Chapter Text
The silence in the lower unit was frequently interrupted by the same few seconds of audio looping on Geonwoo's laptop. The director’s voice, sharp and unforgiving, cut through the quiet like a blade.
“Your face is too calculated, Geonwoo-ssi. We don't want the perfect idol. You are too stiff. I need genuine, consuming desire, or you won't work for this role.”
The words echoed even after the clip ended. Geonwoo stared at the frozen frame of himself on the screen — beautiful, poised, a mannequin trying to mimic reckless affection.
Geonwoo dragged his hands through his hair, leaving it a mess. His stomach twisted with frustration.
Leo, the leader, stepped out of his room, instantly sensing the tension.
“Still struggling with that scene?” Leo asked, his voice low with concern, the kind that made Geonwoo feel both comforted and exposed.
Geonwoo nodded, pointing at the screen.
“I know the lines perfectly, Hyung. But every time I execute it, the director says I look like I’m waiting for a camera cue. Like I’m posing. They said I need to look reckless, desperate, like I'm breaking a major rule just by touching my partner." His voice cracked a little. "I can't find that feeling.”
Arno, leaning back on the couch, looked up from his tablet. He had the calm presence of someone who was always observing everything.
“The only thing you're reckless about is your schedule, Geonwoo,” Arno observed, his tone gentle but honest.
“You’re too good at self-control. That kind of passion requires letting go of everything. You never let go.”
The comment wasn’t meant to wound, but it did.
Geonwoo lowered his gaze, pressing his thumb into the corner of his eye as if he could force the frustration back inside.
They weren’t wrong. His entire life had been about control, discipline, image, never stepping over a line. Now he was being told he needed to destroy that barrier to succeed.
He closed the laptop with a quiet click.
He knew exactly who could break through that instinct — even if the thought scared him.
Hours crawled by.
He tried practicing again.
Tried watching tutorials.
Tried lying in bed and breathing through the anxiety until it dulled.
Nothing changed.
Only one name kept circling his thoughts, tightening the knot in his chest each time.
Xinlong.
Not because Xinlong was convenient.
Because Xinlong made him feel something dangerous — something unperformable.
The back-and-forth, the teasing, the jokes. The way they had a mutual understanding neither had ever openly acknowledged. All that joking, all that playful tension—it had always been real but carefully buried under humor to avoid friction within the group.
He tried to tell himself it was only about the acting. But the knot in his chest said otherwise.
He waited until 1:30 AM, the dorm was silent. Everyone asleep. The restlessness inside Geonwoo had tipped into panic. Without letting himself think too long, he slipped out of bed, grabbed his hoodie, and quietly keyed in the passcode for Unit 2.
The door clicked open with a soft beep.
Geonwoo padded down the hallway until he reached Xinlong’s room.
Geonwoo found Xinlong in his room, sitting on his bed scrolling through his phone, the dim blue light reflecting off his cheekbones. Anxin, his roommate, was sound asleep.
Xinlong glanced up instantly, sensing movement, and his expression changed the moment he saw Geonwoo’s face. Concern replaced his relaxed posture. He slipped out of the room, pulling the door almost shut behind him.
“Geonwoo hyung? You look like you haven't slept in three days. What happened?” Xinlong asked, his voice calm and immediately supportive.
“It’s about the drama. I have a major problem,” Geonwoo whispered, his tone urgent.
Xinlong automatically assumed the role of the problem-solver, the dependable trait that always made Geonwoo feel both safe and guilty.
“Okay, come on. We can grab a water in the kitchen but keep your voice down. What’s the line that’s tripping you up? Sometimes just reading it differently helps.”
“It’s not the line, Xinlong,” Geonwoo insisted, following him down the hall. “It’s the whole scene. I need to talk where we won’t be heard.”
Something in his tone must've tipped Xinlong off, this wasn’t about memorization or blocking.
He nodded and wordlessly led Geonwoo down the hall into the laundry room, securing the thick door.
The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, exposing everything too clearly. The room smelled faintly of detergent and warm cotton. It felt like a confession booth no one was meant to enter at this hour.
“Right. Now, what is the line? I’ll read it with you,” Xinlong offered, leaning against the washing machine, ready to exchange dialogue.
Geonwoo shook his head, running a desperate hand over his face. He scrubbed a hand down his face, unable to look at Xinlong straight on.
“It's not about the lines." His breath came out uneven.
"It’s about the execution of the... kiss. I have to look desperate. The director said I’m too calculated.”
Xinlong frowned, confusion replacing concern.
“Calculated? Geonwoo hyung, you’re one of the best visuals in the group. You know how to look romantic. Just look at the actress the way you look at a camera.”
“No.” Geonwoo stepped back, shaking his head harder.
“It’s not about looking romantic. It’s about looking like I’m going to ruin my life just for one touch. Like I’m risking everything. I don’t know how to access that. I’ve never been that person. I’ve always been too careful.”
