izzy's playlists!
noise dept.
occasionally subtle
One Nice Bug Per Day
Peter Solarz
Kaledo Art
cherry valley forever
blake kathryn
oozey mess
DEAR READER
Claire Keane
ojovivo
RMH
KIROKAZE
Show & Tell
Misplaced Lens Cap
Sweet Seals For You, Always
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Andulka
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from Netherlands
seen from Malaysia
seen from Spain
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Türkiye
seen from Brazil
seen from United Arab Emirates
seen from Albania
seen from Palestinian Territories
seen from United States
seen from Palestinian Territories
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@flowersprinkle
NAVIGATION .ᐟ
@FLOWERSPRINKLE
— HI ! thank you for visiting!
— PLEASE READ hate-filled asks, replies, or messages will likely be ignored or blocked.
ABT ME ! ⋆.𐙚 ̊ she/her. 4teen. ♡ writing, reading, video games, music, tea and nice ppl! ✦ loud noises, crowds, insects, ppl with no basic manners
GENERAL MASTERLIST wip... ✩ 6TH MEMBER MASTERLIST ✩ REQUESTS are 𝓸𝗽𝗲𝗻 .ᐟ
© flowersprinkle — # reposting or translating my work is not permitted.
YOUR LETTER HAS BEEN DELIVERED !
now replying...
HI... guess who got covid 🥲 in the big 2026... sorry for no updates...
love the 6th member series🩷 hope you ace the finals 🤩
YOUR LETTER HAS BEEN DELIVERED !
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tysm!! 🩷🩷 i hope so too 😭 working on it whenever i have time tho so hopefully i can get the next part done soon!
next part of the usual plsss??🥹
YOUR LETTER HAS BEEN DELIVERED !
now replying...
i wasnt planning for another part... 🥹
YOUR LETTER HAS BEEN DELIVERED !
now replying...
HELPPP why did i just realize WHEN I HEART A COMMENT EVERYONE CAN SEE MY MAIN BLOG like no guys pls that one is in the dungeons i have so many more 💔
can you get more 6th member series 😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😳
YOUR LETTER HAS BEEN DELIVERED !
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YESS OFC!! tysm for reading! ive been rly busy with school lately since finals are coming up but ill work on it asap! <3
THE USUAL .ᐟ
Synopsis. Seonghyeon becomes a regular at the açaí shop where you work, and his order never changes. Simple enough to memorize, dangerous enough to make you look forward to the bell above the door.
Pairing. non-idol!Seonghyeon x fem. Reader
Word Count. 7.9k
Notes. My side quest... i lowk hate this i cant like BUT ILL KEEP IT UP FOR NOW 😔
The first thing you learn about Seonghyeon is his order.
The second thing you learn is that he is rude. What? You swear you aren’t holding a grudge... Okay, fine, maybe you are.
Not loudly rude. Not the kind of rude that gives you a dramatic story to tell later with hand gestures, offended gasps, and a very detailed reenactment for your roommate. He does not yell. He does not snap his fingers. He does not complain about prices like you personally set them in a dark office somewhere, cackling over the cost of granola.
His rudeness is quieter than that.
It is in the short answers. The distracted glances. The way he keeps looking down at his phone like the conversation is something he has to survive quickly before getting back to whatever is making his shoulders sit so tensely beneath his wrinkled button-down.
Unfortunately for him, you are not in the mood to be generous.
Tuesday afternoon has already been awful. Your morning lecture ran over by twenty minutes because your professor discovered, apparently for the first time, that he enjoyed hearing himself speak. Your bus to work was so crowded that someone’s tote bag spent six stops pressed directly into your ribs. Then, when you arrived at the açaí shop, Mina had looked up from behind the counter and said, very seriously, “The freezer is making a sound.”
The sound turned out to be less of a sound and more of a mechanical cry for help.
So by the time the bell above the door rings and he walks in, you are tired, sticky with fruit, and emotionally prepared to be annoyed by almost anything.
The shop is small and bright, tucked between a dry cleaner and a café that charges enough for coffee that you assume every cup comes with a financial consultation. Your shop has pale wooden counters, white tile walls, a chalkboard menu written in Mina’s unnecessarily pretty handwriting, and a row of fake hanging plants that still somehow look like they are losing the will to live. It smells like frozen berries, banana, peanut butter, and the faint lemon disinfectant your manager insists is “barely noticeable.”
A blender whirs behind you. Mina is crouched near the freezer, muttering threats at it under her breath.
The bell rings again as the door swings shut.
You look up.
He stands just inside the entrance with a laptop bag over one shoulder and his phone in one hand. He looks around your age, maybe a little older. His shirt is neat but wrinkled at the sleeves, as if he has spent all day pushing them up and pulling them back down. His dark hair falls softly over his forehead, a little messy in a way that seems more exhausted than intentional. He is handsome, which you notice against your will, but not in a loud way. There is nothing attention-seeking about him. If anything, he looks like he is trying not to take up too much space.
He stops under the menu.
You wait.
He reads silently.
You wipe a streak of peanut butter from the counter with a damp cloth and wait some more.
The blender stops. The shop settles into a silence that makes the waiting feel louder.
“Hi,” you say finally, keeping your voice bright because customer service requires you to sound like fruit has healed you. “What can I get started for you?”
He does not look at you right away. His thumb moves across his phone screen once, then he seems to catch himself. He locks it, slips it into his pocket, and lifts his gaze to the menu again.
“One açaí bowl,” he says.
His voice is quiet. Soft, almost. But the words come out clipped, as if they have been cut down to save time.
You keep your smile in place. “Sure. What toppings would you like?”
“Banana,” he says. “Strawberries. Peanut butter. Granola.”
You tap the order into the register. The screen chirps under your finger.
“Anything else? Honey, coconut, chia seeds, cacao nibs?”
“No.”
The answer comes too fast.
You pause with your finger hovering over the screen.
“Okay,” you say. “For here or to go?”
“To go.”
“Name?”
He hesitates.
It is small. Barely anything. But on a better day, you might have missed it. Today, you notice everything. The way his jaw shifts. The way his eyes flick to your name tag and then away again. The tiny inhale, like even giving his name requires energy he does not have.
“Seonghyeon,” he says.
You type it in carefully.
“Seonghyeon,” you repeat, mostly to make sure you got it right.
“Yes.”
No smile. No warmth. Just yes.
You tell him the total. He pulls out his card and taps it against the reader before the green light appears. The reader beeps angrily. He looks down at it, blinks once, then taps again too soon.
It beeps again.
“You have to wait for the light,” you say.
“I know.”
It is not harsh, exactly. It is quiet. Flat. Automatic. Like he is already somewhere else in his head, and this moment is just another thing going wrong in a long list of things going wrong.
Still, it lands badly.
Your smile tightens.
“Do you?”
The second the words leave your mouth, you know you probably should have swallowed them.
Seonghyeon looks up.
For one second, neither of you moves. Your hand rests beside the register. His card hovers over the reader. Behind you, Mina stops moving so completely that you know she heard everything and has chosen self-preservation over friendship.
Seonghyeon’s expression changes first.
Not anger.
Something quieter. Awkward. Embarrassed.
His gaze drops to the reader, then to his card.
“Sorry,” he says.
The apology is so quiet and immediate that your own annoyance stutters.
The green light appears.
He taps his card.
The payment goes through.
You clear your throat and look at the receipt printer instead of his face. “It’s fine.”
It is not entirely fine, because now you are embarrassed too, which is more annoying than being annoyed.
You turn away and begin making his bowl with more focus than necessary. You scoop the açaí base into the container and smooth it down. You slice the banana evenly, arrange the strawberries along the side, drizzle peanut butter across the top in clean lines, and add granola last so it stays crisp. You place the lid on carefully, then wipe the edge because if nothing else, you are going to be professionally competent.
He stands near the pickup counter while you work.
He does not check his phone again.
You notice that too.
When the bowl is finished, you slide it into a paper bag and place it on the counter.
“Seonghyeon,” you call, even though he is the only one waiting.
He steps forward. His fingers curl around the bag handle, but he does not take it right away.
“Thanks,” he says.
This time, the word is softer.
You nod. “Have a nice day.”
He seems to know you do not fully mean it.
You seem to know he knows.
He takes the bag and leaves, the bell above the door ringing brightly behind him.
Mina waits exactly two seconds before standing upright from behind the counter.
“That was painful.”
You grab the cloth and begin wiping an already clean spot near the register. “He was rude first.”
“He apologized.”
“After I was rude back.”
“So romantic.”
You shoot her a look.
Mina raises both hands, grinning. “I’m just saying. There was tension.”
“There was customer service failure.”
“There were cheekbones.”
“I’m not discussing his cheekbones.”
“You noticed them.”
“I noticed he couldn’t operate a card reader.”
Mina hums like she does not believe you, which is irritating because she is right.
You do not think about him after that.
Or at least, you do not mean to.
But two days later, the bell rings at 4:13 p.m., and when you look up from refilling the granola container, he is there again.
Same laptop bag. Different shirt. Same quiet exhaustion. Same soft dark hair, a little messy over his forehead. Same posture...
You stare for half a second too long.
He notices.
His hand tightens around the strap of his bag.
“Hi,” you say.
“Hi.”
The greeting is awkward enough to have corners.
You step toward the register. “What can I get started for you?”
He glances at the menu, though you get the strange feeling he does not need to.
“One açaí bowl,” he says. “Banana, strawberries, peanut butter, granola.”
Of course.
You tap it in. “Anything else?”
He pauses.
This time, the pause feels intentional, as if he is reminding himself not to answer too quickly.
“No, thank you.”
You almost smile.
Almost.
“To go?”
“Yes, please.”
Even Mina looks up from the blender.
You enter the order, trying not to let amusement show on your face. “Name?”
His eyes flick to yours.
“Seonghyeon.”
“I remember.”
The words slip out before you can soften them, but they do not sound as sharp this time.
His expression shifts. Surprise, maybe. Then something quieter. He looks down at the counter, where your fingers rest near the register.
“You do?”
“You were here two days ago.”
“That doesn’t mean you had to remember.”
“It’s my job.”
He nods once, like this is logical and therefore acceptable.
The card reader lights green.
He waits this time before tapping.
You notice.
He notices you noticing.
Neither of you says anything.
While you make his bowl, he stands near the pickup counter with both hands wrapped loosely around the strap of his laptop bag. He does not look at his phone. Instead, his gaze drifts around the shop — the chalkboard menu, the jars of toppings, the hanging plants, the stack of loyalty cards beside the register.
When his eyes land on the freezer, it makes another low, dying noise.
His eyebrows lift slightly.
“Yeah,” you say, following his gaze. “It does that.”
“Is it supposed to?”
“No.”
“Is it safe?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
You snap the lid onto his bowl. “Do architecture interns usually inspect appliances while waiting for fruit?”
