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The air was heavy with laughter and the sound of crickets. The SEVENTEEN boys were sprawled across the wooden deck of their rented villa, the ocean breeze tugging gently at their hair. Someone had pulled out a deck of cards, and somehow “one round of Mafia” had turned into five.
“Seungkwan, you’re too good at lying,” Minghao groaned, tossing a cushion at him.
Seungkwan doubled over, laughter spilling out of him in waves. He tossed his head down, hand clutching his stomach, then flipped his hair back and looked up again, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. The string lights above them caught in his hair like little stars.
Across the circle, Vernon froze mid-smile. His gaze softened in that quiet way that was only ever reserved for Seungkwan, like the world had suddenly gone quiet for him.
And Seokmin did notice. He always did.
His own laugh faltered, just slightly. He followed Vernon’s line of sight, his heart giving that familiar ache he'd been experiencing for a while, gentle, resigned. Seungkwan’s laughter had always been his favorite sound, but it wasn’t meant for him anymore. Maybe it never was.
So Seokmin smiled, because that’s what he did. He smiled for the people he loved, even when love didn’t look back. “Okay, okay,” Seungkwan wheezed, still grinning. “One more round! This time, I swear I’m not the Mafia.”
Vernon’s lips curled into that quiet, fond smirk. Seokmin laughed with everyone else, the sound blending into the night, hiding the hurt beneath the warmth.
The laughter carried on around the campfire, a blend of teasing voices and Seungkwan’s signature high-pitched giggle. The sky had deepened into that shade of indigo that made the stars look closer than they really were.
Seokmin pushed himself up slowly, brushing off his jeans. “Gonna head to bed,” he murmured to no one in particular, but nobody really noticed. That was fine. He didn’t want them to.
The villa was quieter inside, the faint hum of the air conditioning filling the space where laughter used to be. He passed the living room, the dim light from the kitchen pooling onto the floor. He didn’t stop. By the time he reached the room he shared with Mingyu, the lump in his throat was impossible to swallow down. He sank onto his bed, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. The first sob escaped before he could stop it. But once it started, it wouldn’t stop.
The door clicked open a few minutes later.
“Seok?” Mingyu’s voice was soft, uncertain at first. He stepped in, the light from the hallway cutting across the floor and catching the curve of Seokmin’s shoulder. “Hey… you okay?”
No answer. Just the sound of muffled sobs.
Mingyu closed the door quietly behind him, the room falling back into shadow. He crossed the small space in a few strides and knelt down beside the bed.
“Seokmin-ah,” he tried again, his voice breaking with worry. His hand hovered in the air for a moment before resting gently on Seokmin’s back. Seokmin didn’t look up. His shoulders trembled under Mingyu’s touch.
“I’m fine,” he whispered, though his voice cracked halfway through.
Mingyu’s chest tightened. He knew that tone, the one that tried to sound strong but only came out shattered. He'd seen Seokmin like this multiple times, and every time it broke his heart.
“You’re not,” Mingyu said softly.
He slid onto the bed beside him, hesitating before wrapping an arm around Seokmin’s shoulders.
“You don’t have to be, you know.”
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The room was quiet except for the sound of Seokmin’s uneven breathing and the faint rhythm of the ocean outside. Mingyu just held him, his own heart aching for the truth he couldn’t say out loud.
He wanted to tell him I know it hurts.
He wanted to say I love you too.
But instead, he just whispered, “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
And for a moment, Seokmin let himself believe it.
The next morning, the world felt hushed. The sky was streaked with pale gold and lavender, the kind of dawn that made everything look softer, gentler.
Seokmin sat on the edge of the wooden dock, legs dangling just above the water, fishing rod propped loosely in his hands. Beside him, Jeonghan yawned, his hair tied up messily, an oversized hoodie swallowing his frame. The only sounds were the gentle lap of water and the faint cries of distant seabirds.
“You’re surprisingly awake,” Jeonghan murmured, casting his line lazily.
Seokmin chuckled under his breath. “Couldn’t sleep much.”
Jeonghan didn’t press, he always knew. He had a way of sitting in silence that made people talk without realizing they wanted to. They stayed like that for a while, the morning air cool and calm.
Then Jeonghan spoke, voice soft but steady. “You know,” he began, eyes fixed on the rippling water, “Mingyu really cares about you.”
Seokmin blinked, caught off guard. “Huh?”
Jeonghan smiled faintly, as if he’d expected that reaction. “Last night, when he came back out after checking on you, he looked worried. Like, really worried. He’s always had that soft spot for you.”
Seokmin looked down at the water, watching how the light shimmered across its surface. His chest tightened a little, remembering Mingyu’s arms around him, the quiet steadiness in his voice.
Jeonghan reeled his line in slowly. “You’ve always been the kind to take care of everyone else, Seokmin. You make sure everyone smiles, even when you’re breaking a little.” His gaze flicked over to Seokmin, gentle but knowing. “I just hope someday you’ll let someone take care of you too. Mingyu… he’d do that, you know.”
