You told yourself you wouldn’t look at your phone on the flight.
You failed immediately.
Somewhere over the Atlantic, turbulence shaking the cabin in gentle, nauseating waves, you pulled your hoodie tighter and opened your messages anyway.
Hongjoong
It still felt unreal seeing it there.
Like a secret you weren’t supposed to have access to.
The last message sat untouched at the bottom of the thread.
Good.
Simple.
Strangely heavy for a word that small.
You stared at it for longer than necessary, thumb hovering, until the flight attendant passed by and reminded you—politely—to switch your device into airplane mode again.
You did.
Eventually.
But not before typing a reply you wouldn’t be able to send yet.
Arden
I just boarded. I’ll text when I land.
You pressed send.
The tiny “failed to deliver” icon appeared instantly.
Right.
Airplane mode.
Still.
It made you feel slightly better to know he’d see it later.
Maybe.
You leaned your head against the window and closed your eyes.
—
Halfway across the ocean, you stopped trying to sleep.
Not because you couldn’t.
Because your brain refused to settle.
Every time you drifted, your mind circled back to the same thing:
Hongjoong had asked for your private number.
Not casually.
Not as a colleague.
Not as someone collecting contacts in an industry full of them.
Specifically.
And that distinction was starting to feel like a problem you didn’t have the language for yet.
—
When you landed in New York, the sky was grey in that soft, exhausted way the city had in early mornings.
You dragged your suitcase through JFK, sunglasses on, hoodie half-zipped, feeling like your body existed three hours behind your brain.
Your phone connected to service again before you even reached baggage claim.
It buzzed immediately.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
You stopped walking.
Hongjoong
You landed?
A minute later:
Hongjoong
Please tell me turbulence didn’t win.
And then:
Hongjoong
Arden?
You exhaled a quiet laugh to yourself before typing.
Arden
I’m alive.
Instant typing.
Hongjoong
Good.
Hongjoong
You said you’d text when you landed.
You smiled slightly.
Arden
I did. I was just busy surviving airport capitalism.
A pause.
Hongjoong
What is airport capitalism?
Arden
Everything costs $18 and your dignity disappears in security lines.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Hongjoong
That sounds stressful.
You snorted softly.
Arden
You have no idea.
Another message followed immediately.
Hongjoong
I was worried.
That one made you stop walking again.
Not because it was dramatic.
Because it wasn’t.
Just honest.
You shifted your suitcase slightly, suddenly aware of how loud the airport felt again.
Arden
I told you I’d land.
Hongjoong
Still.
A beat passed.
Then another message.
Hongjoong
You should eat something.
You blinked at the screen.
Arden
Is that your version of “I missed you”?
You regretted sending it immediately.
Too direct.
Too much.
But the typing bubble appeared almost instantly.
Longer this time.
Then:
Hongjoong
No.
Your stomach dipped slightly.
Hongjoong
It’s my version of “I understand touring exhaustion.”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
Right.
Of course.
Professional concern.
Normal.
Safe.
You rolled your suitcase forward again, forcing yourself into motion.
Arden
Fine. I’ll eat.
Hongjoong
Good. Also.
You waited.
Something about that “also” made your attention sharpen.
Hongjoong
Don’t ignore your body just because your brain is loud.
You stared at the message for a moment longer than necessary.
Because that… wasn’t industry talk.
That was personal observation.
The kind someone made after paying attention.
You swallowed lightly.
Arden
You sound like a therapist.
Hongjoong
I’m not qualified.
Arden
Good.
Hongjoong
But I am observant.
You huffed a quiet laugh.
Yeah.
You’d noticed.
—
That night, your apartment in New York felt too still.
You dropped your suitcase by the door, kicked off your shoes, and wandered into your studio space without really thinking.
It was your habit after flights.
Noise first.
Then stillness.
You didn’t even sit down properly before your phone buzzed again.
Hongjoong
Are you resting?
You glanced at the clock.
2:14 AM.
Of course he was awake.
You leaned against your desk.
Arden
Define resting.
Hongjoong
Sitting.
You looked around your apartment.
You were technically sitting.
Just not in a restful way.
Arden
Yes.
Hongjoong
Good.
A pause.
Hongjoong
I’m in the studio again.
Of course he was.
You smiled faintly.
Arden
Do you ever leave that place?
Hongjoong
Sometimes.
Arden
When?
Hongjoong
When I have to perform.
Arden
That’s concerning.
A small delay.
Hongjoong
I like making things.
That was it.
Simple.
Uncomplicated.
But something about it stuck in your chest anyway.
Because you understood that feeling too well.
You looked down at your messy desk—lyrics, notebooks, half-finished ideas scattered everywhere.
Arden
Same.
A few seconds passed.
Hongjoong
What are you working on right now?
You hesitated.
Then glanced at your notebook.
The page you’d been avoiding all week.
A song that kept slipping into second-person perspective without your permission.
You sighed.
Arden
Something annoying.
Hongjoong
Annoying how?
You tapped your pen against the desk.
Arden
It keeps sounding like it’s about someone I shouldn’t be writing about.
That paused the conversation.
Longer than usual.
Your heartbeat started to pick up slightly for no logical reason.
Then:
Hongjoong
Write it anyway.
You frowned slightly.
Arden
That’s irresponsible advice.
Hongjoong
It’s honest advice.
You stared at the screen.
Then slowly sat down properly.
Arden
You’re very dangerous for a producer.
Hongjoong
Why?
Arden
You encourage chaos.
A beat.
Hongjoong
Chaos makes good music.
You couldn’t argue with that.
Unfortunately.
You exhaled softly and looked at your blank page again.
Outside, New York traffic hummed faintly through your window.
Inside, your phone lit up again.
One more message.
Hongjoong
Send me the chorus when you finish it.
You paused.
Arden
Why?
Almost immediately:
Hongjoong
Because I want to hear what your chaos sounds like.
And for a second—
Just a second—
You didn’t write anything back.
You just sat there.
Staring at your notebook.
Feeling something dangerously close to excitement settle quietly in your chest.
Then you finally typed:
Arden
Okay.
And somewhere across the world, in a studio full of half-finished songs and too many coffee cups, Hongjoong replied almost instantly:
You knew it was a mistake the moment you said, “Yeah, sure, just use my laptop.”
Not because you had anything illegal on it. Not because you were hiding secrets.
But because the members of ATEEZ had the collective impulse control of excited raccoons in a bakery.
And because your brother, Yunho, had once described you as “emotionally normal but with occasional chaos bursts,” which—unfortunately for you—had translated in their minds to “she has nothing to hide.”
That was how it started.
With a borrowed laptop.
With a missing charger.
And with you leaving the dorm for exactly forty-seven minutes to get groceries and regretting every life decision that led to that moment.
By the time you came back, something felt off.
It wasn’t subtle.
It was the kind of off that involved suspicious silence, a half-open door, and the distinct sound of someone whisper-laughing like they were committing a crime together.
You stepped inside slowly.
Too slowly.
Because you already knew.
From the living room came the faint:
“NO WAY—she searched THAT?”
Followed by:
“Hyung, don’t scroll—DON’T SCROLL—”
And then:
“WAIT, GO BACK—GO BACK—WHAT WAS THAT ONE ABOUT BEING A ‘FUNCTIONING SOCIALLY QUESTIONABLE HUMAN BEING’?”
You closed your eyes.
You exhaled.
And whispered to yourself, “I can still move to another country. That’s still an option.”
When you entered the room, the scene was exactly what you feared.
Eight grown men.
One laptop.
And the energy of people who had just discovered forbidden knowledge in an ancient temple.
ATEEZ were scattered across the couch, floor, and armrests like a chaotic constellation of judgment.
At the center of it all was your laptop.
Open.
Bright.
Violating your dignity in full HD.
And there—standing slightly apart, arms crossed in that familiar “I am the responsible one here but I have already given up” posture—was Yunho.
He looked at you.
Slowly.
Like a man witnessing a natural disaster and realizing it had your name on the warning label.
“…Hi,” he said carefully.
You pointed at the laptop. “Why is it alive.”
Wooyoung made a choking sound. “WHY IS SHE LIKE THIS EVEN WHEN SHE’S MAD—”
“DON’T TALK,” you said instantly.
He stopped.
Shockingly.
That’s how you knew it was serious.
Seonghwa cleared his throat, trying for diplomacy.
“We borrowed your laptop because Yunho said it was fine.”
Yunho immediately turned his head. “I said it was probably fine.”
“That is not the same thing,” you said flatly.
San was already laughing again, barely contained. “I didn’t know you searched things like this. I thought you were normal.”
You stared at him.
“I am Yunho’s sister.”
“That doesn’t answer anything,” Mingi muttered, still scrolling.
The first time someone in the company said, very casually, that you were “the only one brave enough to wake them up in the mornings,” you thought it was an exaggeration.
It wasn’t.
You found that out at 6:42 AM on a Tuesday.
You stand in front of the door for exactly three seconds before knocking.
From inside, there is silence.
Then a faint crash.
Then someone groaning like they’ve been personally betrayed by existence.
You unlock the door with your manager passkey anyway.
Because you’ve learned.
You always learn.
Behind you, the world is still soft and early. Inside, the dorm of Stray Kids is… not.
It’s war.
06:43 — Bang Chan
You go straight to Chan’s room first because he is the only predictable variable in this chaos equation.
Or at least, he used to be.
You knock.
“Chan. It’s morning.”
Silence.
You open the door slightly.
He is sitting upright in bed, laptop still open, headphones half-on, eyes unfocused like he has been negotiating peace treaties with insomnia all night.
“I was awake,” he says immediately.
“No, you weren’t.”
“I was mentally awake.”
“That’s not—Chan, please stand up.”
He nods seriously, as if receiving a mission briefing.
Then he lies back down.
You sigh.
“Five minutes,” he says, already drifting.
“You said that yesterday.”
“I meant emotionally.”
You leave him there. You will come back. He will still be there. Possibly fused with the mattress.
06:49 — Mi ho
You open the next door carefully.
You don’t even knock.
Because you’ve learned that knocking on Minho’s door is an invitation for psychological warfare.
Inside, the room is dark.
Too dark.
You feel, rather than see, that he is awake.
“You’re late,” his voice comes from somewhere near the ceiling.
“I’m on time.”
A pause.
“No,” he says calmly. “You’re late.”
“If I get up, what do I get?”
“A functioning schedule.”
“That’s not a reward.”
You flick the lights on.
He’s sitting on the desk now. You swear he wasn’t there a second ago.
“How did you—”
“You move loudly for someone who thinks they’re stealthy,” he says.
You don’t ask further questions. You’ve stopped asking questions in this job.
“Ten minutes,” you say.
“Five.”
“Seven.”
“Six.”
“Done.”
You leave. Negotiations complete. Somehow.
06:56 — Changbin
You don’t even open the door fully.
You just speak through it.
“Changbin. Up.”
A thud.
Then another thud.
Then, “I’m up!”
You open the door anyway.
Changbin is on the floor.
“I’m up,” he repeats, from the floor, like this is a normal vertical position for waking up.
“You’re not.”
“You’re lying face down.”
“That’s a perspective issue.”
You step over him.
“Shower. Now.”
He grabs your ankle.
“Five more minutes.”
You look down.
He is blinking up at you like a betrayed puppy that also lifts weights for fun.
“No.”
He sighs dramatically and rolls over onto his back.
“Fine. But I want recognition for this suffering.”
“I’ll add it to your file.”
“Good.”
He sits up immediately. “I love efficiency.”
07:02 — Hyunjin
You open the door slowly.
Too slowly.
Because you already know what’s going to happen.
Hyunjin is already awake.
He is just… not participating in reality yet.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed staring at nothing.
“Hyunjin?”
He turns his head slowly.
“Oh,” he says softly. “You’re real.”
“That’s concerning.”
He nods.
“I had a dream you were a schedule notification.”
“I am your schedule notification.”
He considers this.
“That explains the attitude.”
You cross your arms.
“Shoes on.”
He looks at his feet like they belong to someone else.
“I don’t remember owning those.”
“You do.”
“That feels unlikely.”
“Hyunjin.”
He stands up immediately.
“Okay, okay. I believe you. The tone is scary.”
“It’s 7 AM.”
“That’s worse.”
07:08 — Jisung
You hear him before you see him.
Singing.
Loudly.
From two rooms away.
You open the door and he is sitting cross-legged on the bed holding a hairbrush like a microphone.
Jisung pauses mid-note.
“Oh! Manager-nim! Welcome to my concert.”
“It’s 7 AM.”
“It’s never too early for art.”
“It is for everyone else.”
He gasps.
“That’s oppressive.”
“You have five minutes.”
He points the hairbrush at you.
“Encore?”
“No.”
“Encore?”
“No.”
“Encore?”
You leave.
Behind you: dramatic sighing and emotional piano sound effects he is making with his mouth.
07:13 — Felix
You knock gently.
There is immediate silence.
Then: “Come in!”
You open the door and are greeted by sunshine energy in human form.
Felix is already dressed.
You pause.
“…How?”
“I woke up early,” he says proudly.
“That’s illegal in this house.”
He laughs.
“I made coffee!”
You stare.
There is, in fact, coffee.
This is new.
This is suspicious.
“Is it poisoned?”
“No!”
He looks offended at the idea.
“…Probably not.”
“That didn’t help.”
He hands you a cup anyway.
You take it.
You drink it.
It is good.
You feel betrayed by how good it is.
“Okay,” you admit slowly. “You win this morning.”
He beams.
“I always wanted to win mornings!”
You regret teaching him positivity.
07:20 — Seungmin
You open the door expecting resistance.
Instead, you get judgment.
Immediate, sharp, awake judgment.
Seungmin is sitting at the desk brushing his teeth.
He looks at you through the mirror.
“You’re late,” he says.
“I’m early.”
“You’re loud.”
“I’m doing my job.”
He rinses, spits, and turns around.
“You woke Felix first, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you did.”
He shakes his head like he’s disappointed in humanity as a concept.
“I was asleep,” he says, “and now I have to exist.”
“That’s generally how mornings work.”
He grabs his bag.
“I want overtime pay for emotional damage.”
“You’re an idol.”
“That’s worse.”
07:27 — Jeongin
You pause outside the last door.
This one is always unpredictable.
You knock once.
Nothing.
You knock again.
A faint groan.
You open the door slowly.
Jeongin is under the blanket.
Completely.
Not moving.
You crouch slightly.
“Ayen”
No response.
You pull the blanket slightly.
A hand immediately grabs it back.
“Five more minutes,” he mutters.
“You said that an hour ago.”
“I was negotiating with time.”
“Did you win?”
Silence.
“…No.”
You sit on the edge of the bed.
“You’re the hardest one to wake up.”
“I’m the youngest. It’s in my contract.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It should be.”
You tug the blanket again.
He finally peeks out.
Hair everywhere. Eyes half-open. Soul still loading.
“You’re too strong,” he says.
“I’m a manager.”
“That explains the lack of mercy.”
He sits up slowly.
Then pauses.
“Do I have schedule?”