He looks at you.
You freeze.
You do not know why you guessed architecture intern. Maybe it is the laptop bag, the rolled papers sticking out of the side pocket, the way he looked at the menu like he was evaluating whether the spacing was structurally sound.
For a moment, you think you guessed wrong.
Then he says, “I am an architecture intern.”
You blink. “Oh.”
His mouth twitches faintly.
“Was that a guess?”
“An educated one.”
“You guessed.”
“An educated guess,” you correct.
He takes the bag when you hand it over, but he does not leave immediately.
“My supervisor sent back a model that day,” he says after a second, looking down at the receipt taped to the bag. “That’s why I was…”
He trails off.
His fingers shift against the paper handle.
“Rude?” you offer.
His ears turn faintly pink.
“Short,” he says.
You lean one hip against the counter. “That’s one word for it.”
He looks up at you, and for the first time, there is something sheepish in his expression.
“I was short,” he repeats. “Sorry.”
The apology is quiet and awkward, but it feels real enough that your own embarrassment resurfaces.
“I was also short,” you admit.
“You asked if I knew how to use a card reader.”
“You didn’t look like you did.”
“I was tired.”
“I was annoyed.”
He nods slowly, like you have both presented evidence and he has accepted the case.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay?”
“Mutual fault.”
You stare at him.
Behind you, Mina makes a strangled sound and turns it into a cough.
“Did we just settle this like a legal dispute?” you ask.
Seonghyeon’s gaze drops to the bag, but this time you catch it — the smallest curve at the corner of his mouth.
“It seemed efficient.”
You laugh once, surprised out of yourself.
His eyes lift at the sound.
Then he looks away too quickly.
“Thanks,” he says, raising the bag slightly.
“You’re welcome.”
He turns toward the door.
The bell rings behind him.
Mina appears beside you as if summoned by gossip.
“Mutual fault,” she repeats, delighted. “He’s weird.”
You look at the door, still smiling despite yourself.
“Yeah,” you say. “A little.”
After that, Seonghyeon becomes a regular.
Not officially. There is no ceremony for it, no loyalty card fanfare, no plaque on the wall that says congratulations, you have ordered enough peanut butter to become part of our emotional ecosystem. It just happens.
He comes in on Tuesdays and Thursdays, sometimes Mondays if he looks especially tired, rarely Fridays. Always around the same window of time. Always with the same laptop bag. Always with the same order.
Banana. Strawberries. Peanut butter. Granola.
At first, you remember because it is easy.
Then because he is frequent.
Then because it becomes impossible not to.
You learn that he watches the bowl being made, not in a suspicious way, but with quiet attention. You learn that he cares about the granola going on last because “texture matters.” You learn that he does not like when the peanut butter pools too heavily in one corner because it “changes the ratio.” You learn that he is calm most of the time, even when tired, but his calmness is not empty. It is full of tiny reactions if you know where to look.
A blink when you surprise him.
A small ear flush when Mina embarrasses him.
A pause before he says something honest.
A barely-there smile when he finds something funny and does not want to admit it.
You also learn that he is not nearly as cold as he first seemed.
He is just bad at entering conversations and worse at leaving them.
One afternoon, during a slow shift, he walks in while you are rearranging strawberries in the display case. The bell rings, and you look up before you mean to.
He notices that too.
“The usual?” you ask, straightening.
He stops in front of the register, one hand still on the strap of his bag.
“The usual?”
“Banana, strawberries, peanut butter, granola.”
His eyes stay on yours a little longer than usual. “You remember every time.”
“You order it every time.”
“That’s not the same.”
“It kind of is.”
He considers this. His brows draw together, but softly, as if he is not irritated so much as academically opposed.
“I’m consistent,” he says.
“You’re predictable.”
“Those are different.”
“Are they?”
“Yes.”
You lean on the counter, amused despite yourself. “Explain.”
He shifts his bag higher on his shoulder. “Predictable sounds boring.”
“I didn’t say boring.”
“You implied it.”
“I implied you have a stable relationship with peanut butter.”
“That’s not inaccurate.”
“You’re defending yourself very seriously.”
“I’m being precise.”
“Very architecture intern of you.”
His gaze drops for a moment, and there it is again — the almost-smile.
“It’s a controlled system,” he says.
“The bowl?”
“Yes.”
“Seonghyeon.”
“What?”
“It’s fruit.”
“It’s balance.”
You stare at him for a beat before laughing under your breath.
He looks away, but his shoulders loosen.
You enter the order. “One balanced fruit system. To go?”
He hesitates.
The hesitation is different this time. Not because he does not know the answer, but because he seems to be deciding whether to change it.
“For here,” he says finally.
You look at him.
He immediately looks like he regrets being perceived.
“For here,” you repeat, carefully normal.
“Yes.”
“Big day.”
“It’s raining.”
You glance out the window at the painfully clear sky.
“It is not raining.”
“It might.”
“Sure.”
He pays, then retreats to the table near the window. While you make his bowl, you see him take out a notebook and a mechanical pencil. He opens to a page filled with neat lines and tiny notes, the kind of handwriting that looks controlled even when rushed.
You set his bowl down at his table instead of calling his name.
He looks up, surprised.
“Your balanced fruit system,” you say.
“Thank you.”
You glance at the notebook before you can stop yourself. “Is that a building?”
“A lobby layout.”
“For work?”
“For the internship.”
“It looks complicated.”
“It is.”
“On purpose?”
His pencil pauses.
Then he looks up at you with the faintest hint of amusement. “Usually.”
You smile and head back behind the counter.
He stays for forty minutes.
Not that you are counting.
Mina is counting.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs while pretending to restock napkins.
“I’m checking if he needs anything.”
“He needs you to stop looking at him like he’s a limited-edition fruit topping.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means you like him.”
“He’s a customer.”
“He’s a customer whose peanut butter ratio you respect.”
“That is professional pride.”
“That is emotional involvement.”
You turn away before she can see your face warming.
The next week, Seonghyeon betrays his own system.
He walks in looking more awake than usual, which is already suspicious. His sleeves are neatly rolled, his hair is less chaotic, and he approaches the register with a strange determination that makes you put down the marker you were using to fix the chalkboard.
“The usual?” you ask.
He looks at the menu.
Then at you.
“Add blueberries.”
You blink.
Mina, behind you, freezes with a container of bananas in her hands.
“Blueberries?” you repeat.
“Yes.”
“Are you okay?”
His expression remains calm, but his ears redden immediately. “I can order blueberries.”
“Of course.”
“You sound doubtful.”
“I’m just surprised.”
“People can change.”
“Through toppings?”
“It’s a controlled experiment.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. “What’s the hypothesis?”
He looks at the display case of blueberries, then back at you.
“That I’m not predictable.”
Mina makes a soft squeaking noise behind the bananas.
You ignore her with heroic effort.
“Very scientific,” you say. “What’s your sample size?”
“One bowl.”
“That feels weak.”
“It’s preliminary.”
“Right. Of course.”
You make the bowl exactly as ordered, including the blueberries. He watches the process with the grave focus of someone observing a structural test. When you hand it over, he studies the container through the clear lid.
“Enjoy your experiment,” you say.
He nods solemnly. “I’ll evaluate the results.”
He leaves.
The next day, the bell rings.
You look up.
Seonghyeon stands in the doorway holding the half-eaten bowl.
For a second, he simply stands there, daylight bright behind him, face carefully blank.
You press your lips together.
He walks to the counter.
“No,” he says.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked like you were going to.”
“I was breathing.”
“You were smiling.”
“I smile at customers.”
“Not like that.”
The words land between you a little too softly.
You lose the smile for half a second.
So does he.
Then he looks down at the blueberry bowl and clears his throat.
“The experiment failed.”
You fold your hands on the counter. “Tragic.”
“The blueberries disrupt the texture.”
“Did they attack the ratio?”
“They complicated it.”
“Unforgivable.”
“Can I get the usual?”
You finally laugh, and this time he smiles. Small, embarrassed, real.
“The usual,” you say, still laughing. “No blueberries?”
“No blueberries.”
“People can change back, I guess.”
“It’s part of learning.”
“Very mature.”
“I’m trying.”
You make him another bowl, and when you hand it to him, he does not leave. He takes it to the window table, opens his notebook, and starts drawing.
From then on, Mina calls him Blueberry Boy for exactly one day before he overhears her.
“Blueberry Boy?” he asks, standing at the counter with his card in hand.
Mina drops a spoon.
You close your eyes.
“It’s not official,” you say quickly.
“There are official names?”
“No.”
“Unofficial names?”
“No.”
He looks at Mina.
Mina looks at you.
You sigh. “Sometimes regulars get nicknames.”
He processes this with alarming seriousness.
“What was mine before Blueberry Boy?”
“You don’t want to know.”
His gaze narrows slightly, but not unkindly. “I do.”
You busy yourself with the register. “The usual?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s an order.”
He does not move.
Mina, traitor that she is, whispers, “Peanut Butter Guy.”
Seonghyeon slowly turns back to you.
“Peanut Butter Guy.”
You point at Mina. “She said it, not me.”
“You agreed with it?”
“You order a lot of peanut butter.”
“It’s part of the bowl.”
“It’s part of your identity now.”
He looks down at the card reader, visibly trying to decide whether to be embarrassed or amused. Embarrassment wins first. His ears go pink. Then amusement catches up.
“Peanut Butter Guy is better than Blueberry Boy,” he says quietly.
You laugh.
He taps his card once the light turns green.
“Consistent,” he adds.
“Predictable,” you correct.
He looks at you as he picks up his receipt.
For once, he smiles before turning away.
The routine becomes dangerous because it feels harmless.
Seonghyeon comes in. You make his bowl. Sometimes he sits. Sometimes he tells you about his internship in fragments while you clean the counter or refill toppings. His supervisor changes plans too late. A model breaks in transit. Someone asks for a design to feel “modern but nostalgic,” which makes Seonghyeon stare at the wall for ten full seconds when he tells you about it.
You tell him about college in return. About readings that seem designed to punish eyesight. About professors who use simple words only when more complicated ones are unavailable. About group projects where the group part is theoretical. You complain while slicing bananas; he listens with his chin propped against one hand, looking calm enough to be soothing and attentive enough to be dangerous.
He is not smooth. That becomes increasingly obvious.
He does not flirt in the obvious way. He does not lean over the counter and deliver lines. He does not compliment you with easy confidence. Instead, he notices things.
One evening, when the shop is empty and you are hunched over a textbook behind the register, he steps inside and pauses.
“You’re on the same page,” he says.
You look up. “Hello to you too.”
“Hello. You’re on the same page.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You were on that page when I walked past earlier.”
You slowly lower your pen. “You walked past earlier?”
He goes still.
You raise an eyebrow.
