Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

2018.

The apartment is quiet, not empty so much as untouched, the kind of silence that belongs to places still waiting to learn the shape of the people who will live in them. The lock clicks, the door swings inward, and light spills in from the hallway along with voices that are too loud, too alive for the stillness inside.

Yeonjun is the first to step in, laughing under his breath as he adjusts the strap of his backpack and holds the door open. His eyes lift, then slowly sweep across the small entry lounge, taking in the shoe rack pressed neatly against the wall and the standing coat rack tucked into the corner. “Oh,” he says, dragging the word out thoughtfully. “This is… actually real.”

Chaos follows immediately behind him. Beomgyu and Soobin attempt to cross the threshold at the same time, both gripping the handle of the same suitcase, neither willing to yield an inch. The bag wedges itself sideways in the doorway as Beomgyu pulls back with a grunt. “Well, if you let go—”

“I was here first,” Soobin snaps, tightening his hold. “You’re the one who rushed.”

“I rushed because you were taking forever.”

“I was being careful.”

Their shoulders knock against the doorframe, the suitcase stubbornly refusing to move as Taehyun’s unimpressed voice cuts in from behind them, pointing out that they are, in fact, blocking the entrance. Hueningkai peers over his shoulder, eyes wide with curiosity as he takes in the scene. “Is this how we start living together?”

Yeonjun leans casually against the wall near the shoe rack, watching with open amusement. “It’s a good sign,” he says easily. “Means we’re already fighting like a family.”

“That’s not comforting,” Kai mutters.

Inside the doorway, Beomgyu tugs harder. “You’re tall. Just step over it.”

“I can’t step over a suitcase, Beomgyu.”

“You could if you tried.”

“I am trying.”

They glare at each other, close enough that neither seems to notice how little space the doorframe leaves between them. Yeonjun watches for a moment longer before speaking again, grin sharp. “If you break the door on day one, I’m making you pay for repairs.”

Soobin exhales through his nose. “I am not breaking anything.”

“That’s what people say right before they break something.”

Taehyun finally reaches forward, nudging the suitcase inward with his foot. “If you angle it and stop pulling in opposite directions, it will fit,” he says flatly.

There’s a brief pause before both of them adjust their grip, shift the angle just slightly, and watch as the suitcase slides inside with ease. They freeze, then slowly turn to look at Taehyun.

“…Don’t say anything,” Soobin warns.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You could’ve told us earlier,” Beomgyu complains as he lets go.

“You didn’t ask.”

Kai laughs quietly as he steps inside at last, his gaze already roaming the apartment. “It’s smaller than I imagined,” he says, clearly delighted. “But it’s kind of cozy.”

They all filter in, shoes coming off, bags dropped near the entrance as the living room opens up ahead of them. The couch is pushed up against one wall, a low table set in front of it, the space just large enough to hold all five of them if they don’t mind sitting close. 

Beomgyu spins slowly in place, gesturing broadly. “So this is where we collapse after practice. I call this spot.”

“You can’t call the entire room,” Soobin replies, already drifting toward the kitchen.

The kitchen sits neatly beside the living area, integrated into the space, its counters clean and cabinets empty. Soobin pauses there, resting his hand lightly against the counter as his eyes move over the room with quiet focus, as if he’s already planning what needs to be bought and what needs to be taken care of. Yeonjun notices but doesn’t comment, following the others instead as they head down the hallway.

Four doors line the corridor. The first on the right opens to reveal a bedroom that Taehyun claims immediately, Kai leaning over his shoulder with a grin before announcing dibs on a top bunk that does not exist. 

Across from it sits the bathroom, plain and functional, and beside it the room Beomgyu opens with an easy smile, already declaring it theirs as Soobin steps in after him without argument.

Beomgyu is the first to step fully into the room, suitcase abandoned near the door as he spreads his arms wide like he’s presenting something grand. “Welcome to our kingdom,” he announces, spinning once in place. 

The room isn’t large, but it’s bright, the window letting in enough light to soften the plain walls and make the space feel livable. Two single beds sit parallel to each other with just enough room between them for a narrow walkway, a shared dresser pressed against one wall and a desk tucked beneath the window.

“So dramatic,” Soobin says, following him in and immediately setting his bag down beside the bed closest to the door. He scans the room with a more practical eye, noting the outlets, the closet space, the way the light falls. “It’s fine. At least we won’t trip over each other.”

“That’s boring,” Beomgyu replies. “You’re supposed to say it’s perfect because you’re living with me.”

Taehyun slips past them next, hands in his pockets. “Statistically, sharing a room increases the likelihood of conflict,” he says calmly, glancing around. “But also cooperation. So this is either going to go very well or very badly.”

Kai’s eyes widen. “Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true.”

Yeonjun lingers near the doorway with the others as they crowd in, the room filling quickly with voices and movement. He watches Beomgyu flop dramatically onto one of the beds, bouncing once before groaning. “I’m calling this one,” Beomgyu declares. “Closest to the window. Best lighting.”

Soobin snorts. “You didn’t even check which side gets the morning sun.”

“I don’t need to. I can feel it.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Beomgyu says, propping himself up on his elbows and grinning, “you’re still rooming with me.”

“Soobin didn’t choose,” Yeonjun adds lightly, stepping further in. “Fate did.”

“See?” Beomgyu points at him. “Hyung gets it.”

Soobin shakes his head, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth as he opens the closet and peers inside. “We’re setting rules,” he says. “No loud phone calls late at night.”

“Rude,” Beomgyu replies immediately. “What if inspiration strikes?”

“At two in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Kai laughs from where he’s perched on the edge of the other bed, swinging his legs. “Can I sleep in here sometimes?”

“No,” Taehyun and Soobin say at the same time.

Beomgyu pauses. “Maybe.”

“No,” Soobin repeats, more firmly this time.

Yeonjun watches the exchange with quiet amusement, leaning back against the wall as the room buzzes with overlapping voices. Beomgyu rolls onto his side, kicking his feet slightly as he talks, while Soobin moves around him, already straightening the desk chair, nudging the bed into a better position. They move easily around each other, like they’ve done this a hundred times before, bickering without edge, comfortable in the shared space.

Beomgyu reaches out suddenly and grabs the hem of Soobin’s sleeve. “You’re already acting like this is your room.”

“It is my room,” Soobin replies without missing a beat. “I live here too.”

“Barely. You’ll be gone half the time doing leader things.”

“So you admit I’m important.”

“I admit you’re bossy.”

Yeonjun’s smile lingers as he watches them, his gaze following the way Beomgyu’s fingers curl briefly into the fabric of Soobin’s sleeve before letting go, the way Soobin pauses only for a fraction of a second before continuing what he was doing. His eyes stay on them longer than necessary, the sound of their voices blending into something warm and familiar, something that settles pleasantly in his chest without him quite understanding why.

No one notices.

Taehyun is too busy inspecting the outlets. Kai is poking at the mattress and declaring it “acceptable.” Beomgyu and Soobin are still arguing about desk space, voices overlapping as Beomgyu insists he needs more room for “creative chaos” and Soobin insists chaos is not a necessity.

“Just don’t touch my stuff,” Soobin says.

“Don’t touch mine first,” Beomgyu counters.

“That’s not how that works.”

Yeonjun finally pushes off the wall, clapping his hands once to draw their attention. “Alright,” he says, still smiling. “If you’re done fighting over imaginary problems, we still have the rest of the place to conquer.”

Beomgyu grins. “You’re just jealous you don’t get a roommate.”

“Trust me,” Yeonjun replies easily, “I’ll be grateful when you’re snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”

“You absolutely do.”

Soobin pauses, then adds, “He does.”

Beomgyu gasps, scandalized. “Traitor.”

The room dissolves into laughter again, the kind that comes easily, unforced, as they all stand there together, crowded and loud.

They leave Beomgyu and Soobin’s room still laughing, voices trailing down the hallway as they move toward the last door at the end. Yeonjun reaches it first, fingers curling around the handle with a brief pause that no one seems to notice, before he pushes the door open and steps aside to let the others in.

Beomgyu doesn’t even wait to look around.

The moment he crosses the threshold, he drops his bag and launches himself forward, flopping dramatically onto the bed with a satisfied sigh as if he’s just completed a great journey. “Wow,” he announces, spreading his arms wide and sinking into the mattress. “This is unfair.”

Yeonjun blinks, then laughs. “You didn’t even see the room yet.”

“I don’t need to,” Beomgyu replies, face pressed into the pillow. “I can feel the privilege. Single room. Full bed. This is favoritism.”

Soobin steps in behind them, taking in the space with quiet attention. Yeonjun’s room is slightly larger than the others, just enough to be noticeable, with one bed pushed against the wall, a desk near the window, and a small wardrobe tucked neatly into the corner. 

Light pours in through the window, casting soft lines across the floor and making the room feel open, airy.

“It makes sense,” Taehyun says, peering inside. “He’s the oldest.”

“That’s not a real reason,” Beomgyu mutters, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling. “I am emotionally fragile.”

Kai laughs, leaning against the doorframe. “You were fine five minutes ago.”

“That was before I knew Yeonjun had all this space,” Beomgyu replies, waving a hand vaguely. “Look at this. Look at the legroom.”

Yeonjun walks in fully now, nudging Beomgyu’s foot with his own. “Get off my bed.”

“No.”

“Soobin,” Yeonjun calls, mock-pleading. “Do something.”

Soobin crosses his arms, lips twitching. “You did choose this,” he says. “You could’ve asked to share.”

“With Beomgyu?” Yeonjun scoffs lightly. “I value my sleep.”

“Rude,” Beomgyu says, gasping. “I don’t snore. I hum.”

Taehyun exhales through his nose. “That’s worse.”

Beomgyu sits up on his elbows, turning to look at Yeonjun with exaggerated offense. “You get a whole room to yourself, a desk by the window, and probably better air circulation.”

“I did not request better air circulation.”

“You don’t have to,” Beomgyu insists. “The universe just gives it to you.”

Yeonjun shakes his head, smiling as he sets his bag down by the desk and glances around the room, the space already starting to feel like it might become his. He opens the wardrobe briefly, testing the door, then looks back at Beomgyu. “You’re only mad because you like my bed.”

“It’s a very nice bed,” Beomgyu admits, flopping backward again. “It supports my dreams.”

Soobin steps closer, stopping beside the desk and looking out the window. “You’ll have good light in the mornings,” he says, thoughtful. “It’ll be easier to wake up.”

Yeonjun glances at him. “You planning on waking me up?”

Soobin looks back, momentarily caught off guard, before shaking his head. “No. Just… saying.”

Kai grins. “I can do it. I’m very loud.”

“No,” Yeonjun and Taehyun say at the same time.

Beomgyu laughs, rolling onto his side and propping his head up on his hand. “So this is it,” he says. “Hyung gets his own space to brood dramatically.”

“I do not brood.”

“You absolutely do.”

Yeonjun steps closer and grabs one of the pillows, pressing it lightly against Beomgyu’s face. “Off.”

Beomgyu makes an exaggerated noise of protest before finally sitting up, smoothing the blanket like he’s been personally wronged. “Fine,” he says. “But I’m coming in here whenever I feel like it.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Soobin will let me.”

Soobin doesn’t answer immediately, just glances between them, expression unreadable before he shrugs. “As long as you don’t make a mess.”

Beomgyu beams. “See? Permission granted.”

Yeonjun laughs, rubbing a hand over his face as the room fills with noise again, the kind that makes the walls feel warmer, less empty. He takes another look around, at the desk that will soon be cluttered, the bed that will be fought over, the window that lets in so much light, and feels something settle quietly in his chest.

“Okay,” he says finally, clapping his hands once. “Tour’s almost done. Next stop is wherever Kai hasn’t claimed yet.”

Kai perks up. “I claim the couch.”

Taehyun sighs. “Of course you do.”

They file back out into the hallway, Beomgyu lingering just long enough to give the bed one last affectionate pat before following the others, still complaining loudly about injustice and favoritism as Yeonjun closes the door behind them, his smile lingering as he does.

They drift back into the living room together, the energy following them as naturally as the sound of their footsteps. Bags are dropped wherever there’s space, backpacks leaning against the couch, jackets tossed over the armrest before Soobin promptly picks them up and hangs them properly on the rack by the entrance. The room starts to feel lived in almost immediately, cluttered in a way that’s more comforting than messy.

“So,” Beomgyu says, clapping his hands together as he plops down on the couch and stretches out dramatically, feet nearly kicking Yeonjun in the process. “House rules.”

Yeonjun swats his foot away. “You don’t get to make the rules.”

“I absolutely do,” Beomgyu replies, unbothered. “I’m the spirit of this household.”

“You’re the problem of this household,” Taehyun corrects calmly as he sets his bag down near the TV stand.

Kai sits on the floor, cross-legged, already pulling a stuffed animal out of his backpack like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Can we have a rule about not stealing my things?”

Beomgyu’s eyes light up instantly. “No.”

“That’s not how rules work,” Soobin says, returning to the living room and giving Beomgyu a look as he takes the seat at the opposite end of the couch.

“Then what’s the point of rules?” Beomgyu asks, genuinely offended.

Yeonjun drops down onto the armchair, stretching his legs out. “Basic ones,” he says. “Clean up after yourself. No food left out overnight.”

“That’s targeted,” Beomgyu accuses.

“It’s preventative.”

Soobin clears his throat slightly. “We should also have quiet hours. Especially on days before early schedules.”

Beomgyu turns to stare at him. “You’re already acting like a manager.”

“I’m the leader,” Soobin replies evenly.

“That doesn’t mean you get to tell me when to sleep.”

“It does when you wake everyone up at three in the morning practicing ad-libs.”

Kai giggles. “You do that?”

Beomgyu waves a dismissive hand. “Art cannot be contained.”

Taehyun glances at Yeonjun. “Is there a rule about him not singing in the shower?”

Yeonjun blinks. “I sound amazing in the shower.”

“That’s subjective,” Taehyun replies.

Beomgyu grins wickedly. “I think we should all vote.”

“No,” Yeonjun says immediately.

“So,” Beomgyu continues, clearly enjoying himself, “rule number one: Yeonjun has to announce when he’s going to be shirtless in common areas.”

Yeonjun groans, dropping his head back against the chair. “Why would that be a rule?”

“For our safety,” Beomgyu replies. “It’s very distracting.”

Soobin looks away, shoulders shaking slightly as if he’s trying not to laugh.