“Yes.”
“Do I survive it?”
“Also yes.”
He nods.
“Okay. I’ll go.”
You blink.
“That was easy.”
“I’m saving my energy for complaining later.”
Fair.
07:40 — Hallway Reunion
They gather in the hallway one by one like a chaotic morning assembly.
Chan finally appears, still half-asleep.
Minho is already judging everyone’s existence.
Changbin is stretching dramatically like he survived war.
Hyunjin is quietly fixing his hair like reality might improve if he looks better.
Jisung is still humming.
Felix is offering everyone coffee like a peace treaty.
Seungmin is silently suffering.
Jeongin is walking like a reluctant ghost.
You stand in front of them.
This is your daily battlefield.
“This,” you say, “is why I’m the only one who wakes you up.”
Chan raises a hand.
“I could wake them up.”
Minho snorts.
“You can’t wake yourself up.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is absolutely true.”
Changbin nods. “He snores through alarms.”
“I do not—”
Hyunjin interrupts softly, “You do.”
Jisung adds, “It’s kind of impressive.”
Seungmin sighs. “It’s loud.”
Felix smiles brightly. “It’s cute though!”
Everyone looks at Felix.
Felix shrugs.
You rub your temples.
“Go. Eat. Be functional. I need silence.”
“You’ll miss us,” Jisung says.
“I won’t.”
“You will,” Changbin insists.
“I won’t.”
Jeongin walks past you.
“You already do,” he says.
You pause.
“…Go eat.”
They scatter.
Mostly.
Chan lingers.
“You’re good at this,” he says.
“I know.”
“You should sleep more.”
“I will.”
“You won’t.”
He smiles a little.
You sigh.
“Go before I start charging emotional tax.”
He finally leaves.
08:00 — Aftermath
The dorm is quiet again.
Too quiet.
You stand in the hallway with Felix’s empty coffee cup still in your hand.
You should leave.
You don’t.
Because the truth is—
They are disasters in the morning.
Each one loud in a different way.
But this is still your job.
And somehow…
You’re the only one who can wake them up without the world ending.
Chan sat at the kitchen table long after midnight, still in his hoodie from the studio, staring at the tiny pink drawing taped to the fridge.
It was a messy crayon picture of your family. Him with giant dimples. Your daughter with uneven pigtails. You holding both their hands.
Above it, in shaky handwriting:
Daddy Home = Best Day Ever
He rubbed a tired hand over his face.
You quietly walked into the kitchen, finding him unusually silent.
“What’s wrong?” you asked softly.
Chan looked up slowly. “I missed bedtime again.”
“You got home thirty minutes ago—”
“I know.” His voice cracked anyway. “But that’s the third time this week. I’m always recording or overseas or rehearsing. One day she’s gonna stop waiting up for me.”
You moved beside him, resting your hand on his shoulder.
“She adores you, Chris.”
“She deserves a dad that’s actually around.”
Before you could answer, tiny footsteps padded into the kitchen.
Your daughter appeared clutching her stuffed bunny, eyes half asleep.
“Daddy?”
Chan immediately stood. “Baby, why are you awake?”
She waddled directly into his arms like it was instinct.
“I heard your voice,” she mumbled, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. “Wanted daddy cuddle.”
Chan closed his eyes hard.
Your daughter pulled back suddenly, holding his face in both tiny hands.
“You came home,” she declared proudly, as if that solved everything.
And somehow… it did.
You smiled softly at him.
“See?” you whispered. “She doesn’t count missed dinners. She counts the moments you are here.”
Chan looked down at his daughter wrapped around him like he hung the moon.
Then you kissed his temple gently.
“I couldn’t have chosen a better father for her.”
Chan actually teared up.
Minho
Minho rarely talked about his insecurities out loud.
Which is why finding him sitting alone in the living room at 2 a.m. was alarming.
Your son’s toy cars were scattered around him untouched.
Minho stared at one quietly.
“He learned how to ride his bike today.”
You blinked. “Yeah. You saw the video.”
“That’s the problem.” He laughed bitterly. “I saw the video.”
You sat beside him immediately.
“Min—”
“I missed his first bike ride. First school play. Half his soccer practices.” His jaw tightened. “I’m not even here enough to know what his favorite dinosaur changes to every week.”
You leaned your head against his shoulder.
“He worships you, you know.”
“He worships the version of me that visits between schedules.”
Before you could answer, your son shuffled into the room sleepily.
“Dad?”
Minho instantly softened.
Your son climbed directly into his lap.
“You home late again?”
“Yeah,” Minho murmured quietly.
“That okay.” The boy shrugged. “We still do breakfast tomorrow?”
Minho stared.
“You still want breakfast?”
“Obviously.” Your son looked offended. “Saturday pancake day.”
The tiniest smile appeared on Minho’s face.
Your son yawned dramatically before leaning against him.
“You make dinosaur pancakes better than mom.”
“Excuse you?” you gasped.
The boy grinned mischievously.
Minho laughed for real this time, holding him closer.
You watched the way your son completely melted into his father without hesitation.
Then you murmured softly:
“You didn’t miss his childhood, Minho. You became the part he waits for.”
Minho looked at you quietly.
“I couldn’t have chosen a better dad for him.”
The look he gave you after that was devastatingly emotional.
Changbin
Changbin cried in secret.
You discovered that accidentally.
You found him in your daughter’s room after she’d fallen asleep, carefully braiding one of her dolls’ hair while silently crying.
Your chest hurt instantly.
“Binnie…”
He looked away quickly. “I missed her dance recital.”
“You had a concert overseas.”
“I still missed it.”
His voice cracked completely.
“She looked for me in the audience.”
You walked closer slowly.
“She wasn’t upset—”
“She should be!” he burst out. “What kind of dad misses that stuff?”
Before you could answer, a sleepy little voice interrupted.
“Daddy?”
Your daughter stood in the doorway rubbing her eyes.
Changbin immediately wiped his face.
“Princess, why are you awake?”
She marched over with absolute determination and climbed straight into his lap.
“You sad?”
“No, baby.”
“You are.” She frowned. “Sad eyes.”
Changbin looked like he might cry harder.
Your daughter grabbed his cheeks suddenly.
“You know I danced extra good for you?”
His brows furrowed. “For me?”
“Mhm!” she nodded proudly. “Mommy recorded it so we watch together.”
Changbin completely broke.
He hugged her tightly while she giggled.
“I love daddy lots,” she informed him seriously.
You sat beside them, rubbing his back gently.
“She doesn’t need perfection,” you whispered. “She just needs you.”
Changbin buried his face against your daughter’s hair.
Then you added softly:
“I couldn’t have picked a better father for her.”
He cried openly after that.
Hyunjin
Hyunjin had been quiet for days.
Too quiet.
You finally cornered him in his art room where he was sketching your daughter from memory.
Not from a photo.
From memory.
That alone shattered your heart.
“You miss her,” you said gently.
His pencil stopped moving.
“I missed two weeks.”
“You were on tour.”
“She lost another tooth while I was gone.”
You sat beside him quietly.
Hyunjin stared at the drawing.
“One day she’s gonna realize I’m never around.”
Before you could answer, your daughter burst into the room wearing one of his oversized hoodies.
“Daddy!”
Hyunjin immediately opened his arms.
She launched herself at him dramatically.
“You smell like airport,” she informed him.
You snorted.
Hyunjin laughed softly despite himself.
“I’m sorry I was gone so long.”
Your daughter blinked at him.
“But you came back.”
Simple.
Certain.
Absolute.
Then she grabbed his sketchbook excitedly.
“THAT’S ME!”
Hyunjin watched her ramble about colors and princess dresses for ten straight minutes while looking at her like she was the center of the universe.
Because she was.
You touched his arm gently.
“She never doubts your love, Hyunjin.”
He looked at you silently.
“You give her your full heart every single second you’re home.”
Then you smiled softly.
“I couldn’t have chosen a better dad for her.”
Hyunjin kissed your forehead immediately before hiding his watery eyes in your shoulder.
Jisung
Jisung spiraled when he overthought.
And tonight he was spiraling badly.
“I missed his parent-teacher meeting.”
You sighed softly from bed. “Baby—”
“And his field trip. And I forgot pajama day last month.” He buried his face in his hands. “I’m literally failing fatherhood.”
You crawled over immediately.
“You are not failing.”
“I barely see him!”
Right on cue, your son wandered sleepily into the room holding a blanket.
“Dad?”
Jisung instantly opened his arms.
The little boy climbed into bed between both of you.
“You okay?”
Jisung blinked. “Why?”
“You loud-thinking again.”
You nearly laughed.
Jisung groaned. “I’m sorry, buddy.”
“For what?”
“For not being around enough.”
Your son stared at him like that was the stupidest sentence he’d ever heard.
“But when you’re home you play with me all day.”
Jisung froze.
“You build Legos and make dinosaur voices and let me stay up late for movies.” The boy shrugged. “Other dads don’t do that.”
Jisung looked genuinely emotional.
Your son patted his cheek.
“You best dad.”
Jisung actually started crying.
The boy looked horrified. “WHY ARE YOU LEAKING?”
You burst into laughter.
Then you cupped Jisung’s face gently.
“He doesn’t remember the schedules,” you whispered. “He remembers how loved he feels.”
Jisung leaned into your touch immediately.
“I couldn’t have chosen a better father for him.”
Felix
Felix was usually sunshine.
Which meant his sadness felt unbearable.
He sat on the couch staring at photos from the last six months.
Half of them were pictures you had sent while he was overseas.
“She’s getting bigger without me.”
Your heart cracked.
“Lix—”
“What if she stops needing me?”
You sat beside him instantly.
“She waits by the door every day you’re due home.”
He laughed weakly. “Because she doesn’t know any better yet.”
At that exact moment, your daughter sprinted into the room wearing fairy wings.
“DADDYYYYY!”
Felix barely had time to react before she collided into him.
“You’re home!”
“I am,” he laughed softly.
She grabbed his face dramatically.
“You missed tea party.”
His expression fell immediately. “I’m sorry, angel.”
“But is okay,” she continued seriously. “We do another one now.”
Felix stared at her.
“Right now?”
“Yes.” She nodded firmly. “Daddy gets biggest cupcake because I missed you.”
That was it.
He completely melted.
An hour later you found him sitting on the floor at a fake tea party wearing a plastic tiara while your daughter laughed uncontrollably.
The sight alone nearly made you emotional.
You sat beside him quietly afterward, squeezing his hand.
“She doesn’t measure love in hours, Felix.”
He looked at you carefully.
“She measures it in moments. And you give her beautiful ones.”
Then you kissed his cheek gently.
“I couldn’t have chosen a better dad for her.”
Felix cried into your shoulder for ten minutes.
Seungmin
Seungmin hid guilt behind sarcasm.
So when he muttered, “I’m basically a guest star in my kid’s life,” you knew it was serious.
You looked up from folding laundry immediately.
“Min.”
“I’m serious.” He laughed humorlessly. “I know his schedule better from your texts than real life.”
You walked over quietly.
“He talks about you nonstop.”
“Because I’m novelty.”
Before you could argue, your son burst into the room carrying a soccer ball.
“Dad! You promised goalie practice!”
Seungmin blinked. “Right now?”
“Yes right now.” The boy frowned. “You said even if late.”
Something in Seungmin’s face softened instantly.
Twenty minutes later you watched them outside from the kitchen window.
Your son was laughing so hard he could barely kick straight while Seungmin dramatically pretended to lose every save.
When they finally came back inside sweaty and breathless, your son proudly announced:
“My dad’s the coolest.”
Seungmin snorted. “Your standards are low.”
“Nope.” The boy grinned. “You always make time.”
The room went quiet.
Your son ran off before realizing what he’d said.
Seungmin stared after him silently.
Then you wrapped your arms around his waist from behind.
“He doesn’t care how many flights you take.”
Seungmin leaned back into you.
“He cares that every time you come home, you choose him first.”
You kissed his shoulder softly.
“I couldn’t have chosen a better father for him.”
For once, Seungmin had absolutely no sarcastic response.
Jeongin
Jeongin was the youngest.
Which meant he constantly worried he was doing everything wrong.
You found him sitting in your son’s room after bedtime, quietly cleaning up toys with tears in his eyes.
Your heart immediately sank.
“Innie?”
He looked embarrassed instantly.
“I missed his kindergarten performance.”
“You had schedules in Japan.”
“I know but—” his voice shook. “He kept searching the audience.”
You walked over slowly.
“He wasn’t upset with you.”
“He should be.”
Before you could answer, your son suddenly sat up sleepily in bed.
“Daddy?”
Jeongin immediately moved to him.
“Sorry, did we wake you?”
The little boy rubbed his eyes.
“Why sad?”
Jeongin smiled weakly. “Daddy just feels bad for missing stuff.”
His son thought about that carefully.
Then he reached up and poked Jeongin’s cheek.
“But you always come back.”
Jeongin froze.
“And when you home, you play superheroes and make funny voices and carry me everywhere.”
Your son smiled sleepily.
“My favorite days are daddy days.”
Jeongin completely lost it emotionally.
He hugged his son tightly while the little boy giggled sleepily.
The way his son suddenly knows how to zip his own jacket.
The way his baby voice is disappearing little by little.
The way you casually mention, “He likes strawberries now,” and Hongjoong freezes because when did that happen?
Schedules keep him away for days at a time sometimes. Recording sessions stretch past midnight. Flights blur together until he wakes up in hotel rooms not even remembering what country he’s in.
And one night, after finally getting home at almost one in the morning, he quietly walks into his son’s room expecting him to be asleep.
Instead, tiny feet immediately patter across the floor.
“Daddy!”
The little boy launches himself at him so fast Hongjoong barely catches him.
“You’re home!”
Hongjoong hugs him tightly, almost painfully tight, exhaustion cracking straight down the middle. “I’m sorry I’m late, buddy.”
“But you came.”
Such a simple sentence. Such an easy one.
But Hongjoong feels his chest ache anyway.
Later that night, after his son falls asleep sprawled across his chest, Hongjoong whispers quietly into the dark:
“I think I’m failing him.”
You look up from beside him immediately. “What?”
“He’s growing up while I’m gone.” His voice is rough with exhaustion. “I miss dinners. Bedtimes. School stuff. I don’t even know what his favorite cartoon is anymore.”
You stare at him for a long moment before gently touching his cheek.
“Joong,” you murmur, “do you know what he talks about nonstop whenever you’re away?”
Hongjoong blinks.
“You.”
“…Me?”
“He tells everyone his dad makes music.” You smile softly. “He wears your hoodies around the house because they smell like you. And whenever you are home? Nothing else exists to him.”
Hongjoong looks down at his sleeping son.
“He doesn’t remember missed dinners,” you whisper. “He remembers how his daddy drops everything to build Lego cities with him for three hours straight.”
Hongjoong’s eyes immediately glass over.
“I couldn’t have chosen a better father for him,” you tell him firmly.
And for the first time in weeks, Hongjoong actually believes it.
Seonghwa
Seonghwa takes missing things personally.
