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The dorm was still half-asleep when Juhoon opened his eyes.
6:47 a.m.
The digital clock on the nightstand glowed faintly red. Outside their shared room, the hallway was silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Juhoon lay on his side, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other stretched across the small gap between their beds.
Martin was still sleeping.
He always slept on his back when he was truly tired—arms flung wide, one long leg hanging off the edge of the mattress, mouth slightly open. The thin white blanket had slipped down to his waist sometime in the night, revealing the fitted black muscle tee he’d worn to bed. It clung to the broad lines of his chest and shoulders, rising and falling slowly with each breath.
Juhoon watched him for a long minute.
He didn’t move. He didn’t need to. Just looking was enough.
Martin’s hair dark, always a mess in the mornings—had fallen across his forehead. Juhoon’s fingers twitched with the urge to brush it away, but he stayed still. There would be time for that later. There was always time.
Eventually Martin stirred.
A soft hum left his throat, half yawn, half sigh. His eyes fluttered open—warm brown, still foggy with sleep—and landed immediately on Juhoon.
“Morning,” Martin mumbled, voice low and rough.
Juhoon gave the smallest nod. “Morning.”
Martin smiled, slow and sleepy, the kind that made the whole room feel warmer. He stretched his arms overhead, back arching slightly, blanket slipping even lower. Juhoon’s gaze followed the movement without shame.
“You’re staring,” Martin said, not bothered at all. He dropped his arms and rolled onto his side, facing Juhoon fully now. Their beds were close enough that their knees almost touched.
“You’re in my line of sight,” Juhoon answered, calm as ever.
Martin chuckled quietly. “Liar. You moved your pillow higher last week so you could see me better.”
Juhoon didn’t deny it. He just reached out—one smooth, unhurried motion—and brushed the stray hair from Martin’s forehead with two fingers.
Martin’s eyes softened. He didn’t pull away. He never did.
Down the hall, a door creaked open. James’s voice drifted through, groggy and complaining about someone using all the hot water again. Footsteps shuffled. The dorm was waking up.
Juhoon withdrew his hand slowly, letting his fingertips trail along Martin’s temple for an extra second.
“Get up before Keonho steals your hoodie again,” he said.
Martin groaned dramatically but sat up, rubbing his face. “He already did. I saw it on his chair last night.”
Juhoon was already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stood, stretched once—shorter than Martin by a good fifteen centimeters, but steady, grounded—and walked to the dresser they shared.
He pulled out Martin’s favorite gray hoodie, the soft one with the slightly frayed sleeves, and tossed it onto Martin’s bed without a word.
Martin caught it, smiling again. “Thanks.”
Juhoon just nodded and headed for the door.
He paused in the doorway, glanced back.
Martin was pulling the hoodie over his head, broad shoulders flexing, hair even messier now. He looked up, caught Juhoon watching again, and gave him that same warm, trusting smile.
Juhoon’s chest did something quiet and familiar.
He stepped into the hallway, leaving the door open just enough.
Kitchen, 7:20 a.m.
The kitchen smelled like coffee and slightly burnt toast.
Keonho was perched on the counter, legs swinging, wearing Martin’s stolen hoodie like it was made for him. Seonghyeon leaned against the fridge, scrolling on his phone. James was wrestling with the espresso machine, muttering curses under his breath.
“Morning,” Martin said as he walked in, voice still soft from sleep.
Three heads turned at once.
“Look who finally decided to join the living,” Keonho teased immediately, hopping down. “Hyung, you take forever. I thought Juhoon hyung was gonna have to carry you out.”
Martin laughed, ruffling Keonho’s hair as he passed. “You’re wearing my hoodie again.”
“It looks better on me,” Keonho said, spinning once for effect.
Seonghyeon snorted without looking up. “It’s swimming on you.”
James finally got the machine to cooperate and turned with a triumphant grin. “Martin-ah, coffee? Black, two sugars?”
“Yes, please.”
Juhoon was already at the stove, cracking eggs into a pan with quiet precision. He didn’t say anything, but when Martin moved toward the table, Juhoon reached out without looking and gently steered him by the elbow toward the chair at the head.
Martin sat without protest. He always did what Juhoon guided him to do, small things like this, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Keonho noticed—of course he did—and smirked.
“Juhoon hyung’s in full caretaker mode already,” he sing-songed, sliding into the chair next to Martin. “Did you tuck him in last night too?”
Juhoon flipped an egg. “Someone has to make sure he doesn’t roll off the bed.”
