❁Rush Hour❁ @dreamon8 - Tumblr Blog

HONGJOONG | PLAYING AT LOSING YOU

PAIRING: Kim Hongjoong! X F!Reader

CONTENT: Angst with a hopeful ending, contemporary romance, friends to lovers, second chances, idol life (subtle mentions), emotional maturity, group dynamics (mentions of ATEEZ members).

WARNINGS: Intense arguments, poorly managed jealousy (drunkenness), raw/coarse language during high-tension moments, emotional instability, and fear of commitment.

SUMMARY: After months of a painful limbo and a "just friends" pact that never actually worked, the tension between Hongjoong and you explodes in the worst possible way after a night of drinking and an unforgivable comment. Blocked entirely from your life, Hongjoong is forced to step down from his pedestal, leave his leader's pride behind, and show up at your front door. To save what's left, both of you will have to stop hiding behind the silence and decide if you're ready to leap without a net—but this time, with all the cards on the table.

NOTE: I wrote this fic after talking with my dear @karmaghostjess93 while we were exchanging TikTok videos of her husband, and in the end, this idea just came up! I hope you like the story, i love u 💜🩵

You wouldn't be able to say exactly at what moment you crossed the line.

You know it was about a year ago, because you remember it by that silly thing with the cake: it was the night after Hongjoong’s birthday. Everyone had already left the apartment, the empty bottles were still scattered across the living room table, and only the two of you were left, sitting on the floor, eating the leftovers of the cake straight from the plate because neither of you had the strength left to clean up.

"I can't believe you're still eating," you told him, leaning your back against the couch, your legs stretched out, a little tipsy from the wine.

"I can't believe you're still here," he replied, with that tired half-smile that always disarms you. "The others left ages ago."

"Because I actually like you," you retorted, raising your fork to pierce a piece of cake and holding it up to his mouth.

He leaned in, caught it with his lips, and as he did, his eyes lingered on yours for a second too long. It was something so minimal, so seemingly insignificant, that you could have ignored it. You could have looked away, made a joke, said goodnight.

But you didn't.

You don't remember who leaned in first. You don't remember who kissed whom. You only remember the sensation: sweet with chocolate, bitter with alcohol, Hongjoong's hand gripping your waist as if he had been wanting to do it for a while now. You remember how you both laughed briefly against each other's mouths when you almost fell sideways, how that one kiss turned into several, how the living room faded into the background until you found yourselves in his room.

That night, everything began. And, in a way, it was also the night you both decided not to give it a name.

You aren't a couple.

You are friends.

That is what you always repeat whenever anyone gets too close to the truth.

That is what he told you with an almost cold clarity one of the first times:

"I don't want to commit to anyone," he warned you, lying flat on his back in his bed, his chest still heaving. "I don't have... right now I just can't."

You pretended it didn't hurt. You turned to your side, the sheet covering you up to your waist, a light laugh ready on your lips.

"Don't worry, leader," you replied, searching for his eyes in the dim light. "I'm not looking for a boyfriend either."

And at that moment, it even sounded convincing. Because you believed it. Because it was easier that way.

Since then, the same scene has been repeated too many times to count: late-night messages, impromptu visits to his bedroom, hangouts that "coincidentally" end with the two of you alone and you sitting on his lap, his mouth on your neck, your hands tangled in his hair.

Tonight is no exception.

You are in his apartment again, although it shouldn't surprise you; in the end, his place has slowly become your second home over the months. The other members are out due to schedules, practices, commitments. You knew he would be alone. And he knows perfectly well that you know.

"You shouldn't keep coming over so late," he murmurs, as you close the door behind you. It doesn't sound like a real complaint; the way he looks at you contradicts it.

"You could just not open the door," you reply, leaning against the door with your arms crossed.

Hongjoong holds your gaze for a second too long.

"You know I'm not going to do that."

Neither are you.

You walk over to the couch, where he was sitting with his laptop on his knees, headphones hanging around his neck. The usual: work, music, something he never completely leaves behind. He sets the computer on the coffee table as soon as you are close, as if prioritizing you were a reflex he doesn't need to think about.

"Have you eaten dinner?" you ask, just to fill the air.

"Something," he replies, but his hand is already on your hip, pulling you, making you drop to your knees on the couch in front of him. No more conversation is needed.

The first kisses are soft, mechanical, almost familiar. You know how he moves, where he will place his hands, when he will bite your lower lip. You know the exact moment he is going to let out that raspy sigh that always gives you goosebumps. You grab his T-shirt, pulling it upward, feeling his fingers slide beneath the fabric of yours, as if you were following a script learned by heart.

You don't think. That is the rule. Don't think too much. Just feel, at least while it lasts.

Only, this time, something slips in between the kisses.

It was in the afternoon.

At the studio, with everyone.

You remember Hongjoong’s face perfectly, leaning against the wall, while you laughed out loud at something Yunho had said. Yunho imitating someone, gesturing exaggeratedly, you almost doubled over from how funny you found it. Yunho’s arm resting casually over your shoulders, leaning in to add another comment closer to your ear.

You didn't think anything of it. Because Yunho is Yunho. That’s just how he is. With you, with everyone.

But when you looked up, you saw Hongjoong. That look. The same one that repeats itself every time you accidentally touch someone too much, or someone gets too close to you. That slight twitch in his jaw, the way his fingers close around the glass in his hand. The fleeting tension in his eyes before he looks away, pretending to listen to Seonghwa with all the attention in the world.

You kept it to yourself. As always.

Until now.

His hands hold you tightly as he pins you down on the couch, his lips moving down your neck, his fingers gripping you with something you aren't sure is desire… or repressed anger. And, for the first time in many nights, that nuance bothers you.

"You were acting strange today," you let slip, almost without thinking, right between one kiss and the next.

You feel him freeze. Just for a second. Long enough.

"Strange?" he repeats, pulling back a bit to look down at you, his breath heavy, his hair messy.

"At the studio," you clarify, trying to make it sound casual, but your fingers are still gripping his T-shirt. "When I was with Yunho."

His eyes narrow slightly. There it is. That look.

"I wasn't acting strange," he says, too quickly.

"Hongjoong."

You aren't stupid. And he knows it.

He scoffs, lowering his gaze to your neck as if he wanted to go back to what you were doing before and not get into this conversation. But you don't let him; you place your hand on his cheek, forcing him to look back at you.

"If you're going to get like this every time I laugh with someone," you continue, feeling something light up in your chest, "just say it clearly."

"I'm not..." he starts, but cuts himself off, tilting his head, annoyed. "I'm just saying Yunho has been very... touchy-feely with you lately."

You can't help but laugh. A short, incredulous laugh.

"And? You know how he is. He’s like that with everyone."

"No, not with everyone," he retorts, serious, lowering his voice. "With you, it's different."

You fall silent for a second. You notice your heart beating a little faster, but no longer because of the hand he has on your waist.

"Even if it were," you reply, slowly, measuring your words, "you don't have the right to say anything."

His expression hardens slightly. He pushes himself up a little, resting one hand on the back of the couch, close to your head.

"Excuse me?"

"Exactly that," you insist, holding his gaze. "You have no right to say anything. You don't want commitment, remember? That's what you've been saying from the beginning."

The atmosphere changes. You feel it. Like a cold draft crossing the room.

"It's not that," he mumbles, looking away for an instant, as if searching for something to hold onto. "I just... I don't like seeing it."

"Seeing what? Me having a good time with your friends?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "Because that is what we did today: laugh. Nothing more."

A tense silence falls. He clenches his jaw, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek, that gesture you know by heart when he is holding back something he doesn't want to say.

"Sometimes it seems like you forget that you and I..." he starts, but trails off.

And you finish the sentence for him in your head: sleep together.

"You made it clear yourself what we are," you reply, lowering your voice, feeling the weight of your own words. "Friends. Just friends. You repeated it to me so many times that I even ended up believing it completely."

There is a flash in his eyes. Guilty. Annoyed. Hurt.

"Don't say that," he murmurs.

"Say what? The truth?"

For a second, neither of you moves. You are still underneath him, his hands haven't completely let go of you, but you no longer feel just the burning sting of desire. You feel the sharp edge of something you know is going to cut both of you sooner or later.

And yet, after that awkward silence, he leans in again, reaches for your mouth, and you give it to him.

Because you aren't ready to solve it. Because it’s easier to argue a bit, pretend everything cools down, and let your bodies take control again.

Because you’ve been doing exactly that for a year: inflicting small wounds on each other that never fully heal, only to cover them up with caresses, kisses, and nights that begin and end in the same bed.

Because you are both hooked on something neither of you dares to name.

And because, even though you promised yourself you wouldn't feel this much… the truth is, it's already too late.

The afternoon begins with a message like so many others, one of those you can almost anticipate before your phone even vibrates.

Tomorrow we're having dinner at the dorm, you coming? San wants to grill some meat, he says it's no fun if you don't come (and me too)

You stare at that last line for a moment.

In parentheses.

As if writing it that way made it hurt less to admit it.

Of course I'm coming. I wouldn't miss San's meat even if you weren't there :)

You feel the reply almost instantly.