Yeonjun notices.

He pretends he doesn’t.

“Rule number two,” Beomgyu goes on, counting on his fingers, “Yeonjun does not get to hog the couch just because he’s tired.”

“I don’t hog the couch.”

“You absolutely do.”

Kai nods. “You do.”

Yeonjun stares at him. “I thought you were on my side.”

“I like the couch too,” Kai says cheerfully.

Taehyun sits down on the arm of the couch, posture relaxed. “Realistically, we need a cleaning schedule.”

Beomgyu groans loudly, flopping sideways until his head lands in Soobin’s lap. “This is oppression.”

Soobin freezes for half a second before sighing and nudging Beomgyu’s head away. “Get up.”

“No.”

“Beomgyu.”

“Fine,” he says, sitting up again with exaggerated reluctance. “But I’m not cleaning the bathroom.”

“You will,” Soobin replies.

Yeonjun watches the exchange with quiet amusement, leaning forward now, elbows resting on his knees. “I think we’re forgetting the most important rule,” he says.

Everyone looks at him.

“Food in the fridge that isn’t yours is not yours,” Yeonjun continues. “Unless you ask.”

Beomgyu squints. “That feels like it’s directed at me again.”

“It is.”

“Then I veto.”

“You can’t veto common decency.”

Kai raises his hand. “Can we decorate?”

Soobin nods. “As long as we don’t damage anything.”

Beomgyu’s grin returns instantly. “I’m putting posters everywhere.”

“No,” Taehyun and Soobin say in unison.

“Yes,” Beomgyu insists.

Yeonjun laughs, the sound easy and unguarded, as the room fills with overlapping voices again, arguments that aren’t really arguments, rules that probably won’t be followed, the couch already claimed and reclaimed three times over.

They’re still in the living room when it happens, scattered across the space in no particular order, conversations overlapping lazily as the initial excitement settles into something calmer. Kai sits on the floor again, back against the couch as he fiddles with his phone, Taehyun beside him flipping through a list of things they’ll need to buy later. 

Soobin is halfway between listening and organizing, folding a jacket properly and placing it aside before sitting down, posture relaxed but attentive.

Yeonjun lounges back in the armchair, arms crossed loosely over his chest, letting the noise wash over him.

That’s when he notices it.

Beomgyu is quiet.

Not dramatically so, not sulking or visibly upset, but quiet in a way that feels out of place on him. He’s sitting on the far end of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped together, gaze unfocused as the others talk around him. He laughs once when Kai says something ridiculous, but it’s delayed, softer than usual, like he’s a step behind the moment.

Yeonjun watches him for a second longer than necessary.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t need to. Beomgyu has always been loud enough to fill a room on his own; if he’s silent, there’s a reason. Yeonjun files the observation away, eyes drifting back to the group, pretending not to notice the way Beomgyu’s fingers fidget against each other.

“So if we don’t buy groceries today, we’re ordering food,” Kai says, looking up. “I’m okay with that.”

“That’s not a plan,” Taehyun replies. “That’s avoidance.”

“So… a good plan?”

Soobin exhales, amused. “We’ll make a list later.”

There’s a pause then, natural, unremarkable, the kind that happens when conversations run out of momentum.

Beomgyu lifts his head.

“I’m gay,” he says.

The words land cleanly in the room, not rushed, not shaky, not loud. Just stated.

Silence follows immediately.

Not the awkward kind, not heavy with judgment, but complete, like everyone needs a second to recalibrate around what was just said. Kai blinks, Taehyun’s fingers still against his phone screen, Soobin’s attention snapping fully into focus. Yeonjun doesn’t move at all, eyes still on Beomgyu, expression unreadable but attentive.

After a moment, Kai tilts his head. “Where did that come from?”

Beomgyu shrugs, small and almost casual. “Nowhere. I just wanted to say it.”

Soobin leans forward slightly, forearms resting on his thighs. “Okay,” he says calmly. “Is there a reason you wanted to tell us right now?”

Beomgyu hesitates, just barely, then nods. “Yeah. I just… wanted you to know. All of you. So there’s no confusion later. Or misunderstandings. Or problems.” He exhales, gaze dropping to the floor. “I don’t want it to be a thing someone has to whisper about, or something that turns into an issue because I didn’t say anything.”

Yeonjun’s chest tightens, just a little.

Taehyun frowns. “What kind of problems?”

Beomgyu lets out a quiet laugh, humorless but not bitter. “You know. People assuming things. Or saying stuff. Or… not saying stuff and making it weird.” He glances up again, eyes moving between them. “I just wanted to make sure we’re clear. I don’t want it to mess with the group.”

Kai’s expression shifts immediately, confusion giving way to something more serious. “Why would it mess with anything?”

“Yeah,” Soobin adds, voice firm but gentle. “This isn’t a problem.”

Beomgyu studies them, searching, like he’s bracing himself for something that never quite comes.

“There’s no prejudice here,” Taehyun says simply. “At least not from us.”

Kai nods quickly. “Yeah. I mean… okay. Thanks for telling us.” He pauses, then smiles a little. “That’s it?”

Beomgyu blinks. “That’s it.”

Yeonjun finally speaks, voice easy, grounding. “You don’t have to explain yourself to us,” he says. “You’re still you. That’s not changing.”

Something in Beomgyu’s shoulders loosens at that, tension easing in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable. “I know,” he says quietly. “I just wanted to be sure.”

Soobin nods. “We’re sure.”

Yeonjun keeps his gaze on him for a brief second longer than necessary, something thoughtful flickering behind his eyes, before he looks away and lets the room fill with noise again.

The living room settles again, the earlier tension dissolving into something softer, more familiar. Kai scrolls through his phone, half-listening as Taehyun talks about groceries and budgets, Beomgyu sprawled back against the couch cushions now, legs stretched out, looking noticeably more at ease than he had before. 

The conversation drifts, unimportant things filling the space where something heavier had briefly existed.

Yeonjun doesn’t join in.

He sits quietly in the armchair, posture relaxed enough not to draw attention, but his gaze has gone distant, unfocused, fixed somewhere past the living room wall. His fingers tap once against the armrest, then still. The room hums around him, but he feels slightly removed from it, thoughts circling in a way he doesn’t quite know how to interrupt.

Soobin notices.

He always does.

It’s not immediate, not obvious, but his eyes flick toward Yeonjun more than once, lingering a second longer each time. Eventually, when there’s a lull in the conversation, he speaks up, voice casual but careful. “You’re quiet.”

Yeonjun blinks, pulled back into the room. He looks up, surprised, then smiles faintly. “Am I?”

“A little,” Soobin says, tilting his head. “You okay?”

Yeonjun shrugs, easy, practiced. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just thinking.”

Soobin studies him for a moment, then nods, accepting the answer on the surface. He turns back toward Kai just as Beomgyu starts talking again, something loud and exaggerated about dinner plans, the noise rising once more.

It doesn’t last.

A few minutes pass, and Yeonjun’s silence stretches, not uncomfortable, but noticeable if you’re looking for it. Soobin looks back again, this time more directly. “You sure it’s nothing?”

Yeonjun exhales through his nose, gaze dropping to his hands. “It’s nothing,” he repeats, softer this time.

Soobin doesn’t push. He never does outright. He simply waits, posture open, attention steady, like he’s leaving the door unlocked rather than forcing it open.

Eventually, Yeonjun sighs.

“Beomgyu saying that,” he starts, then stops, searching for the right words. “It just… got me thinking.”

The room quiets slightly, not intentionally, but enough that the others aren’t fully talking over each other anymore. Beomgyu glances over, curious but not alarmed, Taehyun’s focus shifting without him saying anything.

Soobin turns fully toward Yeonjun. “Thinking about what?”

Yeonjun hesitates, jaw tightening briefly before he relaxes again. “About how easy it looked,” he says honestly. “Just saying it.”

Beomgyu’s brows knit together. “Easy is not the word I’d use.”

“I know,” Yeonjun replies quickly. “I didn’t mean easy like that. I just mean… you didn’t make it a big thing. You just said it.”

There’s a pause, the air between them changing, becoming more attentive.

Yeonjun rubs his thumb against the side of the chair, then looks up, eyes moving across the room before finally settling somewhere neutral, not quite meeting anyone’s gaze directly. “I guess I should probably say it too,” he says.

Kai straightens slightly. “Say what?”

Yeonjun lets out a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “That I’m bisexual.”

The words sit there, steady, not rushed, not shaky.

Soobin’s expression shifts immediately, not to shock, but to understanding, something gentle settling behind his eyes. Taehyun blinks once, then nods like he’s filed the information away exactly where it belongs. Beomgyu’s mouth falls open just slightly.

“Oh,” Beomgyu says. “Okay.”

Yeonjun finally looks at him, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. Okay.”

Kai smiles, wide and unguarded. “Cool.”

“That’s… cool,” Beomgyu echoes, then squints. “Wait. You were just sitting there thinking about this?”

Yeonjun shrugs again, lighter now. “I didn’t plan to say it today. It just felt like the right moment.”

Soobin nods slowly. “You didn’t have to,” he says. “But I’m glad you did.”

Yeonjun meets his eyes then, just for a second. “Me too.”

The room breathes again, tension ebbing in the same quiet way it arrived. Beomgyu leans back against the couch, stretching his arms over his head. “Wow,” he says. “First day in the dorm and we’re already doing emotional honesty.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Taehyun replies dryly.

Kai laughs. “I think it’s kind of nice.”

Yeonjun feels something loosen in his chest, a weight he hadn’t fully acknowledged until it wasn’t there anymore. He shifts in the chair, more present now, more grounded, the noise of the room fitting around him again instead of passing him by.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, not to anyone in particular, but the word lands anyway.

Soobin nods once, like it’s understood.

Yeonjun is back in the conversation now, posture looser, presence fully returned, the earlier heaviness gone from his shoulders. Soobin sits quietly beside Beomgyu, listening more than speaking, gaze thoughtful as he watches the others talk.

Eventually, his fingers lace together in his lap.

“I should probably say something too,” Soobin says.

It isn’t loud. It doesn’t interrupt anyone sharply enough to feel abrupt. It’s calm, measured, the way Soobin does most things.

Kai looks up immediately. “Say what?”

Soobin exhales slowly, eyes lowering for a brief second before lifting again, steady. “I’m bisexual.”

The room stills, but this time there’s no shock in it—just attention.

Beomgyu turns toward him, eyebrows lifting. “Oh.”

Yeonjun’s chest tightens in a way that feels strangely warm rather than alarming, his gaze settling on Soobin without him quite meaning to. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t move, just listens.

“So… yeah,” Soobin continues, shoulders rising slightly before settling again. “I figured since we’re already saying things, it made sense to be honest.”

Kai blinks once, then breaks into a grin. “Wow. Okay. This is very… productive.”

Taehyun nods, unsurprised. “Thank you for telling us.”

Beomgyu tilts his head, studying Soobin’s face with something gentler than his usual teasing. “You look relieved,” he says.

Soobin considers that, then nods. “I think I am.”

Yeonjun finally speaks, voice quiet but sincere. “I’m glad you said it.”

Soobin looks at him, surprised for just a fraction of a second, before his expression softens. “Me too.”

Kai suddenly sits up straight, eyes darting between all of them. “Okay,” he says, holding up a hand. “Before anyone else drops another emotional bomb, does anyone else have a revelation they’d like to share right now? Because I would like to avoid cardiac arrest.”

Silence follows.

Taehyun frowns.

Kai’s eyes widen immediately. “Oh my god.”

Taehyun doesn’t respond right away, gaze drifting upward as if he’s running calculations in his head.

“Oh my god,” Kai repeats, louder. “You do. You do have something.”

“I knew it,” Beomgyu says, pointing. “I knew this was coming.”

Taehyun sighs. “I don’t have a revelation like that.”

Kai deflates slightly. “Oh.”

“But,” Taehyun continues, eyes shifting slowly toward the hallway, “I have just realized something.”

Kai tenses again. “That’s worse.”

Taehyun looks directly at Beomgyu. Then at Soobin. His expression remains painfully serious as he gestures vaguely in their direction. “Someone thought it was a good idea to put two men who are attracted to men in the same room.”

There’s a beat.

Kai blinks. “Okay. And?”

Taehyun turns back to him. “If I hear a single inappropriate noise coming from that room,” he says calmly, “I will kill both of them.”

Beomgyu’s face goes red instantly. “What—!”

Soobin splutters. “God forbid, Taehyun.”

“That’s not—nothing is going to happen,” Beomgyu adds quickly, waving his hands. “Absolutely nothing.”

Soobin shakes his head emphatically. “No. Never. Please don’t even suggest that.”

Kai bursts out laughing, falling back onto the floor. “You’re acting like they’re about to start right now.”

“They share a room,” Taehyun replies flatly. “I am being cautious.”

Beomgyu groans, burying his face in his hands. “I hate it here.”

Yeonjun laughs, unable to stop himself this time, the sound light and genuine as the room dissolves into noise again, tension breaking completely. The moment passes not because it’s forgotten, but because it’s been accepted, folded gently into the fabric of who they are becoming together.

The living room never fully quiets.

Beomgyu is back to being Beomgyu, stretched across the couch again as he argues loudly with Kai about who gets control of the TV, Taehyun interjecting only to point out how irrational both of them sound. Their voices overlap, playful and sharp, laughter breaking through every few seconds as Kai dramatically accuses Beomgyu of emotional manipulation and Beomgyu declares it a talent.

Yeonjun sits near the edge of it all, half-turned toward the noise but not fully engaged, nodding along when it feels appropriate, smiling when something genuinely funny cuts through. Soobin sits beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly brush when one of them shifts, close enough to feel without acknowledging it.

For a while, neither of them speaks.

It’s Yeonjun who breaks the silence first, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry past the space between them. “You okay?”

Soobin blinks, attention snapping back to him. “Yeah,” he says immediately, then pauses. “I think so.”

Yeonjun hums quietly, accepting that answer for what it is. He glances toward the others, making sure no one’s paying attention, then looks back at Soobin. “You didn’t have to say anything earlier. You know that, right?”

Soobin nods. “I know.” He shifts slightly on the couch, hands resting together in his lap. “But I wanted to. It felt… easier, after you and Beomgyu.”

Yeonjun exhales softly, something like relief threading through the sound. “I’m glad you did.”

Soobin turns to look at him then, really look, his expression unreadable but open. “You didn’t hesitate much,” he says. “When you said it.”

