genre: tragic romance • angst • public pressure • smut
about: they’re together—really together—but the world isn’t built to let them stay that way. exactly two weeks before woozi’s birthday, everything collapses. company pressure. fear. silence. the breakup is brutal and unfinished. woozi spends his birthday pretending he’s okay. one day later, mama happens. the tension is unbearable. stolen glances, tight jaws, a performance that feels like a breakup letter written in music. fans feel it. they know something broke. woozi smiles through it. kentaro doesn’t.
The GDA venue hummed with the electric buzz of industry anticipation—spotlights carving arcs through the darkness, cameras swooping in practiced patterns over star-studded sections. Scoups crossed his legs—satin sundress whispering against his thighs—and let his gaze drift across the artist section until it landed. Kentaro sat three rows behind, posture relaxed but attentive, nodding along to whatever his seatmate murmured.
Scoups stood without fanfare, smoothing invisible wrinkles from his dress as he wove through the rows. Kentaro noticed his approach immediately—shoulders squaring, hands already lifting in polite greeting—but Scoups’ chuckle disarmed him. “Freezing in here, right?” he stage-whispered, squeezing Kentaro’s offered hand with a warmth that belied the venue’s chill. Kentaro’s laugh was easy, familiar. “They couldn’t afford heating with all these trophies?”
Scoups leaned in conspiratorially, thumb brushing Kentaro’s knuckle where their hands still lingered. “Woozi’s been working too hard lately.” Kentaro’s gaze flickered sideways—just a fraction—toward Seventeen’s section before snapping back. Scoups didn’t miss the way his fingers twitched, the subtle intake of breath. He smiled, slow and knowing.
The opening notes of SUPER exploded through the speakers—thunderous bass rattling the seats—and Kentaro jolted like he’d forgotten where they were. His hands moved automatically, clapping along with the crowd, but his shoulders stayed rigid beneath his crisp suit jacket. Scoups watched him sidelong, noting the exact moment Kentaro’s pulse jumped in his throat as Woozi’s vocals sliced through the instrumental.
Kentaro leaned in suddenly, lips brushing Scoups’ ear. His cologne was different—something sharper than Woozi’s usual vanilla-sweet scent—but the warmth of his breath was achingly familiar. “He hasn’t answered my last three texts,” Kentaro murmured, barely audible beneath the roar of ad-libs. His fingers flexed against his knees. “Not since—” The chorus hit like a detonation, drowning out the rest as the crowd surged to their feet.
Scoups caught Kentaro’s wrist beneath the cover of screaming fans, pressing something small and cool into his palm. A hotel keycard. Kentaro stared at it—uncomprehending—until Scoups squeezed his fingers shut around it. “Coups.,” Kentaro choked out, but Scoups was already turning away with a wink that said have fun, sundress swirling around his thighs as he melted back into the sea of glowing lightsticks.
Onstage, Woozi’s hologram flickered mid-spin—digitized but devastating—as Seventeen’s formation fractured into synchronized chaos. Scoups tracked the choreography absently, fingers drumming the rhythm against his thigh, but his periphery stayed locked on Kentaro’s profile three seats over. The man was clapping mechanically, gaze darting between the stage and his own clenched hands, jaw working around unspoken words.
Seungkwan’s mic pack crackled first—a sharp burst of static—before Wonwoo’s stumble sent him careening into Jeonghan’s side. The audience gasped, but Seventeen recovered seamlessly, Jeonghan’s arm hooking around Wonwoo’s waist as they pivoted into the next move without missing a beat. Kentaro’s knuckles whitened against his knees. Scoups exhaled through his nose. These children, he thought fondly.
The performance ended in a shower of gold confetti—Seventeen’s sweat-damp faces glowing under the house lights—and Scoups waited exactly three breaths before twisting in his seat.
The rest of the SEVENTEEN members came to the artist section with their adrenaline still humming in their veins—cheeks flushed, breath uneven, laughter bubbling between them as they collapsed into their seats. Mingyu clapped Woozi on the back hard enough to make him stumble forward; Seungkwan was already recounting Wonwoo’s near-fall with dramatic, flailing gestures. The energy around them crackled like live wires—electric and bright—but Scoups didn’t join in the celebration. Instead, he turned to Woozi, grip firm on his shoulder, voice low and steady beneath the noise.
Woozi blinked—once, twice—like he'd misheard. "Now?" His fingers curled into his palms, restless. Scoups didn’t answer. Just nodded once, sharp and sure, already shifting to make space in the crowded row. Out of the corner of his eye, Woozi caught Jun’s poorly concealed eavesdropping—head tilted just slightly toward them, fingers frozen mid-adjustment of his cufflinks.
Woozi hesitated. Then stood.
His pulse hammered visibly at his throat as he stepped past the others—past Jeonghan’s knowing glance, past Hoshi’s poorly stifled grin—and into the aisle. The venue lights dimmed for the next performance, plunging the rows into shadow, but Woozi didn’t need light to know where he was headed. He could already trace the path by muscle memory alone—three rows back, fourth seat in. Kentaro wasn’t looking at the stage. He was looking straight at him.
The distance between them collapsed in three strides.
Woozi stopped short—close enough to catch Kentaro’s cologne (bergamot, unfamiliar), close enough to see the exact moment his practiced smile faltered. Around them, the award show roared on, spotlights sweeping past in blinding arcs, but the air between them went perfectly still. Kentaro’s fingers twitched toward his own lapel before settling stiffly on the armrest. "Jihoon-ssi," he said, too formal, like they hadn’t shared breath in a Tokyo hotel elevator just last month. His gaze flicked to the nearest camera crew—thirty feet away and closing—before dropping to Woozi’s hemline. "You look different."
The corner of Woozi’s mouth lifted. "You noticed."
Kentaro’s hand moved before he seemed to decide—fingers grazing Woozi’s elbow, lingering a half-beat too long. Woozi didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. The touch burned through the thin fabric of his dress, static-charged and undeniable. Kentaro leaned in as if to hear him better, lips brushing the shell of Woozi’s ear. "Why is your dress so short compared to everyone else?" His thumb traced the seam at Woozi’s waist, skirting dangerous territory. The contact sent a tremor through Woozi’s ribs.
He answered without thinking, voice low and smooth as the stage lights caught the silver in his choker. "Because I like knowing you’re looking."
Kentaro choked—actually choked—on nothing, his composure fracturing into something warm and startled. His fingers tightened reflexively on Woozi’s sleeve, eyes darkening with a heat that had no business existing in such a public space. The moment stretched, taut and humming, until the jumbotron above them suddenly flashed to life—cutting straight to their frozen tableau.
They broke apart like electrocution, schooling their faces into polite neutrality even as their shoulders brushed. Kentaro’s knuckles whitened around his program; Woozi’s pulse hammered visibly at his throat. Onscreen, they looked like strangers exchanging pleasantries. Nothing to see. No history here.
Somewhere to their left, a fan’s shriek pierced the noise: "KENZI COUPLE IS REAL!"
Kentaro’s mouth twitched. Woozi bit the inside of his cheek.
The camera lingered—cruel, relentless—before finally turning away.
The moment the spotlight swung toward the stage, the tension shattered. The opening notes of FIGHTING exploded through the speakers, and suddenly Seventeen’s BSS unit was bounding into view, Dino leading the charge with a grin that could power Seoul. The bass hit like a physical force, and the entire artist section erupted—Jun already doubled over laughing, The8 twisting in his seat with unrestrained glee, DK punching the air and screaming lyrics at the ceiling. The shift was instantaneous, electric—like someone had flipped a switch from "award show polite" to "chaos unleashed."
Kentaro’s arm settled around Woozi’s shoulders, warm and solid, his fingers tapping an offbeat rhythm against Woozi’s collarbone. Onstage, Hoshi and Seungkwan were in perfect sync, their energy so contagious even the cameramen were bouncing along. Mingyu lost it completely when Kentaro—deadpan—attempted to mirror Scoups’ choreography with exaggerated stiffness, elbows jutting at all the wrong angles. Jeonghan pointed and cackled, nearly toppling into Joshua’s lap.
Woozi pressed a hand to his mouth, shoulders shaking with silent laughter as Dino nailed a flip so clean it drew a collective gasp from the crowd. His cheeks ached from smiling. Kentaro leaned in, breath warm against his ear. "Your family is insane," he murmured, voice thick with amusement.
Woozi didn’t hesitate. "Yeah," he said, watching Seungkwan attempt to body roll and nearly take out a stage light. "They’re mine." Kentaro’s laughter vibrated through him, loud and unguarded, his grip tightening just enough to pull Woozi closer. No walls. No pretense. Just the shared warmth of their tangled limbs and the deafening joy ringing through the arena.
Then Seungcheol’s fingers curled around Woozi’s wrist—brief, pointed—before he melted back into the fray. The message was clear: Go. The greenroom was empty when they slipped in, jackets tossed haphazardly over chairs, half-empty water bottles littering the counter. Kentaro flicked the lights to dim, muting the world beyond the thick walls. Woozi sank onto the couch, heels kicked off, legs folding beneath him. Kentaro knelt in front of him, shoes discarded, palms settling warm and sure along Woozi’s calves. His thumb traced slow circles—soothing, grounding—like he’d done it a thousand times before. Maybe, in some unspoken way, he had.
The silence stretched, thick with everything they’d swallowed down for months. Kentaro’s hands stilled abruptly. A nervous laugh escaped him, breath hitching. "Can I ask you something?" Woozi nodded, pulse rabbiting despite already knowing. Kentaro fidgeted with the hem of Woozi’s sleeve, then met his gaze—eyes steady but vulnerable. "Will you be my boyfriend?"
The air thickened. Woozi blinked, processing. A beat too long, and Kentaro’s fingers twitched, already backtracking— "You don’t have to—"
Woozi leaned forward, cutting him off. "Yeah."
Kentaro exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years, shoulders dropping, smile breaking through—relieved, bright, real. His forehead pressed against Woozi’s, careful, respectful. Hands tightened gently around Woozi’s legs, anchoring them both. Neither moved. Outside, the chaos of the award show thrummed on, muffled and distant. Here, in the dim glow of the greenroom, they were finally, perfectly aligned.
The first message arrived at 2:17 AM, Woozi’s phone screen casting blue shadows across his pillow. He hadn’t slept. The notification pulsed—Kentaro Sakaguchi—and his breath snagged. Three weeks of radio silence, three weeks of biting his tongue during interviews, three weeks of scrolling past paparazzi shots of Kentaro at Narita Airport, smiling politely beneath a cap. Woozi locked the screen. Unlocked it. The message burned unread: hey.
His thumbs hovered. Deleted I couldn’t sleep either. Deleted I kept your hoodie. Finally sent: hey. The typing bubbles flickered—agonizing, alive—before Kentaro’s reply seared into the dark: i missed you. Simple. Devastating. Woozi pressed his forehead to the cold wall, exhaling through his nose. i know, he sent back, fingers trembling. Immediate response: can we talk? like… really talk soon? The pause stretched. Woozi typed slowly, surely: yeah. i want that.
The dorm was unnervingly silent when Woozi shuffled in, socked feet barely whispering against the hardwood. No blaring variety shows. No Mingyu’s off-key shower singing. Just the hum of the fridge and—he froze mid-step—twelve pairs of eyes tracking him from the couch.
Jeonghan smiled, saccharine-sweet, legs tucked beneath him like a satisfied cat. Seungcheol leaned against the armrest, arms crossed, gaze heavy. Mingyu practically vibrated forward, elbows on knees, while Seungkwan exhaled dramatically into his palms. “So,” Hoshi said, clapping once. The sound cracked like a gavel.
Woozi edged toward the kitchen. “What?”
DK materialized in his path, arms spread. “Don’t ‘what’ us.” Vernon blocked the fridge with eerie precision, nodding toward the tribunal.
Jun twirled his phone. “Boyfriend?”
The silence thickened. The8 raised a single eyebrow over his teacup.
Woozi pinched the bridge of his nose. “…We’re together.”
The explosion was instantaneous—Mingyu vaulting over the couch (“I FUCKING KNEW IT!”), Seungkwan already tearfully chanting KENZI COUPLE, DK crushing Woozi in a back-cracking hug. Scoups’ smirk softened at the edges, proud, knowing. Jeonghan hooked his chin over Woozi’s shoulder. “Who asked?”
Woozi mumbled into DK’s shoulder. “He did.”
The chorus of awwws rattled the light fixtures. Hoshi fist-pumped the air. “LOVE WINS!”
Woozi let himself be manhandled into the dogpile—Seungkwan clinging to his arm, Mingyu ruffling his hair, someone’s knee digging into his thigh—and laughed, bright and startled, as the weight of twelve bodies pressed the truth into his ribs: you’re safe here. Jeonghan squeezed his hand under the chaos, quiet amid the storm. “Took you long enough.”
Not when Kentaro’s suitcase bumped against his ankle, not when a passing traveler muttered excuse me too close to his ear. The airport’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting sharp shadows under Kentaro’s jawline—new stubble, unfamiliar cologne, the same mole beneath his left ear Woozi had traced with his thumb in the dark. Kentaro exhaled shakily into Woozi’s hoodie collar, fingers tightening where they’d slipped beneath the fabric to press against bare skin. “Missed this,” he murmured, voice rougher than Woozi remembered. The heat of his palm seared through the thin cotton, branding.
Woozi pulled back first—only far enough to see Kentaro’s face—and caught the exact moment Kentaro’s gaze dropped to his mouth. The crowd surged around them, oblivious, as Kentaro’s thumb brushed Woozi’s hipbone through his jeans. A promise. A question. Woozi tilted his chin up, heart hammering. “You’re late,” he lied. Kentaro’s grin was worth it—slow, private, the one that crinkled his eyes before his mouth caught up. “Flight got delayed.” His fingers traced idle shapes against Woozi’s spine. “You checked the arrival time six times.”
Woozi swatted his arm, fighting a smile. Kentaro caught his wrist mid-air, lacing their fingers together like it was nothing, like they hadn’t spent weeks relearning how to breathe between texts. The contact sent a jolt up Woozi’s arm—electric, familiar. Kentaro squeezed once. Still here.
Outside, the Seoul night air clung damp and heavy to their skin as they wove through the taxi line, shoulders bumping. Kentaro’s suitcase wheels caught on the pavement; Woozi steadied him with a hand at his elbow, lingering. Kentaro glanced down at the touch, then up—eyes dark with something unspoken. Woozi’s pulse stuttered. The neon signs above them flickered: 24-HOUR PHARMACY. KIMBAP HEAVEN. LOVE HOTEL. Kentaro’s throat moved when he swallowed.
A taxi screeched to the curb. They jerked apart.
Inside the car, Kentaro’s knee pressed warm against Woozi’s thigh, their joined hands hidden beneath Kentaro’s jacket. The driver clicked his tongue at the traffic. Woozi traced the calluses on Kentaro’s knuckles—guitar strings, microphone grips—
As they arrive at the café, Woozi realizes Kentaro had done his research—had hunted down this place deliberately, some tucked-away spot with exposed brick and mismatched chairs where no one would blink twice at two men sharing a single slice of honey toast. The bell above the door jingles softly as Kentaro holds it open, his free hand ghosting against the small of Woozi’s back, guiding without pressing. The contact burns through his thin sweater. Woozi doesn’t shrug him off.
Rain taps insistently against the windows, blurring the neon signs outside into watery streaks of color. Kentaro orders in clumsy but earnest Korean, then immediately caves and switches to Japanese when the barista’s eyebrows lift. Woozi watches, amused, as Kentaro gestures between them—one black coffee, one caramel macchiato, extra whipped cream—then adds, and whatever he wants, jerking his chin toward Woozi like he’s surrendering. The barista laughs. Woozi rolls his eyes and orders a slice of strawberry shortcake purely to contradict him. Kentaro’s resulting grin is worth the lie.
They argue over the first bite—Kentaro insisting Woozi’s cake is too sweet, Woozi countering that Kentaro’s coffee might as well be motor oil—but neither protests when Kentaro’s fork keeps sneaking across the plate. Woozi pretends not to notice until Kentaro steals the strawberry garnish clean off the top. “Yah,” Woozi hisses, kicking him under the table. Kentaro just grins, unrepentant, chewing slowly as if savoring the crime. Their knees bump and stay tangled together beneath the table, warmth seeping through denim.
The rain picks up. Kentaro’s fingers drum absently against his cup, his gaze drifting to Woozi’s mouth every time he licks cream off his fork. Neither mentions the cold coffee between them, or the way Kentaro’s foot hooks around Woozi’s ankle like an anchor. The conversation loops from music to terrible dorm stories to remember when—and it’s too easy, laugh lines creasing at the corners of Kentaro’s eyes, Woozi’s shoulders loosening by increments.
Outside, the storm rolls on. Inside, Kentaro’s thumb brushes a crumb from Woozi’s lower lip, lingering just a second too long. Woozi doesn’t pull away. The café hums around them—steam from the espresso machine, the low murmur of other patrons, the rain’s steady rhythm against the glass—but here, in this corner booth, the world narrows to the space between their clasped hands.
Kentaro exhales, shaky. “This is nice,” he says, like it’s a revelation.
Woozi squeezes his fingers. “Yeah,” he agrees, softly. “It is.”
The rain follows them home—not the downpour from earlier, but a quiet, persistent drizzle that slicks the pavement and turns streetlights into hazy halos. Kentaro’s jacket hangs heavy with moisture by the door, shoulders damp where Woozi had tugged him closer under a shared umbrella. Inside, the apartment smells faintly of citrus cleaner and the bergamot candle Mingyu gifted last Christmas—unlit, but the scent lingers in the fibers of the couch. Kentaro toes off his shoes with exaggerated care, lining them up neatly beside Woozi’s battered sneakers. He pauses, fingers skimming the doorframe like he’s memorizing the grain of the wood.
Woozi watches from the kitchenette, stirring a pot of jjajangmyeon with one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of Kentaro’s oversized black shirt—stolen months ago, never returned. The hem brushes the tops of his thighs, dangerously close to indecent with how short his sleep shorts ride up. Kentaro drifts toward the bookshelf, touching the spine of a worn lyric journal, the chipped edge of a Seventeen lightstick, the bent photo frame from their first collab stage. His thumb lingers on a coffee stain on the countertop. “You kept this?” he murmurs, tracing the ring Woozi had sworn to clean for a year.
“Shut up,” Woozi mutters, nudging him aside to reach for the chili flakes. Kentaro doesn’t move—just crowds closer, hips pressing into Woozi’s lower back as he peers over his shoulder. The contact is electric, deliberate. Woozi exhales through his nose and deliberately grinds the pestle harder than necessary, the motion rocking him back into Kentaro’s warmth. Behind him, Kentaro’s breath hitches. “You’re—” he starts, voice rough, but Woozi’s already turning, spoon lifted to his lips. “Taste.”
Kentaro obeys, humming around the metal. His fingers find Woozi’s waist, thumb slipping beneath the shirt to skate over bare skin. “Needs sugar,” he lies, grinning when Woozi scoffs and shoves him away—only to yank him back by the belt loop when Kentaro nearly upends the green onion garnish. They eat cross-legged on the floor, knees knocking, sharing the same blanket despite the summer heat. Kentaro’s chopsticks keep stealing bites from Woozi’s bowl, but he doesn’t complain—just watches, fond, as Kentaro licks sauce from his thumb with the same reverence he reserves for studio mics.
The playlist loops—something soft and instrumental, the kind of music that lives in the spaces between heartbeats. Kentaro leans his head against Woozi’s shoulder, exhaling like he’s finally, finally home. Woozi tilts his chin, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head, and says nothing at all.
Storyboards sprawl across the coffee table, half-finished lyrics scribbled in margins and sticky notes with what if— clinging to every surface. Kentaro taps a pencil against his lower lip, eyes bright. “What if we cook together?” he asks, pointing at a rough sketch of a kitchen scene. “Not like a variety show. Just—us. Like this.” His knee jostles Woozi’s thigh under the table, warm and familiar.
Woozi hums, low and considering, scrolling through the demo track on his laptop. His fingers pause over the timestamp where Kentaro’s voice dips into the bridge—you take me to—and he nudges the screen toward him. “Slow it down here,” he murmurs, tapping the spot with his pinky. “Let it breathe.” Kentaro’s gaze flickers from the screen to Woozi’s face, lingering on the way his lashes cast shadows when he blinks too slow. “Yeah,” he agrees, voice rough. “Perfect.”
They trade ideas like shared breaths—Kentaro sketching rapid-fire concepts in the margins, Woozi tweaking melodies with precise keystrokes. The creative current between them thrums, alive and effortless, as Kentaro grins at a ridiculous note about exploding pizza dough and Woozi retaliates by suggesting synchronized spatula twirls. “We’d look good on screen,” Kentaro teases, bumping their shoulders together. Woozi rolls his eyes but doesn’t pull away, letting Kentaro press laughing kisses to his temple, his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth.
The realization settles soft between them—this isn’t just a moment. It’s the quiet before the storm, the blueprint of something they’re building with every shared glance, every whispered what if, every time Kentaro’s fingers brush Woozi’s wrist like he’s memorizing the pulse point. Outside, the city hums on. Inside, their future takes shape—one frame, one note, one unspoken promise at a time.
