the words for too long, “everyone else is noise. People, like, trying to be something they’re not, people pretending they’re… I don’t know, polished, safe. But you…” He let his words hang, pure and raw, “…you’re not.”

You felt your heart thump in your chest, loud enough that you were sure he could hear it. The warmth of him, the nearness, the way his hoodie smelled faintly of rain and cologne, made your skin feel electric. You wanted to lean forward, to close that last inch, but something—the tension, the thrill, the impossibility of it all—kept you rooted.

“God,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly, like he was trying to convince himself not to feel what he felt. “I shouldn’t even be saying any of this. I barely even know you.”

“And yet you are,” you whispered back, your own voice catching in ways you hadn’t expected and hair blowing somewhat harder than previously.

He exhaled, slow and shaky, like he’d been holding a storm inside his chest and finally let it out. His fingers twitched again, hovering closer to yours, almost daring, almost pleading. “Yeah,” he said, voice low, raw, “yeah, I am.”

The quiet stretched between you, thick, electric, fragile. The wind rustled around your hair, and he leaned a fraction closer, eyes searching yours like he was trying to memorize the way you looked right now, in the dim light, in this impossible moment. “You’re… something else,” he murmured. “I don’t know what it is exactly, but I—” He stopped, blinking, teeth catching his bottom lip. “…I can’t get it out of my head.”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped, soft and breathless. “You’re... ridiculous,” you said, but it was warm, almost bluffing, because you knew and felt exactly what he meant.

“Maybe,” he said, letting the words slip out slowly, deliberately, like he was testing himself, testing you. “…but maybe I don’t want to be.”

And just like that, the world tightened again, like the night itself had conspired to trap you in this moment. The wind threatening to push you closer, the licking of his lips in nervousness, the way his eyes were fixed on yours—it was suffocating and thrilling all at once.

“Seonghyeon,” you whispered, shaking your head, because how could someone you’d barely met make everything inside you flip over?

And like clockwork, the reality of it began to creep in.

“You really shouldn’t be saying any of this,” you said quietly, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

“I know,” he admitted, letting his head tilt back slightly, shoulders easing just enough that he seemed… vulnerable. “But I am. Somehow, I can’t stop.”

Seonghyeon didn't care about the reality of it. All he knew was this was how he felt. And not you or his self-doubt could stop him from opening up to you.

In attempt to lift the mood—because you were done being in interrogating mode—you thought of something funny.

You leaned back against the railing, letting the wind lift your hair, and sniffled. “You know that Olivia Rodrigo song… So American?”

“Of course I do. That is you. Way too American,” he said, voice teasing but soft.

“I mean it,” you insisted, nudging his shoulder lightly. “Listen—‘When he laughs at all my jokes, and he says I’m so American… Oh God, it’s just not fair of him to make me feel this much.’” You hummed the melody quietly, letting your words trail off. “That’s… deadass you. All of it. It’s exactly you.”

He groaned, dramatically shaking his head like he was suffering through something tragic. "Aniyaaa."

You had a hunch that meant something negative in Korean.

“Laugh at all your jokes? Every single one? Even the bad ones?” His grin made your stomach flip.

“Yes,” you said, leaning a little closer, “and it’s not fair. You make me feel… too much. And I don’t even know why I let it happen.” You rolled your eyes, but there was a laugh hiding behind it.

He laughed too, like it was impossible not to mirror him. “I think you like it,” he said, tilting his head, that smirk still there but softer now. “I think you like that I do.”

“You’re so weird,” you said, laughing, trying to shove him lightly—but he caught your hands before you could, spinning them between his fingers just enough to make you squeal.

“And also, that's only because your bad jokes are still funny,” he replied, nudging your shoulder lightly. “It’s a gift, honestly.”

You rolled your eyes and laughed, and he laughed too—warm, easy, completely unselfconscious—and suddenly the tension of the night felt lighter, like it could fold into itself and leave only this moment.

Then, out of nowhere, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a pair of sunglasses you hadn’t even noticed. “Where the hell did these come from?” he muttered, sliding them onto his face with mock seriousness. He tilted his head like a movie star posing for the wind to blow dramatically across his hair.

You snorted, and before he could react, your fingers darted out and tickled his ribs. He yelped, laughing, squirming, and in the chaos the sunglasses slipped off, tumbling to the rooftop. One lens popped out and rolled a little before stopping at your feet. You froze for a second, both of you staring at it… then burst into laughter again, clutching your stomach, leaning into his arm for balance.

“Okay, that’s… not fair,” he gasped, still laughing, shaking his head. “I did not see that coming.”