Every school recital he can’t attend sits in his chest like a stone.
So when he misses his daughter’s dance practice because recording runs late, he comes home devastated.
He still walks in carrying flowers for her anyway.
“I’m sorry, princess.”
His daughter gasps dramatically. “Daddy brought flowers?!”
Seonghwa laughs weakly as she throws herself into his arms.
But later, after she falls asleep, he quietly admits the truth while helping you fold laundry.
“I don’t think I’m doing enough.”
You stop immediately.
“Hwa—”
“She asked if I could braid her hair this morning and I couldn’t because I had to leave.” His voice cracks softly. “What kind of dad misses things like that?”
You set the laundry down and walk over.
“The kind who still learned how to braid hair because his daughter asked once.”
Seonghwa looks at you silently.
“You know what she told her teacher today?” you continue. “That her daddy is the prettiest person in the world and makes the best pancakes.”
A startled laugh escapes him.
“She adores you.”
“But I’m gone so much.”
“And when you’re home,” you say gently, “you give her every piece of yourself.”
That’s true.
Seonghwa never half-parents. Ever.
Tea parties. Matching outfits. Storytime voices. Hair brushing. Nail painting. He throws himself fully into fatherhood every second he gets.
You cup his face carefully.
“You are the safest place that little girl knows,” you whisper. “You couldn’t be a better dad if you tried.”
Seonghwa tears up immediately.
Yunho
Yunho hides guilt behind smiles.
He’ll come home exhausted from practice still grinning brightly for his son.
But one night he overhears his little boy asking you:
“When’s Daddy coming home this time?”
And it destroys him.
That night he sits on the couch staring blankly ahead while his son sleeps against his shoulder.
“I hate missing things.”
You sit beside him quietly.
“I missed his soccer practice again.” Yunho rubs his face tiredly. “I keep saying next time, next time, next time…”
His son sleepily wraps tiny arms tighter around him even in his dreams.
You smile softly.
“You know what he told the coach?”
Yunho glances over.
“He said his dad is the coolest because he dances on stages all over the world.”
Yunho’s expression crumbles a little.
“He’s proud of you,” you whisper. “Not resentful.”
“But I’m not there enough.”
“You know what he remembers most?” you ask gently. “Movie nights where you do all the voices. Piggyback rides. Falling asleep on your chest.”
Yunho looks down at his son silently.
“When you’re home,” you tell him, “he gets your full attention. Completely.”
A shaky laugh leaves him. “That’s because I miss him like crazy.”
“And he misses you too,” you murmur. “But he never doubts you love him.”
Yunho wipes quickly at his eyes.
“You’re an amazing father.”
Yeosang
Yeosang doesn’t voice insecurity often.
Which is why it shocks you when he suddenly says:
“I think he likes you more.”
You blink across the kitchen.
“What?”
Yeosang stares down at the little dinosaur toy in his hands. “I’m never home.”
Your heart immediately hurts.
Earlier that evening his son had cried when Yeosang left briefly to answer a work call, and Yeosang took it much harder than he should have.
“He runs to you first,” Yeosang whispers quietly. “You know his routines better. His favorite snacks. His bedtime songs…”
You walk over slowly.
“Yeo.”
His eyes are already sad before you even touch him.
“You know what your son does every single night?” you ask softly.
Yeosang looks up.
“He drags your hoodie into bed because it smells like Daddy.”
His breath catches.
“And whenever the front door opens?” you continue. “He drops everything to check if it’s you.”
Yeosang’s composure immediately cracks.
“He loves you so much it’s ridiculous.”
“But I miss so much.”
“Yes,” you say honestly. “You do.”
Yeosang looks down.
“But your son will never measure your love by hours.”
You gently intertwine your fingers with his.
“He measures it by how Daddy always listens when he talks. How Daddy always cuddles him after nightmares. How Daddy memorized every dinosaur name because he likes them.”
A watery laugh escapes him.
“You couldn’t have chosen a better father for him.”
Yeosang quietly cries after that.
San
San tries so hard it physically hurts sometimes.
He calls between schedules. Sends voice notes. Brings back souvenirs from every country.
But nothing fixes the guilt of missing bedtime.
One evening he comes home to find his daughter asleep on the couch holding one of his shirts.
And he completely breaks.
“She waited for me again…”
You watch him kneel beside her carefully, brushing hair from her face with trembling fingers.
“I’m horrible at this.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I keep leaving.”
His voice is painfully quiet.
You crouch beside him.
The second their daughter stirs awake and sees him, her entire face lights up.
“Daddy!”
San catches her instantly as she clings to him like he hung the stars.
“You came home!”
And there it is again. Not anger. Not sadness.
Pure happiness.
Later, while their daughter sleeps curled into his side, San whispers:
“I thought she’d hate me someday.”
You stare at him in disbelief.
“She worships you.”
San laughs shakily. “I’m serious.”
“She keeps stealing your clothes because she misses you,” you point out. “She draws pictures of you constantly. She thinks her dad is a superhero.”
San hides his face briefly.
“You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because every time you walk through that door, you make her feel like she’s the most important person alive.”
San starts crying quietly at that.
“You are an incredible father,” you whisper.
Mingi
Mingi’s daughter is obsessed with him.
Absolutely obsessed.
Which honestly makes his guilt worse.
Because every time he leaves for tour, she cries at the door.
And every time he comes back, she refuses to let him out of her sight for days.
One night after finally returning home, she falls asleep sprawled across him while he sits silently in bed.
“I’m messing her up.”
You nearly choke. “What?”
“She gets too attached because I keep disappearing.”
You sit beside him immediately.
“Mingi, look at me.”
His eyes are exhausted.
“She’s attached because you love her well.”
He shakes his head weakly. “I miss everything.”
“You know what she remembers?” you ask softly.
Mingi glances down at his daughter.
“How Daddy dances stupidly in the kitchen to make her laugh.”
“How Daddy lets her paint his nails.”
“How Daddy carries her everywhere because ‘princesses shouldn’t walk.’”
Mingi snorts despite himself.
“She talks about you constantly,” you continue. “Not because you’re absent. Because you matter.”
His eyes water instantly.
“You are her favorite place,” you whisper.
Mingi presses a kiss into his daughter’s hair and quietly cries against her.
Wooyoung
Wooyoung jokes when he’s hurting.
So when he starts casually saying things like:
“She’s probably gonna call the babysitter Dad next,”
you know immediately something’s wrong.
That night you find him sitting in his daughter’s room after she’s asleep.
“She asked if I’d be home tomorrow,” he says quietly. “And I didn’t know the answer.”
You sit beside him on the floor.
“She deserves someone more stable.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.”
You shake your head immediately.
The room is covered in evidence proving otherwise.
Drawings of him.
Photos of him.
Tiny scribbled hearts with “Daddy” written everywhere.
“She thinks the sun rises for you,” you say softly.
Wooyoung laughs weakly. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not.”
You lean your head against his shoulder.
“When you come home, you spend hours playing tea party like it’s the most important meeting in the world.”
“That’s because she likes it.”
“And because you like her.”
Wooyoung goes quiet.
“She doesn’t need perfect attendance,” you whisper. “She needs love.”
His eyes immediately gloss over.
“And nobody will ever convince me there’s a better father for her than you.”
Wooyoung fully cries after that, trying very hard to do it silently so he doesn’t wake their daughter.
Jongho
Jongho carries guilt quietly.
He doesn’t complain. Doesn’t vent much.
But you notice how long he stands in the doorway watching his son sleep after coming home late.
One evening he finally admits it.
“He’s getting bigger.”
The sadness in his voice nearly breaks you.
“I missed his school presentation today,” Jongho says softly. “He kept looking for me.”
You take his hand immediately.
“He wasn’t upset.”
“I still should’ve been there.”
His son suddenly wanders sleepily into the living room rubbing his eyes.
“Dad?”
Jongho’s entire face changes instantly.
“Hey, buddy.”
His son climbs directly into his lap without hesitation, already half asleep again.
“You home now?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
That’s it.
That’s all the reassurance the little boy needs before curling against his chest happily.
Jongho looks devastated by it.
After his son falls asleep again, Jongho whispers:
“I don’t deserve how much he loves me.”
You touch his face gently.
“Yes, you do.”
Jongho shakes his head.
“You know why he loves you so much?” you ask quietly. “Because you make him feel important every single second you’re together.”
Jongho looks down silently.
“You listen to every story. You never brush him off. You hold him when he’s scared. You show up emotionally even when you’re exhausted physically.”
Tears gather in his eyes immediately.
“You couldn’t have picked a better father for your son,” you whisper.
And Jongho finally lets himself believe maybe he isn’t failing after all.
The first thing you noticed after leaving California was the silence.
Not literal silence.
Airports were never silent.
Neither were hotel lobbies, black SUVs, rehearsal studios, or the endless blur of movement your life had become over the past three years.
But compared to Coachella, everything felt quieter.
Less electric.
The desert had buzzed constantly—music, crowds, adrenaline, possibility.
Now you sat alone in a first-class airport lounge at LAX wearing sunglasses and an oversized hoodie, staring at your untouched coffee while your phone rested face-up beside you.
Waiting.
Which was ridiculous.
You had known Hongjoong for exactly two days.
Still, the second your phone lit up, your attention snapped toward it automatically.
Hongjoong
Did you survive airport security?
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
Arden
Barely. They confiscated my emotional stability.
The typing bubble appeared instantly.
Hongjoong
American airport security is intense.
Arden
You have no idea.
Another message came seconds later.
Hongjoong
I’m in the studio.
You blinked at that.
Arden
Already?
Hongjoong
Jet lag is temporary. Deadlines are forever.
You physically recoiled.
Arden
That sentence just lowered my lifespan.
Hongjoong
😊
You stared at the smiley face longer than necessary.
Arden
What are you working on?
There was a pause this time.
Long enough that you assumed he’d gotten distracted.
Then your phone buzzed again.
Hongjoong
Actually… can I send you something?
Your brows lifted immediately.
Arden
Like music?
Hongjoong
Maybe.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Most artists guarded unfinished work like state secrets. Especially producers. Especially successful producers.
You sat forward slightly in your chair.
Arden
Absolutely yes.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Then finally—
An audio file.
No title.
Just untitled_demo3.mp3.
You hesitated for exactly half a second before pressing play.
Static filled your headphones first.
Then synth.
Dark, atmospheric, layered under sharp percussion.
You immediately recognized his style in it—dramatic, textured, emotionally charged.
But underneath all the production sat a melody surprisingly vulnerable.
Beautiful, actually.
Halfway through the clip, a rough guide vocal came in.
Not polished.
Not meant for release.
Just enough to hold the structure together.
And somehow that made it more intimate.
You listened all the way through twice before realizing you’d completely stopped paying attention to the world around you.
Your boarding group was literally being called overhead.
Still, your focus stayed locked on the music.
Finally, you typed back.
Arden
Okay. Be serious right now.
Hongjoong
…What?
Arden
This is insane.
Hongjoong
Good insane?
You snorted softly.
Arden
You know it’s good.
Hongjoong
I get nervous showing people unfinished songs.
Something in your chest tightened unexpectedly.
Because you understood exactly what he meant.
Finished songs belonged to audiences.
Unfinished songs still belonged to you.
They were fragile before completion.
Personal.
“You trust me already?” you murmured quietly to yourself.
Your fingers hovered over the screen before typing carefully.
Arden
Thank you for sending it to me.
His response came almost immediately.
Hongjoong
Thank you for understanding it.
And there it was again.
That strange feeling you kept getting with him.
Like you were having two conversations at once.
The actual words.
And the quieter thing underneath them.
—
Three days later, you sat cross-legged on the floor of your apartment studio in New York surrounded by notebooks, half-empty coffee mugs, and lyric drafts.
Rain tapped softly against the windows overlooking Manhattan.
You’d been trying to write for hours.
Trying being the important word.
Usually lyrics came easily after touring. Emotions cracked open during performances and spilled naturally into songs afterward.
But tonight your thoughts felt scattered.
Distracted.
Unfortunately, you knew exactly why.
Your phone buzzed beside you.
Like summoned by your thoughts.
Hongjoong
Are you awake?
You looked at the clock.
2:12 AM.
Arden
This feels hypocritical coming from you.
Hongjoong
I’m working.
Arden
So am I.
A few seconds later:
Hongjoong
Liar.
You laughed aloud.
Arden
Rude.
Hongjoong
You haven’t written anything for an hour.
You froze.
Slowly, suspiciously, you looked around your empty apartment.
Arden
Do you have cameras in my house?
Hongjoong
Songwriter intuition.
Annoyingly accurate songwriter intuition.
You sighed dramatically before sending a photo of the mess surrounding you.
Notebooks.
Crossed-out lyrics.
Your guitar abandoned on the couch.
His reply came instantly.
Hongjoong
This looks exactly like my studio.
You smiled softly at the screen.
Then another message followed.
Hongjoong
Call?
Your heartbeat stumbled.
You stared at the word for a second too long.
It shouldn’t have mattered.
People FaceTimed colleagues constantly.
Friends too.
Normal.
Completely normal.
So why did accepting the call suddenly feel weirdly intimate?
Before you could overthink yourself into oblivion, the screen lit up.
Incoming call: Hongjoong.
You answered before courage disappeared.
The camera shook briefly before stabilizing.
Hongjoong appeared sitting in a dim studio chair wearing headphones around his neck and a black hoodie, blond hair messy like he’d been running his hands through it for hours.
The sight of him in an actual studio somehow affected you more than seeing him onstage.
This felt personal.
Real.
“Hi,” he said, smiling immediately.
“Wow,” you answered. “You look exhausted.”
“So do you.”
“That’s fair.”
He laughed softly.
The sound traveled strangely through headphones.
Closer somehow.
You adjusted your phone against your knee.
“So this is the producer cave.”
Hongjoong turned the camera slightly, revealing monitors, keyboards, cables, and what appeared to be at least six abandoned coffee cups.
“Don’t judge me.”
“I’m absolutely judging you.”
“You have notebooks on your floor.”
“That’s called artistic atmosphere.”
“That’s called being messy.”
You gasped dramatically.
“Unbelievable betrayal.”
His grin widened.
God.
It really should not be this easy talking to him.
But somehow hours slipped by without either of you noticing.
You talked about everything.
Tour exhaustion.
Lyrics that refused to cooperate.
How weird fame felt sometimes.
The difference between Western and Korean music industries.
Fans.
Pressure.
Creative burnout.
And through all of it, one thing became increasingly obvious:
Hongjoong loved music the same consuming way you did.
Not casually.
Not professionally.
Completely.
“I think people romanticize creating,” he admitted at one point, spinning slowly in his studio chair. “Sometimes it’s just suffering until something sounds right.”
You pointed at the screen immediately.
“Exactly.”
His eyes lit up like he was relieved you understood.
“Most people think I’m exaggerating.”
“No, because when a song is almost right, it’s worse than it being bad.”
“Yes!” He leaned forward suddenly. “Because you can hear what it should become.”
You stared at each other through the screen for a second.
Mutual understanding humming quietly between continents.