The last of the neon signs blink off one by one outside the window, leaving only the glow of Woozi’s laptop screen painting their faces in blue shadows. Kentaro’s thigh presses warm against his, their shoulders slotted together like puzzle pieces as they lean over the storyboards. A half-empty cup of tea sits forgotten between them, the steam long gone.
Woozi feels it before he hears it—the shift in Kentaro’s breathing, the way his weight tilts heavier against him. He turns his head just as Kentaro’s temple comes to rest against his, their hair mingling at the edges. The scent of Kentaro’s shampoo—something cedar and faintly citrus—fills Woozi’s lungs.
“I’m glad I came,” Kentaro murmurs, so low it vibrates between their pressed skin.
Woozi doesn’t hesitate. “Me too.” His fingers twitch where they rest on the keyboard, aching to turn, to bridge the scant inches between their mouths.
Kentaro’s exhale fans hot over Woozi’s lips. Their noses brush—accident or intention, neither could say. The air thickens, every nerve ending alight with the proximity, with the knowledge of how easy it would be to close the gap. Kentaro’s hand slides from the table to Woozi’s knee, fingers flexing once, twice, before sliding higher up his thigh.
Woozi’s breath hitches. The laptop screen dims further, plunging them into near-darkness. Somewhere in the building, a pipe clangs. Neither moves.
Kentaro’s thumb traces idle circles through the fabric of Woozi’s shorts, the touch searing even through the material. His other hand rises, slow, giving Woozi every chance to pull away as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind Woozi’s ear. His fingertips linger, tracing the shell of Woozi’s ear with unbearable gentleness before skimming down to cradle his jaw.
Woozi’s pulse thrums under Kentaro’s touch. The world narrows to the space between their lips—close enough to share breath, close enough to taste the later they’ve been promising each other for months.
Kentaro’s voice drops to a whisper. “Jihoon—”
The laptop screen goes black.
In the sudden darkness, Woozi surges forward.
Their mouths crash together—Kentaro’s lips soft but insistent, parting immediately with a groan as Woozi bites down too hard. The chair creaks dangerously when Kentaro hauls him bodily onto his lap, fingers digging bruises into Woozi’s hips. “Finally,” Kentaro growls against his mouth before flipping them—Woozi’s back hits the couch with a punched-out gasp, Kentaro’s knee slotting between his thighs. The weight is intoxicating—all broad shoulders and thick muscle pinning him down—and Woozi arches up just to feel him harder.
Kentaro catches his wrists in one hand, slamming them above his head. “Naughty,” he murmurs, dragging his teeth along Woozi’s exposed throat. The praise coils hot in Woozi’s gut—he bucks up shamelessly, grinning when Kentaro’s breath stutters at the friction. “You wanted me to beg?” Woozi taunts, rolling his hips again just to watch Kentaro’s pupils blow wider. “Should’ve fucked me ages ago—”
The rest dissolves into a moan as Kentaro yanks his shirt off, calloused palms skimming down his chest to pinch both nipples—hard. Woozi writhes, thighs clamping around Kentaro’s waist, but Kentaro just tuts, bending to lick a stripe over the abused peaks. “So pretty,” he murmurs against Woozi’s skin, tongue circling lazily. “So fucking loud, you are.” His free hand slips beneath Woozi’s waistband, fingers blunt and relentless as they press against his entrance. “So wet.”
Woozi’s hips jerk—god, he is—but Kentaro withdraws with a smirk, wiping slick fingers across Woozi’s parted lips. “Open.” The command sends electricity down Woozi’s spine. He obeys instantly, tongue darting out to taste himself as Kentaro feeds him two fingers, pressing down on his tongue. “Good boy.”
The words shudder through him. Kentaro’s other hand fists in his hair, angling his head back—a silent demand Woozi knows too well. When Kentaro unbuckles his belt with his free hand, the thick heat of him against Woozi’s cheek makes his mouth water. “Think you can take it all?” Kentaro murmurs, thumb tracing Woozi’s lower lip. The challenge sparks between them.
Woozi grins, wicked and wanting. “Make me.”
Kentaro’s grip tightens in his hair—just shy of painful—as he drags Woozi forward onto his cock with one brutal thrust. The stretch burns, Woozi’s lips straining around the girth, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Kentaro doesn’t let up, fucking into the wet heat of his mouth with slow, deep rolls of his hips. “Look at you,” he murmurs, thumb swiping at the drool dripping down Woozi’s chin. “Made for this.”
The praise coils hot in Woozi’s gut, his own cock twitching against his stomach. He hollows his cheeks, sucking harder, just to hear Kentaro’s breath catch—but Kentaro retaliates by shoving deeper, the head of his cock nudging the back of Woozi’s throat. Gagging, Woozi claws at Kentaro’s thighs, but Kentaro just tuts, petting his hair. “Breathe,” he orders, voice rough. Woozi obeys—inhales sharply through his nose—and Kentaro rewards him by sliding all the way in, thick and relentless, until Woozi’s nose presses against his pelvis.
Kentaro holds him there, fingers gentle where they card through Woozi’s hair even as his hips grind in tiny circles, fucking into Woozi’s throat like he owns it. Woozi’s eyes water, his body trembling with the effort to stay pliant, but the moan that vibrates around Kentaro’s cock is entirely voluntary.
Kemtaro pulls Woozi out with a wet pop, dragging Woozi up by the hair to crash their mouths together—messy, biting, tasting himself on Woozi’s tongue. “On your knees,” he growls against Woozi’s lips, shoving him toward the couch. Woozi goes, knees hitting the cushions with a thud, ass presented high—just how Kentaro likes it.
The first lick up his cleft has Woozi shuddering, fingers twisting in the couch cushions. Kentaro eats him out like he’s starving—broad tongue pressing against his rim before spearing inside, fucking into him with wet, obscene noises. Woozi arches back into it, keening when Kentaro’s thumbs spread him wider. “So fucking pretty,” Kentaro murmurs against his skin, biting at the swell of his ass before sinking two fingers in alongside his tongue.
Woozi’s thighs shake, his cock dripping onto the couch. Kentaro crooks his fingers just right, brushing against that spot inside him that has Woozi seeing stars—but he withdraws too soon, flipping Woozi onto his back with a smirk. “Ride me,” he orders, palming his own cock as Woozi straddles him.
Woozi sinks down in one smooth motion, thighs trembling as Kentaro bottoms out inside him. “Fuck,” Kentaro groans, hands gripping Woozi’s hips tight enough to bruise. “Perfect.”
Woozi rolls his hips, slow and teasing, just to watch Kentaro’s jaw clench—but Kentaro retaliates by slamming up into him, hitting his prostate dead-on. Woozi cries out, nails scraping down Kentaro’s chest as he rides him harder, chasing his own pleasure with reckless abandon.
Kentaro sits up abruptly, wrapping an arm around Woozi’s waist to haul him closer, their chests pressed together as he fucks up into him with brutal precision. “Come for me,” he murmurs against Woozi’s throat, teeth scraping over his pulse point.
Woozi does—shuddering apart with a broken moan, spilling between their stomachs. Kentaro follows with a groan, filling him up as Woozi clenches around him, milking him through it.
Afterward, Kentaro gathers him close, pressing soft kisses to his forehead as Woozi bonelessly melts into him. “Good?” Kentaro murmurs, fingers carding through Woozi’s sweat-damp hair.
Woozi hums, nuzzling into his chest. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Perfect.”
Kentaro chuckles, the sound reverberating through Woozi’s entire body where they’re pressed together. His fingers trace idle patterns down Woozi’s spine—gentle now, reverent—as if relearning the familiar planes of his body in the aftermath. “You’re shaking,” Kentaro murmurs, pulling the discarded blanket over them both. Woozi barely registers the chill until the warmth envelops them, Kentaro’s arms tightening around him instinctively.
“Mm. Your fault,” Woozi mumbles into his collarbone, but there’s no bite to it—just the drowsy, satisfied slur of words that comes when he’s boneless and pliant. Kentaro huffs a laugh, pressing a kiss to his temple before reaching for the water bottle on the side table. He holds it to Woozi’s lips, tipping it carefully as Woozi drinks with closed eyes, throat working around each swallow. A droplet escapes, trailing down his chin—Kentaro catches it with his thumb, swiping it away with a tenderness that makes Woozi’s chest ache.
The silence stretches, comfortable and thick like honey. Kentaro’s fingers find their way back into Woozi’s hair, combing through the tangled strands with meticulous care, working out the knots from where his grip had been too tight earlier. Woozi sighs, tilting his head into the touch, and Kentaro takes the invitation to massage his scalp, thumbs pressing circles that unravel the last of the tension coiled in Woozi’s body. “You’re good at this,” Woozi slurs, half-asleep.
Kentaro’s lips curve against his forehead. “Only for you.”
Somewhere beyond their tangled limbs, Woozi’s laptop flickers back on—abandoned demos and unfinished lyrics glowing faintly in the dark. Kentaro reaches over blindly, one arm still wrapped around Woozi, and nudges it shut with a quiet click. The room plunges into darkness again, save for the city lights bleeding through the curtains, painting stripes across their bare skin.
Woozi shifts, tucking his head under Kentaro’s chin, and feels more than hears the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath his ear. Kentaro’s palm slides down to rest over the small of his back, warm and heavy, anchoring him there. “Stay,” Woozi murmurs, though he knows Kentaro wasn’t planning to leave—knows he never does, not after, not when Woozi’s clinging to him like this.
Kentaro’s response is a squeeze—fingers pressing into his hipbone, lips brushing his hairline—and Woozi drifts off to the rhythm of his breathing, safe in the circle of his arms.
FREE M/V BEHIND THE SCENES
The studio smelled like burnt coffee and the sharp chemical bite of fresh hairspray—too early for anyone to be fully awake, but the crew moved with practiced efficiency around the cavernous soundstage. Woozi shuffled in, bleary-eyed, fingertips brushing the unfamiliar weight of hair grazing his shoulders. The stylist had bleached it platinum overnight, the strands now falling in soft waves that caught the overhead fluorescents like spun gold. He tugged at the ends self-consciously, the texture foreign against his fingers.
Kentaro’s voice cut off mid-sentence behind him. A script hit the floor with a slap.
Kentaro stood frozen, grip slack around a half-empty coffee cup, his mouth slightly open. The stylist next to him stifled a laugh as Kentaro blinked rapidly, like he couldn’t trust his own vision. “You’re—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if to reset. “Wow.”
“No, I mean—” Kentaro took a step closer, then another, eyes locked on the way the light caught Woozi’s hair. “Wow.” His fingers twitched at his sides before he spun toward the nearest stylist. “Can I—” He gestured vaguely at Woozi’s head, already reaching out before getting permission. The stylist waved him off with an amused shrug, and Kentaro closed the distance in two strides.
His touch was featherlight at first—just the backs of his knuckles skimming the ends, testing the reality of it—before his fingers sank fully into the strands, carding through with deliberate slowness. “Soft,” Kentaro murmured, more to himself than anyone else, thumb brushing the curve of Woozi’s ear where blonde met skin. His smile widened, stupidly bright, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You’re…wow.”
Woozi rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away, leaning ever so slightly into the touch. Around them, the set buzzed with pre-shoot chaos—crew adjusting lights, stylists darting between stations with steaming cups of instant coffee—but Kentaro’s attention never wavered, his fingers still tangled in Woozi’s hair like he’d forgotten how to let go.
“We,” Kentaro announced suddenly, turning to a bemused production assistant, “need way more close-up shots today.”
Kentaro just grinned wider.
The window ledge dug cold into Woozi’s thighs through his thin sweatpants, winter light filtering through the frosted glass in hazy streaks. Kentaro’s knees bracketed him from behind—close enough for warmth, far enough to feign professionalism—but his fingers told another story entirely. They combed through Woozi’s freshly bleached hair with shameless devotion, separating the strands like he was mapping each one, his pinky occasionally brushing the nape of Woozi’s neck just to feel him shiver.
“So soft,” Kentaro murmured again, lower this time, his breath grazing Woozi’s ear between takes. The set blankets pooled around them in messy heaps, abandoned when Kentaro had migrated closer under the guise of adjusting Woozi’s mic pack. His thumb traced the shell of Woozi’s ear—once, twice—before tucking a stubborn strand behind it. Woozi kept his face carefully neutral, but the flush crawling up his throat betrayed him.
“Cut!” the director called, waving for lighting adjustments. The crew scattered, leaving them in their temporary pocket of stillness. Kentaro’s hand didn’t move. If anything, his fingers curled tighter, massaging Woozi’s scalp in slow circles like he was memorizing the sensation. A stylist passed by with an armful of costumes, eyes flicking to them before pointedly looking away. Woozi exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly to give Kentaro better access.
“You’re ridiculous,” Woozi muttered, but there was no heat to it—not when Kentaro’s nails scratched lightly at his crown, drawing a traitorous sigh from his lips. Kentaro hummed, pleased, leaning close enough that his chest pressed warm against Woozi’s back. “Tell me to stop,” he challenged, voice barely above a whisper.
Another scene was in the supermarket, and Kentaro had insisted—insisted—on being the one to film Woozi. "It's more authentic this way," he'd argued with the director, already angling the camera too close, the lens practically brushing Woozi's nose as he backed him into the produce section.
Woozi batted at the camera with a laugh, ducking behind a pyramid of Fuji apples like a startled cat. "Back up," he hissed, but Kentaro only zoomed in further, crouching low to capture the way Woozi's cheeks pinked under the fluorescent lights. "Model behavior!" Kentaro crowed, voice echoing off the tile floors.
And then—because Woozi was nothing if not stubborn—he leaned into it. Plucked an apple with exaggerated elegance, arched a single eyebrow, and struck a pose so ridiculous even the lighting crew snorted. Kentaro's grin widened behind the camera. "Yes, yes, give me more—" he urged, circling Woozi like a director obsessed, the shot tilting dangerously as he laughed.
The entire set devolved into chaos—stylists clutching their sides, producers wiping tears, even the stoic security guard cracking a smile as Woozi balanced an apple on his head with deadpan seriousness. Kentaro didn't stop filming, not even when his hands shook from laughter, not even when Woozi lobbed a grape at his forehead in retaliation.
Later, in the van, Kentaro would replay every take, fingers hovering over the delete button but never pressing it. "For reference," he'd say, too casual, as if anyone believed him. Woozi would roll his eyes—but when Kentaro's thumb brushed his knee under the shared blanket, he didn't pull away.
The rooftop scene required rain—artificial, freezing, pumped through overhead rigs with industrial precision. Woozi stood motionless under the downpour, platinum hair darkened to honey as water streamed down his cheeks like tears. Behind the monitor, Kentaro’s knuckles whitened around his script. The stylist had trimmed Woozi’s hair just enough to maintain continuity, but Kentaro noticed the missing centimeter immediately—his gaze catching on the way droplets clung to shorter strands at Woozi’s nape.
Between takes, silence settled thick as fog. Kentaro appeared without being called—jacket extended like a peace offering, fingers brushing Woozi’s wrist when he passed the water bottle. “Okay?” he asked for the fourth time, voice low enough that only Woozi could parse the tremor in it. Woozi nodded, eyes locked on the horizon where Seoul’s skyline blurred behind the artificial storm. Kentaro lingered a moment too long, gaze tracing the way droplets clung to Woozi’s freshly trimmed hairline before retreating to his monitor like a man sentenced.
The next take seared itself into memory—Woozi’s hands trembling not from cold but raw emotion, lyrics about lost chances spilling from his lips with a vulnerability that made crew members glance away. Kentaro’s pen snapped mid-note. He didn’t flinch, just stared at the fractured plastic in his palm before slowly closing his fingers around it. When Woozi’s voice cracked on the bridge, Kentaro’s knee jerked involuntarily, knocking the monitor stand. No one remarked on it.
Rain machines whined to a halt. The director called for adjustments, but Kentaro was already moving—toward the craft services table, toward the lighting rig, anywhere except where Woozi stood wringing water from his sleeves. His usual crisp professionalism frayed at the edges; he adjusted the same mic pack three times, fingers stuttering over the clasp. When Woozi finally glanced over, Kentaro was staring at his own reflection in a discarded monitor, mouthing words that looked suspiciously like I’m sorry.
The final take shattered them both. Woozi sang directly to the lens, rain masking the tear tracking his cheek, while Kentaro gripped the back of a folding chair until the metal groaned. As crew members packed up, they found Kentaro’s script abandoned on the ground—page after page of meticulous notes, every margin filled with tiny, frantic sketches of hands clutching at nothing.
The mood shifted abruptly with the next location—a sun-drenched kitchen set where Woozi stood barefoot before a sizzling pan. The director called action, and Kentaro materialized behind him like a shadow given form, arms sliding around Woozi’s waist in one fluid motion. Woozi startled—genuine surprise flickering across his face—before settling back against Kentaro’s chest with a quiet huff of laughter.
“Cut!” The director grinned, waving them on. “Keep that.”
Kentaro’s hands lingered even after the cameras stopped rolling, thumbs tracing absent circles over Woozi’s hipbones as he peered over his shoulder at the bubbling stew. “You’re burning the garlic,” he murmured, lips brushing Woozi’s ear.
“I’m what—?” Woozi twisted, nearly elbowing Kentaro in the ribs as he scrambled to adjust the heat. Behind them, the crew erupted into laughter at his genuine panic. Kentaro just pressed closer, chin hooking over Woozi’s shoulder as he guided his hands with exaggerated patience.
Take seventeen found them flour-dusted and giggling, Kentaro’s nose buried in the curve of Woozi’s neck between lines. “This is my favorite scene,” he confessed, voice muffled against Woozi’s skin. The cameras caught Woozi’s eyelashes fluttering shut for a beat too long, his whispered ”Idiot” drowned out by the sizzle of onions.
When the director finally called wrap, Kentaro didn’t let go—just turned Woozi in his arms and pressed a kiss to his flour-streaked forehead, ignoring the crew’s collective inhale. The moment hung suspended, fragile as the steam rising between them, before Woozi ducked away with a smile that said later.
Kentaro watched him retreat, fingers still tingling with the memory of Woozi’s waist under his hands. Somewhere beyond the set lights, rain began to fall—real this time.
The cabinet scene was supposed to be simple. Just Woozi sitting inside, singing to the camera, raw and unfiltered. But when the director called action, something shifted. Woozi’s voice cracked on the first line, his fingers curling into fists against his thighs. The set went silent. Not the usual respectful quiet—something heavier, like the air before a storm.
Kentaro saw it first: the tear tracking down Woozi’s cheek, catching the light before disappearing into the collar of his shirt. Woozi didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t even seem to notice it had fallen. He just kept singing, voice fraying at the edges, eyes fixed on some point beyond the lens. Another tear followed. Then another.
The crew froze. The cameraman held his breath, the shot unwavering. No one moved to adjust the lighting, to offer tissues, to call cut. They just let it happen—let Woozi’s quiet unraveling fill the room, his tears falling unchecked now, his fingers trembling where they rested on his knees.
Kentaro took a step back. Then another. He turned on his heel and walked away, his footsteps echoing too loud in the sudden stillness. He didn’t look back. Didn’t trust himself to. Some moments weren’t meant to be shared—not even by him.
The last note hung in the air, suspended. Woozi blinked, as if waking from a dream, and swiped at his cheeks with the back of his hand. The gesture was quick, practiced, like he’d done it a thousand times before when no one was watching.
"Cut," the director whispered, and the set exhaled.
Kentaro was already clapping before the word fully left her mouth—louder than necessary, sharp enough to startle the crew into joining in. Woozi’s head snapped up, eyes finding Kentaro’s across the room. Kentaro didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just kept clapping, his hands stinging with the force of it, until Woozi looked away first.
The next scene was so cute—just Woozi sprawled on artificial clouds against a green screen, singing the post-chorus with dreamy detachment. But the moment he lay back, the entire set dissolved into chaos. The "clouds" were cheaper foam than anticipated, crumbling under his weight like stale cake. A production assistant scrambled to adjust the rigging while another frantically fluffed replacements, sending synthetic fluff drifting through the air like snow.
Between takes, Kentaro appeared without warning, stretching out beside Woozi on the ruined set pieces like they were actual cumulus. "Look," he murmured, pointing at the studio ceiling where a single flickering fluorescent light buzzed. "That one's Orion." Woozi followed his finger, squinting at the water-stained tiles. "Bullshit," he laughed, but Kentaro only grinned wider, tracing imaginary lines between fire exits and rigging hooks. "And that’s—what do you call it—the Big Dipper. But smaller."
A chunk of foam disintegrated beneath them, sending Woozi tilting sideways. Kentaro caught him by the shoulder before he could slide off completely, fingers lingering as he brushed platinum strands away from Woozi’s forehead. "Your hair’s full of fake sky," he murmured, plucking a fleck of foam from Woozi’s lashes. Woozi swatted at him halfheartedly, but Kentaro just leaned closer, thumb skimming his temple. The crew shouted adjustments around them, but neither moved—suspended in the absurdity of it all, laughing softly at the unreality of clouds that weren’t clouds, a sky that wasn’t sky, and this fragile thing between them that refused to be anything but real.
Director’s cue came sharp through the chatter. Kentaro rolled away first, leaving Woozi colder than the studio AC warranted. As the cameras reset, Woozi watched Kentaro’s silhouette against the green void—solid where everything else was fabrication. Then lights, then action, then Woozi singing like his chest wasn’t splitting at the seams.