Yeonjun shrugs, faintly. “I’ve known for a while.” He smiles, small and self-aware. “I just don’t usually say things out loud.”

Soobin considers that. “You said it well.”

Yeonjun lets out a quiet laugh, barely audible over Beomgyu loudly accusing Kai of stealing his charger. “I don’t think there’s a right way to say it.”

“There is,” Soobin replies gently. “There’s just… honest.”

The word lingers between them, settling into the space like it belongs there.

For a moment, Yeonjun watches Soobin instead of the room, noticing things he’s already seen a hundred times and somehow still finding them new—the way Soobin’s brows draw together slightly when he’s thinking, the way his posture stays careful even when he’s relaxed, like he’s always carrying responsibility somewhere in his shoulders.

“So,” Yeonjun says after a beat, tone deliberately light, “rooming with Beomgyu. You ready for that?”

Soobin huffs softly. “I don’t think anyone can be ready for that.”

“He’s going to steal your stuff,” Yeonjun says.

“I know.”

“And your blankets.”

“I know.”

“And he’ll complain about it like you did it on purpose.”

Soobin smiles at that, a real one this time. “I know.”

Their knees brush when Yeonjun shifts again, accidental but unremarkable, neither of them reacting enough to draw attention to it. The noise around them swells and dips, Kai laughing too loudly, Taehyun threatening to implement a rule system, Beomgyu refusing to acknowledge authority.

“I’m glad it’s you,” Yeonjun says suddenly, the words slipping out before he fully thinks about them.

Soobin looks at him, surprised. “Glad what’s me?”

“That you’re here,” Yeonjun clarifies easily, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “As leader. As… you.”

Soobin holds his gaze for a second longer than necessary. “I’m glad you’re here too.”

It’s not a confession. It’s not a promise. It’s just truth, offered quietly, received the same way.

Beomgyu’s voice cuts across the room. “Why are you two being weirdly quiet?”

Yeonjun doesn’t look away when he answers. “We’re not.”

Soobin nods. “You’re just loud.”

Beomgyu gasps, offended. “Rude.”

Beomgyu’s laughter cuts through the space again as he launches into another argument with Kai, something about stolen snacks and moral betrayal, Taehyun responding with dry commentary that only fuels the chaos. The noise swells, familiar and grounding, filling the room until the intimacy between Yeonjun and Soobin becomes something quieter, almost hidden in plain sight.

They don’t move away from each other.

Yeonjun shifts slightly on the couch, turning just enough to face Soobin more directly, his voice dropping instinctively. “You know,” he says, tone casual but eyes amused, “Taehyun sounded genuinely concerned back there.”

Soobin hums softly. “Concerned about what?”

Yeonjun tilts his head, lips curving. “About not hearing any… noises. From your room.”

Soobin freezes.

Just for a second.

Then his ears start turning red.

“That—” He stops, clears his throat, and tries again. “Taehyun is insane.”

Yeonjun bites back a smile. “He sounded very serious.”

“He always sounds serious,” Soobin mutters, shaking his head. “And nothing is going to happen. Ever. Not even remotely.” He gestures vaguely down the hallway, flustered now. “Absolutely not.”

Yeonjun watches him with open amusement, gaze lingering in a way that feels warmer than teasing alone. “God forbid, right?”

Soobin shoots him a look. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Yeonjun replies innocently.

“You implied it.”

Soobin shifts on the couch, crossing his arms like that might help him regain composure. “Beomgyu is Beomgyu,” he says firmly. “We’re just roommates. That’s it.”

Yeonjun nods slowly, expression thoughtful. “Right. Roommates.”

Soobin exhales, clearly relieved to have the words land where he intended them to. “Exactly.”

For a moment, Yeonjun says nothing, eyes flicking briefly toward the others before returning to Soobin, his tone lighter again. “Still,” he adds, “if Taehyun ever hears anything, it’ll probably just be Beomgyu tripping over his own feet.”

Soobin lets out a reluctant laugh. “That sounds more accurate.”

Their shoulders brush when Soobin relaxes again, the contact easy, unremarkable, but neither of them moves away. The room continues to buzz around them, Beomgyu loudly declaring himself the victim of injustice once more, Kai protesting, Taehyun threatening consequences.

“So,” Yeonjun murmurs, quieter now, “you really didn’t even consider asking for a different room?”

Soobin glances at him. “Did you want me to?”

The question hangs there, not heavy, just present.

Yeonjun’s smile softens. “No,” he says honestly. “I was just curious.”

Soobin studies his face for a second, like he’s trying to read something that isn’t being said out loud. He nods once. “Me too.”

Soobin exhales slowly, like he’s been holding something back for longer do que apenas os últimos minutos. The noise around them continues—Beomgyu laughing too loudly at something Kai says, Taehyun threatening to impose another rule—but it all feels distant, muffled, as Soobin turns just enough to face Yeonjun more directly.

“Hyung,” he says quietly, carefully, “you don’t have to worry. Beomgyu and I… there’s nothing between us.”

Yeonjun blinks.

Not because he’s shocked, but because the words land closer to home than he expected. He lets out a small, almost amused breath. “Why are you saying it like that?” he asks, voice just as low. “Like you owe me an explanation.”

Soobin doesn’t look away.

“Because I’m not an idiot, Jun-hyung,” he replies calmly. Too calmly. “I see how you look at him.”

The sentence slips between them without force, without accusation, but it hits all the same.

Yeonjun’s smile fades—not completely, but enough. His gaze drops to the floor for a moment, jaw tightening as he processes the fact that someone else has noticed, that it’s visible enough to be read even when he hasn’t named it himself. When he looks back up, there’s no defensiveness in his eyes. Just honesty, stripped down.

“I wasn’t planning on talking about that,” he says softly.

“I know,” Soobin answers. “That’s why I brought it up.”

Yeonjun leans back slightly, fingers curling against the armrest as he exhales. “It’s not… anything,” he says, then stops himself, lips pressing together briefly before he corrects it. “Okay. That’s not true. It is something. I’m just—” He shakes his head. “I don’t want him to know.”

Soobin’s brows draw together. “Why?”

“Because it doesn’t need to be a thing,” Yeonjun replies immediately. “Because it would complicate things. Because it’s not fair to him.” He lets out a quiet laugh that doesn’t hold much humor. “And because it’ll pass.”

Soobin watches him closely. “You’re sure about that?”

Yeonjun nods, slower this time. “Yeah. It’s just… timing. Proximity. Stress.” He shrugs lightly. “We’re together all the time. Things blur.”

Soobin considers his words, not interrupting, not rushing him. “You don’t sound like someone who’s lying,” he says eventually. “But you also don’t sound like someone who’s completely convinced.”

Yeonjun meets his gaze again, something bare in his expression now. “I don’t need to be convinced,” he says quietly. “I just need it not to matter.”

Silence stretches between them, fragile but steady.

“I won’t say anything,” Soobin says at last. “To him. Or to anyone.”

“I know,” Yeonjun replies. “That’s why I’m telling you.”

Soobin nods once, accepting the weight of that trust. “For what it’s worth,” he adds gently, “you don’t look at him like you’re planning to act on it.”

Yeonjun’s lips curve faintly. “Good.”

Soobin glances toward Beomgyu without turning his head fully. “And I meant what I said,” he continues. “Nothing is going to happen between us. Not because of you. Just because… there isn’t anything there.”

Yeonjun’s eyes follow the same direction for a brief second before returning to Soobin. “You don’t have to reassure me.”

“I know,” Soobin says. Then, softer, “I wanted to.”

Their shoulders brush again when Yeonjun shifts, the contact brief but grounding.

“Thank you,” Yeonjun murmurs.

Soobin nods. “Anytime.”

The laughter from the others grows louder again, Beomgyu calling out something unintelligible as Kai protests dramatically, and the room slowly pulls them back into its orbit—but the space between them remains changed, marked by something said and something deliberately left unsaid.

2019.

The apartment door barely has time to close before all five of them collapse inward like gravity finally caught up.

Shoes are kicked off in no particular direction, jackets tossed wherever they land, bags abandoned halfway to the floor as bodies gravitate instinctively toward the living room. Beomgyu is the first to make it to the couch, dropping onto it face-first with a dramatic groan, arms spread wide like he’s offering himself up to the furniture.

“I’m dead,” he announces into the cushion. “Actually deceased. This is my ghost speaking.”

Taehyun sets his bag down more carefully, rubbing at the back of his neck. “You’re talking a lot for someone who’s dead.”

“I’m running on pure adrenaline,” Beomgyu replies, lifting his head just enough to grin. “And happiness.”

Kai laughs as he flops down onto the floor in front of the couch, back against it, legs stretched out. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired.”

“So tired,” Beomgyu agrees, rolling onto his side to look at them. “But also—” He presses a hand to his chest dramatically. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

That earns him a quiet hum of agreement from Soobin, who sinks down onto the couch beside Yeonjun, shoulders slumping now that the day is finally over. Yeonjun exhales deeply, like he’s been holding his breath for hours, and lets himself fall back against the cushions, eyes closing for just a second.

Beomgyu squints at him. “Wow.”

Yeonjun cracks one eye open. “What.”

“You’re really pretending you’re not the most emotionally destroyed person in this room right now?”

Kai perks up. “Oh, right. You cried.”

Yeonjun groans. “I did not—”

“You cried,” Beomgyu insists, sitting up now, energized again. “Like, full-on. Eyes red. Voice shaking. I thought you were going to short-circuit.”

“That’s not true,” Yeonjun says weakly.

Taehyun tilts his head, thoughtful. “You cried at least three times.”

“Traitor,” Yeonjun mutters.

Before he can defend himself any further, Soobin shifts closer and, without hesitation, slides an arm around Yeonjun’s shoulders, pulling him in easily, naturally, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Yeonjun stiffens for half a second out of surprise before relaxing into it, his head tipping just slightly toward Soobin’s shoulder.

“That’s enough,” Soobin says calmly, tightening his hold just a bit. “Today, Yeonjun is allowed to cry as much as he wants.”

Beomgyu scoffs. “Wow. Favoritism.”

“He earned it,” Soobin replies without missing a beat.

Yeonjun laughs softly, the sound tired but warm, his hand resting briefly against Soobin’s side. “You’re all impossible.”

“But successful,” Kai adds cheerfully.

“That too,” Beomgyu says. He leans back again, draping himself dramatically across the couch, feet nearly in Yeonjun’s lap. “Our debut. Can you believe it?”

The word hangs there for a moment—debut—heavy and unreal even now.

“So many people,” Kai says quietly. “I could barely see past the lights.”

“So many cameras,” Yeonjun adds, eyes still half-lidded. “I forgot how to blink.”

Taehyun nods. “Statistically, that will improve with time.”

Beomgyu snorts. “You’re such a comfort.”

Soobin glances down at Yeonjun, voice low enough that it doesn’t quite carry. “You did well.”

Yeonjun opens his eyes and looks at him, something soft passing between them before he smiles. “We all did.”

Beomgyu immediately ruins the moment. “Except Yeonjun, who was too busy crying to notice how cool I looked.”

Kai laughs loudly. “You almost tripped.”

“That was intentional.”

“So was gravity?”

Yeonjun finally sits up a bit, nudging Beomgyu’s foot away with his knee. “You’re lucky today is a good day.”

Beomgyu grins. “You love me.”

Soobin squeezes Yeonjun’s shoulder gently. “Don’t fight on debut day.”

Yeonjun sighs dramatically. “Fine. Just today.”

Soobin doesn’t move away when the noise rises again.

If anything, he moves closer.

He shifts on the couch just enough to hook an arm more securely around Yeonjun’s shoulders, pulling him back in with an ease that feels instinctive rather than deliberate. Yeonjun goes willingly, his body folding into the space offered without thinking twice, exhaustion lowering whatever guard might have existed earlier.

For a moment, he just rests there.

Then, without lifting his head, Yeonjun turns slightly and presses his face into the side of Soobin’s neck.

It’s subtle. Quiet. Easy to miss if you’re not looking.

He exhales there, slow and deep, breathing in the faint scent of detergent and sweat and something unmistakably Soobin, his nose brushing warm skin. His forehead rests just below Soobin’s jaw, close enough that his breath ghosts along Soobin’s throat.

Soobin freezes.

Not enough to pull away. Not enough to stop it.

Just enough that he feels it.

The way Yeonjun’s breath lingers. The warmth. The weight of him. The closeness.

A shiver runs through him before he can stop it, goosebumps rising along his arms and the back of his neck, the reaction sharp and involuntary. His fingers tighten just slightly where they rest against Yeonjun’s shoulder.

Neither of them says anything.

The conversation around them continues, oblivious.

“I swear I forgot the choreography for a second,” Kai is saying, animated, hands moving as he reenacts it badly from the floor. “I was like—oh no, this is it, I’m done.”

“You didn’t forget,” Taehyun replies. “You hesitated for less than half a second.”

“That’s still terrifying.”

Beomgyu, however, has gone quiet.

He’s sitting across from them now, one arm draped over the back of the couch, eyes fixed in their direction. Not accusing. Not teasing. Just watching. The way Yeonjun hasn’t lifted his head. The way Soobin hasn’t loosened his hold. The way something unspoken has settled between them, thick enough to be felt even without words.

Yeonjun doesn’t move.

He stays there, tucked into Soobin’s neck, eyes closed now, breathing steady, as if the world has narrowed to this one place where everything feels grounded again. His hand rests loosely against Soobin’s side, fingers curled into fabric without gripping.

Soobin swallows.

He keeps his gaze forward, forces his breathing to even out, keeps his arm where it is. If anyone asks, he’ll say Yeonjun is tired. That he’s emotional. That today was overwhelming.

All of those things are true.

None of them explain the way his pulse has picked up, or the fact that he doesn’t want Yeonjun to move.

“I think I blacked out during the ending pose,” Beomgyu says suddenly, still watching them. “Like, mentally. My body just kept going.”

Kai laughs. “You were fine.”

“I always am,” Beomgyu replies, but his tone is distracted now, eyes flicking briefly to Yeonjun’s face hidden against Soobin’s neck before he looks away again.

Soobin finally shifts just enough to rest his cheek lightly against the top of Yeonjun’s head, a quiet, grounding gesture that feels dangerously natural. Yeonjun exhales again, deeper this time, and doesn’t pull back.

Yeonjun doesn’t move for a long moment.