Then you smiled slowly.
“Oh, this is dangerous.”
Hongjoong blinked. “What is?”
“You understand my brain.”
That made him laugh softly.
“Maybe because you understand mine too.”
The room suddenly felt warmer.
You looked away first.
Coward.
Hongjoong noticed.
You could tell he noticed.
But thankfully he let the moment breathe instead of pushing it.
“Can I ask something?” he said after a minute.
“Depends.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s honest.”
He smiled faintly before speaking again.
“When you write sad songs… are they always about real people?”
You leaned back against the couch thoughtfully.
“Sometimes.”
“And the other times?”
“Real feelings,” you answered quietly. “Just not always real situations.”
Hongjoong nodded slowly like he was storing that information carefully away.
“And you?” you asked.
His gaze flickered briefly downward.
“I think every song has truth somewhere in it.”
Something about the way he said it felt important.
Before you could respond, a staff member’s voice echoed faintly somewhere behind him in Korean.
Hongjoong sighed immediately.
“Uh oh,” you said.
“I’m being summoned.”
“Very tragic.”
“I know.”
But neither of you ended the call yet.
The silence stretched comfortably.
Dangerously comfortably.
Then Hongjoong looked at you through the screen with an expression softer than before.
“You should write that song.”
You frowned slightly.
“What song?”
“The one you were trying to write before I interrupted.”
Your stomach flipped.
“How do you know there’s a song?”
“You get quiet when you’re close to lyrics.”
You stared at him.
Actually stared.
Because that—
That felt unfairly observant for someone who’d only known you a week.
“You notice too much,” you muttered.
His smile turned small and knowing.
“So do you.”
And somehow that felt like the truest thing said all night.
The first time it happened around ATEEZ, nobody thought much of it.
You were carrying three iced americanos and a bag of breakfast sandwiches through the company hallway while balancing your phone between your shoulder and ear.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m almost there,” you sighed into the phone. “Tell Wooyoung if he steals my hash browns again I’m reporting him to HR.”
From inside the practice room, Wooyoung yelled, “YOU LOVE ME TOO MUCH TO DO THAT.”
You rolled your eyes fondly and reached for the door handle.
At that exact moment, the ceiling light above you exploded.
Not flickered.
Exploded.
Glass rained down dramatically around you like a low-budget action movie. The coffees somehow stayed upright in your hands, but you froze in shock while the hallway filled with startled shouting.
The practice room door flew open.
“WHAT HAPPENED?” Seonghwa demanded.
“You okay?” Yunho asked at the same time.
Mingi stared at the shattered lightbulb. “Did that just—”
“Explode?” Hongjoong finished slowly.
You blinked once.
“…This happens sometimes.”
Silence.
“What do you mean sometimes?” Yeosang asked carefully.
You stepped over broken glass with the exhausted air of someone discussing mild weather inconveniences.
“Sometimes electronics die around me.”
“Die around you,” San repeated.
“Yeah.”
As if on cue, your phone sparked.
Then shut off permanently.
Everyone stared.
You stared at the dead screen.
“…Okay, that one’s new.”
That should’ve been the warning sign.
Instead, the members collectively decided you were exaggerating.
Until they spent more time around you.
And realized you might actually be cursed.
—
It started small.
Tiny things.
Annoying things.
Impossible-to-explain things.
Whenever you entered the kitchen, the microwave mysteriously stopped working.
Automatic doors refused to open for you specifically.
Vending machines ate your money with alarming consistency.
One time, you touched the TV remote and the subtitles switched to Portuguese.
“Why PORTUGUESE?” Jongho wheezed.
“I DON’T KNOW.”
Another time, you sat down in the dorm living room and the Wi-Fi immediately died.
Wooyoung slowly lowered his phone.
“…Did you kill the internet?”
“I literally just sat down.”
Hongjoong narrowed his eyes. “Stand up.”
You stood.
The Wi-Fi returned instantly.
The entire dorm went dead silent.
Mingi pointed at you with genuine fear.
“Nope.”
“What do you mean nope?” you asked.
“Nope as in absolutely not. Nope as in I rebuke whatever spirit follows you around.”
“There is no spirit!”
The lights flickered.
Everyone screamed.
You buried your face in your hands.
“I hate this stupid life.”
—
The members slowly developed survival habits around you.
Not intentionally at first.
Just… instinctively.
Yunho stopped letting you carry fragile objects.
San automatically moved drinks farther from table edges when you sat down.
Seonghwa started muttering prayers whenever you touched expensive equipment.
And Wooyoung—
Wooyoung became the worst.
“Don’t touch that,” he gasped dramatically whenever you reached for anything.
“I’m opening a cabinet.”
“Last time you opened a cabinet the handle came off!”
“That was ONE TIME.”
“You broke a washing machine by LOOKING at it.”
“I did not!”
“You literally walked into the laundry room and it started flooding!”
“That feels unrelated!”
“It flooded emotionally,” Mingi said seriously.
You stared at him.
“…What does that even mean?”
“No one knows,” Hongjoong sighed.
—
The thing was, you really did have terrible luck.
Not quirky clumsy-girl bad luck.
Not “oops I spilled coffee” bad luck.
No.
You had cinematic levels of unfortunate timing.
If there was one wet patch of floor in an entire building, you’d find it.
If something could fall over, it would somehow wait until you walked past.
If there was a random bird in the sky—
That bird hated you personally.
“WHY,” you shouted one afternoon, ducking as a pigeon dive-bombed you outside the studio.
“It’s because you looked at it,” Yeosang said with complete seriousness.
“I LOOK AT ALL BIRDS.”
“Yeah but your aura probably threatened it.”
“My AURA?”
“You definitely have haunted energy,” Wooyoung agreed.
You turned to Hongjoong desperately. “Please tell me you don’t believe this.”
Hongjoong opened his mouth.
Then paused.
“…The elevator did stop working immediately after you got in yesterday.”
“THAT HAPPENS TO NORMAL PEOPLE.”
“The elevator alarm started screaming.”
“I PRESSED THE WRONG BUTTON.”
“The emergency phone disconnected itself.”
You groaned loudly enough to scare the pigeon away.
—
The breaking point came during filming.
ATEEZ were halfway through a live broadcast in a beautifully decorated studio. Staff hurried around behind cameras while the members chatted casually with fans.
You sat off to the side with cue cards and water bottles, minding your business.
Everything was fine.
Suspiciously fine.
You should’ve known better.
Wooyoung noticed first.
“You’re quiet.”
“I’m trying not to move.”
“Why?”
“Because nothing bad has happened in almost three hours.”
The members exchanged looks.
“That’s actually impressive,” Jongho admitted.
“I know.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly.
“…Too impressive.”
Hongjoong immediately pointed at you. “Don’t say things like that.”
“What? I’m just saying—”
The decorative banner above the set suddenly detached from the ceiling.
Everyone screamed as it dropped directly toward the members.
Yunho lunged sideways.
San grabbed Wooyoung.
Mingi nearly fell off his chair.
And somehow—
Somehow—
the entire banner landed perfectly across your head like a veil.
Silence filled the studio.
You sat there under several meters of fabric.
“…See?” your muffled voice came from underneath. “It’s always me.”
The staff stared in horror.
Seonghwa looked genuinely pale.
Wooyoung whispered, “Oh my god.”
Hongjoong slowly rubbed his face.
“No because this is getting concerning now.”
—
After that, things escalated.
The members became deeply convinced you were cosmically doomed.
Not dangerous.
Just… targeted.
“You need spiritual cleansing,” San announced one evening.
“I need sleep.”
“No, seriously. We should sage you.”
“You can’t sage a person!”
“We don’t know that.”
“We absolutely know that!”
Yeosang looked thoughtful. “Maybe we should test it.”
“You are not experimenting on me like a haunted Victorian doll.”
Mingi gasped. “That’s exactly what a haunted Victorian doll would say.”
You threw a couch pillow at his face.
The zipper broke instantly.
Feathers exploded everywhere.
The room fell silent again.
Slowly, all eight members turned to stare at you.
You stared at the pillow remains in disbelief.
“…I barely touched that.”
Jongho quietly stood up and moved his laptop farther away from you.
“JONGHO.”
“I’m protecting my investments.”
—
The universe seemed to take their paranoia as a challenge.
One rainy evening, the group decided to order takeout and watch movies in the dorm.
Simple.
Safe.
Controlled environment.
Nothing could possibly happen.
“Famous last words,” you muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
The food arrived without incident.
A miracle.
Everyone settled in comfortably.
Another miracle.
You had just started relaxing when the power went out.
Total darkness swallowed the dorm.
A beat of silence.
Then:
“OH MY GOD.”
“WHO TOUCHED SOMETHING?”
“I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!”
“WHERE’S MY PHONE?”
“WHY IS IT STICKY OVER HERE?”
“That’s because you sat in sauce, Wooyoung.”
“WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT SO CALMLY?”
Lightning flashed outside dramatically.
Right as thunder cracked overhead, something in the kitchen crashed violently.
Everyone screamed.
Including you.
Mingi clung to Yunho.
Wooyoung climbed halfway into San’s lap.
Hongjoong used his phone flashlight with the caution of a man approaching a crime scene.
Just the eight of them sprawled around the dorm like oversized housecats while you take advantage of the free afternoon to cook something decent.
The kitchen smells incredible.
Beef stew simmering on the stove.
Fresh rice steaming.
Vegetables chopped and ready.
You’ve spent nearly two hours making enough food for eight hungry idols because, despite what they claim, every single one of them eats like they’re preparing for hibernation.
Especially Changbin.
Changbin is currently hovering beside the stove.
"You know," he says, staring into the pot, "if someone accidentally dropped a spoon in there and tasted it—"
"You'd lose the spoon."
He sighs dramatically.
"Worth it."
Across the kitchen table, Jisung laughs.
Felix is already setting out bowls.
Bang Chan is helping carry drinks from the fridge.
Minho sits at the counter pretending not to care while very obviously paying attention to every movement.
Hyunjin keeps lifting pot lids and getting his hand smacked away.
Seungmin is scrolling through his phone.
And Jeongin walks in.
Freshly awake.
Still half asleep.
Unfortunately, just awake enough to talk.
He sniffs the air.
Everyone waits.
Because everybody knows what comes next.
The mandatory appreciation of the food.
The routine.
The safe choice.
Instead Jeongin says:
"Huh."
Nobody likes that "huh."
You don't like that "huh."
Changbin definitely doesn't like that "huh."
Jeongin walks closer.
Peers into the stew.
Tilts his head.
"It smells kind of strong."
Silence.
A dangerous silence.
The kind that makes Felix slowly stop placing bowls on the table.
The kind that makes Chan look up.
The kind that makes Minho finally pay attention.
You blink once.
"Strong?"
Jeongin shrugs.
"I don't know. Heavy?"
Still salvageable.
Still recoverable.
Then he keeps talking.
"My mom's cooking is lighter."
The silence gets worse.
Hyunjin physically lowers the lid he was holding.
Jisung mutters:
"Oh no."
Jeongin doesn't notice.
"I mean, it's not bad or anything."
Another mistake.
"It's just not really my style."
Final mistake.
Complete destruction.
Game over.
You calmly turn off the stove.
Remove your apron.
Fold it neatly.
Too neatly.
Chan immediately recognizes the danger.
"Oh."
Minho leans back.
"Oh no."
Changbin closes his eyes.
"You idiot."
Jeongin finally notices everyone staring.
"What?"
You set the apron down.
Then smile.
Which somehow makes it worse.
"That's okay."
Nobody believes that.
Not even you.
"If it's not your style," you continue pleasantly, "you can all handle your own meals this week."
The room freezes.
"What?" Felix squeaks.
Hyunjin nearly drops a bowl.
Jisung sits upright.
Seungmin lowers his phone.
Chan looks genuinely alarmed.
And Jeongin laughs.
Actually laughs.
Because he thinks you're joking.
Wrong move.
You grab your phone.
"I'm serious."
The laughter dies instantly.
Chan follows you toward the door.
"Wait."
"No."
"Come on."
"No."
"Manager—"
"No."
You point at Jeongin.
"He can cook."
Jeongin's face drains of color.
Then you leave.
The door shuts.
Silence.
Nobody moves.
For a full ten seconds.
Then Changbin turns slowly toward the maknae.
"Look what you've done."
The regret begins approximately four hours later.
Because dinner arrives.
And nobody wants it.
Not because it's bad.
Because it isn't yours.
The takeout containers sit open across the table.
Nobody looks happy.
Changbin pokes at noodles.
Minho looks personally offended.
Felix sighs every few minutes.
Hyunjin keeps staring into space.
Jisung is eating but somehow making it look tragic.
Chan is trying to stay positive.
Seungmin is silently judging everyone.
And Jeongin looks increasingly uncomfortable.
"This isn't that bad."
Nobody responds.
"Guys."
Still nothing.
"I said it wasn't bad."
Changbin slowly puts down his chopsticks.
"Did you say it was good?"
"..."
"Exactly."
Day Two.
Reality settles in.
No breakfast.
No prepared snacks.
No random meals waiting after practice.
No containers labeled in the fridge.
Nothing.
Just eight grown men suddenly realizing how spoiled they've been.
Jisung opens the fridge.
Stares.
Closes it.
Opens it again.
As if food might magically appear.
It doesn't.
"Maybe if I wait."
"It won't change," Seungmin says.
"You don't know that."
Minho walks past.
Opens another cabinet.
Finds only uncooked ingredients.
"She really meant it."
Chan sighs.
"Of course she meant it."
Day Three.
The dorm begins falling apart.
Not literally.
Emotionally.
Felix burns toast.
Jisung somehow burns cereal.
Nobody knows how.
Hyunjin nearly starts a kitchen fire.
Minho refuses to explain why smoke came out of the microwave.
Changbin tries meal prepping.
The meal prep looks like punishment.
Seungmin eats crackers for lunch.
Chan orders delivery again.
Jeongin watches all of it.
Guilt growing steadily.
Day Four.
The complaints begin.
"Her soup was better."
"Her pasta was better."
"Her fried rice was better."
"Everything was better."
Hyunjin looks genuinely heartbroken.
"I miss vegetables."
"You ate vegetables yesterday."
"They weren't her vegetables."
Chan rubs his temples.
"We've reached a new level of pathetic."
"Can you blame us?" Felix asks.
"No."
He can't.
Because he misses it too.
The food.
The routine.
The feeling of coming home exhausted and knowing someone cared enough to make sure they ate.
Day Five.
Jeongin finally tries apologizing.
You don't accept it.
Not because you're cruel.
Because it's rushed.
Because he's apologizing to fix the problem.
Not because he understands it.
You know the difference.
And so does Chan.
"Try again."
Jeongin frowns.
"I already apologized."
Chan shakes his head.
"No."
"I said sorry."
"You apologized for getting caught."
That shuts him up.
Day Six.
Everyone is miserable.
The group chat becomes unbearable.
Changbin: I miss food.
Felix: Real food.
Hyunjin: Emotional support food.
Jisung: I'm fighting for my life.