“You started it!” you said, grinning, trying to hand him back the lens but barely able to stop laughing yourself.

He finally caught his breath and shook his head, sunglasses half in hand. “Damn, bro. You owe me. This is my favorite ones!”

You laughed again, the sound mingling with the wind, the distant Manhattan lights, and the soft hum of traffic below. For a moment, the night felt wide and open, but somehow just small enough to hold the two of you in it, caught between teasing, music, and that easy, electric connection that had been building since you got there.

You both let the wind engulf you and your thoughts for a second.

Until he picked up your hand.

He. Picked. Up. Your. Hand.

The instant his fingers curled around yours, your chest flipped, pulse spiking like you’d just downed a shot of adrenaline. His hand was warm, grounding, and somehow the tiniest bit possessive, like he was daring you to notice how much this felt like too much—and not enough—all at once.

“What the…” he muttered, voice low, almost drowned by the wind, “…you hear that too, right?”

You nodded before you could think. Duh, something had to have happened for him to grab your hand. He wouldn't just grab it for no reason. Idiot.

But still, very brush of his palm against yours made sparks crawl up your arm. Every fraction of an inch he leaned closer made your stomach twist and your knees ache. You could feel the tension in him, the same way you felt it in yourself: electric, impossible to ignore.

Then the faint clack-clack-clack of shoes on metal cut through the night, slicing through the secluded bubble of your world.

Your eyes snapped toward the far side of the rooftop. Someone was patrolling.

“Shit,” he breathed, eyes widening. “C’mon.”

Before you could argue, he tugged you toward the shadow of the maintenance door. You pressed yourselves against the cold metal, backs flat, hearts hammering so hard you were sure the patrol could hear them. His body was practically glued to yours, chest brushing, his arm brushing yours every time he adjusted. The confined space made it impossible not to notice every little thing: the brush of his hair against your temple, the faint heat of his hoodie, the ghost of his breath against your neck.

“Move,” Seonghyeon whispered sharply, nudging you behind him as the footsteps got closer. “…Jesus, stay low.”

Your stomach flipped as he shifted, accidentally pressing his thigh against yours in a way that made your heart thump stupidly fast. You wanted to shove him, to create some space, but the adrenaline made your body freeze—trapped, but buzzing.

The footsteps came closer, deliberate, echoing. He ducked slightly, and you realized you were practically pressed cheek-to-cheek in the shadow, his arm brushing against yours in every small movement. You swallowed hard, trying not to moan or gasp, but jeez—every inch of proximity was ridiculous in the best possible way.

“Holy shit…” he muttered, shaking his head, thumb brushing across the back of your hand, “…this is...insane.”

You let out a quiet laugh, breathless, heart hammering. “Yeah, no kidding.”

The patrol rounded the corner. The two of you held your breath. Time slowed. You could feel him tense behind you, could hear his heartbeat thudding in sync with yours. The shadow of their flashlight swept across the metal floor just a few feet away, and you both froze so hard it felt like your bones might snap.

It was the pull. The electricity. The fact that every brush of his hand, every accidental press of skin, made the night feel impossibly, devastatingly alive.

The footsteps faded, swallowed by the distance, and for a moment, the rooftop was just the two of you. The wind stirred, but somehow it felt softer now, gentler, like it was letting you catch your breath—but not letting you escape the heat coiling between you.

You realized you were still pressed against him, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder, every brush of skin sending sparks straight through your chest. The adrenaline had dulled, but the tension didn’t—it had only sharpened, made it impossible to think clearly.

“I… I feel like he’s gone,” you murmured, voice barely above the wind, and it sounded strange even to your own ears. The word “gone” felt like it carried more weight than you intended.

“Maybe,” you heard him breathe back, low and rough, almost a growl in the quiet. “…But I think we should stay put in case he isn’t.”

You tilted your head slightly, chest still pressed against his. “Good idea,” you murmured, voice soft, almost intimate, and his fingers brushed yours again—not enough to hold, not yet, but just enough to make your stomach twist.

Seonghyeon mumbled something that didn't make sense to you in the moment because it went straight to your stomach and echoed your statement. “Mhm… the best idea.”

You both stayed still, suspended in the aftermath of adrenaline, the pull between you more real than any words. You could feel him, every line of tension in his body, the warmth of his chest just inches from yours. You wanted to say something, anything, but your voice felt trapped in your throat.