Between takes, Kentaro’s fingers found his again, hidden by crumbling foam. Neither acknowledged it. Neither let go.
The studio lights dimmed to a honeyed glow, casting long shadows across the makeshift bedroom set—rumpled sheets, a single lamp flickering faintly, the script pages scattered like fallen leaves. Woozi lay perfectly still on the edge of the mattress, fingertips brushing the seam of Kentaro’s sleeve where it stretched taut over his shoulder. Kentaro’s breathing was too even to be real, his lashes fluttering just enough to betray him whenever Woozi shifted.
A grin threatened at the corners of Woozi’s mouth as Kentaro’s eyelid cracked open—just a sliver—tracking the slow drag of Woozi’s thumb along his wrist before snapping shut again. Woozi exhaled through his nose, pressing his lips together hard. The set was silent save for the hum of equipment, the rustle of fabric as Woozi deliberately turned his face into the pillow, shoulders shaking once.
Kentaro’s mouth curved, eyes still closed, his cheek dimpling. He stretched lazily, rolling onto his side with a sigh that ended in a poorly disguised chuckle, one arm slinging over Woozi’s waist to pull him closer. “Cut,” the director murmured, voice warm. “Perfect intimacy.” The crew erupted into scattered applause, but Kentaro only tucked his smile against Woozi’s nape, fingers splaying possessively over his ribs.
Woozi elbowed him—lightly—and Kentaro caught his wrist, pressing a laugh into his skin as the set dissolved around them. The moment lingered, fragile as the script pages Kentaro hadn’t actually read, as the bed neither wanted to leave. Somewhere beyond the lights, reality waited. For now, there was only this: Kentaro’s thumb circling Woozi’s pulse point, slow and sure, as if memorizing the rhythm of it.
The director called for another reset. Kentaro’s grip tightened briefly before letting go.
The studio lights hummed back to full brightness, illuminating the wreckage of memories scattered across the set—a cracked photo frame, a wristwatch with frozen hands, a single red sneaker abandoned near the boom mic. Prop items everywhere, carefully curated to look like careless loss. Woozi hovered near the edge, fingers flexing at his sides as he studied the debris. His throat worked silently. The crew held their breath.
"Whenever you're ready," the director murmured—too gentle, like she knew what this cost him. Woozi exhaled sharply through his nose and stepped forward. His socked feet avoided the broken glass props with instinctive precision, but his shoulders stayed rigid, his gaze darting to the script pages crumpled near his mark. Kentaro watched from monitors, spine straight where he perched on the equipment case, fingers steepled under his chin.
The first take faltered before Woozi even spoke. He knelt by the shattered frame prop, fingertips hovering over the fake glass shards, and froze. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Kentaro was moving before the director could call cut—crossing the set in three long strides to crouch beside him. "Look at me," he murmured, hand settling warm between Woozi’s shoulder blades. "Breathe. You’ve got this." His thumb swept a slow arc against damp cotton, grounding. Woozi’s eyelashes fluttered shut. He nodded once, sharp.
Second take. Woozi’s voice cracked on the third line, but he powered through, fingers curling into fists against his thighs. Kentaro’s knuckles whitened around his kneecaps where he’d resumed his vigil by monitors. When Woozi stumbled over the lyric about abandoned bicycles, Kentaro mouthed the words silently from across the room, his lips shaping each syllable with exaggerated care until Woozi caught the rhythm again.
Final take—perfect. Raw. Devastating. The last word barely left Woozi’s lips before Kentaro was there, arms wrapping around him so tight the crew could see Woozi’s feet leave the ground for a second. Kentaro buried his face in platinum hair, murmuring praise too low for microphones to catch. Woozi’s fingers clutched at the back of Kentaro’s shirt, twisting fabric like he needed proof this—them—wasn’t another prop to be discarded after wrap.
The director called lunch. Neither moved.
The set stretched around them—two identical bedrooms reflected endlessly in the funhouse mirrors lining the walls, creating the illusion of infinite Woozis frozen mid-motion: one adjusting his collar, another rubbing his temple, a third staring blankly at his own multiplied exhaustion. Kentaro hovered near the monitors, mesmerized by the playback looping silently—Woozi’s myriad reflections fracturing further with each recursive angle. "How many takes did we do?" he asked, fingers hovering over the rewind button. The editor blinked. "Eighteen." Kentaro's jaw tightened imperceptibly.
Take nineteen: Woozi's fist connected with the mirror. The sound cracked through the studio like a gunshot, glass splintering into spiderwebs as his reflection fragmented into a hundred shattered pieces. Kentaro was across the set before the last shard hit the floor—hands cupping Woozi's bleeding knuckles before the director could even shout "Cut!" His thumbs pressed too hard against the broken skin, voice dropping to a rough whisper: "What the hell was that?" Woozi didn’t pull away. Just watched his own blood smear across Kentaro’s wedding band—prop or real, neither could tell anymore.
The medic wrapped gauze too tight. Woozi flexed his fingers experimentally, wincing as the fabric pulled. Behind him, Kentaro paced the length of the monitors like a caged animal, running frantic hands through his hair every third step. When Woozi finally met his gaze, Kentaro mouthed one word—Why?—his expression raw with something too close to fear. Woozi shrugged, aiming for nonchalance but missing by miles. The reflection gimmick had gotten under his skin, that’s all. Too many versions of himself staring back, each one more hollow than the last. Kentaro exhaled sharply through his nose, shoulders slumping like the answer physically wounded him.
They reset the mirrors—new glass, same illusion. The script called for Woozi to walk away from his reflections, but Kentaro’s rewrite had him reaching instead, fingers skimming the surface like he might find purchase in his own impossible replication. Kentaro watched playback with laser focus, rewinding the moment Woozi’s fingertips met glass seventeen times. The editor shifted uncomfortably. "It’s just a shot," he offered. Kentaro didn’t respond. Just stared at the screen where Woozi’s multiplied hands pressed against their own reflections, desperate and trembling, like they might bleed through if he pushed hard enough.
Outside in the garden, under the drowsy afternoon sun filtering through the maple leaves, Kentaro knelt behind Woozi with all the solemn focus of a man defusing a bomb. His fingers hovered above Woozi’s platinum strands, hesitant, before tentatively gathering a section. "Don’t move," he muttered, more to himself than to Woozi, who sat obediently still—except for the smirk threatening to split his face.
The first attempt collapsed almost immediately, strands slipping free like they had better places to be. Kentaro exhaled sharply through his nose, gathering the hair again with renewed determination. His brows furrowed so deeply they nearly touched. The second try unraveled faster, one rebellious section springing loose to tickle Woozi’s neck. "Ah—shit," Kentaro hissed, recoiling as if the hair had personally betrayed him.
Woozi couldn’t hold it in anymore. His shoulders shook with silent laughter. "You’re worse than Mingyu," he wheezed, tilting his head back just enough to catch Kentaro’s pout. "And he braids like a drunk octopus." Kentaro’s offended gasp was downright theatrical. He pressed a dramatic hand to his chest. "I’m trying to be romantic," he lamented, flopping forward to bury his face in Woozi’s shoulder. "This is violence."
But Kentaro didn’t give up. On the third try, his fingers moved slower, more deliberately, weaving the strands with painstaking care. Woozi held his breath, half-expecting another disaster, but—miraculously—the braid held. Kentaro tied it off with a tiny black ribbon (stolen from a stylist’s kit, probably) and then immediately spun Woozi around by the shoulders, beaming like he’d just cracked the secrets of the universe. "Look," he demanded, voice hushed with awe, as if he hadn’t just spent twenty minutes mangling Woozi’s hair. "Perfect."
And it was—neat, even, the plait resting snug against Woozi’s nape where the platinum strands caught the sunlight. Kentaro’s thumb traced the braid once, reverent, before his expression shifted into something unbearably smug. He whipped out his phone, angling the camera over Woozi’s shoulder to capture his handiwork—just as a passing staff member paused mid-stride, blinking at the scene. "Sakaguchi-san," she deadpanned, "are you filming your braid?"
"Documenting my victory," Kentaro corrected, undeterred, zooming in on the ribbon with ridiculous solemnity. Woozi rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away, letting Kentaro tilt his chin up for better lighting. The warmth of Kentaro’s palm lingered even after he lowered the phone, his grin softening into something quieter, more private.
A breeze stirred the maple leaves above them, scattering dappled shadows across Kentaro’s face. Woozi reached up, fingers brushing the slightly lopsided braid. "Not bad," he conceded—then yelped as Kentaro hauled him into a crushing hug, laughing against his hair. "Not bad?" Kentaro repeated, incredulous. "Not bad? I deserve a medal—"
Woozi elbowed him, but he was laughing too, the sound muffled against Kentaro’s shoulder. Around them, the garden hummed with late afternoon stillness, the distant chatter of staff fading into irrelevance. Kentaro’s arms tightened briefly before he pulled back, thumbs brushing Woozi’s jawline as if to memorize its shape.
The rooftop scene loomed—script pages still warm from the printer, ink smudged where Kentaro had gripped them too hard during the readthrough. Bridge. Argument. Back at the fucking rooftop. The words glared up at them like an indictment. Woozi exhaled sharply through his nose, rolling his shoulders as if he could physically shake off the weight of what came next. Kentaro’s fingers twitched toward him, then curled into fists at his sides.
"Thirty minutes," a PA called, voice muffled through the door.
Kentaro paced the length of the green room like a caged animal, footsteps measured yet frantic, hands raking through his hair every third stride. Woozi sat perfectly still on the couch, forearms braced on his knees, staring at the script without seeing it. The silence between them stretched taut enough to snap.
"Don’t do that," Kentaro bit out finally, whirling to face him. "Don’t just—shut down like this."
Woozi didn’t look up. "I’m staying in character."
Kentaro made a wounded noise in the back of his throat. "Bullshit."
The door creaked open—five-minute warning. Kentaro spun away, shoulders rigid beneath his costume jacket. Woozi stood slowly, rolling his neck until it cracked. The tension coiled between them like a live wire as they stepped onto set.
The argument unfolded exactly as scripted—Woozi’s voice cracking on the line about trust, Kentaro’s hands trembling where they hovered between them like he wanted to reach out but didn’t dare. The director called cut, but neither moved. The crew held their breath.
Then Kentaro surged forward, crushing Woozi against his chest so hard the air left his lungs in a rush. Woozi’s fingers twisted in Kentaro’s shirt, forehead pressing into the hollow of his throat as they breathed together, ragged and unsteady. Kentaro’s lips brushed Woozi’s temple—once, twice—before he pulled back just enough to press their foreheads together, eyes squeezed shut like he couldn’t bear to look yet couldn’t stand to let go.
"Okay?" Kentaro whispered.
Woozi nodded against him. "Okay."
Around them, the crew dispersed with practiced discretion, leaving them tangled in the quiet aftermath, the only sound their synchronized breaths slowly steadying. Kentaro’s thumb traced Woozi’s cheekbone, catching on a tear neither of them acknowledged. The rooftop scene was done. This—whatever this was—wasn’t.
The director’s soft clap broke the silence first, followed by scattered sniffles from the lighting team. Kentaro didn’t turn to look, his focus entirely on Woozi—on the way his lashes fluttered shut as he leaned into Kentaro’s touch, exhaustion and something deeper etching lines into his face. "That’s a wrap," someone murmured, but the words dissolved into the hum of equipment powering down.
Kentaro waited until the last crew member shuffled out before pulling Woozi into his arms again, this time with no pretense of professionalism. His lips brushed Woozi’s temple, lingering there as he whispered, "Thank you for trusting this." Woozi’s breath hitched, fingers tightening in the fabric of Kentaro’s shirt like he was afraid to let go.
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken things, until Woozi finally tilted his head up. His eyes were red-rimmed but clear, a quiet determination settling in his gaze. "You’re the only one I’d trust with it," he admitted, voice rough. Kentaro’s chest ached. He pressed their foreheads together, exhaling shakily. Around them, the set lights dimmed one by one, plunging them into near-darkness—just two shadows holding on tight, unwilling to be the first to let go.
The makeup room was a disaster. Platinum strands littered the floor like fallen confetti, catching the overhead lights in glinting streaks. Kentaro crouched, gathering a handful with exaggerated solemnity. "Souvenir," he declared, holding them up like a trophy. Woozi snorted, kicking at his shin half-heartedly from the chair. "You’re ridiculous." Kentaro grinned, tucking the strands into his pocket with a flourish. "And yet you keep me around." Woozi’s answering smile was small but real, softening the exhaustion lining his face.
Takeout containers piled up between them on the dressing room floor—half-finished noodles, abandoned chopsticks, condensation-streaked water bottles. Kentaro leaned back against the couch, legs stretched out, toes brushing Woozi’s thigh. "We did good today," he murmured around a mouthful of lukewarm gyoza. Woozi hummed, picking at his own food with less enthusiasm. "It hurt," he admitted quietly. Kentaro’s chopsticks stilled. He set the container aside, shifting closer until their shoulders pressed together. "Yeah," he breathed. "But it was true."
The quiet between them wasn’t empty—it thrummed with the weight of what they’d created, the rawness they’d carved out together under blinding lights. Woozi turned his hand palm-up on his knee, an unspoken invitation. Kentaro laced their fingers together without hesitation, thumb tracing the bandages still wrapped around Woozi’s knuckles. Outside, the studio hummed with late-night activity, but here, in this dim corner, they existed in their own quiet orbit—exhausted, exhilarated, and unmistakably alive.
The overhead fluorescents of Incheon Airport flickered like paparazzi flashes overhead, casting long shadows between the hurried travelers. Woozi adjusted his sunglasses for the third time in as many minutes—black frames, black hoodie, black shorts riding dangerously high against his thigh—every inch the idol trying (and failing) to blend in. Behind him, Kentaro moved like a shadow given human form: same hoodie, same uniform anonymity, except his height made stealth impossible. The fans lining the roped-off walkway knew it. Murmurs rippled through the crowd like wildfire, phones lifting in unison as Kentaro’s boot nudged the back of Woozi’s ankle in silent teasing.
“You’re walking like you’ve got a stick up your ass,” Kentaro muttered under his breath, lips barely moving. His hand hovered an inch above Woozi’s lower back, not touching but close enough to feel the heat radiating through fabric. Woozi exhaled sharply through his nose. “And you’re walking like you own the place,” he shot back, but the retort lost its edge when Kentaro chose that moment to wave lazily at a group of giggling fans. The resulting squeals nearly drowned out Kentaro’s next whisper: “I do.”
A security guard herded them forward with a pointed cough. Kentaro dropped his hand—finally—but not before his fingers brushed Woozi’s waist in fleeting reassurance. The touch lingered like a brand, even as they approached the split in the path: Kentaro to left security, Woozi to right. Just before parting, Kentaro caught Woozi’s wrist. His thumb pressed against Woozi’s pulse point, warm and deliberate, long enough for Woozi to feel his own heartbeat stutter against Kentaro’s calloused skin. Then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd, leaving Woozi standing there with his fingers curled into his palm as if he could trap the ghost of Kentaro’s grip.
Woozi waits for Kentaro to get to the seat right next to him, and the moment the curtain closes behind them, he exhales—long and slow—like he's been holding his breath since the airport doors slid open. First class is blissfully empty, just the hum of the engines and the muffled chatter of the crew somewhere beyond the partition. Kentaro drops into the seat beside him with an exaggerated groan, stretching his legs out into the absurd amount of space, toes flexing. "We're rich today," he murmurs, tipping his head back against the headrest with a grin.
Woozi kicks his shoes off immediately, tucking his feet under him as he sinks into the plush leather. The seats are too wide—built for people who aren't compact idols used to squeezing into economy rows—and he spreads his legs shamelessly, just to watch Kentaro's eyes flicker down and then back up, amused. Without a word, Woozi reaches over and snatches the folded blanket from Kentaro's armrest, draping it over his own lap with a pointed sniff. Kentaro gasps, hand flying to his chest in mock outrage. "Thief," he accuses, but he's already leaning over to adjust the blanket so it covers Woozi properly, fingers lingering at the edge longer than necessary.
The sunglasses are next. Woozi plucks Kentaro's off his face without warning, replacing them with his own smaller pair—which look ridiculous on Kentaro, the frames barely covering his cheekbones. Woozi barely has time to laugh before Kentaro's phone is out, snapping a picture of him drowning in Kentaro's oversized shades. "For memories," Kentaro says solemnly, dodging Woozi's half-hearted kick with a laugh. The flight attendant passing by catches the tail end of it—Woozi's socked foot dangling mid-air, Kentaro's grin unrepentant—and smiles, shaking her head as she walks away.
Kentaro exhales, sinking deeper into his seat. His fingers brush Woozi's wrist—just once—before retreating, the touch warm even in the cabin's cool air. Woozi doesn't pull away. He tilts his head against the headrest, closing his eyes, letting the hum of the plane lull him into something like peace. Kentaro's presence beside him is a steady, grounding thing—his breathing, the occasional rustle of fabric, the quiet tap of his fingers against the armrest in a rhythm Woozi recognizes as one of his unfinished melodies.
Outside, the clouds stretch endless and white, the sky a bright, indifferent blue. Somewhere below, the world keeps turning. Here, for now, there's just this—the quiet, the closeness, the unspoken promise of more.
As the plane takes of in the air, the cabin lights dim to a soft glow, casting long shadows across their laps. Woozi leans over Kentaro's shoulder to peer out the window, forehead pressed against the cool plastic as Seoul shrinks below them—a sprawling galaxy of amber and white. Kentaro points at the Han River threading through the city, narrating in a hushed, dramatic whisper like a wildlife documentarian: "And here we observe the rare nocturnal homo kpopius in its natural habitat—note the flashing lights signaling its mating call—" Woozi muffles his laughter against Kentaro's shoulder, shoulders shaking as he swats at him weakly. "Shut up," he hisses, but his grin betrays him, bright even in the darkened cabin.
They share a bag of honey butter chips passed between them, fingers brushing each time—deliberately clumsy, always lingering. When the inflight entertainment system boots up, they bicker quietly over movie choices; Woozi selects a somber arthouse film about a dying pianist while Kentaro scrolls straight to Sharknado 7. "This is cinema," Kentaro insists, dead serious, as Woozi groans and steals the remote. They compromise by watching neither, letting the title screen idle as Kentaro tilts his head against Woozi's, murmuring about the composer's questionable life choices. Their laughter is subdued, intimate—a language of shared glances and half-finished sentences only they decipher.
Kentaro dozes off first, lulled by the plane's steady hum—head tipping forward, then jerking back until it finds refuge against Woozi's shoulder. Woozi watches the way his lashes flutter against his cheeks, the slight part of his lips with each exhale. Carefully, he adjusts the hoodie bunched around Kentaro's neck, fingers brushing warm skin. His phone camera clicks softly—another stolen moment—before he types he's asleep in his notes app, adding a string of emojis that would make Jeonghan cackle. Outside, the world drifts below unseen, but here—in this suspended pocket of time—Woozi lets himself trace the slope of Kentaro's knuckles with his thumb, committing the weight of him to memory.
The Miami night air hit Woozi’s face like a damp cloth the second the plane doors opened—thick, salty, and impossibly warm for nighttime. He blinked, squinting down the jet bridge like it might explain why the darkness here carried heat. “Why is it hot at night?” he muttered, already shrugging out of his hoodie sleeves, the fabric clinging to his elbows. Behind him, Kentaro laughed, low and delighted, his breath puffing against the nape of Woozi’s neck as he nudged him forward. “Because America hates subtlety,” he said, like that was an actual answer, palm pressing briefly between Woozi’s shoulder blades before falling away.
Palm trees lined the airport walkway, their fronds swaying under the fluorescent lights like languid fans. Beyond the glass, the city sprawled in a glittering mosaic of neon and sodium-vapor gold, the humid air pressing against Woozi’s skin like an insistent hand. Accents wrapped around them—Spanish, English, something melodic and southern—as they wound through baggage claim, Kentaro’s broad frame cutting a path through the crowd while Woozi trailed half a step behind, still tugging at his collar.
They were spotted almost immediately. A small cluster of Carats hovered near the exit, phones raised but not crowding, their whispers sharp with excitement. Kentaro angled his body instinctively—not blocking Woozi, but standing firm, a quiet barrier between him and the flash of cameras. Woozi ducked his chin, offering a polite wave before tucking himself half-behind Kentaro’s shoulder, fingers brushing the back of his jacket. The fans cooed, one calling out, “We love you!” in accented Korean, soft enough that it didn’t echo. Kentaro grinned, throwing them a peace sign over his shoulder as security herded them toward the waiting cars.
The car peeled away from the curb with a growl of tires against pavement, the humid Miami night rushing in through rolled-down windows like an exhale. Neon signs bled across the glass in streaks of pink and turquoise, painting Kentaro’s profile in fleeting flashes as he leaned forward to thank the fans one last time—his voice half-lost under the thrum of bass from the radio. Woozi’s fingers drummed against the doorframe, already stretching his arm out the window to catch the thick, salt-scented air. "You’re going to lose a hand," Kentaro warned, tugging at the back of Woozi’s shirt without real force. Woozi grinned, twisting his wrist just to feel the wind push between his fingers like water. "Worth it," he shot back, and Kentaro’s sigh dissolved into laughter as the city lights blurred past.
