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BANGCHAN: Your mouth is still parted, your fingers still curled in his shirt, and then your lashes flutter wrong. Your breathing stutters. A tear slips sideways into your hairline before you even realize it’s there. 

Chan goes pale. 

He pulls back so fast he nearly tangles himself in the sheets. “Baby-- wait— hey, hey, hey—” His hands hover around your face like he’s defusing something fragile. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you? I didn’t hurt you, right? Tell me I didn’t hurt you.” 

His voice is soft but frantic, breath warm against your cheeks as he cups your face. His thumbs swipe under your eyes immediately, clumsy and urgent, catching tears as they fall like he can physically prevent them from existing. 

You try to shake your head, embarrassed, but that only makes him lean closer. 

“Okay, okay. It’s okay. We’re stopping. We stopped. I’m not touching you anymore— unless you want me to— do you want me to? No, wait. Water. Do you need water? I can get water. Or tissues. Or both. Or—” 

“Chan,” you whisper, half laughing through it. 

He freezes. Searches your face. His brows knit so tight they almost meet. 

“Talk to me,” he says, softer now. “Please.” 

Your chest aches at how serious he looks. Like this matters more than anything. Like you crying in this moment has genuinely shaken him. Well, that's because it has. Work stress barely equates to a quarter of the stress he’s feeling at this moment in time. 

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” you admit. “It just… happened.” 

Immediately he exhales and his shoulders drop by 5 inches, but his hands don’t. They slide down to cradle your jaw properly this time, steady and warm. 

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay. That’s okay. Sometimes feelings just overflow. Don’t worry about it baby. I know these things can be overwhelming. I understand.” 

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes closing briefly, grounding himself against you. You can feel his pulse through his skin. It’s still racing. 

“I need you to know something,” he murmurs, voice low and trembling in that earnest way he gets when he’s trying very hard to say the right thing. “Nothing you do in this space is wrong. You don’t have to be composed. You don’t have to be sexy. You don’t have to hold it together.” 

Another tear slips free. He catches it immediately. 

“You can fall apart on me,” he whispers. 

The way he says it makes your stomach flip. 

He kisses the corner of your eye. Then your temple. Then your cheek. Soft, reverent, like he’s apologizing to your skin for ever making it feel overwhelmed. 

“Did I move too fast?” he asks again, quieter. “Tell me if I did. I can go slower. I can stop completely. I just— I need you okay.” 

You reach for him then, hooking your fingers in his shirt again, pulling him closer. 

“I’m okay,” you promise. 

He studies you for another long second, scanning for cracks. Then he nods decisively. 

“Good. Good. Because I—” His voice falters and he laughs at himself, a little breathless. “You scared me.” 

He rocks you slightly without realizing he’s doing it. 

“You’re safe,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” 

He keeps whispering little check-ins every few minutes. “Still okay?” “Breathing good?” “Tell me if you need a break.” 

It should feel excessive. 

Instead, it feels like being held by someone who would dismantle himself before letting you feel alone. That’s the truth anyways. 

LEEKNOW: He has the instincts of a cat and an owl combined. One second your toes are clenched, the next your eyes are shut, tears flowing.  

“Why??” He blurts, voice sharp, eyes wide. 

You blink at him, startled, trying to shake your head, and he doesn’t even wait to process it. His hands shoot up, cupping your face, thumbs brushing under your eyes. “Why are you crying? Did I do something? Tell me why??” 

You stammer something like, “I don’t know…” 

“That’s not a good enough answer,” he says, eyes narrowing, and for a second you can’t stop laughing. Because wow. He’s genuinely offended by your tears. He leans in, forehead pressing to yours, still holding your face, and whispers, “You can’t just cry like that and not tell me why??” 

You hiccup a laugh, wiping at your own cheek, and he huffs, exasperated, muttering, “Unbelievable… unbelievable.” But then he pulls you into his chest with zero subtlety, squishing you against him. His chin rests on your head and his arms tighten instinctively. “You better tell me why. Or else. I’ll never forgive you.” 