Minho: Deserved.
Jeongin: Thanks.
Seungmin: He does deserve it.
Chan: Guys.
Changbin: No.
That evening Jeongin finds Minho alone in the living room.
Minho rarely gets involved in group drama.
Which is exactly why Jeongin sits down beside him.
"What would you do?"
Minho doesn't look away from the television.
"Apologize properly."
"I did."
"No."
The answer comes instantly.
Jeongin groans.
Minho finally glances over.
"You insulted something she worked hard on."
"I didn't mean to."
"I know."
"Then why is she still mad?"
Minho sighs.
Because somehow nobody understands.
"Because you assumed she'd forgive you."
The words hit harder than expected.
"You thought she would just take it because she's always nice."
Jeongin looks away.
And unfortunately—
Minho is right.
Day Seven.
The kitchen is empty when Jeongin wakes up.
He sits at the counter.
Alone.
Thinking.
For once.
Then the front door opens.
You walk in carrying groceries.
You stop when you see him.
He stands immediately.
"Can we talk?"
You set the bags down.
"Okay."
He swallows.
Then says it properly.
Finally.
Not rushed.
Not defensive.
Not trying to solve the problem.
Just honest.
"I hurt your feelings."
You stay quiet.
"I know I didn't mean to."
Another pause.
"But I still did."
Good.
That's better.
He continues.
"You cook for us all the time."
His voice softens.
"You take care of us all the time."
You look at him.
For the first time all week.
"And I acted like it wasn't important."
Silence.
"I was ungrateful."
The kitchen is quiet.
Then he bows his head.
"I'm sorry."
No excuses.
No "but."
No explanations.
Just sorry.
You stare at him for a moment.
Then sigh.
"You know what annoyed me most?"
He looks up nervously.
"The comment?"
"No."
You cross your arms.
"The confidence."
He blinks.
"You genuinely thought I'd let you get away with it."
The realization hits immediately.
And judging by his expression—
You are absolutely correct.
"I..."
"Exactly."
He winces.
A moment later you point at the grocery bags.
"Help."
He blinks.
"What?"
"The groceries."
His eyes widen.
"Wait."
You raise an eyebrow.
"You're helping or not?"
Relief floods his face.
"I'm helping."
The others arrive one by one.
Chan first.
Then Felix.
Then Jisung.
Then Hyunjin.
Then Seungmin.
Then Changbin.
Then Minho.
Each one stopping dead the moment they smell food cooking.
The kitchen is alive again.
Warm again.
Normal again.
Changbin actually looks emotional.
Felix nearly hugs the stove.
Hyunjin looks ready to write poetry.
Jisung might cry.
Chan just smiles.
Minho hides his relief.
Seungmin shakes his head.
"We really are useless."
"Correct," you say.
Nobody argues.
Dinner is served.
Everyone practically races to the table.
Jeongin sits down last.
Looking slightly embarrassed.
You place a bowl in front of him.
He looks at it.
Then at you.
"Thank you."
A genuine thank you.
Not automatic.
Not casual.
Real.
You nod once.
"You're welcome."
Changbin immediately points a spoon at him.
"Now say it."
Jeongin groans.
"No."
"Say it."
Everyone joins in.
"Say it."
"Say it."
"Say it."
Finally he gives up.
Rolls his eyes.
And mutters:
"Her cooking is amazing."
Cheers erupt around the table.
Felix claps.
Jisung nearly falls out of his chair.
Hyunjin raises both hands in victory.
Chan laughs.
Even Minho smirks.
And for the first time in a week, the dorm feels like home again.
Because nobody realized just how much love had been hidden inside those meals—
You didn’t sleep until nearly four in the morning.
Partly because post-show adrenaline always left your body vibrating like a live wire.
Mostly because of the text sitting open on your phone.
You had reread it an embarrassing number of times.
Not because it was flirtatious.
It wasn’t.
If anything, it was painfully normal.
But there was something disarming about how quickly Hongjoong had spoken to you like a real person instead of a celebrity.
No industry politeness.
Just warmth.
And maybe that was what got you.
You lay sprawled across the hotel bed, face illuminated by your phone screen as another message appeared.
Hongjoong
Did you sleep yet?
You snorted.
Arden
Says the man texting me at 3:47 AM.
The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.
Hongjoong
I’m in producer mode. Time isn’t real.
Arden
That’s the worst thing anyone has ever said to me.
Hongjoong
You understood it though.
Unfortunately, you did.
That was the problem.
You smiled into your pillow before typing back.
Arden
I blame Coachella for this temporary lapse in judgment.
A full minute passed.
Hongjoong
Temporary?
Your stomach flipped traitorously.
Oh, dangerous.
Dangerous dangerous.
You stared at the message for entirely too long before throwing your phone onto the mattress beside you.
“Nope,” you muttered aloud to the empty hotel room. “Absolutely not.”
Because this was exactly how bad ideas started.
Two musicians.
Festival atmosphere.
Sleep deprivation.
A man with unfairly pretty eyes complimenting your bridges.
Classic disaster setup.
And yet—
You picked your phone back up anyway.
—
The next afternoon, Coachella looked entirely different in daylight.
Less magical.
More chaotic.
Production crews rushed between stages carrying cables and equipment while artists wandered around in oversized sunglasses trying to look unrecognizable despite being very recognizable.
You had exactly one obligation today: attend another artist’s set for promotional visibility.
Which was industry language for: Be seen having fun.
Liv walked beside you through the backstage pathways, iced coffee in hand.
“You look suspiciously awake for someone who slept two hours.”
“Coffee,” you answered.
“And?”
You glanced at her.
“And what?”
“You know what.”
You sighed dramatically.
“We exchanged maybe six texts.”
“Mmhm.”
“That is not a relationship.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You implied it.”
“I implied nothing. I’m just observing your face.”
You hated that she knew you so well.
Before you could argue further, noise erupted from the nearby stage.
Screaming.
Loud enough that even seasoned staff turned their heads.
Liv blinked. “Wow.”
You already knew who it was before seeing the stage screens.
ATEEZ.
Their set had apparently become one of the surprise talking points of the festival weekend. Social media clips flooded everyone’s timelines overnight.
You’d seen some.
But standing here now, hearing the crowd firsthand—
Different experience entirely.
“Do you want to watch?” Liv asked casually.
You tried to sound normal.
“Sure.”
Liar.
Complete liar.
Still, you followed the sound toward the artist viewing area beside the stage.
The energy hit immediately.
ATEEZ performed like men trying to set the desert on fire.
The bass rattled through your chest as the members moved across the stage with terrifying precision. Smoke cannons exploded upward. Fans screamed every lyric. Even people who clearly hadn’t known them before seemed hypnotized.
And at the center of it—
Hongjoong.
You understood him better onstage.
Some artists became larger during performances.
He became sharper.
More focused.
Like every scattered thought in his brain suddenly aligned under stage lights.
He commanded attention without asking for it.
You folded your arms loosely against the barricade, unable to look away.
“Okay,” you admitted quietly. “This is insane.”
Liv smirked beside you.
“Told you.”
Halfway through the set, Hongjoong paced toward your side of the stage during a rap section.
His gaze swept over the crowd—
Then stopped.
Directly on you.
Even from a distance, you saw the moment recognition hit.
His expression shifted instantly.
Not enough for fans to notice.
But enough for you.
A flicker of surprise.
Then amusement.
You lifted your cup slightly in greeting.
Professional.
Casual.
Totally not affected.
Hongjoong, apparently deciding professionalism was overrated, grinned openly before turning back toward the audience.
Your stomach betrayed you immediately.
“Oh no,” Liv whispered beside you.
“What?”
“You like him.”
“I do not.”
“You’re doing the smile again.”
“What smile?”
“The one where you look emotionally compromised.”
You looked away from the stage.
“I’m firing you.”
“You can’t. I know too much.”
Unfortunately true.
The performance ended in an explosion of fireworks and deafening cheers.
Even after the members disappeared backstage, the crowd remained buzzing.
You understood why people became fans.
ATEEZ didn’t perform like they wanted approval.
They performed like they had something to prove.
And weirdly enough, that reminded you of yourself.
—
You expected maybe another text later.
What you did not expect was someone jogging toward you backstage twenty minutes after the set ended.
Hongjoong, still damp with sweat, breathing hard from exertion.
You blinked.
“Did you run here?”
“A little.”
“A little?”
He laughed breathlessly, pushing blond hair back from his forehead.
“I saw you watching.”
“Well,” you said lightly, “someone had to make sure you didn’t collapse from overcommitting to stage intensity.”
“That almost happened once.”
You stared.
“You’re joking.”
“I am not.”
That somehow made him more endearing.
Which felt deeply unfair considering the circumstances.
“You were amazing,” you admitted. “Seriously.”
His expression softened instantly.
“You stayed.”
The way he said it made warmth bloom unexpectedly beneath your ribs.
“Yeah,” you answered quietly. “I did.”
For a second, neither of you spoke.
Around you, staff members hurried past carrying equipment while distant music from another stage echoed through the desert air.
But the silence wasn’t awkward.
Just… suspended.
Hongjoong finally glanced down at the laminated festival pass hanging around your neck.
“You leave tomorrow?”
“Early flight.”
He nodded slowly.
“We leave too.”
Something about that suddenly felt disappointing.
Which was ridiculous.
You’d known this man for less than twenty-four hours.
Still.
“I hate festival schedules,” you muttered.
He looked amused. “Because?”
“You meet cool people then immediately fly to different continents.”
That earned a soft laugh from him.
Then his expression turned unexpectedly thoughtful.
“I was nervous to meet you yesterday.”
You blinked.
“What? Why?”
“You’re…” He searched for the word carefully. “Very respected.”
You stared at him in disbelief.
“Hongjoong, people literally scream when you walk outside.”
“Yes, but your lyrics make people cry.”
“That is not better.”
“I think it is.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
God.
Talking to him felt easy.
Too easy.
And maybe he felt it too because his smile faded into something quieter afterward.
More careful.
Like he was realizing the same thing.
A staff member called his name from somewhere behind him.
He ignored it.
“You know,” he said slowly, “I almost didn’t text you last night.”
“Really?”
“I thought maybe you were being polite backstage.”
You scoffed immediately.
“I would never voluntarily continue a conversation at four in the morning out of politeness.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners.
“I’m glad.”
There it was again.
That dangerous warmth.
The kind that sneaks up on you before you realize you’re attached to it.
Another shout from staff.
More insistent this time.
Hongjoong sighed dramatically toward the sky.
“They think I’m escaping.”
“Are you?”
He looked at you for one long second.
“Maybe a little.”
Your heartbeat stumbled.
Nope.
Absolutely not surviving this.
He finally stepped backward, though reluctantly.
“We should probably act professional.”
“Probably.”
Neither of you moved.
Then both of you laughed at the exact same time.
And somehow that felt intimate too.
Unbelievable.
Hongjoong shook his head softly like he couldn’t quite believe this either.
“Text me when you land tomorrow?”
Your chest tightened unexpectedly.
Such a simple request.
Yet it sounded strangely sincere coming from him.
“Okay,” you said.
His gaze lingered another second before he finally turned away, walking backward briefly.
“Don’t disappear, Arden.”
The smile that spread across your face came helplessly.
“Don’t overwork yourself, Hongjoong.”
He pressed a hand dramatically to his chest like you’d mortally wounded him.
Then he disappeared back into the backstage chaos again.
And this time, watching him leave felt a little different.
Because now you knew this wasn’t ending at Coachella.
Not in a cute, shy way either. You treated praise like it was a dodgeball being hurled directly at your face.
“Your hair looks nice today.”
“Does it? I think it’s greasy.”
“That photo you took is amazing.”
“The lighting did all the work.”
“You did so well during filming.”
“I literally just stood there.”
It drove everyone in ATEEZ insane.
Especially because every compliment they gave you was true.
“You know,” San said one afternoon, staring at you with narrowed eyes from across the practice room floor, “if you reject one more compliment, I’m going to start charging you emotional damages.”
You looked up from your laptop. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” Wooyoung argued immediately. “You wound us every day.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“And you’re allergic to self-esteem,” Yeosang muttered.
You pointed at him. “See? That’s rude.”
“That wasn’t a compliment,” he said calmly. “That was an observation.”
The others burst into laughter.
You groaned, sinking farther into the couch.
It had started innocently enough. Tiny things the members noticed over months of working with you.
The way you stayed late to help staff clean up after schedules.
How you remembered everyone’s coffee orders without writing them down.
How you always carried pain patches in your bag because Jongho inevitably overworked himself.
How you edited behind-the-scenes photos at three in the morning just because you wanted the members to have nice memories saved somewhere.
You never thought much of it.
To you, those things were normal.
To ATEEZ, apparently, they were proof that you were secretly one of the best people alive.
Unfortunately, they’d decided it was time to make you acknowledge that fact.
Which was how you found yourself trapped in the practice room after rehearsal while eight men stared at you like they were preparing an intervention.
“This feels threatening,” you said slowly.
“It is,” Hongjoong confirmed.
Mingi dragged a chair dramatically across the floor and sat down backward on it. “Today’s agenda: fixing your inability to take compliments.”
“No thank you.”
“Request denied,” Yunho said brightly.
You looked toward the door.
San noticed immediately and lunged across the room to block it with his body.
“San!”
“You’re not escaping growth.”
“I don’t want growth!”
“That’s exactly what someone in need of growth would say.”
Wooyoung clapped enthusiastically. “He’s learning therapy language again.”
“TikTok psychology is dangerous,” Seonghwa sighed.
Hongjoong crossed his arms. “Okay. New rule. Every time you reject a compliment, we give you five more.”
Your face twisted in horror. “That’s evil.”
“Thank you,” he said proudly.
“It wasn’t—”
“Too late. That counts.”
The first attack came from Yunho.
“You make every schedule less stressful,” he said easily. “Even when everyone’s exhausted, you somehow keep the atmosphere comfortable.”
You immediately waved him off. “That’s because you guys are easy to be around.”
“Wrong answer,” Wooyoung declared.
“Penalty compliments!”
“No—”
Seonghwa leaned forward. “You’re one of the most thoughtful people I know.”
“Your smile makes people relax,” Jongho added quietly.
“You always notice when someone’s mood changes,” Yeosang said.
“You smell nice,” Mingi contributed.
Everyone turned to stare at him.
“What?” he defended. “It’s true.”
Your entire face burned.
“This is horrible,” you muttered into your hands.
San grinned. “Aw, look. She’s blushing.”
“I hate all of you.”
“No you don’t,” Wooyoung said immediately. “You literally packed extra snacks for us this morning because you knew we’d skip lunch.”
“That’s just basic preparation.”
Hongjoong pointed aggressively. “There! See? She did it again!”
“Penalty compliments!”
You actually made a distressed sound.
Jongho laughed so hard he nearly fell off the couch.
Honestly, that was the worst part.
They were having fun.
An unreasonable amount of fun.
For the next week, it became their favorite game.
You walked into the dorm kitchen one morning wearing an oversized hoodie and immediately froze.