His ears turn red so fast you nearly smile.
“I was checking if it was busy,” he says.
“Through my textbook?”
“No.”
“Interesting.”
“You’re distracting the point.”
“And the point is?”
“You’re tired.”
You close the book with one finger still marking your place. “That is not news.”
“You should eat.”
“You sound like my mother.”
“Is she right?”
“Unfortunately, often.”
He places something on the counter.
A wrapped cookie.
You look at it, then at him.
“What is that?”
“Food.”
“Wow. Thank you for clarifying.”
“You always get coffee during your break, but today you didn’t.”
You stare at him.
The shop feels suddenly warmer than it was a second ago.
“You noticed that?”
His gaze drops to the cookie. “It was obvious.”
“It was not obvious.”
“You usually get an iced vanilla latte. Extra shot. Less ice.” here i am writing this when i dont even drink coffee 💔
You blink.
For a moment, you do not know what to do with your hands. You pick up the cookie only because it gives you something to hold.
“You remember my coffee order?”
“You remember my bowl.”
“That’s my job.”
“You’re not working at the café.”
You open your mouth, then close it.
He looks faintly pleased with himself.
You hate that it is cute.
“You’re very annoying,” you say.
“That’s not a refusal.”
“You didn’t ask anything.”
“I said you should eat.”
“That’s also not a question.”
He tilts his head slightly. “Are you going to eat it?”
You glance at the cookie.
It is your favorite kind.
That is upsetting.
“I might,” you say.
“Good.”
“You’re bossy.”
“I’m practical.”
“Same problem, different font.”
He looks confused for half a second, then smiles when he understands.
You eat the cookie on your break.
It tastes like being known, which is a stupid thing for a cookie to taste like.
Another afternoon, you discover the notebook is not only for architecture.
It happens by accident. The shop is quiet. Seonghyeon is sitting by the window, one elbow on the table, pencil moving across a page. You assume he is sketching floor plans again until he turns the notebook a little too quickly and you catch a glimpse of words written between lines. Not measurements. Not labels. Something closer to lyrics, broken into fragments, with arrows and crossed-out phrases.
You set a fresh stack of napkins near his table and try not to look curious.
You fail.
“Are those lyrics?”
Seonghyeon freezes.
His pencil stops mid-word.
“No.”
You stare at him.
He closes the notebook halfway.
“That was the least convincing answer you’ve ever given me.”
“They’re notes.”
“Musical notes?”
His ears turn pink. “Some of them.”
“You write music?”
He looks down at the notebook like it has betrayed him. “Sometimes.”
“That’s cool.”
“It’s not…”
He stops, as if searching for the right word and finding none.
You lean lightly against the chair opposite him. “Not what?”
“Finished.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
His fingers tap once against the notebook cover. “It’s just structure. Sounds. Words. I don’t know.”
“Emotional architecture,” you say.
He looks pained immediately.
“Please don’t call it that.”
You laugh softly.
He looks up at you then, embarrassed but not upset. There is something almost shy in his expression, something younger than his usual calm.
“I won’t,” you promise.
“Good.”
“Out loud.”
His eyes narrow.
You smile sweetly and return to the counter before he can respond.
After that, the small acts multiply.
You add extra strawberries when he comes in looking especially drained. The first time, he notices immediately.
“I didn’t pay for extra,” he says, holding the bowl near the pickup counter.
You snap the lid into place. “I know.”
“Why?”
“You looked like an extra strawberry day.”
He looks down at the bowl, brows slightly drawn.
“That’s not a real thing.”
“It is here.”
He does not answer. For a moment, he only looks at the strawberries through the lid. His expression is too quiet for teasing.
Then he says, “Thank you.”
Softly.
No awkwardness. No correction.
Just thank you.
You look away first.
Later, he starts helping when he comes in near closing. The first time, you tell him he does not have to stack chairs. He says, “I know,” and stacks them anyway. When you tell him customers are not supposed to take out trash, he says, “Then I’m not a customer right now,” and immediately looks like he wants to disappear because that sounded too meaningful.
You pretend not to notice.
You both pretend not to notice a lot of things.
That is how you get into trouble.
Because somewhere between banana, strawberries, peanut butter, granola, failed blueberry experiments, extra strawberries, music notes, and quiet closing shifts, Seonghyeon stops feeling like a customer and starts feeling like a part of your day you wait for.
You do not admit this.
Not to Mina, who would be unbearable.
Not to yourself, because that would be worse.
And definitely not to Seonghyeon, because there is still a counter between you. A register. An apron. A role you know how to play.
He is a regular.
You are the girl who makes his usual.
That should be enough.
Then you get the internship.
The email arrives during your break between classes. You are sitting on a bench outside the library, balancing your phone in one hand and a half-finished sandwich in the other, when the notification appears.
Internship Application Update.
Your heart jolts so hard you almost drop the sandwich.
You open the email.
You read it once.
Then again.
Accepted.
For a second, all you can do is stare at the screen while students pass in front of you, laughing and talking and dragging tote bags full of books. The world keeps moving like nothing has changed, even though something has.
A paid internship at a small publishing office near campus.
Part-time.
Related to your major.
Better hours.
Experience that actually connects to what you want to do after college.
You got it.
You should be thrilled.
You are thrilled.
Then, almost immediately, you think of the shop.
Then Mina.
Then your manager.
Then Seonghyeon.
You hate that his name arrives so quickly.
You tell your manager the next day. She is kind and practical, which makes it worse somehow. Mina screams, hugs you, calls you a traitor, then says she is proud of you while threatening to steal all your shifts before you leave. Your coworkers congratulate you. Everyone acts like leaving a part-time job for a better opportunity is normal, because it is.
Only Seonghyeon does not know.
You plan to tell him.
You really do.
The first chance comes that Thursday, when he walks in at his usual time, shaking rain from the shoulders of his jacket. You are restocking granola. The bell rings. You look up. His eyes meet yours, and the words rise in your throat.
I’m quitting soon.
Instead, you say, “The usual?”
He nods, pushing damp hair off his forehead. “The usual.”
You make the bowl.
You say nothing.
The second chance comes when he stays until closing and helps wipe tables. You stand beside him with a spray bottle in one hand, watching him carefully align the chairs after putting them down.
“You don’t have to make them perfect,” you say.
He nudges one chair leg with his shoe. “It was crooked.”
“It’s a chair, not a moral issue.”
“Crooked things become noticeable.”
“Only to you.”
He glances at you. “You notice too.”
You open your mouth.
The words are there.
I won’t be here after next week.
But he looks tired, and the shop is quiet, and you are afraid of making the moment strange.
So you spray the next table and say, “I notice because you keep pointing them out.”
He smiles faintly.
You say nothing.
The third chance comes three days before your last shift.
He knows something is wrong before you tell him, because of course he does.
“You’re quiet,” he says.
You are slicing bananas, knife moving carefully through soft yellow fruit. The shop is empty except for the two of you, afternoon light falling across the counter in pale strips. Outside, traffic moves slowly past the window, but in here, everything feels too still.
“I’m always quiet.”
“No,” he says.
You glance up. “No?”
“You talk more when you’re avoiding silence.”
“That is a very specific accusation.”
“It’s an observation.”
“You and your observations.”
He looks down at the counter, then back at you. “Am I wrong?”
You place the banana slices into his bowl one by one, arranging them with more care than necessary.
“No,” you admit.
He waits.
That is one of the worst things about him. He does not force you to speak. He simply leaves space, and sometimes that is harder to resist than pressure.
You take the peanut butter bottle and drizzle it over the fruit, watching the thin line fold over banana and strawberry.
The words sit right behind your teeth.
I got an internship.
I’m leaving.
Friday is my last shift.
You have three days left to come in and order your usual from me, and I don’t know why that feels like something I should apologize for.
But when you look up, Seonghyeon is watching your hands instead of your face, his expression calm and tired and open in that quiet way he gets when he is not trying to protect himself. His laptop bag rests against his hip. One sleeve has slipped down his wrist. There is a faint smudge of pencil near his thumb.
Suddenly, telling him feels too personal.
Too heavy for a Tuesday afternoon.
Too much like admitting that somewhere between banana, strawberries, peanut butter, and granola, he became someone you would have to say goodbye to properly.
So you reach for the granola instead.
“Maybe I’m just tired,” you say.
He does not answer right away.
The granola rattles softly as you sprinkle it over the bowl.
You can feel him looking at you now.
“You’re lying,” he says.
Your hand stills.
He says it gently. Not accusing. Not sharp.
That makes it worse.
You snap the lid onto the bowl and press around the edges until it clicks into place. “That’s a very serious thing to say to someone holding your food.”
“It’s an observation.”
“You need new material.”
“I’m usually right.”
“You’re usually annoying.”
His mouth moves like he almost smiles, but it does not quite happen.
You slide the bowl toward him. “Your usual.”
His hand rests beside it, but he does not pick it up immediately.
For a second, you think he might push again. Ask what you are lying about. Make you say the thing you have been avoiding for days.
Instead, his gaze drops to the clear lid.
“You added extra strawberries, again?” he says.
You look down too.
You had not meant to. Or maybe you had. The strawberries sit bright and red against the açaí, tucked neatly beside the banana slices, more than his usual portion.
You try to smile. “You looked like an extra strawberry day.”
“That’s not a real thing.”
“It is here.”
Usually, he would argue. Usually, he would tilt his head and say something strange about inconsistent serving standards or experimental fruit distribution.
This time, he only looks at the bowl.
His fingers curl lightly against the counter.
“You did too,” he says softly.
What on earth does that mean.
You look away first, reaching for the cloth beside the register even though the counter is already clean. You wipe at nothing, because if your hands are moving, maybe the rest of you can stay together.
“I’m fine,” you say.
“You say that when you’re not.”
“You haven’t known me long enough to make that call.”
“I know patterns.”
You let out a laugh, but it sounds thinner than you want it to. “Of course you do.”
The silence that follows is not uncomfortable exactly. It is worse than that. It is familiar.
You hate yourself a little for how much you want to tell him.
You hate yourself more for not doing it.
His phone buzzes once in his pocket. He ignores it at first, still watching you with that quiet, steady attention that always makes you feel too visible.
Then it buzzes again.
He pulls it out, glances at the screen, and his shoulders shift almost imperceptibly. Work, probably. His supervisor. Another deadline. Another problem shaped like someone else’s poor planning.
“You have to go,” you say.
His eyes lift from the phone. “I didn’t say that.”
“You looked like it.”
“That’s an observation?”
“Unfortunately, I learned from the worst.”
This time, he does smile. Small and tired, but real.
You wish he had not.
It makes everything harder.
He slips his phone back into his pocket and finally picks up the bowl. The paper bag crinkles softly as he settles it in his hand.
“Thank you,” he says.
“You’re welcome.”