Come earlier if you can

You don't ask why. You don't need to.

You end up arriving a bit early, just like every time he asks you to. The dorm's hallway feels so familiar by now that you could walk down it in the dark. You knock on the door a couple of times before stepping inside, knowing that someone probably left it unlocked anyway.

"It's me," you announce, poking your head in.

"In the kitchen!" San’s voice echoes, lively, followed by the rustling of pots and the rich scent of garlic and sauce.

You drop your coat over the back of the couch, greet Yunho and Yeosang, who are deeply engrossed in a video game, and head toward the warmth of the kitchen almost by instinct.

San is in front of the stove, wearing an apron that is clearly not his—it must be Seonghwa's—and his hair tied up messily. The moment he sees you, his face lights up.

"Hey!" he exclaims, setting the spatula down for a second to come over to you. "I thought you'd get here later."

He hugs you without a second thought, wrapping you in that kind of physical affection that is practically his trademark. Warm, tight, with no hidden motives.

"I came to make sure you don't burn anything," you reply, laughing, as he sways you a little from side to side.

"I never burn anything," he protests, letting go of you only to cup your cheeks with his hands and squish them. "You believe me, right?"

You make an exaggerated face of doubt, speaking with your mouth all squished:

"I d-don't b-believe you aaaat all."

San lets out a loud laugh and releases you.

"You chop the vegetables and don't get in my way," he sentences, gently nudging you toward the counter.

You take your place beside him, grab a knife, and start slicing peppers while he takes care of the meat, passing by you time and again, brushing against your arm, leaning over you to grab things he could just ask you to hand him. The conversation flows back and forth: silly things about the day, anecdotes from practice, inside jokes you only get because you've been around them for so long.

Everything feels light. Easy.

Until, out of the corner of your eye, you see him.

Hongjoong appears in the kitchen doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame, arms crossed. His hair messy, an oversized sweatshirt, an apparently neutral expression.

Apparently.

Because you know him. And you recognize that tiny twitch at the corner of his lips, that slight tension in his posture. He is looking at you. At San. At the narrow space between your bodies.

"Oh, look who came out of the cave," you comment, smiling to break the moment. You raise the knife in a clumsy greeting. "Done saving the music world yet?"

"Taking a break," he replies, without moving from the spot. His eyes travel from your face to San's hand on your shoulder, and then back to you. "Smells good."

"Because I'm cooking," San says proudly, resting his chin on your shoulder for a second now, as if he needed to emphasize it.

You feel the weight of Hongjoong's gaze on that tiny gesture.

"Sure," he murmurs, in a tone that could pass for neutral… if you didn't know him.

San, oblivious, keeps doing his thing: he explains how he's going to marinate the meat, makes you taste the sauce from the pan with your finger, wipes the corner of your lip with his thumb when you get a bit messy, without thinking much of it. To you, it's natural; to Hongjoong, observable.

And he observes everything.

"You taste it too," San says, raising the spoon toward where the leader is standing. "See if you like it."

Hongjoong finally walks over, leans in, and tastes the sauce. He nods.

"It's good," he admits, and then adds, almost as if he couldn't help himself, "You have our guest working as your kitchen assistant, I see."

"She's my star assistant," San proclaims, wrapping an arm around you again. "Without her, this would be a disaster."

You smile. You are used to that kind of affection from him. You consider him almost like a hyperactive little brother.

What you don't expect is what comes out of Hongjoong's mouth next.

"Surprising she hasn't run off with Yunho already," his comment is thrown out with a little smile, but there is something uncomfortable underneath. "They've been spending a lot of time together lately."

The air seems to change density.

San raises his eyebrows, looking at you and then at him.

"Jealous, hyung?" he jokes, with no malice.

You laugh, trying to brush it off.

"Please," you reply. "Yunho only tolerates me because I'm good at that game of his."

From the living room, Yunho’s drawn-out voice carries over:

"It's true! Otherwise, I would've traded her for Wooyoung already."

The laughter comes muffled, but you still feel that thread of tension in the way Hongjoong runs his tongue over his lower lip, not letting his gaze wander too far from you.

"I'm going to go help in the living room," he says at last, turning around without another word. "Don't burn yourselves."

Hongjoong’s back disappears from your line of sight, but it stays etched in your mind for quite a while.

San shoots you a sideways glance.

"He's acting strange," he says in a low voice, focused on the pan.

"He's tired," you lie, with practiced ease.

"I didn't mean that," he responds, casually, but he changes the subject right away, without pushing.

You try to do the same. Not think too much. Not read into things where there's nothing.

But you know there is.

Dinner, at first, is a pleasant chaos.

Everyone talks at once, plates pass back and forth, San complains that you all don't appreciate his culinary gift enough, Mingi makes bad jokes, Jongho complains that he always gets served the smallest piece, and a whole scandal breaks out because Yunho steals meat from his plate.

You laugh. A lot.

Especially with Yunho, who decided to sit right next to you, and with Mingi on his other side, setting up a sort of corner of chaos. Every time Yunho tells you something, he leans toward you; every time you reply, you playfully swat his arm. It’s an easy dynamic, with no weight to it.

Only, every now and then, you catch yourself looking across the table.

Hongjoong is between Seonghwa and San. He talks, yes, and laughs when appropriate, but his eyes keep coming back to the three of you, time and again. To you, to Yunho, to Mingi.

"Hey, look at this," Yunho says, pulling out his phone. "I have a video of Mingi from rehearsal that nobody should miss."

"Don't show it," Mingi protests, stretching his long arm over you to try and grab the phone. "Delete it!"

You end up caught in the middle of the scramble, half-leaning over Yunho while Mingi pulls from the other side. Someone in the background lets out a "careful" amid the laughter. The phone passes from hand to hand over your head.

From the outside, the scene must look simply fun. From where Hongjoong is sitting, all he sees is your body pressed too close to Yunho's, your laughter in his ear, Mingi’s hand brushing your back as he tries to recover the phone.

"STOP IT!" Mingi exclaims, finally managing to snatch the phone away. "Show's over."

"You get really nervous, huh?" you tease, settling back into your seat. "Let's see what it was that you didn't want us to watch."

"Nothing," he replies, blushing, and everyone laughs.

When you look up again, you lock eyes with Hongjoong directly. He looks away immediately, attacking his plate as if he had suddenly become ravenous.

You feel something twist in your stomach. You don't know if it's from the meat, the tension, or both.

Later, when most of them are too full and lazy to move, the impromptu plans begin: some move over to the couch, others clear the table. You offer to take plates to the kitchen, more to have a moment of peace than anything else.

You are placing a couple of glasses in the sink when you hear the door close softly behind you.

"I didn't know you were everyone's nanny now," Hongjoong’s voice comments behind you.

You turn around. He is leaning against the doorframe again, just like at the beginning. This time, without a smile.

"I can't compete with San in the kitchen, so I'm doing logistical support," you reply, trying to keep your tone light.

He doesn't laugh.

He takes a few steps into the kitchen, just enough for the door to shut completely behind him. The noise from the living room becomes a bit more distant.

"You're having a good time," he says, and it doesn't sound like a neutral statement.

"Yeah," you answer honestly. "The usual, right?"

He leans against the counter opposite yours, crossing his arms.

"With Yunho. With Mingi," he adds, as if he needed to specify.

You blink. You take a slow breath.

"With everyone," you correct him. "We are all together, Hongjoong."

"Right," he murmurs, lowering his gaze for a moment, as if he were deciding whether to say what's on his mind or not. "I just… I didn't remember you being so… close with them."

He spits the word out as if it tasted bitter.

You stand there looking at him for a few seconds, leaning your hands on the edge of the sink. Tiredness is starting to mix with irritation.

"Close?" you repeat. "What exactly do you mean? Because if you're talking about laughing with them, or Mingi almost killing me trying to get his phone back…"

"You know what I mean," he cuts you off, finally looking up. And there they are, those heavy eyes, that shadow of jealousy you already know all too well.

You sigh, setting a glass aside with a bit more force than necessary.

"What I know," you say slowly, "is that you're doing this again."

"Doing what?"

"This," you wave vaguely at the space between you. "Glaring at me every time someone gets too close. Seriously, I'm starting to feel like I'm on a dating show and you're the judge."

He frowns.

"I'm not judging you."

"No?" You arch an eyebrow. "Because from where I'm standing, it feels exactly like that. Every time I laugh with Yunho, you make a face. Every time San hugs me, you make a face. Today, because I talked to Mingi for more than five minutes, more faces."

"I'm just saying that sometimes it feels like you forget that you and I..." He leaves the sentence floating again, just like always.

You feel something fracture inside you.

This time, you aren't letting it slide.

"No," you interrupt. "I'm not going to let you imply it again without saying it clearly."

He falls silent, surprised by your tone.

You take a step forward, closing the distance.

"What are we, Hongjoong?" you ask, holding his gaze. "You tell me. Because when it suits you, it feels like we're something. But when I ask for clarity, then we are 'just friends.'"

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. He rubs the back of his neck, uncomfortable.

"You know I can't right now..." he starts.