He leaned slightly, just a fraction, and the movement made your breath hitch. You didn’t pull back, and he didn’t either. His eyes caught yours, dark and hungry, and something almost fragile lurking underneath. The stupid wind tangled your hair across your cheek again, and he reached up instinctively, similar to how he did before, brushing it aside—his fingers lingering, grazing your skin just enough to make your chest tighten.

“Shit,” he murmured, low, rough. “…You’re… messing with me.”

You swallowed, pulse hammering, and let the hand you had on his chest tighten around his shirt.

“…Yeah,” you breathed, “…guess I am.”

Time slowed, like the world had decided to hold its breath. Every little detail—the plump of his lips, the intensity of his brows, the way his eyes never left yours—pulled you closer. You could feel his warmth, smell the faint mix of rain and hoodie, hear the soft rhythm of his breathing.

And then he leaned a little closer, slow, testing the space between you, and you felt it—the pull, magnetic and so undeniable.

You could move, you could step back, but every instinct in your body was screaming not to.

Your faces were inches apart. His breath hit your cheek. Soft, warm, and impossibly close. He tilted his head, letting his lips hover near yours, just shy of contact, giving you all the time in the world to decide—but also daring you not to pull away.

You felt like you could drown in the way he was between your lips and your eyes, like the whole rooftop, the city, the wind—it all disappeared. All that existed was him, and you, and the rope of tension spiraling tighter and tighter, impossible to ignore.

He whispered your name again, just barely, and your chest fluttered uncontrollably. The sound of it, low and ragged, sent heat straight through you. Oh, it was pure desperation.

Something must have taken over you. To be having these thoughts and impulses to corrupt you and this stranger. You swear—without even thinking, without meaning to, you leaned in just a fraction, closing the last impossible gap between you.

Your lips met, soft at first, just barely brushing, testing. It was almost cautious, the kind of tentative press that made your stomach tighten and your heart thrum too fast. But then, something broke—the hesitation, the carefulness—and his lips pressed a little harder, a little more insistently, and suddenly the air between you was electric.

Every brush, every slide of his lips felt amplified, like the world had narrowed down to just the warmth of him, the way his hands rested on your waist, fingers brushing lightly but leaving a spark wherever they lingered. His chest pressed to yours, and the tilt of his head, the subtle pull of his body, made your knees weak. You wanted to pull back, to catch your breath, but every instinct screamed to stay, to lean in, to feel it all.

It was impossible not to shiver at the proximity, at the way his lips moved over yours like he couldn’t get enough. The kiss deepened just slightly, slow and deliberate, tasting, feeling, exploring, and it was like all the tension from the night—the words left unsaid, the way he’d been looking at you—had funneled into this moment.

You pressed back against him without thinking, letting your hands trail up his chest, around his neck, tangling in the hoodie at the nape. Every imperfect, instinctive movement from him felt right, more alive than you’d expected, and suddenly what had started soft and tentative was this flood of heat and electricity that made your pulse race and your head spin.

When Seonghyeon pulled back just slightly, forehead resting against yours, you could hear his breath hitch, shallow and uneven, and feel the pulse of his heartbeat through his chest—strong, erratic, almost echoing through you. The quiet between you wasn’t just silence; it was a living thing, thick and electric, every second stretching impossibly long.

The way he looked at you—like you were the axis the world spun on, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real—made your stomach lurch. His eyes flicked over every detail of your face, and it hit you, with a force you didn’t expect, how much he was feeling this.

His hand shifted almost instinctively, brushing along your side, and for a moment his fingers gripped your waist and slipped under your sweater—just enough to steady himself, he probably thought, but the pressure was deliberate, grounding, and it left you weak in a way you couldn’t ignore. You could feel the heat from his body seeping through, and the tiniest lean of his chest pressed closer, tightening the space between you, making every nerve ending hyper-aware of him.

It wasn’t possessive, exactly, but it wasn’t casual either—it was a tether, a silent declaration that he couldn’t pull away, even if he wanted to. His thumb brushed along your skin in the faintest, almost accidental circles, and the small motion made you shiver.

You could feel the grip he had, subtle but insistent, and it wasn’t just your body he was holding—it was the moment, the tension, the entire connection you’d been building across the night. He didn’t pull away. He leaned into it, almost imperceptibly, letting the closeness stretch out, as if he couldn’t get enough, like every second apart would undo something vital.

Like maybe you would slip right through his fingers again and everything that transpired was just in his imagination.

He figured he should say something.

“…Holy crap,” he breathed, voice low, rough, almost broken, “…that was-”

You pressed your lips to his again, cutting him off, and the rest of the night, the city, the wind, the rooftops—they didn’t exist. There was only this, only him, only the slow, impossible pull that had been building since the very first touch.

