Off-Record [BabySajaxFem!Reader] Ch. 51
You've tried closing your eyes, shifting positions, even tried counting sheep, but the silence is too loud and the weight in your chest is too restless. Every time you think the ache is ebbing, the words from that letter resurface—sharp and poisonous. Every careful choice of wording, every meticulously scribbled punctuation mark, a malicious dagger twisting under your ribs. You begin to wonder if what the hater wrote is true. Do you really deserve the fame and fortune you've fostered over the years with the rest of Huntr/x? Are you really all that special? Maybe you are just fake. Fake smiles, fake gratitude, only pretending to care. You were exhausted at the last fan meet. You even assumed some fans might try to glomp you from excitement and adoration. Like you're really that special. You pretended to care about every fan's story when you were really only wondering how much longer the meet would take before you could go home and get into bed.
Someone who thinks and acts like that...
Can they really call themselves a good idol?
Can they really consider themselves worthy?
At some point, your body decides for you. You slip from the bed, pull on a sweater and some shoes, then step out into the cool night air. You tell yourself you're just going for a walk. Maybe to clear your head, maybe to tire yourself out. But by the time you finally look up, your feet have carried you somewhere more familiar. The wind here tastes salty. The roar of the waves below drowning out the city noise behind you. And when your gaze finds the silhouette of the cliff's drop ahead, you realise where you've come.
You let out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh. Here? Again? "You just love taking me here, don't you," you mutter to your body, voice full of judgement.
You sit down on the stone, pulling your knees to your chest. The moonlight drapes the ocean in dull silver, and each wave breaks against the rocks with steady patience, over and over again. The rhythm is comforting. Old, unchanging. It steadies you in a way little else has lately. Maybe that's why this place feels so safe. Or maybe it's because of the memories woven into it. Nights spent talking, bantering, trading jokes and sarcasm until the air got too frosty...
Your chest tightens. You swallow, resting your chin on your knees as your thoughts inevitably circle back to him. Saejin. The most infuriating, unreadable, impossible person you've ever met—and somehow, the one whose presence feels like home. You still don't know what to do with that. Those feelings.
Ever since you'd admitted—finally admitted—that your feelings weren't just curiosity or rivalry, everything's felt slightly off-balance. Like your heart hasn't quite caught up with your head. You catch yourself wondering why he comforts you so easily. Is it the calm sarcasm in his voice? The way he listens even when pretending not to? Or maybe it's something simpler. The faint scent of freshly steeped green tea that always clings to him. The quiet steadiness beneath the cynicism. You shake your head, smiling faintly at yourself. "I sound ridiculous."
"Not ridiculous," a familiar voice drawls nearby. "But you're talking just loud enough to seem insane."
You jolt so hard your heel slips against the stone. "Holy-!" You twist toward the sound—and there he is, standing a few feet away, hands shoved in his jacket pockets while the moon lights half his face. His expression is its usual unreadable calm, though the corner of his mouth tilts slightly, amused.
"Saejin?" You blink. "What- how-"
He raises a brow. "We live in the same city, you know. You don't have a monopoly on stone ledges." Your heart's still hammering. "You really are a demon. You just appear whenever I think about you." He blinks, expression turning into one that looks genuinely baffled at your statement. "W... what?"
You wave him off, muttering dismissively, "Nothing. You're scary, is all." He hums in faint amusement before stepping closer. For a moment, the air between you hangs awkwardly. Heavy with the things that have changed since quarantine ended. All the things you've tried not to think about. The waves, as always, fill the silence, murmuring gently against the rocks below your dangling legs. The moon smiles silently upon you, drenching you both in the same shimmer. You remain sat on the ledge, he remains stood a foot away. And yet, something shifts.
Like the universe had already planned it, the awkwardness dissolves under the smallest spark of banter.
"So," Saejin says, lowering himself to sit beside you on the ledge. "What's the great Y/n doing out here at—" he glances at his phone, "—two in the morning? Planning your next heroic campaign?" "Insomnia," you reply simply, "you?" "Same. The city's too loud. This place isn't."
You let the silence settle again, the ocean filling the spaces between your words again. It's strange. After weeks of distance, it almost feels normal to be sitting here beside him again. Almost easy.
"How's idol life?" you ask eventually, a faint smirk tugging at your lips. "Still surviving the fan service?" He scoffs. "Barely. I think I've developed an allergy to aegyo." You laugh quietly, the sound surprising even yourself. It feels good to laugh again, even a little. He glances over at you, not teasing this time. Just quietly watching. "You're different tonight." You tilt your head. "Different how?" He shrugs, eyes drifting back to the water. "Quieter. Heavier." You consider brushing it off, but something in his tone keeps you still. You draw in a small breath. "...So- we did the fan mail livestream earlier tonight."
"One of the letters was..." You hesitate, searching for the right word. "...different." He continues to look out at the ocean. You can't really see his expression since you're too busy gazing at your fidgeting fingers on your lap, but he doesn't interrupt, letting you continue. "It wasn't praise, or love, it was-" You swallow, feeling that old sting return. "It was hate. Whoever wrote it really wanted us to feel it." Saejin still says nothing. "I know I shouldn't care," you continue, voice quieter now. "It's not the first time we've gotten hate comments. But this one... it just stuck. I can't stop hearing those words. It's pathetic..."
"Not pathetic," he says simply.