The members were sitting suspiciously quietly around the table.
“No,” you said instantly.
Wooyoung gasped. “We didn’t even say anything yet.”
“You have the faces.”
“What faces?”
“The evil ones.”
San snorted into his cereal.
You tried to back out of the room.
Too slow.
“There she is!” Yunho announced. “The prettiest person in the building.”
You covered your face instantly. “Stop.”
“She’s also talented,” Seonghwa added.
“And funny,” Mingi said.
“And emotionally supportive,” Jongho chimed in.
“And really cute when embarrassed,” Yeosang murmured.
You turned around so fast you nearly walked into the wall.
The room exploded into laughter.
“I’m being bullied,” you complained.
Hongjoong looked genuinely offended. “This is positive reinforcement.”
“This is psychological warfare.”
“Can’t it be both?” Wooyoung asked.
You stopped trusting silence after that.
Silence meant plotting.
Silence meant danger.
One particularly terrifying incident happened during a livestream.
You’d been helping staff off-camera, thinking you were safe because the members were focused on fans.
Then San glanced toward you.
You immediately narrowed your eyes.
He smiled.
That should’ve warned you.
“You know,” he said casually to the camera, “our staff works really hard for us.”
You slowly started backing away.
“And there’s one person especially,” Wooyoung continued smoothly, clearly catching on.
“No,” you whispered.
“She always takes care of us even when she’s tired,” Yunho added.
“She’s honestly one of the kindest people I’ve ever met,” Seonghwa said.
You stared at them in absolute betrayal while thousands of viewers watched this unfold in real time.
Hongjoong actually pointed the camera toward you.
“There she is.”
You nearly dropped the stack of papers in your hands.
“Say hi!”
Your face burned so hot you thought you might actually combust.
“I hate you,” you mouthed silently.
The chat exploded.
SHE’S SO CUTE
LOOK HOW FLUSTERED SHE IS
ATEEZ EXPOSING THEIR STAFF AGAIN 😭
PROTECT HER
“See?” Mingi said proudly. “Even ATINY agrees.”
You vanished from the room immediately while their laughter followed you down the hallway.
Afterward, you refused to speak to them for nearly two hours.
Which only lasted until Jongho appeared beside you with your favorite drink and a quiet, “You know we mean it, right?”
That was the problem.
You did know.
You just… didn’t know what to do with it.
Compliments always felt too big inside your chest. Like clothes that didn’t fit right.
You never knew how to hold praise without immediately trying to hand it back.
Maybe because accepting it felt arrogant.
Maybe because part of you genuinely struggled to see what everyone else saw.
Or maybe you were just more comfortable being useful than being appreciated.
Unfortunately, ATEEZ noticed everything.
Including that.
It happened properly one night after practice.
Everyone was exhausted, sprawled around the studio floor with water bottles and sweat-damp hair.
You’d spent most of rehearsal helping reorganize files, fixing a speaker issue, and running around grabbing things people forgot.
Normal.
Unimportant.
At least to you.
You were packing your bag quietly when Hongjoong suddenly spoke.
“You know what your problem is?”
You looked up warily. “That question never ends well.”
“You think people only value you for what you do.”
The room went oddly quiet.
Your fingers stilled against your backpack zipper.
“That’s not true.”
“Yes it is,” Yeosang said gently.
“You always brush off compliments about yourself,” Seonghwa added softly. “But if we praise something you did for us, you accept it easier.”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it again.
Because annoyingly enough, they were right.
Mingi sat cross-legged on the floor, expression unusually serious now. “You act like being loved has to be earned every second.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
“Guys—”
“No, listen,” Yunho interrupted carefully. “We’re not complimenting you because you help us. We compliment you because you’re you.”
San nodded immediately. “The helping is extra.”
“You make rooms feel safer,” Jongho said quietly.
“You listen without making people feel judged,” Seonghwa added.
“You care about people in a way that’s rare,” Hongjoong said.
Wooyoung pointed dramatically at you. “And you’re important to us even when you’re doing absolutely nothing.”
Your eyes burned instantly.
Oh.
Oh, that was unfair.
“You can’t just say things like that,” you muttered weakly.
“Why not?” Yeosang asked.
“Because—”
You stopped.
Because what?
Because you didn’t believe it?
Because hearing it made something fragile crack open inside you?
The room stayed quiet.
Not teasing this time.
Just patient.
You stared down at your hands.
“I don’t know how to accept compliments,” you admitted finally, voice embarrassingly small.
“We know,” Wooyoung said gently.
“And I think…” You laughed shakily. “I think part of me assumes people are exaggerating.”
Hongjoong leaned back against the wall. “Do eight grown men seem coordinated enough to collectively lie to you this consistently?”
You snorted despite yourself.
“That’s fair.”
“We’re actually very bad at coordination,” Mingi informed you solemnly.
“Especially Wooyoung.”
“Excuse me?”
“You once set off the dorm fire alarm making ramen.”
“That happened one time!”
“Three times,” Jongho corrected.
Wooyoung gasped in betrayal while everyone laughed.
The tension loosened a little.
Then Seonghwa looked at you carefully.
“You don’t have to believe everything immediately,” he said softly. “But maybe stop arguing with us when we care about you.”
Your chest hurt in the warmest way possible.
You blinked rapidly. “You guys are really emotional for people who spend most of their time screaming.”
“We contain multitudes,” San said proudly.
“You cried because your bread tore weirdly last week,” Yeosang reminded him.
“That was a difficult morning.”
Another laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Yunho noticed immediately, smiling so brightly it almost hurt to look at.
“There she is.”
“What?”
“That look,” he said. “You look lighter.”
You rolled your eyes automatically, but the reaction lacked its usual force.
Wooyoung pointed excitedly. “Wait. WAIT. She didn’t reject the compliment!”
The room erupted.
“Oh my god.”
“Mark the calendar!”
“Historic moment!”
“She’s healing!”
You buried your face in your hands again, groaning while everyone cheered dramatically around you.
But this time…
You were laughing too.
And maybe—just maybe—a tiny part of you believed them.
The idea had sounded simple when it was explained over breakfast.
“Team bonding activity,” Chan had said with that overly responsible leader voice he only used when he was pretending chaos wouldn’t happen. “Escape room. Fun. We solve puzzles together, we get out, we eat after.”
You should’ve known better.
Because this wasn’t just any group.
This was Stray Kids.
And half of them had already decided, before the door even closed, that “puzzles” were more of a suggestion than a rule set.
The moment the heavy escape room door clicked shut behind you, the room dimmed into atmospheric lighting—flickering lamps, faux cobwebs, a fake “abandoned laboratory” aesthetic.
A recorded voice echoed:
“Welcome. You have sixty minutes to escape.”
“Easy,” Chan said immediately, clapping his hands once like he was about to lead a military operation.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Han interrupted, already spinning in a circle. “What if we don’t want to escape though? What if we just vibe here?”
“Han,” Seungmin said flatly, “that defeats the entire purpose.”
Hyunjin had already found a prop skull on a shelf and was dramatically whispering to it like it was cursed.
Felix was crouched near a glowing panel saying, “Guys I think this is important! It’s blinking!”
“It’s blinking because it’s decorative,” you said.
“It still feels important,” Felix insisted.
Lee Know was staring at the door like he was calculating how much force it would take to remove it from existence.
Changbin rolled his shoulders. “If we can’t solve it in ten minutes, I’m breaking something.”
“Please don’t break anything,” you said immediately.
“I didn’t say I would break something in the room,” Changbin replied.
That was not reassuring.
Minute 5: The First Mistake
Chan had already organized everyone into roles.
“Okay, Minho and Seungmin, check for hidden mechanisms. Changbin and I will analyze clues. Felix, Hyunjin—stop touching random things.”
Hyunjin immediately touched something random.
A loud click echoed.
A vent above you popped open.
Confetti shot out.
A siren began blaring.
You stared at Hyunjin.
Hyunjin stared at the vent.
“…That was not me,” he said.
“It was literally you,” Seungmin replied.
Han gasped. “We unlocked party mode!”
“No,” you said slowly, “we absolutely did not unlock party mode.”
A recorded voice: “Hint penalty activated.”
Chan buried his face in his hands.
Lee Know muttered, “We’ve been in here five minutes.”
Minute 12: Strategic Collapse
You tried again.
Chan was reading a clue sheet carefully now. Seungmin was actually making progress deciphering a number sequence. You could see the logic forming.
Then Han leaned over.
“Oh I get it,” he said.
Seungmin didn’t look up. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes I do. It’s obvious. The code is—”
“Han,” Chan warned.
“It’s 4-7-2-—”
“DON’T SAY IT OUT LOUD,” you snapped.
Too late.
A lock on the far wall beeped, reset itself, and flashed red.
Seungmin slowly turned his head toward Han.
Han blinked. “What? I was helping.”
“You actively made it worse,” Changbin said.
Han smiled brightly. “That’s my role!”
Minute 20: Felix’s Optimism vs Reality
Felix had decided the solution was positivity.
“I think we’re close,” he said, crouching beside a bookshelf. “Like, I can feel it.”
“You can feel the puzzle?” Lee Know asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s not how puzzles work,” Seungmin said.
Felix opened a drawer.
A fake spider jumped out.
Felix screamed.
Hyunjin screamed because Felix screamed.
Han screamed because Hyunjin screamed.
You screamed because now everyone was screaming.
Chan just stared at the ceiling like he was asking for strength from the universe itself.
When the silence returned, Felix whispered, “Okay… that one was my fault.”
“Thank you,” you said.
Minute 28: The Breakthrough (Almost)
Chan and Seungmin finally figured out a sequence tied to symbols on the wall.
“It matches the painting,” Seungmin said.
Chan nodded. “If we align the mirror reflections—”
Hyunjin, from across the room: “What if we just guess?”
“No,” the entire room said in unison.
Hyunjin pouted.
Lee Know carefully adjusted a panel. “If we do this slowly, it should open—”
Han leaned on a pedestal.
A loud CLUNK echoed.
The ceiling lights flickered violently.
A hidden speaker announced: “Second penalty applied.”
Seungmin closed his eyes.
Chan looked at Han.
Han raised his hands. “I didn’t even try this time.”
“That’s worse,” Changbin said.
Minute 35: Emotional Damage Phase
The room was now actively judging you.
The lighting had turned red.
The sound system occasionally whispered “incorrect” in different languages.
You were pretty sure that wasn’t part of the design.
“I think the room hates us,” Felix said softly.
“The room is neutral,” Seungmin said. “We are the problem.”
Hyunjin dramatically leaned against the wall. “What if we live here forever?”
“We are not living here forever,” you said.
Han pointed at a random symbol. “That one looks like a chicken.”
“That is not a chicken.”
“It’s a chicken emotionally.”
Changbin rubbed his face. “We are losing time.”
Chan, still trying to stay composed, said, “Okay. Reset. We focus. No touching things without confirmation.”
Everyone nodded.
A beat of silence.
Then Han sneezed.
And accidentally hit a hidden button on the table.
Minute 42: The Room Escalates
The floor vibrated.
A new compartment opened revealing another puzzle layer.
You stared at it.
Seungmin stared at Han.
Han stared at the floor like it betrayed him first.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Yes you did,” Lee Know said calmly.
Chan looked exhausted in a way that felt deeply spiritual.
“We are still solvable,” he said, like a man trying to convince fate itself.
Hyunjin picked up a clue card. “This one says ‘do not overthink.’ That’s about us, right?”
“No,” Seungmin said immediately. “That is not for us.”
“It feels personal,” Felix added.
Minute 50: The Almost Escape
It came down to one final lock.
Chan lined up the last sequence.
Seungmin double-checked it.
Lee Know stepped back, watching.
You held your breath.
Chan entered the code.
A pause.
A soft mechanical whir.
CLICK—
The door unlocked.
Silence.
Then—
Han, in awe: “WAIT—WHAT IF WE TRY IT AGAIN JUST TO BE SURE—”
“NO!” everyone shouted.
Lee Know physically grabbed him by the collar.
For once, Han looked genuinely innocent. “I was just saying.”
“You were just ending our entire lives,” Changbin said.
The door slowly opened.
Bright hallway light flooded in like salvation.
You almost cried.
Minute 52: Freedom (Barely)
You stepped out first, blinking at the real world like it was sacred.
Chan followed, looking like he had aged five years.
Seungmin sighed like he’d just finished a final exam.
Felix was smiling again, already saying, “That was actually fun!”
Even with the sun gone behind the mountains surrounding Coachella, the air still carried warmth, dust, and the electric pulse of thousands of people screaming somewhere beyond the backstage walls.
You could hear bass from another stage vibrating through the ground beneath your boots.
It felt unreal.
Not because you’d never played a festival before—you had.
Not because crowds scared you anymore—they didn’t.
But because this was Coachella.
And somewhere outside your trailer, people were already chanting your name.
“Arden, five minutes.”
Your manager, Liv, peeked her head through the door, headset halfway falling off.
“You nervous?”
You laughed softly, setting your guitar pick down on the vanity.
“Terrified.”
“Good. Means you care.”
Liv disappeared again before you could answer.
You stared at your reflection for another second.
Arden Blake.
Three albums. One Grammy nomination. A sold-out North American tour. Millions of listeners. Think pieces online calling you “the next generation of confessional pop.”
And somehow you still felt like the seventeen-year-old girl writing breakup lyrics on her bedroom floor in Boston.
You stood, smoothing your hands over the silver fabric of your stage outfit. The sequins caught the trailer lights like tiny stars.
Outside, the crowd roared again.
Your stomach flipped.
Showtime.
—
The performance passed in flashes.
Golden lights.
The burn of stage smoke in your lungs.
Fans screaming every lyric louder than your own microphone.
You opened with Parallel Lines, transitioned into Blue Flame, and halfway through your acoustic set, forty thousand people held up their phone lights like constellations across the desert.
That nearly broke you.
You sat at the piano during your final song, trying not to let emotion crack your voice.
But it happened anyway.
And somehow the audience loved you more for it.
By the time you walked offstage, sweat dampened the back of your neck and adrenaline buzzed under your skin so intensely you thought you might actually float.
“Holy shit,” your drummer yelled behind you. “That was insane.”
You laughed breathlessly.
Someone shoved water into your hands.
Another person fixed your in-ear pack.
Everyone backstage moved fast. Crew members. Security. Stylists. Publicists.
Controlled chaos.
You barely had time to process anything before Liv reappeared.
“Apparently,” she said carefully, “some idols from a Korean group want to say hi.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“They watched your set.”
“That’s oddly terrifying.”
Liv snorted. “Be nice.”
“I’m always nice.”
“You’re sarcastic.”
“Same thing.”
She rolled her eyes and guided you farther into the backstage corridor.
The noise from outside dimmed here, replaced by muffled voices and passing golf carts.
Then you saw them.
Eight men stood near one of the production tents, all dressed differently enough that you instantly recognized them as performers. Stage makeup. Designer clothes. The unmistakable exhausted-but-still-running-on-adrenaline energy artists had after performing.
And one of them—
Well.