And when you laugh again, watery and helpless, he mutters under his breath, half-angry, half-relieved, “You're a poop.” and smothers you in the hug, pressing little kisses into your hair, letting you cry against him while whispering, “I just… I just want to fix it…” 

CHANGBIN: The second he notices, he can’t contain it. He lets out a startled “Huh?? What?? Hey! What's happening? What's wrong???” and immediately his hands are on your shoulders, tugging you closer before you can even move.  

You blink at him, sniffing and embarrassed, and he huffs through his nose, hooting softly. “Nuh-uh. No. Nada. Nope. Mm mm. No thanks. No crying. Don't cry. Please.” 

His hands move to your jaw, obnoxiously squishing your cheeks in that way that’s almost aggressive but somehow tender, and he’s muttering rapid-fire, “Hey hey hey, don’t cry, don’t cry, it’s okay, I’m here. I’m sorry, please don't cry.” He pauses only long enough to peek at your eyes, then lets out a small, ridiculous chuckle at how pitiful you look, but it’s soft, filled with affection.  

“Who did this to you? I’ll fight them. Is it Seo Changbin? Oh, that bloody bastard, I’ll kill him.” He whispers sweetly in your ear, rubbing soothing circles along the curve of your back. 

You manage a small laugh and a shake of the head, and he tightens the hug even more, ridiculous and overwhelming, nuzzling your hair. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere. Ever.” 

HYUNJIN: He notices the moment your breath catches, like someone flicked a switch inside you. His expression changes instantly to that sharp, startled look he has when he’s been spun around and asked a question he didn’t expect. 

“Y/N.” His voice is softer than before, but there’s this pressure in it — like he’s trying to hold himself together for you. His actions are slow, careful, and his eyes drop to your face, where the tears have started, small and trembling. 

He doesn’t touch you right away. He doesn’t reach out like someone sure of themselves. He reaches out like someone afraid of doing it wrong, but desperate to try. One hand lifts, hovering by your cheek, then comes down to brush your hair back gently, almost reluctantly, like he’s steadying himself as much as he is you. 

“Why…” he murmurs, eyes searching yours, voice trembling just a little, “what’s this about?” He pauses, and honestly, you can hear how sincere it is. Like he’s just trying to understand you with his whole heart. 

When you shake your head, embarrassed and unable to explain, his breath catches, just slightly. His rescue instinct kicks in. He wraps both arms around you in a tight and secure hold. His chest presses to your back, and his head tilts down, close enough that you can feel his breath on your hair. 

“It’s okay,” he whispers against your shoulder, voice twice as soft as you expected, like he’s convincing you more than comforting you. His fingers trace slow, uncertain circles on your side, careful and wide. “Talk to me… whatever you feel. I’m here.” 

He doesn’t make jokes. Not silly ones. Not forced lines. His empathy is too big for that — his concern too raw. Instead, he murmurs small, flustered reassurances, quieter than a shout, but so filled with warmth that you can feel it right behind every word. 

“I’m right here,” he murmurs again, breath low against your neck. “You’re not alone. Not for a second.” 

HAN: He sees it and freezes MID-MOAN, eyes huge. “What? What? Oh gosh, huh??” he gasps, hands flying up, voice cracking as he stumbles forward. “Wait, wait—did I—did I do something? Are you okay?!” 

Before you can answer, he’s right in front of you, leaning down, eyebrows high, lips parting and mumbling, muttering, swearing softly under his breath. “Oh my god, oh my god, no, no, no—hey, hey, hey—” His hands reach for your shoulders, then your arms, pulling you into him so tightly you can't breathe for a moment. 

His voice drops a little, quieter now, desperate and gentle. “Tell me what’s wrong… please… I’ll fix it.” 

You hiccup a laugh through your tears and his expression morphs once again; blinking, wide-eyed, muttering, “Wait… you’re laughing? Are you laughing at me? Don’t laugh at me!… oh no, that’s fine actually, good, okay. Forget what I said. Laugh at me.” He squeezes the hug tighter, presses quick kisses to your temple, hair, cheek, murmuring nonstop, “I just… I just need you to be okay. I can’t—don’t cry… please. Or I'll cry. You know I cry when you cry.” 

He rocks you slightly, humming under his breath, ridiculous little words of affection tumbling out, flustered and earnest. “I’m right here. Always. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Even after the tears start to slow, he keeps you pressed to him, chest against yours, fingers tracing slow circles along your back. Every so often, he mutters a startled, soft, “Still okay? Are you okay?” like he needs reassurance as much as you do. In truth, he does. Or else he’ll start bawling. 