He hesitates.
You can see the question still there. Not fully formed, maybe, but present in the way he does not turn toward the door right away.
What are you not telling me?
You almost answer it.
Your fingers tighten around the cloth.
Then the freezer hums too loudly behind you, and a car horn blares outside, and the moment breaks just enough for your fear to get back in.
“Don’t let the strawberries ruin your ratio,” you say.
The joke comes out weak.
He looks at you for a second longer.
“They won’t,” he says.
His voice is quiet. Careful.
Then he turns toward the door.
The bell rings when he leaves, bright and cheerful and completely unaware that your chest feels too tight.
You stand behind the counter with the cloth still in your hand, watching him pass the window. He does not look back, and you are grateful for it.
You are also disappointed.
Both feelings sit together, heavy and embarrassing.
Mina appears from the back a moment later, carrying a box of paper cups against her hip.
“He didn’t stay?” she asks.
You fold the cloth slowly.
“No.”
She looks from the door to you, then back again. Her expression softens in a way that makes you want to run directly into the freezer.
“You still didn’t tell him?”
You stack the cloth beside the sink. “No.”
“Why not?”
You keep your eyes on the counter.
Because he is a customer.
Because he is not just a customer.
Because saying goodbye to him feels like admitting I was waiting for him.
Because I don’t know what I’m allowed to want from someone who only knows me from behind a register.
Instead, you shrug.
“It felt weird.”
Mina is quiet for once.
That is how you know it is bad.
Finally, she sets the paper cups down and says, gently, “It’s going to feel weirder if he finds out after you’re gone.”
You stare at the door long after Seonghyeon has disappeared from view.
“I know,” you say.
And still, you do not tell him.
He does not come in on your last shift.
Mina tries to make your last shift fun. She brings cheap cupcakes and writes GOOD LUCK TRAITOR on the paper bag. Your manager buys drinks from the expensive café next door. A regular yoga lady gives you a hug that smells like lavender and protein powder. Your coworkers make you take photos behind the counter, and you smile in all of them because you are happy.
You are.
This is good.
This is what you wanted.
Still, every time the bell rings, you look up.
Every time it is not him, something in you sinks.
By 8:57, the shop is empty.
You wipe the counter slowly. The same counter where he first tapped his card too soon. The same counter where he apologized awkwardly. The same counter where he argued about blueberries and ratios and consistency. The same counter where you told him too late.
Mina watches you from the register.
“He might still come,” she says gently.
You force a shrug. “It’s Friday.”
“Yeah.”
“He doesn’t usually come Fridays.”
“Yeah.”
You fold the cloth. “It’s fine.”
Mina’s expression says she does not believe you.
You clock out.
You leave your apron folded beneath the counter.
And just like that, you no longer work at the açaí shop.
For two days, you hear nothing.
Not from him.
Which makes sense, because you never exchanged numbers.
That fact becomes newly humiliating.
Your internship starts on Monday. It is everything you hoped for and more intimidating than you expected. The office is small but busy, filled with stacked manuscripts, crowded bookshelves, half-empty mugs, and people who speak about deadlines with the weary intimacy of soldiers discussing weather. You are shown how to organize submissions, how to track edits, how to format documents, and which printer to avoid because it jams “when it senses fear.”
You are happy.
You are also distracted.
On Wednesday, Mina texts you.
Mina: he came in
You stare at the message in the hallway outside your lecture.
You know immediately.
You: who?
Mina: don’t insult me Mina: peanut butter guy Mina: seonghyeon Mina: architecture sad boy Mina: the man you abandoned for professional development
Your stomach tightens.
You: what happened?
Mina: he asked if you were working Mina: i said you quit Mina: he got really quiet
You lean back against the wall, phone held too tightly in your hand.
You: what did he say?
Mina: he said “oh” Mina: then he ordered the usual Mina: but he didnt eat here
You close your eyes.
Oh again.
That stupid, small word.
You: did he seem mad?
Mina: no Mina: worse Mina: polite
You almost laugh, but your throat feels too tight.
Mina: also he asked where your internship was Mina: i did not tell him Mina: because i am loyal and also afraid of legal consequences Mina: but i did say it was near campus
You stare at the messages for a long moment.
The bell for your lecture rings somewhere down the hall. Students begin moving around you. You do not move.
You feel embarrassed in a way that is hard to explain. Embarrassed that he went back and found you gone. Embarrassed that you care. Embarrassed that you made him feel like he misread something when maybe he had been reading you correctly all along.
You avoid the old shop after that.
Not dramatically. You simply take longer routes. You buy coffee from different places. You do not pass the window where the table near the glass still probably sits empty at 4:17 p.m.
It is cowardly.
You know that.
Knowing does not stop you.
A week passes before you see him again.
It happens outside the architecture building on campus, because the universe has a sense of humor and apparently likes watching you suffer in public.
You are crossing the courtyard with a folder pressed to your chest and your tote bag slipping off one shoulder when you see him near the steps. He is standing with a rolled tube under one arm and his phone pressed to his ear. His hair is wind-tossed, his coat open, his expression calm but tired in that familiar way that makes your chest ache before your brain can prepare.
You stop walking.
He turns slightly.
His eyes meet yours.
Everything inside you panics.
You do the worst possible thing.
You turn around and walk the other way.
Fast.
Not running. Technically. But with enough purpose that a stranger might assume you have just remembered a very urgent crime.
You make it about twelve steps before your phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
You stop.
You look back across the courtyard.
Seonghyeon is still near the steps, phone now lowered slightly from his ear, looking directly at you.
Your phone buzzes again.
You answer, mostly because your body has chosen chaos.
“Hello?”
A pause.
Then his voice, quiet and familiar:
“You walk fast.”
You close your eyes.
“I’m going to kill Mina.”
“She said you might.”
“So she had time to prepare.”
“She also said not to let you run away.”
“I was not running.”
“You changed direction very quickly.”
“That’s different.”
“It looked like running.”
You turn around fully now. He is still across the courtyard, phone at his ear, watching you with an expression that is difficult to read from this distance. Calm, yes. But not unaffected.
“I thought you were on the phone with someone else,” you say.
“I was.”
“And you hung up?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The line goes quiet for a second.
Then he says, “Because you were leaving again.”
The words are soft.
Not accusing.
That makes them worse.
You look down at the ground, at the cracks between the paving stones.
“I’m sorry,” you say.
“For quitting?”
“No.” You swallow. “For how I did it.”
He does not answer immediately. You hear the faint sound of wind through the phone, even though he is close enough that you can see it ruffle his hair.
“You didn’t have to tell me,” he says.
You laugh once, small and embarrassed. “That’s what I kept telling myself.”
Across the courtyard, his gaze stays on you.
“It didn’t feel true?” he asks.
You look up.
He is too far away for this conversation and somehow too close.
“No,” you admit. “It felt like an excuse.”
Something in his posture shifts. The tube under his arm dips slightly before he adjusts it.
“I thought I misread it,” he says.
Your fingers tighten around the phone.
“Misread what?”
He looks away first. Toward the building, toward the steps, toward anywhere that is not you.
Then, quietly, he says, “You.”
Oh.
You stand there with your heart beating too hard, surrounded by students who have no idea that the courtyard has just tilted.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” you say.
“I know.”
“You always say that.”
“I usually do know.”
Despite yourself, you huff a laugh.
His eyes return to you, and even from a distance, you can see the faint change in his expression when he hears it.
“I didn’t know how to say goodbye,” you admit.
“Why did it have to be goodbye?”
That stops you.
You do not have an answer.
Because it did not have to be goodbye. You made it one because it was easier to hide behind the counter until there was no counter left.
“I don’t know,” you say honestly.
Someone calls his name from the entrance of the architecture building. Seonghyeon turns his head. A man near the doors lifts a hand impatiently, gesturing toward the rolled tube under Seonghyeon’s arm.
He looks back at you.
“I have to go.”
“Right,” you say. “Of course.”
He hesitates.
“Don’t disappear,” he says.
Your chest tightens.
“I won’t.”
“You answered too fast.”
“Because I mean it.”
He studies you for a moment.
Then he nods once. “Okay.”
The call ends.
You stay in the courtyard after he disappears inside, phone still warm in your hand, feeling like you have just stepped out from behind something and do not know what to do with all the open air.
After that, he texts.
Not constantly. Not smoothly. Seonghyeon’s texting style is strange in a way that becomes immediately charming and deeply unfair.
Seonghyeon: is it okay that i got ur number from mina?
You stare at that message longer than necessary.
You: yeah. its okay
Seonghyeon: good.
A minute later:
Seonghyeon: blueberries are still bad
You smile so hard it hurts.
You: did you try them again?
Seonghyeon: no
You: then why are you updating me?
Seonghyeon: saw them
You: traumatic.
Seonghyeon: yes.
The routine returns in a new shape.
No counter. No register. No apron.
Just messages slipped between classes and work. Short calls after long days. Pictures of badly designed chairs from him and pictures of overpriced coffee from you. He sends you a photo of a stairwell with the message: why is the railing like that.
You send back a photo of a sandwich from your internship office vending machine and write: why is lunch like that.
He replies: bad structure.
You reply: its a sandwich?
He says: still.
He reminds you to eat before evening lectures. You remind him that cooking instant noodles on maximum heat is how people end up with smoke damage and regret. He tells you about his supervisor. You tell him about your internship. He listens when you talk about editing like it matters. You listen when he explains building layouts with a quiet focus that makes even measurements sound personal.
He still does not ask you out.
You still do not ask him.
It becomes absurd.
Mina says so several times.
“You two are emotionally dating without scheduling the activity,” she tells you one evening over the phone.
You are lying on your bed with your laptop open beside you, half an essay untouched on the screen.
“We are not emotionally dating.”
“Does he text you good luck before presentations?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know your coffee order?”
“Yes.”
“Did he once bring you a cookie because he noticed you were tired?”
“That was when I worked at the shop.”
“So your love language has a prequel.”
“Mina.”
“You’re both cowards.”
You groan and cover your face with your hand.
She is right.
That is the worst part.
A few days later, after a particularly long shift at your internship and an even longer lecture, Seonghyeon calls while you are walking home. You answer with your scarf pulled up to your chin, one hand wrapped around your phone, the other holding a paper bag from a convenience store.
“Did you eat?” he asks.
“No hello?”
“Hello. Did you eat?”
You smile into the cold air. “You’re predictable.”
“Consistent.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Did you?”
“I bought something.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You ask a lot of questions for someone who avoids emotional clarity.”
There is a pause.
Then he says, “Come by tomorrow.”
You slow down near the crosswalk.
“What?”
“My workplace. There’s a café downstairs.”
“Why?”
“You said the food near your internship is bad.”
“I said the vending machine sandwich looked haunted.”
“It did.”
“You saw one blurry photo.”