One of them immediately stood out.
Blond hair under the harsh backstage lighting. Sharp eyes. Lean frame. Black cropped jacket covered in embellishments.
He looked artistic in a way that felt intentional.
Not curated.
Real.
When he noticed you approaching, his posture straightened slightly.
One of the others whispered something to him.
You caught the teasing grin that followed.
Ah.
So that was the dynamic.
Liv smiled politely. “Arden, this is ATEEZ.”
Recognition hit immediately.
“Oh my god,” you said. “Wait—I know you guys.”
A few of them laughed.
“You know us?” another member asked, sounding genuinely surprised.
“I’m chronically online,” you deadpanned.
That earned louder laughter.
The blond one smiled too, though his was quieter.
More observant.
You looked toward him instinctively.
“And you’re—”
“Hongjoong,” he said.
Kim Hongjoong.
Right.
You’d seen clips of him before. Mostly performance edits and interviews people posted online. Fans always talked about his producing.
Now that he stood in front of you, you understood why cameras liked him so much.
He had presence.
Not arrogance.
Just gravity.
“You were incredible,” he said carefully, English smooth but accented. “Your lyrics are…” He paused, searching for the word. “Very honest.”
That caught you off guard more than compliments usually did.
Most people mentioned your vocals first.
Or your stage production.
Not the lyrics.
“Thank you,” you said, softer now. “That means a lot.”
One of the members behind him dramatically pointed between the two of you.
“Oh, artists,” he sighed. “Here they go.”
Everyone burst into laughter again.
Even Hongjoong ducked his head, embarrassed.
You liked that immediately.
Not the teasing.
The fact he accepted the teasing.
It made him seem grounded.
“So,” you said, folding your arms lightly, “you guys performed yesterday, right?”
“Yes,” Hongjoong answered.
“I watched clips this morning. The production was insane.”
His eyes widened slightly.
“You watched?”
“Again,” you said, “chronically online.”
That made him laugh properly this time.
And wow.
That was dangerous.
Because suddenly he looked less intimidating.
Less like an idol people worshipped online and more like an actual person standing three feet away from you backstage in the California desert.
One of the other members—tall, broad shoulders, mischievous grin—nudged Hongjoong hard enough to nearly knock him sideways.
“You should show her the remix.”
Hongjoong shot him a look.
Your curiosity sharpened instantly.
“What remix?”
“Nothing,” Hongjoong answered too quickly.
“It’s not nothing,” another member argued. “He literally worked on it in the hotel room at three in the morning.”
You gasped dramatically.
“Oh, producer behavior. I know this disease.”
That earned another surprised laugh from Hongjoong.
“You produce too?”
“A little,” you said. “Mostly songwriting though.”
His expression shifted at that.
Interest.
Real interest.
Not polite industry conversation.
“What’s your favorite song you wrote?” he asked.
The question came immediately.
No hesitation.
Like he genuinely wanted the answer.
You considered it.
“Not my biggest song,” you admitted. “But probably Saturn Returns.”
His eyes lit up.
“I listened to that album.”
You stared at him.
“No, you didn’t.”
“I did.”
“You are lying directly to my face right now.”
He shook his head, smiling.
“I liked the bridge.”
Your brain short-circuited slightly.
Because Saturn Returns hadn’t been a commercial hit.
Casual listeners didn’t mention the bridge.
Songwriters did.
“Oh,” you said quietly.
And for one strange suspended second, the noise backstage disappeared.
No festival.
No managers.
No security.
Just two musicians looking at each other with sudden understanding.
You knew that feeling.
Meeting someone who cared about music the same obsessive way you did.
It was rare.
Dangerously rare.
A staff member called for ATEEZ from somewhere nearby.
The moment broke gently.
One of the members groaned dramatically. Another complained about schedules.
You smiled despite yourself.
Hongjoong glanced toward his group before looking back at you.
“We have to go.”
“Yeah,” you said. “Same.”
There was a beat of hesitation.
Then:
“Can I ask something?” he said.
“Sure.”
“Would it be okay if we kept in touch?”
Your heartbeat stumbled embarrassingly hard.
Professional, you reminded yourself immediately.
This was professional.
Artists networking.
Totally normal.
Still, something warm spread through your chest anyway.
“Yeah,” you said. “I’d like that.”
His smile this time was smaller.
But real enough that it felt unfair.
Phones appeared almost immediately after that.
One of the members cheered loudly when Hongjoong got your contact information.
Another yelled something in Korean that made everyone start laughing again.
Hongjoong looked deeply unimpressed.
You were already charmed.
“This is bullying,” he informed you.
“You’ll survive.”
“I’m not sure.”
You grinned.
“Text me your remix sometime.”
His expression softened instantly.
“I will.”
Then another call from staff.
Another rush of movement.
The strange, nonstop motion of festival life.
And just like that, the moment started slipping away.
But before he turned to leave, Hongjoong looked back once more.
“Good job tonight, Arden.”
Not great show.
Not you killed it.
Good job.
Like he understood what performing really took out of a person.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly.
“You too, Hongjoong.”
Then he disappeared into the moving sea of staff and security and lights.
Gone almost as quickly as he’d appeared.
You stood there for another second longer than necessary.
Watching the empty space.
Liv slowly walked beside you again.
“So,” she said carefully.
You blinked.
“So?”
“You’re smiling.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
You looked down at your phone.
A new contact sat open on the screen.
Hongjoong.
And beneath it—
A message already waiting.
Hope your post-show adrenaline lets you sleep tonight :)
The first time you met Seungkwan, he was halfway through an argument with a stylist over a cardigan.
“It’s not ugly,” he insisted dramatically, one hand pressed to his chest. “It’s vintage.”
“It’s orange,” the stylist deadpanned.
“It’s fashion.”
You’d stood in the doorway of the conference room holding a clipboard and an iced coffee, watching him wave the cardigan around like he was defending a human rights violation instead of knitwear.
Then his manager had pointed at you.
“Great. You’re here. This is your new PR manager.”
Seungkwan blinked.
You blinked back.
The stylist muttered, “Good luck,” under their breath before walking out.
That should’ve been your warning sign.
Instead, you smiled professionally and introduced yourself.
Three years later, you were ninety percent sure your actual job description was preventing Pledis Entertainment from suing him for emotional damages.
“Tell me again,” you said slowly over the phone, “why there are seventeen separate videos of you attempting to fight a haunted house employee.”
“I didn’t attempt to fight him,” Seungkwan argued from somewhere that sounded suspiciously public. “I was defending myself.”
“You chased him.”
“He started it.”
“He popped out and said boo, Seungkwan.”
“That’s psychological warfare.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose.
Across from you, your coworker nearly choked trying not to laugh.
“Please tell me you at least apologized.”
“I bought him churros.”
You sighed.
“You’re exhausting.”
“And yet,” he said smugly, “you continue to answer my calls.”
Because unfortunately, he was impossible not to answer.
That was the problem with Seungkwan.
He was loud and dramatic and occasionally a public relations nightmare wrapped in designer jackets. But he was also painfully sincere. The kind of person who remembered everyone’s birthdays, who bowed to staff members after every schedule, who noticed when you skipped meals and silently handed you protein bars during meetings.
You spent half your life cleaning up after him.
And the other half trying not to care too much about him.
Which was going fine.
Mostly.
Until the scandal happened.
—
“Absolutely not.”
Your director looked up from his laptop calmly.
“It’s already trending.”
“I don’t care.”
“Fans think you’re dating him.”
“That sounds like a them problem.”
“You were photographed leaving his apartment at midnight.”
“Because he had food poisoning.”
“And you stayed until morning.”
“Because he thought he was dying after WebMD told him stomach cramps could mean organ failure.”
“It’s convincing.”
You stared at him in disbelief.
Behind you, Seungkwan raised a cautious hand.
“To be fair,” he offered, “I did look really fragile.”
You whipped around.
“This is your fault.”
“How?”
“You posted a selfie with me in the background.”
“I thought you looked pretty.”
The room went silent.
Seungkwan froze.
You froze.
Your director blinked slowly.
“…That did not help,” he muttered.
Seungkwan coughed violently into his fist. “I meant professional. Pretty professionally competent.”
You narrowed your eyes.
Unfortunately, the internet had already decided otherwise.
Articles spread overnight.
Anonymous insider reports.
Speculation videos.
Photos zoomed in so aggressively that someone had identified your shampoo brand sitting in Seungkwan’s bathroom.
Which was invasive in ways you didn’t even want to process.
The company had two options:
Deny everything aggressively and risk escalating the rumors.
Or lean into it temporarily until the public lost interest.
Guess which option they picked.
“You want us to fake date,” you said flatly.
Your director nodded.
“For two months.”
“Two months.”
“It’ll stabilize his image.”
Seungkwan frowned. “What’s wrong with my image?”
Three people in the room laughed.
“I’m sitting right here,” he complained.
“You’re beloved,” the director corrected. “But chaotic. Domestic dating rumors actually help.”
Seungkwan pointed at himself proudly. “Domestic.”
You ignored him.
“This is ridiculous.”
“It’s temporary.”
“It’s invasive.”
“It’s strategic.”
“It’s stupid.”
“It’s effective.”
You turned toward Seungkwan for support.
He stared back thoughtfully.
Then—
“I think we could pull it off.”
Traitor.
—
The first fake date happened three days later.
You wore sunglasses and a baseball cap despite the fact that it was nearly evening.
“This feels illegal,” you muttered.
Beside you, Seungkwan looked delighted.
“This is exciting.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
He gasped dramatically. “I’m an entertainer. Public romance is part of my cultural heritage.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet here you are.”
Unfortunately, he looked unfairly good.
Simple hoodie.
Black mask pulled beneath his chin while walking between quieter streets.
Soft hair falling over his forehead.
Relaxed in a way idols rarely got to be publicly.
You’d seen him exhausted, sick, annoyed, overworked, emotional.
But this version of him—the comfortable one—was dangerous.
Especially when he reached over casually and took your hand.
Your entire body short-circuited.
“Seungkwan.”
“Cameras.”
You looked up.
Sure enough, someone lingered across the street pretending very badly not to stare.
“Oh.”
His fingers tightened slightly around yours.
Warm.
Comfortable.
Natural.
Too natural.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
You forced yourself to nod.
“Fine.”
He smiled softly.
And for some reason, that expression affected you more than the hand-holding.
Because Seungkwan smiled at everyone.
But this one felt smaller somehow.
Realer.
As if it belonged only to you.
Which was ridiculous.
This was fake.
You repeated that to yourself the entire evening.
Fake while he pulled your chair out at dinner.
Fake while he wiped sauce from the corner of your mouth absentmindedly.
Fake while he leaned close to show you something on his phone and your shoulders brushed together.
Fake.
Fake.
Fake.
Then he laughed at one of your jokes—head thrown back, eyes crinkling—and your heart betrayed you completely.
—
The public lost their minds.
“Fans are calling you soulmates,” your coworker informed you the next morning.
“Great.”
“One article referred to him as lovesick.”
You nearly spit out your coffee.
“What?”
She turned her monitor around.
There, in horrifying HD clarity, was a photo of Seungkwan looking at you like you personally hung the moon.
You stared.
Then stared harder.
Because—
“Oh no.”
“What?”
“He wasn’t acting there.”
Your coworker slowly lowered the monitor.
“That sounds concerning.”
“It is.”
—
Things escalated after that.
Because once the public accepted the relationship, Seungkwan committed to the role with alarming enthusiasm.
“Is this necessary?” you asked one night while reviewing an interview script.
“Yes.”
“You posted a photo of my hand holding a tangerine.”
“It was artistic.”
“The caption says my girl feeds me well.”
“You do feed me well.”
“I ordered takeout because you forgot to eat again.”
“Exactly. Romance.”
You groaned.
But secretly—
Secretly, you started looking forward to him.
To the messages.
To the late-night calls.
To the way he always saved you a seat beside him during schedules now.
It blurred too easily.
The line between performance and reality.
Especially because Seungkwan had become… clingier.
Not obnoxiously.
Just quietly.
A hand at your lower back.
His head on your shoulder during long car rides.
Little glances across crowded rooms searching for you automatically.
Like he’d gotten used to orbiting around you.
And the worst part?
You’d gotten used to it too.
—
“You know,” Jeonghan said casually one afternoon, “he’s in love with you.”
You almost dropped your tablet.
“What?”
The older idol looked deeply unbothered.
“You heard me.”
“He’s acting.”
“Mhm.”
“That’s the whole point.”
Jeonghan gave you a pitying look.
“You really think Boo Seungkwan is capable of pretending to shut up about someone twenty-four hours a day?”
“He does not talk about me twenty-four hours a day.”
Jeonghan stared.
From across the room, Seungkwan yelled suddenly—
“Did she eat lunch yet?”
You closed your eyes.
Jeonghan sipped his iced americano.
“He’s down catastrophic.”
“This conversation is over.”
“You should probably figure your feelings out before he combusts.”
“I don’t have feelings.”
“You came to his schedule on your day off.”
“…As PR support.”
“You brought him vitamin gummies.”
You hated that everyone in this group was observant.
—
The breaking point came during a livestream.
It wasn’t supposed to be complicated.
Just Seungkwan casually chatting with fans in the company studio while you monitored comments nearby.
Easy.
Normal.
Manageable.
Until someone commented:
Blink twice if the relationship is fake.
You stiffened instantly.
Seungkwan read it aloud.
Then he looked directly toward you off-camera.
And smiled.
Not the exaggerated idol smile.
Not the variety-show grin.
Something softer.
Warmer.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been very good at pretending,” he said lightly.
Your breath caught.
The comments exploded immediately.
He continued before you could panic.
“But thank you for worrying about me,” he added smoothly, redirecting the conversation like a professional.
The livestream continued normally.
You, however, stopped functioning.
Because his eyes had lingered on you too long.
Because the words felt too honest.
Because suddenly you weren’t sure either of you were acting anymore.
After the stream ended, you cornered him backstage.
“What was that?”
Seungkwan blinked innocently.
“What was what?”
“You know exactly what.”
He leaned against the table behind him.
For once, he wasn’t smiling theatrically.
Just watching you carefully.
“You’re upset.”
“I’m confused.”
That seemed to catch him off guard.
His expression softened immediately.
“Oh.”
The single syllable carried surprising gentleness.
You crossed your arms tightly.
“This arrangement is getting out of control.”
“Do you want it to stop?”
The question came too quickly.
Like he’d been waiting to ask it.
And suddenly your chest hurt.
Because the truthful answer should’ve been yes.
This was messy.
Unprofessional.
Dangerous for both of you.
But instead—
“No,” you admitted quietly.
Seungkwan went still.
The room felt painfully silent.
Then he laughed once under his breath.
Not mocking.
Almost relieved.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, “how happy that makes me.”
Your pulse jumped.
“Seungkwan…”
“I tried not to mean it.”
His voice stayed calm, but his eyes gave him away completely.
“I really did.”
You couldn’t move.
“I know this started as work,” he continued softly, “but somewhere along the way, you became the first person I wanted to tell everything to. The first person I looked for in every room.”