"Commit?" you finish for him with a dry laugh. "Yeah, I know it by heart. You've been repeating it to me for a year."

Your voice hasn't risen too much, but it's heavy with emotion. You feel your blood boiling beneath your skin.

"It's not that simple," he murmurs, unable to completely hold your gaze. "The work, the group, privacy, everything that comes with it... I can't just say, 'she's my girlfriend' and that's it. It doesn't work that way for me."

"I get it," you reply, and you know you truly do. You have always understood. "I've told you a thousand times: I understand your reasons. What I don't understand is this," you point to the space between you again. "That you don't want to be with me officially, but you act like you are every time someone else makes me laugh."

A heavy silence falls. The murmur from the living room feels too distant for how much this moment weighs.

He presses his lips together.

"I don't like seeing you like that with them, okay?" he blurts out at last, with blunt honesty. "I don't like it. Period."

"I know," you admit. "I've noticed it this whole time."

You take another step; you are close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne.

"That's why I'm asking you," you continue, your voice lower. "If you're always going to get like this… why don't we make it official?"

The question hangs suspended in the air.

It’s not the first time you’ve thought it.

It is the first time you’ve said it like this, straight to the point.

You can clearly see the pulse fluttering in his throat. His hands close into loose fists at his sides.

"You and me," you repeat, just in case it wasn't clear enough. "For real. Not just 'friends who sleep together.' If you're going to hold these things against me, at least have the right to do it."

He closes his eyes for a second, as if the proposal hurt him physically.

"I can't," he answers at last, just like always, but this time it sounds rougher. "I've told you."

"Give me something that isn't the exact same line as always," you plead, feeling your patience falter a bit. "Something new. Anything."

He looks at you, his eyes shining with a mixture of frustration and fear that you can't quite decipher.

"If I say yes," he begins, his voice low, "everything will change. Not just for me, but for you too. People will look at you differently, they’ll talk, they’ll judge, you could get hurt… I don't know if I could protect you from all of that. I don't know if I'm even ready to see it myself."

"And yet," you interrupt, with a lump in your throat, "you're fine with this. With us sleeping together, with whatever happens between us… but without calling it anything. That is easy to manage."

He swallows hard.

"It's not that it's easy…" he whispers.

"It feels that way to you," you cut him off. "Not to me anymore."

You realize that you have completely closed the distance without meaning to. You could reach out your hand and touch his chest. He could lean in and kiss you right now. Just like so many other times, after a mild argument, you’ve ended up tangled in the same old thing.

But this time, you don't move.

"Look at me," you plead, as you see his gaze drift toward the floor. "If you aren't going to be able to say we're something, at least stop acting like we are only when it suits you."

He raises his eyes slowly. His eyes are full of something that hurts you to see: desire, guilt, affection, fear. All mixed together.

"I don't want to lose you," he confesses, barely audible.

The sentence pierces right through you, and for a moment, you feel like you could surrender. Go back to the usual pattern: argument, half-confession, kiss, night together, silence. Repeat.

But you are sick of it. And you know that if you keep going like this, you're going to lose him anyway, just more slowly.

"If we keep going like this, we're going to lose each other anyway," you reply, as if you had read your own thoughts out loud.

He shakes his head, a tiny, almost childish gesture.

"I don't want you to be with anyone else," it slips out suddenly, brutal. "I don't want to imagine you with Yunho, with Mingi, with anyone. I can't."

There is a second where his honesty leaves you breathless. You feel like screaming at him that you only want him. That the others are just friends. That you are here, arguing about this with him, precisely because you care too much.

But you force yourself to remember the phrase:

"I don't want to commit to anyone."

The one he had been repeating to you from the very beginning.

"Then decide," you say, with a calmness you don't fully feel. "Either we keep being what we are now, with everything that implies, but you stop making up scenarios in your head every time I talk to someone. Or we do it right and make it official. But like this… I can't do it anymore, Hongjoong."

Your declaration hangs between the two of you.

He looks like he's about to say something, but suddenly, voices can be heard approaching from the hallway.

"Are they finishing up a soap opera in there or what?" Wooyoung jokes from outside.

The doorknob moves, and you instinctively take a step back. Hongjoong pulls away from the counter, recomposing himself in a second.

The door opens and Mingi’s face pokes in.

"Ah, you were in here," he says, smiling, completely unsuspecting. "We're looking for more sauce."

You step aside, feigning normalcy.

"In the fridge," you point out, forcing yourself to sound casual. "Bottom right."

While Mingi bends down to look, you slip out discreetly, leaving the kitchen with an automatic smile plastered on your face. You feel Hongjoong’s presence behind you, but you don't look at him.

In the living room, you return to your spot between Yunho and Mingi as the chaos, the jokes, and the laughter resume. It’s as if the conversation in the kitchen didn't exist to anyone but the two of you.

For you, however, it has left an echo that won't go away.

Because, for the first time, you voiced what you had been swallowing down for so long.

And even though he gave the same reply as always… you know that something inside you has already begun to change.

When it’s time to leave, you have already gathered your coat and bag. Everyone is half-sprawled out across the living room, a yawn here and there, the echo of laughter still floating in the air.

"I’m heading out," you announce, standing up.

"Are you going alone?" Jongho asks, half-buried in the couch.

"I’ll catch a bus, don't worry," you reply, putting on your coat.

"I’ll walk you to the door," Hongjoong says immediately, as if he had been waiting for the moment.

You don't think much of it. You are used to saying your goodbyes separately. You walk down the hallway, he opens the dorm door, and the cooler air of the building hits your face.

In the elevator, he looks at you out of the corner of his eye.

"I'll drive you," he says, as if it were the most obvious thing.

"No need," you answer bluntly. "A bus is coming in no time, I checked earlier."

"I'll drive you," he repeats, firmer this time. "It's late."

"Hongjoong, seriously, I can go by myself."

"I'm not asking you," he cuts in, but his tone isn't harsh—it's… insistent. Stubborn.

You sigh.

"You know that sounds a little controlling, right?"

A faint smile slips out.

"Call it whatever you want. You're still coming with me."

And you do.

In the car, the tension floats silently for the first few minutes. The city lights pass through the windshield in intermittent flashes. You look out the window; he looks at the road.

"The meat was really good," he says suddenly, looking for something to break the ice.

"San is going to let it go to his head if you keep repeating it," you reply, leaning your head against the glass.

"It's already gone to his head," he counters, and for a second, he sounds just like always.

He makes a small comment about Yunho almost dropping his plate, about Mingi hiding his phone… things from dinner. Light anecdotes. You notice the effort: he is trying to tone down what happened in the kitchen, sealing it under a layer of normalcy.

You go along with it, but without putting too much energy into it. Short answers, an occasional laugh. You aren't explosively angry; you are just tired.

Even so, the simple fact of being alone with him keeps your body on high alert, all too aware of his every gesture—the soft clicking of his fingers drumming on the steering wheel, the brush of his tongue wetting his lower lip as he concentrates on a turn.

When he finally parks in front of your building, you unclick your seatbelt.

"Well… thanks for the ride," you say, already opening the door.

"Wait."

His hand closes firmly around yours before you can even touch the handle. You stop, turning your head back toward him.

His eyes are fixed on yours—dark, serious.

"Can I come up?" he asks, unadorned.

Your heart does a foolish flip, the kind you should be immune to by now. You call yourself an idiot in your head. An idiot for knowing what this implies, for knowing the pattern, for smelling what’s going to happen a mile away… and still feeling something in your chest say "yes" before logic can even chime in.

You swallow hard.

"You shouldn't," you murmur, though your voice doesn't sound very convincing.

He squeezes your hand a little tighter.

"I'm asking you if I can," he repeats, softly.

And, just like so many other times, you are the one sabotaging your own good intentions.

"All right," you give in with a sigh. "For a little while."

The smile that forms on his face isn't one of triumph; it's a mixture of relief and need.

"For a little while," he confirms.

The elevator goes up slowly, reflecting the two of you in its metallic walls. You watch the glowing numbers change, avoiding looking at him too much. You feel his shoulder brush against yours in the narrow space.

When you reach your floor, the silence grows denser. You walk down the hallway to your door. Your hands search for the keys in your bag; when you finally find them, you struggle a bit to aim for the keyhole because you feel his gaze pinned to the back of your neck.

"Do you always take this long to open up?" he whispers, stepping just a fraction closer.

"Always, when I have half my apartment stuffed in my bag, yes," you reply without turning around.

The lock gives way. You push the door open, step inside, and turn on the hallway light.

"Come in," you murmur, dropping the keys into the bowl by the entrance.

The moment the door closes behind you, the world shrinks. Your small apartment, the silence, the insistent throbbing in your temples.

You are about to leave your bag on the table when you feel his fingers firmly grasp your wrist.

He spins you around to face him.

There is no prelude.

His lips fall onto yours with an urgency that catches your breath. This isn't the timid kiss from the dorm’s living room; it's direct, hungry. He presses you against the hallway wall, one hand on your waist, the other cupping your jaw as if he were terrified you might slip away.

You moan against his mouth, more out of surprise than anything else.