His head is still tucked against Soobin’s neck, breath warm against skin, the world reduced to the steady rise and fall of Soobin’s chest beneath his cheek and the low murmur of the others talking about nothing and everything at once. Kai is rambling about the food order, Taehyun correcting him absentmindedly, Beomgyu quieter than usual now, attention split between the conversation and the space on the couch.

Soobin’s arm remains around Yeonjun, firm but not restrictive, as if he’s holding him in place by instinct alone.

Then Yeonjun shifts.

It’s slow, almost hesitant, just enough to angle his face slightly. His lips brush warm skin at the base of Soobin’s neck in a kiss so light it could almost be mistaken for an accident, brief and careful, gone as soon as it’s there.

But it’s deliberate.

Soobin inhales sharply.

Not loud enough for anyone to hear, not dramatic, but real. His fingers tense against Yeonjun’s shoulder, every hair along his arms standing on end again as heat floods his face, pulse jumping under Yeonjun’s mouth where it just was.

No one sees it.

Kai is too busy arguing about sauces. Taehyun is already planning tomorrow. Even Beomgyu, watching as he is, only catches the aftermath—the way Soobin goes still, the way Yeonjun pulls back just enough to lift his head.

Their eyes meet.

Just for a second.

Something unspoken passes between them, heavy and unmistakable, sitting there like a held breath neither of them quite knows how to release.

Yeonjun is the first to move.

He straightens abruptly, clearing his throat as he pushes himself up from the couch, forcing lightness into his voice. “I’m—uh. I’m going to take a shower while the food’s not here.”

Kai looks up. “Already?”

“Yeah,” Yeonjun says quickly. “I feel gross.”

“That’s fair,” Kai replies immediately. “I think I sweated out my soul.”

Taehyun nods. “Efficiency.”

Yeonjun grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder with movements that are just a little too fast. He doesn’t look back at Soobin as he says it, but his presence lingers there all the same. “I’ll be quick.”

“Okay,” Soobin replies.

His voice comes out steadier than he feels.

Yeonjun disappears down the hallway, the bathroom door clicking shut moments later. The sound echoes more loudly than it should, leaving behind a silence that settles oddly over the living room.

Kai keeps talking.

Beomgyu doesn’t.

He leans back against the couch, arms crossed now, gaze flicking briefly toward the hallway before returning to Soobin, studying him with an expression that’s lost its usual playfulness. Soobin stares straight ahead, jaw tight, one hand still resting where Yeonjun had been moments ago, fingers slowly uncurling as he exhales.

The air feels different.

Thicker. Charged.

Soobin waits just long enough for the noise in the living room to swallow his movement.

“I’m gonna grab something from the room,” he says casually, already standing.

“Your room or—” Kai starts.

Soobin doesn’t answer. He just walks down the hallway.

He doesn’t turn toward the door he shares with Beomgyu. Instead, he stops at the end of the corridor, fingers curling around the handle of Yeonjun’s door, hesitating only a fraction of a second before pushing it open and stepping inside.

The room is dimmer now, quiet in a way the living room isn’t. The bed looks untouched, perfectly made, the space still carrying that faint sense of newness, of something not fully claimed yet. Soobin closes the door behind him and exhales, the sound heavier than he expects.

Without bothering with pretense, he walks straight to the bed and drops onto it, arms spreading slightly as he stares up at the ceiling.

His mind won’t slow down.

The weight of Yeonjun against him. The breath at his neck. The kiss—so light it still feels unreal. His fingers curl into the blanket as he squeezes his eyes shut, jaw tight, like that might help ground him.

It doesn’t.

The door opens.

Soobin’s head turns immediately.

Yeonjun steps inside, fresh from the shower, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, a towel hanging low around his hips. His skin is still warm, faintly flushed, droplets of water trailing down his collarbone.

Soobin doesn’t hide the way his eyes move.

They trace Yeonjun openly, slowly, from his shoulders down his chest, lingering just a second too long before flicking back up to his face. There’s no attempt at subtlety, no quick glance and retreat. Just attention.

Yeonjun stops short.

“What are you doing in here?” he asks, voice steady, but there’s something cautious in it now.

Soobin swallows. “Thinking.”

“This isn’t your room.”

“I know.”

Yeonjun lets the door close behind him, setting his clothes down on the chair by the desk. He doesn’t seem bothered enough to ask him to leave, just confused as he runs a towel through his hair. “You could’ve thought in your room.”

Soobin watches the motion, throat bobbing slightly. “I didn’t want to.”

Yeonjun glances at him then, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. He turns his back to pull on a shirt, movements unhurried, natural, like he’s forgotten how much of him is still exposed.

“You should talk to Beomgyu,” Soobin says suddenly.

Yeonjun pauses, one arm halfway into the sleeve. “What?”

“About earlier,” Soobin continues, sitting up on the bed now, elbows resting on his knees. “In the living room.”

Yeonjun frowns, tugging the shirt down over his torso. “What about it?”

Soobin hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “He might’ve… gotten the wrong idea.”

Yeonjun scoffs softly, turning back around as he reaches for his pants. “About what?”

Soobin’s gaze dips again before he can stop it, then lifts back to Yeonjun’s face. “About you and me.”

Yeonjun stills.

Then he laughs quietly, shaking his head as he pulls his pants on. “That’s ridiculous.”

“So you won’t talk to him?”

“There’s nothing to explain,” Yeonjun replies, more firmly now. “Beomgyu and I aren’t anything. And whatever happened in the living room—” He stops, then finishes lightly, “—was nothing.”

Soobin studies him. “It didn’t look like nothing.”

Yeonjun meets his gaze, expression sharpening just slightly. “It doesn’t need to look like anything. I don’t owe him an explanation.”

Silence settles between them, thick and uncomfortable in a way that feels dangerously close to honest. Soobin leans back on his hands, eyes never leaving Yeonjun.

“Okay,” he says eventually.

Yeonjun nods, though his jaw remains tense. He turns away to grab his hoodie, pulling it on slowly, like he’s giving himself time to cool off, to put space back where it belongs.

Neither of them mentions the way the air feels heavier now.

Neither of them names the reason Soobin chose this room, or why Yeonjun didn’t ask him to leave.

Yeonjun finishes adjusting his hoodie, fingers lingering at the hem longer than necessary before he lets his arms fall to his sides. The room feels smaller now, the air heavier, like it’s pressing in from all directions. Soobin is still sitting on the bed, posture relaxed on the surface, but his eyes give him away—sharp, attentive, fixed on Yeonjun like he’s bracing for something.

Yeonjun turns to face him fully.

“Answer me something,” he says quietly.

Soobin straightens a little. “Okay.”

Yeonjun hesitates just long enough to make the question feel deliberate. “What would be something wrong that Beomgyu could think is happening?”

Soobin’s breath catches.

Not enough to be obvious. Just enough.

He looks down at his hands for a moment, then back up at Yeonjun, expression carefully neutral. “He could think,” he says slowly, “that you’re into me.”

The words settle between them, unadorned.

Yeonjun doesn’t react right away.

He just watches Soobin, eyes unreadable, jaw set like he’s weighing something important. The hum of the apartment—voices from the living room, the faint sound of movement—feels distant now, like it belongs to a different place entirely.

“And would he be wrong?” Yeonjun asks.

Soobin freezes.

This time, there’s no disguising it. His fingers curl into the blanket beneath him, shoulders going tense as his gaze locks onto Yeonjun’s. The question isn’t loud. It isn’t dramatic. But it’s sharp enough to cut.

“Jun,” he says carefully, warning threaded into his tone, “what are you saying?”

Yeonjun exhales, slow and controlled, running a hand through his damp hair. “I’m saying,” he replies, voice low, “that sometimes things aren’t as simple as people want them to be.”

Soobin swallows. “That’s not an answer.”

“It is,” Yeonjun says. “Just not a comfortable one.”

Silence stretches, thick and fragile.

Soobin studies him, searching his face like he’s trying to read a language he knows but has never spoken out loud. “You told me,” he says finally, “that things with Beomgyu would pass.”

“They will,” Yeonjun replies without hesitation. “That doesn’t change.”

“So what is this?” Soobin asks quietly.

Yeonjun’s gaze drifts for half a second—to the bed, to the door, anywhere but directly at Soobin—before returning. “This is… nothing that needs a name.”

Soobin lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, but isn’t. “You’re very good at avoiding things.”

“Someone has to be.”

Soobin shakes his head slightly. “You’re not denying it.”

Yeonjun meets his eyes then, openly, and for the first time there’s no humor there, no deflection. Just honesty stripped down to its bare minimum. “I’m not admitting to anything either.”

“That’s a thin line.”

“I know.”

They hold each other’s gaze, the space between them charged with everything being said and everything deliberately left untouched. Yeonjun shifts his weight, hands slipping into the pockets of his hoodie like he’s grounding himself.

“That’s why Beomgyu doesn’t need an explanation,” he adds quietly. “There’s nothing happening. And there won’t be.”

Soobin watches him for a long moment. “And you’re okay with that?”

Yeonjun’s lips curve into something that almost resembles a smile. “I’m used to it.”

The answer doesn’t satisfy Soobin. It wasn’t meant to.

Another beat passes, heavy with restraint, before Soobin finally looks away, gaze dropping to the floor as he exhales. “Then maybe it’s better if he doesn’t think anything at all.”

Yeonjun nods. “That’s what I’m counting on.”

Neither of them moves.

Neither of them reaches for the other.

The door just opens.

Beomgyu sticks his head inside first, already talking. “Food’s here—”

He stops.

Not dramatically. Not enough to call attention to it. Just a pause, brief and instinctive, like his body registers something before his mind catches up.

The room is quiet.

Yeonjun stands near the desk, hands still tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, posture a little too rigid for someone who’s supposed to be relaxed. Soobin is sitting on the edge of the bed, back straight, expression carefully neutral, eyes flicking toward the door a fraction of a second too late.

Beomgyu’s gaze moves between them.

Once.

Twice.

He takes in the space between them, the tension sitting thick in the air, the way neither of them speaks immediately. His brows lift just slightly, not in accusation, not even curiosity—just awareness.

“…Okay,” he says after a beat, voice lighter than the moment calls for. “So. Food.”

Yeonjun exhales, the sound quiet but noticeable, and nods. “Yeah. Great.”

Soobin stands up smoothly, like he’s been waiting for a cue. “I’ll come.”

Beomgyu opens the door wider, stepping back into the hallway to give them space. “Kai’s already complaining,” he adds, glancing back at them. “Something about fries being cold.”

Taehyun’s voice echoes faintly from the living room. “They are objectively less warm.”

Yeonjun lets out a soft huff of a laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He grabs his phone from the desk, movements measured, controlled, then looks up. His gaze meets Soobin’s for just a second.

Nothing is said.

Everything is.

Soobin looks away first.

Beomgyu watches them both as they step into the hallway, his expression unreadable, lips pressed together like he’s chosen—very deliberately—not to ask a question. He closes the door behind them, leaving Yeonjun’s room empty again, quiet and untouched, holding onto the weight of what almost happened.

They walk back toward the living room together, the noise rising to meet them—voices, laughter, the rustle of bags and food containers—but the air around them still feels charged, stretched thin by something that hasn’t been released.

Beomgyu claps his hands once, too loud. “Alright, everyone sit before Kai eats everything.”

“I would never,” Kai says immediately, mouth already full.

Soobin sits down.

Yeonjun follows.

No one mentions the room.

No one mentions the silence.

And the night moves on, carrying the moment with it, unspoken and unresolved, settling quietly into the space between them as the lights stay on and the food goes cold.

The room is dim when Soobin steps inside, lit only by the small lamp Beomgyu left on beside his bed. The door clicks shut softly behind him, cutting off the distant noise of the living room and leaving them in a quiet that feels heavier than the darkness itself.

Beomgyu is already lying on his bed, stretched out on his back with his arms folded behind his head, staring up at the ceiling like he’s been doing exactly that for a while. He doesn’t look over when Soobin enters. He doesn’t say anything either.

Soobin drops his bag by his bed and starts organizing his things with deliberate care. He smooths out the blanket, straightens the pillow, lines up his clothes like order might quiet his thoughts. His movements are calm, methodical, almost too controlled.

The silence stretches.

“You’re in love with him,” Beomgyu says.

Soobin stills.

He turns slowly, disbelief written plainly across his face. “What?” A short, incredulous laugh slips out before he can stop it. “Where did that come from?”

Beomgyu finally turns his head, looking at him now, eyes sharp but not unkind. There’s no teasing in his expression, no provocation — just certainty. He smiles faintly, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Hyung,” he says easily, “it’s obvious.”

Soobin shakes his head, confused, flustered. “No, it’s not. You’re reading too much into things.”

“I’m really not,” Beomgyu replies. He rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his hand as he watches Soobin carefully. “You don’t look at people like that unless it’s already too late.”

Soobin opens his mouth to argue, then closes it again.

He exhales slowly, hand tightening around the edge of his bedspread. “You shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” he says, quieter now.

Beomgyu shrugs. “I’m not judging. I’m just saying what I see.” His smile softens. “And it’s okay.”

Soobin looks at him, caught off guard by that. “What do you mean, okay?”

“I mean,” Beomgyu says, voice gentle but firm, “you don’t have to act like it’s something terrible. Feelings happen.”

Soobin sits down on his bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He rubs his palms together slowly, gaze fixed on the floor. “It’s not something I planned,” he admits after a moment. “And it’s not something I want to complicate things.”

Beomgyu nods. “You always say that.”

Soobin lets out a quiet huff. “Because it’s true.”

“But you’re not denying it,” Beomgyu points out.

Soobin lifts his head, meeting Beomgyu’s eyes. There’s no panic there now, no confusion — just honesty, stripped of defenses. “No,” he says simply. “I’m not.”

The admission settles into the room, steady and real.

Beomgyu’s smile doesn’t fade. If anything, it looks more sincere now. “See?” he says. “That wasn’t so hard.”

Soobin shakes his head, a tired smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m perceptive,” Beomgyu corrects.

Soobin leans back slightly, staring up at the ceiling for a moment. “Nothing’s going to happen,” he says, more to himself than to Beomgyu. “I know that.”

Beomgyu hums thoughtfully. “Knowing doesn’t make feelings disappear.”

“oobin closes his eyes briefly, then opens them again. “I know.”

Another quiet moment passes, the kind that only comes late at night when there’s nothing left to hide behind. Beomgyu rolls onto his back again, hands laced behind his head.

