martha

encoer! ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* she/her . libra . uk enhypen is sevEN

[jjuhoonn]

[lavmetomoon]

[lunaflorel]

𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒘𝒔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ✉️ 🔗 Ⳋ᧙ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

🪷⠀⠀◌ं⠀ ̥ ˚̩̩̥͙ ۪۪۫۫ᤢ ᣟ݂ ꯳⃘♡゙ ͏͏͏. ˚⠀⠀𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒇 𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖.

⠀ .⠀⠀⠀⠀˚　. 𝄞♡ ̤̤ ⠀.⠀⠀⠀⠀˚　. 𝄞♡ ̤̤ ⠀.⠀⠀⠀⠀˚　. 𝄞♡ ̤̤

𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝑰 𝒅𝒐 𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒊𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖

[itboyufan]

here's how you can support the ongoing protest against belift. let's please not stay silent about this.

how to mail belift/hybe

sign a petition on change.org

donation for protest trucks

please repost to spread we need your help

[en-cortis]

the concept of heeseung seeing his members in the halls of the hybe building and not being w them 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭no one talk to me 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[en-cortis]

enhypen is 7 🫶🫶

[swiftjay23]

HE CAN DO A SOLO AND STILL IN THE GROUP WTF IS WRONG WITH THESE COMPANY!!!! ‼️‼️‼️EVERYONE REPOST!!!‼️‼️‼️ From engenes, Sometime ago Belift posted the official notice about heeseung leaving ENHYPEN on X, Heeseung also wrote a post on weverse showing his gratitude towards engenes and saying a final goodbye. From his post we understand he want to release his own solo songs. But that could be done even by being in the group, so many kpop groups have done this, millions of them. We feel Belift forced heeseung to leave the group as he wanted to produce his own music. They don't want any member having a solo career while being in the group for their own selfish reasons. Heeseung would never leave the group on his own seeing how much he loves engenes, he wrote songs like blossom, highway 1009 for engenes, these prove his love for us. Recently he has been seen looking very upset and depressed. I'm sure it's because of Belift. I request the engenes who live in Korea to find out the reality and once we are sure Belift did this then let's start sending protest trucks, boycotting belift and whatever we can to bring Heeseung back. If its found that is heeseung's own decision then let's support him!! What we have been told is just a cover story but we need to know the truth!! We deserve to know the truth!! Pls engenes let's support each other and contribute in any way we can to stop Belift and bring Heeseung back!! To: ENGENES & ENHYPEN #bring_heeseung_back #enhypen_is_7 #justice_for_heeseung

[endoll]

Sigh.

[matchamegs]

PEOPLE WE MEET ON VACATION : HOW MANY TIMES CAN TWO PEOPLE CROSS PATHS? ✴︎ MARTIN EDWARDS

☆.ㅤ 𝐒𝐘𝐍.ㅤ ㅤ──ㅤㅤ you expect your vacation to be full of new sights, new streets, and new faces (just not the same one over and over again). sure , seeing the same guy once on vacation is coincidence. seeing him everywhere is something else entirely. this is about the comfort of seeing a familiar face in an unfamiliar place.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪ ˖ ִ𐙚 feat. 𖹭 pairing ──  martin edwards , reader. james and sean mentioned. fluff. not slow burn but it's kinda slow? man idk. martin has his pre debut hair on this one because why not. this is so ASS guys im sorry it was better in my head. the lack of dialogues is killing me but it's whatever. rushed. not proofread.

you first notice him at the airport because of the shoes.

it's stupid. out of all the things to clock in a packed international terminal, you notice his shoes. worn white sneakers with a thin crack along the sole that looks like they've been dragged through more countries than you have. he's standing a few feet ahead of you in the check-in line, passport already in hand, one shoulder slouched under the strap of a black backpack.

you're half awake and half annoyed, still mentally unpacking the fact that your vacation has officially begun and you're already tired. your carry on digs into your palm. the line creeps forward in painful increments. your aunt's voice cutting through the airport noise.

"that one," she says, nudging you lightly with her elbow. "he's your type."

you frown. "what? you don't even know my type. plus, that's literally just a guy."

your aunt hums. "mm-hm. exactly."

you roll your eyes and keep walking, but your gaze betrays you by flicking back once. just once. you tell yourself it's just curiosity. airports are boring. people-watching is a survival tactic.

he turns slightly, adjusting the strap, and you catch his profile.

oh.

that's . . . unfortunate.

but not in that dramatic kdrama-moment way. his dark hair refuses to lie flat, brows that always look mildly skeptical, mouth set in a neutral line like he's perpetually judging the world at a three out of ten. he looks like someone who knows how to disappear into crowds and somehow still standout.

he glances back briefly, eyes flicking over the line, checking whether it moved. you look away immediately like a normal person. obviously, you weren't staring. obviously.

"next," the airline staff calls. the line shifts and so does he.

you tell yourself that's the end of it. airports are full of faces. transient, forgettable, gone the second you pass through security.

except you see him again at bag drop.

aaand again at security.

. . . and again when you're both stuck at the same scanner because someone ahead of you forgot to take off their belt.

he exhales sharply, just under his breath. not loud enough for people to think he's being rude.

"every time," he mutters to himself.

you laugh before you mean to. he looks at you this time.

"right?" he asks like you're already on the same side. "it's always the belts."

"or the watches," you add. "or the people who act shocked every single time."

"you'd think after the tenth flight they'd learn."

"you'd think," you echo.

there's a pause where neither of you says anything else, the conveyor belt hums and plastic bins clatter and the moment could either end or turn into something awkward.

just like that, it ends. security waves him through first. he gives a brief nod and disappears into the crowd beyond the scanners.

you don't expect to see him again.

you're halfway through a bottle of water at your gate when someone drops into the seat two chairs away from you. same sneakers.

yeahhh still him.

he doesn't notice you yet. he's busy scrolling on his phone, thumb flicking lazily, posture loose and looking like he's got nowhere to be despite the massive departure board looming overhead.

stop. don't look. don't look. DON'T LOOK—

the boarding announcement crackles over the speakers. same destination. same flight number.

"no way," he says, eyebrows lifting and finally realizing. "security line?"

"belt drama," you confirm.

he huffs a laugh this time. "same gate, same flight . . . what are the odds?"

"don't say that," you say. "if you say it out loud, it becomes fate."

"right. sorry." he tucks his phone away. "wouldn't want to jinx it. you here for vacation?"

"yeah. finally." you gesture vaguely. "escaping real life."

"same here." he rolls his shoulders. "needed a reset."

you don't ask what from. he doesn't offer.

you end up a few rows apart. close enough that you can see him when he stands to adjust the overhead bin, but far enough that you can pretend you're not aware of him at all. every time the flight attendant passes, every time someone shifts in their seat, your attention drifts forward.

somewhere over the ocean, the cabin lights dim. people settle into that in between state of half asleep and boredom. you put your headphones in, queue up a playlist you associate with traveling and stare out the window. you spend the rest of the flight wondering why that tiny interaction feels like something you'll remember longer than it deserves.

when you land, everything blurs together. standing up, grabbing bags, and filing off the plane. you expect that to be the end of it. airports are like that: full of people you'll never see again.

one sneaker is kicked somewhere near the door, the other still half on as you drag your suitcase inside and let it collapse against the wall with a dull thud. the room smells like fresh linen and industrial air freshener. your cousin has already claimed the bed closest to the window, scrolling on her phone with one leg kicked up against the headboard.

"hey," she says without looking up. "this bed is mine. don't even try."

you ignore her. you stand there for a second, hands on your hips, staring at the wall like you're psyching yourself up.

"you're acting weird," she adds, finally glancing over. "did something happen at the airport?"

"okay, so there's this guy—"

she bursts out laughing. a full on, shoulder shaking, i-knew-it laugh. she actually sits up so fast the bed creaks, phone dropping onto the bed as she points at you like she's been waiting for this.

"no. absolutely not. this is the third guy."

"it's not—!"

"this is the third guy you've met on vacation," she insists, laughing harder. "we've been here, what? barely a day? less than 24 hours."

"i wasn't even finished!"

"if this is another ‘i accidentally made eye contact and now i'm spiraling’ situation—"

"that's not fair," you protest, offended. "i didn't even spiral with the first one."

"riiight. james, was it? from our vacation in Taiwan? i think. anyway, it was the dude who couldn't care less about you!"

you groan now, rubbing your face. "please don't say it like that."

she squints at you. "oh, so we're skipping over sean now?"

"why do you keep bringing him up?"

"because," she says sweetly, "you never finished that story! so. sean. los angeles sean."

"fine. but you're exaggerating it in your head."

"am i? or do you just have a habit of meeting random men and deciding they're significant within five minutes?"

you huff. "okay. LA 2024. i was walking back and not paying attention because i was trying to reply to you and not get hit by traffic at the same time. i took the wrong turn and i literally walk straight into him."

she snaps her fingers. "there it is."

"it wasn't gentle. like, full on collision. my drink almost spilled."

you sit up, gesturing as the memory sharpens. "he drops his phone and i almost drop my drink. we both start apologizing at the same time—"

she laughs. "classic. you know, it kinda reminds me of notting hill."

"—and he's like, ‘oh my god, i'm so sorry,’ and i'm like, ‘no, it's my fault,’ and we keep interrupting each other like a bunch of idiots."

she props her chin on her hand. "and?"

"and then," you continue, "he offers to buy me another coffee because he thinks he knocked mine, even though it was still fine."

"sean sounds considerate."

"he was," you admit reluctantly. "he kept apologizing even after we'd both clearly established that no one was injured."

"and you two talked?"

"for like," you pause, "a few minutes. about nothing," you insist. "traffic and the weather."

"and then?"

"and then he smiled at me," you say quietly, "and said, ‘well . . . maybe i'll see you around.’"

"that's it? you didn't get his number?"

you hesitate.

" . . . no."

she slaps the bed. "WHY?"

"because," you say, defensive, "he said he was leaving the next morning. plus, why would i do that? that's weird."

"street collision sean, hello? that opportunity fell right in your lap, and you wasted it. an organic encounter!"

"what does that even mean? you read too many books."

she groans. "temporary men are the backbone of your trauma."

"this is different," you say immediately. "we kept running into each other. i swear."

she collapses back onto the bed. "no. stop. i'm begging you."

"i'm being serious."

"you say that every. single. time," she says between laughs. "every vacation it's ‘no, but this one's different.’"

you sit up straighter. "i wasn't even going to tell you about it."

"you literally opened with ‘so there's this guy,’" she reminds you. "that's your signature move. at this point, everyone in the family knows."

she kicks your bed lightly with her foot. "look, i love you. really. but i'm not doing this again."

"doing what?"

"you getting invested in someone who exists solely because they happened to be in your line of sight," she says. "for all we know, he's already gone. vanished and never to be seen again."

you think of the sneakers and the way he smiled when he recognized you.

" . . . maybe,"

maybe somewhere out there, that guy is probably putting down his bags too.

you break away from your family after lunch, promising to meet them later, and wander down a narrow street lined with souvenir stalls and trinket shops. everything is colorful and crowded. a bunch of keychains, postcards, handmade bracelets, things you'll probably buy and forget about but feel compelled to look at anyway.

you step into a small shop tucked between a café and a clothing store. it smells like incense and old wood. wind chimes tinkle softly near the entrance.

you're flipping through a rack of postcards when you hear a voice behind you.

"those are a rip-off. they sell the same ones down the street for half the price," the voice continues, amused. "learned that the hard way."

you don't know why it stops you in your tracks. maybe it's the tone, or the cadence, or that strange, lingering feeling. you've heard that voice before. you know you have. you just don't expect it to belong to him. not until you turn around.

up close, he looks less like the boy from the airport and more like a real person who definitely hasn't slept much. his hair is slightly messy like he gave up trying to style it. he's holding a small carved figurine, turning it over with suspicion.

you blink. "are you . . . stalking me?"

his eyebrows shoot up. "what? no— wait, you were on my flight. this is weird."

"right? i was starting to think i imagined you."

he smiles at that. "martin."

"what?"

"my name," he says, shifting the figurine to his other hand. "in case we keep accidentally running into each other."

"i knew it. this is what happens when you make eye contact with a stranger at an airport."

"rookie mistake," he agrees.

you both stand there for a second, just staring, until it starts to feel ridiculous.

"so," you say, gesturing around. "souvenirs?"

"souvenirs," he confirms. "because apparently i'm the type of person who panics halfway through a trip and realizes i've bought nothing to prove i was ever here."

"ah. the existential purchase."

"exactly."

you glance down at what he's holding. "what's wrong with that one?"

he lifts the bracelet. it's brightly colored, a little uneven, it's clearly handmade.

"nothing. i just don't know who this is for."

"yourself?"

he squints at it. "i don't think i have the confidence to pull this off."

"coward."

he snorts. "that's fair."

you move deeper into the shop together without really deciding to. martin starts asking questions almost immediately. it almost feels like he's genuinely curious and forgot to turn the filter on.

"so," he says, picking up a postcard and reading the back. "is this your first time here?"

"yeah."

"why here?"

you shrug. "cheap flights and i also needed a break. wanted somewhere warm."

"respectable reasons." he nods. then, without missing a beat, "solo trip?"

"nope."

he raises his eyebrows, impressed. "bold."

"is it?"

"for some people. i know someone who would rather die than be with a group of people for a week."

"that sounds . . . healthy."

"he's working on it," martin says dryly.

you laugh, flipping through a rack of postcards.

"what about you? solo?"

"nah. flying with a group too. i like traveling with people. it's like my thing. someone to witness the weird things so i know i didn't hallucinate them."

"like this?" you gesture between you.

"especially this."

you stop at a shelf of tiny figurines with animals, landmarks, and things that look vaguely cursed. you pick one up, examining it.

"this feels haunted."

martin leans in to look. "oh, absolutely."

"you think it watches you sleep?"

"i think it waits." he whispers.

you place it back carefully. "nope. not for me."

he watches you do it, amused, then tilts his head slightly.

"you're very decisive," he notes.

"about haunted objects?"

"about things in general. you don't hesitate much."

you glance at him. "you've known me for fifteen minutes."

"what can i say? i'm observant."

"or nosy."

"that too." he moves on to another display, this one full of keychains. he picks one up, turning it over.

"what do you do when you're not accidentally running into strangers on vacation?" he asks.

you tell him.

he listens closely. his eyes focused, nodding along, asking follow up questions that prove he's not just waiting for his turn to talk.

"how'd you get into that?" , "do you like it?" , "what's the worst part?" , "what's the part you pretend not to hate but actually do?"

you laugh at that one. "okay, who told you?"

"experience. everyone has a part like that."

you ask him the same. he answers honestly.

"so you're telling me . . . you voluntarily chose stress as a career?"

"i didn't know it would be stress," he defends. "it started out as ambition."

"the classic mistake. been there."

"still love it though."

you drift toward a rack of scarves. he picks one up, holds it up between you.

"this feels like something you'd wear."

"based on what?"

"vibes," he says simply.

you squint at it. "you're bad at this."

"really harsh feedback."

you put it back but that doesn't make him look offended. if anything, he looks entertained.

"okay," he says, hands up. "teach me. what would you buy here?"

you scan the shop, then point to a small ceramic dish painted with uneven blue patterns. "that."

"why?"

"useful. not the typical souvenir gift. pretty too."

he nods thoughtfully. picks it up. "y'know, you're good at this."

"i know."

he turns the dish over, then adds it to the small pile he's apparently started without you noticing.

"for who?" you ask.

he shrugs. "my friend. he collects dumb little things like this."

"you travel for him too?"

"he'd forget to buy souvenirs entirely and then panic text me about it."

"ah. so you're the responsible one."

"don't spread that around."

you wander to another shelf, examining magnets shaped like landmarks.

"what's he like?" you ask, casual.

martin pauses for a second, thinking.