You could feel the grip he had, subtle but insistent, and it wasn’t just your body he was holding—it was the moment, the tension, the fragile thread of connection you’d been building all night. He didn’t pull away. He leaned into it, almost imperceptibly, letting the closeness stretch, letting the warmth of him seep through every inch of you.

His hands shifted almost instinctively, sliding to your waist, one resting there firmly, the other ghosting up toward your lower back, gripping lightly, as if he could anchor you in place—anchor himself, too. The pressure wasn’t demanding, but it was deliberate, grounding, like he couldn’t bear even a millimeter of distance.

You could feel that he wasn’t really precise—sometimes his angle was off, sometimes his timing was messy—but it didn’t matter. There was a confidence in the way he went for it, a raw instinct that made it impossible not to lean in. His lips pressed against yours, soft and urgent at the same time, and the subtle tilt of his head, the way his body molded to yours, made it feel like he was memorizing every inch of you without even thinking.

His chest pressed against yours, warmth radiating through the hoodie, and even the brush of his thigh against yours made your stomach flip. His hands stayed firm on your waist, thumbs brushing lightly over your sides, grounding you both in the moment. Every imperfect press, every slightly clumsy slide of his lips only made it more electric, more alive—messy, sure, but entirely him.

He murmured your name, just above a whisper, voice rough and ragged, letting out a breath that rattled through him. “…I… God…” His words trailed off, swallowed by the wind, but you felt them in every shiver, every tight brush of his hands along your body.

You leaned closer without thinking, pressing your lips to his again, slow this time, testing, deepening, letting the world shrink to nothing. His hands tightened lightly on your waist, thumb brushing over your hip in a way that made your chest flip, fingers grazing the small of your back as if trying to memorize the way you felt pressed against him.

He let out a low, almost strangled sound into the kiss, lips parting slightly, teeth brushing yours in the briefest, teasing way, and you could feel the tension spike again—raw, unfiltered, entirely consuming. His forehead pressed to yours, hands still anchoring, and the slight tremble in his grip told you just how much he was feeling it, just how completely he was caught up in you, in this, in the impossibility of letting go.

Some part of your brain screamed at you to stop, to pull away before this got too tangled, before it became something more than just a stolen rooftop moment. You knew it wouldn’t last—he’d leave, or you would, or life would come crashing back in, messy and inevitable. It wasn’t practical. It wasn’t safe. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

But fuck it. None of that mattered. Not the caution, not the warnings, not the logic that usually kept you in check. Every press of his lips, every brush of his hand along your waist, every ragged breath against your skin made your chest tighten and your stomach flip, and you couldn’t, wouldn’t, pull away. This—this closeness, this heat, this impossible, fleeting intimacy—was too good, too addictive, and you let yourself sink into it, knowing full well that the world beyond the wall didn’t exist right now, and you didn’t care.

Whatever happened, happened, right? Right now, this was what you wanted to be doing. You wanted to forget that you were leaving your family next year, forget your stupid coworker and schoolwork. You didn't even think twice at the fact that he would be leaving, too.

The wind whipped around the rooftop, but it didn’t matter. The city lights below were blurred streaks, irrelevant. All that existed was the press of his body against yours, the heat of his hands, the brush of lips and teeth and tongues that left you breathless. Every whispered, ragged exhale, every tiny, unthinking movement—it all spelled the same thing: he couldn’t get enough of this, of you, of right here, right now.

You broke the kiss just long enough to catch a breath, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling, and in the dim glow of the city and the wind, it felt like you could stay pressed like this forever. He didn’t let go, didn’t pull back—hands still gripping, body still pressed, eyes dark and heavy on yours, and the quiet between you was more intimate, more electric, than anything either of you had ever felt.

“…You're insane,” Seonghyeon whispered, voice low, almost lost, “…I can’t—”

You pressed your lips to his again before he could finish, letting the kiss deepen, letting the rooftop, the night, and every single hesitation fall away. It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t frantic—it was slow, deliberate, consuming. Every brush of his lips, every press of his hard body, every small, grounding caress of his hands against your waist, spoke of how badly he wanted this touch from you, needed it, and how little he could stop himself from feeling it.

A siren began to go off on a street down below, but you barely noticed it—the feeling of his lips against yours, the way he kept mumbling low compliments that sounded more like confessions—it consumed you. You could feel him tremble slightly against you, lips and jaw moving over yours, whispering soft, rough praise in between kisses. “…I can't believe it… I swear… and… you’re so, so pretty… wow, you’re insane…”