Martin’s ears went pink. “I haven’t done that since trainee days.”
“Last month,” Juhoon corrected calmly.
Seonghyeon laughed quietly. James handed Martin his coffee, patting his shoulder.
“Our leader needs his beauty sleep,” James said. “And his personal bodyguard.”
Martin took a sip, hiding his smile behind the mug.
Juhoon set a plate in front of him first—two eggs, toast cut diagonally, a small pile of fruit he knew Martin liked. Then he made plates for the others.
No one commented on the order. They never did anymore.
Keonho leaned over, trying to steal a piece of strawberry from Martin’s plate.
Martin swatted his hand lightly. “Get your own.”
“But yours tastes better when Juhoon hyung makes it for you,” Keonho whined.
Juhoon sat down across from Martin, finally taking his own plate. His knee brushed Martin’s under the table—deliberate, brief, claiming.
Martin didn’t move away.
He just looked across the table, met Juhoon’s eyes, and smiled softly again.
The morning carried on like that—easy, warm, full of quiet glances and small touches no one else quite understood but everyone accepted.
Practice Room, 2:47 p.m.
The mirrors reflected five bodies moving in perfect sync, then breaking apart into laughter and groans when the music cut.
They’d been at it for four hours straight. The choreography for the new title track was sharp, demanding—lots of level changes, quick footwork, and a center part that put Martin front and center for almost thirty seconds of intricate isolation.
Martin nailed it every time, of course. That effortless center aura—tall frame commanding the room without trying, movements fluid and powerful yet somehow gentle. When he hit the final pose, arms wide, head tilted just so, the rest of the members instinctively applauded.
Keonho flopped onto the floor dramatically. “Hyung, how do you make it look so easy? I look like a malfunctioning robot next to you.”
Martin laughed, breath still a little heavy, and offered a hand to pull Keonho up. “You’re doing great. Your timing on the second eight was perfect this round.”
Seonghyeon grabbed a water bottle and tossed another to Martin, who caught it one-handed. “He’s just built different,” Seonghyeon said with a grin. “190 cm of pure charisma.”
James leaned against the mirror, wiping sweat from his neck. “And zero spatial awareness off-stage. Remember when he walked into the glass door at the broadcasting station?”
The room erupted in teasing laughter. Martin covered his face with one large hand, ears turning pink again. “That was one time.”
“Three times,” Juhoon corrected quietly from the corner.
He was sitting on the bench against the wall, legs stretched out, towel draped over his shoulders. He hadn’t said much during practice—he rarely did—but his eyes had tracked every movement Martin made. Every time Martin landed a jump, every time he rolled his shoulders to loosen them, every time he smiled at the members’ feedback.
Martin glanced over now, meeting Juhoon’s steady gaze. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
Juhoon lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I am.”
The way he said it—low, calm, matter-of-fact—made something warm settle in Martin’s chest.
Their manager poked his head in. “Twenty-minute break, then vocal run-through in the studio next door.”
The members scattered: Keonho and James headed for the vending machine, Seonghyeon started stretching against the barre.
Martin walked straight to Juhoon.
He didn’t ask. He just lowered himself to sit on the floor in front of the bench, back leaning against Juhoon’s shins. It was something he did without thinking now—seeking out Juhoon’s quiet presence like it was the most natural place to rest.
Juhoon didn’t hesitate. He shifted forward slightly, letting his knees frame Martin’s broad shoulders, and reached down. His hands settled lightly on Martin’s neck, thumbs pressing slow circles into the tight muscles there.
Martin let his head fall back against Juhoon’s thigh with a soft sigh. “You always know exactly where it hurts.”
Juhoon hummed, fingers working steadily. “You favor your left side when you do the body roll. Puts strain here.” He pressed a spot just below Martin’s hairline.
Martin closed his eyes. The room’s chatter faded into background noise.
Keonho returned with drinks and paused in the doorway, spotting them. A mischievous grin spread across his face.
“Aw, look at our leader getting pampered,” he called out, loud enough for the others to hear. “Juhoon hyung, can I book a slot next?”
Juhoon didn’t stop massaging. He didn’t even look up. “No.”
James snorted from across the room. “Cold, Juhoon. So cold.”
Martin opened one eye, smiling lazily. “He’s booked full-time.”
The members laughed again, used to it by now—the way Juhoon never shared Martin’s attention when it came to these quiet moments.
Juhoon’s hands slid forward, fingertips brushing along Martin’s jaw for a second before returning to his shoulders. A silent claim. A silent answer.