"annoying. loud. thinks he's funny."

"thinks?"

"jury's still out."

there's something fond in his tone, though. the conversation slides back to you. your favorite trips, the places you still want to see, the way you plan vacations versus how you actually experience them.

martin keeps asking questions. small ones, big ones, and dumb ones. it didn't matter.

"window or aisle?" , "sweet or savory?" , "do you read the plaque or pretend you did?" , "what's the worst souvenir you've ever received?"

you answer all of them, laughing more than you expect to. at some point, you realize neither of you has checked your phone in a while.

after that, it feels like the world is nudging you gently and saying, pay attention.

you pass a café later that afternoon, pausing outside to check the menu and there he is, sitting at a small round table by the window with iced coffee in his hand, sunlight catching in his hair. this time, he notices you first.

he lifts his cup in a small salute when he sees you. you laugh and walk over before you can overthink it.

"you're kidding."

"i swear i didn't plan this. i was here first."

"sure you were."

he grins. "want to sit? or is this the part where we pretend we don't know each other?"

you hesitate for exactly one second before pulling out the chair across from him.

"five minutes then i'm leaving. got things to do."

"deal."

five minutes turns into twenty. you talk about the flight, about how confusing the streets are, about the weird souvenir shops and the heat and how vacation time feels too short.

when you finally stand to go, he looks almost surprised.

"guess i'll see you around?"

that night, you spot him at a restaurant across the street from yours.

the night after that, at a popular shop with a line so long. by the end of the week, seeing martin feels less like a coincidence and more like part of the trip.

martin invited you out for a quick meet up. it wasn't anything serious and even though he was technically still a stranger, he didn't give off any bad vibes. if anything, the idea of spending time with someone your age felt refreshing. better than another afternoon at home, listening to conversations you couldn't really join.

somewhere between the airport and the trinket shop and the café and the crowded streets, you realize something else, too.

you don't know what happens after the vacation ends.

but you do know one thing: the guy sitting next to martin just gave you a weird feeling.

okay. think. where have i seen this dude?

you mentally flip through memories like a photo album. vacations, mostly. Berlin? no. Venice, maybe? Barcelona? no, you've never been there. LA—

wait.

LA?

LA, 2024. a crowded sidewalk and a near spill. a collision that ended with an apology and a name you definitely remembered afterward.

street collision sean.

you look back at the table just as martin bumps shoulders with him.

oh.

and judging by the way martin is casually leaning toward him, talking like this is someone he's shared experiences and stories with—

yeah. martin clearly knows this guy.

God forbid you go on vacation without unlocking a side quest.

it's always the people we meet on vacation.

[caramielito-deactivated20260322]

𐅛 ۪۫۫𖡻 ᭄ Big Girls ✙✚ Don’t Cry 𓎟𓎟┊ ༒　

ॱ़۫🦷 ₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𓈒 ◌ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ˚ ⠞𒈔ାୁ. ݂ 𓈒 ⊹ ‎ ‎ 𓂅 ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ࣪ ˖ ཀ

[lovhyeon]

seventeen candles

— eom seonghyeon

⸻ for my lorbaby ꨄ︎ & our bf !!!

pairing. so american ! seonghyeon / f ! reader warnings + info. extreme fluff, established relationship, ldr, intense smoochinnn, angst for like 2 seconds, birthday fic, seonghyeon being emotionally devastated then emotionally overwhelmed, they do the polaroid pic taking later in the day for the sake of the fic

! part of so american anthology but couuuld be read as standalone (although i don't recommend..)

synopsis. you've been dodging his calls for days, and seonghyeon is convinced he's done something wrong. what he doesn't know? you're currently on a flight to korea with a suitcase full of birthday surprises and a plan to show up at his door like you never left.

wc. 30.6k

▸ feedback & reblogs are highly appreciated

author's note. can u tell i like this pic of him..... ANYWHO HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO OUR GOLDEN BOY AEGIPIE SEONGHYEON!!! ik this is technically late but i had sm work yesterday lol i am sorry and ily hyeonholics :)) this shit genuinely took me two weeks pretty much to write i'm just happy its over with. i love you hyeon deadass bro made my whole year both 2026 and 2025 like frick i need him also i tried to make the playlist songs most ppl know ps. make sure u r reading the dates bc it does go back n forth a little but trust you'll be fine && yes this one is dedicated to my angel wife @eohyeons for letting me get those sneak peeks & being my twizzy jamseongz 2man🤞🤞🤞 & also my baby @thealuvsbangtanboys for helping my indecisive ahh pick da cover 😉😉

LISTEN TO... hyeon and yn's playlist here :)

JANUARY 10 — 11:47 PM KST

You [Sat, Jan 10, 8:47 AM EST] hey sorry i missed ur call was sleeping

hyeonpie 😙 [Sat, Jan 10, 11:49 PM KST] oh it's ok did u sleep good?

You [Sat, Jan 10, 8:50 AM EST] yeah kinda tired tho

hyeonpie 😙 [Sat, Jan 10, 11:51 PM KST] u ok? u sound off

You [Sat, Jan 10, 8:52 AM EST] yeah im fine just busy w stuff

hyeonpie 😙 [Sat, Jan 10, 11:54 PM KST] oh ok lmk if u need anything i miss u loooots

You [Sat, Jan 10, 8:55 AM EST] miss u too talk later?

hyeonpie 😙 [Sat, Jan 10, 11:56 PM KST] yeah ofc ❤️

Seonghyeon stared at his phone for a solid thirty seconds after you stopped responding. The screen's blue light washed over his face in the dark room, making his eyes ache. He should've turned on a lamp or something, but he couldn't bring himself to move. The brightness slider sat at maybe 20%, dim enough that it wouldn't wake Keonho but bright enough that he could see every word you'd sent.

Every single short, rushed, distant word. Something was off.

He couldn't pinpoint what exactly—couldn't put his finger on the specific thing that made his stomach twist—but the texts felt… distant. Hollow, almost. Like you were forcing yourself to respond, typing out the bare minimum just to get him off your back.

You'd been like this for the past three days. Short answers that didn't invite conversation. Missed calls that you apologized for hours later. Always "busy" or "tired" or some other excuse that technically made sense but also didn't.

He really tried not to overthink it. You had your own life, your own schedule, your own world that didn't revolve around him. School, work, family, friends. He got that. He respected that, always had. He never wanted to be that boyfriend—the clingy one, the one who needed constant attention, the one who made everything about himself.

But also… his birthday was in three days. January 13th. Tuesday. And you hadn't mentioned it once. Not a single "can't wait" or "wish I could be there" or even a stupid joke about getting him something embarrassing. Nothing. Complete radio silence on the one thing he'd been quietly hoping you'd bring up.

Last year, you weren't together yet. You weren't even talking yet. He didn't know a girl like you existed. He'd spent his sixteenth birthday at the dorm with the members, eating too much cake and playing video games until 3 AM. It was fun as fuck. It was good; everything he'd ever imagined at the time.

But this year was supposed to be different. This year he had you. And he'd been looking forward to it—not in some crazy "I'll fly to you ASAP," but in that little way where you think about something and smile without meaning to. He'd imagined you sending him a voice message at midnight. Or a stupid video of you singing happy birthday off-key. Or maybe even… shit, he didn't even know. Something that felt like you.

Instead, he got three-word responses and reactions to his messages that weren't even funny.

He locked his phone and tossed it onto his bed, watching it bounce once on the mattress before settling. Then he ran both hands through his hair, gripping slightly at the roots, tugging just enough to feel something other than the hollow ache in his chest. A heavy exhale left his lungs.

The dark brown his stylist had touched up last week caught the dim light from his desk lamp—the small one with the adjustable arm that he kept angled toward the wall. He caught his own reflection in the black screen of his monitor. The computer was off, had been for hours, but the screen acted like a mirror in the darkness. Dark hair, tired eyes, that tight set to his jaw he always got when he was spiraling.

He'd recently gone back to his brown hair after having those blonde highlights for months. The highlights he had when he visited you in New York for Christmas. The ones you'd touched that first morning, still half-asleep, fingers brushing through the strands as you whispered something about how good they looked.

He missed them suddenly. Missed the way you'd play with his hair while you watched movies on your couch. Missed the way you'd tug on the blonde pieces specifically, like they were your favorite.

Maybe you'd text him back if he got them redone. Maybe they were his lucky charm or something equally stupid and superstitious.

He snorted at himself. Pathetic.

From the other side of the room, Keonho glanced up from his phone. One earbud dangled from his ear, the white cord catching the faint blue glow from his screen. His bed was identical to Seonghyeon's—standard dorm issue, black metal frame, mattress that was just soft enough to be comfortable but firm enough that their backs didn't hurt. The beds were pushed against opposite walls, creating a narrow walkway down the middle cluttered with shoes, backpacks, random hoodies neither of them had bothered to hang up.

Their room wasn't big. Barely fit three beds, three desks, three small dressers. Posters covered most of the wall space—some from their debut era, some from other groups they liked, one massive Kanye West poster that Keonho had insisted on hanging even though it clashed with literally everything else.

Their new award from the Golden Disc Awards sat on the shelf between their desks. It was still shiny and new, surrounded by random clutter. Empty water bottles. A half-finished bag of chips. Some skincare products Seonghyeon kept forgetting to use.

"You good?" Keonho asked. His voice was quiet, careful—the voice he used when he knew Seonghyeon was in his head about something.

Seonghyeon shrugged, leaning back against his headboard. The wooden frame creaked slightly under his weight. He reached for the mini cat plush sitting on his pillow—the one you'd made fun of relentlessly during your last FaceTime after he brought it to New York, the one you said looked "concerningly realistic" and "kind of creepy actually." He tossed it up once, caught it, tossed it again.

"Yeah. Fine." The lie tasted stale in his mouth.

Keonho squinted at him through the darkness, then grabbed the pillow wedged between his back and the wall and chucked it across the room. It hit Seonghyeon square in the face with a soft thump.

"Ow—what the hell?"

"You don't look fine."

"I'm fine."

"You've been staring at your phone like you lost a soccer pick for like ten minutes."

Seonghyeon groaned and tilted his head back against the wall, eyes closing. "It's nothing. Just… she's been weird lately."

His eyes flicked open, landing on the corner of the room. The shelf. The ROTY award sitting there all shiny and important-looking, reflecting the dim light from his desk lamp. James had let them keep it in their room for god knows what reason. A trophy they'd worked for, trained for, sacrificed for. The thing that was supposed to feel like winning.

It did feel like winning. He was grateful. He was happy. The whole group had cried when they announced it, had held each other and laughed through the tears and called their families right after.

But right now, looking at it just reminded him that everyone else was celebrating while he sat here overthinking text messages in the dark like some kind of lovesick idiot.

"Weird how?" Keonho sat up properly now, pulling out his other earbud. The room went quieter without the faint tinny sound of whatever he'd been listening to.

"Like… distant. I don't know." Seonghyeon picked up his phone again, thumb hovering over your contact. He scrolled back through your last few conversations, reading them for maybe the fifth time tonight. Like he thought he'd find some hidden meaning he'd missed. Some secret message buried between the lines. "She's barely texting me back. Keeps saying she's busy. We haven't FaceTimed in almost a week."

A week. Seven days. The last time he'd seen your face—actually seen it, moving and alive and real—was last Friday. You'd called him after your shift at the café, hair up in that messy bun you always did, wearing his hoodie even though you insisted you "didn't even like it that much."

You'd talked for maybe twenty minutes before you said you had to go, had homework or something. He'd watched you smile at him through the screen, watched you blow him a kiss before hanging up.

And since then? Nothing but these hollow text exchanges that felt more like obligation than conversation.

Keonho sat up fully, frowning now. His hair stuck up at odd angles, pressed flat on one side from lying down. "That is weird. For her."

"Right?" Seonghyeon's voice cracked slightly, and he hated how obvious it was. How pathetic he sounded. "Like, I know she's got her own stuff going on, but… I don't know, man. It feels like she's avoiding me."

"Hm. Did you do something?" Keonho asked it carefully, without judgment. It was just genuine curiosity.

"I don't think so?" Seonghyeon scrolled further back in your messages, trying to remember the last real conversation you'd had. Not these short exchanges, but an actual conversation where you both said more than five words.

It was after New Year's. January 4th. You'd stayed up late talking even though you had to be up early for school and him work the next day. You'd talked about resolutions—his was to learn to be a better producer, yours was to "stop procrastinating literally everything." You'd talked about visiting him, about how he'd take you to all his favorite spots in Korea, show you the real Seoul, not just the tourist stuff.

You'd laughed so hard you started crying when he tried to teach you how to say "I love you" in Korean and you somehow mispronounced it so badly it came out sounding like "I love fish."

"Saranghae," he'd said, trying nnot to laugh.

"Sara... sara-ng..." You'd squinted at your phone screen like the syllables were written there. "Saranghe?"

"Close. Saranghae. The 'hae' part. Lock in, bruh. It's not that hard."

"Saranghae," you'd repeated, slower.

"Better!"

"Okay cool. So that means I love you?"

"Yeah."

"Saranghae, Seonghyeon." You'd said it so earnestly, so sweetly, even though your pronunciation was still a little off.

His chest had done that stupid flip thing it always did when you said stuff like that. "Nado saranghae," he'd whispered back. I love you too.

"Okay wait, what does 'nado' mean?"

"Me too."

"Oh! So 'nado saranghae' is 'I love you too'?"

"Yeah."

You'd beamed at him through the screen, that smile that made his whole body flood with serotonin. "Okay. I'm gonna practice. By the time I visit, I'm gonna be fluent."

"In Korean?"

"No, in Mandarin." You gave him this deadpan look before bursting into laughter. "Yes, in Korean, dummy."

He'd laughed, and you'd laughed, and everything had felt right.

That was eleven days ago.

Now, sitting in his dark room with his phone growing warm in his hand, that conversation felt like it had happened in a different lifetime. To different people. People who actually talked to each other.

"Maybe she's just stressed," Keonho offered carefully. "You know how she gets when she's overwhelmed."

"Maybe," Seonghyeon muttered, but he didn't sound convinced. He didn't feel convinced.

Because here's the thing—when you were stressed, you usually told him. You'd text him long rants about your shift at the café, or about some group project where nobody was pulling their weight, or about how your sister was being annoying. You didn't go quiet. You didn't pull away.

This was different. This felt like you were building distance on purpose. Like you were trying to create space between you, and he didn't understand why.

His phone buzzed in his hand. His heart jumped, stupid and hopeful, before his brain caught up.

1 new message from 엄성현

Wait. No. That was him. His own contact. He blinked, realizing he'd opened the wrong chat. Your name was right above his in his recents, and for a split second—one brutal, hope-filled second—his heart had jumped thinking you'd texted him first.

God, he was pathetic.

He locked his phone again and shoved it under his pillow, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw spots.

"I'm overthinking," he said aloud. It was more to convince himself than Keonho. If he said it out loud, maybe it would become true. Maybe his brain would listen and shut up.

"Probably," Keonho agreed, but his tone was gentle. This weird way it only got when he was genuinely worried. Which was never. "But like... maybe just talk to her? Ask her straight up if something's wrong? 'Cause you're stressing me out too, and I'm just an innocent bystander here."

Seonghyeon nodded, but he didn't move to grab his phone again. Didn't reach under his pillow where it was hidden, screen-down, probably still warm from being clutched in his hand.

Because part of him was scared of what you'd say.

Part of him was terrified that if he asked "is something wrong?" you'd finally tell him the truth. That the distance wasn't an accident. That you'd been thinking about it—about him, about this, about whether long distance was worth it—and you'd decided it wasn't.

That he wasn't.

The room fell quiet except for the hum of the heater clicking on, warm air starting to blow through the vent above Keonho's desk. And the distant sound of someone's music playing down the hall—probably Martin, who always stayed up too late listening to the same three albums on repeat.