“For what it’s worth,” he adds casually, “I’m on your side.”

Soobin turns to look at him. “You don’t even know what side that is.”

Beomgyu grins faintly. “I don’t have to.”

Beomgyu turns his head slightly on the pillow, eyes following the slow rise and fall of Soobin’s chest as the silence stretches again. There’s something thoughtful in his expression now, less playful than usual, like he’s connecting dots he didn’t want to connect before.

“So how do you know nothing’s going to happen?” he asks.

The question is simple. Almost casual.

It lands heavy anyway.

Soobin exhales, long and slow, shoulders dropping a fraction as if he’s been holding the answer in place. He doesn’t look at Beomgyu right away. Instead, he stares at the wall across from him, eyes unfocused.

“Because,” he says quietly, “Yeonjun is into someone else.”

Beomgyu blinks.

“Oh,” he says. Not startled. Just absorbing it. “Okay.”

Soobin nods once, like that settles it. “So whatever you think you saw… it doesn’t change that.”

Beomgyu hums, unconvinced. He rolls onto his side again, propping his head up on his hand. “Maybe,” he says. “But I still saw the way you two were acting in the living room.”

Soobin closes his eyes briefly.

“That wasn’t—”

“You don’t have to explain it,” Beomgyu interrupts gently. “I’m just saying there is something there.”

Soobin opens his eyes again, gaze dropping to his hands. “I know.”

That’s it.

No argument. No denial.

Beomgyu’s brows lift slightly. “You know?”

Soobin nods. “I know there’s… something.” He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “I just don’t think it means what it looks like.”

“And why’s that?” Beomgyu asks.

Soobin is quiet for a moment. Then he speaks again, voice lower. “Because Yeonjun said something earlier. Something that made me think—” He stops, shaking his head slightly. “That made me understand it a certain way.”

Beomgyu waits.

Soobin continues, carefully, “He asked me if you guys would be wrong for thinking something was going on between us.”

Beomgyu’s expression sharpens, attention fully focused now.

“And?” he prompts.

“And then he asked,” Soobin says, swallowing, “if that would actually be wrong.”

Silence settles between them, thick and charged.

Beomgyu exhales slowly. “That doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“I know,” Soobin admits. “But it doesn’t sound like certainty either.” He lets out a quiet, almost self-deprecating laugh. “I could’ve misunderstood. Yeonjun isn’t… direct. He leaves space for interpretation.”

Soobin finally looks at Beomgyu. 

“And I might’ve filled that space with what I was already thinking.”

Beomgyu studies him for a long moment, eyes searching his face. “You don’t usually do that.”

“I know.”

“So why now?”

Soobin leans back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling again. “Because tonight changed things,” he says softly. “And I don’t know which parts of that are real yet.”

Beomgyu nods slowly. “Fair.”

Another quiet moment passes. The lamp hums softly, shadows shifting as one of them moves.

“Still,” Beomgyu says eventually, voice lighter but no less certain, “even if he’s into someone else… that doesn’t erase what I saw.”

Soobin doesn’t respond right away.

Then, quietly, “No. It doesn’t.”

The truth sits there between them, unresolved and heavy, like a door left ajar in the middle of the night.

============================================================================================================================================================================================

2020.

It’s 3:45 in the morning when the apartment door opens.

The sound is quiet—careful—but it still breaks the low murmur of the movie playing in the living room. The screen casts a soft blue glow over the space, shadows stretching lazily across the walls. Soobin and Beomgyu are half-sprawled on the couch, a blanket tangled around their legs, the volume turned low enough that it doesn’t feel intrusive.

Soobin is awake.

Beomgyu is pretending not to be.

Yeonjun slips inside, shoes kicked off near the entrance without much thought, jacket shrugged off and dropped onto the nearest chair. He looks exhausted in that specific way that comes from hours of practice rather than lack of sleep, hair damp with sweat, eyes bright despite the hour.

He spots them immediately.

“Oh,” he says, amused. “You’re still up?”

Before either of them can answer, he crosses the room and drops onto the couch with them, collapsing sideways so that his weight presses briefly into Soobin’s side and his legs bump against Beomgyu’s. He doesn’t apologize. He never does.

“What are you doing?” Yeonjun asks, peering at the screen. “Is this the same movie from earlier?”

Beomgyu cracks one eye open. “We never finished it.”

“So you’re just… rewatching the middle?”

“It’s for the vibes,” Beomgyu replies, clearly not moving.

Soobin adjusts slightly, making room without comment. “Why are you home so late?” he asks, voice calm but attentive. “We thought you’d be back hours ago.”

Yeonjun groans, stretching his arms above his head. “Training.”

Beomgyu hums. “At almost four in the morning.”

“The choreographer dropped a new dance break,” Yeonjun continues, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Said he wanted to try something different for my part. We kept running it over and over.”

Soobin nods slowly. “How was it?”

Yeonjun’s lips curve into a tired smile. “Hard. But good. I think it’ll look insane on stage.”

Beomgyu shifts, turning just enough to look at him properly now. “Mm,” he says lightly. “So you were actually training.”

Yeonjun glances at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Beomgyu shrugs, tone deliberately casual. “Nothing. Just wondering if you were training… or if you were hanging out with that dancer.”

Soobin stills.

Just barely.

Yeonjun blinks, then laughs. “What dancer?”

“The one from earlier,” Beomgyu says, eyes still on the screen like he couldn’t care less. “The one who kept finding excuses to stand way too close to you.”

Yeonjun scoffs. “She was just being friendly.”

“That’s one way to call it,” Beomgyu mutters.

Soobin clears his throat softly. “She was very friendly,” he adds, not accusing, just stating.

Yeonjun rolls his eyes, leaning back deeper into the couch. “Nothing happened. I was literally in the studio the whole time.”

Beomgyu hums again. “Sure.”

“Why do you sound disappointed?” Yeonjun asks, amused.

Beomgyu smirks. “I sound skeptical.”

Yeonjun laughs, turning his head toward Soobin. “You believe me, right?”

Soobin meets his gaze. For a moment, there’s something unreadable there—something careful—but he nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

Yeonjun grins, satisfied, and lets his head fall back against the cushion, eyes drifting shut. “I’m exhausted.”

“You smell like practice,” Beomgyu says.

“That’s not a compliment.”

“It’s an observation.”

Yeonjun shifts on the couch, rolling his shoulders once, then again, a quiet groan slipping out before he can stop it.

“Ugh,” he mutters. “My back is killing me.”

Beomgyu cracks his eyes open immediately. “That’s what you get for staying in the studio until four in the morning.”

“I didn’t ask for commentary,” Yeonjun replies, pressing a hand to his lower back and arching slightly as if testing the pain. “I asked for sympathy.”

“You get concern,” Beomgyu says, pushing himself up on one elbow to look at him properly now. “You really need to take better care of yourself. Especially after that last injury.”

Yeonjun exhales. “I am taking care of myself.”

“You say that every time,” Beomgyu counters. “And then you ignore it until it gets worse.”

Soobin, who’s been quiet, watching Yeonjun’s movements more closely than the movie, leans forward slightly. “Does it hurt a lot?”

Yeonjun shrugs. “Not unbearable. Just tight. Like everything’s locked up.”

Soobin hesitates, then asks, voice calm but careful, “Would a massage help?”

The question hangs in the air longer than it should.

Beomgyu blinks. “Wait. You?”

Soobin glances at him briefly. “I mean—if it would help.”

Yeonjun turns his head slowly toward Soobin, eyebrows lifting. “You’d actually do that?”

Soobin meets his gaze without flinching. “If it helps you, yeah. Of course.”

Something shifts.

Yeonjun’s mouth opens, then closes again, like he hadn’t expected the answer to come so easily. He laughs softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t know you offered those kinds of services.”

“It’s not a service,” Soobin replies. “It’s… helping.”

Beomgyu squints between them. “Why does that sound weirdly intense.”

Yeonjun ignores him, still looking at Soobin. “You sure?” he asks, quieter now. “I mean, I don’t want to bother you.”

Soobin’s expression softens. “You’re not bothering me.”

There’s a pause.

Yeonjun shifts again, wincing slightly, then sighs. “Okay. Maybe it would help. Just—” He gestures vaguely. “My shoulders and lower back are really stiff.”

Soobin nods once, decisive. “Sit up.”

Beomgyu makes a noise of protest. “Wow. This escalated quickly.”

“You can leave,” Yeonjun shoots back.

“I live here.”

Still, Beomgyu scoots a little farther down the couch, giving them space while pretending very hard not to watch.

Yeonjun sits up, turning so his back faces Soobin, shoulders tense beneath his shirt. He rolls them once more, then stills, waiting.

Soobin hesitates for just a moment before placing his hands lightly on Yeonjun’s shoulders.

The contact is careful at first.

Too careful.

Yeonjun inhales sharply, not in pain, but surprise. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Your hands are cold.”

“Sorry,” Soobin says quietly, adjusting, pressing a little more firmly now. His thumbs work into the muscle near Yeonjun’s neck, slow and tentative.

Yeonjun exhales, head tipping forward slightly. “No—don’t stop. It’s fine.”

Soobin doesn’t.

His focus narrows completely, attention fixed on the tension under his palms, the way Yeonjun’s shoulders slowly begin to loosen. He doesn’t speak. Yeonjun doesn’t either, aside from the occasional quiet breath that slips out when Soobin hits a particularly tight spot.

Beomgyu clears his throat loudly. “I feel like I should announce that I’m still here.”

Neither of them responds immediately.

Soobin’s hands slide just a little lower, careful, respectful, still nothing inappropriate—but the air feels warmer now, heavier, charged with awareness. Yeonjun’s breathing is slower, deeper, his posture relaxing despite himself.

“…You’re good at this,” Yeonjun says finally, voice low.

Soobin swallows. “I just… followed where it felt tense.”

Yeonjun hums softly. “You found all of it.”

Soobin’s hands move with more confidence now, thumbs pressing in slow, deliberate circles along Yeonjun’s shoulders, following the tension he can feel beneath the fabric. He’s careful, focused, gaze fixed on the point where muscle tightens and resists under his touch, adjusting pressure instinctively.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he murmurs.

“It doesn’t,” Yeonjun replies, voice already lower, shoulders sagging forward as the tension begins to give. “It’s just… tight. Right there.”

Soobin nods and shifts his hands slightly, pressing down with his thumbs just below Yeonjun’s shoulder blade, firm and precise.

Yeonjun inhales sharply.

Then he lets out a sound before he can stop himself.

It’s soft. Unplanned. A low, breathy noise pulled from him by pure relief as something finally releases under Soobin’s hands.

The room freezes.

Soobin’s thumbs stop mid-motion, his entire body going still like he’s been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. Heat rushes up his neck, ears burning as his mind replays the sound over and over again, louder than it actually was.

Yeonjun stiffens a second later, realizing what just happened.

“…Sorry,” he says quickly, embarrassed, clearing his throat. “That was— I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” Soobin cuts in immediately, voice a little too fast. “That’s normal. It happens.”

He hesitates for half a second.

Then he keeps going.

His hands move again, slower now, more controlled, like he’s grounding himself through the motion, refusing to let the moment spiral into something else. Yeonjun exhales shakily and forces himself to relax back into the couch, shoulders rising and falling as he tries not to overthink it.

Beomgyu, of course, does not let it pass.

“Oh?” he says lightly, lifting his head from the arm of the couch where he’s been pretending not to watch. “Is that what we’re calling normal now?”

Yeonjun groans. “Don’t.”

Beomgyu grins, eyes sparkling. “I’m just saying. That sounded… effective.”

“It was relief,” Yeonjun snaps, cheeks warm. “From the massage.”

Soobin nods quickly. “Yes. Relief.”

“Right,” Beomgyu says, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Because nothing says ‘relief’ like that.”

Yeonjun twists slightly to glare at him. “If you say one more word, I’m kicking you.”

“With your back like that?” Beomgyu laughs. “Bold threat.”

Soobin presses his lips together, trying very hard not to smile, hands still steady on Yeonjun’s shoulders even though his pulse hasn’t fully slowed yet. He keeps his eyes down, focused, pretending he didn’t feel the way Yeonjun’s muscles tensed again at the teasing.

“Can you please stop narrating?” Yeonjun mutters.

Beomgyu holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just here for moral support.”

“That’s the opposite of what this is.”

Yeonjun is the first one to break.

He lets out a laugh—short, a little breathless, deliberately casual—and reaches up to rub at the back of his neck like the whole thing is barely worth acknowledging. “Okay,” he says, still smiling, “that was… dramatic.”

Beomgyu perks up immediately. “Dramatic?”

“It was a noise,” Yeonjun continues, waving a hand dismissively as if that settles it. “A normal noise. People make noises when muscles relax.”

“Sure,” Beomgyu replies, far too pleased. “Normal. Everyday. Happens to me all the time.”

Soobin’s hands slow, then ease up, the pressure gradually fading until they rest lightly on Yeonjun’s shoulders. He exhales, relieved for the excuse to step back without making it obvious. “I think that’s enough,” he says, voice steady again. “You’re a lot less tense now.”

Yeonjun rolls his shoulders experimentally, then nods. “Yeah. Actually… yeah.” He grins over his shoulder. “You’re kind of a lifesaver.”

Soobin’s lips curve into a small, careful smile. “I’m glad it helped.”

Beomgyu stretches dramatically. “Amazing. Incredible. We learned two things tonight: Yeonjun has the worst back known to man, and Soobin apparently has hidden talents.”

Yeonjun snorts, standing up and stepping away from the couch, the distance immediate but not rushed. “Don’t get used to it,” he says lightly. “I’m not making this a regular thing.”

“Soobin’s loss,” Beomgyu mutters.

Yeonjun shoots him a look. “I heard that.” He grabs his phone from the table and glances toward the hallway. “I’m gonna take a quick shower,” he says. “Then I’ll come back and we can finish the movie before I pass out.”

“Try not to injure yourself in there,” Beomgyu calls after him.

“No promises.”

Yeonjun disappears down the hallway, footsteps soft against the floor, the bathroom door closing a moment later with a quiet click. The sound echoes just enough to mark his absence.

The living room feels different immediately.

Soobin remains standing for a second longer, hands flexing once at his sides before he sits back down on the couch. He stares at the paused movie screen without really seeing it, the quiet settling in heavier now that Yeonjun is gone.

Beomgyu watches him from the other end of the couch, expression unreadable, teasing finally set aside.