“It had bad structure.”
“It was a sandwich.”
“Still.”
The crosswalk light turns green. You start walking again, suddenly too aware of your own heartbeat.
“So you’re inviting me to lunch?” you ask.
“I’m saying the café has better food.”
“That sounds like lunch.”
“It is food at lunchtime.”
“Seonghyeon.”
“What?”
“Are you inviting me to lunch?”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
You can picture him wherever he is — probably at his desk, phone in one hand, pencil in the other, expression calm while his ears turn pink.
“Yes,” he says finally.
The single word is quiet but steady.
Your stomach flips.
“Oh.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I know.”
“Are you coming?”
You bite back a smile. “You’re very direct when you want to be.”
“I’m trying.”
The softness of that nearly ruins you.
“Okay,” you say. “I’ll come by.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Don’t run away.”
“I did not run.”
“You changed direction aggressively.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“You’re not.”
You don’t.
The next day, you spend an embarrassing amount of time getting ready for something that may or may not be lunch and may or may not be something else.
You tell yourself it is not a date.
Then you change your shirt.
You tell yourself again.
Then you fix your hair.
You tell yourself a third time while choosing shoes, which is how you know you have lost the argument with yourself.
By the time you reach Seonghyeon’s workplace, your nerves have sharpened into annoyance, which is easier to carry. The building is taller than you expected, all glass and steel and clean lines. The lobby smells like coffee, cold air, and money. People in coats and office badges move with purpose around you, and you stand near the café entrance feeling like the only person who has not been issued instructions.
You text him.
You: im here
His reply comes almost immediately.
Seonghyeon: lobby?
You: near the café
Seonghyeon: dont leave.
You stare at the message.
You: wasnt going to.
Seonghyeon: you have before
You are still glaring at your phone when you hear your name.
You look up.
Seonghyeon is walking toward you.
For a second, your thoughts go inconveniently blank.
You have seen him in the shop dozens of times. Tired, damp from rain, awkwardly defending peanut butter ratios, sitting near the window with his notebook open. But seeing him here, in his own environment, changes something.
His shirt is neatly tucked, sleeves rolled to his forearms, ID badge clipped near his waist. His hair is still slightly messy, but in a way that looks less defeated and more like he gave up on perfection by choice. He looks calm. Soft-spoken. Nervous, if you know where to look.
And you do.
His fingers adjust the strap of his bag once.
Then again.
You recover by being annoyed.
“Your building is intimidating,” you say when he reaches you.
His mouth curves faintly. “Hello.”
“It smells expensive.”
“That’s the lobby.”
“Do they charge rent per breath?”
“Probably.”
You glance past him at the café. “This place better have good food.”
“It does.”
“Did you research it?”
“I work here.”
“That doesn’t mean you’ve eaten here.”
“I looked at reviews.”
You stare at him. “For lunch?”
“Yes.”
“With me?”
His ears turn pink.
There it is.
You feel your confidence return all at once, warm and terrible.
“You looked at reviews,” you repeat.
“It seemed practical.”
“Very practical.”
“You said the sandwich was haunted.”
“You were saving me from ghost food.”
“Yes.”
“Heroic.”
He looks down, but he is smiling now. Small, reluctant, adorable in a way that makes you want to forgive him for every awkward silence he has ever caused.
Then he looks back up.
His gaze flickers over your face carefully, as if he is trying to read whether you are teasing because you are uncomfortable or teasing because you are happy.
You soften without meaning to.
“I’m glad you asked,” you say.
His expression stills.
The noise of the lobby seems to move farther away.
He shifts his bag on his shoulder, fingers curling once around the strap.
“You are?”
“Yeah.”
He nods slowly, like he is taking that in and filing it somewhere important.
Then, after a beat, he steps slightly to the side and gestures toward the café entrance.
“So,” he says, voice quiet, calm, and just awkward enough to make your heart stumble, “is this a date?”
YOUR LETTER HAS BEEN DELIVERED !
now replying...
i am struggling rn chat BUT ITS OKAY ILL JUST ABUSE THE WRITERS BLOCK OUT OF ME on that note tho i am not ready to create a whole timeline of events for the 6th member series and im lowk cooked
hihi so glad ur back!!! lovelove your 6th member series its amazing I hope there'll be more updates!!
YOUR LETTER HAS BEEN DELIVERED !
now replying...
aww tysm!! glad to be back 🥹🫶 ill do my best to update more often now!
PRE-DEBUT ARCHIVE : EXTRAS
Synopsis. Moving into a dorm with five boys is exactly as awkward as you expected, except somehow worse. Between tense practices, ruined laundry, stolen snacks, and a smoke alarm incident no one will ever let Seonghyeon forget, you slowly begin to realize that maybe this lineup is not as impossible as it first seemed.
Word Count. 7k
Notes. hi everyone is forced to hate cucumbers now because i said so /j i feel like you can kinda tell i wrote the first part a few months back... its kinda awkward because i havent written in a while sorry guys 🥹 ill try to lock in again 😭
6TH MEMBER MASTERLIST.
𝓦𝗛𝗘𝗡 𝓣𝗛𝗘 𝓒𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗧 is slid across the table, you sign.
Of course, you do.
Because however strange this is, however controversial it might become, debut is standing in front of you again — warped, unfamiliar, but real. And you refuse to let it slip through your fingers twice.
And contrary to the looks on their faces, all of them ended up signing too.
You can tell none of them expected this either — and yet, just like you, they are unwilling to give up the chance that’s been placed in front of them.
You knew it was going to be strange.
That much was obvious.
But did they really expect you to move into a dorm with five boys you barely knew?
Talent or not, reputation or not — none of that guarantees safety. The staff reassure you, of course. Cameras. Rules. Curfews. Supervision.
They promise it will be fine.
And maybe it is.
But honesty doesn’t always come with reassurance.
Moving in is unbearably awkward.
That is the only way to describe it.
The air tenses every time you enter a shared space — the kitchen, the living room, even the hallway. Conversations falter. Someone suddenly remembers something they left in another room. Someone else pretends to check their phone. You become painfully aware of the way your presence shifts the room without anyone meaning for it to.
As bad as it is, at least some of them try.
Martin seems to accept the situation sooner than the rest. He isn’t overly warm — but he isn’t frozen either. He speaks when necessary. Sometimes when it isn’t. You don’t talk often, but when you do, it feels… manageable. Better than silence, at least.
Right?
James, too, isn’t openly unkind. Being the oldest, he carries himself with a little more ease, a little more maturity. He tries to include you — asks if you’ve eaten, offers food when they order in, waits an extra moment before closing doors. It’s awkward most of the time, but it’s well-intentioned. And you’re grateful for that more than you admit.
Keonho doesn’t seem to mind you either — in fact, he’s probably the one who’s spoken to you the most out of all of them. It’s nothing deep, nothing dramatic. Just small comments here and there. A quiet question about practice. A brief explanation about where something’s kept. An awkward acknowledgment when your paths cross.
Juhoon acts like he doesn’t care at all.
Which, somehow, bothers you more than open discomfort would. You try not to let it get to you, but when he walks past you in a room without even a greeting, when your presence registers as nothing worth acknowledging, it sinks lower than you expect it to.
And that isn’t even the worst of it.
Seonghyeon.
You understand this situation isn’t ideal. You really do. But acting like you don’t exist — or worse, like you’re an inconvenience that should have never entered this space — isn’t exactly basic human decency.
Of course, you aren’t innocent either.
You don’t go out of your way to be kind to him. You don’t soften your tone. You don’t force politeness where none seems to be welcome. If he’s going to act like a brat, then you’re not going to exhaust yourself trying to be the bigger person every single time.
The first real problem comes from the bathroom.
Of course it does.
You knew sharing a dorm would be uncomfortable. That much had been obvious from the beginning. What you had not fully considered, however, was the horror of six people trying to get ready around the same schedule with only so much space, patience, and hot water to spare.
By the third morning, you’ve already learned to wake up earlier than necessary. Not because you are especially disciplined — although you’d like to pretend that is the reason — but because you don’t trust any of them yet. Not enough to assume the bathroom will be free. Not enough to assume the shower won’t be occupied for half an hour. Definitely not enough to risk being late because someone decided their hair required emergency attention at six in the morning.
So you drag yourself out of bed before your alarm has fully finished ringing, towel tucked under one arm, eyes still heavy with sleep. The hallway is quiet when you step out, dim and still in a way that makes the dorm feel almost unfamiliar. For one brief, beautiful second, you think you might actually succeed.
The bathroom light is off.
A miracle.
You reach for the handle.
At the exact same time as someone else.
Your fingers brush first, then bump awkwardly against the cold metal. Both of you freeze.
Slowly — dreadfully slowly — you look up.
Keonho is standing there in front of you, hair slightly flattened on one side, hoodie pulled over his sleep shirt, eyes still heavy in a way that makes it very clear he is not awake enough for this. For a second, he only stares at your hand near the handle, then at his own, then finally at you.
His expression shifts.
Not surprise, exactly.
More like recognition mixed with quiet defeat.
“Again?” he says, voice rough with sleep.
You blink. “I was here first.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked like you were going to.”
“I was breathing.”
“You sighed.”
“I’m tired.”
The words come out low, almost whispered, because neither of you wants to wake the rest of the dorm. Somehow, that makes the argument feel even more ridiculous. Both of you are standing barefoot in the hallway before sunrise, fighting over a bathroom neither of you has even managed to open yet.
You pull your towel a little closer against your side. “You can go.”
Keonho shakes his head immediately, too quick for someone who claimed to be tired. “No, you go.”
“You were already here.”
“So were you.”
“I just got here.”
“I also just got here.”
You both pause.
There is no way to prove this.
The hallway settles into a painfully awkward silence. Somewhere farther down the dorm, the floor creaks softly, followed by the muffled sound of someone turning over in bed. Keonho glances toward the noise, then back at you, his ears beginning to turn red.
“This is stupid,” he says under his breath.
You almost agree.
Almost.
Then Martin’s door opens.
He steps out halfway, one hand braced against the doorframe, hair messy enough to suggest he had either just woken up or had not slept properly in the first place. His eyes move from you, to Keonho, to the bathroom door, then back to your hands still hovering awkwardly near the handle.
For a long second, he says nothing.
Then he squints slightly.
“Are you both waiting for permission from the door?”
Keonho closes his eyes.
You lower your hand immediately.
Martin looks between you again, expression unreadable in that flat, half-asleep way of his. “Just make a schedule,” he mutters, already stepping back into his room. “Or fight quieter.”
The door closes before either of you can answer.
The click sounds much louder than it should.
You stare at the door.
Keonho stares at the door too.
Then, very quietly, he exhales a laugh through his nose.
It is small. Barely there. More disbelief than amusement.
But it loosens something.