Keonho eventually put his earbud back in, but Seonghyeon could tell he was still paying attention. The way his eyes kept flicking over. The way he hadn't actually scrolled on his phone in minutes, the screen staying static on some video he wasn't watching.

Seonghyeon pulled his knees up, wrapping his arms around them, resting his chin on his kneecaps. Staring at the wall across from his bed. The poster of some album cover he'd hung up months ago—Blonde by Frank Ocean, the minimalist orange and white one that you'd said was "very on brand" for him. The polaroids taped around his desk in a haphazard collage—some from performances, some from random days with the members, some from recording sessions at 3 AM when they were all half-delirious.

And there, tucked in the corner of his mirror, reflecting the dim light from his desk lamp, was the photo from Christmas.

You and him in your family's living room. You in that ridiculous holiday sweater with the reindeer on it, the one that was two sizes too big and kept sliding off your shoulder. His arm around you, pulling you close. Both of you mid-laugh because Mateo had photobombed at the last second, making some dumb face behind you.

Your cheeks had been pink from the cold—you'd just come in from outside, had been helping your mom carry groceries from the car. Your hair was a little messy. No makeup because it was a lazy day, just family, nothing fancy. And you'd looked so pretty it had actually hurt to look at you.

He'd looked at that photo every single day since he got back to Korea. Multiple times a day, actually. It was his lockscreen. His home screen. The thing he stared at when he couldn't sleep and missed you so much it physically hurt, an actual ache in his chest like something was missing.

And now he was sitting here wondering if he'd somehow screwed it all up without even realizing it. If he'd said something wrong or done something stupid or just... not been enough.

"Seonghyeon-ah."

Seonghyeon looked over to Keonho's side of the room. His roommate had taken both earbuds out now, sitting cross-legged on his bed. His usual smiley, goofy expression—the one that made literally everyone love him—was replaced with something more serious. The face he only made when shit was actually serious.

"Yeah?"

"You know she wouldn't just… leave. Right?" Keonho's voice was quiet but firm. "Like, without saying anything. That's not her."

Seonghyeon swallowed hard. His throat felt tight, like there was something stuck there. "I know."

"So whatever this is… it's probably not what you're thinking."

"Then what is it?"

Keonho shrugged, pulling his blanket up around his shoulders. "I don't know, maneee. But going crazy about it at midnight isn't gonna help. You're just gonna spiral and then you won't sleep and then tomorrow you'll be a zombie and I'll have to deal with zombie-you."

He was right. Seonghyeon knew he was right. Logically, rationally, he understood that lying awake catastrophizing about your relationship wasn't productive.

But knowing something logically and feeling it emotionally were two entirely different things.

His phone buzzed again under his pillow. He grabbed it so fast he almost dropped it, fingers slipping on the smooth case.

엄마 [eomma] 🫡 [Sun, Jan 11, 12:03 AM] Are you coming home this weekend? I want to make your favorite dinner for your birthday!

His chest tightened.

You [Sun, Jan 11, 12:04 AM] yeah ill come home thanks mom

Mom 🫡 [Sun, Jan 11, 12:05 AM] Good!! Invite your girlfriend too if she wants to visit 😊 I'd love to meet her properly

He stared at the message. Read it twice. Three times.

The thing was… he'd wanted to ask you. He'd been planning to for weeks. You guys had talked about it back in December, made jokes about it. You'd even told him you'd "definitely try" to visit for his birthday, said it with that smile that made him believe anything was possible.

He'd been looking forward to it—not obsessed or anything, but in this small genuine thing where you think about something and it makes you smile without meaning to. He'd imagined picking you up from the airport. Taking you to his favorite places. Watching you meet his mom, who he knew would love you immediately. Showing you his childhood bedroom with all the embarrassing posters still on the walls.

But this was before you started being distant and weird and making him feel like he was losing his mind. Before the short texts and missed calls and week-long FaceTime drought.

Now the thought of asking you felt terrifying. Like he'd be bothering you. Like you'd make up some excuse about being busy, and he'd have to pretend it didn't completely destroy him.

He missed you so much. Why couldn't it be easy?

He typed out a response three times and deleted it every time before finally just sending:

You [Sun, Jan 11, 12:08 AM] maybe ill ask her

Mom 🫡 [Sun, Jan 11, 12:09 AM] Okay! Let me know 아들 💕

He locked his phone and set it face-down on his chest. He closed his eyes, trying to take deep breaths like the mandatory group therapist had taught him. In for four, hold for four, out for four.

It didn't help.

Seonghyeon tried not to picture your face again. Your pretty eyes—the way they crinkled when you laughed really hard, the way they softened when you looked at him. His favorite smile in the world, not the ones you gave customers. The one that showed your teeth and made your whole face light up. Your dumb eye roll that he found insanely adorable, the one you did whenever he teased you too hard, accompanied by that little huff of breath that meant you were trying not to laugh.

Stop. Stop thinking about her. Focus on something else.

Birthday live. He needed to get ready for the birthday live on Weverse. And write a birthday message for fans. That's what he should be focusing on right now. Not spiraling about his kind of-girlfriend who may or may not be ghosting him.

"You good?" Keonho asked quietly from across the room.

"Yeah," Seonghyeon lied, eyes still closed. "I'm fine."

But he wasn't. He was the farthest thing from it.

And he wouldn't be—couldn't be—until he heard your voice again. Like really heard it, not through forced texts or missed calls or voice messages that felt obligatory. Actually you. Laughing. Teasing him. Saying his name in that way that made everything feel right, with the slight American accent on the syllables that he'd never told you he found cute.

He just hoped he'd get the chance.

JANUARY 11 — 6:32 PM EST

You were in your room, door locked, suitcase open on your bed like a gaping mouth waiting to swallow all your anxiety whole.

Some random playlist was shuffling through your speakers—the kind you put on when you needed background noise to drown out your own spiraling thoughts. It was playing some random Bryson Tiller that Seonghyeon had put you on that you couldn't get enough of.

Your flight was in less than twenty-four hours.

Less than a full day. Sixteen hours and forty-three minutes, to be exact, not that you were counting obsessively or anything.

Your phone sat face-down on your desk, screen pressed against the wood like if you couldn't see it, it couldn't hurt you. Because if you looked at it one more time and saw another text from Seonghyeon—another worried message, another "are you okay?", another crack in his voice that came through even in text form—you were going to break. You were going to call him and ruin everything and tell him the whole plan through ugly crying.

You'd already checked it seventeen times in the last hour. You knew this because your screen time widget told you so, displaying your shame in a neat little bar graph.

3 new messages from

hyeonpie 😙 [Sun, Jan 11, 6:34 AM] hi baby i know ur probably asleep but i miss u

You'd read them this morning—6:47 AM, to be exact, because you'd woken up early and immediately grabbed your phone like a masochist—and nearly cried into your chai latte. As in like actually had to set your mug down on the kitchen counter and press your palms into your eyes to keep the tears from spilling over while your mom asked if you were okay and you lied and said you were just tired.

The plan was simple. In theory.

Step one: Finish packing without having a breakdown.  Step two: Survive the fifteen-hour flight without losing your mind.  Step three: Show up at his door after the members surprise him on the morning of his birthday, like some kind of rom-com protagonist . Step four: Don't cry when he opens the door.

(Okay, you were definitely going to cry. Like, absolutely going to bawl. But you could probably make it pretty crying? With like one elegant tear rolling down your cheek instead of the snotty, hyperventilating kind?)

You'd been planning this for weeks. Ever since Christmas, actually. Since he'd flown all the way to New York just to spend the holidays with you and your chaotic family.

When he'd sat in your kitchen and helped your mom make cookies, flour on his nose, that concentrated look on his face like cookie dough was a serious scientific endeavor. When he'd worn that stupid quarter-zip that made him look like a divorced dad at a yacht club, and somehow still looked so soft and boyfriend-shaped it made you yearn for him even more than you already were.

When he'd met Mateo on FaceTime and they'd bonded over video games immediately, your little brother looking at Seonghyeon like he'd hung the moon. When he'd charmed your dad without even trying, just by being polite and genuine and interested in your dad's boring stories about his job. When he'd made your mom laugh so hard she had to sit down, and then helped her clean up even though she insisted he didn't have to.

When he'd given you that necklace—the little gold star that you hadn't taken off since, that you were wearing right now, that you touched whenever you missed him—and looked at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

You wanted to do the same for him. You wanted to meet his family properly, not just through a phone screen during brief FaceTime calls. You wanted to see his world, the places he grew up, the streets he walked, the home he came from. You wanted to be there for his birthday, physically there, not just sending texts from 6,800 miles away.

But keeping it a secret? Actively lying to him, even if it was a good lie, a surprise lie?

Probably the hardest fucking thing you'd ever done.

You'd been dodging his calls for days. You were letting them ring out, then texting back hours later with some excuse about being in class or at work or busy with family stuff. Keeping your texts short and vague, just enough to not ghost him completely but not enough to have a real conversation. Pretending you were "busy" or "tired" when really you were just trying not to slip up and ruin everything.

And judging by his messages—the worried ones, the "are you okay?" ones, the increasingly desperate "i miss u" ones—he was not handling it well whatsoever.

You could picture him right now, in his dorm room in Seoul where it was already Monday morning, probably staring at his phone just like you were avoiding yours. Probably wondering what he did wrong. He was probably thinking you were pulling away even though you had both discussed the fact that you would stay committed even if it was hard.

God, you wanted to tell him so badly. Wanted to call him right now and hear his voice and explain that you weren't distant, you were just terrible at keeping secrets. That you missed him so much it physically hurt. That you were coming to see him.

But you couldn't. Not yet. Not when you were this close.

Your sister knocked on your door—three sharp raps that she made sound judgmental. "You alive in there?"

"Barely," you called back, voice muffled because you were face-down on your bed next to your suitcase, having a little bit of a crisis.

She cracked the door open, peeking her head in. Her hair was up in a messy bun, wearing her old college sweatshirt—the Columbia one she never shut up about. "You done packing?"

You lifted your head, gesturing vaguely at the disaster zone that was your bed. There were clothes everywhere. Toiletries scattered across your comforter. Your straightener still plugged in on your desk because you'd used it this morning and forgotten to put it away. "Almost."

"You've been 'almost done' for three hours."

"It's a process."

"It's anxiety." She pushed the door open wider, stepping inside and surveying the damage. "Jesus, how long are you going for? Two weeks?"

"Five days."

"You're bringing enough clothes for a month."

"I need options!" you defended, sitting up and grabbing a hoodie from the pile. One of his hoodies, actually—the grey one he'd "accidentally" left at your place in December and you'd been wearing non-stop since. It still smelled like him, or maybe you were imagining it at this point, but either way you couldn't stop wearing it. "Should I bring this? Or is that weird?"

Your sister gave you a look—this dumb specific older-sibling look that said you're being an idiot. "You're flying across the world to surprise your long-distance boyfriend on his birthday and you're worried about a hoodie being weird?"

You opened your mouth and closed it. "...Fair point."

"Exactly." She walked over and took the hoodie from your hands, folding it properly—because apparently you'd forgotten how to fold things in your panic—and tucked it into your suitcase. "Bring the hoodie. Bring all his hoodies. Bring your entire closet if it makes you feel better."

You watched her fold another shirt. It made you laugh how she made it look effortless when your hands had been shaking too much to do it neatly. "Do you think I'm crazy? Like, genuinely unhinged for doing this?"

She paused, looking up at you with something softer in her expression. Then she came and sat on the edge of your bed, careful not to sit on any of your clothes. The mattress dipped under her weight. "No. I think you're in love."

Your face heated instantly. "What the fuck? I didn't say—"

"You didn't have to." She smiled. She had on that annoying all-knowing smile that older siblings somehow perfected. "He's gonna lose his mind when he sees you."

"Good," you said, grabbing your suitcase zipper and pulling it closed with more force than necessary. It caught on a shirt sleeve and you had to yank it. "That's the plan."

"He thinks you ghosted him, doesn't he?"

You winced. Fuck, the guilt hit sharper than you wanted. "...Maybe."

She laughed—actually laughed, head tipping back. "You're so evil."

"I know." You flopped down beside her, staring at the ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars you'd stuck up there in middle school were still there, faded and peeling at the edges, some of them already fallen off leaving little sticky residue marks. You'd been meaning to take them down for years. Never did. "But it's gonna be worth it. Right?"

"Duh." She nudged your shoulder with hers. "He flew to New York for you. In the middle of his insane schedule. For Christmas. You really think he's not gonna cry when you show up in Korea?"

You smiled despite the nerves twisting in your stomach, wringing your insides like a wet towel. "Ugh, I hope so."

"He's gonna sob," she said with complete confidence, like she could see the future. "Like, full-on ugly cry. It's gonna be peak cinema. I'm talking snot, tears, the whole thing."

You laughed, covering your face with your hands. Your palms were cold against your hot cheeks. "Stop, you're making me nervous."

"Good nervous or bad nervous?"

"Both?" You peeked through your fingers at her. "What if he's mad? What if he thinks I was actually ignoring him and he's like… done with me?"

Your sister rolled her eyes so hard you actually heard it, the sound of her exasperation. "First of all, that man is obsessed with you. I have never seen someone look at another person the way he looked at you at Christmas. Like, it was actually disgusting how cute it was."

"Stop—"

"Second," she continued, holding up two fingers, "you literally have like a 24Karat jewelry from him. He gave you that necklace and you haven't taken it off once. That's not casual."

You touched the star pendant automatically, the metal warm from being against your skin. "It's not 24K, bruh. Shut up."

"Third—and I cannot stress this enough—" She held up a third finger. "He fully stole his Unc member's phone just to text you they won an award. Are you deadass? He could've been watching LE SSERAFIM perform, but he chose to text you. Meaning he freaking memorized your phone number, dude. He's not 'done with you.'"

You dropped your hands and exhaled slowly. The breath left your lungs and took some of the anxiety with it. "Okay. You're right."

"I'm always right."

"Don't push it."

Your phone buzzed on the desk. Both of you froze.

The sound was loud in the quiet room. It vibrated against the wood, and your whole body tensed like someone had stuck a live wire to your spine.

"Don't," your sister warned immediately, her voice sharp.

"I'm not—"

"You're thinking about it. I can see you thinking about it."

"I'm not—"

hyeonpie 😙 [Sun, Jan 11, 6:38 PM EST (8:38 PM KST)] can we talk later? i feel like somethings wrong

Your heart clenched so hard you actually pressed a hand to your chest. Like you could hold it together through your ribcage.

Your sister noticed immediately—because of course she did, she'd been watching you like a hawk. She grabbed your wrist before you could reach for your phone, her grip firm. "Nope. Absolutely not. You've come this far. Don't fold now."

"But he—" Your voice cracked. "He thinks something's wrong."

"He's fine," she insisted, squeezing your wrist once before letting go. "He's just worried because you've been MIA. Which is intentional. Which means the plan is working exactly how it's supposed to."

You groaned and grabbed the nearest pillow and covering your face with it. Your voice came out muffled: "This is the worst."

"It's romantic," she corrected, yanking the pillow away from you. You blinked at the sudden light. "In like a 'you're-gonna-make-him-cry-in-the-best-way' sense. This is literally the plot of every good romance movie."

You stared at the ceiling again, chewing on your bottom lip hard enough that you'd probably have an indent there later. "You think he's actually worried? Like, really really worried?"

"Oh, 100%." Your sister stood up, walking over to your desk and picking up your phone. She held it hostage, keeping it away from you. "That boy is stressed. He's probably pacing his room right now. Probably drove his roommate insane. But—" She pointed at you dramatically with your own phone, like she was making a closing argument in court. "—that just means the surprise is gonna hit even harder."

You sat up slowly, exhaling through your nose. Trying to calm down. "Okay. Okay. I can do this."