“…So,” he says lightly, breaking the silence.

Soobin doesn’t answer.

Beomgyu shifts on the couch, stretching his arms over his head before letting them fall again. He glances at Soobin, who’s sitting a little too straight now, hands folded together in his lap, eyes fixed on the frozen image on the TV screen.

“That must’ve messed with you,” Beomgyu says lightly.

Soobin doesn’t look at him. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Beomgyu replies, tone casual but knowing. “You know what.”

Soobin exhales slowly, fingers tightening together. “It was just a massage.”

Beomgyu snorts. “Yeah. And I’m the nation’s sweetheart.”

Soobin finally turns his head, giving him a look. “Beomgyu.”

“I’m not teasing,” Beomgyu says, surprisingly gentle. He shifts closer, resting an elbow on the back of the couch. “I mean… you’ve liked him for a while. Tonight was a lot.”

Soobin swallows. The sound feels too loud in the quiet room. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” he mutters.

“But I’m not wrong.”

Soobin’s gaze drops to the floor. “That doesn’t mean it’s good to point it out.”

Beomgyu shrugs. “I just wanted to check in.” He tilts his head, studying Soobin’s profile. “You okay?”

There’s a pause.

“I didn’t expect it,” Soobin admits quietly. “That’s all.”

“The sound?” Beomgyu asks.

Soobin winces. “Everything.”

Beomgyu hums, thoughtful. “You handled it well.”

Soobin lets out a short, humorless laugh. “I froze.”

“And then you kept going,” Beomgyu adds. “Which is very you.”

Soobin rubs a hand over his face. “I shouldn’t have.”

“But you did.”

Soobin doesn’t argue with that. He leans back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling now. “I keep telling myself it doesn’t mean anything,” he says softly. “That it’s just proximity. Stress. Long nights.”

Beomgyu nods. “You’ve always been good at explaining things away.”

Soobin turns his head toward him. “You think I’m lying to myself?”

Beomgyu considers that. “I think you’re trying very hard to be responsible.”

Soobin closes his eyes briefly. “That doesn’t stop it.”

“No,” Beomgyu agrees. “It usually makes it worse.”

Another stretch of silence passes, broken only by the distant sound of water and the faint hum of the refrigerator.

“You don’t have to do anything about it,” Beomgyu says eventually. “I know you know that.”

“I know,” Soobin replies. “That doesn’t make it easier.”

Beomgyu’s lips curve into a small, almost fond smile. “It never does.”

Soobin opens his eyes again, turning his head just enough to look at him. “You’re being unusually understanding.”

Beomgyu shrugs. “I’m good at reading rooms.”

Soobin snorts softly. “You’re good at making things uncomfortable.”

“That too.”

The shower shuts off down the hall.

Both of them go still.

Beomgyu straightens, tone shifting instantly back to lighter. “Well,” he says, clapping his hands once. “Showtime.”

Soobin exhales, nodding, shoulders squaring as he prepares himself to go back to normal, to put everything back in its place.

Whether it stays there is another question entirely.

2021.

The cameras are already rolling when they drop onto the couch, controllers in hand, bodies crowding together in a way that looks effortless on screen and feels even more natural off it. The vacation house is bright, open, clearly chosen for comfort rather than aesthetics, and the staff hovers just out of frame as the opening clapper snaps shut. The TO DO episode was chosen, a two days one night on a vacation house.

“So,” Yeonjun says, already grinning as he settles into the corner of the couch, “two days, one night, and we’re starting with violence.”

“It’s Mario Kart,” Kai replies, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of them. “This is war.”

Soobin and Beomgyu sit side by side in the center, controllers held with suspicious intensity. The game countdown echoes from the TV, colorful and loud, the familiar music filling the room as the race begins.

Almost immediately, chaos.

“I was winning,” Soobin protests, leaning forward as his character spins out after getting hit by a shell. “You waited for that.”

Beomgyu laughs, loud and triumphant. 

“You’re cheating,” Soobin adds, glaring at the screen.

“I’m not cheating,” Beomgyu shoots back without even looking at him. “You’re just bad at playing.”

“That’s not true.”

“It absolutely is.”

Taehyun watches with clinical focus from the armrest. “Statistically, Beomgyu does rely heavily on items rather than driving skill.”

“That’s strategy,” Beomgyu argues. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Soobin clicks his tongue, frustrated. “You only throw items when I pass you.”

“Because you’re right there.”

Kai leans closer to the screen. “Oh, you’re about to get hit again.”

“I swear—” Soobin groans as another shell connects. “This is sabotage.”

Beomgyu grins and, without taking his eyes off the screen, tilts his head toward Yeonjun. “Hyung,” he calls casually, “be honest. Am I cheating?”

The question hangs there for just a second too long.

Yeonjun looks from the screen to Beomgyu, then to Soobin, who’s biting his lip in concentration, brows furrowed, clearly trying not to lose again. There’s something almost instinctive in the way Yeonjun answers, like he doesn’t even have to think about it.

“Yes,” he says immediately. “You’re cheating.”

Soobin’s head snaps toward him. “You see it too, right?”

Beomgyu looks personally offended. “What?”

“You wait,” Yeonjun continues easily, leaning back into the couch, controller resting loosely in his hands. “You slow down just enough to stay behind him and then spam items when he passes. That’s cheap.”

“That’s tactical,” Beomgyu insists.

“That’s cowardly,” Yeonjun replies, deadpan.

Kai bursts out laughing. “Hyung picked a side!”

Taehyun nods. “Objectively, Yeonjun is correct.”

Soobin smiles, quick and unguarded, eyes flicking to Yeonjun for just a moment before returning to the screen. “Thank you.”

Beomgyu scoffs loudly. “Wow. Betrayal on camera.”

“You asked,” Yeonjun shrugs. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered.”

“I’m never trusting you again.”

“That won’t last,” Kai says.

The race continues, Soobin straightening in his seat with renewed determination, fingers tightening around the controller. “Okay,” he mutters. “Now it’s personal.”

Beomgyu laughs, loud and fearless. “Bring it on.”

Yeonjun watches them for a second longer than necessary, amusement softening into something quieter as he notices the way Soobin relaxes just a little, confidence returning now that someone’s on his side. He doesn’t comment on it. He just settles back, content to watch the chaos unfold.

“Soobin—Soobin—SOOBIN—”

The final lap blurs across the screen, music speeding up as the countdown ticks closer to the finish line. Soobin leans forward, shoulders tense, grip tight on the controller as Beomgyu’s character comes up just behind him, dangerously close.

“No,” Beomgyu mutters. “No, no, no—”

A shell flies.

Misses.

Soobin crosses the finish line.

The screen flashes 1st Place.

“I WON!” Soobin shouts, loud and unrestrained, the words tearing out of him before he can even process them. He throws his arms up instinctively, controller still in hand. “I WON!”

Yeonjun laughs immediately, bright and genuine. “You did! You actually did!”

Beomgyu stares at the screen like it personally betrayed him. “That’s not possible.”

Kai jumps to his feet. “HYUNG WON!”

Taehyun nods once, satisfied. “Justice.”

Soobin turns sharply toward Yeonjun, eyes wide, disbelief melting into pure exhilaration—and then he moves without thinking, throwing himself sideways into Yeonjun’s space. His shoulder collides with Yeonjun’s chest as he laughs, arms half-wrapping around him, the momentum knocking them both back against the couch.

“I DID IT,” Soobin says breathlessly, face bright, voice right there, too close.

Yeonjun catches him easily, instinctive, one arm coming up to steady him as the couch dips beneath their combined weight. He laughs again, louder this time. “You did,” he says, still grinning. “I told you he was cheating.”

Soobin’s head tilts back slightly as he laughs, hand braced against Yeonjun’s shoulder, fingers curled into fabric. For just a second, neither of them moves to create space. They don’t look at each other for too long. They don’t acknowledge the closeness.

They don’t need to.

Beomgyu groans dramatically. “This is a scam. I demand a rematch.”

“You lost,” Yeonjun says easily. “On camera.”

“Soobin-Hyung won fair and square,” Taehyun adds.

Beomgyu points at the screen. “The game was biased.”

Kai laughs. “You’re just mad because Hyung beat you.”

Soobin finally pushes himself upright, still smiling, cheeks flushed, and pumps a fist in the air. “I beat you.”

Beomgyu scoffs. “Once.”

“So?” Soobin shoots back, playful now. “Still counts.”

Yeonjun leans back into the couch, relaxed, eyes following Soobin as he celebrates, a fond smile lingering longer than he realizes. When Soobin glances back at him, their eyes meet briefly—warm, shared, unspoken—before the noise pulls them apart again.

“Next round,” Beomgyu declares, already grabbing another controller. “No items.”

“That defeats the entire point of the game,” Yeonjun replies.

“Exactly,” Beomgyu says. “That’s how I win.”

Soobin laughs, breathless and light, dropping back into his seat beside Yeonjun, shoulder brushing his arm again. “You’re just scared.”

“Of you?” Beomgyu scoffs. “Please.”

Beomgyu drops the controller onto the cushion with a dramatic sigh, slumping sideways like all the energy drained out of him at once. 

“Okay,” he declares, staring at the ceiling. “I’m starving.”

Kai barely looks up from the snacks spread on the table. “Then get up and eat.”

Beomgyu turns his head slowly. “Wow.”

“What?”

“That was cold.”

“It was practical,” Kai replies. “There’s food right there.”

Beomgyu squints at the table, unimpressed. “That’s not food. That’s survival rations.”

Taehyun nods thoughtfully. “Technically accurate.”

“I want something different,” Beomgyu continues, sitting up now, clearly committed to the complaint. “Something warm. Something real.”

Soobin raises an eyebrow. “At this hour?”

“Yes,” Beomgyu says firmly. “Especially at this hour.”

Yeonjun, who’s been leaning back against the couch, watching the chaos with an easy smile, hums thoughtfully. “I was actually thinking of cooking.”

All heads turn toward him.

“You were what?” Kai asks.

Yeonjun shrugs, casual. “Cooking. We’ve been eating snacks all day.”

“What were you thinking of making?” Soobin asks, curious despite himself.

“Pork ribs,” Yeonjun replies. “There’s a grill outside, right?”

Beomgyu’s eyes light up instantly. “You’re going to cook… for me?”

Yeonjun laughs. “Not just for you. For everyone.”

“That’s not what it sounded like,” Kai says immediately.

Taehyun crosses his arms. “This is suspicious.”

Beomgyu points at Yeonjun. “You see? This is favoritism.”

Yeonjun scoffs. “You’re the one who complained.”

“So you’re rewarding me.”

“I’m feeding you.”

Soobin watches the exchange quietly, lips pressed together in a way that suggests he’s holding back a smile. “You’re really going to cook now?”

Yeonjun nods. “Why not?”

Kai grins. “Hyung cooking at a variety shoot? The staff is going to love this.”

Beomgyu leans closer, eyes sparkling. “You know, I didn’t even have to ask nicely.”

“You never ask nicely,” Taehyun replies.

Yeonjun stands up, stretching his arms over his head. “Alright. If I’m doing this, I’m doing it properly. Someone help me carry things.”

“I’ll help,” Soobin says immediately, rising from the couch without hesitation.

Beomgyu notices.

Of course he does.

“Oh,” he says lightly. “So now it’s a team effort.”

Yeonjun glances between them, oblivious. “You coming too, or are you just going to keep talking?”

Beomgyu grins. “I’ll supervise.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“It’s emotional support.”

Soobin shakes his head, smiling now as he follows Yeonjun toward the kitchen. “You don’t have to do this.”

Yeonjun looks back at him. “I want to.”

The words land easily, without thought, but Kai immediately gasps from the couch. “He wants to.”

Taehyun adds, deadpan, “We’re witnessing history.”

Beomgyu throws his arms up. “I knew being hungry would pay off.”

Yeonjun rolls his eyes, already opening cabinets, but he’s smiling as he does it, comfortable, relaxed, like this—cooking, being surrounded, being needed—is exactly where he wants to be.

The grill crackles the moment Yeonjun turns it on, flames licking up just enough to make Kai take a step back instinctively.

“Okay,” Kai says, holding his hands up. “I just want it on record that if something explodes, it was not my fault.”

“Nothing is going to explode,” Yeonjun replies easily, already tying the apron around his waist like he was born in it. “Relax.”

“That’s what people say right before things explode,” Kai mutters, retreating to a safe distance near the counter.

Soobin stands beside Yeonjun, posture straight, sleeves rolled up with visible determination. “Tell me what to do,” he says seriously. “I can help.”

Beomgyu snorts from behind them. “That’s a threat.”

Soobin ignores him. “Do you want me to prepare the sauce?”

Yeonjun pauses for half a second, then nods. “Yeah. Just—slowly. And don’t rush.”

“I won’t,” Soobin says immediately.

Beomgyu leans over Taehyun’s shoulder. “He’s going to rush.”

Taehyun, already checking the ingredients laid out on the counter, sighs. “He always rushes.”

Soobin reaches for the bottle of soy sauce, unscrewing the cap carefully. “How much?”

“Just a bit,” Yeonjun replies, turning toward the grill.

Soobin pours.

Too much.

Yeonjun turns back just in time to see the liquid flooding the bowl. “—Okay, stop. Stop. That’s enough.”

Soobin freezes mid-pour. “…This much?”

“That’s not a bit,” Beomgyu says. “That’s a cry for help.”

“I thought more flavor would be better,” Soobin defends, flustered.

Yeonjun laughs, stepping closer to fix it. “That’s not how cooking works.”

Kai nods solemnly. “This is why we don’t let him near fire.”

“I can still help,” Soobin insists.

“You can stir,” Yeonjun says gently, handing him a spoon. “Just stir.”

Soobin nods, gripping the spoon like it’s a weapon.

Meanwhile, Beomgyu has taken it upon himself to poke at the ribs with absolutely no understanding of what he’s doing. “I think they’re done.”

“They’re raw,” Taehyun replies flatly.

“They look done.”

“They are pink.”

“So?” Beomgyu shrugs.

Yeonjun shoos him away with the tongs. “Get out of here.”

“I’m supervising,” Beomgyu protests.

“You’re sabotaging.”

“Same thing.”

Taehyun steps in smoothly, flipping the ribs with practiced precision. “You need to lower the heat slightly,” he tells Yeonjun.

Yeonjun nods. “Good call.”

Kai watches this exchange, impressed. “Wow. You actually know what you’re doing.”