You look back at him, and for some reason, the sight of him trying so hard not to smile makes the corner of your own mouth twitch. You turn your face away too late.
“Don’t,” you say.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked like you were going to.”
“I was breathing,” he repeats, but this time there is something lighter in his voice.
You shake your head, though the irritation has already started to thin. It does not disappear completely — you are still tired, still awkward, still standing in a hallway with a towel tucked under your arm in front of someone you barely know. But the air between you feels less sharp than it did a minute ago.
Keonho steps back first, rubbing at the side of his neck. “You go. Really.”
You hesitate. “Are you sure?”
He nods toward the bathroom, eyes dropping briefly to the floor before returning to you. “Yeah. I’ll wait.”
There is something careful about the way he says it. Not overly kind. Not dramatic. Just simple enough that it doesn’t feel like pity.
That makes it easier to accept.
“Thanks,” you say quietly.
“No problem.”
You step into the bathroom and close the door behind you, but for a second, you remain still with your hand resting on the handle. Outside, you hear Keonho shift in the hallway, then lean back against the wall with a soft thud. He does not complain. He does not knock. He just waits.
For some reason, that stays with you longer than it should.
Later, when you pass him near the kitchen, he is standing by the counter with toast in one hand and his phone in the other, scrolling with the blank expression of someone whose body is present but whose soul has not yet arrived. He notices you after a second and gives a small nod, awkward but sincere.
You nod back before you can think too hard about it.
The next issue is food.
More specifically, the fridge.
You learn very quickly that James has a system. Not a casual system, not a loose arrangement everyone silently understands, but a real system. Containers stacked by date. Drinks lined up by type. Leftovers arranged with the kind of precision that makes you wonder if he should be leading a group or managing evidence in a criminal investigation. Every container has a label written in his neat handwriting, and every label sounds vaguely like it came from someone trying very hard not to lose his patience.
James — chicken breast — do not touch.
James — vegetables — please eat before they go bad.
fruit — please stop ignoring the apples.
The apples are ignored anyway.
At first, you try to keep your things separate. You buy your own snacks, your own drinks, your own small comforts and tuck them into the corner of the fridge where they won’t bother anyone. You tell yourself it’s practical. Respectful. Easier for everyone. Then one evening, after a schedule that runs longer than expected, you come home exhausted and hungry enough to feel hollow. You open the fridge looking for the yogurt drink you bought the day before.
It’s gone.
For a moment, you just stare at the empty space. Then you check again, moving a container of side dishes aside, as if your drink might have somehow hidden itself out of shame.
It has not.
You close the fridge slowly.
Behind you, Keonho freezes with a spoon halfway to his mouth. The yogurt drink in his other hand is already opened, the straw poking out accusingly from the top. He looks at you. You look at the drink. His face changes immediately.
“Oh,” he says.
You blink once. “Is that mine?”
He lowers the spoon with the cautiousness of someone disarming a bomb. “I thought it was communal.”
“It was in my corner.”
His brows draw together. “There are corners?”
“Yes.”
He glances toward the fridge, genuinely distressed. “No one explained the corner system.”
“It had my name on it.”
Keonho slowly turns the bottle in his hand. Your name is, in fact, written very clearly on the side. For a moment, he simply stares at it. Then he closes his eyes with the quiet devastation of a man accepting his fate.
“I may have failed to observe important evidence.”
From the kitchen table, James lowers his chopsticks and looks between the two of you with the grim disappointment of someone watching society collapse in real time. “This is why we label things,” he says.
“It was labeled,” you reply, still staring at Keonho.
James turns his head slowly toward him.
Keonho bows his head. “I will replace it.”
“You already drank half of it,” you say.
“I will replace one and a half.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitches. Keonho sees it and brightens slightly, which is a mistake, because then you immediately force your expression flat again.
“This is serious.”
“It is,” he says quickly, nodding with far too much sincerity. “Very serious. Yogurt drink theft is no joke.”
Martin, who has been silently eating cereal from a mug because apparently bowls are too traditional, glances up from across the table. “Are we holding a trial?”
“No,” James says immediately.
“Yes,” you say at the same time.
Everyone looks at you.
You shrug, leaning back against the fridge. “He stole my drink.”
“I misunderstood the fridge geography,” Keonho protests, gesturing weakly toward the appliance like it might defend him.
“That’s what criminals say.”
Martin’s mouth curves around his spoon. James sighs like he regrets allowing any of you to live unsupervised. Then Juhoon walks into the kitchen, opens the fridge with no awareness of the trial currently taking place, and pulls out a bottle of water. He pauses only when he realizes everyone has gone quiet.
“What happened?” he asks, twisting the cap open.
“Keonho committed theft,” Martin says.
“Alleged theft,” Keonho corrects quickly.
You raise an eyebrow. “The evidence is in your hand.”
Keonho slowly lowers the yogurt drink.
Juhoon looks at the bottle, then at Keonho. His expression does not change. “You should replace it.”
“I said I would.”
“Then why are we still talking?”
For some reason, that is the funniest possible response. You look away first, pressing your lips together to stop yourself from laughing, but Martin fails before you do. His quiet laugh breaks the tension, and then Keonho starts laughing too, partly from embarrassment and partly from relief.
James eventually stands, grabs a sticky note from the drawer, and writes something with the seriousness of a man drafting new legislation. A minute later, there is a new note on the fridge.
Personal food must be respected. Corners are real now.
Underneath it, Martin adds in smaller handwriting:
Fridge geography matters.
And the next day, after replacing your drink like promised, Keonho adds:
I have learned.
You don’t say anything when you see it.
But you leave the note there.
Practice is harder than the dorm.
The dorm is awkward in ways you can sometimes laugh about, at least afterward, when the embarrassment has faded enough to become a story instead of a wound. Practice is different. Practice leaves no room to pretend this arrangement is only strange because of shared bathrooms, fridge rules, or laundry baskets. Practice makes the problem visible.
One girl.
Five boys.
Six bodies being arranged and rearranged under fluorescent lights while trainers try to make something experimental look inevitable.
The choreography keeps changing. Formations are adjusted, abandoned, then adjusted again. Staff speak carefully around certain issues, which somehow makes them feel even louder. You hear phrases like balance, spacing, image, visual harmony. No one says the obvious part out loud, but you can feel it sitting in the room anyway.
If you stand too far forward, the formation looks strange. If you stand too close, the choreography feels too intimate. If you’re placed in the center, the concept changes. If you’re pushed too far to the side, your presence feels like an afterthought.
No one is satisfied.
Least of all you.
By the fourth hour, everyone’s patience has worn thin in different ways. James keeps asking for clarification in that calm, polite voice that tells you he is holding himself together by force. Martin has gone quiet near the speaker, lips moving faintly as he counts under his breath, eyes fixed on the mirror with the kind of concentration that makes him look distant. Keonho keeps resetting his position too quickly, like if he moves fast enough, the tension won’t have time to catch up to him. Juhoon follows every correction without complaint, but his jaw tightens each time the formation changes again.
And Seonghyeon looks like he has decided the mirror itself is personally responsible for his suffering.
You try not to look at him.
That is easier said than done.
He stands two places away from you, shoulders tense, gaze sharp every time the trainer pauses the music. He doesn’t say anything at first, which almost makes it worse. His irritation sits there quietly, heavy enough for you to feel even when you’re not facing him.
You reset your position.
The music starts.
You move.
For twelve counts, it almost works.
Then the trainer stops the track.
“No,” they say, frowning at the mirror. “Again. The spacing still feels awkward.”
You return to your place without speaking, wiping sweat from your jaw with the back of your hand. James steps back half an inch, checking the line. Martin glances once toward the floor markings, then toward you, like he’s calculating the distance in his head. Keonho shifts closer, then immediately looks unsure and shifts back again.
The trainer sighs.
“Not like that. You’re making it look careful.”
Careful.
You almost laugh.
Of course it looks careful. Everything about this is careful. The distance between you and them. The way staff talk around you. The way the boys hesitate before touching your wrist for partner work, like a single wrong movement might become a rumor before the day ends.
The music starts again.
This time, the move requires you to pass in front of Seonghyeon, close enough that your shoulders almost brush. You know the count. You know the path. Your body understands exactly where it is supposed to go.
Still, you hesitate.
Only half a second.
Barely anything.
But enough.
The trainer stops the music again.
“Again.”
Your face heats.
You return to your mark.
Seonghyeon exhales through his nose beside you. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough.
Your eyes flick toward him in the mirror.
He looks away.
You reset your stance, pressing your tongue against the inside of your cheek until the irritation settles somewhere manageable.
Again.
The track restarts. The same eight counts. The same turn. The same pass in front of him. This time, you don’t hesitate, but Seonghyeon moves a fraction too late, his shoulder angling away from yours like instinct. The spacing breaks again.
The trainer pinches the bridge of their nose.
“Stop making it obvious that you’re avoiding each other.”
The room goes quiet.
No one looks at you directly.
That somehow makes it worse.
James clears his throat softly. “We can run it slower first.”
The trainer nods, tired. “Fine. Half tempo.”
You move back into place. Martin adjusts the track, lowering the speed without saying anything. Keonho looks between you and Seonghyeon, then focuses hard on the mirror like eye contact might make him responsible for fixing the situation. Juhoon rolls his shoulders once, expression unreadable.
Half tempo is worse.
At full speed, mistakes can hide inside momentum. Slowed down, every hesitation becomes visible. Every awkward angle has time to announce itself. You can see the exact moment Seonghyeon prepares to move around you instead of with you.
Your patience thins.
On the next count, your shoulder brushes his.
Barely.
Nothing worth reacting to.
But he still stiffens.
Something in you snaps quietly.
“Are you going to keep doing that?” you ask, turning toward him before the trainer can restart the music.
Seonghyeon looks at you through the mirror first, then directly. “Doing what?”
“Acting like I’m going to burn you if I get too close.”
Keonho’s eyes widen slightly. Martin’s hand stills over the laptop. James says your name under his breath, not sharply, but warning enough.
Seonghyeon’s mouth tightens. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then stop moving like it is.”
His gaze hardens. “Maybe if the choreography made sense, I wouldn’t have to think about where I’m stepping every second.”
There it is.
Not the full thought.
Just the edge of it.
You stare at him. “The choreography doesn’t make sense because everyone keeps acting like I’m a problem to solve.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You didn’t have to.”
The room stills more completely this time. Even the trainer doesn’t speak right away. You can feel James watching you, probably calculating whether stepping in will help or make everything worse. Martin looks down at the laptop, but his shoulders are tense. Keonho has gone very still. Juhoon, quiet as always, is watching Seonghyeon now.
Seonghyeon laughs once under his breath. There is no humor in it. “You think you’re the only one this is hard for?”
Your fingers curl at your sides.