"You can absolutely do this." She walked back over and handed your phone to you carefully. She was acting like it was a bomb. "But you're gonna answer him. You have to, or he'll actually lose his mind. Just… keep it vague. Don't give anything away."

"Vague. Right. I can be vague." You unlocked your phone, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Your hands were shaking slightly. You typed out a couple different responses and deleted all of them before finally settling on:

You  [Sun, Jan 11, 6:42 PM EST] yeah we can talk sorry ive just been rlly overwhelmed lately nothing to do w u i promise

You hit send before you could overthink it further, before you could add more, before you could ruin everything.

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly. Those three little dots that somehow felt ominous.

hyeonpie 😙 [Sun, Jan 11, 8:44 PM KST] u sure? bc if i did something wrong u can tell me

Your chest squeezed so tight you thought you might actually break in half. Like genuinely right down the middle. Because he sounded so worried, so convinced he'd fucked up somehow, when really you were the one lying to him.

You  [Sun, Jan 11, 6:45 PM EST] you didn't do anything wrong i swear im just tired ill be better soon ok?

hyeonpie 😙 [Sun, Jan 11, 8:47 PM KST] ok i just miss u a lot

You bit your lip so hard you tasted metal. Like copper. That specific taste that meant you'd broken skin.

You  [Sun, Jan 11, 6:48 PM EST] i miss u too more than u know

And that was the truth. God, that was the most honest thing you'd said to him in days.

hyeonpie 😙  [Sun, Jan 11, 8:50 PM KST] can we ft tomorrow? i wanna see ur face

Oh god. Oh fuck. Oh shit.

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

You couldn't FaceTime him. You couldn't. Because you were a terrible liar in person (or on video, which was basically the same thing), and he'd take one look at your face and know something was up. He always knew. He could read you better than anyone at this point.

Your sister was reading over your shoulder now, breathing down your neck. "Say you're busy."

"But—"

"Say. You're. Busy." Her voice was firm and left no room for argument.

You  [Sun, Jan 11, 6:51 PM EST] tmr's kinda packed maybe the day after?

You hit send and immediately wanted to throw your phone across the room.

The typing bubble appeared immediately. Then disappeared. Then appeared again. Then disappeared again.

Each time it vanished, your anxiety spiked higher. That was worse than just waiting—the stopping and starting, the visible evidence of him typing and deleting and retyping, trying to figure out what to say.

hyeonpie 😙 [Sat, Jan 11, 8:53 PM KST] yeah ok no worries

Your heart shattered into approximately seven million pieces. Exploded like glass. Because "yeah ok" and "no worries" was Seonghyeon-speak for I'm hurt but I'm trying to be chill about it.

"I hate this," you whispered, voice breaking. "I hate lying to him. I hate making him worried. I hate all of it."

"I know." Your sister squeezed your shoulder, her hand warm and grounding. "But tomorrow? When you show up? When you're actually there and he sees you? It's gonna be worth it. I promise. This is temporary. The surprise is forever."

You locked your phone and dropped it onto the bed like it had burned you, staring at your suitcase. It sat there, zipped and ready, mocking you with how prepared you were to leave while Seonghyeon had no idea.

Twenty-four hours.

You just had to make it twenty-four more hours without cracking.

Your mom knocked softly before pushing the door open—that specific mom-knock that was more of a warning than a request for permission. She was carrying two mugs of hot chocolate, the fancy kind with whipped cream and mini marshmallows on top. She handed you one and sat down in your desk chair, spinning it to face you.

"How're you feeling?" she asked. She was using that mom-voice she used when she knew you were struggling but didn't want to push too hard.

"Terrified," you admitted immediately, wrapping both hands around the warm mug. The heat seeped into your palms. "Excited. Nauseous. All of the above. Like I might throw up but in a good way? Is there a good way to feel like you might throw up?"

She smiled. "That's normal. You're doing something big. Something brave."

"Yeah." You took a sip, the chocolate warming you from the inside out, sweet and rich on your tongue. "What if I get there and he's actually mad? What if he's so upset about me being distant that when I show up he's just... done?"

"He won't be," your mom said firmly, with no hesitation. Complete certainty popping through in her accent. "That boy is head over heels for you. I saw it at Christmas. The way he looked at you? Like you were the only person in the room. Like everyone else was just background noise."

Your cheeks warmed, heat creeping up your neck. "Mom..."

"I'm serious." She leaned forward, setting her mug on your desk and resting her elbows on her knees. Her expression was earnest, open. "I've seen a lot of young relationships, sweetheart. Your sister's boyfriends, your cousins, your friends. And what you two have? It's different. That's real."

Your throat tightened. The pressure started behind your eyes. Fuck, why were you such a crybaby? She was trying to make you feel better.

"And the fact that you're doing this—" She gestured around your room, at your packed suitcase, at the disarray of planning. "—flying all the way to Korea, meeting his family, surprising him on his birthday. That's love. Real love. The kind that shows up. The kind that makes sacrifices. The kind that matters."

A single tear escaped, rolling down your cheek before you could stop it. You wiped it away quickly, not wanting to seem weak in front of her. Like if she did, she'd take away her permission of letting you go. Like you were just a baby.

"I just want him to know I care. Like, really really care. The same way he showed up for us. For Christmas. For me."

"He will," she promised, reaching over to squeeze your hand. Her hand was soft and familiar."The second he sees you standing there, he'll know. You won't even have to say anything. He'll just know."

You nodded, blinking back the tears that were threatening to overflow. You took a shaky breath.

Your mom stood, kissing the top of your head. Her lips were warm against your hair. "Finish packing. Get some sleep—or at least try to. And text me when you land, okay? I don't care what time it is, I want to know you got there safely."

"I will."

She paused at the door, hand on the frame. "And honey?"

"Yeah?"

"Take lots of pictures. Your sister and I want to see everything. His family, his house, the two of you together. Everything. I've always wanted to see Korea!"

You laughed, wiping your eyes with your sleeve. "I will. Promise."

After she left, your sister following behind her with a final encouraging nod, you turned back to your suitcase. You unzipped the front pocket, pulling out the small wrapped box you'd hidden at the bottom, tucked carefully between your extra shoes so it wouldn't get crushed.

His birthday present.

You'd agonized over it for weeks. Literally weeks. You'd made yourself insane trying to figure out what to get someone who already had everything. Someone whose life was so different from yours—stages and studios and schedules you couldn't even begin to understand. Someone who could probably buy whatever he wanted.

What do you get an idol for his birthday?

In the end, you'd gone with something simple. Something personal. Something that was so completely you that he'd know it came from your heart.

A leather journal—the nice kind, the expensive kind you'd saved up for. Thick cream pages that were smooth under your fingers. A wrap-tie closure in dark brown leather. The kind of journal that felt important, like whatever you wrote in it would matter.

Inside the front cover, you'd written in your neatest handwriting (which still wasn't that neat, but you'd tried):

4 all the songs you haven't written yet & all the thoughts you don't say out loud  i'll always want to hear them :) — ur NYC girl

Tucked between the first few pages were little things you'd collected over the past months. Tiny pieces of your relationship, physical proof that it existed:

A pressed flower from your walk in Central Park—the blue one he'd picked for you, saying it matched your denim outfit. A photo booth strip from the arcade you'd dragged him to, both of you making dumb faces, his arm around your shoulders. A ticket stub from the subway, from the day you'd shown him how to navigate the MTA and he'd gotten you guys lost anyway. A poorly drawn doodle of him you'd made during a FaceTime call, all messy lines and exaggerated features because you couldn't draw to save your life. A wrapper from some Korean candy he let you try. A receipt from the first coffee you'd ever made him, the order written in your handwriting.

Stupid, sentimental stuff that probably meant nothing to anyone else. But it was yours. Your story. Your little proof that he'd been here, in New York, in your life at all.

And you hoped—god, you really hoped—he'd love it. His ass was just as sentimental as you, anyway.

You wrapped it back up carefully, making sure the tape was smooth, the corners neat. You tucked it into the side pocket of your carry-on where it wouldn't get crushed during the flight, nestled between your hoodie and your phone charger.

Your sister poked her head back in, making you jump. "You're not crying again, are you?"

"Shut up," you muttered, but you were smiling, wiping at your eyes.

"Good. Because if you're this emotional now, you're gonna be a complete mess tomorrow." She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, grinning. "Like, I'm talking full sobbing in the airport. Crying on the plane. The flight attendants are literally gonna be concerned."

"I know," you groaned, flopping backward onto your bed dramatically, careful not to crush your suitcase. Your hair splayed out around you.

She grinned wider. "Can't wait to hear all about it. Let me know if you see TXT at Hybe. Please."

Just when you thought she was done—"And you better call me the second it happens. I need a full play-by-play. What he said, what you said, if he cried, all of it."

"I will," you promised.

"Good." She pushed off the doorframe. "Now get some sleep. You have a long day tomorrow."

"Yeah." You stared at the ceiling, at those faded glow-in-the-dark stars. "I really do."

After she left, you lay there for a long moment, phone next to you, suitcase packed, carry-on ready. Your room was quiet except for the playlist still playing softly from your speaker.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow you'd be on a plane. And the day after that, you'd be in Seoul. And a few hours after that, you'd be standing at his door.

You touched the star necklace at your throat, the metal warm from your skin. Twenty-four hours. You could do this.

You bit your lip so hard you tasted that coppery taste of metal again.

JANUARY 13 — 6:12 AM KST

Seonghyeon woke up to seventeen notifications.

His phone was still on his chest where he'd left it, the weight of it having shifted slightly as he slept. He blinked against the grey morning light filtering through the curtains, eyes crusty and unfocused. His whole body felt heavy and weighed down, like he'd barely slept at all.

Which, to be fair, he hadn't. Maybe three hours, broken up into restless chunks.

His heart jumped—stupid, hopeful and desperate—before his brain could catch up. Maybe it was you. Maybe you'd texted him at midnight your time to wish him happy birthday. Maybe everything was fine and he'd been overthinking and—

It wasn't you.

His chest deflated so fast it physically hurt. It was the group chat. His family. A few other friends from school.

Mom 🫡 [Tue, Jan 13, 12:01 AM KST] HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY SON!!! 🎉🎂 I love you so much! Come home soon so I can feed you properly

Dad 🏌️‍♂️  [Tue, Jan 13, 12:03 AM KST] Happy birthday Seonghyeon Proud of you my 아들

dear sister jiji  [Tue, Jan 13, 12:15 AM KST] happy bday loser dont forget i'm still cooler than u love u i guess

The members' group chat was absolute chaos—Martin had sent a voice message of him and James singing happy birthday completely off-key, their voices cracking on the high notes. Juhoon had sent a photo of a cake with Seonghyeon's face poorly photoshopped onto it, the proportions all wrong so his head looked huge and distorted. Keonho had already changed the group chat name to "seonghyeon is UNC as hell now" with like seven crying laughing emojis.

He smiled despite himself. Despite the hollow ache in his chest that hadn't gone away. He typed out some thank-yous, some laughing emojis, sent a middle finger emoji back to Keonho specifically.

But his thumb still hovered over your name in his messages.

Nothing. Still nothing.

He opened your chat anyway, staring at the last text you'd sent. Yesterday afternoon. A response to something he'd said about practice running late.

her  [Mon, Jan 12, 6:23 PM KST] aw that sucks hope it goes better today

Generic. Definitely sounds like a girlfriend.

Not "happy early birthday." Not "can't wait to celebrate you." Not even a stupid meme or a heart emoji.

Nothing.

He typed out a message three different times and deleted it each time.

hey are we okay? did i do something wrong?

None of them felt right. They all felt too desperate and too needy, too much like he was begging for scraps of attention.

Finally, he just sent:

You  [Tue, Jan 13, 6:18 AM KST] hey

And locked his phone before he could spiral further.

He sat up slowly, joints cracking, and padded to the bathroom. The tile floor was cold under his bare feet, making him wince. Their bathroom was tiny—barely fit a toilet, sink, and shower stall. The mirror above the sink was slightly foggy around the edges.

His reflection looked exactly how he felt—tired. Dark circles under his eyes that hadn't been there a week ago. They shouldn't be there. Hair sticking up at weird angles, the brown catching the fluorescent light in a way that made it look almost black. That tight set to his jaw he always got when he was stressed and the muscle jumping slightly.

Seventeen. He was seventeen now.

"Happy birthday to me," he muttered, turning on the faucet.

The water ran cold for a solid thirty seconds before warming up. He splashed his face, brushed his teeth with the minty toothpaste that made his mouth feel too clean, too awake. Tried not to look at himself too much in the mirror because he didn't like what he saw there.

Over a fucking girl. Who had he become?

When he came back to the room, Keonho was awake, propped up on one elbow, scrolling through his phone. His hair was a disaster, pressed flat on one side, sticking straight up on the other.

"Morning, birthday boy," he said without looking up.

"Morning."

"You okay?"

Seonghyeon shrugged, sitting on the edge of his bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. He picked up his phone from where he'd left it, checking it even though he knew there wouldn't be anything new.

There wasn't. Ooof course.

"Define okay," he muttered. He was kind of—no, really getting sick of this.

Keonho's expression softened, and he finally put his phone down. "Shit bro. Still nothing?"

"Nope."

"Hyung…"

"I know." Seonghyeon exhaled, the breath leaving his lungs in one long deflation. He dropped his phone onto the mattress like it had personally offended him. "I know I'm being dramatic. I just… I don't get it, you know? Like, did I miss something? Did I say something wrong? Is she just… done?"

"She's not done."

"You don't know that."

"I do know that," Keonho insisted, sitting up fully now, blanket pooling around his waist. It was kind of funny seeing this half-asleep chud giving advice. "Because I've seen the way she looks at you. And I've heard the way she talks about you on fucking FaceTime at 2 in the morning. And I saw the pictures when she gave you that Build-A-Bear and looked at you like you hung the fucking moon."

Seonghyeon's chest ached at the memory. You'd been so nervous giving it to him, hands fidgeting with the box, explaining that it was "stupid" and "probably dumb" but you wanted him to have something that reminded him of you. The bear was dressed exactly like him—backwards cap, sagged jeans, black tee, tiny over-ear headphones. You'd even recorded a message inside it, your voice mocking his deep one. "I'm Seonghyeon and I like to sag my pants."

He'd almost cried. Literally had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop the tears because he didn't want to be that guy, the one who cried over stuffed animals.

But god, it had meant everything.

"Then why won't she talk to me?" His voice came out smaller than he intended. Fuck, he almost sounded childish.

"I don't know," Keonho admitted. "But I don't think it's what you think it is."

Seonghyeon wanted to believe him. He did.

But it was hard to believe anything when your phone stayed dark and silent on what was supposed to be a special day.

JANUARY 13 — 9:32 KST

Keonho walked in from the bathroom, already dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, hair still damp from the shower. A much more put together look than he had on previously. Water dripped onto his shoulders, leaving dark spots on the grey fabric.

"You heading to your mom's?" he asked, grabbing his phone charger from his desk.

"Yeah. In a bit." Seonghyeon was still in bed, sitting up now but not moving. Just staring at his phone in his lap like it might suddenly come to life.

"You gonna be okay?"

Seonghyeon shrugged, the movement barely there. "I don't really have a choice, do I?"

Keonho paused, then walked over and sat on the edge of Seonghyeon's bed. The mattress dipped, tilting Seonghyeon slightly toward him. "She'll text you, broski. I know she will."

Seonghyeon wanted to believe him. He really, really did.

But the proof was right there.

Keonho squeezed his shoulder once, firm and grounding, then stood up. "Go get ready. Your mom's probably been cooking since like 5 AM."

That got a small smile out of him. "Yeah. Probably."