Taehyun shrugs. “Someone has to survive.”

Behind them, Soobin is stirring with extreme focus, tongue caught slightly between his teeth. He stirs too fast.

The sauce splashes.

A drop lands dangerously close to the flame.

Kai gasps. “HYUNG.”

Soobin freezes. “I didn’t—”

Yeonjun reaches over immediately, steadying the bowl. “Okay. Slower. Much slower.”

“I am never cooking again,” Soobin mutters.

Beomgyu grins. “You say that every time.”

“And every time it’s true.”

Yeonjun laughs, the sound bright as he turns back to the grill, confidence unwavering despite the chaos around him. “Alright. Everyone calm down. This is under control.”

Another sizzle.

Another flare of flame.

Kai squeaks and retreats another step.

“Why is it angry?” he asks.

“Because you’re nervous,” Beomgyu says.

Taehyun sighs. “Please stop narrating.”

Still, somehow—against all odds—the smell starts to change. Rich. Savory. Good.

Yeonjun glances over his shoulder, smiling. “See? Worth it.”

Soobin relaxes a little, shoulders dropping. “It actually smells… good.”

Beomgyu grins. “Because Yeonjun Hyung is cooking.”

Kai nods. “Yeah. Not because of us.”

They end up crowded around the dining table, plates too big for the portions they’ve piled onto them, the smell of grilled pork ribs still lingering warmly in the air. Someone has pushed the bowls closer together, napkins scattered messily between them, the atmosphere loose and satisfied in the way it only gets after good food and shared effort.

Kai takes the first bite, eyes widening almost immediately. He chews for a second, then nods with complete sincerity. “Wow,” he says, pointing his chopsticks at Yeonjun. “This is really good. Like… really good.”

Yeonjun laughs softly, shoulders relaxing now that the chaos is behind him. “You say that every time you don’t have to cook.”

“That’s because every time I don’t cook, the food tastes better,” Kai replies without hesitation.

Taehyun nods in agreement as he eats, calm as ever. “Objectively, this is well seasoned. The meat’s tender.”

Beomgyu, already halfway through his plate, lifts his head immediately. “See?” he says, grinning. “Team effort.”

Yeonjun raises an eyebrow. “Team?”

“I helped,” Beomgyu insists, gesturing with his chopsticks. “Morally.”

Soobin lets out a short laugh, shaking his head as he reaches for another piece. “You were a brat the entire time,” he says plainly. “You didn’t help with anything except testing my patience.”

Beomgyu looks offended. “That’s a skill.”

“You poked the ribs when they weren’t done, complained about waiting, and tried to convince Yeonjun to turn the heat all the way up,” Soobin continues, tone calm but pointed. “At one point, I thought you were actively trying to sabotage dinner.”

Yeonjun chuckles, glancing between them. “He did try to steal one before it was ready.”

“For quality control,” Beomgyu argues. “Someone had to make sure we wouldn’t die.”

Kai laughs, nearly choking on his food. “You were the biggest danger there.”

Taehyun hums thoughtfully. “Statistically accurate.”

Beomgyu presses a hand to his chest. “This is bullying.”

Soobin shoots him a look. “You enjoyed it.”

Beomgyu’s grin gives him away immediately. “Maybe.”

Yeonjun watches the exchange with quiet amusement, leaning back slightly in his chair as he takes another bite, content in a way that feels earned. “Next time,” he says lightly, “you’re actually helping.”

Beomgyu scoffs. “Next time, I’m supervising again.”

“There will be no next time,” Soobin replies dryly.

Kai laughs, resting his chin in his hands as he looks around the table. “I like this,” he says suddenly. “Us cooking together. Even if it’s chaotic.”

Yeonjun’s smile softens just a little. “Yeah. Me too.”

Soobin glances at him, just briefly, something warm flickering across his expression before he looks back down at his plate. Beomgyu notices, of course, but says nothing, too busy reaching for another rib like the argument never happened at all.

The table fills with noise again—clinking chopsticks, overlapping voices, laughter rising easily as the night settles deeper around them, the cameras catching the mess and the comfort in equal measure.

For a while, it’s just food, and teasing, and five people sitting together like this has always been normal.

2021 - LATER THAT SAME NIGHT.

The bedroom ends up looking nothing like a place meant for sleep.

Mattresses are dragged across the floor and lined up messily, blankets tossed over them without much care, pillows piling up in the center like an invitation for chaos rather than rest. Someone’s phone is playing music quietly in the background while the staff finishes adjusting the last camera angle before stepping out, leaving the five of them alone in the frame.

Beomgyu drops onto one of the mattresses dramatically, spreading his arms wide. “I call this one.”

Kai squints at it. “That’s not how calling works.”

“I got here first.”

“You threw yourself across three mattresses,” Taehyun points out calmly. “That means none of them belong to you.”

Beomgyu groans. “You’re no fun.”

Soobin kneels near the corner, carefully straightening a blanket, trying very hard to look like he’s not already exhausted. “Can we just decide before someone gets hurt?”

Too late.

Yeonjun grabs a pillow from the pile and tosses it lightly in Beomgyu’s direction, more teasing than attack. “Move over.”

Beomgyu gasps like he’s been personally betrayed and retaliates immediately, launching the pillow back with far more force than necessary. It clips Yeonjun’s shoulder.

“Oh, that’s how it is?” Yeonjun says, eyes lighting up.

Kai barely has time to react before a pillow smacks into his chest. “HEY.”

“I didn’t even aim for you,” Yeonjun laughs.

Kai grabs the nearest pillow and swings it wildly. “Everyone’s a target now.”

Taehyun sighs, already bracing himself as another pillow flies past his head. “This is inefficient.”

That doesn’t stop Beomgyu from tackling him lightly from the side, laughing as Taehyun protests and tries to regain balance without actually dropping his calm demeanor. “Please remove yourself,” Taehyun mutters, though the corner of his mouth betrays him.

Soobin watches for half a second, then finally gives in, grabbing a pillow and swinging it at Yeonjun with surprising accuracy. It hits him square in the chest.

Yeonjun freezes, then laughs, delighted. “Oh. So you’re joining now.”

Soobin smiles, shy but real, lifting the pillow defensively. “You started it.”

The room fills with noise—laughter, exaggerated complaints, muffled yelps as someone inevitably gets hit harder than intended. Pillows scatter across the floor, blankets get tangled, and by the time the energy finally burns itself out, they’re all breathless and grinning, collapsing onto the mattresses wherever they land.

“Okay,” Kai says between breaths. “I’m done. If anyone hits me again, I will cry.”

Beomgyu flops onto his back. “That was bonding.”

“That was violence,” Taehyun corrects.

Yeonjun pushes himself up, brushing hair out of his face as he looks around at them, fond and amused. “Alright, alright. We should probably say goodnight.”

He grabs the camera carefully, lifting it from its stand and turning it toward them. The sudden shift makes everyone scramble instinctively, sitting up straighter, smoothing hair, pulling blankets up.

Soobin leans in closer so everyone fits in frame. Beomgyu flashes a peace sign. Kai waves enthusiastically.

Yeonjun smiles into the lens. “Thank you for spending today with us.”

“So we’ll be sleeping now,” Soobin adds, voice gentle, warm.

Kai grins. “Goodnight, MOA!”

“Sleep well,” Taehyun says.

Beomgyu tilts his head, playful. “Dream of us.”

Yeonjun laughs softly, then reaches forward. “Goodnight.”

The light clicks off with a soft snap, and the room immediately feels different.

Shadows stretch across the walls, outlines of bodies shifting as everyone settles into their places, blankets rustling quietly as they’re pulled closer. Someone sighs, long and content, the kind of sound that only comes when exhaustion finally wins.

“Goodnight,” Kai murmurs, voice already heavy with sleep as he turns onto his side.

“Try not to steal my blanket,” Beomgyu replies lazily, though he doesn’t open his eyes.

“You don’t even notice when I do,” Kai mutters back.

Taehyun adjusts his pillow with practiced precision, lying flat on his back. “Please be quiet,” he says calmly. “I intend to sleep.”

“That’s optimistic,” Beomgyu answers, shifting closer to his own pillow, the mattress creaking softly beneath him. “Someone’s probably going to snore.”

“I do not snore.”

“That’s exactly what people who snore say.”

A quiet laugh moves through the room, low and brief, fading just as quickly as it came. Blankets shift again. A foot bumps into someone else’s by accident, followed by a whispered apology and a soft huff of amusement.

Yeonjun rolls onto his side, one arm tucked beneath his head, staring up at the ceiling where faint shadows move as someone turns over nearby. His breathing is steady, but his eyes stay open, adjusting to the dark. He can hear Soobin not far from him, the subtle sound of fabric moving as he settles, then stills.

“Soobin?” Yeonjun whispers after a moment, barely louder than a breath.

“Yeah?” comes the quiet reply, just as soft.

“Did you set your alarm?”

A pause. “I think so.”

Yeonjun hums. “Good. We can’t be late tomorrow.”

“Mm,” Soobin answers, the sound sleepy but present.

Silence settles again, deeper this time. The kind that feels intentional.

The room grows warmer as bodies relax, the sounds reducing to slow breaths and the occasional shift of weight. Somewhere, Beomgyu lets out a quiet sigh, already half asleep. Kai mumbles something unintelligible, words blurring together before fading out entirely.

Yeonjun closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again.

Soobin turns slightly on his mattress, facing the other direction now, but Yeonjun can still sense him there, awake in the same way he is, breathing not quite deep enough for sleep. Neither of them speaks again.

The night stretches.

It’s still dark outside when Soobin wakes up.

For a moment, he doesn’t know why. The room is quiet, wrapped in that deep, heavy silence that only exists in the middle of the night, when even the world outside seems to be holding its breath. He blinks slowly, eyes adjusting to the darkness, listening to the steady rhythm of breathing around him. Someone shifts in their sleep. Someone else sighs and settles again.

Soobin turns his head slightly—and notices the empty space.

Yeonjun’s mattress is there, blanket pushed back, pillow untouched, but Yeonjun himself is nowhere to be seen. The absence is subtle, but it pulls at Soobin’s attention immediately, a quiet tug that won’t let him turn over and ignore it. He checks the time on his phone out of habit, the screen briefly lighting up his face before he turns it off again.

Too early. Or too late.

Careful not to wake anyone, Soobin pushes himself up slowly, the mattress barely making a sound as he slips out from under the blanket. He pads toward the door, movements quiet and practiced, closing it behind him with the softest click before stepping into the hallway.

The living room is dim, lit only by the faint glow spilling in from the windows and a single lamp left on low. And there, on the couch, surrounded by pillows like a makeshift nest, Yeonjun is sitting with his legs tucked up, a thick blanket draped loosely over his shoulders. His phone lights up his face in pale blue as his thumb scrolls absently, expression tired but awake in a way that suggests sleep hasn’t been an option for a while.

For a second, Soobin just watches him.

Then he clears his throat quietly. “What are you doing up?”

Yeonjun jolts so hard he nearly drops his phone, letting out a sharp gasp as he jumps on the couch, blanket slipping off his shoulders and pooling around his waist. “—Jesus!”

Soobin bursts out laughing before he can stop himself, covering his mouth instinctively as the sound echoes a little too loudly in the quiet apartment. “I’m sorry,” he says, still smiling. “You looked… very focused.”

Yeonjun presses a hand to his chest, breathing out slowly as he glares at him. “You scared me.”

“You were the one sitting in the dark like a horror movie character,” Soobin replies, stepping closer, amusement still clear in his voice.

Yeonjun scoffs, shaking his head as he adjusts the blanket back around himself. “I thought everyone was asleep.”

“I was,” Soobin says. “Until I wasn’t.”

Yeonjun looks at him more carefully now, eyes lingering for a moment before softening. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Soobin shrugs lightly. “No, and I guess you couldn't either... You weren’t there.”

That earns him a small, surprised smile. “Yeah,” Yeonjun says quietly. “You're right.”

He glances down at his phone, then locks the screen and sets it aside on the couch, suddenly aware of how bright it’s been in the dark. The room feels warmer now, smaller somehow, with just the two of them awake while the rest of the world sleeps.

“So,” Yeonjun adds, voice lower, casual but not dismissive. “Guess we’re both bad at this.”

Soobin nods, still smiling, and moves closer to the couch without really thinking about it.

Yeonjun just shifts slightly on the couch and lifts the edge of the blanket, creating a small opening beside him, the gesture casual enough to pass as nothing, deliberate enough that it’s impossible to misunderstand. The space waits.

Soobin hesitates for half a second, then steps closer and sits down beside him, careful not to move too abruptly. The blanket falls back over them, warm and heavy, trapping the quiet between their shoulders as the couch dips under their combined weight.

“Why did you wake up?” Yeonjun asks softly, turning his head just enough to look at him.

Soobin exhales, shoulders lowering as if the question alone gives him permission to be honest. “I’ve been sleeping badly,” he admits. “Lately.” He stares ahead, eyes unfocused. “Too much in my head. Schedules, the group… things I can’t really turn off.”

Leader things, unspoken but obvious.

Yeonjun nods slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”

Soobin glances at him. “You always say that.”

“Because I do,” Yeonjun replies, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You carry a lot. Even when you pretend you don’t.”

Soobin huffs quietly, not quite a laugh. “Someone has to.”

A comfortable silence settles between them for a moment, the kind that doesn’t demand filling. Yeonjun adjusts his position slightly, wincing before he can stop himself, the movement subtle but noticeable.

Soobin catches it immediately. “You okay?”

Yeonjun hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. Just—” He trails off, then sighs. “My back’s acting up again.”

Soobin turns toward him fully now, surprise clear in his expression. “Again?” He frowns. “I thought that had passed.”

“It did,” Yeonjun says quietly. “For a while.” He shrugs, careful, like he’s measuring how much truth to let through. “It came back a few days ago.”

Soobin’s brows knit together. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Yeonjun glances toward the dark hallway that leads back to the bedroom, where the others are sleeping. “I didn’t want to freak the kids out.”

Soobin snorts softly. “They’re not kids.”

“They act like it,” Yeonjun replies, a faint smile slipping through. “And they worry too much.”

Soobin studies him, something serious settling into his gaze. “You’re allowed to worry us.”

“I know,” Yeonjun says. “I just didn’t want to make it a thing.”

“So you sit alone in the dark instead?”

Yeonjun chuckles under his breath. “Sounds worse when you say it like that.”