He forced himself to meet Xinlong’s eyes.
“I need to feel what it’s like when everything is forbidden but you still take it.”
The room fell completely silent.
Xinlong stared at him. The conversation had just shifted from acting technique to a dangerous, intimate proposal. The confusion fading, replaced by something heavier. Something that understood exactly what Geonwoo was saying without the words being spoken.
“Hyung, you know what you’re asking for, right?” Xinlong whispered, his heart pounding.
“This is beyond lines. This isn’t acting advice. This is… extreme method acting." His throat bobbed as he swallowed.
"And if Anxin or Junseo hyung find out, we're dead. Why me?”
Geonwoo took a hesitant step closer, closing the distance. He didn’t touch him, didn’t dare, but the energy shifted between them like a current.
“Because you’re the only person I trust not to judge me," he said softly.
"But also the only person who makes me feel that dangerous friction."
Another breath.
The truth was spilling now, unstoppable.
"If I can get a genuine, reckless reaction from you, I know I’ll get the performance right. I know I’ll understand the emotion. I need the truth of the moment, Xinlong. I am desperate.”
Xinlong inhaled sharply, as if the words hit him physically.
He looked away, fighting something in himself.
When he finally looked back at Geonwoo, his eyes were raw.
Xinlong saw the frantic, genuine fear of professional failure in Geonwoo’s eyes.
He pushed down the wave of intense hope that Geonwoo was seeking him out for more than just a role. He would take the risk.
He told himself he was helping.
Helping a friend.
Helping a member.
Helping someone in crisis.
Not indulging his own feelings.
“Fine,” Xinlong agreed, his voice rough. “But you listen to my rules. We stay silent. I’m giving you the execution, hyung. Don’t misunderstand.”
“Clear,” Geonwoo confirmed, relief flooded Geonwoo’s face so intensely it made Xinlong look away again, as if the sincerity burned.
Geonwoo’s breath came fast and uneven. Xinlong stood in front of him, still and waiting, his chest rising with restrained anxiety. The light of the laundry room, bright enough to make every emotion too visible, too raw.
The silence between them stretched thin.
Geonwoo moved first, but with an awkward, stiff hesitation. His hands rose to Xinlong’s face as though he had to fight through invisible resistance. His palms hovered for a second before cupping Xinlong’s jaw, tentative and unsure. He pressed his lips to Xinlong’s... a dry, careful peck, barely contact, instantly pulled back as if he’d touched something hot.
“Too calculated,” Geonwoo hissed in frustration, whispering fiercely. “See? I’m still posing.”
His shoulders tensed. He hated how true it was.
Xinlong shook his head, his hands remaining at his sides, deliberately forcing Geonwoo to learn the emotion on his own.
“You said the character is desperate. Desperation doesn't ask for permission. You’re waiting for my cue.”
Geonwoo’s eyes flashed with a sudden, a sudden competitive spark cutting through the humiliation. He internalized Xinlong’s instruction, the word echoing in his head like a command: Desperation.
Geonwoo attacked the second kiss, his hand shooting out to grab Xinlong's shirt, pulling him in with a force that surprised even him. The abruptness knocked the breath from Xinlong’s throat.
Xinlong finally reacted, arms locking around Geonwoo’s waist, returning the kiss with intense, controlled pressure, grounding them both. The moment turned messy and consuming, their breaths mingling in the hot, recycled air of the room.
But still... still... Geonwoo felt the stiffness in himself, the invisible dam of control refusing to break.
Xinlong seemed to feel it too.
Xinlong broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Geonwoo’s, both of them panting, the charged silence vibrating between their mouths.
Geonwoo’s thoughts raced.
If it’s forbidden, I have to ruin the control. I have to take it. I have to stop thinking.
The moment felt like standing at a cliff’s edge. He either leaped, or failed.
So Geonwoo initiated the final escalation.
He pushed Xinlong hard against the stacked dryer, the thud against the metal a loud, dangerous sound in the silent unit. Xinlong gasped, more from shock than pain—his eyes widening in unguarded vulnerability.
Geonwoo used that moment.
He tore at Xinlong’s shirt.
He captured Xinlong’s mouth again, forcing the kiss deeper and rougher.
Xinlong’s mind raced with confusion, with hope, with disbelief trying to justify itself.
He initiated everything. He wants this.
It was too much.
It was everything Xinlong had tried not to imagine.
Xinlong let go of his own controls, pouring his true, desperate aching affection into the embrace, finally accepting the dangerous intimacy. He matched Geonwoo’s intensity, his touch finally unfiltered, bordering on possessive. He took control only when necessary, keeping their movements silent, keeping the moment contained, even as it spiraled far beyond what either had intended.
The scene escalated into silent passion.
Xinlong gave Geonwoo the raw, uncontrolled desperation he’d been unable to access alone.