“No,” you say quietly. “But I seem to be the only one everyone is allowed to blame.”
His expression flickers.
Barely.
But you catch it.
Good.
For a moment, he looks less angry than cornered, and that almost makes it worse. Because anger you can fight. Fear is harder. Fear makes people cruel in ways they can convince themselves are practical.
Seonghyeon looks away first, jaw tight. “This would’ve been easier with the original lineup.”
The words land like something dropped in glass.
No one moves.
Keonho’s head snaps toward him. James straightens fully now, the leader in him surfacing before the trainee can hide it. Martin’s eyes lift from the laptop, expression unreadable but suddenly alert. Juhoon’s gaze sharpens.
You hear the sentence once.
Then again.
Then again.
The original lineup.
Your chest tightens.
For one foolish second, you wonder if you heard wrong.
You hope you did.
But Seonghyeon doesn’t look surprised by his own words. He doesn’t look apologetic either. He stands there with sweat dampening the hair near his temples, breathing hard, gaze fixed somewhere past your shoulder like if he doesn’t look directly at you, the damage might count less.
Your voice comes out quieter than you expect.
“The original lineup?”
That seems to bother him more.
His eyes flick toward you. “You know what I mean.”
You laugh once, short and empty. “No. Say it properly.”
James says your name again, softer this time, but you ignore him.
Seonghyeon’s expression hardens because backing down now would mean admitting he went too far. “I’m saying this situation is complicated.”
“No,” you say, taking one step toward him. “You’re saying I’m the complication.”
He doesn’t answer.
Which is answer enough.
Something hot rises in your chest, sharp with anger, shame, and something dangerously close to grief. You think of the meeting room. The papers on the table. The calm voice telling you that you weren’t right for the group anymore. You think of the girl you told not to contact you, the door clicking shut behind her, the mirror you cried against because there was nowhere else to fall apart.
“You think I asked for this?” you ask, and now your voice is shaking, but you refuse to stop. “You think I wanted to be taken out of one lineup and dropped into another like I should just be grateful for whatever was left?”
Seonghyeon’s face shifts.
Not enough.
But enough for you to know he heard you.
“I lost a lineup too,” you continue, the words coming faster now. “I lost people too. I lost a future I thought was already mine. So don’t stand there and act like you’re the only one who had something taken from you.”
The silence after that is awful.
Heavy.
Too honest.
The trainer looks away first, suddenly very interested in the clipboard in their hand. Keonho lowers his gaze to the floor. Martin’s jaw tightens. James takes half a step forward, then stops himself. Juhoon’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes stay on you longer than usual.
Seonghyeon looks away last.
It doesn’t feel like winning.
You wish it did.
Instead, your throat burns like you swallowed something too sharp.
“I need air,” you say, even though no one asked.
You grab your bag from beside the wall, shoving your water bottle into it with more force than necessary. No one stops you. Maybe they don’t know how. Maybe they understand that stopping you would only make it worse.
You leave before anyone can decide whether to follow.
No one does.
You tell yourself that’s better.
It isn’t.
The dorm is quiet when everyone returns.
Too quiet.
Not peaceful. Not calm. Just careful.
It’s the kind of quiet that happens when everyone knows something broke but no one is sure whether touching it will cut them. Doors open and close more softly than usual. The water runs in the kitchen, then stops. Someone sets a bowl down too loudly and immediately mutters an apology, even though no one says anything in response.
You stay in your room.
At first, you sit on the edge of your bed. Then the floor. Then against the wall beside your bed, knees drawn loosely toward your chest, phone resting facedown in your lap. You aren’t crying. Not really. You’re past crying in the immediate sense, past the first hot wave of humiliation. What’s left is worse in its own way — a dull, heavy ache that makes everything feel distant.
You should be used to this by now.
That thought makes you laugh under your breath, except it doesn’t sound like laughter at all.
Outside your door, the dorm keeps moving in fragments. Low voices in the kitchen. The faint scrape of a chair. James saying something too quietly for you to understand. Keonho answering, his voice smaller than usual. Martin’s tone comes after that, calm and brief. Juhoon says almost nothing, or maybe you just don’t hear him.
Seonghyeon’s voice does not appear.
You hate that you notice.
Eventually, there’s a knock at your door.
Three careful taps.
You don’t answer right away. Your gaze stays fixed on the opposite wall, where the light from your desk lamp cuts a pale shape across the floor. The knock doesn’t come again. Instead, James speaks from the other side, his voice low enough that it doesn’t feel like an announcement.
“We ordered food.”
You close your eyes.
“I’m not hungry.”
There’s a pause. You picture him standing there with one hand near the door, probably wearing that expression he gets when he wants to help but knows pushing too hard will only make someone retreat further.
“You don’t have to eat with us,” he says after a moment. “I’ll leave some outside.”
Your throat tightens.
You don’t know why kindness keeps doing that to you. Maybe because it gives you nowhere to put the anger. Maybe because being cared for quietly feels more dangerous than being disliked openly.
A few seconds later, his footsteps fade.
You wait.
Longer than necessary.
Only when the hallway is quiet again do you stand and open the door.
There’s a container on the floor, still warm, with a small juice box placed neatly beside it. Not dramatic. Not sentimental. Just there. You crouch down slowly, reaching for the food, and notice the sticky note attached to the lid.
Eat before it gets cold. You don’t have to come out. — James
Underneath, in Martin’s handwriting, smaller and slightly rushed:
The rice is good today.
Under that, Keonho has written:
Sorry about earlier. I didn’t know what to say.
At the very bottom, in handwriting so neat it almost looks printed:
No cucumbers. — Juhoon
You stare at the note for a long time.
Longer than necessary.
There is nothing from Seonghyeon.
You tell yourself you weren’t looking for it.
You bring the food inside and sit on the floor with your back against the bed. For a while, you only hold the container, letting the warmth seep into your hands through the plastic. Then you open it carefully. Steam rises, soft and familiar, and the smell makes your stomach twist with sudden hunger.
You eat slowly.
It tastes better than you want it to.
The next morning, no one mentions it.
James only asks if you want breakfast while cracking eggs into a pan, his voice carefully casual. Martin is at the table with his notebook open, tapping the end of his pen against the page. Keonho looks up too quickly when you enter, then looks down at his bowl like he’s trying not to make you uncomfortable. Juhoon slides the plate of toast a little closer to the empty seat beside him without looking at you.
You pause in the doorway.
Then sit down.
“Yes,” you say.
James doesn’t smile.
Not fully.
But his shoulders loosen.
Just slightly.
The next disaster involves laundry.
Because of course it does.
You’ve been doing your best to keep your things separate. Separate basket. Separate detergent. Separate drying rack folded carefully against the wall when not in use. The system is simple. Respectful. Safe. And for a few days, it works well enough that you almost let yourself relax.
Then someone ruins it.
You walk into the laundry area after practice and find one of your white shirts sitting in the washer with a pile of dark clothes. Wet. Tragic. Very much no longer white. For a moment, you simply stand there, staring down at it with the quiet horror of someone witnessing a preventable disaster.
Then you lift the shirt with two fingers.
It drips sadly onto the floor.
Behind you, Keonho appears with a snack in one hand, still chewing when he notices you. His eyes drop to the shirt. Then to your face. Then back to the shirt.
His chewing stops.
“Oh,” he says quietly. “That’s bad.”
Your eye twitches. “Who did laundry?”
Keonho looks toward the living room, then back at you with an expression that says he would very much like to be excluded from the situation. Unfortunately for him, he is the only witness.
You walk past him holding the shirt like evidence.
The living room goes quiet the moment you enter.
James is sitting on the couch with a schedule sheet in one hand. Martin is on the floor beside the coffee table, laptop open, one earbud in. Juhoon is leaning against the arm of the couch, scrolling through his phone. Seonghyeon sits near the window, arms crossed, expression unreadable until his eyes land on the shirt.
You hold it up.
“Who did this?”
For a moment, no one speaks.
The shirt drips onto the floor.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Keonho, who has followed you in despite clearly knowing better, stands near the doorway and murmurs, “It used to be white, right?”
You don’t look back. “Keonho.”
“Sorry.”
James lowers the schedule sheet slowly, already slipping into damage-control mode. “Okay. Let’s not panic.”
“I’m not panicking,” you say.
Martin removes his earbud.
James looks at the shirt again. “You’re holding it like it betrayed you.”
“It did.”
Martin presses his lips together, and the expression alone tells you everything.
You turn to him.
His eyes lift to yours, guilt already written clearly across his face. “I think that was me.”
“You think?”
“I put in a load earlier,” he admits, setting the laptop aside and standing. “I didn’t see it. It must’ve gotten mixed in with the darker clothes.”
“It was white.”
“I know.”
“It is now gray.”
“I know,” he repeats, quieter this time.
His guilt is sincere enough that it takes some of the satisfaction out of being angry. That almost annoys you more.
James stands too, reaching for his phone. “We’ll replace it.”
“I’ll pay,” Martin says immediately.
“You should,” Juhoon says without looking up from his phone.
Martin glances at him. “Thank you.”
Juhoon shrugs. “It’s your fault.”
Keonho makes a sound that might have been a laugh if he had been braver. When you turn your head, he immediately raises both hands, snack still pinched between two fingers.
“I’m not laughing.”
“You look like you’re laughing.”
“I’m nervous.”
“You smile when you’re nervous?”
“Sometimes.”
“That explains a lot,” Martin mutters.
Despite yourself, your mouth almost twitches.
Almost.
Then you look back at the shirt, and the humor fades. It’s not really about the shirt. You know that. Everyone probably knows that. It is a plain white shirt, replaceable, forgettable. But your things have been the only part of this dorm that still felt entirely yours, and now even that feels like it can be accidentally swallowed by someone else’s life.
“You can’t just throw everything together,” you say, voice sharper than before. “My things aren’t communal.”
The room stills.
Martin’s expression softens. “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. Really.”
You hate that he sounds like he means it.
Because now there is nowhere useful for your anger to go.
You lower the shirt slowly.
“Fine.”
James nods once, practical again now that the immediate explosion has passed. “We’ll make a separate laundry system. Different baskets. Different days if we need to.”
“You’re going to make a chart, aren’t you?” Keonho asks.
James looks at him.
Keonho lowers his snack. “Right. Sorry.”
From near the window, Seonghyeon shifts for the first time. You expect him to say something sharp, something unnecessary, something that will make the room freeze all over again.
Instead, he glances at the shirt and says, “Cold water might help.”
You look at him.
He looks back, then away, like he regrets speaking.
“It won’t fix it,” he adds, tone flat. “But it might make it less bad.”
The suggestion is not warm. It is not apologetic. It is barely even friendly.
But it is useful.
Somehow, that makes it harder to dismiss.
You glance down at the shirt. “Do you know that from experience?”
A brief pause.