JANUARY 12 — 9:15 AM EST | MONDAY

You were at JFK airport, sitting in the departures terminal with your carry-on at your feet and your suitcase standing next to you like a loyal soldier.

Your dad had driven you. He'd barely said two words the entire ride—just the radio playing some oldies station he loved, his hands at ten and two on the wheel. He occasionally glanced over at you like he wanted to say something but didn't know how.

When he pulled up to departures, the curb crowded with cars and people hauling luggage and families saying goodbye, he put the car in park and turned to you with that look. This funny Dad look that said he was proud but also trying not to be emotional about it. The one that made your lips pout.

"You sure you have everything?" he asked.

"Yes, Dad."

"Passport?"

"Yes."

"Phone charger?"

"Yes."

"Snacks for the flight?"

You held up the gallon Ziploc bag your mom had packed, stuffed full of little snacks from the Asian supermarket, your favorite chips, some cookies she'd made yesterday. "Covered."

He nodded, staring out the windshield at the terminal entrance. The digital sign above the doors flashed flight times and gate numbers in bright orange letters. People rushed past with rolling suitcases, some running because they were late, some walking slowly, savoring goodbyes.

"He's a good kid," your dad said finally. But... still not looking at you. "I like him."

Your chest warmed. Those two sentences meant so much to you. More than your Dad probably knew. "Yeah. Me too."

"Just…" He cleared his throat, jaw working like he was chewing on the words before letting them out. "Be safe. And call your mother. You know how she gets."

You laughed. "I will."

He pulled you into a quick hug. It was a hug that was over before you could really sink into it, his hand patting your back twice, but it still meant everything. He smelled like coffee and that cologne he'd been wearing since you were a kid. It just smelled like "dad" to you.

"Love you, kiddo."

"Love you too, Dad."

You grabbed your suitcase—your big navy blue one that was definitely overpacked but you couldn't help it—and your carry-on, waving as he drove off. His hand lifted in a wave through the window, and then he was gone. His Range Rover Discovery blended back into the discord of airport traffic.

You turned toward the terminal, heart suddenly pounding.

This was really happening. You were really doing this.

Holy shit.

The automatic doors slid open with a soft whoosh, and you were hit immediately with that airport smell. That weird combination of Cinnabon and cleaning products and recycled air that somehow existed in every airport everywhere.

JFK was massive. Ceilings that went up forever, huge windows letting in grey winter light, people everywhere—businessmen in suits speed-walking with roller bags, families with kids who were way too excited or way too tired, couples holding hands. It felt like the whole nation was here.

You've gone out of the country a couple times, but never alone. It felt different. Freeing, honestly.

You checked your phone.

9:17 AM.

Your flight didn't board until 11:15 AM. You ha loads of time.

But also, you'd gotten here early on purpose because your mom had drilled it into your head that "you never know with airport security" and "better safe than sorry" and about fifteen other asian mom-isms that basically meant: get there way too early and then sit around anxious for two hours.

You'd also had to beg—actually beg—your parents to let you miss school for this. It was the middle of the semester, the week before finals started, possibly the worst time to disappear to Korea for four days.

But you'd sat them down at the kitchen table three weeks ago and made your case. Proudly showcased them your grades (all A's and B's, thank you very much). Promised you'd make up all the work. Clearly emphasized that Seonghyeon had flown to New York for you, for Christmas, in the middle of his insane schedule, and you wanted to do the same for him.

Your mom had cried, obviously. She said something about "young love" and "when did you grow up?" while dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

Your dad had been harder to convince. He asked about the money (you'd been saving from your café job for months). Asked about school (you'd already talked to all your teachers). Asked about safety (you'd sent him Seonghyeon's address, his parents' and manager's contact info, a full itinerary).

Finally, he'd sighed—that dad sigh that meant he was giving in but wanted you to know he wasn't happy about it—and said: "He better be worth all this."

"He is," you'd promised.

And now here you were, standing in JFK airport with a suitcase full of presents and nerves and definitely too many hoodies for a five-day trip.

The security line was long. Like, wrapped-around-the-corner, barely-moving, why-are-there-so-many-fucking-people-on-a-Monday-morning long. You joined the back of it, shuffling forward inch by inch. You watched TSA agents wave people through metal detectors, occasionally pulling someone aside for additional screening. It was all quite overstimulating.

You pulled out your phone to distract yourself.

3 new messages from 

hyeonpie 😙  [Mon, Jan 12, 6:34 AM EST ] (8:34 PM KST) idk if ur okay or stressed or whatever but u know that i'm here and i miss u

Your heart clenched so hard you actually pressed a hand to your chest. You'd read them when you first woke up this morning, lying in bed in the dark, and nearly cried into your pillow. Because he sounded sad. He sounded so worried. And you were the one making him feel that way.

You'd had to resist the urge to text him back immediately, to tell him everything, to ruin the surprise because you couldn't stand the thought of him thinking something was wrong.

But ugh. You were literally on the last hurdle. Only a few more hours and you would be back in his arms.

The security line crept forward. You took off your shoes, your jacket, pulled your laptop out of your bag. Went through the metal detector without beeping, thank god—you probably would have offed yourself right there. You collected your stuff on the other side, shoving your laptop back in, pulling your shoes on while hopping on one foot.

Your gate was B32. You followed the signs, weaving through crowds, dodging a businessman who wasn't watching where he was going, nearly tripping over a kid's rolling backpack.

When you finally found your gate, you collapsed into one of those uncomfortable airport chairs—the ones with armrests specifically designed to prevent anyone from lying down.

You opened your photos, scrolling back to Christmas. There were so many of him. Seonghyeon helping your mom in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, flour all over his face. Seonghyeon playing video games with Mateo, controller in hand, face scrunched in concentration. Seonghyeon laughing at something your sister said, head thrown back, that real smile that showed all his teeth.

And then there was the one your mom had taken when neither of you were paying attention.

You were on the couch, legs tucked under you, and he was next to you, arm slung over your shoulders. You were both looking at something on your phone—probably a meme, knowing you—and you were mid-laugh, head tilted toward him.

And he was looking at you.

Not the phone. You.

With this sweet, fond expression that made your heart twist every single time you saw it. Like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

You'd set it as your lockscreen the second your mom sent it to you.

And now, staring at it in the middle of JFK airport, gate B32, with your suitcase at your feet and your flight boarding in less than two hours, you felt the tears prick at your eyes. What a freaking crybaby.

"God, pull it together," you muttered to yourself, locking your phone and shoving it in your pocket.

"Rough day?"

You looked up. An older woman was sitting across from you, knitting something that might've been a scarf. Maybe a blanket. It was hard to tell. She had white hair pulled back in a neat bun, glasses perched on her nose, wearing a cardigan that looked handmade.

You laughed, the sound wet and a little broken. "Something like that."

She smiled knowingly, needles clicking together in a steady rhythm. "Boyfriend?"

"How'd you guess?"

"You've got that look." She gestured vaguely with one of her needles, yarn dangling.

"What look?"

"The one that says you're either about to see him or you just left him. And since you're at the airport…" She gestured around, as if to say: context clues.

You smiled despite yourself. "I'm surprising him. For his birthday."

Her whole face lit up, the wrinkles around her eyes crinkling. "Oh, how sweet! Is it a long flight?"

"Fifteen hours."

She winced sympathetically. Her needles paused mid-stitch. "Well, he's a lucky guy."

"I hope so," you said softly, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself.

"He will be," she said with absolute certainty, like she could see the future in her knitting. "Anyone who inspires that look? He already knows."

They called your boarding group forty-five minutes later.

"Group 3, now boarding at gate B32. Group 3."

You stood, grabbing your stuff, heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat. You took one last look at your phone.

Still nothing from him.

Which was good. That was the plan. Keep him in the dark.

You typed out a message, hesitated, finger hovering over the send button.

You  [Mon, Jan 12, 9:47 AM EST] thinking about u hope ur having a good day

Then you switched your phone to airplane mode and got in line.

The jetway was cold. Your carry-on bumped against your leg with every step. The flight attendant at the door scanned your boarding pass, smiled that professional smile, said "welcome aboard."

You found your seat—14F, window—and shoved your carry-on in the overhead bin. You sat down, buckled in, and stared out the window at the grey tarmac.

Fifteen hours. You could do this. You had to do this.

Because in fifteen hours, you'd be in Seoul. And a few hours after that, you'd be in front of him. And you'd get to see his face when he realized you were actually there, that you hadn't forgotten, that you'd never forget him.

The plane started to taxi and the engines rumbled to life beneath you.

And you closed your eyes, picturing his smile.

JANUARY 13 — 10:47 AM KST

"Seonghyeon, you ready?"

Seonghyeon looked up from where he was sitting on his bed, staring at his phone after watching some random basketball highlights video.

Minjae, one of their regular drivers, stood in the doorway with his keys in hand, that familiar kind smile on his face. He was in his mid-forties, had been driving for the company for years, and had this dad type energy that always made Seonghyeon feel a little less anxious.

"Yeah," Seonghyeon said quietly, grabbing his sling bag. "Thanks for driving me."

"Of course. Happy birthday, by the way." Minjae's smile widened. "Your mom called the company directly to make sure someone could take you. She was very insistent."

Seonghyeon managed a small laugh. "That sounds like her."

"She also told me to make sure you eat before you leave, but..." Minjae glanced at the untouched cereal bowl still sitting on the desk. "I'm guessing that didn't happen?"

"Wasn't hungry."

Minjae's expression softened with understanding—the same look everyone had been giving him lately, like they could all see how much he was struggling and didn't know how to help. "Come on. Let's get you home."

The company car was parked out front, a sleek black sedan that Seonghyeon had been in countless times. Minjae held the back door open for him, and Seonghyeon slid in, immediately pulling out his phone to check it again.

Nothing. Still fucking nothing.

He locked it and shoved it in his pocket, leaning his head back against the seat as Minjae got in the driver's side.

"You can play your music if you want," Minjae said, handing back the aux cord as he started the car. "I know you always have that playlist."

"You sure? I don't want to—"

"Seonghyeon-ah, it's your birthday. Play whatever you want, son."

Something about the casual kindness in his voice made Seonghyeon's stressed heartbeat slow. "Thanks, hyung."

He plugged in his phone and opened Spotify, scrolling to the playlist you'd made him. "4 when ur missing me :)" with about fifteen heart emojis after it.

He pressed shuffle. ghostin by Ariana Grande started playing through the speakers, and Seonghyeon immediately regretted every decision that led to this moment.

Usually, it made him smile. He'd listen to it on the way to schedules, during late-night practices when he needed to feel close to you, in the morning when he woke up and you were still asleep an ocean away.

Today, it just made his chest hurt.

Minjae glanced in the rearview mirror, catching Seonghyeon's expression. "Want to skip it?"

"No, it's... it's fine." But his voice cracked on the word 'fine,' which made it decidedly not fine.

The song filled the car—Ariana's voice aching, singing about missing someone so much it feels like haunting, like being present but not really there because your heart is somewhere else entirely.

You'd told him once, during a late-night FaceTime when you couldn't sleep and he was getting ready for practice, that this song made you think of him. Not because of the ex-boyfriend context, but because of the distance. Because you'd be at work or school or with friends, going through the motions, but always thinking about him. Always wishing he was there.

"I know that it breaks your heart when I cry again, over him"

Except it wasn't him in the song. It was the distance. The missing. The ache of loving someone you couldn't touch whenever you needed them.

He had to skip it after the first chorus because the lyrics hit too close. Because that's exactly how he felt right now—like he was going through the motions of his birthday while his heart was an ocean away with you, wondering why you hadn't texted, wondering if you were thinking about him at all.

Seonghyeon stared out the window, watching Seoul blur past. The grey buildings, the busy streets, people bundled in coats hurrying to wherever they needed to be. Normal people living normal lives, not checking their phones every thirty seconds hoping for a text that never came.

"So," Minjae said gently after a moment, turning down the volume slightly. "How are you feeling? Birthdays can be tough sometimes. I know I cried on my last one."

Seonghyeon shrugged, still looking out the window. "I'm okay."

"You don't look okay."

"I just..." He exhaled, breath fogging slightly against the cold glass. "I thought today would feel different, you know? Special. But it just feels like any other day. Except worse."

Minjae was quiet for a moment, navigating through traffic with practiced ease. "Girl troubles?"

Seonghyeon let out a bitter laugh. "Is it that obvious?"

"I've been driving you kids around for three years. I've learned to read the signs." Minjae smiled kindly at him in the mirror. "Long distance?"

"Yeah. She's in New York." Seonghyeon pulled out his phone again, unlocking it, staring at your last conversation. "She hasn't texted me. Not once. And it's my birthday."

"Have you tried calling her?"

"It goes straight to voicemail. Her phone's off or... I don't know. Maybe she blocked me." The words tasted awful coming out of his mouth. He didn't;t even really believe it, though.

"Or," Minjae offered carefully, "maybe there's another explanation. Did you guys fight?"

"No. That's the thing—everything was fine. Great, even. And then a few days ago she just... went quiet. Started being distant. And I don't know what I did wrong."

The song changed to something by The Marias—Back To Me—and god, this playlist was really just a masterclass in emotional devastation today.

"Can I give you some advice?" Minjae asked.

"Please."

"When my wife and I were dating, we did long distance for two years. I was in Seoul, she was in Busan. And there were times when she'd go quiet on me, and I'd go insane thinking the worst."

Seonghyeon sat up slightly. He was paying attention now that this sounded a lot like his situation. "Then what happened?"

"Usually, she was just busy. Or stressed. Or planning something." Minjae smiled. "The point is, I wasted a lot of time worrying about things that weren't actually happening. Sometimes the story we tell ourselves is scarier than the truth."

"But what if the truth is that she doesn't want to do this anymore? The distance, the time zones, all of it?"

"Then she'll tell you," Minjae said simply. "But from what I've seen—and I've driven you to the airport enough times to know—that girl adores you. The way you talk about her, the way your whole face lights up when she calls... that's not nothing."

Seonghyeon wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe that there was some explanation, some reason that made sense.

But his phone stayed completely silent in his hand, and it was getting harder to have faith.

They drove in comfortable silence for a while, The Marias giving way to Justin Bieber, then Radiohead, then back to some indie song Seonghyeon couldn't remember adding but knew you must have snuck in there.

The city passed by—a couple walking hand in hand, bundled up against the cold. An old man feeding pigeons in a small park.

Life going on like normal, like it was any other Monday in January, like Seonghyeon's world wasn't quietly falling apart in the backseat of a company car.

"We're almost there," Minjae said softly, turning onto the familiar street.

Seonghyeon sat up, shoving his phone back in his pocket. He could see his house now, the small garden covered in snow, smoke rising from the chimney meaning his dad had probably started a fire in the living room.

His mom was at the door already, waving, wearing that strawberry apron.

"She's been excited about this all week," Minjae said, pulling up to the curb. "Called the office like four times to confirm what time I'd have you there."

Despite everything, Seonghyeon smiled. "Yeah, that's definitely her."

Minjae put the car in park and turned around to look at him properly. "Hey. I know today feels heavy. But try to be present, okay? Your family loves you. Let them celebrate you, even if it's hard right now."

Seonghyeon nodded. "Thanks, hyung. For... everything. The drive. The advice. All of it."

"Anytime, kid. Happy birthday." Minjae reached back and squeezed his shoulder. "And hey—I have a feeling things are going to turn out better than you think."

Seonghyeon wanted to believe him.

He grabbed his bag, thanked Minjae again, and stepped out into the cold.

His mom was already rushing down the path before he'd even closed the car door, arms outstretched, that huge smile on her face.

"There's my birthday boy!" she said, pulling him into a tight hug before he could even set his bag down.

Her hair was pulled back in a clip, a few strands falling loose around her face. She looked older than he remembered, but maybe that was just because he didn't see her as often anymore. The lines around her eyes were deeper. Her hair had more grey in it.