Driving the intimacy until Geonwoo tensed against his hand, his body shuddering against Xinlong’s grip, reaching a violent, silent climax that was fueled by the perfect, fear, thrill, and adrenaline of nearly being caught.
When it was over, Geonwoo collapsed against him, his breath harsh and uneven. His forehead pressed to Xinlong’s shoulder, his entire frame trembling with the intensity of the moment.
Xinlong held him for a heartbeat too long, trying to memorize the weight, the warmth, the illusion.
But then Geonwoo pulled away.
Slowly, deliberately, he straightened his clothes, reassembling himself piece by piece. His expression changed with each adjustment, from raw to thoughtful, then to something Xinlong recognized too well:
Professional clarity.
The triumph of an actor who had finally unlocked the emotional core of a role.
Xinlong stayed pressed against the cold dryer, his body heavy and aching, his breathing still ragged, felt his own heartbeat slow painfully, like something inside him was shutting down.
“Xinlong,” Geonwoo whispered, his voice ringing with immense relief and professional satisfaction. “I got it. I have the feeling. The urgency, the control mixed with the desperation—it all worked. Thank you.”
Geonwoo moved to clap Xinlong's shoulder, a gesture of casual, appreciative friendship.
But Xinlong flinched, pulling his shoulder back just slightly, avoiding the contact.
Geonwoo froze. His hand lingered in midair. His expression flickered with confusion at the unexpected resistance, just for a second.
Xinlong met his gaze with eyes gone dark and unreadable. Wounded, and flat. “Good. Get some sleep, hyung. You have an early call time.” His voice was flat. Empty in a way Xinlong had never sounded before.
The shift was brutal.
It's like,
From intimate to distant.
From lover to stranger.
Geonwoo’s face tightened. He looked down at the floor, accepting the sudden dismissal without understanding the cause. “Right. Thank you. We don’t talk about this.”
“No,” Xinlong confirmed, his voice barely audible. “We won’t...”
His tone left no space for misunderstanding.
Geonwoo, still buzzing from the adrenaline of the successful "practice," quietly slipped out of the laundry room, his footsteps soft as he exited the unit.
The moment the door closed, the silence crushed Xinlong’s chest.
What had felt thrilling minutes ago now felt punishing.
Xinlong remained, his body heavy, the pain of being used for professional gain crushing him.
Every touch Geonwoo had initiated replayed in his mind—not as validation, but as a cruel reminder of how easily his heart had been taken, used, and discarded.
Eventually, Xinlong forced his legs to move. He walked back to his room, stepping carefully over the sleeping Anxin.
The silence of the unit, which moments ago had felt thrilling, now felt like lonely expanse of betrayal.
Xinlong was still shaken, weeks after that.
Every night, lying in the dark while Anxin slept beside him, the scene wouldn’t leave him. The silence of the dorm, the heat of Geonwoo’s desperation, the illusion that it meant something.
He hadn’t just felt used.
He felt complicit.
He consented. He knew Geonwoo was focused on the job. Why did he allow himself to hope?
Xinlong had known, deep down, that his suppressed feelings for Geonwoo, the years of quiet support, the intense, unspoken chemistry were dangerous. When Geonwoo had initiated the final, desperate escalation, Xinlong hadn't been thinking about Geonwoo's career; he had been thinking, This is it. This is the moment he finally reaches for me.
Now, that hope felt disgusting.
He had taken Geonwoo’s vulnerability and projected his own longing into it.
I was selfish. I used his crisis as an excuse to open a door I should’ve kept shut.
This internal conflict, the guilt over his own selfishness battling the sharp pain of being a "tool" was what fueled his absolute withdrawal. He couldn't face Geonwoo, because facing him meant facing the truth of his own pathetic hope.
This guilt became the anchor for his withdrawal.
★★★
The day after the successful shoot, Geonwoo came back glowing, he absolutely nailed Scene 43, channeling the fear and aggressive desperation he had accessed during the "practice." The director was ecstatic, and he finally felt the immense weight of the drama lifted.
For the first time in days, he felt light.
He came back to the dorm late that evening, eager to see the group, specifically Xinlong. Not for anything dramatic, just… a casual, knowing nod, a shared secret gesture of success. Something only the two of them would understand.
He found Xinlong in the Unit 2 kitchen, making tea while Anxin sat at the counter.
“Hey, Xinlong,” Geonwoo greeted, his voice easy and bright. “Guess what? We wrapped Scene 43 today. Director loved it. Said it was exactly the raw energy he needed.”
Xinlong’s hand tightened around the handle of the kettle, his shoulders going stiff.
Geonwoo's tone of professional satisfaction. Xinlong focused on pouring the hot water, his movements overly precise.
His triumph was a blade.
A reminder that Xinlong had been the instrument, not the partner.
Xinlong forced out the most neutral response he could. “That’s good news, Geonwoo hyung. Congratulations.” He deliberately avoided eye contact, looking only at the steam rising from the cup.