Soobin shifts closer without thinking, their shoulders brushing beneath the blanket. “You should’ve told me.”

Yeonjun looks at him, expression unreadable for a moment before softening. “I’m telling you now.”

Soobin nods slowly, accepting that, his voice gentler when he speaks again. “Does it hurt a lot?”

“Enough to keep me awake,” Yeonjun admits.

“So… is there anything I can do?” Soobin asks quietly, after a moment, his voice careful, like he’s afraid of pushing too hard. He turns slightly on the couch to face Yeonjun more fully, knees brushing under the blanket, attention completely on him. “To help with the pain, I mean.”

Yeonjun lets out a small laugh, more breath than sound, shaking his head as he looks down at his hands. “You don’t have to worry about that,” he says lightly. “I’m taking medication. It should calm down.”

Soobin doesn’t look convinced. “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt now.”

Yeonjun glances at him, surprised by how direct that sounds coming from Soobin, then looks away again, shoulders lifting in a half-shrug. “I’ll be fine,” he insists gently. “Really.”

Soobin studies his profile for a long second, the curve of his jaw tense in a way that doesn’t match his words. “Even so,” he says, softer now, “I want to help.”

That makes Yeonjun pause.

He swallows, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket, the quiet stretching just enough to become noticeable. “You already have,” he murmurs.

Soobin blinks. “I have?”

Yeonjun hesitates, then laughs again, this time embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Last year,” he says, voice lower. “When my back was acting up before. You… helped. With the massage.”

Recognition dawns slowly on Soobin’s face, followed almost immediately by a flicker of surprise that Yeonjun remembers it so clearly. “Oh,” he says. “That.”

“Yeah,” Yeonjun replies, a little sheepish now. “It helped more than I expected.”

Soobin nods, thoughtful, eyes dropping briefly to Yeonjun’s shoulders as if he can already picture where the tension would be. “I didn’t know it was still something you thought about.”

Yeonjun shrugs. “It’s hard to forget something that actually worked.”

A quiet smile curves at the corner of Soobin’s mouth, warm but restrained. “You didn’t say anything back then either.”

“I didn’t want to make it weird,” Yeonjun admits.

Soobin huffs softly. “And now?”

Yeonjun glances at him, meeting his eyes for just a second too long before looking away again. “Now I’m still trying not to.”

The words hang there between them, heavy with implication, wrapped in the low hum of the sleeping house. Soobin shifts slightly closer without realizing it, the blanket sliding just a bit higher over their laps, his presence steady and grounding.

“If it helped before,” Soobin says carefully, “it might help again.”

Yeonjun’s ears burn faintly. He clears his throat. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” Soobin replies. “I’m just offering.”

Yeonjun hesitates for a seconf.

It’s subtle, barely noticeable if you don’t know him well—the way his shoulders tense slightly under the blanket, the way his jaw tightens as he stares ahead instead of looking at Soobin. For a moment, it seems like he might joke it away again, deflect, pretend the offer never landed as heavily as it did.

Then he exhales.

“…Okay,” he says quietly. “If you’re sure.”

Soobin nods immediately, a little too quickly. “Yeah. I’m sure.” There’s a pause, awkward and careful, before Soobin gestures vaguely toward the couch. “You should… turn around.”

Yeonjun blinks. “Oh.”

He shifts, moving slowly, rotating his body until his back is to Soobin, legs still tucked up beneath the blanket. The couch creaks softly as he settles, shoulders stiff like he’s bracing for something even though nothing has happened yet.

Soobin swallows.

He hadn’t thought this far ahead.

“…For a massage,” he adds, voice quieter now, “it’d probably work better if you took your shirt off.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning neither of them names.

Yeonjun lets out a small, nervous laugh. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense.”

He reaches for the hem of his shirt, movements uncharacteristically hesitant, then pulls it over his head in one smooth motion anyway, folding it and setting it aside without looking back. His skin catches the low light from the lamp, warm and familiar and suddenly far too much.

Soobin freezes.

Yeonjun’s back is right there—broad shoulders, defined lines of muscle made more obvious by years of dance and training, the faintest hint of tension sitting between his shoulder blades like it’s been carved there on purpose. Soobin’s gaze traces the curve of his spine before he can stop himself, heat rising uncomfortably fast to his face.

He looks away immediately.

Then back again.

He can’t help it.

This is Yeonjun, unguarded in a way he rarely allows himself to be, trusting without even realizing that’s what he’s doing. The weight of it settles heavily in Soobin’s chest, something warm and sharp all at once.

“You okay?” Yeonjun asks softly, sensing the silence.

“Yeah,” Soobin answers, too quickly again. He clears his throat, flexing his hands at his sides like he’s trying to remember how they’re supposed to work. “I’m just—tell me if anything hurts. Or if you want me to stop.”

Yeonjun nods once, shoulders shifting slightly. “I will.”

Soobin draws a slow breath, steadying himself, eyes fixed on Yeonjun’s back as if grounding himself in the simple reality of the moment. This isn’t a confession. This isn’t anything he’s allowed to want more than it is.

It’s just helping.

That’s what he tells himself as he lifts his hands, hovering just short of touching, the space between them suddenly louder than any sound in the quiet room.

Soobin’s hands finally settle on Yeonjun’s shoulders.

The touch is light at first, almost hesitant, palms warm against skin as if he’s still testing whether this is real, whether Yeonjun will pull away. When he doesn’t, Soobin exhales quietly and lets his fingers press in more deliberately, thumbs working into the tense muscle at the top of Yeonjun’s shoulders, slow and controlled, exactly like he remembers.

“Like that?” Soobin asks under his breath.

Yeonjun hums softly, head dipping forward just a little. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s… good.”

The word lands heavier than it should.

Soobin adjusts his grip, moving carefully along the upper line of Yeonjun’s back, thumbs tracing small circles as he follows the tension beneath his skin. Yeonjun’s shoulders shift instinctively under the touch, muscles loosening in small increments, a quiet breath leaving him every time Soobin finds a particularly tight spot.

“You hold a lot here,” Soobin murmurs, more observation than comment.

Yeonjun lets out a small laugh, barely audible. “Occupational hazard.”

Soobin’s lips curve into a faint smile he doesn’t let Yeonjun see as he presses a little firmer, grounding himself in the routine of it. “You never stop moving,” he says. “Even when you’re resting.”

“Someone has to,” Yeonjun replies lightly, though his voice is slower now, softer around the edges. “If I don’t, things pile up.”

Soobin nods, even though Yeonjun can’t see it. His thumbs slide slightly lower, still well within the bounds of care, working the muscle just beneath Yeonjun’s shoulder blades. The warmth of his skin seeps into Soobin’s palms, and he has to focus—on pressure, on rhythm, on breathing evenly—so he doesn’t think about how close he is, or how natural this feels.

“You’re good at this,” Yeonjun says quietly after a moment.

Soobin swallows. “I’m just… paying attention.”

“Well,” Yeonjun murmurs, shifting subtly as the tension releases, “it shows.”

The space between them feels charged now, thick with awareness, every small sound amplified—the quiet brush of skin against skin, the faint rustle of the blanket as Yeonjun relaxes more fully into the couch, the slow, careful breath Soobin takes as he keeps his hands steady.

They talk about nothing after that. About the shoot earlier, about how tired everyone looked, about the ribs from dinner and how Beomgyu somehow still managed to complain even while eating. The words are soft and scattered, filling the silence without really breaking it, both of them keenly aware of how easily that silence could become something else if they let it.

Soobin’s hands continue their slow work, careful and unhurried, the tension between them growing not because of what he’s doing, but because of how impossible it suddenly feels to pretend this is just practical, just helpful, just another quiet moment in the dark.

Yeonjun exhales again, deeper this time, and Soobin has to steady himself, reminding his hands—and his heart—to stay exactly where they are.

Soobin’s hands keep moving, slow and deliberate, thumbs pressing into the tension along the top of Yeonjun’s shoulders as if that’s the only thing anchoring him to the moment. Yeonjun’s breathing has evened out, his posture looser now, shoulders no longer drawn up as tightly as before, the quiet between them filled with the soft rhythm of touch and breath.

“Feels better?” Soobin asks quietly.

“Yeah,” Yeonjun murmurs, head tilting forward just a little more. “A lot better.”

Soobin adjusts his pressure instinctively, following the muscle as it gives beneath his hands, the warmth of Yeonjun’s skin grounding and distracting all at once. For a moment, it almost feels normal again, like this is just care, just familiarity, nothing more.

Then Yeonjun speaks.

“Always knew you’d be good with your hands.”

The words slip out low and unguarded, almost lazy, like he hasn’t fully thought them through before they’re already hanging in the air between them.

Soobin freezes.

Not abruptly, not dramatically—but enough that the change is unmistakable. His thumbs stop mid-motion, hands still resting on Yeonjun’s shoulders, heat rushing to his face as the sentence replays in his mind, echoing with meanings Yeonjun clearly hadn’t intended to say out loud.

Yeonjun realizes it a second too late.

“Oh—” He clears his throat, a small, embarrassed laugh escaping him as he shifts slightly. “I mean—just… the massage.”

Soobin swallows, forcing himself to breathe, to stay exactly where he is. “Right,” he says, voice steady only because he makes it so. “Yeah.”

The silence that follows is sharp, charged, heavier than any of the quiet that came before it. Soobin’s hands are still there, warm and unmoving, the space between intention and implication suddenly impossible to ignore. Yeonjun doesn’t turn around, but his shoulders tense just slightly, awareness flooding back in.

“I didn’t mean—” Yeonjun starts, then stops, clearly unsure how to fix it without making it worse.

“I know,” Soobin replies quickly, gently, as if he’s cutting them both some slack. “It’s fine.”

He resumes the massage, slower now, more controlled, grounding himself in the familiar motion, even as the air between them hums with something new. Yeonjun exhales, but it’s not quite as relaxed as before, every breath carrying an edge of awareness that wasn’t there moments ago.

Yeonjun shifts suddenly, twisting at the waist until he’s facing Soobin, the movement abrupt enough to break whatever fragile balance they’d found. The blanket slides, his bare shoulders catching the low light as his hands lift in a helpless, half-formed gesture, expression open and unmistakably flustered.

“I really didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly, words tumbling over each other as if he’s afraid that if he pauses, the moment will harden into something he can’t undo. “I mean— I didn’t mean it that way.” 

He laughs once, breathless, clearly not amused. 

“Not that I think you’d be bad with your hands in the other way, I just—” He stops, swallows, then keeps going anyway, desperate to make himself understood. “I was talking about the massage. Just the massage. I’m not— I wasn’t trying to make it weird.”

Soobin watches him, very still.

Yeonjun keeps talking, because stopping feels worse. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think before I said it, and I know it sounded—” He gestures vaguely between them, frustration creeping into his voice. “That wasn’t my intention. I swear.”

Soobin smiles.

It’s small and soft and entirely disarming, the kind of smile that makes Yeonjun lose his train of thought mid-sentence. Before Yeonjun can finish whatever apology he was trying to shape, Soobin lifts a hand and presses his index finger gently against Yeonjun’s lips, the touch light but certain.

“It’s okay, hyung,” Soobin says quietly. “I understood what you meant.”

The words land gently, but the touch doesn’t go away.

Yeonjun freezes, breath catching just slightly as his eyes lift to Soobin’s face, then—without permission, without intention—drop to his mouth. Soobin notices immediately. He always does. His smile fades into something quieter, more intent, and his gaze follows the same path, settling on Yeonjun’s lips with a focus that makes the air between them feel suddenly thin.

Neither of them moves.

Soobin’s finger is still there, warm against Yeonjun’s mouth, close enough that Yeonjun can feel the heat of his skin, close enough that the next movement—any movement—would mean something they can’t pretend away. Yeonjun’s breathing is shallow now, chest rising and falling a little too fast, his eyes flicking up just long enough to meet Soobin’s before dropping back down again.

Soobin swallows.

The space between them shrinks, not because either of them leans in deliberately, but because neither of them leans away. Their noses are close enough now that Yeonjun can feel Soobin’s breath, slow and controlled, brushing against his skin. 

Yeonjun’s hand moves before he fully realizes what he’s doing.

It settles against Soobin’s thigh, warm and hesitant, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his pants as if testing whether this is real, whether Soobin will pull away. He doesn’t. Soobin stays exactly where he is, breath steady, gaze still fixed on Yeonjun’s mouth like the rest of the world has narrowed to that single point.

Yeonjun leans in.

The movement is slow, almost careful, like he’s giving Soobin time to change his mind, to step back, to stop this before it becomes something they can’t undo. But Soobin doesn’t move. His hand slips away from Yeonjun’s lips, falling to his own lap, and the space between them closes until there’s barely any left at all.

Their noses brush.

Their breaths mix.

Yeonjun’s lips graze Soobin’s—just barely, soft and unintentional enough that it feels like an accident, like something that could still be denied. Soobin inhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut for half a second, his body leaning forward by instinct rather than decision.

Another fraction of an inch.

Then—

“Hyungs?”

Taehyun’s voice carries down the hallway, sleepy and confused, breaking through the moment like a blade.

They freeze.

Yeonjun pulls back immediately, hand dropping from Soobin’s thigh like he’s been burned, the space between them reappearing all at once, abrupt and jarring. Soobin’s eyes snap open, reality rushing back in, his posture straightening as if he can physically put the moment back where it belongs.

“I—” Yeonjun starts, then stops, shaking his head once like words would only make it worse.

Soobin exhales, slow and controlled, gaze dropping to the floor for a brief second before lifting again, his expression carefully neutral now. “It’s fine,” he says quietly, not meeting Yeonjun’s eyes.

Taehyun’s footsteps pause somewhere near the living room entrance. “Are you guys still awake?”

“Yeah,” Yeonjun answers quickly. “Just—couldn’t sleep.”

“Oh,” Taehyun murmurs. “Okay. I’m going back.”

The footsteps retreat.

The house settles again.

Soobin stands up first, smoothing down his shirt with hands that are just a little too deliberate. “I should… sleep,” he says softly, already stepping away. “It’s late.”

Yeonjun nods, throat tight. “Yeah. You should.”

Soobin doesn’t linger. He turns and walks back toward the bedroom, disappearing down the hallway without looking back, the quiet swallowing him whole.

Yeonjun stays on the couch, staring at the dark space where Soobin was moments ago, the ghost of almost still lingering in the air long after it’s gone.