Martin didn’t move away. He just let his head rest heavier against Juhoon’s leg, trusting completely.
Late Evening, Dorm Living Room, 11:18 p.m.
Practice had run long. Vocal corrections, choreography tweaks, a quick interview recording. They’d grabbed dinner on the way home—simple takeout eaten in the van.
Now the dorm was quiet again. Lights dimmed, most members already showered and in their rooms.
Martin was sprawled on the couch, long legs hanging over one armrest, head in Juhoon’s lap.
He’d showered last, hair still slightly damp, wearing an oversized white t-shirt and soft gray sweatpants. The TV played a random variety show on low volume—nobody was really watching.
Juhoon sat upright, one arm along the back of the couch, the other resting lightly on Martin’s chest. His thumb traced slow, absent patterns over the fabric, just above Martin’s heart.
Martin’s eyes were half-closed, content. Every so often he’d make a small sound—a soft hum—when Juhoon’s fingers moved in a way he particularly liked.
Seonghyeon shuffled in from the kitchen with a glass of water, spotted them, and smiled to himself before heading to his room without a word.
The front door clicked as Keonho came back from throwing out trash. He paused, took in the scene, and whispered, “You two are disgustingly cute,” before disappearing down the hall.
Martin chuckled quietly. “They’re never going to stop teasing.”
Juhoon’s hand stilled for a moment. Then resumed, slower. “Let them.”
Martin turned his head slightly, looking up. Juhoon’s face was calm as always—sharp features softened by the warm lamp light, eyes steady.
“You don’t mind?” Martin asked softly.
Juhoon shook his head once. “They know you’re mine to take care of.”
The words were quiet, nonchalant, like stating the weather.
Martin’s breath caught just a little. His hand came up, fingers curling gently around Juhoon’s wrist—not pulling away, just holding.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I am.”
Juhoon’s gaze dropped to meet his. For a long moment, neither moved.
Then Juhoon leaned down slowly—unhurried, giving Martin every chance to shift if he wanted.
He didn’t.
Juhoon’s lips brushed Martin’s forehead first, lingering. Then the bridge of his nose. Then, finally, his mouth—soft, warm, deliberate. Not rushed. Not demanding. Just present.
Martin’s eyes fluttered closed. His free hand lifted to cup the back of Juhoon’s neck, keeping him close.
The kiss deepened gradually—slow, exploratory, like they had all the time in the world. Juhoon’s hand on Martin’s chest pressed a little firmer, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath.
When they parted, it was only far enough for Juhoon to rest his forehead against Martin’s.
Martin smiled, small and fond. “Been waiting for that all day.”
Juhoon hummed, thumb stroking Martin’s cheek. “I know.”
Martin laughed softly, the sound warm in the quiet room. “Of course you did.”
Juhoon kissed him again—briefer this time, but no less tender—before straightening just enough to let Martin settle back comfortably.
The TV droned on. The dorm stayed peaceful.
Martin’s eyes closed fully now, breathing evening out.
Juhoon stayed exactly where he was—watching over him, hand still resting protectively over his heart.
There was no hurry. There never needed to be.
Not with them.
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Next Night, Their Room, 1:12 a.m.
The dorm had gone completely silent.
Keonho’s light snores drifted faintly through the wall. The hallway night-light cast a thin strip of amber under the door. Everything else was dark and still.
Martin lay on his side in bed, facing the wall, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other resting loosely over the blanket. He wasn’t asleep yet—his breathing was too even, too aware.
Juhoon knew the difference.
He’d showered second-to-last, hair still a little damp at the ends. He wore loose black shorts and nothing else. The room was warm enough.
He didn’t turn on the lamp.
Instead, he moved quietly across the floor, lifted the edge of Martin’s blanket, and slid into the bed behind him.
Martin didn’t startle. He never did. He just shifted back slightly, making space the way he always did—like his body already knew Juhoon belonged there.
Juhoon settled in close.
One arm slipped under Martin’s neck. The other slid over his waist, palm spreading flat against the warm skin just beneath the hem of Martin’s t-shirt. He pulled Martin back until their bodies aligned—chest to spine, hips to hips, thighs to thighs.
Martin let out a slow breath. “Thought you were asleep.”
“Not yet,” Juhoon murmured against the back of his neck.
His voice was low, calm, but there was an edge to it tonight—quiet command woven into every syllable.