Anxin, however, helped fill the silence. “That’s amazing! You were so stressed about that. Xinlong told me you two stayed up late talking about character motivation.”
Geonwoo looked at Xinlong, a slight confusion clouding his smile. “We did. Xinlong has good insights."
The words were casual.
Too casual.
And Xinlong hated the casual dismissal—the way their secret moment had been reduced to “insights.”
He pushed the finished teacup toward Anxin, his hands trembling slightly.
“I’m heading up,” Xinlong said, his voice flat. He needed to escape. “Anxin, remind me about the vocal drill schedule tomorrow.”
"Sure,” Anxin replied, confused by the abruptness.
Xinlong walked past Geonwoo without acknowledging him further. Geonwoo’s presence felt like a physical accusation:
You gave me what I needed, and now I’m successful. Thank you for your service.
★★★
At first, Geonwoo didn’t take the coldness seriously.
Xinlong could be quiet after long days. Could withdraw when stressed. Could be hard to read.
So Geonwoo told himself:
It’s nothing.
He’s tired.
He’s focused.
It’s comeback season.
But the next morning, Xinlong avoided him again.
And then again.
And again.
Xinlong’s coldness became a pattern. His evasion was not passive, but it was a deliberate, complex strategy designed to protect himself from his own weak hope and the pain of Geonwoo’s presence.
At first, Geonwoo chalked it up to coincidence.
Many days later, coincidence was impossible
During dance review, Geonwoo reached out to adjust spacing just like always—and Xinlong moved back so smoothly it looked choreographed.
But it wasn’t.
For the first time, Geonwoo felt a flicker of unease.
Later, in the dorm hallway, he greeted Xinlong with a warm, “Good work today,”
but Xinlong brushed past him with a polite, “You too, hyung.”
No smile.
No warmth.
No tension.
Nothing.
A clean cut.
That’s when something cold settled in Geonwoo’s stomach.
During Practice
Xinlong maintained physical distance, keeping every interaction professional and minimal. If Geonwoo’s hands came close during choreography, Xinlong would subtly shift, preventing any accidental touch. If Geonwoo offered him water or a towel, Xinlong would say "Thank you," but always focused on the air beside Geonwoo's ear.In the Dorm
Xinlong developed an uncanny ability to know when Geonwoo was in the common areas. If Geonwoo entered Unit 2, he retreated to his room, relying on Anxin, his fiercely protective roommate, as a physical barrier. Anxin, sensing Xinlong’s stress, usually just accepted his withdrawal, attributing it to comeback pressure.
Geonwoo watched it all with growing confusion.
He did what he always did when confused:
He rationalized.
He’s just busy.
Comeback stress.
He needs space.
He’s tired.
But the excuses started sounding weak, even to himself.
And Xinlong?
Xinlong often sat alone, agonizing over his actions.
Was I selfish? Yes.
Did I mislead him by pouring my real feelings into the scene? Yes.
Did I betray him as a friend? Absolutely.
I should have told him no. I should have been the supportive friend he expected, not the desperate fool who saw a chance.
The confusing mixture of guilt and pain was overwhelming. He felt like he was suffocating, and the only remedy was absolute, cold separation.
Geonwoo initially brushed off Xinlong's coldness as professional focus, but the persistence of the silence began to gnaw at him.
Leo and Sangwon, the two members most invested in group harmony were the first to voice concern during a group stretching session.
“You two are weirding me out,” Sangwon commented, stretching his arm across his chest. “The atmosphere is so tense. Did you have a fight? It’s not your usual energy, it’s just… empty.”
Geonwoo defensively mumbled, “No fight. Just busy.”
“What’s up with you and Xinlong?” Leo asked Geonwoo
Geonwoo tried to laugh it off. “Nothing. He’s just super focused on the comeback. His parts are challenging.”
But even as he said the words, he felt the hollowness of the lie.
Because Xinlong wasn’t just “focused.”
He was gone.
Geonwoo started actively missing the tension—the silent understanding, the intense eye contact they used to share. Now, Xinlong looked straight through him.
Junseo, Arno, and the younger members, whispered about the "weird vibes."
“Maybe Geonwoo-hyung finally annoyed Xinlong-hyung too much Hahahaha,” Sanghyeon speculated to Junseo.
Junseo, the oldest, shook his head. “Xinlong doesn’t get annoyed. He gets quiet. And this is loud quiet. Something happened.” whispered among themselves.
The whispers hit Geonwoo harder than expected.
Geonwoo began staying up late, staring at the ceiling, replaying every interaction.
Had he done something wrong?
Had he said something off?
Had he forgotten something important?
He told himself Xinlong would return to normal.
But each morning, Xinlong was colder.
More distant.
More precise.
More untouchable.
And Geonwoo’s denial finally began to crumble.
Late one night, Sanghyeon, Geonwoo’s perceptive roommate, found Geonwoo staring blankly at the ceiling in their room.