Music swelled between them—some synth-heavy American pop song neither knew the words to, but Woozi hummed along anyway, his knee bouncing in time. Kentaro pointed at a garish high-rise glowing violet against the skyline. "That one’s shaped like a shoe," he announced, as if this was vital information. Woozi squinted. "Looks like every other building," he lied, just to watch Kentaro’s nose scrunch in protest. "You have no appreciation for architecture," Kentaro muttered, but his fingers curled around Woozi’s sleeve, thumb brushing the sensitive skin of his inner wrist where it rested on the seat between them. The touch was casual, almost accidental, but it sent warmth crawling up Woozi’s spine anyway.
Exhaustion hit him in a sudden wave—the kind that made his limbs heavy and his thoughts syrupy. He let his head loll onto Kentaro’s shoulder, the fabric of his shirt cool against Woozi’s cheek. The wind whipped their hair into identical messes, Kentaro’s dark strands fluttering against Woozi’s forehead as the car swung onto the highway. "That’s the same shoe building again," Woozi murmured, voice thick with sleep-teasing. Kentaro snorted, shifting just enough to press his lips to the crown of Woozi’s head—quick, hidden by the shadows and the rush of passing headlights. "Liar," he whispered into Woozi’s hair, but he didn’t correct him, just let the city’s glow paint them both in temporary gold as the car carried them toward somewhere quieter, somewhere theirs.
The keypad beeped three times before the Airbnb door clicked open—a sound that felt oddly momentous, like the first note of a song neither of them had rehearsed. Kentaro shouldered the door wide, his free hand finding Woozi’s hip to steer him inside before flicking the light switch with his elbow. The sudden brightness made them both freeze mid-step. “Oh wow,” Kentaro breathed, and Woozi didn’t need to ask why.
Floor-to-ceiling windows spanned the entire far wall, Miami’s skyline glittering beyond the glass like a spilled jewelry box. The city pulsed beneath them, neon and humming, close enough that Woozi half-expected to feel its heartbeat through the polished floors. Their bags thudded to the ground in unison, abandoned just past the threshold as Kentaro lunged for the couch—a ridiculous L-shaped thing in pristine white leather—flopping onto it with a groan that shook the cushions. Woozi followed, toeing off his thigh-high boots with more force than necessary, the left one skidding under the coffee table.
They lay side by side, limbs akimbo, staring at the ceiling where reflected city lights danced in watery gold patterns. The silence settled over them like a second skin, comfortable in a way only earned through exhaustion and familiarity. Kentaro turned his head first, cheek pressing into the couch’s upholstery. “We’re really here,” he murmured, as if the concept needed vocalizing to become real. Woozi nodded, a soft smile tugging at his lips despite the jet lag dragging at his eyelids.
Somewhere below, a car honked twice—sharp and impatient—but the sound felt worlds away. Kentaro’s fingers found Woozi’s wrist, tracing the delicate bones there with absent-minded reverence. “You’re staring,” Woozi accused without heat, though he didn’t pull away. Kentaro hummed, unrepentant, his thumb brushing the flutter of Woozi’s pulse. “You’re beautiful,” he countered, simple as that, like it was just another fact of the universe: the sky is blue, the ocean is vast, and Woozi is beautiful sprawled across Miami-white leather with his boots kicked off and his hair a mess.
Woozi’s breath hitched. He turned onto his side, facing Kentaro fully, their knees bumping in the space between couch cushions. The city lights caught in Kentaro’s eyelashes, painting them gold at the tips. Neither spoke. Neither needed to. The quiet stretched, taut and sweet, until Kentaro’s stomach growled loud enough to startle a laugh out of them both.
Woozi pressed his forehead to Kentaro’s shoulder, grinning against the fabric of his shirt. “Order something stupid,” he mumbled, already reaching for his phone with the hand not tangled in Kentaro’s. “Something with too much cheese.”
Kentaro’s chuckle vibrated through him, warm and familiar. “You’re a menace,” he murmured, but he was already pulling up the delivery app, his free arm curling around Woozi’s waist to anchor him closer. Outside, Miami glittered on, indifferent to the two figures curled together on a too-white couch, stubbornly awake against the weight of exhaustion and time zones and the quiet, persistent truth of this matters.
Upstairs, the dress slipped over Woozi's hips like liquid shadow—black lace clinging to every curve before flaring just above mid-thigh. He left his hair half-tied, loose strands brushing his nape where the choker usually sat, fingers deliberately skipping the jewelry box. The mirror caught his reflection in fragments: the dip of his waist where the lace scalloped, the way the neckline plunged just enough to make his collarbones look sharp enough to cut glass. Downstairs, ice clinked in a shaker.
The balcony doors stood open, Miami's humid breath curling through the room as Woozi padded barefoot across cool tiles. His martini glowed ghostly pale in the citylight, the lemon twist catching gold when he lifted it to his lips. Behind him, footsteps paused—then resumed, heavier. Kentaro's heat pressed against his back before his hands did, those ridiculous muscled arms sliding around Woozi's waist like they belonged there.
"No underwear," Kentaro murmured into his hair, palms skating up Woozi's ribs beneath the lace. His thumbs brushed the underside of Woozi's chest through the fabric, drawing a shiver. "You planned this." Woozi tipped his head back against Kentaro's bare shoulder—warmth and salt and the faint sting of aftershave—and took another slow sip of his drink before answering. "Maybe." The martini glass fogged where Kentaro's fingers curled over Woozi's to steady it, his other hand slipping lower to grip Woozi's thigh through the lace.
Somewhere below, a car door slammed. Kentaro's teeth grazed Woozi's earlobe. "They can't see us from here," he lied, voice rough, and Woozi arched into the touch anyway, the glass tipping perilously as Kentaro's grip tightened. The city sprawled beneath them, indifferent, as Woozi turned in his arms—martini abandoned on the railing—and dragged him down by the waistband of his sweats. Kentaro's laugh dissolved against his mouth, hands already bunching the lace higher.
Sunlight stabbed through the blinds like it had a personal vendetta, painting stripes across Woozi’s bare shoulders. He groaned, shoving his face deeper into the pillow—only to be met with the warm, sleep-mussed scent of Kentaro’s skin. Somewhere above him, Kentaro chuckled, the vibration humming through Woozi’s cheek where it pressed against his ribs. "Morning," Kentaro murmured, his free hand still scrolling lazily through his phone, the glow casting shadows across his half-unbuttoned shirt and the ridiculous nest of his bedhead.
"Turn it off," Woozi grumbled, blindly groping for Kentaro’s wrist and missing entirely, his fingers brushing the dip of Kentaro’s waist instead. Kentaro huffed a laugh, shifting just enough to let Woozi steal his forearm, tucking it under his head like a makeshift pillow. He didn’t resist—just let Woozi rearrange him with sleepy insistence, thumb absently stroking the side of Woozi’s knee where it hooked over his thigh.
The room was too bright, the air too thick with humidity already, but the silence between them was soft at the edges. Distantly, waves crashed—or maybe it was just the AC, Woozi couldn’t tell. He cracked one eye open, squinting up at Kentaro’s profile, the sharp line of his jaw illuminated by the phone screen. "...We’re actually in Miami," he muttered, more statement than question.
Kentaro grinned, thumb pausing mid-scroll. "Fortunately, yes." His voice was rough with sleep, the kind of warmth that settled low in Woozi’s stomach.
Woozi hid his smile in the pillowcase, but Kentaro felt it anyway—the way his shoulders relaxed, the quiet exhale against his ribs. The phone clattered onto the nightstand, forgotten, as Kentaro twisted onto his side, folding Woozi into the curve of his body like he belonged there. Which, Woozi thought as Kentaro’s fingers traced idle patterns between his shoulder blades, he kind of did.
Outside, Miami was already awake—car horns, seagulls, the distant thump of bass from a passing boat. Kentaro pressed his lips to Woozi’s temple, lingering. "Go back to sleep," he murmured, and Woozi did.
Bare feet slapped against the cold tile, toes curling instinctively away from the chill. Woozi padded toward the kitchen in a stolen t-shirt—Kentaro's, judging by the way the hem brushed his thighs—and shorts that had ridden up dangerously high overnight. The scent of coffee lingered in the air, promising caffeine and salvation. Kentaro leaned against the counter in his rumpled linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, loose trousers hanging low on his hips as he stirred sugar into his iced drink with deliberate, unhurried motions. He didn't look up when Woozi shuffled past, just nudged the second cup toward him with his elbow.
The sunglasses sat abandoned on the breakfast bar—Kentaro's signature black frames, lenses tinted just enough to soften Miami's relentless glare. Woozi snatched them up without hesitation, sliding them onto his nose with practiced ease. The world dipped into cooler tones instantly, edges softened. Kentaro pretended not to notice for exactly three seconds before sighing dramatically. "Those are mine," he muttered around a sip of coffee, though he made no move to reclaim them. Woozi smirked, adjusting the frames with his pinky. "They look better on me," he countered, just to watch Kentaro's nostrils flare in mock exasperation.
Kentaro snorted, shaking his head as he reached past Woozi for the fridge—close enough that his forearm brushed Woozi's bare shoulder, lingering deliberately in the space between casual and calculated. The condensation from his coffee dripped onto the tiles between them, forgotten. "You're a menace before caffeine," he murmured, but his fingers found the small of Woozi's back anyway, guiding him toward the door with quiet insistence.
The Miami heat hit them like a wall the second they stepped outside, thick and syrupy against Woozi's skin. He sucked down half his iced coffee in one go, the rush of caffeine hitting his bloodstream like a live wire. Kentaro watched, amused, as Woozi practically vibrated beside him, energy sparking visibly through his fingertips when he adjusted the stolen sunglasses again. "Better?" Kentaro asked, already knowing the answer. Woozi grinned, sharp and bright behind the tinted lenses. "Almost," he lied, stepping off the curb with deliberate bounce, forcing Kentaro to catch up or be left behind.
The beach café smelled like salt and hot butter, its open windows framing slices of turquoise ocean between wind-tossed palm fronds. Woozi's elbow stuck to the wooden table as he squinted at the laminated menu, fingers tapping against items with increasing enthusiasm—shrimp tacos, crab sliders, two kinds of ceviche, a tower of garlic fries that made Kentaro raise an eyebrow. "Hungry?" Kentaro drawled, already signaling the waiter to add his singular order of grilled fish. Woozi waved him off, stealing a lime wedge from Kentaro's water glass to suck on while he waited, the citrus sharp against his tongue.
When the food arrived, Woozi's knee bounced under the table, his fork already darting toward Kentaro's plate before the server fully stepped away. "Hey," Kentaro protested halfheartedly, nudging Woozi's ankle with his sandal-clad foot. Woozi speared a bite of Kentaro's fish with practiced ease, cheeks puffing as he chewed. "Sharing is caring," he mumbled through the mouthful, grinning when Kentaro sighed but didn't stop him. They ended up sitting sideways on the bench, bare feet buried in warm sand beneath the table, Woozi's stolen sunglasses slipping down his nose every time he leaned over to plunder Kentaro's food again.
Woozi invented elaborate backstories for passing tourists between bites—"That couple? Witness protection, definitely"—pointing with a fry at a pair of middle-aged men in matching Hawaiian shirts. Kentaro snorted, flicking salt off Woozi's wrist where it had stuck to his skin. "That's a dentist from Ohio with his brother." A seagull dive-bombed their table mid-sentence; Woozi shrieked and flung a napkin at it while Kentaro doubled over laughing, shoulders shaking too hard to intervene as the bird made off with an entire slider.
Later, shoes dangling from their fingers, they walked along the shoreline where the waves licked at their ankles. Woozi sprinted ahead suddenly—only to trip over a hidden shell, knees buckling—but Kentaro caught him by the waistband of his shorts, hauling him upright with a yank that nearly sent them both sprawling into the surf. "Don't ever do that again," Kentaro growled, pulse hammering visibly at his throat. Woozi just beamed, sand stuck to his shins, swaying deliberately into Kentaro's space. "But did you catch me?" Kentaro exhaled through his nose, fingers tightening briefly on Woozi's hip. "Unfortunately."
The sunset burned pink-orange behind them as Woozi leaned in to steal the last bite from Kentaro's abandoned to-go box, triumphant.
The Airbnb smelled like sunscreen and sea salt when they stumbled back inside, Woozi kicking the door shut with his heel while Kentaro wrestled with the stubborn lock. Late afternoon light spilled through the blinds, painting stripes across the rumpled bed where Woozi collapsed face-first, limbs splayed like a starfish. Sand gritted under his elbows when he shifted—they’d forgotten to rinse off at the beach—but the exhaustion was too sweet to care. Somewhere behind him, Kentaro’s sandals scuffed against the tile, followed by the soft click of a speaker powering on. A mellow guitar riff filled the space between them, something acoustic and honeyed, the volume low enough to feel intimate.
Woozi rolled onto his back, squinting at the ceiling fan’s lazy rotations. “They want me in Seoul by next Wednesday,” he murmured, tracing the hem of his salt-stiffened shirt. “MV storyboard revisions.” Kentaro hummed in acknowledgment, standing before the full-length mirror as he fiddled with his collar—fingers deft despite the sunburn pinkening his knuckles. “Same,” he said, catching Woozi’s gaze in the reflection. “Furuhata-san’s pushing for more night shoots. Says the lighting’s better with shadows.”
A breeze fluttered through the cracked balcony door, carrying the distant pulse of a passing boat’s music. Woozi watched Kentaro’s hands move—adjusting, smoothing, precise even in their tiredness. “We’ll barely sleep next week,” he observed, stretching his arms above his head until his shoulders popped. Kentaro’s mouth quirked, his reflection shrugging one shoulder. “Worth it.” The way he said it—simple, certain—made warmth pool low in Woozi’s stomach.
He propped himself up on his elbows, hair sticking up in sun-bleached tufts. “As long as we get scenes together.” Kentaro stilled, fingertips pausing mid-adjustment at his throat. Their eyes locked in the mirror—his dark, Woozi’s bright with challenge—before Kentaro turned fully, leaning back against the dresser. The smile he wore was small but unmistakable, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “We will.” A promise, not a platitude.
Woozi’s answering grin was all teeth. He flopped back onto the pillows, arms spread wide as the song shifted to something slower, the bass thrumming through the mattress beneath him. Kentaro’s shadow fell across the bed as he approached, knee dipping into the duvet near Woozi’s hip. “Move over,” he muttered, though he was already climbing atop him, bracing his weight on either side of Woozi’s shoulders. The kiss, when it came, tasted like ocean and the lime popsicle they’d shared on the walk home—sharp, sweet, lingering. Woozi arched into it, fingers finding the sun-warmed skin at Kentaro’s waist. Outside, Miami glittered on, indifferent to the quiet certainty settling between them like the dusk settling over the water.
The Dior restaurant hummed with the kind of quiet luxury that felt designed to intimidate—frosted glass partitions, orchids floating in slender vases, waiters gliding between tables like ghosts in tailored suits. Woozi walked in like he belonged there, his turtleneck dress hugging every clean line, the fabric whispering against his thighs with each step. Kentaro matched his pace effortlessly, one hand tucked loosely in his pocket, the other hovering near the small of Woozi’s back—not touching, just close enough to feel the warmth. The maître d’ didn’t blink twice at their arrival, though recognition flickered behind his polished smile as he led them to a corner booth bathed in soft golden light.
Woozi perched on the edge of his seat, spine rigid, fingers curled too tight around the menu’s gilt edges. Kentaro watched him over the rim of his wine glass, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Relax,” he murmured, nudging Woozi’s ankle under the table with the toe of his loafer. The effect was immediate—Woozi exhaled sharply, shoulders dropping as he slumped back into the plush upholstery, his knees knocking against Kentaro’s beneath the tablecloth. “Better,” Kentaro approved, reaching across to pluck the untouched water glass from Woozi’s grasp and replace it with his own wine. Woozi took a sip without protest, the tension in his jaw easing as the rich Bordeaux bloomed across his tongue.
Plates arrived in succession—truffle risotto, seared scallops, a salad so delicately arranged it seemed a shame to disturb it. Kentaro speared a scallop and held it out between them, eyebrow arched. Woozi leaned in to take the bite directly off his fork, lips brushing the tines, eyes never leaving Kentaro’s. Around them, the ambient chatter hitched for half a breath before resuming, the weight of glances bouncing off them like rain against glass. Kentaro’s fingers brushed Woozi’s knuckles where they rested beside his plate—a fleeting touch, barely there—and Woozi stilled, pulse jumping visibly at his throat before he turned his hand palm-up, letting their fingers tangle loosely beneath the linen. Kentaro’s thumb traced slow circles over his wrist, the pad rough against Woozi’s softer skin, as the candle between them guttered low.
The private gym smelled like disinfectant and Kentaro’s stupidly expensive cologne, the AC struggling against their shared body heat as Woozi cranked the speakers louder just to drown out Kentaro’s exaggerated groans. “Focus,” Woozi muttered, wiping his palms on his shorts before adjusting Kentaro’s grip on the barbell—his fingers lingering a beat too long on Kentaro’s wrist, thumb pressing into the tendon there. Kentaro grinned up at him, sweat glistening at his temples, and deliberately arched his back off the bench in a way that made his tank ride up. “I am,” he lied, flexing his biceps just to watch Woozi’s nostrils flare.
Woozi straddled the bench to correct his form, knees bracketing Kentaro’s hips, and counted reps through gritted teeth while Kentaro purposefully miscounted—lips quirking every time Woozi snapped, “That was six, idiot.” Their breathing synced when Woozi leaned forward to spot him, close enough to feel the hitch in Kentaro’s ribs when his thumbs brushed bare skin under the hem of Kentaro’s shirt. “This isn’t a date,” Woozi hissed as Kentaro’s smirk widened, but the protest died when Kentaro sat up abruptly, their mouths colliding in a messy, sweat-slick kiss that tasted like protein shakes and recklessness.
Laughter bubbled between them as Kentaro pinned him against the weight rack, hands sliding under Woozi’s thighs to hoist him higher—too much friction, too many layers, the energy crackling between them entirely inappropriate for leg day. Kentaro grabbed his phone off the dumbbell rack mid-kiss, snapping a shameless selfie of Woozi’s flushed cheeks and mussed hair with the caption post-workout glow already typed. Woozi flipped him off but couldn’t suppress his grin, especially when Kentaro promptly set it as his lockscreen right in front of him.
The shower after was inevitable—steam fogging the glass, Kentaro’s mouth hot on Woozi’s shoulder as water sluiced between them—but neither mentioned the way Kentaro’s hands lingered when he passed Woozi the soap. The bar slipped between their fingers twice before Kentaro huffed and pressed Woozi against the tile, lathering him up himself with slow, deliberate strokes that had nothing to do with cleanliness. Woozi arched into it, throat working as Kentaro’s thumbs dug into the dip of his waist, soap suds sliding down his thighs. “You missed a spot,” Kentaro murmured, dragging his palms over Woozi’s hipbones in a way that made his breath stutter. The water turned cold before either moved.
Kentaro tossed Woozi his underwear with a smirk, watching shamelessly as Woozi stepped into them—the cotton clinging to damp skin, the slow roll of his hips as he tugged them up. Kentaro’s shirt landed on Woozi’s head mid-stretch, still warm from his body, the fabric smelling like his stupid cologne. Woozi pulled it on just to watch Kentaro’s jaw tighten, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to yank it off again. “Stop staring,” Woozi said, buttoning his short jeans with deliberate slowness. Kentaro’s laugh was rough. “Make me.”
Kentaro's fingers lingered at the nape of Woozi's neck longer than necessary while adjusting his choker—each brush of skin against the silver links sending sparks down Woozi's spine. "Stop," Woozi muttered, swallowing hard when Kentaro's thumb grazed his pulse point, the pad rough against his throat. Kentaro's exhale warmed the shell of Woozi's ear as he leaned in, close enough for his cologne to drown out the hotel room's sterile scent. "You first," he murmured, fingertips skating down Woozi's collarbones before stepping back with a smirk that made Woozi's teeth ache.
The elevator ride was torture—Woozi hyperaware of Kentaro's shoulder pressing into his, the way his pinky kept brushing Woozi's hip every time the car jolted between floors. Kentaro stared straight ahead at the digital display, jaw tight, while Woozi counted the seconds by the erratic tapping of Kentaro's fingers against his thigh—three quick beats, a pause, then two slower ones. When the doors finally slid open, Kentaro caught Woozi's wrist and tugged him into the marble-floored lobby with deliberate roughness, his grip just shy of painful. "Stop looking at me like that," Kentaro growled under his breath as a concierge smiled politely at them. Woozi tilted his chin up, all faux innocence. "Like what?" The way Kentaro's nostrils flared told him everything.
The Miami sun blazed overhead as Kentaro swung his camera around, narrating with exaggerated gravitas like some wildlife documentarian gone rogue. "Observe," he whispered into the mic, zooming in shamelessly as Woozi—unaware he was being filmed—stopped mid-stride to frown at a pigeon wearing what appeared to be a tiny cowboy hat. "The elusive Jihoonius adorabilis in his natural urban habitat once again displaying rare curiosity toward local avian fashion trends."
Woozi turned just in time to catch Kentaro's shit-eating grin and immediately flipped him off—which only made Kentaro zoom in closer, capturing the way Woozi's nose scrunched when annoyed. "Notable aggression displays include this classic hand gesture," Kentaro continued, dodging the half-hearted swipe Woozi took at the camera. "Truly, a sight to behold."