Seokmin swallowed, his fingers tightening around the fishing rod. The sunrise reflected in his eyes, and for a moment he didn’t know if the warmth on his face was from the sun or the sudden rush in his chest.
Jeonghan leaned back, stretching with a soft hum. “And maybe,” he added casually, “you could take care of him back just like he does for you.”
The words hung in the air, quiet but heavy with meaning.
Seokmin didn’t answer right away. He just watched the light dance on the water, heart whispering things he wasn’t ready to admit yet.
The day moved quietly after sunrise. Most of the others were still asleep when Seokmin came back from the dock. He padded softly through the villa, the scent of brewed coffee and salt in the air. Mingyu was already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from a shower.
“Morning,” Mingyu said, glancing up with a small grin. “You want eggs and toast?”
Seokmin blinked. “You’re cooking already?”
Mingyu shrugged, flipping something in the pan. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d make breakfast for everyone.”
Something about that simple sentence, the warmth in his tone, the easy domesticity of it that always was there between the two of them, lingered in Seokmin’s mind long after he sat down with his food.
Later, when the day got busier, when laughter returned and cameras came out, Seokmin found himself drifting into thought. Every time Mingyu laughed or reached out to fix his mic or passed him a bottle of water without being asked, something tugged at Seokmin’s chest that felt soft, steady and familiar.
He thought back to dance practices: Mingyu’s hand at his back when he stumbled during choreography, the quiet “You’re doing great, hyung” whispered when everyone else was too tired to speak. He remembered the concerts and the way Mingyu would always find him in the dark before going on stage, bumping shoulders with that boyish grin. “Let’s kill it, okay?”
He remembered nights they’d stayed up talking about nothing with Mingyu listening to his stories, nodding like every word was precious. He’d always thought of those moments as friendship. Safety. But now, in the slow light of morning after Jeonghan’s words, they felt different.
Because when he’d loved Seungkwan, or thought he had, it had been loud. Bright and consuming. It had hurt, like chasing sunlight with bare hands. He’d mistaken the ache for love.
But with Mingyu… it didn’t hurt. It felt warm. Grounded. The kind of love that didn’t demand to be seen but was always there.
He watched Mingyu across the yard, laughing with the others as they got ready for another match of foot volleyball. Mingyu caught his eye for a second and smiled. It wasn't the kind of smile meant for cameras or fans, but the quiet, soft one that reached his eyes.
And something inside Seokmin finally settled.
Maybe love wasn’t supposed to break you open.
Maybe it was supposed to hold you together.
The last night was still. The air smelled faintly of salt and smoke, the waves a soft whisper beneath the crackle of the fire. Everyone else had drifted off inside one by one, until only Mingyu remained, legs stretched out, a stick in hand, absently prodding at the glowing embers.
Seokmin watched from the edge of the porch for a moment before walking over, his footsteps light against the wooden boards. He sat down beside Mingyu, close enough to feel the heat from the flames but not quite touching.
Mingyu glanced over, smiling softly. “Can’t sleep either?”
Seokmin shook his head, eyes fixed on the flickering fire. “Didn’t really try.”
They sat in silence for a while. The kind that didn’t feel uncomfortable, just heavy with everything unsaid. The fire popped, sending tiny sparks into the night air.
Finally, Seokmin spoke. His voice was quiet, careful. “Jeonghan said something weird this morning.”
Mingyu hummed. “He always does.”
Seokmin chuckled softly before responding. “He said you… care about me a lot.”
Mingyu’s hand froze mid-motion. The stick slipped from his grasp, falling into the soil with a soft thud. “...He did?” he asked, trying to sound light, but his voice betrayed him sounding a little too tight, a little too unsure.
Seokmin turned his head, studying his face in the firelight. Mingyu’s expression was raw and open in a way he rarely let it be.
“Is he right?” Seokmin asked gently.
For a moment, the only sound was the surf. Mingyu let out a shaky breath, the flames painting gold across his jawline.
“Yeah,” he finally admitted, barely above a whisper. “He’s right.”
Seokmin’s heart twisted, not from shock, but from something deeper. Relief, maybe. Sadness. Hope. He looked down at his hands, the firelight flickering over his fingers.
“I think…” he began slowly, “for a long time, I was chasing the wrong kind of love. The kind that hurts because you think it’s supposed to. But lately… being around you doesn’t hurt.”
Mingyu’s breath caught. “Seokmin…”
Seokmin gave a small, trembling laugh. “I don’t know what this is yet. I don’t know what it could be. But maybe…” He looked up, meeting Mingyu’s gaze and really meeting it, the way you do when you’re ready to stop running. “Maybe I want to find out.”
The fire crackled between them, soft and bright. Mingyu leaned in closer bumping shoulders and smiled, a quiet, understanding kind of smile, the one that said I’ll wait.
“Then we’ll find out,” he murmured.
And under the quiet sweep of the stars, with the ocean humming its lullaby below, Seokmin let the warmth in his chest finally mean something new.