“Hyung, you seem fine on set, but here you look miserable,” Sanghyeon said gently. “It’s about Xinlong-hyung, isn’t it?”
Geonwoo turned his face to the wall. “I messed something up with him. I relied on him for something important, and now he treats me like a stranger. It’s like I don’t exist. I don’t know why, but I can’t stand this. The silence is crushing me.” His voice cracked.
Geonwoo’s words finally revealed the core of his pain. He had realized that the feeling of desperation he had needed to act—the fear of a life without that forbidden connection—was now a reality.
Saying it aloud made something inside him fracture.
Why did the silence hurt so much?
Why did Xinlong’s distance make his chest ache?
Why did he miss the tension?
Why—why did it feel like losing something irreplaceable?
The thoughts spiraled for hours after Sanghyeon fell asleep.
And slowly, painfully,
realization bloomed in the dark:
He didn’t miss Xinlong’s advice.
He didn’t miss Xinlong as a colleague, as a member.
He didn’t miss Xinlong as a friend.
He missed the electricity.
He missed the gravity.
He missed him.
All of him.
And now, the laundry room memory replayed again and again—not the physicality, but Xinlong’s expression.
Raw.
Open.
Bare.
Geonwoo finally admitted the truth he had buried for years:
He didn’t touch Xinlong that night because of acting.
He touched him because he wanted to.
Because he’d always wanted to.
Because the only person who made him feel real desperation was Xinlong.
The drama had only been a shield.
A permission slip.
A coward’s excuse.
And now Xinlong’s silence was forcing him to face every cowardly choice he’d made.
Every borrowed moment he’d called “professional.”
Every genuine feeling he’d labeled “method.”
It hit him like a punch to the gut.
He hadn’t been acting.
He had been confessing through actions he refused to name.
And now, Xinlong's absence was forcing him to face the genuine love he had suppressed for years.
And now—
he might have ruined everything.
Geonwoo spent the next few days in a fog, the successful drama scenes feeling meaningless against the backdrop of Xinlong’s cold indifference. Even the satisfaction of having nailed Scene 43 seemed muted, almost meaningless. The adrenaline that had once lifted him now drained away.
He found himself replaying that night in the laundry room over and over, the quiet words: “Don’t misunderstand.”
It wasn’t a warning, he realized slowly, painfully. It had been a plea—Xinlong trying to protect himself from hope, from desire he couldn’t afford to indulge. Geonwoo’s chest tightened at the thought.
Geonwoo’s mind began to unravel in fragments.
Was it all my fault?
Did I really push too far?
Did I take something I had no right to take?
Night after night, the thoughts circled.
One evening, Geonwoo found himself alone in Unit 1, sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed he shared with Sanghyeon.
“Sanghyeon,” Geonwoo whispered, his voice thick with raw emotion. “It was worse than I said. The thing I needed Xinlong for… it was the execution of the scene. And he helped me.”
Sanghyeon sat up, immediately sensing the seriousness of the confession. “Helped you how, Hyung?”
Geonwoo couldn't meet his eyes. “It was… physical. Intimate. I initiated everything, telling him I needed to feel the desperation of a forbidden touch to make the scene real. I was so convinced it was just practice for the camera.” His throat tightened.
Geonwoo swallowed hard, the shame and pain catching in his throat. “But I wasn't practicing. I was finally letting myself feel what I’ve been hiding from him and myself for years. And then I walked away, thanked him, and called the most intimate moment of my life a successful execution.”
Tears welled in Geonwoo’s eyes, a rare and devastating sight.
Sanghyeon remained silent, patient, grounding.
“He didn't pull away when I was aggressive. He gave me everything—his true vulnerability, his care, his presence—and I betrayed it all by focusing only on the performance. I feel like he’s avoiding me because he feels violated, and I let him believe my only motivation was professional gain.”
Geonwoo rested his head against the wall, the cool surface a slight comfort. “I need him, Sanghyeon. Not for the acting. For real. And I think I’ve lost him forever because I was too much of a coward to admit it.”
Sanghyeon listened, his expression somber. He simply reached out and placed a hand on Geonwoo's shoulder.
“Then you need to tell him all of this, Hyung. You can’t just let him think he was used as a footnote in your career.”
The truth landed like a weight, heavy but clarifying. Geonwoo nodded, heart hammering. He knew he couldn’t continue in the fog, couldn’t pretend the silence was harmless.
★★★
Geonwoo knew he had to break through the protective barrier that Xinlong had built—a barrier made of polite silence, strict boundaries, and Anxin as a buffer.
He needed the right timing. Before the group fully woke or began rehearsals, when only shadows moved through the dorm. Junseo and Sangwon were either in the kitchen or already gone.
He waited outside the door of Unit 2, His fingers hovered over his phone before he typed:
Laundry Room. Now. Don’t bring Anxin.