Martin hummed softly, content. He covered Juhoon’s hand on his stomach with his own larger one, fingers threading loosely. “Long day.”
Juhoon’s lips brushed the nape of Martin’s neck—barely a kiss, more a claim. “You did well.”
Martin smiled into his pillow. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
Juhoon’s hand moved slowly—thumb tracing lazy circles over Martin’s abdomen, then sliding just under the waistband of his sweatpants, not lower, just resting there. Possessive. Warm. Undeniable.
Martin’s breath hitched, but he didn’t tense. He relaxed further into Juhoon’s hold, trusting, pliant.
Juhoon pressed another kiss to the spot just below Martin’s ear. Then another, slightly firmer. His teeth grazed the skin lightly—testing, tasting.
Martin made a small sound, half sigh, half laugh. “Tickles.”
Juhoon didn’t smile, but his voice softened just a fraction. “Stay still.”
It wasn’t a request.
Martin stilled immediately. His hand tightened slightly over Juhoon’s, but he didn’t pull away. He never did.
Juhoon rewarded him with a slow, deliberate kiss to the curve where neck met shoulder. Then another. His hand on Martin’s stomach pressed firmer, fingers splayed wide, holding him in place.
“You were too close to Keonho during the last run-through,” Juhoon said quietly, lips moving against Martin’s skin.
Martin blinked slowly, still half-drowsy, oblivious to the shift in tone. “Was I? He just fixed my arm placement.”
Juhoon’s grip tightened—just enough to be felt. “I saw.”
Martin chuckled softly, carefree as always. “You watch everything.”
“Yes,” Juhoon answered simply. “I do.”
He shifted then—rolling his hips forward once, slow and deliberate, letting Martin feel exactly how much he’d been watching. How much he always noticed.
Martin’s eyes widened slightly. A soft flush crept up his neck. “Oh.”
Juhoon’s mouth returned to his neck, kissing a slow path upward. “You’re mine to watch,” he murmured. “Mine to fix. Mine to touch.”
Martin swallowed, but his voice stayed light, trusting. “Yeah. Always have been.”
He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like he hadn’t just handed over complete control without realizing it.
Juhoon’s hand slid up under Martin’s shirt now—slow, unhurried—palm gliding over warm skin, tracing the line of his ribs, stopping just below his chest.
“Turn over,” Juhoon said quietly.
Martin obeyed without hesitation—rolling onto his back, then slightly toward Juhoon again, looking up at him in the dim light. His eyes were soft, open, completely unguarded.
Juhoon leaned over him now, one arm braced beside Martin’s head, the other still resting possessively on his waist.
He studied Martin’s face for a long moment—taking in the faint flush, the parted lips, the way Martin’s hair fell across his forehead.
Then he leaned down and kissed him.
Not soft this time.
Deeper. Slower. Commanding.
His tongue slid against Martin’s, guiding, claiming. His hand moved up to cup Martin’s jaw, thumb pressing lightly into the hinge, holding him exactly where he wanted.
Martin melted into it—letting out a quiet, helpless sound, fingers curling into the sheets. He didn’t try to take control. He never did. He just opened for Juhoon, trusting him to lead.
Juhoon kissed him until Martin was breathing harder, until his large frame was shifting restlessly beneath him.
Only then did Juhoon pull back—just far enough to speak against his lips.
“Stay quiet,” he whispered. “Don’t wake the others.”
Martin nodded, eyes dark and dazed. “Okay.”
Juhoon kissed him again—rewarding the obedience.
His hand slid back down, under the shirt, over skin, mapping every inch like he was memorizing it all over again.
Martin arched slightly into the touch, but stayed silent, just like he’d been told.
Juhoon’s lips curved—barely a smile, but there.
Good boy.
They stayed like that for a long time—kissing slow and deep, hands wandering but never rushing, Juhoon guiding every movement, every breath.
Eventually, Martin’s eyes started to droop again, exhaustion winning over arousal.
Juhoon felt it—the way Martin’s body grew heavier, more pliant.
He eased back, pressing one last gentle kiss to Martin’s swollen lips.
“Sleep,” he said quietly.
Martin hummed, already drifting. “You too.”
Juhoon settled down beside him again, pulling Martin close—arm locked firmly around his waist, leg draped over his, holding him in place.
Martin was asleep within minutes, breathing deep and even, completely surrounded.
Juhoon stayed awake a little longer.
Just watching.
Just holding.
Just making sure.
Because Martin was his.
And Juhoon took care of what was his.
Always.
....