Then Martin says, “He dyed three practice shirts pink once.”
Seonghyeon’s head snaps toward him. “Why would you say that?”
Martin shrugs, expression mild. “Context.”
Keonho’s eyes widen. “Three?”
“It was one mistake,” Seonghyeon says.
“Across three shirts,” Juhoon adds.
James looks like he’s trying very hard not to smile.
You stare at Seonghyeon for one second.
Then two.
Then, despite yourself, you laugh.
It’s small. More breath than sound. But it’s real enough for the room to notice.
Seonghyeon looks away immediately, jaw tight, but not before you catch the faintest shift at the corner of his mouth.
Not a smile.
Not really.
But close enough.
The next morning, there is a new laundry basket outside your door. Plain white. Empty. A note is taped to the handle in Martin’s handwriting.
For your clothes only. I will not touch it. Ever.
Underneath, James has added:
New laundry rules tonight. Attendance mandatory.
And at the bottom, in smaller handwriting you recognize after a moment:
Cold water first. Then detergent. — S
Oh. You stare at the note for a while before taking the basket inside.
You’re still annoyed.
But less than before.
Things do not get better all at once.
That would be too easy.
The dorm remains awkward. Painfully so, sometimes. There are still moments when conversations stumble as soon as you enter a room. Still moments when staff discuss logistics around you like your existence is a problem with too many forms attached. Still moments when Seonghyeon’s silence feels less like peace and more like something unfinished.
But there are other moments now too.
Small ones.
Unplanned ones.
The kind that slip in quietly and make a place feel less impossible.
Like the night the smoke alarm goes off because Seonghyeon tries to cook.
That alone should have been the warning.
You don’t know what wakes you first — the sharp, repetitive scream of the alarm or the sudden sound of several doors opening at once. For one disoriented second, you sit upright in bed with your heart climbing into your throat, convinced something terrible has happened. Then you hear Keonho shout, “Is that the smoke alarm?” followed immediately by Martin’s much flatter, “No, it’s celebrating.”
You stumble into the hallway still half-asleep, hair messy, hoodie pulled unevenly over one shoulder. James is already there, moving toward the kitchen with the kind of controlled urgency that makes him look more awake than anyone has the right to be at this hour. Martin appears behind him with headphones still around his neck, blinking like he’s been dragged unwillingly back into the physical world. Juhoon steps out slowly, eyes narrowed at the ceiling with deep personal offense, and Keonho emerges last holding his phone in one hand and a random slipper in the other.
You stare at the slipper.
Keonho looks down at it too.
Then he quietly lowers it.
No one comments.
The kitchen is filled with smoke.
Not enough to be dangerous, probably. But enough to make everyone stop at the entrance with the same silent question written across their faces.
What happened here?
And in the middle of it all stands Seonghyeon.
He is holding a pan.
The pan is smoking.
So is whatever is inside it.
For a moment, nobody speaks. Seonghyeon looks at all of you, then down at the pan, then back again. His expression is stiff in a way that suggests he has already decided to blame the pan, the stove, the lighting, and possibly society before accepting responsibility.
James reaches the stove first and turns it off. “What were you making?”
Seonghyeon’s jaw tightens. “Food.”
Martin leans slightly to see into the pan, then straightens almost immediately. “That’s optimistic.”
Keonho coughs into his sleeve, waving one hand in front of his face. “Was it supposed to be black?”
Seonghyeon looks at him.
Keonho takes a careful step behind James.
Juhoon opens the nearest window without saying anything, then turns back toward the pan with the blank intensity of someone observing a crime scene. “It smells like plastic.”
“It is not plastic,” Seonghyeon says.
“What is it?”
A pause.
“Eggs.”
The silence that follows is immediate and devastating.
You look at the pan.
Then at Seonghyeon.
Then back at the pan.
Those were eggs?
You don’t mean to say it out loud.
Unfortunately, your face says it for you.
Seonghyeon notices. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything,” you reply, pressing your lips together.
“You looked.”
“I have eyes.”
Martin makes a quiet sound that could be a cough if everyone involved agrees to be kind about it. James takes the pan from Seonghyeon with the calm patience of someone confiscating dangerous evidence.
“How did this happen?” James asks.
“I followed the instructions.”
“There are instructions for eggs?” Keonho asks, then immediately regrets it when Seonghyeon turns toward him again.
Martin, who has moved closer to the counter, picks up an empty instant rice container and slowly turns it around in his hand. His brows lift. “Did you put this in the pan too?”
Seonghyeon snatches it from him. “No.”
“You’re holding it like evidence.”
“I’m throwing it away.”
“You weren’t near the trash.”
“I was going to be.”
Juhoon, still standing by the open window, says calmly, “The rice was already cooked.”
Seonghyeon closes his eyes for a second.
You finally lose the fight with yourself.
A laugh slips out.
Small at first. More breath than sound. But once it escapes, it becomes impossible to take back. Your hand lifts toward your mouth too late to hide it, shoulders shaking slightly as the absurdity of it all settles in — Seonghyeon standing there defensive over murdered eggs, Keonho clutching a slipper like emergency equipment, Martin holding back commentary by force, James trying to save both the kitchen and everyone’s dignity, Juhoon looking like he is seconds away from filing a report.
Everyone looks at you.
For one awful second, you tense.
Then Keonho starts laughing too.
Not loudly at first, like he’s checking whether it’s allowed, but enough that Martin’s mouth curves before he looks away. Even James exhales through his nose, still holding the smoking pan at arm’s length. Juhoon’s expression barely changes, but you see the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Seonghyeon does not laugh.
Of course he doesn’t.
But his ears go red.
That somehow makes it worse.
“You’re all dramatic,” he mutters, reaching for the towel near the sink.
“The alarm went off,” James says.
“That’s dramatic,” Martin adds.
Keonho points weakly at the pan. “The eggs are also dramatic.”
“They’re dead,” Juhoon says.
The room goes silent for half a second.
Then you laugh again.
This time, you don’t stop yourself as quickly.
Seonghyeon looks at you, annoyed, but there is less bite in it than usual. Maybe because he has no ground to stand on. Maybe because it is hard to be intimidating when you have nearly lost a fight to breakfast food.
James eventually declares the eggs unsalvageable. No one argues. The windows stay open, the pan is left to soak in the sink, and after several minutes of standing around in the cold air, Martin quietly suggests ordering food.
“I was trying to avoid ordering food,” Seonghyeon says, still defensive.
Juhoon looks at the pan. “You failed.”
Keonho nods solemnly. “Bravely.”
Seonghyeon glares at him.
Keonho stops nodding.
Later, after the alarm has stopped and the dorm no longer smells like smoke and wounded pride, all of you end up in the living room with takeout containers balanced on your knees. No one says this counts as bonding. That would make it too embarrassing. No one mentions that it is the first time all six of you have sat in the same room voluntarily without staff instructions or schedule pressure.
But you notice.
Of course you do.
At some point, Keonho reaches for the last piece of chicken at the same time you do. Your chopsticks bump lightly, and both of you freeze out of habit more than anything else. Across from you, Martin glances up just in time to see it happen. For a second, you brace yourself for some comment about bad timing, but he seems to think better of it and quietly returns to his food.
You appreciate that.
Keonho clears his throat and pulls his chopsticks back. “You can take it.”
You frown. “You reached first.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You did.”
“No, I saw you—”
Juhoon silently picks up the piece of chicken and places it onto your rice.
Both of you stop.
You blink at him.
He does not look up from his own food. “This was taking too long.”
Keonho stares at the empty space where the chicken used to be.
Martin lowwrs his head, shoulders shaking once with quiet laughter. James sighs, but he is smiling when he does it. Across the room, Seonghyeon mutters something under his breath about everyone being impossible, but when you glance over, he is pushing one of the unopened sauce packets toward the center of the table.
Closer to you.
It is not an apology.
Not even close.
But it is not nothing either.
For once, no one makes you feel strange for accepting it.
The dorm does not become home overnight.
It becomes tolerable first. Then familiar. Then, in strange little ways, yours.
Your slippers end up beside theirs near the entrance. Your preferred snacks start appearing in the cabinet even though you never tell anyone to buy them. Your name gets added to chore rotations in James’ neat handwriting. Keonho starts saving the last yogurt drink for you and pretending he “just forgot it was there.” Martin leaves lyric notes on the table and sometimes asks for your opinion without making it sound like a formal project. Juhoon begins nodding at you when you enter rooms, which somehow feels like a major diplomatic achievement.
And Seonghyeon—
Well.
Seonghyeon still annoys you.
Frequently.
Professionally.
With impressive consistency.
But he stops looking at you like you ruined everything.
And maybe that matters more than you want to admit.
The six of you are not close yet. Not really. You are too careful for that. Too bruised in different places. Too aware that this whole arrangement sits under a spotlight none of you asked for. But slowly, awkwardly, unwillingly, something starts to form.
Not friendship.
Not yet.
Something messier.
A routine.
A truce.
A shared understanding built out of ruined laundry, late-night apologies, quiet breakfasts, burnt eggs, and the collective horror of realizing none of you know how to label identical black hoodies without starting an argument.
It isn’t the future you imagined. It isn’t the lineup you once thought you’d debut with. It isn’t safe in the way you used to want things to be safe.
But it is real.
And for now, real is enough.
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OMG UR BACK WE MISS YOUUU 😭💐🙏🏻 is everything okay ??
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GLAD TO BE BACK YAYY!! yes im doing alright thank u for asking annon 🥹 unfortunately i was dealing with a lot of mental health problems + medical issues which were keeping me very busy, but i am doing better now!! hopefully that continues lol
hey lovely!! just wanted to ask if I could be added to your 6th member CORTIS taglist💃💃
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ofcofc!! tysm for readingg 🩷🩷
IM ACTUALLY SO INLOVE W UR 6TH MEMBER SERIES <3333
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TYSM!! glad u like it 🥹🫶🫶
Ive reread the 6th member series like 20 times its so good
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thank u for reminding me i exist… 😭 will work on an update now ALSO TYSM THATS SO SWEET 🥹🥹
btw sorry for spamming like on ur cortis 6th member story, it's just the way you make sure the reader (?) not only be pushed into the story blankly but instead, having their own backstory and deep thoughts, i love it a lot ദ്ദി(˵˃ ᗜ ˂˵)
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AWHH THANK YOU!! 🥹 asks like this really make my day! tysm for reading!! the next update will be out soon <3 (hopefully ill be done by tmrw)
i need sooo bad the next part of cortis 6th member, i CRAAAVE for the seonghyeon beef
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SO SORRY IT’S TAKING SO LONGG i’ve got a bunch of other blogs + school’s been keeping me busy, but i promise i’m doing my best to get the next chapter done!! thank u for being patient <3
More 6th member pls….
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working on it!! ill be done soon