"Hello to you too..." you mumble between kisses, trying to inject a tiny bit of humor.

He doesn’t answer. He only deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue in, pressing you a bit harder against the wall. His body covers yours, fitting together perfectly, and you internally curse how easy it is for you to surrender to his touch.

His hands slide beneath your coat, clumsily pushing it back until it drops to the floor. Your fingers cling to the folds of his sweatshirt, searching for an anchor.

You could stop him now. You could tell him to leave.

But you don't.

You let yourself be dragged under.

His lips move down to your neck, finding that sensitive spot just beneath your ear. He sucks, bites, marks you. You feel the heat pooling there, knowing that tomorrow a purple bruise will remain.

"Hongjoong..." you whisper, a mixture of warning and surrender.

"Mine," he murmurs against your skin, his voice raspy. "Only mine."

The words pierce through you like an electric current. One part of you trembles with pleasure; the other shrinks back.

His hand travels down to your hip, gripping it tightly, pressing you closer to him. You can clearly feel his erection, hard against your stomach, his ragged breathing in your ear.

"Nobody else gets to have you like this," he adds, with an intensity that is almost frightening. "Nobody."

Your back brushes the wall as his lips trace down your collarbone, his fingers already sliding under your shirt, slowly pulling it up. You nearly stumble when he pulls you away from the wall, gently guiding you further into the apartment without stopping the kisses.

The path to your bedroom is a blur of soft stumbles, muffled laughter, and impatient hands. You bump into the edge of the table, into the back of a chair. He holds your waist to steady you, but he doesn't slow his pace.

When you finally step into your room, you both nearly tumble onto the bed at the same time. He positions himself over you, a knee between your legs, his mouth on yours again, as if he needed to reaffirm every single second that you are there, beneath him.

He pulls away only to yank your shirt over your head. He looks at you for a second, his breathing heavy, his dark eyes sliding over your exposed skin. He bites his lip.

"Only you drive me this crazy," he confesses, raspy. "Only you."

He leans in again. His hands map your torso, your sides—repeated memories, yet always new. He unclasps your bra with practiced ease, his fingers trembling slightly as he pulls it away and tosses it aside. His lips descend, kissing, sucking, marking.

Every time you moan, he seems to hold onto you even tighter. As if every sound confirmed something he is terrified of losing.

"Look at what you do to me," he whispers, forcing you to meet his eyes as his hand glides down your belly. "Nobody is going to touch you like this. Nobody."

A part of you wants to talk back, to tell him that there is nobody else. That there never has been since this whole thing started. But the words dissolve into a gasp as his hand reaches exactly where you need him most.

You lose yourself.

What follows are fragments: his naked body against yours, the burning friction, broken whispers in your ear. You notice how he repeats "mine" between his teeth when you arch beneath him, how his hands don't let go of you for a single second, digging his fingers into your hips as he moves inside you.

And you, as always, give him everything. Your body, your sounds, that part of your heart you've been trying to deny for so long.

You end up tangled in the sheets, breathing wild, skin slick with sweat. He falls beside you, flat on his back, his arm still wrapped around your waist. For a few minutes, the only thing that exists is the sound of the two of you trying to catch your breath.

Then, inevitably, the moment arrives when his fingers relax, his hand pulling away from your body.

He props himself up on one elbow.

"I have to go," he murmurs, with that familiar mix of apology and habit.

"I know," you reply automatically.

It’s always the same. You know it by heart: he can't stay too long. He knows they’ll ask questions. He knows he’ll have to make up a "I went out to clear my head" or some variation.

You don't ask. You never do.

"We have an early start tomorrow," he adds, as if he needed to justify himself further.

You just nod, already sitting on the edge of the bed, searching for your shirt on the floor.

He gives you one last fleeting kiss, almost chaste compared to before, and gets up. He dresses quickly, in silence. You open the apartment door for him, both of you with your hair still messy, your lips slightly swollen.

"Get some rest," he says before leaving.

"You too."

And he's gone.

He closes the door behind him, and the echo of his footsteps fades down the building's hallway.

You lean against the wood for a moment, wearing your shirt inside out and your heart weighing more than it should.

You slide down to the floor, pulling your knees up against your chest, and let the silence hit you full force.

You think about what happened in the kitchen.

About his "I can't," repeated like a mantra.

About how, just ten minutes ago, he was telling you "only mine" with a conviction that makes you tremble.

About how he left without looking back, just like always.

You don't know how much longer you can hold on like this.

You know this isn't sustainable. That it isn't healthy. That the little arguments are turning more bitter. That you love him enough to fear that, at this rate, one day the two of you will break something that can't be fixed by even the best sex in the world.

You swear to yourself, once again, that you have to set a boundary. That next time you will say no. That if he can't give you something clear, the only thing you can be is friends.

You swear it to yourself.

And you know that, sooner or later, the moment will come when you'll have to keep that promise.

That moment begins to take shape one night, months later.

You went out with your coworkers. You had spent months preparing a complicated campaign—overtime, lost weekends, stress. Today, finally, it went well. Really well. Success, congratulations, collective relief.

First came dinner: toasts, laughter, glasses of wine. Then someone suggested continuing the celebration at a nearby bar. "Just one," they said. It ended up being several. Nothing out of the ordinary: music, photos, people dancing, victory hugs.

You posted a few Instagram stories: the team around the table, the typical crowded selfie, another blurry video on the dance floor. In one of the photos, a coworker wraps his arm around your waist to fit into the frame, smiling. There’s no mystery to it for you.

To Hongjoong, it's something else entirely.

But you don't know that yet.

At four in the morning, half-drunk, you step out of the taxi, swaying a little. You walk into your building, greeting the security guard with a clumsy smile, and ride the elevator up, already feeling the hangover brewing at the base of your skull.

It’s only when you open your apartment door that, out of habit, you pull your phone out of your bag.

The screen is full of notifications from him.

How was your day? Haven't heard from you today. Are you busy? Do you want to meet up later?

All of them from early in the evening. Then, moving down the timeline:

Ah, I see you're having a good time. Nice photos. Looks like you aren't thinking much about me today.

And further down, more blurred, almost as if he had been fueling his own anger:

Who is that guy holding your waist? I hope you get home safe. Answer me when you can.

Your first reaction, with the alcohol still in your veins, is profound exhaustion.

You can't do this. Not at four in the morning. Not in this state.

You leave your phone on the nightstand without replying. You half-undress, crawl into bed, and let sleep drag you under.

The next day, the light streaming through the window deals the final blow to your head.

You spend almost the entire morning trying to "look like a human being again": water, coffee, ibuprofen, a long shower. Around noon, you sit on the couch, pick up your phone, and re-read his messages with a clearer mind.

The shift in tone is obvious: from worried to irritable, from affectionate to passive-aggressive. As if he had had an argument entirely with himself, with you absent on the other side.

You sigh and, instead of feeding into that mood, you choose a different path. You don't want to start the day with a fight that you know, deep down, you don't deserve.

You reply simply, keeping it light:

We were celebrating yesterday, the campaign went great :) Today I'm just trying to look like a human being again, even my soul hurts haha

You send it and set your phone aside, determined to watch some mind-numbing show to distract yourself. He doesn’t reply right away. An hour passes, then another. You grab a bite to eat, tidy up the apartment a bit, answer a few emails.

It’s close to nine in the evening when his response finally arrives:

Are you home? Can I come over?

You feel a tight knot in your stomach—a mix of anticipation and nerves.

Yeah, I’m home. Come over if you want.

Part of you wants to see him. To tell him how well everything went, to share the relief. And, while you're at it, to clear up his messages. You aren't expecting what comes next.

It doesn’t even take him ten minutes to arrive.

When you open the door, you barely have time to say hello.

He enters like a whirlwind.

He kicks the door shut, his hands already on your face, on your waist. He pushes you back gently until you're pinned against the hallway wall. His lips fall onto yours with a fury you’ve never felt from him before; it isn't the warm urgency of other nights, it’s something rougher, more desperate.

"Hongjoong..." you mumble against his mouth. "Hello to you too..."

He doesn't listen.

His body presses you against the wall, one hand on your hip, the other at the base of your neck, holding you in place. He kisses you as if he hadn't seen you in months, as if he wanted to erase any trace of anyone else from your skin.

His mouth moves down to your neck, to your collarbone. He bites hard, more than usual. You feel him leaving marks without bothering to soften them.

His hands grip you with too much force: fingers digging into your sides, into your thighs as he tries to lift you a little. There is a point where pleasure and pain blur together, and you don't know which one is winning.

"Wait," you murmur, trying to pull your mouth away from his.

He doesn't. He kisses you again, rougher.

"Hongjoong, wait," you repeat, gently pushing against his chest.

Nothing.

You have to raise your voice, cutting through the moment like a knife:

"Hongjoong, stop for a second!"

He stops, finally. He stays incredibly close, his breathing ragged, his chest rising and falling fast. His hands are still on your body, but their grip loosens a bit.

You look into his eyes. You see them clouded: desire, yes, but something else too. Something dark, thick. Badly digested jealousy, anger, fear.