Your throat tightened.
“And honestly?” he said with a weak smile. “Pretending to date you was kind of horrible.”
You blinked.
“Horrible?”
“Yeah. Because I had to act normal when all I really wanted to do was kiss you.”
Your brain completely stopped.
Seungkwan noticed immediately.
“Oh no,” he muttered. “I overwhelmed you.”
“A little.”
“Sorry. I can make it less intense.”
“That’s not the issue.”
“Then what is?”
You stared at him helplessly.
Then laughed suddenly because this was absurd.
Entirely absurd.
You had spent years professionally managing scandals.
And somehow the biggest disaster of your career was falling for Boo Seungkwan.
“I think,” you admitted carefully, “I forgot where the acting ended too.”
His expression changed instantly.
Hope.
Bright and disbelieving and terrifyingly open.
“Really?”
You nodded once.
And Seungkwan—usually loud, dramatic, overflowing with reactions—went strangely quiet.
Like the answer genuinely mattered that much.
Then he stepped closer carefully.
Giving you time to back away.
You didn’t.
His hand slid gently against your jaw.
Warm fingertips.
Shaky breath.
“You know,” he whispered, smiling slightly, “I can’t believe I had to fake date you first. That’s so embarrassing for me.”
You laughed despite yourself.
“There’s the ego again.”
“I’m trying to be vulnerable romantically. Don’t ruin this.”
“You literally confessed by complaining.”
“And yet it worked.”
Unfortunately, it had.
Completely.
His forehead rested lightly against yours.
For a second neither of you moved.
Then—
“Can I kiss you?” he asked quietly.
Professionalism should’ve stopped you.
Common sense too.
Instead, you whispered—
“Please.”
Seungkwan kissed like he did everything else:
Earnestly.
Completely.
One hand cradling your face like something precious.
Like he’d thought about this longer than he wanted to admit.
The kiss was soft at first, almost cautious.
Then you kissed him back properly and he made the tiniest surprised sound before pulling you closer immediately.
And suddenly every lingering look, every accidental touch, every moment that felt too real finally made sense.
When you finally pulled apart, he looked dazed.
Then unbearably smug.
“Oh my god,” he breathed. “I knew it.”
You shoved his shoulder weakly.
“There he is.”
“My girlfriend likes me back,” he informed the ceiling emotionally. “This is the best day of my life.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And now,” he said proudly, stealing another quick kiss, “technically not fake dating anymore.”
You stared at him.
“…You’re going to become even more unbearable now, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely.” He grinned. “But your job security has never been stronger.”
You laughed so hard your forehead fell against his shoulder.
And above you, Seungkwan smiled like he’d already decided he wanted to keep you there forever.
Not silent—never silent. Somewhere down the hall, a dryer rattled unevenly. A television played at low volume from another room, muffled by walls and exhaustion. Rain tapped lazily against the windows, soft enough to blur into white noise.
But compared to the screaming fans, the stage monitors, the endless rehearsals and schedules that had swallowed the last three days whole, this felt like peace.
Or maybe it only felt peaceful because you were here with him.
“You’re still awake?”
You looked up from your phone as Kim Jinhwan shuffled into the kitchen wearing gray sweatpants and an oversized hoodie that looked soft enough to collapse into. His hair was messy from sleep attempts that clearly hadn’t worked, and there were faint crescents under his eyes.
“You say that like you’re not standing here too,” you muttered.
He huffed out a laugh and opened the fridge.
“You caught me.”
It was nearly three in the morning.
Again.
Somehow, over the years, this had become your thing.
After schedules ended and everyone else crashed immediately, Jinhwan would drift into the kitchen or the living room, and you’d already be there half the time—awake from your own work, insomnia, or just habit. Then the two of you would sit together in comfortable exhaustion until one of you finally lost the battle against sleep.
Sometimes you talked.
Sometimes you didn’t.
Neither of you ever questioned it.
Tonight, though, he looked especially drained.
The kind of tired that settled into someone’s bones.
“You ate?” you asked.
“Mhm.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He closed the fridge with a sigh. “Half a sandwich.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re nagging again.”
“You need nutrients to survive, Jinhwan.”
“Debatable.”
You rolled your eyes and stood, moving around him toward the cabinets.
Behind you, he groaned dramatically.
“Don’t make food.”
“I’m making ramen.”
“You’re proving my point.”
“You’ll eat it anyway.”
A pause.
“…Probably.”
You smirked in victory.
The kitchen filled with quiet movement after that. Running water. The click of the stove. Steam slowly curling upward into the warm yellow light overhead.
Jinhwan leaned against the counter beside you, unusually still.
Normally he’d be teasing you by now—stealing ingredients, bumping your shoulder, complaining dramatically about starvation. But tonight he just watched you with heavy eyes, arms folded loosely across his chest.
“You okay?” you asked softly.
“Mhm.”
“That’s the second fake answer tonight.”
His mouth twitched.
“You keeping score?”
“Always.”
He laughed quietly at that, but it faded fast.
You glanced at him again.
Up close, exhaustion clung to him. Not just physical tiredness, but something deeper. The kind that built slowly over months of pressure and expectations and never fully being allowed to stop.
You’d known him long enough to recognize it immediately.
“Bad schedule?” you asked.
He exhaled through his nose. “Just long.”
“Fansites bothering you again?”
“A little.”
“Manager stress?”
“A little.”
“Members annoying?”
His eyes finally brightened slightly. “Always.”
“There he is.”
That earned you a real smile.
Small.
Sleepy.
But real.
The ramen finished cooking a few minutes later, and you split it between two bowls even though he insisted he wasn’t hungry.
He stole half your egg anyway.
“You’re actually the worst,” you muttered.
“You love me.”
The words came easily.
Carelessly.
Like they always did between you.
But something about tonight made them land differently.
Maybe because he looked at you after saying it.
Really looked at you.
Not teasing.
Not smug.
Just… searching.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly.
You busied yourself with eating.
Outside, rain continued drumming softly against the windows.
Jinhwan rested his cheek against his fist as he stared down into his bowl.
“You know,” he said eventually, voice quieter than before, “I think you’re the only reason I still stay awake after schedules.”
You blinked at him.
“What?”
“I mean it.”
He shrugged one shoulder lazily, though his eyes stayed fixed on the noodles.
“Everyone else goes to sleep immediately. Which they should. But…” He paused. “If I know you’re awake too, I don’t really mind staying up.”
Something warm unfurled painfully in your chest.
“That’s kind of sad,” you joked weakly.
“It probably is.”
“You need healthier coping mechanisms.”
“You’re assuming you’re not the coping mechanism.”
You nearly choked.
“Kim Jinhwan.”
“What?” he said innocently.
But his smile had faded again.
And suddenly you realized something.
He wasn’t joking tonight.
The air shifted quietly between you.
Not dramatic.
Not sharp.
Just different.
Like standing on the edge of something neither of you had acknowledged before.
You looked down at your bowl.
“I think you’re just tired.”
“Probably.”
But he said it too quickly.
You knew him too well.
And he knew you knew.
Jinhwan sighed and leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the rain-streaked window.
“Can I be honest?”
“That depends. Is this about to emotionally devastate me?”
He snorted softly.
“Maybe a little.”
“Great.”
For a moment, he said nothing.
You waited.
Finally, quietly, he spoke.
“When things get overwhelming…” He rubbed tiredly at his eyes. “When schedules are awful or I’m stressed or everyone wants something from me…” His voice lowered. “You’re the only person I can sit with and not feel exhausted.”
Your breath caught.
The kitchen suddenly felt too small.
Too warm.
“You make everything feel quiet,” he admitted.
You stared at him.
He still wasn’t looking at you.
And somehow that made it worse.
Or maybe better.
More honest.
“I don’t have to be funny with you,” he continued softly. “Or energetic. Or interesting. I can just…” He exhaled. “Exist.”
The ache in your chest deepened into something unbearable.
Because you understood exactly what he meant.
With everyone else, Jinhwan carried something constantly—expectations, responsibility, energy, brightness.
But here, at three in the morning in an almost-dark kitchen, he looked stripped down to something real and exhausted and frighteningly vulnerable.
And he trusted you enough to show it.
“You know you can do that with me anytime,” you said quietly.
Finally, he looked at you.
His expression softened immediately.
“I know.”
The way he said it nearly ruined you.
Steady.
Certain.
Like there had never been a doubt.
Your fingers tightened around your chopsticks.
“Jinhwan…”
He smiled faintly.
“Told you this might emotionally devastate you.”
“You’re annoying.”
“You’re emotional.”
“I’m not emotional.”
“You have the same face you make during sad movies.”
“I do not.”
“You cried during that dog commercial.”
“That dog died!”
“He got reincarnated five seconds later!”
You burst into helpless laughter despite yourself, and relief flickered across his features instantly—as though making you laugh mattered more than the conversation itself.
That realization hit you hard too.
Because maybe you’d both been circling around this for longer than either of you realized.
The teasing.
The late nights.
The unconscious gravitating toward each other in crowded rooms.
The way his mood settled whenever you were nearby.
The way yours did too.
Jinhwan watched you carefully as your laughter faded.
Then, softly:
“I mean it, though.”
Your heartbeat stumbled again.
“You’re important to me.”
The room went still.
No jokes this time.
No teasing.
Just honesty.
Raw and exhausted enough to slip free.
You swallowed hard. “You’re important to me too.”
His eyes searched yours carefully.
Like he was looking for something.
Or maybe hoping for it.
“You ever think about us?” he asked suddenly.
Your entire body froze.
“…Us?”
“Mhm.”
His voice stayed deceptively casual, but his fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the table.
You noticed because of course you did.
You noticed everything about him.
“That’s a dangerous question to ask at three in the morning.”
A tiny smile tugged at his mouth.
“That’s not a no.”
You looked away immediately.
Which was answer enough.
The silence stretched.
Not uncomfortable.
Just full.
Heavy with things unsaid.
Then Jinhwan laughed softly under his breath.
“Wow.”
“What?”
“You really have thought about it.”
You covered your face instantly.
“Oh my god.”
“That’s actually adorable.”
“Please stop talking.”
“No, this is great for me.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet here you are.”
You peeked at him through your fingers.
Big mistake.
Because he was looking at you with the softest expression you’d ever seen on him.
No performance.
No idol persona.
Just affection.
Open and impossible to misunderstand.
Your stomach flipped violently.
“You’re staring,” you muttered.
“Can you blame me?”
“Yes.”
“Mm. Still gonna do it.”
Heat flooded your face.
Jinhwan leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table.
“You know what the problem is?”
“I feel like you’re about to tell me anyway.”
“We already act like this.”
“…Like what?”
“Like people in love.”
Your breath stopped.
He said it so simply.
So matter-of-factly.
As though it had become obvious to him somewhere along the way.
And maybe it had.
Maybe it had been obvious for a long time.
The late-night conversations.
The instinctive comfort.
The emotional dependence disguised as routine.
The quiet way you chose each other over and over without discussing it.
Your voice came out barely above a whisper.
“Jinhwan…”
His expression softened further at your tone.
“I’m serious.”
The teasing had disappeared completely now.
All that remained was honesty.
Dangerous, exhausted honesty.
“What if this is just because we’re tired?” you asked carefully.
He considered that.
Then smiled faintly.
“Then why do I feel like this even when I’m not?”
Your heart nearly shattered.
Because suddenly every small moment over the years rearranged itself in your mind.
Every lingering glance.
Every unnecessary touch.
Every time he sought you out first.
Every time you did the same.
“Oh,” you whispered.
Jinhwan’s eyes warmed instantly.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Oh.”
Emotion clogged unexpectedly in your throat.
You laughed weakly to cover it. “You picked a really inconvenient time to confess feelings.”
“It’s three in the morning. This is my peak emotional honesty window.”
“That’s concerning.”
“Probably.”
You shook your head, smiling helplessly.
Then his hand moved.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Resting over yours on the table like he was giving you every opportunity to pull away.
You didn’t.
His thumb brushed lightly against your knuckles.
The touch was gentle enough to ache.
“I don’t need an answer right now,” he murmured. “I just… couldn’t keep pretending anymore.”
You stared at your joined hands.
At how natural it felt.
How right.
Then finally, quietly:
“I think I stopped pretending a long time ago.”
The breath he let out sounded almost shaky.
When you looked up again, something unbearably tender had settled across his face.
“You have no idea how happy that makes me.”
Your chest felt too full suddenly.
So instead of speaking, you squeezed his hand once.
Jinhwan smiled.
Small.
Sleepy.
Completely genuine.
And somehow, in the quiet kitchen at three-thirty in the morning with rain tapping softly against the windows and half-finished ramen growing cold between you, everything changed.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just gently.
Like something that had been waiting a very long time to finally be said.
Permanently stepped out of the system that once defined your entire structure.
There are formalities.
Exit procedures. Reports. Signatures. Debriefings that reduce everything complicated into language that fits institutional structure.
You complete them.
Correctly.
Precisely.
And then you are no longer there.
Han Jisung does not collapse when he hears it.
He does not spiral back into what he once was.
He has already learned how to stand without you.
That is the part that hurts in a way that does not feel like failure anymore.
It feels like distance finally completing its purpose.
At first, it is not easy for him.
There are sessions.
Professional support.
Therapy that replaces instinct with understanding.
New grounding techniques that belong to him alone now, not borrowed stability from someone else’s presence.
He learns to recognize his own triggers before they escalate.
He learns to breathe without waiting for instruction.
He learns that safety is not a person.
It is a practice.
Slowly, it works.
Not perfectly.
Not instantly.
But genuinely.
For you, there is no direct view of it anymore.
Only indirect confirmations through time and structure.
He is stable.
He is working.
He is continuing forward.
Not held together by proximity.
Not dependent on a single anchor that should never have carried that weight alone.
You do not watch from afar anymore.
You do not stay connected through corridors or updates or accidental sightlines.
You fully step out.
Because anything less would keep the past artificially alive.
And that is not what either of you need anymore.
Months pass.
Then more.
And the story of what happened becomes something contained in memory rather than active tension.
Not erased.
Not denied.
Just no longer unfolding.
There is a point where you realize something quietly, without ceremony.
He is no longer your responsibility.
And you are no longer his shield.
But that is not the final truth.
The final truth comes later.
When you both exist in the same world again, indirectly, distantly, as professionals who no longer orbit each other but still occupy the same industry, the same language, the same understanding of pressure and performance and control.
Different roles now.
Different boundaries.
Equal footing.
Not because the past disappeared.
But because it was integrated, processed, survived.
He does not look for you anymore in the way he once did.
And you do not instinctively calculate his presence in every room you enter.
But when your paths intersect again, briefly, formally, there is no collapse.
No longing that breaks structure.
No dependence disguised as instinct.
Only recognition.
Of what was.
Of what changed.
Of what remained human enough to shape both of you without owning either of you.
You are not his protector anymore.
And he is not your responsibility anymore.
You are just two people who learned something too intense, too close, too real to be safely contained in the role it began in.
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