Woozi retaliated by photobombing every subsequent shot—materializing behind Kentaro to mime choking him, or popping into frame with exaggerated peace signs while Kentaro tried to film the pastel-colored Art Deco buildings. At one point, he sprinted ahead and turned a corner, forcing Kentaro to chase after him, the camera bouncing wildly as he laughed breathlessly into the mic. "The prey has fled! Will our brave cinematographer survive this harrowing urban safari? Stay tuned—"
They nearly collided with a group of Carats rounding the same corner, all pastel bucket hats and wide-eyed recognition. Kentaro instantly lowered the camera, but not before capturing Woozi's deer-in-headlights expression as four phones were promptly raised. "Oh my god," one girl whispered, clutching her friend's arm. "You're together together."
Woozi's ears went scarlet. Kentaro, ever the professional, smoothly stepped in. "Just filming some memories," he said, effortlessly charming as he accepted a pen for autographs. Woozi bowed slightly beside him, shoulders tense, but softened when a Carat shyly offered him a Polaroid of Seventeen's latest album cover to sign. "You're so cute," another murmured—not quite under her breath—and Woozi pretended to examine a nearby palm tree very intently while Kentaro muffled a laugh into his fist.
The group dispersed with waves and giggles, leaving Kentaro to nudge Woozi's shoulder with the camera still rolling. "Admit it," he teased, capturing the way Woozi's lips twitched against a smile. "You love being called cute." Woozi swiped at the lens again, but this time, his fingers lingered—just long enough to brush Kentaro's knuckles before pulling away. The footage would show it later: that split-second touch, and the way Kentaro's breath hitched before he hit stop.
The diner’s neon sign flickered like a dying heartbeat—Joe’s All-Nighter in garish pink against the Miami midnight. Inside, chrome fixtures reflected Woozi’s silhouette as he slid into the vinyl booth, the material sticking slightly to his thighs. Kentaro settled beside him, close enough that their shoulders pressed together from collarbone to elbow, a line of warmth against the overcooled AC. A waitress materialized instantly, her smile brittle as laminated menus. "Help you boys?" The plural landed like an accusation.
Kentaro reached for the menu, fingertips brushing Woozi’s knuckles—too deliberately casual. "We’ll need a minute." His voice was pleasant, but his jaw tightened when the waitress’s gaze snagged on their proximity. She sniffed, pivoting sharply, her ponytail swinging like a pendulum. Woozi exhaled through his nose, tracing a chip in the Formica tabletop. "They know," he murmured, just as an older waiter passed their booth, muttering disgusting under his breath but loud enough to carve the word into the space between them.
Kentaro went very still. Woozi’s fingers curled into his palm, nails biting crescents into skin. The waiter returned with waters, slopping liquid over the rims onto Woozi’s sleeve. "Special diet?" he sneered, eyes darting to Kentaro’s hand, now resting openly on Woozi’s knee.
Woozi’s voice cut through the diner’s grease-scented air, quiet and lethal. "We’d like to speak to your manager." Not a request. The waiter’s lip curled. "Manager’s not here for your kind."
Kentaro stood so fast the table jolted, sending ice cubes skittering across the laminate. His grip on Woozi’s wrist was iron—grounding, not restraining. "We’re leaving." He tossed a twenty onto the table, crisp bill fluttering between untouched glasses. Woozi let himself be pulled upright, but not before locking eyes with the waiter. "Pathetic," he said, soft as a knife slipping between ribs.
The door slammed behind them with a crack like a gunshot, rattling the neon Open sign into darkness. Kentaro’s breath came sharp in the humid night, fingers still wrapped around Woozi’s wrist as they strode down the sidewalk. Woozi jerked free—not to pull away, but to lace their fingers together properly, squeezing until his knuckles whitened. Kentaro’s thumb brushed his pulse point once, twice. "Next time," he said, voice rough, "we’re ordering fucking takeout."
The Miami heat pressed down like a physical weight—Woozi’s jaw clenched so tight it ached, his strides sharp enough to slice through the humidity. His knuckles were still white from the diner, fingers curled into fists at his sides. Kentaro matched his pace without speaking, their shoulders brushing every few steps—close, but not crowding. The neon signs blurred into streaks of color as they walked, the city’s pulse thrumming around them like a taunt.
“I’m fine,” Woozi muttered, voice frayed at the edges. The lie hung between them, obvious as the sweat beading at his temples. Kentaro hummed, noncommittal, but his elbow bumped Woozi’s lightly—a silent bullshit—before he nudged a discarded bottle cap off the sidewalk with his shoe. He didn’t push. Didn’t fill the silence with empty reassurances. Just let the anger simmer between them, his presence a steady counterpoint to Woozi’s tension.
They stopped at a corner store, its fluorescent lights too bright. Kentaro emerged with two bottles of water, condensation already dripping down the glass. He handed one to Woozi, their fingers brushing—cold against clammy skin—before leading them to a low wall bordering a vacant lot. Woozi sat heavily, the concrete rough through his jeans, and twisted the cap off with too much force. The water was icy, sharp against his throat, but it grounded him.
Kentaro stretched his legs out, knocking his knee against Woozi’s. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said, quiet but firm. No room for argument. Woozi’s grip on the bottle tightened, then loosened—his exhale long and shuddering, the anger leaching out of him like a fever breaking. Kentaro waited, sipping his water like they had all the time in the world.
Woozi leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and finally looked at him. Kentaro’s expression was open, patient. The corner of Woozi’s mouth twitched. “…Okay. Maybe a little ruined.”
Kentaro’s laugh was sudden, bright—a spark in the dimness. “Mission: mood recovery activated,” he announced, hopping off the wall and offering Woozi a hand. His palm was cool from the bottle, steady. Woozi let himself be pulled up, their fingers lingering a second too long. Kentaro grinned, all mischief. “Next stop: the gayest ice cream parlor in Miami.”
Woozi rolled his eyes, but the smile stuck.
Golden hour painted the Airbnb’s hardwood floors in honeyed stripes, the light catching the dust motes swirling around Kentaro’s outstretched phone. “Stop moving,” he chided, swiping at Woozi’s attempt to duck out of frame—only for Woozi to deliberately ruin the shot by sticking his tongue out, eyes crinkled with suppressed laughter. Kentaro sighed dramatically, but Woozi caught the way his thumb hovered over the save button three times in a row, preserving every silly, sunlit moment. “Delete that,” Woozi grumbled, reaching for the phone, but Kentaro twisted away, grinning as he tapped out a caption: local gremlin hates joy, more at 11.
The ice cream dripped down Woozi’s fingers faster than he could lick it, the Miami heat turning their cones into a sticky race against time. Kentaro’s chocolate scoop toppled onto the sidewalk with a tragic splat, and Woozi—without thinking—offered his own half-melted mint chip. Kentaro’s exaggerated gasp could’ve won awards. “You monster,” he intoned, clutching his chest as Woozi took an unrepentant bite right in front of him. The betrayal lasted exactly six seconds before Kentaro lunged, stealing the rest directly from Woozi’s lips in a messy, laughing kiss that tasted like sugar and poor life choices.
Back at the Airbnb, the couch creaked under Woozi’s weight as he flopped onto it, limbs sprawled like a starfish. Kentaro settled on the floor between his knees, back resting against the cushions, the hem of Woozi’s shorts brushing his shoulders. The city hummed beyond the open window—car horns, distant bass, the occasional shriek of a seagull—but inside, the quiet between them was softer than the fading light. Kentaro tipped his head back until it bumped Woozi’s thigh, grinning when Woozi’s fingers automatically carded through his hair. “You’re ridiculous,” Woozi murmured, but his thumb traced the shell of Kentaro’s ear with absent tenderness.
Kentaro caught his wrist, pressing a kiss to the pulse point there—slow, deliberate—before interlacing their fingers and letting them rest against his collarbone. Woozi’s breath hitched, just once. The unspoken I’m here lingered heavier than the humidity.
The AC unit in their Airbnb rattled like a dying animal, but Woozi barely noticed—too busy glaring at the lyric sheet crumpled in his lap, the words blurring together under his frustrated gaze. Kentaro, stretched across the other end of the couch like a sunbathing cat, nudged Woozi’s ankle with his socked foot. "Stop brooding," he singsonged, flicking a bottle cap at Woozi’s thigh. It bounced off harmlessly, landing in the abyss between couch cushions. Woozi didn’t even blink.
Kentaro sighed dramatically—the kind of sigh reserved for Shakespearean tragedies—before slithering off the couch and disappearing into the kitchen. Woozi heard the fridge open, the clink of glass, then Kentaro’s footsteps padding back. He reappeared holding two neon-colored popsicles, the kind with jokes printed on the sticks. "Blue or radioactive pink?" he asked, wiggling them both in Woozi’s face like a magician offering a choice between doomed fates.
Woozi pointedly turned a page of his notebook. Kentaro shrugged, unwrapping the blue popsicle with his teeth—because of course he did—before plopping onto the couch sideways, legs slung over Woozi’s lap. “Fine,” Kentaro said, licking a slow stripe up the side of the popsicle while maintaining unbroken eye contact. “Suffer.” The popsicle dripped onto his fingers, and he made a show of sucking them clean, one by one, lips curling around each knuckle with exaggerated relish. Woozi’s nostrils flared. Kentaro grinned, victorious, and took another deliberately obscene bite. “Mmm. So good.”
The notebook hit Kentaro’s chest with a dull thud. “You’re disgusting,” Woozi muttered, but his ears were pink as he snatched the remaining popsicle from Kentaro’s hand. Kentaro laughed—bright and unrepentant—as Woozi bit down hard enough to crack the frozen syrup. “And yet,” Kentaro mused, stretching his arms behind his head, “here you are. Eating my popsicle.”
Woozi kicked him. Kentaro caught his ankle, fingers sliding under the hem of Woozi’s sweatpants to tickle the delicate skin there. Woozi squirmed, nearly choking on ice shards, but Kentaro held firm, grinning wider when Woozi’s indignant yelp dissolved into breathless laughter. “Stop—stop—”
“Make me,” Kentaro challenged, dragging Woozi halfway into his lap by sheer determination. Woozi’s knee jabbed his ribs in retaliation, but Kentaro just wheezed out a laugh, trapping Woozi’s wrists against the cushions. Their faces were inches apart now, Woozi’s lips stained neon blue, Kentaro’s breath warm against them. “There he is,” Kentaro murmured, thumb brushing syrup from Woozi’s chin. “Missed you.”
Woozi went still beneath him, chest rising too fast. The AC rattled again, shuddering like it might give out entirely. Kentaro didn’t move—just waited, watching the way Woozi’s throat worked around a swallow—before Woozi surged up, crushing their mouths together in a kiss that tasted like artificial blue raspberry and something sweeter, deeper. Kentaro’s grip loosened instantly, hands sliding up to cradle Woozi’s jaw instead, fingers tangling in his hair as Woozi bit his lower lip hard enough to sting.
A phone buzzed on the coffee table—Seungcheol’s name flashing across the screen—but neither of them reached for it. The popsicle stick snapped between them, forgotten.
Orange light slanted across the tangled sheets, painting Kentaro’s bare shoulder in molten streaks as he stirred. Woozi blinked awake to the sight of him—hair mussed, eyelashes casting shadows down his cheekbones, lips slightly parted against the pillow. A slow, drowsy smile curled at the corners of Kentaro’s mouth when he noticed Woozi watching. “Morning,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep, and pressed a kiss to Woozi’s knuckles before he could retract them.
Woozi scowled halfheartedly, but his fingers flexed instinctively around Kentaro’s. “It’s noon.”
“Eleven,” Kentaro corrected, rolling onto his back with a groan. His ribs were faintly pink where Woozi had bitten him last night—a fact that sent warmth crawling up Woozi’s neck—but Kentaro only stretched luxuriously, arms arching over his head like a cat. “You slept through three alarms.”
“Because someone kept—” Woozi cut himself off as Kentaro grinned, unrepentant. The memory of hushed laughter against his throat, Kentaro’s hands sliding under his waistband just to feel him shiver, lingered between them like sunlight caught in dust motes.
"We have no plans today. Relax." Kentaro murmured against Woozi's temple, his breath warm with sleep. The orange light from the blinds painted stripes across their tangled legs, the sheets pooled low around Kentaro’s waist. Woozi traced idle patterns over Kentaro’s ribs—following the faint pink marks left by his own teeth—until Kentaro caught his wrist and pressed a kiss to the pulse point.
Kentaro slid out from beneath the sheets with exaggerated care, pressing a fleeting kiss to Woozi’s bare shoulder before padding to the kitchenette. The tile was cold underfoot, the morning light slicing through the blinds in sharp angles as he filled the kettle. He hummed softly—some half-remembered melody Woozi had been tinkering with last night—while rooting through the tea selection.
Peppermint. Always peppermint.
The drawer stuck when he reached for the honey, revealing two forgotten packets tucked beside a folded slip of hotel stationery. Kentaro unfolded it with one hand, the other shaking tea leaves into a strainer. The maid’s loopy cursive curled across the page: For the beautiful couple—sweetness for your morning. A winking smiley face punctuated the note. Kentaro’s grin spread slow and wicked.
He dropped the honey into steaming water, stirred until it dissolved into amber swirls, then licked the residue from his thumb with deliberate slowness. The toast popped up—golden-brown—as Kentaro palmed the second honey packet, tearing it open with his teeth. Woozi would kill him for this.
Back in the bedroom, Woozi had burrowed deeper into the pillows, one arm flung over his eyes. Kentaro set the tea on the nightstand with a soft clink—then straddled Woozi’s hips in one smooth motion, pressing the honey-smeared toast against his lips. "Eat," he murmured, grinning at Woozi’s indignant squirm. The first bite was reluctant, but the second came faster—Woozi’s tongue darting out to catch the honey dripping down Kentaro’s fingers.
The honey clung to Woozi’s fingertips, sticky-sweet, as he reached for Kentaro’s wrist without thinking—thumb brushing the delicate skin there in slow, absent circles. Kentaro froze mid-sip of tea, the cup hovering near his lips. "You're... tactile today," he murmured, eyes flicking down to where Woozi’s fingers had slipped under his sleeve. It wasn’t a complaint. Just an observation—one tinged with quiet wonder, like he’d stumbled upon some rare, unexpected creature in broad daylight.
Woozi didn’t pull away. Couldn’t, really. The warmth of Kentaro’s pulse beneath his fingers was a siren call, pulling him closer even as his brain screamed danger, boundaries, professionalism. Instead, he let his hand slide up Kentaro’s forearm, tracing the faint ridge of a vein with a focus usually reserved for piano keys. Kentaro’s breath hitched—just once—before he set the teacup down with deliberate care. "This isn’t like you," he said softly, more to himself than Woozi, as if testing the words for truth.
But Woozi was already shifting closer, knee nudging against Kentaro’s thigh under the table, their ankles tangling like vines. The usual caution—the carefully maintained distance—had dissolved somewhere between shared toast and sunlight. Kentaro’s gaze was searching, almost wary, as Woozi’s fingers drifted higher, brushing the curve of his elbow. "Is this—" Kentaro started, then stopped when Woozi’s palm settled flat against his collarbone, right over the bruise he’d left 2 nights before.
Outside, a car horn blared. Somewhere in the building, a door slammed. Normal sounds. Mundane sounds. But here, in this honey-gilded moment, Kentaro looked at Woozi like he was seeing him for the first time—raw and unfiltered, without the usual layers of restraint. Woozi’s thumb dipped into the hollow of Kentaro’s throat, pressing just enough to feel the swallow that followed. "You tell me," he said, voice low. "Is this me?"
Kentaro’s laugh came out uneven, shaky. "Fuck if I know anymore."
And then Woozi kissed him—slow, deliberate—letting the taste of peppermint and honey blur the line between who they were and who they could be.
Kentaro broke the kiss for Woozi to follow him to the shower, their fingers interlaced—always holding on, even as the hot water sluiced over their shoulders and loosened Woozi’s muscles with steam. “So good for me,” Kentaro murmured against his temple, pressing him gently into the tile, one hand braced beside Woozi’s head while the other traced soap-slick down his spine. The praise settled warm and syrupy in Woozi’s chest, coaxing a soft noise from his throat when Kentaro’s fingers found the curve of his ass, kneading just shy of rough. “There you are, sweetheart.”
The first slap landed without warning—a sharp, stinging crack that made Woozi gasp and arch, his hips jolting forward into Kentaro’s palm. Kentaro laughed low in his ear, fingers curling possessively around Woozi’s hipbone. “Knew you’d like that.” His touch gentled immediately after, rubbing soothing circles over the flushed skin before dipping lower, teasing at Woozi’s rim with slick, practiced strokes. “Tell me.”
Woozi did—choked and desperate, forehead pressed to Kentaro’s shoulder as those fingers worked him open, scissoring slow before crooking just so. Kentaro swallowed every gasped yes and more with bruising kisses, his free hand tangled tight in Woozi’s hair to keep him close. “Gonna ruin you,” he promised, voice gone ragged as he added a third finger, stretching Woozi until he shook. “Gonna make you feel it tomorrow.”
They didn’t make it to the bed. Kentaro pinned Woozi face-first against the fogged-up glass, one arm hooked around his waist to hold him up as he pushed in—slow, so fucking slow—until Woozi sobbed and clawed at the shower wall. “Kentaro—”
“I’ve got you.” Kentaro’s teeth scraped Woozi’s shoulder, his thrusts deep and measured, every drag of his hips wringing another broken sound from Woozi’s throat. “Come on, baby, let me hear you.” He reached around to stroke Woozi in time with his thrusts, fingertips smearing precome as Woozi clenched around him, oversensitive and trembling. “That’s it—fuck—just like that.”
Woozi came with Kentaro’s name on his lips, his knees buckling as pleasure ripped through him in waves. Kentaro followed with a groan, spilling deep inside him, his forehead pressed to the damp nape of Woozi’s neck. They stayed like that—breathless, tangled, water cooling around them—until Kentaro turned Woozi gently to face him, thumbing away a stray tear. “Still with me?”
Woozi kissed him instead of answering, lazy and sated, their fingers interlaced under the spray.
The towel hit the floor before they reached the bed, Kentaro’s fingers already tangled in Woozi’s damp hair as he pushed him backward onto the sheets. "Stay," he murmured, pressing a kiss to Woozi’s forehead before reaching for the silk scarf draped over the bedside lamp—black as the space between stars. Woozi’s breath hitched when Kentaro tied it snug over his eyes, the fabric cool against his skin, but he didn’t resist. Not when Kentaro’s thumbs traced the arch of his cheekbones, not when his voice dropped to that reverent whisper: "Perfect."
Kentaro’s worship was methodical—lips mapping Woozi’s collarbones, tongue circling his nipples until they peaked, hands skating down his sides to frame his hips like something sacred. The blindfold amplified every touch, every shift of the mattress as Kentaro moved, until Woozi arched off the bed with a gasp when slick fingers pressed between his cheeks. “You’re obsessed,” Woozi breathed, legs falling open wider as Kentaro’s chuckle vibrated against his inner thigh.
“And you’re perfect,” Kentaro countered, mouthing along Woozi’s straining erection before swallowing him down in one smooth motion. Woozi’s back bowed, fingers scrambling at the sheets, as Kentaro worked him relentlessly—tongue flattening against the underside, lips tight and warm, until Woozi’s thighs trembled with the effort of not thrusting up. Kentaro pulled off with a filthy sound, pressing a vibrating toy to Woozi’s perineum just to watch him writhe. “Look at you,” he murmured, thumbing at Woozi’s spit-slick tip. “All mine.”
The balcony doors were still fogged from the shower when Kentaro dragged Woozi against them, the orange sun blurring beyond the glass. Woozi braced his palms against the cool surface, blindfold slipping as Kentaro thrust into him from behind—deep, deep, the stretch bordering on unbearable until pleasure crested into blinding need. “They could see you,” Kentaro growled, gripping Woozi’s hips hard enough to bruise, his pace unrelenting. “See how pretty you take me.” Woozi came with a sob, spilling over Kentaro’s fist as he was fucked through it, Kentaro’s groan hot against his neck when he followed.
After, Kentaro licked his palm clean with deliberate slowness, watching Woozi’s dazed expression. “Still think I’m the obsessed one?” he teased, nipping at Woozi’s swollen lip. The answer never came—just Woozi’s hand sliding between them, wrapping around Kentaro’s half-hard cock with a smirk that said this isn’t over.
The kitchen tile was cool against Woozi’s bare knees, the sharp scent of peppermint oil still clinging to Kentaro’s fingers as they carded through his hair. "Open," Kentaro murmured, pressing a slice of peach against Woozi’s lips—then pulling it away just as his teeth grazed the fruit. Juice dripped down Woozi’s chin, sticky-sweet, and Kentaro licked it off with deliberate slowness, his thumb hooking in Woozi’s mouth to drag his lower lip down. "Patience," he chided, smearing another peach slice over Woozi’s collarbone before bending to lick the trail it left.
Woozi’s hips jerked forward instinctively, met only with the counter’s edge digging into his thighs. Kentaro chuckled against his skin, one hand sliding down to squeeze the swell of Woozi’s ass through his sweats. "You’re obsessed," Woozi gasped, arching into the touch as Kentaro’s grip tightened. Kentaro nipped at his earlobe, breath hot. "Can you blame me?" His palm connected with Woozi’s backside in a sharp crack—the sound echoing off the stainless steel appliances—before kneading the sting away. "Fucking perfect."