"My God..." you exhale, still trying to catch your breath. "Just wait a moment."

He tries to pull himself together. He runs his tongue over his lips, averting his gaze for an instant.

"It's fine," he says. "I just... wanted to see you."

He leans in to kiss you again, as if that were enough to justify everything.

This time, you place your hands firmly on his chest, stopping him.

"No," you whisper, serious. "You can't pretend like nothing is wrong. It's written all over your face."

His eyes meet yours, surprised by your resistance.

"What is wrong with you?" you ask, without stepping away, but without letting him get any closer.

He swallows hard. His automatic reflex is to deny it.

"Nothing. I just got worried, I didn't hear from you yesterday and…"

"No," you cut him off, hardening your tone. "Don't lie to me. Not with me."

He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. He seems to be debating internally between continuing to deny it or offering you the truth.

In the end, the truth wins.

"I saw the photos," he confesses, his voice lower. "Your stories. The dinner, the party. That guy holding your waist…" He clenches his jaw. "I couldn't stop thinking that you could end up in bed with someone who wasn't me."

There it is. Everything, all at once.

Anger rushes up to your throat so fast it almost makes you dizzy.

"Seriously?" you ask, incredulous. "Is that what you thought?"

"What was I supposed to think?" he snaps, taking a step back, but not going very far. "You were drunk, with people I don't know, one of them glued to you in the photos…"

"That I was having a good time with my coworkers after months of busting my ass," you reply, feeling indignation mix with sadness. "That’s what you were supposed to think."

He shakes his head, frustrated.

"You don't know what it was like to see all of that and hear nothing from you," he admits. "You weren't answering, and then those photos, and…"

"Have I ever asked you to give me explanations when you go out with the guys?" you interrupt him, locking your eyes onto his. "When you post photos with fans hugging you, with girls at events, with people I don't know either?"

"It's not the same," he answers immediately, almost defensively.

"Of course it is," you retort. "It is exactly the same."

You step away from the wall, crossing your arms over your chest, putting a little more space between the two of you. You need air.

"And the worst part isn't even what you thought," you add, calmer now, but colder. "The worst part is that you seem to not know me at all."

He blinks, stung.

"I know who you are."

"No, it doesn't look like it," you counter. "Because if you truly knew me, you’d know I wouldn't just sleep with someone like that. Much less when you and I..." you gesture between the two of you, "when you and I have something, even if you don't want to call it anything."

He opens his mouth to protest, but you keep going:

"From the very beginning, we agreed on something, remember?" Your voice hardens. "That if someone else came along, if either of us started something with someone else, we’d stop this. Out of respect. Because neither of us is that kind of person."

His silence is confirmation enough that he remembers.

"And do you honestly, seriously think that I would go to bed with someone else without telling you? Just like that? From one day to the next, drunk, at a work party?"

He closes his eyes for a second, a pained expression crossing his face.

"I didn't want to imagine it," he admits, clenching his fists. "But I couldn't stop myself from doing it."

"Well, that's your problem, not mine," you answer clearly. "Your jealousy, your insecurities… they aren't my responsibility, Hongjoong. Not when, officially, 'we are nothing.'"

A tense silence falls over the room. His eyes search yours, desperate to hold onto something.

"I don't want to end this," he says at last, with that broken honesty that always turns you inside out. "I don't want to lose what we have."

It hurts. A lot.

"And I don't want to ruin what we have," you reply, feeling your throat tighten a bit. "But if we keep going like this… we're going to destroy it anyway."

He takes a step toward you, as if he wants to touch you. You raise your hand, stopping him.

"I can't live having to give explanations every time I go out," you continue. "I can't be worrying about whether posting a photo is going to make you invent scenarios in your head. I'm not your girlfriend, Hongjoong. You make sure to remind me of that yourself every time I bring it up."

You look down for an instant, gathering your strength.

"And you can't live like this either," you add. "Angry, irritated, jealous, making up stories every time I don't reply instantly or when you see me laughing with someone else. That’s no way for you to live. And it's not fair to me."

He takes a deep breath, as if every word you say were a physical blow.

"I don't want this to end," he repeats, almost in a whisper.

You look up. You make sure he sees exactly how serious you are.

"I don't want to lose you either," you confess. "But I’d rather lose this… than lose you completely. I’d rather we stop sleeping together, stop crossing that line, before we reach a point where we hurt each other so much that we can't even be friends."

The word hangs heavy: friends.

He leans against the opposite wall, as if his legs are about to give out.

"Is that what you want?" he asks, his voice barely a thread. "To end… us?"

You swallow hard.

"I want to end this," you clarify, gesturing to the space between you, charged with restrained electricity. "The sex, the jealousy, the arguments we only have because we're in a limbo you refuse to define. I don't want to stay in something that hurts me."

A pause.

"But I don't want to end us," you add, softer this time. "I don't want to stop being in your life. I don't want to stop seeing all of you. I don't want us to look at each other one day and see nothing but resentment."

He covers his face with both hands, exhaling sharply.

"I don't know how…" he murmurs. "I don't know how to separate one thing from the other. I don't know if I'll be able to look at you and… and act like it's nothing."

"I don't know either," you admit. "But I know that I can't keep going like this. And you shouldn't either."

He looks up. Your eyes meet at a midpoint between wounded pride and resignation.

You know that, inside his head, he is fighting. That a part of him wants to tell you he'll try, that he'll change, that he won't get jealous anymore—but you know him, and you know that wouldn't be entirely true.

In the end, he nods. A small, almost imperceptible gesture.

"All right," he says, raspy. "If that's what you need…"

"It's what we both need," you correct him gently.

A dense silence falls. You feel something break, even if it doesn't make a sound.

"Then… I guess I should go," he murmurs, taking a couple of steps toward the door.

You don't try to stop him. It's the first time in a very long time that you don't feel that urge.

You only add, before he reaches for the doorknob:

"I don't want us to stop talking," you say. "Or for you to stop inviting me to things. I need… for us to still be us. Just… without this."

He stands still for a second, his back turned to you.

"I'll try," he finally answers.

You aren't sure if it's a firm promise or just a wish spoken aloud. But for now, it's the only thing you have.

He opens the door, steps out, and closes it quietly behind him.

You are left alone in your living room, with the fresh mark of his hands still on your skin… and the distinct feeling that you have just let go of something that, for a year, had been almost an addiction.

You don't know what it will be like to see him from now on.

You don't know if you will truly be able to go back to being "just friends."

The only thing you know is that, for the first time, you have chosen to stop hurting yourself.

Even if, right now, it hurts just the same.

The days following your conversation feel strange.

There is no big, final fight, no slammed door, no "I never want to see you again." Just silence.

You wake up in the mornings and your phone is… empty. No "did you sleep well?" texts, no three-minute voice notes telling you about something that happened in the studio. The hours tick by and you don't receive a single complaint from him about the company’s catering, no silly photo of San goofing around, no random text like "listen to this song."

You catch yourself staring at the screen more than you’d care to admit.

At first, you think it’s just a matter of days. That you both need space. That it’s normal not to know how to rearrange the pieces so quickly.

Then two weeks pass. Three.

The texts dwindle to nothing. The calls are nonexistent. And as for seeing each other, forget it.

The absence begins to feel heavy.

A part of you—the logical part—reminds you that you were the one who set the boundary. That this is what you decided. That it's better this way. Another part, the one that stays up staring at the ceiling at night, burns with anger.

Because, in the end, it seems you were right about what you yelled at him: without sex, he has vanished. No friendship, no nothing. As if you were just another chapter in his life that has simply been archived.

And that hurts you so much more than you want to admit.

The message that breaks the inertia doesn't come from him.

San:

Have you forgotten about us or something? We haven't seen you in forever Come to the dorm, seriously We have a few hours off tomorrow afternoon I promise not to burn anything down (I think)

You laugh out loud reading his texts. You miss him. You miss all of them.

I miss you guys too I'll drop by in a couple of days, okay?

If you don't come, I'm deleting you from the official Ateez meat registry.

You don't hesitate anymore.

Two days later, you are standing in front of the dorm door.

From the hallway, you can already hear the noise: laughter, overlapping voices, the occasional exaggerated shout. Everything sounds exactly the same as always, yet at the same time, incredibly distant.

You knock.

Seonghwa opens the door. His eyes widen the moment he sees you.

"Thank God," he exhales, reaching out to grab your arm and pulling you inside. "I can't deal with this alone."

He drags you into the living room almost as if you’ve just arrived to put out a fire. Inside, it’s the usual chaos: Yunho and Mingi wrestling over a remote, Wooyoung yelling that it's a foul, San laughing from the floor, Jongho with a bowl of popcorn bigger than his head.

"HEY!" San shouts as soon as he spots you. "Look who decided to remember us!"

The rest of them look up almost simultaneously.

"You came!" Yunho jumps up, hugging you tightly, nearly lifting you off the ground.

"I thought you had new friends already," Wooyoung teases, coming up to hug you from behind.

"You've missed way too much drama," Mingi adds, smiling.

They welcome you with the same warmth as always. Hugs, jokes, questions about your work, comments on how long it took you to visit.