He wondered, briefly, if she thought the same thing about him. If she looked at him and saw how tired he was, how much the industry had changed him in ways he didn't always notice himself.

He let himself sink into the hug. She was shorter than him now—had been since he was fourteen—so he had to bend down slightly, but it didn't matter. She smelled like sesame oil and laundry detergent and that lotion she always used, the one that came in the pink bottle. She smelled like home.

"Hi, Mom."

She pulled back, holding his face in both hands, studying him with that look that said she could see right through him. Her hands were warm against his cold cheeks. "You look tired."

"I'm fine."

"Seonghyeon." Her voice was gentle but firm, the same tone she'd used when he was a kid and tried to hide that he was sick so he wouldn't miss school.

"I'm fine," he insisted, but his voice wavered slightly, betraying him.

Her expression changed, and something in her eyes shifted—concern mixed with something else he couldn't quite identify. Like she knew something he didn't. "Come inside. It's freezing out here."

She waved at Minjae, who waved back before driving off, and then ushered Seonghyeon up the path. He walked slowly, boots crunching on the thin layer of snow that covered the stone walkway. The garden his mom obsessively maintained was buried under white—the little stone lanterns she loved barely visible, the flower beds she spent hours tending completely hidden. In the spring, this garden exploded with color. Roses, hydrangeas, those little purple flowers he could never remember the name of. Now it was just white and grey and sleeping.

She took his coat and hung it on the rack by the door—the same wooden rack that had been there his entire life, slightly wobbly because one of the legs was shorter than the others. His dad kept saying he'd fix it. He never did.

The house was warm. Like concerningly warm, the way his mom always kept it in winter. The heating was on full blast, and he could feel his frozen fingers start to tingle as they thawed. It smelled incredible. Like home cooking and birthday cake and all the things he'd missed while living in the dorm. Soy sauce, garlic, sesame oil, something sweet baking in the oven.

"Where's Dad?" Seonghyeon asked, toeing off his shoes.

"In the living room, watching the news. You know how he is." His mom smiled, leading him toward the kitchen. "And your sister's out with her friends right now but she'll be here around two. She said she has a 'very important gift' for you."

Seonghyeon smiled despite himself. "That's concerning."

"That's what I said."

He followed her into the kitchen, and his chest squeezed at the sight.

She really had made everything.

The counter was covered in dishes—some still cooking, steam rising from pots on the stove, some already prepared and covered with plastic wrap or aluminum foil. A huge pot of kimchi jjigae bubbled away, filling the kitchen with that spicy-sour smell he'd grown up with. The japchae was in a large glass bowl, already mixed with vegetables and meat, glistening with sesame oil. Bulgogi marinated in a container, waiting to be cooked.

Banchan covered the table. There was pickled radish, seasoned spinach, bean sprouts, kimchi, at least six or seven different small dishes, the way his mom always did for special occasions.

And in the center of the table, taking up way too much space, was a chocolate cake. Perfectly frosted, not a single crack or imperfection, with "Happy Birthday Seonghyeon!" written in careful blue icing—his favorite color. Little frosting flowers decorated the edges. It was the same cake she made him every year, the same recipe, the same decoration. He could probably draw it from memory.

"Mom..." His voice cracked slightly.

She turned from the stove, wiping her hands on her apron. Flour dusted her sleeve. "What?"

"This is... this is a lot."

"You're my son," she said simply, walking over to cup his face again. Her hands smelled like garlic and ginger. "And it's your birthday. Of course it's a lot."

He swallowed hard. He had to blink against the sudden sting in his eyes. "Come on. I don't deserve you."

"Don't be dramatic." But she was smiling, patting his cheek. "Now go say hi to your dad, then come back and sit. You look like you're about to fall over."

He nodded, setting his bag down by the table and walking toward the living room.

His dad was exactly where his mom said he'd be—in his usual armchair. It was this old leather chair that was permanently molded to his shape, watching the news on the TV that was definitely older than Seonghyeon.

"Hey, Dad."

His dad looked up, face breaking into a warm smile. "There he is. Happy birthday, son." He stood, pulling Seonghyeon into a quick hug.

"Thanks."

"Seventeen," his dad said, shaking his head in that way parents do when they can't believe how much time has passed. "I remember when you were born like it was yesterday. Now look at you—an idol, living in Seoul, all grown up."

"I don't feel that grown up," Seonghyeon admitted.

His dad laughed, patting his shoulder. "None of us do, son. That's the secret. We're all just pretending."

They stood there for a moment, the TV playing softly in the background—some news story about traffic or weather or something equally mundane. The living room was exactly how Seonghyeon remembered it. Family photos covering the walls—him and his sister as kids, gap-toothed and sunburned from some beach trip. School pictures with terrible haircuts. A few from his trainee days, when he still looked so young and unsure. His debut photo, professionally done, where he was trying so hard to look confident.

The couch he'd spent countless hours on, playing video games with friends or napping after school or studying for exams he'd barely passed. The TV his dad always watched the news on. The coffee table with a permanent water ring on one corner from where Seonghyeon had set down a glass and forgotten to use a coaster.

Everything familiar. Everything exactly as he'd left it.

"Your mom's been cooking since six this morning," his dad said, sitting back down. "She's very excited."

"I can tell."

"She also keeps checking her phone for some reason. Keeps stepping out to make calls." His dad raised an eyebrow. "You know anything about that?"

Seonghyeon's stomach flipped slightly. "No?"

"Hmm." His dad didn't look convinced, but he didn't push. "Well, whatever it is, she's being very secretive about it."

Before Seonghyeon could respond, his mom called from the kitchen. "Seonghyeon-ah! Come sit! Food's almost ready!"

He glanced at his dad, who just smiled and waved him off. "Go. Don't keep her waiting."

Seonghyeon walked back to the kitchen, pulling out his usual chair at the table. It was slightly more worn than the others because it was his chair—and watched his mom move around the kitchen with practiced ease.

She'd done this a million times. Cooked in this kitchen, in this house, for him and his sister and his dad.

She stirred pots, checked temperatures, tasted things and adjusted seasonings. Humming softly under her breath—some old trot song from when she was younger, one he'd heard a thousand times but never knew the name of.

It was so normal. So routine and so mom.

And it made his chest ache because he'd missed this. He'd missed being here, in this kitchen, watching her cook. He'd missed the smell and the warmth and the feeling of being taken care of. James hyung did take care of them well, but a lot of the time, it was a split effort between the two of them. Now, it was his time to be babied the way he learned it from the people he learned it from.

"So," she said casually, not looking at him, stirring the jjigae. "How are you feeling? Really."

Seonghyeon picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. His hoodie was old, starting to fray at the cuffs. "I'm okay."

"Seonghyeon."

He exhaled, long and slow. "I don't know, Mom. I just... I thought today would feel different, you know?"

She turned to look at him, wooden spoon in hand, steam still rising from the pot behind her. "Different how?"

He shrugged, suddenly feeling stupid. Like a kid complaining about something that didn't matter. "I don't know. Special, maybe? But it just feels... normal. Like any other day."

That wasn't entirely true.

It felt worse than any other day because you hadn't texted him and he was trying really hard not to spiral about it in his childhood kitchen while his mom made him birthday food.

It felt like you were just a really good dream he happened to wake up from.

His mom set down the spoon carefully, turning off the burner. She came to sit across from him, pulling out the chair that used to be his sister's. "Birthdays can be weird sometimes. Especially when you're far from the people you want to be with."

His throat tightened. "Yeah."

She reached across the table, covering his hand with hers. Her hands were small, wrinkled slightly, warm from cooking. "She loves you, you know. Your girlfriend."

He looked up, surprised. "How do you—I never told you—"

"Seonghyeon, you talk about her constantly," his mom said with a small smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. "And I saw the pictures from Christmas. And when you talked about the trip." She squeezed his hand. "That's not nothing."

His face heated. "I don't talk about her constantly—"

"You do. Every time we talk on the phone. 'She said this,' 'she did that,' 'you should see what she sent me.'" His mom's smile widened. "It's sweet. I'm happy you found someone who makes you that happy."

"She hasn't texted me," he admitted quietly, staring at their joined hands. "Not once. And it's my birthday."

His mom's expression shifted. There was something flickered across her face that he couldn't quite read. Her eyes darted away for just a second before coming back to his. Was that... guilt? Nervousness? She bit her lip slightly, like she was holding something back. "Maybe she's planning something."

"That's what everyone keeps saying."

"Because it's probably true." Her voice was oddly firm, like she was trying to convince him of something she knew for certain.

He pulled his hand back, rubbing his face with both palms. His skin felt hot despite the cold outside. "Or maybe she just... forgot. Or doesn't care. Or she's realized that long distance is too hard and she doesn't want to deal with it anymore—"

"Or maybe," his mom interrupted, standing quickly and returning to the stove with an energy that felt almost nervous, "you need to have a little faith in her. Trust me on this one, okay?"

There was something in her voice—something he couldn't quite place. Like she knew more than she was letting on.

But before he could ask, his phone buzzed.

He practically lunged for it.

dear sister jiji 🐷 [Tue, Jan 13, 11:47 AM] running late be there in 30 also i got u a present but its dumb so dont get excited

He smiled despite himself, the tightness in his chest loosening just slightly.

You [Tue, Jan 13, 11:48 AM] cant wait to see what dumb thing u got me

dear sister jiji 🐷 [Tue, Jan 13, 11:48 AM] its a t shirt that says "i peaked in 2009" bc u were born that year get it

You [Tue, Jan 13, 11:49 AM] i hate u

dear sister jiji 🐷 [Tue, Jan 13, 11:49 AM] love u too loser see u soon oppa

He put his phone down on the table, shaking his head but smiling.

His mom noticed and glanced over her shoulder. "Eunji?"

"Yeah. She got me a stupid shirt."

His mom laughed—that bright, warm sound that filled the kitchen. "Of course she did. That sounds exactly like her."

JANUARY 13 — 12:15 PM KST

Seonghyeon's mom's phone rang just as she was plating the bulgogi.

She glanced at the screen, and something flickered across her face—something quick, almost imperceptible, but Seonghyeon caught it anyway. Her eyes widened just slightly before she schooled her expression back to normal.

"Oh," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "I need to take this."

She stepped out of the kitchen, phone pressed to her ear, voice dropping to a murmur he couldn't quite make out. Seonghyeon watched her go, that strange feeling in his gut intensifying. The same one he'd had all morning, like something was off but he couldn't figure out what.

His dad was still in the living room, the distant sound of the news anchor's voice drifting through. Seonghyeon sat alone at the kitchen table, staring at the birthday cake, at all the food his mom had made, feeling like he should be happier than he was.

His phone sat face-up on the table. Still nothing.

He picked it up anyway, unlocking it for the hundredth time today, thumb hovering over your contact. Maybe he should just call. Maybe he should—

"Seonghyeon-ah!"

His mom rushed back into the kitchen, phone still in her hand, that same weird energy from earlier back in full force. She was moving quickly, untying her apron, glancing at the clock on the microwave.

"What's wrong?" Seonghyeon sat up straighter, alarm prickling at the back of his neck.

"Nothing's wrong! I just—" She paused, biting her lip. "I need to go pick something up. For your birthday. I completely forgot and the store closes early today and—"

"Mom, it's fine," Seonghyeon said immediately. "You don't have to—"

"No, no, I want to. It's important." She was already grabbing her purse from the counter, her coat from the rack. "Your dad's here, and lunch is ready, so just eat without me, okay? I'll be back soon."

"Are you sure? I can come with—"

"No!" She said it too quickly, too forcefully, and then seemed to catch herself. Her voice softened. "No, honey. You stay here and relax. It's your birthday. I'll be quick, I promise."

There was something in her voice, in the way she wouldn't quite meet his eyes, that made his stomach twist. But before he could question it further, she was already heading toward the door.

"Mom—"

"I'll be back before you know it!" she called over her shoulder. "Eat! Don't wait for me!"

And then she was gone. The door clicked shut behind her, and Seonghyeon was left sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the space where she'd been, that uneasy feeling settling deeper into his chest.

Something was definitely going on.

He just had no idea what.

MEANWHILE — 12:20 PM KST

You were sitting in the passenger seat of Mrs. Eom's car, hands twisted together in your lap, heart beating so hard you could feel it in your freaking throat.

This was happening. This was actually happening.

Mrs. Eom glanced over at you as she pulled out of the driveway, a warm smile on her face. She looked exactly like the pictures Seonghyeon had shown you—kind eyes, the same dimples, that same soft energy that made you feel instantly comfortable even though you'd only met her two hours ago.

"You okay, sweetheart?" she asked gently.

"I think I'm gonna throw up," you admitted, then immediately felt embarrassed. "Sorry, that's—I'm kidding. I'm fine. I'm good. I'm just—"

"Nervous," she finished. She laughed softly. "I know. But trust me, he's going to be so happy."

You nodded, pressing a hand to your stomach. You were wearing the outfit you'd agonized over for days—a soft cream-colored sweater that hung perfectly off one shoulder, your favorite jeans that actually made your butt look good while wearing a puffer, and the little star necklace he'd given you at Christmas resting right at your collarbone. You'd done your makeup on the plane (which was insane and probably looked terrible under the bathroom lighting, but you'd touched it up at the airport).

You wanted to impress his members, his family, him. You'd changed three times at his house before his sister told you to "stop being insane and just wear the first outfit."

His sister. God, his sister was hilarious. She'd been at the airport with his mom when you landed, holding a sign that said "NEW YORK GIRL" in big letters, and you'd nearly cried right there in the arrivals terminal. She was fourteen. She was loud, and had immediately started teasing you about how "down bad" her brother was, which made you want to die but also laugh at the same time.

"He's been talking about you nonstop," his sister had said in the car ride from the airport to their house, twisting around in the front seat to look at you. "Like, it's actually annoying. 'She said this,' 'she did that.' I'm pretty sure he dreams about you."

"Eunjin," Mrs. Eom had warned. She was smiling pretty big though.

"What? I'm just saying! He's obsessed. It's embarrassing."

And now you were in the car, driving to some dance studio where apparently the members were waiting, where apparently they'd all planned this elaborate surprise, where apparently you were about to see Seonghyeon for the first time in weeks and you were absolutely going to pass out.

"They're all really excited to meet you," Mrs. Eom said, turning onto a main road. Seoul blurred past the windows—tall buildings, busy streets, signs in Hangul you were slowly learning to read. Everything felt surreal. Like you were in a dream. "The boys, I mean. They've heard a lot about you too."

"Oh god," you muttered and covered your face with your hands. "That's terrifying."

She laughed, reaching over to pat your knee. "Don't be scared. They're sweet. And they love Seonghyeon, which means they're going to love you."

You dropped your hands, staring out the window. Your phone was still on airplane mode—had been since you landed. You hadn't texted him. Hadn't called. The plan was to keep him completely in the dark until the very last second.

But holy, it was killing you.

"Does he... does he seem okay?" you asked quietly. "Like, has he been—"

"Worried," Mrs. Eom responded gently. "He's been worried. He thinks something's wrong."

Guilt punched through your chest. "I know. I hate that I made him feel that way."

"But you're here," she reminded you and glanced over with a soft smile. "You flew across the world for him. That's going to mean everything."

You nodded, swallowing hard.

The dance studio was in the most K-Pop looking building you would've walked right past if Mrs. Eom hadn't pointed it out—unassuming, tucked between a convenience store and a café. It had the words "HYBE" in big letters and it hit you that this is where so many famous people honed their skills and that was just so cool.. She pulled into a parking spot in the garage, and your hands started shaking.

"Okay," you breathed out. "Okay. I can do this."

"You can absolutely do this." Mrs. Eom squeezed your hand once before unbuckling her seatbelt. "Come on. They're waiting."