The peach abandoned on the counter bled juice onto the marble as Kentaro pushed Woozi’s sweats down to his knees, biting at the curve of his exposed ass. Woozi braced himself against the island, knuckles whitening, when Kentaro’s tongue laved over him—broad, wet strokes that had him shuddering. "Kentaro—" The name fractured into a moan as that tongue pressed inside, fucking him slow and filthy while Kentaro’s fingers dug bruises into his hips. The fridge hummed beside them, condensation dripping down the glass shelves in time with Woozi’s ragged breaths.
Kentaro pulled back just to watch him clench around nothing, thumb rubbing teasing circles as Woozi whined. "Tell me what you want," he murmured, dragging Woozi back against him until their bodies aligned—Kentaro’s erection pressing hot between Woozi’s cheeks. Woozi turned his head, catching Kentaro’s lips in a biting kiss. "You," he panted against Kentaro’s mouth. "Always you."
The peach juice had dried tacky on Woozi’s skin by the time Kentaro lifted him onto the counter, the cold marble a shock against his overheated flesh. Kentaro’s hands spanned his waist, holding him there like something precious, as he slid home with a groan that vibrated through Woozi’s ribs. Outside, dawn painted the sky in streaks of orange and pink, but neither of them noticed. Not when Kentaro’s teeth were at Woozi’s throat, not when Woozi’s nails scored down Kentaro’s back—marking him in ways the world would never see.
The fruit bowl rattled with each thrust, a pear rolling off the counter to thud against the tile. Kentaro laughed—bright, unhinged—and Woozi clung tighter, legs locking around his waist as if he could fuse them together. "Mine," Kentaro growled, and Woozi didn’t argue.
He never did. He's a good boy.
Kentaro’s grip on Woozi’s wrist was firm as he dragged him toward the living room, the hardwood floor cool under their bare feet. The space between kitchen and couch felt charged—like crossing some invisible threshold where Kentaro’s touch shifted from teasing to claiming. He pushed Woozi onto the plush rug, the one that always smelled faintly of lavender fabric softener, and crouched over him with a predator’s smile. "You’re mine," he murmured, thumb pressing into Woozi’s lower lip until it parted, "and I’m gonna make sure you never forget it." The first kiss was soft, almost sweet—then Kentaro bit down hard enough to draw a gasp, his fingers twisting in Woozi’s hair to tilt his head back. "Stay still."
The rug fibers scratched Woozi’s knees when Kentaro shoved him forward, face pressed into the cushions as hands pinned his hips down. Kentaro’s voice dropped to a growl—half praise, half threat—as he yanked Woozi’s sweatpants lower. "Look at you," he breathed, dragging a fingernail down the sensitive skin of Woozi’s inner thigh. "Already ruined for me." The first slap landed sharp enough to leave a sting, then another, until Woozi’s gasps turned ragged. Kentaro crowded closer, chest flush against Woozi’s back, teeth scraping his shoulder. "Gonna wreck you so good," he promised, fingers sliding into Woozi’s mouth, pressing down on his tongue. "Gag on me like you mean it."
Saliva dripped down Woozi’s chin as Kentaro fucked his mouth—slow, then brutal—his other hand working Woozi’s cock with merciless precision. The overstimulation blurred into a dizzying haze, tears streaking Woozi’s cheeks when Kentaro finally pulled back, panting. "Fuck, look at you," he groaned, thumbing at Woozi’s spit-slick lips before shoving him onto his back, legs splayed over the rug’s geometric pattern.
Kentaro’s fingers traced the bite marks blooming across Woozi’s collarbones—proof of ownership—before pushing two fingers back into his mouth. "Keep them wet," he ordered, freeing his cock with a rough jerk. Woozi’s jaw ached, but he sucked obediently, tongue swirling until Kentaro’s groan vibrated through the room.
The stretch burned when Kentaro finally sank into him—no prep beyond spit and desperation—his hands pinning Woozi’s wrists above his head. "Tighter than fucking ever," Kentaro hissed, hips snapping forward. Woozi arched, a sob catching in his throat as Kentaro leaned down to lick the salt from his lashes. "Cry harder," he whispered, biting Woozi’s earlobe. "Gonna ruin you.
Kentaro’s thrusts turned erratic—deep enough to steal Woozi’s breath—until the friction burned white-hot between them. He came with Woozi’s name like a curse, his forehead pressed to Woozi’s as they shuddered through the aftershocks together. The rug stuck to Woozi’s sweat-slicked back when Kentaro rolled off, but he barely noticed—not when Kentaro was dragging him into a bruising kiss, tasting himself on Woozi’s tongue.
Silence settled, broken only by their ragged breathing and the distant hum of Miami waking beyond the windows. Kentaro’s fingers traced lazy circles over Woozi’s hipbone—possessive even in exhaustion—as dawn light spilled across their tangled limbs.
Woozi turned his head, catching Kentaro’s gaze. No words, just the ghost of a smile.
Later in the bedroom, the sheets were tangled beyond saving, twisted around Woozi’s thighs as Kentaro pressed him deeper into the mattress, his breath hot against the sweat-damp curve of Woozi’s spine. They’d lost count of how many times they’d come already—Woozi’s voice was hoarse from begging, Kentaro’s fingers still sticky where they gripped his hips—but neither of them cared. Not when Kentaro’s teeth were marking the back of Woozi’s neck, not when Woozi was arching back into every thrust like he couldn’t get enough.
Kentaro’s chuckle vibrated through Woozi’s ribs when his phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen flashing Hoshi’s name between them. “Answer it,” Kentaro murmured, slowing his pace just enough to make Woozi whine. “Put it on speaker.” Woozi groaned but obeyed, fumbling for the phone with trembling fingers, barely managing to swipe accept before Kentaro snapped his hips forward again. Hoshi’s excited chatter filled the room—something about choreography changes—but Woozi couldn’t focus, not when Kentaro’s palm was splayed over his stomach, holding him in place as he fucked into him with deliberate, measured strokes.
A moan slipped out before Woozi could bite it back, sharp and involuntary, and the line went silent for a beat. Then Hoshi’s laughter crackled through the speaker, bright and knowing. “I’ll let you have your fun,” he sing-songed before the call disconnected. Woozi flung the phone toward the armchair, missing by inches, but Kentaro was already dragging him up by the hair, his mouth sealing over Woozi’s in a kiss that tasted like salt and exhaustion.
After, they lay sprawled across the wrecked sheets, Kentaro’s arm heavy around Woozi’s waist as he traced idle patterns over the bruises blooming on his thighs. “You’re gonna feel this tomorrow,” Kentaro murmured, pressing a kiss to Woozi’s shoulder. Woozi huffed a laugh, boneless and sated. “Worth it.” The silence settled around them, warm and syrupy, until Kentaro’s stomach growled loud enough to startle them both. Woozi grinned, nudging him with his foot. “Order something. I’m not moving.”
Kentaro rolled his eyes but reached for his phone, his free hand still tangled in Woozi’s hair. “You’re insatiable,” he muttered, but the way his thumb brushed Woozi’s temple was tender, almost reverent. Woozi closed his eyes, listening to the low rumble of Kentaro’s voice as he argued with the delivery app, and let himself drift.
The sunlight pooled in uneven patches across the sheets—gold where it touched Woozi’s bare shoulder, amber where it caught the rumpled dip of Kentaro’s pillow. Woozi groaned as consciousness returned in increments: first the ache in his thighs, then the dull protest of his lower back, finally the way his arms trembled when he tried to push himself upright. He made it halfway before collapsing face-first into the mattress with a muffled whine.
Kentaro’s laugh was warm and unrepentant, already propped on one elbow beside him, fingertips tracing idle patterns down Woozi’s spine. “Good morning to you too.”
“Why,” Woozi mumbled into the sheets, limbs splayed like a starfish, “do I feel like a baby deer.” His attempt to roll over ended with a wince, one hand clutching at his hip. “Did you break me?”
“Just thoroughly enjoyed you.” Kentaro’s grin widened when Woozi finally managed to flip onto his back, blinking blearily at the ceiling. “Here.” He offered both hands, but the moment Woozi tried to sit up using Kentaro’s grip, his legs gave out entirely—knees buckling with a graceless wobble that sent him tumbling forward into Kentaro’s chest with a startled gasp.
Kentaro caught him easily, arms locking around his waist. “Bambi,” he cooed, kissing the crown of Woozi’s sleep-mussed hair.
“Shut up—” Woozi’s protest dissolved into laughter as Kentaro rocked them sideways, his face still buried in Kentaro’s collarbone. The scent of last night’s shower gel clung to Kentaro’s skin—something cedar and citrus—and Woozi inhaled deeply, fingers curling into the fabric of Kentaro’s shirt. “Never again.”
“You say that every time.”
Kentaro hummed, unconvinced, his palm sliding down to knead the soreness from Woozi’s lower back. “I’ll make it up to you.” His lips brushed Woozi’s temple. “Bath first. Then breakfast.”
“Then whatever you want.” Kentaro’s smile curled against Woozi’s forehead. “Within reason.”
Woozi snorted, finally peeling himself away enough to meet Kentaro’s gaze. The morning light caught the gold in his eyes, the sleep-soft edges of his expression. “You’re trouble.”
Woozi didn’t deny it. Just sighed and let Kentaro haul him upright again, this time with an arm braced firmly around his waist.
The bathroom door creaked open, releasing a curl of steam that wrapped around Woozi’s ankles like an invitation. He blinked—once, twice—taking in the scene: rose petals drifting across the water’s surface, votive candles flickering from the edges of the tub, a sweating champagne flute balanced precariously on a tray of sliced strawberries and delicate macarons. Kentaro appeared behind him, bare chest brushing Woozi’s shoulder as he surveyed the setup with a low chuckle. “They went crazy,” he murmured, thumb hooking into the waistband of Woozi’s towel.
Woozi stepped into the water first, the heat seeping into his sore muscles immediately. Kentaro followed, sinking down until their knees bumped beneath the surface, petals clinging to his skin. The scent of roses thickened the air, mingling with the quiet hum of a jazz track playing from somewhere unseen. For a moment, they just sat there—breathing, absorbing the quiet luxury of a moment that didn’t belong to cameras or choreography.
“Remember when we used to text about this?” Kentaro’s voice was softer here, stripped of performative confidence. His fingertip traced the rim of Woozi’s champagne glass. “Hot baths in different time zones.”
The champagne flute wobbled precariously as Woozi lifted it, legs shifting to straddle Kentaro’s lap beneath the rose-strewn water. Kentaro’s warning—don’t—came too late; Woozi tipped the glass deliberately, golden liquid cascading down his own chest in a slow, sticky rivulet. Kentaro’s breath hitched, eyes tracking the spill’s path over Woozi’s collarbones, the hollow of his throat.
“You—” Kentaro’s voice dropped to a growl as he caught a droplet with his thumb, swiping it across Woozi’s nipple before leaning in to lick the rest away. Woozi’s bitten-off gasp dissolved into a high-pitched squeal when Kentaro’s tongue grazed the sensitive skin, his hips jerking forward involuntarily.
Kentaro froze for half a second—staring at Woozi’s flushed face, his lip caught between his teeth—before bursting into laughter, shoulders shaking. “You sound—” he managed between breaths, wiping champagne from Woozi’s sternum with exaggerated slowness. Woozi kicked backward, splashing water everywhere as he tried to escape, but Kentaro hooked an arm around his waist, dragging him closer.
“Stop—!” Woozi shrieked, laughter pitching higher as Kentaro blew a raspberry against his damp stomach, rose petals clinging to their tangled limbs. The water sloshed violently, dousing the nearest candle with a hiss. They both stilled at the sound—breathless, dripping—before collapsing into each other again, giggles muffled against wet skin.
When their laughter subsided, the quiet felt softer. Warmer. Kentaro traced the rim of Woozi’s ear with a damp fingertip. “Remember when we used to fantasize about this?” he murmured. “Actual baths. Not just... hotel shower sex before call time.”
Woozi’s fingers found Kentaro’s underwater, threading together. “I remember you sending me that awful screenshot.” His nose scrunched. “‘KENZI’ trending because of our matching airport hoodies.”
Kentaro groaned, forehead thunking against Woozi’s shoulder. “I woke up to seventeen missed calls from my manager.” His thumb rubbed circles over Woozi’s knuckles. “Worth it.”
The admission lingered between them, buoyant as the petals circling their hips. Woozi pressed closer, knees bumping Kentaro’s thighs. “Timing’s weird,” he said quietly. “All those months of... almost. And now—”
“Now we get rose petals and overpriced macarons,” Kentaro finished, grinning when Woozi flicked water at him. But his smile gentled as he cupped Woozi’s jaw. “Now we get this.”
Woozi turned his face into Kentaro’s palm, pressing a kiss to the lifeline etched across it. The champagne flute floated forgotten near the tub’s edge, bubbles dissolving one by one into the steam-thick air.
The floor felt unstable beneath his feet, but Kentaro’s grip was steady, his laughter quiet as he guided Woozi toward the kitchen with exaggerated care.
The coffee machine gurgled to life while Woozi slumped at the counter, forehead pressed to the cool marble. Kentaro’s fingers carded through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp in that way that always made Woozi melt. “You’re mean,” Woozi muttered, but arched into the touch anyway.
“Mm. And yet you keep coming back.”
Kentaro pressed a mug into his hands—black, two sugars, exactly how Woozi liked it—and watched him take the first sip with undisguised fondness. The steam curled between them, carrying the rich, bitter scent as Woozi’s shoulders finally relaxed.
The kitchen tiles were cool beneath Woozi’s bare feet, grounding him as the opening notes of Darl+ing drifted from the Bluetooth speaker balanced precariously on the microwave. Kentaro stood opposite him, grinning like he’d already won something, his fingers twitching at his sides. "You’re serious?" he asked, even as he stepped closer, socked toes bumping Woozi’s.
Woozi caught his wrists, guiding them into position with a firmness that belied his flushed ears. "No. Like this," he muttered, adjusting Kentaro’s grip—one hand clasped in his, the other resting lightly at his waist. Kentaro’s thumb immediately stroked the dip above Woozi’s hipbone, entirely too deliberate. Woozi swatted it away. "Focus."
"I am." Kentaro’s voice dropped, eyes darkening as he leaned in. "On you."
The first spin was a disaster—Kentaro over-rotated, nearly sending them both careening into the fridge—but Woozi caught him by the elbow, steadying them with a huff. "Again."
Kentaro’s next attempt was worse. He stepped left when Woozi stepped right, their knees colliding hard enough to make Woozi yelp. "Are you trying to—"
"Maybe." Kentaro’s grin was unrepentant as he tugged Woozi flush against him, ignoring the choreography entirely. The music swelled around them, the lyrics looping You know, without you, I'm so lonely as their socked feet tangled together. Woozi huffed, trying to reposition Kentaro’s hands, but Kentaro just tightened his grip, swaying them off-beat until Woozi’s protests dissolved into breathless laughter.
"You’re impossible," Woozi muttered, but let himself be spun anyway—too fast, too reckless—his shoulder blades hitting the fridge with a thud that rattled the magnets. Kentaro caged him in, palms braced on either side of his head, close enough for Woozi to count the flecks of gold in his blown-wide pupils. The speaker crackled, the song skipping a beat as Kentaro leaned in, lips grazing Woozi’s temple. "Still focusing," he murmured, and Woozi could feel the words vibrate through his ribs.
Their next attempt at the choreography ended with Kentaro stepping squarely on Woozi’s toes, sending them stumbling backward into the counter. The impact knocked the breath from Woozi’s lungs, but Kentaro’s arms wrapped around him before he could slip, hauling him upright with a startled laugh. "Professional," Woozi deadpanned, fingers twisted in Kentaro’s shirtfront.
Kentaro nosed along his jawline, humming the melody against his skin. "You love it."
Woozi didn’t deny it. Just tilted his head, letting Kentaro’s lips find the sensitive spot beneath his ear, the one that always made him shiver. The music faded into something softer, the playlist shuffling to an acoustic version Woozi had recorded on a sleepless night months ago—just piano and the raw edge of his voice. Kentaro stilled, recognition flashing across his face before he pulled back to study Woozi. "This is—"
"Demo track." Woozi’s ears burned. "From our last session."
Kentaro’s thumb brushed the hinge of his jaw, reverent. "You sent me the whole lyrics." A pause. "Tracing my body with your fingertips."
The memory unfolded between them—Woozi hunched over his notebook in a Tokyo hotel room, Kentaro’s sleepy voice humming through the phone at 3AM. Now, with Kentaro’s fingers warm against his waist, Woozi exhaled sharply through his nose. “You remembered the lyrics.”
Kentaro spun him deliberately off-beat, lips quirking when Woozi stumbled into his chest. “I remember everything.” His thumb traced Woozi’s hipbone through the thin fabric of his sleep shirt. “Especially this part.”
The speaker crackled as the song hit the bridge—Woozi’s own voice layered in harmonies, raw and unfiltered. Kentaro’s grip shifted, one hand sliding up Woozi’s spine to cradle the base of his skull. No choreography now. Just the slow press of their bodies, swaying without rhythm, Kentaro’s socked feet nudging Woozi’s bare toes apart.
The doorbell chimed again—bright and insistent—just as Woozi was tugging Kentaro’s shirt back into place with trembling fingers. Kentaro groaned against his collarbone, lips still pressed to the flushed skin there. “Ignore it,” he mumbled, hands sliding up Woozi’s waist.
Woozi shoved him back halfheartedly, ears burning. “We’re not ignoring—” The doorbell trilled a third time, followed by a cheerful, muffled greeting in rapid Japanese. Kentaro froze, recognition flashing across his face before he scrambled off the couch so fast he nearly tripped over the coffee table.
By the time Woozi straightened his own clothes and joined him at the genkan, Kentaro was already bowing deeply to the elderly couple standing in the hallway—the owners of the building, judging by their matching sun hats and the small wrapped parcel clutched in the woman’s hands. Woozi bowed hastily, pulse stuttering when the man’s eyes crinkled with unmistakable warmth.
“We heard newlyweds,” the elderly woman said in careful English, pressing the wrapped parcel into Kentaro’s hands with both of hers. The weight settled warm between his palms—still steaming slightly at the seams—as she gestured toward the rooftop stairs with a conspiratorial wink. “Special day deserves special view.” Her husband nodded vigorously beside her, adjusting his hat before producing two slender champagne flutes from his jacket pocket like a magic trick.
Woozi’s bow froze mid-motion. Newlyweds. The word curled around his ribs, foreign and sweet. Kentaro’s choked noise beside him suggested similar paralysis—his ears burning crimson above the crisp line of his collar. But the couple’s smiles held no judgment, only a quiet joy that made Woozi’s throat tighten unexpectedly.
“You—this is too kind,” Kentaro managed, Japanese tumbling into clumsy gratitude as he bowed again, deeper. The elderly man waved him off with a chuckle, nudging the champagne flutes toward Woozi’s chest until he accepted them on reflex. The glass chilled his fingertips, condensation already beading along the stems.
The woman patted Kentaro’s forearm, her touch light as she murmured something Woozi couldn’t understand—but Kentaro’s breath caught audibly, his shoulders stiffening before melting all at once. When he turned to Woozi, his eyes shone with something dangerously close to vulnerability. “She said…” His voice cracked. Cleared. “She said we look like her grandson and his husband. That we have… the same light.”
The afternoon sun bled gold through the rose trellises overhead, casting dappled shadows across Kentaro’s untouched plate. He’d chosen the table farthest from the footpath—half-hidden by cascading wisteria—but his gaze kept flicking toward the arched garden entrance, fingers drumming restlessly against his thigh. A swan glided past on the river behind him, ripples fanning out in its wake, but Kentaro didn’t turn. Didn’t breathe. Not until movement flickered at the edge of his vision.
Woozi stepped into the light like a revelation.
The burgundy lace of his mini dress caught the sun, turning sheer where it skimmed his thighs. Kentaro’s chair scraped backward before he fully registered standing, his pulse loud in his ears as Woozi approached—heeled boots crushing petals underfoot, blonde hair swaying with each deliberate step. Kentaro’s mouth went dry. He’d seen Woozi in a thousand outfits, a hundred stages, but this—this was something private. Something just for him.
“You’re staring,” Woozi murmured when he reached the table, but the upward tilt of his chin betrayed his satisfaction. Kentaro exhaled a laugh, shaky with wonder, and pulled out his chair with exaggerated care. Woozi’s smirk deepened as he sat, crossing his legs just slow enough to make Kentaro’s fingers tighten on the backrest. “Always the gentleman, baby.”
Kentaro leaned down, lips brushing Woozi’s ear as he adjusted the chair. “You’re lethal,” he whispered, inhaling the vanilla-laced heat of Woozi’s skin before straightening. Their knees knocked under the table—deliberate—as Kentaro reclaimed his seat. The rose between them trembled in its vase, petals shedding onto the linen.
Woozi plucked one, twirling it between his fingers. “Scared?”
“Terrified.” Kentaro’s honesty tasted sweet. He watched sunlight catch the delicate chain around Woozi’s throat, the way it dipped beneath the lace neckline. “If I touch you, I won’t stop.”