He hit send. Heart pounding, stomach twisting. This was it. The wall Xinlong had built would either crumble—or remain unyielding.
Xinlong, seeing the demand, felt a wave of cold dread mixed with a faint, foolish flicker of hope. He immediately pushed down the hope, letting the dread and guilt take over. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
He wants something else for the drama. He needs another reference. Another rehearsal.
Xinlong slipped out of his room, avoiding Anxin's sleeping form, and found Geonwoo waiting in the hallway.
“Hyung, what is this?” Xinlong demanded, keeping his voice dangerously low. He didn’t wait for an answer, pulling Geonwoo by the arm straight into the laundry room, securing the lock. He needed the privacy to deliver his final, cold rejection.
“I told you, I’m busy. Whatever it is, I can’t help you right now,” Xinlong stated, his voice flat, leaning back against the dryer, arms crossed—a defensive, closed-off posture. “If this is about the drama, the answer is no. I’m not doing that again.”
Geonwoo ignored the harshness, focusing only on the hurt in Xinlong’s eyes.
“It’s not about the drama, Xinlong. It’s about why you’re suddenly treating me like a stranger. It’s about us.”
Xinlong flinched, the word us hitting him hard. He let his guilt fuel his anger.
“There is no ‘us,’ hyung. There never was. You made that perfectly clear when you called me a successful execution and walked away feeling relieved. I get it. I served my purpose. You needed recklessness, and I was reckless enough to believe you wanted me for something more than a scene description.”
Xinlong pushed off the dryer, taking a step toward Geonwoo, his eyes blazing with pain.
“I’m the one who should be avoiding you! I was selfish enough to consent, knowing my feelings were real, hoping your initiation was a confession. And I hate myself for using your moment of professional crisis as an excuse for my own release. I feel guilty, Geonwoo hyung! I betrayed you as a friend because I was too desperate. I am trying to keep my distance, so I don’t hurt myself—or you—again.”
Geonwoo’s chest heaved as Xinlong’s words hit him like a storm. For a moment, Geonwoo couldn’t respond. He just stared at Xinlong, seeing the raw honesty, the frustration, the shame, the hurt—a mirror of everything he had tried to hide from himself.
“Stop,” Geonwoo said, his voice shaking. “You were not selfish. You were not selfish. I… I was the selfish one.”
Geonwoo closed the distance between them, ignoring Xinlong’s involuntary step back.
“I didn’t come here to ask for anything for my job. I came here to confess what I was too cowardly to admit that night. I didn’t know how to access real passion because the only person who makes me feel that way is you, and I was terrified of ruining the group dynamic, terrified of ruining what we have by acknowledging it.”
Geonwoo reached out, gently placing his hands on Xinlong’s tense arms.
“I initiated everything that night because I feel like I needed an excuse. I used the drama as a shield, Xinlong. I hid behind the script because I didn’t have the guts to tell you I want you. When you walked away from me, the pain I felt was real. It was the deepest desperation I’ve ever known—not for the scene, but for you. You made me realize the difference between acting and reality.”
Tears streamed down his cheeks, uncontrolled, and he didn’t try to hide them. The mask he wore for months, the polished perfection of a performer, shattered completely.
Xinlong’s closed-off posture finally crumbled. He saw the genuine, agonizing vulnerability—the same raw emotion he had poured into their 'practice.' He saw the truth.
“Hyung…” Xinlong whispered, his voice cracking. He reached up, his fingers brushing the tears on Geonwoo’s cheek. “You’re not acting right now.”
“No,” Geonwoo confirmed, his voice ragged.
Xinlong finally let his own facade drop. The guilt melted away, posture finally collapsed, his arms dropping from defensiveness. The guilt, the fear, the self-imposed barrier melted into relief. He reached forward, wrapping Geonwoo in a tight embrace, holding him as if letting go of him would mean losing everything.
They stayed like that, pressed together in the sound of the laundry room machines, the silence around them deep but safe. The world outside could wait. Here, in this small room, everything unspoken—the longing, the fear, the frustration, the desire—was acknowledged without words.
Their hands lingered, fingers finding each other, seeking reassurance. The air between them was heavy with the secrets they had hidden for years, but for the first time, those secrets no longer felt isolating. They were shared, messy, complicated, and utterly real.
★★★
A few days passed after the confession in the laundry room. Xinlong was no longer avoiding Geonwoo. Every glance, every tap on the shoulder, and every conversation laced with hidden meaning returned, but now, it carried no fear or pretense. Only a promise.
One night, while everyone was resting, their eyes met again. Geonwoo signaled to him. The place?
The laundry room.
“So…” Geonwoo began, leaning casually against the wall, eyes sparkling with teasing danger. “You know… after weeks of avoiding me, I think I’ve officially reached desperate, even stronger now than it was that night when I needed it for Scene 43.”
Xinlong raised an eyebrow, though the hint of a smile tugged at his lips despite himself. “Desperate?”