You answer, you laugh, you let yourself be wrapped up in it. But you can't help it: between one face and the next, you search for another.

Hongjoong isn't there.

You don't ask at first. You force yourself to enjoy the moment a bit, to catch up: they tell you about work, the upcoming comeback, the hours spent practicing, a new choreographer who is a demon disguised as a human.

You end up sitting on the edge of the couch, with Jongho on one side and Yeosang on the other, talking about movies. But that absence keeps throbbing.

Finally, the question slips out on its own:

"Where's Hongjoong?"

A tiny silence falls—one of those that only lasts a second but feels much longer.

It’s Seonghwa who answers:

"He stayed at the studio," Seonghwa explains with a sigh. "He's working."

"We told him to take a break," Yunho adds from the rug. "To come over, even if it was just for a bit."

"He didn't listen," Wooyoung scoffs.

San chimes in, his expression a bit more serious:

"We told him you were coming," he says. "Even so… he said he had things to do."

The knot in your throat appears out of nowhere. You try to swallow it down with a sip of soda.

It is painfully obvious.

And you can't help but feel… discarded. Avoided. As if your presence were now something he had to run away from.

"He's in misunderstood genius mode," Mingi jokes to lighten the mood. "He'll snap out of it."

You nod, pretending it doesn't affect you.

"Well, as long as he doesn't forget to eat…" you reply, forcing a smile.

You spend the rest of the night putting all your effort into making sure no one notices anything. You laugh, you make jokes, you listen to their stories. You act like everything is fine. Like you are fine.

But every burst of laughter has a strange edge to it. Every time the hallway door opens, your heart races for a second… only to stop when you see it's just someone going to the bathroom or the kitchen.

When it's time to leave, you smile, hug everyone again, and promise not to disappear for so long.

Instead of taking the path back to your apartment, without overthinking it, you pull out your phone and call a cab.

You aren't going home.

You're going to the company building.

You know that building as well as the hallway of your own house. The security guard recognizes you and lets you through with a smile.

You ride the elevator up, each floor lighting up with a soft beep. You know exactly which floor Hongjoong's studio is on. You know which door is his.

You stop in front of it. You can feel your heart beating in your throat. You haven't prepared a speech. You haven't thought of the words. You just know you can't keep going like this, with all of this stuck in your throat.

You knock.

Silence.

You knock again.

The click of the lock echoes. The door slowly opens.

Hongjoong appears on the other side, wearing a black hoodie, his hair a bit messy, headphones hanging around his neck. He smells like the studio: coffee, a long night, deep focus.

For a second, both of you freeze.

He wasn't expecting to see you. That much is obvious. His eyes widen slightly, bare surprise written on his face.

"Hey," he says, finally, his voice barely a thread.

"Can I come in?" you ask, gripping the strap of your bag tighter than necessary. "It'll only take a second."

He hesitates for just an instant. Then he nods and steps aside to let you in.

The studio is the same as always: monitors, the desk cluttered with papers, a half-empty mug, the lights dimmed. You stand right in the middle of the room, your back to the door, refusing to sit down.

You don't give him any time.

"Is this what it is now?" you blurting out, with no preamble, without even taking a breath.

He blinks.

"What...?"

"Are you going to ignore me for the rest of your life?" you continue, the words pouring out of you, completely unfiltered. "Are you going to hide every time I go to see the guys?"

His expression tightens. He closes the door behind him, but he doesn't come any closer.

"I just..." he starts.

"I thought we could be friends," you keep going, cutting right through his sentence. "That that was what you wanted. That if we ever ended this, nothing would be ruined between us. That’s what you said, remember?"

You feel something break in your voice. You don't stop.

"And I’ve realized it was all a lie."

He stays quiet, as if your words had completely stripped him of his script. He opens his mouth, but you don't give him any room.

"You don't text me, you don't call me, you don't even come to see me when I'm with everyone else," anger warms your cheeks. "Since we stopped sleeping together, it feels like I don't matter at all in your life. As if I only mattered as long as you could come to my bed."

Saying it hurts, but it's also exactly how you’ve felt these past few days.

"It's not like that," he finally manages to say. "That's not it."

"Well, it doesn't look like it," you fire back, refusing to let anything soften. "Because it looks like I only mattered while there was sex. Now that there isn't… silence."

You take a deep breath, your chest burning.

"Tell me straight," you add. "Was I just something to use and throw away?"

The question drops like a stone between the two of you.

He furrows his brow, deeply hurt.

"No," he says, with firmness for the first time. "No, not at all. Don't say that."

"Then what?" you retort. "Explain it to me, because all I see is that you vanished the moment what interested you was over."

You feel the sting in your eyes. You don't even know at what point the tears started to form. You blink hard, as if you could hold them back that way.

"I’ve been processing everything," he blurts out, taking a step toward you. "It’s hard for me too, it has hurt me too. It's not easy to act normal from one day to the next."

"Processing?" you laugh without humor. "And while you process, what? What am I supposed to do? Because for you, 'processing' seems to mean erasing me from your daily life."

He steps a little closer, his hands half-raised, without quite touching you.

"You aren't something to use and throw away," he says slowly, looking directly at you. "You were and you are important to me. Much more than you think."

The tears have already escaped. You feel one slip down your cheek. You don’t wipe it away.

"You aren't showing it," you answer, your voice broken. "All I see is that I seem to make you uncomfortable now. That it’s easier for you not to see me. As if my existence outside of your bed annoys you."

He shakes his head, desperate.

"It's not that. It's just that I didn't know how to be around you without…" he gestures, searching for the word, "without the other thing. I was scared of screwing up even more. And I screwed up anyway."

"Well, congratulations," you spit out. "You did it."

You brush the back of your hand over your eyes, angry at yourself for crying in front of him.

"If you want me to disappear from your life, just tell me," you add, your voice trembling. "If you want me to pretend we’re nothing, not even acquaintances, I’ll do that too. But say it clearly. Don't make me fill in the blanks with your silences."

"I don't want that," he answers quickly, as if you had put a knife to his throat. "I don't want you to disappear. I don't want… I don't want to lose you."

"Well, you're doing a fantastic job," you retort, your volume rising without you even realizing it. "Because with every passing day, I feel less and less like a part of your life."

You don't know at what point you started raising your voice. You just feel everything rushing out all at once: the anger, the sorrow, the exhaustion of months.

He tries to get closer, to say something, but you are already too far gone, too overwhelmed.

"Have a nice life, Hongjoong," you spit out, a mix of anger and pain.

You turn around, open the door before he can react, and walk out, slamming it shut behind you—a sound that echoes down the hallway.

You don't give him time for anything. Not for an answer, not for a "wait," not for an "I'm sorry."

All you know is that if you stay for even one more second, you are going to break down right in front of him. And the only thing you want right now is to breathe far away from that studio, far away from everything.

The next day, your phone vibrates.

We need to talk when you calm down a bit. Please don't just interpret things your own way.

You read the texts, and you feel shame rushing up from your stomach—shame for having cried, for having shouted, for having been so brutally honest. You don't know how to process what he’s telling you. You don't even know where to begin to reply.

So, you don't.

You leave him on read. You turn off the screen. You put it off "for later."

Later turns into days. Then, into weeks.

Then, into a month.

Some of the guys text you: San asking if you're still alive, Wooyoung sending you memes, Yeosang sending a photo of a coffee, saying it reminds him of the one you always used to order. You reply with short excuses: "I'm busy," "I can't this week," "Another day, okay?"

Hongjoong, however, you never answer. You don't know what to say. You don't know if you're ready to hear whatever he has to say.

Time keeps passing.

You try to move on with your life.

You force yourself to.

At work, inertia helps: new projects, meetings, deadlines. Your boss talks about how well the previous campaign went. Your coworker—the guy from the photos—is still kind, funny, and attentive.

One day, after an especially long meeting, he suggests grabbing a coffee.

"To decompress," he says, smiling.

You accept. You want to get out of your own head for a bit. Coffee turns into a beer after work. You laugh, you talk about things that have absolutely nothing to do with campaigns or clients. It’s easy.

Easier than you thought.

Weeks go by, and he pushes a little further. He invites you to a dinner—"like a date," he says it clearly, without beating around the bush. You hesitate. You think of Hongjoong. You think of your promises, of your agreement to stop if someone else came along.

But you also think about what has happened this past month. The emptiness. The slammed studio door. The fact that, officially, you are nothing.

You decide to give yourself a chance. To yourself, not to him.

The date is good. Nice. He is considerate, he listens to you, he makes you laugh. The restaurant is pretty, the conversation flows. You could say you enjoy it.

Or, at least, you put on a very good act.

When you reach the front door of your building, there is a short silence, heavy with expectation. He looks at you, stepping a bit closer.

"I had a really great time," he says, with sincerity.

"Me too," you reply, because it would be cruel to say anything else after all the effort he put into it.

He leans in. He kisses you.

It’s a soft, respectful kiss. His lips are warm, his hands gently resting on your waist. There is no rush, no overwhelming urgency, no whispered "mine" against your skin.

And right there, you notice it.

You don't feel even half of what you used to feel with Hongjoong.