FELIX: He doesn’t react right away. 

He just looks at you. 

His eyes move slowly over your face, taking in the shine in your eyes, the way your mouth presses together, the quiet tremble in your breathing. He doesn’t rush it. He lets the moment settle so he can understand what you need. 

Then he steps closer. 

One hand comes up to your jaw, thumb resting just beneath your ear. He tilts your face toward him, slow and careful, giving you time to pull away if you want to. You don’t. 

He leans in and kisses you. Soft. Barely there. His lips linger, and when he pulls back, he stays close enough that his mouth brushes yours when he speaks. 

“It’s okay,” he whispers against your lips. 

His voice is calm, smooth, that low rasp he uses when he’s trying to ground someone — but there’s a slight lift at the end of his words. Just enough to show he’s nervous. Just enough to show he cares. 

He doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t ask what happened. He just rests his forehead against yours and lets his hand slide to the back of your neck, thumb tracing slow circles. 

“Breathe with me,” he murmurs quietly. “Slow. In… and out.” 

He matches your breathing, steady and deliberate, brushing his nose lightly against yours when you falter. Another small kiss. This time to the corner of your mouth. 

“I’ve got you,” he says softly. “We’ll sit here until it passes. You don’t have to explain anything.” 

His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against him. Not tight. Just secure. His chin rests gently on top of your head, and he sways slightly, subtle enough that you almost don’t notice. 

And he stays exactly like that until your breathing evens out. 

SEUNGMIN: He notices, but he doesn’t point it out immediately. 

His eyes narrow just slightly as he watches you blink too fast, the way your mouth tightens like you’re trying to hold it together. He tilts his head. 

“You’re about to cry,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone. It isn’t mockery, rather an observation.  

When your eyes well up anyway, he exhales through his nose, almost like he was hoping he’d be wrong. He steps closer, hands hovering for half a second before settling carefully on your arms. 

“Hey,” he says softer. “Come here.” 

He slowly pulls you in against his chest, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. His thumb smooths over your hair slowly, repetitive, grounding. He doesn’t rush to fill the silence. 

You sniff, embarrassed, and he gives the smallest huff of a laugh. Out of fondness. 

“Why are you trying to act strong right now?” He murmurs near your temple. “You don’t have to.” 

His grip tightens just a little. Secure. Certain. 

He pulls back enough to look at you properly, and there’s something almost shy in the way he studies your face. His lips curve into that soft smile he gets when he thinks you’re precious but doesn’t want to say it outright. 

“You look cute when your all upset,” he says quietly. “But I’d rather you not cry about it.” 

He brushes his thumb under your eye, careful, then leans forward and presses a small, quick kiss to your forehead. 

"Just breathe."

JEONGIN: You don’t notice he’s watching you until he gently nudges your knee with his. Just enough to get your attention. 

“Come here,” he says directly. 

When you look up at him and your eyes are already glassy, something shifts in his expression. It’s subtle. His brows pull together slightly. His lips press thin. 

He opens his arms. 

He’s not usually the first one to initiate skinship, not without teasing first, but this time he doesn’t hesitate. The hug is firm, immediate. One arm around your shoulders, the other around your waist, pulling you in so close your cheek presses against his chest. 

He doesn’t speak right away. 

His hand rubs up and down your back slowly, steady pressure. Grounding. He rests his cheek against the top of your head and lets out a quiet breath. 

“You’re okay,” he says after a moment. Not a question. More of a statement. A reassurance. 

When your fingers clutch at his back, he adjusts his grip, tighter now. Protective in a way that feels natural on him. His palm spreads across your back, holding you there. 

“Don’t think about anything else right now,” he soothes “Just stay.” 

His voice is even and calming. He doesn’t talk too much either, doesn’t try to overcomplicate things. He just wants you to know that he’s there for you. 

After a while, he shifts enough to look down at you, brushing his knuckles lightly against your cheek. His mouth softens into a small smile, dimples deepening into his cheeks. 

“I’m here,” he says quietly. “Don’t worry about a thing.”