“Yes,” Geonwoo said, mock-solemn, placing a hand dramatically over his chest. “For… your approval. For guidance. For… um…” He paused, voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “The exact same thing we practiced in this room last time.”
Geonwoo’s smile widened. He walked slowly toward Xinlong until he reached his arm.
“I'm such a great actor, right?” Geonwoo asked teasingly, his voice soft and full of pride. “Because of your avoidance, I felt the genuine fear of losing you. The scene became reality: the desperation of a man wanting to take the forbidden. I really learned the forbidden touch because of you.”
Xinlong shook his head, but he couldn't stop smiling. "Is that how you're going to woo me? By reminding me that I was your acting coach during the most personal moment of our lives?"
Geonwoo quickly squeezed his arm. “No. I mean, that was intense acting. But look at us now.” He held Xinlong's cheek, the movement more confident, softer than the first time.
“I’m desperate to kiss you right now, Xinlong. Only this time? There's no confusion and no guilt afterward.”
Xinlong pulled Geonwoo's hand down and kissed his palm. “Don't wait any longer. We need to reclaim all the moments we wasted pretending.”
This time, Xinlong was the one who leaned in and kissed Geonwoo. It wasn't rushed, it wasn't the reckless kiss of testing, but a deep, sweet kiss. It was the kiss of two people who had waited too long to allow themselves to love each other.
They gazed at each other, breathless, their eyes speaking thousands of promises. They kissed again, longer and more intensely, yet remaining soft and careful, focused on giving the comfort and acceptance they had long denied themselves.
The intensity of the moment meant both their shirts had been discarded somewhere between the washing machine and the dryer. A light, rhythmic thud started coming from the wall behind Geonwoo—the sound of their bodies slowly moving and bumping against the old metal of the dryer. They paid it no mind, entirely consumed by one another.
But unknown to them, in the silence of the dorm, the rhythmic thud and the muffled sounds of their activity had become loud and terrifying.
Sangwon woke up to the strange noise. He checked the time: 3:00 AM. He frowned.
“Junseo hyung… wake up,” Sangwon whispered, “Do you hear that? It sounds like scratching on the wall… and heavy, wet thuds.”
Junseo woke up, his eyes wide with fear.
“It sounds like the old machine is trying to eat something! Or maybe… something is eating something else”
They quickly headed to where Anxin also emerged. Anxin saw Junseo and Sangwon looking pale outside his room.
“What’s happening? It sounds like a monster in the laundry room,” Anxin whispered, clutching his blanket. “I thought Xinlongie just went to the bathroom, but the door is locked and there’s no light in there. Did he go to the laundry room?”
Junseo slowly approached the laundry room door. He paused. He heard another muffled groan, and then a loud BANG as Xinlong’s foot accidentally kicked the metal basin.
“That’s definitely not a machine error,” Junseo said, “Someone's possessed”
Inside, Geonwoo and Xinlong heard the loud voices outside. They broke apart instantly, their panic skyrocketing. They were both bare-chested and breathing heavily.
“Oh no, they think it’s a ghost!” Xinlong hissed, grabbing his shirt from the floor.
“We have to buy time! Get dressed!” Geonwoo whispered back frantically, scrambling to pull on his own loose pajama top. He shouted toward the door
“It’s fine! It’s the dryer! I’m fixing it! It’s making a really strange noise, I swear!”
Junseo shouted back “Stop lying! The dryer only makes that noise when it’s eating a sock! What is it eating now? A limb? Open the door!”
“No! I can’t! I’m inside the machine! I mean, I’m repairing the drum! It’s very dangerous! You’ll get electrocuted!” Geonwoo yelled, trying to button his shirt with shaky fingers.
“Why are you repairing a dryer at 3 AM with all that heavy breathing?” Sangwon shouted, his voice full of suspicion, though he was trying to hide a laugh. “Are you performing exorcism?”
“And wait, Geonwoo?!! Your room is in Unit 1!” Junseo shouted, his voice now laced with knowing laughter instead of fear. “Why are you here in the Unit 2 laundry room at three in the morning helping fix an appliance when you have your own dryer?”
Xinlong, having thrown his shirt on, reached for the lock.
“Don’t open it yet! Let me fix my hair!” Geonwoo begged, running a frantic hand through his messy hair.
Junseo shouted again
“We are breaking the door! Get away from the hinges, monster!”
Xinlong threw the door open, his face serious and expressionless, holding a bottle of fabric softener like a shield.
“What? You guys are going to wake up the whole floor,” Xinlong said, trying to steady his breath and appear calm. “I was just washing a blanket, and the old dryer made a huge noise.”
Geonwoo stepped out, fully dressed but sweaty, leaning on the wall. He quickly moved to Xinlong's side.
“Xinlong asked me to help! He didn’t know how to deal with the electrical panel in this old thing, and I’m a pro at fixing things!"