You finally turn your head to look at him, startled by how certain his voice sounds. He picks up a small stone at his side, rolling it between his fingers before flicking it out toward the waves. "People like that—they write poison because they have nothing else. You're allowed to hurt from it, but you don't have to keep it." There's a hint of awkwardness behind his tone as he elaborates, like he's trying a little harder than usual to be nonchalant about it all, but the assurance behind his words somehow comforts you. The stone plunks into the sea. Ripples spread outward, fading into nothing. You watch them disappear, throat tight. "You make it sound easy." "It's not." His gaze meets yours, unflinching and steady. "But you'll stop hearing their words eventually. Maybe tonight, maybe not. Either way, they don't get to stay forever." Something in his tone—awkward but real—makes your chest ache in that warm, painful way again. You exhale softly. "You're surprisingly good at this, you know."
He snorts. "Don't spread that rumour." You smile faintly, and for the first time tonight, your heart feels lighter. You both sit there for a while longer, side by side, saying nothing. The sea moves endlessly beneath you, and the wind tugs gently at your clothes. Eventually, when the chill starts to creep in, you both stand.
He nods, falling into step beside you as you leave the ledge. The walk back to the city is quiet, but not uncomfortable. Streetlights glow faintly along the road, the horizon paling with the first hint of dawn. When you reach the street where your paths part, you hesitate. "Thanks. For, uh... listening." He shrugs, though there's a ghost of a smile there. "Try to sleep, Hunter." "You too, Demon."
You walk your separate ways, but when you glance back once more, you find him doing the same—a faint silhouette beneath the paling sky. You quickly turn back forward before he can catch you looking, though he probably—most definitely—already did.
And now, somehow, the world doesn't feel quite as heavy as it did before.
"What do you mean they're gone?" Romance snaps at Abby, swiftly rummaging through the apartment drawers like he doesn't believe a word his peer has said. Abby shrugs, hands up in mock surrender. "I'm saying they were right here in the drawer yesterday. Now they're not. Poof. Gone." Romance resorts to pacing the room while Abby leans against the counter, crossing his arms. Saejin remains sprawled on the couch, half-asleep with his hoodie pulled over his eyes while Mystery reads a book in the arm chair nearby, knees tucked close.
"You can't seriously tell me they just magically disappeared without a trace," Romance scoffs. "There were so many. There's no way they could've just vanished like that." "Maybe the cleaning lady ascended them," Saejin's muffled voice drifts from under his hood. "That's not funny," Romance mutters. "Those took effort." "Effort?" Saejin sits up, removing his hood and smirking lazily. "You mean you printed them on the local library's printer." "Formatting takes time," the rose-haired singer says flatly.
Saejin ignores the statement and lies back down, tugging his hood over his face again. His attention drifts elsewhere while his bandmate continues tearing through drawers.
Jinu enters the room, raising a brow at Romance's scurrying. "What's going on here?" "The hate mail's gone," Abby explains, bored. Jinu frowns. "What do you mean, gone?" "It means exactly what he said!" Romance snaps. "But those letters were a good strategy," Jinu sighs frustratedly. "I KNOW," Romance glares impatiently. "Maybe the hunters found them," Mystery mumbles from behind his book. "Imagine their faces if they realised we were the ones who wrote that letter." "Or maybe someone got sentimental and decided we didn't need the other letters anymore," Abby murmurs. Romance narrows his eyes, scanning each of his bandmates. "Okay, which one of you has gone soft?"
Saejin's dismissive voice muffles through his hood, stilling the argument. All eyes flick to his lounging figure. "We don't need them," he says evenly. "One was enough." There's a beat of silence before Abby quirks an eyebrow. "Quality over quantity, huh?" "Exactly." Saejin's tone leaves no room for debate. "It served its purpose."
Romance exhales, finally cooling down. "I guess that makes sense. Still weird, though. It's not like they could've just vanished." "Then don't think about it," Saejin replies. "It's not that deep. Doesn't matter anymore." The conversation fizzles out, drifting into the usual idle chatter and movements. Abby leaves to take a shower, Jinu starts lecturing Romance on keeping a cool head while Romance tries to escape by walking into the hallway, Mystery keeps reading, unbothered.
But Saejin's mind has long since wandered.
"I know I shouldn't care. It's not the first time we've gotten hate comments. But this one... it just stuck. I can't stop hearing those words. It's pathetic..."
He hadn't known what to do with that. The weight in her tone, the sadness that looked too human for him to stand. It was easier to watch her banter, to tease and mock and keep her laughing. But last night, he'd seen something raw flicker behind her eyes, and it had unsettled him.
That's why, later that night, when the others were asleep, he'd...
He pulls his hood further over his face, exhaling in frustration. It's nothing. He just didn't like seeing another person cry. He's tired, that's all. Being the new leader has been wearing on him lately. Still, the memory of her voice—that broken, bitter lilt—sticks in his mind like a splinter. He exhales again, rubbing his temple. It doesn't matter. None of it does. Whatever this is, he'll bury it. Get rid of it. Just like the letters.
“You really are a demon. You just appear whenever I think about you.”
"Gah-" Saejin jerks upright, his hood slipping off at the swift motion. He stares down at his chest, face tensing as his hand slowly rises—then quickly scratches at the fabric of his sweater, itching frustratedly at the spot before collapsing back into the couch. He yanks his hood back on and cinches the drawstrings tight.
Mystery, still in the armchair nearby, pauses with his finger at the corner of his book's page. His fringe hides whatever glance or expression may be on his features, and he soon goes back to reading. He turns the next page, the quiet rustle filling the new stillness in the room.
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