"You look so handsome, Ken." The words curled around the stem of Woozi's wineglass, his fingers trailing condensation down the side. Kentaro exhaled sharply—half-laugh, half-sigh—as he leaned forward, and kissed Woozi's knuckles. The rose between them trembled when his sleeve brushed the vase.
"You're trying to kill me." Kentaro's voice dropped to a whisper, eyes tracking the way Woozi's tongue darted out to catch a stray drop of wine. "That dress—" His fingers flexed against the tablecloth, knuckles whitening.
Woozi arched a brow. "What about it?" Deliberately slow, he uncrossed and recrossed his legs, the lace riding higher. Kentaro's breath hitched audibly. The river behind them rippled as a swan glided past, indifferent to the tension thickening the air.
Kentaro's fingers found Woozi's beneath the table, threading together without hesitation. His thumb swept over Woozi's pulse point—once, twice—before squeezing gently. "It's shorter than I remembered," he admitted, voice rough.
Woozi's smirk softened at the edges. "Good." He lifted Kentaro's hand, pressing a kiss to the ridge of his knuckles—lingering just long enough for Kentaro's breath to stutter.
Their conversation flowed like the river behind them—easy, familiar. Music. The new drama Kentaro was filming. Woozi's latest studio session with Bumzu. They traded bites of seared scallops, Woozi's foot brushing Kentaro's ankle each time he leaned in. Laughter came often, bright and unguarded, echoing through the garden until other diners glanced their way—only to find two men absorbed in each other, untouched plates, intertwined fingers resting on the linen.
The garden path crunched softly under their feet, the scent of roses and damp earth thick in the afternoon air. Woozi walked ahead, the burgundy lace of his dress fluttering with each step, while Kentaro lingered a few paces behind—close enough that his shadow swallowed Woozi’s whole.
"Careful," Kentaro murmured, watching the way Woozi’s hips swayed as he navigated the uneven cobblestones. "Those heels weren’t made for gardening."
Woozi tossed a smirk over his shoulder. "Neither was this dress."
Kentaro’s breath caught. The late afternoon sun turned the lace sheer where it clung to Woozi’s thighs, revealing the faint outline of garters beneath. He swallowed hard, forcing his gaze upward only to find Woozi watching him with knowing amusement.
“You’re staring again,” Woozi said, pausing under the wisteria, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.
Kentaro closed the gap between them, a little too quickly to play it cool. “Can you blame me?” he said, quieter now, like it just slipped out. “You’re kinda hard to ignore.”
Woozi let out a soft laugh, shaking his head before turning and continuing down the path. Kentaro followed, hands in his pockets this time, but his eyes still trailing after him.
“You’re being weird,” Woozi called over his shoulder.
“Weird?” Kentaro scoffed. “You’re the one acting like you don’t notice.”
Woozi slowed, glancing back with raised brows. “Notice what?”
Kentaro hesitated, then gestured vaguely, clearly struggling to put it into words. “Just… the way you are.”
Woozi’s expression shifted into a knowing smirk. “Wow. That’s so specific.”
Kentaro huffed a laugh, stepping closer again. “You know exactly what I mean.”
Woozi’s laughter dissolved into a breathy gasp as Kentaro’s hands slid lower, fingers skimming the backs of his thighs. "Ken—"
"Shh," Kentaro murmured, lips brushing the shell of Woozi’s ear. "Just let me admire the view."
The path ahead curved into a secluded alcove, shielded from prying eyes by a wall of ivy. Kentaro guided Woozi toward it with gentle pressure at his hips, their steps syncing effortlessly. The air between them crackled with unspoken promise, the tension building with each shared breath.
Woozi turned suddenly, catching Kentaro off guard. They stood toe-to-toe, the space between them charged with something electric. Kentaro’s hands found Woozi’s waist again, anchoring them both as Woozi leaned in, his lips a breath away from Kentaro’s.
"Admire this," Woozi whispered before closing the distance.
The kiss was slow at first—a languid exploration of familiar territory—but quickly deepened as Kentaro’s grip tightened, pulling Woozi flush against him. Woozi’s fingers tangled in Kentaro’s hair, tugging just hard enough to draw a low groan from his throat.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Kentaro rested his forehead against Woozi’s. "We should go," he murmured, though his hands betrayed him, roaming lower, fingertips tracing the lace clinging to Woozi’s hips.
Woozi nodded, lips swollen and eyes dark. "Yeah."
The garden around them seemed to hold its breath, the only sound the distant trickle of a fountain and the occasional rustle of leaves. Kentaro’s thumb traced idle circles over Woozi’s hipbone, the touch light but possessive.
"Ken," Woozi said softly, fingers tightening in Kentaro’s shirt.
Kentaro hummed in response, leaning in to brush his lips against Woozi’s temple. "Hmm?"
Woozi exhaled sharply, his body thrumming with pent-up energy. "I want to go back to Korea."
Kentaro’s grip tightened imperceptibly. "Then let's go."
Woozi’s smirk returned, slow and knowing. "Now?”
The word hung between them, heavy with meaning. Kentaro’s breath stuttered before he leaned in, capturing Woozi’s lips in another searing kiss. This time, when they pulled apart, Kentaro didn’t hesitate. He laced their fingers together and tugged Woozi toward the garden’s exit, their steps hurried but synchronized.
The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows behind them as they left the garden behind—two figures intertwined, moving as one toward whatever came next.
The sun bled gold across the tarmac as they approached the private jet, Woozi’s scream tearing through the humid air before Kentaro could even process it—high-pitched, delighted, raw. He fumbled for his phone, capturing the exact moment Woozi spun toward him, eyes wild with joy, lace dress fluttering around his thighs like living flame. "You like it, Z?" Kentaro shouted over the roar of distant engines.
Woozi didn’t answer with words. He launched himself forward, legs wrapping around Kentaro’s waist with terrifying precision, and Kentaro barely caught him, staggering back two steps before finding his balance. "Baby, I love you," Woozi gasped into his neck, damp with sweat and sunshine, and Kentaro laughed, dizzy, spinning them both until the world blurred into streaks of pink sky and chrome.
Inside the jet, silence folded around them like velvet. Woozi collapsed into the cream-colored seat with a groan, legs splayed, heels digging into the plush carpet. Kentaro knelt before him without hesitation, fingers finding the delicate buckles at his ankles. "These are crimes against humanity," he muttered, pressing a kiss to the reddened skin above Woozi’s right arch. Woozi’s sigh punched through the cabin, toes curling reflexively as Kentaro worked the left shoe free, lips tracing the knob of his anklebone.
"Fuck," Woozi breathed, wiggling his freed toes. Kentaro grinned up at him, tossing the discarded heels aside with a clatter. "Better?"
Woozi’s answer was to hook his bare foot around Kentaro’s shoulder, dragging him closer until their foreheads touched. "Infinitely."
They rearranged themselves—Woozi’s legs slung over Kentaro’s lap, dress rucked up to mid-thigh, Kentaro’s palm skating up the ladder of his shin. The jet hummed beneath them, readying for takeoff, but neither looked away from the other’s face. Kentaro’s thumb found the divot behind Woozi’s knee, rubbing slow circles as the pressure shifted in the cabin.
The kiss started soft—closed-mouth, almost chaste—until Woozi twisted his lace dress riding up to his waist. Kentaro’s grip spasmed on his hips, blunt nails catching fabric, and then—red. A flash of crimson lace, snug between Woozi’s cheeks, and Kentaro barked a laugh so loud it startled them both. Woozi’s cheeks flushed pink, but he didn’t stop grinding down, hands fisted in Kentaro’s shirt. "Surprise," he deadpanned, and Kentaro smacked his ass hard enough to leave a sting.
Woozi yelped, half-laughing as he twisted out of Kentaro’s reach, nearly stumbling in the process. He turned back after a second, a mischievous glint in his eyes, clearly proud of himself.
Kentaro dropped his face into his hands, laughing. “You’re actually unbelievable.”
“What?” Woozi shot back, grinning. “I didn’t even do anything.”
“Yeah, okay,” Kentaro muttered, still laughing as he reached out and pulled him back down beside him. "You’re insane," Kentaro gasped between laughs, dragging Woozi back into his lap by the waistband of that fucking thong.
Woozi went willingly, collapsing against him, breath hot on Kentaro’s collarbone. "You love it."
Kentaro kissed him again, deep and messy, hands mapping the dip of Woozi’s spine beneath the dress. Outside, the sky burned violet, the jet climbing steeply, but all Kentaro could focus on was the way Woozi’s thighs clenched around him, the hitch in his breath when Kentaro’s teeth grazed his lower lip.
Miami glittered in the distance—all neon and salt—but here, tangled together above the clouds, they were nowhere and everywhere at once. Kentaro pressed his smile into Woozi’s throat. "Not even close," he murmured, and Woozi’s answering laugh vibrated through his ribs like a second heartbeat.
APRIL, 2024 // MANDAI RAINFOREST RESERVE, SINGAPORE
The crew’s murmurs died the second Woozi stepped onto set—hoodie sleeves swallowing his hands, twin iced coffees dripping condensation onto his sweatpants. Behind sunglasses, Kentaro’s grin widened like he’d been handed a trophy.
“You’re late,” Kentaro announced to the sticky morning air, stretching his arms overhead just to watch Woozi’s gaze catch on the strip of stomach revealed beneath his tank. The humidity had already curled Kentaro’s hair at the temples, dark strands clinging to his skin.
Woozi shoved a coffee at him without breaking stride. “You texted me the wrong call time.”
Kentaro’s fingers brushed Woozi’s wrist as he took the drink. “Did I?” He sipped, humming when the sweetness hit—caramel, extra whip, exactly how Woozi never took his own.
The waterfall roared behind them, mist curling through the air like spectral fingers, clinging to Woozi's skin and dampening the stubborn curls at his nape. The stylist—a harried woman with neon pink streaks in her hair—clicked her tongue as she brandished a flat iron like a weapon, advancing on Woozi with single-minded determination. "These won't hold the style," she muttered, reaching for his hair just as Kentaro materialized beside them, silent as a shadow.
"Don't." Kentaro caught her wrist mid-air, voice low but unyielding. The stylist blinked up at him, startled. His grip gentled, but his gaze didn't waver. "Don't touch him." A beat. Then, softer: "He's perfect."
The stylist rolled her eyes so hard it seemed to require her entire skeletal system. "Fine," she huffed, throwing her hands up. "But when his bangs are plastered to his forehead in thirty minutes, don't blame me." She stomped off, muttering about "hopeless romantics" and "wasted product."
Woozi exhaled a laugh, reaching up to self-consciously pat his unruly curls. Kentaro caught his hand, interlacing their fingers before pressing a kiss to Woozi's damp knuckles. "Don't," he repeated, quieter now, just for Woozi's ears. "I like them wild." His thumb traced the shell of Woozi's ear, where droplets clung like liquid jewels. "Like this."
The admission settled between them, warm despite the chill of evaporating mist. Woozi ducked his head—not from embarrassment, but to hide the way his lips curved helplessly upward. Kentaro's fingers carded through his hair, not to tame, but to tease, ruffling the strands further until Woozi swatted at him, laughing.
The first take was too sharp—Woozi’s eyes snapping open like shutters in a storm, his breath hitching visibly on camera. The director sighed through his teeth. “Less awake,” he called, gesturing vaguely toward the rumpled hotel bed set. “Like you’ve been sleeping for hours. Slow.”
Woozi rubbed his face, nodded, and let his shoulders slump further into the pillows. But his fingers twitched against the sheets—tense, overthinking. Kentaro watched from the monitor, arms crossed, chewing his lower lip raw.
Second take. Woozi’s lashes fluttered half-open, then closed again, his exhale too measured. The director muttered something to the cinematographer about natural light. Kentaro stepped forward before he could stop himself.
“Pretend you’re waking up next to me,” he murmured, low enough that only Woozi would hear. His knuckles brushed the back of the set chair—closest thing to contact he could risk.
Woozi stilled. Then, without opening his eyes, his mouth curved—just slightly—at the corners. The crew held their breath as his next blink dragged slow, heavy with the weight of imagined mornings. His fingers relaxed into the sheets like they’d been there for hours. When he finally turned his face toward the (empty) space beside him, his inhale caught—just barely—before his lips parted on a silent sigh. Perfect.
“Cut! That’s the one,” the director barked, already turning to the lighting crew. The assistant scrambled to adjust the diffuser while murmurs of approval rippled through the team. Kentaro didn’t move. He watched Woozi sit up, rubbing his neck with a wince, and resisted the urge to knead the tension from his shoulders himself.
“Told you,” Woozi muttered when Kentaro drifted closer, accepting the water bottle thrust into his hands. His voice was rough from the repeated takes. Kentaro’s fingers itched to trace the flush high on his cheekbones—from the heat or the quiet intimacy of the suggestion, he couldn’t tell.
The director clapped his hands twice, the sound echoing across the chlorinated pool deck. "Alright, listen up—this is a romantic water fight, not a wrestling match. Think playful, think flirtatious." He gestured between Woozi and Kentaro with his clipboard. "You're supposed to look like you're having fun, not trying to drown each other."
Woozi flicked water from his fingertips directly into Kentaro's face before the director had even finished speaking. Kentaro blinked, droplets clinging to his lashes, mouth parting in exaggerated betrayal. The crew stifled laughter behind their clipboards.
"Seriously?" Kentaro wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, shoulders squared like he was about to deliver a lecture. His professionalism lasted exactly three seconds before his resolve cracked—a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he cupped both hands and sent a retaliating wave crashing into Woozi's chest.
Woozi yelped, skidding backward on the wet tiles, but didn't stop grinning. "You're dead," he announced, lunging forward to hook an ankle behind Kentaro's calf. Kentaro retaliated by grabbing Woozi's wrist mid-splash, using his momentum to spin them both—except their feet slipped simultaneously on the slick concrete.
The crew gasped as they went down in a tangle of limbs, water spraying in a wide arc. Kentaro twisted mid-fall, taking the brunt of the impact with his shoulder, his other arm wrapping tight around Woozi's waist to cushion him. They landed with a splash, half-submerged, Woozi sprawled across Kentaro's chest, both wheezing with laughter.
"You okay?" Kentaro managed between breaths, fingers splayed possessively over Woozi's ribcage, shirt plastered transparent to his skin.
Woozi lifted his head, dripping wet, and flicked water off his nose directly onto Kentaro's chin. "Now I am."
The director sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as the crew erupted into applause. "...Okay. We're keeping that."
Kentaro's laugh vibrated beneath Woozi's palms where they braced against his sternum. His thumb brushed Woozi's hipbone where his shirt had ridden up—hidden by the churning water. "Told you we'd nail it in one take."
Woozi rolled his eyes but didn't pull away, even as the makeup artist screeched about ruined contour. Around them, the set dissolved into chaos—assistants scrambling for towels, the cinematographer zooming in to capture the way Kentaro's gaze dropped to Woozi's mouth when he licked a droplet from his lower lip.
The director waved a hand. "Five minutes, then we're resetting for the close-ups."
Kentaro made no move to stand. Woozi's knee pressed into his thigh, their legs still tangled beneath the surface. Someone tossed a towel that landed half over Kentaro's face; he left it there, grinning up at Woozi through damp fringe. "So," he murmured, low enFough that the mic pack wouldn't catch it. "How's my form, Coach?"
Woozi's answering smirk was all teeth. "Needs work." He leaned down like he was adjusting Kentaro's lapel—and bit his earlobe.
Kentaro's choked noise was absolutely worth the scolding they got from production.
The pool water dripped from Woozi's hair in icy rivulets down his spine, each drop sending another shudder through his frame. He curled his toes against the slick tiles—half-expecting steam to rise where his skin met air—but the AC blasted relentlessly from the studio vents. Kentaro's towel landed on his shoulders before he could brace for the next shiver, rough fibers dragging over goosebumped skin as warm hands lingered at his nape.
No one commented. The stylist handed Kentaro a second towel without looking up from her phone; the makeup artist passed Woozi a tissue packet with raised eyebrows but no words. Even the director merely nodded toward the craft services table where steam curled from disposable cups.
Kentaro's jacket smelled like fabric softener and the faintest trace of his cologne when he shrugged it over Woozi's trembling form, hands skating down his arms to tug the zipper up to his chin. "Better?" His thumb brushed Woozi's jawline—too quick to be anything but accidental—before retreating to his own pockets.
Woozi nodded into the fleece lining, inhaling the scent embedded in the collar. The assistant arrived moments later with an armful of hoodies, blinking at the already-bundled figure clinging to Kentaro's oversized jacket. Kentaro just smiled, plucking a black beanie from the pile and tugging it over Woozi's damp curls. "We're good."
The crew dispersed like startled birds, pretending not to watch as Kentaro guided Woozi toward the space heater someone had dragged over. Their stools scraped the floor when they sat—close enough for knees to bump beneath the makeshift blanket Kentaro spread across both their laps.
"You're freezing," Kentaro murmured, pressing a paper cup of something hot into Woozi's hands. His fingers lingered around Woozi's wrists, transferring warmth through the thin skin where pulse jumped.
Woozi curled around the steam, watching Kentaro's reflection distort in the liquid's surface. "Not anymore."
Between takes, Kentaro's touch became a language—a palm pressed to the small of Woozi's back when he passed behind him; fingers brushing damp strands from his forehead during makeup retouches; his pinky hooking briefly around Woozi's when handing off another scalding tea. The director called for positions, and they stepped apart like magnets resisting separation, only to collide again the moment the cameras stopped rolling.
During the fifteenth reset, Woozi caught Seungcheol's eye across the set—his leader's expression unreadable as he observed Kentaro adjusting Woozi's askew hood for the third time. But when their gazes locked, Seungcheol merely nodded toward craft services where hotteok steamed in greasy paper packets, mouthing Eat something with the same exasperated fondness he reserved for dorm kitchen raids.
By take twenty-three, Kentaro had migrated entirely into Woozi's personal space—his thigh a constant line of heat against Woozi's, his shoulder bumping Woozi's whenever he laughed at something the PD said. The stylists had long since given up on fixing Woozi's hair; every time they turned around, Kentaro was ruffling it again under the pretense of checking for dryness.
The dressing room air hummed with static—or maybe that was just the sound of Woozi’s pulse throbbing in his own ears as he stared down at the gown pooled around his ankles like molten silver. The fabric slithered against his skin when he moved, cool and heavy, the high collar brushing his jawline while the open back plunged daringly low. He curled his toes into the plush carpet, suddenly hyperaware of his own breathing. "This is ridiculous," he muttered to his reflection, but his fingers lingered on the delicate chain clasped at his throat.
Outside, the stylist cleared her throat. "They're waiting."
Woozi inhaled through his nose—once, twice—before pushing the door open.
The studio chatter died instantly. Camera operators froze mid-adjustment; stylists halted mid-sentence with combs dangling from slack fingers. Someone’s clipboard hit the floor with a clatter. In the sudden silence, a single whisper cut through like a blade: "Oh wow."
Woozi’s fingers twitched at his sides. The gown’s train whispered against the floor as he shifted, suddenly self-conscious under the weight of every stunned gaze. "Is it too much?" he asked, voice smaller than he intended.
Kentaro moved before anyone else could react—crossing the space in five long strides until he stood close enough for Woozi to count his eyelashes. His gaze dragged downward slowly, lingering on the way the fabric hugged Woozi’s waist before flaring dramatically at his hips. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, barely above a whisper: "It’s not enough for how you look."
Woozi reached up to adjust his hair—a nervous habit—but his fingers trembled against the styled strands. His ears burned scarlet. Kentaro’s hand lifted, hesitated, then gently caught his wrist, thumb skating over the delicate bones. "Breathe," he murmured, so low the mics wouldn’t catch it. Woozi exhaled shakily, watching Kentaro’s pupils dilate as the studio lights caught the gown’s sequins, scattering prismatic dots across his face.
Behind them, the director finally recovered. "Okay, people!" he barked, clapping twice. "Let’s reset for—what are we shooting again?" A nervous laugh rippled through the crew as they scrambled back to work, though sidelong glances kept flicking toward them.
Kentaro didn’t move. His fingers trailed down Woozi’s arm until their palms brushed—a fleeting touch that sent sparks skittering up Woozi’s spine. "You’re devastating," he said simply, like stating a fact. The gown’s high collar couldn’t hide the way Woozi’s throat worked around nothing.
The makeup artist approached cautiously, powder puff in hand. "We should—uh—set the shine before—"
Kentaro stepped aside but didn’t go far, leaning against the nearest monitor stand with arms crossed, watching as they dabbed Woozi’s forehead. His gaze burned hotter than the stage lights. Woozi caught his reflection in the lens of a discarded camera—silver-clad and slightly breathless, with Kentaro’s shadow looming just behind him like a promise.
When the stylist produced a pair of matching elbow-length gloves, Woozi balked. "That’s overkill."
Kentaro plucked them from her hands. "Let me." He didn’t wait for permission, just took Woozi’s right hand with reverent care, smoothing the silk up his forearm inch by inch. His fingertips lingered at the sensitive crook of Woozi’s elbow, pressing just hard enough to leave phantom bruises beneath the fabric. Woozi’s breath hitched. Kentaro smirked. "See? Necessary."
The director called for positions. Kentaro stepped back reluctantly, but his eyes never left Woozi as he took his mark—dark with something hungrier than admiration. Woozi straightened his shoulders, the gown shimmering like liquid metal with every step. He felt, rather than saw, the exact moment Kentaro’s composure cracked: a sharp inhale when the backless design revealed the dimples above his tailbone.