Sangwon snickered, earning a sharp look from Junseo.
“A pro at fixing things. Sure, Geonwoo. You’re also a pro at sleeping until noon. Since when you volunteer for high-voltage repair work in the middle of the night—in the wrong unit?”
Anxin’s eyes immediately narrowed on Xinlong's face.
“Xinlongie, what happened to your lip? It’s bleeding! Did the dryer attack you?!”
Xinlong quickly touched his lip, wincing slightly. Geonwoo's face tightened, trying desperately to look innocent.
“M-My stomach just hurts,” Geonwoo interjected, realizing his previous "fixing the dryer" excuse was useless. “I fell earlier because I slipped on the detergent, that's why there was a thud! I won't be doing laundry for now,” he forced a nervous laugh.
Anxin whipped his head toward Geonwoo, pointing an accusatory finger. “Geonwoo hyung! Did you bite my best friend?! You can't just chew on your teammates, monster!”
Junseo, Sangwon, and Xinlong stared at Anxin, a sudden burst of stifled laughter threatening to expose them all.
“I—I bit my own tongue! While fixing the dryer! I got startled by the shock!” Xinlong lied, his voice high-pitched with panic.
The three stared at them with a mix of fear, confusion, and now, extreme suspicion and amusement.
“And why was there whispering and heavy breathing?” Sangwon asked, a mischievous grin finally breaking through his confusion.
“Sounds like you were having a very intimate conversation with the dryer, or maybe Geonwoo were giving you mouth-to-mouth after the shock?”
“Noooo, i fell that's why there's a heavy breathing” Geonwoo desperately clutched at the new excuse.
Junseo finally shook his head.
“Fine. Let's go back to sleep. But if I see any more mysterious bruises, or hear any more aggressive laundry being done, I'm calling Leo and telling him his star actor is having an affair with the dryer. You two are definitely up to something.”
As the three left, Geonwoo leaned back against the wall, almost collapsing on the floor from laughter. Xinlong’s face was beet-red from the panic and amusement, touching his lip.
“I can’t believe I said I was inside the machine,” Geonwoo choked out.
“And I said I bit my tongue while fixing it!” Xinlong retorted. “That was the most dramatic minutes of my life!”
Geonwoo pulled Xinlong close, their laughter shaking their bodies.
Xinlong tried to compose himself, but his eyes suddenly fixated on Geonwoo’s front.
"Hyung, why are the buttons on your shirt mismatched? It looks like a drunk person got dressed. Look, the stitching is all wrong."
Geonwoo looked down at his shirt. His eyes widened as he saw the collar and the completely misaligned buttons. He then looked down at the dark blue sweatpants he was wearing.
"These aren't my pajamas." Geonwoo said, "I grabbed them from the laundry basket! And I buttoned the shirt wrong because I was rushing!"
Xinlong's laughter died instantly. He looked down at his own lower half. He felt a sudden, cold rush of air near his thigh. He quickly checked the gray sweatpants he’d thrown on.
“Hyung,” Xinlong whispered, his voice trembling with mortification. “These aren't my pajamas either. And there's a huge rip right here in the center...”
“So that’s why they were holding in their laughter,” Geonwoo whispered, eyes growing wider with every detail he recalled.
“You had a bleeding lip, a gigantic rip in the crotch of the pants, while holding the fabric softener like a weapon. And my shirt—my shirt—looked like I got into a fistfight. And we told them—” Geonwoo choked, “—that we were just fixing the dryer.”
Xinlong buried his entire face in his hands, shoulders shaking.
“Oh my god. No wonder Junseo-hyung thought there was a monster eating someone.”
Geonwoo grabbed his arm urgently.
“We need to get out of here before anyone processes what they just saw. If Anxin connects the dots, I’ll be known forever as the Hyung Who Ripped His Dongsaeng’s Pants.”
Xinlong snorted. “That’s already too specific. They’re absolutely going to spread that.”
“Nope. We run.” Geonwoo gestured dramatically toward the hallway.
“Go! Back to your room! I have to sneak into mine and pretend I’ve been asleep for hours. If anyone asks, I’ve never even seen a laundry room.”
They split instantly, sprinting in opposite directions—two fully grown idols moving with the panicked energy of teenagers caught making trouble past curfew.
Behind them, the laundry room sat silent, the faint scent of fabric softener lingering in the air like evidence of a crime… or a secret that the dorm definitely wasn’t going to forget anytime soon.
It wasn’t until Geonwoo slipped back into his room, collapsing against the bed, that the full realization hit him: he had already told Sanghyeon about the “practice” for the kissing scene.
And now… if Junseo, Anxin, and Sangwon heard even a fraction of what had just gone down—and knowing Sanghyeon’s inability to hold back laughter—he was soooo doomed.
The secret was supposed to stay locked in the laundry room. But thanks to his own confession to Sanghyeon? It was only a matter of time before the dorm would be buzzing with the story.