You don't feel that jolt in your chest, or that electric current down your spine. You feel affection, maybe the possibility of something… but not that immediate fire that consumed you every single time he looked at you.

You let the kiss last for a few seconds, then pull back with a slight smile.

In the following days, your coworker tries to suggest more dates. He texts you, he proposes plans. It’s hard for you, because he isn't a bad person. You don't want to hurt him.

In the end, you decide to be honest.

You meet at a café. You take a deep breath.

"I'm sorry," you begin. "You're great, truly. But… I'm just not in the right headspace. I'm not interested the way I should be. I don't think we have as much in common as you think."

He nods, disappointed but dignified.

"Thanks for telling me straight," he answers. "I prefer that over being led on."

You leave with a mix of relief and sadness. You don't know if you’ll ever be able to feel that way for anyone who isn't Hongjoong. You don't even know if you want to.

One afternoon, weeks later, your phone finally shows his name again.

The guys are asking about you They say it's about time you drop by I want to see you too I'll be there We could… give it a chance. To do it right this time. To be real friends.

You stare at those texts for a long time.

Part of you wants to ignore them, to keep going the way you have been. Another part—the one that has spent entire nights missing his silly messages—softens.

You think about it. A lot. For several hours, mentally replaying what happened in the studio, what you said to him, what he wrote to you afterward. There is no clear apology, but there is an attempt to reach out.

In the end, you decide you don't want to keep running away.

When you arrive at the dorm, the welcome is the same as always: shouting, jokes, open arms.

"Finally!" Wooyoung exclaims, hugging you as if years had passed. "I thought you’d switched groups."

"We hate your boss," Mingi says, completely serious. "We’re going to go tell him to let you breathe."

"You should quit your job and join the staff," San adds. "That way we’d see you more."

"Yes, please," Yunho pipes in. "We need emotional reinforcements."

You laugh. They make it easy, despite everything.

Hongjoong is there.

He greets you with a measured, somewhat tense, but genuine smile.

"Hey," he says, softly.

"Hey," you reply, just as restrained.

There are no hugs. Just a nod. But in that second, your eyes lock, and you feel the weight of everything left unsaid.

It’s obvious there is tension. You both notice it. The others do too, even if they pretend to be distracted.

You try to handle it normally. You really try. Or, at least, you force yourselves to.

The following weeks find a sort of strange stability: you start texting again, but less. Neutered, more careful messages. You share memes, some random anecdote from your day, but you avoid those late-night, exhausted confessions.

You still hang out with everyone, go to dinners, watch movies as a group. Little by little, you get used to this new reality: being in the same room, inevitably searching for each other’s gaze, always feeling that underground connection… and yet, keeping your hands to yourselves.

It’s not like before. Neither of you pretends it is. Something has irremediably changed. But for the first time in a long while, it feels like you are close to that "just friends" you both talked about so much but never actually managed to be.

Until one day, you have a few too many drinks again.

It’s one of those nights when everyone is exhausted but happy. A small, improvised celebration after a long recording session. You order food, someone brings out bottles. The laughter grows louder as glasses are filled and emptied.

You drink too. Not much at first, but enough to feel the warmth in your cheeks.

The usual dynamic takes over the living room: Yunho yelling at Mingi for cheating, San trying to sing, Wooyoung interrupting every sentence with a comment. Hongjoong is at the far end of the couch, quieter than usual, glass in hand, his eyes brighter than normal.

The night wears on. Conversations blur together. You’re talking to Mingi about a show, laughing at something absurd, and he throws an arm over your shoulders in a gesture that is completely innocent, comfortable—the way they all always do.

That’s when you hear the words, hurled from the other side of the living room, soaked in alcohol and something much uglier.

"Are you going to fuck Mingi now too?" Hongjoong’s voice says, clear, cutting right through the air.

Silence drops like a lead weight.

Everyone freezes. Mingi lets go of your shoulder instantly, as if he’s been burned. Yeosang’s eyes widen. San whispers a warning "Hyung..."

You feel the blood completely drain from your face.

You look at him.

Hongjoong holds your gaze for barely a second, his eyes glassy, his expression twisted between jealousy and self-destruction. He immediately drops his gaze back to his glass, as if he hadn’t said a thing.

"What did you just say?" you ask, your voice so cold it surprises even the others.

He makes a vague gesture with his hand.

"Nothing," he mutters. "Forget it."

But you can't. You won't.

The humiliation and rage surge through you all at once. You feel something snap in a place where there was barely anything left to break.

You stand up without a word.

"I'm leaving," you announce.

San sits up a bit.

"Already? But..."

"I have an early start tomorrow," you lie, grabbing your coat. "I got a text from work, I have to be in early."

No one stops you. Everyone feels that something heavy just happened. Seonghwa shoots Hongjoong a look that could kill.

He says nothing.

You leave the dorm with your hands shaking. You hail the first cab that passes and give the driver your address, your voice cracking. The driver asks no questions.

The moment you walk into your apartment, your phone vibrates. And vibrates. And vibrates.

Texts from Hongjoong, calls, a chain of notifications.

You don't answer. You don't pick up.

You fall asleep late, your jaw clenched so tight it aches.

Over the next few days, he tries everything.

He calls: your voicemail picks up every single time.

He texts: the messages are never delivered.

He suspects the obvious: you’ve blocked him.

He doesn't give up right away. He waits a little, in case it's a glitch, in case you turned off your phone. He tries again. Nothing.

In a moment of desperation, he approaches Yeosang in the studio.

"Have you talked to her lately?" he asks, trying to sound casual.

Yeosang looks at him for a second, reading the room.

"Yeah," he replies. "We were texting a little while ago."

The sentence is a sharp knife.

They don't get through to him. They get through to Yeosang. The conclusion is clear: there is no technical error. There is a decision.

You are genuinely done with him.

That night, without overthinking it, he shows up at your building. He doesn't warn you. He doesn't send a text beforehand that could be left on read or ignored.

He goes up. He rings the doorbell.

When you open the door and see him on the other side, your entire body tenses up.

"What are you doing here?" you ask, not giving him much room.

He swallows hard. His eyes look tired, with dark circles under them.

"Can I come in?" he asks. "Just for a second. I want to apologize."

The temptation to slam the door in his face is strong. You cross your arms, leaning slightly against the doorframe.

"No."

He takes a step forward, not invading your space, but closing the distance.

"Please," he insists, his voice dropping lower. "Just a moment. I'm really asking you."

You look at him. You see the regret pinned in his eyes. You also see all the damage he has done to you. Everything you’ve let him put you through.

You sigh. You open the door a bit wider.

"Come in," you concede, your tone dry.

He crosses the threshold. You close the door behind him and stand facing him, your arms still crossed.

"I'm listening," you say.

Hongjoong takes a deep breath, as if preparing to step onto a difficult stage.

"I'm sorry," he begins, straight to the point, without beating around the bush. "For the other night. For what I said. There's no excuse. I was drunk, yeah, but… I thought it. And the fact that I even thought it is already wrong."

He looks down for a second, then looks back up at you.

"These past few months have been absolute shit," he confesses, unadorned. "I tried to act like it was nothing, to go on with my normal life, to focus on work. But I can't. I couldn't."

His hands clench and unclench, nervous.

"You occupy my thoughts most of the time," he continues. "Every single damn day that has gone by without a text from you, without one of those calls where you’d tell me how your day went… it’s been a torment. I'm not exaggerating. I couldn't focus. I can't focus."

The raw honesty of his words hits you harder than you want to show. You keep your expression serious, even though something inside you stirs.

"I tried to convince myself that we could just be friends," he goes on, "that I could handle that. But I’ve spent months lying to myself. To me. To you. To everyone. And the harder I tried, the more… I rotted inside every time I saw you with someone else, every time I thought you might be better off without me."

He pauses. He takes half a step closer, not enough to touch you.

"It’s not a justification," he adds. "There’s no justification for what I said to you. I disrespected you. I crossed a line I should have never crossed. And I know it."

He lowers his voice a bit.

"I just… needed you to know that you were never 'something to use and throw away' to me. Never. That I didn't vanish from your life because we stopped sleeping together, but because I didn't know how to handle anything I was feeling without causing you more pain."

He looks at you, his eyes shining, completely vulnerable.

"I've missed you," he admits, almost in a whisper. "More than I know how to put into words. And I don't know what to do with all of this."

You stay silent for a few seconds, processing.

You are hurt, tired, exhausted. But you also see something you've never seen so clearly before: fear. A lot of fear. And love, even if he hasn't named it yet.

You keep staring at him, your chest tight, your arms still crossed as if they were a barrier.

"You don't know what to do with all of this," you repeat slowly. "And while you don't know what to do, I've spent months trying to piece myself back together from everything you have done."

He lowers his head slightly, but he doesn't defend himself.

"I know," he says. "And I don't expect you to forget it. Or to forgive me right now."

You lean against the wall, sideways, because standing right in the middle of the hallway makes you feel too exposed.

"When I stopped sleeping with you," you begin, locking your eyes on his, "I did it precisely to avoid getting to this point. To avoid ending up shouting things at each other that we don't mean—or that we do mean, but hurt. To avoid losing our friendship."