You grabbed your bag—the one with Seonghyeon's birthday present carefully wrapped inside—and followed her to a back entrance. She punched in a code on the keypad, and the door clicked open.

The hallway inside was narrow, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, walls covered in posters for dance classes and auditions. It smelled like cleaning products and sweat and that specific studio smell of wood floors and rubber mats. Your boots squeaked slightly on the linoleum as you followed Mrs. Eom down the hall.

Music thumped behind one of the doors—something bass-heavy, muffled. She led you past it to another door at the very end, this one slightly ajar, warm light spilling out into the hallway.

She pushed it open.

And you immediately had to press your hand to your mouth to keep from bursting out laughing. Because there, in the middle of the dance studio, were four fully grown dudes dressed as acai bowls.

They were not... cute, stylized acai bowls. These shits were like full-body costumes. Purple fabric bodies with foam pieces attached to look like blueberries and strawberries and granola. They had literal bowls on their heads. Actual bowls. With foam fruit glued to them.

The studio itself was bigger than you expected, meaning the boys made it look smaller in their dance videos and vlogs. There were wall-to-wall mirrors on one side, a few chairs and bags scattered along the edges, fluorescent lights bright overhead. And in the corner, you noticed a small camera crew. Maybe three or four staff members setting up equipment, adjusting tripods, checking lighting. One of them noticed you staring and gave you a friendly nod.

One of the members—fucking tall, broad shoulders, had to be Martin based on Seonghyeon's descriptions and what you'd seen—was adjusting his strawberry piece, which kept sliding down over his eyes.

Another one—James, you recognized him from FaceTime—was doing some kind of ridiculous dance move, his banana slice flopping with each movement. He had this loud, energetic presence that filled the whole room even in a foam fruit costume.

Juhoon was taking a selfie in the mirror, tongue out, peace signs up, fully committed to the bit.

And Keonho—baby-faced, the maknae, Seonghyeon's roommate and best friend—was lying on the floor in his costume like he'd given up on life, the biggest smile on his face despite his defeated pose.

They all froze when they saw you.

"Oh shit," Martin said, straightening up. His strawberry fell off completely. "Is that—"

"NEW YORK GIRL!" Keonho shot up from the floor so fast his granola pieces went flying.

You couldn't help it. You laughed—actually laughed, the sound bursting out of you before you could stop it, some of the nervous energy finally breaking. "Oh my god. Oh my god, what are you guys wearing?"

"We're acai bowls!" James announced proudly, striking a pose. His costume was even more ridiculous up close—he had a spoon attached to his hand. His voice was loud. It carried across the studio with this infectious energy. "For Seonghyeon! It's his favorite!"

"I can see that," you managed, still laughing. Your hand was pressed to your stomach because it was starting to hurt. "This is—wow. This is so sick."

"See?" Juhoon turned to Martin, and you were struck by how perfect his English was—clear, almost unaccented. "I told you she'd think it was funny."

"I never said she wouldn't—my concern was that we look absolutely insane—" Martin was trying to pick up his fallen strawberry, but it kept slipping out of his hands because he was wearing foam gloves shaped like spoons.

Mrs. Eom was already moving across the studio, setting her purse down on one of the chairs lined against the mirror. "Boys, this is—"

"Yes, yes. We know who she is," Keonho interrupted, and before you could process what was happening, he was right in front of you, acai bowl costume and all. He was grinning so wide his eyes disappeared into little crescents. God, he was smiley. Like, aggressively cheerful. "Seonghyeon literally never shuts up about you. I'm Keonho."

"I know," you said, smiling back. He reminded you so much of Mateo—pure sunshine and loudness. "He talks about you too. A lot."

"Good things?"

"Debatable."

He gasped and pressed a foam hand to his chest. "Slander! I'm a delight!"

"He said you snore," you added.

"WHAT—okay that's—that's personal information—"

The others had gathered around now, and it hit you suddenly that these were Seonghyeon's people. His members. His brothers. The guys he lived with, performed with, trusted with everything. And they were standing here in acai bowl costumes, looking at you with this mix of curiosity and warmth that made your chest feel tight.

Also—they were tall. Like, taller than they looked in pictures. You'd seen them in videos, in photos Seonghyeon sent, but standing in front of them was different. Martin especially—broad-shouldered and solid in a way that photographs didn't quite capture.

"I'm Martin," he said, finally giving up on his strawberry and just holding it. He had a nice smile, almost as cute as Seonghyeon's. His voice had the slightest Canadian accent underneath the Korean. "It's really nice to finally meet you. Seriously."

"You too," you said, meaning it. "Seonghyeon's told me so much about you guys."

"All good things, I hope," James chimed in. He adjusted his bowl-hat. He moved with this dancer's grace even in the ridiculous costume. It was almost like he couldn't help but make everything look fluid and intentional.

"Mostly."

They all laughed at that, and something in the room settled. The initial awkwardness, the nervousness—it dissolved into something easier.

"Okay but real talk," Juhoon said, stepping closer. He was shorter than the others, with this sharp, fox-like face that reminded you of a K-drama second lead. "How the hell did you pull this off? Like—he has no idea you're here?"

"No idea," you confirmed, biting your lip. "I've been dodging his calls for days. He probably thinks I hate him."

"Oh, he definitely thinks that," Keonho said matter-of-factly. "He's been spiraling. Like, bad. This morning he couldn't even eat breakfast."

Your stomach dropped. "Really?"

"Really," Martin confirmed and nodded solemnly. "But that just means this is gonna hit even harder. In a good way."

"He's gonna cry," James said confidently and threw his arms up dramatically. "Like, ugly cry. I'm talking full breakdown. Worse than at our debut party."

"Please don't make me nervous," you groaned, pressing your hands to your face. "I've seen the vlog and he cried pretty badly. That's gonna kill me, bruh."

"No, no—it's a good thing!" Keonho grabbed your shoulders, his foam hands making it awkward. "He needs this. He's been miserable. And you're here. You flew across the world for him. That's—" He paused, something genuine breaking through his teasing. "That's really cool. Like, genuinely."

You felt your throat tighten. "I just... I wanted to be here. For his birthday."

"And you are," Mrs. Eom said from behind you. Her was voice so sweet it comforted your nerves somewhat. "He's going to be so happy, sweetheart."

One of the staff members—a guy with a camera, maybe mid-thirties—approached with a friendly smile. "Don't worry about us, by the way," he said in English, gesturing to the equipment. "We won't start filming until after you guys... you know. Reunite. This part is private."

"Oh—thank you," you managed, relief flooding through you. The last thing you needed was cameras in your face while you were trying not to cry.

"When's he getting here?" you asked, glancing at the clock on the wall. 12:47 PM.

"Should be soon," Martin said, pulling out his phone. "Minjae-hyung texted like ten minutes ago. They're on their way."

Your heart kicked into overdrive. "Oh god. Okay. Okay."

"You good?" Juhoon asked, eyebrows raised. His English was so smooth it almost startled you.

"No," you admitted. "I think I'm gonna pass out."

"Don't pass out in the studio," Keonho said seriously, that smile never leaving his face. "The floors are really hard. Pass out on the mats at least."

You laughed despite yourself, some of the panic easing. These guys were exactly how Seonghyeon had described them—loud, funny, but genuine. Cozy in a way that made you feel like maybe you belonged here, in this weird little moment, waiting to surprise your boyfriend in a room full of boys dressed as acai bowls.

"Here." James handed you a water bottle from his bag. His were movements sharp and precise even when he was just being helpful. "Hydrate. You look like you're about to vibrate out of your skin."

"I feel like I'm about to vibrate out of your skin," you muttered, taking it gratefully. Your hands were shaking so badly the bottle almost slipped right through your fingers. You took a sip, the cold water doing absolutely nothing to calm your racing heart.

"That's normal," Martin assured you, adjusting one of his foam strawberry pieces that kept sliding. "Just breathe. It's gonna be fine."

"Wait—" You turned suddenly to the mirror, panic spiking. "Wait, how do I look? Do I look okay? Oh god—"

You stared at your reflection, frantically smoothing down your sweater, adjusting how it sat on your shoulder. The cream fabric looked good, right? It wasn't wrinkled from the flight? Your hair—you reached up, tucking a strand behind your ear, then pulling it back out because maybe it looked better down.

You touched the star necklace he'd given you at Christmas, making sure it was centered, the little gold star catching the fluorescent light. Checked your makeup—still intact, somehow, despite the fifteen-hour flight and the crying you'd done in the airport bathroom earlier. Your cheeks were flushed, eyes wide and anxious. You looked terrified. You looked like someone about to confess a crime.

"You look great," Juhoon said immediately, his English so natural. This guy was so cool, you had to admit. You were planning on telling him you thought his blond hair looked really good on him but you were too busy freaking out. "Seriously. He's gonna lose his mind."

"You think?"

"I know," Martin confirmed, and there was something so genuine in his voice that it made you believe him. "Trust us. You look perfect."

Mrs. Eom's phone buzzed. She glanced at it. And then looked up at you with a smile that was both excited and a little emotional, eyes glistening slightly. "They're five minutes away."

Five minutes.

You were going to see him in five minutes.

The reality of it hit you like a physical force. After weeks of missing him, of falling asleep holding your phone hoping he'd call, of wearing his hoodies to feel close to him, of counting down the days on your calendar—he was going to be here. In this room. In five minutes.

"Oh god." You set the water bottle down on the floor before you dropped it. Your hands trembled so badly now that you had to press them together. "Oh god, okay. What do I—where do I—"

Your breathing was getting faster. Shallow. You could feel the panic rising in your chest like a wave.

"Hey, hey—" Martin stepped closer. Despite his figure, his voice was sweet. "You're okay. Just breathe."

"I can't—I'm gonna—what if he's actually mad? What if he doesn't want to see me? What if I ruined his birthday by making him worry—"

"He's not mad," Keonho interrupted firmly, crouching down slightly to meet your eyes. "I promise you, he's not mad. He's just been worried. But the second he sees you, all of that is gonna go poof. For real."

You nodded and tried so hard to believe him. Trying to calm your racing heart.

"Okay, okay—new plan," Keonho said suddenly, eyes lighting up with an idea that you could tell was either genius or completely off the rails. "We're turning off the lights."

"What?" you and Martin said at the same time.

"The cake—" Keonho was already moving, gesturing wildly with his foam hands, the granola pieces bouncing. "We light the candles on the cake, turn off all the lights. When he walks in, he won't see her until she's right next to him. You know, until his eyes adjust or whatever."

"Oh my god, that's actually genius," James said, immediately on board, already scanning the room for the light switches.

"What... that's terrifying," you added, voice small.

"That's perfect," Juhoon corrected, grinning wide, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

They were already moving—Martin grabbed the cake from where it sat on one of the chairs against the mirror (a chocolate cake, not with "Happy Birthday Seonghyeon!" written in careful blue icing, but a printed image of him on top with little frosting flowers decorating the edges), Keonho was rummaging through someone's bag and emerging victorious with a pack of birthday candles, James was at the light switch doing a test run—flicking them off and on, off and on.

"Here—" Juhoon guided you gently by the shoulders to a spot near where they'd set the cake down on a small table they'd pulled to the center of the room. His hands were warm even through the ridiculous costume. "You stand here. We'll be around you but slightly back. When he walks in and his eyes adjust, you'll be the first thing he sees. Well—after the candles."

Your hands were shaking as you watched them work with surprising efficiency despite the foam fruit attached to their bodies. Martin carefully pushed seventeen candles into the frosting—one for each year, he explained, plus one for good luck. Keonho produced a lighter from his pocket (why did he have a lighter? you didn't ask), and they lit each candle slowly, the small flames flickering to life one by one in the bright studio.

The camera crew had moved to the far corner, equipment ready but respectfully distant. One of them gave you a thumbs up.

Someone turned off the main lights, and suddenly the room was bathed in soft, warm candlelight. Everything looked different now—softer, dreamier. Way more intimate. The members' faces glowed orange in the flickering light, their ridiculous costumes somehow looking more surreal, almost magical in the dim glow. The mirrors reflected the candles back at you.

"Okay," Martin whispered, even though Seonghyeon wasn't here yet. His voice was barely audible. "Positions."

They spread out slightly behind you, creating a semi-circle, their foam fruit catching the candlelight and casting strange shadows on the walls. You could hear their breathing. Could feel their excitement mixing with yours.

You stood there, hands clasped in front of you to keep them from shaking, staring at the cake, at the seventeen tiny flames dancing in the darkness. Your heart was beating so hard you could feel it in your throat, in your fingertips, in your ears.

This was it.

This was actually it.

"Two minutes," Mrs. Eom whispered from somewhere behind you, her voice barely more than a breath.

You could hear your heartbeat in your ears now, loud and insistent. You could feel each breath entering and leaving your lungs—too fast, too shallow. You tried to slow it down. Tried to breathe like Martin had told you. In through your nose, out through your mouth. But it wasn't working. Nothing was working. Your entire body was vibrating with nervous energy.

One minute. Oh god. Oh god, this was real.

You were really here. In Seoul. In a dance studio. About to surprise your boyfriend who thought you'd been ignoring him for days.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway made everyone freeze.

Voices. Multiple voices. Getting closer. His voice.

Oh god. That was him. That was actually, truly, really him.

Your entire body went rigid, every muscle tensing. You stopped breathing. Your hands gripped each other so tightly your knuckles went white.

The door handle turned. Everything felt like it was happening in slow motion and too fast all at once.

"—I still don't understand why we're at the studio," Seonghyeon's voice carried through, muffled by the door but so achingly familiar it made your chest physically hurt. "Mom said she was picking something up for my birthday but—"

The door opened. And there he was.

He stepped inside, and even though it was dark, even though you could barely see him, you knew every line of his silhouette. The familiar shape of him, the height, the way he stood with his weight slightly on his left leg. The way his head tilted when he was confused.

He stopped, clearly confused by the darkness, hand still on the door handle.

"Why are the lights—"

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" the members shouted in unison, and you saw him jump slightly, actually startled, his whole body jerking back.

His mouth did that smile twitch thing and he had the most adorable confused and happy look on his face that you were absolutely in love with.

His eyes were adjusting to the darkness, scanning the room. They landed on the cake first, on the seventeen flickering candles, then moved to scan the figures surrounding it, the ridiculous acai bowl costumes gradually becoming visible in the dim light.

"What the—are you guys—" He started laughing. And the sound went straight through you like electricity. That surprised, genuine laugh that you'd missed so much it physically hurt. "Are you dressed as acai bowls?"

"Obviously," Keonho said. He was trying to sound serious but you could hear the smile in his voice.

Seonghyeon stepped closer, still laughing, shaking his head in disbelief. "This is insane. You guys are—"

And that's when you moved.

You stepped forward, right next to the cake, the candlelight illuminating your face. You could feel the warmth of the flames on your cheeks. Could see him more clearly now that he was closer—could make out his features in the flickering light.

You looked directly at him, met his eyes in the dim light, and said softly:

"Hi. Make a wish."

Everything stopped.

His laughter cut off mid-sound like someone had physically pressed pause. His whole body went completely, utterly still. You watched his face in the flickering candlelight—watched his expression shift from confusion to recognition to complete and total disbelief. Like his brain was physically being fried, like every thought had just evacuated his head simultaneously.

He stared at you, like just stared. His mouth was slightly open, frozen mid-laugh. Eyes wide, unblinking, reflecting the candlelight. His hand was still raised from where he'd been gesturing while talking.

You smiled, nervous and hopeful and terrified. You were so full of love you thought you might actually burst. "Hi."

He didn't move. Didn't speak. Fuck, he didn't even seem to breathe. Just kept staring like you were a ghost, like you were something his brain couldn't possibly process as real.

At this point, you were sort of stressing out. Like did he really hate you so much now? Did he even care?

"Hyung," Keonho whispered from behind you, voice amused and gentle. "You gotta blow out the candles."