Someone handed Kentaro a prop—a vintage pocket watch—but he fumbled it, the chain slithering through his fingers. Woozi bit his lip to hide a smile. Kentaro mouthed You’re killing me across the set, and suddenly, the gown didn’t feel so heavy anymore.
The cave swallowed sound whole. Woozi’s first note hit the damp limestone walls and fractured into a hundred echoes, each reverberation sharper than the last—like shattering glass in slow motion. The crew had stopped breathing three seconds ago. Even the generator hummed quieter.
Kentaro sat cross-legged on an overturned equipment crate, forearms braced on his knees, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach for something that wasn’t there. He wasn’t supposed to be here—not during soundcheck, not when they were already running behind schedule—but no one had the heart to kick him out after he’d carried six mic stands uphill without complaint. The director shot him a glance, then deliberately looked away when Kentaro’s throat worked at Woozi’s second verse.
Woozi’s voice climbed, effortless, curling around the cave’s natural acoustics until the air itself seemed to vibrate. Kentaro’s knuckles whitened. Someone whispered Jesus Christ into a headset; the sound engineer’s fingers froze over the sliders, torn between preserving the rawness and doing his job.
“Again,” Woozi murmured when the last note faded, already rolling his shoulders back into position. The cave threw his whisper back at him from six different angles. He didn’t wait for confirmation—just inhaled, held it, and let the next phrase spill out like he was carving it into the rock with his teeth.
Kentaro’s pencil snapped.
The director pretended not to notice the way Kentaro’s gaze tracked the sweat dripping down Woozi’s nape—how his own shoulders tensed when Woozi’s voice cracked intentionally on the bridge, rough and aching and real. The makeup artist made an aborted movement toward Woozi’s forehead before thinking better of it. Kentaro’s exhale when Woozi hit the high note was louder than the monitor feedback.
Take seven. Woozi’s hands flexed at his sides, fingers splaying like he was pulling the melody straight from the humid air. Kentaro mirrored the movement unconsciously, his own palms turning upward in his lap. The cave magnified every breath, every rustle of fabric—but Kentaro’s quiet fuck when Woozi bit his lower lip mid-verse might as well have been a gunshot.
The director finally called cut. Woozi blinked like someone waking from a trance, shoulders slumping as the cave’s pressure released him. Kentaro was already moving—not toward him, but to the craft services table, returning with a water bottle so cold it wept condensation onto the stone floor.
“Here.” Kentaro’s voice was wrecked.
Woozi took it without looking, their fingers brushing for half a second too long. He drank like he’d been stranded in the desert, throat working around each swallow while Kentaro stared like a man memorizing his last rites. The stylist hovered uselessly with a towel.
“We got it,” the director announced, scrolling through playback. He didn’t specify what it was. No one asked.
Kentaro’s boot scuffed against loose gravel when he shifted his weight. Woozi’s gaze flicked up, catching on the way Kentaro’s sleeves were shoved past his elbows, forearms corded with the effort of staying still. Their eyes held—just for a breath—before Woozi smirked and tossed the empty bottle back at him.
Kentaro caught it one-handed, grinning like he’d been handed a winning lottery ticket.
The cave swallowed that, too.
The arrow thudded into damp earth for the fourth time, skewering a fern leaf fifteen feet left of the target. Woozi's grip on the bow slackened, shoulders hunching as he exhaled through his nose. Behind him, muffled snickers erupted from the camera crew—cut short when Kentaro's sudden applause shattered the forest quiet like a gunshot.
"Encouragement," Kentaro stage-whispered to the nearest PA, before cupping his hands around his mouth and hollering, "YOU GOT THIS, JIHOON-AH!" with the fervor of a front-row fanboy. His combat boots crushed bracken as he jogged in place, clapping in an exaggerated rhythm that sent birds scattering from the pines. "C'MON, SHOW THEM YOUR SOUL!"
Woozi's ears burned crimson beneath his bucket hat. "Shut up," he muttered, but his lips twitched when Kentaro whooped louder, throwing both arms wide like he was riling up a stadium. Someone from props started a slow chant of Woo-zi! Woo-zi! that spread through the crew until even the director was tapping his clipboard along.
Kentaro sidled up behind him, breath hot against Woozi's nape. "Bend your elbow less," he murmured, fingers ghosting along Woozi's forearm without touching. "And stop holding your breath like it's a high note." His smirk pressed against the shell of Woozi's ear. "Unless you want me to cheer louder?"
Woozi elbowed him in the ribs—gently—but adjusted his stance, rolling his shoulders back. The next arrow caught a breeze mid-flight, veering right but embedding itself just outside the target's outer ring. The crew erupted into applause anyway, Kentaro's triumphant YEAHHHH! echoing off the tree trunks as he fist-pumped the air.
"AGAIN!" Kentaro demanded, bouncing on his toes like an over-caffeinated hype man. He snatched a spare arrow from the quiver and twirled it between his fingers before offering it to Woozi with a flourish. "For the encore."
Woozi rolled his eyes but took it, fingertips brushing Kentaro's palm a second longer than necessary. He nocked the arrow, exhaled, and—remembering Kentaro's advice—let his lungs expand naturally as he drew the string back. The arrow sang through the air, thwacking into the target with a satisfying thunk mere inches from the bullseye.
Kentaro's reaction was instantaneous: he dropped to his knees in the dirt, arms raised to the canopy like Woozi had just scored a World Cup goal. "LEGENDARY!" he bellowed, while the crew lost it behind them, someone wolf-whistling as others took up the chant again. Woozi's bow dipped, his triumphant smirk morphing into genuine laughter when Kentaro scrambled up to hoist his arm overhead like a boxing referee declaring victory.
"You're ridiculous," Woozi gasped between laughs, but his chest swelled when Kentaro grinned—all crinkled eyes and pride-soaked expression—as he tugged Woozi's hat brim down over his eyes.
"Yeah," Kentaro agreed, thumb brushing Woozi's knuckles where they still gripped the bow. "But you like it."
The director's sigh was fond. "Okay, children. Let's reset for the actual scene now."
The branch creaked ominously beneath Woozi’s sneakers. He froze, fingers digging into the rough bark above him, legs straddling the limb like an uncoordinated koala. Below, Kentaro’s laughter floated up, bright and entirely unhelpful.
"You look like a kitten who regrets all its life choices," Kentaro called, leaning against the trunk with his arms crossed. Sunlight dappled his shoulders through the leaves, catching on the sweat-slick column of his throat.
Woozi scowled down at him. "I’m fine." His voice cracked on the last syllable as the branch dipped dangerously.
Kentaro arched a brow. "You’re twelve feet up and clinging like a wet tissue."
"Shut up." Woozi inched forward, knees scraping bark. The ground swayed beneath him in a way that had nothing to do with wind. His palms were tacky with sap.
Kentaro sighed dramatically and rolled up his sleeves. "Just step on my shoulders."
Woozi eyed the offered perch—the way Kentaro’s muscles flexed as he braced against the tree, the smug tilt of his mouth. Pride warred with practicality. "...You’ll drop me."
Kentaro gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been shot. "Betrayal. After everything we’ve been through."
"Idiot," Woozi muttered, but he swung a leg down, toes searching blindly for Kentaro’s shoulder.
The contact sent Kentaro wobbling like a bowling pin. "Oh shit—shit—" He windmilled his arms comically, knees buckling as Woozi’s full weight settled. "You’re heavier than you look!"
"What." Woozi dug his heel in for balance, which only made Kentaro lurch harder.
"Betrayal!" Kentaro wheezed, staggering sideways. "I’m being crushed—"
Woozi’s grip slipped. He shrieked, legs flailing—
Kentaro caught him by the waist just before impact, stumbling back into the grass with Woozi half-sprawled atop him. They lay there for a breathless moment, chests heaving, Woozi’s elbow planted squarely in Kentaro’s solar plexus.
"You dropped me," Woozi accused, voice muffled against Kentaro’s collarbone.
Kentaro wheezed. "You stepped on me." His hands flexed around Woozi’s ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of his pectorals where his shirt had ridden up. "Like a monster."
Woozi lifted his head just enough to glare. Grass stuck to Kentaro’s temple in absurd little clumps. His own heartbeat thudded in his ears, syncing with the pulse fluttering beneath Kentaro’s jaw.
Then Kentaro grinned—sunbright and stupid—and Woozi dissolved into laughter, forehead dropping onto Kentaro’s sternum as his shoulders shook.
Kentaro’s fingers slid up to ruffle his hair. "Happy now?"
"No," Woozi lied, breathless.
Kentaro rolled them sideways, pinning Woozi into the grass with his full weight. "Liar." His knee slotted between Woozi’s thighs, warm and insistent.
The laughter died in Woozi’s throat. Above them, leaves rustled. Somewhere distant, a crew member shouted for a missing tripod. Kentaro’s breath ghosted over Woozi’s lips—close enough to taste the shared later lingering between them.
They sprang apart like startled deer, Kentaro scrambling upright just as a PA rounded the tree with a clipboard. "Director wants—" She blinked at their grass-stained clothes, Woozi’s flushed cheeks, Kentaro’s suspiciously ruffled hair. "...You good?"
Kentaro coughed. "Great."
Woozi busied himself picking leaves from his sleeves. The PA shrugged and tossed them a water bottle before wandering off.
Silence settled between them—thick and honeyed. Kentaro nudged Woozi’s ankle with his boot. "Race you to the top?"
Woozi eyed the tree’s gnarled branches. His pulse still hadn’t steadied. "You’ll lose."
Kentaro’s grin turned feral. "Try me."
And then they were moving—scrambling over roots, shoving at each other’s shoulders, laughter tangled in the canopy. The crew would find them later, perched side by side on the highest sturdy branch, legs swinging in tandem as the sunset painted their skin gold.
But for now—just this—the climb, the chase, the way Kentaro’s laughter echoes through the branches like sunlight made audible. Woozi’s fingers catch on bark, his sneaker slipping as he hoists himself higher, breath hitching when the limb beneath him creaks in protest. Three feet above, Kentaro perches like some absurdly graceful bird, one leg dangling carelessly as he peers down. "Need a ladder, princess?" he calls, grin audible.
The first lantern escaped too soon—a flickering ember skittering across the water before Woozi could stop it. He lunged forward without thinking, sandals slapping against the dock’s damp wood, fingers outstretched as the current carried the light farther away. His toe caught on a warped plank.
Kentaro’s arm hooked around his waist like a seatbelt locking mid-crash, yanking him back against solid warmth. They froze, Woozi’s breath hitching as Kentaro’s grip tightened—palm splayed across his stomach, pinky dipping below the hem of his linen shirt. The lantern drifted lazily, painting gold ripples across Kentaro’s startled expression.
Then Woozi snorted. Kentaro’s laugh followed, rough against the nape of his neck. "Graceful," Kentaro murmured, but his hand lingered three seconds too long before retreating.
By midnight, the riverbank hummed with hushed activity. Crew members waded knee-deep to adjust floating platforms while the director crouched at the water’s edge, whispering last-minute adjustments. Woozi hovered near the lantern station, rubbing his arms against the creeping chill.
"Ready?" Kentaro materialized beside him, offering a matchbook between two fingers. His sleeve brushed Woozi’s wrist—deliberate.
Woozi took it. "Don’t let mine float away this time."
Kentaro grinned, bumping their shoulders together. "No promises."
Silence fell when the director raised his hand. Fifty lanterns flickered to life simultaneously, their bamboo frames casting lattice shadows across the crew’s intent faces. Woozi exhaled as his own lantern lifted—slow, then surging upward like a heartbeat given wings. The river became a mirror, doubling the glow until the world seemed to burn at the edges.
Something wet trailed down Woozi’s cheek. He swiped at it absently, gaze fixed on the ascending lights. The heat in his chest had nothing to do with the summer humidity.
A sharp inhale to his left. Kentaro stood motionless, half-lit by the amber haze, his scripted position forgotten. His lips parted around an unspoken word, eyes reflecting the lanterns like he was collecting each one inside himself.
The director’s whisper cut through the quiet: "Don’t move. That’s perfect."
Neither of them did. Not when the camera drone swooped low, nor when the final lanterns disappeared into the indigo sky. Woozi’s pulse hammered in his throat—not from the spectacle, but from the way Kentaro’s fingers twitched at his side, itching to bridge the eighteen inches between them.
The moment shattered with the crew’s applause. Kentaro blinked, shaking himself slightly as the director called for reset. He turned to Woozi, mouth curling into something softer than his usual smirk. "You cried."
Woozi kicked his ankle. "Shut up."
Kentaro caught his wrist, thumb brushing the delicate bones. "I liked it."
Around them, the world rushed back in—bustling PAs, clicking equipment, the scent of scorched rice paper clinging to the humid air. But Woozi only registered Kentaro’s calloused fingertips tracing his palm, sketching invisible constellations only they could follow.
"Take five!" the director announced.
The fifth take should’ve been the easiest. Woozi knew the choreography—had written half the damn song—but Kentaro’s thumb kept brushing the hinge of his jaw between lines, fleeting and electric, and it was ruining him. He bit his lip to stifle another giggle, shoulders shaking as Kentaro murmured his next cue directly into his ear, breath warm enough to make Woozi shiver.
"Focus," Kentaro chided, but his own voice wobbled with suppressed laughter, fingers tightening where they gripped Woozi’s waist.
Woozi turned his face into Kentaro’s shoulder, muffling a hiccuping laugh against the soft fabric of his shirt. "You’re distracting me," he hissed, though his fingers curled tighter in Kentaro’s belt loops, pulling him closer.
Kentaro’s answering grin was all teeth. "Good."
The director sighed off-camera, rubbing his temples. "Just—one more time. Without the giggling."
Woozi inhaled sharply, pressing his palms flat against Kentaro’s chest to steady himself. The nerves hit then—the weight of eyes on them, the knowledge that this moment would be immortalized, scrutinized, remembered. His breath stuttered, fingers trembling minutely against Kentaro’s sternum.
Kentaro noticed instantly. His hands slid up Woozi’s back, warm and grounding, lips brushing the shell of his ear as he murmured, "Just us."
Two words—simple, quiet—and Woozi melted. His exhale shuddered out, tension draining as Kentaro’s nose nudged his temple, lingering there like an unspoken promise.
The kiss landed soft. Natural. Kentaro’s mouth slotted against his with practiced ease, lips parting just enough to taste the ghost of strawberry chapstick and shared laughter. Woozi’s fingers found their way into Kentaro’s hair, tugging gently as Kentaro’s palms settled low on his hips, thumbs tracing idle circles through the thin fabric of his shirt.
Somewhere beyond the haze of it all, the crew erupted into applause—unprompted, genuine—but Woozi barely registered it. Kentaro’s smile pressed against his lips was the only thing that mattered.
"Finally," someone muttered, and Woozi pulled back just enough to glare in the general direction of Seungkwan’s voice, cheeks flushed. Kentaro chuckled, pressing one last kiss to the corner of Woozi’s mouth before releasing him.
The director waved them off with a tired but fond gesture. "We’re done. That’s a wrap."
Kentaro laced their fingers together as they stepped off the set, swinging their joined hands between them like they were teenagers sneaking away after curfew. Woozi bumped their shoulders together, grinning when Kentaro retaliated by hoisting him onto a nearby equipment crate, stepping between his thighs with practiced ease.
"You’re ridiculous," Woozi muttered, though his legs hooked around Kentaro’s waist instinctively, pulling him closer.
Kentaro hummed, nosing along Woozi’s jaw. "You love it."
The crew bustled around them, packing up lights and coiling cables, but the space between their bodies remained untouched—sacred. Kentaro’s lips found his again, slower this time, savoring the quiet amidst the chaos.
Woozi sighed into it, fingers tracing the familiar curve of Kentaro’s spine. Somewhere beyond the studio walls, the world waited—demanding, relentless—but here, like this, they had all the time they needed.
The waterfall’s roar blurred into white noise—a constant, soothing rush that drowned out the distant chatter of crew members adjusting equipment. The cavern walls curved around them like cupped hands, moss-slick and shimmering where artificial light caught the mist. Kentaro sat propped against a smooth boulder, legs outstretched, with Woozi slumped against his chest, breathing slow and even.
Woozi’s cheek pressed warm into the hollow of Kentaro’s collarbone, eyelashes fluttering occasionally against his skin like he was dreaming. Kentaro didn’t dare shift, even when his calf began to cramp. One hand cradled the back of Woozi’s head, fingers tangled in his damp hair, thumb tracing absent circles at his nape. The other arm curled around Woozi’s waist, keeping him anchored despite the way the crew tiptoed around them, adjusting reflectors with hushed precision.
A PA approached with a folded jacket, offering it wordlessly. Kentaro nodded his thanks and draped it over Woozi’s shoulders, tucking the fabric snug under his chin. Woozi stirred slightly—a soft, questioning hum—but didn’t wake. Kentaro pressed his lips to the crown of Woozi’s head, inhaling the scent of citrus shampoo and mineral-rich spray.
The director caught Kentaro’s eye from across the set, miming a sleeping gesture with raised brows. Kentaro shook his head minutely, tightening his grip on Woozi. Not yet. The director shrugged, waving off the lighting team with a gesture toward another scene.
Someone dimmed the overheads, leaving only the golden glow of portable lamps to lick at the cavern walls. The shadows deepened around them, carving out the space where they sat as something separate—private. Kentaro let his own eyes fall shut, listening to the rhythm of Woozi’s breath syncing with the waterfall’s pulse.
A rustle of fabric. Jun’s voice, barely audible over the water: “Fifteen minutes.”
Kentaro cracked one eye open to see Jun setting two water bottles and a protein bar within reach before retreating, hands raised in surrender when Kentaro glared.
Woozi sighed in his sleep, fingers curling into Kentaro’s shirt. His lips parted around a murmured syllable—Ken—slurred and sweet. Kentaro’s chest ached. He slid his hand lower, splaying it between Woozi’s shoulder blades, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath his palm.
The PA returned, this time with a thermos. “Peppermint tea,” she whispered, placing it beside the water. “Seungkwan said it helps his headaches.”
Kentaro mouthed thank you, watching as she retreated with a knowing smile. He nudged the thermos closer with his elbow, the scent of mint curling between them.
Somewhere beyond the curtain of falling water, a radio crackled to life—someone’s tinny voice announcing a schedule update—but it might as well have been another world. Here, in this pocket of quiet, Kentaro memorized the weight of Woozi against him: the way his knee dug into Kentaro’s thigh, the flutter of his pulse where Kentaro’s thumb rested against his neck, the trust in the way his body went pliant, utterly unguarded.
The crew’s footsteps faded. The waterfall thundered on. And Kentaro held on, counting Woozi’s breaths like they were the only metric of time that mattered.
The riverbank disintegrated beneath their feet—wet silt sucking at their sneakers, mud splattering up their calves as they stumbled toward the shore. Kentaro laughed, breathless, shaking his soaked bangs out of his eyes only to deliberately stomp into a puddle, sending another spray of cold water arcing toward Woozi’s already drenched shirt.
Woozi yelped, shielding his face with his forearm. "Again? We’re done filming—"
Kentaro grinned, kicking another wave at him. "Looks like rain," he deadpanned, nodding at the cloudless sky just as Woozi retaliated with a full-body shake, sending droplets flying from his hair like a wet dog. The crew’s laughter echoed across the water as Kentaro dodged, nearly slipping on the algae-slick rocks before catching Woozi’s wrist to steady them both.
A PA materialized with towels, bundling Woozi into one before he could drip onto the equipment. Kentaro shrugged off his own soaked jacket, wringing it out with a grimace while Woozi shivered into the scratchy fabric draped over his shoulders. His teeth chattered, but his eyes stayed bright—tracking Kentaro’s movements as he slung Woozi’s bag over his own shoulder without prompting, fingers brushing Woozi’s elbow to guide him up the embankment.
The sun dipped lower, casting everything in liquid gold as their footsteps squelched toward the vans. Woozi leaned into Kentaro’s side, his damp hair leaving a dark patch on Kentaro’s sleeve. "Did we do okay?" he murmured, voice barely audible over the crew packing up behind them.
Kentaro’s smile was immediate—soft at the edges, private despite the dozens of witnesses. He bumped their shoulders together, thumb swiping a smudge of mud from Woozi’s cheekbone. "You made magic."
Woozi huffed, nudging him. "We made magic, Ken."
Behind them, the director lingered by the monitor, replaying their final shot with a slow shake of his head. The cinematographer leaned in, whispering something that made them both glance toward Kentaro and Woozi’s retreating backs—shoulders pressed close, silhouettes blurring together in the fading light.
The van door slid shut, sealing them in quiet. Kentaro’s fingers found Woozi’s knee beneath the blanket, squeezing gently. "Hot shower," he promised, already tugging Woozi closer until his head tipped onto Kentaro’s shoulder.
Outside, the crew loaded the last of the gear, voices muffled through the glass. Someone laughed, loud and sudden, and Woozi felt more than heard Kentaro’s answering hum vibrate through his chest. The engine rumbled to life beneath them, but neither moved—content to stay tangled in damp fabric and shared warmth as the van pulled away, carrying them toward whatever came next.
Kentaro’s thumb traced idle circles over Woozi’s knuckles. "Think they got it?"
Woozi smiled against his collarbone. "Yeah," he murmured. "They got it.”
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