Silence.

"And yet," you add, "look where we are."

He swallows hard.

"I don't want to keep hurting you," he murmurs.

"But you do," you reply, without raising your tone. "With your silences, with your jealousy, with your comments. And I've hurt myself too, by staying, by putting up with it, by waiting for… something. Anything clear."

You see his jaw tremble just a bit. He forces himself to hold your gaze.

"Then tell me what you want me to do," he finally says. "If you want me to leave and never come back, I'll do it. If you want us to go back to being just friends and try to… I don't know, reset, I'll try. If… if you want something else… that too."

His voice breaks slightly on that last sentence.

You take a deep breath. This time, you actually take a few seconds before speaking. You are tired of reacting purely out of pain.

"First of all," you begin, "we already saw that the 'just friends' thing doesn't work out well for you. Or for me."

A bitter half-smile slips out. He mirrors it, without any joy.

"Second," you continue, "I can't—I truly can't—keep being in something where I have to guess what you're feeling. Or what you want. I'm not a mind reader, Hongjoong. And I don't deserve it."

He nods, very slowly.

"And third..." you let your breath out. "I need you, for once, to be the one to say things clearly. No 'I can't,' no 'it's complicated,' no beating around the bush. What do you want with me? Not in general, not in theory. With me."

He stays incredibly still. All the noise in the world could vanish right now and you wouldn't even notice. You only hear your own heart and his as he takes a deeper breath than usual.

"I love you," he says.

He had never said it like that before. Not like this.

It’s not an "I like you," it's not an "you matter to me a lot." It’s simple. Raw. Almost brutal because of how clear it sounds.

"I love you," he repeats, just in case. "I have for a while. Longer than I’ve known how to admit. I’ve been hiding behind excuses, behind work, the group, everything… because I’m scared of what it implies to say it. Because I know what’s being put on the line. Because I know it’s not easy to be with me, to be… with someone like me, with my life."

He runs a hand through his hair, nervous.

"I don't want you to be 'something more' or 'a special friend' or 'the girl I sleep with,'" he continues. "I want you to be my girlfriend. I want to be with you for real. With everything that comes with it. Even if it scares me. Even if I have to learn how to manage what I feel without screwing up your life."

Your mind goes blank for a second. Not because you hadn't dreamed of it, but because you didn't expect to hear it right now, after everything.

"And if after everything I’ve done…" he adds, his voice dropping lower, "you can't believe in that anymore, I understand. Truly. But I didn't want you to be left with the idea that you were just… that. Just sex. Because you never were."

The tears, which you had barely managed to keep under control, threaten to surface again. You hold them back by pressing your lips together.

"And why now?" you ask, not quite trusting him. "Why right when it feels like I’ve already grieved, when I had already blocked you, when I was finally trying to move on with my life?"

"Because when I saw you leave the dorm that night," he answers without hesitation, "after what I said about Mingi… and then I saw that you had genuinely disappeared. That this time you really might not come back. I realized I was playing at losing you bit by bit. And that if I kept going like that, I was going to succeed."

He looks at you with a sincerity that almost hurts.

"And losing you as a friend was already killing me. Imagining losing you entirely…" he shakes his head. "I couldn't handle that."

The silence that follows isn't comfortable, but it isn't the same as before either. It’s not the silence where everything is an evasion. It’s a void waiting for a decision.

You uncross your arms without realizing it. You feel the weight of everything: of the year you’ve been dragging this out, of the arguments, of the good nights, of the bad ones, of the last few months without speaking.

"I’ve hated you a little," you confess, quietly. "These past few months. For keeping quiet. For being jealous. For being a coward."

"I deserve it," he admits, making no attempt to justify himself.

"And I’ve missed you like crazy," you add immediately, because that is also true. "It hurt that you weren't there. I tried to… " you make a face. "I tried other people. And it only made me feel worse."

His gaze softens, but he says nothing. He lets you speak.

"But loving you doesn't erase what happened," you continue. "It doesn't erase that you made me feel small, that you disrespected me, that you vanished when I needed you to at least be my friend the most. That doesn't just reset with an 'I love you.'"

"I know," he says right away. "And I'm not asking you to reset it. Or to say yes right now. I just… want to give you the truth I didn't give you before. What you do with it… is up to you."

You bite the inside of your cheek. You think.

You think of the boy opening the studio door for you with a lost look in his eyes. Of the leader, the perfectionist, the stubborn man who locks himself away to work until the early hours. You think of the friend who used to tell you his insecurities. You think of the man who told you "mine" without daring to say "I love you."

And you think of yourself. Of how much you’ve been forgetting who you are just to accommodate his doubts.

"If I do this," you begin, and you already know you’ve made a decision, at least to try, "it has to be different."

He holds his breath.

"I can't go back to that limbo," you go on. "If we're going to be together, we're together for real. All the way. I'm not going to ask you to shout it to the world, I know perfectly well what your job is and what it implies. But I do need to know that, at least in our own lives, I'm not some shameful secret or a half-hearted option."

He nods quickly.

"I don't want you to be a secret," he says. "I want you to be a part of my life, not a corner I hide away."

"And there's one more thing," you add. "Your jealousy. I am not going to back down or justify going out with my friends, laughing with people, living my life anymore. If you can't handle that, we might as well leave it right here."

He swallows hard, but he doesn't back away.

"I’m going to work on it," he answers. "I’m not going to promise you that I won't have moments of insecurity, because I’d be lying. But I do promise you that I won't use them to attack you ever again. And if I screw up, I want you to tell me, not swallow it down."

You study him, searching for the slightest trace of self-delusion.

You don't see absolute certainty. You see fear. You see doubts. But, for the first time, you also see a clear choice: he is choosing something, even if it gives him vertigo.

"And if I say no?" you ask, one last time. "If I tell you that I can't, that it's just not in me…? Are you going to keep pushing, or are you going to leave me alone?"

He bites his lip, thinks, and answers with an honesty that completely disarms you:

"It will hurt like hell," he admits. "But I would leave you alone. I don't want to be anything in your life that isn't good. If being with me only hurts you… I’d rather learn to live with that, even if it’s hard."

You stay quiet. The weight of the choice falls on you.

You know you could close the door right now, leave it at a "thanks for the truth, but no." It would be a clear, clean ending, even if it hurts.

You also know you could leap without a net again, trusting that now, at least, both of you know exactly what’s at stake.

You realize, with a sort of tender exhaustion, that you still love him. That neither the slammed door, nor the blocking, nor the date with someone else, nor his jealousy have erased that. They’ve just covered it in layers of fear.

"I don't know if I'll be able to forgive you for everything all at once," you say at last. "Or if I'll be able to trust you one hundred percent starting right now."

"I'm not asking you to," he answers quickly.

"But I do know," you continue, "that if we don't try for real now, I’m going to spend my whole life wondering what would have happened if you’d just had the courage sooner."

His eyes widen slightly. Hope creeps in, restrained.

"So…" you sigh. "We can try. For real. Just this once. All the way. If we screw it up again, if we go back to hurting each other like before… then that's it. No more second, third, fourth chances."

His voice breaks a little as he answers:

"I won't waste it."

You take a step toward him. It’s tiny, but it’s everything.

"One more thing," you add, almost with a tired smile. "I never want to hear you say a line like the one about Mingi in front of anyone ever again. Never again."

Shame flushes across his face.

"Never again," he reassures you. "I swear."

He is right in front of you. Close, but still not touching you. It’s strange: you’ve been so physically close before, yet now this single meter of distance feels like an ocean.

"Can I…?" he begins, barely lifting his hand toward you, without quite brushing against you.

You nod.

His palm finds your cheek with a softness that contrasts with everything your story has been up to this point. There is no urgency. There is no possession. Just a trembling, almost reverent touch.

He looks at you as if you were something he doesn't want to break ever again.

"I love you," he repeats, quieter, just in case you hadn't believed it before.

You close your eyes for a moment, leaning your cheek against his hand. It’s not complete forgiveness, it’s not forgetting. It’s a first step.

"Don't screw it up," you whisper. "Please."

"I don't plan to," he replies.

When he kisses you, for the first time in a long while, there is no anger, no fear, no running away. There is care. There is clumsiness. There is an implicit promise to go slow, even though you know each other's skin by heart.

You don't know if it's going to turn out well. You don't know if months from now you'll look back and think you were brave or you were foolish.

The only thing you know is that, for the first time, you are making a choice with all the information on the table. And he, for the first time, is too.

The rest, only time will write. And this time, both of you are going to be wide awake while it does.

@little-mix-fan-forever @emeraldgem22 @honeyyyy21 @doliveiraa @blackbrumous @ stellasays45 @iconicallyher @nebugalaxy @ karlee10261990 @susu6944 @parkairis18 @quokkahansung @wheresangel @bunbunbl0gs @lostinmusicals @euonna @nebugalaxy @karmaghostjess93 @hanniesbubuwife @blindspotquokka @idkimobsessed @newlifepaths @embobema @majessticallyme @hiraelis @0felixsfreckles0

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