But as you stared longer, you realized the look in his eyes wasn't negative. It was this look of pure adoration that the members had only ever seen him give you. On FaceTime, looking at your pictures—even now.

Seonghyeon's eyes didn't leave yours. Like he was afraid if he looked away for even a second you'd disappear. As if you'd shimmer and fade and prove you were just a hallucination his desperate brain had created.

Slowly—so slowly it felt like watching someone move through water—he leaned forward. He was still staring at you and still not blinking. And blew out the candles.

Darkness. Complete darkness for three long seconds.

And then—

"세상에—뭐야—잠깐—" Holy shit—what—wait— the Korean tumbled out of him in this rushed, panicked string. His voice was high and breathless and breaking. You could hear him moving in the darkness, could hear the members trying not to laugh. "Ige mwoya?!"

"Someone turn the lights on please what the hell—" His voice cracked completely. "Turn the lights on—I can't—I need to—"

James hit the switch.

Fluorescent lights flooded the studio, bright and sudden and almost harsh after the gentle candlelight. You blinked against the sudden brightness, and when your eyes adjusted—

There he was. Really, truly, actually there.

And god, he looked so good it made your chest ache.

He was wearing this heather grey hoodie paired with a dark leather jacket that on anyone else would've looked like a weird combination but on him it just worked. It was so perfectly him—effortlessly swag in that way he never seemed to try for but always achieved.

His hair was fluffy and soft-looking, brown hair catching the fluorescent light, pushed back slightly like he'd run his hands through it too many times.

Pure.

That's the word that came to mind. He looked pure and soft and beautiful and so heartbreakingly familiar.

And his face—

His hands had come up to cover his mouth, fingers pressed against his lips like he was trying to hold something in. His eyes were already filling with tears. They were glassy and wide and disbelieving. You could see his chest rising and falling rapidly, could see him trying to process what he was seeing, trying to make sense of it.

Your heart was physically aching at the sight.

"Oh my god," he whispered through his fingers, voice muffled and broken. "Oh my god, you're—you're actually—"

His voice broke completely.

And then he was moving.

Crossing the space between you in three long strides, and you barely had time to breathe before he was grabbing you, pulling you into him with this desperate urgency that knocked the air from your lungs. His arms wrapped around you so tightly you couldn't breathe, couldn't move, could barely think. One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. The other wrapped around your waist, holding you against him like he was afraid you'd slip away.

His face buried in your neck immediately, and you felt him inhale—deep and shaky, like he was trying to convince himself you were real through scent alone.

"You're here," he whispered against your skin. His voice was barely audible, cracking on the second word. "You're actually here, you're real, you're—"

"I'm here," you whispered back, your own voice breaking. Your arms wrapped around him just as tightly, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, fingers sliding into his soft hair. "I'm here, I'm so sorry, I'm here—"

He didn't say anything else. Seonghyeon ust held you. His breathing was uneven against your neck, stuttering slightly, and you realized he was trying not to fall apart completely.

After a moment that felt like both seconds and hours, he pulled back. Just enough to look at your face, hands coming up to cup your cheeks.

And that's when you saw it.

His face was wet. Silent tears streaming down his cheeks, catching the fluorescent light. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, filled with so much emotion it made your chest physically hurt. But it was his expression that broke you—his eyebrows drawn together, mouth pressed into a tight line like he was trying so hard to hold it together and failing. His face was twisted with something that looked like relief and sadness and disbelief all at once.

He looked devastated and wrecked. Like seeing you had cracked something open inside him that he'd been holding closed for days.

"Oh, babe—" Your own eyes immediately filled with tears at the sight of him. "Oh my god, don't—"

But you were crying too now, unable to stop it.

Your hands came up slowly, covering his where they held your face, and then you moved them gently, bringing your own hands to his cheeks instead. His skin was warm and wet under your palms. You brushed your thumbs across his cheekbones slowly, carefully, catching the tears that kept falling.

He closed his eyes at your touch, face crumpling further, and more tears slipped out from under his lashes.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, voice thick. "I'm so sorry I made you worry—"

"I thought—" His voice came out strangled. He opened his eyes, and they were so full of hurt and relief it made you ache. "I thought you were done. I thought I did something and you didn't want—" He couldn't finish, jaw clenching as he tried to keep his composure.

"No," you said firmly, thumbs still moving gently across his cheeks, wiping away tears that kept coming. "Never. I was planning this. I wanted to surprise you. I'm so sorry, I should've—"

"You're here," he interrupted, voice barely above a whisper. Like he still couldn't believe it. Like he had to keep saying it to make it real. His hands found your waist again, gripping like you might disappear. "You're in Korea. You're actually in Korea. For my birthday."

"Happy birthday, baby," you whispered, trying to smile through your tears.

He let out a breath that was half laugh and half sob, and pulled you back into him. This time gentler, but no less desperate. His face found your neck again, and you felt him just breathe you in, his shoulders finally relaxing slightly under your hands.

"I love you," he mumbled against your skin, voice raw and honest and so quiet you almost didn't hear it. "I love you a lot."

"I love you too," you said immediately, fingers tightening in his hair. "I love you too."

You did. You loved him so much it hurt. You just wanted to smoosh him until he was just a little ball of Seonghyeon.

You stood there, holding each other. You were both crying quietly. You could feel his heartbeat against your chest, racing just as fast as yours. You could feel the warmth of him. With you. You could feel the slight tremor in his hands where they gripped your sweater.

Someone sniffled loudly behind you.

"Oh my god," Martin's voice, thick with emotion. "I can't handle this."

"I told you he'd cry," James said, but his voice was wobbly too.

Seonghyeon finally pulled back again, and this time he smiled—small and watery and so beautiful it made your heart stutter. His hands came back to your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones the same way yours had brushed his.

"You flew here," he said, voice full of wonder. But it was still a little broken. "You actually flew across the world. For me."

"Of course I did," you said, like it was obvious. Like there was never any other option. Your hands moved to his wrists, holding them gently. "It's your birthday."

"But you—the texts, the calls—you let me think—" His voice cracked again, and more tears threatened to spill.

"I know," you said quickly and urgently. "I know, and I'm so sorry. I was trying not to ruin the surprise, but I made you think something was wrong and I—"

"I don't care," he interrupted, shaking his head. A few tears escaped, sliding down his cheeks. "I don't care, you're here, that's all that matters." His voice dropped to a whisper, just for you. "You're actually here."

"I'm actually here," you confirmed, smiling through your own tears.

He looked at you for another long moment, eyes scanning your face like he was still trying to convince himself this was real. Then his gaze dropped to your neck, landing on the star necklace.

"You're wearing it," he said softly, reaching up to touch the little gold star with gentle fingers. His voice sounded almost awed.

"I haven't taken it off since Christmas," you admitted.

His face did that thing again—that slight crumpling, eyebrows drawing together. He bit his lip, looking down for a second like he needed to collect himself.

"Hey," you said softly, bringing one hand back to his face, cupping his jaw. "It's okay. I'm really here."

He nodded, leaning into your touch, and when he looked back up his eyes were clearer. Still wet, still emotional... but clearer. "I can't believe you're here," he said. His voice was somewhat steadier now. "Like you actually came to me."

"Better believe it," you whispered.

And then he kissed you.

It was so loving and desperate and a little salty from both your tears. His hands slid from your face to your waist, pulling you closer, and you melted into him. It was different from seeing him over FaceTime, different from the memories you'd been replaying for weeks. This was real life. Where he lived, not NYC.

His lips moved against yours slowly, carefully, like he was savoring it.

He breathed you in and pulled you even closer suddently. You jumped a little and you could feel his lips starting to smile and his thumb rubbing circles on your waist.

Behind you, someone—definitely Keonho—wolf-whistled.

Seonghyeon pulled back, face flushed. A real smile finally broke through. He still looked wrecked. His eyes were red, cheeks tear-stained—but he was smiling. That dimpled, genuine smile you'd missed so much.

He turned slightly, keeping one arm around your waist like he still needed to touch you to believe you were real, and finally seemed to remember that you weren't alone.

The members were all crying.

Not like—a little misty-eyed. Full-on crying. Martin had his hands over his face. James was wiping his eyes with his foam banana. Juhoon was filming on his phone smiling. Keonho wasn't even trying to hide it, just standing there in his acai bowl costume with tears streaming down his face, grinning like an idiot.

Mrs. Eom was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, smiling so wide she looked identical to Seonghyeon.

"You guys are so weird," Seonghyeon said, but his voice was fond, and thick with emotion.

"Shut up, this is beautiful," Keonho defended, voice cracking. "Let us be emotional."

"I can't believe you're wearing acai bowl costumes?" you asked, finally processing it fully now that your brain was functioning again.

"For you!" James announced, gesturing at his outfit. "Well, for him. But he likes them because of you!"

Seonghyeon groaned, hiding his face in your shoulder. "I'm gonna kill them."

"Don't," you laughed, running your fingers through his hair gently. "This is the genuinely the funniest shit I've ever seen."

He lifted his head, looking at you with eyes that were still wet but so full of love it made your breath catch. "You planned this? All of it?"

"With help," you admitted, glancing at Mrs. Eom, who waved. "Your mom picked me up from the airport. Your sister was there too. They've been helping me all morning."

"My mom knew?" He turned to look at her. There was mock betrayal on his face even though he was smiling. "You knew?"

"Of course I knew!" she said, laughing, dabbing at her eyes again. "Who do you think helped coordinate this whole thing?"

"That's why you—the phone call earlier—" Understanding dawned on his face. "You were talking to her."

"I had to make sure we had the timing right," his mom confirmed.

Seonghyeon turned back to you, shaking his head in disbelief. One hand came up to your face again, thumb tracing your cheekbone gently. "I can't believe this. I can't believe you did this."

"Worth it?" you asked quietly.

"Worth it?" he repeated, voice incredulous. He let out a breath that was so in disbelief. "This is the best birthday I've ever had. You—" His voice caught slightly. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

Your heart cracked open and you pouted unintentionally.

"Don't make me cry again," you warned, but it was too late. Fresh tears were already gathering.

He wiped them away gently with his thumb, still looking at you like you'd hung every star in the sky. "I love you, man," he said again, softer this time. "I'm gonna say it like a million times today because I haven't been able to say it to your face in weeks."

"I love you too," you whispered back.

"Okay," Martin announced loudly, clearly trying to pull himself together. "As much as I love this—and I do, this is peak cinema—we should probably let them have a minute."

"Yes," Mrs. Eom agreed, ushering the members toward the door. "Come on, boys. Give them some space."

"But—" Keonho protested.

"Space," she repeated firmly, but she was smiling.

They filed out reluctantly, still in their costumes, Keonho looking back over his shoulder until the door closed behind him.

And then it was just you and Seonghyeon. In a dance studio in Seoul. On his birthday. Fucking finally.

He looked at you so deeply in your eyes and you swear he did that eye triangle thing. And he smiled—ugh, that dimpled, genuine smile you'd missed so desperately. "Hi."

"Hiii," you echoed, smiling back.

"This is insane," he said and pulled you back into his arms gently like he couldn't let you stray too far away. "You're insane. I can't believe you flew here."

"Well, you know what they say," you started. "I'd fly to a sneaky link." You referenced a meme that you guys joked was applicable to your situation.

"Bro." Seonghyeon closed his eyes and leaned on your shoulder. "I'm gonna pretend you didn't say that shit."

He rested his forehead against yours, eyes closing, and just breathed. "Best birthday ever."

"It's only 1 PM."

"Don't care," he hummed. "Nothing's topping this."

You stood there, wrapped up in each other, and for the first time in weeks, everything felt right. You felt complete.

"I have a present for you," you said after a while. "It's in my bag."

"You being here is enough," he said immediately.

"Yeah, well, you're getting both. Beggars can't be chooser."

He laughed—that sound you'd missed so much—and kissed your forehead softly. "Okay. But later. Right now I just want to stare at you."

So you let him. Stood there in the middle of the dance studio, his arms around you, his eyes on your face, both of you smiling.

He tucked a few stray hairs behind your ear and pouted jokingly.

"My girl."

And suddenly all the pain of ghosting him for that second was worth it.

Seonghyeon didn’t let you go for a long time. The dance studio stopped feeling like a place people sweated in and started feeling like a tiny world you had fallen into by accident. The mirrors and scuffed floor and harsh lights all faded into background noise.

His jacket was soft against your cheek and the collar of his hoodie was still a little damp from tears. Every time you shifted, his grip adjusted. His hand slid up your back or curled in your sweater like his body did not trust you not to vanish.

Eventually his breathing evened out. The little shuddery exhales turned into slow, steady ones. Your heartbeat calmed from full panic to something you could manage. His fingers never really stopped. They traced slow circles at the small of your back, like he needed the motion to keep his brain grounded.

“How long are you staying?” he asked near your ear. His voice sounded quieter now.

You smiled into his shoulder. “Why? Trying to get rid of me already?”

He leaned back just enough to see your face. His hands stayed where they were, warm at your waist. “Shut up and answer the question.”

You hooked your arms around his neck and your thumbs caught on the neckline of his hoodie. His hair brushed over the backs of your fingers. “Five days,” you said. “I go back on Sunday.”

His face fell. His mouth opened a little. “Sunday?” he repeated, like you had told him you were leaving in an hour. “That’s so short.”

“I know.” You let your forehead rest against his. Your noses bumped softly. Up close, you could see faint lines at the corners of his eyes from crying so hard. “But it’s five days more than zero.”

He let out a breath. His fingers pressed a little harder into your sides. “I hate math. It’s not enough.”

“Then make them count,” you said. Your fingers slid up along his jaw. His skin felt warm, soft under your fingertips. “Mr. K‑pop idol.”

He scoffed at that. “Don’t call me that. I’m begging you.”

“Fine. Mr. Eomclown.”

He frowned. “Wow. Calling me a clown, now.”

“You started it.”

He stared at you for a second, then his mouth twitched. A small laugh slipped out through his nose. “Okay. Five days,” he said more to himself. His eyes dropped to your mouth for a moment, then met yours again. “You’re mine for five days.”

You felt that line everywhere in your body. “You say that like I wasn’t already,” you tried to joke.

Seonghyeon's gaze softened. “You weren’t here,” he said quietly. “Now you are. It’s different.”

He made you feel way, way, way too much. You hadnt even been here for a day and you already never wanted to leave. You looked away, your eyes skipping over the mirror and the pile of costumes in the corner.

“So what’s the plan, birthday boy?” you hummed. “Besides staring at me like a creep.”

He tilted his head, pretending to think. “First, we eat. You definitely didn’t much eat on the plane. Or in the car. Or here.”

You opened your mouth to argue. Right on cue, your stomach growled, loud in the quiet studio.

He laughed. But nothing was funny, because it was this low chuckle you fangirled at inside.

"Come here, I wanna show you something."

maddy speaks! —i did in fact reach tumblr's dumb 1000 block limit so click down below for continuation, sorry :) this is NOT a part two btw

read more here!

[fa2hion]

ᛝ ❘❘ ❙|❙❘ ❚ | ♫ ░͟ᭊ ᭢ ᰭᰭ᳜᳝᳝ᰯ꫶𝅘𝅥𝅮 ⸝⸝

⠞⡷✧░⃕⃝۪۪⃨۪̃۟᭠💻 4RAWS.exe 🚬༑𓈒̩̩͙༑🚭🛹

[cortisoles]

FaSHioN*

.,¸,.✱*¯`✱.,¸,.✱ 𒁂 ✱.,¸,.✱*¯`✱.,¸,.

[gracieabrams]

@lollapalooza Tonight 7pm t-mobile stage 😛

[ceruleanheaven]

forgive me father for i have not locked in

[gaptoothsmille]

Advice of the day: if your man starts dressing up like this be careful

[ozempicofficial]